produced from images generously made available by the digital & multimedia center, michigan state university libraries.) romantic spain: _a record of personal experiences._ romantic spain: a record of personal experiences. by john augustus o'shea, author of "leaves from the life of a special correspondent," "an iron-bound city," etc. "oh, lovely spain! renowned, romantic land!" childe harold. in two volumes. vol. ii. london: ward and downey, , york street, covent garden, w.c. . [_all rights reserved._] contents of vol. ii. chapter i. page a tidy city--a sacred corpse--remarkable features of puerto--a calesa--lady blanche's castle--a typical english engineer--british enterprise--"success to the cadiz waterworks!"--visit to a bodega--wine and women--the coming man--a strike - chapter ii. the charms of cadiz--seville-by-the-sea--cervantes--daughters of eve--the ladies who prayed and the women who didn't--fasting monks--notice to quit on the nuns--the rival processions--gutting a church--a disorganized garrison--taking it easy--the mysterious "mr. crabapple"--the steamer _murillo_--an unsentimental navvy--bandaged justice--tricky ship-owning--painting black white - chapter iii. expansion of carlism--a pseudo-democracy--historic land and water marks--an impudent stowaway--spanish respect for providence--a fatal signal--playing with fire--across the bay--farewell to andalusia--british spain - chapter iv. gabriel tar--a hard nut to crack--in the cemetery--an old tipperary soldier--marks of the broad arrow--the "scorpions"--the jaunting-cars--amusements on the rock--mrs. damages' complaint--the bay, the alameda, and tarifa--how to learn spanish--types of the british officer--the wily ben solomon--a word for the subaltern--sunset gun--the sameness of sutlersville - chapter v. from pillar to pillar--historic souvenirs--off to africa--the sweetly pretty albert--gibraltar by moonlight--the chain-gang--across the strait--a difficult landing--albert is hurt--"fat mahomet"--the calendar of the centuries put back--tangier: the people, the streets, the bazaar--our hotel--a coloured gentleman--seeing the sights--local memoranda--jewish disabilities--peep at a photographic album--the writer's notions on harem life - chapter vi. a pattern despotism--some moorish peculiarities--a hell upon earth--fighting for bread--an air-bath--surprises of tangier--on slavery--the writer's idea of a moorish squire--the ladder of knowledge--gulping forbidden liquor--division of time--singular customs--the shereef of wazan--the christian who captivated the moor--the interview--moslem patronage of spain--a slap for england--a vision of beauty--an english desdemona: her plaint--one for the newspaper men--the ladies' battle--farewell--the english lady's maid--albert is indisposed--the writer sums up on morocco - chapter vii. back to gibraltar--the parting with albert--the tongue of scandal--voyage to malaga--"no police, no anything"--federalism triumphant--madrid _in statu quo_--orense--progress of the royalists--on the road home--in the insurgent country--stopped by the carlists--an angry passenger is silenced - chapter viii. on the wing--ordered to the carlist headquarters--another _petit paris_--carlists from cork--how leader was wounded--beating-up for an anglo-irish legion--pontifical zouaves--a bad lot--oddities of carlism--santa cruz again--running a cargo--on board a carlist privateer--a descendant of kings--"oh, for an armstrong twenty-four pounder!"--crossing the border--a remarkable guide--mountain scenery--in navarre--challenged at vera--our billet with the parish priest--the sad story of an irish volunteer--dialogue with don carlos--the happy valley--bugle-blasts--the writer in a quandary--the fifth battalion of navarre--the distribution of arms--the bleeding heart--enthusiasm of the chicos - chapter ix. the cura of vera--fueros of the basques--carlist discipline--fate of the _san margarita_--the squadron of vigilance--how a capture was effected--the sea-rovers in the dungeon--visit to the prisoners--san sebastian--a dead season--the defences of a threatened city--souvenirs of war--the miqueletes--in a fix--a german doctor's warning - chapter x. belcha's brigands--pale-red republicans--the hyena--more about the _san margarita_--arrival of a republican column--the jaunt to los pasages--a sweet surprise--"the prettiest girl in spain"--a madrid acquaintance--a costly pull--the diligence at last--renteria and its defences--a furious ride--in france again--unearthing santa cruz--the outlaw in his lair--interviewed at last--the truth about the endarlasa massacre--a death-warrant--the buried gun--fanaticism of the partisan-priest - chapter xi. an audible battle--"great cry and little wool"--a carlist court newsman--the religious war--the siege of oyarzun--madrid rebels--"the money of judas"--a manifesto from don carlos--an ideal monarch--necessity of social and political reconstruction proclaimed--a free church--a broad policy--the king for the people--the theological question--austerity in alava--clerical and non-clerical carlists--disavowal of bigotry--a republican editor on the carlist creed--character of the basques--drill and discipline--guerilleros _versus_ regulars - chapter xii. barbarossa--royalist-republicans--squaring a girl--at irun--"your papers?"--the barber's shop--a carlist spy--an old chum--the alarm--a breach of neutrality--under fire--caught in the toils--the heroic thomas--we slope--a colleague advises me--"a horse! a horse!"--state of bilbao--don carlos at estella--sanchez bregua recalled--tolosa invites--republican ineptitude--do not spur a free horse--very ancient boys--meditations in bed--a biscay storm - chapter xiii. nearing the end--firing on the red cross--perpetuity of war--artistic hypocrites--the jubilee year--the conflicts of a peaceful reign--major russell--quick promotion--the foreign legion--the aspiring adventurer--a leader's career--a piratical proposal--the "ojaladeros" of biarritz--a friend in need--buying a horse--gilpin outdone--"fred burnaby" - footnotes notes of the transcriber romantic spain. chapter i. a tidy city--a sacred corpse--remarkable features of puerto--a calesa--lady blanche's castle--a typical english engineer--british enterprise--"success to the cadiz waterworks!"--visit to a bodega--wine and women--the coming man--a strike. puerto de santa maria has the name of being the neatest and tidiest city in spain, and neatness and tidiness are such dear homely virtues, i thought i could not do better than hie me thither to see if the tale were true. with a wrench i tore myself from the soft capital of andalusia, delightful but demoralizing. i was growing lazier every day i spent there; i felt energy oozing out of every pore of my body; and in the end i began to get afraid that if i stopped much longer i should only be fit to sing the song of the sluggard:--"you have waked me too soon, let me slumber again." seville is a dangerous place; it is worse than capua; it would enervate cromwell's ironsides. happily for me the mosquitoes found out my bedroom, and pricked me into activity, or i might not have summoned the courage to leave it for weeks, the more especially as i had a sort of excuse for staying. the cardinal archbishop had promised a friend of mine to let him inspect the body of st. fernando, and my friend had promised to take me with him. now, this was a great favour. st. fernando is one of the patrons of seville; he has been dead a long time, but his corpse refuses to putrefy, like those of ordinary mortals; it is a sacred corpse, and in a beatific state of preservation. three times a year the remains of the holy man are uncovered, and the faithful are admitted to gaze on his incorruptible features. this was not one of the regular occasions; the cardinal archbishop had made an exception in compliment to my friend, who is a rising young diplomat, so that the favour was really a favour. i declined it with thanks--very much obliged, indeed--pressure of business called me elsewhere--the cut-and-dry form of excuse; but i never mentioned a word about the mosquitoes. i told my friend to thank the prelate for his graciousness; the prelate expressed his sorrow that my engagements did not permit me to wait, and begged that i would oblige him by letting the british public know the shameful way he and his priests were treated by the government they had not drawn a penny of salary for three years. this was a fact; and very discreditable it was to the government, and a good explanation of the disloyalty of their reverences. if a contract is made it should be kept; the state contracted to support the church, but since queen isabella decamped the state had forgotten its engagement. puerto de santa maria deserves the name it has got. it is a clean and shapely collection of houses, regularly built. people in england are apt to associate the idea of filth with spain; this, at least in andalusia, is a mistake. the cleanliness is flemish. soap and the scrubbing-brush are not spared; linen is plentiful and spotless, and water is used for other purposes than correcting the strength of wine. walking down the long main street with its paved causeways and pebbly roadway, with its straight lines of symmetric houses, coquettish in their marble balconies and brightly-painted shutters and railings, one might fancy himself in brock or delft but that the roofs are flat, that the gables are not turned to the street, and that the sky is a cloudless blue. i am speaking now of fine days; but there are days when the sky is cloudy and the wind blows, and the waters in the bay of cadiz below surge up sullen and yeasty, and there are days when the rain comes down quick, thick, and heavy as from a waterspout, and the streets are turned for the moment into rivulets. but the effects of the rain do not last long; spain is what washerwomen would call a good drying country. beyond its neatness and tidiness, puerto has other features to recommend it to the traveller. it has a bookseller's shop, where the works of eugène sue and paul de kock can be had in choice spanish, side by side with the carlist almanack, "by eminent monarchical writers," and the calendar of the saragossan prophet (the spanish old moore); but it is not to that i refer--half a hundred andalusian towns can boast the same. it has its demolished convent, but since the revolution of ' that is no more a novelty than the alameda, or sand-strewn, poplar-planted promenade, which one meets in every spanish hamlet. it has the atlantic waves rolling in at its feet, and a pretty sight it is to mark the feluccas, with single mast crossed by single yard, like an unstrung bow, moored by the wharf or with outspread sail bellying before the breeze on their way to cadiz beyond, where she sits throned on the other side of the bay, "like a silver cup" glistening in the sunshine, when sunshine there is. the silver cup to which the gaditanos are fond of comparing their city looked more like dirty pewter as i approached it by water from puerto; but i was in a tub of a steamer, there was a heavy sea on and a heavy mist out, and perhaps i was qualmish. not for its booksellers' shops, for its demolished convent, or for its vulgar atlantic did this puerto, which the guide-books pass curtly by as "uninteresting," impress me as interesting, but for two features that no seasoned traveller could, would, or should overlook; its female population is the most attractive in andalusia, and it is the seat of an agreeable english colony. i happened on the latter in a manner that is curious, so curious as to merit relation. i had intended to proceed to cadiz from seville after i had taken a peep at puerto, but that little american gentleman whom i met at córdoba was with me, and persuaded me to stop by the story of a wonderful castle prison, a sort of _tour de nesle_, which was to be seen in the vicinity, where the _bonne amie_ of a king of spain had been built up in the good old times when monarchs raised favourites from the gutter one day, and sometimes ordered their weazands to be slit the next. this show-place is about a league from puerto, in the valley of sidonia, and is called el castillo de doña blanca. we took a calesa to go there. my companion objected to travelling on horseback; he could not stomach the peculiar moorish saddle with its high-peaked cantle and crupper, and its catch-and-carry stirrups. we took a calesa, as i have said. to my dying day i shall not forget that vehicle of torture. but it may be necessary to tell what is a calesa. procure a broken-down hansom, knock off the driver's seat, paint the body and wheels the colour of a roulette-table at a racecourse, stud the hood with brass nails of the pattern of those employed to beautify genteel coffins, remove the cushions, and replace them with a wisp of straw, smash the springs, and put swing-leathers underneath instead, cover the whole article with a coating of liquid mud, leave it to dry in a mouldy place where the rats shall have free access to the leather for gnawing practice, return in seven years, and you will find a tolerably correct imitation of that decayed machine, the andalusian calesa. it is more picturesque than the neapolitan _corricolo_; it is all ribs and bones, and is much given to inward groaning as it jerks and jolts along. such a trap we took; the driver lazily clambered on the shafts, and away hobbled our lean steed. the road to lady blanche's castle is like that to jordan in the nigger songs; it is "a hard road to travel"--a road full of holes and quagmires and jutting rocks; and yet the driver told me it had once been a good road, but that was in the reign of queen isabella. everything seems to have been allowed to go to dilapidation since. on the outskirts of puerto we passed an english cemetery; i am glad to say it is almost uninhabited. if there is an english dead settlement there ought to be a live one, i reasoned, unless those who are buried here date from peninsular battles. the first part of the road to blanche's castle is level, and bordered with thick growths of prickly pear; there is a view of the sea, and of the guadalate, spanned by a metal bridge--a menai on a small scale. farther on, as we get to a district called la piedad, the country is diversified by swampy flats at one side and sandy hills at the other. blanche's castle was a commonplace ruin, a complete "sell," and we turned our horse's head rather savagely. as we were coming back, the little american shortening the way by sandford and merton observations of this nature--"prickly pear makes a capital hedge; no cattle will face it; the spikes of the plant are as tenacious as fish-hooks. the fibres of the aloe are unusually strong; they make better cordage than hemp, but will not bear the wet so well"--a sight caught my eyes which caused me to stare. a tall young fellow, with his trousers tucked up, was wading knee-deep in the bottoms beside the road. he wore a suit of oxford mixture. "who or what is that gentleman?" i asked the driver. "an english engineer," was the answer. i stopped the calesa, hailed him, and inquired was he fond of rheumatic fever. he laughed, and pronounced the single word, "duty." a little word, but one that means much. a spanish engineer would never have done this; they are great in offices and at draughting on paper, but they seldom tuck up their sleeves, much less their trousers, to labour out of doors as the young englishman was doing. i made his acquaintance, and he willingly consented to show me over the works in which he was engaged, which were intended to supply cadiz with water. in england water is to be had too easily to be estimated at its proper value. at cadiz it is a marketable commodity. even the parrots there squeak "agua." every drop of rain that falls is carefully gathered in cisterns, and the conveyance of water in boatloads from puerto across the bay is a regular trade. an english company had been formed to supply the parched seaport and the ships that call there with fresh water, and its reservoirs were situated at la piedad. in the bowels of the flats below, where the snipe-shooting ought to be good, our countryman told me the water was to be sought. galleries had been sunk in every direction in land which the company had purchased, and pumps and engines are soon to be erected that will raise the liquid collected there up to the reservoirs which have been hewn out of the hills above. these reservoirs, approached by passages excavated out of the rough sandstone, are stout and solid specimens of the mason's craft directed by the engineer's skill. here we met a second gentleman superintending the labours of the men, but he was surely a spaniard; he spoke the language with the readiness of one born on the soil; still, he had a matter-of-fact, resolute quickness about him that was hardly spanish. doubts as to his nationality were soon dispelled; the engineer we had surprised in the swamp presented us to his colleague forrest, engineer to messrs. barnett and gale, of westminster, the contractors, as thoroughbred an englishman as ever came out of the busy town of blackburn. mr. forrest at once stood to cross-examination by the american, who had all the inquisitiveness of his race. "we employ a couple of hundred men, on an average, here," he said, "all of whom, with but two exceptions, are spaniards, and very fair hard-working fellows they are; in the town below we have a small colony of english, and if you don't take it amiss i shall be happy to present you to our society." i know little of the technicalities of engineering, but i saw enough of this work to be certain that it was well and truly done, and i heard enough of the scarcity of water in cadiz to be convinced it will be a great boon when finished. the reservoirs are constructed in colonnades, supported by ashlar pillars and roofed with rubble; for the water must be shaded from the sun in this hot climate; the pillars are buttered over with cement, and there is over a foot of cement concrete on the flooring, to guard against filtration. as we paced about the sombre aisles, echo multiplied every syllable we uttered; the repetition of sound is as distinct as in the whispering gallery of st. paul's, and i could not help remarking, "what a splendid robber's cave this would make!" "too tell-tale," said the practical american; "make a better cave of harmony." "the only pipes that are ever likely to blow here are water-pipes," smilingly put in the engineer; "we intend to lay them from this to cadiz, some twenty-eight miles distant. roughly speaking, we are about ninety feet above the level of the place, so that the highest building there can be supplied with ease." the romans were benefactors to many portions of this dry land of spain; they built up aqueducts which are still in use, but they neglected cadiz. the town has been dependent on these springs of la piedad for its water supply, except such as dropped from heaven, for three hundred years, and attempts to obtain water from wells or borings in the neighbourhood have invariably failed. the water which is found in this basin, held by capillary attraction in the permeable strata through which it soaks till the hard impermeable stratum is met--retained, in short, in a natural reservoir--is excellent in quality, limpid and sparkling. puerto has been supplied from the place for time out of mind, and puerto has been so well supplied that it could afford to sell panting cadiz its surplus. with english capital and enterprise putting new life into those old hills, and cajoling the precious beverage out of their bosom, which unskilled engineers let go to waste, cadiz should shortly have reason to bless the foreign company that relieves its thirst. clear virgin water, such as will course down the tunnels to bubble up in the gaditanian fountains, is the greatest luxury of life here; "agua fresca, cool as snow," is the most welcome of cries in the summer, and temperate spain is as devoted to the colourless liquid that the temperance lecturer gough and his compeers call adam's ale, as ever london drayman was to barclay's entire. success, then, to the cadiz waterworks company: we drank the toast on the hill-side of "piety" they were making fruitful of good, drank it in tipple of their and nature's brewing, but had latent hopes that forrest or his colleague would help us to a bumper of the generous grape-juice for which the district is famed, when we got down to the pleasant companionship of the english colony below. nor were our hopes disappointed. there are innumerable bodegas, or wine-vaults, in the town, in which bottles and barrels of wine are neatly caged in labelled array, according to age, quality, and kind. very clean and roomy these stores of vinous treasure are, with an indescribable semi-medicinal odour languidly pervading them. we visited a bodega belonging to an englishman, who ranks as a grandee of the first-class, the duke of ciudad rodrigo and eke of vitoria, but who is better known as the duke of wellington. the natural wine of this district is too thin for insular palates. they crave something fiery, and, by my word, they get it. like that irish car-driver who rejected my choicest, oily, mellow "john jameson," but thanked me after gulping a hell-glass of new spirit, violent assault liquefied, they want a drink that will catch them by the throat and assert its prerogative going down. what a beamy old imposition is that rich brown sherry of city banquets, over which the idiot of a connoisseur cunningly smacks his lips and rolls his moist eyes. if he were only told how much of it was real and how much artificial, would he not gasp and crimson! it would be unmerciful to inform him that his pet cordial is charged with sulphuric acid gas, that it is sweetened with cane-sugar, that it is flavoured with "garnacha dulce," that it is coloured with plastered _must_ and fortified with brandy, before it is shipped. let us leave him in blissful ignorance. we tasted many samples before we left, but i own i have no liking for sherries, simple or doctored. among spanish wines i far prefer the full-bodied astringent sub-acidity of the common val de peñas, beloved of cervantes. but the queen of wines is sound bordeaux. to that queen, however, a delicate etherous amontillado might be admitted as spanish maid-of-honour, preceding the royal footsteps, while the syrupy malaga from the doradillo grape might follow as attendant in her train. from wine to women is an easy transition. both are benedictions from on high, and i have no patience with the foul churl who cannot enjoy the one with proper continence, and rise the better and more chivalrous from the society of the other. wine well used is a good familiar creature--kindles, soothes, and inspirits: the cup of wine warmed by the smile of woman gives courage to the soldier and genius to the minstrel. with burns--and he was no ordinary seer--i hold that the sweetest hours that e'er we spend are spent among the lasses. i will go farther and say the most profitable hours. and some sweet and profitable hours 'twas mine to spend among the fawn-orbed lasses of puerto, with their childlike gaiety, their desire to please, and their fetching freedom from affectation. would that the wines exported from the district were half as unsophisticated! these lasses were not learned in the "ologies" or the "isms," but they were sincere; and their locks flowed long and free, and when they laughed the coral sluices flying open gave scope to a full silvery music cascading between pales of gleaming pearl. an admixture of this strain with the fair-skinned men of the north should produce a magnificent race; and, indeed, if we paid half the attention to the improvement of the human animal which we do to that of the equine or the porcine, the experiment would not have been left untried so long. in-and-in breeding is a mistake, and can only commend itself, and that for selfish reasons, to the aztec in physique and the imbecile in mind. the families which take most pride in their purity are the most degenerate; the stock which is the most robust and handsome is that which has in it a liberal infusion of foreign bloods. in my opinion, the coming man, the highest form of well-balanced qualities--moral, intellectual, and masculine--the nearest approach to perfection, must ultimately be developed in the united states. puerto has a wide-spread reputation as the nursery-ground for bull-fighters. to the arena it is what newmarket is to the british turf. everybody there walks about armed, but murder is not more rife in proportion than in london. as it happened, a fellow was shot while i was there, but that would not justify one in coming to the conclusion that homicide was a flourishing indigenous product. still, the natives did not escape the contagion of unrest of their countrymen. for example, the last news i heard before leaving my english friends was that the men in the vineyards had struck work. these lazy scoundrels had the impudence to demand that they should have half an hour after arrival on the ground, and before beginning work, to smoke cigarettes, the same grace after the breakfast hour, two hours for a siesta in the middle of the day, another interval for a bout of smoking in the afternoon, and finally that each should be entitled to an arroba (more than three and a half gallons english) of wine per acre at the end of the season. they go on the same basis as some trades' unions we are acquainted with--reduction of hours of labour and increase of wages. "will you give in to them?" i asked of an english settler, in the wine trade. "give in------" but it is unnecessary to repeat the expletive; "i'll quietly shut up my bodega." chapter ii. the charms of cadiz--seville-by-the-sea--cervantes-daughters of eve--the ladies who prayed and the women who didn't--fasting monks--notice to quit on the nuns--the rival processions--gutting a church--a disorganized garrison--taking it easy--the mysterious "mr. crabapple"--the steamer _murillo_--an unsentimental navvy--bandaged justice--tricky ship-owning--painting black white. the man who pitched on cadiz as the site of a city knew what he was about. without exception it is the most charmingly-located place i ever set foot in. its white terraces, crowded with white pinnacles, belvederes, and turrets, glistening ninety-nine days out of the hundred in clear sunlight, rise gently out of a green sea necked with foam; the harbour is busy with commerce, crowded with steamers and sailing ships coming and going from the mediterranean shores, from france, from england, or from the distant countries beyond the atlantic; the waters around (for cadiz is built on a peninsula, and peeps of water make the horizon of almost every street) are dotted with fishing craft or scudding curlews; the public squares are everlastingly verdant with the tall fern-palm, the feathery mimosa, the myrtle, and the silvery ash, which only recalls the summer the better for its suggestive appearance of having been recently blown over with dust; the gaze inland is repaid with the sight of hills brown by distance, of sheets of pasture, and pyramidal salt-mounds of creamy grey; and the gaze upwards--to lend a glow to the ravishing picture--is delighted by such a cope of dreamy blue, deep and pure, and unstained by a single cloudlet, as one seldom has the happiness of looking upon in england outside the doors of an exhibition of paintings. the climate is dry and genial, and not so hot as seville. the sevillanos know that, and come to cadiz when the heats make residence in their own city insupportable. winter is unknown; skating has never been witnessed by gaditanos, except when exhibited by foreign professors, clad in furs, who glide on rollers over polished floors; and small british boys who are fond of snowballing when they come out here are obliged to pelt each other with oranges to keep their hands in. one enthusiastic traveller compares it to a pearl set in sapphires and emeralds, but adds--lest we should all be running to hug the jewel--there is little art here and less society. "letters of exchange are the only belles-lettres." indeed. now this is one of those wiseacres who are _in_ a community, but not _of_ it, who materially are present, but can never mentally, so to speak, get themselves inside the skins of the inhabitants. that city cannot be said to be without letters which has its poetic brotherhood, limited though it be, and which reveres the memory of cervantes, as the memory of shakespeare is revered in no english seaport. wiseacre should hie him to cadiz on the rd of april, when the birth of cervantes is celebrated, for in spite of intestine broils, spaniards are true to the worship of the author of "don quixote," and his no less immortal attendant, whom gandalin, friend to amadis of gaul, affectionately apostrophizes thus: "salve! sancho with the paunch, thou most famous squire, fortune smiled as escudero she did dub thee tho' fate insisted 'gainst the world to rub thee. fortune gave wit and common-sense, philosophy, ambition to aspire; while chivalry thy wallet stored, and led thee harmless through the fire." with the respect he deserves for this wandering critic and no more, i will take the liberty of saying that there is art, and a great deal of art, in the site of the clean town; and that there is society, and good society, in that forest of spars in the roadstead, and in the fishing and shooting in the neighbourhood. when the tauchnitz editions have been exhausted, and when the stranger has mastered cervantes and lope de vega, espronceda, larra, and rivas, there is always that book which dr. johnson loved, the street, or that lighter literature which moore sings, "woman's looks," to fall back upon. i am afraid some prudes may be misjudging my character on account of the frequency of my allusions to the sex lately; but i beg them to recollect that this is andalusia, and that woman is a very important element in the population of cadiz. she rules the roost, and the courtly spaniard of the south forgets that there was ever such an undutiful person as eve. woman played a remarkable part in the events of the couple of months after the royal crown was punched out of the middle of the national flag. she is political here, and is not shy of declaring her opinions. ladies of the better classes of cadiz are attentive to the duties of their religion; kneeling figures gracefully draped in black may be seen at all hours of the day in the churches during this lenten season, telling their beads or turning over their missals. those ladies are carlist to a man, as paddy would say; they naturally exert an influence over their husbands, though the influence falls short of making their husbands accompany them to church except on great festivals such as easter sunday, or on what may be called occasions of social rendezvous, such as a requiem service for a deceased friend. the men seem to be of one mind with the french freethinker, who abjured religion himself, or put off thoughts of it till his dying day, but pronounced it necessary for peasants and wholesome for women and children. but _les femmes du peuple_, the fishwives, the labourers' daughters, the bouncing young fruit-sellers, and the like, are not religious in cadiz. they have been bitten with the revolutionary mania; they are staunch red republicans, and have the bump of veneration as flat as the furies that went in procession to versailles at the period of the great revolution, or their great granddaughters who fought on the barricades of the commune. the nymphs of the pavement sympathize strongly with the republic likewise; but their ideal of a republic is not that of señores castelar and figueras. they want bull-fights and distribution of property, and object to all religious confraternities unless based on the principles of "the monks of the screw," whose charter-song, written by that wit in wig and gown, philpot curran, was of the least ascetic: "my children, be chaste--till you're tempted; while sober, be wise and discreet, and humble your bodies with--fasting, whene'er you have nothing to eat." so long ago as a sequestration of convents was ordered in spain, but the gaditanos never had the courage to enforce the decree till after the revolution that sent queen isabella into exile. a few years ago the convent of barefooted carmelites on the plaza de los descalzados was pulled down; the decree that legalized the act provided an indemnity, but the unfortunate monks who were turned bag and baggage out of their house never got a penny. they have had to humble their bodies with fasting since. for those amongst them who were old or infirm that was a grievance; but for the lusty young fellows who could handle a spade there need not be much pity, for spain had more of their sort than was good for her. even at that date the revolutionists of cadiz had some respect left for the nunneries. but they progressed; the example of paris was not lost upon them. the ayuntamiento which came into power with the republic was federal. barcelona and malaga were stirring; the ayuntamiento made up its mind that cadiz should be as good as its neighbours and show vigour too. the cheapest way to show vigour was to make war on the weak and defenceless, and that was what this enlightened and courageous municipality did. the nuns in the convent of the candelaria were told that their house and the church adjoining were in a bad state, that they must clear out, and that both should be razed in the interests of public safety. it was not that the presence of ladies devoted to god after their own wishes and the traditions of their creed was offensive to the republic; no, not by any means. the nuns protested that if their convent and church were in a dangerous condition the proper measure to take was to prop them up, not pull them down. but the blustering heroes of the municipality would not listen to this reasoning; they were too careful of the lives of the citizens, the nuns included; down the edifices must come. the commune of paris over again. the ladies of cadiz, those who pass to and fro, prayer-book in hand, in the streets, and startle the flashing sunshine with their solemn mantillas, were wroth with the municipality. they saw through its designs, and they resolved to defeat them. to the number of some five hundred they formed a procession, and marched four deep to the town-house to beg of their worships, the civic tyrants, to revoke their order. if the convent and church were in ruins, the ladies were prepared to pay out of their own pockets the expense of all repairs. that procession was a sight to see; there was the beauty, the rank, the fashion, and the worth of the city, in "linked sweetness long drawn out," coiling through the thoroughfares on pious errand. the fair petitioners were dressed as for a _fete_; diamonds sparkled in their hair, and the potent fan, never deserted by the andalusians, was agitated by five hundred of the smallest of hands in the softest of gloves. but the civic tyrants were more severe than coriolanus. they were not to be mollified by woman's entreaties, but rightly fearing her charms they fled. when the procession arrived at the town-house, there was but a solitary intrepid bailie to receive it. they told him their tale. he paid them the usual compliments, kissed their feet in the grand oriental way individually and collectively, said he would lay their wishes before his colleagues, but that he could give no promise to recall the mandate of the municipality--it was more than he dare undertake to do, and so forth. the long and short of it was, he politely sent them about their business. they came away, working the fans more pettishly than ever, and liquid voices were heard to hiss scornfully that the republic, which proclaimed respect for all religions and rights, was a lie, for its first thought was to trample on the national religion, and to dispossess an inoffensive corporation of cloistered ladies of their right to then property. here the first act of the drama ended. the second was, if anything, more sensational, though infinitely less attractive. the federals bit their thumbs, and cried: "ah, this is the work of the priests!" so it was; not a doubt of that. the federals meditated, and this was the fruit of their meditations: "let us organize a counter-procession!" that counter-procession was a sight to see, too; the feature of elegance was conspicuous by its absence, but there was more colour in it. harridans of seventy crawled after hussies of seventeen; bare arms and bandannas were more noticeable than black veils and fans; the _improbæ gaditanæ_, known of old to certain lively satirists, martial and juvenal by name, turned out in force. mayhap it is prejudice, but republican females, methinks, are rather muscular than good-looking. still they have influence sometimes, and when they said their say at the town-house the ladies plainly betrayed how much they dreaded that influence. they wrote to madrid praying that the municipality should be arrested in its course. señor castelar did send a remonstrance; some say he ordered the local authorities not to touch the church or convent, but they laughed at his letter, and contented themselves by reflecting that he was not in possession of the facts--that is, if they reflected at all, which is doubtful. act the third was in representation during my stay. i passed the candelaria one morning. scaffolding poles were erected in the street alongside in preparation for the demolition of the building, and a party of workmen in the pay of the municipality were engaged gutting the church of its contents, and carting them off to a place of deposit, where they were to be sold by public auction. these workmen looked cheerful over their sacrilege. a waggon was outside the door laden with ornaments ripped from the walls, gilt picture-frames, fragments of altar-rails, and the head of a cherub. half a dozen rough fellows in guernseys had their shoulders under a block of painted wood-carving. as far as i could make out, it was the effigy of one of the evangelists. i was refused admittance to the building, but i was told the sacramental plate had been removed with the same indifference. the nuns escaped without insult, thanks to the good offices of some friends outside, who brought up carriages at midnight to the doors of the convent and conveyed them to secret places of safety put at their disposal by the bishop. the people who committed this mean piece of desecration were all federal republicans. they disobeyed orders from madrid, and would disobey them again. they were as deaf to the commands of señor castelar as to the prayers and entreaties of the wives and daughters of respectable fellow-citizens. and all this time that the central authority were defied, artillerymen and linesmen were loitering about the streets of cadiz. eventually it was plain they would be disarmed, as they were disarmed at malaga; and they would not offer serious opposition to the process. their officers were barely tolerated by them. the guardia civil were true to duty, but when the crisis came, what could they do any more than their comrades at malaga? they were but as a drop of water in a well. disarmament is not liked by the old soldiers who have money to their credit, but there is a large proportion of mere conscripts in the ranks, and they are glad to jump at the chance of returning home. troubles worse than any may yet be in store; meanwhile the sun shines, and cadiz, like seville, takes it easy. but there is a bad spirit abroad, and it is growing. a pack of ruffians forcibly entered a mansion at san lucar, and annexed what was in it in the name of republican freedom; the "volunteers of liberty" have taken the liberty of breaking into the houses of the consuls at malaga in search for arms; an excited mob attacked the printing-office of _el oriente_ at seville after i left, smashed the type, and threatened to strangle the editor if he brought out the paper again; and the precious municipality of cadiz has nothing better to do than order that no mourners shall be allowed in future to use religious exercises or emblems, to sing litanies or carry crosses, at the open graves of relatives in the cemeteries. in the merchants' club (of which i was made free) they were saddened at the disrupted state of society, but took it as kismet, and seemed to think that all would come right in the end, by the interposition of some _deus ex machinâ_. but who that god was they could not tell: he was hidden in the womb of fate. as cadiz accepted its destiny with equanimity, i accommodated myself to the situation, and did as the natives did. i helped to fly kites from the flat housetops--a favourite pastime of mature manhood here; i opened mild flirtations with the damsels in cigar-shops, and discovered that they were not slow to meet advances; i expended hours every day cheapening a treatise on the mystery of bull-fighting, with accompanying engravings, in vain--its price was above rubies. but my great distraction was a strange character i met at dinner at the house of the british consul. i did not catch his name at our introduction, so i mentally named him mr. crabapple. he was short and stout, had a round wizened face freckled to the fuscous tint of a russedon apple, and was endowed with a voice which had all the husky sonority of a greengrocer's. he was beardless and sandy-haired, and one of those persons whose age is a puzzle to define; he might have been anything between fifteen and five-and-thirty. as he talked of harrow as if he had left it but yesterday, i was disposed to set him down as a queer public-school boy on vacation, until i was astounded by some self-possessed remark on jamaica dyewoods. we stopped in the same hotel. one morning he descended the stairs, a sort of dressing-case in hand, and yelled to an urchin at the door: "here, you son of a sea-calf, take this down to the waterside for me!" "will he understand you?" i said. "bound to," mr. crabapple replied; "never talk to them any other way, anyhow. 'tis their business to understand. ta, ta--deuce of a hurry." "where are you going, may i ask?" "read the church service--rather a bore--sunday, you know." the nondescript, then, was a chaplain. the same evening he returned to the hotel, and on the following morning i saw him again descending the stairs, the same dressing-case in hand. he nodded salute, slung his luggage to the same urchin with the cry, "hook it, you lubber!" and, turning to me, said, "ta, ta, sheering off again." "where to now?" "mediterranean." "there's no boat to-day." "there is, though--there's mine;" and he was off. the supposed chaplain was a stray-away from a novel by marryat, commanded her majesty's gunboat _catapult_, and was at cadiz on the duty of protecting british interests. at the moment his mission was to carry important despatches to gibraltar. my mission to cadiz was, partly, to ascertain the progress of the inquiry into the case of the _murillo_ steamer, more than suspected of having run down the _northfleet_, a vessel laden with railway-iron and navvies, off dungeness, on the night of the nd of january previous. three hundred lives had been lost on the occasion. i knew something of that wreck, for i had seen and spoken with the survivors in the sailors' home at dover on the following evening. a dazed, stupid lot they were, of an exceedingly low standard of intelligence. the sense of their own rescue had overcome the poignancy of grief. i envied them their stolidity, which i explained to my own mind by the rush of the engulfing waters still swirling and singing knell of sudden doom in their ears. "guv'nor," said one clown to me, "i seed my ole 'ooman go down afore my eyes, and i felt that grieved a'most as if i was agoin' down myself, and i chewed a bit o' baccer." i saw the _murillo_ lying quietly a little distance off the land--a handsome, shapely craft, fine in the lines, with a sharp stem fashioned like that of a ram. she was painted black, with the exception of a band of pink above the water-line, where she was coated with peacock's mixture. the british consul informed me that he understood the inquiry into the guilt of the master was to be carried on _secretly_. he would not be allowed to attend it. copies of the depositions of the accused, and permission to see them, had also been denied to the agents of the british government, who applied for them for the purposes of the board of trade inquiry. though spaniards, in private conversation, own that the _murillo_ is the criminal ship, they seem, for some unaccountable reason, to be anxious that she should escape the penalty of her wickedness, as if the national honour were concerned, and the national honour would be served by cloaking an offence cruel and mean in itself, and awful in its consequences. there is a sentence in the comminations which would keep running in my mind every time i thought of that emigrant ship sent to the bottom off dungeness--"cursed is he who smiteth his enemy secretly." but if he who smites his enemy secretly is accursed, what is he who smites his neighbour and then flees away like a coward in the dark? is he not twice and thrice wicked, and to be branded with malediction deeper still? such a thing the _murillo_ steamer did--there could be no manner of doubt about it; every seafaring man and every spaniard admits her blood-guiltiness; yet there she lies off puntales, near the trocadero, calmly expecting soon to be under weigh again with her criminal master and crew on board, with no punishment registered against her or them. the consul-general of spain in london wrote to the papers after the loss of the _northfleet_, saying if this man was the wrongdoer he would be punished, and sent to ceuta or tetuan. but he is the wrongdoer, and he will never be sent to ceuta or tetuan. the master of the _murillo_ and the sailors of the watch on the fatal night are in prison, but they will never be brought to serious account. the figure of justice in these latitudes is true to the sculptor's ideal in one sense: the eyes are bandaged, not that justice shall be impartial, but that she may not see. this instance of the _murillo_ is but one of many, and as it illustrates an artifice of tricky ship-owning, it will be well to state why the _murillo_ will go scot-free, and may audaciously turn up again in british waters disguised by a few coats of paint, exhibiting a fresh figure-head, and bearing a new name in gilt lettering on her stern. in the first place, the _murillo_ belonged not to spanish so much as english owners. the line of steamers of which she was one was the property of a company of shareholders. the company was anxious that their vessels should fly the spanish flag, so they made one don miguel styles the nominal head of the firm. this individual was a mere clerk in their office, a man of straw, and at the date of the catastrophe don miguel styles had no more substantial existence than our old friend john styles: he was dead, and in his grave. nextly, mr. daniel macpherson, one of the most eminent merchants in the port of cadiz and lloyd's agent, had been served with an instrument claiming damages to the amount of , pesetas (£ , ), because that he had calumniated the good ship _murillo_, and caused her prejudice and injury by detaining her a couple of months in the waters of cadiz. the persons who instituted this action forget that the spanish courts have no jurisdiction in the matter of libels published in england. and as for the prejudice caused to the vessel, it is incredible that the british government should be so weak as to wait for letters from lloyd's agent before opening an inquiry into the deaths of some three hundred of its subjects and the identity of the dastardly scoundrel who was the cause of their deaths, who disabled the ship that held them, and then slunk off, leaving them to the mercy of the midnight sea. that the _murillo_ was that vessel, even those who maintain that she cannot be proved legally guilty do not attempt to deny. it is true, as they say, that moral certainty is one thing, legal certainty another. but there was seldom a clearer chain of circumstantial evidence pointing to the perpetrator of any crime than that which convicted the _murillo_ of being the misdemeanant. she was off dungeness at the hour of the disaster, and she was in contact with a ship; this the imprisoned master admitted in his log. but he alleged that the ship could not have been the _northfleet_. he said he came into collision with a vessel; that he stood by her for half an hour; that one of her boats put off with some persons on board carrying a lantern; that they went round her examining whether there was anything wrong; and that no call having been made to him for assistance he steamed away. but there was a discrepancy between the entry in his log and that in the log of the engineer. the latter, an englishman, stated that the engines of the _murillo_ were backed before the collision, that she went astern afterwards, and then went on ahead. the delay altogether was only for a few minutes. no mention of the half-hour. the engineer had no object in telling a lie. the master of the _murillo_ had. no other ship was in collision off dungeness that night. besides, what meant the order to the _murillo_ to come on at once to cadiz if she had been in collision, and not stop at lisbon, whither she was bound as port of call, if not to get her into limits where justice is notoriously blind and halt? argument is unnecessary and childish; it was the _murillo_ which cut down the _northfleet_. but spain will never exact retribution for the destruction of the property and the sacrifice of the lives of aliens. cosas de españa. chapter iii. expansion of carlism--a pseudo-democracy--historic land and water marks--an impudent stowaway--spanish respect for providence--a fatal signal--playing with fire--across the bay--farewell to andalusia--british spain. towards the close of february, a grave official report was published in the _gaceta_ of madrid, announcing that an engagement had been fought with the carlists and a victory scored, _one_ of the enemy having been killed. we were now in april, some six weeks later, and carlism still showed lively signs of existence, notwithstanding the death of that solitary combatant. the statement of the troops employed against it will be the best measure of its importance. these consisted of a battalion and two companies of engineers, four companies of foot artillery, a battery of horse and five batteries of mountain artillery; eight squadrons of cuirassiers, seven of lancers, four of hussars, a section of mounted chasseurs (tiradores), and eighteen battalions of infantry of the line, with five of cazadores, or light infantry. behind this force of regulars were the francos or free-shooters of navarre (who were about as good as their prototypes, the _francs-tireurs_ of france--no better), some mobilized volunteers, and the carabineros, or revenue police. there were some who imagined that the hosts of don carlos might crown the hills of vallecas, and present themselves before the gate of atocha to the consternation of madrid, as did those of his predecessor in the september of . but the federals of the south did not mind. what did not touch them, they cared not a jot for. they were of the pseudo-democracy which wants to live without working, consume without producing, obtain posts without being trained for them, and arrive at honours without desert--the selfish and purblind pseudo-democracy of incapacity and cheek. as i had no pecuniary interest in salt, wine, phosphate of soda, hides, or cork--the chief exports of cadiz--i left the much-bombarded port on the _vinuesa_, one of the boats of the alcoy line plying to malaga. my immediate destination was the hock, but we went no nearer than algeciras, the town on the opposite side of the bay, off which saumarez gave such a stern account of the spanish and french combined on the th of july, . the sea was without a ripple. the bright coasts of two continents were in view. on such a day as this the first adventurers must have crossed from africa to europe. hero might almost have swum across. even mr. brownsmith of eastchepe might rig a craft out of an empty sugar hogshead, set up his walking-stick for mast, tie his pocket-handkerchief to it for sail, and trust to the waves in safety--that is, if mr. brownsmith of eastchepe had in him the heart of raleigh, not of bumble. some men are born to be drivers of tram-cars, some to be captains of corsairs. the pioneer of navigation must have been cut out by nature to be a high-admiral of bold buccaneers. we were only five passengers on the steamer, and we amused ourselves comparing notes. one told of a voyage from barcelona to alicante which he had once undertaken. the first night out they lost a sailor; he was seized with a fit and died; and then came the poser. when they would arrive at alicante and muster the crew for the inspection of the health officers one would be wanting; suspicions would be aroused that he had fallen a victim to contagious disease, and they ran the hazard of being stuck into quarantine unless they could succeed in buying themselves off with an exorbitant bribe. while they were in a quandary, a white head popped above a gangway forward and a voice sang out: "i'll get you out of the hole for a consideration." "who the deuce are you? where did you spring from?" cried the skipper. "a stowaway,--a flour-barrel. i'll parade as the dead man's substitute for ten dollars and a square meal." in the end they were glad to accept the impudent proposal; the corpse was flung overboard, and the stowaway entered the port of alicante an honest british tar, looking the whole world in the face like longfellow's village blacksmith, and jingling ten dollars in his pocket. we passed by barrosa, where graham gave the french such a thrashing in , and the th irish fusiliers earned their glorious surname of the "eagle-takers;" and over the waves of trafalgar where nelson did his duty, and was smitten with a bullet in the spine; and passing into the straits and rounding the point by tarifa, stood in for the bay of gibraltar. a spacious swelling spread of live water it is, and safe, except, as one of my fellow-passengers informed me, for a rock off the punta del carnero, or mutton point. the rock is covered when the tide is high (for there is a tide here), but rears its tortoise-like back over the surface for some hours at the ebb. the channel squadron was coming out of gib some years before when an ironclad grounded on this rock, but was got off without more damage than a scraping. as the danger to the navigation was outside the limits of the fortress, the british authorities applied to the spanish for permission to clear away the obstruction. it was easily to be accomplished. a party of sappers could set a caisson round it, bore a gallery, insert a charge, and blast the rock into smithereens with safety and despatch. but the spaniards would not consent to such an interference with the designs of providence; the poor fishermen on the coast were often dependent for their livelihood on what they could pick up from wrecks, and if this rock were removed nature would be sacrilegiously altered, and the interesting wreckers deprived of many an honest coin. i tell the tale as it was told to me. i wonder should it be dedicated to the amphibious corps. another story bearing on the successful revolution inaugurated by prim is worth relating, as it deals with an episode of spanish politics which is repeated almost every other year with slender variations. the play is the same; the scene and the _dramatis personæ_ are merely shifted. one of the stereotyped military risings was to be initiated at algeciras on the arrival of prim from england. the intimation that he was at hand was to be made by the firing of two rockets from the ship which carried him. on a certain night at the close of august, , two rockets blazed in the sky, and were noticed by the impatient conspirators at algeciras, who flew to arms to cries of "down with the queen," and "live prim and liberty." but no prim landed. the alarm was premature, the rising a flash in the pan. what they had taken for the bright herald of the advent of "el paladino" was the signal of a peninsular and oriental steamer which had arrived on her passage to port said. for the sake of appearances, a number of unfortunate fools were set up against a wall and had their brains blown out in tribute to law and order. but the fruit was ripening. within little more than a fortnight came the insurrection of the fleet at cadiz, upon the appearance in that port of the popular hero, and before the end of the month queen isabella had fled over the french frontier, never to return to spain as a sovereign. prim's plot was attended with a fortune in excess of his most sanguine hopes; he entered madrid in triumph in october, and was created a marshal in november. all was joy and enthusiasm, but the hapless tools of ambition who had helped to prepare the way for him below in algeciras were not of the jubilee. at first sight the rock looms up large like a frowning inhospitable islet, the stretch of the neutral ground being so low that one cannot detect it above the sea-level until almost right upon it. we left the _vinuesa_ and entered a boat with a couple of sturdy rowers, who offered to pull us across the bay for five dollars. as i dipped a hand in the brine one of them raised a cry of "take care!" there were "mala pesca" there. mr. shark, who is an ugly customer, had been cruising in the neighbourhood, and had taken a morsel out of an american swimmer a little time before. there were three masts protruding over the water at one spot, the relics of some gallant ship, and index to one of those godsends which the spanish government is solicitous to guarantee to the distressed and deserving local fishermen. what a pity it was not the _murillo_! that would have been poetic retribution. no matter: with all thy faults i like thee, spain, and especially that brown dusty province of andalusia, with its oranges and pomegranates; its dancing fountains splashed with sunshine; its winsome damozels with such lisping languors of voice; its philosophic waiters upon the morrow, happy in a cigarette, a melon and a guitar; its muleteers crooning snatches of lazy song; its peasants with hair tied in beribboned pigtail; its tawny boys in manola colours; aye, and its artistic beggars. "ah! now you see the neutral ground; that village to the left is lineas, where you can get a glass of manzanilla cheap," exclaimed a companion. i do not set exceeding store by your pale thin manzanilla, nor do i care to load my mouth with the flavour of a drug store. "there are the sheds we put up the time prim was expected; they are on the neutral ground, ha, ha! where the soil is supposed to be inviolate; but we have forgotten to take them down since. we were too many for them." and now we are by the landing-stairs, and the customs' officer demands our passport in english. we answer him cheerily that we need none, and to his smiling welcome we step on the soil of british spain; but it would be unpardonable to begin describing it at the tail of a chapter. chapter iv. gabriel tar--a hard nut to crack--in the cemetery--an old tipperary soldier--marks of the broad arrow--the "scorpions"--the jaunting-cars--amusements on the bock--mrs. damages' complaint--the bay, the alameda, and tarifa--how to learn spanish--types of the british officer--the wily ben solomon--a word for the subaltern--sunset gun--the sameness of sutlersville. where i went to school, we had a droll lad, whose humour developed itself in mispronunciation. in my nonage i considered that unique. now i know it is a rather common order of quaintness. hugh used to call sierra leone, "sarah alone;" cambodia, "gamboge;" stromboli, "storm-boiler;" and gibraltar, "gabriel tar." how we used to wrinkle with laughter at his sallies, launched with an artistically unconscious air, until the swooping cane came swishing down on our backs! and here i was in gabriel tar. i vow the first inclination i felt was to write to hugh with the date engraved on the note-paper, and indeed so i should have done, but that i had not seen him for nigh twenty years, and when last i heard of him he was married, and had learned to be serious and to speak with precision. the fun had been driven out of him by responsibility. propriety had come with prosperity. call it by what name you will, gabriel tar, or gibraltar, that infinitesimal scrap of territory over which the union jack floats, is supremely unpalatable and insolently insulting to the spaniard. it is a bitter pill to swallow, an adamantine nut to crack. i suppose he is welcome to take it--when he can; but he knows better than to try. it is the gate of the mediterranean. logically, it is an injustice that a stranger should sit in the porter's lodge and swing the key at his girdle; but it is as well that the porter is one who is too surly to barter his trust for gold. so gabriel tar will remain intact, until the porter grows feeble or falls asleep. british spain, or "the rock," or gib, as it is indifferently termed, or sutlersville, as i prefer to name it, can be converted into an island at the will of its defenders. the sandy spit of neutral ground at one side of which tommy atkins, fresh-faced, does his sentry-go in brick-red tunic and white pith-helmet, and at the other side of which swarthy sancho panza y toro, in projecting cap and long blue coat, fondles a rifle in the bend of his arm, can readily be flooded; and the bare, sheer, lofty north front, with scores of cannon of the deadliest modern pattern lying in wait behind the irregular embrasures that grimly pit its surface, hardly invites attack. it frowns a calm but determined defiance; and even the cid himself might be excused if he turned on his heel and puffed a meditative cigarette after he had surveyed it. british spain is small, being but one and seven-eighth square miles english in area; but it is mighty strong. the population, comprising the garrison, is less than fifteen thousand; but behind that slender cipher of souls are the millions of the broadest and biggest of empires. i do not know what the population of the cemetery is, but it receives rapid and numerous accessions at each periodical outbreak of cholera. i paid a visit to it--i have a fondness for sauntering in god's acre--and arrived in time to witness a funeral. when the coffin was laid in the grave, a young man, probably the husband of the deceased, threw himself prone on the turf beside the open burial-trench, and burst into such a passionate tempest of heart-rending sobs and moans and wailings, that i had to move away. these southerners are more demonstrative in their grief than the men of the north. i question if their sorrows spring from deeper depths, or are so lasting. the caretaker of the cemetery, an elderly tipperary soldier, with a short _dudheen_ in his mouth, was seated smoking on a head-stone by a goat-willow. we got into conversation. "there were worse places than gib--singing-birds were raysonable here, and some of them had rayl beautiful plumage." my countryman, like the duke of argyll, had a weakness for ornithology. "that spread of land beyant was where the races were held, and small-arm parties from the fleet sometimes kem ashore and practised there. they used to play cricket there, too. the symmetry wasn't a gay place, but there were worse. there were some beautiful tombs--now _there_ was a parable ov wan; 'twas put up by their frinds to some officers who were dhrownded while they were crossing a flooded sthrame on their way back from a shooting excursion. the car-drivers, who were dhrownded wid them, had no monument. 'twas a quare world; a poor man had the chance of dying wid a rich man, but was not to be berrid in his company. well, he supposed it was for the best," and here he hammered the heel-tap out of his pipe on the side of his shoe; "when the last bugle sounded a field-officer would feel uncomfortable like if he had to be looking for his bones in the same plot wid a lance-corporal." truly, a queer world. death with impartial summons knocks at the cabin of the poor and the palace of the wealthy; but in the undertaker's interest the equality of the grave must not be conceded. the plebeian who commits _felo de se_ is served properly if he is hidden at the cross-roads by night and a stake driven through his body. the lunatic king who drowns himself, and drags his doctor to the same fate--who is a suicide duplicated with the suspicion of murder--is embalmed and laid to rest in consecrated ground amid incense and music, lights and flowers, the tolling of bells, and the chanting of dirges. the funeral was over; they were just finishing the _de profundis_. my countryman had to quit me. "_oyeh!_ that fellow who was making such a lamentation might be married agin in a twelvemonth. the army plan was the best; after the 'dead march' in _saul_ came 'tow-row-row.'--another so'jer was to be had for a shilling. he did not drink; he thanked me all the same--had taken the pledge from father mathew whin he was a boy, and meant to stick by it; but he would accept the price of a singing-bird he had set his mind upon, since it was pressed upon him." gibraltar is but a huge garrison. in the moat by the gate, as i re-entered, a big drummer and a tiny mannikin-soldier with cymbals were practising how to lead off a marching-past tune. the "fortune of war" tavern elbows "horse-barrack lane;" a print of "the siege of kars" is side by side in a shop-window with dr. bennett's "songs for soldiers." the plazas and calles of the mainland of spain have been parted with. the names of streets, hostelries, and stores are english. instead of tiendas and almacenes and fondas, you have fancy repositories, regimental shoe-shops, and porter-houses. there, for example, is the celebrated "cock and bottle," and farther on "the calfs head hotel." if you traverse cathedral square, no larger than an ordinary-sized skittle-alley, you arrive by sunnyside steps to the europa pass. notices are posted by the roadside cautioning against plucking flowers or treading on the beds under pain of prosecution. but the bazaar bewilders you with its alien figures, its confusion of tongues, and its eccentric contrasts of dress. in five minutes you meet spanish officers; nuns in broad-leaved white bonnets; a bearded sergeant nursing a baby; bare-legged, sun-burnished moors; pink-and-white cheeked ladies'-maids from kent; local mashers in such outrageously garish tweeds; stiff brass-buttoned turnkeys; jews in skull-cap and moslems in fez; and while you are lost in admiration of a burly negro, turbaned and in grass-green robe, with face black and shiny as a newly-polished stove, you are hustled by a sailor on cordial terms with himself who is vigorously attempting to whistle "garry owen." but above and before all, the sights and sounds are military. sappers and linesmen and artillerists pullulate at every corner; fatigue-parties are confronted at every turn; the bayonet of the sentinel flashes in every angle of the fortress from the minute the sun, bursting into instantaneous radiance from behind the great barrier of craggy hill, lights up the town and bastions and moles, until the boom of the sunset-gun gives signal for the gates to be closed. every tavern looks like a canteen; the gossip is of things martial; the music is that of the reveille or tattoo--the blare of brass, the rub-a-dub of parchment, or the shrill sound-revel of highland pipes (for there is usually a scotch regiment here). the ladies one meets all have husbands, or fathers, or uncles in the service; even the children--those of english parents well understood--keep step as they walk, and the boys amongst them compliment any well-dressed stranger with a home face by rendering him the regulation salute. this is highly gratifying to the civilian sojourning in the place; for he insensibly succumbs to the _genius loci_, squares his shoulders, expands his chest, and feels that if he is not an officer he ought to be one. except the enterprising gentry who devote themselves to cheating the spanish excise by smuggling cigars and english goods across the border, the scorpions live by and on the garrison, and therefore do i name their habitat sutlersville. "scorpion," i should add, for the benefit of the uninitiated, is the _sobriquet_ conferred by tommy atkins on the natives of the rock, as that of "smiches" is merrily applied by him to the maltese, and of "yamplants" to the denizens of st. helena. there is a tolerable infusion of english blood among the scorpions, but it is hardly of the healthiest or most respectable. gib is familiar to thousands of englishmen, but it must be unfamiliar to many thousands more. this is my excuse for exhuming some notes of my stay there. don't be afraid, i am not going to pester you with guide-book erudition. let others take you to the galleries and caves, lead you up the ascent to the moorish tower, inform you that the one spot in europe where there is an indigenous colony of monkeys (the patriarch of which is styled the "town major") is here, and enlighten you as to the interesting fact that this is the only locality out of ireland where the irish jaunting-car is to be objurgated. mine be a humbler task. society in gib is select, but limited. it is uniform, like the clothes of the influential portion of the inhabitants. gib is the wrong place to bring out a young lady, though major dalrymple's daughters, immortalized in lever's novel, could not well have found a better hunting-ground. but then major dalrymple's daughters were regular garrison hacks--so the irreverent subs of the rovers used to call them--and never stood a chance beside the daughters of the county families. there are racing and chasing at the station, and theatricals and balls. i arrived at the wrong season. the three days' local racing, for horses of every breed but english, was over, and most of the men were going to cadiz by special boat next day, _en route_ for the jerez races, which are the best--indeed, i might almost say the solitary--meeting in spain. "there are only two things in this land worth talking about," said an english merchant to me at cadiz; "the steamers of lopez and the races of jerez." the hunting (thanks to brave old admiral fleming for having started that diversion) was over too. the meets have to come off, naturally, outside the frontier of british spain. the sport is pretty good--one cannot quite expect the melton country, of course--the riding hard, and the horses invariably spanish; no english horses would do, for no english horse would be equal to climbing up a perpendicular bank with sixteen stone on his back, and that is a feat the native steeds, bestridden by british warriors in pink who follow the calpe pack, have sometimes to accomplish. there is a spanish lyrical and theatrical troop in the town; but it is holy week, and lyricals and theatricals are under taboo. occasionally charity concerts are given by amateurs, and plays are even performed in lent champagne, of the fizzers, has won a reputation by his success on the boards when he dons the habiliments of lovely woman beyond a certain age. but, as i told you before, i arrived at the wrong season. there are no balls at the convent, which is the governor's residence; and, touching these balls, i have a grievance to ventilate, at the request of mrs. quartermaster damages. she specially imported frilled petticoats from england to display in the mazy dance, and she assured me they were turning sere and yellow in her boxes. she never gets a chance of bringing them out except once in the twelvemonth, when she is asked to the "quartermasters' ball." but there is a reason for everything, and mrs. quartermaster damages is fat and forty, and not fair, and--tell it not out of mess--they say she has a tongue. at this particular time, you perceive, this fortified fragment of the empire was dull; but usually it is gay, and the officer quartered there has always an excellent opportunity of learning his trade and acquiring skill in the gentlemanly game of billiards. he can make maps and surveys of the neutral ground, and watch the guard mounting on the alameda, or read the account of the siege in drinkwater's days; and when he tires of the green cloth and its distractions, and of his own noble profession, he can throw a sail to the breeze in the unequalled bay, or take a flying trip to tarifa to sketch the beautiful from the living model, or go to ceuta to see the spanish galley-slaves and disciplinary regiments, forgetful of our own chain-gangs; or steam across to tangier to riot in nature and a day's pig-sticking. the bay, the alameda, and tarifa--these are the three delights of gibraltar. you have heard of the bay of naples, and the bay of dublin, which equals it in paddy murphy's estimation. i know both; and gibraltar, the little-spoken-of, leaves them nowhere. the sky, and the undulating mirror below that reflects it, are such a blue; the rocks are such an ashen-grey; the spanish sierras such a leonine brown, with summits wrapped in clouds like rolling smoke; and the sun goes down to his bath in the west 'mid such a vaporous glow of yellowing purple and rosy gold! the alameda is a bower of venus cinctured by mars. here is a gravelled expanse bounded by hill and sea, with cosy benches under the shade of palmitos--the civilization of the west in alliance with the rich vegetation of the east. sometimes, in the morning, five hundred men or more--garrison artillery, engineers, and infantry--muster there, previous to marching to their posts; there is a banging of drums, a blowing of bugles, a bobbing vision of cocked-hats, and a roar of hoarse words of command--all the pomp and pride and circumstance of glorious war before the fighting begins. sometimes, in the evening, a band plays, and the alameda is the resort of fashion and of nursery-maids. tarifa, shining in the sunset across the water, is a tempting morsel for the landscape-painter, and the dwellers in tarifa are the best teachers of spanish. a british subaltern bent on improving his mind could encounter an infinitely better preceptor there than "jingling johnny," the self-appointed professor to the garrison, who hires himself on monday, makes you a present of a guitar-tutor on tuesday, and asks you to favour him with six months' payment in advance on wednesday. to be sure, the spanish those tarifans speak is slightly arabified; but their tones of voice are persuasive, and their methods of teaching agreeable. the professor taken by the british subaltern is invariably a female, and the females of tarifa are not the ugliest in the world. they still retain many customs peculiar to their moorish ancestors. they wear a manta, not a mantilla--a sort of large-hooded mantle, with which they hide the light of their countenance, except an eye--but that is a piercer, ye gods i and they keep it open for business. when a stranger passes, especially if he looks like a sucking lieutenant from the fortress beyond, the manta falls, disclosing the soft loveliness beneath, and the wearer affects a pretty confusion, and hastens with judicious slowness to re-adjust its folds. the british subaltern reels to his quarters seriously wounded, and may be seen the following morning, with his hair blown back, spouting poetry to the zephyrs on europa point. oh no!--that only occurs in romances; but he may be seen drinking brandy-and-soda moderately in the club-house. poor british subaltern! how sutlersville does exploit him! he is a sheep, and bears his fleecing without a kick. watch those lazy, lounging, able-bodied, smoking, and salivating loons who prop up every street-corner, and monopolize the narrow pathways--these all live by him; they eat up his substance, and fatten thereupon. these are the touting and speculating sons of the rock, the veritable scorpions, who are ever ready to find the "cap'n" a dog or a horse or a boat, or something not so harmless, to help him on the road to ruin, and whisper in his ear what a fine fellow he is--"as ver fine a fellow--real gemman--as lord tomnoddy, who give me such a many dollars when he go away." the first word these loons pronounce after coming into the world must be _baksheesh_. they are born with beggary in their mouths, and the british subaltern acts as if he were born to be their victim. there he is below, of every type, lolling outside the hotel-door that looks on that commercial square which is so thorough a barrack-square, with its romping children, its dogs, its dust, its guard-house with chatting soldiers on a form in front, and the important sentinel pacing to and fro, regular and rigid as a pendulum, keeping vigilant watch and ward over nothing in particular. we have a rare company to-day; besides the engineers and bombardiers, and the linesmen of the th, st, st, and st, the four infantry regiments on the station, we have men on leave from malta. they came up to the races, and are waiting for the p. and o. steamer to take them back. that fat little customer is your sporting sub. i only wonder he is not in cords, tops, and spurs. what a hearty voice he talks in! he asks for the _field_ as if he were giving a view-halloo. then there is the moist-eyed, mottle-cheeked, puffy, convivial sub, who is knowing on the condition of ale, and is too friendly with saccone's sherry. the convivial sub, i am happy to say, is dying out. then there is the prig, who is "going in" for his profession. i call him a prig, because when people are going in for anything they should have the good sense not to blow about it. to hear mr. shells and his prattle about hamley and brialmont and jomini, _kriegspiel_ and the new drill, you would imagine he was bound to put the extinguisher on marlborough, wellington, wolseley, and the rest of them; and yet the chances are, if you meet him twenty years hence, he will be a captain on the recruiting service, with no forces to marshal but six growing children. then there is the sentimental sub, the perfect ladies' man, who plays croquet and the flute, pleads guilty to having cultivated the nine, and affects a simpering pooh-pooh when he is impeached with having inspired that wicked but so witty bit of scandal in the local paper. by singularity of pairing, his fast friend is the muscular sub, who walks against time, and can write his initials with a hundredweight hanging from his index-finger. happy dogs in the heyday of life, all of them; how i envy them their buoyant spirits, their rollicking enjoyment of to-day, and their contempt for the morrow! but the morrow will come nevertheless, and with it black care will come often. gib is a haunt of the hebrews; they or their myrmidons beset the subaltern at genial hours, after luncheon or after mess, pester him with vamped-up knick-knacks for sale, appeal to him to patronize a poor man by buying articles he does not and never by any means can want--"pay me when you likes, cap'n, one yearsh, two yearsh." the "cap'n," who may have left sandhurst but six months, may be weakly good-natured, and ignore the fact that his income is not elastic; some day that he thinks of taking a run to england ben solomon, who seems to be able to read the books in the adjutant-general's office through the walls, pounces upon him with his little bill, and he is arrested if he cannot satisfy his jewish benefactor. loans are advanced at a high rate "per shent" by the harpies, and enable him to stave off the temporary embarrassment; the "cap'n" is happy for the moment, but the reckoning is only deferred that it may grow. the arrival of black care is adjourned, not averted. the plain truth of it is, gibraltar is a den of thieves, and has been the burial-pit of many a promising young fellow's hopes. there are two tariffs for everything--one for natives, the other for the british subaltern and the british tourist; and the british subaltern and the british tourist are foolish enough to submit to the extortion in most cases. with some half-dozen honourable exceptions, the traders are what is popularly known as "jews" in their mode of dealing. they cozen on principle, sell articles that will not last, and charge preposterous prices for them; they impose upon the young officer's softness or delicate gentlemanly feeling, and consider themselves smart for so doing. in this manner gibraltar, with all its discomforts, is dearer than the most expensive and luxurious quarter in the british isles. but we have other specimens of the genus officer in the lounging slaughterers by profession, who are so busy killing time. the lean bronzed aristocratic major, whose temper long years in india have not soured; the squat pursy paymaster (why are paymasters so fearfully inclined to fat?); the raw-boned young surgeon with the aberdeen accent; "the ranker," erect and grizzled, and looking ever so little not quite at his ease, you know, for the languid lad with fawn-coloured moustache straddling on the chair beside him is an honourable; the jovial portly yorkshireman, who is in the highland light infantry, naturally; and the lively loud-voiced irishman, laughing consumedly at his own jokes--all are here, conversing, smoking, mildly chaffing each other, and exchanging "tips" as to the next derby. they make a book in a quiet way, and occasionally invest in a dozen tickets in a spanish lottery. what will you? one cannot perpetually play shop, and the british officer has a rooted objection to it, although he does his duty like a man when the tug of war arises. better that he should join in a regimental sweepstakes, or lose what he can afford to lose to a comrade, than give way to the blues. he does not gamble or curse, like his spanish _confrère_; his potations are not deep, nor is he quick to quarrel. then let him race on the neutral ground; let him hunt with the calpe pack; and let him back his fancy for the big event at epsom. those are his chief excitements at gib, and help to give a fillip to life in that circumscribed microcosm, pending the anxiously expected morn when the route will come, or, mayhap, the call to active service, in one of those petty wars which are constantly breaking the monotony of this so-called pacific reign. "guard, turn out!" cries the highland light infantry sentinel under my window, and the smart soldier laddies fall in for the inspection of the officer of the day. what a thoroughly military town it is! by-and-by the evening gun booms from the heights above, where sergeant munro, taking time from his sun-dial and the town major, notifies the official sunset. bang go the gates. we are imprisoned. anon the streets are traversed by patrols in indian file to warn loiterers to return to barracks, the pipers of the st skirl a few wild tunes on commercial square, the buglers sound the last post, the second gun-fire is heard, and a hush falls over the town, broken only by the challenges of sentries or their regular echoing footfalls on their weary beats. the thunder of artillery wakes you in the morning anew, and if you venture out for a walk before breakfast you thread your way through waggons of the army train or fatigue-parties in white jackets. you stumble across cannon and symmetric pyramids of shot where you least expect them; the line of sea-wall is intersected by figures in brick-red tunic, moving back and forward on ledges of masonry; the morning air is alive with drum-beats and bugle and trumpet-calls; everything is of the barrack most barrack-like; the broad arrow is indented in large deep character on the rock. it is impossible to shake off the ordnance atmosphere. the irish jaunting-cars are all driven by the sons of soldiers' wives; the clergy-men are all military chaplains; those goats are going up to be milked for the major's delicate daughter; that lady practising horse exercise in a ring in her garden is wife to pillicoddy of the control department, and is merely correcting the neglected education of her youth; the very monkeys--diminishing sadly, it grieves me to say--recall associations of the mess-room, for you never fail to hear of that terrible sportsman, "one of cardwell's gents," who thought it excellent fun to shoot one some time ago. luckily, the rules of the service did not permit him to be tried by court-martial, or the wretched boy might have been ordered out for instant execution, so great was the indignation. but if he was not shot he was roasted as fearfully as ever st. laurence was; he was reminded a thousand times if once that fratricide is a fearful crime, and if ever nemesis visits his pillow it will be in the shape of a monkey without a tail. one wearies of the same scenes of beauty, and would fain barter the cork woods for the chestnuts in bushy park; the bright bay and the watchet sky pall on the senses, and a dull river and drab clouds would be welcomed for change. the day rises when the conversation of the same set, the stories repeated as often as that famous one of grouse in the gun-room, and the stale jokes anent the sheeref of wazan and the rival innkeepers of tangier, black martin and "lord james," cloy like treacle; the fiction palmed upon the latest novice that he must go and have a few shots at the monkeys, if he wishes to curry favour at headquarters, misses fire; the calls of the p. and o. steamers, and the thought that their passengers within a week either have seen, or will see, the little village works its effect; even bull-fighting is adjudged a bore, and one sighs for regent street and the "rag and famish," flaxen ringlets, and roast bee£ a twelvemonth might pass pleasantly on the rock; but after that the "damnable iteration" of existence must jar on the nerves like the note of a cuckoo. still, as my philosopher of the cemetery remarked, there are worse places--far worse, assouan and aden, for example; so let not the gallant gentleman repine whom fate has assigned to a round of duty in sutlersville. for tommy atkins of the rank and file, it is wearisome when he is young; he should not be asked to stay there longer than a twelvemonth while he is at the age which yearns for novelty, and during that twelvemonth he should be drilled as at the depôt. for the old soldier it is a good station, and should be made a haven of rest. chapter v. from pillar to pillar--historic souvenirs--off to africa--the sweetly pretty albert--gibraltar by moonlight--the chain-gang--across the strait--a difficult landing--albert is hurt--"fat mahomet"--the calendar of the centuries put back--tangier: the people, the streets, the bazaar--our hotel--a coloured gentleman--seeing the sights--local memoranda--jewish disabilities--peep at a photographic album--the writer's notions on harem life. i was gradually getting into the mood of pistol, and cried a foutra for the world of business and worldlings base. my soul was longing for "africa and golden joys." here i was at the elbow, so to speak, of the mysterious continent, where the geographers set down elephants for want of towns. why should i not visit it? i might never have such a chance again. i stood in the shadow of one pillar of hercules. why not make pilgrimage to the other? having notched calpe on my staff, i resolved to add abyla to the record. i was the more inclined to this, as i had recollection that tangier had been part of the british dominions for one-and-twenty years. in catharine of braganza, the "olivader-complexioned queen of low stature, but prettily shaped," whose teeth wronged her mouth by sticking a little too far out, brought it as portion of her dowry to charles ii. the nd, or queen's own regiment, was raised to garrison the post, and sported its sea-green facings, the favourite colour of her majesty, for long in the teeth of the threatening moors. the st dragoons still bear the nickname of "the tangier horse," and were originally formed from some troops of cuirassiers who assisted in the defence of the african stronghold for seventeen years; and the st foot regiment owes its title of "royal" to the distinction it gained by capturing a flag from the moors in . that was the year when old john evelyn noted in his diary that lord ossorie was deeply touched at having been appointed governor and general of the forces, "to regaine the losses we had lately sustain'd from the moors, when inchqueene was governor." his lordship relished the commission so little--indeed, it was a forlorn errand--that he took a malignant fever after a supper at fishmongers' hall, went home, and died. in the merry monarch caused the works of tangier to be blown up, and abandoned the place, declaring it was not worth the cost of keeping. the merry monarch was not prescient. a century afterwards gibraltar was indebted for a large proportion of its supplies, during the great siege, to the dismantled and deserted british-african fortress. for many reasons tangier was not to be missed. by a happy coincidence a party of three in the club-house hotel--a retired army captain, his wife, and a lady companion--were anxious to take a trip to africa. we agreed to go together, and had scarcely made up our minds, when another retired captain, who habitually resided in tangier, gratified us by the information that he was returning there, and would be happy to give us every assistance in his power. retired captain no. was a jolly fellow, fond of good living and not overburdened with æstheticism--a capital specimen of a hearty yorkshireman. he looked after the provand. his wife, portly and short of temper, was as good-natured as he. she insisted on discharging the bills. the lady-companion was thin, accomplished, and melancholy. she kept us in sentiment. retired captain no. was a fellow-countryman of mine, bright-brained and waggish. he was the walking guide-book, with philosophy and friendship combined. i was nigh forgetting one, and not by any means the least important, member of the party--albert. mrs. captain introduced him to me as a sweetly pretty creature. at her request i looked after him. tastes vary as to what constitutes beauty, but i candidly think a broad thick head, crop ears, a flattish nose, and heavy jowls could not be called sweetly pretty without straining a point; and all these albert possessed. he was a bull-dog (i believe his real name was bill, and that he had been brought up in whitechapel). as a bull-dog he had excellent points, and might be esteemed a model of symmetry and breeding by the fancy, or even pronounced a beauty and exquisitely proportioned by connoisseurs; but sweetly pretty--never! i could not stomach that, especially when albert growled and laid bare his ruthless set of sound white teeth. before leaving gibraltar i had two novel sensations, nocturnal and matutinal. the first was a view of the bay by moonlight, the white crescent shining clearly down on a portion of the inner waters brinded by shipping, and on the outer spread of sleepy, cadenced wavelets rippling phosphorescently under the pallid rays. by the mole were visible the outlines of barques, steamers, coal-brigs, and xebecs; away to the left were the _catapult_ and a few of her mosquito companions; and far out rode at anchor a stately frigate of the united states' fleet. the twinkling lamps of the city afloat sending out reddish lines, and the fuller, clearer, luminous pencillings of the gas-lamps of the city ashore, made a not ungrateful contrast to the quivering chart of poetic moonbeams. bending over their edge were the deep shadows of the massive rock; and bounding them, at the other side, the barren foot-hills of algeciras mellowed into a phantom softness by distance and the night. next morning, as i strolled by the sea-wall towards the ragged staff battery, i saw a sight that took away my appetite for breakfast. pacing slowly to their work to the music of clanking chains was a column of wretched convicts.[a] what haggard faces, with low foreheads, sunken eyes, and dogged moody expression or utter blankness of expression! purely animal the most of that legion of despair and desperation looked, and sallow and sickly of complexion. they were a blot on the fresh sunshine. how hideous their coarse garb of pied jackets branded with the broad arrow, their knickerbockers and clumsy shoes! wistfully they moved along, hardly daring to glance at me, through fear of the turnkeys with loaded rifles marching at their sides. i almost felt that, if i had the power, i would demand their release, as did the knight of la mancha that of the criminals on their way to the galleys, although they might have been as ungrateful as gines de passamonte; but those hang-dog countenances banished impulses of chivalry. the little steamer, the _spahi_, which conveyed us across the strait, was seaworthy for all her cranky appearance, and made the passage of thirty-two miles quickly and comfortably for all her roughness of accommodation. she was a cargo-boat, but her skipper was english, and did his best to make the ladies feel at home. besides, captain no. had brought a select basket of provisions and a case of dry, undoctored champagne. one of our first experiences as we cleared algeciras, with turrets like our martello-towers sentinelling the hills, and the three-masted wreck--"been twenty-one days there," said the skipper, "and not an effort has been made to raise it yet, and not even a warning light is hung over it at night"--was to sight a bottle-nosed whale puffing and spewing its predatory course. "what are those ruins upon the spanish shore for?" asked the accomplished lady. when she was informed that they were the beacons raised in the days of old, when the moorish corsairs haunted that coast, and that the moment the pirate sail was descried in the offing (i hope this is correctly nautical) the warning fire blazed by night, or the warning plume of smoke went up by day, to summon spain's chivalry to the rescue, she was enchanted, and recited a passage from macaulay's "armada." we made the transit in a little over three hours, and, rounding the punta de malabata, cut into the bay of tangier, and eased off steam at some distance from the atlantic-washed shore. there is no pier, but a swell and discoloration, projecting in straight line seawards, marks where a mole had once stood. that was a piece of british handiwork; but the moor, who is no more tormented by the demon of progress than the turk, had literally let it slide, until it sank under the waters. the sultana of moorish cities tangier is sometimes called, and truly she does wear a regal, sultana-like air as seen from afar, cushioned in state on the hillside, her white flat roofs rising one above another like the steps of a marble staircase, the tall minarets of the mosques piercing the air, and the multitudinous many-coloured flags of all nations fluttering above the various consulates. but in this, as in so many other instances, it is distance which lends enchantment to the view. we went as near to the shore as we could in small boats, and when we grounded, a fellowship of clamouring, unkempt, half-naked barbary jews, skull-capped, with their shirts tied at their waists and short cotton drawers, rushed forward to meet us, and carry us pickaback to dry land. the ladies were borne in chairs, slung over the shoulders of two of these amphibious porters, or on an improvised seat made by their linked hands, but to preserve their equilibrium the dear creatures had to clasp their arms tightly round the necks of the natives. this would not look well in a picture, above all if the lady were a professional beauty. but there was nothing wrong in it, any more than in amaryllis clinging to the embrace of strephon in the whirling of a waltz. custom reconciles to everything. on stepping into the small boat i had my first difficulty with albert. i trod on his tail. the dog looked reproachfully, but did not moan. his mistress scowled, and warned me to take care what i was about for an awkward fool. her husband, with a pained look on his face, mutely apologized for her, and i humbly excused myself and vowed amendment. i am not revengeful, but i did enjoy it when one of the porters, tottering under the weight of the fat lady, made a false step and nearly gave her a sousing. i clambered on my particular berber's back, dear albert in my arms, and we splashed merrily along; but captain no. , who turned the scales at seventeen stone two pounds, had not so uneventful a landing. twice his bearer halted, and the warrior, abandoning himself to his fate, swore he would make the berber's nose probe the sand if he stumbled. as i was discharged on the beach, i was confronted by a majestic moor. his grave brown face was fringed with a closely-trimmed jet-black beard, and his upper lip was shaded with a jet-black moustache. he wore a white turban and a wide-sleeved ample garment of snowy white, flowing in graceful folds below his knees; and on his feet were loose yellow slippers, peaked and turned up at the toes. this was mahomet lamarty, better known as "fat mahomet," who had acted as interpreter to the british troops in the crimea, and who, at this period, was making an income by supplying subalterns from gib with masquerade suits to take home and horses to ride. mahomet in his sphere was a great man. he was none of your loquacious _valets de place_, no courier of the transcendental school. he had made the pilgrimage to mecca and was a hadji; he was a chieftain of a tribe in the vicinity, and had fought in the war against the spanish infidels; he could borrow his purest and finest arab from the kadi; he was free to the sacred garden of the shereef, or pope-sultan, one of the descendants of the prophet, allah be praised! mahomet, who was known to both the captains, passed our small impedimenta through the custom-house--there is an orthodox custom-house, though there is no proper accommodation for shipping--and we trailed at his heels up the close, crowded, rough alleys which did duty as streets. it would be hard to imagine a more thorough-going change than our scurry across the waves had effected. we were in another world completely. we had been transported as on the carpet of the magician. it was as if the calendar had been put back for centuries, and the half-forgotten personages of the "thousand-and-one nights" were revivified and had their being around us. tangier is a walled and fortified town; but vauban had no hand in the fortifications, and it is my private opinion the walls would go down before a peremptory horn-blast quicker than those of jericho. it swarms with a motley population much addicted to differences in shades of complexion. the tangerines exhaust the primitive colours and most of the others in their features. there are lime-white tangerines, copper and canary-countenanced tangerines, olive and beetroot-hued tangerines, tangerines of the tint of the bottom of pots, tangerines of every--no, i beg to recall that, there are no well-defined blue or green tangerines; at least, none that came under my ken. the town is as old as the hills and courageously uncivilized. there is no gasholder, no railway-station, no theatre, no cab-stand, no daily paper, and no drainage board to go into controversy over. it is unconsciously backward, near as it is to europe--a rifle-shot off the track of ships plying from the west to the ports of the mediterranean. it preserves its eastern aroma with a fine moslem conservatism. its ramparts of crumbling masonry are ornamented with ancient cannon useless for offence, useless for defence. there is said to be a saluting-battery; but the legend runs that the gunners require a week's clear notice before firing a salute.[b] there is no locomotion save in boxes and on the backs of quadrupeds; and quadrupeds of the inferior order are usually, when overtaken by death, thrown in the streets to decompose. but if the irregularity of the town would galvanize the late monsieur haussmann in his grave, its situation would satisfy the most exacting yankee engineer. it is huddled in a sheltered nest on the fringe of a land of milk and honey; it has the advantage of a spread of level beach, and rejoices in the balmiest of climes. the streets are so narrow that you could light a cigar from your neighbour's window on the opposite side; but there is no window, neither at this side nor the other. a hole with a grating is the only window that is visible. moors are jealous, and to be able to appreciate their household comforts you must first succeed in turning their houses inside out. those who have dived into the recesses say the fruit is as savoury as the husk is repulsive. the windowless houses with their backs grudgingly turned to the thoroughfares are low for the most part, and the thoroughfares are--oh! so crooked--zigzag, up and down, staggering in a drunken way over hard cobble-stones and leading nowhere. there are mosques and stores entered by horse-shoe arches, a bazaar dotted over with squatting women, cowled with dirty blankets, selling warm griddle-cakes; moving here and there are the same spectral figures, similar dirty blankets veiling them from head to foot; over the way are cylinders of mat, with nets caging the apertures at each end, to hold the cocks and hens, rabbits and pigeons, brought for sale by riffians, descendants of the corsairs of that ilk, stalwart, brown, and bare-legged, with heads shaven but for the twisted scalp-lock left for the convenience of asrael when he is dragging them up to paradise. hebrews have their standings around, and deal in strips of cotton, brass dishes, and slippers, or change money, or are ready for anything in the shape of barter. seated in the shade of that small niche in the wall, as on a tailor's shop-board, is an adool, or public notary, selling advice to a client; in the alcove next him is a worker in beads and filigree; from a dusty forge beyond comes the clang of anvils, where half-naked smiths are hammering out bits or fashioning horse-shoes. mules with bedouins perched, chin on shin, amid the bales of merchandise on their backs, cross the bazaar at every moment; or files of donkeys, stooping under bundles of faggots, pick their careful way. by-and-by--but this is not a frequent sight--a moslem swell ambles past on a barb, gorgeous in caparisons, the enormous peaked saddle held in its place by girths round the beast's breast and quarters, and covered with scarlet hammer-cloth. if we move about and examine the stalls, we see lumps of candied sweetmeats here; charms, snuff-boxes made of young cocoanuts and beads there; and jars of milk or baskets of dates elsewhere. at the fountain yonder, contrived in the wall, mud approached by rugged, sloppy steps, water-carriers, wide-mouthed negro slaves, male and female, with brass curtain-rings in their ears, and skins blacker than the moonless midnight, come and go the whole day long, and gossip or wrangle with loafers in coarse mantles and burnous of stuff striped like leopard-skin. beside the silent, gliding, ghost-like mahometan women and the hottentot venus, you have rebecca in gaudy kerchief and doña dolores in silken skirt and lace mantilla from neighbouring spain. in the mingling crowd all is novelty, all is noise, all is queer and shifting and diversified. the hotel where we put up was owned by bruzeaud, formerly a messman of a british regiment. it was approached by a filthy lane, and commanded a prospect of a square not much larger than a billiard-table. in the middle of this square was the limp body of a deceased mongoose. at the opposite side of it was a mahometan school, where the children were instructed in the koran, and their treble voices as they recited the inspired verses in unison kept up drone for hours. the build and surroundings of the hostelry left much opening for improvement, but we had no valid ground for complaint. the beds were clean, bruzeaud was a good cook, the waiter was attentive and smiled perpetually, which made up for his stupidity; we had a single agreeable fellow-guest in a frenchman, who spoke arabic, and had lived in the city of morocco as a pretended follower of the prophet; and, besides, there was that dry undoctored champagne, which it is permissible to drink at all meals in africa. there was another hotel in tangier, a more pretentious establishment, owned by one martin--surname unknown. martin was a character. he was an unmitigated coloured gentleman, blubber-lipped and black as the ace of spades, with saffron-red streaks at the corners of his optics. he was a native of one of the west india islands, i believe, but i will not be positive. mahomet lamarty pressed me to tell him in what english county englishmen were born black, and when i said in none, he gravely ejaculated that in that case martin was a liar, and habitually ate dirt. to avert possible complications into which i might have been drawn, i had to hasten to explain that martin might possibly have been born in a part of england known as the black country. he had served in the steward's department on the ship of war where the duke of edinburgh, then prince alfred and a middy, was picking up seamanship. hence his jove-like hauteur. he had rubbed-skirts with royalty, and to his fetter-shadowed soul some of the divinity which hedges kings and their relatives had adhered to him. i never met a darkey who could put on such fearful and wonderful airs. where he did not order he condescended. he showed me an irish constabulary revolver which he had received from "his old friend, lord francis conyngham--'pon honour, he was delighted to meet him. it was good for sore eyes--who'd a-thought of his turning up there!" splendidly inflated martin was when he spoke of "his servants." this thing was entertaining until he grew presumptuous. if you are polite to some people they are familiar, and want to take an ell for every inch you have conceded. and then you have to tell them to keep their place. but martin, with the instincts of his race, saw in time when it was coming to that. what a misery it must be for a coloured gentleman of ambition that the tell-tale _odor stirpis_ cannot be eliminated! martin spent extraordinary amounts of money on the purchase of essences, but to no effect; he could not escape from himself; the scent of the nigger, _che puzzo!_ would hang round him still. he was a great coward with all his magniloquence, and when cholera attacked tangier, left it in craven terror, and sequestered himself in a country house a few miles off. the two captains and i "did" tangier conscientiously, with the zest of bismarck over a yellow-covered novel, and the thoroughness of a cook's tourist on his first invasion of paris. we crawled into a stifling crib of a dark coffee-house, and sucked thick brown sediment out of liliputian cups; we smoked hemp from small-bowled pipes until we fell off into a state of visionary stupor known as "kiff;" we paid our respects to the kadi, exchanged our boots for slippers, and settled down cross-legged on mats as if we were the three tailors of tooley street; we almost consented to have ourselves bled by a moorish barber--mahomet lamarty's particular, who lanced him in the nape of the neck every spring--for the moorish barber still practises the art of sangrado, and also extracts teeth. but in my note-taking i was sorely handicapped by my ignorance of the language. arabic is spoken in the stretch extending from tetuan to mogador by the coast, and for some distance in the interior; chleuh is the dialect of the inhabitants of the atlas range, and guinea of the negroes. spanish is slightly understood in tangier and its vicinity, and is well understood by the jews. the houses are generally built of chalk and flint (_tabia_) on the ground-floor, and of bricks on the upper story. moorish bricks are good, but rough and crooked in make. the houses inhabited by jews are obliged to be coated with a yellow wash, those of natives are white, those of christians may be of any colour. the jews are made to feel that they are a despised stock, and yet with jewish subtlety and perseverance they have managed to get and keep the trade of the place in their hands. that fact may be plainly gathered from the absence of business movement in the bazaars and public resorts of tangier on the jewish sabbath. your hebrew does not poignantly feel or bitterly resent being reviled and spat upon, provided he hears the broad gold pieces rattling in the courier-bag slung over his shoulder. he nurses his vengeance, but he has the common sense to perceive that the readiest and fullest manner of exacting it is by cozening his neighbour. at this semi-european edge of africa he enjoys comparative license, although he is forced to appear in skull-cap and a long narrow robe of a dark colour something like a priest's soutane. but the son of israel when he has a taste for finery (and which of them has not?) compensates for the gloom of his outer garment by wearing an embroidered vest, a girdle of some bright hue, and white drawers. the daughters of israel--but my conscience charges me with want of gallantry towards them in a previous chapter, and now i can honestly relieve it and win back their favour. they are the only beautiful women who mollify the horizon of tangier: the mahometan ladies are not visible, those of spanish descent are coarse, and of english are washed-out; while their lips are against the negresses. i have a batch of photographs of females in an album--aye, of believers in the prophet amongst them, for it is a folly to imagine you cannot obtain that which is forbidden. hercules, i fancy, must have overcome with a golden sword the dragon that watched the gardens of the hesperides--which, by the way, were in the neighbourhood of tangier, if apollodorus is to be credited. on looking over that album, the majority of the faces are distinctly those of aaronites, and most favourable specimens of the family, too there are melting black orbs curtained with pensive lashes, luxuriant black hair, regular features, and straight, delicately chiselled noses. these jewesses generally wear handkerchiefs disposed in curving folds over their heads, and are as fond of loudly-tinted raiment and the gauds of trinketry as their sisters who parade the sands at ramsgate during the season. there is a photograph before me, as i write, of a jewish matron, fat, dull, double-chinned, and sleepy-eyed, who must have been a belle before she fell into flesh. she wears massy filigree ear-rings, two strings of precious stones as necklaces, ponderous bracelets, edgings of pearls on her bodice, and rings on all her fingers. her shoulders are covered with costly lace, and the front of her skirt is like an altar-cloth heavy with embroidery. i dare say, if one might peep under it, she has gold bangles on her ankles. it would surprise me if she had an idea in her head beyond the decoration of her person. as we turn the leaf, there is a full-blooded negress with a striped napkin twisted gracefully turban-wise round her hair, and coils of beads, large and small, sinuously dangling on her breast, like the chains over the debtor's door at newgate. a very fine animal indeed, this negress, with power in her strong shiny features; a nose of courage, thin in the nostrils, and cheek-bones high, but not so high as those of a red indian. if she were white, she might pass for a caucasian, but for that gibbous under-lip. she lacks the wide mouth and the hinted intelligent archness of the two-headed nightingale, and has not the moody expression and semi-sensuous, semi-ferocious development of the muscular widows of cetewayo; but for a negress she is handsome and well-built, and would fetch a very good price in the market. the slave-trade still flourishes in morocco. on the next page we meet two types of young moorish females: one a peasant, taken surreptitiously as she stood in a horse-shoe archway; the other a lady of the harem, taken--no matter by what artifice. the peasant, swathed from tip to heel in white like a ghost in a penny booth, and shading her face with a cart-wheel of a palm-leaf hat looped from brim to crown, and with one extremity of its great margins curled, is a prematurely worn, weather-stained, common-looking wench, with a small nose and screwed-up mouth. she is a free woman, but i would not exchange the dusky bondswoman for five of her class. centuries of bad food, much baby-nursing, and field-labour sink their imprint into a race. the harem lady, whose likeness was filched as she leaned an elbow against a low table, is in a state of repose. she squats tailor-fashion, her fingers are twined one in another in her lap, her eyes are closed, and her expression is one of drowsy, listless voluptuousness. she is fair, and her dress (for she is not arrayed for the reception of visitors) is simple--a peignoir, and a sash, and a fold of silk binding her long rich tresses. a soft die-away face, with no sentiment more strongly defined than the abandonment to pleasure and its consequent weariness. by no means an attractive piece of flesh and blood, and yet a good sample of the class that go to upholster a seraglio. i have never had the slightest anxiety to penetrate the secrets of the moslem household, and i consider the man who would wish to poke his nose into its seclusion no better than peeping tom of coventry--an insolent, lecherous cad. i would not traverse the street to-morrow to inspect the champion wives of the sultan of turkey and shah of persia amalgamated; and i deserve no credit for it, for i know that they are puppets, and that more engaging women are to be seen any afternoon shopping in regent street or pirouetting in the ballets of half-a-dozen theatres. your lady of the harem is an insipid, pasty-complexioned doll, nine times out of ten, and would be vastly improved in looks and temperament if she were subjected to a course of shower-baths, and compelled to take horse-exercise regularly and earn her bread before she ate it. how do i know this? it may be asked. who dares to deny it? is my answer. but here is a digression from our theme of the condition of the jews at tangier, and all on account of a few poor photographs! in one sentence, that condition is shameful. it is a reproach to the so-called civilized powers that they do not interfere to influence the emir-al-mumenin to behave with more of the spirit of justice towards his jewish subjects. in fez and other cities they have to dwell in a quarter to themselves--"el melah" (the dirty spot) it is called in morocco city; and when they leave the melah they have to go bare-footed. they are not permitted to ride on mules, nor yet to walk on the same side of the street as arabs. the late sir moses montefiore, a very exemplary old man in some respects, visited morocco in his eightieth year to intercede on behalf of his co-religionists, and promises of better treatment were made; but promises are not always kept. chapter vi. a pattern despotism--some moorish peculiarities--a hell upon earth--fighting for bread--an air-bath--surprises of tangier--on slavery--the writer's idea of a moorish squire--the ladder of knowledge--gulping forbidden liquor--division of time--singular customs--the shereef of wazan--the christian who captivated the moor--the interview--moslem patronage of spain--a slap for england--a vision of beauty--an english desdemona: her plaint--one for the newspaper men--the ladies' battle--farewell--the english lady's maid--albert is indisposed--the writer sums up on morocco. the government in morocco would satisfy the most ardent admirer of force. it is an unbridled despotism. the sultan is head of the church as of the state, and master of the lives and property of his subjects. he dispenses with ministers, and deliberates only with favourites. when favourites displease him, he can order their heads to be taken off. favourites are careful not to displease him. the land is a _terra incognita_ to europeans, and is rich in beans, maize, and wool, which are exported, and in wheat and barley, which are not always permitted to be exported. altogether the form of administration is very primitive and simple. it is a rare privilege for a european to be admitted into the imperial presence, and indeed the only occasions, one might say, when europeans have the privilege are those furnished by the visits of foreign missions to submit credentials and presents. it is advisable for a private traveller not to go to the chief city unless attached to one of these official caravans; but by those who have money a journey to fez may be compassed with an escort. this escort consists of the sultan's very irregular soldiers, who are armed with very long and very rusty matchlocks, of a pattern common nowadays in museums and curiosity shops. ostensibly the escort is intended to protect the traveller from the regularly organized bands of robbers which infest the interior; but the experience of the traveller is that when the robbers swoop down he has to protect the escort. christians are looked upon as dogs by all the self-satisfied natives, and treated so by some of them when they can be saucy with impunity. it was my lot to be called a dog by a small fanatic, who hissed at me with the asperity and industry of a disturbed gander, and pelted me with stones. but two can play at that game, and that boy will think twice before he lapidates a full-grown christian again. but he will hate him for evermore, and when he has reached man's estate will teach his son to repeat the doggerel: "the christian to the hook, the jew to the spit, and the moslem to see the sight." the sultan collects his revenue (estimated at half a million pounds sterling a year, great part of which is derived from the government monopoly of the sale of opium) by the aid of his army; but as he never nears the greater portion of his dominions, there must be some nice pickings off that revenue by minor satraps before it reaches his sacred hands. there is quite a phalanx of under-strappers of state in this despotism. for instance, at tangier there is a bacha or governor, a caliph or vice-governor, a nadheer or administrator of the mosques, a mohtasseb or administrator of the markets, and a moul-el-dhoor or chief of the night police. there is a leaven of the guild system, too, as in more advanced countries. each trade has its amin, each quarter its mokaderrin. there is a kadi, or minister of worship and justice, to whom we paid our respects. justice is quick in its action, and stern in the penalties it inflicts. the legs and hands are cut off pilferers, heads are cut off sometimes and preserved in salt and camphor, and the bastinado is an ordinary punishment for lesser crimes. but the moors must be thick in the soles, nor is it astonishing, as the practice is to chastise children by beating them on the feet. mahomet lamarty volunteered to procure a criminal who would submit to the bastinado for a peseta. in the market-place i compassionated an unfortunate thief minus his right hand and left leg. we took a walk to the prison, which is on the summit of the hill, captain no. thoughtfully providing himself with a basket of bread. what a hell upon earth was that sordid, stifling, noisome, gloomy keep, with its crowds of starving sore-covered inmates. in filth it was a pig-sty, in smell a monkey-house, in ventilation another black-hole of calcutta. turn to the next page, reader mine, if you are squeamish. heaven be my witness, i have no desire to minister to morbid tastes; but i have an object in describing this dreadful _oubliette_, for it still exists--exists within thirty-two miles of british territory, and it is a scandal that some effort is not made to mitigate its horrors. through the bars of a padlocked door, from which spurt blasts of mephitic heat, we can descry amid the steam of foul exhalations, as soon as our eyes become accustomed to the dimness, a mob of seething, sweating, sweltering captives, like in aspect as a whole to so many gaunt wild beasts. some are gibbering like fiends, others jabbering like idiots. they are there young and old; a few--the maniacs those--are chained; all are crawled over by vermin, most are crusted with excretions. the sight made me feel faint at the time, the very recollection of it to this day makes my flesh creep. we were fascinated by this peep at the inferno. the moment these caged wretches caught a glimpse of us they rushed to the door, and on bended knees, or with hands uplifted, or with pinched cheeks pressed against the bars, raised a clamour of entreaty. we drew back as the rancid plague-current smote our faces, and questioned mahomet by our looks as to what all this meant. "they want food," he explained. these prisoners are allowed two loaves a day out of the revenues of the mosques; but two loaves, even if scrupulously given, which i doubt, are but irritating pittance. they may make cushions or baskets, but their remuneration is uncertain and slender. those who are lucky get sustenance from relatives in the town, but the majority are half-starving, and are dependent for a full meal on the bounty of chance visitors. we poked a loaf through the bars. it was ravenously snapped at, torn into little bits, and devoured amid the howls of those who were disappointed. then a loaf was cast over the door. what a savage scramble! the bread was caught, tossed in the air, jumped at, and finally the emaciated rivals fell upon one another as in a football scrimmage, and there was a moving huddle of limbs and a diabolical chorus of shrieks and yells. that could not be done again; it was too painful in result mahomet undertook to distribute the remainder of our stock through an inlet in the wall, and we drew away sick in head and heart from that den of repulsive degradation, greed, brutality, cruelty, selfishness, and all infuriate and debased passion--that damnable magazine of disease physical and moral. it is undeniable that there were many there whose faces were passport to the court of lucifer--murderers, and dire malefactors; but better to have decapitated them than to have committed them to the slow torture of this citadel of woe. there were inmates who had been immured for years--inmates for debt whose hair had whitened in the fetid imprisonment, whose laugh had in it a harsh hollow-sounding jangle, and whose brows had fixed themselves into the puckers of a sullen, hopeless, apathetic submission to fate. their lack of intelligence was a blessing. had they been more sensitive they would have been goaded into raging lunacy. let us to the outer freshness and make bold endeavour to fling off this weight of nightmare which oppresses us. passing by the ruinous gate yonder with its wild-looking sentry, we reach the open space where crouching hill-men are reposing on the stunted grass, and ungainly camels, kneeling in a circle, are chewing the cud in patience, or venting that uncanny half-whine, half-bellow, which is their only attempt at conversation. let us take a long look at the country beyond with its gardens teeming with fruit and musical with bird-voices; walk up to the crown of that slant and survey the valleys, the plateaux, the brushwood, the flower-patches, spreading away to the hills that swell afar until the peaks of the atlas, cool with everlasting snow, close the view. one is tempted to linger there lovingly, though darkness is falling. there is a gift of blandness and briskness in the very breathing of the air. when you have had your fill of the beauties on the land side, turn to the sea, meet the evening breeze that comes floating up with a flavour of iodine upon it, range round the sweeping vista, from giant calpe away over the strait flecked with sails on to trafalgar, smiling peacefully as if it had never been a bay of blood, and finish by the vision of the great globe of fire descending into the atlantic billows. our stay in tangier was most gratifying because of its variety and unending surprises. existence there was out of the beaten track, and kept curiosity on the constant alert. it was a treat to pretend to be legree, and to negotiate for a strong likely growing nigger-boy. i discovered i could have bought one for ten pounds sterling, a perfect bargain, warranted free from vice or blemish; but as i was not prepared to stop in africa just then, i did not close with the offer. it may be a shocking admission to make, but if i were to settle down in morocco, i confess, i should most certainly keep slaves. there is a deal of sentimental drivel spouted about the condition of slaves. those i have seen seemed very happy. in morocco they are well treated; and if desirous to change masters the law empowers them to make a demand to that effect. it is true that a slave's oath is not deemed valid, but cuffy bears the slight with praiseworthy equanimity. i am sure if cuffy were in my service he would never ask to leave it, and i would teach him to appraise his word as much as any other man's oath (except his master's), by my patented plan for negro-training, based on mr. rarey's theories. as the land about tangier was rated at prairie value--an acre could be had for a dollar--i might have been induced to invest in a holding of a couple of hundred thousands of acres, but that my ship had not yet come within hail of the port. what a healthy, free, aristocratic life, combining feudal dignity with educated zest, a wise man could lead there--if he had an establishment of, say, three hundred slaves, a private band, a bevy of dancing girls, bruzeaud for _chef_, an extensive library, sixteen saddle-horses, and relays of jolly fellows from gibraltar to help him chase the wild boar and tame bores, eat couscoussu, and drink green-tea well sweetened. he should moorify himself, but he need not change his religion, and if he went about it rightly, i am sure, like the village pastor, he could make himself to all the country dear. take the educational question, for example. if he were diplomatic he would pay the school-fees of the urchins of tangier. these are not extravagant--a few heads of barley daily, equivalent to the sod of turf formerly carried by the pupils to the hedge academies in dear ireland, and a halfpenny on friday. he should affect an interest in the koran, and make it a point of applauding the koran-learned boy when he is promenaded on horseback and named a bachelor. he might--indeed he should--follow the career of his _protégé_ at the mhersa, where he studies the principles of arithmetic, the rudiments of history, the elements of geometry, and the theology of sidi-khalil, until he emerges in a few years a thaleb, or lettered man. perhaps the thaleb may go farther, and become an adoul or notary, a fekky or doctor, nay--who knows?--an alem or sage. ah! how pleasant that moorish squire might be by his own ruddy fire of rushes, palm branches, and sun-dried leaves; and what a profit he might make by judicious speculation in jackal-skins, oil, pottery, carpets, and leather stained with the pomegranate bark! he would have his mills turned by water or by horses; he would eat his bread with its liberal admixture of bran; he would rear his storks and rams. the professors who charm snakes and munch live-coals would all be hangers-on of his house; and he would have periodical concerts by those five musicians who played such desert lullabies for us--conspicuously one patriarch whose double-bass was made from an orange-tree--and would not forget to supplement their honorarium of five dollars with jorums of white wine. sly special pleaders! they argue with the german play-wright: "_mahomet verbot den wein, doch vom champagner sprach er nicht._" from the frenchman at the hotel, whose knowledge of morocco was "extensive and peculiar," i acquired much of my information on the manners and customs of the people. watches are only worn and looked at for amusement. instead of by hours, time is thus noted: el adhen, an hour before sunrise; fetour (repast) el hassoua, or sunrise; dah el aly, ten in the morning; el only, a quarter past twelve; el dhoor, half-past one; el asser, from a quarter past three to a quarter to four; el moghreb, sunset; el achâ, half-an-hour after sunset; and el hameir, gun-shot. meals are taken at dah el aly, el asser, and el moghreb. the houses are built with elevated lateral chambers, but there is a narrow staircase leading to the doeria, a reception-room, where visitors can be welcomed without passing the ground-floor. the walls are plastered, and covered with arabesques or verses of the koran incrusted in colours. the wells inside the houses are only used for cleansing linen; water for drinking purposes is sought outside. among many singular customs--singular to us--i noted that a popular remedy for illness is to play music and to recite prayers to scare away the devil. an enlightened moor might think the practices of the peculiar people quite as strange, and question the infallibility of cure-all pills at thirteen-pence-halfpenny the box. the dead in morocco are hurried to their graves at a hand-gallop. that, i submit, is no more unreasonable than many english funeral usages, such as incurring debt for the pomp of mourning. at moorish weddings the bride is carried in procession in a palanquin to her husband's house amid a _fantasia_ of gunpowder--the reckless rejoicing discharges of ancient muskets in the streets. well, white favours, gala coaches, and _feux de joie_ at marriages of the great are not entirely unknown among us. nobody sees the moorish wife for a year, not even her mother-in-law, which i consider a not wholly unkind dispensation. the moorish wife paints her toe-nails, which, after all, is a harmless vanity, and less obtrusive than that of the ladies who impart artificial redness to their lips. and, lastly, the moorish wife waits on her husband. personally, i fail to discover anything blamable in that act, though i must concede that it is eccentric, very eccentric. these allusions to the moorish wife in general lead up naturally to one in particular in whom i took a professional interest, for she was as remarkable in her way as lady ellenborough or lady hester stanhope, or that strong-minded irishwoman who married the moslem, prince izid aly, and whose son reigned after his father's death. the shereef has been mentioned. he is the great man of the district, with an authority only second to that of the sultan himself. claiming to be a lineal descendant of mahomet, he is entitled to wear the green turban. his name at full length is long, but not so long as that of most spanish infantes--abd-es-selam ben hach el arbi. he is a saint and a miracle-worker. he has been seen simultaneously at morocco, wazan, and tangier, according to the belief of his co-religionists, wherein he beats the record of sir boyle roche's bird, which was only in two places at once. like jacob, he has wrestled with angels. he is head of the muley-taib society, a powerful secret organization, which has its ramifications throughout the islamitic world. he draws fees from the mosques, and has gifts bestowed upon him in profusion by his admirers, who feel honoured when he accepts them. exalted and wide-spreading is his repute where the moslem holds sway, and unassailable is his orthodoxy, yet he has had the temerity to take to himself a christian wife. this lady had been a governess in an american family at tangier. there the shereef made her acquaintance, wooed and won her. they were married at the residence of the british minister plenipotentiary; the officers of a british man-of-war were present at the ceremony, and slippers and a shower of rice, as at home, followed the bride on leaving the building. the shereef and, if possible, the shereefa were personages to be seen, and mahomet lamarty was the very man to help us to the favour. his highness lived four miles away, and we formed a cavalcade one afternoon and set off for his garden, the ladies accompanying us. we passed through cultivated fields of barley and _dra_ (a kind of millet), crossed the river wadliahoodi, and ascended a road which faced abruptly towards the hills. an agreeable road it was, and not lonesome; we had the carol of birds and the piping of bull-frogs to lighten the way, and leafy branches made reverence overhead. there were abundance of fruit and such beautiful shrubs that i rail at myself for not being botanist enough to be able to enlarge upon them. there were orange-groves, yellow broom, dog-rose, and apples, pears, peaches, apricots, plums, pomegranates, figs, and vines. it was such an oasis as a very young etonian in the warmth of a midsummer vacation might have likened to heaven. the range of hills of el jebel rose left and right, and at parts presented a steep cliff to the ocean. this ridge is about twelve miles in width, and its fertile slopes amply merit to be lauded as the best fruit-producers in the empire, "as bounteous as paradise itself." mahomet lamarty, who was our guide, entered the shereef's grounds to prepare for our introduction; and now the ladies, who had insisted on coming with us, rebelled, and said point-blank they would not salute the shereefa as "your highness." they were impatient to see her, but they declined to give countenance to a christian who had demeaned herself by wedding a heathen. "the visit was of your own seeking, ladies," i said; "if you are not willing to treat her highness with deference, better stay outside." they were not equal to that sacrifice after riding four miles. "who'll start the conversation?" said captain no. . "you start it" (to me) "like a good fellow, and i'll take up the running." captain no. said he would hang about for us outside. mahomet beckoned to us and we ventured into the garden. coming down a pathway we saw an austere, swarthy, obese man of the middle height. he was white-gloved, and wore a red fez, a sort of zouave upper garment of blue, with burnous, baggy trousers, white stockings, and turkish slippers. it was the shereef. i had agreed to open the interview, but when it came to the trial my arabic (i had been only studying it for two hours) abandoned me. mahomet did the needful. i thanked his highness for his kindness in admitting us to his demesne, and he smiled a modest, solemn smile, and looked greeting from his small eyes. when he discovered that i had been travelling in spain, he asked me--always through mahomet--what they were doing there. on having my reply--that they were tasting the miseries of civil war--translated to him, he shook his head, shrugged his shoulders, and slowly ejaculated: "unhappy spain! silly, unfortunate people! that is the way with them always. they are at perpetual strife one with another." and then mahomet interposed with a parenthesis of his own depreciatory of the spaniards, whom he loathed and despised. he had fought against them in the war of - , and the shereef had also headed his countrymen, and had shown great courage and coolness in action. his presence had infused a high spirit of enthusiasm into the undisciplined troops. "bismillah!" grunted mahomet. "the spaniard is beneath contempt. he was almost licked in one battle. he was four months here, and how far did he get into the interior?" mahomet conveniently forgot the defeat of guad-el-ras, the occupation of tetuan, and the indemnity of four hundred millions of reals which was exacted as the price of peace; but he was literally correct, the victorious o'donnell did not flaunt his flag beyond a very exiguous strip of the territory of sidi-muley-mahomet. we were walking as we talked, and by this time had reached the brow of a wooded rise which commanded an uninterrupted prospect of the ocean. the flowery cistus flourished on the eminence, and cork-trees, chestnuts, and willows shielded us from the fierceness of the sun. behind and around were a succession of richly-planted gardens. we halted, and the shereef, scanning the horizon in the direction of the rock, suddenly put a question to me which almost took my breath away: "do they buy commissions over the way still?" "no; that system has been abolished." "it is well," he remarked, with a scarcely suppressed sneer. "it was incredible that a great nation and a fighting nation should make a traffic of the command of men, as if a clump of spears were a kintal of maize," and as he relapsed into silence a soldierly fire gleamed in his irides, his frame seemed to straighten and swell, and the nature of the prophet retired before that of the warrior. from where we stood we could ferret out a house with a veranda in front, built on a terrace and begirt with trees. that was the residence of his highness; but we turned our eyes in another direction, lest we should be suspected of rude curiosity by this courteous african. i was trying to divine the tally of years our host had numbered. no arab knows his own age, and here it may be useful to tell the reader wherein the distinction lies between the moor and the arab. virtually they are the same; but the name of moor is given to those who dwell in cities, of arab to those who roam the plains. mahomet came to my aid. his highness had whiskers when tangier was bombarded by prince de joinville. that was in august, , a good nine-and-twenty years before, so that abd-es-salam must have long doubled the cape of forty, which would leave him considerably the senior of his frankish wife. we turned at a noise--the creak of a rustic wooden gate on its hinges; a figure approached. and then it was given to me to gaze upon her highness the shereefa of wazan. she was not called zuleika, but emily--her maiden name had been keene, and she came not from the rose-bordered bowers of bendemeer's stream, nightingale-haunted, but from the prosaic levels of south london, where her father was governor of a gaol. truly she was a vision of gratefulness in that paynim tract--a rich brunette, with large black eyes, long black ringletted tresses, and a well-filled shape with goodly bust. her attire was neat and graceful and not oriental. she was clad in a riding-habit of ruby brocaded velvet, with jacket to match, had a cloud of lace round her throat, and an alpine hat with cock's feather poised on her well-set head. she might serve as the model for a spanish ann chute. bracelets on her plump wrists and rings on her taper fingers caught the sunshine as she occasionally twirled her cutting-whip. her voice was bell-like and melodious, with the faintest accent of decision, and her manner, after an opening flush of embarrassment, was cordial and debonair. the embarrassment was because of her inability to extend to us the hospitality she desired. she explained that she had to receive us in the garden as the house was undergoing repairs. after the customary commonplaces, she freely entered into conversation, and took opportunity at once to deny that she was a renegade; she wore european costume, as we saw, and attended the rites of the english church, for it was one of the stipulations of the marriage contract that she should have perfect liberty to follow her own faith. "i wish every english girl were as happily married as i," she said, "and had as loving a husband." it was gratifying, therefore, to note that she found herself as women wish to be who love their lords. she had been married on the th of january, and as the shereef had entered into his present residence but recently, they were still at sixes and sevens. it was his habit to spend the winter in the country and the summer in town. she had been but two years in morocco, and had not yet mastered arabic. "his highness understands english?" she shook her head, and quickly interpreting a lifting of my eyelids, she smilingly added, "spanish was the medium of our courtship." and then, as we promenaded the garden path, she became communicative, and dwelt with pardonable expansion on the virtues of her lord and master, who followed behind side by side with the portly yorkshireman. his charity, she said, was unbounded. slaves were frequently sent to him as presents, but he kept none. he was modest on his own merits, and yet he was the most enlightened of moors. he had visited marseilles, a war-ship having been put at his disposal by the french government, and was most anxious to take a tour to paris and vienna, and above all to england. it was his desire that railways should be constructed in morocco, and he was glad when he was told that there was some likelihood of a telegraph cable being laid to tangier. "then," interrupted i, "with your highness's influence on the tribes around, exercised through your husband, there should be a fair prospect of pushing civilization here." "ah, yes!" she exclaimed, with a glow on her cheeks, "that is one of my dearest hopes, that is my great ambition. i believe that my marriage, which has been cruelly commented upon in england, may effect good both for these poor misunderstood moors and my own country people." "is the shereef on friendly terms with the sultan?" "no, i am sorry to say there is a feud between them at the moment. the sultan objects to my husband for using an english saddle." "hum!" (to myself mentally) "if the august muley cannot brook an english saddle, what must he think of an english wife? or do these moslems, like some christians i know, strain at a gnat and swallow a camel? mayhap it is even so. the pigeon-prompted camel-driver, who built up his creed with plentiful blood-cement, saw fit to add a new chapter to the koran, when he fell in love with the coptic maiden, mary." the shereefa told me that her father and mother had come out to see her. they were averse to the alliance at first, but were satisfied that she had done the right thing when she told them how content she was, and with what high-bred consideration for her wishes in the matter of religion her husband had behaved. their intention was to stop for four days, but they extended their visit to fourteen. "and now," she continued, "i can use to my lord the words of ruth to naomi, 'whither thou goest i will go; and where thou lodgest i will lodge; thy people shall be my people'"--a pause--"yes, and 'thy god my god,' for there is but one"--archly--"the matter of the prophet we shall leave aside." i admired the lady's pluck, and if i were that moorish squire i have tried to sketch, i should esteem it an honour to have her on my visiting list. but i am a theological oddity, and my wallet of prejudices, it is to be feared, is sadly unfurnished. i never could rise to that sublimated self-sufficiency of intellect that i could consign any fellow-creature to everlasting pains for the audacity of differing in dogma with myself. i have met good and bad of every creed, mahometans i could respect--whose word was their bond--and so-called christians and christian ministers with a most uncharitable spiritual pride, whom i could not respect. the liver of the persecutor was denied me. were the fires of smithfield to be rekindled, my prayers would be sent up for the floods of heaven to quench them, and for the lightnings of heaven to annihilate the fiends who had piled the faggots. "by-the-bye," said the shereefa, "do you know any of those people who write for the papers in london?" i admitted that i had that misfortune. "some of them are fools as well as cowards," she went on. "they have written articles about me full of ignorance and malice. have they no consideration for the feelings of others?" "i am afraid, your highness, some of them are more brilliant than conscientious; they would rather point an epigram than sacrifice style to truth or good-nature." "one of them in particular," she said, and there was an irritated ring in her voice, "has singled me out for attack, and given me in derision a name which he believes to be mahometan, but which is really jewish." and with her cutting-whip she viciously snapped off the heads of some poppies. the episode of tarquin's answer to the emissary of sextus occurred to me, and i felt that if my colleague, horace st. j----, were there, he would have passed a very bad quarter of an hour. the females of our party joined us, and i formally presented them, taking a malicious pleasure in emphasizing the "your highness." the shereefa received them right graciously, but it was easy to notice that a chill came over the conversation. they were careful never to use the title to their english sister. in fact, it was a tacit ladies' battle. it was time to leave, and the shereefa presented her visitors with two nosegays, gathered by her own hands. the act had in it something very royal, with the smallest trace of sly condescension. the shereef accompanied us to the outer gate. on the way i motioned to captain no. to offer him a cigar. he did; his highness accepted it, bowed, and gravely put it in his pocket. as we stood on the road at parting, a peasant was passing with a load of twigs on his shoulders. he cast them off, threw himself on his knees, kissed the hem of the holy man's garments, and the back of his proffered hand. we were descending the hill when a rustle in the bushes attracted me, and a white face peeped out and a voice besought me in english to stop. it was the shereefa's london lady's-maid. she could not resist the temptation of enjoying a few sentences with one of her own race. from her i learned that there were twenty-seven moorish women in her master's household; that there was a tank at wazan large enough to float a ship; that her master had been married before, and had two sons and a lovely mahometan child, a daughter, to whom the shereefa was teaching english and the piano; "but remember, please," and here she grew important, and had all the dignity of a retainer, with a great sense of what was due to her caste and the proprieties, "that my mistress's children, if she have any, will be europeans!" as we got back to our hotel the muezzins were summoning the faithful to their vesper orisons, and albert was moaning ruefully under the sideboard. mrs. captain had out her sweetly pretty pet at once, and covered him with caresses and endearments. "somebody has given him something that has disagreed with him. was it you?" she said to me, and there was that in her tone which made me quake in my shoes. meekly and truthfully i protested that i had not; i had fed him in the morning in her own presence; the darling was in his usual health and spirits when we left, but--intercede for me, puck, and you aerial imps of mischief, for no other spirit will--i could not help murmuring in audible soliloquy, "the carcase of that mongoose, which was on the square outside this morning, is no longer there." the scene that followed, to borrow the hackneyed phrase, beggars description. the house was turned upside down; to my mental vision arose sal volatile and burnt feathers, swoons and hysterics. mahomet's dove alone can tell how all might have ended had not the frenchman suggested a bolus. captain no. and i were commissioned to inquire into the mystery of the disappearance of that baleful mongoose. when we got out of earshot of the hotel there was the popping of a cork, and we emptied effervescing beakers to the speedy recovery of albert the beloved. certes, that bull-dog had a very bad fit of dyspepsia; but the bolus did him a world of good, and before we retired to rest we had the felicity to hear him crunching a bone. peace spread its wings over our pillows. the next day we took a trip to the lighthouse on cape spartel, the women labouring in the field making curious inspection of the cavalcade as it wended by, but quickly turning away their faces as we males tried to snatch a look at them. the road was no better than a rugged track on a stony plateau. there was a spacious view from the phare, which was an iron and stone building put up at the cost of three or four of the european powers (i forget which now), the keepers being chosen from each of the contributory nations. the sultan had given the site, but refused to hand over a blankeel towards the expenses, arguing that as he had no fleet, he had no personal object in making provision against wrecks. we were well mounted, but these barbary cattle have a nasty trick of lashing out, so that it is prudent to give a wide range to their hind-hoofs. mahomet, riding with very short stirrups, led the party. my saddle was an ancient, rude, and rotten contrivance, and as i loitered on the road home, giving myself up to idle fantasy, my friends got on far ahead. waking from my day-dream i gave the nag the heel, and as it sprang forward at a canter the girth turned completely round, and i was pitched over in unpleasant nearness to a hedge of cactus. the ground was soft, and i was not much bruised; but when i rose the nag had disappeared round a corner, and i was left alone in the african twilight. presently a sinewy fiery-eyed moor came with panther-step in sight leading me back the nag. he had a basket of oranges on his back, and gave me one with a respectful salaam as i vaulted on my arab steed and galloped tangier-ward bareback. judging from the scanty rags upon him, this man was of the poorest, yet he asked for nothing; there were sympathy, innate politeness and independence withal in his bearing. to him i abandoned the saddle; it was the least he might have for his friendly act. talking over this incident with the frenchman at bruzeaud's, who knew the country, he told me that the moor was intelligent, honest, faithful to his engagements, and had a go in him that, under advantageous circumstances, would enable him to spring again to his former height of power and riches. but he struck me as happy, although some of his social customs recalled the feudal age, and he lived under the always-present contingency of decapitation. may it be long before speculation rears the horrid front of a joint-stock hotel in tangier, or the prospectors go divining for copper, coal, iron, silver and gold. i could wish the moorish women, however, would wash their children's heads occasionally, and not take them up by the ankles when they spank them. after a sojourn in every way pleasurable--pshaw! albert's illness was a trifle, and we soon resigned ourselves to the miseries of the prisoners on the hill--we ate our last morsel of the jewish pasch-bread of flour and juice of orange, cracked our last bottle of champagne, and took our leave of the dark continent with lightsome heart. the impression this little by-journey left upon me was so agreeable that i could not avoid the enticement to communicate it to the reader. if i have wandered from romantic spain, it was only to take him to a land more romantic still. chapter vii. back to gibraltar--the parting with albert--the tongue of scandal--voyage to malaga--"no police, no anything"--federalism triumphant--madrid _in statu quo_--orense--progress of the royalists--on the road home--in the insurgent country--stopped by the carlists--an angry passenger is silenced. "how like a boulder tossed by titans at play!" said the sentimental lady, as we approached gibraltar on our return. "more like a big-sized molar tooth," broke in mrs. captain. and, indeed, this latter simile, if less poetic, gave a better idea of the conformation of the fortified hill, with the gum-coloured outline of all that was left of a moorish wall skirting its side. the tooth is hollow, but the hollow is plugged with the best woolwich stuffing, and potentially it can bite and grind and macerate, for all the peaceful gardens and frescades of the alameda that circle its base like a belt of faded embroidery. at gibraltar our party separated, the yorkshire captain and his friends taking the p. and o. boat to southampton, my countryman going back to tangier after having made some purchases, and i electing to voyage to malaga by one of hall's packets, which was lying at the mercantile mole discharging the two hundred tons of government material which it is obliged to carry by contract on each fortnightly voyage. when albert and i parted no tears were shed; we resigned ourselves to the decree of destiny with equanimity. but i humbly submit that mrs. captain, when thanking me for my good intentions towards him, might have spared me the ironical advice not to volunteer for duties in future which i was not qualified to fulfil. "volunteer," ye gods! when she had absolutely entreated me to take him in charge. before leaving the club-house, i was pressed to relate our adventures in africa. i had no pig-sticking exploits to make boast over; but i turned the deaf side of my head to certain whispers about holy men who imported wine in casks labelled "petroleum," who affected to be delivering the incoherent messages of inspiration when they were merely trying to pronounce "the scenery is truly rural" in choice arabic, and who accounted for the black eye contracted by collision with the kerb by a highly-coloured narrative of an engagement in mid-air with an emissary of sheitan. neither did i accord any pleased attention to anecdotes of a "lella," or arab lady, who tempted the scorpions to charge ten times its value for everything she bought by telling them to send them to a personage whose title was exalted. gib is a very small place, and, like most diminutive communities, is a veritable school for scandal. i took my last walk over the rock, past the "esmeralda confectionery," which still had up the notice that hot-cross buns were to be had from seven to ten a.m. on good friday, and paced to the light-house on the nose of the promontory, where the meteor flag, ringed by a bracelet of cannon, flies in the breeze. and then i meandered back, and began to ask myself, had marryat aught to do with the sponsorship of this outpost of the british empire? shingle point, blackstrap bay, the devil's tower, o'hara's folly, bayside barrier, and jumper's bastion--the names were all redolent of the portsmouth hard; and i almost anticipated a familiar hail at every moment from the open door of "the nut," and an inquiry as to what cheer from the fog-babylon. the trip to malaga on one of the hall steamers which trade regularly between london and that port, calling at cadiz and gibraltar, was very agreeable, and the change to such dietary as liver and bacon was a treat. we were but three passengers--a steeple-chasing sub of the st, señor heredia, of malaga, and myself. and now i have to make an open confession. i am unable to decipher the log of that passage. i have a distinct recollection of the liver and bacon, but more important events have worn away from my mind. there are the traces of pencil-marks before me; i dare say they were full of meaning when i scrawled them down, but now i have lost the key. "jolly captain--left his wife--forty years--electric light deceives on a low beach--fourteen children--el cano--break in the head of wine-casks": there is a literal copy of the contents of a page, which may mean nothing or anything, frivolity or a thesaurus of serious information. memory, what a treacherous jade thou art! it may be said, why did i not take copious notes in short-hand? i would have done so were i a stenographer; but i am not. i tried to acquire the accomplishment once, and ignobly failed. i could write short-hand slightly quicker than long-hand, but when written, i could not transcribe my jottings. flanking a beautiful coast, mostly hill-fringed--with hills, too, of such metallic richness that lead and iron were positively to be quarried out of their bosoms--we steamed into the harbour of malaga, and landed at the custom-house quay. but there were no customs' officers to trouble us with inquiry. a red-bearded, flat-capped, dirty fellow in bare feet, holding a bayoneted rifle with a jaunty clumsiness, accosted señor heredia with a laughing voice. he was a sentinel of the provisional government established in malaga. the nature of that government may be judged from his frank avowal: "we've no police--no anything." there were french and german war-vessels at anchor, which was some guarantee of protection for strangers. a novel tricolour of red, white, and a washed-out purple had replaced the national flag. the federal republic existed there, and yet the city was quiet; and official bulletins were extant, recommending the citizens to preserve order. but this quietude was not to be relied on over-much. one of the magnificoes under the new _régime_ was a dancing-house keeper, and his principal claim to administrative ability lay in the ownership of a phrygian cap. another, who styled himself president of the republic of alhaurin de la torre, a territory more limited than the kingdom of kippen, had stabbed a lady at a masked ball a few months previously, for a consideration of sixty-five duros. still, it would be unfair to infer from that example that every malagueño was a mercenary ruffian, señor heredia related to me an anecdote of a poor man who had found a purse with value in it to the amount of thirty thousand reals, and had given it up without mention of recompense. but a city where the wine-shops had nine doors, and potato-gin was dispensed at a peseta the bottle, and there were "no police--no anything," was not a desirable residence; and, as i had no call there, and weeks might elapse before another revolution might be sprung, i gladly took train to the capital. madrid was tranquil, but with no more confidence in the duration of tranquillity than when i left it. the army was still in a state akin to disruption, with this difference--the rascals who had rifled the pockets of the dead ibarreta a few weeks before, would sell the bodies of their slain officers now, if there was any resurrectionist near to make a bid. worse; i was given to understand that there were suspicions that the gallant staff-colonel had been shot by his own men. the dismissed gunners were still wearily beating the pavements, and a subscription organized on their behalf among the officers of the other branches of the service by the _correo militar_ was open. what were these gentlemen to do? there was a rumour that they had been invited to enter the french service, to which they would have been an undoubted acquisition, bringing with them skill, scientific knowledge, and experience. but they were spaniards, not soldiers of fortune, and would decline to transfer their allegiance, even if france were disposed to bid for it. still, what were they to do? in spain as in austria-- "le militaire n'est pas riche, chacun salt ça." but the _militaire_ must live. othello's occupation being gone, the artillery officers had no alternative but to do what othello would have done had he been a spaniard--conspire. the usual manoeuvring and manipulations were going on as preparation for the election of the constituent cortes, and the extreme republicans were full of faith in their approaching triumph all along the line. they were awaiting señor orense, but if he did not hasten it was thought events so important would eclipse his arrival that, when he did come, the madrileños would pay as small heed to him as the parisians did to hugo when he surveyed the boulevards anew after years of exile. they would honour him with a procession, and no more. the venerable republican, by the way, is a nobleman, marquis of albaida. but he is not equal to the democratic pride of mirabeau, marquis, who took a shop and painted on the signboard, "_mirabeau, marchand de draps._" "if you are a true republican, why don't you renounce your title?" somebody asked once of orense. "if it were only myself was concerned i would willingly," responded the spaniard; "but i have a son!" rousseau was a freethinker, but rousseau had his daughters baptized all the same. meanwhile the carlists were making headway. the vascongadas, navarre, and logroño, with the exception of the larger towns and isolated fortified posts, were now in their power. antonio dorregaray, who was in supreme command, was reported to have , men regularly organized, well clad, and equipped with remingtons. the remington had been selected so that the royalists might be able to use the ammunition they reckoned upon helping themselves with from the pouches of the nationalists. in addition to this force of , , which might be regarded as the regular army of carlism, there were formidable guerrilla bands scattered over the provinces. our old acquaintance, santa cruz, had followers in guipúzcoa. the other cabecillas in that region were francisco, macazaga, garmendia, iturbe, and culetrina, all men with local popularity and intimate knowledge of the mountains. in biscay, the commander was valesco, and his lieutenants were belaustegui, del campo, and the marquis de valdespina, son of the chieftain who raised the standard of revolution at vitoria in . their factions were estimated at , . after dorregaray, the most dangerous opponent to the government troops was ollo, an old ex-army officer, who was licking the volunteers into shape; and after santa cruz, the most noted and dreaded chief of irregulars was rada, who was also operating in "the kingdom," as their province is proudly called by the daring navarrese. the elements in which the royalists were wanting were cavalry and artillery; but they had some money, foreign friends were active, the french frontier was not too strictly watched nor the cantabrian coast inaccessible, and don carlos--pretender or king, as the reader chooses to call him--was biding his time in a villa not a hundred miles from bayonne. when the hour was considered favourable, he was ready to cross the border and take the field, or rather the hills; and his presence, it was calculated, would be worth a _corps d'armée_ in the fillip it would give to the enthusiasm of his adherents. and yet the "only court" held its tertulias, and the doñas talked millinery, and bald politicians sighed for a snug post in the philippines, and the gambling-tables and the bull-ring retained their spell upon the community. it was the old story: rome was on the verge of ruin, and the senate of tiberius discussed a new sauce for turbot. as i saw no immediate prospect of the outburst of those important events, which were cloud-gathering over madrid, and nearly all my colleagues had departed, i resolved to pursue my journey to london. i had _carte blanche_ to return when i deemed there was no further scope for my pen; but there was an obstacle in the way. miranda was the terminus of the rail to the north; the track thence to the bidassoa had been closed by order of the lieutenants of his majesty _in nubibus_, king charles vii. in other words, kilometres of the main iron line, the great artery of communication with france, were held by the insurgents. obstacles are made to be met, and, if steadily met, to be overcome. surely, i reasoned, there must be some intercourse carried on in these districts. i passed through territory occupied by carlists before. why not again? besides, i had nothing to fear from the carlists, the tramp carols in the presence of the footpad (which, i submit, is a neat paraphrase of a classic saw); and if i did chance to meet them, there would be that dear touch of romance for which the lady-reader has been looking out so long in vain. i started. the journey to miranda i pass by. one is not qualified to write an essay on a country from inspection through the windows of a railway-carriage in motion, more particularly at night. as well attempt to describe a veiled panorama, unrolling itself at a hand-gallop. at miranda, which was crowded with soldiers, there was a diligence that plied to san sebastian by tacit arrangement with the knights of the road--that is, the adherents of don carlos. as the fares were very expensive, i suspect the speculator who ran the coach was heavily taxed for the privilege, and recouped himself by shifting the imposition to the shoulders of passengers. the day was fine, the roads were good, the vehicle was well-horsed, and we got away from the boundary of republican civilization at a rattling pace. my fellow-voyagers were mostly french, some of them of the gentle sex, and chattered like pies until they fell asleep. i believe it is admitted by those who know me best that i can do my own share of sleep. on the slightest provocation--yea, on what might be condemned as no reasonable provocation--i can drop my head upon my breast and go off into oblivion. nor am i particular where i sit or if i sit at all. any ordinary person can fall asleep on a sofa or at a sermon, but it requires a practitioner with an inborn faculty for the art to achieve the triumphs of somnolence which stand to my credit. i have taken a nap on horseback; i have marched for miles, a musket on my shoulder, in complete slumberous unconsciousness; i have nodded while phelps was acting, snoozed while mario was singing, and played the marmot while remenyi was fiddling; awful confession, i have dozed through an important debate in the house of commons! i am yawning at present. it is to be hoped the reader is not. and so i burned daylight the while we drove through a country reputed to be pregnant with surprises of scenery until, at long last, the diligence drew up in the straggling street of tolosa. we halted here for dinner, and resumed our journey with a fresh team at an enlivening speed, until about two miles outside the town we came to an abrupt stop. "an accident, driver?" "no, señor, but the carlists." some of my fellow-passengers turned pale, the ladies did not know whether to scream or consult their smelling-bottles; and before they could decide, a tall, slight, gentlemanly-looking man of some four-and-twenty years, with a sword by his side, a revolver in his belt, an opera-glass slung across his shoulder, and a silver tassel depending from a scarlet boina, the cap of the country, appeared at the hinder door of the diligence, bowed, and asked for our papers. he glanced at them much as a railway-guard would at a set of tickets, inquired if we were carrying any arms or contraband despatches, and being answered in the negative, gave us a polite "go you with god," and motioned to the driver that he might pass on. as we galloped off, all eyes were turned in the direction of the stranger; he leisurely walked over a field towards a hill, two peasants equipped with rifles and side-arms following at his heels. they were young and strong, and wore no nearer approach to uniform than their officer. "this is abominable," cried a french commercial traveller (so i took him to be), as soon as we had got out of hearing of the trio. "the notion of these three miscreants stopping a whole coachful of travellers in broad daylight is atrocious!" "they did not detain us long," said i. "they did us no harm," said another. "and that officer, i am sure, was very polite, and looked quite a d'artagnan--so chivalrous and handsome," added one of the ladies. "they are no better than bandits," said the commercial traveller. "driver, why did you not resist?" for reply, the driver pointed with his whip to a wall, under the lee of which a party of at least fifty armed men, portion of the main body from which the outpost of three had been detached, were smoking, chatting, or sleeping. the commercial traveller relapsed into silence. we met with no further adventure in our ride to the frontier, but experienced much fatigue. chapter viii. on the wing--ordered to the carlist headquarters--another _petit paris_--carlists from cork--how leader was wounded--beating-up for an anglo-irish legion--pontifical zouaves--a bad lot--oddities of carlism--santa cruz again--running a cargo--on board a carlist privateer--a descendant of kings--"oh, for an armstrong twenty-four pounder!"--crossing the border--a remarkable guide--mountain scenery--in navarre--challenged at vera--our billet with the parish priest--the sad story of an irish volunteer--dialogue with don carlos--the happy valley--bugle-blasts--the writer in a quandary--the fifth battalion of navarre--the distribution of arms--the bleeding heart--enthusiasm of the chicos. after a short stay in london i was despatched to stockholm, to attend the coronation of oscar ii of sweden and his spouse, which took place in the storkyrkan, on the th of may. at the hotel rydberg i met my madrid acquaintance, mr. russell young, who was a bird of passage like myself, and had just arrived from vienna, where he had been detailing the ceremonial at the opening of the international exhibition in the prater. while enjoying myself at a ball at the norwegian minister's, i received a telegraphic message, ordering me at once to the austrian capital. i was very sorry to leave, for i was delighted with peaceful airy stockholm and the free-hearted swedes--it was such a change after spain; but i had neither license nor leisure to grumble, and flitted to vienna as fast as steam could carry me. the weltausstellung did not prove to be a lodestone, although in justice it must be admitted it was one of the finest shows ever planned, and was fixed in one of the most agreeable of sites. it was too far away, however, to attract the british public, and there were rumours of cholera lurking in the kaiserstadt; so i was recalled, but to be sent to spain once more. my mission was to penetrate, if possible, to the headquarters of the carlists, with the view of giving a fair and full report of the strength, peculiarities, and prospects of their movement. at the london office of the sympathizers with the cause i was furnished with the address of certain carlists in confidential positions in france, and letters were sent on in advance, so as to secure me a favourable reception. armed with a sheet of flimsy stamped in blue with the escutcheon of charles vii., and the legend "secretaria militar de lóndres," and with, what was more potent, a big credit on a banking-house, i started afresh on the now familiar route. before undertaking the journey into the territory in revolt i halted at bayonne to procure the necessary passes. these were obtained with ease from the junta sitting in the rue des ecoles, the members of which professed that they desired nothing so much as the presence of the representatives of impartial foreign journals, so that the truth about the struggle should be made known to the rest of europe. from bayonne i proceeded to biarritz, where i had a conference with the duke de la union de cuba, a warm carlist partisan, to whom i had an introduction, and thence i went to st. jean de luz, a drowsy, quaint, world-forgotten nook. a _petit paris_ it was called in a vaunting quatrain by some minstrel of yore. but brussels may be comforted. it is nothing of the kind, but something infinitely better. the breezes from the main and the mountains, from the bay of biscay and the pyrenees, conspire to supply it with ozone. there is music in the boom of the surf as it pulsates regularly on the velvet sands of a semicircular inlet, where dogs frisk and youngsters gambol in the sunshine. in a hotel on the edge of that inlet, the fonda de la playa, where i put up, a young irish gentleman named leader was recuperating from a severe wound in the leg. he had received it in the service of don carlos, in a skirmish near azpeitia, where he was the only man hit. he was out with a party of the guerrilleros, and came across a company of the madrid troops. to encourage his own people, or rather the people with whom he had cast in his fortunes, he went well to the front, and mounting on a bank of earth, hurled defiance at the enemy. he was picked down by a stray shot, and if he had been taken prisoner it is probable that he would have paid for his temerity with his life. the spaniards were not clement towards foreigners who interposed in their domestic quarrel. leader was carried off by his companions and secreted in a peasant's hut. the troops, swearing vengeance, searched the hut next to it, but, by some accident, failed to continue the quest to the refuge of the wounded man. he bled profusely, but the hæmorrhage was finally arrested by some rude bandaging, and at night he was helped astride a donkey, and conveyed across the frontier into france. he told me he had suffered excruciating torments at every jolt of the jog-trotting animal on that mountain journey. had the bullet struck him an inch higher he would have had to suffer amputation; but his luck stood to him, and at the time we met he was getting on fairly towards recovery, thanks to youth, a good constitution, and the healthy air of st. jean de luz. i could not understand the ardour of leader's partisanship for the carlists. he spoke the merest smattering of spanish, and had no profound intimacy with the vexed question of spanish politics or the rights of the rival spanish houses. the ill-natured whispered that he was crying "viva la república" when he was knocked over. it is possible, for he had fought for the french republic with bourbaki's army, and may, in his excitement, have forgotten under what flag he was serving. i take it he was a soldier by instinct, and ranged himself on the side of don carlos more from the love of adventure than from any other motive. he was a fine athletic young fellow, with a handsome determined cast of features. he had been an ensign in the th foot, and had resigned his commission to enjoy a spell of active service when the franco-german war was proclaimed. that he had behaved bravely in the campaign which led to internment in switzerland was evidenced by the ribbon of the legion of honour which he wore. leader was very anxious that an anglo-irish legion in aid of don carlos should be organized. i felt it my duty to warn those to whom he appealed to think twice before they embarked on such a crusade. he was very wroth with me for having thrown cold water on the project, but that did not affect me. i had more experience of such follies than he, and my conscience approved me. a man may be justified in playing with his own life, but he should be slow in playing with the lives of others. he prepares a vexing responsibility for himself if he is sensitive. in the next room to leader was a fellow-enthusiast, mr. smith sheehan, an ex-officer of pontifical zouaves, and son of a popular and eccentric town-councillor of cork. he was an agile stripling, skilled in all gymnastic exercises. he had also done some fighting with the carlists, and was in france on furlough, which the soldiers in the royalist force appeared to have no insuperable difficulty in getting. he told me there was a large infusion of his old regiment amongst the guerrilleros, and that they helped to bind the partisan levies in the withes of discipline. most of them had smelt gunpowder at mentana and patay. the famous cabecilla, saballs, had been a captain at rome, and captain wills, a dutchman, who had been killed in a brush at igualada, had been sergeant-major in sheehan's company. there was another ex-british officer of short service, who had a remarkably imposing and well-cultivated growth of moustache. he was a violent doctrinaire carlist, but suffered from a chronic malady which prevented him from taking the field; still there was none who could plot with a more tremendous air of mystery. he was a carlist because it was "the correct thing" to be one in the fashionable ring at st. jean de luz, where he had settled, and because he inherited a name associated with chivalric insurrection. for the sake of his family i shall call him barbarossa. he was no honour to his house, for he was an inveterate gambler, and was not careful in discharging the obligations he wantonly contracted. he is dead. his death was no loss to society. in fact, if the whole host of gamblers, lock, stock and barrel, were swept by a fairy-blast to the regions of thick-ribbed ice, the world would be the gainer. when i left spain, carlism was to be put down in a fortnight--in madrid. now it threatened to last as long as a chinese play. the royalists--i suppose they had earned the title to be so named by their perseverance--had achieved numerous small successes which had raised their _morale_, and they were being supplied with arms of precision from abroad, and trained to their use. they had even taken some mountain-guns from their enemy. leader made me laugh with his accounts of lizarraga shouting "artillería al frente!" and a couple of mules, with one wretched little piece, moving forward; and of the intimidating clatter made by three shrunk cavaliers in cuirasses a world too wide for them, and alpargatas, trotting up a village street. the alpargata is the mountain-shoe of canvas, with a hempen sole, worn by the basque peasants. the association of surcoats of mail and rope slippers is incongruous; but what does that reck? those cuirasses were _spolia opima_. and santa cruz? the honest gentleman had retired into private life. his excesses had raised such a storm of opprobrium against the carlists that they had to request him to desist. lizarraga summoned him to render himself up a prisoner. "come and take me," replied santa cruz. santa cruz had near two thousand followers; lizarraga a few hundred. lizarraga declined the invitation. but the priest caused seven-and-twenty carabineros, taken prisoners at the bridge of endarlasa, near irun, to be shot, and this filled the cup to overflowing. the carlists averred they would slay him; the republicans vowed they would garrote him for a madrid holiday; the french government declared its intention of putting him under lock and key if it caught him within its jurisdiction. his band was disarmed "by order of the king," and dispersed, and the cura himself nebulously vanished--whither we may see anon. there was a large accretion to the population of st. jean de luz in iberian refugees, and as they sat and conversed under the foliage of the public promenade, frequent sighs might be overheard, and remarks that if this sort of thing were to go on, "spain would soon be in as bad a condition as france." at all hours there came to the beach poor exiles of spain, who turned their eyes sadly to the line where sky met ocean. of what were their thoughts--of home and friends, of the flutters of the casino or the ecstasies of the bull-ring? if they were looking for the spanish fleet they did not see it, for a reason as old as the "critic." it was not in sight. they came down in numbers in front of my hotel at nine o'clock on the morning of monday, july th, a few days after my arrival, when a strange yellow funnel turned the point, and a long low red-roverish three-masted schooner-yacht steamed into socoa, the roadstead of st. jean de luz. if the exiles were correctly informed, that was the spanish fleet in a sense--the notorious carlist privateer, the _san margarita_, which had recently landed arms and ammunition for the royalists at lequeieto and elsewhere. she had been doing a stroke of business in the same line that morning. in the grey dawn she had dropped into the embouchure of the bidassoa, at a few hundred yards from the town of fontarabia. the work was well and quickly done. boats requisitioned by friends on land put off to her, and returned laden with bales of merchandise. these artless bales were packages of breechloaders, with bayonets to match, wrapped in sail-cloth. as soon as they were received on shore they were distributed amongst some thousands of carlists in waiting, who at once proceeded to fix bayonets, fall into ranks, and with shouts of exultation march off in good order. meanwhile, the "volunteers of liberty," as the basque republicans called themselves, ensconced their persons out of range in a sort of castle beside the church of fontarabia's "wooded height," and amused themselves taking pot-shots at the rising sun. but they did not venture from their shelter; they knew a large body of armed royalists were watching their movements from the summit of cape higuer, and only awaited the provoke to pounce down upon and swallow them. a detachment of frenchmen from the frontier hamlet of hendaye quietly took up ground on the strand to see that there was no breach of neutrality, and had an uninterrupted view of the whole operation. as soon as the daring little privateer had done her work she innocently steamed to socoa; the carlists on the hills waved adieu and disappeared; the french soldiers returned to their quarters; and the fontarabian "volunteers of liberty "--well, most probably they swore terribly, and effected a masterly retrograde movement on the nearest posada. i had a call to board the _san margarita_. not a boat could be had in st. jean de luz for love or money; the passage from the sea into the harbour is narrow, and the fishermen, though hardy navigators, are shy of facing the current when the sea is rough. leader and myself walked by the goat-path on the crags leading to the southern side of the harbour so as to avoid the bar, and succeeded in chartering a skiff at socoa. a quarter of an hour's pull brought us alongside the yacht, and on sending up our cards we were at once invited on board by the owner. to my surprise i discovered that the entire crew was british, as reckless a set of dare-devils as ever cut out a craft from under an enemy's guns. the skipper, mr. travers, was a cork man, an ex-officer of the indian navy, who had lost a finger during the mutiny; but the life and soul of the enterprise was an ex-officer of the austrian and mexican armies, charles-edward stuart, count d'albanie, great-grandson of "the young pretender." his uncle, john sobieski stuart, had resigned his claim to the throne of england on his behalf,[c] so that i actually shook the hand of the man who under other circumstances might be wielding the sceptre of that empire on which the sun never sets. instead of a crown he wore the genuine old highland bonnet--not that modern innovation, the military feather-bonnet. in face this descendant of royalty was an unmistakable stuart, with the characteristic aquiline nose, and a proud dignity of expression. he might have sat for the portrait of charles the martyr-king, by vandyck, in windsor. he was a convinced and earnest supporter of the claims of cárlos séptimo, whom he regarded as a cousin, and a sort of modern counterpart of the young chevalier, the "darling charlie" of jacobite minstrelsy. he received us with the hospitality of his nation, and we had a long chat as we paced the deck briskly, the count discussing the prospects of the rising, and then verging off into gay anecdotes of his military career in austria, and inquiries after mutual acquaintances in london. by-and-by captain travers made his appearance, a tall weather-beaten navigator in orthodox naval dress, with a glass in his eye. he bowed severely to the stuart, who as coldly returned his salute. it was easy to perceive that there was a restraint in the demeanour of the men on both sides; but there was a tacit armistice for the occasion. i heard afterwards that they did not talk to each other, except on strict matters of duty, and when taking their short walks on deck, one confined himself religiously to the larboard, the other to the starboard. travers took me in tow, while the alert count with his quick manner strode to and fro with leader, and kept up a jerky fire of conversation nearly all to himself, occasionally twirling his peaked beard. travers and i lolled over the bulwarks, and laughed and sampled the contents of an aqua-vitæ bottle, "special jury" whisky from ireland, and i learned that this ill-assorted pair had been sharing some close hazards on their audacious cruiser. a few days previously they had been chased by _el aspirante_, a spanish gun-boat, which gave them eight shots. one caught them on the port quarter, and shivered some timbers, but effected no more serious damage. "i wish we had only an armstrong twenty-four pounder close handy," said the mate, "and we'd have saved them 'ere dons the price of a coffin, i'd take my davy!" from what i saw of the seamen, i think this was no empty boast. some of them had served with one captain semmes on a certain craft called the _alabama_, and had been picked up after the fight with the _keasarge_, off cherbourg, by mr. john lancaster's yacht, the _deerhound_. there is no need for concealment now, so that i may freely admit that the _deerhound_ and the _san margarita_ were one and the same. travers, who was in love with the yacht, told me if he had another blade to the screw he could give leg-bail to the fastest ship in the spanish navy. at leaving, i was asked to take a trip with them; they were about to visit their floating arsenal in the bay of biscay, load, and try to run another cargo. i respectfully declined--fortunately for myself; my orders were to get to the carlist headquarters, not to go playing paul jones. leader and smith sheehan were about to cross the border, and readily acceded to my request to form one of the party. we rose at daybreak next morning and looked out of window for the _san margarita_. the roadstead of socoa was a blank. she had steamed away during the night. after the customary chocolate we started blithely, in a light basket-carriage with a pair of fast-trotting ponies, that whisked us in less than two hours to the foot of the pyrenees. here we had to alight, the road up the mountain being impracticable for vehicles. a boy guide was in waiting to show us over the border by the smuggler's path--a wild short-cut through a labyrinth of brushwood. the guide was a remarkable youth in his way; he understood not a syllable of french or spanish, and spoke only basque which none of us comprehended, so that our parley with him was somewhat uninteresting. yet i was anxious to elicit the opinions of that guide. a lad who could strike the path up the mountain with such truth might, by some instinct, have seen his way through spanish politics. our walk was a trial of endurance. i had traversed the pyrenees in snow, and that was fatiguing enough in all conscience; but now the sun was beating cruelly on the parched herbage, and plodding up the ascent was like treading burning marl. i had to cry halt half-a-dozen times before we reached the summit; and yet that marvellous guide, with the baggage of all three on his head, kept on with a springy step and serene smile, like the youth in "excelsior." it was an alternation of wheezing and stumbling with me, with a continuous ooze of perspiration, till i arrived heaving and panting on the crown of the ridge, and flung myself on the turf beside a pile of planking fresh from the woodcutter's axe. there was no further need to be wary, for this was spain. we were over the border, and now my companions could breathe freely in every sense. before they had passed the imaginary line they were liable to be arrested by the gendarmes, conducted back and interned, for they had that about their persons which betrayed that they were no innocent travellers. at every noise ahead, a scud was made to the cover of the tall ferns and brambles by the wayside, and an advance party of one was thrown out to reconnoitre. the precautions were superfluous, if we knew but all. from the th of july, the french patrols had got the hint to be blind. so lax was the cordon on the day we crossed, that a brigade of carlists, each man with a repeating rifle on his shoulder and two revolvers in his belt, might have gone into spain and never have had their sight offended by a solitary french uniform. the view from the comb of the hills, as grasped on a sunny day, repays all the toil and trouble of the ascent; and looking round, one begins to realize the fascination of mountain-climbing. on one side extend the plains of france, washed by the greenish-blue waves of the bay of biscay, and studded as with pearls by the coast-towns of fontarabia, st. jean de luz, biarritz, bayonne, and so on northwards till the vision fails. on the other side rise in convoluting swells the mountains of navarre and guipúzcoa, their slopes dyed in every shade of green from grass and lichen, shrub and tree, except where the naked rocks, bursting with ore, expose themselves. iron, lead, silver, are all to be found in the bosom of the earth in this richest and most beautiful of lands. nature has been lavish beyond measure, and man, instead of using her gifts, has ungratefully diverted them for generations to the purposes of guerrilla warfare and cheating the custom-house officers. but this high moral tone hardly sits well on a man who was aiding and abetting the entry of a couple of foreign free-lances, on homicidal thoughts intent, and perhaps doing a stroke of contraband on his own account. we suffered no molestation; but others might not have escaped unpleasantness. the agent of a hatton garden jeweller might have had to pay toll, if the story were true that a few of the dispersed "black legion" had got off with their rifles and started a joint-stock company in the bush-whacking line, and were doing a pretty fair business. the descent on the spanish side was almost precipitous, and had to be effected with exceeding care. at times we ran down the track, rugged with sharp crags, almost head foremost, and only saved ourselves from falling by clinging to the nearest sapling. but there is an end to everything, and at last we came on the road that dips into the village of echalar, in the district of pampeluna, province of navarre. here we dismissed our guide, and here i encountered, for the first time, a regularly organized carlist company, detached from the fifth battalion of navarre, which was in garrison at vera, some eight miles distant; but as i shall have opportunity to speak of the entire battalion soon, i defer comment on its appearance. my companions were desirous of pushing forward, and the provisional alcalde of the village gave us a trap to take us on. there is an excellent road by the mountain-side, until a tunnel to the right is reached, when we entered a most picturesque, well-wooded defile, through which the bidassoa pours its waters. we dashed along gaily until we came in sight of the steeple of the church of vera at twilight. a cry of "who goes there?" from the gloom arrested us at the entrance of the town. leader sung out, "españa." again came the sentinel's cry, "what people?" and cheerily ran the answer, "voluntarios de carlos séptimo!" "pass," was the reply; and we took the street at a trot, and pulled up at the door of the parish priest's dwelling, where the irish soldiers of fortune promised me a billet for the night. the kindly pastor was equal to expectations; we had a cordial welcome, a good dinner, and beds with clean sheets. sad tidings met my companions--those of the death of a young friend, mr. john scannel taylor, a native of cork, in the service of don carlos. a few months previously he had been a promising law student in the queen's university of ireland, with every prospect of a bright career before him. he arrived from england in the middle of june, and attached himself to the partida of general lizarraga in order to be near his fellow-countryman, smith sheehan. previous to mr. sheehan's returning to bayonne with despatches, he tossed up a coin to decide whether he or taylor should have the choice of the duty. poor taylor won, and elected to remain with lizarraga, as there was likelihood of fighting at hand. the very next day yvero, where the republicans held a strongly-intrenched position, was attacked, and the young irish volunteer made himself conspicuous in the onset. while advancing in the open, setting a pattern of bravery to all by the steady way he delivered his fire, the gallant fellow was struck by a bullet in the leg. he kept on limping until he was touched a second time in the arm, but still he persevered with a dogged courage, when a third bullet struck him in the forehead, and he dropped with outspread arms, raising a little cloud of dust. he must have been stone-dead before he reached the ground. his conduct was "muy valiente," so said his spanish comrades. he was picked up after the affair, and decently interred side by side with two officers who met their deaths in his company. this was the first time he was under fire, as it was the last; but there is a fatality in those things. this young irishman, taylor, was luckier than some of his fellows in one respect. short as he had been in the service, he had attracted the notice of don carlos. his comrade sheehan and he were pointed out to "the king" by lizarraga as two modest deserving young soldiers who had offered to fight in the ranks--a trait of unselfishness that must have astonished the carlist leaders, as most of the volunteers they had from france came out with the full intention of commanding brigades, when divisions were not to be had. "i wish i had a thousand like them," said lizarraga, who was a genuine soldier, and one of the few spaniards not unjust to foreigners. don carlos shook hands with mr. taylor and thanked him. his majesty spoke some few minutes in french with mr. sheehan, and, as the conversation gives some insight into carlism, i may venture to repeat it. don carlos.--"you have served before?" irish soldier.--"yes, sire, in the pontifical zouaves." don carlos.--"ha! good. in the same company with my brother, perhaps?" irish soldier.--"no; but i had the privilege of knowing don alfonso." don carlos.--"he is in catalonia now, and has many of your old companions in arms with him. you are serving the same cause here as in rome--the cause of religion and of order and of legitimate right." irish soldier (bowing).--"i should not be here if i did not feel that, your majesty." don carlos (smiling).--"i thank you sincerely. general lizarraga tells me you are irish." irish soldier.--"i come from the south of ireland, sire." don carlos.--"a country i feel much sympathy for. she has been very unhappy, has she not? are things better now?" irish soldier.--"for some years ireland has been, improving, sire." don carlos.--"that is well. she deserves better fortune, for she has a noble, faithful people." don carlos drew back a pace and made a stiff military nod; the irishman brought his rifle to the "present arms," turned on his heel, and marched back to the ranks, and thus the interview terminated. the valley in which the little town of vera nestles might have been that where rasselas was brought up, so secluded, smiling, and peaceful it looks. the bidassoa, famous in tales of the peninsular war, flows through it, no doubt; but the bidassoa here is a trout stream winding through meadows and fields of maize, and thoughts of bloodshed are the last that would occur to anyone contemplating its mild current. the mountains walling in the vale are lined with growths of heather, fern, and blossoming furze to their very crests, and the verdurous picture they hem is one of poetic calm and plenty. labourers are digging away in the fields below, the tinkle of cow-bells is heard from the pastures, and anon blends with their arcadian music the soft chiming of church-bells summoning to prayer; there is a mill with its clacking wheel, and a foundry with a tuft of smoke curling from its chimney; orchards and vineyards lie side by side with patches of corn, and along the high-road peasants pass and repass, shortening their way with song and laughter, and strings of mules or droves of swine scamper by. another sweet auburn of goldsmith, in another happy valley of johnson, this cosy vera with its river and trees would seem to any english tourist ignorant of its history; but how the english tourist would be misled! though the peasants laugh and sing, and the labourers dig, and there are outer tokens of peace, there is no peace in the valley or town; there are sights and sounds there of war, and that of the worst kind--civil war. the mill is grinding corn for the commissariat stores, the foundry turns out shot instead of ploughshares, the boxes on the mules' backs are packed with ammunition. if you listen, you will hear the roll of drums and the shrill blowing of bugles more often than the soothing bells; if you watch, you will notice that not one man in ten is unprovided with a firearm, for this quiet-looking place is the very hotbed of carlism; the insurrectionary headquarters for the province of navarre; the arsenal and recruiting depôt for all the provinces in revolt. the disciples of the rod have fled from it, and those of the musket have come in their stead. at half-past four on the morning after our arrival in the mountains, i was roused from a profound sleep by the sound of the bugle. a solitary performer was blowing spiritedly into his instrument; what piece of music he was trying to execute i could not make out, but that his primary object was to "murder sleep" was evident, and he succeeded. losing all note of time and place, i thought for a moment i was in london, and that this was a visit from the christmas waits. but there was a liveliness in the tones incompatible with the season when the clarionet, trombone, and cornet-à-piston form a syndicate of noise, and parade the streets for halfpence. the bugle was in a jocular mood. judge of my astonishment when i learned that this merry melody was the carlist's reveille! the insurgents had got so far with their military organization that they had actually buglers and bugle-calls. nay, more, they had drummers and a brass band! now i think of it, there is an inadvisability in my calling them insurgents while in their power; but what phrase am i to employ? in the pass in my pocket i am recommended to "the chiefs of the royal army of his catholic majesty charles vii.," as an inoffensive "corresponsal particular," to whom aid and protection may be safely extended. but then there are the republicans, and if they catch me giving premature recognition in pen-and-ink to the royalist cause, they may rightly complain that a british subject is flying in the face of the great british policy of non-intervention. i think i have discovered an escape from the dilemma. the carlists speak of themselves as the chicos, "the bhoys," so chicos let them be for the future, and their opponents the troops--not that it is by any means intended to be conveyed that the troops so called are much more martial than the chicos. well, the boys have got buglers who bugle with a will. they blow a blast to rouse us, another for distribution of rations; they have the assembly, the retreat, the "lights out," and all the rest, as regular as the diddlesex militia. i got up in the cora's house, looked at the cura's pictures--which were more meritorious as works of piety than as works of art--and hastened to the plaza, where i was told there was about to be a muster of the chicos, and i would have a leisurely opportunity of passing them under inspection. the plaza is a flagged space enclosed on two sides by houses, some of which are over a couple of centuries old, with armorial bearings sculptured over the doors; on the third by the municipality; and on the fourth by a grey church, lofty and large, seated on an eminence and approached by a flight of stone steps. the municipality is a massive building, level with the street, with a colonnaded portico, and a front over which some artist in distemper had passed his brush. this façade is eloquent with mural painting, if one could only understand it all. there are symbolic figures of heroic size, coveys of cherubs, hatchments, masonic-looking emblems, and inscriptions. a carlist sentry, dandling a naked bayonet in the hollow of his arm, was pacing to and fro in the portico, and the remaining warriors of the post were lounging about, cigarette in mouth, much as our own fellows do outside the guard-house on commercial square, at gibraltar. i was curious to see the carlist uniform. assuredly the uniform does not make the soldier, but it goes a great way towards it. uniformity was the least striking feature in the dress of the men before me. they were clad in the ordinary garb of the mountain-peasants. short coarse jackets and loose trousers, confined at the waist by a faja, or girdle of bright-coloured woollen stuff, were worn by some; blouses of serge, knee-breeches, and stockings or gaiters, by others; but all, without exception, had the boina, or pancake-shaped woollen cap of the basque provinces, and the alpargatas, or flat-soled canvas shoes. by-and-by was heard a bugle-blast and the quick, regular tread of marching men, and the head of a company came in sight. in perfect time the company paced, four deep, into the plaza, halted, and fell into line in two ranks. thus, in succession, seven other companies arrived, forming the fifth, battalion of navarre, a vigorous, wiry set of men, impressing the experienced eye as excellent raw material for soldiers, albeit got up in costume very much resembling that of brigands of the comic opera. physically, the natives of the hilly northern provinces are the pick of spain. the battalion had its flag, white between two stripes of scarlet, on which was inscribed the name of the corps, and the legend, "the country for ever, but always in honour." this was, of course, written in basque, of which my rendering is rather free, but it gives exactly the sense of the sentiment. it was soon palpable to anybody, who knows anything of such matters, that the chicos were weak in officers of the proper stamp, and still more so in under-officers. smoking was common in the ranks, and when the men stood at ease, they stood very much at ease indeed. the officers, in some cases, were distinguished in dress from the privates solely by gold or silver tassels dependent from their boinas, and their boinas were of blue, white, brown, or even republican red, according to the fancy of the wearer. all the officers had revolvers and swords. the men were armed somewhat indiscriminately, one company with chassepots, another with remingtons; there were carbines, and percussion rifles, and smooth-bores, and even a few flint-locks; but i failed to discern a single specimen of the trabuco, the bell-mouthed blunderbuss we are accustomed to associate with the spanish knight of the road. ammunition was carried in a waist-belt, with a surrounding row of leather tubes lined with tin, each of which held a cartridge--in fact, the circassian cartouch-case. there were many grizzled weather-stained veterans in the ranks who had fought with zumalacárregui and mina in the seven years' war; but as a rule the chicos were literally boys in age, and here and there a child of twelve or fourteen might be seen measuring himself beside a patriotic musket. in relief to the peasant dresses were to be noticed frequent attempts at more soldierly costume in the shape of worn tunics of the french national guards or moblots, and some half-dozen uniforms of the spanish line, with the glazed képi exchanged for the boina. on the top of many of the boinas, fastening the tassel, was a huge brass button, with the monogram of the "king," and the inscription, "voluntarios, dios, patria, y rey." another sign particular of this irregular force that impressed me much was a bleeding heart embroidered on a small scrap of cloth, and sewn on the left breasts of nearly all on the ground. this appeared to be worn as a charm against bullets; and with a strong notion that it would protect them in the hour of danger, i am convinced nine out of ten of those peasants carried it. it may be as well to add that inside that embroidered patch were written, in spanish, the words, "stop; the heart of jesus is here; defend me, jesus." many others of the carlists carried scapulars, rosary beads, and blessed medals as pious reminders. the habit of wearing this representation of the heart of the saviour over the region of the human heart dates so far back as the vendean war, and had been introduced in the present instance by m. cathelineau, grandson of the celebrated french royalist loader. the battalion had assembled on the plaza to give up their old arms, and to receive a portion of those which had been landed from the _san margarita_. they deposited those they had with them by sections in the municipality, and emerged with the others, bright, brand-new berdan breechloaders. they seemed proud of their weapons; some went so far as to kiss them; and, if looks were any criterion of feelings, their glowing faces said, as emphatically as it could be said, "now that we have good tools, we shall show what good work we can do." boxes of metallic ball-cartridges, centre-primed, were piled on the plaza, and were quickly and quietly opened and distributed. not an accident occurred in the process. many a less wonderful phenomenon has been advertised as a miracle. i fully expected to have my coat spattered with some warrior's brains every other moment, with such a reckless rashness were the rifle-muzzles poked about. one shot did go off, while a high private was trying if his cartridge fitted to the chamber; the charge singed the hair of a captain, and the bullet lodged in the middle of the word "prudencia" on the façade of the municipality. the captain would have it that he was killed, spun round on his own centre like a humming-top, and finally, coming to himself, shook out his clothes in search of the lead. there was a roar of laughter, and the careless soldier who had endangered the life of his officer was allowed to pass without rebuke. that was the worst point in carlist discipline i had seen yet. there was too much familiarity towards superiors; the rank and file lacked that fear and respect for the officers which are the strongest cement of the military fabric. this was to be explained partly because the officers were not above the men in social position, and partly because any enterprising gentleman who bought gold braid and tassels, sported a sword, and appraised himself an officer, was accepted at his own valuation. chapter ix. the cura of vera--fueros of the basques--carlist discipline--fate of the _san margarita_--the squadron of vigilance--how a capture was effected--the sea-rovers in the dungeon--visit to the prisoners--san sebastian--a dead season--the defences of a threatened city--souvenirs of war--the miqueletes--in a fix--a german doctor's warning. these horrible and bloodthirsty carlists turned out to be amiable individuals on acquaintance. i suppose they could put on a frown for their enemies, but for my companions and myself they had nothing but open smiles and hearty hand-grips. one great recommendation was our being billeted on the parish priest. his reverence had none of the santa cruz in him; he was a gentle, zealous, studious clergyman, yet was filled with the purest enthusiasm for the cause of what he regarded as legitimacy. the don carlos who raised the standard in , he maintained, was the rightful heir to the throne of spain. the law by which the succession had been changed was an _ex post facto_ law, passed after his birth, and not promulgated until ferdinand vii. had a female child. in may, , that don carlos, really charles v., resigned in favour of his son, charles vi., and in september, , he, in his turn, relinquished his rights to the present claimant to the throne, charles vii., whom might god preserve. the cura was unusually civil towards us because we were irish, and as irish were presumably of clean lineage--that is to say, free from kinship with jews or infidels. as reputed descendants of settlers from bilbao, we were entitled to a full share in all the privileges of the province of biscay. this was as well to know. it was a consolation to us to learn that it was an advantage to be irish somewhere under the sun. the king of spain is but lord of biscay, and has to swear under the oak-tree of guernica to respect the fueros or customs of the province. don carlos had so done; he was in spain, it was true, but where he was at the moment the cura was unable to say; his court was perambulatory. the fueros were abolished by the cortes in and but partially restored in , so that in inscribing them as one of the watchwords on their banner, the basques were fighting for something more solid than glory. they cling to their rights as britons do to magna charta, only with this difference--they have a clearer conception of what they are. i had been trying to arrive at some knowledge of the fueros, and obtained much information from a volume by the late earl of carnarvon.[d] guipúzcoa, alava, and biscay, though an integral part of the spanish monarchy, for ages enjoyed their own laws, and a recapitulation of some which were in force in biscay will be a fair sample of all. biscay was governed by its own national assemblies, arranged its own taxation, yielded contributions to the sovereign as a free gift, had no militia laws, was exempt from naval impressment, provided for its own police in peace and its own defence in war. no monopoly, public or private, could be established there. only biscayans by birth could be nominated to ecclesiastical appointments; every biscayan was noble, and his house was inviolable; there was perfect equality of civil rights. in short, those basques flourished under the amplest measure of home rule, and had all the benefits of the habeas corpus act under another name long before that bill was legalized by the parliament of charles ii. the liberty-loving basques were tolerant as well as independent. the inquisition was never vouchsafed breathing-room in their midst. when protestants escaped from france after the massacre of st. bartholomew, they were treated to asylum amongst them.[e] we moved about among the guerrilleros. they were mostly light-limbed and stalwart men, and were none the worse for the sprinkling of seniors of sixty and lads of sixteen. many had the bow-legs of the mountaineer, built like the hinder pair of artillery-horses--the legs that tell of muscularity and lasting stamina. their drill was very loose, and skill in musketry left much to be desired. they had no perception of distance-judging, and some were so grossly ignorant of the mechanism of their weapons that they knocked off the back-sights of their rifles, alleging that they hindered them from taking correct aim. the marquis de la hormazas--a meagre, tall, elderly man--was commandant of the battalion, and was stern in the exaction of discipline. during the stay of the navarrese at vera, a captain was degraded to the ranks for having entered the lists of illicit love. the frenchwoman who was the partner of his amour was politely shown over the mountain and warned not to return. the battalion left for the interior of the province. leader was still too weak to enter on a campaign; sheehan had to look after the belongings of his comrade taylor, and break the news of his death to his mother; and i saw plainly that it was out of the question attempting to catch up the flitting headquarters of don carlos without a horse. besides, i had to complete arrangements for the transmission of letters and telegraphic messages when i had any to send, and for the reception of money; in sum, to open up communication with a base. so we returned to france as we came. on arriving at st. jean de luz, a startling rumour awaited us. the steel-built carlist privateer had been captured at the mouth of the adour; she had been taken a prize to san sebastian; stuart and travers were in close custody; and there were alarmists who whispered that they would be tried by drum-head as pirates, and hung up in chains in the cause of humanity. it was well for me i did not accept the invitation to that water-party. i ran over to bayonne to ascertain what particulars i could, saw the carlist junta, the british and spanish vice-consuls, and from their combined and conflicting narratives was able to sift some grains of the authentic. but the sudden first report was undeniable. the weasel had been caught asleep. the _san margarita_ was a serious loss to the cause. she had cost £ , . she was very fast, being capable of a speed of between ten and eleven knots an hour, and should be equal to fourteen knots if her lifting screw had another blade. a three-bladed screw had been provided, and was to have been fitted to her stern on her return from the ill-fated expedition which put an end to her roving career. it was true that the descendant of kings was under bolts and bars. the french journals described him as a "monsieur stuart, a scotch colonel, entrusted by the english catholics with collections for the carlist cause." they had never heard of his royal lineage, of his connection with the austrian cavalry, or of his exploits by the side of the unhappy maximilian in mexico. he assumed the responsibility of ownership of the vessel. the hue-and-cry description of him was "a man of forty to forty-five years of age, over middle height, figure spare, features thin, and resolute in expression." the burly bronzed corkonian was also in durance, and with the pair of officers were a picked crew of thirteen englishmen, including engineers, steward, stokers, and able-bodied seamen, and one spanish cabin-boy. a basque pilot, an old smuggler, familiar with every nook and crevice of the bay of biscay, had escaped. if reports were credible, the _san margarita_ had already landed two millions of cartridges, and an immense quantity of arms. much vexation was caused to the officers of the spanish navy in those quarters by the stories of the daring feats she had achieved, absolutely discharging a cargo once on the very wharf of lequeieto, as if she were a peaceful merchantman, and on another occasion sending off rifles and ammunition by small boats in the dead of night, a man-of-war lying sleepily oblivious of what was going on just outside her. it was felt that her continued impunity was a reproach, and three small vessels of the spanish navy were commissioned to cruise between bilbao and bayonne on the look-out for her. this little squadron of vigilance consisted of _el aspirante_ and _el capricho_, gun-boats, and the _buenaventura_, a three-gun steam-brig. on tuesday, august th, the _buenaventura_, flying a george's jack at her peak, was off fontarabia for a portion of the day, close in shore. at nightfall she disappeared--it is now supposed into the sheltered and almost invisible inlet of los pasages, between fontarabia and san sebastian. before daybreak on wednesday, the carlists under dorregaray swarmed down from the hills covering cape higuer. the _san margarita_ came in sight, and began landing arms in the same spot where the undisturbed landing of the th july had been effected. not more than three hundred stand had been put on shore, and about one hundred thousand cartridges in boxes, labelled in english "metallic rolled cartridges, centre-primed," when she had to get away, as the daylight began to play the informer. she dropped down towards bayonne, and appears to have reached a point some four miles from the french shore (the exact distance is a moot question), where she laid to and allowed her furnaces to cool the men were "dead tired out" after their night's work, and the captain considered that he was within the protection of french waters. but there is a very ancient proverb about a pitcher and a veil, and the period of its realization had been reached at last whilst the _san margarita_ was effecting the landing, a coastguard's boat had slipped from under the heights of fontarabia, and given notice of what was going on to the _buenaventura_ in los pasages, and the brig steamed out, still with the british colours at her peak whilst the carlist privateer was motionless in fancied security--there was some want of prudence or vigilance there, surely--the gun-brig crept down and overhauled her before alarm could be given, and the rakish schooner-yacht, the skimmer of the seas, had the humiliation of falling a prey to a wretched slow boat that she could laugh at with steam up in the open sea. the arrest was made in the usual manner, and the captors behaved with the customary naval courtesy. they were over-joyed at their good fortune, and gave their prisoners to eat and to drink--champagne to the officers and chacoli to the men. they towed their prize into the bay of st. sebastian, and there was triumph. the yellow and scarlet flag of spain was over the wee _san margarita_ as she entered, and colonel stuart and captain travers and their companions must have felt sore, for all the good cheer and generous wine. still there was quite a courtly scene on board--hand-shakings and reciprocal compliments--as they were marched off to the dungeon of the castillo de la mota on a hill in the city, where they were incarcerated. there they did not fall on such pleasant lines as afloat. the republicans lost no time in unloading the vessel. they took off her, with a hurry that betrayed apprehension, , carbines and six berdan breech-loaders, with a number of armourer's tools. it was remarked that the rifles supplied to the regular troops from madrid were sighted to eight hundred metres, but that the range of those seized from the carlists did not exceed five hundred. i went over to san sebastian by tug from socoa on the th of august, and sent up my card to m. de brunet, the british vice-consul. he said he had called on the prisoners, and that the sailors murmured at their treatment. if i went to the citadel, after three--as it was saturday afternoon, and visiting hours commenced then--i could see them without difficulty. i did clamber up the hill, and found this was not the case. on owning that i had no pass from the military governor, i was denied admittance. happening to meet the commandant, i represented what i wanted, and he very civilly granted me leave to visit the prisoners "para un momento." as the gates were thrown open stuart advanced and met me, grasping my hand cordially, and slipping a letter up the sleeve of my coat. he had caught sight of me labouring up the hill, and had immediately hastened to scribble a few lines which he trusted to my sympathy with misfortune to smuggle to their destination for him. he was not mistaken, and in so doing i had no qualm of conscience. i accompanied him to his cell, and he told me the story of the capture of the _san margarita_. it was substantially as i have related; they thought they were in a _mare clausum_, at all events they had drifted out of it on the tide of fate; but there was a nice question of international law. the _ruse_ of hoisting the british flag was legitimate if the _buenaventura_ substituted her own flag before proceeding to board them. the _san margarita_ had the flags of more than one nation in her lockers; but the gun-brig had no power to act the policeman in neutral waters. there was the point. travers was in a separate lodging; they had been accommodated at first in the one cell, but they could not agree--ashore as afloat the old feud existed. however, both assented to a truce in order to have a talk with me. they were cheerful, had cigars _ad libitum_ (at their own expense, of course), and were permitted to get their rations from the hôtel de londres in the city. the cells they occupied were bare, white-washed, low-ceiled rooms, some eight paces by six. they were not so clean or well-ventilated as newgate cells, and the beds were spread on the floor. the captives had access to newspapers and writing materials, and it is but the due of the officers in charge to testify that they were extremely affable and disposed to make their prisoners as comfortable as possible. still, in the close, stifling weather, to be locked up within the narrow circuit of a dungeon was limbo. the pair wore their own clothes, travers still retaining a navy-jacket with brass buttons engraved with the initials of some yacht club, and did not complain of having been subjected to indignities. while i was with them the shadow of a face darkened the window; it was a carlist prisoner who had hoisted himself up on the shoulders of a comrade from a yard below; he had a letter in his mouth. i took it, and slipped him a bundle of cigars for distribution among his fellow cage-birds. from this it may be deduced that the gaol regulations were not very stringent. the carlists were treated as forfeit of war, not felons, and had no honest chance of illuminating their brows with the martyr halo of baron von trenck or silvio pellico. san sebastian is the most modern town in the peninsula, having been re-built in , three years after its destruction by the incensed allied troops. it is a great summer resort of wealthy spanish idlers--a sort of madrid-super-mare. the attractions of the capital are to be had there, with the supplementary advantages of pure air, mountain scenery, and luxurious sea-bathing on a level sandy beach. there is a public casino, and a score of clandestine hells where a fortune can be lost in a night at monté--in short, every infernal facility for satanic gambling. cigarettes are cheap, and so are knives. there is an alameda, where the band plays, and a passable imitation, of the puerta del sol, less the fountain, in the broad arcaded plaza de la constitution. there is a small theatre, a spacious bull-ring, and several commodious churches, where pepita can talk the language of fans to her heart's content. every attraction of madrid which could reasonably be expected is to be had, i repeat, and hidalgos and sloe-eyed senoras speckle the promenades in the gloaming, and impart a mingled aroma of garlic and gentility, pomade and pretentiousness, to the chief town of guipúzcoa. san sebastian would be for madrileños what paris is for bostonians, if a few of the attractions of the "only court," which could not reasonably be expected, were not lacking--say an occasional walk round of the intransigentes, to show their political muscles; a grandiloquent, frothy word-tempest in the congress, and the sunday cock-fight. i am speaking, be it understood, of san sebastian in ordinary summers. a short twelvemonth before my visit, a pair of pouting english lips told me it was "awfully jolly." at the date with which i am concerned, it was anything but "awfully jolly." the fifteen thousand rich visitors who were wont to flock into the city during the season had gone elsewhere to recruit their health on the sands and lose their money at the gaming-tables. they had been frightened to the coasts of france by the apparition of carlism, and san sebastian was plaintive. her streets and her coffers were empty. the campamento of bathing-huts was ranged as usual on the velvet rim of the ear-like bay, but no bathers were there. there were more domestics than guests in the hotels; and at the _table d'hôte_ three sat down in a saloon designed for a hundred to breakfast in; and we had no butter. the peasants in the country round were afraid to bring in the produce of their dairies and barn-yards. the bull-ring was to let; conscientious barbers shaved each other or dressed the hair on the wax busts in their windows, in order to keep alive the traditions of their craft; the fiddlers in the concert-room of the casino scraped lamentations to imaginary listeners. a sahara of dust had settled on the curtain of the theatre, and fleet-footed spiders made forages athwart it from one cobwebby stronghold to another. the once festive resort had lost its spirits completely, and all on account of this civil war. it was summer, but the city was in a state of hibernation. no business was done in the shops, the cafés were empty, most of the resident population who could afford it had emigrated, and the public squares were as vacant as if there were a perpetual siesta. there was no sign of animation, as we understand it in england. there were but three vessels in the west bay--the _buenaventura_, a merchant steamer, and the _san margarita_, pinioned at last, her yellow funnel cold. sojourn in the place was insupportable. i knew not how to kill the tedious hours. i climbed again to the castle of the mota, inspected some english tombs on the slope of the acclivity, and noticed that if the citadel is still a position of strength, nature deserves much of the credit. the defences recently thrown up had been devised and executed carefully, and if the defenders were only true to themselves, the carlists, with no better artillery than they possessed, might as well think of taking the moon as of entering san sebastian. they would have a formidable fire from well-planted cannon to face; stockades, and strong earthworks, and more than one blockhouse cunningly pierced with loopholes, to carry. even if san sebastian was entered, the configuration of the streets was such as to give every aid to disciplined men as opposed to mere guerrilleros. the city is built in blocks, on the american system; the wide thoroughfares cross each other at right-angles, and all of them could be swept as with a besom by a few guns _en barbette_ behind a breastwork at either end. in this sort of work, accuracy of aim is not called for, as in that warfare up in the mountains. if it were, not much reliance could be placed on the republican artillery. general hidalgo had well-nigh nullified that arm of the service. a carlist leader, in whose information and whose word confidence could be reposed, assured me that not a single carlist had yet been killed or wounded by the republican gunners. the estimated lists of the enemy's casualties given by both parties during the struggle, i may remark _en passant_, were grossly exaggerated. the butcher's bill was very small in proportion to the expenditure of gunpowder. returning to the question of the defence of san sebastian--even on the supposition that the main works and town were to fall into the hands of the carlists, the citadel still remained, where a determined leader could hold out till relief came, as long as his provisions lasted. this lofty citadel is almost impregnable. it was hither the french retired in , and it took general graham all that he knew to dislodge them. if i were asked what were the prospects of the carlists getting into the place, i should say there was but one--by crossing over a golden bridge. but that implied the possession of money, and money was precisely what the carlists declared they needed most. there was always the remote hazard of a carlist rising in san sebastian, for there were in the city the children of settlers from the rural districts who bit their thumbs at the sight of the muzzled _san margarita_, and prayed that charles vii. might have "his ain again." but they were in the minority. the miqueletes, a soldierly body of men in scarlet basque scones very like to the carlist head-gear, and a blue capote with cape attached, garrisoned the citadel. they were brave and loyal to the republic, and the object of deep grudge to the chicos, for they were basques of the towns. many of these provincial militiamen had come in from the small pueblos in the neighbourhood, where they ran the risk of being eaten up by "the bhoys;" and this was the only accession to the population which redeemed the dismal, tradeless port from the appearance of having been stricken by plague and abandoned, and lent it at intervals an artificial bustle. i sickened of san sebastian, with its angular propriety; its high, haughty houses, holding up their heads in architectural primness; its wide geometrical streets, where there is no shade in the sun, no shelter in the wind. i began to hate it for its rectilinearity, and dub it a priggish, stuck-up, arrogant upstart among cities. what business had it to be so straight and clean and airy? fain would i shake the dust off my feet in testimony against it; but here was the trouble. how to get away--that was a knotty problem. the railway had been torn up for months, and the armour-vested locomotives were rusting on the sidings at hendaye. the dirty hot little tug, the _alcorta_, that plies between the quay and socoa, had left; and i grieved not, for the thought of a passage by her was nausea. three more torturing hours never dragged their slow length along for me than those i spent on board her coming over. try and call up to yourself three hours in a low-class cook-shop, coated an inch thick with filth, and fitted over the boiler of a penny steamer dancing a marine break-down on the thames, opposite the outlet of the main-drainage pipes. that, intensified by strange oaths and slop-basins, was the passage by the _alcorta_. but dreary, lonely san sebastian was not to be endured. those poor fellows above, accustomed to the wild freshness and freedom of the sea, how they must mourn and repine! by some means or other i must get back to the world that is not petrified. no diligences dare to affront the dangers of the short journey to the irun railway-station, since three were stopped some days before, the traces cut, the horses stolen, the windows shattered, the woodwork burned, and the charred wreck left on the roadside, a terror to those who neglect to obey the commands of the royalist leaders. "royalist prigants, serr!" shouted a corpulent german doctor, connected with mines in the neighbourhood, who retained fierce recollections of having been robbed of a "boney, capitalest of boneys for crossing a mountain." i told the doctor i was about to trust to luck, and set out on foot if i could persuade nobody to provide me with a vehicle. "serr, you air mad, foolish mad," said the doctor. "those horrid beebles, i tell you, are worse than prigants; if you hayff money, they will dake it; if you hayff not money, they will stroke your pack fifty times, pecause you hayff it not. they will cut your ears off; they will cut your nose off; they are plack tevils!" i determined to trust to luck all the same. the black devils might not be all out so black as they were painted. chapter x. belcha's brigands--pale-red republicans--the hyena--more about the _san margarita_--arrival of a republican column--the jaunt to los pasages--a sweet surprise--"the prettiest girl in spain"--a madrid acquaintance--a costly pull--the diligence at last--renteria and its defences--a furious ride--in france again--unearthing santa cruz--the outlaw in his lair--interviewed at last--the truth about the endarlasa massacre--a death-warrant--the buried gun--fanaticism of the partisan-priest. there is fine scope for exaggeration in civil war; but he who wants the truth about the montagues does not consult the capulets. there must be bad characters amongst the carlists, i reflected; and when they are on outpost duty at a distance from officers, and have taken a drop of aguardiente too much, they may sometimes fail to appreciate the nice distinction between _meum_ and _tuum_. the band of one belcha, which was hovering in the neighbourhood of san sebastian, had a shady reputation. it would be unjust to tempt these simple-minded guerrilleros with the sight of a derringer, a hunting-watch, a tobacco-pouch, or a reconnoitring-glass. all these articles are useful on the hills. but even belcha's looters had some conscience; they drew the line at money and wedding-rings. besides, in cases of robbery restitution was invariably made when the chiefs of the revolt were appealed to in proper form, so that on the whole the carlists did not deserve the name the german doctor had given them. regular soldiers do not always carry the decalogue in their kit; there was marauding in the peninsula, notwithstanding the iron discipline of the iron duke; the summer palace at pekin was despoiled of its treasures by gentlemen in epaulettes, and the franco-german war was not entirely unconnected with stories about vanishing clocks. so i would not be diverted from my purpose. before leaving san sebastian i tried to obtain permission for a second visit to the citadel-prison in order to see the crew of the _san margarita_, but without avail. yet the officers in charge (all of the regular army), and indeed the privates of the local militia, were anything but truculent gaolers; they seemed willing to strain a point to oblige. the republicanism of the officers was of a very pale red; but there was one hirsute volunteer of liberty who acted as chief warder, and took a delight in the occupation. he rattled his bunch of keys as if their metallic dissonance were music, grumbled at the urbanity of his superiors, and bore himself altogether as if their politics were suspicious; and he, a pure of the pure, were there as warder over that too. i nicknamed him the hyena in my own mind; but i could not conceive him laughing anywhere save in front of a garrote with a royalist neck in the rundel, and then his laugh at best would be but the inward chuckle of a modoc. stuart took the hyena coolly, regarding him as an amusing phenomenon; travers surveyed him as he would the portrait of the nabob on london hoardings, and pronounced him a whimsical illustration of republican sauce. stuart, i should have stated, was anxious that it should be known that he had caused the name of the whilom _deerhound_ to be erased from the list of yachts, when he chartered her as a merchant-steamer, renamed her, and went into the contraband-of-war line. it was contrary to his wish to compromise any club. the confiscated cargo was the last he had intended delivering, but he told me with a smile that ten thousand stand of rifles had already found their way to vera. there was no legitimate explanation of the capture of the hare by the tortoise, although travers was prepared to swear he was in french waters--he thought he was, no doubt--but he was just on the wrong side of the limit. there was one comfort. on the way to bayonne a boat-load of men had been landed at socoa on leave, amongst them the basque pilot, who might otherwise have been helped to a short shrift, and the dog's death from a yard-arm. carlist sympathizers endeavoured to procure me a conveyance to irun, but nobody cared to affront the loss of horses, for belcha's band requisitioned the cattle even of those identical in political feeling--the good of the cause was their plea--so at last i was forced to say i should be glad of a trap to los pasages, a few miles off, whence i might be able to go forward on foot. while i was waiting for the arrival of the vehicle, and reading _el diario_, the local daily paper--a sheet the size of the palm of one's hand--until i had the contents by rote, an incident occurred to beguile suspense. the vanguard of the corps of sanchez bregua, the commander of the republican army of the north, rode into the city. they had come from zarauz, a seaside village four leagues away--a section of mounted chasseurs in a uniform like to that of the old british light dragoons. the troopers were in campaign order, with rifled carbines slung over their backs, pugarees hanging from their shakoes over their necks, and were dust-covered and sunburnt, but soldierly. they were horsed unevenly, and for light cavalry carried too great a burden. but that is not a fault peculiar to spanish light cavalry. the average weight of the british hussar equipped is eighteen stone. a quarter of an hour later the main body came in sight, a long column of infantry marching by fours. it was headed by a party of civil guards, acting as guides. as the column reached the open space by the quay, it deployed into line of companies, a movement capitally executed. the men were bigger and tougher than those of the french line. their uniform was similar, except that they had wings to their capotes instead of worsted epaulettes. all wore mountain-shoes, but were not hampered with tenting equipage on their knapsacks. each battalion was led by a staff-officer, who was splendidly, or wretchedly, mounted, as his luck had served him. the company officers carried alpenstocks, and their orderlies had officers' cast foraging-caps on top of their glazed shakoes. i noticed a battalion of cazadores, distinguished by the emblematic brass horn of chase wrought on their collars, and two companies of engineers in uniforms entirely blue, with towers on their collars. these latter were robust, sinewy young fellows. after the infantry came a company of the nd regiment of mountain artillery with four small pieces, each drawn by a single mule, and behind them a squadron of mounted chasseurs, and a long cavalcade of pack-horses and mules. after a deal of exploration a driver was dug up, and after a deal of negotiation he consented to take me to los pasages. thanks to republican vigilance, but principally it may have been to the nature of the ground, the road thither was clear. we started at six o'clock in the evening, and after a lively spin through sylvan scenery drew up in less than an hour at the outskirts of a village on the edge of a quiet pool, which we had bordered for nigh a mile. no papers had been asked for, on leaving, at the bridge over the urumea, where a post of volunteers kept guard by an antique and stumpy bronze howitzer, mounted on a siege-carriage, and furnished with the dolphin-handles to be seen on some of the last-century guns in the tower arsenal. no papers were asked for either at the customs' station, some hundred yards farther on; but the carabineros looked upon me as a lunatic, and significantly sibilated. none were asked for at the approach to the village. scarcely had i alighted when a fishwife ran out of a cabin and addressed me in basque. i could not understand her, and motioned her away, when a winsome lassie of some eighteen summers, tripping up the road, came to my aid, and began speaking in french as if she were anticipating my arrival. "monsieur wants a shallop to go to france?" i was taken aback, but answered, "yes." "monsieur will follow me." and she gave me a meaning sign--half a wink, half a monition. i followed, and examined my volunteer guide more attentively. what a prize of a girl! hair black as night, but with a glossy blackness, was parted on her smooth forehead, and retained behind, after the fashion of the country, by a coloured snood, but two thick gretchen plaits escaped, and hung down to her waist, making one wish that she had let her whole wealth of tresses wander free. eyes blue-black, full by turns of soft love and sparkling mischief; creole complexion, with blood rich as marriage-wine coursing in the dimpled cheeks; teeth white as the fox's; lips of clove-pink. and what a shape had she--ripe, firm, and piquant! do you wonder that i followed her with joy? do you wonder that i began weaving a romance? if you do, i pity you. did i want a shallop? of course i did; but alas! might i not have echoed burger's lament: "the shallop of my peace is wrecked on beauty's shore." she was a carlist, i was sure of that. all the comely maidens were carlists. in the service of the king the most successful crimps were "dashing white sergeants" in garter and girdle. and she took me for an interesting carlist fugitive, and she was determined to aid in my escape. how ravishing! she was a flora macdonald, and i--would be a pretender. i had fully wound myself up to that as we entered los pasages. los pasages consists of rows of houses built on either side of a basin of the sea, entered by a narrow chasm in the high rocky coast. sailing by it, one would never imagine that that cleft in the shore-line was a gate to a natural harbour, locked against every wind, and large enough to accommodate fleets, and whose waters are generally placid as a lake. this secure haven, _statio benefida carinis_, is hidden away in the lap of the timbered hills, and is approached by a passage (from which its name is borrowed) which can be traversed in fifteen minutes. the change from the boisterous bay of biscay, with its "white horses capering without, to this venetian expanse of water in a swiss valley, dotted with chalets and cottages, must have the effect of a magic transformation on the emotional tar who has never been here before, and whose chance it was to lie below when his ship entered. the refuge is not unknown to english seamen, for there is a stirring trade in minerals with cardiff, in more tranquil times. but now los pasages is deserted from the bar down to the uttermost point of its long river-like stretch inland, except by the smacks and small boats of the native fishers, a tiny tug, and a large steamer from seville which is lying by the wharf. there is no noise of traffic; the one narrow street echoes to our tramping feet as i follow my charming cicerone, who has started up for me like some good spirit of a fairy-tale. she leads me to an inn, bids me enter, and flies in search of the owner of the shallop. the landlord comes to greet me, and i recognise in him an acquaintance--maurice, a former waiter in the fonda de paris, in madrid. i questioned maurice as to my chances of getting across to irun by land that night; but he assured me it was too late, and really dangerous; that the road was infested by gangs of desperadoes; and that it would be safer for me to travel, even in the day-time, without money or valuables. the owner of the shallop came, but as he had the audacity to ask eighty francs for transporting me round to fontarabia, and as i had found maurice, i resolved to stop in los pasages for the night. "you have only to cross the water to-morrow morning," said maurice, "and you are in kenteria, where you will be sure to get a vehicle." the backs of the houses all overlook the port, and all are balconied and furnished with flowered terraces, from which one can fish, look at his reflection, or take a header into the water at pleasure. a glorious nook for a reading-party's holiday, los pasages. not if fair mysteries like my friend crop up there; but where is she, by-the-way? she does not re-appear; but maurice will help me to discover who and what she is. "maurice, are there any pretty girls here?" maurice looks at me reproachfully. "señor, you have been conducted to my house by one who is acknowledged to be the prettiest in all spain." that night i dreamt of eugenia, the baker's daughter, the pride of los pasages, who was waiting for a husband, but would have none but one who helps charles vii. to the throne. i recorded that dream for the bachelors of britain, and conjured them to make haste to propose for her--not that the carlist war was hurrying to a close; but i have remarked that girls inclined to be plump at eighteen sometimes develop excessive embonpoint about eight-and-twenty. on inquiry, i found a key to the enigma which had filled me with sweet excitement. eugenia, who had been to the citadel-prison to carry provisions to a friend in trouble, had seen me speaking to colonel stuart, and was anxious to serve me because of my supposed carlist tincture. my supposed carlist tincture did not prevent a lusty basque boatman from charging five francs next morning for the five minutes' pull across the water to the road to renteria, where i caught a huge yellow diligence, which had ventured to leave san sebastian at last with the detained mails of a week. the machine was horsed in the usual manner--that is, with three mules and two nags--but how different from usual was the way-bill! with the exception of the driver and his aide, a youngster who jumped down from the box every hundred yards, and belaboured the beasts with a wattle, there was not one passenger fit to carry arms. we had a load of women and babies, a decrepit patriarch, and two boys under the fighting age. we halted at renteria, harnessed a fresh team to our conveniency, and sent on a messenger to ascertain if the carlists had been seen on the road. everybody in renteria carried a musket. all the approaches were defended by loopholed works, roofed with turf, and a perfect fortress was constructed in the centre of the town by a series of communications which had been established between the church and a block of houses in front by _caponnières_. the church windows were built up and loopholed, and a semicircular _tambour_, banked with earth to protect it from artillery, was thrown up against the houses in the middle of the street, so as to enfilade it at either side in case of attack. there were troops of the line in renteria, but no artillerymen, nor was there artillery to be served. without artillery, however, the place, if properly provisioned, could not be taken, if the defending force was worth its salt. the messenger having returned with word that all was right, we went ahead at a fearful pace on a very good road, lined with poplars, and running through a neat park-like country. over to the right we could see the church-spire of oyarzun, and the smoke curling from the chimneys; a little farther on we passed the debris of a diligence on the wayside; the telegraph wires along the route were broken down, and the poles taken away for firewood; we dived under a railway bridge, but never a carlist saw we during the continuous brief mad progress over the eight miles from renteria to the rise into irun. we clattered up to the rail way-station at a hand-gallop, the people rushing to the doors of the houses, and beaming welcome from smiling countenances. there was a faint attempt to cheer us. at the station a number of officials, a couple of carabineros, and a knot of idlers were gathered. the driver descended with the gait of a conquering hero, and turned his glances in the direction of a cottage close by. an old man on crutches, a blooming matron with rosary beads at her waist, and a nut-brown maid with laughing eyes stood under the porch, embowered in tamarisk and laurel-rose. the driver strode over to them, crying out triumphantly: "el primero! lo! i am the first." "how valiant you are, pedro!" said the nut-brown maid, advancing to meet him. "how lucky you are!" said the matron, with a grave shake of the head. "how rash you are!" mumbled the grandfather; "you were always so." i envied that driver, for the nut-brown maid kissed him, as she had the right to do, for she was his affianced, and had not seen him for five days. from the irun station to hendaye was free from danger. i walked down through a field of maize to the bidassoa, crossed by a ferry-boat to the other side, where a post of the th of the french line were peacefully playing cards for buttons in the shade of a chestnut, and a few minutes afterwards was seated in front of a bottle of dublin stout with the countryman who forwarded my letters and telegrams from over the border. naturally i had a desire to ascertain the whereabouts of santa cruz. the man had almost grown mythical with me. i had heard at san sebastian that ten thousand crowns had been offered for his scalp at tolosa, and the fondest yearning--the one satisfying aspiration of the hyena--was to tear him into shreds, chop him into sausage-meat, gouge out his eyes, or roast him before a slow fire. which form of torment he would prefer, he had not quite settled. a sort of intuitive faculty, which has seldom led me astray, said to me that santa cruz was somewhere near. i revolved the matter in my mind, and fixed upon the man under whose roof he was most likely to be concealed. i went to that man and requested him bluntly to take me to the outlawed priest--i wished very much to speak to him. he smiled and answered, "he is not here." "the bird is flown," i said, "but the nest is warm. he is not far away." "true," he said, "come with me." we drove some miles--i will not say how many--and drew up at an enclosed villa, which may have been in france, but was not of it. to be plain, it was neutral territory, and my host, who knew me thoroughly, disappeared for a few moments, and said santa cruz was sleeping, but that he had roused him, and that he would be with us presently. i was sitting on a garden-seat in front of the house where he was stopping, when he presented himself on the threshold, bareheaded, and in his shirt-sleeves. the outlaw priest was no slave to the conventionalities of society. he did not adjust his necktie before receiving visitors. i am not sure that he wore a necktie at all. let me try and draw his portrait as he stood there in the doorway, in questioning attitude. a thick, burly man under thirty years of age, some five feet five in height, with broad sallow face, brawny bull-neck, and wide square-set shoulders--a squat hercules; dark-brown hair, cut short, lies close to his head; he is bearded, and has a dark-brown pointed moustache; shaggy brows overhang his small steel-gray eyes; his nose is coarse and devoid of character; but his jaws are massive, his lips firm, and his chin determined. he is dressed like the better class of peasant, wears sandals, canvas trousers, a light brownish-gray waistcoat, and has a large leathern belt, like a horse's girth, round his waist. his expression is severe, as of one immersed in thought; with an occasional frown, as if the thought were disagreeable. his brows knit, and a shadow passes over his features when anything is mentioned that displeases him; but i was told when he smiled, the smile was of the sweetest and most amiable. i cannot say i saw him in smiling mood, but i saw him frown, and never did anyone so truly translate to me the figure of speech of "looking black." he advanced with self-possession, returned my salute without coldness or _empressement_, as if it were a mere matter of form, and sat down beside me. we had a long chat. santa cruz did not take much active part in it, but listened as his host spoke, punctuating what was said with nods of assent, and now and again dropping a guttural sentence. his maxim was that deeds were of more value than words, and he adhered to it. his host, i may interpose, was the most devoted of carlists, and had given largely of his means to aid the cause. he had great faith in santa cruz, and told me in his presence (but in french, which the cura understood but slightly) that while santa cruz was in the northern provinces, the king had half-a-man in his service, and that if he would now call on cabrera he would have a man and a half, for that santa cruz would act with cabrera. "if don carlos does not consent to that," said my host, "you will see that he will have to return into france, and live in ignominy for the rest of his days!" this cura, represented in the madrid play-house as half-drunk and dancing lewdly, was the most abstemious and chastest of men, and neither smoked nor drank wine. his fame went on increasing, as did the number of his followers. he effected prodigies with the means at his command. his friends in france supplied him with two cannon, which were smuggled across the border. he turned the foundry at vera into a munition factory; employed women to make uniforms for his men; and insisted that the intervals between his expeditions should be given up to drill. he was dreaded, respected, admired by his band; he was strong and hardy; faced perils and privations in common with the lowest, but used no weapon but his walking-stick the priest, the anointed of god, may not shed blood. the affair of endarlasa was the coping-stone of his career. various accounts were related of that event; it is only fair to let santa cruz himself speak. this is what he told me: at three one morning he opened fire on the guard-house occupied by the carabineros, at the bridge over the bidassoa, between vera and irun. a white flag was hoisted on the guard-house. he ordered the fire to cease, and advanced to negotiate the conditions of surrender. the enemy, who had invited him to approach, by the white flag, fired and wounded one of his men. he issued directions to take the place, and spare nobody. the place was taken, and nobody was spared. twenty-seven dead bodies littered the vera road that morning. "is it true that you pardoned two?" i asked the priest. "no, ninguno! porqué?" he answered with astonishment. "not one. why should i?" the reason i had asked was that i had been told that a couple of the carabineros had plunged into the bidassoa and tried to swim to the other side; but the cura, on his own avowal, with rhadamanthine justice had commanded them to be shot as they breasted the current, and they were shot. he was no believer in half-measures. a lady partisan of his, who had dined with him the day before, told me he never breathed a syllable of the attack he meditated, to her or any of his band. an english gentleman, who visited the ground while the corpses were still upon it, assured me that the sight was horrifying, and, such was the panic in irun, that he verily believed santa cruz might have taken the town the same afternoon, had he appeared before it with four men. to pursue the story of the redoubtable cura. the bruit of his exploits had gone abroad, and among certain carlists it seemed to be the opinion, as one of them remarked to me, that "_il a fait de grandes choses, mais de grandes bêtises aussi._" he was making war altogether too seriously for their tastes. antonio lizarraga was appointed commandant-general of guipúzcoa about that period, and ordered santa cruz to report to him. santa cruz, who was in the field before him, and had five times as many men under his control, paid no heed to his orders. lizarraga then sent him a death-warrant, which is so curious a document that i make no apology for appending it in full: translation. (a seal on which is inscribed "royal army of the north, general command of guipúzcoa.") "the sixteenth day of the present month, i gave orders to all the forces under my command, that they should proceed to capture you, and that immediately after you had received the benefit of clergy they should execute you. "this sentence i pronounced on account of your insubordination towards me, you having disobeyed me several times, and having taken no notice of the repeated commands i sent you to present yourself before me to declare what you had to say in your own defence in the inquiry instituted against you by my directions. "for the last time i ask of you to present yourself to me, the instant this communication is received; in default of which i notify to you that every means will be used to effect your arrest; that your disobedience and the unqualifiable acts laid to your charge will be published in all the newspapers; and that the condign punishment they deserve will be duly exacted. "god grant you many years. "the brigadier-general commanding. (signed) "antonio lizarraga. "campo del honor, th of march, . "señor don manuel santa cruz." "note.--have the goodness to acknowledge this, my communication." this missive was received by santa cruz, but he never acknowledged it. his host permitted me to read and copy the original. "is not that arbitrary?" he said to me in english; "very much like what you call jedburgh justice; hanging a man first and trying him afterwards. lizarraga says, 'this sentence i pronounced'--all is finished apparently there; and yet he cites the man whom he has ordered to be immediately executed to appear before him to declare what he has to say!" another phrase in this death-warrant, which escaped the host, impressed me with its naïveté: "_god grant you many years._" but lizarraga, in this politeness of custom, meant no more, it is to be presumed, than did the irish hangman who expostulated with his client in the condemned cell: "long life to ye, mr. hinery! and make haste, the people are getting onpatient." santa cruz bit his way out of the toils, however, but not so his band. they were surrounded at vera, caught, with a few exceptions, disarmed, assembled and addressed in spanish by the marquis de valdespina, whose remarks were translated to them into basque by the cura of ollo. they cried "viva el rey!" their arms were subsequently restored to them, and the men were distributed among other battalions. but they still regret their old leader, and santa cruz is popular by the firesides of the mountaineers of guipúzcoa. one of his mountain guns fell into the hands of lizarraga, but the other was buried in some spot only known to himself and a few trusted companions. during my interview i made it my business to study the priest attentively, and this is what i honestly thought of him. he was a fanatic, a sullen self-willed man with but one idea--the success of the cause; and but one ambition--that it should be said of him that it was he, santa cruz, who put don carlos on the throne of his ancestors. the globe for him was bounded by the pyrenees and the sea; he had but one antipathy after the heretics (all who did not worship god as he did) and the liberals, and that was lizarraga. i considered it a mistake that lizarraga was not the cura of hernialde, and santa cruz the commandant-general of guipúzcoa. the priest had a natural military instinct--i would almost go so far as to say a spice of military genius; and had he had a knowledge of the profession of arms would probably have developed into a great general of the cossack type. his hatred to lizarraga led him into littleness and injustice. he chuckled at the idea of lizarraga not being able to find the buried gun, as if that were any great triumph over him; and he sneered at the idea of lizarraga, who was not able to take oyarzun, meditating an attempt on tolosa. i could thoroughly understand that the carlist priest bore malice to the officer who supplanted him and condemned him to death. but what lizarraga did was done in compliance with the king's will. at the same time there could be no doubt that santa cruz was treated with scant courtesy after all he had accomplished, and had a right to feel himself ill-used, and the victim of jealous rivalry. he said that he was prepared, any day the king permitted him, to traverse the four provinces, and hold his enemies _in terrorem_ with five hundred men. and he was the very worthy to do it. he complained bitterly that three of his followers had been shot by lizarraga. one story relates that they stole into guipúzcoa to levy blackmail, another that they merely went to dig up some money that was interred when the legion was disbanded. in any case they appeared in arms in a forbidden district, and incurred the capital penalty. santa cruz went to bordeaux to beg for their lives at the feet of doña margarita. she received him most graciously, and promised to send a special courier to her husband to intercede in their behalf. before the king's reprieve could possibly have arrived the three were executed. as we were about to leave, a colleague who was with me asked the cura if he would permit him to visit his camp, if it came to pass that he took up arms again in spain. "we shall see," said santa cruz; "wait till i am there." my own conviction is that the priest held correspondents in abhorrence, and that his first impulse would have been to tie a zealous one up to a tree, and have thirty-nine blows given him with a stick. perhaps i did him wrong, but if ever he did take up arms again, it was my firm intention to be south when he was north, for he was about the last person in creation to whose tender mercies i should care to entrust myself. chapter xi. an audible battle--"great cry and little wool"--a carlist court newsman--a religious war--the siege of oyarzun--madrid rebels--"the money of judas"--a manifesto from don carlos--an ideal monarch--necessity of social and political reconstruction proclaimed--a free church--a broad policy--the king for the people--the theological question--austerity in alava--clerical and non-clerical carlists--disavowal of bigotry--a republican editor on the carlist creed--character of the basques--drill and discipline--guerilleros _versus_ regulars. when a man's office is to chronicle war and he is within hearing of the echoes of battle, but cannot reach a spot from which the scene of action might be commanded, it is annoying in the extreme. such was my strait on the st of august, a few days after my arrival from san sebastian. i was at hendaye, the border-town of france. from the spanish frontier the report of heavy firing was audible for hours, apparently coming from a point between oyarzun and renteria. first one could distinguish the faint spatter of musketry, and afterwards the undeniable muffled roar of artillery. then came a succession of sustained rolls as of volley-firing. about noon the action must have been at its height. the distant din was subsequently to be caught only at long intervals, as if changes of position were in course of being effected; but at three o'clock it regained force, and raged with fury until five, when it suddenly died away. i was burning with impatience, and made several unavailing attempts to cross the bidassoa. the ferryman, acting under instructions from the gendarmes, refused to take passengers. by the evening train a delegate from the paris society for the succour of the wounded arrived from bayonne with a box of medicine and surgical appliances. he, too, was unable to pass into spain. meantime, rumour ran riot. stories were current that there had been fearful losses. "at eleven o'clock men were falling like flies," said one eye-witness, who succeeded in running away from the field before he fell. not a single medical man would leave france in response to the call of the paris delegate for volunteers to accompany him. were they all republicans? did they fear that belcha might take a fancy to their probes and forcipes? or did they look upon the big battles and tremendous lists of casualties in this most uncivil of civil wars as illustrations of a great cry and little wool? if the latter was their notion, they were right. three days after this serious engagement, i learned the particulars of what had taken place. general loma, a brigadier under sanchez bregua, with a column of , men, came out from san sebastian to cover a working-party while they were endeavouring to throw up a redoubt for his guns on an eminence between irun and oyarzun, so as to put an end to the tussle over the possession of the latter hamlet, which was a perpetual bone of contention. the carlists fired upon him from behind the rocks in a gorge to which he had committed himself, but were outnumbered. word was sent to the cabecilla, martinez, at lesaca, and he arrived with reinforcements at the double, and encompassed loma with such a cloud of sulphurous smoke that the republicans had to fall back upon san sebastian. the casualties in this homeric combat were not appalling; there was more gunpowder than blood expended. the losses on the republican side were one killed and fifteen wounded. on the carlist side they were less, for the carlists kept under cover of the fern and furze. but then it must be considered that the firing only lasted nine hours! don carlos was not slow in calling the printing-press to his aid. one of his first acts after his entry into his dominions was to start an official gazette, _el cuartel real_, the first number of which is before me as i write. i have seen queer papers in my travels, from the _bugler_, a regimental record brought out by the th light infantry in burmah, to the _fiji times_, and the _epitaph_, the leading organ of tombstone city, in the territory of arizona; but this assuredly was the queerest. it was published by cristóbal perez, on the summit of peña de la plata, a pyrenean peak. there might be less acceptable reading than a _résumé_ of its contents. _el cuartel real_ does not impose by its magnitude. it is about one-eighth the size of a london daily journal; but if it is not great by quantity it is by quality. over the three columns of the opening page figure the three watchwords of the royal cause, "god, country, king." the paragraph which has the post of honour is headed "oficial," and has in it a flavour of the _court newsman_. here it is as it appears in the original, boldly imprinted in black type: "s. m. el rey (q.d.g.) continúa sin novedad al frente de su leal y valiente ejército. "s. m. la reina y sus augustos hijos continúan tambien sin novedad en su importante salud." as it is not vouchsafed to everyone to understand castilian, i may as well give a rough translation, which read herewith: "his majesty the king (whom god guard) continues without change at the front of his loyal and valiant army. "her majesty the queen and her august children also continue without alteration in their precious health." then _el cuartel real_ appends what takes the place of its leading article--a reproduction of a letter from don carlos to his "august brother," don alfonso, setting forth the principles on which he appeals for spanish support. this document is so important that i must return to it anon. then comes a circular from the "real junta gubernativa del reino de navarra," in session at vera. the purport of this, epitomized in a sentence, is to raise money. next, we arrive at the "seccion oficial," the most important paragraph of which announces that the chief, merendon, has inaugurated a carlist movement in toledo, with a well-armed force, exceeding men--to wit, horsemen and infantry--and that he hopes shortly to gather numerous recruits. the "seccion de noticias" makes up the body of the paper, and is richer in information. we are told that the most excellent and illustrious bishop of urgel, accompanied by several sacerdotal and other dignitaries, arrived in the town of urdaniz, at half-past seven on the previous wednesday evening. his lordship rested a night in the house of the vicar, and left the following morning, escorted by his friend and host, the said vicar, brigadier gamundi, and colonel d. fermin irribarren, veterans of the carlist army, for elisondo. from that the prelate was reported to have started to headquarters, "to salute the king of spain, august representative of the christian monarchy, which is the only plank of safety in the shipwreck of the country." the _cuartel real_ warmly congratulates the bishop on the fact of his having come to the conviction that "the present war is a religious war, and on that account eminently social"--(social in spanish must have some peculiar shade of meaning unknown to strangers, for otherwise there is no sequence here)--and proceeds to speak with an eloquence that recalls that wretched republican, castelar, of the standard of faith in which resides spanish honour and--here come two words that puzzle me, _la hidalguia y la caballerosidad_; but i suppose they mean nobility and chivalry, and everything of that kind. the next notice in the royal gazette is purely military, and makes known that the siege of the important town of oyarzun has begun. "on the th the batteries opened fire, and, according to report, the enemy had one hundred men _hors de combat_." the batteries! there is a touch of genius in that phrase. reading it, one would imagine that the royalists had a royal regiment of artillery, and that eight pieces of cannon, at the very least, played upon the unfortunate oyarzun. a jennet with a -pounder at its heels would be a more correct representation of the strength of the carlist ordnance. to resume the story of the siege of oyarzun. "on the st," adds _el cuartel real_, "there was talk of a capitulation, and it is possible that the place has surrendered at this hour." the paragraph that succeeds it is a gem: "of the , armed rebels in eibar (guipúzcoa), betook themselves to san sebastian, when they suspected the approach of the royal forces, and the remaining gave up to general lizarraga their rifles, all of the remington system." there is no quibble about the latter statement. the carlists had easier ways of procuring arms than by running cargoes from england. but is there not something inimitable in the epithet "rebels"? there can be no question but that everyone is a rebel in romantic spain--in the opinion of somebody else. the only question is, who are the constituted authorities? until that is settled the editor of _el cuartel real_ is perfectly justified in treating the volunteers of liberty, in those districts where charles vii. virtually reigns, as armed rebels. although this town of eibar had frequently risen up against the legitimate authorities named by his majesty, it is pleasant to learn that general lizarraga did not impose the slightest chastisement on the population, thus giving a lesson of forbearance to the "factious generals." next we are informed that on the day the royal forces entered vergara, the ignominious monument erected by the liberals in record of the greatest of treasons (the treaty between the treacherous maroto and espartero in ) was destroyed amidst enthusiasm, and the parchment in the municipal archives commemorating its erection was taken out and burned in the public square. i may add (but this i had from private sources) that the coin dug up from under the monument was cast to the wind as the money of judas. navarre, continues _el cuartel real_, is dominated by our valiant soldiers under the skilful direction of his majesty; lizarraga has occupied in a few days mondragon, eibar, plasencia, azpeitia, vergara, and other important places in guipúzcoa, and obtained "considerable booty of war;" the standard of legitimacy is waving triumphantly in biscay, and bilbao is blockaded. there the tale of victory ends; but we arrive at matters not less gratifying in another sense. the distinguished engineer, don mariano lana y sarto, has been appointed to look after the repair of the bridges destroyed by nouvilas. don matias schaso gomez, a member of the press militant, has been promoted to be a commandant for his valour at astigarraga, and is nominated for the laurelled cross of san fernando; and the illustrious doctor, señor don alejandro rodriguez hidalgo, has been named chief of the sanitary staff, and entrusted with the establishment of military hospitals. the last paragraph in this curious little gazette, printed up amid the clouds on the summit of the silver hill, states that the royal quarters were at abarzuzu on the th instant, and that estella, close by, was stubbornly resisting, but would soon be in the power of the royalists. a column which had attempted to relieve the garrison was energetically driven back towards lerin by two battalions commanded by his majesty in person. but by the time _el cuartel real_ came under my notice estella had fallen, and the carlists had put to their credit a genuine success. as the question of carlism is still one of prominent interest--is, indeed, what the french term an "actuality," and may crop up again any day, the letter of the claimant to the throne to don alfonso (alluded to some sentences above) is worth translating. it is the authoritative exposition of the aims of the would-be monarch, and of the line of policy he intended to pursue should he ever take up his residence in that coveted palace at madrid. its date is august rd, , and the contents are these: * * * * * "my dear brother, "spain has already had opportunities enough to ascertain my ideas and sentiments as man and king in various periodicals and newspapers. yielding, nevertheless, to a general and anxiously expressed desire which has reached me from all parts of the peninsula, i write this letter, in which i address myself, not merely to the brother of my heart, but without exception to all spaniards, for they are my brothers as well. "i cannot, my dear alfonso, present myself to spain as a pretender to the crown. it is my duty to believe, and i do believe, that the crown of spain is already placed on my forehead by the consecrated hand of the law. with this right i was born, a right which has grown, now that the fitting time has come, to a sacred obligation; but i desire that the right shall be confirmed to me by the love of my people. my business, henceforth, is to devote to the service of that people all my thoughts and powers--to die for it, or save it. "to say that i aspire to be king of spain, and not of a party, is superfluous, for what man worthy to be a king would be satisfied to reign over a party? in such a case he would degrade himself in his own person, descending from the high and serene region where majesty dwells, and which is beyond the reach of mean and pitiful triflings. "i ought not to be, and i do not desire to be, king, except of all spaniards; i exclude nobody, not even those who call themselves my enemies, for a king can have no enemies. i appeal affectionately to all, in the name of the country, even to those who appear the most estranged; and if i do not need the help of all to arrive at the throne of my ancestors, i do perhaps need their help to establish on solid and immovable bases the government of the state, and to give prosperous peace and true liberty to my beloved spain. "when i reflect how weighty a task it is to compass those great ends, the magnitude of the undertaking almost oppresses me with fear. true, i am filled with the most fervent desire to begin, and the resolute will to carry out, the enterprise; but i cannot hide from myself that the difficulties are immense, and that they can only be overcome by the co-operation of the men of notability, the most impartial and honest in the kingdom; and, above all, by the co-operation of the kingdom itself, gathered together in the cortes which would truly represent the living forces and conservative elements of spain. "i am prepared with such cortes to give to spain, as i said in my letter to the sovereigns of europe, a fundamental code which would prove, i trust, definitive and spanish. "side by side, my brother, we have studied modern history, meditating over those great catastrophes which are at once lessons to rulers and a warning to the people. side by side, we have also thought over and formed a common judgment that every century ought to have, and actually has, its legitimate necessities and natural aspirations. "old spain stood in need of great reforms; in modern spain we have had simply immense convulsions of overthrow. much has been destroyed; little has been reformed. ancient institutions, some of which cannot be revivified, have died out. an attempt has been made to create others in their place, but scarcely had they seen the light when symptoms of death set in. so much has been done, and no more. i have before me a stupendous labour, an immense social and political reconstruction. i have to set myself to building up, in this desolated country, on bases whose solidity is guaranteed by experience, a grand edifice, where every legitimate interest and every reasonable personality can find admittance. "i do not deceive myself, my brother, when i feel confident that spain is hungry and thirsty for justice; that she feels the urgent and imperious necessity of a government, worthy and energetic, severe and respected; and that she anxiously wishes that the law to which we all, great and small, should be subject, should reign with undisputed sway. "spain is not willing that outrage or offence should be offered to the faith of her fathers, believing that in catholicity reposes the truth she understands, and that to accomplish to the full its divine mission, the church must be free. "whilst knowing and not forgetting that the nineteenth century is not the sixteenth, spain is resolved to preserve from every danger catholic unity--the symbol of our glories, the essence of our laws, and the holy bond of concord between all spaniards. "the spanish people, taught by a painful experience, desires the truth in everything, and that the king should be a king in reality, and not the shadow of a king; and that its cortes should be the regularly appointed and peaceful gathering of the independent and incorruptible elect of the constituencies, and not tumultuous and barren assemblies of office-holders and office-seekers, servile majorities and seditious minorities. "the spanish people is favourable to decentralisation, and will always be so; and you know well, my dear alfonso, that should my desires be carried out, instead of assimilating the basque provinces to the rest of spain, which the revolutionary spirit would fain bring to pass, the rest of spain would be lifted to an equality in internal administration with those fortunate and noble provinces. "it is my wish that the municipality should retain its separate existence, and the provinces likewise, proper precautions being employed to prevent possible abuses. "my cherished thought as constant desire is to give to spain exactly that which she does not possess, in spite of the lying clamour of some deluded people--that liberty which she only knows by name; liberty, which is the daughter of the gospel, not liberalism, which is the son of disbelief (_de la protesta_); liberty, in fine, which is the supremacy of the laws when the laws are just--that is to say, conformable to the designs of nature and of god. "we, descendants of kings, admit that the people should not exist for the king so much as the king for the people; that a king should be the most honoured man amongst his people, as he is the first caballero; and that a king for the future should glory in the special title of 'father of the poor' and 'guardian of the weak.' "at present, my dear brother, there is a very formidable question in our spain, that of the finances. the spanish debt is something frightful to think of; the productive forces of the country are not enough to cover it--bankruptcy is imminent. i do not know if i can save spain from that calamity; but, if it be possible, a legitimate sovereign alone can do it. an unshakable will works wonders. if the country is poor, let all live frugally, even to the ministers; nay, even to the king himself, who should be one in feeling with don enrique el doliente. if the king is foremost in setting the example, all will be easy. let ministries be suppressed, provincial governments be reduced, offices be diminished, and the administration economized at the same time that agriculture is encouraged, industry protected, and commerce assisted. to put the finances and credit of spain on a proper footing is a titanic enterprise to which all governments and peoples should lend aid." * * * * * here follow a repudiation of free trade as applied to spain, and a few well-turned periods dealing in the usual spanish manner with the duties of the ruler, laying down, among other axioms, that "virtue and knowledge are the chiefest nobility," and that the person of the mendicant should be as sacred as that of the patrician. at the close there is a very sensible sentence, affirming that one christian monarch in spain would be better than three hundred petty kings disputing in a noisy assembly. "the chiefs of parties," continues the letter, "naturally yearn for honours or riches or place; but what in the world can a christian king desire but the good of his people? what could he want to be happy but the love of his people?" the letter winds up by the affirmation that don carlos is faithful to the good traditions of the old and glorious spanish monarchy, and that he believed he would be found to act also as "a man of the present age." the last sentence is a prayer to his brother, "who had the enviable privilege of serving in the papal army," to ask their spiritual king at rome for his apostolic benediction for spain and the writer. if this document was written _propriâ manu_, by don carlos, he must be endowed with higher intellectual faculties than most kings or pretenders possess. it is undeniably clever, and is more progressive than one would expect from an upholder of the doctrine of divine right. it may be, as tennyson sings, that the thoughts of men (even when they are bourbons) are widened with the process of the suns. but i protest that there is such a masterly mistiness in it here and there, such a careful elusion of rocks and ruggednesses political, and such a fine wind-beating flourish of the banner of glittering generality, that i think there were more heads than one engaged in the concoction of the manifesto. i have studiously refrained from the introduction of the religious topic as far as i could in this work--it is outside my sphere; but i should be unjust to the reader did i not give him some information (not from the controversial standpoint) on a subject which will obtrude itself in any discussion on the merits of the conflict which has twice distracted spain and may divide the country again. it is unfortunately indisputable that religion was poked into the quarrel. the struggle was described in _el cuartel real_ as a religious war; the theological allegiance of the partisans of don carlos was appealed to, and their ardent attachment to the papacy was worked upon, as in the concluding sentence of the proclamation of don carlos. in those portions of the north where carlism was all-powerful, the authorities were emphatically showing that those who served under them must be practical roman catholics _nolentes volentes_. an austere placard, signed by barona, member of the carlist war committee, was posted in the province of alava, and ordained among other articles: firstly, that the town councillors of every municipality should assist in a body at high mass; secondly, that the mayors should interdict, under the most severe penalties, all games and public diversions, and the opening of all public establishments during divine service; and thirdly, that all blasphemers, and all who worked on a holiday, who gave scandal, or who danced indecently, should be _scourged_. the first of these articles is lawful enough in a country which is almost exclusively roman catholic. in england nothing can be said against it, seeing that british soldiers of all denominations are compelled to attend church parade, and the prisoners in all gaols have to register themselves as belonging to some religion. there is just this theoretical objection, however--the article implies that municipal honours are to be limited to members of one creed, which is intolerant. that which underlay the antipathy of numerous conservatives outside spain to the royalist cause, was the belief entertained that the success of don carlos would lead to the re-assertion of clerical preponderance, would destroy liberty of conscience as understood in most european nations, and would set up a political priesthood. the manifesto of don carlos does not deal with those points in the full and categorical manner desirable. i was told there were two parties in the carlist camp, the clerical and--for want of a better name, let it be called--the non-clerical the former, the basques, and those who gave carlism its great primary impulsion, were as zealously roman catholic as ever manuel santa cruz was. they looked forward to the re-acquisition of the ecclesiastical domains and the re-establishment of the catholic church in all its ancient supremacy of wealth and power. the non-clericals knew that the basques, even assuming them all to be carlists, were but , in number, a small minority of the population, and that the existence of a state unduly influenced by a church--things temporal controlled by personages bound to things spiritual--was antagonistic to the feelings of the majority of spaniards. having met a nobleman distinguished for his services to carlism, i put it to him bluntly, "would don carlos on the throne mean a relapse into religious bigotry?" he answered me with candour, "i am a roman catholic, and if i thought so i should be the last man to lend a penny to his cause." "but," i urged, "that is the general impression in england, where he is trying to negotiate a loan, and if it is left uncorrected it does him injury. why does he not repel the impeachment?" "the truth is," he said, "don carlos has made too many public explanations." i returned to the charge, challenging my acquaintance to deny that many of the supporters of don carlos would fall away if they had not the thorough belief that his cause was as much identified with the triumph of roman catholicism as with that of legitimacy. his reply was not a denial, but an admission of the fact, with the addition that in war one must not be too particular as to the means of enlisting aid, and stimulating the enthusiasm of supporters, which is an argument as true as it is old. don carlos, in his manifesto, goes on the assumption that the republicans are all atheists, or something very like it. it is only fair to let the republicans speak for themselves, and explain what is the republican estimate of the carlist religion. the san sebastian newspaper, _el diario_, may be assumed to be a fair exponent of the sentiments of the anti-carlists, and thus emphatically, and not without a spice of antithesis, it delivers itself: "the religion which has the commandment, 'thou shalt not kill,' forbids murder. "the religion which has the commandment, 'thou shalt not steal,' forbids robbery. "the religion which is peace, obedience, and love, is no friend of war, rebellion, and massacre. "resigned and joyous in other days, its martyrs went to death in the amphitheatre of rome, and on the plains of saragossa, pardon in their souls and prayer on their lips; to-day pardon is exchanged for wrath, and prayer for reproach. instead of the martyr's palm, we have the berdan breech-loader and the flash of petroleum. "anointed of the lord, ministers of him who died invoking blessings on his enemies, kindle the fires of fratricidal strife, which they call a sacred war, and lead on and inflame their dupes by the pretence that the gates of paradise are to be forced open by gunshot. "meanwhile the bishops are silent, rome is dumb, the moral law sleeps, the canon law is forgotten; and these pastors, transforming their flocks into packs of wolves, scour the plains, blessing murder and sanctifying conflagration. "'king by divine right,' they cry, like the legists of the lower empire; 'die or believe,' like the sons of the prophet. apostles without knowing it, they seek to achieve the triumph of a pagan principle by a saracenic process. "they say that religion is lost, because it is shorn of the honour and power their kings gave it; that the portals of heaven are barred, because they have forfeited their tithes and first-fruits, their rents and fat benefices; and they try to convince us by discharges of musketry that our whole future life depends, on the one hand, on a question of vanity, and on the other, on a question of stomach. "holy apostles, disciples of him who had not a stone whereon to lay his head, you who conquered the earth with no arms but those of word and example, oh! would you not say if you returned here below, 'those who preach by the voice of platoons; those who evangelize from the mouth of cannon; those are not, cannot be, our disciples and successors, for they are not fishers of souls, but fishers of snug posts under government'? "and you, glorious martyrs of the roman circus and saragossan fields, oh! would you not say, 'no, this christianity, which goes about sowing battle; desolation, tears, and blood wherever it passes, is not ours--no, this christianity at the bottom of the slaughter of endarlasa, of the hecatomb of cirauqui, of the sack of igualada, and of a hundred other cruelties, is not ours. our religion says "kill not," and this murders; says "steal not," and this robs. no, this is not the christian, but the carlist religion'?" that is a good specimen of the rhetorical school of writing popular in spanish newspapers; but all that is written is not gospel. from personal observation it was evident to me that these republicans of the spanish towns of the north were not so scrupulous in the outward observances of religion as the tone of this indignant christian leading article would convey; neither were the carlists the "packs of wolves" they were represented to be. let us see how this inflamed sense of so-called religion affected the rank and file among the adherents of don carlos. indubitably the royalists, with a very few exceptions, were more than moral--they were sincerely pious, and esteemed it a grateful incense to the most high to kill as many of their republican countrymen as they could without over-exertion. they bowed their heads and repeated prayers with the chaplains who accompanied them; as the echoes of the angelus bell were heard they were marched to divine worship every evening, when they were in the neighbourhood of a church; they were palpably impressed with deep devotional convictions, and yet they were not sour-faced like the grim covenanters of argyle, nor puritanically uncharitable like the stern propounders of the blue laws of connecticut. their beads returned to the pocket or the prayers finished, they laughed and jested, were frolicsome as schoolboys in their playhour, and the slightest tinkle of music set them dancing. hospitable and fanatic, faithful and ignorant, temperate and dirty--such are some prominent traits in the character of the brave basque people of the rural districts who wished to govern spain, but who were spaniards neither by race, nor language, nor temperament, nor feeling. taken all in all, they are a right manly breed, and, with education to correct inevitable prejudices, would be capable of great things. but before they could become efficient soldiers, they needed a severe course of training. in the flat country, south of the ebro, it would be cruel and foolish to oppose them to regular troops. as guerrilleros, they were without parallel, being content with short commons, and ever ready to play ball after the longest march; but they were ignorant of soldiering as technically understood. in the copses and crags of their own provinces they were invincible, and could carry on the struggle while there was a cartridge or an onion left in the land. but where the tactics of the "contrabandista" no longer availed, where surprises were impossible and mysterious disappearances not easy, and where the bulk of the people were not willing spies, the aspect of affairs was different. they were mediocre marksmen with long-range arms of precision, and had no proper conception of allowances for wind or sun. target-practice was not encouraged, and yet it was not through thrift of ammunition, for the waste of powder in every skirmish was extravagant, and one could not rest a night in a village held by the carlists without being disturbed by frequent careless discharges. with the bayonet, as far as i could learn, they were impetuous in the onset, and stubborn, especially the navarrese. but bayonet-charges cannot carry stone walls or mud-banks; and in the face of the almost incessant peppering of breech-loaders, rushes of the kind have become slightly old-fashioned. to the carlists, in any case, was due the credit of readiness to have recourse to the steel whenever there was a rift for hand-to-hand fighting. their military education unfortunately confined itself to the rudiments of the drill-book. they fell in, dressed up, formed fours by the right, extended into sections on column of march and went through the like movements very well--so well that it was a pity they had not an opportunity of adding to their stock of knowledge. they had an instinctive aptitude for skirmishing, and were expert at forming square, the utility of which, by the way, is as questionable nowadays as that of charging. more attention was paid to discipline than to drill. pickets patrolled the towns into which they entered, and repressed all disorder after nightfall; outpost duty was strictly enforced; "larking" was not tolerated, and punishments were always inflicted for known and grave breaches of order. chapter xii. barbarossa--royalist-republicans--squaring a girl--at iron--"your papers?"--the barber's shop--a carlist spy--an old chum--the alarm--a breach of neutrality--under fire--caught in the toils--the heroic tomas--we slope--a colleague advises me--"a horse! a horse!"--state of bilbao--don carlos at estella--sanchez bregua recalled--tolosa invites--republican ineptitude--do not spur a free horse--very ancient boys--meditations in bed--a biscay storm. barbarossa, who had never been over the border, suggested to me that i should take a trip to irun, which was held by the anti-carlists. it would be incorrect to write them down as republicans; they were sprung from the cristinos of the previous generation, and as such were opposed to any scion of the house against which their fathers had fought for years. all of them were _de facto_ republicans, and had more knowledge and enjoyment of republican freedom than those who prattled and raved of republicanism in madrid and the south; but they did not take kindly to the name. as my friend the late j. a. macgahan wittily said of them--"they were the royalist-republicans of spain." they were as fond of their fueros as any carlist in the crowd, but they stood up for madrid less that they cared for the policy or personages of the central government, than that they had a deep-seated hereditary hatred of their neighbours of the rural districts. at heart they were in favour of a restoration of the throne, and on that throne they would fain seat the young prince of the asturias. in those latitudes the lines of john byrom a century before would well apply: "god bless the king, i mean the faith's defender; god bless--no harm in blessing--the pretender; but who pretender is, or who is king, god bless us all--that's quite another thing!" "if you go to irun," said barbarossa, stroking his moustache, "i am game to go with you." "i am satisfied," said i; "but recollect, you undertake the job at your own risk. you are known as an associate of carlists, and suspected to be a carlist agent. i am a stranger and comparatively safe." he had weighed all that, and was ready to face possible perils. but he was not fit to undergo probable fatigues. he could sit at a green table in an ill-ventilated atmosphere the night long, but he could not walk three miles at a stretch. neither could he (on account of his illness) venture on horseback. to effect a crossing by the railway bridge from hendaye to irun was out of the question; it was barrier impenetrable. the frenchman would not allow you to pass in your own interest; the spaniard declined to admit you in his so-considered interest. to take the mountain-route was tedious, and in the case of barbarossa not to be thought of; the bridge of endarlasa was broken--a most contorted specimen of artistic dilapidation. to be sure, one could manage to creep to the other side by the submerged coping of the parapet, if endowed with the balancing powers of a rope-walker and the lustihood of the navvy. but barbarossa was not a blondin, and had not a physical constitution proof against a wetting. i had got across that bridge once, holding on by my teeth and nails, and retained recollection of it in a fit of the cold shivers; but i did not care to repeat the operation. in our dilemma, barbarossa, who was a plucky knave, hit upon the plan which ought to have commended itself to us at first. "let us stray up the river-bank a few hundred yards," he said, "seize a boat, and row ourselves across." no sooner was the proposition made than it was adopted; but we were saved from the ephemeral disgrace of posing as petty amphibious pirates, degenerate schinderhannes of the bidassoa. we saw a boat; a girl was near. the boat was her father's; she engaged to take us over for a consideration--i am certain she had set her heart on a string of straw-coloured ribbons and a sky-blue feather in a shop-window in hendaye--and to await our return at nightfall. we arranged the signal, and stealthily stole across, drifting diagonally most of the way; and i entrusted the speculative french damsel with my revolver and my carlist pass, and paid her a farewell compliment on her face and figure as i stepped ashore. giving her the revolver and pass enlisted her confidence. we strolled along with apparent carelessness, entered a posada on the road by the waterside and had refreshments. i said i should feel much obliged if they could let us have a trap to irun and back, as we had business there, and my friend was tired and not much of a pedestrian. an open carriage was provided, and off we drove by the skirt of the hill of st. marcial, where the spaniards gave soult such a dressing in , passed a series of outer defences with their covering and working parties, and entered one of the gates of the town, and never a question was asked. ditches had been dug round the place and earthworks thrown up; but the principal reliance of the garrison seemed to be in loophooled breastworks made of sand-bags superimposed. here and there were walls of loose stones--more of a danger than a protection--rude shelter-trenches, and mud-built, wattle-knitted refuges, round-topped, and disguised with branches. they had made the position strong; but they should have gone in for more spade and less stones, more mole and less beaver. we trotted over the narrow paved street, with its flagged sidepaths, and drew up on the plaza, overlooked by the solid square-stone mansion of the ayuntamiento. the windows were screened with planks, and armed groups lounged in front; there were barrels of water and heaps of gravel at intervals upon the ground; memories of paris rose to my mind--irun was preparing for bombardment. if the carlists had no serious artillery in fact, they had a powerful ordnance in the apprehensions of their adversaries. perhaps this was the explanation of the rhodomontade about the batteries in _el cuartel real_. we were congratulating ourselves on the ease with which we had run the blockade, when an officer of the miqueletes approached our carriage and demanded our papers. i showed my foreign office passport, with the visa of the spanish consulate at london upon it. he gave a cursory look at it, bowed, and returned it to me. then came the turn of barbarossa, and there was a flash of shrewd spitefulness in his eyes. "your papers, señor?" "i have none. i didn't think any were required." "ah! doubtless you thought irun was in carlist occupation. you are wrong." "no; i knew it was not in carlist occupation. what has that to do with me? i am an englishman," producing a packet of letters. "i don't want to see them. i know you. what do you want here?" "to see a friend." "who is your friend?" barbarossa was not in the least nonplussed. he said he had heard a fellow-countryman, a comrade of his, was in the town. "you will have to turn back the way you came, and thank your stars you are permitted." "but i am hungry." "and the horse wants a feed," interposed the driver, who no doubt had his own object to serve. "well, you may stay here for refreshment, but you must get outside our gates before dark." we drove to the principal inn, where we alighted and ordered dinner. barbarossa sat down, and i went out to look at the place and search for a barber's shop, for i sorely needed a shave. irun is a well-constructed town on the shelving slope of a smaller rise between mounts jaizquivel and aya, not far from the coast. it has a population of some , , and in ordinary years does a good trade in tiles and bricks, tanned leather, and smith's work, besides sending wood to los pasages for the purposes of the boat-builders. the bidassoa at its base branches, and thus forms the islet of faisanes, off which the prosperous fisherman can fill his basket with trout, salmon, and mullet, aye, and lumpish eels, if his predilections so tend. but i have no intention to describe irun. théophile gautier has done that before me, and i am not sacrilegious. there was another customer in the barber's shop. as i left after the shave he followed, and accosted me on the flagway confidentially. "how are you, captain?" "you are in error," i answered. "i am no captain." "what! did i not see you take a boat for the _san margarita_ at socoa?" "that may be; but i only boarded her through curiosity." "do not be afraid," he whispered. "how is don guillermo?" "what don guillermo?" "señor leader. i was with him when he was wounded; i am a carlist. i am here on the same mission as yourself; to spy what the vermin are doing." "ha! good; ramble on, and don't notice me. it is dangerous." he sauntered along the causeway, hands in pockets and whistling, and presently popped into a tavern, and i re-entered the fonda. hardly had i set foot over the threshold when i was stupefied by a welcome in a familiar voice, none other than that of mr. william o'donovan, who had been my comrade and amanuensis throughout the irksome beleaguerment of paris.[f] we did not throw our arms round our respective necks, hug and kiss each other--i reserve my kisses for pretty girls, newly-washed babes, and dead male friends, and then kiss only the brow--but we did join hands cordially and long. in answer to my query as to what had brought him to this queer corner at the back of god-speed, he explained that he was acting as correspondent of a dublin paper; for, it appeared, the people of ireland were consumed with anxiety as to the progress of the carlist rising--details of which, of course, they could not obtain in the mere london papers--and were particularly desirous to have record of the doings of the foreign legion, a great majority of whom were sons of the emerald isle. his younger brother, a medical student, was likely to come out to join that legion, and as for kaspar (a name by which we knew his brother edmond, afterwards triumvir at merv), he was sure to turn up. mother carey's chicken hovers near when the elements are at strife. he was immensely satisfied with his diggings, he said, liked the natives, and considered this a splendid chance for improving his spanish. he was reading "don quixote" in the vernacular. in a sense, i looked upon his presence as a perfect godsend to us, as he came in most appropriately as a _deus ex machinâ_ to create the character of barbarossa's invented friend. o'donovan was in good standing with the republicans of the town, as he was a staunch republican himself, and could spin yarns of the republics of antiquity, and of the greatness of paris, and the glories of the united states. he was getting on famously with castilian, and was charmed with the redundancy of its vocabulary of vituperation, which was only to be equalled by the irish, of which his father had been such a master. i made barbarossa and my old chum known to one another, and we dined together, pledging the past in a cup of wine tempered with the living waters which bubbled up in the sacristy of the parish church, and were distributed in bronze conduits through irun. after the meal and the meditative smoke of custom, o'donovan sat down to write a letter, which i guaranteed to post for him in france, and barbarossa and i sallied forth for a walk. we were lounging about the calle mayor gazing at the escutcheons over every hall-door--your bellows-mender and cobbler in this democratic town were invariably of the seed of noah in right line--when the alarm was raised that fifty horses had been carried off by the carlists almost at the gates, and that two shots had been heard. the bugler sounded the call "to arms," and forthwith a little company consisting of thirty-two men, the bugler aforesaid, and a captain, set out at a quick step for a high ground beside a signal-tower at one end of the town. we hurried forward with them, and passed out through one of the four gates, on the side next the mountains. the soldiers took a position on the slope of a hill a couple of hundred yards from the gate, and barbarossa and i sheltered ourselves behind an orchard-wall, from which there was an uninterrupted view of the billowy tract of meadow and pasture land beneath, cut into patches by thick hedges. quick on our heels emerged from the town some half-dozen intrepid "volunteers of liberty," and the inevitable small boy, a red cap stuck jauntily on three hairs of his head and a large cigarette in his mouth. one of the volunteers--he who had demanded our papers on the plaza--looked viciously at barbarossa, who assumed a most artistic pretence of stolidity. "come here, señor, and you will have a better vision of your friends," he said with mock suavity. barbarossa smiled, thanked him, and walked quietly to the place indicated, an exposed opening beside the wall. "i can see nothing," he said. i adjusted my long-distance glass, and ranged over the wide stretch of landscape, but could see nothing either. as i shut it up and returned it to the case, a sergeant advanced from the party of soldiers on the slope and marched directly towards me. i was puzzled and, i own, a trifle unnerved. "señor," he said to me, "i carry the compliments of my captain, and his request that you would lend him your glass, as he has forgotten his own." "with pleasure," i answered readily, much relieved. "i will take it to him myself, as it is london-made, and he may not understand how it is sighted." this may have been a breach of neutrality, but what was i to do? if i refused, the glass would have been taken from me, and i should have been compromised. i handed it to the officer with my best bow, explained its mechanism to him; he bowed to me, and from that moment i felt that i was under his wing. i may be wrong, but i have a notion that in a skirmish it is much better to be near regulars than volunteers, and i stood in a line with the military a few paces away. suddenly there was a spark and a report away down in a field of maize, some six hundred yards below us, and the whizz of a bullet was heard. "steady, men!" said the captain; "don't discharge your rifles." the sight was very pretty as they stood in a group on the green hillside in attitude of suspense, their weapons held at the ready, and all eyes fixed on the front, from which the smoke was rising. it was very like to the celebrated picture by protais, familiar in every cabaret in france, "_avant le combat;_" but even more picturesque than that, for these soldiers were dressed most irregularly--some in tattered capote, others in shirt-sleeves, some in shako, others in _bonnet de police_. a few civilians had crept out of the town by this time, and the chief of the miqueletes roared peremptorily to have that gate shut. this was not an agreeable position for barbarossa and myself. our retreat was cut off. we were unarmed. if one of those amateur warriors were killed, we ran the imminent hazard of being massacred by his comrades. on the other hand, there was the liability of being ourselves shot by the carlists. how were they to distinguish a neutral or a sympathizer from their foes? i confess i could not help smiling as the thought occurred to me what a piece of irony in action it would be if barbarossa were to be helped to a morsel of lead by his friends, the enemy. with a cheerful equanimity i contemplated the prospect of his receiving a very slight contusion from a spent bullet on a soft part of his frame. ping, ping, came a few reports, but evidently out of range. each smoke-wreath was in a different direction. "this may get hot," i said to myself; "the carlists may not be sharpshooters, but this clump of uniforms in relief on the grass must present a blur that will be an enticing target for them. i dare not go back to the wall, but it might be discreet to lie down. there is no disgrace in offering them a small elevation of corpus." i stretched myself on the sward, acted nonchalance, and lit a cigar. the volunteers could no longer be held in control. they opened action on their own account, one fellow distinguishing himself by the rapidity of his fire, and the intensity with which he aimed at something--or nothing. "ah, that's tomas!" said a portly civilian connoisseur, with his hands in his pockets. "we know him, he is making music; he wants to get himself remarked." the soldiers did not deliver a shot, but the volunteers kept cracking away, and the invisible carlists replied. nobody was hit, though bullets could be heard whizzing overhead for twenty minutes, and one did actually knock a chip off a wall. that was the sole damage done to the republican position; the damage to the carlist must have been less. two of the miqueletes ventured stealthily down a road leading towards the point from which the nearest jets of smoke curled, following the ditch by the side, stooping and peering through the bushes. there was a volley from afar. they hesitated and stood, as if undecided whether to advance. "sound the retire for those men," said the captain; and as the call rang out they returned. that volley was the last sign the carlists gave; and after waiting ten minutes, the captain shut up my glass, returned it to me, and remarked that the attack was a feint, and had no object beyond worrying his men. he gave the order "march," the gate was opened, barbarossa rejoined me, and we returned to irun, taking care to keep as near the regulars as we could. "nada--nothing," cried the captain to an inquiring lady on a balcony, and the town-gates were closed after the volunteers had returned and tramped to the plaza with the proud bearing of citizens who had done their duty. how that heroic tomas did strut! a fighter he of the choicest brand, one not to stop at trifles; there was martial ire in his flaming glance; defiance breathed from his nostrils; triumph sat on his lips; he swung his arms like destructive flails; and as he entered a tavern one could only fancy him calling in a voice of stentor for a jug of rum and blood plentifully besprinkled with gunpowder and cayenne pepper to assuage the thirst of combat. o'donovan gave me his letter. barbarossa hinted that it was our best course to slope, and slope we did, as soon as the horse was harnessed. as we passed down the street a grinning face saluted me from a doorway. it was that of my acquaintance from the barber's shop. he gave me a meaning wink. the artful carlists had evidently succeeded in their object, whatever it might have been. on the river-bank our fair and faithful ferry-maid awaited us. we were conveyed over in safety, and at the hotel of hendaye soon forgot the perils we had encountered. barbarossa was dead-beat, and threw himself on a sofa, where he sank back heavy-eyed and exhausted; and i, almost feared that he would drop into a coma, as the penalty of overstraining nature, until the sight of a pack of cards restored him as if by a spell to his normal wakefulness. even in a disturbed region it is needful to have a change of linen, so we got back next morning to st. jean de luz, where i had left my baggage. there i met m. thieblin, a colleague, whom i had seen last at metz, previous to the siege of that fortress in the franco-german war. he was now representing the _new york herald_, and had just returned from estella, at the taking of which place, the most important the carlists had yet seized, he had the luck to be present. he assured me that it was utter fatuity to dream of following the carlists, except i had at least one horse--but that it would be sensible to take two if i could manage to procure them. it was more than an ordinary man was qualified to cope with, to make his observations, write his letters, and look after their transmission, without having to attend to his nag, and do an odd turn of cooking at a pinch. the riddle was how to get the horse--a sound hardy animal that would not call for elaborate grooming, or refuse a feed of barley. horse-flesh was at a premium, but he thought i might be able to have what i wanted at bayonne, on payment of an extravagant price. a requisition for forage and corn could be had through the junta; and i should have no trouble in getting an orderly on applying with my credentials to the chief of staff of any of the carlist columns to which i might attach myself. we had a long conversation, and thieblin frankly informed me that in his opinion the carlists had not the ghost of a chance outside their own territory. there they were cocks of the walk. what the end might be he could not pretend to vaticinate, but "el pretendiente" would never reign in madrid. the conflict might last for months--might last for years; but the carlists owed the vitality they had as much to the divisions and inefficiency of their adversaries as to their own strength. there would be no important engagements--to dignify them by the epithet--until the organization of the insurrectionary forces was regularized, and they had a stronger artillery and an adequate cavalry. m. thieblin did not stray far from the bull's-eye in his prophecy. i went to bed in the mood of crookback on bosworth field, and felt that my dream-talk would shape itself into the cry, "a horse! a horse!" until that coveted steed had been lassoed, stolen, or bought, i must only endeavour to justify my existence--that is to say, render value for the money expended on me by picking up "copy" anywhere and everywhere. i was advised to go to bilbao by sea, but the advice came too late. the last steamer from bayonne had ventured there four-and-twenty hours before i sought my passage, and even on that last steamer the few voyagers were unable to insure their lives with the accidental company, although they consented to promise that they would descend into the hold the instant they heard a shot. it was almost as full of jeopardy to travel to bilbao by sea as to sail down the mississippi with a racing captain and a lading of rye-whisky on board. one monsieur gueno, master of the barque _numa_, of vannes, made moan that he was seriously knocked about while he lay in the nervion, off the luchana bridge, during a skirmish between the carlists and the troops. they both fought vigorously, but they gave him most of the blows. one of his crew, in a punt behind, was killed, and twenty-five bullets were embedded in a single mast. he had the tricolour flying all the time. a fellow-countryman of his, monsieur jarmet, of the ship _pierre-alcide_, of nantes, sent in a claim for an indemnity of £ for damages sustained by his vessel much in the like manner. a spanish war-craft, moored behind him, began pelting the carlists with shot; the carlists replied, and the _pierre-alcide_ came in for the bulk of the favours distributed. three bullets penetrated the captain's cabin, and four rent holes in the french flag. neither pilots nor tugs were for hire at bilbao, and captains of sailing vessels had only to whistle for a favouring wind and rely on their own good fortune and skill. bilbao had to be dismissed on the merits. taking it for granted that i had that evasive horse, i reasoned, as i tossed on my bed, to the restless whimper of the bay of biscay, over which a storm was brewing, that "el cuartel real," the headquarters of the king, was the natural goal. there first information was to be had, and it was felt that it was about the safest place to be; but the king seldom stopped under the same roof two nights successively, and no one could tell where he would be two days beforehand. if he was at estella when one started, he might be at vera or durango, or goodness knows where, when one got to estella. so far his progress had been a success; he was present at the taking of estella, and exercised his royal clemency by releasing the captured prisoners. it would have been more politic to have demanded an exchange, for there were partisans of his own in republican dungeons (englishmen amongst them); but then prisoners have to be fed and guarded, so on the whole it was as well they were set free. it was very much the case of the man who won the elephant at a raffle. if the stories, spread assiduously by the republicans, of the massacre and maltreatment of captives by the carlists were correct, here was the opportunity for the exercise of wholesale cruelty; but there was not a particle of truth in such charges, which, by the way, one hears in every civil war. where don carlos might advance next, or where severe fighting--not such brushes as that i witnessed at irun--might take place, was a mystery. the movements of the republican leaders were inexplicable, and conducted in contravention of all known principles of the art of war. they harassed their men by long and objectless marches. they ordered towns to be put in a state of defence at first, and then withdrew the garrisons. they engaged whole columns in defiles, where a company of invisible guerrilleros could tease them. they acted, in most instances, as if they had no information or wrong information. the latter, i believe, was nearer the truth. their system of espionage was inefficient, as the information they got was untrustworthy, and always would be, in the northern provinces, for the feeling of the masses of the people was against them. instead of making headway they were losing ground every day, and would so continue until they received reinforcements with fibre, and were commanded by officers who really meant to win, and had the knowledge or the instinct to conceive a proper plan of campaign. the generals could hardly be censured, for their hands were tied; they were forbidden to be severe; they dared not squelch insubordination. capital punishment, even in the army, and at such a crisis as this, was abolished. there had been, i heard, something suspiciously resembling a mutiny in the column of sanchez bregua. a certain colonel castañon was put under arrest on a charge of alfonsist proclivities; but the cazadores and engineers threatened to rebel unless he was liberated; and sanchez bregua, instead of decimating the cazadores and engineers, as lord strathnairn would have done, liberated the colonel. but to that question of my route. peradventure the presence to my dozing vision of the general commanding the republican troops of the north that had been might help me towards a solution. "that had been" is written advisedly, for sanchez bregua had been recalled to madrid, not a day too soon. he was one of those generals whose spine had been curved by lengthened bending over a desk. loma, who was active and dashing, and had the rare gift of confidence in himself, had taken his stand at tolosa, and was awaiting the advent of lizarraga. all his men, and every able-bodied male in the town, were diligently excavating ditches and making entrenchments. until tolosa was captured by the carlists, no serious attack on pampeluna was probable; and that attack was likely to assume the form of an investment. estella was to the south of pampeluna, and all the country round, from which provisions could be drawn, was in the occupation of the carlists. tolosa was the objective point of the moment, and to tolosa i determined to go. an attempt on san sebastian could not enter into the calculations of the carlist leaders at this stage of their revolt. the stronghold was almost inaccessible on the land side, and men, munitions, and provisions could be easily thrown into it by water. irun, fontarabia, and even renteria (were artillery available) could be seized whenever the comparatively small sacrifice of lives involved would be advisable. but the game was not worth the candle yet. were irun or fontarabia in the hands of the carlists, there was the always-present danger of shells being pitched into them from a gunboat in the bidassoa; and renteria, outside of which the republican troops only stirred on sufferance, was to all intents as serviceable to the carlists as if it were tenanted by a carlist garrison, which would thereby be condemned to idleness. that whirlwind ride from renteria to irun would come before me as the storm battalions mustered outside, and the waves began lashing themselves into violence of temper. what if i had to go to madrid while such weather as this was brooding? to get to the capital one is obliged to embark at bayonne for santander, and proceed thence by rail--so long as no carlist partidas meddle with the track. romantic spain! but are not those republicans who affect that they know how to govern a country primarily and principally to blame? only consider the continued interruption of that short piece of road between san sebastian and irun. is it not disgraceful to them? one of our old indian officers, i dare venture to believe, with eighteen horsemen and a couple of companies of foot, could hold it open in spite of the carlists. but such a simple idea as the establishment of cavalry patrols of three, keeping vigil backwards and forwards along the line of eighteen miles, with stout infantry posts always on the alert in blockhouses at intervals, seems never to have entered into the obtuse heads of those officers lately promoted from the ranks. seeing that the intercourse of different towns with each other and with the coast and abroad has been so long broken up, i cannot fathom the secret of how the population lives. the troops arrive in a village one day and levy contributions, the guerrilleros arrive the next and do the same; the fields must be neglected, trade must droop, yet nobody apparently wants food. true, the land is wonderfully fat; but some day the cry of famine will be heard. no land could bear this perpetual drain on its resources. and then i thought of carlists whom i met in france, who had given of their goods to support the cause. with them i talked on this very subject. they were respectable and respected men; they prayed for success to don carlos with sincere heart; but they had left spain, and they complained that this condition of disturbance was lasting too long. "you ask me why i did not remain," said one to me; "wait, and you shall see." he opened a door and pointed to three lovely little girls at play, and continued, "these are my reasons; i have made more sacrifices than i was able for the royal cause, and they asked me at last for another contribution, which would have ruined me. i love my king; but for no king, señor, could i afford to make those darlings paupers." had these carlists any glimmer of the sunshine of a victorious issue to their uprising? (egad, that was a strong blast, and the waves do swish as if they were enraged at last!). thieblin thinks not. and yet they are active, and, like the storm outside, they are gaining strength. those of them under arms are four times as numerous as the republicans in the northern provinces. leader swears to me that everyone who can shoulder a musket is a carlist. there are no more chicos to be had, unless the volunteers of liberty come over, rifles, accoutrements and all, to prince charlie--a liberty they are volunteering to take somewhat freely. i was rash in saying there were no more chicos. did not a company of "bhoys" trudge over to lesaca to offer their services recently? but they were very ancient boys. the youngest of them was sixty-five. they were veterans of the seven years' war, and mostly colonels. their fidelity was thankfully acknowledged, but their services were not gratefully accepted. the aged and ferocious fire-eaters were sent back to their arrowroot and easy-chairs. at all events, they had more of the timber of heroism in them than those diplomatic carlists of the _gandin_ order, who are carlists because it makes them interesting in the sight of the ladies, but whose campaigning is confined to an occasional three days' incursion on spanish territory, with a cook and a valet, saddle-bags full of potted lobster and _pâté de foie gras_, and a dressing-case newly packed with _au botot_ and essence of jockey club. there are personages of this class not unknown to society at biarritz and bayonne, who have been going to the front for the last three months, and have not got there yet. one would think their game of chivalry ought to be pretty well "played out;" but to the folly of the vain man, as to the appetite of the lean pig, there is no limit. by jove! there is a clatter; the casement is blown open, and the light is blown out, and through the gap whistles the cool, briny breath of the atlantic, and i can almost feel the wash of the white spray in my hair. better a stable cell in the castle of the mota to-night than a tumbling berth in the _san margarita_. this was the close of my interview with myself, and i turned over on my pillow and fell precipitately into a profound dreamless sleep. chapter xiii. nearing the end--firing on the red cross--perpetuity of war--artistic hypocrites--the jubilee year--the conflicts of a peaceful reign--major russell--quick promotion--the foreign legion--an aspiring adventurer--leader's career--a piratical proposal--the "ojaladeros" of biarritz--a friend in need--buying a horse--gilpin outdone--"fred burnaby." and now i take up the last chapter of this book, and i have not half finished with the subject i had set before myself at starting. by the figures at the head of the last page i perceive that i have almost reached the orthodox length of a volume, and perforce must stop. for some weeks past i have been looking and longing for the end, for i have been ill, weary and worried, and my labour has become a task. slowly toiling day by day, i knew i must be nearing the goal; yet, like the strenuous webb on his swim from dover to calais, the horizon seemed to come no closer. the land in sight grew no plainer, although each breast-stroke--the pleasure of a while agone, but oh! such a tax now--must have lessened the distance. even to that excursion there came an hour of accomplishment and repose; but to this, of pen over paper, i cannot flatter myself that the hour is yet. i have to abandon the work incomplete. as it has happened to me before, the theme has expanded under my hands, and i shall have to rise from my desk before i penetrate to the carlist headquarters, of which i had to say much, or have experiences of that strangest of communes in murcia, with its sea and land skirmishes and its motley rabble of mutineers, convicts, and nondescripts, of which i had to say much likewise. whether i shall have the privilege of recounting my adventures at the court and camp of don carlos, and by the side of the general directing the siege of cartagena, who admitted me as a sort of supernumerary on his staff, will depend on the reception of this, the first instalment of my experiences in spain. an act of unjustifiable barbarism or stupidity, or both--for barbarism is but another form of stupidity--was perpetrated by some carlists outside irun while i was negotiating for that indispensable horse. an ambulance-waggon, displaying the red cross of geneva, had sallied from the town, and was fired upon. the paris delegate i had met at hendaye was in charge of it, and averred that it was wantonly and wilfully attacked. i thought it, singular that nobody was hurt, and reasoned that the man was excitable, and got into range unconsciously. the duty of the geneva society properly begins after, and not during a combat; and when gentlemen are busy at the game of professional manslaughter, no philanthropic outsider has any right to distract them from their occupation by indiscreet obstruction. the parisian did not view it in that light, and downfaced me that these rustics, to whose aid he was actually going, tried to murder him of malice prepense. it was useless to represent to him that these rustics may have never heard of the modern benevolent institution for the softening of strife, and may have regarded the huge red cross as a defiant symbol of red republicanism, and perhaps a parody of what is sacred. so in the estimation of that citizen of the most enlightened capital in the universe, these basques were ruthless boobies with an insatiable passion for lapping blood. but mistakes and exaggerations will occur in every war. the only way to obviate them is to put an end to war altogether--_which will never be done_! when christ came into the world, peace was proclaimed; when he left it, peace was bequeathed. war has been the usual condition of mankind since, as it had been before; and christians cut each other's throats with as much alacrity and expertness as pagans, often in the name of the religion of peace. i heard two eminent war-correspondents lecture recently, and i noticed that those passages where fights were described were applauded to the echo. the more ferocious the combat the more vigorous the cheers. the faces of small boys flushed, and their hands clinched at the vivid recital. the nature of the savage, which has not been extirpated by school boards, was betraying itself in them. yet these two war-correspondents thought it an acquittal of conscience after their kindling periods to dwell on the immorality of war. the one spoke of the beauty of bible precepts, the other disburdened himself on the cruelty and wickedness of a battle. what artistic hypocrisy! it was as if one were to strike up the "faerie voices" waltz, and tell a girl to keep her feet still; as if one were to lend "robinson crusoe" to a boy, and warn him not to think of running away to sea. still, i must even add my voice to the orthodox chorus, and affirm that warfare is bad, brutal, fraudful, a thing of meretricious gauds, a clay idol, fetish of humbug and havoc, whose feet are soaking in muddy gore and salt tears; yet in the privacy of my own study i might sadly admit that the millennium is remote, that the parliament of nations exists but in the dreams of the poet, and that longfellow's forecast of the days down through the dark future when the holy melodies of love shall oust the clangours of conflict is a pretty conceit--and no more. war is inexcusable, and is foolish and ugly; but, like the poor and the ailing, we shall have it always with us. it is criminal, except as protest against intolerable persecution, or in maintenance of national honour or defence of national territory; and even in these cases it should be undertaken only when all devices of conciliation have been tried in vain. next to the vanquished, it does most harm to the victor. yet about it, as about high play, there is a fascination, and i have to plead guilty to the weak feeling that i would not look with overwhelming aversion on an order, should it come to me to-morrow, to prepare to chronicle a new campaign and face the chronicler's risks; and they are real. but i should not go into it with a light heart, like m. emile ollivier. i might be, in a quiet way, happy as queen victoria was (according to count vitzthum) for she danced much the night before the declaration of hostilities against russia, but spoke of what was coming with amiable candour and great regret. we are on the eve of a jubilee year, when the halcyon shall plume his wing, and we shall hear much oratorical trash and hebetude about the peacefulness of this happy reign. does the reader reflect how many wars we have had in the pacific half-century which is lapsing? the tale will astonish him, and should silence the thoughtless word-spinners of the platforms. the door of the temple of janus has been seldom closed for long. our campaigns, great and small, and military enterprises of the lesser sort, could not be counted on the fingers of both hands. we have had fighting with afghans and burmese (twice); scinde, gwalior, and sikh wars; hostilities with kaffirs, russians, persians, chinese, and maoris (twice), abyssinians, ashantis, zulus, boers, and soudanese, not to mention the repression of the most stupendous of mutinies, a martial promenade in egypt, and expeditions against jowakis, bhootanese, looshais, red river rebels, and such pitiful minor fry. in st. jean de luz, the nearest point to the disputed ground and the best place from which to transmit information, there was a small and select british colony, mostly consisting of retired naval and military officers. a dear friend of mine amongst them was major russell, who had spent a lengthened span of years in the east--an admirable type of the calm, firm, courteous anglo-indian--who had never soured his temper and spoiled his liver with excessive "pegs," who understood and respected the natives, who had shown administrative ability, and who, like many another honest, dutiful officer, had not shaken much fruit off the pagoda-tree, or even secured the c.b. which is so often given to tarry-at-home nonentities. russell used to pay me a regular visit to the fonda de la playa. one morning as we were chatting, leader strode into the coffee-room, a vision of splendour. he had got on his uniform as commandant of the foreign legion--a uniform which did much credit to his fancy, for he had designed it himself. he wore a white boina with gold tassel, a blue tunic with black braid, red trousers, and brown gaiters. he had donned the gala-costume with the object of getting himself photographed. commandant is the equivalent of major in the british service, so we agreed to dub the young irishman henceforth and for ever, until he became colonel or captain-general, major leader. "promotion is quick in this army," murmured russell. "i served all my active life under the suns of india, and here i am only a major at the close. leader joined the carlists less than three months ago, and he is already my equal in rank." "the fortune of war, russell," said i; "don't be jealous. i was offered command of a brigade under the commune, but i declined the tribute to my merit, or i would not be here to-day. i met a man in bayonne yesterday, and he was ready to assume control of the entire insurrectionary forces." "who? cabrera?" "no," i answered; "catch cabrera coming here. he is too much afraid of a ruler who is no pretender. the renowned commander-in-chief of aragon and valencia, don ramon the rough and ready, is conde something-or-other now, a willing slave to petticoat government. he is to be seen any day pottering about windsor." "and who is this speculator in bloodshed?" "a foreign adventurer," i explained, "who does not know a word of spanish, much less basque, is unacquainted with the topography of the country, and has not the faintest inkling of the idiosyncrasies of the lieutenants who would serve under him, or of the mode of humouring the prejudices of the people of the different provinces in revolt." "what answer did they give to his application for employment?" "a polite negative. they told him they could not appoint him a leader without offending the susceptibilities of adherents with claims upon them men of local influence, and so forth. behind his back, they laughed at his entertaining temerity." that foreign legion never came to maturity. leader showed me a commission authorizing him to organize it. lesaca was to be the depôt, french the language of command, and smith sheehan the adjutant. it might have developed into a very fine foreign legion, but no volunteers presented themselves to join it but two young englishmen, one of whom was sick when he was not drunk, and the other of whom felt it to be a grievance on a campaign that a cup of tea could not be got at regular hours. how sheehan did chaff this amiable amateur! "you will have nothing to do but draw your pay, my lad," he said. "the cookery is hardly a , but 'twill pass. think of the beds, pillows of hops under your head; and every regiment has its own set of billiard-markers and a select string-band, every performer an artist." after an arduous service of one day and a half that gentleman returned to the maternal apron-strings, laden to the ground with the most harrowing legends of the horrors of war. leader was not a warrior of this stamp--far from it; he had vindicated his manliness at ladon outside orleans, where ogilvie, of the british royal artillery, had met his fate by his side, and there was something soldierly in the way he bore himself in his vanity of dress. not that i think the dandies are the best soldiers--that is merest popular paradox. to me it is as ridiculous for a man to array himself in fine clothes when he is going to kill or be killed, as it would be for him to put on gewgaws when he was going to be hanged. as leader disappears from my account of carlist doings after this--we were associated with different columns--it may be of interest to tell of his subsequent career. he served in a cavalry squadron on the staff of the king, and when the cause collapsed came to london. his uncle tried to induce him to settle down to some steady employment in the city. leader expressed himself satisfied to make an experiment at desk-work. "it was useless," said leader with a hearty crow as he related the story to me. "the friend who had promised to create a vacancy for me in his office ordered his chief clerk to lock the safe and send for the police when he heard of my antecedents. he invited me to dinner, but candidly told me that a rifle was more in my line than a quill." and yet it was in the service of the quill the young soldier ended his days. he got an appointment as an auxiliary correspondent to a great london daily paper during the russo-turkish war. he was elate; the road to fame and fortune now lay open before him. the next i heard of him was that he had succumbed to typhoid fever at philippopolis. a scotch _spadassin_ arrived in our midst about this period. he was most anxious to draw a blade for don carlos, but he had a decided objection to serve in any capacity but that of command. he did not appreciate the fun of losing the number of his mess as an obscure hero of the rank and file, though he would not mind sacrificing an arm, i do think, at the head of a charging column, provided that he had a showy uniform on, and that the fact of his valour was properly advertised in the despatches. he had an idea that would commend itself to belcha's bushwhackers, but it was not entertained. it was to take passage with a few trusty men on the tug for san sebastian when she was reported to be conveying specie for the payment of the spanish republican troops, to drive the voyagers down the hold, throttle the skipper, intimidate the crew, take the wheel and turn her head to the coast, seize and land the money under carlist protection, and then scuttle her. the least recompense, he calculated, which could be awarded to him for that exploit by his majesty charles vii. was the order of the golden fleece; and a very appropriate order too. there was a set of carlist sympathizers known to the fighting-men as "ojaladeros," or warriors with much decoration in the shape of polished buttons. their depôt was at biarritz, an aristocratic watering-place born under the second french empire, and not ignorant of some of the vices of the byzantine empire. there are healthful breezes there, but they do not quite sweep away the scent of frangipani. warlike, with a proviso, the scot might have been designated, but he was not to be compared with these ojaladeros; he would fight if he had a lime-lit stage to posture upon; they would not fight at all, but they moved about mysteriously, as if their bosoms were big with the fate of dynasties, held hugger-mugger caucus, and were the oracles of boudoirs. at bayonne there was a better class of carlist sympathizers; such of them as were of the fighting age were there in the intervals of duty. to a job-master's in the city by the adour i was recommended as the most likely place to procure a steed. at the hôtel st. etienne, where i stopped, i was gratified by an unexpected encounter with the genial captain[g] (ronald campbell), who had brought a juicy leg of mutton at his saddle-skirts to the relief of my household after the siege of paris. he went with me to the job-master's--it is as well to have a friend with you when you do a horse-deal. i had no choice but hobson's. the job-master was desolated, but he had sold three animals the day before to an english milord, a very big gentleman, and his party. he had just one horse, but it was a beauty. the horse was trotted out. it was well groomed--they always are, and arsenic does impart a nice gloss to the hide--and looked imposing, a tall three-quarter-bred bay gelding. "you'll have to take it," said the captain, "though i fear it will not be a great catch for mountain-work. seems to me that it stumbles--that lie-back of the ears is vicious--ha! rears too--and by jove! it has been fired. no matter. where needs must, you know, there's no alternative. buy it by all means." i closed with the bargain, got a loan of a saddle, bought a pair of jack-boots, and ordered my purchase to be brought round to the door of the hotel within half-an-hour. i am no rough-rider, and i had not counted on the high mettle of this, which was literally a "fiery, untamed steed." it had been fed for the market, and had had no exercise for two days previous. i meant to try its paces to st. jean de luz, and show off before the damsels of biarritz; but, lack-a-day! what a declension was in store for me. it had best be given in the words of a letter to my kindly compatriot, written while defeat was fresh in my mind. thus the epistle runs: * * * * * "dear campbell, "my first essay on my eight hundred francs' worth of horse-power was a sight to see. "_imprimis_, the stirrup-leathers were long enough for you. "_en suite_, i gave the dear gelding his head because he took it, and he incontinently faced a post of the french army at the porte d'espagne. the sentry came to the charge and cried, _on ne passe pas ici._ the blood-horse went at him, the sentry funked, and then, as if satisfied with his demonstration, the blood-horse--the bit always in his mouth--made a _demi-tour_, and faced a post of douaniers. this also was sacred ground, it appears, but the douaniers let the blood-horse pass, not even making the feint to prod his inside for contraband. the scene now changes to the place de la comédie (there's something in a name), where by virtue of vigorous tugging at curb and snaffle i just succeeded in keeping my gallant gelding off the cobble-stones. he went a burster over the bridge by a short turn down a street and to the door of his stable, and there he positively stopped, and i swear i felt his sides shaking with laughter. i called the groom; said i thought it would rain; besides, i did not know the road. on the whole, i had reconsidered the matter, and would go to st. jean de luz by train. the groom was awfully polite, pretended to believe me, and provided a man to take forward my eight--oh, hang it! we shan't think of the price. "humiliation! you will say. yes, sir, and i feel it; but that horse will feel it too. when i get him somewhere that none can see, and where sentries, douaniers, and stables of refuge don't abound, i shall ask him to try how long he can keep up a gallop; but, by the body of the claimant, i shall have sixteen stone on his back. "yours with knees unwearied and soul unsubdued." * * * * * at st. jean de luz i learned at the principal hotel that the english milord was captain frederick burnaby of "the queen of england's blue guards." he was supposed to have some secret official mission to don carlos, to whose headquarters he had directed his steps, and i at once took measures to follow in his tracks. the end. * * * * * billing & sons, printers, guildford. _by the author of "romantic spain."_ an iron-bound city; or, five months of peril and privation. vols. s. "a story of peril, adventure, privation, is told, in two vols., to your great delectation, with shrewd common sense and uncommon sensation! here's the painful account of parisians defeated: and paris besieged is most 'specially' treated: like a trusty tapleyan, bright, hopeful, and witty, o'shea tells the tale of 'an iron-bound city.'"--_punch._ "we can listen with unjaded interest to the oft-told tale of the fall of paris when it is told by so genial and sunny-minded an historian."--_saturday review._ leaves prom the life of a special correspondent. vols. s. "the great charm of his pages is the entire absence of dulness, and the evidence they afford of a delicate sense of humour, considerable powers of observation, a store of apposite and racy anecdote, and a keen enjoyment of life."--_standard._ "redolent of stories throughout, told with such a cheery spirit, in so genial a manner, that even those they sometimes hit hard cannot, when they read, refrain from laughing, for mr. o'shea is a modern democritus; and yet there runs a vein of sadness, as if, like figaro, he made haste to laugh lest he should have to weep."--_society._ "delightful reading.... a most enjoyable book.... it is kinder to readers to leave them to find out the good things for themselves. they will find material for amusement and instruction on every page; and if the lesson is sometimes in its way as melancholy as the moral of firmin maillard's 'les derniers bohemes,' it is conveyed after a fashion that recalls the light-hearted gaiety of paul de kock's 'damoiselle du cinquième' and the varied pathos and humour of henri murger."--_whitehall review._ ward and downey, publishers, london. footnotes: [a] gibraltar is no longer a penal settlement. [b] that has all been changed since. there are serviceable rifled guns at tangier now, and the sultan has some approach to a regular army, organized by an ex-english soldier. [c] stuart married lady alice hay, grand-daughter of william iv., in london, in , and is now dead. he left no heir, so that the house of hanover may rest easy. the story that the cardinal of york ("henry ix."), who died in , was the last of the stuart line, is all bosh. charles-edward had a son by the daughter of prince sobieski. [d] review of the social and political state of the basque provinces, at the end of a book on "portugal and galicia," published in by john murray. [e] it should be noted that in july, , directly after the war was over, the fueros were entirely done away with by a special law. [f] see my last book, "an iron-bound city." poor willie died in new york of a complication of diseases on last easter sunday--an anniversary of hopefulness. his path of existence here was thorny. unsurfeiting happiness be his portion in the meads of asphodel! [g] now colonel the baron craignish, equerry to his royal highness the grand duke of saxe-coburg gotha. * * * * * notes of the transcriber of this etext. the following typographical errors in the book have been corrected in making this etext: abd-es-salem changed to abd-es-salam dorregarray changed to dorregaray ojoladeros changed to ojaladeros enderlasa changed to endarlasa enderlaza changed to endarlasa i deserve no creditor changed to i deserve no credit for http://www.archive.org/details/fortunateislesli boydiala transcriber's note: text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_). the fortunate isles * * * * * by the same author _travel_ our stolen summer a versailles christmas-tide _novels_ the glen the first stone with clipped wings the man in the wood backwaters her besetting virtue the misses make-believe * * * * * [illustration: calle del calvario, pollensa] the fortunate isles life and travel in majorca, minorca and iviza by mary stuart boyd with eight illustrations in colour and fifty-two pen drawings by a. s. boyd, r.s.w. methuen & co. ltd. essex street w.c. london first published in forewarning "i hear you think of spending the winter in the balearic islands?" said the only briton we met who had been there. "well, i warn you, you won't enjoy them. they are quite out of the world. there are no tourists. not a soul understands a word of english, and there's nothing whatever to do. if you take my advice you won't go." so we went. and what follows is a faithful account of what befell us in these fortunate isles. m. s. b. contents page i. southwards ii. our casa in spain iii. palma, the pearl of the mediterranean iv. housekeeping v. two historic buildings vi. the fair at inca vii. valldemosa viii. miramar ix. sÓller x. andraitx xi. up among the windmills xii. navidad xiii. the feast of the conquistador xiv. pollensa xv. the port of alcudia xvi. minorca xvii. storm-bound xviii. alarÓ xix. the dragon caves and manacor xx. artÁ and its caves xxi. among the hills xxii. deyÁ, and a palma procession xxiii. of fair women and fine weather xxiv. of odds and ends xxv. iviza--a forgotten isle xxvi. an ivizan sabbath xxvii. at san antonio xxviii. welcome and farewell xxix. last days index list of illustrations in colour calle del calvario, pollensa _frontispiece_ facing page palma de mallorca, from the terreno valldemosa sÓller after the feast of the conquistador, palma cathedral the roman gateway, alcudia mahÓn, minorca sunday morning at iviza pen drawings page the cathedral and the lonja, palma a palma _patio_ the sereno the casa tranquila the gate of santa catalina, palma our suburban street calle de la almudaina, palma a supper party the saturday market, palma a consumos station the castle of bellver palma, from the woods of bellver second class a corner of the fair at inca where the hills meet the plain, esglayeta carabineros in the kitchen la trinidad, miramar a tight fit the mandoline player at fornalutx son mas, andraitx in the port of andraitx above andraitx christmas turkeys a scene of slaughter the coffin of jaime ii in palma cathedral market day at pollensa the main street of pollensa a _noria_ near alcudia ciudadela seen from the sea calle san roque, mahÓn _comerciantes_ in the fonda at mahÓn an interior in alarÓ alarÓ in the dragon's cave manacor artÁ towards the parish church, artÁ entering the caves of artÁ palm-sunday at sÓller deyÁ processionists of holy thursday during the carnival at palma the wooer the national sport calle de la portella, palma thanksgiving a trio and a quartette the gates of the _feixas_, iviza the church of san antonio, iviza the church of jesus, iviza moorish tower at the port of alcudia [illustration: the cathedral and the lonja, palma] the fortunate isles i southwards we had left london on a tempestuous mid-october saturday morning, and sunday night found us walking on the rambla at barcelona, a purple velvet star-spangled sky overhead, and crowds of gay promenaders all about us. when the boy and i had planned our journey to the balearic isles (the man never plans), our imaginings always began as we embarked at barcelona harbour on the majorcan steamer that was to carry us to the islands of our desire. so when we had strolled to where the rambla ends amid the palm-trees of the port, it seemed like the materializing of a dream to see the steamer _balear_ lying there, right under the great column of columbus, with her bow pointing seawards, as though waiting for us to step on board. when at sunset next day the hotel omnibus deposited us at the port, the _balear_ appeared to be the centre of attraction. it still lacked half an hour of sailing time, yet her decks, which were ablaze with electric light, were covered with people. ingress was a matter of so much difficulty that our inexperience of the ways of spanish ports anticipated an uncomfortably crowded passage. there was scarcely room on board to move, yet up the species of hen-ladder that acted as gangway people were still streaming--ladies in mantillas, ladies with fans, ladies with babies, and men of every age, the men all smoking cigarettes. fortunately a recognized etiquette made those whose visits to the ship were of a purely complimentary nature confine themselves to the deck. when we descended to inspect our sleeping accommodation it was to find an individual cabin reserved for each of us; and to learn that, in spite of the mob on board, there were but four other saloon passengers. these, as we afterwards discovered, were a french honeymoon couple and a young majorcan lady who was accompanied by her _dueña_. rain had been predicted, and was eagerly looked for, as none had fallen for many weeks. yet it was a perfect evening. there was hardly a ripple on the water, and the air was soft and balmy. behind the brilliant city with its myriads of lights rose the dark catalonian mountains. clustered near us in the harbour the crews of the fishing boats made wonderfully picturesque groups as they supped by the light of hanging lamps. and over all, high above the tall palms of the paseo de colon, the statue of columbus pointed ever westwards. looking at the sparkling scene, it was difficult to credit that barcelona, with its surface aspect of light-hearted gaiety, was under martial law, even though we had seen that alert-eyed armed soldiers guarded every street and alley, and knew that but a day or two earlier bombs had exploded with deadly effect where the crowds were now promenading. it was hard, too, to believe that at that moment the interest of all europe was centred upon that sombre fortress to the south-west of the town, within whose walls, only five days earlier, ferrer had, rightly or wrongly, met the death of a traitor. the warning siren sounded. the visitors reluctantly scuttled down the ridiculous hen-ladder. the moorings were cast away, the screw revolved, and we were off--bound for the fortunate isles. out of many wondrous nights passed on strange waters i remember none more beautiful. we were almost alone on deck. so far as solitude went the _balear_ might have been chartered for our exclusive use. the second-cabin passengers had all disappeared forward. the french bride and bridegroom had found a secluded nook in which to coo; and the vigilant _dueña_ had led her charge into retirement. we three sat late into the night watching the lights of the beautiful city of unrest fade away into the distance, while over the sinister fortress of montjuich the golden sickle of the new moon hung like a note of interrogation. the spanish coast had vanished. the ship's bow was pointing towards africa, and wild-fire was flashing about the horizon when at last we descended to our cabins. the lightning was still flashing, but it was far in our wake, when we awoke about four in the morning to find the _balear_ sailing along on an even keel, close by a mountainous coast whose highest promontory was crowned by a lighthouse. having dressed and refreshed ourselves with biscuits, and chocolate made over a spirit-lamp, we went on deck while it was yet dark, and watched the land gradually become more and more distinct with the broadening dawn. the boy, who had early recognised something british in the build of our steamer, made the interesting discovery from the unobliterated lettering on her bell that, though now known as the _balear_, the vessel had begun her career as the _princess maud_, one of a line of steamers coasting between glasgow and liverpool. as the steamer skirted the picturesque coast we tried, not very effectively, it must be admitted, to pick out the bays and headlands history connects with jaime, the valorous young king of aragon, who, accompanied by a great fleet, set sail from barcelona one september day early in the thirteenth century, determined to wrest majorca from the tyranny of the moors, who for hundreds of years had dominated it. but when we had decided that it must have been round _that_ point that his ships, with all lights extinguished, had crept at midnight to anchor in _this_ bay, the appearance of yet another point and another bay made us waver. still, there could be no mistaking porto pi, with its beacon tower on the point where the moors, warned of the approach of the enemy, gathered in force to resist his landing. the sun was illumining the wooded slopes about the ancient castle of bellver, and shining radiantly upon palma, lighting up the spires of the noble cathedral and the encompassing city walls, and shining upon the mountains beyond, as about half-past six we entered the harbour, to find the wharf already busy with people. we had left grey gloom in london and in paris. here all was vivid and sparkling. the air was exhilarating, the port, with its nondescript craft, was a feast of colour. voices speaking the island tongue sounded strangely in our unaccustomed ears. our first impression of palma was one of brightness: an impression conveyed partly by the warm amber and golden tints of the stone of which the charming city is built. on the previous night we had thought the _balear_ half empty; but with the morning many unguessed passengers made their appearance forward. the _guardia civil_, who was travelling with his little boy, producing a pocket-handkerchief, dipped it in a bucket of water and scrubbed his son's face till it shone, the child keeping up an excited chatter the while. the honeymoon couple were early on deck looking out for the grand hotel omnibus. but we were nearly alongside the wharf before the young majorcan lady, closely shadowed by her _dueña_, left her cabin. after the manner of spanish aristocrats when travelling, she was dressed in black, and carried a fan that seemed to go oddly with her smart hat. she had a beautiful figure, and the graceful carriage of her race. but an expression of discontent, as though she were already weary looking for something that might have been expected to happen but did not, lent an unbecoming droop to her well cut lips. her companion was a shrivelled little woman, whose gums were toothless and whose cheeks bore the pallor of enforced seclusion, but whose alert expression betokened generations of watchful patience. he would be an ingenious as well as an ardent lover whose attentions could escape the glint of those quiet eyes. a black mantilla covered her scant hair, a long semi-transparent shawl draped her narrow shoulders. in addition to her fan she held two parcels, one wrapped in green, the other in orange tissue-paper--a flimsy covering, surely, for a sea-passage. we put ourselves in the care of the first porter who mounted the gangway--a handsome brigand with a slouch hat, curled moustaches, and yellow boots. gathering up a mountain of light luggage in either hand, he tripped airily on shore, we meekly following. a spanish friend in london had recommended the _fonda de mallorca_ (locally known as "barnils'") as the best specimen of a typical majorcan hotel, and there we had decided to stay until our plans for the next few months were matured. as we left the harbour the hotel omnibus drew up in front of the customs office, and for the third and last time on the journey the solemn farce of the examination of our luggage was gone through. this time it was altogether perfunctory. not an article was opened. the trunks, which followed on a cart, must have been treated with like trustful generosity, for their keys never left our possession. as our baggage included a double supply of artist's materials requisite for a six months' stay, it turned the scale at three hundred pounds. between charing cross and paris the overweight was charged s. d. from paris to barcelona we paid francs. from there to palma it travelled free. but though we saw fellow-travellers in variant stages of exasperation over vexatious claims, we paid no duty anywhere. even the china tea that, unknown to my men-folk, i had smuggled, travelled unsuspected. and as tea in majorca is a ransom, and indian at the best, i had, while my small store lasted, an unfailing sense of satisfaction in my contraband possession. the hôtel barnils gave us a cordial welcome. the grateful fragrance of hot coffee was in the air as we were taken upstairs and delivered into the care of pedro, the chamber-man, who was smoking a cigarette as he cleaned the tiled corridors with a basin of damp sawdust and an ineffectual-looking broom. our suite of rooms on the second floor consisted of a tiny _salon_, from which on either side opened a bedroom. the smaller had a window to the calle del conquistador, the larger overlooked the inner courtyard with its potted palms and ginger-plants. all three rooms were papered alike in a pattern of large black and brown leaves on a yellow ground. the effect was decidedly bizarre. to those of a melancholy temperament it would assuredly have proved trying, even though there was a certain relief in the collection of french coloured lithographs that further adorned the walls. our sitting-room, which, like the bedrooms, was paved with tiles, had a tall window that opened to the floor and was guarded by an iron railing. it had two red-covered easy-chairs, four fawn brocade small chairs, and a round table with a yellow and drab tablecloth. in an amazingly brief space we were seated round that table drinking coffee out of tall glasses, and making acquaintance with the _enciamada_, a local breakfast dainty which is neither pastry, bread, nor bun, yet appears to enjoy something of the good qualities of all three. in form it somewhat resembles the fossil known to our nursery days as an ammonite. to picture a nicely baked and browned ammonite that has been well dusted with icing-sugar is to see an _enciamada_. the little breakfast over, we went out to explore the city. up the street of the conquistador people were hurrying: men bearing on their heads flat baskets filled with pink or silver fish that were still dripping from the mediterranean, and women carrying empty baskets. following the stream, we found ourselves in the market, which is surrounded by tall, many-storied buildings. it was an animated scene. everybody was busy--all the people who were not buying were selling. and round about were commodities that were strange to us. the fish-stalls, which were clustered in a corner by themselves, displayed odd fish, many of them repulsive-looking, and all, in our eyes, undersized. the meat stalls revealed joints of puzzling cut, and were garlanded with gamboge and vermilion sausages, as though the majorcans' love of bright colours manifested itself even in the food they ate. the more attractive aspect of the fruit and vegetables drew us up the alleys where the salesfolk sat placidly surrounded by huge gourds, radishes eighteen inches long, strange and unappetizing fungi. they had a varied assortment of goods, but the vegetable that appeared to dominate the market was the sweet pepper, or _pimiento_; everywhere it lay in heaps whose colour shaded from a vivid green to glowing scarlets and orange. one or two ladies in mantillas were marketing, attended by maids whose hair, dressed in a single pleat, showed beneath the _rebozillo_ that is the national head-covering of the country-women. one piece of buying, and one only, did i venture on. the man's favourite fruit is the green fig, a commodity that in london costs on an average eighteenpence a dozen. seeing a woman with a hamper of choice fresh figs, i proceeded to try how majorcan prices compared with those of britain. taking warning by the experience of a friend who, having asked for half-a-crown's worth of grapes in a foreign market, found himself confronted with the impossibility of carrying away his purchase, i discreetly held out the local equivalent of a penny and pointed to the figs. the vendor, seeing that i had no basket, held a brief colloquy with a neighbouring salesman, which resulted in the production of a piece of crumpled newspaper. signing to me to open my hands, she spread it over them and began counting the figs into it, carefully selecting the finest specimens from her stock. having heard that food was cheap in these fortunate isles, i confidently expected that my penny might purchase four green figs: but instead of stopping at a reasonable number, the woman went on piling them up until i felt inclined to say "hold, enough!" when she desisted, the paper held a dozen juicy purple figs, and half a dozen of the golden green ones that are considered the more delicate in flavour. a spanish proverb declares that to reach perfection a ripe fig must have three qualifications: "a neck for the hangman, a robe for the beggar, a tear for the penitent." these had all the required attributes: the slender neck, the rent in the skin, the oozing drop of juice. better figs, we imagined, were never eaten than the experimental pennyworth we bought that october day in palma market. the mind easily adjusts itself to existing conditions. a few minutes later it scarcely surprised us to see an old woman buy ten fine tomatoes for a halfpenny--or to hear her demand an eleventh as just value for her coin. leaving the market square, we wandered about the narrow streets, which, with their tall old houses and quaint _patios_--the spacious central courtyards--are full of picturesque scenes. palma is densely populated, and the moving crowds gave us the impression of a people good-looking and well dressed as well as healthy and happy. few of the ladies we met wore hats, and to me it appeared odd to see a lady in a well-cut tailor suit wearing a mantilla as, accompanied by her maid, she did her shopping. [illustration: a palma _patio_] many of the native women had their hair in a long pigtail, and wore either the _rebozillo_--a neat white muslin headdress, in form like a diminutive hood with a collarette attached--or a coloured silk handkerchief, or both. a small fringed shawl usually covered their shoulders. but it was in the matter of footgear that the majorcan fancy appeared to run riot. yellow boots, green boots, cream-hued boots, elastic-sided orange boots were displayed on the feet of otherwise sedately-garbed people of both sexes; and the children wore slippers of lively shades embroidered with gay flowers. when a sudden shower, descending with tropical force made us seek shelter in a doorway whence we watched the passers-by, we had the opportunity of noting that, though all marketing dames wore smart boots, many of them had dispensed with stockings. a sharp distinction seemed to be drawn in the dress of the classes. as we passed the church of san miguel, troops of ladies who had been attending morning service were leaving it. with almost the uniformity of a livery, they wore black gowns of brocaded satin. black mantillas covered their beautifully-dressed hair, and in addition to their rosaries, each carried a fan. our temporary shelter chanced to be close to the gate of santa margarita, and when the rain cloud had passed over, we went near to read the inscription graven in spanish on the stone on one side of the gateway:-- _by this gate entered into the city on the st day of december, , the hosts of king don jaime i. of aragon, conquistador of majorca. as a remembrance of that memorable occasion, on which majorca was restored to the faith and civilization of christianity, this gate, called "bab-al-kofol" in the time of the islamite dominion, since then "esuchidor" and "pintador," and in modern times "santa margarita," was declared a national monument on the th of july, , and restored at the expense of the state._ the records of the more ancient races who inhabited the island seem to have almost vanished. the gymnesias, known as the people whose gracious climate rendered the wearing of clothes a superfluity; the phoenicians, the romans, even the balearic slingers, are well-nigh forgotten, while memorials of the valiant young king of aragon meet one at every turn. hunger sent us back to the hotel to have our first experience of the majorcan cookery for which it is justly noted. the cheerful dining-room opened into the square courtyard, whose walls were striped in broad lines of blue and white like the bandbox of a french milliner. on each of the six tables was a large decanter of red wine. the first dish set before us required a certain amount of courage to tackle. it was a mound of amber-tinted rice in which was visible a weird conglomeration of fish, flesh, fowl, and chopped vegetables. the queer part was the preponderance of empty seashells, for while their contents had doubtless become incorporated with the other ingredients, the empty shells remained insistent and uninviting. but hunger had made us reckless, and on venturing, we found the _arroz con mariscos_ worthy the national esteem in which it is held. highly seasoned meat of some sort followed. then came delicately-cooked little fish; then something that defied us to discover whether it belonged to the animal or the vegetable kingdom. there were no sweets, but the dessert was abundant and delicious. apricots, curiously exotic-looking apples that were streaked with crimson on a pink ground, great clusters of little yellow grapes that seemed as though the sunshine were imprisoned in their skins, and the tempting little baked almonds that are a speciality of barnils'. the rain, that in a few minutes had turned the narrow streets into rivers, had ceased as suddenly as it began. the sky was again a deep glowing blue, and the pure soft air was a pleasure to breathe, when ascending a stair we found ourselves on the flat roof of the hotel, which commanded an extensive view over the city. about us were many flat moorish roofs, some used as gardens, others bearing great cages full of pigeons. to the south was the port with its gay display of shipping and the sparkling waters of the mediterranean. to north, east, and west, the towers and domes and city walls encircled us. beyond were the fruitful plains, and farther still the blue mountains. around us rose the softened murmur of the town, the chiming of bells, the whisper of the sea, the sound of voices speaking in strange tongues. all was charming, novel, and wholly delightful. chopin's description of palma, written seventy years ago when, with george sand, he spent a winter in majorca, needs no correction to-day:-- "here i am at palma," he wrote to his friend fontana, "in the midst of palms, and cedars and cactuses, and olives and oranges, and lemons and figs and pomegranates.... the sky is like a turquoise, the sea is like lazuli, and the mountains are like emeralds. the air is pure like the air of paradise. all day long the sun shines and it is warm, and everybody walks about in summer clothes. at night one hears guitars and serenades. vines are festooned on immense balconies. moorish walls rise all about us. the town, like everything here, looks towards africa. in a word, it is an enchanted life that we are living." soon after midnight a deep sonorous cry awoke me from the sleep of the pleasantly fatigued:-- _alabado sea dios.... las doce y media.... sereno...._ it rang out in the stillness. jumping out of bed, i reached the open window in time to see the passing of a black figure wrapped in a great cloak, the rays from the lantern he carried throwing a wavering circle of light on the pavement beside him. it was the _sereno_, the guardian of the sleeping city. pausing before one of the closed doors, he smote on it three times with his staff. then he turned, and passed out of sight, his long wailing cry again rising into the night. [illustration: the sereno] [illustration: the casa tranquila] ii our casa in spain palma was gay with bunting in honour of the birthday of the young queen of spain, when on the afternoon of our second day in majorca we set out to deliver a letter of introduction that was fated to have an important influence on our future arrangements. much might be, and probably much has been written on the uses and abuses of letters of introduction. sometimes the given letter proves a boon both to him who carries and him who receives it. was not one of our best friends made known to us through the medium of a perfunctory note from a man we had not seen for many years, and whom the presenter of the note had never even met? when we left london we bore a letter of introduction to an englishman resident in barcelona, and he in turn gave us a letter to an american friend of his at palma, who was consul for certain of the southern republics. the home of the consul was at son españolet, an attractive little residential suburb about a mile beyond the city walls. the busy district of santa catalina lies between it and the sea. undulating groves of almond and olive separate it from the hills. taking the mule-drawn tram-car that plies between palma and porto pi, we alighted at santa catalina; and, after making various inquiries, found ourselves ringing the gate-bell of the house, over whose tower fluttered the gay banner of the consulate. had the consul and his wife guessed that these three british invaders were going to trespass on their endurance for a period of six months, i doubt if they would have received us with such courteous geniality. as it was, their reception was so cordial that within half an hour of our meeting i felt emboldened to reveal what had been my secret desire--that we might rent a furnished house near palma for the winter. not a fine house--merely a roof under which we could stow our belongings, a centre from which our wanderings about the islands might radiate. could they advise us? did they think such an idea was feasible? the consul shook his head. "not near palma," he said. "at porto pi or the terreno you might chance on one. but these are summer seaside places. most of the houses there are shut up now. you'd find it dull and inconvenient in winter." "this district seems delightful, and near town. would there be a chance of our getting a house here?" "unfurnished, yes--furnished, no. but why not take a vacant house and hire what you need? there's only three of you. you don't want much." "say, luis!" said pretty mrs. consul, "what about the house the major left last week? that's empty now. would that suit?" for a moment the consul looked meditative. "i'm thinking," he said. "you're right. that's the very place. nice little house. got a garden. stable too. and a fine view from the veranda." "is the house near? could we see it?" we asked. "it's close by, in the calle de mas. we'll see about it, right away, now." the consul, happily for us, was a man of action. ringing the bell, he summoned isidoro, his man-servant, who summoned margarita, his cook. and margarita, having received instructions to search the wide world till she found the caretaker of the empty house and to bring her hither, departed at once on her quest. in an incredibly brief space of time she returned in company with a little old woman and two large door-keys. following her guidance we walked in procession round the corners of several secluded roads, whose yellow stone walls, flat roofs, and almost tropical foliage looked oriental under the evening glow. viewed from the street, the house we sought, with its green shutters and tiled roof, resembled a hundred others. but when the big keys had performed their task, and we had passed through the two centre rooms and found ourselves on a wide stone-pillared veranda looking across the orange and lemon trees of the gardens to where the mediterranean lay azure under the setting sun, our minds held no further hesitation. we knew that it was our own house. merely to assure ourselves that the house had no equal, we investigated the claims of two other vacant dwellings before returning to the consulate. one had a basement in which a native family lived--apparently wholly upon garlic. the other attempted to make up in stucco images what it lacked in view. it was too late that night to take any steps towards securing the house. the consul, himself a versatile linguist, knowing that our meagre spanish could hardly be expected to prove equal to the subtleties of house-hiring, arranged to accompany the man and the boy next day to interview the owner, and if possible to see the negotiations completed. i think we were all secretly uneasy until we learned that, on the personal recommendation of the consul, the landlord had unhesitatingly accepted us as tenants, and that he had agreed to have the garden put in order, to mend any broken panes of glass in the doors or windows, to see that the well was clean, and to permit us to enter upon our tenancy at once. and then, the house being secured, the important subject of furniture had to be considered. knowing that with hired goods we would feel conscious of certain restrictions, we had resolved to buy what was absolutely necessary. and the question was--how much or how little furniture would three unexacting people require during six months of a picnicking existence in a gracious climate? already there were several indispensable articles in the house--two tables, one large enough to serve as dining-table, a bench, and a tall glass-doored corner cupboard. beds would be needed, washstands, two more tables of the plainest description, half-a-dozen rush-seated chairs of local make for utility, lounge chairs for our laziness, and looking-glasses for our vanity. still under the consul's skilled guidance we visited an upholsterer's, a dark and narrow shop where the closely packed stock took up so much room that there was hardly space for a single customer. the shopkeeper, a smiling little round man in a pink shirt, and his daughter, a smiling big round girl in a white frock, entered heartily into the spirit of our requirements; and with the consul's aid in the reduction of prices, we speedily acquired what was necessary. we had landed on majorca on tuesday morning. before dusk fell on thursday our house was not only taken, but the furniture purchased. electric light is a cheap luxury in palma, and for our comfort in the winter nights we were having it put in. knowing that the installation of the light, the scrubbing out of the house, and the raking up of the garden would occupy a day or two, we decided to remain at barnils' until monday, on which morning we would journey out to son españolet and take possession. meanwhile we roamed about palma with our eyes open to the necessities of our bare establishment, picking up a broom here, a coffee-strainer there, some wooden cooking-spoons yonder. matters moved with surprising briskness. monday morning found the electric light fixed, the tiled floors well scrubbed, the scant provision of furniture in the rooms, and the garden dug. so, leaving our heavier luggage to follow by cart, we packed ourselves and our smaller baggage into a _carruaje_, and set out for our new home. the progress thither was circuitous, as first we had to journey up and down the narrow streets of the town collecting the smaller purchases we had made. first we called at a grocer's to pick up the supply of provisions that were to form the nucleus of our housekeeping. then we meant to drive to the china shop where our store of crockery awaited us. unfortunately the china shop, being situated on a street so steep that it ascended in a series of wide steps, was unapproachable by our two-horse conveyance. leaving the carriage at the foot of the steps the man and the boy mounted to the shop, and by and by reappeared accompanied by a man and a maiden, all four laden with dishes. space in the conveyance had been limited before. now, surrounded by earthenware cooking-pots, and basins, and jugs, and plates, we were jolted over the primitively paved streets, and out beyond the gate of santa catalina to the little house in son españolet. perhaps our sense of possession threw a glamour over the dwelling, but already it seemed to wear a look of home. the scanty furniture was in place, a few minutes sufficed to put the groceries on the shelves, the dishes in the glass cupboard, the earthenware cooking-pots and pans on the kitchen shelf. then, when the table was spread with our new tea-cups, and decorated with roses and scented verbena from the garden, set in a jug, and the kettle was a-boil over our trusty spirit-lamp, we sat down, in great contentment, to enjoy the first meal in our _casa_ in spain. the lines even of a foreign householder in majorca are cast in pleasant places. from our point of view the majorcan landlord has the worse of the bargain, his tenant the better. [illustration: the gate of santa catalina, palma] we took our little house for three months, paying in advance the very moderate rent--it was twenty pesetas, about fifteen shillings, a month--and agreeing to give, or take, a month's warning. this done, our obligations appeared to cease. there were no taxes, at least none that the tenant was expected to pay. there was no water rate. the well in the garden afforded a supply of pure and wholesome rain-water. if windows were broken the landlord sent, or promised to send, a glazier to put in new panes. in the rare event of a chimney requiring cleaning, the accommodating landlord was expected to employ a mason to do the work. and with the arrival of the season locally considered best for the annual pruning of the vines--which is the period between the th and the th of january--a duly qualified gardener, instructed by the owner of the house, appeared and clipped those within our walls. our majorcan home proved to be full of the most charming informalities. its architecture was the perfection of simplicity; a child might have designed it. it was on one floor only, and measured fifteen paces square. there were neither hall nor passages, and in a short time we found ourselves wondering why we had ever considered such things necessary. all the doors were glazed. the front door opened directly into a sitting-room, whose wide glass door led to another room that opened on to the veranda. to the right of the front door was the boy's bedroom, to the left an apartment that served as studio. from the back sitting-room opened, on one side, a bedroom that had a useful dress closet; and on the other a compact little kitchen with a cool larder that was almost as big as itself. the kitchen walls were lined breast-high with blue and white tiles; and under the window that looked towards the sea was a neat range of stoves, for the consumption of both coal and charcoal. the two sitting-rooms boasted the distinction of wall papers, and the ceiling of our favourite room--that which opened on to the veranda--represented an azure sky among whose fluffy white clouds flitted birds and butterflies. at one side of the house was a stable, and an enclosure fitted with stone tubs and jars, meant to be used in the washing of clothes. the veranda, or _terras_, bade fair to become a perpetual joy to us. it was roofed by a spreading vine, whose foliage even in november was luxuriant. the former tenants had eaten all the grapes except one bunch, of which the wasps had taken possession; and we were either too generous or too timid to dispute their claim. on the broad ledge of the veranda, on either side of the short flight of steps leading down to the garden, were great green flower-pots. three held pink ivy-leaved geraniums, one contained a cactus that had exactly the appearance of four prickly sea-urchins set in mould, the others were empty. the garden measured nineteen paces by twenty-two. raised paths of concrete divided it into eight beds. the four larger encircled the quaint draw-well; the four smaller were in a row, two on either side of the veranda steps. the beds held a number of fruit trees. there was a sturdy lemon that bore both fruit and blossom, and three orange-trees; one carrying about sixty mandarin oranges. and besides a second vine there were seven almond-trees and two apricots. a shrub in whose racemes of hawthorn-scented blossom bees were busy, we had never before seen. later we learned that it was the loquat. some rose bushes, which obligingly flowered all winter, a jasmine, a tall scented verbena, a long row of sweet peppers, two clumps of artichokes, and sundry tufts of herbs completed our vegetable kingdom. majorca is a paradise for the gardener--or would be, were the rainfall more assured--for the climate varies so little that almost anything can be planted at any season. the day we took possession of the house i sowed some rows of dwarf peas. in a week they were above the ground and continued to flourish exceedingly, until brought to a standstill by the long-continued drought. the rain in january set them a-growing again, and from early february till april we had dishes of green peas from our own ground. at the foot of the garden, separated from it by a high stone wall, were two small dwellings. one was empty. in the other there resided a cobbler named pepe, his wife, and a lean red kitten. the sudden arrival of us foreigners proved an event of extraordinary interest in the circumscribed lives of the pair, and of the skinny kitten, who developed into quite a handsome cat on our scraps. mr. and mrs. pepe had no veranda, but from their patch of garden a tiny staircase led to a _mirador_--a species of roof watch-tower--from which they had a capital view of the town, the port, and of their neighbours. as in these sunny november days we lived with the wide glass doors open to the veranda, there was so much to observe in our doings that for the first week at least of our stay pepe's customers must have been neglected; for morning, noon, and night he was at his post of supervision. as we sat at table we got quite accustomed to seeing his squat figure outlined against the sky as he undisguisedly watched our movements. sometimes he even carried his quaint spouted wine-bottle and hunk of rye bread up to the _mirador_, and enjoyed his breakfast with a vigilant eye on us. pepe had a taste for gardening, and grew chrysanthemums and carnations in the few feet of soil attached to his dwelling. sometimes, with due ceremonial, he presented us with one of his striped carnations. and one day, when i was in the garden, he hastened down from his post of observation to reappear, smiling broadly, at our side gate, bearing the gift of a sturdy root of french marigold. we showed our appreciation of the compliment by sending him a boot to mend; and, courteous preliminaries having been thus exchanged, we continued to live on terms of distant amity. the marigold i promptly planted in one of the empty green flower-pots, where throughout the winter it bore a constant succession of its brown and orange velvet flowers. a family from andalusia--a father, mother, and four children--occupied the house adjoining ours. they seemed good-tempered, easy-going folks, living a happy careless life in this land of sunshine. their somewhat extensive garden was well kept and fruitful. the father, like so many of the residents in these islands, was a bird-fancier. and when, on sunny mornings, assisted by his children, he had carried out the dozens of cages containing his pets, and had hung them on his pomegranate-trees, and on the pergola, where the purple convolvulus twined about branches heavy with golden oranges, our world was vocal with their song. at the foot of their garden was a flourishing little poultry-yard, in which, with laudable success, they reared chickens and ducks and rabbits. they supplied us regularly with eggs, and when any of the live stock was ripe for the pot we always had the first offer of purchase. the method of procedure was to catch the beast--plump rabbit, young rooster, or whatever it chanced to be--and to carry it, suspended by the legs and vigorously protesting, to the door of our _casa_ to exhibit its proportions, and to inquire if we would like to purchase. on the sale being effected, as it usually was, for the quality of their live stock was unequalled, the victim would be taken away, to reappear half an hour later stripped of fur or feather, and with its members decorously dressed for cooking. early in the year the andalusian family was increased by one--a fine boy. a few weeks after, the mother paid me a state visit to receive congratulations and exhibit the baby. going into the studio, i said: "our neighbour has brought her new baby to show us." the man waved me away with a protesting paint-brush. "no," he said. "don't buy it. send her away. i don't mind the ducks and the chickens, but i absolutely refuse to eat the baby!" life in the casa tranquila, as we had christened our winter home, was a pleasant irresponsible matter compared with existence in ceremonial britain. social pleasures we undoubtedly had, but no social duties. housekeeping ran on the simplest of lines. maria, the woman who had been key-keeper of the house while it was empty, came in to do the rough work. apolonia, a smiling, rubicund old dame, with a keen sense of humour, acted as laundress. it was all so easy and unconventional and open-airy that we never quite got over the impression that we were enjoying a prolonged camping-out, and that it was by accident that our roof was of tiles and not of canvas. [illustration: our suburban street] our morning began with the arrival of a baker who brought the bread, rolls, and _enciamadas_ for the day's consumption. we did not use the milk of goats, though, twice daily, a little flock, with tinkling bells, their udders tied up in neat bags of check cotton for protection against the unauthorised raids of their thirsty kids, was driven past our door to be milked before the eyes of each customer. a sprightly matron served us morning and evening with the milk of a cow, which her husband spent his days herding on any stray patches of herbage in the district. each day at noon, mundo, the greengrocer, called with a donkey-cart containing quite a comprehensive assortment of fruit and vegetables. three kinds of potatoes he always brought--new, old, and sweet--pumpkins that were sold in slices, egg-plants, garlic strung in long festoons, spinach, cauliflowers, sweet peppers, curious fungi, purple carrots, sugar beans; all at astonishingly low prices. i shall always remember the november day when, in a moment of forgetfulness, i asked for a whole pennyworth of tomatoes, and was afterwards confronted by the difficulty of disposing of so many. a popular article of diet seemed to be the gigantic radishes, in which not only mundo but all the little shops appeared to do a big trade. we puzzled long over the way in which they could be used before making the chance discovery that they are cut in round slices and eaten raw with soup or meat, as one would eat bread. iii palma, the pearl of the mediterranean as a place of winter residence for those who like sunshine, and are not enamoured of society, palma could hardly be excelled. for one thing, the town is just the right size. it is not so small as to allow the visitor to feel dull, or so large as to permit him to become conscious of his own insignificance. while palma is bright and full of movement and of cheerful sounds, it is an adorable place to be lazy in. the sunshine and soft air foster indolence; and though there is no stagnation, everybody takes life easily in this walled city by the southern sea. there is no bustle, no need to hurry. what is not accomplished to-day can be done to-morrow. and if to-morrow finds it still undone--why, what is the future made up of, if not of an illimitable succession of to-morrows? when the ancients christened palma "the pearl of the mediterranean," they gave it a title that to this day it deserves. something of the resplendence of the town is due to the warm-coloured stone of which it is built--a stone that shades from the palest cream to warm amber. every stroll we took through its mediæval streets, every walk along its antique ramparts, every saunter down the mole, made us more and more in love with its beauty, which we seemed always to be viewing under some new condition of light or atmosphere. [illustration: palma de mallorca, from the terreno] the man never wearied of the crooked secret-looking streets and fine buildings of the old, old city. by day or night they held for him an inexplicable charm. he was always discovering some new "bit"--a quaint _patio_, a moorish arch, an antique gateway, a curious interior, a sculptured window. and the streets were always full of life. a cluster of officers in full dress chattering on the borne; a company of soldiers marching to the strains of an inspiriting band; a priest, under a great rose-coloured silk umbrella, on the way to administer extreme unction to someone sick unto death--all the spectators falling on their knees as the solemn little procession passed by; or a party of queerly attired natives of iviza, just arrived by the thrice-a-week boat, and curiously foreign both in speech and appearance, though their island home was only sixty or seventy miles distant; or a string of carriages whose occupants were on the way to a morning reception at the almudaina, the old moorish palace, now the residence of the captain-general. everything in the place was new to us, and the feeling of novelty never waned. as for the boy, from the moment of our arrival his interest centred in the port. its constantly changing array of shipping, and the fine sun-tanned buccaneers who did business on its blue waters, supplied him with endless congenial subjects for pictures. the port of palma nestles, one might almost say, right into the heart of the city. the chief promenade, the borne, ends on its brink. the cathedral and the lonja dignify its banks. the gay life of the harbour lies open to the casual observer. under the ramparts, by the side of the public road, old men in red caps and suits of velveteen that the sun has faded to marvellous hues sit at their placid occupation of net-mending. there, too, when the _falucas_ are moored at the edge of the wharf, come the families of the fishermen to join them at lunch--the women bringing down wine and bread and the men supplying a tasty hot dish from the less saleable items of their catch. sometimes a cloth is spread, and then the _al fresco_ repast assumes quite a ceremonious air. stern on to the _muelle_, the long breakwater that partitions off the water of the harbour from the open bay, lie the larger craft: the most important of which are the white-painted steamers of the _isleña marítima_, the fleet of boats belonging to a majorcan company that carry mails and passengers between the island and spain or algeria. once palma was a great maritime centre. now little foreign shipping does business in her port. but though the bulk of the traffic is local, an open port always holds the element of the unexpected. sometimes a leviathan-like liner, making a holiday tour of mediterranean ports, anchors by the wharf, and her tourists, eager to make the most of the hours at their disposal, hasten on shore to pack themselves into every available form of conveyance and drive off, enclosed in a pillar of dust of their own raising, to enjoy a hasty glance at valldemosa, miramar and sóller. when at sunset they steam out of the harbour it is with the pleasantly erroneous conviction that they have exhausted the attractions of the island. once a fine ship that sharp eyes recognized as the private yacht of the czar of russia quietly entered the bay, and after a brief stay, during which her voyagers held no intercourse with land, as quietly departed. and after a spring gale a greek sailing ship, her main-mast gone, was towed in by a french tug. sometimes it was the capture of a smuggler's _faluca_ caught in the act of trying to run a cargo of contraband tobacco that furnished the excitement. on the frequent feast days palma was gay with flags. every consulate in the town--and they were many--mounted its special banner. the gun-boats sported strings of bunting out of all proportion to their size, the merchantmen flew their ensigns, and though the business of the town was transacted with its customary air of casual lightheartedness, the never-lacking holiday feeling was intensified. [illustration: calle de la almudaina, palma] one november feast day the boy, who was painting at the port, discovered among the decorated craft a ship flying the british flag; a closer inspection revealed her to be the _ancona_ of leith, just arrived with a cargo of coal. nearer home i doubt if the proximity of a leith collier would have appealed strongly to our patriotism. in that southern latitude things were different. a sudden and fervent desire to hear our own northern accent awoke within us, and, incited by our adventurous son, we determined to board the _ancona_ and pay our respects to her captain. it was a glorious morning, one of those wonderful mornings when the world seems newly born, that we three went down the mole. lying beyond the schooner from sóller, and the _pailebot_ from valencia that was shipping a cargo of empty wicker-cased wine flasks, we came to the _ancona_. three railless plank gangways connected her with the wharf, and down two of the planks majorcans in their elaborately bepatched blue linen suits were carrying straw baskets of coal. we ventured up the third. our gangway ended on a six-feet-high platform situated on the verge of a hold still brimful of coal. as we hesitated on our perch, wondering what to do next, a bronzed man in slippers appeared. it was the first mate. "it's a fine day," the man gave colloquial greeting. "is the skipper on board?" "ay. it's a real bonnie day," the mate made truthful reply. "no. he's just gone up the quay to see the ship's agents." the homely words, the familiar accent, fell like music on our ears. a few words of explanation brought the mate to our elevated platform, where he spoke with the inherent appreciation of the scot of the beauty of the town. "ay. it's a bonnie place this. i think it's as pretty a place as i've seen. no. we've been busy on board and i haven't had time to see the town yet. but i'm enjoyin' the view fine from here. the captain? oh, you couldn't miss him. you're sure to come across him. he's just up on the front." so, in quest of a compatriot whom we couldn't miss, we set off up the street. and sure enough, before we had proceeded very far we met the captain face to face. if the captain of the _ancona_ was surprised at being accosted by a trio of complete strangers, he was too much a highland gentleman and a man of the world to reveal any astonishment. in five minutes we were all on a friendly footing, our nationality the firm basis of good-fellowship; a little later we were all seated outside the lirico, over tall glasses of vermouth and seltzer, recalling familiar scenes and discovering mutual acquaintances. the captain was at a loose end. we were going to the fruit market, to the bookseller's, to the cathedral. so he came too. in the market, as he saw me buy big bunches of yellow grapes at twopence-halfpenny a kilo (nearly two and a quarter pounds) his face lit up--"i'll be for sending the steward up here," he said. chance favoured us. we turned into the borne just in time to see an infantry battalion march past to the strains of a good military band. a general had died and the soldiers were on their way to escort his body to the cemetery. the music, which was appropriately solemn, was played with great feeling. and as the procession moved slowly up the street the closed window shutters were thrown open and fair señoras in light dresses thronged the balconies. it was as though palma had determined to reveal herself at her best to our companion. even the interior of the cathedral, lit by the brilliant sunshine that filtered through the stained-glass windows, seemed grander than ever. "i've had a splendid time," the captain said when we parted. "though i've been here two or three times, i never saw so much of the town before." we were leaving next morning for miramar, and before our return the _ancona_ would have sailed. but we said good-bye with the promise of meeting again--a promise that was fulfilled, for on two subsequent voyages the captain was a welcome guest at the casa tranquila. "the captain is a gentleman," the boy said half-a-dozen hours later when he returned from the ship, where, by special invitation, he had been having a smoke and a chat with her master. "see what he insisted on giving me. i refused, of course, but he made me take _that_ and _this_." "that" was a batch of thrice precious literature in the shape of sixpenny editions of novels and magazines. "this" was a tin of tobacco marked "full strength," that class of dark-complexioned rum-odorous tobacco that the boy specially affects, and whose lack in majorca had formed the theme of his only regret. life on the native craft in the port is entertaining to watch. the dark-skinned rovers of the deep contrast so oddly with the mildly domestic aspect given by the presence on board of the _patrón's_ wife, and by her way of keeping hens loose on deck, and of hanging feminine garments to dry on the poop. one sunday morning we had been scrutinizing their doings with the open stare that life in spain teaches one both to give and to take composedly, when we discovered that luncheon-time had stolen unawares upon us. as we walked back down the pier we glanced inquiringly at the cafés that lined the lower part of the way; they were all crowded with jovial seamen and uninviting. we had resolved to eat at the lirico, and were leaving the pier, when something in the situation of a little open-air eating-place just on the brink of the sea, almost in the shadow of the city wall, attracted us; and advancing to the awning, under which little groups of people were seated, we demanded food. the proprietress, a plump, smiling woman with a purple silk kerchief on her head and a green apron, welcomed us in fluent but, unfortunately, unintelligible majorcan. she knew no spanish. all we could gather was that if we seated ourselves she would give us to eat. and nothing loth, we sat down at an unoccupied table whose bare boards were scrubbed as clean as hands could make them. beyond the shade of the roof-awning the sun was shining; the pure air filtered through its matting sides, and in our full view the waves were dashing against the rocky shore. at a table close by, three old cronies were dining. scorning the use of tumblers, they passed the quaint wine-flask from hand to hand, each in turn throwing back his head and letting the red wine fall in a stream, from what to us seemed an unbridgeable distance, between his parted lips. four soldiers were eating macaroni. two men who had been fishing off the breakwater were supping thick soup. a pretty little girl, her hair caught up in a business-like "bun," darted in and out amongst her mother's customers, her dark eyes quick to discern their wants. from inside the shanty that served as kitchen came an appetizing sound of frizzling. turning her attention to us, the little girl put the inevitable dish of olives and a flask of red wine on the table; then she placed a wooden fork and spoon, a plate, a tumbler, and a roll, before each of us. then, with the suggestion of an air of ceremony, she carefully laid at the man's right hand something resembling a folded piece of clean canvas. it was not until the meal was nearing a conclusion that we discovered it was intended to be used as a napkin. the table thus spread, she darted into the kitchen and returned bearing a huge flat earthen dish, which held as inviting a mess as we had ever tasted. the main portion of its contents consisted of small thin slices of beef-steak, mushrooms, and strips of potatoes that had all been fried together, after the native fashion, in boiling oil. daintily chopped green herbs lent a savoury garnish to the whole. after a momentary hesitation, due solely to lack of the customary cutlery, we helped each other with our wooden spoons, and fell to work with good will. perhaps there was some charm in the oddity of our surroundings, in the fresh breath of the sea air, in the sparkle of the blue water; perhaps it may have lain in the discovery that if meat is tender and well-cooked, a fork--and wooden at that--is all the implement required. certain it is that as we cleared the last chip of potato from the earthen dish we all agreed that we had enjoyed the simple meal more than anything we had eaten in palma. when we asked for the bill our little waitress received the sign of departure with dismay; and the mother, running out, added her protest. something else was evidently in active preparation. fully convinced that to eat anything more would be an insult to the dish we had just finished, we waited. a moment later she triumphantly carried out and set before us a plate containing a slab of fish, thickly covered with minced garlic and floating in a pool of rich red oil. it may have been a delicacy for which the establishment was famed. our fellow guests were devouring it with evident enjoyment, zealously sopping up the oil with their rolls, and leaving their plates polished clean. but to us it came as an anti-climax. carefully inculcated politeness, combined with the knowledge that from the doorway the cook was eagerly watching us for sign of appreciation, induced us to choke it down with an outward affectation of gusto. but we left the garlic and the red oil. even an exaggerated idea of the obligations of courtesy could not have prevailed upon us to swallow them. we paid the modest bill and fled, lest worse should follow. a few days later we returned to the quaint open-air café. it was a lovely evening early in november. all day out of a cloudless sky the sun had beat warmly upon palma, and the sea had glowed a soft misty azure. we had been busy indoors letter-writing, for it was a mail day. it was only after dusk that we were free and, leaving the casa tranquila, set off port-wards to post our letters. the _miramar_, the crack ship of the _isleña marítima_, was on the point of starting for barcelona, and all the world of palma was hastening towards the harbour to post letters on board; and then, while promenading the mole, to watch her departure. after the _miramar_ had vanished into the darkness and the spectators had streamed towards the land, we still lingered on the breakwater. there was no moon, the stars were bright, the wavelets softly lapped the stones, and we felt placid and restful until quite suddenly we became aware that we were hungry. our proximity suggested the little shanty under the city wall by the sea, and thither we went. it was the quiet hour there too. except for three of the hussars we had seen before, the well-scrubbed tables were vacant. the soldiers, recognizing us, gave us friendly greeting, accompanied with the offer of their tobacco packets. bright-eyed little catalina ran to fetch the napkin, surely the sole emblem of gentility belonging to the establishment, and the señora herself appeared at the door of the shed, where she presided over the cooking-pots, to give us "bona nit tengan" and to consult with us as to what we would like her to prepare. she shook her head when we suggested beef-steaks and mushrooms. at that hour, apparently, beef was "off." "would we have soup?--majorcan soup," she asked. we shook our heads. no. we did not fancy soup. promising us fresh fish, and something with an untranslatable name, she disappeared into the shed. and, content to leave the selection to her, we awaited events. the comrades in arms had gone, and a pale slender girl, beautiful in the small-featured, refined type so common in palma, had taken her place at the next table. with her was a friend of the same style, but doubly attractive in that she was overflowing with vivacity. the younger girl sat silent, her hands folded, her head drooping, while the elder--who was knitting a petticoat gay with coloured stripes--chatted briskly. they did not eat, and we guessed they were waiting for some one to join them. sitting near them was a handsome taciturn man with a slouch hat, long curled moustaches, and a gaudy kerchief twisted about his neck. that the girls knew him was evident, for though he did not join in their conversation he seemed to listen to all that was said. just as we were served with crisp little fried fish, a figure, coming from the darkness where the waves were washing the stones, entered the circle of light. it was the expected man. hanging up his rod and fishing basket, he took his place at the table beside the girls. his skin was deeply bronzed, his garments were of blue cotton that sun and sea air had faded to a delicate hue. a scarlet sash was wound about his waist. his naked brown feet were thrust into string-soled green shoes. catalina, who had been watching for his arrival, ran out with a slender-spouted bottle of wine and three wooden spoons. her mother followed close with an earthenware pipkin of the thick majorcan soup that we had declined. grouped in an amicable trio, they ate from the same dish, and in turn drank from the slender spout of the green glass bottle. the pale girl remained pensively silent, but the other continued to talk, punctuating her conversation with dramatic movements of her hands. how we wished we could have understood what she was saying! when the combined efforts of the three wooden spoons had searched the red earthenware vessel to its depths, the man who came from the sea rose and, lifting it in his hand without a word, walked to the edge of the water and threw the pipkin far into the mediterranean. then returning, he resumed his seat. no one made any comment upon this inexplicable proceeding. had the inoffending pipkin not been empty it might have seemed as though he were offering a libation to some unseen spirit of the water. but the actively plied spoons had succeeded in scooping out the last vestige of the soup. in the meantime we had been occupied with our second course, which consisted of lengths of orange-coloured sausage, served hot with fried potatoes. and a new-comer, an old man, was eating a big plate of macaroni. the nimble catalina, flashing out, set a flat dish, heaped with some sort of stew, before the trio. what its contents were we could only guess. the lively maiden and the man were already poking among them with their wooden forks. the pensive girl had produced a silver fork and was delicately helping herself, fastidiously turning over the ingredients. the handsome reticent man sat motionless but observant. [illustration: a supper party] they ate in leisurely fashion--nobody hurries in palma. the gay girl rattled on in her musical voice, gesticulating with her pretty hands the while, only occasionally dropping the thread of her dramatic recital to send her fork foraging with the others, or to throw back her head and let the red wine trickle down her throat. "will he throw that dish away when it is empty?" we were wondering, when the señora, who was making a special effort on our behalf, appeared in person carrying a tempting combination of sweet peppers and young pork. the question answered itself. when they had finished, the dish stood empty and ignored. the wine flask was refilled, and when we had paid our score--wine included, it came to about sevenpence each--we left the quartette still sitting under the flickering light by the edge of the unseen waves: the charming girl still lively, the pretty one distraite, the fisherman amiable, and the handsome listener still silently attentive. it had been an odd little interlude--nothing to relate, indeed, but one of those petty excursions beyond one's own stereotyped world that make the observers feel, for the moment, as though they were living in somebody else's life, not in their own. we finished the evening at what chanced to be the popular entertainment. if i remember correctly, it combined the attractions of a cinematograph and a variety show. we were again out in the starlight, and walking briskly westwards towards son españolet, when the boy said abruptly:-- "i wish i knew why that man threw the pipkin into the sea!" [illustration: the saturday market, palma] iv housekeeping although, at son españolet, we were subject to no police or other rate, a small weekly tax was levied with extreme punctuality, on behalf of himself, by a functionary called the _vigilante_. the most onerous labour of this alleged guardian of the public would appear to have been the collection, on sunday mornings, of a penny from each householder. i trust i do not malign a worthy citizen, when i hint that these periodic visits were the only occasions on which most of his supporters were made conscious of the _vigilante's_ existence. his professed duties were to protect the interests of the residents in the district by prowling about at night, to escort timid wayfarers home by the light of his lantern, and, like the _sereno_, to call those who wished to be roused at an early hour. but what manner of need a community already rich in police, _serenos_, _carabineros_, and _consumeros_, had of a _vigilante_, was hard to imagine. nobody seemed to know who appointed the _vigilantes_. the boy had a theory that our _vigilante_ had assigned himself to the post, and that his sole exertion lay in calling to collect the fees. on the morning of our first sunday at the casa tranquila an imperative knock sounded at the front door. it was the _vigilante_, a good-looking white-bearded man clad in blue cotton. his designation was inscribed in bold letters on his cap-band. having been forewarned of the custom, i handed over the expected ten centimos, which he accepted with the dignified courtesy of one who receives a right, and departed. two hours later the boy, who had been out at the time of the visit, answered a second summons. "it's the _vigilante_," he said, returning to the veranda where we were sitting. "has anybody got a copper?" "but i gave the _vigilante_ his penny this morning," i said, hastening to the door. at my approach the applicant, recognizing me, waved the matter aside, as though the mistake had been mine, and he was graciously pleased to ignore it. "the houses are so many--one forgets," he said, and strutted off without loss of dignity. on christmas day he paid us an extra visit, and, sending in a card with his best wishes, awaited, not in vain, a monetary expression of our good-will. the card, which was resplendent in rainbow tints, and richly emblazoned in gold, bore a representation of a young, dapper, and exquisitely dressed _vigilante_ who was smoking a cigar. at his feet were portrayed a noble turkey, several bottles of champagne, and other seasonable dainties. a side tableau showed the _vigilante_, armed with his staff of office and a huge bunch of keys, opening a street door to a belated couple who, presumably, had been locked out. on the reverse side of the card was a long poem, which, on behalf of its presenter, claimed many good offices; notably, that he captured the evil-doer, and that, filled with fervent zeal, he watched over our repose. it concluded by stating:-- "_i try to be in all a perfect vigilante._" apart from similar curious and amusing conventions, with which one has to become acquainted, the early days of housekeeping in majorca find the foreign resident grappling with a succession of petty difficulties. besides the differences of language, of coinage, of weights and measures, the dissimilarity of climate renders advisable, even necessary, a mode of living that would be quite unsuited to dwellers in britain. to begin with the morning--the customary majorcan breakfast, which even at the best hotels consists of a glass of coffee, or a tiny cup of very thick chocolate, and tumbler of water taken with a single roll, or an _enciamada_, is a meal from which the ordinary briton rises hungry. and one wonders why the spanish landlord, whose table is so lavishly spread at other meals, should practise a false economy in the matter of breakfast. for, after all, a roll costs only a halfpenny. dinner is invariably an early function, and an extensive one, for at their two later meals spaniards make up for their abstinence at breakfast. between the two o'clock dinner and supper, which is served at any time between eight and ten o'clock, there is a long blank, which the english visitor usually bridges with a cup of tea. to return to the question of breakfast. at the casa tranquila we compromised the matter, and broke our fast on an unstinted quantity of coffee or chocolate and milk, taken with fruit, rolls and butter, and _enciamadas_. majorcan breakfast rolls are of two kinds--the ordinary crisp ones, and, what we liked better, a soft species called _panecillos de aceite_. bacon is unknown in majorca, though ham, of strong flavour and repellent aspect, may be had. it sells at twopence an ounce; and if you wish to astonish the vendor, you can do so by ordering more than a quarter of a pound. we had been warned that we would be forced to do without butter while in the islands. but matters have progressed--in palma at least--since the old butterless days. now the better class grocers sell a peculiarly white butter that is made at son servera, near artá; and almost every provision shop stocks a tinned salt butter that comes from copenhagen. by the way, the purchaser must not be surprised when asked if it is "pig's butter" he wants. the salesman only means lard. cow's milk, another article of diet that used to be scarce in the islands, can easily be obtained. the price charged is almost the same as in london and the milk is much richer. with the aid of a spanish dictionary it had been a comparatively simple matter to make out a list of groceries with which to furnish the shelves of our empty larder. but i must confess that a first visit to a butcher's shop made me wonder if majorcan sheep and oxen differed in construction from british animals, such odd forms did their dead flesh present. cold storage is unknown in palma. the beasts are killed, cut up, and sold almost before they have had time to cool. and, if they were not invariably killed young, their flesh could hardly be so good as it is, the lamb especially being sweet and tender. a fact that forcibly strikes anyone from a meat-eating country is the small quantities of animal food consumed. where the wife of a british working-man might spend a shilling on beef, a majorcan would spend twopence. naturally the meat is sold in small pieces, and inspection is courted. the east-end butcher's printed command to his customers--"keep your hands off the beef," would be scorned in the balearic isles. if you shop in native fashion, you walk about the shop, turning over and critically examining the pieces exposed within easy reach. when your selection is made you need not invest in any great quantity. if you fancy calf's head, custom does not compel you to buy a half head. you can have a pound, a half-pound, or even a slice. if your taste turns to fowl, at your request the bird suspended by its heels is halved, quartered, or wholly dismembered. its limbs may lack the noble proportions of a surrey capon, but they will be well flavoured and succulent, and you can acquire a wing and slice of the breast, or a leg, or a yet smaller portion, as your fancy inclines. we had heard that majorcans were apt to tax foreigners by making them pay more than was customary for anything purchased, but such occurrences were quite outside our experience; though i did come across an example of majorcan reasoning that was so amusingly illogical that i am tempted to repeat it here. finding in our picnicking style of housekeeping that a cold tongue was a useful thing to have in the larder, i frequently ordered one from the estimable butcher who served us. for a time the price charged was moderate. one day without warning it was increased by a half. my spanish unaided did not enable me to argue the matter, but mrs. consul chancing to be with me next time i called at the shop, i got her to inquire the reason of this sudden and unexplained change of rate. "yes. the tongue was a small one, and the price high," admitted the plump wife of the butcher, who acted as his accountant. "but then i had charged the señora too little for those we had supplied her with at first. and though we have many customers, each ox we kill has only one tongue. and, as i had charged the señora too little for the others, to be just to myself i was obliged to ask more than the true price for the last one!" the method of reasoning was so delightfully irrational and absurd that i cheerfully paid the confessed overcharge, and we left the shop laughing. probably the worthy dame wonders to this day what we found entertaining in the situation. many good and cheap eatables are to be had in palma if one knows where to look for them. by degrees we found out the best place to buy the tasty little pies filled with fish, or meat, and herbs, raisins and pine-seeds, or the funny turn-overs stuffed with spinach, that all the bakers make; and discovered the confectioner who sold the nicest cakes and sweets, and where to buy freshly-baked almonds, and who had the best quince preserve. a little investigation introduced us to articles of food that we would never have met had we continued to live in a hotel--to the _cocas_ that so closely resemble the scottish "cookies"; and the _bizcochos_, that are just crisp freshly toasted slices of the largest sized _cocas_. when we arrived in october, fruit was plentiful. delicious grapes were selling at twopence-halfpenny a kilo (about a penny a pound), and ripe purple or golden figs were eighteen a penny. as the winter advanced the price of grapes gradually rose. and though one day in early december i bought for fivepence in the market four pounds of well-flavoured yellow grapes, by the end of january the finest were a peseta (about ninepence) a kilo. fresh figs gradually declined in flavour as they rose in price. and towards christmas the country folks, who come in on saturday mornings to the smaller market that is held in the plaza de mercado, began to bring in rush baskets of the home-dried figs that have been ripened in the sun and packed between fig leaves. the continued drought raised the price of vegetables, though small cauliflowers were still only a halfpenny each, and a good sized bunch of carrots could be bought for the coin that is rather less in value than a farthing. most majorcan carrots are purple in hue, so deep a purple as to be almost black. they have to be partially cooked alone, before being added to anything else, as their colour dyes the water black. it is their only fault. their flavour is excellent. early in february we began to use the green peas and turnips that in november i had sown in our garden; but for the lack of rain they would have been ready a month earlier. and an occasional sowing of spinach yielded a quick and unfailing supply throughout the winter. the question of firing in so genial a climate is an easy one to answer. for cleanliness, coolness, convenience and economy in cooking there is no fuel that compares with charcoal. as a charcoal stove has no flue, the lighting is attended with a certain amount of smoke from the resinous sticks that are sold specially for the purpose of kindling. but once the charcoal is lit it gives no further trouble. it will cook slowly or quickly, as desired, scarcely soiling the outside of the vessels used in the process: and will stay alight, without much attention, as long as the cook requires. further, it has the exceptional merit of keeping its heat concentrated within a small area, so that the temperatures of both the kitchen and the cook remain normal. our favourite sitting-room--the one that opened directly to the veranda--had the unusual advantage of an open hearth, and a few chilly days that occurred in november made us hasten in search of logs for burning. inquiry in the neighbourhood directed us to a large saw mill in the calle de la fábrica, where we ordered what to us was an unknown quantity of firewood. the price paid was less than five shillings. when the wood was delivered we were amazed to find that it half filled a cart; and that, in addition to an abundant supply of both logs and rough wood all cut into convenient sizes, the kindly saw-miller had included four little slabs of the resinous wood used for kindling. the wood was built up on the floor under the lower shelves of our roomy larder, and there, all through november, december, and the first half of january, it lay untouched. we had got to the point of discussing what we would do with it on our leaving for england, when the weather turned chilly enough to afford us excuse for indulging in the luxury of a log fire. but though we had a fire on every occasion when artificial heat was necessary, there were still logs remaining when at the end of april we quitted the casa. a prominent feature of our district, which lay just without the walls of palma, was the elaborate system employed to guard against the smuggling of contraband goods into the city. the boundary of son españolet, which joined the country, was heavily guarded. in addition to high walls and much intricate zigzagging of barbed wire, wherever two roads met there was a little station-house, or, to be more exact, a shanty, for the shelter of _consumeros_, both male and female, whose duty it was to examine all goods entering the city limits. and at frequent intervals all along the boundary roads was a species of sentry-box, usually containing a chair and a water-jar, in which for sixteen hours a day a _consumero_ was supposed to keep watch over his own bit of boundary, and to be ready, if anything suspicious attracted his notice, to warn the others, by a series of shrill whistles, to be on the alert. during the long hours passed in enforced idleness at their posts, many of the men had contrived to give their surroundings quite a home-like appearance. a pleasant man, whose location was at the end of our road, always seemed to have his children playing about him; and often his wife used to take her knitting and the newest baby, and the family goat and a big earthenware pan of amber-tinted rice, and make quite a picnic under the trees near his watch-box. another _consumero_ had a stripling vine that he was carefully training up the trellis over his shed. we sometimes saw him watering it. and one, a tall silent man, whose station abutted on a piece of vacant ground, had gradually erected quite a long range of hen-coops along the base of a warm wall; and there he would stroll in the sunshine attended by a flock of flourishing poultry, chiefly of the plymouth rock breed. but these were exceptions. the majority of the _consumeros_ seemed content to lazy away their days and doze away their nights as comfortably as possible. when the early winter darkness had fallen, it was picturesque to see them lighting a brazier, or sitting huddled up in their warm brown blankets beside its glowing embers fast asleep. when we had been spending the evening in town and were coming home late, we sometimes enjoyed waiting until we were close upon one of these muffled figures, and then, in chorus, saying politely "buenas noches." [illustration: a consumos station] then we would see the comatose form galvanize into a semblance of life, and hear a drowsy voice from the midst of the enwrappings reply "buenas noches tengan." the discovery that the monetary recompense for the sixteen hours that the _consumero_ worked or played was only two pesetas--or about eighteenpence of english money--showed that if he was not overwrought neither was he overpaid. at nightfall these guardians of our district were reinforced by the addition of two active young _carabineros_ who carried loaded rifles. so between the police, the armed soldiers, the sleepy _consumeros_, the elusive _sereno_ and the ornamental _vigilante_, the residents of son españolet ought to have gone to bed with a feeling of security. the question of language is a somewhat grave one in majorca, where the inhabitants naturally, but inconsiderately from our point of view, insist upon speaking their native tongue, which is neither spanish nor french, but sounds like a corruption of both. majorcan, which is said to be much older than _castellano_, the official language of spain, is closely allied to _catalan_. and though many words suggest french, spanish, and even italian influence, the islanders seem, by an ingenious chipping of terminations and the addition of weird sounds entirely their own, to have evolved a tongue which goes far towards outdoing all others in unmelodious sounds. a peacefully animated conversation in majorcan suggests impending bloodshed. to overhear a quarrel would be horrific. happily discord is rare in majorca. as far as our six months of experience showed, a better natured or more harmonious people never existed. the dialect in use in minorca and iviza, though practically the same as that of majorca, varies in each island. so it is not surprising that the visitor to the balearic islands is strongly advised to confine his efforts to the acquirement of spanish, not even to attempt to learn majorcan. and indeed the facilities for doing so are few. we could find no majorcan dictionary, though a weekly paper in the language, _pu-put_, is published in palma. all the educated classes speak spanish fluently. yet in most of the shops, even in palma, and in the country districts, the native language prevails. very few of the working women understand spanish. their lives having been passed on the islands, they remain ignorant of any but their mother tongue; though it is common to find their menfolk speaking spanish well, owing to their having been in the army, or to their having passed the period of voluntary exile that most of them serve almost as they do the demands of the state. those who know, say that majorca is a bad place to learn spanish in; that in order to have a good accent the intending traveller is best to acquire it elsewhere. and as borrow says, you must open your mouth and take your hands out of your pockets to speak spanish. before leaving london we tried, after a very desultory fashion, to pick up a little spanish. the boy, who took berlitz lessons, got on famously and was our mainstay from the moment we crossed the spanish frontier at port bou. but he declares that he had not been long in palma before he found himself speaking spanish with a majorcan accent. for my part, in point of language i found the direction of even so small an establishment as the casa tranquila very puzzling, especially at first. after carefully gleaning a knowledge of the spanish coinage that enabled me to count up to say ten, in pesetas and centimos, it was bewildering to find sums calculated in _reals_ and in _perros grandes_ and _perros pequeñas_. i shall never forget the first time apolonia, the laundress, appeared to deliver up our clean linen and to receive her just recompense. when i inquired how much we owed her, apolonia told me the sum, but she did it in majorcan. "onza reals, cuatro centims, dos centims." "que vale en pesetas?" i asked, but apolonia could not reckon in pesetas. raising her stubby fingers, she proceeded to make cabalistic signs in the air, repeating the whole "onza reals, cuatro centims, dos centims," in a voice that grew louder and louder, as though the more noise she made the more likely was she to pierce my thick understanding. maria, hearing the discussion, left her dusting, and running swiftly on her string-soled _alpargatas_, came to the rescue. if matters had been bad before, they were now worse. four hands were in the air. two voices in majorcan, that became momentarily more strident, kept repeating the tale of reals and centims until, feeling undecided whether to laugh or to cry, i cut the matter short by emptying the contents of my housekeeping purse on the table and imploring apolonia to help herself. after many protestations she agreed to do so. and with much reluctant and timorous hovering of her fingers over the coins, at last selected the exact sum; which, before taking possession of, she carefully spread before my eyes, calling upon maria to witness that she had not abused my trust. the calculations of mundo, the vegetable man, were--if possible--more distracting; for having inherited the national characteristic of honesty to an almost unnatural degree, the worthy mundo, in his desire to be strictly just in his dealings, had a way of splitting farthings that sometimes proved inexplicable, not only to his customers but also to himself. how often, when he stood puzzling over some fraction of a penny, have i felt impelled to say rashly: "bother the expense, mundo. i'll make you a present of the half farthing!" fortunately for mundo's opinion of my sanity, the spirit of economy that tinctures the balmy air of these fortunate isles prevented any such extravagant proceeding. [illustration: the castle of bellver] v two historic buildings after we were fairly settled in our house our first excursion naturally was to the castle of bellver, the ancient fortress that, from the veranda, we saw clearly silhouetted against the western sky. the afternoon was glorious. the sky was a cloudless blue, the sunlight cast deep shadows; to drive there in one of the quaint, open-sided tramcars would have been a treat. but there had been thunder in the night, and the apprehensive authorities had decided that it was a day for bringing out the closed vehicles. so we sat in the stuffy little car, and drove out through crowded santa catalina and across the bridge that spanned the dry _torrente_ of san magin, and past the _consumos_ sheds towards the terreno, the favourite summer resort of palma folks, whose charming villas clothe the slope leading to the steep hill on whose summit stands the old castle. the sun was hot, the air exhilarating. flowers--roses, zinnias, plumbago, chrysanthemums, geraniums--still bloomed in the villa gardens. to us it was a glorious summer day. to the majorcans it was already winter. the pretty houses were nearly all empty. their owners had returned to town. the old road to the castle is a stiff climb up a rocky slope. the new road is an excellent carriage drive that winds round the hill. we chose the steep way, and found ourselves frequently pausing and turning to look back across the sparkling waters of the bay to palma, which at that moment was looking, as it so often does, like some celestial city. the air was fragrant with the essence of the pines that clothed the slopes--at their feet tall pink heath and wild lavender were in bloom. when jaime the first built bellver for a summer palace, he made it an invincible fortress. one thing only could one imagine as more difficult than getting into the castle, and that would be getting out of it. yet, had we so willed, on this balmy afternoon the hitherto impregnable stronghold with its deep moat, its implacable walls, might have been ours without even a show of resistance; for when we reached the gateway we found it open and unguarded. but fortunately for the reputation of bellver our mood was pacific; and we were content to linger without until an old woman, who had espied us as she was leaving the castle with what was presumably the washing of the custodian in a chequered handkerchief under her arm, ran back calling loudly for "bordoi." bordoi appeared in the person of the custodian of the castle. he was an old soldier, gaunt, lean, courteous, and evidently possessing a genuine pride in his charge. the first thing to which he called our attention was the grating set high over the entrance, through which, after the endearing fashion of their time, the occupants of the castle were accustomed to shower a gentle hint to depart, in the form of arrows or boiling water, upon the heads of any visitors whose appearance they did not fancy. the castle, which is in the form of a circle, is built round a courtyard containing a great draw-well. looking down, it was interesting to me to see that the moist sides of the interior were thickly coated with luxuriant maidenhair fern, such as we had years before noticed growing inside the mouth of the well in the house of the maker of amphoræ in pompeii. reaching down his long arm, the custodian picked me a frond, explaining that it made a wholesome medicinal drink--"quite as good as sarsaparilla." and here an odd query occurs to me. does the office of caretaker conduce to dyspepsia, or does the enforced leisure of the occupation dispose to hypochondria? during a little journey through the shakespeare country, for instance, it was impossible--even for such very polite people as ourselves--to avoid noticing the boxes of patent pills or of much-vaunted lotions that figured prominently amongst the private possessions of the people who showed us the places of interest. the stern face of the old keep has frowned on many tragic sights. it was up these rocky slopes that the headless body of the third jaime was borne, after his luckless attempt, at the battle of lluchmayor, to wrest his kingdom from a usurper. and it was there, too, that the boy son who had fought so bravely by his father's side was carried, desperately wounded. in more recent times bellver has acted the part of a state prison. political prisoners, numbering as many as three or four hundred at a time, have been immured within its massive walls. it was easy to picture them clustering in the spacious courtyard about the well, or pacing the open-sided gallery overlooking it, or lingering on the flat roof, from which such an amazingly comprehensive view may be had. seen from beneath, the height of the castle is dwarfed by its encircling walls. it is only on looking down from the battlements and seeing the immense depths of the surrounding moats that one realizes the strength of the inflexible grip in which captives would be held. in these days a rescue by means of airship might be feasible. for an aviator to alight on the vast flat circle of the castle roof, to pick up a prisoner, and fly off again, would presumably be an easy matter. but in those days airships were unknown, and it must have been maddening to be pent so near palma that every building might be distinguished, to be able to note the coming and going of the ships, to view the fair fertile country in every direction, and yet know that the deep encompassing moat rendered any attempt at escape a futility. in one of the rooms a memorial tablet had been inserted in the wall in remembrance of a deposed minister of state, who endured six years of incarceration before dying there in . in his chamber a window, reached by steps and stone-seated, afforded a lovely prospect across the blue waters of the harbour to the stately cathedral and the town. it was pitiful to see that the gaudy tiles that paved the embrasure were worn bare, and to note that, by some curious coincidence, the face in the bas-relief looked longingly towards the window. in the immense kitchen the most remarkable feature was the chimney--a space like a large room--of which the smoke-blackened sides narrowed up and up, until far overhead its orifice appeared a mere eyelet of light against the sky. but this ancient fireplace had been superseded by a long range of charcoal stoves, and the savour of roasting oxen will never again ascend that giant chimney. the castle of bellver is full of interest, but it is the roof that holds the visitor fascinated. on its surface one can walk round and round in perfect security, meeting a fresh and glorious picture at every turn. to the north the high velvet hills bar the view. southwards, beyond the clustered roofs of the terreno, the mediterranean ripples away towards the african coast. towards the west amid the hills lies ben dinat, where, after the historic battle, the conquistador dined well off bread and garlic; and east is the lovely plain of palma, with santa catalina and son españolet (and the quite inconspicuous casa tranquila) in the middle distance. round the battlements many names, both of the bond and of the free, were carven. our guide proudly pointed out three that, coming amongst the spanish designations, we read with a curious sense of familiarity:-- "john sutherland black. james hunter. james hunter, junr." the date was august, . and the owners of the british names, our guide told us, were scientific men who had journeyed to palma to witness the total eclipse of the sun. and in so doing they assuredly showed wisdom, for it would have been difficult to find a better place from which to observe the phenomenon than this wide roof that seemed so near the sky. when the men essayed to climb the high tower i waited below on the roof, and was idly leaning over the battlements when a stonecrop fast-rooted in the interstices of the wall attracted me. wondering what manner of plant would choose to live in that arid situation, i was examining it closely when i discovered that, even in that seemingly inaccessible spot, a caterpillar had found it out, and was busily feeding on its succulent foliage. the caterpillar might be a common one--i have little knowledge of entomology--but it was new to me; and its appearance was so unusually gay as to appear to merit description. the body, which showed alternate stripes of light and dark grey, was girdled by black bands, which were further decorated by spots of vivid scarlet; while the head--or was it the tail?--flaunted a double scarlet plume. when the men again joined me, i drew the attention of the custodian to the gaudy insect, and asked if he knew the species. he shook his head dubiously, confessing that he had never noticed one like it before. then his eyes caught sight of the plant on which it fed, and he instantly brightened up. "i know that plant," he said. "it is valuable, señora, very valuable. it makes a good medicine." our next visit was to the lonja. in the good old days when palma was a great mercantile centre--the days when thirty thousand sailors found employment from its port--a majorcan architect designed the lonja to serve as an exchange. this old-time architect and his builders must have been past masters of their art, for though hundreds of years have slipped by since then, and the lonja no more serves any active purpose, it still survives to delight by the simple grandeur of its design. seen as it stands with only a wide thoroughfare separating it from the sparkling waters of the port, with its palm-trees in front and a cloudless blue sky overhead, the antique building is one of the most beautiful sights in a city that abounds in beautiful things. we had been told that the lonja was open to the public on the afternoons of thursdays and sundays. so one sunday evening, early in our stay, the man and i stopped in front of the great door, and tried to push it open. it did not yield a hair's-breadth. indeed, it seemed to wear an expression of stolid immobility, as though secretly defying our puny efforts to induce it to reveal the treasures it guarded. sitting in a chair in the shadow of the building an old policeman was dozing. him the man roused and interrogated. he shook his head over the idea of the lonja being on view on stated days. but the lonja was at the _disposicion_ of the señor. the señor could see it on any day. he would fetch the keeper of the keys. [illustration: palma, from the woods of bellver] toddling off across the square of the palm-trees, he disappeared, and in a few minutes returned, followed by that official, bearing the emblem of his office in the form of a massive key. the great door opened and closed behind us, and we found ourselves in a vast square hall, from whose dark marble floor six noble pillars rose to meet the high vaulted roof. like the cathedral, the lonja was built of the warm, buff-hued native stone, and the marble flooring was also of majorcan origin, for it was quarried in the mountains of the island. the materials used in the construction were the same; but while the cathedral impresses by its solemn majesty of conception, the lonja charms with its beautiful simplicity of design, its inspiriting sense of light and air. the four wide windows were partly boarded up, the light entering only through the open carving at the tops. yet the hall was so well illuminated that it was easy to see every detail of the pictures that covered a great portion of the walls. the collection of pictures, though of no great importance, one imagines might be better hung, better framed, and in some way catalogued. certain of the canvasses lacked frames. a soiled card inscribed with the name of the artist was stuck in the frames of others. one portion of the wall-space was covered by interesting old paintings that had been removed from the antique church of san domingo. and a large modern picture by a well-known spanish painter attracted us both by the excellence of its workmanship and by the peculiarity of its subject: a bride and bridegroom--the man old, uninviting, and with strangely deformed feet; the woman young, attractive, and evidently of a lower social position--were standing before a brilliantly lit altar joining hands in marriage. on the bride's left stood her peasant mother, proud almost to arrogance at the wealthy marriage her pretty daughter was making. behind were two workmen brothers, whispering and giggling. the satire of the artist's intention was revealed in the title, _en el nombre del padre, y del higo, y del espiritu santo_, which was conspicuously painted on the frame. high on the wall over the door that opens on to the garden two grotesque gargoyles look down on a finely sculptured bas-relief of the virgin and child. across the little enclosure with its fruit-laden palm-tree, its tired-looking olive--how is it that olives always seem to pine for mountain slopes?--and its aloes, is a strikingly antique gate. as the keeper of the keys pointed out, it was the original gate of the mole of the ancient port, and when in the seventeenth century the harbour was reconstructed, it was wisely deemed worthy of preservation. behind it is the antique concilio del mar, which is now the escuela superior de comercio. showing us a door leading to a staircase, the custodian suggested that the view to be obtained from the roof of the lonja was fine. he did not attempt to join our climb, and when we had mounted the eighty-two steps of the spiral stair we did not wonder that he had refrained. but the sight from the path which extended round the four sides of the square roof was wonderful. each point of view held fresh interest--whether it was the harbour with the shipping and the shining sea beyond, or the grand cathedral seen across the lively marina, or the eight-storey-high houses, whose upper-floor dwellings opened to roof terraces or blossomed out in poultry-houses and dove-cots. but best of all, i think, was the vista of the road leading towards santa catalina, and the terreno, and the castle of bellver, behind which the sun was setting. [illustration: second class] vi the fair at inca our first experience of the majorcan railway system was a curious and unexpected one. having a fancy to see inca, a thriving town situated in the very heart of the island, we called at palma station one november day and asked for a time-table. the one handed us--it was the latest issued--bore the date of july, . but even although it was well over two years old there appeared to have been no alteration either in the hours of departure or of arrival. learning that thursday was the market-day at inca, we got up before sunrise on a thursday morning and reached the station in good time for the train that was timed to leave at . . the _other_ train, for only two trains a day leave palma, was out of the question, as it did not start until two o'clock. we had imagined that the paucity of trains argued a corresponding scarcity of travellers, but to our surprise the station was already crowded with a pleasantly excited mob of people, all in gala dress. the women had their mantillas or lace-embroidered _rebozillos_ fastened to the hair with little gold pins, and many wore long white gloves reaching to the sleeves, which were decorated at the elbows with a row of gold or silver buttons. the little shawls that are always a feature of native full dress were of all colours and materials, from silk with long fringes to richly-hued plush or delicate light brocades. the trains of majorca resemble those of most other civilized countries in providing first, second, and third-class carriages. the first are cramped and stuffy. the second are inferior to some old-fashioned uncushioned english third-class. the third closely resemble cattle-trucks with benches running along the sides and down the middle. they have no windows; leather curtains protect their open sides. we went second-class, as did the majority of our fellow-travellers. long before the hour of starting, every carriage, with the exception of the firsts, which were almost empty, was packed full of passengers, all talking at the pitch of their voices. but nothing happened until quite forty minutes after the time fixed for departure, when the engine gave a violent jerk, as though putting all its strength into a superhuman effort, the women crossed themselves devoutly, and the train moved slowly out of the station. so slowly indeed, that three late-comers, arriving on the platform after the train was in motion, not only succeeded in entering the train but were able, by running forward, to secure places in the front carriages. inca is separated from the capital by twenty miles of fertile orchard land. the single line of rail cuts through great tracts of country planted with fig-trees, with almonds, and with olives. in many cases the ground underneath the trees was red and golden with autumn tinted leaves of grape vines, or verdant with the green of shooting corn. as the moments passed, and the sun rose higher, the mist wreaths that had lain about the plain dispersed; and the blue hills to the north made noble background for the spreading plantations. within our crowded carriage all was good humour. nobody seemed to find anything to grumble at in the slow rate of progress. an early stopping-place was santa maria. we had only come a few miles, yet girls were waiting to sell nuts, and biscuits put up in neat paper cylinders, to those of the travellers--and they were many--who had already had time to be hungry; while an old woman carrying a water-jar and tumbler attended, ready for the smallest coin to supply the thirsty with water. the little journey was hardly begun, and there seemed but small reason to tarry at santa maria, yet the delay became so extended that the passengers, still maintaining their perfect good humour, began exchanging visits from one portion of the train to another. an old gentleman clad in a complete suit of striped mustard-colour plush and yellow elastic-sided boots called at our compartment to exchange compliments with a comely elderly dame, who in conjunction with handsome jewellery had her hair--which was in a pigtail--covered with a gaily striped silk handkerchief. so the minutes wore on. at intervals a warning bell rang, but nobody accorded it the slightest attention, and wisely so, for nothing happened. at length, with a joint-dislocating jerk, we again got under-way, only to come to a dead stop a hundred yards further on. the train, it was at length admitted, was too heavy for the motive power. the empty first-class carriages were detached; that accomplished, we actually progressed. the twenty miles were ultimately covered, and we succeeded in reaching inca, with its picturesque row of windmills and grand setting of purple mountains, only two hours late. joining the stream of people, we entered the town, to discover what spectators less accustomed to crowds would long ago have discovered--that by some lucky chance we had come to inca on the great day of its year--the annual _feria_. all the ways leading towards the centre of the town were lined with empty vehicles and up-tilted carts, and in the narrow streets the owners were promenading. the fair was largely a business matter. it presented few of the elements of entertainment common to that of an english country town. the only thing in the way of amusement that we saw was a merry-go-round, and that was being quietly ignored. one interesting feature was that each street held its own species of merchandise. in one, clothing and brightly-hued foot-gear were sold. another was wholly given up to sweet stalls, whose principal article was a species of white confection composed apparently of chopped almonds and sugar. that it was good the myriads of bees that were tasting its sweetness bore testimony. in yet another street we had to walk between a long double row of women seated on rush-bottomed chairs, each bearing in her lap an earthenware cooking-pot full of a puzzling commodity that had something of the appearance of crimson threads. it appeared to be the only commodity they had to offer, and i own we never succeeded in discovering what it was. the square in front of the principal church was the centre of attraction for us. on one side the ground was covered with a fine display of native ware. jars, and plates, and pots, and vases, in the greens and yellows and browns that look so tempting and are so cheap. the touch of vermilion, artistically so valuable to the busy scene, was given by the huge sacks bulging with scarlet and orange sweet peppers that form such an important part of majorcan food. two maimed beggars, the first we had seen in the island, were hobbling about reaping a harvest; and, raised on a little platform, a travelling dentist was extracting juvenile teeth free; to the satisfaction of certain thrifty parents, and to the visible distress of their offspring. just below the square was the cattle-market; and on its outskirts we saw, for the first time, a peasant clad in the native male dress that unfortunately has become so rare. the jolly old fellow wore the extremely baggy blue cotton pantaloons, the short black jacket, and wide-brimmed hat that make up so distinctive a costume. he even wore the quaint black shoes that suit the costume, and that seemed a blessed relief from the green and orange elastic-sided boots in vogue. [illustration: a corner of the fair at inca] a threatened shower and an actual thirst gave excuse for seeking refuge in a café. most of those we glanced into were crowded with peasants, and we hesitated about forcing our way in. finding at last one that looked more exclusive than the others, we entered and seated ourselves at one of the little tables set under the overhanging tissue-paper decorations. the boy and i wanted wine, the man chose cognac. the active waiter quickly served us with huge tumblers of red wine set in saucers; and placing before the man a bottle of brandy in which were immersed spiky herbs, left him to help himself. the wine was rich and fruity, the liqueur the man declared delicious; and while the rain, which was now falling in earnest, pattered down, we sipped and watched the passing life of the street. just across the way, at the side entrance to a flourishing baker's shop, two women were frying dough-nuts in a big pan of boiling oil. the elder woman, scraping a segment of batter from the full basin at her elbow, deftly twisted it round her finger, then threw it into the oil, from which a minute later her assistant lifted it out with a long-handled spoon, transformed into a crisp golden ring. the shower had ceased, the sun was again shining out, and there was much to see; so we paid for our drinks and departed. "fourpence!" said the man, as he pocketed his change. "a penny each for the wine and twopence for the liqueur! it's enough to drive one to drink!" the one drawback to the complete enjoyment of the fair was the mud. the previous night had been wet, and the streets were inches deep in it. it was a buff-coloured slime of persistently adhesive nature, and not content with thickly coating one's shoes, it tried to drag them off. to walk about in mud three inches deep is fatiguing, so we decided to take the train that was due to leave inca at one o'clock, instead of waiting for that leaving at four. it was a merciful fortune that guided us, for the one o'clock train took three hours to cover its twenty miles. yet the scenery, with its grey-green olive plantations set against a background of beautiful mountains and enlivened with quaintly attired olive-gatherers, was so fine that we did not tire of feasting our eyes upon it. our companions on the return journey were mainly men--palma merchants probably, who had visited the fair as buyers and were anxious to return with the greatest possible expedition. when those who were so adventurous as to wait until the later train would get back to town, or whether they ever reached it at all, history does not relate. [illustration: where the hills meet the plain, esglayeta] vii valldemosa the fertile plain that occupies the greater portion of the island of majorca is sheltered from cold winds by the range of mountains that runs along the northern coast. the scenery on the farther side of the mountains is of unusual grandeur, the tracts of precipitous country bordering the sea between valldemosa and sóller being exceptionally lovely. the district, which is almost entirely devoted to olive plantations, is a scantily populated one. and as there are no _fondas_ for a considerable distance, the austrian archduke luis salvador, who owns much land on the northern coast, has turned a large farm-house on his estate of miramar into an _hospederia_, or free lodging-house, for the use of travellers. there are many _hospederias_ in spain, but they are generally attached to monasteries and intended for the use of pilgrims to some shrine. that at miramar is the only instance i know of one supported by a private individual, and many sojourners from far lands like ourselves must have felt grateful to the royal owner for the kindly provision he has made for them. within the friendly walls of the hospederia any sojourner can for three nights find free accommodation, the archduke providing house-room, linen, service, and fuel. the apartments are always ready, the guest need send no warning of his intended arrival. all he requires to do is to supply himself with food sufficient for the sustenance of his party throughout the visit, as there are no shops within several miles of miramar, and the servants at the hospederia are forbidden to sell to the guests. very early during our stay at palma we had purposed journeying northwards to see the places of whose wonders we had heard; but we were so pleasantly interested in our new home and strange environment that it was nearing the close of november before we felt disposed to take the journey. at stated times diligences run the twelve miles between palma and valldemosa, and the charge is only sevenpence-halfpenny. but the diligence goes no farther than valldemosa, and that is three miles distant from the hospederia. so, when we had decided to go on the tuesday morning, we engaged bartolomé, a good-looking bachelor charioteer, who stabled his carriage and pair of horses in son españolet, to drive us thither. but tuesday morning, when it came, brought a sudden change of weather. a strong easterly wind was blowing, and the temperature, for the first time since our arrival on these favoured isles, nearly approached cold. bartolomé was warned that the journey was postponed for a day at least, and we spent the hours of uncertainty in grumbling at the weather, and in consuming the most perishable of the stock of provisions we had laid in for the expedition. judging the majorcan climate by our knowledge of that of other countries, we were all secretly convinced that we had delayed too long, that the weather had probably changed for the winter, and that our little excursion might require to be postponed until spring. but to our surprise and relief the succeeding morning proved calm and sunny. having been duly instructed, bartolomé drove up at ten o'clock precisely, with a jingling of bells that i am convinced set every feminine head in the calle de mas a-peer behind its discreetly closed venetian shutters. in appearance bartolomé was the embodiment of buoyant geniality. his black hair curled in rings about his smiling face, and he had dressed for the occasion in a white suit, a pink shirt, and a pair of bright yellow elastic-sided boots. bartolomé's carriage, the sides of whose interior were decorated with four antimacassars on each of which was embroidered a flamboyant representation of a rampant steed, proved both roomy and comfortable, and we were only three in number. yet when we had got packed in with our luggage, which included sketching materials as well as comestibles, there was scarcely room to stir. never before had we realized what a cumbersome article food was: or calculated the bulk of--say--the bread even so small a family will consume in three days. and when you add to the loaves the meat and groceries, the vegetables and fruit, necessary for three days' moderate consumption, they will be found to occupy a surprisingly large amount of space. the first portion of the journey led through the broad, fertile plain north of palma, where plantations of almond, fig, and olive succeed each other with scarcely a break--that wide expanse whose fruitfulness has gained majorca the title of the orchard of the mediterranean. near where the hills meet the plain we passed the village of esglayeta, an attractive hamlet consisting of little more than a church and a wayside _fonda_. the noses of the horses had been pointing directly towards a precipitous cleft in the range of mountains, and almost unexpectedly we entered the valley that divided two great hills. as we drove on, the winding road gradually ascended, until we found ourselves in the midst of the mountains and within sight of the outlying portion of lovely valldemosa. in his _byways of europe_ bayard taylor said: "verily there is nothing in all europe so beautiful as valldemosa." and indeed the ancient town, rising on its heights amid still higher heights above the valley that runs seawards, is strikingly beautiful. it is only when taking valldemosa in detail that one notices that its people are not quite so handsome, that they lack the gracious and light-hearted bearing of the inhabitants of palma, that their dress is poorer, and the streets more squalid. perhaps the difference in climate may account for the difference in appearance, for valldemosa stands high among the mountains, and its climate is both colder and damper than that of palma. the situation is supposed to be extremely healthy. it was at valldemosa, on the site afterwards occupied by the carthusian monastery, that in king sancho, who was afflicted with asthma, built a palace to which he removed his court, and from which he gave his hawking parties. at the suggestion of bartolomé, we paused to visit the church attached to the old monastery, which was shown us by an elderly woman, who, unlike most of the country people, spoke excellent spanish and understood our efforts in that language. under her guidance we visited the chapel, a fine old treasure-house of carved effigies of saints, of paintings, and of relics in glass cases all carefully wrapped up and labelled. the colours of the paintings that adorn the walls and ceiling, the work of two carthusian monks, are as vivid as though still wet from the brush. and the remarkable altar-piece, with its life-size figures in wax, is worth a special visit. walking through the cloisters of the carthusian monastery, we passed the doors of the cells, which are now used as dwelling-houses, and it occurred to us to ask if our old woman knew in which of the cells george sand had passed her memorable winter in company with her children and with chopin, and if it would be possible for us to see it. our guide appeared to be familiar with both questions. she had no hesitation in answering them in the affirmative; and preceding us briskly down the long, ascetic-looking corridor (that accorded so ill with our notion of madame dudevant), knocked at the door numbered . "but if people are living in the house, will they not object? we must not disturb them," we demurred. our guardian thrust aside our protest as trivial, and in truth it was offered in a perfunctory spirit. "no, no," she assured us. "the señor will be pleased. he is a nice gentleman. he was the doctor of valldemosa for thirty years, till he retired. he will show you the house himself." and indeed the señor, when he appeared, was graciousness itself. welcoming us after the spanish fashion, he put his house and what it contained at our disposal. in this case the courtesy proved more than a form of words, for he personally conducted us over all his domain. first he showed us the terrace garden, from whose low boundary-wall, as from a balcony, one could look over the scattered houses that nestled among their laden orange-trees, towards the distant sea. the sun was shining; the air was heavy with the perfume of the loquat blossoms; a delicious languor lay over all. it was easy to imagine george sand leaning on that wall, whose base was so thickly fringed with luxuriant maidenhair fern, revelling in the beauty of her surroundings. but my thoughts and sympathy were most with the monks who, on the suppression of the convents in , were obliged to leave their quiet cells and the gardens that must have been a perpetual delight to them, and go elsewhere to subsist on the scant pension of a franc a day. [illustration: valldemosa] taking us indoors, the doctor showed us the living-rooms, five of which looked out to the terrace-garden. the name of "cell" suggests accommodation that is cramped and austere, but nothing could have been more cheerful than these sunlit chambers. in the large, airy _salon_, with its domed ceiling, one could easily imagine both musician and novelist finding abundant space to work, he with his "velvet fingers," as his companion christened them, she with her facile pen. and in the quaint kitchen, with its range of charcoal stoves and big, open fireplace, one could picture them gathering on the nights of that cold winter. it would have been impossible to find a more idyllic setting for a romantic episode. still, i must confess that doubts assailed me; for in november, , when writing to a friend, george sand had said:-- "i have a cell, that is to say, three rooms and a garden full of oranges and lemons, for thirty-five francs a year, in the large monastery of valldemosa." and this house of the doctor's, with its spacious _salon_, its large dining-room, its many sleeping-apartments? no, much though we desired it, the descriptions hardly tallied. then in her account of the unusually severe winter madame dudevant wrote of the "eagles and vultures that came down to feast on the poor sparrows that sheltered in their pomegranate trees from the snow." now in the garden there was a _kake_ tree laden with ripe rose-red fruit, and other trees, but no pomegranate. but then that was many years past, and the trunk of the pomegranate-tree might long ago have been burnt on that wide hearth in the kitchen. speaking of the matter to the good doctor, we found our uncertainty shared. throwing out his hands he said humorously:-- "who knows? there is no record. it was _one_ of the cells. that much is certain. and this was the house of the superior. if not this house, it was another. that is enough." but as we descended the slope from the monastery we agreed that, whether or not the great french _artistes_ ever lived within the walls of that particular cell, there could be no question that they had breathed the sweet air of these terrace-gardens, and had known the enchantment of that wonderful panoramic view. and that made their personalities very real to us. bartolomé awaited us smiling, and, insinuating ourselves among our medley of belongings, off we set along the three miles of road that led to miramar. on the outskirts of valldemosa we saw, for the first time in majorca, vines climbing over tall trees by the wayside, their grapes in purple bunches suspended in profusion from the branches. the effect was so beautiful that we almost regretted the more prosaic vineyards near palma, with the carefully trained vines that resembled well-pruned blackberry bushes. as we advanced, passing through a succession of olive plantations that rose above us towards the grand craggy mountains and fell beneath us to the blue sea, glimpses of which we caught over the foliage, the beauty of the scene that gradually unfolded surpassed all that we had yet seen. the man groaned a little, as during the next three days he was fated to groan often, and for the same reason. "this is _too_ grand," he said. "it's hopeless. one could never paint it!" turning a bend of the road, bartolomé drew rein with a flourish before a quaint dwelling by the wayside; and we realized that we had reached the hospederia. "i say! we ought to have sent word we were coming. i hope the house isn't full. i hope they'll have room for us," said the boy, voicing the sudden apprehension of us all. but so far from being crowded with visitors, the hospederia seemed totally deserted. the great door was shut and, except for a vagrant cat and a clucking hen, there was no sign of life about the place. shouting lustily for "fernando," bartolomé jumped down and, running to the door, knocked loudly. receiving no reply, he did not stand upon ceremony but, pushing open the door, went in, beckoning us to follow. entering, we found ourselves in a large outer hall with a cobbled floor and a long well-scrubbed table and benches. following our charioteer, who had opened an inner door, we went into a large dimly-lit room which, when the window-shutters had been opened, revealed itself as a long narrow dining-room of severely ascetic appearance. tables extended down its length, chairs with seats of interwoven string stood round the walls. "look, señora!" running to a cupboard, bartolomé had thrown open the door, disclosing shelves laden with china and crystal. again--"look! señora." hastening to the opposite side of the room, he had opened the doors of a big _armário_, and was pointing to piles of clean table-linen. it was as though we had strayed into some enchanted castle where all had been prepared for our coming by invisible hands. going off to explore further, we found our way into a snug kitchen. the whole of one side was occupied by a brown-tiled charcoal stove, on which many dinners could have been cooked simultaneously. the shelves were laden with cooking-pots and pans, of every description; the walls shone with an array of well-polished utensils. over charcoal embers a huge earthenware pot, that for its better preservation had been encased in a strait-waistcoat of wire-netting, was slowly bubbling. essaying to mount the stair leading from the hall, we peeped into closely shuttered apartments in which we could see the dim outlines of beds. and what we saw assured us of one thing--that there were no other guests at the hospederia. from the perfect order of the house, and the fact that the fire was burning, it was clear that someone must be close at hand. but we had come a long way, and in the meantime we were famishing. hastening to our aid, the ubiquitous bartolomé spread the table, putting out plates and glasses, and finding wooden spoons and forks in the drawer of a side-table. opening our packets of sandwiches and fruit, we invited him to join us. we were all seated at table, busily eating, when a swift clatter of feet sounded on the cobble stones of the outer hall; and a brisk little brown woman ran into the room, voluble with apology for the temporary absence of the keepers of the hospederia. netta, she explained, was away. fernando was working at the farm. in their absence could she be of any service to our excellencies? reassured on that point, the lady--catalina was her name--remained to enliven our picnic lunch by rallying bartolomé, who was an old acquaintance of hers, on his unparalleled effrontery in sitting down to table with us. "you have no right to eat with their excellencies," she said. "you are only a coachman." "but if he is a good coachman?" asked the man. "ah, no, señor. he is not a good coachman. he is a bad coachman. and, besides, he cannot spread a table. see! he has given you no table-cloth, no napkins, when he knows the cupboard is full of them. no, he is a very bad coachman indeed!" when our scrap meal was finished, catalina proceeded to show us our sleeping accommodation. unlocking a door that we had not tried, she led us through a pleasant room with two beds, to one with two windows--one facing the highroad, where bartolomé's carriage still waited, the other affording a beautiful view of the rugged coast. catalina explained that these rooms were usually allotted to foreigners such as ourselves, the less attractively situated being reserved for natives of the island, who were at liberty to share the archduke's hospitality, although the hospederia was originally intended for the use of other travellers. a handsome new dining-room in process of construction, though during our stay no one was actually working at it, was also planned for the accommodation of those from far countries, but to us the appointments of the older building seemed peculiarly in keeping with the quaint idea of the hospederia. the bedrooms were simply but sufficiently furnished. each had two single beds, half-a-dozen chairs, a plain wooden table, and a tripod washstand holding the smallest basin and ewer we had seen outside france. the roofs were raftered. all was the perfection of austere cleanliness. before our inspection was ended fernando, the host, a good-looking man with the gracious deportment of an operatic tenor, had returned. his grandmother had been the original housekeeper of the hospederia. on her death, at the age of ninety-nine, her office had descended upon fernando and his young wife netta. we spent the all too short november afternoon and evening in exploring the slopes about miramar, looking at the glorious views that perpetually presented some yet more glorious aspect. the hospederia was over a thousand feet above the sea, to which the ground fell precipitously. above the house the land rose up and up until it ended in towering crags. northward stretched the mediterranean. elsewhere the eye met nothing but range upon range of mountains. the extensive grounds of miramar are well shaded with olive and carob trees, but at every point that affords a specially good view of some part of the exquisite scenery the archduke has caused to be erected a _mirador_, or walled enclosure, where one can sit in safety and glory in the beauty of the surroundings. from one of these we watched the after-glow of the setting sun illumine distant peaks, bringing into prominence heights whose existence we had scarcely realized. the darkness, falling swiftly, surprised us while a good distance from the hospederia, and we had to find our way back by untried paths. but the fascination of the place held us captive, and when the moon began to peep out from among the clouds we could not remain indoors, as more sensible folks would have done. wrapping up a little, for it was colder on the northern coast of the island than at palma, we went out, determined to reach a headland by the sea, on which from above we had caught tantalizing glimpses of a shining white temple. except from a _mirador_ the temple was not visible, and we wandered by many devious ways before we again came in sight of it, perched above the sea on a high rock that is reached by a stone bridge thrown over a deep gully. as we felt our way along, for the elusive moon was again behind a cloud, all was silent, mysterious. surely miramar at nightfall in winter is one of the most silent places on the earth. we felt as though there was not a human being alive but ourselves. crossing the bridge timorously, we found ourselves confronting the ghostly white chapel. when we had told catalina of our desire to visit it, she had given us keys, but they did not fit. and as we proceeded to fumble with the lock, the silence was so intense that i could almost have imagined that someone within was holding his breath to listen. had we knocked upon that closed door i had an eerie conviction that the spectre of some long-dead monk would have opened it. but we did not knock. and the moon favouring us with a glimpse of her illumining power, we walked round the base of the temple, which is securely railed in, and watched the moon outline with silver finger-tips each point and pinnacle of the hills and shimmer softly on the sea. when we returned to the hospederia, fernando had gone to fetch his wife; and catalina, who had been left in charge, bustled into the dining-room to tell us that two _carabineros_ had come, and were resting in the kitchen. "have they come after us?" cried the man; and catalina, who enjoyed even the mildest of humour, wrinkled her brown face in delight. the dining-room where we sat was large and dimly lit by oil lamps. after the silence of those wooded slopes the prospect of even the company of two _carabineros_ was alluring. so when i went into the kitchen to cook the lamb cutlets and tomatoes that comprised our modest supper, my men followed me. [illustration: carabineros in the kitchen] the kitchen, which was the most picturesque part of the hospederia, was looking particularly snug and cosy. a fire of logs burned on the open hearth, below the shining tin pans and the strings of red peppers, and lit up the fine bronzed faces of the _carabineros_, who sat close to its warmth. they rose when we entered, to offer us their seats. one, spreading his striped blanket on the low settle, invited the man to share it; and while i grilled the cutlets and catalina washed dishes at the sink, the men chatted as freely as their difference of language would allow, the _carabineros_ talking of their long hours of duty--for their patrol begins at five or six o'clock in the evening and does not end until seven next morning--and of the constant watch that has to be kept for smugglers on that lonely and seemingly scarce accessible coast. leaving them to resume their night watch, we supped and went to bed, to be roused in the early morning by voices. netta, the house-mistress, had returned, and thenceforward the lively catalina would relapse into the position of merely an obliging neighbour. [illustration: la trinidad, miramar] viii miramar when we went downstairs to breakfast netta was setting the table; setting it, too, after a fashion of her own which never varied, were the meal breakfast, luncheon or dinner. first she spread the cloth, whose lack at luncheon on the previous day had so offended catalina's sense of what was neat and proper. then she put before each place a big tumbler, a little tumbler, two soup-plates, and a wooden spoon and fork. netta proved to be tall and nice-looking, with tragic dark eyes, and a gravity of manner that was in striking contrast to her husband's smiling bonhomie. she was an admirable housewife. we never caught her at work; yet, without the slightest appearance of fuss and flurry, she managed to keep everything the pink of perfection. the weather was hardly promising. rain had fallen in the night; veils of mist smothered the crests of the near hills and completely obliterated the more distant. but we were resolved to let nothing short of an actual downpour keep us indoors. and as the man wished to sketch at valldemosa, which had captivated us all on the previous day, the boy and i accompanied him thither. perhaps it is unwise to attempt to renew first impressions. possibly the charm of miramar clouded our eyes to the undoubted beauty of valldemosa. more likely the fact that the sun only peeped out fitfully, and that the wind was damp and the sky sullen, influenced our view: but somehow valldemosa seemed to have lost the glamour it cast over us when we first saw it basking in the warm sunlight. everybody seemed chilly, and all the children looked as if they had colds in their noses. leaving the man working at a water-colour of the old carthusian monastery from rising ground above a covered well, we set off with the intention of augmenting our little stock of provisions from the shops of the town. the store we chanced upon sold every likely and unlikely commodity, from green and orange boots to radishes. when we inquired where we might find a butcher, the shop-mistress, with a majestic wave of her hand, signed to us to follow her. and, walking in her footsteps, we threaded our way through an apartment, which was partly kitchen and partly an overflow stock chamber, into an inner room, where hung garlands of black and yellow sausages and the carcasses of two lambs. this was the butcher's shop, she announced, and there was no beef, only lamb. so perforce we added yet more cutlets to our diet, and humbly craved bread. but the only loaves she had were so large that, rejecting them, we went in search of a baker. in the less important majorcan towns, shops are difficult to find. the fact that a tax is levied upon signs keeps all but the most prominent vendors from exhibiting one. the room of an ordinary house that opens directly to the street usually acts as the place of business; and a cabbage, or a basket of striped haricot beans, set casually on the doorstep, often serves to indicate the existence of a general shop. after a little searching we succeeded in finding a _panaderia_, but the loaves of the baker, in place of being smaller than those of the grocer (which sounds ollendorffian), were so huge that they resembled cartwheels, or, to be more exact, perambulator wheels, baked of rye. for a moment the choice lay between possible starvation and the prospect of trundling the mammoth rye loaf up and down the three miles of highway that lay between us and the hospederia. while we hesitated, the baker lady, and the half dozen or so of her intimate friends who had followed us into the shop to see what the foreigners would buy, regarded us interestedly. then a compromise suggested itself. "would it be possible to ask the señora to divide the loaf?" "yes--without doubt." the complacent señora already had the large knife in her hand. so, clutching the half of the still steaming rye loaf, we returned to the man, with whom we had arranged to share an open-air luncheon. before we had reached him, the mist that had been threatening to swoop down upon us resolved itself into a shower. taking advantage of the near vicinity of the covered well, we boiled our tea-kettle under the archway, and drank tea, to the surprise of the people who were constantly coming to fill their water-jars. then, the sun consenting, rather sulkily, to peep out again, the man returned to his work, while the boy and i, feeling no further temptation to linger at valldemosa, took up our section of the cartwheel and set off for miramar. on the way, not far beyond the outskirts of the town, we caught sight of a notice-board, which stated that a museum of mallorquin antiquities might be seen in a house on the side of the road nearest to the mountains. following the path indicated, we found ourselves, after a few minutes walking, in the courtyard of what had evidently been a fine old country seat. the doors stood open to the world. except for a beautiful flock of cream-coloured turkeys, the place seemed utterly untenanted. there was no sign of humanity until the boy woke the echoes by smiting lustily on a cow-bell that hung outside the kitchen door. then a little sun-dried old woman popped her head out, and with a scared face fled up a broad flight of steps that led from the courtyard to the floor above. she had gone to warn the custodian of the museum; and that dame, quickly appearing, invited us upstairs to see the collection. the house, son moragues, she told us, was one of the many owned by the archduke on the different estates he had bought. he had never used it as a residence, and merely kept it as a receptacle for the specimens of typical mallorquin manufactures, such as pottery, models of baskets, furniture, etc., he was collecting. the object that interested us perhaps more than any other exhibit was a jar that had been salved from the sea in palma harbour. although a genuine antique it was of the shape in use to-day; and its unrecorded period of immersion had left it encrusted with a marvellous decoration of barnacles and shells. what really delighted us most in the museum were the views from the balconies; especially those obtained from a great old _terras_ with a sloping floor, where we stood in the brilliant sunshine and watched the showers sweeping along the mountain tops and up the valley. down below us was a thick hedge of prickly pear, the edges of the fleshy leaves ruched with scarlet fruit. and beside us, as we leant on the edge of the balcony, was a wire tray on which a quantity of figs, gathered presumably from the trees in the field beneath, were drying in the sun. the quaint old garden, which we saw on the way out, had tall box hedges and a spreading magnolia, and crumbling stone seats surrounded the fountain, whose waters have long run dry. in the evening i had gone to bed early, leaving the others to follow their own devices, and was sleeping the sleep of the woman who had been all day in the open air, when an insistent calling of my name aroused me back to semi-consciousness, and i gradually gathered that i must descend to open the door. the men, who had gone out walking in the moonlight, had returned to find that, inadvertently, the house door had been locked and barred against them. had my room been less accessible, or my sleep more profound, they might have knocked and called in vain, for although it was hardly nine o'clock, fernando and netta were deep in the slumber of the agriculturist in some unknown roof-chamber of the tall old house. although so isolated in position, miramar is intimately connected with the romantic life-history of ramon lull--rake, recluse, scholar, fanatic, martyr, saint--what you will. the father of ramon lull--the name is variously spelt: raymund lully in the english; ramundo lulio in the spanish; and ramon lull in the mallorquin, which has a bad habit of chipping the ends off words--was one of those brave young knights of aragon who fought with their king during his invasion and conquest of majorca. when that war had ended happily for all but the moors, the parent lull, in company with the other nobles who had supported king jaime the conquistador, was rewarded with an estate in majorca. and there, about six years later, his son ramon was born. during his earlier manhood ramon gave little hint of what he was ultimately to become. his behaviour was by no means sedate. nay, more, it is on record that his love affairs were so numerous as to become a public scandal, which reached a climax on his riding on horseback into church in pursuit of a devout lady whom he madly adored. the fatal illness of this lady, by awakening his conscience and rousing him to a sense of sin, changed the current of his thoughts, and after a period of self-accusation and contrition, he decided not only to lead a better life, but to spend that life in the reformation of others. king jaime, on being applied to, supplied the funds necessary for the carrying out of his project, and lull erected a college at miramar, where close by the house of the archduke a fragment of the original chapel is still to be seen. his scheme was to teach thirteen monks arabic, so that they could go forth as missionaries among the infidels. and miramar, one of the most secluded spots on earth, as well as one of the most beautiful, he deemed a suitable place for study. but the scheme failed. why, the chroniclers do not say. perhaps the students, being merely human, wearied of the restrictions of existence in that seminary perched on the hill-side between the mountains and the sea, and pined for company. the project was abandoned. a later record speaks of king sancho, grandson of the conquistador, visiting miramar in quest of relief from the asthma with which he was afflicted, and residing at the arabic college. lull, nothing daunted by the defection of his pupils, alone put into execution his plan of carrying the truth into other lands. we hear of his preaching christ in africa and being rewarded with stripes. then we are told of his travelling in the holy land. later he appears in paris, in egypt, and even in england, writing books and teaching. in spite of besetting dangers, lull's life of study and propagandism lasted beyond the ordinary term of man. when he was an octogenarian, and probably weary of the struggle, he desired to quit the world in a blaze of glory; and, as the best means of attaining his end, returned to africa, where earlier he had been received with contumely and severely beaten. there lull met the fate he coveted: for continuing to preach openly and persistently, he was stoned to death at bugia in june, . some genoese disciples who had begged for his bruised and broken body brought it tenderly back to his birthplace. we had seen the spot of its interment in the beautiful church of san francisco, at palma, a gothic temple of the thirteenth century, that vies in antiquity with the cathedral. one of the chapels in the transept to the left of the high altar gives sepulture to the aged martyr. the effigy shown is that of an old man lying on his side, as though to signify that his unwavering and indomitable spirit had at last gained rest. we had spoken tentatively of lull to fernando, and fernando had not only admitted a knowledge of the old-world frequenter of his slopes, but had volunteered to take us to visit his cave, a sanctuary high on the mountain-side above miramar, where lull was wont to go when he felt the need of seclusion. and at ten next morning we were waiting, expectant. but at ten fernando, just returned from his morning's work on the farm, was at breakfast. so we went to the _mirador_, below the hospederia, and spent the minutes of waiting enjoying the view that, no matter how often we saw it, always wore a different aspect. this morning, though the sun was shining on the sea and on the olives that covered the lower slopes, the higher peaks were obscured by filmy scarves of mist, and scarcely perceptible wisps were floating about the mountain sides, giving an air of mystery and grandeur to the lofty heights. then fernando appeared wiping his moustached lips, which already held the inevitable cigarette. under his guidance we moved along the highroad until we came to a gate where a cross fixed to the post betokened monastery ground. a sandalled monk passing by gave us grave greeting. there the ascent began at once, the path zigzagging about on the terraced slopes that were thickly planted with olives. the undergrowth was bright with the vivid green foliage and brilliant scarlet berries of the winter cherry. up and up we mounted, fernando and the boy walking lightly in advance, we others lagging a little behind, until we felt like birds seeking some mountain aerie; till looking down we saw nothing but a steeply shelving forest of tree tops, or looking up caught a glimpse of mist-obscured crags. the path wound about along narrow ledges and up crazy, almost obliterated steps, until with the suddenness of a surprise the track branched off to a ledge on the right, and we saw, set in the face of the solid rock, a little wicket gate. it was so long since the gate had been opened that it necessitated a strong effort on the part of fernando's broad shoulders before it would consent to open. within, the unexpected awaited us. set in the wall of the cave facing the door was an old bas-relief carving that had evidently marked the place of the altar before which the saint had been wont to worship. the passing of the centuries has gradually blurred the outlines of the carving: still we could see the form of the virgin and child, and the worshipping figure of an angel. behind the group was a background of palms. the wall still held a faint trace of fresco, and from the side hung the socket--in the shape of a bird--for an antique lamp. there was something so attractive, and even homely, in the cave, that we required no great effort of imagination to fancy lull choosing it as his hermitage, and escaping thither when he yearned for a space to be free from the society of the thirteen monks who so soon had tired of their task. that raised ledge might have served for a couch; this stone seemed the right height for a seat; a small window hewn in the side admitted sufficient light did the recluse wish to study. in the wall was a natural basin, which to this day, except when long-continued drought has dried up all the watercourses, holds a supply of fresh water. it seemed to us that lull had chosen an ideal place of seclusion in the rock-dwelling set far up in the pure air, where no sound save the twitter of bird or the far-off murmur of the sea could break the solemnity of his thoughts. everything about the cave bespoke its antiquity. the trees that fronted the entrance were hoary with age and fringed with lichen. and on the hill-side above, amidst moss-grown trees and blooming heath, a tall cross had been erected in memory of the recluse whose haven it once had been. there was yet another cave that fernando had promised to show us; one of worldly, not of religious uses this time. it was the place where in not very remote ages smugglers concealed the contraband goods that they had succeeded in landing on the coast below. so, leaving the cell of ramon lull, we followed our guide, clambering higher and yet higher, and speedily getting into the dim twilight of forests that might have existed since the beginning of the world, so venerable were they, so thickly mossed and festooned with grey-green lichen. the signs of foliage were of the scantiest. many trees revealed no more than half a dozen leaves set at the extreme tips of the lichen-furred branches. and all about was a huddled waste of stones--the debris that collects at the base of great mountains. in these gloomy recesses where daylight never enters there was no indication of life--no flutter of startled bird, not even a scurrying beetle. all was still and weird. on hastened the light-footed fernando, and on we followed more ponderously, marvelling how he knew his way where we could see no trace of a path. suddenly branching off to the right, over the rough rocks, he preceded us to where, low down amongst a tumbled heap of boulders, a slight crevice showed. smiling, he glanced back at us, then bent down and disappeared. close on his heels the boy followed. and both had vanished off the face of the earth, leaving us gaping at the mouth of the exaggerated rabbit burrow that had seemingly swallowed them up. we, wisely, did not attempt to enter. the prospect of a rough scramble did not tempt us. on his return to the surface the boy described the interior of the cave as both wide and lofty. but i must confess the idea of the smugglers conveying their illicit cargoes from the beach all that distance up the steep mountain-side to store it in a cavern that was on the way to nowhere seemed absurd. it assuredly was inaccessible. and it spoke well for the vigilance of the carbineers that the _contrabandistas_ could find no more convenient place of concealment. but had majorca not been free from the bandit plague, what a glorious place that would have been for brigands in which to keep prisoned the rich foreigners they were holding for ransom! in some such unattainable holes and crannies of the heights must the mountain moors have existed during the two years that passed before their chief surrendered to the conquistador. just beyond the smugglers' cave were the fragmentary remains of a monastery, so old and long deserted that the lichen-fringed trees had rooted as deeply within the ruined walls of its chambers as without in the forest. still further we went, keeping close on the heels of our untiring leader, for the track sloped downwards now and the going was easier. once more we were in the region of trees that seemed alive, not merely fossilized and moss-grown. like a born guide, fernando had reserved the most charming part of the excursion to the last. all unexpectedly he brought us to where, on an outjutting pinnacle of rock, the archduke had erected a chapel. from the stone seats placed round its base we had an enchanting and yet more comprehensive view than ever before of the scene that, from whatever point we chanced to see it, never failed to give us a fresh thrill of delight. and wasn't i glad to sit down! we had felt so much at home at the hospederia and so enthralled with this new world of steeps and silences that, when the last of our three days had come, we felt sincerely sorry to leave it. in torrid summer weather, when the southern plains of the island lie baking in the sun, it would be impossible to imagine a more charming way of escape from the heat than to rest under the shades of leafy miramar, or to sit at ease in one of the cunningly placed _miradors_ "looking lazy at the sea" and the everlasting hills. but the law is inexorable. when his three days' free lodging has come to an end each guest must move on to make room for others. a wise provision; for, had it not been so ruled, the first travellers who filled these beds and ate at these tables would never have left the hospederia--they would have been there yet! our next stopping-place was to be sóller, a town that is envalleyed amid the highest mountains in the island. sóller is ten miles distant from miramar, and the question was how we were to get transported thither. at the hospederia we were quite out of the way of traffic. not even a diligence lumbered by. fernando, coming to our rescue, offered to negotiate with a farmer for the use of a cart. it was the ploughing season, the busiest time of the year for both men and mules, but he succeeded in arranging that we could have the loan of a conveyance of some kind at two o'clock that afternoon for ten pesetas. the morning had been wet. happily not with the drenching, torrential rain of these latitudes, but with an insinuating moisture reminiscent of the scottish highlands. disregarding it, we made the most of the few hours at our disposal, seeking, and finding, fresh walks and wonders in our surroundings. one thing i remember that specially interested us in the terraced olive plantations of miramar, was the method of throwing a little stone bridge from one walled terrace to another across the bed of the river. there was no water in the channel, the bed was dry and mossy. as we looked up at the succession of bridgelets, each flanked on either side by short flights of stone steps, it seemed to typify the extreme of the elaborate and painstaking system of culture that prevails all over the island. with appetites sharpened by the famed air of miramar we had lunched off goats' milk, the toasted remains of our half cartwheel of rye bread, and something i had confidently expected would prove to be an omelet, but which turned out to be something entirely different. it was eatable, however, even delectable, and we devoured it to the last yellow fragment, then waited the arrival of our carriage. it came at last. and as it drew up in front of the hospederia we looked first at it, then at each other, in silent dismay. in place of the roomy farm cart drawn by mules that we had expected to see, the conveyance was one of the gaily painted, two-wheeled cockleshells in which majorcan farmers go a-junketing. it would have been an admirable vehicle for two people. viewed as a means of carrying four with luggage, it at first sight seemed absolutely impracticable. "oh, it's all right; i'll walk," said the boy, regardless of the fact that ten long miles of wet road lay between us and the hotel marina at sóller. our luggage was as little as a party of three could be expected to require during a week's expedition, comprising as it did only one large portmanteau, a suit-case, some sketching materials, and a couple of rugs. yet compared with the size of the conveyance it appeared of enormous dimensions. nothing daunted by the overwhelming bulk of his prospective load, the driver put the suit-case under the seat, propped the big portmanteau up on it, and invited me to get in. that done, allowing a modicum of space for himself, the carriage was full. obviously that plan would not do. again we looked at each other in despair. fortunately the driver was a man of resource. hauling out the big bag, he wrapped it in a sail-like canvas cover, and, producing fragments of rope from all his pockets, proceeded to tie it on at the back of the cart. running into the house, netta brought more rope for its better security. with the load hanging behind, it seemed as though the tiny vehicle were already overweighted; but its capacity for endurance proved greater than we anticipated. the man got in, the boy got in, the driver also mounted. all three were jammed into a narrow seat for two. i was squeezed in somewhere at the back, and at last our journey began. as we drove on the feeling of insecurity lessened; we forgot to expect the cart to tip up. our mule proved himself a good goer, and we early learned to adapt ourselves to conditions--to lean forwards going uphill, to incline backwards when the way led downwards. though the mist still blurred the mountains the coast scenery was magnificent. the road, which lay half-way between sea and mountain-top, was bordered on either side by olive plantations. about three miles from the hospederia it curved inwards into the most beautiful valley i had ever seen. [illustration: a tight fit] houses that looked like nests, so thickly were they surrounded by luxuriant foliage, were scattered about the lower parts of the hills that on three sides rose steeply; on the fourth the land declined gently to the mediterranean. here there were no jealous walls to hedge in the gardens. oranges, lemons, and figs in full fruitage overhung the highway. tall palms rose overhead, and down by a fountain women were washing. it was the village of deyá, a sleepy nest seven miles from even a diligence, but, even seen through a blur of rain, a place of exquisite beauty. "we must come back here." "yes, we'll come back----" "and stay a month," we agreed, as we had done about so many charming spots that we had got just a glimpse of, and as we were fated to do about so many more before our sojourn in these lovely isles came to a close. we would gladly have lingered to explore the beauties of deyá, but the delay at starting had already encroached on the november afternoon, and the greater portion of our journey was yet to come. so the men, who had got down to walk through the village, remounted, and once more, huddled up together, off we joggled, out of the lovely valley and along a cliff-road where, among the grey-green olive-trees, girls in skirts of vivid scarlet were gathering the fallen fruit. it was five o'clock and dusk was already falling when we descended the zigzag road leading into sóller and, passing a picturesque old cross, turned into a modern-looking street planted on either side with trees. "what i want to see now," i said, deliberately shutting my eyes to the scenery, "is a hotel with electric light, and a good fire, and german waiters, and french cookery." "don't be hateful," retorted the boy. "but it doesn't matter; you won't see it. my only fear is that they won't be able to take us in." the rain, which was now falling more heavily, had sent the townsfolk indoors. the only wayfarer in sight was a venerable gentleman who, as he sat astride a panniered donkey, protected himself from the rain with a large umbrella. turning with a final jolt, we drew up in front of the hotel marina, whose wide glass doors opened hospitably to receive us. there was no question of lack of room, fortunately, but the dinner-hour was yet two hours ahead, and even the satisfaction derived from the omelet (which wasn't really an omelet) was already a vague memory. but we are people of resource. while i boiled the unfailing tea-kettle the men foraged, returning with provender in the shape of crisply toasted _bizcochos_ and _cocas_, and we had a cosy tea that enabled us to possess our bodies in patience until the dinner-hour. the waiter who served us was german, the cookery revealed more than a suspicion of french influence, the electric light was brilliant, and there was a cheery fire. but even the boy did not complain. ix sÓller though a longer acquaintance reveals many charming and wholly majorcan characteristics, at first sight sóller resembles a swiss town, so closely do the high mountains encircle it. the likeness is emphasized when, as occasionally happens in winter, the double crest of the puig major is tipped with snow. with the exception of palma, sóller was the only balearic town in which we had slept. half unconsciously we found ourselves putting them in comparison, to discover that while each is, after its own fashion, delightful, they are entirely dissimilar. palma, "compactly built together," stands, crowded a little, within its city walls, its feet lapped by the sea, a fertile plain behind it, while sóller stretches itself at ease among its hills, with abundant elbow-room, in a fruitful orange grove. water is a precious thing in palma, where drinking-water in quaint moorish stone jars is hawked through the streets, while a striking and refreshing feature of sóller is the abundance of running water. it flowed--a little sluggishly perhaps, for the rains had not yet come--over the stony bed of the _torrente_; it gushed unchecked from the street fountains; it ran along cunningly contrived stone conduits and turned mills. [illustration: sóller] there are no rivers in majorca. the beds of the _torrentes_ that ought to be rivers are often so dry that they resemble rough sun-baked roads. it was so many weeks since we had seen even a thread of running water that the sound of its flow was music in our ears. as a full and free supply of pure water is essential to the well-being of a town, one easily understands how sóller has the advantage of palma in health conditions. the absorbent soil of sóller ensures freedom from rheumatism, and the old people remain hale and hearty to the close of lives that in many cases come within nodding distance of a century. perhaps it was owing to the absence of the military, or the want of a railway--though sóller has one in the making--or of the close vicinity of a port, but to our cursory view sóller appeared less gay, and its people seemed to lack the irresponsible smiling light-heartedness of palma folks. there were architectural differences also. to enter one of the better-class houses in the larger city one crosses a _patio_, or open courtyard, and having ascended a stair, knocks at a door; while in sóller one steps directly from the street into a large hall, on either side of which, close to the wall, are set a long row of chairs all of similar design. here visitors are received, and, as far as we could judge, penetrate no further. sóller has few of the flat roof-tops or windows that are so prominent a feature of the old moorish capital, but sóller has more chimneys; in the stillness of early morning the faint blue haze of wood fires overhangs the town. our first day at sóller opened dull and grey. much rain had fallen in the night. the streets were damp, the mountains mist-shrouded. the boy and i felt depressed and cross. the man, who had already discerned picturesque possibilities in the unique situation of the place, put a sketch-book in his pocket and went off in search of a typical subject. the boy and i prowled about the narrow streets, allowing ourselves to be annoyed at everything--at the mud, at the sunday crowds, and at the way they stared at us. in the square before the church was a busy little market. at the corner of the square, near where one gets a lovely view of the _torrente_ overhung by the balconies of crooked old houses, some of the ramshackle vehicles that convey marketers to and from the port of sóller were waiting. "let's go and have a look at the port," proposed the boy. "those people look at us as if we were wild beasts. and it will be better than hanging about here in the mud." the shower that had been threatening all the morning was beginning to fall, so i agreed. selecting the coach that seemed on the point of starting, we took our seats. a young couple, an old couple, and half a dozen market baskets overflowing with greenstuff, shared the interior with us. three more people and several more baskets mounted to the box, and, just as the rain began to patter heavily on the canvas roof, we drove off, glad to have secured the temporary shelter. the way from sóller to its port seems to lie through an orange grove, so closely is it flanked on either side with gardens full of the shining leaves and golden fruit. it was sad to learn that a blight had attacked the crop in the lower part of the valley, and to see in one orchard a heap of trees, plucked up by the roots with the fruit still thick on the branches, waiting to be burnt. as we drove slowly along we met many country people townwards bent to mass or market. long usage in sunshine and shadow had streaked the original hue of their great cotton umbrellas with broad lines of lighter tint--lines that until one guessed the cause looked like elaborately decorative stripes. by the time we had reached the entrance to the landlocked harbour the rain had ceased. fitful gleams of sunshine broke through the clouds, and the air was soft and pleasant. except from one point of view the natural harbour resembled a quiet inland lake. there was no sign of the near proximity of the sea. to the left rose a bold headland crowned by a lighthouse. to the right was a long sweep of bay lined at the farther end by a row of houses, before which small craft lay at anchor. swart fishermen in red caps and yellow boots lounged by the doors of the cafés. just beyond the houses the steamer _villa de sóller_, that makes periodical trips between the port, barcelona and cette, was loading boxes of the oranges for which the district is famed. farther on was a second lighthouse. climbing the steps that rose steeply between the two rows of houses, we reached the summit of the rocky promontory. rusty cannon, their work long over, lay at rest in front of the old chapel that crowns the eminence. before us lay the placid land-encircled sheet of water, behind us was a wall. glancing over, we discovered, to our surprise and pleasure, that instead of the country landscape we had somehow expected to see, the ground fell sheer down to where the purple-blue mediterranean ceaselessly surged beneath. the unexpected transition from the peaceful inland lake surrounded by mist-flecked mountains to a precipitous coast was curiously interesting. a moment earlier, with the moisture-laden air blowing softly in our faces, we could have imagined ourselves in the heart of the scots highlands. now, by the mere turning of a head, we were gazing across a great tideless sea. a capacious coach, in which we chanced to be the only passengers, conveyed us back to sóller and deposited us at the door of the hotel marina, where the man, who had spent the morning sketching on a mountain-slope, was waiting to join us at luncheon. the town was busy when, later in the day, we made a tour of inspection, finding fresh interest at every turn. a row of bananas rich in pod, a group of quaint old-world houses, a great palm rearing its stately head, its thick clusters of orange-red fruit stems heavily beaded with shining yellow fruit. there was leisure in the air. it was evidently the visiting hour. in the entrance halls, in full view of the passing public, comely dames sat chatting all in a row, like the pretty maids in the garden of mary-mary-quite-contrary. to us it always seemed odd to see the gossipers seated side by side in a formal line--a position that one would imagine was not conducive to the exchange of confidences. the suggestion of french influence in the architecture of certain of the newer houses was explained by the fact that when natives of sóller leave the island to seek their fortune they rarely go further than france--an easy journey with the _villa de sóller_ sailing at frequent intervals from the port to cette. and when the exiles return--as they invariably do, for the emigrant majorcan's sole desire is to make money that he may settle in his own country--they naturally import some of the ideas and tastes of the nation with which they have sojourned. french influence, too, was noticeable in the way the women dressed their hair. in many instances, particularly among the younger women, the pigtail and the _rebozillo_, or head-handkerchief, had given place to an elaborately dressed coiffure. all night the full moon had illumined a sleepy world. when i looked out at six o'clock it was still visible, though the light of the hidden sun was already flushing with roseate tints the highest mountain-tops. over the valley the azure smoke of wood fires lay softly, and the sweet, sickly fragrance of steaming chocolate was in the air. the valley was still partly in shadow when after breakfast the man went out to resume work. leaving the boy to his own devices, i went with him. the country immediately surrounding sóller is so full of roads all beautiful, and paths all picturesque, that it is often difficult, even for those who know the district well, to find the way they look for. after a little winding in and out of the twisted streets we came upon the expected road--a track leading upwards towards the olive terraces. from the steep slope where we sat it was curious to watch the progress of the sun as it rose over the mountain-tops to note how, as it climbed higher, the shadows shortened, the moist streets dried, the chill vanished from the atmosphere, and new shadows crept over the sunlit sides of the surrounding hills. beneath us ran the _torrente_, and from the roads on either side of its banks came the sound of wayfarers entering or leaving the town. the air was full of cheerful sounds, of the rattle of wheels, or the tinkle of bells and the bleat of lambs as a flock was driven by. the atmosphere was so clear that we caught the swift musical note of a church clock, and the sound of a gunshot reverberated among the hills like a peal of thunder. the few passers-by gave us kindly greeting. two old women returning from market, a bevy of young girls on their way to gather the fallen olives, an old couple trotting briskly beside their panniered donkey--all had time to smile and wish us "good-day." as the sun became stronger i rose and wandered on, up the steep, cobbled road, past the gardens where the oranges hung golden, looking for wild flowers. even in the days of late november one rarely looks in vain for wild flowers in majorca; and this morning, strolling along by the runnels of water, where the delicate maidenhair fern grew in profusion, i saw twining about the ivy berries in the hedge a lovely creeper that was new to me. set at regular intervals on a slender brown stem, it bore clusters of glossy green foliage and drooping florets and buds. the blossoms, which had four petals, were cream-hued and flecked inside with crimson. it was a dainty and distinctive trailer. even in its natural state it was difficult to imagine a more graceful wreath. a passer-by of whom i asked its name called it _sylvestris montana_, and volunteered the information that, though it luxuriated on dry walls, no one could succeed in inducing it to grow in gardens. following the path as it wound about the side of the hill, i found myself by easy stages rising high amid the olive terraces. there were silver-white olives beneath me, silver-white olives above me. the voices of the invisible gatherers mingled harmoniously with the music of the running water. a soothing sense of peace lay over all. i think it was then that i fell in love with sóller. there are places that at first sight you are entranced with, and in two days find you have exhausted. sóller is decidedly not one of these. at the close of the third day of our stay in the hill-encradled town we felt as though we had hardly yet had more than a glimpse of its beauties, so many and varied are they. it is said that you can stay at sóller for two months and go for a different walk every day--and i believe it. from the first waking moments, when one could see the rising sun illumine the hill-tops, until, with its sinking, the grand crest of the puig mayor--the greater peak--was garbed in celestial glory, the day was a succession of artistic delights. sóller had for us an added charm in the companionship of congenial fellow-visitors--an english lady who appreciates the beauty of the place and the homely, good qualities of its people so highly that she spends long periods there, and an enthusiastic young artist from the argentine who, with the world to choose from, elects to paint at sóller. under their guidance we had driven to biniaraix and, alighting, mounted the _barranco_--a wonderful path by which the peasant proprietors reach the olive-trees that their untiring care in the preparation of the stony soil and their skill in husbandry have persuaded to grow on every possible--and, one might almost add, impossible--ledge of the rocky steeps. the barranco, which was like a series of low, broad steps, zigzagged between the mountains like some eccentric, never-ending staircase. as we went up and up we paused often to look down to where, deep in the valley, sóller lay embowered in its orange gardens. and while we climbed we marvelled at the ceaseless industry of a race that is willing to expend so much time and toil to reap so small a return. on the following afternoon we drove to fornalutx, a little antique town three miles from sóller. fornalutx is the point from which expeditions start to climb the puig mayor. the little town, which is built from the warm, amber-brown stone of the hill-side on which it perches, is very old. there does not seem to be a yard of straight street within its bounds. the houses are set down pell-mell, anyhow and anywhere. a delightful lack of uniformity reigns supreme. an orange orchard pokes itself in here, a vine trellis projects there, a flight of steps interjects its crooked way at every corner. and it is all pictures! the painter, who knew the place, reflecting our pleasure, hurried us on to see a good subject, and another good subject, and yet another. as we passed up a quaint side street the tinkle of mandolines fell gratefully on our ears, and we paused before the open doorway from which the sound issued. green branches and tissue-paper frills decorated the entrance; within, some sort of merrymaking was in progress. [illustration: the mandoline player] a group of pinafored urchins who were hanging about outside told us that it was the _fiesta_ of the master of the house. it was rude, inquisitive, and wholly inexcusable, of course, but, incited thereto by curiosity, we drew nearer and nearer until we could see into the room which opened directly from the street, and wherein a young girl and a grey-haired man were seated, mandolines on knees, playing a duet. they performed without music but in perfect harmony. the girl, who was dark-eyed and pretty, was attired gaily in honour of the festivity. she wore a red skirt, a pale-green bodice, and an elaborately embroidered white apron. blue ribbons adorned her well-oiled hair, silver bracelets and rings decorated her slender wrists and skilful fingers. the man was evidently her father. in the background we got an impression of guests and of a presiding matronly presence. with a final flourish the melody ceased. "bravo!" we cried, and clapped our hands. it was no longer possible to ignore the presence of the impertinent foreigners. indeed, it almost seemed as though the sociable majorcans welcomed the opportunity of recognizing our uninvited appearance. for, as we turned to go, the mistress of the house hurried out, a hastily vacated chair in either hand, to urge us to enter, and would take no refusal. within, the guests had rearranged themselves. retiring further into the room, they had left space for us. it would have been discourteous to reject the hospitality so unaffectedly offered. our little party was soon grouped inside the doorway, and the father, whose _fiesta_ it was, laying aside his mandoline, seated himself at an old piano, and the concert began afresh, the daughter playing the mandoline to her father's accompaniment on the venerable instrument. the company, which included two priests, smoked as it listened appreciatively. on the centre table was a liqueur-stand, two decanters of red wine, and a large round dish holding a giant _enciamada_. when the music ended and we rose to go, the hostess advanced carrying the liqueur-stand, and, doing the honours with an ease of manner and dignity of bearing that might have adorned any social rank, she insisted on pouring out a little glass of _aniset_ for each of us. having drunk to the health of the hero of the _fiesta_, we made our farewells and departed, delighted with this chance glimpse of placid and happy home-life, and wondering what manner of reception a party of curious intrusive foreigners who disturbed the peace of a family gathering would have met in our own conservative country. that afternoon at fornalutx was fated to be one of those that stand clearly out in the memory, not because of any special adventure or of any great occurrence, but simply because it held a succession of captivating little incidents, of happy chances. passing down a narrow street of steps we came upon an old house whose wide outer court tempted us to enter. exploring, we found ourselves in an olive oil factory. in the inner chamber a patient mule, his eyes blindfolded by having miniature straw baskets tied over them, was walking sedately round, supplying the force that crushed the olives, and from the press the oil was gushing in streams that went to fill the vats underneath the floor. on the outside wall of the post office a caged bird was singing cheerily. next door was the prison, but that cage was empty. the barred window of its cell opened breast-high on the street, but spiders had, undisturbed, woven webs across its bars, and the key stood in the door. evidently malefactors are scarce in the quaint hill-town. leaving the crooked streets, we strolled up the side of the _torrente_, which flowed amidst orange orchards and by the sides of picturesque houses. pomegranate-trees, their dainty foliage flecked with autumnal gold, had rooted in the high banks by the water, and the unplucked rose-red fruit had already supplied many a luxurious meal for the birds. were i a bird i would elect to build my nest at fornalutx, for there i would be sure to find an abundance of good food. figs bursting with ripeness hung on the trees, and all around were oranges, and vines, and yet more oranges. far up the precipitous hill-path, at a point so high that it afforded a glorious view of sóller, we came upon a farm-house known to our friends. the occupants, greeting us kindly, took us into the most curious kitchen imaginable. goatskins covered the ceiling, and in the centre was a place where seats encircled a charcoal brazier--a majorcan "cosy corner," where the household could sit and snugly toast their toes, when storms blew snell about the mountains and rain obscured the valley. the garden space in front of the farm-house had been turned into a great bower by a huge vine that, trained along a trellis, cast over it a pleasant shade. [illustration: at fornalutx] it was late in the season--the last day of november--yet a few glorious clusters of grapes, the berries all golden and pink and wearing a bloom unmarred by touch of hand, hung heavy from its branches. here another instance of native generosity awaited us, for the housewife, resolutely refusing recompense, sent us away laden with bunches. as we descended to where the carriage waited we must have presented something of the appearance of the returning spies that moses had sent out to view the land of canaan. the sun had set when we reached fornalutx. looking up from the crooked street towards the hills we saw the peak of the puig mayor stand out against the darkening eastern sky, sublime, magnificent, bathed in a flood of roseate light. it was a fitting climax to a day of quiet delights. we had entered sóller wet and weary on saturday night, knowing no one within many miles. when, on wednesday afternoon, the diligence bound for palma called at the marina to pick us up, people of four different nationalities assembled round the coach door to bid us "god-speed." we would fain have lingered amid the oranges and palms of sóller, but time was flying and we had much to see elsewhere. the diligence was full--so full that there would hardly have been space for an added thimble. it was our first experience of a majorcan diligence, and we were interested to see how pleasantly the already closely packed passengers squeezed together to make room for new-comers, and to note how quietly they all sat, without fidgeting, with scarcely a change of position, during a drive that lasted over four hours. the window in front and those at the sides were shut, and remained so throughout the journey. fortunately our seats were by the door, and through its big window, which we kept open, we had a splendid view. the highroad from sóller to palma is, i verily believe, one of the most curious ever made. immediately after leaving the town it has to ascend , feet, which exploit it accomplishes by zigzagging at acute angles to the summit. that done, it zigzags down the other side. the progress uphill was necessarily slow, so slow indeed, that the driver, who had traversed that road daily for thirty years, left his sure-footed mules to guide themselves, and trotted along behind the coach smoking the eternal cigarette. and, while we revelled in the ever-varying views afforded by the constant change of direction, our fellow travellers gently dozed, with the exception of a round-eyed little girl, who, oppressed by the glory of her first hat and the excitement of her first journey, kept wide-awake. up we went, every moment revealing some fresh effect of light and shadow in the enchanting mountains, past where the embryonic workings of the new light railway scarred the hillside. up we went and up, catching little glimpses of the town nestling far beneath in its cradle of mountains, and seeing the last flash of sunset illumine their crests. as we mounted slowly the somnolence of our fellow passengers became more profound, and a portly father who was seated beside the little girl, to her evident alarm, lurched farther and farther in her direction, threatening altogether to efface her. the man was on the point of going to the rescue, but the coach having reached the old carven cross that marks the summit, a sudden and vivifying change came over our manner of progress. the driver remounted the box beside the two motionless old women, whose black-shrouded figures we had seen silhouetted against the light, and off we set, at a pace that atoned for our crawl uphill. the more rapid motion wrought a transformation on our companions. all the slumberers awoke. the portly gentleman, simultaneously opening eyes and mouth, gazed down in astonishment at the child, as though during his doze she had materialized out of nothing. lively expressions lit up the blank faces. the little old man in the corner began softly chanting one of the quaint native songs, that to me always sound like improvisations. it was already dusk when we stopped to change our three hardy mules at a wayside _fonda_: and the lights of palma were sparkling through the december darkness when we drew up at the city gate for the _consumero's_ inspection. during our days of absence the gay little city seemed to have decided that winter had come. the soldiers had donned their heavy coats, and men were going about muffled in great cloaks: but leaves were still thick on the plane-trees in the borne, and to us the air seemed still soft and pleasant. a few minutes later we were entering the casa tranquila with that feeling of absolute contentment that return to one's own home alone can afford. [illustration: son mas, andraitx] x andraitx a happy fortune more than good guiding led us to andraitx. the boy, painting at the port of palma had seen the diligence, stuffed within with country folks and top-heavy without with their bundles, start with a gay jingle of bells for that little-known town, and was seized with a desire to visit it. somewhat precipitately we engaged our seats in the following day's coach, and then proceeded to make inquiries about the place. nobody, it seemed, had a good word to say of it, perhaps because no one went there. baedeker scorned even to mention its name. there was only an inferior _fonda_, one informant said. there was no _fonda_ at all, amended another. the diligence left palma at two o'clock, and the fee for the kilometros--over miles--was two pesetas. taking only a light suit-case, we locked the doors of the casa tranquila that glorious december afternoon, and walking down, reached in good time the little back-street café whence the coach started. several passengers were already in waiting--a pleasant-faced old man and his comely wife in native dress, sundry peasant women muffled in shawls, one or two men whom the mistress of the café was serving with lunch. a little pile of luggage--bundles tied in brilliant kerchiefs, and market baskets--littered the floor. as we waited, more passengers arrived and more. we were glad our places had been secured. at five minutes before two the mail-bag appeared; and at ten minutes past, the diligence rattled down the narrow cobbled street and pulled up at the door of the café. it was a cumbrous and yet cramped vehicle lined with clean striped cotton. the slender mail-bag having been deposited in a hollow seat, the man and i hopped briskly in and secured the places on either side of the door, which had a wide window, arguing away our consciences' accusation of selfishness by the excuse that we were probably the only passengers to whom the scenery would be new. then the nice old country couple came in, followed by a huge matron with a little son; and a pretty young girl took the seat next to me. an old dame, who, in spite of the heat, was muffled into a living mummy, mounted beside the boy on the box. the country women were packed into a hooded cart that was waiting to receive the overflow, the driver got up in front, and we were ready to start. it was already half an hour after starting-time, but we delayed until a nice little boy, attended by two juvenile shop-lads clad in overalls of check cotton, appeared to join us. as fitting preparation for his four-hour journey in the stuffy interior of the coach, careful relatives had enveloped the urchin in a heavy top-coat and wound a thick muffler round his neck. he was hauled into the coach, his luggage, which consisted of two large round bundles neatly tied in gaily striped handkerchiefs, went to swell the mound on the top, and off we set at last, only to halt at the bottom of the street to admit a woman of such appalling dimensions that she seemed to prove what the boy declares is the majorcan rule with regard to diligences--that they first fill them quite full, and then add a couple of the fattest people procurable. clambering ponderously in she subsided with a flop between the other massive matron and the pretty girl. "caramba!" exclaimed the pretty girl, and the journey began in earnest. palma was brilliant in sunshine. looking back as we crawled up the heights towards the terreno, it glowed like a jewel in the strong sunlight. the sea was a vivid azure. beyond the opposite shores of the bay the distant isle of cabrera showed distinctly. as the road wound onwards in and out, we got glimpses of fairy-like inlets of the sea, of beautiful caves and tiny bays all sparkling in the sunshine. as we passed the hotel at cas catalá a german waiter appeared to get the newspaper from our driver, and we felt glad that our journey ended in a place where german waiters were unknown. turning from the sea, the road passed among rocky slopes crowned with pines and olives. amid the stones we caught sight of rosy heath and of great clumps of lavender rich in purple blossom. it was on this beautiful sloping country-side that the first great battle was fought between the troops of king jaime and the hosts of the moorish amir. the fighting was severe; and, though the victory was his, the chroniclers of the period tell how the brave young king of aragon wept when he learned of the loss of two nobles, brothers, who had been boon companions of his own. a tapestry in one of the chambers of the casa consistorial at palma gives a pictorial rendering of the scene. and under a large pine by the wayside, nearly half-way between the capital and andraitx, is a monument--a simple iron cross set on a stone pedestal--commemorating the valour of the spaniards who lost their lives to help to free the christians. when the way was uphill, and the coach lumbered slowly along, slumber crept over the passengers. when we again reached the level and the pace quickened, everybody awoke, and conversation became general; at least, as far as the native element was concerned. the man and i yearned for a knowledge of majorcan when the two plump ladies, whose tongues were their only active members, took turn about in relating what were evidently incidents of dramatic interest. once or twice, when the road ascended some specially steep slope in zigzags, the coach stopped, and most of us got out and, crossing the hill by a short cut--we followed those who knew the way--rejoined it on the farther side. needless to mention, the only two dames whose absence would have made any appreciable lessening in the weight remained fixtures. the two points of difference between majorcan and british travellers that we had noticed on the drive from sóller again impressed us. one was their quiet demeanour. they were not restless, they never fidgeted. they sat quite still, their hands placidly folded--except when a little gesticulation was necessary to adorn a tale. the second, which was even more unlike the british of the same class, was that though the journey was one of about four hours' duration they had made no provision for it. even the small boy, or the little child, had not so much as a sweet or a biscuit to break the monotony. when, half-way, we stopped to change horses, the old man, who had been pleasantly interested in the feminine gossip, stepped lightly out, and returning with a large tin mug of water, handed it round. it was the pretty girl who, when it came to her turn to drink, gracefully declined the privilege in favour of me, saying, with a wave of her hand, "ah, no! the señora first." the way was wild and romantic. only at long intervals was there a house even by the road-side. just at dusk we passed several open carts crowded with young olive-gatherers returning from work--a gay band, shouting and singing. after that the night appeared to fall suddenly upon the earth, and the new moon, a bright star poised above her, shone in the sky. a second diligence, starting from some other point, had joined us; and as we moved slowly along in company, the two lumbering heavily-laden coaches and the covered van, the little procession had something of the aspect of a party of emigrants travelling in quest of a new home. when the mysterious beauty of the half-lights had vanished, and the night gathered, we began to wonder why we had left the casa tranquila, where we had been so comfortable. we had no special reason for coming to andraitx; there was no attraction to draw us thither. and even now we did not know if there was any place where we might sleep. just before we entered the town the coach stopped a moment and the boy came round to the door. "i've been consulting the driver," he said. "he recommends a place where he says we'll get the best cooking in andraitx." "is it an inn?" we asked. "no, i don't think it's exactly an _inn_, but the man has been a cook. his house is at this end of the town. the driver says he'll stop there if we like. will that do?" it was quite dark now. we were cramped and tired, and the refuge that wasn't exactly an inn was at least near. we agreed that it would do. three minutes later the diligence drew up in front of an open door, through which the light from a good oil lamp streamed into the blackness of the street. "this seems to be the place," said the boy. "but it's a shop!" there was no opportunity for hesitation. our luggage was already on the pavement. turning to a tall, bearded man in a white apron who appeared in the doorway, we asked if he had accommodation. yes, he had room, he replied; would we enter?--and, following him, we found ourselves in a wide, airy shop. on one side were shelves filled with delicacies. on the other were three great wine barrels. and on the floor stood the usual assortment of hampers and open baskets containing fruits and vegetables. at the back of the shop, sandwiched between it and the kitchen, was a neat little dining-room. and when we had been ushered in there the boy, as our spokesman, proceeded, after the custom of the country, to ask terms--"what would be the charge for board and lodging, wine included, a day?" our host hesitated. he was an exceptionally nice-looking man and spoke beautiful spanish. "the terms? that would depend upon what one had. he could make any terms that suited, from one peseta and a half a day. but for four pesetas--_then_ he could do us really well." a bargain was quickly struck. we were to pay three pesetas and a half a day, wine and the little breakfast included; and our first meal was to be served as soon as it could be prepared. after a short stroll through the dark streets, and not a little conjecture concerning immediate happenings, we returned to our lodging. the glass doors of the little dining-room opened on to the shop, its window looked to the kitchen, where our host was already busy over the stove. the sound of quick footsteps overhead suggested that rooms were being prepared for our reception. her parents being engaged, the shop had been left in charge of the daughter of the house, a pretty, dark-eyed child of seven years old. she made a charming little picture, as she sat amongst the scarlet _pimientos_ and the yellow lemons waiting for custom. and when a younger child, carrying a quart bottle, entered to buy a pennyworth of wine, the business-like way in which she placed the funnel in the bottle, and filling the measure from the barrel poured it in without spilling a drop, delighted us. as also did the accustomed way in which she dropped the penny into the table-drawer that served as till. before we had time to grow impatient our hostess, looking like an adult copy of her child, appearing, spread the table neatly with clean linen and shining crystal, then set before us a dish of rolls, one of olives, and small plates of spiced sausage and ham. then the host entered carrying a bottle of a good brand of imported claret that he had taken from his shelves, and a syphon of seltzer. we were nibbling at the appetizers, trying to restrain ourselves from making a meal of them, when an excellent soup was served. "if i could choose, i know what i'd have next--a big fat omelet," the boy said, as he finished his plate of soup. and on the thought, as though in answer to his wish, the landlord entered bearing a fine opulent omelet stuffed with green peas. when we had eaten that, he was waiting to replace it with a dish of delicately browned veal cutlets, savoury potatoes fried in butter, and more green peas. a sweet course is so rarely served in majorca that it was a pleasant surprise to find the cutlets followed by a mould of the native preserve, _membrillo_ (quince) jelly, and pastry turn-overs. the dessert consisted of a pyramid of mandarin oranges cut with stems and leaves. it was a surprisingly complete meal to be served on an hour's notice in the back shop of a little unknown out-of-the-world town. the rooms allotted to us comprised the whole floor above. the _salon_, which was to the front, had two handsome wardrobes--wardrobes would seem to be as often placed in sitting-rooms as in bedrooms in majorca--a chest of drawers, several comfortable chairs. the beds, with their lace-trimmed and monogrammed linen, were perfection. as we fell asleep we blessed the happy chance that had led us to so much more comfortable quarters than we had anticipated finding. breakfast, of french chocolate and hot buttered rolls, served to confirm the good impression of the previous night. the ambition of my infancy--to keep a little shop--threatened to return as, from the stronghold of our neat little dining-room, we watched the life of the shop, a portion of whose trade appeared to consist of barter. first a woman entered with a basket of glowing sun-kissed pomegranates which she exchanged for macaroni and other groceries. she was quickly followed by a man who had a hamper of lemons and a bag of the scarlet waxen pods of the sweet pepper to dispose of. while the chocolate was still in process of consumption our host, courteously solicitous respecting our comfort of the night, waited on us, his tall, slender form begirt with an apron of spotless purity, on which was also embroidered the family monogram. from our concerns the conversation naturally passed to his, and with the simple friendliness of the majorcan he told us his life-story. told how, like most of the andraitx lads, he had early left home to seek his fortune, but while most of his companions had become sailors, he had chosen to make cooking his profession. a course of years passed as a _chef_ in havanna and other places had gained him the nest-egg he desired. returning to his native town while still a comparatively young man, he had taken this shop, married to his liking, and settled down in comfort. there was neither sun nor wind. the air was calm and cool. it was a splendid day for exploring a new locality. but andraitx was still a sealed letter to us. we did not even know what to look for. when we arrived on the previous night the town had been shrouded in darkness. so it was a charming surprise after we had mounted the commonplace street to find that in situation andraitx resembled a miniature sóller. hills, some crowned by windmills, enclosed it on every side. passing through the market square we climbed the eminence on which perched the quaint old church, and looking back, saw the town lying in the hollow beneath us; and to the north-west, its mouth guarded by sentinel hills, the wide inlet of the sea that marked the port. within the church, gloom and silence held possession. a little distance off was the walled cemetery. leaving an environment that threatened to depress us, we scrambled down the farther side of the rocky incline, and, finding a path, followed it. the path, chosen at random, passed in front of son mas, a quaint old building whose tower bore signs of great antiquity. the place was evidently now in use as a farm-house, and the tenant, seeing us pause to look in through the wide gateway, came out and cordially invited us to enter. he was a fine specimen of the handsome, robust sons of that gracious soil. his sun-tanned skin and workaday garb seemed at variance with his courteous dignity of manner, which admirably became the resident of so ancient a mansion. he appeared to feel a special pride in his surroundings and did not scamp the showing. through the wide courtyard, and up the central staircase that led to the balconies, and through the deserted rooms he escorted us. the tall square tower that now formed part of the house, he told us, had in older times been used as a place of refuge by the christians during the attacks of the piratical moors who infested the coast--a stronghold to which they fled when news reached them that the heathen marauders had entered the port and were advancing towards the town. would we like to see it? would we not! following our leader, we passed along more corridors and over floors aslant with age, till he stopped before the entrance to what was probably the smallest winding stair ever devised for the passage of human beings. up that very stair, our guide assured us, had the christians fled to seek safety in the tower. and as we timorously mounted the narrow steps we agreed that the andraitx early christians must have been the leanest of mankind. for one plump christian in a hurry would assuredly have brought destruction on all the rest by sticking in the first bend of that pitch-dark winding staircase. we emerged, dusty and breathless, into a square room whose window framed a magnificent view over the town and the wide fruitful valley to the shining waters of the port beyond. in one of the walls was a groined cavity that had been a shrine. and close beside it was the now walled-up doorway that, when the tower stood apart, had been connected by a drawbridge with the main building. on the dusty floor in a corner lay some curious earthenware retorts of a primitive date. the vessels had been found in an old cabinet in company with a quantity of unknown drugs--presumably the stock of some long-dead alchemist. scientific men, hearing of the discovery, had hastened to carry off the chemicals, the farmer told us, leaving the earthenware behind. all the acquisitive briton in us yearned to possess one of the quaint retorts. it was only the thought of their bulky brittleness that conquered the covetous feeling. from the room more pigmy steps wound upwards to a roofed _mirador_, but, as the inner walls of the staircase were broken away in great gaps, only the boy was daring enough to ascend. returning, he reported a low roof that sloped down to battlemented walls pierced with loop-holes through which arrows and boiling water were wont to shower down on the besiegers. on one occasion the captain of the moors was killed with scalding water thrown from the tower. to the present day the incident affords matter for intense satisfaction at andraitx. [illustration: in the port of andraitx] xi up among the windmills when at noon we returned to the shop our host had a delightful little luncheon awaiting us. and it was in high good-humour with him, with ourselves, and with all the world, that we set off to walk the three miles of level road that lie between the town of andraitx and its port. every foot of the way was full of interest. at first it led past rustic dwellings set in their orange and lemon gardens. in one orchard a life-size, and life-like, male scarecrow was perched high up in the branches of a pomegranate-tree. then the road ran for a long way close by the dry bed of a _torrente_, that in the rainy season would be a river, and through groves of almond and olive-trees before it reached the wide stretch of fruitful plain devoted to the culture of vegetables. our path was cheerful with wayfarers. as we strolled along, a succession of old vehicles and picturesque folk passed us. old men in suits of faded blue cotton, bright-hued handkerchiefs bound about their heads under their wide hats, trotted by beside their panniered donkeys. and dotted over the rich, red earth people were busy. in one field a man was ploughing, while close on his heels a handsome dark-eyed woman in a scarlet petticoat followed, dropping yellow peas into the newly turned furrows. everybody within hailing distance gave us kindly greeting. even an infant, whose age might have been reckoned in months, from where he was snugly seated in a basket, clearly echoed his parents' "bon di tenga," much to our amusement and to the frankly evident delight of his father and mother. in the rich, moist soil of that sheltered valley we thought we had discovered the mould in which the gross eighteen-inch radishes are grown. perhaps it is the nature of that alluvial plain that accounts also for so plentiful a harvest of mosquitoes. certain it was that they positively swarmed, and that being quick to detect a new and, i trust, delectable flavour in foreigners, they paid us particularly insistent attention, escorting us even to the port, and out on the breakwater that cuts across the inlet, and makes snug haven for the fishing craft and for the few cargo _pailebots_ that anchor in the port. it was fortunate that, unlike those of the palma mosquitoes, their stings proved harmless. we had brought tea-things with us, and leaving the man sketching, seated on a mast that lay under the sea-wall, the boy and i took the empty kettle, and set off in search of water, and of the men's constant need--tobacco. the sign over the door of the only shop in the place showed that it was authorized to sell the tobacco that is a government monopoly of spain. going in, we found ourselves in a long, low-ceilinged apartment that might have served for a type of a smugglers' den. several people of both sexes were within. from without we had heard the gay clamour of voices, but with our unexpected entrance all seemed stricken dumb. the woman who had been sweeping out the brood of adventurous chickens stopped short, broom in hand, as though turned to stone. the girl mixing something in a bowl paused to stare. the men ceased their loud discussion and gathered in a silent band to learn our business. we were not altogether unaccustomed to pointed attention. that very day in andraitx our appearance had aroused something of the interest accorded in an english country town to a circus procession. but the silent scrutiny was distinctly embarrassing. the boy is rarely abashed, yet his voice faltered a little as, in spanish, he asked for cigarettes, naming a good brand. on learning that they were not in stock he asked for others, and yet others, lessening the monetary value of his demands until he reached those cigarettes that retail at seven for a halfpenny. but even these were not to be had. "then what was for sale? any brand would do." hard pressed, the authorized vendor of government tobacco confessed that he had none in stock. "but this is the government tobacco shop, and you are all smoking--what on earth do you smoke, then?" demanded the boy. there was a momentary hesitation; then--"we all smoke contraband tobacco, señor," he made reluctant admission. "that's good enough for me," said the boy, and with a relieved expression the shopkeeper disappeared to return with a three-ounce packet of smuggled tobacco, for which he charged sevenpence-halfpenny. and vile though it undoubtedly was, the buyer declared that it was vastly superior to that usually sold with the sanction of the spanish powers. when, bearing the full kettle and the contraband tobacco, we sauntered back to the breakwater, it was to find the man the centre of an interested crowd of boys. and all the time we waited an engrossed audience surrounded us. even the appearance of a longboat, rowed by what to our eyes seemed a crew of pirates, so picturesque was their garb, failed to divert a tithe of the attention. apart from its beauty, the port of andraitx impressed us as being the least prosperous place we had seen in majorca. the houses were poor and huddled together. and the population seemed large in proportion to the probable increment. as one of the natives put it, "the fishermen are many and the fish few." the village lads, fine stalwart fellows all of them, were woefully patched as to attire. majorcan women are marvellously dexterous with the needle. their patches are so neatly inserted as to be works of art; but until that afternoon at the port of andraitx we had never encountered patches that threatened to usurp the entire groundwork of a garment. we had heard of the existence of an official known as the "captain of the port," yet, one man being as dexterously mended as another, failed to distinguish him among the loiterers about the pier. at length a gentleman with side whiskers, taking up his stand behind the man, bowed ceremoniously to me, silently raising his time-worn hat. "buenos dias," i said; in my desire to be affable forgetting that it was already afternoon. there was a momentary pause. then, "buenas _tardes_, señora. buenas _tardes_," he corrected, in a tone of gentle reproof. and i decided that in spite of his plenitude of patches, his total lack of waistcoat, and his dilapidated buff slippers, the gentleman who revealed so refined a desire for exactitude of speech must be the captain of the port. it was on the morning of our second day at andraitx that we decided to go to arracó, a little town about half an hour's walk farther north. when we spoke of going our host suggested our branching off from the road and climbing the hill of the windmills to see the view. antonia, his little daughter, would accompany us to show the way. and in a trice antonia was pronounced ready for the excursion. her head was bare, her feet were encased in smart yellow boots, and in the pocket of her red frock there were stowed away, as provision for the journey, a roll and a diminutive black-pudding. it was a lovely day--sweet and peaceful. even after two months' experience we never seemed to become accustomed to the consistent urbanity of the majorcan weather, and each successive perfect day brought a fresh surprise. the road was a beautiful one. once beyond the outskirts of the town it passed between slopes luxuriant in almonds and olives. here and there the falling golden leaves of a pomegranate made an aureate glow on the red-brown earth. perched high in an olive-tree by the wayside a man was pruning its branches. for the first ten minutes antonia was demurely silent. then, as her shyness wore off, her horns appeared. she was a charming imp of seven, the adored of her parents, who knew her variously as anton, antonia, and antonetta. anton, in a tone of reproof when she was caught pulling the hair of a friend, antonia when she was ordinarily good, and antonetta on the many occasions that they found her particularly adorable. she went, apparently only when she had got nothing more interesting to do, to a convent school, where she was, with exceeding reluctance, beginning to learn spanish--a tongue against which she naturally cherished a grievance. "what is the use of learning spanish?" she demanded of the boy, who was urging her to speak it. "majorcan--that is a useful language. spanish? no. spanish is no use." by the wayside the curious wild arums known as _frares_ (monks) were growing. picking a handful, antonia began with great enjoyment repeating a native rhyme, the point of which lay in knocking off the heads of one of the flowers at the conclusion of each repetition:-- "_frare lleig, frare lleig, si no dius se misa, le tomeré es bech!_" --of which this is an easy translation:-- "_lazy friar, lazy friar, if your mass is not said i will chop off your head._" antonia had a knowledge of vegetables too. or is it some inherent faculty that teaches children the edible fruits? when we chanced to pass a big algarroba-tree she darted under it, and, after a little rummaging amid the dry leaves, returned triumphantly bearing some long dark-brown pods, in which the man was amused to recognise a fruit known to his experimentive boyhood as "locusts." the pods, which are sweet and succulent, are used in majorca as food for cattle. just where the road came almost within sight of arracó the path to the hills crowned by the windmills branched off. deciding to get the climbing over first, we left the highway, and mounted amongst most beautiful and varied vegetation. all about us tall pink and crimson heaths were blooming. small clumps of palms that we had not before seen out of a conservatory grew among the rocks, and great cactus rioted in picturesque masses. the base of the windmills reached, we enjoyed a view that extended in every direction. beneath to one side was arracó, its houses, save where near the church they were huddled closer together, scattered widely over the surface of a cup-like valley, that was so closely encircled by hills that we could discover no way leading out. above the hills to the north the heights of the island of dragonera rose from the sea. from another point we looked down on andraitx, and marked the wide plain that ended in the placid waters of the port. we had not meant to stay long on the heights, but the varied prospects were so beautiful and the air so placid that we felt tempted to linger. then the man took out his sketching block, and the matter was settled. arracó would remain unvisited. like the lotus-eaters, we were content and would roam no farther. we were now so accustomed to majorcan skilled and thrifty husbandry that it was no surprise to find that even the summit of the height was planted with fruit trees. on a rocky ledge, close under the spreading sails of the windmill, nestled a tiny house, and every handful of soil supported its fig-, almond-, pomegranate- or apple-tree. the air was soft and gentle. even at that altitude there was scarcely a breath of wind. butterflies were hovering about. all the world seemed at peace. from arracó arose the faint chime of a bell, from beyond the rock-bound coast came the murmur of the sea. [illustration: above andraitx] i think it was the discovery that just outside the little hut a man was eating his dinner that aroused us to the fact that we also were hungry. breakfast had been light, and early dinner, a good way off, was not due till two o'clock. antonia's sharp little white teeth had long ago devoured antonia's roll and black-pudding. we had started out with the intention of foraging at arracó; but arracó, a scattered handful of pigmy dwellings, lay far down in the hollow. then an idea occurred to us. the husbandman, who had finished his meal, and was now lighting a cigarette, would be sure to have food. we would ask him to sell us some bread. the peasant, who proved to be a kindly soul, had a beard and the most dilapidated hat ever worn by mortal man. but he had no bread. the hut under the windmill was only a shelter. his home was in the valley, and it was evidently his provisions for the day that he had just consumed. he did what he thought was next best, and drawing a great jar of clean water from his well, brought it to us. the boy and antonia, who had gone off to try their luck at the other windmill, returned bringing two shapeless lumps of the stalest rye bread ever eaten, and the kindly dilapidated man who, in genuine concern for our welfare, had been hovering near, disappeared into his shanty, and reappearing with a plate of olives, presented them to us. so off olives, water from an antique jar, and mouldy rye bread that vied with it in antiquity, we took the edge off our appetites. i must not forget the prickly pears--or cactus figs--that we had picked on the way up. a certain fearful joy attends the gathering of this fruit, which requires the exercise of some ingenuity in dodging its insidious prickles. but there the pleasure ends; for the fruit is both seedy and insipid. to appreciate the prickly pear one would require to meet it in an arid desert. the sun was sinking when we set out for a final stroll at andraitx. we were to leave early next morning, and we knew that there were countless walks we must leave unexplored. a glory of grey and gold and orange was flushing the sky when we turned into the road that wound up the valley. the mountains that rose on either side were glowing roseate from the sunset; but under any conditions the way would have been very beautiful. it led by a _torrente_ in whose bed there was actually a trickle of water, and just beyond a picturesque bridge was a village--of no social importance probably, but assuredly of great artistic charm. the village straggling up the side of the valley was such a place as nobody ever tells one of--one of those unexpectedly picturesque spots that, with a thrill of delight, one discovers for oneself, and feels a proprietorial interest in ever after, almost as though one had invented it. we learned later that the name of the hamlet was secoma, and that it was divided into two portions, which were known respectively as secoma hot and secoma cold. the narrow, winding street was busy. the olive-gatherers were returning from work, and those who had remained at home came out to gape at us. the barber who was shaving a customer, catching sight of our passing reflection in the mirror, abandoned his task and ran to the door to stare, with his customer, lathered and pinafored, close on his heels. already were we beginning to recognize, and to be recognized, in the district. an amazingly stately old lady, who appeared to spend her days perched sideways on her panniered donkey, bowed with great dignity from her perch. a handsome fisher-lad, who had formed one of the man's audience when he was sketching at the port, beamed when we encountered him delivering fish in back-of-the-world secoma. we had entered andraitx expecting little, and had found so much that was interesting and pleasant that we were reluctant to leave it. but an engagement for sunday afternoon at palma had to be kept. so perforce we bespoke seats in the diligence leaving at the extraordinary hour of four in the morning. an hour earlier three great knocks sounded on the closed door of the shop. it was the _vigilante_, who had been warned to arouse us. when we went downstairs it was to find our attentive landlord with a comforting meal of chocolate and hot buttered rolls ready to serve. and concerning this most excellent host it is only just to say that during our stay we found his efforts on our behalf increase rather than diminish. in case any of my readers may ever chance to visit this out-of-the-way town, i mention that his name is gabriel calafill, and his address is calle cerda, which, being interpreted, means pig street. all the cocks in andraitx seemed to be awakened when a jingle of harness-bells drew us to the door of the lamp-lit shop. it was the darkest hour. a single dim lamp was all we saw of the diligence. as it drew up an invisible hand opened the coach door, and mounting the invisible steps i peered into the solid darkness of the interior. if there were any passengers inside, they were dumb and motionless. hazarding a greeting, i interjected "buenos dias" into the darkness. an instant reply from half a dozen throats showed that the coach was already well filled. a minute later we had insinuated ourselves into the places kept for us by the door, and the coach rolled off into the gloom. it was the hush before the dawn. the moon had long set. a few pale stars sprinkled the sky. beyond the town the gloom was less impenetrable, and the road became a dim, grey ribbon slowly unwinding behind us. the trees and mountains were black, undistinguishable masses. the air was soft and very still. within the coach all was silent. no one moved. then, as the miles gradually slipped away, the sky began to lighten, and even the deep gloom of the interior became less tangible. in the farther corner dull white lines proclaimed a collar and shirt-cuffs while the sun-tanned flesh they encircled was yet unseen. as the daylight crept in, our fellow-travellers gradually became visible. two men, vague entities, had left the coach when half-way we changed horses. there now remained a couple of quiet, respectable market women, a lovely little girl, and a strapping young man. at the foot of a steep ascent the conveyance stopped, and following the custom of able-bodied passengers the men got out to take the short cut, and rejoined the lightened diligence on the farther side. glancing from the back window, as they passed up the heath slope, i noticed that the owner of the brown hands and the white cuffs had already entered into conversation with my men-folk. and when, a quarter of an hour later, they re-entered the coach, all three were on terms of unexpected intimacy. "this señor," the boy explained, with an introductory wave of the hand, "is the father of that clever baby. you remember, mother. the one we saw yesterday on the way to the port. he sat in a basket and said 'bon di tenga.'" the father, a strapping, clean-limbed majorcan, fairly beamed with parental pride as he acknowledged the imputation. the boy, he told us, was now nearly three years old, but he had spoken as well ever since he was two. his own excellent spanish he accounted for by saying that, like so many andraitx young men, he had been a sailor, and had voyaged for several years to and from cuba. then, having saved some money, he had returned to his native town, had married, and was now farming his own bit of land. this morning he was journeying to palma to collect the rent of a house he owned there. the sun was up when the diligence stopped before the _consumos_ station at the entrance to santa catalina, and we alighted. it was only as we returned to more sophisticated surroundings that i realized that since leaving palma on thursday i had not seen a single hat upon a feminine head. no wonder we were stared at in secoma! half an hour later we were sitting at breakfast in the sunshine at the casa tranquila. we had arrived at andraitx in the dusk, and had quitted it in the dusk, so it seemed as though all that had happened during our stay there had been but a pleasant dream. [illustration: christmas turkeys] xii navidad we returned from andraitx to find that christmas had stolen a march upon us, taking us unawares. our first intimation of it was a communication that reached us from the postal authorities. it announced that a parcel awaited us at the head post office, and stated that if we called between the hours of twelve and thirteen on the following day, and paid the sum of eight pesetas seventy-six centimos charged as duty, we would be entitled to carry it away. the slip of green paper containing this laconic intimation fluttering into our uneventful lives, interested us hugely. to what could the notice refer? we expected nothing, and yet the amount of the duty--eight pesetas seventy-six centimos--argued it a possession of notable value. we would not have lost a moment before hastening off to pay the impost and claim our property had not the notice expressly mentioned the one hour of the morrow on which it might be procured. what could it be? thinking ourselves discreet people, we professed to build no castles on the subject, but we all enjoyed the feeling of mystery. it was with a pleasant sense of expectancy that next day, shortly after noon, we entered the post office in the calle san felio, and after some inquiry discovered the department for the distribution of parcels. two people were in advance of us. a young workman was getting a small package, a servant-maid was receiving a couple of round, flat boxes so large that a side door in the counter had to be opened for their egress. watching, we wondered secretly if ours would be as big, or if it would be small and precious. after a preliminary signing of a book and the paying of the money, the parcel was produced and solemnly handed over to us. its dimensions exceeded even our most sanguine expectations, and it was weighty in proportion. the address on the label showed that it had come from the best confectioner in london. this, taken in conjunction with its opulent proportions, seemed to presage a prolonged period of riotous living. "it must be cake," the man said. "it must be a tremendous lot of cake," opined the boy, who was carrying the bulky parcel. "let's get home and open it." owing, i think, to the cost of sugar, confections of every kind in majorca are expensive and limited in variety. and although in england a plethora of good things had made us inclined to be blasé, two months of residence in this land where sweets are matters for consumption on high-days and holy-days had revealed in each of us the possession of an unexpected sweet tooth. and the sight of the ample proportions of that confectioner's parcel set them aching furiously. "if it's sweets, we must not begin eating them until luncheon is over," i said, more by way of counsel to myself than to the others. "we'll see," said the boy, who was determined not to commit himself. when we had entered the casa tranquila the carefully packed box was lifted on to the table and the exciting task of opening it began. the seals had already been broken, but there seemed several miles of carefully knotted string to unwind. beneath the enveloping brown paper was an encasing of the corrugated cardboard in which breakables are packed. within that was a thick layer of fine shavings. the dimensions of the package had been considerably lessened when, all the outer wrappings thrown aside, there was revealed a large square tin box. the side presented to us bore no sign of an opening. it really seemed as though the elusive gift was determined to baffle us. "the box has been carefully soldered," said the man. "i can't understand how the customs could fix the amount of the duty without knowing what was inside. how are we going to open it, i wonder?" but when he turned the box over a wide gash in the bottom revealed that the task had already been performed. pressing aside the jagged edges of the tin, we saw within yet more shavings. when they had been carefully removed, fragments of china, and something tied in a rent white cloth met our gaze. "it's been a plum-pudding, and they've smashed it to atoms," the man said bitterly. "oh, what a _shame_! the mean wretches!" i lamented. the boy said nothing, but felt for his pipe. having succeeded in widening the gash considerably, the man drew out the remaining enclosures. the pudding--a particularly fine one--was intact, but the bowl that had encased it was shattered. splinters of the china were adhering to its dark richness. the spanish customs at the frontier, in their zeal to discover the nature of the contents and their fear of permitting a concealed bomb to escape their vigilance, had not only cut open the box and smashed the bowl, they had also ripped across the cloth that tied up the pudding. "perhaps they were right to charge eight pesetas seventy-six centimos, but they needn't have made mincemeat of that nice china bowl, and rags of the pudding-cloth," i said indignantly. "probably they thought that as mincemeat was also seasonable fare it would be a proper accompaniment to the pudding," the man said. but the proof of the pudding is ever the eating of it. its misadventures over, ours turned out to be a prince of plum-puddings. the flavour was perfection, and the size was such that we had to call in the aid of our friends to eat it. formal entertainments were outside the scheme of life at the casa tranquila, but the consul and his wife came to supper--menu, hot plum-pudding and flaming brandy. and some native friends came to tea--menu, plum-pudding toasted in slices, and coffee. should future generations of majorcans grow up in the quite erroneous belief that the british serve rich black plum-pudding hot at all meals, i'm afraid the blame must rest with us. palma is always bright, but at christmas-tide an increase of liveliness seemed to pervade the town. the shop windows displayed new wares, and the streets were full of country folk pricing, bargaining, and purchasing. the confectioners' windows were full of large round cardboard boxes, each containing a sugar travesty of a serpent, a weird reptile, reposing on a bed of sweets. the market square at night, when it is usually deserted, displayed a new and popular species of merchandise. its outer sides were lined with rows of stalls laden with slabs of native sweetmeats all made in long blocks, and piles of tempting crystallized fruits. other stalls held nothing but the curious little figures of native ware--men, women, animals, poultry, all very small--that the majorcan children use when, with the aid of cork, they build little models of the nativity in imitation of those seen at christmastide in the churches. during the days preceding christmas day great preparations for the feast were made. in the market the price of choice fruits and vegetables rose a little. and the wide open space just without the gate of san antonio--the patron saint of swine--became a busy fair devoted to the sale of pigs, turkeys, sheep and fowls. the part whose colour and movement rejoiced the artistic soul of the man was that given over to the display of turkeys. the portion whose comic element delighted the boy and me was that devoted to the wards of san antonio, who, to judge by the shrillness and insistence of their cries, was proving himself but an irresponsible and callous guardian. the peasant-women, neat in the native costume, gaily coloured kerchiefs over their heads, their hair in pigtails, armed with long rods, stood beside their flocks of turkeys. at intervals they scattered handfuls of grain amongst them; but to do the birds justice, they showed little inclination to stray. on one side a long wall was formed of hooded carts filled with turkeys. and round each brood was a little group of townsfolk, making critical survey of the birds and, after a good deal of wordy chaffering, purchasing. the other side was occupied by a long row of fowl-sellers, who treated their wares with less respect; for splendid cocks, their burnished plumage gleaming with a thousand prismatic hues, lay helpless, their feet tied together, their bills in the dust. sucking-pig being the favourite christmas dinner in this land of sunshine, by far the larger space was allotted to the swine. and swine there were to satisfy all demands, from litters of tiny sucking-pigs surrounding their mothers to pigs of quite considerable bulk. as the pigs were sold by weight, it is safe to say that there wasn't a thirsty pig in the market that day. and while we saw few pigs being fed, we saw many being encouraged to drink. some of the salesmen stood by their laden carts ready, on the approach of a likely customer, to thrust a hand into the mass of swart animalism and extract a protesting squeaker. others sat lazily on chairs by their flocks, content to wait to be approached. while some of the older herdsmen wore slung over the shoulders the distinctive goatskin of their calling, most of the younger were attired in suits of corduroy, sun-faded into glorious harmonies of golds and browns and blues. we noticed that whilst certain of the men dealt in turkeys, none of the women sold pigs. and out of the city streamed the townsfolk, money in hand for the purchase of their christmas dinner. ladies in mantillas, attended by neat maids, bought turkeys; prosperous-looking tradesmen, accompanied by pinafored shop-lads provided with bits of rope, walked about pricing pigs; and lean operatives, with a hungry eye for the yearly tit-bit. it was after a pig had changed owners that the fun began. the market being held outside the city walls, the purchase had first to be taken to the _consumos_ shed to be weighed and have the duty paid on it. and the pigs, although comparatively placid while yet in company with their old comrades, when severed from them protested with full strength of lung and limb. then woe betide the luckless being whose task it was to carry the agitator home. one man only did we see who had had the forethought to bring a sack in which to carry home his rebellious purchase. everybody appeared to have evolved a different method of conveyance. some men wore them as a collar round the neck, grasping the fore feet in one hand, the hind in the other. some tried to lead them, with dire results. one flustered woman we saw had a child in her arms and was dragging at the end of a string a plump young porker that refused to walk. the majority, relinquishing any attempt at suasion, simply clutched the furiously objecting quadrupeds desperately in their arms and made the best of their way through the streets. just as we were leaving the market we encountered a trio of elderly ladies, attended by a demure little maid in pigtail and _rebozillo_, whom we had noticed making a careful scrutiny before deciding. their choice seemed at last to have been made, for the young servant carried in her arms, as tenderly as though it were a baby, a tiny sucking-pig. so far it had uttered no complaint, but just as the group turned into the street it awoke to the knowledge that something untoward was happening, and with the energy of one thrice its fighting weight, began squealing and squirming. in a moment consternation fell upon the sedately pacing quartette. when we last saw them a man had been hired to carry home the pigling, whose lamentations still rent the air. during the day or two that would elapse before the creatures were sacrificed for consumption they appeared to reside in the bosom of the family circles and to be treated as honoured guests. the fact that a home was in a flat three floors up did not deter its occupants from housing a four-footed edible guest. turkeys strutted in doorways and upon high balconies. proud children escorted pigs out for an airing. two days before the feast we noticed on a piece of waste ground just inside the gate of santa catalina an enclosure roughly constructed of planks and sacking. from a post fluttered a banner of brown paper inscribed with the legend, _se matan lechonas_ (little pigs kill themselves). and thither, the right moment having arrived, people brought their pets. within the enclosure, but in full view of the public, the piglings were killed, soused with the boiling water that was kept bubbling over a fire, scraped and made ready for the pot in the twinkling of an eye. on christmas eve we attended the midnight service in the cathedral. it was a beautiful moonlight night, and the streets of palma were unusually busy. groups of people, the women and children all carrying folding stools, or in some cases rush-seated chairs, were walking sedately in the direction of the churches. in the silver light there was something mysterious about the succession of black-robed figures--the women's heads muffled in black mantillas or black silk kerchiefs--that moved steadfastly along the narrow mediæval streets. [illustration: a scene of slaughter] when we reached the cathedral many people had already gathered. when we would have taken our usual seats under the organ, one of the canons in a robe of lace and rose-coloured silk approached and whispered to me in french that that portion of the church was reserved for men, but that i was free to take any place i liked on the opposite side. crossing the foot-high wooden barrier that had been erected down the centre of the nave, under his escort, i set up the sketching stool i had brought at the base of one of the great pillars, and watched the edifice gradually fill with a reverent throng of worshippers. and now the necessity for the folding stools became evident, for while the portion of the building allotted to men was well provided with seats, only a great square of matting covered that half of the floor-space that had been set apart for the women. the cathedral was brilliantly lit with electricity; and although there was something inexpressibly affecting in the sight of the kneeling multitude, to us the cathedral lost much of the sombre magnificence it had in the daytime, when, except for the candles burning on the altar, the only light was that which stole in through the stained-glass windows, and the greater part of the grand temple was rendered impressive by obscurity. later, when we spoke of this to our friend the padre he agreed with us. but, as he said in his irreproachable english, "what can we do? the cathedral is very large, and the people are not all good." there was no respect of persons. wrinkled old peasant-women and lovely young members of the ancient majorcan nobility knelt side by side. the pew my men-folk occupied was shared by a gentleman in a fur-lined coat, and two little ragamuffins who, oblivious of their sacred surroundings, slumbered peacefully throughout the proceedings, curled up snugly together like a pair of monkeys nesting in a tree-top. at a pause in the service a white-robed youth, supposed to represent the angel gabriel, who was attended by two others carrying lighted candles, appeared in a pulpit. he wore a scarlet cap and bore a naked sword, and in a melodious voice chanted in spanish _sibila_--a hymn that foretells the varied fates awaiting the evil and the good at the end of the world. at one o'clock, when we slipped out of the cathedral, leaving the multitude still at worship, and walked homewards through the brilliant moonlight, all was hushed and peaceful. the signs of carnage had vanished. the banner with the suicidal legend, _se matan lechonas_, no longer fluttered by the gate of santa catalina; and only a few vagrant turkey feathers, blown about the roads, remained to tell of the innocents who had been butchered to make a christian holiday. christmas, we had been warned, would be a quiet day in palma: a day of family greetings, of indoor festivities, when the streets would be deserted. any feasts we might have shared were far away in fog-bound britain, and neither turkey nor sucking-pig graced the larder of the casa tranquila. the weather was idyllic, like the most perfect of perfect summer days at home--even after more than two months' experience of balearic island weather we had not ceased to be surprised by its consistent beauty. so we decided to have a picnic. we had heard vaguely of a famous cave in the country behind our own district of son españolet--a cave important enough to afford shelter to the people of palma who, in thousands, had fled thither to escape from a plague of cholera that sixty or seventy years before had devastated the town. but while everybody seemed to know of the existence of the cave, no amount of inquiry elicited information as to its exact whereabouts. so on this lovely christmas morning we resolved to take luncheon with us and spend the day hunting for it. i think it was the rudder grangers who wished to live in the last house of a village, as by doing so they could be in touch with humanity on the one side and with nature on the other. our own road, the calle de mas, came very near answering these requirements, for, being the last road in the little suburb, it met both town and country. by walking to the end of the houses, over whose garden walls oranges gleamed golden, and turning to the left by the brand-new villa dolores, and past the old farm-house that stood hedged in with tall cactus by the wayside, we were at once on the verge of the beautiful rural scenery. our informant had been right. the street was empty. as we passed along, a smell as of roast sucking-pig greeted us; but everybody was indoors behind their closely shuttered windows. the road that leads through the undulating almond and olive groves towards son puigdorfila and the hills had never been so deserted. and never had the air been softer or the mountains more mistily blue. the leaves of the gnarled olives shone silver-grey beside the dark, rich foliage of the carob-trees, and the white blossoms of a honey-scented weed thickly flecked the green of the six-inch high grain. the village of son rapiña, perched on its eminence, gleamed like a jewel in the strong sunlight; but the path leading towards it showed not a single traveller. for once, farm-work had ceased; the only sound that reached us was a far-off musical tinkle from the bells of a flock of goats as they moved about, seeking for fallen pods under the great algarroba-trees. the cave, we had gathered, was somewhere near son puigdorfila, but when we had passed that country-house, and had wandered down the valley towards the empty bed of the _torrente_, we found nothing that in the most remote way suggested the presence of a cave. we had almost abandoned the quest when a sound of bells warned us of the approach of a herd of plump brindled asses, which appeared under the guidance of an old man. in his suit of faded blue cotton, with a goatskin slung over his shoulders and a gaily striped kerchief bound round his brow and knotted at the back, the long ends falling beneath his wide-brimmed hat, and a tall staff in his wrinkled brown hands, he was a fine specimen of the hale majorcan peasant whose declining years hold no greater physical discomfort than a gradual lessening of the full strength of manhood. he knew of the cave--_cueva fuente santa_ he called it. nay more, he knew its history from the making to the present day. and while the brindled asses browsed around us he told us the story of the cave of the holy well. the conquistador, it appeared, on setting out on his perilous mission, had vowed to the virgin that if through her aid he succeeded in ousting the heathen from majorca, he would signalize his victory by building a noble cathedral in her honour; and it was in quarrying the stone from the steep ground by the side of the _torrente_ that the great cave had been formed. he told us of the refugees who, fleeing before the cholera, had camped there in safety; and brought the record up to date by mentioning that to the present day on the sunday after easter great crowds of the townsfolk made a little pilgrimage to the holy well, to drink its waters and to eat their _empanadas_--pies made specially of lamb for the occasion. the cave was near--only a little way, he added, as he hurried to overtake his now straying herd. if we would proceed farther down the side of the _torrente_ we would discover it, close by the old well. so in the sunshine, which was warm without a trace of oppression, for the sea air agreeably tempered the heat, we wandered on until, in the side of a fir-topped bank, we found the cave. and it was quite unlike anything we had imagined. to enter by the wide square portal was to find oneself in a vast, many-chambered hall. in quarrying out the interior the long-forgotten workmen had left at intervals great rudely sculptured blocks that served as supporting pillars to the roof. four square holes, open to the sky, afforded ventilation. round the walls, and about the bases of the pillars, had been hewn ledges which might have served for seats or for beds. at one point the roof had been blackened by smoke from the fugitives' fires. but the whole interior was dry and airy. there was not a trace of damp anywhere, and the sandy floor was one that could easily have been kept clean and wholesome. it would have been hard to imagine a more secure or a more sanitary place of refuge. down below, nearer the river-bed, was the quaint moorish well--square in form, with a domed roof. and looking down the valley of the _torrente_ from the brow of the hill in front of the cave where the fig-trees grew, we had a grand prospect of palma cathedral, that from each variant point of view seems to gain a new beauty. an unwonted silence lay over the sunlit land. for once there was no sound of human voice uplifted in song, and that aided the sense of peace. the balearic islander is the most skilful market-gardener in the world. he makes roads that enable one to drive up one side of a mountain and down the other with perfect ease. he builds walls that look as though they would last throughout the ages and successfully resist a shock of earthquake at the end of time. but as a vocalist he is not attractive. i must write this heresy in a whisper, for the information would surprise him. he is unconscious of his lack of melody, and rather fancies himself as a songster. the merry majorcan plough-boy does not "whistle o'er the lea." he sings, or rather chants, in a loud, discordant voice, an artless recitative, apparently improvising both words and music and weaving the little incidents of the day, the trivial happenings of his surroundings, into his interminable lay. when the boy was painting in the beautiful undulating country that lay between son españolet and the mountains, he sometimes discovered a reference to himself in the _pastorale_. "_it is the painter english. he is making a picture. he has put gabriel into it. perhaps he will put me also, and my fine pigs._" but though the voice of the herdsman might be unmelodious, it mingled harmoniously with the jangle of bells as his flock of pigs, goats, sheep, or asses moved slowly over the uplands under the fragrant almond-trees. the air was sweet with perfume of the wild lavender that grew in profusion about the entrance to the caves. not a soul was in sight. it was with a quiet scorn of flesh-pots--even of those that contained sucking-pig--that, sitting in the sunshine, we lunched frugally off sandwiches, claret, and big yellow muscat grapes. we had left the casa tranquila with the understanding that the day was to be observed as a complete holiday. yet when the cave revealed picturesque possibilities it would have surprised one unaccustomed to the devious ways of the man and the boy to have seen how well provided they chanced to be with working materials. leaving them busily sketching, i wandered about gathering the heads of sweet lavender. i had a newly born ambition to fill a cushion with the dried blossoms--an ambition that in england would have been extravagant, but one that in this gracious land was to be gained by a little charming labour. so with that feeling of absolute mental content and of physical well-being that seemed to characterize our balearic days, i picked and picked and picked until the luncheon-basket was full to overflowing with the purple-grey flowers, and the subtle odour of sweet lavender encompassed me with a cloud of fragrance. even in these days of late december i had never taken a country walk without finding a fresh wild flower. to-day it was a rose-coloured cornflower, _cyanus_; and in addition, growing close to the caves, i came upon a fruit, or vegetable, that was quite new to me. the latter was splendidly decorative. imagine a giant tomato plant erect and armed with aggressive prickles, that bore a profusion of apples whose colour varied from green mottled with white in the unripe, to brilliant yellow in the mature. i found afterwards that it is known as the "devil's tomato." tufts of the pale pink heath flourished under the pines, and on the slopes about the fig-trees my favourite japanese-like dwarf asphodel, whose white, starry blossoms were striped with chocolate, were out in profusion. the far-off tinkle of bells that, to our now accustomed ears, ranked almost as a necessary accompaniment to the scenery, had gradually been drawing nearer; and soon the troop of donkeys again appeared, followed by their patient, kindly-faced herd. they were the only living things in sight, and as they moved slowly along they harmonized delightfully with the rustic surroundings. approaching nightfall drove us homewards, reluctant to end a day that had been full of intangible charm. the record of its doings, baldly set forth on paper, reveals a total lack of incident. the preceding christmas day, spent at a seaside hotel in laboriously enjoying the festivities of the season, we had almost forgotten. these placid hours passed quietly in this country of sweet smells, of gentle noises, of pure, soft air, we would always remember. as we strolled towards son españolet the setting sun seemed determined, in honour of the day, to give an extra glorious display of fireworks. and when the glow had faded from the mountains, leaving them purple velvet, a vivid rose flush that melted into the blue haze of the distance lingered long in the eastern sky. and just above was the nearly full moon, a globe of shining silver. there was no actual dusk, hardly any gloaming; for before the sun had sunk to rest the moon, her lamp brilliantly burning, was ready to do duty. [illustration: after the feast of the conquistador, palma cathedral] xiii the feast of the conquistador it was the st of december, and the day was one of a long succession of calm summer-like days. the sky was a cloudless blue, and the air so warm that in the plantations beyond son españolet sundry over-zealous almond-trees, deceived by the brilliance of the weather, were already bursting into premature bloom. it was too fine to waste indoors the remaining hours of the year, and the gay little town was always interesting. so we walked towards palma, and, after strolling down the mole and revelling in the colour and movement of the harbour, we ascended the long flight of steps leading to the ramparts, and, passing the almudaina, reached the cathedral, whose grandeur and sacred beauty ever held a fresh fascination for us. entering by a side door, we judged from the presence of certain extra decorative trappings in front of the high altar that some special service was in prospect. people were already seated in the pews that filled the front portion of the nave. finding places at a side, we waited, listening to the joyous strains of the grand organ. just before eleven o'clock the great doors of the cathedral were thrown open, and the warm sunlight streamed into the sombre interior. then, through the hush of expectancy that had fallen over the congregation, we heard the far-off beating of drums. something was, looked for--was even now on its way--we knew not what; but we also waited, expectant. nearer the sound came, and nearer. from our side seats we could see the guard in front of the almudaina saluting, then from the brilliant sunlight into the mysterious half-gloom of the cathedral there passed a quaint little procession, led by a drum-major gorgeous in scarlet and gold. behind him, three and three, came the drummers, still--even within the sacred walls of the cathedral--keeping up the _rat-a-plan_ with a vigour that seemed almost profane. half-way up the nave they turned aside and stood, rapidly plying their drum-sticks; while, preceded by two mace-bearers in robes of scarlet, their symbols of office over their shoulders, came in evening dress the civil governor and the alcalde, followed by members of the council. behind, in uniform, came the chiefs of police. when they were seated--the civil governor, as representing the king, being placed in a chair under an embroidered canopy, the others in a specially draped pew alongside--the service began. at one portion of the ceremony a priest with attendants mounted the pulpit, and in an eloquent address related the whole story of the conquest of majorca by jaime, the young king of aragon, who on that very day six hundred and eighty years before had entered the city. in picturesque language and in fine declamatory style he told how for many hundreds of years the lovely island had suffered under the oppression of the wicked and tyrannical moors. how prosperity had rendered them only the more piratical and cruel, so that no christian ship was safe from their assaults. how, rendered yet bolder by success, they even raided the catalan coast, sacking barcelona, and killing its count. how at length the indignation of the spaniards roused them to take action; and the heads of the ecclesiastical, the military, and the royal sections meeting together, resolved to fit out a fleet, and to dispatch an expedition to wrest the island from the heathen. under the handsome and daring young king of aragon the fleet of over a hundred and forty vessels, containing an army thirty thousand strong, set sail. they left the spanish coast on the st of september, , but the moors made so determined a resistance that it was the last day of the year before the hosts of king jaime succeeded in entering the town. as in duty bound, the orator ascribed mainly to the influence of the church over the catholic hearts of the people the success of the expedition that had freed the christians from their oppressors. the oration ended, service at the high altar proceeded, while at intervals gay, almost jocund, music burst forth from the grand organ. the lightsome strains were infectious. the alcalde unconsciously beat time with his staff, and the fingers of the youngest representative of the municipal government played an imaginary instrument in time to the music. there was such a decidedly gilbert-and-sullivan suggestion about the sprightly air that one might be pardoned for expecting the chief ecclesiastical dignitary to advance singing-- "i am the bishop of this diocese" or for anticipating the attendant priests making hearty response-- "and a right good bishop, too!" later in the proceedings the clergy formed into a procession, led by white-robed acolytes and choristers carrying crucifixes and lighted candles, and walked slowly round the cathedral, chanting as they went; the civil governor, the alcalde, and the other representatives of the government bringing up the rear. the impressive religious service ended, the drummers again fell into line, and the civic dignitaries, with the mace-bearers, marching to the sound of the drums, passed out into the sunlit streets. following in their footsteps, we sped towards the town hall, in front of which, as we now gathered, the annual ceremony of saluting the flagstaff of king jaime the conquistador was to take place. there a gay scene awaited us. detachments of soldiers, their bands playing, lined the laurel-strewn space before the building. all the balconies were full of spectators and the street was thronged with what appeared to be the entire juvenile population of palma. with the arrival of the governor and his escort the ceremony was speedily completed. the flagstaff, which was heavily wreathed in laurel, was carried round. arms having been presented, the historic trophy retired into carefully tended seclusion until another anniversary would again bring it into prominence. the military formed up, and to the sound of inspiriting music marched cheerily off. the feast of the conquistador was over. the origin of the custom we found reached back into bygone ages. for many centuries after king jaime's death the people of palma had an annual procession on the anniversary of the taking of the city, and walked through the streets with the banner under which their deliverer had fought so valiantly carried before them, while the entire populace prayed for the safety of his soul. the banner has long since rotted into dust. now the staff alone is borne, and apart from the promenade inside the cathedral there is no procession. the inner chambers of the cathedral guard a wealth of treasure, the collection of centuries, and an inestimable array of relics, which, through the courtesy of the church dignitaries, we had the privilege of seeing. one morning about ten o'clock, when we entered the cathedral from the sunlit streets, the faint blue mist of incense hung about the high altar, and the sound of chanting echoed through the aisles. at first sight the vast building appeared to be empty; but as our eyes became accustomed to the perpetual twilight that reigns under the great roof we became conscious of kneeling worshippers, dimly seen through the obscurity--a young lady, her mantilla-framed face bent over her rosary, an old man praying before one of the side chapels where a faint light was burning. we were expected. our friend the padre, a dignified figure clad in vestments of lace and fur, welcoming us with a silent shake of the hand, led us noiselessly along a side aisle. as, passing through a door that led behind the high altar, we caught a glimpse of the officiating clergy, it almost seemed as though we were behind the scenes at a theatre where some great life-drama was being enacted. there were the stately and imposing performers, the engrossed and scarcely visible audience. leaving us in charge of the brother priest who acts as custodian of the treasure, our sponsor returned to resume his part in the service. preceding us through the sacristy, our new guide escorted us to an inner chamber where, in an impregnable safe built in the wall, the venerated sacred relics of the cathedral are kept. carefully unlocking and throwing open the guardian doors, he revealed a cabinet draped with a crimson curtain. slipping behind the drapery, he busied himself lighting candles. then, reappearing, he drew aside the curtain, revealing the almost startling magnificence of the precious metal and rare pearls in which the relics are enshrined. one object--that occupying the place of honour--was carefully enswathed. bending low before it, the padre, with reverent hands, withdrew the covering, showing an exquisite cross of gold, inset with priceless gems and hung with strings of costly pearls. in the centre of the cross--faintly perceptible through its encasement of crystal--were some fragments of the true cross. on certain occasions, such as the service on good friday afternoon, this relic is borne in procession round the cathedral. the custodian, who was an enthusiast happy in his appreciation of and delight in his mission, proceeded to show us more of the wondrous treasures of the old cathedral. among the things almost too sacred to mention were three thorns from christ's crown of thorns, a piece of the purple cloth of his robe, a fragment of his swaddling band, and a portion of a garment worn by the virgin mary. a bone, black and shrivelled with age, was from the finger of st. peter. and an extremely interesting relic--one so veritably antique that it is mentioned in the first inventory of the sacred trophies belonging to the cathedral--is the tip of one of the arrows with which st. sebastian, who is the patron saint of palma, was killed. like all the other relics, this is carefully enclosed. another relic of the saint is the bone of his fore-arm, which is enclosed in a case surmounted by a hand, on whose outstretched fingers are many costly rings, votive offerings presented in gratitude by those who believe they have benefited by his intercession on their behalf. two magnificent crowns, those that on special occasions are worn by the effigies of the virgin and the holy child, were also in that safe in company with other valuables too many to catalogue. the mass was still in progress. while we gazed from the face of the priest, which glowed with fervour, to the wondrous things he showed us with such tender veneration, came a sound of chanting, the music of boys' voices rising sweet and clear. there was still the first impression of having been admitted behind the scenes--an impression which the entrance of certain of the officiating clergy who came into the sacristy to change their vestments served to deepen. leaving an attendant to extinguish the lights and re-lock the great iron doors, the padre opened other cupboards and showed us a plethora of riches, valuable not only for the material but for the beauty and artistic skill of the workmanship. a crucifix bore an exquisitely carven ivory figure of the dead christ, and in the hollow of the slender stem of a gold cup a craftsman of surprising ingenuity had contrived to mould a representation of the last supper, so minute in detail that it portrayed not only the table with the company seated around it but also the food that was placed before them. on the inner base of the vase, the executant of this triumph of the goldsmith's art had graven his name, which i forget, and his age, which at the date of the completion of this intricate and original piece of work was sixty-nine. our guide did not scamp his task. he appeared to take both pride and pleasure in it, and showed us everything, from the vestments, which were rigid with gold and embroidery, to the massive silver candelabra worth nearly seven thousand pounds, that are so heavy that when they are moved into the body of the cathedral for use during special services, it takes four men to carry the top, and six men the base, of each. at three different dates, when long-continued drought had induced privation, this silver has been sold for the relief of the poor; and three times has it been bought back again, and restored to its place in the cathedral. until recently the embalmed body of king jaime ii. (who died in his palace of the almudaina just across the road from the principal entrance to the cathedral), which rested in a marble sarcophagus in front of the high altar, was shown to the public on the st of december, the anniversary of the day on which his father, the conquistador, freed palma from the moors. the mummified corpse is no longer publicly exhibited, and the coffin containing the remains has been removed to a recess behind and above the high altar, where it rests awaiting burial. by special permission we were allowed to see the body of the monarch. the coffin, taken from the sarcophagus, had been placed on a stone bracket. an attendant, mounting a ladder that leant against the wall at the head of the coffin, slid back the lid. and in turn we climbed up and, bending over, peeped into the open coffin to see, through intervening glass--what? a royal robe of velvet and gold and ermine, the lace-trimmed sleeves crossed at the empty wrists, and above the neck of the garment a dark fleshless skull, with the brown skin tightened over it, closed eyes deep sunk in the sockets, and toothless jaws wide agape. a rose-pink velvet nightcap encased the shrunken head of the monarch who, six hundred years ago, reigned over majorca. [illustration: the coffin of jaime ii in palma cathedral] the reign of this second jaime, which extended over a period of more than thirty years, would appear to have been an exceptionally placid one for these warlike days. we know that he brought from spain cunning workmen who converted for his use the castle of the moorish amir, the almudaina, into a royal palace, and there a code of court etiquette was formulated and put into practice by the new monarch. the wife of the captain-general, who now occupies the old moorish palace, a few nights before we saw the remains of the former tenant of the almudaina, gave a reception in the form of a "tea-party"--the guests to arrive at ten o'clock, the tea to be served at midnight. one wonders what the nature of king jaime's court functions were--at what hour his guests assembled, what the entertainment was, and when they dispersed. the imposing marble sarcophagus in which in times past these remnants of royalty were entombed has been removed to a corner of the cloisters, where we saw it standing forlorn and forgotten. [illustration: market day at pollensa] xiv pollensa we had intended deferring our expedition to the neighbouring isle of minorca till later in the season; until after the week or two of cold weather that we had been warned to expect in january had passed. but as the opening days of the year went by in brilliant sunshine, and the temperature continued ideal, we felt tempted to delay no longer. it was the man's suggestion that we should make a roundabout tour of it, visiting first the old-world towns of pollensa and alcudia, then sailing from the port of alcudia to minorca and returning from mahón direct to palma. so at daybreak on the th of january bartolomé appeared to drive us to the station. the sun had risen, bartolomé was smiling, and the hills beyond son españolet shone pink and heliotrope in the morning light as we drove along; yet there was a sharp little nip in the air, and the _consumeros_ were still shivering in their blankets, covered up to their noses and cowering over their braziers. without these reminders we would have forgotten that it was the depth of winter in the fortunate isles. at palma station the customary small bustle heralded the departure of the morning train. the porter of the grand hotel was seeing off a french couple who were going to manacor to visit the dragon caves. among the little company of natives with their fringed shawls and white muslin _rebozillos_ the french lady, who wore a smart flower-trimmed toque on her golden hair and costly furs on her shoulders, looked oddly out of place. on this occasion the . train left with extreme punctuality, and its rate of progress, though slow, was steady. the only other passenger in our second-class compartment was a swarthy man who wore a yachting cap, white shoes, and a striped blanket. he evidently felt cold, and as he sat curled up on the seat his appearance was a ludicrous combination of a member of the royal yacht club and an asiatic hospital patient who had risen to have his bed made. he was journeying to inca, apparently for the first time, and when he asked for information regarding the number of stations to be passed before his destination was reached, it seemed reversing the natural order of things that we foreigners should be able to give it. nearly two months had passed since we travelled over the line, and it was interesting to note the difference in the appearance of things. then the rich red earth had been furrowed by the plough, or was in process of sowing. now it was covered with long lines of sturdy beans, or with springing grain level and green as a tennis lawn. the fig-trees and grape-vines were leafless now; but the evergreen carobs showed the tender shades of the new leaves at the tips of the well-covered branches. the olives wore their accustomed silver-grey, but the first pale blossoms of the year flecked the almond-trees with white. we had taken _combinados_ tickets, and the second-class fare--two pesetas thirty-five centimos--included the ten-mile coach drive from la puebla to pollensa. when we alighted at the station two diligences were waiting, one for pollensa, the other for alcudia. choosing the right one the man and i got inside with six other folk--three young men, two young women, one old man, and a baby too young to count. the boy went on the box, luggage was piled on the roof, and the horses set to work to drag their heavy load over the dry, newly mended road. the majorcan way of repairing a road is to put a layer of roughly broken stones over the worn bits, then to block the smooth places with chunks of rock, so that the unhappy travellers are perforce obliged to do the work of levelling by driving over the loose stones. but though the way was rough and jolty there was no dust, and there were no mosquitoes; and our company, including the brand-new baby, was the soul of good nature. the young men and women chatted gaily together in the harsh majorcan dialect; the old man evincing a friendly interest in the conversation, which difference of nationality unfortunately rendered unintelligible to us. once or twice, when the subject under discussion appeared more than usually entertaining, the man and i whispered to each other, as we had done before in similar circumstances, "if we could only understand what they are saying!" our progress was slow, owing partly to the roughness of the road, and partly, as the boy later explained, to the fact that the driver, who was a very old man, fell asleep at intervals, and only awoke when the horses stopped. half-way to pollensa we exchanged drivers with the coach that was on its way to la puebla; and our new man being wide-awake, matters progressed more briskly. the boy told us afterwards that, seen from his place on the box, the scenery had been glorious; but from the interior of the diligence it was impossible to gain more than a general impression of lovely wooded slopes, and of distant hills that seemed to draw nearer and nearer until, suddenly, while pollensa seemed still a long way off, we found ourselves in a narrow lane lined with tall houses. in and out of the most tortuous streets imaginable the diligence twisted, then abruptly came to a standstill at no place in particular, and we realized that we had penetrated to the heart of pollensa. we had no idea where to go. all the information we had been able to gather about the pollensa _fondas_--there were no so-called hotels--was that they were reputed to be bad. but when the coach stopped, and we had alighted, and were standing with our luggage on the cobble-stones, wondering in what direction to turn for a lodging, a young man, plump, clean-shaven, bare-headed, appearing from nowhere, begged breathlessly to recommend his _fonda_. following him through crooked ways we reached the hostelry, which was in a little square near the market-place. mounting a steep stair, we entered a large lavishly windowed room furnished with many round tables and chairs. it had a little bar and looked to the square; behind it was a dining-room. the boy, who was our spokesman, following the expected procedure, inquired the terms per day. "six pesetas." our host, following an equally expected procedure when arranging with foreigners, had quoted his top price. "no," said the boy, whom experience had taught wisdom. "three pesetas; that is enough. can you not do it for that?" the landlord waved his hands. "that depends on what you have," he replied, quite reasonably. "three pesetas--yes, if you will be content with soup and one other dish at dinner and at supper." "and is the little breakfast included?" "yes, señor. coffee and milk." so it was decided. three pesetas a day was to be the price. and it was with a feeling of keen curiosity as to what our host would provide for the money that we awaited the appearance of the first meal, which was to be served immediately. señor calafill at andraitx had given us the perfection of french cookery, the best of wines, at three and a half pesetas. but his house was less pretentious, being a shop only and not a _fonda_. our hostess, a nice, bright little woman who wore her hair in a pigtail and the _rebozillo_, bustled in and began laying the marble-topped table with fresh napkins, good cutlery, rolls, a bottle of wine, and a syphon of soda-water. then she added a dish of fruit, and running off to the kitchen returned with the soup--a good thick majorcan soup, full of rice and sweet peppers and chopped meat. the second course was a large dish of fish served with fried potatoes. then we had, as a fruit course, apples and mandarin oranges. the fare might not be lavish, but it was assuredly all we required. our rooms, which were the best the house afforded, were small but clean, and during our stay proved quite free from mosquitoes. when we discussed how we would spend the afternoon, the boy and i hotly advocated walking to the port of pollensa. a traveller from an inland town who had shared the box-seat of the diligence with the boy had spoken enthusiastically of its beauty. his family was accustomed to spend the hot months there. the fishing, he said, was splendid, the fish being of much finer quality than those taken in the neighbouring bay of alcudia. "a salmonetta caught in the bay of pollensa _is_ a salmonetta," he had declared emphatically. the man wisely objected to the expedition. the port, he reminded us, was seven kilometros (nearly five miles) away, and that was too far to go and return comfortably in the short winter afternoon. besides, when we had come to see a curious old town, why not stay to look at it? but from my bedroom window i had caught an enchanting glimpse of the port--a segment of blue water hemmed in by steep rocky mountains. it seemed so near that i flouted the idea of the five miles, and the afternoon being a glorious one we finally agreed to go. as we passed along an outlying street an old man, who stood outside his house superintending the drying of a great tray of macaroni, wished us "good day." in returning his greeting the man added a remark on the beauty of the weather, which indeed to us seemed perfect. "no. this weather is not good. it is bad," the old man said severely. "it is rain that is needed. the country suffers. no, señor. this weather is bad, not good." the way was a relic of the roman occupation: a splendid wide level road that, except for a curve where it left the town, stretched like a broad ruled line between us and the blue sea. it could not really be so far as seven kilometros, i assured my vigilant conscience, which was inclined to remonstrate. it looked no distance at all. so we went on our wilful way, journeying gaily between the thorny hedges of aloes--one up among the rocks on the hill-side was in bloom--and beside the little farms that bordered either side of the road. the road was long--quite five miles--but there was always something interesting at hand, and the enticing strip of blue water drew us onward. the hills on the opposite side of the bay had already caught the rays of the setting sun, and looked like a bit of some dream-world. the port of pollensa had a quaint semicircle of houses, divided in the middle by the road we had come, which ended only on the bit of wharf that ran out into the spacious well-sheltered bay, where the british fleet had often found commodious anchorage. save for a few local _falucas_ it was now empty. in the little enclosed yards in front of the fisher-houses men and girls were at work weaving from bright yellow strips of bamboo the tall, beehive-looking lobster-traps in local use. behind the houses, on the left side of the bay, rose a precipitous hill. in front, between the houses and the water, was a line of fig-trees. along towards the seaward point were some small charmingly situated summer residences. when we turned our faces townwards the sun had already set; and though we walked smartly, the way that in the going had seemed short appeared to lengthen as the shadows crept over the hills and darkness encircled us. pollensa lies, a close huddle of old sun-dried houses, in a narrow curved valley between high mountains. until you are close upon it, it is almost entirely hidden, and that was probably the intention with which it was originally planned. during the last mile or two of the return journey, when the shades had fallen and we went on and on without apparently getting any nearer our habitation, my opinion of the distance that divided the port from the town became considerably modified. still, we were only pleasantly tired when the first of the town lights appeared, and we found our way to the _fonda_ through the twisted streets, past many well-lit barbers' shops where, in full view of the public gaze, men were being shaved or sitting in patient rows resignedly awaiting turns that, to judge from the large number of customers and the paucity of barbers, would necessarily be a long time in coming. supper was ready to serve, and the moment the meal was over i went upstairs to bed--to sleep soon and sweetly, in spite of the fact that conversation in the bar-room beneath sounded surprisingly distinct--about as loud, indeed, as though the owners of the voices were talking at my ear. morning brought explanation of the phenomenon--one of the flooring tiles just at the head of the bed was missing, and through the gap thus left the noise of the unseen talkers entered the room as through a speaking-tube. on the following morning, which was sunday, the weekly market was held at pollensa. very early, while it was yet hardly light, the little bustle of street traffic awoke me, and, looking from the window, i got a misty view of panniered donkeys and of rustic conveyances which vague shadowy figures were unloading. when we had breakfasted we went out and, within a few steps of our inn, found ourselves in the most picturesque market-place we had ever seen. i do not know what may be the leading article of pollensa market at other seasons, but on this january day the outstanding feature was cabbages--of tremendous proportions. piled in heaps and hillocks on the ground, they fairly dominated the market. other wares there were no doubt, but the things that impressed us were the number and size of these giant vegetables and a feeling of wonder as to where the people would come from to buy them. as the morning wore on, the mounds sensibly diminished in height; but at that early hour the stacks of cabbages towered so high that sometimes only the heads of the vendors were visible above them. in the raised portion of the market-square women occupied the stone benches, their stock of home-grown fruits and of the finer vegetables exhibited in baskets before them. it was the scarce time for grapes. the field-produce was long over, and only garden bunches were still to be had. but without any attempt at bargaining we bought two pounds of delicious grapes for sixpence-farthing, and large golden oranges were offered us at twopence a dozen. the town was so full of strange and picturesque figures that every moment brought fresh entertainment. at the _feria_ into which we strayed at inca we had thought ourselves lucky in seeing one old man attired in the curious _colsons en bufer_, as the voluminous zouave-like pantaloons of bright blue cotton are called. here in pollensa wearers of the delightfully odd old-world dress abounded. and it seemed as though they took a special pride in the quaintness of their garb, so particular were they about the set of their neckties, so trim about the ankles, so careful as to the fit of the low black shoes that went so well with the costume. the women of pollensa, though less extraordinary of aspect, were also a pleasure to behold, for with scarcely an exception they wore the becoming native dress, and their heads were neatly covered with either the pretty white muslin head-dress or with handkerchiefs of gaily coloured silk. it was somewhat disconcerting to realize, as we did quite suddenly, that it was really we who were the oddities, and that in the eyes of the crowd, at whom we were gazing so curiously, i was a ludicrous object because i wore a hat! it was really quite an ordinary travelling-hat, but finding that the fact of a woman wearing a hat at all attracted undue attention from these unsophisticated folks, i hastened back to the _fonda_ and changed it for a chiffon scarf worn mantilla-fashion. that done, i found i could pass almost unnoticed. majorca boasts many picturesque old towns, but probably pollensa is the most picturesque of all. it is a beautiful antique: a town made for the painter. its warm golden-brown houses have baked in the hot southern sunshine until they seem ready to crumble to pieces. it is by no means a rich town. most of the dwellings appeared to belong to the poorer classes. as the man said--"it is a city of slums--but what adorable slums!" the streets were all turnings, and every turn brought a subject ready for the brush. here was a grand old cross, there a curious fountain, yonder an ancient stone washing-trough. and round every corner, that market-morning, came the quaint old men in their broad-brimmed felt hats and baggy breeches, unconsciously adding the note of human interest that completed the pictures. pollensa is essentially a town of hills. mountains closely girdle it round. to the calvario, which is perched on a height in the midst of the town, one ascends by countless wide, low steps, the town ascending also. for on one side houses struggle half-way up the steep incline, while cactus plants, the edges of their thick, fleshy leaves heavily ruched by blood-red fruit, hedge the other. on the rocky slope beyond is a thick growth of _palmettos_, the dwarf palms whose inner stems the natives eat and from whose dried fronds baskets are made. [illustration: the main street of pollensa] to the dwellers in these sky-parlours the broad steps play the part of an extra sitting-room. as we climbed slowly up that hot morning, we trod closely upon many domestic scenes, but none of the actors therein objected to the intrusion. fathers were happily employing their sunday leisure in nursing their babies; and mothers, with the requisites placed for all the world to see, were washing their children's faces, tying up their locks with ribbon, and performing other niceties of the toilet that usually take place in the sanctity of the home. one old woman, sitting full in the sun, was reciting her prayers in a loud voice. her occupation, however, did not appear in the slightest to detract from her interest in the passing of us _forasteros_. the open doors of the little chapel that perched amidst its guardian cypresses on the summit spoke a wordless welcome; and we entered, to find ourselves in a beautiful sanctuary. above the altar was a very old carved tableau which represented christ suspended on a heavy wooden cross, with mary, kneeling, caressing his wounded feet. on the ceiling were various curious and evidently antique emblems of the redemption. on either side of the altar was a recess devoted to the display of votive offerings. many of them were akin to those exhibited in other churches, though one case was filled with tiny flat silver figures--miniature men in trousers and tiny women in petticoats. but on the wall of the chamber to the right was an offering that aroused both our interest and our curiosity. suspended in a tall, narrow glass case, hung a pleat of dark brown hair, tied simply after the local fashion with a knot and ends of black ribbon. it was a pigtail such as was worn by most of the women in the town; but a pigtail of such unusual length and thickness that it might quite laudably have been the pride of its owner's heart. beneath was a card bearing the following inscription, written large in a fair, round hand:-- _promesa de francisca noviembre pollensa._ now who was francisca? and why did she promise to cut off her beautiful hair? was it to avert the fatal issue of some illness of her own? or was it because her lover was ill, or in danger by land or sea? or was francisca merely afraid that he might prove faithless? whatever the nature of the terror francisca dreaded, it was happily averted. the presence of the severed tresses assured us of that. but it was a particularly fine pigtail, and the sight of it tempted one to wonder what the feeling of juan, or pedro, or miguel was when he first saw his sweetheart with closely cropped locks, and found that she had shorn off her glory for his sake. it is to be trusted that francisca's hair was not her only beauty. from the terraced slope of the calvario one gets a magnificent view of the town. looking down on the tiled roofs, all tawny-brown with the passing of centuries, it is easy to realize the great age of pollensa. the city itself occupies but a circumscribed area, so narrow are the streets, so huddled together the houses. there is scarcely room for a green leaf to sprout between them. but where the town ends abruptly the real country begins, and in the parts that are not closely flanked by hills the ancient town is girdled by a belt of almond-trees. and all about it the fertile ground is cut up into small holdings, each with its little yellow-brown dwelling-house. on every side, as far as the eye can reach, rise mountains, a glimpse of blue sea showing here and there between their rocky crags. above one side of the town towers an isolated peak, from whose crest a magnificent panoramic view of half of the island of majorca, and even a distant glimpse of minorca, can be obtained. a superbly situated building that was once the convent of nuestra señora del puig (our lady of the peak) crowns the top of the height. it was so named because of a marvellous image of the virgin discovered by the nuns who were in residence there. in olden days, when the building was in the possession of the church, the convent of our lady of the peak supported an _hospederia_ for the shelter of pilgrims; and now that the holy sisterhood has removed to palma, the authorities of pollensa continue to uphold their hospitable custom, and every traveller who mounts the steep--rather a stiff climb, by the way--is welcome to free lodging with fire, oil, olives, and goat's cheese for three nights and days at the expense of the town. as we looked from the calvario where we were standing across the valley to the noble pile of the old convent, and thought how sublime the sunrises and sunsets would be, viewed from our lady of the peak, i registered a vow to make a pilgrimage thither some day. the man chose to be pleasantly sarcastic regarding the fulfilment of the intention. he cherishes a perhaps not altogether unfounded belief that i wish to revisit every place i have seen in majorca. but we shall see.... as we passed back through the market-square, the business of buying and selling was still in progress. in every quarter of the town, down back alleys, mounting up the steps towards the calvario, in the farthest-out streets, we had met women carrying home the brobdingnagian cabbages. dinners were already cooking over the little fires of almond shells, and the odour of boiling cabbage came from many earthenware cooking-pots, yet the piles seemed scarcely diminished. the cattle-market--a matter of a score or two of piglings, half a dozen sheep, a few horses--was held in the square before our _fonda_, and while it lasted the interest of the wearers of the _colsons en bufer_ centred there, though, as far as we could judge from our balcony, they took no active part in the trafficking. they had all brown, weather-beaten, shrewd old faces, and all gave the impression of leading lives of extreme respectability. it was impossible to imagine any one of them falling foul of the law. as the boy said, "it would be a comic sight to see the old beggars flying from justice in bags like these!" since our arrival on the previous noon, the personality of our landlord had greatly puzzled us. at first sight he had appeared youngish, stout, clean-shaven, and slightly surly in manner, and at intervals he still presented the same characteristics. but there were other times when he surprised us by seeming rather older, slightly greyer, and decidedly more gracious of bearing. the simple solution of the little mystery came when we chanced to see him in both aspects at once; and learned that we had two hosts--father and son--who, even when seen in company, so strongly resembled each other that we christened them the two dromios. in the afternoon we set off on the prowl, with the town hall--in which a native guide-book declared there was a collection of antique armour--as our objective. the town hall, which in common with so many important balearic buildings was originally a convent, occupies a commanding position at the head of a steep street. reaching it, we found an open doorway, but no sign of any custodian. we entered and wandered along empty passages and up a great staircase so old that the stone steps were worn down, and the lower balustrades had fallen quite away. still in quest of the collection of ancient armour, we had strayed as far as an upper and seemingly deserted corridor, our footsteps echoing loudly on the tiled floors. we were about to retrace our steps when a door at the end of the passage opened, and a gentleman appeared. to our gratification he accepted our explanation of the intrusion, and courteously invited us to enter his house to see the views from his windows; for as official telegraphist to the town, he occupied a handsome suite of rooms in the old building. his wife, too, showed no surprise at having three outlandish foreigners thus rudely disturb her sabbath peace. she received us most graciously, and, having invited us to be seated, entered into conversation with the man. "we were from england, then?" "yes, but for the winter we were resident at palma." "palma. so we lived in palma?" before her husband's translation to pollensa a few months earlier, the señora explained, they also had lived in palma. "in what part of palma did we reside?" "well, not exactly in the town--just beyond the walls, at son españolet." "at son españolet!" the señora confessed to having had a summer residence in son españolet. "our house is in the calle de mas--number ." "in the calle de mas! caramba! what a coincidence!" the señora's summer home had also been in the calle de mas--number . with this unexpected interest between us, we were soon all chatting away volubly, though, i fear, not always intelligibly. and when we bade the señora "adios" to resume our quest, the señor kindly accompanied us. with his aid we succeeded in unearthing an old woman who kept the keys that opened the treasures of the town. one most interesting chamber held the records of pollensa for many hundreds of years--from the earliest archives that were inscribed on parchment now brown with age, to the smart morocco-bound chronicles of the day before yesterday. the arms of the city--the three cypresses, the silver star, and the cock with a claw in the air, that had already become familiar to us--were there also. among the old cross-bows and halberds were the huge blunderbusses that, in accordance with an old custom, are still fired off yearly. and with them were specimens of a much older form of offensive weapon in the shape of huge rounded stones that in olden times had been hurled from the battlements of the castillo del rey, aimed at the skulls of attacking enemies. articles that were specially interesting, because in use to the present day, were the big earthenware water-jugs from which are drawn by lot the young men whom pollensa annually contributes to the majorcan army. there must be anxious hearts, both inside and outside of the old building, on that morning in early february when the lads whose turn has come go up to draw from the narrow mouths of the moorish jars the numbers that are to decide their manner of life for the next three years. in the council chamber was a large painting by a native artist of juan mas, the townsman to whom belongs the honour of having first delivered pollensa from the moors. juan must either have been a _malade imaginaire_, or one whose spirit was stronger than his body; for, as the story goes, he was sick abed when the moors reached the town, and leaping from his couch, without taking time to change his night-garb, he led the people on to victory. the artist shows the hero in what was presumably the sleeping-suit of the period--loose white breeches and a shirt. we were back at the _fonda_ taking tea when a sound of chanting voices in the street beneath drew us to the windows in time to see a religious procession passing slowly beneath. priests in rich vestments, carrying banners, walked in front; behind in a double line came a long succession of females of all classes--women with _rebozillos_ and pigtails, ladies with mantillas. a band of little girls and nuns brought up the rear; and, still singing, the company passed on, and entered the adjacent church. xv the port of alcudia on being consulted respecting a conveyance that would take us to alcudia, the younger dromio had suggested the possibility of hiring one from a friend of his own. the distance was twelve kilometros, the cost would be about six or seven pesetas. so next morning, when we were ready to start, quite a smart trap awaited us. it was after the fashion of the penitential gig in which we had journeyed from the hospederia at miramar to sóller, but it was twice as large. the owner, who drove, had dressed for the occasion. he wore a sportive cap of green and gold tartan plush, a well-starched white shirt that was lavishly sprinkled with black spots as big as sixpences (no collar, of course), and he was smoking a cigar. bidding farewell to the two dromios, who shook us by the hands with seeming regret and craved the favour of a recommendation to our friends, we drove away through the sweet morning air. the lovely road curved about the foot of the hill crowned by the old convent of our lady of the peak, and past many little holdings--one-acre-and-a-goat sort of places--towards the sea. the road was dry, but there was no dust, and the january sun shone warmly from a cloudless sky. [illustration: the roman gateway, alcudia] when we had reached the broad roman road that led directly to the old walled city of alcudia, our way led between countless ranks of great fig-trees--their spreading branches now bare and grey. so many were they, and so wide an area did they cover, that, if we had not seen figs growing in profusion at other parts of the island, we could almost have believed that all the figs in palma came from alcudia. our driver was a genial man who had emigrated and made his money in buenos ayres, and while still young had been able to follow the worthy native custom and return with his savings to his native district, where he was now comfortably settled, farming his own bit of land and driving his own pony-trap. when we asked his advice as to where we might stay at alcudia, he said there were two hotels at the port, which is a mile beyond the old city. the hotel miramar was the larger. but the proprietors of the fonda marina were friends of his own. they were very nice people. he could heartily recommend them. and here i may say that one of the many nice features of the majorcans is that they are almost invariably on friendly terms with each other. if a shopkeeper happens to be out of the commodity a buyer wants, he will put himself out of his way to direct the customer to a brother vendor. alcudia is a curiously old city--far older even than palma, they claim. it has a distinct inner wall--moorish--and many substantial traces of an outer one--roman. entering by the gate of san sebastian--near which a much-chipped wooden figure of the saint is sheltered in a netting-protected niche in the wall--we drove through the corkscrewy streets and out by a gate on the farther side. before coming we had decided not to stay in the ancient city. its sanitary condition was supposed to be doubtful, and we had failed to hear of an inn there. but when we had driven through the picturesque roman gateway and past the antique cross beyond, we looked back, and the place seemed so enticingly old-world, so like a habitation out of another century than ours, that we felt sorry we had made no real endeavour to find a lodging within its walls. however, the recollection that we would have to start about a.m. in a small boat to get on board the minorca steamer reconciled us to the prospect of living as close as possible to the harbour. the fonda marina was an attractive-looking new house built at the very edge of the bay. as we drove up, the host and hostess, recognizing our driver, hastened out to welcome him. before marrying and settling down as hotel-keepers, the husband had been a steward on south american steamers, and the wife had been cook to the former proprietors of the _fonda_. both were pleasant, frank country folk, and terms were quickly arranged. "we would like to stay here till the boat for minorca calls to-morrow night. can you take us for three pesetas a day?" we asked. "for three pesetas _each_?" the host inquired dubiously, as though he thought we had suggested his accepting that sum for the trio. "if for three pesetas _each_--yes, surely." so, to the evident satisfaction of everybody concerned, the easy bargain was concluded. the fonda marina was particularly bright and airy. its windows overlooked the great bay of alcudia, from which, in olden times, expeditions were wont to sail for africa and the levant. these were the days when the kings of spain built whole fleets from wood grown in majorcan forests. there was a drawing-room whose three windows each commanded a totally different point of view. it had a good balcony, and was lit by home-made acetylene gas. our rooms, which were clean and comfortable, faced seawards. with a very long rod one might almost have fished from their windows. a more enticing summer residence could hardly be imagined. our hostess had promised that in a few minutes luncheon would be ready. and it was with lively curiosity that we awaited its appearance. the two dromios had entertained us for the same sum; and we were interested to see how the catering of the fonda marina would compare with that of their caravansary. seating ourselves in one of the large halls downstairs, we waited the turn of events. the mistress of the house had disappeared into the kitchen, whence frizzling sounds expressive of hurried cooking smote cheerily upon our expectant ears. presently a slim, dark-eyed young maid, consuelo by name, hastened out bearing an armful of plates which she proceeded to set at intervals round a large baize-covered table near us. then she added thick glass tumblers, a tall jug of water, and a large rye loaf. "i say," said the boy, "there are _six_ plates. we're evidently expected to dine with the family. that'll be fun." but his hopes of a treat were disappointed by consuelo reappearing to invite us into a neat little dining-room whose existence we had not suspected. there we found a table nicely spread for three, with the elaborately monogrammed linen one sees in every majorcan home, good cutlery, a bottle of red wine, and a siphon of soda-water. when we had taken our places our host himself placed before us a large dish of _arroz_--the excellent native stew of rice mixed with anything savoury in the form of fish, flesh, fowl, or vegetable that happens to be at hand. fried fish followed--fresh out of the sea, and so delicious of flavour that we were inclined to question whether those caught in the bay of pollensa could possibly be better. while we were eating it, the hostess came in to ask what we would have next--whether we would prefer an omelet or cutlets. we unanimously chose omelet, and in a hand-clap one, hot and buoyant, was on the table. oranges and apples and black coffee completed the menu. during the meal, the solicitude of the family to see that we lacked nothing that would conduce to our comfort was almost embarrassing. the door of our dining-room stood open, and although the host and consuelo, who served us, did not actually remain in the room they were continually passing the door with anxious eyes turned on our proceedings. and when a dish was removed the señora would come in person to inquire if it had been to our liking. the climax came when the only child of the house--cristobal, a dear brat of five--in his desire to see the eccentric strangers eat, crept stealthily up the staircase and stationed himself on his knees just opposite the open door of the dining-room, gazing down through the banisters at us. this ingenious little manoeuvre was discovered by his father. there ensued a sound resembling applause, and young hopeful was borne off, howling, to be comforted in the kitchen. immediately after luncheon the man walked back towards alcudia to sketch the view of the sea-gate of the old city, that had struck him when we drove through. and, left to our devices, the boy and i went boating. a jolly, flat-bottomed punt belonging to the _fonda_ was moored close at hand, and just across the blue and silver water lay an enticing stretch of lovely white sand. behind it rose a bank of low shrubs overtopped by tall pines whose foliage had been so cropped that at a little distance they bore a striking resemblance to cocoanut palms. beyond the flat expanse of land rose a line of mountains that glowed warm heliotrope and pink in the strong sunshine. the still water was so clear that we could see every grain of the sand, every spray of seaweed, beneath. and as we drifted over the lagoon we felt as though the intervening decade had slipped back and that we were once again on the coral strand of the pacific islands. i had heard that beautiful and, sometimes, very rare shells were to be found in the bay of alcudia. so, getting the boy to put me on shore, i wandered along by the edge of the water looking for them. but my quest proved of little avail. shells there were, it is true, but they were very small, very fragile, and almost colourless; most, indeed, were pure white and nearly transparent. i have gathered shells in many parts of the world, and i confess i was disappointed. still, it was the only point on which alcudia did not far exceed any expectations i had formed of it. the comparative failure of my search must have been owing to the long continuance of calm weather. as the mediterranean is almost tideless, it is only after a storm that wave-borne treasures are usually to be found washed up on her beaches. perhaps i may not have looked in the right spot, though i did wander a long way round the shore in the direction of the albufera--the tract of marshy land where rice is cultivated. so far, that i was glad when the boy, by skilful navigation, succeeded in avoiding the many sandbanks and could run the punt in and, picking me up, row me over to the _fonda_. the man was awaiting our return, and after taking a cup of tea we walked eastwards along the coast towards an old moorish tower that we had seen from the distance. the sun had set. it was in the mysterious half-light of the gloaming that we mounted the steps leading to the door and found it open at a touch. within all was darkness. the flame of a match revealed chambers showing that the tower had evidently been a home as well as a place of defence. one had evidently been the living-room of the moorish tenants, for almost half the floor-space was occupied by the wide chimney-corner, where a host might have gathered round the blazing logs. i never see an ancient dwelling without experiencing a keen desire to know what manner of folks were the first to kindle a fire on the deserted hearth. feeling our way up the worn stairway, we reached a floor with more empty and silent apartments. two or three broken steps led to a cunning opening placed exactly over the front entrance. besiegers essaying to storm the door must have fallen easy victims to the alert watchers above; and that wide hearth had room to heat an amazing lot of water. at either side of the opening were embrasures into which the defender of the fortress might dart after he had aimed his missile--scalding water, arrows, heavy stones, or whatever the fashion of his time in projectiles chanced to be. mounting yet higher, we found ourselves standing in the open air, on a flat circular roof overlooking the wide bay. on one side of the roof were two chambers and a draw-well. the view from the top of this ancient moorish tower was grand. the sun had long set, but the sky still held a thousand glorious hues that were reflected in the sea. no craft moved on the surface of the water, and not a living being was in sight on land. the whole lovely world seemed to belong to us. allured by the romantic beauty of the spot, we lingered until the colour had faded and the sky had become so dark that we had to stumble our way _fonda_-wards over the rough field-track, vowing to return on the morrow to see the place by daylight. supper was waiting when we got indoors--half-a-dozen fried eggs served with fried potatoes, cutlets, cauliflower and cheese. a home-made sausage, a mould of _membrillo_ jelly, fruit and coffee--an _outré_ combination perhaps, but it was all very tempting and nicely cooked, and we enjoyed it. another of our charming balearic days had ended. and so, as pepys would say, to bed. our wonderful luck in weather continued. we awoke to yet another perfect morning. immediately after breakfast the man set off to sketch one of the countless curious antique moorish wells--known as _norias_--used for the irrigation of the crops: wells whose chains of earthenware jars are worked by the motive power supplied by mules that, yoked to a long shaft, keep walking in a circle. the mule needs no guide, as the rein, which is tied to the beam overhead, at intervals gives a gentle tug in the required direction. it was oddly pathetic to see the patient brutes, their eyes blindfolded by having straw saucers fastened over them plodding steadfastly round and round, while from the ceaseless filling and emptying of the chain of jars the water gushed in a miniature waterfall into the trenches dug between the long lines of growing vegetables. in this fertile plain near the sea, the crop at this mid-winter season appeared to consist mainly of cabbages and cauliflowers. and when we saw those grown at alcudia we knew where the mammoth cabbages that had dominated pollensa market had been reared. [illustration: a _noria_ near alcudia] the boy had gone alone to do a sketch on the roof of the moorish tower that had interested us on the previous night. as he sat working, there came a sound of steps ascending the crumbling stairs; and to his pleasure three pretty majorcan girls appeared, come to fill their earthen water-jars at the old draw-well on the roof, a well that even after the lapse of hundreds of years still continued to yield an abundant supply of pure water. the girls were exactly the figures required to complete the sketch. so to their gratification and his own benefit the boy put them in. in the afternoon, the man and i walked the easy mile to alcudia, and wandered about the quaint old town, climbing both the inner and the outer walls, wishing we knew more of its history, and lamenting that our limitations of language kept us ignorant of the meaning of these extensive and variant lines of fortifications. so we made no exhaustive inquiries, but prowled about and drew our own rough conclusions as to the relative values of the roman and moorish manner of building and defence. coming upon a handsome and imposing church, we went in. it was dark and silent. straying through the outer building, which had a vast moorish dome, we entered a curious and beautiful inner church, whose sides were lined with the nearest approach to private boxes that we had ever seen in a sacred edifice. returning to the outer church, we were looking at the decorations in the dimness of the side chapels. the man had struck a match to enable us to see a grotto that was rendered still more obscure by half-drawn curtains. the sound echoing through the silence brought a lad, who was evidently intensely interested in the church and its possessions. lighting a tall candle, he drew aside the curtains, and with something of the pride of ownership in his manner revealed to us the christmas tableau of the scene in the stable at bethlehem. his glory in the display was so evident that we did not remark on the contempt for perspective that had represented the virgin and child as giants, and the worshipping kings and shepherds as merely pigmies; nor did we venture to hint that anything in the nature of an anachronism marked the presence of a gay satin cushion at mary's feet. the lad's soul was evidently in the work of the church. when we thanked him, and the man offered him a coin in recognition of the willing services he had rendered us, he at first refused to take it; then, when we insisted, accepted and immediately put it into the collection-box marked "for the high altar." our landlord had spoken of the remains of a roman amphitheatre that was in the district; and finding that we were interested, he volunteered to pilot us thither. and, indeed, without his escort we would never have found the place, for it lies in the heart of a farm, the way to which leaves the main road half-way between the old city and her port. a commonplace path between stone walls led to the farm-house, whose quite ordinary exterior gave no suggestion of the strange tracks of bygone races that lay hid in the ground all about. having asked and obtained the permission that enabled us to trespass, we passed on and reached a rocky slope which bore signs of having at some time been used as a quarry. to our unskilled eyes nothing seemed to promise that our surroundings would prove other than the usual majorcan farm placed on a particularly rocky bit of country. our guide, who had been walking in advance, stopping suddenly, pointed to the ground at his feet. "there!" he said. and looking, we saw that we were standing on the top step of a barely distinguishable semicircle that had been roughly hewn in the rock. with a beautiful disrespect for age, a stone dike had been built right across the seats. i think we counted six rows above and five below the wall. and in the arena flourishing almond-trees had rooted deep in the once blood-stained soil. a hole in the ground allowed a peep into a cavern where the wild beasts used in the combats had been housed. but the ground held other secrets. in the solid rock that rose above the sides of the amphitheatre there were many graves--once sealed; now, having been desecrated by bygone generations of moors, merely slits gaping to the skies. about four years earlier a strange finding had taken place within a few paces of the farm-house. an untouched roman grave had been discovered; and our guide, who had been present at the opening, described the scene in language so graphic, and accompanied by such dramatic gesture, that we had not the smallest difficulty in following the most minute detail. he told us how, when the hermetically sealed top stone had been lifted away, the complete body of a woman, apparently young, lay before them, as she had been placed two thousand years before, with a necklace of gold round her throat, earrings in her ears, rings on her fingers. and how, as they looked in awed silence, the body that throughout these ages had maintained a semblance of humanity, had before their eyes slowly crumbled into undistinguishable dust. [illustration: ciudadela seen from the sea] xvi minorca the weekly steamer from barcelona to minorca was due to call at the port of alcudia at . a.m. we went to bed, but not to sleep, for half a dozen intending passengers, five of them commercial travellers, had arrived by diligence from la puebla, and the _fonda_ echoed with unwonted noise. when, about three o'clock, we went downstairs, the large hall was brilliantly lit, and men muffled in big cloaks and scarves were gulping glasses of hot coffee before leaving the shelter of a roof. in the public room beyond, some harbourmen and one of the never-absent carbineers sat smoking. a nondescript being--faded red cap on head, bare feet thrust into hempen sandals--summoned by the landlord, appeared from the outer darkness and, shouldering our baggage, passed out into the night. we followed, and walking by faith, at length found ourselves standing on the pier, the unseen water lap-lapping at our feet, an increasing group of fellow-voyagers gathering about us. out of the dense blackness a boat with a lantern burning dimly at her prow crept beneath us and paused. some one lit a match, revealing a short flight of steps leading to the water. descending with fumbling feet, we reached the elusive craft below. a curious company we were, vague, indefinable, all closely packed together, and all silent. a priest, a party of commercial travellers, and a gaunt moorish-looking being, who was wrapped from his head--on which, as we afterwards saw, he wore, probably to save bother in packing, a wide felt sombrero with a jaunty yachting cap set a-top--to his naked ankles, in a great white blanket. there was no moon, and the paling stars gave but little light as the two boatmen, standing up facing the bow, moved the heavily laden boat across the smooth swart water. urged on with strong, unswerving strokes, the boat moved away from the invisible land, the while we sat dumb, motionless. i was just thinking that in something of these attitudes of utter and hopeless despair might the unwilling passengers of charon endure the last dread journey across the styx, when the boy, who was sitting next to me, whispered, "don't we look exactly as though we were shipwrecked people adrift on the ocean?" then the bulk of the _monte toro_ loomed vaguely ahead, and as our bow neared the accommodation ladder the elder boatman, abandoning his oar, began collecting his fees of fivepence each (_dos reales_) for piloting us over the bay. the illusion had vanished. we were everyday human beings once more. before we left london a spanish friend had strongly advised us to travel second-class in balearic island steamers. he said the second saloon accommodation was justly popular with those who knew, because, first-class passengers being few, it was better placed and more commodious. the man has cherished a lifelong theory that when journeying by sea the best accommodation is not too good. but on this occasion of our crossing from majorca to minorca, as the weather was still tranquil, he allowed himself to be persuaded to put our friend's advice to the test. and the experience of that night was so eminently satisfactory that it not only added to our immediate comfort but saved us much money in the future. when crossing from barcelona our first-class cabins, which were small and had thwart-ship berths, had been situated in the stern. the second-class cabin on the _monte toro_, which i shared with the only other lady passenger, was large, airy, and as gay as ivory paint, brass rods, and scarlet draperies could make it. it was right amidships too, had two port-holes, and berths that for comfort could scarcely have been improved upon. the lighter with a load of pigs being still on the way, the decks of the smart little steamer were quiet. a pet donkey, covered with a scarlet blanket, was tethered under the sheltering boat deck; a glint of gold lace in the galley revealed the captain warming himself by the cook's fire. when i entered the cabin labelled "señoras," a pretty girl in a pink petticoat was standing before the mirror engaged in exaggerating the bulk of her abundant dark hair by padding it out with quite unnecessary "rats" and cushions into twice its natural proportions. lying down, i fell asleep to the lullaby grunting of the pigs that were being hauled on board. when i awoke it was daylight, and a glance through a port-hole showed that we were nearing a flat coast. the pretty pink petticoat had already gone on deck, and putting on a cloak and hood, i followed to join my people in a sheltered corner of the promenade deck, from where we surveyed the coast that we were approaching with the deliberate rate of speed that characterizes balearic island steamers. the general aspect of minorca, the flat country, the white houses, the windmills, vividly recalled our first glimpse of guernsey as we had approached it early one winter morning many years ago. ciudadela, which is the oldest city in the island, was the capital in the time of the moors. it was to the rulers of ciudadela that king jaime sent his demand for the submission of minorca. from our place on deck we could see cape pera, the eastern point of majorca, twenty miles distant, where the young king and his knights kindled the huge bonfires that, by alarming the moors into the belief that a hostile army lay encamped there ready to invade them, gained him a bloodless subjection. ciudadela, which was the seat of a bishop in , is still the ecclesiastical capital of minorca, though mahón has long superseded her in all else. the sea is rarely smooth on the minorcan coast. it was within a short distance of ciudadela that, not many days later, the _general chanzy_, bound from marseilles to algiers, was wrecked with the loss of every soul on board with the solitary exception of one young man, whose escape was surely the most marvellous on record. as we lay to outside the very narrow entrance to the harbour, the five _comerciantes_, who were preparing to go on shore, eyed askance the tossing cockleshells of boats that were advancing ready to convey them to land. by taking the motor-car that ran the twenty-eight miles connecting ciudadela with mahón, which is on the opposite extreme of the island, they would save three precious hours. with the prospect of a charming sail along the coast before us we did not envy them. after a protracted delay the boats succeeded in approaching near enough to the accommodation ladder to enable the commercial men to embark. and they were off, clutching at the sides of the little boats, as with rueful faces they joggled shorewards over the choppy waves. our chilly friend of the enveloping blanket and the naked ankles, who was a deck passenger, had, as the man reported, spent the night perched on a grating over the engine-room--a situation where he would surely be warm enough. where he performed his toilet no one knows, but as we neared port mahón he appeared transformed from a shivering bundle into a dandy. neat black socks covered his ankles, and his brown coat, orange shirt, and green velveteen trousers revealed a nice taste for colour. his yellow-white blanket had disappeared, but he still wore his two hats. meanwhile the pigs, whose lamentations had rent the silence of the night, were being hauled, pulled, jerked, pushed, and dumped along the deck, over the side, and into the lighter that was to take them ashore, as they went raising their voices in shrill protest. as the boy remarked, quoting uncle remus, "these pigs know whar dey come from, but dey don' know whar they gwine!" as the _monte toro_ steamed slowly round the low cliffs that seemed to descend sheer into deep water, so little sign of broken beach or of outlying reef was there, we could see how through the ages the restless sea had nibbled and gnawed at the edges of the cliffs, which in many places were deeply honeycombed, and even hollowed into caves. there were no first-class passengers. the accommodation reserved for them just over the screw was vacant. third-class included an interesting quartette of stubby spanish soldiers, and one slim naval stoker, whose flexible movements and sportive bonhomie were in striking contrast to the stolid immobility of his companions. possibly the stoker felt more at home on shipboard. certainly he had all the life of the party; for while the others muffled their heads in shawls, and squatted on their carefully spread cotton pocket-handkerchiefs, he was never still, helping an overburdened young mother by shouldering her small boy and taking him round to visit the pet donkey, making friends with the ship's dog, or playing good-humoured tricks upon the others. the sky was flecked with white clouds--the first we had seen for many days--and the houses scattered over the flat and almost treeless table-land were all white--gleamingly white, after the old russet towns of pollensa and alcudia. here and there we could see one of the great beehive-like heaps of stones that the sailors have christened "watch-towers." though majorca was only twenty miles distant, we already felt in a new world. there was something oddly familiar in the nip of the air. and while we breakfasted on a satisfying "home" meal of omelet, ham, hot buttered toast, and coffee, we recalled what we had heard of the lingering effects of british rule in minorca, and felt inclined to give it the credit of the breakfast, even though the ham was served raw, and decanters of wine and jars of wooden toothpicks jostled our coffee-cups. when we again went on deck there were signs that the short voyage was approaching its end. the bearded mate of the _monte toro_, who had made the trip in a red nightcap, had, with a toothpick behind his ear, appeared in a uniform cap, though he retained his velveteen coat. and the most stolid-looking of the soldiers, producing a comb and a tube of pomade, proceeded to make quite an elaborate toilet on deck. still seated on his outspread handkerchief, he combed and recombed his hair, and greased it with extreme thoroughness; though it must be admitted that when it came to washing he contented himself with a cursory dipping of his hands in the water-bucket. his face he left to nature. the pride of port mahón is its three-mile-long harbour. as we steamed up its length the trim fortifications recalled certain of our own naval and military stations, notably portsmouth. but never did portsmouth show such a glory of scarlet-blossomed aloes as burned on the face of these fortified rocks. our first impression of mahón was one of unexpected brilliance. until we were well up the harbour the town was invisible. then, as it came in sight with its dazzlingly white red-roofed buildings perched high on the crest of the brown serrated rock, the unexpected picturesque beauty of the scene filled us with surprise and delight. already the military influence that is so noticeable a feature of mahón coloured the scene. boats manned by soldiers were rowing to and from the forts on the opposite shore. soldiers were standing on the quay as we stepped down the gangway--for, happily, there is no need to land by small boats in a harbour of such accommodating depth. and as we followed the porter bearing our luggage up the rough twisted slope of the calle vieja--that old street whose haphazard construction is so different from the carefully planned new ones--we passed a group of officers going down. throughout our stay in mahón i do not believe we ever glanced up or down a street that was not enlivened by the glamour of a uniform. there isn't a river or even a stream on the entire island, yet, in spite of the apparently limited supply of fresh water, the whole effect of the town, with its green shutters, red-tiled roofs, its pavements and carefully whitened houses, is that of extreme cleanliness. to judge by results, the pail of whitewash must be almost an equal factor in a minorcan housewife's daily task with a broom or a duster. during our few days in mahón we became quite accustomed to seeing women touching up the street fronts of their dwellings with a whitewash brush. minorca is said to be rarely visited by tourists, consequently it offers but small choice of hotels. the one we had been recommended to try--the fonda central--was a favourite stopping-place with commercial travellers. there could be no doubt of that. their iron-clamped chests of samples lumbered the passages and stairway. their sprightly presence filled the large principal table in the dining-room. at a hotel that is popular with these gentlemen of the road the cooking is said to be certain to be good. at the fonda central it could scarcely have been excelled. the proprietor, a reverend-looking señor, superintended it in person. and his efforts on their behalf were heartily appreciated by his guests, the summons to a meal at the fonda central invariably falling on eagerly expectant ears. "_arroz_ to-day?" i overheard one guest inquire as he entered the dining-room for luncheon. and having received an affirmative reply, he sat down, adjusted his napkin, grasped his spoon, and awaited its appearance with an expression of anticipatory satisfaction. the rooms were scrupulously clean, the table service brisk and punctual. yet the house was hardly one that could be recommended to ladies. owing to the popularity of the hotel, all the available space had been turned into sleeping accommodation; there was no sitting-room proper. one of our bedrooms that faced the street and had two good writing-tables made us partly independent, and we had a side table to ourselves at meals, but i was the only woman in a company that numbered over two dozen. the beds were comfortable, but there were no bells in the rooms. when our chamber-man wanted to attract our attention, he did it by clapping his hands loudly in the corridor outside our doors. and when we wanted anything the boy went downstairs and demanded it. going out to explore the town, we could not help noticing certain of the lingering effects of the british occupations which came to an end early in the last century. the windows almost invariably had the regulation english window sashes, and many of them showed white lace curtains or little muslin window blinds; and the front doors opened into passages, not into either _patios_ or sitting-rooms, as in majorca. the british craving for sweets seemed to have proved infectious. at the hotel luncheon we had been agreeably surprised by the appearance of a sweet course, and the shop windows revealed a tempting array of bon-bons and of jams and pickles, commodities in which majorca is sadly deficient. and one grocer had quite a number of tins of crosse & blackwell's scotch oatmeal. tobacco pipes, which are seldom seen in majorca, were both in use and displayed for sale. wandering up and down in the short january afternoon we came upon many odd nooks and steep streets that had a picturesque character all their own. from the top of the quaint calle de san roque we got an extensive view inland, with monte toro, some eleven hundred feet, the higher of the two minorcan hills, in the distance. [illustration: calle san roque, mahón] down by the curve of the bay we found the alameda, a charming little italian-garden-like promenade, where on summer evenings mahón society assembles. it must be pleasant and shady there under the trees by the cool water. even in winter it was attractive, with its close-cropped low hedges and great clumps of the vivid scarlet-blossomed aloes. just beyond the alameda is a great cistern, from which is drawn much of the water for supplying the town. and from that point mules toil patiently up the rock-sided slopes, laden with barrels of water for the solace of thirsty folks. next morning, while breakfasting, we arranged our plans for the day. the man was bent upon going at once to sketch the town as we had first seen it from the harbour. the boy and i agreed to ramble about during the morning; and after luncheon we all arranged to go in search of some of the famous stone monuments, respecting whose origin nobody appears to have been able to arrive at any satisfactory conclusion. but before breakfast was ended the sky had become darkly overcast. we reached our rooms to find hail tapping with ice-tipped fingers at the window panes, to see lightning flashing, and to hear the rattle of thunder. our plans perforce being modified, we waited indoors until the storm had abated a little, then sought the _ateneo cientifico literario y artistico_, of whose existence the landlord had told us. the town, which has many cultured inhabitants, boasts three athenæums. two are for the use of the general public. the third, which we visited, is said to be the centre of literary and artistic mahón, and is something of the nature of a club. the museum is open to the townsfolk only on stated days. this did not happen to be one of those days. it was to the fact that we were foreigners that we owed our instant admission. and while the storm raged without, we enjoyed a private view of the many interesting things in the _ateneo_, notably the old ware and natural history specimens. a very fine private collection of marine flora is housed in the museum, but it is shown only when specially inquired for, and we were unfortunate in calling at a time when the custodian of the keys chanced to be absent. among the pictures and drawings was a merciless but irresistibly amusing caricature of what had presumably been the english governor of the date, riding upon a donkey. the nice young lad who was showing us round blushed a little when he saw us examine it. though he did not say so, we felt that he would have liked to apologize to us for its intrusion in the show; but our withers were unwrung. the members of the _ateneo_ were delightfully cosmopolitan in their interests. besides the current spanish papers the snug reading-room showed a comprehensive array of contemporary literature, from the _graphic_, the _studio_, _review of reviews_, and _harper's weekly_, to french, german, belgian, italian, and south american journals. when we left the _ateneo_ the hail had ceased; and though the wind was still high, the man hurried off to see what he could make of his subject, while the boy and i strolled into the vegetable market. the big open enclosure in the middle was empty. round the covered sides women were sitting beside their little heaps of fruit and vegetables. after the prolonged drought from which the island was suffering, it was perhaps only natural that the supply of fresh vegetables should be limited. but with the recollection still vivid in our memory of the mountains of green cabbages that we had seen at pollensa market, the stock appeared especially meagre. the cactus, a shrub whose existence is almost independent of moisture, flourishes on the dry rocky soil, and the specimens of its fruit that, prepared in some way, were served at dinner on the previous night, seemed larger and much finer than any we had seen in majorca. but even at its finest the prickly pear is hardly a thing to pine for. one thing that struck us as a particularly charming survival of english tastes was the discovery of cut flowers--chiefly little clusters of roses--for sale on several of the stalls. and one woman offered us sturdy pansy roots for planting. up to this period of our stay in palma i had never seen either cut flowers or flower-plants offered for sale in the market, though, indeed, we saw them later. the wind had been steadily increasing. it would have been decidedly more comfortable to pass the afternoon indoors, but we were determined to seek some of the countless prehistoric remains with which minorca is lavishly sprinkled. and after an unavoidable delay we started. the delay, be it explained, was caused by waiting for the cleaning of the boy's boots. the service in the fonda central had certain limitations. it did not brush boots. the night before, the boy had put his outside his bedroom door, and had taken them in in the morning untouched. before lunch he sent them downstairs with special instructions that he wanted them cleaned at once. but when luncheon was over and we were ready to go out there was no sign of the boots. inquiries brought plausible promises of their return in ten minutes--in five minutes--at once. but still they failed to put in an appearance. at length a peremptory demand for their return clean or dirty sent pedro flying down the street, to hasten back triumphantly bearing the cleaned boots. they had been sent to a shoemaker's to be brushed! from the deck of the steamer as we rounded the coast we had caught many passing glimpses of the great stone heaps called _talayots_, and imagining that they would be easily found, we rashly set off, without either guide or direction, in search of them. after walking a little way along the san luis road, which we had taken partly by chance, and partly, i think, because there the wind would be at our backs, we saw in the distance a large _talayot_, and rejoiced at having so quickly come within easy reach of what we were looking for. our rejoicing was premature, for when we sought a path that would lead us there we failed utterly to find it. on either side of the long straight road were high walls a yard thick, enclosing small stony fields. beyond these were walls, and yet again walls. it was our first near view of minorcan country, and the impression was one of stones, stones, and yet more stones--stones absolutely without limit. the attitude of the few olive-trees within sight showed the prevalence of the north wind. they bent away from that direction, their foliage twisted awry, looking exactly like people cowering before a blast that has blown their cloaks over their heads. the gale was waxing stronger. _our_ cloaks were blown over our heads, but still we struggled on. a peasant boy, on being interrogated, directed us to proceed farther, then take a road to the left. hopefully following his instructions, we "gaed and we gaed," like the classic henny-penny, until we ultimately found ourselves entangled in a maze of these same thick walls of stone. and a maddeningly ingenious maze it proved. for as we wound about, the _talayot_ appeared to dodge us, sometimes popping up before us, sometimes lurking behind; often seeming comparatively near, more often looming at a wholly unexpected distance away, and always encircled by these impenetrable gateless walls of stone. finally, leaving me on the lee-side of a wall--it wasn't really the lee-side: in such a wind there is no lee side; but they thought it was the lee-side--the men departed, determined to scale the offending obstacles and to get there somehow. after a time the boy returned to free me from the brambles round which the tempest had twisted my veil and chiffon scarf, holding me prisoner; and to report that, after some climbing, the man and he had succeeded in reaching the _talayot_, and that they thought if i didn't mind some rough scrambling i _might_ manage to get there. so ten minutes later, breathless, wind-tossed and earth-stained, with torn gloves and scratched boots, i too reached the goal of our desires, to find it nothing but an immense heap of stones, with no trace of opening or any apparent reason for existence. the man, who, in spite of the decided opposition offered by the elements, had succeeded in scaling the top of the _talayot_, declared it to be merely a greatly magnified cairn, and there and then announced his adoption of dr. guillemand's theory that the primary reason for the origin of these much-disputed heaps was simply the need for clearing the fields of stones. i must confess that to me the really interesting thing regarding these vast memorials of a vanished race is the fact that, while everybody is free to conjecture, no one, not even the wisest, can boast the smallest knowledge of their meaning. just behind the _talayot_, separated from it by certain thick walls, stands another relic of prehistoric times in the shape of a _taula_, or table stone--one huge slab placed horizontally on the top of a massive upright stone. and while the man held on to something with one hand and tried to sketch with the other, i sheltered from the blast on the farther side. it was curious to see flowers blooming even in these conditions. amongst the loose stones at the base of the _taula_ the periwinkle was in bloom. on the patch of stone-littered soil we had crossed we noticed some small lilac daisies, their heads bent close to the ground. and all about the broad tops of the maze of stone dykes clambered the curious and beautiful clematis-like creeper that delights to luxuriate in the most arid position it can secure, and is said to pine away and die when transplanted to a garden. the sole incident of our return journey was the sudden appearance of a cap, which, floating high in air, advanced towards us round a corner towards which we were battling. [illustration: mahón, minorca] xvii storm-bound the man had declared his fixed intention of taking ship for palma that night, no matter what weather conditions should prevail. so it was with unfeigned relief i learned at breakfast that, owing to the violence of the tempest, the mail steamer we expected to travel in had been unable to leave barcelona. the wind still continuing high, there was some doubt as to how long we would be held prisoners. but even if the steamer direct to palma was not able to run, we might return by the shorter sea route by which we had come, landing at the port of alcudia, and, after a night passed at our comfortable _fonda_ there, taking diligence and train back to palma. a return trip in the steady little _monte toro_ would have been a pleasure, but when we made inquiry at the shipping-office in the harbour we learned that the _monte toro_ had already been laid aside for cleaning and that the _vicente sanz_ had been deputed to take up her running. the young clerk of the shipping company, who was muffled over the ears by the upturned collar of his astrakhan-trimmed top-coat and had his cap's chin-string in active service, shook a dubious head over the prospect of the _isla de menorca_ being able to cross from spain, not only on that night but for many nights to come. the prevalent wind, according to him, often raged for considerable periods. once for two months, he solemnly declared, no mails had been able to reach minorca. we devoutly hoped he lied. still, in case a grain of truth might lurk at the bottom of his gloomy prognostications, we decided to have a look at the cabin accommodation of the _vicente sanz_, which was lying a few yards away. the black and grimy _vicente sanz_ looked what she was--a cargo-boat that had been hastily adapted to the passenger service. one glance at her build was enough to convince even a tyro that as a roller she would be unequalled. right aft over the screw a few cramped four-berth cabins formed the first-class accommodation, while the sailors' bunks in the forecastle head had been fitted up as second-class. we fled the _vicente sanz_, convinced that only dire necessity would compel us to voyage in her. the few people we encountered in the streets were huddled in cloaks and shawls, and the custom of muffling the lower part of the face gave the women something of an eastern appearance. perhaps it was due to the chilling effect of the weather, but to us foreigners the minorcans appeared to lack the gracious charm of the majorcans. though we saw plenty of pretty faces, the girls of mahón did not appear so universally attractive as those of palma. the conditions of life are harder, the climate more severe, and the hard water used may have a bad effect on the complexions. there was no distinctive native dress either, and we missed it. the blood of many nations mingles in minorcan veins--vandal, carthaginian, moorish, spanish, british and french. port mahón was originally called after mago, the youngest son of hamilcar, brother of hannibal. the passage of time is responsible for the corruption of _portus magonis_ into port mahón. the island, which is about the size of the isle of wight, has known many rulers. for several hundred years the romans held it. about the ninth century it lapsed into the hands of the moors, who possessed it until in the thirteenth century king jaime, the conquistador of majorca, demanded and received its capitulation. two hundred years later, barbarossa, the pirate chief, having entered the harbour by stratagem, besieged mahón and captured it. early in the eighteenth century the british took minorca and held it for fifty years, until admiral byng allowed the french to capture it--a "misconduct" for which, after eight months of close arrest, he was shot. to her social and commercial advantage minorca was restored to britain at the peace of , only to be seized by france and spain while britain was engrossed by the american war. watching the opportunity, britain retaliated at the time of the french revolution by retaking minorca, which remained hers until, by the conditions of the peace of amiens, the island was ceded to spain. "well," said the man, as a fierce gust blew us into the portal of the fonda central, "when i saw this place i felt grieved that the british had ever given it up to spain, but i must confess that at this moment i'd gladly hand it over to any nation that would take a gift of it!" in the afternoon the wind, though still turbulent, had moderated a little. we let it blow us out to san luis, along a fine level and absolutely straight road that in summer, when the trees are in leaf, must be charming. san luis has all the outward semblance of a french village. even the church looked french, and was light and airy, in striking contrast to the sombre church interiors of majorca. the streets of the village were broad, and the roads leading to it were planted on either side with trees. the whole atmosphere was so reminiscent of northern france that it was no surprise on entering the general shop to be greeted in french by the young man in charge. he, as he confessed, had secretly been studying the language for some months, and he was evidently spoiling to try his new acquirement upon foreigners of any nationality. the french, which he spoke very fairly, but which speedily lapsed into spanish, naturally recalled our first impression of the place, and we remarked upon it. a bright small boy, who with his father was in the shop, explained matters. san luis _was_ a french village, he said. it was named after the french king and had been built during the french occupation of the island. the site had been laid out and the church designed by french architects. for the moment we had forgotten that the french flag had flown over minorca, but the boy's words brought back something we had read of the fête madame de pompadour gave at the hermitage of compiègne, where the court happened to be when the news arrived of the taking of port mahón. a royal fête, when fountains flowed wine, and ribbons and sword-knots _à la mahón_ were distributed to the guests. while buying sweets in the shop, we noticed a glass jar of the black sticks of spanish liquorice beloved of our childhood. and on a shelf was a row of genuine english cottage-loaves. the wind had obligingly blown us on our feet out the three miles to san luis, but we wisely drove back. sitting snugly inside the closed carriage, watching the storm-harried crops and shrubs bend before the wind, while the sun beat warmly upon us, we agreed that, if one could only travel about in a glass-sided box during gales, life in minorca would be fine. we fully realized the necessity for the houses being built of slabs of stone nearly twice as thick as those used in the sister island. in minorca, somehow, we did not feel quite so much aliens as we did at first in majorca. the greatest prosperity the island had known had been under british government, and the native mind seemed to cherish a kindly feeling towards our nation. it was curious that while in palma we were always supposed to be french, in mahón we were at once recognized as english. a few english words have been absorbed into the minorcan language, as people seemed proud to tell us. but the only examples we gathered were "stop," "please," and "nuncle." in the harbour, over the door of a small tavern that bore no other sign, we saw suspended a bit of a shrub. remembering the white wand at the door of the change-house in the clachan of aberfoyle, we wondered if that symbol also had drifted across the seas. it was with something of the sensation of marooned sailors that on friday night we fell asleep, to awake to changed conditions. the sun shone from a clear blue sky. the sting had disappeared from the wind, and the air was comparatively mild and calm. when we descended to breakfast, the young man upon whose fragmentary accomplishment the hotel central founded its claim to put "english spoken" on its cards hastened to greet us with the welcome news: "the sheep 'as arrive." going down to the harbour, we found ocular evidence that the report was true. the _isla de menorca_ had arrived and would sail for palma at o'clock that evening. our friend of the shipping office was silent and despondent. the weather had disappointed him by declining to act up to his gloomy anticipations. going, under his escort, to look over the ship, we found her a great, broad, tubby boat. at small tables placed on trestles on deck the crew were seated at breakfast, tall bottles of wine before them. the first saloon accommodation was gay in red plush. that was its only recommendation, for it was woefully cramped in point of space, and the cabins were placed directly over the screw. the second saloon, which was amidships, occupied far more room. the steward suggested the probability of my having the large and cheerful ladies' cabin to myself. on the previous night's journey from barcelona there had been only one lady passenger. greatly daring, we hinted that in the event of no other señora arriving, we three might share it. when we had parted from our escort, leaving him, we felt assured, inwardly deploring the comparative calm, and ghoulishly hoping for a sudden change of weather, the man went off to finish his much interrupted sketch; while the boy and i walked up to the market-square, from which--minorca having no railways--a constant succession of more or less ramshackle vehicles acting as diligences left for the towns and villages round about. accosting the driver of the nearest, we asked its destination. "villa carlos." "and the charge?" "fifteen centimos each." "when will the carriage start?" the driver made the motion of the hands that takes the place of the frenchman's shrug of the shoulders. "when it is full," he replied, and we got in. a polite spaniard joined us. a little delay, and he was followed by a girl with a market basket. the driver, after gazing to east and west, and north and south, without discovering sign of any additional passengers, mounted the box-seat, which he shared with two big sacks of potatoes, and at last we started. having jolted up a long long street of white houses, several of whose owners were busy with brush and whitewash pail effacing any traces of the storm, we rattled out over two miles of glaringly white road. villa carlos is a white town of small houses grouped about a big square of barracks on the top of a cliff, near the mouth of the harbour. the situation is exposed, and as the wind, though childlike and bland compared to the icy blasts of the preceding days, was by no means asleep, we found our way down to sea-level, and rested on a stone bench in the shelter of a great wall close by where the water curves into the little bay of cala fonts. the sea was purring at our feet. between the fortress above us and that on the opposite shore, sail-boats, like winged things, skimmed past. producing an unexpected box of pastels, the boy began to make a rapid sketch of the pigmy harbour with its blue water and the half circle of houses that outlined its rocky coast. it was amusing to sit there and try to picture the appearance of the various fleets that must have sailed by on victory bent. when barbarossa, the pirate chief, flying christian banners to deceive the guardians of the forts, steered his eleven galleys up the harbour, he must have passed the very spot where we sat. although the scene was tranquil, there was a constant movement of life. two women carrying sacks and small picks came and foraged among the rocks for tufts of grass or other green stuff. a military water-cart drawn by a white mule, whose harness was resplendent with scarlet tassels, moved by, attended by a party of soldiers in white fatigue uniforms, their bare feet thrust into sandals. during a temporary stillness i caught the sound of a soft little crooning voice that harmonized sweetly with the murmur of the sea. it seemed to come from quite near, but there was no one in sight. advancing to the edge of the bank, i looked down. on a ledge of the rock a few feet beneath, a little boy attired in sketchy garments sat fishing, and as he fished he crooned softly to himself, after the habit of contented children all the world over. his piscatorial implements were even more rudimentary than was his clothing. they consisted of a few inches of rod and a shred of string. his bait was a skinny hermit crab that he had scraped out of some crevice of the rock. a poor bait doubtless, but i can assure you the catch was even poorer. still, perched on his ledge in the warm sunshine, enrique fished hopefully and was happy. it was so delightful to be out of the wind that we would gladly have lingered. but the hour when the man and luncheon would be awaiting us was near. returning to the barrack square, which was melodious with the strains of a waltz played by an unseen military band, we got into a conveyance that was on the point of starting. a young corporal of engineers quickly followed us, saluting as he entered. he was a good-looking, reddish-fair man, a native of the island, and an admirable example of the educated conscript. hearing that we were british, he called to another corporal of the corps who was playing with a dog near, and who, on being introduced by his friend, spoke to us in surprisingly good english. not only so, but he understood perfectly when spoken to, a much rarer accomplishment in a foreign language. he said he had been learning our language for ten months only, and without leaving minorca. i don't know who his instructor had been; there are said to be no english residents in mahón, yet the soldier certainly spoke good colloquial english. as we parted he amused us by saluting and saying "well, so-long!" another corporal having got into the conveyance--whose only flooring seemed to be a sagging mat--we started for mahón. he, like the first, was a specialist in signalling and telegraphy. both of these men struck us as taking their soldiering really seriously. they had each served two years in madrid to learn their business thoroughly, and now had charge of telegraph stations on opposite sides of the harbour from each other. on one happy possession minorca must be most heartily congratulated. she has a most excellent british vice-consul. when we called on him at his house in the calle rosario (just off the picturesque calle de san roque), which was not until the last afternoon of our stay at mahón, his reception of us was so cordial that we sincerely regretted not having called sooner. señor bartolomé escudero has many qualifications for the post he holds, and not least among them is a perfect knowledge of the language of the country he represents. not only does the señor speak english, but it is his hobby to teach it to others who show a desire to learn. it was no surprise to hear that on his visit to minorca the late king edward had made his consul a member of the victorian order. from the bustle of departure in the hotel we judged that some of the _comerciantes_ might be our fellow-travellers on the _isla de menorca_. but when we went on board and, having taken up a position on the promenade deck, were watching the passengers arrive, it was something of a surprise to see all of them appear. the little man with the long trousers; the bald man who performed surprising feats with wine-flasks, drinking with the slender spout held far from his lips in a way that held us fascinated spectators until he chose to set it down; the beautiful being who, we were convinced, could travel in nothing less refined than perfumery; the man who always, even at table, wore the latest thing in smart caps, and whom we had seen coming out of a _sombrero_ shop--all were there. not even the gentleman who, during our voyage together on the _monte toro_, had used a dust-coat as a dressing-gown was awanting. [illustration: _comerciantes_ in the fonda at mahón] there was little stir on the quay. the departure of a mail boat from mahón does not cause so much commotion as does a like event at palma, where the long breakwater is a favourite promenade, and where everybody who has a letter to post seems to delight in rushing on board with it at the last possible moment. many young men have to leave minorca to seek their fortune elsewhere. i wonder if they return to that rocky island as they love to do to fertile majorca. just as the siren blew the first warning, a fine well-built young minorcan hastened up the long gangway. a male friend helped him to carry his substantial trunk, and three girls followed closely. they had barely time to bid him farewell--one with a lingering embrace, the others with a warm handshake, before the gangway was withdrawn and water was widening between the exile and his native land. for a little space he allowed his feelings to govern him, and with quivering shoulders wept unrestrainedly into his handkerchief in the intervals of waving it. then, when the boat had rounded the horn of the bay and the beautiful city was out of sight, he put away his handkerchief, lit a cigarette, and resolutely turned his face towards the land of promise. there were no first-class passengers at all. our commercial friends, taking possession of the after-deck, formed themselves into an impromptu concert party, the little man acting as conductor, as with admirable voices they sang popular choruses. two ladies had come on board; but the steward, taking our hint of the morning, had given them a small cabin to themselves, as doubtless they preferred, and had reserved the whole of the large ladies' cabin for us. so once again we knew the luxury of travelling second-class on a balearic island steamer! the voyage was pleasantly uneventful, and not rough enough to disturb us. we awoke to find ourselves entering palma harbour, and to see the lovely land bathed in the warm glow of sunrise. soon we were in a _carruaje_, waving farewell to the _comerciantes_ as in a band they walked towards their hotel. a few minutes later we had reached son españolet, had passed the house of our friend the consul with its flagstaff and gaily painted shields, and were back again under the homely roof of the casa tranquila. [illustration: an interior in alaró] xviii alarÓ the shutters of the casa windows had been left open that the growing light might awaken us in time to catch the morning train to alaró, where we had planned to spend the day with two friends from england. looking out while it was yet dark, we were conscious of a lowering sky. the pocket barometer had fallen two points, and for the first time in many weeks we felt that the downpour which appeared to be threatening would be unwelcome. while we dressed, the rain began to fall sulkily. it had been agreed that if the morning opened wet the expedition would be deferred, and having had experience of the thoroughness of majorcan rain, i was half inclined to take a gloomy view of the situation and stay at home. but the others pooh-poohed my fears and off we set. the optimists proved to be right. when we entered the station at palma the rain had ceased, and the sun shone out on the squire and the lady, who were in the act of alighting from the grand hotel omnibus. the town of alaró, which lies close to the base of the northern range of mountains, is connected by a light railway with the main line at consell. horses drag the single carriage up the slight gradient to alaró; it returns by the force of its own impetus. at consell the funny conveyance with its tandem horses was waiting to receive the passengers. it had probably begun its career of usefulness by being a tram-car in some other part of the world. now a partition divided the interior into first and second classes. disregarding the suggestion of the driver, who followed to remind us that first-class was inside, we mounted to the top, where two long lines of seats were set back to back. our progress towards the still invisible town was slow. the efforts of the driver to induce the leading horse to put on speed by throwing stones at him happily proved unavailing. with something of the smooth motion of a boat on a canal we glided on through fields of lush grain in whose midst olives grew luxuriantly. the threatening clouds had vanished, the sun was warm, the play of light and shade on the mountains was glorious, and there was not a soul in sight. the deliberate mode of progress through the lovely country was so delightful that when the line ended abruptly where the town began we all felt sorry. we agreed that we would have been content to glide thus slowly onwards for hours. but on alighting we found our interest in the surroundings for the time being subdued by a stronger and more insistent interest in food. our seven o'clock breakfast had been necessarily scrappy and hurried, and our first concern was to find an inn. the civil guard who had been awaiting the arrival of our car was at hand. applied to for direction, he not only recommended a _fonda_, but in person escorted us there. the _fonda_, which was close at hand, looked clean and inviting; but its mistress, overwhelmed by this sudden intrusion of five ravenous and unintelligible foreigners, eyed us dubiously. she did not know a word of spanish, and her husband--who was evidently the linguist of the family--was at inca market. as she gazed blankly at us her children, from the eldest--a pretty girl in a red frock--to the baby, clustered about her, their faces reflecting the bewilderment expressed in hers. the fact that the youngsters looked round and rosy and that they all held little branches of mandarin oranges hinted that we had come to the right place for food. hunger has a universal language. the landlady's blank expression gradually gave place to one of intelligence. before we left her she had promised to have a meal ready at ten o'clock; and comforting ourselves with that assurance, we went out to stroll about until the half hour of waiting had passed. wandering through the streets of the little town and peeping in at the open doors with the unblushing effrontery peculiar to the briton abroad, we were rewarded by glimpses of many quaint interiors. in one, beside an unclassable machine, a heap of the thick fleshy leaves of the _chumbera_ (cactus) was lying. the owner of the house, a man toothless and shrivelled, but endowed with that aspect and air of juvenility that seems the heritage of age in majorca, cordially invited us in. he had no knowledge of spanish, but he had what was far more valuable--a keen intelligence. indulging our curiosity as to the nature of the odd machine, he ran off to return with a handful of macaroni; then darting into the machine house, he reappeared with a perforated bowl of burnished copper, and by signs proceeded to explain the process of pressing the paste through. "but the _chumberas_?" somebody asked. "were they the food of the mule who drove the machine?" the old man shook his head. evidently the motive power was not supplied by a member of the ass tribe. returning to pantomime, he raised his hands to his head and protruded his fore-fingers after the manner of horns; then indicating to us to follow, ran out into the street, where we found him pointing down into an adjacent cellar, in whose depths two sleek grey oxen were placidly chewing the cud. so it was the oxen who turned the machine that made the macaroni, and it was the prickly foliage of the _chumberas_ that their jaws were patiently munching. the little town that nestles out of sight at the foot of the great range of hills is an enterprising one. through the open front of a building in another street we caught sight of a fine dynamo; and being invited to enter, found ourselves in the presence of the electric plant of the town. as the grey-bearded superintendent told us, alaró was the first town on the island to have electric light installed. manacor was the second. "and palma?" we asked. the superintendent shrugged his shoulders. evidently the capital city had been a bad third. the half hour of waiting had passed quickly, and even in the passing were we conscious that the landlady of the _fonda_ was exerting herself on our behalf. for while we were gazing at the oxen the red-frocked eldest girl had hastened by carrying a big dish of fish. on the marble-topped table of the dining-room was a huge black sausage, a pyramid of rolls, a decanter of red wine, siphons of soda-water, and a plate of a pickled plant that was new to us all, even to the squire and the lady, who had a wide experience of many countries. we were in danger of making a meal of the sausage, when the little girl brought in a dish of the omelets that every majorcan housewife makes to perfection. the pickle had proved delicious, but all our little waitress could tell us was that it came from the sea. and we had almost reconciled ourselves to the idea that we were eating seaweed when the explanation (which proved to be correct) that we might be eating samphire occurred to us. in england in shakespeare's time, and on the continent to this day, the tender young shoots of samphire, which grows on rocks by the ocean, are gathered, sprinkled with salt, and then preserved in vinegar. a dish of crisp fried fish followed the omelets. then came a second dish of fish, then an abundance of very sweet mandarin oranges, freshly cut, with long stems and plenty of their green leaves. the moment of repletion having arrived, the men lit their pipes, and for a space we lazed. but a few minutes of indolence sufficed. calling for our hostess, we asked for the bill. she was prepared for the question, and had the amount at the tip of her tongue--eight pesetas. leaving our wraps in her care, we separated: the squire and the boy to climb the mountain called the castle of alaró, the man to find a subject for his brush, and the lady and i to prowl about and enjoy ourselves in a feminine way. our prowl first led through a part of the town where at the open doors women, and little boys with aprons tied about their thin waists, were busy making boots. i wonder how it is that the sight of a small boy at work always makes me sad. i think it is the thought of the immensity of the task he has to accomplish before his labour ends. once clear of the town, we sauntered along a path that crossed a field, and ended at a fine old mansion overlooking an orange grove. the trees were heavy with fruit, and the air was perfumed with the fragrance of the blossoms that starred the glossy foliage. a giant bougainvillea draped a complete wall with a mantle of royal purple. the front windows were closely shuttered. except for three dogs the place might have been deserted. but on making our way round to the back we found ourselves in the midst of the bevy of people--caretakers, gardeners, labourers, and their families--who live about and in a big country house. the wife of the caretaker, supported by her half-dozen children and an old dame who was presumably their grandmother, advanced to the wide doorway of the kitchen to greet us. from the vicinity of the stables and outhouses men and lads gathered, and stood a silent group, attentive to our attempts at spanish conversation, which attempts, it must be admitted, were puerile. we were merely asking if we might have the privilege of seeing over the house, but we failed to make our meaning clear. calling her little dark-eyed _chica_, who was evidently the educated member of the family, the mother conjured her to translate; but the _chica_, for the first time removing her eyes from the lady's hat and flowing veil, only blushed and hung her pretty head. at our wits' end, we were reduced to helpless laughter, when comprehension suddenly flashed upon the mother. "si, si, señoras," she said, and trotted briskly off, with us close upon her heels and the children and the grandmother bringing up the rear, across the spacious kitchen, along a passage, and up a stair so dark that we had to grope our way. passing quickly from one room to another, she threw open the jealously closed shutters of the windows, admitting the light. the house was one of the many delightfully unpretentious country seats to which majorcan aristocrats migrate during the hot weather. everything was arranged for the sake of coolness. there were no carpets or curtains. the tiled floors and lofty raftered ceilings of the large airy rooms made it an ideal summer residence. the windows and balconies afforded beautiful and varied views towards the romantic mountains, across the fragrant orange groves, or over the far-stretching fertile plains. the noble family, we gathered, had other homes: one at palma, and yet another at madrid, but still they liked to return to the house that nestled so close to the great frowning mountains. when we left she sent the pretty dark-eyed _chica_ to show us the path through the orange groves, and dispatched the eldest son hotfoot after to pick us a gift of oranges from the trees whose fruit was sweetest. neither the lady nor i was inclined for much exertion. climbing a little way up the hill, we sat down in the shade of an olive-tree and ate oranges and gossiped. at our feet the ground slipped down into the valley, to rise on the farther side in the mountains, on whose crest we could see the remains of the towered battlements above which, in the seventeenth century, the two heroes cabritt and bassa kept the majorcan flag flying, after the remainder of the island had surrendered to the usurper alphonso iv of aragon. we scanned the hill-side in vain for any trace of the climbers. and while we lingered the clouds began again to gather, and scarves of mist hid the summit. the air had turned a little chilly, and we were passing the mansion on our way back to the town when we noticed a charming loggia that was built over a barn in which men seemed to be crushing olives. climbing the few steps that led to the open-sided loggia, we found it furnished with a couple of rush-bottomed chairs. carrying them to the front of the balcony over which the gorgeous bougainvillea ran riot, we sat, under the row of bottle gourds that hung up to dry, looking across the wealth of rich purple blossom in which the bees were busy, and over the orange grove towards the luxuriant plain. a shower at length drove us back to the shelter of the dining-room at the _fonda_, where the big logs that burned on the open hearth glowed a welcome. there the squire and the boy joined us, wet from the rain that had caught them when half-way down the mountain, but by no means weary. they described the path as having been a zigzag mule-track all the way. it was rough walking, but presented no difficulty whatever. [illustration: alaró] near the foot of the precipitous part of the climb they had passed the first of the fourteen stations of the cross, the final one being at the chapel of our lady of the refuge on the summit of the mountain. each station was marked with an iron cross set in a rough cairn of stones, and each exhibited a pictorial tile representing the incident commemorated. the rough mule-track had ended at the towered gateway, which was in fine preservation. just within was a piece of smooth turf shaded by trees. the remainder of the narrow crest of the mountain was rocky and tumbled. round the less precipitous sides were the remains of battlements and watch-towers. the side farthest from the plain was naturally so steep and impossible of assault as to need no artificial defence. the views from the mountain-top they had found magnificent, and worthy of a much harder climb. to the north the great mountainous range that culminates in the double peaks of the puig mayor had barred the prospect; otherwise most of the island had lain open before them. inca, binisalem, muró, and other cities of the plain were visible, and the bays of pollensa, alcudia, and palma. the hills beyond artá, the hill behind lluchmayor, cabo blanco, and the outlying island of cabrera were all distinctly seen. the point that struck the climbers as curious was that, though all lay so clearly before them, the height prevented their being able to distinguish any sign of life or to hear any sound from below. the effect was almost as though the lovely land on which they looked had been deserted. when they turned their attention to their immediate surroundings, the only sentient creatures they discovered were a small boy who was in charge of the chapel, a great eagle that soared overhead, and a few hens that clucked and scraped the barren ground outside the building that had once been the abode of some hermit monks, but which was now an _hospederia_ in the care of the boy's parents. in the little chapel was a beautiful statue of the virgin, while the sacristy held a sad relic in the form of two rib-bones of the brave defenders of the castle of alaró, who, after having been starved into surrender, were cruelly burned to death. the chapel, perched up among the mist-wreaths and mountain eagles, was very small; so small that a large covered veranda had been added to the front for the shelter of the pilgrims who flock thither in order to obtain the forty days' absolution gained by the attainment of its summit. just beyond the veranda is a sheer drop down. the prospect to be obtained from the out-jutting rock our climbers described as awesome. they were half-way down on the return journey before the mist that had been floating about caught them in its clammy embrace. the ascent had occupied about two hours, the descent nearly one. bidding our hostess farewell, we went up the street to a café for afternoon coffee. it was an unlucky hour. the schools had just closed for the day, and though the café was only a dozen paces from the _fonda_, we reached it with a train of children in close attendance. our demands for coffee with milk and cakes and _enciamadas_ caused a flutter in the breast of the comely mistress of the café. summoning her daughter catalina--who was just seventeen and even more than usually attractive--from the corner where she was making pillow-lace, the mother thrust a large decanter into one hand, a big basket into the other, and dispatched her for supplies. then she fanned the charcoal stove, placed a tall wine-glass, in which were two pieces of sugar and a spoon, before each of us, and retired behind the little bar to await the return of catalina. as we too waited, our attention was attracted to the window nearest our table, to find a row of small girls' heads, the eyes gazing fixedly on us, lining the bottom of the lower panes. as the moments passed the numbers increased. girls with babies in their arms augmented the back row. taller girls peeped furtively from the sides, and when caught affected to be engaged in reprimanding the curiosity of their juniors. two little girls, who had arrived too late to secure any place, in desperation opened the café door and peeped in. needless to say, their boldness was rewarded with ignominious expulsion. it was with something of the sensation of menagerie animals when awaiting the meal that people have paid extra to see them consume that we looked for the return of catalina. it came at last, and in the twinkling of an eye the milk was emptied from the decanter into a tin pannikin and set on the fire; and the contents of her basket--which proved to be neither _enciamadas_ nor cakes but rather limp _bizcochos_--were heaped on a dish on the table before us. the children who had been so lucky as to secure front places to see the lions fed got good value. we were all thirsty; the coffee-pot was kept busy, the pile of _bizcochos_ steadily diminished. when we had finished and went over to where catalina had modestly resumed her lace weaving, the spectators changed their window the better to accommodate their desires to the altered conditions. when we said good-bye and left they accompanied us--babies and all. one gipsy-looking child ran in front, glancing back at us. the rest trotted in our wake, making occasional momentary delays to call round corners and into doorways for their friends to come and see the wild beasts. when the circus, as the squire called it, had reached the outskirts of the town, many of our adherents fell away. but a staunch band of eight or ten remained faithful, and not only escorted us on our walk and back to the car station, but whiled away the time by chanting and performing dances for our better entertainment, one male infant, known phonetically as _tomeow_, gravely turning a succession of somersaults before us, and we wondered if the religious dances that are annually performed in the church on the feast of san roch, the patron saint of the town, which occurs on the th of august, accounted for their rudimentary knowledge of the art. constant to the last, they formed a semicircle about us while we awaited the departure of the train, which took the place of the tram-car in which we had arrived, and listened wide-eared as we chatted with a corporal of the civil guard. "the children of alaró seem good," remarked the lady, who has the gift of saying graceful things. "good--perhaps," allowed the corporal, frowning disapprovingly at our satellites, "but curious!" there was no possible repetition of our delightful canalboat cruise of the morning. night had fallen when we began the return journey in one of the smallest railway carriages in existence. when we reached palma rain was falling, and the view from the carriage window, of a wet platform with the lamplight falling on dripping umbrellas, vividly recalled the moist far-off land of our birth. but a few hours later, when we left the grand hotel, where we had dined, the stars were shining above the dimly lit mediæval streets. palma was herself again. [illustration: in the dragon's cave] xix the dragon caves and manacor majorca has two groups of stalactite caves that are reputed to rank among the finest in europe--the dragon caves at manacor, and the caves of artá which are near the most easterly point of the island and far from a railway. life at the casa tranquila was so pleasant that none of us really wished to leave it; yet a sense of duty urged that these sights must not be ignored. at first we thought of visiting one or other of the series of subterranean wonders, but opinion seemed so equally divided as to which was the finer that, in perplexity, we finally decided to see both and judge for ourselves. the weather favoured our reluctant departure. the sun had just risen into a cloudless blue sky when the bells of bartolomé's chariot jingled at the door, and with the crumbs of a hasty breakfast still clinging to our lips we hurried stationwards to catch the morning train for manacor. we had spoken of going first to artá, and a day or two later returning to manacor and the dragon caves; but on the journey we made a chance acquaintance that had the effect of changing our plans. two englishmen, arrived that morning from barcelona and giving five days to a rapid survey of the island, were going to the dragon caves. it was quickly arranged that we should view them in their congenial company. as a place to stay at in manacor our majorcan friends had recommended the fonda feminias, and there we went on arrival, to eat an early lunch and secure rooms for our return. the _fonda_, which has an architecture peculiarly its own, is situated right in the centre of the town. the large loggia, off which most of the sleeping apartments open directly, overlooks the fine church that is the pride of manacor. my room, which was on the floor beneath, had a nice little sitting-room attached. i mention this specially because a lack of sitting-rooms is usually the weak point of balearic _fondas_. the charge, arranged on arrival, was four pesetas a day, including the little breakfast. lunch was quickly served in a large dining-room that was as quaintly original as the rest of the house. it had ten doors, four corner cupboards, and no windows. light was admitted through two small cupolas in the roof. no time was lost. when we had eaten, a carriage was waiting to convey us to the caves. just at the moment of starting a man, appearing from nowhere, silently seated himself on the box. he turned out to be the guide for the caves, an indispensable individual. the road to the coast, for one that was neither particularly steep nor crooked, was amazingly uncomfortable to drive over. cruel patches of the sharp stones with which the roads are mended scarred the way. we bounced here, and bounced there; now surmounting an acclivity and catching a glimpse of the blue sea, now dipping into a hollow. it was a gratuitously bad road; evil alike for driving, walking, or cycling over. when we reached puerto cristo the carriage drew up beside two empty vehicles at the back door of a little _fonda_ that is said to be famed for its omelets and its pretty girls. passing through a room where a table was set for lunch, we reached a trellised enclosure overlooking a charming little cove on whose waters a boat was sailing. the silent guide, who had lingered indoors to prepare his acetylene lamps, appeared with them already lit; and, following in his wake, we set off, past a few fisher houses in whose doorways sun-tanned boys were baiting lines, across a bridgelet that spanned a slender arm of the sea, and up a rough track over a moor so brown and bare that it might have been in devon. judging by outward appearance, it was the last place where one would have anticipated finding a cave of even the smallest dimensions. as we went we met two parties of spaniards who had been seeing the caves and were now returning. it was for them that the carriages waited and the omelets were being prepared at the _fonda_ of the three pretty girls. just as we were wondering if our taciturn guide would ever consent to humour us by producing a cave, he headed for an opening in a stone wall. entering, we were confronted with a barred window and a locked door set in the side of a slope. producing a key, the guide unlocked the door, then when we were all inside he carefully re-locked it. a breath of warm exhausted air met our faces. the guide, still preserving his impenetrable reserve, removed his coat, and the boy, fortunately remembering the advice of an experienced friend, counselled us to follow his example. an hour and a half of hard going was before us. the temperature, which was high even in the entrance hall, was likely to increase as we got farther underground. so the men in shirt-sleeves and myself in a thin net blouse meekly pursued our dumb conductor down a flight of roughly cut steps that seemed to lead right into the bowels of the earth. walking in advance, the guide flashed his light upon all sorts of varied wonders, from caverns so hideous and grimy that they looked as though coated with the refuse of a coal mine, to banks of glittering crystals or stalactites of glistening semi-transparent amber. at one point he drew aside, and stood mutely pointing in advance. thinking he meant us to move on, i was walking forward, when he drew me back just in time to prevent my stepping into a lake so clear and pellucid as to be absolutely imperceptible. that was the beginning of the water effects that lend enchantment to the caves of the dragon. the dragon himself is but a poor thing, diminutive and wholly unworthy his surroundings. we saw him. he was pointed out, sneaking up a pillar, a truly undignified position for any creature owning the romantic and awe-inspiring cognomen of dragon. and, speaking confidentially, the humble name of lizard would suit him better. the lakes and pools are indisputably lovely, and the charm of the cave of delights quite roused our enthusiasm. imagine an azure lake overhung by myriads of glistening pendants. near the centre a low pile of stalagmites suggestive of a fortress rose out of the water; from the miniature fortress extended a reef in the form of a cross. stepping thereon, the guide set fire to a piece of ribbon which illumined the farthest recess of the cave, revealing new and unguessed beauties, and rendering the scene one of almost supernatural loveliness. then came more caves and yet more. up steps we went or down steps, getting hotter and hotter in these airless depths as in single file we "ducky-daidled" after our laconic conductor. once, deep in some gruesome cavern, he announced that the name of the place was the cave of the catalans, and in reply to our question explained, with something of animation in the recital, that some years ago, before the entrance to the caves was guarded by lock and key, two young visitors from spain had conceived the idea of exploring the caves without the aid of a guide. twenty-seven hours later they were discovered in that repellent spot, deep in a dismal subterranean passage. it must have been soon after hearing this suggestive story that some one asked the guide if he could find his way out without a light. and when he confessed that he could not, we all secretly wondered how long the gas in the lamps we carried was calculated to burn; but we were all too considerate of the feelings of each other to express our thoughts. it was distinctly reassuring to remember that if the worst had befallen, if the man on whose guidance we trusted had been seized with illness or had met with an accident and the lamps had gradually flickered out, all we need do would be to sit down and wait; for the driver of our carriage, finding we did not return, would have routed out another guide, and we would soon have seen the lights of the search party gleaming among the pendants and pillars. at one point we were refreshed with water from a cleft in the rocks, served in a tumbler that was kept inverted over a conveniently placed stalagmite. then we resumed the tramp. the sights seemed to be endless, and one of the best--the lake of miramar--was reserved for the last. about fourteen years ago this extensive waterway was made the subject of special exploration by m. martel, the french expert. with the aid of a collapsible boat he spent a week in investigation, and at its close was obliged to leave the farthest reaches of the caves yet unexploited. hot, clammy and tired, we had returned to the cooler air, and, resting upon the stone benches within the doorway, were refreshing ourselves with tea hot from a thermos bottle, when the guide, suddenly dropping the mantle of reserve that had cloaked his pilotage, told us the story of the discovery of the dragon's caves. as he sat, a _coca_ in one hand, a square of chocolate in the other, he became almost loquacious for so taciturn a being. the history proved curiously limited for such remarkably extensive caverns. it began one wet day about thirty years earlier, when his father, who had been out shooting, took shelter in a cleft of the rocks to eat his breakfast. happening to drop a loose pebble through a chink in the ground, he was surprised to hear by the sound that it had fallen into a cavity of unexpected dimensions. that accidental observation led to the research that opened the dragon's caves to the admiration of a curious world. clothed and cool, though dusty and soil-stained, we regained the open air, where a group of small orchid plants growing beside the path attracted us. they were the fly orchis, and unusually perfect specimens. the neatest, most insect-like little flies i have ever seen poised amid the green leaflets on the slender stems. a glorious sunset was flooding the sky with colour as we lurched towards manacor over the brutal road. the tall towers of the church of this city of the plain stood out sombre and imposing against glowing roseate banks of cloud. we had been discussing the puzzling appearance of the building, which had a faint resemblance to the russian style of ecclesiastical architecture, and none at all to any other known school. scaffolding still encircled the high steeple, and as we drew near the church it appeared as though exciting operations were in process. a constant stream of people entering the edifice was jostled in the passing by a rush of men, lads and boys, who were hurrying out propelling or dragging hand-carts and trolleys laden with blocks of stone, of which heaps were already piled about the exterior of the church. a useful rule in travelling, if you want to see what is going on, is to follow the crowd. moving with the throng into the church, we stood astounded at the scene of destruction before us. the interior of the lofty building was a riot of wild commotion. the air was full of fine dust. by the light of the lanterns which showed dimly through the obscurity, we saw the great white dome rising to the sky; and on the floor beneath, two huge pyramids of broken stone and mortar. on the crest of the mounds vague figures were visible, working with almost feverish energy to remove the vast heap of _débris_. the air was vocal with the noise indispensable to violent and concerted action. and the raucous sound of the wheels grinding on the stone floor as a willing band seized each laden truck to propel it out of the church added to the unholy din. [illustration: manacor] the whole scene was so unexpected, so foreign to the manners of the twentieth century, that to our bewildered minds it almost appeared as though history had slipped back and we had become spectators of some iconoclastic mob engaged in the sacking of the church. it was a relief to find the labour sanctioned by the presence of priests, who looked with benign approval at the frenzied efforts of the workers. one of the number, seeing that we were strangers, and probably guessing at our bewilderment, kindly approached, and, with quiet pride illumining his fine old face, volunteered an explanation of the exciting scene before us. the clergy of manacor, seeing the need of enlarging their already important church, had appealed to the people. the people promptly agreed to help, and the work of extension was quickly proceeded with, the labour being entirely local, even the statues that adorned the niches having been carved by one of the priests. the walls of the new church, gradually rising, enclosed the ancient building, in which service continued without intermission to be conducted. when the new walls were complete, the floor of the edifice was thickly covered with pine branches; and after mass had been celebrated on the very morning of our arrival at manacor, the ancient walls that had so well served their purpose were pulled down. after the inevitable blinding dust had settled a little, the labour of clearing away the _débris_ began. and we had returned from the dragon caves just in time to witness the multitude of helpers exerting their utmost strength to restore by lamplight the interior of the church from chaos to order. when we first viewed the scene of demolition the labour required appeared so herculean that it seemed as though toil that was merely human could make but little impression. but four hundred willing hands can accomplish marvels, and when we returned two hours later one great mound had been mostly cleared away, and the other was visibly diminished. with unabated enthusiasm the work was proceeding. when roused to their utmost effort there is no lassitude about these sturdy majorcans. strapping lads, shouting the while, seized each laden barrow and dashed off to empty it outside. small boys imagined they were helping by pushing behind with an admirable assumption of strength, and adding their shrill voices to the clamour. some of the smallest, with an air of importance, carried out single stones. near where we stood a hole had been opened in the floor, and into the vacuum beneath a band of youthful assistants was emptying baskets of small stones and dust. most of the labourers were of the thick-set majorcan type, but at regular intervals a tall handsome young man--a veritable son of anak--clad in a pink shirt, light blue trousers, and a wide felt hat, appearing out of the mist, advanced to the edge of the gaping hole and discharged into it the contents of a large basket of rubbish. he seemed to work alone, speaking to no one, and moving with the silent precision of a machine. the women kept strictly aside, taking no part in the work. in dark corners of the ancient chapels that had been left untouched, a few black-robed old women knelt in prayer. and near us a group of pretty girls stood tittering and whispering. at one moment human nature proved too much for some of the youths who had been passing us in relays, bearing on their heads great bundles of the pine branches that had been laid down for the preservation of the flooring. making a species of organized sortie, they rushed towards the girls, brushing their faces with the ends of the dusty greenery. the girls, giggling and squeaking, fled before the onslaught, but soon stole back to resume their position as spectators. when work ceased for the night an incredible change had taken place in the interior of the church. and next morning, as we dressed, the sound of boys' voices chanting came in through our open windows. the people were already worshipping in their new church. for one evening only had service been suspended. during the labours of the previous night the women had perforce remained quiescent. it was now their turn to help. active females carrying brooms were to be seen hastening through the sacred portals, to emerge later vigorously sweeping clouds of dust before them. one small girl had a baby tucked under one arm, while she industriously plied a broom with the other. when we took a final peep into the church before seeking the afternoon diligence for artá, the yawning fissure in the floor had been cemented over, and rows of benches stood ready placed for evening service. an inconsiderable heap of rubbish in a side aisle was all that remained of the apparent desolation of the day before. [illustration: artá] xx artÁ and its caves we met the diligence for artá at manacor station, where the single-line railway ends on a track so grass-grown as to suggest that it had, inadvertently, strayed into a field. were the engine to diverge a yard or two from the rails it would wreck the stationmaster's goat, make havoc of his family washing, and devastate his prickly-pear patch. the artá diligence, a spacious vehicle, supplied with good horses and a capital driver, leaves the station yard immediately after the arrival of the afternoon train from palma. should a sufficiency of passengers arrive by the morning train, a diligence would start then also; but the afternoon coach is a certainty. the distance is kilometros, and the fare is three reales (sevenpence-halfpenny). the man and i had secured the front seats. the boy was inside with a typical set of travellers by diligence--a priest, a soldier, one of the very new recruits who had a six days' leave to visit his home; a specimen of the pleasant elderly countryman who is the inevitable accessory of such a journey, and two commercial travellers that we stopped to pick up as we passed a draper's shop in town. our driver was a man of decision. little time was lost over starting. five minutes after the train had entered the station we dashed out of it at a pace that threatened to make the distance between us and artá seem far too short. it was a perfect evening for driving. there was no wind, and the rain of the previous night had laid the dust. the road was a good one, broad and level--very different from that over which we had bumped and joggled on the previous day. the sinking sun cast a glamour over a land that was at any time beautiful. the swift motion was gloriously exhilarating. perched up on the box seat, the man and i felt radiant with the sheer joy of being alive as we drank in the sweet bean-scented air, and watched the approach of the picturesque groups of farm folk who were returning townwards from their day's work in the fields. our driver, canet by name, seemed to be popular. sunburnt faces looked up to smile him a greeting. laughing girls crowded into ramshackle carts exchanged gay repartee in the passing. as we drove onwards the surroundings became less flat, and in the distance a range of sugar-loaf hills--the mountains of artá--appeared. about half-way on the journey we jingled through a nice little town, san lorenzo, where grape-vines grew on the walls of the houses that lined the narrow streets, and old, old wives sat on the doorsteps taking their ease. beyond san lorenzo hills rose about us, and the road ran between tracts of uncultivated ground. here, too, the road was busy with returning labourers in delightfully quaint groups. many of the men wore their blue cotton shirts outside, like blouses, and all wore wide-brimmed hats of straw or felt. each family party was accompanied by an animal--an ass or an ox, a goat or a black pig. what struck us as being funniest of all was to see the understanding way in which, in every instance, the pigs trotted sedately beside their owners, exactly like well-bred dogs. then the road rose high between pine woods whose undergrowth was thick with the withered blossoms of heath, and we traversed a mountain pass up which the men walked, before rattling inspiritingly down the farther side. we were still some distance from the town, and the wayfarers we overtook had their faces turned towards it, when it became quite dark--too dark to distinguish anything except vague outlines of mountains. leaving the smooth white road along which we had sped so bravely, we entered a narrow street thickly strewn with a misery of sharp jagged stones that made advance a penitential progress for both man and beast. and canet, turning towards us, said impressively:-- "we are in artá!" our destination in artá was the fonda de rande, which had been warmly recommended by our friend the padre at palma, but when the coach drew up in front of the café mangol we alighted, to find ourselves literally in the embrace of its voluble landlord. by pledging our word to hire a carriage from him on the morrow we obtained our release, and with canet acting the dual part of guide and porter, we retraced our steps for a few yards along the dark, stony streets. in speaking of the fonda de rande the padre had described the señora rande's cooking as being excellent, her charges moderate, and her house the cleanest in artá. after two nights' experience we not only endorse his statements, but go further, and say that her house is the cleanest in all majorca, and that is saying a very great deal. within half an hour a meal was before us--a dish of pickled fish, another of fresh fish, hot lamb cutlets and fried potatoes, sweet oranges, and plums of the señora's own drying. our rest that night was luxurious. the beds were soft, the blankets light and downy. we slept until the hour when a man promenaded the town blowing blasts on a seashell to call the people to their work. before we had left our rooms ponderous steps resounded in the passage outside our doors. it was the proprietor of the diligence, brother to the host of the café mangol, come in person to ask at what time we would require a carriage for our visit to the caves. having promised to be ready an hour later, we descended to the dining-room, where, after we had drunk our glasses of coffee, the señora insisted on refilling them: an attention without precedent in our experience of spanish hostelries. breakfast over, we sallied out in quest of provisions for our little expedition, a somewhat difficult matter, for the shops at artá are even more independent of signs than those of the other balearic towns. a little questioning revealed a quite unexpected house to be a baker's. the apartment next to the street was fitted up with a counter; but its window was closely shuttered, its shelves empty. to all appearance the entire business of the establishment was carried on in the bakehouse at the back, where, in full view of a pile of egg-shells and other evidences that proclaimed the genuineness of the ingredients employed, we bought little square sponge-cakes hot from the oven. boldly entering another shop, which we knew to be a greengrocer's by the orange-hued gourd and basin of parsley on the doorstep, we found it half shop, half weaver's workroom. in one part the mistress and her daughter sold vegetables, boots, and many other requirements of both outer and inner man. in the other the portly father wrought at his hand-loom, weaving the strong dark-blue cotton material so much in use locally. having bought a supply of sweet little mandarin oranges at twopence a dozen--just half the palma price--we returned to the _fonda_ to find the carriage, with canet and the two horses that had made such light work of the diligence, waiting in readiness to take us to the caves. [illustration: towards the parish church, artá] it had been so dark when we entered artá that it was not until we left the town and looked back that we realized how picturesquely it was situated. the blue mountains form a wide circle round it, and in the centre of the clustered houses a hill crowned with church towers rises grandly. artá is a district of rural occupations. the fresh butter of the island is made at son servera, a village close by. on our way coastwards we met many interesting and paintable figures. here an old man with a scarlet and yellow handkerchief tied under his hat, and a shaggy goatskin bag slung over his shoulder, herding a flock of kids; there a handsome girl, whose petticoat had faded to an adorable shade of crimson, and whose fingers were busy plaiting the strands of the palm-leaves as she watched by a cow that looked, as so many of the island cattle do, like an alderney. the fields on either side of the road were planted with flourishing trees of almond and olive and fig. assuredly in their season no traveller need go hungry in any majorcan road. he has only to help himself. they say that if a native sees a stranger taking his fruit, in place of upbraiding he will volunteer with sincere good-will to show him the tree the flavour of whose fruit is finest. at a lonely bit of the way a contented-looking little group, consisting of a fine, stalwart lad in light-blue cotton, a smiling matron in workaday dress, and a plump black pig, stood at the corner of a field by the road to watch us go past. as we neared them the radiance that illumined their faces found reflection in those of the boy and canet. "it's the soldier who travelled in the diligence last night," the boy explained. "that must be his home. he is one of the new recruits, and had six days' leave to spend with his mother. don't they seem to be enjoying it?" and they did. even the black pig radiated supreme contentment. high up on the left as we journeyed we saw a little ancient-looking town grouped about the lower slopes of an eminence whose height seemed to be crowned by a castle surrounded by defences. it was capdepera, a relic of antiquity of which we knew but little, and instantly resolved to learn more. the way to the dragon caves had been across a bald moorland. that leading towards the caves of artá was down a fertile valley, that through the efforts of skilled husbandmen had been brought to a high state of cultivation. in a field by the wayside clumps of narcissus were blooming unappreciated, and as we came near the cliffs we saw that their rocky sides were yellow with a species of gorse which grew in cushioning clumps. when we were within easy distance of a fine, sandy bay, flanked on the east by a towering cliff, a man left the solitary house which stood in the middle of the valley and came towards us. "that is the guide," canet said, pointing his whip-handle in his direction. the guide to the caves of artá was a lean, middle-aged man, whose well-cut face suggested an innate appreciation of humour. when we stopped he mounted to the box, and we went on slowly, for the sandy road was heavy. a little farther on we drew up again. a woman, supporting with both hands a tray containing something edible, had left the house and was hurrying towards us across the field. when she got near we saw that the tray contained three of the large pastry turnovers that, in outward appearance, at least, so strongly resemble cornish pasties. "i could do with one of these turnovers. i wonder if she sells them?" said the boy, as she climbed to the box beside her husband and the genial canet. "a turnover wouldn't come amiss," agreed the man. "i suppose she sells them." but the woman did not offer her provender to us. the guide got one. i suspect canet of getting another. the third was probably the cook's own dinner. leaving the carriage, we turned to the left of the lovely bay, on whose sands rollers were breaking, and walked along the mile of delightful path that runs along the side of a precipitous pine-covered cliff. beneath us roared the sea; from above came the murmur of wind-tossed pines, with whose perfume the air was fragrant, but the way was warm and sheltered. our guide, who accompanied us, kept modestly in the rear. it was only when we waited for him, and discovered that he was engaged lunching on one of the hot pasties, that we understood his reluctance to join us. to judge by eyesight, the pasty was stuffed with spinach and prunes. to judge by another sense it was stuffed with garlic. we were naturally eager to compare the attractions of the caves of artá with their rivals of manacor. a striking contrast was evident from the first sight. the approach to the dragon caves had offered no suggestion of the glories within. the exterior of the caves of artá, viewed when, turning away from the sun, one mounted the big flight of steps leading to the vast opening in the face of the cliff, was sublime. when we had climbed the steps and were standing in the entrance-hall under the great overhanging roof, where maidenhair-fern grows green, the guide, kneeling on the ground before a lot of tin vessels, made a stock of acetylene gas to light our journey through the darkness. he had removed his hat, and as, with his mind intent on his work, he carefully mixed the ingredients, he suggested some magician preparing for some uncanny rite. while he was occupied with his incantations we surveyed our surroundings, and for the first time were able to understand how the moorish refugees, who at the capture of palma fled in vast numbers to the caves, were able, for so protracted a period, to defy the army of the conquistador that had followed them thither. beneath the wide opening the cliff falls precipitously to the sea. high above it the overhanging roof forms a protective hood. the rocky sides and floor of the caves afforded an endless supply of the rough-and-ready missiles popular in those days. a more perfect natural stronghold could hardly be imagined. and but for a clever stratagem on the part of two brothers, members of that band of intrepid young nobles who so ardently supported their valiant leader, the moors might have held out interminably. these two brothers scaled the cliff, and, having reached the point directly above the mouth of the cave, threw lighted firebrands down upon the huts and defences that were clustered on the rocky shelf beneath, with the object of setting the huts on fire and filling the caves with suffocating smoke. but the caves were so extensive that even this ruse did not quickly prevail. and it was not until palm sunday, , three months after the taking of palma, that the fugitives surrendered. shouldering an iron rod, from which were suspended two lamps, the guide announced that he was ready to start. there was no need to take off coats. the caves were so spacious and lofty that the temperature was pleasant, and although the distance to be traversed was considerable, the work of seeing them was not fatiguing. the attitude of our present guide was different from that of the former. the guide who showed us the dragon caves trotted us through them in the business-like fashion of a man who is paid a fixed sum for performing a stated task. he wasted few words, and was, we thought, a trifle stingy in the matter of magnesium wire. the moment of his expansion came only after unexpected tips had been added to the amount of the regulation fees. but amoras, guide to these caves of artá, showed them as though, after even thirty-five years of performance, he still joyed to reveal their glories. his interest also was a hereditary one; his father, who had held the post before him, had been killed by falling from the cliff path to the rocks beneath. half-way between the bay and the caves, a cross set in the side of the cliff marks the place of the tragedy. [illustration: entering the caves of artá] amoras took the pace slowly, and after lighting us through a succession of vast caverns, paused to remark, with a quiet smile of enjoyment at our surprise, "we are only now at the end of the entrance-hall." the drought that prevailed without appeared to have had a malign influence even on the water supply of the caves of artá. pointing to a hollow enclosed by stones, amoras told us that was the well, which, for the first time in his thirty-five years of experience, he now saw dry. before we had traversed a tithe of the extent of these capacious caverns we understood how the fifteen hundred moorish refugees, men, women, and children, with their flocks and herds, an immense quantity of grain, and many precious belongings, had found hiding-place within. the manacor caves are fantastic and wonderful. those of artá are stupendous, overwhelming in their gloom and grandeur. any conception i had ever formed of cavernous magnificence was far exceeded; and to me the caves of artá were infinitely more impressive than the caves of manacor. when i tried to express this, amoras said devoutly:-- "the cave of the dragon is an oratory chapel. this is a cathedral." countless glories are concealed in the vast caverns. stalactites so large that to try to calculate the length of time occupied in their formation makes the brain reel. statues as complete in detail as though carven by the chisel of a sculptor. cascades of glistening crystal. the huge crouching figure of a winged mephistopheles, and in the hall of the banners flags--marvels of immobile drapery--that stood out at right angles from the pillar whence they were suspended. it was in the hall of the banners that amoras, warning us not to follow, disappeared from sight, leaving us in the dark. then from a height came strange noises designed to strike terror into the breasts of the timid. then the light of a roman candle threw into weird effect the great maze of stalactite pillars, cones, and festoons that rose about and above us to unimagined heights. but perhaps the most beautiful if not the most amazing of the sights was that contained in the salon of the queen of the columns, where, in a lofty hall, there stood alone, as though conscious of its exquisite beauty and holding aloof, a stately pillar twenty-two metros--over sixty feet--in height. about the base were grouped curiously modelled clusters of flowers, and above, as far as the eye could distinguish, the same delicate tracing was revealed. "under it we are as nothing," amoras had said reverently, as he stood beneath it, and one felt that had he worn a hat he would have uncovered before the column. there was a delightfully nerve-soothing effect in the absolute stillness of the caves. not a sound from the outer world could penetrate these vast recesses. "all the neighbours are asleep," amoras replied drily when the man remarked on the silence. though the caves of artá are astonishing in their immensity, there is nothing alarming or gruesome about them. it did not occur to anybody to speculate secretly on what would happen if the guide were seized with illness or anything happened to the lights. both sets of caves--the dragon and the artá--are well worthy a special expedition. if it were possible to see only one i would give the preference to the caves of artá. but that is a matter of mere personal taste. i must confess that men seem more impressed by the fantastic marvels concealed in the dragon caves. i had promised to show señora rande the english way of serving spinach as a vegetable course. so when we reached the _fonda_, only a quarter of an hour late for lunch, the señora was waiting to hold me to my word. fortunately the cooking of spinach is the simplest of culinary devices, and while the fresh green leaves were sinking to a pulp in the earthen pipkin, i had the privilege of watching the señora make one of her excellent omelets--an invaluable lesson, and one that i humbly trust will render impossible my again making such an egregious failure as i did when attempting to cook an omelet at the hospederia at miramar. being certain of a good driver and good horses, we had engaged canet to return for us at three o'clock. we were anxious to get a near view of the quaint old town, capdepera, whose distant appearance had attracted us as we drove to the caves in the morning. and we wished also to visit cala retjada, a little fishing village a mile or two farther away, that we had heard was celebrated for its known fish and for its suspected smugglers. the short drive was full of the life and interest that characterize an agricultural district. about the stone dikes, sloe blossom lay in drifts, looking strangely home-like beside the giant clumps of cactus. leaving the carriage when we had reached capdepera, we walked about briskly, for the wind was fresh, bent on exploration. a peep into the church revealed nothing of special note. turning away, we climbed a steep street, and found ourselves outside the old gateway leading to the fortified enclosure that in bygone days had evidently been the place of refuge for the citizens when danger threatened. and of a truth the space enclosed within these battlemented walls would have afforded shelter to a great community. to the well-preserved ramparts nature had added an impregnable defence in the form of a thick growth of cactus. both without and within the wall their prickly leaves luxuriated. from the flat roofs of the watch-towers that surmounted the battlements the watchers must have been able to see to a surprising distance. a white line across the sea revealed the coast of minorca, twenty miles away. close by was cabo de pera, the eastmost point of the island. with a vigilant guard stationed in these watch-towers no enemy, either from land or sea, could have reached capdepera before the inhabitants had timely warning to remove themselves and their valuables within the safety of the stronghold. the old parish church--our lady of the hope--is within the enclosure, close by a modern house that bore signs of occupation. in pockets of hungry soil a little spindly grain grew about the roots of hoary fig-trees. while all the fig-trees outside were still naked, one in a sheltered corner already showed bursting leaves and the diminutive knubbly warts that were to swell into fruit. besides tufts of wild mignonette, henbane reared its downy foliage and evil-smelling creamy blossom. seated in the open doorways of the houses, the women of this remote town were making baskets from the dried leaves of the palmetto (garbayous), a dwarf palm-tree that abounds on the mountains of artá. some were pleating the split fronds into long strips that others were sewing into the baskets, which besides being largely used in majorca are exported by ship-loads to france. the pleasant and cleanly little industry seemed the ruling influence of the town. in the street we passed men carrying great numbers of the baskets fitted snugly inside one another. a glimpse into the open door of a warehouse revealed the place close packed from floor to rafters with the baskets. on the way to cala retjada we drove past a cart piled high with stock ready for shipment; and in a sheltered cove beyond the fishing village we saw, lying at anchor, the _pailebot_ that was waiting to convey the goods to an over-seas market. when we reached cala retjada the wind was blowing in fresh from the sea, and the boats lay snugly drawn up on the beach of a tiny haven. a number of small shut-up houses lining the semicircle of the bay showed that the stone-washed shore was a favourite place of summer residence. to the west is the imposing headland of cape vermay. westwards pine woods clothe the rocky slopes about the sea. truly a pleasant place to fly to when the interior of the island is hot and relaxing. the people of the eastern town struck us as being more moorish in type than those of the more northern or western parts of majorca. in cala retjada, in the person of the handsome bronzed captain of the _pailebot_, we saw and instantly recognized our ideal of a pirate chief--the heroic pirate who treats his enemies nobly. he wore a scarlet nightcap with a grass-green band, a golden brown velvet suit, an orange cummerbund, and yellow string-soled shoes. truly he was a joy to behold. daylight was fading when we turned our faces towards artá; and as we approached the romantically situated town, we passed many parties of returning labourers, and many little bands of pretty girls, who had presumably strolled out to meet them, though each sex kept rigorously apart. it is the rarest thing to see an unmarried man and a girl walking alone in majorca. the strict system of chaperonage that prevails in the higher classes evidently has its prototype in the lower also, for the maidens walked with twined arms--like some maeterlinck chorus--and the men, as far as we could judge, confined their attentions to admiring glances. we had heard that the remains of a phoenician village still existed in an ancient forest of ilex not far from artá. when we questioned the señora next morning, as she poured out the coffee, regarding its whereabouts, she promptly suggested that her husband would take us there. so when we sallied forth it was in company with señor rande and the _perro de rande_--a fine specimen of the ancient hunting dogs that are still prevalent in the island. it amused us to see him leap high into the air to sight his prey. the way, though it covered a bare half mile, was devious, and without assistance would have been difficult to find. but it ended in something far more wonderful than we had been led to anticipate. near the summit of a gentle mound that was covered with ilex and low-growing scrub we found ourselves confronted by a wall built of vast, roughly hewn blocks of stone. before us was an open portal, formed of two huge blocks supporting a third stone, one end of which was pierced by an orifice that had two openings towards the sky. within this gateway were the tumbled remains of a city that had been encircled by walls constructed of great single blocks of stone--a city so old that all tradition of its builders was lost. we had thought the roman remains at alcudia and pollensa as of surpassing antiquity. here was evidence of an occupation far older still. an eminence in the centre of the enclosure revealed the site of the inevitable, and at that date indispensable, watch-tower. from its top, though now lowered by the passing of centuries and overgrown with herbage, we saw through the gaps in the trees beyond how comprehensive a view the watchers had commanded of the surrounding country. the top of the mound on which we stood had been hollowed out, and señor rande remarked that children came up from artá to dig for treasures. "do they find any?" we asked innocently. raising his forefinger, the señor shook it before his face in the gesture we had grown to think characteristically majorcan. "_nada!_" he made laconic reply. devil's tomatoes, heavy with golden fruit, and beautiful large-blossomed lavender periwinkle grew in great profusion about the devastated homes of the vanished people. and it seemed a curious coincidence to remember that the last periwinkles i had seen were those growing about the base of the megalithic monuments in minorca. one wonders what connection this starry-eyed flower could have had with these prehistoric races. i had received the information that begonias grew wild in majorca, with the mental reservation natural to a native of a less gracious climate. so it was a pleasant surprise to recognize a leaf or two of their distinctive marled foliage thrust out from between the heaped stones of the ruined phoenician village. our return journey from artá was not worthy to rank in our memories with our triumphal progress thither. we had a special conveyance, but as canet was already in manacor, having driven the diligence that left artá at three o'clock that morning, he could not act as our charioteer, and his employer, who drove us, set the pace sedately. the wind was high, dust was more than a possibility, and the box seat held no attractions. so we sat inside and yawned a little as the kilometros crept slowly past. in the little grass-grown station at manacor the afternoon crowd was beginning to gather. and in the station yard the diligences for artá, for capdepera, for san lorenzo, were drawn up prepared to start as soon as the train had arrived and their passengers had climbed into their seats. we had taken our places in one of the empty carriages that were standing ready to be attached to the train for palma, when the smiling sun-tanned face of canet appeared at the window. he had come to bid us good-speed, and remained to share our tea, and to puzzle over the powers of the thermos bottle. though he politely praised the tea, i am convinced that he secretly scorned the bad taste of the "ingleses" who chose to drink so uninteresting a decoction in a land overflowing with good red wine. our little excursion, undertaken though it had been with something of reluctance, had proved like others a charming one, and one whose every moment had been full of new interests. [illustration: palm-sunday at sóller] xxi among the hills march was more than half over; we had already reluctantly begun to measure our stay in the fortunate isles by weeks instead of months when we drove to sóller to spend a few days with an english friend, who, with all the world to choose from, elects to make her home at sóller. when we left sóller on our previous visit in early december, darkness had fallen long before we reached palma, so the first half of this return journey was new to us. and as the day was beautiful, we sat luxuriously back in the open carriage and enjoyed it to the full. the shower that had fallen had greatly refreshed the land, and though more rain was eagerly hoped for, the almond-trees were heavy in leafage and thickly ruched with the green-velvet casings of the embryonic fruit. during the winter we had noticed few wild birds. now, amongst the olive-trees that lined the highway as we approached the rising ground, many were flying. a brightly plumaged bird with a crested head crossed our path like a flash of gold, and disappeared among the trees. it was the hoo-poo, the typical balearic bird, known locally as the _pu-put_. the highway between palma and valldemosa passes through a picturesque gulch. the road between palma and sóller climbs a considerable mountain, up whose steep sides the native makers of roads--surely the most ingenious in the world--have carried the path in a series of amazing zigzags, so that the view of the traveller varies incessantly. as we mounted higher and massive crags rose about us, we sometimes stopped the carriage to look down over the vast orchard that covers the plain, to where the far distant spires of palma cathedral showed against the sea. as our altitude increased the air became colder. the wind that met us at the top was almost keen, and we were glad to rattle down the farther side of the hill up which we had climbed so slowly. a few turns down the zigzag, a fine old cross, its carvings gnawed by the corroding tooth of time, stands overlooking the valley and the tawny-roofed houses of sóller, as they lie surrounded by their orange gardens. a poor cottage was hard by, and while we paused to let the man make a rapid sketch, two children, a boy and girl, crept nearer and nearer, until at last they grouped themselves in conventional attitudes at the foot of the cross. it did not require words to tell us that they must have posed in the foreground of many photographs of the same subject. at the hotel marina, where our friend was staying, three good things awaited us--a gracious welcome, a glorious fire of almond shells, and a daintily spread tea-table. in the evening we went to son angelats, a beautiful "possession" dating back to the moorish occupation. son angelats nestles snugly into the side of the mountain, and all the year round it is bowered in roses of every shade and hue. the air was fragrant with the mingled odours of flowers innumerable; and when we walked down to sóller through the gloaming the sweet essence of the blossoms accompanied us, for our hands were full of roses and violets. as we strolled through the grounds i noticed what i thought was a blue bead lying on the path. picking it up, i discovered it to be the seed of a small grassy-leaved plant new to me, but much used in majorca for covering the sides of banks where grass refuses to grow. the seed, which was about the size of a pea, was of the pure deep blue of the sapphire. the name of the plant the gardener declared to be _convoladia_. i spell the word phonetically. and when i asked what the appearance of the flower was, he made the incredible statement--and stuck to it--that the plant had none. it is impossible to stay in sóller without feeling the magnetic attraction of the puig mayor, which is higher than any mountain in the british isles. a dozen times in an hour we found ourselves turning to see how it looked, for its aspect held the charm of exhaustless variety. one might leave it a purple shadow amid light-hued satellite hills and turn again a few minutes later to discover it rose-tipped and the others in shadow. next morning i looked out on a lovely scene. in the growing light of dawn the encompassing mountains showed clearly their outlines, unblurred save by a wanton wisp of mist that seemed too trivial to bear any meaning. but when my breakfast tray was brought in, rain was falling with the quiet persistence of rain that has come to stay. so we spent the morning indoors enjoying refreshing gossip, and refreshing peeps into english books, and in watching from the windows and balconies the ever-changing cloud effects on the mountains. there were moments when the crest of the puig mayor rose majestic above a rolling fleece of vapour that blotted out all the lesser heights; and times when, though the clouds hung heavy over the town, and the few passers-by huddled beneath time-worn umbrellas, every red rock and cleft of the mountain glowed under a sun that shone for it alone. or again the puig mayor itself might vanish, and some nearer height stand out against the wall of mist in unexpected beauty of contour--imposing only because of its temporary isolation. in the afternoon the sky cleared a little and we ventured out. the good fairy, our hostess, who abounds in individualities that are as charming as they are original, possessed, by right of purchase, the fruit of a tree of sweet oranges. her tree grew in an orchard on the outskirts of the town that is itself an orange garden. and hither we went to listen to the sweet clamour of the nightingales while eating the fruit we had plucked. among the glossy-green leaves keats's "light-wingéd dryads of the trees" were singing "of summer in full-throated ease." we would gladly have lingered long, but heavy rain again encompassed us; and we returned to the comforts of the hotel, reluctant to leave the melodious plot, but rejoicing for the sake of the islanders, in whose expectant ears the sound of the rain falling on their thirsty land must have been much more musical than the song of the immortal bird. next day was palm sunday--the children's day. yet when we left the hotel in the morning and ventured out into the rain-washed streets, there was not a child in sight. old people--grandmothers, formless figures muffled from forehead to ankle in black shawls, moved decorously along carrying folding stools; grandfathers, protecting their sabbath garb with rose-coloured umbrellas of a silk so fine and antique that one longed to implore them not to ruin it by exposure to the weather, were hastening towards the church. but the narrow streets of the quaint old town were curiously empty of children. to our uncomprehending eyes it appeared more the day of the grandparents than of the children. i blush now to acknowledge that, for the moment, we had forgotten that the day of the children is always, and in almost greater measure, the day of the grandparents also. we entered the church to find both the outer absence of youth and the presence of the aged explained. above even the pungent odour of incense, the savour of sweet flowers perfumed the air. the centre of the church was a seething mass of greenery. tall spikes of palm arose like sword blades from out a forest of green branches--a forest that looked as though ruffled by a strong wind, so restless was its incessant motion. closer observance revealed the motive power to be a multitude of small boys who sat, closely packed together, on benches, holding aloft branches, many of which were wreathed with flowers. most of the trophies showed the grey-green of olive--a shapely bough chosen with care from the family possession, with all the available blossoms of the garden twined about the stem. and many revealed ingenuity and artistic taste in the garlanding of the flowers. certain of the palm fronds had a piece fixed athwart the tip to represent a cross. a proportion, happily but a small proportion, of the trophies carried struck the blatant note of artificiality, for in their case the palm frond was split and twisted into ornamental shapes, and out of all semblance of that they were supposed to represent. a few were travesties of christmas-trees, for their fictitious branches were laden with silvered and gilt sweets, toys and trinkets, seemingly trivial, but doubtless owning a significance of their own. beside the rows of close-cropped dark heads moved priests and black-robed teachers. and on the outskirts of the throng hovered bigger boys, torn betwixt two opinions--whether it were better to continue to assert their claim to have reached an age exempt from such childish matters, or to yield to their natural desire to join the palm-bearers and have a place in the procession that was to follow. one urchin, but recently advanced to the dignity of his first long trousers, held half-concealed a scrap of olive, to which he added by furtive gleanings from the fallen blossoms that littered the floor, garnering a battered, but still recognizable rose here, a gaudy marigold there, until he had achieved a trophy that, if not one to court careful examination, yet at a little distance presented quite a respectable appearance. when the rose-red umbrellas had dripped themselves almost dry, and the branches supported by the hot hands of restless boys were waving faster than ever, the black-robed teachers and a nun, moving noiselessly amongst their pupils, began to marshal them into a double line. standing at the side, in company with grandfathers whose fine old weather-beaten faces gazed proudly intent at those who were to carry their names to succeeding generations, we watched as the little forest of branches, borne sedately, passed in front of the altar, and then moved in procession round the church. the smallest boys walked in front, and many of them were burdened with the care of umbrellas in addition to the proud glory of the decorated branch that wobbled in their tired hands; while boys of larger growth, unable to resist, yielded to a natural desire to shoulder their boughs as muskets. very few girls took an active part in the proceedings. the half-dozen who did belonged to the class that have hats for sunday wear, and the palms they carried had cost money. little girls whom fortune had denied the envied possession of either ugly hats or ornamental palms looked on with longing in their soft dark eyes as the favoured ones marched by. when the complete circuit of the edifice had been made the palm-bearers moved to a side, and a band of clergy advancing paused just within the great doors, through which certain of their number had slipped outside. standing thus, their resplendent robes of purple and scarlet thrown into strong relief against the old wood of the door, the group began chanting. when they ceased there came from without the sound of answering voices. again were the voices within raised in recitative. from outside came again the reply. then, reverberating solemnly through the deep silence that ensued, came the sound of a thrice repeated knock on the closed door. at the summons the wide doors were thrown open and the outside band admitted. then, the symbol of the release of repentant souls from purgatory having been thus impressively enacted, the band, now chanting in unison, moved towards the high altar. the ceremony of the blessing of the palms is a beautiful one, and one of which no child who has taken part can ever forget the meaning. the last we saw of it was a hale old grandfather, who carried in his arms, under the shelter of his big rose-hued umbrella, a sleepy little boy, whose weary hand still grasped his flower-wreathed olive-branch as they took the path leading to the mountains. the earnestly prayed for rain, when it did come, came in unstinted quantity. it had rained all night, and on monday rain was still falling, but more softly--almost, one might say, reluctantly--on the little white-robed first communicants who, sheltered by the umbrellas of mothers or aunts, were threading their way delicately among the pools of water that lay as traps for their white-shod feet. but the majorcan climate is too beneficent to spoil the notable day for the young communicants. before noon the clouds had drifted away from the mountains; and though the sun did not appear, the air was mild and balmy, and through the wonderfully absorbent nature of the sóller soil the streets speedily became dry enough to enable the dainty white shoes to trip about almost without blemish. and all day long, everywhere one looked, young girls, some in expensive raiment, others in evidently home-made garments, but all with long white veils flowing from their wreathed heads, moved sedately from house to house, accompanied by an admiring train of female relatives, as they paid visits of ceremony to all their friends. and as for the boys!--words fail to tell of the glories of their harshly new suits, their shining patent leather boots, of their spreading collars, of the elaborate bow of gold embroidered white ribbon that decorated their left arms; or, greatest of all--of their self-importance. they, too, had their public promenade, and paid their visits. they, too, had their attendant group of appreciative relatives. on meeting any friends the little party would pause, and the graceful ceremony of asking forgiveness for past misdeeds be gone through, when the young communicant, bending and kissing the hand of the elder, would say, "if i have ever done you any harm, forgive me now." my men had gone off to see biniaraix, a hamlet of brown houses grouped about the white tower of a church on the mountain-side, and to enjoy a reminiscent glance at fornalutx, the quaint hill-town where, on our previous visit to sóller, we had spent a well remembered afternoon. so the good fairy and i, left to our own devices, passed the afternoon in rambling about this town of amazing contrasts. as i said before, sóller is endowed with a curiously absorbent soil--a soil that acts as a charm in cases of inflammatory rheumatism and is prime factor in the remarkable longevity of the inhabitants. the roads were already so dry and pleasant to walk on that, but for the evidence of the _torrente_, which was a raging river, it would have been hard to credit that for two days and nights thrice-blessed rain had fallen without intermission. snow covered the crest of the puig mayor and lay heavy on its shoulders, yet down in the valley the soft air was sweet with the fragrance of orange blossoms, and all about the golden or copper-coloured fruit hung in profusion on the trees. truly sóller is a place of piquant contrasts. the trespasser is welcomed in majorca. there are no notice-boards--except a few _vedados_ to warn against hunting--no padlocked gates. so we wandered about, following bypaths that led from one small "possession" to another; and never, after we left it, returning to the highroad until it was time to return home. that the good fairy is widely beloved was evident at every turn. her diplomatic powers are great, but she had to exercise them all to avoid spending the afternoon indoors in the hospitable homes of her humble acquaintances, who, catching a glimpse of her as she passed, hastened out to entreat her to enter. living in this place of natural delight must be cheaper even than in palma. one courteous dame took us all over her house, that we might see the views from her windows. the house, which was in the town, was a comparatively new dwelling in a good airy street. it had a large high-ceilinged _zaguan_--the entrance chamber that is a combination of hall and reception-room--from which opened a neat kitchen. a few steps up from the _zaguan_ was a cosy parlour from which a stair led down to the _terras_. above, on the first floor, were two bedrooms, and on the second floor two more, all well lit and affording exquisite views. being in town the house had no garden; but the _terras_ with its big jars of plants seemed a favourite place for taking the air. when i indulged my curiosity by asking the rent, the good dame told us that for all this excellence she paid twenty-four dollars a year--less than five pounds; and the rent included taxes! as we strolled farther afield the wealth of the land was heaped upon us. our hands overflowed with the balearic violets, that are the sweetest in the world, and the balearic pansies, that are, i verily believe, the poorest. for pansies love a cold damp soil, and rarely flourish south of the river tweed; and the tweed is a far, far cry from these sun-loved isles. we had sprays of orange blossom given us too, and ripe oranges, whose golden sides the beneficent sun had tanned to copper. and we sat in a garden and ate them, while the aged donor, who still possessed the fine features and limpid eyes of her bygone youth, talked to us, illustrating her stories by a pantomime of feature and gesture so expressive that even i, with my meagre knowledge of her language, could hardly fail to grasp their meaning. in the kitchen of her house the wide hearth was almost shut in by a three-sided settle, whose seats were strewn with fleecy white sheepskins. on the kitchen shelves the native ware of brown, decorated in crude patterns of red and yellow, was arranged with unconscious artistic effect. mounting gradually higher, we rested at a point where the town lay open before us. hills rose steeply behind us; in front the ground sloped down in terraces; and, far beyond, the fruitful gardens and russet houses of the town rose again towards the snow-crested mountains, or at one point fell gradually to the cleft beyond which showed the sea. becoming suddenly conscious that we had let the tea hour slip past unheeded, we were hastening back to the hotel, when, crossing the bridge that spans the _torrente_, we caught the promise of a sight that made us quickly return to the open space of the market square that we might obtain a less interrupted view. over the roofs of the houses the snow-capped mountain summits, struck by some magic shaft from the hidden sun, glowed rose-red, and the unearthly beauty of the transfiguration held us mute and spell-bound. the curious thing was, that though little groups of people stood gossiping in the market-place no one appeared to have eyes for this refulgence but ourselves. seeing us standing gazing silently towards the mountains, they turned also to see what had attracted our attention, then turned away uncomprehending. xxii deyÁ, and a palma procession the last lingering trails of rain-clouds had vanished and the sun shone from a cloudless blue sky when next day we drove off behind pepe and his pair of white horses to picnic at deyá, the curiously distinctive little town that perches on a hill betwixt mountain and sea, half-way between sóller and miramar. the road was a good one, and as the way, though steep, was set in zigzag fashion, its ascent would have been easy but for the barbarous way in which, acting with the empty cunning of these would-be crafty island road-menders, someone had littered the road with lumps of stone, thus forcing the passing vehicle to act the ignominious part of road-roller by threading its way out and in over the newly mended parts. sometimes the stones were so evilly placed as to impel us to venture perilously near the edge of the precipitous track. it was a relief as we slowly mounted upwards to come upon the perpetrator of the crime in the very act of further blocking our path. taken thus red-handed, he was not one whit dismayed, but complacently stepped aside to let us pass. the opportunity was not one to be missed. half drawing up and turning round on the box, pepe launched towards him a few objurgations in trenchant majorcan. and the good fairy, putting her head out of the carriage, added the weight of her gentle reproach. [illustration: deyá] "what is this you do?" she asked in her pretty spanish. "placing stones on the road to welcome the strangers! is this the way you show them the delicacy of the spaniard?" thus doubly reproached, the _caminero_ stood transfixed; and our emotions having found vent, we drove on, leaving him with his hand raised to his brass-bound hat, his mouth open but speechless. having reached the summit, we began the descent, losing sight of our grand mountains, but gaining a glimpse of the mediterranean, which glowed in that warm blue that makes one wonder--until one tries the temperature--why sea-bathing should be confined to the summer months. the tawny-roofed houses of deyá cluster on a high rock that rises like an island from out a sea of valley which is girdled by precipitous mountains. streams in cascades were rushing down in a joyful pell-mell, the cherry-trees were heavy with blossom, and the pomegranates were opening their first delicate copper-tinted leaves as we drove along the highroad that follows the curve of the valley. the attentive _chef_ of the marina had made us independent of _fondas_, and pepe had promised to find us a good place to lunch in. so when he drew up at a path that branched off from the highway on the miramar side of deyá, we took our hamper, from which the neck of a bottle protruded alluringly, and started to explore it. the path ended at a gate that opened into private grounds. in any other country the most presumptuous among us would have hesitated before invading the garden of unknown owners. but we were in the fortunate isles and the charm of their unconventionality influenced us. walking in, we found some conveniently placed stone seats under the shade of a huge lemon-tree, and there we spread our feast of lamb cutlets, potato omelets, cakes and fruit. the house, of one corner of whose quaintly terraced garden we had taken possession, appeared to be untenanted. its windows were closely shuttered, its stable empty; but soon from the highest terrace an old head peeped at us. a little later it appeared on a terrace lower, then nearer still, the attached body becoming gradually more and more visible, until the owner appeared before us in the person of an aged woman whose frivolously abbreviated petticoats seemed incompatible with her sober face. it was the caretaker, come not to warn us that we were intruding, but to urge us to leave the place we had chosen for one where there was a proper table and much water. we resisted her enticements and she trotted off, her appearance a ludicrous combination of propriety and indecorum, with her serious face swathed in its black kerchief and her lavishly displayed light drab ankles. she did not quite abandon us, however; and when the men had gone off to paint she returned, and was so evidently desirous that we would not leave before seeing the marvels of the garden, that we consented to allow her to show them. and, indeed, the arrangement of the grounds revealed much ingenuity. the spot where she would have had us eat was a stone-built _mirador_, through a shallow cave, at whose back a mountain torrent had been induced to flow. as she had promised, there was both "a table" and "much water." in summer the suggestion of coolness imparted by even a trickle of water would be charming. then, with the torrent rushing at breakneck speed, the effect was a little overpowering and the noise positively deafening. our chosen place under the big lemon-tree might not be so extraordinary, but it had a placid charm that soothed while it did not detract from the matter in hand. the nephew of our unconsciously serio-comic cicerone, in the person of a one-eyed _calender_--i beg his pardon, gardener--joined us to reveal fresh attractions of summer-house and rivulets, and of a grotto where, amid a perfect cascade of maidenhair-fern, a graceful statue of our lady of lourdes was embowered. from every point the view was lovely, but i defy anybody to find a spot about deyá that does not afford a lovely prospect. when we left the place our lady of the stockings, eager to do something for the generous tip the good fairy had slipped into her hand, insisted on carrying our hamper. and during the remainder of our afternoon at deyá, whether we went up hill or down dale, amongst the picturesque houses clustered on the church-crowned hill or through the gardens that lined the side of the river, we seemed always to be encountering her. whether she was paying a round of visits to display her coin, or bound on an exhaustive shopping expedition to squander it, we did not know; but at every turn of the road we seemed to see the twinkle of those drab ankles. one of the many charms of deyá is the proximity of the sea, which laves the foot of its valley. another is its delicious irregularity. i do not believe there are a half-dozen yards of straight road in deyá. every house has its own elevation, its individual bypaths. another and an invaluable charm to artists is the manageable quality of its pictorial effects. the extensive grandeur of miramar is almost unpaintable, but deyá has a complete picture at every turn. we saw many in the course of that afternoon stroll. women washing, men gathering oranges, a handsome woman in a petticoat of vivid scarlet leading a recalcitrant black goat: all ready for transference to canvas. the hours flew past. almost before we knew, dusk was falling and we were on our way back to where the snow-capped puig mayor presides over the wonderful sóller valley. we had been a little apprehensive, expecting a repetition of the somewhat hazardous morning journey. but the good fairy's appeal to the chivalry of the spaniard had borne immediate result. every stone had been laboriously removed from the path. so without hindrance we rattled gaily down into the valley, where lights were already twinkling through the dusk. the final day of our visit to sóller brought yet another experience of unusual interest. our hostess had still another surprise in store for us. we had viewed the high mountains from beneath, now we were going to see them from the crest of one of their number. pepe took the reins in his skilled hands and guided the surefooted mules, who, for this expedition, replaced the white horses, up a perilous road that curved about the mountain-side, rising higher and ever higher until we looked down over the many terraces of olives into the valley that lay placidly basking in the afternoon sunshine. our ascent was necessarily very deliberate. as we wound slowly up we passed neither dwelling nor human being; and those of us to whom the way was new began to wonder why any road should have existed on so lonely a height. then when we had got so high that it seemed as though an eaglet's aerie would be the most likely habitation, the road ended on a flat plateau, and we found ourselves driving into the outer courtyard of a farm-house so old and weather-beaten that in appearance it resembled the rocks and crags that surrounded it. we alighted unnoticed. doves were flying overhead. a dog greeted our advent with an interrogative growl; fowls clucked about unheeding. pepe, rolling himself up in a striped blanket, curled up on the box to await the hour when it might be our pleasure to return. and we walked on, wondering if we had left the everyday world behind in the valley and had all unwittingly climbed to the palace of the sleeping beauty. a stone-cast from the house was a _mirador_ known to our conductress. securely seated therein, poised right on the edge of the mountain-crest, we looked at the vast panorama. crags rose high about us. behind and above us towered an unfamiliar side of the puig mayor, its massive shoulders deep in drifted snow. far beneath, looking like some gaily coloured map when seen from that height, lay the port of sóller with its lake-like harbour and pigmy headlands. and northwards spread the far-reaching sea, whose grandeur no altitude could dwarf. the sensation of being above the world was gloriously exhilarating. when a bird flew overhead we almost felt as though we too had wings, and two lines from davidson's _ballad of a nun_ kept running through my mind: "i am sister to the mountains now, and sister to the sun and moon." leaving the _mirador_, we wandered happily about the plateau. among the grass a strange flower was blooming, and it seemed quite natural that this amazing location should boast a flower of its own. it was an orchid whose sugarloaf-shaped spike was covered with florets of dull purple, close-packed after the manner of a grape hyacinth. in many of the plants the flowers burst into a tuft at the top. it was strange and not pretty, but curiously in keeping with its isolated situation. when we returned to the house pepe, swathed in his blanket, was still deep in the slumber of the man of tranquil mind: but the mistress of the house was at hand. approaching, she greeted us with grave courtesy. she had the remains of much beauty. the soft bloom of girlhood lingered on her matronly cheeks, and the retrospective look of one accustomed to deep solitude was in her fine dark eyes. on her invitation we entered the house, whose tall sides surrounded an inner courtyard. one end of the big cool kitchen was partitioned off with high-backed settles, and right on the middle of the floor of the "cosy corner" thus formed a pile of logs was glowing. looking up, we saw that overhead the roof contracted until it became a wide chimney, through which a glimpse of blue sky was visible. a gun hung on the whitewashed wall, and on one of the seats which was thickly spread with skins a shepherd lad was resting. returning to the _mirador_, we watched the sun sink in a golden glory over the misty blue sea. then, lamenting the inevitable close of another perfect day, we drove back down the vagrant deviating way, feeling as though we had for a brief space been translated to a new and inspiring world. it was with sincere regret that on the morning of holy thursday we bade the good fairy farewell and, with pepe again as charioteer, started on our drive back by way of deyá, miramar, and valldemosa to palma, where we had an afternoon engagement. the scenery of this coast road must rank with the finest in the world, and on that march morning it was looking its loveliest. there was no wind, and both sea and sky were of that deep warm azure that makes so fitting a background to balearic island vistas. on reaching the first houses of deyá, we stopped the carriage, and alighting, climbed the easy ascent to the church. halfway up the slope a french artist was painting, filling in his canvas with a delicate mosaic of heliotropes and pinks and purples. he was enthusiastic about the pictorial quality of his surroundings. "deyá," he declared, was "_un paradis pour les peintres_." when we peeped into the church mass was being celebrated, and from the dusk of the interior the eyes of young communicants looked gravely at us from under their white wreaths. amid the clustered houses halfway down the hill a quaint old building proclaimed itself the casa consistorial. a worm-eaten stair led to the town hall. the iron-barred door of the dungeon opened at a touch, revealing its abandonment to the base uses of a lumber-shed. as far as we could see, the sole person in charge of the municipal chambers of deyá was a year-old infant who occupied a low chair in the wide-roofed porch. he, however, maintained a magisterial dignity of demeanour throughout our cursory inspection of the premises. as we left the valley the lofty crags and olive-clad slopes of miramar rose about us. their appearance was already familiar, and it was with a positive thrill of pleasure that we saw them again. across the smooth surface of the mediterranean a liner was passing, and we wondered what impression the passengers would get of the island. we reached the hospederia to find that for the moment the solitude that in november we had found so attractive had vanished. evidently some periodic household inspection was in process, for in the wide doorway women sat mending house-linen, and children clinging to their skirts glanced shyly at us. fernando was absent, but netta remembered us, and brought a large glass jug of the matchless miramar water out to the _mirador_ overhanging the sea just beyond the house whither pepe had already carried our lunch. valldemosa was looking lovely in the fresh green beauty of spring, when an hour later we drove through its steep streets. the terrace gardens of the old carthusian monastery were sweet with bud and blossom; and on the road beneath, a couple of bearded brown-robed franciscan monks, treading softly on sandalled feet, gave us greeting. as we left the gorge whose precipitous sides rose high overhead, an eagle, clearly outlined against the azure sky, gave the finishing touch to the wild beauty of the spot. after the soul-inspiring grandeur of the everlasting hills, the plain, in spite of its luxuriant verdure, seemed tame; and even palma appeared almost uninteresting. but it must be admitted that we were approaching it by the back way--by the kitchen entrance, so to speak--and in strict justice palma should be entered by the front door, which is the port. we had been invited to the palace of one of the noble majorcan families to witness the passing of the holy thursday procession, and as we walked into palma in the early evening, signs of preparation for the ceremonial were in evidence. strangely clad figures, looking supernaturally tall in their long robes and high pointed hoods, were advancing towards the city. and their odd garb and masked faces gave them the appearance of beings strayed from out the dread days of the spanish inquisition. by the gate of santa catalina one of the masked men--his face-covering thrown back--was having a heated argument with a _consumero_ respecting a demand for payment of duty on the tall candle he carried. and within the gates like figures were to be seen all advancing towards some given point. outside the walls, where the buildings were comparatively new, the weirdly garbed shapes had seemed anachronisms, with more than a hint of the fancy dress carnival about them; but once within the walls of the ancient city, its narrow streets and tall closely shuttered dwellings made fitting setting for their mediæval guise. in the streets ladies wearing mantillas and the costumes of black brocaded satin that they reserve for religious ceremonials were hastening, rosaries in hand, from one church to another. it is the custom to visit as many churches as possible on holy thursday. one lady we knew told us she had entered twenty-two that day. just opposite the old palace on whose balconies we were placed was one of the five churches through which the procession was to pass. in the roadway beneath, people had already gathered in expectation of its approach, and as we waited a sound of distant music, monotonous, penetrating, reached us. then the town drummers, led by a small body of mounted civil guards (who defiled to a side and rode on to await their exit from the farther door of the building) appeared, and still vigorously plying their drum-sticks, marched into the church. very few members of the clergy were to be seen. the participants in the solemnity were almost entirely laymen. representatives of many municipal bodies took part in the procession. there were civic authorities who carried a well-brushed silk hat in one of their white-gloved hands and a lighted candle in the other: doctors, members of the red cross society, the town band, firemen, police, boys from the orphanage, old men from the workhouse--all evidently proudly conscious of the importance of their position. [illustration: processionists of holy thursday] at intervals a platform supporting one of the fine carved images from the cathedral was borne by. when the beautiful effigy of the crucified christ from the church of la sangre--that exquisite statue to whose flowing hair so many women have gloried to contribute their tresses--was carried past, the expectant crowd fell upon its knees before it. to our untutored eyes a striking feature of the observance was the long succession of masked penitents, who, bearing tall lighted candles, walked in a double line. the hue of their robes varied from almost bright blue to the more effective black and white. some were handsomely embroidered, others plain. two of the men were laden with chains; and one at least trod the cobble stones with naked feet, in public fulfilment of a vow taken in a time of impending danger. most of the penitents held lace-edged handkerchiefs to protect the candles from the warmth of their hands; but in spite of the precaution certain of the candles already showed signs of softening. many of the processionists bore emblems of the passion, and one group as it entered the church broke into a mournful chant. one of the observances of the function appeared to be the distribution of sweets. it was curiously incongruous to see the masked figures drop comfits into outstretched hands. we noted one pause before a pretty pink-clad señorita, who with her _dueña_ was standing opposite our balcony, and signing to her to open the silver chain-bag she held, he poured into it a great handful of sugared almonds, to her blushing satisfaction. the ceremony was imposing, touching, full of affecting suggestion; but even as we looked we could not help regretting that night had not fallen. then the sight of a long sequence of quaint figures bearing the tall lighted tapers through the sombre crooked streets of the old town would have been much more impressive. [illustration: during the carnival at palma] xxiii of fair women and fine weather the first thing that impresses the traveller regarding the inhabitants of majorca is the prevalence of good-looking young men and of pretty and graceful young women. legend tells that in long-past days the people of majorca were induced to make a treaty with the dey of algiers, by whose terms they yearly paid him a tribute of a hundred virgins, on condition that he restrained his piratical hordes from molesting the island. one feels that the dey had an eye for beauty, for in these favoured isles to be handsome seems to be the rule, not the exception. while young the majorcan women are charming after a peculiarly feminine fashion. compared with them french working women of the same class are hard of feature and masculine and ungainly of form. their features are refined, their complexions clear, their feet slender, their hands small, shapely, and well-cared for. when i mentally compared the condition of their hands with those of the rough toil-hardened hands of the women of the british working classes, i wondered if the substitution of charcoal for coal and of olive oil for grease in cooking could account for their better preservation. to rise to the admired standard of aristocratic majorca a man should look as though he had never done a day's work in his life. his hands should be soft, his skin untanned. a youth who had been yachting declared regretfully that on his return to palma he was so brown that none of the girls would look at him! to judge from a letter written to the palma paper, _la almudaina_, by a majorcan on board an italian liner bound for the argentine, the delicacy and fine modelling of majorcan hands would seem to be locally recognized and even gloried in. "what a misfortune," lamented the voyager, "that the italians have feet and hands so large, and fingers so twisted. oh, hands of my country, with slender fingers and blushing nails, how my eyes feel home-sick to look upon you!" women of all classes wear long skirts, which on being daintily held up reveal natty petticoats; and all show a pleasing taste in footgear. boots are cheap in majorca, and the servant maid or the work-girl on their sunday afternoon promenade on the borne will wear smart shoes of patent leather or high-heeled boots of cream-hued kid. nothing more charming or more suitable for everyday wear than the native head-dresses--a mantilla of black lace for the mistress, a _rebozillo_ of white muslin for her maid--could possibly be devised. while for gala occasions, such as a bull-fight, the white lace blossom-bedecked mantilla is positively captivating. and one sincerely regrets that, in palma at least, the hat is gradually making its way. the ladies who lead palma fashion wear hats, and where they lead others hasten to follow. a positive thrill of excitement runs through fashionable palma when notice is received of the approaching visit of a milliner or costumier from paris or madrid. the hotel where the private view of the new season's styles is held is thronged with eager buyers. when the cream of the stock has been secured, the enterprising adventurer disposes of the skim milk to the second-rate local shops, and sets sail with full pockets. the pity is that, with both the tradition and the usage of so picturesque a national custom for guidance, matrons who themselves rigidly adhere to the mantilla should, doubtless from the best possible motives, condemn their young daughters to wear hats. even at the best the prevalent mode in hats was ugly, and possibly the choice in palma was limited, but it must be admitted that in the matter of hat selection their customary refinement of taste appeared occasionally to have deserted the palma mothers. it was sad to see the nice modest face of a young girl overshadowed by a huge erection of green or red felt that was trimmed with a wild scurry of dishevelled plumage--a style of headgear that might not have looked out of place in the old kent road, but which looked hopelessly incongruous over the grave expectant eyes of a young majorcan lady. contrasted with the life of an english maiden, which is full of varied employments and endless social entertainments, the existence of a majorcan young lady would appear to be needlessly lacking in interests. she does not ride, or shoot, or golf, or cycle, or play tennis or croquet, or do gardening, or smoke cigarettes. she has little concern with politics, and she is content to leave the care of the poor to an efficient staff of clergy. she has been carefully and thoroughly educated. she has probably had a special governess to teach her english, another for french or italian. the private chaplain may have instructed her in spanish, and she probably has a good knowledge of classical music. but, her course of study over, there seems little left for her to do. in the morning she goes to mass; later she performs miracles of intricate embroidery. in the afternoon she drives out, in winter always in a closed carriage, and nearly always in the same direction, which is westwards towards ben dinat. sometimes the carriage stops, and the occupants, alighting, take a little promenade; then, re-entering the carriage, drive back to the tall old palace in some narrow street in the city. after mass on sundays she strolls on the borne; from four o'clock till sunset she may promenade on the ramparts or on the mole. that is the substance of a palma girl's exercise, and everywhere she goes her footsteps are carefully shadowed by those of her _dueña_. private dances, musical evenings, afternoon "at homes," private theatricals, are almost unknown. there are plenty of house-parties, especially in summer, when the family is living at one or other of its country seats; but those gatherings are usually confined to relatives. then there are the infrequent bull-fights; and occasionally a dance is given at the fashionable club, the _circulo mallorquin_--a festivity that begins at four o'clock in the afternoon and ends at eight o'clock in the evening. sometimes the wife of the captain-general gives an evening reception; or the rare function of a real ball sends a flutter through the higher circles of the island. then and then only does the aristocratic majorcan maiden permit her graceful shoulders to be seen. frequently, carefully chaperoned, she goes to a theatre, and sits in the family box throughout the interminable waits between the acts. at the carnival, which occupies three afternoons in the week preceding lent, she can appear on a balcony or in a carriage on the borne; and even, such is the _abandon_ of that time of licence, go to the extreme length of exchanging repartee in the form of confetti or paper streamers with an admiring foe. yet already there are signs of the far-reaching influence of an english queen. certain of the noble families have young english ladies to teach their language to their daughters, and the few majorcans we heard speaking english in palma spoke it beautifully. nowadays a majorcan lady is not ashamed to admit that she dislikes bull-fights. a few years ago such an admission would have been accounted the rankest heresy. and palma residents say they can tell the girls who have english governesses--they always walk so quickly! and here i may say that any young english lady, of good family and of the roman catholic religion, who is so adventurous as to journey to majorca to fill a post as companion or governess can do so with the assurance of meeting with every possible consideration. she will not get a large salary, for money has a higher value in majorca than in britain, but she will be treated like a princess. i know of one case where a palma family, who had engaged an english governess, went to the trouble and expense of having a bedroom specially decorated and furnished for her, after a high-art chamber pictured in the _studio_, that the expected guest might feel more at home than if her room had been fitted up in the native fashion. to our emancipated way of thinking there was something curiously mediæval in the careful chaperonage to which the lovely and graceful majorcan girls were subjected. and the scrupulous separation of the sexes seemed to argue distrust, of the maidens as well as of the men. matrimony is a popular institution in majorca, and when a damsel has reached a marriageable age an eligible suitor is rarely awanting. it is when that suitor has cast the glad eye upon the lady of his choice that matters would appear to proceed after an unsatisfactory and yet most conspicuous fashion. suppose don sebastian desires to pay court to a lady whom he has seen taking her carefully chaperoned walks, he writes a letter asking her permission to do so. if the reply is in the negative the matter ends. if it is in the affirmative the don puts on his cloak, which is frequently picturesquely lined with scarlet, and hies himself to the palace of his inamorata, but in place of boldly knocking at the front door and being ushered into one of the reception-rooms, he takes up his position beneath the balcony on which she is most likely to take the air. when the object of his desire appears--and you may be certain the _dueña_ is close at hand--the lady looks down, the lover gazes up, and only those who have put the matter to the test can judge how physically harassing it is to breathe impassioned nothings to someone who is suspended above your head. [illustration: the wooer] at this stage the matter halts for a period that sometimes runs into years--for in these restful latitudes even the course of true love moves slowly. then, permission having been asked and granted, don sebastian may accompany the lady and her chaperon in their walks for a period approaching six months. when this point is reached, the parents of don sebastian, carrying a handsome present, which most frequently takes the form of a ring, call on the guardians of the lady, and, their consent to the prospective union having been gained, the suitor is at length admitted to the house, and the public cease to see his love-lorn figure beneath the balcony. even when matters have crawled to this advanced stage the visits of the don are merely ceremonious calls, paid strictly under the watchful eyes of the _dueña_. and i am told it is not until the night before the wedding that he is favoured with an invitation to dine at the home of his bride. in order to impart the proper aspect of romance to this oft-played balcony scene, the actors ought to be, and often are, young and graceful. when they are otherwise it is only too easy to give a ludicrous rendering of the drama. during our early months at the casa tranquila we sometimes, in the evenings, passed a tall house, from a balcony on whose third storey a plump lady would be shouting down coy replies to the blandishments of an elderly swain who had to stand out in the middle of the road in order to see his sweetheart. after a time both balcony and street were vacant; presumably the suitor had been admitted inside. then a _to-let_ bill appeared on the balcony. the little romance had evidently ended happily, and the mature lovebirds had built a nest elsewhere. our six months' experience of the balearic isles fostered the belief that we had discovered the ideal winter climate. perhaps we had chanced upon an abnormally fine season, though i question that; but certain it is that from the middle of october, when we entered the bay and saw palma looking celestial in the rosy light of dawn, until the second week in january, the weather was perfect. spain is proverbially sunny. against england's , and italy's , annual hours of sunshine, spain offers , . with this grand allowance of sunshine the majorcan heat is temperate. statistics show that during the balearic summer the thermometer rarely rises above ° fahr., while in winter it seldom falls below ° fahr. a gentleman who has passed his life in palma told us that twice only had he seen snow fall--once when he was twelve year old, and again a few years ago. except for a sultry day or two in the end of october the atmosphere was only pleasantly warm. week succeeded week when the sea reflected a sky of cloudless glowing azure, when the air was soft and yet exhilarating, and we could both walk and bask with pleasure. rain never comes before it is welcome in majorca. sometimes the welcome waits long before it is claimed. when after an unbroken succession of days or weeks, or it may be months, of unbroken fine weather, one is awakened by the sound of rain falling in torrents on the tiled roofs, it is to rejoice with the knowledge that the thirsty crops are already drinking in the moisture, that the diminished store in the wells is being replenished, that your oranges are swelling, and that your lemons will soon lose the hardness of the nether millstone and become available for lemonade. there is no hesitation about majorcan rain. it does not play at being wet; it is simply drenching. and when rain comes, no man, however distinguished the uniform he wears or elevated his position (he may even be mounted on a panniered mule), hesitates to carry an umbrella. _consumeros_, carbineers, farm labourers, postmen, all shelter under them. nobody thinks it funny to meet a solemn policeman carrying a sword, a revolver, _and_ an umbrella. after the middle of january the weather changed. the temperature fell, and for nearly a fortnight cold winds raged. warm wraps were brought out of the trunks where they had hitherto lain, and in the evenings a wood fire became a much appreciated luxury. it was curious to note how speedily even this only comparatively cold weather made its malign influence felt on a people accustomed to warmth and sunshine. colds and coughs abounded. most of our majorcan acquaintances appeared to suffer. as one lady said resignedly, "it is the tribute we must pay to winter." even the boy spent several days in bed with a cold, reading all the french and spanish novels he could beg or borrow, and comforting himself with the reflection that had he been well the weather for the first time during the winter would have made it impossible for him to paint outside. yet, had three months of sunshine not made us critical, we would never have grumbled at these few days of cold wind. adopting unconsciously the local opinion of the weather, i found myself commiserating the squire and his lady, who had recently arrived from england. "what a pity you didn't come earlier than you did. there was no bad weather till you came." "but we've had _lovely_ weather!" the lady said, opening wide eyes of surprise. "why, we've been out long walks every day. it isn't really cold, and there's only been one shower, and that fell at night." remembering our british standard i was dumb. though majorca was free from fog, sometimes on an absolutely windless morning a light mist would envelop palma and the smoke from the works in the calle de la fábrica would hang heavy in the still air. then the boy would hasten to say that we might be in bradford--a town, by the way, that he knows only by repute. but with the rising of even the faintest breeze the highest spires of the cathedral would appear out of the mist as though, through some supernal agency, they were suspended in mid-air. then gradually, as if a veil were being slowly drawn aside, the city would again become visible. with early february our radiant weather returned, and heads were shaken, for the young crops showed sign of wilting under the long-continued drought. over a period of fifteen days the churches sent up special petitions for rain--petitions that must have been echoed in the heart of every man that owned a "possession," or farmed a patch of ground, or even rented a garden plot. we were at sóller when for two days and two nights the rain fell incessantly, soaking the parched soil and transforming the dry _torrentes_ into raging rivers. then it suddenly ceased, leaving us with the glory of snow-tipped mountains seen against a glowing blue sky. late in march and early in april rain again fell, delaying the annual ceremony of the swearing to the flag, but making the spindling corn fill out in a magical fashion and the beans that had begun to shrivel and blacken become erect and juicy. when we left majorca on the last day of april all fears of the fate of the crops had been removed; figs and vines were budding, almond-trees were luxuriant in foliage, and the far-spreading meadows were covered with grain that gave promise of a rich harvest. we had thought vegetables and fruit so cheap that it astonished us to hear the natives declare that _now_ prices would fall--that it was through the past two successive dry summers that they had risen so high! residents told us that for nine months out of the year the weather in palma might be relied upon to be delightful, but that during the three hot months--which were july, august, and september--the moist, damp heat was very relaxing. then it is that the aristocracy, temporarily vacating their sombre palaces in the narrow streets, remove their entire establishment to one or other of their country seats, while people of smaller social importance flock to their villas at the terreno, or porto pi, or son rapiña, or even to modest cottages at our little son españolet. to us there seemed something funny in the notion of people having coast residences that were within a twopence-halfpenny car-drive of their town homes. but it is undoubtedly pleasant to live in a land where, by a change of locality entailing, at the most, a two hours' drive, one can avoid any extreme of either heat or cold. [illustration: the national sport] xxiv of odds and ends in majorca there are hotels to suit all purses. at palma the grand hotel is probably the best suited to tourists, especially if there are ladies in the party; while those who would like to see a real majorcan _fonda_ of the better class and eat good native cooking should go to barnils' in the calle del conquistador. the sum charged is invariably by the day, and varies according to the pretensions of the establishment. in most hotels it includes both wine and aerated waters. on arrival it is always well to inquire what the rate will be and whether it includes the little breakfast. if the traveller thinks the terms asked too high and says frankly what he is prepared to pay, he is almost certain to be accommodated at his own price. our experience of the country _fondas_ was that they were infinitely superior to british inns of similar standing. the cooking was far better and the prices much lower. if one knows a little spanish and can make a bargain, three pesetas a day is quite a usual price for a country _fonda_. the best should not charge more than four, and the catering is surprisingly good. in remote places beef may be scarce, but fish are generally plentiful, the rye bread is good, and the omelets are always excellent. here i might say that in every instance we found the beds admirably appointed and comfortable. the majorcan housewife takes special pride in her daintily embroidered house-linen. toilet arrangements are apt to be primitive, and, except at the larger hotels, baths are unknown. an india-rubber bath is easy to pack and will be found invaluable. in obedience to baedeker's advice to travellers in spain, we carried round a tin of insect-powder. but though the balearic isles are in spain in one respect, at least they are not of it, for at the end of our wanderings the tin was still unopened. in palma there are several clubs, notably the _circulo mallorquin_, the _club real de regatas_, the _veda_, and others, political, military, and social, to which the desirable foreigner would find little difficulty in being elected. the subscriptions, which are collected monthly, would strike a london clubman as ridiculously low. he would find his fellow-members both courteous and charming, but disinclined to join in any exertion. and unless in very exceptional instances their acquaintance would begin and end at the club. the majorcan does not go in for sport, though there is a sports club. he detests walking, and very infrequently plays tennis. the entire group of islands does not boast a golf course. an english resident who was trying to get up a golf club found the natives apathetic; but the invasion of half a dozen good enthusiasts would probably change this attitude. many of the palma men keep boats. yachting seems to be the only occupation they incline to; and it would be hard to conceive of a more delightful pastime than cruising about that picturesque coast. furnished houses are difficult to find, anywhere in majorca. but in palma unfurnished flats can be had. we saw quite a nice one in a good locality that was let at forty pesetas a month--a rent that included all taxes. at the delightful suburbs of the terreno and porto pi, houses with exquisite views of the sea can be obtained. but everywhere to the foreigner who does not speak spanish terms are said to rise. even in the capital town the wages of both male and female servants are very low. for about twelve pounds a year i imagine one might have the pick of ordinary female servants, the price paid men being alike small. but it would be futile to expect to find the carefully drilled attendance with which home usage has accustomed us. to our more conservative minds, the attitude of the island servitors towards their employers seems strangely familiar. and their dress is apt to be informal. once when i was paying an afternoon call in palma the man-servant entered the drawing-room to receive an order sketchily attired in a pink undervest and trousers. and throughout the visit his voice trilling roundelays in the adjacent pantry made unusual accompaniment to our polite conversation. at the moment i confess i was surprised, but that was during our very early days in majorca. a few months later i doubt if i would have noticed anything odd in either occurrence. the cost of living strikes any one accustomed to british housekeeping as small--not perhaps because food is so very cheap, for it is dearer in palma than in the country towns and rural districts, and much dearer than in minorca and iviza; but because life is much simpler and less pretentious and conventional than in england. certain imported commodities such as sugar are expensive, consequently the sweets that with people of the same class at home would be an everyday article of diet are reserved for special occasions, particularly the frequently recurring feast days. residence in majorca entails no exhausting social demands on either the strength or the bank account. even among themselves the inhabitants but rarely entertain beyond the circle of their own relatives. and their meetings with friends seem confined to the theatre, the promenade, the bull-fights, or at one of the infrequent entertainments given at the principal clubs. the payment of fourpence secured a stall at the combination of cinematograph and variety show that during our stay in palma was the fashionable form of amusement. and without further disbursement the visitor who inclined that way was entitled to wait on through the interval between the two houses and witness the whole performance over again. for plays or for light opera the fees advanced a little, though i doubt if they ever rose to the sum charged for the pit of a london theatre. the bull-fights patronized by majorcan society are those given in summer. we went to one held at easter, and though society was absent the people were there in numbers that filled two-thirds of the plaza de toros, which seats five thousand. the action was mercifully modified, for no horses were exposed to the attacks of the bulls. we entered the place with our national prejudices strong upon us, and left it with a conflict of mingled attraction and repulsion. when a bull knocked down a clumsy _matador_ who had been making painful but futile attempts to give him the fatal stroke, we lamented that the bull failed to kill his torturer. yet when another and more skilful _matador_ by a single thrust mercifully vanquished his bull, we shared something of the enthusiasm of the spectators, who threw hats and cigars into the arena, and finally bursting in, carried the hero of the moment shoulder-high round the ring. it had certainly not been a fashionable function. from a neighbouring box our vigilante bowed graciously, and bartolomé, who was of the vigilante's party, beamed broadly upon us. when we left the plaza de toros we encountered maria, who was chaperoning two tall daughters in mantillas. and as we walked back along the ramparts we overtook mrs. mundo trotting homewards with her twin girls, whose uncovered locks were tied up with ribbons till they looked like a couple of nice little ponies on their way to a horse show. for certain temperaments majorca has a curious magnetic attraction. people who have first set foot upon its shores with comparative indifference find themselves returning again and yet again; with each visit becoming more under the thraldom of its charm. the squire and his lady, who half a dozen years ago visited the island because so many other mediterranean resorts were already known to them, have returned with increased anticipation of pleasure each successive spring since. and during our stay in palma we made the congenial acquaintance of a scots lady and gentleman who find the glamour of these fair islands strong enough to induce them to make a yearly pilgrimage thither from the north of scotland. majorca is a delightful place to loaf in. i know no place where one more keenly experiences the mere joy of being alive. in that ideal temperature, under those cloudless skies, one at first feels content to let the days drift past, taking no heed for the things of the morrow. but the air has an amazingly rejuvenating effect. in a short time years drop off--one loses superfluous weight and regains colour. exercise ceases to be exertion and becomes a keen delight. walks that formerly ranked as a day's excursion become merely a pleasant stroll, to be undertaken between an early tea and a late dinner. [illustration: calle de la portella, palma] in palma something to interest or touch one was always happening. once--it was on the first day of february--we entered the usually deserted rambla to find a crowd composed chiefly of young men, all of the same age, gathered in front of the barracks. the majority had the sunburnt complexion of the rustic. a few were evidently of higher social standing. many girls and a few old peasants fringed the crowd. it was the occasion of the annual drawing of lots for the enrolment of the young men of the palma district, who were to spend their next three years in the army. some of the lads peered anxiously in at the closed gates of the barracks; others concealed their concern and chatted gaily with their friends. military service in that land of sunshine is not arduous. recruits thus drawn by lot are never sent off their native island, and to flirt with pretty maidservants on the borne on a sunday afternoon--which to the casual observer appears to be the leading labour of the majorcan force--can hardly be termed hard labour. so no doubt many of the rustics were already wondering if they would not look better in shakos and crimson breeches than they did in the blue cotton and goatskins of their shepherds' dress. at length the gates were thrown open and sergeants called upon the conscripts to enter. many paused to wave farewells, and almost all saluted or raised their hats as they advanced to put their fortunes to the test. a few of the more smartly dressed strolled nonchalantly in, smoking cigarettes, and we guessed that they, following the native love of a gamble, had already paid a hundred crowns to the insurance company that, in the event of their drawing an unlucky number, would forfeit to the state the three hundred crowns that would purchase their exemption from the three years of service. a period of suspense dragged past. then a sympathetic movement of the crowd intimated the deliverance of the first two freed men, who, as they left the gate, threw high in air the couple of breakfast rolls that, with two reales, are presented to every man who has drawn a lucky number. others relieved and hilarious followed quickly, but many pretty girls and old men waited in vain for the return of the candidates that fate had decreed were to swell the ranks of the standing army. the barracks had swallowed them up and they were seen no more. perhaps they also had rolls and reales; perhaps they were elated at the prospect of town life; perhaps they already looked back with longing to their almond-trees and goatskins! for the adventurous, majorca has plenty of peaks to climb, coasts to navigate, shrines to visit, caves to explore. the distances between the known points of interest--and there are very many places still unexploited--are so easy that a tourist with only a few days at his disposal can visit the most noted parts. the two brothers in whose interesting company we visited the dragon caves had only five days to spend in majorca. but even in so brief a space of time they succeeded in seeing and in doing much. their method of mapping out their time was so admirable that i am tempted to quote it. on monday night they crossed from barcelona, arriving at palma early on tuesday morning. having breakfasted on the steamer, they caught the early train for manacor, where they lunched before driving to the caves. after dining and sleeping at manacor they took the train on wednesday morning to the railway terminus at la puebla, and from there drove to the old towns of pollensa and alcudia. that accomplished, they journeyed by rail to inca, where they passed the night, returning on thursday by the morning train to palma, where they spent the day visiting as many places of interest as possible. on friday they drove to sóller by way of valldemosa, miramar, and deyá. rising early on saturday morning they drove to fornalutx, and starting from there, climbed the puig mayor, getting a superb view from the summit. in the afternoon they drove back to palma in time to catch the mail boat to barcelona. the weather had been perfect, and they were able to carry out their well-planned expedition without interruption. for those who enjoy gentle exploration palma makes an admirable centre. a good pedestrian could encompass the island on foot, and a journey more full of varied scenery or among pleasanter or more unsophisticated folk could hardly be imagined. those of less energetic nature would find much of interest within very easy walking distance. it is almost impossible--in palma at least--to hire mules, but driving is comparatively cheap. every few minutes tramcars run to porto pi, where there is a good aquarium, with, when we saw it, a splendid display of writhing octopi. a mile beyond the car terminus is cas catalá, where there is a delightfully situated hotel. just beyond the hotel are lovely walks through the pine woods that border the sea, and pretty little bays, in one of which--that a little way past the _carabineros'_ hut, i think--i got some nice little shells and quite a lot of sponges that had been washed up by the sea. genova, which is a very short walk inland from the car terminus at porto pi, makes an attractive point for a little excursion. in a garden off one of the by-ways is the entrance to a recently discovered cave, which is the property of the landlord of the little _taverna_--the casa morena--who discovered it when he was digging a well. the cave, though small in extent, resembles the dragon caves in miniature, and has beautiful stalactites and stalagmites which are both fine in form and quite unblackened by smoke. the village church, which until lately was a favourite place of pilgrimage, has many fine altar-pieces and other paintings, and it has the rare quality of being so well-lighted that visitors are able to admire their beauties. in one of the side chapels is a delicately modelled recumbent wax figure of a young girl. another chapel has a small square glass case containing a representation of the nativity that is peculiarly interesting because of the purely local dress of certain of the figures. the virgin holding the holy child is seated in the centre. at her right stands an elderly man, apparently meant for joseph. it was surely without humorous intent that the devotee who fashioned his garments garbed him in the quaint old majorcan dress of abnormally wide blue breeches. after seeing joseph's dress it is not the least surprising to notice that two women who are less important actors in the scene wear their hair in pigtails and the native _rebozillos_. from the hill-side that rises behind the church, where the prickly pear grows in great profusion, one can enjoy a glorious panoramic view of the coast. for slightly longer excursions diligences leave palma almost daily for all sorts of out-of-the-way and wholly charming places, such as esporlas, andraitx, lluchmayor, sóller, estallenchs, calviá, and valldemosa. and if the traveller is wise and hastens to book the front seat he will escape danger of death by compression, and be in a position to enjoy a leisurely and comprehensive view of the country. it is well worth while, when intending to remain overnight at a town, to arrange to arrive on the eve of the weekly market. for market morning brings many quaint rural people flocking into town on panniered mules or in odd ramshackle conveyances. sunday is the market at pollensa, and there the traveller may see a profusion of the old men of the zouave-like breeches. san sellas and binisalem hold their markets on sunday also. that of manacor is on monday. artá, montuiri, llubí, and porreras hold market on tuesday. wednesday is the day at sineu, and thursday at inca, muró, and andraitx. lluchmayor has friday, and the day of the week at palma is saturday, when the country folk bring in the harvest of their fields and hold a little market of their own in the plaza del mercado, under the shadow of the high-towered church of san nicolas. early in may sóller holds a three days' _fiesta_, when a historic incident of the landing and repulsion of a band of piratical moors is enacted with great spirit by the people of the town. a hint that may prove useful to any one arriving at some remote place where there is no _fonda_ is to ask to be directed to the schoolmaster. he is certain to know spanish, may be pleased to meet a foreigner, and is sure to be able to recommend a lodging. it is to the courteous schoolmaster of santañy that we were indebted for this suggestion. failing the presence of a schoolmaster, the civil guard is a good person to apply to. they are said to be a fine and absolutely reliable class of men. an artist friend chancing at nightfall to light upon a village where there was no inn, applied to the civil guard, who not only gave him a room in his own house, but appeared in the morning to offer the use of toilet appliances in the form of a comb and a pot of pomade. the balearic islands appear to offer a good field to the entomologist. a friend who visited majorca during february has given me this list of the butterflies and moths that, even at that early season, he saw in plenty, mostly within a few miles of palma: bath white, cabbage or common white, red admiral, painted lady, clouded yellow, brimstone, wall brown, holly blue, small copper, swallow tail, and the humming-bird hawk moth. as the spring advanced and the giant poppies i had sown in november became a four-feet-high hedge, butterflies--strange, to me at least, and very beautiful--fluttered into the little garden of the casa tranquila, and probably not finding the poppies so luscious as their brilliant appearance had led them to expect, speedily fluttered out again. they did not make their home with us, as had the big locust that, in the late autumn, i captured when he was feasting on a moth in the shrubby field behind the convent. bringing the prisoner home in my handkerchief, i set him on a pink ivy-geranium that flourished in one of the big green flower-pots on the veranda. he seemed well content with his new quarters, for there he stayed all winter, taking up his position first in the tall scented verbena, and, when that lost its leaves, changing his perch to an adjacent almond-tree, as though he knew that would be the first to bloom. very early in the year he vanished, and we thought he had gone for good. but just as the first pale blossoms were opening in the almond groves he re-appeared, bringing with him the female of his species, and together in connubial amity they shared his old home in the almond-tree. when the pale rose-tinted blossoms had fallen, and the grey-green velvet pods of the young almonds were emerging from the crimson calyxes, the locust and his bride deserted us to seek a wider pasturage. though we wandered far from beaten tracks, the sole trace of reptiles encountered was an occasional discarded snakeskin. in iviza lovely green and golden lizards and highly-varnished toy frogs in all "art" shades abounded, but we saw none of either in majorca. our only insect pests were mosquitoes--who, probably recognizing an alien and attractive flavour in our blood, were a disturbing nocturnal influence until, with the aid of a few yards of mosquito netting, we succeeded in frustrating their knavish tricks. even by day they were not invariably quiescent; but the mosquito is a gentleman. he always gives warning before attacking an enemy, and when we met in open combat, there was something of the joy of battle in the defence. according to local report, the tenure of his days should have ended with november; but it was not until a fall of the temperature about the middle of january that our assailant withdrew his battalions and left us in peace. though our visit was a winter one, the wild flowers were an unfailing source of pleasure. the season was unusually dry, yet i never took a country walk without finding some blossom that was new to me. when we arrived in october the rocky slopes about porto pi were covered by a royal carpet of the purple autumnal crocus. the last of the sea lavender was fading, but horned poppies and chicory were in bloom. it was there, too, that in november we found the curiously shaped brown and green wild arums that are known in america as "dutchmen's pipes," and locally referred to as _frares_, whose acquaintance we afterwards made at andraitx. in april, when we left majorca, pretty little white and lavender iris starred the ground and rich purple mallows and golden mesembryanthemums covered the rocks of porto pi. the beautiful coast about cas catalá had a herbage of its own. tall flowering heath, a persistently blooming plant with dark blue buttons, and delicate yellow rock roses were, as the months slipped past, succeeded by a fine display of cistus. throughout the whole time of our stay a constant succession of sweet lavender blossomed on the grey-green bushes. asphodel, too, abounded. the first to open was the smaller species, with its rushy foliage and slender spikes of bloom. in january the tall rods of the poet's asphodel rose in such profusion that we were forced to give it place as the typical island flower. forced reluctantly, i confess, for to some the odour of the tall asphodel, when growing in quantity, is far from pleasant. it was at sóller, that district of piquant contrasts, that we saw the delicate greenhouse maidenhair-fern growing in masses with english ivy along walls, or draping the moist sides of the water runnels. it was at sóller, too, that we first made the acquaintance of the ten-inch-high daisy. there was little of the character of its scots relative, the "wee, modest, crimson-tippéd flower," in this aspiring plant. but the balearic islands have another form of the _bellis perennis_, a lavender daisy, that sustains the family reputation for humility by cowering close to the soil. the winter had been so dry that the flowers of early spring were disappointing. i found a few purple anemones where i had expected to see hundreds, and gleaned a handful or two of narcissus from the dry bed of the torrent where i had hoped to gather baskets full. but with the coming of the long-hoped-for rain the earth gave up her secrets, and secrets worth knowing they proved themselves. there were amazing orchids--little round-bellied flies, so life-like that one half-expected to hear them buzz; or glorious travesties of insects that never were, some with bodies of glittering metallic blue daintily edged with brown fur, others with delicate wings of rosy heliotrope. it was odd to find garden pets--grape hyacinths, gladiolus, iris--leading a gipsy life on those sunny slopes, and odder still to discover begonias, or even _nigella damascena_, camping out, as it were. one felt inclined to demand to be told why they were shirking their obvious duty of beautifying gloomy british gardens. the following list of the rarer balearic plants, given me by a noted scottish gardener, is specially interesting as showing the wide range of the island flora: anthyllis cytisoides, astragalus poterium, cynoglossum pictum, daphne vallæoides, delphinium pictum, digitalis dubia, genista cineria, hedysarum coronarium, hedysarum spinosissimum, helianthemum serræ, helianthemum salicifolium, helichrysum lamarkii, hippocrepis balearica, hypericum balearicum, lavatera cretica, lavatera minoricensis, leucojum hernandezii, linaria triphylla, linaria fragilis, lotus creticus, melilotus messanensis, micromeria rodriguezii, micromeria filiformis, ononis crispa, ononis breviflora, ononis minutissima, pastinæa lucida, phlomis italica, polygala rupestris, scutellaria vigineuxii, sencio rodriguezii, sibthorpia africana, silene rubella, sonchus spinosus, vicia atropurpurea. perhaps it was because wild flowers bloomed all through the months that the native children did not care to gather them, and that indifference to natural blossoms prevailed in all classes of the community. it seemed as though the majorcans had not yet realized the decorative value of flowers. one rarely saw cut flowers used on the table or in the reception-rooms even of people on whose country estates roses and violets blossomed all the year round. i never saw flowers for sale in the big daily market, and the few clusters that in spring the countryfolk brought in to the saturday market would scarcely have sufficed to trim one fashionable hat. in february, when the rose-coloured blossoms of the cistus were beginning to open on the uplands, the brown-cheeked shepherd boys began to look for the young shoots of the wild asparagus, which they made into little bunches for sale, bound round with broad asphodel leaves fastened with long, sharp prickles. though a gourmet could hardly have taken exception to the flavour of the asparagus thus gathered, he might have objected to the size, for the shoots were seldom larger than that sold in london under the mysterious name of "sprue." but the flavour was delicious, and when one added the pleasure of gathering to the value when found, the wild asparagus was worth its weight in gold. while the season lasted we often brought in a bunch or two from our sunset strolls, and these occasions were signalized by the appearance of asparagus omelet at supper. [illustration: sunday morning at iviza] xxv iviza--a forgotten isle with regard to iviza, the third in importance of the balearic isles, even the usually omniscient baedeker maintains a dignified reserve. and indeed iviza is so little visited that while the _isleña marítima compania mallorquina de vapores_ convey passengers thither from majorca for fifteen pesetas first class, or eleven pesetas second, they charge eighteen and thirteen pesetas respectively to bring them back to majorca, which looks as though they thought voyagers might require to be cajoled into going to iviza, but would need no inducement to return. from the records in existence one gathers that no relics of the stone age have been discovered in iviza, though traces left by many dynasties prove that from very early times occupation of the lovely and fertile isle was hotly contested. chaldeans, egyptians, phoenicians, romans, greeks, vandals, saracens, and moors fought for its possession, but since the aragonese invasion of the thirteenth century iviza has belonged to spain. we had heard strange tales of the ivizans--told, it must be admitted, by people who avowedly had never set foot on the island--grim stories of ferocity, of the crack of the ready pistol, of the slash of the handy knife. we had also heard that these grim islanders were invariably kind to strangers. now we were on the way to judge for ourselves. while the departure of the barcelona boat lures all palma to the mole, only a handful of spectators was assembled when, at noon on the th of april, the _lulio_ steamed westwards. it was a fine day with a brisk head-wind. like the high mountains around sóller, the waves were white-crested, and for the first three hours the voyage was a delight. as the _lulio_ skirted the coast we enjoyed identifying the places now familiar to us by land. the little bays beyond cas catalá, ben dinat among its woods, the windmills above the town of andraitx, and the long, high islet of dragonera. as the heliotrope mountains of majorca receded into the distance, the brilliance faded. from warm azure the sea changed to purple, from purple to grey, and the wind blew keenly against us. the _lulio_ is only some tons, and there was little shelter on the saloon deck, which is forward of the funnel. we felt inclined to envy the ivizan passengers, who, camped on the snug lower deck, first ate strange messes, then after a brief but busy interlude of regret, curled up on their bundles and went snugly to sleep. with us there were half a dozen men and one lady. and when the captain invited her to share the cover of the chart-house which abutted on our promenade, i envied her also until, after the dubious enjoyment of a few moments of splendid detachment from the common herd, she revealed signs of inward discomfort and fled to seek a less conspicuous position. before the land we had left was out of sight, two little clouds low on the western horizon were recognized as outlying islets of the ivizan group. then, as we gradually approached nearer, hills upon hills, promontories, more islets, appeared; and still we steadily steamed westwards. the sun sank in golds and greys behind the ivizan heights, and still we went on through the grey gloom, past a rocky, indented coast on which we saw no sign of habitation. then, out of the darkness arose the vision of a town piled on an eminence--a town of unexpected beauty, for from the tranquil waters of the almost landlocked bay to the highest point it was sparkling with lights. it was iviza, the one important town of the main island. to the hoarse grating of her anchor chain the _lulio_ swung to, and through the darkness the vague outlines of rowing boats could be seen approaching. the young boatman who was the first to accost us secured our custom, and we stepped down the accommodation-ladder into the swaying boat. half a dozen natives followed, carrying their belongings in big cotton handkerchiefs, a form of balearic travelling case that to me always seemed peculiarly alluring, for when not in actual service, the handkerchief-portmanteau could be folded and stowed in the pocket; or even, did occasion require, be put to other uses. the behaviour of the boatman who rows him ashore in a new country serves the experienced traveller as symbol of the treatment awaiting him in that country. our boatman asked one real each--twopence-halfpenny--as his fee, which was exactly the sum required of the native passengers. and that served as our token of iviza. we would be treated with strict honesty--there was but one price either for native or stranger. the arrival of the steamer, whose departure from palma had attracted so little attention, was a matter of importance at iviza. people clustered on the pier, and the steps leading to the water's edge were so densely crowded that it was difficult for those landing to find foot-room. a burly ivizan took the luggage, and after a cursory custom's inspection we reached the _fonda_, which was only a stone's-cast away. the _fonda_, which appeared to be the only one in the town, was delightfully situated on the harbour. the rooms allotted to us were the best in the house. two opened from the drawing-room and one had a balcony overlooking the water. the inclusive charge was six pesetas a day--about four shillings and sixpence of english money. supper was in process of serving. going downstairs, we entered the dining-room, to find one long table at which were seated about a dozen men. judging rashly by our minorcan experience, we classified them collectively as commercial travellers, and concluded that iviza must be a more important place than we had imagined, if it gave employment to so many. the meal, which revealed a lack of inspiration on the part of the cook, was served by a solitary waiter. when it was over, we went out and felt our way about the streets. the capital town of iviza, which is built on a high rock, faces the sea. it has no back, no other side. the old town, which is surmounted by the cathedral and the castle, is entirely surrounded by a perfectly preserved roman wall. the newer portion of the town, which is built on land reclaimed from the sea, lies just below the principal gate of the old city. passing the quaint circular fish market and the vacant market-place, which consisted of a red-tiled and raftered shed, supported on white pillars and surrounded by trees, we walked up the slope leading to the great gate in the roman wall that encircles the ancient town. in a niche on either side of the opening stood a massive marble figure. the heads were gone and certain other members had not outlasted the ravages of the centuries, but enough still remained to show the beauty of the workmanship. from the neck-socket of the draped figure foliage was springing, and the statue of the legionary had the scarce dignified effect of carrying a bundle of fodder, so boldly had the weeds sprouted from under his right arm. the streets within the old city walls were dark and steep and twisted. in their secretive recesses something of the atmosphere of the middle ages seemed still to linger. the ivizans go early to bed. the lights that illumed our landing had already been extinguished, and finding our progress over these tortuous steeps a protracted stumble, we groped our way back to the _fonda_, resigned to leaving further exploration to the morrow. we slept soundly. when our early coffee came we drank it on the balcony as we watched two boys fishing from a boat in a shallow just beneath our windows. the bait seemed to be shell-fish, and the boy in the carlist cap who held the rod was catching little wriggling fish as quickly as he could re-cast his hook into the water. then for the first time we awoke to the picturesque charm of the ivizan's choice of material and love of colour in dress. the fishing boy wore plush trousers of a lovely pinky-fawn shade. his companion's were moss-green, and his waist scarf was scarlet. a crew of fishermen, their garments a kaleidoscope of gay hues, were breakfasting in their boat near. and along the beach beneath, a boy clad in faded blue velvet was carrying in one hand a basket of beautiful rose-coloured fish and dangling a hideously suggestive octopus in the other. our good friend the padre, a presbítero of palma cathedral, had kindly recommended us to his chosen friend, who was a beneficiado of iviza cathedral. so our first walk, on the morning after our arrival, led up the precipitous paths towards the superbly situated old church. seen by daylight the streets were vaguely reminiscent of both palma and mahón, without resembling either. while the whitewashed walls recalled the austere cleanliness of the minorcan capital, the condition of the streets gave one the impression that the inhabitants subsisted chiefly upon oranges. the plenitude of balconies held more than a hint of palma, though most of the ivizan balconies were heavily fashioned of wood; and from many the entire family washing (which in palma would be dried on the flat roof), even to sheets, hung out to dry. the ivizans showed both taste and skill in floriculture. quite a number of the balconies were prettily decorated with pot plants, from cinerarias to peonies, in full bloom. the market was busy when we passed. grave-looking women, with wide-brimmed white hats perched rakishly a-top the handkerchief that covered their heads, were selling oranges or vegetables. one, with a row of moist water-jars balanced on either side of the furriest donkey i ever saw, was plying the trade of water-carrier. we reached the cathedral during morning service, and we waited, enjoying the music and the tuneful clamour of the great wheel of bells that mingled so harmoniously with the sound of the organ, and wondering in which of the officiating clergy we would discover the friend of our friend. he also had been looking out for us, and as we, along with two old men, were the entire congregation, he had no difficulty in distinguishing us. when mass was over we met on the _mirador_ outside, and though by force of nationality, religion, language, and training we ought to have been poles asunder, from almost the first moment of our acquaintance we recognised a congenial spirit in don pepe, as the young choristers, who clustered round, affectionately called the padre. under his care we re-entered the cathedral, which, despite, or perhaps because of belonging to no known school of architecture, is very beautiful, the interior with its canopied virgin having an inspiring sense of light. then, accompanied by the sacristan, a grave man with a charming smile, we saw some of the treasures of the church, climbed the tower to see the comprehensive view from the top, and visited the adjacent castle, which is now used as a military barracks. while within the fortifications we were introduced to an especially interesting specimen of the cunning traps prepared by the romans for their unwary invaders. from one portion of the castle, which is perched high within the strong fortifications, we were guided through a long, dark, shelving passage, down, down, down, until on passing through a massive door we entered an alley, lit from above, that ended abruptly in a four-feet-high portal deep set in the great city wall, and from without partly secured by a bastion. the ingenious plan of the ancient defenders had evidently been to leave unguarded the inconspicuous door, and when the besiegers, discovering it and imagining themselves in luck, had crept through the secret door into the alley, to shower missiles on them from the circular opening overhead. it was a shrewd device, but one hardly calculated to endear the romans to their enemies. leaving the heights, we walked down towards the church of santo domingo, an antique building with curious red-tiled domes. the priceless treasure of this old dominican convent is an image of christ which for ages has been the object of great devotion. until the last century ships on leaving or entering the harbour of iviza were in the custom of saluting it with their flag and a shot from their cannon. as we neared the church we saw approaching from a side street a peasant family of such attractively quaint appearance that we paused and, affecting to be admiring the prospect, waited for them to pass. they were all attired in the gala dress of the island. the sun-tanned farmer father wore a suit of old-gold embossed velvet and a purple scarf was wound about his waist. the mother wore the immoderately wide skirt gathered into a plain high-waisted bodice, the short green silk apron, the little shoulder shawl with its prettily flowered border and long fringe, and the gay embroidered head-wrap that make up the distinctive ivizan costume. from the tip of her pigtail a brightly coloured ribbon hung down to the hem of her spreading skirts. the eldest child, a girl of eight or nine, was a diminutive facsimile of her mother. the elder boy wore a man's suit in miniature of very light blue, and a wide-brimmed yellow hat. the group tapered off with a wee boy in a quaintly cut long frock and a white carlist cap, and a baby in bunching petticoats and a muslin cap with wings. the father, who smiled pleasantly when he saw us notice the children, carried with evident care a liqueur bottle. moving decorously, as though bound on some important mission, they preceded us into the church. we had paused to examine a fine old painting, and when we reached the special chapel that contained the celebrated image we found the little family already kneeling before the altar, even the youngest apparently impressed by the solemnity of the occasion. after a few moments the father, rising from his knees and still holding the bottle, approached the padre to crave a private word with him, and they quitted the chapel together, leaving the mother and children still on their knees. a great silver lamp, suspended from the roof, burned in front of the _cristo_, and all around the walls were votive offerings--models of hearts, of legs, of arms, even of heads, and little silver figures, some in peasant dress, one in a smart frockcoat. oddest, perhaps, of all was a pair of silver trousers. [illustration: thanksgiving] there were medals, a fine model of a full rigged ship, a little muslin frock, another of rich satin in a glass case, all presented in token of succour prayed for and obtained in time of imminent danger to life or limb. while we lingered, a female attendant entered the chapel carrying the liqueur bottle, and drawing down the great silver lamp, proceeded to fill its reservoir from the store in the bottle, the family, who still maintained their devotional attitude, half turning with something of proprietary interest to watch her movements. returning to the body of the church, we found the padre and the father of the family in earnest converse. during a recent serious illness, explained the padre, the peasant had vowed the gift of a bottle of olive oil for the sacred lamp. now, on his recovery, his first action had been to make a little pilgrimage to the chapel, bringing his entire family to give thanks for his restoration to health and to deliver the promised gift. the exhibition of such unquestioning faith and gratitude in this world of scepticism was inexpressibly touching. and our hearts melted and were glad with the little household. still, though the father declared himself again robust, a sickly pallor showed beneath his tan, and when he grasped our hands in farewell his touch was ice-cold. walking back along the ramparts we noticed a gentleman who, though personally unknown to us, yet bore a remarkable racial resemblance to many people we had known in britain. he was well dressed after the english fashion, wore fawn kid gloves, and though the sky was cloudless, carried a neatly rolled umbrella. "that is the señor wallis, a member of an illustrious family here. they all speak english. shall i introduce you?" asked the padre, seeing that we were interested. to our gratification the señor wallis not only spoke english admirably, but also understood it perfectly. "my grandfather came here as british consul," he explained. "he married and settled here. my father was consul after him. we have always spoken the english language at home." here then was a family, living in a remote island where they might not hear english spoken once a year, who because their ancestor had been english carefully maintained the language and traditions of their forebears. as the boy said afterwards, it reminded one of kipling's tale of namgay doola! a little farther along, a massive figure, joyously arrayed in a suit of maize-coloured corduroy, a lilac-check shirt and a green hat, gladdened our vision. "that is the present english consul," said the padre, who seemed to be on good terms with everybody. "i shall introduce him to you." the british vice-consul blushed when presented to genuine natives of the country he represented. his knowledge of the language was rudimentary, and after a few tentative efforts the conversation lapsed into spanish. as the boy said, it was quicker. the padre had promised to call at three to take us to see the excavations in process on a slope just outside the city. and after lunch i strolled out to the fields in search of ivizan wild flowers. within a five minutes' walk of the town i soon gathered an armful--purple and yellow and white and yellow toad-flaxes, pink asters, blood-red poppies, big cream chrysanthemums, little blue and white iris, a handsome garlic-smelling pink flower, wild mignonette, both the tall and the dwarf asphodel, a yellow pheasant's eye, one or two unfamiliar blossoms, and, best of all, many regal spikes of the tall crimson gladioli that were growing among the green corn. the padre was punctual to a moment, and we were soon mounting the rocky hill just beyond the city wall where the excavations were going on. there was nothing in the appearance of the place to suggest that underneath our feet there existed phoenician catacombs. great spikes of the handsome evil-smelling asphodel were blooming all around, and two men in wide felt hats and abbreviated blouses, standing by some heaps of soil, were the only visible sign of the important work that was being done. when we reached them we saw that their labour consisted of passing the earth that had been brought to the surface through a fine sifter, and that close by yawned a hole overhung by a rope running on a wheel attached to a rough tripod. the boy was the only one of the party daring enough to accept the invitation to descend. leaving his coat behind, he slid down the rope and vanished through a hole in the bottom of the shaft. the younger workman followed. while we awaited their re-appearance we noticed that many bones, earth-coloured, light in weight and brittle to the touch, mingled with the mounds of refuse, and that bits of broken pottery and fragments of iridescent glass leavened the heaps. soon the boy and his guide, earth-stained and perspiring, for the underground atmosphere was close and hot, scrambled their way back to the surface. the boy's account was that when he had swung himself down the shaft he and his guide entered the subterranean passage, feeling as though he were entering his own grave, in place of merely going to view that of other people. passing through an outer hall, they came to a narrow chamber where, by the light of an acetylene lamp, a being looking like a gnome or a ghoul was sitting on the edge of a long stone coffin grubbing in the dust and ashes that filled it. resting on the rim of the coffin were the relics that he had already recovered from the debris--bits of shattered pottery, and a beautiful but mutilated statuette of terra-cotta about five inches in height. from that cell they descended to a large chamber on a lower level, where there were many coffins and a plenitude of bones. when in recent years three phoenician catacombs were discovered it was found that their existence had been known to the moors, who at some unknown date had already despoiled them of treasure, leaving traces of their appropriation in the form of broken water jars and other worthless relics. fortunately the moors valued only the gold, so that, in spite of the damage caused by their rough handling, a mine of precious things still remains to gladden the archæologist. leaving the sunny hill-side, where spring flowers were blooming among the crumbling bones of these nameless dead, we mounted to the house by the windmills, where the treasures found in the graves are primarily housed. there also was the padre a welcome guest, and in a small dark room wonderful things were shown us. tiny jars delicately figured; perfect vases of iridescent glass; strange bas-relief recumbent figures with stiffly extended hands; antique coins, scarabs that the moors had bereft of their setting, ornaments that had escaped their rapacity, and old lamps enough to have satisfied even the covetous abanazer. it was oddly suggestive to think that, while the people who were entombed in these stone coffins thousands of years ago had known delicate arts and worn costly jewellery, their successors on the land lived in primitive dwellings and drew the water they drank in earthenware jars that in form were exact copies of those so long buried in the tombs. truly in some things the world has not progressed! [illustration: a trio and a quartette] xxvi an ivizan sabbath sunday morning was as calm and beautiful as could be desired by visitors with only a few days in which to explore an island. with quite unwonted energy we rose before seven o'clock, and after dressing and taking a cup of tea in our own little sitting-room, went out to the alameda to see the countryfolk coming in to mass or market. on the ships in the harbour flags were flying. everybody was in gala dress. the very air felt gay. and as we sat on one of the stone seats in the leafy alameda and watched the people streaming into town from the broad white roads that lead to san antonio, santa eulalia and other villages, we chirruped with irrepressible delight, so unexpectedly and deliciously quaint were the figures that passed before us. some of the women rode mules, and sat perched high on a pile of sheepskins, their multi-coloured petticoats billowing about their neat ankles. others were packed closely into open carts that had cushions placed low on either side of their sagging floor-matting. many walked, accompanied by vigilant elderly relatives. and oh! how demure and decorous they all looked, with their dark hair parted in the middle and severely plastered down the sides of their rosy young faces. an object of fervent admiration in my childhood was a pincushion made of a little china doll, whose placid head and insignificant body appeared from a widely distended skirt. and on this brilliant sunday morning the ivizan women and girls in their exaggerated skirts seemed to me like a procession of walking dolls. the dresses appeared to be fashioned from any material that boasted a pattern, for the ivizan detests a plain material. even the velvet or plush used in the men's clothes was in many instances flowered or striped. the short broad aprons were of bright-coloured silk elaborately tucked above the hem. their deeply fringed shawls and head wraps were bordered with wreaths of gaily tinted flowers. the chains of big oblong gold beads and elaborate gold pendants in the form of crosses and crowns gave a blatant and contradictory note to the staid costume, while the gaudy hue of the ribbon that tied the end of the pigtail and fell in long ends nearly to the hem of the skirt suggested a hint of the original eve lurking behind all this apparent demureness. gold buttons closely set ran from the wrist of the long sleeve, which was often of green, to the elbow. and the white sandalled shoes, whose toes were caught up by a cord bound round the ankles, had a suggestion of sabots that added a dutch touch to the picture. sometimes a mother in sober garments or a smiling father in a wide hat marched past in proud chaperonage of a diffident young daughter rigged out in all the family jewellery. one girl, who enjoyed the personal care of her mother, wore a gown of old rose-spotted brocade looped up in pannier form to show a pink petticoat. to our thinking the extreme of quaintness was reached in the person of a little maid of seven or eight, whose dress was a travesty of that of her widowed mother; with the sole difference that, while the mother's mourning garb was of unrelieved black, the kerchief and tiny shawl of the child had bordering wreaths of white flowers. as she walked slowly by, a tiny entity in over-voluminous garments, the man declared that, despite her superhuman sobriety, and the "papa, prunes, prisms" expression of her infant lips, he felt convinced that it was with difficulty she resisted a desire to skip! they say there are ten men for every woman on the island, and our experience of that sunday morning inclined us to believe it. from every direction came fine strapping lads moving in droves. a distinct resemblance in the dress, taken in combination with the rakish dare-devil air with which these young bloods set their wide hats to one side and swaggered along, vividly suggested the mexican cowboy. in striking contrast to the expansive attire of the women, the men's dress appeared designed to accentuate their natural slimness. the trousers of velvet or plush in all manner of rich shades fitted closely to the figure except at the ankle, where they spread widely. gaily hued shirts or short full blouse jackets, usually black or blue, were worn. red or striped sashes were wound about their waists. most of the hats were large and adorned with gold cords. and in addition to one necktie for use, it was customary to add a second and sometimes even a third for show. we were sincerely sorry to find that nine o'clock, the hour when we were due at the hotel for coffee, had rushed upon us. when we came out again on our way to visit the museum, the streets about the market were busy with a moving throng resplendent in colour. for the moment the girls appeared to have got rid of their chaperons and were parading about in quartettes, sextettes, even septettes, their tightly pleated pigtails streaming stiffly behind, their hands, holding pocket-handkerchiefs heavily edged with substantial crochet lace, sedately crossed in front. one group that particularly rejoiced the artistic soul of the man was made up of four demure damsels who walked in a row, the tallest at one end, the others decreasing in height till the row ended in a dear dot. their outlines were so much alike that they had the effect of having been stencilled in a diminishing scale. it was perhaps only to be expected that wherever one saw a bevy of girls a corresponding cluster of men would not be far distant. yet we rarely saw them address each other. the modern etiquette of peasant courtship in iviza runs on strict though simple lines. a plenitude of suitors being assured, it is the maiden who makes the selection. the admirers of a marriageable girl wait for her outside the church door on sunday. when she leaves mass the one who has the premier claim attaches himself to her, and trots beside her for the first portion of the homeward journey, then at a fixed point or within a stated time-limit he gives place to the second, and so on until the number is exhausted. if any man seeks to exceed his allotted space, or in any other way tries to transgress the unwritten law, pistols may flare and knives are apt to spring! apart from this the people of iviza are peaceable, and on all points moral and virtuous. it must be admitted that certain of the more frolicsome spirits still keep up the old custom of saluting the maidens of their choice with a charge of rock salt fired at the ankles. and it is devoutly to be hoped that the unwieldy masses of petticoats serve at least one useful purpose by shielding their wearers from the saline missiles of love's artillery. when we had reached the cathedral square, where the museum is situated, we found the door open and the custodian--in whom we were surprised to recognize one of our fellow-guests at the _fonda_--waiting to receive us. though the museum at iviza has been in existence for little more than two years it already contains a notable collection of phoenician, roman, byzantine and moorish remains. to an archæologist, inspection of the contents would have been a special treat. even to us who had little knowledge of the subject it was intensely interesting. within the centre cases and in the glass-doored cupboards that line the walls were many things whose worth we could not venture to guess. the varied assortment of coins seemed especially valuable. one jar found during the process of excavation had contained over six hundred specimens. among the other exhibits were several primitive bas-relief figures with abruptly out-jutting hands, resembling those we had seen on the previous day. two figures had the hands clasped on the bust over something suggesting a loaf, and one had a ring through the nose. many of the vases and slender vials from the tombs were beautiful, both in outline and in decoration. and we saw a particularly fine scarab that had been found in one of the stone coffins immediately after our visit to the catacombs on the previous afternoon. in the second room were some curious old documents and certain of the more bulky exhibits. and from a top shelf a row of skulls of these bygone races grinned down upon us creatures of to-day, as though their owners found something ludicrous in the idea of a special house being set apart in which to guard as treasures what to them had been but everyday possessions. when we left the museum the padre, with kindly thought and subtle intuition of what is most likely to interest the stranger in a foreign land, took us a-visiting. first he introduced us to the only professional artist on the island, who like everybody else in the place seemed a special friend of our sponsor. and in the artist of this far-off southern islet we rejoiced to meet the romantic painter of fiction--the picturesque hero one reads about but rarely has the good fortune to encounter. don narciso--his very name was in keeping--was young, buoyant of spirit, charming in manner, and enthusiastic regarding art. he had a thick curly black beard, abundant wavy black hair. he wore a becoming blouse, and his loosely knotted silk tie was of _amarilla_ silk. the painter welcomed us cordially, and took us into his studio, where he was at work upon a full-length portrait of a bishop who had been a native of the island. round the walls were brilliant studies both in figure and landscape. we had been living close to nature for six months. it was a pleasure to breathe again the studio atmosphere. in less than two minutes the three artists were deep in discussion of kindred interests. their nationalities might be different, but art has only one language. names--velasquez, goya, and others of more recent date--were bandied between them, the while the padre and i sat dumbly attentive. when we were leaving, narciso took us into the artistically unkempt garden attached to the studio, and from the line of orange-trees beyond the old well plucked a spray heavy with the luscious blossom. this he presented to me with a grace that dignified the sprig into a bouquet. and we all parted with promise of an early reunion. a few yards farther down the road we passed a group of ladies, whose smart paris hats and modern raiment, seen in that land of quaint attire, gave the wearers an oddly foreign look. "son la familia wallis," murmured the padre, as he raised his hat to them. the house of the padre, our next place of call, was just beyond the seminary where the students whom we had seen leaving the cathedral in their robes of black and scarlet were undergoing their thirteen years of probation before entering the church. the padre's home in all its appointments impressed us as being exactly suited to the quiet refinement of its master. from the windows one gained a superb view of the rippling waters of the landlocked harbour and of the undulating country beyond. we had the honour of meeting the padre's mother, a lady who, though shrunk a little by weight of years, was still hale and bright. and his sister, the widow of a distinguished officer. and his niece, who was so vivacious and charming, that when she waved to us from her balcony as we left we wondered if the _novio_ who was standing in the street, whispering love up to a maiden in a mantilla on the balcony just beneath hers, had not made the mistake of a floor! it was evidently the feast-day of one of our fellow-guests at the hotel, for at the close of the midday meal a tray of dainty spanish sweetmeats in frilled paper cases was passed round--being handed, evidently by special instructions, to us also. when we had helped ourselves we bowed indecisively towards the farther end of the table, saying vaguely--in the hope that our gratitude might reach the donor--"muchos gracias, señor." the other señores were quick to indicate the benefactor, who flushed a little as he acknowledged our thanks. while lunch was being served a dark silent young man, who was one of the regular company, several times left his place, and from our seats at table we saw him go to the open front door of the hotel and glance up and down the street, as though on the look-out for somebody. seeing him return alone for the third time, we whispered hints of a dilatory sweetheart. but when the eagerly expected guest did appear it was not some graceful doña, but a little baby girl, the sleeves of her white frock tied with black ribbon, who was carried in in the arms of a stout peasant nurse. as the padre told us later, our taciturn fellow-guest was the postmaster, who had lost his young wife, and this was their babe come to pay the bereaved father her weekly visit. when we went out in the afternoon the townsfolk were promenading under the shade of the alameda, but the _payeses_ had all vanished--gone back to the rural homes whither we would like to have followed them. with the disappearance of the quaint figures the charm seemed to have vanished, and when we met our new friend the sacristan we cajoled him into going for a stroll along the watercourses that intersect the reclaimed land beyond the harbour. these are a curious feature of a delightfully curious country. on either side of the raised centre path were broad ditches full of clear water, whose yellow sand was speckled with black shell-fish. shoals of little fish darted in and out among the rushes, and on every patch of floating weed a tiny frog sat and croaked. the fertile ground on either side of the ditches was divided into small holdings, or _feixas_ as they are locally called. and there mixed crops of fruit and vegetables flourished abundantly. vines trained to trellises bordered the water, and at frequent intervals tall whitewashed gateways, reached by little bridges and quite unsupported by walls, reared their gleaming bulk with something of the self-conscious air that might be attributed to whited sepulchres. as in majorca, the small agriculturists appeared to live in the towns. there were no dwellings on the _feixas_, though a few had sheds from which issued the grunts of unseen animals. the evening glow was on the hills when we left the watercourses and followed a track that led between fields of full-bearded rye dotted with blood-red poppies towards a picturesque white-walled _noria_. in the shadow of the trees close by the old moorish well, which was encircled by a trellised vine, sat the farm folk enjoying the rest of the sabbath. a guest in a mantilla was with them. so far from resenting our intrusion they welcomed it. seeing that we were interested in the working of the _noria_, the farmer ran forward and, seizing the long wooden donkey shaft, set the wheel revolving, and made the circle of buckets (which were not fashioned of earthenware as in majorca, but formed from lengths of hollowed pine stem--a peseta each they cost, he told us) discharge their contents for our benefit, the primitive machinery, which made laudable objection to sunday labour, protesting the while with groans and squeaks. [illustration: the gates of the _feixas_, iviza] his wife--who had received us with friendly looks and kindly greeting in the ivizan dialect, that, while greatly resembling majorcan, omits the harsher sounds, hastened further to reveal her good will by picking me the few blossoms within reach. even the townified guest in the mantilla added a genial word of greeting. yes, the majorcans had spoken truly when they said the people of the sister isle were courteous to strangers. [illustration: the church of san antonio, iviza] xxvii at san antonio it was monday morning, and when the man went out in search of a subject to sketch, i lured him along by my favourite watercourses. the sun beat warmly on the limpid water, in which the swarms of little fish, looking like vivified marks of exclamation, were ceaselessly flashing about. and on the surface herbage countless glistening frogs, green, golden, bronze, and chocolate, were perched, like little kings, each on his floating throne. it was with lamentable lack of monarchical dignity that each in turn, as he got hint of our approach, took an agile header into the water and disappeared. going on past the tall whitewashed gates that seemed to have so scant reason for existence, we reached the san antonio road, and there in the shadow of a wall at the side of a bean-field the man sat down to paint. against the cloudless sky the cathedral-crowned town rose grandly. from where we sat the encircling ramparts appeared as complete and impregnable as they did in the time of the roman occupation. from our point of view, which afforded no glimpse of the newer houses sheltered close between the ancient gate and the harbour, the city looked much as it must have done in those bygone days when the ground on which the lower portion of the town is built was still lapped by the salt water of the bay. while the man painted i sat by, well content. the bean blossoms made sweet savour in our nostrils, and the gentle swish of falling water from the _noria_ in an adjacent field gave a refreshing suggestion of coolness. and as we sat near the roadside quaint figures passed by in slow succession. perched sideways on their panniered mules came broad-hatted women. the local convention that proscribes hats for sunday female wear permits them on weekdays; and so, set jauntily on top of the sober handkerchief that covered the head, most of the peasant women wore a wide white hat, bound with black, and encircled with a black ribbon that hung in long ends behind--women whose grave sun-browned faces argued that the day for protecting the complexion was surely past. leaving the man at work, i crossed to where in the raised _noria_, a dozen yards beyond the white highroad, a blindfold mule was patiently at work. all alone there by the creaking old moorish well he was walking round and round the path, already worn to dust by the passage of his willing feet. but if one chanced to be born a mule and had to draw water for a living, a pleasanter place in which to carry out one's vocation could hardly be imagined. for close about the stone-sided platform that surrounded the well grew two immense fig-trees and a large pomegranate; and for many months of the year the _noria_ must have been an oasis of leafy shade in the midst of sun-baked fields. even on that april day the fig leaves were unfolding, and the small green knobs of the first crop of fruit had sprouted close under the foliage at the tips of the ash-grey branches. the big pomegranate-tree held its spreading branches over the mule-track, as though desirous of warding off the sun from the patient worker. on the delicate tracery of branches the leaves, that always seem too minute and finely fashioned to be in perfect accord with the heavy roseate fruit, were showing rich copper hues. in humid spots about the stone bastions of the well moisture-loving maidenhair fern was clinging. as the shaft, slowly revolving, turned the wheel, the chain of wooden buckets emptied themselves with a musical tinkle of falling water into the wooden trough beneath, from which it flowed into a big square tank. at first sight the enduring mule had seemed the only sentient being near, but a second glance revealed abounding life. the water in the reservoir was dotted with lively black entities that proved to be tadpoles. on a decaying log sat a handsome frog with a panel of green, of so vivid a tint as to seem as though freshly enamelled, neatly let into his glistening brown back. along the sandy bottom of the clear water a great warted toad moved sluggishly. close in the shadow a dark trout was lurking. within reach of my hand a golden lizard lazily sunned himself; and on the top of the wall rested a dragon-fly with a broken wing. a swallow swooped overhead. among the poppy-strewn barley grasshoppers were chirping merrily. in the sunshine a newly-hatched swarm of insects gyrated, tentatively exercising their wings--all nature seemed indolently happy. but still the patient mule trod on its way. sometimes it paused a space, and i rejoiced; but the moment the listening ears ceased to hear the trickle of the falling water the persevering beast had again started upon the monotonous circular tour. it must have been a case of conscience, for nobody was at hand to see whether the task was accomplished or not; but still, with eyes blinded to the beauty around, the patient mule pursued the ceaseless round, until, ashamed of my own inactivity, i longed to loosen the halter, to take off the straw blinders that covered his eyes, and to turn him into the cornfields to eat his fill. "what have you done with yourself?" asked the man, as he closed his colour-box and prepared to return to the hotel for lunch; "i'm afraid you must have had a dull morning." but when i would have explained to him how excellently well i had been entertained i found it difficult. so i said nothing, for, after all, what possible social community could one find in a blindfold old mule and a handful of saltant or fluttering creatures? * * * * * in the afternoon the padre came with us, and we drove right across the island to san antonio, the town that ranks second in importance. from iviza diligences run to san antonio, to santa eulalia, to san carlos, san josé, and san juan, and the fare is fivepence. but ivizan diligences are impossible things. we had seen them and shuddered, for they were merely rough carts with matted floors and close airless canvas covers. and any we had seen were so crammed that segments of squashed passengers protruded from every opening. to secure the services of a two-wheeled carriage, a horse, and a man for a complete day costs a douro (four shillings) in iviza, and the charge for a half-day is the same. the padre, don pepe, accompanied us, and in the care of a grave-faced ivizan clad in a mourning suit of black ribbed velvet we set off, pausing at the hamlet of san rafael to see the fine vista of the town from the plateau before the church. i must confess that at first sight san antonio was disappointing. what we had expected i do not know. what we found was a whitewashed village set on a rocky slope by an enclosed bay. the situation was delightful; but after the grandly characteristic city of iviza this zealously whitewashed town, in spite of its antiquity, seemed insignificant and _new_. antonio, the friend whom don pepe sought, was away on his "possession." so while a willing messenger sped to fetch him, we visited the church. the cura was absent, though his lace-trimmed vestments--which, like the town, were white as the driven snow--were hanging to dry within the precincts by the church porch. the church of san antonio shares the attractive informality which is the distinctive feature of ivizan architecture. it was once a fortress of defence against the moors. from the flat roof we had a magnificent survey of the country about, saw the bay, which, like all the water about the island, abounds in fish, and the lighthouse, to which don pepe promised to take us, and the rough track up the solid rock towards the _cueva de santa inés_, into whose recesses antonio was going to guide us. we had left the church and were moving in the direction of the lighthouse, when the padre's quick eyes noted a figure hastening towards us. the messenger had done his work. antonio had returned. the señor was in the prime of manhood and on the eve of marriage. after our other sightseeing was done, we were promised a glimpse of his chosen one--or, to speak quite correctly, of the damsel who had selected him; for, as i have said before, in iviza it is the lady who chooses. on the sunny bank near the lighthouse we encountered an interesting and venerable trio--the alcalde, the captain of the port, who wore earrings, and the cura of san antonio. with them also our padre was a favourite. the cura urged us to return to the _curato_ and take coffee with him. but the afternoon was passing and there was still much to see. so we said good-bye and left them with something of envy in our hearts, to resume their dawdle among the white flowering asters and butterflies, by the shores of the placid bay. wherever their lives had been passed, they seemed at length to have found anchorage in a spot remote from the storms and dissensions that agitate and perplex the world. the men walked the mile to the cave. i drove, but many times during the short journey i realized that it would have been far less exertion to walk. the road lay over wickedly disposed rock, and when my hat was not butting the canvas sides of the trap it was violently colliding with that of the driver, who, though he bounced up and down on his seat, still managed to preserve his air of imperturbable calm. the story of this subterranean chapel is a curious and interesting one. it is believed that in the early years following the conquest, before the fortress was converted into a church, the inner chamber of the cave was used as a temple where mass and other religious services were held. some time later--probably towards the end of the sixteenth century--a wooden image of the martyred saint inés was discovered in the cave, an image that, though it was several times removed to the church of san antonio, always mysteriously reappeared in the cave. this was ultimately accepted as a sign that the saint desired her image to remain in the cave, which then received her name. on the anniversary of san bartolomé's day--the very day on which the image had been discovered--in the height of a violent tempest, a foreign barque found safe harbourage in the bay of san antonio. on board the distressed ship was a gentleman who had in his possession a beautiful painting of santa inés. in his extremity he made a definite bargain with the saint, vowing that, if through her intercession the whole ship's company landed without scath, he would present her portrait to the church of the first port where they disembarked in safety. it was on hearing of this miraculous intervention, and of the widespread notice it attracted, that the ecclesiastical authorities at iviza gave permission for the little subterranean cavern to be used as a place of worship. after that time, on the annual recurrence of san bartolomé's day, people in great numbers journeyed from all parts of the island to the little town, and after attending mass in the parish church went with the inhabitants of the town to the cave, near which they picnicked. then, after having taken a draught of water from the holy well in the interior of the cave, they assembled outside and danced until sunset. this quaint custom continued until , when it was modified because the roof of the cave showed signs of collapse, and the natives of iviza had a superstitious belief that the impending catastrophe would occur on the day of the annual gathering. since then the dance has been held in the town, but is only attended by those from a distance, as, since the scene of the festival has been changed, the girls of san antonio refuse to take part in it. when we had secured the key from a silent woman at the farm-house near by, we gained the mouth of the cave by treading unconventional paths--first walking in single file along the broad top of a stone wall, then treading across a tobacco patch, where, warmly sheltered by surrounding walls, the broad young leaves were growing strongly. at the entrance to the cave antonio and a companion who had joined him--we knew him only as "charles, his friend"--lit candles, and close on each other's heels we crept, doubled up and with stumbling feet, through the burrow-like passage that led to the inner shrine. many changes must have taken place of late years, for the chapel was cumbered with fallen refuse. the arch of the roof masonry and the hollow where the altar had stood could still be distinguished, otherwise there was little token left of the strange history of this underground place of devotion. as we crawled back towards the light and the outer air, antonio pointed to where, at the bottom of a tortuous and shelving passage, was situated the holy well. the climax of our visit to the little white town was the promised introduction to the beloved of antonio, whom we met in the house of her mother, in the street near the church. antonia could not have been more than twenty, if indeed she had quitted her teens, but in sobriety of dress and demureness of outer deportment she was a facsimile of her comely mother. it was only when you noticed that her full red lips had difficulty in refraining from curving into smiles, just as the dark hair so smoothly plastered down on either side of her rosy face seemed rebelliously determined to ripple into waves, that you realized that antonia was overflowing with exuberant young life. antonio knew it, though. no disguise of decorous matronly garments or assumption of a demure manner could conceal from him antonia's real girlish charm. one could see that by the way his string-seated chair edged imperceptibly nearer hers, and by the ingenious manner in which, without seeming to do so, he yet managed to watch her every motion. it was at this juncture that a happy thought occurred to the padre. would it be possible for the man to do a sketch--just the smallest jotting--of antonia, as a memento of the occasion? "of course it would," agreed the man. "and of antonio, too!" at this the lips that antonia had been trying so hard to keep prim broke apart in irrepressible giggles and her hand slipped up to see if her rebellious hair was smooth enough to do her credit. and antonio straightened his shoulders and gave a furtive twist to the ends of his moustache. the light was fading, and the chairs had to be placed--close enough together to satisfy even antonio's desires--near by the open door; just outside which a row of children had already secured front places to view the show. the sketch was necessarily hurried, even perfunctory, but it gave immense satisfaction. "oh! look at antonio," antonia gurgled joyously. "see his moustache! is it not fine?" "it is like the moustache of an officer of _carabineros_," said antonio, feeling it to see if it were actually more imposing than he had thought. "if i really look like that i ought to be a minister of state; but--i prefer to be the husband of antonia!" [illustration: the church of jesus, iviza] xxviii welcome and farewell the shimmer of the sunrise and the reflection of the hills in the unruffled waters of the harbour were so ethereally beautiful in these ivizan mornings, that i found it impossible to stay in bed. on the last day of our stay i was early out on the balcony. scarcely anybody was about. a man in a red cap and a coat of yellow velvet was baiting lobster-pots. and a boy in velvet trousers that sun and the passage of time had faded to an inimitable shade of pale moss-green was playing with a dog. otherwise the town seemed asleep. the scene was the perfection of drowsy restfulness, when the sudden blast of a steam-siren broke in upon the placidity, and with the sound a steamer, looking gigantic in these miniature surroundings, entered the bay. with her appearance the world awoke. as the ship moved slowly in towards her berth, which was just below my balcony, people appeared from all directions, as though they had been lying in ambush awaiting the signal to concentrate upon a given point. probably the fact that the military element was present in force suggested the simile. a band of officers in full dress, with short natty astrakhan-lined overcoats and white gloves, stood a little apart from, and in advance of, the general public. among them were the lieutenant in command of the carbineers, and the tall chief of the civil guard, who looked immense in a heavy cloak lined with scarlet. the municipal authorities had assembled in force, also representatives of the church, the british consul--"good morning, sir!" to me on the balcony--and a comprehensive gathering of townsfolk, all with the air of being pleasantly excited about something that was going to happen. the steamer--it was the _cataluña_--was close to the wharf now, but there was no sign on deck of any unusual occurrence. except for the crew, a few steerage passengers, and a knot of priests who clustered on the boat deck amidships, nobody appeared to be on board. but still the crowd waited expectant. then just as the gangway connected the _cataluña_ with the land a solitary martial figure, a uniformed officer whose breast was decorated with several medals, appeared on the poop. and towards the ship and up the gangway, in slow and ceremonial order, moved the officers. the lieutenant-colonel of the ivizan battalion of the _cazadores_ led. over the gangway, across the deck, up the companion, and into the arms of the decorated officer, which were outstretched to receive him. in quick succession the others passed up, to be received cordially, if not so affectionately as their colonel. then, as in turn the waiting authorities followed, it dawned upon us that we had been close spectators of the arrival of the new governor of iviza, and that from our point of vantage we had witnessed his first official reception. it was about this stage of the proceedings that among the men in uniform who were surrounding the new governor on the poop we began to recognize different members of our hotel party. the imposing captain of infantry was the tall man who sat next to us and spoke to nobody. the man with the bellowing voice and the beautiful eyes was the lieutenant in command of the ivizan carbineers. the man at the end of the table was a captain of engineers. the man with the eye-glasses was the captain of the medical corps. so much for our fancied astuteness. in place of sharing the table with a party of commercial travellers, as we had imagined, we had really been eating at the ivizan equivalent to an officers' mess! when everybody with any claim to the distinction had been presented and the company on the poop had dwindled down to a few, the family of the newly arrived governor made its appearance, in the persons of three lively boys and a baby in a nurse's arms. then, coincident with the appearance on deck of a lady in a hat and motor-veil, the six soldiers in fatigue uniform who had been in waiting sped up the gangway, to return laden with hand baggage, which, with other femininities, included a blue bandbox. and in their wake the governor and his little tribe, accompanied by the colonel, stepped in stately measure across the wharf, and disappeared into the door of the hotel that gaped hospitably open beneath us. as we drank the coffee that the overworked paco had just brought us, we wondered a little what the new governor's impressions of iviza would be. he looked worn, we thought, as though weary with years of service; and we hoped that he would find his new home in this remote island a place of peace. the little breakfast over, our black-garbed driver and the british consul, who had suggested taking us to see the _salinas_, were waiting. and we drove out in the sweet morning towards the curious series of lagoons where two great harvests of salt are yearly reaped. the day was glorious, the air crisp, exhilarating, as we drove out over the country roads towards the wide stretch of flat land where the sea-water, prisoned by a cunning sequence of locks into vast shallow vats, was slowly evaporating in the strong sunshine. although lead and zinc are mined near santa eulalia, the salinas at iviza and at formentera form the great industry of the ivizan group of islands, salt to the amount of nine thousand tons being shipped each year to various parts of the world. the history of these vast salt lagoons reaches back to before the conquest. in the salinas, which for many years previously had belonged to the state, became the property of a private company, now known as the _salinera española_. the road, which led between green fields, had been lovely. an occasional girl perched on a donkey comprised almost the entire traffic. we reached the salinas to find a scene of great brilliancy. all along the sides of the pools rose pyramids of salt, their glistening sides clearly reflected in the still water with something of the effect of carefully moulded icebergs. and along the portable line of rails strings of trucks laden with the sharp-faceted crystals of the rough salt were moving towards the wharf. down by the wharf everything was white--the roads, the few houses, the great stores of salt that lay awaiting shipment, the shoes of the men that stood in the flat-bottomed barges beneath with long rakes, packing away the salt as it streamed down in a sparkling white torrent from the pulverizing machine on the staging of the quay above. from iviza salt is shipped in great quantities to many distant countries. it was interesting to hear that even in salt the taste of the nations varies--russia liking hers large in crystal, america preferring that supplied her to be as fine as possible. we stood on the pier that jutted out over the clear green waters of the islet-studded bay, watching the men at work filling the barges with the salt that was to be transhipped to the italian barque that lay in the bay of iviza. a fine, robust, brown-faced smiling lot of men they were. and the work on which they were at the moment engaged seemed mechanical and easy. hanging on the railing close by were fishing nets, and they told us they caught many fish in the bay. on that bright airy morning the work seemed pleasant and not over-arduous: different from what it must be when the fierce southern heat has dried up the sea-water and the labour consists of standing under the burning sun, beset by mosquitoes, scooping up the salt from the floor of the lagoons and building it up into pyramids. if ever there was specially thirsty work it must be salt salving. there seemed to be surprisingly little accommodation for the labourers near the salinas. in summer, when close upon a thousand labourers are employed, a large proportion of them are forced to live in the town of iviza and add a walk of many miles to the exertion of the day. at the hotel at luncheon the newly installed governor with all his family (except the baby) and the colonel sat by us at table. the elder men were still in uniform, but the _habitués_ of the board had been quick to return to mufti. our walk that afternoon was in the care of don narciso, and under his guidance we walked through pleasant country byways towards the few clustered houses that comprise the little village of jesus, to see a notable picture in the church there. it was through a fair green world that narciso led us that radiant afternoon--under trees heavy with great green velvet almonds, and through fields deep in full-bearded grain and rich in blood-red poppies and crimson gladioli, among which wide-hatted women, the upper of their many skirts tucked up pannier fashion, were busy working. just outside the church of jesus, at a _noria_ in the shade of a tall palm, trellised vines, and budding pomegranate-trees, a sun-browned man, his little brown son, and an old brown mule were working in happy unison. the church itself belonged to that informal type of architecture in which iviza abounds. the roof was red-tiled, and without and within the building was severely whitewashed. the special panel which formed the centre of the great altar-piece was the work of an unknown painter of the early valencian school. in a broad, simple composition it represented the virgin and holy child surrounded by angels. the details were obscure, even after don narciso had thrown open the big door of the church to allow more light to enter; but the colour was remarkably rich and full. and though the surrounding subjects were inferior in workmanship, their subdued tones harmonized well with the dignity of the central panel. the cura was not at home, but his parents, a dear old peasant couple who lived with him, received us warmly, offering that ready and insistent hospitality that struck us as being a special feature of the ivizan life. our winter in majorca had accustomed us to the polite but purely perfunctory fashion in which, like the spaniard, the majorcan tenders food to all comers, secure in the knowledge that it will be declined. but when the ivizan offers refreshment to the visitor he means it to be accepted. the moment we were all seated on chairs set round the walls of the wide, airy room into which the large door directly opened, the good old father hastened to bring out a tray of tiny glasses and a decanter of the pure, amber-hued ivizan wine--wine that had been pressed from grapes ripened close by. and the mother ran to fetch a plate of sweet biscuits and goblets of clear water. then they watched with genuine pleasure while we sipped the wine, and, having praised it in all sincerity, followed the custom of the country and drank of the water. the sole family of the worthy couple had been two sons, both of whom had shown a vocation for the church. the one in whose house they lived was now cura of jesus, the other that of san raphael, only a short walk distant. our casual visit to the little hamlet left in our minds an unfading picture of rustic sweetness of atmosphere and of modest pride that had attained its ideal. from there we went to see a fine old country house, one of the "possessions" of a friend of don narciso, who, though he does not live there, courteously cycled over to do the honours. from the roofed _mirador_ we had a good view of the town rising on its rocky height above the sea. here, too, we had evidence of the ivizan spirit of hospitality. native wine was again offered us, and from the orange gardens down by the palm-encircled _noria_ we got abundance of huge oranges, and a curious fruit that, with the outward appearance of the lemon, boasted the sweetness of the orange allied to a floating essence of bergamot. there the kindly don pepe joined us, and together we walked back through the gloaming. at dinner the new governor, still in uniform, his handsome wife and their three nice boys again were present. after the state reception of the morning, it amazed us to see with what an utter lack of consideration they were treated. the very officers who had risen at daybreak and donned their best uniforms to honour his arrival sat at table with the governor as though unconscious of his presence. the sole sign of deference that we could discover was that the landlord and paco had put on their best coats in which to wait at table. but there the distinction ended. in common with the others, the governor and his family patiently endured the tedious service. to me it was almost painful to see the representative of official power sit uncomplainingly, until the overworked paco, having made the round of the long table, handed the few chilled fragments still remaining in the dish to the hero of the imposing little ceremony of the morning. it made us inclined to wonder if the hospitality of the ivizans was confined to the humbler classes, or whether it would have been a breach of ivizan etiquette had one or other of the principal residents offered these new-comers the freedom of their homes. so ended our visit to iviza. for when dinner was over and our farewells said, the _cataluña_ was ready to take us back to palma. our experience of the remote island that we had approached with doubts had been a thoroughly delightful one, and when we steamed out over the placid water we watched the lights of iviza sink in the distance with the feeling that we left real friends among the kindly islanders. our visit had been a short one, yet our minds held precious memories of the sincere and kindly people--of the padre, don pepe, and his affectionate care for his flock; of narciso and his pictures, of the loves of antonia and antonio, and of the dear old father and mother of the cura of jesus. though it lacks the savage grandeur of some parts of majorca, iviza has beautiful and romantic scenery, and life in the lovely island is sweet and simple and wholesome. there is little money in circulation, but more is not needed. the ground is fertile, the climate gracious, the water-supply is unfailing, and fish may be had for the catching. so food is plentiful and cheap. house rent in the town of iviza may be counted at about a half less than in palma, and when the townsfolk speak of the cost of living in the smaller towns, such as san antonio, they hold up their hands at the amazing cheapness of it. this, then, was our impression of iviza, the remote island about which such extravagant tales are circulated. that fire-arms and knives still play a part when the interests of rival lovers clash is openly acknowledged. but during our visit the course of true love must have run smoothly, for no echo of pistol shot or clash of weapon marred the peace of our stay. as we found the people of that forgotten isle--honest, courteous, generous, and hospitable, quaint of dress and soft of voice--so have i written. [illustration: moorish tower at the port of alcudia] xxix last days the golden months had flown past, speeding so swiftly that we felt as though time must have defrauded us. scarcely a day seemed to have elapsed after our return from iviza before we were saying, "next week we must go home." but before beginning preparation for departure, three days were our own. three clear days in which to take a real lazy holiday; for though the holiday spirit had pervaded our wanderings, we had all been working hard. to be really idle we knew we must seek a spot already familiar to us, one that offered no temptation to register fresh impressions. and a brief family conclave found us unanimous in the opinion that the port of alcudia, from which, in january, we had sailed to minorca, was the ideal place. friday morning found us at la puebla station, mounting the little one-horse diligence that runs to and from alcudia in connection with the trains. i shared the box-seat with a semi-comatose driver, a big box, a bigger sack, a loaf of bread, and sundry nondescript parcels. besides my people, the only occupant of the interior was a bronzed young man who had travelled in the same compartment with us from palma. in the train the studied perfection of his dress had made me wonder on what errand of ceremony he was bound. his trousers and waistcoat were of very light piqué, his coat of shining black alpaca. his linen was new, his tie resplendent; his watch-chain of linked metals was an inch broad; his face beamed with expectancy; his whole being seemed to vibrate with glad impatience. the way to alcudia passed through a rural district, running at first by many small holdings, where patient mules were turning water-wheels to irrigate the little fields where their masters were hard at work. the driver, curling himself up in his corner of the box-seat, dozed off after the manner of diligence drivers who have started on their first journey long before dawn. the horse, taking advantage of his master's somnolence, walked more and more and more slowly, until at intervals the driver, unwillingly opening half an eye to see how far we had progressed and finding us almost at a standstill, would urge him on with opprobrious words. the day was lovely--how often i seem to have written that! in the lush green corn grasshoppers were chirping. by the wayside the convolvulus was opening its big pink cups. and in the dark interior of the diligence the bronzed man was telling his story. he was a son of the district towards which we were slowly advancing. his parents had a wayside _taverna_ and a tiny farm. but in the family there were many mouths to feed, and though in majorca there was always food for all, money was scarce. so five years ago he had gone to algeria to push his fortunes. now, having made a little money, he was returning, without warning of his coming, to his old home. as to the future? well, that was for his parents to decide. one did not require to be told that the five years of exile had been industrious and frugal ones. now the great moment was at hand. he was already experiencing the expectant joy of the returning wanderer. when the small holdings had been left far in the rear and rocky hills rose beyond the fertile fields, his assumed composure vanished. he became frankly excited, eagerly watching the lonely road and scanning the fields for sign of familiar forms and faces. as the coach made a momentary pause while the driver delivered a loaf and an amorphous parcel to a road-mender, the exile, thrusting his head from the back window, shouted greeting. and the roadman, recognizing an old friend, ran after the already receding coach to grasp him warmly by the hand. the driver was wide-awake now, and evidently determined to make up for lost time. and the cigars our exile wished to give the _caminero_ had to be thrown on the road, from which with grateful nods and smiles he picked them up. as he drew near his old home the exile, though even more keenly alert, became silent. when the little _taverna_ by the wayside came in sight the driver, rising to the occasion, put on pace and pulled up before the door in grand style. the unusual sight of the coach stopping brought the old _tavernero_ and his wife to the wide doorway. from my perch on the box i saw their expressions change from surprise to amazed delight. it was the father--a typical majorcan with a hale spare figure and shrewd kindly face--who, advancing first, seized his exultant son in his arms. the mother held back a moment, quivering with joyous emotions, her lips parted in speechless welcome. then, running forward, she fell upon his neck. the host and hostess of the fonda marina gave us hearty welcome, and, as before, heaped benefits upon us. in our three months of absence young cristobal had grown perceptibly. he was at school now, and had already learned to recite in spanish sing-song the days of the week and the months of the year. our former rooms overlooking the bay were vacant, and for three long summer days we wandered as we listed--over the white sands, which were now rich with the rare shells and scarlet coral for which, on our previous visit, i had looked in vain; or among the pines, whose sun-distilled fragrance mingled with the sea air. one radiant morning we took a luncheon basket and wandered as far as the albufera, but at all other times the excellent cooking of the mistress of the _fonda_ lured us back in time for meals. the few people we encountered looked pleasantly at us. and the captain of the port--a retired naval officer who spent much of his time fishing from a boat moored at his own front door--most courteously called, and presented me with a bouquet sent by the ladies of his house. monday evening saw us back at the casa tranquila. with tuesday began the uncongenial labour of dissolution; for the little house that during the never-to-be-forgotten months had been our headquarters had to be emptied of its contents. our belongings were few in number, but our manner of living had brought us into such intimate relations with them that we felt personal interest in each article. we had developed quite an affection for our yellow cups and saucers with their crude bunches of red and blue flowers; and our chocolate-pot of brown and yellow native ware, with its perforated lid and wooden pestle, ranked as a family friend. the great vine that during the first months of our stay had converted the veranda into an airy bower was again covered with foliage and with embryonic clusters of grapes that some more lucky tenants would enjoy. the rose-bushes that had bloomed all winter were sending out an abundance of bud-laden shoots. ripe lemons still clung to the higher branches of the tree, though the new fruit was already formed. there was scant time for all we had to do. yet we managed to pay good-bye visits; to take final peeps at our favourite haunts; to secure on behalf of a poultry-fancying friend a setting of the eggs of certain moorish-looking fowls whose jet black bodies were topped by huge white feather turbans; to dig up bulbs of the most curious kinds of fly orchis for another friend who is so fortunate as to possess a "wonder garden." our final day, which rushed upon us before we had steeled ourselves to meet it, was deplorably wet. it seemed as though the climate that had treated us so generously was weeping at the thought of our departure. we lunched daintily at the home of our good friends the consul and his wife. then came the moment when, for the last time, the bells of bartolomé's chariot jingled at the door of the casa tranquila, and the neighbours came out to wish us god-speed. none of them came empty-handed. pepe brought his finest carnations. the andalusian lady, her entire brood clinging to her matronly skirts, also offered flowers, and the retired gentleman who lived in the lordly mansion across the way hastened to cut his choicest roses. so with the carriage full of fragrant evidence of good will, we drove off, to pause a moment at apolonia's door to bid her farewell. at the distribution of odds and ends a rug and a hat had been allotted to apolonia. and when she seized this opportunity of thanking us for the trifles sent her, apolonia spoke appreciatively of the rug, but there were tears in her bright eyes when she referred to the _sombrero_. and that makes one wonder how it is that the utterly useless and incongruous gifts are often the most valued. the dear old soul had never worn a hat in her life and certainly never would. the article could be of no possible use to her, but perhaps, like jess in the _window in thrums_ with her mantle, she "would aye ken it was there." as we turned the corner we got a glimpse of mr. and mrs. pepe carrying a gaily coloured handkerchief containing the discarded suit of the boy's that had fallen to pepe's share. waving the bundle, they indicated that they were already on their way to the tailor's to have the suit altered. the angelus was ringing as the _miramar_ steamed out into the mist. standing at the stern, we looked back while the rain-clouds gradually blotted out the town, and thought of the little house at son españolet standing empty and forlorn. we had hoped that when the inevitable hour of parting came we might leave in one of those magnificent sunsets under which we had so often watched the mail-boat start for barcelona. but though our last sight of majorca was veiled with rain and tears, we will always remember it as a land of sunshine and of smiles. index afterglow, alaró, castle of, children of, albufera, the, alcudia, , port of, almudaina palace, , _almudaina, la_, aloes, , amphitheatre, roman, amusements, andalusia, family from, , andraitx, port of, aquarium at porto pi, archduke luis salvador, , arracó, artá, caves of, asparagus, wild, asphodel, , astronomers, british, banners, hall of the, barbarossa, barcelona, barnils, hotel, , barranco, the, basket-making, begonias, bellver, castle of, , biniaraix, , birthday party, boot-brushing, borrow, breeches, baggy, , , , british consul at iviza, , " " " mahón, " influence in minorca, bull-fighting, butterflies, byng, admiral, cabo blanco, cabo de pera, , cabrera, , cabritt and bassa, cactus (prickly pear), , , , , , cala fonts, minorca, cala retjada, calvario at pollensa, candelabra, silver, capdepera, , cape vermay, carabineros, carthusian monastery, cas catalá, castle of alaró, " " bellver, , " and fortifications, iviza, catalans, cave of the, cathedral, palma, , , " iviza, cave at genova, " of the holy well, " " ramon lull, " " santa inés, iviza, " smugglers', caves of artá, " the dragon, manacor, chaperonage, , , charcoal stove, charioteer, our, , , , , chopin, , christians, early, christmas eve, " market, church of jesus, iviza, ciudadela, minorca, clubs, cobbler and his wife, , coinage, columns, queen of the, commercial travellers, , conquistador, the, , , , , , , , , , " feast of, conscripts, , consell, consul, our friend the, , , , , consumos, , , cookery, , , , , , , , , , coral, cost of living, courtship, , , customs, , dances, religious, dancing at san antonio, iviza, delights, cave of, deyá, , , diligence, travelling by, , , , , dogs for hunting, dress, fashionable, dress, native, , , , , , , , dromios, the two, , eagles, , , electric light, , , enciamada, the, esglayeta, exile, returned, fairy, the good, , , , ferrer, firewood, first communicants, flowers, wild, , , , , , , , , , fonda de mallorca, palma, " " rande, artá, " central, mahón, " feminias, manacor, " marina, alcudia, , " at iviza, fondas, country, footgear, fornalutx, french influence, frogs at iviza, furnishing, gardening, , _general chanzy_, wreck of, genova, governesses, governor of iviza, , grand hotel, palma, , , , gymnesias, holy thursday, procession on, hoo-poo, hospederia, , , , hospitality, , hotel barnils, palma, , " grand, , , , " marina, sóller, , , , hot months, the, house-hiring, housekeeping, ilex, forest of, inca, iviza, british consul at, , , castle and fortification, cathedral, cave of santa inés, church of jesus, cost of living, courtship, , dress, , , , driving, early occupation of, fonda, frogs, hospitality, market, museum, new governor, , noria, , , phoenician catacombs, roman wall and statues, salinas, san antonio, san rafael, santo domingo, small holdings, wild flowers, king alphonso iv, " jaime, el conquistador, , , , , , , , , , " jaime ii, " sancho, , kitchen, farm, , language, , , , laundress, our, , lavender, sweet, locusts, lonja, the, lull, ramon, mahón, mallorquin antiquities, , , , " prices, , , , , , , manacor, marketing, , , , , , , , , martel, french expert, mas, juan, masked penitents, military service, minorca, athenæum at mahón, barbarossa, boot-brushing, british consul, " influence, byng, admiral, cala fonts, ciudadela, commercial travellers, , english words, fonda central mahón, market at mahón, san luis, talyots, taula, villa carlos, whitewash, wreck of the _general chanzy_, miramar, monastery, carthusian, montjuich, moorish oppression, " refugees, " tower, mosquitoes, , music, , , , navidad, nightingales, noria, , , , offerings, votive, , olive-oil factory, operations in church, exciting, orchis, fly, , our lady of the peak, " " " refuge, palma de mallorca, almudaina, , body of jaime ii, cathedral, , " treasures of, consumeros, customs office, first impression, grand hotel, , , , hotel barnils, , lonja, the, markets, , port, post-office, san francisco, church of, social life, tavern at the port, palmettos, , palm sunday, peak, our lady of the, penitents, masked, phoenician catacombs, iviza, " village, pigs, , , plants, the rarer balearic, plum pudding, pollensa, port of, town hall of, port of palma, porto pi, , , , , post-office, palma, prices, majorcan, , , , , , , puebla, la, , puerto cristo, puig mayor, , , , , , , queen of the columns, " of spain, birthday of, rain, , , , ramon lull, refuge, our lady of the, refugees, moorish, relics, sacred, rent, house, , road-mending, roman amphitheatre, " gateway, " graves, " statues, iviza, salinas, saloon accommodation, first, , , " " second, , , , salt, shipping, samphire, san antonio, iviza, san francisco, church of, san lorenzo, san luis, minorca, san rafael, iviza, san roch, feast of, sand, george, , santa catalina, , santa maria, santo domingo, iviza, scots visitors, secoma, sereno, the, servants, shells, , , smugglers' cave, snow, social life, sóller, , port of, , fiesta at, son españolet, , , , , son mas, andraitx, son moragues, son puigdorfila, son rapiña, , son servera, sponges, squire and lady, , , steamer _ancona_ of leith, _balear_, , _cataluña_, _isla de menorca_, _lulio_, _miramar_, , _monte toro_, _vicente sanz_, _villa de sóller_, sunshine, talyots, taula, taylor, bayard, tea, , , temple, the white, terreno, the, , , , tobacco, , , torrentes, , , , tourists, , tower, moorish, town hall, pollensa, train, travelling by, , travellers, commercial, travelling by diligence, , , , valldemosa, , , vegetable man, our, , vermay, cape, vigilante, our, , villa carlos, minorca, votive offerings, , wells, chain (norias), , , , whitewash, wild asparagus, wild flowers, , , , , , , , , , wind at minorca, windmills, wine shop, , winter climate, ideal, yachting, yacht of the czar, the gresham press unwin brothers, limited, woking and london. * * * * * transcriber's note: times are shown using a period notation e.g. . , these have been left unchanged. changed quatro to cuatro in the second repetition of "onza reals, _cuatro_ centims, dos centims". (ch. iv housekeeping.) changed jewelry to jewellery in "conjunction with handsome _jewelry_" for consistency with the rest of the book. (ch. vi the fair at inca.) _en el nombre del padre, y del higo, y del espiritu santo_ was left unchanged, but this is normally written _en el nombre del padre, y del =hijo=, y del espiritu santo_. (ch. vi the fair at inca.) changed biscochos to bizcochos in "crisply toasted _bizcochos_". (ch. viii miramar.) changed 'were' to 'was' in "even in its natural state it _was_ difficult". (ch. ix sÓller.) "made his money in buenos ayres" was left unchanged, although more commonly known as buenos aires. (ch. xv the port of alcudia.) "muchos gracias, señor." was left unchanged, but this is correctly said - "muchas gracias, señor." (ch. xxvi an ivizan sabbath.) there is quite a lot of inconsistency in the book with words that are hyphenated or spaced and/or joined. these have been left unchanged. likewise, accents and indication of foreign words (using italics) are inconsistent. these have been corrected for placenames without comment; all others have been left unchanged. heroic spain [illustration: a spanish hidalgo, by el greco] heroic spain by e. boyle o'reilly [illustration] new york duffield and company copyright, by duffield and company contents page introduction: practical hints espaÑa la heroica: verses in the basque country: loyola burgos and the cid valladolid oviedo in the asturias the sleeping cities of leon galicia salamanca segovia saint teresa and avila evening in avila: verses madrid and the escorial toledo cordova and granada vignettes of seville a church feast in seville holy week in seville cadiz a few modern novels estremadura aragon minor cities of catalonia barcelona gerona and farewell to spain illustrations page a spanish hidalgo, by el greco frontispiece burgos cathedral from the castle hill the façade of san gregorio, valladolid the cathedral of león view of salamanca from the roman bridge façade of the university library, salamanca the alcázar of segovia house of the duque de la roca, avila isabella of portugal, by titian prado gallery, madrid tomb of bishop san segundo, by berruguete, avila los seises, cathedral of seville st. francis of assisi a wood-carving by carmona, museum of león a roadside scene in spain the cathedral of sigüenza cloisters of san pablo del campo, barcelona a street stairway, gerona _heroic spain_ "_let nothing disturb thee,_ _nothing affright thee,_ _all things are passing,_ _god never changeth._ _patient endurance_ _attaineth to all things,_ _who god possesseth_ _in nothing is wanting,_ _alone god sufficeth._" maxims of saint teresa "all national criticism in bulk is misleading and foolish, and i look on the belief of spaniards that spain ought to be great and strong as the most promising agency of her future regeneration." james russell lowell _as minister to spain, in a letter oct. , _ introduction practical hints travel in spain to-day is attended with little hardship and no danger whatever. even if one barely knows a word of the language, it is not foolhardy to explore the distant provinces. commit a few simple sentences to the memory and have courage in using them, for spanish is pronounced just as it is spelled, with a few exceptions soon observed. the merest beginner is understood. when a trip into spain is planned it would be well to send for information about the kilometric ticket to the _chemins de fer espagnols_, rue chauchat, paris. they will mail you, gratis, a pamphlet with a map of the country, where is marked the number of kilometers between the cities; from this it is easy to calculate how large a ticket to buy. the more kilometers taken at one time, the cheaper it is. thus a ticket of , k. costs pesetas; one of , k. costs p., and so on. we got a , kilometric ticket for two people, first class, good for ten months, paying for it pesetas. if the ticket is bought outside of spain you pay for it in francs, whereas if bought in spain, you pay in pesetas, which are about fifteen per cent less than francs. provide yourself with your photograph, and at the first spanish town--irún, if you come from paris, and port-bou if from marseilles--as there is always a pause of some hours on the frontier for the customs, it is a simple matter to buy your _carnet kilométrique_ in the station. it is only on one or two short local lines that these tickets are not accepted. unfortunately the new rail from gibraltar up to bobadilla, by way of which many tourists enter spain, is one of these disobliging minor lines. in fact many who start their trip from the south have found difficulty in procuring a kilometric ticket till they reached seville or granada; this confuses the traveler, and makes him decide the ticket is too complicated for practical use. if he comes to visit merely the southern province of andalusia, which is what most people see of spain, with a run up to madrid for the pictures, then, unless several are traveling as one family, there is little gained by the _carnet_, since a few hundred unused miles are sometimes wasted. but for the complete tour of spain the kilometric ticket is the most satisfactory arrangement. besides the reduction it makes in the fare, it saves the confusion of changing money in the stations. you go to the ticket office before boarding a train, have the coupons to be used torn off, and are given a complementary ticket to hand to the conductor on the train. it is well to buy the official railway guide as it saves asking questions, for spanish trains, though they crawl at a snail's pace, start at the hour announced, and arrive on the minute set down in the time-table. thirty kilos, about sixty-six pounds, are allowed free in the luggage van, but for an extensive tour it is better to send trunks ahead by some agency, and travel with only the valises taken with you in the carriage. these the _mozo_, or porter, carries directly from the train to the hotel omnibus, which--another good custom of the country--is always in waiting, no matter at what hour the arrival. first class travel in spain is about the same as second class elsewhere; second class is like third class in france, except on the express route from paris to madrid, and in catalonia, where second class is comfortable. a hasty sketch of our tour may help later travelers. we entered from the north, by biarritz, a far better way of seeing the country in its natural sequence than the usual landing at gibraltar. one feels that the north of spain, in the truest degree national, untouched by the moor, has never had justice done it. if a transatlantic liner touched at one of the northern ports, such as vigo, santander, bilbao, it would open up an untrodden switzerland with fertile valleys and noble hills. no pleasanter summer tour, on bicycle or afoot, could be made than through the basque provinces, asturias, the national cradle of spain, or in beautiful galicia with its trout rivers. in summer the climate is cool and pleasant, and the most isolated valleys are so safe that any two women could travel alone with security. our first stop was at loyola in the basque country; then a week in burgos; a short stay at valladolid and palencia; over the asturian mountains to oviedo; back to león city, and from there across other hills to galicia, seeing lugo, coruña, and santiago in that province; from coruña to santiago by diligence, as no rail yet connects the two cities. we returned to león province from galicia, skirting the miño river which divides spain and portugal; stopped a night at astorga, some days in salamanca, and made a short pause in zamora. time must not be a consideration in touring these unfrequented cities of middle spain, for their local trains are few and far between. only twice a week is there direct communication between salamanca and medina del campo, the junction station on the express route. but if you accept once for all the slowness of the trains, the occasional odd hour of arrival or starting, the inconvenience of a distantly-set station, you cease to fret and scold as do most hurried travelers. we ended by finding the long railway journeys rather restful than otherwise. usually we had the _reservado para señoras_ carriage to ourselves, except on the express line from paris to madrid, and we soon learned how to make ourselves comfortable for a whole day's journey, seizing the chance of taking exercise during the long pauses in the stations, and enjoying the human-hearted scenes there witnessed; for a spaniard greets and bids farewell with the same unconsciousness, the same absence of mauvaise honte as when he prays or makes love. also i found the topography of the country of endless interest during the long train trips; to climb up to the great truncated mountain which is central spain, to see how the still higher ranges of mountains crossed it, how the famous rivers flowed, the setting of the historic cities,--i never tired of looking out on it all. somehow i have got tucked away a distinct picture of spain's physical geography, no doubt due to the leisurely railway journeys, which are not so slow that the proportion of the whole is lost, as foot or horse travel would be, nor yet so fast as to jumble the picture, as with the express trips in some countries. spain is not beautiful like italy, nor of the orderly finished type of england or france; she has few of germany's grand forests. there is no denying she is a gaunt, denuded, tragic land; the desolation of the vast high steppes of castile is terrible. only the fringing coasts along the atlantic and the mediterranean are fertile. nevertheless, unbeautiful as is the landscape, it possesses an unaccountable magnificence that grips the mind; we never took a night trip unless forced to it, so strangely interesting were the hours spent in looking from the car window. after salamanca we went to segovia, then across the guadarramas to the escorial, and slightly back north by the same mountains to avila. segovia and avila are true old mediæval cities of the inmost heart of the race, _españa la heróica_ incarnate. again passing through the hills, whose cold blue atmosphere velasquez has made immortally real, we went to madrid. from there, south, we struck the beaten tourist track with pestering guides and higher prices in the hotels. up to this we had driven, on arrival in a town, to the first or second hotel mentioned in baedeker, and the average charge had been seven pesetas a day, all included. the provincial hotels gave a surprisingly good table; excellent soups, fresh fish, the meats fair, and all presented in a savory way; the fact that many men of the town use the hotel as a restaurant has much to do with the generous menu. the rooms were cold and bare, but clean, for not one night of distress did we spend during the eight months' tour. of course certain modern comforts were completely lacking, but we were grateful enough for clean beds and wholesome food. the taking of money for hospitality is thought degrading by this chivalrous people, so the traveler should not judge them by the innkeeper class with whom he comes in contact. i found courtesy as a rule and honesty even in the inns; having valises that could not lock, i yet lost nothing. from toledo on, we began to go, not to the best hotel mentioned in the guide book, for that now had an average charge of twenty-five francs a day, but we chose some minor inn, such as the fonda da lino, in toledo, once the first hostelry in the city before the "palace" variety was started for the american tourist. we had spent october and november in seeing the northern provinces whose piercing cold made us only too glad to settle for the four winter months in andalusia; a day at cordova, a fortnight in granada, a trip to cadiz, and the bulk of the time in seville, the best city in spain for a prolonged stay, though barcelona also can offer good winter quarters. in april we went north into estremadura to see the roman remains, then returned to madrid for another sight of its unrivaled gallery, and also because all routes focus from the capital like the spokes of a wheel. we continued east to guadalajara and sigüenza, stopped some days at saragossa, then descended by poblet to the warm fertile coast again, to tropical tarragona and that industrial anomaly in an hidalgo land, barcelona. after spending some weeks there, in the beginning of june we left spain by the port-bou frontier, stopping at gerona on the way out. thus we had seen some twenty-five spanish cities--some twenty-five glorious cathedrals!--in a leisurely journey of eight months. any spot along the southern fringe is suitable for the winter, any spot along the northern coast for the summer, but in high cold middle-spain travel for pleasure must be limited to early autumn or late spring: we froze to death in burgos and salamanca during october, and again shivered and chattered with the april cold of guadalajara and sigüenza. as to guide books, baedeker is as good as any, though the baedeker for spain is not equal to that firm's guides for the rest of europe. murray's "hand-book" is more entertaining, but is rather to be kept as amusing literature than used as a guide book, much of it being the personal opinions and prejudices of richard ford, and bristling all over with slurs at spain's religion. it does not seem reasonable for english-speaking travelers to see this original country through the eyes of a clever but crochety englishman who wandered over it on horseback eighty years ago: we should not like a european to judge america by dickens' notebook dating back to the forties. there are two bits of advice i would give to those who would thoroughly enjoy traveling in the peninsula. pick up as soon as possible something of the tongue or you miss shadings that give depth and strength to the impression. if one knows latin or french or italian, it is easy to read spanish. and i would beg every unhurried traveler to carry in his pocket the "romancero del cid," spain's epic, and "don quixote," her great novel, the truest-hearted book ever written. i defy a man to while away a winter in spain with _el ingenioso hidalgo_ his daily companion, or sit reading the "cid" above the tajus gorge at toledo, and not learn to love this virile, ascetic, realistic, exalted, and passionate land, where a peasant is instinctively a gentleman, where a grandee is in practice a democrat, where certain small meanesses, such as snobbishness, close-fisted love of money, are unknown. the second advice is to bring to spain some smattering of architectural knowledge, or half the charm of lingering in her old cities is lost,--also is lessened one's chance to catch unaware the soul of this mystic, profoundly religious race. here i should end, as i head these lines of introduction with the words: _practical hints_. and yet, just as it is well nigh impossible in spain to dissociate the churches themselves from the religious scenes daily witnessed under their romanesque or gothic arches, so i cannot help begging the traveler, along with his smattering of architecture to bring a little liberality toward a faith different perhaps from his own, a little openness of mind. to one who goes to spain in the holier-than-thou attitude, she is dumb and repellent,--she who can be so eloquent! in each of her cities is a cathedral built when faith was gloriously generous and untamable, and in them one feels, unless blinded by prejudices of early environment or birth, that here indeed man is bowed in the humble self-abasement of worship, here is not only æsthetic beauty but a burning soul; the incense, the lights, the inherited lavish wealth speak with the spirituality of symbols, of ritual, that utterance of the soul older than hymns or voiced prayer. this record of the journey through spain will be called too partial, and yet i started without the slightest intention of liking or praising her. a month before going to spain, on reading in the bodleian library certain accounts of st. teresa, about whom i had but vague ideas, i exclaimed in distress, "what a morbid mind!" i went far from sympathetic, but bit by bit my prejudices dropped away. with the cant and smug self-conceit of northern superiority, i expected among other jars a shock to my religious belief. and after eight months i left spain with the conviction that magnificently faulty though she is with her bull-fights, a venal government, and city loafers, she can give us lessons in mystic spirituality, in an unpretentious charity, in heroic endurance, in a very practical not theoretic democracy. espaÑa la heroica deep learned are the poor in many ways, their hearts are mellowed by sweet human pain, and she has learned the lesson of the waifs, this sadly-ravaged, stern, soul-moving spain! rugged and wild, wind-swept, and bleak, and drear, she has a ruined splendor all her own, it seizes even while you ask in fear the reason man should choose this waste for home. her cities rise, ascetic, lofty, proud, forever haunted by high souls that dare, and from her wondrous churches rings aloud a heaven-storming radiance of prayer; with psalm, with dance, with ecstasy's white thrill, her mystics dared to lose themselves in god, theirs was unflinching faith, fierce, _varonil_, a force as true to nature as the sod. reward must come: perhaps from her to-day may spring the needed saint, to think, to feel, to grope triumphantly, to point the way to altars where both faith and science kneel. upon her ashy mountain height she stands, eager to step into the forward strife, her eyes are wide with hope, outstretched her hands to meet the promise of new coursing life: steadfast her cities to the desert face, snow mountains loom across the silent plain: take courage, o exalted tragic race! courage! christ's always faithful grand old spain! castile, . in the basque country: loyola "the only happy people in the world are the good man, the sage, and the saint; but the saint is happier than either of the others, so much is man by his nature formed for sanctity."--joubert. "whoever has been in the land of the basques wishes to return to it; it is a blessed land."--victor hugo. the basque is still one of the sturdy untouched peoples of the earth; they make still the unmixed aborigines of spain. their difficult dialect remains a perplexity to the etymologist, some believe it to be of tartar origin. they themselves claim to be the oldest race in europe and that their language came to spain before the confusion of tongues at babel. they derive their name from a basque phrase meaning "we are enough," that fittingly describes their character of self-sufficiency; the mere fact of being born in the province confers nobility. life for centuries in the isolated valleys that never were conquered by moor or foreign invader has bred in the basque a passionate independence. he would never join with the neighboring kingdoms of navarre and león until his special privileges were ratified; and though these privileges were the important ones of exemption from taxes and military service, he succeeded in keeping them intact until his sympathies with the pretenders in the carlist wars lost him his ancient rights. to-day the basques must pay taxes and serve in the army like the rest of spain, but their soldiers are usually employed in the customs, or as aids to the local police. their red cap, like the french béret, and brilliant red trousers are a familiar sight among the valleys. of the three basque provinces with their , people, the smallest, guipúzcoa, is a good epitome of national characteristics. the sinuous valleys now serve as the passageway for the rushing mountain river, now spread out into a plain where the villages are set. each town has its shady _alameda_, its plaza, and a court for playing _pelota_, a kind of tennis, the game of the province. there are frequent _casas solares_,[ ] or family manor houses; one of these i remember wedged in with its neighbors, in azcoitia, unnoticed by the guide book, only by chance we looked up and found it looming above the narrow pavement; blackened with age and scarred as if crashed with blows of warring times, it was a speaking record of old basque life. in any other country but spain, the carelessly rich and unrecorded, such a fortress-house would be a lion in the district,--from this very unexpectedness spanish travel is of unflagging charm. the strong primitive guipúzcoans cling to their patriarchal customs. the men and boys sit before their doors making the cord soles used in peasants' shoes; the women in groups of twenty or more, wash clothes in the public trough or down by the river. the industry of all is unflagging. the roads are among the best built in spain, along them go creaking carts, each wheel made of a solid block of wood bound in iron and emitting a prolonged agonizing squeak. the cream-colored oxen that drag them have their yokes covered with sheepskin, another century-old custom. the carts sometimes carry pigskins filled with wine, three legs in the air, and the unique casks are mended with a kind of pitch that lends a disagreeable flavor to the wine, but these highlanders will not yield an old usage. no sooner did we cross the _puente internacional_ that connects france with its neighbors over the bidassoa river--scene of historic meetings--than we found ourselves in the wooded basque provinces of the northern pyrenees. the country was fertile, the small farms cultivated with activity; on the hills were heavily-laden chestnut trees, in the valleys, orchards: we often passed trainloads of red apples carried unpacked in the open cars like coal. not far from the frontier the train skirted what appeared to be an inland lake surrounded by hills, when suddenly i noticed an ocean steamer and some fishing smacks lying at anchor, and looking closer i saw that a narrow passage led through the hills to the ocean breaking outside,--another of spain's unheralded effects. this was the beautiful inland bay of pasajes, the port from which young lafayette sailed for america. at san sebastián, the most fashionable summer resort in spain, and still gay with madrid people, for the season holds till october, we saw the first bull-ring, a circular building of red and yellow brick in the moorish style. to find a _plaza de toros_ here in the north was disconcerting. spain's national game has withstood the will of kings, papal bulls, the dislike of a large proportion of the spanish people who petitioned the cortes in for its abolishment, and the odium of foreign races. until this debased _cosa de españa_ is done away with it will remain a stumbling block to even the most sympathetic of travelers. at irún, the frontier town behind us, we had taken our tickets for zumárraga, two hours away. there we were to leave the railway and drive into the valleys to loyola, where in an old castle the hidalgo vizcaíno, don iñigo de loyola, was born. our guide book gave but the slightest information. it was raining drearily. with trepidation and sinking hearts we looked out at zumárraga as the train drew near. would this, the first night in spain, cold and wet, be spent in some miserable tavern in a town of a thousand inhabitants, and perhaps the next morning would a rickety diligence take us up the valley? we stepped from the train reluctantly; at the last minute we were tempted to turn back. but a porter had seized our valises, and muttering something incomprehensible about loyola and an automobile hurried us through the station. and there, beyond, stood the wonderful thing, sign manual of modern comfort--a great red automobile with a gallant chauffeur! we sat down on our luggage and burst into a hearty laugh. it began to dawn on us that perhaps the tour of spain was not going to be the series of hardships and privations we anticipated. for the sum of three pesetas each (fifty-four cents) we were whirled up the winding valley. the mountains rose precipitously from the road and its accompanying river, reminding me of the valley in the pistoiese apennines that leads down to the bagni di lucca. in the motor diligence with us were a few courteous basques; an elderly architect, with the finely-chiseled features of the country, pointed out a sight here and there, among others the birthplace and statue of legazpi, conqueror of the philippines. i think he took us for countrywomen of his young queen, and, trying to emulate his politeness, we were silent as to our nationality; later we discovered that this was quite unnecessary, for there is not the slightest prejudice in spain against the united states. we passed a building by the river and were told it was an electric power-house; almost every part of the country is now lighted by electricity. "you are very up-to-date!" we exclaimed. he replied by a shrug of delighted self-depreciation, a proud smile of conscious superiority aping the humble, not out of place in a basque whose mysterious language adam spoke, so ancient and difficult a tongue that the devil who once tried to learn it, they say, had to give up in despair. our opposite neighbors in the diligence, countrymen whose loss of teeth made them appear aged, sought also to show some courtesy. each wayside shrine was named with glistening eyes,--st. anthony; the hermitage on the hill above, st. augustine; here, st. john. one began to understand religion was no mere sunday morning service with this people. after six miles the valley opened out and we came to azcoitia, a town of some five thousand inhabitants where is manufactured the _bóina_, the typical cap of the province. the automobile went slowly through the narrow cobbled streets, under the high houses and the cliff-like church, then sped over two miles of a beautiful valley, with mountain rising behind mountain in the evening light, and at length we reached loyola. here one of the great discoverers of new strength, of untried powers in the human soul, one of the holiest men of christendom, saw the light in , the year before the discovery of america: in the life of st. ignatius are several coincidental dates to give us pause. surely it was to these peaceful basque hills that his thoughts turned when, a knight in the worldly court that surrounded ferdinand and his second wife germaine de foix, ignatius in gazing at the stars would feel with sudden potency the pettiness of man's grandeur, and during his religious life, when he craved at the sunset hour to be alone to meditate, he must have recalled this lovely valley of his birth. with emotion i saw in the distance the huge quadrangle of the convent that now surrounds the _santa casa_: the thought of what this spot has given to the world, of the thousands of chosen souls linked to-day by one will to work for good in every land, can well make loyola a place to stir the heart. at a little past six we left the automobile which was to run farther up the valley, and a porter from the inn led us through the park the jesuits have planted for the people. the _hospedería de loyola_ was a large building with a porticoed entrance at right angles to the convent, more like a monastery than a hotel, with polished staircase and corridors, neat bare rooms, and a long white refectory. the table was excellent, one course followed another at the one o'clock luncheon and the eight o'clock dinner. there was fresh fish from san sebastián (to which daily another motor diligence ran), there were home-made preserves, and we had our first taste of the universal _garbanzos_[ ] of spain, a chickpea shaped like a ram's head. the waitress, the first of many carmens and dolores, was a wonderful old woman who grew so intent on teaching us her language that she would insistently repeat the name of each dish she passed. she managed to convey to us by pantomime, for our spanish as yet was of the meagerest, that there were eight ladies from madrid in the hotel, living upstairs in retirement as they were making a retreat. they had come last saturday;--talk, talk, talk,--and the animated little woman gesticulated to show. then the retreat began,--did we know what "the exercises" were? off she walked with bowed head and downcast eyes. so it would be all week. the next monday we should see them, they would come to table with us, and it would be talk, talk, talk again. during the week we occasionally saw a lady in black, her head covered with a veil, cross from the hotel to the _santa casa_ where the meditations were held. in the convent the jesuits were conducting another retreat attended by fifty men from different spanish cities: these lived in the seminary with the priests. at table with us were some spanish people of a kind the tourist does not usually meet. one of them, a deeply religious man from barcelona, on his first visit to the _santa casa_, following the example of st. francis borgia, knelt to kiss the floor of the room in which the patron of the basques was born. another, an elderly woman fond of lace and jewels, and probably longing for the gayeties of san sebastián, was waiting in this quiet spot while her daughter made the retreat. when the eight days were ended we met this daughter, a beautiful girl with the charm of manner and quickness of intelligence that we found as a rule among spanish women. the afternoon the two retreats closed was a pleasant sight. the valley was fragrant from the rain, on the mountains the chalets stood out strangely near in the clear air. carriages and touring-cars rolled up, pretty wives to fetch their husbands to claim their wives. all were happy and natural, but one felt around one the atmosphere of the higher things of life, an exaltation that only religion can give. religion is ineradicably woven into the every-day life of this race: a spaniard is half mystic by inheritance. the power to understand the spiritual is not the gift of a few but of all. it gives to the peasant woman, to the uncouth lad serving mass, an intelligence above themselves.[ ] before the late dinner that last evening in loyola, a tall spanish woman with her four daughters automobiled over from san sebastián; she came to join her husband who had been following the "exercises." he now sat with us at table, a man of the grave dignity and fine presence we were later to meet frequently. that night when passing through the corridors we heard the sounds of prayer in their rooms, the wife and children making the responses to the man's deeper voice. the convent of loyola is the center of civilization for the countryside. all day there is a ceaseless come and go to the church, or to the _santa casa_ for silent prayer. at one each day troops of children go to the door of the convent with baskets and tins, and food is given them to carry to the aged and decrepit of the town. an hour later some dozens of lads in blue smock and _bóina_, playing their ceaseless _pelota_, flock into the building for a half hour of _doctrina_. then at three the young novices come out gayly for their ramble over the mountains and as they pass before the church each instantly removes his hat as walking they repeat together a prayer. happy those whose formative years are passed in hardy discipline among these uncontaminated basque hills! the peasants of the valley, when the bell sounds the hours, pause to remove their caps in salutation. every morning they cross the fields from azpeitia on the raised path beside the river, or they come from azcoitia, two miles down the valley, to attend the morning services. no one who has not seen a spanish priest's attitude of devotion can understand its appealing beauty. these jesuits and their attendant young novices (there are about two hundred students in the seminary) approach the altar with solemn reverence, without a trace of self-consciousness, and slowly and beautifully say the mass. "the jesuit seems to love god from pure inclination, out of admiration, gratitude, tenderness, for the pleasure of loving him," wrote that subtle critic, joubert: "in their books of devotion you find joy because with them nature and religion go hand in hand." a basque congregation is worthy of such ministers. all kneel without bench or chair, the men on folded handkerchiefs, the women on the circular straw mats scattered over the pavement. we were fortunate enough to attend a late benediction, not a customary service in spain as we found later. the thrilled exaltation of the singing in which all joined, the aged as well as children, is impossible to describe. it was a triumphant full-hearted adoration trying to voice the inexpressible; the organ ran riot, strained to its utmost, to accompany the ecstatic singing. every sunday the peasants drive in from the mountains to attend the afternoon service, and after it they stand to chat for a placid hour on the wide steps of the church. arm in arm the young girls stroll up and down in the park before the convent. i looked on at this scene of contentment that told of frugal, upright living, with the sad thought of france deprived of such wholesome beauty, of the peasants round the grande-chartreuse, poverty-stricken and desolate since the industrial monastery was closed. happily for the future of spain, she has at hand a neighbor to give her the lesson in time. the convent of loyola was built by the austrian wife of philip iv to enclose and preserve the _santa casa_, and it was by her presented to the jesuits. the church whose dome overtops the convent is in imitation of the pantheon. unfortunately, as are most jesuit churches in europe, it was erected in a bad period, and overloaded with ornament. the company of jesus was not founded until the golden age of architecture was well past; churriguera, archmaster of bad taste, was in vogue when they built. but at loyola if the twisted pillars of decorated marble are hideous, the ample flowing staircase that leads to the church is a beautiful feature, reminiscent of italian villas. the soul of the valley is naturally the _santa casa_ itself, the _casa solar_ of the saint's fore-fathers. the lower story is of rough-hewn stone, and once the whole building was the same, but a jealous king leveled the fortress-houses of the basque nobles and the upper stories were rebuilt in ancient brick. above the entrance door the arms of the family are carved, two wolves and a pot. the tradition is that the knights of loyola were so generous to their retainers that even the wolves came to share their hospitality. in many of the rooms daily masses are said; the four stories have been inlaid with mosaic, carved wood, and gold leaf, the gifts of devotees of the basque patron. one room is pointed out as the saint's before his conversion, another as the one in which st. francis borgia said his first mass, giving up a brilliant career, as viceroy, admiral, duke of gandía by inheritance, favorite of charles v, to consecrate himself to the service of the altar. at this memorable mass he gave communion to one of his sons, married to an inheritor of the _santa casa_, a niece of st. ignatius. so many were the communicants another day that the mass lasted from nine to three. such rare instances of christian perfection make the ancient house a chosen spot. the story of st. ignatius' life is told throughout his _casa solar_. on the staircase is a window showing him as a courtier. he was skilled in knightly exercises, fond of the saddle and equally fond of rich attire: good-looking, high-spirited, truthful, and brave, he was a favorite with his soldiers. the scene of his wounding at the siege of pamplona is given; he lies on the ground with his leg shattered. a long year of convalescence followed, and we see him reading the books that wrought his marvelous change of heart. he sought the monastery of montserrat, above barcelona, to beg counsel of a learned man concerning the vocation he felt within him. his military training made him dream of forming a spiritual knighthood to battle for the salvation of souls: "company of jesus" is a military term. at montserrat he performed the vigil of the armor, like a true knight watching till dawn before the altar; then exchanging his fine robes with a beggar he went forth, "_el pobre ignoto peregrin_." in a cave of manresa he lived in seclusion and prayer, verifying on himself in agony of spirit the knowledge which was later to guide the troubled souls of others who sought light. "his experience in this solitude was an epitome of the psychology of the saints; and it smote him all the more intimately because he was utterly without foreknowledge of the spiritual life, and fought out his fight alone, like the first fathers of the desert." in the cave of manresa was forged his excalibur (to use again the vivid phrase of francis thompson, own brother to crashaw in his flashes of celestial intuition), there originated the "spiritual exercises," the work used to-day in the retreats. "it has converted more souls to god," wrote st. francis de sales, "than it contains letters." eighteen years were to pass before st. ignatius founded his order. they were years filled with wanderings in spain and europe, a student at universities, a humble but joyous pilgrim to jerusalem. one day while he was reading the eighteenth chapter of st. luke the words, "and they understood none of these things" brought before him with sudden force the realization of his own untrained mind, the fact that he must be educated himself before he could help others. so at thirty this remarkable man began his scholastic studies in barcelona, in cardinal ximenez's famous university of alcalá, in salamanca. one day, in the streets of alcalá, as he was led to prison on a false accusation, the proud young grandee of gandía passed him. this was the first sight francis borgia had of the man who later was to lead his life. then followed some years of study in paris. found him in london at the time of the agitation of henry viii's divorce from catherine of aragon, again a coincidence in ignatius' life that he should visit at this critical moment the land soon to desert a church for which he was destined to raise so powerful a defense. there was another notable spaniard in england then, not a humble summer student begging his way like the basque hidalgo, but a scholar of corpus christi college, distinguished and lauded, to attend whose lectures the king and queen used sometimes to spend a few days in oxford. this was juan luis de vives, born in the great year , the precursor of bacon and descartes, a man of such vast erudition and impartial judgment that he has been called with erasmus and the french prodigy, budé, the intellect of his century. vives stood forth courageously as defender of his country-woman when the divorce question arose; he was imprisoned for a short time, forfeited his position and pension, and finally left england altogether. loyola now took his degree as master of arts in paris, and gathering round him some young men of earnest life--among them the future apostle and martyr in the east, st. francis xavier from navarre--the memorable band of seven students made the vows of poverty and chastity in the crypt of a church on montmartre on the feast of the assumption, . thirty years later the remembrance of that hour made one of the seven, rodríguez, feel his heart swell with ineffable consolation. literally these ardent souls fulfilled the letter of the gospel for the way of perfection: "if thou wilt be perfect go sell what thou hast, and give to the poor." "if any man will come after me let him deny himself, and take up his cross and follow me." "ye shall be hated of all men for my name's sake." their founder with superhuman perspicacity prayed it might be so. the world's hate is their alembic of purification. ignatius returned to spain to arrange with xavier's family--he also was of the northern mountain race of spain--and with the kindred of three others of his followers. he crossed the pyrenees by footpaths, and descending to his own valley of loyola preached down by the river in azpeitia. later in italy the band of montmartre met again, working in hospitals, preaching, and converting souls to god. it was in venice, many years after his wounding at pamplona, that ignatius loyola was at length ordained priest, and in rome, in the church of santa maria maggiore said his first mass. when the projects of the small band were submitted to the pope, he had the inspired wisdom to discern in humble beginnings a future great movement and exclaimed: "_digitus dei est hic!_"--truly the finger of god. the new order approved, loyola was elected its general; like a military company, the first law was the unhesitating obedience of the soldier to his leader, the unbreakable power that lies in many working as one. the _compañía_ spread over the world, reforming monasteries, giving help to the poor, persuading the rich to purer lives, reconciling husbands and wives. within a few years francis borgia gave up his dukedom to join them, and his accession brought to the order many spaniards of high rank. the founder continued to live in italy between rome at the gesù and tivoli: he died in rome in . in the _santa casa_ we followed this remarkable life in scene after scene. there is a touching picture of the grown man at school among lads half his age, of the crypt of montmartre, and of the final scene in rome. his face was said by st. philip neri to have shone with compelling personality. in speech he was grave and admirable, a never-tiring student of the bible; that, and the "imitation of christ" were the only books he much valued. "to see father ignatius was like reading a chapter of the 'imitation,'" they used to say of him. we lingered for some days in the beautiful basque valley, following the winding paths among the mountains, loitering in the two little towns near by in the pleasant discovery of rare old windows and portals. most of the houses had a picture of the saviour on the entrance door. each new-born child is brought to the parish church of azpeitia where st. ignatius was baptized, and each boy is called by his name, though only the eldest in a family has the privilege of using it. the saint's hymn is the national hymn of the basques. it was a raw autumn morning when we left loyola. the light was just filling the valleys as we passed the sweeping steps of the church up which the peasants were mounting to beg a blessing on their working hours. the influence of their loved patron is as vivid as if he had lived but yesterday, so truly can one human mind, touched by divine grace, with no thought of self, in sublime earnestness, rouse mankind to shake off its apathy, to aspire to the highest. if only another such knight might arise to-day to fight the modern battle of christianity! burgos and the cid "the epochs in which faith prevails are the marked epochs of human history, full of heart-stirring memories and of substantial gains for all after times. the epochs in which unbelief prevails, even when for the moment they put on the semblance of glory and success, inevitably sink into insignificance in the eyes of posterity which will not waste its thoughts on things barren and unfruitful."--goethe. passing through the fertile basque valleys, the train mounts the pyrenees by a series of skillfully-engineered tunnels. this natural barrier between france and spain, is far from being the straight rampart of school geographies. it is a wide expanse of ramifying hills and intricate valleys, a jumble of mountains that explains why spain remained isolated from northern europe until the days of the railway. when we reached the crest of this watershed between the bay of biscay and the mediterranean, we had a noble view of the villages far beneath. around us was a strange outcrop of white rock, and the descent to vitoria was barren too: with every mile the scene grew bleaker till the rustling woods of the basque valleys behind seemed a dream. beyond miranda, the first town of old castile, the desolate scene appeared in its full awfulness. the plain lay like brown dunes of sand, "as for the grass, it grew as scant as hair in leprosy." it was indeed the haunting landscape of "childe roland." passing over this wide stretch, the train again mounted, this time not to cross another range of hills, but to climb to the great truncated mountain which forms the center of spain. three-fourths of the area of this imagined orange-laden land is this tragic central plateau, comprising old and new castile, león, and estremadura. most of the historic cities are on this bleak upland, almost , feet above the sea, wind-swept, wintry, and made still colder by the snow mountains that cross it from east to west. riding for days through the monotonous scene you begin to wonder not that spain should be poor, but rather that she, an agricultural land, should have made so good a fight against such heavy odds. the guide books that so harshly criticise, saying hers is a land where nature has lavished her prodigalities of soil and climate yet shiftless man has refused her bounty, seem to forget that only one-fourth of the country is the traditional rich south. the fruitful provinces form but the fringe of the peninsula. it was early october when we mounted the pass of pancorbo. a fierce wind was blowing. it suddenly blew open the door of our compartment, and flung it back, smashing the glass. it was impossible to draw it to in the fierce gale, and this little incident added to the desolation round us. we looked down through the open door on the white road of the pass, over which napoleon's armies poured a hundred years before to plunder spain with ruthless cruelty, and yet, so hidden is the guidance of things, that seeming disaster waked the country from its long abasement. having reached the great central steppes, the same melancholy scene continued. the land was scorched and calcined. everything was a dull brown. villages were undistinguishable from the plain, and the churches from the villages; man, his ass, and his dog, were all the same dull tone. even the brown deserts of egypt failed to give me as powerful a sensation of the forsaken. the plateau was treeless, except for an occasional wind-threshed poplar, and an isolated moth-eaten poplar can be the final touch of desolation. at times, miles from any village, a solitary figure guided his oxen and plow in a stony field, or silhouetted against the sky a tandem of five or six mules slowly crawled along. since the villages are far apart, each worker must leave his home long before dawn to reach his distant field, and after sunset plod back patiently to the _aldea_. forlorn as it all appeared one saw that every inch of the soil was under cultivation. the peasants are as attached to their cheerless tract, which has its one hour of green bloom in the spring, as are the basques to their beautiful valleys. the fields are passed from father to son, and are acquired with the same zest as are teeming english farms; a stern soil and still sterner climate has made a peasantry full of grit and courage. hardy and undepressed they gathered round the train with pleasant greetings, for the long pauses in the stations are moments of sociability from one end of spain to another. the sad landscape continued up to burgos, one might say to its very gates if it were not that the townspeople have planted avenues of trees near the city. as we approached we had a splendid view of the cathedral towers dominating the town. there was something magnificent in the souls of the old builders who made a temple such as this in the midst of a desert, as if they defied the arid desolation to conquer their soaring faith. the great structure rose doubly impressive from the juxtaposition of richness and sterility, of the spirit's triumph over the material that makes burgos as impressive in its way as toledo with its more imposing setting. [illustration: _copyright, by underwood & underwood_ burgos cathedral from the castle hill] "_nuestro país es el país de las anomalías_" says the critic de larra, and the first step in spain strikes this note. she is a land of violent contrasts; level plain and broken sierra, elysian garden of andalusia and tractless wastes of castile, frosty burgos and sunny seville. she is the home of the hidalgo and home of the strongest existing democracy between man and man, only equaled by early rome. it was in burgos we first noticed what we later saw frequently, the _labrador_ who drove his master's carriage, enter the inn with him and sit at the same table to eat, master and man alike in their dignity. she has a peasantry beyond praise for its virile industry, and she has a class of city loafers the idlest that ever encumbered a plaza. cradle of exalted mystics and mother of realistic painters, this land of racy personalities never allows one's interest to flag. we spent a week in burgos, and not once did the sun shine. the cold was piercing. at the corner of every street a biting wind seized and buffeted one about; besides being on a mountain, there are still higher mountains near, and snow has been known to fall in june. wind and cold, however, were soon forgotten once inside the cathedral. our first visit was within the hour of arrival, at dusk when details were hidden. the great temple rose around us mysterious and awe inspiring. though almost with the first breath of wonder came a sense of bewilderment,--what was this heavy wall rising some thirty feet in the center of the church, that hid the altar and blocked up the nave so that only an encircling aisle was left free? so confusing was it i could not at first tell by what door we had entered, where was the east, where was the west end? books of travel all tell of this placing of the choir, or _coro_, in the nave of spanish cathedrals, but one can read them and imagine nothing like the reality. i had pictured an open platform running down the center of the church, whereas high walls are built round the _coro_ as well as round the _capilla mayor_, thus making a smaller church within a larger one. wherever the inner church opens on the other, they have placed a towering metal screen called a _reja_. a narrow passageway, fenced by an open rail, usually runs from the altar enclosure to the _coro_, and the people gather close to this, under the transept-crossing tower; thus, practically, the priest at the altar and the canons chanting in the choir are separated by the congregation. it is hard to make the picture clear. i feel that no explanation can prevent this arrangement of spanish cathedrals coming as a surprise to the traveler. the evening of our first visit, we wandered round in the dusk bewildered by the blocking _coro_, and at length entered the chapel of st. anne, where a service was going on. the side chapels of burgos are churches in themselves, they often belong to private individuals, this of st. anne being, for instance, the property of the duke of abrantes. it was now crowded with people of all kinds,--officers in uniform, a few ladies in hats but the bulk of the women in black veils. from a small balcony on one side the litany was sung. before the altar was what appeared to be a black covered bier, so i thought we must have stumbled on some special service for the dead. this would account for so large a gathering on a weekday, for at first one fails to grasp the every-day religious attitude of the spaniard. looking closer at the bier before the lighted altar a human figure was outlined under the dark pall. how displeasing, i thought, not to use a coffin! suddenly the head of this recumbent figure unmistakably moved. with a shiver i looked round me. no one appeared to notice what was to me so terrifying, yet they were gazing over the bier at the altar. strange visions floated through my imagination, made up of memories of charles v's funeral before his death, and of contorted accounts of spain and her ways. perhaps it was not an unusual custom here, thus morbidly to sample beforehand one's own funeral service. then, as the litanies continued, now the solo from the choir, now the full-voiced responses of the people, i realized these sweet evening melodies could hardly be the dirges of a burial. the supposition of a living corpse was too bizarre in the midst of this composed crowd. i fastened my eyes on the round head of the bier, and again it moved, but this time so thoroughly moved that the mystery was solved. with a breath of relief i knew this was indeed a quiet evening service and what had seemed a bier was merely one of the many marble tombs before the altars of old churches, covered over with a dark mantle as they sometimes are. what i had imagined the round head of a corpse, or future corpse, was the veil-draped head of a living woman, seated on a higher chair than usual between the tomb and the lighted altar. so ended my first and only romantic episode in spain. i mention it as showing with what vague notions of terror the average english-speaking tourist enters this harmless land. he comes full of the prejudices inherited from the days of the invincible armada, when a spaniard was to an englishman his satanic majesty incarnate, and this in an age of which froude himself, the enthusiastic chronicler of drake, says: "perhaps nowhere on earth was there a finer average of distinguished and cultivated society than in the provincial castilian cities." strange how tenaciously we cling to disproved ideas, i thought, as the next day we examined the beautiful tomb of bishop acuña which had caused my fright. spain is as safe to-day as any civilized country. yet we met two californian ladies traveling with pistols, about as needed here as firearms in the lanes of surrey or the brigand-infested hills of massachusetts. little by little the traveler who keeps an open mind learns that the cruel and morbid spaniard of the popular fancy has no existence except in his imagination. unfortunately there will always be some travelers here who see the heads on death biers move and carry away the gruesome tale to swell the old prejudices, who will not wait long enough nor look deep enough to find their living corpse a noble old bishop in alabaster who has lain in peace some hundred years. every day of our week in burgos found us several times in the cathedral. i used to arrive for the high mass at nine, though before daybreak until nine there had been many services in the side chapels; it is still the custom with most spaniards to kneel in recollection every morning. strangely enough, i soon grew reconciled to the clumsy _coro_. it enabled the people to approach close to the altar in a peaceful secluded spot. here at burgos one can kneel on the altar's very steps, beside the big sanctuary lamp and the silver candlesticks that rise higher than a man. the onlooking tourist, who often spoils italian churches for those who go to pray not to sightsee, in spain is not permitted his ill-timed liberty. he can wander freely through the outer cathedral, but during the mass, he cannot enter this inner temple unless he conforms to the accustomed usages. all must kneel at the moment of the elevation or else leave. the lesson was taught us soon, for when the first morning in burgos a lady near by in the chancel inadvertently began to read in her guide book, a verger in red plush cloak, bearing an authoritative silver staff, approached, and kindly but firmly showed her out. the richness of spanish cathedrals at first is overpowering, that they are too rich and overloaded is a criticism which is quite justified, but it is the profusion of strength, not the cluttering of details to hide a weak understructure; it is a profusion that speaks the nation's character, her burning faith, her oriental generosity. in antique silver, jewels, vestments, wood carvings, tombs, they are veritable museums of art. a spaniard has given generously to the church in all ages. though even when prosperous he is content to live with a frugal simplicity hardly understood by our luxury-loving time, it is a law of his nature that his ideas of grandeur and of beauty should find their free expression in the house of god. i often had the sensation that the beggar kneeling in these truly royal churches felt himself a part of them; his own poor home was but one side of the picture, he could claim this other home as well. it was at burgos we first met in the churches minor features that are essentially spanish. the organ pipes flare out like trumpets; the reredos, or _retablo_, made up of carved wood panels, rises sometimes to a hundred feet behind the altar; and there is the metal-work of the great screens or _rejas_. this last was an art _de propia españa_, and her churches would lack half their sublimity without the massive fretwork of iron or brass that shuts in the richly-decked altars. at burgos we especially noticed the _reja_ of the condestable chapel, with graceful wind-blown figures at the top. in the choir, round the lectern were piled ancient psalm books, some of them three feet high, their calfskin covers strengthened with metal claspings. the naturalness with which these priceless books are treated shows how happily bound to preceding generations, with no break of revolution and destruction, is this old land. this thought of the antiquity of her usages is a very potent one to every spaniard, and the stranger too finds the purple robed canons chanting in their choir-stalls more impressive because for six hundred years in this same cathedral they have intoned daily these same psalms. another national talent is her carving in wood. the choir-stalls here were a revelation. the masters of this art, berruguete, vigarni, montañés, may not be known to the rest of europe, but they are locally very famous. their intense realism appeals to the popular mind, and though in later centuries this realism degenerated into the bad taste of hanging the statues with robes, enough of earlier art remains to make one overlook these lapses. should not a poet be judged by his best lines? why must an image in wig and jewels blind one to the remarkable carved statues found side by side with it? the wood carvers of spain speak the same language of sincerity as the mystic writers, and a knowledge of luis de león, st. john of the cross and st. teresa, makes one better appreciate the sculptors. not that they too are mystical. they do not soar so high. it is only a few chosen souls here and there through the centuries who can walk that perilous path, and probably they can express themselves only through the more intangible medium of speech. but these wood carvings are the fruit of men who understood the mystics and who worked in a like spirit of intense faith. i should say it was not in her paintings that the religious essence of this race was to be found, not in the somewhat posing monks of zurbaran, nor in the gentle religiosity of murillo's madonnas. though a master of color, murillo is too often akin in spirit to carlo dolce and sassoferrato. it is the fashion to call these typically religious painters. but in the carved biblical scenes of _retablo_ and _sillería_ is shown more truly the inner spiritual intelligence of the serious spaniard. velasquez spoke for the reality of his time, its chivalry, its material force; and these masters of wood carving in more halting speech expressed the religious aspirations of the people. they worked with a realism that is often painful, yet the intensity with which they felt the scenes they depicted links them with the mystics. the wood carvings have not had justice done them, perhaps because they are for the most part painted, which certainly detracts from them. fortunately choir-stalls were left in the natural wood, those at burgos being a rich dark walnut with the polish that time only can give. we spent many happy hours studying this twelve years' work of the sculptor vigarni. the seats are carved with grotesque, fantastic creatures, half man, half beast, the arm of the chair now made by an acrobat bent double backward, now by a monster with a tail in his mouth, or some bat-like demon. there is a frieze of old testament scenes too high to be well seen, but below them the new testament story is told from the annunciation to the doubting thomas after the resurrection. though the simpleness of earlier times is shown in the miniature devil that passes from the possessed man's lips, and in mary magdalene's dropped jaw of surprise when she meets her risen lord, these carvings are not merely curious, they are soul-touching and beautiful. the type of face is the high-boned one the spaniard prefers, with well-cut brows and aquiline nose. notice the solemn beauty of christ's face in the _qui ci ne pecato_. in the panel, the blind cured, seldom has the expression of absolute faith been better rendered than in the raised face of the old blind man. do not pass by the garden of gethsemane with the three apostles lying heavily asleep, the human shrug of the shoulder and outstretched hand of the master: "could ye not watch with me one hour?" while the cathedral of burgos shows much florid later work, especially the central tower and that of the condestable chapel, under the too ornate additions the ancient purer church is plainly perceptible. it belonged to the gothic of the northern-france type, for pilgrims to her shrines and to fight in her crusades, brought foreign ideas to spain at so early a date that it is useless to speculate about what a native architecture might have been. some of the smaller churches of the town are worth visiting, such as san nicolás, with a stone _retablo_ which is a tour de force of handicraft; san lermes, and facing it the hospital of san juan, where we first met the escutcheoned doorways of spain, which, if kept within bounds, are arrogantly effective and national. throughout the city are good examples of domestic architecture, such as the casa del cordón, built by the constable of castile, don pedro fernández de velasco, whose sumptuous tomb lies in the center of the condestable chapel, and whose pride as a castilian speaks in the family proverb: "_antes que dios fuese dios,_ _o que el sol iluminaba los peñascos,_ _ya era noble la casa de los vélascos._" "before god was god, or the sun shone upon the rocks, already was the house of velasco noble."[ ] above the entrance to his house the girdle of st. francis connects his arms with those of his wife, as proud as he, for she was a mendoza. one rainy afternoon we spent in the _museo_ over the gateway of santa maría, and there, step by step, traced spain's art history,--statues from the former roman city of clunia in this province, a remarkable enameled altar-front of the byzantine period, romanesque and gothic relics from the monasteries out on the plains, a moorish arch found _in situ_, and tombs of that transition time from gothic to renaissance which in spain was so flourishing a phase of art. much as there is to hold one in the town, the bleak uplands outside have a desolate fascination that calls one out to them. there is an excursion to be made not far away to the monastery of miraflores, where isabella built for her parents "the most perfectly glorious tomb in the world." personally i prefer the quieter art of a mino da fiesole to this work of gil de siloe, rich though it is. the tomb is white marble, octagonal in shape, with sixteen lions supporting it. the weak juan ii lies by the side of his queen, who is turned slightly from him to read in her book of hours, in a natural attitude, as if she said pleasantly, "now do be silent, i must read in peace for a few minutes." at miraflores is a wooden statue of st. bruno, with a keen and subtle face of the same ascetic type as that of the young monk we watched praying quite oblivious of the gaping tourists. it is of this statue that philip iv remarked: "it does not speak, but only because he is a carthusian monk." the indifference to strangers in the mystic young penitent before the altar was our second meeting with a trait found in the average spaniard. he does not care an iota what the stranger thinks of him. he is not like the italian, inclined to put his best foot forward. he will not change his ways because they are criticised; you can admire or you can dislike, it makes little difference to him; and this quiet poise, in peasant as well as grandee, is not fatuous, for its root lies in an innate self-respect. he feels he is loyal to his god, to his king, and to himself,--what better standards can you have? avenues of trees lead out to another house of the benedictine rule, a convent for nuns founded by the sister of richard c[oe]ur de lion. many ladies of the royal line have retired to las huelgas, the nuns brought their dowries, and the mitered abbess held the rank of princess-palatine, with the power of capital punishment. the church has outside cloisters for the laity; the cloisters within the convent are never seen except on the rare occasions of a king's visit, when all who are able crowd in at the moment he enters. we were standing before the chancel where so many knights had performed the vigil of the armor--among others edward i of england was knighted here--when a nun entered the _coro_, and in her trailing white robes bowed toward the altar--rather it was the slow courtesy of a court lady. we shrank away with the feeling that we had intruded uninvited on a ceremony, that the days of the abbess, princess-palatine, were the reality and we, inquisitive guide-book tourists, the anacronism, a sensation not uncommon in spain. burgos is the birthplace of the national hero, the cid campeador, "god's scourge upon the moor." this contemporary of william the conqueror, whom the erudites of the eighteenth century tried in vain to prove a mythical character,[ ] may be said to dominate spanish literature. spain's epic, the "romancero del cid," has made its hero the historic cid for all time, just as shakespeare's genius vitalized a henry v. don roderick díaz de bivar was born under the castle hill of burgos in , some small monuments standing on the site of his _casa solar_. he was a champion of popular rights, generous, chivalrous, faithful ever to his wife jimena, a true guerrilla warrior, like the men of his age, sometimes crafty and cruel. the cid was every inch a man, as his fellow countrymen are eminently _varonil_, his hold on the heart of the people is secure. there are no poems in the world whose lines ring and clang more valiantly than the "romancero." here is untamed red blood and courage: "with bucklers braced before their breasts, with lances pointing low, with stooping crests and heads bent down above the saddle-bow, all firm of hand and high of heart, they roll upon the foe. and he that in a good hour was born, his clarion voice rings out, and clear above the clang of arms is heard his battle-shout, 'among them, gentlemen! strike home for love of charity! the champion of bivar is here--ruy díaz--i am he!' then bearing where bermúez still maintains unequal fight three hundred lances down they come, their pennons flickering white; down go three hundred moors to earth, a man to every blow; and when they wheel, three hundred more, as charging back they go. it was a sight to see the lances rise and fall that day; the shivered shields and riven mail, to see how thick they lay; the pennons that went in snow-white came out a gory red; the horses running riderless, the riders lying dead; while moors called on mohammed, and 'st. james' the christians cry."[ ] wandering minstrels sang these _chansons de gestes_ for centuries, till they were a very part of the nation. the wooing of jimena is strong with the unconscious vigor of those times. the cid had slain her father in combat: "but when the fair jimena came forth to plight her hand, rodrigo gazing on her, his face could not command; he stood and blushed before her; then at the last said he, 'i slew thy sire, jimena, but not in villany: in no disguise i slew him, man against man i stood, there was some wrong between us, and i did shed his blood. i slew a man, i owe a man; fair lady, by god's grace, an honored husband thou shalt have in thy dead father's place.'" and to the end the free-lance warrior proved a gallant husband. the ballad of their wedding feast was often in my mind in the silent streets of burgos. "within his hall of burgos the king prepares the feast, he makes his preparation for many a noble guest, it is a joyful city, it is a gallant day, 'tis the campeador's wedding, and who will bide away? they have scattered olive branches and rushes on the street, and the ladies flung down garlands at the campeador's feet, with tapestry and broidery their balconies between, to do his bridal honor, their walls the burghers screen. they lead the bulls before them all covered o'er with trappings, the little boys pursue them with hootings and with clappings, the fool with cap and bladder upon his ass goes prancing amid troops of captive maidens with bells and cymbals dancing."[ ] the old poet must have written with his eye straight on his subject; those eleventh century urchins baiting the bulls are startlingly realistic. when the cid died, at valencia, in , still called on the maps valencia del cid, he was placed in full armor on his battle horse, bavieca, and brought to san pedro de cardeña, eight miles from burgos. thither jimena retired, and on her death was laid with her husband. the faithful horse, famous in the "romancero" as jimena herself, was buried under a tree of the convent near his master. for the cid had left word, "when you bury bavieca, dig deep. for shameful thing were it that he should be eaten by curs who hath trod down so much currish flesh of moors." to-day bavieca's master does not lie in the quiet dignity of san pedro. after various vicissitudes his remains are kept in a chest in the city hall of burgos, not the most appropriate of sepulchers for a national hero. on the last day of our stay in the old gothic city, we climbed the hill from which it doubtless got its name, burg, a fortified eminence. the castle where the cid was married is a complete ruin, for when the french evacuated the fort in they blew it up. on every side stretched the level melancholy plain, and silhouetted against it was the elaborate stone lace-work of the cathedral. for long i looked out on the remarkable landscape, so far from beautiful yet so thought arousing. little by little i was learning how a race can be ascetic to its inmost core yet express itself in grandiose architecture; exalted in soul yet the most realistic people in europe; serious and dignified, yet childlike in their zest of life. here was man in his unsubtle vigor, not so liberal that he had no creed left, not so polished that he had lost the power of first wonder and emotion. life was lived here, not analyzed and missed. valladolid "they have no song the sedges dry and still they sing, it is within my heart they sing as i pass by, within my heart they touch a spring, they wake a sigh, there is but sound of sedges dry in me they sing." george meredith. from burgos to valladolid the monotonous castile plain continued, unbroken by any hill and hardly a tree. yet evening on the level steppes has a charm of its own. like sunset at sea, nature has a free sweep of canvas on which to paint her pageant; details eliminated, the essential remains. one carries away many such memories from the silent plateau, till little by little the affection of the grave castilian for his home is understood. on leaving burgos there had occurred an amusing station scene. the man at the ticket office told us we could not start till the following day, as the train, on the point of arriving, was already full. so in discouragement we turned back to the distant hotel. half way there a messenger from the station overtook us to say they had telegraphed ahead that there would be a few seats in the second class. we returned in time to board the packed train, and since it was the express to madrid the second class carriages were excellent. as was the custom all over spain, the hotel bus at valladolid was waiting, and drove us immediately to the inn, where we had the usual bare but clean rooms, and the usual well-cooked generous dinner: if the trains were to pick us up as they chose, at any rate we were not going to starve or be eaten alive. it is well to have the first view of valladolid by night as we did, under an early moon, for in the daytime it is modern, flat, and unpicturesque, a sharp contrast to burgos. the moonlight soon tempted us out to explore the town. in the plaza mayor all was animation, an unbroken promenade of people under the arcades before the gay shops, officers in bright uniforms, and ladies in parisian hats; it might have been any provincial city in europe. apart from this active lung of the town, the quiet streets were so deserted that our footsteps roused a startling echo. we passed under the huge fragment of the cathedral, a nave only; the transepts stand roofless, and a new ruin is as depressing a thing as there is in life. the architect of the escorial who designed this, herrera, gave his name to the pseudo-classic style, "art made tongue-tied by authority," that followed the plateresque abuse of ornament, just as his in turn was succeeded by the fantastic prancing art of churriguera, again a reaction. an example of this last, the university, stood in the square near the cathedral, and even the kindly moonlight could not soften the overladen meaningless mass; the cold severe lines of herrera were dignified and regrettable in comparison. for me a churrigueresque building is the ne plus ultra of bad taste in architecture, and spain has a wealth of them. that man can raise a santiago and a león, and some four hundred years later a san isidro of madrid, that the same race can carve a pórtico de la gloria and the transparente of toledo, show interesting possibilities of retrogression! alas! we thought, after the strong old gothic of burgos, is valladolid going to be just barren like its cathedral and chaotic like its university? we went on in the moonlight and came to a white gleaming plaza where a church of the thirteenth century stood isolated, santa maría la antigua, with a beautiful lombard tower, and also that feature peculiar to romanesque art in spain, an outside cloister for the laity. this was decidedly better. the next morning when we came to explore the town, though we found no gothic, we had our first introduction to a phase of architecture which is confined to the peninsula. it coincided with isabella's reign, and was a characteristic outburst of its new wealth and conquests, appropriately efflorescent and grandiose, though if carried one step beyond it would be decadent. this short period is called plateresque, from _platero_, silversmith, for its elaborate surface decoration of scrolls, medallions, and heraldic ornament is sublimated smith's work. it occurred during the transition from gothic to renaissance, so it combined itself with either one or the other of these styles. it may be dull to give these pedagogical details and yet, as i hinted, if one is to understand spain, one must have some smattering of architecture. valladolid is worth stopping to see on one's entrance to spain, if it were only for the clear-cut summary it gives of the different schools, always excepting gothic. as it and salamanca were the two places where the silversmith's art flourished, so they are the two centers for the best plateresque buildings. they happen to be, unfortunately, the two cities that suffered most from the french invasion. their churches and colleges were pillaged and battered, and though in modern times they have been restored, the first touch of perfection, "the first fine careless rapture" can never be recaught. [illustration: the faÇade of san gregorio, valladolid] valladolid has three notable examples of plateresque, san pablo, san gregorio, and the colegio de santa cruz. if you have a weakness for the art of the builder this introduction to the rich and admirable expression of spain at the zenith of her material power is an occasion. there is an excitement in coming on something original which has not been hackneyed by photograph. thus, when i first entered the square where san pablo's façade rises, i stood still in astonishment; i had never seen anything like this, and at first i could not tell if i liked it or not. tier on tier soared the carved shields and crests, bizarre but nevertheless stately. close by was the even stranger façade of san gregorio, one vast crest with elaborate arabesques and statues. being founded by the great primate of toledo, cardinal ximenez, it was appropriate to meet here in the courtyard with some mudéjar work, christian and moorish elements combined. it was in this convent that the dominican, bartolomé las casas, "apostle of the indians," spent the last twenty years of his energetic, troubled life, writing his history of the colonies. he died at the advanced age of ninety-two, "a man who would have been remarkable in any age of the world," says ticknor, "and who does not seem yet to have gathered in the full harvest of his honours." the third of the plateresque buildings, well within renaissance lines this last, the college of the holy cross founded by cardinal mendoza, now contains a grammar school, a library of some thousand volumes open to the public, and the museum of the city. on no account should the _museo_ be missed, for it holds a wonderful collection of wood carvings, an art which is to spain what italy's frescoes are to her: these statues were gathered chiefly from convents sacked by the french. valladolid was personally associated with this national development, for most of the master-carvers lived at one time or another in the city. spain's best sculptor, berruguete, worked for years for the monks of san benito, the _retablo_ of whose church is now in detached statues in the museum. he had studied under michael angelo, and though he had a distinct personality of his own, he plainly showed italian influence. his pupil, esteban jordán, lived here, also the exaggerated juan de juní, and a more famous master, alonzo cano, painter and architect too. cano, who died a canon in granada cathedral, is said to have fled the town--his house is still pointed out--when accused of the murder of his wife, though later investigations have thrown doubt on the whole story. this irascible master, one of the warmest hearted of men underneath, taught drawing to the don baltasar carlos whom velasquez painted, and i fear the infante found him very cross at times. velasquez and cano were friends and must have talked over that charming little prince. cano was indeed a character. when a corporation demurred at the price of a statue he had made for them he shattered the image with a blow; and on his death bed he could not bring himself to kiss an inartistic crucifix, saying, "give me a plain cross that i may venerate _jesucristo_ as he is pictured in my own mind." the room of coarsely-carved statues, formerly used in the holy week processions, should be passed with a glance, but the collection of smaller works deserves long study. the most beautiful group i thought was the baptism in the jordan by a later carver, gregorio hernández, of galicia, who died in valladolid in . his art is not classic, indeed most spanish sculptors cared little for the ideal perfection of the human body, their strength lay in the individual portrait, not in rendering a type. hernández softened the crudity or the realist school to which he belonged by depicting nobility of face and bearing. the scene of the jordan is a panel with the two chief figures life-sized in full relief. the baptist, his well-modeled limbs strong from life in the desert, leans forward to pour the river water on the head of his lord, with an expression of such vivid rapture and awe that it holds you spellbound. there is little in art that can surpass this in emotional sincerity. the story of the gospel is told to its fullest possibility. what the sculptor felt in every fiber he has succeeded in making others feel, and though an expression so poignant may not be highest art, it justifies itself by its direct appeal to the human heart. it is told of hernández that he never undertook a work till he had first prayed. he has here also a statue of st. teresa, spoiled by the heavy paint, and a bust of st. anne, successfully colored. even if you are prepared to find the wood carvings painted it frets you; it almost spoils the statues, but it was the custom and must be accepted. "_es la costumbre_" is a closing argument in a country whose link with the past has never been rudely broken. if her remarkable wood carvings come as a surprise, so will some of the practical developments of this small progressive city. the hospital that looks out on the leafy park of the magdalena is run in approved modern fashion. a brisk young doctor who spoke english, having learned from a friend in the english college here, showed us over the wards with legitimate pride. they radiated from a big central rotunda; on both sides of each ward were large windows and at the end of each a pretty altar. there were five hundred public beds, and private rooms were to be had for the sum of two dollars a week! the greeting between doctor and patients was a pleasant thing to see,--he chatted and joked with the children, and, as we left, stopped at the door to lift with real kindness an ill man who had just arrived in a gayly-painted country cart. the newcomer was a gentle-faced castilian, whose sons had brought him in from the plains; as the stalwart boys carried the trembling old man i thought of another touching hospital scene. perhaps rab and his friends came to my mind because bounding round us on our visit to the hospital was a beautiful scotch collie. "laddie" was an unfamiliar sight on a spanish street; he belonged to the english college and is a great pet of the seminarians. in valladolid are two foreign institutions: the scotch college, founded by a colonel semple in ; and the english, which continues the foundation of st. albans, and has relics of its name-saint of the third century. it was endowed in spain by sir francis englefield, who retired here after the execution of mary queen of scots. some forty english students are educated for the priesthood and return on their ordination for work in their native land. naturally the great hour of this college was during the religious persecutions under elizabeth, when it was death to be a priest in england. twenty-seven from this one small group were executed. their portraits hang along the cloisters: cadwallader, stark, bell, walpole, weston, sutheron,--each of the heroic band started from these quiet halls to meet a martyr's death. controversy is out of date, i hope, to-day. but there is such a thing as fair-mindedness, and a visit to spain at every step shows she has not had her share of it from english-speaking peoples. with every chapter of our guide book railing at the inquisition, i could not help feeling that these martyred englishmen should not be so completely forgotten. not that the _tu quoque_ argument excuses persecution on either side. but an age should be judged by its own ethics or true views of history are impossible. the new englanders who, two hundred years later than isabella's institution, hanged a few quakers on boston common were none the less moral men; and general robert e. lee fighting for slavery in the nineteenth century is a man we have a right to admire. the mere fact of the inquisition being founded by that magnanimous woman called by bacon "an honor to her sex and the cornerstone of the greatness of spain" should tell us its motives were sincere. her age had not yet learned the lesson, which we have acquired slowly, bit by bit through experience, that political or religious existence is possible with divided factions, not only possible but that a nation is more vigorous because of them. as bishop creighton wisely says: "the modern conception of free discussion and free thought is not so much the result of a firmer gasp of moral principles as it is the result of the discovery that uniformity is not necessary for the maintenance of political unity." isabella's age agreed that persecution was necessary to preserve christianity. and since only spain was in immediate contact with islam, and centuries of crusade against the invading infidel had the natural result of making the spaniard sternly orthodox, it was there that the inquisition flourished. it dragged on for over three centuries, and from to , , people were burned,[ ] these numbers being richard ford's, to whom the inquisition was as a red rag to a bull. the german scholar schack acknowledges that all the moors and heretics burned in spain by the holy office do not equal the women witches burned alive in germany during the seventeenth century alone. in france, in the one night of st. bartholomew, almost as many victims fell as during the whole three hundred years of the inquisition. of england the publishing of recent investigations makes it needless to speak; blood flowed in torrents there. besides those well known ones who met death under mary tudor, the catholic martyrdoms give such details as the "scavenger's daughter," that cramping circle of iron; "little ease," where a prisoner, could not sit or stand or lie down; needles thrust under the nails; the rack-master of the tower boasting he had made alexander briant longer by a foot than god had made him; the general custom of cutting down the victim from the gallows while still alive to tear out his heart and quarter him,--accounts that put the _autos da fé_ in the shade. in the annals of spain is not a scene that equals the blood curdling horror of the martyrdom in dorchester, england, of hugh green in the year .[ ] yet an englishman, a frenchman, a german, if fanaticism or cruelty are mentioned, makes his inevitable trite reference to the spanish inquisition. it has been made the scape-goat of all religious persecution. abuse has so fixed the idea that it was a barbarous machine controlled by contorted natures to whom bloodshed was a revelry that any effort to place it in a truer light is sure to be called retrogression. i am far from attempting a defense of this painful aberration of the christian mind, but what i hold is, if a student went to the records of alcalá and simancas, open free to all, not to search out the hundred mistaken cases from the ten thousand proven ones, the method up to this, but, following the first law of intellectual work, investigation without preconceived bias, if he tried to understand this phase of man's slow development _per errorem ad veritatem_, then the thin-lipped, gleaming-eyed, bloodthirsty inquisitor of the popular fancy would be taken from the pillory where he has been pelted these centuries past, and his mistaken sincerity stand justified by the conditions of his time. the records prove that the holy office was used seldom against scholars but against relapsed mohammedans and jews, false _beati_, sorcerers, and witches. "_ningún hombre de mérito científico fué quemado por la inquisición_," is the clear statement of one of the greatest of living scholars, menéndez y pelayo, and he who would cross swords with that erudite champion must be sure indeed of his assertions. not one spanish thinker or statesman, such as bishop fisher, sir thomas more, the carthusian priors, houghton, webster, and laurence, the poet robert southwell, the scholarly edmund campion, and a host of others,[ ] graduates of oxford and cambridge, executed for their faith during the hundred and fifty years of religious persecution in england, not one man of like standing was put to death in spain. had he been, some righteous hater of the "ferocious inquisitors," would ere this have produced his name and works. archbishop talavera was accused but was finally justified; if the poet luis de león was imprisoned, he was set free on examination. it was not his own countrymen but calvin in geneva, who had the spanish scholar, the unitarian, miguel servet burned alive, and it was the mild melanchthon who wrote to the reformer saying: "the church owes thee gratitude. i maintain that the tribunal has acted in accordance with justice in having put to death a blasphemer." in germany at that period the civil courts inflicted capital punishment on sorcery, blasphemy, and church robbery; had the same law held in spain the number of the inquisition executions would be appreciably lowered. lord bacon, who was a just and humane man, mentions as a matter of course that in his time the english civil courts used torture: the peninsula was not ahead of its time in this respect. as for that debated subject the effect on the spanish character of the _santo oficio_, prejudices have built up so twisted a labyrinth that the best way out for one who would keep his level-headed balance is to hold fast to the thread of internal evidence. unconscious of writing history for the future, hence his unassailable veracity, cervantes tells in detail of the life in court and tavern, in the town and on the desolate highways after the inquisition had flourished for more than a century. does he portray a degraded race, finger on lips whispering, "hush, or you will be overheard"? if the spaniard was ground down in fear and deceit why is it that to-day, of all the peoples of the continent, he is the most independent in character? it has been said that a burgher of amsterdam does not differ more from a neapolitan, than a basque from an andalusian, yet in this trait of sturdy independence all spaniards are alike; the historian ticknor wrote during his stay in spain, "the lower class is, i think, the finest _material_ i have met in europe to make a great and generous people." if under the inquisition "every intellectual impulse was repressed,"[ ] how dared theologians and philosophers, such as vives, isla, and feijóo boldly attack with their pens superstitions and degenerated religious customs? is the poetry of juan de la cruz, luis de león and the prose of teresa, the work of souls who feared to adore their god freely? and is it not undeniable that the two golden centuries of spanish art and literature flourished under this bugbear horror, this "_coco de niños y espantajo de bobos_," as menéndez y pelayo calls it? used chiefly against judaism and islamism, occasionally the inquisition became the tool of a tyrannic king for private vengeance. indeed, there are some historians such as von ranke, lenormant, de maistre, who hold it to have been more a royal than an ecclesiastic instrument, fostered by the hapsburgs to augment their autocratic rule.[ ] certainly all confiscated property went to the crown. man's slow development _per errorem ad veritatem_, slow indeed one may say, in the face of certain realities of our own time. happily the generations of cant and holier-than-thou are passing, and we are looking history more honestly in the face. it is dawning on us that religious persecution in is no more frightful than slavery in or an opium war in . modern spain realizes the wrong of persecution, the farce of a religion of love using the sword, as thoroughly as does every other civilized country. outside the church of st. philip neri in cadiz is a tablet proudly commemorating the abolition of the inquisition within its walls in . to return to less nettlesome themes. the little english college, so interesting a memorial of past history, a forgotten haven of refuge in old spain, must be a peaceful memory to look back on by priests whose later lives are spent in birmingham or london slums. the pleasant sitting-room of each inmate, the recreation hall with its theater, the library, with the latest english books jostling old spanish tomes,--all spoke of contented full days. we turned the parchment leaves where the college records for its three hundred years in spain have been kept, where each student is mentioned, from the troubled first days down to the group of ten who had arrived from england a week before our visit, among them a young reginald vaughan, nephew of the cardinal. with up-to-date hospital and busy manufactures, valladolid does not seem like an ancient capital of the spanish court. we would read in our guide book that the miserable juan ii had his favorite of a lifetime, Álvaro de luna, beheaded in the big square; that here juan's noble daughter married ferdinand of aragon; and that, seated on a throne in the plaza mayor, charles v pardoned the remaining comuneros, the rebels who had dared assert the federal principle against his centralization of government, spain's last outcry before she sank under the blighting tyranny of her hapsburg and bourbon rulers. such past happenings were interesting, but they would have the same meaning if read of in london or boston. however, there were two memories of valladolid that were vivid enough to haunt one as one walked about its hum-drum streets: they are associated with the saddest hours of two supreme men. no. calle de cristóbal colón is the insignificant house where isabella's high admiral died in , in obscurity and neglect, his patroness dead, and ferdinand ungrateful. a hundred years later, in another small house, now owned by the government, cervantes lived in poverty. unknown and undivined he walked these streets, looking at the passers-by with his wise, tolerant eyes. fresh, perhaps, from writing the monologue on the golden age, delivered by the don over a few brown acorns of inspiration, cervantes in threadbare cape went to his humble scrivener's work, the golden time of justice and kindness existing only in his own gallant heart. it was in valladolid that the ladies of his household, widowed sisters, niece, his daughter and wife, sewed to gain their daily bread, and as if penury were not enough, here they were thrown into prison because a young noble, wounded in a street brawl, was carried into their house to die. cervantes' life reads like one of the romantic tales he loves to digress with in his great novel, when grandee, barber and priest, court lady, eastern damsel, and _labrador's_ daughter, gather round the inn table--the servants a natural part of the group--in the easy meeting of the classes which is still a reality in spain. born at alcalá, cervantes' first bent was toward literature, but having gone to rome in the suite of a cardinal, in italy he joined the army against the infidel. he fought at lepanto, where his bravery drew on him the notice of don john of austria, that alluring young leader of whom one of his state council wrote, "nature had endowed him with a cast of countenance so gay and pleasing that there was hardly anyone whose good-will and love he did not immediately win." it makes a pleasant picture, the visit of this high-spirited young hero to his wounded soldier in the hospital of messina. later, cervantes fought at naples, at tunis, in lombardy, making part of his century's stirring history, and all the while storing his mind with the culture of italy. it was when returning to spain that some algerian pirates took him prisoner. his five years' captivity in africa stand an unsurpassed exhibition of grandeur of character, proving that the highest gifts of mind and heart go together in perfect accord. loaded with chains, twice brought to be hanged with a rope around his neck, his knightly spirit rose above all misery. there were twenty-five thousand wretched christians then in bondage in algiers. cervantes waited on the sick, shared his food with the more destitute, encouraged the despairing,--a christian in the fullest sense of the word is the testimony of a fray juan gil, who, belonging to a brotherhood for the redemption of prisoners, worked for his release. in this harsh school "_donde aprendió a tener paciencia en las adversidades_"--the adversities that were to follow him all his life--was chastened to self-effacement and a sublime patience an ardent spirit that by nature chafed against wrong. what wonder that the late flowering of this man's soul, the book written when past middle age, should be of chivalry all compact, a nobility of sentiment exposed half seriously, half in jest! what wonder that in the midst of laughter the voice breaks with tenderness for the lovable _caballero andante_! his quixote is cervantes' own unquenchable spirit. a bitter experience of life never deadened his faith in man nor dulled his heroic gayety. with exquisite humor he realized the alien aspect of such trust and love and faith in the disillusioning realities of life, so he veiled it all under the kindly cloak of a cracked-brained knight. the wandering adventures of a fool make the wisest, most human-hearted book ever written. toward the end of his slavery, when cervantes passed into the hands of the viceroy of algiers, hassan pasha, his force of character gained influence over the tyrant. but he asked too high a ransom for the captive's family to pay. the priest who had watched the young soldier on his deeds of mercy, worked indefatigably for his release. a letter was sent to philip ii to beg aid for a soldier of lepanto. at length three hundred ducats were raised. hassan pasha asked a thousand. already was cervantes chained to the oar of a galley, bound for constantinople, when at the last hour father gil, helped by some christian merchants, succeeded in raising five hundred ducats, which ransom the viceroy accepted. at thirty-four years of age, cervantes again stepped on spanish soil. but the world was then much as it is now; years had passed since lepanto,--he was forgotten. his patron don john of austria had died in flanders two years before his release. he joined the army once more and fought in the expedition against the azores; then seeing there was no chance of advancement, he returned to his first career, that of letters. his plays and poems had small success: a pathetic phrase in the scene where the _cura_ burns quixote's books and comes on an epic by one, cervantes, "better versed in poverty and misfortunes than in verses," has deeper meaning when his checkered career is known. twenty-five years of obscurity and abject poverty succeeded each other, his lot so lowly it is hard to trace his steps. whole years remain a blank. the brave heart never flagged, no bitterness tinged his kindly tolerance. this castilian hidalgo of ripe culture earned his bread in the humblest ways. found him in seville as commissary victualer for the great armada. tradition says he visited la mancha, the desert he was to immortalize, to collect tithes for a priory of st. john, and that the villagers in anger cast him into prison, where he conceived the idea of his novel. this child of his wit he hints to us was born in a jail. the sad years in valladolid followed, and there in , at fifty-eight years of age, he published the first part of "don quixote." its success was immediate. the grace of the style, the inimitable humor, and the underflowing current of mellow wisdom, made it from the start, what sainte-beuve called it, "the book of humanity." however, its publication did not much better cervantes' fortunes. he retired to madrid, where he lived on a small pension from the archbishop of toledo. a french noble visiting spain asked for the famous author, and was told, "he who had made all the world rich was poor and infirm though a soldier and a gentleman." in appeared his "novelas exemplares," a remarkable collection of tales which gave scott the idea of the waverley novels. the second part of "don quixote," equal to the first in vigor and charm, appeared when cervantes was sixty; "his foot already in the stirrup," he gives us in a preface, the moving description of himself. in the latter part of his life, according to a custom of the time, he became a tertiary of the franciscan order, and on his death in they buried him humbly in the convent of nuns in madrid, where his daughter was a religious. ill fortune still pursued him, for to-day there is no trace of his last resting-place. it is with thoughts of this heroic life--this man lovable as his own don, with a gentle stammer in his speech, and the kindly wise look in his eyes, his left hand maimed from lepanto, his shoulders bowed and his chestnut hair turned to silver by the ceaseless calamities of life--it is with such memories one looks down from the high-road on the small house where he wrote his masterpiece. columbus on his deathbed, and cervantes in poverty writing "quixote"--two such associations make a visit to valladolid memorable. oviedo in the asturias "it is perfectly ridiculous to pretend that, because they dress the madonna and saints in rich robes, the spaniards are ignorant that a statue is but a symbol. they sing their faith, we whisper ours, but the words have the same meaning, and the same thought is in the mind ... draw a bias line enclosing the basque provinces,--navarre, castile, aragon, catalonia, and you have there old religious spain as she appears in history, with a vivid and practical faith, an irreproachable clergy, a piety of the heart reflected in the manners."--renÉ bazin. we left valladolid toward evening, in order to stop over a night in palencia, before going north to asturias. the cathedral of palencia is well worth the pause, even though the visit may be limited to a night in the continental inn and a hasty daybreak visit to the church; the small cities of central spain are of so individual a character that each stamps itself separately and indelibly on the memory. the dawn was just breaking on a raw, rainy morning when we walked through the silent streets of the town. in spite of the early hour, near each of the water fountains stood a long row of antique-shaped jars, some of red clay, some like old silver. for each housewife places her jar in line, and when the drinking water is turned on, each fills her crock in turn, according as it was put in the row. at the biblical wells of palestine the syrian women to-day use ugly, square rockefeller oil cans, but happily conservative spain is not partial to innovations. it was on this early morning walk that i first noticed the white palm leaves, some six feet in length, fastened to the balconies or above a window. one finds them all over the country. they are from the palm forests of elche in the south, and each easter new ones are blessed and hung out on the houses, some say to guard against lightning. later, in madrid, we saw one decorating the king's palace. the cathedral of palencia is of the same tawny yellow as the plains about it. the east end is early gothic, the western part of a later, weaker period. like salisbury it has the uncommon feature of two sets of transepts; the clearstory is carried round the church, unbroken by rose windows at the west or transept ends. the interior in the dim light of a rainy october morning was picturesque past description. there are times when the chances of travel bring one to a spot at just its perfect hour. thus we saw this church in a moment of such exquisite half light and quietude that its memory is a possession for life. behind the high altar rose an isolated chapel, set detached in the midst of the ambulatory, and through its iron _rejas_ were seen the blurred glimmer of candles, the veiled kneeling figures of the people, an aged white-haired priest at the altar; high upon the wall the coffin of the ancient queen urraca. the effect was indescribable,--austere, ascetic, yet with a passionate glamour essentially spanish. a masterpiece could an artist make of this detached chapel, lighted for divine service each day at dawn with such unconscious naturalness. architects may say that spanish cathedrals are exaggerated and overloaded, that they lack the restraint and purity of line of chartres, amiens, and the isle de france churches which are the world's best gothic. all this may well be true, yet spain can smile securely at criticism. she has a soul in her places of worship, a soaring exaltation of the imagination that imparts the assurance of a living faith. firmly and ardently she believes in jesus christ, her redeemer, and with all her lofty intensity she prostrates herself in worship. we wandered round the dusky aisles, deciphering tombs, some of whose effigies held their arms raised in prayer,--only a spaniard could endure to look even at such a tiring attitude! but the time for loitering was limited. the transept clock, a knight, a moor, and a lion, sounded the warning we must heed if we were to catch the early train for the north. the thoughtful innkeeper had saved us some precious minutes by sending the hotel omnibus to wait outside the cathedral, and we rattled--in its literal sense--to the distant station. the city was at last fully awake, and each water jar had now an owner; one by one they followed each other at the pump, with pleasant greetings and chatter. then again stretched the tawny plains. the fields of león were tractless wastes of mud from the rain of the past weeks. seen from the car window, each village on the truncated mountain was the exact copy of its neighbor, the same monotonous note of color in adobe wall and denuded steppe. it was in vain to look for some distinction to mark one group of mud houses, called paredes de nava, birthplace of spain's best sculptor berruguete, from a similar mud-emblocked place called cisneros, feudal home of cardinal ximenez's family; the imagination had to supply the difference. every one must come prepared for spanish trains to go at a leisurely pace--about fifteen miles an hour is the average of the express route. from palencia to oviedo was a twelve-hour trip, and the distance covered was a hundred and sixty miles. of course one crossed the cantabrian mountains, the continuation of the pyrenees along the northern coast, and they are no slight barrier since they sometimes rise to a height of , feet. we passed the city of león toward noon, when there came a respite from the dull treeless plain, for, beyond the town stretched a thinly-wooded district which gave the first reminder since leaving the basque valleys that the season still was autumn. after central spain, the bleak hills that now began seemed positively beautiful,--so many pleasures are relative. slowly the train climbed the mountain wall that from earliest times has protected the asturian principality from the invader. near the summit, emerging from a tunnel several miles long, we looked out over a glorious panorama, the beauty not being relative this time, but as truly magnificent as some of switzerland's show views. the storm had covered the peaks with freshest snow, the sky was a frosty dark blue, mountain rose behind mountain for miles, the white road was flung a sinuous ribbon round the folds of the hills; below lay fertile valleys of greenest grass with greenest trees and happy nestling farms. the secure mountain wall gave the asturian courage to build a home wherever his whim chose. he was not forced like the castilian by centuries of moorish inroads to herd in a compact town. as the puffing train waited for breathing space on the crest of the pass, a group of peasants boarded it. they wore the white wooden clogs of the province that differ from ordinary clogs by having stilts, a couple of inches high, to lift them above the mud; and they brought with them, on a sledge, as wheels are of no use up these steep hills, an antique curiosity of a trunk. we began to hope that old costumes and customs still held in this isolated corner of the world, though the engineering of the road in the descent was disturbingly up-to-date,--a series of loops, cuts, and sharp turns; sometimes three parallel lines of rail over which we were to pass lay one below the other, sometimes directly across the valley we saw our trail; a distance of twenty-six miles is covered where a crow would fly seven. the principality of asturias has given its name to the heir apparent of the spanish crown since the th century, when a daughter of the duke of lancaster married the spanish king's eldest son, and her father claimed for her a title equal to that of prince of wales to the english throne. the connection by marriage between spain and england has been a frequent one. it began in the th century, when henry ii's daughter married alfonso viii of castile; later the plantagenet edward i had for wife a spanish infanta. from the two daughters of pedro the cruel, who married into the english royal family, on one side descended henry viii, from the other, by a marriage back again in spain, sprang isabella the catholic. after the ill-fated union of isabella's daughter with henry viii and that of mary tudor and philip ii, connection by marriage between spain and england ceased for centuries. to-day, as all the world knows, the young queen of spain, doña victoria, with the same blonde hair as isabella, is an englishwoman, and a rosy little prince bears the title of these distant mountains. it is a fitting title for the heir to the throne, since this province is the cradle of spanish nationality, and never was vassal to roman or moor. the people are a mixture of the aboriginal iberians and the visigoths who were here finally merged in one people and here reconstructed the spanish monarchy. so proud is an asturian of his origin that he thinks, like the basques, that his mere birth confers nobility; every native of the province is an hidalgo. did not the asturian lady, the duenna of the duchess, remark to don quixote that her husband was _hidalgo como el rey porque era montañés_? when in the last of the gothic kings, roderick, was defeated by the moors who had lately crossed from africa, a remnant of the christian army took refuge in these northern mountains. at cavadonga, an historic defeat was inflicted on the moslem army in , by pelayo, spain's first king, chosen leader because he was the bravest of the people. the moorish chronicle, too close to the struggle to see its vital issues, speaks of "one belay, a contemptible barbarian who roused the people of asturish." without cavadonga the face of europe had been changed. had not the mussulmans from africa met this repulse, they had pushed on beyond the pyrenees before the franks were strong enough to withstand them. often rose this thought when reading the sentimental regrets for the moors in spain found in guide books and histories. had spain not warred for eight hundred years against the invader, had she not endured with such spartan courage the insecurity of life and property caused by ceaseless forays from the south, european civilization had been put back for centuries. like most virile nations, she has the defect of her qualities, and when the final victory was hers she went too far. but this should not blind us to the nobility of the _reconquista_. within reach of cavadonga, sacred to every spaniard as the cradle of his race and religion, i could not help asking the cause of the ceaseless regret for the moor. a lover of the picturesque, like washington irving, has a right to gloss over the days of the alhambra, but it seems strange for serious history to hold up the mohammedan in spain as a model of cleanliness, industry, and tolerance in contrast to the christian, in face of the centuries of piracy by sea, the barbarity of african prisons where thousands of spaniards languished in chains, and also--a thought that often came to me when walking through the filthy, narrow streets in moslem countries--if the moor in spain is to be so regretted, why are not the northern cities of africa models for modern christians to emulate? the moor came from them, and many of his race left spain to return to them. i would not belittle the arab civilization in the peninsula, for under the ommiade dynasty, cordova reached a distinguished height of culture, but what i object to is the partisan spirit that places moors on one side to be praised and extenuated, and spanish christians on the other to be condemned. facts are so distorted that many think the re-conquest of andalusia meant the substitution of backward ignorance for an enlightened rule, whereas the moors themselves, long before the coming of their northern conquerors, had destroyed their own higher civilization. the flower of their culture (always an exotic, for islamism as hitherto interpreted is incapable of strengthening it) was withered before alfonzo vi and the cid had set foot further south than toledo. under the ommiade caliphs, for about five generations, life probably resembled the golden picture drawn for us as typical of moorish sway. a few able rulers disguised the fact that the government was never anything else but a despotism. this _siglo de oro_ was well over by . some barbarous warrior tribes, from africa, the almoravides, swept away the feeble remains of ommiade rule, to be in their turn routed by other african invaders, the fanatic almohades. these last persecuted averroës as holding views too liberal for a true mohammedan, and the scholar died in misery and exile, just as in the same century the remarkable spanish-jew, maimonides, was accused of teaching atheism by his fellow israelites. rejected by his own people, the fame of averroës came later through his study by european schoolmen. his teachings, like most of what is of value in arab learning, was of greek origin, and had reached him by way of persia, which never wholly conformed to the set tenets of islam. why do the anti-spanish historians never mention that in the same era in which averroës, the philosopher, was persecuted by his fellow-believers, a college of translators under the patronage of the archbishop raimundo of toledo, from to , put into latin the most scientific works of the moors? mohammedan civilization in spain, from decay within, was completely disintegrated by . the caliphs of granada led the lives of weak voluptuaries, artistic but decadent; no rose-colored romancing can veil their essential decline. isabella's court, traveling with its university, with the learned peter martyr instructing the young nobles in renaissance lore, so that a son of the duke of alva, and a cousin of the king are to be found among the lecturers of salamanca, presents a noble contrast. when the _reconquista_ was achieved, and after three thousand seven hundred battles, the spaniard was again master in his own land, grievous mistakes were made, until finally, in , in a panic of fear that the corsairs of africa were uniting with their co-religionists along the spanish coasts, the moriscos were expelled. spain inflicted this blow on herself at an ill moment, since already from the enormous emigration to the new world, her crying need was population. but this act of bad government whereby she threw away over half a million of her inhabitants (always remember, however, far more moorish blood remained than was lost, for nine centuries of occupation had well infiltered it through the southern provinces) did not drive out the intellectual and moral backbone of the land as we are given to understand. the moors of isabella's day were not the liberal-minded, cultivated people they had been under the ommiade caliphs four centuries earlier, and the persecuted moriscos of philip iii's time were far lower in standing. also it cannot be questioned that valencia, the province that expelled them, whose rich soil to-day supports a crowded population, quickly filled up, and soon showed with its irrigation the same industry that seemed peculiar to the moors. it was central spain, eminently "old christian," that when its people flocked as adventurers to america, could offer neither fertile soil nor inviting climate to lure new settlers. the quotations usually cited to prove that valencia was irremediably devastated by the expulsion are taken from men who wrote within a few years of the disaster; it would be an easy matter, following the same sophistry to quote aspects of our south a generation ago that could make the civil war appear an irremediable blight. seeking for the cause of the tendency to overrate the moor at the expense of his hereditary enemy, it seems to me it is to be traced to that period of rancor, the invincible armada, when religious and political passions ran so high that it was forgotten that the hated spaniard was before all else a christian, and on his heroic struggle for the cross had hung the civilization of europe. the capital of the asturian province is oviedo. alfonso ii, the eighth king that followed pelayo, made it his chief city, but in spite of its antiquity it is a disappointing town. i had pictured an unspoiled bit of the past, locked in as it is by mountains whose valleys reach to the city gates, with curiously-named saints still serving as titulars, with the oldest remains of christian architecture in the peninsula. but the reality is a smug, commonplace, successful little city of slight local color. the mansions are renaissance, not mediæval; if you stumble on an ancient street it soon brings you to a straight new boulevard. children in english clothes and ladies dressed like parisians walk in the park facing a line of pretentious apartment houses. i asked in the shops for pictures of the _cámera santa_. they could only give me postcards of the model prison and the model insane asylum. sleepy little palencia, with its rows of classic water jars waiting--time no consideration--till the water was turned on in the fountains, it seemed hardly possible we had left it only that morning. the remote old world may be found in central spain, but as this is the land of anomalies, the mountain provinces of the north are busy to-day with mines and commerce. it remains but a question of time for bilbao, santander, gijón, coruña, and vigo, the northern harbors, to become commercial centers. they are awake at last and keen to enter the struggle. this industrial tendency is what we agree in calling progress, and spain has been censured for her backwardness in entering the world's competition, so it is not justifiable to regret the unambitious past. but who can be consistent in the home of _el ingenioso hidalgo_! from the moment of entering spain till we left i leaned now to one side, now to the other, glad and proud one day to see her new industries, a model hospital or asylum, and scoffing the next, at a hideous new boulevard that had relieved a congested district. this land of racy types and vigorous humanity may be doomed to have factory chimneys belching smoke, to have lawless mobs of socialists and pitiful slums in cities where now is frugal poverty, where a beggar lives contentedly next door to a prince, because he feels the prince recognizes him as his fellow countryman and fellow christian: progress and wealth are bought with a price. oviedo, just entering the competition, and fast sweeping away its picturesque past, made me glad to be in time to see something of the old ways of spain. the lion of the city, the cathedral, adds to this inconsistent feeling of disappointment. it is the only cathedral of the twenty and more we were to see that has removed the choir from the nave and placed pews down the center of the church. at burgos the heavy blocking mass of the _coro_ in the nave had startled and bewildered me, but soon i grew so accustomed to this spanish usage that a church without it seemed incomplete. oviedo has modernized its side chapels, recklessly sweeping away carvings and sarcophagi. it thought the tombs of pelayo's successors, the early kings, were cluttering rubbish, so a good plain stone, easy to decipher, has been put up in place of the ancient memorials! the cathedral is perpendicular gothic of the th century. the west façade has a spacious portico, whose effect, however, is lessened by the church being set so that you descend to it from the street. on one side of the portico rises the tower, bold and graceful, showing from its base to its open-lace stone turret an easy gradation of styles. this is the tower that runs like an echo through a powerful modern novel set in oviedo, "la regenta," by leopoldo alas. "_poema romántica de piedra_," he calls it, "_delicado himno de dulces líneas de belleza muda_." out of the south transept open cloisters that made, the first day of our visit, a charming picture in the sunshine after the weeks of cold rain; the red pendants of the fuschia bushes caught the long-absent warmth with palpable enjoyment. the shafts of the pillars here were oval shaped, not a wholly successful change, as in profile view they appeared unsymmetrical. out of this south transept also opens the gem of the church, the _cámera santa_, which has escaped the general renovation as being too closely bound to the historical and religious past of spain to be tampered with. alfonso _el casto_ in built this shrine, raised twenty feet from the church pavement to preserve it from damp. a small room with apostle-figures serving as caryatids leads to the sanctum sanctorum where the famous relics are kept. they were brought here in a byzantine chest from toledo when the moors conquered that city, and probably there are few collections of old jewelers' work equal to them. here is kept the cross pelayo carried as a standard at the battle of cavadonga more than eleven hundred years before. few can help feeling in spain the charm of continuous tradition. never were her treasures scattered by revolution; that this was pelayo's very cross is not problematic but a fact assured by unbroken record. a printed sheet describing the sacred objects in the _cámera santa_ is given to each visitor. it would be easy to turn many of these relics of a more naïve, less logical age, into ridicule. to one, however, who tries to see a new land with comprehending sympathy, to which alone it will reveal itself, these relics, brought back from the holy land by crusading knight or warrior bishop, are tender memorials of a great hour of christian enthusiasm. one of the strongest traits of spanish character is reverence for all links that bind it to its past, especially its religious past, and happy it is for such old treasures that they find shelter in a land where a _cámera santa_ is still a shrine, not a museum. "_¡triste de la nación que deja caer en el olvido las ideas y concepciones de sus majores!_" if oviedo itself is disappointing to those who seek the antiquely picturesque, the countryside that encircles it is doubly lovely. on a bright sunday morning we walked out a few miles to see the church of santa maría de naranco, built by ramiro i back in . it was a steep scramble up the mountain side, for the road was like a torrent bed. peasants on donkeys passed, on their way into the town for their day of rest, some with brightly decorated bagpipes groaning out their merriment. to avoid the sea of mud in the high road, we took short-cuts up the hills, following a peasant who, seated sideways on her donkey, balanced on her head a huge loaf of bread. and her bread, round and flattened in the center, was the exact shape of the loaves chiseled, centuries before, in the bible scenes of burgos choir-stalls. the old woman smiled and nodded as she smoked her cigarettes, watching us pick our way with difficulty where the tiny hoofs of her ass trod lightly. what cares a spanish peasant whether the road is good or bad when he has a sure-footed donkey to carry him! at length we reached the small church built by the third king after pelayo. it is a room thirty-six by fifteen feet, with a chamber at the east and another at the west end. along the north and south walls are pillars from which spring the arcades, and these pillars and arches make the support of the building; the walls merely fill in. this is the earliest example in spain of the separation into active and passive members; whether the idea came from lombardy or was of native birth is not known. we climbed still higher up the red sandstone hill, among gnarled old chestnut trees, to where the ancient church of san miguel de lino stands. the oriental windows, being in spain, would naturally be thought of moorish origin, but their eastern source antedates the moor. they came from the byzantine east, by way of the bosphorus, not the straits of gibraltar. they are reminiscent of the time when the goths, before their invasion of spain, lived around the danube. on july th the scene near these two churches is a striking one. the village of naranco is emptied of its folk that pious morn, as the peasants, in the same tranquil beauty as in old greece, lead their garlanded oxen and heifers up to san miguel. so unchanging are spain's customs that the festival is paid for out of the spoils taken at the battle of clavigo (in ), where tradition says the loved patron of the peninsula, the apostle st. james, "_él de españa_," came to fight in person. we were not so fortunate as to see this feast of sant jago, but we stumbled on a beautiful minor scene. as we returned by santa maría de naranco, a group of peasants stood round the priest on the raised porch of the church, the center of interest being a baby three days old. few women can resist a baptism, that solemn first step in a christian life, so we drew near. the father was a superb-looking youth of about twenty, in a black velvet jacket; his crisp curly hair, his glow of color, and the proud outline of his features made him fit subject for the artist. the godmother, his sister it seemed from the resemblance, was a buxom girl in sunday finery; the godfather was a younger brother of fourteen, who awkwardly held the precious burden. the old priest wore the wooden clogs of the people and made a terrible racket with every step. from the porch he led the way into the church, and after pausing half way to read prayers,--a scuffling old sexton held aslant a dripping candle,--they came to the baptismal font in the raised chamber at the west end. the young father went forward to the altar steps to kneel alone, and the godfather, with great earnestness, gave the responses. then the _cura_ poured the blessed water on the tiny head, and to prevent cold wiped it gently. the ceremony over, his wooden shoes clattered into the sacristy, the sexton blew out the candle, and the agile godmother claimed her woman's prerogative and tossed and crooned to the young christian as she tied ribbons and cap-strings. the two strangers who had witnessed this moving little scene under the primitive carving of the visigothic church wished to leave a good-luck piece for the small manuela. but when they put the coin into the hand of the young parent who still knelt before the altar, he returned it with a beautiful, flashing smile. in halting spanish they explained their good-luck wishes, and in that spirit the gift was accepted. seen from naranco, the red-tiled roofs of oviedo encircled by far-stretching mountains made a romantic enough scene. seated on the trunk of a chestnut tree we watched the sun set over the exquisite valley. immediately round us on the hillside had once stood the city of king ramiro, obliterated as completely as the earlier ph[oe]nician and roman settlements in spain. the dead city where we sat, the town below, distant from the bustle of the world yet fast approaching it, the glow and sweep of the sunset,--it is at moments such as these that the mind enlarges to a swift comprehension, untranslatable in speech, of the passing breath the ages are. the mountains change, the rivers capriciously leave their beds,--especially in spain, where bridges stand lost in green meadows and are left undisturbed, for does not a proverb say, "rivers return to forsaken beds after a thousand years?" and spain has patience to wait! whether it was the new-born child, the forgotten city, the up-to-date town below, or just the sun setting over that illimitable expanse of mountains, santa maría naranco gave one an hour of the higher philosophy. in the after-glow we walked back to oviedo. along the way the returning country people greeted us with ease and dignity: "_vaya usted con dios_," the beautiful salutation, "go thou with god," heard from one end of the land to the other. the beggar gives you thanks with it, the shop man dismisses you, the friend takes farewell, but its pleasantest sound is in the country, heard from the lips of clear-eyed peasants passing in the evening light. this peasantry is by instinct well-bred, proud of a pure descent, by nature a gentleman, a _caballero_. a traveler's life and pocket are absolutely secure in these unfrequented northern provinces of "dark and scowling spain." for a century those who have turned aside from the beaten track have brought back the same tale of courtesy and hospitality. there is much of arcadian gentleness among these unlettered people. the spanish _labrador_ may not read or write, but he cannot be called ignorant; statistics here do not guide one to a true knowledge. the country people hand down in the primitive way, from one generation to the other, a ripe store of human wisdom, that often gives them a wider outlook on life and a deeper strength of character than that of the educated man who shallowly criticises them. they are unspoiled and very human, the women essentially feminine, the men essentially manly; daily this note of virility strikes one,--one grows to love their expressive, beautiful word, _varonil_. "the man in the saloon steamer has seen all the races of men, and he is thinking of the things that divide men,--diet, dress, decorum, rings in the nose as in africa, or in the ears as in europe. the man in the cabbage field has seen nothing at all; but he is thinking of the things that unite men,--hunger, and babies, and the beauty of women, and the promise or menace of the sky." when one can say a thing like that, one is born to appreciate spain. will not mr. gilbert chesterton go there and study some day her untamable grand old qualities and describe her as she should be described? if such a country population had had good government during the past three hundred years instead of the worst of tyrannies, where would it stand to-day? though such a surmise is foolish, for perhaps it is because of its isolation that the spanish peasantry is racy and vigorous. knowing the hopelessness of battling against corruption in high places in madrid, it lived out of touch with modern life, elevated by its intense faith, the hard-won inheritance from the _reconquista_,--and a peasant's faith is his form of poetry and ideality, which when taken from him makes him lose in refinement and charm. back in the basque provinces the new idea had dawned on us that this was not a spent, degenerate race, but a young unspoiled one, and every excursion in the country parts of spain made deeper the assurance of red blood coursing in her veins. corrupt government has deeply tainted the city classes, has made loafers, and men who open their trusts to the silver key, but the heart of the people is sound. it has been tragically wounded by rulers to whom, an heroic trait, it has ever been loyal. if a country after centuries of misrule had the same power to govern herself as a nation that had had enlightened government for the same length of time, would not one of the best arguments for good government be lost? it may be a long time before spain learns the restraint of self-rule. but go among the vigorous mountaineers of the north, talk with the patient, sober castilian _labrador_, watch the catalan men of industry and you will see the possibility of her future. a noble esprit de corps controls the guardia civil who are the keepers of law and security in spain, to whom a bribe is an insult. let the same spirit extend to the other departments,--to the post, to the railway, the civil government; let the judge sit on an impregnable height; let the priest of andalusia have as solemn a realization of his office as the priest of navarre, of aragon, of old castile; let the women be given a wider education (though may nothing ever change their present qualities as wives and mothers), and spain is on the right road. cavadonga was merely a two days' trip from oviedo, yet we had to forego it. the weather was too abominable; while málaga on the southern coast of spain has an average of but fifty-two rainy days in the year, this city on the northern coast has only fifty-two cloudless days. the thought of a rickety diligence over miles of muddy roads kept enthusiasm within bounds. after a short pause in the asturian capital we took the train back to león. the valleys were a veritable paradise; now we skirted a wide river flowing under heavily-wooded hills, now we crossed fields covered with the autumn crocus, and saw from the balconies of the farmhouses yellow tapestries of corn cobs hung out to dry. some day, not so far distant as an ideal government in spain, the lover of independence and untouched nature will come to these northern provinces instead of going to hotel-infested switzerland. the temperate climate, the trout and salmon rivers, the courtesy of the people, make these valleys between the mountains and the sea an ideal tramping and camping ground for the summer. the sleeping cities of leÓn "i stood before the triple northern porch where dedicated shapes of saints and kings, stern faces bleared with immemorial watch, looked down benignly grave and seemed to say: 'ye come and go incessant; we remain safe in the hallowed quiets of the past; be reverent, ye who flit and are forgot of faith so nobly realized as this.'" james russell lowell. there have been many efforts to divide spain into right-angled departments similar to those of her neighbor france. the individual land throws off such efforts to bring her into geometric proportion: never can her thirteen immemorial divisions, her thirteen historic provinces be wiped out. each is an entity with ineradicable characteristics and customs. their boundaries may seem confused on a paper map, but they are reasonable in the flesh and blood geography of mountains and river valleys, or the psychological geography of early affiliation and conquest. no alfonso or ferdinand will ever be king of spain, but king of the spains, _rey de las españas_. _mi paisano_, the term which stands for the closest bond of fellowship, is used by an aragonese of an aragonese, by a catalan of a catalan, never by an aragonese of an andalusian, or a catalan of a castilian. the independent basque provinces, (where the monarch is merely a lord) the free mountain towns of navarre, stiff-necked aragon, these never will merge themselves in old castile. nor can catalonia, self-centered, humming with manufactures and seething with anarchy, understand pleasure-loving andalusia, that basks under fragrant orange trees as it smiles its ceaseless _mañana_. valencia and murcia, where crop follows crop in prodigal fruitfulness are the antithesis of desolate estremadura, and of that immortal desert of don quixote the denuded steppes of new castile, to their north. and the mountain provinces of galicia and the asturias, of idyllic hill and dale, yet with seaports fast awakening to commercial life, look with little sympathy on the sluggish province of león that borders them. industrial advancement is on its gradual way in spain, but there is not a hint of its movement in this oldest of the separate kingdoms. zamora, astorga, león, salamanca, the romantic cities of the earlier days of chivalry, lie asleep; the whistle of the railways has failed to rouse them. you must lay aside all theories of modern comfort here, and make the tour in the spirit of a pilgrim lover of the antique and picturesque. what else could be expected in a province where the peasantry still embroider their coarse linen sheets with castles and heraldic lions, in a land where even the blazonry of a city rings with a psalm, _ego autem ad deum clamavi_. the centuries of forays have bequeathed a hardy endurance to the people, but they are the cause at the same time of the scanty population of the plains, the tragic evil of central spain. we got to the city of león the day of a horse fair. fresh from wide-awake oviedo, it was like stepping back into an older world; here was old spain much as it was in the time of guzmán[ ] the good, the defender of tarifa in , whose _casa solar_ faced the plaza where the fair was held. the peasants who bargained in groups, wore toga-draped capes and wide-brimmed felt hats edged with an inch of velvet; every horse in spain must have been gathered there, and an equal number of kind-eyed woolly little donkeys, essential factors of a spanish scene. "the castilian donkey has a philosophic, deliberate air," wrote théophile gautier on his sympathetic tour in the peninsula seventy years ago, "he understands very well they can't do without him; he is one of the family, he has read 'don quixote,' and he flatters himself he descends in direct line from the famous ass of sancho panza." a step beyond the horse fair brought us to massive roman walls with frequent semi-circular towers; león's name comes from augustus' th legion who fortified it against the highlanders of the north. built into the walls is the remarkable church of san isidoro encrusted with later work, but with the strong romanesque lines still prominent. the pilgrims who flocked from europe to santiago compostella in the middle ages were partly the means of bringing this style into spain; thus san isidoro is of burgundian origin, just as santiago cathedral resembles saint-sernin in toulouse, and the catalan churches show lombard features. though the spaniard adapted the style to his own character, adding the original feature of outside cloisters for the laity, its importation nipped in the bud a just beginning national architecture, whose loss cannot but be regretted. san isidoro has a privilege seldom given, the blessed sacrament being exposed every day of the year, and always before its lighted altar one sees veiled figures kneeling. it served as the pantheon for the kings who followed ordoño ii--twelfth in descent from pelayo--who removed his capital from oviedo here, and the ancient burial chamber still has ceilings painted in the stiff byzantine manner with obscure color, hard lines, and lack of perspective, probably the oldest paintings in spain. the "romancero" tells how jimena, the gallant, golden-haired wife of the cid, came here after the birth of her child to attend mass. she wore the velvet robes given her by the king on the day of her marriage, a richly jeweled hair-net, gift of the infanta urraca, her rival; around her neck painted medals of san lázaro and san pedro, _santos de su devoción_, and so beautiful was she that the sun stood still in his course to see her better. at the church door the king met her and escorted her in honor, for was not her husband away fighting the infidel for his monarch? there is so true a ring to the old ballads that jimena lives a real personage. "_oviedo la sacra, toledo la rica, sevilla la grande, salamanca la fuerte, león la bella_" runs an old verse on spanish cathedrals. and the cathedral of león merits its name. it is harmoniously beautiful, pure french-gothic, graceful and elegant, classic if the word is permissible for the unrestrained individualism of gothic art. built in one age without intermission, in the bishop announced that no further contributions were needed, and the centuries since have left the church untouched. here no cold herrera portal usurps some lovely pointed work and churrigueresque extravagancies are not prominent: the late restorations have followed the first plans. [illustration: _copyright, , by underwood & underwood_ the cathedral of leÓn] always excepting the _pórtico de la gloria_ in santiago, the west doorways of león cathedrals stand for the best in spanish sculpture. the statue of the _virgen blanca_ in the center is famous. around her the saints and apostles are grouped in appealing attitudes;--out of proportion though they may be as to hands and feet, their sincerity covers all flaws: here, a homely face with care-worn wrinkles of goodness; there, one beaming in satisfaction to be standing in such a chosen band. the lunette over the central door is delightful. on one side, in heaven, a clerk plays the organ, while a boy blows the bellows, and groups stand chatting near, for a spaniard's idea of bliss, in those days also, took the form of ease and desultory talk. hell, on the opposite side, not to be outdone, has two urchins blowing bellows as well, not to make music but to quicken a fiery caldron into which devils are thrusting the sinners. the enjoyment of the old sculptor in his heaven and hell was too keen to be confined in the lunette and he has spread himself over the curving of the arches; in spite of time and retouching these three doorways show exquisite detail chiseling. "about their shoulders sparrows had built nests and fluttered, chirping, from gray perch to perch, now on a miter poising, now a crown, irreverently happy." within león cathedral all is quiet and solemn, a true beauty of holiness. there is no clutter of side chapels in the nave but a sheer sweep of windows filled with the jeweled glass of flemish masters.[ ] these windows come as a surprise in a land where churches are guarded from the sun, and often the open triforium and clearstory, as at avila, are walled up later to darken the interior. the chancel and choir are worth detail study. the _coro_ seats have panels carved with single figures,--saints with their emblems, warriors with raised visors, placid-faced nuns, thoughtful bishops, gallant pages with their crossed feet gracefully poised,--all of a noble type, with high brow and aquiline nose. spain has comparatively nothing to show in the way of frescoes, she had no early masaccio, no giotto, no filippo lippi, to paint the costumes and features of his generation, but wood carvings are her substitute; in them, and in her unrivaled tombs can be read the contemporary history of warrior, bishop, and page. the _retablo_ of the high altar is of the same simple elegance as the rest of the church. the usual towering one of carved scenes would have been singularly out of place, it is appropriate for the big dark interior of seville cathedral, but here are grace and restraint instead of grandeur and mystery, and most suitable are the ancient paintings of varying sizes, gathered from scattered churches and framed together. radiating round the chancel are chapels that give to the exterior view of the apse a truly french-gothic air, flying buttresses supporting the cap of the _capilla mayor_. romanesque, gothic, and plateresque are each well represented in león city. in the last style is the noticeable convent of san marcos that stands isolated outside the town beside the swift blue-green river. the knights of santiago built a resting-place on their pilgrimage route back in the th century, but the present building is of isabella's day, and the architect has given free rein to his silversmith's arabesques and medallions, and scattered pilgrim shells all over the façade of the church. we tried to get into the museum, now in the convent, as it contains some good wood carvings, but an aged beggar at the door explained "_mañana_," the easy "to-morrow," as prevalent in león as in andalusia,--then rising to the occasion as only an italian or spanish beggar can, he swept open his toga-draped cape, smiling as he pointed to the entrance door: "to-morrow, after your morning chocolate, it will be open for you." it was sunset as we turned away. the long mass of san marcos stood boldly against the red glow of the sky. the horizon was outlined by the blue mountains of asturias. with our imagination filled with the old days when pilgrims flocked here from england, from the forests of germany, from the po and the danube, suddenly over the ancient bridge rode a troop of cavaliers on prancing steeds, in cloaks and plumed hats. the kindly blessed illusion hid the fact that our pilgrim-knights were sturdy peasants in the national _capa_, riding their long-haired horses back from the city fair. "sin el vivo calor, sin el fecundo rayo de la ilusión consoladora ¿que fuera de la vida y del mundo?" asks one of spain's poets of the th century, núñez de arce, and in his native country it takes but little effort of the imagination to repeople the solemn churches, the narrow city streets, or the treeless plain with the romantic figures of the past. the following day at dawn, after a miserable night in rooms like icy death, a true pilgrim night of endurance, we took the train for the west. as we entered the railway carriage _reservado para señoras_ a sleepy railway-guard stumbled out of the further door; all through the journey in the north, we roused these cozily-ensconced railway-officials, for so rare are ladies alone on this route, that the conductors have fallen into the habit of sleeping in the carriage reserved for them. when our tickets were collected we were given many a severe look for daring to upset a _cosa de españa_. on the way from león to astorga, little over thirty miles, the realization of the old pilgrim route is vivid. before reaching astorga comes the paladin's bridge,[ ] of Órbigo, where in the reign of isabella's father ten _caballeros andantes_ challenged every passing pilgrim to a bout of arms; if a lady came without a cavalier to fight for her, she forfeited her glove, if any knight declined to fight he lost his sword and spur. the age of knight errantry which cervantes has haloed with a deathless charm, breathes in this historic pass of honour. the leader, suero de quiñones, came of the great guzmán family, to which st. dominic belonged, and of which the empress eugénie was a scion. to show his captivity to his lady, every thursday he wore an iron chain round his neck, but when victor in this tourney, it was removed with solemnity by the heralds. suero's sword is to be seen to-day in the madrid armory where in an hour more of spain's real history is learned than in years of reading. the roman walls of astorga, seen from the railway present an imposing appearance: here, as at león and lugo, the frequent half-circular towers do not rise above the crest of the walls. astorga must have looked just like this when the pilgrims rode by to the shrine of st. james. a closer inspection spoils the illusion however, for the proud city that once ranked as a grandee of spain is to-day a very tattered and worn hidalgo, and there is a sad air of desolation about its plaza and crumbling walls. whether or not it was because our ramble was by early morning before the inhabitants were astir, at any rate i brought away a picture of a depopulated town. there were but a few silent worshipers under the clustered piers of the late-gothic cathedral, whose reddish tower is the important feature of the distant view. what had tempted us to pause a night in astorga was the wood-carved _retablo_ by becerra in the cathedral, but we found it by no means equal to the work of the carvers in valladolid. becerra had studied under vasari in rome, and the influence is shown too plainly. there is a curious weather cock on the church, a wooden statue called pedro mata, dressed in the costume of a singular tribe that lives in some thirty villages near by. the origin of the maragatos is involved in mystery; some say they are the descendants of moors taken in battle, some of goths who sided with the moors. during all these centuries they have kept separate from the people about them, like gypsies they marry only with themselves. they should not be confounded with _gitanos_, however, for the maragatos are honest and industrious; they are the carriers of the countryside, with the privilege of taking precedence on the road. here and there in spain one stumbles on a strange, isolated relic of the past such as this. astorga was still sleeping, in the literal as well as figurative sense, when we left; a walk on top of the walls looking out over the león plain, a regret that we could not sketch the artistic church of san julián, with its faded green door and crumbling portal, and we turned south. on the train i discovered that a five franc piece given me in change by the innkeeper, was nothing but a bit of silver-washed brass advertising the cakes of one casimiro in salamanca, and i, seeing the king's effigy, had thought it a genuine spanish dollar,--it is easy to be caught napping in león. zamora is not many miles from astorga and like the other sleepy towns of the province, it too seems to feel it has a right to a long pause in obscurity after its heroic centuries of moorish warfare. the great hour of the city was the time of the cid; the "romancero" should be in one's pocket here. one of its stirring incidents is the death of king ferdinand i, in , and its sequel of battles and sieges. the king lies on his deathbed, holding a candle, great prelates at his head and his four sons on his right hand. with the fatal propensity of spanish rulers to bequeath discord, he divides his kingdom among his sons; to don sancho, castile; león to alfonso; the basque provinces to garcía; the fourth son already was of enough importance, "_arzobispo de toledo, maestre de santiago, abad en zaragoza, de las españas, primado_." the king's daughter urraca, she who had given the cid's wife, jimena, her jeweled hair-net, now complains bitterly that she is left out of the inheritance, so her dying father gives her the fortress-city of zamora, "_muy preciada, fuerte es á maravilla_," and "who takes it from you let my curse fall on him." in spite of which threat her wicked brother sancho, besieges the city,--a spanish proverb for patience runs: "_no se ganó zamora en una hora._" with sancho comes his chief warrior roderick díaz de bivar, given the title of cid campeador, lord champion, by the moorish envoys who here met him. the cid had wellnigh fought an entrance into the city when the intrepid urraca ascends a tower--to-day called the afuera tower--and delivers her famous scolding. "¡afuera! afuera! rodrigo, el sóberbio castellano!" "out! out! rodrigo, proud castilian! remember the past! when you were knighted before the altar of santiago, and my father, your sponsor, gave you your armor, my mother gave you your steed, and i laced on your spurs! for i thought to be your bride, but you, proud castilian, set aside a king's daughter to wed that of a mere count!" and the ballad tells how the cid, hearing her upbraiding with emotion, retired with his men. the only present attraction of the decayed town is its cathedral, set high above the duero on the edge of the bluff along which zamora stretches. it was built by the cid's confessor, bishop gerónimo, the dome above the transept crossing being an original feature which the bishop was to elaborate later in the old cathedral of salamanca; as trinity church, boston, is copied from this last, zamora has a special interest for the visitor from new england. we had a four hours' pause there, ample time to see the city. it was raining so dismally that my fellow traveler decided not to face a certain drenching, as the long-drawn-out town had to be traversed before reaching the cathedral. in an unfortunate moment i started out alone for what i supposed would be a leisurely exploring of a venerable city. fleeing in distress would better describe the reality, for every hooting boy and girl in zamora followed at my heels. whether it was a white ulster or an automobile veil tied over my hat as the wind was high, or just the unaccustomed figure of a stranger in those narrow streets, an excited crowd pursued me the whole length of the town. in front, walking backward, open-mouthed, went a dozen urchins, and behind came a long brigade i hardly dared look back on, it so increased with every step. men hastened to their shop doors to wonder at the crowd, and the passers-by stood still in astonishment; a feeling of horror came over me at such publicity. in vain i fled into churches in the hope of escaping the relentless little pests; when i emerged they greeted me with howls of pleasure. i angrily shook my umbrella at them, but that only added to the glorious excitement. here and there a kind woman came to the bothered stranger's help, and scattered the crowd. the children merely scampered down side streets to meet me again in still greater numbers at the next corner. it is easy to laugh now that it is over, but at the time there is small amusement in fleeing through a foreign city pursued by forty hooting youngsters, to have them press round you in a stifling circle when you pause to look in your book, to have them gaze long and seriously at you, then burst into uncontrollable laughter so that in desperation you begin to feel if you have two noses or six eyes. we had decided that in most of the unfrequented towns of spain, the children were a nuisance; in zamora they were positive vampires. a visitor in the future had best wear black, a black veil on the head, a black prayer-book in the hand, as if on the way to church, then resembling other people, the children may let her pass. but a white ulster and a red guide book are magic pipes of hamelin to lure every idle child in zamora. in spite of wind and rain, and a lengthy disappearance within the cathedral, it was only on reëntering the station, several hours after they had first seized on their prey, that the unsolicited escort left me, and even then they hung round the door till the shriek of the engine told them the escaped lunatic who had given them so splendid an afternoon's entertainment was out of reach. galicia "blessed the natures shored on every side with landmarks of hereditary thought! thrice happy they that wander not lifelong beyond near succour of the household faith, the guarded fold that shelters, not confines! their steps find patience in familiar paths printed with hope by loved feet gone before of parent, child or lover, glorified by simple magic of dividing time." james russell lowell. jerusalem, rome, santiago,--perhaps this claims too much for the spanish pilgrimage shrine? it would not in the middle ages, when the christians of all europe flocked there to pray beside the tomb of st. james the elder, the patron of spain invoked in the battle cry of her chivalry for a thousand years, "_¡santiago y cierra españa!_"--"st. james and close spain!" a latin certificate used to be given to every pilgrim, and it was kept among family records, for there were properties that could only be inherited if one had gone to santiago compostella. to-day spaniards are the only devotees, though as i write i see that a band of english pilgrims with the archbishop of westminster at its head is visiting the far-off corner of galicia. though few travelers turn out of their way there, it is one of the most characteristic spots to be seen in spain, a solemn old granite city, with arcaded streets and vast half-empty caravansaries darkened with humidity and age. it takes over fifteen hours to go from león to santiago, but the journey is a beautiful one, with mountains and fertile valleys, and rivers such as the sill and that gem of the province, the miño. at monforte the railway branches, one line goes to túy and santiago, and the other turns up to lugo and coruña. we took this last, tempted by accounts of lugo. it is indeed a unique little city, walled around without a break by roman battlements forty feet high, on the top of which is the fashionable promenade of the town. with its walls and the view from them, it closely resembles lucca. lugo was a surprise in various ways. it had a hotel, the "fernán núñez," so up-to-date that it boasted a tiled bathroom with hot water and a shower bath. not only the comfortable inn but the streets of the town were a model of propriety. as always, our steps turned first to the cathedral, spoiled outside, as is unfortunately the way in spain, by those two disastrous centuries, the seventeenth and eighteenth, but within being of the lovely transition period, romanesque as it merged into gothic, with the arches just slightly pointed. the irrepressible churriguera has worked himself into the inside of the church too; his canopy over the high altar is abominable, though it would take more than that to detract from the simple solemnity of such a church. lugo is one of the holiest spots in the peninsula, like san isidoro in león, it claims the privilege of perpetual exposition of the blessed sacrament, only more privileged than león, exposed night as well as day. so proud is the province of this ancient custom that the host is represented on the shield of galicia. no matter at what hour you enter the cathedral, there are worshipers; two priests always kneel before the tabernacle, and they never kneel alone. the scenes of humble piety drew me back to the church again and again with compelling attraction. to me a spaniard praying unconsciously before the altar is unequaled by any act of worship i have witnessed; not even the touching russian pilgrims in jerusalem kissing the pavement in the church of the holy sepulchre, nor the arab at sunset kneeling alone in the desert, can impress more powerfully. it seemed as if this tranquil shrine of lugo spread an influence of uplifting thought through the whole contented little town; in the quiet afternoon a withered grandmother knelt with her hands on the head of a little tot of six who repeated the prayers that fell from the old lips, or three young women of the upper class sought a retired corner of the church to repeat together their daily chaplet; now in a side chapel, a peasant thinking herself unobserved, in a glow of devotion, encircled the altar on her knees. on leaving the west door of the cathedral, we ascended the inclined path that leads to the promenade on top of the walls. it was sunset, an exquisite hour to look out on the well-wooded countryside, through which meandered the trout-filled miño. in the distance were mountains. no wonder the romans, who ferreted out most of the choice spots of europe, used to come to this city for the thermal baths. the handsome modern lugonians strolled around the ramparts, pausing to chat here and there in the semicircles made by the numerous towers of the wall. now a white-haired matron draped in the national mantilla, loitered leisurely by, with some of the higher ecclesiastics of the cathedral; now a mother and two grave, pretty daughters passed, watched discreetly by the young beaux. evidently far-off little lugo, tucked away in the unknown northwestern corner of spain, had a social life that sufficed for itself, with no envy of madrid and san sebastián. the local contentment found everywhere in the country struck me as admirable. will "progress" unsettle it? we could have stayed a month in lugo. to fish in the miño, to ramble over the fertile country, to feel about one peaceful, contented human beings, would make a summer there a happy experience. when we went on to coruña, a commercial town that, like seaports the world over, has a rough populace, we were glad to have first seen doña emilia pardo bazán's loved province at pretty lugo. in travel there must always be, i suppose, some places that one slights; one knows if one stayed long enough they might show a pleasanter side. we treated coruña in this way. sir john moore, buried at midnight during the peninsula war, was our association with the town before going there, and for all we saw of it sir john will remain the chief association of the future. we only saw the flat, commercial district that skirts the bay, not the headland where the old town lies. slatternly beggars pestered us, bold, bare-legged girls stood mocking at the unaccustomed sight of foreign women traveling; it was with relief we took the diligence that started at noon for santiago. i shall never cease regretting that we did not wait till the following day, when an electric diligence makes the journey, for that eight hours' trip over the hills to the capital was for us the only horrible experience of our tour in spain. i wish i might blot out its memory, but as i am setting down frankly everything that occurred, this scene of cruelty must be told of, too. in the omnibus with us were but two other people, and there were five horses; there seemed no reason to foresee trouble. for the first relay of twelve miles all went well, and we enjoyed looking back from the hills on the blue atlantic where the headland of coruña jutted boldly out. our drivers treated the horses with consideration and dismounted at every ascent. but, alas, for the second relay, we changed men and changed animals. two young vagabonds were now on the box, driving four such miserable, bony nags that it tore the heart to see the sores the rope harness had made. we protested at the use of such horses, but in vain. twelve miles lay behind, twenty-four were ahead, there were no inns, so we hesitated to desert the diligence, but had we realized the two hours of purgatory we were to face, we had dismounted and walked back to coruña. one young wretch drove with loud cries and slashing blows; the other alighted to beat the quivering animals up the hills. they guided so recklessly that we were once dashed down the bank into the gutter, and soon after run into a hay-cart and the wheels unlocked with difficulty. when at length they began to strike the spent beasts over the eyes our anger burst all bounds. in a heat of fury never before experienced, and i hope never again, we attacked those two brutal boys. i do not think they will soon forget that scene. at first they replied with impudence and went on lashing the horses. but impudence soon ceased. when two women are in earnest and are fearless of consequences, and have stout umbrellas, they win the day. the twelve miles of their escort over, and new horses harnessed to the diligence--those four pitiful, bleeding victims led away!--the two scoundrels slunk off, sore on arms and shoulders as well as shamed in spirit, for the country people who gathered round supported our protest. the remaining miles to santiago finished well, with good drivers and stout horses. but never will the horror of those two hours leave me. in fairness i must add that this was the only scene of cruelty i saw during the eight months in spain, and again and again i noticed plump happy donkeys who were treated as members of the family. it is far-fetched to account for this unfortunate instance by the bull-fight, since in countries that have no such spectacles, veritable skeletons are made to haul cabs, and poor jades are used for drag horses. but i cannot help seizing on this opening for a little tirade against the national game of spain, which fernán caballero, who loved her home with passionate affection called, "inhuman, immoral, an anachronism in this century." the sports of other lands are open to harsh criticism. i do not think a spaniard is more cruel by nature than an englishman; in both nations is a certain proportion of coarsened characters,--the northern country may keep them better out of sight in the slums. northern europe is to-day more humane to animals than southern europe, because the women of the north have had greater freedom and have entered into philanthropic interests such as this. kindness to animals is a modern movement everywhere (may the shade of st. francis of assisi forgive this half statement!) spain need not be too discouraged by being behindhand. the bony exhausted horses used within my own remembrance on our american street-car lines, to drag cars laden each evening to twice the beasts' strength, would not be tolerated to-day, and this change has been wrought by societies for the prevention of cruelty to animals, the membership made up chiefly of women and children. would that spanish ladies could be pricked to action by the statement of a living french novelist, made in ignorance of late conditions in america and england, that kindness to animals is a protestant virtue. it is neither protestant nor catholic, but common to all human societies where women are allowed to aid with their gentler instincts in the public welfare of their country. the bull and the man are sport and skill, that part i can understand. it is the agony of the horses that is a disgrace to these shows, worn-out nags who can make no resistance are used, and when the bull gores them, their entrails are thrust back and the dying beasts pricked on to the fray. herein lies the great difference between bull-fights to-day, which are debased money-making spectacles only taken part in by professionals, and the more chivalrous sport of earlier times when the hidalgo was _toreador_, and proper steeds that could defend themselves were used. the bull-fight is found in spain so early that its origin from the roman period in the peninsula, or from the first mohammedan conquerors, is disputed. the cid took part in a game, and games celebrated the marriage of alfonso vii's daughter urraca to the king of navarre. during the reign of isabella's father, juan ii, the _corrida de toros_ was much in vogue. queen isabella herself disliked the sport, and in one of her letters she vows never to witness it. on the birth of philip ii in valladolid, charles v killed a bull in the arena. the _fiestas_ continued under the hapsburg philips, until the advent of the french philip v, in . he so slighted this national sport that gentlemen ceased to take part in it, and it sank to its present level. it is now so well paying an affair that the only way to reform it would be through concerted action on the part of spanish women. it is a crusade worthy of them. a night of rest in the hotel at santiago and the painful scene of the day before was somewhat dimmed. early in the morning i started out to explore the old pilgrim city. it has a distinct character of its own, seldom have i felt so decided a place-influence. it is very solemn, very gray, very stately and aloof. on many of the houses the pilgrim shell is carved; the streets are paved with granite and the vast hospices are of the same severe stone, moss-grown and damp; grass also grows between the big granite slabs of the silent, imposing squares. santiago does not belong to our age. modern towns do not name their streets after twelfth-century prelates, "street of gelmúrez, st archbishop of compostella," makes a novel sign. here, as all over the land, the cathedral was the magnet. i walked along the dark, arcaded streets in a scotch drizzle, passed under cardinal fonseca's college and came out in the plaza before the west entrance. the west front is a baroque mass which those who can endure that style say is most successful. i cannot endure that style. it seemed to me doubly a pity that this late front should mask the chief treasure of galicia, the _pórtico de la gloria_, which stands as an open portico to the church, fifteen feet within this west door. enthusiastic description had led us to expect much of what may be called the supreme work of romanesque sculpture, in fact, it was this portico that had decided us for the long trip to galicia. we were not disappointed. "_es la oración más sublime que ha elevado al cielo el arte español._" neither photograph nor words can describe it; it is one of those matchless works that body forth the best of an age. the model of south kensington does not give its nobility, for it is the setting before the lofty dim romanesque nave that makes it a unique thing. when later, in constantinople, i saw alexander's sarcophagus, the thought of santiago sprang instantly to my mind. both bring a feeling of sadness;--one, simple flowing greek of the best period, the other, crabbed, original, mediæval,--they are alike in the absolute sincerity with which each embodied the highest then attainable. over the carvings of both are faded traces of color that give the finishing touch of the exquisite. the archbishop, don pedro suárez, in gave the commission for this portico to a sculptor named mateo, whether spanish or foreign is not known; he lived in santiago till . he must have been a close student of the bible, for his symbolism is profound and harmonious. above the central arch is a solemn christ, of heroic size, at his side the four evangelists, figures of youthful beauty: the lion and the bull have settled themselves cozily in their patron's lap. large angels on either side carry the instruments of the passion. very fine statues of the apostles stand against the pillars of the central doorway. in the tympanum are small figures typifying the holy city of isaiah, and on its arch are seated, on a rounding bench, the twenty-four ancients of the apocalypse, with musical instruments and vases of perfume. this is perhaps the most beautiful part of the portico. for hours one can study it. some of the heads are thrown back in revery, some turned together in conversation. "the four and twenty ancients fell down before the lamb having everyone of them harps and golden vials full of odours, which are the prayers of the saints" (st. john, rev. v, ). the carvings of that age were somewhat grotesque, but here the types are ideal, as beautiful in their way as mino da fiesole or rossellino. when master mateo had finished his work, he made a statue of himself below the central column of the portico, kneeling toward the altar and humbly beating his breast; on this figure was written "architectus." humility and a consummate profession of faith such as this went hand in hand. it is anticlimax, after the _pórtico de la gloria_, to speak of the other sights of santiago. on the plaza before the west end of the cathedral stands the dignified hospital real, founded by isabella and ferdinand as a pilgrim inn. two of the four patios are quaintly carved, and probably amuse the convalescents of the modern hospital lodged now in the building. it was a joy to find so many of isabella's good deeds still bearing fruit. the nuns took us down to the big kitchen, white-tiled and spotless, where we saw the four hundred fresh eggs that arrive daily from the country; the tidy patients on the verandas showed clearly that no one suffered privations here. as we were leaving, the old chaplain of the institution ran after us to beg us to return to see something of which he was evidently vastly proud. when he ushered us into a tiled bathing room and turned on the water that dashed up and down and round about from every kind of new contrivance, he looked at us with a self-complacency that was adorable, as if he said: "there, you water-loving english, we're just as fond of it as you!" the excellently managed institution reminds one that this province produced doña concepción arenal, sociologist and political economist, and withal a most tender-hearted christian, whose books on prison organization and reform have been widely translated, and are quoted as authorities by the leading criminologists of europe. for thirty years this admirable woman was inspector of prisons. she died at vigo in , and spain has since erected statues in her honor. in galicia, as in catalonia, there has been a revival of dialect literature. the gallego tongue was the first in the peninsula to reach literary culture, and in the middle ages two ideal troubadours wrote in it. had not alfonso _el sabio_ written chiefly in castilian, thereby fixing that as the leading tongue, as dante did the tuscan in italy, it is probable that the dialect of galicia had prevailed. portuguese and gallego were the same language up to the fifteenth century, hence it is that the great critic menéndez y pelayo always includes portuguese writers in his studies of spanish literature. galicia is fortunate in having an able living exponent, the señora emilia pardo bazán, whose novels are full of the charmed melancholy of the province. the gallego is derided in other parts of spain, his name is synonymous with boor, for he is judged by the clumsy _mozo_ who seeks work in the south. "the more unfortunate a country the greater is the love of its sons for it. greece, poland, hungary, ireland, prove this, and the nostalgia is strongest in those of celtic origin. ask the rude gallegos of south america what is their ambition--'to return to the _terriña_ and there die' is the answer." in a collection of essays "de mi tierra," madam pardo bazán has told of the learned benedictine, padre feijóo, the bacon of spain, whose caustic pen did away with so many of the superstitions of his age. it may be a bit pedantic for me to give biographies in these slight sketches, but it seems as if a truer idea of the race is conveyed in such lives than could be given in any other way. this native of galicia, padre feijóo, had few equals in the europe of his time in liberality of view. he was born of hidalgo parents near orense, where his _casa solar_ stands, still lived in by a feijóo of to-day. he entered the benedictine order and in their cloisters passed most of his long life of eighty years, for half a century living in their oviedo house. his unflagging industry, his clear intellect, and simple uprightness, won the admiration of all who knew him. "after fifteen years' intimate acquaintance with feijóo," wrote a scientist of the day, "never have i met, inside religion or out, a man more sincere, more candid, more declared enemy of fraud and deceit." not till he was fifty did feijóo commence to write. in appeared the beginning of his "teatro crítico," essays that have been called the first step of spanish journalism, written as they eminently were to communicate ideas to others. he had the passion to know why, a never-tiring love of investigation. adopting the baconian experimental method, he attacked the superstitions and pseudo-miracles around him. _¡ay! de mí inquisición_! were you asleep that you did not clap this independent thinker into your capacious dungeons? so strong was feijóo's influence that benedict xiv curtailed the number of feast days on his mere suggestion. this learned benedictine monk was ahead of his age in many ideas. are the stars not inhabited? he asked. before washington, he maintained that the machiavellian theory of government, intrigue and diplomacy, which was then universally accepted in europe, was inferior to friendly loyalty and honor. he preached compassion to animals generations before the age of our modern, humanitarian theories. with the painful remembrance of the diligence ride in galicia, i was glad to find one of her sons advocating this. feijóo stands out more prominently because of the intellectual desert around him. "the eighteenth century was an erudite, negative, fatigued." the bourbons brought formality and sterility to spontaneous spain. a dry soulless learning killed the creative power, and in every branch, art, music, and literature, the artificial rococo flourished. the two exceptions of vitality were feijóo and the painter goya. had padre feijóo lived in our age, he might have been that great man hailed by de maistre: "attendez que l'affinité naturelle de la science et de la religion les ait réunies l'une et l'autre dans la tête d'un homme de génie! celui-là sera fameux et mettra fin au dix-huitième siècle qui dure encore." how much longer are we to wait for him,--this great man! if the only harrowing scene of the tour in spain is to be associated with galicia, so is one of the happiest, a day of such kindly chivalry that we felt the spirit of isabella's time still endured. it was the chance of railway travel that introduced a modern knight to us. the journey back to castile from galicia is a most trying one. some day perhaps an enterprising ocean line will put in at vigo and run an express directly across country to madrid; we were too early for such ease. from santiago we had to take an afternoon train to pontevedra, and there spend the night. at a.m. (oh, those unforgettable, dark, cold railway stations of spain!) we again took the train. it was dawn before redondela was reached, and exquisite as a dream seemed the _rías_, the fiords of galicia, with wooded mountains sloping to their shores. it is not hard to prophesy that this will be a great summer resort of the future. at redondela we changed trains, getting into the express for monforte, the only other occupant of the carriage being an elderly man, blue-eyed, very tall and erect, with the air of distinction so frequently found among don quixote's countrymen. we had noticed him the night before in the pontevedra hotel, and had thought him an englishman, till in offering some service about our luggage he spoke in spanish. as we were to spend fifteen hours in the same railway carriage, we soon entered into conversation. he came from madrid each summer with a family of sons and daughters to spend some months in a castle among the mountains of galicia. evidently he was a lover of sport and of country life, for as we ran alongside the miño river, with portugal just across on the opposite bank, for hours he sat gazing out in enjoyment, and drew each beautiful thing to our notice. at noon we reached monforte, where we had dinner in the station buffet. when we called for our account, to our astonishment the waiter told us it was settled already. we could not understand what had been done, till the proprietor himself came to explain. it seems it is a custom all over this generous land, for a man when he is with a lady or has spoken to her, to pay for everything she orders; tea, luncheon, even her shopping purchases. he does this with no offensive ostentation, but so quietly that he often slips away unnoticed and unthanked. several travelers have since told me that they too met this hospitality; it had at first embarrassed them, but as there was not the slightest impertinence nor even the personal about it, as it was merely an act of chivalrous respect, done with superb detachment, when the confusion of being paid for by a stranger was over, they remembered only the charming courtesy. the attentions of our kind host, for he seemed to look on two strangers in his land as his guests, did not stop at noontime, at tea he brought us platefuls of hot chestnuts. he tried to while away the hours pleasantly, playing games on paper in french and english; with all his dignified gravity the spaniard is not blasé. our struggles to learn his tongue rousing sympathy, it was from him we first heard of the pretty high-flown phrases still in daily use, how you bid farewell with, _beso à v. la mano_ (i kiss your hand), or _a los pies de v._ (i am at your feet); that the _usted_, shortened to _v._, with which you address high or low, is a corruption of "your majesty." somehow there seems nothing absurd in addressing a spanish peasant as "your majesty." the love of abbreviations is a curious trait in a people with such leisurely ways; thus, a row of cabalistic letters ends a letter: _s. s. s. q. b. s. m._, which means that your correspondent kisses your hand--_su seguro servidor que besa su mano_. then the interest which we evinced in the institutions and progress of spain made him put his cultivated intelligence at our service, and we learned more in a day than in all the previous weeks. when i inquired into the vexed religious question he was able to explain much. as a rule, republicanism in spain means avowed atheism and socialism; it has been well said that the republicanism of all latin countries turns to social revolution. the socialists are a small, but well-organized band, international in character since their movements are directed from centers like paris. they are chiefly in industrial cities such as barcelona, valencia, and bilbao, where secret societies of anarchists abound, disguised as clubs for scientific study. the majority being of the rabble, repudiating all authority, ("civilization, that is the enemy!") their disorders would be called mob uprisings did they occur in chicago, but deceived by the term "republicanism," the journals of england and america gave them too lenient a consideration. by no means devout himself, he assured us that what we saw on every side was for the most part very genuine religion, not sentiment with no result; for in those places where observance had slackened there was a marked difference in moral restraint, so potent a factor for morality was religion still in spain. that there were faults none denied, but he had traveled enough to know the flaws of other countries too well to be despairing of his own. he wrote for us a card of introduction to the big hospital of madrid; he sought out a friend in another carriage, the son of the admiral in ferrol, who was rather up in statistics. had we seen the asylum near santiago where the insane are treated with such success that noted cures had been obtained? had we met the archæologist of the province, a canon in the cathedral? in short, from the questions and suggestions we realized that the average tourist goes through this reserved country half blind. glad were we for this chance of insight. when in the dusk of evening it came time to descend at astorga, our stopping-place for the night, and our fellow-traveler stood there shaking hands, with warm friendliness in his blue eyes, we felt there was no more thoroughbred specimen of manhood than a spanish hidalgo. salamanca "l'homme n'est produit que pour l'infini." "il y a des raisons qui passent notre raison." "se moquer de la philosophie c'est vraiment philosopher." pascal. salamanca is in león province, and in comparison with the hour of its prime, as it is to-day it too is very like a sleeping city. it is hard to realize that this dull, small town was a _grandeza de españa_, ranking with oxford, paris, and bologna, that once , students flocked here from all over europe, and every young spaniard turned here as naturally as a modern englishman to oxford or cambridge; cervantes' "novelas exemplares" give the picture. to-day there are barely a thousand students, chiefly from its own province; among the ten universities of spain the former leader takes a very lowly place. madrid, the continuation of cardinal ximenez' university of alcalá, may be called the modern salamanca in intellectual leadership. [illustration: _copyright, , by underwood & underwood_ view of salamanca from the roman bridge] in the spanish oxford one looks in vain for the numerous colleges of the city on the isis. alas! salamanca is half a ruin. the french, in the napoleonic invasion, destroyed the whole northwest quarter of the town to make fortifications, undoing in a few brutal hours the work of centuries of culture and piety. in his despatches of the duke of wellington wrote: "the french among other acts of violence have destroyed thirteen out of twenty convents and twenty out of the twenty-five colleges which existed in this seat of learning." twenty out of twenty-five colleges! the thought of oxford's tranquil, age-crowned buildings makes one grasp the tragic wreck of the spanish university; never while in salamanca could i forget the desolate tract to the west, lying still a heap of ruins, untenanted save by wandering goats, those nomad creatures that give the culminating note of squalor to deserted districts. our train approached the city across the plains from zamora, through plantations of isolated trees and past droves of black sheep whose guardian stood patiently under the rain. for some time in the distance we saw the prominent church towers. salamanca lay on the old roman road, the via lata, that connected cadiz with the north, but the roman associations here are slight. as in zamora, the cid and his feats dwarf other interests, so here it is the picturesque days of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries that fill the mind. go down to the roman bridge over the tormes and while away an hour watching the passers-by, and the old times seem to live again. below in the river bed women wash and chatter from morning till night, spreading the gayly-colored clothes, red, yellow, and purple, over the stones to dry. if it is sunday, into the city pour the hardy peasants for their one day of rest from the ungrateful work of the fields: girls in pale blue woolen stockings and smart, black pumps sit sideways behind their cavaliers on the long-haired nags whose backs are often shaved into a pattern; now out of the city jogs a brisk old woman on her donkey, laden with a month's purchases, an unpainted rush-bottom chair topping the pile; she nods to the strangers, _franceses_, she thinks, for a spaniard takes all foreigners for his neighbors over the frontier: now a cart passes, whose shape and hue seem taken out of a romantic watercolor; then a young peasant in wide-brimmed sombrero, leather gaiters, silver buttons as big as dollars on his vest, clear-eyed and proud of carriage: then, salt to the picture, rides a burly _cura_, sitting well back on his tiny ass, a ridiculous figure were it not for his sublime unconsciousness, his innate self-respect. ever the unspoiled, the vigorous, the untamed! just so they came into salamanca in the past when students with swords and velvet capes walked the streets, and so i hope they may do some hundred years from now, for such lives of frugal contentment are unequaled. localism and provinciality have been forced on spain by nature, and it is this very provincialism which is her charm for the traveler. fresh from a prosperous, new world, he may often long for certain changes here, for more widely diffused education, for free libraries, a more secure self-government; but such material prosperity is bought with a price. remember that not in the length or breadth of this land are to be found the degraded human beings, vicious in soul and brutalized in shape of skull and feature, such as exist by the thousands in the slums of industrial countries. if the spanish peasant must lose his hardy independence, if his frugal contentment, his heroic patience must pass with the old order of things (that lets a heap of ruins in the heart of a city lie untouched during a hundred years!) i cannot help wondering whether the price is not too high to pay. i am repeating myself, but the words come to one each day--it is beyond human nature to be consistent in spain; she has the faculty, despite her glaring faults, of battering down one's philistine certainty of northern superiority. the bridge, the plaza, and the cathedral; study your types there and you begin to know the real spaniard. not soon shall i forget, at mérida, in wild estremadura, as i loitered on the bridge, a countryman stepping forward with the dignified, proud look of his class: "_¿es más bonita que parís?_" he asked, the interrogatory note added only in courtesy, so sure was he of my affirmative. sleepy little mérida, all a ruin, knights templars' castle as well as roman theater and aqueduct, to the fellow _paisano_ of pizarro and cortés, was finer than paris. it is glimpses like this that make the prejudiced stranger judge the so-called backwardness of the country in kinder fashion. where else could one see stately-moving cream-colored oxen pass unnoticed through the chief thoroughfare of a capital, a common sight in the puerta del sol of madrid, where else will the customs officer of a big town stand to count with a pointing finger the skipping sheep driven past him, as on the alcántara bridge at toledo, where else will groups of goats be milked from door to door in a great commercial city like barcelona? salamanca, being the center of an agricultural district and off the express route, presents daily, scenes from the georgics. architecturally the old university city, despite her disasters, is of first importance. she has two cathedrals, the smaller more perfect one of , finding shelter by the side of its huge successor, to whom it yielded its rights as metropolitan in . the exterior of the new cathedral is over-rich and meaningless, it promises little for what it holds within, where the lofty gothic piers and arches have so impressive an air of majesty that architectural flaws are forgotten. it proves how much longer gothic lasted in spain than elsewhere in europe. the triforium here is replaced by an elaborately-carved balcony that runs round the church, and high up are medallions colored with gold and eastern hues, an enamel-like decoration which has been beautifully and sparingly used; the inner circle of the clearstory window and the round windows of the west end, have jeweled chains of color that modern churches could well imitate. as usual, the side chapels are full of treasures, and the sacristy boasts the very crucifix the cid carried in battle. there is one bad defect: its apse has not the dim, mysterious curve of a cathedral, the east end being square, like a cold secular hall. nestling under this gigantic pile is the loveliest thing in all salamanca, the _catedral vieja_, its title in the old latin proverb "fortis salmantina." it is a small, romanesque-transition church, unused, but in good repair, left unchanged by a sensible bishop when the services were removed to its more pretentious rival. the carvings of the capitals are boldly massive, there is a noticeably good, painted _retablo_, and among the numerous tombs--a gregorovius could make a fascinating volume of spain's alabaster knights and bishops!--there is one that is specially appealing. it is in a chapel opening off the cloisters; a warrior in armor lies on his sarcophagus, beside him his wife, with a child's innocence of face, dressed in the nun's robe worn while her lord was fighting the moors, with high pattens on her feet, a dainty little castilian gentlewoman, mother of the prelate whose stately tomb fills the center of the chapel. the old cathedral is so tucked in among buildings, that only one view of the exterior can be got, from a terrace leading from the south door of the later church, a view that a new englander will return to often with a homesick feeling, for just such a scaly-tiled tower, window for window, line for line alike, rises in copley square, boston. this cupola shows byzantine influences since spanish romanesque was orientalized through mediterranean trading. of all the memories of a journey in spain the happiest are the hours spent in her cathedrals, the starting out expectant, often with no map or book, for there are frequent glimpses of the church towers to guide; the first entering the noble structure which man's living enthusiasm raised, the first passing from one chapel to another in astonishment at the treasures they guard. pierre loti has a sketch on burgos cathedral, seen once only on a late afternoon, just as the verger was closing it, and he describes how unhappily he was affected by the lavish material wealth. pure artist that he is in his theory of seizing on a swift impression, the test may be successful for philae or for the parthenon, but it will not do for a spanish cathedral, which is too complex, and can well hide its soul from the hasty tourist. may m. loti forgive me for saying it, but certainly the way in which he saw burgos differs little from the lightning-flash method of the yankee tourist he despises. i think he must have had a cross indigestion that late afternoon, or perhaps it was his huguenot blood rising in protest. another of his countrymen, equally sensitive, "le délicat joubert," gives a less on-the-surface judgment: "the pomp and magnificence with which the church is reproached are in truth the result and proof of her incomparable excellence. from whence, let me ask, have come this power of hers and these excessive riches except from the enchantment into which she threw all the world? she had the talent of making herself loved, and the talent of making men happy ... it is from thence she drew her power." spain is richer than all other lands in church furniture: except for the uprising of against the monasteries, a movement more political than religious, there has been no terrible iconoclastic mania, such as in france and england; the cities which were looted, like valladolid and salamanca, during the french invasion, suffered in a different way. then, too, spanish cathedrals do not part with their art treasures; the gifts of personal and inappropriate jewels when they have accumulated too needlessly are sometimes sold for the benefit of the church, but the art treasures made for the service of the altar are not parted with. in valencia it is told that rothschild's agent tried in vain to buy benvenuto cellini's silver pax there: $ , $ , , $ , , he offered: "_las cosas de la catedral no se venden_," was the answer. "$ , ," said the agent. the cathedral was poor and needed repairs. "it is useless," was the firm answer of the chapter, "we do not sell the things of the altar." in salamanca the verger told us that an englishman had offered an immense sum for the iron screen round the tomb of bishop anaya (his mother the dainty little lady in pattens) and though the screen was in an unused chapel of the _catedral vieja_, it was refused. these unsullied temples of the holy spirit, where stately ceremonials are still an every-day occurrence, differ in every city, the carven wealth of burgos, the soaring grace of león, the solid grandeur of santiago, toledo, a dream of his house, seville, rising imposing past expectation, the small, dark symmetry of barcelona, the solemn space of prayer before avila's high altar, sigüenza's tomb-filled chapels, saragossa, draped with priceless flemish tapestries for the feast, palencia dim and holy at daybreak, worship-bowed lugo,--indelible memories of beauty and exaltation, the cathedrals of spain are not mere artistic memorials of the past, their soul is not fled. such churches cannot but have an influence on the people among whom they rise. if on one of different race they impress themselves with the actuality of a living experience, what must they mean to those whose childhood and old age have known them in solemn moments. i came across an autobiographical bit by the novelist alacón, describing the influence on him of one of these great churches of the past. he grew up in the small andalusian city of gaudix, like many spanish towns its great day being well over; the only grandeur left, the only palace inhabited, was the _iglesia mayor_: "from the cathedral i first learned the revealing power of architecture, there first heard music and first grew to admire pictures; there also in solemn feasts, mid incense, lights, and the swell of the organ, i dreamed of poetry and divined a world different from what surrounded me. thus faith and beauty, religion and inspiration, ambition and piety were born united in my soul." on the way to the cathedrals each day we passed through the arcaded plaza, which at the noon and evening hours was thronged with an animated crowd; we noticed once more the democratic relation between the classes, smart officers in pale blue uniforms strolled up and down chatting with plain countrymen whose capes, tossed over the shoulder, let the gaudy red and green velvet facing be seen. the daily walk brought us past the house of the shells, whose walls are studded with the pilgrim emblem, and one day as i paused to look into the lovely inner court, the owner came out, prayer-book in hand, on her way to church, and with the grave courtesy of her race, she invited the stranger in to examine her romantic dwelling. most of the buildings in the city are a light brown sandstone that suits the gorgeous surface decoration of isabella's period, here seen in its full glory. there is no pure early-gothic in the city; romanesque-transition is found in the old cathedral, and late florid-gothic in the new cathedral, later still some baroque extravagances, since salamanca claims a doubtful honor as the birthplace of that exponent of bad taste, josé churriguera. but the style that is supreme here is the plateresque, the silversmith period when late-gothic and renaissance met: the façades seem as if molded in clay, so lavish is their work. in one respect salamanca has been more fortunate than its rival oxford, in having used a stone soft in appearance, but so durable that the chiseling is almost as finished to-day as when first cut. everywhere in the town this plateresque work is found; at times more renaissance than gothic, as in espíritu santo, a convent like las huelgas for noble ladies, or as in the beautiful patio of the irish college; the dominican church of san esteban is more gothic than plateresque. like the jesuits, the second of the monastic orders whose cradle is spain, may well be proud of the record in its native land. the society of ignatius can boast besides its saints, scholars like ripalda, lainez, salmerón, isla, suárez, mariana, the great historian, and hervás y panduro, "the father of philology," who has been credited by professor max müller with "one of the most brilliant discoveries in the history of the science of language." and the dominicans can claim a de soto, a melchor cano, luis de granada, las casas, defender of the indians, and, fame of this special monastery of santo domingo, a diego de deza, the protector of columbus. with this learned man, tutor to isabella's only son, lodged the discoverer years before his memorable voyage, and it was in a room called de profundis, leading from the cloisters, that he first explained his theories to the community who espoused his cause with perseverance, in opposition to the stupid savants of the university. they, appointed by the queen to investigate his claims, found them "vain and unpractical," not worthy of serious notice. on the th anniversary of columbus' discovery, a memorial statue was put up in the square near the mediæval tower of clavero: on the pedestal are reliefs of his two patrons, isabella, and fray diego de deza, "_gloria de la orden de santo domingo, protector constante de cristóbal colón_." imposing as is san esteban, the triumph of the catholic kings' heraldic style of architecture is the façade of the university library, as autobiographic of its age as is santiago's _pórtico de la gloria_ of an earlier century. it is one mass of delicate carving, badges, medalions, and scrolls, increasing in size as it rises, so that an effect of uniformity is obtained. there is the true ring of that chivalrous generation in the inscription, "the kings to the university, and this to the kings," you raise your head proudly with a flash of the eye, feeling for a moment that you are almost a spaniard yourself. [illustration: faÇade of the university library, salamanca] opposite the library's façade is a statue of one of the university's noted men, that attractive personality, fray luis de león. tall, stalwart, for he came of a warrior race of spanish grandees, ascetic, with intellectual forehead, a man capable of sainthood, of the type noble, he faces the school where he studied as a youth and passed a later life in research and teaching. in luis de león is found an equilibrium of character, a magnanimity united with genius, which often distinguished the men born in the _siglo de oro_. this augustinian monk was a deep theologian, ahead of his times, as most deep thinkers are; he made a translation of the songs of songs too advanced for the age, and his enemies accused his orthodoxy to the inquisition. for five years he lived in confinement, and it was during this semi-imprisonment that he wrote his great mystic book, "los nombres de cristo," and also some of his lyrics. the university remained loyal to him by refusing to place another lecturer in his seat; then when he had justified himself before the holy office, he was set at liberty, and a host of friends accompanied him back to his post. he entered the lecture hall quietly, after his five years of absence, and opened the discourse with rare tact, a generous, high-minded overlooking of personal rancour: "gentlemen, as we were saying the other day." this famous mot of luis de león, "_como decíamos ayer_," shows a quality unexpected in spain, but characteristic often of her sons, that of amenity, a kindly tolerance of the world's foibles, found in cervantes, and to show it has not died out, this same amenity was a predominating trait of the late distinguished novelist, don juan valera. luis de león, true follower of his patron augustine, knew that there is no sin that one man commits that all men are not capable of, if not helped by god. "even while he aspires, man errs." had the erudite monk been merely a scholar, he had been a personality in his own day, but would not be alive for us; but he can claim an enduring fame. professor menéndez y pelayo calls him the most exalted of spanish lyric poets, and names his "ascensión," "al apartamiento," "a salinas," "a felipe ruiz," "alma región lucient," "la noche serena," as the six most beautiful of spanish lyrics. learn them by heart, he says, and they will astonish you with each repetition. luis de león had the wordsworthian note of simple living and high thinking, of a personal love of nature, long before the lake school: the "ode to retirement" might have been penned at grasmere. everything led his soul to god; he fed on the mystics and rose to their height and serenity of thought. from his love of the classics came his sobriety of form and purity of phrase; he is a true horacian, penetrated as well by the spirit of the great hebrew writers, with the _espíritu cristiano_ added, yet though drawing his culture from many sources he is personal and modern. such praise from the great critic sends one to an enthusiastic study of fray luis, and a knowledge of his poems makes the visit to his tomb in salamanca more than one of mere curiosity. like most of the cities and villages of león province, this one too lies asleep, resting on its former honors, though there are hints, such as the new hospital, that she is rousing herself to life. she feels a confidence in her own future, as is subtly shown in the decoration of the plaza, where empty spaces are left for the names of coming great men. it is with this city of the past that the most homelike memory of our tour in spain is associated, the happy hour round an english tea-table eating bread and butter, and chatting at last, oh so eagerly, in one's native tongue. it was the rector of the irish college who gave us this delightful taste of home, and fresh from six weeks of freezing, stone-paved rooms, of cinnamon-flavored chocolate, how we appreciated his hospitality! the school of young seminarians is housed in one of the five remaining of the university buildings, but only moved here when the original college, founded by philip ii and dedicated to st. patrick, was demolished by ney and marmont's soldiery. we found our host in his library poring over a greek book with a professor from the university, and we were welcomed with the heart-warming kindness of his native land. the professor obviously hoped the invading americans would not tarry long, but he little knew that a celtic host in the heart of spain and a cozy tea-table at the critical hour of a raw, bleak day made a combination not to be resisted; we lingered into the late afternoon and left reluctantly indeed. i would wish for all travelers a friendly visit to the _colegio de nobles irlandeses_, that they might see the tall, northern-looking lads pacing up and down the sculptured sixteenth-century courtyard, might pause in the chapel, and look out from the library windows over the city, with a genial cicerone to name the churches and colleges; then salamanca would not seem a dead city, but a peaceful, contented survival of the past. segovia. "no hay un pueblo esclavo si no lo quiere ser: ¡cantad, españoles! cantad! cantad!" (hymn sung may, , for the centenary of _dos de mayo_.) we reached segovia at five o'clock in the early morning of november first after an indescribably fatiguing day and night of travel, the one confusion of our tour in spain, and partly owing to a mistake in the usually reliable guide book. it may be of help to other travelers if i describe this misadventure. on returning from galicia, we had left the express route at astorga, and pausing there a night, took the local line south to zamora and salamanca. after a stay of some days in the old university city, we were lured out to a small town, fifteen miles away, alba de tormes, where st. teresa died. it seemed unnecessary to return to salamanca in order to go on to avila, since a diligence ran to avila from a town not far from alba de tormes. our book gave the distance of this ride as fourteen miles, whereas fourteen leagues, more than three times fourteen miles, would be nearer the truth. for, on reaching alba we found it was a diligence journey of over ten hours; with the roads in a frightful condition after a month's rain, the trip was out of the question. so spending the night at alba de tormes, we went back to salamanca, there to find it was not the special day for the train that connects directly with the express route south. whereupon it seemed best, rather than to wait a couple of days for this train, to take the long trip round by zamora and toro to the junction medina del campo, whence the express route to madrid branches, one line passing by avila, another by segovia. it happened to be eight minutes before the starting of the train, when i went to the ticket office at salamanca with my _carnet kilométrique_, yet nevertheless the agent refused me the tickets, saying that his office closed five minutes before the starting of each train. "but there are yet eight minutes," i exclaimed. his personal watch said five; so we were obliged to start without the usual complementary tickets. we decided to descend at the first stop and there have our kilometrics torn off, but before reaching this station the conductor came to collect tickets, and by his face, false and mobile, we knew we were in for a struggle. we explained our dilemma and offered the one peseta, ninety centimes, which was marked in his book and our own, as the full first class tariff for twelve kilometers. he contemptuously refused and demanded eight pesetas each for that short ride of eight miles. we did not hesitate to refuse; whereupon when we reached the stopping station he tried by confused explanations to prevent the agent there from giving us the necessary complementary tickets. but fortunately in the hurry to procure them during the few minutes of our pause, i had stumbled in stepping from the carriage and slightly cut my hand on the pebbles. this roused the spanish sense of chivalry and the agent moved aside the conductor and gave me what i asked. we again offered this latter the lawful fare for the eight miles we had ridden without tickets, and again he demanded eight pesetas. on reaching zamora, he boldly brought up the chief of that station, a trickster in league with him, and both demanded the unjust fare. a spanish gentleman was passing, and seeing two ladies in trouble, stopped to ask if he could be of assistance. when we explained the case, he asked us to give him the lawful fare and turning to the station-master and the conductor, presented it to them with a scathing rebuke: like beaten dogs they slunk away. several times gentlemen came to our aid in this way, as if it hurt their pride to have their race so misrepresented. it is this petty thieving among a class that should be above it, such as postal clerks and railway officials, that rouses the traveler's harsh criticisms of spain and makes him so unjust to her. the radical cure lies in the men being better paid, for their salaries are such pittances that many of them look on extortion as their right. the tourist can do something toward lessening the abuse, by firmly refusing to be cheated. our experience was that firmness always won the battle; if one is of a fiery temperament there is a scene, if one is phlegmatic, one sits immovable as a rock and lets the other storm. if one yields finally one has the scene as well as the putting of oneself in the wrong. to continue our day of ill-luck. from zamora, we crawled along the dull, local line to the junction medina del campo, which we reached at eleven at night. we then changed our plans and got tickets for segovia, deciding to leave avila till later. at medina we spent six weary hours in the waiting room, strolling up and down the windy platform, entering the buffet now and then to drink coffee, trying to rouse imaginative interest by thinking this was the spot where isabella the queen had died. but in vain, it was too dismal. how we abused baedeker! and how we abused spain and her railway system! trains came and went, men muffled in their cloaks entered and left the dark waiting room, we the only impatient ones. a spaniard accepts such things in full piety. whoever heard of going faster than twenty miles an hour and what more natural than to wait in a station between trains half a night? at two o'clock that raw windy morning we boarded the express to segovia and finding the ladies' compartment full, for we were now on the direct route from paris, we had to force ourselves into the carriage with two furiously cross, sleepy frenchmen. high, cold segovia, almost , feet above the sea! a wind, _de todos los demonios_, was blowing that bleak first of november, and to give the final small touch of ill-luck, it lifted and bore away to the mysterious darkness outside, a treasured veil that the sun had at length toned to a rare tint. we stumbled into the ill-lighted station-buffet for more hot coffee, sending the luggage ahead to the sleeping hotel; for the faithful hotel-omnibus had been there waiting as usual. strange memories remain of spain's station restaurants,--the flitting waiters filling the bowls of coffee for the silent travelers, (no man is more silent than a traveling spaniard);--frugal enduring scenes, not a touch of comfort, one eats to live indeed. "the french taste, the germans devour, the italians feast, the spaniards _se alimentan_!" as the dawn was breaking we left the station and walked, buffeted by the gale, through the mournful streets that lead to the town, passing on the way the artillery academy, where the country's crack regiments are trained. as we descended to the market place below the steep hill on which segovia is built, a sight greeted us that repaid a thousand fold for the dreary day and night of unnecessary travel, for guide-book blunders, personal stupidity, dishonest officials, collarless, cross frenchmen and even lost automobile veils. for there, rising one hundred and fifty feet in noble dignity and proportion, its boulders held together by their own weight, without cement or clamping, stood the giant roman aqueduct that trajan left his native land, and framed by its arches were hills, villages, and churches, under a sky of delicate rose. never was there a lovelier sunrise, fragile, shell-like, dewy. we climbed the steps that mount to the city beside the aqueduct, pausing again and again to look at the stupendous thing. then we passed through quiet streets, with romanesque doorways at every step (segovia with avila has the best portals in spain) till we reached the hotel. though, later, the night in medina del campo station revenged itself in a twenty hours' sleep, we were now too deeply fatigued to rest, and so soon were afoot again. a stone's throw brought us to the central square of segovia, on one side of which is prominent the apse of the late-gothic cathedral. we pushed beyond it, here and there pausing to study some ancient doorway or to enter a carved courtyard, till at length the street ended in the big open space before the superbly set alcázar, and we looked out on that memorable view. with the towering roman aqueduct on one side of the town and this castle at the other, segovia may claim to be one of the most picturesquely set cities in the world. the view from the plaza de la reina victoria before the alcázar is one of the unforgettable sights of the peninsula, of the inmost fiber of castile. on the horizon lies one of spain's sad, isolated villages. a winding road leads to it, along which plod the familiar carriers of the land, brothers of sancho's patient rucio; the rocky hills stretch away, dotted with ancient churches. close to the city lie oases of trees and gardens such as the monastery enclosure of la parral, with its noticeable stone pines. the alcázar with its bartizan towers is built on a lofty crag that rises like the prow of a giant ship above the meeting of two bosky little streams, the eresma which yielded the "trout of exceeding greatness" whereon charles i of england supped in this castle, and the peaceful brook, clamores. thus in one landscape are united hardy uplands, leafy parks, a mediæval town with church towers and fortified castle, making a scene whose individuality is beyond beauty, whose profound charm never palls. here one communes with the silent, inner soul of spain, the land of isabella, of garcilaso, of teresa, of cervantes, not a trace of whose spirit is found in madrid, but in such spots as toledo and avila and this. segovia merits a prolonged stay. there were two englishwomen in our hotel, who had passed months painting in the unfrequented city and found it a treasure house for the artist. it is full of romanesque churches of the th and th centuries; so many are there that some are unused and falling into decay. the two best are san martín and san millán; the first, in the center of the town, surrounded by noticeable houses, has outside cloisters, that serve as a sunny lounging place for the people. from san martín you can descend to san millán by the steps beside the plaza isabel ii. apart from the church itself, with colossal animals carved on its capitols, the view from its porch is a most beautiful one, including the aqueduct, the cathedral, and climbing houses, part of whose foundations it is plain to see are the apses of ancient churches. segovia's cathedral is not romanesque like most of her churches, but late-gothic, designed by the same architect who did salamanca's new cathedral, and like it, though a poor thing exteriorly, the inside is dignified and effective: it is more fortunate than its sister church in having a curved east end, not salamanca's cold hall-like apse. the cloisters of segovia belonged to the earlier cathedral; they were taken down and skillfully reset here; the pillars being elliptical in shape like oviedo, are not thoroughly pleasing. in a chapel opening out of the cloisters is the touching, small tomb of the prince whose nurse dropped him by accident from a window of the alcázar, back in the th century; and a good example of the countless rare tombs of spain is the bishop, with an exquisite ascetic face of chiseled marble, who lies in the passage leading to the cloisters. as we were in segovia on all saints' day, we went to the celebration in the cathedral, saw the prelate--the train of his red robe held by bearers--met at the church door by the canons and conducted in state to his throne. the vergers were very gorgeous; the leader carried a silver staff and wore a white wig and a white robe, his two assistants also in white wigs but with red velvet robes. the following day, all souls', these vergers were dressed in mourning, and in the center of the black-draped church was placed, with true spanish realism, a covered bier. on all saints' day there was really good music on the organ whose pipes flared out over aisles and choir; also an excellent sermon to which all listened in rapt attention, officers, peasants, and grave faced hidalgos standing in a characteristic group around the pulpit. the best way to learn spanish and to learn more than the lip language of this race, is to listen to the sermons. their eloquence is natural and contagious, and the peroration, delivered with _brio_, is often an artistic treat. attend the sermons and frequent the early morning services, and you stumble on scenes of unobtrusive piety that tell you, despite some spanish pessimists, that the soul of religion still lives in this land of the latest crusaders. as sunday was the day we had set for the trip to la granja, i went early to the cathedral, and at mass in a dark chapel of the apse, i watched long two gallant little lads of twelve and fourteen, smart in their artillery uniforms, swords, and white gloves. they went to communion with their mother, who, like most spanish women in church, was dressed in black with a draped veil, a fashion that lends an air of distinction to the plainest. this group of three remained to pray after the others had left the chapel, remained as a pleasure really to pray, the serious, high-browed, little faces bent over their books of devotion as they read the after-communion devotions by the light of a tall candle placed on the floor beside them; then their blue eyes closed in such sweet, unconscious piety that it touched the heart strangely. and when, their prayers over, they left the cathedral, each seized the mother's arm with a gay scamper of delight--she probably on a visit to them--and now for a whole day of vacation and enjoyment! in the same uniform as the small communicants of segovia cathedral, other embryo artillery officers fill the city. at our hotel was a table where a number of the older students dined each day. they were well-bred lads with inborn sedateness, never boorish nor loud-voiced; noblesse oblige still is a reality in spite of the dissipated, smart set in madrid by which we too often generalize. i shall not soon forget the look of pained displeasure with which they watched the over familiar treatment of the waiter by a foreign lady. it does not seem to me too harsh a statement to make that spain's neighbor across the pyrenees, has little of this chivalrous idealism among her boys. there are exceptions of course; the manly carriage of the _brancardiers_ of lourdes, those bands of young men who voluntarily serve as bearers of the crippled and stricken, show that a remnant still exists of the race of the rochejacqueleins, of the montalemberts, of those who can serve, unpaid, an ideal. frenchmen themselves will not maintain that such are the average. whereas the average spanish, like the average english lad, has a strong dash of the quixote and is capable of disinterested enthusiasm. proof of this radical difference is that first important step in manhood, marriage. in spain there is not the pernicious system of dowries; as a rule it is personal attraction that wins a husband. french people will assure you, that though one may be hump-backed and villainously ill-tempered, if there is a dot one is married; one may be grace and intelligence incarnate, without the dot one goes unwedded to the grave; the shrewd, interested love of money is in young as well as old. spanish young people are romantic. midnight serenades and evening hours of chatting by the _reja_ are signs that hint marriage here is more than material settlement, love more than an impulse of nature; spain's novels tell of this idealism. in many vital points the spanish people are more akin to the english than to their latin brothers. the sunday morning that we took the diligence for our country excursion started cloudless. la granja lies seven miles outside segovia, on the guadarrama mountains, and is the residence of the court for part of each summer. the diligence rattled down the precipitous streets of segovia, passed under the towering aqueduct, "the devil's bridge" the peasantry call it, then mounted the swelling hills to the palace at san ildefonso. it had formerly been a farm belonging to the monks of la parral; philip v turned it into an artificial french pleasure ground, and built a formal chateau, a bourbon creation that is strangely out of place on the rugged hills. the park is well-wooded but all rural charm is spoiled by the neo-classic fountains, some of them like monstrous dreams. before we reached the leafy avenues of san ildefonso, the sky became overcast and a heavy rain began. five minutes after leaving the diligence we were so drenched that it seemed as sensible to explore the palace grounds as to pause chilled and wet in a miserable hotel. then when we found the diligence did not return to segovia till the evening and that no carriage would start in the storm, in an ill moment we decided to walk back to the city. a wind that cut like a knife made it a feat beyond our strength, and some miles along that bleak way, when a cart passed, we abjectly begged a passage. yet, standing patiently under the drenching rain, oblivous to the tearing wind, the contented young shepherd girls watched their flocks. if this poor imitation of versailles has little in itself to charm the tourist, la granja has been the scene of so many striking events in modern spanish history that it merits a visit. it was there that godoy, favorite of charles iv's wife, signed away spain to napoleon, the criminal act that led to such glorious consequences. for then spain, the country which had lain downtrodden under three centuries of misrule, shedding her blood in wars for her wretched kings' personal ambitions and giving her treasure for their extravagance, awoke suddenly to life when she found the king had outraged her. two young heroes, daoiz and velarde, artillery officers, turned the cannon on the french invaders in madrid, that memorable _dos de mayo_, , and the war of independence began, the starting point of regeneration, the second cavadonga. that outburst of national vigor has never had justice done it. we know the peninsula war from the english point of view, a ceaseless disparagement of spain's part in it.[ ] it is true that without the english armies the war would have dragged on in disorderly, guerrilla fashion, for misrule had robbed the people of skill in self-government and organization. but remember the glorious year , whose centenary all spain was celebrating during the months of our visit, was before the arrival of wellington's troops. the _dos de mayo_, the battle of bailén, where a spanish general with spanish troops brought about the surrender of twenty thousand of napoleon's trained soldiers, and the sieges of saragossa and gerona, unmatched in all modern history for heroism, were in - . it is just to remember that when germany, austria, italy, and russia yielded in part to the invader, spain stood firm against him, and the nation that europe thought unnerved and debased "presented a fulcrum upon which a lever was rested that moved the civilized world." la granja has witnessed later historic scenes. when charles iv betrayed his people, the nation chose as their king his son, the miserable ferdinand vii, who ungratefully repaid their loyalty. poor spain, she has had kings who would have wrecked a less vigorous race. at la granja, in , ferdinand vii changed his will and made his infant daughter, isabel ii, his heir, instead of his brother, don carlos, whom he had previously acknowledged, thus leaving behind him an inheritance of civil war. from the days of urraca and isabella the catholic, women could inherit the throne in spain, just as they can in england. but in the th century under the bourbon kings, who loved all things french, the salic law was introduced and continued in force till ferdinand vii changed it at la granja. the king had a full right to revert to the earlier custom, as the salic law was an innovation in spain, and the grandson of ferdinand's daughter, isabel ii, the present young alfonso xiii, is in truth the legitimate king of the spains. don carlos, on ferdinand's death, rose in rebellion, and for seven years a frightful, fraticidal struggle ravaged the country. this civil war, stamped out in , again burst into flames during the disorders of . to-day, however, the carlist faction claims but scattered adherents, chiefly in the northern provinces. the peaceful termination of these troubles has been solidified by that noble and truly wise woman, the present queen dowager, maría cristina, whose strength of character and sincerity of aim may be said to have safeguarded her son's inheritance during his long minority. another scene took place at la granja in the early years of isabel ii' reign, while her mother was regent, a far different regent from the later cristina. though the constitutional factions had rallied round isabel, as the absolutists had gathered about don carlos, it was only through force, inch by inch, that the spanish crown yielded to the people's demand for a constitutional monarchy. thus, at la granja in , the queen mother was intimidated by the army into affirming again the constitution of . this last century in spain has been a period of such ceaseless insurrection, such rapid, ill-considered changes of ministries, that it seems, on hasty survey, to be a hundred years of political chaos. perhaps a slight sketch of the events may help to a better understanding, for running through the century, a thread to the labyrinth, is the nation's slow, stumbling, but ever forward advance to constitutional rule. with each disorderly, seemingly unconnected insurrection, a step ahead was taken, so that to-day an absolute monarchy is an impossibility in spain. she may have taken longer than many european powers to shake off the incubus of the divine right of kings, but on the other hand, she has achieved her comparative independence without a king's execution or a terrible, bloody cataclysm. there has never been in spain the bitter separation of nobles and people; together they both worked for their freedom, keeping a fraternal relationship that is uncommon in history. the spanish temperament, like the english, has an intense loyalty and love of tradition; it finds its happiest condition under a monarchy, but the history of the th century shows it must be a constitutional monarchy; a modern king rules for the good of the people since he rules by will of the people. to give a hasty sketch of political progress. godoy, charles iv's unscrupulous minister, brought napoleon's armies into spain under the pretext that they were on their way to conquer portugal. when some seventy thousand french troops were on spanish soil and the people found their king a slave to the so-called visitors, they suddenly awoke to the truth, the tocsin of alarm sounded in madrid, and from one end of the land to the other they took up arms. then followed the guerra de la independenzia, to , that proved to europe spain was alive and vigorous, again in the arena of the world's struggle. during the war a representative body met at cadiz, thus renewing the cortes that had flourished before the hapsburg dynasty stamped it out. at cadiz, in an outburst of patriotism, the constitution of was drawn up: for the invader, war to the knife; ferdinand vii to be their lawful king; abuses such as the inquisition abolished; the sovereignty of the people upheld; "_religión y rey, patria é independencia_," truly spanish watchwords. when in napoleon was forced to accept ferdinand vii as king of spain, that ungrateful king came back to his loyal people, and his first act was to restore the absolute monarchy of his ancestors, to declare the constitution of null and void, to try to galvanize the inquisition into life. it was not long before the disorders of his government led some of the colonies in america to declare their independence, and finally spain too uprose. the riego insurrection of , proclaiming again the constitution of , was the first of the frequent _pronunciamientos_ (the uprising of the army against absolute monarchy) that continued down to . louis philippe declared this insubordination of the army a menace to other thrones of europe, and took this pretext to send french troops into spain to uphold ferdinand's absolutism: the trocadero defense was during this second invasion of the french. always ceaselessly agitating, despite temporary defeat, went on the people's struggle for a constitution. while ferdinand vii lived there was little hope for modern ideas, but when he died, the constitutionalists espoused the cause of his infant daughter, isabel ii. all advance was retarded by the carlist war that followed isabel's accession, during which war occurred what a spanish quaker has called the "_pecado de sangre_," the brutal massacre of the monks and destruction of such unrivaled centers of art as poblet in catalonia, more a political act than a religious, as the monks were carlists. this war so confused and embittered the issues at stake that it is difficult to follow with consistency the political parties. the government was consistent only in its instability, having now a queen regent, now an espartero, banishments, executions, riots, barricades, revolts,--it seemed indeed as if spain were sown with cadmus teeth. still through the darkness one can follow a light. the constitution of asserted boldly the sovereignty of the people. though the constitution of the forties was lenient to absolute power, the cortes was now included in the government, a marked advance since ferdinand vii's day. the constitution of the fifties was a further advance toward national independence. in the midst of political rancors, the war with africa, , came as a noble interval when feuds were put aside and all fought together against a common enemy. as in the old days, poets and novelists enrolled themselves in the army, and the young grandees served as common soldiers, in fidelity to the vow of their ancestors, knights of santiago, of calatrava, and of alcántara, that when spain was threatened by the saracen, their descendants would serve _in the ranks, on foot, and in person_. then, this brilliant war over, the old strifes returned in force, prim, o'donnell,[ ] and twenty minor parties. queen isabel ii was banished in , and the first interregnum since spain was a monarchy occurred. then followed the short-lived rule of amadeus i, duke of aosta and son of victor emmanuel, called by invitation to rule in spain. his chief upholder, prim, was assassinated before amadeus reached madrid, and the new king found himself in so equivocal a position, that after two unhappy years he resigned gladly. under the influence of castelar, most brilliant of orators and a man who sincerely loved his country, a republic of two years' duration followed. spain was never intended for a republic; discontent continued general, the ministry changed eight times in this short period, and at length all warring factions agreed that the only hope for stable government lay in the restoration of spain's lawful king, isabel ii's eldest son. isabel in paris abdicated in his favor, and in alfonso xii returned to his native land. he came not in the same spirit as had ferdinand vii in . the sixty years of disorders had led to a solid result, alfonso xii came back as a constitutional king. the constitution of was a reconciliation of monarchical principles and those of a democracy. the new king died before he had reached the age of thirty, and his son alfonso xiii, born after his father's death, was represented by his mother till his majority. to maría cristina of austria, spain owes an unending debt of gratitude. under her wise rule the country had some years of the peace she so needed; and even what is termed disaster, the recent loss of colonies, is a blessing in disguise. spain to-day needs all her strength for herself. as the abuses of centuries are not reformed in a year and as nothing on earth can be perfect, there is much to be desired still in spain's political life. her constitution is an excellent one in theory, but in practice it is crippled by the dishonest elections. political power is left in the hands of an unscrupulous minority who work for personal, not national aggrandizement, and the distrust such elections have engendered keeps the better element of the people aloof from the government. only fifteen per cent of the spanish people vote. the king has, like england's ruler, the right of absolute veto. if spain is now so blessed as to have for her king a worthy descendant of isabella the catholic, the remedy for the political dishonesty may be close at hand. young alfonso xiii has an intelligence of the first order; he has been trained under a high-minded and truly christian woman; he has married the daughter of a race that well understands constitutional rule; personally he is loved by his people with an affection not hard to understand, for despite his thin, plain face, the young king is eminently distinguished and _simpático_. often in seville, seeing him galloping back from polo, or returning from a week's hunt in the wilds of the sierras, our intense hopes went out to him. in his hands, it is slight exaggeration to say, lies spain's future. if alfonso xiii gives his intelligence and life-blood to his people, who can foresee to what heights this strong, uncontaminated race may climb? the past century's outburst in literature and art hint the possibility of a second _siglo de oro_. la granja has led me far afield. it does not stand for spain's best, an artificial, foreign creation where passed hours of the nation's abasement. segovia is the real spain. descend from the alcázar to the river, cross the bridge, mount to the ten-sided chapel of the knights templars, and sitting on the steps of the granite cross, look back on the stretching city. there lies the spain whose fiber is capable of regeneration: generous, patient, indomitable, faulty, but with manly faults, untouched by taint of luxury and greed, with blood in her veins, and ideals in her soul. wander down by the eresma past the hermitage, and encircle the town by the footpath beside the tree-hidden clamores. high above, its yellow stones gleaming in the sunset light, rises the fortress which stood firm for isabella in her critical hour, and from whence she started in state to claim her heritage. will the young king of spain to-day show the world that isabella's heritage is worth the claiming? [illustration: the alcÁzar of segovia] saint teresa and avila "all great artists are mystics, for they do but body forth what they have intuitively discerned: all philosophers as far as they are truly original are mystics, because their greatest thoughts are not the result of laborious efforts but have been apprehended by the lightening flash of genius, and because their essential theme is connected with the one feeling, only to be mystically apprehended, the relation of the individual to the absolute. every great religion has originated in mysticism and by mysticism it lives, for mysticism is what john wesley called 'heart religion.' when this dies out of any creed, that creed inevitably falls into mere formalism." w. s. lilly. mysticism is st. teresa's highest glory. to write of her with admiration and even enthusiasm, leaving untouched this acme of her genius, as certain of her biographers have done, is to describe the shape, the hue, the grace of a rose and omit to tell of its scent. on all sides her character was notable; in strength of will, in that most uncommon of qualities, common sense,[ ] in vigorous administration, in sincerity of purpose. carmelite nun and restorer of the strictest order of carmelites, she was not in the least a withered ascetic but a well-bred castilian lady of winning manners and pleasing appearance, who in courtesy, dignity, and simplicity, embodied in herself the best of castile. from every word she wrote breathes a generous character. her robust virility of mind, her complete absence of sophistry or of self-consciousness, help us to understand the love she roused among her nuns, and the respect she gained from the foremost men of her time. "we cannot stir ourselves to great things unless our thoughts are high," wrote this soul of heroism. yet, with all her supremacy of intellect, teresa was so delicately witty, so gay--peals of laughter were often heard in her cloisters--so shrewd, that never in her was found the least trace of the pretentious. anecdotes are told of her practical good sense. the first night of the foundation in salamanca, in the solitary garret when the frightened little nun, her companion, exclaimed, "i was thinking, dear mother, what would become of you, if i were to die," "pish," said teresa, who disliked the exalté, "it will be time to think of that when it happens. let us go to sleep." then her vehement protest to those who thought prayer alone sufficient for salvation: "no, sisters, no: our lord desires works!" her swift sweeping aside of the aristocratic spirit in her convents; let there be no talk of precedence, "which is nothing more than to dispute whether the earth be good for bricks or for mortar. o my god, what an insignificant subject!" "i have always been friendly with learned men," she wrote, and pleasant milestones in her burdened life are her interviews with some remarkable minds of the time. "knowledge and learning are very necessary for everything, alas!"--this last exclamation made in naïve apology that she could only translate in halting language her inner life of the spirit, she whose witchery of style makes her read to-day even by the scoffer. the human personality of the saint lives in her writing, where is found the fragrance of her own special soul. "i cannot see anyone who pleases me but i must instantly desire that he might give himself entirely to god, and i wish it so ardently that sometimes i can hardly contain myself." "humility alone is that which does everything, when you comprehend in a flash to the depth of your being, you are a mere nothing and that god is all." "oh, lord of my soul! oh my true lord, how wonderful is thy greatness! yet here we live, like so many silly swains, imagining we have attained some knowledge of thee; and yet it is indeed as nothing, for even in ourselves there are great secrets which we do not understand." "do you know what it is to be truly spiritual? it is to be the slaves of god; those who are signed with his mark which is that of the cross." and that supreme cry of the saints in all ages: "_¡señor! ¡o morir ó padecer!_ my god! either to suffer or to die!" it is inevitable sacrilege for anyone in this generation, which has traveled so far from the days of faith, to touch on teresa's raptures and locutions, for in sheer ignorance we profane what is holy. the saint herself foresaw our difficulty. "i know that whoever shall have arrived at these raptures will understand me well; but he who has had no experience therein, will consider what i say to be foolish.... however much i desire to speak clearly concerning what relates to prayer, it will be obscure for him who has no experience therein.... some may say these things seem impossible, and that it is good not to scandalize the weak.... i consider it certain that whoever shall receive any harm by believing it possible for god in this land of exile to bestow such favors, stands in great need of humility; such a person keeps the gate shut against receiving any favors himself." so unparalleled was her life of ecstasy that at first the saint doubted if it were heaven sent or not; she submitted herself humbly to the tests of that inquisition age till at length her own good judgment told her that this "joy surpassing all the joys of the world, all its delights, all its pleasures," was from god, because of its after-effects, an added peace, a deeper humility, a more ardent and practical love of souls. but her clear brain and transcendent honesty made her see the risk for weaker minds: "the highest perfection," she warns, "does not consist in raptures nor in visions, nor in the gift of prophecy, but in making our will so conformable with the will of god that we shall receive what is bitter as joyfully as what is sweet and pleasant." mysticism skirts indeed perilous precipices, but st. teresa walked the narrow path securely, her eyes uplifted, oblivious of the dangers below. i dare not touch on her marvelous life of the spirit.[ ] all i can say is, go to her own works, read them in their pure, native castilian, do not be content with the few extreme quotations given perhaps by those who would discredit her; read her in various moods, as you do the "imitation," and i doubt if she fails to convince you that there are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamed of in our negative philosophy, that a few rare souls have risen to supreme heights because they were really humble and really holy, that religion has preserved from total loss the subtlest faculty of man, and faith stood up bravely through centuries of intellectual contempt to battle for it. recently i came across a review of some works on psychology by that able young english novelist, robert hugh benson; it ended with these suggestive words: "in psychology, science and religion are very near to one another, for its subject is nothing else than the soul of man. science in her winding explorations has been for centuries drawing nearer to this center of the maze: she has traversed physical nature, the direct work of god, and philosophy, the direct product of man.... is it too much to hope that when science has advanced yet a few steps more she may have come to faith with the human soul newly discovered in her hands: 'here is a precious and holy thing that i have found in man, a thing which for years i have denied or questioned. now i hand it over to the proper authority. it has powers of which i know little or nothing, strange intuitions into the unseen, faculties for communication which do not find their adequate object in this world ... a force of habit which is meaningless if it ends with time; an affinity with some element that cannot rise from matter as its origin. take it from my hands for you alone understand its needs and capacities. enliven it with the atmosphere it must have for its proper development, feed it, cleanse it, heal its hurts, train it to use and control its own powers, and prepare it for eternity.'" let the reader before he opens the "way of perfection" know the saint's "life"[ ] which she wrote, by the advice of her superior, when forty-six years of age; it is an autobiography worthy to rank with augustine's "confessions." read also the few hundred racy letters written after the press of the day while the convent slept. chief of all, let the reader, if he is practical, know that inimitable book of her fifty-eighth year, the "foundations," with its cervantes-like pictures of the people and customs of the time. perhaps only those who have traveled on spanish country-roads, those tracts of mud or rocks, can appreciate the hardships endured by this aged woman as she went from city to city to found her houses; in heavy snows to salamanca; to seville in a covered cart turned to purgatory by the direct rays of the andalusian sun, with fever and only hot water to drink; rivers overflowed by heavy rains; boats upset in the rivers. the last foundation was at burgos, barely four months before her death, the jolting cart in which she rode from palencia having to be pulled out of the ruts and she entered the coldest city in the peninsula on a raw january day in a heavy rain, there to find further troubles. familiar with teresa's physical endurance, her cool-headed business ability, her candid hatred of shams and pretence, then approach her loftier self and read the "camino de perfección." the treatise on prayer in the "life," (chap. xi to xxii) prepares one for this second book, which she wrote for her sisters and daughters of "st. joseph's" in avila, "those pure and holy souls whose only care was to serve and praise our lord, so disengaged from the things of the world, solitude is their delight." through the "way of perfection" runs her beautiful exposition of the pater noster, with digressions to right and left as her thoughts arose. she tells of the intangible land of worship in magic-laden words that draw the cold heart to the far realm of contemplation wherein lay the source of her strength. the "camino" leads one to her last book, the "interior castle," a glorious pæan to god, a courageous exploring of the untrodden realms of the soul that is truly one of the triumphs of the spirit, and when we consider it was written by a woman of sixty-two, worn out with labors and penance, living in a poor little convent, it is an incredible feat of genius. in all literature is found nothing loftier nor more ethereal: "oh, 'tis not spanish but 'tis heaven she speaks!" teresa belonged to the race of the true mystics because she was a great saint. it has been said that sainthood, the divine hunger of the soul to do or to suffer _pro causa dei_ is as difficult to define to the imagination as genius. the materialist may scoff at it, but it remains a primitive part of human nature against which argument beats itself in vain. its form may change with the times, the eastern anchorite and the mediæval ascetic may give way to the administrative bishop needed in his age; to a knightly paladin such as that "raleigh among the saints" who led his free lances to the fight for the salvation of souls; to a large-hearted philanthropist like vincent de paul, with his unresting sisters of charity; to a scholar of the schools, a newman; to the reformer in our ugly modern cities; under varying vestures the spirit is the same. in the compelling power of her saints lies the force of the church; to the saints of the catholic reformation, to philip neri, charles borromeo, francis borgia, francis de sales, francis xavier, ignatius loyola, the church owes her rehabilitation. these great souls rose in every land to purify abuses, to drive the money changers from the temple: they were the leaven in the hundred measures of meal. macaulay noted the fact that since the middle of the sixteenth century protestantism has not gained one inch of ground, and this is due to these saints of the catholic reformation; for deep in man's heart lies a reverence for simple goodness that overrides all disputes, and when such saints arose in the church that was called a sink of iniquity, men paused; those who had passed from her ranks did not return, but none after followed them. had luther been gifted with more of this personal sainthood, the fatal division that bequeathed centuries of hate and warfare might have been avoided, and the simpler method of example, of holiness of life, have sufficed for reforming renaissance rome intoxicated with the revival of pagan culture. such regrets are futile, a mere weighing the weight of the fire, a measuring the blast of the wind; and they are ungrateful, too, since the spirit of that troubled time roused among other great souls, a teresa de cepeda y ahumada. the writings of this remarkable woman have the same allurements for us to-day as when they flowed almost unconsciously from her pen, for besides her mysticism and her sainthood, she was a poet, of the race of those whose thoughts make rich the blood of the world. her little nuns tell that when she wrote her hand moved so rapidly, it seemed hardly possible it could form human words, while in her face was an expression of exaltation. "she ranks as a miracle of genius, as perhaps the greatest woman who ever handled pen, the single one of all her sex who stands beside the world's most perfect masters," is the testimony of the ablest english critic of spanish literature. she wrote with her eye direct on her soul's experience, with the glorious courage to give the naked truth regardless of consequences, and she will be read as long as sincerity of soul-expression is the poet's best gift and while the conflict of faith and unbelief remains the highest of human themes. mystic, saint, and poet, she can claim yet another title, that of philosopher. by the road of self-study, she reached that sublime height of metaphysics, the intellectual vision of the absolute. the further psychology advances, the more wonderful is found her knowledge of the soul and its moods and powers. "the highest, most generous philosophy that ever man imagined," wrote the scholar, luis de león. "sainte térèse a exploré plus à fond que tout autre les régions inconnues de l'âme, ... elle explique savamment, clairement, le mécanisme de l'âme évoluant dès que dieu la touche ... une sainte qui a vérifié sur elle-même les phases sur-naturelles qu'elle a décrites, une femme dont la lucidité fut plus qu'humaine" is the appreciation of huysmans. not only orthodox believers yield her this preëminence: leibnitz read and deeply admired her; a recent french critic of the skeptic school compares her to descartes. hyperbole is inevitable in speaking of this "sweet incendiary," and all who know her books feel the same enthusiasm. "a woman for angelical height of speculation, for masculine courage of performance, more than a woman," wrote the old english poet, richard crashaw, whose "flaming heart" is touched with her own potency: "oh thou undaunted daughter of desires! by all thy dower of lights and fires; by all the eagle in thee, all the dove; and by thy lives and deaths of love, by thy large draughts of intellectual day; and by thy thirsts of love more large than they;... by all the heav'n thou hast in him, (fair sister of the seraphim!) by all of him we have in thee; leave nothing of myself in me, let me so read thy life that i unto all life of mine may die." spain may claim the glory of having appreciated this her greatest daughter. she is a colonel of artillery; she is a doctor in salamanca; the manuscript of her "life" was placed in the escorial and the king carried the key; at country inns they tell of the night she rested there, as if it had been yesterday; her devotees to-day sign their letters "_su amigo teresiano_." it was reserved for later generations of different race to explain what they could not understand by calling it hysteria and epilepsy. richard ford's account of the saint is so wide of the original that froude, no lover of catholic spain, says it is not even a caricature; the article on her in the encyclopedia brittanica is a disgrace to intellectual thought. spain stands indifferent to such criticism. she knows herself secure in her mystics who seem to have left the race an intuitive understanding of the life of the soul. this inherited intuition has, of course, its dangers, for all intelligences are not those of a teresa de jesús. it needs indeed "large draughts of intellectual day" to be a mystic. valdés' novel, "marta y maría" shows this mistaken insisting in the nineteenth century on conditions of life suitable to the sixteenth. but because smaller minds have imitated her disastrously, their neo-mysticism need not be considered a serious menace in modern spain, since following a saint, even haltingly, is not by any means an easy life to choose. st. teresa and avila: her name evokes that of her native city as instantly as st. francis' that of assisi; every stone in avila breathes of the heroic woman. our first visit was to the small plaza under the city walls, where the _casa solar_ of the cepeda family stood. teresa came of the untitled gentry of castile, _de sangre muy limpia_, and a spaniard's pride in his blood, untouched by moorish taint, by crime, or illegitimacy, is as strong to-day as then: perhaps it is this pride, in peasant as well as noble, that makes the democratic relation of the classes in the peninsula. at right angles to the mediocre church built in commemoration, on the site of the cepeda house, stands the mansion of the duque de la roca, which gives a good idea of the solid escutcheoned homes of the hidalgo. many such dignified houses are scattered over avila, making a stroll in her streets full of the charm of surprise; their chief adornments are the doorways, truly splendid old portals with coping stones sometimes nine feet deep radiating round the entrance. in one of these solid romanesque houses teresa was born in . through a city gate before her house, i looked out on just the same scene she had known during the first eighteen years of her life; the rocky plain, through which the river wound, stretched to a spur of the guadarrama mountains, capped already with the winter's snow. leaving the venerable little plaza, i descended the steep street that led to the river bridge, in the spirit of pilgrimage still, for the child teresa and a small brother wandered here alone one day on their way to seek martyrdom among the infidels. met by an uncle beyond the bridge, the runaways were brought home. truly in the saint's life, the child was father to the man, her days bound each to each in natural piety, despite that short period which her too tender conscience ever regretted when, as a pretty girl, love of fine clothes and flattery allured her. it is told of these remarkable children, that, hearing the word "forever," they clasped their little hands and gazed wide-eyed in each other's faces, overcome by its stupendous meaning. [illustration: house of the duque de la roca, avila] when teresa was eighteen she went to visit a married sister who lived at a distance, and on her return stopped to see an uncle who had just taken the resolution of entering a monastery. the religious feeling in her partly awoke, and she too desired the life of the cloister, but her parents not finding strength to part with her, one morning she and a brother slipped away from home, and after he had conducted her to the carmelite convent of the incarnation outside the walls, he went on himself to beg admittance at the dominican convent of st. thomas. for over twenty-five years teresa lived in the _encarnación_: during the first twenty years she was miserable in bodily health and as miserable in spirit, for the saint had not yet found her vocation, and the laxity of the rule allowed the nuns to see much of the world, to receive visitors and hear the gossip of the town. "i was tossed about in a wretched condition, for if i had small content in the world, in god i had no pleasure. at prayer time i watched for the clock to strike the end of the hour." strange words for this future great genius of prayer! her conversion, the change of heart that sooner or later, disregarded or welcomed, comes to all who live with any depth, came to teresa as she was approaching her fortieth year. she had been roused to more serious thoughts by her father's death, and one day in the oratory she suddenly seemed to realize in a figure of her crucified saviour the unspeakable wonder of his sacrifice: "thy hands to give thou can'st not lift. yet will thy hand still giving be, it gives, but o, itself's the gift, it gives tho' bound, tho' bound 'tis free." "love touch't her heart, and lo! it beats high, and burns with such brave heats such thirst to die, as dares drink up a thousand cold deaths in one cup." with the inflowing of true religion, teresa longed for a stricter life, for the original rule of mount carmel as conferred by innocent iv in . she was misunderstood by those around her, her locutions and visions doubted; as a natural result of the false _beata_ of that day, she was considered a woman who for the sake of notoriety pretended to sainthood. only after years of semi-persecution did the ring of truth and the ethical fervor of teresa's words convince the learned men who examined her, and she was allowed to leave the _encarnación_ to found the convent of st. joseph, her first house of the barefoot or _descalzos_ carmelites. associated so closely as is the _encarnación_ with the saint, it is with emotion one looks down from the city on the pleasant oasis it makes in the rocky plain. teresa had there the memorable interviews with st. francis borgia, just returned from a visit to his friend and former lord, charles v at yuste; with the mystic poet, st. john of the cross (whom coventry patmore has followed in his "unknown eros"); with st. peter of alcántara, who too held that "the cornerstone and chief foundation of all is humility." these devout men confirmed teresa in her belief in the divine origin of her prayer: "there is no pleasure or comfort which can be equal to meeting with another person to whom god has given some beginnings of the same dispositions," she wrote, harrassed by the petty suspicions around her. a tenderer association than the _encarnación_ is that of _san josé_, her first foundation. the convent lies outside the puerta del alcázar, gate of the castle, past the plaza where the townspeople stroll under the arcades, and peasant women sell fragrant celery from the big saddle-baskets they lift from their donkeys' backs to the pavement. the visitor is shown treasured relics by the nuns, the quaint musical instrument their mother played on, her drinking jug, and wooden pillow, a letter in her strong, clear hand-writing. during the later strenuous years of her life the saint ever looked back lovingly here. "i lived for five years in the monastery of st. joseph at avila, and those now seem to me to be the most peaceful part of my life, the want of which repose my soul often feels." from the age of fifty-two to her death at sixty-six ( ) this wonderful woman traveled over spain, founding her reformed order, sixteen convents for women and fourteen monasteries for men. while on a visit of inspection at alba de tormes the end came; with her favorite words of the psalmist, "a contrite and humbled heart, o god, thou wilt not despise," she passed, as she had written in her "way of perfection," "not to a strange country, but to her native land." avila is worthy of her saint, avila of the knights, avila the loyal, the king's avila. it is one of the most perfect examples existing of the fortified towns of chivalry. built on an eminence, it is completely encircled by grand old walls, forty feet high, whose sameness is broken by some eighty-six towers; two of these here and there are placed close together and arched, so as to make a gateway. below the town on every side stretches a plain, so strewn with shattered rocks that it is easy to picture it the scene of some battle of giants. the cathedral may be called part of the city ramparts, since its apse forms one of the eighty encircling towers; the walls are so thick that the radiating chapels round the chancel are not seen in the exterior view, being quite lost in the depth of stone and mortar. our inn, the _fonda ingles_, looked out on the square before the cathedral, a windy spot, where the gusts from the mountains seized and tossed the men's long capes. like burgos and salamanca, avila is on the truncated mountain of central spain, and one is reminded of its , feet of altitude by the bitter cold. nothing can pierce so sharply as the wind of the castile plains. each day we crossed the gusty plaza to the church and so grew to know it with the heart-affection spanish cathedrals win. the large windows have been walled up to darken the interior, for spain, the hardy, the all-enduring, ignores the frosts of eight months of the year to provide against the summer heats. the details of avila cathedral are truly lovely; a double-aisled ambulatory round the warm space of the high altar, a _retablo_ of ancient pictures, isolated marble shrines between chancel and choir near which kneel groups of black-veiled worshipers, gleaming brass _rejas_, a carved _coro_ where the canons chant and where are massive illuminated hymnals on the lectern, all make up one's ideal of a house of god. do not miss the sacristy, one's ideal too of what a sacristy should be, with antique silver wrought by the de arfe family, with painted and gilded cabinets, and alabaster altars cut like ivory. st. teresa's city is small: one can encircle its walls several times in a constitutional, yet every walk discovers new treasures. we were constantly stumbling on yet other of the imposing portals that exist in their perfection only here and at segovia, and in the sleepy squares or courtyards we found some of the roughly-hewn stone animals, the primitive god of druid days, used later by the romans as milestones. from these comes another title for avila, _cantos y santos_. an easy afternoon walk can be taken to son soles, a hermitage on the lower slope of the mountains, whither the saint must have gone in the summer evenings when the sunset glorified the plain and hills, for the customs of avila to-day are those of avila in the sixteenth century. a path led us across the aromatic fields, and country men in wide-brimmed velvet hats gazed at us with clear, fearless eyes, grave yet courteous, like true castilians. in the meadows we met a gentleman of the town pacing slowly, book in hand; one would have time in the home of the mystic for such fruitful hours of pause, such sessions of sweet silent thought. on the way to son soles, just on the outskirts of the town, stands santo tomás, the dominican monastery that long supplied missionaries to the philippines. before the high altar is a white marble mausoleum of isabella's period, worthy to rank with that of her parents at miraflores,--the truly touching tomb of her only son. he lies with calm upturned face, a crown on his thick locks, his gauntlets thrown beside him. the royal prince was educated with ten young nobles in a former palace near this church. generous, handsome, a scholar and musician, with the fair future stretching before him of the first king to rule the _españas_ rich and united, he died suddenly at salamanca in , turning all the conquests, all the discoveries of his parents' reign to dust and ashes. the queen bowed her head in submission, saying "the lord giveth and the lord taketh away, blessed be his name": but it is told that she often came to sit in her special stall of the raised choir here, to gaze with broken heart on the white tomb of her son. had he lived would spain's evil day have been averted? one can almost believe so; for tyrannic government came in with the austrian, who ruled here because of don juan's death. charles v, isabella's grandson, was not a spaniard; he could little understand the system of individual city rights that prevailed in the country he came to govern. spain can boast she was one of the earliest of european nations to teach the municipal doctrine that the state has freedom if the town is free. we too completely forget that it was nearly a century before the celebrated leicester parliament that burgos in had popular representation. when the austrian arrived, with his autocratic idea that all power should be concentrated, the castilian cities rose in the comuneros rebellion, but they were ruthlessly put down and for three hundred years the land's vigor and wealth were exploited for the benefit of one family. i am sure that as she sat pondering in the choir stall of santo tomás isabella foresaw what a tragic loss to her cherished land was the death of her only son. avila can link the names of isabella la católica and teresa de jesús, the two most incomparable women in whom the sex has culminated, both born on the bleak invigorating steppes of castile, in the same province, within the same hundred years, both making an indelible impression on their race, both leaving a deathless heritage of aspiration and onspurring pride. is there any wonder that a people who can claim two such heroines look at one with fearless eyes? avila is rich in tombs. there is a second lovely one in santo tomás, that of prince john's attendants, and down by the river bridge, the picturesque chapel of san segundo holds a most beautiful work by spain's best sculptor, berruguete. the kneeling bishop has so gentle an expression that it is hard to believe he could hurl a moslem chief from the city walls above this hermitage. in the cathedral, behind the high altar, is another berruguete tomb, bishop tostado, whose industry has passed into a proverb; he is here represented with speaking, alert expression, leaning forward, this tireless pen suspended in his hand. the tomb of st. teresa is not found in her native city, for she was buried where she died, at alba de tormes, some miles from salamanca. not long after her death avila stole the saint's body--strange to our modern notions are those old disputes over relics--but through the influence of the duke of alva it was restored to his town. admiration for st. teresa tempted me to alba de tormes, but to those who would go thither i must say, resist the temptation. unfortunately, the spirit of religiosity, which is to religion what sentimentality is to sentiment, has taken possession of her burial place. if you do go to alba, however, make it a day's excursion from salamanca. the evening was over before we reached the town, and we drove in darkness from the station, bumping over the ruts of an awful road. railway and villages seem often at enmity in spain; though we had passed directly by the gleaming lights of alba, we ran on some miles further before stopping in its station, hence the necessity of a drive of several kilometers back to the town. the inn was most primitive, being merely the poor house of a country woman, our waiter at table her ten-year old son dressed in corduroys. a friendly pig met us in the front hall, coming out from the kitchen to look at the unaccustomed foreigners; nevertheless, the house was clean and the landlady got out fragrant linen for the bedrooms. on our admiring a picture of their great patroness, the kindly woman, after dusting it, presented it with the customary polite phrase of "this your picture," which was no mere formality, since the next morning when she found it secretly restored to its former place, she rushed out to thrust it again on us as we were stepping into the diligence. this generous landlady, our grave little garçon, the night watchman the _sereno_, calling the hours, a daybreak view from the plaza of the vivid green meadows along the river, these are the pleasant reminiscences of alba. opposite the inn stood the church where the saint is buried, but willingly would i blot out its memory. an excitable monk was our guide. he turned on the electric light with a spectacular air, as if that, not the great relic, was the boast of the church; he showed the saint's silver tomb, her heart hung round with votive gifts, archbishop's rings and diamond coronets, then he led us to the revolving door of the convent, whence personal mementoes were passed us for inspection. lowering the lights, he bade us look through a grating at the back of the church, and suddenly the electricity was turned on in an interior room, and there on the cot lay the image of a carmelite nun asleep. the whole thing was in the worst possible taste, on a level with the bad churrigueresque architecture of the same period. a spot worthy of silent pilgrimage, where one of god's greatest saints breathed her last prayer, "cor contritum et humiliatum, deus, non despicies," this solemn cell of her death-bed has been turned to a vulgar show. how teresa's intelligent simplicity would sweep aside such ill-judged honors! in silent protest at the tawdriness surrounding them, lie the patrons of this alba foundation, don francisco velasquez and his wife doña teresa, distinguished, superb effigies in stone, _hidalgo como el rey_. doña teresa, in the delightful way of spanish ladies on tombs, is reading tranquilly in her book of devotions. with this example before us of the pass to which religious extravagance can be carried, it may be time to touch on a tendency in spain that is a distress to the northern catholic who is less childlike in his inward life. of course, since there is every kind of temperament, there must be every kind of taste; perhaps i am too much guided by personal likes or dislikes. however, i feel that those who crave the appropriate and simple will agree with me that making allowance for an emotional people, a coquettish shepherdess under a glass case on a church altar, (such as i saw in cadiz,) is misunderstood religion. one of spain's wisest sons, the philosopher vives, agitated against the dressing of statues, and the council of trent later prohibited the bad usage. why is not their advice followed? i do not mean to criticise the little country shrines whose inartistic decoration is often most heart-moving; in a remote village certain things are touching which elsewhere are displeasing. it should be the effort of the spanish clergy to discourage the extreme devotion to special altars and statues. artificial and roccoco in sentiment and expression, it is a menace to religion in the peninsula. spain has the vital christian faith, she is unspoiled by the tinsel, beneath the symbol is a soul; but, if she insists on clinging to what the modern mind finds ugly and insincere, she may lose many to whom the inner religion of a st. teresa would appeal. people seldom will see both sides justly; to rid themselves of an irritating detail, some will throw away the whole. there are not a few whose antipathy to religion has been caused by this blind clinging to the non-essential: the novelist pérez galdós, i should say was such a case. though his stories prove that he has never grasped what interior religion means, has never gone to the fountain head and drank of the pure, mystic waters, but has tasted only the contaminated streams of the valley, yet it cannot be denied that some of the religiosity he depicts is a phase that exists only too truly. the evil is the result of ignorance, not of malice. for this reason it would die a natural death were the spanish clergy given a wholly rounded education. i do not refer here to the learned canons or monastic orders, but to the parochial clergy. spain watches her neighbor france too closely, let her look further afield and she will lose her fear that education and skepticism go hand in hand; in england and america the priesthood is with the advancing tide, not against it: knowledge never yet harmed religion, but ignorance cripples her. science should have no silly terrors for priests whose church is the greatest proof of evolution through the ages, advancing relentlessly so that what is worth retaining of man's increasing knowledge finds its inevitable place in her body, but advancing slowly, (impatient abuse cannot hurry her magnificent conservatism); a complete organism, a living entity ever changing, yet ever the same.[ ] we can hardly expect the clergy of a land where tradition is a sacred thing, to be in the vanguard of modern thought, but they at least should not forget their own noted men of learning. ximenez, luis de león, feijóo, isla, suárez, balmes,--the names come crowding--all of them churchmen, who, the more they knew, the deeper grew their faith. after this vexatious visit to alba de tormes, it was with trepidation that i came to avila, there to find teresa's vigorous, truly-spiritual personality the living presence of the proud, high-minded little castilian city. and a happy coincidence the night of our arrival gave proof that her generous enthusiasm, her unresting love of souls, were not things of the past. having spent the day at the escorial, at ten in the evening we took the express to avila. in the carriage _reservado para señoras_, we found ourselves with three religious of the sacred-heart; a touch of home for me were their familiar fluted caps, buttoned capes, and silver crosses. the few hours of the journey fled all too swiftly in delightful talk; like nuns the world over, they were gay and happy as children, with the serene youth of the convent life in their faces. one of them was so distinguished a woman that it was a fascination to look at her. these fragile nuns were to travel through the cold night--and a raw november gale was blowing over the uplands of castile--to take a steamer at bordeaux, for they were pioneers, on their way to found a house in a distant part of south america, where education was backward. three weeks of winter sea, then some tropical days on horseback, before they reached their desolate new home! truly the heroic spirit of st. teresa is alive to-day, and fair sisters of the seraphim still walk among us. evening in avila around about the town stand eighty gray stone towers, that make a fitter crown, a hardier show than flowers for what is high and brave--the tawny castile plain-- so patient and so grave, incarnate soul of spain. you have made sweet the ways of penury and care with dawn and sunset praise and white still hours of prayer, old town of mystic saint! secure you ask: does peace, or restless seeking plaint come with your wealth's increase? an answering sound of bells across the upland goes, to each field-toiler tells a message of repose, and mounting to the sky's slow-darkening, tranquil dome the heart-calm echoes rise of peasants lingering home. madrid and the escorial "they who wrought wonders by the nile of old, bequeathing their immortal part to us, cast their own spirit first into the mould, and were themselves the rock they fashioned thus." george santayana. these two spots, products of men of small idea and nature, are happily so close together that they can fall under the same abuse. coming from the north, to stop at the escorial either from avila with its grand walls of the eighty towers, or from the crag-set castle of segovia, is such an abrupt transition from heroic times to the doctrinaire centuries that followed them that it is but too easy to be unfair to philip ii's huge pile. a better way is to go out to it from madrid; then, somewhat accustomed to cold commonplace, the escorial gives less of a jar. we descended to it from segovia. knowing herrera's lifeless architecture--"a syllogism in stone" it has wittily been called--on that side i did not expect much, but accounts of the setting of the escorial, of its grand solitary position in the mountains, made me hope for some kind of effect. people see things in such different ways. i could discover no grandeur whatever in the position of the rectangular ashy-colored building. the lower slopes of the guadarramas rise behind it, but at a little distance, and the town comes between it and the sierras. it was not solitary, it was not imposing. at close range, after we had walked up the leafy avenue from the station, even the appearance of unity was lost, and it seemed nothing but a big block of good town houses like many that fill the square between four city streets. window after window, alike inadequately small and unadorned; just like any monotonous line of town houses. we stood aghast at the pretentious, ineffectual mass which they call the eighth wonder of spain. for us to-day there is little wonder in spending fifty millions in one lifetime to put up myriads of doors, stair-cases, and courtyards, to use two thousand pounds of iron to make the door-keys; we are accustomed to the feat. the pity is that every tourist in spain comes here, and one in a thousand goes to poblet or león, those other pantheons that are proper burial places for sturdy old kings. i am not sure that the hapsburgs in spain merit anything worthier than an escorial. at first we thought it might be the side which we approached that gave so poor an effect, so we proceeded to encircle the building; on all four sides passing by window after window we saw not one inch of stone carved worthily, and to our astonishment we found it faced the mountains. fancy a blank, rocky wall, a quarter of a mile away and fancy such a stupidity as choosing this to open on, instead of the wide horizon of the opposite side. does this not give the key to the escorial? it and its builder had no imagination. since we were here we had to see it all, so we let ourselves be guided hither and thither, through courtyard after courtyard, down one dull corridor after another, in and out of rooms where little interested,--a dreary waste of a place. in the picture gallery overlooking the gardens we got our first introduction to that eccentric genius, el greco, at his worst here, with sick color and elongated figures; we thought him quite mad. nevertheless, the picture gallery was a respite; it was good to meet again tintoret's rich visions of venice, the full superb shoulders of his women, the gold brown of the robes. ranged in cases there were also some embroidered vestments that were noticeable. the church of the escorial is so coldly formal and pretentious that it lay like a load on our spirits. there is something frightening in the way man unconsciously expresses his own nature in the material work of his hand; he may think himself very big, unless he really is he is certain to betray himself, if he paints or writes or builds. this correct, somber church exactly represents the religious ideal of a philip ii. heaven, so close to one under the soul-feeding romanesque vault of santiago, in seville or toledo's gothic aspiration, is very far away under this limited dome; the propriety here is that of a bigot, who would see heresy in the soar of gothic, and backwardness in the bare solemnity of romanesque. we were shown the usual tourist-sights, the seat in the choir where philip sat when news was brought of the battle of lepanto, which broke another inroad of the mohammedan on europe; also the life-size marble crucifix (spoiled by too long an upper lip) which benvenuto cellini made, and which was carried on men's backs from barcelona to madrid. statues of philip and his father, with the ladies of their households, kneel on either side of the altar, rich bronze-gilt work, but hardly in character with a church. then we descended to that acme of dreariness and morbid misanthropy, the sunken chamber where are buried the royal family of spain since charles v; one somber coffin rose above another in the dark place. and art can make death so beautiful, art like the tombs at miraflores and avila! happy beings to have escaped this dreadful hole of burial, we exclaimed. could only a century separate isabella in her castle of segovia, or in the white marble peace of her sepulcher at granada, from her descendants' costly ideal of a palace and a mausoleum? as we stood shivering with the formality and melancholy of it all, with sympathy for the present happy young king and queen who must lie here some day, a little touch of sentiment took away some of the oppression. we saw on the tomb of alfonso xii a fresh wreath of chrysanthemums. then, feeling that any more subterranean darkness was insupportable, we hurried up the steep staircase from the pantheon, through the heavy-bound church, and out in the courtyard--dreary enough, too!--breathed the fresh air with relief. in the library of the escorial was the first place where i had seen the gilt edges of books, not their leather backs, presented to the reader, a rich, strange effect which later in the seraglio at stamboul i noticed again. we stopped long to examine the portraits that stand between the book-cases. philip ii was pale-eyed, anæmic and white-visaged, with drooping, hypochondrical corners to his mouth. and i had pictured him scowling and black and forceful! the escorial should have told me that not a forceful personality could have built it but rather a stubborn ability and dogged patience, a narrow consistency, all in character with his pale eyes. the swift degeneration of the hapsburg line is easily to be read in these portraits. charles v (in spain charles i), keen of face and energetic, has a great-great-grandson, charles ii, last of the line, so rickety and idiotic that no caricature of used-up royal blood could go further. weary of sight-seeing where so little roused the imagination, we descended to the gardens, stiffly restrained too, but pleasant to loiter in. so close was the monotonous mass of gray stone above us, one did not have to look at it, but could gaze out on the wide view toward madrid. then at sunset we went back to the church for an evening service, that hour of prayer, restful and beautiful all over spain. the pater noster was recited, a litany was chanted, a meditation was read slowly with pauses while the people listened with bowed heads and closed eyes. then followed the primitive, centuries-old latin hymns, the glory of the church, in which is incorporated for all time the piercing piety of the middle ages. i too closed my eyes to shut out the formal church, and for some forgetful moments i could dream that those quavering voices of old and young, so simple, so sincere, were in some unspoiled mountain village, perhaps in that most soul-satisfying temple of all the world, the lower church of st. francis:--assisi and the escorial,--the human mind is capable of wide deviations, from the religion of humble love to this haughty contortion of it. the most fatal effect of the escorial was to fix the capital in madrid, a spot, as ford observed, that had been passed over in contempt by iberian, roman, goth, and moor. up to the building of the escorial the choice of a capital had wavered, at times, in valladolid, in toledo, or in seville. philip's mountain palace caused to be the chief city one of the worst situated towns in spain, on a waterless river, with no commercial prospects, roasting in summer, swept by icy winds the rest of the year. it too, like the escorial, lacks all soul for the traveler. not a church worth looking at, all of them seventeenth and eighteenth century abominations with fat cupids, prancing angels, and posing, self-glorifying saints, not a cathedral in the capital of a country which has the largest number and most heart-satisfying cathedrals of the world. i daresay if one lived in madrid and had a full active or social life one might like it; there must be some cause for the proverb "from madrid to heaven, and in heaven a peep-hole to look down on madrid." as a city it can never be anything but second-rate; the new residential part near the parks is like the good districts of any average town. the famous puerta del sol is filled at every hour of the day and night with such a rabble of loafers and vociferating peddlers that it takes courage to push one's way through. as the court was absent we missed seeing the brilliant morning hour of guard mounting before the royal palace. occasionally some local sight would remind us we still were in spain, the original and untamed. ladies in mantillas would pass on their way to the late mass at midday, a brougham drawn by handsome mules would go by, or, if it were a holiday, a few girls of the people wore embroidered shawls. but taken as a whole, for the sightseer madrid is just a weariness of the spirit. except, of course, the pictures, and i must add, the armory. we hurried off to the prado, up the steps past the bust of the vigorous saturnine goya, along the far-stretching hall, with hardly a glance for the white monks of zubaran, or el greco's strange canvases, till midway, we turned to the left into the large hall that holds the velasquez masterpieces. it is a sensation in one's life, this first meeting with velasquez at the height of his powers. the wonderful doria pope in rome, the few pictures in london and vienna whet the appetite for the supreme feast in madrid. it is an unprecedented collection of one master that no glow of enthusiasm can exaggerate. canvas follows canvas, all the work of secure, triumphant genius, with brush handling so free that it seems impossible he painted more than two hundred years ago. don carlos stands dangling a glove in an absolutely natural moment of nonchalance, philip iv and the pompous duke of olivares ride their proud steeds out of magnificent skies, the gallant little don baltasar carlos dashes at us on his pot-bellied pony, or stands a baby hunter in the guadarramas. velasquez painted him later, a grave, dignified lad of about fourteen, always with a fearless, straight look, and he also painted his piquant bourbon mother, philip iv's first wife; his second a wooden-faced austrian, mother of the doll-like, big-skirted infantas. had don baltasar carlos lived, surely the race had not ended in a charles ii. you walk about the velasquez room bewildered, sorry for the copyists who have set up their easels before work that tells so unflinchingly each slip of a talent what it is to be a master. portraits and genre studies; the lovely bent neck of the weaving girl, the breathing livingness of the maids of honor, the displeasing dwarfs,--each canvas is an achieved success. at the end of the hall hangs what swiftly became my favorite of all pictures seen, the "surrender of breda," called "las lanzas," from the soldiers' spears ranged against the sky. it is a canvas about the size of the "night watch" in amsterdam. the two armies fill the background under a sky that is a glorious harmony of cold blue and rose. in the foreground the fleming, justin of nassau, advances to surrender the keys of breda to its conqueror, the marquis spínola, general of the spanish forces, though by birth a genoese. spínola has dismounted, and bends to meet his enemy, vanquished now, hence in his knightly creed, his friend. with a subtle, delicate shrinking he has placed his hand on his opponent's shoulder, and in his face is an expression of such high chivalry, of such generous effacement of self, of all that is best in man of courtesy and noble-mindedness, that the tears spring to the eyes. you return to it again and again and come away refreshed and ennobled. only a man loyal himself to the core could render such an emotion, only a technical genius of the first rank could fix so fleeting an instant; this truly is thinking in paint, and it places velasquez side by side with leonardo da vinci as a master of the intellect. i think it is very pleasant to learn that velasquez knew the general he has immortalized, and you feel he must have known, too, the superb spanish hidalgos who stand in the group behind the marquis. on his first trip to italy, the painter sailed in the same vessel to genoa with spínola, and probably sketched him then. i like to imagine the meeting of two such spirits of chivalry. [illustration: isabella of portugal, by titian. prado gallery, madrid] were the prado only velasquez and the spanish artists, it would be among the first of galleries, but it is astonishingly rich in italian masters as well. it has the best equestrian portrait in the world, charles v at the battle of mühlberg, a picture to be studied long and often. the emperor has risen from illness, he has had to be lifted upon his horse, but he has pluckily girded himself to take command. the venetian red of his plumes and scarf is splendid. titian has another of the emperor, standing with his irish hound, near it a gem of woman portraiture, charles' lovely wife, isabella of portugal. it seems a strange irony for such an exquisite creature to have been the mother of a philip ii. philip was fortunate in his daughters, too, demure, formal little maidens, who stand with the sedate propriety of spanish infantas, and in his sisters, whose long, aristocratic faces antonio moro has left us. charles v sent moro to england to paint queen mary for her young bridegroom, and here she sits in her rich crimson leather chair, erect and stiff and insignificant, her auburn hair and homely face not one to charm her future husband still in his twenties, she not far from the fatal forty. a deeply pathetic portrait this. good woman she was personally, despite having been made the scape-goat for a system, yet one can read in the pinched shrewdness of her mouth that she lacked her grandmother's height of brain, nor was she capable of her mother's dignity of sorrow, whose grand insulted womanhood shakespeare has rendered so magnificently.[ ] there are many other notable portraits in the prado; a stately matron and her three sons by parmigianino; a rich pigment of color, rembrandt's wife; raphael's cardinal,--the acute, keen, italian face so different from the spanish type; a striking count de berg by van dyke. mantegna has a small canvas, the "tránsito de la virgen," with the apostles gathered round the couch, a graphic glimpse through the window behind of mantua. mantegna put thought into his work, and he compels thought from others; this "tránsito" drew me to it in the same browsing study as that small triptych in the uffizi. then upstairs are more italians. the facile veronese has here, curiously enough, a really impressive scene, christ and the centurion. there are many rubens, and some peaceful claude lorraine sunsets and sunrises, offering the needed siesta of quiet in a full collection. and downstairs in the basement are the primitives, van eyck, van der weyden, memling, mystical enough to refresh the soul of a huysmans. the gilded backgrounds of these celestial annunciations, these interiors of so intense and breathless a reverence, have always seemed to me a pure symbol of the uncomplicated perfection of their faith, the unquestioning mental background of the age. after velasquez it is not easy to feel much enthusiasm for the other spanish painters. murillo can only be really known in seville, in whose gallery he predominates as does velasquez here. it is a coincidence that both of spain's first painters should have been born in the same andalusian city, within twenty years of each other, and that the ashes of both should have been scattered to the wind in the french invasion. zurbaran's white-robed monks,--he painted carthusians as murillo did franciscans, and roelas the jesuits,--are always effective, but they miss being taken seriously by a dash of pose in them. as for ribera's martyrdoms, (his portraits are very fine,) if chance led us into his room, one glance and we fled; it is not pleasant to see people disemboweled. the same shuddering horror you feel before some of goya's, as for instance that awful but tremendously moving blood-red _dos de mayo_. goya is almost too crabbedly individual to be liked unreservedly. he is in a way the hogarth of the south, with a gruesome, fantastic imagination, quite pitiless to the vices or follies of his generation; witness the portrait of the infanta maría josefa, or the appalling group surrounding charles iv, "a grocer's family who have won the big lottery prize," gautier cleverly said of it. at times you think goya had no elevation of soul, then you come on a portrait that shows he could see something besides the weakness of human nature. he was a true aragonese, stubborn, energetic, analytic. and it should never be forgotten that he painted in that desert of art, the eighteenth century, and swept aside the weak methods of generations to return to velasquez's vigor of technique. no visitor in madrid can possibly miss the prado gallery, but it is not difficult to omit the armory; for, discouraged by going to see sights not worth the effort, you may think the _armería_ just the usual dull collection found in capitals, of interest only to the specialist. no greater mistake could be made. this madrid museum is like nothing of its kind in europe, it is an unrivaled show, one hour there and you learn volumes of spanish history. it consists of a large hall, down whose center is massed a splendid array of horsemen, caparisoned in historic armor. the manikins have been fitted out thoroughly. their gauntleted hands hold the polished spears, and ostrich plumes wave from their helmets; they give an astonishing effect of life. among the thirty-odd suits worn by charles v, here is the identical one titian painted in the equestrian portrait, decked with the similar doge-red scarf and plumes. there is the gallant little baltasar carlos' suit of mail; the armor of that bayard of spain, garcilaso de la vega; of the hero of lepanto, don john of austria, and some of the banners and ship-prows of his victory; the suit of charles' general, the marquis of pescara, vittoria colonna's husband; the tent of francis i at the battle of pavia; the arms of juan de padilla, who led the uprising of the independent cities against charles. history is followed from earliest times in raw gold visigothic crowns, the sword of pelayo at cavadonga, the sword of the great slayer of moors, king ferdinand _el santo_ of castile, and the winged-dragon helmet of as mighty a battle leader, king jaime _el conquistador_ of aragon, down to the last stage of the seven hundred years' crusade, in isabella's armor; that of the gran capitán; boabdil's engraved with moorish letters; and, finally, the surrendered keys of granada. spain's majestic hour lives again here. as we left the armoury, a present-day scene presented itself and it struck me as very characteristic of a country where the grandee, shopkeeper, and peasant live side by side in friendliness. before us lay the big courtyard of the royal palace, the king's very doorstep as it were, and it overflowed with hundreds of children, nursemaids, families, and soldiers; the crowd being chiefly of a popular character. they tell of strict spanish etiquette, but it appears to me as if the people here get nearer to their king than elsewhere. rough boys and men were pouring into the armoury to wander with pride among the plumed knights, and by their glance they showed they felt themselves part of the stirring past. each knew himself a _cristiano viejo_[ ] whose forebears had struck a blow for the _reconquista_. toledo "but changeless and complete rise unperturbed and vast above our din and heat the turrets of the past, mute as that city asleep lulled with enchantments deep far in arabian dreamland built where all things last." william watson toledo has been compared to durham, but it is the similarity between a splendid lean old leopard and a beautiful domestic cat. the largest river of spain, the tagus, without a touch of england's lovely verdure to soften it, sweeps impetuously round the spanish ecclesiastic city, through a wild gorge from which it derives its name (_tajo_, cut) and above the river-cliffs rise sun-whitened houses, innumerable monasteries, and church towers, in a compact, imposing mass. across the river is a barren wilderness, solitary as if never trod by foot of man, and this, close to an historic city. stern and a bit fanatic,--for she has lived for generations, with sword in hand to guard her altars,--toledo represents ascetic, exalted castile as completely as palm-crowned seville, stretching out in the meadows by the winding guadalquivir sums up the ease-loving character of andalusia. the thought of the moor is never long absent in the fertile southern province, but here, though for a time he ruled as conqueror, every stone of the city tells of crusading christian ideals. most travelers run down to toledo from madrid for merely a day, whereas it is eminently a spot for a pause of several days. not only once but a second and a third time should you cross the alcántara bridge and climb the silent hills beyond it. from there toledo stands up in haunting majesty, one of the imperial things in the world. wild footpaths lead along the hills, so you can follow the immense loop of the river and return to the city by st. martin's bridge. the desolate tagus is as unchanged by the centuries as the hills confining it. toledo's first mayor, the cid, looked on much the same scene that we know, nor could it have been very different when, earlier, the last of the gothic kings, roderick, saw the fair florinda bathing by st. martin's bridge,--which untimely spying the legend says brought the african invasion on spain; the same as when king wamba ruled here, and his name is synonymous with "as old as the hills"; the same as when the city's patron, leocadia, was hurled down from the cliffs in dacian's persecution. once inside the puerta del sol (a real gateway, not a plaza where a gate once stood, like its madrid namesake), we found ourselves in a fretwork of narrow streets where we got lost at every turning. these twisting passages were so built that if the city walls were captured, the people could still offer a stiff resistance. zig-zag up and down the lanes go, every few yards coming to a small triangle, out of which lead three narrow ways,--which to choose is ever the bewildering question. push on boldly, the tortuous streets are worth exploring at random, and if you wander long enough you are sure to find yourself before the cathedral or in the famous zocodover square. morning and afternoon we were out exploring, with a good map to guide us, yet up to the very last day, we lost the way half a dozen times. the constant uncertainty was fascinating; only in such unhurried rambles does the _genius loci_ reveal itself. now we stumbled on san cristo de la luz, in whose diminutive chamber are visigothic capitals, moorish arches, and a christian _retablo_; it was here alfonso vi heard his first mass in the conquered city, the cid campeador at his side. now we stopped to see the empty church of el tránsito, in the mudéjar style, built originally as a synagogue, and we found there an astonishingly beautiful arabesque frieze. this mudéjar style (moorish and christian architecture mixed) has here what i think is its most perfect example, santa maría la blanca, also a former synagogue, then a church, and at present national property. as usual, our first visit after arrival, was to the cathedral, not so easy to find as in most places, since it is not set on the highest part of the city, and is shut in with cluttering houses. as usual, too, like most spanish churches, the exterior is meaningless; but the interior is a vigorous, pure gothic, which is called the most national expression of this style in spain. like seville, the ground plan is a _sala_, or hall; though the aisles here lessen in height so rapidly that they give a far different effect from seville's lofty nave. the double-aisled ambulatory as at avila is unique and beautiful in its effect. spanish gothic may be less artistically faultless than that of france, but certainly its massive grandeur and even its very extravagance render it many times more picturesque. the primate of spanish cathedrals is the richest in tombs, paintings, _rejas_, carvings, vestments, and jewels, even after the french carried away some hundred weight of silver treasure. unfortunately, it was here we began to feel like tourists and to experience the jaded weariness of the personally conducted. we had wandered freely over the churches of the north, for a slight fee the verger had unlocked the choir and separate chapels, and then had gone off to let us examine them undisturbed. here the flocking tourist has brought about the pest of tickets for each separate part of the church, and the guide, when one pauses to loiter, impatiently rattles his keys. and one longs to loiter in the most perfect _coro_ of spain, where maestro rodrigo, and berruguete, and vignani carved; in the _sala capitular_, or the alvaro de luna chapel of florid gothic, where the beheaded grand-constable lies guarded by four stone knights of santiago. since spanish cathedrals were gradual growths, here is to be found, in a mass of violent sculpture called the _transparente_, the bad taste of the eighteenth century. the bishop who erected the _transparente_ lies buried near by, covered by a mammoth slab of brass, on which, in bold letters, you read, "here lies dust, ashes, nothing," an epitaph whose ironic, fatigued simplicity does not ring true; very different from that genuinely humble epitaph in worcester cathedral, that one impressive word "miserrimus." _transparente_ and tombstone are subtly allied, not inappropriate memorials of one who was instrumental in bringing the academic bourbons to the spanish throne in . in the sacristy is a beautiful picture, the _expolio_, "stripping our lord before the crucifixion," by el greco, the strange byzantine greek who drifted to toledo and in his forty years there because more spanish than the spaniards. in his case the accident of birth was nothing; though born in crete of greek parents, refugees from constantinople, el greco was a true castilian soul. he had known venice in the days of tintoret and titian, but it was only when he came to toledo that he found the atmosphere, mystic and chivalrous, in which his genius could develop. his was the spiritualized mysticism of a teresa or a john of the cross, with little of the conventional piety of murillo. and he has rendered the spanish hidalgo as has none other, on his canvas "they live an inner life, indifferent to the world; sad with the nostalgia for a higher existence, their melancholy eyes look at you with memories of a fairer past age that will not return. they are the dignified images of the last warrior ascetics."[ ] there is no denying that some of el greco's pictures are aberrations; when i first saw him in the escorial gallery, i thought him eccentric to madness. thanks to professor raphael domenech of the prado school of art, i looked a second time and learned to appreciate him. "what he did ill, no one did worse, but what he did well, no one did better." toledo has many of his masterpieces. in the church of santo domingo is his "ascension" and the two saint johns; in santo tomé, his splendid "burial of count orgaz." the chapel of san josé and the churches of san vicente and san nicolás have some good examples of his, and the provincial museum has a remarkable series of the apostles with a truly noble representation of their master. el greco--by the way, his real name was domenikos theotokopoulos--lived with princely magnificence, his friendship sought by the cultivated society round him, and on his death he was buried in san bartolomé, regretted by the whole city. his sumptuous way of life was continued by his son, who built the cupola that covers the mozarabic chapel of the cathedral. this brings us to perhaps the most interesting survival of the past that exists in spain, the mozarabic mass, said every morning in the western end of toledo cathedral. mozarabic means mixt-arab, and is the name applied to the christians who were under moorish rule. living isolated from their fellow-believers they kept to the old gothic ritual. in the eleventh century the christian conqueror of toledo, alfonso vi, after an artless trial by fire of the rival books, introduced the gregorian liturgy, used by the rest of europe. the learned archbishop of toledo, cardinal ximenez, thought the gothic ritual too interesting a national memorial to be lost, so he endowed a chapel with its own chapter of canons. the morning after our arrival, i hastened down to the cathedral to hear a mozarabic mass. it puzzles me how ford, the traveler, could have written of it as he did, as if its simplicity put to shame the later rite, for a catholic could to-day attend the mozarabic service with no striking feeling of difference. in some respects it is simpler than the gregorian mass, in others more elaborate; thus, for instance, the host is divided into nine parts, to represent the incarnation, epiphany, nativity, circumcision, passion, death, redemption, ascension, and eternal kingdom. the kiss of peace is given before the consecration; the credo is recited after the offertory. in my eagerness to be in time, i arrived half an hour too early, so i whiled away the minutes watching the altar boys prepare for the ceremony. it was easy to read, in their air of proprietorship that their duties were an achieved ambition, the reward of good conduct. one of the lads climbed up on the big brass eagle of the lectern and gave it an affectionate polish; then, having partly illuminated the altar,--during the ceremony more candles were lighted,--they whipped out their smart red cassocks, and stood side by side in severe precision, to salute the eight canons, "_buenos días!_" altar boys and dignitaries bowed with leisurely spanish courtesy. in their preparations the small acolytes had found the supply of altar wine somewhat short, so more was sent for. during the solemn moments of the mass, a messenger arrived with an offensive flask. with rustling dignity in his trailing red gown, the majordomo of ten swept across the chapel to thrust out the tactless blunderer, and the look of apologetic confusion on his cherub face, as he returned to his post of honor, was adorable. some german tourists noisily came into the chapel, and refusing to kneel at the moment of the elevation, the verger, in a spirit the founder would have applauded, pointed with his silver wand, a silent but inflexible dismissal. this first morning of my visit, too, a group of hardy countrymen came to the mozarabic mass; with cap in hand and cloak flung toga-like over their muscular shoulders, they knelt on one knee, as instinctively graceful as the shepherds in murillo's "nativity." when the service was over, in respectful quiet despite their arrogant carriage, these unlettered men rose and passed out to loiter in the cathedral for a half hour. "the rank is but the guinea's stamp, the man's the gold for a' that," rings often in the ear in castile. cardinal ximenez, founder of the chapel, was castilian to the core, and toledo for him, just as for el greco, was fittest home. he was born in in the province of madrid of an old family that had fallen in his day on moderate circumstances. in spain, ximenez is often called cisneros, for there two surnames are used; the first following the christian name is the patronymic name of the father, the second that of the mother. sometimes a man uses his paternal surname alone, more seldom his mother's family name alone, as in the case of velasquez, whose father was a de silva. a studious disposition early destined ximenez to the priesthood, and following a few years' study in alcalá, which he was to raise to a world-known university, he went to salamanca. after a long stay in rome, on his return to spain he wasted some precious years in an unfortunate ecclesiastic dispute. his true worth was not discovered till he went, when over forty, to serve in the cathedral of sigüenza, where cardinal mendoza, the future "rex tertius," was then bishop. recognizing the new chaplain's remarkable powers, he made him his vicar-general. but ximenez, in the face of every chance of rapid advancement in the church, felt within him a longing for the retired life of prayer. he chose the strictest order of his day, and entered the franciscan monastery of san juan de los reyes at toledo. all who know toledo will remember it, built in the bizarre, flamboyant, often overladen but always grandiose style of isabella and ferdinand. on its outer walls hang iron chains, the votive offerings of christian captives ransomed from the moors in africa, and one cannot help thinking that the concentrated mind of the new novice received an indelible impression from these souvenirs of moslem barbarity, a bias that found later expression in his stern treatment of the moors of granada and his crusading siege of oran. ximenez had sought a life of prayer in san juan de los reyes, but a personality such as his could not help but rise in acknowledged supremacy above those around him. the fame of his intellect and holiness soon drew to his confessional the leading minds of toledo, and he found himself, to his distress, again in touch with the world. he retired to a more isolated franciscan monastery, and gave himself up to years of study and prayer. men seemed then to find time for the long spaces of tranquil thought that solidify character; holding the highest posts that ambition could achieve, they seemed to know themselves as dust before the wind. the key-note of to-day is breadth not intensity, and it sometimes seems as if our scattered knowledge leads to a more superficial outlook on the elemental and eternal verities, that universal education tends to universal mediocrity. why have so few to-day the old-time spaciousness of vision? is it because education then meant the development of the soul as well as of the intellect, because in acknowledging that there are an infinite number of things beyond reason they attained what pascal calls the highest point of reason? "ever learning and never attaining to the knowledge of the truth" we seem indeed. wholly-rounded opportunities were given in that age. poets and novelists then were soldiers in the roving wars of europe,[ ]--garcilaso, cervantes, lope de vega, calderón, these last two priests as well, and garcilaso making a holy end helped by a grandee who was a saint, and cervantes dying in the habit of the assisian. but i suppose this carping comparison is just the never-ending tendency to look on a previous day as better than one's own. jorge manrique felt the same way: "á nuestro parecer cualquiera tiempo pasado fué mejor" and he wrote his immortal "coplas" in the golden age of isabella herself. to return to ximenez. after a long period of retirement he was made, against his will, confessor to the queen at valladolid. there exists an account by a witness of the sensation his thin, ascetic face caused in the court, as if an early syrian anchorite had wandered thither. three years later, on the death of mendoza, the queen's influence in rome had ximenez named his successor in toledo. so angry was her confessor that he left the court. isabella, gallant woman of heart and brain, who so enthusiastically perceived greatness in others, appealed to the pope to order cisneros to accept his see. up to this the archbishops of toledo had been men of great lineage who lived with splendor. and a striking succession of master minds they make, lying ready for an historian to group in a remarkable record; scholars, statesmen, founders of hospitals and schools, now a prelate of saintly life, now a leader of armies like archbishop rodrigo, who having borne the standard of the cross in the thick of the fight at las navas de tolosa, chanted the te deum of victory on that memorable field, the first christian foothold in andalusia. of all the primates of toledo, mendoza, "tertius rex," had been highest in rank and power. the monk who succeeded this prince of the church dropped all pomp and lived like a humble franciscan. again the undaunted isabella appealed to her friend the pope to advise the new archbishop to keep up the dignity of his see before the people. cisneros yielded outwardly, but under the veneer of display he led the ascetic life. the queen's insight into character had judged right. mystic contemplator though he was, ximenez was a born ruler: prudent, courageous, and firm. he straightened difficulties and reformed abuses. as his own moral character was stainless and his disinterestedness well proven, there was happily no inconsistency in his preaching. gomez tells that the moral tone of society, lay and ecclesiastic, was so improved by the energetic bishop that "men seemed to have been born again." as to ximenez' much criticised attitude toward the moors, it was at one with its age. to reproach him with it is as unreasonable as to condemn marcus aurelius for having persecuted the christians, or george washington for having silently accepted negro slavery. a man, no matter how great his character, is limited somewhere by the standards of his period. the fifteenth century was far from being radical in the privileges it extended to free opinion. even some generations later we find, in the palatinate, when the elector frederick iii turned from lutheranism to calvinism, in , he forced all his subjects under pain of banishment, to turn with him. within a few years his son changed them back to lutheranism, only to have them, under the next ruler, constrained with severe punishments to again accept the heidelberg catechism. the religious history of most of the states of europe prove that the same theory was held: "cujus regio, ejus religio." ximenez can plead more excuse for his attitude since in spain was the problem of the more radical difference of christianity and islam. he felt, and the constant later revolts somewhat justified the idea, that a newly conquered people is not likely to remain loyal, when they are bound together against their ruler in an antagonistic creed. so he went to granada in to labor for the conversion of the people. at first he used much the same methods that prevail to-day in some of our cities, what we may call the soup-kitchen missionary system to evangelize the emigrant. ximenez instructed the mohammedan in doctrine, and he also gave presents to impress the oriental mind. so effectively did the method work that immense numbers of citizens embraced the faith. on one day four thousand were baptized. so far the treaty of the conquest was not violated, since the conversions were voluntary. when, however, there was a revolt of those moors who were angered by seeing the rapid spread of christianity, harsher methods than persuasion were resorted to. the letter of the treaty was kept but its spirit, that reflected isabella's magnanimous tolerance, was stretched indeed. the first uprising turned to open rebellion, and when this was put down, the majority of the citizens let themselves be baptized to avoid exile and confiscation. though the two great prelates, the gentle talavera and the indomitable ximenez, burning with zeal, went about the city catechising and instructing the poorest, there were many thousands of mohammedans who hated the religion to which outwardly they conformed. a child to-day can understand the futility of such conversions. no one denies that ximenez was stern. he who loved learning with the passionate devotion of a bede or an erasmus, (we all know the remark of francis i when confined at alcalá, "one spanish monk has done what it would take a line of kings in france to accomplish"), this same humanist scholar burned in public bonfire the moslem books, only reserving the medical ones for alcalá: surely this is proof of his grim sincerity. when isabella died, ximenez took ferdinand's side against his impertinent austrian son-in-law. philip i did not live long enough to involve spain in an internecine war, her curse for ages; and it was the great statesman's hold on the government, at the time of the young king's sudden death, that saved the country from a revolution. ferdinand had the man to whom he owed castile, created a cardinal, and he also appointed him grand-inquisitor. many hold the erroneous opinion that ximenez was one of the founders of the holy office in spain. it was established ten years before he came to court as isabella's confessor, and it was only now, in his sixty-first year that he had control in it. true to his reforming character he set about changing what abuses had crept in. he fostered the better religious instruction of the newly converted; and he prosecuted the inquisitor lucero, who had been guilty of injustice. the great cardinal-archbishop was over threescore and ten when he undertook the expedition to northern africa. he had long burned to plant the church again where it had flourished under st. cyprian and st. augustine. as the pirates of oran were a terror in the mediterranean, it was against that city he set out in the year . his address to the troops before the battle, encouraging them against an enemy who had ravaged their coasts, dragged their children into slavery, and insulted the christian name, roused the men to an heroic charge up the hill of oran with spain's battle cry _santiago!_ on their lips. of the vast treasure found in the city, ximenez who had spent a fortune to fit out the expedition, only reserved the moslem books for his university of alcalá. for it must not be forgotten that in the midst of state questions, this remarkable man was carrying on the building and endowing of an university to whose halls the learned minds of spain and europe were invited. he was printing at his own expense the well-known polyglot bible, the first edition in their original texts of the christian scriptures. from his early years a close student of the bible, he had learned chaldaic and hebrew for its better study; every day on his knees he read a chapter of the holy word. besides these interests he found time to build various hospitals, libraries, and churches, to organize summer retreats for the health of his professors, to print and distribute free works on agriculture, to give dowries to distressed women, to visit the sick in person, and to feed daily thirty poor in his palace. ferdinand, a good ruler, but suspicious and ungrateful, never had much love for the cardinal. yet on his deathbed he left him regent of castile, saying that a better leader on account of his virtues and love of justice could not be found to reëstablish order and morality, and only wishing he were a little more pliable. some idea of ximenez' genius may be gathered from a hasty review of his regency, which covered the last two years of his life. it stands an astonishing feat of noble activity. he brought order into the finances and paid the crown debts. he introduced the militia system into the army, proving that men fight better when they defend their own homes. he strengthened the navy to help break the moorish pirate barbarossa who controlled the sea. he restored the dockyards of seville. he crushed a french invasion in navarre, and put down local disorders in málaga and other places, for the nobles took this opportunity to again assert themselves. he adjusted troubles with both the ex-queens, juana la loca and germaine de foix. it was just four months before his death that the polyglot bible was finished. when the young son of the printer, dressed in his best attire, ran with the last sheets to the cardinal, ximenez exclaimed fervently: "i thank thee, o most high god, that thou hast brought this work to its longed-for end!" to-day the more scientific methods of philology have put the complutensian polyglot in the shade, but none deny that for its period it was a notable work. another of ximenez' reforms, little known, was his advocacy of las casas in the crusade against indian slavery in the american colonies. as early as , a dominican preacher named montesino gave a sermon in the cathedral of santo domingo, before the governor diego columbus, in which he thundered against the ill-treatment of the natives. the monks were threatened with expulsion by the rich settlers unless montesino retracted, whereupon on the following sunday, the brave reformer not only repeated his previous attack but added fresh proofs. against fierce opposition the dominicans refused the sacraments to every one who owned an indian slave. but they could not end the evil, so the passionate las casas, whose whole life may be said to have burned with fury for this cause, returned to spain to plead for the indians. the regent took up the question with interest, and the commission which he organized and sent out to the colonies is a model of reforming government worthy of study. just as it was about to start, fourteen pious franciscans came down to spain to offer themselves for the good work. among them was a brother of the king of scotland,--a rather delightful episode of the cosmopolitanism of religion. ximenez also issued a proclamation forbidding the importation of negro slaves, for the colonists had already learned that one negro did the work of four indians. should not this act of farseeing wisdom, be set against his stern treatment of the moors? ximenez ruled as regent of castile from the time of ferdinand's death to the coming of charles v to his distant possessions. the cardinal-archbishop, alert in mind and body though over eighty, was on his way to meet the young emperor on his landing in the north, when he died suddenly at roa, in the province of burgos. he was buried in his loved alcalá, and his tomb still rests in the dismantled town whose university has been removed to madrid. just thirty years after the cardinal's death, one of the world's supreme geniuses was born under the shadow of his university, as if a compensating providence would reward the franciscan friar's unresting love of letters. ximenez has received scant justice, but if the atmosphere of culture which he created at alcalá, had aught to do with making cervantes what he was, the stern educator did not live in vain. in toledo it takes no effort of the imagination to people the streets with the figures of the past; it is every-day life that drops away, and the surprise is that one does not meet some intellectual-faced cardinal, some hidalgo in velvet cloak or chased armor. the stone effigies on the tombs of spanish churches make it easy to picture a certain very splendid presence that once walked, in youth's proud livery, these silent streets. garcilaso de la vega is a pure type of the grandee, spain's philip sidney, a courtier, a soldier, a poet whose gift of song made him the idol of the nation, he is one of the alluring figures of history. by writing in virgilian classic verse, he changed the rhythm of spanish poetry from that of the "cid," of juan de mena and manrique. "in our spain, garcilaso stands first beyond compare," wrote a contemporary poet, a judgment held later by cervantes and lope de vega. this lovable hero was born in toledo while ximenez was still its active if aged archbishop. he came of distinguished stock, the first garcia laso de la vega was the favorite of alfonso xi in . this later namesake had for father a knight of santiago, lord of many towns, ambassador to rome, and one of isabella and ferdinand's councilors of state; on his mother's side his lineage was still more illustrious, she was a guzmán, another of spain's families whose prominence continued for centuries. garcilaso, who early showed his love for the liberal arts, received a finished education. at fifteen he became guardsman to charles v, and his qualities of heart and brain soon won him the affectionate admiration of the court. "comely in action, noble in speech, gentle in sentiment, vehement in friendship, nature had made his body a fitting temple for his soul." and spain can show this harmony in many of her sons. some untranslatable words describe garcilaso, _hermosamente varonil_, the superb manhood of beauty. during the emperor's wars in italy he fought bravely, and at the battle of pavia, where pescara's lions of spain carried all before them, he won distinction. he was not merely a soldier in italy, his richly-endowed nature avidly seized on her art and learning. cardinal bembo calls him "best loved and most welcome of all the spaniards that ever come to us." like sir philip sidney, the young poet was not destined to reach middle age; a short thirty-three years is his record. at a siege near fréjus, in the south of france, he fell wounded into the arms of his dearest friend, the marquis de lombay, and in spite of charles v sending his skilled physician and coming in person to visit the wounded knight, he died. he was buried among his ancestors in the church of san pedro mártir, in toledo, "where every stone in the city is his monument," wrote the euphuistic góngora. truly that age was past rivalry in the appealingly noble characters it produced, fine spirits of heroism, fit inheritors of isabella's period that had prepared the soil for such a flowering. a garcilaso de la vega is the bosom friend of a francis borgia, a francis borgia communes with a teresa de jesús with the intense pleasure of feeling souls akin, an ignatius loyola serves as guide to a francis xavier, and so on, these noted lives touch and overlap. what an array the first fifty years of the sixteenth century can show! garcilaso was born, also diego hurtado de mendoza, the noted diplomat and patron of letters; luis de granada, the religious writer; st. francis xavier of navarre, who died the great missionary of the east; st. francis borgia; st. teresa, "fair sister of the seraphim"; luis de león, spain's best lyric poet; fernando de herrera, another poet; , st. john of the cross, that mystic flame of divine love; , the dashing hero of lepanto, don john of austria; and final glory of this half century, and of all centuries, , miguel de cervantes. the opening of the next century was fecund in men of creative genius: , velasquez; , calderón; , murillo, but to one who loves _españa la heróica_, the earlier age is dearer. the gray city on the tagus is worthy of such citizens, "fit compeer for such high company." so many are her associations that one turns aside in irresistible digressions. in a palace near santo tomé, isabella of portugal, charles v's wife, died: to those who know titian's portrait of her in the prado, she is a beautiful, living presence. francis borgia who in early youth had married one of her ladies in waiting, was the equerry appointed to escort her dead body to granada, where it was to be laid in the chapel royal. when the coffin was opened to verify the empress, she who had been all loveliness so short a time before was changed to so horrible a sight that the marquis de lombay is said to have exclaimed, "never more will i serve a master who can die!" the hound of heaven was in pursuit of grand quarry here. a few years before, the death of garcilaso his friend had sobered francis. now came the loss of his cherished wife, with whom he had lived in truly holy wedlock: in catalonia where he was the emperor's viceroy, a lady asked the marquesa one day why she of such high standing and beauty dressed so plainly, and she answered how could she do otherwise when her husband wore a hair-shirt beneath his velvet. lombay succeeded to his father's estates and the title of duke of gandía, his children--who eventually rose to distinction--were a natural temptation to stifle the higher call of which he was conscious: "for, though i knew his love who followed, yet was i sore adread lest, having him, i must have naught beside." it was a tremendous decision to make, completely to relinquish a future of international influence; relentlessly the heavenly feet pursued: "i fled him, down the nights and down the days; i fled him, down the arches of the years; i fled him, down the labyrinthine ways of my own mind; and in the midst of tears i hid from him, and under running laughter. up vistaed hopes i sped; and shot, precipitated adown titanic glooms of chasmed fears, from those strong feet that followed, followed after. but with unhurried chase, and unperturbèd pace, deliberate speed, majestic instancy, they beat--and a voice beat more instant than the feet-- 'all things betray thee who betrayest me.'"[ ] the compelling voice won. having settled his children, the duke of gandía gave up titles and estates to enter the company of jesus, of which he has been called the second founder, so fruitful were the years of his generalship. the death of isabella of portugal is connected with another foremost member of the _compañía_. the pope sent cardinal farnese to carry his condolences to the emperor, and the papal suite lodged in a house of toledo near that of a widow named ribadeneyra. her willful, high-spirited and captivating boy pedro attached himself voluntarily to the embassy, and so won the notice of the cardinal that he was taken back to rome, where, by another hap-hazard in his life, he fell under the influence of st. ignatius loyola, became his loved pupil and future biographer. the books of this delightful pedro, telling the early history of the jesuit order make as solidly interesting a bout of reading as can while away a month. he was not only the confidant of the first general, but of his two successors, lainez and borgia, he helped st. charles borromeo in his reforms at milan, and lived long enough to rejoice on the day of his great master's beatification, . in toledo many a time cervantes strolled, here he has set several of the interesting "novelas exemplares"; st. teresa founded one of her houses here, described in her "libro de las fundaciones," a companion book to the "novelas"; that prodigy of improvization, lope de vega, also placed some dramas in these dark winding streets; and in the jesuit house the historian mariana, a friend of ribadeneyra, browsed over his work, called by ticknor "the most remarkable union of picturesque chronicling with sober fact that the world has ever seen." our days in toledo sped all too fast. for me it is one of those few fascinating cities of the world that rouses a recurrent longing to return. the impressive, solitary walk above the tagus gorge at the hour of sunset is an unforgettable memory. another walk leads to san cristo-in-the-fields, the legend of whose crucifix, with one arm hanging pendant, has been told by bécquer; beyond this church, across the _vega_, where the tagus spreads out in relief from the confining gorge behind, is the _fábrica de armas_, where good toledan blades are made, so elastic that they are packed in boxes curled up like the mainspring of a watch. within the town the rambles are endless, now down the step-cut hill, past the plateresque façade of santa cruz hospital, founded by cardinal mendoza; now out by the one sloping side of the city to another hospital, where the sculptor berruguete died, and lies buried near his last work, the marble tomb of the founder, cardinal tavera. one day in the narrow street, hearing the sound of singing, i entered a monastery church, to listen for an enchanted hour to a choir of male voices admirably trained.[ ] there is about this town an atmosphere that makes you sure that real peace and holiness lie within the looming convent walls under which you pass. the wise chinese statesman, kang yu wei, who has toured the world studying its religions, said he found in a monastery of toledo an impressive spirit of devout silence. [illustration: tomb of bishop san segundo, by berruguete, avila] we carried away a beautiful last picture of the "crown of spain," as her loyal son padilla called her. we were to catch the night train to andalusia, at castillejo on the express route. it was a night with an early moon. so white and romantic lay the city streets that we sent the luggage by the diligence and went on foot to the distant station. when we crossed the alcántara bridge, we turned to look back at the climbing mass of houses and churches. with a feeling of sadness we gazed at the old mediæval city, so far from the fret of modern life. this was to be, we thought, our last impression of the castiles. andalusia, enticing, warm in the sun, facile, impudent, lay ahead. farewell to the grave, courteous castilian! farewell to the valorous stoic-heart of spain! cordova and granada "the art of the alhambra is eminently decorative, light, and smiling; it expresses the well being, the repose, the riches of life; its grace lay almost entirely in its youth. not having the severe lines that rest the eye, these works paled when their first freshness faded. theirs was a delicate beauty that has suffered more than others from the deterioration of its details." renÉ bazin. in his "terre d' espagne," m. rené bazin speaks of the faded city of cordova, and the term is singularly exact. it is a tranquil, faded ghost, not a nightmare ghost, but an aloof, melancholy specter. i have been haunted by it often since the day and night spent there. dull and unimportant as it now is, hard to be imagined as the athens of the west with almost a million inhabitants and an enlightened dynasty of caliphs, yet, like a true ghost, vague in feature, cordova succeeds in making itself unforgettable. the past covers it like a mist. it gave me more the sensation of the moslem than any other spot in spain: allah, not christ, is its brooding spirit. we strolled hither and thither through its preternaturally quiet streets which are lined with two-storied white or pinkish houses. every few minutes we stopped with exclamations of delight to gaze through the iron grilles at the tiled and marble patios, here seen for the first time. "a patio! how shall i describe a patio!" exclaimed de amicis, when he first came into andalusia. "it is not a garden, it is not a room, it is not a courtyard, it is the three in one,--small, graceful, and mysterious." they are so spotless a king could eat off their paving-stones. isolated from the stir of the world, they breathe that intimate quiet of the spirit felt in the pictures of the primitives. to wander for the first time over a city filled with these oases, gives that exhilaration of novelty which as a rule the traveler has long since lost with his first journeys. i should not say our very vivid impression of cordova depended on chance details,--the hour of arrival, a personal mood, the weather. of course the strangeness was heightened by our coming from the north, through a cold night of travel on the train that made the transition from the central plateau of the castiles to the semi-tropical coast belt of andalusia, an abrupt one. toledo, the last seen castilian town, had been so distinctly christian in spite of moorish remains, and our night-flitting over the level sea of la mancha was so possessed by that _español neto_, the adventuresome don, that suddenly to awake among palm trees and oranges gave the sensation of another race and climate. it was this province with its astonishing fertility that had been the land of elysium of the ancients. having grown familiar with the orderly streets of cordova by day, it was quite without fear that we took a night ramble. not a soul was astir. what were they doing, these cloistered people? it was as deserted as stamboul at night, more lonely even, for here was not a single yellow cur to bay the moon, nor the iron beat of the watchman's staff; and though like the orient in some aspects, these streets were far too orderly and the houses too spotless. perhaps there lay the source of the indefinable fascination; this was neither east nor west, but a place stranded in time, made by circumstances that never will be repeated. the oriental influenced the spaniard deeply, a psychological as well as a racial influence. i often felt that the dignified gravity which so distinguishes a spaniard from his fellow latins is a trait acquired unconsciously from his arab neighbors: nothing like it is found except among races whose ancestors dwelt in the desert. also the excessive generosity and hospitality of the spaniard are oriental virtues, just as the andalusian procrastination and acceptance of fate are oriental failings. we too often forget that there were generations when, religious hatred quieting down, the two peoples lived side by side in friendly consideration. if the christian gained from the moslem, the moor in spain was influenced no less potently by the standards of the european. he became a very different being from his brother in northern africa. he learned to gather libraries, to express himself in buildings where he translated his nomad carpet into colored stucco; much of his traditional jealousy was laid aside and moorish ladies appeared at the tournaments to applaud their moorish cavaliers who tilted with the same rules of romantic chivalry as the christian knights. moslem civilization could even boast some femmes savantes. the stimulus of the two opposing races gave spain just the impetus she needed, and the conqueror lost with his very victory. when all men think the same way without the spur of competition, inaction and ill-health are sure to follow. perhaps the upholders of law and order need not worry too much to-day over the anarchists and socialists in the commercial districts of spain: is not the health of a nation quickened by struggle? the soul of a spanish city is always the cathedral, and cordova has what it called one, but it is no more a christian church than the caaba at mecca. the canons in charles v's time tore out the center of the mosque and built a plateresque-gothic _capilla mayor_ and _coro_. it was an ignorant thing to do, and when the emperor saw their work he exclaimed in disgust, "you have built here what anyone might have built elsewhere, but you have destroyed what was unique in the world!" nevertheless, those old canons had some excuse. they felt that they could not pray in a proper christian manner under the low, oppressing roof of islam. instead of "christe eleison," it was "allah illal allah, ve mahommed recoul" that came to their lips in abominable heresy, so in desperation they put up the incongruous enclosure and tried to shut islam out. a building every one of whose stones has been laid in earnest faith, seems to have a spirit that will never desert it, let the ritual change as it may. santa sophia is christian in spite of eight thousand mussulmans prostrated there on the th of ramazan: the gregorian chant still echoes in westminster abbey. so here the canons' efforts were in vain, the mezquita makes heretics of us all, we turn to the mihrab as the holy of holies, not to the high altar. the mihrab is a dream of art, the mosaics are richer and softer in hue than an eastern rug. leo, the christian emperor on the bosphorus, sent byzantine workmen to teach the caliph this art. the enclosing carvings have the distinction of being in marble, not in the customary plaster, also a christian innovation. "let us rear a mosque which shall surpass that of bagdad, of damascus, and of jerusalem, a mosque which shall become the mecca of the west," said the founders in the eighth century; and there is a tradition that the caliph himself worked an hour a day with the builders. it is truly "unique in the world," for nothing was ever like these myriad aisles, forty in one direction crossed by twenty in another, with nine hundred short pillars of every kind of marble--green, red, gray, brown, fluted white--holding up the roof. these pillars are baseless and only thirteen feet in height; and arches of an ugly red and yellow spring in two tiers from column to column. the effect is incredibly original and eccentric,--a veritable forest of pillars. the fatalist spirit of mohammed, the acceptance of life's limitation, is insistent here, the desert arab's attitude of adoration, forehead prone to earth, is forced on you: to kneel with upraised face is impossible under so low a roof; were there the usual hanging balls and roc's eggs, even the inquistor-general himself would have genuflected toward mecca! as i wandered about the mezquita, the two creeds seemed to formulate themselves more distinctly for me: one, soaring and idealistic, channel for the loftiest aspirations of the soul, the other a magnificent step forward from the lower forms of worship about it in the east, nevertheless limited, so far and not beyond, not cleaving to the impossible, to the unattainable. "be perfect even as your father in heaven is perfect" was not taught by mohammed. islamism is a very noble average, and perhaps because men in general are the average, it may seem better to satisfy them. christianity is a religion for the chosen souls of humanity, only by aiming at the impossible can the best in man develop. the majority of us are not chosen souls, hence we have the bitter inconsistencies between the theory and the practice of our faith to-day; and yet, once the vision of the unspeakable soul-paradise of the mystic has been conceived of, to rest satisfied with an average religion is impossible. islam makes men happy with a dreaming bliss that veils the sun, christianity bids you look up at the sun whether it blinds you or not, and here and there arise souls that can bear the vision and help weak eyes to see. when we left the mosque, the obsession of the east still continued in the courtyard, where about the fountain sat groups of idlers only wanting the fez and turban for completion. once the mezquita opened on this court, there was no dividing wall, the trees planted in symmetrical lines carried on the rows of columns within, and an absolutely enchanting sight it must have been to look from this orange grove far into the dim interior of the mosque, lighted every evening with some five thousand hanging lamps. all tourists in spain go to granada, so they know the confusing station of bobadilla where trains from north, south, east, and west, meet and exchange passengers; the journey from there on to granada gives a beautiful glimpse of andalusia; picturesquely set towns, scattered white villas, olive groves, even in winter the grass as green as spring. as apples, in the basque provinces, and carrots at toledo, so here oranges were piled up in masses. the last thirty miles of the journey were through the historic _vega_, a veritable garden of eden in fertility. before we reached granada it was dark and above the city was rising an early moon as big as one in a japanese print. the proprietor of the pension-villa carmona in the alhambra grounds was there to meet us, and we soon rattled off for the long drive up to the moorish citadel. a night arrival at granada enhances the romantic effect. it is mysterious to turn in from the noisy streets of the town at the carlo quinto gate and under the heavy foliage of elm trees slowly to mount the alhambra hill; there is a gurgle and rush of running water on every side, one has the feeling of being in a thick alpine forest. the horses mount slowly, wind and turn, pass through various gates and at length you are in the small village of the citadel, and in three minutes can walk right into the caliph's palace. spain cannot show many such beautiful northern parks, with a growth of ivy and a shimmer of arrow-headed leaves under the elm trees where nightingales sing in season. it was ford i think who started the statement which most guide books have gone on repeating that the duke of wellington planted these elms ("the duke" occupies more space in murray's hand-book than _los reyes católicos_ themselves!) he may have planted some, but a certain old book of travels, yellow with age, tell us that just these same elm trees were growing and just the same kind of songster singing in . "the ascent toward the alhambra," wrote the rev. joseph townsend in that year, "is through a shady and well watered grove of elms abounding with nightingales whose melodious warbling is not confined to the midnight hour; here, incessant, it is equally the delight of noon." this part of granada is charming. but the city below is so dirty and ill-conditioned that it would spoil the alhambra for a long stay. even in the darkness on the night of our arrival it was easy to discern what a different aspect it had from most spanish towns, which, while they are often poor, are frugally clean and self-respecting. in granada the people appeared ill-tempered, if you paused anywhere, diseased children gathered in a persistent begging circle, and the fierce copper-colored gypsies were so diabolically bold in glance and act that they made a walk in any of the suburbs too dangerous to be repeated. we had often turned off the beaten track in the asturias, in galicia, and castile, without the least fear, but granada will remain for me the one thoroughly disagreeable, frightening spot in spain. described as the alhambra has been, it would be fatuous to try it again. i can only give superficial personal impressions. there is no use in disguising that this style of architecture disappointed me enormously. i could admire its extreme elegance, the details of the _artesonado_ ceilings, the _ajimez_ windows, i could acknowledge it was fairy-like, a charming caprice, exquisite jewel-box work: as a whole it left me quite cold. it was too small, it lacked height, there was no grandeur about it,--and all so newly done up with restorations! the first visit gave me an effect of trumpery, and even after i had seen it daily for two weeks, i could not forget that these mathematically correct designs, one yard very like the next, were imprinted by an iron mold on wet plaster. this was skilled artisan's work, not the intellectual thought of the architect; here was no cutting of enduring, masculine stone with the individual freedom of genius. decorations of cufic mottoes are effective, but they can never compete with a parthenon frieze, with a chartres or santiago portal. fantasy was here, not imagination; again i felt the bound limit of islam. enough for the negative side. for praise, if the alhambra itself is disappointing, its setting is imperial. the view on which you look out from its romantic _ajimez_ windows has few equals in the world, and accounts easily for the supremacy of this spot in man's thought. you look down on the ravine of the darro, the white generalife near by, across the river, the piled-up houses of granada backed by near hills covered with cactus. from the torre de la vela is a grander view. the _vega_ with towns and historic battlefields lies below, and you try to pick out santa fé, which sprang up in eighty days to house the christian troops, or zubia, where isabella was almost captured, or puente de pinos, which the discouraged columbus had reached when the queen's messenger brought him back to arrange for the great voyage. on this tower, after seven and a half centuries of moorish rule, the first christian standard was hoisted by cardinal mendoza, on january d, , festival still of the countryside, when the fountains play again in the alhambra, and down in the royal chapel the queen's illuminated missal is used on the altar. all christian europe rejoiced with spain, and henry vii in england had a special _te deum_ chanted in gratitude. while on one side is this tropical _vega_ on the other is the glorious sierra nevada, clothed in perpetual snow. so close are the mountains that on certain days it seemed as if a short hour's walk could reach them, closer than the jungfrau to mürren. it is the most untarnished expanse of snow i have seen on any mountains. we often climbed the tower for the sunset, and one evening a genuine alpine glow made the sierras magnificent past description. "ill-fated the man who lost all this!" charles v exclaimed. there was a lesser view we grew attached to, that from the strip of garden called the _adarves_, warm in the sun under the vine-covered bastions. it was laid out by the emperor, and it fronts the snow range looming above the green mass of park trees. almost every day we would bring books and sewing there--december, with mountains , feet high beside us!--and the gardener would set chairs for us at the stone table. work and books would be dropped for long minutes to look out on those astonishingly noble mountains. if only the city below were well-ordered and clean like avila or segovia or seville, this would be the spot of all spain for a long stay. we had to descend at times to the repulsive town for sightseeing. we hunted up the church of san gerónimo, where the gran capitán, that true castilian knight alike renowned as general and diplomatist, gonsalvo de cordova, was buried. once around his tomb seven hundred captured banners were ranged, but the church since it was sacked in the french invasion has been unused. it was appropriate that the great captain found burial in granada, since it was here he trained the famous legions he was to lead to victory in italy. isabella on her deathbed listened with thrilled interest to the news of gonsalvo's exploits at naples. another day, to see the view of the sierras from the church of san nicolás, we climbed the albaicín quarter, so squalid and poverty-stricken that the very sheets hung out to dry were a fretwork of patches, and the smells of goats and pigs were awful. a swarm of deformed beggars gathered round us, and i must confess to driving them off indignantly. then as we descended the hill, down the twisting oriental passages, i was reproached by a little episode that showed a charity wider than mine--not good utilitarian ethics perhaps, but good early christianity--a woman, poorest of the poor, at a turning of the lane was giving her mite to one more stricken in misery. is it any wonder spain can win affection with her good and her evil lying close beside each other in a grand primitive way? whenever i joined her detractors and abused her, within the hour she would offer some silent rebuke. still another walk was the beautiful one along the darro, then up the steep hill between the generalife and the alhambra. in that deserted lane one morning as i was passing alone, suddenly the gypsy king stepped out, a startling image of brutal, manly beauty, with his blue-black hair topped by a peaked hat. he approached insolently, with a glance of contemptuous, piercing boldness, struck an attitude, and holding out a package, commanded: "buy my photograph." with beating heart i hurried by, to turn into the safe alhambra enclosure with a tremor of relief. the cathedral of granada is a pretentious greco-roman building, good of its kind, but i do not like that kind. out of it leads the royal chapel, where "_los muy altos, católicos, y muy poderosos señores don ferdinando y doña isabel_" lie buried with their unfortunate daughter, juana la loca, and her hapsburg husband. these two elaborate renaissance tombs, the wood carved _retablo_ and a notably fine _reja_, make this _capilla real_ a unique spot. isabella the queen left a last testament that breathes the fine sincerity of her whole life: "i order that my body be interred in the alhambra of granada in a tomb which will lie on the ground and can be brushed with feet, that my name be cut on a single simple stone. but if the king, my lord, choose a sepulchre in any other part of our kingdom, i wish my body to be exhumed and buried by his side, so that the union of our bodies in the tomb, may signify the union of our hearts in life, as i hope that god in his infinite mercy may permit that our souls be united in heaven." it seems as if a king whose life-long mate had been an isabella of castile might have had more dignity of soul than to give her a trivial successor. when ximenez heard of her death, sternly-repressed man of intellect though he was, he burst into lamentation. "never," he exclaimed, "will the world again behold a queen, with such greatness of soul, such purity of heart, with such ardent piety and such zeal for justice!" and the cardinal had known her in the undisguised intimacy of the confessional and stood side by side with her through years of difficult state guidance. the astute italian scholar, peter martyr, who lived at her court, said that at the end of the fifteenth century isabella had made spain the most orderly country in europe, and another foreign scholar, erasmus, tells us that under her, letters and liberal studies had reached so high a state that spain served as a model to the cultivated nations. from one end of her land to the other this incomparable woman has left her mark; at valladolid the remembrance of her marriage; segovia whence she started out to claim her kingdom; at burgos the tomb of her parents; salamanca where her son was educated, and whose library façade is in her grandiose style; avila where this only son lies buried; santiago where her hospice still harbors the needy; seville where she gave audience in the alcázar; her refuge for the insane here in granada;--hardly a city that she did not visit and endow: "if thy rare qualities, sweet gentleness, thy meekness saint-like, wife-like government obeying in commanding, and thy parts sovereign and pious, else could speak thee out the queen of earthly queens." vignettes of seville "mi vida está pendiente solo en un hilo, y el hilo está en tu mano, dueño querido. mira y repara, que si el hilo se rompe mi vida acaba." cantar andaluz. "el secreto de la vida consiste en nacer todas las mañanas."--ramÓn campoamor. the outburst of spring in seville is something unforgettable. with roses in bloom during december and january, the winter was like the summer of some places, and so we realized with surprise during february that a genuine spring was beginning. the bushes and hedges put on fresh coats of green, and barely a month after the trees had been stripped of their myriad oranges, the same trees were covered with white blossoms. to sit beside the lake in the park on a sunny march morning seemed like being in an ideal scene of the theater; hard, white pathways wound in every direction between miles of rose hedges; an avenue of vivid judas trees led to a blue and white tiled laiterie, where society came each morning to drink a hygienic glass of milk, and the graceful girls played _diavolo_ with young officers; the groves of orange trees filled the air with an almost overpowering scent; children threw crumbs to the ducks in the pond; high up in the palm trees they were doing the parks' spring cleaning by cutting away the spent leaves. with such a winter climate it is strange that seville was deserted by foreigners till the easter rush. during the four months of our stay we had no need of fires, and sometimes there were days so warm that we did not start for the customary constitutional till toward evening. every single day of the winter we took a walk in the same direction,--to the _delicias_ parks. such monotony at first seemed a very limited pleasure, but before the winter ended we had grown to be such true sevillians that we liked the placid regularity, and whenever we went further afield the roads were so abominably kept that we were glad to return to the shady fragrance of the park. we gradually learned to sit on the benches with the contented indolence of the southerner, watching the carriages roll by, family coaches a bit antiquated, the women well-dressed but not with the madrileña's elegance. as the same people passed day after day, we soon had favorites among them. one young girl, like a rose in her bloom of quick blushes, was having the golden hour of her life; all winter we watched her in the _delicias_, at the theater, in church, and she never appeared without her cavalier somewhere in sight: a man in love here, like a man at his prayers, has no false pride to disguise his devotion. his carriage openly pursued hers in the park, the coachman an eager abettor of the romance. they would often alight, and while her mother and small sister loitered far behind, the happy _novios_ were allowed to ramble side by side through the lovely paths. it seemed to us that we were no sooner settled in some retired nook of the pleasure grounds than these two sympathetic young people would come strolling past, and her sudden blush in recognition of the two strangers whose interest she felt, was very charming to see,--so too thought the young man at her side, for he always paced with his head bent irresistibly to hers. life can offer worse fates than to be in love in the springtime, under seville's flowering trees. this happy starting with romance has much to do with the contented marriages of the race: here, as i said before, is little of the pernicious "dot" system of france and italy; good looks and attractive personal qualities win a husband. spanish women make excellent wives, their first fire and passion turning to self-abnegation. they are spared the ignoble competition that luxury brings; except in madrid and among a small set in a couple more of the big cities, most spanish ladies dress with extreme simplicity in black; the mantilla having more or less equalized conditions. it is still the custom for a mother and her daughters to go to church before eight every morning; often i saw them returning as i sat drinking my coffee on the hotel balcony. for church they wear the black veil that so much better becomes them than the big hats donned for the afternoon drive. strangers are inclined to take for granted the idleness of women's lives in a city like seville. i had slight opportunity of judging for myself. from a friend, however, who happened to have letters of introduction to a sevillian whom she thought a mere social butterfly after seeing her drive by idly every afternoon, i learned that being taken into the intimacy of this pretty, fashionable woman, it appeared that she rose before seven every day and had never once missed giving each of her four children his morning bath. when we occasionally lingered late in the _delicias_ at noon, we would see the _cigarreras_ from the great tobacco factory come out to spend their siesta. the proverbial beauty of these girls is much exaggerated, but the fresh flower in the hair worn by every woman of the people, old and young alike, gives a decided charm. sometimes they would dance together under the trees, just for the mere pleasure of motion, and sing the passionate _coplas_ of the province, of the very essence of a people, impossible to translate: "nor with you nor without you my sorrows have end, for with you, you kill me, and without you, i die." or this other, a _majo_ to his chosen one: "take, little one, this orange from my orchard grove apart, be careful lest you use a knife for inside is my heart." the _majo_ of andalusia is the peasant dandy of spain, and truly he is superb. as he gallops in from the country on his proud-necked stocky andalusian horse--by instinct he knows how to sit a horse--or when he walks by jauntily in his short bolero jacket, with the springing gait of youth and dominating manhood, a duchess must look at him with admiration. the city loafer of seville is a miserable specimen, and his insolence on the street is a constant outrage, but the country _labrador_ does much to redeem him. one day we walked back across the fields from italica, and passed many of these self-respecting peasants who gave us the proud, courteous salute of the north, but no sooner were we within the city limits than began the bold staring, the jostling and remarks peculiar to seville alone. all classes and conditions are met with in the park. once a week the black soutanes and red shoulder scarfs of the seminarists of san telmo give an added note of color. one of the lads, happening to know a spanish acquaintance of ours, often stopped to chat. he told us details of their life, that at easter and for the summer each returned in secular dress to his family, and if, during his years of preparation, he found he was not suited to the priesthood, he was free to leave at any time. thus this lad had entered with ten others, of whom only three remained. "soon only two, i fear," he added, with his clever mundain smile. "they tell me i'm too fond of society." yet i have seen english ladies, true to their invincible armada traditions, shake their heads in pity when the seminarists passed, and sigh: "poor young prisoners!" we made other acquaintances in the placid seville parks; the venders of peanut candy, of the delicious sugar wafers for which you gamble on a revolving machine, above all our _agua! agua!_ friend. this last would polish the glass with an agile turn of the wrist, then bend slightly and from his shoulder pour down the crystal stream with undeviating aim. no people on earth drink water like the spanish; it is a national love. a tot of four will stand spellbound before the fat dolphin of a park fountain, calling in beatific ecstasy, "_hay agua!_" though the _delicias_ is the favorite haunt, one can while away an afternoon in the garden of the alcázar, on its pretty tiled seats. when we went through the moorish palace, its restorations seemed so gaudily done that again i felt the sensation that this was trumpery. as at the alhambra the fact of its medium being plaster, not enduring stone, spoils moorish art for me. some evenings for the sunset we climbed the giralda, the only height from which a view over the fertile country can be got, for seville's great drawback is its flatness; there is not one high spot for loitering at the close of day as in most italian towns. from this cathedral tower, the view down on the white roofs of the city holds one spellbound; groves of palms show the parks, neat terrace gardens on the tops of the houses, and not a vestige of a street. no wonder, for the passages called streets are barely wide enough for three to walk abreast, and they twist and bend in true oriental fashion. we used to turn in behind the alcázar, and wander hap-hazard, past murillo's house, round and about north of that chief thoroughfare, the _sierpes_. for surprises and romance this town has no equal. tucked away in the narrow lanes is patio after patio, not, like those of cordova, merely spotless and tranquil, but imposing with white marble columns and pavements, for italica, nearby, an obliterated city that lays claim to three of rome's emperors, trajan, hadrian, and theodosius, was stripped to adorn the younger seville. the exterior of the houses is insignificant, just two or three stories of plain plaster walls, all beauty being kept for the inside, for the patio, with its central fountain and walls of colored tiles. we used often to pause at the open grille to gaze in with delight, agreeing with the old german proverb, "whom god loves has a house in seville." they say that in summer-time the family moves down from the upper story to live around the patio, over which an awning is stretched, and every evening animated _tertulias_ are held there. a june walk at night in these lanes must be paradise: "_quien no ha visto á sevilla, no ha visto á maravilla_." all over the city are small churches that antedate the cathedral, with noticeable twelfth century portals, timber roofs, and often a moorish tower. the best are omnium sanctorum and san marcos: and a lovely bit to sketch is the façade of santa paula with its italian faience decoration. the peaceful patio of the chief hospital--a church in the center--must be a nook of repose loved by the convalescent. i could not see that the ill or aged suffered in spain, despite the general abuse of her institutions. what is it about spanish ways that makes most englishmen so pessimistic over her? it seems to me that an englishman should be sympathetic here, for so many of his traits he has in common with the spaniard, such as sincerity, independence, loyalty to national ideals, to their rulers and creed. a prominent london publisher, in a new series of travel books, has lately reprinted richard ford's "wanderings in spain," thereby perpetrating a grave injustice, for in this book is gathered, with no sense of proportion, the abuse expurgated (chiefly because of its length) from his "murray's hand-book of spain." ford visited spain when she was torn by the disorders of civil war, after three centuries of ill-government. a sad picture of england could be made by the foreign visitors who happened to witness the lord george gordon riots or the industrial agitations of the midlands, or who visited the poorhouses, schools, and prisons described by dickens and charles reade, yet who would maintain that such a picture was true as a whole, or print such a book to represent england to-day? why must a different justice be meted out to spain? ford could be enthusiastic over the castilian peasants' manhood, over the security of life and purse throughout the northern provinces, and the gentle kindness of the country women, the hospitality of whose kitchens he sought, but when it comes to the national religion he fills his pages with false statements. "one never pelts a tree unless it has fruit on it," a spaniard will say as he shrugs his shoulders. there is no doubt that the travelers in spain then as well as the travelers of to-day see many things that have cause to distress them, but it should never be forgotten that in cities like seville, the disease and vice which are kept out of sight in a distant slum in northern towns, are here right in the open eye. the poorest here live in the same block with the rich, a juxtaposition that may lead the outsider to see only the evil of a place, but for the native has the happier result of a more human primitive relationship between the classes than in most countries: poverty has never been looked on as pitiable in spain: haughtiness and snobbishness are almost unknown here.[ ] i must also add, to be quite honest, that, often, the impudence of the sevillian street loafer and the exasperating pursuance of the beggar children, made me break out in invincible armada abuse myself; then some slight episode would occur to reprove me. one day we paused to watch a very ugly little girl of five nurse her wounded dog. she was pity incarnate, she had rolled it in her poor shawl and rocked it backward and forward. when she gently touched the bandaged paw tears came to her eyes. we often passed her during the winter, and feeling our sympathy, unconscious of its first cause, the little tot would wait shyly till we had gone by, then dash after us to thrust into our hands two tiny bunches of orange blossoms or violets, and then tear away in confusion, refusing to be thanked. that she so ugly and poor had won two friends intoxicated her warm little heart, and she regularly prepared her offerings of answering affection, to have ready when the strangers passed: every characteristic of this untrained child of the street was admirable. another time a stationer sent his young apprentice of fourteen to show us the way to a book-binder's. we offered the boy the usual fee, when he flung back his head proudly with a flush; his name was emilio teruel y nobile, and the high-minded young descendant of aragonese or castilian blood bore it worthily. having shown us the shop we sought, and realizing that we now recognized him as an equal, he made his farewell with a poise and reserved grace that were splendid. later we occasionally passed emilio, and the equality of the greetings exchanged, not the slightest presumption on his part, is a thing only to be found in _caballero_ spain. to follow the church feasts that so diversify and brighten the year for these southern countries, also helps one to see them more justly. on the th of march, st. joseph's day, a large crowd filled the cathedral to listen to a sermon, almost the best i have ever heard, wherein the sanctity of the family and the dignity of labor were held up as needed models in the world to-day. before the lighted altar of st. joseph i noticed a magnificent looking hidalgo, _muy hijo de algo y de limpia sangre_, with three equally grandly built young sons beside him. such men had never been raised amid city temptations. the line of the four profiles was so similar it was striking. when they rose from prayer, the self-forgetful prayer of the spaniard with bowed head and closed eyes, the lads pressed about the father they revered, they laid their hands lovingly on his shoulder, the youngest stroked his back as he talked to him; two of the group were probably named josé, and the father had come in from a country town to pass his saint's day with his boys at the university. all over the city, cakes and presents were carried openly, for everyone named joseph (and the pepes are legion) was keeping open house, and his friends were pouring in to offer congratulations. in spain moving scenes are witnessed when the viaticum is brought to the dying: the inmates of the house go to the church to escort the priest back in procession, the sacristan gives each a lighted candle, then at the door on their return, the servants kneel to receive "_el señor, su majestad_." sir william stirling-maxwell has told of a duchess in madrid, returning from a ball past midnight, that when a priest passed carrying the sacrament to the dying, she resigned her carriage to him and returned home on foot. it is said that if in a theater the tinkle of a passing bell is heard, actors and audience fall on their knees. in seville, in spite of there being none of the mild festivities the foreigner finds in rome or florence--not a single tea party!--we never had time to be bored. no sooner were the celebrations for december th over than the christmas _fiestas_ began. flocks of turkeys were driven through the streets and sold from door to door, and it was comical to see one of the awkward creatures step stiffly into the corridor leading to a patio, gravely crane his neck about to observe the romantic white-marble propriety within the gate, and his stupefaction when the iron _reja_ opened to him with too warm a welcome, alas! in the shop windows were exposed all sorts of useful gifts, silver-necked flagons full of yellow oil, and ornate boxes of cakes. the midnight mass on christmas eve was very solemn under the lofty piers of the cathedral. the people gathered there seemed to be meditating on the mystery they commemorated, and at the words of the gospel, "et verbum caro factum est," all fell spontaneously to their knees. not long after the new year, the king and queen, to escape the icy winds of madrid, came to pass a month in the sun-warmed alcázar. it was doña victoria's first visit to seville, so the city made it an occasion; triumphal arches were put up across the streets, the fences of the parks were painted crimson and gold, there was a great clipping of trees and repairing of roads,--a bit late this last (but truly andalusian) for the royal carriages had to grind down the scattered stones,--also, the private houses put on new coats of whitewash. platforms for seats were built along the route from the station to the alcázar. we hired chairs on the steps of the lonja opposite the cathedral, as it did not seem likely that the old custom of going direct to the church to sing a _te deum_ of thanksgiving would be set aside. we were in place early and watched the animated crowds passing,--there was no pushing or crowding. deputaries in gold lace and medals dashed by; the balconies on all sides, hung with the national colors, were filled with pretty women. the clamor of the giralda bells told the waiting people the train had arrived; then, as the royal carriage passed, doña victoria was given an enthusiastic reception: her bright golden hair and brilliant complexion won cries of "_bonita_!" "_simpática_!" "_guapa_!" before the cigar factory, where its five thousand employees were grouped, a band of the handsomest _cigarreras_, in red and yellow silk shawls, stepped forward to present the queen with a fan made of flowers, on whose floating ribbon was painted a genuine andalusian welcome: "tienes el mismo nombre "thou hast the same name que la patrona,[ ] as our patroness,[ ] tienes 'ange' en la cara, thou hast the face of an angel, tienes corona, thou art a queen, dios te bendiga! may god bless thee, eres la más hermosa the fairest that has come que entró en sevilla." to seville!" the loud exclamations of delight in the robust health of the little prince of asturias pleased the queen, and as she passed through the cheering mass of people, she made very gracefully the foreign gesture of greeting, the fingers bent back rapidly on the palm. as the night journey had tired her, the doctors ordered her immediate entrance into the alcázar, postponing the _te deum_ till the afternoon; and seville, who clings tenaciouly to old customs, was distinctly displeased. the group that stood on the cathedral steps later in the day was superb. there was the archbishop in cope and miter, with his silver crozier, the canons in purple robes, the acolytes bearing the historic crosses carried on festivals, and all the chief citizens of the town. for just this occasion the huge western doors were thrown open, giving a new aspect to the nave; through this door the king is the only one privileged to pass, but on this her _first_ entrance, the queen too. the archbishop on first coming to his church and when carried out to his burial passes under this portal. the king and queen, led by the archbishop, now walked up the nave, chanting _te deum laudamus_, and before leaving they went to kneel in the royal chapel where, before the high altar, lies king ferdinand the saint who conquered seville in , after five hundred years of moorish rule. here on november d, anniversary of his entrance to the city, a military mass is said, and the colors are lowered as the garrison files past. to a sevillian that day of is as alive as the battle of lexington to a new englander. this being a first visit, some brisk sightseeing was done. they automobiled out to italica to see the roman amphitheater there; and the day after her arrival doña victoria redeemed the good-will of the sevillians by driving, in black mantilla, to visit a church in a poor part of the city where is an altar to our lady of hope, dear to expectant mothers. in the lonja, where the indian archives are kept, don alfonso pored over the maps of mexico and the autographs of cortés and pizarro; in the _museo_, the queen again touched the sentiment of the spanish women by preferring murillo's realistic "adoration of the shepherds." the duke of medinaceli got up some splendid provincial dances and tableaux in his mudéjar _casa de pilatos_, one of the show places of the town. we happened to meet the pretty peasant girls who had taken part returning home, singing and waving to the crowd, like birds of paradise, in their rose and lemon silk shawls. there seemed to be a congenial companionship between the young royal people. they were at ease together. the king, extremely fragile-looking, has a thin hapsburg face so eminently sympathetic that sometimes when he would give an affectionate grin at his applauding subjects he made one rather wish to be a spaniard one's self. with the irresistible impulses of youth he would sally out from the alcázar to explore the city on foot, like any other happy, free mortal, but sooner or later the cry "_el rey!_" would gather a crowd and force him back to his state. one day he had to jump into a fiacre to escape the crush, and it was very jolly to see the descendant of the severe philip ii, of the inflated, pompous bourbons, dashing through seville, laughing at the good sport. we often met him riding back from toblada in the late afternoon from polo, and it certainly appeared as if the affection of his countrymen went with him. i should say few kings are loved as is young alfonso xiii, and seville especially prides herself on being _muy leal_. did not alfonso _el sabio_ (tenth of the name, as this alfonso is the thirteenth) give the city the famous _nodo_, seen everywhere as the town crest, for just this trait of loyalty six centuries ago? so several times a day an eager crowd gathered to watch the king pass, or to cheer for the rosy little prince of asturias who drove out with his titled governess and two nurses,--one of severe english propriety, the other a romantic spanish peasant--behind four big mules decked with andalusian red trappings and bells. a whole series of fêtes were preparing when the tragic assassination of the king of portugal and his eldest son at lisbon put a stop to the rejoicing. the sensation in seville was enormous, as the portuguese queen had brought her two sons the year before to follow the services of holy week here, and her mother, the countess of paris, lives in an estate near the city. don alfonso had just gone for a week's big-game hunting to the granada mountains, when he hurried back to take part in the funeral service held in madrid at the same hour as that in lisbon. on his return to seville his changed appearance showed what a shock the tragedy had been; not relationship alone but friendship united him to portugal. before the royal visit ended there was a grand review of the troops in the park, where don alfonso wore a new uniform, that of the hussars of pavia, in commemoration of the great victory of charles v in italy four centuries before. audience was given the envoys from the new king of sweden in the ambassador's hall of the alcázar, which it was said had not been so used since isabella's day. a mild form of carnival was followed by ash wednesday, when the king and queen and court attended the services in the _capilla real_ of the cathedral, before st. ferdinand's silver tomb. as they passed out between the dense mass of people, my heart sprang to my mouth when i saw a man struggling to reach the king,--fortunately only a humble petitioner, but the lisbon assassinations had filled everyone with terror. the royal visit over, came holy week, but that and the dancing of the _seises_ merit some pages to themselves. a church feast in seville "i have loved, o lord, the beauty of thy house; and the place where thy glory dwelleth."--psalms xxv, . "when after many conquerors came christ the only conqueror of spain indeed, not bethlehem nor golgotha sufficed to show him forth, but every shrine must bleed, and every shepherd in his watches heed the angels' matins sung at heaven's gate. nor seemed the virgin mary wholly freed from taint of ill if born in frail estate, but shone the seraph's queen and soar'd immaculate." george santayana. the eighth of december is a great day in spain, but more especially in seville where they look on the immaculate conception as their special feast, symbolized, hundreds of years before the dogma was defined, by their fellow townsman murillo, in the seraphic purity of his _concepción_. the celebration began on the day preceding the eighth with an early-morning peal of bells that lasted half an hour, and was frequently repeated during the day. nothing can express the mad, exultant peal of spanish bells: one strong metallic dong backward and forward,--or rather over and over, for the bells are balanced with weights and make the complete circle when in motion,--with a running carillon of more musical minor notes. we mounted to a roof terrace to watch the ringers in the giralda, who in reckless enjoyment, let the rope of the revolving bell toss them aloft, a perilous feat that has led to fatal accidents, but high up in that moorish tower, above the palm and orange-growing city, a triumphant tumult filling the air, it must be easy to lose one's balance of common-sense. toward evening of the _víspera de la pureza_, every one placed lights along the balconies, which were draped with blue and white, those of the archbishop's palace, under the giralda, being hung in red and yellow, the national colors. a military band played in one of the smaller plazas, and the seville girls flocked out in full enjoyment, each with the customary rose or bright ribbon in her hair. the people of the upper classes entertained their friends in open booths around the square. then on the eighth itself, the bells fairly out-did themselves in tumultuous clamor, calling all to the cathedral, that haunting soul of the city, _la grandeza_, the noble, the solemn, its special title. sevillians love to boast that it is bigger than st. peters in rome and cite its , square meters of ground area to st. peter's , . it is truly one of the most imposing churches in the world; vast and dim, the lofty gothic piers make double aisles as they rise in springing arches to the roof. i have seen tourists enter laughing and chatting, but before they take ten steps instinctively their voices are lowered and they walk reverently with half-bowed heads. this serious temple to god is worthy of the men of big ideas who decided "to construct a church such and so good it never should have its equal," to accomplish which vow the canons sacrificed their personal revenues, and for a century the cathedral chapter ate in common.[ ] december eighth i was in place early, in time to see each lady carry in her own folding chair and set it up in the matted space between the altar and choir: surely it is in church that the spanish woman is at her best, in her severe black gown, with her veil draped over a high hair comb and gathered gracefully about the shoulders and waist. when she kneels she makes a sign of the cross, which has national additions. after the usual sign from forehead to breast, left shoulder to right, she carries her thumb crossed over her first finger to her lips. i am told this is a token of fidelity to the faith of the cross, and is often a way by which spaniards recognize their countrymen in foreign countries. and since seville out-does spain in most customs, here are still other additions. they precede the sign of the cross by making a small cross on the forehead, lips, and breast; and there are many who even precede _this_ by a first regular sign of the cross, thus making two signs of the cross with the gospel symbol between. all this is done so rapidly that it takes several days of close observation to decipher it. gradually the church filled for the great feast, until a solid mass of people knelt or stood in the transepts, covering every foot from which the high altar could be seen; there was no crowding or impatience, for this was not for them a show, but their daily place of prayer. the onlooking tourist too often forgets this vital difference. in most cases he is ignorant of the meaning of church ritual; mental prayer, meditation on the feast celebrated, the unspeakable spirituality of the mass are undivined by him; it is curiosity or æsthetic pleasure that usually brings him there. as i thought later during the holy week, it must be a soul weariness to sit during long hours, through ceremonies one cannot follow intelligently. on this festival, first there was a procession round the church to bless the various altars dedicated to the blessed virgin ("for behold, from henceforth all generations shall call me blessed. for he that is mighty hath done to me great things." st. luke i, - ). over the first altar visited hung luis de vargas' celebrated picture of adam and eve, the _generación_, painted in the sixteen century to symbolize to-day's doctrine. before the procession walked officers in uniform, then groups of acolytes, bearing antique silver crosses and the six-foot silver poles that end in handsome candle shrines. seville gentlemen in dress suits followed, and then the archbishop in cope and miter, with canons, beneficiaries, and choristers in vestments rich in gold and embroidery. the long imposing train passed slowly round the outer aisle. to those who remained before the altar, the chanting of the procession came but faintly, so colossal is the church, though like all well-proportioned things it is only from effects such as this that one realizes its size. the solemn high mass proceeded, now the deep magnificently male voice of the organs, now the delicate stringed instruments, with human voices, for the spaniard fearlessly follows his impulses of worship and presses every talent into the service of the altar. twenty laymen were grouped in the _coro_ about a priest who led with his baton, and beside them stood the chorister lads who were to dance that afternoon before the tabernacle, as david once danced before the ark of the covenant. their mediæval dress, a singularly pleasing russian blouse of blue and white, with white breeches and slippers, was worn with so unconscious a grace that they were a charming sight as they sang in clear childish treble. the altar, one blaze of light, was approached by twelve steps, up and down which the bishop and canons swept in their gorgeous robes. below the steps stood twelve silver candlesticks higher than a man, and close by were displayed the priceless flagons and trays used on high feasts. every accessory of seville's cathedral is on a vast scale; the _retablo_ of carved scenes towers to a hundred feet; the gilded _rejas_, wrought by the monk of salamanca in the same disregard for man's limitations in which the whole cathedral was built, and whose dark fretwork enhances the brilliant scenes they enclose, all tell of an age of ardent faith when men gave of their best. [illustration: los seises, cathedral of seville] the service over, the archbishop passed to the sacristy which for this day was thrown open to the people, and they thronged in to kiss the episcopal ring, and to gaze at the murillos and other masters. then his vestments laid aside, the prelate, accompanied by a dense crowd, crossed the square to his palace, but before leaving the church, he paused by the chapel of gonsalvo núñez de sepúlveda, who in left a fortune to the cathedral that this octave of the immaculate conception should be fitly celebrated. even after the three-hour service some people lingered in the side chapels, and the choristers, in their picturesque costume, gathered in the _capilla mayor_ of the partly deserted church to continue their songs of praise: not for outer effect alone had these hymns been taught them, but to glorify one unseen but all-seeing. the spirit of inner worship was not lost in its outward symbolization. during the octave, the blessed sacrament was exposed, and unceasing were the offices of praise and song. in the late afternoon of each day came the dance of _los seises_ before the altar, perhaps one of the most poetic customs remaining in christendom. the archbishop, in red robes, again entered the chancel surrounded by the canons, and they all knelt, some here, some there, in unconsciously artistic groups,--the strong firm profiles like those of the donors in italian pictures. some knelt in meditation, others affectionately watched the dance of the lads; they too, as boys, may have been choristers. it is more a quiet rhythmic stepping to music than a dance, and all the while they sing in their clear, high voices. twice the music stopped, and for a few seconds the lads moved slowly to the sound of their own castanets. this unique custom commemorates the christian's entry into the conquered moslem town more than six hundred years ago, when the children are said to have danced and sung for joy. these twentieth century christian lads, their part now over, passed up the steps of the altar into a small sacristy behind it; and the musicians continued a lovely concert of sacred music, a last half hour of peace and prayer that seemed like the benediction of the great darkened church on the bowed groups of worshipers. i came away from the cathedral every evening with the feeling that there are many and various ways of praising god. yet so much criticism has this seville custom roused, that, a few hundred years ago, the pope ordered its discontinuance, allowing the dance to go on only as long as the costumes then in use should last, but the people, who love their old usages, succeeded in evading the decision by successive patching of the suits. this is the story. certainly the graceful costumes to-day show no tatters, and they are worn so carelessly that they make no suggestion of masquerade. for the many who crave a quieter form of worship, the grave cathedral services of northern spain may be more congenial, but when as many desire magnificence and display, why should not they too be satisfied? the church allows for all tastes and temperaments, knowing man is not cast in one mold. the puritan in her midst does not have to turn dissenter; she has her salvation army--so i call the pilgrimage-going crowds; the ascetic fulfils the hard law of his nature side by side with the enjoyer of human affections and graces. seville's feast, rich with old traditions, is appropriate in this southern city. to linger each evening in the vast church lighted only by solitary candles against each pier, to wander behind the kneeling groups listening to the soaring voices of man and violin, to pause beside a certain tomb in the south transept where four mammoth figures of bronze, ungainly on close view but in a half light majestic, bear on their shoulders a bier which holds the remains of cristóbal colón,--such hours of loitering quicken the imagination and leave behind them memories of beauty. holy week in seville "a time to weep, and a time to laugh. a time to mourn, and a time to dance." eccles. iii, . an overcrowded picture rises with the thought of seville's _semana santa_,--glittering lights, statues laden with jewels, weird masked figures in _nazareno_ costume marching to the sound of funeral dirges, cries of street vendors and children,--all is noise, movement, color, a true andalusian scene. spectacular effect is the first impression of the week, a gorgeous pageantry that suits the sevillian's temperament but is not so congenial perhaps to the northerner, who would have the commemoration of his religion's solemn hour a more tranquil time of prayer. happily there are other memories carried away as well as this chief one of noisy confusion. never to be forgotten was the cathedral echoing at midnight to the sound of eslava's "miserere" sung by hundreds of trained voices. every inch of the vast church was packed. men and women stood in silence, with upraised faces, as they listened to the music of the old canon who once sat in this choir. the lightest mocker would be awed to silence under those soaring arches. for majesty, for a contagious religious emotion, the cathedral of seville at the time of its feasts is only to be rivaled by santa sophia during ramazan, on that memorable night of power when eight thousand mussulmans kneel prostrate under the floating circles of lamps. these two stand supreme; so different in the setting,--the one rich with color, an open blaze of light beneath the wide byzantine dome, the other dim, mysterious gothic,--they are alike in the genuine thrill of worship they give the onlooker of every creed. familiar with her cathedral in its every-day aspect, having seen the celebrations of december th, the christmas midnight mass, epiphany, ash wednesday, it was cruel to find its grand tranquillity violated during the holy week. it is the processions, called the _pasos_, that are the cause of the disorder. a _paso_ is a huge platform, on which are placed carved statues representing scenes of the passion. each float is carried by some thirty men, and its weight must be enormous, for besides the statues there are silver candelabra, gold and silver vases, and usually a canopy of embroidered velvet upheld by silver poles. could one but look on them as mere spectacular shows, they would be most picturesque pageants, but to dissociate them from religion is impossible. the custom is an ancient one and is still prevalent in many towns of spain, through happily, in the smaller places, its original purpose to edify and rouse the people to rememberance of the holy season, has not been lost sight of in extravagant display as at seville. each of seville's numerous parishes has one or two of these _pasos_, and an unworthy rivalry exists between them as to which will make the best show. they are supposed to be scenes of the passion, such as the flagellation, christ before pilate, the descent from the cross, but for the most part they consist of single figures--a crucifixion followed by a _nuestra señora de dolores_, another crucifixion followed by another single representation of our lady, and so on in monotonous sequence, a repetition that makes the spectator fix his attention, not on the scene represented but on details such as the embroidery of the robes, the display of rare jewels, the elaborate canopy. the _pasos_ struck me as the result of that regrettable tendency in spain, the accentuated devotion to a special shrine or statue. no doubt it arose in reaction against the moorish enemy's hatred of images, but the patriotic tendency has been carried too far. it will ever misrepresent the spaniard's innate christian belief. as these processions blocked the city streets, one heard on every side, not alone from those of differing creed, exclamations of "pomp! show! childishness!" and the criticism was almost justified. many strangers leave seville confirmed in the wrong idea that its religion is an affair of tinsel and lights. spain cares little what outsiders think of her, but here is a case in which she should consider the discredit that a degenerated custom brings on her religion; she should sacrifice an old tradition. like the processions of havana, the _pasos_ should go. the northern spaniard agrees with the stranger in his dislike of the noisy spectacles that so incongruously commemorate the saddest death-scene of the ages, and there are many andalusians, too, who wish for their abolition. in fact, it is the rabble and the innkeepers who agitate in their favor; these last keep petitions for their foreign guests to sign, begging that the processions be continued. seville need not fear she will lose prestige should she drop them, that the tourists will no longer flock to her each spring; she is only beginning to be known for having a winter climate surpassing that of rome and naples; _pasos_ or not, visitors will inevitably increase. the objectionable processions began to march late in the afternoon of palm sunday, and it is hardly much of an exaggeration to say they went on marching night and day throughout the following week. they were so long that they took five or six hours to pass a given spot. starting back in the narrow streets of the town, they passed down the _sierpes_ which was lined with spectators' chairs, defiled before the city hall, where the mayor rose to salute each _paso_ in turn, then went on to the cathedral,--entering by a west door, crossing before the altar, and leaving by the door near the archbishop's palace. with each _paso_ marched the religious confraternity of its parish, a secular brotherhood of men belonging to all ranks, who are banded together for charitable work. the king belongs to one of these fraternities and when in seville marches in line, but the year of our visit he was represented by the military governor of the province. the officers of the army also marched. most of these brotherhoods wore nazarene costume, in white, purple, or black, with the high-peaked head gear through which only the eyes showed. some walked devoutly, others in disorder. membership in religious brotherhoods is often hereditary, and it was touching to see a little child of four, in full regalia, marching with the grown men, planting his silver staff at each slow pace with the gravity of a majordomo. a band of music went with each fraternity, and the blare of brass instruments, the torches, the masked faces, make indeed a confused, wearying spectacle. most of the onlookers hired chairs for the week along the streets, on balconies, or in that most chosen spot, the square by the city hall; the populace thronged to the cathedral, where the procession could be seen free, and there the crowd was dense to suffocation, chiefly made up of the disorderly element from triana. the chatter and movement made me ask, could this be a spanish church, where irreverence is unknown? everyone seemed oblivious of the tenebræ in the _coro_. they buzzed and moved about in an unseemly scramble for seats, so that only faintest echoes of jeremiah's gloriously intoned lamentations could be heard. the sexton rose now and then from the noisy groups on the choir steps to extinguish one by one the candles on the big triangular candlestick, a noble object of bronze used only at this season. and i had looked forward for months to hearing, in this grand gothic cathedral, my favorite service of the church year, the solitary service that haunts one with its subtle beauty from one's childhood. the disappointment was keen, it gave just the final touch to my dislike of the _pasos_. there were times when i tried to be just. seeing the men lift their hats respectfully as each group went by, the women cross themselves with tears in their eyes, the babies look on in awed wonder, i tried to drop prejudice and to see the spectacle as does a southern spaniard: the noisy scene is so associated with his earliest, tenderest memories that he cannot but look at it in a different way. one evening near me, a handsome young countryman,--moved out of all self-consciousness by the _virgen santísima_ he so loved, in her wonderful robe and jewels, under a canopy richer than any earthly queen's,--this gallant young _majo_ stood forward suddenly from the crowd and, with his eyes fastened on the glittering mass, sang a _copla_ of praise with the heart-piercing note of the folk-song. so faultlessly artistic a moment made me look leniently on the _pasos_ for a time, warning me, "lest while ye gather up the tares, ye root up also the wheat with them." but to be consistent in this home of untamed personalities is impossible! for soon a float of extravagant bad taste would go by; horses with tails of real hair; clumsy velvet robes hiding the excellent carving of the statues (and some of them are the work of the best sculptor of seville, montañés, whose portrait by velasquez hangs in the prado); worst of all the _mater dolorosa_, covered with inappropriate jewels, some willed her by former generations, others lent by rich sevillian ladies of to-day, in her hand the lace handkerchief of a coquette: criticism would leap to full life again. that the _pasos_ violated the quiet of the cathedral, that they reeked of the baroque period of bad art, these are not the only complaints against them. they turn all seville into a picnic week. we began to ask ourselves if this noisy excitement commemorated a solemn time, what would the following week of the fair be like? the andalusian can hold revelry with zest and vigor for fourteen unbroken days. easter week was to open with the italian opera and the first bull-fight of the year; there were to be three days of horse and cattle show, followed by three days of the grand _feria_, when the whole province pours into seville, and the nights are one glare of fireworks; _maja_ and _majo_ are then out in all their finery, and the families of the upper classes live in open booths on the fair grounds, where they pay visits and dance the national dances in public with the easy democracy of true spaniards. much as we hoped to see this typical feast, it began to dawn on us early in the week that there were limits to endurance. the hurrying crowds, the blocking of the streets, the noise of vendors, of clashing music, made the fatigue indescribable. sleep at night was out of the question, noisy triana roamed the streets; brass bands would sound, and in nervous excitement one would spring to the balcony. the hotels were packed to an uncomfortable extent. by good friday all desire to stay over for the fair week was extinguished; we were very close to physical collapse. so, taking a night train, we slipped away from the turmoil to have a peaceful easter sunday in unspoiled estremadura. there also they were having _pasos_, but _pasos_ of such simple devotion, humble, and primitive, that one knelt with the crowd in prayer as they passed. before this final, hasty desertion, however, i had dragged myself, worn out with a sleepless night, to the lengthy services in the cathedral each morning. there, happily, was nothing to criticise. the holy week ceremonies customary to all catholic christendom, were carried through with dignity; only, since this was irrepressible spain, there were some local additions, and most beautiful ones. such was the waving of a huge flag, black, with a large red cross, like the banner of some military order, before the high altar, while some special prayers were read; love of country and love of god seem so inextricably interwoven here. on palm sunday the cathedral was filled with the stately white leaves, six and ten feet long, from the palm forest of elche; each canon carried one and each verger; the priests and acolytes who served the mass bore each his palm, and they waved and swayed around the altar in lovely symbolization of the entry into jerusalem twenty centuries before. pictures like that never fade. a year later in palestine, it rose vividly before me, while driving out to bethany, when we passed some hundreds of humble russian pilgrims tramping back from the dead sea, each of whom bore a palm. for in very reality they were following the route of entry into the holy city. seville cathedral on palm sunday morning was not unworthy to be grouped with that moving scene. the excessively long gospel was chanted in the customary different keys by three canons, one standing in the epistle pulpit, one in the gospel, and the third on a rostrum erected between the two. near me several spaniards of the artisan class followed in latin every word of the lengthy chanting. the tourists present who knew not what was read, fretted and moved incessantly. no intelligent person should attend a holy week in either seville or rome without a special book, picked up anywhere for a couple of francs, in which the services are given in latin and english, or latin and french. without the liturgy to voice these ceremonies, they must be weary hours indeed. and yet of the hundreds of visitors on this palm sunday, literally, not one followed with a book, and many perhaps held themselves competent to criticise what they had seen. expectant of the sensational, the tourists filled the great church on holy thursday morning, when the white veil was withdrawn: it was done so swiftly, at the opportune words of the gospel, that there was nothing spectacular about it. two days later, at the moment in the mass when every bell in the city bursts out in joyous acclamation of the resurrection, the black veil was rent; that we missed seeing. some days before holy week a towering temple of wood, white and gilt, a hundred feet high, had been erected in the nave over the tomb of columbus' son. this pseudo-classic temple, completely out of touch with the gothic church, was to serve as the repository of the blessed sacrament on holy thursday, and it was for the center of such shrines that the old silversmiths of spain, the de arfe family, made their priceless silver _monumentos_. such repositories are customary in all catholic lands on thursday of holy week, for in the midst of sorrow, the church celebrates the foundation of the sacrament that has brought joy and solace to mankind. she commemorates the events of the week chronologically. before the altars are dismantled for good friday, she typifies by lights and flowers, her gratitude for that passover supper in the upper room. it is a general catholic custom to visit a number of these lighted shrines on holy thursday, and in seville this usage leads to one of the charming things of the week, like an oasis of peace in the midst of the arid _pasos_. everyone pays these visits on foot. during two days not a carriage is allowed in the city, the king himself must walk. their silk mantillas, black or white, draped high over their combs, wearing jewels and carrying flowers, the ladies of seville went from church to church, to kneel in graceful groups around the exposed host, and the men in frock coats and high hats stood in the rear, in simple attitudes of prayer: the spaniard and the mussulman are alike in their unconsciousness at their devotions. the next day all would wear deep mourning, but to-day is a feast of rejoicing. each one goes in quiet composure, as if her mind dwelt on the hours of peace her communions had brought her. again i felt the same impression that the christmas midnight mass had given me; that the imagination of this people was busy with the past event they were celebrating. does not lack of comprehension of old usages often mean lack of the shaping power of the imagination? from one parish church to another i followed these fascinating women. here was true seville, not seen in the cathedral's tourist crowd, nor under parisian hats on the _paseo_. wandering through the network of streets north of the _sierpes_, i paused to look into the spotless patios distant as they ever seem from the fret of life. a touch of summer was in the air; the marble courtyards were decked with flowers, and one heard the notes of singing birds. two dark-eyed ladies came out from a tranquil patio; they wore white mantillas in honor of their visits to the blessed sacrament. they set me dreaming of seville in its summer aspect, when the skies are blue in the fragrant night. nowhere on earth are women more alluring and essentially feminine, nowhere has man fashioned his house so fitly for charm and romance. by chance, on holy thursday, i stumbled on another local usage, full of the same racial flavor. returning from the cathedral, where, amid a throng of sight seers, the archbishop had carried the host to the lighted _monumento_, i happened to drop into the church of the magdalena. it was filled with its own parishioners, since most spaniards leave the cathedral services of this crowded week to the visitors. near the door were seated three separate groups of ladies and young girls, belonging unmistakably to the aristocracy; each wore a black mantilla,[ ] and in their tight-fitting black gowns and long white gloves, they were indescribably elegant. they were the ladies in waiting of the various altars, their duties to tend them, and like the men's brotherhoods, to help in the charitable work of the parish. the magdalena church is dark, so on the table before these daughters of eve stood a pair of high candlesticks, between which lay an open tray soliciting contributions for their special shrines or charities. young beaux entered the church and as they passed the table, dropped a _duro_ or a paper bill in the different trays, according as they felt devotion to such and such an altar, or to judge by the glances that passed between the givers and receivers, as they felt devotion to its fair caretaker. unexpected scenes like this, unmentioned in the guide books, give to this city its allurement, enhanced doubly because the actors are so unconscious of their picturesqueness. and as unpleasant things fade away, leaving only the happier memories, two scenes stand out unforgettable in seville's holy week: eslava's "miserere," echoing at midnight through the cathedral whose name is fittingly the _grandeza_, and that other picture, enchantingly andalusian, the ladies in mantillas paying their silent visits to the blessed sacrament on holy thursday. the _pasos_ fade to a blurred background of pomp and glitter. cadiz "para que yo te olvidará era menester que hubiera otro mundo, y otro cielo, y otro dios que dispusiera." cantar andaluz. --"the sea tides tossing free, and spanish sailors with bearded lips, and the witchery and beauty of the ships, and the magic of the sea." h. w. longfellow. in the midst of the warm seville winter the thought of sea breezes tempted us to cadiz for a week. the hundred miles' run down there was through a charming corner of andalusia, with orange groves, olive plantations, woods of stone pines, hedges of cactus, in the meadows herds of most royal bulls. it was the eighteenth of january, yet the fruit trees were in blossom, and over the streams floated a lovely white-flowering verdure. we passed jerez, source of english sherry, where on our return to seville we stopped some hours to see the bodegas and sample the native wine. as we neared the coast big pyramids of salt covered the marshes, telling of another industry; in fact, every part of andalusia which i saw was well cultivated, despite the guide book laments over its backwardness. soon came whiffs of the sea air. the first view of cadiz, set right out to sea, is very striking. only a narrow strip of sand, eight miles long, connects it with the mainland, and as we skirted the coast, past san fernando,--where there is a naval station and an astronomical observatory,--the compact, sturdy little city out in the atlantic made a stunning picture; the sea so very blue, the town so dazzlingly white. and inside the treble line of walls and moats that defend its one land-entrance, the "silver dish," as its citizens love to call it, has as individual a character as its distant prospect. it is miraculously clean, its streets seem swept and scrubbed like a dutch village. down these narrow lanes you catch the gleam of the sea to east, to north, to west. when it rains, seville turns into a muddy distress, but well-drained cadiz grows more proper still in wet weather. the patio of the rest of andalusia is not found here, for being confined to its ledge of shells, the town could not spread itself about, but had to build itself up in the air. on top of the high houses, whose vivid green balconies add to the general air of trig neatness, are _miradores_, small towers formerly built by the merchants as look-outs from which they could spy their returning galleons. the view of cadiz from a _mirador_ is like nothing else ever seen: the clean whiteness of hundreds of roof terraces, the church towers of colored tiles and a host of other _miradores_, made it seem like a second city in itself, suggestive of the orient; a strange city set in the blinding blue circle of the ocean. the town is almost surrounded by high sea walls, four miles of them, and on the atlantic side the surf breaks in thundering eternity, throwing up spray twenty feet high. there is something splendidly plucky about cadiz. one of the few spots in europe forced to battle for her existence, with a devouring enemy at her door, she thrives and continues century after century. she is the oldest town in spain, founded by ph[oe]nician mariners more than a thousand years before the christian era. "ah when the crafty tyrian came to spain to barter for her gold his motley wares, treading her beaches he forgot his gain, the semite became noble unawares." spain has influenced them all, all the strangers, the heterogeneous throng, that have gone to the making of the spanish race. ph[oe]nician, roman, iberian, goth, jew, and moor, she has imprinted on them all her own distinguishing mark, has breathed into them her own intense soul. for this psychological reason it is true to say that seneca was a spaniard, that the wonderful jew maimonides and the moor averroës, and the gothic bishop, isidoro, doctor of the church were all of them spaniards. the catalan, ramón lull rang out the national note with no uncertain sound, mystic hermit and active missionary. and with the centuries "christened in blood and schooled in sacrifice," the spirit grew more convincingly apparent: domingo de guzmán, francisco ximenez, gonsalvo de córdova, luis de león, iñigo de loyola are very brothers with a like high fealty that tells what majestic mother nurtured them on her battlefield of ages. cadiz, the oldest spot in spain, has known each of the conquering races in turn. she was four hundred years old when rome was founded. she has had tremendous ups and downs of fortune; at her height during the age of the cæsars, who saw her importance as key to andalusia, then with the fall of rome dropped into insignificance, her name almost forgotten. she rose again with the discovery of the new world, whose ships of treasure anchored off her ramparts. a strange outlook on the passing of power lies in the statement that in this town was a wealthier place than london. with the loss of the colonies, cadiz has sunk back to be a mediocre city in the world, but she is contented and self-respecting. though so remotely ancient, there is nothing of old architecture here. the ramparts have been turned into esplanades, where it is a joy to walk, for the views are beautiful past description; now across the bay to the mainland and the mountains of ronda, and down on the quay of the town itself with its bay full of fishing boats; then to the north the eye seeks farther along the coast toward palos whence three caravels, the pinta, the niña and the santa maría turned westward on a memorable third of august, . on the other side of cadiz is the ocean itself and i hope the enterprising town will some day carry the park along this western wall, where the rollers break so magnificently. just past the public gardens, a narrow causeway leads to the lighthouse of san sebastián, set well out to sea, a favorite walk for us at sunset time to watch the fishing boats with their high prows come sailing back to the harbor each evening. the sunsets we saw in cadiz were flaming pink and gold and red like those of the world on the other side of the atlantic; also we saw a sunrise exquisite as a dream. it was here the ancients first met the suggestive wonder of the open ocean, and their philosophers pondered over the phenomenon of the tides. they thought that subterranean animals or winds sucked them in; and the sun, they said, when it had sunk in the western ocean, returned to the east by subterranean passages,--guesses about as wise as some that we are making to-day on phenomena of the soul. i do not know if it was just chance good fortune, but cadiz will always be an exhilarating memory. its air was so bracing, balmy yet full of vitality. the moral atmosphere seemed joyous and contented; a hurdy-gurdy would strike up below in the street with the bang of a tambourine, and from all the windows near, pennies would gayly rattle down. the people were courteous without second thought. a working man walked out of his way for ten minutes to direct us through the complicated streets, and then ran off with a laugh to avoid the fee; a shopman straightened eye-glasses and genuinely refused to be paid for so small a service; wonder of wonders when our luggage got carried in the wrong hotel diligence, the landlord refused to let us pay. three such episodes of disinterestedness in one morning give one a pleasant impression of a place; and this town has presented itself to other travelers as happily. byron, to whom this "renowned romantic land" as he called her, was eminently sympathetic, wrote to his mother, in , "cadiz, sweet cadiz! it is the first spot in the creation. the beauty of its streets and mansions are only excelled by the loveliness of its inhabitants, the finest women in spain." cadiz is enough of a place, with a bishopric and a garrison, to have the air of a capital; we noticed many men of the best hidalgo type, like those who stand behind spínola in the "surrender of breda." in the park was an outdoor theater; children played _diavolo_; and nice little spanish girls walked up and down with their english governesses. one could write or sew outdoors without exciting a glance of surprise. we used to spend hours under the palm trees of the _alameda_ sewing and reading and watching the groups about us, for in spite of its being mid-winter, the air was warm enough for spending the day out-of-doors. cleanliness and godliness: cadiz can boast of excellent public institutions. the new hospital that faces the atlantic breezes, and where only a fraction of a franc is paid daily, could well be envied by the rich of new world cities. its poor house is noted, and it has a host of minor charities; a _casa de viudas_ for widows, a _casa de hermanos_, a _casa de locos_ for the insane, tended, as are the others, by alert, willing nuns. it is a public-spirited little city, with a school of music and art, an _instituto_ whose physical laboratory is the best in spain, two public libraries, for that of the bishop is also open free to the people. the tourist sights here are soon seen; the capuchin church where murillo painted his last picture, and where he fell from the scaffold, soon after dying in seville from the accident. there are two cathedrals, one so sacked by english bucaneers that there is little to be seen, and the other a quite dreadful eighteenth century affair. the dull _museo_ has some good modern works, a bishop's head in profile by garcía y ramos that is first rate art; and there is a triptych by a very early painter, gallegos, the spanish primitive, which to my mind is more religious than the murillos and the zurbarans. it is a _pietà_, and the eyes of the mourners are naïvely red from weeping, like francia's _pietàs_ in parma. almost impregnable walls and moats shut off the isthmus that leads to the mainland, and their strength explains how cadiz could have defied the french for two years during the war of liberation, without suffering the horrors of the gerona siege. the blockade began in , soon after the heroic _dos de mayo_ in madrid. quintana's poem rang like a trumpet call over the land: "_¡antes la muerte que consentir jamás ningún tirano!_" no idle boast! spain was celebrating the centenary of the second of may during our visit, and the scenes were moving and patriotic. you realized lord peterborough's remark, that this was an unconquerable land if her people resisted the invader. statues and tablets for the war heroes were unveiled, and songs and marches composed for the anniversary. the artillery officers organized a splendid parade of children that marched under the arch of montleón, where ruiz, and velarde, and daoiz fought, and there the king, holding the baby prince of asturias in his arms, showed him how to kiss his country's flag. memorial mass was said in the street outside the house where velarde died, and toward evening one of the madrid parishes marched out, its priests leading, to the cemetery where the _dos de mayo_ victims were buried, and deposited wreaths in patriotic reverence. cadiz' old church, st. philip neri, is where the permanent endurance of the first outburst of patriotism in was made possible. here the cortes met again after three hundred years' suppression under the hapsburgs and bourbons, here they abolished the inquisition, and here they drew up the constitution of , which was to be tossed backward and forward during the next half century of disorders, to emerge finally with victory. an eloquent priest was the first speaker to open the historic meeting, and as he laid down the program, the sovereignty of the nation to lie in the cortes, and the king to exist for the people, not the people for the king as heretofore, spain again had her foot on the ladder of progress. no wonder that the national military air of spain is the _marcha de cádiz_. the clean, smokeless, plucky little city has right to a proud stand out in the atlantic. her age-long enemy, the ocean, had trained her well to strike a first blow for freedom. a few modern novels "don quixote is not, as montesquieu pretended, the only good spanish book, which in reaction against the national spirit, ridiculed the others. it is rather the epitome of our national spirit, war-like and religious, full of sane realism and none the less enthusiastic for all that is great and beautiful."--don juan valera. it was the german philosopher hegel who called the "romancero del cid" the most nobly beautiful poem, ideal and real at the same time, that the epic muse had inspired since homer. _ideal and real at the same time_, herein lies the first characteristic of spanish literature, of to-day as well as of the past. no keener realistic pictures of a nation were ever drawn than in "quixote," yet no book was ever more idealistic; and the path plowed so deeply by cervantes, has been followed by the modern novelists of spain. their feet are well planted on the ground, but they do not think it necessary to prove they walk the earth by wallowing in its mud. these modern spanish romances tell of the passions and sorrows of virile men and women, and at the same time they can boast that they are free from the moral evil so rampart in french novels. "quixote" is not exactly a prude's book, yet the "jeune fille" can read it unharmed and cervantes has served in this point as a standard.[ ] [illustration: st. francis of assisi a wood-carving by carmona, museum of león] few realize the delightful field of modern fiction that lies ready to be explored once enough spanish has been mastered for reading. after three months' study only we found we could take up and enjoy "don quixote," for contrary to the popular idea, its language is no more archaic than is the english of hamlet or henry iv; a great genius fixes the tongue in which he writes. the best of the novelists of this last half century, when the revival came about, are valera and pereda. some would make a triology by placing pérez galdós side by side with them. for instance the historian altamira, being in sympathy with the frankly revolutionary theories which galdós advocates, calls him the first, the balzac of spain, but the balzac of a people is never against the traditions of his race as galdós often is. "_toda comparación es odiosa_" the dear don warns us. personally i give the first place to valera and pereda, in whose work is found the note of literature; pereda the strength of the northern mountains, valera the allurement of the south. happily for their permanence and their value as human documents, the spanish writers are local. each describes his own province, his own _paisanos_. doña emilia pardo bazán paints her galicia; alacón his andalusia; valdés and pérez galdós are more cosmopolitan and i should say lose by it; blasco ibáñez writes of valencia, leopoldo alas has vivified the asturias. the revival of the _novela de costumbres_, which suits the spanish temperament, just as the romantic or fantastic tale suits the german, may be said to have been started by that talented sevillian authoress who wrote under the name of fernán caballero. she had not the gift of a good style, and most of her books are already of the past, but in "la gaviota," published in , her passionate love for spain and its ways has made a novel that is likely to endure. the tale tells of many old customs: how on the night of november d, the brotherhood of the rosary of the dawn rises to pray for the souls in purgatory, how one of the sodality goes from house to house to rouse the others, striking a bell and singing: "i am at your door with a bell; i do not call you; it does not call you; 't is your mother, 't is your father who call you, and they beg you to pray for them to god." and each member rises and follows the fraternity. a land does not lose that has such customs among its peasantry, that weaves in its religious belief with the inextricable souvenirs of home and childhood. a spanish child is brought up on songs of the passion and the virgin as naturally as we on mother goose. when he sees a chimney-sweep he exclaims "_el rey melchor!_" for the visit of the three kings of the east is real to him. he knows the owl was present at the crucifixion, whence his terror-stricken cry of "_crux! crux!_" that the kindly swallows relieved the saviour of the thorns, and the gold-finches of the three agonizing nails: "en el monte calvario en el monte calvario las golondrinas los jilgueritos le quitaron á cristo le quitaron á cristo las cinco espinas. los tres clavitos." the serpent according to spanish lore, went proudly erect after his success with eve, until down in egypt one day, he tried to bite the little infant jesus, whereupon st. joseph indignantly rebuked him and ordered him never to rise again. the rosemary is loved and given away as presents because when formerly a common plant, once the blessed virgin hung out on it to dry the clothes of her divine infant, and it became forever green and fragrant. the children at play sing these legends and folk-songs; on christmas eve they dance their "alegría! alegría! alegría!" a suggestive young writer of granada, angel ganivet, says that in spain christian philosophy did not remain hidden in books, but worked its way into the very life of the people, where it is found in the popular songs and customs: "_nuestra_ 'summa' _teológica y filosófica está en nuestro 'romancero_.'" fernán caballero started the revival of the novel and its flowering soon followed. don juan valera, though always interested in literature, had been prevented by his active life from himself writing till middle age. when in "pepita jiménez" appeared, it took his countrymen by storm, and this first novel, written by chance, was soon followed by others; a true creative artist had tardily discovered his genius. i cannot speak of don juan valera without an admiration which to those who do not know his works may seem extreme. from his books his personality stands out as clearly as that of cervantes, equable, high-minded, with that mellow wisdom which has gleaned the best from a life full of opportunities. in his "discursos academicos," two volumes that make enchanting reading--enchanting and academical do not often go together--he disclaims the title of thinker, yet he was a profound observer. his satire is of that kindly quality that leaves no sting. he has charm, that salt of the writer; he is never exaggerated nor embittered. this quality of amenity he shares too with his master, whom he can write of with an absolute comprehension just as cervantes himself could make a quixote because he was akin. it was a happy chance that the last words of the modern novelist (over eighty and blind, yet alert in mental interests) should have been the unfinished paper for the royal academy, to celebrate in the three hundredth anniversary of "don quixote." his spanish blood let valera understand the heights of mysticism, skeptic though he was by force of circumstances; he could write with enthusiasm of st. teresa. on woman he held advanced ideas, he advocated her highest education, especially the cultivation of letters, for he said that if man alone wrote half the knowledge of the human soul would be lost; civilizations where women are not given education and knowledge never arrive at their full flowering; it is as if the collective soul of the nation had clipped one of its wings. his own culture was an all-round one. he had the intimate knowledge that residence in foreign lands gives: english thought, german, italian, austrian, american north and south, the orient and its religions, in every country his literary interests had been alert. thus he had a curiously minute knowledge of the north american poets. of his own race essentially, he yet was cosmopolitan in the higher meaning of the word. all that went to make up dislike and division between nations he deplored as ignorance of man's higher destiny of brotherhood. it is not hard to read between the lines sometimes of his sensitive shrinking in his travels under the uncomprehending criticism of his native land; the world, especially the english-speaking world, has but a veiled contempt for things spanish. he has righted his country in his books without a touch of aggressive impatience, by simply describing things as they are. valera has set his romances in the andalusia he knew best. he was born at cabra in the province of cordova in , the son of a naval officer and the marquesa de paniega. he received the best of educations and when twenty-two accompanied the spanish ambassador, the poet-duke de rivas to naples. then followed half a life-time of diplomatic posts: lisbon, rio de janeiro, dresden, st. petersburg, as minister plenipotentiary to washington in and later to brussels, finally as ambassador to vienna. he was also a member of the cortes, a councilor of state, and was one of the embassy sent to florence to offer the crown to amadeus i. during the two years of the republic he retired, but returned to active life on the advent of alfonso xii. although a man of the world valera was a born artist. only in his first romance did he show the hand of the novice. his literary style is a simple and limpid medium that leaves behind unfading pictures of country and town; he has done what balzac calls adding new beings _à l'état civil_. "pepita jiménez" came out in , "doña luz" in , two vignettes of andalusian women immortalizing two very different types; pepita of grace, passion, charm, compact, of the very heart of femininity, adorable despite her failings, achieving her own happiness against all odds; doña luz, idealistic, dignified in mind and manner, of the type of a vittoria colonna, proudly bearing the heart-outrage fate sent her, since her soul, for her the essential, had found its mystic way out. i do not think that in any fiction there is a more subtly given relationship than that of this noble creature luz and the dominican missionary from the philippines, padre enrique, scholar and dumb poet. what with a zola had been revolting, with valera is humanly heart-breaking and spiritually ennobling, it could shock no piety; only a man of elevated character and the most sensitive discernment could so touch on undefined emotions. the friendship of doña luz and the doctor's captivating daughter is a warm-hearted relationship of two young and pretty women declared impossible by many novelists. this tale of beautiful and tragic sincerity had been preceded by another, also set in one of the smaller andalusian towns, and written with the lightness of manner and seriousness of matter that show the master hand: "el comendador mendoza," i cannot help feeling veils much of the author's own self. these stories show the soundness of the simple people. swift marriages are looked on with disapproval; how, they ask, can esteem or true knowledge of character be gained in a few months.[ ] so in spain the opportunities allowed the _novios_, the young people who choose each other from mutual attraction, are unheard of in france or italy. high-born or lowly, a spanish girl can savor the romance of life, without disrepute, by talking at the _reja_ during the midnight hours; before marriage she is allowed a freedom of speech, a _sal_, a self-development, denied her sisters in other latin countries. it is not possible to touch on all of valera's stories, for his vein once discovered, proved a rich one. his longest novel has a poorly-chosen name, "las ilusiones del doctor faustino" and is not very well constructed, not enough is eliminated for art; but always there is the charm of the south, the midnight talking at the _reja_--those happy _novios_ of spain!--the drowsiness of the noontime siesta, the vivacity of the evening _tertulia_, that innocent way of diverting themselves every night from nine to twelve, the same group of friends meeting year after year. constantly, as i read spanish novels, i say a people that get so much out of so little are a lovable people, wholesome and of vigorous promise. it was indeed with very different eyes that i looked out on the distant towns as we passed in the train, they were peopled now with living people, a pepita, a high-minded luz, a philosophic don fresco, a kindly doña araceli, i felt that i was not quite a stranger here, now that don juan valera had lifted from me the curtain of ignorance and prejudice that hides the everyday life of spain. the same year that saw the appearance of "pepita jiménez" brought to light another tale that will last as long, it does not seem too much to say, as the "quixote" itself. in "el sombrero de tres picos," alacón has achieved a masterpiece. it is a slight tale of a few hundred pages, in the genre style, a picture of the old régime before the french invasion of broke down the chinese wall of the pyrenees. no description can do justice to its crisp, sparkling charm, to frasquita, beautiful as a goddess, eve herself, with a laugh like the _repique de sábado de gloria_; to her ugly, ironical, adorably malicious and sympathetic husband lucas, the vibrant note of whose voice won all hearts, to whom his frasquita was _más bueno que el pan_. lucas and his wife are shakespearean creations. then there is that pompous vanity, the corregidor, don eugenio de zúñigo y ponce de león, in his red cape, gold shoe buckles, and hat of three peaks. what a scene is that of the bishop's visit to the miller's garden! and in what country but democratic spain would a bishop stroll out with canons and grandees to while away a friendly hour with a miller? inimitable tale, spanish to the core, it is this that make a nation's glory, a "don quixote," a "sotileza," a "doña luz," a "sombrero de tres picos." don pedro antonio de alacón belonged, like valera, to an old family of andalusia, but not in the elder novelist's fortunate circumstances; one of ten sons, he had more or less to place himself in life. he was born in gaudix in ; studied law at the university of granada; and naturally gravitated toward madrid, the center of political and literary interests. he flung himself headlong into the republican anti-clerical ideas of that troubled time, but in later life his theories toned down so that he ended as a believer and a liberal conservative. throughout a long political career alacón kept his honor unstained; although often with friends in power, it was only after twenty-one years of politics that he accepted a post, on the advent of alfonso xii, whose return he had advocated long before it came about. he had begun writing when very young, thus "el clavo," a powerful sketch, was done when barely twenty. like many of spain's authors, he turned soldier when the call came, and served in the campaign in africa of which he has left a vivid chronicle, "diario de un testigo de la guerra en africa." "el sombrero" was followed by "el escándalo," a novel widely discussed in spain. the story opens strongly, but it scatters toward the end; alacón is better in the tale than in sustained work. he can snap his fingers at our criticism, his corregidor and his molinera have made him one of the immortals. to another modern novelist, to pérez galdós, i feel i am not fair, but i find so much of his work antipathetic that, as he has not a good style and often offends good taste, i cannot force a liking. brunetière speaks of the intolerance of the naturalist school of novelists, the intolerance of the free-thinker. those who advocate the extreme republican, anti-clerical theories in spain have this intolerance to a marked degree. pérez galdós is so biassed that he distorts his characters from their natural evolution by making them voice his own ideas. the "roman à thèse" may win a greater fame for the first hour, but it is sure to pass with the changing questions of the time. the much-praised "doña perfecta" struck me as absurdly untrue to human nature. the heroine is presented as a not uncommon type of religious development, naturally where there is intense religious feeling there is a bigot here and there, but this lady perfection is not a consistent human being, but a monster. while anxious for her nephew to leave she yet urges him to stay, no reason why; she could easily have rid herself of him yet she brings about his death. her character of the beginning does not match with her character of the end (the novelist offends several times in this way). the thin-visaged, oily priest-villain gives an aside over the footlights: "i have tried tricks, but there is no sin in tricks. my conscience is clear": evidently old-fashioned melodramatics are not yet extinct. it is quite impossible for a well-bred spaniard to have insulted his kind hosts, as does pepe, by telling them crudely that their christian belief is a fable as past as paganism, "all the absurdities, falsities, illusions, dreams, are over," to-day there is no more multiplication of bread and fishes, but the rule of industry and machines. i think most people will feel that the characters of this book can intrigue and murder and throw in realistic asides as much as they will, we do not hate them because they fail to convince us that they ever really existed. they are just mouthpieces for their author's theories. in another novel, "gloria," a beautiful passionate girl of sixteen is incapable of being the pedantic prig galdós makes her in the opening chapters. happily for the romance and for the weary reader, once the novelist warms to his story, religious discussions go to the wall and he presents a moving tragedy. would that he could have kept up to the level of parts of this novel, that which presents gloria's uncles, for instance, but he is very unequal. after scenes so true to life that they are a joy, he will indulge in the pseudo-giantesque of some of hugo's purple patches, and only high genius can take such liberties. thus in a tempest a church lamp falls; it breaks the glass of the urn in which lies the dead christ, it slaps st. joseph in the face, it knocks the sword from the hand of st. michael, and finishes its zig-zag career by crashing into a confessional. lamps of anti-clerics only seem to act in this all-round, satisfying way; realists, like pereda and valera, are incapable of such exaggeration. some critics hold "angel guerra" and "fortuna y jacinta" to be the best of galdós. his "episodios nacionales" are a series of novels on the events of the past century in spain. in spite of vivid scenes, they seemed to me long-winded and confusing; one must be spanish, they say, to appreciate them. benito pérez galdós was born in in the canary islands. he has been an artist, a lawyer, a politician, and a journalist; in twenty years he has produced forty-two volumes, a record which makes his inequalities easy to understand. personally he is a sincere and upright character. although an avowed free-thinker he sits in reverence at the feet of his fellow novelist, pereda, an ardent believer, and it was to be near him that he fixed his home in santander: "our master," he calls him, "a great poet in prose, the most classic and at the same time the greatest innovator of our writers." far below pérez galdós, who, if not the first, is a distinguished and talented novelist, is blasco ibáñez, of the same school of anti-clerics and extreme republicanism. his stories are vigorous, crude studies of valencia, that province which the proverb says is "a paradise inhabited by demons," and because so local, the books are valuable; personally i lay down such a tale as "flor de mayo" or "arroz y tartana" depressed and sick at heart. ibáñez lacks ideality and elevation of sentiment; he pictures ignoble lives in monotonous detail, all is labored description, for the characters never speak themselves, the author _describes_ their conversation. one sentence of sancho, one sentence of the don and you know who speaks! it is to this minor novelist that a recent french book, "les maîtres du roman espagnol contemporain," by a monsieur f. vézinet, devotes a fourth of its pages, while dismissing pereda contemptuously, and not even mentioning "sotileza," his great sea-masterpiece. under the guise of literary criticism, the french writer veils a polemic against religion: "for christians actually do find solace in a belief in a future life," is one of his remarks. on meeting in spanish fiction a dignified reserve in scenes of passion, this teacher of young men--he is professor in the lycée of lyons--supplies the pepper lacking by telling how a french naturalist would have described the same scenes. another spanish writer of the free-thinking school, but of good literary quality, is leopoldo alas, author of "la regenta," and a caustic, intelligent critic who under the name of _clarín_ did much to prick spain awake to intellectual interest. though born in zamora ( ) he so associated himself with oviedo, where he studied and later was professor in the university, that he may be called a son of the asturias. "la regenta" is a powerful psychological novel, set in oviedo, somewhat long drawn out, for the minute following of ana ozores in her downfall too closely approaches pathology. ana, who resembles a little her namesake of russia, (alas has treated the real issue with the same uncompromising morality as tolstoi) is a brilliant, lovable woman, capable of the highest, a girl who at sixteen can read st. augustine with emotion; but she is fatally doomed by the limitations of a woman's life in her station. the acute alas here puts his finger on a real evil in his country, the lack of wide interests for the women of the upper classes if no family duties are given them. they seem to have forgotten isabella's day when doña lucía de medrano lectured on the latin classics in the university of salamanca, and doña francesca de lebrija filled the chair of rhetoric in the university of alcalá, when the queen read her new testament in greek, and her youngest daughter, the unfortunate wife of henry viii, won the admiration of erasmus by her solid acquirements. to-day the idleness enforced by fashion leads often to morbid religiosity or to moral disaster. toward the end, "la regenta" like "el escándalo" flags, especially is the canon de pas a failure. such a man would have been either a great saint or a great sinner, never could he have steered the mean middle course he did. in this book, unlike the average romance, is much of the trail of the serpent of zola's school, more the result of a too warm partisanship of the french novelist than innate in alas. the talented padre coloma, author of "pequeñeces," may be called, like the professor of oviedo, a man of one novel. born in andalusia ( ), a literary protégé of fernán caballero, he led the life of a man of the world till about twenty-five, when a violent change of heart caused him to enter the jesuit order. there he has passed uneventful, useful years of study and teaching. his book, which is a harsh satire on the vices of the smart set of madrid, made an immediate sensation. i cannot say i find the padre coloma a great writer by any means, he is too unequal; whole chapters drag heavily. but some of his scenes deserve the highest praise, such as the presentation of the heroine currita albornoz, or that truly noble description of one of spain's proud usages, the twelve grandees of the first rank presenting themselves before their new monarch, the young alfonso xii, on his return in , a picture that rings with the heroic spirit of the past. we turn next to a novelist with so long a list of books to her credit that it is impossible to enumerate them, the señora emilia pardo bazán who has been called the most notable woman of letters in europe. her salon in madrid is one of the best known in the capital, but she has so deeply associated herself with her native province (born in coruña in ) that she is the boast of every gallego. mountain lands are noted for the loyalty they rouse in their sons, but few such enthusiasms equal that of doña emilia. she has told of the lonely hills, the chestnut forests, the never-failing streams of the norway of spain, and made alive the ancient usages, and the crabbed originality of the peasantry. "los pazos de ulloa" (_pazos_ is dialect for palace) and its sequel, "la madre naturaleza," have in them the very breath of outdoor life,--the last is an idyll in prose. she describes the untrained young _cura_ leaving santiago to step into the unhappy coil of events in the ruined manor house, his vain efforts to help the pathetic young wife and her brutalized husband. the tragedy is carried on to the second generation, and we see the two children growing up in solitude and desertion, roaming the countryside day and night, perucho, blue-eyed, handsome as a greek statue, the girl manolita slender and dark; then the heart-breaking misery of the end. work such as this is exquisite and sure to last. madam pardo bazán edits one of the best reviews in madrid, and she has written many stories that treat of life in the capital, but, like the novels of valdés, they might have been written elsewhere, in paris or st. petersburg. it is in the novels of her loved _paisanos_ she will live. english-speaking people probably know palacio valdés better than any other spanish writer, for his novels, of the regulation parisian type, have been repeatedly translated. i care not at all for the madrid novels, but sometimes in a dashing local romance he carries all before him: such is "la hermana de san sulpicio," _sal salada_, that untranslatable phrase of andalusia where sparkle and verve are considered as highly as beauty in women. the story is facile, witty, light both in manner and matter, full of laughter following swift on tears, like its sprightly chatterbox of a heroine, an alluring creature who is sincere underneath the sparkle. seville and the brilliant summer life of its patios, the sky raining stars, lovers talking all night at the _reja_ in the scented air,--no one would tell on an _enamorado_, the very men drinking in a tavern send out a glass to the patient lover to wish him good luck. the friendly equality of the different classes is shown again here, and other traits not so praiseworthy, such as the intensity of local antipathies, the andalusian's contempt for the gallego, the catalan's for the andalusian. a barcelona business man grumbles all day in seville: "a glass of cognac c. one day and c. the next in the same café. is that business?" two men from the northern mountains meet: "you too are from asturias?" asks one. "no, from galicia." "then you are not _mi paisano_," and the first turns away in disdain. while the mundain, easy stories of palacio valdés are translated and widely read, one of the first of spanish novelists is scarcely known outside his own country. don josé maría de pereda was born in and died in , the year following don juan valera's death. he is a true son of the _montaña_, the coast country round santander, whose picos de europa rise to a height of feet, and he has described his home with beautiful realism in some robust and primitive tales: "escenas montañesas; "el sabor de la tierruca"; "sotileza," called his best, a very strong picture of fisher folk; "de tal palo tal astillo," which, like galdós' "gloria," is greatly spoiled by being a "roman à thèse"; "peñas arriba," and many others. pereda is a champion against skepticism and the weakening luxury of cities: he is so partial to his _patria chica_ that he often abuses the patience of readers by his too free use of its dialect. with him, plot and action are of slight account, for his interest lies in the eternal human characters and in the countryside that molded them. a realist more exact than flaubert, he yet fulfills the prophecy of huysmans as to the best type of novel for the future: "the truth of the document, the precision of detail, the condensed, nervous language of realism must be kept, but it must be clarified with soul, and mystery must no longer be explained by _maladies of the senses_. the romance should divide itself into two parts, welded or interbound as they are in life, that of the soul and that of body, and it should treat of their reaction, of their conflicts, of their mutual understandings." m. rené bazin has described a visit to pereda at polanco, his beautiful estate near santander, where he led a life of cultured retirement, proving the theory which his books preach, that one's native home is the best paradise. to the french visitor, with his nation's swiftness to discern high distinction, it seemed as if it were quixote himself, the man who came forward to meet him, of the pure hidalgo type, long face and aquiline nose, with that noble gesture of the hand that said, "my house is yours." of pereda's books, my favorite is "peñas arriba," which does for the mountain folk what "sotileza" does for the coast life of the _montaña_. it was while writing this that there fell on him the heart-rending blow of his young son's suicide, and a cross and date long stood in the rough draft of the novel to mark the separation of the past from his saddened later life: only by force of will could he continue. much of himself shows in the tale, which would entice a parisian himself to live contentedly on a mountain side. there is a scene, the death of the squire of tablanca, which indeed proclaims a master hand. spain's best critic, don marcelino menéndez y pelayo (himself from santander, born ) writes of pereda: "for me and all born _de peñas al mar_, these books are felt before judged, they are something of our mountain land like the breezes of the coast, one loves the author as one does one's family." perhaps it is not fair to speak of a writer who is not a romancist, when good minor talents among the novelists have to be passed over, but i cannot resist ending with the name of this famous scholar, menéndez y pelayo,[ ] who may be said to be discovering spain to herself after her long discouragement. his books are on the history of philosophy and literature: "historía de las ideas estéticas en españa"; "horacio en españa," being graphic pages on the lyric poets; "crítica literaria"; "ciencia española," "calderón y su teatro," and others. faithful to the best traditions of his race, he is boldly asserting her past, her poets, her scientists, her mystics,--they have been ignored too long; he holds that the peoples of the _mediodía_ are the civilizing races par excellence. all the warring factions of spain agree that here is a man of stupendous talent. "every time i meet him, i find him with a new language. never have i met a student of such prodigious erudition," wrote the skeptic alas. menéndez y pelayo may be called a literary phenomenon. before twenty-five he had ransacked the libraries of spain, portugal, france, italy, and belgium, and was given a professorship in the university of madrid. to-day his reputation is european among scholars. his profound knowledge of greek, latin, and hebrew literatures, helps a swift, unerring sense to perceive the best. his work is not only that of a scholar, for it has in it the life-giving touch of imagination, which is wisdom, and makes a writer a classic. an anecdote that has the ring of the simplicity of a cervantes or a valera, the self-effacing of a luis de león, is told of the young scholar of twenty-two. when spending an evening with some celebrated men where wit and learning flowed fast and copious, he poured out quotations so erudite and spontaneous that in modest embarrassment he took a paper from his pocket as if quoting from it. at the end of the evening a friend seized on the magic bit of paper, to find it a washerwoman's bill. praise cannot hurt such a man. when a race can produce in a short fifty years a pereda, a valera, a menéndez y pelayo, have we the right to call it spent and out of the running? estremadura "i have always felt that the two most precious things in life are faith and love. as i grow older i think so more and more. ambition and achievement are out of the running; the disappointments are many and the prizes few, and by the time they are attained seem small. the whole thing is vanity and vexation of spirit without faith and love. i have come to see that cleverness, success, attainment, count for little; that goodness, 'character,' is the important factor in life." george j. romanes. literally worn out with the noise of seville's holy week, we took the night train, that chill, rainy good friday, and left the andalusian excitement behind. as carriages are forbidden in the city on both holy thursday and good friday, we had expected to walk to the station--they told us that the king, the year before, had walked to his train--but the regulation ceased at sunset on friday and we were able to drive. as usual we had the _reservado para señoras_ compartment to ourselves, and so exhausted were we that we slept heavily with only an occasional waking to look out on the cold hills we were crossing. there was a moon which hurrying black clouds obscured fitfully. under the somber sky the desolate hills seemed like the fantastic sepia drawing of a turner: swift unforgettable memories one carries away from night journeys in spain. we left the train at mérida, now a poor place with some few thousand inhabitants, but up to the fourth century a splendid roman city, the capital of lusitania. the castle built by romans, moors, knights of santiago, and bishops; the theater, the aqueduct, the bridge, the triumphal arch, and the baths show what it once was. we could not have visited this solitary province at a happier hour. field flowers made the countryside as beautiful for the moment as umbria or devonshire; the wheat fields, always so articulate and lovely, had their own charm even after the magnificent outburst of roses and orange blossoms a month earlier in seville. mérida is small,--frugal and neat, as are the larger number of spanish towns. as we explored it, the people greeted us with kindly "_vayan ustedes con dios_"; we had left behind the tourist-infested south with its insolent city loafers. it seemed too good to believe that we had come again among the grave, dignified spaniards of the north. in order not to miss the holy saturday services, i hastened to the cathedral. there was a cracked old organ and the singing was little better, but devout, heart-moving peasants rose and knelt, up and down, during the long flectamus genua! levate! ceremony of that day, and the bells burst into the riotous clamor they seem to achieve so individually all over spain. it may have been ungrateful, but it was without the slightest regret that i thought of the display going on at the same hour in seville. we had taken the trip into estremadura to see the roman remains, the best in the peninsula. the ruins are more fortunate in their setting here than in many places, for there are none of the bustling cafés nor electric cars of nîmes or verona. paestum is more poetic, baalbec a hundred times more grandiose, but mérida on a showery, sunshiny day in spring is an ideal spot for musing and rambling. in the city itself are some ancient remains, such as a temple of mars, and the fluted columns of a temple of diana built into a mediæval house, which, by the way, has a lovely plateresque window, but most of the ruins lie completely outside the present town. the amphitheatre, when we saw it, had a comfortable troop of goats asleep in the warm shelter of its oval, and the remarkable theatre, known as _las siete sillas_, from the seven divisions of its upper seats that crown it like a coronet, was gay with poppies and buttercups,--the national colors gleamed everywhere. swallows in cool, metallic, blue-black coats, dipped and swept in their swift, graceful way. looking out on the view which embraced mérida on one side and a line of rugged hills on the other, we lingered for hours in that theatre of the seven seats. children, like gentle fawns, one by one crept out from the town suburbs and gathered in a smiling, lovable circle round the strangers. we talked to them tranquilly, our map of their city seemed a fascinating wonder to them. they came and went smiling; now one returned to the town to fetch his mother, now a shy little girl laid an armful of poppies beside us, with no thought of pennies, but just out of primitive human kindliness. the dear don's age of gold seemed a reality. and a day before we had angrily scattered those diabolical little pests, the street children of seville! could these enchanting little people belong to the same race, and live only a hundred and fifty miles away? journeys in unfrequented parts of spain give one a truer picture than is possible for the hurried tourist on the beaten track; every time we turned aside into the unspoiled country we met the people and ways which cervantes has described. never were gentler human beings than those little girls of mérida, those young mothers, those big half-awkward lads, whose gazelle eyes would gaze at us inquiringly, then turn to look at the scene we so obviously admired, then back to us with pleasure at our appreciation of what they too held most beautiful. we are told that peasants get no æsthetic pleasure from landscape, but i am sure romantic roman ruins and perfect spring-time weather had much to do with giving those children faces of such pure outline. [illustration: _copyright, , by underwood & underwood_ a roadside scene in spain] perhaps later, when the sun scorches the first freshness, mérida may be a desolate enough spot; we probably knew her best hour, the lovely april of her prime. we were loath to tear ourselves away; we read to our interested audience accounts of their city's past, when emperors' armies marched along the roman road that led from cadiz north, and alert to catch the meaning, they listened with that vividness of the eye that shows the imagination is roused. then from the daily paper we read to them that in madrid on holy thursday, two days before, the king had washed the feet of a dozen poor men, kissed them in humility, then waited on them at table, assisted by the grandees of spain; that on good friday he had set free some criminals. when the bishop's words rang through the church: "señor, human laws condemn these men to death," don alfonso answered with moved voice: "i pardon them, and may god pardon me!" and somehow, alfonso xiii is not jarring or theatric among such ancient usages of spanish christianity. very modern with his automobile, his polo, his careless ease, this charming king is one with his people in a radical sympathy with ways that symbolize soul and heart emotions. mérida has a bridge built by the emperor trajan. and it has ruins of a very stately aqueduct standing in wheat and poppy fields. this is built of stone and brick ranged in regular lines, and though only about a hundred feet high, is truly majestic, the entrancing touch being given by the hundreds of storks who have built nests on the top of the arches. some of our little friends had accompanied us through the fields to the aqueduct, and when we took a final ramble through the town, many were the smiling greetings, "_buenas tardes_." mérida is too small to have visitors pass a day there without making friends among its courteous people. we took an evening train on to cáceres ten miles away, for its hotels sounded inviting; and a second happy day, a holy and tranquil _domingo de resurrección_, gave us another memory of estremadura. cáceres is an unspoiled mediæval town climbing up a crag, just such a place as albrecht dürer loved to paint. it is very individual. from the plaza with its acacia trees we mounted the steep grass-grown streets, past one baronial mansion after another, with old escutcheoned doorways blazoned with plumed helmet and shield. in one of them, the house of the golfines, _los reyes católicos_ stayed on a visit. nowhere in the world save in spain could such a bit of the middle ages stand untouched and unnoticed, giving one that thrilling sensation of the traveler, the meeting unheralded with a very rare thing. the views caught between the granite mansions were lovely, for cáceres lies in the most cultivated district of the county. across the river rose another steep crag, turned into a way of calvary, with a picturesque church crowning it. the town has some excellent hotels, and we were well-fed and slept well for five pesetas a day in one of them. easter sunday morning i awoke to the sound of bleating animals, and looking out, there at every doorway was tied a tiny white or black lamb, with a bunch of soft greens to nibble on. it is the custom for each family to have this symbol of peace and innocence on the christian passover. all day long the children played with them, and toward evening when the toy-like legs trembled with fatigue, the little boys carried the lambs across their shoulders as shepherds do. in the midst of patriarchal ways, we kept congratulating ourselves that we had escaped the noisy city to the south, whose easter crowds were pouring in eager excitement to the first bull-fight of the year; it was the thought of the scene being enacted in seville that made us a little unjust to the city where so happy a winter had been passed. after mass in a gray old church on the hill, a procession formed to carry the _pasos_ of cáceres. each house was hung with the national colors, and on the balconies tall men of the hidalgo type and proud spanish ladies (madrid has not drained the provincial places of their leading families) knelt respectfully as the cortège passed. the statues were simple and poor, they were borne by pious peasants, and the silent crowd dropped to its knees on the pavement with a prayer. not a tourist was there, save two who felt so in sympathy with old spain that they disclaimed the title. to think that the gorgeous materialistic _pasos_ of seville had once begun in this way! easter afternoon made as pastoral a memory as the hours in mérida. we walked out with the people to the hill of the stations of the cross. life seemed a happy and normal thing when all, old and young, grandee and peasant, gave courteous greeting to those who passed; also it was a joy to hear pure castilian after the somewhat slovenly andalusian dialect. however, the week in estremadura was not to end on an idyllic note. we attempted an excursion beyond our strength and got well punished; the moral is, avoid all diligence journeys in spain, they are only for those who have the nerves of oxen. the real reason why we had come into this little-visited province was because that old emperor born in italica near seville, trajan, the bridge builder, had in the year a.d. put up one of his bridges at alcántara, a town now on the portuguese frontier. such a reason sounds slightly absurd, but many who read certain descriptions of the bridge must feel the same impulse to hunt it up. richard ford calls it one of the wonders of spain, "the work of men when there were giants on the earth," worth going five hundred miles out of one's way to see as it rises in lonely grandeur two hundred feet above the tagus river. so it no doubt appeared to the english traveler who stumbled on it eighty years ago, for it was then an unrestored, picturesque ruin, probably unused since one of its arches had been blown up by the english in the peninsula war. at any rate, it was such glowing words that enticed us into the wilderness of estremadura. it is strange in spain how little they know of districts that lie at no appreciable distance. at the inn at cáceres we asked for information about alcántara, and they could give none. the landlord himself came over to our table to look at us in astonishment. "but there is nothing to see there!" he assured us, too polite to ask the question that showed in his voice,--why were two ladies seeking a dismal spot such as alcántara? i positively blushed as i answered there was a bridge. "a bridge!" he beat a hasty retreat to his wife in the office, where their merriment burst out. the next day he told us, that having inquired, he found we could take the train to arroyo, an hour away, whence a diligence ran in a short time to alcántara. we left the train at arroyo, and on the other side of the station found the smallest diligence ever seen, so packed already with big countrymen that we could just force our unwilling selves in. when we were well started, we found to our consternation that we did not reach alcántara before ten hours, the distance being about thirty miles. _una legua una hora_ runs the saying, and this part of the world is ruled by its wise old proverbs. too late to turn back, we tried to make the best of it. when in each of the desolate villages long pauses were made, we got out to visit the market or church. in the first village the altar was dressed with coarsest but freshest linen. artistic pewter, unconscious of its charm, held the water and wine, and a score of sturdy young peasants came in from selling in the plaza outside, knelt on the very steps of the altar, then having made their serious preparation, each bashfully approached a white-haired priest who sat there all market day in readiness to hear confessions. the dismallest corner of spain has compensations. the first ten miles of the journey reminded me of new england, with its stone walls and semi-cultivated land. the next ten miles were indeed the proverbial desolation of estremadura; hardly an inhabitant was to be found on those bleak hills. we had stumbled on one of the three days of the yearly fair of brozas, so we passed flocks of sheep, cattle with a royal spread of horns, and dozens of the nervous andalusian horses. even automobiles went by, and one portuguese noble drove abreast three truly glorious cream-white mules. seeing them, one could understand how a mule here can cost more than a horse. the fair was held in meadows outside the town, and it looked so animated that we should have liked to stop, but no time was given us. a mile outside brozas we found we had to change from the tiny diligence, a primitive enough way of travel, and to continue the remaining miles to alcántara in the mail cart, which consisted of a board laid across two wheels, and that one seat had to be shared with the driver. fuming did no good, not another vehicle would take us. the cold wind howled across the treeless upland, our umbrellas could not break its biting force, and we were far too thinly clad from the warm seville winter; i could feel the chill seize on me that was to lead to a month's bad illness. the final touch was when the young scamp who drove the mail cart found it impossible to forego his eternal cigarette, which, despite remonstrance, he smoked continuously. that evening (we had left cáceres in the pitch dark at a.m.) we were set down at an inn whose spacious rooms and staircase told of former prosperity, but so shrunken was its hospitality that it could offer nothing fit to eat; yet, curiously enough, the old landlady made the best coffee i have tasted in europe. we kept her busy grinding and boiling it. alcántara is one of the most god-forsaken places in the world. pigs walk the ill-kept streets, and the vast buildings of the monkish-knights who formerly guarded the frontier pass are crumbling into such universal ruin that the lanes are a mass of broken rubbish. they are not romantic ruins, but depressing and almost terrifying. when we climbed down the precipitous hill that led to the bridge, our shoes were cut to pieces by the flinty stones. and the bridge, that lode-star of our pilgrimage, worth going five hundred miles to see! we thought with exasperation of the sixty we were wasting on it. no doubt trajan did build it eighteen centuries ago, but they have chipped off the beautiful gray toning of ages, filled in with mortar the boulders after they had stood unaided till our time, and made a modern boulevard from portugal. all solitude and sublimity are well eliminated from the scene. we sat on the benches of that banal little park and glared at the disappointing thing. the tagus, lope de vega's _hidalgo tajo_, was here a low stream, yellow with mud, flowing beneath bleak, unimposing hills. the bridge, in spite of its two hundred feet of height, did not appear as high as the aqueduct at mérida, an effect due probably to the arches standing on stilts. and it may sound blatant, but a memory of once passing under that superb thing the brooklyn bridge, at dawn, made this ancient monument suffer in comparison. the ludicrousness of our having traveled out of our way to see this sight struck us at last, and when we recalled the cáceres landlord's astonishment, and that of brazilian friends at seville who had tried to persuade us our estremadura plan was quite mad, we too burst into a hearty laugh, soon sobered at the prospect of the next day's weary return to arroyo. we climbed back to the inn and dined on _glasses_ of coffee. the following morning, after some more glasses of our only modus vivendi, we explored the decayed town. in it is a pearl of architecture built by the benedictine knights in , the now ruined church of san benito, with lofty slender piers, one of the most gracefully proportioned of semi-renaissance things. truly was the transition from gothic to renaissance a most harmonious moment in spanish architecture. this interesting discovery could not do away with the fever and cold of the awful drive back to arroyo. such petty miseries are best passed over. more dead than alive, late the second night we reached again the comfortable hotel at cáceres, where we were glad to pause a few days to pick up strength to push on. our plans had been to go to trujillo, the birthplace of pizarro. it was estremadura that produced many of the rude, energetic _conquistadores_ of peru and mexico, and the province never has recovered from that drain on its population. just as the number of jewish and moorish exiles and the loss to their country's vitality has been exaggerated for partisan reasons, so there has been an underestimation of the more serious drain which spain suffered when hoards of sturdy adventurers set out for the new world. the emigration was untimely; it came a century too early. the country had just been brought from political chaos to law and order by isabella's great reign; but before the fruit of her planting could ripen (by peace and its natural sequence of settled trade) it was plucked from the bough. i have never been able to see that the expulsion of two hundred thousand jews, the execution of thirty-five thousand heretics, and the exile of under a million moriscoes, are sufficient causes to explain spain's decay. other countries of europe, prosperous to-day, suffered from evils quite as bad. why did segovia, with an "old christian" population independent of moorish banishment, have thirty-five thousand weavers of cloth in the beginning of the seventeenth century and but a few hundred in the next generation? a score of questions similar to this can be asked to which the hackneyed explanation of the inquisition and the expulsion of the moors gives no answer. the causes of spain's decay must be sought farther afield than in single acts of bad government which crippled the country for a time but were not irremediable. through emigration, just when with the ending of the seven hundred years' crusade the nation should have turned to peaceful industries, she lost her agriculturists and her possible traders. and following swift on this, for emigration does not permanently weaken a strong race, spain was bled of her best blood by charles v's senseless european wars. she profited nothing by them, in fact they lowered her to the position of a mere province in the empire. the treasure that poured in from the new world was poured out over europe, it merely passed through spain. american gold was a curse for her; it undermined the national character; the spirit of adventure, not of patient work, was fostered. the policy of the emperor was continued by his descendants, and for two hundred years more spain was at war. anæmia of the whole race followed: so true is it that the nation of fighters to-day runs the risk of being the nation of weaklings to-morrow. good government might have helped the ill, but charles v pursued in that line a policy as fatal as his continental wars. he tried to force on these subjects whom he never understood an iron autocratic rule, ruthlessly crushing their tenacious spirit of independence. the death of ximenez and the execution of the comuneros leaders may be said to mark the ending of the sensible old régime of self-centering her resources, exclusive and provincial perhaps, but it had been spain's salvation. to meet the expenses of ceaseless wars in europe, when the first influx of colonial gold ceased, the peninsula was heavily taxed: a fourteen per cent tariff on all commodities will soon kill trade. for the same reason, to pay for wars, the currency was debased under philip iii; and the crown held monopolies on spirits, tobacco, pottery, glass, cloth, and other necessities, a system always bad for commerce. the agrarian laws were neglected, too much land was in pasturage, which tends to lower the census, and too vast tracts were held by single nobles. the loss of population went on; in an epidemic carried off two hundred thousand people. the economic discouragement was aggravated by a host of minor reasons, such as the insecurity of property along the coast from african pirates; a too generous allowance of holidays; the prejudice against trading inherited from crusading ancestors; and there being no alien element--for this moor or jew would have served--to give the spur of competition which keeps a nation in health. hapsburg and bourbon misgovernment and wars blighted spain for three centuries. but to-day new life is stirring in her. she is returning to ximenez's wise rule of not scattering but of concentrating her powers. happily those unhealthy growths, the colonies, are lopped off at last: "passed into peace the heavy pride of spain. back to her castled hills and windy moors!" in the mountains, not far from trujillo, lay yuste, the solitary monastery to which retired that dominating figure of his age, charles v, who was so decidedly interesting as a man, but so pernicious as a ruler. when he came to this distant inheritance he could scarcely speak the castilian tongue; he did all in his power to stifle the indomitable character of the race,--and alas! he succeeded but too well in starting her downward course. yet the magical something in the soul of spain vanquished even him, as it had impermeated the conquering roman, the goth, the israelite, and the arab. with all europe from which to choose, charles came back voluntarily to the peninsula, to its most untamed province, to spend the last days of his jaded life. reading at home accounts of yuste, it had been easy to plan a trip there, and to guadalupe, the famous monastery which also lay among these hills; but one diligence drive can quench all further foolhardy adventuring. with a feeling that illness was threatening, and it was wiser to get away from this "extrema ora," we again took the local line to arroyo, and there gladly boarded the express that passed through from lisbon to madrid. aragon "o world thou chooseth not the better part! it is not wisdom to be only wise and on the inward vision close the eyes, but it is wisdom to believe the heart. columbus found a world, and had no chart save one that faith deciphered in the skies, to trust the soul's invincible surmise was all his science and his only art. our knowledge is a torch of smoky pine that lights the pathway but one step ahead across a void of mystery and dread. bid, then, the tender light of faith to shine, by which alone the mortal heart is led unto the thinking of the thought divine." george santayana. if it is one of the coveted sensations of a traveler to stumble unexpectedly on some rare spot that is overlooked and unheralded, as was our experience at cáceres, there is a second emotion that is close to it,--the return to a favorite picture gallery, especially if in the meantime one has gone further afield, has learned to know other schools, and adjusted ideas by comparison. a return to the prado can give this coveted sensation. the winter in the south had familiarized us with the spanish painters; murillo now seemed more than a sentimentalist, had he painted for different patrons he had been a decided realist; toledo had showed that el greco was to be taken seriously. no sooner were we back in madrid than i hurried off to the museum, and, looking neither to the right nor left, to give freshness to the impression, walked straight to the velasquez room. in the autumn the last look had been for the "surrender of breda," and to that unforgettable, soul-stirring picture i paid my first return homage. it impressed me even more powerfully than before. never was there a more sensitively-rendered expression of a high-minded soul than that of the marquis spínola[ ] as he bends to meet his enemy. it is intangible and supreme, only equalled by some of leonardo da vinci's expressions. for those who hold enshrined a height to which man can rise, the face of this italian general will ever be a stimulus; he would appeal to the english sense of honor, the chivalry of a nelson; the heart-history of such a man could be told only by a novelist of true distinction, such as feuillet; there is something in spínola's reserved tenderness that loti might seize in words. velasquez shows us a man of the world, but he has conveyed as only genius could how this warrior for _españa la heróica_ kept himself unspotted from the world, and this the painter could convey, because he himself was nobly idealistic, realist of the realists though he was. not only in her mystics and novelists but in her painters and sculptors, spain shows this union of the real with the ideal. hours in the velasquez room slip by unnoticed. the portrait of the sculptor montañés was of more interest now that we had seen his polychrome statues in seville, those especially memorable ones of st. ignatius loyola and st. francis borgia in the university church. the hidalgo heads by el greco, the flesh tints, alas, turned to a deathly green, called up professor domenech's words on the grave spanish gentlemen in their ruffs--"sad with the nostalgia for a higher world, the light in their eyes holds memories of a fairer age that will not return; images of the last warrior ascetics." this eccentric artist has in the prado a striking study of st. paul, an intensity in his face on the verge of fanaticism, a true israelite, such as only a semi-oriental like el greco could seize. another picture that struck me with even profounder admiration than before was titian's charles v on horseback. and again i studied long the portraits of the pale philip ii, of his dainty little daughters, his sisters, his most lovely mother, and that pathetic english wife of his. probably no northerner can see fairly both sides of philip's strange character, just as i suppose no spaniard can judge elizabeth tudor as does an englishman. nevertheless, there is a trait in philip that all can admire--his filial loyalty. we could have lingered in madrid for weeks just for this gallery, but we had to tear ourselves away. a journey south to murcia and valencia had been planned, but the necessity of passing a cold night on the train made us decide now against it. those two provinces, with navarre, are the gaps of our tour in spain: health and weather will change the firmest of plans. we left madrid for aragon, pausing in a couple of the castilian cities to the east. in the capital the parks had been bursting into leaf, but it was still chill winter outside on the plains. treeless and verdureless alcalá, the city of ximenez and birthplace of cervantes, looked far from inviting. when we left the train at guadalajara, the landscape was so depressing that its arab name, "river of stones," seemed dismally appropriate. again, as at segovia in the autumn, a wind _de todos los demonios_ was blowing over the land,--raging would be the more exact word. the town was melancholy, so was the weather, and we had a distressing personal experience. when the diligence set us down at the inn, we were told there was not a bed to be had that night in all guadalajara, for it was the election, and even the hotel corridors would be used; we would have to go on to sigüenza by the night train. the wind and the cold made the prospect a dismal one; early spring travel in northern spain is not a bed of roses. we went out to explore guadalajara and its chief lion, the mendoza palace, built by the mæcenas family of the peninsula whose history has been called the history of spain for four hundred years, so prominent were they as statesmen, clerics, and writers. the palace is in the mudéjar style, the exterior studded with projecting knobs; the inner courtyard is coarsely carved with lions and scrolls, capriciously extravagant and yet within bounds enough to be effective. the duke del infantado entertained francis i here, and surely the french king with memories of blois and the chaster styles which his race follows, must have examined with curiosity this very different architecture of his neighbor, the intense individuality of whose conceptions could almost silence criticism. the mendoza palace is now a school for the orphans of officers, and when the little nun, happy and fond of laughter as the cloistered usually are, showed us about, we saw pleasant circles of young girls sewing under the forgotten gorgeousness of the _artesonado_ ceilings. then at midnight, wind howling and rain pelting, we crossed the muddy square that lay between the sigüenza station and the town's most primitive inn. there they did the best they were able for us, but nothing could lessen the glacial damp of those linen sheets: the illness begun at alcántara went on increasing. with chattering teeth and beating our frozen hands together to put some sensation into them, we realized we were back again on the truncated mountain which is central spain, thousands of feet above the roses and oranges of seville. the following day was sunday, with a sacred concert of stringed instruments in the cathedral, a good gothic church, noticeably rich in sepulchers. in one chapel especially, that dedicated to st. thomas of canterbury by an english bishop who accompanied queen eleanor to spain, when you stand among the tombs of those warriors, bishops, and knights of santiago, you feel the thrill of the past. cardinal mendoza, "tertius rex," was at one time bishop of this cathedral, having for vicar-general the priest ximenez: don quixote's friend, the delightful _cura_, was "_hombre docto graduado en sigüenza_." [illustration: the cathedral of singÜenza] the chill, little city was far from stimulating; at another time it may appear differently, impressions are so dependent on weather and health. the peasants wrapped in their blankets had a beggarly aspect after the dandy _majo_ of andalusia. i daresay were seville three thousand feet above the sea, the bolero would be worn less jauntily. the cathedral visited, there was little to detain us, so we bade a ready farewell to glacial sheets and ice-crusted water pitchers to continue the route to aragon, west past medinaceli, where a roman arch stood boldly on the edge of its hill. the semi-royal family of cerda, dukes of medinaceli, has possessions all over the country: forests near avila, the _casa de pilatos_ in seville, lands near cordova, a castle at zafra, and vast tracts in catalonia. it descends from alfonso _el sabio_, whose eldest son, called _la cerda_, from a tuft of hair on his face, was married to a daughter of st. louis of france, and left two infant sons, who were dispossessed by their uncle, sancho _el bravo_. for generations they continued to put forward their claims on every fresh coronation. after entering aragon the climate grew warmer. we were descending gradually, and soon fruit trees in blossom, and vineyards, appeared among the broken, irregular hills. calatayud, birthplace of the roman poet martial, was extremely picturesque, with castle and steeples. the long hours of the journey were whiled away watching the sunday crowds in the stations, many of the men and women in the astonishingly original costume of the province. by the time we had reached saragossa we had descended to about five hundred feet altitude, and it was pleasantly warm. the capital of aragon is commonplace in appearance, flat, modern, and prosperous. the noisy electric cars and the bustling streets made it an abrupt change from the small castilian cities just left. as always, our first walk was to the cathedral--saragossa has two, and the chapter lives for six months in each alternately. the _seo_ is an ancient and beautiful structure, the _pilar_ is a tawdry, cold-hearted object, such as the eighteenth century knew how to produce, a mixture of the styles of herrera and churriguera. it is a pity that one of the most revered shrines in spain should be housed in such vulgarity. outside, seen from the bridge over the ebro, the many domes of different sizes, covered with glazed tiles of green, yellow, and white, are not bad, but within is a soul-distressing mass of plaster walls, and ceilings of sassoferrato-blue. the high altar, however, has a treasure, the celebrated alabaster _retablo_ of damián forment, one of the best of national sculptors, who worked between the gothic and renaissance periods, and who was helped to ease of expression by berruguete, lately returned from italy. the holy of holies of this new cathedral is, of course, the chapel of the _pilar_, and about it are always gathered devotional crowds. to a spaniard it is naturally a sacred spot, associated as it is with his earliest memories; there is not a hut in all aragon that has not an image of the _pilar_ madonna; but to the catholic of another land, who never heard of this cult till coming to spain, it is impossible to feel the same devotion, especially when it is surrounded with such bad taste. i tried to arouse imagination by recalling what the _pilar_ had meant for this city in its hours of danger, how during the siege of they kept up courage by exclaiming, "the holy _virgen del pilar_ is still with us!": one of the witticisms of the siege was: "la virgen del pilar dice, que no quiere ser francesa." just as in andalusia the chief ejaculation is "_ave maría purísima!_" and in the mountains of the north, "_nuestra señora de nieve!_" so in aragon, "_virgen mia del pilar!_" springs to the lips in time of joy or trouble. however, emotion cannot be summoned on command, and i left saragossa unmoved by her special shrine of devotion. had it been in the solemn old cathedral, sympathy had come more readily. the _seo_, like most spanish churches, is spoiled outside by restoration, but within it is not unworthy of the coronations and councils held there. ferdinand _el católico_ was baptized at its font; and near the altar is buried the heart of velasquez's handsome little don baltazar carlos, who died of the plague at seventeen. the church is high and square, like a hall; it is rich in mediæval tombs, moorish ceilings, pictures, and jewels. some truly glorious fourteenth century tapestries were still hanging in place after the easter festivals, on the day of our visit; and as a council was to be held in the church on the following day, a row of gold busts of saints, gothic relic holders, stood on the altar. the sacristy was a treasure house, from its floor of valencian tiles to its vestments heavy with real pearls. the enthusiasm of the priest who showed us the cathedral told of the personal pride most of his countrymen feel in the house of god; again, as at burgos, i felt that these people considered their churches as much their abode as their own simple homes, that one supplemented the other, and hence much of the contentment of their frugal lives.[ ] we were stupid enough to go hunting for the leaning tower of saragossa, not knowing that it had come down in , and the search led us through the narrow streets of the older town, where the mansions of dull, small bricks, as a rule, have been turned into stables and warehouses, like the former palaces of barcelona. outside the city, flat on the plain, stands what was once the moorish, later the christian, palace, the aljuferia, now serving as barracks, in which are embedded a few good remains, such as a small mosque and a noble hall of isabella's time, with that suggestive date, ,--granada and america. on our first arrival at the hotel in saragossa, they had informed us we could stay but a few days, as the centenary celebration of may d, , was approaching, and every hotel room was engaged. the town so hum-drum to-day has a stirring history to look back on. in modern times she has stood a siege as heroic as any in the netherlands, but spain has lacked a motley to make her popular. i can only repeat, justice has never been done to the outburst of patriotism which began in madrid with the _dos de mayo_, . murat's savage slaughter on that may day made the whole of spain rise in almost simultaneous defense, to the astonishment and admiration of europe. saragossa chose for her leader against the invader the young count palafox, assisted by the priest santiago sas, and by tío jorge ("uncle george") with two peasant lieutenants. the french closed in round the city, but the victory of bailén in the south raised this first siege. then in december of four french marshals with twenty thousand men again surrounded saragossa, and it must not be overlooked that, built on the plain, she had slight natural means of defense. "war to the knife" was the historic answer of the town when called on to surrender, and the bones of over forty thousand citizens at the end of the siege bore testimony to the boast. to embarrass the enemy they cut down the olive plantations around the city, thus destroying with unselfish courage the revenue of a generation, for it takes some twenty years for the olive tree to bear fruit. they sacrificed all personal rights to private property by breaking down the partitions from house to house till every block was turned into a well-defended fortress. organized by the intelligent countess of burita, the women enrolled themselves in companies to serve in the hospitals and to carry food and ammunition to the fighters; a girl of the people, ajustina of aragon, whom byron immortalized as the maid of saragossa, worked the gun of an artillery-man through a fiery assault. ajustina lived for fifty years after her famous day, always showing the same vigorous equilibrium of character; though ferdinand vii rewarded her with the commission of an officer, she seldom made use of the uniform of her rank nor let adulation change the humble course of her life. the siege lasted up to the end of february. in the beginning of that month the daily deaths were five hundred, the living were not able to bury the dead, and a pest soon bred; the atmosphere was such that the slightest wound gangrened. sir john carr, who visited spain the year of the siege, heard detailed accounts from officers who had taken part in it: "the smoke of gunpowder kept the city in twilight darkness, horribly illumined by the fire that issued from the cannon of the enemy. in the intervals which succeeded these discharges, women and children were beheld in the street writhing in the agonies of death, yet scarcely a sigh or moan was heard. priests were seen, as they were rushing to meet the foe, to kneel by the side of the dying, and dropping their sabers, to take the cross from their bosoms and administer the consolations of their religion, during which they exhibited the same calmness usually displayed in the chambers of sickness." even after the french had forced an entrance into the city, there continued for weeks a room to room struggle: "each house has to be taken separately," marshall lannes wrote to napoleon, "it is a war that horrifies." "at length the city demolished, the inhabitants worn out by disease, fighting and famine, the besieged were obliged with broken hearts to surrender, february , , after having covered themselves with glory during one of the most memorable sieges in the annals of war, which lasted sixty-three days." (_travels in spain_, sir john carr k.c.). truly can the _testarudo aragonés_ of iberian blood boast of the title of his capital, _siempre heróica_! the aragonese is manly, enduring, and stubborn; the special laws of this independent province, the _fueros_, are worth close study from those interested in the gradual steps of man's self-government; under an ostensible monarchy they gave republican institutions. this is an address to the king: "we, who count for as much as you and have more power than you, we elect you king in order that you may guard our privileges and liberties; and not otherwise." nice language for a hapsburg or a bourbon to hear! aragon was united early, by a royal marriage, to catalonia, and a few centuries later ferdinand's union with isabella bound both provinces to castile, ferdinand also conquering navarre; it was under the first of the bourbon kings, philip v, that aragon lost her treasured _fueros_. we saw nothing of the neighboring navarre, and i cannot say we saw much of sturdy aragon, since saragossa was the only stopping-place, but a long day on the train going south gave us a fair idea of its general character. and constantly through the day rose the remembrance that it was here in this kingdom happened the delightful duchess adventure. never has the scene been equaled,--that witty, high-bred lady and _hermano sancho_ of the adorable platitudes and proverbs--("_sesenta mil satanases te lleven á ti y á tus refranes_"! even the patient don exclaimed)--brother sancho quite unembarrassed--was he not a _cristiano viejo_?--stooping to kiss her dainty hand. the landscape of the province was rather desolate, though relieved from monotony by the snow-covered wall of the pyrenees that continued unbroken in the distance to our left. the spanish side of the great range of mountains is abrupt in comparison with the french slopes, which are gay with fashionable spas, and fertile with slow, winding rivers, such as the garonne. in spain the rivers descend with such rapidity that they pour away their life-giving waters in prodigal spring floods, and during the rest of the year the land suffers from drought; there is a saying here that it is easier to mix mortar with wine than with water. it happened that on our train was a band of young soldiers returning to their homes after their military service, as irrepressible as escaped young colts. such songs and merriment! such family scenes at each station! mothers and little sisters, blushing cousins and neighbors had flocked down from the villages on the pyrenees slopes to welcome them. a touch of nature makes the world akin; we found ourselves waving, too, as the train drew away, leaving the returned lad in the midst of his rejoicing family. at the fortress-crowned town of monzón we saw the last of our happy fellow travelers. there a young soldier led his comrades to be presented to a majestic old man with a plaid shawl flung over his shoulder like a toga, and the son's expression of pride in the noble patriarch was a thing not soon forgotten. in spain few journeys lack a primary human interest, something to give food to heart or soul. minor cities of catalonia romanesque is the trappist of architecture, ... on its knees in the dust, singing with lowered head in a plaintive voice the psalms of penitence.... this mystic romanesque suggests the idea of a robust faith, a manly patience, a piety as secure as its walls. it is the true architecture of the cloister.... there is fear of sin in these massive vaults and fear of a god whose rigours never slackened till the coming of the son. gothic on the contrary is less fearful, the lowered eyes are lifted, the sepulchral voices grow angelic.... romanesque allegorizes the old testament, and gothic the new.--j.-k. huysmans. in his valuable book on spanish churches, street is justly enthusiastic over the form that gothic architecture took in the province of catalonia, and especially over the now unused cathedral of lérida, which he calls the finest and purest early-pointed church in europe. it was such praise that induced us to stop over in the dull, little city, crowned by the hill where the ancient cathedral stands. its history of ten sieges, and velasquez's "philip iv on horseback entering lérida in triumph," somehow had suggested a grandiose impression that is far from lived up to by the modern town. a pause of three hours between trains seemed to give ample time to see the cathedral, but the scramble into which the visit to lérida degenerated was proof that no limited period is ample time in this country of leisurely ease. could we have gone direct to the citadel, all had been well, but as the hill is now a fort, with the old church turned into a dormitory for soldiers, much red tape was required to visit it. we hurried along the interminable crowded street that stretches beside the river, asking right and left for the office of the military governor. wrongly directed, we burst into the somnolent quarters of the city authorities and made our request for a permit. with a slow dignity that no flurried haste could move, the provincial governor sent us to the private house of the military big-wig. there a precious half hour went by in the drawing-room with his handsome wife, who did not seem sorry to break the monotony of her exile by the strangers' visit. in came the genial governor waving the permit backward and forward for the ink to dry, and another half hour of social chatting went by, the very ink of spain being gifted with dignified slowness. a soldier was put at our disposal to serve as guide, a young man as tranquil as his superior, for we climbed the hill at a snail's pace, and once inside the fort were stopped here and there by sentries who, letter by letter, it seemed to our impatience, spelled out the written paper. when finally we stood before the cathedral, the soldier escort told us we must pause there while he went to seek the commandant of the fort. precious minute after minute went by, till at last, the clock telling us we must soon be starting back to the station, we took the bull by the horns and entered the church without further delay. a strange spectacle presented itself. in every direction were ranged cots, clothes hung about and washing troughs added to the confusion. the beautiful old church had been floored half way up its piers and down these improvised rooms we could see other rows of narrow beds. it was so cluttered that i could hardly get oriented; where was the nave? which were the transepts? we could see that the capitols of the pillars were grandly carved, that here was the beautiful clearness of form, the noble solidity of early gothic, but the confusion of the soldiers' dormitory made it impossible to study the church with any satisfaction. except for the architect, lérida to-day hardly repays a visit. the soldiers stood round in astonishment at such unexpected visitors, so we were soon glad to confine our examination to the exterior portals and the tower. just as we were on the point of leaving, the commandant appeared, shook us warmly by the hand and prepared to take us over the fort. like the military governor and his wife, he beamed with the interest of something new; the cordiality of all was perfect, but nothing, nothing, could hurry them. we explained that we had come to see the church alone, that our time unfortunately was limited, and we must now leave to catch the train for poblet. he took a disappointed and bewildered farewell; up on his citadel in the land of pause and leisure such new-world notions of speed were disconcerting. with a hasty look at the noblest early-pointed church in europe, a grateful handshake to the colonel, we hurried down the precipitous hill and jumped on the train just as it was moving out, our valises being flung in to us desperately at the final moment. soon the broken, fertile hills of the province of catalonia closed in around us, and the country grew so charming that we were glad to have planned to pass a night near poblet. from the train we saw the prominent brown mass of the monastery buildings, but, of course, we ran on some miles before stopping in a station. there we found a catalan cart, two-wheeled with a barrel vaulted awning, and drove to the primitive hotel at espluga. the landlord offered us his cart to drive out to poblet, two miles away, but the bumps and ruts of the road from the station made us prefer to walk. the ill-kept roads and the not wholly cultivated fields told clearly that the industrial monks were no longer masters of the valley. poblet stood for monastic pride, only nobles entered as monks, the mitered abbot was a count-palatine and ruled the peasantry as their feudal lord; the revenues were enormous, but as benedictines are invariably cultivated men, they were spent on ancient manuscripts, and in the ceaseless energy of building. when the mob came from the neighboring towns in to sack the convent, they shattered the very treasure they sought. in their blind ignorance they did not know that chiseled alabaster, wrought doors and windows, and carven cloisters, represented the hidden gold they were seeking. this uprising in spain against the monasteries, the "_pecado de sangre_," was a political more than a religious affair; in the first carlist war, the countryside here was constitutional, while the monks of poblet were firm for the pretender don carlos. the havoc the mob wrought is heart-rending; and yet though empty and partly destroyed, poblet is still one of the finest things in the peninsula. on our way out to it we happened to take a wrong turning, which fortunately led us to encircle the walled-in mass of buildings before entering, and gave us some idea of their great extent. it was a veritable town; there were hospices for visitors, hospitals, a king's palace, an abbot's palace, a village of workshops for the artisans, since in every age the monks had been builders. every style was represented, each stage of romanesque and gothic; poblet is indeed to-day one of the best places in europe to study architecture, and the guardian told us that students from every country flock here in the summer time. artists too are a familiar sight sketching the beautiful vistas, the arched library, the pillared _sala capitular_ where effigies of the abbots lie so haughtily that one can almost understand the fury of the rabble, the imposing length and strength of the novices' dormitory where swallows now flit, the pure early gothic of king martin's palace, the odd little _glorieta_ of the chief cloister. pleasant quarters can be found in the caretaker's house, which is more convenient than living at espluga down the valley. we wandered for hours through courtyards and cloisters that show the subtly simple proportions of catalan art. the church of the monastery was built during that rare moment when romanesque turned to pointed work; it is very narrow and severe and impressive. the once superb alabaster _retablo_ is mutilated, and the tombs of the aragonese kings are scattered. the bones of jaime _el conquistador_ are now in tarragona cathedral. poblet served as the escorial of the rulers of aragon and catalonia, and is many times more worth visiting than philip ii's rigid pile in castile. i strongly urge everyone who goes to spain to turn aside from the beaten path to see this unrivaled cistercian monastery, which it is no exaggeration to say is one of the most artistic groups of buildings in the world. the evening of our visit the sunset glorified the pretty rural valley whose brooks bounded merrily down the hillside. "laugh of the mountain, lyre of bird and tree," lope de vega calls the gurgling, clear waters. we took a long hour to loiter back to espluga, accompanied by a racy old character, sabina, and her tourist donkey. the peasants returning from cutting wood up in the mountains above us gave a new greeting, "_santas noches_," reminiscent, no doubt, of the former masters of the valley. then the following day we took the train south of tarragona, to the "little rome" that is the reputed birthplace of pontius pilate, of which martial sang, and where augustus cæsar wintered. the landscape was a delight, showing the most unrivaled cultivation of soil i have ever seen, flowering orchards, fields of wheat and poppies, the very vineyards that pliny has described; the sensation of the earth's lavish bounty, of the fecundity of the sun and the intoxication of growing things was overwhelming. and a week before we had been freezing in sigüenza! on the train was an amusing company. some dozen people came to one of the stations en route to escort an alert, keen-eyed little bishop, who mounted nimbly among us. everyone bent to kiss his episcopal ring, and even when some shrewd business men entered the carriage later, and saw that a bishop was its occupant, they too knelt to kiss his hand in salutation, republican catalans though they were. i could not take my eyes off the delightful little prelate, so happily unconscious of his purple satin skull cap with its st. patrick's green rosette on top, and his equally vivid green woolen gloves. then when we reached tarragona, down he stepped briskly, and instead of entering an episcopal carriage as we expected, he got into a public diligence and drove off like a true democratic spaniard. the mediterranean at tarragona was brilliantly, startlingly blue. as it burst on us in its sun dazzling wonder it seemed as if the bleak high table-land of the country behind was a nightmare of the imagination. surely a whole continent must separate such luxury and such aridness. we wandered about the white, glaring city, glad to bask in warm sun and drink in the salt air, happy too to be back again by the inland sea that has known the great nations of the earth, to be part again of the marvelous belt of ancient civilization that encircles its blue water. tarragona was surrounded by cyclopean walls, the huge boulders of rome below, and the smaller mediæval stones above. the blinding sun made the cathedral so dark that it was long before we could see our way about. it is solemn and very earnest, with a fortress-like apse, and with cloisters the most perfect in the country. the doorways and capitols are so curiously carved that they merit detail study. the roman urns, a moorish prayer niche, and so on, down through the centuries, showed again how clearly architecture in spain tells her history. the chief _retablo_ is of extreme beauty, with large statues and smaller scenes combined harmoniously; in it the restraint that distinguishes the catalan school is very apparent. on leaving tarragona, the railway followed the coast for some time, then to our disappointment branched inland to loop round to barcelona. when we realized that we could have taken the line that runs the whole way by the sea, we were annoyed at our mistake, though later we were grateful to it, for the inland route gave a noble view of montserrat, that astonishing serrated ridge of gray rock, a cragged comb of stone, geologically a puzzle of formation, which abruptly rises out of the plain. for an hour the train drew nearer and nearer to it, so we got an admirable view. our proposed ascent of the mountain was never to take place, and this was to be our only glimpse of the shrine to which thousands of pilgrims flock each year, where st. ignatius loyola sought counsel and made his vigil of the armor. when barcelona was reached the illness which had been fastening itself closer since the unfortunate drive to alcántara declared itself unmistakably, and many proposed excursions, such as montserrat, manresa, ripoll, with its unique portal, had to be foregone. to leave a country with some of its best things unvisited is an open invitation to return,--which theory may be good philosophy, but is not wholly adequate in stifling regrets. barcelona "he who loves not, lives not." ramÓn lull. "solemn the lift of high-embowered roof, the clustered stems that spread in boughs disleaved, through which the organ blew a dream of storm that shut the heart up in tranquillity." james russell lowell. i wonder if, to the reader, when hearing the name barcelona there rises one sovereign picture,--isabella and ferdinand's reception of columbus on his return from the new world. it may have been some print seen in childhood that impressed itself indelibly on my imagination, but always with the name barcelona i seemed to see _los reyes católicos_ seated on their throne listening to the man whose genius was so well bodied forth in his face and bearing. around stood gentle-eyed natives of the antilles, with their ornaments of pearls and gold, lures that were to rouse the rapacity which exterminated those arcadian peoples, and to break the heart of their great discoverer. heart-break and defeat lay in the future, this was an hour of enthusiastic hope. when columbus had finished his peroration, the queen and the court fell on their knees in a spontaneous burst of exaltation, and together intoned that king's hymn of victory, the _te deum_. it was the unknown barcelona that called up this scene of spain's heroic hour; the city as it is to-day has blurred and dimmed the picture. there is a striking statue of columbus on a column that faces the harbor, but it is not of him nor of his patrons that you think here. the castle of segovia, the walls of avila or toledo, the alhambra hill, seville's alcázar, these are romantic spots that make "the high past appear affably real and near, for all its grandiose air caught from the mien of kings"; but i defy the imaginative lover of old times to call up the romantic in the modern capital of catalonia; seething with industrial life, with revolutionary new ideas, she is too aggressive and prosperous for sentimental regrets. barcelona's position as an industrial force cannot be called unexpected. she has ever been in the stir of big events, italy's rival in commerce through the middle ages, when she served as the port of entry and exit for the armies and fleets. in all times she has enjoyed a climate that may well be the despair of commercial cities of the north; the summer heats are tempered by sea-breezes, the winters are warmer than at naples. hearing reports of roses in bloom there in january, we had dreaded the heat of a may in the city, but during the five weeks of our stay, the bracing spring air was like that of new england. her natural setting, too, is good; the harbor guarded by the lofty fort of monjuich, while behind stretch mountains which lay far from the mediæval town, but to-day, when barcelona covers an area twelve times as large, they are immediate suburbs and their names are familiar signs on the tramcars. the province of catalonia is perhaps the most individual of the thirteen strikingly different provinces of the peninsula. the catalan is more spanish than french certainly, but he is always more catalan than spanish. independent, self-interested, intractable, strong-headed as an aragonese, industrious, successful, in him is found slight trace of the hidalgo of castile. it is hard to believe that this hive of born business men is in a land whose ideal of happiness is to do nothing. the idleness, the high-bred courtesy of the castilian, are as unfamiliar here as in the stock exchange of new york; indeed barcelona, with her streets filled with well-dressed, briskly-moving crowds, each intent on his own business, is more allied to the new world than to the old. adieu, indeed, to the toga-like capes, to mantillas, to midnight serenades. a catalan has no time to waste chatting by alluring _rejas_. catalonia has been called the lancashire of spain, and barcelona its manchester. if the comparison is fit in regard to commercial success, it is inappropriate in one respect, for, built by a latin race, to whom is natural a sense of beauty, barcelona, though as keen after money as the english town, has cared better for her interests. the sunlight is not darkened by the miles of factory chimneys that so oppress the heart in the black country. there are hundreds of belching chimneys, but they are kept out of sight in the valleys behind, where each factory stands isolated in the fields, often in a planted enclosure: this leaves the city proper free of traffic, smoke, and the whirr of machinery. the gay rambla is edged with shops, and handsome apartment houses line the tree-planted avenues. few towns have the force of will and continued patience to build themselves symmetrically; they are generally the result of hap-hazard, and only when too late the possibility of some river or sea front is discerned. barcelona realized some fifty years ago that she was to be one of the conglomerations that modern cities tend to become, so she called on her engineers for plans, and from one of those submitted she chose an able design; _ensanche_, extension, is the name for the new districts. of course if a whole city consisted of these wide, regular streets, it would be monotonous, but here was already enough of narrow-lane picturesqueness to satisfy the artist. the walls that encircle the congested older town were pulled down, the opened space was turned into an esplanade, and radiating from this nucleus, streets two hundred feet wide were laid and were immediately planted with double rows of plane trees. to-day the vistas down these far-stretching avenues, the sunlight filtering through the leaves on groups of nurses and children, the rapidly-moving crowds, the smart two-wheeled catalan carts, the whirling automobiles, give the city an air of joyous prosperity. behind the big apartment houses, the law requires a planted space to be kept open, so that people of very mediocre income live in houses and in districts that only the rich of other towns can command. the material success of the people has found an outlet in their architecture: poblet, school for the builder, is not far away. since some of the houses were put up during the exaggerated phase of _l'art nouveau_, they are overloaded with whirling ornament, quite as bad as karlsruhe, but the majority are in dignified good taste: take, for instance, the new university buildings, or that brown stone block near the beginning of the beautiful paseo garcia, nos. and , if i remember rightly. the sculptors too have inherited the skill of the early masters of catalonia. most of the modern churches (not señor gaudi's curious experiment, the church of the holy family!) are built consistently in one style, the walls carved _in situ_ as in old times; the effect is such that one prays the days of painted plaster may never return. it was good to notice, too, that the new churches discarded the tinsel-decked altars of the eighteenth century, the bane of peninsula shrines. barcelona builds as a rule in the catalan manner; the early architects of the province, though influenced by lombard and french masters, may be said to have achieved a national style. it is worthy of enthusiasm with its singular purity of line, a proportion that is hardly spanish. like chartres, it has "the distinguished slenderness of an eternal adolescence." in nothing is it akin to isabella's efflorescent plateresque-gothic. its clustered piers, and arches carried high aloft, have been used as successfully in civil as in religious architecture, witness the lonja, or exchange. the new town, with its prosperous homes and shady avenues, tended to make us overlook old barcelona, yet we only had to step aside from the thronged rambla and we found ourselves in dark, narrow streets, that at dusk especially made us shiver with apprehension. forcibly they warned us that this was one of the most turbulent cities in europe, where lawless socialists gather and plot, where some recent bomb-throwing outrages were the reason for groups of the _guardias civiles_ on every corner. the red _gorro_, the phrygian cap worn by the city porters, seemed too realistic when met in dark lanes, where the men pushed rudely by, your sex here no prerogative. with philistine relief we used to return to the sanitary, orderly avenues of the _ensanche_, patrolled by placid policemen in crimson broadcloth coats. a word of praise must be given to some of the municipal institutions of barcelona, such as the corps of city porters, each with a small district in which to render help. the _hospicio_, or work-house, is considered one of the best organized in europe. as long ago as an english traveler, the rev. joseph townsend, wrote of another of barcelona's institutions: "no hospital that i have seen upon the continent is so well administered as the general hospital of this city. it is peculiar in its attention to convalescents, for whom a separate habitation is provided, that after they are dismissed from the sick wards they may have time to recover their strength." also her excellent city police are worthy of praise. the rest of spain could emulate them, for it was our experience that the local police were an incompetent set; we soon learned never to apply to them in case of difficulty, but to wait till an alert civil guard[ ] passed, when we were sure of intelligent help. [illustration: cloisters of san pablo del campo, barcelona] it is the old town, congested and gloomy though it is, that, set side by side with the new, makes barcelona unique. there are to be found primitive churches, such as santa ana, or san pablo del campo,[ ] once, like st. martin-in-the-fields, placed among meadows; dim old churches similar in design, byzantine cross form with a low dome over the center and with cloisters that make solemn oases of repose in the busy city. a later period built churches whose somber walls tower high above the crowded houses; such are santa maría del pino and santa maría del mar, characterized by wide hall-like naves. in the width of their nave lay the triumph of the catalan masters. it was in the last named church that a pious woman of the town noticed one day a gray, emaciated man resting, among a group of children, on the steps of the altar, in his face a light of convincing holiness. fresh from the spiritual battle in the cave of manresa, a grand self-mastery the reward of his struggle, no wonder the face of ignatius compelled the reverence of the passer by. the cathedral of barcelona is a typically catalan-gothic church. for an _eglesia mayor_ it is small, but so true are its proportions and so skillfully is it lighted that it gives the effect of grandeur. as the clearstory windows are mere circles, on first entering one is in complete darkness, but gradually out of the gloom looms that loveliest feature of the building, the chancel, lighted by rare old glass, with slender piers and lofty stilted arches rising from pavement to vaulting in an unforgettable beauty of symmetry. the _retablo_ of the high altar is in character, articulate and graceful, unlike the usual, overladen reredos of spain. incense, prayer, soaring aspiration, the symbolization of this presbytery is a perfect thing: again vividly came the conviction that temples such as these have had and ever will have a vital influence on a race. barcelona may be a shrewd commercial center, that in its material pride, in order not to be classed with the improvident, brutally repudiates most of the _cosas de españa_; she may print books whose every word is an insult to government and religion; she is still deeply spanish in the earnest piety of the larger proportion of her citizens. a catalan may tell you, especially if you belong to a northern race and a different creed, that what you see is all form, lip-religion, that the men here, like intelligent men the world over, are free-thinkers. it is an easy matter for the prejudiced visitor to get all his misconceptions confirmed by a native, no one is more bitter in abuse of his country than a catalan. fortunately, one has one's own eyes wherewith to see. but first i must quote from a recent letter to the _london times_ from the rev. james r. youlden, in answer to a pessimist on the religious condition of spain: "in the city of barcelona, the largest, most modern and most industrial of spanish cities, the good attendance at mass, not only of women and children but of the men, is most remarkable, as is also the number of communicants. i have myself often given holy communion on a sunday morning in the church of san pedro to such large numbers, fully one-third of them men, that my arms have ached in conveying the sacred particles. masses are celebrated every hour, and in some churches every half hour from a.m. to midday in all the twenty-four parish churches of the city (to say nothing of numerous convent chapels) in the presence of large and often crowded congregations. a visit to the church at any time from till on any sunday morning would dispel some of the illusions of your madrid correspondent." a good test of the sincerity of religious conviction is what it costs the purse; new churches, like those of barcelona, are not built by lip-religion. i spent several sunday mornings sitting on one of the side benches of the cathedral, learning that the catalan, disunited from his mother land on many points, is ineradicably national in his creed. this was spain, with the grave reverence of the smallest child, where the church is a loved home, a frequented refuge for meditation and strengthening prayer. now a handsome and satisfied matron enters, followed by five or six children, the boys dressed as english sailors, little battenbergs, the girls with hats like flower gardens; they cluster round their mother at the door, and she passes each the blessed water with which to sign themselves. behind this group come some alert young artisans; each instantly drops on both knees to make his salutation to the altar--lip-religion does not care to disarray its sunday suit like this--and each blesses himself in the swift national way, with the final carrying to the lips of the thumb and first finger crossed, a symbol of fidelity to his faith. may this custom never die out in spain! from the first hour of her eight hundred years' crusade, from cavadonga to granada, her religion has been her glory, interwoven with her nationality, like that of the jews of old, and if she understands her enduring interests, this christian faith to which she has clung so loyally will be her aspiration in the future. when her men pass the high altar without salute, when the street children cease to run in daily to kneel before a shrine, throwing their scanty skirts over their heads if a handkerchief is lacking, when politics and religion are synonymous, that day spain may be called degenerate, but not now, while lamps of sincere conviction burn before her altars. ascension thursday fell on a perfect day in late may, the warm sunshine tempered by a sea breeze; everyone was out gallantly in new summer suits. the houses were hung with the national flag, but the fairest decoration of the city were the hundreds of first communicants who thronged the streets, accompanied by proud mothers and relatives. each little girl in her quaint, long, white skirt, tulle veil and wreath of flowers, carried a new pearl chaplet or prayer book, and each boy wore a bow of white satin on his left arm. few things are more appealing than an innocent-eyed child on this solemn day, and in after years, for those who have known such hours of purity, few memories are more indelible. as i passed through the old city, its dark streets lightened by these groups, i could not help exclaiming, "why, when she can present a scene of such loveliness and hope, must barcelona so blindly envy her neighbor across the pyrenees!" not long after leaving spain, i stopped in a village in the mountains of dauphiny, half catholic, half huguenot. both churches were practically empty. the children of the town, except those of a few stanch families, walked in a public procession to honor the mayor, behind a banner bearing the inscription, "ni dieu, ni maître." one cannot deny there are many in barcelona whose aspiration would be satisfied with a similar procession in her streets, but the majority still prefer an ascension thursday of first communicants. before the west door of the cathedral are remains of ancient houses which, like italy, bear the signs of guilds, for this city always differed from the rest of spain in looking on trade as an honorable career. a street behind the cathedral leads to other specimens of domestic architecture. be sure not to be discouraged by the cold herrara front of the house of the deputation. it masks a gothic building which, if properly restored, as well as the casa consistorial, or town hall, which stands opposite to it, would make of this formal plaza one of the most interesting squares in europe. the city's renewed pride in the gothic of its province, her skillful architects, her wealth, should tempt her to the task. be sure to go into both these buildings. in the town hall are some lovely _ajimez_ windows that show the restraint of the catalan style: they attenuated the features as far as strength would allow, but they knew just where to stop. the result is grace, lightness, a subtle something of proportion. in the deputation house hangs the catalan painter fortuny's "battle of tetuán," unfinished, with a dashing rainbow-hued charge of horsemen that stirs the memory of spain's grand forays into africa. in exploring barcelona one notices unfamiliar names on the shops, here are no longer alvarez, gonzález, pérez, garcía, but strange catalan names, such as bosch, cla, puig, catafalch, llordachs, petz. on every side, in shops, in the tramcars, one hears the dialect spoken, rather rough sounding and wholly unintelligible to the traveler who knows only castilian. in no other of spain's provinces is so much made of local differences. the names of the streets are written twice on the street corners, in catalan and in castilian, a ridiculous arrangement, for in these proper names the differences are slight; as _calle de cortes_, and _correr de les corts_. to appease his thirst for self-assertion, the practical catalan has marked his streets in a less adequate way than the rest of the peninsula he looks down on: the clearness of the street directions, each tile generally holding one bold letter, had been a satisfaction all over spain. this brings me into hot water at once, the vexed ever palpitating catalan question. is this province, spain's richest and most progressive, to continue under the spanish crown, to ally herself with france, or to be independent? she tells us in anger, she pays more than her share of the taxes, that she is an isolated commercial and industrial force in a nation that is preëminently agricultural, whose laws are made to foster the farmer at the expense of the trader: the loss of the colonies was an advantage for the rest of the country whose crying need is population, but for barcelona it was a severe blow. spain has hard problems to solve, with thirteen inhabitants to the square mile in some provinces and one hundred and eight to the mile here in catalonia. books of open sedition are freely published, one picks them up in the waiting-room of a doctor's office, in the bank, on the stalls. this is no new phase. from early times catalonia has only considered her own interests, now joining with france against spain, now changing sides, as she thought to benefit herself; for her the nation is a secondary consideration. history proves she has been ineradicably selfish; hence her success, a sophist may say, but there is something higher than self-aggrandizement, the success of giving her strength to reforming the abuses she proclaims. no one denies there is crying need for political and financial reform at madrid, though it is not to be brought about by such a book as señor pompeo gener's "cosas de españa," which but widens the breach. one discerns it in the ignoble jealousy of the castilian, which rankles in the catalan mind; for instance in speaking of castilian literature of the nineteenth century he stops short at fernán caballero and makes no mention of the distinguished modern novelists. a writer who holds up herbert spencer as the ne plus ultra of philosophy (spanish free-thinkers are a generation behind in certain phases of thought) need not be taken too seriously, but the "cosas de españa" voices what is serious. "ah castillo castillano! why have we ever known you!" exclaims the catalan poet briz, in his celebrated poem, "cuatro pals de sanch," the blazon of the province, its four red bars. "if to us remains only one of our four bars of blood, to you we owe the loss, thou kingdom of the castles and the hungry lions. but, o castillo castillano, alas for you, if you break our last _pals de sanch_!" this bitter spirit of revolt makes this grand old province that should be spain's bulwark, spain's weakness instead. would catalonia gain by any of the changes she dreams of? surely under the formalism of france, her self-willed independence would chafe and break loose, for independence is a characteristic of all spaniards, in all ages, now and always; one cannot exaggerate it. also the heart of the province is too deeply religious to live under the "liberté" of her neighbor. in the united states religious liberty is little talked of, but is a solid fact, wherein the new world gives a needed lesson to the old, with its narrow horizons and petty disputes. in france, where this liberty is vaunted, it is a farce: no catalan could long tolerate such freedom. again, if this small state were independent, where would she stand? a thought that strikes one forcibly after a tour of the province, whose towns, gerona, lérida, tarragona, are of mediocre importance. catalonia independent would be practically one city, barcelona, whose trade the central government could cripple by prohibitory tariffs. her pride would suffer more as one of the smallest, weakest states in europe, than it now suffers under its lawful king, part of an old race that once led the world, and which if only this discontented daughter would generously help, has red blood enough to again play a prominent part. spain needs just such help as the catalan can give, she needs his grit, his industry, his progressiveness. could he now bear the overweighted burden in a better spirit, before many years it would be lightened. the north is awakening to industrial life; bilbao, santander, gijón, coruña, vigo, will soon be strong trading centers, and the older commercial city can gather supporters to work for fiscal autonomy, since the chief grievance is the centralized system of government in madrid. let her agitate in a constitutional way for a system like the separate state arrangement of our union. the opposition of two vigorous sides is a sign of life in a nation. discussion means change and advancement. for full vigor both sides are needed, the conservative to serve as brake on the democrat's too swiftly-turning wheels. an important cause of spain's decay,[ ] according to don juan valera, came from all classes thinking the same way; drunk with pride on the ending of the centuries of crusade against their moorish invader, with the discovery of a new continent the people lay back in slothful inertia, without the prick of dispute to rouse them. opposition and struggle are essential to vigor, but disloyalty saps a nation's strength. let them strike straight-front blows from the shoulder, for madrid needs rousing, but let them not stab in the back. often when wandering among the old tombs of spain, those effigies of the grand-masters of santiago, calatrava and alcántara, the plumed and helmeted knights of the noble brows, i recalled some ringing lines of newbolt's. every boy of barcelona should know them by heart, they are not so needed in castile: "to set the cause above renown, to love the game above the prize, to honour while you strike him down the foe that comes with fearless eyes. to count the life of battle good, and dear the land that gave you birth, and dearer yet the brotherhood that binds the brave of all the earth." her intense local patriotism has a more sympathetic side than double-naming her streets and bearing a jealous grudge against her central government. this is the revival of her provincial literature. the interest in dialects and folk lore is a tendency common to many countries to-day, but in catalonia the movement is on a grand scale. there newspapers and magazines in dialect are circulated, poems and novels are printed not for the literary alone but for the populace. men of undeniable genius have written in the local tongue, one of the first to use it being that strangely interesting character of the thirteenth century, ramón lull, seneschal of majorca, troubadour, mystic hermit, philosopher, missionary, and his final glory, martyr for the faith; he is honored in the church as _el beato_ raimundo lulio. by less than ten years he missed being the contemporary of the gentle assisian, the habit of whose tertiaries he wore; he wandered through italy while dante was writing his visions, in that wonderful century called dark, that can claim a thomas aquinas, a bonaventura, an abertus magnus, an elizabeth of hungary, a dominic, an anthony of padua, and that scattered over europe such witnesses of its upleap of aspiration as amiens, chartres, westminster, salisbury, cologne, strasburg, león, toledo, siena. lull was born in the capital of the balearic islands, which lie a day's sail from barcelona, and having passed an apprenticeship at court under jaime _el conquistador_ of aragon, he led in palma a life of pleasure and dissipation till his romantic conversion at thirty-two. núñez de arce has enshrined the legend in verse: so violent was the seneschal's pursuit of a fair lady of the city that he once on horseback followed her into church to the scandal of the people. the poet gives the final scene that cured his passion, when she who was so exquisite without, to repell his advances, exposed to him a hidden cancer. the shock changed the worldling to a saint. distributing his goods to the poor, he retired to a mountain, and spent some years in prayer. later in his energetic career he returned to this hermitage to pass again periods in meditation for his spiritual strengthening, being the first to show that special faculty of the spanish mystic, the double life of solitary ecstasy and active charity. the desire to convert the mohammedan took such possession of his soul that at forty he put himself to school, like the great basque patron of a later day, and in paris he studied logic and arabic in preparation for his future career. lull attained fourscore years, the latter half of his life being dominated by his burning purpose to convert islam. one pope after another as he mounted the chair of peter was beseiged by this astonishing man, and he wandered from court to court urging the universities to teach the oriental languages, that missionaries for the east might be fittingly prepared. little success crowned his efforts for popes and kings had troubles nearer home. the catalan enthusiast came at an inopportune moment; the last two crusades under st. louis of france had left discouragement behind. however, before his death he had the satisfaction of seeing chairs of hebrew and arabic founded by a pope, by a french king, and in spain and england. the indefatigable man visited austria, poland, and greece; he advocated the protection of the greeks against moslem incursions, a result only achieved in our own day; he stopped in cypress, traversed armenia, palestine, and egypt, zealously expounding the gospel. his first visit as an apostle to northern africa was a failure. there is something touching about this old missionary of six hundred years ago being driven out of tunis--he and his loved library--and embarked with harsh orders never to return. not in any spirit of patronage did he labor for the conversion of souls, but wiser than many to-day he carried with him true knowledge and respect for the mohammedans. his liberal intelligence assimulated much that was of value in their ideas, especially from those heretics of islam, the persian sufis, or mystics. a second time when over seventy lull ventured across to africa, and again he--and the books--were violently expelled. i fear our blessed raimundo was a bit of a visionary, he thought to convince by intellectual debate. the king of england learning of the old scholar's chemical studies, with the curiosity of the period in regard to the philosopher's stone, invited him to london, and lodged him with the monks of westminster abbey. chemistry was merely a side issue in the life of the great missionary. just short of his eightieth year, with untiring courage and magnificent faith, he set forth once more on his final apostleship to the mohammedan, and once more preached in egypt, jerusalem, and tunis. at bugia he was stoned by the furious populace, who left him for dead on the beach, and some genoese merchants carried away his almost lifeless body. before they reached the harbor of palma the martyr had died, and his townsmen buried him with honors in the church of his master, st. francis. lull's books, the "ars magna" and the "arbor scientiæ," are filled with the curious system he evolved for reducing discords. he tried to co-ordinate and facilitate the operations of the mind, to simplify all sciences by showing them to be branches of one trunk. much of his theory may be fanciful and impractical, but it was a truly suggestive idea based on the profound truth of the unity of knowledge. he explored many branches of the human mind, and left works on medicine, theology, politics, jurisprudence, mathematics and chemistry. the accusation of alchemy is untenable, for he made his experiments in scientific good faith, and wrote against astrology. for three centuries, down to the time of descartes, lull was considered a leader of the intellect, and his books were recommended by the universities of europe. the catalan dialect has been used by men of marked talent in our own time. the whole of spain should be as proud of padre jacinto verdaguer, as all france is of their provençal, mistral. verdaguer's "atlantada," called the best epic of the century, was crowned in at the floral games, festivals which are held in barcelona each year, for competitions in verse and prose, and to revive the national dances. this intellectual movement rouses the stranger's enthusiasm, and if it keeps itself dissociated from politics,--those abominable politics that sink every noble thing they fasten on, patriotism, education, religion, art,--the revival may prove more than a passing phase. alert in literature, in music, in the sciences, in municipal progress, and commercial success, what need has this city to be jealous of the capital; they are too different for comparison. madrid lacks much that barcelona can claim; a catalan could emulate some castilian qualities. each vitally needs the other. gerona and farewell to spain "i count him wise who loves so well man's noble memories he needs must love man's nobler hopes yet more!" william watson. "una restauración de la vida entera de españa no puede tener otro punto de arranque que la concentración de todas nuestras energías dentro de nuestro territorio. hay que cerrar con cerrojos, llaves, y candados todas las puertas por donde el espíritu español se escapó de españa para derramarse por los cuatro puntos del horizonte, y por donde hoy espera que ha de venir la salvación; y en cada una de esas puertas no pondremos un rótulo dantesco que diga: "lasciate ogni speranza," sino este otro más consolador, más humano, muy profundamente humano, imitado de san ajustín: "noli foras ire; in interiore híspaniæ habitat veritas." angel ganivet: "_idearium español_." the day drew near for our leaving spain. eight months had passed since we entered from the north of the pyrenees isthmus, and now we found ourselves at its southern exit. they had been months filled with an absorbing and unexpected interest; we had come into spain for a mere autumn tour, and she had forced us to linger. and i must repeat that i came with the average pessimistic idea that she was a spent and more or less worthless country, till what i saw about me daily changed me to a partisan. it was a hard farewell to take now. when spain is allowed to show herself as she is, she wins a regard that is like an intense personal affection. [illustration: a street stairway, gerona] at dawn on the early day in june set for our departure we left barcelona; before night we would be in france, but the leave-taking was to be broken by some hours in gerona. as usual it was the fact of its possessing a first-rate church that determined us to stop. this was to be the last of the grand cathedrals which more than those of any land, even of france with their purer art, had realized my ideal of worship and reverence. as gerona was in catalonia, good architecture was to be expected, but this was better than good. the cathedral which dominates the town was worthy of its stirring memories. an imposing flight of eighty steps, like that of the ara c[oe]li in rome, ascends to its west portal. at the head of this staircase we paused to look out on the panorama of the pyrenees--mountain rose behind mountain, the foreground hills well-wooded, those beyond covered with snow. here was no stupid escorial facing in to a blank wall. the old masters with vivifying imaginations had brought the glories of nature to worship with them, had hung as it were in their porch, this lovely landscape. within the cathedral the first impression is its spaciousness. the width is astonishing; indeed the hall-like nave of gerona is the widest gothic vault in christendom, and were it longer by two bays, no cathedral of europe could have surpassed the effect. the wide nave of catalan churches is a national feature that here reaches its acme. the choir of gerona is on a smaller scale, and the meeting of the two makes a curious feature, not bad inside, but in the exterior view extremely ugly. probably in time the choir would have been enlarged to fit its monstrous nave. the men in those days started undertakings as if they could never die, but later generations have lacked their enthusiastic ambition. by happy chance we were in time to assist at a last high mass in a spanish cathedral. it is no exaggeration to say one's heart felt heavy in listening to the solemn chanting, watching the reverence of priests, acolytes, and congregation, to realize that this was for the last time. the last time we should see the kiss of peace carried symbolically from the priest at the altar to the canons in the choir, the last time we should hear the clamor of the wheel of bells. i looked up to where they hung on the wall and nodded them a little personal farewell, so often had they charmed me. farewell to sedate spanish piety, to the devotional unconsciousness of individual prayer. over the frontier, during the coming summer at luchon, i was soon to hear wooden signals clapped during mass to guide the wandering attention of the people, to see the children scamper out in obvious relief. the chancel of gerona is a gem. the iron _reja_ that shuts in the _capilla mayor_ is of the plainest, like a wall of stacked spears guarding the holy of holies. there is no towering _retablo_, which would be out of character with slender catalan piers; instead, behind the altar is a marvelous reredos of silver carved in scenes, and surmounted by three byzantine processional crosses,--all ancient and priceless enough to be the treasure of a national museum. the altar and the canopy over it are also of silver, _retablo_ and altar being placed where they now stand in . the effect of iron _reja_ and precious shrine is faultlessly artistic; we sigh here for a beauty as completely lost for our copying as is the tranquil perfection of these gravestones, the sculptured stelæ of athens. the service over, we proceeded to examine the church. the cloisters are oddly irregular in shape, and look out on the snow-topped pyrenees. so beautiful was the prospect that i added this cloister setting to the dream-cathedral spain tempts one to build. it would have the cloisters of tarragona with this outlook of gerona's; also gerona's altar and _retablo_, though the reredos of avila and that of tarragona are worthy rivals. there would be the grand staircase of this cathedral, and it would ascend to a western portal like león's, with santiago's _pórtico de la gloria_ within; the north and south doors would be plateresque from salamanca and valladolid. the cathedral would be set on lérida's crag, with the city of toledo climbing to it and the tagus churning below. the nave would be seville's, and seville's windows would light it and her organ thunder there. the choir would be toledo's, carved by rodrigo, berruguete, and vigarni, the chancel barcelona's stilted arches. how they could be combined is hard to solve, but round this _capilla mayor_ would run the double ambulatory of toledo, and the apse outside have león's flying buttresses,--the apse which the old mystics held as symbolic of the crown of thorns about the head of christ (the altar). _rejas_ from burgos, granada, seville, would guard the chapels, and tombs of knights and bishops from sigüenza, from zamora--from every town of spain in fact--would line the walls: tapestries and treasures from saragossa; a _via crucis_ by hernández and portrait statues by montañés; a sacristy like that of avila; a _sala capitular_ copied from the renaissance grace of san benito in alcántara; and a wealth of side chapels,--a condestable chapel, a san isidoro, a cámera santa, a san millán, a santa maría la blanca, and an isolated shrine like palencia's, standing in the ambulatory. and always beneath the vault of this cathedral would be found far-off little lugo's solemn adoration, and there would be processions as imposing as andalusia, with the piety of estremadura, or the basque. the giralda, built in the warm red stone of astorga tower, would stand close by, and not far away, a monastery, line for line, like poblet. sitting in a spanish cloister looking out on the pyrenees, one drifts into dream-pictures of the ideal cathedral. gerona has a few other churches worth examining, that of san feliu, with two roman sarcophagi and several early christian ones with wave-like lines. we rambled about the plaza where a fair was in progress, and at every turning kept bidding farewell to familiar scenes of spanish life; we were not again to hear the peace-bringing "_vaya usted con dios!_" not again to assent to the cordial "_hasta luego!_" the city is massively built, but it has a battered look, and no wonder. during the french invasion, gerona stood a siege as terrific as any in history, yet who of us has heard of it? in may, , a french army surrounded the city where there were only three thousand soldiers for the defense, yet for seven months the town defied the invaders, and that with half a dozen breaches in the walls. the women shouldered guns and drilled in a battalion formed by doña lucía fitzgerald; old men and children piled up the earth of the ramparts; cloistered nuns, at a higher call, left their convents to nurse the wounded to whom they gave up their cells, so many priests fell fighting on the walls that no services were held in the churches, there was only the burning of candles; no one bought or sold, for every shopman was a soldier. when a gallant english volunteer died on the ramparts, he exclaimed that he lost his life gladly in a cause so just for a nation so heroic. the french drew closer and closer, and slowly the city starved. the hardships endured were incredible. they ate rats and mice, yet no thought came of surrender. a hot august dragged by, in september the french attacked fiercely and on both sides the men fell like flies. who was the soul of this indomitable fortitude? the order and subordination told of a master mind, and gerona had one, don mariano alvarez de castro, the inflexible governor. he it was who enrolled the women and children in the defense; his lofty spirit never wavered, and his force of character gave him so accepted an authority that he was able to direct a hopeless defense without recourse to cruelty. the siege of gerona was not stained by any brutal act. the blockade drew closer. by october literally all food was gone, and the people began to fall in the streets to a foe more terrible than bullets. governor alvarez stood like a rock of courage. when he passed up the cathedral steps where the heart-rending groups of the dying lay, his very presence gave hope: if there was a faint-hearted citizen in gerona, he was more afraid of that iron man than of the french. never would the governor have yielded, but toward the close of the year he fell ill in the infested air, and as he lay in delirium the city capitulated. with hundreds of dead bodies lying unburied in the streets, there was nothing else to be done. then followed a scene which did honor to the invader; it rings with the same chivalry that velasquez painted in the "surrender of breda," where spínola bends to meet the conquered nassau, the same spirit that made those frenchmen of an earlier day carry a certain wounded knight, their prisoner, on a litter from pamplona across the mountains to his castle of loyola. the foreign troops marched into gerona in a dead silence, with not a gesture of triumph, moved to awe by the corpses that covered the pavements and to reverence by the few hollow-eyed, living skeletons that met them. the moral victory lay with the conquered. when food was offered the starved people, even that was at first refused. don mariano alvarez, taken prisoner on his bed, died mysteriously, poisoned, some say, in the fortress of figueras not long after. and all this horror and heroism was only a hundred years ago!--we too walked the streets of gerona in silent reverence. then once again on the train; more volcanic hills, more dry rivers that showed what the spring torrents must be like, and in a few hours port-bou, the spanish frontier town, was reached. we stood at the car window looking out sadly on the last of spain as the train swept round the blue inlets of the mediterranean. farewell to this great christian democracy where the simple title of don is borne by king and people alike, to the "nation least material of europe," farewell to a grave, contented race, whose leaders left noble works as noble as their lives, whose writers were soldiers and heroes, where artists prepared for religious scenes by fasting and prayers, where mystics were not negative and inert, but emerged from their union with god with more power for practical life, whose women have by instinct the dignity of womanhood, untainted yet by luxury, a land that can boast the two first women of all ages and countries, an isabella of castile, and a st. teresa. some may think i carry admiration too far. carping criticism of spain has been pushed to such an extent that it is time to swing to the other side: where there can be no joy, no admiration, there can be no stimulus. i like to take m. rené bazin's words as if addressed to me: "vous avez raison de croire à la vitalité de l'espagne. elle n'a jamais été une nation déchue, elle a été une nation blessée." a wounded nation but not one stricken to death. she is recovering. let her but be patient and aspire slowly; disciplined, tried in the fire and purified, by living without the ceaseless upheavals of the past century, by industry, by commerce, with no encumbering colonies to drain her blood, with the catalans calling the castilians "_paisanos_," she will get back her former strength and _brio_. her literature, her art, are lifting their heads. my prayer for spain in her rehabilitation is, that she may not diverge from her national spirit and traditions, may modern ideas not change her unworldliness and her stoical endurance, "_su esencia inmortal y su propio carácter_." may she guard her faith, her glory in the past and her aspiration for the future, the faith of the cross that has struck deeper root here than in any spot on earth, but remembering always that her own greatest saint warns her: "in the spiritual life not to advance is to go back." may she never lose the virile independence of character that so distinguishes her people, the pride of simple manhood that looks out of the eyes of her honorable peasantry and makes their innate courtesy. no nation was ever formed so completely by the chivalry of the middle ages as spain. may she always be _españa la heróica_! index acuña, tomb of bishop, , africa, , , , , , , , , , , ajustina of aragon ("maid of saragossa"), alacón, pedro antonio de, , , , , alas, leopoldo, , , , , alba de tormes, , , , - albertus magnus, alcalá de henares, , , , , , , , , , alcántara, - , alcántara, st. peter of, alfonso ii, _el casto_, , alfonso vi, , , , , alfonso viii, _él de las navas_, , alfonso x, _el sabio_, , , alfonso xi, alfonso xii, , , , , , alfonso xiii, , , , , , , , , , , , , alhambra, the, , , - , , almohades, the, almoravides, the, altamira y crevea, sr. rafael, alva, duke of, , alvarez de castro, mariano, , , amadeus i (duke of aosta), , america, the u. s. of, , , , , , , , , , , , america, south, , , , , , , , , , , , amicis, edmondo de, amiens, cathedral of, , andalusia, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , aquinas, st. thomas, , aragon, , , , , - , architecture, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , . _see_ gothic, romanesque, plateresque arenal, doña concepción, arfe family, the de, , armory, madrid, the royal, , , , , arroyo, , , astorga, , , - , , asturias, , - , , , , , asturias, prince of, , , , , athens, , , augustine, st., , , , , , augustus cæsar, , averroës, , avila, , , , , , , - , , , , , azcoitia, , , azpeitia, , , baalbec, ruins of, bacon, lord, , , , bailén, battle of, , balearic islands, balmes y uspia, jaime, baltazar carlos, infante, don, , , , balzac, honoré de, , barcelona, , , , , , , , , , , - , basque provinces, , - , , , , , bazán, doña emilia pardo, _see_ pardo bazán bazin, m. rené, , , , becerra, gaspar, bécquer, gustavo adolfo, bembo, pietro, cardinal, benedict xiv, benedictine rule, the, , , , , , , benson, rev. robert hugh, berruguete, alonso de, , , , , , _illustration_ , , bidassoa, river, bilbao, , , , blasco ibáñez, vicente, , , boabdil, bobadilla, , bonaventura, st., , borgia, st. francis (de borja), , , , , , , , , , , , borromeo, st. charles, , borrow, george, _quoted_, boston, u. s. a., , , , bourbon kings in spain, the, , , , , , , briz, francisco pelayo, browning, robert, brunetière, ferdinand, budé, guillaume, byron, lord, , byzantine influences in spanish art, , , , , , , , bull-fight, the, , , , , , , burgos, , - , , , , , , , , , , , caballero, fernán, _pseud_ (doña cecelia b. von f. de arrom), , , , , , cáceres, , , , , , , cadiz, , , , , , - calatyud, calderón de la barca, pedro, , , calvin, john, campion, edmund, campoamor, ramón de, , cano, alonzo, , cano, melchor, cantabrian mountains, , , , , , , , , carmelite order, the, , , , , carmona, salvador, _see_ _illustration_ carr, sir john, , castelar y ripoll, emilio, castile, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , catalan language, , , catalan question, - catalonia, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , cathedrals, spanish, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , . _avila_, , , , , , . _astorga_, , . _barcelona_, , , , . _burgos_, - , , , , . _cadiz_, . _cordova_, - . _gerona_, - . _grenada_, , . _león_, , , - , , , . _lérida_, , , , . _lugo_, , , , . _oviedo_, , , , . _palencia_, , , . _santiago_, , . - . _salamanca_, , - , . _saragossa_, , , , , . _seville_, , , , , , , , , - , . _segovia_, , , , . _sigüenza_, , , . _tarragona_, , . _toledo_, , , - , , . _valladolid_, , . _zamora_, , , catherine of aragon, , , cavadonga, , , , , , , cellini, benvenuto, , cervantes saavedra, miguel de, , - , , , , , , , , , , , , charles i of england, charles v (charles i of spain), emperor, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , charles ii, , charles iv, , , chartres, cathedral of, , , , chartreuse, la grande, chesterton, mr. gilbert k., churches, spanish: _alcántara_; s. benito, , . _asturias_; s. m. de naranco, , , , . s. miguel de lino, , . _avila_; encarnación, convent of, , . s. josé, convent of, , , . s. segundo, . son soles, hermitage of, , . s. tomás, , , , . _barcelona_; s. ana, . s. m. del mar, . s. m. del pino, . s. pablo del campo, . _burgos_; las huelgas, convent of, , . miraflores, convent of, . s. lermes, . s. nicolás, . _cadiz_; s. felipe neri, , . capuchin church, . _gerona_; s. feliu, . _granada_; s. gerónimo, . _madrid_; s. isidro, . _león_; s. isidoro, , , , , . s. marcos, . _salamanca_; s. esteban, , . espíritu santo, . _seville_; s. magdalena, . omnium sanctorum, . s. paula, . s. marcos, . university church, . _segovia_; s. martín, . s. millán, , . _toledo_; s. bartolomé, . s. cristo de la luz, . s. cristo de la vega, . s. domingo, . s. m. la blanca, , . s. juan de los reyes, . s. pedro mártir, . s. tomé, , . el tránsito, . _valladolid_; s. cruz, . s. m. la antigua, . s. gregorio, . s. pablo, churriguera, josé de, , , churrigueresque architecture, , , , , , , cid campeador, the, - , , , , , , , , clavijo, battle of, , coloma, padre luis, colonna, vittoria, , columbus, christopher (cristóbal colón), , , , , , , , comuneros, uprising of the, , , , constantinople, , , , , , , constitutions of spain, , - , , , , cordova, , , - , , córdova, gonsalvo de, _gran capitán_, , , cortés, hernán, , , coruña, , , , , , , cranmer, thomas, archbishop, crashaw, richard, , , , creighton, mandell, bishop, cromwell, oliver, dante alighieri, , daoiz, luis, , darro, river, , democracy, spanish, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , descartes, rené, , , deza, diego de, , dickens, charles, , domenech, sr. rafael, , dominic, st. (de guzmán), , , dominican order, the, , , , , "don quixote," , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , _dos de mayo_ (may , ), , , , , , , , douro, river, dupanloup, félix antoine, mgr., dürer, albrecht, durham, ebro, river, edward i, of england, , edward vi, of england, egypt, , elche, , eleanor plantagenet, queen of spain, , , el greco (domenikos theotokopoulos), , , , , , , elizabeth of england (tudor), , ellis, mr. henry havelock, _quoted_, , emmet, dr. thos. addis, england, the english, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , english college, valladolid, , , , erasmus, desiderius, , , , escorial, the, , , , - , , eslava, miguel hilarión, , espartero, general, espluga, , estremadura, , , , , - , eugénie, empress, eyck, jan van, ferdinand i, _el magno_, ferdinand iii, _el santo_, , , , ferdinand v, _el católico_, , , , , , , ferdinand vii, , , , , , feijóo y montenegro, benito gerónimo, , , , fernán caballero, _see_ caballero feuillet, octave, figueras, fisher, john, bishop, fitzmaurice-kelley, mr. james, _quoted_, flaubert, gustave, ford, richard, , , , , , , , fortuny, mariano, forment damián, france, the french, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , francia, francisco raibolini, _called_, francis of assisi, st. , , , , _illustration_ franciscan order, the, , , , , , , francis borgia, st., _see_ borgia francis i, of france, , , francis de sales, st., _see_ sales francis xavier, st., _see_ xavier french invasion, the, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , froude, james anthony, , galdós, benito pérez, _see_ pérez galdós galicia, , , , - , , , gallegos, fernando, gandía, duke of, _see_ borgia, st. francis ganivet, angel, , , garcilaso de la vega, , , , - , gardner collection, boston, mrs. j. l., gaudix, , gautier, théophile, , , , gener, sr. pompeo, germaine de foix, queen of aragon, , , germany, , , , , , gerona, , , , , , , - gibraltar, , , gijón, , godoy, manuel, prince of the peace, , , goethe, johan wolfgang von, _quoted_, gomez de castro, alvaro, góngora y argote, luis de, gothic architecture, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , goths, in spain, the, , , , , , , , , , , , , goya, francisco, , , , granada, , , , , , , , , , - , , , granada, luis de, , gregorovius, ferdinand, greece, , , , , guadalajara, , , guadaloupe, guadalquivir, river, guadarrama mountains, , , , _guardia civil_, the, , , guipúzcoa, , guizot, françois-pierre-guillaume, guzmán _el bueno_, guzmán family, the, , , guzmán, domingo de, _see_ dominic, st. gypsies, spanish, , , hadrian, emperor, hapsburg kings, in spain, , , , , , , hegel, georg wilhelm friedrick, henry ii of england, henry vii of england, henry viii of england, , hernández, gregorio, , , herrera, fernando de, poet, herrera, juan de, architect, , , , , hervás y panduro, lorenzo, hobson, lieut. richmond pearson, hogarth, william, holy week in seville, - hugo, victor, , huysmans, joris-karl, , , , , , ignatius, st., _see_ loyola infantado, duke del, inquisition, the, - , , , , , , invincible armada, the, , , , , ireland, , , , irish college, salamanca, , , irún, , irving, washington, isabella i, the catholic, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , isabella ii, , , , , isabella of portugal, empress, , _illustration_ , isidoro, san, , isla, josé francisco de la, , , islamism, , , , , , , , , italica, , , , italy, the italians, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , jaime i, _el conquistador_, , , , james, st., apostle, _él de españa_, , , , jerez de la frontera, jerusalem, , , , , , , jesuit order, the, - , , , , jews in spain, the, , , , , , , , , , jimena, wife of the cid, , , , , jimenez de cisneros, _see_ ximenez john of austria, don, , , , john of the cross, st. (juan de yepes), , , , , jordán, esteban, joubert, joseph, , , juana _la loca_, , juan ii, , , , juan de la cruz, san, _see_ john of the cross juní, juan de, lafayette, general de, la granja, , , , , , lainez, diego, , lancaster, john of gaunt, duke of, lannes, jean, marshall, larra, mariano josé de, las huelgas, convent of, , , las casas, bartolomé de, , , lea, henry charles, lebrija, doña francisca de, lee, robert e., general, legazpi, miguel lopez de, leibnitz, gottfried wilhelm von, lenormant, charles, león, city of, , , , - , , , , , león, province of, , , , , - , , león, luis de, , , , - , , , , , leonado da vinci, , lepanto, battle of, , , , lérida, - , , lilly, mr. w. s., _quoted_, llorente, juan antonio, lockhart, james gibson, , lombardy, , , , , london, , , , longfellow, henry wadsworth, _quoted_, lorraine, claude gelée, _called_ claude, loti, m. pierre, , , louis ix of france, st., , , louis philippe of france, lowell, james russell, _quoted_, , , , loyola, , , - loyola, st. ignatius, , - , , , , , , , , , , lucca, , lucero, diego rodríguez de, inquisitor, lugo, , , - , lull, ramón (raimundo lulio), , , - luna, alvaro de, , lusitania, luther, martin, macaulay, thomas babbington, madrid, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , - , , , , , , , , , , - , , , maimonides, moses, , maistre, joseph de, , málaga, , mallock, mr. w. h., _quoted_, manresa, , , manrique, jorge, , mantegna, andrea, maragatos, the, marcus aurelius, mariana, juan de, , maria cristina of austria, queen-dowager, doña, , martial, , martyr, peter, , mary i of england (tudor), , , , , , masaccio, tommaso guidi, _called_, mateo, maestro, , mecca, , medinaceli, family of, , medina del campo, , , , medrano, doña lucía de, melanchthon, philipp, memling, hans, mena, juan de, mendoza, family of, , , , mendoza, diego hurtado de, mendoza, pedro gonzales, cardinal, , , , , , , menéndez y pelayo, marcelino, , , , , - meredith, george, _quoted_, mérida, , - , messina, michelangelo buonarroti, mino da fiesole, , miño, river, , , , , miraflores, monastery of, , , mistral, federi, monforte, , , montañés, juan martinez, , , , montesquieu, charles, montserrat, , , monzón, moore, sir john, moors, the, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , - , , , , , , , , , , , , , moorish art, , , , , , , moriscos, expulsion of the, , , , more, sir thomas, moro, antonio, , motley, john lothrop, , mozarabic mass, the, - mudéjar architecture, , , , , , müller, prof. friederich max, murat, joachim, marshall, murcia, , murillo, bartolomé esteban, , , , , , , , , , mystics, spanish, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , napier, sir wm. f. p., naples, , , , napoleon i, , , , , navarre, , , , , , , , navas de tolosa, battle of, las, , nelson, horatio, admiral, neri, st. philip, , newbolt, mr. henry, _quoted_, new england, , , , , , novels, modern spanish, , , , , - núñez de arce, gaspar, , o'donnell y jorris, general leopoldo, olivares, conde duque de, ommiade dynasty, the, , , oran, siege of, , ordoño ii of león, o'reilly, count alexander, ormsby, john, osuna, duke of, oviedo, , , - , , , , , oxford, , , , , padilla, juan de, , paestum, ruins of, palafox, count josé, palatinate, the, palencia, , , , , palestine, , , , palma, , palos, pamplona, , , pancorbo, pass of, , pardo bazán, doña emilia, , , , , - paris, , , , , , parma, parmigianino, mazzuoli of parma, _called_, parthenon, the, , pasajes, pascal, blaise, , patmore, coventry, pavia, battle of, , , pedro i, _el cruel_, pelayo, king, , , , , , , pereda, josé maría de, , , , , , , , , pérez galdós, sr. benito, , , , - , persia, , pescara, fernando francisco d'avalos, marquis of, , philip i, _el hermoso_ (archduke), , philip ii, , , , , , , , , , , philip iii, , philip iv, , , , philip v, , , philippines, the, , , ph[oe]nicians in spain, the, , pirates, moorish, , , , , , pizarro, francisco, , plateresque architecture, , , , , , , , , , , pliny, poblet, monastery of, , , , , - , , polyglot bible, the, , pontevedra, , pontius pilate, port-bou, , , _pórtico de la gloria_, , , , , , portugal, , , , , , , , , , prado gallery,--madrid, the, - , - prescott, w. h., prim, juan, general, , proverbs, spanish, , , , , , , , , , , , , , pyrenees, the, , , , , , , , , , quiñones, suero de, quintana, manuel josé, ramiro i of asturias, , ranke, leopold von, , raphael sanzio, _reconquista_, the, , , , , , , , redondela, rembrandt van rijn, , renaissance art in spain, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , _reyes católicos, los_, , , , , , , , ribadeneyra, pedro de, , ribera, josé de, _lo spagnoletto_, ripalda, gerónimo de martinez de, ripoll, abbey of, rivas, angel de sáavedra, duque de, roderick, last of the gothic kings, , roelas, juan de las, "romancero del cid," , , , , , , , , romanesque architecture in spain, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , romanes, george j., _quoted_, roman remains in spain, , , , , , , , , , , - , , , , , rome, , , , , , , , , , , , , , ruiz de alarcon, juan, ruiz y mendoza, lieut. jacinto, sainte-beuve, charles augustus de, saints, spanish, _see headings_, alcántara, borgia, dominic, ferdinand iii, john of the cross, loyola, xavier, teresa salamanca, , , , , , - , , , , , , , , , , , sales, st. francis de, , salic law, the, , salisbury, cathedral of, , salmerón, alfonso, _sancho panza_, , , , , , sancho ii, _el fuerte_, sancho iv, _el bravo_, san sebastián, , , , , santander, , , , , , , santayana, prof. george, _quoted_, , , , , santiago, compostella, , , , , , , - , , , , santiago, knights of, , , , , , saragossa, , , - sassoferrato, giovanni battista salvi, _of_, , schack, adolf fred. von, scott, sir walter, segovia, , - , , , , , , _seises_, dancing of, _los_, , , , , seneca, servet, miguel, seville, , , , , , , , , , , , - , , , , , , shakespeare, william, , , , , sidney, sir philip, , siege of gerona, , - siege of saragossa, , - sierra nevada, the, , sigüenza, , , , , , siloe, gil de, simancas, archives of, soldiers in spanish literature, , , , , , soto, domingo de, southwell, robert, spencer, herbert, , spínola, marquis, , , , stirling-maxwell, sir william, street, george e., , suárez, francisco, , switzerland, , , tagus, river, , , , , , , talavera, fernando de, bishop, , tannenberg, m. boris de, tarifa, siege of, tarragona, , , , , , teresa, saint, , , , , , , - , , , , theodosius, emperor, theotokopaulos, domenikos, _see_ el greco thompson, francis, , ticknor, george, , , tintoretto, jocopo robusti, _called_, , tirso de molina (gabriel téllez), titian, tiziano vecelli, _called_, , , , , toledo, , , , , , , , , , , - , , toledo, archbishops of, , , , , tolstoi, count lyoff, tormes, river, , tostado, bishop alfonso de madrigal, el, toulouse, townsend, rev. joseph, , trajan, emperor, , , , , trujillo, , urraca, of zamora, doña, , valdés, sr. armando palacio, , , valencia, , , , , , , valera y alcalá galiano, juan, , , , , - , , , , valladolid, , - , , , , van dyke, sir anthony, vargas, luis de, vasari, giorgio, vega, garcelaso de la, _see_ garcilaso vega carpio, lope felix de, , , , , , velarde, pedro, , velasco, pedro fernández, constable, velasquez, diego de silva y, , , , , , , , , , , venice, , , verdaguer, jacinto, veronese, paolo caliari, _called_, vézinet, monsieur f., victoria-eugenia, queen of spain, doña, , , , , , , , vigarni, felipe de, , , , vigo, , , , villena, marqués de, vives, juan luis, , , vincent de paul, saint, wamba, king, wars, carlist, , , , , , , war, peninsula, , , , , - , - war, spanish-american, , washington, george, , watson, mr. william, _quoted_, , , wellington, duke of, , , westminster abbey, , , wesley, john, weyden, rogier van der, women, spanish, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , wood carvings, spanish, , , , , , , , _illustration_ worcester, cathedral, wordsworth, william, , xavier, st. francis, , , xerez, _see_ jerez de la frontera ximena, _see_ jimena ximenez de cisneros, francisco, cardinal, , , , , , - , , , , yuste, convent of, , , zamora, , , - , , , , , , , zaragoza, _see_ saragossa zola, emile, , zumárraga, , zurbaran, francisco, , , * * * * * the following typographical errors have been corrected by the etext transcriber: husbands, husbands to claim their wives.=>husbands to claim their wives. folded handerchiefs=>folded handkerchiefs masssive roman walls=>massive roman walls leôn cathedral>león cathedral direct rout from paris=>direct route from paris philip v turned into an artificial french pleasure ground=>philip v turned it into an artificial french pleasure ground you walk about the valasquez room bewildered>=you walk about the velasquez room bewildered one throughly disagreeable=>one thoroughly disagreeable chrismas fiestas began=>christmas fiestas began á l'état civil=>à l'état civil a politican, and a journalist=>a politician, and a journalist good literary quailty=>good literary quality sense to preceive the best=>sense to perceive the best and to that unforgetable=>and to that unforgettable hotel corrridors would be=>hotel corridors would be where agustus cæsar=>where augustus cæsar she is too agressive=>she is too aggressive murray's "handbook"=>murray's "hand-book" calderon=>calderón portico=>pórtico alba de tormés=>alba de tormes oviedo la sacra, toledo la rica, sevilla la grande, salamanaca la fuerte, león la bella=>oviedo la sacra, toledo la rica, sevilla la grande, salamanca la fuerte, león la bella parmegianino, mazzuoli of parma=>parmigianino, mazzuoli of parma el greco (domenikos theotocopoulos)=>el greco (domenikos theotokopoulos) * * * * * footnotes: [ ] from the latin word _solum_, ground. [ ] "c'est un pois qui a l'ambition d'être un haricot et qui réussit trop bien." thÉophile gautier "voyage en espagne." [ ] "las inteligencias más humildas comprenden las ideas más elevadas; y los que economizan la verdad y la publican sólo cuando están seguros de ser comprendidos viven en grandisimo error, porque la verdad, aunque no sea comprendida, ejerce misteriosas influencias y conduce por cáminos ocultos a las sublimidades más puras, alas que brotan incomprensibles y espontáneas de las almas vulgares." angel ganivet: "idearium español." [ ] when the duke of osuna, the spanish ambassador to england in elizabeth's reign, dropped some pearls of price from his embroidered cloak, he disdained to pick them up. a nobler form of castilian haughtiness was that of the marqués de villena who, refusing to live in his palace after a traitor (the constable de bourbon) had been lodged there, set fire to it. there is something that appeals to the imagination in many of the privileges of spanish nobles. thus the marqués de astorga to-day, is hereditary canon in león cathedral, because one of the osorios fought in the battle of clavijo, in . [ ] the blood of the cid flows to-day in the veins of alfonso xiii through his descent both from the french bourbons and from spain's earlier royal house. a daughter of the campeador married an infante of navarre, whose granddaughter married sancho iii of castile. the son of this king was the good and great alfonso viii _él de las navas_, who, married to eleanor of england (they both lie buried in las huelgas), was grandfather alike of st. ferdinand iii of castile and st. louis ix of france. [ ] translated by ormsby. [ ] "ancient spanish ballads," translated by lockhart. [ ] llorente, a bitter assailant of the inquisition, gives the number of victims as , . llorente was traitor to his country during the invasion of the french and fled ignominiously on their defeat, pensioned during his later years by the freemasons of paris; he falsified basque history to win the corrupt godoy's favour (von ranke's statement); an ex-priest he assisted in church robbery. would benedict arnold be accepted as an authority on the american revolution? the encyclopedia brittanica, even in its ninth edition, has in its sketch on spain, the following curious assertion--"bigotry and fanaticism which led to the destruction of hundreds of thousands of victims at the hands of the inquisition." even the political victims in the netherlands under the inexorable alba, who did to death some , people, cannot swell the number to a fraction of this statement. and if the netherlands' victims are to be laid to the door of religious persecution, then must the massacres in ireland of the inexorable cromwell come under the same heading: as an englishman judges cromwell apart from his crimes, so a spaniard sees more in alva than his felonies. history presented to us in parallel columns would do much toward giving us fairer views. [ ] described by an eyewitness, the brave gentlewoman, mrs. willoughby. see: "english martyrs," vol. i and ii of the c. t. s. publications: paternoster row: london. dr. thomas addis emmet in "ireland under english rule" (putnam's sons, n. y. ) gives occurrences equally terrible. [ ] i do not mention in this list archbishop cranmer and his fellow prelates, latimer and ridley, since having been persecutors themselves they may be said to have reaped under mary tudor what they had sowed under edward vi. they were condemned and executed by the laws which they had made and put in force against unitarians and anabaptists. [ ] h. c. lea, whose ill-digested mass of facts torn from their proper context are as representative of spain as the accounts of a foreigner who had studied only the police reports of america, would be of us. [ ] "l'inquisition fût, d'abord, plus politique que religieuse, et destinée à maintenir l'ordre plutôt qu'à défendre la foi," says the protestant historian guizot (hist. mod. lect. ii). [ ] every spanish child knows the story of guzmán _el bueno_ at tarifa. the rebel infante threatened to kill guzmán's son, were the city not surrendered, whereupon the hero flung his own knife down from the walls; rather the death of him he loved best than disloyalty to his trust and king. the boy was killed under his father's eyes. when the tomb of this national hero was opened in , the skeleton discovered was nine feet long, just as jaime i _el conquistador_, a contemporary of guzmán, was found to be of gigantic proportions when the pantheon of the aragonese kings in poblet was sacked in . [ ] "león cathedral is indeed in almost every respect worthy to be ranked among the noblest churches in europe. its detail is rich and beautiful throughout, the plan very excellent, the sculptures with which it is adorned quite equal in quality and character to that of any church of the age, and the stained glass with which its windows are filled some of the best in europe." g. e. street: "gothic architecture in spain." [ ] "libro del paso honroso" written by an eye witness, pero rodríguez de lena. prescott says that no country has been more fruitful in the field of historical composition than spain. the chronicles date from the twelfth century, every great family, every town and every city had its chronicler. compare the minute details we have of cortés in mexico about , with the meager accounts we find of the north american settlers some generations later. [ ] it is amusing to find napier, whose "history of the peninsula war" is one of the most one-sided of chronicles, laying down the law in this fashion: "the english are a people very subject to receive and to cherish false impressions, proud of their credulity, as if it were a virtue, the majority will adopt any fallacy, and cling to it with a tenacity proportioned to its grossness." [ ] frequently in spain one comes on irish names among the leading families. the o'donnells, dukes of tetuán, have had several generations of distinguished men. in the th century count alexander o'reilly led the spanish armies in the new world and the old, and when governor of andalusia, he so reformed economic conditions in cadiz that a beggar was unknown on the streets. he too was followed by an able son. reading spanish books the traces of irish exiles are many: thus a doña lucía fitzgerald organized and drilled a woman's regiment during the siege of gerona in ; and the beautiful wife of the poet campoamor was a doña guillermina o'gorman. "we're all over austria, france, and spain, said kelly, and burke, and shea." [ ] "l'un des signes distinctifs des mystiques c'est justement l'équilibre absolu, l'entier bon sens." j.-k. huysmans: "_en route_." [ ] "la mystique est une science absolument exacte. elle peut annoncer d'avance la plupart des phénomènes qui se produisent dans une âme que le seigneur destine à la vie parfaite; elle suit aussi nettement les opérations spirituelles que la physiologie observe les états différents du corps. de siècles en siècles, elle a divulgué la marche de la grâce et ses effets tantôt impétueux et tantôt lents; elle a même précisé les modifications des organes matériels qui se transforment quand l'âme tout entière se fond en dieu. saint denys l'aréopagite, saint bonaventure, hugues et richard de saint victor, saint thomas d'aquin, saint bernard, ruysbroeck, angèle de foligno, les deux eckhart, tauler, suso, denys le chartreux, sainte hildegarde, sainte catherine de gênes, sainte catherine de sienne, sainte madeleine de pazzi, sainte gertrude, d'autres encore ont magistralement exposé les principes et les théories de la mystique." j.-k. huysmans: "_en route_." [ ] it has been said that there never was a spiritually minded man, who, knowing saint teresa's works, was not devoted to them. in his "journal intime," that most distinguished prelate of modern france, mgr. dupanloup, wrote: "la vie de sainte térèse m'y a charmé.... j'ai rarement reçu, dans ma vie, une bénédiction, une impression de grâce plus simple et plus profonde." [ ] "just as the church of rome has absorbed platonism in the doctrine of the logos and of the trinity, and has absorbed aristotelianism in the doctrine of christ's real presence in the eucharist, so we may naturally expect that in its doctrine of its own nature, it will some day absorb formally, having long done so informally, the main ideas of that evolutionary philosophy, which many people regard as destined to complete its downfall; and that it will find in this philosophy--in the philosophy of the darwins, the spencers, and the huxleys--a scientific explanation of its own teaching authority, like that which is found in aristotle for its doctrine of transubstantiation.... it may be said that the roman church itself developed without being conscious of its own scientific character, just as men were for ages unconscious of the circulation of their own blood.... like an animal seeking nutriment it put forth its feelers or tentacles on all sides, seizing, tasting, and testing all forms of human thought, all human opinions, and all alleged discoveries. it absorbs some of these into itself, and extracts their nutritive principles; it immediately rejects some as poisonous or indigestible; and gradually expels from its system others, condemned as heresies, which it has accidentally or experimentally swallowed." w. h. mallock: "doctrine and doctrinal disruption." . [ ] moro made a replica of this portrait (or perhaps the prado picture is the replica) which mary gave to her master of horse. it now fortunately is in america, in mrs. j. l. gardner's notable collection in _fenway court_, boston. it is hard to recognize in the mary of the flemish master the queen of whom motley wrote in his "dutch republic": "tyrant, bigot, and murderess ... small, lean and sickly, painfully nearsighted yet with an eye of fierceness and fire, her face wrinkled by lines of care and evil passions." [ ] "io cristiano viejo soy, y para ser conde esto me basta"--old spanish proverb, quoted by sancho panza. proverbs, which cervantes called "short sentences drawn from long experience," often show the qualities of a race. in many of the popular sayings of castile is found the strong feeling of manhood's equality: "cuando dios amanece, para todos amanece." "mientras que duermen todos son iguales." "no ocupo más pies de tierra el cuerpo del papa que el del sacristan." [ ] see the frontispiece: portrait of an hidalgo, by el greco. [ ] "nunca la lanza embotó la pluma, ni la pluma la lanza,"--old spanish proverb. [ ] "the hound of heaven": francis thompson. [ ] "donde hay música, no puede haber cosa mala."--spanish proverb. [ ] "spain is one of the few countries in europe where poverty is not treated with contempt, and i may add, where the wealthy are not blindly idolized."--george borrow: "the bible in spain." [ ] our lady of victory is the patroness of the _cigarreras_. [ ] "o trois fois saints chanoines! dormez doucement sous votre dalle, â l'ombre de votre cathédrale chérie, tandis que votre âme se prelasse au paradis dans une stalle probablement moins bien sculptée que celle de votre ch[oe]ur!" thÉophile gautier: "voyage en espagne." [ ] "one of the commonest types among the greek figurines, certainly representing the average greek lady, might be supposed to represent a spanish lady, so closely does the face, the dress, the mantilla-like covering of the head, the erect and dignified carriage, recall modern spain." "the soul of spain."--havelock-ellis. [ ] the same trait is shown in the astonishingly fecund theater of spain, where is found for one golden century the indelible mark of the race. first came lope de vega with his dashing picaresque comedies _de capa y espada_, that more induce to laughter than to vice, the vigorous and supple lope, whom all nations have "found good to steal from." then followed the powerful tirso de molina, a dramatist of vision and passion, and ruiz de alacón with his high ethical aim and equal execution, and finally calderón, who in the midst of his plays shows himself an exquisite lyric poet. in seville we used to see what would here be a dime-museum crowd pouring into an hour's bit of frolic, such as benevente's "intereses creados," of the true cape-and-sword type. those plays which we personally saw proved to us valera's words, that erotic literature rises in sadness and pessimism, not in the hearty bravura and zest of life of the spanish theater. [ ] "es menester mucho tiempo para venir á conocer las personas," is one of sancho panza's wise saws. [ ] see "l'espagne littéraire" by boris de tannenberg (paris, ). [ ] "surely chivalry is not dead!" exclaimed lieut. r. p. hobson when describing the courteous treatment he, as prisoner, had received from the spanish officers: "the history of warfare probably contains no instance of chivalry on the part of captors greater than that of those who fired on the 'merrimac.'" the gallant american's account of his feat in santiago harbor proves that spínola's spirit survives on both sides of the atlantic. [ ] "in gerona cathedral there was a cat who would stroll about in front of the _capilla mayor_ during the progress of mass, receiving the caresses of the passers-by. it would be a serious mistake to see here any indifference to religion, on the contrary, this easy familiarity with sacred things is simply the attitude of those who in wordsworth's phrase, "lie in abraham's bosom all the year," and do not, as often among ourselves, enter a church once a week to prove how severely respectable, for the example of others, we can show ourselves." "the soul of spain"--havelock ellis ( ). [ ] an idea of spain's romance of soul can be gathered from the rules and regulations of her national police, the civil guard, who may be called the descendants of isabella's _santa hermandad_. " . honour must be the chief motive for the civil guard, to be preserved intact and without a flaw. once gone, honour can never be regained. " ... . the force must be an example to the country of neatness, order, bearing, good morals and spotless honour.... " . the civil guard ought to be regarded as the protector of the afflicted, inspiring confidence when seen approaching.... for the civil guard must freely give his life for the good of any sufferer. " ... . whenever a member of the civil guard has the good fortune to render a service to anyone, he must never accept, if offered, a reward, bearing in mind that he has done nothing but his simple duty. " ... . the civil guard will refrain with the greatest scrupulousness from drawing near to listen to any knot of people in street, shop, or private house, for this would be an act of espionage, altogether outside the office and beneath the dignity of any member of the force." that such rules have molded her exemplary constabulary, no one will deny who has traveled much in spain. they are loved and respected by the people; witness this popular song: "atenta á la vida humana siempre la guardia civil ... y por eso en todas partes benediciones la acompañan, por eso dios la protege cuando al peligro se lanza, por eso la canto yo con el corazón y el alma: viva la guardia civil porque es la gloria de españa!" [ ] this most beautiful church, dating before the crusades, one of the most ancient, with the asturian churches, santa maría de naranco and san miguel de lino, in all the peninsula, was totally destroyed by the socialist mob, in the riots of july, . [ ] "el principio de la salud está en conocer la enfermedad."--old spanish proverb. books. glories of spain [illustration: interior of zaragoza cathedral.] glories of spain by charles w. wood, f.r.g.s., author of "letters from majorca," "in the valley of the rhone," etc., etc. [illustration] with eighty-five illustrations. london macmillan and co., limited new york: the macmillan company london: printed by william clowes and sons, limited. stamford street and charing cross. contents. chapter i. at the gare d'orlÉans. on calais quay--at the custom-house--a lady of the past--ungallant examiner--better to reign than serve--paris--vanity fair--sowing and reaping--laughing through life--at the hôtel chatham--a pleasant picture--in maiden meditation--m. pascal is wise in his generation--the secrets of the seine--notre dame--ile st. louis--a mediæval atmosphere--victor hugo--ghosts of the hôtel lambert--h. c. again--his little comedy--m. the inspector--outraged ladies--"en voiture, messieurs!"--mystery not cleared--the orléanais--la vendée--garden of france--a dilemma--polite chef de gare--crossing the garonne--land of corn and wine chapter ii. a narbonne hostess. carcassonne--in feudal times--simon de montfort--canal du midi--l'âge d'or et le grand monarque--a modern golden fleece--one of earth's fair scenes--choice of evils--m. le chef yields--narbonne--a woman of parts--the course of true love runs smooth--_diner de contrat_--honey _versus the lune de miel_--madame's philosophy--_l'allée des soupirs_--an unfinished cathedral--at the gloaming hour--mystery and devotion--the hôtel de ville--a domestic drama--high festival and champagne--the next morning--h. c. repentant--madame at her post--ambrosial breakfast--"il faut payer pour ses plaisirs"--dramatic exit--perpignan--home of the kings of majorca--elne--"adieu, ma chère france!"--over the frontier--gerona--crowded platform--what h. c. thought--unpoetical incident--from the sublime to the ridiculous chapter iii. black coffee--and a confession. continued uproar--h. c. disillusioned--a dark night--not like another cæsar--more crowds--a demon scene--fair time--glorious days of the past--in marble halls and labyrinthine passages--our excellent host--his substantial partner--contented minds--picturesque court--songless nightingales--conscription--h. c.'s modesty--our host appreciative but personal--bears the torch of genius--a mistake--below the salt--host's fair daughters--catalonian women--the silent enigma--remarkable priest--good intentions--lecture on black coffee--confessions--benjamin's portions--a gifted nature chapter iv. a night vision. wrong turnings--h. c.'s gifts and graces--out at night--the arcades of gerona--at the fair--ancient outlines--demons at work--in the dry bed of the river--roasting chestnuts--mediæval outlines--in the vortex--clairvoyantes and lion-tamers--clown's despair--deserted streets--vision of the night--haunted staircase--dark and dangerous--a small grievance--the reeds by the river--cry of the watchmen--hare and hounds--fair rosamund--jacob's ladder--new rendering to old proverbs--cathedral by night--h. c. oblivious--scent fails--return to earth--romantic story--last of a long line--_el sereno!_--the witching hour--h. c. unserenaded--next morning--grey skies--a false prophet--magic picture--cathedral by day--mediæval dreams chapter v. gerona the beautiful. a gerona señora--grace and charm--lord of creation--morning greeting--arcades and ancient houses--conscription--gerona a discovery--streets of steps--ancient eaves and rare ironwork--old-world corner--desecrated church--gothic cloisters--ghosts of the past--visions of to-day--soldiers interested--"happy as kings"--lingerings--colonel seeks explanation--no lover of antiquity--more conscription--dramatic scene--pedro to the rescue--mother and son--sad story--strong and merciful--pedro grateful--restricted interests--colonel becomes impenetrable again chapter vi. anselmo the priest. beauties of age--apostles' doorway--how the old bishops kept out of temptation--interior of cathedral--its vast nave--days of charlemagne--and of the moors--a giant dwarfed--rare choir--surly priest--and a more kindly--our showman--dazzling treasures--father anselmo--romantic story--heaven or the world?--doubts--the gentle rosalie decides--sister anastasia--told in the sacristy--a heart-confession--anselmo's mysticism--heresy--charms of antiquity--scene of his triumph--celestial vision--church of san pedro--pagan interior--rare cloisters--desecrated church--singular scene--chiaroscuro--miguel the carpenter--his opinions--daily life a religion--anselmo improves his opportunity--"a reflected light"--ruined citadel--war of succession--alvarez and marshall--gerona in decadence--a revelation--dreamland--midday vision chapter vii. a day of encounters. "can a prophet come out of galilee?"--the unexpected happens--under the probe--wise reservation--born to command--contrasts--nothing new under the sun--the señora prepares for the fair--grievance not very deep seated--bewitching appearance--señora dramatic--ernesto--marriage a lottery--every cloud its silver lining--gerona _en fête_--delormais' mission--deceptive appearances--evils of conscription--ernesto's ambition--les beaux jours de la vie--rosalie--a fair picture--strange similarity--heavenwards--anastasia or rosalie--her dreams and visions--modern paul and virginia--eternal possession--a gerona saint--the better part--more heresy--fénélon--one creed, one worship--not peace but a sword--not dead to the world--angel of mercy--h. c. mistaken--earthly idyll chapter viii. mother and son. demons at work--in the crowd--ernesto and his mother--roasted chestnuts--instrument of torture--new school of anatomy--rhine-stones or diamonds?--happy mother--honest confession--danger of edged tools--cayenne lozenges for the monkeys--joseph--early compliments--ernesto pleads in vain--down by the river--music of the reeds--rich prospect--faust--singers of the world--joseph takes tickets--gerona keeps late hours--its little great world--between the acts--successful evening--in the dark night--on the bridge--silence and solitude--astral bodies--joseph turns job's comforter--magnetism--delormais psychological--alone in the streets--saluting the church militant--haunted staircase again--sighs and rustlings--h. c. retires--"drink to me only with thine eyes"--delormais' challenge--leads the way--illumination--coffee equipage--"only the truth is painful"--lost in reverie chapter ix. delormais. magnetism--past life--impulsive nature--first impressions--perfumed airs--a gentle spirit--haunted groves--blue waters of the levant--great devotion--a rose-blossom--back to the angels--special providence--fair provence--charmed days--excursions--isles of greece--ossa and pelion--city of the violet crown--spinning-jennies have something to answer for--olympus--Ægina--groves of the sacred plain--narrow escapes--pleasures of home-coming--rainbow atmosphere--orange and lemon groves--the nightingales--impressionable childhood--fresh plans--the abbé rivière--rare faculty--domestic chaplain--debt of gratitude--treasure-house of strength given to hospitality--first great sorrow--passing away--resolve to travel--"i can no more"--the old adam dies hard--chance decides chapter x. delormais' romance. rome--count albert--happy months--sweets of companionship--egypt--strange things--quiet weeks--sinai--freedom of the desert--crossing the red sea--mount serbal--convent of st. catherine--in the valley of the saint--tomb of sheikh saleh--pools of solomon--jerusalem the golden--bethel--lebanon--home again--fresh scenes--algeria--hanging gardens of the sahel--mount bubor and its glories--rash act--at the twilight hour--earthly paradise--fair eve--fervent love--arouya--nature's revenge--not to last--eternal requiem of the sea--in the backwoods--hunting wolves--prairies of california--honolulu--active volcanoes--lake of fire--rare birds and wild-flowers--worship of peleus--an eruption--mighty upheaval--coast of labrador--shooting bears chapter xi. monseigneur. great conflict--returning to paris--count albert married--marriages declined--love buried in the grave of arouya--frivolities--napoleon at the tuileries--illness--doctors' errors--days of horror--vow registered--between life and death--victory--home again--abbé's objections--resolve strengthened--death of the abbé--taking vows--life of energy and action--rapid sketch--sympathies--all ordained--"monseigneur"--"mon ami"--cry of the watchmen--candles wax dim and blue--wandering in dreams--false prophet--h. c. rises with the lark--beauty of gerona--pathetic scene--colonel administers consolation--widow's heart sings for joy--in the cloisters again--good-bye--in the cathedral--anselmo--sunshine over all--miguel--on the ruined citadel--anselmo's signal--a glory departs chapter xii. a ministering spirit. sweet illusions--everything seen and done--true devotion--in the vortex--sunshine and blue skies--less demon-like pit--lights and shadows--arcades lose their gloom--rosalie--charm of anselmo--romance not dead--h. c. in ecstasy--escorting an angel--cathedral steps--san filiu--a lovely spot--ancient house--mullions and latticed windows--passing away--rosalie's ministrations--resignation--rosalie's farewell--"consuelo"--taken from the evil to come--the door closed--ernesto's world topsy-turvy--ernesto turns business-like--the catapult again--up the broad staircase--not the ghostly hour--madame in her bureau--posting ledger--balance on right side--madame philosophises--shrieks to the rescue--"my dear daughter"--our host and the nightingales--waiting for next year's leaves--the señorita costello--delormais on the wing--another vigil--promise given--departure--inspector quails--h. c. collapses--the susceptible age--lady maria alters her will--possession nine-tenths of the law chapter xiii. a world's wonder. barcelona--h. c.'s anxiety--mutual salutes--old impressions--disappointment--familiar cries and scenes--flower-sellers--perpetual summer--commercial element--manchester of spain--surrounding country--where care comes not--barcelonita--the quays--a land of corn and wine--relaxing air--lovely ladies--ancient element conspicuous by its absence--historical past--great in the middle ages--wise and powerful--commerce of the world--wealth and learning--waxes voluptuous--ferdinand and isabella--diplomatic but not grateful--brave and courageous--fell before peterborough--napoleon's treachery--republican people--prosperous once more--ecclesiastical treasures--matchless cathedral--inspiration--influence of the moors--work of majorcan architect--dream-world--imposing scene chapter xiv. in the cloisters of san pablo. in the cloisters--sacred geese--bishop's palace--house of the inquisition--striking quadrangles--_ajimez_ windows--a rare cloister--desecration--library--rare mss.--polite librarian--romantic atmosphere--santa maria del mar--cloisters of santa anna--sister of mercy--san pablo del campo--more dream cloisters--communing with ghosts and shadows--spring and winter--constant visitor--centenarian--chief architect--cathedrals of catalonia--barbarous town-council--hard fight and victory--failing vision--emblems of death--laid aside--wholesome lessons--placing the keystone--_finis_--_resurgam_--charmed hour--possessing the soul in patience--city of refuge chapter xv. montserrat. early rising--imp of darkness--death warrant--the men who fail--ranges of montserrat--sabadell--labour and romance--the llobregat--monistrol--summer resort--sleeping village--empty letter-bags--ascending--splendid view--romantic element--charms of antiquity--human interests--mons serratus--a man of letters--_solitude à deux_--fellow-travellers--substantial lady-merchant--resignation--military policeman--"nameless here for evermore"--round man in square hole--romantic history--_cherchez la femme_--woman a divinity--good name the best inheritance--no fighting against the stars--fascinations of astrology--love and fortune--too good to last--taste for pleasure--ruin--sad end--truth reasserts itself--fortune smiles again--ceylon--philosophical in misfortune--a windfall--approaching montserrat--paradise of the monks--romance and beauty--new order of things--gipsy encampment chapter xvi. a hidden genius. monk's face--superfluous virtue--"welcome to montserrat"--mean advantage--exacting but not mercenary--another miguel--missing keys--singular monk--hospederia--uncertainty--monk's idea of luxury--rare prospect--haunted by silence--father salvador privileged--monk sees ghosts--under miguel's escort--in the church--departed glory--the black image--gothic and norman outlines--franciscan monk or ghost?--vision of the past--days of persecution--sensible image--great community--harmony of the spheres--sad cypresses--life of a hermit--monk's story--loving the world--penitence--plucked from the burning--talent developed--a world apart--false interest--salvador--temptation and a compromise--salvador extemporises--"all the magic of the hour"--salvador's belief--waiting for manifestations. chapter xvii. salvador the monk. gipsies--picturesque scene--love passages--h. c. invited to festive board--saved by lady maria's astral visitation--the fortune-teller--h. c. yields to persuasion--fate foretold--warnings--photograph solicited--darkness and mystery--night scene--gipsies depart--weird experiences--troubled dreams--mysterious sounds--ghost appears--h. c. sleeps the sleep of the just--egyptian darkness--in the cold morning--salvador keeps his word--breakfast by candle-light--romantic scene--salvador turns to the world--agreeable companion--musician's nature--miguel and the mule--leaving the world behind--darkness flies--st. michael's chapel--sunrise and glory--marvellous scene--magic atmosphere--salvador's ecstasy--consents to take luncheon--heavenly strains--"not farewell"--departs in solitary sadness--last of the funny monk chapter xviii. a study in grey. manresa--tropical deluge--rash judgment--catalan hills and valleys--striking approach--taking time by the forelock--primitive inn--strange assembly--unpleasant alternative--sebastien--manresa under a cloud--wonderful outlines--disappointing church--sebastien leads the way--old-world streets--picturesque and pathetic--popular character--"what would you, señor?"--sebastien's biblical knowledge at fault--lesson deferred--a revelation--la seo--church cold and lifeless--cave of ignatius loyola--hermitage of st. dismas--juan chanones--fasting and penance--visions and revelations--spiritual warfare--eve of the annunciation--exchanging dresses--knight turns monk--juan pascual--loyola comes to manresa--fanaticism--vale of paradise--"spiritual exercises"--founding the jesuit order--dying to self--the fair anita--in the convent chapel--two novices--vision of angels--the white ladies--agonising moment--another romeo and juliet--back to the hotel--sebastien disconsolate--"to-morrow the sun will shine"--building castles in the air--a prophecy fulfilled chapter xix. lerida. picturesque country--approaching lerida--rambling inn--remarkable duenna--toothless and voiceless--smiles upon h. c.--nearly expires--civilised chef--a procession--lerida dragon--city of the dead--night study--charging dead walls--a night encounter--armed demon--wise people--watchman proves an old friend--no promotion--locked out--rousing the echoes--night porter appears on the scene--also el sereno--apologetic and repentant--the charming rose--porter congratulates himself--cloudless morning--h. c. confronted by the dragon--in the hands of the philistines--a lerida fine art--boot-cleaner in ordinary--remarkable character--h. c. hilarious--steals a march chapter xx. the story of a life. lerida by daylight--second city in catalonia--past history--days of the goths--and moors--becomes a bishopric--troublous times--brave people--striking cathedral--splendid outlines--desecration--the new cathedral--senseless tyranny--one of the most interesting of towns--crowded market-place--picturesque arcades and ancient gateways--wine-pressers--good offer refused--another revelation--wonderful streets--amongst the immortals--our boot-cleaner in ordinary again--thereby hangs a tale--his story--blind wife--modest request--nerissa--charming room--little queen in the arm-chair--faultless picture--renouncements but no regrets--"all a new world"--time to pass out of life--back to the quiet streets--h. c. contemplative--proposes emigration to salt lake city--lerida glorified by its idyll chapter xxi. the end of an idyll. days of chivalry not over--in the evening light--night porter grateful--dragon in full force--combative and revengeful--equal to the occasion--gall turns to sweetness when h. c. appears--last night in lerida--bane of our host's life--mysterious disappearance--monastery of sigena--devout ladies--returning at night--place empty and deserted--birds flown with keys--quite a commotion--"the señor is pleased to joke"--was murder committed?--mysteries explained--probably down the well--drag for skeletons--host's horror--"we drink the water"--a tragedy--out in the quiet night--discords--lerida café--create a sensation--polite captain--offer declined--regrets--final crash--paradise or lerida--deserted market-place--trees whisper their secrets--el sereno at the witching hour--hard upon the angels--not a bed of roses--alphonse--end of a long life--until the dawn--acolyte and priest--"we must all come to it, señor"--el sereno disappears for the last time--daybreak--in presence of death--alone, but resigned--surpassing loveliness--sacred atmosphere chapter xxii. a sad history. broad plains of aragon--wonderful tones--approaching zaragoza--celestial vision--distance lends enchantment--commonplace people--the ancient modernised--disillusion followed by delight--almost a small paris--cafés and their merits--not socially attractive--friendly equality--mixture of classes--inheritance of the past--interesting streets--arcades and gables--lively scenes--people in costume--picture of old spain--ancient palaces--one especially romantic--the world well lost--fair lucia--where love might reign for ever--paradise not for this world--doomed--the last dawn--inconsolable--seeking death--found on the battlefield--a day vision--few rivals--in the new cathedral--startling episode--asking alms--young and fair--uncomfortable moment--terrible story--fatal chains--"and after?"--how minister to a mind diseased?--sunshine clouded--burden of life--any way of escape?--suggestions of past centuries--the mighty fallen chapter xxiii. in zaragoza. bygone days--sumptuous roosting--old exchange--traders of taste--glory of aragon--cathedral of la seo--modernised exterior--interior charms and mesmerises--next to barcelona--magnifice effect--parish church--moorish ceiling--tomb of bernardo de aragon--the old priest--waxes enthusiastic--supernatural effect--statuette of benedict xiii.--mysterious chiaroscuro--one exception--alonza the warrior--moorish tiles--bishop's palace--frugal meal--trace of old zaragoza--fifteenth century house--juanita--streets of the city--cæsarea augusta--worship of the virgin--alonzo the moor--determined resistance--days of struggle--falling--return to prosperity--fair maid of zaragoza--the aljaferia--ancient palace of the moorish kings--injured by suchet--salon of santa isabel--spanish café--four generations--lovely voice--lamartine's _le lac_--recognised--reading between the lines--out in the night air--an inspiration--night vision of el pilar--in the far future chapter xxiv. the canon's hospitality. el pilar by day--in the old cathedral--the canon reproachful--equal to the occasion--no pressure needed--_un diner maigre_--dream of forty years--true to time--juanita--fruits of long service--exploring juanita's domains--house of magic--"surely not a fast-day"--artistic dreams--who can legislate after death?--canon's abstinence--juanita withdraws--our opportunity--canon earnest and sympathetic--eugenie de colmar--canon's surprise--an old friend--truth stranger than fiction--"you will forget the old priest"--ingratitude not one of our sins--arivederci--canon's letter--end of eugenie's story--en route for tarragona--landlord turns up at lerida--missing keys--skeletons floated out to panama--domestic drama--dragon again to the front--tarragona--matchless coast scene--civilised inn--military element--haunted house--mystery unsolved--distinct elements--roman and other remains--dream of the past--green pastures and sunny vineyards chapter xxv. quasimodo. tarragona by night--cathedral--moonlight vision--dream-fabric--deserted streets--ghostly form approaches--quilp or quasimodo?--redeeming qualities--pale spiritual face--open sesame--approaching the apparition--question and answer--invitation accepted--prisoners--the shadow--under the cold moonlight--enter cathedral--vast interior--gloom and silence--fantastic effects--enigma solved--strange proceeding--no inspiration--why quasimodo turned night into day--weird moonlight scene--soft sweet sounds--schumann's träumerei--spellbound--the magician--witching hour--cathedral ghosts--an eternity of music--varying moods--returning to earth--quasimodo's rapture--travelling moonbeams--night grows old--sky full of music--lost to sight--dreams haunted by quasimodo--new day chapter xxvi. in the days of the romans. charms of tarragona--roman traces--cyclopean remains--augustus closes temple of janus--great past--house of pontius pilate--view from ramparts--feluccas with white sails set--life a paradise--city walls--cathedral outlines--lively market-place--remarkable exterior--dream-world--west doorways--internal effect--in the cloisters--proud sacristan--man of taste and learning--delighted with our enthusiasm--great concession--appealing to the soul--señor ancora--human or angelic?--in the cloister garden--sacristan's domestic troubles--silent ecclesiastic--sad history--church of san pablo--challenge invited--future genius--rare picture--roman aqueduct--a modern cæsar--reminiscences--rich country--where the best wines are made--aqueduct--el puente del diablo--giddy heights--lonely valley--h. c. sentimental--rosalie and fair costello--romantic situation--quarrelsome reus--masters of the world--our driver turns umpire--battle averted--men of reus--whatever is, is wrong--driver's philosophy--dream of the centuries chapter xxvii. loretta. our ubiquitous host--curious mixture of nations--francisco--his enthusiasm carries the point--french lessons--english prejudice--landlord's lament--days of fair provence--francisco determines to be in time--presidio--tomb of the scipios--fishing for sardines--early visit to cathedral--still earlier sacristan--francisco's delight--freshness of early morning--reus--bark worse than bite--where headaches come from--an evil deed--valley of the francoli--moorish remains--montblanch--the graceful hills of spain--espluga--francisco equal to occasion--beseiged--donkeys versus carriage--interesting old town--decadence--singular woman--loretta's escort--strange story--unconscious charm--what happened one sunday evening--caro--"the right man never came"--comes now--how she was betrothed--primitive conveyance--making the best of it--wine-pressers--loving cup--nectar of the gods--fair exchange--rough drive--scene of loretta's adventures chapter xxviii. the ruins of poblet. a dream-world--ruins--chapel of st. george--archways and gothic windows--atmosphere of the middle ages--convent doorway--summons but no response--door opens at last--comfortable looking woman--ready invention--confusion worse confounded--true version--francisco painfully direct--guardian gets worst of it--picturesque decay--gothic cloisters--visions of beauty--rare wilderness--king martin the humble--bacchanalian days--when the monks quaffed malvoisie--simple grandeur of the church--philip duke of wharton--cistercian monastery--history of poblet the monk--monastery becomes celebrated--tombs of the kings of aragon--guardian sceptical--paradise or wilderness--monks all-powerful--escorial of aragon--the great traveller--changing for the worst--upholding the kingly power--time rolls on--downfall--attacked and destroyed--infuriated mob--fictitious treasures--fiendish act--massacre--ruined monastery--blood-red sunset--superstition--end of chapter xxix. lorenzo. day visions--all passes away--end of the feast--francisco gathers up the fragments--ghosts of the past--outside the monastery--oasis in a desert--after the vintage--francisco gleans--guilty conscience--custom of country--dessert--primitive watering-place--off to the fair--groans and lamentations--sagacious animal--cause of sorrows--rage and anger--donkey listens and understands--a hard life--washing a luxury--charity bestowed--deserted settlement--quaint interior--back to the monastery--invidious comparisons--a promise--good-bye to poblet--troubled sea again--suffering driver--atonement for sins--earns paradise--wine-pressers again--rich stores--good samaritans--quaint old town--bygone prosperity--lorenzo--marriage made in heaven--house inspected--on the bridge--at the station--kindly offer--glorious sunset--loretta's good-bye--"what shall it be?"--flying moments--as the train rolls off. chapter xxx. the garden of spain. charms of tarragona--dream of the past--quasimodo comes not--of another world--host's offer--francisco inconsolable--a mixed sorrow--no more holidays--list of grievances--fair scene--luxuriance of the south--hospitalet--pilgrims of the middle ages--amposta--centre of lost centuries--historical past--here worked st. paul--our fellow-travellers--undertones--enter old priest--draws conclusions--love's young dream--impressions and appearances--not always a priest--fool's paradise--youth and age--awaking to realities--driven out of paradise--was it a judgment?--calmness returns--judging in mercy--nameless grave--"writ in water"--withdrawing from the world--entering the church--busy life--romances of the confessional--"to eve in paradise"--tortosa--garden of spain--vinaroz--wise mermen--cradle of history and romance--gibraltar of the west--a race apart--benicarlo--flourishing vineyards--"if the english only knew"--eve recognises priest--"i am that charming daughter"--lovely cousin engaged--count pedro de la torre--mutual recognitions--congratulations--breaking news to h. c.--despair--"to adam in hades"--gallant priest--saved from temptation chapter xxxi. love's young dream. first impressions--devoted to pleasure--peace-loving--climate makes gay and lively--new element--few traces of the past--old palaces--steals into the affections--city of the cid--ecclesiastical attractions--archbishopric--university--homer must nod sometimes--comparative repose--de nevada carries us off--admirable host--conversational--grave and gay--mercy, not sacrifice--library--at puzol--exacting a promise--the hour sounds--count pedro appears--fragrant coffee--served by magic--specially prepared temptation--perverting facts--land flowing with milk and honey--inquiring mind--mighty man of valour--cid likened to cromwell--retribution--ibn jehaf the murderer--reign of terror--the faithful ximena--cid's death-blow--priest turns schoolmaster--"beware!"--earthly paradise--land of consolation--system of irrigation--famous council--poetical granada--no appeal--apostles' gate-way--earth's fascinations--picturesque peasants--pretty women--countess pedro shakes her head--leave-taking--next morning--quiet activity--market-day--splendours of flower-market--lonja de seda--vanishing dream--audiencia--san salvador--antiquity yields to comfort--convent of san domingo--miserere--impressive ceremony--city of flowers--without the walls--famous river--change of scene chapter xxxii. old acquaintances. port and harbour--sunday and fresh air--in the market-place--de nevada protests--a curse of the country--in the days gone by--on the breakwater--invaded tramcar--de nevada confirmed--another crusade needed--plaza de toros--in sunday dress--domestic interiors--when the play was o'er--bull-ring at night--fitful dreams--fever--maître d'hôtel prescribes--magic effect--depart for saguntum--before the days of rome--primitive town--days of the greeks--attacked by hannibal--rebuilt by the romans--absent guardian--the hunchback--reappears with custodian--doors open--moorish fortress--fathomless cisterns--sad procession--weeping mourners--key of valencia--miguella--time heals all wounds--proposes coffee--proud and pleased--scenes that remain--in barcelona--drawing to a close--sorrow and regret--many experiences--our espluga friends--loretta's gratitude--in the calle de fernando--a last favour--glories of spain--eastern benediction list of illustrations page interior of zaragoza cathedral _frontispiece_ pedro the boulevard: gerona arcades: gerona view of gerona from the stone bridge banks of the oÑar: gerona apostles' doorway, cathedral: gerona a fragment outside the walls of gerona streets in gerona , , , entrance to military cloisters: gerona military cloisters: gerona waiting for the verdict cathedral cloisters: gerona , interior of cathedral: gerona cloisters of san pedro: gerona , apostles' doorway and bishop's palace: gerona church of san pedro: gerona doorway of san pedro: gerona desecrated church: gerona outside the walls: gerona old houses on the river: gerona , san filiu, from without the walls: gerona a gerona patio market place: gerona the rambla: barcelona interior of coro, gerona cathedral pulpit and stalls, barcelona cathedral twilight in barcelona cathedral small cloister or patio: barcelona cloisters of santa anna: barcelona cloisters of san pablo: barcelona monistrol church of montserrat , cloisters of montserrat salvador the monk valley of montserrat a few of the gipsies at montserrat mons serratus in cloudland manresa manresa from the river: morning manresa from the hill-side: evening arcades: lerida lerida mules lerida wine-pressers: lerida old gateways: lerida entrance to poblet old cathedral: lerida fair lucia's house: zaragoza , bridge and cathedral of el pilar: zaragoza an old nook in zaragoza north wall of cathedral: zaragoza tower of la seo: zaragoza interior of cathedral, showing coro and organ: zaragoza south-west exterior of cathedral: tarragona east end of cathedral, showing norman apse: tarragona interior of cathedral: tarragona cloisters: tarragona , san pablo: tarragona an old nook in tarragona roman aqueduct, near tarragona on our way to poblet entrance to cloisters: poblet monks' burial ground: poblet ruins of poblet , cloisters of poblet poblet, from the vineyard ancient gateway: valencia a street in valencia renaissance tower: valencia market place, valencia lonja de seda: valencia salon de cortes: audiencia ruins of saguntum barcelona courtyard of audiencia: barcelona know ye the land of the cedar and vine, where the flowers ever blossom, the beams ever shine; where the light wings of zephyr, oppress'd with perfume, wax faint o'er the gardens of gúl[a] in her bloom; where the citron and olive are fairest of fruit, and the voice of the nightingale never is mute; where the tints of the earth, and the hues of the sky, in colour though varied, in beauty may vie, and the purple of ocean is deepest in dye; where the virgins are soft as the roses they twine, and all, save the spirit of man, is divine? byron. glories of spain. chapter i. at the gare d'orlÉans. on calais quay--at the custom-house--a lady of the past--ungallant examiner--better to reign than serve--paris--vanity fair--sowing and reaping--laughing through life--at the hôtel chatham--a pleasant picture--in maiden meditation--m. pascal is wise in his generation--the secrets of the seine--notre dame--ile st. louis--a mediæval atmosphere--victor hugo--ghosts of the hôtel lambert--h. c. again--his little comedy--m. the inspector--outraged ladies--"en voiture, messieurs!"--mystery not cleared--the orléanais--la vendée--garden of france--a dilemma--polite chef de gare--crossing the garonne--land of corn and wine. the channel waters were calm and placid as the blue sky above them. though late autumn the temperature was that of mid-summer. at calais every one landed as jauntily as though they had just gone through the pleasure of a short yachting trip. as usual there were all sorts and conditions of men and women, and again the curious, the grotesque, the impossible predominated. they streamed across the new quay in a disordered procession, struggling with all that amount of hand-baggage which gets into everyone's way but their own, as they hurry forward to secure for themselves the best seats and most comfortable corners. the custom-house was over. one ancient lady who stood near us was politely demanded by the examiner if she had cigars, tobacco or brandy to declare. her flaxen wig seemed to stand on end as she asked if they mistook her for a new woman: quaker-like answering one question with another. the examiner received her query _au pied de la lettre_, and earnestly looked at the lady, who, in spite of flaxen wig, rouge, pencilled brows, was of the past. all his intelligence in his eyes, he replied: "about the same age as the century, i should say, madame;" then marked her packages and turned to the next in waiting. had those two found themselves alone together, judging from the lady's expression there would have been terrible paragraphs in the next day's papers. as it was she entered one of the waiting trains and we saw her no more. evidently she had been a beauty in her day, and it is hard to serve where one has reigned. so we steamed on to the gay capital, in her day almost to the modern world what rome was to the ancient. and if not altogether that now, who has she to thank but herself? nations like people must reap as they sow. yet, whirling through the broad thoroughfares, we felt she still holds her own. nowhere such floods of light, turning night into day, making one blink like owls in the sunshine. nowhere shops so resplendent that a jew's ransom would not purchase them. nowhere such a vanity fair crowded with a light-hearted people, who dance through the world to the tune of _away with melancholy!_ passing from the gare du nord, the brilliant boulevards were full of life and movement. our coachman turned into the rue daunou and brought up at the hôtel chatham: quiet, comfortable, but like all parisian hotels terribly in want of air. the manager received us with as much attention as though we had arrived for six months instead of a couple of hours, in order to fortify ourselves for the night journey southwards. the salle-à-manger opened its hospitable doors, disclosing a number of small tables, snow-white cloths, sparkling glass and silver; a pleasant vision. richly dressed ladies, blazing with jewels, fanned themselves with lazy grace. in a quiet corner sat two quiet people, evidently mother and daughter, since the one must have been twenty years ago what the other was now. they were english, as one saw and heard, for we were at the next table. no other country could produce that fair specimen of girlhood; no other country own that lovely face, gentle voice, refined tones: charms of inheritance, destined one day to translate some happy swain to fields elysian, where the sands of life are golden and run swiftly. then came up our cunning _maître-d'hôtel_, portly and commanding, deigned to glance at the wine card we held, and went in for a little diplomacy. "a bottle of your excellent ' st. julien, m. pascal;" knowing the wine of old. "ah, if monsieur only knew, the château d'irrac is superior." "is it possible?" incredulous but yielding. "then let it be château d'irrac." and presently we realised that the ' st. julien was growing low in the cellar, whilst many bins of château d'irrac cried out to be consumed. we sent for the great man and confided our suspicions, adding, "you cannot compare the two wines." "monsieur donc knows the st. julien? ah," with a keener glance, "i had not remarked. i ask a thousand pardons of monsieur. after all, it is a matter of taste. the château d'irrac is much appreciated--especially by the english. monsieur will allow me to change the wine?" _amende honorable_, but not accepted; and the château d'irrac remained. presently we entered upon our longer drive to the gare d'orléans. paris had put up her shutters and toned down her illuminations. shops were closed, lights were out, vanity fair had disappeared. the streets grew more and more empty. our driver found his way to the river and went down the quays, where on summer evenings lovers of old books spend hours examining long rows of stalls, on which sooner or later every known and unknown literary treasure makes its appearance. perhaps he was a man who liked the tragic side of life--and where is it more suggested than on the banks of the seine? night after night its turbid waters close over the heads of the rashly despairing. the ghastly morgue is weighted with secrets. every bridge is surrounded by an atmosphere of sighs. one last look upon the world, the sky, the quiet stars, then the fatal plunge into the silent waters, and another soul has risked the unknown. once more in the darkness uprose the outlines of notre dame in all the beauty of gothic refinement; all the delicate lacework and flying buttresses subdued and dreamlike under the night sky. who can look upon this architectural wonder without thinking of those historical, twelfth-century days when the first stone was laid, and it slowly rose to perfection? all the centuries that have since rolled on, changing and destroying much of its charm? the perils it went through and did not altogether escape in those terrible days of ' when, condemned, it was saved by a miracle? that age of reason, which drove half the excitable frenchmen of paris stark staring mad. how can we haunt these precincts without thinking of their high priest victor hugo, who loved them as scott and burns loved their wholesomer banks and braes? everywhere uprises a vision of the old grey-headed man as we remember him, with pale heavy face, grave earnest manner, deep thoughtful eyes, and on the surface, so little that was light, excitable and french; for ever pondering upon the mysteries of life, human suffering and endurance, broken destinies. his face looks at you from every dark and vacant window in the neighbouring ile st. louis. the shadows of notre dame fall upon its mediæval roofs; the dark waters of the river wash their foundations, and sometimes flood them also. if they could only whisper their secrets of human sin and suffering, that great army of martyrs who have died, not in defence of the good but in consequence of the evil, the world would surely dissolve and disappear. many a time has he stood contemplating these problems, planning the destinies of his characters, from the windows of the hôtel lambert. its painted ceilings recall the days of lebrun, and up and down the old staircases and deserted corridors one hears the cynical laugh of voltaire and the tripping footsteps of madame de châtet. we left this delightful and romantic atmosphere behind us as our driver pursued his way down the right bank of the seine. another world, inhabited by another people. darkness reigned; lamps were few and far between; the roar of the great city sounded afar off, and amidst that roar dwelt all the rank and fashion, wealth and intrigue, that turn the heaven-sent manna to ashes of the dead sea fruit. presently he crossed a bridge and there was a flash of lamps upon the dark waters below. the seine was pursuing her relentless course, carrying her burden of sorrows to the far-off sea, burying them in the ocean of eternity, recording them in the books of heaven. a few moments more, and at the gare d'orléans we dismissed our man with his _pourboire_. we were in good time, and had the place almost to ourselves. "le train n'est pas encore fait, monsieur," said a polite official. "ah! there it comes. you will not be over-crowded to-night, i imagine." good hearing, for a night journey in a full train without a reserved carriage means martyrdom. we marked our seats, then walked up and down the lighted platform. it was nearly ten o'clock and passengers were arriving. presently, missing h. c., we turned and saw him at the lower end of the train examining the last carriage. what did it mean? evidently mischief of some sort. the hundred-and-one occasions rose up before us in which we had saved him from ladies with matrimony on the brain, from intrigues, from his susceptible self. only a year ago there had been that narrow escape in the madrid hotel with the siren who had married the russian count. he saw us coming, turned and met us with laughter. what now? "come and see," placing his arm in ours. "but don't interfere with the liberty of the subject. i will not be controlled. you shall no longer find me weak and yielding as in other years." all this went in at one ear and out at the other, as the saying runs. silence is the best reply to incipient rebellion. at the last carriage the mystery was solved. in one compartment sat two lovely ladies, waiting the departure of the train to draw down the blinds and settle themselves for the night. h. c. silently pointed to the label, which said: _pour fumeurs._ fortune seemed to favour his humour for we had seldom seen the announcement on a french carriage. then he went on to the next compartment. three young men had entered and were laughing, talking, blowing clouds of smoke. this was labelled _pour dames seules_. h. c. had quietly changed the iron labels and turned the world upside down. the inmates were in blissful ignorance of the frightful thing that had happened. "we had no time for the theatre to-night, yet i had a mind for a little comedy," said h. c. "now we have it on the spot, and without paying. i had such trouble to ram the plaques into the grooves that they will never come out again. here comes the inspector--evidently not to be trifled with; exactly the man for the occasion. now for it." we trembled as the great man approached, each particular hair standing on end, the pallor of death on our cheek. appearances would have condemned us. h. c., on the other hand, looked innocence itself. suddenly the inspector gave a start, exactly reproduced in us; on his part, astonishment and indignation; on ours, nervous terror. then the door of the compartment was thrown open and the scene began. the inspector's powerful bass voice made itself felt and heard. "gentlemen," in his deepest diapason, "what is the meaning of this? how dare you enter a compartment reserved _for ladies only_, fill it with vile smoke, and treat with contempt the rules of our organisation department? for this, gentlemen," waxing wrath and perhaps overstating his case, "i could fine and summons you--and believe i should be justified in handing you over to the _police correctionnelle_. your act is infamous--and no doubt designed." instead of pouring oil upon troubled waters, the young men were combative and defiant. "qu'est-ce que vous nous chantez là?" said one. "surely, my dear inspector, your sight is failing--time rolls on, you know; or you cannot read; or you have dined too well. but if you have your senses about you and examine the plaque closely, you will see that it states: _for smokers._ and we are smokers. my compliments to you, monsieur the famous inspector. like dumas, we are here and we remain." "very good," said h. c. innocently looking on. "as a scene at the vaudeville it would bring down the house and make the fortune of the piece. you ought to be grateful for this little distraction, but you don't look it. all was done so easily and develops so naturally." the inspector listened whilst this fuel was being added to the fire of his wrath. "we will see about that," he said. "come out this instant and read for yourself." he grasped the arm of the young man. as he was strong and the youth weak, the result was that dumas' famous saying fell to the ground and he with it. in a moment he stood upon the platform and read the fatal notice. "but it is conjuring, it is a miracle!" he cried. "i can assure you, monsieur the inspector, that before entering i read the label with my own eyes--we all did. anatole--de verriers--i appeal to you for confirmation. it positively stated _for smokers_. no, oh no, i am certain of it--and i have _not_ dined too well," laughing in spite of himself. "for ladies only! it is too good a joke. i assure you we want a quiet night's rest; we don't want to be disturbed by the gentle snoring of the fair sex. an enemy hath done this. tenez, monsieur the inspector," going to the next carriage and reading the label: "look at that. there are the innocent conspirators calmly seated in the compartment. the ladies themselves have done this. i was wrong in saying it was an enemy, for are we not all friends of the lovelier sex? but take my word for it, they are the culprits. remark how unconscious they look; one sees it is too natural to be real--it is assumed. poor ladies! they are nervous, perhaps, and want a safeguard about them during the perilous night journey. or it may be that they even like smoking. after all, it is an innocent little ruse on their part to attain a very harmless end." "innocent, sir! harmless!" cried the outraged and perplexed inspector. "we will see!" he approached the compartment, threw wide the door, addressed the ladies severely, as became his office, but tempered with respect and admiration, as became a man. "how is this, ladies?" to the startled women. "allow me to inform you that it is not _convenable_ for members of your sex to deliberately compose themselves for the night in a compartment labelled _for smokers_." "what!" cried the ladies in a breath. "_for smokers?_ _quel horreur!_ monsieur the inspector, you must be mad, or you have dined too well--_l'un ou l'autre_. _for smokers!_ why, we are horrified at smoke. it makes me cough, it makes my companion sneeze, it gets into our hair, it ruins our complexion. monsieur the inspector," shaking out their ruffled plumage, "this is an infamous accusation. we feel ourselves insulted. we shall appeal to the chef de gare. you had better at once say that we have done this thing ourselves, whilst the culprits are no doubt those three young men who are laughing behind your back. you have attacked our reputation and we will pursue the matter. when we entered this compartment it was labelled _for ladies only_, and if you will examine the plaque with sober senses you will find it still reads _for ladies only_." "mesdames," returned the bewildered inspector, "i will trouble you to alight and read for yourselves. no one shall accuse me of dining too well with impunity; and no one, not even such charming women as yourselves, shall exact an apology for an offence never committed." apparently there was nothing else for it. the ladies gracefully alighted, assisted by the gallant but uncompromising inspector, and the fatal words stared them in the face. "but it is conjuring, it is a miracle!" they cried breathlessly, just as the young men had cried. "an enemy hath done this, monsieur the inspector, and the enemy is represented by those three young men who doubtless look upon it as a _petite plaisanterie_. but if there is law in the land they shall suffer for it. it is nothing more or less than an outrage to our feelings. in the meantime, monsieur the inspector, not to delay the train, have the kindness to change back the labels to their right positions, and put those three young men under the surveillance of the guard." "if it is the last word we ever speak we are guiltless in this matter," protested the young men. "mephistopheles is no doubt on the platform in disguise"--here we felt a nudge from h. c. and a whispered "complimentary!"--"but we beg to say that we are not fausts, and we have no reason to suppose these ladies are marguerites." the outraged ladies were absolutely speechless with anger; twice they opened their mouths but no sound would come. and as the train was now about to start, there was nothing for it but to re-enter their compartment. the young men did likewise. the doors were closed. the inspector tried to remove the offending labels. they would not budge. he brought all his strength to bear upon them, but they were fixed as the stars in their course. if mephistopheles had been at work, he had done his work well. the plaques might have been soldered in their sockets. the inspector was guilty of language not quite parliamentary. he felt mystified, baffled; the whole thing was inexplicable. there came a cry down the platform: "en voiture, messieurs!" our own carriage was some way off; we went up and entered, hiring pillows for the night. final doors were slammed; the train moved off. and the ladies were in a compartment labelled _for smokers_, and the three young men had to themselves the carriage _pour dames seules_. they must have been laughing immoderately, for the inspector shook his fist as they slowly rolled away; and the shake said as plainly as though we had heard the words: "there go the culprits! ah, _scélérats!_ if i only had you now in my grasp!" the young men must have interpreted the action in like manner, for the window was suddenly put down and three hands waved him a derisive farewell. we rolled away in the darkness. the lights of paris grew faint and dreamy, then went out. all the old familiar landmarks were invisible, and when we crossed the seine not a star was reflected in its deep dark waters. as the night went on we passed through the glorious country of the orléanais, washed by the waters of the historical and romantic loire. who that has gone down its broad winding course can forget the charms of its ancient towns? the halo surrounding orléans, the pure accents of tours, the architectural wonders of loches--home of the plantagenets--its towers and churches visible even under the stars; and beyond nantes, the gentle splendours of la vendée. porters in the darkness of night shouted "orléans!" and we felt in the very garden of france, where nature is so bountiful that the labour of man is hardly needed to bring forth the fruits of the earth. in these sunny provinces dwell the happiest, most light-hearted of her sons. the earth abundantly furnishes their daily bread and wine. it comes without trouble and is eaten without care. night and darkness rolled away. we approached bordeaux. last year, at this same hour, about this same time, we had found it enveloped in mist, had made the acquaintance of monsieur le comte san salvador de la veronnière, and wondered how his small body bore the weight of its majestic name. but the wind is tempered to the shorn lamb and the back is fitted to the burden. this time there was no comte and no mist. we had watched the dawn break and a glorious sunrise turn fleecy clouds into flaming swords. the earth awoke and the lovely woods and forests, with their wealth of fern and bracken, were touched with rosy glowing light as the sun shot above the horizon. just before reaching bordeaux we made a discovery. a secret impulse urged us to examine our luggage-ticket, and we were electrified at finding it registered to irun instead of portbou. steaming into the crazy old station, we found out the station-master, and explained the difficulty. he was politeness itself, and once more we could not help contrasting the courtesy of the french officials with the less agreeable manners of the spanish. "this would have been serious," said m. le chef. "i am glad you found it out in time. after bordeaux it would have been too late. you and your luggage would have gone your separate ways." then calling a porter, he handed him the ticket, bade him search the luggage-vans and bring away the numbers indicated. "a little against the rules," said the chef smiling; "but life is full of inevitable exceptions, and because we stick to too much red tape, and will not recognise the need of exceptions, half life's worries occur." evidently our chef was a philosopher, and fortunately a man of common-sense. presently up came the porter. his search had been successful. the luggage was re-registered for portbou, and we had the satisfaction of thanking m. le chef for sparing us an awkward dilemma. "monsieur," he replied, with a finished french bow, "it is a pleasure to be of use, and i am always at your disposition." the train left the station and crossed the lordly garonne. nothing in the way of river could look more majestic, with all the light of the sky and all the blue of the heavens reflected on its broad surface. once more we were dazzled by the rich splendour of the autumn tints, glories of colour. in the vineyards the deep purple leaves still lingered upon the branches. white farmhouses, with their green shutters, red-tiled roofs, strings of yellow indian maize, heaps of pumpkins and cantaloupe melons, stood out in striking contrast with the landscape. many a vine-laden porch threw its lights and shades upon walls and pavement. many a field was picturesque with ploughing-oxen. a hardy son of the south guided the furrow, and a woman with red or blue handkerchief tied round the head, followed, sowing the seed. one only wanted twilight and the angelus bell to complete the scene's devotion. all this we had found a year ago. nothing was altered--it seemed as yesterday. but now we were changing our direction, and going east instead of westward. last year irun and st. sebastian; now gerona and barcelona the bright and pleasant, for ever associated with majorca the beautiful and beloved. chapter ii. a narbonne hostess. carcassonne--in feudal times--simon de montfort--canal du midi--l'Âge d'or et le grand monarque--a modern golden fleece--one of earth's fair scenes--choice of evils--m. le chef yields--narbonne--a woman of parts--the course of true love runs smooth--_diner de contrat_--honey _versus_ the _lune de miel_--madame's philosophy--_l'allée des soupirs_--an unfinished cathedral--at the gloaming hour--mystery and devotion--the hôtel de ville--a domestic drama--high festival and champagne--the next morning--h. c. repentant--madame at her post--ambrosial breakfast--"il faut payer pour ses plaisirs"--dramatic exit--perpignan--home of the kings of majorca--elne--"adieu, ma chère france!"--over the frontier--gerona--crowded platform--what h. c. thought--unpoetical incident--from the sublime to the ridiculous. the hours went on and the sun declined, and we looked upon the wonderful old city of carcassonne. rising out of the plain the great limestone rock was crowned by this fortress of the middle ages, its walls and round towers clearly outlined against the blue sky. these enclose a dead world given up to the poor and struggling. its steep, narrow streets have no longer the faintest echo of military glories. the inner walls date back to the visigothic kings; the foundations of some of the towers are roman, but nothing of the outer walls seems later than the twelfth century. here in the army of crusaders under simon de montfort laid siege, the cruel abbot of citeaux most determined of the enemy. the massacre at béziers had just taken place, de montfort foremost in eagerness to shed blood. some had escaped to this little city of refuge, amongst them the brave vicomte de béziers: one of those men of whom the world has seen not a few, saving lives at the cost of their own. the little fortress unable to hold out was taken, and again the massacre was terrible, béziers himself dying in prison after great suffering. a hundred and fifty years later it more successfully resisted the black prince, who, after scattering terror right and left in the plains of languedoc, found that he had to retire from these walls baffled and mortified. to-day they still stand, the most perfect mediæval monument in france. the new town lies in the plain, quietly industrious as the old is silent and dead, modern and commonplace as the other is ancient and romantic. trees overshadow the boulevards, costly fountains plash through the hot days and nights of summer, running streams make the air musical and reflect the sapphire skies. on one side runs the great canal du midi, canal des deux mers, as it is called, uniting the mediterranean with the atlantic. two hundred and fifty years ago it was one of the finest engineering works in the world, and perhaps would never have been finished but for the encouragement of le grand monarque, prime mover in that _âge d'or_ when the literary firmament was studded with such stars of the first order as molière, corneille, lafontaine, bossuet, fénélon, pascal, and last, not least, madame de sevigné. there came a crowd of splendours, a succession of startling events, into that lengthened reign, our own marlborough taking his part in such decisive battles as blenheim and malplaquet. this canal du midi, reflecting the outlines of carcassonne, added much to the trade of southern france. if that has declined amidst the world's chances and changes, its numerous barges plying to and fro with sails set to the evening breeze and the setting sun, still form one of earth's most rare and beautiful scenes, full of calm repose. corn and wine and oil are their freights; rich argosies commanded by many a modern jason, carrying many a golden fleece to the fair and flourishing towns that lie in its path between the tideless shores of the levant and the restless waters of biscay. on the other side of the town runs the river aude, also reflecting the ancient outlines of carcassonne in waters less placid than those of the great canal. this takes its way through a fertile valley given up to vines and olives, fig-trees and pomegranates; and here flock crowds of invalids to the mineral baths and waters, penances due to indiscretions of the table or sins of their forefathers. our train rolled over both these waterways on its journey towards narbonne. by this time we had realised that we had been misinformed as to the hour we should reach gerona, our first resting-place, adding one more record to the chapter of small accidents. at narbonne we had the good fortune to find a chef de gare civil and obliging as he of bordeaux, who declared it impossible to reach gerona that day as there was no railway communication. we should have to spend the night at portbou, the spanish frontier, where our quarters would be wretched, and all our sweet turn to bitter against those who had misled us. we decided at once. "better remain where there is a good inn, than go on to the miseries of portbou, monsieur le chef." "that is clear," he replied. "here you will be comfortable--and on french ground," laughing: "a virtue in my eyes, and i hope in yours also." we willingly agreed. "but our luggage? it is registered to portbou." he looked grave. "that is unfortunate; it must go on to portbou. i cannot give it to you. it is against all rules, and i greatly regret it." "yet we cannot do without it. if you send it on to portbou, we cannot remain behind. have you the heart to consign us to that _chambre de tortures?_" he paused a moment, revolving the momentous situation. "no," he laughed at length, "i cannot do that, and for once will make an exception in your favour. advienne que pourra, you shall have your luggage." then in the kindest way he personally superintended the matter, delayed the train until the luggage was found, and carried out sundry forms necessary for the next day's journey. we discovered very little in narbonne to repay our change of plans, but the hotel was comfortable and the energetic landlady a character worth studying. grass never grew under her feet. she seemed gifted with ubiquity, and startled one by her rapid movements. a capable woman, who made her little world work with a will, wound them up and set them going. if the machinery flagged, she at once applied the master-key of her energy, and the wheels went on again. to-day she was on her mettle, as she informed us, having a large wedding dinner on hand. "to-night was the _diner de contrat_, to-morrow the _diner de noce_. a hundred and fifty people would sit down to it, and she expected great conviviality." nor was she disappointed, if the noise we heard later on was any sign of festive enjoyment. loud laughter, applause, healths pledged, good wishes bestowed--all indicated the state of the assembled guests. madame had taken us into the banquet-room to prove that she was capable of decorating her table very effectively. glass and silver glittered under the rays of light; flowers perfumed the air; orange-trees stood in corners, fruit and flowers mingled their delights. we asked for whom all this extensive preparation. "the daughter of an innkeeper, with a magnificent dowry, was marrying one of the most popular doctors of the place. but it was really a mariage d'amour, not merely de convenance. les mariés were both delightful. one hardly knew which to congratulate the most. in short, it was one of those rare events in life when the social sky is without a cloud." madame was almost poetical in her enthusiasm. but she was no less practical, and it was wonderful how everything went smoothly under her guidance. "narbonne, famous for its honey." we seemed to remember this as one of our geography lines in days gone by. "but where was the honey?" we asked during the course of our own dinner, which madame was quite equal to in spite of the greater ceremony on hand. "you may well ask," placing upon the table a choice bottle of the vin-du-pays, which she saw unsealed and uncorked by one of her officials who had just been wound up again and was flying about the room like a firework. "you may well ask, monsieur. no house so badly supplied with coals as the charbonnier, and in narbonne we see little of our own honey. like the fish in a seaport, it is all sent away, and you will find more of it in paris than here. but i will try to unearth a jar from my stores." apparently the quest was unsuccessful, for no honey appeared. or it may be that in contemplating the _lune de miel_ in the garlanded banqueting-room the more material article was lost sight of. with one hundred and fifty people on her brain, no wonder if small matters were forgotten. and yet madame seemed of those who forget nothing, her faculties embracing both wide organisation and minute detail. a thin, wiry woman, with a quick walk and a light step, dark eyes that nothing escaped, yet without tyranny or sharpness of manner. only once did we hear her rebuking one of her waiters for the sin of procrastination. "leave nothing till to-morrow that can be done to-day," she wound up with, "or you will soon find the world ahead and you left behind in the race. those are the people that come to poverty and have only themselves to thank for it. that, monsieur," turning to us who waited a direction, "is the reason we cannot very much help what are called the poor. some great failing brings them to that condition--laziness, stupidity or vice, and your aid will never give them energy, wisdom or virtue." then the direction we asked for was bestowed, and the erring waiter ordered to show us the way to the cathedral. in the town we found very little that was not ordinary and common-place. it is ancient, its streets are badly paved and tortuous, and it possesses scarcely anything in the way of picturesque outlines, nothing in the way of roman remains. yet it flourished as far back as the fifth century b.c., and in the first century was in the hands of the romans, great in theatres, baths, temples, and triumphal arches. of these not a vestige has survived. it was one of the great ports of the mediterranean, which flowed up to its foundations, but has gradually receded some eight miles. from one of the great towers of the hôtel de ville you may trace the outlines of the cevennes and pyrenees on the one side, on the other watch the broad blue waters shimmering in the sunshine, more beautiful than a dream in their deep sapphire; you may count the white-winged boats sailing lazily to and fro upon its flashing surface; and on still, dark nights, when the stars are large and brilliant, watch the lights of fishing fleets clustered together, and hear upon the shore the gentle plash of this tideless sea. on such summer nights the _allée des soupirs_ is the favourite walk of the people. whence its sad, romantic name? has it seen many sorrows? do ghosts of the past haunt it with long-drawn sighs? has it had more than its share of abelards and héloïses, romeos and juliets? has some sorrowful atala been borne under its branches to a desert grave, some dante mourned here his lost beatrice, some petrarch his laura? we knew not, and turning from it climbed the ill-paved streets towards the cathedral--a cathedral no longer, for narbonne, once an archbishopric, has been shorn of ecclesiastical dignity. as far as it went, we found it a fine, interesting, but unfinished gothic building of the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries. little beyond the choir exists--a splendid fragment, but a fragment only. it might have been one of the world's wonders. we entered for the second time in the gloaming, when its great height was lost in shadows. a few lights about the church and on the altar deepened the mystery. a few kneeling figures motionless at their devotions added their quiet pathos to the scene. from the end of the choir it had the effect of a vast church infinitely impressive. an immense nave with aisles and pillars and vaulted roofs might stretch behind us. such was the intention of the architect, but his plans were not carried out. in reality there was nothing. within a few feet came the narrow outer passage and the dead wall of the west front; but in the darkness all this was not realised. we only saw the splendid choir, vast height, graceful outlines, groined roof, pointed arches, and slender pillars, steeped in the mystery and shadow of a dim religious light by the few candles gleaming here and there like faint stars in the night. some of the painted glass was beautiful, as we had seen earlier in the day, and much of the sixteenth century flamboyant tracery was very good. there were many fine tombs and statues. the gothic hôtel de ville close by is partly modern. a portion of it formed the ancient archbishop's palace, and some of this remains, more especially the old towers. the courtyard has a few interesting outlines, and the staircase leading to the museum is of broad, massive marble. up and down these stairs and corridors was once wont to pass the proud footstep of a primate, with head erect under the cardinal's red hat, whilst the rustle of silken robes, white and scarlet, whispered of greatness and vanity. it now shines by the light of other days. all its pomp and pride has vanished; dead, silent and deserted, its glory has been transferred to toulouse, now the archbishop's see. we discovered the ancient dame who keeps the keys of the museum. she dwells in almost an underground room of the building, a distant wing in the garden, where in days gone by the archbishop paced and meditated in the seclusion of impenetrable walls. looking upwards nothing would arrest the eye but the far-off serene sky and unfinished fragment of the cathedral. it is still a grey, venerable pile, this wing, silent and empty. but in the quiet little lodge of the custodian hearts still beat to the tune of life's small dramas. a slight altercation was going on. the dame was laying down the law to a young man, evidently her son. what the transgression we could not tell. possibly debt, and he had come to draw upon the hard-earned savings in the chimney-corner: a sort of mental and moral earthquake to the frugal mother-mind. perhaps he was announcing his marriage with one who would make him a bad wife. or he had grown tired of his narrow world, and pleaded to cross the seas and begin life on a new soil. whatever it might be, he departed looking very much as if he too had his burden to bear. in passing he saluted, and said, "bonjour, messieurs," and his looks were comely and his voice was pleasant. he had the air of a sailor, and possibly was a fisherman from the little port eight miles off. when he had disappeared beyond the trees, the old mother, who must also have been comely in her day, took the keys and led the way up the broad marble staircase to the museum. the shades of evening were gathering, and our visit would almost have been lost labour had there been anything else to do. it was too dark to judge fairly, but amidst a great amount of rubbish we thought we discovered a few good old pictures. long after the sun had set and the afterglow had faded, we went back to the hotel and madame's hospitable attentions. she was determined we should not suffer from the demands of the banquet. the whole corridor was now lined with orange trees, whose sheeny green leaves stood out in strong contrast with some strings of red peppers she had artistically festooned against the walls; so that from the entrance to the dining-room the procession would walk through an avenue of peace and plenty. the effect was charming. nothing could be more beautiful than the luscious perfumed blossoms, richer than the deep foliage, more picturesque than the scented golden fruit hanging gracefully from the branches. as night went on, the sounds of merriment grew louder. champagne could not run like water without leading to noisy if not brilliant wit. a hundred and fifty sons and daughters of sunny southern france might be trusted to make the most of their opportunity. we left them to their rites when by-and-by the clock struck ten, lights began to burn dim, and we realised that a sleepless night in the train is more or less trying. bidding madame _le bonsoir_, who flashed to and fro like lightning, yet was neither hurried nor flurried, she politely returned us _la bonne nuit_; adding, with a certain dry humour, that after all she was glad marriages were not an everyday occurrence--at any rate from her hotel. if profitable, they were fatiguing. next morning we rose before dawn. the man came in, lighted our candles, and said it was time to rise. we thought we had slept five minutes; the unconscious hours had passed too quickly. overnight we had settled to take an early train, and devote a few hours to perpignan; hours of enforced waiting on our way to gerona. after an amount of rapping and calling that might have roused the dead, h. c. had risen, lighted his own candles, and protested by going back to bed and to slumber. fortunately the man went up to his room half an hour after, and seeing the state of affairs upset the fire-irons, knocked down a couple of chairs, and opened the window with a rattle. "are those wedding people still at it?" murmured h. c., in his dreams. "it must be past midnight." then consciousness dawned upon him and the full measure of his iniquity; and presently he came down to a late breakfast, subdued and repentant. early as it was, madame was at her post, brisk and wide-awake as though yesterday had been nothing but a very ordinary fête-day. it was that uncomfortable hour when the early morning light creeps in, and candles and gas-lamps show pale and unearthly. the room looked chilly and forsaken; that last-night aspect that is always so ghostlike and unfamiliar. a white mist hung over the outer world. then the most comforting thing on earth made its triumphant entry--a brimming teapot; and with the addition of tea tabloids a fine brew of the cup which cheers sent our mental barometer to fair weather. we were even admitted to the internal economy of the establishment. in came the baker with a basket of steaming rolls giving out a delicious odour of bread fresh from the oven; and with new-churned butter--the last we tasted for many a long day--we made an ambrosial breakfast. in a few minutes, madame cloaked and bonneted, came up to wish us bon voyage, with a hope that we should again visit narbonne. nothing is certain in this world or we should have told her it was a very forlorn hope. "i have to go to market," she said, "and the sooner i am there the better my choice of provisions. to-day, too, i have my _diner de noce_, and must be back early. _vraiment, c'est une charge!_ ah! they amused themselves last night! what headaches to-day, je parie, in spite of the excellence of the wines. _enfin! il faut payer pour ses plaisirs._" "but, madame, you are perpetual motion. you go to bed late--if you go to bed at all, which we begin to doubt--and rise up early. this morning you look as fresh as a rose. have you the gift of eternal youth?" madame was not above a compliment, and smiled her pleasure. "quant il y a de la bonne volonté--" she laughed. "there is the whole secret. and now, au revoir, messieurs. bon voyage. portez vous bien. my best wishes go with you." "au revoir, on one condition, madame. that the next time we come you present us without fail with a pot of narbonne honey." madame uttered a cry, fell back a pace or two, struck her forehead reproachfully, and disappeared like a flash into the street. up rattled the omnibus, absorbing ourselves and our traps. narbonne was of the past. a short journey landed us at an early hour at perpignan. we had passed nothing very interesting on the road, for just here the sunny south seems to have stayed her bountiful hand. the low bare outlines of the rocky corbières were traced, and great stretches of heath where bees gathered the famous honey we were not permitted to enjoy. here and there were immense salt lakes, giving the country a flooded appearance, bringing fever to the neighbourhood. once, years ago, passing these endless lake districts in the night, weird, solemn, mysterious, we wondered what they could be. one saw nothing but a world under water, reflecting the stars; occasionally the black outline of some small boat with the flash of a low-lying lamp streaming over its surface. and presently, this morning, there was the blue mediterranean to make up for all other shortcomings. then perpignan. this time we separated from our old-man-of-the-sea; the baggage went on to portbou to await our afternoon arrival. we felt we ought to know perpignan, and with affection, for it was once the residence of the kings of majorca. but that was seven hundred years ago, and it has gone through many changes at the hands of many masters. for centuries it belonged to spain, and still looks more spanish than french. only in the middle of the seventeenth century was it finally annexed to france by richelieu. in summer its narrow streets are covered with awnings, many of its buildings are moresque, and its houses have the iron and wooden courts and balconies so common to spain. some of its thoroughfares are picturesque and arcaded, and every now and then you come upon an assemblage of wonderful roofs with their red tiles, gorgeous creepers, and enormous vines; but they are the exception. it is strongly fortified, and some of the old gateways are interesting. in days gone by these fortifications were needed, for perpignan was the great point of defence in the eastern pyrenees between spain and france. the cathedral is chiefly famous for the immense span of its vault. in this it resembles majorca, but is infinitely less beautiful. though larger, perpignan seemed still more quiet and dead than narbonne. we soon exhausted its merits, and the hour for departure found us ready. at the moment we were in the great courtyard of the inn watching the chef in white cap and apron at a small table on the opposite side, enjoying his dessert and hour of repose, to which coffee and cognac formed the conclusion. for that hour he was a gentleman of leisure and had earned his ease. there was no time to visit elne with its old romanesque cathedral and cloisters worth a king's ransom; and keen was the regret as we passed it in the train, and noticed its decayed aspect and wonderful outlines rising above the town like a rare twelfth-century vision. here hannibal encamped on his way to rome. here came constantine and named it elena in memory of his mother. here the emperor constantine was assassinated by order of maxentius. here came the moors in the eighth century, the normans in the eleventh, the kings of france in the thirteenth, fifteenth, and seventeenth centuries; all more or less destructive in their changes. and now it remains a small dead town; grass grows in its streets, where eternal silence reigns. passing away, we noted how its clear outlines stood out against the blue sky of the south, whilst beyond it stretched the sapphire waters of the levant. the train hurried on, and at cerbère we bade farewell to pleasant france: a language that rings music in our ears; a people for whom we have a sincere affection. in the space of a few yards we seemed to pass from one country and people and tongue to another. at cerbère nothing but french was heard. a few minutes afterwards, at portbou, we spoke in french to one of the officials, who listened to the end, shook his head, and gruffly said "no entendo." we had entered spain--land of slow trains, abrupt officials, many discomforts, but of romance and beauty. once more we thought fate was to be against us. as inevitably as the slippers turned up in the eastern story, so it seemed that our luggage was destined to be the _bête noire_ of our wanderings. [illustration: pedro.] "you wish to go to gerona," said the station-master; "but your ticket only states barcelona. if you break your journey at gerona, your luggage must go on to the farther town." again we protested--and again conquered. "for once i yield and make you an exception," said the chef; "but you will have trouble at gerona." all this had taken time, and the train moved off as we entered. at eight o'clock we reached gerona, and even in the darkness could see its wonderful outlines; its countless reflections in the river that rolled below. the station was in an uproar. crowds of people, young men and old, surged to and fro. deafening shouts arose. what was the matter, and what could it mean? we gave a shrewd guess. conscripts were going off, and all this crowd and noise was a farewell ovation, in which the conscripts joined uproariously. on the platform we almost fell against two stalwart old men, who stood conspicuously above the multitude. each had evidently come to see a son off. one was especially a typical catalonian, with strongly marked features, broad-brimmed hat, and picturesque costume. his friend called him pedro. they had probably grown up and grown old together, and life, youth and the heritage of the world were being handed on to the boys--who no doubt troubled themselves very little about the matter. we made way into the luggage-room. "ah!" cried the porter, looking at our tickets. "this is incorrect and cannot be passed." and he turned to the superintendent. "diablo!" cried the latter impatiently. "do you think i can be troubled with luggage on such a night as this? take it where the gentlemen desire you! maldicion!" saved once more. as we walked outside through the crowd, a deafening cheer went up. "what can it mean?" said h. c. "have they discovered that i am a poet, and all this is a little delicate attention on their part? if so, i must say they are appreciative. perhaps my volume of lyrics, dedicated to my aunt, lady maria, has been translated into spanish, and has--ahem!--found more popularity here than at home. ah!--oh!" the exclamation was caused by a sudden tearing away of the omnibus we had entered, whereby h. c. found himself sprawling in a most unpoetical attitude. picking himself up as carefully as if he had been made of delicate china suffering from a few compound fractures, he rubbed his bruised knees sympathetically, and quietly asked if we had brought a supply of elliman's embrocation. so quickly one passes from poetry to prose, from the sublime to the ridiculous. chapter iii. black coffee--and a confession. continued uproar--h. c. disillusioned--a dark night--not like another cæsar--more crowds--a demon scene--fair time--glorious days of the past--in marble halls and labyrinthine passages--our excellent host--his substantial partner--contented minds--picturesque court--songless nightingales--conscription--h. c.'s modesty--our host appreciative but personal--bears the torch of genius--a mistake--below the salt--host's fair daughters--catalonian women--the silent enigma--remarkable priest--good intentions--lecture on black coffee--confessions--benjamin's portions--a gifted nature. our omnibus rattled off, with the result described. the crowd still cheered; a prolonged and mighty strain. as we went on this grew fainter by degrees, yet did not cease. h. c. collected his thoughts and looked about him. in the dim glimmer of the omnibus lamp we saw shades of doubt and disappointment in his face. "i begin to think this ovation was not for me after all," he said. "they would hardly go on shouting insanely when we are out of sight and hearing. the people would have accompanied us; taken the horses out of the omnibus; drawn us up to the inn, where i should have arrived like another cæsar. my volume of lyrics is worth this recognition if they have rendered all the fire and spirit of its theme, beauty of language, charm of rhythm and rhyme. above all, my dedication to lady maria, a masterpiece of english composition and delicate flattery. i begin to think there must be some other cause for this demonstration. and if it is not a poetical reception, i should call it a disgraceful riot." he paused for breath. we were now going up-hill, and even the horses found it a tug-of-war. "the people would have had some trouble in dragging you up here," we remarked, as the animals toiled slowly onwards. "enthusiasm will carry you through anything," said h. c. "if i assisted at a demonstration i would help to drag a coach up the matterhorn, and succeed or perish in the attempt. but these people evidently have some other object in view--organising a raid on the train, proclaiming a republic, or something equally barbarous. what a very dark night!" we looked out. the stars had disappeared. the sky was overcast and threatening. our horses struggled on and soon entered the town. crossing the bridge over the river we noticed everywhere an unusual crowd of people, flaring lamps and torches, a sea of upturned faces thrown into lights and shadows that looked weird and demon-like, an undercurrent of voices, a perpetual movement. what could it all mean? we expected to find gerona, in spite of its , inhabitants, almost a dead city, full of traces of the past, oblivious of the present; a city of outlines, echoes and visions of the middle ages. we looked down the tree-lined boulevard and felt the very word a desecration of the buried centuries. the broad thoroughfare ran beside the river, and the trees followed each other in quick succession. without and within their shadows a long double row of booths held sway, whose flaming torches turned night into day, paradise into pandemonium. a great fair possessed the town, thronged with sightseers of all ages and every stage of emotion. we lamented our fate in visiting gerona at such a time, but in the end it interfered very little either with our comfort or impressions. it had its own quarters and kept to them. the omnibus passed into narrower thoroughfares, without any trace of fair, sign or sound of excitement or flaming torches. all was delightfully dead as the most advanced antiquarian could desire when we drew up at the _fondu de los italianos_. most of the hotels in the smaller towns of spain have little to do with the ground floor of the building, often nothing but a cold, unlighted, deserted passage, sometimes leading to a stable yard. no one receives you, and you have to find your own way upstairs. when there is a choice of staircases you probably take the wrong one. on this occasion we had only one course before us--broad white marble stairs that bore witness to a very different destiny in days gone by, the pomp and splendour of life, the glory of the world. at the head of this sumptuous staircase our host met us with a polite bow and welcome; and throughout spain we never met landlord more intelligent and well-informed, more agreeable and anxiously civil. we were puzzled as to his nationality. he did not look catalonian, or spanish of any sort, spoke excellent french, yet was decidedly not a frenchman. when the mystery was solved we found him an italian. a man ruling very differently from our energetic hostess at narbonne, who, full of electricity herself, seemed to have the power of galvanising every one else into perpetual motion. our gerona host was quiet and passive, as though all day long he had nothing to do but rest on his oars and take life easily. he never hastened his walk beyond a certain measure or raised his voice above a gentle tone. yet, like well-oiled works, he kept the complicated machinery in order. there was no friction and no noise, but everything came up to time. he was last in bed at night, first up in the morning. a tall, thin, dark man, with an expression of face in which there was no trace of impatient fretting at life. if wealth had not come to him (we knew not how that was), evil days had passed him by. he had learned the secret of contentment, and was a man of peace. yet he had brought up a large family of sons and daughters, and could not have escaped care and responsibility. they now took their part in the _ménage_, but it was evident that without the father nothing would hold together for an hour. the youngest son, a tall, presentable young fellow, had been partly educated at tours and spoke very good french. his ambition now was to spend two years in england to perfect himself in the language, which he was good enough to consider difficult and barbarous. "french," he plaintively observed, "is pronounced very much as it is spelt; so are spanish and italian; i have them all at my finger-ends. but english has done its best to confound all foreigners. it is worse than russian or chinese." this he related the next day as we went about the town, for we had accepted his polite offer to guide us; and very intelligent and painstaking he proved himself. our host's wife was fat, broad and buxom as the husband was the opposite. when her homely face beamed upon her guests from behind the counter of her little bureau, she looked the picture of an amiable dutch vrouw. nothing less than a frank hals could have done her justice. her lines seemed to have been cast in pleasant places, and her days also had been without shadow of evil. it was also evident that our host was cheerfully disposed. his walls were all painted with landscapes, and if rainbow-colours predominated, he reasoned that they were more enlivening than grey skies and dark shadows. even the walls of his garden-court had not escaped: a court put to many uses, level with the first floor, bounded on one side by the kitchen, on the other by the dining-room, at right angles with each other. a picturesque court with a slightly italian atmosphere about it, due perhaps to the sunny landscapes. orange and small eucalyptus trees stood about in large tubs. the far end was roofed, and the fine red tiles slanted downwards. over these grew a large abundant vine bearing rich clusters of grapes in due season. under the eaves were hung cages with captive nightingales and thrushes that looked anything but unhappy prisoners. "in the spring they sing gloriously," said our host, who, evidently full of tender mercies as of cheerfulness, gazed affectionately at his birds. "i hang them outside our front windows sometimes, and night and day the street echoes with the nightingales' song. you may close your eyes and fancy yourself in the heart of a wood. i have often done so, and dreamed i was in my italian home, listening to the birds on the one hand, the murmur of the mediterranean on the other. that is one reason why i love and keep them. they bring back lost echoes, and make me feel young again." pigeons and doves strutted about the yard, and were evidently considered very nearly as sacred as those of st. mark's, for they were as fearless as if the days of the millennium had come at last. [illustration: the boulevard: gerona.] but on the first evening of our arrival we had yet to learn the many virtues of our host. we only saw in broad outlines that we were in good hands. "not having telegraphed, you are fortunate to find accommodation, sirs," he said, as he lighted candles and marshalled us to his best rooms. "last year at the fair we were full to overflowing--not an available hole or corner to spare. this year we are comparatively empty, simply because the town corporation have not organised the usual fêtes, which bring us visitors from all parts of the country. nevertheless we may be full to-morrow." "it is an annual fair, then?" "very much so, and one of the most celebrated in spain. this is the first night, to-morrow the first day. that and the next day are comparatively quiet; the day after comes the horse and cattle fair, and the whole town is crowded with a rough, noisy set of people. you would hardly think them agreeable." "in that case our visit to gerona must terminate within forty-eight hours. the train which brought us to-night shall take us on to barcelona." "where you have it more civilised but will not be more welcome," said our polite host, still leading the way. the corridors were paved with stone, the ceilings were lofty. turning into a narrower passage to the right, we looked into the yard, where our famous omnibus reposed; the horses had been taken out and were marching up to their stable. this passage led to a salon, out of which one of our bedrooms opened; our host had given us of his best. placing one of the candles down and lighting others, he turned to see that everything was in order. we opened the window and looked out to the main street--long, narrow, almost in darkness. electric lamps here and there gave little light. "why so?" we asked the landlord. "because we get our motive force from the river; and just now the river is almost dry," he replied. "so they have to work with a machine, and the machine is not strong enough to light the whole town. that is why i don't have it in the hotel. one day we should have illumination, the next total darkness. better go on in the old way." "there was quite a riot at the station," we remarked; "we were told it had to do with conscription. at one time we thought they were going to storm the omnibus." "you were well-informed," said the landlord; "it is the conscription. fathers, brothers and cousins have assembled to see the poor fellows depart. generally speaking they all turn up again after a time, like bad money; but on this occasion who knows? raw recruits as they are, many may get drafted off to cuba, with small chance of ever seeing their native land again. luckily they are more full of excitement at the change of life and scene than of regret at leaving home. the noise, as you say, might be that of a riot; without exception, the spanish are the noisiest people in the world, but it means nothing. it is the froth of champagne, and when it subsides there is good wine beneath." "are the people of gerona poetical?" asked h. c., rather anxiously. "poetical, sir?" with a puzzled expression. "do you mean to ask if they write poetry, like dante and shakespeare? you do them too much honour." "no, one could hardly expect that of them. but do they read and appreciate the poetry of others? there was a moment when i thought that crowd at the station was an ovation in honour of----" h. c. paused and lowered his eyes modestly. our intelligent landlord at once divined his meaning. we invariably found that he guessed things by intuition; two words of explanation with him went as far as twenty with others. "ah, i understand. you, sir, are a poet, and at first thought this riotous assemblage an ovation in your honour. i fear i must undeceive you--though you probably have already undeceived yourself. i hope it was not a bitter awakening. still, i am enchanted to make the acquaintance of an english poet. i once saw and spoke to mr. browning in italy. he did not look to me at all poetical. one pictures a poet with pale face, dreamy eyes, flowing locks, and abstracted manner. mr. browning was the opposite of all this. now you, sir, with that beautiful regard and far-away expression looking into nothingness----" h. c. bowed his acknowledgments; our host though flattering was growing a little personal. "you have lost your poet-laureate," he continued; "and another has not been appointed. i read the newspapers and know the leading events of every country; for though i live out of the world, i must know everything that is going on there. perhaps, sir, you are to be the new poet-laureate?" "not at present," said h. c., flushing deeply as a vision of future greatness rose up before him. "i hope to be so in time. at present i am rather young to bear the weight of the laurel wreath, which seldom adorns the unwrinkled brow." "there is rhythm in your prose," said the landlord in quiet appreciation. "truth will out. but, sir, though a poet, you are mortal; at least i conclude so, in spite of your diaphanous form and spiritual regard; and i bethink me that time flies in talking, and we shall have dinner ready before we can turn round. in england, being a poet, you probably feast upon butterflies' wings and the bloom of peaches; but----" "on the contrary," cried h. c. hastily; "i have an excellent appetite and love substantial dishes. crystallised violets and the bloom of peaches i leave to my aunt, lady maria. like george iii. my favourite repast is boiled mutton and apple dumplings; and like the king i have never been able to understand how the apples get inside the pastry. that does not affect their flavour. so we will, if you please, make ready for dinner. do you patronise the french or spanish cuisine? oh, i am indifferent. it is a mere matter of butter versus oil, and both are good." then they went off in a procession of two, the landlord carrying the flambeau. "we will look upon it as the torch of genius," said the latter, "and i am proud to bear it. but methinks, sir, it should be in your hands." after this we heard only receding footsteps. the scene presently changed to the dining-room. at first we had made for the wrong room devoted to the humbler folk indoors and out. here, too, the landlord and his own people took their meals; and once or twice, casting a glance in passing, it was a pleasure to see how madame's broad buxom face and capacious form was doing justice to the good things on the festive board. her husband and children did not take after her; they were all very much after pharaoh's lean kine: she could have sheltered them all under her ample wing. we were rather horrified on entering. a few curious looking people, very much _sans gêne_, sat at a table in a state of disorder. even h. c.'s capacious appetite would have fled at the aspect of things. from a door beyond opening to the kitchen came sounds of fizzing and frying and savoury fumes. the chef and his imps were flitting about excitedly. we were beginning to think that after all our lines had fallen in strange places, when the landlord appeared at the door, pounced upon us, and marshalled us off the premises. "that is not for you, sir," he said. "we are obliged to have two rooms. a certain number will neither pay fair prices nor heed good manners, and these we place below the salt, as i have read in some of your english books. i put up with them because it would not answer me to have three rooms. and then we have our meals when nobody else has theirs, and waiting and running to and fro is over for the moment. to keep an hotel is indeed no sinecure." saying this, he led the way to a large and unobjectionable room, its walls adorned with the sunny landscapes already described. if perspective and colouring were eccentric, why, we had only to think that variety was charming, as h. c. observed, and defects became virtues. the room was well illuminated with gas, whatever might be going on in the streets; to no tenebrous repast were we invited. the linen was snow-white. our host's daughters waited quietly and silently, with a certain grace of manner: dark-eyed, good-looking young women, with something both italian and spanish about them, whereby we imagined the buxom lady-mother was probably catalonian. throughout catalonia we observed that the women after a certain age--by no means old age--grow inordinately stout. time after time a little whipper-snapper, lean, shrivelled and short would enter a dining-room followed by an enormous spouse, who came crushing down upon him like a himalaya mountain upon a sand-hill. they would take their seat at a table, the lady with a great deal of difficult arranging, and the little husband would gaze up at the huge wife with adoration in his eyes, as proudly as if she had been the venus de milo come to life with all her arms and legs about her and a fair proportion of garments. the back is fitted to the burden, but here the order of things was reversed--the wife's broad shoulders must needs bear the weight of life. there were no stout ladies in the dining-room to-night. at different parts of the long table sat some eight or ten people of various nations. opposite us were two englishmen separated by a spaniard. they were of one party, yet never spoke a word from the time they entered to the time they left. occasionally they glared at each other on passing a dish or the wine of the country, which was supplied _ad libitum_. what the entente cordiale or bone of contention we never discovered; every meal they kept to their silent programme, until it became almost oppressive. once or twice we thought they were perhaps monks of la trappe in disguise, but gave up the idea as far-fetched. the englishmen, at any rate, judging by expression, were certainly not devoted to fasting and penance. they were young, and the world held attractions not at all in harmony with solitary cells and the midnight mass. we never solved the silent enigma, as h. c. called them. not far off sat a priest, who no doubt had himself helped to celebrate many a midnight mass, perhaps both in and out of a monastery. he was the most interesting character at table, tall, distinguished looking, with flowing white hair, a singularly handsome face and magnificent head. the system of serving was different from most hotels. dishes were not handed round, but every person or party had placed before them their own dish, of which each took as much or as little as they pleased. whether the priest was father confessor to the ladies of the inn, or whether they merely had a very proper respect for his cloth, we knew not, but he invariably came in for a benjamin's portion, and sent most of it away untasted. also it was evident that he could sit in judgment on others. the next day at luncheon he took his seat next to us. we were suffering from headache, which has made life more or less a burden. severe diseases require strong remedies. we ate dry bread, and drank sundry cups of black coffee mixed with brandy; the latter half a century old and almost as mild as milk, its healing properties sovereign. the priest, we say, sat next, and we almost resented his not leaving the breathing interval of a chair between us, where empty chairs were abundant. the silent enigma at the lower end of the table were quite a long way off. at our second cup, the priest looked anxious; at our third, reproachful; at our fourth and last, contained himself no longer. yet the four cups were only equal to two ordinary black-coffee cups. possibly the priest thought age conferred privilege. he was also probably impulsive, and like all similar people often said and did the wrong thing. but he was evidently actuated by a pure spirit of philanthropy, which would set the world to rights if it could accomplish the impossible. looking earnestly at us, he spoke, and then we found he was a frenchman. "monsieur," he said in his own tongue, "that is a most insidious beverage, fatal to digestion, destructive to the nerves. if i see any one repeating the dose, at the risk of being thought indiscreet, i cannot avoid speaking. when i count up to the fourth cup, i feel they are in jeopardy. and shall i tell you why?--i speak from experience. i once myself was nearly overcome by the fatal basilisk, only that in my case it was strong waters without coffee more often than with it. for a time it was a question which should conquer, the tempter or the better nature. then came a period in which i was wretched and miserable, yielding and fighting alternately. finally, i made a greater effort, and vowed that if strength were given me to overcome, i would dedicate my life to the church. soon after that i fell ill; sick almost unto death. weeks and months passed and i recovered to find the temptation vanished; hating the very sight of brandy, with coffee or without. mindful of my vow--i was a young man at the time--i took steps to enter the church; and here i am. and now, sir, forgive me for saying so much about myself, and for preaching a little sermon taken from real life, though time and place are perhaps not quite fitted to the occasion." we forgave him on the spot. his intentions were excellent, his sympathies keen; two admirable qualities. we assured him that strong waters were no temptation, held no charm; yet twice four cups had been taken if needed. the good priest shook his head doubtfully. "a dangerous remedy, monsieur. but, now, i am interested in you. i like the amiable manner in which you have received my little homily. many would take fire and proudly tell me to mind my own business. you arouse my sympathies and invite my confidence. let me confess that i placed myself here to enter into conversation. mine has been a singular life, both since i entered the church and before it: full of lessons. if before retiring to-night you should have an hour to spare and will give it me, i will relate to you passages in a very eventful career. you will say it contains many marvels. however late, it will not be too late for me. i never retire to bed before three in the morning, and am always broad awake at seven. four hours' sleep in the twenty-four is all nature ever accords me. i have reason to believe that i shall be offered the next vacant see in the church: i could place my finger upon the very spot: and my wakeful nights will enable me to do much work. let me hope that wisdom and judgment may be accorded. but what am i doing?" drawing himself up. "talking as though i had known you for a lifetime; giving you my confidence, betraying my secrets! what power are you exercising? what does it mean? sir, you must be a hypnotist, and i have fallen into your meshes. yet, no; i feel i am not mesmerised, and you are to be trusted. yes, i repeat that if you will give me an hour this evening, though it be the dead of night, i will confide strange experiences to your ear that until now have been locked within my own bosom. and why not? my life is my own; i have a right to withhold or disclose what pleases me." the words of the priest made us almost uncomfortable. we aspired to no undue influence over any one, much less a stranger. confidences are not always desirable; but then we reflected that confidences need not be confessions. the experiences even of a simple life must always be of use, how much more those of an active man of the world--thoughtful, observing, retentive and philosophical. there was something unusually attractive about our priest. he possessed great refinement of face; a profile that reminded us of the fine outlines of père hyacinthe as we had many a time watched him in a paris pulpit preaching with so much earnestness, fire and conviction, raising a crusade against the errors and shams both within and without the church. when our present neighbour was a bishop, would he too uphold the good and condemn the evil? we looked closely and thought nature had not been unmindful of her power. as already stated, his long flowing hair was white; the head was splendidly developed; there was a ring and richness in the subdued voice that would reach the farthest corners of notre dame. we asked ourselves the question but could not answer it. the future holds her own secrets and makes no confidences. but strangely interested in père delormais--to make a slight but sufficient change in his name--we promised him an hour, two hours if he would, and even found ourselves awaiting the interview with curiosity and impatience. and this was the result of black coffee and brandy. but all this took place on the second day. on the first night of our arrival we had needed neither one nor the other. the priest sat on the opposite side of the table, and we noticed nothing about him but his distinguished appearance and benjamin's portions. yet he evidently had been closely studying us. the silent enigma had occupied a little of our attention and wonder, but this soon passed away. the remainder of the scattered guests called for no remark whatever. chapter iv. a night vision. wrong turnings--h. c.'s gifts and graces--out at night--the arcades of gerona--at the fair--ancient outlines--demons at work--in the dry bed of the river--roasting chestnuts--medieval outlines--in the vortex--clairvoyantes and lion-tamers--clown's despair--deserted streets--vision of the night--haunted staircase--dark and dangerous--a small grievance--the reeds by the river--cry of the watchmen--hare and hounds--fair rosamund--jacob's ladder--new rendering to old proverbs--cathedral by night--h. c. oblivious--scent fails--return to earth--romantic story--last of a long line--_el sereno!_--the witching hour--h. c. unserenaded--next morning--grey skies--a false prophet--magic picture--cathedral by day--mediæval dreams. dinner ended we went to our rooms preparatory to investigating the town. these rooms were only reached through a labyrinth of passages, and to the last hour we were always taking wrong turnings. h. c. had the organ of locality as well as the gift of rhyme, and we often had to summon him from some distant chamber to the rescue; vainly remarking that it was a little hard all the talents should have fallen to his share. he would condescendingly reply that we must be thankful for small mercies; adding with great modesty that all his talents and graces, far beyond our ken, were counterbalanced by a feeling of tremendous responsibility. we left the hotel with all our curiosity awakened. it was very dark. no stars were shining; a small aneroid indicated rain. where we came to openings in the streets, the sky above was lighted with a lurid glare, reflection of the countless torches in the fair. our own street was in comparative darkness. sauntering down whither fate would lead us, we came to some splendid arcades, deep, massive and solemn. few towns in spain possess such arcades as gerona; so exceedingly picturesque and substantially built that time may mellow but hardly destroy them. to-night they were not quite impenetrable; a little of the glare from the sky or the fair--the latter unseen but near at hand--seemed to faintly light their obscurity and add mystery to the finely-arched outlines. they were deserted, not a creature was visible, the shops were closed. there is no time like night and darkness for solemn outlines and impressions. [illustration: arcades: gerona.] a few steps farther on and we suddenly burst upon the full glory of the fair. not the glory of the sun or moon, but of smoking torchlights and lurid flames carried hither and thither by the wind. we traced them far as the eye could reach. the houses, with their quaint outlines and iron balconies shadowed by the waving trees, stood out vividly. a double stream of people sauntered to and fro, treading upon each other's heels. at one booth a dutch auction was going on--great attraction of the evening. [illustration: view of gerona from the stone bridge.] we stood on the bridge and looked quite far down upon the bed of the river. as our host had said, the water was very low. the stream had narrowed and half the bed was dry. here and there huge fires were burning and flaming, and men danced round them, looking like demons as the flames now and then burst forth and lighted up their grim faces. they were roasting chestnuts, and as each batch was finished it was carried up to the fair to be quickly devoured by the boys and girls to-night supreme. every dog has its day, and it was their turn to reign. they must make the most of it. to-morrow the garlands would fade. when the clock struck twelve cinderella went back to her rags and chimney-corner. black monday always comes. every stall displayed nothing but toys, from juvenile knives to slice off finger-ends to seductive-looking purses that were a mortifying reflection upon empty pockets. as we stood on the bridge all this light and glare outlined the wonderful houses that rise up straight from the river so that its waters wash their foundations--and at very high tides come in at the ground-floor windows, a visitor more free than welcome. the occurrence is rare, but has been known. we could just trace the marvellous outlines; their strangely picturesque, old-world look: and we waited with patience for the morning and the splendours it should reveal. plunging boldly into the crowd, we were swallowed up in the vortex. it was rather bewildering. all the people seemed to do was to walk up and down in an endless stream, eat chestnuts and blow penny trumpets. to-night, at any rate, the stalls were almost neglected. possibly they had not had time to digest the glamour, and to-morrow the harvest would come. at the end of the long thoroughfare lights and stalls and crowd were left behind. we reached a quaint corner which cunningly led to another bridge. this we crossed and soon found ourselves in the wide market square and a different scene. here the shows had taken up their abode, and every effort was being made to excite an unresponsive crowd. it was the usual thing. the learned pig, the two-headed lady, the gentleman who drew portraits with his feet, the clairvoyante who told fortunes and promised wealth and marriage, the lion-tamer who put his head into the lion's mouth, the enchanting ballet, where ladies and gentlemen pirouetted and made love in dumb motions: these attractions were faithfully described and freely offered to the dazzled multitude. in vain a clown tried to be facetious, shouted himself hoarse, and blew a trumpet until his face grew dark. bells rang and drums beat--the crowd did not respond. we left them to it, not tempted by the unseen. our day for shows and illusions was over. this was not what we had expected of gerona the beautiful and ancient. if we felt a slight grievance, who could wonder? presently we found ourselves in the darkness of night at the edge of the river. there was more water here, no dry bed visible. away to the left, as far as one could gather, stretched the open country. tall trees, sombre and mysterious, waved and rustled behind us. evidently this was one of the public parks or promenades that exist just outside so many spanish towns, refuges from the mid-day sun and evening glare; elysian fields for those disembodied souls who pace to and fro to the music of love's young dream; vows of eternal fidelity more or less writ in sand. the water looked cold and calm and tranquil. rushes grew by the side and the wind whispered through them. pan was playing his pipes. lights twinkled from the windows of many a house down by the river. a lurid glow still hung in the sky, and beneath it, in front of us to the right, we traced the marvellous outlines of the town. above all, crowning the heights, stretching heavenwards like mighty monsters, uprose the towers of the cathedral and other churches. almost unearthly was the scene in its gloom and grandeur of mystery. far down on the dry bed of the river the chestnut-roasters danced like demons about their holocausts. no clown need cry the virtues of their wares; the demand was equal to the supply, and both were unlimited. we hardly knew how we found our way here or found it back again. instinct guides one on these occasions and seldom fails as it failed in the midnight streets of toledo. but a conjuror would be lost in those narrow wynds, which all resemble each other and are without plan or sequence. [illustration: banks of the oÑar: gerona.] to-night it was plainer sailing. afar off we heard the clown bidding people to his feast of good things. like the siren in stormy weather it told us which way to steer, what to avoid. we passed well on the outskirts of the gaping crowd and found ourselves on the bridge: the dark bridge, with the river flowing beneath, the houses rising in a great impenetrable mass, and the distant chestnut-roasters at their demon work. the evening was growing old; a neighbouring church clock struck ten. this served to change the current of one's thoughts, which had simply drifted with the scene before us. "let us go to the cathedral," said h. c. "we shall then have two impressions instead of one. i always like to see an important building first at night. next morning's view is so different that it becomes a revelation." this was true enough; but how find our way to the cathedral and back again to the hotel? we had no desire to repeat that toledo adventure. the story of the babes in the wood is only amusing to those who listen. "evidently a very different town from toledo," replied h. c. "we have only to climb the height to reach the cathedral. let us play hare and hounds. i will drop pieces of paper by way of scent. or like hop o' my thumb scatter stones on the road." "wouldn't a silken thread be more poetical?" "true; but," with a profound sigh, "there is no fair rosamund at the end of it. here we can only worship the antique. rosamund was not antique." "but this has one great virtue; it can never disappoint or play you false. and, rare merit, its charms increase with age." again he sighed deeply. he had had many disappointments, but then he deserved them. butterflies flit from flower to flower, until by-and-by they alight on a nettle and it stings: a little allegory always lost upon h. c. the gift of knowing themselves is still denied to mortals. we left the bridge and found ourselves once more in the quaint octagonal corner; in front of us a narrow turning; a long flight of steps apparently without end; a jacob's ladder. "leading to paradise," said h. c. "let us take it." "would you be admitted with all those broken vows upon your conscience?" the oracle was silent. with a bold plunge we commenced the ascent: a rugged climb with dead walls about us; twistings and turnings and crooked ways and rough uneven steps; a veritable pilgrimage. "patience," said h. c. "everything comes to him who climbs. i like to vary our proverbs; the old forms grow hackneyed." as he spoke, we came upon a hidden turning to the left; short, straight, and evidently full of purpose. we took it without doubting and soon found ourselves in the open square, bound on one side by the cathedral with the bishop's palace at right angles. on this occasion no majestic outlines rewarded us. only for its interior is the cathedral famous. all doors were locked and barred. we knocked for admission. these wonderful buildings should be open at night as well as by day, and some of their finest effects are lost by this tyrannical custom. but we knocked in vain; ghostly echoes answered us. ghosts pass through doors; we never heard that the most accommodating ghost ever opened them to mortals. it was the great south doorway at which we appealed--the apostles' doorway--and in the darkness we could just trace its fine deeply-recessed arch. above the cathedral rose its one solitary pagan tower, shadowy and unreal against the night sky. a broad, magnificent, apparently endless flight of steps such as few cathedrals possess faced the west front. to-night we could see nothing beyond of the town and river, the great stretch of country and far-off pyrenees we knew must be there. all this must wait for the morning. nor should we have to wait long, for night and the moments were flying. the glare had died out of the sky; shows and booths had put out their lights; the crowd had gone home. gerona might now truly be likened to a dead city. no sound disturbed the stillness but the cry of the watchmen in different parts of the town. one proclaimed the time and weather and another took up the tale; sometimes a discordant duet rose upon the air. we heard it all distinctly from our citadel above the world. [illustration: apostles' doorway, cathedral: gerona.] as we looked, one of them passed in slow contemplation at the foot of the long flight of steps--steps nearly as broad as the cathedral itself. his staff struck the ground, his light flashed shadows upon the houses. the effect was weird. heavy footsteps echoed right and left through the narrow streets, in fitting accompaniment to his monotonous chant. we had long grown familiar with these old watchmen, who come laden with an atmosphere of the past. they are in harmony with these towns of ancient outlines, suggesting days when perhaps the faintest glimmer of an oil lamp only made darkness more hideous; days when their office was no sinecure as now, but one of danger and responsibility. the cathedral clock struck eleven, and when the last faint vibration had died upon the air we turned to go. it seemed a great many hours since we had risen in the darkness of the narbonne misty morning, h. c. had been reawakened with a sort of volcanic eruption, and madame, wishing us bon voyage over our tea and hot rolls, had disappeared like a flash into the mist to put the final touches to her _diner de noce_. "now for hare and hounds, h. c. lead the way." "by the beard of mahomet! i forgot all about it and have put none down." "so the scent has failed?" remorse made him silent for a moment. then he tried to turn the tables. "after all, it was your fault. your saying what you did about the silken thread and fair rosamund, set me thinking what a romantic adventure it would be if it could only come true. naturally everything else went out of my mind." "we must make the best of it, h. c., and get back to the hotel as we can. suppose we vary the route. these steps look inviting; we will take them. all roads lead to rome." we went down the interminable flight, turned and looked back. a vision of a church in the clouds and a pagan tower that went out of sight. we had returned to earth, and not far off the old watchman was still awaking shadows and echoes in the narrow street. we could not do better than follow, and presently found ourselves in our quaint little octagonal corner. all was well. the long thoroughfare, so crowded lately, was now forsaken. stalls were shut down, lights were out. it was like a deserted banqueting-hall. the chestnut sellers had left their pans and baskets, but left them empty. from the bed of the river the dancing demons had departed, and the smoke of their incense still ascended from dying embers. next came the old arcades, darker, lonelier, more mysterious than ever. these we knew faced our street, and turning our backs upon them we found ourselves in a few moments at the hotel. only a couple of old watchmen broke the solitude, meeting at their boundaries. they stood on the pavement in close converse and we wondered if they were hatching mischief; then they threw their light upon us and no doubt returned the compliment. we disappeared within the great doorway and left them to their reflections. up the broad staircase, the white marble glistening in the rays of the one electric lamp that still lighted up the courtyard. we thought of the sumptuous crowd that had passed up and down in the centuries gone by; fair dames in rustling silks and gay cavaliers with clanking swords; all the grandeur and gorgeousness of that once ducal palace. the staircase seemed haunted with ghosts and shadows, the murmur of voices, echo of laughter, weeping of tears. and now, dim and vapoury, a brilliant pair appeared in tender proximity to each other. his arm encircled her waist, her fair white hand rested with fond appropriation upon his doublet. the love-look in her eyes was only equalled by the fervour and constancy of his. yet sadness predominated, for it was a farewell interview. she was the last daughter of the ducal house, last of her race. they were betrothed and the course of true love had run smooth. but now he was bidden fight for his country and would depart at daybreak. he never lived to return, but died on the battlefield. within his gloved hand was found a golden tress tightly clasped, and next his heart a small miniature of his beautiful betrothed. both were buried with him. she soon faded and declined, and found him again in a land where wars and partings are unknown. house and name became extinct. as we thought of this, suddenly the staircase seemed full of sighs, lights grew dim. we passed on and found the hotel empty and deserted. every one had gone to bed and left the long gloomy corridors to silence and the ghosts. we lighted candles and h. c. led the way through the labyrinth to our rooms. windows were open and the two old watchmen below were just where we had left them, apparently still gazing at the doorway through which we had disappeared. _"el sereno!"_ cried he. "call your hours and guard the city. enemies lurk in secret corners." they looked up and wished us good night. we were not marauders after all. so they separated with easy conscience, and from opposite ends of the street we heard them announce the time and weather. it was hardly necessary, for another watchman rang out with iron tongue. midnight slowly tolled over the town from all the churches. impossible to believe an hour had passed since we stood at the top of that vast flight of steps overlooking the darkness. how had we sauntered back? where had the moments flown? one grows absorbed in these night visions, dark shadows and outlines, and time passes unconsciously. we counted the strokes, listened to the vibrations, and then h. c. went off to his own regions. the watchmen were all very well in their way, but for his part an open window and a love serenade--such as we had been favoured with in toledo--had greater charms. to-night passionate appeals and the melody of the lute were sought in vain. every window was closed and dark. we also said good-night to the sleeping world. the next morning rose in due course, but not with promise. heavy rain had fallen during the night, lowering clouds foretold more. just now, however, they had proclaimed a truce. we went out and felt that the grey sky was in harmony with the grey tones of the town. nevertheless spain essentially needs sunshine to bring out all its colouring and brilliancy. under dark clouds it falls for the most part flat and dead, its finest effects lost. "the rainy season has begun," said h. c. "we are in for a spell of wet weather. generally it comes in september. this year it has obligingly put it off until november. my usual ill-luck." "i fear it is so," said josé our host's son, who, as we have said, volunteered to pilot us about the town and show forth its hidden wonders--delighted to air his french and give us spanish lessons. "we have a weather-wise prophet who never was known to go wrong; a great meteorologist. he has just written to the papers to say we are to have a month's deluge." a cheerful beginning. as it proved, they were all mistaken, but at the moment the skies seemed to confirm the tale. all the same we would not lose hope, which has brought many a sinking ship into harbour. so we put on a cheerful countenance, bid them take heart of grace and their umbrellas. it would be invidious to enter, at the end of a chapter, upon the wonders of the town which met us at every step and turning; but we must record one experience before concluding. let us close our eyes, take flight upwards and alight at the head of that vast stone staircase with our backs to the cathedral. we see this morning what last night was veiled in darkness. the town lies chiefly to our left. we overlook a sea of red and grey roofs. to our right are the old walls with their gateways, round bastions and irregular outlines. near to us is a church-tower, graceful, octagonal, excellent in design; but the upper part of its spire is gone and we can only imagine its once perfect beauty. low down beyond the town lies the river, winding through a picturesque country. we can even see the reeds and rushes that border its banks, but cannot hear their murmur as we did last night. if pan still pipes it is to the pixies. in the distance the pyrenees are sleeping in graceful, long-drawn undulations. nothing can be lovelier than their outlines. some are snow-capped and stand out pure and white against the grey skies. a magic picture and we long to see it under sunshine. no wonder if pan is silent. we turn to the cathedral. no need to knock this morning. the great west doors are unlocked and we enter. the first thing to strike us is an intense obscurity; a dim religious light deeper than we remember to have seen in any other sacred building. but to-day the grey skies have something to answer for in this matter. as the sight grows accustomed to the gloom, the next thing we notice is the vastness and splendour of the nave in which we stand: a single span seventy-three feet broad. no other church in christendom can boast of such a nave. light comes in from windows high up, filled in with rich stained glass. the tone of the walls and pillars is perfect, never having been touched with brush or knife; a rich subdued claret delighting the senses. those great men of the middle ages made no mistakes. nothing was admitted to disturb their love of harmony and proportion. they built wonders for the glory of their country and for all time: knew and recognised one thing only--the charm of perfection. where they failed, their efforts were crippled; they were told to make bricks without straw. without waiting at this moment to examine the church more closely, we pass through a great doorway on the left and find ourselves in the cloisters. here too is a marvellous vision. few cloisters in the world compare with them. the four sides are unequal, but this almost heightens their attraction. they have been little interfered with and are almost in their original state. the simple round arches rest on coupled pillars of marble, slender and graceful. the capitals are extremely rich, elaborate and delicate in their carving. here romanesque art seems to have been introduced into spain through france. the cathedrals of catalonia are of exceeding beauty and appear to have laid the foundation of mediæval spanish art. this also, though they would deny it, is due to french influence--happily at that time at its best and purest. in this wonderful cloister we lost ourselves in dreams of the middle ages, days which have glorified the earth, and appear almost as necessary to us as light and air. in the centre was an ancient well, without which no cloister seems perfect. shrubs and trees embowered it, and the fresh green stood out in contrast with creamy walls and romanesque arches. at the end of the north passage we passed through an open porch to a view extensive and magnificent. a steep rugged descent led to the town. below us was the ancient benedictine church of san pedro, with its norman doorway and cloisters scarcely less wonderful than those we had just visited. near it was a smaller, equally ancient church, now desecrated and turned into a carpenter's shop. we will pay it a visit by-and-by and make acquaintance with its sturdy owner, who passes his days and does his work under the very shadow of sanctity. beyond all, on the brow of the hill outside the walls, we trace the ruins of the great castle and citadel that so nobly stood the siege of gerona, until the twin spectres famine and disease stalked in hand in hand and conquered the brave defenders. we gazed long upon all these historical landmarks, pointed out and explained by our guide-companion. then turning back through the cloisters again found ourselves lost in visions of the past as we fell once more under the magic influence of the vast space and dim religious light of gerona's splendid cathedral. chapter v. gerona the beautiful. a gerona señora--grace and charm--lord of creation--morning greeting--arcades and ancient houses--conscription--gerona a discovery--streets of steps--ancient eaves and rare ironwork--old-world corner--desecrated church--gothic cloisters--ghosts of the past--visions of to-day--soldiers interested--"happy as kings"--lingerings--colonel seeks explanation--no lover of antiquity--more conscription--dramatic scene--pedro to the rescue--mother and son--sad story--strong and merciful--pedro grateful--restricted interests--colonel becomes impenetrable again. last night we had found much to admire, though in the darkness the charms were only half seen. this morning on opening our window clouds hung low and threatening; yet the grey tone over all was in such singular harmony with the ancient city that we hardly regretted the gloomy skies. immediately opposite our casement was a small draper's shop presided over by an industrious feminine genius. she was up betimes and worked as though she had taken to heart all the proverbs of solomon. a short, dark woman of the true spanish type, bright, active, and not above all manner of work, for she swept her pavement diligently and arranged her wares; doing all with a certain natural grace that was not without its charm. we thought her a young widow struggling for existence, but when all the work was done and everything was comfortably arranged, a husband appeared upon the scene; evidently a lord of creation who looked upon women, and especially wives, as born to labour. it was their portion under the sun. she had no doubt grown used to this state of things and accepted it as part of life's penances. "i hope you have slept well," we heard her say with the slightest tinge of sarcasm--the street was so narrow as to bring them almost within half-a-dozen yards of us. "i have been up these two hours, whilst you were serenely unconscious," veiling her head in a graceful mantilla. "yet you hardly seem refreshed," as he yawned lazily. "_cara mia_, you are an admirable woman and the best of wives. i admit that without your aid life would go hardly with me. but to you work is a pleasure, and i would not deprive you of it for the world." [illustration: a fragment outside the walls of gerona.] by this time the mantilla was adjusted and the dark little woman swept good-temperedly out of the shop. the prettiest of small feet tripped on to the pavement. she looked up, saw us gazing in her direction, and her smile disclosed the whitest of teeth. "ah, señor, you have heard our conjugal good-morning. it is always the same. fate has been hard upon us women. the weaker vessel, we get terribly imposed upon by our masters. now i go to church to pray for a blessing upon my work and reformation to my lord. not that he is bad or unkind or tyrannical, as husbands go--only incorrigibly lazy. oh, you know it is true, stefano." upon which the little lady--she was quite lady-like in spite of swept pavement and hard work--made us a court-curtsey, flourished a farewell to her _caro sposo_, and passed swiftly and gracefully down the street. it is said that only spanish women know how to walk, and there is some truth in the proverb. rain had fallen heavily during the night, as the watchmen reported through the small hours. it had ceased--with a promise of more to come. remembering the proverb we took umbrellas. h. c. shouldered his and put on his military manner. the town indeed, quiet as it was, seemed full of a military atmosphere, for conscription was still going on and we presently came upon the official scene. we had gone out without our amiable guide to wander at will and let chance take us whither it would. in the light of day the arcades seemed deeper, more massive, more picturesque even than last night. standing on the bridge we looked down upon the dry bed of the river far below. the altars of the chestnut-roasters were cold and dead; the demons absent. but even at that moment there came down a small band of them to rake out fires and prepare for action. the ancient houses on either side make this view from the bridge one of the most remarkable in the world. these rose straight from the river-bed, and where water still ran their outlines were reflected: houses looking old enough to date from the days of the deluge: a huge mass once white, now yellow, brown and black with weather and age. all the windows seemed to have been taken out, resulting in that curious air of unglazed wreck and ruin so often seen in warm latitudes. countless balconies adorned with flowers and coloured draperies hung over the water. above all rose the outlines of the cathedral and other churches in the background with striking effect. the distant view was closed in by the winding river, where the houses on both sides appeared to join hands. just beyond this we had stood last night listening to the rustling of the reeds, lost in the scene so vividly reflected by the lurid glare of the torches. [illustration: street in gerona.] people were gradually waking up and opening their stalls. all down the long thoroughfare were more ancient and massive arcades, hardly noticed last night in the restless crowd. in this country _par excellence_ of arcades we had never seen such as these. "gerona is a discovery," said h. c. for the twentieth time. "the view from this bridge is something to dream about. yet one longs for sunshine and lights and shadows. remarkable as the scene is, it is a study in grey. we want contrast." but the town had more wonders in reserve, when presently our host's son joined us and pointed out the hidden treasures of the narrow tortuous streets. houses with gabled ends, tiled roofs and windows ornamented with magnificent wrought ironwork; the true tone of antiquity over all--as yet unspoilt. gerona, in its dying prosperity, has, like segovia, escaped the ravages of the restorer. its substantial mansions are firm and steadfast as in the far gone middle ages. the irregularities of the place add to its charm. built on rising ground, the streets are a pilgrimage of rough, uneven, picturesque steps. from these, narrow openings lead into many a _cul-de-sac_ crowded with ancient outlines that are nothing less than artistic dreams. we soon came to one of these ascending streets with its endless flight. far up, it was crowned by a church with a solitary square tower and a renaissance west front. houses on either side had wonderful ironwork windows; we cannot help reverting to this special feature; and many a gothic casement was rich in the remains of refined tracery and ornamented balconies; whilst from the deep overhanging eaves quaint waterspouts here and there craned their long necks like gargoyles of some ancient cathedral. reaching the church and turning to the right down a narrow passage between high dead walls we found ourselves in an excited scene: no less than the building given up to the rites of conscription. the spot and its surroundings was one of the most picturesque in gerona. a long, broad flight of steps led up to an ancient church now desecrated and turned into barracks. groups of young soldiers were clustered together and sentinels paced to and fro. to the left, facing the long flight, low ancient houses wonderful in tone and construction were decorated with wrought ironwork windows, some of them almost moorish in design, the upper floors terminating in round open arcades and tiled roofs with projecting eaves; one of those old-world bits only to be seen in these mediæval towns of spain. we climbed the steps and braved the sentinel, feeling there must or ought to be hidden cloisters attached to this old church of which nothing remained but the west front. but we were not to pass unchallenged. an inner sentry came up and asked our business. hearing that we wished to see the cloisters, he beckoned to a further sentry who evidently belonged to the colonel or commandant of the regiment. permission was soon brought, and pointing out the way, we were left to our own devices. instinct had not failed us. in a few moments we were standing in the midst of large lovely old cloisters with gothic arcades resting on slender coupled marble columns. above these rose a gallery of round arcades supported by single pillars with carved capitals, the arches, wider and more open than the pointed arches beneath them, presenting a fine contrast. a deep archway reached by some half-dozen steps led through the palace to the east end of the cathedral and the town walls beyond. in the square in front of palace and cathedral was an ancient and beautiful well. above these again a slanting tiled roof fitly crowned the scene. here in days gone by monks and priests had paced the silent corridors. a sacred atmosphere in which the world had no part hung over all. father-confessors listened to the secret struggles of young novices who hoped to leave the vanities and temptations of life outside the walls of their cells, only to find that in this state of probation conflict can never cease. so confessions were made and penances exacted, and soft footsteps and pale faces haunted those quiet cloisters. large dark eyes--larger and darker for the sunk cheeks--gazed upwards at the sky that canopied the quadrangle with such divine peace, vainly seeking a clue to the mysteries of existence. to-day all was changed. the cloisters were still militant, but in quite another way. all the ancient serenity and repose had departed and the beauty of outline alone remained. soldiers and recruits in every stage of undress went about in restless activity. [illustration: entrance to military cloisters: gerona.] in the upper gallery some were making or mending clothes, others drawing from the well in what was once the cloister garden. it was still ornamented with its fine old ironwork. monks and priests once looked down and saw pale, cowled faces reflected in the calm water; and perhaps as they drew it to the surface there came a vision of another well in a far-off land and a certain woman of samaria. no such vision troubled the five or six closely-cropped soldiers, whose reflected images below had nothing saintly, troubled or questioning about them. these rough specimens of an undersized, undisciplined army were out of all harmony with the ancient outlines that nothing could deprive of their beauty and refinement. we felt the charm and incongruity of it all. the men crowded within a few yards of us, delighted at being taken by the small camera, interested at finding themselves reflected on the object glass, unhappy that we could not there and then present each with a photograph duly printed and mounted. such a machine surely performed miracles. "you all look very happy," h. c. remarked, for more carelessly contented faces were never seen--a mixture of types good and bad. "as happy as kings," they answered. "we eat, drink and sleep well. clothes and lodging are found us and we never have any fighting to do. we should like a little more money for tobacco--but one can't have everything." finally, we stayed so long answering questions, satisfying curiosity, lingering over the beauty of the cloisters, that the colonel himself appeared upon the scene in full uniform, sword and all. no lover of architecture, he could not understand how any one bestowed a second glance on these old outlines. were we trying to worm military secrets out of the men with the intention of starting another peninsular war? the worthy colonel who had so freely given us permission to enter was now anxious for an explanation. pointing out the charm and merit of the cloisters--the pity they should have transposed the order of things and turned pruning-hooks into swords--he declared he could not agree with us. "i discover no great beauty in these old corridors," he said, "and would infinitely rather see them filled with brave soldiers than with a parcel of effeminate monks and priests." we argued the fitness of things--a time and place for everything. "if there were once more a siege of gerona i would turn our very churches into barracks," laughed our colonel, clanking his sword and looking fierce as a fire-eater. "and who knows? as far as i am a prophet we are not anywhere near the days of the millennium. there are more signs of universal war than of eternal peace." we had left the cloisters and were standing almost within touch of the west front of what had been the church. the colonel caught our "mild regretful gaze," laughed and clanked his sword again. [illustration: military cloisters: gerona.] "what will you?" he said. "after all, i would not have been the one to do it myself; but finding it done, i use it without prickings of conscience. see," pointing to the crowd below, "we must have room for our recruits. poor spain is not england. our resources are limited. yet you, sirs, monarchs of the world notwithstanding, had your days of desecration under cromwell. opportunity given, and all evil is possible as well as all good." the crowd alluded to was full of dramatic interest. the very walls of the great grey building seemed pregnant with the chances of fate; the wide doorway greedy to swallow up the youth of the country. young men disappeared within to the human lottery with anxious faces or reckless humour. free agents this morning, to-night perhaps bound down to servitude: a willing bondage to some, to others worse than a death-blow. perhaps the chief interest centred in the crowd of elders--parents and friends waiting for the verdict--many a face full of that patient endurance so terrible to look upon. mothers with the sickness of hope deferred, to whom the very shadow of war was a nightmare; fathers wondering if the boy who had now become companion and part bread-winner, was about to be thrown into the whirl of barrack life with its manifold temptations. they had passed that way in their own youth and knew that only the strong are firm. stalwart amongst the crowd we recognised pedro, our last night's platform acquaintance. "why, pedro," said the colonel--we were standing just a little above the people--"what brings you here to-day? surely you have made your offering to the country and your boy is now at tarragona?" "true, colonel," returned this veteran, firm as an oak tree. "my boy has left me; i saw him off last night and you might have heard the noise going on up here; half the town was at the station. i have no fears for him. he knows good from evil and has strong principles. i gave him my blessing and please heaven he will return when the years are over. but my heart aches for these poor women who are weak when their emotions are in question. so i thought i would come and console them a bit, and tell them that military discipline after all is a very fine thing--the best thing that could happen to them if they only do their duty. you agree, colonel?" "of course i do," returned the colonel sharply. "there is no training like it. it makes men of boys if they have only an inch of wood in them that will bear carving." [illustration: waiting for the verdict.] we had noticed one pale woman close to the doorway, drooping and woe-begone. she seemed superior to those about her, and over her head, half draping her face, was the graceful mantilla. at that moment a youth appeared, a handsome, manly image of his mother--the resemblance was at once evident; his thread-bare clothes proving him scantily endowed with worldly goods. as he advanced a serious expression and hesitating manner betrayed his fate. no need to ask the question, and with a cry that was half sob, wholly despair, the mother threw her arms about her boy's neck as though life could hold no further ill for her. at such a moment reticence was thrown to the winds. what to her the lookers-on? were they not all fellow-sufferers? "a sad story," said our colonel, whose eyes glistened. "they were amongst the most prosperous people in gerona, when the husband died and left them almost in poverty. her eldest son turned scapegrace and this boy was her last hope. no doubt she feels that fate is hard upon her. pedro," to the old man who looked on compassionately, "tell her it will all come right in the end. stay; quietly whisper to her to come to my office to-morrow morning at ten and ask for me. i will promise to keep a special eye upon that boy of hers. he is of finer mould and deserves a better fate than many. i will see that he has it." pedro looked his gratitude, thought there was only one colonel in the world, and he stood before him. to be strong and merciful is to win hearts. "there is more interest for me in this little crowd than in all your ecclesiastical outlines," said the colonel. "i never saw a building that i did not tire of in a week, but my work and my men interest me more year by year. i feel i have something to live for." he was small and wiry, this colonel, with piercing dark eyes and a mouth of which a fierce moustache could not conceal the kindliness. one wished him a finer body of men than these recruits, too many of whom were of the lowest type and had not, to use his own metaphor, even the inch of wood that would bear carving. "that need not greatly trouble you," he said. "it is surprising how many are the exceptions. after all, it is a survival of the fittest. but i see you are interested in humanity just as much as i am," noting how we followed every movement and expression of this pathetic little crowd. "so far your resources are wider than mine, for when on the subject of old buildings you are as absorbed as in front of this little drama. my interests are more restricted. well then, if you like to come to my office to-morrow morning at ten you shall have more food for your sympathies. we will interview that poor woman together and see how far we can minister consolation to the widow and fatherless." this was not one's idea of severe military discipline, but we could not help admiring a nature that after years of experience and repeated discouragements--in spite of what he had said--still possessed so warm a heart, so much of human faith. no doubt he had shown a little of his true self on the spur of the moment, influenced by the above incidents. all his kindliness of feeling was kept well out of sight of others. the next instant he had passed beyond the sentry and was holding forth in tones hard as the pyramids, cold as the sphinx. chapter vi. anselmo the priest. beauties of age--apostles' doorway--how the old bishops kept out of temptation--interior of cathedral--its vast nave--days of charlemagne--and of the moors--a giant dwarfed--rare choir--surly priest--and a more kindly--our showman--dazzling treasures--father anselmo--romantic story--heaven or the world?--doubts--the gentle rosalie decides--sister anastasia--told in the sacristy--a heart-confession--anselmo's mysticism--heresy--charms of antiquity--scene of his triumph--celestial vision--church of san pedro--pagan interior--rare cloisters--desecrated church--singular scene--chiaroscuro--miguel the carpenter--his opinions--daily life a religion--anselmo improves his opportunity--"a reflected light"--ruined citadel--war of succession--alvarez and marshall--gerona in decadence--a revelation--dreamland--midday vision. the colonel disappeared, and we went our way through narrow, tortuous, deserted wynds until we found ourselves in the quaint cathedral square. here again we were surrounded by the beauties of antiquity. before us was the south front of the cathedral with its deeply-arched apostles' doorway at which we had knocked in vain last night. at right angles, its grey walls of exactly the same tone as the cathedral, was the bishop's palace, its picturesque windows guarded by ancient ironwork. why so carefully secured? had the mediæval bishops feared a reversal of things--serenades from fair dames yielding to the charm of forbidden fruit? or mistrusting their own strength had wisely put temptation out of reach? ancient walls are discreet and disclose nothing. the outer gloom was intensified when we passed within the cathedral. after a time pillars and arches and outlines grew more or less visible, a shadowy distinctness full of mystery, appealing to the senses. the vast nave is the widest gothic vault in existence and on entering strikes one with astonishment. so bold was the architect's design considered that it created consternation in the minds of bishop, dean and chapter then ruling. council after council was summoned and opinions were taken from the great architects of foreign countries. finally a jury of twelve men was appointed who gave their verdict in favour of boffy, and the nave was erected. this was in the year . there had existed a cathedral on this very spot since the eighth century and the days of charlemagne. like so many of those early cathedrals it was pulled down and rebuilt; and sometimes it happened that the new was no improvement on the old. this was not the case with gerona. the cathedral was rebuilt in , but the nave was reserved for boffy and his genius four hundred years later. that early cathedral was turned into a mosque when the moors took gerona, but they allowed catholic services to be held in the church of san filiu, close at hand, now shorn of part of its spire. in the moors were expelled and the old cathedral was reinstated. the nave has the fault of being too short, and boffy could not fail to see that it wants in proportion. either space or funds failed him, and the giant had to be dwarfed. still it remains gigantic with a clear width of seventy-three feet. toulouse, next in width, has sixty-three feet; westminster abbey only thirty-eight feet. for the effect of contrast the smaller choir and aisles throw up the proportions of the vast vault. over all is its wonderful tone; whilst the obscure light brings out the pointed arches of choir and chapels and the slender fluted pillars in softened outlines. the choir has a magnificent retablo and baldachino of wood and silver: a rare work of art dating back to the year : so promising that we wished to see the treasures of the sacristy. it was the duty of a certain priest to show them. the priests take the office in turn. to-day he whose turn it was proved unamiable. "he would not show them; had other things to do; we must come another day," hurriedly buttoning his heavy black cloak as he spoke; an ill-favoured example of his race, short, swarthy, unshaven. we explained that our hours were limited. without further parley he marched rapidly down the aisle, cloak flying, hobnailed shoes waking desecrating echoes. then another and kindlier priest came up; altogether a different and more refined specimen of humanity. he would gladly show us the treasures if we would wait whilst he sought the keys. with these he soon returned and thought he had been long. "i am sorry to keep you," he said, "but they were not in their place. now let me turn showman and do the honours." leading the way into the large sacristy he unlocked a cupboard and took out a key. with this he opened a drawer and took out another key. the treasure was well guarded. finally he swung back great doors and our eyes were dazzled as he lighted a beautiful old lamp whose rays flashed upon gemmed and jewelled crooks and crosses, enamelled plates and chalice, a wealth of gold and silver ornaments, many dating back to the twelfth century. some of the crosses were magnificent in design and execution, some had strange and interesting histories. then he showed us rare and wonderful needlework rich in gold thread and coloured silks, also dating back seven or eight hundred years. he explained everything in a quaint fashion of his own, then took us through a series of rooms each having its special attraction. amongst the pictures were one or two of rare merit and a very early period. these rooms and their treasures were well worth the little trouble it had cost to see them. moreover we were brought into contact with an amiable ecclesiastic full of refinement and romance. [illustration: cathedral cloisters: gerona.] "it is a pleasure to show them to you," he said, when we thanked him. "i love all these things amongst which my life has been spent, for i hardly recall the time when i was not attached to the cathedral. as a child i was an acolyte, and remember the delight with which i used to turn the wheel at the altar and listen to its silver chiming. i was never happy but in church, attending on the priests, filling every office permitted to a boy. from the age of ten i determined to be a priest myself and never lost sight of that hope--though i once hesitated. but i was poor, and don't know whether it would have come to pass unaided by one of our canons who was rich and good; educated and half adopted me, and dying four years ago left me a sufficient portion of his wealth. i almost think of myself as one of those romances which only occasionally happen in life. but there was a moment"--he smiled almost sadly--"when i was sorely tempted to abandon religion for the world." "for what reason?" we asked, for he paused. evidently he wished the question, and there was something so interesting about him that we were willing to linger and listen. "a very ordinary reason. i daresay you can guess, for it was the old, old story: nothing less than love. i had not yet taken religious vows and was free to choose. should it be earth or heaven? few perhaps have been more completely enthralled than i. walking and sleeping my thoughts were filled with the gentle rosalie. she was beautiful and i thought her perfect. outward grace witnessed to her inward purity of soul. "to make my conflict harder, she returned all my affection. it was perhaps singular that her life too had been destined to the cloister, as mine to the church. for one whole year we both struggled, miserable and unsettled. every fresh meeting only seemed to strengthen our attachment. an excellent opening in the world presented itself--might we take this as an indication that heaven favoured our desires? it was a sore strait and perhaps we should not have done wrong to yield. during the daylight hours it seemed so. but night after night i awoke with one verse ringing in my ears: 'he that having put his hand to the plough looketh back, is not fit for the kingdom of heaven.' in my excited, almost diseased imagination, the text seemed to stand out in the darkness in letters of fire. i tossed and turned upon my troubled bed. drops of anguish would break upon my brow. on the one hand bliss that seemed infinite; surrounded by all the false colouring and attraction of forbidden fruit. on the other the sure service of heaven--a higher, nobler destiny without doubt. "i grew pale and emaciated under my heart-fever. if left to my own decision i know not how it would have ended: perhaps in yielding. my gentle rosalie proved the stronger vessel. "one morning--shall i ever forget it?--the sun was shining, the skies were blue, birds and flowers were at their best and brightest, song and perfume filled the air, i received a letter in the beloved handwriting. before opening it i felt that it held our fate and knew its contents. the soul is never mistaken in such crises. "'anselmo, my beloved,' it said, 'my choice is made and i trust you not to render my difficult task impossible. last night in a dream my mother visited me; so real her presence that i feel we have held communion together. her face was full of a divine love and pity, and o so sad and sympathising. suddenly she pointed and i saw two roads before me. on each i recognised myself. on the one broad road you walked with me hand in hand. we were both bowed and broken and foot-sore. we seemed unhappy, full of care and sorrow. romance and sunshine? they had fled with the long past years. nothing was left but to lay down our burden and die. "'on the other road i walked alone, but i was strong, upheld by unseen support. the way was long, yet my footsteps never wearied. i wore the dress of a sister of mercy. at the far, far end, bathed in divine light, a glorified being yet yourself, you beckoned and seemed to await me. beyond you there was a faint vision of paradise--i knew you had passed to the higher life. then my mother turned and spoke. her voice still rings in my ears. "my child, in the world you should have tribulation such as you are not fitted to bear. your path lies heavenward." then she pointed upwards, seemed gradually to fade away, and i awoke. i felt it an indication accorded me, and rising, on my knees dedicated afresh my life to heaven if it would deign to receive me. beloved, you will help me; you will lighten my task. though never united on earth, none the less do we belong to each other; none the less shall spend eternity together.' [illustration: interior of cathedral: gerona.] "even now," continued the priest, returning to his own narrative, his voice somewhat agitated: "even now i cannot always think quite calmly of that morning. i sat amidst the birds and flowers, spell-bound, heart-broken. the serene skies and laughing sunshine seemed to mock at my calamity. earthly dreams were over. never for a moment did i question rosalie's decision or seek to turn it aside. i prayed for strength, and it was sent me. she became a sister of mercy, i a priest. so our lives are passing, dedicated to heaven. not for us the feverish joys of earth, but quiet streams undisturbed by worldly cares." "and rosalie? she still lives?" [illustration: cloister of san pedro: gerona.] "yes, and in gerona. her new name is sister anastasia. we meet sometimes in the silent streets; sometimes at the bedside of the sick and dying; occasionally at the house of a friend. i believe that we are as devoted to each other as in the days of our youth, but it is love purified and refined, containing a thousand-fold more of real happiness than our first passionate ecstasy. if we are to believe her vision, i shall be the first to enter the dark passage and cross to the light beyond. it may yet be half a lifetime--who knows? i am only thirty-seven, rosalie thirty-five--but whenever the summons comes for her, i feel that i shall be awaiting her on the divine shores." we were seated in a room beyond the sacristy where silence and solitude reigned amidst the evidences of the past centuries on walls and crucifix and ancient bibles--a delightful room in which to receive such a confession. a halo of romance surrounded our priestly guide; his pale, refined face glowed with a light from which, as he said, all earthly dross was purified. and yet he was evidently very human; sympathies and affections were not straitened; his interests in gerona and its people were keenly alive. it was the kindliness of his nature had caused him to take compassion upon us when his more surly fellow-labourer in the vineyard had turned a deaf ear to our request. but our golden moments were passing; we could not linger for ever in old-world sacristies listening to heart-confessions. treasures were locked up, keys placed in their hiding-places; we went back into the church and the closing of the great sacristy door echoed through the silent aisles. more beautiful and impressive seemed the wonderful interior each time we entered; a vision of arches and rare columns and exquisite windows wonderfully solemn and sacred. in darkened corners and gloomy recesses, in shadows lost in the high and vaulted roof, we fancied guardian angels lurked unseen, bringing rest for the heavy-laden, pardon for the sinner, strength for those who faint by the way. "i have often felt it," said our companion, reading our thoughts by some secret influence; "and have stood here many and many an hour, utterly alone, lost in meditation. at times mysticism seems to take me captive. visions come to me, unsought, not desired; the church is full of a shining celestial choir; i hear music inaudible to earthly ears; the rustle of angels' wings surrounds me. these visions or experiences--call them what you will--have generally occurred after long fastings, when the spirit probably is less restrained by mortal bonds. but underlying all my days and action, an intangible incentive for good, i feel the influence of rosalie. you see i am still mortal and the earthly must mix with the heavenly. nor would i wish it otherwise as long as i have to minister to mortals, or how could i sympathise with the sin and sorrow and suffering around me? even our lord had to become human, that being in all things tempted like as we are, he is able to succour them that are tempted." [illustration: apostles' doorway and bishop's palace: gerona.] we were walking down the broad nave. anselmo had thrown on his long cloak, which added grace and dignity to his tall slender figure. his pale face shone out in the surrounding gloom like a saintly influence. what strange charm was about this man? in the course of a few moments we felt we had known him for years. he was singularly lovable and attractive. underlying all his gentleness was an undercurrent of strength; an evident self-reliance, yet the reliance of one who leans on a higher support than his own. here was one worthy of enduring friendship had our lines not been thrown far apart. as it was he too would disappear out of our life and we should see his face no more. but his memory would remain. at the west doorway we turned and looked upon the splendid vision: the magnificent nave with its slender pillars and lofty roof, the distant choir with aisles and arches visible and invisible in the dim religious light that threw upon all its sense of mystery. above all the wonderful tone. "for five and twenty years i have looked upon this scene, and its influence upon me is as strong as ever," said the priest. "here i have found that peace which passeth all understanding. how many a time have i let myself in with my key, and in these solitary aisles withdrawn from the world to hold communion with the unseen. here strength has come to fight life's battles. here i have composed many a sermon, here silently confessed my sins to the almighty and obtained pardon. breathe not the heresy, but confession to man brings me no rest. i have to go to the great fountain head, trusting in the one atonement and one mediator. nothing else gives me consolation." we crossed to the doorway of the cloisters. anselmo, unwilling to leave us, crossed also. we were too glad of his companionship to wish it otherwise. he added much to the spell of our surroundings; a central figure from which all interest radiated. it was passing from the gloom of the interior to the broad light of day subdued by the grey clouds that hid the sunshine. the cloisters reposed in all the charm of antiquity. for eight hundred years time had rolled over them with all its subtle influence. there they stood, an irregular quadrangle, the simple, beautiful round arches resting on coupled shafts, whose carved capitals were so singularly elaborate and delicate. seldom had the attraction of romanesque architecture been more evident. [illustration: church of san pedro: gerona.] "i love them," said the priest. "how often have i paced these silent corridors until the very stones seem worn with my footsteps. and they witnessed the most painful scene, the last great struggle of my life--but my triumph also. for here i bade my earthly farewell to rosalie; on this very spot on which we stand renounced all human hopes and claims upon her and gave her into heaven's keeping. here i placed her treasured letter next my heart, where it still reposes; where it will lie when that heart has ceased to beat and this frame has returned to the dust from which it was taken." we passed through the little north doorway to the outer world. far away the snow-capped pyrenees rose heavenwards like a celestial vision. in the plain the silvery river ran its winding course listening to the love-songs of the reeds and rushes. near us was the lovely octagon tower, shorn of its spire. without the ancient walls we traced the remains of the citadel; and within them the yet more ancient churches of san pedro and its desecrated companion. "let us go down to them," said anselmo: "examine the wonderful little cloisters and make the acquaintance of miguel the carpenter. he seems to care little that where now is heard the fret of saw and swish of plane, once rose voices of priests at worship and faint whispers of the confessional." it was a rough descent, but a singularly interesting scene. we found ourselves in narrow streets with ancient houses whose windows were guarded by splendid ironwork. last night the watchmen had paced and cried the hour, awakening the echoes, summoning the silent shadows with their lanterns. to-day there was no sense of mystery about streets and houses; daylight loves to disillusion. we had to content ourselves with quaint gables and old-world outlines. behind us was one of the ancient gateways strong and massive, leading directly into the precincts of the cathedral. framed through its archway we saw a portion of the vast flight of steps crowned by the uninteresting west front. it was one of the very best, most old-world bits of gerona, and within a small circle were antiquities and outlines that would have furnished an artist with work for half his days. upon all this we turned our backs as we went towards san pedro. here everything is in opposition to the cathedral; the exterior of this benedictine church is its glory. rounding a corner we are in full view of the beautiful west norman doorway with its delicately wrought carving and fern-leaf capitals. above the doorway is a very effective cornice and above that an admirable rose window: altogether a rare example of the italian romanesque. the whole church is very striking, with its fine octagonal tower and norman apses built into the old town walls. just beyond the tower a gateway leads to the citadel and open country beyond. a church existed here as early as the tenth century--possibly earlier; the present church dates from the beginning of the twelfth, when it was given to the benedictine convent of santa maria by the bishop of carcassonne. we passed through the lovely old doorway to the uninteresting interior: a nave and isles with rude arches and piers plain and square. there was something cold and pagan about the general effect, exaggerated no doubt by contrast with the cathedral we had just left. anselmo was not insensible to the influence. "if i were vicar of san pedro, half the delight of my days would vanish," he said. "instead of living in a refined, almost celestial atmosphere, existence would be a daily protest against paganism. let us pass to the cloisters." here indeed the scene changed. smaller than those of the cathedral, they were almost as beautiful and effective though more ruined and more restored. "not time but wanton mischief has been at work here," said anselmo. "the work of destruction was due to the french in the peninsular war. which of spain's treasures did they leave untouched?" nevertheless a great part of their beauty remained. the passages were full of collected fragments; old tombs, broken pillars, carved capitals and ancient crosses: a museum of antiquities: and the norman arches resting upon their marble shafts were a wonderful setting to the whole. above them, all round the cloisters, a series of small blind norman arcades rested upon delicately carved corbels--charming and unusual detail. [illustration: doorway of san pedro: gerona.] within a few yards of san pedro was a still more ancient and interesting church with a most picturesque interior; yet a church no longer, for it has been turned into workshops. a low octagonal tower crowns a red-tiled roof with slightly overhanging eaves. beneath the eaves repose small blind arcades, and here and there in the lower hall other arcades are gradually crumbling away. the wonderful roof is rounded and broken into sections to suit the plan of the building. ancient eyelets admit faint rays of light, and a fine rounded arch points to what was once the principal doorway. the interior is domed, vaulted and massive, black with age. small, it seems to carry one back to the days when christians were few and worshipped in secret. now fitted as a carpenter's shop, it is full of the sound of hammer and plane. in one corner, men are melting glue and heating irons at a huge fireplace. the floor is uneven and below the level of the road. light enters with difficulty. an obscure, suggestive scene worthy of rembrandt, who would have revelled in this combination of mysterious gloom and human occupation. the master, a stalwart spaniard, bade us enter and gave us welcome. he was probably a man who did not trouble himself about religion, but his reverence and admiration, even affection for father anselmo were evident. "you honour me with your presence and bring back a sacred atmosphere to this desecrated building," he said to the priest. "not every day will you come upon such a scene. yet there is a certain fitness in it after all. was not joseph a carpenter? and did not our saviour work in the carpenter's shop? so that, as it seems to me, it has become noble above all other callings. and so, if this church must be turned to secular use, we have chosen for the best. to me there is no sense of desecration. you have san pedro and the cathedral for worship, and there is room and to spare in both." "i fear you seldom add to the number of worshippers," said anselmo, with the mildest of rebukes. "yet, miguel, how often have i said there is good in you--an apprehension of the beauty of a religious life--if only you would not allow it to run to seed." "father," returned miguel good-humouredly--it was curious to hear an older man thus address a younger--"all in good time. i conceive that i am living a fair life, working hard, treating my wife well, looking after my children. but somehow i can't go to confession--what have i to confess, in the name of wonder?--and i never feel a bit the better for mass, high or low. so i just make a religion of daily life, and by-and-by, when i am old, i will try to find benefit in your set forms and ceremonies." anselmo shook his head. we knew how closely he sympathised with at least one part of miguel's objections, though he could not tell him so. he only looked a vain remonstrance, which miguel received with the good-natured smile that seemed a part of himself. "last sunday," said anselmo, placing his hand on miguel's shoulder, "i took for my text those words which are some of the most solemn, most hopeless, most full of warning in the whole bible: _'and the door was shut.'_ there, miguel, is a sermon in a nutshell. bear it in mind and ponder over it. your door is still open; so is mine; but who can be sure of the morrow? forgive me," turning to us; "i did not come here for this, but miguel and i are old friends and understand each other. as continual dropping will wear away a stone, so i seldom neglect to put in a word when we meet, though to-day i might for your sake have refrained. it will tell in the end," nodding to miguel, "for he has a conscience and i will not let it rest. and what a building in which to preach a sermon!" looking upwards and around. "these blackened vaults, those massive time-defying walls, this earthy, uneven floor--everything suggests a pagan rather than christian past. if anything could heighten the effect it is those weird workers at the fire with faces lighted up by tongues of flame. all seems a remnant of barbarism. but it is a wonderful spot, and i come again and again and every time it reads a fresh lesson to the soul. the whole place seems full of ghostly shadows. and it is perfect, as you see; transepts, a chancel and apses; nothing wanting. and so, miguel, you who so to say dwell in the odour of sanctity, on ground once consecrated, within walls once devoted to the service of heaven, should be influenced by your surroundings and become a shining light." "then i fear it will never be anything but a reflected light," laughed miguel, "and that proceeding from your revered and beloved person. i shall be content if only the shadow of elijah's mantle touches me in falling." we left the wonderful little building so crowded with interest past and present. miguel professed to feel honoured by our visit, and placing himself in attitude outside his door intimated that he should like to be taken with our instantaneous camera. this was done and the result promised in due time. we left him standing there--a tall, strong, magnificent specimen of his race, with hair turning grey and rugged features full of a certain power. [illustration: desecrated church: gerona.] "that man has in him the making of a hero," said anselmo, as we passed through the gateway in the old wall. "in a different station of life he would have been a master of the world. but i always feel that the lives and destinies of such men, missed here, will be carried on to perfection in another state of existence. great powers were never meant to be lost. here he is the acorn, there he will become the full-grown tree bearing fruit." we were climbing towards the ruined citadel and at last found ourselves within the once formidable fortress. much remained to show the strength of what had been, but its immense area was now given up to silence and weeds. "it is full of a sad atmosphere and melancholy recollections," said anselmo. "one goes back in spirit to the terrible days of the past. first that war of succession, when gerona with two thousand men manfully but hopelessly resisted philip v. with an army five times as great. again in , with three hundred men, chiefly english, she repulsed duhesme with his six thousand warriors. in the french besieged her with thirty-five thousand men. alvarez, who was then governor--you will have observed his house in the cathedral square--was terribly handicapped. he had little food and scarcely any ammunition, but was one of the bravest and wisest men of spain. the siege was long and fierce, the suffering great. we were much helped by the english, but your gallant colonel marshall was killed in the breaches. it is said that alvarez wept at his death, declaring he had lost his right hand. in such straits was the town that even the women enrolled themselves into a company dedicated to santa barbara. the enemy failed to take the city; never was resistance more manful and determined. many of the besieging generals gave up in angry impatience and went off. "but at last two new enemies arose--famine and disease--inseparable spectres. before these gerona could not stand. everything depended on alvarez, and he fell a prey to fever. a successor was appointed whose first and last act was to capitulate. the siege had lasted nearly eight months, and the french lost fifteen thousand men. so," looking around, "we are on classic ground, sacred to courage, consecrated by human suffering, watered with streams of human blood. gerona has never recovered. she has steadily declined and still declines. [illustration: outside the walls: gerona.] nevertheless, she is and ever will be gerona the brave and beautiful." anselmo had not exaggerated. gerona was indeed a revelation. it is not a segovia, for there is only one segovia in the world; but, little known or visited, it is yet one of spain's most picturesque and interesting towns. nature and art have combined to make it so--the art of the middle ages, not of to-day. a modern element exists, but the new and the old, the hideous and the beautiful are so well divided by the river, that you may wander through the ancient streets undisturbed by the nineteenth century and fancy yourself in dreamland. [illustration: cloisters of san pedro.] we had mounted to the highest point of the ruins and seated ourselves on the embankment. fragments of the old citadel lay about in all directions; crumbling walls, desolated chambers, dark entrances leading to underground vaults. over all grew tall sad weeds, so suggestive of vanished hands and departed glory. it was a romantic scene, and as we sat and pondered, citadel and plains seemed suddenly filled with a vast army; the ground trembled with the tramp of horsemen, march of troops. in imagination we saw the dead and dying, the bold resistance to human foes, the falling away before a foe that was not human. the air was full of the shout of warriors, flash of swords, roar of cannon. then the vision passed away, leaving nothing but the empty deserted scene before us. the grass on which we sat was covered with flowers, and wild thyme scented the air with its pungent fragrance. a little below, stretching far round, were the old town walls, grey and massive. the ground in front broke into a ravine, disclosing fresh outlines of towers, walls and ancient houses. san pedro was conspicuous, and just beyond it the short octagon of the desecrated church. in its rich sheltered slope grew a luxuriant garden, with hanging shrubs and weeping trees and many fruits of the earth. to-day, it was a scene of peace and plenty; wars and rumours of wars might never have been or be again. above all, within the ancient walls rose the outlines of the cathedral overlooking the whole town and vast surrounding country as though in perpetual benediction. beside us sat father anselmo, his pale refined face and clear-cut features full of the beauty of holiness. suddenly the great cathedral bell struck out the twelve strokes of mid-day, and we listened in silence as the last faint vibrations seemed to die away amidst the distant pyrenees. "it is my summons," said the priest. "i would fain linger with you, but duty calls me elsewhere. i cannot say farewell. let us again meet to-morrow." we promised; then looking steadily at him saw a wave of emotion pass over his expressive face. following his intent gaze, our eyes rested upon a slight, graceful figure in the dress of a _religieuse_, flitting silently through the small square beside the desecrated church. miguel, who stood at his door, bowed as to a saint. "sister anastasia," said anselmo, his eyes having already betrayed the fact. "she is bound on some errand of mercy. may heaven have her in its holy keeping!" chapter vii. a day of encounters. "can a prophet come out of galilee?"--the unexpected happens--under the probe--wise reservation--born to command--contrasts--nothing new under the sun--the señora prepares for the fair--grievance not very deep seated--bewitching appearance--señora dramatic--ernesto--marriage a lottery--every cloud its silver lining--gerona _en fête_--delormais' mission--deceptive appearances--evils of conscription--ernesto's ambition--les beaux jours de la vie--rosalie--a fair picture--strange similarity--heavenwards--anastasia or rosalie--her dreams and visions--modern paul and virginia--eternal possession--a gerona saint--the better part--more heresy--fénélon--one creed, one worship--not peace but a sword--not dead to the world--angel of mercy--h. c. mistaken--earthly idyll. that same afternoon the people had recovered from their glamour. the fair was in full swing, gerona festive. it was a general holiday and work was suspended. the shops were open, but no one attempted to make purchases. even our industrious little lady with the idle husband gave up hoping for customers and turned to pleasure. and she took her pleasure as she did her work, with a great amount of earnestness. luncheon had long been over. black coffee and headache were of the past. the silent enigma had gone their way. mutely they had risen, taken their hats, and marched out in a procession of three. delormais had duly administered his homily; and after so strangely opening his heart had gone into the town to prosecute his mission. whether an inspection of the numerous convents, a private embassy from the pope, or some other weighty matter only to be entrusted to a man of tact and judgment, he did not say. before separating we had asked him if his object in visiting gerona were ecclesiastical or domestic, concerned himself or his office. "your question is very natural, but on that point i must be silent," he returned. "my mission--i may tell you so much--is delicate and momentous. it is secret, but the secret is not mine, and can no more be disclosed than a secret of the confessional. just now when i promised to relate to you a part of my life i was offering you of my own. no one has a right to stay me. my experiences injure none. i might publish them to-morrow and disturb no one's slumbers. but at the present moment i may call myself an ambassador--though not in bondage like st. paul--and every act i do and every word i utter need be consecrated by prayer and reflection." "who would have supposed anything so weighty within this little town?" we remarked. "before arriving we looked upon it as a deserted village, the ends of the earth. from the train gerona appears in the last stage of misery and destitution." "can a prophet come out of galilee?" quoth the priest. "the unexpected happens. i have long learned not to judge beforehand; above all not to be prejudiced by appearances. rags may conceal the noblest heart, and a silken doublet cover the bosom of a judas. confess," laughing, "that when i took my seat next to you just now you voted me intrusive; said to yourself: 'why does this old man usurp my elbow room, with ten vacant chairs lower down? he is troublesome. i will chill him with a proud disdain.' and now all is changed and you ask me to sit next you at dinner. is it not so?" so near the truth, indeed, that one felt as though under the searching x-rays. "suffering is misanthropical," we replied. "not physical but heart pain brings out the sympathies. so it is dangerous to ask a favour of a man tortured by gout--or headache." "all which really means that i knew you better than you know yourself," returned père delormais, in his rich, round tones. "that is only a general experience. and now i go my way. if all be well, we meet again at dinner. ah! i never speak without that reservation. how many times have i seen the evening appointment cancelled by death at noon." [illustration: street in gerona.] he left the room; a tall, stately figure with hair white as snow; a man full of life and energy, evidently born to command and fill the high places of earth: a power for good or evil as he should be well or ill-directed. a very different nature from anselmo, whom we had left at mid-day. the one ruling the destinies of men; the other content to follow in the divine footsteps of humility and love; satisfied with a limited horizon; doing good by precept and example but asking no wider sphere than his little world. yet in his way capable of influencing human hearts; of stirring up enthusiasm in a great crusade if only the torch of ambition inflamed his zeal. very different the method and influence of the two men, though each had the same end in view. but in the many phases of human nature some must be led, others driven. one will hear the still, small voice, another needs the burning bush; james was the son of thunder, barnabas of consolation. as in the days of old, so now. we too went our way down the broad marble staircase of the ancient palace, but with no secret or delicate mission to perform like delormais. we had followed rather closely, but up and down the street not a vestige of him remained. whether he had gone right or left we knew not. the place was deserted. looking upwards nothing was visible but outlines of the rare old houses. here and there a gabled roof and dormer window; many a wrought-iron balcony; many a gothic casement rich in tracery and decoration; many a lower window protected by a strong iron grille, despair of serenaders, consolation of parents, paradise of artists. it was now that we saw our industrious and amiable señora preparing for the fair. again the mantilla was being gracefully arranged. the lady--very properly--had evidently no idea of neglecting the good looks nature had bestowed upon her. "ah, señor," as we stopped with a polite greeting, "for a whole week this fair is the upsetting and devastation of the town. it comes with all its shows and shoutings; distracts our attention; we may as well close the shutters for all the business that is done; finally it walks off with all our spare money. and who is a bit the better for it?" but madame's grievance was evidently not very deep-seated, for she laughed as she adjusted the folds of her mantilla more becomingly, and looking across at a mirror could only confess herself satisfied with her bewitching appearance. near her stood a good-looking boy of some fourteen years, who evidently just then thought the attractions of the fair far more important than his mother's adorning. he was impatient to be gone. "calm yourself, my treasure," she remonstrated. "the day is yet young. chestnuts will not all be roasted, nor brazen trumpets all sold. these are eternal and inexhaustible, like the snows of the sierra. oh! youth, youth, with all its capacities!" she dramatically added. "ah, señor, you will think me very old, when you see me the mother of this great boy!" we gallantly protested she was under a delusion: he must be her brother. "my son, señor, my son. i married at sixteen, when i was almost such a child as he, and i really do feel more like his sister than his mother. _ahimé!_ if i had only waited a few years longer i might have chosen more wisely; perhaps have found a husband to keep me instead of my keeping him. marriage is a lottery." we suggested that every cloud has its silver lining. "true, señor. and after all if i did not draw the highest number, neither did i fall upon the lowest. this dear youth too is a consolation. he is fond of swords and trumpets, but never shall be a soldier. i have long had the money put by for a substitute in case he should be unlucky. for that matter, heaven has prospered my industry and in a humble way we are at ease." this recalled the scene witnessed in the earlier hours of the morning and the appointment half made with the colonel for the morrow. "evidently you do not approve of conscription, madame, which to-day seems to be running hand-in-hand with the revels of the fair." "i see that conscription is a necessary evil," returned madame, "for without it we should not get soldiers; but you will never persuade me any good can come of it. that my son here, who has been carefully brought up, should suddenly be thrown under the influence of the worst and vilest of mankind--no, it is impossible to avoid disaster. so, ernesto, never fix your affections on a military life, for it can never be, never shall be. i would sooner make you a priest, though i haven't the least ambition that way either." to do the boy justice, he seemed quite ready to yield, laughed at the idea of priesthood, and if fond of swords and trumpets, his military ardour went no further. if one might judge, a civil life would be his choice, and possibly a successful one, for he seemed to inherit his mother's energy with her dark eyes and brilliant colouring. but for the moment the fair and the fair only was the object of his desires. this was in accordance with the fitness of things. he was at the age which comes once only, with swift wings, when life has no alloy and happiness lies in gratifying the moods and fancies of the moment. "now i am ready," said the mother, evidently very happy herself. "ah, señor, you are too good," as we slipped a substantial coin into the boy's hand and bade him buy his mother a fairing and himself chestnuts and ambitions. "but after all, the pleasure of conferring happiness is the most exquisite in the world. there is nothing like it. so perhaps i should envy, not chide you." they went off together, the boy taking his mother's arm with that confidential affection and good understanding so often seen abroad. to him the world was still a paradise, and his mother at the head of all good angels. _les beaux jours de la vie_--short-lived, but eternally remembered. so, parents, indulge your children but do not spoil them. the one is quite possible without the other. it was to be a day of encounters. we followed our happy pair down the deserted street, admiring the graceful walk of the mother, the boy's tall, straight, well-knit form and light footstep. as they disappeared round the corner leading to the noisy scene of action, a quiet figure issued from beneath the wonderful arcades and approached in our direction. she was dressed as a sister of mercy and seemed to glide along with noiseless movements. "rosalie," we breathed, turning to h. c. for confirmation. "without doubt," he replied. "there could not be two rosalies in one town." "or in one world." on the impulse of the moment we went up and, bareheaded, spoke to her; felt we knew her--had known her long. anselmo's vivid confession had taken the place of time and custom. yes, it was rosalie. a more beautiful face was seldom seen, never a more holy; all the refinement and repose of anselmo's added to an infinite feminine grace and softness. they were even strangely alike, as though the same impulse in their lives, a constant dwelling upon each other, their fervent, though purified, affection had created a similarity of feature and expression. hers was the face of one whose life is turned steadily heavenwards, to whom occasionally, whether waking or sleeping, a momentary glimpse of unseen glories is vouchsafed, one whose daily work on earth is that of a ministering spirit. as far as it is possible or permitted here, rosalie bore the evidence of a perfect and unalloyed life that had never looked back or attempted to serve two masters. perhaps she might have become a mystic, but the serious and practical nature of her work kept her mind in a healthy groove, free from introspection. she was walking her lonely pilgrimage along the narrow road of her dream with firm, unflinching steps. the end, far off though it might yet be for anselmo and for her, could not be doubted. "_ma soeur_, you are anastasia, devoted to good works; and once were rosalie devoted to anselmo," we said, without waiting to choose our words. "there could not be another rosalie in gerona, as there could not be another anastasia." "nay," she returned, "i am rosalie still, and still devoted to anselmo. there is no past tense for our affection, señor, which sweetens my days and makes me brave in life's battles." she seemed neither surprised nor startled by our sudden address. calm self-possession never for a moment forsook her, though in our rashness we might have been probing a half-healed wound or rousing long dormant emotions. but it was far otherwise. naturally as anselmo had told us his story she replied to our greeting. they were a wonderful pair, these two. united, their careers would have been very different, but never otherwise than pure and holy. as we spoke to her a slight colour mounted to her pale, lovely face, a light came into her eyes, a sweet smile parted the lips. she looked almost childlike in her innocence, utter absence of self-consciousness. "yes, i was rosalie," she repeated; "and i am rosalie still, though my life compels me to adopt a new name. but i ever think of myself as rosalie, and in my dreams am rosalie of the days gone by. sometimes my mother visits me in those dreams and calls me rosalie. if we retain our names in the next world i shall be rosalie once more. señor, you have been with anselmo and he has told you our story--or how could you know?" "it is true. we have been with anselmo, were with him this morning and parted at mid-day. as the clock struck twelve we stood on the ruined citadel and saw you cross the square of san pedro." "ah, señor, i saw you also, for i recognised anselmo. he is never within many yards of me but seen or unseen i know it. some spiritual instinct never fails to tell me he is near." "you are both remarkable. your love and constancy ought to be placed side by side with the histories of paul and virginia, abelard and héloïse. yet you are distinct and different from these, as you are above them." "señor, if we only knew, there are thousands of histories in the world similar to our own, but they are never heard of. shakespeare records a juliet, chateaubriand an atala, and they become immortal; but what of the numberless heroines who have had no writer to send them down to posterity? depend upon it they are as the sand of the sea. and is it so much to give up for heaven? we possess each other still, anselmo and i; and the possession is for ever. you think it strange to hear a sister of mercy talking of love in this calm and passionless way," she smiled. "you imagine me cold and severe. you do not believe that i have feelings deep as the sea, wide as eternity. it is true that my love for anselmo is only the love we should all bear towards each other; but for him it is supreme and exalted above all words. in my dreams he comes to me as an angel of light bidding me be of good courage; in my waking hours he is my best and truest friend, my hero and my king. is not this better than all the passionate vows which rarely survive one's early youth, and too often die under the strain of life's daily work? for me, anselmo is still surrounded by all the romance of our first youth. he is a sort of earthly shekinah, a pillar of fire guiding me onwards." "and you never regret the choice you have made? the companionship you have given up? the right of calling anselmo husband? the sacrifice of motherhood, which is said to be sweetest of all earthly ties to woman?" [illustration: cathedral cloisters: gerona.] "regret?" she softly murmured. "a hundred times since it happened conviction has been vouchsafed to me in my dreams, strengthening my faith, showing the wisdom of my choice. every day of my life i thank heaven for the power it gave me. had i married anselmo, he would have become my religion; my heart's best affection given to him, heaven would have come second. i know and feel it. and we know who has said: 'he that loveth father and mother more than me, is not worthy of me.' yet that would have been my case in the earlier years; and in the later--who can tell?--perhaps what i have described." "impossible, for anselmo is worthy of all love, and could never change. one rarely meets any one like him. he seems little less than saint." "he is very saintly," replied rosalie, with almost a look of ecstasy. "i frequently meet the priesthood in the sick-room, at the bedside of the dying. the difference in the ministrations is wonderful. the very entrance of anselmo brings consolation, seems to sanctify the chamber. sometimes it is almost as though an angel spoke." if she at all exaggerated, who could wonder? she saw and heard and judged everything through her own nature; and to the sick and sorrowing no doubt came herself as a rainbow of hope. "you have done wisely and chosen the better part," we said. "your life in consequence is peaceful and happy." "it could not be more so," answered rosalie. "i have my earthly shekinah to lighten my path. my heart is so much in my work that if i lived for a century i should never weary of it. what higher mission or greater privilege could there be? i am constantly at the bedside of the sick, assisting the last moments of the dying, helping to restore others to health. the love they give me is unbounded. my existence is made up of love. i feel i have many in the other world who pray for me, perhaps watch over my daily life." "but are they not in purgatory?" for of course rosalie was a roman catholic. "i do not believe in purgatory," she murmured in subdued tones. "i have seen many die who cannot possibly be going to torment. if there be a transition state, it is one of bliss and holiness, where the soul, in gratitude to god for his mercies, grows and expands until it becomes fit for the heaven of heavens." "but this is perplexing. here are two devout romanists who reject the very first conditions of their faith. anselmo believes not in confession, you reject purgatory. of course we agree with you, but then we are protestants." "hush!" murmured rosalie. "the very walls of gerona have ears. we can only act up to our convictions, and where they disagree with the church keep differences to ourselves. what anselmo believes, i believe. it is wonderful how we think alike in all great matters. this morning i had the privilege of a long conversation with père delormais, who is staying for a week here. there, indeed, is a broad-minded churchman who ought to be pope of rome. he would favour protestants as much as roman catholics--and scandalise the narrow-minded community. in that he reminds me of the abbé fénélon, who is so earnest and devout. do you know his 'spiritual letters,' señor?" "it is one of our favourite books, rosalie. those who read and follow fénélon will hardly go wrong. we have always felt he was a protestant at heart." "a follower of christ at heart," returned rosalie, "without distinction of forms and ceremonies. to him if the heart was right, the rest mattered little. he cared not whether a soul worshipped within or without the church of rome. would that all errors could be swept away and we were all protestants and catholics, united in one creed and ritual, even as we worship the one true god and believe in the all-sufficient saviour." "that day is far distant. we must wait the millennium, rosalie. until then it is not to be peace but a sword. the bitterest persecutors are those who fight for what they call religion." "'a man's foes shall be they of his own household,'" quoted rosalie. "that applies equally to the 'household of faith.' there is the prophecy. i suppose we must not look for a church triumphant until the church militant has ceased. but i must go my way. señor, i rejoice that you spoke to me. i am glad to know you. whether the acquaintance be of hours or years, you are evidently anselmo's friends, therefore mine. do not think my heart closed to all human interests because i wear a religious garb and go through life as sister anastasia, ministering to the sick and dying. on the contrary, i take pleasure in all the worldly concerns of my friends. i like to hear of their being married and given in marriage. nothing delights me more than the sight of a happy home and devoted family. and i like to hear of all the changes, improvements, inventions that are turning the world upside down and revolutionising the lives of men. if you are staying in gerona we shall meet again. i am constantly flitting to and fro. my life is a great privilege, as i have said. you will keep a corner in your heart for me and for anselmo; one niche for both. adieu, señor. adieu." she glided away rapidly with her quiet graceful motion; an angel of mercy, we thought, if earth ever held one. "never, never should i have had strength to give her up," said h. c., following her with all his susceptible nature in his eyes. "this morning i admired anselmo, now i feel quite angry with him." "you do wrong and are mistaken. it was her choosing, not his. he behaved nobly. they have found their vocation. both are happy, and we cannot doubt it is heaven's ordering. there is no shadow in their lives; remember how rare that is. you know mrs. plarr's lines: 'there are twin genii both strong and mighty, under their guidance mankind retain, never divided where one can enter, ever the other doth entrance gain; and the name of the lovely one is pleasure, and the name of the loathly one is pain.' for them the genii have separated. their life has no pain. think of rosalie's vision. had they married it might have been all sorrow and suffering. no, best as it is. their story is an idyll too perfect for this world. they have had their romance, and have kept it." chapter viii. mother and son. demons at work--in the crowd--ernesto and his mother--roasted chestnuts--instrument of torture--new school of anatomy--rhine-stones or diamonds?--happy mother--honest confession--danger of edged tools--cayenne lozenges for the monkeys--joseph--early compliments--ernesto pleads in vain--down by the river--music of the reeds--rich prospect--faust--singers of the world--joseph takes tickets--gerona keeps late hours--its little great world--between the acts--successful evening--in the dark night--on the bridge--silence and solitude--astral bodies--joseph turns job's comforter--magnetism--delormais psychological--alone in the streets--saluting the church militant--haunted staircase again--sighs and rustlings--h. c. retires--"drink to me only with thine eyes"--delormais' challenge--leads the way--illumination--coffee equipage--"only the truth is painful"--lost in reverie. we were facing the wonderful arcades which still seemed haunted by rosalie's shadow, so vivid the impression she left behind her. it was one of the most striking bits of gerona the beautiful, with its massive masonry and deep recesses requiring sunlight to relieve their mysterious gloom. in a few moments we stood once more on the bridge, looking upon the remarkable scene. the demons were in full work down in the dry bed of the river; their altars threw out tongues of flame as wood, coal and braise mingled their elements, and the air seemed full of the scent of roasted chestnuts. those marvellous houses stood on either side with their old-world outlines and weather-beaten stains. above them rose the towers of gerona's churches, sharply cutting the grey sky. to our right, the boulevard stretched far down, with its waving, rustling trees. all the shows were in full operation; streams of people went to and fro; the booths were making a fortune; the dutch auction was giving away its wares--if the auctioneer might be relied on. we joined the crowd and presently felt a tug at our elbow. it was ernesto with radiant face, his hands full of chestnuts freely offered and accepted. we found it easy to persuade ourselves the indigestible horrors were excellent. "ernesto, you are taking liberties," said his mother, as the boy took our arm to confide his purchases. a rhine-stone brooch for the mother, which mrs. malaprop would have declared quite an object of bigotry and virtue; a wonderful knife for himself, full of sharp blades and secret springs. a purse capable of holding gold, and a pocket-book that would soon become dropsical with a boy's treasures. finally, from the innermost recess of a trousers' pocket, he produced for an instant--a catapult; to be held a profound secret from the mother. "it keeps her awake at night," he confided; "and when she does get to sleep she dreams of smashed windows and murdered cats. now i never smash windows, though i do go for the cats when i have a chance. it does them no harm. if i hit them, you hear a thud like a sound from a drum--the cats are not over-fed in these parts--but instead of tumbling down dead, which would be exciting, they rush off like mad." "perhaps they die afterwards, ernesto, of fractured liver or broken heart." this was at once negatived. "oh no, cats haven't livers and hearts like human beings. their insides are nothing but india-rubber. you can't kill a cat. if one fell from the top of san filiu, it would get up, shake its paws and run away." we noted this revelation, intending to bring it before the faculty on our return to england, which evidently still gropes in egyptian darkness. the catapult was restored to safe depths, and before long no doubt many a domestic tabby would be missing; there would be widowed cats and orphaned kittens in many a household. then ernesto, drawing us under an arcade out of the throng of the fair, insisted upon fastening his mother's mantilla with the new brooch that we might all admire the flashing stones. "i believe they have made a mistake, and these are real diamonds," he cried excitedly, kissing his mother and duly admiring the effect. "and i haven't spent half my pocket-money yet." "thanks to you, señor," said the happy mother. "i was his first thought. he bought me the brooch before he would look at a knife or chestnut. it shall be kept amongst my treasures." she was evidently almost as happy and light-hearted as the boy, her eyes flashing with proud affection. no great care haunted her life in spite of her conjugal good-morning. "confess that your lot is favoured," we said, "and you would not change your lazy husband even if you had the chance. confess you adore him and are to be envied." "well, señor, you are not my father-confessor," she laughed, "but i will confess to you all the same. i admit i would rather bear the ills i have than fly to those of which i know nothing," unconsciously quoting shakespeare. "then the conjugal good-morning must be a little sweetened. it is dangerous to play with edged tools." again she laughed, a laugh free from anxiety. "we understand each other, señor. if i received him too amiably he would not appear upon the scene till twelve o'clock. not that i really mind; but it is a bad example for ernesto. the boy, however, takes after me. never will grass grow under his feet." ernesto was impatient to be off; he must certainly act up to the proverb to-day. "now for the shows," cried the lad. "we are losing too much time here. i smell roasted chestnuts, but their flavour is better. we must cross the iron bridge to get to the shows. i want to hear the lions growl, and administer cayenne lozenges to the monkeys. it is great fun to see them. you must often have done the same, señor?" we virtuously disowned the impeachment. but he was full of harmless mischief, after the manner of boys healthy in mind and body; free and open in his thoughts and ways. a few minutes and we found ourselves in the market-place listening to the clown who had used superhuman exertions last night, still apparently in excellent health and spirits. night was the great harvest-time, but even now his labours were receiving fair success. the people had got over their first glamour and were responding. "there is josé, your landlord's son, señor, looking to right and left," said madame, in the interval between two terrific trumpet blasts. "probably searching for you. ah! he sees us." the tall, slight young man was making his way through the few remaining stalls in the market. these sold nothing but fruit and were altogether neglected. gerona did not shine in that department. "i have been looking for you everywhere," said our young host as he came up, bowing politely after the fashion of his country. "i thought, señor, you might want me to pilot you about the town; but you are in the hands of a fairer guide, and i am not needed." joseph had evidently not pursued his studies at tours for nothing, and was beginning early to turn compliments. "on the contrary, we shall be glad of your company," we replied. "ernesto and his mother are going in to hear the lions roar and administer delicacies to the monkeys. and having no ambition to shake in our shoes or be taken up for cruelty to animals, we would rather explore the antiquities of gerona under your care. so you appear at the right moment." "ah, señor, do come in," pleaded ernesto. "i should enjoy it so much more. and you would shriek with delight when you saw the antics of the monkeys eating cayenne----" "ernesto, you are incorrigible," we interrupted, laughing. "we decline the risk; and whilst detesting monkeys, we have a conscience. yours evidently has still to be awakened. but you may come and tell us your experiences at the hotel later on--that is if you are still at large." so the boy, taking his mother's arm, boldly mounted the steps, and with a final happy nod, and flourishing a small packet of cayenne lozenges, he disappeared beyond the curtain. how the lions would roar or the monkeys receive the indignity remained to be seen. ernesto was not wanting in purpose and might be trusted to do his best. we left the shows and the crowd for a moment, went round to the banks of the river, and listened to the whispering reeds and rushes. what repose; what a contrast to the glare and glitter and crowding of the fair. not a soul visible excepting the ferryman a little way up-stream, waiting dejectedly in his boat for custom that would not come. the rustling reeds harmonised musically with the quiet flow of the water as it rippled and plashed on its way to the sea. to the left the plain spread far and wide--a rich, productive country with much fair beauty about it. where we stood the river was broad and reflected the magic outlines of the town, faint and subdued under the grey skies. above the music of the rushes we could hear the distant hum of the pleasure-seekers, where everything was life and movement. presently passing the theatre, we saw "faust" announced for that evening. an operatic company had arrived from barcelona. wonders would never cease. in this dull town, decaying remnant of spain, there was an opera-house, and the tempter was to play off his wiles on beautiful margaret. what would the performance resemble? "quite a large house," said joseph, "and a very fine one; the players are often excellent." of course he judged from his own experience, which had never gone beyond tours; never dreamed of the great voices of the world. who indeed could dream of titiens, never having heard of her? or of ilma di murska?--those stars in the world of song: not to mention grisi and malibran the incomparable, of the far-gone days. still, he spoke with enthusiasm, and we felt we must hear this faust and marguerite. "take three tickets for to-night, josé, and you shall point out all the _élite_ of gerona; the great, the good, the beautiful." joseph needed no second bidding. diving through the doorway to the office he returned with three excellent stalls. the performance was to be fashionably late. everything in the way of entertainment is late in spain, and especially in gerona. at night the streets are soon deserted, but people do not go to bed. they sit up in their own homes, amusing themselves. "it is announced for half-past eight," said joseph, "but seldom begins before nine." [illustration: old houses on the river: gerona.] accordingly before eight-thirty we found ourselves in our seats waiting the lifting of the curtain. the house was nearly empty, though it was within five minutes of the appointed hour. not a sign of any orchestra. we feared a cold reception and a dead failure. "not at all," said joseph. "it is always the same. before nine o'clock the house will be full, with hardly an empty seat anywhere." so it proved. about twenty minutes to nine the orchestra streamed in and took their places, laughed, talked and made jokes, as if the audience--now quickly appearing--had been so many cabbage-stalks. in various parts of the house there were notices forbidding smoking; but the musicians lighted their abominable pipes and cigars without ceremony, and soon ruined the atmosphere. we wondered how this would affect the singers, and when they came on they coughed, sneezed, and looked reproachful. it was a large, well-appointed house, of excellent proportions. half the town might surely find room here. curtains and all such elements disturbing to the voice were conspicuous by their absence. before nine o'clock every seat was filled, as joseph had foretold. between the acts we were able to survey the little world of gerona. many clearly thought themselves members of a great world. humility was not their leading virtue. from the construction of the house, every one was very much in evidence, and from our places in the front stalls we saw and heard perfectly. "monarchs of all we survey," said h. c. after a long stare in all directions. "no, i don't quite mean that; it would be slightly embarrassing. i mean that we survey everything as though we were monarchs. it comes to the same." every species of temperament was represented; the solemn and sober, excited and flirting, prude and profligate. extremes met. some of the ladies made play with their eyes and fans, were full of small gestures and rippling laughter. many were dressed "in shimmer of satin and pearls," their white arms and necks very décolletés. thus we had both a play and an opera. it was quite as amusing to study the audience between the acts, as to watch the drama upon the stage. ladies were admitted to the stalls, and the house looked more civilised in consequence. many of the men in this polite spain sat with their hats on until the curtain drew up. altogether the house presented a very lively appearance. "who would have thought it!" said h. c. "the place overflows with wealth and rank. these people might be dukes and duchesses--and look the character much more than many of our 'coronets and norman blood.' yet as we passed gerona in the train it seemed nothing but an encampment for beggars. beggars? let me apologise. beggars would want something more recherché. in these days that flourishing profession dines at eight o'clock and sleeps on down." in the foyer, between one of the acts, we came into closer contact with this aristocratic crowd. it was a very large long room, gorgeously fitted up; great mirrors giving back full-length reflections. few ladies honoured it with their presence, but a crowd of short, dark, handsome spaniards went to and fro, smoking cigarettes, wildly gesticulating about margaret, abusing the unfortunate siebel, openly passing their opinions upon the ladies of the audience. mixing freely amongst them we heard many an amusing remark upon people we were able to identify on returning to our seats. at the end of the third act we began to feel like old habitués. a week in gerona and we should be familiar with every one's history. "a happy thought, coming here to-night," said h. c. "i am now quite at home amongst these people, and should like to call upon some of them to-morrow. that exquisite creature, for instance, with the lovely eyes, perfect features, and complexion of a blush rose. i believe--yes, i am sure--look--she is gazing at me with a very sweet expression!" he was growing excited. we grasped his arm with a certain magnetic touch which recalled him to himself. keepers have this influence on their patients. "look at the old woman next to her," he went on indignantly. "can she be the mother of that lovely girl? she ought to blush for herself. her dress-bodice ends at the waist. and behind her fan she is actually ogling a toothless old wretch who has just sat down near her." here, fortunately, the curtain went up, and h. c.'s emotions passed into another channel. [illustration: street in gerona.] the performance had equalled our modest expectations. one must not be too critical. if faust was contemptible and siebel impossible, margaret and mephistopheles saved all from failure. she was pretty and refined, with a certain touching pathos that appealed to her hearers. she sang with grace, too, but her voice was made for nothing larger than a drawing-room, and when the orchestra crashed out the dramatic parts, we had to imagine a great deal. siebel was the great stumbling-block and burlesque; her singing and acting so excruciating that when the audience ought to have melted to tears they laughed aloud. when valentine died she clasped her hands, not in despair but admiration of the fine performance, looked at the audience as much as to say, "would you not like him to get up and die again?" and when his body was carried off, skipped after it, as though assisting at some may-day frolic. faust was beneath criticism, and one felt angry with margaret for falling in love with him. in reality she must have hated him. mephistopheles, on the contrary, was admirable, and would have done honour to her majesty's in the days of titiens and trebelli. the "old men's chorus" was crowning triumph of the performance. three decrepit objects came forward and quavered through their song. when it was ended the audience insisted upon having it all over again, whilst they kept up a running accompaniment of laughter, in which the old men joined as they retreated into the background. altogether it was a successful evening. every one left in good humour, and many were charmed. we went out into the night, glad to exchange the atmosphere. it looked doubly dark after the brilliancy of the house. every light was out, every house buried in profound slumber. we turned to the bridge, and stood there until all the playgoers had streamed homewards, and silence and solitude reigned. once more the chestnut-roasters had departed and their sacrificial altars were cold and dead. down the boulevard not a creature was visible. stalls and booths were closed, torches extinguished. the leaves of the trees gently rustled and murmured in the night wind. we almost felt as though we still saw ernesto and his mother walking up and down in close companionship. it must have been their astral bodies. both no doubt were slumbering, and perhaps the same vision haunted their dreams; broken windows and four-footed victims--seen from different points of view. in the firmament a great change had taken place. the clouds had rolled away; not a vapour large as a man's hand remained to be seen; stars shone clear and brilliant; the great bear ploughed his untiring way, and orion, dipping westward, was closely followed by his faithful sirius. all seemed to promise fair weather. "what do you think of it, joseph? is your weatherwise astronomer for once proving a false prophet?" "it looks like it," replied joseph, gazing north and south. "no man is infallible," philosophically. "but our prophet has never been wrong yet, and i expect you will find the skies weeping in the morning." "you are a job's comforter, and ought to be called bildad the shuhite. was not he the worst of the three, and would have the last word?" joseph shook his head. he was not acquainted with the book of job. "i am jealous for the honour of my prophet," he laughed. standing on the bridge, we could see the dark flowing water beneath--a narrow shallow stream here, which reflected the flashing stars. the houses were steeped in gloom, all their quaint, old-world aspect hidden away. the night was growing apace, and it suddenly occurred to us that we had made a half-engagement with delormais to hear passages from his life. would he hold us to it? or would reflection have brought a change of plans and an early pillow? surely there is a mental or psychological magnetism about people, neither realised nor understood, never sufficiently taken into account. as the thought flashed over us, a tall dark form in long cloak and round hat, full of dignity and power, turned the corner and approached the bridge. it was the priest. "i knew it!" he cried in that sonorous voice which was like a deep and mellow diapason. "an unseen influence guided me to the bridge. you told me you were going to the opera. i felt that when it was over you would come here star-gazing and lose yourselves in this wonderful scene. and here, had i not sought you out, you would have remained another hour, forgetting the engagement to which i hold you." "nay, at this very moment recollection came to us," we returned. "we were wondering whether for once you had changed your mind and sought an early repose." "my approach influenced you," said delormais: "work of the magnetic power constantly passing to and fro between kindred spirits, as real as it is little estimated. no one believed in it more firmly than goethe, who in spite of his contradictory life was in close touch with the supernatural. and amongst my own people, how many have declared the reality of this mysterious link between the material and spiritual. even sceptical voltaire admitted some invisible influence he could not analyse. sceptical? will you persuade me a man with so terrible a death-bed was ever sceptic at heart? it is impossible. but how could you think i should change my mind and forget my engagement? uncertainty plays no part either in your character or mine. let us to our rooms. there you will lend me your ears, and i will brew you black coffee to refresh you after your evening's dissipation. and if you like you shall bring your century-old flask, and i will not read you a homily. or was it only the contents of the flask that was a century old?" the hotel was at hand. we four alone possessed the street and awoke the silent echoes. always excepting the ubiquitous old watchmen, who seemed to spend half their time in gazing at the great doorway, flashing weird lights and shadows with their lanterns. these they now turned upon us, but recognising the ecclesiastical figure, quickly lowered their lights, turned the spears of their staffs to the ground, and gave a military salute. "as a member of the church militant such a greeting is perhaps not out of place," he laughed. "no general on this earth ever fought more valiantly than i to gain battles--but the weapons are wide as the issues. they fight for an earthly, i for a heavenly kingdom." he spoke a few words to the watchmen; bade them be strong and of good courage; and we fancied--we were not quite certain--that he glided a small token of good-will into their hands. then we crossed the road, entered the courtyard, and passed up the broad marble staircase. it was the hour for ghosts and shadows and unearthly sounds. again we thought of the rich and rare crowd that had passed up and down in sacques and swords in the centuries gone by; every one of whom had long been a ghost and shadow in its turn. again we saw clearly as in a vision that last happy pair who had separated--he to find death on the battlefield, she to rejoin him in the land o' the leal. distinctly we heard the rustle of the gown, the fervency of their last embrace, the sighs that came in quick succession. so easily imagination runs away with us. we were awakened to realities by josé, who, heavy-eyed and dreamy, was politely wishing us good-night, hardly wakeful enough to reach his room. "i will follow his example," said h. c. "the air of gerona conduces to slumber. i verily believe you never sleep. to-morrow i shall hear that the good father's confessions terminated with the breakfast hour. ah! i shall miss the black coffee--but i have a flask of my own, though its contents have nothing to do with the centuries." then delormais turned to us, his eyes full of kindly solicitude. "are you equal to a vigil? is it not too bad, after your hard day's work--pleasure is often labour--to ask you to give an old man an hour or two from your well-earned slumbers? do you not also find the air of gerona conducive to sleep? i warn you that at the first sign of drooping eyelid i dismiss the assembly." "a challenge! never was sleep less desired. though the breakfast hour finds us here, as h. c. foretells, there shall be no want of attention. but do not forget the black coffee!" we heard h. c.'s receding echoes through the labyrinthine passages; the closing of a door; then a voice gently elevated in song, utterly oblivious of small hours and unconscious neighbours. "drink to me only with thine eyes, and i will pledge with mine," it warbled; "leave but a kiss within the cup, and i'll ne'er ask for wine." here recollection seemed to come to the voice; an open window looking on to a passage was softly closed, and all was silent. h. c. was evidently thinking of the charming face he had seen at the opera, all the more lovely and modest contrasted with the shameless old woman at its side. delormais led the way through the corridors. his light threw weird shadows around. a distant clock struck the hour of one. the hush in the house was ghostly. the very walls seemed pregnant with the secrets of the past. they had listened to mighty dramas political and domestic; heard love-vows made only to be broken; absorbed the laughter of joy and the tears of sorrow. all this they now appeared to be giving out as we went between them, treading quietly on marble pavement sacred to the memory of the dead. we entered delormais' sitting-room. at once he turned up two lamps, and lighting some half-dozen candles produced an illumination. "one of my weaknesses," he said. "i love to take night walks and lose myself in thought under the dark starlit skies, but that is quite another thing. in my room i must have brilliancy." "when you are a bishop you will so indulge this weakness that your palace will be called a shining light, its lord a beacon of the church." a peculiar smile passed over the face of delormais. we did not understand it at the moment, but knew its meaning later on. then he brought forward the coffee equipage, for which, if truth must be told, though slumber was never farther from us, we were grateful. "i had it all prepared by our amiable host, and i have my own spirit-lamp, without which i never travel," said the priest. "there are times when i visit the most uncivilised, hope-forgotten places, and if i had not a few accessories with me, should fare badly." the water soon boiled, an aromatic fragrance spread through the room; the clear black coffee was poured into white porcelain cups. "but where is the supplement? i do not see the century-old flask," said delormais. "that is sacred to headache--or the charm would go; there are other fixed rules besides the persian laws." "i am glad to hear it. then after all my little homily this morning was not needed. that is why you took it so amiably. only the truth is painful." he placed for us a comfortably cushioned armchair near the table, and one for himself. our coffee equipage was between us, the steaming incense rising. a shaded lamp threw its rays upon the white china and crimson cloth, gently illumined the intellectual and refined face of delormais. we could note every play of the striking features, every flash of the large dark eyes. a sudden stillness came over him; he seemed lost in profound thought, his eyes took a deep, dreamy, far-away look. they were gazing into the past, and saw a crowd of events and people who had lived and moved and had their being, but were now invisible to all but the mental vision. the hands--firm, white, well-shaped and made for intellectual work--were spread out and met at the tips of the long slender fingers. the legs were crossed, bringing into prominence a shapely foot and ankle set off by a thin well-fitting shoe. in all matters of personal appointment delormais was refined and fastidious. for some minutes he appeared thus absorbed in mental retrospect. the man of life and energy had suddenly changed to contemplation. apparently he had forgotten our presence, and the silence of the room was profound. one almost heard the rising of the incense from the coffee-cups, as it curled upwards in fantastic forms and devices, and died out. we were motionless as himself. not ours to break the silence, though it grew strained. we had come to listen, and waited until the spirit moved him. nor had we to wait long. he roused himself from his reverie; the dreamy light passed out of his eyes; his spirit seemed to come back to earth as he turned to us with a penetrating, kindly gaze. chapter ix. delormais. magnetism--past life--impulsive nature--first impressions--perfumed airs--a gentle spirit--haunted groves--blue waters of the levant--great devotion--a rose-blossom--back to the angels--special providence--fair provence--charmed days--excursions--isles of greece--ossa and pelion--city of the violet crown--spinning-jennies have something to answer for--olympus--Ægina--groves of the sacred plain--narrow escapes--pleasures of home-coming--rainbow atmosphere--orange and lemon groves--the nightingales--impressionable childhood--fresh plans--the abbé rivière--rare faculty--domestic chaplain--debt of gratitude--treasure-house of strength--given to hospitality--first great sorrow--passing away--resolve to travel--"i can no more"--the old adam dies hard--chance decides. delormais roused himself to the present as one who awakes from a dream. those large dark eyes seemed capable of every expression; could flash with intellect, melt with fervent love or grow earnest with condemnation; sparkle with wit, or suffuse with sympathy and pathos. in delormais susceptibilities and intellect seemed equally balanced. "i have been reviewing my life," he began. "and i am asking myself why we are here seated together as old familiar friends. how it is that to you, a comparative stranger, i have promised to speak of the past, open my heart, disclose secrets unknown to the world? it must be that you deal in magnetism. or that we were born in the same mystic sphere, or under the same conjunction of stars; and that for the third time in my life i discover one who is altogether sympathetic to me; to whom i feel i can speak as to my other self. nor is it necessary that this feeling should be shared by you in an equal degree. enough that you are not antagonistic; even approach me with a friendly liking. i, many years your senior, am the dominant power. you follow where i lead. but a truce to metaphysics; searchings into spiritual conditions we cannot altogether fathom; wandering into realms withholden from mortal vision. let us leave the unseen and uncertain, and turn altogether to the present world." we made no reply. our sympathy was strongly awakened in this singular man. here was a nature rare as it was powerful; distinguished by all the finest and noblest qualities vouchsafed to mankind. but we wished him to take his own way, utter his own thoughts, not disturbed by remark or turned aside by suggestion. he rose for a moment, replenished the cups, and went on with his narrative. "i have not asked you to join me to-night to read you a lesson," he continued. "in reviewing my past life, i find it full of incident and action. but it has none of those startling dramas and strange coincidences, none of those high achievements or fatal mistakes, which occasionally make biographies a solemn warning to some or a pillar of fire to others. i have brought you here simply for the pleasure of spending an evening with you. if i beguiled you at this late hour under any other impression i am guilty of false pretences. but late though it be it is still evening to me, to whom all hours are alike. for a whole week at a time i have slept an hour in the twenty-four in my arm-chair, and found this sufficient rest. we give too much time to sleep. like everything else it is a habit. the day will come soon enough for the folding of the hands. at any time i can turn night into day, and feel no sense of fatigue or loss of power. nature never takes her revenge by turning day into night. i cannot remember the time when the daylight hours caught me napping. "so then, for the pleasure of your company, and that we may become better acquainted, i have persuaded you to join me; not that i have much to tell you that can be useful or instructive. and yet it is said that the record of every life is a lesson. but all this you do not require. i was presumptuous enough at mid-day to read you a homily of which black coffee was the text and strong waters were the application. it was done partly from the impulsiveness of my nature which has carried me into a thousand-and-one unpremeditated scenes and circumstances; partly that my heart warmed towards you and i thought it a surer introduction to a better acquaintance than the usual topic of the weather. throughout my life of more than sixty years, from the day i was able to observe and reflect i have been a student of human nature. you see even my rashness did not mislead me. i was not rebuked. on the contrary, your heart immediately responded to the singular and presuming old man." he called himself old, but in reality, though six decades had rolled over his head, he was still in full force and vigour of life. he paused a moment. the deep musical voice echoed through the room in subdued cadences. there was nothing harsh or loud in its tones. delormais was too well-bred, too much a man of the world and student of human nature, as he had said, not to know the charm and value of modulation. he paused, but we the patient listener: saul sitting at the feet of gamaliel: made no reply. "nevertheless, if i cannot instruct, i think i can interest you," continued delormais, breaking the momentary silence. "my life has been singular and eventful. i will rapidly sketch some of its passages: a mere outline. to go through it circumstantially, in detail, would prolong the narrative to days and weeks. to write the life chapter by chapter, incident by incident, would fill many volumes. "i have a good memory and it carries me back to the earliest scenes of childhood: scenes full of fairy visions and sweet remembrances. orange-groves and lemon-groves, olive-yards and vineyards, orchards where grew all the luscious fruits of the earth, gardens filled with its choicest flowers, these are my first impressions. i breathed an air for ever perfumed. "these realms were inhabited by beings fitted for paradise. my mother's lovely and gentle face haunted the groves; my father's voice filled the house with music and energy. he was a man born to command, but ruled by charm, not by power: expressed a wish rather than gave an order. most lovable of husbands and most indulgent of fathers, we, who were to him as the breath of his nostrils, worshipped him. i was his constant companion. day after day, when just old enough to run by his side, he would sail about with me in his white-winged boat, on the blue waters of the levant. on the terrace in front of the château my mother would sit and watch us, an open book before her to which only half her thoughts were given and nothing of her heart. that followed the little craft skimming to and fro in the sunshine. "or in a larger yacht, we would take longer voyages; but if my mother were not with us these absences were rare, three days their limit. i was the idol of the sailors, just as my father was their king, who could do no wrong. "all my days and surroundings were coloured by this gentle, dark-eyed mother of exquisite loveliness and delicate refinement, whose only failing was too great a devotion to her husband and boy. i was an only surviving child, and for that reason doubly precious to my parents. a little daughter had first been born to them; a child, i have heard, the very counterpart of her mother--frail, delicate, and too good for earth; her soul too pure and her face too fair. at the age of three, when she was budding into loveliest rose-blossom, she went back to the angels. "there never was any fear of that sort for me. from the first i was strong and sturdy, escaping even the ordinary ailments of childhood. so far i saved my parents all anxiety. their only care was to check my high and venturesome spirit, which now would cause me to be fished up from the bottom of shallow waters; and now would bring me down to earth with a broken olive-bough that possibly had borne fruit for centuries and might have done so for ages yet to come. i never came to harm. a special providence watched over me--i record it with all reverence. "as the bird flies my home was not so very far from here, though it was in france, not spain. we lived in one of the loveliest spots of fair provence, where indeed the earth brought forth abundantly all her fruits and flowers. "my mother had offended her family by her marriage, yet in no sense of the word was my father her inferior. but she was of noble birth and he was not, though a patrician. he was a gentleman in all his thoughts and deeds, a great landed proprietor, a man of vast intellectual culture and refinement. the _mésalliance_ her people chose to see in the matter existed only in their worldly minds and wicked ambitions. for to marry my father she had refused the duke of g., an empty-headed _bon vivant_, with nothing but his title and wealth to recommend him. for fifteen years my mother's life was happy as life on earth can be. the day came when her people acknowledged the wisdom of her choice, the hollowness of theirs. but one circumstance in her father i have always thought condoned all his obstinacy. he finally yielded to her wishes. without this the marriage would have been impossible. when he saw that her very existence depended upon it, he at length dismissed the duke and gave his consent--reluctantly, with a bad grace it must be admitted, but it was done. the duke married elsewhere. wild, unprincipled, unstable as water, he entangled himself in all sorts of intrigues, gambled, and finally fell into embarrassment. not until then was my father really and truly received without reservation as a son of the family--a position to which he was in every possible way entitled. "those were charmed and charming days of childhood and youth. it has been said that when the early years are specially happy, the after-life is the opposite. i cannot say that this has been my experience, though, as you will see, the hand of sorrow has sometimes been heavy upon me. "my father was wealthy. he spent much time in his library, where my mother might almost always be found, her seat near to him. by stretching forth his hand he could occasionally clasp hers, as though to assure her that his heart still beat for her alone. in all my father's intellectual pursuits she was thoroughly at home--no study was too deep or abstruse for her comprehension. "now and then she would accompany us in our yacht, and it was delightful to witness the reverence and devotion of the crew on those occasions--men who remained with us year after year, nor ever thought of change. i believe that every one of them would have laid down his life for her. she never liked the sea; the least rising of wind or ruffling of water alarmed her. when she accompanied us our excursions would be lengthened. we explored the islands of the mediterranean, visited friends in some of the more distant towns on the seaboard. how well i remember a longer absence than usual, when we made acquaintance with all the greek isles, and explored the fair city of the violet crown. who that has approached those classic shores can forget the first sight of ossa and pelion--scene of the battle between the gods and titans--though homer reverses possibilities in placing pelion upon ossa! who can forget his first impression of the rocky gorge and valley between ossa and olympus! all is now in a state of sad but picturesque ruin and poverty, but in days gone by industries flourished here--a happy and contented people. the spinning-jennies of england have a little to answer for in this. "to my mother's classic mind, all ancient history appealed with a special charm. the shores of greece, like our own, were washed by the blue waters of the mediterranean. there too the hills, in all their exquisite form, stood out in a bright clear atmosphere. we journeyed leisurely from the frontier to the piræus; visited the islands of the peloponnesus, with all their ancient and romantic interest; rested ourselves at the monastery of daphne, and from the summit of the pass gazed upon that wonderful view of athens. together we ascended mount olympus and pictured ourselves amongst the gods of the ancient mythology. we admired its richly-wooded slopes, where the endless mulberry trees put forth their spreading foliage, and visited the monastery of st. dionysius, which lies in that wonderful olympian amphitheatre--one of the grandest scenes in nature. "all athens opened its doors to us. they could not greet too warmly or _fête_ too highly my mother's beauty and grace, my father's rare gifts of heart and mind. "but our happiest hours were spent alone. together we studied the wonders of the capital, and grew familiar with the byzantine churches. we passed days upon lovely Ægina where blow the purest of heaven's pure winds. we stood almost in awe before the wonderful ruins of the doric temple of zeus, Ægina's glory, whose columns have stood the test of , years. what can be lovelier than the view from the summit of that rugged hill crowned by its imperishable monument? i remember as though it were yesterday my first glimpse of helicon and parnassus, as we sailed through the gulf of corinth; the walk through the olive-groves of the sacred plain, where, turn which way you will, the eye rests on historic ground. in the fair city we thought of paul as he preached to the athenians under the shadow of the parthenon. we haunted the acropolis with its barren rocks and fragments of past glories. from the charmed heights we gazed upon the sapphire sea ever flashing in brilliant sunshine. in the distance, faint and hazy and dreamlike, were ever the sleeping mountains, Ægina and argolis protecting the magic ranges. sometimes we penetrated too far inland, and more than once my father's adventurous spirit had nearly brought us within the grasp of the lawless, a condition of things that would have been the death of my mother, and for which he would never have forgiven himself. "but all the pleasure of our wanderings never equalled the charm of our home-coming. there was our life and our delight. there we were truly happy. looking back, i see that it was an ideal existence: a condition heaven never permits to remain too long unbroken, or we might forget that this is not our abiding city. "my father filled his leisure moments by cultivating vineyards, which in those days were very successful, and in the form of wine returned rich revenues. we lived in a rainbow atmosphere, and, if you know provence--as doubtless you do--you will also know that this is no mere figure of speech. the airs of heaven were ever balmy. in those days one never heard of cold and snow and frost on the riviera. we have since approached some degrees nearer to the north pole. little need for others to go off in search of it and bring it to us. at that time we lived in perpetual summer. the sapphire waters of the mediterranean for ever flashed and flowed upon the white sands of the shores that belonged to us. it seems to me now that the skies were always blue and the sun ever shone. olive-yards and vineyards, i have said, surrounded us. orange and lemon-groves sent forth an exquisite perfume only known to those who live amongst them. an amphitheatre of hills rose about us; the lovely maritime alps with all their graceful undulations, all their rich foliage. birds flashed in the sunshine. in the balmy nights of may the nightingales never ceased their song. "i must have been an impressionable child, with all my strong, sturdy health, inheriting something of my mother's romantic nature. it is certain that the memory of those early days has never faded, but has been the background and colouring of all my after life. even now in thought i often go back to them. there are times when i am a little undecided how to act. i ask myself how my father or mother would have acted under the circumstances, and in their clear, sensible tones seem to hear the reply. "up to the age of seven they were my sole instructors. then fresh plans were formed. a precocious child, it was felt that i ought to enter upon more serious studies than they had leisure to direct. "a tutor was found; the abbé rivière; a man of large mind and solid attainments; a profound thinker. to this he added the simple nature of a child. the marvel was that he condescended to become tutor and companion to a lad of seven. we soon found that his ambition was to have leisure for the writing of metaphysical works. his present appointment gave him his heart's desire. he had no parish or people to look after. with less singleness of purpose and more worldliness, he might have risen to any position in the church. no better companion for a boy could have been found, and he possessed the rare faculty of imparting knowledge. his mind could unbend, and he adapted his conversation to his hearers. no mere bookworm was he, dry, tedious and incomprehensible. my studies were a delight. i knew afterwards that one of the joys of his life was to watch day by day the unfolding of his pupil's mind. thus he took the keenest interest in his work, and considered his days doubly blessed. i have heard him say that the offer of the triple crown could not have tempted him to change his life. "he did not live in the château, but in a small house on the estate. it was supposed that here he would feel himself more his own master, free to order, to come and go as he would, whilst every comfort was secured to him. my father was the most generous of men, full of thoughtful consideration for all in any way dependent upon him. from the highest to the lowest, none were passed over. he soon discovered the abbé's true character; the high purpose that actuated his life; and became devoted to him. my father's mind was quite equal to the abbé's, though he had not spent his life in metaphysical studies. still, he sympathised with his pursuits, and read his works in ms. now he agreed with the writer and now differed. his clear, correct vision many a time won over the abbé to his opinion. "the abbé became, so to say, our domestic chaplain. as often as he could be persuaded, he made a fourth at the dinner-table, and said grace in his quiet, refined tones. and he needed far less persuasion on these occasions than when the château was filled with guests. he was always an acquisition. a man of deep and varied thought, possessing the gift, not always given to great men, of putting his thoughts into words. an earnest, fluent talker, who could unstring his bow and throw a charm even over ordinary topics. this was far more apparent, far more exercised when we were alone and he was sure of the sympathy of his hearers, than when others were present. if he only spoke of the passing clouds, the ripening fruit, or the flashing sea, his rare mind would clothe his ideas in a form peculiarly his own, and especially attractive. "i often think providence helped my father in his selection. when indeed does providence _not_ direct the paths of its children? without doubt i owe the abbé a deep debt of gratitude. he did much to shape and consolidate my character. i was his pupil in all those important years when the seeds are being sown to bear fruit in the after life. from the age of seven to nineteen, i was seldom absent from him. occasionally he would join in our yachting excursions. then, unbending, throwing work to the winds, he became the most delightful of companions. in spite of his more than fifty years and his long white hair, he could be almost child-like in his ways. his was one of those simple and rare natures that never grow old. "rightly or wrongly, my parents elected to keep me at home. i was their all in life; they would have me under their own roof. and why not? my future was assured. i should be wealthy. it was not necessary to go out into the world to learn to fight my way, as it is called. in the matter of education i certainly did not suffer. experience of the world came soon enough. "so our quiet and charming life went on. looking back, i would not change one single circumstance of those early days. they are a treasure-house on which i still draw for strength and guidance. "we were by no means isolated. my father was given to hospitality and delighted in receiving his friends. we mixed freely with the few families of our own rank in the neighbourhood. nevertheless these were exceptional times. he was happiest--we all were--when the house was free from guests and we were all in all to each other. it was a paradise of four people; for the abbé in time became as one of ourselves. if good influence were wanted, he gave it. he was a deeply religious man in the wide acceptance of the term; not thinking of saints and fasts and penances, but of the higher life which looks above for strength and consolation. i much fear me he would have passed but a poor examination before the consistory of rome. i doubt if he would have escaped excommunication. holy, upright man!" cried delormais with emotion. "he was as much above ordinary human nature, with all its petty ways and narrowing limits, as the stars are above the earth." again he paused, and for a moment seemed plunged in profound sadness. he had evidently reached a painful crisis in his life. a deep sigh escaped him which seemed weighted with the burden of years. then with an effort, still turning upon us that kindly, penetrating eye, he went on with his narrative. "at the age of fifteen came my first great sorrow--the greatest sorrow of my life. i could not have conceived that our cloudless sky would so suddenly become overcast with the blackness of night. "my mother died. a man loses his wife, and however much he loved her, he may get him another. but he can have but one mother in his life, one father. "for long she had been gradually failing. much as i loved her, my boyish eyes did not perceive the change that was coming. i did not see that this earthly angel was quietly passing away to heaven. she herself was conscious of it. there were times--how well i remembered it afterwards--when i would find her eyes fixed upon me with a yearning ineffable sadness. her whole soul and spirit seemed to be speaking to me without words. she was about to leave me to the temptations and tender mercies of the world--how would it fare with me in the years to come? but she never spoke or gave me word or sign of warning. "my father also saw the change coming, but would not admit it; could not believe or realise it. the loss would be his death-blow. for him there could be no second wife, no other companion. when the blow fell, it crushed him. he was never the same again. i never again heard him laugh, scarcely saw him smile. his body was still on earth, thought and spirit seemed to have followed his wife into the unseen world. his affection for me, the kindly remonstrances of the good abbé, even these were not powerful enough to restore his desire for life. he went on quietly, patiently for four years, then followed the wife without whom it seemed he could not remain on earth. "i told you just now their life was too happy to remain long without interruption. fifteen years of perfect companionship had passed as a flash, the dream of a long day, and then vanished. "i was now nineteen, but mentally and physically more like five-and-twenty. a restlessness seized me. my home was haunted by the spirits of my parents; by the remembrance of days whose perfect happiness made that remembrance for the moment intolerable. i had passionately, tenderly loved both father and mother. if i went into the groves, her face seemed ever gazing at me amidst the fruit and foliage. her accustomed place in the terrace was filled with her presence. in every room in the house i heard my father's voice, felt the clasp of his hand. "the good abbé was my frequent companion, but the blow had told upon him also. he had aged wonderfully. though he tried to be cheerful for my sake, it was clearly forced. my life grew impossible. i felt that i must change the scene if i would recover mental tone and vigour. for a time i must travel; see the world; wander from place to place, country to country, until rest and calm returned to my soul. even the abbé, sorry as he was to part from me, commended my resolution. "i was my own master; wealthy; free to come and go as i would; everything favoured the idea. at home i would change nothing. the abbé should remain in his little house, his days and leisure at his own disposal. the old servants were retained in the château. only the living-rooms should be closed to the ghosts that haunted them. the able superintendent of all outdoor concerns, a domestic chargé-d'affaires, who had for years filled the position under my father, remained at the head of all things. the only change in his routine was that once a week he should have a morning with the abbé. all matters were to pass under the scrutiny of that wise judgment. if any difficulty arose he was to be appealed to. it was the only service i asked at the hands of my old tutor in return for the home and stipend it was my privilege to afford him. he had long been white-haired, and was now venerable beyond his nearly seventy years. he gave me his solemn benediction at parting, and for the first time i saw him break down. he wept as he placed his hands upon my head. 'this third parting is too much for me,' he cried. 'i can no more.' "so i turned my back upon my home, my face to the world. i was strong, energetic, full of life and spirit, though for the moment clouded and subdued. the abbé had taken care that my mental powers should be thoroughly trained. for twelve years i had been his constant care. in many things he thought me his superior. mathematics and classics, the sciences, these by his rare skill he had made my amusement. but my impulsive nature, quick sometimes to rashness, had not been conquered. he had only given me a certain amount of judgment and common-sense which must stand by me in moments of difficulty or danger. altogether i was well-fitted to take care of myself, in spite of my love of adventure and quick temperament. you see that it clings to me still," added delormais with a smile. "the old adam dies hard within us. who else would have treated you to a homily on black coffee and strong waters as i did this morning? "i departed on my travels with no fixed purpose other than to see the world. to which point of the compass i turned, chance should decide." * * * * * again delormais paused as though absorbed in past recollections. for a moment his white, well-shaped hand shielded his eyes. then returning to his former attitude, now gazing earnestly at us and now into space, he continued his narrative. chapter x. delormais' romance. rome--count albert--happy months--sweets of companionship--egypt--strange things--quiet weeks--sinai--freedom of the desert--crossing the red sea--mount serbal--convent of st. catherine--in the valley of the saint--tomb of sheikh saleh--pools of solomon--jerusalem the golden--bethel--lebanon--home again--fresh scenes--algeria--hanging gardens of the sahel--mount bubor and its glories--rash act--at the twilight hour--earthly paradise--fair eve--fervent love--arouya--nature's revenge--not to last--eternal requiem of the sea--in the backwoods--hunting wolves--prairies of california--honolulu--active volcanoes--lake of fire--rare birds and wild flowers--worship of peleus--an eruption--mighty upheaval--coast of labrador--shooting bears. "the first morning that i wakened up away from home i found myself in the eternal city. i had always loved rome. here i thought i might lose myself in ancient history. in imagination i trod the palace of the cæsars, and in the coliseum beheld the martyred christians. i pictured the gilded pageantries of the tiber, the splendours of the pleasure-lost citizens. i saw the vast campagna clothed with its armies, listened to the clash of arms and shouts of warriors ascending heavenwards. i walked the appian way with st. paul and at the three taverns seemed to hear his voice in sorrowful farewell. at the shrine of cecilia metella i lingered in sympathetic communion; and from the pincio hill watched the sunsets of those matchless skies. why are the skies of rome more beautiful than any other? the vatican opened its doors to me and the pope gave me his most intimate and friendly benediction. i fear that i thought too lightly of the latter. "what just then was more to my purpose, in rome i found a great friend. he, count albert, was the nephew of the duke my mother had refused to marry. we had been intimate from childhood, but he was five years my senior. i need not say that he was a very different man from his uncle: high-minded, earnest, a cultivated citizen of the world. about to visit egypt and palestine, he begged me to join him. his happiness he declared would then be complete. "thus chance, or an over-ruling providence, decided for me. i willingly acquiesced, and the many months we spent together remain as some of the happiest of my life. though never ceasing to mourn my loss, i quickly threw off depression in the excitement of ever-changing scenes. only in the still darkness of the night hours would the beloved faces and voices come to me with an ever-recurring sense of loneliness, and, man though i was, my pillow was frequently wet with tears. but our friendship for each other was sincere and has remained so. for the duke of g.--he has now by the decrees of fate become the head of his family--is still living, though we have seldom met of late years. "we travelled together, enjoying those sweet pleasures of companionship only given us in youth. with egypt and palestine we became intimate and familiar. cairo delighted us. it was less modern in those days than in these. we were never tired of visiting the mosques with all their sacred and historic charm. we made the acquaintance of the sheikhs, saw them perform impossible magic, heard strange things revealed in a drop of ink. to me these mysteries have remained unsolved to this day. we spent hours and days amongst the tombs of the caliphs, revelling in their wonderful refinement. we visited all the ancient cities of the nile: thebes with its hills and ruins, memphis with its palm forests and pyramids--those monuments the most ancient in the world. we contemplated the great pyramids of ghizeh by moonlight and felt steeped in mystery. in the same weird light i have stood before the sphinx and asked the reason and origin of its existence, but only profound silence has answered me. at dendera, that perfect temple begun by cleopatra and finished by tiberius, i gazed upon the features of the famous queen and compared them with those of hermonthis. i found they resembled each other and confess that i wondered in what consisted the beauty of the woman who changed the fate of the world--but beautiful she must have been. we chartered our dahabeah and travelled up to the second cataract. never shall i forget the soothing repose of those quiet weeks, the delight of our uninterrupted companionship, the books we read together, the daily thoughts we exchanged, the ruined cities we explored. it was an experience that comes only once in a lifetime. "we both felt strongly the connection between sacred geography and sacred history: how the one would be better understood if the other were visited. so together we became acquainted with the peninsula of sinai, its mountains, plains, and sea. the charm and freedom of the desert i had often dreamed about, but how far greater was the reality! here we revelled day after day in the wonderful isolation: sky and sand and nothing else. a mingling of gorgeous tones: a vast expanse of blue and yellow; a molten sun burning down upon all by day, at night the infinite repose of darkness and star-lit skies. how endless were those sandy wastes, broken only by the wild broom and acacia yielding its gum arabic, the wild palm and manna-giving tamarisk! "we traversed the desert in which the israelites wandered for forty years, and crossed the red sea over the very spot where pharaoh and his host were drowned. we ascended mount serbal and the cluster of jebel mûsa, and therefore must have trod the very sinai of israel. we stayed for days at the wonderful convent of st. catherine, a strange building to exist in the very centre of the desert, with its massive walls, gorgeous church and galleries, monkish cells and guest chambers, its wonderful gardens. we spent much time in the library, examining its ancient and singularly interesting mss. we conversed frequently with the monks, and wondered why they should be greek and not arabian; and whether, so far removed from the world, temptation and sin and sorrow still assailed them. "in the valley of the saint we visited the tomb of sheikh saleh, the 'great unknown,' where the tribes of the desert assemble once a year and hold their races and dances and offer up burnt sacrifices. we looked upon hebron, that wonderful sepulchre of the patriarchs, and passed through the valley of eschol, once so abundant in the fruits of the earth. we visited the three pools of solomon on our way to bethlehem. never can i forget the gorgeous splendour of the scene, the wonderful undulations of those vine-clad hills. in the vast depression lie the sleeping pools, square and regular, and sky and atmosphere seem full of flaming colours, and one realises the true meaning of the glories of the east. beyond lies rachel's tomb, and from the top of a neighbouring hill one looks down upon jerusalem the golden. we feel that we are treading the holiest ground on earth. "we went up the passage of michmash to bethel; that dreary and barren spot where jacob made him a pillar of stones and dreamed his dream. you remember his words: 'surely the lord is in this place; and i knew it not.... this is none other than the house of god, and this is the gate of heaven.' the spot is very desolate; no wonder jacob feared as he gazed around. "we visited lebanon, and in its grove reposed under the few remaining cedars, listened to the cry of the cicale, and watched the birds of brilliant plumage flitting from branch to branch. though in the midst of the desert there was no silence. a wonderful spot, with its rushing streams, its vineyards and corn-fields, the magnificent sea flashing in the sunshine. what a forest life it must have been before sennacherib laid it low! "so we became thoroughly acquainted with sinai and palestine. i can never understand those who leave this magic land with a sense of disappointment. it is true that we were young, full of life and vigour, ready to extract all the honey from our sweets; but to me no after experience ever equalled this first lengthened journey of my manhood. with what sorrow and regret i brought it to an end and parted from my friend, you will easily imagine. "but it had to be. i had been long absent from home. the abbé wrote to me regularly; all had gone well and quietly, but i began to feel anxious to gaze once more upon the beloved groves and familiar shores; to hear once more the voice of the good old man who i knew hungered and thirsted for my return. "one morning when the sun was shining and everything looked bright and happy, i suddenly appeared before the abbé. he was absorbed upon a ms., putting the finishing touches to a chapter of peculiar merit, when he looked up and saw the desire of his eyes. for a moment i thought he was about to lose consciousness. then the blood rushed to his pale, refined face, and i found myself clasped in his arms. "we spent a quiet happy month together. i took up my abode in his house, not in the château. everything was pursuing the calm and even tenor of its way. every one was happy, and the return of the master made that happiness complete. they all hoped i had come to remain; but i found that could not be. i was unable to settle down to a quiet domestic life. this home-coming had brought back all my loss, the happiness of days gone for ever. i felt i must seek fresh scenes, and soon departed again on my wanderings. this time they were not very distant. "i crossed over to algeria, and from the bright green slopes of the sahel learned to love the white terraces and hanging gardens that contrasted so well with the matchless blue of the mediterranean. that was not all that i learned to love. "i mixed freely with the arabs and the french of all classes. fate took me to djidjelly. i wished to ascend mount bubor, and from its summit gaze as it were upon all the kingdoms of the earth and the glory of them. here i committed the most rash, most impulsive act of my life. you will say it was impossible in one brought up as i had been. i have learned that nothing is impossible. remember also my youth; that i was in a sense alone in the world; had never loved, never even thought of love. i will now tell you a secret hitherto locked within my own breast. in a word, i married. djidjelly has been considered almost impregnable, but no fortress can keep out the arrows of cupid. "i had been in the town for about a week, exploring the rocks and heights, picturing that terrible expedition two centuries ago, when the kabyles brought beaufort and his men to utter defeat. one day i had walked some ten miles into the interior. i was revelling in the perfume of one of the lovely groves that abound, when suddenly i came upon a vision of grace and beauty that absolutely dazzled and astounded me. it was that witching hour of evening when the sun nears the horizon and all nature seems sinking to repose. a perfect paradise of orange and almond trees, olives and pomegranates interspersed with the wild laurel, surrounded me. never did paradise boast a fairer eve. the declining sun threw deep shadows athwart the paths; branches and foliage traced fairy pictures of sunlight and shade. "in this enchanting scene stood a young kabyle woman, lovelier than anything i had ever seen before or have ever dreamed of since. she was about seventeen, but here, as you know, women develop early. her form was perfect as her face. if she walked, her step was light and majestic. if she ran, it was with the grace of the gazelle. everything about her was harmonious. her abundant dark hair crowned a small and shapely head. her eyes, large, dark and soft, flashed with sensibility and intelligence beneath pencilled eyebrows and long drooping eyelashes that almost swept her cheek. her expression was one of singular purity and guilelessness. all the passionate temperament of the east seemed to have passed her by. yet how purely, how fervently she could love. over a silken robe she wore a haick or burnous of fine gossamer that fell about her in graceful folds. when her small coral lips parted they revealed the most exquisite of pearly teeth. her voice was music. you will say that i am making her too perfect. this would indeed be impossible. i have never met any one to approach her either in grace of mind or beauty of feature. "but nature had been cruel. she had bestowed those matchless charms only to withdraw them too soon. i saw her and from that moment loved her: loved her for ever. there was no doubt or wavering in my mind. i approached her. she met me fearlessly, naturally, without thought of guile. to my delight she spoke perfect french, was evidently refined and educated. her father was the proprietor of this little paradise. this meant that he was probably at ease in the world without being exactly rich. i quickly got to know him. wooing in this part of the world is not a matter of months or years. within a week of our first meeting, i was engaged to arouya. her father was only too willing to give her to one who was young, good-looking, above all had wealth at his command. almost immediately, without counting the cost or reflecting upon the mistake of a union with one of another race and religion, we were married. but all the reflection in the world would have made no difference. i was borne on by a mighty torrent against which there was no struggling. "for six months i lived a charmed, enraptured, secluded life with arouya, my wife. we were intensely happy in each other's love: bliss that is rarely given to mortals. it was not a mere life of the senses; her mind was wonderfully pure, bright and expansive. from the very first i laboured to convert her to christianity, and with singular clearness she grasped and embraced all its profound yet simple truths: became deeply, devotedly religious. this only seemed to strengthen her affection for me. "but it was not to last. almost from the day of our marriage i felt the shadow of the sword. our happiness was to be as fleeting as it was perfect. arouya was already stricken with mortal illness. consumption had set its seal upon her. before we had been married three months she began to droop; at the end of six months she died. died in my arms, blessing the hour in which we had first met. i laid her in her far-off grave, within sound of the sea, which chants her eternal requiem. "i will draw a veil over my grief. for the third time in my young life i was heavily stricken. but i have learned to see the hand of mercy in the blow, and in time i lived it down. it was an episode in my life so romantic, so sacred, that i never spoke of it even to the good abbé. you are the first to whom i have confided it. the secret is locked in my own breast--and in yours. "i left algeria and sought distraction from my grief by going farther abroad. i visited america, where i saw nature on a gigantic scale. there i went through endless experiences and adventures. in the backwoods of the north i have spent whole nights watching for wolves, and heard their howlings on all sides. often i have been sore beset. many a tree have i climbed to save my life; from its branches shot many a tiger whose glaring eyes and deep growls told me one or other must conquer. but as in childhood, so in later years i seem to have carried about with me a charmed life. many a time has my thirst been assuaged by the monkeys, who in return for stones pelted me with cocoanuts. in the indian jungle i have hunted lions, and once was surprised and sprung upon by a tiger that at that very moment was providentially shot by my servant. otherwise i should not now be here to tell you the tale. it was a narrow escape. "in the vast prairies of california i delighted. here i saw vegetation as i had never conceived it. even the cedars of lebanon paled before these gigantic monarchs of the forest. loveliest flowers of gorgeous hues, wonderful tree-ferns, abounded. there was no limit to their wealth. once, whilst here, the desire seized me to visit hawaii--the sandwich islands as they are called: those wonderful volcanic isles of the pacific. beside them, everything else of a like nature fades into insignificance. vesuvius, Ætna, hecla, these are child's play in comparison. the eight islands form a rich and productive chain. "i embarked from san francisco for honolulu, and reached it after a run of sixteen days before the wind. here i found much to repay me. the island is full of rocky spurs which form so great a contrast to the green plains of the interior with their clear flowing streams and endless forests. vast craters are ever in a state of eruption: the largest volcanoes in the world: some extinct, others in a state of activity. one of these days i believe that a tremendous upheaval will take place and the islands will disappear. the mountain peaks of hawaii, mauna kia and mauna loa, , feet high, with their eternal snows, would alone repay a visit. perpendicular precipices feet high present a bold savage front to the sea, and looking at them you think that never before have you gazed upon rock scenery. the sandy shores have the loveliest, most perfect of coral reefs. the waters surrounding the islands are clear and brilliant with every rainbow colour. here the world is a paradise; but its people, though harmless enough, are not angels. "kilanea on mauna loa is the largest of the active volcanoes. its oval-shaped crater is nine miles in circumference and feet above the level of the sea. within this a lake of fire is for ever burning and seething, moving and heaving to and fro in liquid waves of molten lava. imagine the tremendous, the awful sight. i was there in when it was in a very active state and continued so for some years. at night the spectacle was sublime beyond description. herds of wild horses roam the islands. there is a curious bat that flies by day. many of the trees are productive. the sugar-cane flourishes; the palm, banana, cocoanut and _ti_. the natives bake and eat the roots of the latter and thatch their huts with its leaves. the snow-clad hills are the most distinctive feature, here and there rising in overpowering masses wreathed in fantastic vapours. above these the clear blue sky rises in brilliant contrast and unbroken serenity. at sundown the white snow-tops flush a rosy red. wonderful creepers interlace the trees of the forest, so that you walk under an endless magic roof of green, through which the sun at mid-day penetrates only in delicate gleams and patches. gorgeous wild-flowers grow everywhere through the pathless woods. birds of rare plumage flash from bough to bough, chattering and calling, but soulless in point of song. everywhere one meets the pungent odour of wild fruit. here too i found orange and lemon-groves that almost rivalled those of my mediterranean home. you have heard of those wonderful trees with their wealth of blossoms that live one day, changing colour three times in the daylight hours: white in the morning, yellow at noon, red at sundown--blushing their life away. "the heat of the days was intense, but at sunset a cool breeze would spring up, laden with the perfume of orange and lemon-groves. i mixed freely with the natives, a curious, superstitious race. "it was here that i first experienced the sensation of earthquakes. they are common enough in these volcanic islands, and unless violent, excite little attention. i had been travelling for two days. suddenly i felt the ground as it were slipping under my feet. the trees about us swayed, the leaves rustled as though moved by a strong wind. in the air was a brooding stillness. we were not far from a tremendous volcano. an eruption was evidently about to take place. i had two or three native servants with me, and an acquaintance who was half a frenchman and had settled in the island. the former were frightened and superstitious, given up to the worship of peleus, goddess of the volcano. "with difficulty we made our way to the mouth of the crater through the pathless forests surrounding it. never can i forget the beauty of the immense tree-ferns that abounded. it was no doubt a rash proceeding, but at last we stood at the edge of the crater. we looked upon a vast lake of liquid fire. the sight was terrific, and made me think of dante's most graphic passages. "all this soon changed. presently the surface of the lake of fire had turned black, sure sign of an approaching eruption. not a breath of air stirred. all nature was steeped in a profound hush. the very birds ceased to fly and flutter. our horses trembled and manifested every symptom of fear. there was no time to be lost if we wished to save our lives. after a sharp ride we gained the slopes of a snow mountain. here we waited for what soon came; shock after shock of earthquake. rocks and stones detached themselves around us and rolled into the valley. trees were uprooted. then came a mighty, rushing, hissing sound, as a sea of molten lava rolled down in many directions and spread over the plain. never shall i forget the grandeur, the awful majesty of the sight. we knew not how far it would reach or to what extent our lives were in danger. dense volumes of smoke rose in the air, obscuring the sky. torrents of ashes fell far and wide. i thought of the fate of herculaneum and pompeii, scenes i had visited with my parents only a few years before. was such a fate to be ours? we were almost choked with the smell of sulphur. vegetation was scorched and burnt up under the terrible influence. it was a monster devouring all that came within its path. the poor monkeys in the cocoa-nut trees no longer thought of pelting us with fruit. they crouched and hid themselves in the branches, and understood the peril of their lives. i will not weary you with further description. suffice it that we escaped, and when i again found myself in honolulu, it was to bid the islands a long farewell. "for a time there was no end to my wanderings. from honolulu i went off in an american whaler to the coast of labrador and shot bears as they drifted southward on icebergs coming from that mysterious and hitherto inaccessible north pole. once i spent a week with that curious little people, the esquimaux, who inhabit the creeks of labrador and live chiefly on the excellent fish abounding in those waters: waters so wonderfully tempered by the florida stream. in my travels i have experienced the extremes of refinement on the one hand, of hardship on the other. but the latter has been my own choice, and this makes all things bearable. i once had a friend who went out to break stones on the road; work we give to our convicts; but he did it for pleasure and thought it delightful." * * * * * once more delormais paused as though in deep reflection. the silence in the room was only broken by the faint ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece. outside not a sound disturbed the sleeping world. not a breath stirred in all the corridors of the old palace that had seen better days. we waited until the spirit should move him again. chapter xi. monseigneur. great conflict--returning to paris--count albert married--marriages declined--love buried in the grave of arouya--frivolities--napoleon at the tuileries--illness--doctors' errors--days of horror--vow registered--between life and death--victory--home again--abbé's objections--resolve strengthened--death of the abbé--taking vows--life of energy and action--rapid sketch--sympathies--all ordained--"monseigneur"--"mon ami"--cry of the watchmen--candles wax dim and blue--wandering in dreams--false prophet--h. c. rises with the lark--beauty of gerona--pathetic scene--colonel administers consolation--widow's heart sings for joy--in the cloisters again--good-bye--in the cathedral--anselmo--sunshine over all--miguel--on the ruined citadel--anselmo's signal--a glory departs. "i have told you of the great romance of my life," he presently continued. "now let me tell you of its great conflict. "after many wanderings i returned to paris. here the great world opened wide its doors to me. in a short time i was _l'enfant de la maison_ amongst all people worth knowing. count albert had married one of the most charming women in the great world. you can picture my welcome. few days passed but i spent some portion of my time with them. i was naturally sought after, my wealth and position rendering that inevitable. fathers proposed marriage for their daughters after the french fashion, offering the bribe of large dowries. but they knew not my secret. all my love was buried in a quiet algerian grave, within sight of the ever-sounding sea. i had never loved before; i should never love again. i shuddered at the idea of a mere _mariage de convenance_. love and love only could make the chains of matrimony bearable. who could love again after such a love, such a marriage as mine? "i soon felt the life of paris feverish, enervating. there was no rest, or repose, or freedom about it. a wild series of frivolities succeeded each other: court ceremonies--napoleon iii. reigned at the tuileries--balls, receptions, the life of the clubs. i hated wine, yet indulged freely in it to help me through the days. i had not been made for this kind of life; all the better parts of my nature were being stifled. still i went on from week to week, partly because i could not tear myself away from albert and his charming wife. "at last i fell ill of a nervous malady which prostrated my strength. the doctors ordered brandy in large doses. they should rather have forbidden it. the day came when i saw that brandy was my master. i could not live without it. nothing could exceed my horror when i made the discovery. then the moral struggle began, and that my nature was strong only made the conflict more severe. but the evil was more physical than mental or moral and so far beyond my control. "at length, almost in despair, sick of this frivolous, aimless life, i vowed to devote my days to the service of heaven if i might be permitted to conquer. "again i fell ill, but this time of a malady for which all stimulant was forbidden. for weeks i kept my bed, part of the time hovering between life and death. heaven was merciful. my vow had been heard, my prayer answered. when i recovered, the victory had been gained for me. i hated the very sight of all stimulant. from that hour nothing stronger than tea or coffee has passed my lips. "i left paris and returned to my home in provence. what delight, what repose, what charm i found there. paradise had once more opened its gates. there, with the abbé, i spent a whole year in calm and quiet retreat. health and vigour of mind, strength of body, returned to me. "but i did not forget my vow. the abbé treated me to many an argument and disquisition upon the subject. he showed me the life of an ecclesiastic in all its lights and shadows; the sacrifice of domestic happiness it entailed; the constant self-denials if i would do my duty in the spirit as well as letter. he pointed out how by nature and position i was eminently fitted to take my part in the world; to marry; become the ruler of a little kingdom, as it were; the father of sons and daughters. he was growing old, he declared, and certainly in the last year had greatly changed. an expression on his face told me he was not far from heaven. he felt his own end approaching. "all this only strengthened my resolve. if anything could have made me more in favour of a religious life, it was the quiet ecstasy with which he contemplated passing to celestial regions. nothing could be more saintly and beatific than his last days. he was in perfect happiness, and frequently said so. i was permitted to be with him when his eyes looked their last upon the world. i was the last object they rested on; my name was on his lips as his soul winged its flight to heaven. for the fourth time the hand of affliction was laid upon me. my last link with the world was severed. i stood alone. "in due time i took upon myself the vows of the church. never for a moment had i contemplated the cloister. mine must be a life of energy and activity. whether it be a weakness or not, i have ever loved to command; to rule mankind; to have the ordering of things. there i feel in my element. i have a capacity for organisation which will not lie dormant. it has been my lot to have it more or less fully exercised. with all humility, and giving the sole glory to heaven, i may say that i have succeeded in every work or mission i ever undertook; advanced every cause in which i have been concerned. the great moral, the great secret of my life, is this: i have first of all been convinced of the soundness of my intentions; i have held decided views; i have never entered upon a single act of importance without first placing it under the guidance of heaven, as hezekiah went up into the temple and spread the letter before the lord. and then i have gone forward, nothing doubting. paul may plant and apollos may water in vain, if they trust to their own strength. that has been my rule and conviction through life. i have constantly endeavoured to have no will of my own; no personal ends and aims and prejudices; but to obey the great master, whose i am and whom i serve." here delormais rapidly sketched his life in the church. he described every office he had held in succession; the difficulties he had contended with; the evils he had suppressed; the reforms he had made; the manner in which he had once fought with and at length convinced the consistory of rome. through all he spoke with the utmost humility, recognising himself an agent, not a principal to whom any credit was due. over this portion of his life we draw a discreet veil. it was disclosed under secrecy. partly to prevent identification; partly because other names were inevitably introduced, some of which were as household words in the world of the french church. the time had passed unconsciously. there was a singular charm and attraction about delormais. his fine presence and high breeding, his animated way of talking and graphic powers of description, all carried you beyond yourself. everything was forgotten but the man before you. for the moment you were lost in the scenes he portrayed so vividly. underlying all, running through all like a fine silken warp, his sympathetic nature was evident. strong, decided, commanding, loving to rule, he was yet singularly lovable. when was this ever otherwise where sympathy was the keynote of the disposition? he was a man to come to for advice and consolation. broad-minded above all the small views and judgments of human nature, if he chastised with the one hand, he took care to heal with the other. no one need dread his condemnation. we had been so recently under the influence of both men it was impossible to help contrasting this strong, admirable nature with the calm, retiring, almost celestial beauty of anselmo: each perfect in its way. we mentioned him to delormais as a type. "ay, i know him well," he replied: "have known him always. the canon who was his protector and left him a portion of his wealth, was one of my few intimate friends. a purer spirit than anselmo's never breathed. he might be advanced to high places in the church, but is better and happier where he is. in all my wide experiences i have never met his equal. of course i know his story, and his love for rosalie--hers for him: an idyll almost too perfect for earth. i know her well also, and all her saintliness. such love and faith are rare: a consistency worth all the sermons that ever were preached. how different was my fevered love from theirs; my rash, unreflecting impulse in that algerian paradise. and yet, heaven be praised, nothing but good came of it. all is ordained; all is for the best if only our heart's desire is to do well. all comes right in the end. i have never known it otherwise. if ever i feel in the slightest degree discouraged, if ever my faith in human nature is unduly tried, i immediately think of these two saintly people, and courage revives." once more he paused, and seemed lost in thought. whether it was given to anselmo and rosalie, or whether to retrospection, we could not tell. the clock ticked its faint warning of the passing of time. all else was profound silence. but he soon roused himself to the present, and again turned to us with an expression in which humour was mixed with kindliness. "and now," said delormais, with that peculiar smile that had puzzled us at the beginning of our interview, "i am going to surprise you. life is full of the strangest coincidences and combinations, which would be laughed to scorn in fiction. it is the unexpected which happens. you remarked some time ago that my palace would be known as a shining light, if i ever were made a bishop. i shall never be made a bishop," he laughed, "and for this reason." here he quietly took an official-looking document out of a capacious side pocket, and placed it in our hands. it was an intimation of his elevation to the see of x.---- a place we knew by heart, and loved. "can this be true?" we asked in perplexity. "it is indeed," laughed delormais. "so you see i cannot be made a bishop, for i am one already; though not duly enthroned. you will have to be present at that ceremony. i am not surprised. i knew it was coming, though i could not tell the exact day and hour. it reached me only this evening. and you are the first to whom i have told it." "then," we replied, rising and making him a profound bow, "let us be the first to greet you by your title, _monseigneur_. the first to wish you all honour and success in that high office heaven has destined you to fill." "nay," he returned; "monseigneur to others it may be; but to you it shall be ever _mon ami_. for with your permission i intend our acquaintance to ripen into friendship. you shall come and visit the old bishop in his palace. we will make it a shining light together. the oftener you come, the longer you stay, the more welcome you will be. you know that x. is surrounded by antiquities, endless monuments of interest. amidst these attractions you will feel at home. your visits will not be a mere sacrifice to friendship." "you are sketching a delightful picture. will it ever be realised?" "that only depends upon yourself," laughed delormais. "the bishop has not to be made, nor the palace to be built; the guest-chamber awaits you with the blue skies and balmy airs of spring. of all appointments it is the one i would have chosen. a life of activity, of responsibility and usefulness; a wide sphere of action; opportunities for doing much good in public, still more in private. the latter brings the greater blessing." "you are a wonderful man," we could not help exclaiming. "your life ought to be written. we should love to make it known to the world." "you shall become my biographer," laughed delormais, "if you will undertake it in french. do what you will with what i have told you to-night. only keep to yourself all my ecclesiastical history. that is sacred and private, at any rate as long as i am living. for the rest, change names and dates only sufficiently to prevent recognition. not that it would matter. my life is my own, as i have said. and not that i have anything to conceal. my faults, follies and indiscretions have been those of impulse; of the head, not of the heart, i would fain believe. i cannot remember the time when i did not at least wish to do well. of evil men and deliberate sin i have ever had a wholesome horror. but all and everything by god's grace, not of my own strength." at that moment we were startled by a cry in the street: the well-known call of el sereno. "another watchman," cried delormais. "what is the hour?" we had not thought of time. a few months earlier and the sun would long have been up. want of space prevents our giving more than a mere outline of delormais' life. he filled in an infinite number of details impossible to be recorded here. they would swell to a volume, but a volume of singular interest. he spoke rapidly and with few pauses. our watches marked the hour of five. it was that period of the night when darkness is greatest before dawn. the watchman's voice cried the hour and the starry night for the last time. "for your own sake i must break up the assembly," laughed delormais. "two hours' sleep will refresh us both. presently we shall meet again. see! our candles wax dim and blue--or is it fancy? this is a ghostly house, you know. my great-grandmother was spanish, and for all i can tell some of its ancestors and mine may have met here in times long past and played out their comedies and tragedies together. as we are playing ours." we parted. sleep came to us, but scarcely unconsciousness. in our dreams we lived over again all the scenes delormais had so graphically described, but more highly-coloured, full of impossible adventures. we wandered through endless groves of paradise peopled with myriads of arouyas. our only difficulty was to choose the fairest. life was one long poem; time had passed into eternity. from such celestial regions we were awakened at eight o'clock by the entrance of our host with morning coffee and steaming rolls, accompanied by josé bearing hot water. the latter had constituted himself our _criado_ or _valet de chambre_. "señor," he said, "it is a cloudless morning. our astronomer has proved a false prophet. my heart bleeds for him. i fear his glory has departed. heaven send he does not commit suicide. is it you, señor, who have influenced the stars against him?" "monsieur," said our host, putting down the tray, "your friend the poet rose with the lark--figuratively speaking, for who knows what time the lark rises in november? taking his coffee, he went out with his umbrella shouldered à la militaire. for a poet, monsieur, your friend can put on a very defiant air, as if, like don quixote, he had a mind to fight with windmills. he told me he was inflated with inspiration. he was going to contemplate the pyrenees from the citadel, and to write a sonnet to the eyebrows of a young lady he saw last night at the opera. i confess i should have thought the eyes a finer theme. joseph tells me it was the señorita costello. she is considered the great beauty of gerona; and even in madrid, i am told, created a profound sensation. no wonder the susceptible monsieur's heart beat fast when he beheld her. now, señor, we leave you to enjoy your coffee and perform your toilet. his reverence, père delormais, sends you his greeting and hopes you have slept. i have just taken his coffee also. contrary to his usual custom, though wide awake he was still reposing. ah! what a great character we have there!" upon which the attentive deputation retired and we were left in peace. it was indeed glorious to see the blue unclouded sky, to find the cold winds departed, summer reigning once more. how changed the aspect of gerona. how all the wonderful colouring came out, the effects of light and shadow, under the sunshine. h. c. arrived just as we left the hotel, and together we went to the bridge where we had stood not many hours ago under the stars. it almost seemed as though we had gone through years of experience since then. this morning everything was bright and animated. the river now flashed and sparkled and reflected brilliant, broken outlines. the old houses looked older than ever in this youthful atmosphere, but seemed warmed into life. they now appeared quite habitable, almost cheerful. the towers standing above and beyond them were pencilled against the blue sky. the very air seemed full of sun-flashes. in the boulevard the trees in the sunshine made wonderful play of light and shade upon the white houses. the arcades lost their gloom. every one seemed to rejoice and expand. no people are so responsive to atmosphere as the spanish. warmth and sunshine are more necessary to them than food and sleep. they are hot-house plants. towards ten o'clock we made our way up the street of steps to the barracks. the scene was much the same as yesterday; conscription was not yet over. we were evidently expected, and a sentry at once conducted us to the colonel's office. "i knew you would come," he cried, with quite an english handshake. "your interests are not of the butterfly nature, passing with the moment. and see; here is our disconsolate widow. now you have come, we will talk to her." we easily recognised the forlorn mother of yesterday's little drama. she was quietly seated in a chair, her mantilla drawn closely about her, a pathetic image of grief. "oh, señor colonel, it is useless," she said. "hope is dead and my heart broken. heaven has seen fitting to afflict me at all points. i have lost my husband, my position; i am poor and in misery; my eldest son turns out a disgrace; my remaining consolation is torn from me by the cruel conscription. nothing is left for me but to die." "this is quite wrong," returned the colonel, pretending a severity he did not feel. "heaven is merciful. brighter days will dawn for you if you are patient. you will see that conscription is a blessing, not a curse. it will make a man of your boy. discipline is good for all. it is just what he needed. he will return to you strong and vigorous; able and willing to make a home for you. i promise to make him my special charge. he shall be always about me. i will give him all the favour possible, and will keep a constant eye upon him. heaven permitting, he shall return to you, not spoilt or lowered, but mentally and physically improved. in the meantime--i have been making enquiries--i have found you a position where you can honourably earn your living; where you will be comfortable and respected; and if you will only look at the best side of things, happy also. what do you say to it?" here he described the nature of the proposed occupation. the poor lady burst into tears. "heaven reproves me for my ingratitude by showering mercies upon me," she cried. "hope once more kindles within me. this is the one thing for which i am fitted. ah, colonel! it is you who have brought back life and hope to my despairing heart." "nay," he returned, "i am merely the humble instrument, as we all are, carrying out the purposes of heaven. but i exact one thing of you. cease to be sad: let hope and energy return; carry out your daily tasks heartily; and make up your mind that life still has much in store for you." the change was already apparent. a drooping, grief-stricken woman had entered the office; one with hope and energy and patient waiting revived left it. [illustration: san filiu, from without the walls: gerona.] "life is full of such sorrows," said the colonel. "unfortunately we cannot reach a millionth part of them. in this case help has been made strangely easy. it is so seldom that the wish to aid and the power go together. let us now take a turn in your favourite cloisters." reposing under the blue skies, in the strong light and shade thrown by the sunshine, they were even more beautiful and effective than yesterday. in presence of their colonel, the men kept at a respectful distance. they were all occupied in the same way; drawing water from the well, mending clothes, running to and fro; some diligently doing nothing. all seemed happy and contented. "and they are so," said the colonel. "to a large number the change is infinitely better in every way. they all find their own level. those of the better class discover each other, soon fraternise, and form themselves into cliques. youth is the age of friendship and enthusiasm. even these have their popes and go in for hero-worship. life has its charms for them. yes," looking around, "no doubt these cloisters have a beauty of their own. they influence me more to-day than ever before. i think you would convert me in time," he laughed; "widen my interests and enlarge my sympathies. you see, to me they are mere military barracks. the men come first, and you will admit that they are not romantic. plant these cloisters in the midst of a desert, and no doubt i should be duly impressed with their refined atmosphere." we left them and stood at the head of the long flight of steps, admiring the picturesque scene. to-day everything was radiant with light and sunshine. the very crowd outside the conscription-house looked more hopeful. even misfortune was less depressing under such blue skies. the wonderful houses to our right, in their deep lights and shadows, looked more rare and more artistic than ever. the ancient red roofs of the town sloping downwards were deep and glowing. many a gable stood out vividly, many a dormer window and lattice pane seemed on fire as it reflected in crimson flashes the rays of the ascending sun. we reluctantly said good-bye to our colonel. these passing episodes, possessing all the charm of the unexpected, are one of the delights of travel. but they leave behind them a regret, for too often there can be no renewal of the intimacy. yet we realise that the world holds many pleasant people, and that life is too short for all its possibilities. "if you ever visit gerona again," he said, with a final hand-shake, "you will come and see me. if i am no longer quartered here, find out where i am, send me a telegram, and follow quickly. may we meet again!" then we took our winding way up to the cathedral. the fine square was in full sunshine. deep lights and shadows lay upon cathedral and palace. the house in which alvarez once lived looked as though human tragedy had never touched it. a golden glow lay on the grey stone, restoring its lost youth. the ancient windows with their wonderful ironwork, seemed kindled into life, ready to reveal a thousand secrets of the dead-and-gone centuries. there was no gloom and mystery to-day. the long, magnificent flight of steps were in full sunshine also. sunshine lay upon the town with its clustering roofs; flashed here and there upon the surface of the winding river; gilded the snow-tops of the far-off pyrenees. the skies were blue and laughing; all nature was radiant. we passed through the west doorway into the cathedral. even here there was a change. the dim religious light might still be felt; nothing could take that away. a sense of vastness and grandeur still lay upon the splendid nave; a feeling of mystery still haunted pillars and aisles and arches, and the deep recesses of the east end. but to-day shafts of wonderful light flowed in, redeeming all from the faintest suspicion of gloom. rainbow-coloured beams from the upper windows fell athwart the nave in rich prismatic streams. beautiful as the interior had been yesterday, it was yet more so this morning. these shafts of light piercing the semi-darkness created a marvellous effect of contrast, adding infinitely to the charm of the lovely building. there was no mistaking the tall slender figure that approached us with its quiet grace. it was anselmo, his face lighted up with its rare smile. "we meet again," he said, in tones subdued to the sacred spot on which we stood. "and yesterday i know that you met and conversed with rosalie. as we went together this morning to the bedside of a dear maiden whose days are numbered, she told me of your encounter. i am glad. now you know us both and will keep us together in your memory. you must have seen that she is more angel than woman walking the earth. i often wonder how all her deep affection, purified and exalted, can be given to one so unworthy. you smile! you think ours a strange history, we a singular pair. i suppose it is so. ours must be almost a unique experience; and i believe that to few in this world is given the peace and happiness we enjoy." talking, we passed on to the cloisters, lovelier than ever in their brilliant light and shade. once more we went through the north doorway and gazed down upon san pedro, the desecrated church, the ancient town walls, and ruined citadel crowning the slopes. sunshine everywhere; hope upon all; the gloomy skies of yesterday forgotten; earth seemed many degrees nearer heaven. we climbed down into the narrow streets and found miguel at his door waiting to give us a morning salutation. "the photograph, señor. is it a success?" we told him that still lay in the uncertain future. again we found ourselves seated upon the ruined citadel. it was difficult to realise all the horrors of that long past invasion under the influence of these glorious skies, the gladness of this laughing sunshine. the air was scented with wild thyme. the outlines of the towers stood out wonderfully; the blue of heaven shone through the open work of san filiu's lovely steeple. all the sunshine glinted upon the leaves of the trees in the hollow and traced patterns in the hanging gardens. "how beautiful it all is," said anselmo. "on such days how thin the veil separating the seen from the unseen. our vision seems only just withholden. what an awakening it will be to the higher life!" with him, also, we had to part; a yet more reluctant farewell than that lately gone through at the barracks. but we hoped to meet again. this must not be our only visit to gerona; and here anselmo wished to live and die. he had no ambition for a higher destiny, though even this, it has lately been whispered to us, may one day come to him without change of scene. we parted as friends part, not mere acquaintances of a day. there is, we have said, a magnetic power that bridges over time and conventionality. as in dreams we sometimes live a lifetime in a moment, so in friendship an hour may do the work of years. again the clock struck twelve; anselmo's signal. history repeats itself. to-day he went alone, leaving us standing amidst the ruins. we watched him as he climbed the rugged heights of the cathedral, a tall, dark, graceful figure upon the landscape. at the north doorway he turned, gazed steadily at us for a few moments, raised his hands as though in benediction, and the next moment was lost to sight. a glory appeared to depart; the spot seemed emptier without him; there was less brightness in the sunshine. we hastened to change the scene, and in the lively streets of the fair, to disperse the sad current of our thoughts. for our hours in gerona the beautiful were numbered. chapter xii. a ministering spirit. sweet illusions--everything seen and done--true devotion--in the vortex--sunshine and blue skies--less demon-like pit--lights and shadows--arcades lose their gloom--rosalie--charm of anselmo--romance not dead--h. c. in ecstasy--escorting an angel--cathedral steps--san filiu--a lovely spot--ancient house--mullions and latticed windows--passing away--rosalie's ministrations--resignation--rosalie's farewell--"consuelo"--taken from the evil to come--the door closed--ernesto's world topsy-turvy--ernesto turns business-like--the catapult again--up the broad staircase--not the ghostly hour--madame in her bureau--posting ledger--balance on right side--madame philosophises--shrieks to the rescue--"my dear daughter"--our host and the nightingales--waiting for next year's leaves--the señorita costello--delormais on the wing--another vigil--promise given--departure--inspector quails--h. c. collapses--the susceptible age--lady maria alters her will--possession nine-tenths of the law. it was not an unmixed sorrow. at sunrise the next morning preparations for the cattle fair must commence. by mid-day bipeds and quadrupeds would rule the town, our beautiful palace find itself desecrated. in its present half-deserted condition an air of refinement and antiquity hung over it. one felt, almost saw and heard, the great crowd of cavaliers and dames, besacked and besworded, that had passed up and down the broad marble staircase in the picturesque and romantic middle ages. all the ghosts and ghostly sighs and shadows lurking in secret corners, halls and corridors, would vanish before the vulgar herd. under this influence gerona the beautiful would become intolerable; better leave with impressions and sweet illusions undisturbed. and little remained. everything had been seen, everything done. we had said farewell to anselmo, then plunged into the vortex of the fair, where noise, crowd and confusion fought with each other. sunshine and blue skies were having their usual effect upon the spanish people. every one was in high spirits, inclined to patronise booths, monkeys, and fortune-tellers. [illustration: a gerona patio.] every hour spent in the ancient town strengthened our devotion. this old-world atmosphere, these marvellous outlines lost nothing by familiarity. standing once more on the bridge we confessed how difficult it would be to look upon such a scene again. to-day, under the sunshine the chestnut-roasters appeared less demon-like, the bed of the river less a bottomless pit. a little of the weird element had departed. the sense of mystery so strongly felt last night could not live in this brilliant atmosphere. by way of compensation the deep lights and shadows appealed to the imagination quite as strongly as any sense of mystery. they filled the air with life and motion. the trees rustled and gleamed and glinted and drew moving pictures upon the white houses. arcades lost their gloom, but not their charm, and these apart from all else raise gerona far above the rank of any ordinary town. as we left the fair and turned into the quieter streets, it seemed almost a natural consequence that from one of the deep round arches there glided the quiet, graceful form of rosalie. she had foretold that we should meet again. "but for the last time, rosalie," as she greeted us with her rare sweet smile. "we leave this evening. time presses, and we would avoid to-morrow's ceremony." "they are terrible days," returned rosalie. "no wonder you escape them. until they are over we keep as far as possible out of sight. you have seen anselmo to-day, señor?" "yes, and wished him farewell. it was a sad moment. he alone has repaid us for our visit to gerona. we should like to spend many days here and know him more intimately." "days of profit, if i may venture to say so, señor. the more you saw anselmo, the more you would love him. it is every one's experience. apart from his saintliness, you cannot tell on a slight acquaintance how much there is in him. his is not the goodness of a weak but of a strong nature; intellectually strong; but so refined and unambitious that to an ordinary observer it may seem passive. he is of a different order from père delormais, who is full of action and energy, and does so much and does all well. but delormais was born to great things; they are his of inheritance. anselmo had not these privileges." "the greater merit, rosalie; but we think you count for very much in his life. he has kept you before him, and your image has inspired him to deeper holiness." "ah, no, señor. rather is it the other way. he has been my guide and king, as i told you yesterday. anselmo is above all earthly mortals, all human aid. but you will meet him again and know him better. this your first visit to gerona will not be your last. few people come here, but those who do always return. i think of it as a place apart, possessing ideal beauties, a separate atmosphere. and for me," she smiled, "everything seems imbued with the charm of anselmo. the bells ring out his name; i hear it in the song of the birds, the whispering of the trees. romance is not dead within me because i am sister anastasia." here h. c. struck in, unable to contain himself any longer. "if i were here very long," he cried excitedly, "i should fall madly in love with you myself, and write reams of poetry to your lovely eyes. i have never seen such eyes. they have all the light of heaven in them, and--and--all the beauty of earth." rosalie laughed. "you are very outspoken, señor. i could have told you were a poet from your look. but you must exercise your genius on a worthier theme. on me it would be wasted; my life, all i have, all i am, is dedicated to heaven. time is passing. will you not go with me on my way that i may show you one of the loveliest spots in gerona?" so rosalie walked through the quiet old-world streets with an escort on either side. we felt we were attending an angel. h. c. did not attempt to conceal his rapture. it is a weakness of which he seems unconscious. rosalie pointed out many a house in which she had ministered; here soothing the pillow of the dying, there rescuing one from the grasp of death. under her guidance the streets seemed more beautiful than ever; a holier atmosphere surrounded them. at length we reached the wonderful steps leading to the cathedral. they were flooded with sunlight and gave dignity to the ugly west front, so unworthy of the splendid interior. passing under the fine old gateway and turning to the left, we found ourselves close to the old church of san filiu. in days gone by, when the moors captured gerona and changed its cathedral into a mosque, the christians had worshipped here. whatever its interior at that time, it is now dark, gloomy and depressing. rosalie entered a quiet street beyond, a short narrow turning of only a few yards, then halted. it was, as she had said, one of the loveliest spots in gerona; so hidden that few would find it by chance. a small house of great antiquity but perfectly preserved. an exquisite gothic archway over which the house was built led into a small quadrangle. beside this archway was a mullioned window with latticed panes. we imagined the quaint old room within and longed to enter. above this was another latticed window with gothic mullions and ornaments. it was open, and sweet-scented flowers threw their perfume upon the air. this was crowned by a sloping roof with red tiles bearing all the tone and beauty of age. at least three centuries must have rolled over them unmolested. even h. c. forgot the charms of rosalie and became enthusiastic in favour of still life. "it is my destination," said rosalie. "i was hastening here yesterday when you saw me crossing the square of san pedro. where those lovely flowers are scenting the air, a lovelier earthly flower is passing away. consumption is doing its work. the only child of a mother who will soon have no tie left on earth. so heaven sometimes sees well to draw our souls upwards. there are those who need this discipline. trouble, like everything else, enters into the wise economy of god's purposes. i doubt if a single unnecessary care or pain is dealt out to us. but here the hand of affliction is charged with a heavy burden. the invalid is a fair maiden of seventeen, pure and beautiful. her resignation is a gift from heaven, a lesson to us all. but for that i don't know what would become of the mother." as she spoke a face appeared at the window above the flowers; the sweet gentle face of a middle-aged woman, pale and pathetic, to which the mantilla added grace and charm. there was a look of patient sorrow in the dark eyes, lightened by a momentary gleam as they caught sight of rosalie. "sister anastasia," said the subdued woman, "the sun is not more true to its course than you to your hour. my child hungers for you. next to her mother you are her only consolation." "i come, i come," replied sister anastasia. "tell rosita that in my bag i bring her refreshment for the mind and food for the soul. ah, señor, this is indeed farewell, since you tell me your moments in gerona are numbered. the sun shines, the skies are blue, let these be an omen of your life until we meet again. for by the love you bear anselmo--you must love him; we all love him--you must return. he will be here and so shall i. we shall probably see no change until heaven calls us to the great change of all. this fair child above will have passed away, and the mother's heart will be desolate. but heaven that brings the sorrow will heal the wound. adieu señor. adieu." [illustration: old houses on the river: gerona.] she glided through the archway and on the other side gained admittance to the house. the door opened to receive her, a quiet voice was heard in greeting. "you are an angel of light," it said. "your new name should have been consuelo. but, oh, anastasia, my child is worse. i fear me a few days will see the ending, and i shall be lonely and desolate upon earth. why did heaven take the child and spare the mother?" "god knows best," returned anastasia. "let his will be done. be sure he who deals the blow will not forsake you. your child is spared the sorrows of earth. you will think of her as in safe keeping; taken from the evil to come." we heard no more. the door was closed. let us leave rosalie in her true element, a ministering spirit shedding abroad more happiness and consolation, more holy influence, than she at all realised; doing all with that unconscious modesty which was one of her greatest gifts. the picture of that last interview remains vividly in our memory. a little mediæval old house that has scarce its equal in gerona; the flowers behind the latticed panes and the sad, subdued face appearing above them; rosalie's eyes looking up in all their loveliness with an expression of almost divine sympathy. we went our way, richer for having known her. it was our last look upon these cathedral precincts. the afternoon shadows were lengthening as we went back through the quiet streets to the hotel. all the brilliant glory of the day had departed. these repeated farewells were depressing, yet not quite over, for as we approached the fonda who should be standing at their own door but ernesto and his mother. we had not met them since the previous day when they had disappeared within the lion's den, and we had gone round to the reeds and the river. "ernesto! how is this? why are you not at school?" "school, señor!" opening very wide eyes. "fair week is holiday. we should have a revolution if they attempted school upon us. for this one week in the year we change places with our fathers and mothers, pastors and teachers. they obey and we command." "we congratulate you on this topsy-turvy state of things. but as you are strong be merciful. remember that black monday comes. cinderella went back to her rags at midnight; you must go back to school and good work. and the monkeys? you are still at large; we feared the opposite, as you had not brought us your report." "oh! i brought it, señor; but it was rather late, and señor lasoli said you were at the opera. you should have seen the monkeys!" and here he went off into convulsions at the recollection of the performance. "they couldn't understand what was inside the lozenges to bite their tongues so! first they would take a nibble, then rub the lozenge on the arm; then another nibble; then a whole torrent of monkey-swearing and lozenge-rubbing because it kept on biting and burning. i quite thought i should die with laughing." from the way he laughed now, it seemed doubtful whether all danger was over. "but that is not the worst, señor," said the mother, at length making herself heard. "will you believe that the boy has a wretched catapult in his pocket, and there will be any number of broken windows and assassinated cats in the town. i don't know what will become of us. if there is one thing i dread more than another, it is a catapult. they are the implements of the devil." "there is absolutely no fear," laughed ernesto. "i never broke a window in my life--at least, hardly ever. as for cats, they are quite outside the law of murder. a dead cat is as rare as a dead donkey. are you really going to-day, señor? then i shall have no more pleasure in the fair, though this year it is better than usual. the lions roared like thunder, and the monkeys accepted all the lozenges. they were punished for their greediness. but will you come back to spend a whole month at gerona? and if you allowed me, i would take you to some of the excursions in the neighbourhood. there are any number within twenty miles; ruined churches and deserted monasteries. i don't care much about them myself, but i know many who do. it seems to me that a good show and a handful of chestnuts are worth all the wretched old ruins in the world." in spite of this vandalism, we assured ernesto that when we spent a month in gerona he should have the honour of escorting us, provided it was not school-time. he wished to bind us to a given date, thereby showing a decided talent for business, but we refused to be committed to the inevitable. we left mother and son together, a picture of domestic happiness. as we disappeared under the archway of the hotel, ernesto held up his catapult in triumph, successfully parrying his mother's attempt to obtain possession of the forbidden weapon. she evidently looked upon it as only one degree below an infernal machine. once more up the broad marble staircase. but it was not the ghostly hour, and sighs and rustlings and shadows were in the land of the unseen. madame in her bureau looked the picture of massive contentment. at this moment she was posting a ledger, and the balance was evidently on the right side. [illustration: market place: gerona.] "as it need be, for they worked hard enough for their living," she assured us. "she couldn't tell how it was; no one would think from her size that she never relaxed in her exertions. do what she would, she could not get thin. as for her husband, she made him eat all the richest bits at dinner; never allowed him to fast; supplied him with eggs and butter and beer _ad libitum_. no; he was obstinate. he _would_ keep thin. the consequence was they were a ridiculous couple. she was the duomo at florence, he was the campanile. however, they made the best of it. life was too short to grieve over inevitable troubles. clearly she was an inevitable. when she was a girl, there were five ladies who might be seen walking out morning, noon, and night, and always together. go which way you would you were sure to meet them. they knew every one, and five perpetual bows were everlastingly see-sawing like a wound-up machine going through its performance. they were called the inevitables. no one ever thought of them by any other name. they were quite aware of it and rather liked it. it was something to be in constant evidence. what other five sisters would live together in such harmony? well, these five ladies were for ever running in her head. for a long time past she had felt like all five ladies rolled into one. she was one great inevitable. fate was a little cruel. her movements might be compared to those of the elephant. as for her husband, he could still run up and down stairs like a lamplighter--almost pass through a keyhole--but it took her five minutes to get up a dozen steps. soon it would take her ten. and then she wanted pulling up in front and pushing up behind. it was quite a ceremony. she had serious thoughts of having a crane and pulley adjusted to her windows, and of being hoisted up and down, but the question was whether a hempen rope would bear her weight, or anything under a cast-iron chain. was it true that queen victoria was carried wherever she went, because she suffered from rheumatism? ah! it was a great thing to be a queen. no ledgers to post up; no anxiety as to whether the balance would be on the right side at the end of every month. what a blessing to have a good, solid, comfortable margin at one's bankers to draw upon for contingencies, which was only another word for the unexpected. this year it was painting inside, next year painting outside. if there was no painting, it was chairs, tables or linen. the extras went on for ever and swallowed up all the profits." we thought the old lady, like the extras, would also have gone on for ever, but to our infinite relief a piercing shriek was heard from an upper region. madame turned pale and mildly echoed the scream. "my dear daughter!" she cried. "something has frightened her, or she is suddenly taken worse. she is always being taken worse, though worse from what i cannot possibly imagine. sometimes i think it is fancy or hysteria. she is really perfectly well all the time." at this moment the mysterious daughter appeared upon the scene, running downstairs at a speed that testified to the soundness of her limbs, whatever her state of nerves. "a dreadful mouse," she moaned, throwing herself into her mother's capacious protection. "it ran right over my feet, across the room, and went into my little cupboard." "perhaps you have some cake there?" said this sensible mamma. "a mere fragment," acknowledged the daughter. "poor little mouse," said the mother soothingly. "it is hungry, perhaps, and fond of cake. my dear, it will eat cake; it will not eat you." we caught sight of our industrious host in his garden surveying his possessions, and escaped. the cook stood in his doorway in white cap and apron, a satisfactory object in all hotels. over the slanting tiled roof grew the fruitful vine, a picture of beauty. our host, surrounded by his birds and pigeons, was vainly imploring the nightingales to sing. they only looked at him with their little black eyes, opened their beaks, shook their heads, and said as plainly as possible that the song had left them. it would return with next year's leaves and garlands, more glorious for the rest. "i should have liked you to hear them," said their proud owner in quite a melancholy voice. "you would have thought yourselves in italy, as i often do." "or on the rhine, or the blue moselle, or the dauphiné alps, señor lasoli, where the nightingales assemble in myriads, and sing and rave night and day through the weeks of spring. we have heard them." "they are more beautiful near water," said our host. "the song gains volume and vibration by being carried across. but i have chiefly heard them in our woods on the mediterranean shores. france to me is a sealed book. so, señor, you leave us, and i cannot even wish you to remain. to-morrow you would not be in your element. gerona will be out of joint until we settle down again to our normal condition. i trust you will one day return, and that your friend will write an epic poem in honour of our town. it would certainly be translated and might be dedicated to the señorita costello. he would be fêted on his arrival; fireworks, illuminations, and municipal addresses. the hubbub of conscription would be nothing to it. at five o'clock, señor, the omnibus will be at your service." as we went through the haunted corridors to our rooms, delormais came up the marble staircase, apparently somewhat hurried. "we are both on the wing," he cried, "and so i the less regret your going. i thought to have stayed until to-morrow, but sudden news compels me to leave to-night. summoned to rome, i must obey. i know that i have a battle before me, and also know that i shall win. conquering as a humble vicar of rheims, i shall not do less as bishop of x. you will see me dismissed with a cardinal's hat, an honour i would not cross the road to obtain, so little do i care for the pomps of the world. with such models before me as my father and mother and the good old abbé, one feels that the only thing worth living for is to do good and cultivate the graces of the spirit." we were in his room, scene of last night's vigil, where he had sketched an outline of his life and the hours had passed unconsciously. "another night of vigil, but without companionship," said delormais. "on the contrary, time will only place distance between us. you go southward, i northward into france, reaching my destination about two o'clock to-morrow afternoon. would that i might accompany you to barcelona and gaze with you upon the wonders of that loveliest of cathedrals. again i say that the catalonian cathedrals are the glories of spain. but my own has its charms, and those at least we shall often see together. i have your promise?" we gave it unconditionally, in this instance not fearing to commit ourselves to a given date. delormais was a man whose friendship was a privilege and whose sympathy and conversation made all days a delight. we parted, hoping to meet again. not long after this the omnibus rattled out of the courtyard, and our host intimated that time was up. the sun had set, darkness had fallen when we clattered through the quiet streets. passing the deep, round arcades we looked out for rosalie, but no light, graceful figure speeding on its errand of mercy appeared. the arcades were again mysterious and impenetrable. we turned on to the bridge and for the last time looked upon the scene as the omnibus rattled on. all down the boulevard booths were on active service. torches flared and still the crowd sauntered to and fro. the river flowed on its way, and all the outlines of those wonderful old-world houses were faintly visible. we knew them by heart now, and they were almost as real to us by night as by day. the station once more. only forty-eight hours had passed since we had struggled across that crowded platform, but we had gone through so many experiences, heard and seen so much, that many days seem to have flown. when we thought of delormais it was impossible to realise we had not known him for years, visited his early home, joined in his travels. the father and mother, still the objects of his undying affection, the old abbé in whom he delighted, had become personal friends by his vivid descriptions. reflections were suddenly put to flight as the omnibus brought up with a jerk that almost landed h. c. once more on his knees. the station crowd was small compared with that previous crowd. again we had a slight adventure with our luggage, and began to fear in earnest that we and it should never reach barcelona together. they refused to register or have anything to do with it; luggage was never booked to gerona by the express. one other miserably slow train left in the early morning, and the officials calmly intimated that we might wait for it. but a worm will turn, and we felt the law must be taken into our own hands. we bade the omnibus conductor leave at his peril, made him carry our baggage through the buffet to the platform, and when the train arrived, the whole, great and small, was put into a carriage. then we followed and mounted guard. the inspector came up and demanded an explanation, upon which h. c. put on his napoleon air and shouldered his umbrella. he looked so much in earnest that the inspector quailed, bowed, withdrew, and gave a hasty signal for departure. away we steamed, masters of the situation. then h. c.'s military aspect collapsed. he turned paler than usual. "what is it?" we asked; for his susceptible heart is subject to spasmodic attacks. the doctors declare they are functional and not organic, and will pass away with the emotional age. lady maria was once terribly frightened and sent post-haste for sir william broadbent--though he was not sir william at that time. the report was encouraging, but lady maria had received a shock. "i am sure my dear nephew will never be fit for hard work in this world," she said; "he must be made independent of it." and forthwith she sent for her man of business, and altered the paltry £ a year she had left him into four th----. well, well; lady maria is still living, and nothing on earth, they say, is certain excepting death and quarter-day. "what is it, h. c.?" we asked. "will you take a little of the century-old----" "no, no," he cried despondently. "i am only thinking that that inspector will be one too many for us. he looked revengeful. at barcelona we shall find ourselves under arrest. instead of a comfortable night at the four nations, we shall occupy a dark cell in the town prison." a gloomy prospect indeed--too terrible for reality. "calm yourself," we replied. "you played your part too well just now. the inspector was really alarmed and glad to get rid of you at any price. if he pursued us with vengeance, we might turn up against him, like the eastern slippers. depend upon it we have seen the last of him." we looked round comfortably upon our possessions. with nine points of the law on our side all must be well. chapter xiii. a world's wonder. barcelona--h. c.'s anxiety--mutual salutes--old impressions--disappointment--familiar cries and scenes--flower-sellers--perpetual summer--commercial element--manchester of spain--surrounding country--where care comes not--barcelonita--the quays--a land of corn and wine--relaxing air--lovely ladies--ancient element conspicuous by its absence--historical past--great in the middle ages--wise and powerful--commerce of the world--wealth and learning--waxes voluptuous--ferdinand and isabella--diplomatic but not grateful--brave and courageous--fell before peterborough--napoleon's treachery--republican people--prosperous once more--ecclesiastical treasures--matchless cathedral--inspiration--influence of the moors--work of majorcan architect--dream world--imposing scene. we made way without further let or hindrance, and about ten o'clock the train steamed into barcelona. h. c. gazed out anxiously for a regiment of soldiers with drawn swords, and was relieved at seeing only the usual couple of policemen with guns and cocked hats, looking harmless and amiable. he smiled benignly, saluted, and they returned the compliment. our hearts beat quicker as we found ourselves in presence of familiar haunts. the very name conjured up a thousand scenes and pictures, every one of them a delightful recollection. from its fair port we had more than once sailed in days gone by for our beloved majorca, loveliest of islands. here we had spent days of pleasant expectation, waiting for the island steamer; more than once had returned with a cargo of majorcan pigs, and after a tug-of-war seen some of the obstinate animals landed at last without their tails. arriving from the sea was a far pleasanter way of gaining a first impression. the coast views are very fine. approaching the harbour, church turrets and towers are outlined against the transparent sky. passing between low reaches, the immense fortress of montjuich, nearly a thousand feet high, rises like an impregnable rock defying the world. approaching to-night by train was less exciting and romantic. still it was barcelona, and the porters calling out the syllables in their soft spanish set our heart beating. it was a certain disappointment to find our favourite four nations--at that time one of the best hotels in spain--closed. we had to put up with the falcon, not by any means the same thing. it is pleasant to return to familiar quarters and people who welcome you as old habitués. the atmosphere of the falcon was also more commercial and had no repose about it. yet it was on the rambla, and the next morning we awoke to the well-known cries of barcelona, the old familiar scene. a very spanish scene, with its broad imposing thoroughfare and double row of well-grown trees rustling in the wind, glinting in the sunshine, filling the air with music and flashes of light. as the morning went on, the broad road became more crowded. stretching far down, under the trees, were flower-stalls full of lovely blossoms. roses, violets and hyacinths scented the air. it was delightful to see such profusion in november; to find blue skies and balmy airs rivalling the flowers. this land of perpetual summer is highly favoured. if a cold wind arises, turning the skies to winter, it is only for a short interval. though it be december, summer soon returns, and the sunny clime is all the lovelier by contrast. like the hôtel falcon, the element of barcelona is, we have said, commercial. it is perhaps the most flourishing and enterprising of all the towns of spain. there are immense ship-building yards, and all sorts of ironwork is made, but the town itself has no sign or sound of manufacturing. it has been called the manchester of spain, yet its skies are for ever blue, the air is clear and untainted: a peculiar brilliancy and splendour of atmosphere not often met with even in the sunny south. the country for many miles around is beautiful and undulating; beyond the immediate hills it has often a wild and savage grandeur that sometimes reaches the sublime. year by year the town grows in extent. well-organised tramways carry you to and fro through endless thoroughfares. the richer merchants have built themselves streets of palatial residences that stretch away into suburbs. few cities are so brilliantly lighted. if spain is a poor country, barcelona seems to have escaped the evil. there is animation about it, perpetual movement, a quiet activity. for it is quiet with all its business and energy, and so far has the advantage over madrid, where the commercial element was less evident but the noise infinitely greater. there people seemed to like sound for its own sake. in barcelona they were intent upon making money, and as far as one can see, gained their object. everything prospered. it was delightful to go down to the fine harbour and watch the vessels loading and unloading, the flags of all nations vividly contrasting with the brilliant blue sky as they flashed and fluttered in the wind. the port is magnificent. its waters are blue as the heaven above them, and a myriad sun-gleams light up its surface. nothing can be more exhilarating and picturesque. the faintest outline of a ship possesses a nameless charm; suggests freedom, wide seas, infinite space: speaks of enterprise, danger, and courage, yet is an emblem of absolute repose; hours and days and weeks where the world cannot reach you, and its cares and worries are non-existent. nowhere is the element found under more favourable conditions than in barcelona. few harbours are so well placed. climb the heights for a bird's-eye view of the port, and the scene is enchanting. low-lying shores undulate towards the mouth of the harbour; green pastures, glittering sandhills, the blue flashing sea stretch beyond. if your vision could carry so far, you might gaze upon the lovely island of majorca, rising like a faultless gem out of its deep blue setting of the levant. nothing meets the eye but the broad line of the horizon, broken here and there by a passing vessel. [illustration: the rambla: barcelona.] on the other side the water, beyond the shipping, lies a small new settlement of houses called barcelonita. it is not aristocratic and is the laundry of the mother town, where dwell the ladies who undertake to rapidly bleach and destroy one's linen with unrighteous chemicals, and have earned for barcelona an unenviable reputation. ship-builders and fishermen alone dispute the right of way with these women of the wash-tub. turning back to the town, the broad thoroughfare running down a portion of the quays is lined with magnificent palms, giving it an almost oriental aspect. at one end rises a monument to columbus; at the other an enormous triumphal arch, combining the oriental with the classical; the former quite the pleasanter. everything bears witness to the well-being of barcelona. its quays are lined with bales of goods. men keep tally with the monotonous sing-song one knows so well. boxes of oranges betray themselves by their exquisite perfume, and the whole year round brings a succession of fruits. in this lovely climate the earth is abundantly productive. it is a land of corn and wine; the warm days of winter more beautiful than those of summer. of barcelona this is especially true. its climate seemed more relaxing than that of any other spanish town. even valencia, so much farther south, appeared less enervating. long walks were out of the question. all one could do was to hire one of the open carriages and drive lazily about: a luxury obtained at a trifling cost. but vehicles and drivers hardly seemed to share in the general prosperity; both appeared equally shabby, worn-out and antediluvian. their horses looked no less forlorn. in the afternoons the rambla was crowded with people, strolling to and fro under the shadow of the trees. all the town seemed to close ledgers, lock up counting-houses, and turn to the very innocent pleasure of taking the air. ladies appeared with mantillas and fans; the younger women here as in madrid using a distinct language of fan and eye. large, softly flashing eyes, full of expression for the most part. h. c.'s susceptible heart had no chance of repose. his dreams were feverish and disturbed by night; his leisure moments by day devoted to love-sonnets. these lovely ladies in their first youth are certainly very captivating and poetical; and a slight touch of the voluptuous, _dolce far niente_ element is a distinct characteristic of their subtle grace and charm. in the afternoons, if the rambla gained a charm it also lost one. the flower-stalls disappeared with their picturesque and pretty flower-sellers. empty spaces remained, looking forlorn and neglected. great masses of blossom that delighted the eye and scented the early morning were no more. here the red and white camellias flourish in the open air, but are by no means given away, as they were almost given away in valencia. barcelona has its price for flowers as for everything else. all this, the reader will say, belongs to the modern element. the splendid outlines of gerona; the old-world houses, with their ancient ironwork and gothic windows; the anselmos, rosalies, delormais' of barcelona--where were they? conspicuous by their absence. with the exception of a few narrow tortuous streets, barcelona is essentially modern. even these picturesque thoroughfares are distinguished by discomfort, a shabby air, and little beauty of outline. in the rambla you might almost fancy yourself on a paris boulevard. barcelona has increased so rapidly that all the new part, including the rich suburb of gracia--its west-end--is twice as large as the old. all its great buildings are modern; and modern, though specially bright and engaging, is the scene of its port and harbour. yet with few vestiges of age, barcelona has an historical past. in both a religious and military sense, she has played her part in the annals of spain. more than one document in the archives of samancas holds records to her honour and glory. her days are said to go back to four centuries before rome, and tradition credits hercules with her foundation. two hundred years later, under the romans, it became a city, and about the year a.d. began to prosper. tarragona was the capital when the moors destroyed it, and barcelona, wise in its generation, yielded to the conquerors and succeeded as chief town. in the ninth century it was ruled by a christian chief of its own under the title of count of barcelona, merged later on into that of king of aragon. but it was in the middle ages that barcelona was great, and these middle ages have left their mark on her ecclesiastical history. powerful, she used her power well; rich, she spent wisely. [illustration: interior of coro, gerona cathedral.] at that time, she divided with italy the commerce of the east, practically the commerce of the world. she was the terror of the mediterranean. trade was her sheet-anchor. the castilians held trade in contempt, and suffered in consequence; barcelona, proud of her commerce, flourished. her name was great in europe. the city became famous for wealth and learning, a rendezvous of kings, the resort of fashion, voluptuous in its tastes. ferdinand and isabella especially loved it, though self-indulgence played little part in their lives. here in they received columbus after his famous voyage of discovery. yet this very connection with castile led to the decline of barcelona. in her policy she has never been consistent, otherwise than consistently selfish. now and then, to keep up her prestige, she has claimed the aid of a foreign power, only to throw it off when her turn was served. diplomacy, but not gratitude, has been her strong point--and sometimes she has overreached herself. nevertheless, as we have said, there are passages in her history of which she may be proud. she behaved bravely, but suffered, at the time marlborough was gaining his victories elsewhere, when she had to fight spain and france single-handed--for barcelona, it will be remembered, formed part of an independent kingdom. louis xiv. sent berwick with , men to the rescue of philip v., and an english fleet under wishart blockaded them. against this formidable array, barcelona acted with courage, but the foe was strong. she fell; was sacked, burnt, and lost her privileges. in the war of succession, in , her almost impregnable fort was taken by lord peterborough--one of the great captures of modern times. but she arose again and kept her prosperity until napoleon obtained possession of her by treachery in , when duhesme, entering with , men as a pretended ally, took the citadel. napoleon looked upon barcelona as the key of spain, and considered it practically impregnable. of the beauty of her site there can be only one opinion, but she is, and always has been, very republican. that her people are noisy, turbulent, riotous, they have clearly shown of late years. in any revolt she would be ready to take the lead. should the kingly power ever fall in spain, barcelona will be amongst the first to hoist the red flag. though no longer the terror of the mediterranean, she seems to have regained more than her former prosperity, and on a safer basis than of old. in one of the last vestiges of antiquity--the town walls--disappeared to make way for the modern element. but if the streets of barcelona are modern, and to some extent uninteresting, the same cannot be said of her churches. she is rich in ecclesiastical treasures. catalonia has a style of architecture as marked as it is pre-eminently her own. if her churches are less magnificent and extensive than those of other countries, in some points they are more beautiful. we have referred to one of these points--the extreme width of the interiors. this, however, is not a feature in barcelona, though in both height and breadth it is splendidly proportioned. in effect, tone and feeling, we place this cathedral before all others whether in spain or elsewhere. beauty and refinement, the repose of a dim religious light, softness and perfection of colouring, these merits cannot be surpassed. crowded with detail, it is so admirably designed that perfect harmony exists. every succeeding hour spent within its walls seems to bring to light some new and unexpected feature. day after day admiration increases, and wonder and surprise; and many visits are needed before its infinite beauties can be appreciated. from the moment of entering you are charmed beyond all words. here is a building no human mind could plan or human hands have raised. never other building suggested this. however great the admiration--from st. peter's at rome, largest in the world, to westminster abbey, one of the most exquisite--nothing seems beyond man's power to accomplish. barcelona alone strikes one as a dream-vision enchanted into shape and substance, possessing something of the supernatural, and is full of a sense of mystery. a faint light softens all outlines; half-concealed recesses meet the eye on every hand; mysterious depths lurk in the galleries over the side chapels. sight gradually penetrates the darkness only to discover some new and beautiful work. not very large, it is so perfectly proportioned that the effect is of infinitely greater space. not a detail would one alter or single outline modify. [illustration: pulpit and stalls, barcelona cathedral.] some of its coloured windows are amongst the loveliest and richest in the world. rainbow shafts fall across pillars and arches. we are in eden and this is its sacred fane. the whole building is an inspiration. it is cruciform, and stands on the site of an ancient pagan temple. this, in , gave place to the first christian church, very little of which now remains. converted into a mosque, it ceased to be christian during the reign of that wonderful people, the moors--wonderful throughout their long career, and falling at last, like rome, by a fatal luxury. the more one sees their traces and remains, the more their strength is confirmed. their influence upon spain was inestimable. in all they did a certain religious element is apparent, not an element of barbaric worship, but of cultivation and reverence. strange they should have hated the christians, failing to realise an influence that was gradually changing the face of the earth. in spain their history runs side by side with that of the christians, yet they were so divided that nothing done by the one was right in the sight of the other. so each kept its school jealously separate, to our endless gain. the very name of moorish architecture quickens the pulse, conjuring visions that appeal to all one's imagination and sense of beauty. intellectually they were more advanced. the rough and warlike christians had not the nervous development of the moors, who were learned in the arts and sciences; possessed the traditions of centuries; had ruled the fortunes of the world. christianity had to triumph in the end; but for long the moors were powerful and supreme. barcelona cathedral was commenced at the end of the thirteenth century, in the year , and carried on through a great part of the fourteenth. it seems to have been the work of jayme fabre, who was summoned over from palma de mallorca by the king of aragon and the reigning bishop, and designed and for many years superintended the work. to him is due the chief credit of this world's wonder, to mallorca the honour of producing him. nearly the whole merit lies in the interior, and the exterior is of little value. its poor and modern west front opens to a square, but the remainder is so surrounded by buildings and houses that it is difficult to see any part of it. the octagonal steeples are plain below the belfry; but the upper stages, pierced and beautiful, are finished off by pierced parapets. some of the windows are richly moulded. the small flying buttresses are not effective. the east end is the best part, with its gothic windows and fine tracery, though otherwise severely simple. here the upper part of the buttresses have been destroyed, and the walls ending without roof or parapet give it a half-ruinous appearance. the interior has an aisle and chapels around the apse, following the french rather than the spanish school. the details, however, are entirely catalonian. the arches are narrow, but extremely beautiful. the capitals of the fluted pillars are small, delicate, and refined, and the groining of the roof is carried up in exquisite lines. beyond the main arches is a small arcaded triforium, and above this a circular window to each bay. the dark stone is rich, solemn and magnificent in effect. owing to the clever placing of the windows and the prevalence of stained glass, a semi-obscurity for ever reigns: not so great as that of gerona, but so far dim and religious that only when the sun is full on the south windows can many of the details be seen. the coro, forming part of the plan of the building, is less aggressive than in many of the spanish cathedrals. the stalls are of great delicacy and refinement; the bishop's throne, which has been compared to that of winchester, is large and magnificent, taking its proper position at the east end of the choir. the pulpit at the north corner, and the staircase leading to it, are marvels of exquisite wood-carving and rare old ironwork. the canopies are delicately wrought, and the _misereres_ ornamented with fine foliage. upwards, the eye is arrested by the beauty of the surrounding fluted pillars, on which rest the main arches of the nave. these cut and intersect the pointed arches of the deep galleries beyond, placed above the side chapels, of which there are an immense number. turn which way you will, it is nothing but a long view of receding aisles, arches, and columns free or partly hidden by some lovely pillar; windows of the deepest, richest colours ever seen; mysterious recesses where daylight never penetrates; a subdued tone of infinite refinement; a solemn repose and sense of unbroken harmony. [illustration: twilight in barcelona cathedral] a little to the right the eye rests on the great organ, filling up one of the deep dark galleries. its immense swinging shutters are open, exposing silvery pipes. the organist is at his post, but only for recreation, for it is not the hour of service. soft, sweet music breathes and vibrates through the aisles, dies away in dim recesses, floats out of existence in the high vaulting of the roof; but the sense of repose is never disturbed. sitting in a quiet corner of the stalls, amidst all this beauty of tone and outline, one feels in paradise. but the charm of charms lies in the octagonal lantern at the west end, and here barcelona stands unrivalled. this crowning glory is of extreme richness yet delicacy of detail. looking upwards and catching all the infinite combinations of arches and angles--the bold piers resting on square outlines--the marvellous cuttings and intersectings--the purity yet simplicity of design--the dim religious light in which all is so mysteriously veiled--the few beams of light cunningly admitted at the extreme summit--observing this, one is lost in silent wonder. it seems almost as difficult to penetrate into the beauty and mystery of this lantern as into heaven itself. and we ask ourselves again and again if the world contains a more exquisite dream-building than this. well do we remember the first time we saw this lantern and its imposing accompaniment. a state council was being held in the church. immediately beneath it sat the clergy; bishop, dean, and canons in gorgeous vestments. one carried a cardinal's hat, whose thin inscrutable face reminded us a little of antonelli, that man of influence and mystery, whom none understood, and whose greatest schemes and ambitions were not destined to succeed. many were dressed in purple and fine linen; not a few looked as though they fared sumptuously. their actions were grave and solemn. something weighty and momentous as the election of a new pope or the founding of a new religion, might have been under discussion. in reality, it was the choice of a new canon. one or two possessed refined, intellectual faces, but the greater number were not born to be leaders of men. the gravity of the occasion, perfect outlines of the building, splendour of the vestments, all the pomp and ceremony with which, at last, they broke up the assembly; the veneration paid to the old bishop and he of the crimson hat; the solemn procession filing down the aisle and through the cloisters to the bishop's palace--this remains in the memory as an impressively splendid picture. fifteen years have gone by since that day, but we see it as vividly before us as though it had been but yesterday. chapter xiv. in the cloisters of san pablo. in the cloisters--sacred geese--bishop's palace--house of the inquisition--striking quadrangles--_ajimez_ windows--a rare cloister--desecration--library--rare mss.--polite librarian--romantic atmosphere--santa maria del mar--cloisters of santa anna--sister of mercy--san pablo del campo--more dream cloisters--communing with ghosts and shadows--spring and winter--constant visitor--centenarian--chief architect--cathedrals of catalonia--barbarous town-council--hard fight and victory--failing vision--emblems of death--laid aside--wholesome lessons--placing the keystone--finis--_resurgam_--charmed hour--possessing the soul in patience--city of refuge. every succeeding visit to barcelona has confirmed our love and reverence for its cathedral. toledo, burgos and all the greater cathedrals pale before the charm of its rare beauty and refined splendour. it could only be that such a cathedral had corresponding cloisters, and passing through the south doorway, we accordingly found ourselves in another old-world dream; but with the blue sky for canopy, and with no mysterious recesses or hidden depths. exception has been taken to the detail of the cloisters, but as a whole they are amongst the most effective in existence. gothic arches, large and beautiful, rested upon fluted pillars whose capitals very much resemble those of the interior; an enchanted land and an architectural revelation. the garden was full of orange trees and flowers not too carefully tended, so that a certain wild beauty, all the contrast of the green with the ancient stone and wonderful outlines, charmed the vision. plashing fountains caught the sunbeams and threw rainbow drops into the air. in a corner of the enclosure behind the iron railings some sacred geese intruded upon the sanctity of the precincts. the piety of these ungainly birds had to be taken for granted. they were aggressive, and hissed if only one ventured to look at them. nothing could be more strangely out of place in a scene so beautiful and full of repose, and for which with all their sacredness they evidently had no veneration. life passed lazily; they grew monstrously fat, and we wondered if at a certain age they disappeared for the benefit of the bishop's table: other geese taking their place in the cloistered garden. no one could tell us anything about them, but the people seemed to think them indispensable to the welfare of the town. here we found the best view of the exterior. through lovely and graceful arches which framed in the picture, one caught the pointed windows of the nave with their rich tracery, above which rose the decorated belfries with pierced parapets. but the immediate surroundings were also exceptionally interesting. south of the cloister is the bishop's palace, with a quadrangle ornamented with some fine romanesque arcading and moulding. north, is an immense fifteenth-century barrack built for a palace, and given over to the secret inquisition by the catholic monarchs. the casa consistorial and casa de la disputacion, though much altered, retain splendid traces of fourteenth-century work. the quadrangles are striking, though one has been much spoilt; and the _ajimez_ windows with their slender columns, capitals and arches are full of grace. seeing an open doorway close to the cathedral, we had the curiosity to enter, and found ourselves in a wonderful little cloister, half sacred, half secular, its ancient walls grey and lichen-stained. in the centre grew a tall palm-tree whose graceful fronds seemed to caress and curve and blend with the gothic outlines that charmed one back to the days of the middle ages. a crumbling staircase, old and beautiful, led to the upper gallery, where open windows with rare gothic mouldings and ornamentation invited one to enter into silent, empty, but strangely quaint rooms. as we looked, two women approached the wonderful old fountain in the centre with its splendid carvings, and filled their picturesque pitchers. the cloisters were in the hands of workmen. we asked a reason, and found that a new tenant, objecting to the refined atmosphere of time's lovely ravages, was scouring, cleaning, and polishing up the general effect. one shed tears at the desecration. [illustration: small cloister or patio: barcelona.] still nearer the cathedral is the library, with its ancient picturesque _patio_, and the most striking roof and staircase in barcelona. the library is rich in volumes and mss., containing amongst much that is interesting all the archives of the kingdom of aragon. amidst other records will be found those of catherine, who was bold enough to place her hand--and head--at the disposal of henry of england. the chief librarian conducted us over the whole building, and most kindly and patiently showed everything worthy of note, dwelling humorously upon passages in records that in any way referred to great britain. [illustration: cloisters of santa anna: barcelona.] in such an atmosphere we lost sight of the barcelona of to-day. it became ancient, ecclesiastical, historical, learned and romantic. here we returned to scenes and influences of the middle ages. and here, within a narrow circle, this "manchester of spain" is one of the most absorbing towns in the world. but the ecclesiastical merit of barcelona is not confined to the cathedral. though some of her best and most ancient churches have disappeared, others remain. amongst the foremost is santa maria del mar, taking rank after the mother church. a vast building, simple to a fault; cold, formal and severe, though architecturally correct; the interior hard and repelling, without sense of mystery or feeling of devotion. yet it has been much praised; even to comparison with the cathedral of palma, and is said to be the work of the same architect; but palma with all its simplicity is full of dignity and grandeur. the west front of santa maria is its best feature. the central doorway is fine, but the rose window above is hard and german in tracery, therefore has little beauty, and is of later date than the church. not far from here, in the narrowest of narrow streets, beyond an obscure archway we found the small church of santa anna, interesting by reason of its cloisters with their pointed arches springing from delicately carved capitals that rested upon slender, graceful shafts; a vision of refined beauty. in the centre grew a wild and lovely garden. spain is undoubtedly the land of cloisters, loveliest in existence; and barcelona is especially rich in them. as we looked, a sister of mercy passed through on some errand of charity. we thought of rosalie, only to be more certain than ever that there was but one rosalie in the world. yet more marvellous was a still smaller church of extreme interest and antiquity; san pablo del campo, formerly a benedictine convent of some renown, said to have been founded in the tenth century by wilfred ii., count of barcelona. in the twelfth century it was incorporated with the convent of san cucufate del vallés, a few miles from barcelona, of which the interesting church and cloister still exist. this remarkable san pablo is extremely small, and cruciform, with three apses, a short nave and an octagonal vault over the crossing. it is solidly and roughly built, and until recently possessed every aspect of antiquity. all this will probably now disappear, for it has been given over to the workmen to be restored and ruined, and the work will be done to perfection. [illustration: cloisters of san pablo: barcelona.] so with the west front. with the exception of the circular window over the striking romanesque doorway, one feels in presence of the remote ages; but the window rather spoils an otherwise admirable effect. by this time it has no doubt shared the fate of the interior; when we were there it was still a glorious dream of the past. yet more dreamlike were the small cloisters. in point of tone and atmosphere we might have almost been in the early ages of the world. no one had thought it worth while to interfere with this little old-world building, buried in solitude by surrounding houses. the obscurity reigning even at mid-day was never designed by its architect. no one would dream that in this little corner, unknown, unvisited, exists a gem of the first water and great antiquity; dating probably from the eleventh century. it was a very small cloister, having only four arches on each side divided by a buttress in the centre. the arches were trefoil-headed, separated by double shafts and the capitals were richly carved. in the north wall a fine fourteenth-century doorway admitted into the church, and in the east wall of the cloister an equally fine doorway led to the fourteenth-century chapter-house. everything was complete on a small scale. it was solemn and imposing to the last degree; an effect of age and decay so perfect that we seemed to meet face to face with the dead past. to enter these little cloisters was to commune with ghosts and shadows. if ever they lurked anywhere on earth, here they must be found. we were infinitely charmed with their tone. in spite of surrounding houses--where dead walls were seen--a tomb-like silence reigned. we looked at the small neglected enclosure, where the hand and foot of man might not have intruded for ages, and almost expected to see rising from their graves the dead who had possibly lain there for eight centuries. the stones were stained with damp and the lapse of time; wild unsightly weeds grew amongst them; but nothing stirred. as we looked, lost in the past, we became aware that we were not alone. entering the small cloister was an aged man with long white hair and a long grey beard, half-led by a small child of some eight or nine summers. he might have been one of the patriarchs come back to earth, and seemed venerable as the cloister themselves. more fitting subject for such surroundings could not exist. his movements were slow and deliberate, as though for him time's hour-glass had ceased to run. the child seemed to have learned to restrain its youthful ardour; gazed up into the old man's face with fearless affection, and appeared to watch his will and pleasure. a lovely child, with blue eyes and fair hair, who might belong to andalusia, or possibly a northern province of europe. "spring and winter," said h. c., looking at this strange advancing pair. "or life and death; for surely they are fitting emblems? who can they be, and what do they want in this forsaken spot?" the child said something to the aged man and motioned towards us. he paused a moment as though in doubt, then approached yet nearer. "i am your humble servant, gentlemen," he said, with something of courtliness in his manner. "it is seldom any one shares with me the solitude of these cloisters." "you are then in the habit of coming here?" returning his salutation. "for many years i have paid them an almost daily visit," was the reply. "i live not very far off, and they speak to me of the past. a long past, sirs, for i am old. i have no need to tell you that. you see it in my face, hear it in my voice. in three years i shall be a centenarian, if heaven spares me as long. i do not desire it. a man of ninety-seven has almost ceased to live. he is a burden to himself, a trouble to others. i was once chief architect of this city, and many of the more modern buildings that your eyes have rested upon are due to me. in my younger days i had a boundless love for the work of the ancients. gothic and norman delighted me. half my leisure moments were spent in our wonderful cathedral, absorbing its influence. ah, sirs, the cathedrals of catalonia are the glories of spain. i dreamt of reproducing such buildings; but we are in the hands of town committees who are vandals in these matters. fifty years ago--half a century this very month--the destruction of this church and these cloisters was taken into consideration. they wanted to pull down one of the glories of barcelona and build up a modern church and school. i was to be the architect of this barbarous proceeding. it happened that this was one of my most loved haunts. here i would frequently pace the solitary cloisters, thinking over my plans and designs, trying to draw wholesome inspiration from these matchless outlines. i was horrified at the sacrilege, though it was to be to my profit. i fought valiantly and long; would not yield an inch; pleaded earnestly; and at last persuaded. the idea was abandoned. that you are able to stand and gaze to-day upon this marvel is due to me. ever since then i have looked upon it as my own peculiar possession. day after day i pay them a visit. my failing sight now only discerns vague and shadowy outlines. it is enough. shadowy as they are, their beauty is ever present. what i fail to see, memory, those eyes of the brain, supplies. rarely in my daily visits do i find any one here. few people seem to understand or appreciate the beauty of these cloisters. they are like a hermit in the desert, living apart from the world. but here it is a desert of houses that surrounds them. like myself, they are an emblem of death in life." we started at this echo of our own words. could his sense of hearing be unduly awakened? or was the emblem so fitting as to be self-evident? "you have long ceased to labour?" we observed, for want of a better reply to his too obvious comparison. "for five-and-twenty years my life has been one of leisure and repose," he answered. "it has gone against the grain. i was not made for idleness. but when i was seventy-two years old, cataract overtook me. a successful operation restored my sight, but the doctors warned me that if i would keep it, all work must be abandoned. since then i have more or less cumbered the ground. but for many friends who are good to me, life would be intolerable. heaven blessed my labours, and gave me a frugal wife; i have all the comforts i need and more blessings than i deserve. this child is my favourite little great-granddaughter, and is often my charming companion to these cloisters. a dreary scene, gentlemen, for a child of tender years, but they read a solemn and wholesome lesson. unconsciously she imbibes their influence. they tell her, as i do, that life is not all pleasure; that as these ancient architects left beautiful traces and outlines behind them, so we must build up our lives stage by stage, taking care that the outlines shall be true and straight, the imperishable record pure and beautiful. for every one of us comes the placing of the keystone, with its momentous _finis_. but, blessed be heaven, as surely beneath it appears the promised _resurgam_." we walked round the cloisters together, and for a full hour this patriarch, with the support of our arm, charmed us with reminiscences of barcelona, descriptions of the lovely monuments of spain he had visited in the course of his long life. in spite of his years, his memory still seemed keen and vivid, his mind clear. he had not passed into that saddest of conditions a mental wreck. "and i pray heaven to call me hence ere such a fate overtake me," he said, in answer to our remark upon his admirable recollection. "whilst memory lasts and friends are kind, life may be endured. i possess my soul in patience." we parted and went our several ways, leaving the little cloisters to solitude and the ghosts that haunted them. the streets of barcelona grated upon us after our late encounter. it was returning to very ordinary life after the refined and delightful atmosphere of the past ages. we crossed the rambla, and entering a side street quickly reached the cathedral, which became more and more a world's wonder and glory as we grew familiar with it, an unspeakable delight. in this little city of refuge we again for a time lost ourselves in celestial visions. in this inspired atmosphere all earthly influences and considerations fell away; sorrow and sighing were non-existent: a millennium of happiness reigned, where all was piety and all was peace. chapter xv. montserrat. early rising--imp of darkness--death warrant--the men who fail--ranges of montserrat--sabadell--labour and romance--the llobregat--monistrol--summer resort--sleeping village--empty letter-bags--ascending--splendid view--romantic element--charms of antiquity--human interests--mons serratus--a man of letters--_solitude à deux_--fellow travellers--substantial lady-merchant--resignation--military policeman--"nameless here for evermore"--round man in square hole--romantic history--_cherchez la femme_--woman a divinity--good name the best inheritance--no fighting against the stars--fascinations of astrology--love and fortune--too good to last--taste for pleasure--ruin--sad end--truth reasserts itself--fortune smiles again--ceylon--philosophical in misfortune--a windfall--approaching montserrat--paradise of the monks--romance and beauty--new order of things--gipsy encampment. we rose early one morning for the purpose of visiting montserrat the sublime, the magnificent, and the romantic. early as it was, barcelona was by no means in a state of repose. many of its people never seemed to go to bed at all, and some of its shops never closed. if we looked out upon the world at midnight, at three in the morning, or at five, bodegas selling wine and bread were open to customers. the rambla was never quite deserted. before daylight trams began to run to and fro; the street cries soon swelled to a chorus. early rising is not always agreeable when wandering about the world in search of the picturesque. perhaps you have gone to bed late overnight, tired out with running to and fro. energy is only half-restored when an imp of darkness enters, lights your candles, and pronounces a death-warrant. "it is five o'clock, señor. those who wish to catch the train must get up." you think it only five minutes since you fell asleep. "two o'clock, not five," cries a drowsy voice. "you have waked me too soon." "as you please, señor. not for me to contradict you." the imp retires. if, like mrs. major o'dowd, you carry a _repater_, you strike it. five o'clock, sure enough, and ten minutes towards six. nothing for it but to yield. not as a certain friend who once bribed another imp of darkness with half-a-crown to wake him at five o'clock. the half-crown was duly earned. "another half-crown if you let me sleep on until eight," cried the sluggard. the imp disappeared like a flash, and a gold mine was lost through an appointment. of such are the men who fail. we came down and found the hotel in the usual state of early-morning discomfort--doors and windows all open, a general sweeping and uprooting, sleepy servants, a feeling that you are in every one's way and every one is in yours. breakfast was out of the question, but tea was forthcoming. the omnibus rattled up. "take your great-coats," said the landlord, who set others the example of rising early. "you will find it cold in the mountains of montserrat, especially if you remain all night to see the sun rise." he forgot that we were not chilly spaniards. our imp of darkness, however, who stood by, disappeared in a twinkling and returned with the coats. the landlord--a very different and less interesting man than our host of gerona--wished us a pleasant journey, closed the door, and away we went under the influence of a glorious morning. the sun shone brilliantly, everything favoured us. after some ten miles of rail the wonderful ranges of montserrat began to show up faint and indistinct, with their sharp outlines and mighty peaks. in the wide plains below cultivated fields and flowing undulations abounded. sabadell, the midway station, proved a true catalonian manufacturing town, but very different from an english town of the same nature. no smoke, no blackness of darkness, no pallid sorrowful faces. under these blue skies and brilliant sunshine the abundant signs of work and animation almost added a charm to the scene. to those who delight in labour, life here is a combination of romance and reality--a state of things wholesome and to be desired. we looked down upon many a valley well-wooded with small oaks, pines and olive trees, many a hill-slope covered with vines. approaching the mountains of montserrat, their savage and appalling grandeur became more evident. the monastery was seen high up, reposing on a gigantic plateau with its small settlement of dependencies. villages were scattered over the plain, through which the river llobregat took its winding way. the train drew up at monistrol. here we left the main line for the small railway which winds up into the mountains. not being a crowded time of year, the train consisted of two carriages only, with an engine pushing up behind. the outer carriage was open, and here we took seats, the better to survey nature. we were high above the plains; the train had to descend into the valley, then re-ascend into the mountains. far down was the little town of monistrol, with its white houses. the river rushed and frothed over its weir, spanned by a picturesque stone bridge of many arches. as the train twisted and turned like a serpent, it seemed that we must every moment topple over into the seething foam, but nothing happened. down, down we went, until we rolled over the bridge, felt the cool wind of the water upon our faces, and drew up at the little station amongst the white houses of the settlement. here people from the hot towns spend the months of summer, exchanging in this hill-enclosed valley one species of confinement for another. it was the perfection of quiet life, no sound disturbing the air but the falling water. not a soul was visible; the lifeless village, like rip van winkle, seemed enjoying a long sleep. we might have been a phantom train in a phantom world. though the train stopped at the little station, no one got in or out--no one but the postman, who silently exchanged attenuated letter-bags. evidently the correspondence of this enchanted place was not extensive. not here were wars planned or treaties signed. [illustration: monistrol.] away we went again and now began to ascend. every moment widened our view and added to its splendour. until recently all this had to be done by coach, a journey of many hours of courageous struggling. now the whole thing is over in three-quarters of an hour, and it is good to feel that all the hard work is done mechanically. we had once gone through something similar in the hex river valley of south africa, but in the montserrat journey there was a more romantic element; the charm and glamour surrounding antiquity, the keen human interest attached to a religious institution dating from past ages. we easily traced the old zigzag carriage road up which horses had once toiled and struggled. almost as zigzag was our present road, winding about like forked flashes of lightning. the scene was almost appalling. before us the ponderous mons serratus, with all its cracks and fissures, ready to fall and reduce the earth to powder. its sharp, fantastic peaks against the clear sky looked like the ruins of some mighty castle. the mountain rises four thousand feet high and is twenty-four miles in circumference--a grey, barren mass of tertiary conglomerate, an overwhelming amount of rock upon rock seemingly thrown and piled against each other. in all directions are enormous cañons and gorges with precipitous ravines; one rent dividing the range having occurred, it is said, at the hour of the crucifixion. no eye has ever penetrated the depths below. far up the mountain reposes the monastery, with its dependencies and cultivated gardens. every new zigzag took us a little nearer than the last. very high up we stopped at another small station. no doubt some sequestered nook held an unseen village, for again the old postman silently exchanged letter-bags. he was a fine specimen of humanity, this "man of letters," whose grey hairs and rugged features witnessed to a long and possibly active life. the head was cast in a splendid mould, to which the face corresponded. such a man ought to have made his mark in the world. that he should end his days in playing postman to the monks of montserrat seemed a sorry conclusion. the times must have got out of joint with him. as a leader in parliament or head of some great financial house, his appearance would have assured success. there must be a story behind this exterior, a mystery to unravel. but physiognomy seldom errs, and the expression of the face spoke in favour of honest purpose. he was a notable man, a man to be observed passing him on life's highway. for a time we watched him closely. there was a certain unconscious dignity about him. his remarks to the conductor were above the chatter of ordinary people. our carriage was a third class, though we had lavishly taken first; but in those small, closed compartments nothing could be seen. this carriage was large, open, airy; we breathed, and were in touch with our surroundings; our fellow-travellers were also more interesting than the turtle-doves who occupied the luxurious compartment in a blissful _solitude à deux_. they were few and characteristic. first the conductor, who varied the monotony of his going by paying visits to the engine-driver and leaving the train to look after itself. next, our postman, the study of whom would have been lost in any other compartment. then a stout lady, who wore a hat that was quite a flower-garden, and substantial seven-leagued boots; a large basket laden with small nick-nacks was very much in evidence, to which she clung affectionately, and one felt it was all her living. this modest pedlar was on her way to montserrat to dispose of her stock-in-trade--not to the monks, who could have no interest in housewifes and pocket-mirrors, but amongst the visitors. a humble peasant, with an honest, upright look in her dark eyes; a certain patient resignation in their expression which often comes to those who live from day to day, uncertain whether the morrow will bring fast or feasting. she sat at the end of the large square carriage, under the short bit of roofing. here the magnificent surroundings were less seen, but what mattered? she was of those to whom the realities of life mean much more than the beauties of nature. next came a military policeman duly accompanied by his gun and cocked hat, on his way to a three months' duty at montserrat. thus the carriage contained a poet, who could be on occasion a napoleon; a man of letters, though apparently of letters limited; an armed government official of more or less exalted rank; a lady-merchant representing the great world of commerce; and a humble individual who, like lost lenore, shall be "nameless here for evermore;" all personally conducted by a paid menial who neglected his duty and jeopardised the lives of his passengers. no merit to him that the journey passed without accident, but a great escape for ourselves. of this small group of catalonians, our postman alone was of the higher type and by far the most interesting. "i see you are not of our country, señor," he remarked after exchanging letter-bags at the last station. "your interest in the journey proves you unfamiliar with it. you may well marvel at this stupendous miracle of nature." "we marvel at everything. the whole scene is overpowering. and, if we may venture to say so, you are yourself an enigma. in england we have a proverb which speaks of a round man in a square hole; might it not almost be applied to you?" "in other words, you pay me the compliment of saying that i magnify my office," quickly returned the postman. "well, it is true that i was not born to this, but it is not every one who has the wit to find it out. my father was an officer in the spanish navy, and in the navy my first years of labour were spent. and now i am playing at postman--to such base uses do we come. yet is my calling honourable. "you would ask how i fell from my high estate, and politeness withholds the question. in reply i can only quote the old saying, _cherchez la femme_. they say that a woman is at the bottom of all mischief, and i believe it. on the other hand, there is no doubt that at her best she is a divinity. no, sir; i perceive what you would say; but i have nothing questionable to disclose; no intrigues or complications, or anything of that sort. "my father died when i was twenty. he had been made admiral, and lived to enjoy his rank just four months. unfortunately, all admiral alvarez had to bequeath to his son was his good name. of fortune he had none. you will say that a good name is the greatest of all inheritance, and so it is; and a young man with health, strength, and a noble profession before him should be independent of fortune. i quite agree with you. but there are exceptions, and the exceptions are those who are born under a conjunction of stars against which there is no fighting. if i had lived in the days of the egyptians i should have been an astrologer, for i believe there is something in the science. right or wrong, it possesses a mysterious fascination. "at twenty-one i married, apparently with discretion. the lady i chose was young, handsome, and owned a fortune. without the latter matrimony for me would have been a dream. my lieutenant's pay, which hardly sufficed for one, would have reduced two to the necessity of living upon love, air, or any other ethereal ingredient that may be had for nothing. "for a time all went merrily. we were both well-favoured by nature--perhaps i may be allowed to speak thus of myself when life is closing in--and fortune seemed to have been equally considerate. it was, however, too good to last. as i have said, i was not born under a lucky star. all through life i have just missed great opportunities. even as a child i can remember that the ripe apples never fell to my share. if we drew lots for anything i was always next the winning number and might as well have drawn the lowest. my father, who really ought to have left me something in the way of patrimony, left me only his blessing. "well, señor, my wife, i repeat, was young and handsome. she was fond of gaiety, and having the _entrée_ to a very fine society, her taste for pleasure was easily gratified. she became extravagant, and gradually fell into a state of nervous excitement which required constant dissipation. i was often away from home with my vessel, but not for long absences. they were, however, sufficiently frequent to render me careless and unsuspicious as to the true state of our finances. when i really learned this, it was too late. we were ruined. and not only ruined, but overwhelmed in debt. "in the first moment of horror i bitterly upbraided my wife. she, poor thing, took her misfortunes and my anger so much to heart that she fell into a consumption, and died in less than a year. i was so affected by my troubles--more, i believe, for the loss of my wife, whom i really loved, than for the loss of my income--that i fell for a time into a despondent frame of mind. i had felt compelled to retire from my profession--a man in a state of debt and bankruptcy had no right to be holding a royal commission--and my enforced idleness did not help to mend matters. at length life, health, and youth--i was not yet thirty--asserted themselves. melancholy flew away; energy, a wish to be up and doing something, returned. "i looked around me. the prospect was a sad one. there was nothing to be done. no one wanted me. "at length fortune, tired of frowning upon me, smiled awhile. i fell in with an old friend of my father's, a wealthy coffee-planter in ceylon. he had come over for a holiday to his native country. for the father's sake, for the sake of old times and the days of his youth, he was kind to the son. he sympathised with my sorrows, which were not of my own making. about to return to ceylon, he offered me a certain partnership in his business, promising greater things if i remained. "how thankfully i turned my back upon spain, the land of all my misfortunes, i could never say. i began a new and prosperous life in a new country. in course of time my old friend died, and i became senior partner in a flourishing concern. for twenty-five years i remained out in ceylon. i had made a considerable fortune, and you will think that i had probably married again. no, señor. i gave up my life to work, and would not a second time tempt fate. "at last, after an absence of a quarter of a century, a feeling crept over me that had every symptom of _mal du pays_. as this increased, i realised my possessions and returned to my own country, a rich man. but, alas! youth had fled. wealth did not now mean for me what it had meant at five-and-twenty. the first thing i did was to pay up all my debts with interest, and to stand a free, honourable and honoured man. what surprised me most was the comparative smallness of the sum which in the hour of our misfortunes i had thought so formidable. "and now, señor, do you think that i could let well alone: or, rather, that fortune could still turn to me a smiling face? it seemed as though the land of my birth--my mother country--was to bring me nothing but sorrow. in searching to place my capital, and remembering that you should not have all your eggs in one basket, i invested some of it in certain bank shares. it was a flourishing concern, paying a steady nine per cent. that it should be unlimited was a matter of no importance. so prosperous a company could never fail. yet, señor, in less than a year, fail it did for an amount which swept away every penny of my fortune, and left me stranded high and dry on the shores of adversity. "this time my ruin was more complete than before, for i was getting old and could not begin life afresh. yet--perhaps for that very reason--i felt it less, and bore it philosophically. i had brought no one down in my reverses. there was no one to upbraid me, and more than ever i felt thankful that i had never married again. i obtained a situation in the post office of a light description, which would just enable me to live. three years ago, a small windfall came to me: a sum of money that, safely invested, assures me comfortable bread and cheese for the remainder of my days. no more flourishing banks with unlimited liabilities. and now here i am, in daily charge of the mail-bags between monistrol and montserrat. a humble office you will say, but not ignoble. after the free life of ceylon, with all its magnificent scenery, i felt it impossible to live shut up in a town, and especially requested this post might be given me. in the midst of this wild grandeur, which really somehow reminds me of parts of ceylon, i am happy and contented. bricks and mortar are my abomination; they weigh upon one's soul and crush out one's vital power. i love to breathe the morning air with the lark. at best i can live but a few years more, and i will not spend them in regretting the past. on the whole, i consider that i am rather to be envied than pitied. that i am no longer obliged to work for my bread gives an additional zest to my occupation.--we are approaching montserrat. is it not a sublime scene?" it was indeed nothing less. we rose above the vast magnificent valley, until at last it looked dream-like and intangible. we seemed to overhang bottomless precipices. on a plateau of the great mountain reposed the monastery and its dependencies. luxuriant gardens flourished, paradise of the monks--a strange contrast of barren rocks and rich verdure. here dwelt a wonderful little world of its own, never deserted even in winter, and in summer crowded with people who spend hours, days, weeks breathing the mountain air, living a life of absolute freedom from all restraint. no monastery can be more romantically placed; perhaps none ever equalled it; yet of late years some of its romance and beauty has disappeared. the lovely old buildings that were a dream of gothic and norman refinement, of architectural perfection, have given place to new and hideous outlines. nothing remains to show the glory of what has been but one side of a cloister through whose pointed arches you gaze upon a perfect norman doorway--a dream-vision. a railway has brought montserrat into touch with the world, and to accommodate the crowd of visitors, a new hospederia has been built containing a thousand rooms, resembling an immense and very hideous prison. the passages are long, dark, narrow and cold. rooms open on each side--single rooms and sets of rooms. the latter are furnished with a kitchen; so that a family or party of friends may come here with bag and baggage, pots, pans and all kitchen equipage, servants included, and encamp for as long or as short a time as may please them. our train stopped at the little station under the very shadow of the mountain. this was the more crowded part of the settlement, and on the left we noticed what looked like a party of gipsies encamped, enjoying an open air feast with much laughter and merriment. the monastery buildings were at the other end of the plateau. we left the station under the pilotage of our friend the postman, carrying his mail-bag. before us, raised on a terrace, was a long row of buildings old and new, of every shape and size. these were the dependencies, and helped to form the little world of montserrat. towering behind, up into the skies, were the precipitous sides, peaks and pinnacles of the great mountain. "there lies the post office," said our man of letters, "and that is my destination. if you have any intention of remaining the night, you should first pay a visit to the little house on the right. the funny little monk who attends to visitors will receive you, conduct you to the hospederia and give you rooms. in summer every room is often occupied to overflowing, but now you will have the place to yourselves--you and the ghosts--for i maintain that it is haunted. i will not say farewell, señor; we shall frequently meet during the day. there is small choice of ways in this little settlement; but for all that you will find that montserrat is one of the glories of spain." he went his way, and we wondered what news from the outer world could now have any interest for the monks who were as dead to that world as though they reposed under their nameless graves in the little cemetery. chapter xvi. a hidden genius. monk's face--superfluous virtue--"welcome to montserrat"--mean advantage--exacting but not mercenary--another miguel--missing keys--singular monk--hospederia--uncertainty--monk's idea of luxury--rare prospect--haunted by silence--father salvador privileged--monk sees ghosts--under miguel's escort--in the church--departed glory--the black image--gothic and norman outlines--franciscan monk or ghost?--vision of the past--days of persecution--sensible image--great community--harmony of the spheres--sad cypresses--life of a hermit--monk's story--loving the world--penitence--plucked from the burning--talent developed--a world apart--false interest--salvador--temptation and a compromise--salvador extemporises--"all the magic of the hour"--salvador's belief--waiting for manifestations. we turned to the right, and entering the building indicated, passed into a bare, unfurnished room. through a square hole in the wall, not unlike a buttery-hatch, a monk's face peered at us with large coal-black eyes, startling in their effect; a small, spare monk, with unshaven face, round head and black hair, habited in the ugly dress of the jesuit order. it struck us rather unpleasantly that everything about him was black, not the eyes and hair only. he evidently belonged to a sect who thought washing superfluous, if not sinful. "ah!" he exclaimed in quite friendly tones. "welcome to montserrat! i am very happy to see you." "we might be chums of a lifetime," said h. c., shuddering, as the well-disposed ecclesiastic advanced a dusky hand; for we saw it coming and meanly put him in the foreground. in spite of his napoleon manner, he had to shake it. the little monk was not to be frowned down. "i am very happy to see you," he repeated. "you are welcome. our visitors are few at this time of the year. every visitor adds his quota to our common fund. however small, it is acceptable. do not think me mercenary. the fathers and brothers must live, and they do a great deal of good. even up here, out of the world, you have no idea how much may be done. and we have many branches. but the beauty of montserrat is supreme, and you know that it is world-wide. now you want rooms," continued the eloquent little monk. "i will go across with you to the hospederia. but first you must record your names in this book. miguel," to a young man in attendance, "where are the keys? they are not here. why are they not here? how often am i to report you to the father-superior for carelessness?" the keys were guiltily produced by miguel. "i thought so," cried the monk. "suppose, now, you had gone down to monistrol with the keys in your pocket! we must have got through a window like thieves and vagabonds. a very undignified proceeding. the reverend father would have stopped your butter for a month. as it is, i must overlook it, i suppose; you are so very fond of butter. now, gentlemen---- dear me, what beautiful writing you english always have!" scanning the book, in which, with the aid of a very bad pen, we had hieroglyphically scratched our names. "now, gentlemen, i am at your service. we will take our little pilgrimage. you have a choice of rooms. there is not a soul in the hospederia--a thousand rooms, every one empty. miguel, attend us; you will have to make up beds for these gentlemen." the pilgrimage was certainly a short one. we gave the little monk as wide a berth as politeness and the way permitted. to keep step with him was impossible. he had a curious motion which resembled more the trotting of a young colt than the walk of a human being. as he skipped across the road, a small, animated mass of quicksilver, full of peculiar life and energy, it was difficult to keep becomingly grave. the great hospederia was in front of us, huge, modern, unsightly, depressing. the monk jingled the great keys as though they made pleasant music in his ear. then he applied one of them to the huge lock and the heavy door rolled back on its hinges. if the exterior had looked depressing, it was cheerfulness itself to the interior. a chilling, silent, uninhabited, ghostly atmosphere met us at the very threshold. our postman might well say it was haunted. voices and footsteps echoed in the long, bare, gloomy corridors. a monk's cell could scarcely have been more guiltless of comfort. we had hardly made up our minds whether to stay the night or not, and our proposed lodging kept us still more undecided. as far as sunrise was concerned, at this time of the year the effects were doubtful. more often than not a thick mist enshrouded the whole visible world like a white sea. we might remain, have our trouble and discomfort for our pains, and nothing more. "here," said the monk, throwing open the door of a small room, and pointing to a bed hard as pavement, "you may sleep in comfort, even luxury. and," opening the window, "what a prospect!" true enough as regarded the outlook. such an assemblage of vale, mountain and river could hardly be surpassed. the luxury of the bed, on the other hand, was a distinct effort of the imagination. we would not, however, disturb the sensitiveness of the little monk by arguing the matter, and indeed, it would have been difficult to lower his self-complacency. two rooms belonging to a suite were duly apportioned to us. the bare kitchen between them looked cold and lifeless. these rooms would be prepared, and any one remaining here for the night might reasonably consider it a penance for his sins. it would be rather a gruesome experience to find ourselves in sole possession of this vast building of a thousand rooms. an army of ghosts--the ghosts of dead-and-gone monks--would certainly come down upon us, and h. c.'s most napoleon manner would have no effect whatever. like the little monk, ghosts are not to be frowned down. "a pity to disturb this hospederia, which may be considered closed for the season," we remarked. "my poet friend is very much afraid of ghosts, and this place might very well be haunted. it is certainly haunted by silence. why not give us cells in the monastery, where, in presence of the father-superior, ghosts would hardly venture to intrude?" "an excellent idea," said h. c., looking blue and shivery. "this place is more gloomy than the grave." "in the darkness one place is very much the same as another," said the monk. "no one is allowed even within the walls of the monastery without an order from the holy father at rome, the archbishop of toledo, or some equally great authority. father salvador is the only one who can prevail with our superior. as for ghosts, i have seen them with my own eyes on all souls' eve, at midnight, in the monastery graveyard, and oh! how frightened i was! how i shivered in my sandals! they were the ghosts of two monks who had committed suicide within a year of each other in their cells. of course, they were quite mad, and they left a letter behind them--both of them--to say they could bear their solitude no longer. in the dead of night they heard groans, and saw shapes like immense bats flying about. each bat had four wings, two tails, fiery eyes and forked tongues. they were quite insane. but there are no ghosts here, sirs. for the matter of that, the building is far too modern. ghosts have excellent taste and cultivate the antique. there, that is settled. everything is at your disposal--the whole building. now, miguel, show the gentlemen where they can dine. i have heard that the fare in the restaurant is equal to anything in madrid. i am your most humble servant and delighted to see you. welcome to montserrat." upon which the little monk skipped once more across the road with the same acrobatic motion, and disappeared within his sanctum. under miguel's escort--who had had so narrow an escape from losing his butter, and doing a month's fasting out of lent--we found the dining-room. several dining-rooms indeed, of great size, one above another, apparently quite prepared to entertain the hospederia with its full complement of guests. the manager informed us that we could have any meal we liked at any appointed hour; he was equal to the largest dinners at the shortest notice; and having settled this part of the programme to h. c.'s satisfaction, we dismissed miguel and took to exploring. as don alvarez had said, we could not go very far wrong. one road led to the summit of mons serratus, another down into the world; a third round the mountain into another part of the world. this was still traversed by a coach and four, and presently we had the pleasure of seeing it start with great preparation and ceremony. for the moment we contented ourselves with the immediate precincts. [illustration: church of montserrat.] the convent buildings stood on a plateau at the far end of the settlement. almost buried under the side of the mountain was the immense church or chapel in which the monks attend mass. one may see them at stated hours in the choir behind the great iron _grille_ that separates them from the outer worshippers. there are now only about twenty fathers, for the monastery was suppressed some sixty years ago, only a few being allowed to remain. it is of very ancient origin, and rose from small to great things, and again has fallen from its high estate. the foundation is due to a black image of the virgin; a small figure in black wood supposed to have been specially carved by st. luke, and specially brought to spain by st. peter. if in st. luke's best style, he was certainly not a michel angelo. the image, however, is highly prized by the religious order, as having worked countless miracles and brought them fame and wealth. in crossing towards the chapel we met our funny little monk. "ah, you are going into the church?" he cried. "you will find the fathers at prayer--it is nearly the hour for the refectory. and you will see the black virgin--the beautiful black image--carved by st. luke--carried by st. peter--blessed by twelve popes! no wonder she performs miracles. withered arms and legs come to life again. i have seen old people turn young. once when i looked at her she blinked with both eyes. it is true i am short-sighted, but i am certain of the fact: as certain as that i saw ghosts in the graveyard on all souls' eve. señor, that wonderful black image is the one great thing to see at montserrat. the cleverness of the railway, the beauty of the landscape, the grandeur of the mountain, the splendour of the church--all this is very well in its way; but it is as nothing compared with the black image. go and study it, and if you look long enough perhaps she will blink her eyes at you too, or bow her head. it is quite possible." then he skipped through the quadrangle back to his den. this quadrangle was very interesting; large, quiet, and solidly built: an outer court to the holy of holies, which was the church itself. under the mountain-side, its covered passages ever seemed in deep gloom and shadow; a death-in-life atmosphere hung about it. in days gone by it was one of the loveliest nooks in the world, for the ancient buildings were beautiful and refined. gothic cloisters and norman doorways mingled their outlines in close companionship without rivalry, and the beholder was charmed at finding himself in an element where nothing jarred. all has disappeared to make way for the modern traveller, whose name is legion. nothing remains but the one little gothic fragment, with its pointed windows and slender shafts. a lady in a mantilla graced them as we stood looking at the norman archway beyond: the more interesting of the turtle-doves who had travelled with us from monistrol. her mate was attending to the vulgar side of life, arranging a select repast with the restaurant manager at the farther end of the settlement. we saw him come out and advance towards her with that degree of fervour which generally marks the _lune de miel_. she, too, went to meet him half-way--and they disappeared out of our lives. as we looked at the norman doorway it was suddenly filled with the figure of a monk. nothing could have been more appropriately romantic and picturesque. he was clothed not as a jesuit, but in the far more becoming dress of a franciscan. his cowl was thrown back, revealing a pale, refined face and well-formed head, on which the hair seemed to be arranged almost like a circlet of leaves--the crown of the poet. he stood still and motionless as though carved in stone. in his hand he held a breviary. a girdle was round his waist confining the long brown robe. as far as we could see, he appeared unmindful of his surroundings, lost in a dreamy gaze which penetrated beyond the skies. it was the attitude and expression of a visionary or mystic. what was this monk in the strange garb? who was he? what brought him apparently at home amidst the jesuits, he who evidently belonged to another order? had he thrown in his lot amongst them? or did he live, a solitary being, in one of the surrounding hermitages? whilst we looked he slowly turned, and, with bent head and lingering steps, as though in deep contemplation, passed out of sight. nothing remained but the empty doorway with a vision of arches beyond; a few ruined walls stained with the marks of centuries, to which patches of moss and drooping creepers and hardy ferns added grace and charm. we were alone, surrounded by intense quiet and repose. sunshine was over all, casting deep shadows. no sound disturbed the stillness, not even the echo of the monk's receding footsteps. so silent and motionless had been his coming and going, we asked ourselves whether he was in truth flesh and blood or a mid-day visitor from the land of shadows. how remote, how out of the world it all was! suddenly, as we looked upwards, an eagle took majestic flight from one of the mountain peaks, and, hovering in the blue ether, seemed seeking for prey. but it was not the time of the lambs, and with a long, sweeping wing, it passed across the valley to an opposite range of hills. the great church was before us with its dome, of roman design and sufficiently common-place. but, after all, what mattered? its effects and those of the hideous hospederia were lost in their wonderful surroundings, just as a drop of water is lost in the ocean. on entering the church this comparison disappeared. there was an expanse about its aisles, largeness and breadth in the high-domed roof, that produced a certain dignity, yet without grace and refinement. no magic and mystery surrounded them, and the dim religious light was the result, not of rich stained glass admitting prismatic streams, but of an obscurity cast by the shadows of mons serratus. for great effects one had to go back in imagination to the days when the monks were many and assembled at night for service. it is easy to picture the impressive scene. beyond the ever-closed screen, within the great choir, a thousand kneeling, penitential figures chanting the midnight mass, their voices swelling upward in mighty volume; the church just sufficiently lighted to lend the utmost mystery to the occasion; a ghostly hour and a ghostly assemblage of men whose lives have become mere shadows. on great days countless candles lighted up the aisles and faintly outlined the more distant recesses. the fine-toned organ pealed forth its harmony, shaking the building with its diapasons and awakening wonderful echoes in the far-off dome. [illustration: cloisters of montserrat.] all this may still be seen and heard now and then, but with the number of monks sadly curtailed. it is said that they now never exceed twenty. when their day of persecution came they escaped to their mountain fastness, climbing higher and ever higher like hunted deer, hiding in the cracks and crevices of the rocks; fear giving them strength to reach parts never yet trodden by the foot of man, whilst many a less active monk slipped and fell into the bottomless abyss, his last resting place, like that of moses, remaining for ever unknown. the troops of suchet followed the refugees, found them out, and put an end to many a life that, if useless, was also harmless. not a few of the survivors became hermits, and on many a crag may be found the ruins of a hermitage, once, perhaps, inhabited by a modern st. jerome, though the st. jeromes of the world have been few and far between. some sort of religious institution existed here in the early centuries, long ages before ignatius loyola founded the order of the jesuits. in the eighth century the famous black image was hidden away in a cave under a hill to save it from the moors. here it miraculously disclosed itself a hundred years later to some simple shepherds. these hastened to the good bishop, who took mules, crook and mitre, and came down with all the lights of the church and all the pomp of office to remove the treasure to manresa. apparently the image preferred the fresh mountain air to the close, torrent-washed town with its turbid waters, for having reached a certain lovely spot overlooking the vast plain, it refused to go any farther. as it could not speak--being a wooden image--it made itself so heavy that mortal power could not lift it. this was the first of a long succession of miracles. on the spot where the image rested, the bishop with crook and mitre, and bell and book, and dean and chapter, held solemn conclave and there and then went through a service of consecration. a chapel was built, and the image became the object of devoted pilgrimages. all traces of the chapel have disappeared long since. nothing now marks the spot but an iron cross which may be seen far and near. approaching, you may read the inscription: _aqui sè hizo inmovil la santa imagen_. after this a nunnery was founded, which in the tenth century became a benedictine convent. ages rolled on, and it grew famous. when destroyed by the french it held as many as monks: a great religious community, wealthy and powerful. but the mighty are fallen. the few remaining monks, more exclusive in their retirement than the great body of their predecessors, have a school attached to the monastery in which much time is given to the study of music. it is going far out of the world for instruction, but nature herself should come to their aid. amidst these lonely solitudes the harmony of the spheres might well be heard. passing through the great quadrangle, we entered a narrow passage between the church and hill-side, reminding one a little of some of the narrow streets of jerusalem. here, too, we found some arches and buttresses framing in the sky, arch beyond arch. at the end of all we came out once more upon the open world, and what a scene was disclosed! in front of us was a small chapel attached to a little hermitage. beside it ran a long avenue of sad and solemn cypresses. it might have been the cemetery of the dead-and-gone monks, but no small mounds or wooden crosses marked where the dead reposed. this mournful avenue extended to the brow of the hill, where we overlooked vast wild precipices. cañons and gorges opened beneath us and above us in appalling magnitude. the stupendous valley stretched right and left in the distance. far on the other side reposed a chain of snow-clad hills. villages lay about the plain and hill-sides. in the far-off hollow slept the little town of monistrol, its blue smoke mingling with the clearer atmosphere. through all the valley the river ran its winding, silvery course on its way to the sea. the plateau on which we stood held the monastery buildings. near us stretched the gardens of the monks in cultivated terraces, and above them, winding round the mountain was the white road leading out into the world lying to the south of montserrat. again, as we looked, another eagle soared from one of the peaks and took its slow majestic flight across the valley, no doubt on the track of its mate, perhaps to find out why he tarried so long. a string of boys in caps and black cloaks left the convent and wound round the white road, conducted by a few of the monks whose duty it was to keep watch and ward over the students. these passed out of sight, and once more we seemed alone with nature. but on turning back down the cypress avenue, sitting against the little chapel we saw the franciscan monk who had lately filled the norman archway. though his breviary was open, he was not reading. his eyes--large, dark, dreamy eyes that ought to belong to a genius--were looking out on the mountain and the far-off sky, lost in profound contemplation. [illustration: church of montserrat.] of what nature were his thoughts? introspective or retrospective? was he thinking of days that were past, or of the life to come? were regret and remorse his portion, or resignation to his present surroundings? was he dwelling upon some terrible might-have-been? he looked inexpressibly lonely, as though he and the world had parted company for ever, but there was something singularly interesting about him. it seemed difficult to intrude upon his solitude, as impossible to pass without speaking. some influence compelled us to stop. his face was pale and refined. he was so thin as to be almost cadaverous; not an ounce of flesh had he to spare on his bones; there was a certain look of hunger in his large magnificent eyes; not a hungering after the flesh-pots of egypt, but, as it seemed, for peace of mind and repose of soul. grazing at the skies, he appeared to be asking questions of the infinite beyond. where was the kingdom of heaven and what was it like? when there came for him the great apocalypse of the soul how would it find its way to the realms of paradise? we stopped in front of him, and he started as though he had only that moment became aware of our presence. he did not seem to resent the intrusion, but looked up with a searching inquiring glance, which presently changed to a smile beautiful and almost childlike in its confidence: sad, beseeching, as though it were in our power to interpret to him the hidden mysteries of the unseen; the perplexing problems of life; the doubts and difficulties with which his questioning heart contended. "you have indeed found a quiet corner for contemplation," we remarked after he had greeted us with a subdued: "may heaven have you in its holy keeping." [illustration: salvador the monk.] "it is all my want and all my desire," he replied, in a voice that was full of melody. "i live the life of a hermit. near at hand i have my small hermitage, and i also have my cell in the monastery, occupying the one or the other as inclination prompts me. for you see by my dress that though this is my home, where i shall live and die, i do not belong to the jesuits. i am really a franciscan, but have obtained a dispensation, and i live here. i love to contemplate these splendours of nature; to read my breviary under the blue sky and the shadow of our great mountain. here i feel in touch with heaven. the things unseen become real and tangible, doubts and difficulties vanish. my soul gathers strength. i return to my cell, and its walls crush all life and hope out of me; weigh upon me with an oppression greater and deeper than that of yonder giant height. i feel as though i should die, or fall away from grace. there have been times when they have come to my cell and found me unconscious. i have only revived when they have brought me out to the fresh air, this freedom and expanse. the good father-superior recognises my infirmity and has given me the hermit's cave. i will show it to you if you like. it is quite habitable and not what you might imagine, for it is a built-up room with light and air, not a cavern dark and earthy. i love solitude and am never solitary. once i loved the world too much; i lived in the fever of life and dissipation. heaven had mercy upon me, and you behold a brand plucked from the burning. when my heart was dead and seared, and love and all things beautiful had taken wing, i left the world. the profligate became a penitent. i took vows upon me and joined the franciscan order. but i should have died if i had not come up here, where i have found pardon and peace. that was twenty years ago. yet i am not fifty years old, and am still in the full vigour of manhood. it may be long before a small wooden cross marks my resting-place in the cemetery. when the last hour comes i shall pray them to bring me here, that amidst these splendours of nature my soul may wing its flight to the greater splendours of paradise. i feel that i could not die in my cell." "how is it you are allowed so much freedom?" we asked. "we thought that here you were all more or less cloistered. it was our wish to see the interior of the monastery, but the lay monk who receives visitors said it was not permitted." "a strict rule," returned the monk; "but if you are staying here a couple of days, i could take you in. to-morrow is a great fast; to enter would be impossible; the day after it might be done." "unhappily we cannot remain. to-morrow at latest we return to barcelona. but, if we may ask it again without indiscretion, whence have you this indulgence and power?" "the secret lies in the fact that i possess a talent," smiled the monk. "i was always passionately fond of music, and as a pastime studied it closely and earnestly. here i have turned it to account. whether it was the necessity for an occupation, or that it was always in me, i developed a strange faculty for imparting knowledge to others. i fire them with enthusiasm, and they make vast progress. my name, i am told, has become a proverb in our large towns. it has been of use to the monastery: has enlarged the school, added to the revenues. in return i have obtained certain privileges; a greater freedom of action. otherwise my power would leave me. this is why i can promise to open doors to you that are usually closed to the world. yet in what would you be the better? curiosity would hardly be satisfied in viewing the bare cells and long gloomy passages, the cold and empty refectory, where perchance you might see spread out a banquet of bread and water, a little dried fish or a few sweet herbs." "there is always something that appeals to one, strangely attractive, in the interior of a monastery," we returned. "i know it," replied the monk, whose new name he told us was salvador. "it is a world apart and savours of the mysterious. it possesses also a certain mystic element. thus the atmosphere surrounding it is romantic and picturesque, appealing strongly to the imagination. sympathy goes out to the little band of men who have bound themselves together by a vow, forsaken the world and given up all for religion. but if you were called upon to share that life only for a month, all its supposed mystery and charm would disappear. it only exists in the sentiment of the thing, not in the reality. it lies in the beauty of the solitary mountains in which the monasteries are often placed; or the splendid architecture they occasionally preserve. in the dull monotony of a daily round never varied, you would learn to dread the lonely cell--even as i once dreaded it more than death itself. hence my freedom. it will soon be our refectory hour," looking at a small silver watch he carried beneath his robe. "i must return or fast." then there came to us a bright idea. "why leave us?" we said. "or if you must do so now, why not return? would you not be allowed to dine with us this evening? you would tell us of your past life before you became a monk, and of your life since then. it must contain much that is interesting. in the evening shadows you would guide us about the mountain paths, tell us of the evil days that fell upon the monks and their flight into the hills." salvador the monk smiled. "you tempt me sorely," he replied. "i should like it much. such a proposal has never been made to me since i put on cloak and cowl. it would be like a short return to the world--a backward glance into the life that is dead and buried. then imagine the contrast between your sumptuous repast and the bread and sweet herbs with which we keep our bodies alive. i fear it would not be wise to awaken memories. no, i must not think of it. but to-night i shall dream that i have been to a banquet and walked with you in quiet paths, taking sweet counsel. oh, i am tempted. what a break in my life to spend a whole day with you, and become once more, as it were, a citizen of the world! but i will make a compromise. if you go up the mountain to-morrow morning to see the sun rise, i will accompany you. though a fast day, i can do this; and i may take a modest breakfast with you." this decided us, and we agreed to remain: it would have been cruel to deny him. he folded his camp-stool and prepared to depart. "you will accompany me to my door," he said, somewhat wistfully, "though to-day i may not ask you to pass beyond." so we wended back through the arches in the narrow passage between the hill and monastery, and the mountain shadows fell upon us. we reached the great quadrangle, lonely and deserted. "let us enter by way of the church," said the monk; "i will show you our little private door." the great building was silent and empty. our footsteps woke weird echoes in the distant aisles. salvador by some secret touch unfastened the door of the screen, which rolled back on its hinges, and we passed into the choir. "here we attend mass," said our guide; "a small community of monks, though i am more often at the organ. in days gone by, when they numbered nearly a thousand, it was a splendid and powerful institution--a magnificent sight and sound. no need then to add to the funds by teaching. all the glory has departed, but perhaps, in return, we are more useful. nothing, however, can take from our scenery, though its repose is no longer unbroken. with a railroad at our very doors, who can say that we are now out of the world? ah!" as a man crossed the choir towards the sacristy; "there is my organ-blower. would you like me to give you some music?" "it would be enchanting. but your repast--would you not lose it?" "i have twenty minutes to spare, and should then still be in time for the end." he beckoned to the man, who approached. "hugo, have you dined?" "si, padre salvador." "then come and blow for me a little." he bade us seat ourselves in the stalls, where the organ was best heard. we listened to their receding footsteps ascending the winding staircase leading to the organ loft. in a few minutes we had lost all sense of outward things. the loveliest, softest, most entrancing music went stealing through the great building. salvador was evidently extemporising. all his soul was passing into melody. divine harmonies succeeded each other in one continued flow. it was music full of inspiration, such as few mortals could produce; fugitive thoughts more beautiful by reason of their spontaneity than any matured composition ever given to the world. here indeed was a genius. never but once before had we heard such playing. many years had gone by since one evening on the hardanger fjord, we glided through the water under the moonlight and listened to such strains as beethoven himself could not have equalled. many a hand oft-clasped in those days lies cold and dead; life has brought its disillusions; the world has changed; but even as we write the glamour of that moonlit night surrounds us, those matchless strains still ring in our ears, lifting us once more to paradise. this monk's music brought back all those past impressions; "all the sorrow and the sighing, all the magic of the hour." we listened spell-bound, enraptured; and again we were in paradise. no wonder he inspired his pupils to accomplish the impossible. it lasted only a quarter of an hour, but during that time we never stirred hand or foot, scarcely breathed. ordinary life was suspended; we were conscious only of soul and spirit. when this divine influence ceased we were hardly aware of the silence that succeeded. the monk had thrown us into a trance from which it was difficult to awaken. only when his cloaked and cowled figure once more entered the choir and quietly approached us did we rouse to a sense of outward things. "i see my music has pleased you," he said. "i do not affect to depreciate its power, since it influences me no less than others. for the time being i am lost to myself. all my soul seems expressing thoughts that words could never utter. no credit is due to me for a power outside and beyond me. the moment i sit down to the organ, saint cecilia takes possession of me, and i merely follow whither she leads. of all arts, it is the most divine. now before we separate let me take you into the chapel of the virgin. the image, you know, is considered the great treasure of the monastery." in his voice there seemed almost an inflection of doubt or amusement. "and you also look upon it in this light?" we asked. "you believe in all the miracles, legends and traditions time has gathered round the image?" "i must not talk heresy," smiled the monk; "but i believe more in my music." we had entered the small chapel, where a light was burning before the celebrated image, black and polished as ebony; an image less than two feet high, seated in a chair, with an infant in its arms. the workmanship was rough and rude, the face ugly and african. there was nothing about it to raise the slightest emotion, for it was not even artistic. "on this very spot," said the monk, "ignatius loyola is said to have waited for hours in rapture watching the image and receiving manifestations, after which he founded the order of the jesuits. he laid his sword upon the altar, declaring that he had done with it for ever, and henceforth his life should be devoted to paths of peace. in like manner i have stood here for hours, waiting for inspiration, for some manifestation, some token, though it should be only borne in upon the mind with no outward and visible sign. and i have waited in vain. nothing has ever come to me. but i seat myself at the organ and seem wafted at once into realms immortal; my soul awakens and expands; i feel heaven within me. it is my one happiness and consolation; that and being alone with nature." he conducted us back to the screen. "then we cannot prevail upon you to be with us this evening?" we said in a final effort. "you will not give us all the experiences of your past life, spiritual and otherwise?--all you went through in your transition state?" "tempt me not," returned the monk. "your voice would persuade me against my reason. i must not return to the sweets of the world even for an evening. think of the going back afterwards. but to-morrow morning before dawn breaks in the east i will be with you." he bade us farewell and closed the gate. we watched the solitary figure glide down the choir until it disappeared. the quiet footsteps ceased to echo, and we stood alone in the church. the silence was painful and the building had no power to charm. we passed out to the great quadrangle and soon found ourselves in a very different scene. chapter xvii. salvador the monk. gipsies--picturesque scene--love passages--h. c. invited to festive board--saved by lady maria's astral visitation--the fortune-teller--h. c. yields to persuasion--fate foretold--warnings--photograph solicited--darkness and mystery--night scene--gipsies depart--weird experiences--troubled dreams--mysterious sounds--ghost appears--h. c. sleeps the sleep of the just--egyptian darkness--in the cold morning--salvador keeps his word--breakfast by candlelight--romantic scene--salvador turns to the world--agreeable companion--musician's nature--miguel and the mule--leaving the world behind--darkness flies--st. michael's chapel--sunrise and glory--marvellous scene--magic atmosphere--salvador's ecstasy--consents to take luncheon--heavenly strains--"not farewell"--departs in solitary sadness--last of the funny monk. it was the other end of the settlement. all the houses were behind us; the railway station was in a depression at our left. the plateau expanded, forming a small mountain refuge, sheltered and surrounded by great boulders that were a part of mons serratus towering beyond them. grass and trees grew in soft luxuriance. under their shadow a picnic party had encamped; noisy spaniards who looked very much like gipsies; an incongruous element in these solemn solitudes, yet a very human scene. they were scattered about in groups, and the bright handkerchiefs of the women formed a strikingly picturesque bit of colouring. baskets of rough provisions were abundant. a kettle hung on a tripod and a fire burnt beneath it, from which the blue smoke curled into the air and lost itself in the branches of the trees. the people were enjoying themselves to their hearts' content. here and there a couple had hoisted a red or green umbrella, which afforded friendly opportunities for tender love passages. some were drinking curiously out of jars with long spouts shaped like a tea-kettle. these they held up at arm's length and cleverly let the beverage pour into their mouths. practice made perfect and nothing was wasted. chatter and laughter never ceased. they were of humble rank, which ignores ceremony, and when h. c. approached rather nearly, he was at once invited to join their festive board and make one of themselves. one handsome, dark-eyed maiden looked at him reproachfully as he declined the honour--the astral body of lady maria in her severest aspect having luckily presented itself to his startled vision. the siren had a wonderfully impressive language of the eyes, and it was evident that her hand and heart were at the disposal of this preux chevalier. "señor," she said, "i am a teller of fortunes. show me your hand and i will prophecy yours." h. c. obligingly held it out. she studied it intently for about half a minute, then raised her eyes--large languishing eyes--and seemed to search into the very depths of his. "señor, you are a great poet. your line of imagination is strongly influenced by the line of music, so that your thoughts flow in rhyme. but the line of the head communicates with the line of the heart, and this runs up strongly into the mount of venus. you have made many love vows and broken many hearts. you will do so again. you cannot help it. you are sincere for the moment, but your affections are like champagne. they fizz and froth and blaze up like a rocket, then pass away. you will not marry for many years. then it will be a lady with a large fortune. she will not be beautiful. she will squint, and be a little lame, and have a slight hump--you cannot have everything--but she will be amiable and intellectual. i see here a rich relative, who is inclined in your favour. it is in her power to leave you wealth. beware how you play your cards. i see by your hand that you just escape many good things by this fickle nature. i warn you against it, but might as well tell the wind not to blow. there is one thing, however, may save you--the stars were in happy conjunction at your birth. the influence of the house of saturn does not affect you. i see little more at present. much of your future depends on yourself. to you is given, more than to many, the controlling of your fate. you may make or mar your fortune. no, señor," as h. c. laughed and tried to glide a substantial coin into her hand, "i do not tell fortunes for money to-day. it is a _festa_ with our tribe, almost a sacred day, the anniversary of a great historical event. to-day we do all for love; but i should much like your photograph." [illustration: valley of montserrat.] h. c. chanced to have one in his pocket-book, which he had once put aside for the madrid houri who married the russian nobleman. this he presented with much grace to the enraptured sibyl. their heads were very close together at the moment; there seemed a clinking sound in the air. we happened to be consulting the time, and on looking up, the sibyl's face seemed flushed and conscious, and h. c.'s poetically pale complexion had put on a delicate pink. this was a little too suspicious--even to our unsuspecting mind--and with a hasty bow to the interesting assembly, and wishing them all good appetites and fair fortunes, we went on our way. looking back once, the charming sibyl was still gazing towards us with a very sentimental expression, whilst h. c. for the next ten minutes fell into silence. the day wore on to evening. we watched the shades of night gathering over the vast valley and distant hills. everything grew hazy and indistinct, and finally gave place to a world of darkness and mystery. the outlines of mons serratus loomed upwards against the night sky. the stars came out flashing and brilliant as they travelled along in their awful and majestic silence. the great constellations were strongly marked. here and there lights twinkled in the monastery, and in the various houses of the settlement. where the gipsy party had encamped, silence and solitude now reigned. a black mark told where the tripod had held the kettle and betrayed what had been. the whole encampment had returned to the lower world by the evening train. we had watched them enter a special carriage, which they filled to overflowing. their spirits had not failed. as the train moved off they sent up a shout which echoed and re-echoed in many a gorge and cleft. presently, when the stars had travelled onwards, we felt it was time to disappear from the world for a season. we were taking a last look at the gothic arches, through which the sky and the stars shone with serene repose. the night was solemn and impressive; a strange hush lay upon all. it might have been a dead universe, only peopled by the spirits of the dead-and-gone monks and hermits roaming the mountain ranges. throughout the little settlement not a soul crossed our path; doors and windows were closed; here and there a light still glimmered. we caught sight of another wandering light far up a mountain path, held by some one well acquainted with his ground--perhaps a last surviving hermit taking his walks abroad, or a monk contemplating death and eternity in this overwhelming darkness. we wondered whether it was salvador, our musical monk, seeking fresh inspiration as he climbed nearer heaven. as we passed out of the arches we came upon our funny little monk, who, having ended all his duties, was going to his night's rest. he caught sight of us and gave a brisk skip. "welcome to montserrat," he cried once more. "i am delighted to see you." from long habit he evidently used the form unconsciously--it was his peculiar salutation. "you are about to retire, señor. let me conduct you to your rooms. i should like to see you comfortably settled for the night." from his tone and manner he might have been taking us to fairyland; beds of rose-leaves; a palace fitted up with gold and silver, where jewels threw out magic rays upon a perfumed atmosphere. he swung back the great gates of the hospederia. we passed into an atmosphere dark, chilling, and certainly not perfumed. mysterious echoes died away in distant passages. the little monk lighted a lantern that stood ready in the corridor, and weird shadows immediately danced about. one's flesh began to creep, hair stood on end. in this huge building of a thousand rooms we were to spend a solitary night. it was appalling. as the monk led the way passages and staircases seemed endless: a labyrinth of bricks and mortar. should we survive it: or, surviving, find a way out again? [illustration: a few of the gipsies at montserrat.] at last our rooms. small candles were lighted that made darkness visible. we should manage to see the outline of the ghosts that appeared and no more. the little monk skipped away, wishing us pleasant dreams. pleasant dreams! never but once before--and that in the fair island of majorca--did we spend such a night of weird experiences. if we fell asleep for a moment our dreams were troubled. we awoke with a start, feeling the very thinnest veil separated us from the unseen. the corridors were full of mysterious sounds: our own particular room was full of sighs. ghostly hands seemed to pass within an inch of our face, freezing us with an icy cold wind that never came from arctic regions. once we were persuaded an unearthly form stood near us; to this day we think it. we were wide awake, and when we sat up it was still there. the form of a monk in cloak and cowl. a strange phosphoric light seemed to emanate from it, making it distinctly visible. the face was pale, sad and hopeless. large dark eyes were full of an agony of sorrow and disappointment. it was evidently the ghost of a monk who had repented his vows and learned too late that even a convent cell cannot bring peace to the soul. a strange thrill passed through us as we gazed, yet of fear or terrors we felt nothing. the sadness and beauty of the face held us spell-bound. we found courage to address it. "spirit of the dead and gone, wherefore art thou here? why wander in this unrest? can we do aught to ease thee of thy burden? will our earthly prayers and sympathy avail thee in thy land of shadows?" no doubt there was a slight suspicion of rhythm in the words that would have become h. c. rather than our more sober temperament; but they came of their own accord, and we did not wait to turn them into better prose. we listened and longed for a reply, but none came. nothing but a deep-drawn sigh more expressive of sorrow than all the words that ever were coined. the singular part of it was that whilst the apparition was visible, all the mysterious sounds and echoes in the passages ceased, and began again when it disappeared. as disappear it did. no word was spoken; no sign was made. for one instant a mad thought had passed through our brain that perhaps it was about to conduct us to some buried treasure: some aladdin's lamp, whose possession should make us richer than solomon, more powerful than the kings of the earth. but the strange light grew faint, the outlines shadowy, until all faded into thin air. the room was once more empty; and we held no treasure. it was a long and troubled night. rest we had none. yet next morning h. c.--whose poetical temperament should have made him susceptible to all these influences--informed us that he had slept the dreamless sleep of the just. he had heard and seen nothing. this seemed unfair, and was not an equal division of labour. before daylight we were up and ready for our pilgrimage. it required some courage to turn out, for the world was still wrapped in egyptian darkness. in the east as yet there was not the faintest glimmer of dawn. in the house itself a ghostly silence still reigned. apparently throughout the little settlement not a soul stirred. nevertheless it was the end of the night, and before we were ready to sally forth there were evidences of a waking world. we went down through the dark passages carrying a light, which flickered and flared and threw weird shadows around. we opened the door and passed out into the clear, cold morning. the stars still shone in the dark blue sky. through the gloom, passing out of the quadrangle, we discerned a mysterious figure approaching: a cowled monk with silent footstep. it was salvador, true to his word. "we are both punctual," he said, joining us. "i think the morning will be all we could desire." it had been arranged that breakfast should be ready at the restaurant. salvador had refused to dine with us, he did not refuse breakfast. the meal was taken by candle-light, and he added much to the romance of the scene as he threw back his cowl, his well-formed head and pale, refined face gaining softness and beauty in the subdued artificial light. salvador had the square forehead of the musician, but eyes and mouth showed a certain weakness of purpose, betraying a man easily influenced by those he cared for, or by a stronger will than his own. perhaps, after all, he had done wisely to withdraw from temptation. this morning his monkish reticence fell from him; he came out of his shell, and proved an agreeable companion with a great power to charm. once more for a short time he seemed to become a man of the world. "you make me feel as though i had returned to life," he said. "it is wonderful how our nature clings to us. i thought myself a monk, dead to all past thoughts and influences; i looked upon my old life as a dream: and here at the first touch i feel as though i could throw aside vows and breviary and cowl and follow you into the world. well for me perhaps that i have not the choice given me. why did you not leave me yesterday to my solitude and devotions, and pass on, as others have done? you are the first who ever stopped and spoke. to-day i feel almost as though i were longing once more for the pleasures of the world." [illustration: mons serratus in cloudland.] we knew it was only a momentary reaction. he had the musician's highly nervous and sensitive organisation. our meeting had awakened long dormant chords, memories of the past; but the effect would soon cease, and he would go back to his monkish life and world of melody, all the better and stronger for the momentary break in the monotony of his daily round. we did not linger over breakfast. at the door a mule stood ready saddled. this also went with us in case of need. h. c. and the monk were capable of all physical endurance. like don quixote they would have fought with windmills or slain their goliaths. nature had been less kindly to us, and the mule was necessary. it would be difficult to describe that glorious morning. when we first started, the path was still shrouded in darkness. we carried lighted lanterns, and miguel, following behind with the mule, looked a weird, picturesque object as he threw his gleams and shadows around. our path wound round the mountain, ever ascending. one by one the stars were going out; in the far east the faintest glimmer was creeping above the horizon. this gradually spread until darkness fled away and light broke. we were high up, approaching st. michael's chapel, when the sun rose and the sky suddenly seemed filled with glory. it was a scene beyond imagination. the vast world below us was shrouded in white mist. under the influence of the sun this gradually rolled away, curling about the mountain in every fantastic shape and form, and finally disappeared like a great sea sweeping itself from the earth. the whole vast plain lay before us. towns and villages unveiled themselves by magic. across the plains the pyrenees rose in flowing undulations, their snow-caps standing out against the blue sky. the winding river might be traced in its course by the thin line of vapour that hung over it like a white shroud. the whole catalonian world, all the sea coast from gerona to tarragona, came into view, with the blue waters of the mediterranean sleeping in the sunshine. in the far distance we thought we discerned our lovely and beloved majorca, and were afterwards told this was possible. all about us were deep, shuddering crevices, into which one scarcely gazed for horror. immense boulders jutted out on every hand; some of them seeming ready to fall and shake the earth to its centre. wild and barren rocks gave foothold to trees and undergrowth more beautiful than the most cultivated garden; nothing lovelier than the ferns and wildflowers that abounded. as the sun rose higher, warmth and brilliancy increased until the air was full of light. we breathed a magic atmosphere. "this is what i delight and revel in," cried salvador the monk. "this lifts me out of myself. it is one of the glories of spain, and makes me feel a new being with one foot on earth and one in heaven. can you wonder that i should like to inhabit yonder cave? day by day i should watch the sun rise and the sun set, all the hours between given to happiness and contemplation. as i look on at these effects of nature my soul seems to go out in a great apocalypse of melody. the air is filled with celestial music. yet no doubt our principal is right, and in the end the influence would not be good for me. i am a strange contradiction. there are moments when i feel that i could go back to the world and take my place and play my part in all its rush and excitement; other moments when i could welcome the solitude of the desert, the repose of the grave." it was almost impossible to turn away from the scene, undoubtedly one of the great panoramas of the world. here, indeed, we seemed to gaze upon all its kingdoms and glories. without the least desire to become hermits, we would willingly have spent days upon the mountain. as that could not be we presently commenced our long descent, winding about the mountain paths, gathering specimens of rare wildflowers, and gazing upon the world below. we made many a halt, rested in many a friendly and verdant nook, and took in many an impression never to be forgotten. on returning to the settlement we felt we had been to a new world where angels walked unseen. it was difficult to come back to the lower levels of life. we had quite an affection for our patient mule, that looked at us out of its gentle eyes as though it knew quite well the service rendered was as valued as it was freely given. salvador joined us at luncheon: we would not be denied. "it is a fast-day," he said; "how can i turn it into a feast?" "you are a traveller, and as such are permitted an indulgence." he smiled. "it is true," he returned. "i perceive that you know something of our rules." nevertheless he was abstemious almost to fasting. "and yet it has been indeed a feast compared with my daily food," he said when it was over. "now would you like to go into the church and have some music? my soul is full of the melody i heard on the mountain." so it happened that presently we were listening to such strains as we never shall hear again. once more we were lifted to paradise with melody that was more heavenly than earthly. again his very soul seemed passing out in music. had he gone on for hours we should never have moved. but it came to an end, and silence fell, and presently we had to say farewell. "i cannot say it," he cried in a voice slightly tremulous. "it has been a day of days to me, never to be repeated. another glimpse of the world, and a final leave-taking thereof. i will never again repeat this experience--unless you return and once more ask me to guide you up mons serratus." this was very improbable, and he knew it. he grasped our hand in silence, essayed to speak, but the farewell words died unuttered. then he silently turned, drew up his cowl and left us for ever. we watched him disappear within the shadows of the church, heard a distant door closed, and knew that in a moment he would have regained the solitude of his cell. we went back to the world. as we crossed the quadrangle the little lay brother who had first received us caught sight of and skipped towards us. "welcome to montserrat. i am most happy to see you," he cried. "so you have been to the top of the mountain to see the sun rise. and our good salvador has been your guide. he is lucky to get so many indulgences, but he deserves them. what would the school do without him?--lose half its pupils. and what would the convent do without the school?--starve. did you sleep comfortably in your beautiful rooms?" we thought it hardly worth while to relate our ghostly visitations, and left him with the impression that, like h. c., we had slept the sleep of the just. "and now you are going back to barcelona," he said. "well, there is nothing more to be seen. after looking upon the beautiful black virgin and sunrise from st. michael's chapel, you may depart in peace." and in peace we departed when the time came, wondering whether we should ever again look upon this little world and listen to the divine harmonies of salvador of montserrat. chapter xviii. a study in grey. manresa--tropical deluge--rash judgment--catalan hills and valleys--striking approach--taking time by the forelock--primitive inn--strange assembly--unpleasant alternative--sebastien--manresa under a cloud--wonderful outlines--disappointing church--sebastien leads the way--old-world streets--picturesque and pathetic--popular character--"what would you, señor?"--sebastien's biblical knowledge at fault--lesson deferred--a revelation--la seo--church cold and lifeless--cave of ignatius loyola--hermitage of st. dismas--juan chanones--fasting and penance--visions and revelations--spiritual warfare--eve of the annunciation--exchanging dresses--knight turns monk--juan pascual--loyola comes to manresa--fanaticism--vale of paradise--"spiritual exercises"--founding the jesuit order--dying to self--the fair anita--in the convent chapel--two novices--vision of angels--the white ladies--agonising moment--another romeo and juliet--back to the hotel--sebastien disconsolate--"to-morrow the sun will shine"--building castles in the air--a prophecy fulfilled. only a few miles from montserrat and within sight of some of its mountain peaks, you find the wonderful old town of manresa. thither we wended our way one gloomy morning. from the skies came a constant downpour of almost tropical rain. we were well sheltered and comfortably housed in barcelona, but h. c. declared joseph's friend was a true prophet after all, the rainy season had set in, and if we waited for the weather, we might wait for ever. acting upon this rash judgment we departed under lowering skies. water ran down the streets like small rivers, and the omnibus waded to the station. "such days have their beauty," said h. c. in his best artistic style. "the effect of atmosphere is very fine. and after all we are not made of sugar." "we need be to bear this infliction calmly," was the reply; a sarcasm lost upon h. c. who was diligently studying the clouds. the very train seemed to struggle against the elements as it made way through the catalan hills and valleys, and we certainly acknowledged a peculiar charm as we saw them half veiled through the mist and the rain that yet was distinctly depressing. on nearing manresa, it lightened a little: the clouds lifted and the rain ceased, but only for a short respite. nothing could be more striking than the approach to the old town. perched on a hill, outlined against the grey sky was the famous old cathedral, rising upwards like a vision. far down at the foot of the hill ran the rapid river, winding through the country between deep banks. a splendid old bridge added much to the impressive scene, about which there was a wildness that seemed very much in harmony with the grey and gloomy skies. as we crossed the bridge outside the railway station, a young man, well built, handsome, with a fresh colour and honest face, came up and offered to bring us a carriage or personally conduct us to the hotel. few people visit manresa; omnibuses are unknown, and carriages only come out when ordered. we chose to walk, in spite of the rain, which was coming down again with vengeance. the services of the guide were accepted, and we soon found that he filled the important office of general factotum to the hotel. "ah, señor," taking us into his confidence in the first five minutes, "if you would only petition the padrone in my favour and get him to promote me to the dining-room! as it is, i fetch and carry all day long and scarcely earn money enough to pay for the boots i wear out." we certainly thought no time was being lost in enlisting our sympathies, and mildly suggested the padrone might not thank us for meddling with his own affairs. the streets were very steep, stony and winding. water streamed from the houses and ran down the hills, and the place altogether looked very hope-forsaken, for it especially needed sunshine. yet in spite of all we found it very interesting, and its situation is so striking that it could never be otherwise. we waded on and thought the rain would never cease or the walk ever end. at last the inn, which would hardly have been found without our guide. he pointed to it with pride, but we could not rise to the sentiment. the entrance was small, and we soon found ourselves mounting a narrow wooden staircase which had neither the fashion of barcelona nor the dignity of gerona. the first landing opened to a long low room of many windows, looking old enough to have seen the birth and death of many a century. this was given over to the servants of the house, and the humbler folk whose rank entitled them to a place below the salt. they were seated at round tables--but certainly were not knights--in detachments of eight or ten, and their boisterous manners and loud voices kept us at a respectful distance, without any desire for a nearer approach. for ourselves, we had to go a stage higher in the world, represented by the second floor. here we found the quality at breakfast--the substantial mid-day meal: a worthy crew hardly a degree better than those we had just interviewed. they proved, indeed, the roughest specimens we had yet met in catalonia: an assemblage of small farmers, pedlars and horse-dealers. had the landlord added house-breakers to his list, one or two might have answered to the description. but as travelling, like adversity, makes us acquainted with strange companions, and we cannot always choose our types, we sat down to table with a good grace. the only alternative was to fast, a penance in which h. c. had no faith whatever. to-day this motley assemblage seemed peculiarly objectionable, without any of the redeeming points such people often have: honest, straightforward speech, directness of purpose and modesty of manner which are a certain substitute for cultivation, and atone for the want of breeding. nothing of this was perceptible to-day. the room like the one beneath was long and low, but lighted only by one window at the end, so that we were in a semi-obscurity still further increased by the weeping skies. a redeeming feature was the civility of the inn people, a fault their slowness. to make matters worse, the food was coarse and ill-served, and we had to pass almost everything. long before déjeuner came to an end we left them to it and went forth to explore. we had very little time to spare, having arranged not to spend the night in manresa: a lucky arrangement on our part, for picturesque and striking as the place really is, its resources are soon exhausted. a wet evening in such an inn would have landed one in the profoundest depths of melancholy. on leaving the table we found that for the moment the rain had ceased. our guide evidently thought it his duty to look after us, and no sooner caught sight of us as we passed downwards than he sprang up, leaving upon his plate a delicious piece of _black-pudding_. in vain we offered to wait whilst he finished his bonne-bouche. "you are very good, señor, but it is not necessary," he replied. "i am very fond of black-pudding, but this was my third helping, and really i have had enough." this seemed probable. "apparently the supply equals the demand," we said. "you must have a liberal master in the landlord of the inn." "yes, that is true," returned sebastien--for such he soon told us was his name. "but we only have black-pudding once a week, and we ought to have it twice. we are agitating for it now, and as the padrone knows the value of a good servant i expect we shall get it." sebastien would not leave us again and became our shadow, sublimely indifferent to the rain which every now and then came down in waterspouts. to this day we feel that we saw manresa under a cloud. it was a study in grey; and if we paid it another visit in sunshine we should probably not know it again. for this h. c. was responsible in preaching up his rainy season: the true fact being that the next day and for ever after we had blue skies and cloudless sunshine. manresa is rich in outlines. its church towers stand out conspicuously on the summit of the rock on whose slopes much of the town is built. on leaving the inn we saw before us one of the old churches standing in solemn repose, grey and silent above the houses. the interior proved uninteresting in spite of the nave, wide after the manner of the catalan churches. sebastien thought every moment spent here waste of time. "it is cold and ugly," he declared, constituting himself a judge--and perhaps not far wrong. "it makes me shiver. but when the altar is lighted up on a sunday evening, and the place is full of people, and the organ plays, and the priest gives the benediction, then it is passable." we felt inclined to agree with him, and wished we could see the effect of a benediction service, but as this was not possible we left the church to its silent gloom and shadows, sebastien cheerfully leading the way. [illustration: manresa.] the streets, decayed and old-world looking, had a wonderfully picturesque and pathetic element about them, and on a bright day would have been full of charm. a canal ran through one of them, spanned by a picturesque single-arch stone bridge. on each side the houses rose out of the water, reminding one of gerona or a venetian street; handsome, palatial, full of interesting detail; a multitude of balconies, many of rich wrought ironwork; many a gothic window with deep mullions; many an overhanging casement, from which you might have dropped into the running stream. waterspouts stood out like gargoyles, and slanting tiled roofs were full of colouring. towering above these rose a lovely church tower, splendid with gothic windows, rich ornamentation and an openwork parapet, with a small round turret at one corner. we stood long on the bridge, gazing at the wonderful scene, all its infinite detail and harmony of effect; the deep shadows reflected in the dark water which needed so much the blue sky and laughing sunshine. it was evident that sebastien could not understand what kept us spell-bound. he stood by in patience, now looking intently as though trying to learn what was passing in our minds, now directing his attention to the water and the houses, as though to guess the secret of their fascination. apparently he was hail-fellow-well-met with every one in the town--that dangerous element, a popular character; for not a creature passed us, man or woman, youth or maiden, but he had something to say to them. "you seem to know every one, sebastien," we remarked, as we took our kodak out of the case he had slung over his shoulder, in the wish to carry away with us some of these splendid outlines. "what would you, señor? the town is not large, the inhabitants do not change, and i was born and bred here. i am fond of company, and make friends with them all. i wanted to be a soldier and go out and see the world, but they said my sight was not strong enough, and they would not have me; so i turned to and took service in the hotel. i am comfortable enough, and just earn my living, without a trifle over for the old mother, but i don't see much prospect of rising unless i am promoted to the dining-room." "your eyes look quite strong," we said; large blue eyes, bright and clear, without a sign of weakness about them. [illustration: manresa from the river: morning.] "they are as strong as yours, señor--if i may say so without offence. i never could make out what they meant. sometimes i have thought my old mother was at the bottom of it, and because i was her only child, went to the authorities and begged them to spare me. i don't _know_ that she did, but i have my suspicions. one day i taxed her with it point-blank. she was very confused for a moment, and then told me not to be foolish--the authorities wouldn't pay attention to such as her, even if she had gone to them. i'm not so sure of that. it is well known the old mother has seen better days, and when she goes out dressed in her best, with her black lace mantilla over her head, which she has had ever since she was a young woman, why, she commands respect, and i can quite believe the authorities would listen to her." "why not try again with those eyes of yours?" we suggested. "you cannot be more than nineteen." "not more than nineteen!" returned sebastien, opening the said eyes very wide. "why, señor, i am twenty-three, going on for twenty-four. i know i look young, and do what i will i can't help it, and can't make myself look any older. i have tried hard to grow a moustache, but it is only just beginning to sprout." he laughed, and we laughed with him, for the down upon his upper lip was of the most elementary description. he looked youthful in every way, but we cheered him with the reflection that it was a fault time would inevitably rectify. "i have one consolation," he said. "at the fonda i get as much black-pudding as i want--once a week; in the army they don't give black-pudding at all. so if i have lost something, i have gained something too." "sebastien, we are ashamed of you! would you sacrifice your birthright for a mess of pottage?" "what does the señor mean?" asked sebastien, looking puzzled. "have you never heard of esau?" "never, señor. was he a spaniard or an englishman? and was he, too, fond of black-pudding?" it was impossible to help laughing; but we passed over the question, feeling that a course of bible history begun on the bridge would come to an untimely end. so we left him to his ignorance and his preference for black-pudding, passed away from the canal, the old bridge and ancient outlines, and climbed about the steep decayed streets. the rain poured through the water-spouts, and every now and then we came in for an unwelcome shower-bath. this highly amused sebastien, who never enjoyed the fun more than when he himself was victim. suddenly we found ourselves confronted by one of those views which come upon one as a revelation of what nature sometimes accomplishes. we had seen nothing equal to it, nothing to resemble it since the days of segovia. in sunshine the likeness might have been still more striking. we had passed by a steep descent into the lower part of the town and stood upon the hill side. to our right rose the great collegiate church of la seo, crowning a massive and majestic rock. houses stretched far down the slopes, and the church rose above them in magnificent outlines. it was built of yellow greystone that harmonised wonderfully with the grey skies. for the time being these had ceased to weep, and everything was bathed in a thin mist, which rolled and curled about and threw a wonderful romance and glamour over the scene, especially refining and beautifying. still below us, on the left, ran the broad river, with its dark, almost blood-red waters flowing swiftly under the high, picturesque bridge. we traced its winding course between deep banks far out into the country; just as we had traced it from the heights of montserrat, not far off as the eagle flew. here too everything was veiled in a thin mist. the rock on which the church stood consisted of a series of hollows, where grew lovely hanging gardens and flowering trees. the church with its striking outlines looked massive enough to defy the ages. it was of the true fourteenth century catalan type, and took the place of a church that had existed here in the tenth century. its buttresses are especially large and prominent. the lofty tower stands over the north aisle. four arched stone ribs crown the steeple, within which a bell is suspended. a fine romanesque doorway leads into the modern uninteresting cloister. other fine doorways lead into the interior of the church. its great size, high and wide, is impressive, but the details are trivial. the capitals of the enormous octagonal columns are poor, and the arches they support, thin and almost contemptible, take immensely from the general effect. here also, there was no need to remain long. with the charms of barcelona cathedral lingering in the mind as a dream and a world's wonder, the collegiate church of manresa, with all its loftiness and expanse, was cold and lifeless, without sense of beauty or devotion. in its striking situation lies the chief merit of the town. [illustration: manresa from the hill-side: evening.] we went down the banks, stood on the shallows and watched the deep red waters rushing through the bridge. beyond it was a slight fall over which the waters poured in a crimson stream. near the bridge stood a large, ancient crucifix. on the farther bank of the river rose the outlines of the cave of ignatius loyola. above the cave has now been built a great church, and the cave itself, reached by a short passage in its north-east corner, has been turned into a votive chapel, to which pilgrims flock at stated times. manresa is of course for ever associated with the name of loyola. he had been staying some time at the monastery of montserrat, preparing his mind for the great change he intended to make in his life. as he wandered about the mountain in his cavalier's dress, he must have looked far more fitted to lead an army than to become a member of the church militant. one of his most frequent visits was to the hermitage of st. dismas, high up amongst the rocks. here dwelt a saintly priest, juan chanones, who gave loyola much holy counsel. it must needs be that loyola earnestly weighed the cost of what he contemplated; impossible but there were moments when the tempter placed before him in the strongest colours imaginable the allurements of the life he was renouncing. when the final die was cast there must be no turning back, no lingering regrets. loyola was one of the last men to be vacillating or lukewarm; with him it was ever one thing or the other; and so in the quiet monastery, far out of the world, he considered well his decision. chanones was the very man for such a crisis. the hermit was one who imposed upon himself every possible penance. he fasted, wore a hair shirt, and spent many hours of the twenty-four in long prayers and devotions. loyola had begun by confessing to him the whole of his past life, and confiding his hopes and aspirations for the future: how he wished to become a monk and devote his days to religion. he was already a mystic, full of ecstasies, seeing visions and dreaming dreams. chanones strengthened his resolutions and fired him yet more with the spirit of mysticism. under his influence, the night before leaving the monastery he hung up his sword and dagger beside the image of the virgin as a sort of votive offering, declaring that henceforth he had done with the world and with wars. his only warfare should be spiritual: fighting against the powers of darkness and the influence of evil. he spent the whole night in prayer before the altar; where according to his mystic moods, visions and revelations had been vouchsafed to him. but earlier in the evening a slight event had happened. it was the eve of the annunciation, in the year . loyola had come down from the hermit's cave dressed in the rich garb of a cavalier which as yet he had not thrown off. in the hospederia of the monastery were many poor pilgrims; beggars dressed in rags. meeting one of these, loyola persuaded him to exchange his rags for his own splendid dress. disguised in his sackcloth gown and girdle, few would have recognised the once magnificent knight. his head, accustomed to a helmet, was now bare. his left foot was unshod, on his right he wore a sandal of grass. he was lame from that wound in his leg which had been the turning-point of his career. never perfectly healed, of late it had become inflamed and painful. in this garb he spent his last night at montserrat. next morning he went forth at daybreak with a few companions, one of whom was juan pascual. they had not proceeded many miles before they were overtaken by a hasty messenger who asked loyola if it was he who had presented a beggar with the rich dress of a cavalier. the story had been doubted and the man put into confinement. loyola declared that it was true, lamented the trouble he had brought upon the beggar, and prayed he might be liberated; adding that he had made the exchange from motives of penance and religion, as well as disguise. the messenger returned to the convent, and the little band of pilgrims continued on their way. they journeyed slowly, but the distance was not great. at noon they were overtaken by the mother of pascual, who in company with others, was returning from celebrating the feast of the annunciation at montserrat. this lady, inez, directed him to the hospital of santa lucia, where he would obtain relief for his leg, which threatened to become troublesome if not dangerous. inez quickly discovered that loyola was no ordinary pilgrim, and supplied him with food from her own table during the five days he remained in the hospital. the day after his arrival he went up to the great church of la seo, and remained in prayer for five hours, seeking direction for his movements. at the end of five days he left the hospital for a room found him by inez. here he at once adopted that spirit of fasting and penance which knew no moderation and with him became fanaticism. the food sent by inez he gave away, and lived upon black bread and water. he constantly went bare-headed and bare-footed, wore a hair shirt like chanones, and occasionally added to his sufferings by putting on a girdle made of the leaves of the prickly gladiole. he neglected himself in every way, never cutting his nails or combing his hair and beard; so that he who had once been the most fastidious of cavaliers now became a byword to those who met him and gazed in contempt and derision. he spent much time at the hospital nursing the sick, devoting himself to the most forbidding cases. this life continued for four months, and then he withdrew to the cave which he declared had been miraculously revealed to him. it overlooked a valley called by the people the vale of paradise, and its existence was known to few. the cave was dark and small and belonged to a friend of loyola's who lived to be a century old. here he existed in great seclusion, spending seven hours of every day in prayer, and often remaining on his knees all night. it was here that he chiefly composed his "spiritual exercises," which contain so much beauty and devotion. here also came to him the first idea of the order of jesus, which he afterwards founded. but it must be remarked that the jesuit society as framed by ignatius loyola was a more simple and unworldy institution than it afterwards became. his own rules seem to have been very pure and without guile or worldly ambition; his mind embraced only heaven and the things which concerned heaven. if loyola were to return to earth, he would be the first to condemn many of its principles and practices and to say: "these are none of mine." that he became spiritual as perhaps has been given to few cannot be doubted by any one who had read his writings and studied his life. we of another creed cannot be in touch with him on many points, but all must profoundly admire his absolute death to self, the perfect resignation of all his thoughts and wishes to the divine guidance. in manresa, we have said that his penances amounted to fanaticism. his prayers and fastings so weakened the body, that frequently for hours and sometimes for days he would lose consciousness, and fall into death-like swoons. he retired to his cave and was tormented by a morbid recollection of his past sins. for many months he was filled with horror and knew nothing of peace of mind or spiritual consolation. he was haunted by terrible voices and visions; and it was only after body and soul had, as it were, been torn asunder, and he had gone through all the agonies of a living spiritual death, that at last peace and light, the certainty of pardon and the divine favour, came to him. after that his past life seems to have been placed behind him and knew him no more. he became a teacher of men; a great spiritual healer in whom the heavy-laden found comfort and encouragement; a profound reader of the human heart, to which he never ministered in vain. perhaps one of his greatest weapons was humility, by which he placed himself on a level with all who came to him, and which enabled him to apply in the right way all the deep and earnest sympathy that was in him. his visions, the voices he heard, the so-called miracles he witnessed, were no doubt delusions due to the highly wrought imagination and ecstatic state of the mystic; but with loyola they did not end here. they bore fruit. he was practical as well as theoretical: and dead as he became to self, a little of the sensible, matter-of-fact discipline of his early training must have clung to him to the last. his after life was full of activity and action. it would be difficult to say where he did not go, what countries he did not visit with practical issues, in days when men could not easily run to and fro on the earth as they do now. loyola died as he had lived, full of faith and hope. he had caught the malarial fever in rome, and was not strong enough to fight against it. in august, , the end came, when he was sixty-five years old; but in everything except years he might have gone through a century of time. his physical powers were worn out with hard work and abstinence; and perhaps the greatest miracle in connection with ignatius loyola was the fact that he lived long after the vital forces should have ceased to hold together. after his death the doctors found it impossible to discover what power had kept him alive during his later years, but agreed that it was nothing less than supernatural. thus manresa is for ever connected with the name and fame of ignatius loyola the saint. * * * * * crossing the bridge and winding through a very ancient and dilapidated part of the town, we presently reached the church, which struck us as being new and gaudy, with very little to recommend it. but we had come to see what had once been the cave, and wished we could have found it in its original state. certainly the saint himself would never recognise it as the old earthy cavern, nine feet by six, whose mouth was concealed by brier bushes, and where he was wont to pass long days and nights in prayer and penance. the walls are now lined with marble; a light burns before the altar; some poor sculpture represents loyola writing his book and performing his first miracle. the view from his cave must have been magnificent even in his day. there in front of him ran the famous river, and there stood the old bridge. beyond it rose the rock with its hollows and gardens; and towering above were the splendid outlines of the collegiate church. beyond all in the distance rose the chain of the pyrenees, undulating and snow-capped; whilst in one distant spot, standing alone, cleaving the sky with their sharp outlines, appeared the peaks and pinnacles of mons serratus; the monastery resting half way down on its plateau, far more beautiful and perfect than it is to-day. upon this the hermit loyola--as he might at that time be called--would fix his eyes for hours day after day, seeking inspiration for his "exercises," perhaps occasionally dreaming of the days when he still wore his cavalier's dress, and had not yet renounced all the pomps and vanities of the world. but as we have said, he was not a man of two minds; having put his hand to the plough, as far as we know he never turned back even with the faintest regret or longing for the pleasures deliberately placed from him. sebastien our guide was evidently a good catholic, having a great reverence for loyola, with whom he was more familiar than with esau. he watched us narrowly as we entered the chapel, and was evidently disappointed at the little impression made upon us: expecting a drop-down-deadness of manner, when we stood before the effigy of the saint, which unfortunately only excited a feeling of irritation at the badness of its workmanship. so we were not sorry to find ourselves once more under the skies, dark and lowering though they were. here indeed the magnificent view, the splendid outlines of manresa, all slightly veiled in that charming mist, might well appeal to all one's sense of the beautiful and the sublime, and raise emotions the poor votive chapel could never inspire. as we went back into the town, for the moment it seemed very much haunted by the presence of loyola. passing a picturesque little house in the centre of a small garden, sebastien suddenly stopped in front of it and gave a peculiar call, whilst a flush of expectation rose to his face. surprised at the movement we waited for the sequel. this quickly followed in the opening of a casement, at which appeared the charming head of a young woman. "sebastien!" she cried, clasping her hands in ecstasy. "have you come to see me?" "yes, since i see you now," returned sebastien. "but i cannot come in, anita. i am guiding these gentlemen through the town, and have to show them everything; they would be lost without me. we have just been to the chapel of the saint, where i said a short prayer for our speedy marriage. ah! when will it be?" "patience, patience!" cried the fair anita. "i am getting on well, and you must make el padrone advance you to the dining-room. oh, it will all come right. then we are both young and can afford to wait." we thought it a pity so interesting a conversation should be carried on in a public thoroughfare, and at a tantalising distance, and offered sebastien five minutes' interval if he liked to go in and pay his respects to his ladye-love. but he declined, and wafting a warm salute to the fair vision of the casement, intimated he was again at our service. "she is the sweetest girl in manresa," said sebastien quite openly, "and i am a lucky fellow to have won her. unfortunately we are both poor. but anita is with a dressmaker, and will soon be able to start on her own account: we shall not have much difficulty in getting on, if the padrone will only advance me--as indeed i deserve." we congratulated sebastien upon his good fortune and wished him promotion and success: and looking at his straight-forward open face, so singularly free from guile, we thought the fair anita was by no means to be condoled with, however humble their prospects. then we made way into the upper part of the town, and presently sebastien turned into a chapel attached to a convent. it was a small building of no pretension, but with a marvellous repose and quietness about it. a screen divided the body of the church from the altar, and immediately before the altar, separated from us by the screen, was a strange and striking vision. two young girls who might have been some eighteen years old, knelt side by side at the foot of the steps, motionless as carven images and dressed in white. their veils were thrown back, but their faces, turned towards the altar, were invisible. their posture was full of grace, and their dress, whether by accident or design, was becomingly arranged and fell in artistic folds. all the time we looked they moved neither hand nor foot, and might have been, as we have said, carved in stone. we almost felt as though gazing upon a vision of angels, so wonderfully did the light fall upon them as they knelt: whilst in the body of the church we were in semi-obscurity. presently a bell tinkled, a side door opened, and two other young girls very much of the same age and dressed in exactly the same way, entered. the two at the altar rose, made deep, graceful curtsies, and veiling their faces, passed out of the chapel. those who entered at once threw back their veils. in the obscurity we were not observed. we had full view of their charming faces, far too charming to become the nuns for which sebastien said they were qualifying. "they are white ladies," he whispered, "and very soon will be cloistered and never see the world again. it is enough to break one's heart." "you don't approve, sebastien?" "ah, señor, i shudder at the thought. it occurs to me what a terrible thing it would be if anita were to turn nun instead of becoming my happy wife--at least i shall do all i can to make her happy. but these poor girls--think for a moment of the humdrum life they are taking up; nothing to look forward to; no change, no pleasure of any sort. they might as well be buried alive at once and put out of their misery." as the door opened to admit the two novices--if novices they were--we had caught sight of others in the passage; some eight or ten, as we fancied. an elderly nun, equally dressed in white, was going amongst them, almost, as it seemed, in the act of benediction. she was evidently counselling, encouraging, fortifying those to whom she ministered. one might have thought that passing through that doorway was renouncing an old life and taking up a new one; an irrevocable step and choice from which there was no recall and no turning back. h. c. was taken with a lump in his throat as the young fair women unveiled and moved towards the altar. one of them was certainly very beautiful. large wistful blue eyes stood out in contrast with the ivory pallor of her oval face, than which the spotless veil was not more pure and chaste. it was too much for h. c.'s equanimity. he coughed and betrayed himself. she turned hurriedly; and seeing a face that corresponded to her own in pallor, and eyes that were quite as wistful, gave him an appealing, imploring glance which seemed to say that she would be saved from her present fate. for an instant we trembled. the case was so hopeless. there was the dividing screen. there was the nun on guard beyond the closed door. there was the drenching rain outside. an escape in a deluge would not have been romantic--and where could they escape to? it was one of those agonising moments of helplessness that sometimes drive men insane. h. c. grasped the screen. there was an instant when we thought he would have torn it down come what might. he looked reckless and desperate and miserable. then we placed our hand on his arm as we had done that night at the opera in gerona, and he calmed down. we turned to leave the chapel. as we did so, a louder bell rang out, the door opened, and in walked the mother-superior at the head of her little army of novices. they quickly grouped themselves round the altar, moved in utter silence like phantoms and subsided into graceful attitudes, apparently absorbed in devotion. the sight was as charming as it was painful: for who could say how many of these young girls were voluntarily renouncing the world, or in the least realised what they were doing? before passing out we gave a last look at this angelic vision. quiet as we were we did not move exactly like phantoms. the meaning of our slight stir penetrated beyond the screen. it was too great a temptation for the fair young novice we have described. she felt that her last hope was dissolving, and she turned towards h. c. with a gaze that would have moved a stone. fortunately his eyes were buried in his handkerchief, or it is certain that we should never have left the chapel in the state in which we found it. the screen would have gone; the mother-superior defied, there would have been rout and consternation, the alarm bell rung, and perhaps--who knows?--a priest would have appeared upon the scene and married this romantic romeo and juliet. the novices would have turned into bridesmaids, and the mother-superior have given away her spiritual daughter. a lovely transformation scene indeed! slighter currents have before now changed the course of nations. the door closed upon us without tragic event or catastrophe. through the deluge we waded to the hotel. the long dining-room was now empty. the waiter brought us coffee and cognac, ordered to restore h. c.'s nervous system; we paid our bill, which was by no means as modest as the pretensions of the inn; and under the faithful and unfailing pilotage of sebastien, departed for the railway station. the poor fellow looked melancholy. "oh, señor, i wish you were going to stay a week," he cried. "i did hope you would be here for at least four days." "the fates forbid!"--horrified at the bare thought. "a week here in such weather would make one desperate, sebastien. remember that we have no fair anita to turn all our thistles to roses, dull streets into a paradise." sebastien sighed. "to-morrow the sun will shine, señor. you would not know manresa again under a blue sky." "but our poet friend declares the rainy season has begun. this deluge is to last many days, if not weeks, sebastien." "it is a mistake," said sebastien. "we have no rainy season. you will see that to-morrow there will be no rain, no clouds. then if you had stayed, i am sure you would have spoken to the padrone for me, and got him to promote me to the dining-room. and then we could have been married." sebastien, like everyone else, was building his castles and dreaming his dreams; and it certainly caused us a slight regret that we could not help to lay them on a solid foundation. all we could do was to give him our best wishes, and tell him that if sufficiently earnest and persevering he would certainly gain the desire of his heart. it only depended on himself. this prophecy seemed to inspire him with hope and courage; and our last reminiscence of manresa was that of a young man, strong, handsome, fresh coloured, standing hat in hand on the platform, and begging us "with tears in his voice" to stay at least two days in manresa the next time we passed that way and formally petition the landlord in a deputation of one for his promotion.[b] chapter xix. lerida. picturesque country--approaching lerida--rambling inn--remarkable duenna--toothless and voiceless--smiles upon h. c.--nearly expires--civilised chef--a procession--lerida dragon--city of the dead--night study--charging dead walls--a night encounter--armed demon--wise people--watchman proves an old friend--no promotion--locked out--rousing the echoes--night porter appears on the scene--also el sereno--apologetic and repentant--the charming rose--porter congratulates himself--cloudless morning--h. c. confronted by the dragon--in the hands of the philistines--a lerida fine art--boot-cleaner in ordinary--remarkable character--h. c. hilarious--steals a march. no sooner had we left manresa than the rain ceased, and though the sky remained grey, the clouds lifted. as far as cervera the country we passed through was evidently picturesque, and only wanted the contrast of sun and shade to make it charming. conspicuous amidst the landscape for many and many a long mile was the wonderful mountain of montserrat with its peaks and pinnacles, about which the white mists still rolled and wrapped themselves. the scenery was diversified by many a wide ravine, where tangled bushes grew over the hard rock; many a fertile vale rich in fruit trees, pines, olives, oak and cork trees, intermixed their various shades of green. beyond cervera, the country was cold and barren and abounded in rock-strewn plains, to which the grey skies gave a still more sad and sombre tone. we approached lerida when the shades of night were falling, and could just discern its grand outlines rising out of the great plain. these seemed to yield in interest only to manresa, whilst the town itself proved far more attractive. we found the place sufficiently civilised to possess an omnibus, which transported us bag and baggage to the hotel. the long straight thoroughfare in which we found ourselves looked in the darkening night like the fag end of a village, unfinished and unpaved; almost like the street of some far away colonial settlement. it was wide and lined with trees, and beyond the trees on one side, a row of large houses; amongst them our inn; a rambling, cheerless sort of building, too new to be peopled with ghosts or distinguished by artistic outlines. anything more opposite to the ghostly element could not be imagined. still, in spite of frightful drawbacks it was some degrees better than manresa. we were conducted by a curious but amiable duenna to a large lofty sitting room with a bedroom opening on each side: evidently the state apartments. the place looked empty and neglected, and our candles hardly lighted the obscurity. the electric bells were all broken, and we soon found that if we rang till doomsday no one appeared. our duenna was toothless and apparently voiceless, for when she opened her capacious mouth and began to talk, no sound came forth. the mouth worked up and down in absolute silence, and the effect was creepy and peculiar. it almost felt as though a mummy had been galvanised into life minus the voice. her costume had nothing redeeming about it. an impromptu turban placed over a shock head of hair, petticoats of the shortest, revealing feet and ankles that would have supported a substantial dutch vrouw. we afterwards found she was the laundress of the establishment, and this was the costume in which she presided at the wash-tub. she smiled sweetly upon h. c. and her face looked like a huge, amiable cavern. with an imagination full of the lovely face of that young novice in manresa, he shuddered, dropped into the furthest chair, and begged us to complete the arrangements without him. there was nothing to arrange, and the dragon soon withdrew with her cavernous smiles and voiceless words. then from a distant corner we heard an anxious murmur: "what about dinner?" h. c.. had not expired; the dragon had evidently not frightened away all earthly desires. fortunately dinner was forthcoming, though when we had finally settled down and removed the stains of travel, and h. c. had recovered his nerves, the night was growing apace. we plunged into wide passages, and after half a dozen wrong turnings at length found ourselves in the dining-room, large, lofty and well lighted. the chef sent up a civilised bill of fare, and the landlord himself waited upon us; whilst under the influence of fortifying dishes and refined wines the charms of the manresa novice faded into the background, and h. c. felt almost equal to challenging the lerida dragon to single combat as a libel upon her sex. we were conducted back to our rooms by quite a procession, including the thin landlord and imposing landlady, headed by the dragon bearing a flambeau. once on our balcony, we found the night had changed for the better. clouds had disappeared, stars shone, the trees before us were rustling gently in the wind, calmness and repose had fallen upon the world. it was past ten o'clock; the place seemed still and deserted as a city of the dead; not a sound broke the silence as we went forth for a night-study of lerida. it was intensely dark. here and there an oil lamp glimmered, making darkness visible. presently we found ourselves on the bridge, looking down upon the waters of the river that runs so closely to the town as to reflect its outlines. to-night it was too dark to reflect anything, excepting here and there a faint track of light thrown by a distant star. the surface was not disturbed by any sort of craft. to the right rose the houses of the town, and above them faint and shadowy against the night sky, the outlines of the wonderful old cathedral, perched on its rock feet above the town itself. we tried to reach it, climbing and stumbling up the narrow ill-paved thoroughfares, that seemed to wind and twist about like the contortions of a snake. the darkness might be felt. there was not a solitary light to guide our feet, and every now and then we found ourselves charging a dead wall as don quixote charged the windmills. once h. c. plunged against the door of a low cottage, and before he could turn round there rushed out a demon in light attire with a torrent of hard words and a blunderbuss-sort of weapon. fortunately for h. c. a dog also rushed out at the moment between the man's legs, bringing him to the ground, where he and his blunderbuss lay motionless. all the dogs in the neighbourhood set up a howl and a bark, and the place was fast turning to pandemonium. we were evidently on dangerous ground, where strangers were not expected and made welcome; doors opened above us and voices inquired who passed that way so late. our lives were in jeopardy amongst these wild catalonians, howbeit they have not the sword-and-dagger temperament of the more impulsive spaniards. we had fallen amongst thieves. discretion being the better part of valour, we glided back like phantoms, passing safely through the ranks of the enemy, and found ourselves on the great square which is the market-place, and where we breathed freely. no one followed in pursuit. it seemed as though, their own territories abandoned, they cared nothing what became of intruders. presently the dogs ceased to bark, silence once more fell upon the night. we hoped our friend of the blunderbuss had not been seriously wounded, but under the circumstances it was impossible to make anxious inquiries. it was difficult to get even a faint impression of the town. here and there we caught a vision of promising arcades, and apparently ancient outlines of houses and gabled roofs, but everything was in tenebrous gloom. hardly a single window reflected the faintest ray; the streets were deserted. only from a solitary café came forth, as we passed, a small band of some half dozen men, who quietly went up a side street and disappeared. it was only a little past eleven, but the people of lerida are wise and know nothing of midnight oil, wasting energies, and burning the candle at both ends. "we are doing no good," said h. c. whose head had been rather damaged by coming in contact with doors and walls in the narrow lane. "i think it would be as well to follow the example of these people and retire, reserving our energies for to-morrow. in this darkness we might charge another cottage door without a friendly dog to deliver us from a murderous blunderbuss." so we turned back in the long narrow street of which lerida seemed chiefly composed, and presently found ourselves in the broad hotel avenue. in the very centre of it was an old watchman with his staff and lantern. he threw his light upon us as we approached, then gave a "buenas noches" and turned down the spear of his staff in friendly token. we thought we recognised both face and voice. where had we met? "you are late, gentlemen. it grows towards midnight. in a few minutes i must call the hour and the weather. the people of lerida are even earlier than those of burgos, where i was watchman until six months ago." then the mystery was solved. this was the very old watchman who had piloted us to the hotel the night we had lost ourselves in that most uncomfortable of spanish towns, with the worst of spanish inns. "have you forgotten us?" we asked. "do you not remember taking two strangers through the streets of burgos more than a year ago, and seeing them safely to their door?" the watchman put down his lantern deliberately and struck the ground with his spear. "is it possible, señor! santa maria! a plague upon memory and eyesight! but the night is dark, and my lantern burns dim. indeed i remember it well. can i ever forget your largesse on that occasion? i have often wondered how you fared in spain and whither you wandered. often wished i might meet you again." "but what brings you here? surely burgos is more important than lerida, and you have progressed backwards. this hardly looks like promotion." "oh, señor, there is no promotion for us poor watchmen. one town is much as another. i earn as much in lerida as i did in burgos, and the saints know either pays little enough." "were you, then, sent here for any special reason?" "a reason of my own, señor. my wife's old parents live here and she wanted to be near them; so i petitioned to come here and it was granted. on the whole i am better off than in burgos." after some further conversations, and with a substantial remembrance for auld lang syne, we left the old watchman and turned for our hotel. we soon felt almost as lost as in that past time at burgos. the houses were all exactly alike. every light was out, every door closed. there was no especial lamp to indicate which was the inn, and we could discover neither sign nor name. at last in the darkness we managed to trace on a lamp, in small characters, the words _fonda de españa_. the great door beneath was shut, like every other door; but there was a ponderous knocker, to which we directed our energies. it was all in vain, for no one responded. knock after knock brought forth no result. the echoes we roused in the avenue were enough to wake the dead. our watchman had gone to the far end, and by the gleam of his lamp we saw him turn and hasten. the habitable part of the inn was upstairs, a league of passages separated it from the outer door. if everyone was in bed and asleep, we might knock away until daybreak. we were growing concerned, when just as our old friend the watchman arrived upon the scene, up rushed another functionary in breathless agitation: the night porter of the hotel, and he carried great keys in his hand. "a thousand pardons, gentlemen," he began, as far as want of breath would allow him. "i did not know any one was out and went for a short walk just to breathe the midnight air and contemplate the stars. i heard you knocking when quite a mile away. you have indeed the strength of hercules. and there is also something peculiar in this knocker. you may hear it all over the town, but cannot hear it in the hotel unless you are in the porter's lodge. it has been said the house is bewitched, and i think it; for once, when the bishop breakfasted here, as soon as he entered the doors a loud report was heard and the place trembled, just as if some evil spirit were frightened and had departed in a flash of lightning. if you only knew how i ran when i heard the knocker, you would pity me." "i guessed what was up," said our watchman, "but waited, thinking you would be sure to arrive. contemplating the stars with you, juan, means taking an extra glass or two at your favourite bodega. you are too fond of leaving your post, and one of these days your post will leave you." [illustration: arcades: lerida] this we thought highly probable, but the porter merely shrugged his shoulders, intimating that if he lost one place another would turn up. he applied one of the great keys to the lock, and the great door rolled open. we passed into a dark vaulted passage which rather reminded us of the gloomy entrance to the hospederia at montserrat. upstairs every one had gone to bed, and they had not even left us a light. but for the night porter we might have sat all night upon chairs. when the candles threw out a faint illumination, h. c. looked round shudderingly as though he expected to see the dragon lurking in some corner. we had found out that this extraordinary creature rejoiced in the charming name of _rose_, and mentioned the name aloud. "rose," said the night porter, "that is my wife. she is not a beauty, señor, but she can't scold--she has no voice. when i see other good-looking wives rating their husbands i say to myself, 'ah ha, my fine fellow! after all beauty is only skin-deep. i wouldn't exchange my peace of mind for all your handsome wives put together.' i married her because she had no voice and also earns good wages. but though she is voiceless by day, she snores by night, and really becomes quite musical. it is a singular contradiction, but nature is freaky." he marshalled us to our rooms, a candle in each hand, striding along with great dignity and evidently thinking that he was the life and soul of the establishment. putting the candles on the sitting-room table, he backed towards the door, made a low bow, once more apologised for being absent without leave and keeping us beating a midnight tattoo, and begged as a favour that we would not mention the circumstance to the landlord. this we readily promised, and as it was utterly impossible to maintain any sort of gravity on the occasion, the night porter, wishing us refreshing slumbers, departed in great peace of mind--probably to resume his devotions at the untimely bodega. we heard his receding footsteps, and the house sank into repose. the next morning there was not a cloud in the sky. our study in grey had given place to more positive tones. h. c.'s rainy season had been a pure effort of the imagination. sebastien was right after all, and in sheer gratitude we sat down and wrote an epistle to his master that would have moved a heart of stone. we represented in glowing colours the happiness of the young pair that a word from him could make or mar; enlarged upon the moral question of conferring pleasure where it was possible, and wound up with a rash assertion, almost an undertaking, that sebastien would prove a tower of strength to the well-being of the hotel. the result has been recorded. we rose early. with that glorious sun shining, who could waste moments in sleep? presently we heard a sort of alarmed shout from h. c., and on going into the sitting-room, and asking how he had slept, found him pale, agitated, and confronted by the dragon. she looked if anything more terrible than last night. her cavernous mouth was wide open, but no sound came forth, though her capacious jaws moved up and down and her eyes rolled in a fine frenzy. her sleeves were tucked up above the elbow, revealing a muscular arm that would not have disgraced a prize-fighter. she was evidently primed for another field day at the wash-tub. when we went in she was smiling sweetly upon h. c. "what does it all mean?" we asked. "surely you have not been offering to elope with the dragon?" "i simply want my boots," said h. c. unromantically. "i rang away at the bell just as we knocked at the door last night, and with the same result. the place _must_ be bewitched. then i opened the door and clapped my hands, and the dragon suddenly sprang out upon me from a dark cupboard close by, right into my very arms. i nearly had a fit of convulsions. and now when i ask for my boots all she does is to mouth and shake her head. what's to be done? is it a plot to keep us here? have we fallen into the hands of the philistines?" being in a more advanced stage of toilet than h. c., we marched forth in search of the landlord on what we hoped would not prove a bootless errand. he was in his counting-house counting out his money--and arranging his dinners. on making anxious inquiries we discovered that in lerida boot-cleaning was considered one of the fine arts. there was a boot-cleaner in ordinary to the town, who took the inns in turn and was paid according to his work. people had to wait his pleasure. that morning he had not yet arrived; we had risen early. fortunately he appeared at the moment: an old, grey-bearded man with a fine presence, who looked almost past boot-cleaning or any other occupation. we found him quite above his humble employment. he was a frenchman by birth, but had lived in spain for nearly seventy years--was now verging on ninety, and his old wife, he told us, was eighty-seven, and two years ago had gone blind. he had not forgotten his native language, which he still spoke very purely. in his last days he was supporting himself and his old wife by cleaning boots. it was the custom of the town. the hotels would do anything for you but clean boots. as far as he was concerned he just managed to keep the wolf from the door, and that after all was all they wanted. he went off to his task, and returning to h. c. we found a change had come over the spirit of his dream. he sat hilarious and comforted before an empty tray of rolls and coffee, our own share as well as his having disappeared, whilst the dragon had departed to adorn other realms. in due time the old man arrived with his boots, was duly paid for his work, and we presently found ourselves under the blue skies of lerida. chapter xx. the story of a life. lerida by daylight--second city in catalonia--past history--days of the goths--and moors--becomes a bishopric--troublous times--brave people--striking cathedral--splendid outlines--desecration--the new cathedral--senseless tyranny--one of the most interesting of towns--crowded market-place--picturesque arcades and ancient gateways--wine-pressers--good offer refused--another revelation--wonderful streets--amongst the immortals--our boot-cleaner in ordinary again--thereby hangs a tale--his story--blind wife--modest request--nerissa--charming room--little queen in the arm-chair--faultless picture--renouncements but no regrets--"all a new world"--time to pass out of life--back to the quiet streets--h. c. contemplative--proposes emigration to salt lake city--lerida glorified by its idyll. a greater contrast than lerida in the morning and lerida at midnight could not be imagined. last night had by no means prepared us for the charms of to-day. little as one hears of it, it is the second city in catalonia, with an historical and eventful past that has submitted to constant wars and sieges. in the far-off days it was occupied by the romans, and the present bridge is built on roman foundations. it was held by pompey in the first century b.c. and these were unsettled times for ilerda, as it was then called. in very early days it became a university town, but so little esteemed that the students of rome were sent here when rusticated. as the centuries rolled on it grew in favour, though the trail of the rusticated romans must have remained upon it, for two of its most famous students were vicenti ferrer the inquisitor and calixtus iii. the wicked pope. the goths had much to do with lerida, and in it became a bishopric. it fell under the influence of the moors, but was destroyed by the french at the end of the eighth century. for the next years little is heard of lerida; but in it was restored by ramon berenguer, and quickly became popular and important. in the seventeenth century during the great catalonian revolt, lerida chose louis xiii. for king; upon which philip iv. came down upon them and defeated la mothe, causing him to raise the siege. four years afterwards, in , the french again tried to take it but were again defeated. the grand condé opened another siege, and caused a number of violins to play before the town to encourage his soldiers. but this also had the effect of encouraging brave gregorio brito, the portuguese governor, who sallied forth with his army, silenced the fiddlers and put the french to the rout. in the war of succession lerida was again besieged by the french, who behaved with great treachery and cruelly sacked the town after capitulation. retaliation came in , when stanhope routed philip v. at almenara. the french fled before the english bayonets, and philip himself, in these early days of his long reign, nearly lost his life. he would have been spared many troubles. a little later on, in , during the peninsular war, it was taken by suchet, and the inhabitants men, women and children were so cruelly treated that the governor, unable to bear the sight of so much suffering, capitulated. since then lerida has enjoyed more or less tranquil days. she would now hardly be thought worth taking. it was during some of these troublous times, in , that her beautiful cathedral was desecrated, and remains to this day a prominent illustration of the barbarities of war. it towers feet above the town, a magnificent outline against the clear blue sky. the first church existed here as far back as the sixth century. this in time gave place to the present church, of which the first stone was laid by pedro ii. in . it is one of the finest specimens in europe of the early-pointed style and its desecration was a world's regret. nevertheless, its style is a little contradictory, for the windows are for the most part round-headed. perched on the summit of an almost perpendicular rock, it looks even higher and larger than it really is. its fine octagonal steeple stands out a bold and conspicuous object over many a mile of plain and country. as the sun declines, its shadow falls upon the houses of the town sleeping below, and creeps over the surface of the river. near it is a building now used as a powder magazine, but in the middle ages was a palace given up to the rude scenes of splendour of which those days were typical, and before that it had been a moorish castle and a christian temple. its walls have defied the centuries, but nothing is left of its moorish beauty and refinement. in the french turned the great church into a fortress, and it was never restored to its sacred uses. peace fell upon lerida, but the fat old canons had learned to shirk the steep climbing of the rocks in all seasons and all weathers. they agitated for a new cathedral within the town, and had their wish. a hideous corinthian building arose, and the magnificent church upon the hill after five hundred years of faithful service was shorn of its glory. yet its outlines are as fine and as striking as ever, and the columns, stonework and tracery that remain, still bear witness to its ancient splendour. it is, however, with the greatest difficulty that admission is obtained, a senseless piece of tyranny. the interior is to the last degree interesting to the lover of ancient architecture, and there are no military or other secrets to be carried away. but say what one will, courtesy is not one of the virtues of the spanish, and in this matter the catalonians perhaps take the lead. they are abrupt and uncivil, and unwilling to stir hand or foot to oblige you unless something is to be gained by it. sallying forth this morning, we had these magnificent outlines in full view. we have said that the tenebrous darkness of last night had not prepared us for the charms of to-day. lerida proved one of the most interesting of spanish towns. this morning it was full of life and movement. the market-place was crowded with buyers and sellers; men and women still wearing a certain amount of picturesque costume. the air seemed full of sound. fruit and flower-stalls were splendid, and large quantities of each could be bought for a very small sum. as we had discovered last night, the town consisted of one long street running parallel with the river. it was narrow and straggling, full of lights and shadows. now and then you came upon short arcades that were singularly picturesque, whilst every here and there a fine old gateway led to the river-side. these gateways form part of the fortifications of the town, for lerida is strongly protected. making way through this long street, we presently came upon a wine-pressing machine in the very middle of the road, worked by strong, stalwart men; a very southern and picturesque scene. we watched them pile up the grapes, that had already once been pressed, until the machine was full. then adjusting it by means of long poles, they turned the press and the rich red grape-juice poured itself into a vat placed for the purpose. the air was full of the scent of muscatel. the men looked as though the red juice ran in their veins and inspired them with energy. [illustration: lerida mules.] as the vat filled, it was emptied with a great ladle into a larger barrel that stood inside the archway of the adjoining house. the sight was novel, and the men seemed amused at our interest. they offered us of the juice in a small vessel, declaring it excellent; but there was a suspicious want of cleanliness about the whole thing--it might have been fancy--and we civilly declined the attention; upon which, possibly to set us a good example, they emptied the vessel themselves, smacked their lips and pronounced it very good. narrow streets led upwards from the main street to the old cathedral, a steep, rough climb. it was a place to revel in, full of wonderful perspectives and artistic groupings, as much the result of accident as of purpose. the eye was arrested by a bewildering accumulation of wrought-iron balconies, casements and sunblinds, all sparkling in sunshine and shadow, whilst above one could trace a long succession of ancient gabled roofs, clear-cut against the blue sky, the projecting water-spout of every house looking like a grinning gargoyle and adding much to the quaint antiquity of the place. through the old gates we watched the mules passing in their rich and curious trappings. very distinctly we felt that lerida was a revelation and a discovery; a town by no means to be passed over when searching out the glories of spain. we found the narrow thoroughfare in which last night we had almost come to grief; so tortuous and ill-paved, we wondered how we had escaped destruction. here and there small houses of the meanest description broke the continuity of dead grey walls. at the door of the cottage h. c. had charged sat an evil-looking dog that growled and showed its teeth as we passed and evidently connected us with the midnight raid. whether the owner of the blunderbuss had killed himself with his own weapon or was only absent on business remained uncertain; he did not appear. continuing upwards we presently came out upon the open space surrounding the old cathedral. the precincts were certainly not ecclesiastical. we seemed to have reached the poorest part of the town, and the houses were quite picturesque in their shabbiness. a splendid doorway admitted to the interior of the semi-religious fortress, before which a sentinel with gun and bayonet kept watch and ward. no one passed him without a special permission from the churlish old commandant of the town, who, after tracing your pedigree back to adam, bestowed the simple favour as though conferring upon you the dignity of spain's high order of the saint esprit. [illustration: lerida.] strangers and especially englishmen, evidently visit lerida at long intervals, and wherever we went we found ourselves attracting an amount of attention that might have confused more bashful minds. as in most other places, the people were especially interested in our little kodak, and seemed to think the honour of being taken equal to canonisation. in the market-place men and women threw themselves into groups and attitudes, set out their stalls to the best advantage, and begged the favour of being made immortal. but as the day wore on the crowd dispersed and disappeared, the market-place grew empty, arcades lost their loungers; the afternoon shadows lengthened; there were not so many sun-flashes in the air; outlines mellowed as the sky behind them grew less dazzling; the river lost some of its jewels. we were gazing at the latter, at the wonderful outlines of the town rising gradually upon its rock, crowned by that magnificent fortress with its imposing and impressive tower, when a voice suddenly said beside us: "we hope, señor, you have spent a happy day in lerida and seen the interior of the old cathedral--now nothing but a useless barrack. the commandant suffers from dyspepsia and is capricious. no one ever knows beforehand whether he will grant or withhold permission. it entirely depends upon his digestion." we turned and saw our boot-cleaner in ordinary standing meekly and humbly beside us. noting his fine face--it was really dignified in spite of his office--his white hair, his nearly ninety years, we thought humility should have been on our side. "how is it that you, a frenchman, come to be living on spanish ground?" we asked. [illustration: wine-pressers: lerida.] "ah, señor, thereby hangs a tale. if i am to give you my reason, i must go back seventy years in my life, for it dates from that time. and that, you see, will take us very nearly to the days of waterloo. all my people were respectable and well-to-do, some even distinguished: there was a prosperous life before me. i was in the french army, serving my time. i had been unfortunate and drawn a low number in conscription; besides which, soldiers were wanted and few escaped. napoleon in devastating other countries had not spared his own. it was then i committed the one great folly of my life, which has ever since been one of repentance. i fell in love with a beautiful norman girl of gentle blood and breeding; so madly, so desperately, that i think for the time being i lost the balance of my mind. every consideration faded before the strength of my passion. this beautiful girl seemed equally in love with me. i was young, they told me i was good-looking, and in my uniform i dare say i was not unattractive. then came my error. i obtained a week's leave of absence, and deserted. we fled together to spain, and of course i was outlawed. i sacrificed home, country and honour; i ruined all my worldly prospects; and for what? for a pair of bewitching eyes. nay, she had more than that; she was a good woman and has made me a good wife; but had she been twice favoured, my folly would have been equally vast. for years and years i was possessed of a fever--that of mal du pays: all i had deliberately thrown away gained a hundred-fold in charm, haunted my mind by day, coloured my dreams. but there was no place for repentance. now it has all passed away. señor, my great-nephew is a french count, rich and well spoken of, one of the high ones of the land. he does not even know of my existence. life has only one thing left me--death! but i pray i may live to close the sightless eyes of my wife, and then follow her speedily, that we may rest in one grave." "has your wife long been blind?" we asked in sympathy. "only two years, señor. you would not know it to look at her. in spite of her eighty-seven years, her eyes are still soft and bright, though closed to the world. i have now not only to earn the daily bread, but to buy it and manage the household. we have many good neighbours who help the old couple, and look in upon the wife when i am at work. ah, señor, it is delightful to find one to whom i can talk in my own tongue. surely the señor is french too?" "land of our birth," we confessed; "nevertheless we are english, and would have it so." the old man hesitated; we saw there was something upon his mind; it came out at last. "would the señor deign to come and see the wife, and talk to her a little of france and the french? she still speaks it perfectly, and she too has often longed for the country and privileges that for her sake i threw away. such a visit would colour the remaining of her days. it is but a few steps." who could resist such an appeal? we turned and accompanied the patriarch, who in spite of his nearly ninety years, still walked with a certain amount of vigour. the few steps grew into a good many, as the old man passed under the gateway and turned to the left down the long narrow street. soon we reached the spot where we had watched the grape-pressing. the men were giving up work and clearing away, leaving nothing behind them but the stains of the fruit and the scent of the muscatel. they nodded in friendly recognition, and we knew the laugh they gave meant to say that the cup we had refused they had found very cheering. the narrow street was growing dim, and in the arched room, half cellar, half wine vault, they had lighted candles. the semi-obscurity was weird and picturesque in the extreme, almost rembrandt-like in effect. the men's faces were thrown up against the dark background as the light fell upon them; and as one of them sitting astride a barrel raised a cup to his lips, he looked a true disciple of bacchus. our guide passed on and turning up a narrow street halted before the door of a quaint old house. the street was quiet and respectable; the house clean and well cared for, in spite of its age. "we have lived here for a quarter of a century and more--twenty-seven years," said the old man, "and the house does not look a day older than it looked then. ah, señor," with a sigh, "we cannot say the same of ourselves. twenty-seven years in a lifetime make all the difference between youth and age. but let us mount. my wife does not expect you, but you will find her ready to receive the young king himself if he paid her a visit." we passed up a broad old staircase of solid oak, that would almost have adorned a palace. in days gone by, this house, fallen to a low estate, must have had a greater destiny. the walls were panelled. there was a refined, imposing air about the place. we would have given worlds for the power to transport the staircase over the seas. the old man mounted to the topmost floor, and knocked at a large oak door which well matched its surroundings. a voice responded, he lifted the latch and we walked in. "i bring you visitors, nerissa," said the old man. "a gentleman from france, who will talk to you in our beautiful language, and tell you of scenes and places you have not looked upon for nearly seventy years. you were only eighteen, i only twenty when we turned our backs for ever upon la belle normandie." it was a sight worth seeing. the room was large and airy, quaint and old as the rest of the house. light came in through large casements with latticed panes that bore the unmistakable seal of time. the room itself was in perfect and spotless order. in a large alcove stood the bed, neatly draped and curtained. what furniture the room contained matched its surroundings. there was an utter absence of any commonplace element about it. but it was not all this that distinguished it so singularly. it was the figure of a little old woman seated near the latticed panes in an arm-chair. the evening light, still strong in the west, fell upon her. as we entered she did not move, but turned her sightless eyes towards us, with the intent, listening look that is so pathetic. she was very small, and looked almost like a fairy-queen. her hair was white as snow, but still abundant and faultlessly arranged. the face was small and refined, and possessed all the beauty of age, just as in years gone by it must have possessed in a very marked manner all the beauty of youth. it had the placid look the blind so often wear, was delicately flushed, and without line or wrinkle. this was very strange in one who must have had, to some extent at least, a hard and laborious life, with many anxieties. her dress was neatness itself; an old dark silk probably given to her by a rich visitor whose turn it had served; and it was worn with the air that seemed to betoken one who had been a lady. but her whole appearance and bearing was gentle. it was a perfect and faultless picture, charming to look upon. we turned to the old man in wonder. his eyes were fixed upon his wife with an intensity of admiration and reverence almost startling. it was evident that the love of youth had survived every trial, all life's rough lessons. so far he could have nothing to regret. the folly of which he had been guilty--and it was an undoubted folly and mistake--had been condoned and excused by the after life. "we no longer marvel that you deserted the ranks of the army for those of a sweeter service," we said, looking from one to the other and feeling that we gazed upon a wonderful idyll. "was she not worth it--even all i renounced!" he cried. "nerissa, i have told these gentlemen all my boyish folly and indiscretion--all you made me give up for your bewitching eyes." almost a youthful flush passed over the old lady's face as she smiled rather sadly in response. "it was indeed much to renounce for me," she said, in a very sweet voice. "i was not worth it; no woman could be worth it. i ought never have permitted it, and the thought has been one of the lasting sorrows of my life. but we act first and think after. though after all, what i renounced was also great." "we are quite sure you would do it all over again. you do not in the least regret it, and your life has been a very happy one." again the youthful flush passed over the old lady's face. she put out her hand--a small, delicate hand--as though searching for her husband's. he had soon clasped it. "nerissa, you do not regret anything," he said. "you know quite well you would do it all over again if we could go back to the beginning of life." her sightless but still wonderfully expressive eyes looked up into his face. "with you to tempt me, alphonse, how could i resist? alas, human nature is weak where the heart is concerned." "have you any children?" we asked. "we have four, señor," replied the old lady. "and grand-children also. our children are all out in the world, and not one of them lives in lerida. as far as i was able i brought them up well, and tried to give them a little bearing and refinement. but we have always been poor, and poverty means limitation. they are all prospering, but in fairly humble life. at rare intervals one or other pays us a visit; but time flies quickly and they are soon gone again." [illustration: old gateways: lerida.] then we talked about france and the french. we happened to know many places in common, and describing what they are to-day, enabled her to realise the vast changes seventy years had worked. the old lady gave many a sigh. "alphonse, it is all a new world," she said over and over again. "if we went back to it we should be lost and strange. it is time we passed out of life. but, señor, your visit has brought back a breath of that old life to me. those who come to us now are humble, and know nothing of our past world. you almost make me feel young again; bring back lost realities, when i was a lady, and had not thrown up all for love, and dreamed not of a humble life of poverty. but, oh, i would renounce it all again a second time for my husband's sake." who would have supposed such an idyll in the quiet town of lerida? when our boot-cleaner in ordinary had come to us that morning and received his humble dole for the work done, who could have imagined that such a romance, a poem in real life, was concealed in his history? when we went back into the quiet streets the gloom had deepened; twilight reigned; a soft glow was in the evening sky; one or two stars were faintly shining. we could not lose the impression of the visit we had just paid; the wonderful little fairy-queen in the arm-chair, who was still ladylike and beautiful and refined in spite of a hard and humble life, and the fine and venerable old man, who for seventy years had remained true and faithful to his first love. no knight of the round table could ever have proved more noble and devoted; worthier king arthur's friendship. the very streets of the town seemed to have gained a charm as we passed through them on our way to the fonda. h. c. was singularly quiet and grave. "of what are you thinking?" we asked. he started, as if suddenly aroused from sleep. "i am thinking of the faithfulness of that beautiful old couple," he replied. "no, if i tried for a hundred years i never could be as constant as that. in fact i begin to think my only chance of happiness is to emigrate to salt lake city and become a mormon." "wait until you are in love," we returned. "you were never that yet. your fancy has been touched often enough, but your heart never. that comes only once in a lifetime." h. c. only shook his head and murmured something about having a heart large enough to embrace a whole agapemone of beauty. we did not argue the point, feeling there are opinions and delusions time alone can correct. but we went back to the bridge and looked down upon the quiet stream, and beyond the houses of the town to the wonderful outlines of the old cathedral, darkly and distinctly visible against the evening sky. everything seemed glorified by the story we had just learned, the romance we had witnessed. it was an experience we would not have lost; and henceforth to us the word lerida would be weighted with a hidden charm of which the interpretation meant everything that was true and chivalrous, everything that was brave and constant, lovely and of good report. chapter xxi. the end of an idyll. days of chivalry not over--in the evening light--night porter grateful--dragon in full force--combative and revengeful--equal to the occasion--gall turns to sweetness when h. c. appears--last night in lerida--bane of our host's life--mysterious disappearance--monastery of sigena--devout ladies--returning at night--place empty and deserted--birds flown with keys--quite a commotion--"the señor is pleased to joke"--was murder committed?--mysteries explained--probably down the well--drag for skeletons--host's horror--"we drink the water"--a tragedy--out in the quiet night--discords--lerida café--create a sensation--polite captain--offer declined--regrets--final crash--paradise or lerida--deserted market-place--trees whisper their secrets--el sereno at the witching hour--hard upon the angels--not a bed of roses--alphonse--end of a long life--until the dawn--acolyte and priest--"we must all come to it, señor"--el sereno disappears for the last time--daybreak--in presence of death--alone, but resigned--surpassing loveliness--sacred atmosphere. so the days of chivalry and devotion were not over: could never be over as long as there are alphonses and nerissas in the world. as we went back to the hotel in the evening light, the whole town seemed full of romance. one by one the outlines faded and died out, and when we entered the fonda the stars were beginning to shine. the night porter was standing in the doorway, though his reign had not yet begun. he made us a low bow. "señor, allow me to thank you for not complaining of me this morning to the padrone. i am still full of remorse for having locked you out last night, but it is seldom any of our visitors trouble the dark streets of lerida at midnight. most of our guests are commercial travellers, who have no eye for the ancient and picturesque, and are generally glad to get early to bed." again assuring the worthy man of our good will, we passed up the shabby old staircase. at the top we came into contact with the dragon striding along with bare arms and flourishing a rolling-pin. she looked the picture of fiery indignation and we wondered what had gone wrong. after some difficulty we managed to gather that the waiter, in spite of her want of beauty, in spite of her being an appropriated blessing, had offered her a chaste salute. in return for the affront, the rolling-pin--it was a _washing_ pin, by the way--had come into sharp contact with his skull, which, fortunately for him was a hard one. since then the dragon had been marching up and down with threatening weapon and flashing eyes, brandishing her rolling-pin like another communist, mouthing voiceless words. as soon as she caught sight of h. c., however, her gall turned to sweetness; she marshalled him to our rooms, threw wide the door, and beamed on him one of her most cavernous smiles. that a chaste salute from him would have been very differently received was evident. it was our last night in lerida. the landlord still attended us at dinner, for the waiter was nursing his wounds in the kitchen. a violent headache had come on, and he was vowing vengeance against the dragon, declaring she had imagined the whole thing. "but for the servants, my life would be happy," said our host. "if they keep the peace with me, they are disputing amongst themselves. the last waiter and chambermaid i had, after quarrelling like cat and dog for six months, suddenly went off one day together, and we never heard of them again. it was a sunday, and madame and i had gone off with some friends by train to sariñena--a long day's excursion, for we were going to the monastery of sigena, near villanueva. has the señor visited the famous monastery?" we had never done so. "it is to be regretted," returned the landlord, as he busily changed the plates and poured out the wine. "the monastery is the most interesting in our neighbourhood; and people come from far and wide to see it. in situation it is most romantic, standing near a lovely stream full of fine fish. the nuns, however, don't fish; the very thought would be sacrilege. they are devout ladies, some of them very handsome; a pity so much beauty should be wasted. they are of the order of st. john of jerusalem, which i have heard dates as far back as the twelfth century, but i am not learned in those matters. i have seen the nuns at mass in their chapel, and they looked like a vision of angels. but i was saying. we had left the hotel in charge of the waiter and chambermaid. as it happened, there were no guests staying here. when we came home at night, we found the place locked and empty. both servants had flown, and to add insult to injury had taken the keys with them. fortunately the glass doors in this very dining-room had been left open, and by means of a ladder, and climbing over walls at the risk of one's life, i managed to get in, took the duplicate keys out of my desk, and admitted madame. it caused quite a commotion." "and had the enterprising pair taken nothing but the keys?" we asked. "was your gold plate safe, and madame's diamonds?" "the señor is pleased to joke," laughed the landlord. "my gold plate is pewter, and madame's jewelry is false, excepting her wedding-ring and the few things she happened to have on that never-to-be-forgotten day. no; they had taken nothing. but they had made a first-rate meal, and had tapped and emptied three bottles of my very best chambertin vintage, and consumed half a bottle of chartreuse." "but you have no proof that they went off together," we suggested. "it may be that murder was committed. the dead body of the chambermaid all this time may be crumbling to dust and ashes in some hole or corner of your cellar. have you a cellar, or any other place in which a murdered body might be concealed?" "santa maria!" cried our host, turning pale. "the idea never occurred to me, but i shouldn't wonder if you are right. it would explain a good deal that has remained a mystery. we have a deep well out in the yard; so deep that we do not know the bottom, which is supposed to communicate with the river. the man might easily have murdered the woman and thrown her down. and we drink the water!" "that is hardly the solution that suggests itself. after drinking your three bottles of chambertin and your half-bottle of chartreuse, depend upon it their heads began to go round; they felt the world coming to an end, and determined to be beforehand with it. it is clear as daylight: they both threw themselves down the well, and there you will find the skeletons. you had better have it dragged and give them decent burial, or you will certainly be seeing ghosts in the house." by this time the landlord was trembling with horror; his eyes, grown large and round, would almost have matched the dragon's. he was no longer in a fit state to pour out wine or change plates. "and we drink the water," he murmured half a dozen times over. "we drink the water. this accounts for my queer symptoms. but, after all, the bodies cannot be there. they must have communicated with the river, and so floated out to sea. i dare say they will some day turn up in the panama canal or on the shores of new zealand. señor, i am quite certain this is the true state of the case. i never could understand why those two should go off together. they were always quarrelling, and seemed to hate each other like poison, and i dare say they even disputed as to which should go first down the well. but when all's said and done, it is three years ago, and they will never come back to trouble me." "not even as ghosts?" he shivered. "i never saw a ghost, señor, but i suppose there are such things. i shouldn't care to see one. nevertheless, i will have the well dragged--quietly, not to raise a scandal. i can pretend to have dropped in a diamond ring belonging to a client. if the skeletons turn up we must hush up the matter as well as we can, and so dispose of the ghosts. they would never walk after decent burial. ah, señor, what a tragedy you have opened up! and all the time i was accusing the wretched pair of i know not what!" fortunately for us this conversation took place towards the end of dinner, or we should have fared badly. we left the landlord in his dining-room. he had dropped into a chair and was gazing on vacancy, evidently in deep thought as to how he could have the well dragged without creating a scandal to the detriment of his hotel. we went out into the quiet night, making sure the night porter was on duty and would keep there. the streets were as dark, quiet and ill-lighted as ever, and we took care to avoid pandemonium. the market-place, so full and lively this morning, was now empty and silent. from the café already alluded to streams of light and strains of music were flowing. we turned in out of curiosity. half a dozen musicians at the further end were making unearthly discords: shrieking and wailing instruments set one's teeth on edge and went down one's back like cold water. the room was fairly full, the atmosphere heavy with smoke; such smoke as only the catalonians know how to produce. our entrance created quite a sensation. we were recognised as english, and the english who visit lerida are few and far between. was our visit friendly or the opposite? their glances plainly asked the question. then one in military uniform came up, and, with a military salute ventured to sit down near us. we thought it a singular proceeding, but decided to take it in good part. he proved to be a captain of the regiment stationed at lerida, and a really friendly and polite man. "i perceive, sirs, that you are strangers," he said. "can i be of any service to you in a place where i am very much at home?" to which we replied that our stay was drawing to a close, and we had probably seen the best of the town. "there is nothing you can do for us, though we are grateful for your good intentions. but if you would induce those in authority to grant their passes into the fortress with less restriction, you would confer a favour upon any who may come after us." "a senseless restriction indeed," replied our new friend, "and we all feel it so; but until some disappointed visitor of consequence appeals to the queen or the madrid government, the thing will go on. there is absolutely no reason why all the world should not be admitted." at this moment the musicians finished up with a crash. the sound was horrible. h. c. made an excruciating grimace and our captain shook with laughter. "do you call that music?" we asked. "_i_ do not," he returned, "because i have spent much time in paris, where barbaric music would not be tolerated. but these frantic discords just please the people of lerida, who have not been educated to anything better. it is over for the night, and now everyone will depart. they have drunk their coffee or wine or spirit, sat a whole evening in a clouded, heated atmosphere, listening enraptured to the strains which have set you quivering, and are going home feeling that if this or paradise were offered to them they would not hesitate to reject paradise. such is their life." we got up to depart also. "i am sorry that i can be of no use to you," said our polite captain; "but if you are leaving lerida to-morrow, time certainly runs short. i can, however, give you my card, and place myself and all i have at your disposal. if ever you visit lerida again, and i am quartered here, i hope you will find me out. i will at least promise you a pass into the fortress; and there are a few things you would not be likely to see without the open sesame of one of ourselves." upon which he shook hands, gave us a military salute, "wrapped his martial cloak about him," and passed out into the night. we listened to his quick receding footsteps and then turned away. the silence was only broken by the distant cry of a watchman proclaiming the hour and the weather. "el sereno," as we called the old guardians of the darkness in majorca, where many a time we wandered with them in the dead of night amidst the old palaces and watched them light up the wonderful old moorish remains with their swinging lanterns. [illustration: entrance to poblet.] it was a very dark night, though the stars flashed overhead. we found ourselves on the empty market-place, where trees whispered together. in the morning, when fruit and flowers and a hundred stalls and a crowd of noisy people called for all one's attention, the whispering trees were neglected. now it was their hour, and they told each other their mighty secrets, and one felt that they were wiser and greater than mankind in its little brief authority. we stood and listened, but they talked in an unknown tongue. almost as mysterious and full of meaning seemed the outlines of the gabled houses on the hill slopes crowned by that splendid semi-religious fortress, the tall tower cleaving the sky. from this in days gone by the bells had rung the people to church, and hastened the steps and shortened the breath of many a fat old canon who, purple and panting, crept into his place before the altar after service had begun. but those days are over. for nearly two hundred years the bells have been silent. the sober cassock of the priest no longer haunts the precincts. sentries with gun and bayonet now rule, and signs and symbols of warfare fill up the ancient aisles and desecrate the sacred pavement. gazing upon the faint outlines in the darkness of night, the gleam of a distant lantern coming up a narrow side street caught our eye. it was a watchman, and instinct told us he was none other than our burgos _sereno_. he waved his lantern more energetically than usual, as though expecting to find the inhabitants of pandemonium lurking in secret corners. as he walked, his staff struck the ground "in measured moments," keeping time with his footsteps. "it is twelve of the night," he cried, "and the night is fair. _el sereno._" we gradually approached him, knowing well we were in his mind. the rays suddenly flashed upon us, and the lantern had peace. "señor, instinct told me you were still in lerida. midnight seems your hour for walking. in truth it is far better than midday, for the world is sleeping and we have the stars in the sky. i hope that wily porter does not mean to play you the same trick to-night. to-day fifty people have asked me if the town had been bombarded, declaring they expected to see the place in ruins. have you seen his wife, señor? she is not the angel she looks----" "are you not rather hard upon the angels, _sereno_?" "i don't think i quite meant to put it that way," he returned, with a laugh that seemed to come from great depths. "no, she does not look an angel--and she is not one either. it is said that when her husband misbehaves, she beats him with her washing-pin; and it is also said that more than once she has held it over the landlord himself. it may be a fable, but when a woman has no voice she is bound to find some other way of venting her spleen. i don't think the porter sleeps on a bed of roses, though his wife is named rose, and he tries to make the best of his bargain." "how did you leave burgos?" we asked, feeling speculations on the porter's domestic relations unprofitable. "just the same as ever, señor. there was no change anywhere. the everlasting bells chime out the hours and the quarters, and the voices of a half a dozen watchmen take up the tale. the hotel grows rather worse and more unpopular, if that be possible, and for want of a good inn the town is neglected. no one ever goes there a second time. in that respect one is better off in lerida." we were standing near the new cathedral in the market-place, when suddenly we saw a quiet figure hurrying towards us. even afar off we knew it well. it was our boot-cleaner in ordinary. at once we felt something was wrong; the figure, in spite of quick footsteps, was tragic in its bearing. we went up to him. he grasped our hand and his face told its own tale. "oh, señor! the end has come, the end of a long life. who would have thought it would be so sudden? my poor nerissa! my life's partner, and my life's blessing! two hours ago the heart suddenly failed. the doctor gives her until the dawn. but she is quite ready and quite resigned. 'think what it will be, alphonse,' she said to me just now. 'to-morrow morning i shall see once more.' señor, i am broken-hearted. and now that she is being taken from me, i feel that i have not prized her half enough." "you have been her joy and happiness on earth, and have an eternity of happiness to look forward to. for you and for her life is only beginning. the end of a long and happy life is a matter for rejoicing, not for sorrow." we had no need to ask a reason for his presence there. he passed on to fulfil his mission. [illustration: old cathedral: lerida.] presently a small door was opened and there issued forth in the stillness of the night an acolyte bearing a lighted lantern, followed by a priest carrying the host. alphonse had gone before, and we felt that the greatest kindness was to let him return alone, unhindered. the small silent procession was full of mysterious pathos and solemnity. it told of a soul about to take its solitary and awful journey to the unknown and the unseen. seldom, we felt, would extreme unction have been administered to a soul so pure as that of our little fairy-queen. el sereno went down on one knee as it passed, and bared and bowed his head. with arm outstretched resting on his staff of office, he looked quite solemn and picturesque. "we must all come to it, señor. but i often ask myself what consolation even extreme unction can bring to a badly spent life." we watched the little procession cross the great square, their footsteps scarcely echoing. the sacred hush and atmosphere that surrounds the dying seemed to go with them as they walked. fitful gleams and shadows were thrown out by the lantern--they might have been shades of departed spirits. in the dark night, under the silent stars, and in that solemn moment, we seemed brought into touch with the unseen world. we felt deeply for alphonse, who was passing through the great sorrow of his life. his own silver cord would now loosen, and no doubt he too would quickly follow into the unseen. his wife would take with her all his hold upon life. after this solemn incident we could only make our way back to the fonda. el sereno accompanied us to its threshold. we walked down the avenue between the trees, that were still whispering their mighty secrets to each other. now they seemed laden with immortal mysteries: their burden was of souls winging their flight to realms where no torment touches them. they were in communion with the stars overhead shining down with a serene benediction. our portal to-night was open and the night porter was at his post, watching for his tardy visitors! wondering why they tarried. what to him was that tragedy that was passing at the other end of the town? we inquired for rose. she had put up her washing-pin, and forgiven the erring waiter; the sun had not gone down upon her wrath. had her spouse also forgiven the gay lothario, or had they arranged for coffee and pistols? the señor was joking. such manner of dealing was for gentlefolk. for his part, if he owed any one a mortal grudge he would avenge himself by the short corsican way: a stab in the dark. a short reckoning and a long rest. but he had never quarrelled in his life; never owed any man a grudge. life was too short; he was too lazy. he thought it a good plan to let things take their course. if any one cared to embrace his wife, they were welcome to do so. he had no jealousy in his composition. she was now sleeping the sleep of the just: and for all he knew and for all he cared, her dreams were of gay lotharios whom she was chastening with her washing-pin. we said farewell to el sereno, who lamented our departure on the morrow, and feared he might see us no more. this was probable. lerida, for all its quaint streets, old-world nooks and splendid outlines, was hardly a place to come to a second time. he moved away rather sadly, for he had his duty to perform, and the moments would not stand still. we watched him receding in the dark night; a stalwart figure; an honest man, with much that was good in him, though his lines were not cast in grooves where influences for good are strong. at the end of the avenue he called the hour and the night; then passed up out of sight into the market-place once more. there in due time would return that quiet, solemn procession of two; the acolyte bearing the lantern, the priest with his bent back and the weight of years upon him bearing the host: their mission accomplished: the last rites administered: the pure soul perhaps already far on its long journey. the night passed on to dawn and daybreak and sunrise: a new day, a new world. was nerissa still lingering here, or, as she had said, had her sightless eyes opened to the world beyond? it was impossible to leave lerida without ascertaining how it fared with this couple that we had found so interesting and exceptional. though it delayed us some hours, it must be done, the visit paid. we breakfasted, attended by the erring waiter, who looked pale and brooding and revengeful, as though he meditated drowning the dragon in her own soapsuds. then, in the clear early morning, we went forth. the way was familiar by this time. we knew its every aspect: all the outlines were old friends. we passed up the avenue and through the crowded market-place, where people laughed and talked and bought and sold, as if life were one long joke and would last for ever, and there was no such thing as death and decay. down the long narrow street where we again saw the men pressing the grapes, and noted the stain of the rich red juice, and smelt the luscious perfume of the muscatel--for they have red grapes here with the muscatel scent and flavour. onwards into a quiet side street and the quaint old house that now had upon it the dark grey shadow. we mounted the fine broad staircase with its carved oak balusters and panelled walls. there was not a sound to be heard. at such moments sympathy is quick to respond, and the awful messenger makes the weight of his errand known. the door was slightly ajar. we pushed it gently open and entered, feeling ourselves in the presence of death. peace had fallen upon the house. there in the quiet room was the vacant chair near the latticed window, where so recently we had seen that wonderful embodiment of beauty in age. it would never be seen again. near the bed alphonse was seated, holding the hand of his dead wife, his other hand up to his face. he looked the picture of sad despair. the aged form, so recently still endowed with life and vigour, was now bent and bowed under the weight of sorrow. as we entered he glanced up, and stronger than all the evident grief we were surprised to see an unmistakable look of resignation. quietly placing the cold hand that never would move or clasp his own again, he rose and came towards us. "oh, señor, this is kind. you come to me in my loneliness. it is all over. the sightless eyes are closed, the beautiful voice is still. i have often prayed that i might be the last to be taken. heaven is merciful, and has answered me. as the dawn broke in the east her spirit went. raising her hand as though pointing to some unseen vision: 'alphonse,' she said, 'i am called. you will soon join me, beloved.' then a glory seemed to pass over her face, and she was gone. señor, come near and look upon that beautiful face once more." he approached the bed and with reverent hand drew down the sheet. we were almost startled by the beauty disclosed. the face seemed to have gone back to the days of its youth; it might have been that of a young woman of surpassing loveliness. the rapt expression the old man had spoken of was still there. it was impossible but that some divine vision had been seen at the last by those eyes closed to mortal things. it spoke of intense happiness, of a joy that was to be eternal. "alphonse, how can you look upon that face, which has the divine image upon it and the divine glory, and be sad?" "señor, i have lost my all. i am very lonely. yesterday i was rich; i knew not how rich; to-day i am poor and stricken. yet i am resigned; and i am happy in the thought that in a few days--i verily believe in a few days--my body will rest with hers in one grave, and our spirits will be united in paradise. i am not sad; only intensely lonely. señor, you gave her almost her very last pleasure. after you had left, she said that for years our little room had not seemed so bright. you brought her a breath from her old world and she declared that she felt her youth renewed. was it not the spirit telling her in advance how soon her youth should indeed return to her? oh, nerissa, my life's joy, my best beloved, in what realms is your pure spirit now wandering? surely you need me to perfect your happiness?" we stayed awhile with him, and before leaving found the forlorn attitude, the despairing droop had departed. as we said good-bye we quietly placed money in his hand. "to buy flowers," we explained. "place them gently in her coffin. the fairest flowers you can find. they will still be less fair than she." "ah, señor," he returned, "it is a long farewell. i shall look upon your face no more. but when i meet her again we will talk of you. and do not think that you leave me to utter solitude. i have many friends about me, and though humble they are good. for my few remaining days i need have no thought, and i have no fear." we departed. the little episode was over. but it would be ever associated in our mind with lerida, enshrouding the town in a peculiarly sacred atmosphere. chapter xxii. a sad history. broad plains of aragon--wonderful tones--approaching zaragoza--celestial vision--distance lends enchantment--commonplace people--the ancient modernised--disillusion followed by delight--almost a small paris--cafés and their merits--not socially attractive--friendly equality--mixture of classes--inheritance of the past--interesting streets--arcades and gables--lively scenes--people in costume--picture of old spain--ancient palaces--one especially romantic--the world well lost--fair lucia--where love might reign for ever--paradise not for this world--doomed--the last dawn--inconsolable--seeking death--found on the battlefield--a day vision--few rivals--in the new cathedral--startling episode--asking alms--young and fair--uncomfortable moment--terrible story--fatal chains--"and after?"--how minister to a mind diseased?--sunshine clouded--burden of life--any way of escape?--suggestions of past centuries--the mighty fallen. the sun was still high in the heavens when our train steamed out of the station towards zaragoza and the ancient kingdom of aragon. much of the journey lay through broad plains that had no specially redeeming feature about them. even fertility seemed denied, for they were often destitute of trees and vegetation. yet were they sometimes covered with a lovely heather possessing a wonderful tone and beauty of its own. most to be remembered in the journey was the sunset. towards evening as we approached zaragoza, the sun dipped across the vast plains and went down in a blood-red ball. immediately the sky was flushed with the most gorgeous colours, which melted into an after-glow that remained far into the night. in the midst of this splendid effect of sky we saw across the plains the wonderful towers and turrets and domes of zaragoza rising like a celestial vision. as we neared, we thought it a dream-city: not perched on a gigantic rock like segovia, but on a gentle height of some feet above the sea-level. the approach to the town is very striking. there is an abundant promise of good things, not, we are bound to confess, eventually carried out. apparently, it is of all cities the most picturesque, with its splendid river running rapidly through the plain, spanned by its world-famed bridge, above which rise the beautiful, refined, eastern-looking outlines; but once inside the town the charm in part disappears. it is to be worshipped at a distance. our first impression told us this, as we rumbled through the streets in the old omnibus and marked their modern aspect, the busy, common-place bearing of the people. we had expected a great deal of zaragoza; hoped to find a city of great antiquity, with nothing but gabled houses and ancient outlines worthy the fair capital of the fair kingdom of aragon. these we found the exception. its antiquity is undoubted, but too much of the town has been modernised and rebuilt. still, the exceptions are so striking that when one's first disillusion is over, it is followed by something very like delight and amazement. the hotel was a large rambling building which might have existed for centuries; and as comfortable as most of the spanish provincial inns. a perfect maze of passages; and when the hotel guide piloted us to a far-off room to see a collection of antiquities of very modest merit we felt it might have taken hours to get back alone to our starting point. zaragoza is large and flourishing; its prosperity is evident; its new streets are handsome and common-place. some of them are wide boulevards lined with trees, lighted with electric lamps, possessing "every new and modern improvement." as you go through them you almost think of a small paris. at night its cafés are brilliantly lighted, and rank as the finest in spain. they are always crowded, and fond and foolish parents bring their children and keep them in the glare and glitter until towards midnight, when they fall off their perches. music of some sort is always going on; sometimes the harsh, barbarous discords and howlings the spanish delight in, at others civilised harmonies and trained voices that are really beautiful but less popular. those who frequent these cafés are not socially of an attractive class. many are rough country people who are evidently in zaragoza as birds of passage. the roughest specimens of apparently unwashed waifs and strays will take possession of a table, and at the very next table, almost touching elbows with them, will be a fashionable couple, dressed smartly enough for a wedding. the one in no way disconcerts the other, and all treat each other on the basis of a friendly species of equality. the lowest of the people who have a few sous to spare in their pocket devote them to this, their earthly paradise. they love the glare and glamour and warmth--it is the one green oasis in the desert of their every-day lives; all the working hours are gilded by the thought of the evening's amusement. many of them have dull, dark homes, in which they feel cribbed and cabined. of the quiet pleasures of domestic life they know little, but they are all perfectly happy. one of the strongest characteristics of human nature is its adaptability to circumstances; the back fits itself to the burden. people seldom die of a broken heart. in zaragoza, more than anywhere else, we saw this strange mixture of classes; wondered that some of them were admitted. but they behaved like ladies and gentlemen, drinking coffee and helping themselves to detestable spirit with an air and a grace only they know how to put on. yet it is not put on; it is born with them; an inheritance from the past. it was not in all this, however, that the charm of zaragoza consisted. these everyday common-place sights and experiences have few attractions for those who seek to link themselves with the past in its ancient outlines and glorious buildings. the cafés were all very well as studies of human nature, but one very soon had enough of them. there was one long street especially old and interesting. on each side were deep, massive arcades of a very early period, above which the houses rose in quaint, gabled outlines, many of the windows still possessing latticed panes, which added so much to their charm. to make the street more interesting, the market was held here. on both sides the road, in front of the arcades was a long succession of stalls, where everything relating to domestic life was sold. fruit and flower and vegetable stalls were the most picturesque, full of fragrance and colouring. luscious grapes and pomegranates were heaped side by side with a wealth of roses and orange blossoms and the still sweeter verbena. many of the stall-holders wore costumes which harmonised admirably with the arcades and gabled roofs. the street was crowded with buyers and sellers and loungers, though few seemed alive to the picturesque element, in which we were absorbed. many of the men, stalwart, strong and vigorous, were dressed in the costume of the country; knee-breeches and broad-brimmed hat; whilst broad blue and red silken sashes were tied round the waist: a hardy, active race, made for endurance. this scene had by far the most human interest of any we found in zaragoza. as a picture of old spain, it would have made the fortune of an artist as we saw it that day in all the effect of sunlight and shadow, all the life and movement that seemed to rouse the arcades of the past into touch with the present. near to this a wonderful leaning-tower stood until recently; a magnificent moorish-looking clock-tower built about the year . this was one of the glories of zaragoza; but the inhabitants after subscribing a sum of money to prop it up, grew alarmed and subscribed another sum to pull it down. in reality it was perfectly safe and might have stood for centuries. but when all is said and done, it is in its side streets, narrow, tortuous and gloomy, that the interest of zaragoza chiefly lies. many of the houses are ancient and enormous palaces, once inhabited by the old aristocracy of aragon. they are so solidly built that they not only defy time, but almost the destructive hand of man. some of them have wonderfully interesting facades: roofs with overhanging eaves and gothic windows guarded by wrought ironwork; features that can never tire. magnificent and imposing gateways lead into yet more imposing courtyards. one of these was especially beautiful: and its history was romantic. [illustration: fair lucia's house: zaragoza.] it once belonged to the son of a reigning duke who renounced all for love, and thought the world well lost. he offended his family by his marriage, and they treated him as one dead. the lady of his choice, fair lucia, was beautiful and charming, but beneath him. tradition says that she was an actress, and that he fell hopelessly in love with her as she played in a drama where all ended tragically. it might have been a warning to them, but when was love ever warned? he espoused her and they took up their abode in this wonderful old palace, fitting home of romance. as we gazed upon the matchless courtyard: the overhanging eaves, the rounded arches of the balcony with their graceful and refined pillars, the exquisitely-carved ceilings and staircase of rich black oak: the latter wide enough to drive up a coach and four: we felt that here love might reign for ever. and probably it would have lasted long; for the lady, as history says, had all graces of the spirit as well as all the charm of exquisite form and feature: whilst her knight was true as the needle to the pole, constant as death. they were happy in each other; life was a paradise; and when did such a perfect condition of things ever last? paradise is not for this world. five summers and winters passed and found them still devoted to each other. every day was a dream. then a cruel visitation came to their town: an epidemic, sparing not high or low. it attacked the fair lucia: and though her husband nursed her night and day, and all the leeches of the town combined their skill and judgment to save her, a stronger power than theirs was against them. the last day dawned; instinct told her that another sun for her could never rise. her husband bent over her in an agony of grief. she clasped her fair, frail arms around his neck. "my love, my love, we have been very happy: all in all to each other," she murmured. "these five years, an eternity of bliss, have yet flown swiftly as a day. you have been good--so good; dear--so dear. perhaps it is well to die thus and now, with all our youth, and all our dreams, and all our illusions undispelled. eternity will restore us to each other. i leave you with not one mark on the delicate bloom of our great love." she died and he was not to be consoled. his people offered to be reunited to him but he would none of them. it was the time of the war of succession. into this he madly plunged, seeking death and finding it. as a rule death is said to avoid those who court him; but here it was not so. the knight, faithful to the end, was found upon the battlefield, his eyes wide open, looking upon the heavens; where perhaps he saw the vision of his lovely wife, whilst her miniature lay next his heart. the house still stands much as it stood in those days, but two centuries older. it is the most beautiful in zaragoza, perhaps has few equals in all spain. a special atmosphere surrounds it: and as we look a vision rises. standing in the courtyard and gazing upon that wide staircase, we see that youthful pair, so favoured by nature, passing to and fro; we see them looking into each other's eyes, hear their love vows. their arms entwine, their love-locks mingle. a mist blurs the scene, and when it passes all has changed. a sad cortége is descending. a coffin bearing the remains of what was once so fair and full of life. a knight armed cap-à-pied follows, with clanking sword and spur; but his face is pale and his eyes are red with weeping, though they weep not now. they will never weep again. the fountain of his tears is dried. again the mist blurs the scene, and when it clears nothing is visible but the solitary knight ascending to his lonely room, love flown, hope dead, his life gone from him. presently the palace is closed; no one ascends or descends the staircase; voices are never heard, footsteps never echo. surely ghosts haunt the sad corridors, look out from the vacant arcades upon the silent courtyard. for the knight has long lain dead upon the battlefield and no one comes to claim the palace and once more throw wide its portals to life, and laughter and sunshine. we paid it more than one visit during our sojourn in zaragoza, and each time there passed before us in vivid colours the love-poem of two hundred years ago. in the bright sunshine, the morning after our arrival we had gone forth to acquaint ourselves with the city. no view was more striking than that beyond the river looking upon the town. [illustration: fair lucia's house: zaragoza.] we stood on the farther bank. the stream flowed rapidly at our feet. before us the wonderful bridge spanned the water with its seven arches: a massive, time-edifying structure. above this in magic outlines rose the towers, turrets and domes of the new cathedral of el pilar, as splendid from this point of view as it is really worthless both outwardly and inwardly on a closer inspection. it is certainly one of the most remarkable scenes in all spain: and from this point zaragoza possesses few rivals. the new cathedral of el pilar: so called because it possesses the pillar on which the virgin is said to have descended from heaven. it is a very large building, and the domes from a distance are very effective, but the interior is in the worst and most debased style. as we stood within the vast space that morning, wondering so much wealth had been wasted on this poor fabric, a female, apparently a lady, dressed in sable garments, her face veiled by the graceful mantilla, glided up to us and solicited alms. at the first moment we thought we had mistaken her meaning, but on looking at her in doubt, she repeated her demand more imploringly. "señor, for the love of heaven, give me charity." the building was large, the worshippers were few, it was easy to converse. "but what do you mean?" we said. "you look too respectable to be asking alms. surely you cannot be in want?" "in want? i am starving." and throwing back her mantilla she disclosed a face still young, still fair to excess, but pale, pinched and careworn. we felt terribly uncomfortable. she walked and spoke as a lady. there was a refinement in her voice and movement that could only have come from gentle breeding. how had she fallen so low? eyes must have asked the question tongue could not. [illustration: bridge and cathedral of el pilar: zaragoza.] "listen, señor," she said, as though in reply. "listen and pity me. i was tenderly and delicately brought up, possessed a comfortable home, indulgent parents. we lived in madrid, where my father held an office under government. i was an only child and indulged. pale, quiet and subdued as you see me now, i was passionate, headstrong and wilful. i fell under the influence of one outwardly an angel, inwardly a demon. he was a singer at the opera, and his voice charmed me even more than his splendid presence. he was beneath me, but we met clandestinely again and again, until at last he persuaded me to fly with him. i was infatuated to madness. all my past life, all past influence, teaching, thought of home, love of parents--all was thrown to the winds for this wild passion. we were secretly married before we fled, for mad as i was i had not lost all sense of honour. almost from the very first day retribution set in. my father had long suffered from disease of the heart though i knew it not, and the shock of my flight killed him. the home was broken up, my mother was left almost destitute, and in a frenzy of despair, a moment of insanity, took poison. i was an orphan, and then discovered that my husband had thought i should be rich. on learning the truth, he began to ill-treat me. his fancy had been caught for a moment by my fair face. of this he soon tired and, base villain that he was, transferred his worthless affections elsewhere. things went from bad to worse. there were times when he even beat me--and i could not retaliate. i had come to my senses; i recognised the hand of retribution, and accepted my punishment. but what wonder that in my misery i learned to seek oblivion in the wine cup? perhaps my worthless husband first gave me the idea of this temptation, for he was seldom sober. it was in one of those terrible moments that he fell from a height and so injured himself that after five days of intense agony he died. i was free but penniless; knew not where to go, which way to turn. i had not a friend in the world--all had forsaken me. there was but one thing i could do. i had a voice and could sing. i sang in cafés, at small concerts, wherever i could get an engagement and earn a trifle. now i am in zaragoza. most nights i sing in the great café, but my small earnings all go in the same way--to satisfy my craving for wine. wine, wine, wine; it is my one sin, but oh! i feel that it is fatal. i know that it is surely drawing my feet to the grave. and after that?" she shuddered; then pointed to a tawdry image of the virgin, before which we stood. "there, before that altar, i have knelt day after day and prayed to be delivered; but i have prayed in vain; no answer comes, and the chains are binding about me. señor, i saw you enter; recognised that you were a stranger. something told me i might address you and you would at least listen; would not spurn me or turn away in hateful contempt. but what can you do? i have asked for alms. i have told you i am starving--and so i am; but it is the soul that is starving more than the body. you will bestow your charity upon me--i know you will--and it will not go in food but in wine. ah, if you could cure me, or give me an antidote that would send me into a sleep from which i should never waken, that indeed would be the greatest and truest charity." then we realised that the pale face and pinched look were not due to want of food. the cause was deeper and more hopeless. it was one of the saddest stories we had ever listened to; and it came upon us so abruptly that we felt helpless and bewildered: sick at heart at the very thought of our want of power to minister to this mind diseased. "give us your name and address," we said, after trying to think out the situation. "let us see if there is any way of escape for you. your sad story has clouded the sunshine." she drew a card from her pocket in a quiet, ladylike way and placed it in our hands with a pathetic, appealing look that haunts us still. we watched her turn away and noted the quiet, graceful movement with which she glided down the aisle and disappeared through a distant door; and our keenest sympathy went out to the poor, fair, frail creature whose burden of life was greater than she could bear. could by any possibility a way of escape be found for her? we passed out of the church, which now seemed laden with an atmosphere of human sorrow and suffering, glad to escape to the free air and pure skies of heaven. from the cathedral square we turned into the narrow streets with their great grey palaces and enormous courtyards all full of suggestions of the past centuries. but the mighty have fallen: aragon has not escaped decline any more than the rest of spain. chapter xxiii. in zaragoza. bygone days--sumptuous roosting--old exchange--traders of taste--glory of aragon--cathedral of la seo--modernised exterior--interior charms and mesmerises--next to barcelona--magnificent effect--parish church--moorish ceiling--tomb of bernardo de aragon--the old priest--waxes enthusiastic--supernatural effect--statuette of benedict xiii.--mysterious chiaroscuro--one exception--alonza the warrior--moorish tiles--bishop's palace--frugal meal--trace of old zaragoza--fifteenth century house--juanita--streets of the city--cæsarea augusta--worship of the virgin--alonzo the moor--determined resistance--days of struggle--falling--return to prosperity--fair maid of zaragoza--the aljaferia--ancient palace of the moorish kings--injured by suchet--salon of santa isabel--spanish café--four generations--lovely voice--lamartine's _le lac_--recognised--reading between the lines--out in the night air--an inspiration--night vision of el pilar--in the far future. the prosperity of zaragoza to-day is entirely commercial, but on a small scale. it is not a great financial or manufacturing town. the rooms that once echoed with the voices of dames and cavaliers, flashed with the blaze of jewels and the gleam of scabbards, have now in many cases been turned into stables. the courtyards, once crowded with mailed horsemen setting out for the wars, are now given over to the fowls of the air, that roost in the eaves and have little idea how sumptuously and artistically they are lodged. going on to the old cathedral square, we faced the ancient exchange with its splendid cornice and decorations of medallion heads of the bygone kings and warriors of aragon. the gothic interior is very interesting, with low, vaulted passages leading to the one great room with its high roof and fine pointed windows, where once the merchants of the town carried on their operations. it would seem that in those past days the sale of stocks and shares, the great questions of finance, did not imply a contempt for the charms of outline and refinement. they loved to surround themselves with the splendours of architecture; and in more than one spanish town the last and best remnant of the gothic age is to be found in the exchange. the whole square was striking. in the centre was a splendid fountain, at which a group of women for ever stood with their artistic pitchers, filling them in turn. fun and laughter seemed the order of the day. the square echoed with merriment, to which the many-mouthed plashing fountain added its music. on the further side of the square is the great glory, not of zaragoza alone, but of the whole kingdom of aragon--the old cathedral of la seo. the exterior has been much modernised, and perhaps was never specially striking. it is curious only at the n.e. angle, where the wall is inlaid with coloured tiles of the fourteenth century; of all shapes, sizes, patterns and colours. the whole has a rich moorish effect almost dazzling when the sun shines upon them. above this rises an octagonal tower decorated with corinthian pillars. from all this glare and sound, hurry and bustle of life, you pass into the interior and at once are charmed, mesmerised. calmness and repose fall upon the spirit; in a moment you have suddenly been removed from the world. at once it takes its place in the mind as ranking next to barcelona. if some of its details are not to be too closely examined, the general effect is magnificent in the extreme. in form it is peculiar and unlike any other cathedral, for it is almost a perfect square, but this is not observed at the first moment; the coro occupies the centre, and a multitude of splendid columns support and separate the double aisles. the nave and aisles are all roofed to the same level, giving a very lofty appearance to the whole interior. the vaulting springs from the capitals of the main columns with an effect of beauty and grace seldom equalled. to look upwards is like gazing at a palm-forest with spreading fronds. like many of the spanish churches, the light is cunningly arranged, and the shadow-effect is very telling. a solemn obscurity for ever reigns, excepting when sunbeams fall upon the windows. towards evening the gloom deepens, and all looks weird and mysterious. the outlines of the lofty roof and spreading capitals are almost lost. we seem to be in a vast building of measureless dimensions: a dream-structure. the grey, subdued colour of the stone is perfect. immense buttresses support the side walls, and between these are the chapels. [illustration: an old nook in zaragoza.] the first chapel on the left on entering is used as a parish church. its moorish ceiling is magnificent, though difficult to make out in the dim religious light that too often reigns. the chapel also contains a very remarkable alabaster tomb of bernardo de aragon, brother of king alfonso. when we entered, it was almost at the end of a service, and for congregation the old priest had no one but the verger. he seemed relieved when it was over, waddled down the steps and disrobed. then in a very kindly way he turned to us, bowed as gracefully as his rotund personage permitted, and bade us note the beauty of ceiling and tomb. "light a few more candles," he said to the verger, "and let us try to get at a few of the exquisitely carved details. it is considered one of the finest moorish ceilings in spain," he continued; "and in my opinion it is so. you will mark the depth of the sections, beauty of the workmanship, rich and gorgeous effect of the whole composition. there never was a people like those wonderful moors--never will be again as long as the world lasts. how these candles add a charm to the scanty daylight, giving out almost a supernatural effect! has it ever struck you in the same way, this strange mingling of natural and artificial light? it is especially refining. then look at this tomb, and admire its beauty--though it is of a very different character from the ceiling. here we have nothing moorish. that overwhelming wealth and gorgeousness of imagination is absent from the cold marble. but how pure and perfect! note that exquisite statuette of benedict xiii.: the figures of the knights that surround him with their military orders; the drooping figures of the mourners in the niches. but after all, what is all this compared with the splendours of the cathedral itself," cried the old priest, without pausing to take breath. "put out the lights, mateo," turning to the verger; and then without further ceremony led the way into the larger building. he had a large, red, amiable face, this old priest; some day we felt sure that he would die of apoplexy; but he was evidently a lover of the beautiful, and as evidently one who loved his fellow-men. [illustration: north wall of cathedral: zaragoza.] "look!" he said, throwing up his hands as we stood entranced at the scene. "what can be more perfect? whichever way you gaze you are met by a forest of pillars--a true forest, full of life and breath, for are not those growing like spreading palms? and where will you find pillars so lofty and massive? where will you discover such a feeling of devotion, so mysterious a chiaroscuro? apart from their beauty, we must not disdain these influences. they are aids to devotion, and poor, frail, erring human nature needs all the help it can receive both from without and within, from below and above. i always tell our organist to play soft voluntaries and pull out his sweetest stops, so that he may make music which will creep into the spirit and rouse all its capacities for worship. that should be the true aim of all harmony. look at the richness of the coro--the splendour of the carving. it all forms an effect which makes this the most wonderful and perfect cathedral in the whole of spain." "with one exception," we ventured modestly to observe. "which is that?" cried the old priest, evidently sharpening his weapon of warfare--the tongue that did him such good suit and service. "your cathedral is a gem of the very first water," we said. "it throws one into a dream from which one might almost wish not to awaken; but it is not equal to barcelona." the old priest put his hand to his forehead and looked depressed. "you are right," he said; "i cannot contradict you. but then barcelona is beyond comparison." here he brightened again. "let me tell you the difference. barcelona was never built by men; it was the work of angels. it is a dream-building that came down from the skies, and some day it will disappear into the skies again. and then here we shall reign supreme. with all its beauty and splendour and charm, there is nothing here to suggest angel master-builders; it is a dream-fabric if you will, but essentially the work of man: firm and strong and substantial, lasting through the ages. in the days of the goths there was another building on this very spot. the moors came and it was turned into a mosque; and when alonza the warrior re-took the city the church was reconstructed. this was early in the twelfth century. here the kings of aragon were crowned with pomp and ceremony, and here our most important councils have been held. now come and look at our moorish tiles." and again, without pause in his talk, and without ceremony, he led the way. we could only willingly follow through the lovely forest of pillars, crossing one aisle after another, sharing his enthusiasm. we had the whole church to ourselves. the people of zaragoza seemed too busy to trouble themselves about dreams of architecture. "look again," said the old priest, as we stood outside in front of the north wall. "these tiles are very beautiful and remarkable. they are undoubtedly moorish; the work of moorish craftsmen. do you observe the fineness of the colours, the rich deep blue that contrasts so well with the emerald green? you would think the effect of so much colour would be garish, but on the contrary it is quiet and subdued, with great dignity about it. this is quite the oldest part of the exterior. one can only regret that the whole was not tiled, for then we should have possessed a unique building with which to challenge the world. you see there are still evidences of an earlier church than this," and he pointed to certain remains which were unmistakably romanesque: in the lower part of the apse, the buttresses and in one of the windows. "and there," said the old priest, pointing to an immense building, "is the bishop's palace, which was sacked and ruined by the french in that terrible war. since that day much that was interesting in zaragoza has disappeared; but heaven be praised, we have still our cathedral, and as long as we have that, the rest matters little. and now i must wish you good-morning. it is my hour for breakfast--a very frugal meal with me, consisting chiefly of eggs and sweet herbs. ah, señor," with a round gurgling laugh, "i see what you are thinking--that eggs and sweet herbs never developed this rotundity of person. you are wrong. i fast twice in the week; i never touch anything stronger than coffee; i have only two simple meals a day; and yet you see how prodigal nature is in her dealings with me. you doubt me? come with me. i live at a stone's throw. you shall see my abode and interrogate my old housekeeper, and you will hear how she corroborates my tale." he led the way, this singular old priest, whom we found not only appreciating the beautiful, but brimming over with humour: one of those delightfully simple, self-unconscious men, who are all sympathy and amiability. we could but follow: down a small narrow street into a quaint sort of _cul-de-sac_, where we came upon an exquisite trace of old zaragoza. a small fifteenth-century house, with a quaint gothic doorway, and a window guarded by magnificent iron-work. touching a hidden spring, this door opened and admitted us into a panelled passage that apparently had not been touched for centuries. then he turned into a wonderful old room, black with panelled oak, some of which was vigorously and splendidly carved. "this is my living room," he said, "and here i am happy. i live in the past; the fine old fifteenth-century days when men knew how to produce the beautiful and were great in all their ideas. here i live, and here i hope to die." he went to the door. "juanita!" he called. a distant voice answered, and in a moment a quaint old woman dressed in black appeared upon the scene. "juanita, is my breakfast ready?" asked the old priest. "si, el canon." "what have you prepared?" "two fried eggs, canonigo, flavoured with sweet herbs; bread, butter and coffee at discretion--as usual." "you see," laughed the priest. "there is no collusion here! would that i could ask you to share my frugal meal; but it is emphatically only enough for one--and that an abstemious old canon. now if you will come and see me this evening or to-morrow, i shall be delighted to receive you. i would even ask you to come and dine with me, but my dinner is as frugal as my déjeuner. well, for the moment we part; but you will come again." as we said good-bye, juanita appeared with her fried eggs, and steaming coffee served in a chaste silver pot that must have been at least a hundred and fifty years old; and the old priest accompanying us to the door, speeded us on our way with true courtesy and an old-fashioned blessing. [illustration: tower of la seo: zaragoza.] we passed from this delightful atmosphere into the modern streets of the city, thinking how little remained of its former traces. for it goes far back in history, even to the days of the romans, when it was called cæsarea augusta; a name that in course of ages was transformed to zaragoza. early in the first century it was prosperous; a free city possessing its own charters, seat of the assizes, owning a mint. but of the old roman city all traces have disappeared. it was one of the first cities to renounce paganism. aurelios prudentius the first christian poet was born here in the year . christianity was then the keynote of its life, and martyrs died for the faith. now it is given up to the worship of the virgin almost more than any town in spain. in the eighth century it fell under the dominion of the moors, who kept it until the twelfth century. then came alonso the warrior, who captured it after a desperate siege of five years, when the people had most of them perished from hunger: one of the most determined resistances in the history of the world. it passed through many vicissitudes as the centuries rolled on. then in came the french, who without taking the town managed to leave it almost in ruins. then came the attack under napoleon's four generals, and zaragoza resisted them single-handed for sixty-two days of terrible struggle, combined with plague and famine. all spain looked on and did nothing to relieve it. it fell in . since that time it has had a peaceful return to prosperity. many of the ancient outlines and splendours of the city had disappeared in the "heap of ruins" left by the french. a new element arose, and as we walked towards our rambling old inn, with its thousand-and-one passages, we thought them painfully evident. at the inn we took up our guide, who escorted us through many streets and turnings to the plaza del portillo, where stood the ancient west gate of the city. it was on this very spot that occurred the romantic episode of augustina the fair maid of zaragoza; a spanish joan of arc on a small scale. in the terrible siege to which the city was to succumb, augustina was fighting on the walls side by side with her devoted lover. she watched him fall, death-stricken, then took the match from his loosening hand and worked the gun herself. determined to avenge her lover, it is said that she fought long and desperately and with more fatal execution than any two artillerymen. but we all know the story by heart; and how, though courting death, she escaped all dangers. not to see this romantic spot were we here, but the aljaferia, just beyond the gate, in some measure by far the most interesting secular building in zaragoza. this was the ancient palace of the moorish kings, and still possesses some exquisite moorish traces and outlines, though chiefly by way of restoration. it was built by a sheikh of zaragoza as a royal fortress, with almost impregnable walls. ferdinand the catholic gave it over to the inquisition party to add to the power of this wretched tribunal, partly because in these strong walls the hated judges found a safe refuge after the murder of the popular and ill-fated arbues. in the french war it was much injured by suchet, who turned it into a barrack, then degraded this ancient palace of the moorish kings and the kings of aragon to the rank of a prison. alphonso xii. restored the palace, and had it redecorated as far as possible to imitate its ancient splendour. the staircase is very fine, and the ceilings of some of the rooms are magnificent. one of the rooms is called the salon of santa isabel, because here that future queen of hungary, so famous for her goodness, was born in . it is richly decorated in blue and gold. there is a small octagonal mosque of great beauty, which has been left just as it was in the days of the moors; and some of the horseshoe doorways, in outline at least, have not changed. the visit was full of interest, and in spite of all alteration, carried us back to the days when that wonderful people reigned in zaragoza. in the upper part was a magnificent armoury, kept in good order by the soldiers--for this fine old building has again been turned into a barrack, and devoted to military use. the day passed on to night, and there came an hour when we found ourselves sitting for a time in the café that is said to be the largest in spain, studying human nature, listening to the music--for once an interesting and civilised performance. the room was gorgeously fitted up with gilding and mirrors that seemed to reflect a million lights. the atmosphere was fast growing to that state of blue haze which the spaniards delight in, many of whom are said to carry on their smoke in their sleep by some process of conjuring only to be acquired after long practice. we happened to be looking away from the orchestra, in deep study of a curious group to our right--a group which seemed to comprise four generations. one was one of the oddest little old women we had ever seen, with a wonderfully wrinkled face, and small restless eyes sharp as an eagle's, and withered hands that looked like a bird's claws. this was the little great-grandmother. she had by no means passed into her dotage, the nonentity of old age, and was possibly not more than seventy or seventy-five, though she looked a hundred. then came her son and daughter-in-law--unmistakably her son from the likeness to her on a larger and somewhat pleasanter scale. then a still younger generation: a young man and woman, evidently husband and wife; she as evidently the man's daughter. these were better dressed and looked as though they had climbed a few rungs up the social ladder; they were prosperous in their small way; and the young man was distinctly of a better grade than his father-in-law. on his knee sat a lovely boy some five years old, fast asleep, his head pillowed against the father's shoulder. here was the fourth generation. but what most attracted us was the singular beauty of the young man's wife, with her delicate flushed cheeks, her white teeth, clear hazel eyes, and abundant hair perfectly arranged. he seemed to follow her looks and hang upon her words and worship the ground she trod upon, and we did not wonder. we were absorbed in this domestic picture, when suddenly we were arrested by the spell of a lovely voice, and well-remembered words fell upon our ear. it was that touching song of lamartine's, _le lac_, so pathetic in words and music. we turned and felt thrilled and startled as we recognised the face and form that had accosted us in el pilar and poured out her sad story. but the face was changed. in place of the hungry pallor there was now a crimson flush; the eyes sparkled with light. was it all due to inward fever, to the wine-cup, or to artificial aid? not the latter, we thought. there was a beauty upon the face nothing artificial ever yet possessed. she was quietly dressed in black. it might have been the very robe she had worn in the morning, differently arranged. we must have moved or slightly started, for at that moment she evidently recognised us. for an instant her face changed colour, her voice trembled; then she recovered herself, and apparently did not again notice us. the very first words of the introduction had caught our ear with all the charm and familiarity of an old friend. all its dramatic power was well rendered by the singer. "ainsi toujours poussés vers de nouveaux rivages, dans la nuit éternelle emportés sans retour, ne pourrons-nous jamais sur l'océan des âges jeter l'ancre un seul jour?" so it went on, to the end of the declamation. then, after a slight pause, whilst the accompanist went through the short refrain, the soft sweet melody, the graceful, mournful words rose upon the air: "un soir, t'en souvient-il, nous voguions en silence, on n'entendait au loin sur l'onde et sous les cieux, que le bruit des rameurs qui frappaient en cadence tes flôts harmonieux! "o lac! rochers muets, grottes, forêt obscure, vous que le temps épargne, ou qu'il peut rajeunir, gardez de cette nuit, gardez, belle nature, au moins le souvenir! "que le vent qui gémit, le roseau qui soupire, que les parfums légers de ton air embaumé, que tout ce qu'on entend, l'on voit, ou l'on respire, tout dise: ils ont aimé!" not a word was lost. every syllable rang out softly, distinctly, clear as a bell. we had never heard the song more beautifully sung, or greater justice done to its pathos. every shade of sadness in its cadences was perfectly given. it was only too evident that trouble had helped the exquisite voice to its sorrowful ring. to us, who were to some extent behind the scenes of the singer's life, it was difficult to listen without emotion. we could read between the lines and knew the source of her inspiration; the deep suffering and misery that lay behind it all. when the song was over, with its applause that grated, and the singer had retired, we felt the room had become stifling and unbearable, and went out into the night air. the streets seemed to have grown small and contracted. something must be done for that sad life that would otherwise soon be lost in every sense of the word; yet apparently we were powerless to move in the matter. suddenly, as though by an inspiration, we thought of the old canon, so full of sympathy and human kindness. if there could be any possible way of escape, he was the one to suggest it; and we determined to lay the whole case before him. thus thinking, we unconsciously found ourselves on the banks of the river. the night was clear and calm; the stars hung in the sky: the moon, brilliant and silvery, was rising behind el pilar, showing up in magic outlines all the grace of its domes and towers. the old bridge spanned the stream, whose dark waters flowed rapidly through its seven arches. it was a perfect night, a witching scene. everywhere intense quiet reigned, absolute stillness and repose. the world might have been a sleeping paradise, knowing nothing of human suffering. but we had learned that day by sad experience that the time for sorrow and sighing to flee away lay still in the far-off future. chapter xxiv. the canon's hospitality. el pilar by day--in the old cathedral--the canon reproachful--equal to the occasion--no pressure needed--_un diner maigre_--dream of forty years--true to time--juanita--fruits of long service--exploring juanita's domains--house of magic--"surely not a fast-day"--artistic dreams--who can legislate after death?--canon's abstinence--juanita withdraws--our opportunity--canon earnest and sympathetic--eugenie de colmar--canon's surprise--an old friend--truth stranger than fiction--"you will forget the old priest"--ingratitude not one of our sins--a _rivederci_--canon's letter--end of eugenie's story--en route for tarragona--landlord turns up at lerida--missing keys--skeletons floated out to panama--domestic drama--dragon again to the front--tarragona--matchless coast scene--civilised inn--military element--haunted house--mystery unsolved--distinct elements--roman and other remains--dream of the past--green pastures and sunny vineyards. it was the next day. we had again been standing on the farther bank of the river watching the flowing waters. they were dark and deep, a mighty stream that swept through the seven arches of the wonderful bridge reflecting its outlines. we had contemplated for the twentieth time the marvellous effect of the domes and towers of el pilar rising like an eastern vision against the clear sky, had asked ourselves over and over again where we should find a fairer and a more striking view, and found the question difficult to answer. we had strolled over that same bridge back into the town, where the charm of outline and ancient atmosphere so strangely disappeared; had passed the fine old exchange, crossed the square with its plashing fountain and ever-changing group of chattering women filling their artistic pitchers. finally we had found ourselves within the cathedral, also, for the twentieth time, lost in this architectural splendour; this wonder of a bygone age, where all the fret of every-day life had no room for existence. as we looked, we noticed a portly figure hurriedly crossing the aisles in our direction. at the first moment he did not see us. an expression of intense amiability and benevolence "was upon the large round face, that would otherwise have been so ugly, and by its aid was made so beautiful. he raised his eyes and came down upon us as an eagle to its prey. "you are here!" he cried. "i have been wondering all the morning why i did not come across you, in what ancient nook you had buried yourselves. i was now on my way to your hotel to ask whether you had departed to other fields, and to find out why you did not come to me last night. to-night i shall make sure of you. you shall dine with me--i will take no refusal. for once the old priest's frugal fare must suffice you. it shall be a fast-day. abstinence from flesh-meat occasionally is good, even for travellers. tell me you will come. do not pain me by refusing, or make me guilty of pressing you too much. juanita, my old housekeeper, tells me she is quite equal to preparing you _un diner maigre_." pressure was not needed; we were too glad to accept the good priest's invitation. he was given to hospitality in the best sense of the word, and we readily promised to dine with him. for us, the diner maigre had no terrors. "that is good," he replied, in his rich round voice. "i shall expect you at seven o'clock, though we shall not dine until eight. so you are still lost in amazement at this architectural dream. the oftener you see it, the more beautiful it becomes. with few interruptions i have looked upon it daily for forty years, and every morning its charm seems new and strange to me. well, since i have seen you i shall not go to your hotel. i have sundry visits to pay to poor sick folk. until the infirmities of old age become too strong for me i will not give them up. and before that happens i trust a merciful creator will remove me to scenes where there is neither age nor infirmity nor sick poor in need of consolation." he hurried away, leaving us to the marvellous interior. we were glad to go to the old canon's, and felt it would be our opportunity for laying before him that interesting but unhappy case. [illustration: interior of cathedral, showing coro and organ: zaragoza.] as the clock struck seven we rang the bell. the drooping handle was in itself an object of art: a wonderful specimen of iron work cunningly wrought. we were not privileged to use the hidden spring, which moreover we could not discover. the bell was immediately answered by juanita in grey hair, placid face and black silk gown; a picture of high respectability. she greeted us with a serene smile and assured us that we were welcome: tones and manner a reflection of her master's: the fruits of long and faithful service. hers was a face to be taken on trust. as we entered, the canon came out of his dining-room. "i like this punctuality," he cried, "and you are doubly welcome. as our frugal dinner is not ready, i will take you through my little house whilst a glimmer of daylight lasts. let us first lay siege to juanita's regions--my good old housekeeper who has been with me or mine for fifty years--ever since she was a maiden of ten. we will explore the mysteries of her preparations for our benefit. i always feel like a child when gazing upon her handiwork." a long passage panelled in old dark oak led from the dining-room to the kitchen. here, indeed, we found ourselves in fairyland. the room was far larger than the dining-room. latticed windows looked out upon a small courtyard, half conservatory, where bloomed a profusion of sweet-smelling flowers. the kitchen itself was a picture; walls were panelled, the ceiling was of oak; everything bore the unmistakable tone of age. facing the windows were hooks and shelves bearing the brightest of brass pots and pans. the latticed windows, the flowers beyond all, here found their reflections multiplied. every brass implement was of the most artistic description. at right angles with this, other shelves bore a small but special dinner-service of old spanish ware, the only example of its kind we had ever seen. below this was an old dresser on which the silver used by the canon was displayed, with here and there an artistic water-pot and cooler. in the centre of the spacious kitchen was a large, solid, substantial oak table. at one end lay some work at which juanita had evidently lately been busy. at the other end was a small pile of the curious spanish-ware plates, evidently on their way to the dining-room. under one of the latticed windows was juanita's help-mate: a young woman busily engaged in preparing a dish of olives. one could have lived in this room with the greatest pleasure, and never asked for anything more artistic or luxurious. a savoury smell, as of frying of eggs with sweet herbs, was in the air; yet were there no signs of stove or cooking. a huge chimney-place there was, in which half a dozen people might have comfortably found seats; but nothing was to be seen excepting a couple of old-fashioned dogs on which some lighted wood and peat sparkled and crackled, whilst the blue smoke went curling up the wide opening. "wonderful!" we cried, taking in the incomparable effect of the whole room. "this is a house of magic." "very simple magic," laughed the old canon. "i fear that in sleight of hand juanita and i would be failures. her magic lies in preparing simple dishes." "but where are they prepared?" we said. "there is neither sign nor sound of cooking here." "come and see," laughed the canon; and crossing the kitchen, he led the way through a further door down a short passage into a small, whitewashed room beyond. here on a large stove juanita and her hand-maiden conducted their mysteries. a dozen brass pans stood upon the stove, and every one of them seemed in use. "surely these are not for dinner!" we cried. "it was to be a fast-day." "a fast-day as far as flesh is concerned," laughed the canon. "that does not absolutely mean that you are to starve. i know no more than you what juanita has prepared. if i intruded upon her province with the faintest suggestion, she might retaliate by sending us empty dishes. i fear our faces would lengthen before them--that is if anything could lengthen mine," he gurgled, turning his large, round, delightful countenance full upon us. "i see signs of approaching readiness in those steaming saucepans. let us continue our inspection. daylight dies; nothing remains but the afterglow." we passed again through the charming old kitchen, where the logs on the great hearth blazed and crackled. "summer and winter, juanita will have a fire," said the old canon, pointing to the crackling logs. "she declares that she is growing old and shivery, and the bright flames chase the vapours from her mind." we passed up the old oak staircase. everywhere we came upon the same signs of age; the same artistic old panelling; bedrooms with ancient oak furniture, oak ceilings finely carved. a perfect house of its kind, and much larger than it appeared from the outside. one room was the canon's own sanctum, fitted up with book-shelves, where reposed many a precious volume. amongst his treasures he produced some ancient illuminated manuscripts of rare value. the desk at which he sat and worked was placed near a latticed window in a corner of the room, through which one just caught sight of the tower of la seo. again we exclaimed that so perfect a house should be found in zaragoza. "mine by inheritance," said the canon. "early in the sixteenth century it belonged to a far-away ancestor, who was bishop of zaragoza. dying, he left it to his brother and his children, of whom i am a direct descendant. the singular thing is that between the bishop and myself there has not been a single ecclesiastic in the family. when i die, the direct line of nearly four centuries will be broken. the house will pass to my nephew, who is mixed up with court life, and has married a court beauty. he is already nearly middle-aged, with sons and daughters growing up. as far as possible i have ordained that the house shall never be altered. but who can legislate for what shall happen after death?" we returned to the dining-room, where we soon found that our fast was to be in reality a light, refined and delicate feast. fish of more kinds than one, dressed to perfection; eggs and sweet herbs in many forms and disguises; choice fruits. and from his cellar the canon brought forth exquisite wines--priceless johannisberg and chambertin; whilst with our coffee he gave us chartreuse fifty years old. yet he himself passed over all delicacies, limiting his dinner to eggs and sweet herbs, with which he drank coffee. "you censure others by the dignity of excelling," we said. "though crowding upon us these indulgences, you abstain from all." "i believe in st. james, who said, 'use hospitality one to another without grudging,'" returned the canon. "i delight in doing this. heaven has blessed me with means; how can they be better employed than in ministering to others, whether rich or poor? as for myself, do not think i am exercising self-denial. habit is second nature. did i not tell you that the pleasures of the table had nothing to do with my physical rotundity. but heaven be praised, i can still manage to roll over the ground without trouble." juanita waited upon us with unruffled ease, her comely face looking the delight she evidently felt in dispensing luxuries. her hands were clothed in black silk mittens; her black silk gown rustled with a gentle dignity as she quietly moved about, taking plates and dishes from her hand-maiden, who stood outside the door. some wonderful old silver adorned the table and everything from first to last showed the ruling hand and head of one born and bred in an atmosphere of refinement. we had not sat down to table until eight o'clock, and when coffee was served the old clock on the oak mantelpiece had chimed nine, and its last vibrations had long died upon the air. yet the time had passed with lightning rapidity, for the canon in giving us some of the experiences of his long life, and in telling us many legends of zaragoza, had engaged our whole interest and attention. when juanita had handed us coffee, and left the charming old silver coffee-pot steaming upon the table dispensing its aromatic fumes, she made us collectively a court-curtsey at the door and withdrew. then came our opportunity, and we related to the canon our previous day's adventure, with all its sadness and its apparently hopeless element. he listened with earnest attention and sympathy. "the world is full of these instances," he cried with a profound sigh, when we had ended. "do you wonder at my frugal living when i hear of these wrecked lives? i have seen so much of this terrible vice. i know how hard it is to conquer, how seldom the victory is gained. it requires daily care on the part of one stronger than the tempted, and too often even that fails. but who is this frail creature? she must and shall be rescued if human aid, under divine help, can avail. for heaven will not always save us in spite of ourselves. 'my spirit shall not always strive with men.'" her name and domestic history had been withheld to the last. we now explained who she was, who her father had been, his position under government, his sudden death from grief. and we gave him her card, which bore both her married and her maiden name--the latter written in pencil: eugenie de colmar. the canon quite started as we spoke it, and threw himself back in his chair. "is it possible!" he cried. "is it possible! but life is full of these coincidences. verily the divine hand holds the threads of the world's human actions; and what we call coincidences are the silent drawing together of these threads for ordained purposes. de colmar was my intimate friend, though many years my junior. he would come and spend a week at a time with me here, but his visits were not frequent. i knew little of his wife, still less of his child, whom i saw but once when she was about ten years old. i was told of his death; had heard of a tragedy; but the full details i now learn for the first time. it is one of the saddest stories i ever listened to. for the sake of the father i must make every effort to save the child. it will be a hard task, but only needing the more courage. to-morrow i will seek her out. she must be taken from this unwholesome life and excitement. i will tell her that she owes it to the memory of her father, in atonement for the wrong she did him, to place herself in my hands; to give up her will to mine. she shall come into this house and take up her abode with us for a time. her reform shall be my daily care. juanita, for all her placid face, has plenty of good sense and decision; she is quite equal to being her companion and to watching over her. it shall be done. i have seldom failed in what i earnestly took in hand, and i must not fail now." this was good news. a load was taken from our mind. surely all this would bear fruit. there seemed every hope that this poor creature would be rescued and restored. when we got up to leave, it was with a light heart. the time had passed quickly and the hands on the old clock pointed to eleven. "alas, you are going away. when shall we meet again?" said the canon, in tones as melancholy as we felt sure ever fell from his lips. not his to look on the sad side of life. he passed his days shedding light and warmth around him like a substantial sunbeam, distributing favours with both hands. "when shall we meet again?" he repeated. "perhaps never! even the splendours of la seo may fail to draw from you a second visit; whilst the welcome awaiting you from the old priest will be altogether forgotten." we assured him that ingratitude was not one of our sins. the delightful evening he had given us would be remembered for ever; we truly declared it a privilege and a pleasure to know him; a sorrow to say farewell. "it is a word i never utter," quickly returned the canon. "with me it is ever _au revoir_; if not in this world then in the next. and we have now a bond of sympathy between us in this poor creature whom i am going to save and rescue whether she will or no. she is our joint protégée; i shall write and keep you posted up in her welfare. be sure that if any power can possibly reclaim her, she is saved. _au revoir_--let us leave it at this. heaven be with you--and peace." full of peace indeed was the night as we passed out into the darkness. the stars seemed to shine down upon the world with a serene benediction. much of the pain we had felt last night was removed. surely no chance hand had guided us. the work begun to-night was destined to succeed.[c] before turning in, we went once more round to our favourite spot. it was our last look by starlight upon the deep, dark flowing river, the wonderful old bridge, the faint outlines of el pilar rising beyond. to-night all was shadowy and indistinct; a dream vision; and the only sound to be heard was the swirling of the waters through the seven arches of st. peter's bridge. the next morning we left zaragoza by an early train for tarragona: a long roundabout journey. again we had to pass through lerida, where we had twenty minutes to wait. as chance would have it, our landlord was on the platform, speeding parting guests. we went up to him and drew him apart. "tell us," we said; "what about the dragging of the well? has it been done?" our late host threw up his hands. "oh, señor, i shiver and shake at the very thought of it. i had it done the very day after you left. and what do you think came up?" "two skeletons?" "the keys, señor: the missing keys and a pair of slippers--very much down at heel." "and the skeletons?" "not a vestige, señor; not a single bone. i told you the well communicated with the river, and the river with the sea. they must have floated out, and probably are now reposing in the panama canal." "but why the panama canal?" "everything bad must drift there, señor. i lost a large sum in the wretched affair." "and have you seen no ghost since we left?" "no ghost, señor, and no mysterious sounds. all the same we have had a domestic drama." "the dragon?" "exactly, señor. your penetration is wonderful. as she was leaning over her wash-tub, the waiter came behind and ducked her head in the soapsuds. her mouth--you know her mouth--was wide open, and she swallowed a great gulp of soapy water; upon which, presto! quick as lightning, she up with her washing-pin and hit him on the head. such a crash! down went the waiter, and the dragon was stooping over him with wet locks like a dripping mermaid, gloating and mouthing upon the ruin." "and the waiter?" "in the hospital, señor, with a broken head. that is why i am here. i have to come to the station myself, and be my own porter, and see my guests off. servants are the bane of one's life. like the flies, they were invented for our torment. but, señor, these troubles are nothing compared with the relief of finding that the skeletons had cleared out to sea." our train came up and we went our way, leaving lerida behind us with its fine outlines, and the landlord to the difficult task of managing his womenkind. so far we had travelled on the line before, but now branched off towards tarragona. we did not again see manresa, but even a comparative approach to its neighbourhood brought all the splendid and imposing outlines, the blood-red river, vividly before us. once more we saw mons serratus with its jagged, fantastic peaks: lived through our haunted night in the hospederia; again salvador the monk and his wonderful music took possession of our spirit and serratus itself appeared enveloped in harmony and romance. we were glad not to pass through the station, where possibly sebastien would have been on the watch for passengers; and we should have left a heart-broken expression behind us at the very thought of our not staying a couple of days to see manresa under sunshine. the day was wearing on to evening as we approached tarragona with its matchless coast scene. the blue waters of the mediterranean stretched far and wide, and the harbour reposed upon them like a sleeping crescent. as the sun dipped in the west, the waters flashed out its declining rays, reflected the gorgeous colouring of the sky. the train landed us in the lower town. we had to reach the upper town, and the rickety old omnibus rolled and struggled up the steep streets, finally depositing us at the fonda de paris. we found the inn quite civilised. the landlord was half italian and spoke several languages. on the first night of our arrival the cook must have been in a very amiable mood, for he sent up an excellent dinner. but to h. c.'s sorrow and surprise the after dinners were a lamentable falling-off. the cook had been crossed in love, received notice to quit, or his art failed him: everything was below par. on the evening of our arrival, the evil had not fallen. the hotel, like many of the spanish inns was large and rambling. our landlord conducted us to excellent rooms facing the road, and from the balcony the scene was enchanting. before us was an old roman tower. to our right, far down, feet below our present level, we caught sight of the sleeping mediterranean. it was not quite so pleasant to find ourselves surrounded by the military element; barracks to right and left of us; sentries in slippers patrolling up and down; raw recruits, looking as little like soldiers as anything to be conceived; constant snatches of bugle-calling, which seemed to end at midnight and begin again at four in the morning. so far, all was unrest. but we soon found that the charms of tarragona soared far above all small and secondary considerations. down the long passage behind our rooms we came to the garden of the hotel. it was after dinner and pale twilight reigned. in the centre of the garden a splendid spreading palm outlined itself against the evening sky, in which shone a large, liquid, solitary star. the garden was surrounded by a white wall, and the scene was quite eastern. far down was the wonderful coast-line and crescent harbour. of late we had had only rivers, and this broad expanse of sea brought new life to the spirit. returning indoors, we found the inn haunted, but not by spirits of the dead. the ghost was unmistakably flesh and blood. the first time we caught sight of him--it was a masculine ghost, therefore doubly uninteresting--he was cautiously putting his head into our rooms and taking a look round. the said rooms were raised above the rest on that floor by steps that led to our own quarters only. thus the ghost was clearly trespassing. he neither looked confused nor apologised as he took his slow departure. all his time seemed spent in prowling about the passages in a spirit of curiosity or unrest. often we found him on our premises on suddenly coming in, and once or twice, when quietly writing, on looking up were startled by an evil-looking countenance intruding itself at the open door, and as quickly withdrawing on finding the room occupied. we never discovered the mystery. whether the ghost was a little out of its mind, whether it was its peculiar way of taking exercise, or whether it suffered from kleptomania and had a passion for collecting sticks and umbrellas, nothing of this was ever learned. we only knew that the ghost looked like a broken-down dissenting parson, that it dressed in sable garments, and went about with a pale face and large black eyes that seemed to glow with hidden fire suggestive of madness, and long, straight, black hair plastered down each side of its face; a curiously unpleasant object to encounter at every trick and turn of the gloomy corridors. tarragona possesses two distinct elements, both in an eminent degree. the town, especially the lower town, is mean and common-place. ascending beyond a certain point, you come upon everything refined and beautiful. it stands on a hill which gradually rises to some seven or eight hundred feet above the sea-level. at the highest point of all is its mediæval cathedral, surpassing most of the cathedrals of spain or elsewhere--one of those wonders of architecture that visit us in our dreams, but are seldom actually found. it does not, however, stand out far and wide in magnificent outlines, like manresa or lerida. only a close inspection reveals its charms. the upper town is surrounded by walls ancient and imposing. within their boundaries are many roman and christian remains, such as few places still possess, making of tarragona a dream of the past crowded with interest. outside the walls the views are splendid and extensive. looking towards the ever-changing sea, the coast-line is magnificent. point after point juts out; hill after hill rises towards the east. far down at one's feet lies the little harbour, encircling all the craft that seek its shelter: steamers from barcelona with their daily freights, steamers from norway and sweden laden with scented pinewood, a whole fleet of picturesque fishing boats. inland, the country is a succession of rich green pastures and sunny vineyards, whilst on the sloping hills afar off reposes many a town and village. chapter xxv. quasimodo. tarragona by night--cathedral--moonlight vision--dream-fabric--deserted streets--ghostly form approaches--quilp or quasimodo?--redeeming qualities--pale spiritual face--open sesame--approaching the apparition--question and answer--invitation accepted--prisoners--the shadow--under the cold moonlight--enter cathedral--vast interior--gloom and silence--fantastic effects--enigma solved--strange proceeding--no inspiration--why quasimodo turned night into day--weird moonlight scene--soft sweet sounds--schumann's träumerei--spellbound--the magician--witching hour--cathedral ghosts--an eternity of music--varying moods--returning to earth--quasimodo's rapture--travelling moonbeams--night grows old--sky full of music--lost to sight--dreams haunted by quasimodo--new day. that first night we went out into the darkness, when details were lost in outlines. we passed the barracks where bugling seemed to be in full play. a narrow street to the right led to a short flight of steps, above which rose the west front of the cathedral. as far as we could see, the porches were deep and beautiful. but it was the south and east sides that presented the most marvellous outlines. even the darkness could not hide their beauty. and presently, when the moon rose and her pale silvery light shone full upon the grey walls and gleamed upon the gothic windows and ancient tower, it turned to a dream-fabric. the night was intensely still, not a sound could be heard, not a soul was visible. our footsteps alone woke the echoes as we walked to and fro before that moonlight vision, and felt unable to leave it. [illustration: south-west exterior of cathedral: tarragona.] the cathedral clock struck eleven. as the last stroke vibrated upon the air, we saw a shadowy form approaching. it was not yet the ghostly hour, therefore it must be flesh and blood, to be boldly challenged. was the mysterious being that haunted our corridors prowling these precincts in search of relics? no; as the form approached we saw that it was short and slender; almost diaphanous, almost deformed. the head seemed enormous in comparison with the body; legs and arms were unusually long. yet even in the moonlight we noticed that something pale and spiritual about the face redeemed its ugliness. we thought of quilp, of quasimodo, all the grotesques we had ever heard of, but he only resembled these at a distance; we soon found that he was far better than they. this apparition was followed by a lean, lanky youth who seemed to be shod in india-rubber, so silent his footsteps. he towered above quasimodo, whom he followed as a shadow follows its substance. we happened to be standing near a small gate in the south railings, and up to this gate came quasimodo, inserted a magic key into the lock and swung it open. what did it mean? were they, this moonlight night, going into the interior? what a weird experience; what an opportunity not to be lost! the apparition must be won over. "are you entering the cathedral?" we asked as they passed in and half closed the gate. to our relief a very earthly voice responded in matter-of-fact tones. "yes," it replied. "do you want to enter also?" it needed no further invitation. we passed through, and the gate was closed and locked. as we heard the sharp click and quasimodo pocketed the key, we felt ourselves prisoners. all the possible and impossible stories we had ever heard of midnight murders and mysterious disappearances flashed through the brain. but the die was cast and we must follow. the enigma which even at the instant puzzled us was the motive for this midnight visit. we could think of none. we stood for a moment in the space between the railings and the building. repairs were going on; it had been turned into a stonemason's yard. the cold moonlight fell upon heavy blocks of marble lying about. there was an erection that looked for all the world like a gibbet, and we almost expected to see a ghostly skeleton dangling from its cross-beam. quasimodo moved on and opened a small south door. he entered and we waited whilst he took a lantern from the hands of the shadow. it was lighted in a moment, and we found it to be a powerful electric lamp. then we too passed in, and the door closed upon us. if we were to be murdered, it would not be in utter darkness. the lantern was brilliant, and threw around its ghostly lights and shadows. we are compelled to repeat the adjective, for everything was ghostly and weird. the vast interior was lost in profoundest silence and gloom. no single light could reach the depths and spaces, but round about us the lantern lighted up the outlines of aisles and arches and pillars. the effect was inexpressibly solemn. there seemed no limit to the space. we paced the aisles and thought them endless. our footsteps awoke ghostly echoes. as far as could be discerned, we were surrounded by the loveliest, most refined outlines. gothic aisles and arches were dimly visible. and still the shadow followed quasimodo, and still his footsteps made no sound. quasimodo walked in silence for a time, evidently enjoying our own silent delight and experience. his long arms and legs, his large head, his long-drawn, backward shadow, all suggested gnome-land. he swung the lantern about as though charmed and allured by all the fantastic effects it produced. at last we felt we must break the silence. "why are you here?" we said. "may we ask? it seems so strange to be walking with you in this midnight space and darkness." "can you not guess?" he returned. "what object could i have in coming here at this dark hour? look." then we noticed for the first time that the shadow carried a music-book. the enigma was solved. quasimodo had come to practise. "but what a strange hour!" we exclaimed. "you turn night into day. is it that these ghostly shadows inspire you as nothing else can?" [illustration: east end of cathedral, showing norman apse: tarragona.] "no," replied quasimodo; "i have no inspiration. i possess the souls of others, i have no soul of my own. it is given to me to interpret the thoughts of all musicians with a wonderful interpretation, but not a single thought of my own do i possess. not a single line can i extemporise. i am like a man to whom has been given all the feelings, all the aspirations, all the fire of the poet, and from whom is withheld the gift of language. but i am content. all the thoughts of the great masters are mine, my very own, and i am grateful for the power. it is a gift. as a rule i need no music. all is stamped on my brain in undying characters. you shall hear. this is a book of bach's fugues that i scarcely need; and this quiet and devoted creature is my organ-blower. he is deaf and dumb, which explains his silence." "but you have not told us your reason for turning night into day," we remarked. "everything about you is so weird and unusual that we cannot help our curiosity. you must not think it impertinence." "true," replied quasimodo. "it must indeed seem strange to you that i come here now, yet the reason is simple enough. i teach all day long, for i have to work for my living. yet i cannot live without occasionally pouring out my soul in music; and as i have no time but the night, i come here now rather than not at all. i was not here last night or the night before; i shall not be here again any night this week. i have to work not only for my own living, but for a wife and two lovely children. you start. you wonder that any woman could have married this grotesque creature--much more a beautiful woman. you do not wonder more than i do. i tell my wife that she married me for my music, not for myself. the music charmed and bewitched her; threw a glamour over her eyes and judgment and taste. she laughs in reply. we have been married twelve years now, and she still seems the happiest of women, most devoted of wives. heaven be praised, there is nothing grotesque in our lovely children. they might have come from paradise. but now i will go and play, and you shall listen. you have chosen to enter here, and here you must remain until i let you out again. i will leave you my lantern and you may wander where you will." with that he placed his lamp in our hand, and lighting a small wax candle which he produced from his pocket, departed down the long, dark, solemn, solitary aisle, followed by his silent shadow. we soon lost them in the gloom, and nothing but the distant sound of quasimodo's footsteps told us we were not alone. even this sound ceased, and for a time absolute silence reigned. presently a far-off glimmer showed where the organ-loft was placed. quasimodo had lighted the candles and taken his seat. we turned off the light of our lantern. the moonlight was playing upon the windows, and the pale rays streamed across the aisles upon pillars and arches. never was a more weird, more telling and effective scene. we sat down on the steps of one of the chapels. the whole ghostly building, shrouded in gloom and mystery and moonbeams, stood before us in all its solidity, all its grandeur and magnificence. intense silence reigned. we could hear the beating of our hearts, feel the quickening of our pulses. then through the silence there stole the softest, sweetest sounds. quasimodo was interpreting the thoughts of others. he had chosen that soothing, flowing, exquisite träumerei of schumann's, and rendered it as never rendered before. the whole melody was hushed and subdued. nothing seemed to rise above a whisper. all the aisles and arches were full of exquisite vibrations. quasimodo appeared to linger upon every note as though he loved it and could not part with it. one note melted into another. the sense of rhythm was perfect. we listened spellbound to the end. never had the simple, beautiful melody so held all our senses captive. it ceased, and again for a moment the whole vast interior was steeped in profound silence; the moonbeams streaming their pale light through the windows possessed the building. then a different spirit held quasimodo. our dream changed. louder stops were pulled out, and he plunged into a vigorous fugue of bach's. again we had never heard it so played. every note fell clear and distinct. the music seemed gifted with words suggesting wild thoughts and emotions. what quasimodo had said was true. the souls of the dead-and-gone masters possessed him. he was their true interpreter. the fugue came to an end. again a moment's silence and again a change in our dream. [illustration: interior of cathedral: tarragona.] this time it was beethoven's moonlight sonata. more fitting time and place could never have existed. the pulses thrilled as we listened. never had music seemed so perfect. beethoven himself would have declared the rendering beyond his own conception. quasimodo was a magician. his body might be grotesque, his mind was angelic. be his wife never so beautiful, he never so grotesque, she could not fail to love that soul and spirit. he was worthy, and she was wise. again the soft sweet strains went trolling through aisles and arches, all their exquisite melancholy cadence fully rendered. and presently it changed to the louder, more passionate strains, suggestive more of storm and tempest than serene moonlight. it ceased; and one thing gave place to another; quasimodo's moods seemed as wild and eccentric as they were uncertain but ever charming. for two whole hours he kept us spell-bound. we never thought of the night; of the passing of time; of the necessity for rest. we were in a new world. the moonbeams travelled onwards and downwards. midnight struck. twelve slow strokes fell upon the air. the ghosts came out to listen; it was their hour. we were persuaded that the aisles and arches were full of them. we saw faint shadows thrown upon the moonbeams, as they passed to and fro. it is useless to say ghosts do not throw shadows: that night we distinctly saw them. the wonderful moonlit building seemed full of sighs and subdued sobbings. h. c. declared it was nothing but the vibrations of the organ: we knew better. the ghosts were sighing and sobbing at the wonderful music. there could not be a more ghostly time or place; and they would not often have such harmonies to listen to. the moments passed. one o'clock struck; solitary, melancholy sound; more suggestive of ghosts and death and the long journey we must all take before we become ghosts ourselves, than the twelve drawn-out strokes of midnight which bear each other company. into those two hours quasimodo seemed to have crowded an eternity of music. every vein, from the mournful to the triumphant, from the faintest whisper to a crashing torrent, possessed him. he passed into wagner, and the sweetest strains from lohengrin, the most impassioned from tannhäuser, thrilled the darkness. he slided into handel's airs, and with the aid of a wonderful voix céleste, that loveliest of melodies, _i know that my redeemer liveth_, stole through the moonlit aisles with such pathos that our eyes wept involuntary tears, and the divine drama of nearly two thousand years ago passed in detail before our mental vision. quasimodo seemed to have power to raise emotion, to play upon every nerve, and he appeared to delight in using that power. he went on in all his varying moods, until again there came a pause, and once more schumann's träumerei in soft, sweet strains went stealing through the aisles. with this he had begun, with this he would end: as one who had taken a long journey, and would bring us safely back to haven. a journey indeed; a flight into fairyland; spiritual realms where nothing earthly can enter. it came to an end: and we had to return to earth. quasimodo had poured out his soul and was satisfied. no wonder he could not live without it. such a gift must find expression, or the spirit would die. the lights went out in the distant organ-loft, and by the help of his taper quasimodo groped his way down the winding stair, followed by his silent shadow. we turned on the lamp, and its light guided him to us. he sat down beside us on the steps. "well," he said, "have you enjoyed my music? have they kept you spell-bound, all the thoughts of the great masters of the past? did you think there was so much in them? have i given you new ideas, revealed unsuspected beauties? have the hours passed as moments? oh, the divine gift of melody to man, which brings us nearest to heaven! how could we live without it?" he had played himself into rapture. he was intoxicated with the influence of all the melody to which he had given such amazing expression. it was a language more powerful than words, more beautiful than poetry, more soul-satisfying than love itself. what a strange contradiction had nature here been guilty of--this grotesque, almost deformed exterior united to such loveliness of mind and spirit. [illustration: cloisters: tarragona.] but time was passing. we could not indulge for ever in these dreams, perfect though they were. the change in the moonbeams warned us that the night was growing old. the ghosts would soon depart to the land of shadows. yet the building was so weird and mysterious, the outlines were so marvellous, that it was difficult to break the spell. it had to be done. the grey dawn must not find us here. all our romance, all our charm of music would evaporate before the cold creeping upwards of daybreak. so we rose from the steps, and quasimodo rose too, and his shadow took up its customary position. we still held the lamp. as we went down the long aisles we flashed it to and fro. lights and shadows mingled with the moonbeams, and all the fantastic forms we awoke were only reflections from ghostland. at the south doorway quasimodo inserted the key; the door opened and we passed out into the night. the moon and the stars had travelled far; the sky itself seemed full of all the music and melody we had listened to. quasimodo locked the door and joined us, followed by his shadow. but once outside the iron gate the shadow bade him good-night by a silent gesture in which we were included, and rapidly and silently, like the shadow he was, glided away and was soon lost to sight. we stood looking at the cathedral, all its wonderful outlines showing up clearly in the pale pure moonlight. silence and solitude now reigned within and without. then we turned away, and quasimodo accompanied us as far as the bottom of the steps. there he bade us farewell and we never met him again. the incident passed almost as a dream. we sometimes ask ourselves whether quasimodo was really flesh and blood, or an angel that for a short time had visited the earth in the form of man. but he was no spirit. we watched his quaint shape as he went down the narrow street, flashing his light. towards the end he looked back and turned the lamp full upon us, as though by way of final benediction. another turn and he had passed out of sight. the street had not the glimmer of a light or the ghost of a sound. our own broad thoroughfare was in darkness. the roman tower seemed wrapped in the silence and mystery of the centuries. from the end of the road we looked over the cliff at the sea sleeping in all its expanse, bathed in moonlight. in the harbour one caught the outlines of the vessels, and from one of them came the bark of a dog baying at the moon. it was one of those perfect nights, still, clear and calm, only to be found in these latitudes. the cathedral clock had long struck two, when we finally turned towards the hotel. what if the night-porter failed us, as he had failed in lerida? but he was more cunning. he was not there, indeed, but he had left the door ajar, and the gas slightly turned on at the foot of the staircase. we made all fast and sought our rooms. with open windows, even from here we could hear the faint plash and beating of the ripples upon the shore--the slight ebb-and-flow movement of this tideless sea. our dreams that night were haunted by quasimodo. we had left the world for realms where no limit was, and divine harmonies for ever filled the air. some hours later this harmony suddenly resolved itself into a bugle call, and we woke to a new day. chapter xxvi. in the days of the romans. charms of tarragona--roman traces--cyclopean remains--augustus closes temple of janus--great past--house of pontius pilate--views from ramparts--feluccas with white sails set--life a paradise--city walls--cathedral outlines--lively market-place--remarkable exterior--dream-world--west doorways--internal effect--in the cloisters--proud sacristan--man of taste and learning--delighted with our enthusiasm--great concession--appealing to the soul--señor ancora--human or angelic?--in the cloister garden--sacristan's domestic troubles--silent ecclesiastic--sad history--church of san pablo--challenge invited--future genius--rare picture--roman aqueduct--a modern cæsar--reminiscences--rich country--where the best wines are made--aqueduct--el puente del diablo--giddy heights--lonely valley--h. c. sentimental--rosalie and fair costello--romantic situation--quarrelsome reus--masters of the world--our driver turns umpire--battle averted--men of reus--whatever is, is wrong--driver's philosophy--dream of the centuries. only the broad daylight could discover all the charms of tarragona: the beauty of its situation, the extent of its ancient remains. the very perfect walls, fine in tone, bore distinct roman traces. below them, on a level with the shore, were other traces of a roman amphitheatre. there were also cyclopean remains, dating from prehistoric times. tarragona was a great roman station when the brothers publius and cneidos scipio occupied it. augustus raised it to the dignity of a capital: and twenty-six years b.c., after his cantabrian campaign, he here issued his decree closing the temple of janus--open until then for seven hundred years. tarragona was already a large and flourishing city with over a million of inhabitants. it was rich and highly favoured, and its chief people considered themselves lords of the world. many temples were erected, one of them to the honour of augustus, making him a god whilst still living. there are fragments in the cloister museum said to have belonged to this temple, which was repaired by adrian. on our upward way near the roman tower we passed the still wonderful house of pontius pilate, who was claimed by the tarragonese as a fellow-townsman. it is said to have been also the palace of augustus, and the lower portion bears traces of an existence before the romans. to-day it is a prison, and as some of its walls are twenty feet thick the prisoners have small chances of escape. few spots in spain are more interesting, or so completely carry you back to the early centuries. on its south wall is an entrance to a short passage leading to the cyclopean doorway, communicating by a subterranean passage with the comparatively modern puerta del rosario. to the east of this gateway we soon reach the ramparts, just above a ruined fort, and near the modern battery of san fernando. from these ramparts you have the finest view of tarragona and its surroundings. on one side stretch far and wide the blue waters of the mediterranean. lateen-rigged feluccas, with white sails set, are wafted to and fro by the gentle breeze. life on board seems a paradise of luxurious ease and indolence. nothing marks the passing hours but the slow progress of the sun. the sky is as intensely blue as the sea, and the air seems full of light. you are dazzled by so much brilliance. distant objects stand out in clear detail. the wide undulating plain stretches far away to the left, broken by towns and villages, the famous castle of altafulla in the distance. below the town lies the aqueduct, one of the most perfect roman remains in spain. at our feet are the city walls, enclosing all the wonderful antiquities, and above the picturesque roofs of the houses rise the matchless outlines of the cathedral. to this same cathedral we made our way this morning, passing through the market-place lively with stalls, buyers and sellers; spanish men and women picturesque in their national costumes: a modern human picture side by side with outlines of the highest antiquity. passing through an archway we found ourselves in the cathedral square, dazzled by the splendour of the vision. here the market had overflowed, and the market-women, full of life and colouring and animation, sat in front of their fruit and flower-stalls. one and all tempted us to buy, and rare were the wares they sold. again the new and the ancient blended together; for beyond the women rose those marvellous outlines, sharply pencilled against the brilliant blue sky: magnificent contrast of colouring, wherein everything was in strong light and shadow. our strange experience of last night was still full upon us. we had hardly recovered from the dream state into which the marvellous music of quasimodo had plunged us with strange mesmeric influence. the beauty of the night, the pure pale moonlight effect, had not prepared us for the splendours of to-day: so effective, lovely and diversified a cathedral: the most remarkable exterior we had yet found in spain. the whole square with its surrounding houses is a dream. the church dates from the eleventh century. above the round apse of the choir at the east end--probably the oldest part of the building--rose outline upon outline, all bearing the refining mark of age. much of it appeared never to have been touched or restored. on the south side was a tower, of which the lower part was romanesque, the remainder fourteenth century and octagonal. apart from the east end most of the church is transitional. the roofs are covered with pantiles, but they are not the original covering, and are not quite in harmony with the rest of the work. the west doorways are very fine. those that open to the aisles are of the earliest date; the central and more important is fourteenth century, deeply recessed, with a massive buttress on each side. this doorway rises to a triangle, above which are many statues of the apostles in gothic niches. above the romanesque side doors are rose windows with rare and delicate tracery, and the south door has a finely carved relief of the entry into jerusalem. the internal effect was most impressive. few cathedrals are more solidly built, yet few display greater ornamentation. the columns are splendid, their richly-carved capitals redeeming the somewhat stern severity of the pure transition work. the piers are very massive, and the eye is at once arrested by the early-pointed clerestory and unusually large bays. the view of the interior of the transept, above which rises the octagonal lantern with its narrow pointed lights is especially striking. a little of the coloured glass is very brilliant and sixteenth century, but the greater part is modern. the chancel is pure romanesque, the chapels are chiefly fourteenth century. in the baptistery the font is a roman sarcophagus found in the palace of augustus. but the cloisters are the gem of the cathedral. here again was an architectural dream, grand in design, of noblest proportions: six splendid bays on each side, each bay enclosing three round arches. these are divided by coupled shafts of white marble, decorated with dog-tooth mouldings. above them two large circles are pierced in the wall, some retaining the original interlacing work of extreme beauty and delicacy, and of moorish origin. many of the capitals are quaintly carved, with humorous subjects: one of them, for instance, representing a procession of rats carrying a cat to her burial. the cat shams death, and the too-confident rats omit to bind her. presently the tables turn: the cat comes to life, springs upon the rats and devours them. the verger or sacristan was very proud of these capitals, and of the whole cathedral: full of energy and enthusiasm: understood every detail, delighted to linger at every turn. he seemed intelligent and educated, and declared he was only happy when gazing upon his beloved aisles and arches. he begged us to give him an english lesson in architectural terms, which he soon accomplished. dressed in his purple gown, he looked as imposing as any of the priests in their vestments, and more intelligent than many. enchanted to find our enthusiasm equal to his own, he left the cloister doorway unlocked, so that we might enter at any moment. this was a great concession, for in spain they keep their cloisters under constant lock and key, partly for the sake of the fee usually given: a mercenary consideration quite beneath our sacristan. he talked and exhibited out of pure love for his work. "the cathedral is my hobby and happiness," he said, "and i would rather die than leave it. i know the history of every stone and pillar by heart, could sketch every minute detail from memory. in those glorious aisles, these matchless cloisters, i feel in paradise. i love to come here when the church is closed and sit and study and contemplate. born in a better sphere, i should have become an architect. all these outlines appeal to my soul, just as music appeals to señor ancora." [illustration: cloisters: tarragona.] "is he your wonderful midnight player?" "si, señor. do you mean to say you have heard him?" "we were with him last night, and spent more than two hours in the cathedral listening to his wonderful music." "it is hard to believe. never will he admit any one to his midnight vagaries, as i call them. i do not know how you won him over to let you in; but he seems to guess things by intuition. something must have told him that you had a soul for music, and he could not find it in his heart to refuse you." "a curious, grotesque man, who almost gives one the impression of being supernatural," we observed. "we all think he is bordering upon it," returned the sacristan; "half man, half angel. curious and almost deformed as he looks, he is the envy and admiration of the whole town, has the most beautiful wife and loveliest children. he came here twenty years ago, a pale, slight, ethereal youth of eighteen, looking as though he had dropped from the stars, or some far-off paradise. people still wonder whether he did so or not.--look señor," pointing upwards. "did you ever see such outlines, such a vision of beauty? is it not the very spot for such a soul as señor ancora's?" we were standing in the cloister garden, where orange trees and graceful shrubs grew in wild profusion and exquisite contrast. in the centre of the garden a fountain threw up its spray and plashed with cool musical sound. surrounding us were the wonderful cloister bays with their round arches resting on the white marble columns, all enclosed in an outer pointed arch. above them rose the cathedral against the deep blue sky. outline above outline; romanesque and gothic; the lantern crowning the whole. the shadows of the marble columns upon the ancient cloister pavement were sharply defined. "no wonder you love it," we said to the sacristan. "rather we wonder you do not apply for permission to live in the chapter-house, and take up your abode here altogether." "ah, señor, like ancora, i also have my domestic ties: a wife and children to think about. but, alas, my wife has no soul, and cannot even understand my love for the cathedral. that indeed ought to have been my wife, and i should never have married commonplace flesh and blood. here i have been day after day for thirty years, in constant attendance, and i grow to love it more and more, and daily discover fresh beauties. there are no cloisters in the world like these. there is no vision on earth to be compared with this, as we stand here and look upwards and around. none." as we stood listening to the sacristan's enthusiasm, a pale, refined, grave-looking ecclesiastic passed out of the beautiful doorway leading from the church, and with silent footstep walked through the cloister to the chapter-house. he was dressed in a violet silk robe or cassock, over which was a white lace alb. as he went by he bowed to us with great gravity, but said not a word. there was a sorrowful, subdued look upon the clear-cut features, the large grey eyes. "that is one of our canons," said the sacristan, after he had disappeared into the chapter-house; "the one i like best. he too loves this wonderful building." "he is sad-looking. one could almost imagine he had mistaken his vocation, or gone through some great sorrow in life." "you are right, señor: right in both instances. he was a man of noble family, never intended for the church. engaged to a lovely lady to whom he was devoted, she died the very day before they were to have been married. he remained inconsolable, and at last took orders. at one time he had an idea of becoming a monk; but he is very clever, and was persuaded to take up a more active life in the church. as you saw him now, so he always is; grave, subdued, gentle and kindly. no one goes to him for help in vain. here he is venerated." we felt drawn towards this refined ecclesiastic and wished to know him, but no opportunity presented itself. the cloisters seemed to gain an added charm by his presence. his dress and appearance exactly suited them, giving them an additional touch of picturesque romance and human interest. the whole scene inspired us with a strange affection for tarragona, and there are few places in spain we would sooner revisit. a little later, when we were going round the precincts, they seemed suddenly to swarm with a small army of boys. these were turning out of the new seminary, a mongrel building designed on old lines, therefore neither one thing nor the other. we entered, and turning to the left, found ourselves in modern cloisters echoing with the shouts of boys at play: cloisters attractive only from the fact that they enclosed a small, very ancient church--the church of san pablo--a rare gem in its way; with a square-headed doorway and romanesque capitals, and a small turret holding the bell, above which was a thin iron cross. it was a lovely building, and lost in admiration we stood gazing. the boys who came round us without the least shyness could not understand it. "what do you see in it?" asked one of them. "we should like to knock the old barrack down. it takes up our play-room. a wretched old building, neither use nor ornament. but we can't get rid of it. it won't burn; it is so solid that we can't demolish it; and we daren't use dynamite. we have to put up with it." "and you would rather put up with the grapes and the oranges in the market-place?" we suggested. "we should like to put them _down_, señor. only try us." having invited the challenge, it had to be accepted: and the whole troop tore off with one consent to drive bargains with the fruit-women. one boy, however, remained behind; a fair, thoughtful lad of about fifteen, with large, dreamy, beautiful brown eyes. "why don't you join them, and take your share of the spoil?" we asked him. "señor, i would rather study this old chapel than eat all the grapes in catalonia," he replied. "my father is the sacristan of the cathedral. he loves old buildings too, but not as i do, i think. i have made up my mind to be an architect, and when i can do as i like i will build great churches on such models as these, like the mighty men of old." so the father's love had descended to the son, and in the latter may possibly some day bear good fruit. the boy looked a genius. we turned away, and he turned with us. "what is your name?" we asked him. "hugo morales, señor. will you let me show you my favourite spot, señor," he said; and forthwith led us to a short street of steps, something like the streets of gerona, ending in a lovely old arched passage, through which one caught a glimpse of ancient houses beyond. above the archway rose a wonderful old house with an ajimez window of rare beauty, and other gothic windows with latticed panes and deep mouldings. then came the overhanging roof covered with pantiles. the tone was perfect. next to this was a small church with a norman doorway, crowned by a graceful belfry in which a solitary bell was hung. if not the most ancient, it was certainly the most picturesque bit in all tarragona. "and you really love it?" we asked this singular boy. "with all my heart," he answered. "i often come here with my books and do my lessons sitting on that old staircase that you see on the left. the house is empty and no one interferes with me. but i must be off home. a dios, señor." [illustration: san pablo: tarragona]. "good-bye, hugo. keep to your ideals and aspirations." "no fear, señor. i mean to do so." and away he went, none the less happy for sundry coins that rattled musically in his pocket and would probably be spent in something more lasting than fruit and flowers; whilst we went back to our beloved precincts and studied the outlines of the middle ages. * * * * * one sunny afternoon we hired a conveyance and started for the roman aqueduct. it was the only conveyance of the kind to be found in tarragona. the owner, who drove us himself, called it a victoria, and seemed proud of it. large and heavy, it might have dated from the days of the cæsars. its proper place undoubtedly was the museum of roman antiquities to which we had just paid a visit; and so perhaps there was something à propos in the idea of its conveying us to a roman aqueduct. our driver was dressed in a smock frock, and in the high seat in front of us looked perched up like a lighthouse upon a rock--or a modern cæsar in a triumphal progress. we rattled through the streets, and soon found ourselves on the broad white road that in time, if we persevered, would take us to lerida the chivalrous and true. not the least intention had we of paying that interesting old town a second visit, but the very fact of knowing that our faces were set that way, brought our late experiences vividly before us. we wondered how it fared with our much-tried landlord; whether the waiter was yet out of hospital, and he and the dragon had made up their differences or agreed to differ. though the well had been dragged, it was possible that the skeletons were still there; perhaps had risen to the surface to refute the old saying that dead men tell no tales. we thought of our polite captain, and almost wished we might come across him in tarragona. he would be sure to know our silent but interesting old canon of the violet robe, and would open many doors to us. above all we wondered how alphonse fared. by this time his wife would be resting in her grave; and he, poor lonely wayfarer, would haunt the sad precincts of the cemetery, and dream of his early days and of walking through the world with the wife of his youth. no doubt he was right and would soon follow her to the land o' the leal, hailing the hour of his release. but all this had nothing to do with our present journey. on each side of the road we found a rich undulating country. we were in the neighbourhood of vineyards, and the wine, when pure, is some of the best that spain produces. here and there stood a picturesque farm-house, with whitewashed walls and green venetians, and heaps of yellow pumpkins, cantaloupe melons and strings of red peppers dangling from the balconies: the usual thing in spain and italy and the countries of the south. on a hillside, an occasional village slept in the sunshine; a quiet little place, apparently without inhabitants or any reason for existence. [illustration: an old nook in tarragona.] presently we caught sight of the wonderful aqueduct built by the romans so many centuries ago, yet still almost perfect. in the days of the ancients it brought the water to the city for a distance of twenty miles. those were the days when the tarragonese called themselves lords of the earth; when augustus reigned in his palace and the amphitheatre was the scene of wild sports, and temples existed to the heathen gods. the portion of the aqueduct visible from the road was as it were a gigantic bridge with two tiers of arches. it had all the tone of the centuries, all the solidity which had kept it standing firm as a rock. nearly one hundred feet high and eight hundred feet long, it spanned a green and lonely valley or ravine covered with heather. the people call it el puente del diablo, and may be forgiven for thinking that more than human hands helped to perfect the work. we went to the topmost height and walked over the giddy stoneway to the very centre. there we sat down and felt ourselves masters of the world. wild flowers grew in the cracks and crevices, and ferns and fronds, and h. c. stretched over the yawning gulf for one almost out of reach, until we gave him up for lost and began to compose his epitaph. but he plucked his flower, and after looking at it with a sort of tender reverence, placed it carefully in his pocket-book. "who is that for?" we asked, for there was no mistaking his soft expression. "the fair costello. that exquisite vision that we saw in the opera-house at gerona. the landlord gave me her full name and address before we left. i am thinking of proposing to her. her presence haunts me still." we knew how much this was worth; how long it would last. "you would bestow it more worthily on rosalie. there are many fair costellos in the world--there can be only one rosalie." "do you think so?" replied this whirligig heart. "certainly rosalie's eyes were matchless; i tremble when i think of them. and then we got to know her, which is an advantage. after all it shall go to rosalie. the fair costello might have a temper--there's no knowing." [illustration: roman aqueduct, near tarragona.] we were undoubtedly in a situation favourable to romance. the scene was magnificent. surrounding us was a wide stretch of undulating country. the land was rich and cultivated; towns and villages reposed on the hill-sides. far off to the right the smoke of busy valls ascended, and through the gentle haze we traced the outlines of its fine old church. following the long white road before us, the eye at length rested on the blue smoke of quarrelsome, disaffected reus, which prospers in spite of its republican tendencies. here more distinctly we traced the fine tower of the old church of san pedro, in which fortuny the painter lies buried. distant hills bounded the horizon, shutting out the world beyond. but there was no more interesting monument than the aqueduct on which we stood. its rich tone contrasted wonderfully with the subdued green of the ravine, the deep shades of the heather, so full of charm and repose to the eye tired with wandering over the glaring country and straining after distant outlines. we stayed long, enjoying our breezy elevation; going back in imagination to the early centuries of mighty deeds--those romans who were in truth masters of the world. at last, feeling that our driver's patience was probably exhausted, and treading carefully over the granite passage of the viaduct, we made our way to the prosy level of mankind. the driver had drawn under the shade of some trees, and was holding a levée. half a dozen other drivers were grouped round him, and the bullock-carts with their patient animals were waiting their pleasure, one behind another. they were all laying down the law with any amount of gesture and loud tones; all more or less angry, each convinced that he was in the right. our coachman, as owner of a superior conveyance and a man of substance, was evidently acting as a sort of judge or umpire, and just as we came up was delivering his weighty opinion. but it appeared to be the case of the old fable again, and in trying to propitiate all he pleased none. a pitched battle seemed averted by our arrival, which put an end to the discussion. as strangers and foreigners were objects of interest, we had to run the gauntlet of their scrutiny. but they were civil; and curiosity satisfied, mounted their heavy waggons and set off down the road towards reus at break-neck speed, raising more dust and noise than a hundred pieces of artillery. fortunately we were going the other way. as the driver mounted his box he shrugged his shoulders. "it is always the same," he observed. "these men of reus are the most revolutionary, most disaffected in all catalonia. they always have a grievance. whatever is, is wrong. if it isn't political, it's social. if it's not taxes, it's the price of wheat. their life is one perpetual contention, and every now and then they break out into open revolt. only the other day an old man of kens, a distant connection, on his death-bed declared to me that he had made all his miseries, and if he had his time to come over again, would make the best of the world and look on the bright side of things. just what every one ought to do. enjoy the sunshine, and let the shadows look after themselves." so our driver was a philosopher after all, and had more in him than we had imagined. with cæsar's opportunities he might have proved another cæsar. whipping up his horses, he began his return journey up the long white road. making way, the outlines of tarragona came into view, bathed in the glow of the declining sun. the effect was gorgeous; and we fell into a dream of the centuries gone by, when the romans marched up that very same road with their conquering armies, overlooked the very same sea that now stretched to right and left, blue and flashing, and made themselves aqueducts. in this vision of the past we saw them building their mighty monuments, looking about for fresh worlds to conquer; and we heard the famous decree of augustus closing the temple of janus as a sign that quiet reigned upon the earth and the star of bethlehem was rising in the east--divine signal and fitting moment for the coming of the prince of peace. chapter xxvii. loretta. our ubiquitous host--curious mixture of nations--francisco--his enthusiasm carries the point--french lessons--english prejudice--landlord's lament--days of fair provence--francisco determines to be in time--presidio--tomb of the scipios--fishing for sardines--early visit to cathedral--still earlier sacristan--francisco's delight--freshness of early morning--reus--bark worse than bite--where headaches come from--an evil deed--valley of the francoli--moorish remains--montblanch--the graceful hills of spain--espluga--francisco equal to occasion--beseiged--donkeys versus carriage--interesting old town--decadence--singular woman--loretta's escort--strange story--unconscious charm--what happened one sunday evening--caro--"the right man never came"--comes now--how she was betrothed--primitive conveyance--making the best of it--wine-pressers--loving cup--nectar of the gods--fair exchange--rough drive--scene of loretta's adventures. our landlord was a curious mixture of three nations: french, spanish and italian. he was small, dark and wiry, and seemed to possess the power of being in half a dozen places at once, yet was never in a hurry. one moment you would hear his voice in the bureau, the next in the kitchen, and two moments afterwards you might behold his head stretched out of a second-floor window watching the omnibus as it turned the corner on its way from the station: watching and wondering how many passengers it brought him. if he did not succeed, it should not be for want of effort; but he had been there long, and apparently did succeed, flourish and prosper. he was a very attentive host, anxious that we should see and appreciate all the marvels of tarragona. having lost his wife, the hotel had to be managed single-handed. one son, a boy of fifteen, was being trained to succeed him. he also spoke french, spanish and italian admirably, and his ambition now was to go to england to learn english. so far he resembled our gerona guide josé, but the one had grown to manhood, the other was a stripling, though a bright and interesting lad. "you have not been to poblet," our host remarked one morning, as he waited upon us at our early breakfast in the salle à manger. a great condescension on his part; everyone else was left to the tender mercies of the waiter who was more or less a barbarian. "no," we replied; "but we were even now debating the possibility of going there this morning." "it is quite possible, señor. you could not have a better day. the weather is perfect. the train starts in an hour, and the omnibus shall take you down. i will pack you a substantial luncheon, for you can get nothing there. my son shall accompany you to carry the basket." the boy, who happened to be standing near his father, grew elated. "oh, señor, say yes," he cried. "a day at poblet will be splendid. i shall have a whole holiday, besides getting off my french lesson this afternoon." "you shall talk french to us, francisco, which will be better than a lesson. we decide to go. pack an excellent luncheon for three, not forgetting a bottle of h. c.'s favourite laffitte." "of which i have an excellent vintage," replied our host, who seemed equal to any emergency. "frisco, take care that you are ready." "no fear about that," replied the boy, whose eyes sparkled with anticipation. and he went off to put on his best sunday suit. the landlord on his part bustled off to the kitchen, where we heard him giving orders to the uncertain chef. presently he returned. "you will allow me to put the smallest suspicion of garlic in your sandwiches," he suggested insinuatingly. "it is the greatest improvement. the english have an objection to it, but it is mere prejudice." a prejudice we unfortunately shared, and our host went back lamenting our want of taste. the little incident brought back vividly days when we sojourned in fair provence, and from the cottage doors, mingling with the pure air of heaven wafted across the mediterranean, there came the everlasting perfume of garlic. hotels, houses, cottages, all seemed full of the terrible odour. the worthy people of provence, with their dark skins and slow movements, were indefatigable in trying to win us over to their side. it was almost impossible to enter a public conveyance without putting one's head out of window: and stronger than all the impressions made upon us by the charms of provence, its ripening vineyards, its wines, all the beauties of sea and sky, mountain and valley, were our garlic reminiscences. in catalonia we had it to a less extent, but it was an evil to be avoided. so our landlord went back depressed to his kitchen to conclude the packing of the hamper. francisco appeared in his sunday's best long before the omnibus. at least half a dozen times he came up to our rooms to remind us that it would only rush round at the last moment and would not wait. going off for a month's holiday could not have excited him more. with an agony of apprehension he saw us walk to the end of the road and look down upon the blue sea that stretched around in all its beauty and repose. already there were white-winged feluccas gliding upon its surface, their lateen sails spread out, enjoying the cool of the morning. the cliff was almost perpendicular. to our left a sentry paced to and fro, to overlook the presidio, a large convict establishment below us on a level with the sea. if any convict had attempted to escape--a very improbable event--he would quickly have been marked by the lynx-eyed sentry, who was relieved every two hours. side by side with the presidio were the remains of the old roman amphitheatre, dating back to the days of the city walls, the house of pontius pilate, and all the vestiges of the past. close to us rose the old roman tower, from which very possibly augustus had looked many a time upon the undulating hills and far-stretching sea, feeling himself monarch of all he surveyed. but long years before, the phoenicians--that enterprising people of tyre and sidon, of whom so little is known, yet who seem to have possessed the earth--had made a maritime station of tarragona. what it actually was in those days can never be told; no archives contain their record; but in beauty and favour of situation the centuries have brought no change. the scene on which we looked that morning linked us to the past. four miles to the east, under the shadow of the hills, and within sight of the quiet bays, reposed the roman tomb of the scipios, who, in conjunction with augustus, had so much to do with the making of tarragona. it is a square monument thirty feet high, built of stone, guarded by two sculptured figures, with an inscription blotted out long ages ago. a lovely spot for the long sleep that comes to all. the hills are pine-clad, the bays sheltered; the blue sea sleeps in the sunshine; no sound disturbs but the plashing of the water that does not rise and fall as other seas that have their tides. fishermen live in the neighbourhood, and you may see them setting their nets or fishing from the shore for sardines; with this exception the little place shows no sign of life and is rarely trodden by the foot of strangers. we felt its influence as we waited for the omnibus. there, at least, to our right was something neither augustus nor the scipios had ever seen--the small harbour with its friendly arms outstretched, embracing all the shipping that comes to tarragona. the east pier was partly built with the stones of the old roman amphitheatre, a certain desecration that took place about the year . a crowd of fishing vessels is almost always at rest in the harbour, and larger vessels trading in wine and oil. we were not allowed to look upon all this unmolested. francisco constantly came to and fro to remind us that time was passing. at last we turned at the sound of rumbling wheels; the omnibus came up. our host had neatly packed a luncheon-basket, and away rolled the machine through the prosy streets. we had turned our back upon all the wonders of tarragona. it required no slight courage to abandon our beloved cathedral for one whole day. true, before breakfast we had gone up and looked upon the magic outlines: that marvellous mixture of romanesque and gothic that here blend together in strange harmony. early as it was we had found the sacristan, and he, in full measure of delight, had taken us through the quiet aisles and arches, twice beautiful and impressive in their solitude, and thrown wide the door of the matchless cloisters. they were lovelier than ever in the repose that accompanies the early morning light. but neither light nor darkness, morning nor evening, could abate the enthusiasm of the sacristan. all this was left behind as we rattled down the steep streets. the station was on a level with the sea, and in front of it stretched the harbour with all its shipping. the train was in waiting, and to francisco's evident pride and enjoyment we were soon whirling away in a first-class compartment. he had never travelled in anything beyond a second. the freshness of early morning was still upon everything, and our interesting journey lay through scenery rich and varied. before reaching reus, the train crossed the river, then came to an anchor. we found the station crowded with country people going to a neighbouring fair. the town rose in modern outlines, above which towered the hexagonal steeple of san pedro. it was evidently a bustling, prosperous town with manufacturing signs about it. everything seemed in direct opposition to tarragona. the one ancient and stately, with its historic and cathedral atmosphere in strong evidence; the other given over to manual work. the one quiet and conservative, the other quarrelsome and republican. it was from reus that our carters with a grievance had come the day we visited the aqueduct: and back to reus they had all gone to continue their warfare. we recognised two of them on the platform, on their way to the fairs. they also recognised us and touched their large round hats with a broad smile plainly meant to intimate that their bark was worse than their bite. it is in reus that many of the french imitation wines are made and sent over the world, passing for mâcon, chablis and sauterne. much imitation champagne and many headaches come from here. enormous wine-cellars, in point of size worthy of madrid or barcelona, groan with their manufactured stores. reus has many branches of industry and might be a happy community if it would subdue its revolutionary discontent. it has yet to redeem its terrible murder of the monks of poblet in . to-day, however, the crowd in the station were bent on pleasure or business and the warring element was put aside to a more convenient season. they scrambled into the train, and away we went up the lovely valley of the francoli as far as alcober: a favourite settlement of the moors, where many moorish remains are still visible. the fine romanesque church was once a mosque, so that it is full of the traditions of the past. onwards through lonely, somewhat barren country to montblanch; another old town apparently falling into ruin, with picturesque walls, towers and gates. onwards again under the very shadow of the sierra de prades, rising in clear undulating outlines against the blue sky; a stately, magnificent chain of hills. where indeed do we find such beautiful and graceful hills as in spain? finally espluga, the station for poblet. here francisco alighted at express speed, basket in hand. we followed more leisurely, trembling for the laffitte, but the boy was equal to the occasion. in spite of enthusiasm, he had an old head upon his young shoulders, and even now would have been almost equal to managing the hotel single-handed. no sooner out than we were besieged by a man and a woman; the latter begging us to take her donkeys, the former praising his comfortable carriage. discretion and the carriage won the day. a long donkey-ride over a rough country did not sound enticing. as it turned out we chose badly. poblet was some miles from espluga, and we had to pass through the town on our way to the said carriage. it had been taken on trust, neither carriage nor donkeys being at the station. the town lies at the foot of a towering hill. from the station you cross over a picturesque stone bridge dark with age, spanning the rushing river. standing on the bridge you look down upon a romantic ravine and valley, through which the river winds its course. on the further side you enter the town: a primitive out-of-the-world spot, as though it had made no progress in the last hundred years. the people correspond with their surroundings. the streets were narrow and irregular, and the virtue of cleanliness was nowhere conspicuous. our landlord had well said that if we did not take our luncheon with us, we should take it with duke humphrey. nevertheless, there was that in espluga which redeemed some of its disadvantages. groups of houses with picturesque roofs and latticed windows: houses built without any attempt at beauty, yet beautiful because they belonged to a long-past age when men knew nothing of ugliness and bad taste. no one had thought it worth while to pull down these old nooks and remains and rebuild greater, or even adorn them with fresh paint. consequently we saw them arrayed in all their early charm. it seemed a very sleepy town, with little life and energy. people plied their quiet trades. everything was apparently dying of inanition. our donkey-woman was an exception: comely and wonderfully good-tempered, with a surprising amount of energy. not having succeeded in hiring her donkeys, she was not to be altogether outdone by the carriage-man, and insisted upon accompanying us through the town, to carry the basket and show us the way. the man had disappeared to make ready. "you have made a mistake, señor, in not taking my donkeys. they are beautiful creatures; six grey animals, as gentle as sheep. as for the carriage he praises, i pity you. the road is fearfully rough. when you reach poblet, you will have no breath left in your body. all your bones will be broken." this sounded alarming; but we discounted something for disappointed ambition. "are these donkeys all your living?" we asked, already feeling a certain regret that we had employed the man and not the woman. "not quite, señor. and then, you know, we live upon very little. you would be surprised if i told you how few sous a day have sufficed me. hitherto i have lived at home with my mother and sisters, who do washing. we have had that to fall back upon when my donkeys are not hired. it is lucky for me, since few people come at this time of the year: very few at any time compared with what you would imagine. the world doesn't know the beauties of poblet. it languishes in solitude. you will see when you get there. my beautiful donkeys!" she continued. "i love them, and they love me. i have some strange power over all animals. they seem to know that i wish them well. the very birds perch upon my shoulders as i go along, if i stop and call to them." "where have you learned your charm?" we asked, much interested in the woman. the loud voice of the station had disappeared, and she now talked in gentle tones. "charm, señor? i never thought of it in that light. if it is a charm, it was born with me. it is nothing i have learned or tried to cultivate, for it comes naturally." "can you transfer the power to others?" asked h. c. "really," he added in an aside, "if this woman were in a higher station of life i could quite fall in love with her. she must be made up of sympathy and mesmerism. what a mistake it was to hire that wretched scarecrow of a driver. don't you think we might take the woman as a conductor and so combine the two?" we ignored the question. "no, señor," replied the woman of strange gifts; "i cannot give my power to anyone. but why do you call it a power? it is merely an instinct on the part of the animals, who know i wish them well and would take them all to my heart, poor dumb, patient, much-tried creatures. shall i tell you how i came to keep donkeys? it was not my own idea. i did not go to them: they came to me. it is ten years ago now, when i was eighteen. i went out one sunday evening in august all by myself. we had had a quarrel at home. my mother wanted me to marry a man i hated, because he was well-to-do. i said i would never marry him if there was not another man in the world. my sisters were all angry, and said that with one well married they would soon all get husbands. i was the youngest. at last i burst into tears, and told them they might all have him, but i never would. and with that, between rage and crying, i went off by myself out into the quiet country. i took the road to poblet, and wandered on without thinking. "at last i came in sight of poblet, and felt it was time to turn back. i had recovered my calmness, for i reflected as i went along that they could not make me marry the man, and that their vexation was perhaps natural. we were poor and struggling: he was rich compared with us. well, señor, just as i turned i saw a beautiful grey donkey with a black cross on its back coming towards me across the plain. i thought it singular, for it was all alone, and i had never seen a donkey alone there before. there was something strange-looking about it. evidently it has strayed, i thought, and must just stray back again. but with my love for animals i could not help stopping and watching. it came straight up to me, and put its nose into my hand, just as if it knew me. 'where have you come from?' i said, patting its head. 'your owner will be anxious. you must go straight home.' but there it stood, and there i stood; and for at least five minutes we never moved. "then i felt it was ridiculous, and set off home. will you believe, señor, that the animal followed me like a dog. i could not get rid of it. when i arrived home the donkey arrived with me. what could i do? there was an empty stable next door, and i put it in there, thinking it would be claimed and perhaps i should get a small reward. the animal went in just as if the stable had been always its home. as i was leaving, it turned and looked at me, and said as plainly as possible, 'i hope you are not going to let me starve.' i went in and told them what had happened. 'it must be your lover who has taken the form of a donkey,' laughed my eldest sister. 'he knows you are fond of animals, loretta, and has arranged this plan with the devil to make you like him.' 'i should soon prove the greater donkey of the two, if i allowed myself to marry him,' i retorted." "was the donkey never claimed, loretta?" "señor, you shall hear. to sum up the story, the donkey never was claimed. we made every inquiry; we did all we could to find the owner; it was in vain; he never turned up, and to this day the donkey remains mine. people said he was a supernatural donkey, but of course i know better. the next thing was, how to make him earn his living, for i was determined never to part with him. then the idea came to me to convey people to poblet. the story got known, and sometimes at the station there would be quite a fight for caro, as i called him. there is still. it gave me a start, and now in that very stable i have six beautiful donkeys that could not be equalled. and they all love me, and answer to their names, and come when i call them. whichever i call comes; the others don't stir." it was a singular but by no means impossible story. as h. c. had said, there was a certain mesmeric influence about the woman to which the sensitive animal world might very probably respond. "and your lover? you did not take compassion upon him?" "no, señor," laughed the woman, with a decided shake of the head; "but one of my sisters did; the eldest, who had been the most angry with me. and for the first six years they led a regular cat-and-dog life. then he tumbled over the bridge into the river and was nearly drowned. he was saved, but his leg was broken and had to be taken off, and after that somehow his temper improved. my sister laughs and says she loves him better with his one leg than ever she did when he had two. she is welcome to him." "but you," we observed, feeling the question a delicate one, "why have you never married? by your own confession you are twenty-eight." the woman laughed and blushed. "the right man never came, señor, and i was in no hurry. i was quite happy as i was. five men in this town asked me to marry them. i did not care for any of them. 'will you love my donkeys?' i said to each. not one of them said yes; so i said no to all but now i have said yes at last. and there he goes," she added. a tall strong man with a plain but amiable and honest face crossed the road, and catching sight of the donkey-woman sent her a beaming nod and went on his way. "you have chosen well, loretta. he will make you a good husband." "i think so," returned the woman, and evidently her heart was in the matter. "when i asked lorenzo if he would love my donkeys, he said: yes, a dozen if i had them. so i took him to the stables, and called caro, and it came and put its nose into his hand just as it had done to me that very first evening at poblet. 'you're the man for me,' i said: and that was our betrothal." "and suppose caro had turned his back upon him?" we inquired. loretta blushed. "señor, i should have been angry with caro: and i should have had compassion upon lorenzo. but caro had too much sense, and knew lorenzo was to be its master. he is a carpenter, señor, and has a good trade. there is your carriage already waiting." [illustration: on our way to poblet.] "ah, loretta, you should have told us this story before. we should not have refused your donkeys. it would be an honour to ride the wise and gentle caro." "another time, señor. you will be coming again, then you shall have caro, though twenty others fought for him. no one comes to poblet once without coming a second time. you will see." as loretta had said, the carriage was waiting. the carriage, save the mark! if we had regretted the donkeys before seeing it, what did we do now? it was nothing but a country cart covered with a white tarpaulin, and a door behind about a foot square, through which we had to scramble to find ourselves buried in the interior. the whole concern was only fit for a museum of antiquities, like the tarragona victoria. but the thing was done, and we had to make the best of it. passing through the streets, we came upon more men pressing out the grapes. it was a much larger affair than that of lerida, and the juice poured out in a rich red stream. four strong men were at work. we stopped the cart, struggled out of what francisco called the cat-hole, and watched the process. it was a case of mutual interest. the men had their heads bound round with handkerchiefs. the thoroughfare was the end of the town, wide and cleanly. altogether this was an improvement upon the lerida wine-press, and when these men offered us of the juice in a clean goblet, we did not refuse them. this attention to strangers was evidently a peace-offering; a token of goodwill; and the loving-cup was cool, refreshing and delicious. such must have been the true nectar of the gods. "almost equal to laffitte," said h. c. "i don't know that i ever tasted anything more poet-inspiring. let us drink to the health and happiness of the fair loretta. lorenzo is a lucky man." with some genuine tobacco and a few cigars such as they had never seen or heard of, the men thought they had made an excellent exchange. we left them as happy as the gods on olympus. soon after this we found ourselves in the open country. the roads were of the roughest: hard and dry, now all stones, now all ruts: some of the ruts a foot deep, into which the cart would sink to an angle of forty-five degrees. there were no springs to the cart; never had been any. it was stiff and unyielding, and evidently dated from the stone age. we did not even attempt to keep our seats, but flew about like ninepins. "the laffitte will be churned into butter," groaned h. c. spasmodically, feeling a general internal dislocation. "butter-wine. i wonder what it will be like. a new discovery, perhaps." but the luncheon-basket was in comparative repose. how francisco managed we never knew; habit is second nature; he neither lost his seat nor let go the basket. never in roughest seas had we been so tossed about. the next day we were black and blue, and for a week after felt as though we had been beaten with rods. at last after what seemed an interminable drive, but was really only some three miles, we turned from the main road and the common--evidently the scene of loretta's donkey adventure--into a narrow, shabby avenue of trees. at the end appeared the outer gateway of the monastery, where we were too thankful to dispense with the cart and its driver. chapter xxviii. the ruins of poblet. a dream-world--ruins--chapel of st. george--archways and gothic windows--atmosphere of the middle ages--convent doorway--summons but no response--door opens at last--comfortable looking woman--ready invention--confusion worse confounded--true version--francisco painfully direct--guardian gets worst of it--picturesque decay--gothic cloisters--visions of beauty--rare wilderness--king martin the humble--bacchanalian days--when the monks quaffed malvoisie--simple grandeur of the church--philip duke of wharton--cistercian monastery--history of poblet the monk--monastery becomes celebrated--tombs of the kings of aragon--guardian sceptical--paradise or wilderness--monks all-powerful--escorial of aragon--the great traveller--changing for the worse--upholding the kingly power--time rolls on--downfall--attacked and destroyed--infuriated mob--fictitious treasures--fiendish act--massacre--ruined monastery--blood-red sunset--superstition--end of . once within the gateway we were in a dream-world; a world of the past; a world of ruins, but ruins rich and rare. from the outer gateway a long avenue of trees and buildings led to the monastery. far down you looked upon a second gateway with a wonderful view of receding arches and outlines. between the two gateways on the left were the workshops of the artisans of the days gone by, now closed and desolate. just before reaching the second gateway, on the right, we found the small fifteenth-century chapel of st. george, with the original stone altar and groined and vaulted roof. on the left within the gateway was an ancient hospital and chapel, both crumbling into picturesque decay: and on higher ground, the palace of the bishops, where they lived and ruled in the days of their glory. exquisite outlines of crumbling archways and gothic windows surrounded us. over all was a wonderful tone of age, soft and mellow. towers and steeples rose in clear outlines against the sky, outlines still perfect and substantial. but the outer buildings, which had been palatial dwellings, were mere empty shells overgrown with weeds, given over to the bats and the owls. a wonderful bit of moulding or fragment of an archway, roman or gothic as might happen, showed the beauty and magnificence of what had once been, and would still exist but for the barbarities of man. some of the outer walls might have defied a millennium of years. it was a dead world of surpassing beauty and refinement: a series of crumbling arches and moss-grown fragments of gigantic walls. we had it all to ourselves; the perfect repose was unbroken; no restless forms and loud voices intruded; no jarring element broke the spell of the centuries. we were in the very atmosphere of the middle ages. in days gone by the monastery must have been of regal splendour, as it was unlimited in power. at last we reached the convent doorway and a bell went echoing through the silence. no one responded, and we began to fear that perhaps the custodian had gone off like our night porter in lerida, taking the keys with him. a second summons produced echoing footsteps, and the door was opened by a comfortable looking woman, who was neither a ruin nor a fragment nor specially antique. "excuse me for keeping you waiting," she said. "i am not the guardian, only his humble wife. in fact he calls me his chattel. i object to the term. we did not expect any one here to-day, and he has just gone out to do a little commission." but we discovered that this was a stretch of the imagination. in reality the old man, seized with a fit of laziness, was only then dressing. he appeared on the scene almost at once, somewhat to his spouse's confusion. but she made the best of it, and patting her capacious apron and stiffening her neck, walked off with a proud step and a jaunty air to her special quarters. "we have had no one here for a fortnight," said the guardian. "i began to think we might advertise ourselves as closed for the winter season, like the seaside casinos. quite worn out with doing nothing, i thought i might as well spend the morning in bed for a change. of course just as an umbrella brings sunshine, so my staying in bed brought visitors." "but your wife said that you had gone out to do a commission," cried francisco, with all a boy's direct statement of the truth. "did she indeed now," replied the old guardian calmly. "that was over-zeal on her part; done with a good motive, but still wrong. i shall have to chastise her." "how shall you do it?" asked francisco. "beat her?" "we don't beat women, young señor," replied the guardian severely. "my chastisement takes the form of admonition." "when i wanted punishing, my father used to beat me with a cane," returned francisco. "i don't think admonition would have done me any good at all. i don't suppose it will do your wife any good. on the very next occasion she'll tell another white lie. much better give her a caning and have done with it." "did your father ever cane his wife?" asked the old man drily. "she would have been much more likely to cane him," returned francisco emphatically. "does your wife beat you?" the old man felt he was getting the worst of it; was being driven into a corner by this enfant terrible; and took refuge in silence. this interesting conversation took place just inside the doorway, where we found ourselves lost in the beauty of the scene. a court with round arches on either side resting on pillars with small capitals. above them the walls were in their rough, rude state, full of picturesque decay, but here as in many parts of the interior much had been restored. nevertheless, so much of the original remains that the restoration does not offend. it has been well done. before us, at the end of the short entrance-court was a large and splendid archway, and beyond we had a distant view of the gothic cloisters. [illustration: entrance to cloisters: poblet.] the interior was so immense, the passages were so intricate, we could never have found our way without the custodian. nothing could be lovelier than the half-ruined cloisters. the large exquisite windows were of rich pointed work, seven bays on each side, pillars and tracery either almost all gone, or partly restored. in one corner of the quadrangle was a hexagon glorieta enclosing the fountain that in days gone by supplied monks and bishops with water. weeds and shrubs and stunted trees grew about it; a rare wilderness. above rose the outlines of battlemented walls; of ruined pointed windows, lovely in decay; of crumbling stairways, rich mouldings and pointed roofs. the cloister passages opened to enormous rooms. on the east side was the chapter-house, supported by four exquisite pillars, from which sprang the groining of the roof; the doors and windows were specially graceful and refined; the floor was paved with monumental stones of the dead-and-gone abbots, many of the inscriptions effaced by time. near this was the large refectory with pillars and pointed vault. up the staircase, which still remains, we passed to the palace del rey martin; king martin the humble as he was called; and large and baronial in days gone by the palace must have been, its very aspect transporting one to feudal times. below the palace were enormous vaults where the wine was once stored: great vats and channels, and a whole series of processes to which the wine was subjected. those must have been bacchanalian days, and supplies never failed. all the rooms--the chocolateria, where the abbots took their chocolate, the novitiate, of enormous dimensions, the library, the room of the archives, the room that contained the rich monastery treasure, another that had nothing but rare mss., some of which are scattered but many more destroyed--all these rooms seemed countless, and each had its special charm and atmosphere. it was impossible to enter the refectory with its vaulted roof lost in the semi-obscurity which reigned, without conjuring up a vision of monks and abbots who in past centuries feasted here and quaffed each other in draughts of rich malvoisie. in the palace del rey martin, we imagined all the regal pomp and splendour in which the king delighted. in the wine vaults we beheld the wine running in deep red streams, traced it to the refectory table, and noticed the rapidity with which it disappeared before the worthy abbots. in the vaults it passed through every stage, from the crushing of the grape to the final storing in barrels. on one side of the cloisters was the partly restored church, high and wide, with a magnificent nave of seven fine bays, so slightly pointed as to be almost romanesque. we were lost in wonder at the size of the building, its simple grandeur, even as a partial ruin. open to it from the north side is the great sacristy, saddest room of all. for here we find a solitary tombstone on which is inscribed the name of philip duke of wharton, who came over to the monastery, a lonely exile, and died at the age of thirty-two, without friend or servant to soothe his last moments, knowing little or nothing of the language of the monks who surrounded him. most melancholy of stories. in the church, on each side of the high altar were remains of once splendid tombs. they are now defaced, and the effigies have altogether disappeared. here was once the tomb of jayme el conquistador, which we had looked upon that very morning with our amiable sacristan on the left of the coro in tarragona cathedral. its ancient resting-place in the great monastery church is now an empty space. the aisle behind the high altar contains five chapels, and behind these outside the church lies the cemetery of the monks, a beautiful and ideal spot with long rows of round arches one beyond another, so that you seem to be looking into vistas of countless pillars. above the arches and pillars are walls of amazing thickness, with windows and projections, all ending in moss-grown, crumbling outlines. below, small mounds and tombstones mark the resting-place of the dead. here they sleep forgotten; no sign or sound penetrates from the outer world, and those who visit them are comparatively few. the whole monastery is nothing but an accumulation of crumbling walls still strong and majestic, of church and cloister, of palace and palatial courts, of refined gothic windows with broken tracery, of ancient stairways and flying arches. over all was the exquisite tone of age. it was originally a cistercian monastery, dating from the middle of the twelfth century. its abbots were bishops, who lived in great pomp and almost unlimited wealth and power. "which they used according to their lights," said our custodian; "sometimes wisely, sometimes wastefully. i should like to have been cellarman to the old abbots in the days when the vaults were full of wine and a few quarts a day more or less were never missed." "is there any legend connected with its origin?" "indeed, yes, señor. when was there ever an old institution in spain without its legend? as the señor knows and sees, the monastery dates back to the year . but long before that, in the days of the moors, a hermit named poblet took refuge here that he might pray in peace. an emir found him one day, captured him and put him into prison. angels came three times over and broke his chains. the emir grew frightened, repented, set the hermit at liberty, and gave him all the surrounding territory in this fertile valley of la conca de barbera. in the body of poblet was miraculously discovered. it was nothing but a heap of bones, and so i suppose they were labelled, or how could they have identified them--but i don't know about that. the bones of course became sacred and had to be duly honoured. so ramon berenguer iv. built the convent of el santo; the bones were interred under the high altar, and the king gave enormous grants to the clergy. the place grew celebrated above all others in catalonia; it become a sort of escorial, and here the kings of aragon for a long time were buried." "and the bones of the hermit--where are they?" "nobody knows," replied the guardian, shaking his head wisely. "they may pretend, but nobody knows. is it likely? and what does it matter for a few human bones? just as if they could work miracles or do any good. a poor old hermit, with all our weaknesses upon him!" "then you don't believe the legend?" "not i, señor. i believe much more in the jovial times the old abbots indulged in. at least we have a capacious refectory and inexhaustible wine vaults to prove what fine banquets they had in the middle ages. we have come down to poor times, in my opinion. the world in general seems very much what this monastery is--a patched-up ruin." "if the world were only half as beautiful," said h. c., "we should spend our years in a dream." "it would not be my sort of dream, señor," returned the old guardian drily. "i have been here for twenty years, and confess i would give all the ruins in the world for a good and gay back street in madrid or barcelona. to you, señor, who probably come from the great cities of the world and mix with gay crowds--well, i dare say you think this paradise. to me it is a dreary wilderness." it was not to be expected that the old custodian would appreciate all the beauty and refinement, all the ecclesiastical, regal and historical atmosphere that surrounded it with a special halo. and perhaps twenty years' contemplation of the outlines would have made many a better man long for a change of scene. custom stales and familiarity breeds contempt. but not twice twenty years could have made us unmindful of the singular beauty of poblet. [illustration: monks' burial ground: poblet.] we had got round to the lovely cloisters again, and francisco declared it was time to display the luncheon-basket. so there, in the silent cloisters, surrounded by all the tone and atmosphere and outlines of the early centuries, we spread our feast. the old guardian was equal to the occasion and produced table and chairs. those he placed in the quadrangle, under the blue skies. the lovely glorieta was on one side of us; on the other, by looking through the broken tracery down the silent passage, we caught the outlines of the great church; a wonderful view and vision. our host, better than his orders, had packed up two bottles of wine, and h. c. in the largeness of his heart presented the guardian with a brimming bumper of choice laffitte, that nearly half emptied one of the bottles. like a true courtier, he bowed and drank to our health and happiness, and when the wine had disappeared, patted his fine rotundity with affectionate appreciation. "señor," he cried, "this is better than anything i ever tasted. a bottle of this a day would reconcile me even to the solitude of poblet. surely the old abbots never had anything equal to this--even when they drank malvoisie. it has set the blood coursing through my veins as i have not felt it for twenty years. for such as this some people would sell their souls." the excellent fumes must have penetrated even to the guardian's private rooms, for at this moment, with an air of great innocence, the wife appeared upon the scene. francisco declared she had heard the cork drawn and arrived for a share of good things. with true gallantry, but a sinking at the heart for the diminishing laffitte, h. c. poured out another bumper and offered it to the lady, whose proportions matched her husband's. it was accepted with a reverence, and if appreciation were a reward for the empty bottle, h. c. had his to the full. then the comfortable pair retired to the cloister passage, where the guardian had his own table and chairs and display of photographs, and there they sat down and contemplated life under laffitte influence. judging by their expressions they were in the enjoyment of infinite beatitudes. [illustration: ruins of poblet.] it was a calm, quiet, delicious hour, far removed from the world. for the moment we were back in the centuries, picturing scenes of the past. days when poblet rose from small things to great; when its abbots became mitred; when they could ask nothing of the kings of aragon that was not immediately granted. the kings delighted to honour them. wealth flowed into the treasury; power multiplied. at last they ruled as despots. the kings built them a palace within the hallowed precincts. side by side dwelt humble monk and crowned head. humble? where the regal will clashed with the monkish, the king went on his knees and gave way. it became the escorial of aragon, a thousand times more beautiful and perfect than that other escorial reposing on the hill-slopes of castile. here it pleased the kings to be buried, and close to the monks' cemetery reposed the dead who had held the sceptre. no special tomb or carved sarcophagus marked their rank. in death all should be equal. or if there were tombs decorated with gold and enriched with sculpture, they were placed in the great church. what more indeed could they want than these wonderful arcades reposing under the pure skies of heaven. but the monks grew stiff-necked and proud; waxed rich and powerful, grasping and avaricious. since kings bowed down to them, they were the excellent of the earth. humility fled away. they were paving the road to their own downfall. at last they would only admit those of highest rank into their community. of course they upheld the kingly power whilst trying to make it subservient to themselves. the throne was their stronghold: republicanism meant confiscation. the revolutions of the world have attacked the religious orders before all else with hatred and violence. time rolled on. ferdinand vii. died, and in the war of succession they became politically unpopular. socially they had long been disliked for their oppression of the peasantry; but strong and rich, the feeling had to be cherished in silence. the monks were carlists to the backbone. at length, in the year, , poblet was attacked by the peasantry, who came down like a furious avalanche upon the building that for its beauty should have been held twice sacred. by this time, too, a change for the better had come over the monks. much wealth and influence had gone from them; they were quietly doing good. but the traditions of the past are slow in dying. the mob believed the monastery was a vast treasure-house; untold riches lay buried in fictitious graves, hidden in tombs and hollow pillars. it was now that the men of reus proved capable of fiendish acts of excitement. the monks were driven from their refuge and many were cruelly massacred. the pent-up fury of ages was let loose like a torrent. no power could stay the thirst for so-called revenge. it was their hour; a short-lived hour; but how much was accomplished! the monastery was ruined. the mob, infuriated at finding no heaps of gold, no hidden treasures, tore down pillars, defaced monuments, desecrated the church, left the beautiful traceried windows in ruins, and then set fire to the building. the sun had risen on as fair and peaceful a scene as earth could show; it set on the saddest of devastations. yet, thanks to the solid masonry, much escaped. for the monks it was lamentation and mourning and woe. it has been recorded that the sun went down in a deep-red ball, reflection of the blood of the martyred monks. but the people are superstitious. we have seen it ourselves sink over the spanish plains also a fiery-red ball, intense and glowing, when the world was at peace. yet, it must have been a special sunset on that memorable day of , for it is recorded that long after the sun disappeared clouds shot to and fro in the sky like swords of flame. but this, too, we have gazed upon in days of peace and quietness. chapter xxix. lorenzo. day visions--all passes away--end of the feast--francisco gathers up the fragments--ghosts of the past--outside the monastery--oasis in a desert--after the vintage--francisco gleans--guilty conscience--custom of country--dessert--primitive watering-place--off to the fair--groans and lamentations--sagacious animal--cause of sorrows--rage and anger--donkey listens and understands--a hard life--washing a luxury--charity bestowed--deserted settlement--quaint interior--back to the monastery--invidious comparisons--a promise--good-bye to poblet--troubled sea again--suffering driver--atonement for sins--earns paradise--wine-pressers again--rich stores--good samaritans--quaint old town--bygone prosperity--lorenzo--marriage made in heaven--house inspected--on the bridge--at the station--kindly offer--glorious sunset--loretta's good-bye--"what shall it be?"--flying moments--as the train rolls off. all this passed before us as a vision whilst we sat in those wonderful cloisters. we imagined the scene in all its ancient glory. we saw monks pacing to and fro in their picturesque benedictine dress. the proud step of a mitred abbot echoed as it passed onwards in pomp and ceremony and disappeared up the staircase to the palace of king martin the humble: far more humble and conciliating than the uncrowned kings of poblet. we heard the monotone of the miserere ascending through the dim aisles of the great church, the monks bowing their heads in mock humility. we saw martin the humble take the throne-seat to the right of the altar as though he felt himself least of all the assembled. and we saw that solitary death-bed of wharton the self-banished whilst yet in his youth, and marvelled what silent, secret sorrow had bid him flee the world. everything had passed away; kings and monks, wealth and power, and to-day the silence of death reigns in poblet. [illustration: cloisters of poblet.] when our modest feast was over, and h. c. had tried for the third time to extract a final drop of laffitte from the second empty bottle, we left francisco to gather up the fragments, and without the custodian--who was now taking a refreshing sleep after his appreciated bumper--wandered about the ruins as we would, realising all their beauty and influence, all the true spirit of the past that overshadowed them. every room and court was filled with a crowd of cowled monks and mitred abbots. up crumbling and picturesque' stairways we saw a shadowy procession ascending; the ghostly face of martin the humble looked down upon us from the exquisite windows of his palace, shorn of nearly all their tracery. it was difficult to leave it all, but we wanted to see a little of the outer world. francisco committed his basket to the guardian--now wide awake--and in a few moments we found ourselves outside the great entrance, facing the crumbling dependencies. beyond the gateway we turned to the left and passed up the valley. it was broad and far-reaching, and the monastery looked in the centre of a great undulating plain. from the slopes of a vineyard on which we sat awhile, it rose like an oasis in a desert, its picturesque outlines clearly marked against the blue sky. an irregular, half-ruined wall enclosed the vast precincts. in the far distance were chains of hills. there was no trace anywhere of a monks' garden, but in their despotic days they probably had all their wants supplied in the shape of tithes. the landscape was bare of trees, yet the rich soil yields abundantly the fruits of the earth. in the vineyard nearly all the grapes had been plucked; but francisco wandering to and fro found a few bunches and plucked them. warmed by the sunshine they were luscious and full of sweet flavour. we felt almost guilty of eating stolen fruit. "are we not very much like boys robbing an orchard, francisco?" "no," laughed the boy, "though i'm afraid if we were that would not stop me. what we are doing is quite allowed. it is the custom of the country. anyone may take the overlooked bunches in a vineyard just as they may glean in a corn-field. if i had not picked these, they would have withered. the owner, if he came in at this moment, would wish us good appetite and digestion and probably hunt for another bunch or two to present to us. not a bad dessert after luncheon." higher up the road we found a settlement, where in summer people flock to the hotels to drink the waters and enjoy the country. to-day all was closed for the approaching winter. a few years ago the place had no existence beyond a few scattered farm cottages with latticed windows and thatched roofs, surrounded by small orchards. these still exist. the place looked light and primitive, as though life might here pass very pleasantly. it was too far from the monastery to intrude upon its solitude, and the whole settlement seemed deserted. not a creature crossed our path until on the down-hill road on the other side we came upon an old woman struggling with an obstinate donkey. approaching, we heard groans and lamentations: now the animal was threatened, now implored. he was equally indifferent to both appeals. looking very sagacious, his ears working to and fro and his feet well planted upon the ground, as wide apart as possible, he would not budge an inch. the old woman would certainly never see eighty again. she was wrinkled and shrivelled and looked a black object; her old face so tanned by the sun that she might almost pass for a woman of colour. her black hair was wiry and untidy, and a rusty black gown hung about her in scanty folds. we stopped to inquire the cause of her sorrows. "ah, señor, this wretched animal will one day be the death of me. but no, you wretched brute," suddenly turning to rage and anger, "i will be the death of you. i know that one of these days i shall take a knife to its throat, and there will be an end of it. and there will be an end of me, for i have no other living. all i can do is to go about gathering sticks and begging halfpence from charity. but this miserable donkey is worse than a pig. a pig will go the wrong way, but my donkey won't go at all. sometimes for an hour together he doesn't move an inch. i have known him keep me a whole afternoon within ten yards of the same spot. i have beaten him till i'm black and blue"--the old woman had evidently got mixed here--"until my arm has ached for a week and i hadn't a breath left in my body; and all he does is to kick up his hind legs and bray in mockery." [illustration: poblet, from the vineyard.] all this time the donkey was switching its tail as though it understood every word that was said and thoroughly appreciated its bad character. and apparently to emphasise the matter, at this moment it suddenly gave a bray so loud, long and à propos that we were convulsed with laughter, in which the old woman joined. the donkey looked round with a ridiculously comical expression upon its face that was evidently put on. "ah, señor, it is all very well to laugh, but i am a poor wretched old woman," said this sable donkey-owner. "i never know one day whether i shall not starve the next. my husband died forty years ago. i have one daughter, but she left me. for twenty years i have not heard of her. mine has been a hard life." "how often do you wash?" we could not help asking out of curiosity. "wash, señor?" opening very wide eyes. "i am too poor to buy soap, and water is scarce. and i am so thin that if i washed, my bones would come through the skin. señor, if you will bestow your charity upon me i promise not to waste it upon soap." we were near the river. the clear, sparkling water flowed on its way to the sea. near the bank were whispering reeds and rushes. we felt sorely tempted to lift the old woman with our stick--she could not have weighed more than a good fat turkey--drop her into the stream, and for once make her acquainted with the luxury of a cold bath. but we reflected that she probably had no change of things, and her death might lie at our door. so we bestowed upon her the charity she asked for and left her. prayers for our happiness went on until we were out of sight, and up to that point the perverse animal had not moved. we now turned back on our road, and appeared to have the whole country-side to ourselves. as we passed the thatched cottages every one of them was closed and silent. no blue curling smoke ascended from any of the chimneys. "is it always so quiet and deserted?" we asked francisco, who had knocked at three or four cottages without success. he was anxious to show us the interiors, which he said were curious: great chimney-corners with the chain hanging down to hold the pot-au-feu that was always going: peat fires that threw their incense upon the air: enormous spanish settles on which half a dozen people could sit easily and keep warm on winter evenings: wonderful old clocks that ticked in the corner. we saw all this in the fifth cottage. its inmates had flown, but forgotten to lock the door. the fire was out, and the great iron pot swinging from the chain was cold. "no, señor. i have often been here and never found everybody away like this. one might fancy them all dead and buried, but they are at the fair, i suppose. the harvest is all in, fruits are all gathered; there is nothing left on the trees"--with a melancholy glance at the orchards--"and for the moment they have nothing to do. so they have gone in a body to amuse themselves and spend their money." we got back in time to the monastery, and again the woman opened to us. "this time he really has gone off for a commission," she laughed, as the colour mounted to her face at the remembrance of her late transgression. "i really had to make an excuse before," she added. "it might have been one of the directors, and i should not like them to think the old man was getting past his work." the guardian came up behind us at the moment, a bottle of wine in his hand for their evening meal. "ah, señor," shaking his head mournfully, "it is not equal to yours. until the flavour and recollection of yours have passed away, i shall find this but poor stuff. i must make believe very hard, and fancy myself living in the days of the old monks, drinking malvoisie." we promised to send him a bottle of laffitte the very next time any one came over from the hotel, and he declared the anticipation would add five years to his life. we took a last look at the lovely cloisters, and then with a heavy heart turned our backs upon poblet. seldom had any visit so charmed us. never had we seen such ruins; such marvellous outlines and perspectives; never felt more in a world of the past; never so completely realised the bygone life of the monks: all their splendour and power, wealth and luxury, to which the kingly presence gave additional lustre. they were days of pomp and ceremony and despotism; but the surrounding atmosphere of refinement and beauty must have had a softening and religious effect that perhaps kept them from excesses of tyranny and self-indulgence: vices that might have made their name a byword to succeeding ages. our primitive conveyance was in waiting. once more we found ourselves tossed upon a troubled sea where no waters were. we passed through the plains in which the magic donkey had appeared to loretta, now empty and gathering tone and depth as the day declined. our driver was not communicative. apparently all his energy had spent itself at the station in claiming our patronage. he now even seemed unhappy, and in spite of the abominable drive he was giving us, we ventured to ask him if the world went well with him. "i can't complain of the world, señor," he returned, in melancholy tones. "i have food enough to eat, but alas cannot eat it. i suffer from frightful toothache. at the last fair i mounted the dentist's waggon; boom went the drum, crash went the trumpets--i thought my head was off. he had pulled out the only sound tooth i possessed. 'let me try again,' said he. 'no, thank you,' i answered. 'you have given me enough for one day, and if you expect any other payment than my sound tooth you will be disappointed.' unfortunately, señor, he _had_ more than the tooth, for he had carried away a bit of my jaw with it. since then i have no comfort in life. the next time the fair comes round i suppose he will have to try again. the priests tell us a good deal about the torments of purgatory, but they can be nothing compared with this toothache. after this i shall expect to go straight to paradise when i die--priest or no priest." the silence of the unhappy driver was more than accounted for, and we gave him our sympathy. "thank you, señor," he answered. "it is very good of you. but," comically, "my tooth still aches." we had reached the outskirts of the little town and dismissed the conveyance, of which we had had more than enough. it rattled through the streets and we followed at leisure. the men at the wine-press were just giving up work. inside, in large rooms, they showed us wide tubs full of rich red juice, waiting to be made into wine. "you have enough here for the whole neighbourhood," we remarked. "it is all ordered, señor, and as much again if we can get it. we are famed for our wine. may we offer you a really good specimen bottle, just to show you its excellence? it would be a most friendly act on your part--and a little return for your splendid tobacco and cigars." "by all means," cried h. c., before we had time to accept or decline. "we are all as thirsty as fishes--and as hungry as hunters." "it is last year's wine," said our cellarman, returning with a bottle and drawing the cork. then he hospitably filled tumblers and with a broad smile upon his face waited our approval. we gave it without reserve. it was excellent. "and as pure as when it was still in the grape," said the man. "take my word for it, señor, you won't get such stuff as this in madrid or barcelona. it goes through your veins and exhilarates you, and if you drank three bottles of it you might feel lively, but you would have no headache." we owed the wine-presser a debt of gratitude. his invigorating draught was doubly welcome after our late experience, and we went our way feeling there are many good samaritans in the world. we had some time to wait in the little town, and made closer acquaintance with its curious old streets: the overhanging eaves and waterspouts that stretched out like grinning gargoyles; the massive walls of many of the houses, and casements with rich mouldings that suggested a bygone day of wealth and prosperity. in our wandering we came upon the man loretta had pointed out as her future husband. he was almost in the very same spot we had last seen him, and his head was now adorned with a white cap. we stopped him. "so, lorenzo, you are going to espouse loretta." "with your permission, señor. i hope you are not going to forbid the marriage?" [illustration: ruins of poblet.] "quite the contrary. we offer you our congratulations, and think you a very lucky man, loretta a fortunate woman." "thank you, señor," replied lorenzo, laughing--he seemed made up of good-humour. "i think it promises well. you see we are neither of us children, but old enough to know our own mind. loretta is twenty-eight, i am thirty-two, and as far as i can make out, we have neither of us cared for anybody before. our marriage was evidently made in heaven. and then mr. caro settled the matter by accepting me as his master." "and you love the donkeys, we hear?" "i love all animals in general," returned lorenzo, "and of course loretta's donkeys in particular. if she could have an additional attraction in my eyes, it is her power over the dumb birds and beasts, which proves the goodness of her soul. i cannot approach her in that respect." "and when are you going to be married?" "has loretta not told you that?" said lorenzo, the colour flushing to his face. "we are to be married to-morrow morning. everything is ready. loretta has her wedding-gown, and our rooms have been furnished some time. they are over my workshop, so that i shall be able to hear her singing whilst i am planing and sawing below. here it is, señor; will you not come in and look at it? i think," a bright light in his eyes, "we shall be very happy. after we are married to-morrow we go to barcelona for a few days, where i have a prosperous brother who will take us in. then we come back and settle down to our life. yes, i think we shall be as happy as the day's long, señor." we had no doubt about it. happiness in this world is for such as these. excellent natures, saved from the great cares and responsibilities of those in a higher walk; working for their daily bread, which is abundantly supplied; contented with their lot; knowing nothing of impossible wants and wishes; loving and shedding abroad their love. it is such natures as loretta's and lorenzo's that are the truly happy. their very names harmonized. but they are rare amongst their own class; one might almost say rare in any class; the exception, not the rule. it was good to come upon two such people, and to find that a kindly fate had reserved them for each other. we left lorenzo in his workshop, a strong, manly fellow, using his plane with a skilful hand, and went our way. right and left loretta was nowhere to be seen. perhaps she was arranging things at home for the last time. the last evening in the old nest. she might be contemplating her wedding-gown, lost in thoughts of the past or dreams of the future. but she was not one to look on the sad side of life, or to spend time in melancholy introspection. from the picturesque old bridge beneath which the river ran its swift course, the scene was wild, picturesque and lonely. with all our loitering we had an hour to wait for the train. at the station we found loretta, apparently anything but low-spirited. she was accompanied by a well-dressed woman who looked as if the world went well with her. loretta saw us and came forward. "señor, you are back from poblet. tell me, did i exaggerate its beauty? will you not come again, if only to ride the gentle caro?" "poblet far surpasses anything we expected from it, loretta. but why did you not tell us that to-morrow was your wedding-day?" "i did not like to," she returned, laughing. "and yet i am too old to be silly about it. how did you find out, señor? surely the old guardian at poblet knows nothing? i have not been near him for three weeks." "we met lorenzo, and he told us. loretta, you are a happy couple. he will make a famous husband, and you a model wife." "ah, señor, i shall try my best; but sometimes i think i am not good enough for him. he is such a brave man, my lorenzo." "why are you here, loretta?" "to escort lorenzo's cousin, señor, who came over to see me to-day for the last time before my wedding. she lives in tarragona. we have been great friends, and she has long hoped lorenzo and i would marry." she carried in her hand, this cousin of lorenzo's, a glass water-bottle of rare and exquisite shape. we could not help admiring it in strong terms. "it is not to be bought anywhere," she said. "it is old and they do not make them now. señor, it would give me real pleasure if you would accept it. i do not mean in spanish fashion, but truly and sincerely." this was very evident, but the gift had to be refused, however kindly offered. we walked up and down the platform in face of one of the loveliest sunsets ever seen. in spite of its gorgeous colouring there was a great calmness and repose about it. wonderful tones from crimson to pale opal spread half over the sky. every moment they changed from beauty to beauty, and lighted up the outlines of the town into something rare and ethereal. we have already said there is no country like spain for the splendour of its sunsets, and especially in their afterglow. they are truly amongst her glories. at last the train came up and shut out the heavenly vision. loretta approached and said good-bye. "you will come again, señor, and ride caro. i shall be married then, and both lorenzo and i will escort you to poblet. it will delight us to serve you. we will make it a holiday. but do not tarry. caro is not as young as he was, though i believe donkeys live for ever." "now, loretta," we said, whilst the train waited, "it is our ambition to send you a wedding-gift. what shall it be?" "señor, you are too good. what have i done? i could never----" "loretta, the train may start at any moment." "señor, i have all i could wish for, excepting----" she hesitated. "loretta, the moments are flying." "señor, it is too great an object. i have not the courage----" "loretta, the guard signals. another moment and you are lost." "well, then, señor, i long for a clock for our mantelpiece. we had made up our minds to wait, and----" "loretta, the clock is yours. it shall be pure white. a golden cupid shall strike the bells. in his other hand he shall hold a glass which turns with the hours, running golden sands. fare you well, loretta." the engine whistled. the carriage moved. our last look was a vision of a comely woman standing on the platform, a tall erect figure gazing after the train, the reflection of the afterglow lighting up her face to something beyond mere earthly beauty. chapter xxx. the garden of spain. charms of tarragona--dream of the past--quasimodo comes not--of another world--host's offer--francisco inconsolable--a mixed sorrow--no more holidays--list of grievances--fair scene--luxuriance of the south--hospitalet--pilgrims of the middle ages--amposta--centre of lost centuries--historical past--here worked st. paul--our fellow-travellers--undertones--enter old priest--draws conclusions--love's young dream--impressions and appearances--not always a priest--fool's paradise--youth and age--awaking to realities--driven out of paradise--was it a judgment?--calmness returns--judging in mercy--nameless grave--"writ in water"--withdrawing from the world--entering the church--busy life--romances of the confessional--"to eve in paradise"--tortosa--garden of spain--vinaroz--wise mermen--cradle of history and romance--gibraltar of the west--a race apart--benicarlo--flourishing vineyards--"if the english only knew"--eve recognises priest--"i am that charming daughter"--lovely cousin engaged--count pedro de la torre--mutual recognitions--congratulations--breaking news to h. c.--despair--"to adam in hades"--gallant priest--saved from temptation. with sorrowful hearts we turned our backs one morning upon tarragona. though bound for valencia, tarragona the delightful possessed charms valencia could never rival. not again should we meet with such a cathedral, such cloisters, or even so original and enthusiastic a sacristan. we were leaving all that wonderful historical atmosphere that made this exceptional place a dream of the past, and great was our regret. we had stood near the tomb of the scipios and fancied ourselves back in the days when our own era was dawning. before us the ever-changing yet changeless sea looked just as it must have looked when they, loving it, decided to sleep within sound of its waters. in a last moonlight visit to the cathedral we had waited and listened in hope of hearing quasimodo's footsteps, seeing his quaint and curious form approaching. he never came. no unseen talisman whispered to him our desire. perhaps it was as well. a second experience is never the same as the first. the subtle charm of the new and the strange, the unexpected, the unprepared, is no longer there. quasimodo now dwelt in our minds as a being spiritual, intangible, of another world. that he belonged to the highest order in this, is certain. the influence of his music haunted us, haunts us still. in waking and sleeping dreams we live over and over again the weird charm and experience of that wonderful night; see the moonbeams falling in shafts of clear-cut light across pillars and aisles and arches; hear and feel the touch, as of a passing breath, of the ghostly visitants from shadow-land. all the marvellous music steals into our soul. there can be but one quasimodo in the world. we doubt if there was ever another at any time endowed with his marvellous faculty. it was pain and grief to feel that we should see and hear him no more. our very host added slightly to our reluctant leaving by declaring that if we would only stay another week he would charge us half-price for everything: nay, we should settle our own terms. francisco was inconsolable, but perhaps a little selfishness was mixed with his sorrow. "no more holidays," he cried. "no more excursions to poblet; no escape from french lessons. and yet, señor, there are other places besides poblet, and every one of them would have delighted you. think of all the lost luncheons; all the first-class compartments that will now be empty. there are lovely excursions, too, by sea." the boy's catalogue of grievances was as long as don giovanni's list of transgressions. but time the inexorable refused to stand still, and when the final hour struck, the relentless omnibus carried us away. francisco accompanied us to the station, having an idea that without his help we should inevitably go wrong. he was a witness to the abominably rude station-master, who in this respect has not his equal in spain, according to our experience. finally we moved off. at the moment we felt a distinct mental wrench. tarragona was indeed over. to our right was the harbour with its little crowd of fishing-boats; out on the sea lovely white-winged feluccas glided to and fro. the whole journey was one of extreme beauty. very soon we had the sea on our left, and often the train skirted the very waves as they rolled over their golden sands. the coast was broken and diversified, now rising to hills and cliffs, now falling to a level with the shore. where we passed inland the country was rich and fruitful, showing more and more the luxuriance of the south. many of the towns had historical interests or remains to make them remarkable. at hospitalet we found ourselves on the site of a house of refuge for pilgrims from zaragoza who in the middle ages were wont to cross the mountains in caravans after visiting the scene of some miraculous pillar or image. near this we skirted a fishing village, where the train was almost washed by the sea that, blue and flashing, stretched far and wide. the little fleet was moving out of the small harbour as we passed, each followed by its shadow upon the water. picturesque amposta was the centre and atmosphere of the lost centuries. it existed long before the romans, who, on taking it, made it one of their chief stations. here came hercules, and after him st. paul, who did much work and ordained a bishop to carry on his labours. later came the moors, when it reached the height of its glory. in louis le débonnaire, son of charlemagne, besieged it, was repulsed, returned in and conquered. the moors quickly retook it, but the disorganised inhabitants had become nothing better than pirates. so in the templars came down upon them, and inspired by the late victory at almeria, aided by the italians, conquered in their turn: only to be turned out again the following year by the inevitable moors. everywhere the eye rested upon a lovely scene of river, sea and land, intensely blue sky and brilliant sunshine. in our carriage we had a very interesting bride and bridegroom. she seemed to worship the very ground he trod upon, and both were evidently in paradise. at the same time he accepted the worship rather too much as his due--gracefully and graciously, but still distinctly his right. they were in the mood to admire lovely scenery, and undertones of delight were frequent. presently an old priest entered the carriage, sat himself down beside us, and they quickly fell under his eye. he looked on with a smile of amusement at the silent unmistakable worship. we thought he drew his conclusions as one who observes a scene in which he has no part or lot. "love's young dream," he said to us under cover of the rattle of the train. "my experience tells me it is only a dream, varying in length according to the constancy of the dreamers. you think i have no right to give an opinion? then, señor, i should tell you that, like the world in general, you judge by appearances and judge too hastily. that is the difference between impressions and appearances. of first appearances beware; of first impressions be assured. they have never failed me." we agreed with the old priest, but made no remark. "you think i have no business to judge of these matters?" he continued with a smile; "and you are mistaken. i was not always a priest clad in black robe and beaver hat, separated from the world by the barrier of the church. in early life i took up law, pleaded, and generally won my cause. then i pleaded my own cause with a beautiful woman, won her and married her. i, too, dwelt in my fool's paradise; thought the world all sunshine, the hours all golden. i was young and in those days handsome. never can i reconcile the ugly, grey-headed man one becomes in age, with the charm and elegance of one's youth. but time has no mercy. however, the fact remains that in those days i was young and handsome." the old priest was handsome still; but again we were silent. "then one fine morning i awoke to realities," he went on. "the angel with the flaming sword had come and driven me out of my paradise. yet i had not transgressed. it was the woman, whom i fondly hoped heaven had given me as a life-long companion. she was beautiful; there was an indescribable charm about her; but she was frivolous and inconstant. she left me one day with one whom i had thought my friend. he was rich and free to roam. i heard of them in other countries: wandering to and fro like spirits ill at ease. "finally they went to rome. was it a judgment upon the wife who had proved faithless to her husband, the man who had betrayed his friend? both took the fever at the same time and died within a week of each other. they were buried side by side in a small cemetery near to the eternal city. some years after i went to rome. i had lived down my life's tragedy and could gaze upon their graves with calmness. as i did so, and realised the certainty of retribution, i prayed that i might judge in mercy. they had blighted my life, but looking on those nameless graves i felt for the first time that i could forgive. yes, the graves were nameless, for no stone had been placed over them. this i did. by way of inscription i merely recorded the initials on each: and the text 'forgive us our trespasses as we forgive them that trespass against us.' "that very same day i was wandering about the english cemetery in rome, and came upon the text 'here lies one whose name was writ in water;' doubtless the expression of one whose life had been a failure or disappointment. 'my friend,' i thought, 'you are not to be pitied half so much as those whose names are writ in sin.' "it was about this time that i determined to enter the church. since that terrible blow i had grown to hate the world, withdrew more and more from society. i had no near ties on earth. again and again i thanked heaven that no child had been born to me. as soon as i had made the resolution i put it in force, and cannot say that i ever regretted it. gradually all morbidness left me. i lead a busy life; i delight in society; people consider me a very jovial old priest. but i never lift a finger to promote a marriage; i never solemnise one without a sigh and a wonder as to what will be the end of it. and let me tell you a secret. i never hear in the confessional that love is on the wane between husband and wife, without pouring out upon them the sternest vials of my wrath, threatening them with all the terrors of purgatory if so much as a breath of inconstancy of mind or thought is whispered. oh, if i were not pledged to silence, what romances of the confessional could i not tell you!" we had listened without interruption. sitting side by side it was easy to talk without being overheard. the train clattered and beat and throbbed on its way. the happy pair were at the other end of the carriage. h. c., who sat opposite to us, instead of giving his undivided attention to the scenery, was composing a sonnet to the fair lady, which he headed, "to eve in paradise"--a questionable compliment. tortosa, with its narrow streets and gloomy palaces, its strong walls, ancient castle and bridge of boats, all visible from the train, had passed away. one lovely view gave place to another. "it is indeed a rich country through which we are travelling," said the priest, "the very garden of spain, which appears to me to find its culminating point round about valencia. our whole progress is marked by historical footsteps. i never visit tortosa without thinking of st. paul, and a little of his amazing energy seems to fall upon me. he becomes a real presence to me. an influence he must and will be in all places and in all ages. then comes vinaroz with its crumbling walls--one of the loveliest spots in the whole province. i always think its people are like mermen, neither one thing nor the other. they fish the sea and plough the land by turns. both occupations yield them good fruit, so perhaps they are wise. the fish are abundant, the lampreys excellent. it was here the duc de vendôme died from a surfeit of fish, of which he was passionately fond. but for this, philip v. would probably never have entered upon his long and eventful reign. look at those white-winged boats gliding upon the blue waters! where is there another sea like the mediterranean? it is the very cradle of history and romance; scene of half the mighty events of the world. were i an idle man i would spend my life upon its surface." "what is that distant object?" indicating an enormous perpendicular rock some five miles away, that stood a picturesque, castle-crowned islet, round which the sea was breaking in faint white lines. "we call it gibraltar of the west," replied the priest. "an interesting place to visit, and larger than you would imagine, with its inhabitants. they are curious people: in some things almost a race apart. it is neither an island nor yet part of the mainland. you cannot gain entrance by water, though surrounded by the sea. the only passage to it is a narrow strip of sand reaching to the shore. it was here that pope benedict xiii. took refuge after the council of constance had pronounced against him. and here comes benicarlo with its old walls," he continued, as the train drew up at the small station. "the ancient town is worth a visit. its people, poor and wretched, might be flourishing and well-to-do, for the neighbourhood is wonderfully productive. the vineyards are amongst the best in spain; the luscious wines are sent to bordeaux to mix with inferior clarets, which find their way to the english market. ah! the english little know what adulterated articles are sold in england that the french would never look at." at this moment our fair eve, who for the last few minutes had come out of paradise, looked attentively at the priest, hesitated a moment, then spoke. "from the singular likeness," she said, "i think you must be related to the duke de nevada in madrid? forgive me if i am mistaken." "señora," replied the old priest with a polite bow, "juan de nevada is my elder and much-loved brother, though we seldom meet--for madrid is the one place i never visit. i am gratified that you see in me the least resemblance to that truly noble and great man." "have you never heard him speak of the señor de costello?" continued the lady. "without doubt," returned the priest. "they are neighbours in madrid. i have heard him mention a very charming daughter, and also very charming cousin who lives in gerona." "i am that charming daughter," laughed the fair eve; "but the term applies much more correctly to my lovely cousin. her beauty has created a furore in madrid. we are great friends, and she stays with us part of every year. she has just become engaged to your brother's eldest son, and therefore some day will be duchess de nevada--though i trust the day is far distant. you have doubtless heard of the engagement?" "indeed, yes," returned the priest. "only last week i wrote my nephew a long letter congratulating him upon his good fortune. but how comes it, madame, if i may be so indiscreet, that my fair travelling companion should not herself eventually have become madame de nevada?" "for the excellent reason that sits opposite to me," quickly replied this lovely eve, laughing and blushing in the most bewitching manner. upon which she introduced her husband to the priest as count pedro de la torre. the name explained what had puzzled us for some time. we were haunted by a feeling of having met this young man in a previous state of existence, but now discovered that we had really met him in toledo. he was amongst the group who had sat that first night of our arrival at the other end of the table, smoking and drinking wine and coffee. he it was who had come forward to speak to the man in the sheepskin, and then handed him a bumper of wine. he had left the very next day, and we had seen less of him than of the others. we recalled the circumstance to his memory. "i recognised you at once," he said, "but thought you had forgotten me. that man in the sheepskin was my father's head huntsman, a privileged being who was born and brought up on the estate, gave us our first lessons in sport and looks upon us as his own children. my father's place--my own, i fear, before long--is near toledo. if you ever visit it again we should be delighted to show you hospitality. we live with my father when not in madrid. he is old, in failing health, and could not bear the idea of my leaving home. on my part i was too glad to remain in the dear old nest." "and we see that we have to offer you our congratulations," bowing as in duty bound to his lovely partner. de la torre laughed. "you make me your debtor," he replied. "but however profound your congratulations, they can never equal those i offer to myself. i am indeed far more blest than i merit." "wait until i show you my true character," laughed madame, "take the reins of government into my own hands, and leave you with no will of your own--a henpecked husband. at present i tender you a velvet hand; presently it may turn into----" "if it changed into a cloven foot," he interrupted gallantly, "i should still say it was perfect." "ah, you are in paradise," cried the old priest with a sigh; "in paradise. try to remain there. do not summon the angel with the flaming sword. be ever true and tender to each other. talk not of cloven feet. let it ever be the velvet hand, the glance of love, the gentle accents of forbearance. you have every good gift that heaven and earth can give you. be worthy of your fate." we interpreted as gently as possible to h. c. the sad news of the engagement of the beauty of gerona, the lovely señorita de costello. it was a great shock. he turned deathly pale and remained for a time staring at vacancy. then with a profound sigh he tore up his half-finished sonnet, "to eve in paradise," and began another self-dedicated, "to adam in hades." he keeps it in a sacred drawer, enshrined in lavender and pot-pourri. "all this rencontre is very à propos," said the old priest. "again the world is smaller than it seems. and we are getting on. here is castellon de la plana already, with its fine fruit and flower gardens and picturesque peasants. alas, we see less costume everywhere than of old. the taste of the world is not improving." very pleasantly passed the remainder of the journey, through a country beautiful and fertile. everywhere we saw traces of vineyards and cultivated lands. here and there oxen were ploughing. often we saw them thrashing out the rice. many an old and picturesque well stood out surrounded by trellis-work covered with vine-leaves. but the vines were not festooned after the picturesque manner of north italy, where you walk under the trellis and pluck the grapes that hang in rich clusters. here the vines are trained on sticks or grow like currant bushes, and as in germany, lose their beauty. a single field will produce at the same time fruit-trees, almond or olive, corn and grapes, all mingling their beauty and perfume. we passed a multitude of orange and lemon groves with all their deep, rich, sheeny verdure. nuts and olives, almonds and carobs abounded. many a palm-tree added its oriental grace to the landscape. the whole country seemed to revel in sunshine and blue skies. at saguntum, that town of the ancients, the heights were crowned by walls, fortresses and castles, imperishable outlines grey with the lapse of centuries. as it chanced we were all bound for valencia. our interesting bride and bridegroom were staying there one night and continuing their journey the next day. the priest was to spend a week there. "i have a proposal to make," said de la torre, as we neared the capital. "we telegraphed for rooms and ordered dinner in our sitting-room. you three gentlemen must join us. it will only be adding three covers--an effort the chef will be equal to." "let me add my persuasions," added countess de la torre graciously and gracefully. "remember we have been united a whole week and are quite an old married couple. you would give us great pleasure." but this, strongly supported by de nevada the priest, we felt bound to decline. it would have been cruel to intrude so long upon a tête-à-tête which just now must form the delight of their existence. "i must be obdurate," said the priest. "in the first place your delicate paradise food--which no doubt consists of crystallised fruits and butterflies' wings--would be wasted upon three hungry travellers dwelling without the enchanted gates. but let us compromise. we are all staying at the same hotel. we three unappropriated blessings will dine together, and after that we will come and take our coffee and chartreuse with you, remaining exactly one hour by the clock: not a moment more." so it was settled. soon after this all the church towers and steeples of valencia came into view. across a stretch of country, we saw the blue sea sparkling in the evening sunshine. in the air, above the rush of the train, there was a sound of ringing bells. "it must be a gala day," said madame de la torre, listening for a moment to the swelling clamour. "it is for your arrival, madame," returned the priest gallantly. "they wish to do you honour." our fair eve laughed. "monsieur de nevada," she cried, "you were never intended for a priest. it was a mistaken vocation. you ought to have married, and your wife would have been your idol." under the circumstances it was a somewhat unfortunate speech. the drama in de nevada's life had taken place long before her birth. she evidently knew nothing of the story. but the priest had outlived his sorrow, and was of an age to sit loosely to the things of earth. a momentary shadow passed over his face, gone as soon as seen. "madame," he laughed in clear tones, "if i were forty years younger and mademoiselle de costello were not madame de la torre, she would almost induce me to forget my vows. as it is, all is well. i am saved from temptation. valencia at last! never did journey pass so quickly and pleasantly." a well-appointed omnibus was in waiting. we filled it comfortably, and in a few moments found ourselves at the hotel españa. the manager settled us in admirable quarters, and having some time to spare before dinner we went out to survey the fair city by evening light. chapter xxxi. love's young dream. first impressions--devoted to pleasure--peace-loving--climate makes gay and lively--new element--few traces of the past--old palaces--steals into the affections--city of the cid--ecclesiastical attractions--archbishopric--university--homer must nod sometimes--comparative repose--de nevada carries us off--admirable host--conversational--grave and gay--mercy, not sacrifice--library--at puzol--exacting a promise--the hour sounds--count pedro appears--fragrant coffee--served by magic--specially prepared temptation--perverting facts--land flowing with milk and honey--inquiring mind--mighty man of valour--cid likened to cromwell--retribution--ibn jehaf the murderer--reign of terror--the faithful ximena--cid's death-blow--priest turns schoolmaster--"beware!"--earthly paradise--land of consolation--system of irrigation--famous council--poetical granada--no appeal--apostles' gateway--earth's fascinations--picturesque peasants--pretty women--countess pedro shakes her head--leave-taking--next morning--quiet activity--market day--splendours of flower-market--lonja de seda--vanishing dream--audiencia--san salvador--antiquity yields to comfort--convent of san domingo--miserere--impressive ceremony--city of flowers--without the walls--famous river--change of scene. valencia proved more modern and bustling than we had imagined. after the quiet streets of tarragona it appeared to us the most crowded place we had ever been in; tramcars ran to and fro; there was much noise and excitement. half the crowd was composed of the student class. all seemed in an uproar, but it was only their natural tone and manner. the valencians, especially the lower classes, are devoted to pleasure; the work of the day over, they live for enjoyment. [illustration: ancient gateway: valencia.] involuntarily we were reminded of our old days in the quartier latin; but there, excitement often meant revolutionary mischief. the valencians are peace-loving, and their climate forces them to be gay and lively. though passionate and hasty, like a violent tornado the rage soon passes. this evening, in spite of much movement, a constant buzzing of voices, an excitement that filled the air, everything was in order. laughter and chatter abounded, far more so than we had found in most spanish towns. until now the character of the spaniard on ordinary occasions had seemed rather given to silence: in valencia we came upon a new element, approaching the french or italian. the city has lost much of its ancient interest. as late as , the wonderful old walls, massive and battlemented, were pulled down to find work for the poor. twelve gates admitted to the interior: and what the walls were may be judged by the few gates that remain. within the city the air is close and relaxing, the skies are brilliant, the sun intensely hot, the streets narrow and densely packed with houses. this was designed to keep out the heat, but also keeps out air and light. the houses in the side-streets are tall, massive and sombre-looking, and here some of the wonderful old palaces remain. the principal thoroughfares are commonplace; one has, as it were, to seek out the beauties. it is in its exceptional features that valencia shines, and gradually steals into your affections. not, however, as tarragona the favoured. the pure air, stately repose and dignified charm of that dream of the past is very opposed to the noisy unrest and crowded thoroughfares, constant going to and fro, and confined atmosphere of this ancient city of the cid. nevertheless it has its ecclesiastical attractions in the way of churches: some with interesting towers, though few with fine interiors. it is an archbishopric, therefore has a cathedral. it possesses a university, and most of the crowd we saw evidently thought that the bow cannot always be strung and homer must sometimes nod. they fill the cafés and theatres, go mad with excitement in the bull-ring when the sunday performance is given, and occasionally have a free fight amongst themselves; when some of them get locked up by way of warning to the many rather than as a punishment to the few. after such an outbreak, never very desperate, peace reigns for a time: peace that is never seriously broken. [illustration: a street in valencia.] it was a relief that first evening to return to the comparative repose of the hotel. when the hour for dinner had struck, de nevada in clerical garments came to our rooms and carried us off to his own sitting-room where dinner was served. we seemed fated to fall in with the clerical element in spain, and as yet had certainly not regretted it. de nevada was evidently well known and highly considered by the hotel people, who exerted their best efforts in his favour, which also fell to our portion. his conversation was a mixture of grave and gay, with much wit and humour. he had outlived his sorrows, it may be, yet their influence remained. every now and then a chance word or allusion seemed to vibrate some long-silent chord in heart or memory. a momentary shadow would pass over his face as a small cloud passing over the sun for an instant overshadows the earth. it was over in a flash, and he would at once be his genial, jovial self, full of strong spirits toned down by excellent breeding and the thought of what was due to his cloth. probably we saw more of his inner character than if we had dined with the de la torres. we had him to ourselves, his undivided attention, and amongst various topics he gave us a great insight into many of the by-ways of the spanish church. "it is a subject in which i am deeply interested," he said. "i am writing a book thereon, and devoting considerable space to the vexed argument of the inquisition. it has never been properly handled, and i am not afraid to say that it was a serious blot, if not on the characters, at least on the judgment of ferdinand and isabella. souls were never yet gained nor religions established by cruelty and torture. it is partly for that reason that i am here. the archbishop has a magnificent library, and i want a week of reference amongst the books. we are as brothers, and i should take up my quarters in the palace, only that i like to be independent. to-day he is at puzol, where he has a country house. when here i generally dine with him; was to have done so to-morrow night; but it is an informal engagement, and if you will promise to meet me again at the same hour, we will dine here together. and now the hour sounds for the de la torres. let us be punctual, as we must be so in leaving. did you ever see so charming, so devoted a couple? who would not dwell in such a fools' paradise?" he sent our maître-d'hotel to inquire if it would be agreeable to them to receive us, and in response count pedro appeared upon the scene. all our rooms adjoined. "we are more than ready," he cried. "i am quite sure," laughing, "that you think we spend all our time sitting hand-in-hand and looking into each other's eyes. my dear nevada, we are quite a sober couple, with a great deal of matter-of-fact sense about us." "which only proves how difficult it is for people to know themselves," laughed the priest. "but now for the sunshine of madame's presence." in their sitting-room all banqueting signs had been removed. on the table steamed fragrant coffee, with a decanter of chartreuse, side by side with cigars and cigarettes. the most fastidious woman in spain will never object to smoking in her presence. countess de la torre had exchanged her becoming travelling-dress for a still more becoming evening costume. she looked dazzlingly beautiful, her pure white neck and arms decorated with jewels. as she rose and received us with a high-bred, bewitching grace, we thought we had seldom seen a fairer vision. "ah!" cried de nevada, glancing at the table. "your feast of orange blossoms and butterflies' wings was served by magic. in fact i am not aware that we are told adam and eve in paradise ate anything. life was eternal and needed no renewing." "you forget," laughed madame de la torre. "they ate fruit, or how could eve have tempted adam with an apple?" "i have always held that as a specially prepared temptation," said the priest. "they had never eaten anything until then, and the danger lay in the new experience." "monsieur de nevada, you must go to school again," laughed countess pedro. "or you are wilfully perverting facts to suit your purpose. i shall have to inform against you to the archbishop. we are going to see him to-morrow morning. are you not in his jurisdiction?" "no, madame," replied the priest. "i hold no preferment in the province of valencia. this garden of spain blooms not for my pleasure. yet, how can i say so, for who enjoys it more when fate brings me here?" "it is indeed the garden of spain," said de la torre. "i often wished we were as favoured in the neighbourhood of toledo--though we have little to complain of." "valencia is a land flowing with milk and honey," said de nevada. "you must not hope for two canaans so near each other." "tell me," said madame de la torre, as she poured out coffee with a graceful hand, "why this town is called valencia del cid. i thought the cid had only to do with burgos. i fear i am exposing my ignorance." "it would be difficult to know what the cid had not to do with and where he did not go," returned de nevada. "he was a mighty man of valour, according to his lights: also a great barbarian. in those days we might all have been the same. in my own mind, i have always likened him to the english cromwell; and if cromwell was in any way better than he, it is that he lived six centuries later. they were equally determined and unscrupulous. what a wonderful passage is that in the history of england! but the cid had much to do with valencia. he came here in , and after a siege of twenty months took the town. it is remarkable how retribution follows a man, as surely as shadow follows the substance. 'be sure your sin will find you out.' never was truer proverb what says shakespeare?" continued the priest, turning to us: "'our acts our angels are, or good or ill, the fateful shadows that hang by us still.' "i don't know that i quote correctly, and my english is barbarous," he laughed. "never could i master that fine language; perhaps for the reason that i never dwelt long enough in your country. few and short have my visits been. it was in that the cid took valencia. ibn jehaf the murderer was on the throne, having killed yahya, whom alonso vi. had placed there. this act brought the cid down upon them. the first thing he did was to burn jehaf alive on the great square that you will see to-morrow when you go to the archbishop: act worthy of the tyrant. he ruled here for five years. his will was law; it was a small reign of terror. then he died, and his faithful wife ximena endeavoured to hold the reins. those were not times when a woman could rule easily, and in the moors brought hers to an end and banished her from the province. it is said that when the cid captured valencia he took his wife and daughter to a height to show them the richness of the country; and promised his favourite daughter that if she pleased him in her marriage that fair prospect from the boundaries of the saguntum hills on the north to the confines of the sea on the east should be her dowry: a promise never to be fulfilled. within three years the daughter died unwedded; a death so violent that it is said to have struck a death-blow to the cid, and to have brought home to him many of his perfidious acts. certain it is that he was never the same man afterwards. another two years brought his own life to a close. but, madame, you are beguiling me into a history, and turning the old priest into a schoolmaster." our fair hostess laughed. "you make me your debtor," she replied. "i shall take greater interest in what i see to-morrow, and look at everything through the eyes of the past. has the archbishop any relics of the cid?" "not only of the cid, but of many other historical persons and events," said de nevada. "you must especially notice the library with its fine collection of books. i may be there at the moment, and if so will promote myself to the honour of librarian-in-chief to countess pedro de la torre." "beware!" laughed madame. "countess pedro has a thirst for knowledge. your office will be no sinecure." "my labour of love will at least equal madame's diligence, though the climate is hardly favourable to very hard work," smiled the priest. "even nature conspires to indolence in the people. the ground brings forth abundantly, and almost unaided. the moors thought it an earthly paradise--as it is. i am not sure but they considered it the scene of the first paradise. heaven, they said, was suspended immediately above, and a portion of heaven had fallen to earth and formed valencia. to the sick and sorrowing it is a land of consolation. in its balmy airs--far more healing than those of italy--the former recover strength; in the brilliance of its sunshine, the blueness of its skies, the splendour of its flowers and vegetation, the troubled mind finds peace and repose." "its system of irrigation--to descend to the commonplace," laughed de la torre--"is perfect. does the council still sit in the apostles' gateway?" "indeed it does," replied the priest. "and far from being commonplace, the idea to me, surrounded by its halo of the past, is full of picturesque romance." "what is that?" asked madame. "it is dangerous to make these remarks before an inquiring mind." "the matter is simple," said de nevada. "valencia is the most perfectly irrigated province in spain, not excepting granada. especially is that the case in the surrounding neighbourhood. you must have noticed narrow channels running through the fields as you passed in the train. the system presents infinite difficulties. not one of the least is that all shall share alike in the fertilizing streams. in granada a good deal is done by signals, and occasionally in the night-silence you may hear the silver bell sounding upon the air and carried from field to field: token that the dams are opened and the water flows. in valencia they have nothing so poetical. the tribunal was instituted centuries ago by the moors. it has been handed down from generation to generation and still continues. being perfect, the system works well. every thursday morning seven judges sit in the great doorway of the cathedral, and hear all complaints relating to irrigation. these judges choose each other from the yeomen and irrigators of the neighbourhood. they pronounce sentence, and against that sentence there is no appeal. the judges are integrity itself. it is their motto, and it seems as impossible for them to go wrong as for a freemason to betray the secrets of his craft. i think the system might with advantage be adopted by other tribunals." "i should like to see and converse with these judges," said madame, "and decorate them with the order of the golden fleece. surely they deserve it?" "that order, i fear, is reserved for those of higher rank," replied the priest. "yet i have often myself thought they should wear an order of distinguished merit: a sort of cross of the legion of honour--after the french idea--open to all ranks and classes. but as you proceed on your journey to-morrow evening, you will not be here on a thursday. the judges are indeed to be condoled with." "i have slightly changed our plans," said count pedro, "and we leave the day after to-morrow by the early train. it will be less fatiguing for isabel. we shall also see more of the country. i never tire of gazing upon the beauties of nature, and fortunately my wife is in sympathy with me. seas, mountains, forests, vast territories, cultivated plains or sandy deserts, all alike fill me with a delight and rapture nothing else can equal. i hope to spend some of the first years of our married life in becoming intimate with the best points of many lands." "you will find few more charming spots than valencia," returned the priest. "its rich plains never fail. no sooner has one harvest been gathered than another appears. did you notice the peasants in the fields as we came along, sitting at work with their knees up to their ears? how picturesque they look walking down a road in their short white linen trousers and jackets and scarlet mantles, coloured handkerchiefs wound round the head like a turban, and blue scarves tied round the waist. i have watched them many a time. you will see nothing of this in the town itself." "i don't quite like the type of face," objected de la torre. "it is too african. the sun has grilled them to a colour that is almost mahogany. and they are superstitious and revengeful." "but their imagination is lively and keeps them in almost constant good humour," returned the priest, "so they seldom think of revenge. how well they sing their _fiera_, how jovially they dance the _rondella_. it is quite a pleasure to look at this abandonment of happiness, this existence utterly free from care. believe me, they have their virtues. and how pretty the women are! few women in spain equal those of valencia. they are singularly graceful and their walk is perfect. notice a congregation of women in church. you will hardly find elsewhere an assemblage so conspicuous for beauty of face and grace and nobility of form." countess pedro shook her head. "oh!" she cried, raising her clasped hands. "i shall have more and more to tell to the archbishop. monsieur de nevada, you are not supposed to know that female beauty exists, and here you are describing it with an eloquence which comes from the heart." [illustration: renaissance tower: valencia.] "with humble deference to your opinion, madame, i disagree with you," laughed the priest. "all things beautiful are to be appreciated; above everything else a beautiful woman, the noblest work of god. we worship the stars in the heavens, though we can never attain to them. do you imagine that i could be in this room and remain insensible to such charms as few women possess?" our fair hostess blushed with pleasure. no woman is insensible to a compliment of which she can easily judge the sincerity. every woman also likes to be praised before the husband to whom she is devoted. the age of de nevada permitted him to be candid in expressing his admiration, whilst the in some sort family connection that would take place at the marriage referred to, had paved the way to an immediate and friendly intimacy. in spite of the priest's emphatic determination to leave punctually, the hour had long struck when we reluctantly took our departure. both de la torre and his fair wife were charming, refined and intellectual, and the moments had passed all too quickly. * * * * * next morning the crowded streets had thinned. most of the people had disappeared, reserving themselves for the evening. yet there was a constant, quiet activity going on, which gave the city a lively and prosperous air. it was market-day; the most picturesque market we had yet seen in spain; thronged with buyers and sellers, piled up with all the fruits and vegetables of the south. figs, grapes and pomegranates abounded at very small prices. the market-place was full of colouring, in part due to the bright handkerchiefs and scarves worn by men and women. all was as nothing compared with the splendour and perfume of the covered flower-market. for a few halfpence one carried away sufficient to decorate a palace. for ninepence one woman offered us a bouquet more than a yard round. we had never seen anything like it and wondered if it was meant to grace some foreign lord mayor's banquet. this sum was asked with some hesitation, seeing that we were strangers: she was prepared to take half the amount. the roses were far lovelier than those that grow in the gardens of italy and find their way across the channel. we gave a few halfpence for a large handful of tuberoses and pinks, and the woman was so charmed at the liberal payment that she presented us with a great bunch of sweet verbena. we possess some of the leaves now, and the scent--rare above all other scents--hangs round them still. each morning we renewed our purchase. the flowers were always there. for them it was market-day all the year round. the market-place was a charming three-cornered square; on one side a renaissance church that for its style was really picturesque and formed an admirable background to the women and stalls. the interior, all gilt and glitter, set one's teeth on edge, but that did not alter the outward effect. opposite was a far lovelier building--the lonja de seda, or ancient silk hall--of exquisitely beautiful and refined fifteenth-century gothic. the immense rooms were ornamented with fluted columns without capitals, that spread out like the leaves of a palm-tree and lost themselves in the roof. behind it was an old garden, with wonderful architectural surroundings. a long stone staircase ended in a gothic doorway of graceful outlines and deep rich mouldings. windows filled with half-ruined tracery looked on to the garden with its trees and flowers. the upper part was an open gothic arcade with rich ornamentations and medallions, above which rose a massive square tower with a round norman turret. this dream-building was vanishing under the hands of the restorer. the court was filled with workmen, and the exquisite tone of age, the rounded, crumbling outlines were beginning to disappear. we were just in time to see it at its best. [illustration: market place, valencia.] from this we made our way to the cathedral, of which little need be said. after the architectural dreams of catalonia, it was terribly unsatisfactory. the interior gave out no sense of grandeur, repose or devotion. on sunday, during service, it gained a certain solemn impressiveness from the kneeling crowd, but that was all. begun in the thirteenth century, and originally gothic, few traces of the first building remain. certain portions of the exterior are beautiful and striking; especially the magnificent north doorway--the apostles' gateway; deep and richly ornamented, though many of its statues have disappeared. it is here that the tribunal of the waters sits in judgment, to which we have heard de nevada allude. [illustration: lonja de seda: valencia.] near the cathedral was the audiencia, or court of justice, one of the most perfect buildings in europe. though the ground-floor has been divided into public offices, the elaborately carved and gilt ceilings remain, decorated with splendid honey-comb pendentives of the moorish school. the first floor is given up to the matchless salon de cortes, where justice is administered; its walls covered with curious frescoes of the sixteenth century, chiefly portraits of the members of the cortes assembled in session. the rich carving of the room is in native pine, and was finished in the sixteenth century, when art was still at its best. a narrow gallery runs round the room supported by slender columns. below this are coats-of-arms and busts of the kings of aragon, with appropriate historical incidents. the ceiling is also elaborately carved in lozenges encased in square panels. not the smallest fragment of the room has been left undecorated, and its refined, subdued tone is lovely in the extreme. here we found the sword and banner of jayme el conquistador, which the valencians place amongst their chief treasures. the churches are numerous, but not specially interesting. san salvador possesses a rude expressive sculpture of the thirteenth century, a curious image, supposed to have been carved by nicodemus, and said to have miraculously found its solitary way from syria across the seas. not far from this is the church, given to the templars by james i. in , when already a building of some antiquity. here was the remarkable tower of alibufat, on which the cross was first displayed. but like the people of zaragoza, who pulled down their leaning tower, so the valencians demolished the tower of alibufat to widen a street. we have seen that even their ancient walls were not spared. they have no respect for antiquity; no love for the past. a modern spirit possesses them; a love of pleasure and comfort; a desire to get money for the sake of indulgence. gay, lively, full of excitement and impulse, everything yields to the passing moment. next we come to the once vast and splendid convent of san domingo, in the days of its glory one of the richest and most powerful convents in spain, but now shorn of all its ecclesiastical element. outlines alone remain: the chapter-house and cloisters of late gothic still beautiful and refined. in a small chapel supported by four slender pillars san vincente ferrer took upon him the vows of a monk. [illustration: salon de cortes: audiencia.] of the religious ceremonies the most imposing is the miserere which takes place every friday in the church of the colegio del patriarca. high mass is first given at nine o'clock. the music both at this and the miserere is magnificent. many of the rank and fashion of valencia are constant in their attendance. ladies assemble in a great crowd, each wearing a black mantilla. as they kneel in penitential attitude the scene is full of devotional grace and charm. the space above the high altar is covered with a purple pall which looks black and funereal. chanting commences: slow and solemn and in the minor key. suddenly, in the midst of the sad cadences, the picture above the altar descends by machinery, and in its place is seen a lilac veil. there is a slight movement, a half-raising of the head, amidst the congregation; an attitude of expectation. the mournful but exquisite music does not cease. it is soft and subdued, appealing to the senses. presently the veil is withdrawn and gives place to a grey veil. this in turn passes away and a black veil appears, representing the veil of the temple. it is torn asunder, and an image of the saviour on the cross is disclosed. the upturned heads gaze for a moment; on many a countenance appears the emotion actually felt. imagination is stirred by the dramatic representation. a murmur escapes the kneeling multitude; the music swells to a louder strain, the voices gain a deeper pathos. then voices and organ gradually die away to a whisper and cease. silence reigns. for a moment there is no sound or stir. then all is over; the miserere is at an end. quietly the fair penitents rise from their knees and stream out into the streets, which gain an additional charm as they pass onwards with their perfect forms and graceful walk. in spite of the somewhat claptrap element, the miserere is impressive from the beautiful and refined music, the kneeling crowd, the deep obscurity that gives it mystery. it is even worth a day or two's delay in this fair city of flowers and other delights. for in our mind we always associate valencia with the perfume of flowers. roses for ever bloom, and like silver in the days of solomon, are accounted as little worth. but if they were plentiful as to the greeks of old they would only seem the lovelier. some of the streets are very picturesque, with long narrowing vistas of houses and balconies, casements and quaint outlines, all in the strong light and shadow of sunshine, with perhaps a church tower and spire rising above all at the end, sharply outlined against the intensely brilliant blue of the sky. making way, we reach the gates of the city, which are still its glory, though so few remain of the twelve that once admitted to the interior. some still retain their towers and machicolations. outside these runs the famous river with its ancient bridges. crossing one of them, and proceeding a distance of three miles down a straight, not very interesting road, you reach the famous port of valencia: one of the finest ports in spain, one of the largest harbours. after the close atmosphere of the town, the scene is agreeable and exhilarating. chapter xxxii. old acquaintances. port and harbour--sunday and fresh air--in the market-place--de nevada protests--a curse of the country--in the days gone by--on the breakwater--invaded tramcar--de nevada confirmed--another crusade needed--plaza de toros--in sunday dress--domestic interiors--when the play was o'er--bull-ring at night--fitful dreams--fever--maître d'hôtel prescribes--magic effect--depart for saguntum--before the days of rome--primitive town--days of the greeks--attacked by hannibal--rebuilt by the romans--absent guardian--the hunchback--reappears with custodian--doors open--moorish fortress--fathomless cisterns--sad procession--weeping mourners--key of valencia--miguella--time heals all wounds--proposes coffee--proud and pleased--scenes that remain--in barcelona--drawing to a close--sorrow and regret--many experiences--our espluga friends--loretta's gratitude--in the calle de fernando--a last favour--glories of spain--eastern benediction. our first visit to the port and harbour was on a sunday. labour was suspended, and vessels of all countries were flying their flags. from the end of the long breakwater we breathed freely. before us stretched the wide shimmering sea, blue as the sky above. a very few white-sailed boats were gliding about--only in summer are they found in large numbers. on such a day as this, hot, glowing, glorious to us of the north, the soft-climed valencians would not venture upon the water. an occasional fishing-boat strayed in and out, but all else was at peace. the whole place was deserted. there was a strange calm and quiet upon everything; almost an english "sabbath stillness" in the air. we wondered, but soon discovered the cause. this might have dawned upon us had we called to mind yesterday's experience. we were walking through the market-place with de nevada the priest, when a large placard caught our eye, announcing a bull-fight for the next day, sunday: the last of the season. "i have never seen one," said h. c. "we must go to it." "surely you would not visit the barbarous exhibition?" said de nevada. "in this matter i have nothing of the spaniard in me. i hold bull-fights as a curse of the country; training up children to cruelty and laying the foundation of a host of evils." but his words had no weight with h. c. "i think everyone should see a bull-fight at least once in their lives. if i know nothing of its horrors, how can i join in a crusade against them? once seen, i will write a scathing poem on the entertainment which shall be translated into spanish. all my graphic power of description shall be exerted, and it may go far to put down the evil. i might also appeal to the people's superstition, which seems almost the strongest element in their nature. you will come?" turning to us. but we had had our experience once for all years before, in the bull-ring at granada, accompanied by eight naval officers whose nerves were in excellent order. when the play was half over, and men shouted and women shrieked and waved, and there was universal applause and uproar, sick of the horrors, we left the building: to the surprise and no doubt contempt of the assembly. thus h. c.'s appeal fell upon deaf ears. and when it came to the point he also would not go. so it fell out that we were both sitting on the breakwater, gazing upon the shimmering sea, revelling in the serene stillness of the atmosphere. the scene changed. we had to return, and seeing an empty tramcar, found ourselves enjoying the world from a solitary elevation: a short-lived pleasure. from a side-street there suddenly poured forth a crowd of men, who swarmed in and out and up the sides: and stillness and solitude were over. they were mad with excitement, and being already late, feverishly anxious to make way. one might have thought them intoxicated, but it was excitement only. they raved and shouted; their eyes flashed and glistened; they anticipated the horrors of the bull-ring; speculated as to how many bulls would be killed, whether the toreador would escape. for the moment they were as wild animals, and de nevada's protest in the market-place wanted no better confirmation. h. c. shuddered. his poetical mind had received a shock in coming into contact with this coarse and savage element. "i am glad i decided not to go," he said. "de nevada is right. bull-fighting should be put down, even though the people rose up in revolt. it needs a crusade as much as ever the cause for which the templars went eastward." the plaza de toros was thronged with a crowd of men, women and children, who could not pay the fee or were too late for admission. if unable to enter, it was something to look upon the outer walls, whilst the thunders of applause helped them to realise the scene. the tramcar waited some twenty minutes, and we remained studying the crowd of eager faces that surged to and fro. from the bull-ring--one of the largest and finest in spain--arose that constant roar and tempest of voices. we were almost prisoners, wondering how we should escape, when a city tramcar came up, stood side by side with ours, and we made the exchange. this slowly moved through the crowd and turned into a quieter thoroughfare, and the raving followed us far down the road. the car travelled slowly round the town, through the cathedral square, in and out of ancient gateways. street after street, comparatively deserted, wore its sunday dress. flowers abounded. we were on a level with first-floor windows, and from many an open casement came a glimpse of domestic interiors: the scent of roses; fair ladies dressed in rustling silks and sheeny satin; ripples of laughter and conversation; occasional streams of melody from a fair performer. absorbed, we did not observe the car gradually getting round to its starting-point, until we once more found ourselves in the centre of the crowd outside the bull-ring. they had not moved an inch. the spectacle was just over, the great doors were thrown open, and a cortége passed out: cart after cart with dead horses and bulls, the latter decorated as if for a prize show. a deafening roar, louder than ever, went up from the people. finally came the vehicle with the toreadors and matadors dressed in all their fine colours, flushed with their performance, calmly taking the hurrahs. the very horses seemed maddened as they tore out of sight. then the crowd began to disperse. strolling out after dinner, we found ourselves once more in front of the bull-ring, looking in the darkness like a second roman coliseum. the square was deserted, its crowds having gone home to live the horrors over again in their dreams. silence reigned. but the time would come round for fresh spectacles and more horrors. and so it goes on from one generation to another. that night our own dreams were fitful and broken. we had watched the sunset from the tramcar, full of splendour and colouring. as the sun went down, a chilliness had risen upon the air, and suddenly we shivered. then it passed away, but there was no rest on retiring. fever came on, and in semi-delirium we imagined that we were taking part in a bull-fight; warring with infuriated animals. there was no repose and no escape. deafening shouts rang in our ears, but still the combat went on; seemed to have gone on for years, and must go on for ever. the agony was terrible. molten lead coursed through our veins. we tried to rise, but chains bound us down. the night passed. in the early morning the fever abated, and presently we awoke from a short, unrefreshing slumber; rose as one who has gone through a long illness. when h. c. appeared and said it was time for the flower-market and the lonja, he went alone. our maître-d'hôtel, who felt he could not be sufficiently attentive to friends of de nevada and the de la torres, brought us strong tea; and on hearing an account of our night, suddenly departed, to reappear with a white powder procured at a chemist's. "a touch of the fever, señor, caught last night at sundown," he remarked. "it is taken in a moment, but seldom shaken off so quickly. this powder will go far to put you right." we took it in faith, and found it chiefly quinine. the effect was excellent. though still weak, we were capable of an effort, and when h. c. returned with hands full of roses, carnations, orange-blossoms, sweet verbena--for which he had extravagantly paid threepence and made the flower-woman's heart sing for joy--we were able to carry out our programme and start for saguntum. a short railway journey landed us amidst the ruins of this ancient city, where we were in the very atmosphere not only of rome, but of days and people long before. the small, primitive town at the foot of the height was full of quaint outlines. large circular doorways led to wonderful interiors; immense living-rooms in semi-obscurity; rich dark walls whose colour and tone were due to smoke and age. here women were working and spinning and sometimes bending over a huge fire, deep in the mysteries of cooking. beyond these dark rooms one caught sight of open courts or gardens, where orange and other trees flourished. some of the women were busy making cheese, which here is quite an article of commerce and goes to many parts of the country. we had the place to ourselves. the women stopped their cheese-making and spinning to assemble in groups of twos and threes and stare after us. human nature is curious and inquisitive all the world over. but the charm and attraction of the place are the ruins that crown the heights; walls and towers now crumbling and desolate, witnessing to the strength and power of saguntum in ages gone by. it was founded nearly years before the christian era by the greeks of zante, when the phoenicians were still monarchs of the land. why they permitted the greeks to erect this stronghold does not appear. when a wealthy frontier town allied to rome, it was attacked by hannibal. the defence was brave, determined and prolonged; but rome would not come to the rescue, and the town perished amidst frightful horrors. this chiefly led to the second punic war, by which saguntum was revenged and hannibal and his armies were routed out of spain: reverses they never recovered. in time it was rebuilt by the romans, and in the course of centuries fell under the dominion of the goths and the moors. saguntum--murviedro, as it is often called--is now a magnificent ruin. the climb to the castle is long, steep and rugged, and on reaching the gates we found them closed. there was no guardian to admit us; the ruins were uninhabited. after our feverish night, a return to the town for the keys and a second long climb seemed too much of a penance. yet the interior must be seen. fortune favoured us. we found a man near the gates cutting away the rank grass and weeds: a strange uncanny creature; terribly hump-backed; with a pale long-drawn face from which a couple of dark eyes looked out upon you with a strange inward fire that seemed consuming him. he was almost a skeleton, as though he and starvation were close companions. we made known our trouble, offering a substantial bribe if he would go down and bring up the keys. the man's eyes sparkled. without hesitation he laid down his great shears and put on the coat he had placed under the walls. "if the keys are to be had by mortal power, señor, i will not return without them," he said; his voice was shrill with the sharpness of habitual suffering. "go, then, and success attend you. we await you here." we sat down between the great gates and the ruins of the roman theatre, and watched our messenger's long thin legs rapidly flying over the ground. then he disappeared behind the houses. we waited and wondered. presently he reappeared followed by an old woman dangling great keys. his eloquence had prevailed. perhaps he had promised to share the bribe, or hoped it might be doubled. panting and breathless, they reached us. "ah, señor, this is unheard-of," said the old woman. "no one enters without permission from the commandant. if he knew, it would be as much as my place is worth--not that it is worth much. but he is away to-day; gone to valencia to the marriage of a friend. so i have some excuse; and he will never know. i will admit you. the times i have opened these gates! i am sixty-five, señor, and have been up and down, through summer and winter, through storm and tempest, ever since i was fifteen. pretty near the end now." inserting the great key into the rough, rusty old lock, the rude doors opened and admitted us. [illustration: ruins of saguntum.] we found the fortress distinctly moorish and very interesting. the old woman, well up in her work, knew the history of every portion. amidst the ruins of the castle were some moorish cisterns she declared to be bottomless, where blind fish for ever swam. below what was once the governor's garden, she led us to gloomy dungeons where heavily chained prisoners were confined for life, and she described many a horror that had taken place in the past. everything testified to the strength of saguntum of old. from the walls the views are magnificent. stretching across the wide plain, one caught faint traces of valencia and the shimmering sea; at our feet was the little town, and beyond it the hills rose in gentle outlines. as we looked we observed a procession set forth upon the long white road. harsh, discordant music from brass instruments rose upon the air. then we saw that it was a funeral. the coffin was being slowly borne on men's shoulders to the cemetery. the latter was near the town, enclosed in high walls, above which appeared the dark pointed tops of the melancholy cypress. a group of mourners followed the coffin; women bowed and weeping, men subdued: quite a long stream of them. near us stood our curious messenger. "who is it?" we asked. "a sad story, señor. a youth of seventeen, who caught the fever and died. a week ago he was as well as you or i: full of energy and enterprise: talking of what he wanted and what he would do in the future. his ambition was to emigrate, and for long he had been trying to get his parents' consent. but he was their only child, and they were loath to part with him. ah! he has taken a longer journey now; emigrated to a more distant country. and there will be no coming back to murviedro." "and the parents?" "poor things! they are heartbroken. there goes his mother, supported by two women friends. one can almost hear her weeping. oh that horrible music! it goes through my spine as if it would tear it asunder. when i am buried i hope they will have no music. i think i should turn in my coffin. is it not a splendid view, señor? this fortress may well be called the key of valencia. the key of the province, you understand, not of the town. we command the best of the country. you should see it in summer, when every tree is in full leaf and every flower in bloom, and the branches droop with the weight of their fruit. a land of abundance, is it not, miguella?" turning to the old woman, who stood looking at the sad cortége with weeping eyes. "ay, juan, it is so," she returned with tearful voice. "abundance of everything. but fate is cruel, and strong youth must die, and old people like you and i who half starve, for all the abundance, must still cumber the earth." "speak for yourself, madre miguella," returned the man sharply. "whatever you may be, i am not yet old and i don't see that i take the place of a better man. i shall be forty-one next new year's day. a hard life i have of it; few pleasures and little food. i am not formed as other men; no woman looking at me would take me for her husband. for all that, i am not tired of life, and have no desire to be in the place of that poor lad. it will come soon enough, madre miguella, without wishing oneself there before the time." "santa maria! what a clucking about nothing!" retorted miguella. "if i called you an old man it was only a form of speech. i had in my mind's eye the strong lusty youth who has gone to his burial. compared with him i should call you old and of little worth. after all, i was only thinking of the uncertainty of human life. you won't deny that, friend juan." "i suppose i can't," replied the contrite hunchback. "poor lad! i could almost have found it in my heart to die for him. he was always good to me; never mocked at me; gave me many a centimo from his little hoard; often shared his dinner if i met him on the road. i have lost a friend in him." miguella was shedding tears afresh at the recital of the lad's virtues. "poor boy!" she cried. "but he's better off. he hadn't time to grow hard and wicked. the angels make no mistake when they come for such as him. i wish his poor mother could see it in that light." "give her time, give her time," returned the hunchback. "if you lost your leg, you would not all at once grow reconciled to a wooden one. nature doesn't work in spasms, miguella. [illustration: barcelona.] by-and-by, the poor mother will come to see mercy in the blow, but she can't do that whilst the sound of her boy's voice rings in her ears, and she still feels the clasp of his arms round her neck. she wouldn't be a mother if she did." time was on the wing. the sun was declining, the shadows were lengthening when we turned from the ruins and once more stood outside the walls. miguella locked the doors with a firm hand and possessed herself of the keys. we took care the bribe should not be halved. it was a gala day for them, poor creatures. juan's face lighted up with infinite contentment. "lucky for me that i came up weeding, señor. for a whole week i need feel no hunger, and may give my poor body a little repose." "but life is not quite such hard lines with you, miguella?" "not quite, señor, though hard enough. yet i have many mercies. i earn a little money by making cheeses; and in summer, when visitors now and then come to murviedro, i take a trifle and put by a peseta for a rainy day. heaven be praised i have never been in actual want; and juan knows that he has never in vain asked me to lend him a centimo. though i find his accounts very long reckonings," she quaintly added with a smile. "miguella, you have been as good as a mother to me," returned juan. "i never knew any other mother; have ever been a waif on the earth, without kith and kin either to bless or ban." we all went down the rugged steep together. at the bottom, juan bade us farewell and turned to the left towards his humble cottage. miguella escorted us up the quaint, quiet street. we passed through a picturesque gateway, and just beyond this was her small house. "señor, if you would allow me to make you some coffee to refresh you for your journey, i should be happy," she said. "i am famous both for my cheese and my coffee." to refuse would give her pain; the train was not due for an hour and a half; a cup of miguella's coffee was not to be despised. she turned with a glad smile, opened her door, and invited us to enter. it was a surprise to find her cottage the perfection of order, for the spaniards are not famous for the virtue. she placed chairs, and bustled about her preparations. in a few moments a peat fire with sticks was blazing on the hearth, water was put on to boil, and a brown earthenware coffee-pot was placed on the embers to warm. in her own domain miguella became a handy, comely old woman, who moved about without noise and must have been a good helpmeet to the husband she had lost a quarter of a century ago. whilst the water was boiling, she took us into an inner room and showed us her arrangements for making cheese. it was an interesting sight, and the old woman went up still further in our estimation. everything was spotlessly pure and clean. a grey cat followed her about like a dog and seemed devoted to her. "she is getting old like me," said poor miguella, "but she is a faithful animal, and never by any chance puts her nose into a pan of milk. i might leave it all open; nothing would be touched. it is only ewes' milk, señor. would you like some in your coffee?" we thought black coffee more stimulating. she placed it on the table, hot and fragrant. miguella had not overpraised the cunning of her hand. with a slight diffidence meant for an apology, she took out one of her fresh little cheeses, and with home-made bread, placed it also on the table. the coffee she served in white cups of coarse porcelain, which we duly admired, and she brought forward plates of the same material. so miguella, in largeness of heart gave us hospitality, and our simple collation was so perfect that a king need have wished no better. she had put on a white apron to serve us becomingly, and from her chimney-corner, where she added fuel to her fire, surveyed the appreciation of her labours with pride and pleasure. to us, the incident--not an every-day one--had borne a certain interest and charm. we had gone back for a moment to primitive days, "when adam delved and eve span." the best of miguella's nature had come out simply because we had been a little kind to her: and we wisely reflected that too often the greatest enemy to mankind is man. our last glimpse of miguella was of a comely old woman standing in her doorway to watch us depart. the glow of the setting sun was upon her face, which was softened and refined by her abundant neat grey hair. she looked pleased and happy. no doubt she would return to her chimney-corner and cheese-making, and ponder over the day's small adventure. juan would be no loser. many a centimo would find its way from her pocket to his, and he would think her more motherly than ever. [illustration: courtyard of audiencia: barcelona.] on our way to the station we saw the sad funeral procession approaching. most had dispersed, but some six or eight women were returning with the poor mother, who still looked bowed and broken. as juan had wisely said, time would lessen the blow, but for the present no silver lining was visible in the heavy cloud overshadowing the life. we watched them disappear through one of the large round doorways into the home now desolate for ever. then we went on, and presently the train came up, and saguntum passed out of our lives, though not out of memory. miguella and juan, the ancient ruins and outlines crowning the heights, the quaint streets with their picturesque interiors, the sad procession winding slowly down the long white road, the bowed mourners and the weeping mother: nothing could ever be forgotten. * * * * * some days after this we were walking in the streets of barcelona. we had said good-bye to valencia and our present sojourn in spain was drawing to a close. with sorrow and sighing we remembered the motto of the wise king: this also shall pass away. oft quoted before, it is ever present with us and we quote it once more. we had gone through many experiences, made many acquaintances who had become friends. in imagination a small crowd of companions surrounded us, every one of them with a special niche in our heart and memory. sauntering through the now long familiar streets, we had wandered instinctively into the neighbourhood of the cathedral. as we stood in the courtyard of the audiencia, admiring for the fiftieth time its pointed arches, clustered columns and fine old staircase, two people entered, breaking upon our solitude. their faces were radiant with happiness. at the first moment we hardly recognised them; the next we saw that it was loretta and lorenzo. "still in barcelona! how is this, loretta?" "señor, we have prolonged our stay. there was no special reason why we should not do so. work is provided for, and the donkeys are in good keeping. we shall never again have such a holiday. it comes only once in our lives." "it is quite unnecessary to remark that you are happy, both of you." "señor, i ask what i have done that heaven should have bestowed such favour upon me," returned loretta, her face glowing with fervour. "i feel as though i could take the whole creation under my wing and love it for the sake of the love that is mine. i tell myself that i have not half cared for my dumb animals, though harsh word to them never passed my lips." "loretta, we have found your clock," passing from the sublime to the commonplace. "come both of you and see it." it was in the adjoining calle de fernando, not many yards from where we stood. we were just in time: the clockmaker was about to pack up and despatch it. its design might have been made to order. a clock of white alabaster, pure as the heart of loretta. cupid with bow and arrows slung behind him struck the hours on a silver bell. the hour-glass was missing, it is true, but the sands of loretta and lorenzo were none the less golden. so the clock instead of being forwarded to espluga, was sent to their address in barcelona. "my happiness is now complete," cried loretta. "yet one thing is still wanting. i would that you, señor, should come as speedily as possible and ride caro to poblet, and that lorenzo and i should wait upon you. ah, do not delay." * * * * * "one of the most romantic episodes i ever heard of," cried h. c., as loretta and lorenzo walked away arm in arm in their great happiness, and we turned to contemplate once more the magic interior of the cathedral that has no rival. "it is indeed. and if these dream-churches and ancient towns are her glories, does spain not possess yet other glories in the exalted lives of rosalie and anselmo, the simple hearts and annals of yonder couple, and all who resemble them? may their shadows never grow less and their faces never be pale!" "amen," answered h. c., as the happy pair in question turned a corner and "passed in music out of sight." london: printed by william clowes and sons, limited. stamford street and charing cross. footnotes: [a] the rose. [b] if the reader feels any interest in sebastien, he will be glad to hear that a petition sent to the landlord in the form of a letter proved as effective as the proposed deputation. he was promoted to the dignity (and fees) of second waiter in the dining-room: and on the first of last may was united to his beloved anita. the sun shone and the skies were blue; the world smiled upon the young couple. the bride in her white veil and pale silk dress (the gift of her late employer, madame la modiste) must have appeared ravishing; and few bridegrooms in manresa could have looked handsomer or more manly than sebastien. we imagine how his face beamed, his eyes sparkled, his heart overflowed. his master--not to be outdone by madame la modiste--gave them a wedding breakfast, and the walls rang with the shouts that went up when the health of the happy pair was drunk. one can only wish them the serene bliss and success they deserve. [c] the following letter from the old canon, one of many, may be transcribed for the benefit of the reader: "you will be anxious to hear how our patient has been progressing since i last wrote to you. better and better. there is nothing but good news to send you. i think i may almost affirm that eugenie is now 'clothed and in her right mind.' the cure is effected. for many months she has not looked upon the wine cup, and declares that all desire for it has left her. i believe it has. as you know, the very day after our first and last evening together i sought her out, told her i was her father's friend, explained to her the atonement that was in her power. the poor creature, overcome with misery, sorrow and remorse, burst into such tears as i have never seen shed, and yielded without a murmur to my wish. i would give her no time for reconsideration, and that very day she took up her abode in my house. she never leaves it except in company with juanita or myself. there has been no trouble from the beginning. it almost seemed as though the calm and peaceful atmosphere of our little household at once exorcised the evil spirit within her. her better nature has triumphed, and i am persuaded that she will not fall away again. i do not intend that she shall. as long as i live this is to be her home. she asks nothing better; declares that for the first time in her life she has found peace and happiness. her gratitude to you is unbounded. if i only mention your name, tears spring to her eyes. i believe she would lay down her life for you. she begs that you will one day come again to see, not the old eugenie who accosted you in the church; she is dead and buried; but the new eugenie who lives and has taken her place. she wonders what influence gave her courage to speak, and declares it was some unseen spirit or power which compelled her to go forward whether she would or no. the moment she saw you this spirit took possession of her and she was passive in its hands. never before had such a thing happened to her. i put it down to other and higher influence. these things do not happen by chance. heaven may spare my life for some years. during that time eugenie's home is assured. she is now as a daughter to me; shares my modest repasts; occupies herself in the affairs of the house; spends much of her time with juanita. she reads much, and is studying science with me. her intelligence is of a high order, and she has a wide grasp of mind. by-and-by she may outrun me. truly it is a pearl of price we have rescued from the fire. and i too have my reward. the house is brighter since she came to it. even juanita, who once only smiled, now laughs on occasion. she has taken a great affection for eugenie, and when i am no longer here will transfer her services to our protégée. heaven be praised, i am able to leave them independent of the world. and i have enlisted my nephew's sympathy in the matter. eugenie is to be much with them when i go hence, but this is to be her home; hers for her life. yet who can tell? she is young. if you thought her beautiful then, what would you say now to that calm, radiant face, those clear, steadfast eyes? one day she will probably marry again; and in a second and more worthy choice find all the happiness and protection that she missed in her first terrible and headstrong mistake. "and now, the old question. when are you coming? juanita bids me say that all the resources of her simple art are waiting to be put forth in your favour. she declares she never was happier than that evening when she waited upon us and dispensed her simple luxuries. eugenie says she shall never be at perfect rest until you have witnessed her transformation. for myself, i have a new work on natural philosophy to show you. i long once more to pace together the aisles of our beloved cathedral. at my age i live from day to day, grateful to heaven for each new day in this bright world. but it behoves me to sit loosely to all things. the end may come at any hour, it cannot be very far off now. the old man longs to welcome you yet once again. deny him not." [illustration: a mandurra solo.] spanish vistas by george parsons lathrop _illustrated_ by charles s. reinhart new york harper & brothers, franklin square entered according to act of congress, in the year , by harper & brothers, in the office of the librarian of congress, at washington. * * * * * _all rights reserved._ to frances m. lathrop whose taste for travel and observation early prompted his own these sketches are dedicated by her son the author preface. the two great mediterranean peninsulas which, in opposite quarters, jut southward where--as george eliot says, in her "spanish gypsy"-- "europe spreads her lands like fretted leaflets, breathing on the deep," may not inaptly be likened to a brother and sister, instead of taking their places under the usual similitude of "sister countries." they have points of marked resemblance, in their picturesqueness, their treasures of art, their associations of history and romance; but, just as the physical aspect of spain and its shape upon the map are broader, more thick-set and rugged than the slender form and flowing curves of italy, so the spanish language--with its arabic gutturals interspersed among melodious linguals and vowel sounds--has been called the masculine development of that southern speech of which the italian presents the feminine side. the people of both countries exhibit a similar excitable, ardent quality in their characters; but the national temperament of the spaniards is, perhaps, somewhat hardier, more virile, and sturdier in its passionateness. it seems to be true that, while the greek spirit transferred itself to italy in the days of augustus, renewing its influence at the period of the renaissance, and leaving upon people and manners an impress never since quite effaced--an influence tending toward a certain feminine refinement--the spirit of rome also transferred itself to the subject country, hispania, and imbued that region with the strong, austere, or wilful characteristics of purely latin civilization, which are still traceable there. but, however we may account for the phenomena, it is likely that the mingled contrasts and resemblances of italy and spain will more and more induce travellers to visit the iberian peninsula. italy has now been so thoroughly depicted in all its larger phases, from the foreigner's point of view, that investigation must hereafter chiefly be concerned with the study of special and local features. spain, on the other hand, offers itself to the general observer and to the tourist as a field scarcely more explored than italy was forty or fifty years ago; and the evidence is abundant that the current of travel is setting vigorously in this direction. with the extension of a railroad system and the incursion of sight-seeing strangers in larger number, we must of course expect that many of the most interesting peculiarities of the people will undergo modification and at length disappear. this, however, cannot be helped; and the following chapters, at the same time that they may encourage and aid those who are destined to bring about such changes, may also serve to arrest and preserve for future reference the actual appearance of spain to-day. much might be written, with the certainty of an eager audience, concerning the present political condition of the country, by any one who had had opportunities for examining it; and mr. john hay, a few years ago, gave some glimpses of it in his charming volume, "castilian days." my own brief sojourn afforded no adequate opportunity for such observation. but it may be not inadmissible to record here one of the casual remarks which came to my notice in this connection. on a mediterranean steamer i met with an exceedingly bright and healthy man of the middle class, fairly well educated--one of those specimens of solid, temperate, active manhood fortunately very common in spain, on whom the future of the country really depends--and, noticing from my lame speech that i was not a native, he asked me, guardedly, if i was an englishman. "no," i said; "i am an american of the north, of the united states." his manner changed at once; he thawed: more than that, his face lighted with hope, as if he had found a powerful friend, and he gazed at me with a certain delighted awe, attributing to my humble person a glory for which i was in no way responsible. "you are a republican, then!" he exclaimed. "yes." he gave me another long, silent look, and then confessed that he, too, was a firm believer in republicanism. "are there many spaniards now of that party?" i inquired. his reply showed that he appreciated the difficulties of the national problem. "party!" he cried. "listen: in spain there is a separate political party for every man." after a slight pause he added, bitterly, "sometimes, _two_!" it may still be said with a good deal of accuracy, though not of course with the literalness and the sweeping application that paul de saint victor gave the words, in speaking of the french charles ii.'s reign, that "spain no more changes than the arid zone that encircles a volcano. kings pass, dynasties are renewed, events succeed each other, but the foundation remains immobile, and philip ii. still rules." i have not attempted to review political matters; and neither have i tried to give an exhaustive account of the country in any other respect. the pictures which i have given i have endeavored to make vivid and faithful; and, if i have succeeded, they will present the essential characteristics of spain. what has thus been the object of the text has certainly been attained in the drawings by mr. reinhart, which supply much the greater part of the illustrations in this volume. made after sketches from life, which were prepared with unflagging zeal, and often under great difficulties, they frequently tell more than language can convey. their graphic touch, their variety and humor, their technical merit, give them the best of recommendations; but a word of distinct recognition is due here to the artist for the fidelity and spirit with which he has reproduced so many scenes peculiar to the country. it is hoped that the concluding chapter of "hints to travellers" will prove useful, as supplying certain information not always accessible in guide-books, and also as condensing the practical particulars of the subject in a convenient form. the wayside, _concord_, _april , ._ contents. page _from burgos to the gate of the sun_ _the lost city_ _cordovan pilgrims_ _andalusia and the alhambra_ _mediterranean ports and gardens_ _hints to travellers_ illustrations. page a mandurra solo _frontispiece_ initial letter two assassins in long cloaks the night-watch dancing boys the arch of st. mary peasants in the market-place in the mirador landscape between burgos and madrid the plaza mayor water-dealer old artillery park the escorial on the road to the bull-fight plan of the bull-ring a street scene tail-piece initial letter entrance to toledo the narrow way spanish peasant (from a drawing by william m. chase) singing girl cloister of st. john of the kings a bit of character spanish soldiers playing dominos a narrow street woman with bundle the serenaders a plentiful supply of plates the toilet--a sunday scene a toledo priest toledo servitors at the fountain a professional beggar a group of mendicants a patio in toledo the home of "solitude" "men and boys slumber out-of-doors even in the hot sun" a strange funeral tail-piece initial letter whetstone coffee at castillejo primitive thrashing while the women are at mass water-stand in cordova the gay coster-mongers of andalusia the mezquita relic peddlers the garden of the alcazar priest and purveyor flowers for the market travellers to cordova "arrÉ, burr-r-rico!" the fruit of the desierta memento mori difficult for foreigners the jasmine girl initial letter main entrance to the cathedral, sevilla (from a photograph by j. laurent & co., madrid) the giralda tower (from a photograph by j. laurent & co., madrid) the "underground" mail a street corner figaro "stone walls do not a prison make" in "the serpent" "all the day i am happy" granada undertaker the moorish gate, sevilla a water-carrier bit of arch in a court of the alhambra (from a photograph by j. laurent & co., madrid) the toilet tower (from a photograph by j. laurent & co., madrid) boudoir of lindaraxa gypsies initial letter gypsy dance a spanish monk transportation of pottery garlic vender diving for coppers a modern sancho panza street barber bibles _versus_ melons customs officers post inn, alicante alicante fruit-seller method of irrigation near valencia church of santa catalina, valencia a valencia cab barcelona fishermen tail-piece initial letter st. john at burgos--cherubs in adoration spanish vistas. _from burgos to the gate of the sun._ i. [illustration: w] we took our places, for the performance was about to begin. the scene represented a street in burgos, the long-dead capital of old castile. time: night. ancient houses on either side the stage narrow back to an archway in the centre, opening through to a pillared walk and a dimly moonlit space beyond. muffled figures occasionally pass the aperture. suddenly enters don ramiro--or alvar nuñez, i really don't know which--and advances toward the front. to our surprise he does not open the play with a set speech or any explanation, but continues to advance until he disappears somewhere under our private box, as if he were going from this street of the play into some other adjoining street, just as in actual life. a singular freak of realism! he is closely pursued, however, by two assassins in long cloaks, who, like all the other figures we have seen, move noiselessly in soft shoes or canvas sandals. presently a shriek resounds from the quarter toward which don ramiro betook himself. have they succeeded in catching him, and is that the sound of his mortal agony? we have just concluded that this is the meaning of the clamor, when, after a second or two, the shriek resolves itself into laughter. then we begin to recall that we didn't pay anything on entering; and, as we glance up toward the folded curtain above the scene, discover that its place is occupied by the starry sky. the houses, too, have a singularly solid look, and do not appear to be painted. while all this has been dawning upon us, we become conscious that the mixed sound of agony or mirth just heard was merely the signal of amusement caused to certain wandering spaniards by some convulsingly funny episode; and the next moment their party comes upon the scene at about the point where the foot-lights ought to be. they exchange a good-night; some go off, and others thunder at sundry doors with ancient knockers, awaking mediæval echoes in the dingy thoroughfares, without causing any great surprise to the neighborhood. [illustration: two assassins in long cloaks.] in truth, we had simply been looking from the window of an inn at which we had just arrived; but everything had grouped itself in such a way that it was hard to comprehend that we were not at the theatre. that day we had been hurled over the pyrenees, and landed in the dark at our first peninsular station; then, facing a crowd of fierce, uncouth faces at the depôt door, we had somehow got conveyed to the inn of the north through narrow, cavernous streets, brightened only by the feeble light of a few lost lanterns, and so found ourselves staring out upon our first picturesque night in spain. the street or plazuela below us, though now deserted, went on conducting itself in a most melodramatic manner. big white curtains hung in front of the iron balconies, flapping voluminously, or were drawn back to admit the cool night air. crickets chirped loudly from hidden crevices of masonry, and a well-contrived bat sailed blindly over the roofs in the penumbral air, through which the moon was slowly rising. lights went in and out; some one was seen cooking a late supper in one dwelling; windows were opened and shut, and a general appearance of haunting ghosts was kept up. now and then a woman came to the balcony and chatted with unseen neighbors across the way about the festival of the morrow. by-and-by one side of the street blew its lamps out and prepared for bed; but the wakeful side insisted on talking to the sleepy one for some time longer, until warned by the cry of the night-watch that midnight had come. anything more desolate and peculiar than this cry i have never heard. it was a long-drawn, melancholy sounding of the hour, with a final "all's well!" terminating in a minor cadence which seemed to drop the voice back at once into the middle ages. this same chant may have resounded from the days of lain calvo and the old judges of castile unaltered, and for a time it made me fancy that the little gothic town had returned to its musty youth. we were walled into a sleepy feudal stronghold once more, and perhaps at that very moment the cid was celebrating his nuptials with ximena, daughter of the count he had murdered for an insult, in the old ruined citadel up there on the hill, above the cathedral spires. but the watchman came and went, and the present resumed its sway. he passed with slow step, in a big cloak and queer cap, carrying a long bladed staff, and a lantern which cast swaying squares of light around his feet; silent as a black ghost, and seeming to have been called into life only with the lighting of his lamp-wick. but, after he had disappeared, the lonely quaver of his cry returned to us from farther and farther away, penetrating into the comfortless apartment to which we now retired for sleep. [illustration: the night-watch.] the inn of the north was dirty and unkempt; a frightful odor from the donkey-stable and other sources streamed up into our window between shutters heavy as church doors; and the descant of the watch, relieved by violent cock-crows, disturbed us all night. nevertheless, we awoke with a good deal of eagerness when the alert young woman with dark pink cheeks and snapping eyes who served us came to the door with chocolate and bread, water and _azucarillos_, betimes next morning. it was the festival of corpus christi; but although every one was going to see the procession, no one could tell us anything about it. unless he be extraordinarily shrewd, a foreigner can hardly help arriving in spain on some kind of a feast-day. when the people cannot get up a whole holiday, they will have a fractional one. you go about the streets cheerfully, thinking you will buy something at leisure in the afternoon; but when you approach the shop commerce has vanished, and is out taking a walk, or drinking barley-water in honor of some obscure saint. you engage a guide and carriage to visit some public building, and both guide and carriage are silent as to the religious character of the day until you arrive and find the place shut, when full price, or at least half, is confidently demanded. church feasts are a matter of course, but you are expected to know about them, and questions are considered out of place. in this case we had kept corpus christi in mind, and as burgos is a small place, the "function" could not by any possibility escape us. the garrison turned out, and military music played in the procession, but otherwise it was a quaint reproduction of the antique. the quiet streets, innocent of traffic, were filled with peasants whose garments, odoriferous with age and dirt, made a dazzle of color, especially the bright yellow flannel skirts of the women, and the gay handkerchief which men and women alike employ here. sometimes it is worn around the shoulders, sometimes around the head, and sometimes both: but everywhere and always handkerchiefs are brought into play as essentials. from almost every balcony, too, hung bedquilts, or sheets scalloped with red and blue, in emulation of the tapestries and banners that once graced these occasions. amid a tumultuous tumbling of bells up amid the carven gray stone-work of the cathedral, the candles and images and tonsured priests, clad in resplendent copes, moved forth, attended by civil functionaries in swallow-tailed coats or old crimson robes of the twelfth century. but the prettiest sight, and a much more striking one than the gilt effigies of st. lawrence and st. stephen and the rest, under toy canopies and wreathed with false flowers, was that of two little boys, nude except for the snowy lamb-skins they wore, who personated christ and st. john. the christ rode on a lamb, and kept his head very steady under a big curled wig made after the old masters. we saw him afterward in his father's arms, still holding his hands prayerfully, as he had been drilled, with a look of sweet, childish awe in his face. [illustration: dancing boys.] when the procession was about to return, we were amazed, in gazing at the small street from which it should emerge, to behold eight huge figures, looking half as high as the houses, in long robes, and with placidly unreal expressions on their gigantic faces, advancing with that peculiar unconscious gait due to human leg-power when concealed under papier-maché monsters. it took but a glance, as they filed out and aligned themselves on the small sunny square, to recognize in them the kings of the earth, come in person to do homage before the christ. one bore a crown and ermine as insignia of the castilian line; others were moors; and even china was represented. after them danced a dozen boys, in pink tunics and bell-crowned hats of drab felt quaintly beribboned, throwing themselves about fantastically, with snapping fingers and castanets. they formed in two ranks, just under the grand shadowy entrance arch, to receive the pageant. a drummer and two _flautistas_ in festive attire accompanied them; and whenever a monstrance or holy image was borne past, the flutes mingled with the drum eccentric bagpipe discords, at which the boys broke into a prancing jig and rattled their castanets to express their devout joy. two other men in harlequin dress, wearing tall, pointed hats, stood on the edge of the eager crowd, and belabored those who pressed too close with horse-hair switches attached by a long cord to slender sticks. this part of the performance was conducted with great energy and seriousness, and seemed to be received with due reverence by the thick heads which got hit. a more heathenish rite than this jig at the sanctuary gate could hardly be imagined. "are these things possible, and is this the nineteenth century?" exclaimed my friend and companion, who, however, had been guilty of an indigestion that day. i confess that for myself i enjoyed the dance, and could not help being struck by the contrast of this boyish gayety with the heavy gorgeousness of the priests and the immobile frown of the sculptured figures on the massive ogee arch.[ ] then when the host was carried by in the _custodia_, and the motley crowd kneeled and bared their heads, we sunk to the pavement with them, our knees being assisted possibly by the statement we had heard that, a few years since, blows or knives were the prompt reward of non-conformity. afterward, when secular amusements ensued, our boys went about, stopping now and then in open places to execute strange dances, with hoops and ribbons and wooden swords, for the general enjoyment. a gleeful sight they made against backgrounds of old archways, or perhaps the mighty arch of santa maria, one of the local glories, peopled with statues of ancient counts and knights and rulers. [illustration: the arch of st. mary.] no spanish town is without its paseo--its public promenade; and in burgos this is supplied by the spur--a broad esplanade skirting the shrunken river, with borders of chubby shade trees and shrubbery. on corpus christi the citizens also turned out in the arcades of the main plaza. here, and later in the dusty dusk of the spur, they crowded and chatted, in accordance with native ideas of enjoyment; and except that their mantillas and shoulder-veils[ ] made a difference, the señoras and señoritas might have passed for americans, so delicate were their features, so trim their daintily-attired figures, though perhaps they hadn't a coin in their pockets. the men had the universal iberian habit of carrying their light overcoats folded over the left shoulder; but their quick nervous expression and spare faces would have been quite in place on wall street. spanish ladies are allowed far more liberty than the french or english in public; but though they walked without male escort, they showed remarkable skill in avoiding any direct look at men from their own lustrous eyes. during the accredited hours of the paseo, however, gallants and friends are suffered to walk close behind them--so close that the entire procession often comes to a stand-still--and to whisper complimentary speeches into their ears; no one, not even relatives of the damsels, resenting this freedom. at las huelgas, a famous convent near the town, much resorted to by nuns of aristocratic family (even the empress eugénie it was thought would retire thither after her son's death), the fête was renewed next day; and it was here that we saw beggars in perfection. a huge stork's nest was perched high on one end of the chapel, as on many churches of spain. bombs were fired above the crowd from the high square tower that rose into the hot air not far from the inner shrine; and in the chapel below the nuns were at their devotions, caged behind heavy iron lattices that barely disclosed their picturesque head-dress. meanwhile peasants and burghers wandered aimlessly about, looking at pictures, relics, and inscriptions in an outer arcade; after which the holiday of the people began. holiday here means either walking or sleeping. in a sultry, dusty little square by the convent, covered with trees, the people went to sleep, or sat talking, and occasionally eating or drinking with much frugality. the first object that had greeted us by daylight in burgos was a marvellous mendicant clad in an immense cloak, one mass of patches--in fact, a monument of indigence--carrying on his head a mangy fur cap, with a wallet at his waist to contain alms. the beggars assembled at las huelgas were quite as bad, except that they mostly had the good taste to remain asleep. in any attitude, face down or up, on stone benches or on the grass, they dozed at a moment's notice, reposing piously. one sat for a long time torpid near us, but finally mustered energy to come and entreat us. he received a copper, whereupon he kissed the coin, murmured a blessing, and again retreated to his shadow. another, having acquired something from some other source, halted near us to find his pocket. he searched long among his rags, and plunged fiercely into a big cavity which exposed his dirty linen; but this proved to be only a tear in his trousers, and he was at last obliged to tie his treasure to a voluminous string around his waist, letting it hang down thence into some interior vacancy of rags. it may not be generally known that beggars are licensed in spain. veteran soldiers, instead of receiving a pension, are generously endowed with official permission to seek charity; the church gives doles to the poor, and citizens consider it a virtue to relieve the miserable objects who petition for pence at every turn. as we came from las huelgas we saw the maimed and blind and certain more robust paupers creeping up to the door of a church, where priests were giving out food. a little farther on an emaciated crone at a bridge-head, with eyes shut fast in sleep, lifted her hand mechanically and repeated her formula. we were convinced that, since she could do this in her slumbers, she must have been satisfied with merely dreaming of that charity we did not bestow. it was a favorable season for the beggars, and many of them sunned their bodies, warped and scarred by hereditary disease, on the cathedral steps. but professional enterprise with them was constantly hindered by the tendency to nap. one old fellow i saw who, feeling a brotherhood between himself and the broken-nosed statues, had mounted into a beautiful niche there and coiled himself in sleep, first hauling his wooden leg up after him like a drawbridge. meanwhile the peasants kept on swarming into the town, decorating it with their blue and red and yellow kerchiefs and kirtles, as with a mass of small moving banners. the men wore vivid sashes, leather leggings, and laced sandals. it was partly for enjoyment they came, and partly to sell produce. all alike were to be met with at noon, squatting down in any sheltered coigne of street or square, every group with a bowl in its midst containing the common dinner. there were also little eating-houses, in which they regaled themselves on bread and sardines, with a special cupful of oil thrown in, or on salt meat. a lively trade in various small articles was carried on in the main plaza; among them loaves of tasteless white bread, hard as tiles, and delicious cherries, recalling the farms of new york. another product was offered, the presence of which in large quantity was like a sarcasm. this was castile soap. it must have taken an immense effort of imagination on the part of these people to think of manufacturing an article for which they have so little use. i am bound to add that i did not see an ounce of it sold; and i have my suspicions that the business is merely a traditional one--the same big cheese-like chunks being probably brought out at every fair and fête, as a time-honored symbol of castilian prosperity. but, after all, so devout a community must be convinced that it possesses godliness; and having that, what do they need of the proximate virtue? this is the region where the inhabitants refer to themselves as "old and rancid castilians;" and the expression is appropriate. [illustration: peasants in the market-place.] the most intolerable odor pervaded the whole place. it was a singular mixture, arising from the trustful local habit of allowing every kind of garbage and ordure to disperse itself without drainage, and complicated with fumes of oil, garlic, general mustiness, and a whiff or two of old incense. the potency of olive-oil, especially when somewhat rank, none can know who have not been in spain. that first steak--how tempting it looked among its potatoes, but how abominably it tasted! we never approached meat with the same courage afterward, until our senses were subdued to the level of fried oil. combine this with the odor of corruption, and you have the insinuating quality which we soon noticed even in the wine--perhaps from the custom of transporting it in badly dressed pig-skins, which impart an animal flavor. this astonishing local atmosphere saluted us everywhere; it was in our food and drink; we breathed it and dreamed of it. yet the burgalese flourished in calm unconsciousness thereof. the splendidly blooming peasant women showed their perfect teeth at us; and the men, in broad-brimmed, pointed caps and embroidered jackets, whose feet were brown and earthy as tree-roots, laughed outright, strong in the knowledge of their traditionary soap, at our ignorant foreign clothes and over-washed hands! among the humbler class were some who were prepared to sell labor--an article not much in demand--and they were even more calmly squalid than the beggars. they sat in ranks on the curb-stones of the plaza, a matchless array of tatters; and if they could have been conveyed without alteration to paris or new york, there would have been sharp competition for them between the artists and paper-makers. so my companion, the artist, assured me--whom, by-the-way, in order to give him local color, i had rechristened velazquez. but as he shrank from the large implication of this name, i softened him down to velveteen. we had been twenty-four hours in burgos before we saw a carriage, excepting only the hotel coach, which stood most of the time without horses in front of the door, and was used by the porter as a private gambling den and loafing place for himself and his friends. when wheels did roll along the pavements they awoke a roar as of musketry. perhaps the most important event which took place during our stay--it was certainly regarded with a more feverish interest by the inhabitants than the corpus christi ceremonies--was the bold act of our landlady, who went out to drive in a barouche, while her less daring spouse hung out of the window weakly staring at her. the house-fronts were filled with well-dressed feminine heads, witnessing the departure; a grave old gentleman opposite left his book and glared out intently. when the wheels could no longer even be heard, he turned to gaze wistfully in the opposite direction, dimly hoping that life might vouchsafe him a carriage. [illustration: in the mirador.] although, as i have said, women avoid meeting male glances when on the sidewalk, they enjoy full license to stand at their high windows, which are called _miradores_, or "lookers," and contemplate with entire freedom all things or persons that pass; which, in view of the complete listlessness of their lives, is a fortunate dispensation. existence in burgos is essentially life from the window point of view. it proceeds idly, and as a sort of accidental spectacle. yet there is for strangers a dull fascination in wandering about the narrow, silent streets, and contemplating ancient buildings, the chiselled ornaments and armorial bearings of which recall the wealth and nobility that once inhabited them during the great days of the town. where have all the dominant families gone? are they keeping store, or tending the railroad station? their descendants are sometimes only too happy if they can get some petty government office at five hundred dollars a year. i strolled one afternoon into the calle de la calera, and through a shabby archway penetrated to a stately old ruined court, around which ran an inscription in stone, declaring this palace to have been reared by an abbot of aristocratic line a century or two since. it is used now as an oil factory. a pretty girl was looking out over a flower-pot in an upper window, and, as i strayed up the noble staircase, i met a sad-looking gentleman coming down, who i afterward learned was a widower, formerly resident in paris, but now returned with his daughter to this strange domicile in his native place. some of the lower rooms, again, were devoted to plebeians and donkeys. the humble ass, by-the-way, begins to thrust himself meekly upon you as soon as you set foot in the peninsula, and you must look sharp if you wish to keep out of his way. his cheap labor has ruined and driven out the haughtier equine stock of arabia that once pawed this devoted soil. even the cid, however, did not boast a barb of the desert in the earlier days of his prowess; for when king alfonso bade him quit the land, "then the cid clapped spurs to the mule upon which he rode, and vaulted into a piece of ground which was his own inheritance, and answered, 'sire, i am not in your land, but in my own.'" this little incident occurred near burgos, and the drowsy city still keeps some dim memory of that great warrior lord the cid campeador, rodrigo de bivar, whose quaint story, full of hardihood, robbery, and cruelty, gallant deeds and grim pathos, trails along the track of his adventures through half of spain. but there is a curious cheapness and indifference in the memorials of him preserved. in the town-hall, for the sum of ten cents, you are admitted to view the modern walnut receptacle wherein all that is left of him is economically stored. those puissant bones, which went through so many hard fights against the moors, are seen lying here, dusty and loose, with those of ximena, under the glass cover. among them reposes a portly corked bottle, in which minor fragments of the warrior lord were placed after the moving of his remains from the convent of san pedro in chains, where for many years he occupied a more seemly tomb. imagine george washington, partially bottled and wholly disjointed, on exhibition under glass! the spaniards, in no way disconcerted by the incongruity, have graven on the brass plate of the case a high-sounding inscription; but a tribute as genuine and not less valuable, though humbler, was the big, spruce-looking modern wagon i saw in the market-place one day, driven by an energetic farmer, and bearing on its side the title _el cid_. one would look to see the conqueror's dust richly inurned within the cathedral--a noble outgrowth of the thirteenth century, enriched by accretions of later work until its whitish stone and wrought marble connect the early pointed style with that of the renaissance in its flower. but perhaps this temple has enough without the cid. strangely placed on the side of a hill, with houses attached to one corner, as if it had sprung from the homes and hearts of the people, it seems to hold down the swelling ground with its massive weight; yet the spires, through the open-work of which the stars may be seen at night, rise with such lightness you would think the heavy bells might make them tremble and fall. i passed an hour of peace and fresh air above the fetid streets, looking down from the citadel hill on these pinnacles, while around and below them lay the town--an irregular mass of gray and mauve pierced with deep shadows--in the midst of bare, rolling uplands. before the fair high altar hangs the victorious banner of ferdinand vii., recalling to the people the great battle of tolosa plains. and when one sees peasants--rough spots of color in the sombre choir--studying the dark, fruit-like wood-carvings through which the bible story wreathes itself in panel after panel, one feels the teaching power of these old churches for the unlettered. in one of the corner chapels appears another less favorable phase of such teaching, in the shape of a miracle-working christ, amid deep shadows and dim lantern-light, stretched on the cross, and draped with a satin crinoline. this doubtful reverence of putting a short skirt on the figure of the saviour, often practiced in spain, may perhaps mark an influence unconsciously received from the moorish dislike for nudity. the cathedral bells were continually clanging the summons to mass or vespers, and their loud voices, though cracked and inharmonious, seemed still to assert the supremacy of ecclesiastical power. but while a priest occasionally darkened the sidewalks, many others, on account of the growing prejudice against them, went about in frock-coats and ordinary tall hats. and under all its crowning beauty the old minster, motionless in the centre of the stagnant town--its chief entrance walled up, and a notice painted on its late roman façade warning boys not to play ball against the tempting masonry--wore the look of some neglected and half-blind thing, once glorious, symbol of a power abruptly stayed in its prodigious career. meanwhile the daily history of burgos went on its wonted way, sleepy but picturesque--a sort of illuminated prose. women chaffered in the blue-tiled fish-market; the _bourgeoisie_ patronized the sweetmeat shops, of which there were ten on the limited chief square; the tambourine-maker varied this ornamental industry with the construction of the more practical sieve; a peasant passed with a bundle of purple-flowering vetches on his head for fodder, and another drove six milch goats through the streets, seeking a purchaser. to this last one the proprietor of the principal book-store came running out to see if he could strike a bargain. one morning i met an uncouth countryman and his stout wife on the red-tiled landing of the inn stairs (they bowed and courtesied to me) with chickens and eggs for sale. in this simple manner our hotel was supplied. all the bread was got, a few pieces at a time, from a small bakery across the plazuela, in a dark cellar just under the niche of a neglected stone saint--a new arrival causing our maid to run hurriedly thither for a couple of rolls; and the water also came from some neighbor's well in earthen jars. the barber even exercises his primitive function in burgos: he is called a "bleeder," and announces on his shop sign that "teeth and molars" are extracted there. democratic and provincial the atmosphere was, and not unpleasantly so; yet during our stay italian opera from madrid was performing in the theatre, and large yellow posters promised "bulls in burgos" at an early date. ii. to pass from this ancient city to madrid is to experience one of those astonishing contrasts in which the country abounds. we dropped asleep in the rough, time-worn regions of old castile, and in the morning found ourselves amid the glare and bustle of reconstructed spain, as it displays itself on the great square called the gate of the sun--a spot with no hint of poetry about it other than its name. madrid adopts largely the parisian style of street architecture, and has in portions a resemblance to boston. the sense of remoteness aroused in the north here suddenly fades, though the traits that mark a foreign land soon re-assemble and take shape in a new framework. perhaps, too, our first rather flat impression was due to an exhausting night journey and some accompanying incidents. [illustration: landscape between burgos and madrid.] "the spaniards are a nation of robbers!" a cheerful french gentleman of bordeaux had told us;[ ] and he threw out warnings of certain little coin tricks in which they were adepts. when two civil guards, armed with swords and guns, inspected our train at the frontier, we recalled his statement. these guards persistently popped up at every succeeding station. no matter how fast the train went, there they were always waiting; always two of them, always with the same mustached faces, and the same white havelocks fluttering on their bunchy cocked hats of the french revolution, and making their swarthy cheeks and black eyes fiercer by contrast. in fact, they were obviously the same men. every time they marched up and down the platform, scanning the cars in a determined manner, and scowling at our compartment in a way that fully persuaded us some one must be guilty. indeed, before long we became convinced that we ourselves were suspicious; but it would have been a relief if they had taken us in hand at once. why should they go on glaring at us and swinging their guns, as if it were a good deal easier to shoot us than not, unless it was that we were too rich a "find" to be disposed of immediately--squandered, as it were? perhaps the torture of suspense suited the enormity of our case, but it was certainly cruel. there was some satisfaction, however, in finding that when we left the depôt they allowed us a restricted liberty, and kept out of our way. if it had been otherwise, i don't know what they would have done to us at burgos, for it was there that the landlady forced upon us a gold piece that would not pass, in exchange for a good one which we had given her. this very simple device was one of which the french gentleman had told us. but we were too confiding. the money to pay the bill was sent away by a servant, and once out of sight was easily replaced with inferior coin. disturbed by this episode, we went to our train, which started with the watchman's first hail at eleven, and stumbled hastily into an empty compartment, which we soon converted into a sleeping-carriage by making our bundles pillows, drawing curtains, and pulling the silk screen over the lamp. our nap was broken only by a halt at the next station. there was a long, drowsy pause, during which the train seemed to be pretending it hadn't been asleep. it was nearly time to go on, when feminine voices drew near our carriage; the door was thrown open, and two ladies quickly entered. there was no time for retreat; the usual fish-horn and dinner-bell accompaniment announced our departure, and the wheels moved. then it was that one of the new-comers uttered a half scream, and we saw that she was a nun! had it been a cooler night our blood might have frozen; but as it failed us, we did what we could by feeling greatly embarrassed. the nun and her travelling companion had been speaking spanish as they approached, and we tried in that language to impress on them our harmless devotion to their convenience. "but he said it was reserved for ladies," murmured the sister, in good english. the terrible truth was now clear. my eye caught, at the same instant, a card in the window which proved beyond question that we had got into the carriage for señoras. the result of this adventure was that we found the nun to be an english catholic, employed in teaching at a religious establishment, and her friend another englishwoman protecting her on her journey. pleasant conversation ensued, and we had almost forgotten that we were criminals, when the speed of the engine slackened again, and the thought of the civil guards returned to haunt us. we did not dare remain, yet we were sure that our military pursuers would confront us again on the platform. there indeed they were, when we tumbled out into the obscurity, with their white-hooded heads looming above their muskets in startling disconnectedness. telling velazquez, with all the firmness i possessed, to bare his breast to the avenging sword, i hastened to get into a coupé, preferring to die comfortably. he, however, ignominiously followed me. it is true, we were not molested; but the shock of that narrow escape kept us wakeful. not even our own prairies, i think, could present so dreary and monotonous an outlook as the wide, endless, treeless castilian plains while morning slowly felt its way across them. brown and cold they were, skirted by white roads, and all shorn of their barley crops, though it was but middle june. now and then a village was seen huddled against some low slope--a church lifting its tall, square campanario above the humble roofs against the pearling sky. interior spain is a desolate land, but the church thrives there and draws its tax from the poverty-stricken inhabitants--a crowned beggar ruling over beggars. if the first man were now to be created from the clay of this region, he would doubtless turn out the very type of a lean hidalgo. the human product of such soil must perforce be meagre and melancholy; and the pensiveness which we see in most spanish faces seems a reflection of the landscape which surrounds them. the madrileños offer not a flat, but rather an extremely round contradiction to this general and accepted idea of the national appearance. slenderness is the exception with them. their city is a forced flower in the midst of mountain lands, and the men themselves rejoice in a rotund and puffy look of success, which also partakes of the hot-house character. they are people of leisure, and, after their manner, of pleasure. how they swarm in the cafés in the gate of the sun--where they keep up the moorish custom of calling waiters by two claps of the hands--or on the one great thoroughfare, calle de alcalá, or in the bull-ring of a sunday! they are never at rest, yet never altogether active. they never sleep, or, if they do, others take their places in the public resorts. the clamor of the streets, and even the snarling cry of the news-venders--"_la correspondencia_," or "_el demó-crata-a_"--is kept up until the small hours; and at five or six the restless stir begins again with the silver tinkling of fleet mule-bells. there are no night-howling watchmen in madrid; but the custom of street-hawking is rampant in spain; and here, in addition to the newsmen, we have the wail of the water-criers, ministering to an unquenchable popular thirst, the lottery-ticket sellers, the wax-match peddlers, and a dozen others. the favorite bird of the country is a kind of lark called _alondra_, much hung in cages outside the windows, whence they utter--with that monotonous recurrence which seems a fixed principle of all things spanish--a hard, piercing triple note impossible to ignore. this loud, persistent "twit, twit-twit," resembling at a distance the click of castanets, begins with daybreak, and gives a most discouraging notion of the spanish musical ear. but the watchmen are merciful. they are called, as elsewhere, _serenos_, which may mean either "quiet," or "night-dews," but their function in madrid is peculiar. early in the evening they come out by squads, with staves of office, and at their girdles bright lanterns and an immense bunch of keys. these are the night-keys of all the houses on each man's beat, the residents not being allowed to have any. when a person returns home late--and who does not, in madrid--he is obliged to find his sereno, and if that officer is not in sight, calls him by name--"frascuelo," or "pepino." whereupon frascuelo, or pepino, or santiago, if he hears, will come along and unlock the door. this curious system should at least encourage good habits; for, unless a man be sober, his watchman may have unpleasant tales to tell of him. the feline race being too often homeless, and having a proverbial taste for nocturnal wanderings, the average male citizen of the capital feelingly nicknames himself a "madrid cat." this shows a frankness of self-characterization, to say the least, unusual. of course there is home life, and there is family affection, in madrid, but the stranger naturally does not see a great deal of these; and then it may be doubted whether they really exist to the same extent as in most other civilized capitals. it becomes wearisome to make sallies upon the town, and day after day find so much of the population trying to divert itself, or killing time in the cafés and clubs. the feeling deepens that they resort to these for want of a sufficiently close interest in their homes. more than that, they do not seem really to be amused. even their language fails to express the amusement idea; the most that anything can be for them, in the vernacular, is "entertaining." still the choice of light diversion is varied enough. opera flourishes in winter; in spring and summer the bull-fight; theatres are always in blast; cocking-mains are kept up. hitherto gambling has been another favorite pastime until checked by the authorities. not content with all this, the madrileños seek in lottery shops that excitement which americans derive from drinking-saloons. the brightly lighted lottery agency occurs as frequently as that other indication of disease, the apothecary's window, or the stock-market "ticker," in american cities. people of all classes hover about them both by day and by night. posters confront you with announcements of the child jesus lottery, the lottery to aid the asylum of our lady of the assumption, or the national, which is drawn thrice a month, with a chief prize of thirty-two thousand dollars, and some four hundred other premiums. there are many small drawings besides constantly going on: not a day passes, in fact, without your being solicited by wandering dealers in these alluring chances at least half a dozen times. [illustration: the plaza mayor.] altogether, looking from my balcony upon the characteristic crowd in the great square, leading this life so busy yet so apathetic, as if in a slow fever, madrid struck me as only one more great human ant-hill, where the ants were trying to believe themselves in paris. the parisian resemblance, however, is confined to strips through the middle and on the edges of the city, and as soon as one's steps are bent away from those, the narrow ways and older architecture of spain re-appear. only a few rods from the puerta del sol lies the plaza mayor, which once enjoyed all the honors of bull-fights and heretic burnings--occasions on which householders were obliged by their leases to give up all the front rooms and balconies to be used as boxes for the audience. from the plaza mayor again an arch leads into toledo street--old meandering mart full of mantles and sashes, blankets and guitars, flannel dyed in the national colors of red and yellow, basket-work and wood-work, including the carved sticks known as _molinillos_ (little mills), with which chocolate is mixed by a dexterous spinning motion. the donkey feels himself at home once more in these narrow thoroughfares; the evil sewage smell, which oozes through even the most pretentious edifices in the new quarters, diffuses itself again in full vigor, and the cafés become dingy and unconventional. on the alcalá, or san geronimo, the carefully-dressed men sip beer and cordials, or possibly indulge in sparkling sherry--a new and expensive wine like dry champagne; but here the rougher element is satisfied with _aguardiente_ (the liquor distilled from anise-seed), and quite as often confines itself to water. the lower orders are temperate. peasants and porters and petty traders will sit down contentedly for a whole evening to a glass of water in which is dissolved a long meringue (called _asucarillo_, literally "sugarette"), or to a snow lemonade. another esteemed cooling beverage is the _horchata de chufas_, a kind of cream made from pounded cypress root and then half frozen. the height of luxury is to order with this, at an added cost of some two cents, a few tubular wafers, fancifully named _barquillos_ (or little boats), through which the semi-liquid may be sucked. this barquillo is considered so desirable that boys carry it on the street in large metal cylinders, the top of which is a disk inscribed with numbers. you pay a fee, and he revolves on the disk a pivotal needle, the number at which it stops deciding how many wafers fall to your lot. in this way the excruciating pleasure of barquillos to eat is combined with the national delight in gaming. european costume has fallen on the madrid people like a pall, blotting out picturesqueness; but peasants of all provinces are still seen, and now and then a turbaned figure from barbary moves across the street. nor is the fascinating mantilla quite extinct among women, in spite of their more than parisian grace and splendor of modern robing. there are humble old women squatted on the sidewalk at street corners, who sell water and liquors and shrub from bottles kept in a singular little stand with brass knobs like an exaggerated pair of casters; and when one sees the varied types of peasant, soldier, citizen, or priest, with perhaps a veiled woman of the middle class, gathered around one of these, the spanish quality of the town re-asserts itself distinctly. so it does, too, when a carriage containing the princesses of the royal household rattles down the prado park, drawn by mules in barbaric red-tasselled harness, and preceded by a courier who wears a sort of gold-braided nightcap. [illustration: water-dealer.] [illustration: old artillery park.] there is no cathedral at madrid, but the churches, smeared as usual with gold and stucco and paint in tasteless extravagance, are numerous enough; and on many a balcony i saw withered straw-like plumes, long as a man, hung up in commemoration of the last palm-sunday. the morning papers have a "religious bulletin" in the amusement column, giving the saints and services of the day; besides which special masses for the souls of departed capitalists are constantly announced, with a request that friends shall attend. these paid rites doubtless offer a pleasant exception to the routine of commonplace church-going. thus, while the men are absorbed by their cafés and politics, their countless cigarettes and lottery tickets, with a minimum of business and a maximum of dominoes, the women fill up their time with matins and vespers, confessions and intrigues. it would be merely repeating the frank assertion of the spanish men themselves to say that feminine morals here are in a lamentable state; but at least appearances are always carefully guarded, and if judged by externals only, madrid is far more virtuous than london or paris. as for local society, it exists so much on appearances that the substance suffers. it is true, the ladies are beautiful and of noble stature; and their costumes, governed by the happiest taste, surpass in luxury those seen in public in almost any other city. the cavaliers are, without exception, the best-dressed gentlemen in the world; and the mass of sumptuous equipages, with polished grooms and surpassingly fine horses, which crowds the broad castilian fountain drive, or the park road on the east of the buen retiro gardens, during fashionable hours, is amazing. great wealth is gathered in the hands of a few nobles, who often draw heavy salaries from government for long-obsolete services; but the most of this costuming and grooming is attained by semi-starvation at home. by consequence, dinners and dancing-parties are rarely given even in the season, and royalty itself provides no more than a couple of balls, with two or three state dinners, a year. [illustration: the escorial.] to be sure, no capital is better provided with sundry of the higher means to cultivation, as its royal armory, its archæological museum, and its glorious picture-gallery--in some respects the noblest of europe--remind one. moreover, in the neighboring escorial, that dark jewel in the head of philip ii., travellers find a rich monument of art, albeit to many eyes unseen inscriptions perhaps record there more than enough of spain's misfortunes. in the madrid gallery the stately, severe, and robust royal portraits by velazquez, or his magnificently healthy "drunkards," reveal in their way, as do the virgins of murillo, floating divinely in translucent air, that deep and deathless power of spanish temperament and genius over which slumber has reigned so long. the pictures of ribera, hanging together, are like loose pages torn from spanish ecclesiastical history and legend: a collection of monks, ascetics, martyrs--scenes of torture depicted with relentless and savage vigor. goya, again, scarcely known out of spain, left at the beginning of this century portraits of wonderful vitality and finish, fresh glimpses of popular life, and wild figure compositions marked by the fierce, half insane energy of a latinized william blake. his imagination and manner were both original. though falling short, like all other spanish painters, in ideality, he had that faculty of fertile improvisation so refreshing in murillo's naturalistic "madonna of the birdling," or in his "st. elizabeth," and "roman patrician's dream," at the academy of fine arts. but it is not with these past splendors, still full of hopes for new futures, that the castilian gentlemen and ladies of our varnished period concern themselves. the opera, the circus, and the _corrida de toros_--the irrepressible bull-fight--are to them of far more consequence. in every crowd and café you see the tall, shapely, dark-faced, silent men, with a cool, professionally murderous look like that of our border desperadoes, whose enormously wide black hats, short jackets, tight trousers, and pigtails of braided hair proclaim them _chulos_, or members of the noble ring. intrepid, with muscles of steel, and finely formed, they are very illiterate: we saw one of them gently taking his brandy at the café de paris after a hard combat, while his friend read from an evening paper a report of the games in which he had just fought--the man's own education not enabling him to decipher print. but the higher class of these professionals are the idols, the demi-gods, of the people. songs are made about them, their deeds are painted on fans, and popular chromos illustrate their loves and woes; people crowd around to see them in hotels or on the street as if they were heroes or star tragedians. pet dogs are named for the well-known ones; and it was even rumored that one of the chief swordsmen had secured the affections of a patrician lady, and would have married her but for the interference of her friends. certain it is that a whole class of young bucks of the lower order--"'arrys" is the british term--get themselves up in the closest allowable imitation of bull-fighters, down to the tuft of hair left growing in front of the ear. the _espadas_ or _matadores_ (killers), who give the mortal blow, hire each one his _cuadrilla_--a corps of assistants, including _picadores_, _banderilleros_, and _punterillo_. for every fight they receive five hundred dollars, and sometimes they lay up large fortunes. to see the sport well from a seat in the shade, one must pay well. tickets are monopolized by speculators, who, no less than the fighters, have their "ring," and gore buyers as the bull does horses. we gave two dollars apiece for places. the route to the place of bulls is lined for a mile with omnibuses, tartanas, broken-down diligences, and wheezy cabs, to convey intending spectators to the fight on sunday afternoons. a stream of pedestrians file in the same direction, and the showy turnouts of the rich add dignity to what soon becomes a wild rush for the scene of action. the mule-bells ring like a rain of metal, whips crack, the drivers shout wildly, and at full gallop we dash by windows full of on-lookers, by the foaming fountains of the prado, and up the road to the grim colosseum of stone and brick, in the midst of scorched and arid fields, with the faint peaks of the snow-capped guadarrama range seen, miles to the north, through dazzling white sunshine. [illustration: on the road to the bull-fight.] [illustration: plan of the bull-ring.] within is the wide ring, sunk in a circular pit of terraced granite crowned by galleries. the whole great round, peopled by at least ten thousand beings, is divided exactly by the sun and the shadow--_sol y sombra_; and from our cool place we look at the vivid orange sand of the half arena in sunlight, and the tiers of seats beyond, where swarms of paper fans (red, yellow, purple, and green) are wielded to shelter the eyes of those in the cheaper section, or bring air to their lungs. no connected account of a bull tourney can impart the vividness, the rapid changes, the suspense, the skill, the picturesqueness, or horror of the actual thing. all occurs in rapid glimpses, in fierce, dramatic, brilliant, and often ghastly pictures, which fade and re-form in new phases on the instant. the music is sounding, the fans are fluttering, amateurs strolling between the wooden barriers of the ring and the lowest seats, hatless men are hawking fruit and aguardiente, when trumpets announce the grand entry. it is a superb sight: the picadores with gorgeous jackets and long lances on horseback, in wide mexican hats, their armor-cased legs in buckskin trousers; the swordsmen and others on foot, shining with gold and silver embroidery on scarlet and blue, bright green, saffron, or puce-colored garments, carrying cloaks of crimson, violet, and canary. at the head is the mounted _alguazil_ in ominous black, who carries the key of the bull-gate. everything is punctual, orderly, ceremonious. then the white handkerchief, as signal, from the president of the games in his box; the trumpet-blare again; and the bull rushing from his lair! there is a wild moment when, if he be of good breed, he launches himself impetuous as the ball from a thousand-ton gun directly upon his foes, and sweeping around half the circle, puts them to flight over the barrier or into mid-ring, leaving a horse or two felled in his track. i have seen one fierce andalusian bull within ten minutes kill five horses while making two circuits of the ring. the first onset against a horse is horrible to witness. the poor steed, usually lean and decrepit, is halted until the bull will charge him, when instantly the picador in the saddle aims a well-poised blow with his lance, driving the point into the bull's back only about an inch, as an irritant. you hear the horns tear through the horse's hide; you _feel_ them go through _yourself_. ribs crack; there's a clatter of hoofs, harness, and the rider's armor; a sudden heave and fall--disaster!--and then the bull rushes away in pursuit of a yellow mantle flourished to distract him. the banderilleros come, each holding two ornamental barbed sticks, which he waves to attract the bull. at the brute's advance he runs to meet him, and in the moment when the huge head is lowered for a lunge, he plants them deftly, one on each shoulder, and springs aside. perhaps, getting too near, he fails, and turns to fly; the bull after, within a few inches. he flees to the barrier, drops his cloak on the sand, and vaults over; the bull springs over too into the narrow alley; whereupon the fighter, being close pressed, leaps back into the ring light as a bird, but saved by a mere hair's-breadth from a tossing or a trampling to death. the crowd follow every turn with shouts and loud comments and cheers: "go, bad little bull!" "let the picadores charge!" "more horses! more horses!" "well done, gallito!" "time for the death!--the matadores!" and so on. humor mingles with some of their remarks, and there is generally one volunteer buffoon who, choosing a lull in the combat, shrieks out rude witticisms that bring the laugh from a thousand throats. but if the management of the sport be not to their liking, then the multitude grow instantly stormy: rising on the benches, they bellow their opinions to the president, whistle, stamp, scream, gesticulate. it is the tumult of a mob, appeasable only by speedier bloodshed. and what bloodshed they get! a horse or two, say, lies lifeless and crumpled on the earth; the others, with bandaged eyes, and sides hideously pierced and red-splashed, are spurred and whacked with long sticks to make them go. but it is time for the banderilleros, and after that for the swordsman. he advances, glittering, with a proud, athletic step, the traditional chignon fastened to his pigtail, and holding out his bare sword, makes a brief speech to the president: "i go to slay this bull for the honor of the people of madrid and the most excellent president of this tourney." then throwing his hat away, he proceeds to his task of skill and danger. it is here that the chief gallantry of the sport begins. with a scarlet cloak in one hand he attracts the bull, waves him to one side or the other, baffles him, re-invites him--in fine, plays with and controls him as if he were a kitten, though always with eye alert and often in peril. at last, having got him "in position," he lifts the blade, aims, and with a forward spring plunges it to the hilt at a point near the top of the spine. perhaps the bull recoils, reels, and dies with that thrust; but more often he is infuriated, and several strokes are required to finish him. always, however, the blood gushes freely, the sand is stained with it, and the serried crowd, intoxicated by it, roar savagely. still, the "many-headed beast" is fastidious. if the bull be struck in such a way as to make him spout his life out at the nostrils, becoming a trifle _too_ sanguinary, marks of disapproval are freely bestowed. one bull done for, the music recommences, and mules in showy trappings are driven in. they are harnessed to the carcasses, and the dead bulks of the victims are hauled bravely off at a gallop, furrowing the dirt. the grooms run at topmost speed, snapping their long whips; the dust rises in a cloud, enveloping the strange cavalcade. they disappear through the gate flying, and you wake from a dream of ancient rome and her barbarous games come true again. but soon the trumpets flourish; another bull comes; the same finished science and sure death ensue, varied by ever-new chances and escapes, until afternoon wanes, the sun becomes shadow, and ten thousand satisfied people--mostly men in felt sombreros, with some women, fewer ladies, and a sprinkling of children and babies--throng homeward. what impresses is the cold blood of the thing. people bring their goat-skins of wine, called "little drunkards," and pass them around to friends, between bulls; others pop off lemonade bottles, and nearly all smoke. even a combatant sometimes lights a cigar while the bull is occupied at the other side of the ring. during the hottest encounters grooms come in to strip the harness from dying horses or stab an incapacitated one; to carry off baskets of entrails, and rake fresh sand over the blood-pools, quite calmly, at the risk of sharp interruption from the vagarious horned enemy. in the midst of a dangerous flurry, while performers are escaping, an orange-vender in the lane outside the barrier pitches some fruit to a buyer half-way up the _gradas_, counting aloud, "one, two, three," to twenty-four. all are caught, and he neatly catches his money in return. afterward, when a bull leaps the barrier, this intrepid merchant has to fly for life, leaving his basket on the ground, where the bewildered animal upsets it, rolling the contents everywhere in golden confusion. another time we saw a horse and rider lifted bodily on the horns, and so tossed that the horseman flew out of his saddle, hurtled through the air directly over the bull, and landed solidly on his back, senseless. six grooms bore him off, white and rigid. but the populace never heeded him; they were madly cheering the bull's prowess. a surgeon, by-the-way, always attends in an anteroom; prayers are said before the fight; and a priest is in readiness with the consecrated wafer to give the last sacrament in case of any fatal accident. the utter simple-mindedness with which spaniards regard the brutalities of the sport may be judged from the fact that a bull-fight was once given to benefit the society for the prevention of cruelty to animals! on occasion, the drawing of a charitable lottery is held at the _corrida de toros_, and then there are gala features. the queen and various high-born ladies present magnificent rosettes of silk or satin and gold and silver tinsel, with long streamers, to be attached by little barbs to the bulls before their entrance, each having his colors indicated in this way; and these ornaments are displayed in shop windows for days before the event. the language of the ring is another peculiarity. there are many fine points of merit, distinguished by as many canting terms. there is the "pair regular," the "relance," the "cuartos," and the darts are playfully termed "shuttlecocks;" the swordsman deals in "pinches" and "thrusts," and so on--all of which is recorded in press reports, amusing enough in their airy and supercilious half-literary treatment. these are among the most polished products of spanish journalism. fines are imposed on the performers for any achievement not "regular;" and, on the other hand, good strokes are rewarded by the public with cigars, or, as the dainty reporters say, they "merit palms." the three chief swordsmen are lagartijo, frascuelo, and currito; "broad face," "little fatty," and the like, being lesser lights. frascuelo is so renowned for hardihood that i once saw him receive, in obedience to popular will, the ear of the bull he had just slain--a supreme mark of favor.[ ] [illustration: a street scene.] madrid is now the head-quarters of the national game, as it is of everything else. it is outwardly flourishing, it is adorned with statues, its parks are green, and its fountains spout gayly. nevertheless, the impression it makes is melancholy. beggary is importunate on its public ways. palaces and poverty, great wealth and wretched penury, are huddled close together. its assumption of splendor is in startling contrast with the desolate and uncared-for districts that surround it from the very edge of the city outward. the natural result of extremes in the distribution of property, with a country impoverished, is public bankruptcy; and public bankruptcy stares surely enough through the city's gay mask. there is another unhappy result from the undue concentration of resources at this artificial capital. madrid prides itself on being the spot at which all the avenues of the land converge equally, the exact centre of spain being close beyond the city's confines, and marked--how appropriately--by a church! but madrid is, notwithstanding, a national centre only in name. it enjoys a false luxury, while too many outlying provinces sustain a starveling existence. and, seeing the alien, imitative manners adopted here, one feels sharply the difficult contrasts that exist between the metropolis and the provinces: no hearty bond of national unity appears. we looked back over the ground we had traversed, and thought of the gray bones of burgos cathedral, lying like some stranded mammoth of another age, far in the north. oh, bells of burgos, mumbling in your towers, what message have you for these sophisticated ears? and what intelligible response does the heart of the country send back to you? "come," said i to velveteen. "it is useless to resist longer. let's surrender to these two white-capped guards who have dogged us so, and be carried away." [illustration] the lost city. i. [illustration: i] it was of spain's past and present that we were speaking, and "what," i asked, "have we given her in return for her discovery of our new world?" "the sleeping-car and the street tramway," answered velveteen, with justifiable pride. he was right; for we had seen the first on the railroad, and the second skimming the streets of madrid. still, the reward did not appear great, measured by the much that spain's ventures in the western hemisphere had cost her, and by the comparative desolation of her present. the devoted labors of irving and prescott, which spaniards warmly appreciate, are more in the nature of an adequate return. "it strikes me, also," i ventured to add, "that we are rendering a service in kind. she discovered us, and now we are discovering her." if one reflects how some of the once great and powerful places of the peninsula, such as toledo and cordova, have sunk out of sight and perished to the modern world, this fancy applies with some truth to every sympathetic explorer of them. it had been all very well to imagine ourselves conversant with the country when we were in madrid, and even an occasional slip in the language did not disturb that supposition. when i accidentally asked the chamber-maid to swallow a cup of chocolate instead of "bringing" it, owing to an unnecessary resemblance of two distinct words, and when my comrade, in attending to details of the laundry, was led by an imperfect dictionary to describe one article of wear as a _pintura de noche_, or "night scene," our confidence suffered only a momentary shock. but, after all, it was not until we reached toledo that we really passed into a kind of forgotten existence, and knew what it was to be far beyond reach of any familiar word. [illustration: entrance to toledo.] with the first plunge southward from the capital the reign of ruin begins--ruin and flies. the heat becomes intense; the air itself seems to be cooked through and through; the flies rejoice with a malicious joy, and the dry sandy hills, bearing nothing but tufts of blackened weeds, resemble large mounds of pepper and salt. here and there in the valley is the skeleton of a stone or brick farm-house withering away, and perhaps near by a small round defensive hut, recalling times of disorder. between the hills, however, are fields still prolific in rye, though wholly destitute of trees. verdure re-asserts itself wherever there is the smallest water-course; and a curve of the river tagus is sure to infold fruit orchards and melon vines, while the parched soil briefly revives and puts forth delightful shade-trees. but although the river-fed lands around toledo are rich in vegetation, the ancient city itself, with the tagus slung around its base like a loop, rises on a sterile rock, and amid hills of bronze. so much are the brown and sun-imbued houses and the old fortified walls in keeping with the massy natural foundation that all seem reared together, the huge form of the alcazar, or castle--where the spanish national military academy is housed--towering like a second cliff in one corner of the round, irregularly clustered city. our omnibus scaled the height by a road perfectly adapted for conducting to some dragon stronghold of misty fable, and landed us in the zocodover, the sole open space of any magnitude in that tangle of thread-like streetlets, along which the houses range themselves with a semblance of order purely superficial. most of toledo is traversable only for pedestrians and donkeys. these latter carry immense double baskets across their backs, in which are transported provisions, bricks, coal, fowls, water, bread, crockery--everything, in short, down to the dirt occasionally scraped from the thoroughfares. i saw one peasant, rather advanced in years, helping himself up the steep rise of a street on the hill-side by means of a stout cane in one hand and the tail of his heavy-laden donkey grasped in the other. to make room for these useful beasts and their broad panniers, some of the houses are hollowed out at the corners; in one case the side wall being actually grooved a foot deep for a number of yards along an anxious turning. otherwise the panniers would touch both sides of the way, and cause a blockade as obstinate as the animal itself. [illustration: the narrow way.] [illustration: spanish peasant. from a drawing by william m. chase.] coming from the outer world into so strange a labyrinth, where there is no echo of rolling wheels, no rumble of traffic or manufacture, you find yourself in a city which may be said to be without a voice. through a hush like this, history and tradition speak all the more powerfully. toledo has been a favorite with the novelists. the zocodover was the haunt of that typical rogue lazarillo de tormes; and cervantes, oddly as it happens, connects the scene of _la ilustre fregonde_ with a shattered castle across the river, which by a coincidence has had its original name of san servando corrupted into san cervantes. never shall i forget our walk around the city walls that first afternoon in toledo. a broad thoroughfare skirts the disused defences on the south and west, running at first along the sheer descent to the river, and a beetling height against which houses, shops, and churches are crammed confusedly. i noticed one smithy with a wide dark mouth revealing the naked rock on which walls and roof abutted, and other houses into the faces of which had been wrought large granite projections of the hill. after this the way led through a gate of peculiar strength and shapeliness, carrying up arches of granite and red brick to a considerable height--a stout relic of the proud moorish dominion so long maintained here; and then, when we had rambled about a church of santiago lower down, passing through some streets irregular as foot-paths, where over a neglected door stood a unique announcement of the owner's name--"i am don sanchez. "--we came to the visagra, the country gate. this menacing, double-towered portal is mediæval; so that a few steps had carried us from mohammedan alimaymon to the emperor charles v. just outside of it again is the alameda, the modern garden promenade, where the beauty and idleness of toledo congregate on sunday evenings to the soft compulsion of strains from the military academical band. thin runnels of water murmur along through the hedges and embowered trees, explaining by their presence how this refreshing pleasure-ground was conjured into being; for on the slope, a few feet below the green hedges, you still see the sun-parched soil just as it once spread over the whole area. the contrast suggests eden blossoming on a crater-side. at the open-air soirées of the alameda may be seen excellent examples of spanish beauty. the national type of woman appears here in good preservation, and not too much hampered by foreign airs. doubtless one finds it too in burgos and madrid, and in fact everywhere; and the grace of the women in other places is rather fonder of setting itself off by a fan used for parasol purposes in the street than in toledo. but on the _pasco_ and _alameda_ all spanish ladies carry fans, and it is something marvellous to see how they manage them. not for a moment is the subtle instrument at rest: it flutters, wavers idly, is opened and shut in the space of a second, falls to the side, and again rises to take its part in the conversation almost like a third person--all without effort--with merely a turn of the supple fingers or wrist, and contributing an added charm to the bearer. the type of face which beams with more or less similarity above every fan in spain is difficult to describe, and at first difficult even to apprehend. one has heard so much about its beauty that in the beginning it seems to fall short; but gradually its spell seizes on the mind, becoming stronger and stronger. the tint varies from tawny rose or olive to white: ladies of higher caste, from their night life and rare exposure to the sun, acquire a deathly pallor, which is unfortunately too often imitated with powder. chestnut or lighter hair is seen a good deal in the south and east, but deep black is the prevalent hue. and the eyes!--it is impossible to more than suggest the luminous, dreamy medium in which they swim, so large, dark, and vivid. but, above all, there is combined with a certain child-like frankness a freedom and force, a quick mobility in the lines of the face, equalled only in american women. to these elements you must add a strong arching eyebrow and a pervading richness and fire of nature in the features, which it would be hard to parallel at all, especially when the whole is framed in the seductive folds of the black mantilla, like a drifting night-cloud enhancing the sparkle of a star. as we continued along the camin de marchan we looked down on one side over the fertile plain. the pale tones of the ripe harvest and dense green of trees contrasted with the rich brown and gray of the city, and dashes of red clay here and there. in a long field rose detached fragments of masonry, showing at different points the vast ground-plan of the roman circus maximus, with a burst of bright ochre sand in the midst of the stubble, while on the left hand we had an old arab gate pierced with slits for arrows, and on the crest above that a nunnery--st. sunday the royal--followed by a line of palaces and convents half ruined in the napoleonic campaign of . out in the plain was the roof of the sword factory where "toledo blades" are still forged and tempered for the spanish army; although in the finer details of damascening and design nothing is produced beyond a small stock of show weapons and tiny ornamental trinkets for sale to tourists. nor was this all; for a little farther on, at the edge of the river, close to the bridge of st. martin and the gate of twelve stones, the broken remains of an old gothic palace sprawled the steep, lying open to heaven and vacant as the dull eye-socket in some unsepulchred skull. our stroll of a mile had carried us back to the second century before christ, the path being strewn with relics of the roman conquest, the visigothic inroad, the moorish ascendency, and the returning tide of christian power. but the jews, seeking refuge after the fall of jerusalem, preceded all these, making a still deeper substratum in the marvellous chronicles of toledo; and some of their later synagogues, exquisitely wrought in the moorish manner, still stand in the jewish quarter for the wonderment of pilgrim connoisseurs. [illustration: singing girl.] it was from a terrace of this old gothic palace near the bridge that, according to legend, don roderick, the last of the goths in spain, saw florinda, daughter of one count julian, bathing in the yellow tagus under a four-arched tower which still invades the flood, and goes by the name of the bath of florinda. from his passion for her, and their mutual error, the popular tale, with vigorous disregard of chronology, deduces the fall of spain before the berber armies; and as most old stories here receive an ecclesiastical tinge, this one relates how florinda's sinful ghost continued to haunt the spot where we now stood, until laid by a good friar with cross and benediction. the sharp fall of the bank at first glance looked to consist of ordinary earth and stones, but on closer scrutiny turned out to contain quantities of brick bits from the old forts and towers which one generation after another had built on the heights, and which had slowly mouldered into nullity. even so the firm lines of history have fallen away and crumbled into romance, which sifts through the crannies of the whole withered old city. as a lady of my acquaintance graphically said, it seems as if ashes had been thrown over this ancient capital, covering it with a film of oblivion. the rocks, towers, churches, ruins, are just so much corporeal mythology--object, lessons in fable. a little girl, becomingly neckerchiefed, wandered by us while we leaned dreaming above the river; and she was singing one of the wild little songs of the country, full of melancholy melody: "fair malaga, adios! ah, land where i was born, thou hadst mother-love for all, but for me step-mother's scorn!" [illustration: cloister of st. john of the kings.] all unconscious of the monuments around her, she stopped when she saw that we had turned and were listening. then we resumed our way, passing, i may literally say, as if in a trance up into the town again, where we presently found ourselves in front of st. john of the kings, a venerable church, formerly connected with a franciscan monastery which the french burnt. on the outer wall high up hangs a stern fringe of chains, placed there as votive tokens by released christian captives from granada, in ; and there they have remained since america was discovered! to this church is attached a most beautiful cloister, calm with the solitude of nearly four hundred years. around three sides the rich clustered columns, each with its figures of holy men supported under pointed canopies, mark the delicate gothic arches, through which the sunlight slants upon the pavement, falling between the leaves of aspiring vines that twine upward from the garden in the middle. there the rose-laurel blooms, and a rude fountain perpetually gurgles, hidden in thick greenery; and on the fourth side the wall is dismantled as the french bombardment left it. seventy years have passed, and though the sculptured blocks for restoration have been got together, the vines grow over them, and no work has been done. we mounted the bell-tower part way with the custodian, and gained a gallery looking into the chapel, strangely adorned with regal shields and huge eagles in stone. on our way, under one part of the tower roof, we found a hen calmly strutting with her brood. "it was meant for celibacy," said the custodian, "but times change, and you see that family life has established itself here after all." [illustration: a bit of character.] i don't know whether there is anything particularly sacred about the hens of this district, but after seeing this one in the church-tower i began to think there might be, especially as on the way home we discovered another imprisoned fowl disconsolately looking down at us from the topmost window of a venerable patrician residence. ii. [illustration: spanish soldiers playing dominos.] its antiquities are not the queerest thing about toledo. the sights of the day, the isolated existence of the inhabitants, are things peculiar. the very sports of the children reflect the prevailing influences. a favorite diversion with them is to parade in some dark hall-way with slow step and droning chants, in imitation of church festivals; and in the street we found boys playing at _toros_. some took off their coats to wave as mantles before the bull, who hid around the corner until the proper time for his entry. the bull in this game, i noticed, had a nice sense of fair play, and would stop to argue points with his antagonists--something i should have been glad to see in the real arena. once the old rock town accommodated two hundred thousand residents. its contingent has now shrunk to twenty thousand, yet it swarms with citizens, cadets, loafers, and beggars. its tortuous wynds are full of wine-shops, vegetables, and children, all mixed up together. superb old palaces, nevertheless, open off from them, frequently with spacious courts inside, shaded by trellised vines, and with pillars at the entrance topped by heavy stone balls, or doors studded with nails and moulded in rectangular patterns like inlay-work. one day we wandered through a sculptured gate-way and entered a paved opening with a carved wood gallery running around the walls above. orange-trees in tubs stood about, and a brewery was established in these palatial quarters. we ordered a bottle, but i noticed that the brewer stood regarding us anxiously. at last he drew nearer, and asked, "do you come from madrid?" "yes." "ah, then," said he, in a disheartened tone, "you won't like our beer." [illustration: a narrow street.] we encouraged him, however, and at last he disappeared, sending us the beverage diplomatically by another hand. he was too faint-spirited to witness the trial himself. though called "the delicious," the thin, sweet, gaseous liquid was certainly detestable; but in deference to the brewer's delicate conscientiousness we drank as much as possible, and then left with his wife some money and a weakly complimentary remark about the beer, which evidently came just in time to convince her that we were, after all, discriminating judges. [illustration: woman with bundle.] the people generally were very simple and good-natured, and in particular a young commercial traveller from barcelona whom we met exerted himself to entertain us. the chief street was lined with awnings reaching to the curb-stone in front of the shops, and every public door-way was screened by a striped curtain. pushing aside one of these, our new acquaintance introduced us to what seemed a dingy bar, but, by a series of turnings, opened out into a spacious concealed café--that of the two brothers--where we frequently repaired with him to sip chiccory and cognac or play dominos. on these occasions he kept the tally in pencil on the marble table, marking the side of himself and a friend with their initials, and heading ours "the strangers." all travellers in spain are described by natives as "strangers" or "french," and the reputation for a pure parisian accent which we acquired under these circumstances, though brief, was glorious. to the two brothers resorted many soldiers, shop-keepers, and well-to-do housewives during fixed hours of the afternoon and evening, but at other times it was as forsaken as don roderick's palace. another place of amusement was the grand summer theatre, lodged within the ragged walls of a large building which had been half torn down. here we sat under the stars, luxuriating in the most expensive seats (at eight cents per head), surrounded by a full audience of exceedingly good aspect, including some toledan ladies of great beauty, and listened to a _zarzuela_, or popular comic opera, in which the prompter took an almost too energetic part. the ticket collector came in among the chairs to receive everybody's coupons with very much the air of being one of the family; for while performing his stern duty he smoked a short brier pipe, giving to the act an indescribable dignity which threw the whole business of the tickets into a proper subordination. in returning to our inn about midnight we were attracted by the free cool sound of a guitar duet issuing from a dark street that rambled off somewhere like a worm track in old wood, and, pursuing the sound, we discovered by the aid of a match lighted for a cigarette two men standing in the obscure alley, and serenading a couple of ladies in a balcony, who positively laughed with pride at the attention. the men, it proved, had been hired by some admirer, and so our friend engaged them to perform for us at the hotel the following night. [illustration: the serenaders.] the skill these thrummers of the guitar display is delicious, especially in the treble part, which is executed on a smaller species of the instrument, called a _mandura_. our treble-player was blind in one eye, and with the carelessness of genius allowed his mouth to stay open, but managed always to keep a cigarette miraculously hanging in it; while his comrade, with a disconsolate expression, disdained to look at the strings on which his proud castilian fingers were condemned to play a mere accompaniment. for two or three hours they rippled out those peculiar native airs which go so well with the muffled vibrations and mournful oriental monotony of the guitar; but the bagman varied the concert by executing operatic pieces on a hair-comb covered with thin paper--a contrivance in which he took unfeigned delight. some remonstrance against this uproar being made by other inmates of the hotel, our host silenced the complainants by cordially inviting them in. one large black-bearded guest, the exact reproduction of a stately ancient roman, accepted the hospitality, and listened to that ridiculous piping of the comb with profound gravity and unmoved muscles, expressing neither approval nor dissatisfaction. but the white-aproned waiter, who, though unasked, hung spellbound on the threshold, was, beyond question, deeply impressed. the relations of servants with employers are on a very democratic footing in spain. we had an admirable butler at madrid who used to join in the conversation at table whenever it interested him, and was always answered with good grace by the conversationists, who admitted him to their intellectual repast at the same moment that he was proffering them physical nutriment. these toledan servitors of the fonda de lino were still more informal. they used to take naps regularly twice a day in the hall, and could not get through serving dinner without an occasional cigarette between the courses. to save labor, they would place a pile of plates in front of each person, enough to hold the entire list of viands. that last phrase is a euphemism, however, for the meal each day consisted of the same meat served in three separate relays without vegetables, followed by fowl, an allowance of beans, and dessert. even this they were not particular to give us on the hour. famished beyond endurance, one evening at eight o'clock, we went down-stairs and found that not the first movement toward dinner had been made. the _mozos_ (waiters) were smoking and gossiping in the street, and rather frowned upon our vulgar desire for food, but we finally persuaded them to yield to it. after we had bought some tomatoes, and made a salad at dinner, the management was put on its mettle, and improved slightly. fish in this country is always brought on somewhere in the middle of dinner, like the german pudding, and our landlord astonished us by following the three courses of stewed veal with sardines, fried in oil and ambuscaded in a mass of boiled green peppers. after that we forbore to stimulate his ambition any farther. [illustration: a plentiful supply of plates.] the hotel guest, however, is on the whole regarded as a necessary evil--a nuisance tolerated only because some few of the finest race in the world can make money out of him. the landlord lived with his family on the ground-floor, and furnished little domestic tableaux as we passed in and out; but he never paid any attention to us, and even looked rather hurt at the intrusion of so many strangers into his hostelry. nor did the high-born sewing-women who sat on the public stairs, and left only a narrow space for other people to ascend or descend by, consider it necessary to stir in the least for our convenience. the fonda had more of the old tavern or posada style about it than most hotels patronized by foreigners. the entrance door led immediately into a double court, where two or three yellow equipages stood; and from this the kitchen, storerooms, and stable all branched off in some clandestine way. above, at the eaves, these courts were covered with canvas awnings wrinkled in regular folds on iron rods--sheltering covers which remained drawn from the first flood of the morning sun until after five in the afternoon. early and late i used to look down into the inner court, observing the men and women of the household as they dressed fish and silently wrung the necks of chickens, or sat talking a running stream of nothingness by the hour, for love of their own glib but uncouth voices. people of this province intone rather than talk: their sentences are set to distinct drawling tunes, such as i never before encountered in ordinary speech, and their thick lisping of all sibilants, combined with the usual contralto of their voices, gives the language a sonorous burr, for which one soon acquires a liking. sunday is the great hair-combing day in toledo, if i may judge from the manner in which women carried on that soothing operation in their door-ways and _patios_; and in this inner court below my window one of the servants, sitting on a stone slab, enjoyed the double profit of sewing and of letting a companion manipulate her yard-long locks of jet, while others sat near, fanning themselves and chattering. another time a little girl, dark as an indian, came there in the morning to wash a kerchief at the stone tank, always brimming with dirty water; after which she executed, unsuspicious of my gaze, a singularly weird _pas seul_, a sort of shadow dance, on the pavement, and then vanished. [illustration: the toilet--a sunday scene.] all the houses are roofed with heavy curved tiles, which fit together so as to let the air circulate under their hollow grooves; and a species of many-seeded grass sprouts out of these baked earth coverings, out of the ledges of old towers and belfries, and from the crevices of the great cathedral itself, like the downy hair on an old woman's cheek. the view along almost any one of the ancient streets, which are always tilted by the hilly site, is wonderfully quaint in its irregularities. every window is heavily grated with iron, from the top to the bottom story, even the openings high up in the cathedral spire being similarly guarded, until the whole place looks like a metropolis of prisons. in the stout doors, too, there are small openings or peep-holes, such as we had seen still in actual use at madrid--the relics of an epoch when even to open to an unknown visitor might be dangerous. white, white, white the sunshine!--and the walls of pink or yellow-brown, of pale green and blue, are sown with deep shadows and broken by big archways, often surmounted by rich knightly escutcheons. balconies with tiled floors turning their colors down toward the sidewalk stud the fronts, and long curtains stream over them like cloaks fluttering in the breeze. at one point a peak-roofed tower rises above the rest of its house with sides open to the air and cool shadow within, where perhaps a woman sits and works behind a row of bright flowering plants. doves inhabited the fonda roof unmolested by the spiritless cats that, flat as paper, slept in the undulations of the tiles; for the toledan cats and dogs are the most wretched of their kind. they get even less to eat than their human neighbors, which is saying a great deal. and beyond the territory of the doves my view extended to a slender bell-spire at the end of the cathedral, poised in the bright air like a flower-stalk, with one bell seen through an interstice as if it were a blossom. at another point the main spire rose out of what might be called a rich thicket of gothic work. its tall thin shaft is encircled near the point with sharp radiating spikes of iron, doubtless intended to recall the crown of thorns: in this sign of the passion, held forever aloft, three hundred feet above the ground, there is a penetrating pathos, a solemn beauty. iii. the cathedral of toledo, long the seat of the spanish primate, stands in the first rank of cathedrals, and is invested with a ponderous gloom that has something almost savage about it. for six centuries art, ecclesiasticism, and royal power lavished their resources upon it; and its dusky chapels are loaded with precious gems and metals, tawdry though the style of their ornamentation often is. the huge pillars that divide its five naves rise with a peculiar inward curve, which gives them an elastic look of growth. they are the giant roots from which the rest has spread. under the golden gratings and jasper steps of the high altar cardinal mendoza lies buried, with a number of the older kings of spain, in a grewsome sunless vault; but at the back of the altar there is contrived with theatrical effect a burst of white light from a window in the arched ceiling, around the pale radiance of which are assembled painted figures, gradually giving place to others in veritable relief--all sprawling, flying, falling down the wall enclosing the altar, as if one were suddenly permitted to see a swarm of saints and angels careering in a beam of real supernatural illumination. a private covered gallery leads above the street from the archbishop's palace into one side of the mighty edifice; and this, with the rambling, varied aspect of the exterior, in portions resembling a fortress, with a stone sentry-box on the roof, recalls the days of prelates who put themselves at the head of armies, leading in war as in everything else. a spacious adjoining cloister, full of climbing ivy and figs, spanish cypress, the smooth-trunked laurel-tree, and many other growths, all bathed in opulent sunshine, marks the site of an old jewish market, which archbishop tenorio in incited a mob to burn in order that he might have room for this sacred garden. but the voices of children now ring out from the upper rooms of the cloister building, where the widows and orphans of cathedral servants are given free homes. through this "cloister of the great church" it was that cervantes says he hurried with the ms. of cid hamete benengeli, containing don quixote's history, after he had bought it for half a real--just two cents and a half. [illustration: a toledo priest.] a temple of the barbaric and the barbarous, the cathedral dates from the thirteenth century: but it was preceded by one which was built to the virgin in her lifetime, tradition says, and she came down from heaven to visit her shrine. the identical slab on which she alighted is still preserved in one of the chapels. a former inscription said to believers, "use yourselves to kiss it for your much consolation," and their obedient lips have in time greatly worn down the stone. later on, the church was used as a mosque by the infidel conquerors, and when they were driven out it was pulled down to be replaced by the present huge and solemn structure. but, by a compromise with the subjugated moors, a muzarabic mass (a seeming mixture of mohammedan ritual with christian worship) was ordained to be said in a particular chapel; and there it is recited still, every morning in the year. i attended this weird, half-eastern ceremony, which was conducted with an extraordinary incessant babble of rapid prayer from the priests in the stalls, precisely like the inarticulate hum one imagines in a mosque. on the floor below and in front of the altar-steps was placed a richly-draped chest, perhaps meant to represent the tomb of mohammed in the caaba, and around it stood lighted candles. during the long and involved mass one of the younger priests, in appearance almost an imbecile, had the prayer he was to read pointed out for him by an altar-boy with what looked like a long knife-blade, used for the purpose. soon after an incense-bearing acolyte nudged him energetically to let him know that his turn had now come. this was the only evidence i could discover of any progress in knowledge or goodness resulting from the muzarabic mass. at one time toledo had, besides the cathedral, a hundred and ten churches. traces of many of them are still seen in small arches rising from the midst of house-tops, with a bell swung in the opening; but the most have fallen into disuse, and the greatest era of the hierarchy has passed. the great priests have also passed, and those who now dwell here offer to the most unprejudiced eye a dreary succession of bloated bodies and brutish faces. sermons are never read in the gorgeous cathedral pulpits, and the church, as even an ardent catholic assured me, seems, at least locally, dead. the priests and the prosperous shop-keepers are almost the only beings in toledo who look portly; the rest are thin, brown, wiry, and tall, with fine creases in their hard faces that appear to have been drilled there by the sand-blast process. the women, however, even in the humbler class, preserve a fine, fresh animal health, which makes you wonder how they ever grow old, until you see some tottering creature who is little more than a mass of sinews and wrinkles held together by a skirt and a neckerchief--the _pañuclo_ universal with her sex. at noon and evening the serving-women came out to the fountains, distributed here and there under groups of miniature locust-trees, to fetch water for their houses. they carried huge earthen jars, or _cantarones_, which they would lug off easily under one arm, in attitudes of inimitable grace. [illustration: toledo servitors at the fountain.] [illustration: a professional beggar.] if religious sway over temporal things has declined, toledo still impresses one as little more than a big church founded on the rock, with room made for the money-changers' benches, and an unimaginable jumble of palaces once thronged with powerful courtiers and abundant in wealth, but at this day chiefly inhabited by persons of humble quality. nightly there glows in the second story of a building on the zocodover, where _autos-da-fé_ used to be held, a large arched shrine of the virgin hung with mellow lamps, so that not even with departing daylight shall religious duty be put aside by the commonplace crowd shuffling through the plaza beneath. everywhere in angles and turnings and archways one comes upon images and pictures fixed to the wall under a pointed roof made with two short boards, to draw a passing genuflection or incidental _ave_ from any one who may be going by on an errand of business or--as more often occurs--laziness. feast-days, too, are still ardently observed. with all this, somehow, the fact connects itself that the populace are instinctive, free-born, insatiable beggars. the magnificently chased door-ways of the cathedral festered with revolting specimens of human disease and degeneration, appealing for alms. other more prosperous mendicants were regularly on hand for business every day at the "old stand" in some particular thoroughfare. i remember one, especially, whose whole capital was invested in a superior article of nervous complaint, which enabled him to balance himself between the wall and a crutch, and there oscillate spasmodically by the hour. in this he was entirely beyond competition, and cast into the shade those merely routine professionals who took the common line of bad eyes or uninterestingly motionless deformities. it used to depress them when he came on to the ground. bright little children, even, in perfect health, would desist from their amusements and assail us, struck with the happy thought that they might possibly wheedle the "strangers" into some untimely generosity. there was one pretty girl of about ten years, who laughed outright at the thought of her own impudence, but stopped none the less for half an hour on her way to market (carrying a basket on her arm) in order to pester poor velveteen while he was sketching, and begged him for money, first to get bread, and then shoes, and then anything she could think of. [illustration: a group of mendicants.] a hand opened to receive money would be a highly suitable device for the municipal coat of arms. [illustration: a patio in toledo.] my friend's irrepressible pencil, by-the-way, made him the centre of a crowd wherever he went. grave business men came out of their shops to see what he was drawing; loungers made long and ingenious detours in order to obtain a good view of his labors; ragamuffins elbowed him, undismayed by energetic remarks in several languages, until finally he was moved to get up and display the contents of his pockets, inviting them even to read some letters he had with him. to this gentle satire they would sometimes yield. we fell a prey, however, to one silent youth of whom we once unguardedly asked a question. after that he considered himself permanently engaged to pilot us about. he would linger for hours near the fonda dinnerless, and, what was even more terrible, sleepless, so that he might fasten upon us the moment we should emerge. if he discovered our destination, he would stride off mutely in advance, to impress on us the fact that we were under obligation to him; and when we found the place we wanted, he waited patiently until we had rewarded him with a half-cent. if we gratified him by asking him the way, he responded by silently stretching forth his arm and one long forefinger with a lordly gesture, still striding on; and he had a very superior castilian sneering smile, which he put on when he looked around to see if we were following. he gradually became for us a sort of symbolic shadow of the town's vanished greatness; and from his mysterious way of coming into sight, and haunting us in the most unexpected places, we gave him the name of "ghost." nevertheless, we baffled him at last. in the street of the christ of light there is a small but exceedingly curious mosque, now converted into a church, so ancient in origin that some of the capitals in it are thought to show visigothic work, so that it must have been a christian church even before the moorish invasion. close by this we chanced upon a charming old _patio_, or court-yard, entered through a wooden gate, and by dexterously gliding in here and shutting the gate we exorcised "ghost" for some time. the broad red tiles of this _patio_ contrasted well with its white-washed arcade pillars, on which were embossed the royal arms of castile; and the jutting roof of the house was supported on elaborate beams of old spanish cedar cracked with age. it was sadly neglected. flowers bloomed in the centre, but a pile of lumber littered one side; and the house was occupied by an old woman who was washing in the arcade, her tub being the half of a big terra-cotta jar laid on its side. she spread her linen out on the hot pavement to dry; and a sprightly neighbor coming in with a basket of clothes and a "health to thee!" was invited to dry _her_ wash on a low tile roof adjoining. "solitude" served at once as her name and to describe her surroundings. we made friends with her, the more easily because she was much interested in the sketch momently growing under my companion's touch. "and _you_ don't draw?" she inquired of me. i answered, apologetically, "no." having seen me glancing over a book, she added, as if to console me, and with emphasis, "but you can read!" to her mind that was a sister art and an equal one. she went on to tell how her granddaughter had spent ten years in school, and at the end of that time was able to read. "but now she is forgetting it all. she goes out and plays too much with the _muchachas_" (young girls). [illustration: the home of "solitude."] this amiable grandmother also took us in to see her domicile, which proved to be a part of the old city wall, and had a fine view from its iron-barred window. she declared vaguely that "a count" had formerly lived there; but it had more probably been the gate-captain's house, for close by was one of the fortified ports of the inner defences. a store-room, in fact, which she kept full of pigeons and incredibly miscellaneous old iron, stood directly over the arched entrance, and there we saw the heavy beam and windlass which in by-gone ages had hoisted or let fall the spiked portcullis. i induced "solitude" to tell me a legend about one of the churches; for there is generally some story to every square rod of ground hereabout, and indeed a little basilica below the town sustains four different narratives all explaining a single miracle. serving as an appropriate foundation for local wonder-mongering, a great cave in the rock underlies some portion of the city, and is said to have been hollowed out by hercules, who, in addition to his other labors, has received the credit of founding toledo. i am convinced that no muscles but his could ever have stood the strain of first climbing its site. the cave i refer to has been for the most part of the last two hundred years closed and walled up. about thirty years since it was timidly explored by a society formed for the purpose, and some roman remains were found in it; but after that, terror fell upon the explorers, and the cavern was again closed, remaining even yet a reservoir of mystery. there are equally mysterious things above ground, however, as will shortly be demonstrated by the tale of the "christ of compassion." let me, before giving that, recall here a more poetic tradition, preserved by señor eugenio olavarria, a young author of madrid. we saw just outside the mosque-church of the christ of light an old moorish well, of a kind common in spain, with a low thick wall surrounding the deep sunken shaft, to rest the bucket-chain on when it is let down and drawn up by sheer muscular force. the edges were worn into one continuous pattern of grooves by the incessant chafing of the chains for ages, and we conjured up a dozen romances about the people who of old slaked their thirst there. it is about another water-source of the same kind, on a small street still called descent to the bitter well, that the story here outlined is told: the well of bitterness. "in the time of one of the moorish kings there lived at toledo, under the mild toleration of that epoch, a rich jew, strictly and passionately devoted to the laws of his religion and to one only other object: that one was his daughter raquel, motherless, but able to solace his widowed heart with her devoted affection. sixteen aprils had wrought their beautiful changes into her exquisite form and lovely mind, till at last, of all things which they had waked to life, she appeared the fairest. "reuben had gradually made her the chief end of his existence, and she certainly merited this absolute concentration of her father's love. but, notwithstanding that at this time jews and christians dwelt together unmolested by the mohammedan rule, the inborn hostility between these two orders underwent no abatement. intercourse between them was sedulously avoided by each, and the springing up of any shy flower of love between man and maid of such hostile races was sure to be followed by deadly blight and ruin. nevertheless--and how it happened who can say?--raquel, already ripened by the rich sun of her native land into a perfected womanhood, fell in love with a young christian cavalier, who had himself surrendered to her silent and distant beauty as it shone upon him, while passing, from her grated window in reuben's stately mansion. he learned her name, and spoke it to her from the street--'raquel!'--at twilight. so trembling and brimming with mutual love were they, that this one word, like the last o'erflowing drop of precious liquid from a vase, was enough to reveal to her what filled his heart. as she heard it she blushed as though it had been a kiss that he had reverently impressed upon her cheek; and this was answer enough--their secret and perilous courtship had begun. thereafter they met often at night in the great garden attached to the house, making their rendezvous at the low-walled well that stood in a thicket of fragrant greenery. at last, through the prying of an aged friend, his daughter's passion came to the knowledge of old reuben, who had never till then even conceived of such disgrace as her being enamoured of a christian. his course was prompt and terrible. concealing himself one evening behind a tree-trunk close to the well, he awaited the coming of the daring cavalier, sprung upon him, and after a short, noiseless struggle bore him down with a poniard in his breast! "the stealthy opening of a door into the garden warned him of raquel's approach. he hastened again into concealment. she arrived, saw her fallen lover, dropped at his side in agonies of terror, and sought to revive him. then she saw and by the moonlight recognized her father's dagger in the breathless bosom of the young man, and knew what had happened. moved by sudden remorse, reuben came out with words of consolation ready. but she knew him not, she heard him not; from that instant madness was in her eyes and brain. many months she haunted the spot at night, calm but hopelessly insane, and weeping silently at the margin of the well, into whose waters her salt tears descended. at length there came a night when she did not return to the house. she had thrown herself into the well and was found there--dead! "never again could any one drink its waters, which had been famous for their quality. raquel's tears of sorrow had turned them bitter." the other legend is still more marvellous: "in the reign of enrique iv. of spain there was fierce rivalry between two toledan families, the silvas and the ayalas, which in led to open warfare. the silvas threw themselves into the castle, and the ayalas held the cathedral--the blood shed in their combats staining the very feet of its altars. during this struggle of hatred there was also a struggle of love going on between two younger members of the embroiled families. diego de ayala, setting at naught the pride of his house, had given his heart to isabel, the daughter of a poor hidalgo; but it so happened that his enemy, don lope de silva, had resolved to win the same maiden, though receiving no encouragement from her. one night when the combatants were resting on their arms, and the whole city was in disorder, don lope succeeded in entering isabel's house with several of his followers and carried her off--trusting to the general confusion to prevent interruption. as they were bearing her away across a little square in front of the church of san justo, don diego, on his way to see isabel, encountered them. "'leave that woman, ye cowards, and go your way!' he commanded, with drawn sword. and at that instant, by the light of the lamp which burned before the pictured christ of compassion on the church wall, he recognized isabel and don lope. "making a bold dash, he succeeded in freeing isabel and getting her into the shelter of an angle in the wall, just below the holy figure. but being there hemmed in by his adversaries, he felt himself, after a sharp fight in which he dealt numerous wounds, fainting from the severe thrusts he had himself received. fearing that he was mortally hurt, he raised his eyes to the shrine and prayed: 'o god, not for me, but for her, manifest thy pity! i am willing to die, but save her!' "then a marvellous brilliance streamed out from the thorn-crowned head, and instantly, propelled by some unseen force, diego found himself and isabel pushed through the solid wall behind them, which opened to receive them into the sanctuary, and closed again to keep out the assassins. don lope rushed forward in pursuit, and in his rage hacked the stones with his sword as if to cut his way through. the marks made in the stone by his weapon are still to be seen there." the compassionate face still looks down from the shrine, and little sign-boards announce indulgences to those who pray there: "señor don luis maria de borbon, most illustrious señor bishop of carista, grants forty days' indulgence to all who with grief for their sins say, 'lord have mercy on me!' or make the acts of faith, charity, and hope before this image, praying for the necessities of the church." altogether i computed that a good catholic could by a half-hour's industry secure immunity for two hundred and twenty days, or nearly two-thirds of a year. it is to be feared that the toledans are too lazy to profit even by this splendid chance. the majority of people here who can command a daily income of ten cents will do no work. numbers of the inhabitants are always standing or leaning around drowsily, like animals who have been hired to personate men, and are getting tired of the job. every act approaching labor must be done with long-drawn leisure. men and boys slumber out-of-doors even in the hot sun, like dogs; after sitting meditatively against a wall for a while, one of them will tumble over on his nose--as if he were a statue undermined by time--and remain in motionless repose wherever he happens to strike. business with the trading class itself is an incident, and resting is the essence of the mundane career. nevertheless, the place has fits of activity. when the mid-day siesta is over there is a sudden show of doing something. men begin to trot about with a springy, cat-like motion, acquired from always walking up and down hill, which, taken with their short loose blouses, dark skins, and roomy canvas slippers, gives them an astonishing likeness to chinamen.[ ] the slip and scramble of mule hoofs and donkey hoofs are heard on the steep pavements, and two or three loud-voiced, lusty men, with bare arms, carrying a capacious tin can and a dipper, go roaring through the torrid streets, "hor-cha-ta!" then the cathedral begins wildly pounding its bells, all out of tune, for vespers. the energy which has broken loose for a couple of hours is discovered to be a mistake, and another interval of relaxation sets in, lasting through the night, and until the glare of fiery daybreak, greeted by the shrill whistling of the remorseless pet quail, sets the insect-like stir going again for a short time in the forenoon. because of such apathy, and of a more than the usual latin disregard for public decency, the streets and houses are allowed to become pestilential, and drainage is unknown. enervating luxury of that sort did well enough for the romans and moors, but is literally below the level of castilian ideas. in the midst of the most sublime emotion aroused by the associations or grim beauty of toledo, you are sure to be stopped short by some intolerable odor. [illustration: "men and boys slumber out-of-doors even in the hot sun."] the primate city was endowed with enough of color and quaintness almost to compensate for this. we never tired of the graceful women walking the streets vestured in garments of barbaric tint and endlessly varied ornamentation, nor of the men in short breeches split at the bottom, who seemed to have splashed pots of vari-colored paint at hap-hazard over their clothes, and insisted upon balancing on their heads broad-brimmed, pointed hats, like a combination of sieve and inverted funnel. there was a spark of excitement, again, in the random entry of a "guard of the country," mounted on his emblazoned donkey-saddle, with a small arsenal in his waist sash, and a couple of guns slung behind on the beast's flanks, ready for marauders. even now in remembrance the blots on toledo fade, and i see its walls and towers throned grandly amid those hills that were mingled of white powder and fire at noon-tide, but near evening cooled themselves down to olive and russet citron, with burning rosy shadows resting in the depressions. [illustration: a strange funeral.] one of the first spectacles that presented itself to us will remain also one of the latest recollections. between san juan de los reyes and the palace of roderick we met unexpectedly a crowd of boys and girls, followed by a few men, all carrying lighted candles that glowed spectrally, for the sun was still half an hour high in the west. a stout priest, with white hair and a vinous complexion, had just gone down the street, and this motley group was following the same direction. somewhat in advance walked a boy with a small black and white coffin, held in place on his head by his upraised arm, as if it were a toy; and in the midst of the candle-bearers moved a light bier like a basket-cradle, carried by girls, and containing the small waxen form of a dead child three or four years old, on whose impassive, colorless face the orange glow of approaching sunset fell, producing an effect natural yet incongruous. a scampering dog accompanied the mourners, if one may call them such, for they gave no token of being more impressed, more touched by emotion, than he. the cradle-bier swayed from side to side as if with a futile rockaby motion, until the bearers noticed how carelessly they were conveying it down the paved slope; and the members of the procession talked to each other with a singular indifference, or looked at anything which caught their random attention. as the little rabble disappeared through the puerta del cambron, with their long candles dimly flaming, and the solemn, childish face in their midst, followed by the poor unconscious dog, it seemed to me that i beheld in allegory the departure from toledo of that spirit of youth whose absence leaves it so old and worn. [illustration] _cordovan pilgrims._ i. [illustration: t] the house of purification, as the great mosque at cordova was called, used to be a goal of pilgrimage for the moors in spain, as mecca was for mohammedans elsewhere. their shoes no longer repose at its doors, but other less devout pilgrims now come in a straggling procession from all quarters of the globe to rest a while within its fair demesne--hallowed, perhaps, as much by the unique flowering of a whole people's genius in shapes of singular loveliness as by the more direct religious service to which it has been dedicated and re-dedicated under conflicting beliefs. it was with peculiar eagerness, therefore, that we set out on our way. an american who was following the same route had joined us--a man with ruddy, bronzed cheeks and iron-gray hair, whom i at first should have taken for the great-grandson of a spanish inquisitor, if such a thing were possible. his iron persistence and the intensity of his prejudices were in keeping with that character--the only trouble being that the prejudices were all on the wrong side. whetstone (as he was called) shared our eagerness in respect of cordova, though from different motives. he hailed each new point in his journey with satisfaction, because it would get him so much nearer the end; for the reason he had come to spain was, apparently, to get out of it again. "i don't see what i came to spain for," whetstone would observe to us, dismally; and, for that matter, we could not see either. "if there ever _was_ a god-forsaken country--why, look at the way a whole parcel of these men at the dinner-table get out their cigarettes and smoke right there, without ever asking a lady's leave! i'd like to see 'em try it on at home! wouldn't they be just snaked out of that room pretty quick?" he had under his care a young lady of great sensibility, a relative by marriage, accompanied by her maid; and the maid was a colored woman of the most pronounced pattern. altogether our pilgrim party embraced a good deal of variety. the young american girl, being a catholic, was really a palmer faring from shrine to shrine. rarely a convent or a chapel escaped her; she sipped them all as if they had been flower-cups and she a humming-bird, and managed to extract some unknown honey of comfort from their bitterness. it was like having a novice with us. [illustration: whetstone.] the night journeys by rail, so much in vogue in spain, have their advantages and their drawbacks. at castillejo, a junction on the way to cordova, we had to wait four hours in the evening at a distance of twenty miles from the nearest restaurant. the country around was absolutely desolate except for tufts of the _retamé_--a sort of broom with slim green and silvered leaves, which grows wild, and, after drying, is used by the peasants as a substitute for rye or wheat flour. only two or three houses were in sight. the tracks with cars standing on them, and the unfinished look of the whole place, made us feel as if we had by mistake been carried off to some insignificant railroad station in illinois or missouri. the only resource available for dinner was a _cantineria_, or drinking-room, where a few blocks of tough bread lent respectability to a lot of loaferish wine-bottles, and some uninviting sausages were hung in gloomy festoons, with a suspicious air of being a permanent architectural fixture intended as a perch for flies. the spaniards invent little rhymed proverbs about many of their villages, and of one insignificant andalusian hamlet, brenes, the saying is, "if to brenes thou goest, take with thee thy roast." but castillejo seems to be an equally good subject for this warning. we recalled how lavishly, on the way to toledo, we had presented bread, meat, and strawberries to some country folk who were not in the habit of eating, and how ardently they had thanked us. as we passed their house in returning it was closed and lifeless, and we were convinced that they had died of a surfeit. how willingly would we now have undone that deed! however, after making some purchases from an extremely deaf old woman who presided over such poor supplies as the place afforded, we asked her if she could have coffee prepared. "if there is enough in the house," she replied to our interrogatory shrieks. accordingly, we carried a table out under some trees on the gravel platform, to eat _al fresco_. [illustration: coffee at castillejo.] when we found ourselves in this way for the first time thrown back on the spanish sausage, we resisted that unsympathetic substance with all the vigor of despair. but, aided by some bad wine, an interesting conversation with the novice, and the glow of a sunset sky that looked as if strewn with fading peony petals, we recovered from the shock caused in the beginning by a mingled flavor of garlic, raisins, and pork. in truth, there was something enjoyable about this wild supper around which our quartette gathered in the dry, dewless twilight. an ancient female, resembling a broken-down medea, came out and kindled a fire of brushwood beyond the track, swung a kettle there, and cooked our coffee, bending over the flame-light the while with her scattered gray tresses, and wailing out doleful _peteneras_, the popular songs of spain. the songs, the fire, the wine, the strange scene, were so stimulating that we were surprised to find all at once the dark vault overhead full of stars, the comet staring at us in its flight above the hills, and our ten-o'clock train nearly due. the next morning we were in a region totally unlike anything we had seen before, excepting for the ever-present mountain ranges wild as the pyrenees or guadaramas. the light of dawn on these barren spanish mountain-sides, drawn up into peaks as sharp as the points of a looped-up curtain, produces effects indescribable except on canvas and by a subtle colorist. the bare surfaces of rock or dry grass and moss, and the newly reaped harvest fields lower down, blend the tints of air and earth in a velvet-smooth succession of madder and faint yellow, olive and rose and gray, fading off into a reddish-violet at greater distances. these eminences are a part of the sierra morena, where don quixote achieved some of his most noteworthy feats--the liberation of the galley-slaves, the descent into the cave of montesinos, the capture of mambrino's helmet, and the famous penance. so weird is the aspect of these desolate hills, enclosing silent valleys in which narrow tracts of woods are harbored, that i suspected it would be easy to breed a few don quixotes of reality there. craziness would become a necessary diversion to relieve the monotony of existence. [illustration: primitive thrashing.] a winding river-bed near by was bordered by tufted copses of oleander in full flower, and hedges of huge serrated aloe guarded the roads. on the hill-sides a round corral for herds would occasionally be seen. in the fields the time-honored method of threshing out grain by driving a sort of heavy board sledge in a circle over the cut crop, and of winnowing by tossing up shovelfuls of the grain-dust into the breezy air, was in active operation. by-and-by the olive orchards began. as far as we could see they stretched on either side their ranks of round dusty green tree-heads. thousands of acres of them--one grove after another: we travelled through fifty miles of almost unbroken olive plantations, until we fancied we could even smell the fruit on the boughs, and our eyes were sick and weary with the sameness of the sight. then the river, which from time to time had shown its muddy current in curves and sweeps, moving through the land at the bottom of what might have been an enormous drain, turned out to be the famous guadalquivir, which, as ford vividly puts it, "eats its dull way through loamy banks." at last cordova, seated in an ample plain--cordova, in vanished ages the home of seneca, lucan, averroës, and the poet juan de mena--cordova, white in the dry and gritty sun-dazzled air, with square, unshadowed two-story houses, overlooked by the bell-tower of its incomparable mezquita cathedral: a cheerful southern city, maintaining large gardens, abounding in palms and myrtles and orange and lemon trees; possessing, moreover, clean streets of perceptible width. [illustration: while the women are at mass.] after the "interpreter," or hotel guide, the beggar: such is the order in these spanish towns, and not seldom the guide is merely a bolder kind of beggar. two or three of the most frantically miserable and loathsome charity-seekers i ever saw surrounded our omnibus as we awaited our baggage, and stuffed their hideous heads in at the windows and door, concentrating on us their fire of appeals. velveteen had heard that the sovereign remedy for these pests was to treat them with consummate politeness and piety. "pardon me, brother, for god's sake!" was the deprecatory formula which had been recommended, and he now proceeded to recite this, book in hand. unfortunately it took him about five minutes to get it launched in good style and pure spanish, during which time the beggars had an opportunity entirely to miss the sense. a few grains of tobacco dropped into the hat of one of them were more efficacious, for they had the result of mystifying him and hopelessly paralyzing his analytical powers. finally the guide, coming with the baggage, recognized his rivals, and drove them off. at several places on the way we had seen our twin military persecutors waiting for us, sometimes with white havelocks, and again in glazed hat-covers and capes. "are they disguising themselves, so as to fall upon us unawares?" i asked my friend. we determined not to be deceived, however, by the subtle device. these spanish police-soldiers go through more metamorphoses in the linen and water-proof line than any troops i know. it must be excessively inconvenient to run home and make the change every time a slight shower threatens; and invariably, as soon as they get on their storm-cover, the sun begins to shine again. on our arrival they seemed to have made up their minds to arrest us at once; they came striding along toward us in duplicate, one the fac-simile of the other, and we gave ourselves up for lost. but just as they were within a few paces, their unaccountable policy of delay caused them to deviate suddenly, and march on as if they hadn't seen us. "one more escape!" sighed velveteen, fervently. strangely enough, the languor which we had left in the middle of the kingdom, at toledo, was replaced in this more tropical latitude by great activity. the shop streets presented a series of rooms entirely open to the view, where men and women were busily engaged in all sorts of small manufacture--shoes, garments, tin-work, carpentering. they were happy and diligent, as if they had been animated writing-book maxims, and sung or whistled at their tasks in a most exemplary manner. [illustration: water-stand in cordova.] "cordovan leather" still holds it own, on a petty scale, and the small cups hammered out of old silver dollars constitute, with filigree silver-work, a characteristic local product. the faces of the people betrayed their gypsy blood oftentimes, and there was one street chiefly occupied by the romany folk. traces of blond or light chestnut hair showed that the moorish stock had likewise left some offshoots that do not die out. the whole aspect of cordova presents at once a reflex of the refined and enlightened spirit of the ancient caliphate. everybody, including most of the beggars, has a fresh and cleanly appearance; the very priests undergo a change, being frequently more refined in feature and of a more tolerant expression than those of the north. the women set off their rosy brown complexions and black hair with clusters of rayed jasmine blossoms, flattened and ingeniously fixed in rosette form on long pins. the men, discarding those hot felt hats so obstinately worn in the central provinces, make a comfortable and festive appearance in their curling panamas. on the street of the great captain--the chief open-air resort, commemorating gonsalvo of cordova, who led so ably in the triumphant christian campaigns--the people laugh and chat as if they really enjoyed life. there is a great deal of wealth in the place, and the lingering atmosphere of its past greatness is not depressing, as that of toledo is, for it was never the home of bigotry and ignorance. its prosperous epoch under abdur-rahman and his ommeyad successors was one of brilliant civilization. it was then a nursery of science and the arts; its inhabitants numbered a million. it had mosques by the hundred, and nearly a thousand baths--for the spanish moors well knew the civilizing virtue of water, and kept life-giving streams of it running at the roots of their institutions. the houses of the modern city are very plain on the exterior, and their common coat of whitewash imparts to them a democratic equality, though aristocracy is still a living thing there, instead of having sunk into pitfalls of squalor and idleness, as in the sombre city by the tagus. "but now the cross is sparkling on the mosque, and bells make catholic the trembling air." [illustration: the gay coster-mongers of andalusia.] gloomy little churches crop out in every quarter, and a few convents of nuns remain, where you may hear the faint, sad litany of the unseen sisters murmured behind the grating, while a priest chants service for them in the lonely chapel. the bells of these churches and of the mosque-cathedral are hardly ever silent; the brazen jargon of their tongues echoes over the roofs at all hours, and the hollow, metallic tinkle of mule-bells from the otherwise silent streets at times strikes one as making response to them. the beauty of the cathedral--still called the mezquita (mosque)--lies almost solely in the preservation of its original moorish architecture. [illustration: the mezquita.] the site was first occupied as a place of worship by the roman temple of janus, and this in turn became a basilica of the gothic christians. abdur-rahman, after the christians had long been allowed by the caliphs to continue their worship in one half of the basilica, reared the supremely wonderful house of purification as it now stands; and then, after the conquest by ferdinand and isabella, in the reign of charles v., the cumbrous high altar and choir, which choke up so much of the interior, transformed it once more into a stronghold of christian ceremonial. but when you enter at the gate of pardon the long, wide court of oranges, you find yourself transported instantly to mohammedan surroundings; you are under the dominion of the ommeyades. [illustration: relic peddlers.] high walls hem in this open-air vestibule, where rows of orange-trees rustle their dense foliage in the warm wind. their trunks are corpulent with age, for some of them date back to the last moorish dynasty, and at one end stands the tank where followers of the prophet washed themselves before entering in to pray. the gate of pardon, under the high-spired bell-tower, takes its name from the custom which obtained of giving criminals refuge by its portal. the murderer who could fly hither and gain the central aisle of the temple, directly opposite the gate across the court, was safe for shelter by the mihrab, or inner shrine, at the farther end of the aisle. all the nineteen aisles formerly opened from the fragrant garden, though catholic rule gives access by only three; but inside one sees at a glance the vast consecrated space which was so freely open to the mussulmans--an interior covering several acres, not very lofty, yet imposing from its exquisite proportions. a wilderness, a cool, dark labyrinth of pillars from which light horseshoe arches rise, broken midway for the curve of another arch surmounting each of these, spreads itself out under the roof on every hand--grove of stone in a cave of stone stretching so far that the eye cannot follow its intricate regularity, its rare harmony of confusion. the rash christian renovators who, overruling the protest of the city, undertook to remodel so exceptional a monument, covered the arches with whitewash; but many of them have been restored to the natural hues of their red and white marble. imagine below them the pillars, smooth-shafted and with fretted capitals. of old there were _twelve hundred_ of them supporting the gilded beams and incorruptible larch of the roof, and a thousand still stand. each is shaped from a single block, and many quarries contributed them. jasper and porphyry, black, white, and red, emerald and rose marble, are all represented among them; though with their diversity they have this in common, that from the pavement up to about the average human height they have been worn dark, and even smoother than the workmen left them, by the constant touching and rubbing and leaning of generations who have loitered and worshipped in the solemn twilight that broods around them. a large number were appropriated from the old roman temple which stood on the spot; others were plundered from temples at ancient carthage; still others were brought entire from constantinople. they typify the different powers that have been concerned in the making and unmaking of spain, and one could almost imagine that in every column is concealed some petrified warrior of those conflicting races, waiting for the spell that shall bring him to life again. [illustration: the garden of the alcazar.] on the surface of one of these marble cylinders is scratched a rude and feeble image of christ on the cross, hardly noticeable until pointed out. it is said to have been traced there by the finger-nail of a christian captive who was chained to the pillar when it formed part of a dungeon somewhere else. he had ten years for the work, and enjoyed the advantage of a tool that would renew itself without expense whenever it began to wear out. i must say that we were touched by this dim record of the dead-and-gone prisoner's silent suffering and faith. the shock of doubt struck us only when, in another part of the mosque, we came upon another pillar against the wall, bearing an exact reproduction of the finger-nail sculpture, and furthermore provided with a holy-water basin and a lamp burning under the effigy of the captive, who appears to have been canonized. "how is this?" i asked the guide. "here is the same thing over again!" he scrutinized me carefully, taking an exact measure of my credulousness, before he replied, "ah, but the other is the real one!" it all seems to depend on which pillar gets the start. [illustration: priest and purveyor.] [illustration: flowers for the market.] but there is no deception whatever connected with the inner mihrab, where there is a marvellous alcove marking the direction of mecca, on the east. its ceiling, in the shape of a quarter-globe, is cut from a single great piece of marble, which is grooved like a shell. and when the light from candles is thrown into this arab chapel it glances upon elaborate enamelling on the surface, the vitreous glaze of minute and almost miraculous mosaic making it flash and sparkle with rays of the ruby, the emerald, the topaz, and diamond. there in the dusk the glittering splendor scintillates as brilliantly as it did eight hundred years ago, and shoots its beams upon the unwary eye as if it were a cimeter of the defeated race suddenly unsheathed for vengeance. in this place was kept the wondrous koran stand of al-hakem ii., which cost a sum equal now to about five million dollars. it disappeared a while ago--mislaid, it should seem, by some sacristan of orderly habits who was clearing up the rubbish, for no one appears to know where it went to. the sacred book within it was incased in gold tissue embroidered with pearls and rubies, and around the spot where it was enshrined the solid white marble floor is unevenly worn into a circular hollow, where the servants of the prophet used to crawl seven times in succession on their hands and knees. this homage was paid by the brother of the emperor of morocco only a few years since, when he visited spain, and indulged the luxurious woe of weeping over the fair empire his people had lost. the bewildering arabesques, the lines of which pursue and lose each other so mysteriously about the shrine, managing to form pious inscriptions in their intricate convolutions--by an exception to all other hispano-arabic decoration, which employs only stucco--are wrought in marble, frigid and stern as death, but embossed into a living grace as of vine tendrils. whetstone had been remarkably silent after entering the mezquita. i fancied that he did not wholly approve of it. but after we had looked long at this epitome of the beautiful which i have just tried to sketch, he observed, impartially, in turning away, "i tell you, those fellows knew how to chisel some!" he had merely been trying to reduce the facts to their lowest terms. priests and boys were marching with crucifixes from the choir as we came away: the incense rolled up against the lofty smoke-dimmed altar; and the mild-faced celibate who played the organ sent harmonies of unusually rich music (performed at our guide's special request) reverberating among the thousand-columned maze of low arches. but my fancy went back to the time when gold and silver lamps had shed from their perfumed oils the only illumination there, and when the jewelled walls, smouldering in the faint light, had looked down upon the prostrate forms of robed and turbaned zealots. then we passed out through the court of oranges into the street, with those forty towers of the cathedral wall again seen standing guard around it, and found ourselves once more in modern cordova. [illustration: travellers to cordova.] the breath of the south, the meridional aroma, welcomed us. the scent of the air in the neighboring alcazar garden would of itself have been enough to tell us, in the dark, that we had entered andalusia. that was beyond question a most delectable spot. a sort of fortress-prison bordered it, and immediately on the other side of the prison-wall blossomed the garden, where lemons and oranges and bergamot clambered rankly against the bricks, perfuming the whole atmosphere, and overblown roses dropped from their vines on to the paths. there were hedges of rosemary, and trees of pimento, and angular ribs of prickly cactus, carefully trained. from a balustraded terrace higher up descended a stone flight of steps, the massive stone guard of which on each side was scooped out so as to make a mossy bed for two streams of water perpetually flowing down and losing themselves in the secret courses that ministered to little scattered fountains, or laved the roots of the verdant tangle. now and again a lizard darted from point to point, like an evil thought surprised in the heart of so much sweetness and freshness. everywhere there was a cool gush and ripple of water, and some wide-spreading fig-trees made a pleasant bower in a bastion of the low garden-wall overlooking the famous river. from this post of vantage one can see the thick brown current slowly oozing by, and the ancient bridge which spans it, fortified at both ends, connecting the cordova of to-day with the opposite bank, where the ancient city extended for two or three miles. with its great arched gate, roman made and finely sculptured, this mellow light brown structure forms an effective link in the landscape, and below its piers stand several moorish mills, disused, but as yet unbroken by age or floods. we drove across the venerable viaduct afterward, and found that by an extraordinary dispensation some very fresh and shining silver coins of ancient rome had lately been dug up from one of the shoals in the river (a peculiar place, by-the-way, to bury them in), and that our guide had some in his pocket. we forbore to deprive him of such treasures, however, even at the very trifling price which he put upon them, and contented ourselves with being swindled by him in a subsequent purchase of some other articles. ii. from cordova may be made, by those who are especially favored, one of the most interesting expeditions possible to the hermitage, or, as the church authorities name it, the _desierta_ (desert) of solitary monks, genuine anchorites, a few miles distant in the sierra morena. there are obstacles more formidable than the purely physical ones in the way of this excursion, the bishop of the diocese being averse to granting permission for the visit to any one who is not a good catholic. two englishmen who came before us, relying on the potent gold piece, had made the toilsome ascent only to find that their sterling sovereigns were of no avail. i think the presence of the novice helped our party; but it would be unwise to reveal the stratagem by which we all gained admittance. let it be enough to say that we went to the bishop's palace after the usual hours of business, and by humble apologies obtained an audience with the secretary. while we were waiting we sat down under a frivolously gorgeous rococo ceiling, on a great double staircase of marble leading up from the _patio_, which was well planted with shrubs, and had walks paved with smooth round stones of various hue, set edgewise in extensive patterns. the vaulted ceiling resounded powerfully with every remark we made, which had the result of subduing our conversation to whispers, for an attendant soon came to warn us that the bishop was asleep, and that we must not speak loud on account of the echo. profiting by the great man's siesta, we extracted the desired permission from his severe-faced but courteous secretary, who marked the document "especial." [illustration: "arrÉ, burr-r-rico!"] our brief cavalcade of donkeys started the next morning at five, after we had taken a preternaturally early cup of chocolate. the donkeys appeared to know just where we were going, and would not obey the rein: the driver, walking behind, governed them by a system of negatives, informing them with a casual exclamation when they showed signs of turning where he didn't want them to. "advance there, baker!" he would cry. "don't you know better than that? what a wretched little beast! do as i tell you." the animal in question was named bread-dealer, or baker, and the one that i rode rejoiced in the eccentric though eminently literary appellation of "college." "to the right, college!" our muleteer would shout, exercising a despotic power over my four-footed institution of learning. "get up, little mule. _arré burr-r-rico!_" firing off a volley of _r_'s with a tremendous rising and falling intonation, which invariably moved the brute to take one or two rapid steps before dropping back into his customary slow walk. as the heat increased, and the way grew steeper, he sighed out his "arré"--gee up--in a long, melancholy drawl, which seemed to express profound despair concerning the mulish race generally. muleteers in spain are termed generically, from this surviving arabic word, _arrieros_, or, as we may translate it, "gee-uppers." in this manner we made our way along the dusty road among olive orchards, and a sort of oak called _japarros_, until we began to mount by a rough, stony path which sometimes divided itself like the branches of a torrent, though we more than once succeeded in prodding the donkeys into a lively canter. the white façades of villas--_quintas_ or _carmens_ they are denominated hereabout--twinkled out from nooks of the hills; but at that early hour everything was very still. we could almost _see_ the silence around us. higher up, unknown birds began to sing in the sparse boscage that clothed the mountain flank or clustered in its narrow dells. midway of the ascent, furthermore, baker, on whom velveteen was seated in solemn stride, with a blanket in place of saddle, paused ominously, and then began a nasal performance which shook our very souls. why a donkey should bray in such a place it is hard to determine, but _how_ he did it will forever remain impressed on our tympana. there was something peculiarly terrible and unnerving in the sound; and just as it ceased, our guide, manuel, observed that this had once been a great place for robbers. "a few years ago," said he, "no one would have dared to come up along this road as we are doing." he added that the marauders used to conceal themselves in the numerous caves in the region, and pointed out one fissure in the rocks which his liberal imagination converted into the entrance of a subterranean retreat running for several miles into the heart of the mountains. at the same instant, looking down across a gorge below our track, i saw a man with a gun moving through a patch of steep olives, as if to head us off at a point farther along; and on a jutting rock-rib above us a memorial cross rose warningly. crosses were formerly put up in the most impossible places among these hills, to mark the spot where anybody fell a victim to bandits or assassins; a fact of which the elder dumas makes telling use in one of his short stories.[ ] brigands were themselves punctilious in setting up these reminders, which were held to exert an expiatory influence. if any one would understand how hopelessly the spanish mind at one time perverted the relations of crime and religion, he may read calderon's "devotion of the cross," wherein the hero, eusebio, a terrible renegade who murders right and left, born at the foot of one of these way-side crosses, is saved by his reverence for the holy symbol. he is enabled, by virtue of this pious sentiment, to rise up after he is dead, walk about, and confess his sins to a friar; after which he is caught up into heaven! the whole conjunction was somewhat alarming, but manuel explained away our man with a gun by saying that he was merely one of the armed watchmen usually attached to country estates to protect crops and stock from depreciation. as for the bandits, they had now been quite dispersed, he declared, by the civil guard. that name, it is true, called up new fears for velveteen and myself as we thought of the two relentless men who were on our trail: but we knew that for the moment, at least, we were beyond their reach. at last we gained the very summit, and drew up under a porch at the walled gate of the desert, while a shower began to fall in large scattered drops, like the lingering contents of some gigantic watering-pot, but soon spent itself. our second pull at the mournful-sounding bell was answered by a sad young monk, who opened a square loop-hole in the wall, and asked our errand in a voice enfeebled by voluntary privations. after inspecting our pass, he told us, with a wan but friendly smile, that we must wait a little. it was friday, and we had to wait rather long, for the hermits were just at that time undergoing the weekly flagellation to which they subject themselves. but finally we were let in--donkeys, guide, _arriero_, and the colored maid "fan" sharing the hospitality. an avenue of tall, sombre, cypresses opened before us, leading to the main building and offices. the desert, in fact, was green enough; well supplied with olives and pomegranates; and hedges of the prickly-pear, with its thick, stiff leaves shaped like a fire-shovel, and heavy as wax-work, cinctured the isolated huts in which the brothers dwell each by himself. precisely as we came to a triangular plot in front of the entrance we were confronted by a skull set up prominently in a sort of pyramidal monument, giving force by its dusty grin to an inscription in spanish, which read: "as thou lookest, so once looked i: as i look now, so wilt thou appear hereafter. ponder upon this, and sin not." shortly beyond stood a catacomb above-ground, in which a number of defunct hermits had been sealed up. it also bore a legend, but in latin: "the day of death is better than that of birth." in the vestibule of the house these drastic reminders of mortality were supplemented by two allegorical pictures--hanging among some portraits of evanished worthies who had ended their penitential days there--two crude paintings which exhibited "the soul tortured by doubt," and "the soul blessed by faith." it was not altogether in keeping with the unworldly and ascetic atmosphere of this spiritual refuge, that a tablet in the wall should record, with fulsome abasement of phrase, how her most gracious majesty isabella ii. had, some few years ago, deigned to visit the desert, and how this stone had been placed there as a humble monument of her condescension. certainly, considering the ex-queen's character (if it may claim consideration), it is hard to see what honor the anchorites should find in her visiting their abode. a gray-haired brother, robed in the coarse and weighty brown serge which he is obliged to wear in winter and summer alike, received us kindly and showed us the expensively adorned plateresque chapel. he knelt and bowed nearly to the threshold before unlocking the door, crossed himself, and knelt again on the pavement within; then, advancing farther, he dropped down once more on both knees, and bent over as if he had some intention of using his good-natured, simple old head as a mop to polish the black and white marble squares, but ended by another cross, and moving his lips in noiseless prayer. the national manner of making the cross is peculiar: after the usual touching of forehead and breast, the spanish catholic concludes by suddenly attempting to swallow his thumb, and then as hastily pulling it out of his mouth again, to save it up for some other time. this movement, i suppose, emblemizes the eating of the consecrated wafer, but it makes a grotesque impression that is anything but solemn. at times you will also see him execute a unique triple cross, with strange passes and dabs in the air which might easily be mistaken for preliminary strategy directed against some erring mosquito engaged in guerilla warfare on his eyebrow. we were obliged, in conformity, to do as our catholic companions did--receiving the holy-water and making a simple cross--an act which, without being of their faith, one may perform with unsectarian reverence. brother esteban was on the watch to see that proper devotion was shown in this peculiarly sacred chapel, and in the midst of his adoration he turned quickly upon manuel, asking, "why don't you go down on _both_ your knees in the accustomed manner?" [illustration: the fruit of the desierta.] manuel, being a master of ready deception, answered, without an instant's delay, "ah, that is my misfortune! i lately had an accident to that leg" (indicating the one which had not sunk far enough), "and that is why it is not easy to get down on both knees." however, he spread his handkerchief wider, and painfully brought the offending member into place. esteban frankly apologized, and then the praying went on again. when we got out into the corridor, and our monkish friend was well in advance, black fan's repressed heresy broke into a startling reaction. she dipped her hand again and again into the basin of holy-water, wastefully dropping some of it on the floor, and began outlining unlimited crosses from her sable forehead downward--covering her breast with an imaginary armor of them--enough to keep her supplied for a month, and proof against every possible misfortune. her broad grin of delight, exposing her vermilion lips and white teeth like a slice of unripe watermelon, added to the horror of the situation, and i protested against such uncouth profanity. "might's well keep goin' now i begun," she chuckled in reply. "i's 'fraid i'll forgit how!" she was making another plunge for the font, when our pale, gentle-featured novice stopped her in mid-career. fortunately good esteban had not observed this small orgy going on. he was as pleasant as ever when we went with him into a little room to buy rosaries and deposit some silver pieces for charity; and there he made farther and profuse apologies to manuel. "of course you see it was impossible i should know there was anything the matter with your leg," he said, quite plaintively. and manuel accepted his contrition with double pleasure because he knew it to be wholly undeserved. the hermits, as i have said, have their separate cottages scattered about the grounds, each with a small patch of land to be cultivated. there they raise fruit, which their rules forbid them to eat, and so it is carried down as a present to some wealthy cordovan families who support the hermitage by their largesses. every day poor folk toil up from the plain, some five miles, to this airy perch, and are fed by the monks; but they themselves eat little, abstaining from meat, wine, coffee, tea--everything, indeed, except some few ounces of daily bread, a pint of _garbanzos_ (the tasteless, round yellow bean which is the universal food of the poor in spain), and a soup made of bread, water, oil, and garlic. they live on nothing and prayer. they rise at three in the morning, and thrice a week they fast from that hour until noon. their step is slow, and their voices have a strange, inert, sickly sound; but they appeared cheerful enough, and joked with each other. i asked esteban the name of a tiny yellow flower growing by the path, and he couldn't tell me; but he plucked it tenderly, and began discoursing to manuel on its beauty. "_tan chiquita_," he said, in his poor soft voice. "so _little, little_, and yet so precious and so finely made!" another brother was deeply absorbed in snipping off bits of coiled brass wire with a pair of pincers. "these are for the 'our fathers,'" he explained, meaning the large beads in the rosary, separated from the smaller "ave maria" ones by links of wire. the cottages or huts, surrounded by an outer wall, contain a cell, sometimes cut out of a bowlder lying on the spot, where there is a rude cot, a shelf for holy books and the crucifix, and a grated window, across which waves, perhaps, the broad-leaved bough of a fig-tree. an anteroom, provided with a few utensils and the disciplinary scourge hanging mildly against the wall, completes the strange interior. the lives of the hermits of the sierra are reduced to the ghastly simplicity of a skeleton; a part of their time is spent in contemplating skulls, and they have a habit of digging their own graves, in order to keep more plainly before their minds the end of all earthly careers. mistaken as all this seems to many of us, there was a peacefulness about the hermitage for which many a storm-tossed soul sighs in vain; and i am glad that some few creatures can find here the repose they desire while waiting for death. some of the hermits are men of rank, who have retired hither disheartened with the world; others are low-born--men afflicted by some form of misfortune or misdemeanor of their own, who wish to hide from life; but all assemble in a pure democracy of sorrow and penitential piety, apparently contented. we breakfasted at ten in a room hospitably put at our disposal, the windows of which admitted a delicious breeze and opened upon a magnificent view of the plain far below, where the distant city rested like a white mist--an impalpable thing. brother josé brought some olives, to add to the refection which our sumpter-mule had carried to this height. they had a ripe, acid, oily flavor, which made one think of homely things and of patient housewives in remote american hills, who lead lives as monotonous, as self-denying and unnoticed as those which pass on this ridge of the sierra in andalusia. our novice thought the olives had "a holy flavor;" and i could understand her feeling. find me a site more fitted for meditation on the volatility of mundane things than this eyry on the mountain-head overlooking the historic valley! there lies cordova, a mere spot in the reach of soft citron and straw-tinted fields; and the guadalquivir, winding like a neglected skein of tawny silk thrown down on the mapped landscape. the plain is calm as oblivion. it is oblivion's self; for there the earth has absorbed cordova the old, so that not a vestige remains where compressed masses of human dwellings once stood. they are crumbled to an indistinguishable powder. that soft autumnal soil has swallowed up the bones of unnumbered generations, and no trace of them is left. we imagined the glittering legions of cæsar as they moved slowly through the country, flashing the sun from their compact steel, at that time when they put to the sword twenty-five thousand inhabitants of the city, which had sided with pompey. we saw the moors once more envelop it with arms and banners and the fluttering of snowy garments. but all these vanished again like a moving cloud, or a smoke from burning stubble; and the sun still pours its uninterrupted flood of splendor over the land, bringing life and bringing death, with impartial ray. [illustration: memento mori.] the spanish word for "crowded" or "populated" is still used to signify "dense" in any ordinary connection, as the phrase _barba poblada_, for a thick beard, testifies. the implication is that, when there is any population at all, it must be crowded; a direct transmission, apparently, from periods when inhabitants clustered in immense numbers around the centres of civil power for safety. and the word holds good to-day; for one finds, in the present shrunken human force of the peninsula, closely packed assemblages of people in the towns and cities, with wide domains of comparatively untenanted country around. when night closed above us again in the city; when mellow lamps glowed, and a tropical fragrance flowed in from the gardens; when in the long dusky pauses of warm nocturnal silence the watchman's weary and pathetic cry resounded, or hollow-toned church-bells rung the hour, the romance of cordova seemed to concentrate itself, and fell upon me, as i listened, in chords that took this form: flower of spain. like a throb of the heart of midnight i hear a guitar faintly humming, and through the alcazar garden a wandering footstep coming. a shape by the orange bower's shadow-- whose shape? is it mine in a dream? for my senses are lost in the perfumes that out of the dark thicket stream. 'mid the tinkle of moorish waters, and the rush of the guadalquivir, the rosemary breathes to the jasmine, that trembles with joyous fear. and their breath goes silently upward, far up to the white burning stars, with a message of sweetness, half sorrow, unknown but to souls that bear scars. here, midway between stars and flowers, i know not which draw me the most: shall my years yield earthly sweetness? shall i shine from the sky like a ghost? a spirit i cannot quiet bids me bow to the unseen rod; i dream of a lily transplanted, to bloom in the garden of god. yet the footsteps come nearer and nearer; still moans the soft-troubled strain of the strings in the dusk. well i know it: 'twas called for me "flower of spain." ah, yes! my lover he made it, and called it by my pet name: i hear it, and--i'm but a woman-- it sweeps through my heart like a flame. the night's heart and mine flow together; the music is beating for each. the moon's gone, the nightingale silent; light and song are both in his speech. as the musky shadows that mingle, as star-shine and flower-scent made one, our spirits in gladness and anguish have met: their waiting is done. but over the leaves and the waters what echoes the strange clanging bells send afloat from the dim-arched mezquita! how mournful the cadence that swells from the lonely roof of the convent where pale nuns rest! on the hill, far off, the hermits in vigil are bowed at the crucifix still; and the brown plain slumbers around us.... o land of remembrance and grief, if i am truly the flower, how withered are you, the leaf! [illustration: difficult for foreigners.] [illustration: the jasmine girl.] there was a good deal of discussion among our group of pilgrims as to the propriety of a foundation like the hermitage of the sierra continuing to exist in an age like the present one. whetstone, who had declined to visit it, was of opinion that men who led such idle lives should be suppressed by law, and even went so far as to talk about hanging them. so singular a theory, emanating from a citizen of a free republic, met with some opposition; but this was not pushed too far, because we understood that whetstone kept a hotel at home, and dreaded lest some day we should be at his mercy. as for the rest of us, it was not easy to pronounce that we were of much more value than the hermits; and assuredly those earnest ascetics compared favorably with our mule-driver, who was remarkable only for an expression of incipient humor that was never able to attain the height of actual expression. i was sure that, as he sighed out his final "arré" in this world, he would pass into the next with that vacant smile on his face, and the joke which he might have perpetrated under fortunate circumstances still unuttered. nor did the average life of cordova strike us as signally indispensable to the world's progress. it was doubtless a very pleasant, lazy life so far as it went, and we did not decide to hang the inhabitants! they have a charming fashion there of building houses with pleasant interior courts, in which the _sclinda_, a vine with pale lavender clusters of blossoms suggesting the wistaria, droops amid matted foliage, and lends its grace alike to crumbling architecture or modern masonry. in these courts, separated from the street by gates of iron grating beautifully designed, you will see pleasant little domestic groups, and possibly a whole dinner-party going on in the fresh air. it was likewise agreeable to repair to a certain restaurant--restored in the moorish manner--and there, while clapping hands echoed through the light arcades, drink iced beer and lemon--a refreshing beverage, which might reasonably take the place of fiery punches (in america) for hot weather. "neither will i deny," said velveteen, "that it is a wonderful sensation to stray into the plaza de geron paez and come up suddenly against that glorious old roman gate--growing up as naturally as the trees in front of it, but so much more wonderful than they--with its fine crumbling yellow traceries. how nicely it would tell in a sketch, eh, with some of the royal grooms--the _remontistas_--walking through the foreground in their quaint costumes!" the men to whom he referred wear, in the best sense, a thoroughly theatrical garb of scarlet and black, finished off by boots of cordovan leather in the style of sixteenth-century spain, turned down at the top, laced, tasselled, and slashed open by a curve that runs from the side down to the back of the heel. this shows the white stocking under short trousers, giving to the masculine calf and ankle a grace for which they are usually denied all credit. for the rest, dwellers in modern cordova attend mass and vespers, stroll around to the confectioners' of an afternoon to eat sweetmeats, especially sugared _higochumbos_ (the unripe prickly-pear boiled in syrup), or the famed and fragrant preserve of budding orange-blossoms known as _dulces de alzahar_; and the remainder of the time they while away pleasantly in loitering on the street of the great captain, or in peering from their windows at whatever passes beneath. throughout the kingdom, it should be said, a most extraordinary persistence will be observed in dawdling, strolling, and general contemplation. the spaniard appears to be born with his legs in a walking position, and with loaded eyes that compel him to look out of the window whether he wants to or not. one of the more remarkable observations, finally, that i collected in cordova came from manuel. it was his reflection as he gazed down from the desierta into the plain: "ah, that was where john dove (juan palom) did such splendid things!" he sighed. "you don't know about john dove? well, he was one of the _very greatest_ men spain ever had; he was a robber--and oh, what a beautiful robber!" _andalusia and the alhambra._ i. [illustration: s] seville--why should we not keep the proper and more euphonious form, sevilla?--the home of that don juan on whom byron and mozart have shed a lustre more enviable than his reputation, has been made familiar to every one by melodious figaro as well; and more lately mérimée's carmen, veiled in the music of bizet, has brought it into the foreign consciousness again. to me it is memorable as the place where i saw the jars in which the forty thieves were smothered. worried by a painfully profuse odor that filled the whole street, one day i sought the cause, and found it in an olive-oil merchant's _tienda_, where there were some terra-cotta jars of the exact form given in the story-books, and afflicted with elephantiasis to such a degree that one or two men could easily have hidden in each. i am sure they were the same into which morgiana poured the boiling oil, though why it should have been heated is inexplicable: the smell alone ought to have been fatal. a prouder distinction is that sevilla is the capital of andalusia, that gayest and most diversified province of spain; the native ground of the bull-fight and breeder of the best bulls; a region abounding in racy customs and characteristics. the sea-going phoenicians, who bear down on us from so many points of the historical compass, found in andalusia an important trading field. its mountains are still stored with silver, copper, gold, lead, which have yielded steady tribute for thousands of years. in its breadths of sun-bathed plain and orange-mantled slope the ancients placed their elysian fields. goth and roman, moor and spaniard, struggled for the mastery of so rich a possession; and meanwhile sevilla, the favorite of cæsar--his "little rome"--lay at the core of the fruitful land, herself careless in the main as to everything except an easy life, with plenty of singing and love-making. from climate and history, nevertheless, from art and the mingling of antipodal races, sevilla received those influences which have shaped her into the bizarre and eminently spanish creation that she is--a visible memory of the past, and a sparkling embodiment of the present. society, amusement, and religious awe are the controlling aims of the people, blended with revolutionary politics, and great liveliness in their increasing commerce. the songs of andalusia pervade the whole kingdom; its dances--_cidarillos_, _manchegas_, _boleros_, the _cachuca_, and the wildly graceful _sevillanas_--enjoy an equal renown. to accept sevilla without disappointment, however, a robust appreciation is needed. its squalors and splendors are impartially distributed. luxurious mansions are dropped down indiscriminately among mean abodes and the homes of dirt. poverty and showiness, supreme beauty and grotesque ugliness, jostle each other at close quarters. it is a sort of _olla podrida_ among cities; but the total result is exceedingly curious, and piques the observation. [illustration: main entrance to the cathedral, sevilla from a photograph by j. laurent & co., madrid.] [illustration: the giralda tower. from a photograph by j. laurent & co., madrid.] the first of it that met our eyes was the giralda tower of the cathedral, rising in unique majesty above the unseen town, and as if inspired with a fresher grace by its own fame. if the bronze female figure of faith on the summit could have spoken, it might have said: "in all the range of view from this pinnacle there is nothing so fair as sevilla." the very next object of notice was a woman in the street, who began begging from below the instant we set foot on the balcony for a general survey. she gave us our money's worth of misery, but the supply afterward proved too great for our demand. the mendicants of sevilla are much more daring and pertinacious than their craft elsewhere. they call your attention with a sharp "tst, tst," as if you were hired to go through life casually, stopping the instant they summon you. there was in particular one energetic man who never failed to pounce upon us from his lair, and place some few inches in front of us the red and twisted stump from which his hand had been severed. he had seemingly persuaded himself that our journey of several thousand miles was undertaken principally to inspect this anatomical specimen. the amount of execution he did with that mutilated member was enough to shame any able-bodied, self-supporting person. with a single wave of it he could put us to flight. the effect would not have been more instantaneous if he had suddenly unmasked a mitrailleuse a yard from our noses. to assume unconsciousness was futile, for, whichever way we turned, he was always (it would hardly be correct to say "on hand," but) on time with his fingerless deformity--he always placed it, with the instinct of a finished artist, in the best light and most effective pose--getting it adroitly between us and anything we pretended to look at. i imagined the noble cathedral might afford a refuge from such attacks, but every door was guarded by a squad of the decrepit army, so that entrance there became a horror. these sanctuary beggars serve a double purpose, however. the black-garbed sevillan ladies, who are perpetually stealing in and out noiselessly under cover of their archly draped lace veils--losing themselves in the dark, incense-laden interior, or emerging from confession into the daylight glare again--are careful to drop some slight conscience-money into the palms that wait. occasionally, by pre-arrangement, one of these beggars will convey into the hand that passes him a silver piece a tightly-folded note from some clandestine lover. it is a convenient underground mail, and i am afraid the venerable church innocently shelters a good many little transactions of this kind. [illustration: the "underground" mail.] nothing can surpass in grandeur, in solemn and restful beauty, the hollow mountain of embellished stone which constitutes this cathedral. it does not present the usual cross shape, but is based upon the oblong form of an old mosque, originally formed somewhat like that at cordova, but now wholly gone, excepting for the unequalled giralda, and a few other minor muezzin towers. the court of oranges is another relic of the mosque-builders, where clumps of polished leafage contrast their own vivid strength with the energetic lines of flying-buttresses in the background--a florid yet melancholy height of trellised stone. the enclosing walls of the orange court, made of firmly cohering mud, or _tapia_, are tipped with flame-pointed battlements. at their eastern end rises the tall, square giralda, with a serenity in its simple lines expressing, like greek temples, the satisfied senses controlled by an elevated mind. the lower portion bears other impress of its moorish origin in variously patterned courses of sunken brick; but the whole tower terminates in a filigree christian spire of the sixteenth century, with a row of queer rusty iron ornaments, imitating vases filled with flowers, placed on the ledge above the belfry at the spire's base. then, as you continue the circuit on the east, you arrive opposite the apse curve marking the chancel of the chapel royal; and here the wall is moulded to the taste of charles v.'s time, which affected roman simplicity and weight, adding to it a trace of feudal pomp in high-relief coats of arms. on the third and south side a crumbling frieze of deer's heads and flower garlands skirts the cornice above a long plain front, the straight-ness of which our friend whetstone, clambering up on a low coping so as to squint along the side, and see if the lines were perfectly true, admired more than anything else. afterward one reaches a corner where the work remains unfinished, and the blackened trunks of incomplete pinnacles in graded ranks suggest the charred fragments of a faith once all afire, now darkened and cold. there is no all-dominating dome; but there are two or three bulbous upheavals in the roof, some spindling turrets on the north, and a square elevation in the middle revealing the form of the transept. the whole top is ribbed with stone, serrated with ornate crockets, crowded with bosses and small spires, or edged with a double balustrade mimicking in its flame-points a thousand altar lights. petrified rosettes and spiral wreathings project from the sides in unchangeable efflorescence, and great arches, furrowed around by concentric ripples of carving, and sometimes overpeered by quaint terra-cotta heads, give entrance to the interior of the gigantic marvel. and over all towers the giralda to a height of three hundred and fifty feet, surmounted by the giraldillo vane--a woman's form, which turns its twenty-five hundred-weight of bronze from point to point at the slightest veering of the wind. but the consummate wonder of this great fabric, under which prostrate ages seem to crouch while lifting it to heaven, is the union of diverse styles and spirits in its construction. the different schools conglomerated in such an exterior give the cathedral a great and mysterious power of variety; yet, decided though their contrasts are, the effect is not harsh. it bears witness to the truth that the spirit of man when attuned to the mood of sincere worship, however unlike its expression may be at different epochs and through different races, will always make a certain grand inclusive harmony with itself. the coolness of the lofty and umbrageous aisles within is not penetrated by the fiercest summer heats; but their religious twilight, though inciting to a devout and prayerful sentiment, wraps in obscurity the crowded works of art, the emblazoned _retablos_, the paintings of murillo, campaña, and morales, and the costly ornaments bestowed upon the high altar, as well as those of some thirty side-chapels. in the central nave, before a shrine at the choir-back, lies the tomb of ferdinand, son of christopher columbus. the colossal form of another christopher, the saint, lifts itself up the wall to a height of thirty-two feet, near the gate of the exchange. whoever looks upon st. christopher, to him no harm shall come during that day; hence this worthy is a common object in spanish cathedrals, and always painted so large that no one who diligently attends mass can possibly miss seeing him. a curious relic on the chapel royal altar is the battle virgin, a small ivory image which king ferdinand the sainted always carried in war firmly fixed on his saddle-bow. there, too, the king himself, embalmed, is preserved in a chiselled silver case, to be uncovered and shown three times a year with great pomp of military music. a life-size virgin with movable joints and spun-gold hair watches over him, but did not prevent his crown from being stolen a few years ago. not far away murillo's san antonio hangs, the chief figure in which was also stolen, being cut out in , as many who read this will remember, and carried to new york, where it was recovered. innumerable other works and wonders there are, and the sacristies contain great value of goldsmiths' products; but, unless it be made a subject of long artistic study, the fundamental charm of the cathedral consists in its general aspects, its mysterious perspectives, its proportions so simple and grandiose; the isolated pictures formed at almost any point by jewelled and candle-lit chapels sparkling dimly through a permanent dusk, rainbowed here and there by the light from old stained windows. from the giralda, which is mounted by inclined planes in place of stairs, one looks down upon the glorious building as if it were something belonging to a lower and different world. all around, beyond, the mazy city flattens itself out in a confusion of white walls and tiled roofs, that look like the armored backs of scaly monsters huddled sluggishly in the powerful sunshine, with impossible streets among them reduced to mere thin lines of shadow. the tawny river touches it; palaces and gardens and abandoned monasteries fringe it. quite near you see the tower of gold--a surviving outwork of the moorish defences--which was formerly coated with orange-colored tiles on the outside, while the inside furnished a repository for treasure brought from the new world. a crenellated moorish fortification rises up dreamily at one point, but finding itself out of date, abruptly subsides again. farther out are the seven suburbs, including the gypsy and sailor quarter, the triana; and then the plains stretch into an immense area of olive, gold, and white, reaching to mountains on the north and east. a multitude of doves inhabit the spire, and there is almost always a hawk sailing above it, higher than anything else under the cloudless sky. at the base lives the bell-ringer, through whose stone-paved dining-room and nursery, filled with his family, we had to pass in order to ascend. once, as we stood toward sunset in the high gallery where the bells are hung in rectangular or arched apertures, we heard the _repique_ sounding the angelus. it was a furious explosion of metallic resonance. twenty bells on swinging beams, that throw the echoing mouths outward through the openings, and two fixed in place within, of which santa maria--profanely called the fat one--is the largest: such is the battery at command. they are not all used at once, however, for the angelus. the ringer and his two sons were satisfied with touching up santa catalina (of a tone peculiarly deep and acceptable), st. john the baptist, san josé, and one or two others. the whole brazen family have been duly baptized, among them being san laureano and san isidoro, named after the special patrons of sevilla. one after another their tongues rolled forth a deafening roar, in a systematic disorder of thunderous tones, while the chief ringer went about unconcernedly with a smouldering cigarette in his lips. one of his sons, after uncoiling the twisted rope around the beam of san laureano, thus getting it into violent motion, watched his chance, sprung on to the beam, agile as a cat, and stood there while it rocked, the bell under him swinging out at each turn, over the open square below. it was three hundred feet, down to the pavement, and the least slip would have sent him down to it like a handful of dirt. his conception of what would please us, nevertheless, led him thoroughly to unnerve us by repeating the performance several times. "why don't the high-priest, or whatever he is, go on and finish up this church?" asked whetstone of the guide. "seems to me it's about time." "the priest? he don't want to," was vincent's answer, given with a movement of the fingers meant to imply the receiving of money. "it make too good excuse." our conductor, who i am sure was a sceptic, went on to declare that within the last ten years ninety thousand dollars had been left by will for carrying on the unfinished portion of the cathedral, but as yet no movement to begin the work had been made. "where all that money go?" he asked, innocent curiosity overspreading his features, while his eye gleamed with hidden intelligence. "what do the people think of the priests?" one of us asked. "the chimneys[ ] will find out some time," he replied; adding, in the proverbial strain common with spaniards: "when the river comes down from the mountains, it brings stones." "by the river, you mean revolution? but you've had that before." the conclusive answer to this was a maxim borrowed from the ring: "the fifth bull is never a bad one" (meaning, "success comes to those who wait"). our guide's english was put to a severe strain in the alcazar, a palace largely oriental, with interiors that outshine the alhambra in resplendent color and gilding. there is, in particular, one round-domed ceiling constructed with an intricacy of interdependent supports, cones, truncations, dropping cusps, which is counterpoint made plastic; and in its inverted cup-like cysts the burnished gold glows like clotted honey. but, for all that, it does not equal the matchless alhambra in arrangement, variety, or poetic surroundings. the memory of king pedro the cruel is closely connected with this alcazar. from it he used to make night sallies into the town, by means of what vincent termed a "soup-tureen passage," which brought him up through a trap-door somewhere in the thick of his subjects. pedro, who lived in the fourteenth century, was a monarch of a severely playful disposition. he used to have the heads of people that were obnoxious to him cut off, and hung up over the lintel of his dressing-room door, where he could look at them while he was putting in his shirt-studs, or whenever he felt bored. in the extensive gardens, half eastern and half mediæval, behind the palace, among the box and myrtle planted in forms of heraldic devices, among the palms and terraces and fountains, there run long paths, secretly perforated in places for fine jets of water. these are the traces of a still more ingenious amusement invented by pedro. from a place of concealment he would watch until the ladies of the court, when promenading, had got directly over one of his underground--i mean "soup-tureen"--fountains, then he would turn a faucet, and drench them with a shower-bath from below. there are other palaces in sevilla, of which the duke of montpensier's san telmo is the chief, and a model of uninteresting magnificence, aside from the valuable collection of old spanish masters which it contains. these pictures were sent to boston for a loan exhibition during the last revolution in spain, in ; and although their aggregate worth is easily surpassed by the pictures preserved at the public gallery of sevilla and at the caridad hospital, the duke of montpensier's possessions embrace a masterly portrait of velazquez, by himself (repeated in the museo at valencia), and a charming "madonna of the swaddling clothes," by murillo. san telmo was formerly a nautical college, having been founded by the son of christopher columbus. [illustration: a street corner.] but the long succession of apartments through which the visitor is ushered suggests no association with the former maritime prowess of spain; it is haunted rather by the failures and disappointments of its owner, who, missing the throne on which his foot had almost rested, lived to see his daughter, queen mercedes, die, and another daughter mysteriously follow mercedes into the grave after being plighted to the reigning king. the grounds attached to the palace are very large, and filled with palms, orange-trees, and other less tropical growths; and they may be inspected, under the guidance of a forester armed with an innocuous gun, by anybody who, after getting permission, is willing to pay a small fee and tire himself out by an aimless ramble. sevilla, where murillo was born and spent so many years of artistic activity in the height of his powers, is the next best place after madrid for a study of the sweetest among spanish painters. his house still stands in the jews' quarter, and a few of his best works are kept in the picture-gallery; among them the one which he was wont to call "my picture"--"st. thomas of villanueva giving alms." like the "saint elizabeth" at madrid, it is a grand study of beggary--vagabondism as you may see it to-day throughout spain, but here elevated by excellent design, charming sympathy with nature, and the resources of a delightful colorist, into something possessing dignity and permanent interest--qualities which the original phenomenon lacks. murillo is pure, sincere, simple, but never profound; though to this he perhaps approaches more nearly in his "st. francis embracing the crucified saviour" than in any other of his productions. like others of his pictures in sevilla, however, it is painted in his latest style, called "vaporoso," which, to my thinking, marks by its meretricious softness of hazy atmosphere, and its too free coloring, a distinct decadence. in the church connected with the caridad are hung two colossal canvases, one depicting the miracle of the loaves and fishes, the other, moses striking the rock. this last is better known by its popular title, "the thirst," which pays tribute to its masterly portrayal of that animal desire. in the suffering revealed by the faces of the israelites, as well as the eager joy of the crowd (and even of their beasts of burden) on receiving relief, there is a dramatic contention of pain and pleasure, for the rendering of which the naturalistic genius of the artist was eminently suited--and he has made the most of his opportunity. the representation is terribly true; and its range of observation culminates in the figure of the mother drinking first, though her babe begs for water; for this is exactly what one would expect in spanish mothers of her class, whose faces are lined with a sombre harshness, a want of human kindness singularly repellent. such a picture is hardly agreeable; and it must be owned that, excepting in his gentle, honest "conceptions," and a few other pieces, murillo shares the earthiness of his national school, the effect of which, despite much magnificence in treatment, is on the whole depressing. [illustration: figaro.] the house of pilate, owned by the duke of medina celi, is quite another sort of thing from san telmo; a roomy, irregular edifice, dating from the sixteenth century, but almost wholly saracenic. the walls are _repoussés_ in fine arabesques, and sheathed at the base with old color-veined tiles that throw back the light in flashes from their surface. these also enamel the grand staircase, which makes a square turn beneath a roof described as a _media naranja_--natural spanish music for our plain "half-orange"--the vault of which is fretted cedar cased in stucco. at the top landing is posted a cock in effigy, representing the one that crowed witness to peter's denial. again, a balcony is shown which stands for that at which pilate washed his hands before the people; and in fine, the whole place is net-worked with fancies of this kind, identifying it with the scene of christ's trial. for it was the whim of the lordly founder to make his house the starting-point for a via crucis, marking the path of jesus on his way to crucifixion, and these devices were adopted to heighten the verisimilitude of the scene. in passion-week pilgrims come to pray at the several "stations" along the route to the figurative calvary at the end of the via. into the duke of montpensier's garden stare the plebeian, commercial--let us hope unenvious--windows of the government tobacco factory; an enormous building, guarded like a fort to prevent the smuggling out of tobacco. indeed, every one of the three thousand women employed is carefully watched for the same purpose as she passes forth at the general evening dismissal. mounting the broad stairs of stone, i heard a peculiar medley of light sounds in the distance. if a lot of steam-looms were endowed with the faculty of throwing out falsetto and soprano notes instead of their usual inhuman click, the effect could not be more uninterrupted than this subdued merry buzzing. it was the chatter of the working-girls in the cigarette room. as we stepped over the threshold these sounds continued with _crescendo_ effect, ourselves being taken for the theme. at least one hundred girls fixed their attention on us, delivering a volley of salutations, jokes, and general remarks. "what do you seek, little señor? you will get no _papelitos_ here!" exclaimed one, pretty enough to venture on sauciness. "french, french! don't you see?" another said; and her companions, in airy tones, begged us to disburse a few _cuartos_, which are cent-and-a-quarter pieces. there was one young person of a satirical turn who affected to approve a very small beard which one of us had raised incidentally in travelling. she stroked her own smooth cheek, and carolled out, "what a pretty barbule!" they certainly were not enslaved to conventionality, though they may be to necessity. they seemed to enjoy themselves, too. their eyes flashed; they broke into laughter; they bent their heads to give effect to the regulation flat curls on their temples, and all the time their nimble fingers never stopped filling cigarettes, rolling the papers, whisking them into bundles, and seizing fresh pinches of tobacco. in all there were three or four hundred of them, and some of them had a spendthrift, common sort of beauty, which, owing to their southern vivacity and fine physique, had the air of being more than it really was. at first glance there appeared to be a couple of hundred other girls hung up against the walls and pillars; but these turned out to be only the skirts and boots of the workers, which are kept carefully away from the smouch of the cigarette trays, so as to maintain the proverbially neat appearance of their wearers on the street. some of the women, however, were scornful and morose, and others pale and sad. it was easy to guess why, when we saw their babies lying in improvised box-cradles or staggering about naked, as if intoxicated with extreme youth and premature misery, or as if blindly beginning a search for their fathers--something none of them will ever find. we laid a few coppers in the cradles, and went on to the cigar-room. it was much the same, excepting that the soberness of experience there partially took the place of the giddiness rampant among the cigarette girls. there were some appalling old crones among the thousand individuals who rolled, chopped, gummed, and tied cigars at the low tables distributed through a heavily groined stone hall choked with thick pillars, and some six hundred or seven hundred yards in length. others, on the contrary, looked blooming and coquettish. many were in startling deshabille, resorted to on account of the intense july heat, and hastened to draw pretty _pañuelos_ of variegated dye over their bare shoulders when they saw us coming. here, too, there was a large nursery business being carried on, with a very damaged article of child, smeary, sprawling, and crying. nor was it altogether cheering to observe now and then a woman who, having dissipated too late the night before, sat fast asleep with her head in the cigar dust of the table. "_ojala!_ may god do her work!" cried one of her friends. if he did not, it was not because there was any lack of shrines in the factory. they were erected here and there against the wall, with gilt images and candles arrayed in front of a white sheet, and occasionally the older women knelt at their devotions before them. i don't object to the shrines, but it struck me that a good _crèche_ system for the children might not come amiss. as to the factory-girls smoking cigarettes in public, it is an operatic fiction: no such practice is common in spain. and the beauty of these carmens has certainly been exaggerated. it may be remarked here that, as an offset to occasional disappointment arising from such exaggerations, all spanish women walk with astonishing gracefulness, a natural and elastic step; and that is their chief advantage over women of other nations. even the chamber-maids of sevilla were modelled on a heroic, ancient-history plan, with big, supple necks, and showed such easy power in their movements that we half feared they might, in tidying the rooms, pick us up by mistake and throw us away somewhere to perish miserably in a dust-heap. why there should be so much inborn ease and freedom expressed in the manner of women who are guarded with oriental precautions, i don't know. andalusian fathers have, no doubt, the utmost confidence in their daughters, but at the same time they save them the trouble of taking care of themselves by putting iron gratings on the windows. the _reja_, the domestic gittern, is very common in sevilla. the betrothed suitor, if he is quite correct, must hold his tender interviews with his mistress through its forbidding bars. my companion actually saw a handsome young fellow standing on the sidewalk, and conducting one of these peculiar _tête-à-têtes_. [illustration: "stone walls do not a prison make, nor iron bars a cage."] every house is, furthermore, provided with a _patio_. the façades, as a rule, are monotonous and unspeakably plain, but the poorest dwelling always has its airy court set with shrubs, and perhaps provided with water. they are tiled, as most rooms are in spain--a good precaution against vermin, which unluckily is not infallible as regards fleas, which search the traveller in spain even more rigorously than the customs officers or the civil guards. the flea is still and small, like the voice of conscience, but that is the only moral thing about him. in the peninsula i found him peculiarly unregenerate. as to these patios, the well-to-do protect them from the open vestibule leading to the street by gates of ornamental open iron, letting the air-currents play through the unroofed court, and sometimes with movable screens behind the gate. chess-tables and coffee are carried out there in the evening, and the music-room gives conveniently upon the cool central space. in sevilla, if you hear a shrill little bell tinkling in the street, do not imagine that a bicycle is coming. one day a slight tintinnabulation announced the approach of a funeral procession, headed by two gentlemen wearing round caps and blue gowns, on which were sewed flaming red hearts. one bore a small alms-basket; the other rung the bell to attract contributions. it appears that this is the manner appointed for sundry brothers who maintain the caridad, a hospital for indigent old men. the members, though pursuing their ordinary mode of life, are banded for the support of the institution. necessarily rich and aristocrats, it matters not: when one of them dies, he must be buried by means of offerings collected on the way to his grave. this caridad, let me add, was founded by don miguel de manera, a friend of don juan, and a reformed rake. his epitaph reads: "here lie the ashes of the worst man that ever was." i suspect a lingering vanity in that assertion, but at any rate the tombstone tries hard _not_ to lie. fashionable society, after recovering from its mid-day siesta, and before going to the theatre or ball, turns itself out for an airing on las delicias--"the delights"--an arbored road running two or three miles along the river-side. nowhere can you see more magnificent horses than there. their race was formerly crossed with the finest mettle of barbary studs, and their blood, carried into kentucky through mexico, may have had its share in the victories of parole, iroquois, and foxhall. a more strictly popular resort is the new plaza, where citizens attend a concert and fireworks twice a week in summer, and keep their distressed babies up till midnight to see the fun. they are less demonstrative than one would expect. an american reserve hangs over them. perfect informality reigns; they saunter, chat, and laugh without constraint, yet their enjoyment is taken in a languid, half-pensive way. in the various foot-streets where carriages do not appear--the most notable of which is the winding one called simply sierpes, "the serpents"--the same quietude prevails. lined with attractive bazar-like shops, and overhung by "sails" drawn from roof to roof, which make them look like telescopic booths, these streets form shady avenues down which figures glide unobtrusively: sometimes a cigarette girl in a pale geranium skirt, with a crimson shawl; sometimes a lady in black, with lace-draped head; and perhaps an erroneous man in a heavy blue cloak, saving up warmth for next winter; or a peasant re-arranging his scarlet waist-cloth by tucking one end into his trousers, then turning round and round till he is wound up like a watch-spring, and finally putting his needle-pointed knife into the folds, ready for the next quarrel. [illustration: in "the serpent."] once we caught sight of two belted forms with carbines stealing across the alley, far down, as if for a flank movement against us. oh, horror! they were the civil guards, who were always blighting us at the happiest moment. as they did not succeed in capturing us, we believed they must have lost themselves in one of the _calles_ that squirm through the houses with no visible intention of ever coming out anywhere. velveteen wanted to go and look for their bones, thinking they had perished of starvation, but i opportunely reflected that we might ourselves be lost in the attempt. no wonder assassination has been frequent in these narrow windings! once astray in them, that would be the easiest way out. shall we go to the thursday-morning fair, which begins, in order to avoid the great heats, at a.m.? come, then; and if we are up early, we may pass on the way through the low-walled market, gay with fruits, flowers, vegetables, where bread from alcalá in the exact pattern of buttercup blossoms is sold, and where, at a particularly bloody and ferocious stall, butchers are dispensing the meat of bulls slaughtered at the fights. the fair is held in fair street. a frantic miscellany of old iron, of clothing, crockery, mat baskets, and large green pine-cones full of plump seeds, which, when ripened, taste like butternuts, is set forth. full on the pavement is spread an array of second-hand shoes--the proverbial dead men's, perhaps--temptingly blacked. pale cinereous earthen vessels, all becurled with raised patterns like intelligent wax-drippings, but exceedingly well shaped, likewise monopolize the thoroughfare, put in peril only by random dogs, which, having quarrelled over the offal freely thrown into the street for them, sometimes race disreputably through the brittle ware. at apt corners old women have set up their frying-pans under bedouin tents, and are cooking _calentitos_--long coils of dough browned in hot olive oil--which are much sought as a relish for the matutinal chocolate. omnipresent, of course, are those water stalls that, in sevilla especially, acquire eminent dignity by their row of stout jars, and their complicated cordage rigged across from one house-top to another, so as to sustain shadowing canvas canopies. there is a great crowd, but even the fair is comparatively quiet, like the other phases of local life. the absence of wagon-traffic in the town creates, notwithstanding its reposeful character, a new relative scale of noises, and there is consequently good store of fretting attacks on the hearing in sevilla. with very early morning begins the deep clank of bells, under the chins of asses that go the rounds to deliver domestic milk from their own udders. there is no end of noise. even in the elegant dining-room where we ate, lottery-dealers would howl at us through the barred windows, or a donkey outside would rasp our ears with his intolerable braying. then the street cries are incessant. at night the crowds chafe and jabber till the latest hours, and after eleven the watchmen begin their drawl of unearthly sadness, alternating with the occult and remorseless industry of the mosquito; until, somewhere about dawn, you drop perspiring into an oppressively tropical dream-land, with the _sereno's_ last cry ringing in your ears: "hail, mary, most pure! three o'clock has struck." this is the weird tune to which he chants it: [illustration: musical notation: _a--ve ma--ri--a pur--is--si--ma! las tré--es han toc--ca--do._] ii. an english lady, conversing with a sevillan gentleman who had been making some rather tall statements, asked him: "are you telling me the truth?" "madam," he replied, gravely, but with a twinkle in his eye, "i am an andalusian!" at which the surrounding listeners, his fellow-countrymen, broke into an appreciative laugh. so proverbial is the want of veracity, or, to put it more genially, the imagination, of these southerners. their imagination will explain also the vogue of their brief, sometimes pathetic, yet never more than half-expressed, scraps of song, which are sung with so much feeling throughout the kingdom to crude barbaric airs, and loved alike by gentle and simple. i mean the _peteneras_ and _malagueñas_. there are others of the same general kind, sung to a variety of dances; but the ruling tunes are alike--usually pitched in a minor key, and interspersed with passionate trills, long quavers, unexpected ups and downs, which it requires no little skill to render. i have seen gypsy singers grow apoplectic with the long breath and volume of sound which they threw into these eccentric melodies amid thunders of applause. it is not a high nor a cultivated order of music, but there lurks in it something consonant with the broad, stimulating shine of the sun, the deep red earth, the thick, strange-flavored wine of the peninsula; its constellated nights, and clear daylight gleamed with flying gold from the winnowing-field. the quirks of the melody are not unlike those of very old english ballads, and some native composer with originality should be able to expand their deep, bold, primitive ululations into richer, lasting forms. the fantastic picking of the _mandurra_ accompaniment reminds me of chinese music with which i have been familiar. endless preludes and interminable windings-up enclose the minute kernel of actual song; but to both words and music is lent a repressed touching power and suggestiveness by repeating, as is always done, the opening bars and first words at the end, and then breaking off in mid-strain. for instance: "all the day i am happy, but at evening orison like a millstone grows my heart. all the day i am happy." [_limitless guitar solo._] it is like the never-ended strain of schumann's "warum?" the words are always simple and few--often bald. one of the most popular pieces amounts simply to this: "both lagartijo and frascuelo swordsmen are of quality, since when they the bulls are slaying-- o damsel of my heart! they do it with serenity. both lagartijo and frascuelo swordsmen are of quality." but such evident ardor of feeling and such wealth of voice are breathed into these fragments that they become sufficient. the people supply from their imagination what is barely hinted in the lines. under their impassive exteriors they preserve memories, associations, emotions of burning intensity, which throng to aid their enjoyment, as soon as the muffled strings begin to vibrate and syllables of love or sorrow are chanted. i recalled to a young and pretty spanish lady one line, "pajarito, tu que vuelas." she flushed, fire came to her eyes, and with clasped hands she murmured, "oh, what a beautiful song it is!" yet it contains only four lines. here is a translation: "bird, little bird that wheelest through god's fair worlds in the sky, [illustration: "all the day i am happy."] say if thou anywhere seest a being more sad than i. bird, little bird that wheelest." some of these little compositions are roughly humorous, and others very grotesque, appearing to foreigners empty and ridiculous. the following one has something of the odd imagery and clever inconsequence of our negro improvisations: "as i was gathering pine-cones in the sweet pine woods of love, my heart was cracked by a splinter that flew from the tree above. i'm dead: pray for me, sweethearts!" there was one evening in granada when we sat in a company of some two dozen people, and one after another of the ladies took her turn in singing to the guitar of a little girl, a musical prodigy. but they were all outdone by cándida, the brisk, naïve, handsome serving-girl, who was invited in, but preferred to stand outside the grated window, near the lemon-trees and pomegranates, looking in, with a flower in her hair, and pouring into the room her warm contralto--that voice so common among spanish peasant-women--which seemed to have absorbed the clear dark of andalusian nights when the stars glitter like lance-points aimed at the earth. through the twanging of the strings we could hear the rush of water that gurgles all about the alhambra; and, just above the trees that stirred in the perfumed air without, we knew the unsentinelled walls of the ancient fortress were frowning. the most elaborate piece was one meant to accompany a dance called the _zapateado_, or "kick-dance." it begins: "tie me, with my fiery charger, to your window's iron lattice. though _he_ break loose, my fiery charger, me he cannot tear away;" and then passes into rhyme: "much i ask of san francisco, much st. thomas i implore; but of thee, my little brown girl, ah, of thee i ask much more!" the singing went on: "in triana there are rogues, and there are stars in heaven. four and one rods away there lives, there lives a woman. flowers there are in gardens, and beautiful girls in sevilla." nevertheless, we had been glad to leave sevilla, especially since during our stay an epidemic was in progress, graphically called "the minute," from its supposed characteristic of finishing off a victim ready for the undertaker in exactly sixty seconds after attacking him. the inhabitants of granada likewise seemed to be a good deal occupied in burying themselves--a habit which became confirmed, no doubt, during the wars and insurrections of their ancestors, and is aided to-day by bad sanitary arrangements. we saw a dead man being carried in the old moorish way, with his forehead bared to the sky, a green wreath on his head, his cold hands emerging from the shroud in their last prayer-clasp, and quite indifferent to the pitiless sun that beat down on them. but, perched as we were on the alhambra hill, high above the baking city, such spectacles were transient specks in the world of fascination that infolded us. [illustration: granada undertaker.] [illustration: the moorish gate, sevilla.] granada rests in what might pass for the happy valley of rasselas, a deep stretch of thirty miles, called simply the vega, and tilled from end to end on a system of irrigation established by the moslem conquerors. rugged mountains, bastions of a more than cyclopean earthwork, girdle and defend it. to penetrate them you must leave the hot rolling lands of the west, and confront steep heights niched here and there for creamy-hued villages or deserted castles, and sentried by small moorish watch-towers rising like chessmen on the highest crests. the olive-trees spread on wide slopes of tanned earth were like thick dots of black connected in one design, and seemed to suggest the possible origin of spanish lace. the shapes of the mountains, too, were extravagant. one of the most singular, the _peñon de los enamorados_, near antequera, showed us by accident at a distance the exact profile of george washington, with every detail after stuart, hewn out in mountain size and looking directly up into the heavens from a position of supine rigidity. our first intimation of a near approach to granada was a long stretch of blanched folds showing through evening mistiness in the southern sky, like the drapings of some celestial tabernacle, so high up that they might have been clouds but for a certain persistent, awful immobility that controlled them. their spectral whiteness, detached from the earth, hung, it is true, ten thousand feet above the sea-level; but they were not clouds. they were the summits of the sierra nevada, the great snowy range. twenty miles to the north of these frosty heights stands the alhambra hill, shrouded in dark trees, and dominated by the mountain of the sun. the names are significant--snowy range and mountain of the sun--for the landscape that unrolls itself between these ridges is a mixture of torrid glow and alpine coldness. i stood in a hanging garden delicious with aromatic growths, on the ramparts beside the great lookout tower, the city lying like a calcareous deposit packed in the gorge of the darro's stream below. across the vega i beheld that sandy pass of the hills through which boabdil withdrew after his surrender--the last sigh of the moor. fierce sunlight smote upon me, spattering the leaves like metal in flux; but the snow-fields mantling the blue wall of the sierra loomed over the landscape so distinct as to seem within easy hail, and i felt their breath in a sweet coolness that drifted by from time to time. the other mountains were bare and golden brown. but in their midst the mild vega, inlaid with curves of the river genil, receded in breadths of alternate green orchard and mellow rye, where distant villages are scattered "like white antelopes at pasture," says señor don contreras, the accomplished curator of the alhambra. it was not like a dream, for dreams are imitative; nor like reality, for that is too unstable. it was blended of both these, with a purely ideal strand. as i looked at the rusty red walls and abraded towers palisading the hill, the surroundings became like some miraculous web, and these ruins, concentring the threads, were the shattered cocoon from which it had been spun. the alhambra was originally a village on the height, perhaps the first local settlement, surrounded by a wall for defensive purposes. [illustration: a water-carrier.] the wall, which once united a system of thirty-seven towers, fringes the irregular edges of the hill-top plateau, describing an enclosure like a rude crescent lying east and west. at the west end the hill contracts to an anvil point, and on this are grouped the works of the citadel alcazaba, governed by the huge square lookout tower. on a ridge close to the south stand the vermilion towers, suspected of having been mixed up with the phoenicians at an early epoch, but not yet fully convicted by the antiquarians. the intervening glade receives a steep road from the city, and is arcaded with elms and cherries of prodigious size, sent over as saplings by the duke of wellington half a century ago. there the nightingales sing in spring-time, and in summer the boughs give perch to other songsters. ramps lead up to the top of the hill, and on the northern edge of its crescent, at the brink of the darro valley, the alhambra palace proper is lodged. we shall go in by the gate of justice, through a door-way running up two-thirds of its tower's height, and culminating in a little horseshoe arch, whereon a rude hand is incised--a favorite mohammedan symbol of doctrine. we pass a poor pictured oratory of the virgin, and some lance-rests of ferdinand v., to worm our way through the grim passage that cautiously turns twice before emerging through an arch of pointed brick with enamellings on argil, into the open gravelled place of the reservoirs. this is undermined by a fettered lake, generally attributed to the moors, but more probably made after isabella's conquest. on the right side, behind hedges and low trees, is reared that gray rectangular græco-roman pile which charles v. had the audacity to begin. his palace is deservedly unfinished, yet its intrusion is effective. it makes you think of the terror-striking helmet of unearthly size in the castle of otranto, and looks indeed like a piece of mediæval armor flung down here to challenge vainly the wise arabian beauty of the older edifice. to the place of reservoirs come in uninterrupted course all day the tinkling and tasselled mules that carry back to the city jars of fresh water, kept cool in baskets filled with leaves. and hither walk toward sunset the _majos_ and _majas_--dandies and coquettes--to stroll and gossip for an hour, even as we saw them when we were lingering at the northern parapet one evening and looking off through the clear air, in which a million rose-leaves seemed to have dipped and left their faint color. iii. the veritable entrance to the alhambra is now buried within some later buildings added to the original. but it never, though irving naturally supposed the contrary, had a grand portal in the middle. gorgeous and showy means of ingress would not have suited the oriental mind. the exterior of the palace and all the towers is dull, blank, uncommunicative. their coating of muddy or ferruginous cement, marked here and there by slim upright oblongs of black window spaces, was not meant to reveal the luxury of loveliness concealed within. the moslem idea was to secrete the abodes of earthly bliss, nor even to hint at them by outward signs of ostentation. so the petty modern door cut for convenience is not wholly out of keeping. it ushers one with a sudden surprise into the presence of those marvels which have been for years a distant enticing vision. you find yourself, in fact, wandering into the alhambra courts as if by accident. the first one--the court of the pond, or of the myrtles--arrays before us beauty enough and to spare. but it is only the beginning. a long tank occupies the centre, brimmed with water from a rill that gurgles, by day and night forever, with a low, half-laughing sob. around it level plates of white marble are riveted to the ground, and two hedges of clipped myrtle border the placid surface. at the nearest end a double gallery closes the court, imposed on seven arches so evenly rounded as to emulate the roman, but upheld by columns of amazing slenderness; and in the spandrels are translucent arabesques inlaced with fillets, radiating leaf-points, and loose knots. above these blink some square windows, shut as with frozen gauze by minute stone lattice-work, over fifteen hundred twisted or cubed pieces being combined in each. from there the women of the harem used to witness pageantries and ceremonies that took place in the court; and over the veiled windows is a roofed balcony repeating the lower arches, which would serve for spectators not under ban of invisibility. [illustration: bit of arch in a court of the alhambra. from a photograph by j. laurent & co., madrid.] various low doors lead from this court of the pond, giving sealed intimation of what may lie beyond, but disclosing little. one turns naturally, however, to the hall of ambassadors at the other end, in the mighty tower of comares. the transverse arcade at the entrance is roofed with shining vitreous-faced tiles of blue and white that also carry their stripes over the little cupola, to which many similar ones doubtless formerly surrounded the court, and in the cloister underneath the inmates reclined on divans glinting with rippled gold-thread and embroidered with colored silks. then comes the anteroom, the chamber of benediction (usually called of the boat, on account of its long, scooped ceiling), which is like the hollow of a capsized boat suspended over us, and darkened with deep lapis lazuli. there are some low doors in the wall, meant for the humble approach of slaves when serving their masters, or leading to lost inner corridors and stairways now fallen into dust. but the large central arch conducts at once into the hall of the ambassadors, after we have passed some niches in which of old were set encarmined water-jars of sweet-scented clay. beside these may have stood the carven racks for weapons of jewelled hilt and tempered blade. in the chamber of benediction begin those multitudinous arabesques by which the alhambra is most widely known. in the hall beyond they flow out with unimpeded grace and variety over the walls of an immensely high and nobly spacious apartment, pierced on three sides at the floor level with arched _ajimez_[ ] windows halved by a thin, flower-headed column, in the embrasures of which, enchased with cement, are mouldings that overrun the groundwork in bands, curves, diamonds, scrolls, delicate as the ribs of leaves or as vine tendrils. within these soft convolved lines, arranged to make the most florid detail tributary to the general effect, arabic characters twisted into the design contain outbursts of poetry celebrating the edifice, the room itself. "as if i were the arc of the rainbow," says one inscription in the hooped door-way, "and the sun were lord abul hachach." the windows look forth upon the sheer northern fall of the hill; the waving tree-tops scarcely rising to the balcony under the sills. they look upon old granada dozing below in the unmitigated sunlight, with here and there the sculptured columns of a _patio_ visible among the houses on the opposite slope; and farther away the sesame doors of gypsy habitations cut into the solid mountain above the darro. one of the most beautiful of glimpses about the alhambra is that through the east window, looking along the parapet gallery to the toilet tower. precipitous masonry plunges down among trees that shoot incredibly high, as if incited by the lines of the building; and on the mountain of the sun the irregular lint-white buildings of the generalife--an old retreat of moorish sovereigns and nobles--are lodged among cypresses and orange thickets. within the hall itself all is cool, subdued, and breezy, and the smooth vault of the larch-wood ceiling, still dimly rich with azure and gold, spans the area high overhead like a solemn twilight sky at night. it was in this tower of comares that the last king of granada, boabdil, was imprisoned with his mother, ayeshah, by his stormy and fatuous father, muley abul hassan, owing to the rival influence of the morning star, zoraya, hassan's favorite wife. boabdil escaped, being let down to the ground by the scarfs of his mother and her female attendants. years after, when he had succeeded to the throne for a brief and hapless reign, _el rey chico_ (the little king), as the spaniards called him, was led by his mother into the hall of ambassadors after he had capitulated to ferdinand and isabella. silently she made its circuit with him, and then, overcome with the bitterness of loss, she cried: "behold what thou art giving up, and remember that all thy forefathers died kings of granada, but in thee the kingdom dies!" [illustration: the toilet tower. from a photograph by j. laurent & co., madrid.] the hall of ambassadors is assigned to the epoch of the caliphate. certainly the court of lions is invested with a somewhat different character. its arches are more pointed, more nearly gothic, and are hung upon a maze of exquisitely slight columns, presenting, as you look in, an opulent confusion of crinkled curves and wavering ellipses, bordered with dropping points and brief undulations that look like festoons of heavy petrified lace: as lace, heavy; but as architecture, light. there is incalculable diversity in the proportions, unevenness in the grouping of the pillars, irregularity in the cupolas; yet through all persists an unsurpassable harmony, a sensitive equilibrium. the hall of justice, which opens from it, and contains--contrary to mohammedan principles--some mysterious early italian frescoes depicting moorish and christian combats, is a grotto of stalactites. all this part of the palace, one would say, might have sprung from the spray of those hidden canals which brought the snow-water hither, spouting up, then falling and crystallizing in shapes of arrested motion; so perfect is the geometrical balance, so suave are the flowing lines. the un-moorish lions sustaining the central basin are meagre and crude, and the size of the court is disappointing; but it is a miniature labyrinth of beauty. from one side you may pass into the hall of the abencerages, under the fine star-shaped roof of which a number of those purely arab-blooded knights are said to have been, at the instigation of their half-christian rivals, the zegris, assembled at a banquet and then murdered. an invitation to dinner in those days was a doubtful compliment, which a gentleman had to think twice about before accepting. on the other side lies the access to the chamber of the two sisters, a lovely apartment, having a grooved bed in the marble floor for a current of water to course through and run out under the zigzag-carven cedar door. everything is exactly as you would have it, and you seem to be straying through embodied reveries of bagdad and damascus. but it would be futile to describe the myriad traceries of these rooms; the bevelled entablatures, the elastic ceilings, displaying an order and multiplicity of tiny relief as systematic as the cells and tissues in a cut pomegranate; or the dadoes of colored tiles, still dimly glistening with glaze, and chameleonizing the base of the partitions. the culmination of microscopic refinement comes, with a sigh of relief from such an overplus of sensuous delight, in the boudoir of lindaraxa, which overlooks from a superb embayed window a little oasis of fountained court, blooming with citrons and lemons, and bedded with violets. that small garden, green and laughing, and interspersed with dark flower-mould, lies clasped in the branching wings of masonry, as simple and refreshing as a dew-drop. it is shut in on the other side by some mediæval rooms fitted up in heavy oak panelling for philip v. and his second bride, elisabetta, when with rare judgment they chose this islamitic spot for their honey-moon--a crescent, i suppose. it was in one of these rooms--the room of the fruits--that, to quote señor contreras again, "the celebrated poet washington irving harbored, composing there his best works." from which it will be inferred that the gallant spaniard has not probed deeply the "knickerbocker history of new york," the "sketch-book," and the "life of washington."[ ] [illustration: boudoir of lindaraxa] one may prolong one's explorations to the queen's toilet tower--who "the queen" was remains decidedly vague--poised like a lofty palm on the verge commanding the darro gorge. in one corner of its engirdling colonnade are some round punctures, through which perfume was wafted to saturate the queen's garments while she was dressing. or one may descend to the baths, vaulted in below the general level. their antechamber is the only portion which has been completely restored to its pristine magnificence of blue and gold, vermilion-flecked and overspreading the polygonal facets of stucco-work. i could imagine the sultan coming there with stately step to be robed for the bath by female slaves, then passing on wooden clogs into the inner chamber of heated marble, and at a due interval emerging to take his place on one of the inclined slabs in an outer alcove, enveloped in a _tcherchef_--his head bound with a soft silk muffler--there to devote himself to rest, sweetmeats, and lazy conversation. the alhambra palace is remarkable as being more persian than turkish, and reproducing many features that crop up in the architecture of india, syria, arabia, and turkey, yet incorporating them in an independent total. the horseshoe arch is not the prevailing one, though it occurs often enough to renew and deepen the impression of its unique effect. what makes this arch so adroitly significant of the east? possibly the fact that it suggests a bow bent to the extremest convexity. it is easy to imagine stretched between the opposite sides a bow-string--that handy implement of conjugal strangulation which no sultan's family should be without. part of the populous ancient settlement on the hill still exists in a single street outside of the palace, now inhabited by a more respectable population than that riffraff of silk-weavers, vagabonds, potters, smugglers, and broken-down soldiers who flourished there half a century since. a church stands among the dwellings. strolling up the street one moonlit night, we bought some blue and white wine-pitchers of granada-ware at a little drinking-shop, and saw farther on a big circle of some twenty people sitting together in the open air--one of those informal social clubs called _tertulias_, common among neighbors and intimate friends in all ranks of spanish society. at another spot a man was sleeping in the moonlight on a cot beside the parapet, with his two little indian-looking boys dreaming on a sheet laid over the ground. mateo ximenes, the son of irving's "son of the alhambra," lives in this quarter, officiating as a guide. thanks to "geoffrey crayon" he is prosperous, and has accordingly built a new square house which is the acme of commonplace. beyond the street, across some open ground where figs and prickly-pears are growing, stands the tower of the captive, where isabella de solis, a christian princess, being captured, was imprisoned, and became the wife of abul hassan. she was, in fact, the zoraya who became ayeshah's rival. dense ivy mats the wall between this and the tower of the princesses--a structure utilized by irving in one of his prettiest tales. both towers are incrusted interiorly with a perfection rivalling the palace chambers, and perhaps even more enchanting, but no vestige of coloring is left in them. to me this wan aspect of the walls is more poetic than any restoration of the original emblazonments. the pale white-brown surface seems compounded of historic ashes, and is imbued with a pathos, "like a picture when the pride of its coloring hath died," which one would be loath to lose. the sunlit and vine-clad decrepitude that sits so lightly on this magic stronghold--this "fortress and mansion of joy," as one of the mural mottoes calls it--is among its main charms. the most bitter opponent of any moorish return to power in granada would, i think, be the modern æsthetic tourist. i rambled frequently close under the old rufous-mottled walls, from which young trees sprout up lustily, and enjoyed their decay almost as much as i did the palace. at one point near the tower of seven stories (which has never quite recovered from being blown up by the french) there was a long stretch of garden where phlox and larkspur and chrysanthemums, that would not wait for autumn, grew rank among the fruit-trees. a moorish water-pipe near the top of the wall had broken, and, bursting through the brick-work, its current had formed a narrow cascade that tumbled into the garden through wavering loops of maiden-hair, and over mosses or water-plants which it had brought into life on the escarpment. grapes and figs rose luxuriantly about rings of box enclosing fountains, and at sunset some shaft of fire would level itself into the greenery, striking the gorgeous pomegranate blossoms into prominence, like scarlet-tufted birds' heads. all day there was a loud chir of cicadas, and a rain of white-hot light sifted through the leaves. but at night everything died away except the rush of water, which grew louder and louder till it filled the whole air like a ghostly warning. i used to wake long after midnight, and hear nothing but this chilling whisper, unless by chance some gypsies squatted on the road were singing _malagueñas_, or the strange, piercing note of the tree-toad that haunts the hill rung out in elfin and inhuman pipings of woe. for the builders who laid them here these running streams make a fit memorial--unstable as their power that has slipped away, yet surviving them, and remaining here as an echo of their voices, a reminder of the absent race which not for an hour can one forget in granada. but the supreme spell of the alhambra reserves itself for moonlight. when the madonna's lamp shone bright amid the ingulfing shadows of the tower of justice, while its upper half was cased in steely radiance, we passed in by charles's palace, where the moon, shining through the roofless top, made a row of smaller moons in the circular upper windows of the dark gray wall. in the court of the pond a low gourd-like umbellation at the north end sparkled in diamond lustre beneath the quivering rays; while the whole tower of comares behind it repeated itself in the gray-green water at our feet, with a twinkle of stars around its reversed summit. this image, dropped into the liquid depth, has dwelt there ever since its original was reared, and it somehow idealized itself into a picture of the tower's primitive perfection. the coldness of the moonlight on the soft cream-colored plaster, in this warm, stilly air, is peculiarly impressive. as for sound, absolutely none is heard but that of dripping water; nor did i ever walk through a profounder, more ghost-like silence than that which eddied in lindaraxa's garden around the fountain, as it mourned in silvery monotones of neglected grief. the moon-glare, coming through the lonely arches, shaped gleaming cuirasses on the ground, or struck the out-thrust branches of citron-trees, and seemed to drip from them again in a dazzle of snowy fire; and when i discovered my two companions looking out unexpectedly from a pointed window, they were so pale in the brilliance which played over them that for a moment i easily fancied them white-stoled apparitions from the past. as we glanced from the queen's peinador, where the black trees of the shaggy ascent sprung toward us in swift lines or serpentine coilings as if to grasp at us, we saw long shadows from the towers thrown out over the sleeping city, which, far below, caked together its squares of hammered silver, dusked over by the dead gray of roofs that did not reflect the light. but within the hall of ambassadors reigned a gloom like that of the grave. gleams of sharp radiance lay in the deep embrasures without penetrating; and, at one, the intricacies of open-work above the arch were mapped in clear figures of light on a space of jet-black floor. another was filled nearly to the top by the blue, weirdly luminous image of a mountain across the valley. through all these openings, i thought, the spirits of the departed could find entrance as easily as the footless night breeze. i wonder if the people who lived in this labyrinth of art ever smiled? in the palpitating dusk, robed men and veiled women seemed to steal by with a rustle no louder than that of their actual movement in life; silk hangings hung floating from the walls; scented lamps shed their beams at moments through the obscurity, and i saw the gleam of enamelled swords, the shine of bronze candlesticks, the blur of colored vases in the corners; the _kasidas_ of which poetry-loving monarchs turned the pages. but in such a place i could not imagine laughter. i felt inclined to prostrate myself in the darkness before i know not what power of by-gone yet ever-present things--a half tangible essence that expressed only the solemnity of life and the presentiment of change. iv. it is not surprising that isabella the catholic, who had so completely thrown her heart into the conquest of granada, should have wished to be buried in that city, though dying far away. her marble semblance rests beside that of ferdinand in the royal chapel, which serves as vestibule to the ugly renaissance cathedral. the statues are peculiarly impressive, and sleep on high sepulchres of alabaster, beautifully chased. both of them are placed with their heads where, if sentient, they might contemplate the astonishing reredos of the altar--a wooden mass piled to the roof, and containing many niches filled by figures carved, gilded, and painted with flesh-color. among them is john the baptist standing upright, with blood gushing from his severed neck, while the head which has just quitted it is being presented on a charger to herodias's daughter. there are other hideous things in this strange and brutal church ornament, which is a museum of monstrosities; but parts of it depict the triumphs of the royal pair, and it was no doubt accordant with their taste. their bodies lie in a black vault under the floor, which we visited by the light of a single candle. two long bulks of lead, with a simple letter f. on one and an i. on the other; that was all that marked the presence of two great monarchs' earthly part. juana the mad, charles v.'s mother, rests in another leaden casket--the poor queen, whom her famous son probably reported crazy for his own political purposes, but whose supposed mania of watching her dead husband's body, in jealous fear that he could still be loved by other women, has been effectively treated in padilla's picture. her husband, philip the fair, lies on the opposite side. hardly could there be a more impressive contrast than that between this tomb under the soft, musty shadows of the chapel--all that is left of the conqueror--and that glorious sun-imbued ruin on the hill--all that is left of the conquered. two mighty forces met and clashed around granada in ; and, when the victory was won, both receded like spent waves, leaving the alhambra to slow burial in rubbish and oblivion, under which washington irving literally rediscovered it. how fine a coincidence that the very spot from which isabella finally despatched columbus on his great quest should owe so much to a son of the new continent which columbus discovered! another edifice of no small interest, although seldom heard of at a distance, is la cartuja, the carthusian church and monastery, lying upon a hill-slope called hinadamar, across the city and on its outskirts, due west from the alhambra. the monks who formerly occupied it have, in common with those of other orders, been driven out of spain; so that we approached the church-steps through an old arched gate-way, no longer guarded, and by way of a grass-grown enclosure that bore the appearance of complete neglect. the interior, however, is very well preserved. it was curious to walk through it, under the guidance of a pursy old woman, and, afterward, of the lame sacristan, who did his best with chattering gossip to rob the place of whatever sanctity remained to it. the refectory (fitly inhabited by an echo) stands bare and empty, save for the reading-desk, from which the monks used to be refreshed with scripture while at their meals; and on the wall at one end of this long, high hall hangs apparently a wooden cross, which at first it is impossible to believe is only painted there. the barren, round-arched cloisters are frescoed with an interminable series of scenes by cotan, the same artist who painted the cross; and in this case he was given a free commission, of which he availed himself to the utmost in depicting the most distressing incidents of carthusian martyrology. especially does he seem to have delighted in the persecutions inflicted by english protestants under henry viii. on san bruno, the founder of this order. how strange the conception of a holy and exalted life which led men in religious retirement to keep before their eyes, in these corridors meant for mild exercise and recreation, representations so full of blood and horror! in fact, one cannot escape the impression, stamped more vividly on the mind here in granada than anywhere else, except perhaps in toledo, that christianity in spain meant barbarism. but where it was released from the immediate purposes of ecclesiastic dogma, christian art showed a taste not so much barbarous as barbaric, and the results of its activity were often beautiful. in this same monastery is a splendid example of that tendency. the church is not remarkably fine or impressive; but the sacristy is a marvel of sumptuous decoration, and decoration very peculiar in kind. its walls are wholly incased in a most effective species of green and white marble, cut in smooth, polished slabs, the natural veinings of which present grotesque resemblances to human and other forms, which are somewhat trivially insisted upon by the custodian and guide, and should be allowed to lose themselves in the general richness of aspect. the great doors of this sacristy are inlaid with ebony, silver, mother-of-pearl, and tortoise-shell, in designs of much intricacy and richness; and all around the room (which is provided with an altar, so that it becomes a sort of sub-church or chapel, adjoining the main church) are low closets fitted into the wall. these were originally used for holding the vestments of the brotherhood. made of sweet-scented cedar, they are adorned on the outside with the same inlaid work that appears on the doors. the dim, veiled shimmer of the mother-of-pearl, the delicate, translucent browns of the tortoise-shell, and the wandering threads of silver, form a decorative surface wonderful in its refinement, its perfection of elegance. i scarcely know how to give an idea of its appearance, unless i say that it was somewhat as if layers of spider-webs had been spread, with all their mystery of exact curves and angles, over the wood-work, and then had had their fibres changed by some magic into precious and enduring materials. the frail but well-adjusted fabric has outlasted the dominion of those for whose selfish and secluded pride of worship it was made; and, seeing it, one may pardon them some of their mistakes. it is pleasant also to find that the art of making this inlay, after having long fallen out of use, has been revived in granada; for in these days of enlightened adaptation and artistic education there seems to be no reason why such a handicraft should be lost or even confined to spain. the gypsies of granada are disappointing, apart from their peculiar quivering dance, performed by _gitanas_ in all spanish cities under the name of _flamenco_.[ ] their hill-caves, so operative with one's curiosity when regarded from across the valley, gape open in such dingy, sour, degraded foulness on a nearer view, that i found no amount of theory would avail to restore their interest. yet some of the fortune-telling women are spirited enough, and the inextinguishable romany spark smoulders in their black eyes. perhaps it was an interloping drop of celtic blood that made one of them say to me, "señorito, listen. i will tell you your fortune. but i speak french--_i come from africa!_" and to clinch the matter she added, "you needn't pay me if every word of the prediction isn't true!" much as i had heard of the spanish bull, i never knew until then how closely it resembled the irish breed. fortuny's model, marinero, who lives in a burrow on the alhambra side, occasionally starts up out of the earth in a superb and expensive costume, due to the dignity of his having been painted by fortuny. dark as a negro, with a degree of luminous brown in his skin, and very handsome, he plants himself immovably in one spot to sell photographs of himself. his nostrils visibly dilate with pride, but he makes no other bid for custom. he expands his haughty nose, and you immediately buy a picture. velveteen chanced upon marinero's daughter, and got her to pose. when he engaged her she was so delighted that she took a rose from her hair and presented it to him, with a charming, unaffected air of gratitude, came an hour before the time, and waited impatiently. she wore a wine-colored skirt, if i remember, a violet jacket braided with black, and a silk neckerchief of dull purple-pink silk. but that was not enough: a blue silk kerchief also was wound about her waist, and in among her smooth jet locks she had tucked a vivid scarlet flower. the result was perfect, for the rich pale-brown of her complexion could harmonize anything; and in spain, moreover, combinations of color that appear too harsh elsewhere are paled and softened by the overpowering light. [illustration: gypsies.] episodes like these tinged our dreams of the alhambra with novel dashes of living reality. even the tedious bustle of a spanish town, too, has its attractions. the moving figures on the steep albaycin streets, that perpetually break into flights of steps; the blocks of pressed snow brought in mule panniers every night from the sierra to cool sugar-water and risadas of orange at the cafés; peasants coming in to the beautiful old grain market with gaudy mantles over their shoulders, stuffing into their sashes a variety of purchases, and becoming corpulent with a day's transactions; the patient efforts of shop-keepers to water the main street, zacatin, with a pailful at a time--all this was amusing to watch. the generalife was another source of pleasure, for in its topmost loggia one may sit like a bird, with the alhambra spread out below in all the distinctness of a raised map. in the saloons of the generalife hang the portraits of the moorish and the christian ancestors of the present owner. their direct descendant is a woman; therefore she has married an italian count, and flitted from this ideal, quite unparalleled eyry, returning to her ancestral home only at rare intervals. there came an hour when we too flitted. to oblige an eccentric time-table we had to get up at dawn; but the last glimpse of the alhambra at that early hour was a compensation. the dim red towers already began to soften into a reminiscence under this tender blending of moonlight and morning; but a small constellation in the east sparkled on the blue like a necklace of diamonds, and saturn still flamed above the mountains, growing momently larger, as if it were a huge topaz in the turban of some giant moor advancing in the early stillness to reclaim the alhambra throne. _mediterranean ports and gardens._ i. [illustration: a] a gypsy dance! what does one naturally imagine it to be like? for my part, i had expected something wild, free, and fantastic; something in harmony with moonlight, the ragged shadows of trees, and the flicker of a rude camp-fire. nothing could have been wider of the mark. the _flamenco_--that dance of the gypsies, in its way as peculiarly spanish as the church and the bull-ring, and hardly less important--is of oriental origin, and preserves the impassive quality, the suppressed, tantalized sensuousness belonging to eastern performances in the saltatory line. it forms a popular entertainment in cafés of the lower order throughout the southern provinces, from madrid all the way around to valencia, in sevilla and malaga, and is gotten up as a select and expensive treat for travellers at granada. but we saw it at its best in malaga. we were conducted, about eleven o'clock in the evening, to a roomy, rambling, dingy apartment in the crook of an obscure and dirty street, where we found a large number of sailors, peasants, and _chulos_ seated drinking at small tables, with a very occasional well-dressed citizen or two here and there. in one corner was a stage rising to the level of our chins when we were seated, which had two fronts, like the shakspearian stage in pictures, so that spectators on the side might have a fair chance, and be danced to from time to time. on this sat about a dozen men and women, the latter quite as much spanish as gypsy, and some of them dressed partially in tights, with an affectation of sailors' or pages' costume in addition. at madrid and sevilla their sisters in the craft wore ordinary feminine dresses, and looked the possessors of more genuine romany blood. but here, too, the star _danseuse_, the chief mistress of the art _flamenco_, was habited in the voluminous calico skirt which peninsular propriety prescribes for this particular exhibition, thereby doing all it can to conceal and detract from the amazing skill of muscular movement involved. a variety of songs and dances with guitar accompaniments, some effective and others tedious, preceded the gypsy performance. i think we listened nearly half an hour to certain disconsolate barytone wailings, which were supposed to interpret the loves, anxieties, and other emotions of a _contrabandista_, or smuggler, hiding from pursuit in the mountains. judging from the time at his disposal for this lament, the smuggling business must indeed be sadly on the decline. the whole entertainment was supervised by a man precisely like all the chiefs of these troupes in spain. their similarity is astounding; even their features are almost identical: when you have seen one, you have seen all his fellows, and know exactly what they will do. he may be a little older or younger, a little more gross or less so, but he is always clean-shaven like the other two sacred types--the bull-fighter and the priest--and his face is in every case weakly but good-humoredly sensual. but what does he _do_? well, nothing. he is the most important personage on the platform, but he does not pretend to contribute to the programme beyond an exclamation of encouragement to the performers at intervals. he is a turveydrop in deportment at moments, and always a crummles in self-esteem. a few highly favored individuals as they come into the café salute him, and receive a condescending nod in return. then some friend in the audience sends up to him a glass of chamomile wine, or comes close and offers it with his own hand. the leader invariably makes excuses, and without exception ends by taking the wine, swallowing a portion, and gracefully spitting out the rest at the side of the platform. he smokes the cigars of admiring acquaintances, and throws the stumps on the stage. all the while he carries in his hand a smooth, plain walking-stick, with which he thumps time to the music when inclined. [illustration: gypsy dance.] at last the moment for the _flamenco_ arrives. the leader begins to beat monotonously on the boards, just as our indians do with their tomahawks, to set the rhythm; the guitars strike into their rising and falling melancholy strain. two or three women chant a weird song, and all clap their hands in a peculiar measure, now louder, now fainter, and with pauses of varying length between the emphatic reports. the dancer has not yet risen from her seat; she seems to demand encouragement. the others call out, "ollé!"--a gypsy word for "bravo!"--and smile and nod their heads at her to draw her on. all this excites in you a livelier curiosity, a sort of suspense. "what can be coming now?" you ask. finally she gets up, smiling half scornfully; a light comes into her eyes; she throws her head back, and her face is suffused with an expression of daring, of energy, and strange pride. perhaps it is only my fancy, but there seems to creep over the woman at that instant a reminiscence of far-off and mysterious things; her face, partially lifted, seems to catch the light of old traditions, and to be imbued with the spirit of something belonging to the past, which she is about to revive. her arms are thrown upward, she snaps her fingers, and draws them down slowly close before her face as far as the waist, when, with an easy waving sideward, the "pass" is ended, and the arms go up again to repeat the movement. her body too is in motion now, only slightly, with a kind of vibration; and her feet, unseen beneath the flowing skirt, have begun an easy, quiet, repressed rhythmical figure. so she advances, her face always forward, and goes swiftly around a circle, coming back to the point where she began, without appearing to step. the music goes on steadily, the cries of her companions become more animated, and she continues to execute that queer, aimless, yet dimly beckoning gesture with both arms--never remitting it nor the snapping of her fingers, in fact, until she has finished the whole affair. her feet go a little faster; you can hear them tapping the floor as they weave upon it some more complicated measure; but there is not the slightest approach to a springing tendency. her progress is sinuous; she glides and shuffles, her soles quitting the boards as little as possible--something between a clog dance and a walk, perfect in time, with a complexity in the exercise of the feet demanding much skill. she treats the performance with great dignity; the intensity of her absorption invests it with a something almost solemn. forward again! she gazes intently in front as she proceeds, and again as she floats backward, looking triumphant, perhaps with a spark of latent mischief in her eyes. she stamps harder upon the floor; the sounds follow like pistol reports. the regular _clack_, _clack-clack_ of the smitten hands goes on about her, and the cries of the rest increase in zest and loudness. "ollé! ollé!" "bravo, my gracious one!" "muy bien! muy bien!" "hurrah! live the queen of the ants!" shouts the leader. and the audience roars at his eccentric phrase. the dancer becomes more impassioned, but in no way more violent. her body does not move above the hips. it is only the legs that twist and turn and bend and stamp, as if one electric shock after another were being sent downward through them. every few minutes her activity passes by some scarcely noted gradation into a subtly new phase, but all these phases are bound together by a certain uniformity of restraint and fixed law. now she almost comes to a stand-still, and then we notice a quivering, snaky, shuddering motion, beginning at the shoulders and _flowing_ down through her whole body, wave upon wave, the dress drawn tighter with one hand showing that this continues downward to her feet. is she a lamia in the act of undergoing metamorphosis, a serpent, or a woman? the next moment she is dancing, receding--this time with smiles, and with an indescribable air of invitation in the tossing of her arms. but the crowning achievement is when the hips begin to sway too, and, while she is going back and forward, execute a rotary movement like that of the bent part of an auger. in fact, you expect her to bore herself into the floor and disappear. then all at once the stamping and clapping and the twanging strings are stopped, as she ceases her formal gyrations: she walks back to her seat like one liberated from a spell, and the whole thing is over. velveteen and i came to malaga direct from the alhambra. the transition was one from the land of the olive to that of the palm. when we left granada, an hour after daybreak, the slopes of the sierra nevada below the snow-line were softly overspread with rose and gold upon the blue, and the unmatchably pale bright yellow-white of the grain fields along the valley was spotted with the dark clumps of olive-trees, at a distance no bigger than cabbages. the last thing we saw was a sturdy peasant in knee-breeches and laced legs, with a tattered cloak flung around his chest and brought over the left shoulder in stately folds, that gave him the mien of a roman senator, and put to shame our vulgar railroad plans. as the day grew, the hills in shadow melted into a warm citron hue, and those lifting their faces to the light were white as chalk, with faint blue shadows down in the clefts. it was in this same neighborhood that we saw peasant women in trousers doing harvest-work. to the enormity of donning the male garb they added the hardihood of choosing for the color of their trousers a bright sulphur-yellow. my friend the artist, i believe, secretly envied them this splendor denied to men; and in truth they would make spirited and effective material for a painter. their yellow legs descended from a very short skirt of blue or vermilion, a mere concession to prejudice, for it was mostly caught up and pinned in folds to keep it out of the way. above that the dress and figure were feminine; the colored kerchief around the throat, and the gay bandanna twisted around the dark loose hair under a big straw hat, finishing off the whole person as something dashing, free, novel, and yet quite natural and not unwomanly. an old man at bobadilla offered us some _palmitos_--pieces of pith from the palm-trees, tufted with a few feathery young leaves, and considered a delicacy when fresh. it had a bitter-sweet, rather vapid taste, but i hailed it as a friendly token from the semi-tropical region we were approaching. so i bought one, and my companion presented the old man with some of the lunch we had brought; whereupon the shrivelled merchant, with a courtesy often met with in spain, insisted upon his taking a _palmito_ as a present. thus, bearing our victorious palm leaves, we moved forward to meet the palms themselves. the train rumbled swiftly through twelve successive tunnels, giving, between them, magnificent glimpses of deep wild gorges; fantastic rocks piled up in all conceivable shapes, like a collection of giant crystals arranged by a mad-man, amid mounds of gray and slate-colored clay pulverized by the heat, and reduced absolutely to ashes. the last barrier of the alpujarras was passed, and we rushed out upon lower levels, immense and fertile vales, dense with plantations of orange and lemon, interspersed with high-necked, musing palms and brilliant thickets of pomegranate. through the hot earth in which these plantations were placed ran the narrow canals, not more than two feet wide, containing those streams of milky water from the snow-fields on which all the vegetation of the region depends. it is of this and the neighboring portions of spain that castelar, in one of his recent writings, says: "the wildest coasts of our peninsula--those coasts of almeria, alicante, murcia, where the fruits of various zones are yielded--compensate for their great plenty by years of desolation comparable only to those described in the chronicles of the middle ages, and suffered in the crowded lands of the orient.... the mountains of those districts, which breathe the incense of thyme and lavender, are carpeted with silky grasses, and full of mines, and intersected by quarries. the _honduras_, or valleys, present the palm beside the pomegranate, the vine next to the olive, barley and sugar-cane in abundance, orange orchards and fields of maize; in fine, all the fruits of the best zones, incomparable both as to quantity and quality. the azure waves of their sea, resembling venetian crystals, contain store of savory fish; and the equality of the temperature, the purity of the air, the splendor of the days, and the freshness, the soothing calm of the nights, impart such enchantment that, once habituated to them, in whatever other part of the world you may be, you feel yourself, alas! overcome by irremediable nostalgia." the eloquent statesman has something to say, likewise, of the people. "nowhere does there exist in such vitality," he declares, "the love of family and the love of labor.... property is very much divided; the customs are exceedingly democratic; there exist few proprietors who are not workers, and few workers who are not proprietors." democratic the country is, no doubt; too much so, perhaps, for peace under monarchical rule. these fervid, fertile coast lands, containing the gardens of spain, are also the home of revolution. [illustration: a spanish monk.] the north was the carlist stronghold; the south furnished in every city a little republican volcano. nor is the simple, patriarchal state of society which castelar indicates quite universal. here, as in other provinces, we found luxurious wealth flourishing in the heart of pitiable poverty. the governor of malaga was on our train, and a delightfully honest and amiable old gentleman in our compartment, seeing him on the platform surrounded by a ring of dapper sycophants, who laughed unreasonably at his mild jokes, began to exclaim, in great wrath, "so many cabals! so many cabals! unfortunate nation! there is nothing but cabal and intrigue all the time. those men have got some sugar they want to dispose of to advantage, and so they fawn on the governor. it is dirty; it is foul," etc. at malaga there was a coast-guard steamer lying in the harbor, and, as we were looking at it, i asked our companion, a resident, whether they caught many smugglers. "oh, sometimes," was the answer. "just enough to cover it." "cover what?" "oh, the fraud. out of twenty smuggling vessels they will take perhaps one, to keep up appearances." and he made the usual significant movement of the fingers denoting the acceptance of bribes. the heat at malaga surpassed anything we had encountered before. the horses of the cabs had gay-colored awnings stretched over them on little poles fixed to the shafts, so that when they moved along the street they looked like holiday boats on four legs. the river that runs through the city was completely dry, and, as if to complete the boat similitude, the cabs drove wantonly across its bed instead of using the bridges. these equipages, however, are commonplace compared with the wagons used for the transportation of oil and water jars (_tinajas_) in the adjoining province of murcia. a delightful coolness was diffused from the sea at evening, when the fashionable drive--the half-moon mole stretching out to the light-house--was crowded with stylish vehicles, and the sea-wall all along the street was lined with citizens, soldiers, priests, and pretty women, who dangled their feet from the low parapet in blissful indolence. then, too, the lamps were lighted in the floating bath-houses moored in the harbor, and one of them close to the mouth of a city drain seemed to be particularly well patronized. the streets, almost forsaken by day, were crowded after nightfall. the shops were open late. by eight or nine o'clock life began. the café de la loba (the wolf)--an immense building, where there is a court entirely roofed over by a single grape-vine, spreading from a stem fifteen inches in diameter, and rivalling the famous vines of hampton court and windsor--was well filled, and in many small _tiendas de vino_ heavy drinking seemed to be going on. but the malaguenese do not imbibe the rich sweet wines manufactured in their vicinity. these are too heating to be taken in such a climate, as we were able to convince ourselves on tasting some fine vintages at one of the _bodegas_ the next day. nevertheless, the lower class of the inhabitants find no difficulty in attaining to a maximum of drunkenness on milder beverages. even the respectable idlers in the café under our hotel drank a great deal too much beer, if i may judge from their prolonging their obstreperous discussion of politics into the small hours, while we lay feverish in a room above listening to their voices, blended with the whistle of a boatswain on some ship at the neighboring quay; ourselves meanwhile enduring with anglo-saxon reserve the too effusive attentions offered by mosquitoes of the latin race. [illustration: transportation of pottery.] in justice to the spaniards it should be said that excessive drinking is a rare fault among them. as a nation they surpass all other civilized peoples in setting an example of temperance as to potations (excepting water), and of remarkable frugality in eating. the mediterranean ports, through their commerce with the outside world, are tinged by foreign elements; license creeps in with notions of liberty; the sailors, and that whilom powerful fraternity the smugglers, have likewise assisted in fostering turbulent characteristics. [illustration: garlic vender.] to me the best part of malaga was the view of it from the deck of a segovia steamer, on the eve of a cruise along the coast. behind the plain sandy-colored houses rose a background of mountains fantastic in outline as flames; the cathedral, in no way striking, towered up above the roofs, and was in turn overshadowed by an ancient fortress on the eastern height, which was one of the last to fall before the returning tide of spanish arms, and still claws the precipitous ridge with innumerable towers and bastions, as if to keep from slipping off its honorable eminence in the drowsy lapses of old age. below this, close to the water, stood the inevitable plaza de toros--an immense cheese-shaped structure of stone, where a friend of mine, spanish by birth, tells me he was once watching the game of bulls, when part of the crowd were struck by the happy thought of starting a revolution. they acted at once on this bright idea; they "pronounced" in favor of something, and attacked the military guard. in an instant a battle had begun; the place resounded with musketry, and the populace tore away pieces of the masonry to hurl at the troops below. but that was in the good old days, and such things do not happen now, though there is always a strong detachment of soldiers on hand at the arena, ready for any sudden revival of these freaks. the water around us shone with a lustre like satin; and, fluttering over the bright green surface, played incredibly vivid reflections of blue and red from the steamers; while the pure white light, striking back from the edges of the undulations, quivered and shimmered along the black hulk of a vessel, and looked like steam or mist in constant motion. highly effective, too, was the carbineer (all custom-house officers in spain, whether armed or not, are called _carabineros_) who stood on deck with a musket at rest, a living monument to the majesty of the revenue laws. we had been solemnly warned beforehand of the risk we ran in carrying a basket of ale on board in the face of this functionary, and the importance of giving him a _peseta_ (twenty cents) had been urged upon us; but we at first looked for him in vain, and when we found him he appeared so harmless that we kept the _peseta_. i noticed that he laid his gun aside as much as possible. part of the time he smoked a short pipe under cover of his huge mustache, and eyed people sternly, as if suspecting that they might take advantage of this temporary relaxing of vigilance; but he studiously avoided seeing any merchandise of any description. the steamer was to start at four in the afternoon, and we made great haste to get on board in time; but there had evidently never been the smallest intention of despatching her until an hour and a half later. this was in accord with the national trait of distrust. no one was expected to believe the announcement as to the time, and if the real hour had been named, no one _would_ have believed it. aware of this, the more experienced natives did not even begin to come aboard until toward five o'clock. spanish clocks are the most accommodating kind of mechanism i have ever had the fortune to encounter. they appear to exist rather as an ornamental feature than as articles of use. you order a carriage, and it is promised at a certain time; you are told that something is to be accomplished at a fixed hour; but this is only done out of deference to your outlandish prejudices. the hour strikes, and the thing is not done. you begin to doubt whether the hour itself has arrived. is it not a vulgar illusion to suppose so? your spaniard certainly thinks it is. he knows that time is an arbitrary distinction, and prefers to adopt the scale of eternity. the one exception is the bull-fight. that is recognized as a purely mundane and temporal institution; it must not be delayed a moment; and to make sure of punctuality, it is begun almost before the time announced. but anything like a sea-voyage, though it be only along the shore, comes under a different heading, and must be undertaken with as much mystery and caution as if it were a conspiracy to erect a new government. to tell the truth, we were glad to get away from the tyranny of the minute-hand, and were not displeased at the lazy freedom of the steamer. the stewards came up and shut the skylights, spread a table-cloth over them, laid plates, and formed a hollow square of fruits and olives in the centre. those of the passengers that listed took their places at this improvised banqueting board, and by the time the _puchero_ was served--a savory stew composed of chopped meat, beans, carrots, spices, and any little thing the cook's fancy may suggest--we were moving out of the basin, past the curved mole and the light-house, and toy battery at its end. the sunset had thrown its glow over sky and mountains, as if it were an after-thought, to make the surroundings perfect. we glided smoothly over a floor of blue--deep, solid-looking, and veined with white--a pale golden dome above us, and a delicious wind playing round us, like the exhalation of some balmy sub-tropical dream. on these coast steamers one buys a ticket for the transport, and then pays for what he eats. this rule reduced the company at our deck table to a choice and pleasant circle, the head of which was señor segovia, one of the owners of the line, a benignant, comfortable spaniard--"an andalusian to the core," as he proudly said. we had, as usual, early chocolate at six or seven; breakfast not so near eleven as to admit any suspicion of subserviency to the base time-keeping clock; and dinner--a second but ampler breakfast--between five and six. some of the first-cabin passengers brought their own provision, or purchased it at the towns where we touched every day, and fed secretly in out-of-the-way places. as for the second-class, consisting mainly of peasants swathed in strange garments edged and spotted with fantastic color, they were never seen to eat; but i think that privately they gnawed the pride of ancient race in their hearts, and found it sufficient provender. we would come upon them, when we went forward in our night patrol, lying on the deck in magnificent unconcern, enveloped by stately rags wound round and round their bodies, and lifting toward us a stern, reproachful gaze at our interruption of their tranquillity. the mediterranean was calm as a pond, and we roused ourselves to a serene morning, under which the hills gleamed pale and clear along the margin of the waves, the huge sides seamed with dry water-courses, like the creases in a human palm. beyond the first line of peaks we could descry for a while the soft ghostly whiteness of an inland snow range glimmering above the faded green, the violet shadows, the hard streaks of white and powderings of red earth in the lower series. no sign of life was seen upon the puckered, savage coast. it was the bulwark of that tarshish to which solomon sent his ships for gold; new to us as it was new to him, yet now unutterably old; silent, yet speaking; uncommunicative, yet vaguely predicting a future vast and unknown as the vanished ages. it would be hard to tell how awful in its unchanged grandeur was the face of those mighty hills, so unexpectedly eloquent. [illustration: diving for coppers.] it was a relief to find that we were approaching almeria. a road cut in the rock; a stout arched bridge carrying it over an indentation of the sea; a small square edifice on a rock to guard the road; then the distant jumble of low houses along a sheltered bay, and an empty fortress on the sharp hillcrest over it--these were the tokens of our progress toward another inhabited spot. we had on board a two-legged enigma in a white helmet-hat, who wrote with ostentatious industry in a note-book, played fluently on the cabin piano, and now emerged upon the quarterdeck in a pair of bulging canary leather slippers which gave his feet the appearance of overgrown lemons. he afterward proved to be an english colporteur. we also had a handsome, gay, talkative, and witty frenchman, who, with a morbid conscientiousness as to what was fitting, insisted on being sea-sick, although the sea was hardly ruffled; and him we succeeded in resuscitating, after the boat had come quietly to anchor in the harbor, so far that he began to long audibly for paris and the café on the boulevard, "_et mon absinthe_." we watched with these companions the naked boys who surrounded the vessel in a flotilla of row-boats, offering to dive for coppers thrown into the water, precisely as i have seen young mexican indians do at acapulco. near by lay another steamer just in from africa, disembarking a mass of returned spanish settlers, fugitives from the atrocities of the arabs at oran: a pathetic sight as they dropped silently into the barges that bore them to shore--some utterly destitute, with only the clothes in which they had fled before the fanatic murderers, and others accompanied by a few meagre household goods. did they feel that "irremediable nostalgia," i wonder, of which señor castelar speaks? the sun was as hot as that which had shone upon them just across the strait, on the edge of the dark continent; and the low-roofed glaring houses huddled at the feet of the moorish stronghold, the alcasaba, were so oriental that i should think they must have found it hard to believe they had left africa at all. almeria, like other towns of this southern shore-line, is more eastern than spanish in appearance--only the long winding or zigzag covered ways, traced on the steep hills like swollen veins, indicated the presence of the lead-mines which give it an existence in commerce. these conduct the poisonous smoke to a point above the air inhaled by the townsfolk, and it is seen puffing from tall chimneys at the crest of the steep, as if the mountain were alive and gasping for breath. the town, faintly relieved against its pale, dusty background as we first saw it, almost disappeared in the blinding blaze of light that swept it when we got closer. we landed, and attempted to walk, but the dry, burning heat made us shrink for shelter into any narrow thread of shadow that the houses presented. even the shadows looked whitish. it was impossible to get as far as the weed-grown cathedral, which, as we could see from the water, had been provided in former times with fortified turrets for defence against piratical incursions. so we sunk gratefully into a restaurant kiosk at the head of the _alameda_, where we could look down the hot, yellow street to a square of cerulean sea; and there we sipped lemonade while tattered, crimson-sashed peasants moved about us, some of them occasionally dashing the road with water dipped from a gutter-rivulet at the side. we had barely become reconciled to the granadan women in trousers, when we were obliged to notice that the men in this vicinity wore short white skirts in place of the usual nether garment. how is spain ever to be unified on such a basis as this? the local patriots had seemingly wrestled with the problem and been defeated, for a dreary memorial column in front of the kiosk recorded how they had fallen in some futile revolutionary struggle. on a promontory, passed as we sailed away, the drought and dust of the town yielded suddenly to luxurious greenness of sugar-cane and other growths. almeria was once surrounded by similar fertility, but the land has been so wastefully denuded of forest that all through this region--the old kingdoms of murcia and valencia--only certain favorable spots retain their earlier plenty by means of constant care and assiduous watering. cartagena, one of the chief naval stations of the country, cannot exhibit even such an oasis. it is unmitigated desert. not a tree or shrub shows itself amid the baked and calcined stone-work and blistering pavements of the city; and the landscape without looks almost as arid. the place is considered impregnable to a foreign foe, and i can't imagine that foe wanting it to be otherwise, if conquest involves residence. entered by a narrow gap commanded by batteries, the harbor is a round and spacious one, scooped out of frowning highlands that bear on the apex of their cones unattainable forts, thrown up like the rim around volcanic craters. there is but one level access to the city on the land side, and that is blockaded by a stout wall with a single gate. such was our next goal, reached after a quiet night, which velveteen and i spent in the open air, having carried our rugs and pillows up from the state-room on its invasion by new passengers. at two o'clock in the morning our vessel stole into the port. there was one pale amber streak in the east, over the gloomy, indistinct heights studded with embrasured walls and mine chimneys. by-and-by a brightness grew out of it. then the amber was reflected in the glassy harbor. an arch of rose cloud sprung up after this, and was also reflected, the hills lightening to a faded gray and brown. all this time the stars continued sparkling, and one of them threw rings of dancing diamond on the broken wave. suddenly the diamond flash and the rose tint vanished, and it was broad golden-white day, with calorific beams beating strongly upon us, instead of the crepuscular chill of dawn that had just been searching our veins. cartagena has its war history, of course. a commune was established there by roque barcia in , which declined allegiance to the republican government at madrid, and the city was accordingly besieged. barcia had been living on forced loans from the inhabitants, and was loath to go; but the army of the republic made a few dents in the stone wall with twenty-pounders, and that decided him. he got on board the spanish navy in the harbor, and ran away with it to africa. perhaps that accounts for the slimness of the naval contingent now. there is an academy for cadets in the place, but only two small ships-of-war were anchored in the noble bay. the town of cartagena is remarkable for big men and very minute donkeys. the men ride on the donkeys with incredible hardihood. you see a burly sancho panza flying along the main street at a rapid pace, with his sandalled feet some three inches from the ground, and wonder what new kind of motor he has discovered, until you perceive beneath his ponderous body a nervous, vaguely ecstatic quivering of four black legs, attached to a small spot of head from which two mulish ears project. [illustration: a modern sancho panza.] there is not much to see in cartagena. blind people seem to be numerous there--a fact which may be owing to the excessive dazzle of the sunlight and absence of verdure. but i couldn't help thinking some of them must have gone blind from sheer _ennui_, because there was nothing around them worth looking at. our visit, however, was in one respect a success: we found a broad strip of shade there. it was caused by the high city wall intercepting the forenoon light. out of the shadow some enterprising men had constructed, with the aid of two or three chairs and several pairs of shears, a barber's shop _al fresco_; and asses and peasants, as they travelled in and out through the city gate, stopped at this establishment to be shaved. for it is an important item in the care of spanish donkeys that they should be sheared as to the back, in order to make a smoother resting-place for man or pannier. so while the master held his animal one of the barbers plied some enormous clacking shears, and littered the ground with mouse-colored hair, leaving the beast's belly fur-covered below a fixed line, and for a small additional price executing a raised pattern of starpoints around the neck. the tonsorial profession is an indispensable one in a country where shaving the whole face is so generally practised among all the humbler orders, not to mention _toreros_ and ecclesiastics; but the discomfort to which the barber's customers submit is astonishing. instead of being pampered, soothed, labored at with confidential respectfulness, and lulled into luxurious harmony with himself, as happens in america, a man who courts the razor in spain has to sit upright in a stiff chair, and meekly hold under his chin a brass basin full of suds, and fitting his throat by means of a curved nick at one side. one individual we saw seated by the dusty road at the gate, with a towel around his shoulders and another in his hands to catch his own falling locks. he looked submissive and miserable, as if assisting at his own degradation, while the barber was magnified into a tyrant exercising sovereign pleasure, and might have been expected, should the whim cross him, to strike off his victim's head instead of his hair. [illustration: street barber.] [illustration: bibles _versus_ melons.] the voyage continued as charmingly as it began. quiet transitions from the deep blue outside to the pronounced green within the harbors were its most startling incidents. the colporteur gave tracts to the sailors, or traded bibles for melons with the fruit boys; the frenchman, who was making a commercial tour through the provinces, bestowed a liberal and cheerful disparagement on the nation which afforded him a business. we continued to eat meals in holiday fashion on the skylight hatches, and slept there through the balmy night, occasionally seeing the sailors clambering on the taffrail or in the rigging, always with cigarettes, the glowing points of which shone in the darkness like fire-flies. the gravity with which they stuck to these _papelitos_ while knotting ropes or lowering a boat was fascinating in its inappropriateness. the headlands grew less bold before we tied to the dock at alicante in the hush of a sultry night. we could see nothing of the town except a bright twinkle of lamps along the quay, contrasting gayly with the blood-red light on a felucca in the harbor, its long vivid stain trickling away through the water like the current from a wound; and the rules of the customs would not admit of our landing till morning. ii. our trunks had been on the dock two or three hours when we debarked in a small boat, and some fifteen men had gathered around them, waiting for the owners, like sharks attracted by floating fragments from a ship and wondering what manner of prey is coming to them. they all touched their caps to us as we bumped the shore. these cap-touches are worth in the abstract about one real--five cents. the grand total of speculative politeness laid out upon us was therefore more than half a dollar; but, on our selecting two porters, values rapidly declined, and the market "closed in a depressed condition." the customs officers wore a wild, freebooters' sort of uniform--blue trousers with a red stripe, blue jeans blouses with a belt and long sword, and straw hats. they were also very lazy; and while we were awaiting their attentions we had time to observe the manner of unloading merchandise in these latitudes. every box, barrel, or bale hoisted out of a lighter was swung by a rope to which twenty men lent their strength; there were three more men in the lighter, and three others arranged the hoisting tackle; in all, twenty-six persons were occupied with a task for which two or three ought to suffice. each time, the crowd of haulers fastened on the cable, ran off frantically with it, and then, in a simultaneous fit of paralysis, dropped it as the burden was landed. these laborers wore huge straw hats, on the crown of which was fitted a _birreta_, the small ordinary blue cap of the country. they had a queer air of carrying this superfluous cap around on top of the head as a sort of solemn ceremony. the wharf was alive, too, with small wagons, roofed over by a cover of heavy matting made of _esparto_ grass, and furnished with a long, rough-barked pole at the side, to be used as a brake. above this busy scene towered a luminous sienna-tinted cliff, sustaining the castle of santa barbara poised in the white air like a dream-edifice; though a rift high up in the hill marks the spot where the french exploded a mine during the peninsular war. all these mediterranean towns are guarded by some such eagle's eyry overlooking the sea, and the old monarchs showed a fine poetic sense in granting them for municipal arms their local castle resting on a wave. close to the lapping waters lay the serried houses, bordered by an esplanade planted with rows of short palms. when the carbineers had looked vaguely into our trunks, and shut them again, the porters tossed them into a little cart, and plunged into the town at a pace with which we could compete only so far as to keep them in sight while they twisted first around one corner and then another, and then up a long chalky street to the fonda bossio, which has the name of being the best hotel in spain. it has excellent cookery, and some furlongs of tile-floored corridor, which the servants apparently believe to be streets, for they water them every day, just as the thoroughfares are watered, out of tin basins. we were overwhelmed with courtesy. for instance, i would call the waiter. [illustration: customs officers.] "command me, your grace," was his reply. "can you bring me some fresh water?" ("fresh" always means cold.) [illustration: post inn, alicante.] "with all the will in the world." when he came with it i tried to rise to his standard by saying, "thanks--a thousand thanks." "they do not merit themselves, señor," said he, not to be outdone. i asked if i could have a _garspacho_ for breakfast. the _garspacho_ is an andalusian soup-salad, very cooling, made of stewed and strained tomato, water, vinegar, sliced cucumber, boiled green peppers, a dash of garlic, and some bits of bread; the whole served frost-cold. "i don't know--it is not in the list. i feel it, señor. it weighs upon my soul. but i will see, and will return in an ave maria to let you know." he never left me without asking, "is there anything wanting still?" [illustration: alicante fruit-seller.] the waiters and chamber-maids ate their meals at little tables in the hall, and whenever i passed them, if they were eating, they made a gracious gesture toward their _pillau_ of rice. "would your grace like to eat?" this offer to share their food with any one who goes by is a simple and kindly inheritance from the east; but it becomes a little embarrassing, and i longed for a pair of back stairs to slink away by, without having to decline their hospitality every time i went out. to go out in the middle of the day was like looking into the sun itself. everybody stayed in-doors behind thick curtains of matting, and dozed or dripped away the time in idle perspiration; but hearing unaccountable blasts of orchestral music during this forced retirement, i inquired, and found them to proceed from the rehearsal of a madrid opera company then in alicante. our attendant at table proved to be a duplex character--a serving-man by day and a fourteenth lord in the chorus by night, with black and yellow stockings, and a number of gestures indicating astonishment, indignation, or, in fact, anything that the emergency required. we had the pleasure of seeing him on the stage that very evening, and of listening to an extravagant performance of "la favorita," between two acts of which an usher came in and collected the tickets of the whole audience. the theatre was remarkably spacious for a town of thirty thousand inhabitants; but alicante is a favorite winter resort, and even maintains a "gallistic circus;" that is, a place for cock-fights. the garden of alicante is a luscious spot, hidden away some two or three miles from the town, and owned by the marques de venalua, a young man of large wealth, who spends all his time at alicante, and is a public benefactor, having introduced water in pipes at his own expense. the carriage and consumption of water, indeed, seemed to be the chief business of the population. they have a system of fountains for distributing sea-water from which the salt has been extracted, and women and children are kept going to these with huge jars, to satisfy the local thirst. to be born thirsty, live thirsty, and die so, is a privilege enjoyable only in countries like southern spain. one can form there, too, a vivid idea of the desert, from the delight with which he hails the green _huerta_, or garden. the road and fields on the way thither were like a waste of cinders and ashes. the almond and fig trees, the pomegranates and algarrobas beside the way, were coated with dust that lay upon them like thin snow; and the almond-nuts, where they hung in sight, resembled plaster casts, so pervasive was the white deposit. but all at once we mounted a low rise, and the wide stretch of verdant plantations lay before us, thick-foliaged, cool, sweet, and refreshing, with villas embowered among the oranges and palms, a screen of dim mountains beyond, and the silent blue sea brimming the horizon on the right. it was a spectacle delicious as sleep to tired eyes; it brought a cry of pleasure to my lips and grateful life to the heart. but this spot, lovely as it is, becomes insignificant beside the glorious huerta of valencia, stretching for more than thirty miles from the olive-clad hills around jativa to that city, which is the pleasantest in mediterranean spain, and the most characteristic of all, after toledo, granada, and sevilla. there one travels through an unbroken tract of superb cultivation--a garden in exact literalness, yet a territory in size. [illustration: method of irrigation near valencia.] [illustration: church of santa catalina, valencia.] we took the rail from alicante in the evening; but a mass of oran fugitives, escorted by a company of soldiers (for the most part drunk), encumbered our train, and delayed its starting for an hour or two. then followed a slow, wearisome ride through the black night, with a change at the junction of la encina about twelve o'clock, involving much tribulation in the re-weighing and renewed registering of baggage; after which we were stowed into a totally dark compartment of the other train, and made to wait three hours longer. with the first rays of dawn our locomotive began to creep, and we fell into a doze, from which i was awakened after a while by the loud irruption of somebody into our carriage, accompanied by a jangle like that of sleigh-bells. it turned out to be a peasant, who, in consequence of the general over-crowding, had been ushered into the first-class carriage, bringing with him a couple of children and some mule-harness provided with bells. i was inclined to be indignant with him for his disturbing intrusion; but, as it was now broad daylight, i began to look out of the window, and soon had cause to consider the peasant a benefactor; for we were just leaving jativa, a most picturesque old town, with a castle famous even in roman times; the native place, also, of the borgias (pope calixtus iii., and rodrigro, the father of cæsar borgia). immediately afterward we entered the garden region. miles of carefully-tended growth, thousands of orchards linked together in one series, acres upon acres of fields where every square inch is made to yield abundantly--such is the huerta of valencia. we passed endless orange-groves, each single tree in which had its circle of banked earth to hold the water when let on from the canals of tile that coursed everywhere like veins of silver, carrying life to the harvests. then came vast fields dotted with the yellow blossom of the pea-nut, on low vine-like plants. again, breadths of citron and lemon, followed by extensive rice farms, where the cultivators stood dressing the unripe plantations, up to their ankles in the water of a feathery green swamp. not a rood of earth is unimproved, excepting where some thriving red-roofed village is hemmed in by the fragrant paradise. in one place you will see, perhaps, a mouldering red tower like those of the alhambra, or a church spire lifted amid the trees, and, high above the other greenery, clusters of date-palms leaning together, as if they whispered among themselves of other days. near by is the lake of albufera, close to the sea and twenty-seven miles in circumference--nourished both from the sea and from the river turia, so that it becomes an immense reservoir of fish and game. its marshy edges once offered shelter to numerous smugglers, and it is said that general prim, who was on good terms with them, found a hiding-place there while in danger and before he came to power. no wonder that the cid fought gallantly to win this land from the infidel, and when he had gained it sent for his wife and daughter from distant burgos to come and see the prize! its fertility to-day, however, is due to the irrigation introduced by the moors, and since maintained. the same thing could be done with the tagus and ebro rivers, but the spaniard having had the example before him for only about six centuries, has not yet found time to follow it. the water supply is so precious that proprietors are allowed to use it for their own crops only on fixed days, and for so many hours at a time. disputes of course arise, but they are settled by the water court--a tribunal without appeal, consisting of twelve peasant proprietors, who meet once a week in valencia; and i saw them there holding their session in very primitive style, on a long pink sofa set in an arched door-way of the cathedral. [illustration: a valencia cab.] valencia was in the midst of its annual festival when we arrived; a bright, gay, spirited, and busy town, more cheerful than ever just then. there were to be three days of bull-fighting--"bulls to the death!"--with eight taurian victims each day; the best swordsmen in spain; and horses and mules displaying gilded and silvered hoofs. the theatres were perfumed. there were match games of _pelota_--rackets--the national substitute for cricket or base-ball; and a week's fair was in progress on the other side of the river turia, with bannered pavilions, thousands of painted lanterns; lotteries, concerts, and booth shows, to which the admission was "half price for children and soldiers." trade was brisk also in the city; brisk in the mercado, that quaint business street crowded with little stalls, and with peasants in blue, red, yellow, mantled and cothurned, their heads topped with pointed hats or wrapped with variegated handkerchiefs deftly knotted into a high crown; brisk, likewise, in those peculiar shops behind the antique silk exchange, which are named from the signs they hang out, representing the blessed virgin, christ, john the baptist, or the bleeding heart. one had for its device a rose, and another, distinguished by two large toy lambs placed at its door, was known without other distinction as the lamb of god. but in the more modern quarter the shop-keepers ventured on a parisian brilliancy which we did not encounter anywhere else. their arrangement of wares was prettily effective, and the fashion prevailed of having curtains for the show-windows painted with figures in modern dress, done in exceedingly clever, artistic style, well drawn, full of humor and fine realistic characterization. altogether, valencia is the cheeriest of spanish cities, unless one excepts barcelona, which is half french, and in its present estate wholly modern. moreover, valencia abounds in racy and local traits, both of architecture and humanity. the street of the cavaliers is lined with sombre, strange, shabbily elegant old mansions of the nobility, with gothic windows and open arcades in the top story; the new houses are gayly tinted in blue and rose and cream-color; and the gourd-like domes of the cathedral and other large buildings glisten with blue tiles and white, set in stripes. you find yourself continually, as you come from various quarters, bringing up in sight of the octagonal tower of santa catalina, strangely suggestive of a pagoda, without in the least being one. the silk exchange, from which the shining web that wealth is woven out of has long since vanished, contains one of the most beautiful of existing gothic halls under a roof sustained by fluted and twisted pillars, themselves light as knotted skeins; while from the outer cornice grotesque shapes peer out over the life of to-day; a grinning monk, an imp playing a guitar, a crumbling buzzard, serving as gargoyles. just opposite is the market, where you may buy enormous bunches of luscious white grapes for a penny, or pry into second-hand shops rich in those brilliant mantles with the "cat" fringe of balls, for which the town is as noted as for its export of oranges. the old battlemented walls of the city, it is true, have been torn down: it was done simply to give employment to the poor a few years since. but there are some fine old gates remaining--those of serranos and del cuarte. we drove out of one and came in by the other, about half a mile away--a diversion that brought us under a rigid examination from the customs guard, which levies a tax on every basket of produce brought in from the country, and was inclined to regard us as a dutiable importation. [illustration: barcelona fishermen.] one may go quite freely to the port, however--the grao--which is two miles distant. a broad boulevard hedged with sycamores leads thither, which in summer is crowded by _tartanas_--bouncing little covered wagons lined with crimson curtains, and usually carrying a load of pretty señoritas--and by more imposing equipages adorned with footmen in the english style. everybody goes to the shore to bathe toward evening, for valencia is the brighton of the madrileños. the little bathing establishments extend for a long distance on the sands, and are very neat. each has its fanciful name, as "the pearl," or "the madrid girl," and the proprietors stand in front vociferously soliciting your custom. between these and the water are refreshment sheds with tables, and every one eats or drinks on coming out of the sea. farther down the shore the women have their own houses, and a fence of reeds protects them from intrusion while they are running to or from the surf; but it is my duty to record that the men formed a line at this fence, and systematically gazed through the breaks in it, which was the more embarrassing, perhaps, because the fair valencians bathe in very plain, baggy, and ugly gowns. on the streets or in the glorieta garden, and in their proper habiliments, they are the noblest looking and most beautiful of spanish women, often possessing flaxen hair and dark-blue eyes which recall a gothic ancestry, together with something simple and regular about the features that is perhaps due to the ancient greek colonization. at still another part of the beach horses were allowed to go into the waves; and this was a sight also eminently greek in its suggestion. naked boys bestrode the animals, and urged them forward into the spray-fringed tide. the arched necks, the prancing movement of the horses, the sportive shock of foam against their broad chests, and the pressing knees of the nude riders in full play of muscle to keep their seats, were like a breathing and stirring relief on some temple frieze, clear-cut in the pure and sparkling sunlight. there was once a valencian school of painters, but we saw nothing of this in their work. the museum offers what our newspapers would call a "carnival" of rubbish, but it also contains some striking, shadowy, startlingly lighted canvases of ribalta--saints and martyrs and ascetics vividly but not joyously portrayed; a few wonderful portraits by goya, fresh as if only just completed; and one of velasquez's three portraits of himself. from valencia to barcelona the valleys along the coast are fertile. vineyards, spreading their long files of green over a warm red soil that seems tinged with the blood of the grape, vie with the olive in that picturesque, productive belt between the hills and the blue, swelling sweep of the mediterranean. here is murviedro, the old saguntum, once the scene of a fierce siege and horrible sufferings, now basking quietly in the hot light--a time-worn, sun-tanned, beggared old city, which is not ashamed to make a show of its decayed roman theatre; and farther on tarragona, which professes to have had at one time a million inhabitants, and is now a little wine-producing town. churches and castles, rich in delicate workmanship and all manner of historic association, crop up everywhere. the very shards in the fields, you fancy, may suddenly unfold something of that full and varied past which was once as real as to-day's meridian glow. yet at any moment you may lose sight of all this in the brilliant, stimulating, yet softly modified beauty of the landscape's colors, and your whole mind is absorbed by the vague neutral hues of a treeless hill-side, or the rich, positive blue of the sea, in which the white sail of a _chalupa_ seems to be inlaid like a bit of ivory. all the while, as you go northward, spain--the real spain--is slipping from you. the palms disappear as if a noiseless earthquake had swallowed them up; even the olive becomes less frequent, and by-and-by you are in piny catalonia. you reach barcelona, the greatest commercial city of the kingdom, and you find it the boast of the citizens that they are not spaniards. they are spanish mainly in their love of revolt. so prompt are they to join in every uprising, that the garrison quartered there has to be kept as high as ten thousand men; but for the most part it is rather a french maritime dépot than a thing of ancient or peculiar spain. there is a large and artificial park on one side, and the fort of monjuich on the other, and a lot of shipping in the harbor; and a glorious embowered avenue, called the rambla, where pale-faced, long-lashed, coquettishly smiling women walk in great numbers, carrying out the usual national custom of a peripatetic reception and conversation party. it was the feast of santiago when we came--it is always a feast of something everywhere in that pious country--and the theatres were doing a great business with trifling plays and charming ballets. barcelona is not only the industrious city, it is also the cultivated one of the peninsula. the opera there is one of the best in the world, and was once carried off bodily to madrid by an ardent manager, who for his pains received the scorn of the envious madrid people: they would not come to his performances, and he was almost ruined in consequence. the old cathedral of the city is a temple singularly impressive by simple means--a sober spanish-gothic structure bathed in a perpetual gloom, through which the stained windows show with a jewelled splendor almost supernatural. the weirdness of the interior effect is farther intensified by the dark pit of santa eulalia's shrine opening under the altar, and set with a row of burning lamps, on which the darkness seems to hang like a cloak depending from a chain of gold. the invariable rule in spanish cathedrals is that the choir should be placed in the central nave, like that at westminster abbey, and elaborated into a complete enclosure by itself--which, although it interferes with the total effect of the interior, is frequently very striking in its lavish agglomeration of carved wood and stone, metal railings, gilding, and similar details. it was in the peculiarly picturesque choir of this cathedral of santa eulalia that the order of the golden fleece was once convened by charles v., and the panels over the stalls are blazoned with the bearings of the various nations and nobles represented in that body. being discovered only after one has grown accustomed to the dark, these fading glories of heraldry steal gradually upon the eye, as if through the obscuring night of time. i found the ancient cloister, without, on the south-west side, a delightful, shadowy, suggestive place: there, too, may be seen a fountain surmounted by a small equestrian statue of st. george, which reminds one of a fabulous story in münchausen; for the tail of the horse is formed by a jet of water flowing out of the body at the rear. inside the church again hangs, under the organ-loft, an enormous wooden and painted saracen's head--a species of relic not uncommon, i believe, in catalonian temples. it may be added here that the custom of the "historical giants" at corpus christi is maintained in barcelona as we had seen it at burgos, and those effigies are stowed away somewhere in the sacred precincts. there is a curious mingling of the naïve and the sophisticated in the fact that some of the giants, wearing female attire, have new dresses for each year, and thereby set the fashions for the ensuing twelvemonth for all the womankind of the city. and however advanced the urban society may be, with its trade, its opera, its books, gilded cafés and superb clubs, the spirit of progress does not spread very far into the country. when a piece of railroad was built, not very long ago, opening up a new rural section in the neighborhood, the peasants watched the advance of the locomotive along the rails with profound interest. finally, one old man asked, "but where is the _mule_ kept?--inside?" he was willing to admit that the engine worked finely, but no power could convince him that it was possible for it to go by other impulsion than that of a mule's legs. another relic of by-gone times is the cap universally worn in this region by the longshoremen, the fishers, and the male portion of the lower orders generally; for it is nothing less than the old phrygian liberty cap, imported hither by the paul pry phoenicians ages ago. woven in a single piece, it appears at first sight to be a long, soft, commodious bag, tinted with vermilion or violet or brown as the case may be. into the aperture the native inserts his head and then pulls the rest of the flapping contrivance down as far as he pleases, letting the end float loose in the wind, or more commonly bringing it round to the front, curling it over and tucking it in upon itself in such a way as to make an overhanging protection for the eyes, and to give the whole a look that recalls the top of an oxford student's cap. with this head-gear, and wearing sandals made of fine hempen cord tied by long black tapes, the men presented a free, half barbarous and sufficiently picturesque appearance. i don't know how long we might have continued to roam the streets of barcelona, listening to the uncouth _patois_ of the locality, in which french and spanish words are so outlandishly mingled, nor how long we should have clung to the remnants of architecture and history that jutted seductively above the surface of the modern here and there, if it had not been that cold necessity limited our time and propelled us relentlessly northward. even now i find that my pen is reluctant to leave the tracing of those vanished scenes, and hesitates to write the last word as much as if it were an enchanter's wand, instead of a plain, business-like little instrument. with its usual fatuity the railroad obliged us to start so early that at the first dusky gray streak of dawn we were dismally taking our coffee in the _patio_ of the hotel. the _dueño_ was sleeping by sections on two hard chairs, considerately screened from us by a clump of orange shrubs, and murmuring now and then some direction to the half-invisible waiter floating about in a dark arcade; but he roused himself, and woke up wholly for a minute or two while perpetrating a final extortion. otherwise the silence was profound. it was the silence of the past, the unseen current of oblivion that sets in and begins to eddy round the facts of to-day, in such a country, the moment human activity is suspended or the reality of the present is at all dimmed. silence here leads at once to retrospection; differing in this from the mute solitude of american places, which somehow always tingles with anticipation. and the _dueño_, in overcharging us, became only the type of a long line of historic plunderers that have infested the peninsula from the date of the roman rule down to the incursion of napoleon and the most recent period. his little game was invested with all the dignity of history and tradition. the sickly light of day above the court struggled feebly and dividedly with the waning yellow of the candle-flame on our table. "after all," said velveteen, "i'm glad to be going, for this is no longer spain." and yet, at the instant of leaving, we discovered that it was indeed spain, and a pang of regret followed those words. as we issued from the hotel we saw, crossing the street in the increased dawn-light, and striding toward the dépot, the two civil guards. it looked as if we should be captured on the very threshold of liberty. the thought lent wings to our haste.... some hours afterward, when we were passing through the tunnels of the pyrenees, we congratulated ourselves on our escape; and, indeed, as we looked back to the mountain-wall from france, we could fancy we saw two specks on the summit which might have been our pursuers. they were too late! their own excess of mystery had baffled them. they had dogged us every league of the way, and yet we had traversed spain without being detected as--what? i really don't know, but i'm sure those civil guards must. if not, their military glare, their guns, and their secrecy are the merest mockeries. how softly the waves broke along the mediterranean sands that morning, close to the rails over which we were flying! green and white, or violet, and shimmered over by the crimson splendor of the illumined east, they surged one after another upon the golden shore and spent themselves like wasted treasure. there was something mournful in their movement--something very sad in the presence of this beauty which i was never to see again. did i not hear mingled with the sparkling flash and murmur of those waves a long-drawn "_a-a-ay!_"--the most pathetic of spanish syllables, which had thrown its shadow across the fervid little songs heard so often by the way? "bird, little bird that wheelest through god's fair worlds in the sky"-- the strain came back again, with the memory of a low-tuned guitar; and the waves went on, arriving and departing; and the land of our pilgrimage steadily receded. the waves are breaking yet on that windless coast; but, for us, spain--brilliant, tawny, bright-vestured spain, with all its ruins and poetry, its desolation and beauty and gaudy semi-barbarism--has been rapt away once more into the atmosphere of distance and of dreams! [illustration] hints to travellers. spain is by no means so difficult a country to reach, nor so inconvenient to travel in after one has got there, as is generally supposed. doubtless the obstacles which it presented to the tourist until within a few years were great; and much that is disagreeable still remains to vex those who are accustomed to the smoother ways, and carefully-oiled machinery for travel, of regions more civilized. but the establishment of a system of railroads, describing an outline that passes through nearly all the places which it is desirable to visit, has supplied a means of transit sufficient, safe, and passably comfortable. the other disadvantages formerly opposed to the inquiring stranger are likewise in process of diminution. in order to make clear the exact state of things likely to be encountered by those who, having followed the present writer in his account of a rapid journey, may determine to take a similar direction themselves, this chapter of suggestion is added, which it is hoped will have value in the way of a practical equipment for the voyage. _patience_.--the first requisite, it should be said, in one about to visit spain, is a reasonable amount of good-humored patience, with which to meet discomforts and provoking delays. the customs of that country are not to be reversed by fuming at them; anger will not aid the digestion which finds itself annoyed by a peculiar cookery; and no amount of irritation will suffice to make spanish officials and keepers of hostelries one whit more obliging than they are at present--their regard for the convenience of the public being just about equal to that of the average american hotel clerk or railroad employé. _passports_.--next to patience may be placed a passport; though it differs from the former article in being of no particular use. i observe that guide-books lay stress upon the passport as something very important; and, no doubt, it is gratifying to possess one. there is a subtle flattery in the personal relation, approaching familiarity, which an instrument of this kind seems to set up on the part of government toward the individual; there is a charming unreality, moreover, in the description it gives of your personal appearance and the color of your eyes, making you feel, when you read it, as if you were a character in fiction. following the rules, i procured a passport and put it into a stout envelope, ready for much use and constant wear; but all that it accomplished for me was to add a few ounces of weight to my _impedimenta_. no one ever asked for it, and i doubt whether the military police would have understood what it was, had they seen it. my experience on first crossing the frontier taught me never to volunteer useless information. our trunks had been passed after a mere opening of the lids and lifting of the trays, and an officer was listlessly examining the contents of my shoulder-bag. thinking that he was troubled by the enigmatic nature of a few harmless opened letters which it contained, i said, re-assuringly, as he was dropping them back into their place, "they are only letters." "letters!" he repeated, with rekindled vigilance. and, taking up the sheets again, of which he could not understand a word, he squandered several minutes in gazing at them in an absurd pretence of profundity. if i had insisted on unfurling my country's passport, i should probably have been taken into custody at once, as a person innocent enough to deserve thorough investigation. nevertheless, a passport may be a good thing to hold in reserve for possible contingencies. it is said also to be of use, now and then, in securing admission to galleries and museums on days or at hours when they are generally closed to the public; but of this i cannot speak from experience. _custom-house_.--we had no great difficulty with examinations by custom-house officers, except at barcelona, where we arrived about one o'clock in the morning and had to undergo a scene excessively annoying at the time, but comical enough in the retrospect. being desirous to embark on the hotel omnibus in search of quarters, we hastened to the baggage-room to claim our trunks by the registry receipt given us at valencia; but the "carbineer" explained that we could not have them just then. after waiting a little, we took out keys and politely proposed to open them for examination. this, also, he declined. i then offered him a cigar, which he accepted in a very gracious way, giving it a slight flourish and shake in his hand (after the usual manner), to indicate his appreciation of the courtesy; but still he made no motion to accommodate us in the matter we had most at heart. some agreeable young scotchmen, who had joined our party, urged me to make farther demonstrations, and i conferred with the omnibus-driver, who explained that we must wait for some other parcels to be collected from the train before anything could be done; accordingly, we waited. the other parcels arrived; the policy of inaction continued. meanwhile, several french commercial travellers, who had journeyed hither by the same train in all the splendor of a spurious parlor-car, chartered for their sole use, had proceeded around the station, and now attacked the bolted doors at the front of the baggage-room with furious poundings and loud bi-lingual ejaculations. but even this had no effect. i therefore concluded that the object of the "carbineer's" strategy was a bribe; and, for the first and only time in our journey, i administered one. getting him aside, i told him confidentially, with all the animation proper to an entirely new idea, that we were anxious to get our belongings examined and passed promptly, so as to secure a resting-place some time before day, and that we should be greatly obliged if he would assist us. at the same time i slipped two or three _pesetas_ into his hand, which he took with the same magnanimous tolerance he had shown on receiving the cigar. this done, he once more relapsed into apathy. all known resources had now been exhausted, and there was nothing to do but wait. with dismay i stood by and saw my silver follow the cigar, swallowed up in the abyss of official indifference that yawned before us; and to my companions, who had just been envying me my slight knowledge of spanish, and admiring my tact, i became all at once a perfectly useless object, a specimen of misguided imbecility--all owing to the dense unresponsiveness of the inspector, whose incapacity to act assumed, by contrast with my own fruitless energy, a resemblance to genius. the oaths and poundings of the french battalion at the door went on gallantly all the time, but were quite as ineffectual as my movement on the rear. finally, just when we were reduced to despair, the guard roused himself from his meditations, rushed to the door, unbolted it to the impatient assailants, and passed everything in the room without the slightest examination. the whole affair remains to this day an enigma; and, as such, one is forced to accept every trouble of this kind in the peninsula. but, as i have said, matters went smoothly enough in other places. every important town, i believe, collects its imposts even on articles brought into market from the surrounding country; and at seville we paid the hotel interpreter twenty cents as the nominal duty on our personal belongings. i have not the slightest doubt that this sum went to swell his own private revenue; at all events, no such tariff was insisted upon, or even suggested, elsewhere. the only rule that can be given is to await the action of customs officials without heat, and, while avoiding undue eagerness to show that you carry nothing dutiable, hold yourself in readiness to unlock and exhibit whatever you have. in case a fine should be exacted, ask for a receipt for the amount; and, if it seems to be excessive, the american or british consul or commercial agent may afterward be appealed to. _extra baggage_.--one point of importance in this connection is generally overlooked. only about sixty pounds' weight of luggage is allowed to each traveller; all trunks are carefully weighed at every station of departure, and every pound over the above amount is charged for. hence, unless a light trunk is selected, and the quantity of personal effects carefully reduced to the least that is practicable, the expense of a tour in spain will be appreciably increased by the item of extra baggage alone. baggage of all kinds is registered, and a receipt given by which it may be identified at the point of destination. it is important, however, to get to the station at least half an hour before the time for leaving, since this process of weighing and registering, like that of selling or stamping tickets, is conducted with extreme deliberation, and cannot be hastened in any way. on diligence routes the allowance for baggage is only forty-four pounds (twenty kilograms). a good precaution, in order to guard against unfair weighing, is to get one's trunk or trunks properly weighed before starting, and keep a memorandum of the result. _tickets, etc_.--it is unadvisable to travel in any but first-class carriages on the spanish railroads; and the fare for these is somewhat high. but a very great saving may be made, if the journey be begun from paris, by purchasing _billets circulaires_ (circular or round-trip tickets), which--with a limitation of two months, as to time--enable the tourist to go from paris either to san sebastian, on the bay of biscay, or barcelona, on the mediterranean, and from either of those points to take in succession all the cities and towns which it is worth while to visit. a ticket of this kind costs only about ninety dollars, whereas the usual fare from paris to madrid alone is nearly or quite forty dollars. the _billets circulaires_ may be obtained at a certain central ticket-office in the rue st. honoré, at paris, to which the inquirer at either of the great southern railroads--that is, the paris-lyons and the orleans lines--will be directed. the list of places at which one is permitted to stop, on this round-trip system, is very extensive, and a coupon for each part of the route is provided. it must be observed, however, that when once the trip is begun the holder cannot return upon his traces, unless a coupon for that purpose be included, without paying the regular fare. he must continue in the general direction taken at the start--entering spain at one of its northern corners, and coming out at the opposite northern corner, after having described a sort of elliptical course through the various points to be visited. and this is, in fact, the most convenient course to take. it is also prescribed that at the first frontier station, and at every station from which the holder afterward starts, he shall show the ticket and have it stamped. occasionally, conductors on the trains displayed a tendency to make us pay something additional; but this was merely an attempt at imposition, and we always refused to comply. should the holder of one of these tickets have a similar experience, and be unable to make the conductor comprehend, the best thing to do is quietly to persist in not paying, and, if necessary, have the proper explanation made at the end of the day's trip. journeys by steamer are not included in this arrangement; but we got our steamer tickets at malaga remarkably cheap, and in the following manner: two boats of rival lines were to start in the same direction on the same day, and the interpreter, or _valet de place_, attached to our _fonda_, volunteered to take advantage of this circumstance by playing one company off against the other, and thus beating them down from the regular price. so he summoned a dim-eyed and dilapidated man, whilom of the mariners' calling, to act as an intermediary. this personage was to go to the office of the boat on which we wanted to embark, and tell them that we thought of sailing by the other line (which had, in fact, been the case), but that if we could obtain passage at a price that he named, we would take their steamer; in short, that here was a fine chance of capturing two passengers from the opposition. the sum which we handed to our dim-eyed emissary was seventy-five francs; but, while he was absent upon his errand of diplomacy, the interpreter figured out that we ought to have given him eighteen more, and we quite commiserated the poor negotiator for having gone off with an insufficient supply of cash. imagine our astonishment when he returned and, instead of asking for the additional amount which we had counted out all ready for him, laid before us a shining gold piece of twenty-five francs which he had not expended! deciding to improve upon his instructions, he had paid only fifty francs for the two passages. we certainly were amazed, but the interpreter was still more so; for he had evidently expected his colleague to say nothing about having saved the twenty-five francs, but to pocket that and eighteen besides for their joint credit (or _dis_credit) account. he controlled his emotions by a heroic effort; but the complicated play of stupefaction at his agent's honesty, of bitter chagrin at the loss involved, and of pretended delight at our remarkable success, was highly interesting to witness. i have always regretted that some old italian medallist could not have been at hand to mould the exquisite conflict of expression which his face presented at that moment, and render it permanent in a bronze bass-relief. as it was, we gave each man a bonus of five francs, and then had paid for our tickets only about half the established rate. _personal safety_.--risk of bodily peril from the attacks of bandits, on the accustomed lines of travel in spain, need no longer be feared. the formidable pillagers who once gathered toll along all the highways and by-ways have been suppressed by the civil guards, or military police, a very trustworthy and thorough organization, which really seems to be the most (and is, perhaps, the sole) efficient thing about the government of the kingdom. of these guards there are now twenty thousand foot and five thousand horse distributed throughout the country, keeping it constantly under patrol, in companies, squads and pairs, never appearing singly; and where there are only two of them, they walk twelve paces apart on lonely roads, to avoid simultaneous surprise. they are armed with rifles, swords, and revolvers, and are drawn from the pick of the royal army. some time since there occurred a case in which two of these men murdered a traveller in a solitary place for the sake of a few thousand francs he was known to have with him; but the crime was witnessed by a shepherd lad in concealment, and they were swiftly brought to trial and executed. this instance is so exceptional as to make it almost an injustice even to mention it; for, as a rule, perfect dependence may be placed on the guards, who are governed by military law and possess a great _esprit de corps_. a strong group of them is posted in every city; at every railroad station, no matter how small, there are two members of the force on duty, and two more usually accompany each train. the result of all these precautions is that one may take his seat in a spanish railroad-carriage absolutely with less fear of robbery or violence than he might reasonably feel in england or america. the only instance of banditti pillaging a railroad-train that is known to have occurred while i was in spain, was that of the james brothers in missouri, whose outrages upon travellers, in our peaceful and fortunate republic, were reported to us by cable, while we were struggling through the imaginary perils of a perfect police system in a country that knows not the subtleties of american institutions. and, while we were thus proceeding upon our way, an atrocious murder was committed in a carriage of the london and brighton railway, which was not the first of its kind to set the english public shivering with dread and horror. even the diligence now appears to be as safe as the rail-carriage. but it should be clearly understood that, when one goes off the beaten track and attempts horseback journeys, he exposes himself to quite other conditions, which it is absurd to expect the police to control. an acquaintance tells me that he has made excursions of some length in the saddle, in spain, meeting nothing but courtesy and good-will; but he took care to have his pistol-holsters well filled and in plain sight. to travel on horseback without an armed and trusty native guide (who should be well paid, and treated with tact and cordiality) is certainly not the most prudent thing that can be done; but solitary pedestrianism is mere foolhardiness. a young french journalist of promise, known to be of good habits, had been loitering alone about pamplona a short time before the date of my trip, and was one morning found murdered outside of the walls. while i was in the south, too, as i afterward learned, an englishman, who was concluding a brief foot-tour in the north, attempted to make his way in the evening from san sebastian to irun, on the frontier: he was captured by bandits, kept imprisoned for a week in a lonely hut, and doubtless narrowly missed coming to his death. his own account of his escape gives a vivid idea of the treatment that may be expected from the rural population by anybody who gets into a similar predicament. "i resolved," he says, "to strive for liberty. having worked out a stone, which i found rather loose in the wall near me, and having taken advantage of the darkness of my corner, i gnawed asunder the cord that bound me. i made for the door, which opened into the other apartment, and there being but one guard left over me--the others being off on some expedition--i watched for an opportunity. presently it was afforded me. as the fellow sat with his back toward me, resting his head upon his hands, i stole forward, holding my stone in readiness, and with one blow laid him on the floor. then, snatching up a knife from the table, i ran out, and after wandering among the mountains most of the night found myself at daybreak on the high-way, my feet cut with the stones and my strength gone. i fainted. on coming round i attempted in vain to rise, when, two men coming along with a bullock-cart, i asked for help. all they did was to prod me with their goads and march on. the laborers were now returning to their work in the fields, and seeing my attempt to regain my feet, several of them pelted me with clods. i had little strength left, but at last i managed to get on my feet, and having rested a while to regain my strength, i staggered along to the town and waited upon the english vice-consul, who kindly provided me with food and clothes, after which i accompanied him before the governor of the province, to make my statement." the spanish government do not acknowledge responsibility for proceedings of this kind on the part of their people; hence it is doubtful whether in such a case the victim, after all his peril and suffering, can even recover the value of what has been stolen from him. but it is perfectly, easy to keep out of the way of such adventures. in the hotel de los siete suelos, at granada, it is true that the night-porter used to strap around his meagre waist, when he went on duty, a great swashbuckler's sword, as if some bloody nocturnal incursion were impending. but whatever the danger was that threatened, it never befell: the door of the hotel always remained wide open, and our bellicose porter regularly went to sleep soundly on a bench beside it, with his weapon dangling ingloriously over his legs. no one ever seemed to think of using keys for their hotel rooms except in madrid; and so far as any likelihood of theft was concerned, this confidence seemed to be well justified. many articles that might have roused the cupidity of unambitious thieves, and could easily have been taken, were left by my companion and myself lying about our unlocked apartments, but we sustained no loss. _language_.--one cannot travel to the best advantage in spain without having at least a moderate knowledge of french; or, still better, of spanish. railroad employés, customs officers, guards, and inn-keepers there, as a rule, understand only their native tongue. now and then one will be found who has command of a very few french words; but this is quite the exception, and even when it occurs, is not of much use. at the hotels in all places frequented by foreigners there are interpreters, who conduct transactions between traveller and landlord, and act as guides to places of public interest. for services of this kind they must be paid seven or eight francs a day, certainly not more, and in the smaller towns less will suffice. these interpreters always speak a little french; but their english is a decidedly variable quantity. of course, people constantly make their way through the kingdom on the resources of english alone; but it is obvious that in so doing they must miss a great many opportunities for curious or instructive observation; and even in viewing the regulation sights the want of an easy medium of communication will often cause interesting details to be omitted. the possibility of employing a courier for the whole journey remains open; but that is a very expensive expedient, and greatly hampers one's freedom. enough spanish for the ordinary needs of the way can be learned in a month's study, by any one who has an aptitude for languages. italian will by no means take the place of it, although some acquaintance with that language may facilitate the study of spanish; the fact being kept in mind, however, that the guttural character of spanish is quite alien to the genius of italian speech, and comes more naturally to one who knows german. if the tourist have time enough at his disposal, it is well to take quarters somewhere in a _casa de huespedes_, or boarding-house, for two or three weeks, in order to become familiar with the vernacular. _manners_.--there is a superstition that, if you will only keep taking off your hat and presenting complimentary cigars, you will meet with marvels of courteous response, and accomplish nearly everything you want to, in spain. but the voyager who relies implicitly on this attractive theory will often suffer disappointment. it will do no harm for him to cool his brow by a free indulgence in cap-doffing; and to make presents of the wretched government cigars commonly in use will be found a pleasanter task than smoking them. in fact, a failure to observe these solemn ceremonies places him in the position of a churlish and disfavored person. but, on the other hand, polite attentions of this kind are often enough met by a lethargic dignity and inertia that are far from gratifying. under such circumstances, let the tourist remember and apply that prerequisite which i began with mentioning--good-humored patience. i found my companions by the rail or at _tables d'hóte_ sometimes considerate and agreeable, at others quite the reverse, and disposed to ignore the existence of foreigners as something beneath notice. i remember once, when velveteen and i, obliged to change cars, had barely time, before the train was to move again, to spring into a compartment pointed out by the conductor, we found there a well-dressed but gross spaniard, of the wealthy or noble class, who had had the section marked _reservado_, and the curtains carefully drawn. he sprang up from his nap with a snort, and glared angrily at the intruders, then burst into a storm of rage and expostulation, most of which he discharged out of window at the conductor: but, finding that he could get no satisfaction in that way, he subsided into sullen disdain, paying no attention to my "_buenas dias_" ("good-day"), and making his dissatisfaction prominent by impatient gestures and mutterings from time to time. owing to the cost of baggage transport, too, the natives generally carry a large number of bundles, bags, and miniature trunks in the first-class as well as other carriages--thus avoiding any fee--so that it is often difficult to find a place for packages, or to pass in and out; and those who thus usurp the room are apt to look with cynical indifference at the perplexities of the latest comer, whom they leave to shift for himself as well as he can. nevertheless, it is an almost universal custom that any one who produces a lunch during the ride, offers it to all the chance company in the compartment before partaking of it himself. it is a point of politeness not to accept such an invitation, but it must be extended just the same as if this were not the case. in one respect the spaniards are extremely polite--that is, in showing strangers the way from point to point. frequently, the first man of whom you inquire how to get back to your hotel, or elsewhere, will insist upon accompanying you the whole distance, in order to make sure that you do not go wrong; and this although it may lie entirely out of his own direction. such a favor becomes a very important and desirable one in the tortuous streets of most spanish towns. among themselves the rule is that all ranks and classes should treat each other with respect, meeting on terms of a grave but not familiar equality: hence they expect a similar mode of address from strangers. when all the conditions are fulfilled, their courtesy is of the magnificent order--it is serious, composed, and dignified. each individual seems to be living on a pedestal; he bows, or makes a flowing gesture, and you get an exact idea what it would be like to have the apollo belvedere receive you as a host, or a jupiter tonans give you an amicable salutation. as in america, however, it is usually not easy to get information from those who are especially hired or appointed to give it. the personal service of the railroads, with rare exceptions, is ungracious and careless. one must be sure to ask about all the details he wants to know, for these are seldom volunteered. there is a main office (called despacho central) in each city, where you may buy tickets, order an omnibus for the station, make inquiries, etc. at the one in toledo i presented our circular tickets for stamping, on departure, and asked several questions about the train, which showed the agent plainly what line we were going to take. when we reached castillejo, i found that, in spite of all this, he had allowed us to take a road on which the tickets he had stamped were not valid, and we were forced to pay the whole fare. neither will conductors be at the pains to shut the doors on the sides of the cars; passengers must do this for themselves. i had travelled all night in a compartment, and in the morning, wishing to look out, i leaned against the door, and it instantly flew open. as it was on the off-side when i got in, it was at that time already closed; but i now discovered that the handle had not even been turned to secure it. the superficial way in which people do things over there is seen in the curious little fact that, from the time of leaving france until that of our return, we could nowhere get the backs of our boots blacked, though repeatedly insisting on it; the national belief being that trousers conceal that part of the shoe, and labor given to improving its appearance would therefore be thrown away. the demand for fees is in general not so systematic or impudent as in england; but when one intends to stay more than a day in a place, better attendance will be obtained by bestowing a present of a franc or two, although service is included in the regular daily rate of the hotel. finally, the spaniard with whom one comes most in contact as a tourist is peculiarly averse to being scolded; so that, whatever the provocation, it is better to deal with him softly. _hotels, diet, etc_.--the spanish hotels are conducted on the american plan; so much a day being paid for room, fare, light, heat, and service. this sum ranges commonly from $ to $ a head, except where the very best rooms are supplied. the foreigner, of course, pays a good deal more than the native, but it is impossible for him to avoid that. sometimes coffee after dinner is included in this price, but coffee after the mid-day breakfast is charged as an extra; and so are all wines except the ordinary red or white val de peñas, which are supplied with both meals. nothing is furnished before the breakfast hour excepting a cup of chocolate, some bread, and, possibly, butter. one should always see his rooms before engaging them, and also be particular to ask whether the price named includes everything, otherwise additional items will be foisted upon him when the bill is settled. confusion in the account may be avoided by paying for all extras at the moment of obtaining them. those who are unaccustomed to the light provend furnished for the morning will do well to carry a stock of beef-extract, or something of the kind. cow's milk is difficult to get, and such a thing as a boiled egg with the chocolate is well-nigh unheard of. the national beverage is the safest: warm chocolate, not very sweet, and so thick that it will almost hold the spoon upright. coffee in the morning does not have the same nutritive force; indeed, quite otherwise than in france and germany, it appears to exert in this climate an injurious effect if drunk early in the day--at least, a comparison of notes shows it to be so in summer. rather more attention should be given to diet in spain than in the countries above named, or in england and italy, owing to peculiarities of the climate and the cookery. whoever has not a hardy digestion runs some danger of disturbance from the all but universal use of olive-oil in cooking; but, with this exception, the tendency is more and more toward the adoption of a french _cuisine_ in the best hotels of the larger cities, and various good, palatable dishes are to be had in them. the native wines are unadulterated, but strong and heavy. owing to something in their composition, or to the unpleasant taste imparted by the pig-skins, they are to some persons almost poisonous; so that a degree of caution is necessary in using them. water has the reputation of being especially pure in all parts of the kingdom, and of exercising a beneficial influence on some forms of malady. it certainly is delicious to drink. there is much greater cleanliness in the hotels, taking them all in all, than i had expected; but the want of proper sanitary provision, omitting the solitary case of the fonda suizo at cordova, where everything was perfect in this respect, leads to a state of things which may be described in a word as oriental--that is, barbarous in the extreme, and scarcely endurable. on this point professional guide-writers are strangely silent. a wise precaution is to carry disinfectants. a small medicine-case, by-the-way, might with advantage be included in the equipment proper for travel in the peninsula. we touched the nadir of dirt and unsavoriness, as you may say, in our first night at the fonda del norte, in burgos; and there the maid who ushered me to my room warned me, as she retreated, to be careful about keeping the doors of the anteroom closed because, as she said, "there are many rats, and if the doors are open they run in here." but luckily the rest of our experience was an agreeable decline from this early climax. there is another hotel at burgos, the raffaele, which, as we learned too late, is--in complete contradiction of the guide-books--clean and pleasant. on the practical side, that voyager will achieve success who plans his route in spain so as to evade the fonda del norte at burgos, which is the stronghold of dirt, and the hotel de paris at madrid, which takes the palm for extortion. naturally, in exploring minor towns or villages, one must be prepared to face a good deal of discomfort, since he must seek shelter at a _posada_ or _venta_, where donkeys and other domestic beasts are kept under one roof with the wayfarer, and perhaps in close proximity to his bed and board. but among the inns of modern type he will get on fairly well without having to call out any very great fortitude. _expense of travel_.--from what has been said about circular tickets and hotel prices, some notion can be formed as to the general cost of a spanish expedition. housing and transportation should not be reckoned at less than six dollars a day; and allowance must next be made for guides, carriages, admission fees, and so on. altogether, ten dollars a day may be considered sufficient to cover the strictly necessary outlay, if the journey be conducted in a comfortable manner; but it is safer to assume one hundred dollars a week as the probable expense for one person, and this will leave a margin for the purchase of characteristic articles here and there--a piece of lace, a little pottery, knives, cheap fans, and so on. this estimate is made on the basis of first-class places _en route_, and of stops at the best hotels. it could be materially reduced by choosing second-class hotels, which is by no means advisable when ladies are of the party; and, even with the better accommodation, if small rooms be selected and a careful economy exercised in other directions, sixty dollars a week might be made to do. to dispense with the aid of the local guides is no saving, if the design be to move rapidly; because, without such assistance, more time has to be spent in getting at a given number of objects. _mail-service, telegrams, books, etc_.--the mails are conveyed with promptness and safety, it appears; although at malaga i observed a large padlocked and green-painted chest with a narrow aperture in it, lying on the sidewalk in no particular custody, and learned that it was a convenient movable post-office. furthermore, it is bewildering to find, after painfully travelling to the genuine post-office (the _corréo_), that you cannot buy any stamps there. these are kept on sale only at the shops of tobacconists, whose trade likewise makes them agents of the governmental monopoly in cigars, cigarettes, etc. the tobacconists' stores bear the sign _estanco_ (stamp-shop); and, after one is accustomed to the plan, it becomes really more convenient to obtain one's postage from them. to weigh large envelopes or packages, however, the sender must resort to the _corréo_. international postal cards may be had, which are good between spain and france, and other rates are not high. those who intend to pass rapidly from point to point will do well to have all correspondence directed to the care of the american consul or vice-consul--or, if in madrid, to the legation there. there is no difficulty about letters addressed in english, provided the writing be plain. at the first city which he touches the tourist should ascertain from the representative of his nationality the names of all representatives in the other places he expects to go to, so that he can forward the precise address for each place, and himself be informed just where to apply for letters or counsel. in cases where there is no time to take these measures, the plan may be followed of having letters addressed _poste restante_ at the various points; but they must then be called for at the post-office, and at each town orders should be left with the postmaster to forward to some farther objective point any mail-matter expected at that town, but not received there. in requesting any service of this kind from consuls, do not forget to leave with them a proper amount of postage. telegrams may be sent from all large places, in english, at rates about the same as those which prevail elsewhere; but if it is intended to send many messages by wire, a simple code ought to be arranged with correspondents beforehand, to save expense. telegrams have to be written very carefully, too; i attempted to send one from granada, but made a slight correction in one word--a fact which caused it to be brought all the way back from the city to my hotel on the alhambra hill, with an imperative request that it should be rewritten and returned free from the least scratch or blot. whatever books you may wish to consult on the journey should be provided at the very start, in america, london, or paris: ten to one you will not find them in spain. it is pleasant, for example, to refer on the spot to an english version of "don quixote," or the french "gil blas;" or prescott's "ferdinand and isabella," and the "columbus," the "conquest of granada," and "tales of the alhambra," by irving. théophile gautier's "voyage en espagne" is another very delightful hand-mirror in which to see your own observations reflected. but none of these are obtainable except, possibly, in madrid and barcelona; and even there it is not certain that they will be found. these two cities are the head-quarters, however, for such spanish books as may be required. _bankers and money_.--little need be said on this point, beyond suggesting the usual circular letter of credit, except to forewarn all persons concerned that they will be charged and must submit to very heavy commissions and exchange at the houses where their letters entitle them to draw. another particular which it is essential to note is the uncertain currency of certain silver coinage in spain, and the prevalence of counterfeit pieces. strangers must fight shy of any kind of _peseta_ (equivalent to a franc) except the recent and regulation ones, though there are many dating from earlier reigns than alfonso's, which will pass anywhere. the small money of one province frequently will not be received in another; and it happened to me to preserve with great care a barcelona _peseta_, which i found unavailable everywhere else, and had accepted by an oversight in sevilla, in the confident hope that i could get rid of it at barcelona itself; but i discovered that that was exactly the place where they treated it with the most contempt. hence it is best, before leaving one province for another, to convert your change into gold pieces of twenty-five _pesetas_ worth, or into silver dollars (which are called _duros_), worth five _pesetas_ each. here, however, let it be noted that the one infallible course to prevent deception is to ring on some solid surface of wood or stone every gold or silver coin you receive at the hotel, the banker's, or anywhere else. if it give a flat sound, no matter what its real value may be, great trouble will be had in passing it; hence, you must in that case refuse to take it. for example, a five-dollar piece was given me which failed to yield the true sound; and though it was perfectly good, having merely become cracked, i could do nothing with it, even at the madrid banker's; finally getting its value in silver, by a mere chance, from a professional money-changer of more than common enlightenment. never give a gold piece to a waiter or any one else to be changed, unless the transaction is effected under your own eye; for, if he carries the coin away out of your sight, a substitution will very likely be made, and you cannot then get rid of the uncurrent money which will be forced upon you. the precaution of ringing or sounding money, on receipt, is so general that no one need feel any hesitation at practising it, however it may seem to reflect upon the person who has proffered the coin. spanish gold pieces in small quantity may with advantage be bought in paris. on the other hand, it is well to carry more or less napoleons with you, because french gold is trusted, and passes with slight discount. the traveller should be provided with both kinds. always and persistently refuse spanish paper. _buying bric-à-brac, lace, etc_.--those who wish to purchase characteristic products of the country, ancient or modern, need not fear that opportunity will be wanting; but the most obvious means are not always the best. the interpreters or guides attached to hotels are in most places only too anxious to aid in this sort of enterprise; but it is because they wish to dispose of some private stock of their own, for which they will surely demand double price. by courteous but decided treatment they may be led to make most astonishing reductions from their first demand; and this channel is accordingly, if properly handled, often as good as any other. guides in cordova will offer an assortment of old hand-made lace, and introduce you to the silversmiths who there manufacture a peculiarly effective sort of filigree in ear-rings, shawl-pins, brooches, and other forms. cordova is the best place in which to get this kind of ware; but if lace be the object sought, sevilla or barcelona is a much more advantageous market. machine-made lace, which is now the favorite kind among spanish ladies, and has been brought to a high degree of delicacy, can be obtained in the greatest variety and on the best terms at barcelona, where it is made. many foreigners, however, prefer the hand-made kind; and these should explore sevilla in search of what they wish, for they can there get it at reasonable prices. in this connection it is to be premised that the assistance of some personal acquaintance among the spaniards themselves, if it can be had, will always effect a considerable saving; and, when time can be allowed, the best way always is to make inquiry and prowl around among the stores for one's self. there are few professed antiquarian and bric-à-brac salesrooms out of madrid; but one can often pick up what he wants in out-of-the-way places. perhaps the best towns in which to buy the peculiar gay-colored and ball-fringed _mantas_, or mantles of the country, and the equally curious _alforjas_ used by the peasantry, are granada and valencia. in toledo there is a very peculiar and effective sort of black-and-gray felt blanket, with brilliant embroideries; that city, like the two just mentioned, being a centre of textile industry. the purchase of costumes in actual use, from the peasants themselves, which is something that artists may find useful, can be accomplished after due bargaining, and by the intervention of the professional interpreter. the pottery and porcelain of spain exhibit a great variety of beautiful shapes, many of them doubtless moorish in their origin; and some kinds are invested with a bold, peculiar coloring, dashed on somewhat in the limoges style, but very characteristic of the climate and landscape in which they are produced. the abundance of unusual and graceful forms constantly suggests the idea of making a collection. i shall not attempt to specify the localities most favorable for the carrying out of this idea; because, so far as my own observation went, there seemed to be material worth investigating almost everywhere. the common unglazed bottles and jars made and used by the peasantry in the south, however, are especially attractive, and are met with only in that part of the country. they are likewise nearly as cheap as the substance from which they are made. at granada, too, there is manufactured a heavy blue-and-white glazed ware, turned with refined and simple contours, of honest elegance. formerly barbers' basins moulded on the spanish plan--that is, with a curved piece cut out at one side--were made of porcelain; and these may still sometimes be picked up in madrid junk-shops or antiquarian lairs. they are not always good specimens of decorative art, but they are curious and effective. part of an extensive collection i saw, which had recently been made by an american gentleman; and i could imagine that, when hung upon the wall by his distant fireside across the atlantic, they would form an interesting series of trophies--a row of ceramic scalps, one might say, marking the fate of so many vanquished dealers. old furniture, heavy with carving or marvellously inlaid according to traditions of the moors--monumental pieces, such as were to be seen in the loan collection of spanish art at the south kensington in , and are sparsely imported into the united states--offers larger prizes to those who search and pay. many relics of ancient costume, dating from the period of courtly splendor; rich fabrics; embroideries; sacerdotal robes and disused altar-cloths; and occasional precious metal-work, may farther be unearthed in the bric-à-brac shops. with due care such objects will often be obtained at moderate cost. but it is to be remembered that the price paid on the spot forms only one item. transportation to the final shipping-point and the ocean freightage are very high; amounting in the case of cheap articles to far more than the original outlay for their purchase. _seasons for travel_.--a question of very great moment is, what time of year should be chosen for a sojourn in spain? the answer to it depends entirely upon the organization of the person asking, and his object in going. for a simple trip in search of novelty, the voyager being of good constitution, it makes little difference. from the first of june until the first of october the heat, in almost any spot south of the pyrenees, will be found severe. from the first of october until the first of june, severe, cold, treacherous changing winds, snow, and ice will be encountered, save in a few favored localities hereinafter to be named, under the head of "climate for health." of the two extremes, summer is perhaps to be preferred; because the voyager at that time knows precisely what he has got to prepare for and can meet it, whereas winter is a more variable emergency. a person of good constitution, understanding how to take care of himself in either case, and with an eye to local habits as adapted to the season, may go at any time. autumn and spring, however, are obviously the ideal seasons for a visit. from a comparison of authorities, and from my own observation of a part of the summer, i should advise going during the period from october to december , or from april to june . a tour involving more than two months' time, of course, must pass these limits. for hardy and judicious travellers there is no objection to a sojourn including june and july; although it must be said that sight-seeing at the south during these months is more in the nature of endurance than of recreation. i encountered no serious local fever or other ailment due to hot weather, excepting a kind of cholera referred to in one of the preceding chapters, called _el minuto_ (the minute), at sevilla. by beginning a trip at the southern end of the peninsula and gradually working along northward toward france, four months from march or april could be utilized without any unusual discomfort. _routes_.--the topic just discussed necessarily has a good deal to do with the selection of a route, which, from the position of the country, must be made to begin from the north or from the south. let us notice, first, the general lines of approach from different quarters. from new york direct, for example, one may sail for cadiz in steamers of the anchor and guion lines, or in the florio (spanish) steamers, which last i have heard spoken of in favorable terms by authority presumably good. from london there are two lines of steamers: one, messrs. hall's, leaving weekly for lisbon, gibraltar, malaga, and cadiz; the other, messrs. macandrew's, leaving london three times a week for bilbao and the principal ports on the mediterranean. for any one wishing to visit spain alone, these form the cheapest and nearest means of reaching the country. to go by steamer from london is, however, very obviously a slower way than to take the rail from the english capital to paris and thence to the frontier, either at irun and san sebastian, or at barcelona by way of marseilles and perpignan. so that, where speed alone is the object, one may take a fast steamer from new york to liverpool, use the rail thence to london, and arrive in burgos, for instance, about fifty hours after leaving london. the through train from paris for spain leaves in the evening. voyagers from the east and italy, designing to pass through spain on their return westward, can embark on the peninsular and oriental steamers, or those of the messageries imperiales. when one passes through france, on the way, it is possible to buy a continental railroad guide, which gives all the trains in spain and france, and the connection of one system with the other across the boundary. this is to be recommended as an exceedingly useful document. it may as well be remarked here that the information ordinarily given in books about the coasting steamers from one port to another along the mediterranean coast of spain is as untrustworthy as it is vague. the precise date of departure from any given town on the coast for the other ports to the north-east or south-west is not very easy to ascertain, except in the town itself. one or another steamer, however, is pretty sure to sail from cadiz, malaga, valencia, and barcelona two or three times a week; so that one can scarcely fail of what the germans call an "opportunity." there is undoubtedly a difference in the various lines, as regards comfort and swiftness of progress; but it is not true, as the guide-books assert, that the french steamers alone are good, and that the spanish are dirty and comfortless. we personally inspected two boats in the harbor of malaga before making choice; one was french and the other spanish, and we found the latter much the more commodious and cleanly. but, then, it is possible that some other spanish line than the one we selected may be inferior to some still other french line which we did not see. everybody can satisfy himself, by simply viewing whatever steamers happen to be on hand for the trip, before engaging passage. the accommodations on all of them seem to be of a kind that would not be tolerated for a day in america; but they compare well with those of the best boats on the english channel, being fairly on a level with the incomplete civilization of europe in respect of convenience, privacy, and hygiene. the cabins become close and unwholesome at night, and few staterooms are provided. these last are built to receive from four to six persons, who may be total strangers to each other; hence, any one who wishes to be independent of chance comers must betake himself to the deck at night, or else make special arrangements to secure an entire room before starting. again, on the railroads, many journeys have to be made at night; and it is seldom that one can secure a sleeping-coach. on much-travelled lines these are usually bespoken a week in advance. failing to get the _wagon-lit_, as the sleeping-car is called, after the french fashion, one may sometimes engage a _berlina_, which is simply the _coupé_ or end compartment of a car. this, being made to seat three persons instead of six, is allowed to be reserved. it costs about two dollars for a distance of one hundred miles. the route to be followed in any particular case has, in the nature of things, to be determined by the purpose and circumstances of the tourist. one may make a geological and mineralogical tour, inspecting the mountains and the mines of spain, and find his hands tolerably full at that; or, one may wend his way to the peninsula solely to study the achievements of the former national schools of painting there, in which case sevilla and the picture-gallery at madrid will be his only objective points--the latter chief and almost inexhaustible. the architectural treasures of spain constitute another source of interest sufficient in itself for a whole journey and months of study. but those who go with aims of this sort will find all the advice they need in guides and special works. what will more probably be sought here is merely an outline for the wanderer who sets out to obtain general views and impressions in a brief space of time. him, then, i advise, if the season be propitious, to enter spain from the north, pursue in the main a straight line to the southern extremity; and then, having made the excursion to granada--which in the present state of the railways must be a digression from the general circuit--proceed along the shores of the mediterranean toward france again. in this case his trip will arrange itself in the following order: days paris to san sebastian thence to pamplona. back to main line. burgos valladolid thence to salamanca back to main line. avila escorial, and drive to segovia madrid or, from avila go direct to madrid, and then to escorial, segovia, and return. alcalá de henáres (birthplace of cervantes) may be reached by a short railtrip from madrid eastward aranjuez toledo cordova sevilla cadiz gibraltar (by steamer) malaga ronda (by rail and diligence) granada return to malaga cartagena (steamer) murcia (rail) elche palmgroves (diligence) alicante (diligence) or, diligence and rail direct to valencia valencia (drive in the huerta) zaragoza manresa, and monastery of monserrat barcelona gerona to marseilles -- the preceding estimate includes the time to be allowed for going from place to place; but, as will be seen, the total includes some extra days occurring in the count where an option is suggested. to accomplish all that is laid down here in two months, however, would be very close and hard work; in order to go over the ground comfortably, an extra week or two should be allowed. the great advantage of entering the kingdom by way of san sebastian is that the first impression of the pyrenees is much finer there than by way of perpignan to gerona and barcelona. one also plunges immediately into the heart of ancient spain on touching pamplona and burgos; and these lead in the most natural and direct way to valladolid (the old capital and the place where "don quixote" was written), to salamanca, avila, segovia, and the escorial. furthermore, after madrid has intervened between north and south with its mingling of past and present, the succession of interest follows an ascending scale through toledo, cordova, and sevilla, culminating at granada. next, the mediterranean route presents itself as something having a special unity of its own, with a recurrence to special phases of antiquity again in zaragoza, monserrat, and gerona. if, on the other hand, we begin with barcelona and go southward before coming up to madrid, we receive a first impression less striking and characteristic, and also pluck the most ideal flowers--granada, sevilla, cordova--before coming to madrid. taken in the light of such a contrast, toledo, avila, burgos, and the rest of the northern places will seem less attractive than when grouped together in an introductory glimpse, as a prelude to the more poetic south. supposing, however, that the traveller lands at once in cadiz, from the deck of a steamer, he must put all this fine theory aside, and make the best of the case. his programme will then depend on whether he proposes to end by going into france, or to return without crossing the pyrenees. in the latter event, he might do well to follow the rail to sevilla, cordova, toledo, and madrid; then visit the escorial, avila, segovia, and afterward strike off abruptly to the north-east, through zaragoza and monserrat to barcelona, coming down the coast again either by rail or steamer to valencia, and reserving granada until near the end. after granada, a return to malaga and a touch at gibraltar would deposit him exactly where he started from, at cadiz. should he wish to wind up in france, the situation is more complicated. he must then take gibraltar first, come back to sevilla, go to granada, thence to cordova and toledo--omitting valencia wholly, unless he be willing to double interminably on his tracks--pass from toledo to madrid, and then decide whether he will go north-westward through avila and burgos, north-eastward through zaragoza and barcelona, or attempt to embrace both routes by zigzagging across the widest part of the kingdom. there remains, finally, the alternative of starting from cadiz, visiting sevilla and granada, and then, by way of cordova, toledo and madrid, continuing north to valladolid, burgos, and the french frontier, without troubling the eastern half of the country at all. this route, after all, includes the most that is best worth seeing, if we leave out zaragoza and monserrat. let me add only that nobody should be deterred, by the schedule given on the preceding page, from making a shorter visit to the peninsula, if it come within his range, when circumstances grant him less time than is there allotted. even in _three_ weeks a general tour could be accomplished, allowing several days at madrid and very brief pauses at avila, the escorial, toledo, cordova, sevilla, granada, and barcelona. so rapid a flight, nevertheless, the voyager must be prepared to find, will induce a harassing sense that at every point much that it would be desirable to see has been passed over. but even an outline of actual experience is sometimes more prized than a complete set of second-hand impressions. furthermore, a _single week_ would suffice the traveller who found himself on the borders of spain, to make an excursion which he could hardly regret. thus from biarritz one can, in that space of time, cross the border and run down to madrid, glance rapidly at the gallery there, and take the escorial, avila, or burgos--or possibly two of these--on the return. from marseilles he can visit gerona, barcelona, and monserrat. similarly, touching at cadiz, he can go to sevilla, cordova, and granada, get a general survey of those places, including the alhambra and two of the most beautiful cathedrals in the world, and return to cadiz or malaga, all in seven or eight days. indeed, one who has it in his power to reach granada and spend a day or two there, without attempting to see anything else, ought not to forego the opportunity. the sight of the alhambra alone, and of the enchanting landscape that surrounds it, may well repay the loss incurred by an inability to make farther explorations. all these details in regard to flying trips i submit with due knowledge that whoever profits by them, at the same time that he admits himself under obligation for the counsel, will perhaps never forgive himself for seeing thus much and no more, and may even include in this unrelenting mood his benevolent adviser. enough, i think, has now been said to furnish a basis for all manner of individual modification. the large anatomical lines, as it were, have been indicated; and on these each tourist may construct his own ideal, with any desired curtailment or extension of time to be consumed. _climate for health_--the resources of spain as a health resort are, in general, hardly suspected, much less widely known; and a great deal has doubtless yet to be done before they can be rendered available. still, the existing conditions and favorable circumstances are worth summarizing in this place. in a singularly careful work on the winter and spring climates of the mediterranean shores, dr. j. h. bennett, of england, arrives at some important conclusions respecting the localities of the spanish coast. to begin with, the vital distinction has to be noted that the peninsula (leaving out the corner abutting on the atlantic) possesses two distinct climates: _first_, that of the central raised plains stretching from range to range of its several mountain-ribs; and, _second_, that of the sea-level and the latitude in which the country lies. the former is perforce much the colder, and is subject to raw winds; the latter is mild and uncommonly dry. the health regions of spain are confined to the east and south-east coasts, where the land subsides nearly to the sea-level, and is open to the balmy influences natural to the latitude. dr. bennett observes that the north and north-west winds precipitate their moisture in the mountains of the central regions of spain, and that the north-east winds are drawn down to algeria by the desert of sahara, which creates a sort of vacuum compelling them southward. as a matter of fact, they do not molest the eastern coast. hence, in the words of this physician, "the eastern coast of spain is probably the driest region of europe, drier even than the genoese riviera." accordingly, murcia, alicante, valencia, tarragona, and even barcelona--far north though the last-mentioned is--all offer extraordinary advantages of climate to the average run of patients afflicted with chronic chest disease, pulmonary consumption, chronic bronchitis, bronchitic asthma, chronic diseases of the kidney, debility and anæmia from any cause, and the failing vitality of old age. cadiz, too, possesses a most equable temperature. it is noted, however, by the writer whom i follow, that the dry air of these places is injurious in those exceptional cases of chest disease, of nervous asthma and neuralgia, which are found to be aggravated by a stimulating atmosphere. dr. bennett's theory is that the towns just referred to lie under a qualifying disadvantage, inasmuch as they stand at some distance from the mountains, thus permitting the cold winds from the latter to fall into the plain and sweep the towns to a certain extent. but in this connection he seems not to remember that in nice, at least, the invalid population are now and then scourged by the cold northern bise rushing down the rhone to the sea. the most serious objection to these spanish towns is the want of comfortable and airy quarters for invalids. again, at malaga, which has been so highly recommended, the sanitary conditions are such that any benefit from the climate is likely to be nullified by the evil influences of a want of drainage, and of latent pestilence. here it may be mentioned that the alhambra hill, at granada, is much resorted to by spaniards in summer as a cool, airy, and healthful spot; and truly there is none more lovely in its surroundings on the globe, so far as it is usually permitted man to see. in and about the alhambra, too, small cottages may be hired, where the sick and weary may rest after their own fashion, and keep house for themselves, with docile native servants. but, whosoever fares to spain in search of bettered health, let him not mount the alhambra hill save in spring, nor enter the mediterranean towns until after september. and, above all, let him avoid the fatal error of supposing that the high regions of the interior will offer any influences more soothing than those of harsh-tempered new england. this consideration remains, that whatever obstacles to complete comfort may exist, the perfection of the coast climate, the stimulus of scenery and surroundings so unique and picturesque, and the resources of observation or of historic association opened to the sojourner in spain are likely to have a good effect, both mental and spiritual. [illustration] important art books. * * * * * herrick's poems. selections from the poetry of robert herrick. with drawings by edwin a. abbey. to, illuminated cloth, gilt edges, $ . (_in a box_.) highways and byways; or, saunterings in new england. by w. hamilton gibson, author of "pastoral days." superbly illustrated by the author. to, illuminated cloth, gilt edges, $ . (_in a box_.) pastoral days. by w. hamilton gibson. superbly illustrated by the author. to, illuminated cloth, gilt edges, $ . (_in a box_.) travels in south kensington. with notes on decorative art and architecture in england. by moncure d. conway. with many illustrations. vo, cloth, $ . history of ancient art. by dr. franz von reber. revised by the author. translated and augmented by joseph thacher clarke. with illustrations and a glossary of technical terms. vo, cloth, $ . heart of the white mountains. by samuel adams drake. illustrated by w. hamilton gibson. to, illuminated cloth. gilt edges, $ . 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(_in a box_.) * * * * * published by harper & brothers, new york. [illustration: pointing hand] harper & brothers _will send any of the above works by mail, postage prepaid, to any part of the united states, on receipt of the price_. * * * * * boudoir of lindarana=> boudoir of lindaraxa {pg } azucarilios=> azucarillos {pg } encouragment=> encouragement {pg } intrepreter=> interpreter {pg } in in the south=> in the south {pg } * * * * * footnotes: [ ] the dancing boys still officiate at seville, also, in holy-week, where they leap merrily before the high altar, and do not even take off their hats to the host. the story runs that, years ago, a visiting bishop from rome found fault with this as being unorthodox, and threatened to put a stop to it. he complained to the pope, and a lenient order issued from the vatican that the observance should be discontinued when the boys' clothes should be worn out. up to the present day, curiously enough, the clothes have not been worn out. [ ] these last are called _tocas_, and are rapidly superseding the long mantilla. [ ] this characterization, our own experience led us to conclude, was exceedingly unjust. [ ] some time before this he had, by too adventurous play, received a tossing which laid him up for eight months, and his death in the ring has since been reported. [ ] in this connection it is curious to observe that the toledan peasants, like the chinese, confound the letters _r_ and _l_--as when they say _flol_ for _flor_, "flower." [ ] contained in the series called "the man with five wives." [ ] a nickname alluding to the sooty black of the clerical costume. [ ] literally, "sun-trap." [ ] irving's name heads the ponderous register in which visitors, embracing some of the most distinguished of the earth, have recorded themselves for fifty years past; and though it is not generally known, his signature may also be found pencilled on the inner wall of the little mosque near the comares tower, just under the interpolated spanish choir gallery. yet there seems to be a degree of mistiness in the granadian mind respecting the author of "tales of the alhambra." i think the people sometimes confounded him with the father of his country. at all events, the hotel washington irving is labelled, at one of its entrances, "hotel washington," as if that were the same thing. [ ] "fleming," a name commonly applied to spanish gypsies; whence it has been inferred that the first of them came from the netherlands. transcriber's note: inconsistent hyphenation and spelling in the original document have been preserved. obvious typographical errors have been corrected. italic text is denoted by _underscores_. spanish highways and byways [illustration: san sebastian] spanish highways and byways by katharine lee bates _author of "american literature" "the english religious drama," etc._ illustrated with many engravings from photographs _published by_ the macmillan company _new york mcm_ london: macmillan and co., limited copyright, , by the macmillan company _norwood press_ _j. s. cushing & co.--berwick & smith_ _norwood, mass., u.s.a._ madre mia aqui tienes tu libro preface a tourist in spain can hope to understand but little of that strange, deep-rooted, and complex life shut away beyond the pyrenees. this book claims to be nothing more than a record of impressions. as such, whatever may be its errors, it should at least bear witness to the picturesque, poetic charm of the peninsula and to the graciousness of spanish manners. contents chapter page i. "the lazy spaniard" ii. a continuous carnival iii. within the alhambra iv. a function in granada v. in sight of the giralda vi. passion week in seville vii. traces of the inquisition viii. an andalusian type ix. a bull-fight x. gypsies xi. the route of the silver fleets xii. murillo's cherubs xiii. the yolk of the spanish egg xiv. a study in contrasts xv. the patron saint of madrid xvi. the funeral of castelar xvii. the immemorial fashion xviii. corpus christi in toledo xix. the tercentenary of velázquez xx. choral games of spanish children xxi. "o la señorita!" xxii. across the basque provinces xxiii. in old castile xxiv. pilgrims of saint james xxv. the building of a shrine xxvi. the son of thunder xxvii. vigo and away list of illustrations san sebastian _frontispiece_ facing page pasajes an arab gateway in burgos playing at bull-fight. from painting by bayeu the mosque of cordova the columbus monument in granada the alhambra. hall of justice filling the water-jars off for the war. from painting by rubio looking toward the darro a milkman of granada a roman well in ronda the giralda the passing of the pageants the pageant of gethsemane "jesus of the passion" "christ of the seven words" maria santisima a spanish monk. from painting by zurbarán a seville street an old-fashioned bull-fight. from painting by goya the bull-fight of to-day the king of the gypsies gypsy tenants of an arab palace from the golden tower down the guadalquivír cadiz, from the sea the divine shepherd. from painting by murillo the royal palace in madrid the royal family the manzanares a spanish cemetery toledo toledo cathedral. puerta de los leones st. paul, the first hermit. from painting by ribera the maids of honor. from painting by velázquez dancing the sevillana within the cloister the trampler of the moors santiago cathedral. puerta de la gloria st. james. from painting by murillo spanish highways and byways spanish highways and byways i "the lazy spaniard" "there is a difference between peter and peter."--cervantes: _don quixote_. "spain is a contradiction," was the parting word of the rev. william h. gulick, the honored american missionary whose unwearied kindness looked after us, during the break in official representation, more effectively than a whole diplomatic corps. "spanish blood is a strange _mezcla_, whose elements, gothic, african, oriental, are at war among themselves. you will find spaniards tender and cruel, boastful and humble, frank and secretive, and all at once. it will be a journey of surprises." we were saying good-by, on february , , to sunshiny biarritz, whither mrs. gulick's school for spanish girls had been spirited over the border at the outbreak of the war. here we had found spanish and american flags draped together, spanish and american friendships holding fast, and a gallant little band of american teachers spending youth and strength in their patient campaign for conquering the peninsula by a purer idea of truth. rough riders may be more pictorial, but hardly more heroic. we were barely through the custom house, in itself the simplest and swiftest of operations, before the prophesied train of surprises began. one of our preconceived ideas went to wreck at the very outset on the industry of the basque provinces. "the lazy spaniard" has passed into a proverb. the round world knows his portrait--that broad _sombrero_, romantic cloak, and tilted cigarette. but the laborious spaniard can no longer be ignored. even at biarritz we had to reckon with him, for the working population there is scarcely less spanish than french. everybody understands both languages as spoken, and it is a common thing to overhear animated dialogue where the talk is all spanish on the one side and all french on the other. the war set streams of spanish laborers flowing over the mountain bar into french territory. young men fled from conscription, and fathers of families came under pressure of hard times. skilled artisans, as masons and carpenters, could make in biarritz a daily wage of five francs, the normal equivalent of five _pesetas_, or a dollar, while only the half of this was to be earned on their native side of the pyrenees. such, too, was the magic of exchange that these five francs, sent home, might transform themselves into ten, eight, or seven and a half _pesetas_. even when we entered spain, after the paris commission had risen, the rate of exchange was anything but stable, varying not merely from day to day, but from hour to hour, a difference of two or three per cent often occurring between morning and evening. the conditions that bore so heavily on the crafts were crushing the field laborers almost to starvation. in point of excessive toil, those peasants of northern spain seemed to us worse off than mr. markham's "man with the hoe," for the rude mattock, centuries out of date, with which they break up the ground, involves the utmost bodily exertion. and by all that sweat of the brow, they were gaining, on an average, ten or twelve cents a day. no wonder that discontent clouded the land. we met this first at pasajes, on one of the excursions arranged for our pleasure by the overflow goodness of that missionary garrison. the busiest of teachers had brought us--a young compatriot from a paris studio and myself--so far as san sebastian, where she lingered long enough to make us acquainted with a circle of friends, and, incidentally, with pasajes. this basque fishing hamlet is perched between hill and sea, with a single rough-paved street running the length of the village from the church of st. peter to the church of st. john. nature has not been chary of beauty here. the mountain-folded bay of pasajes appears at first view like an alpine lake, but the presence of stately dutch and spanish merchantmen in these sapphire waters makes it evident that there must be an outlet to the ocean. such a rift, in fact, was disclosed as the strong-armed old ferry woman rowed us across, a deep but narrow passage (hence the name) between sheer walls of rock, whose clefts and crannies thrill the most respectable tourist with longings to turn smuggler. the village clings with difficulty to its stony strip between steep and wave. on one side of that single street, the peering stone houses, some still showing faded coats of arms, are half embedded in the mountain, and on the other the tide beats perilously against the old foundation piles. above the uneven roofs, on the precipitous hillside, sleep the dead, watched over by santa ana from her neglected hermitage. only once a year, on her own feast day, is her gorgeous altar cloth brought forth and her tall candles lighted, while the rats, who have been nibbling her gilded shoes and comparing the taste of the blues and crimsons in her painted robes, skurry into their holes at the unaccustomed sound of crowding feet. pasajes boasts, too, a touch of historical dignity. from here lafayette, gallant young frenchman that he was, sailed for america, and probably then, as now, little basque girls ran at the stranger's side with small hands full of wild flowers, and roguish basque boys hid behind boulders and tried to frighten him by playing brigand, with a prodigious waving of thorn-branch guns and booming of vocal artillery. but not the joy of beauty nor the pride of ancient memory takes the place of bread. we approached a factory and asked of the workman at the entrance, "what do you manufacture here?" "what they manufacture in all spain, nowadays," he answered, "misery." this particular misery, however, had the form of tableware, the long rows of simple cups and plates and pitchers, in various stages of completion, being diversified by jaunty little images of the basque ball players, whose game is famous throughout the peninsula. we finally succeeded in purchasing one of these for fifteen cents, although the village was hard put to it to make change for a dollar, and was obliged, with grave apologies, to load us down with forty or so big spanish coppers. "the lazy spaniard!" look at the very children as they romp about san sebastian. this is the most aristocratic summer resort in spain, the queen regent having a châlet on that artistic bay called the _concha_ or shell. it is a crescent of shimmering color, so dainty and so perfect, with guardian mountains of jasper and a fringe of diamond surf, that it is hard to believe it anything but a bit of magical jewel-work. it might be a city of fairyland, did not the clamor of childish voices continually break all dreamy spells. what energy and tireless activity! up and down the streets, the cleanest streets in spain, twinkle hundreds of little _alpargatas_, brightly embroidered canvas shoes with soles of plaited hemp. spanish families are large, although from the ignorance of the mothers and the unsanitary condition of the homes, the mortality among the children is extreme. here is a household, for example, where out of seventeen black-eyed babies but three have fought their way to maturity. spanish parents are notably affectionate, but, in the poorer classes, at least, impatient in their discipline. it is the morning impulse of the busy mother, working at disadvantage in her small and crowded rooms, to clear them of the juvenile uproar by turning her noisy brood out of doors for the day. surprisingly neat in their dress but often with nothing save cabbage in their young stomachs, forth they storm into the streets. here the stranger may stand and watch them by the hour as they bow and circle, toss and tumble, dance and race through an enchanting variety of games. the most violent seem to please them best. now and then a laughing girl stoops to whisk away the beads of perspiration from a little brother's shining face, but in general they are too rapt with the excitement of their sports to be aware of weariness. such flashing of eyes and streaming of hair and jubilee of songs! one of their favorite games, for instance, is this: an especially active child, by preference a boy, takes the name of _milano_, or kite, and throws himself down in some convenient doorway, as if asleep. the others form in indian file, the _madre_, or mother, at the head, and the smallest girl, mariquilla, last in line. the file proceeds to sing:-- "we are going to the garden, although its wicked warden, hungry early and late, is crouching before the gate." then ensues a musical dialogue between the mother and mariquilla:-- _mother._ little mary in the rear! _little mary._ what's your bidding, mother dear? _mother._ tell me how the kite may thrive. _little mary [after cautiously sidling up to the doorway and inspecting the prone figure there]._ he's half dead and half alive. then the file chants again:-- "we are going to the garden, although its wicked warden, hungry early and late, is crouching before the gate." _mother._ little mary in the rear! _little mary._ what's your bidding, mother dear? _mother._ of the kite i bid you speak. _little mary [after a second reconnoissance, which sends her scampering back to her own place]._ he whets his claws and whets his beak. here the enemy advances, beating a most appalling tattoo:-- _kite._ pum, pum! tat, tat! _mother._ who is here and what is that? _kite._ 'tis the kite. _mother._ what seeks the kite? _kite._ human flesh! a bite, a bite! _mother._ you must catch before you dine. children, children, keep the line! and with this the dauntless parent, abandoning song for action, darts with outspread arms in front of the robber, who bends all his energies to reaching and snatching away little mary. the entire line, keeping rank, curves and twists behind the leader, all intent on protecting that poor midget at the end. and when the wild frolic has resulted in her capture, and every child is panting with fatigue, they straightway resume their original positions and play it all over again. in seville this game takes on a religious variation, the kite becoming the devil, and the _madre_ the angel michael defending a troop of souls. in cuba we have a hawk pitted against a hen with her brood of chickens. we stepped into a protestant kindergarten one day to see how such stirring atoms of humanity might demean themselves in school. talk of little pitchers! here were some twoscore tiny jugs, bubbling full of mischief, with one bright, sympathetic girl of twenty-two keeping a finger on every dancing lid. impossible, of course! but all her week's work looked to us impossible. we had known diligent teachers in the united states; this "lazy spaniard," however, not only keeps her kindergarten well in hand from nine to twelve, but instructs the same restless mites--so many of them as do not fall into a baby-sleep over their desks--in reading and counting from two to four, gives a spanish lesson from six to seven, and struggles with the pathetic ignorance of grown men and women in the night school from eight to half-past nine or ten. the spanish pastor and his wife, also teachers in day school, night school, sunday school, are no less marvels of industry. the multiplication table, lustily intoned to the tramp of marching feet, called us into a class-room where the older girls were gathered for lessons in reading and writing, arithmetic and geography, sewing and embroidery. the delicate little lady who presides over this lively kingdom may be seen on sunday, seated at the melodeon, leading the chapel music--an exquisite picture of a spanish señora, with the lace mantilla crowning the black hair and gracefully falling to the slender shoulders. we had heard her give an address on foreign soil, before an audience of a hundred strangers, speaking with an irresistible fervor of appeal, and no less charming was she at the head of her own table, the soul of vivacious and winsome hospitality. as for the pastor himself, he carries the administrative burdens of church and school, teaches the larger boys morning and afternoon, and the men in the evening, preaches once on thursday and twice on sunday, and slips in between these stated tasks all the innumerable incidental duties of a missionary pastorate. and yet this man of many labors is not only spanish, but philippine. his childhood was passed at cavite, the home of his father, a spanish officer, who had chosen his bride from a native family. the boy was put to school with the friars at manila, where, rather to the disgust of the soldier-father, he formed the desire to enter the brotherhood. he was not blind--what students are?--to the blemishes of his teachers. he had often stood by with the other lads and shouted with laughter to see a group of friars, their cassocks well girded up, drive a pig into their shallow pond and stab the plunging creature there, that it might be counted "fish" and serve them for dinner on friday. but his faith in the order held firm, and, when his novitiate was well advanced, he was sent to madrid for the final ceremonies. here, by chance, he dropped into a protestant service, and after several years of examination and indecision, chose the thorny road. [illustration: pasajes] all his wearing occupations do not dull that fine sense of courtesy inherent in a spanish gentleman. the sun itself had hardly risen when we departed from san sebastian, yet we found don angel at the station, muffled in the inevitable spanish _capa_, to say good-by once more and assure us that, come what might, we had always "a house and a friend in spain." we laid down the local journal, hard reading that it was with its denunciations of "the inhuman barbarities of the north americans toward the filipinos," and ventured to ask for his own view of the matter. "the united states," he answered, speaking modestly and very gently, "means well and has, in the main, done well. when i say this in the casino, men get angry and call me a yankee filibuster. but in truth the philippines are very dear to me and i carry a sad heart. it was the protocol that did the mischief. it is not easy for simple islanders to understand that words may say one thing and mean another. philippine faith in american promises is broken. and red is a hard color to wash out. yet i still hope that, when the days of slaughter are over, peace and life may finally come to my unhappy birthplace from your great nation. the tagalos are not so worthless as americans seem to think, though the climate of the philippines, like that of andalusia, tempts to indolence. but strong motives make good workers everywhere." ii a continuous carnival "this periodical explosion of freedom and folly."--becquer: _el carnaval_. having re-formed our concept of a spaniard to admit the elements of natural vigor and determined diligence, we were surprised again to find this tragic nation, whose fresh grief and shame had almost deterred us from the indelicacy of intrusion, entering with eager zest into the wild fun of carnival. sorrow was still fresh for the eighty thousand dead in cuba, the hapless prisoners in the philippines, the wretched _repatriados_ landed, cargo after cargo, at ports where some were suffered to perish in the streets. every household had its tale of loss; yet, notwithstanding all the troubles of the time, spain must keep her carnival. "it is one of the saddest and most disheartening features of the situation," said a spaniard to us. "there is no earnestness here, no realization of the national crisis. the politicians care for nothing but to enrich themselves, and the people, as you see, care for nothing but to divert themselves." yet we looked from the madcap crowd to the closed shutters, keeping their secrets of heartbreak, and remembered the words of zorrilla, "where there is one who laughs, there is ever another who weeps in the great carnival of our life." the parks of san sebastian were gay with maskers and music, tickling brushes and showers of _confetti_, on our last day there, but the peculiar feature of the festivity in this basque city is "the baiting of the ox." on that carnival-sunday afternoon we found ourselves looking down, from a safe balcony, upon the old _plaza de la constitución_, with its arcaded sides. the genuine bull-fights, which used to take place here, have now a handsome amphitheatre of their own, where, when the summer has brought the court to san sebastian, the choicest andalusian bulls crimson the sand of the arena. but the _plaza de la constitución_, mindful of its pristine glory, still furnishes what cheap suggestions it can of the terrible play. the square below was crowded with men and boys, and even some hoydenish girls, many in fantastic masks and gaudy dominos, while the tiers of balconies were thronged with eager spectators. a strange and savage peal of music announced that "the bull" was coming. that music was enough to make the hereditary barbarian beat in any heart, but "the bull"! at the further corner of the _plaza_, pulled by a long rope and driven by a yelling rabble, came in, at a clumsy gallop, an astonished and scandalized old ox. never did living creature bear a meeker and less resentful temper. at first, beaten and pricked by his tormentors, he tore blindly round and round the _plaza_, the long rope by which he was held dragging behind him, and sometimes, as he wheeled about, tripping up and overturning a bunch of the merrymakers. this was a joy to the balconies, but did not often happen, as the people below showed a marvellous dexterity in skipping over the rope just in time to escape its swinging blow. sometimes the poor, stupid beast entangled his own legs, and that, too, was a source of noisy glee. but, on the whole, he was a disappointing and inglorious ox. he caused no serious accident. nothing could ruffle his disposition. the scarlet cloaks waved in his eyes he regarded with courteous interest; he wore only a look of grieved surprise when he was slapped across the face with red and yellow banners; tweaks of the tail he endured like a socrates, but now and then a cruel prod from a sharp stick would make him lower his horns and rush, for an instant, upon the nearest offender. the balconies would shout with the hope of something vicious and violent at last, but the mobile crowd beneath would close in between the ox and his assailant, a hundred fresh insults would divert his attention, and indeed, his own impulses of wrath were of the shortest. to the end he was hardly an angry ox--only a puzzled, baffled, weary old creature who could not make out, for the life of him, into what sort of red and yellow pasture and among what kind of buzzing hornets his unlucky hoofs had strayed. finally he gave the enigma up and stood wrapped in a brown study among his emboldened enemies, who clung to his horns and tail, tossed children upon his back, tickled his nostrils with their hat brims, and showered him with indignities. the balconies joined in hooting him out of the _plaza_, but he was so pleased to go that i doubt if human scorn of his beastly gentleness really interfered with his appetite for supper. he trotted away to that rude clang of music, the babies who were dancing to it on their nurses' arms not more harmless than he. and although that worrying half hour may have told upon his nerves, and his legs may have ached for the unaccustomed exercise, no blood was to be seen upon him. it was all a rough-and-tumble romp, nothing worse, but the balconies would have liked it better had it been flavored with a broken leg or two. a few sprawlings over the rope really amounted to so little. but the _toro de fuego_ was to come there tuesday evening, and when this blazing pasteboard bull, with fireworks spluttering all over him from horns to tail, is dragged about among the throng, there is always a fine chance of explosions, burnings, and even of blindings for life. but carnival tuesday found us no longer in sunny san sebastian. we were shivering over a _brasero_ in storied burgos, a city chill as if with the very breath of the past. and the spanish _brasero_, a great brass pan holding a pudding of ashes, plummed with sparks, under a wire screen, is the coldest comfort, the most hypocritical heater, that has yet come my way. our monday had been spent in a marvellous journey through the pyrenees, whose rugged sublimities were bathed in the very blue of velázquez, a cold, clear, glorious blue expanding all the soul. these are haunted mountains, with wild legends of lonely castles, where fierce old chieftains, beaten back by the franks, shut themselves in with their treasure and died like wounded lions in their lairs. we passed fallen towers from whose summits mediæval heralds had trumpeted the signal for war, ruined convents whence the sound of woman's chanting was wont to startle the wolves of the forest, mysterious lakes deep in whose waters are said to shine golden crowns set with nine precious pearls--those ducal coronets that rome bestowed upon her vassals--craggy paths once trod by pilgrims, hermits, jugglers, minstrels, and knights-errant, and shadowy pine groves where, when the wind is high, the shepherds still hear the weeping ghost of the cruel princess, whose beauty and disdain slew dozens of men a day until her love was won and scorned, so that she died of longing. we had reached burgos at dusk and, without pausing for rest or food, had sallied out for our first awe-stricken gaze up at the far-famed cathedral towers, then had ignominiously lost our way over and over in the narrow, crooked streets and been finally marched back to our hotel by a compassionate, though contemptuous, policeman. my artist comrade was fairly ill by morning with a heavy cold, but she would not hear of missing the cathedral and sneezed three or four enraptured hours away in its chill magnificence. as we came to know spanish and spaniards better, they would exclaim "_jesús, maria y josé!_" when we sneezed, that the evil spirit given to tickling noses might take flight; but the burgos sacristan was too keen to waste these amenities on stammering heretics. what we thought of the cathedral is little to the purpose of this chapter. in a word, however, we thought nothing at all; we only felt. it was our first introduction to one of the monster churches of spain, and its very greatness, the terrible weight of all that antiquity, sanctity, and beauty, crushed our understanding. like sleepwalkers we followed our guide down the frozen length of nave and aisles and cloisters; we went the round of the fifteen chapels, splendid presence-chambers where the dead keep sculptured state; we looked, as we were bidden, on the worm-eaten treasure-chest of the cid, on the clock whose life-sized tenant, papa-moscas, used to scream the hours to the embarrassment of long-winded pulpiteers, on the cathedral's crown of fretted spires whose marvellous tracery was chiselled by the angels, and on the "most holy christ of burgos," the crucified image that bleeds every friday. fulfilled with amazement, we searched our way back to the hotel through the sleety rain, ate a shivering luncheon at the "_mesa redonda_," that "round table" which is never round, and agreed to postpone our anticipated visits to the haunts of the cid until a less inclement season. for of course we should come back to burgos. the proud old city seemed to fill all the horizon of thought. how had we lived so long without it? that the stormy afternoon was not favorable to exploration mattered little. we peeped down from our balconies into the ancient streets, half expecting the exiled cid to come spurring up, seeking the welcome which we, like all the craven folk of burgos, must refuse him. "with sixty lances in his train my cid rode up the town, the burghers and their dames from all the windows looking down; and there were tears in every eye, and on each lip one word: 'a worthy vassal--would to god he served a worthy lord!' fain would they shelter him, but none durst yield to his desire. great was the fear through burgos town of king alphonso's ire. sealed with his royal seal hath come his letter to forbid all men to offer harborage or succor to my cid. and he that dared to disobey, well did he know the cost-- his goods, his eyes, stood forfeited, his soul and body lost. a hard and grievous word was that to men of christian race; and since they might not greet my cid, they hid them from his face." meanwhile the streets were a living picture-book. muffled cavaliers, with cloaks drawn up and hats drawn down till only the dance of coal-black eyes, full of fire and fun, was visible between, saluted our balcony with carnival impertinence. beggars of both sexes, equally wound about with tattered shawls, reached up expectant hands as if we were made of spanish pennies. a funeral procession passed, with the pale light of tapers, the chanting of priests, with purple-draped coffin, and mourners trooping on foot--men only, for in spain women never accompany their dead either to church or grave. a troop of infantry, whose dapper costume outwent itself in the last touch of bright green gloves, dazzled by, and then came a miscellany of maskers. it was rather a rag-tag show, take it all in all--red devils with horns, friars extremely fat, caricatures of english tourists with tall hats and perky blue eye-glasses, giants, dwarfs, tumblers, and even a sorry cid mounted on a sorrier bavieca. but the climax of excitement was reached when a novel bull-fight wheeled into view. it was a stuffed calf this time, set on wheels and propelled by a merry fellow of the tribe of joseph, if one might judge by his multi-colored attire. with white hood, black mask, blue domino, garnet arms, and yellow legs, he was as cheery as a bit of rainbow out of that sombre sky. all the people in sight hastened to flock about him, policemen left their beats, and servant maids their doorways, an itinerant band of gypsy girls ceased clashing their tambourines, the blind beggar opened his eyes, and the small boys were in ecstasies. for over an hour the populace played with that mimic bull in this one spot under our windows, good-humored _caballeros_ lending their scarfs and cloaks to delighted urchins, who would thrust these stimulating objects into the calf's bland face and then run for their lives, while the motley mask trundled his precious image in hot pursuit behind them. we were reminded of the scene months after by an old painting in the escorial, depicting an almost identical performance. spain is not a land of change. but that teeth-chattering cold, "_un frio de todos los demonios_," eased our farewells to burgos, and night found us dividing the privileges of a second-class carriage with two black-bearded castilians, who slept foot to foot along the leather-cushioned seat on the one side, while we copied their example on the other. i started from my first doze at some hubbub of arrival to ask drowsily, "is this madrid?" "be at peace, señora!" cooed one of these sable-headed neighbors, in that tone of humorous indulgence characteristic of the dons when addressing women and children. "it is twelve hours yet to madrid. slumber on with tranquil heart." so we lay like warriors taking our rest, with our travelling rugs, in lieu of martial cloaks, about us, until the east began to glow with rose and fire, revealing a bleak extent of treeless, tawny steppe. we had only a few days to give to "the crowned city" then, but those sufficed for business, for a first acquaintance with the _puerta del sol_ and its radiating avenues, a first joy in the peerless _museo del prado_, and a brilliant glimpse of carnival. we found the great drive of the _prado_, on ash wednesday afternoon, reserved for carriages and maskers. stages were erected along one side of the way, and on the other the park was closely set with chairs. stages and chairs were filled with a well-clad, joyous multitude, diverted awhile from their pretty labors of shooting roses and showering _confetti_ by the fascinating panorama before their eyes. the privileged landaus that held the middle of the road were laden with the loveliest women of castile. carriages, horses, and coachmen were all adorned, but these showy equipages only served as setting to the high-bred beauty of the occupants. the cream of madrid society was there. the adults were elegantly dressed, but not as masqueraders. the children in the carriages, however, were often costumed in the picturesque habits of the provinces--the scarlet cap and striped shawl of the catalan peasant, the open velvet waistcoat, puffed trousers, and blue or red sash of the valencian, the gayly embroidered mantle of the andalusian mountaineer, the cocked hat and tasselled jacket of the gypsy. moors, flower girls, fairies, french lords and ladies of the old régime, even court fools with cap and bells, were brightly imaged by these little people, to whom the maskers on foot seemed to have left the monopoly of beauty. the figures darting among the landaus, in and out of which they leaped with confident impudence, were almost invariably grotesques--smirking fishwives, staring chimney-sweeps, pucker-mouthed babies, and scarecrows of every variety. political satires are sternly forbidden, and among the few national burlesques, we saw nowhere any representation of uncle sam. he was hardly a subject of the king of nonsense then. squeaking and gibbering, the maskers, unrebuked, took all manner of saucy liberties. a stately old gentleman rose from his cushion in a crested carriage to observe how gallantly a bevy of ladies were beating off with a hail of _confetti_ and bonbons an imploring cavalier who ran by their wheels, and when he would have resumed his seat he found himself dandled on the knees of a grinning chinaman. sometimes a swarm of maskers would beset a favorite carriage, climbing up beside the coachman and snatching his reins, standing on the steps and throwing kisses, lying along the back and twitting the proudest beauty in the ear or making love to the haughtiest. this all-licensed masker, with his monstrous disguise and affected squeal, may be a duke or a doorkeeper. carnival is democracy. meanwhile the inevitable small boy, whose spanish variety is exceptionally light of heart and heels, gets his own fun out of the occasion by whisking under the ropes into this reserved avenue and dodging hither and thither among the vehicles, to the fury of the mounted police, whose duty it is to keep the public out. one resplendent rider devoted his full energies for nearly an hour to the unavailing chase of a nimble little rogue who risked ten of his nine lives under coaches and in front of horses' hoofs, but always turned up laughing with a finger at the nose. yet this jocund day did not set without its tragedy. a hot-tempered madrileño, abroad with his wife, resented the attentions paid her by one of the maskers and shot him down. the mortally wounded man was found to be a physician of high repute. this was not the only misadventure of the afternoon, a lady losing one eye by the blow of a flying sugar-plum. our next night journey was less fortunate than our first, though it should be remembered that our discomforts were partly due to our persistency in travelling second-class. the carriage had its full complement of passengers, and each of our eight companions brought with him an unlawful excess of small luggage. valises, boxes, bundles, sacks, cans, canes, umbrellas wedged us in on every side, while our own accumulation of grips, shawl-straps, hold-alls, and sketching kit denied us even the relief of indignation. we all sat bolt upright the night through in an atmosphere that sickens memory. not a chink of window air would those sensitive _caballeros_ endure, while the smoke of their ever puffing cigarettes clouded the compartment with an uncanny haze that grew heavier hour by hour. conversation, which seldom flagged, became a violent chorus at those intervals when the conductor burst in for another chapter of his serial wrangle with a fiery gentleman who refused to pay full fare. every don in the carriage, even to the chubby priest nodding in the coziest corner, had an unalterable conviction as to the rights and wrongs of that question, and men we had supposed, from their swaying and snoring, fast asleep, would leap to their feet when the conductor entered, fling out their hands in vehement gestures, and dash into the midst of the vociferous dispute. lazy spaniards, indeed! we began to wish that the peninsula would cultivate repose of manner. our tempers were sorely shaken, and when, in the pale chill of dawn, we arrived at cordova, sleepless, nauseated, and out of love with humanity, we had every prospect of passing a wretched forenoon. thus it is i am inclined to believe we lay down under an orange tree and dreamed a dream of the "arabian nights." or perhaps it was only another freak of the carnival. at all events, a cup of coffee, and the world was changed. cordova! a midsummer heat, a land of vineyards and olive groves, palms and aloes, a white, unearthly city, with narrow, silent, deathlike streets, peopled only by drowsy beggars and by gliding maskers that seemed more real than this oriental picture in which they moved, high walls with grated, harem-like windows, and an occasional glimpse, through some arched doorway, into a marble-floored, rose-waving, fountain-playing patio, enchanted and mysterious, a dream within a dream. cordova is more than haunted. it is itself a ghost. the court of the spanish caliphs, at once the mecca and the athens of the west, a holy city which counted its baths and mosques by hundreds, a seat of learning whose universities were renowned for mathematics and philosophy, chemistry, astronomy, and medicine, and within whose libraries were treasured manuscripts by hundreds of thousands, a star of art and poetry, it ever reproaches, by this lovely, empty shadow, the christian barbarism that spurned away the moors. the insulted mosque of cordova well-nigh makes mohammedans of us all. entering by the studded door of pardon into the spacious court of oranges, with its ancient trees and sparkling quintette of fountains, one passes onward under the arch of blessings into a marble forest of slender, sculptured pillars. the wide world, from carthage to damascus, from jerusalem to ephesus and rome, was searched for the choicest shafts of jasper, breccia, alabaster, porphyry, until one thousand four hundred precious columns bore the glory of rose-red arches and wonder-roof of gilded and enamelled cedar. more than seven thousand hanging lamps of bronze, filled with perfumed oil, flashed out the mosaic tints,--golds, greens, violets, vermilions,--of ceiling, walls, and pavement. all this shining sanctity culminated in the mihrâb, or prayer-niche, an octagonal recess whose shell-shaped ceiling is hollowed from a single block of pure white marble. this holy of holies held the koran, bound in gold and pearls, around which the faithful were wont to make seven turns upon their knees, an act of devotion that has left indisputable grooves in the marble of the pavement. [illustration: an arab gateway in burgos] the christian conquerors splashed whitewash over the exquisite ceiling, hewed down the pillars of the outer aisles to give space for a fringe of garish chapels, and even chopped away threescore glistening columns in the centre to make room for an incongruous renaissance choir, with an altar of silver gilt and a big pink retablo. we could have wandered for endless hours among the strange half-lights and colored shadows of that petrified faith of islam, marvelling on the processes of time. it is claimed that the arab mosque rose on the site of a roman temple, whence mahomet drove forth janus, to be in his own turn expelled by christ. the race of those who bowed themselves in this gleaming labyrinth has fared ill at spanish hands. even now a moor, however courteous and cultured, is refused admission to certain castilian churches, as the escorial. how did we ever part from cordova, from her resplendent, desecrated mosque, her stone lanes of streets, her hinted patios, the moorish mills and roman bridge of her yellow guadalquivír? it must all have been a morning dream, for the early afternoon saw us tucked away in another second-class carriage speeding toward granada. we were in beautiful andalusia, _la tierra de maria santisima_. the green slopes of the sierra morena, planted to the top with olive groves, watched the beginnings of our journey, and banks of strange, sweet flowers, with glimpses of moorish minarets and groups of dark-faced, bright-sashed peasants, looking as if they had just stepped down from an artist's easel, beguiled us of all physical discomforts save heat and thirst. when the sun was at its sorest, the train drew up at a tumble-down station, and we looked eagerly for the customary water seller, with his cry of "water! fresh water! water cooler than snow!" but it was too warm for this worthy to venture out, and our hopes fastened on a picturesque old merchant seated in a shaft of cypress shade beside a heap of golden oranges. those juicy globes were a sight to madden all the parched mouths in the train, and imploring voices hailed the proprietor from window after window. but our venerable hidalgo smoked his cigarette in tranquil ease, disdaining the vulgarities of barter. at the very last moment we persuaded a ragged boy in the throng of bystanders to fetch us a hatful of the fruit. then the peasant languidly arose, followed the lad to our window, named an infinitesimal price, and received his coin with the bow of a grandee. he was no hustler in business, this andalusian patriarch, but his dignity was epic and his oranges were nectar. we shall never know whether or not we had an adventure that evening. a wild-eyed tatterdemalion swung himself suddenly into our compartment and demanded our tickets, but as all the andalusians looked to our unaccustomed view like brigands, we did not discriminate against this abrupt individual, but yielded up our strips of pasteboard without demur. a swarthy young moor of tangier, the only other occupant of the carriage, sharply refused to surrender his own until the intruder should produce a conductor's badge, whereupon the stranger swore in gypsy, or "words to that effect," wrenched open the door and fled, like judas, into the outer dark. the moor excitedly declared to us that our tickets would be called for at the station in granada, that we should have to pay their price to the gate-keeper, and that our irregular collector, hiding somewhere along the train, would be admitted by that corrupt official to a share in the spoils. moved by our dismay, this son of the desert thrust his head through the window at the next stop, and roared so lustily for the conductor and the civil guard that, in a twinkling, the robber, if he was a robber, popped up in the doorway again, like a jack-in-the-box, and rudely flung us back the tickets. thereupon our benefactor, if he was a benefactor, solemnly charged us never, on the granada road, to give up anything to anybody who wore no gilt on his cap. more and more the purple mountains were folding us about, until at last we arrived at granada, too tired for a thrill. mr. gulick's constant care, which had secured us harborage in madrid, had provided welcome here. content in mere well-being, it was not until the following afternoon that tourist enterprise revived within us. then we somewhat recklessly wandered down from the alhambra hill into the heart of the people's carnival, a second sunday of festival given over to the enjoyment of the lower classes. the grotesque costumes were coarser than ever and the fun was rougher. the maskers cracked whips at the other promenaders, blew horns, shook rattles, and struck about them with painted bladders, but the balconies were bright with the bewitching looks of andalusian beauties, each vying with the rest in throwing the many-colored _serpentinas_, curly lengths of paper that crisp themselves in gaudy fetters about their captives. a single business house in granada claimed to have sold over a million of these, representing a value of some ten thousand dollars, during carnival week. southern spain was grumbling bitterly against the government and the war taxes, and in seville, where a tax is put on masks, the carnival had been given up this year as last; but granada would not be cheated of her frolic. our study of this closing phase of the carnival was cut short by the recollection that it was, above all, the _fiesta_ of pickpockets. finding ourselves, on the superb _paseo del salón_, in the midst of a hooting, jostling, half-gypsy mob, rained upon with _confetti_, called upon in broken french and english, pressed upon by boys and beggars, and happening to catch sight of the stately bronze statue of columbus which the women of granada had recently stoned because, by discovering america, he brought all the cuban troubles upon spain, we took the hint of the wise navigator's eye and decided that we two stray yankees might be as well off somewhere else. "feet, why do i love you?" say the spaniards; and so said we, suiting the action to the word. iii within the alhambra "the sierra nevada, an enormous dove which shelters under its most spotless wings saracen granada."--alarcÓn: _los seis velos_. our surprises were by no means over. we had come to granada to bask in the quintessence of earthly sunshine, and we found bleak rains, dark skies, and influenza. the moorish palace was indeed as wonderful as our lifelong dream of it,--arched and columned halls of exquisite fretwork, walls of arabesque where flushes and glints of color linger yet, ceilings crusted with stalactite figures of tapering caprice, but all too chill, even if the guides would cease from troubling, for tarrying revery. we tarried, nevertheless, were enraptured, and caught cold. we were dwelling in the village on the alhambra hill, within the circuit of the ruined fortress, in a villa kept by descendants of the moors, but the insolent grippe microbe respected neither ancient blood nor republican. during the month of our residence, every member of the household was brought low in turn, and there were days when even the stubborn yankees retreated to their pillows, lulled by the howling of as wild march winds as ever whirled the grasshopper vane on faneuil hall. from beyond the partition sounded the groans of our fever-smitten hostess, and from the kitchen below arose the noise of battle between our sturdy host and the rebel spoons and sauce-pans. if we could not always swallow his bold experiments in gruel and porridge, we could always enjoy the roars of laughter with which that merry silversmith plied his unaccustomed labors. it is said that there are only three months of the year when granada is fit to live in, and certainly february and march are not of these. but our delighted spirits had no thought of surrender to our discomfited bodies. we would not go away. it is better to ache in beautiful granada than to be at ease elsewhere. at the first peep of convalescence, we fled out of doors in search of a sunbeam and discovered, again to our surprise, this immemorial alhambra hill as young as springtime. the famous fragments of towers, with their dim legends of enchantment, all those tumbled masses of time-worn, saffron-lichened masonry, are tragically old, yet the tender petals of peach blossoms, drifting through the fragrant air, lay pink as baby touches against those hoary piles. we rested beside many an ancient ruin overclambered by red rosebuds or by branches laden with the fresh gold of oranges, where thrushes practised songs of welcome for the nightingales. we were too early for these sweetest minstrels of the alhambra, who, like the moors of long ago, were yearning on the edge of africa for the vega of granada. one expects, shut in by the crumbling walls of the alhambra, in shadow of the ruddy towers, in sound of the moslem fountains, to live with dreams and visions for one's company, to have no associates less dignified than the moonlight cavalcades of shadowy arabian warriors, whom the mountain caverns cast forth at stated seasons to troop once more in their remembered ways, or lustrous-eyed, lute-playing sultanas, or, at least, a crook-backed, snow-bearded magician, with a wallet full of talismans, and footsteps that clink like the gold of buried treasure. but here again the eternal fact of youth in the world disconcerts all venerable calculations. the alhambra dances and laughs with children--ragamuffins, most of them, but none the less radiant with the precious joy of the morning. they are gentle little people, too. it became well known on the hill that we were americans, yet not a pebble or rude word followed us from the groups of unkempt boys among whom we daily passed. once a mimic regiment, with a deafening variety of unmusical instruments and a genuine spanish flag, charged on me roguishly and drew up in battle square about their prisoner, but it was only to troll the staple song of spanish adolescence: "i want to be a soldier," and when i had munificently rewarded the captain with a copper, the youngsters doffed their varied headgear, dipped their banner in martial salute, and contentedly re-formed their ranks. it was seldom that we gave money, but we usually carried _dulces_ for the little ones, who, even the dirtiest, have their own pretty standard of manners. some half-dozen _pequeñitos_, not one of whom was clearly out of petticoats, were scampering off one day, for instance, their thanks duly spoken, and their bits of candy just between hand and mouth, when they turned with one accord, as if suddenly aware of an abruptness in their leave-taking, and trotted back to bow them low, their tatters of cap sweeping the ground, and lisp with all spanish gravity, "good afternoon, señora." one chubby hidalgo tipped over with the profundity of his obeisance, but the others righted him so solemnly that the dignity of the ceremonial was unimpaired. the habit of begging, that plague of tourist resorts, is an incessant nuisance on the alhambra hill. half-grown girls and young women were the most shameless and persistent of our tormentors. age can be discouraged, and babyhood diverted, while the spanish boy, if his importunities are met by smile and jest, will break into a laugh in the midst of his most pathetic appeals and let you off till next time. "a little money for our blessed lady's sake, señora. i am starving." "wouldn't you rather have a cigarette?" "and that i would." "then you are not starving, little brother. run away. i have no cigarettes." "but you have money for me, señora." "no, nor enough for myself, not enough to buy one tile of the alhambra." "then may god take care of you!" "and of you!" [illustration: playing at bull-fight] but the wild-haired, jet-eyed gypsy girl from the albaicín is impervious to mirth and untouched by courtesy. she would not do us the honor of believing our word, even when we were telling the truth. "five _centimos_ to buy me a scarlet ribbon! five _centimos_!" "not to-day, excuse me. i have no change." "hoh! you have change enough. look in your little brown bag and see." "i have no change." "then give me a _peseta_. come, now, a whole _peseta_!" "but why should i give you a _peseta_?" the girl stares like an angry hawk. "but why shouldn't you?" darting away, she hustles together a group of toddlers, hardly able to lisp, and drives them on to the attack. "beg, isabelita! beg of the lady, little conception! beg, alfonsito! beg, beg, beg! beg five _centimos_, ten _centimos_! beg a _peseta_ for us all!" and out pop the tiny palms, and the babble of baby voices makes a pleading music in the air. it is for such as these that the little brown bag has learned to carry _dulces_. before the month was over we had, in a slow, grippe-chastened fashion, "done our baedeker." we had our favorite courts and corridors in the magical maze of the moorish palace; we knew the gardens and fountains of the _generalife_, even to that many-centuried cypress beneath whose shade the sultana zoraya was wont to meet her abencerrage lover; our fortunes had been told in the gypsy caves of the albaicín; we had visited the stately renaissance cathedral where, in a dim vault, the "catholic kings," ferdinand and isabella, take their royal rest; we had made a first acquaintance with the paintings of the fire-tempered granadine, alonso cano, and paid our dubious respects to the convent of cartuja, with its over-gorgeous ornament and its horrible pictures of spanish martyrdoms inflicted by that "devil's bride," elizabeth of england. we had explored the parks and streets of the strange old city, where we possessed, according to the terms of spanish hospitality, several houses; but better than the clamorous town we liked our own wall-girdled height, with its songful wood of english elms, planted by the duke of wellington, its ever murmuring runlets of clear water, its jessamines and myrtles, its arabian nights of mosque and tower, and its far outlook over what is perhaps the most entrancing prospect any hill of earth can show. the sunset often found us leaning over the ivied wall beneath the _torre de la vela_, that bell-tower where the first cross was raised after the christian conquest, gazing forth from our trellised garden-nook on a vast panorama of gray city all quaintly set with arch and cupola, of sweeping plain with wealth of olive groves, vineyards, orange orchards, pomegranates, aloes, and cypresses, bounded by glistening ranks of snow-cloaked mountains. from the other side of the alhambra plateau, the fall is sheer to the silver line of the darro. across the river rises the slope of the albaicín, once the chosen residence of moorish aristocracy, but now dotted over, amid the thickets of cactus and prickly pear, with whitewashed entrances to gypsy caves. beyond all shine the resplendent summits of the great sierras. yet it is strange how homely are many of the memories that spring to life in me at the name of the alhambra,--decorous donkeys, laden with water-jars, trooping up the narrow footpath to the old fountain of tears, herds of goats clinging like flies to the upright precipice, a lurking peasant darting out on his wife as she passes with a day's earnings hidden in her stocking and holding her close, with laughter and coaxing, while he persistently searches her clothing until he finds and appropriates that copper hoard, and our own cheery little house-drudge washing our linen in a wayside rivulet and singing like a bird as she rubs and pounds an unfortunate handkerchief between two haphazard stones:-- "i like to live in granada, it pleases me so well when i am falling asleep at night to hear the _vela_ bell." there is the proud young mother, too, whom we came upon by chance over behind the tower of the princesses, where her pot of _puchero_ was bubbling above a miniature bonfire, while the velvet-eyed baby boy sucked his thumb in joyous expectation. she often made us welcome, after that, to her home,--a dingy stone kitchen and bedroom, unfurnished save for pallet, a few cooking-utensils, a chest or two, and, fastened to the wall, a gaudy print of _la virgen de las angustias_, the venerated _patrona_ of granada. but this wretched abode, the remains of what may once have been a palace, opened on a lordly pleasure-garden with walls inlaid with patterns of rainbow tiles, whose broken edges were hidden by rose bushes. there were pedestals and even fragments of images in this wild eden, jets of sparkling water and walks of variegated marble. in the course of the month, english and spanish callers climbed the hill to us and encompassed us with kindness, but we still maintained our incorrigible taste for low society and used to hold informal receptions on sunny benches for all the tatterdemalions within sight. swarthy boys, wearied with much loafing, would thriftily lay aside their cigarettes to favor us with conversation, asking many questions about america, for whose recent action they gallantly declined to hold us responsible. "it was not the ladies that made the war," said these modern cavaliers of the alhambra. their especial spokesman was a shambling orphan lad of some fifteen summers, with shrewd and merry eyes. nothing pleased him better than to give an ornamental hitch to the shabby, bright-colored scarf about his thin, brown throat, and proceed to expound the political situation. "you admire the alhambra? i suppose you have no palaces in america because your government is a republic. that is a very good thing. our government is the worst possible. all the loss falls on the poor. all the gain goes to the rich. but there are few rich in spain. america is the richest country of all the world. when america fought us it was as a rich man, fed and clothed, fighting a poor man weak from famine. and the rich man took from the poor man all that he had. spain has nothing left--nothing." "oh, don't say that! spain has the alhambra, and beautiful churches, beautiful pictures." "can one eat churches and pictures, my lady?" "and a fertile soil. what country outblooms andalusia?" his half-shod foot kicked the battle-trampled earth of the immortal hill contemptuously. "soil! yes. all the world has soil. it serves to be buried in." this budding politician graced us with his company one sunday afternoon, when we went down into granada to see a religious procession. our lady of lourdes, escorted by a distinguished train of ecclesiastical and civic dignitaries, with pomp of many shining lights and sonorous instruments, with peal of church bells and incongruous popping of fireworks, passed through extended ranks of candle-bearing worshippers, along thronged streets, where every balcony was hung with the national red and yellow, to the church of mary magdalene. there the sacred guest was entertained with a concert, and thence conducted, with the same processional state, amid the same reverent salutations of the multitude, back to her own niche. our youthful guide showed himself so devout on this occasion, kneeling whenever the image, borne aloft in a glory of flowers and tapers, passed us, and gazing on every feature of the pageant with large-eyed adoration, that we asked him, as we climbed the hill again, if he would like to be a priest. but he shrugged his shoulders. "there are better christians in spain than the priests," he answered. the son of the house, don pepe, a young man of five and twenty, who usually attended us on any difficult excursion, was also frankly outspoken in his disapproval of the clergy. he could hardly hold his countenance in passing a franciscan friar. "there walks the ruin of spain," he muttered once, with bitter accent, turning to scowl after the bareheaded, brown-frocked figure so common in granada streets. we had, indeed, our own little grudge against the friars, for they were the only men of the city who forced us off the narrow sidewalks out into the rough and dirty road. all other granadines, from dandies to gypsies, yielded us the strip of pavement with ready courtesy, but the friars, three or four in indian file, would press on their way like graven images and drive us to take refuge among the donkeys. this escort of ours, formally a catholic, was no more a lover of state than of church. he was eager to get to work in the world and, finding no foothold, charged up his grievance against the government. he was firmly persuaded that madrid had sold the santiago and manila victories to washington for sums of money down,--deep down in official pockets. but his talk, however angry, would always end in throwing out the hands with a gesture of despair. "but what use in revolutions? spain is tired--tired of tumult, tired of bloodshed, tired of deceit and disappointment. a new government would only mean the old dogs with new collars. we, the people, are always the bone to be gnawed bare. what use in anything? let it go as god wills." the silvela and polavieja ministry came in during our stay at granada, and the liberal and republican chorus against what was known as the reactionary government swelled loud. "it means the yoke of the jesuits," growled our burly host. our alhambra dream suffered frequent jars from these ignoble confusions of to-day. when we were musing comfortably on the melancholy fortunes of boabdil, a cheap newspaper would be thrust before our eyes with an editorial headed "boabdil sagasta." it is always best to do what one must. since we could not be left in peace to the imagination of plumy cavaliers, stars of moslem and christian chivalry, who sowed this mount so thick with glorious memories, we turned our thoughts to the poor soldiers from cuba, especially during the week throughout which they paraded the cities of spain in rag-tag companies under rude flags with the ruder motto: "_hungry repatriados_." their appearance was so woful that it became a by-word. a child, picking up from a gutter one day a mud-stained, dog-eared notebook, cried gleefully, "it's a _repatriado_." there was no glamour here, but the courage and sacrifice, the love and anguish, held good. granada had borne her share in spain's last war sorrow. so many of her sons were drafted for the antilles that her anger against america waxed hot. a few months before our arrival every star-spangled banner that could be hunted out in shop or residence was trampled and burned in the public squares. the washington irving hotel hastened to take down its sign, and even the driver of its omnibus was sternly warned by the people to erase those offensive american names from his vehicle on pain of seeing it transformed into a chariot of fire. a shot, possibly accidental, whistled through the office of the english consul, who was given to understand, in more ways than one, that spain made little difference between "the cloaked enemy" and the foe in the field. meanwhile, month after month, the recruits were marched to the station, and the city fathers, who came in all municipal dignity to bid the lads godspeed, were so overwhelmed by the weeping of the women that they forgot the cream of their speeches. among the new tales of spanish valor told us on the alhambra hill was this:-- when lots were drawn for military service, one blithe young scapegrace found in his hand a fortunate high number, but, walking away in fine feather over his luck, he met the mother of a friend of his, sobbing wildly as she went. her son had been drafted, and the two hundred dollars of redemption money was as far beyond her reach as those dazzling crests of the sierra nevada are above the lame beggar at the alhambra gate. then the kindly fellow, troubled by her grief and mindful of the fact that, orphan as he was, his own parting would be at no such cost of tears, offered to serve in her boy's stead. her passion of gratitude could not let his service go all unrecompensed. poorest of the poor, she went about among her humble friends, lauding his deed, until she had collected, _peseta_ by _peseta_, the sum of sixteen dollars, which she thrust into his hands to buy comforts for the campaign. but another sobbing mother sought him out. he had saved her neighbor's son; would he not save hers? laughing at her logic and moved by her faith in him, he answered: "i am only one man, señora. i cannot go in place of two. but here are sixteen dollars. if you can find a substitute at such a price, the money is yours." sixteen dollars is a fortune to hunger and nakedness, and the substitute was found. as the year wore on those two mothers did not let the city forget its light-hearted hero, and a great assembly gathered at the station to honor his return. a remnant of his comrades descended from the train, but as for him, they said, he had died in cuba of the fever months before. his was no poetic death like that of the abencerrages. happy abencerrages! they knew the alhambra in the freshness of her beauty. their last uplifted glances looked upon the most exquisite ceilings in the world. their blood left immortal stains on the marble base of the fountain. but this young spaniard, in his obscure cuban grave, only one out of the eighty thousand, will promptly be forgotten. _no importa._ there must be something better than glory for the man who does more than his duty. [illustration: the mosque of cordova] iv a function in granada "o love divine, celestial purity, pity my cries! my soul is prone before a clouded throne. let thy keen light arise, pierce this obscurity and free my dream-bound eyes!" --_ganivet's last poem._ the civilization of spain, streaked as it is with oriental barbarisms, belated and discouraged as the end of the nineteenth century finds it, is still in many respects finer than our own. in everything that relates to grace and charm of social intercourse, to the dignified expression of reverence, compassion, and acknowledgment, spain puts us to the blush. i was especially touched in granada by the whole-souled sympathy and veneration with which the city rendered public honors to one of its sons, angel ganivet, who died in the preceding winter, a poet hardly thirty. although i had glanced over obituary notices of this spanish writer in the paris papers, i had but a vague idea of his work and life, and sought, before the night of the memorial ceremonies, for further information. i appealed, first of all, to our table waiter, whose keen black eyes instantly turned sad and tender. "_pobre! pobre!_ he threw himself into the river at riga, in russia, where he was consul. it was at the close of the war. and he such a genius! so young! so true a spaniard! but all granada will be at the theatre. he left his play to granada, asking that it be seen here first of all. i have never read his books, but i have met him in the streets, and lifted my hat to him for a wise _caballero_ who cared greatly for spain." my next appeal was to our kind neighbor, the english consul, who assured me laughingly that he, like myself, was vainly ransacking the few bookstores of granada for ganivet's works. "the first time i ever heard the name," he added, "was some three or four years ago, when i noticed an old gentleman standing often in front of my house, and gazing at the british coat-of-arms above my door. he told me one day when i drew him into talk that he had a nephew, angel ganivet, roaming in foreign lands. 'but he does not forget his old uncle,' said he. 'i always receive my little pension prompt to the day, and so i like to look at the foreign shields about the city, and remember my nephew, far away, who remembers me.' that was a trifle, of course, but it gave me a kindly feeling for the young fellow, and i'm sorry he came to such an end. they found him in the river, you know. i dare say it was suicide, and likely enough the defeat of spain had its share in causing his despondency; but nobody knows. he was a zealous patriot, i understand, and all granada seems to take his death to heart." my next authority was an aged granadine, a man of letters; but he had not read ganivet's books. "i have heard of him often," he said, "but i never met him. he was not much in granada, although he seems to have had a romantic affection for the place. _bueno!_ its pomegranates are worth remembering. but ganivet liked to live in foreign countries, with the idea of understanding his own better by comparison. he was young; he still had hopes for spain. eighty years are on my head, and i have long done with hoping. i have served in my country's armies, i have served in her government, i have seen much of church and state, and since the night when they murdered general prim i have seen nothing good. but ganivet had faith in the national future, and the people, without waiting to ask on what that faith was founded, love him for it, and mourn his loss as if he had been their benefactor. they are all going to pour into the theatre to-morrow night to hear his symbolic drama, that not one in a hundred of them will try to understand, and the hundredth will get it all wrong." the "function" took place in the _gran teatro de isabel la católica_, a name to conjure with throughout all spain, and especially in granada. the day set for the performance, and widely advertised by newspapers and posters for a month in advance, was a wednesday. on tuesday, in a fever lest we be too late, we arrived at the ticket office. we had our hurry all to ourselves. apparently nobody else had as yet taken a seat. the office was empty, save for us and our attendant train of boys and beggars. the official in charge, deaf, slow, and courteous, invited us into a private room and gave us rocking-chairs by the _brasero_, while he, with paper and pencil, laboriously added the price of our _entradas_ to the price of our modest box, and spent five minutes in subtracting the amount from the figure of the small bill we handed him. the counting out of the change was another strain on his arithmetic, and, after all these toils, we were still without tickets. he said he would "write them out at home," and we might send some one for them the next day. but he affably offered to show us the theatre, and led us through black passages to a great dusky space, where, while he struck match after match, we could catch glimpses of pit and balconies, and even a far-off stage, with a group of actors gathered about a lamp, rehearsing the play. in wednesday morning's paper, however, they announced with entire nonchalance that they were not ready yet, and would postpone the representation until thursday. on thursday evening the theatre, choking full though it was, hardly presented a brilliant appearance. granada is not madrid, nor seville, and the best the granadines had to offer their dead poet was the tribute of their presence in such guise as they could command. the big, barnlike theatre, with its rows of broken lamp-chimneys, looked shabby, and the rag-tag proportion of the audience was so great that it overflowed the _paraiso_ into the aisles and doorways and all conceivable corners. people were so jumbled and crumpled together that, with reminiscences of my traveller's hold-all, i found myself wondering if they would ever shake out smooth again. whole families were there, from the infant in arms that invariably screamed when the actors were reciting any passage of peculiar delicacy, to the dozing old grandfather, who kept dropping his cigarette out of his mouth in a way that threatened to set us all on fire. the gentlemen, even in the boxes and the stalls, were generally ungloved, and we did not see a dress suit in the house. cloaks and neckties were ablaze with color as usual, but the masculine toilets eluded our stricter observation; for when the curtain was up, our eyes were all for the stage, and between acts your spaniard sits with hat on head, enveloped in a cloud of tobacco smoke. but the andalusian ladies made amends for everything. by some prehistoric agreement, spanish women have yielded the rainbow to the men, reserving for their own attire the quiet elegance of black or the festive beauty of pure white. the dress that evening, even in the principal boxes, was conspicuously simple. but the clear brunette complexions, the delicate contours, the rich black hair worn high and crowned with natural flowers, the waving fans and flashing glances, cast a glamour over the whole scene. the memorial rites themselves made up in quantity whatever they might lack in quality, continuing from eight o'clock till two. an orchestra, organized from granada musicians for this occasion, opened the programme. the bust of ganivet, wrought by a young granada sculptor, was reverently unveiled. the star actor, fuentes of granada, who had undertaken with his troupe to present his fellow-townsman's drama purely as a labor of love, read an interpretation written by one of granada's leading critics. the orchestra was in evidence again, introducing the first act, entitled "faith." after this the orchestra played bretón's serenade, "in the alhambra," and the curtain rose for the second act on so natural a scene-painting of the famous fortress that the audience went wild with enthusiasm, and the blushing artist, also a granadine, had to be literally shoved from the wings upon the stage to receive his plaudits. between the second act, "love," and the last act, "death," came an _andante elegiaco_, "written expressly for this artistic solemnity" by a granada composer. here, again, the appreciation of the audience was unbounded, and nothing would do but the reluctant master must leave his box, struggle through the packed multitude to the conductor's stand, and take the baton himself for a second rendering from the first chord to the last. at the close of the third act the orchestra did its part once more, and the celebration ended, somewhat incongruously, with a lively bit of modern comedy. there was imperfection enough, had one been disposed to look for it. the fifty members of the impromptu orchestra had hardly brought themselves into accord, the acting was not of the best spanish quality, and the players had not half learned their parts. every long declamation was a duet, the prompter's rapid undertone charging along beneath the actor's voice like a horse beneath its rider. but the audience understood, forgave, were grateful, and sat with sublime patience through the long pauses between the acts, repeating one to another, "they say fuentes is studying his speeches." as the caustic old scholar had predicted, most of them, apparently, did not try to understand the allegory. they applauded the obviously poetic touches, the palpably dramatic situations, and when, in the alhambra act, a gypsy air was sung, the galleries delightedly caught it up and chorused it over again. but in general that nondescript assembly looked on in passive gravity while _el escultor de su alma_ was rendered, as their poet had bidden, in their own theatre and for them. they may have gathered hints and snatches of that mystical message from the dead, whose lofty look, fixed in shining marble, dominated all the house. the restless spirit of man, seeking the perfect truth, tears himself loose from the bride of his youth, heavenly faith, and wanders in beggary through the world. yet truth for him can only be the child of his union with faith, and in parting from one he has parted from both. in old age, almost maddened by his wanderings and woes, he meets his truth again, full-grown and beautiful, but is so fierce and wild in his desire to possess her that only death can reconcile them--death and that heavenly faith who could not abandon him, though he had forsaken her. ganivet's mother, who, with his brothers, witnessed the play from behind the scenes, is said to have rejoiced in it as a last solemn assurance from her son of his secure repose in the catholic faith of his fathers. it may not have meant so much to that great audience, many of whom could neither read nor write, but those tiers upon tiers of dark spanish faces were full of earnestness and of a proud content. however it may have baffled their heads, this legacy of a play, in its alhambra setting, spoke clearly to their hearts. one ragamuffin said to another, as an all-sufficient criticism, "he was thinking of granada when he wrote it." a few days later, i found and eagerly read angel ganivet's most significant booklet, _idearium_, published in the autumn of , in which he sets forth his dream for the future of his beloved country. ganivet claims that the deepest moral element in spanish character is stoicism, "not the brutal and heroic stoicism of cato, nor the serene and majestic stoicism of marcus aurelius, nor the rigid and extreme stoicism of epictetus, but the natural and humane stoicism of seneca." he holds that seneca, himself a spaniard, found his philosophy in the inherent genius of the country, and only gave voice to the indwelling soul of spain. the spanish church, cherishing this element, became a thing apart from the general catholicism of europe. the long warfare and incidental intercourse with the moors stamped spanish christianity with its two other characteristic features of mysticism and fanaticism. "mysticism was like a sanctification of african sensuality, and fanaticism was a turning against ourselves, when the reconquest ended, of the fury accumulated during eight centuries of combat." the author, _muy español_, is naturally _muy católico_, yet he protests against violence in the repression of other forms of religion. "liberty should bring with it no fear." he believes that spain is, above all, _sui generis_, independent and individual. the representative spaniard is a free lance, striving and conquering by his own impulse and under his own direction, like the cid of old or cortes in the field of arms, like loyola in the church, like cervantes in letters. he lays stress on the achievements of spanish art--the master paintings of velázquez and murillo, the master dramas of lope de vega and calderon, as expressing, better than political history has expressed, that intensification of spanish life resulting from the struggle against the arabs "and making of our nation a christian greece." [illustration: the columbus monument in granada] he finds it logical and right that spain, after her successive periods of roman influence, visigothic influence, arab influence, and her modern era of colonial expansion, should now abandon foreign policies and concentrate all her vitality within her own borders. not by the sword, but by the spirit, would he have spain henceforth hold sway over mankind, and especially over the spanish-descended peoples of south america. he winces under the monopoly of the term "american" by the citizens of the united states--"a formidable nation," he admits, "very populous, very rich, and apparently very well governed." he notes, in contrast, the poverty and comparative anarchy of the south american republics, but he urges still that the spanish character, shaped through such eventful centuries, is an entity, clear and firm, with qualities well defined, whereas the yankees are yet in the fusing pot. he would have all the peoples of hispanian descent recognize and realize in themselves this spanish individuality, effecting not a political union, but a "confederation, intellectual and spiritual," whose first aim should be the preservation of spanish ideas and ideals, and the second, the free gift of these to all the nations of the earth. the ancient glory of spain, he says, has vanished like a dream; let a new and whiter glory dawn. her career of material conquest is ended. those savage struggles have left her faint and spent. let her now seek to attain, through purification and discipline, such fresh fulness of life as shall insure the triumph of her spiritual forces--her fervent faith and her unworldly wisdom. "our ulysses is don quixote." v in sight of the giralda "we were nearing seville. i felt the eager throbbing of my heart. seville had ever been for me the symbol of light, the city of love and joy."--valdÉs: _la hermana san sulpicio_. one of the wise sayings of andalusia runs, "do not squeeze the orange till the juice is bitter." and so we said good-by to granada before we were ready to go, and persuaded ourselves, in defiance of maps and time-tables, that our shortest route to seville led by ronda. the weather did its very best to dampen our enthusiasm for this wildest of crag aeries, equally famed for romantic beauty of outlook and salubrity of air. men live long in ronda, unless, indeed, they hit against a bullet while practising their hereditary trade of _contrabandista_. they have a saying that octogenarians there are only chickens, but one should not believe all that they say in ronda. did we not clamber, slipping on wet stones, down a precipitous path to peer, from under dripping umbrellas, at what our guide declared was an old roman bridge? "it doesn't look old and it doesn't look roman," was the artist's dubious comment, but our highly recommended conductor, a gib, as the english-spanish natives of gibraltar rock are called, assured us that it was built in the days of julius cæsar, but had been wonderfully well preserved. we eyed him thoughtfully, bearing in mind that he had already pointed out the statue of a long-dead poet as a living politician; but we meekly continued through the lashing rain to follow his long footsteps over the breakneck ways of that natural fortress where race after race has left its autograph. the roman columns of the church make the arab cupolas look young, and put the gothic choir altogether out of countenance. a bright-shawled peasant woman, who we fondly hoped might be a smuggler's wife, drew us delicious water from a roman well in a moorish patio, where a mediæval king of gentle memory used to drink his wine from cups wrought of the skulls of those enemies whom he had beheaded with his own sword. but not all this, and more, could efface our doubts of that roman bridge, which, indeed, we found, on a belated perusal of our guide-books, had been erected by a malaga architect in the last century. the street rabble of ronda was the rudest and fiercest we encountered anywhere in spain. several times our guide wheeled suddenly to confront some gypsyish lad, creeping up behind us with stone all ready to throw, and when, at a glint of sunset through the stormy clouds, we tried to slip out unattended to the neighboring _alameda_, with its far-sweeping prospect of folded mountain ranges and its vertical view of gorge and rushing river, the children actually hounded us back to the hotel. their leader was a scrofulous boy, with one cheek eaten away, who had been taught to press his face so closely upon strangers that, in fear of his open sore, they would hastily give money to keep him back. he was a merry scamp and got a world of sport out of his sickening business, laughing at the top of his voice to see himself "avoided like the sun." although the tempest had lulled by evening, ronda, still inhospitable, would not let us sleep. all up and down the window-grated street sounded, from midnight to morning, a tinkling of guitars. it was, forsooth, st. joseph's day, and every don josé, every doña josefa, every little pepe, every pretty pepita, must be saluted by a serenade. all andalusians are musical, taking much pleasure, moreover, in one of their own bits of philosophy, "the poorest player has his uses, for he can at least drive the rats out of the house." rats or no, we left ronda by the morning train. our carriage was crowded with several spaniards and a "jew-gib," who, without saying "_oxte ni moxte_," assumed full charge of us and our belongings for the journey. this unceremonious but really helpful escort put every one of his fellow-travellers through a sharp catechism as to birthplace, business, destination, and the like. our turn came first of all. "you are english?" "we speak english." "ha!" he fell into our own vernacular. "came about three thousand miles to spain?" "across the channel." he chuckled with prompt appreciation of the situation and mendaciously translated to the carriage at large, "the ladies are distinguished londoners, on their way to visit relatives in seville," whereat the andalusians smiled sleepily upon us and asked permission to smoke. we consented cheerfully, as our spanish sisters had taught us that we should. "i like it," one pallid señora had said on an earlier trip. "it makes me sick, yes, but men ought to be men." we were journeying toward the very palace of the sun, with gray ranks of olive trees standing guard on either hand. "and posted among them, like white doves, could be seen now and again a few mills where the bitter olive is wont to pour its juice." orange plantations and hedges of the bluish aloe, fig trees, palms, and all manner of strange, tropical flowers gladdened our approach to seville. and when, at last, we saw from afar the world-praised giralda, the moorish bell-tower of the cathedral, soaring pink into a purple sky, we felt as if we were really arrived in fairyland. our friendly gib put his tall figure between us and the howling press of swarthy porters and cab-drivers, scolded, expostulated, threatened, picked out his men, beat down their prices, called up a policeman to witness the bargain and take the number of our cab, raised his hat, and vanished into grateful memory. six weeks in seville! and six weeks in a seville home, where evening after evening the gay youth of andalusia laughed and sang, danced and rattled the castanets, and cast about our wondering western souls strange witcheries from which we shall never more go free. it was all as oriental as a dream. the sultana of the south lifted her gleaming coronet of domes and pinnacles above such a kingdom of idle, delicious mirth as has permanently unfitted us for considering it important to do our duty. our hereditary bits of plymouth rock were melted up in that fervent heat. right or wrong? "where there is music, there can be no harm." true or false? "in this world, my masters, there's neither truth nor lie, but all things take the color of the glass before the eye." only six weeks, and yet we shall ever go homesick for seville, for her palm trees and orange gardens, her narrow streets like lanes of shadow, her tiled and statued patios, with caged birds singing answer to the ripple of the fountain, the musical midnight cry of her _serenos_, "her black and burning eyes like beacons in the dark," her sighing serenaders, "lyrical mosquitoes," outside the grated window or beneath the balcony, her fragrances of rose and jessamine, her poetic sense of values. a homeless andalusian, dinnerless and in rags, strums on his guitar, a necessity which he would not dream of selling for such a mere luxury as bread, and is happy. there is always sun to sleep in. there are always piquant faces and gliding forms to gaze after. what more does a mortal want? exquisite seville! no wonder that her exiled sons still sing, after years of "comfortable living" in foreign cities:-- "when i am missing, hunt me down in andalusia's purple light, where all the beauties are so brown, and all the wits so bright." yet the old arabian enchantment casts a glamour which the anglo-saxon vision dimly recognizes as such and faintly strives against. to the clear survey all is not charm. grace, mirth, and music, on the one hand, are offset by ignorance, suffering, and vice on the other. many evil things were told us, and some ugly things we saw, but to look on andalusia is to love her, even while realizing that to live with her would put that love to a very stringent test. the lordly guadalquivír, for instance, so fair to see from the picture-making summit of the giralda, as he lingers through his blooming paradise, forgetful of the ocean, is not altogether goodly. "ay, ay, the black and stinging flies he breeds to plague the decent body of mankind!" the andalusian leisure was a perpetual delight to us. a typical seville shop reaches far along the street front, with many open doors, and a counter running the full length. here ladies sit in pairs and groups, never singly, to cheapen fans and mantillas, while the smiling salesmen, cigarette in hand, shrug and gesticulate and give back banter for banter as gayly as if it were all a holiday frolic. scraps of the graceful bargaining would float to our ears. "is the quality good?" "as good as god's blessing." among the tempting wares of seville are albacete knives, with gorgeous handles of inlaid ebony, tortoise, or ivory. the peasant women of andalusia so resent the charge of carrying these knives in their garters that the seville gamin dodges offence by asking them in an unnecessarily loud voice if they carry garters in their knives. the irascible dames do not stand upon fine points of rhetoric, however, and when the small boy has delivered his shot, he does well to take to his heels. we once saw one of these sturdy women, while a line of soldiers, bristling with steel, was holding a street, seize a gallant son of mars by the shoulder and swing him, amid the laughter of his comrades, out of her path as if he were a cabbage. nobody knew how to stop her, and she trudged serenely on, her broad back to those helpless bayonets, down the forbidden way. the beggars of seville are gentler than those of ronda and granada, but hardly less numerous. mendicant figures are thick as guadalquivír mosquitoes in my memory of andalusia. some of those pitiful children will haunt me till i die. there was a forlorn urchin, with filmy, frightful eyes, to be seen in all weathers crouching on one side of the road leading up to the alhambra, so dull and dreary a little fellow that he hardly grasped the coppers when they were thrust into his weakly groping hands, and hardly stayed his monotonous formula of entreaty for his other monotonous formula of thanks. there was an idiot child in seville--a mere lump of deformity--that would rush out upon the startled stranger with an inarticulate, fierce little yell, clutching at charity with a tiny, twisted claw. he seemed the very incarnation of childish woe and wrong. almost every hand dived into pocket for him, and he was probably worth far more to his proprietors than his rival on the street, a crafty little girl, with the most lustrous eyes that painter ever dreamed. they were not blue nor gray, but a living light in which both those colors had been melted. the economists, who say so firmly that "nothing should ever be given to mendicant children," can hardly have had the experience of seeing murillo's own cherubs, their wings hidden under the dirt, fluttering about the car windows at andalusian stations. i have it still on my conscience that i occasionally gave away my comrade's share of our luncheon as well as my own. she was too young and too polite to reproach me, but too hungry to be comforted by the assurance that i reproached myself. sometimes a foreign traveller, very sure of his spanish, would attempt remonstrance with these small nuisances. i remember one kindly teuton in particular. commerce had claimed him for its own, but the predestined german professor shone out of his mild blue eyes. a ragamuffin had mounted the car steps to beg at the window, and mein herr delivered him such a lecture that the youngster clung to his perch, fascinated with astonishment at the novel doctrine, until the train was in alarmingly swift motion. [illustration: the alhambra. hall of justice] "this is a very bad habit of thine. i told thee so a month ago." "me, sir?" "thee, boy. when i passed over this road last, thou wert begging at the windows, to my shame if not to thine. tut, tut! go thy ways. look for work, work, work." "work, sir?" "work, boy. and when thou hast found it, love it, and do it with a will. learn to read and write. wash thy face and change thy customs, and when thou art richer than i, then will i give thee a _peseta_." mendicancy is bred of ignorance, and in the seventeen and a half millions that make up the population of spain, more than twelve millions do not read nor write. seville sight-seeing is no brief matter. you must climb the giralda, walk in the parks, view the yellowed fragments of the ancient city wall, visit the tobacco factory, shop in _las sierpes_, buy pottery in triana, see the gypsy dances in the cafés, attend the thursday rag-fair, do reverence to the columbus manuscripts in the _biblioteca columbina_, look up the haunts of don juan, figaro, pedro the cruel, and explore the curious "house of pilate," which, tradition says, was built by a pilgrim noble after the jerusalem pattern. you must lose your heart to the alcázar, the alhambra of seville, a storied palace embowered in fountain-freshened gardens of palm and magnolia, oranges and cypresses, rose and myrtle, with shadowy arcades leading to marble baths and arabesqued pavilions. you must follow murillo from gallery to gallery, from church to church, above all, from the _hospital de la caridad_, where hang six of his greatest compositions, to the _museo provincial_, where over a score of the master's sacred works, lovely virgins, longing saints, deep-eyed christ-childs, rain their sweet influence. and first, last, and always, there is the cathedral. we had been stunned at burgos, blind to all save the moorish features of cordova, almost untouched by the cold splendors of granada, but to seville, as later to toledo, we surrendered utterly. beauty, mystery, sublimity--these are seville cathedral. five centuries have gone to the rearing and enriching of those solemn aisles and awful choir. the colossal structure, second in size only to st. peter's, is a majesty before which luther himself might well have trembled. within a spanish cathedral one begins to understand the mighty hold of roman catholicism on spain. "i love," says alarcón, whose jest and earnest are as closely twined as fibres of the same heart, "the clouds of incense which rise to the cupola of the catholic temple, amid the harmonies of the holy organ. (for this i am not a protestant.)" and elsewhere, writing of his childhood, he speaks of receiving in the cathedral of guadix all his first impressions of artistic beauty,--beauty of architecture, music, painting, processional splendors, tissue of gold and silver, cunning embroideries and jewel-work, his first sense, in short, of poetry. and all these impressions were inextricably blent with his first yearnings of holy aspiration, his first passion of mystical devotion. but not even seville cathedral could win over our full sympathy. too heavy were the faces of the priests who "sang the gori gori," too selfish that wigged and jointed doll, "our lady of kings," with her sixty gorgeous mantles, a few of which would have clothed all the poor of andalusia. who shall draw the line between faith and superstition? but let not the tourist suppose he can escape his tyrant baedeker even at the top of the giralda. there are excursions that must be taken to points of interest outside the city. most imperative of all is the trip to the ruined roman amphitheatre of italica, guarded by the mighty names of scipio africanus, trajan, hadrian, and theodosius. off we start, a dozen strong, in a great, open carriage, all the women-folk with fans and veils and with flowers in the hair. we rattle past the cathedral, over the bridge to triana and out into the sweet-breathed country, passing many a picturesque group on the road,--these two peasants, for example, with their yellow-handled knives thrust into scarlet girdles, tossing dice under a fig tree. our meditations among the crumbling blocks of that savage play-house would perhaps interest the reader less than our luncheon. such andalusian dainties as we swallowed,--cold soups like melted salads, home-made fig marmalade, cinnamon pastes of which the gypsies know the secret, and sugared chestnuts overflowed by a marvellous syrup wherein could be detected flavors of lemon peel, orange peel, and a medley of spices! in that scene of ancient bloodshed, of the lion's wrath and the martyr's anguish, we ate, drank, and were merry, but our banquet tasted of ghosts. vi passion week in seville "all that was gracious was bestowed by the virgin, and she was the giver of all that human creatures could ask for. god frowned, while she smiled; god chastised, but she forgave; this last notion was by no means a strange one. it is accepted with almost absolute faith among the laboring classes of the rural parts of spain."--galdÓs: _marianela_. holy week throngs seville to overflowing. the devout no longer scourge themselves in public, sprinkling the pavements with their blood, but spaniards flock from all andalusia, from madrid, and even from the northern provinces to the sunny city on the storied guadalquivír. hotel charges run from twelve dollars a day up to incredible figures; a mere bed in a lodging house costs its three dollars, four dollars, or five dollars a night, and fortunate are those who enjoy the hospitality of a private home. the ceremonies opened sunday morning with the procession of palms. we had been told by our cathedral guide the day before that this procession would take place at seven or half-past seven at the latest, and had asked the maid to call us at half-past six. as the chiming bells should have warned us, her knock was an hour tardy, but when, breakfastless and eager, we reached the cathedral a few minutes after eight, there was as yet no sign of a procession. mass was being said in the sagrario and in several chapels, and the morning light poured in through the rich-colored windows upon groups of kneeling figures before every shrine. the women wore black mantillas, for, although this most graceful of headdresses is losing credit on the fashionable promenades of seville, and is almost never seen in open carriages, holy week demands it of all the faithful. we asked a white-robed young chorister when the procession would form. he answered with encouraging precision, "in twenty minutes." we roamed about for a half hour or more through those majestic spaces, beneath those soaring arches, aspiration wrought in stone, until by chance in that shifting multitude we came face to face with our guide of the day before. we asked how soon the procession would form. he said, "in twenty minutes," and we went home for coffee. when we returned the procession was streaming out of the cathedral into the street of the _gran capitán_. it was simple and all the more attractive for that simplicity. the colors of standards and vestments were mainly purple and gold, and the long, yellow fronds of palm, blown by the fresh breeze from the river, gleamed brighter than the sheen of candle or of mitre. turning the corner, the procession, now facing the beautiful giralda, entered by the ample door of pardon, still incrusted with its arabic decorations, into the court of oranges, whose ripe fruit gave new touches of gold to the picture. venders of palm were stationed in every sheltered corner, selling their wares, more than twice the height of a man, at fifteen cents the frond, while boys, darting about with armfuls of olive, were glad to take a cent the branch, and not have the best of their leafy store filched from them by sly old women, more intent, like the rest of us, on getting a blessing than deserving it. through the multitude the glittering palms and purple robes swept on back into the cathedral, where the silent and remote archbishop, an image of gold in his splendid apparel, shed his benediction not only over the proud palms, but over every spray of "little gray leaves," like those of gethsemane. these blessed palms, sprinkled with holy water and wafting strange fragrances of incense, would be carried home and kept in myriad balconies all the year through, to protect the house from "the all-dreaded thunder-stone." that sunday afternoon at five o'clock we were leaning out expectantly from our host's best balcony. with the constant spanish courtesy, he had betaken himself, with the children of the household, to a less commanding balcony below, and his eldest son had considerately withdrawn, accompanied by his fiancée, to a mere speck of a balcony above. this left a dozen of us, spanish, english, and american, to enjoy as good a view as the city afforded of the processional tableaux. the oblong _plaza de la constitución_, the scene in days gone by of many a tournament, _auto de fe_, and bull-fight, is bounded on one side by the ornate renaissance façade of the city hall, and on the other, in part, by the plain front of the court-house, before which criminals used to be done to death. private dwellings, with their tiers of balconies, one of which had fallen to our happy lot, cross the wider end of the _plaza_, while the other opens into the brilliant street of _las sierpes_, too narrow for carriages, but boasting the gayest shop windows and merriest cafés of all the town. the _plaza_, always animated, fairly rippled with excitement this palm sunday afternoon. the grand stand, erected in front of the city hall, was filled, although many of the camp-chairs and benches placed in thick-set rows on the farther side of the line of march were not yet rented. thursday and friday are the days that draw the multitudes. the crowd was bright with uniforms, most conspicuous being the spruce white-edged, three-cornered hats and dark-blue, red-faced coats of the civil guard. venders of peanuts, peanut candy, macaroons, caramels, and all manner of _dulces_ swung their baskets from one sweet-toothed spaniard to another, while wisely the water-seller went in their wake, with the artistic yellow jar over his shoulder. one young pedler was doing a flourishing business in crabs, the customers receiving these delicacies in outstretched pocket handkerchiefs. busy as our eyes were kept, we were able to lend ear to the explanations of our spanish friends, who told us that the church dignitaries, after the procession of palms, took no official part in the shows of passion week, although many of the clergy belonged, as individuals, to the religious brotherhoods concerned. the church reserves its street displays for corpus christi. these brotherhoods, societies of ancient origin, and connected with some church or chapel, own dramatic properties often of great intrinsic value and considerable antiquity. for days before holy week one may see the members busy in the churches at the task of arranging groups of sacred figures, vested as richly as possible in garments of silk and velvet, with ornaments of jewels and gold, on platforms so heavy that twenty-five men, at the least, are needed to carry each. these litters are escorted through the principal streets and squares of the city by their respective societies, each brotherhood having its distinctive dress. it is customary for every _cofradia_ to present two pageants--the first in honor of christ; the second, and more important, in honor of mary, to whom chivalrous spain has always rendered supreme homage; but sometimes the two tableaux are combined into one. after long watching and waiting we saw, far down _las sierpes_, the coming of the first procession. a line of police marched in advance to clear the road. then appeared a loosely ordered company of fantastic figures in blue capes and blue peaked caps, absurdly high and reaching down to the shoulder, with holes cut for the eyes. from beneath the capes flowed white frocks, and the gloves and sandals were white. these "nazarenes," who looked like a survival of the carnival, conducted in silence a litter upon which was erected an image of the crucified christ, with face uplifted as if in prayer. the pageant halted before the doors of the city hall to greet the alcalde, who rose from his red velvet chair and bared his head. men uncovered, and people stood all along the route, but acclamations were reserved for our lady of the star. her attendant troop was dressed like the preceding, with a star embroidered in white on the shoulder of the blue tunic. her litter was ablaze with candles and laden with flowers; her outsweeping train was upborne by four little pages, and a brass band followed her with unceasing music. [illustration: filling the water-jars] sunset colors were in the sky before the procession of the second brotherhood arrived. at last, far down the _sierpes_, the dusk was dotted with the gleam of many tapers, and above these, most impressive in the dim distance, glimmered a white figure high upon the cross. as the pageant drew near, waves of incense rolled out upon the air. the crash of trumpets and deep boom of drums announced that our lady of the angels was advancing upon the same platform with her son, for music in these passion week processions is always a sign of the presence of the virgin. the brothers of this retinue wore black, save that their peaked caps were purple. as twilight gathered, a company of strange dark shapes bore past in solemn hush the most holy christ of the waters. the saviour hung upon the cross, an angel receiving in a golden cup the blood from his wounded side. then her great banner of white and blue heralded the approach of our lady of the utter grief, who passed with her accustomed pomp of lights and music, holding to her eyes a handkerchief said to be of the most exquisite lace. night had fallen when, at eight o'clock, a maid left on vigil called us all from the dinner table to see the beautiful procession of white-robed figures conducting our father jesus of the silence. the figure of christ, resplendent in gold and purple, stood before herod, whose mail-clad soldiers guarded the prisoner. the roman costumes were so well copied, and all the postures and groupings so startlingly natural, that _vivas_ went up all along the crowded square. as the banner of the virgin saluted the alcalde, her attendants let fall their long white trains, which swept out quite six yards behind, reaching from one brother to the next and yielding a wonderfully fine effect in the slow march. our lady of the bitterness, toward whom leaned the tender look of st. john, was robed in superb brocade, so precious that her train, which stood stiffly out behind, was guarded by a soldier with drawn sword. this closed the ceremonies of palm sunday, and the throng, catching one from another the blithe, sweet andalusian melodies, went singing softly through the darkness on their various ways. after palm sunday a secular quiet fell upon seville, not broken until wednesday. at five o'clock this march afternoon it was still so hot that few people were rash enough to move about without the shelter of parasols. sevillian priests, sombre-robed as they were, sauntered cheerily across the _plaza_ under sunshades of the gayest hues, orange, green, azure, red, and usually all at once, but the shamefaced englishmen flapped up broad umbrellas of an uncompromising black. there was a breezy flutter of fans on the grand stand, the water-sellers had to fill their jars again and again, and the multitude of smokers, puffing at their paper cigarettes to cool themselves, really brought on a premature twilight. it was nearly seven before a score of gendarmes, marching abreast, cleared the way for the procession. then appeared, in the usual guise, some twenty feet apart, two files of those strange shapes, with high, peaked caps, whose visors descended to the breast, slowly advancing, with an interval of about six feet from man to man. their caps and frocks were black, but the long capes glowed a vivid red. they carried the customary lighted tapers, so tall that, when rested on the ground, they reach to the shoulder. midway between the files walked a cross-bearer, followed by a nazarene, who uplifted the standard of st. andrew's cross in red on a black ground. bearers of other insignia of the order preceded the great litter, on which, under a golden palm tree, was represented by life-size effigies the arrest of christ among his disciples, st. andrew having the foremost place. the second pageant presented by this brotherhood was accompanied by bevies of white-robed boys swinging censers and chanting anthems. then came, in effulgence of light, the most holy virgin, escorted, as if she were the earthly queen of spain, by a detachment of the civil guard, whose white trimmings and gold belts gleamed in the candle rays. the remaining three _cofradias_ that had part in the wednesday ceremonies exhibited but one pageant each. a troop in black and gold conducted a calvary, with mary mother and mary magdalene both kneeling at the foot of the cross, robed in the richest velvet. figures in white, with stripes of red, came after, with a yet more costly calvary. the well-carved crucifix rose from a gilded mound, and our mother of healing wore a gold crown of exceeding price. but the third calvary, all wrought in black and gold, the colors of the brotherhood, which were repeated in standard and costume, won the plaudits of the evening. here longinus, the roman centurion, mounted on a spirited horse, was in the act of piercing with his lance the saviour's side. amid _vivas_ and _bravos_ this passion picture passed, like its predecessors, in clouds of incense and peals of solemn music. on thursday the wearing of black was almost universal. we rummaged our shawl straps for some poor equivalent of the spanish black silks and black mantillas. the civil guard was more superb than ever in full-dress uniform, with red vests and white trousers. no sound of wheels was suffered within the city limits, and late arrivals had to commit their luggage to a porter and follow him on foot. at three o'clock, in the sagrario of the cathedral, the archbishop washed the feet of thirteen old paupers, who sat in two confronting rows, looking neat as wax and happy as honey, each dressed in a brand-new suit, with a long-fringed damask towel over his shoulder. their old blood had been warmed by the archbishop's own wine, for they had just come from luncheon in the ecclesiastical palace, where they had been served by the highest dignitaries of the church and the proudest nobles of the city. the function of foot washing was not taken too seriously. the fat canons smiled good-humoredly on their archbishop, as his group of attendants lowered him to his knees and lifted him again before every old man in turn, and the acolytes nudged one another with boyish mirth over the rheumatic, embarrassed efforts of the beneficiaries to put on their stockings. a franciscan friar mounted the pulpit, however, and turned the congregation, thickly sprinkled with english visitors, serious enough by a succinct and fiery sermon, saying, in a nutshell, that love is the glory of the religious life, but is the fruit only of catholicism, for nowhere, though one searches the world over, can there be found a work of mercy--hospital, asylum, endowed school, charity of any sort or kind--due to protestantism. and the old paupers, glancing down at their new suits and feeling the glow of their banquet, were glad to the tips of their purified toes that their lots had been cast in catholic spain. by six o'clock the squares and streets along the processional route were thronged again, although our spanish friends assured us that the numbers were less than usual. the war feeling kept the americans and, to some extent, the english away, while many of the spanish of the provinces, who were accustomed to take their annual outing in seville during the _semana santa_, were held at home this year by poverty or mourning. the first two pageants of the afternoon, those of the bull-fighters and the cigarette-makers, were awaited with especial eagerness. for these seville brotherhoods, more than thirty in all, still maintain something of the mediæval structure of the guilds. just as in england and france, from the eleventh to the fifteenth century, or thereabouts, organized companies of craftsmen used to present in passion week successive scenes from the life of christ, these spanish _cofradias_ to-day maintain such general lines of division in performing a similar function. yet any catholic sevillian may, if he chooses, secure admission to any of these societies, irrespective of his occupation. the young _caballero_ who chanced to be our prime source of information this thursday afternoon was himself of a prominent family, a protégé of the archbishop, and a student of law, yet he belonged to the brotherhood of fruit venders, although his devotion seemed a little languid, and he had excused himself on this occasion from the long march in the breathless nazarene garb. not all the brothers feel bound to perform this penitential service every passion week, and, indeed, not all the brotherhoods. several of the most elaborate pageants were missing from the ranks this year. such omissions are not as disastrous to the processional effect as they would have been in england, for example, some six centuries ago. then the gilded and tapestried platforms, set on wheels, which the processions conducted through the streets, were really stages, and at the halting places the best actors of each guild played upon its particular platform an appointed scene from the sacred drama. the sequence of events was duly observed, and the spectator, standing in market-place or at street corner, while one theatre after another rolled by him, saw acted out with much finery of wardrobe and ingenuity of machinery, with tragic dialogue and declamation, relieved by comic interludes, all the bible story, from the revolt of lucifer to the day of judgment. but modern spain, abandoning the acting and recitation and substituting puppets for living men, has let slip the dramatic sequence, so that a few pageants less means only so much abatement in the general splendor of the spectacle. the bull-fighters of andalusia are eminently religious and are said, likewise, to be remarkable for their domestic virtues. all their manly fury is launched against the bull, and they have only gentleness left for wives and children. i have heard no better argument for the bull ring. at all events, these _toreros_, marching soberly in black, with yellow belts, escorted with well-ordered solemnity an image of the crucified christ, followed by a queenly effigy of our lady of refuge, erect behind terraced ranks of candles on a flower-strewn litter, under a costly canopy of black velvet embroidered with gold. the cigarette-makers came after with their two pageants, christ fastened to the pillar, and our lady of victory. it was, as usual, the second upon which the main expense had been lavished. a great company of acolytes, richly clad and swinging censers of pure silver, went in advance of the virgin, and three bands of music followed her with continuous acclaim, while a regiment of soldiers attended as a guard of honor. immediately in front of the _paso_ went, surrounded by officers and aides, general ochando, his head uncovered and his breast glittering with decorations, for the young king of spain is a member of this _cofradia_, and had sent the distinguished military governor of the provinces, who has a palace in seville, to represent him. especial enthusiasm was called out by this image of mary, for the cigarette-makers had just presented her with a new mantle at a cost of nine thousand dollars. the brothers were willingly aided by the seven thousand women who work in the immense tobacco factory, the average contribution of each donor being two _centimos_ (two-fifths of a cent) a week during the preceding year. no wonder that the virgin seemed to stand proudly upon her silvered pedestal, her gorgeous new mantle streaming out until it almost touched the head of a white-vested girl who walked barefoot close behind the litter, so fulfilling a vow made in extremity of illness. black and white were the banners and costumes of the third procession, very effective through the deepening dusk. their leading pageant was a gethsemane, famous for the beauty of the carving. christ is represented in prayer before an angel, who bears in one hand the cross and in the other the cup of bitterness, while peter, james, and john are sleeping near their master. these passion groups are, with a few exceptions of still earlier date, works of the seventeenth century, the glorious period of spanish art, the day of murillo and velázquez. the most and best are from the hand of the sevillian montañés, of chief repute in the spanish school of polychrome sculpture, but this gethsemane was carved by his imitator, roldan, whose daughter, la roldana, is accredited with the figure of the angel and with the reliefs that adorn the pedestal. another virgin, who, like all the rest, seemed a scintillation of gold and jewels, swept by, and a new troop of nazarenes, this time in purple and white, passed with two august pageants,--the descent from the cross and the fifth anguish of mary. then came two files of ash-colored figures, who marshalled, between their rows of starry tapers, each taper bending toward its opposite, a vivid presentation of the crowning with thorns; and, after this, their mary of the valley, noted for the gracious sweetness of her countenance. this image is held to be one of montañés's masterpieces in wood-carving. five processions had now passed, with their two pageants each, and the hour was late, but we could not leave the balcony for anything so commonplace as dinner. far down the street of _las sierpes_ waved a river of lights, announcing the advent of the most ancient of all the sevillian brotherhoods, jesus of the passion. the crowded _plaza_ rose in reverence as the crucifixion _paso_ was borne by, and our lady of mercy, too magnificent for her name, was greeted with rapturous outcries. [illustration: off for the war] just how and when and where something in the way of food was taken, i hardly know, but as this, the last of the thursday evening processions, passed in music out of the _plaza_, a few of us made speed by a deserted side street to the cathedral. we were too late for the _miserere_, which was just closing in that surprising hubbub, the stamping of feet and beating of canes and chairs against the floor, by which spanish piety is wont to "punish judas." but we took our station near by the entrance to the royal chapel, wherein had been erected the grand holy week monument, in white and gold, shaped like a temple, and shining with innumerable silver lamps and taper lights. within this monument the host, commonly spoken of in spain as _su majestad_, had been solemnly placed the night before, much as the mediæval church used to lay the crucifix, with requiems, under the high altar on good friday, and joyously bring it forth again easter morning. but spanish catholicism is strangely indifferent to dates, burying the host on wednesday and celebrating the resurrection saturday. all day long the royal chapel had been filled with relays upon relays of kneeling worshippers, and the hush there had been so profound that the hum of the tourist-haunted nave and the tumult of the streets seemed faint and foreign to the hearing, like sounds a universe away. before this chapel entrance all the pageants, as they were borne in silence through the cathedral, paused and did homage to the host. having outstripped the procession, we had arrived in season to witness three of these salutations. the nazarenes, in passing, fell upon their knees in the light of the great, gleaming monument, and each of the heavy platforms was slowly swung about so that it faced this symbol of christ's sepulchre. yet there was something besides devotion in the cathedral. as the crowd pressed close, we felt, more than once, a fumbling at our pockets, and the little artist lost her purse. the rest of us comforted her by saying over and over that she ought to have known better than to bring it, and by severally relating how cautious we had been on our own accounts. it was hard upon eleven when we returned to the house, but the streets were all alive with people. i went to the balcony at midnight, and again at the stroke of one, and both times looked down upon a _plaza_ crossed and recrossed in all directions by talkative, eager groups. many of these restless promenaders had been able to get no lodgings, and were walking to keep warm. the pressure upon the hotels was so great that one desperate stranger this thursday night paid twenty dollars for a cot from ten o'clock till two, and private hospitality was taxed to a degree that nothing but spanish courtesy and good-nature could ever have endured. in the house which harbored us, for instance, we were all fitted in as compactly as the pieces of a puzzle, when the unexpected friends began to arrive. on wednesday there appeared from the far north a man and wife, acquaintances of ten years back. our host and hostess greeted this surprise party with andalusian sunshine in their faces, and yielded up their own room. thursday morning there walked gayly in one of the son's university classmates from madrid. don pepe embraced him like a brother, and surrendered the sofa, which was all he had left to give. and this thursday midnight, as a crowning touch, three more chums of college days came clattering at the bell. their welcome was as cordial as if the household were pining for society. the tired maids, laughing gleefully over the predicament, contributed their own mattresses and pillows, and made up beds on the study floor, where don pepe camped out with his comrades, to rise with a headache that lasted for days after. by two o'clock i had taken my station on the balcony for an all-night vigil. the most of the family bore me company for the cogent reason that they had nowhere to sleep, but the other guests of the house held out for only an hour or two, and then went blinking to their repose. my memory of the night is strangely divided between the dreamlike, unearthly pomps and splendors streaming through the square below and the kindly, cheery people who came and went about me. the señora, still fresh and charming, although she has wept the deaths of fourteen out of her nineteen children, was merrily relating, with weary head against her husband's shoulder, her almost insuperable difficulties in the way of furnishing her table. the milkman roundly declared that if she wanted a double quantity of the precious fluid (and goat's milk at that), she must make it up with water. there was no meat to be had in the catholic city during these holy days, and even her baker had forsaken his oven and gone off to see the sights. and the black-bearded señor, who, like his wife, had not been in bed for forty odd hours, laughed at her and comforted her, puffed harder than ever at his cigarette, and roguishly quoted the saying, "he whom god loves has a house in seville." by two o'clock the seats on the grand stand were filling fast, the _plaza_ hummed with excitement, the balconies resounded with song and laughter, and the strong electric lights in front of the city hall cast a hard, white brilliance over all the scene. the frying of _calientes_, an andalusian version of twisted doughnuts, was in savory progress here and there on the outskirts of the throng, and our ever thoughtful hostess did not fail to keep her balcony well supplied with these crisp dainties. the twinkling of taper lights, so warm and yellow under those pallid globes of electric glare, appeared while people were still hurrying to their places; but hundreds upon hundreds of black and gold figures had paced by before the first of their _pasos_ came into view. for these processions of the dawn, _de madrugada_, call out great numbers of the devout, who would thus keep the last watch with their lord. the clocks struck three as the leading pageant, a very ancient image of christ, bearing a silver-mounted cross of tortoise-shell, halted before the alcalde. a white banner wrought with gold heralded the virgin, who rose, in glistening attire, from a golden lake of lights. the wealthy _cofradia_ of san lorenzo followed in their costly habits of black velvet. they, too, conducted a pageant of christ bearing his cross, one of the most beautiful groups of montañés, the pedestal adorned with angels in relief. to the christ, falling on the via dolorosa, the brotherhood, with the usual disregard of historic propriety, had given a royal mantle of ermine, embroidered with gold and pearls. a large company of black-clad women, carrying candles, walked behind the _paso_, on their penitential march of some eight hours. many of them were ladies delicately bred, whose diamonds sparkled on the breast of the approaching mary. for the sevillian señoras are accustomed to lend their most valuable gems to their favorite virgins for the _semana santa_, and san lorenzo's lady of grief is said to have worn this night the worth of millions. she passed amid a great attendant throng, in such clouds of incense that the eye could barely catch the shimmer of her silver pedestal, the gleam of the golden broideries that almost hid the velvet of her mantle, and the flashes and jets of light that shot from the incredible treasure of jewels that she wore. the third troop of nazarenes, robed in white and violet, bore for banner a white cross upon a violet ground. their christ-pageant pictured pilate in his judgment seat in the act of condemning the son of god to death. jesus, guarded by armed soldiers, calmly confronts the troubled judge, at whose knee wait two little pages with a basin of water and towels. and now came one of the most gorgeous features of the holy week processions--a legion of roman soldiers, attired as never roman soldiers were, in gold greaves and crimson tunics, with towering snow-white plumes. but a splendid show they made as, marching to drum and fife, they filed down _las sierpes_ and stretched "in never ending line" across the _plaza_. our most holy mary of hope, who followed, wearing a fair white tunic and a gold-embroidered mantle of green, the color of the hopeful season, drowned the memory of that stern military music in a silver concert of flutes. after this sumptuous display, the fourth band of nazarenes, gliding through the _plaza_ between night and day in their garb of black and white, could arouse but little enthusiasm, although their crucifixion was one of the most artistic, and their lady of the presentation had her poorest garment of fine satin. a pearly lustre was stealing through the sky, and the chill in the air was thinning the rows of spectators on the grand stand, when mysterious, dim-white shapes, like ghosts, bore by in utter silence a pageant of christ fainting beneath the burden of the cross. but soon the clamor of drums and fifes ushered in another long array of roman soldiers, a rainbow host in red and pink and blue, crimson plumes alternating with white, and golden shields with silver. the electric lights, globed high overhead, took one look at this fantastic cavalcade and went out with a gasp. it was now clear day. canaries began to sing in their cages, and parrots to scream for chocolate. sleepy-eyed servant-maids appeared on the balconies, and market women, leading green-laden donkeys, peered forth from the side streets into the square. the morning light made havoc with the glamour of the pageants. something frank and practical in the sunshine stripped those candle-lighted litters of their dignity. busy people dodged through the procession lines, and one nazarene after another might be seen slipping out of the ranks and hurrying awkwardly, in his cumbersome dress, with the half-burned taper under his arm, to the refuge of his own mosquito-netting and orange tree. the tired crowd grew critical and irreverent, and openly railed upon the virgin of this ghostly _cofradia_ because her velvet mantle was comparatively plain. "bah! how poor it is! are we to sit here all the night for such stingy shows as that?" but the last brotherhood in the _madrugada_ processions had, with their white frocks and blue caps and capes, suited themselves to the colors of the day. the stumbling children, blind with sleep, whom fathers were already leading off the square, turned back for a drowsy gaze at the resplendent tunic of the christ in the via dolorosa _paso_, a tunic claimed to be the richest of all the garments worn by the effigies of jesus. so lovely was this trooping company in their tints of sky and cloud, bearing a great blue banner and a shining ivory cross, that they brought order and decorum with them. the division that escorted the virgin marched on with especial steadiness, not a peaked cap drooping, nor a boyish acolyte faltering under the weight of his tall gilded censer. this most holy mary of anguish, whose litter and canopy were all of white and gold, swept by in triumphal peals of music while the clocks were striking six. in some mental confusion, i said good night to the people i left on the balcony, and good morning to the people i met on the stairs, and ate my breakfast before i went to bed. it seemed as if human nature could bear no more; the eyes ached with seeing, and phantasmal processions went sweeping through our dreams; yet friday afternoon at five o'clock found our balcony, like all the rest, full to overflowing. some twenty thousand people were massed in the _plaza_, and it was estimated that over one hundred thousand waited along the line of march. our spanish entertainers, still unrefreshed by any chance for sleep, were as gayly and punctiliously attentive to their guests as ever, from our gallant host, who presented the ladies with fragrant bouquets of roses and orange blossoms, to the little pet of the household, who at the most engrossing moments in the ceremonial would slip away from her privileged stand on a footstool against the railing to summon any member of the party who might be missing the spectacle. the spanish colors floated out from city hall and court-house, but the great concourse below was all in hues of mourning, the black mantillas often falling over dresses of plain purple. the señoritas in the balconies had substituted knots of black ribbon for the customary flowers in the hair. jet trimmings abounded, and the waving fans were black. the coming procession, we were assured on every hand, would be the most solemn of all and the most sumptuous. the habits of the nazarenes would be of satin, silk, and velvet. the images of christ and the virgin would be attired with all possible magnificence of damask and ermine, gold and jewels. brotherhood would vie with brotherhood in splendor, and one prodigy of luxury would succeed another. the leading company, whose far-trailing robes carpeted the street with fine black velvet, stood for the olive industry. this _cofradia_ had been poor and unimportant for generations, but in recent years a devoted brother, a manufacturer of olive packing-barrels, had poured forth his accumulated fortune upon the society, with the result that their _pasos_ are now second in ostentation and expense to none. the donor, long since too feeble to bear his taper in the line, lives in humble obscurity, but his old heart swells with joy this great day of the year when he sees, following the elaborate carving of the crucifixion, the dazzling chariot of our lady of solitude. upon her mantle, which enjoys the proud distinction of being the very costliest of all, he has lavished twenty thousand dollars. longer by a yard than any of the others, it was yet unable to find place for all the gold which the zealous nazarene had given for it, and the residue was bestowed about the pedestal and canopy. the _paso_ is so heavy with gold that it requires a double force of men to carry it; but each of these hidden bearers, getting air as best he can through a silver breathing-tube, is sure of a dollar for his recompense as well as two glasses of good wine. [illustration: granada. looking toward the darro] all the adornment of the litter is of pure gold, and such wealth of jewels glinted from the virgin's glorious raiment that a triple force of civil guards was detailed for her protection. her ardent worshipper has denied her nothing. the very columns that uphold her canopy are exquisite in carving, and it is his yearly pride to see that her clouds of incense are the thickest, and her train of musicians the most extended, in all that glittering line. the second _cofradia_ exhibited but a single pageant, relying for effect upon the beauty of the sculpture. the mater dolorosa was bowed in her desolation at the foot of the holy rood, from which hung only the white folds of the winding-sheet. but the third brotherhood had bethought themselves to introduce, between their austere crucifixion and their shining image of mary, another preposterous parade of roman soldiers--flower-colored, plume-tossing, butterfly creatures far too bright, if not too good, "for human nature's daily food." one whiff from cæsar's iron breast would have blown them away like soap bubbles. the silversmiths trooped by in graver, more majestic state, their purple velvet habits girded with gold cords. upon a gilded pedestal, wrought with high relief, was seen their christ, bowed beneath a precious cross of tortoise-shell and silver. our lady of expectation gleamed with gold and gems, and this haughty brotherhood received a full meed of applause. black from top to toe was the fifth procession. their jesus of the via dolorosa bent beneath a sombre cross of ebony embossed with gold, but the blithe young voices of the countless choir-boys, singing like birds before the dawn, ushered in a sun-bright image of mary. but something was amiss with the processional order. where were the stately ranks of montserrat? alas and alas! scarcely had this aristocratic _cofradia_ gone a hundred paces from their chapel when, in the narrow street of murillo, a leaning candle touched the lace skirt of the virgin and instantly all the front of the litter was in flames. it was hardly a matter of minutes. from the balconies above were dashed down pailfuls and pitcherfuls of water. the nazarenes, wrenching away the blue velvet mantle wondrously embroidered in gold with castles, lions, and _fleurs de lis_, succeeded in rescuing a ragged half of it, and the civil guards, drawing their swords and forming a circle about the smoking litter, saved the jewels from robbery. perhaps the other _paso_, too, christ of the conversion of the penitent thief, had some protecting influence. but in all this ado about her finery, the poor virgin's face, beloved for its winsome look, was completely burned away. in sorry plight our lady of montserrat was hurried back to her chapel, and the swift rumor of the disaster sent a superstitious trouble through the city. but more and more solemnly the taper-bearing troops of nazarenes poured by with the culminating pictures of the passion. these last three _cofradias_ presented each a single pageant. an escort in dark purple conducted an impressive descent from the cross. the virgin, her crowned head bowed in anguish, clasps the drooping body of christ to her heart, while john and mary magdalene look on in hopeless sorrow. figures in black and white came after, with their sixteenth-century carving, christ of the dying breath, beneath the cross standing our lady of tears. and last of all, in slow, sad movement, their white trains streaming like a line of light along the stone-paved way, passed the second brotherhood of san lorenzo, bearing the most blessed virgin in her solitude. the gold of her mantle seemed one with the gold of the candle rays, and, for many a silent watcher, those gliding, gleaming, spiritlike forms will move forever down a shining path in memory. so closed the holy week processions. "how sorry i am," said our host, with the andalusian twinkle in his eye. "it is almost eleven o'clock. ladies and gentlemen, will you please walk out to dinner?" on saturday morning we went early to the cathedral for the closing rite. the sagrario was thronged. some of the señoras had brought low folding chairs with them, others sat upon the floor, but most of that innumerable congregation knelt or stood. we were all facing the great purple veil which concealed the high altar, with roldan's retablo of the descent from the cross. there was an hour or more of expectation, during which rosaries slipped through the fingers of many a veiled nun, and the soft murmur of prayer came from strong men as well as from pale-faced women. suddenly, while a shock of thunder crashed from the organ, hidden ministrants sharply drew on hidden cords, the purple curtain parted in the midst, and the two folds rolled asunder, revealing the high altar, with its carving of the accomplished passion. the organ poured forth jubilees of victory, all the bells of the cathedral pealed together, _gloria in excelsis_ soared in choral chant, and amid the awe-stricken multitudes fallen to their knees, _su majestad_ was borne in priestly procession from the tomb in the royal chapel to the candles and incense which awaited at the high altar that triumphal coming. easter sunday was celebrated by a bull-fight. vii traces of the inquisition "i live a life more great than i. the life i hope is life so high, i die because i cannot die." --_santa teresa de jesús._ all spaniards venerate the name of _isabel la católica_, nor is the impressionable de amicis the only foreigner who has trembled and wept at granada before the enshrined memorials, jewel box, mirror, missal, and crown, of her royal womanhood. she is a precious figure in spain's sunset revery--a saint beneath a conquering standard, a silken lady in a soldier's tent. yet this peerless queen, merciful, magnanimous, devout, "the shield of the innocent," caring supremely for the glory of god and the good of her country, gave consent, albeit reluctant, to the establishment of the inquisition, christianity's chief scandal and spain's most fatal blight. so ironic were the stars of isabel. the inquisition, it is true, originated in italy early in the thirteenth century and followed the flight of some of the albigenses into aragon, but its work in spain had been comparatively slight and merciful until the "catholic kings," in the interests of religious reform, for the purification of the national faith, let its horrors loose. wherever one moves in spain the sickening breath of the _auto de fe_ lingers in the air. in such a square, we read, was once a mighty bonfire of jews; beneath our feet, we are told, is a mass of human bones and cinders. this sunshiny seville, with her parks and patios, her palms and orange groves, a city seemingly fashioned only for love and song, had her army of nearly twoscore thousand martyrs, who, dressed in the hateful _san benitos_, yellow coats painted with flames and devils, were burned to death here in our gay _plaza de la constitución_, then known as the _plaza de san francisco_, and in the _quemadero_ beyond the walls. as one mingles with some outdoor throng, all intent on pageant, dance, or other spectacle, one shudders to remember that just such dark, eager faces were ringed about the agonies of those heroic victims. for there are two sides to the spanish inquisition. if spaniards were the inquisitors, spaniards, too, were the dauntless sufferers. the sombre gaze of the torturer was met, as steel meets iron, by the unflinching eye of the tortured. but "the unimaginable touch of time" transforms all tragedy to beauty, and red poppies, blowing on the grassy plain of the _quemadero_, translate into poetry to-day that tale of blazing fagots. sometimes the victims were of foreign blood. hakluyt has preserved the simple narratives of two english sailors, who were brought by their spanish captors from the indies as a sacrifice to the holy house of seville. one, a happy-go-lucky fellow, miles phillips, who had been too well acquainted in mexico with the dungeons of the inquisition, slipped over the ship's side at san lúcar, made his way to shore, and boldly went to seville, where he lived a hidden life as a silk-weaver, until he found his chance to steal away and board a devon merchantman. the other, job hortop, added to his two years of mexican imprisonment two more years in seville. then "they brought us out in procession, every one of us having a candle in his hand, and the coat with s. andrew's cross on our backs; they brought us up on an high scaffold, that was set up in the place of s. francis, which is in the chief street of seville; there they set us down upon benches, every one in his degree, and against us on another scaffold sate all the judges and the clergy on their benches. the people wondered, and gazed on us, some pitying our case, others said, burn those heretics. when we had sat there two hours, we had a sermon made to us, after which one called bresinia, secretary to the inquisition, went up into the pulpit with the process, and called robert barret, ship-master, and john gilbert, whom two familiars of the inquisition brought from the scaffold before the judges, where the secretary read the sentence, which was that they should be burnt, and so they returned to the scaffold, and were burnt. "then i, job hortop, and john bone, were called, and brought to the place, as before, when we heard our sentence, which was, that we should go to the galleys, and there to row at the oar's end ten years, and then to be brought back to the inquisition house, to have the coat with s. andrew's cross put on our backs, and from thence to go to the everlasting prison remediless. "i with the rest were sent to the galleys, where we were chained four and four together.... hunger, thirst, cold, and stripes we lacked none, till our several times expired, and after the time of twelve years, for i served two years above my sentence, i was sent back to the inquisition house in seville, and there having put on the coat with s. andrew's cross, i was sent to the everlasting prison remediless, where i wore the coat four years, and then upon great suit i had it taken off for fifty duckets, which hernando de soria, treasurer of the king's mint, lent me, whom i was to serve for it as a drudge seven years." but this victim, too, escaped in a fly-boat at last, and on a certain christmas eve, about the time when people in london were beginning to like the comedies of a certain poor player, one will shakespeare, did job hortop, powder-maker and gunner, walk quietly, after twenty-three years of martyrdom, into the village of redcliffe, where he had been a ruddy english boy with no dream of the day when he should be "prest forth" by sir john hawkins and compelled, sore against his will, to embark for the west indian adventure. religious liberty now exists under the laws of spain, although the administration of those laws leaves much to be desired. in three old conventual churches of seville gather her three protestant congregations. beneath the pavements of two of these heretic strongholds old inquisitors sleep what uneasy sleep they may, while one of the protestant pastors, formerly a catholic priest, has quietly collected and stored in his church-study numerous mementos of the holy office. here may be seen two of those rare copies of the revision of the spanish bible, by cipriano de valera, whom the inquisition could burn only in effigy, since the translator, who had printed his book in amsterdam, did not return to accompany the familiars to the _quemadero_. here are old books with horrible woodcuts of the torments, and time-stained manuscripts, several bearing the seal and signatures of the "catholic kings," these last so ill written that it is hard to tell the name of ferdinand from that of isabella. among these are royal commissions, or licenses, granted to individual inquisitors, records of _autos de fe_, and wills of rich inquisitors, the sources of whose wealth would hardly court a strict examination. here, too, is the standard of the holy office, the very banner borne through seville in those grim processions. its white silk is saffroned now, but the strange seal of the inquisition, a bleeding christ upon the cross, is clearly blazoned in the centre, while the four corners show the seal of san domingo. the inquisition prison, the dreaded holy house of seville, is used as a factory at present, and heresy no longer secures admission there; but i looked up at its grated windows, and then, with a secret shiver, down on the ground, where the spanish pastor of antiquarian tastes was marking out with his cane the directions of the far-branching subterranean cells. we slipped into an outer court of the _fabrica_, where the two gentlemen, effectively aided by a couple of sturdy lads, pried up and flung back a sullen door in the pavement and invited me to grope my darkling way down some twenty crumbling steps, overgrown with a treacherous green mould. there was no refusing, in face of the cloud of witnesses whose groans these stones had heard, and i took a heart-breaking plunge into the honeycomb of chill, foul-smelling, horror-haunted dungeons, whose roofs let fall a constant drip of water and from whose black recesses i was the unwilling means of liberating a choice variety of insects. "but even yet one cannot call one's self a protestant in spain, you know," said an english diplomat to us in another city of andalusia. "it's not socially respectable. spanish protestants are the very scum of the earth--illiterate, dirty, boorish. you couldn't associate with them for a minute." "but that spanish pastor who called on us yesterday was entirely a gentleman," we remonstrated. "he has studied for seven years in switzerland and scotland, seems more open-minded and intelligent than most spaniards we have met, and was so courteous and graceful in his bearing--not to mention the whiteness of his linen--and so entertaining in his talk, that the spanish ladies in the room chorussed his praises, after he had bowed himself out, and declared him most delightful company." the diplomat twirled his mustache and smiled, as only diplomats can. "and you owned up that he was a protestant? and their faces darkened as if a storm-cloud had blown over from the sierras?" "precisely so," we admitted, "and after that the best they could say for him was that they never would have thought it." the diplomat claimed that he had made his point, while we protested that the incident only went to show how unreasonable was the prejudice of whose existence throughout spain there can be no manner of doubt. perez galdós, for instance, the most popular novelist of the day, stated to an american friend, who repeated it to us, that he frankly could not afford to introduce the figure of a protestant into one of his stories. "it would not only kill that book," he said, "but it would hurt the sale of everything i have in the market and embarrass all my future undertakings. i should simply be risking the loss of my reading public." and yet señor galdós is the author of "doña perfecta," that artistic study of the conflict between new ideas and old in spain. in this significant novel, a civil engineer, a man of thirty, whose scientific education in the large cities of seville and madrid has been supplemented by study in germany and england, comes to one of those mediæval towns, or corpses of towns, that rise so spectre-like from the ash-colored plains of old castile. crumbling walls and blackened towers jealously guard the life of ages since, that feudal life of high and low, pride of station, pride of animal prowess, pride of holiness, pride of idleness, pride of ignorance; the life of superstition, of family exclusiveness resulting in intermarriage to the point of insanity; of that fierce local bigotry, peculiarly spanish, which dreads and hates all foreign intrusion. the streets, devoid of business activity, swarm with vigorous mendicants, who have no better shift, when times grow hard, than to deform the children who are born to them like kittens in their mud-walled hovels. the casino, where half the town smokes half its time away, hums with malicious gossip. the university languidly pursues the studies of latin, scholastic divinity, church history, and all that savors of the past. under the gray vault of the cathedral women kneel before the image of the christ child, bringing him a new pair of embroidered pantalets and entreating of his rosy simplicity what they would not dare ask from the "ecce homo"; or they kiss the satin-slippered feet of the miracle-working virgin and vow her, if their prayer is granted, seven bright new swords of the finest toledo workmanship to pierce her patient heart. the man of scientific training, fresh from the modern world, is brought into sharp collision with this dim old town. high principles and essential, spiritual christianity count him for nothing; he is speedily denounced as no better than "a murderer, an atheist, or a protestant," and his strong young life is actually beaten out by that blind, terrible force of spanish fanaticism. so far the novelist can go; such a hero he dares paint; but not a protestant. the notions of protestantism prevalent among the people, not the peasants only, but the gentry, are little short of ludicrous. a black-eyed lady of cadiz was amazed at our assertion that protestants prayed. a madrid señorita asked us, in friendly confidence, if it were true that protestants "denied christ and spat on the virgin." the popular identification of protestantism with all that is impious and criminal we encountered as early as our second afternoon in spain. we were visiting, in the picturesque fishing-hamlet of pasajes, a gaunt basque church, where the old dame who served as caretaker showed us a waxen image of a sleeping girl, said, not without probability, to have been brought from rome. beneath the figure is a burial stone, whose inscription would locate it in the catacombs. when friends of ours were at pasajes some three years before, the grandam's story ran that the image was the likeness of a christian martyr, slain by her pagan father at rome in the time of the imperial persecutions; but the tale glibly recited to us was this: "_ay de mi!_ the poor young lady! her father was a protestant, and, of course, hated religion, and when his daughter, so beautiful, was on her way to her first communion, he hid behind a corner, with an axe, and of a sudden jumped out on her and struck her dead." it is such prejudice that goes far toward justifying the maintenance by foreign societies of protestant churches in spain. they cannot stand alone, in face of all this hostility, and yet the country has need of them. no european nation can nowadays be shut in to any single channel of religious life, and doubtless, apart from all questions of creed, there are spanish temperaments to which the simpler _culto_ is more natural than the elaborate ritual of rome; but, waiving discussion as to the relative gifts and graces of these two great divisions of christ's fellowship, the new seems essential, not for itself alone, but as a stimulus and corrective to the old. time may make it clear that a purified roman catholicism is better suited to the latin races in general than plainer rites and less symbolic worship, but there are heavy counts against the roman catholic church as it exists in spain. the private lives of the clergy, as a class, have been so open to reproach that even the finger-games and nonsense songs of the little children, learned with their baby lispings, mock priestly immorality. the church, steward of untold wealth, has endowed many charities, but the fundamental trust of knowledge it has most sluggishly and inadequately dispensed. santiago de compostela, for example, is a very nest of religious foundations. thirty-six christian fraternities are gathered there, yet we were told on good authority that not one peasant in a hundred of those within hearing of santiago's fivescore and fourteen holy bells can read and write. in matters of state, the church has utterly lost the allegiance of the progressive party and, to a large extent, the political confidence of the nation. as spaniards study the history of their country, they realize more and more that her colossal mistakes and misfortunes have been due in large measure to jesuit and dominical policy--to the father confessor in the royal chamber, the inquisitor in shadow of the throne. with reference to the success of the church in promoting spiritual life, a beautiful young nun, her eyes glistening like happy stars, assured us that there was more devotion in catholic spain than in all the rest of christendom. a scientist of repute, his voice choking with grief and wrath, declared to us that the fetters of superstition had become hopelessly riveted, during these ages of church control, on the spanish mind. but call it what you will, devotion or superstition, and admitting, as the tourist must, that it is a most conspicuous and impressive feature of spanish life, there are nevertheless thousands of spaniards, especially the younger men, over whom it has lost sway. these are the _indiferentes_, many of whom might find, as some have found, in a fresh presentation of christianity, the godward impetus which they no longer gain from the church of rome. the most cheerful _indiferente_ i encountered in spain was a whimsical old philosopher, well on his way to the nineties, yet so brisk and hardy as almost to vie with borrow's portuguese dame whose hair "was becoming gray" after a life of one hundred and ten years. his hair, indeed, is white, and extreme age has written its deforming marks on face and figure, yet he runs up the steepest stairs, reads the finest print, fills his days with a close succession of labors and amusements, and scoffs at religion as airily as if death had passed him on the crowded way and would never turn back to look for him again. at our first meeting he offered, with characteristic kindness, to come and read spanish with me. as i had invaded spain for the express purpose of studying the spanish drama, i took a volume of calderon from my trunk and hopefully awaited his visit. but it was a matter of several visits before i could open my calderon. the jaunty old cavalier arrived, brimming over with chat and anecdote, and when at last i hinted at the reading, produced with pride from his inner coat pocket a little, paper-bound _geografia_ that he had written himself for use in the spanish schools, and proceeded to regale me with extracts from its pages. i looked severely at the little artist, whose eyes were dancing in a demure face, and endeavored to profit by this unexpected course of instruction. the author chuckled much over his sagacity in having arranged the subject-matter of his book in paragraphs and not by question and answer. in the latter case, he explained, the children would learn the answers without reading the questions, a process bound to result in geographical confusion. the little volume, as is the wont of school books in other lands, tended to give to its students a disproportionate idea of the importance of their own country. spain and her colonies were treated in seventy pages, great britain and her colonies in three, france in four, while america, from greenland to patagonia, was handled as a single entity, one figure each, and those absurdly small, being set for "her population, army, and navy." the _confederación de los estados unidos_ was barely mentioned as one of the five "states" of north america. but the only feature of his book for which the author felt called upon to apologize, was the catering to popular superstition, as in stating, for instance, that in the cathedral of santiago de compostela is adored the veritable body of st. james. he cast a quizzical glance at me in reading this, and then laughed himself purple in the face. "one has to say these things in this country," he gasped, still breathless from his mirth. "drops of water must run with the stream. if only there were a shrine where people might be cured of being fools!" quick-witted as the old gentleman was, he presently detected a lack of geographical enthusiasm in his audience. his literary vanity smarted for a moment and then he fell to laughing, declaring that ladies always had a distaste for useful information. "that old wife of mine" could not abide arithmetic. he digressed into an explanation of the roman notation, making it quite clear to us wherein ix differs from xi, and with antiquated courtliness of phrase, even for spain, asked our gracious permission to cause himself the pain of departure. he often reappeared. his wiry arm, reached through the moorish bars of the outer door, would give its own peculiarly energetic twitch to the bell chain looped within. a maid, leaning over the railing of an upper story, would call down the challenge inherited from good old fighting times, "who comes here?" and his thin voice would chirp the andalusian answer, "peace." on his second visit he fairly gurgled with pleasure as he placed another volume with his name on the title-page before me. since i did not incline to solid reading, behold him equally ready to supply me with the sweets of literature! this, too, was a school book, a somewhat haphazard collection of castilian poems, with brief biographies of the authors represented. its novel educational feature was the printing of each poem in a different type. the result was a little startling to the eye, but the editor was doubtless right in claiming that it made the reading harder for the children, and so developed their powers through exercise. here, again, he was ashamed of the fact that fully two-thirds of the poems were religious. "but what can one do in this country?" he asked testily. "all the reading books have to be like that. bah! but we will not read these pious verses. the others are much more entertaining." determined not to wound him again by any lack of interest in books of his own shaping, we sat patiently through page after page of that juvenile school reader; but when, with a pamphlet on spelling and punctuation, we had completed the list of his works, i once more called his attention to calderon. this struck him as a capital joke. he had never read calderon himself, he had hardly heard of calderon, and that a foreigner, a woman at that, should insist on reading calderon, was funny enough to make his old sides ache. there were modern authors in plenty who must certainly write much better than an out-of-date fellow like that. he had books that he could lend me. he had friends from whom he could borrow. but nothing would please me but calderon! why under the fanciful moon should i set my heart on calderon? "_bueno!_" he cried at last, whisking the mirthful tears from his eyes. "_vamos á ver!_ let us go on and see!" we opened the classic volume at the catholic faust-drama, _el mágico prodigioso_, and began to read, soon passing into the great argument between cipriano and lucifer as to the nature of god. our guest, sensitive to all impressions as he was, became immediately amazed and delighted. "but this is lofty!" he exclaimed. "this is sublime! good, cipriano, good! now you have him! what will the devil say to that? _vamos á ver!_" at the close of that tremendous scene he shut the book, fairly panting with excitement. but nevertheless there was a twinkle in his eye. he knew now why i craved this calderon. he was evidently a religious writer, and women were all religious. it was an amiable feminine weakness, like the aversion to geography and arithmetic. but his indulgent chivalry rose to the occasion. having learned my taste, such as it was, he would gratify it to the utmost. "if you would only come and see my library!" he proposed. "i have exactly the book there that will please you. i have not read it myself, but it is very large, with most beautiful pictures, and it tells these old stories about lucifer and all that. i am sure it is just what you would like. will you not do your humble servant the honor of coming to-morrow afternoon?" i ran over in my mind our engagements for the morrow. he mistook the cause of my hesitation. "indeed you need not be afraid to come," he urged. "my house is as safe as a convent. that old wife of mine, too, will be sure to be somewhere about. and you can bring the silent señorita with you." i was aware of a slight convulsion in "the silent señorita." she could speak all the spanish she chose, but she found the eccentricities of this visitor so disconcerting that she affected ignorance, and he supposed her mute presence at our interviews to be purely in deference to the spanish proprieties. my youthful chaperon, much elated by this reversal of our natural positions, duly attended me the next day to our friend's surprisingly elegant home. he was forever crying poverty and telling us, with the tears that came to his old age as easily as the laughter, how the hardships of life had beaten out of him every ambition save hope to "gain the bread" until his death, but we found him luxuriously housed, and i was afterward informed that he was one of the richest men in the city. he ran with that wonderful sprightliness of his across the marbled court to meet us, and ceremoniously conducted us up the handsome staircase. he led us through all "our house," typically andalusian, with statues and urns of blossoming trees set in the open patios, with moorish arches and bright-hued tiles, shaded balconies, tapestried and curtained beds, _braseros_, and rocking-chairs, and in every room images and paintings of the saints, at which he made irreverent grimaces. there were family portraits, too, before three of which he broke down into weeping--the son who had died in the prime of manhood, the daughter lost in her fair maidenhood, and, where the stormy sobs shook him from head to foot, the benjamin of his heart, a clear-eyed young officer who had fallen in the cuban war. the tears were still streaming down the quivering old face when we turned silently away--for what word of comfort would americans dare to speak?--and followed him to his study. he was of extravagant repute in his locality as a scholar and a man of letters, and his study was what a study ought to be,--well furnished with desk, pigeon-holes, all the tools of literary labor, and walled with books. among these was an encyclopædia in which, to his frank astonishment, he found an article of fifteen pages on calderon. the great volume we had come to see lay open on a reading stand. it was a spanish bible, with the doré illustrations. i wanted to look at the title-page, but our eager host, proud to exhibit and explain, tossed over the leaves so fast that i had no opportunity. as he was racing through the psalms, impatient because of their dearth of pictures, my eye was caught by the familiar passage, "as the hart panteth after the water brooks, so panteth my soul after thee, o god." with prompt curiosity, he popped down his white head, in its close-fitting skullcap, to see what i was noting, and instantly went off into an immoderate gust of laughter. "_muy bien!_" he wheezed, as soon as he could recover anything like a voice. "but that is very cleverly put. he was a witty fellow who wrote that. just so! just so! the deer goes to the water because he means to get something for himself, and that is why the young men go into the priesthood, and why the women go to mass. it's all selfishness, is religion. but how well he says it!" "no, no!" i exclaimed, for once startled into protest. "he is saying that religion is the impulse of thirst." the incorrigible old worldling took this for another jest, and, as in gallantry bound, laughed harder at my sally than at poor king david's. "excellent! perfect! so it is! so it is! religion is the impulse to fill one's own stomach. just what i have always said! 'as the hart panteth after the water brooks'--ho, ho! i must try to remember that." his enthusiasm for calderon soon kindled to a flame. as the plot thickened he ceased to be of the slightest help in any difficulties that the text might offer. in vain i would beseech him to clear up some troublesome passage. "oh, never mind!" he would say, vexed at the interruption. "they didn't write very well in those old days. and i want to know which of her three suitors justina took. three at once! what a situation! _vamos á ver!_ i hope it will be cipriano." as the spell of calderon's imagination passed more and more strongly upon him, this most sympathetic of readers quite accepted, for the time being, the poet's catholic point of view, trembling for cipriano and almost choking with agitated joy when justina, calling in her extremity upon the name of god, put lucifer to flight. but after we had read the drama to the end, through its final scene of triumphant martyrdom, he sat silent for several minutes, and then shook his head. "not true; it is not true. there is no devil but the evil passions of humanity. and as for cipriano's definition of god--it is good, yes; it is great, yes; but who can shut god into a definition? one might as well try to scoop up the ocean in a cocoanut shell. no! all religions are human fictions. we have come, nobody knows whence or why, into this paltry, foolish, sordid life, for most of us only a fight to gain the bread, and afterward--_bueno!_ i am on the brink of the jump, and the priests have not frightened me yet. afterward? _vamos á ver!_" this man had heard of protestantism simply as an ignorant notion of the lower classes. for the typical spanish protestant of to-day presents a striking contrast to the typical spanish protestant of the reformation. when heresy first entered the peninsula, it gained almost no footing among the common people, who supposed luther to be another sort of devil and the protestants a new variety of jews or moors; but the rank and learning of spain, the youthful nobility, illustrious preachers and writers, officers and favorites of the court, even men and women in whose veins flowed the blood royal, welcomed with ardor the wave that was surging over europe. the very eminence of these heretics sealed their doom. the inquisition could not miss such shining marks. the holy office did its work with abominable thoroughness. apart from the countless multitudes whom it did to death in dungeon and torture-chamber, it burned more than thirty thousand of the most valuable citizens of spain and drove forth from the peninsula some three millions of jews and moors. the _autos de fe_ were festivals. among the wedding pomps for the french bride of philip ii, a girl thirteen years old, was one of these horrible spectacles at toledo. the holiday fires of seville and valladolid drank the most precious blood of andalusia and castile. though saragossa had a mind to huguenot fuel; though pamplona, on one festal day, heaped up a holocaust of ten thousand jews; though granada, murcia, and valencia whetted their cruel piety on the moors who had made the southern provinces a garden of delight; yet in all these cities, as in toledo, logroño, and the rest, the spanish stock itself was drained of its finest and most highly cultivated intelligence, its sincerest conscience, purest valor, its most original and independent thought. spain has been paying the penalty ever since. her history from philip ii has been a judgment day. no root of the lutheran heresy survived in the peninsula. the new protestantism does not spring from the old. the blood of the spanish martyrs was not the seed of the spanish church. the protestant of to-day is far removed, socially and politically, from the courtiers, marquises, knights of santiago--those gallant cavaliers who were stripped upon the scaffold of their honorable decorations and clad in the yellow robe of infamy. this nineteenth-century protestant may be a lawyer or a journalist, but by exception. ordinarily he is a petty farmer, a small shop-keeper, mechanic, miner, day-laborer, of humble calling and of lowly life. in politics he is almost surely a republican. when the monarchy was overthrown, in ' , protestantism was, for the moment, in favor, and hundreds of the triumphant party hastened to profess the reformed faith. with the return of a roman catholic court and perhaps upon the discovery that the new christianity, too, has its burden and its yoke, many fell away. yet protestantism has now an assured footing in spain. protestant churches may be found in most of the important cities. there are some fifty foreign preachers and teachers in the field, aided by nearly eighty spanish pastors and colporteurs. the number of spanish communicants is between three and four thousand, the church attendance is reckoned at nine thousand, and there are five thousand spanish children in the protestant schools. several centres have been established for the sale of bibles and protestant books, and six or seven protestant periodicals are published and circulated. in answer to the continual romish taunt that protestantism is a war of sects, a house divided against itself, a protestant union was organized at madrid in the spring of . all, save two, of the fifteen missions, supported by various societies of great britain, germany, switzerland, and america, joined hands in this. only the plymouth brethren and the church of england held aloof. [illustration: a milkman of granada] the inquisition exists no longer. religious liberty, even in spain, has the support of law. yet still the spanish protestant, this poor, plain protestant of to-day, as obscure as those galilean fishermen whom the master called, is harassed by petty persecutions. children sing insulting verses after him in the street, especially that pious ditty:-- "get away with you, protestants, out of our catholic spain, that the sacred heart, the sacred heart, may love our land again." he is jealously watched on the passing of "his majesty the wafer" and pursued with mud and spittings if he fails to do it homage. college boys rub charcoal over the front of his chapel and stone his schoolroom windows; work is refused him; promotion denied him; his rent is higher than his neighbor's, yet not his neighbor's family nor his landlord's cross his threshold. if scorn can burn, he feels the _auto de fe_. viii an andalusian type "'true,' quoth sancho: 'but i have heard say there are more friars in heaven than knights-errant.' 'it may be so,' replied don quixote, 'because their number is much greater than that of knights-errant.' 'and yet,' quoth sancho, 'there are abundance of the errant sort.' 'abundance indeed,' answered don quixote, 'but few who deserve the name of knights.'"--cervantes: _don quixote_. it might have been in seville, though it was not, that i met my most _simpático_ example of the andalusian. he was of old sierra stock, merry as the sunshine and gracious as the shadows. huge of build and black as the blackest, he was as gentle as a great newfoundland dog, until some flying spark of a word set the dark fires blazing in his eyes. this was no infrequent occurrence, for the travelling englishman, as frank as he is patriotic, cannot comprehend the zest with which well-to-do spaniards, even in time of war, escape military service by a money payment. not the height and girth of our young giant, nor his cordial courtesy and winning playfulness, shielded him from the blunt question, "why didn't you go over to cuba, a great fellow like you, and fight for your flag?" his usual rejoinder was the eloquent southern shrug of the shoulder, twist of the eyebrow, and waving lift of the hand, with the not easily answerable words, "and to what good?" but now and then the query came from such a source or was delivered with so keen a thrust that his guarded feeling outleaped reserve. the sarcasms and mockeries that then surged from him in a bitter torrent were directed chiefly against spain, although the american eagle rarely went scot-free. "ah, yes, it is a fine fowl, that! he has the far-seeing eye; he has the philanthropic beak and claw!" but it was the golden lion of spain against which his harshest gibes were hurled--"_un animal doméstico_, that does not bite." no one of the party was a tithe as outspoken as our spaniard himself in condemning the errors of the spanish campaign or censuring the methods of the spanish government. if he turned angrily toward a criticism from a foreigner, it was only, in the second instant, to catch it up like a ball and toss it himself from one hand to the other--like a ball that burns the fingers. such wrath can easily be the seamy side of love, and, in a way, the man's national pride was measured by his national shame; but always over these outbursts there brooded that something hopelessly resigned, drearily fatalistic, which seems to vitiate the spanish indignation for any purposes of practical reform. to suggestions of sympathy he responded with a pathetic weariness of manner, this handsome young hercules, so radiant with the joy of life, who, in his normal mood, sprinkled mirth and mischief from him as a big dog shakes off water drops. "what can one do? i am a spaniard. i say it to myself a hundred times a day. i am a spaniard, and i wish my country were worth the fighting for, worth the dying for. but is it? is it worth the toothache? god knows the truth, and let it rest there. oh, you need not tell me of its past. it was once the most glorious of nations. spaniards were lords of the west. but--ah, i know, i know--spain has never learned how to rule her colonies. he who sows brambles reaps thorns. the church, too, has done much harm in spain--not more harm than another. i am a catholic, but as i see it, priests differ from other men only in this--in the café sit some bad men and many good, and in the choir kneel some good priests and many bad. the devil lurks behind the cross. but spain will never give up her church. it is burned in. you are a heretic, and like my figure, do you not? it is burned in. there is no hope for spain but to sink her deep under the earth, and build a new spain on top. and why do i not work for that new spain? how may a man work? there is talk enough in spain as it is. most spaniards talk and do no more. they go to the cafés and, when they have emptied their cups, they draw figures on the tables and they talk. that is all. the new spain will never come. what should it be? oh, i know better what it should not be. it should have no king. a republic--that is right. perhaps not a republic precisely like america. it may be," and the melancholy sarcasm of the tone deepened, "there could be found something even better. but spain will not find it. spain will find nothing. "what can one do? i know spain too well. now, hear! i am acquainted with a _caballero_. i have been his friend ten years and more. but he has had the luck, not i. for, first, when we were at the university, he had a fortune left to him. he became betrothed to a señorita whom he loved better than his eyelashes. he travelled for his pleasure to monte carlo, and played his fortune all away in one week. he came back to madrid, and went to one of the ministers, to whom his father had in former days done a great service. my friend said: 'i am to marry. the lady expects to share the fortune which i have lost. my position is not honorable. i must have an opening, a chance to redeem myself, or i shall stand disgraced before her.' the minister sent him to one of the cuban custom-houses, and in two years he returned with great wealth. on his wedding journey he spent a night at monte carlo and gambled it away to the last _peseta_. a stranger had to lend him money to get home with his bride. was he not ashamed and troubled? ashamed? i do not know. but troubled? yes, for he wanted to play longer. every one is as god has made him, and very often worse. again he went to the minister, whose heart was softer than a ripe fig and who found him a post in the philippines. this time he made a fortune much quicker than before, knowing better how to do unjustly, but a few weeks before the war he came home and lost it all again at monte carlo. and now he is horribly vexed, for it is another minister, and, besides, there are no colonies to enrich him any more. "what use to care for spain? no, no, no, no, no! spain is a good country to leave--that is all. and you do well to travel in spain. american ladies like change, and spain is not america. here you are not only in a different land, but in a different century. you can say, when you come out, that you have been journeying a hundred years ago." on another occasion one of those pleasant individuals who would, as the spaniards say, "talk of a rope in the house of one who had been hanged," saw fit to entertain the dinner-table with anecdotes of spanish cruelty. "but spaniards are not cruel," protested our young blackamoor in his softest voice an hour later, stroking with one great hand the head of a child who nestled against his knee. "what did that english fellow mean? why should any one think that spaniards are cruel?" i ran over in mind a few of the frightful stories of las casas, that good dominican friar who would not hold his peace when he saw the braining of indian babies and roasting of indian chiefs. i remembered how de soto tossed his captives to the bloodhounds, and what atrocities were wrought in the tranquil realm of the incas; i recalled the horrors of the inquisition, but these things were of the past. so i answered, "perhaps the bull-fights have done something to give foreigners that impression." unlike many educated spaniards who would rather attend the bull-fights than defend them, he squared his shoulders for an oration. "the bull-fights? but why? bull-fights are not cruel--not more cruel than other sports in other countries. i have been told of prize-fights in america. i beg your pardon. i see by your look that you do not like them. and, in truth, i do not altogether like the bull-fights. the horses! they are blindfolded, and it is short, but i have seen--ah, yes! you would not wish to hear what i have seen. i have been often sorry for the horses. yet some pain is necessary in everything, is it not? in nature, perhaps? in society, perhaps? even, if you will pardon the illustration, in the deliverance of the filipinos from spanish tyranny?" i briefly suggested that there was no element of necessity in bull-fights. the waving hand apologized gently for dissent. "but, yes! the bulls are killed for food. that is what foreigners do not seem to understand. it may be ugly, but it is universal. to supply men with meat, to feed great cities with the flesh of beasts--it is not pleasant to think of that too closely. but how to help it? do you not have slaughter-houses in america? these also we have in spain. i have visited one. it seemed to me much worse than the bull-ring. faugh! i did not like it. the cattle stood trembling, one behind another, waiting for the blow. i should not like to die like that. i would rather die in the wrath of battle like a _toro bravo_. oh, it is not cruel. do not think it. for these bulls feel no fear. it is fear that degrades. they may feel pain, but i doubt--i doubt. they feel the wildness of anger, and they charge and charge again until the _estocada_, the death stab. that is not so bad a way to die, is it? any man would choose it rather than to stand in terror, bound and helpless, hearing the others fall under the axe and seeing his turn draw near. yes, yes! the bull-ring rather than the slaughter-house for me!" this was a novel view of the case to the auditor, who ignominiously shifted her ground. "but what country uses the slaughter-house as a spectacle and a sport? it is one thing to take life for food, and another to make a holiday of the death struggle." again that deprecatory waving of the hands. "i beg your pardon. i do not know how it is in america. perhaps" [circumflex accent] "all is merciful and noble there. but when i was in england i saw something of the chase and of the autumn shooting. i saw a poor little fox hunted to the death. it was not for food. the dogs tore him. i saw wounded birds left in the cover to die. it was too much trouble to gather them all up. and the deer? does not the stag suffer more in his flight than the bull in his struggle? i believe it. to run and run and run, always growing weaker, while the chase comes nearer--that is an agony. the rage of combat has no terror in it. i would not die like the deer, hunted down by packs of dogs and men--and ladies. i would die like the bull, hearing the cheers of the multitude." the big fellow bent over the baby that was dropping to sleep against his knee, and slipped the drowsy little body, deftly and tenderly, to a sofa. such sweetness flooded the soft black eyes, as they were lifted from the child, that it was hard to imagine them sparkling with savage delight over the bloody scenes of the _corrida de toros_. i asked impulsively how long it was since he had seen a bull-fight. brows and hands and shoulders were swift to express their appreciation of the bearings of the question, and the voice became very music in courteous acquiescence. "ah, it is four years. of course, i was much younger then. yes, yes! it might not please me now. _quien sabe?_ and yet--i beg your pardon--i think i shall go next sunday in madrid, on my way to paris. it is so weary in london on the sundays. it was always colder sunday, and there was not even a café. there was nowhere to go. there was nothing to do. why is that good? at the bull-fight one feels the joy of life. is it more religious to sit dull and dismal by the fire? i had no use for the churches. walking is not amusing, unless the sun shines and there is something gay to see. i do not like tea, and i do not care for reading. spaniards like to laugh and be merry, and when there is nothing to laugh for, life is a heaviness. there is no laughter in a london sunday. i hope paris will be better, though i believe there are no bull-fights there as yet. you are not pleased with me, but let me tell you why i love the _corrida_. it is not for the horses, you remember. i have sometimes looked away. but why should i pity the bulls, when they are mad with battle? they do not pity themselves. they are glad in their fury, and i am glad in seeing it. but i am more glad in the activity and daring of the men. when they run risks, that is what makes me cheer. it is not that i would have them hurt. i am proud to find men brave. and i am excited and eager to see if they escape. do you not understand? if you would go yourself--just once--no? is it always no? then let me tell you what is the best of all. it is to stand near the entrance and watch the people pass in, all dressed in their holiday clothes, and all with holiday faces. it is good and beautiful to see them--especially the ladies." the most attractive qualities of our young spaniard were his mirth and courtesy. his merriment was so spontaneous and so buoyant that his grace of manner, always tempered to time and place and person, became the more apparent. his humor dwelt, nevertheless, in the borderlands of irony, and it was conceivable that the rubs of later life might enrich its pungency at the cost of its kindliness. he was excellent at games (not sports), especially the game of courtliness (not helpfulness). the letter was not posted, the message slipped his memory, the errand was done amiss, but his apologies were poetry. he made a pretty play of the slightest social intercourse. we would open our baedeker at the map which we had already, in crossing spain, unfolded some hundred times. he would spring as lightly to his feet as if his mighty bulk were made of feathers, and stand, half bowing, arching his eyebrows in appeal, spreading out his hands in offer of assistance, but not venturing to approach them toward the book until it was definitely tendered him. then he would receive it with elaborate delicacy of touch, unfold the creased sheet with a score of varied little flourishes, and restore the volume with a whole fresh series of gesticulatory airs and graces. the next instant he would peep up from under his black lashes to detect the alloy of amusement in our gratitude, and drop his face flat upon the table in a boyish bubble of laughter, saying:-- "ah! but you think we spaniards make much of little things. it is true. we are best at what is least useful." light-hearted andalusian though he was, he had full share of the energy and enterprise of young manhood. like the dons of long ago, he was equipping himself for the great western adventure. despite his spanish wrath against america, she had for him a persistent fascination. all his ambitions were bent on a business career in new york, the el dorado of his imagination. but it was no longer, at the end of the nineteenth century, a case of leaping aboard a galleon and waving a toledo blade in air. the commercial career demands, so he fancied, that its knight go forth armed cap-a-pie in the commercial tongues. thus he had spent four years of his youth and half of his patrimony in london and berlin, and now, after this hasty visit home, purposed to go to paris, for a year or two of french. this unsettled life was little to his liking, but beyond gleamed the vision of a wall street fortune. yet even now, at the outset of his task, a frequent lethargy would steal over his young vigor. it was curious to see, when the march wind blew chill or the french verbs waxed crabbed, how all his bearing lost its beauty. there was a central dignity that did not lapse, but the brightness and effectiveness were gone. his big body drooped and looked lumpish. his comely face was clouded by an animal sluggishness of expression. foreign grimaces twisted across it, and something very like a grunt issued from beneath his cherished first mustache. his sarcasm became a little savage. he would sit for hours in a brooding fit, and, when an inexorable call to action came, obey it with a look of dreary patience older than his years. it was as if something inherent in his nature, independent of his will, weighed upon him and dragged him down. the spain at which he gibed and from which he would have cut himself away was yet a millstone about his neck. he was in the heyday of his youth, progressive and determined, but the torpid blood of an aged people clogged his veins. spain will never lose her hold on him, despite his strongest efforts. his children may be citizens of the great republic, but he must be a foreigner to the end. he must wander a stranger in strange cities, puzzling his spanish wits over alien phrases and fashions and ideals, unless, indeed, his spirit loses edge, and he drifts into chill apathy of disappointment on finding that his golden castles in america are wrought of that same old dream-stuff which used to be the monopoly of castles in spain. but it is best to leave ill-boding to the gypsies. good luck may take a liking to him, if only for the music of his laugh. for even if blithe heart and courtly bearing bring no high cash value in the modern business market, they may smooth the road to simple happiness. moreover, a spaniard dearly loves a game of chance, and at the worst, our fortune-seeker will have thrown his dice. his may seem to the yankee onlooker but a losing play, and yet--who knows? "he who sings frightens away his ills." god's blessing sails in summer clouds as lightly as in costly pleasure yachts. out of a shaft of sunshine, a cup of chocolate, and a cigarette, this andalusian immigrant, though stranded in an east side tenement, may get more luxury than can be purchased by a multi-millionaire. [illustration: a roman well in ronda] ix a bull-fight "i wish no living thing to suffer pain."--shelley: _prometheus unbound_. from our first crossing of the pyrenees we were impressed, even beyond our expectation, with the spanish passion for the bull-fight. the more cultivated spaniards, to be sure, are usually unwilling to admit to a foreigner their pleasure in the pastime. "it is brutal," said a young physician of madrid, as we discussed it. "it is a very painful thing to see, certainly. i go, myself, only two or three times a year, when the proceeds are to be devoted to some religious object--a charity or other holy work." no sight is more common in streets and parks than that of a group of boys playing _al toro_--one urchin charging about with sticks fastened to his shoulders for horns, or with a pasteboard bull's head pulled over his ears, and others waving scarlet cloths and brandishing improvised swords and lances. it is said that in fierce valencia youths have sometimes carried on this sport with knives for horns and swords, the spectators relishing the bloodshed too well to interfere. not easily do such lads as these forgive the little king for crying, like the sensitive child he is, the first time he was taken to the bull-ring. the _corridas de toros_, although denounced by some of the chief voices in spain, are held almost a national shibboleth. loyal supporters of the queen regent will add to their praises the sigh, "if only she loved the bull-fight!" cavaliers and ladies fair reserve their choicest attire to grace these barbarities. it is a common saying that a spaniard will sell his shirt to buy a ticket to the bull-ring, but whatever the deficiencies of the inner costume, the dress that meets the eye is brave in the extreme. it is recently becoming the fashion for _caballeros_, especially in the north of spain, to discard those very fetching cloaks with the vivid linings--cloaks in which spaniards muffle their faces to the eyebrows as they tread the echoing streets of cities founded some thousand or fifteen hundred years ago. but for a good old spanish bull-fight, the good old spanish costumes are out in force, the bright-hued _capas_ and broad _sombreros_, and for the ladies, who also are beginning to discard the customary black mantilla for parisian headgear, the exquisite white mantillas of early times and the largest and most richly decorated fans. it is in such places as the grim roman amphitheatre of italica, whose grass-grown arena has flowed so red with martyrdoms of men and beasts, that one despairs most of spanish ability to give up the bull-fight. it is in the air, in the soil, in the blood; a national institution, an hereditary rage. "but it is the link that holds your country bound to barbarism. the rest of the world is on the forward move. i tell you, the continuance of the bull-fight means the ruin of spain," urged a gigantic young german, in our hearing, on his spanish friend. the slight figure of the madrileño shook with anger. "and i tell _you_" he choked, "that spain would rather perish with the bull-fight than survive without it." _isabel la católica_, who earnestly strove to put down these savage contests, wrote at last to her father confessor that the task was too hard for her. the "catholic kings" could take granada, unify spain, establish the inquisition, expel moors and jews, and open the americas; but they could not abolish bull-fighting. nor was pius v, with his denial of christian burial to all who fell in the arena, and his excommunication for princes who permitted _corridas de toros_ in their dominions, more successful. the papal bull, like the bulls of flesh and blood, was inevitably overthrown. spanish legend likes to name the cid as the first _torero_. "troth it goodly was and pleasant to behold him at their head, all in mail on bavieca, and to hear the words he said." in mediæval times the sport was not without chivalric features. knights fought for honor, where professionals now fight for _pesetas_. when the great charles killed a bull with his own lance in honor of the birth of philip ii, the favor of the austrian dynasty was secured. the bourbons looked on the sport more coldly, but as royalty and nobility withdrew, the people pressed to the fore. out of the hardy spanish multitude rose a series of masters,--romero the shoemaker, who, in general, gave to the art its modern form; martincho the shepherd, who, seated in a chair with his feet bound, would await the charging brute; cándido, who would face the bull in full career and escape by leaping to its forehead and over its back; costillares, who invented an ingenious way of getting in the death-stroke; the famous pepe hillo, who, like cándido, perished in the ring; a second romero, said to have killed five thousand six hundred bulls; montés the brick-layer, and a bloody band of followers. andalusia is--alas!--the classic soil of the bull-fight, as every peasant knows, and seville the top of andalusia. "i have a handsome lover, too bold to fear the devil, and he's the best _torero_ in all the town of seville." the extravagance of the popular enthusiasm for these _fiestas de toros_ is often ridiculed on the stage, where dramas dealing with bull-fighting, especially if they bring in the heroes of the arena, pepe hillo, romero, costillares, are sure to take. one _zarzuela_ represents a rheumatic old _aficionado_, or devotee of the sport, trying, with ludicrous results, to screw his courage to the point of facing the bull. another spends its fun on a madrid barber, who is likewise a brain-turned patron of the ring. disregarding the shrill protests of his wife, he lavishes all his time, love, and money on the _corridas_ and encourages his daughter's _novio_, an honest young paper-hanger, to throw over his trade and learn to _torear_. after two years of the provincial arenas, the aspirant, nicknamed in the ring the baby, has nothing but torn clothes and bruises to show for his career, and his sweetheart, eager to recall him from the hazardous profession, vows a waxen bull, large as life, to the virgin, in case he returns to papering, with its humble security and its regularity of wages. mary hears. on that great occasion, the baby's début at madrid, the barber, who has just been lucky in the lottery, rents for him a gorgeous suit of second-hand finery, but in the _plaza de toros_ not even a rose-and-silver jacket can shield a quaking heart. the baby is a coward born, and from the first rush of the first bull comes off with a bloody coxcomb, crying out his shame on the shoulder of his pilar, who shall henceforth have him all her own. the little artist and i went into spain with the firm determination not to patronize the bull-fight. half our resolution we kept,--her half. wherever we turned we encountered suggestions of the _corrida_. spanish newspapers, even the most serious, devote columns to _los toros_. bull-fighting has its special publications, as _el toril_ and _el toreo cómico_, and its special dialect. on the morning after a holy day the newspapers seem actually smeared with the blood of beasts. in the bull-fight season, from easter to all saints, _corridas_ are held every sunday in all the cities of southern and central spain, while the smaller towns and villages butcher as many bulls as they can possibly afford. the may and june that i passed in the capital gave me a peculiar abhorrence of the madrid sunday,--that feverish excitement everywhere; the rattle of all those extra omnibuses and cars with their red-tasselled mules in full gallop for the _plaza de toros_; that sense of furious struggle and mortal agony hanging over the city all through the slow, hot afternoon; those gaping crowds pressing to greet the _toreros_, a gaudy-suited company, on their triumphal return in open carriages; that eager discussion of the day's tragedy at every street-corner and from seat to seat along the _paseos_, even at our own dainty dinner table and on our own balconies under the rebuking stars. at this strange sabbath service the infanta isabel, whose mother's birth was celebrated by the slaying of ninety-nine bulls, is a regular attendant, occupying the royal box and wearing the national colors. a french bull-fighter, visiting the spanish capital, was invited by the infanta to an audience and presented with a diamond pin. not even the public mourning for castelar could induce madrid to forego the _corrida_ on that sunday just before his burial. past the very senate-house where his body lay in state rolled the aristocratic landaus, whose ladies displayed the gala-wear of white mantillas. but the sundays were not enough. every catholic feast-day called for its sacrifice. granada could not do fitting honor to corpus christi with less than three "_magnificas corridas_." the royal saint of aranjuez, fernando, must have his pious birthday kept by an orgy of blood. at the _fiesta_ of christ's ascension all spain was busy staining his earth with the life-stream of his creatures. valladolid was, indeed, ashamed to have torn to death only seven horses, but segovia rejoiced in an expert who sat at his work and killed his bulls with drawing-room ease. bordeaux improved the occasion, with aid of two celebrated spanish _espadas_, by opening a french _plaza de toros_, and valencia had the excitement of sending to the infirmary one _torero_ with a broken leg and another with a crushed foot. such accidents are by no means uncommon. a _matador_ was mortally wounded in the valencia ring that summer, a _banderillero_ was trampled at the escorial, and those favorite stabbers, reverte and bombita, were themselves stabbed by avenging horns. if there is a temporary dearth of saint days, spanish ingenuity will nevertheless find excuse for _corridas_. bulls must bleed for holy charity,--for hospitals, foundling asylums, the families of workmen out on strike. if the french squadron is at cadiz, hospitality demands a bull-fight. in the interests of popular education, an historical _corrida_ was arranged, with instructed _toreros_ to display the special styles of bull-killing that have prevailed from the cid to guerrita. again, as a zoölogical by-play, an elephant was pitted against the bulls. this, too, had precedent, for did not philip iv once keep his birthday by turning in among the horned herd a lion, a tiger, a camel, and a bear, "all noah's ark and Æsop's fables"? a bull of xarama vanquished them every one and received the gracious reward of being shot dead by philip himself. it was on a wednesday afternoon, at one of the three grand _corridas_ of the seville _feria_, that i became an accomplice in this spanish crime. our friends in seville, people of cultivation and liberal views, had declared from the first that we could have no conception of spanish life and character without sharing in the national _fiesta_. "we ourselves are not enthusiasts," they said. "in fact, we disapprove the bull-fight. we regard it as demoralizing to the community at large. it is, nevertheless, a thing scientific, artistic, heroic, _spanish_. besides, a large portion of the proceeds goes to charity. we do not attend the _corridas_, except now and then, especially when we have foreign guests who wish to see them. before going they all regard bull-fighting as you do, as an atrocity, a barbarity, but invariably they return from the _plaza de toros_ filled with delight and admiration. they say their previous ideas were all wrong, that it is a noble and splendid spectacle, that they want to see it again and again, that they cannot be too grateful to us for having delivered them from prejudice." i winced at the word. i have a prejudice against being prejudiced, and to the bull-fight i went. my yielding came too late for securing places in a box or in any part of the house from which one can make exit during the performance. our gory-looking tickets admitted us to the uppermost row of high, whitewashed, stone seats of the circus proper, where we were soon inextricably wedged in by the human mass that formed around and below us. the hour of waiting passed merrily enough. the open amphitheatre, jammed to its full capacity of fourteen thousand, lay half in brilliant sunlight and half in creeping shadow. above us arched the glowing blue sky of seville, pricked by the rosy giralda, and from time to time a strong-winged bird flew over. the great arena, strewn with yellow sand, was enclosed by a dark red barrier of wood, about the height of a man. this was encircled, at a little distance, by a more secure and higher wall of stone. the concourse was largely composed of men, both roughs and gentles, but there was no lack of ladies, elegantly dressed, nor of children. two sweet little girls in white-feathered hats were just in front of us, dancing up and down to relieve the thrills of expectancy. white mantillas, pinned with jewels, bent from the boxes, while the daughters of the people dazzled the eye with their festival display of manila shawls, some pure white, some with colored figures on a white ground or a black, and some a rainbow maze of capricious needle-work. the rich-hued blossoms of andalusia were worn in the hair and on the breast. the sunny side of the circus was brightly dotted by parasols, orange, green, vermilion, and fans in all the cardinal colors twinkled like a shivered kaleidoscope. the men's black eyes glittered under those broad _sombreros_, white or drab, while they puffed their cigarettes with unwonted energy, scattering the ashes in soft gray showers over their neighbors on the seats below. the tumult of voices had a keener note of excitement than i had yet heard in spain, and was so loud and insistent as often to drown the clashing music of the band. the cries of various venders swelled the mighty volume of noise. water-sellers in vivid blouses and sashes, a red handkerchief twisted around the neck, on the left shoulder a cushion of folded carpeting for the shapely, yellow-brown jar, and a smart tin tray, holding two glasses, corded to the belt, went pushing through the throng. criers of oranges, newspapers, crabs, and cockles, almond cakes, fans, and photographs of the _toreros_, strove with all the might of their lungs against the universal uproar. "crece el entusiasmo; crece la alegría; todo es algazara; todo es confusión." a tempest of applause marked the entrance in a box above of a popular _prima donna_, who draped a resplendent carmine scarf over the railing before her seat. immediately the complete circuit of the rail was ablaze with color, cloaks and shawls instantly converting themselves into tapestry. at last two attendants entered the arena, walked up to a hydrant in the centre, fastened on a hose, and watered the great circle. they pulled out the hydrant and raked sand over the hole. simple as these actions were, a dreadful quiet fell on all the circus. a trumpet blared. mounted _alguaciles_, or police, tricked out in ancient spanish costume, on blue saddles, and with tall blue plumes in their hats, rode in and cleared the arena of all stragglers. a door opened, and forth issued the full circus troupe, making a fine show of filigree, and urging their wretched old nags to a last moment of equine pride and spirit. amid roars of welcome, they flaunted across the sanded enclosure and saluted the presiding officer. he dropped the key of the _toril_, that dark series of cells into which the bulls had been driven some hours before. an _alguacil_ caught the key and handed it to the _torilero_, who ran with it toward a second door, ominously surmounted by a great bull's head. then there was a twinkling of the pink stockings and black sandals. most of the gay company leaped the barrier, and even the _chulos_ who remained in the ring placed themselves within convenient distance of the rail. some of the _picadores_ galloped out, but a few awaited the coming charge, their long pikes in rest. the door on which all eyes were bent flew open, and a bellowing red bull rushed in. the fierce, bloodthirsty, horrible yell that greeted him checked his impetuous onset. for a few seconds the creature stood stock-still, glaring at the scene. heaven knows what he thought of us. he had had five perfect years of life on the banks of the guadalquivír,--one baby year by his mother's side, one year of sportive roving with his mates, and then had come the trial of his valor. he had found all the herdsmen gathered at the ranch one morning, and, nevertheless, flattered himself that he had evaded those hateful pikes, _garrochas_, that were always goading him back when he would sally out to explore the great green world. at all events, here he was scampering alone across the plain. but promptly two horsemen were at his heels, and one of these, planting a blunt _garrocha_ on his flank, rolled the youngster over. up again, panting with surprise and indignation, he felt a homesick impulse to get back to the herd, but the second horseman was full in his path. so much the worse for the horseman! the mettlesome young bull lowered his horns and charged the obstacle, only to be thrown back with a smarting shoulder. if he had yielded then, his would have been the quiet yoke and the long, dull life of labor, but he justified his breed; he charged anew, and so proved himself worthy of the arena. three more years of the deep, green river-reeds and the sweet andalusian sunshine, three years of free, far range and glad companionship, and then the end. his days had been exempt from burden only to save his wild young strength for the final tragedy. one summer morning those traitors known as decoy-oxen, with bells about the neck, came trotting into the herd. the noble bulls, now at their best hour of life, the glory of their kind, welcomed these cunning guests with frank delight and interest, and were easily induced to follow them and their tinkling bells across the rich pastures, along rough country roads, even to the city itself and the fatal _plaza de toros_. the herdsmen with their ready pikes galloped behind the drove, and everywhere along the way peasants and townsfolk would fall in for a mile or two to help in urging the excited animals onward to their cruel doom. in that strange, maddening sea of faces, that hubbub of hostile voices, the bull, as soon as his blinking eyes had effected the change from the darkness of the _toril_ to the glaring light and gaudy colors of the coliseum, caught sight of a horseman with the familiar pike. here was something that he recognized and hated. lowering his head, the fiery brute dashed with a bellow at that tinselled figure. ah, the pike had never been so sharp before! it went deep into his shoulder, but could not hold him back. he plunged his horns, those mighty spears, into the body of the helpless, blindfolded horse, which the _picador_, whose jacket was well padded and whose legs were cased in iron, deliberately offered to his wrath. the poor horse shrieked, plunged, reeled, and fell, the _chulos_ deftly dragging away the armored rider, while the bull ripped and trampled that quivering carcass, for whose torment no man cared, until it was a crimson, formless heap. such sickness swept over me that i did not know what followed. when i looked again, two bloody masses that had once been horses disfigured the arena, and the bull, stuck all over like a hedge-hog with derisive, many-colored darts, had gone down under guerrita's steel. my friends, observing with concern that i was not enjoying myself as much as they had promised, tried to divert my attention to the technical features of their ghastly game. it was really, they explained, a drama in three acts. it is the part of the mounted _picador_ to draw off the first rage and vigor of the bull, weakening him, but not slaying him, by successive wounds. then the jaunty _banderilleros_, the streamers of whose darts must correspond in color with their costumes, supply a picturesque and amusing element, a comic interlude. finally an _espada_, or _matador_, advances alone to despatch the tortured creature. the death-blow can be dealt only in one of several fashions, established by rule and precedent, and the _espada_ who is startled into an unprofessional thrust reaps a bitter harvest of scoffs and hisses. a team of gayly-caparisoned mules with jingling bells had meanwhile trundled away the mangled bodies of the slaughtered animals, fresh sand had been thrown over the places slippery with blood, and the band pealed the entrance of the second bull. this was a demon, black as a coal, with a marvellous pride and spirit that availed him nothing. horse after horse crashed down before his furious rushes, while the circus, drunk with glee, shouted for more victims and more and more. it was a massacre. at last our hideous greed was glutted, and the _banderilleros_ took their turn in baiting the now enfeebled but undaunted bull. wildly he shook himself, the fore half of his body already a flood of crimson, to throw off the ignominy of those stinging darts. the _chulos_ fretted and fooled him with their waving cloaks of red and yellow, till at last the creature grew hushed and sullen. a strain of music announced that the _matador_ fuentes was asking beneath the president's box permission to kill the bull. for my part, i gave the bull permission to kill the man. fuentes, all pranked out in gray and gold, holding his keen blade behind him and flourishing a scarlet square of cloth, swinging from a rod, the _muleta_, advanced upon the brute. that bleeding body shook with a new access of rage, and the other _espadas_ drew near and stood at watch. but even before a blow was struck the splendid, murdered creature sank to his knees, staggered up once more, sank again with crimson foam upon his mouth, and the music clashed jubilantly while fuentes drove the weapon home. and again the team of mules, with foolish tossing of their bright-ribboned heads, jerked and jolted their dead kindred off the scene. the third bull galloped in with a roar that was heard far beyond the _plaza_ and gored his first two horses so promptly and so frightfully that, while the hapless beasts still struggled in their agony, the amphitheatre howled with delirious joy. several _capas_ were caught away on those swift, effective horns, and one _picador_ was hurt. but the rain of darts teased and bewildered the bull to the point of stupidity, although he was dangerous yet. "dark is his hide on either side, but the blood within doth boil; and the dun hide glows, as if on fire, as he paws to the turmoil. his eyes are jet, and they are set in crystal rings of snow; but now they stare with one red glare of brass upon the foe." it was the turn of bombita, a dandy in dark-green suit with silver trimmings; but his comrades, pale and intent, stood not far off and from time to time, by irritating passes, drew the bull's wrath upon themselves, wearying him ever more and more, until at last bombita had his chance to plant a telling blow. would it never end? again the fatal door swung open, and the fourth bull bounded in to play his tragic rôle. he was of choicest pedigree, but the utter strangeness of the scene turned his taurine wits. he made distracted and aimless rushes hither and thither, unheeding the provocations of the horsemen, until he came upon the spot drenched with his predecessor's life-blood. he pawed away the hasty covering of sand, sniffed at that ominous stain, and then, throwing up his head with a strange bellow, bolted back to the door by which he had entered, and turned tail to the arena. the fourteen thousand, crazy with rage, sprang to their feet, shook their fists, called him _cow_. the _chulos_ brandished their cloaks about his horns; men leaned over from the barrier and prodded him with staffs. finally, in desperation, he turned on the nearest horse, rent it and bore it down. the _picador_, once set up by the _chulos_ upon his stiff, iron-cased legs, his yellow finery streaked with red from his lacerated horse, tugged savagely at the bridle to force that dying creature to a second stand. one attendant wrenched it by the tail, another beat it viciously over the face; the all-enduring beast, his entrails swinging from a crimson gash, struggled to his feet. the _picador_ mounted, drove in the spurs, and the horse, rocking and pitching, accomplished a few blind paces toward those dripping horns that horribly awaited him. but to the amazement and scandal of the _aficionados_, the circus raised a cry of protest, and the discomfited rider sprang down in the very moment when his horse fell to rise no more. a _chulo_, at his leisurely convenience, quieted those kicking hoofs by a stab,--the one drop of mercy in that ocean of human outrage. straw-colored darts, wine-colored darts, sky-colored darts, were pricking the bull to frenzy. i wished he had any half-dozen of his enemies in a clear pasture. those glittering dragon-flies were always just out of reach, but he stumbled on the sodden shape of the unhappy horse and tossed it again and again, making the poor carcass fling up its head and arch its neck in ghastly mockery of life. cowardice avails a bull as little as courage. this sorry fighter had been deeply pierced by the _garrochas_, and now, as he galloped clumsily about the arena, in unavailing efforts to escape from his tormentors, his violent, foolish plunges made the dark blood flow the faster. it was guerrita, guerrita the adored, guerrita in gold-laced jacket and violet trousers, who struck the ultimate blow, and so cleverly that _sombreros_ and cigarettes, oranges and pocket-flasks, came raining, amid furies of applause, into the arena. this was such a proud moment as he had dreamed of long ago in the cordova slaughter-house, when, the little son of the slaughter-house porter, he had stolen from his bed at midnight to play _al toro_ with the calves, and then and there had solemnly dedicated himself to the glorious profession. now the master of his art and the idol of all spain, easily making his seventy-five thousand dollars a year, earning, in fact, three thousand on that single afternoon, guerrita little foresaw that with the coming autumn he should go on pilgrimage to _la virgen del pilar_, and before her beloved shrine at saragossa cut off his bull-fighter's pigtail and renounce the ring. the fifth bull was black as ebony. he dashed fearlessly into the arena, charged and wheeled and tossed his horns in the splendor of his strength, sending every red-vested _chulo_ scrambling over the wall. then he backed to the middle of the sanded circle, snorting and pawing the earth. another instant, and the nearest horse and rider went crashing against the barrier. the _picador_, with a bruised face, forced up the gasping horse, mounted and rode it, the beast treading out its entrails as it went, to meet a second charge. but the swaying horse fell dead before it reached those lowered horns again. the next _picador_, too, went down heavily under his jade and received an awkward sprain. he mounted once more, to show that he could, and the circus cheered him, but his horse, torn to death, could not bear his weight. he gave it an angry push with the foot as he left it writhing in its life-blood. this whirlwind of a bull, who shook off all but one of the _banderillas_, mortified even the _matadores_. disregarding the red rag, he rushed at fuentes himself. the nimble _torero_ leapt aside, but the bull's horn struck his sword and sent it spinning half across the arena. his comrades immediately ran, with waving _capas_ and bright steel, to his aid, but that too intelligent bull, fighting for his life, kept his foes at bay until the circus hissed with impatience. the _toreros_, visibly nettled, gathered closer and closer, but had to play that death-game cautiously. this bull was dangerous. the coliseum found him tedious. he took too long in dying. stabbed again and again and again, he yet agonized to his feet and shook those crimsoned horns at his tormentors, who still hung back. it really was dull. the _matadores_ buzzed about him, worrying his dying sight, but he stood sullen in their midst, refusing the charges to which they tempted him, guarding his last drops of strength, and, cardinal offence in a _toro_, holding his head too high for the professional stroke. his vital force was ebbing. red foam dripped from his mouth. that weary hoof no longer pawed the earth. the people shouted insults even to their pet guerrita, but guerrita, like the rest, stood baffled. at last that formidable figure, no longer black, but a red glaze of blood and sweat and foam, fell in a sudden convulsion. then his valiant murderers sprang upon him, the stabs came thick and fast, and the jingling mule-team pranced in to form his funeral cortège. one more,--the sixth. i was long past indignation, past any acuteness of pain, simply sickened through body and soul and unutterably wearied with this hideous monotony of slaughter. the last bull, a white star shining on his black forehead, tore into the arena, raced all about the circle, and struck with amazing rapidity wherever he saw a foe. three horses were down, were up again, and were forced, all with trailing intestines, to a second charge. the bull flashed like a thunderbolt from one to another, rending and digging with his savage horns, until three mangled bodies writhed on the reddened sand, and stabbers watched their chances to run forward and quiet with the knife the horrible beating of those hoofs in air. the circus yelled delight. it had all been the work of a moment,--a brave bull, a great sensation! for the performers it was rather too much of a good thing. those disembowelled carcasses cluttered up the arena. the scattered entrails were slippery under foot. the dart-throwers hastened to the next act of the tragedy. theirs was a subtlety too much for the fury-fuddled wits of that mighty, blundering brute. he galloped to and fro, spending his strength in useless charges and, a score of times, ignoring the men to hook wildly at their brandished strips of colored cloth. the darts had been planted and he was losing blood. the _matador_ went to his work, but the uncivil bull did not make it easy for him. bombita could not get in a handsome blow. the house began to hoot and taunt. a stentorian voice called to him to "kill that bull to-morrow." exasperated by the laughter that greeted this sally, bombita drove his toledo blade to its mark. while the final scene of general stabbing was going on, boys, men, even women vaulted into the arena, played over again with one another the more memorable incidents, ran to inspect those shapeless carcasses of what god created horses, and escorted the funeral train of the bull, one small boy riding in gleeful triumph on top of the great black body, harmless and still at last. as we passed out by a hallway where the dead animals had been dragged, we had to pick our way through pools of blood and clots of entrails. thus by the road of the shambles we came forth from hell. [illustration: the giralda] "i do not understand at all," sincerely protested my spanish host, disconcerted by the continued nausea and horror of red dreams which, justly enough, pursued me for weeks after. "it was a very favorable _corrida_ for a beginner,--no serious accident, no use of the fire-darts, no houghing of the bull with the demi-lune, nothing objectionable. and, after all, animals are only animals; they are not christians." "who were the christians in that circus?" i asked. "how could devils have been worse than we?" he half glanced toward the morning paper but was too kindly to speak his thought. it was not necessary. i had read the paper, which gave half a column to a detailed account of a recent lynching, with torture, in the united states. x gypsies "'life is sweet, brother.' "'do you think so?' "'think so!--there's night and day, brother, both sweet things; sun, moon, and stars, brother, all sweet things; there's likewise a wind on the heath. life is very sweet, brother; who would wish to die?' "'i would wish to die.' "'you talk like a gorgio--which is the same as talking like a fool--were you a rommany chal you would talk wiser. wish to die, indeed!--a rommany chal would wish to live forever!' "'in sickness, jasper?' "'there's the sun and stars, brother.' "'in blindness, jasper?' "'there's the wind on the heath, brother; if i could only feel that, i would gladly live forever. _dosta_, we'll now go to the tents and put on the gloves; and i'll try to make you feel what a sweet thing it is to be alive, brother!'" --george borrow. no foreigner has known the zingali better than george borrow, the linguistic englishman, who could speak rommany so well that gypsies all over europe took him for a brother. in the employ of the english bible society, he spent some five adventurous years in spain, wandering through the wilds and sharing the life of shepherds, muleteers, even the fierce _gitanos_. as he found the spanish gypsies half a century ago, so, in essentials, are they still--the men jockeys, tinkers, and blacksmiths, the women fortune tellers and dancers, the children the most shameless little beggars of all the peninsula. yet there has been an improvement. the _gitanos_ are not such ruffians as of old, nor even such arrant thieves, although it would still be unwise to trust them within call of temptation. "there runs a swine down yonder hill, as fast as e'er he can, and as he runs he crieth still, 'come, steal me, gypsyman.'" still more compromising is the christmas carol:-- "into the porch of bethlehem have crept the gypsies wild, and they have stolen the swaddling clothes of the new-born holy child. "oh, those swarthy gypsies! what won't the rascals dare? they have not left the christ child a single shred to wear." there are wealthy gypsies, whose wives and daughters go arrayed with the utmost elegance of fashion, in several spanish cities. seville has her gypsy lawyer, but her gypsy bull-fighter, who died two years ago, was held to reflect even greater credit on the parent stock. by law the gypsies are now established as spaniards, with full claim to spanish rights and privileges--_nuevos castellanos_, as they have been called since the day when spain bethought her of these ishmaels as "food for powder" and subjected them to the regular military draft. even in granada, where the gypsy community still lives in semi-barbarism, there are hopeful signs. the _gitanos_ drive a sharp trade in donkeys, but their forge fires, gleaming far up the albaicín in the evening, testify to their industry. the recent opening by the municipality of schools for the gypsy children has already wrought a marked change for the better. some half-dozen dirty little palms, outstretched for _cinco centimos_, pester the stranger to-day where scores used to torment him, and the mothers take pride in the literary accomplishments of their tawny broods. on one occasion, when, having, as the spanish say, "clean pockets," i firmly declined to see a small gypsy girl dance or hear her sing, the mother assured me, as a last greedy expedient, that "the child could pray." on the alhambra hill the gypsies, who scent tourists from afar and troop thither, on the track of newly arrived parties, like wolves to their banquet, are picturesque figures enough, the men in peaked hats, spangled jackets, and sashes of red silk, the women with bright handkerchiefs bound over their raven hair, large silver earrings, gay bodices, and short, flounced petticoats. there is one old _gitano_, in resplendent attire, who haunts the alhambra doors and introduces himself to visitors, with bows queerly compounded of condescension and supplication, as the king of the gypsies, modestly offering his photograph for a _peseta_. if you turn to your attendant spaniard and ask, _sotto voce_, "but is this truly the gypsy king?" you will receive a prompt affirmative, while the quick-witted old masquerader strikes a royal attitude, rolls his eyes prodigiously, and twirls his three-cornered hat at arm's length above his head, until its tinsel ornaments sparkle like crown jewels. but no sooner is his majesty well out of hearing than your guide hastens to eat his own words. "no, no, no! he is not the king of the gypsies, but he is a gypsy, yes, and it is better not to have his ill will." whether this hardened pretender could cast the evil eye or not, we never knew, for having bought two of his pictures at the first onset, we suffered ever afterward the sunshine of his favor. in fact we often made a wide detour rather than pass him on the hill, for he would spring to his feet at our remotest approach and stand bowing like an image of perpetual motion, his hat brandished high in air, until our utmost in the way of answering nods and smiles seemed by contrast sheer democratic incivility. the swarthy faces and glittering eyes of the gypsies meet one everywhere in the granada streets, but to see them in their own precinct it is necessary to take off your watch, empty your pockets of all but small silver and coppers, and go to the albaicín. this hill, parted from the alhambra by the deep ravine of the gold-bearing darro, was in moorish times the chosen residence of the aristocracy. still arabian arches span the gorge, and many of the toppling old houses that lean over the swift, mountain-born current, shabby as they look to the passer-by, are beautiful within with arabesque and fretwork, carven niches, delicate columns and open patios, where fountains still gush and orange blossoms still shed fragrance. such degenerate palaces are often occupied by the better class of gypsies, those who traffic in horses, as well as in donkeys, while their women, grouped in the courts and doorways, embroider with rainbow wools, in all fantastic patterns, the stout mantles of the andalusian mountaineers. as we climbed the albaicín, fronting as it does the hill of the alhambra, the exceeding beauty of the view at first claimed all our power of seeing. below was the gray sweep of the city and beyond the fruitful plain of granada, its vivid green shading into a far-off dimness like the sea. just opposite us rose the fortress of the alhambra, a proud though broken girdle of walls and towers, while in the background soared the dazzling snow peaks of the sierra nevada, glistening with unbearable splendor under the intense blue of the andalusian sky. in the midst of our rhapsodies i became aware of a shrill voice at my feet, a persistent tug at my skirts, and reluctantly dropped my eyes on a comely little gypsy lass lying along a sunny ledge and imperiously demanding _cinco centimos_. "now what would you do with _cinco centimos_ if you had them?" with the universal beggar gesture she pointed to her mouth. "buy a rusk. i am starving. i am already dead of hunger." crossing her hands upon her breast, she closed her eyes in token of her mortal extremity, but instantly flashed them open again to note the effect. "your cheeks are not the cheeks of famine." at a breath the young sorceress sucked them in and succeeded, plump little person though she was, in looking so haggard and so woe-begone that our political economy broke down in laughter, and we gave her the coveted cent in return for her transformation act. off she darted, with her wild locks flying in the wind, and was back in a twinkling, a circlet of bread suspended from her arm. she tripped along beside us for the rest of the afternoon, using the rusk sometimes as a hoop, sometimes as a crown, sometimes as a peephole. she tossed it, sang through it, dandled it, stroked it, and occasionally, while the bread approximated more and more in hue to her own gypsy complexion, took an artistic nibble, dotting the surface with a symmetrical curve of bites. it was not mere food to her; it was luxury, it was mirth--like a lord mayor's feast or a delmonico breakfast. following the _camino del sacro monte_, marked by many crosses, our attention was more and more withdrawn from the majestic views spread out before us to the gypsies, whose cave dwellings lined the way. burrowing into the earth, from the midst of thickets of prickly pear, are these strange abodes, whose chimneys rise abruptly out of the green surface of the hillside. dens as they are, the best of them possess some decencies. flaps of cloth serve them for doors, their peering fronts are whitewashed, they are furnished with a stool or two, a box of tools or clothing, a few water-jars, a guitar, and, in the farther end of the lair, a family bedstead, or more often a heap of dirty sheepskins. cooking tins, bottles, saddles, and coils of rope hang on the rough walls; there may be a shelf of amulets and toys for sale, and the indispensable pot of _puchero_ simmers over a handful of fire. out from these savage homes swarmed a whining, coaxing, importunate horde of sly-eyed women and an impish rabble of children. young and old clutched at us with unclean hands, clung to us with sinewy brown arms, begged, flattered, demanded, and dragged us bodily into their hill. we felt as if we had gone back to german fairy tales and had fallen into the evil grip of the gnomes. hardly could escort, carriage, and a reckless rain of coppers break the spell. we were forced to taste their repulsive messes, to cross witch palms with silver, to buy even the roadside weeds the urchins gathered before our eyes. we were birds for the plucking, sheep for the shearing. only when we had turned our pockets inside out to show that we had not a "little dog" left, were we suffered to go free, followed, doubtless, by the curses of egypt, because we had yielded such poor picking. in seville, too, the gypsies have their own quarter, but in proportion as seville is a gentler city than granada, so are the looks and manners of her gypsy population more attractive. crossing the yellow guadalquivír by the bridge of isabel segunda, we come immediately on the picturesque, dark-visaged figures, with their uneffaced suggestion of wildness, of freedom, of traditions apart from the common humdrum of humanity. the boy, clad in one fluttering garment, who is perilously balancing his slender brown body on the iron rail; the bright-kerchiefed young mother, thrusting her tiny black bantling into our faces; the silent, swarthy men who lean along the bridge side, lithe even in their lounging;--all have a latent fierceness in their look. their eyes are keen as knives--strange eyes, whose glitter masks the depth. but as we go on into the potter's suburb of triana, into the thick of the gypsy life, we are not more seriously molested than by the continual begging, nor is this the rough, imperious begging of granada; a flavor of sevillian grace and fun has passed upon it. offer this bush-headed lad, pleading starvation, the orange he has just tossed away, and he will double up over the joke and take to his little bare heels. give to the fawning sibyl who insists on telling your fortune a red rose for her hair, and the chances are that she will rest content. but the time to see the gypsies in their glory is during the three days and nights of the _feria_. on the eighteenth, nineteenth, and twentieth of april seville annually keeps, on the _prado de san sebastian_, where the inquisition used to light its fires, the blithest of spring festivals. the _feria_ is a fair, but much more than a fair. there are droves upon droves of horses, donkeys, cattle, goats, sheep, and pigs. there are rows upon rows of booths with toys, booths with nuts and candies, booths with the gay-handled albacete knives and daggers. there are baskets upon baskets of rainbow fans, mimic fighting cocks, oranges, and other cheap sevillian specialties. cooling drinks are on sale at every turn, but there is no drunkenness. there are thousands and tens of thousands of people in motion, but there is no bustling, no elbowing, no rudeness of pressure. dainty little children wander alone in that tremendous throng. the order and tranquillity that prevail by day and night in this multitude of merrymakers render it possible for the _feria_ to be what it is. for during these enchanted april hours even the noblest families of seville come forth from the proud seclusion of their patios and live in _casetas_, little rustic houses that are scarcely more than open tents, exposed to the gaze of every passer-by. a lofty bridge, crossed by two broad flights of stairs and tapering to a tower, stands at the intersection of the three chief _feria_ avenues. the bridge is brilliantly illuminated by night, and close-set globes of gas, looped on running tubes along both sides of these three festal streets, pour floods of light into the _casetas_. chinese lanterns in red and yellow abound, and lines of banner-staffs flaunt the spanish colors. the _casetas_ are usually constructed of white canvas on a framework of light-brown fretwood, though the materials are sometimes more durable. clubhouses are large and elaborate, and individual taste varies the aspect of the private tents. the more important families of seville own their _casetas_, but in general these airy abodes are rented from year to year, the price for the three days of the _feria_ ranging from twenty-five dollars on the central avenue to five dollars for the more remote houselets on the two streets that branch off at right angles. the numerous byways are occupied by cafés, booths, penny shows, and the like, the gypsies having one side of a lane to themselves. the other side is given over to circus-rings, merry-go-rounds, cradle-swings marked "for havana," "for manila," "for madrid," dancing dwarfs, braying bands, caged bulls, and tents provided with peepholes through which one may see "the glorious victory of the spanish troops at santiago," and other surprising panoramas of the recent war. these are in high favor with soldiers and small boys, whose black heads bump together at every aperture. such attractions are especially potent over the country folk, who come jogging into seville during fair time, mounted two or three together on jaded horses, sorry mules, and even on indignant little donkeys. their peasant costumes add richly to the charm of the spectacle, and their simplicity makes them an easy spoil for the canny folk of egypt. you see them especially in the cool of the early morning, when trade in cattle is at its liveliest. ten to one they have been fleeced already by the _gitanos_, who, out in the great meadow where the live-stock is exposed for sale, have their own corner for "dead donkeys," as the sevillians term the decrepit old beasts that have been magically spruced up for the occasion. cervantes has his jest at "a gypsy's ass, with quicksilver in its ears." then comes the turn of the _gitanas_, looking their prettiest, with roses in hair, and over the shoulders those captivating black silk shawls embroidered in many-colored patterns of birds and flowers. the younger enchantresses keep watch, each in front of her family tent, before whose parted curtains the more ill-favored women of the household are busy frying the crisp brown _buñuelos_, a species of doughnut dear to the spanish tooth. as you loiter down the lane, be you wide-eyed shepherd from the provinces, or elegant grandee from madrid, or haughty foreigner from london or vienna, the sturdy sirens rush upon you, seize you by arm or neck, and by main force tug you into their tented prisons, from which you must gnaw your way out through a heap of hot _buñuelos_. or you may compromise on a cup of spanish chocolate, flavored with cinnamon and thick as flannel, or perhaps win your liberty by gulping down a cupful of warm goat's milk. the prices shock the portliest purses, but at your first faint sign of protest a gathering mob of gypsies presses close with jeers and hisses, and even the frying-pan sputters contempt. the _feria_ presents its most quiet aspect during the afternoon. some twenty or thirty thousand of the promenaders have been drawn off by the superior attraction of the bull-fight, and others have retired for their siestas. yet there are thousands left. this is a grand time for the children, who disport themselves in the avenues with whistles, swords, balls, kites, and other trophies from the toy booths. these little people are exquisitely dressed, often in the old andalusian costumes, and tiny lad and tiny lass, of aristocratic look and bearing, may be seen tripping together through one of the graceful national dances in the midst of a sidewalk throng. the toddlers, too, are out, under charge of happy nursemaids. even the babies have been brought to the fair, and lie, contentedly sucking their rosy thumbs, in the doorways of the _casetas_. the lords of these doll-houses are enjoying peaceful smokes together in the background of the open parlors, which are furnished with as many chairs as possible, a piano, and a central stand of flowers; while semicircles of silent ladies, languidly waving the most exquisite of fans, sit nearer the front, watching the ceaseless stream of pedestrians, and beyond these the double procession of carriages, which keep close rank as they advance on one side of the avenue and return on the other. it is bad form not to go to the _feria_ once at least in a carriage. large families of limited means hire spacious vehicles resembling omnibuses, and, squeezed together in two opposite rows, drive up and down the three chief streets for hours. there are crested landaus, with handsome horses, gay donkey-carts, decked out with wreaths and tassels, shabby cabs, sporting red and yellow ribbons on their whips, tooting coaches--every sort and kind of contrivance for relieving humanity of its own weight. there are mounted cavaliers in plenty, and occasionally, under due masculine escort, a fair-haired english girl rides by, or a group of spanish señoras, who have come into seville on horseback from their country homes. but all this movement is slow and dreamy, the play of the children being as gentle as the waving of the fans. even gypsy lane shares in the tranquillity of the drowsy afternoon. we were captured there almost without violence, and, while we trifled with the slightest refreshment we could find, a juvenile entertainment beguiled us of our coppers with pleasurable ease. a coquettish midget of four summers innocently danced for us the dances that are not innocent, and a wee goblin of seven, who could not be induced to perform without a cap, that he might pull it down over his bashful eyes, stamped and kicked, made stealthy approaches and fierce starts of attack through the savage hunting jigs inherited from the ancient life of the wilderness. the women swung their arms and shrilled wild tunes to urge the children on, but a second youngster who attempted one of these barbaric dances for us broke down in mid career, and, amid a chorus of screaming laughter, buried his blushes in his mother's lap. the tent had become crowded with stalwart, black _gitanos_, but they were in a domestic mood, smiled on the children's antics, and eyed us with grim amusement as the women caught up from rough cradles and thrust into our arms those elfish babies of theirs. even the infant of five days winked at us with trickery in its jet beads of vision. but so inert was gypsy enterprise that we were suffered to depart with a few _pesetas_ yet in our possession. in the evening, from eight till one, the _feria_ is perfect fairyland. under the light of those clustered gas globes and butterfly-colored lanterns pass and repass the loveliest women of the world. beautifully clad as the señoritas have been during morning and afternoon, their evening toilets excel and crown the rest. white-robed, white-sandalled, their brown, bewitching faces peeping out from the lace folds of white mantillas, with white shawls, embroidered in glowing hues, folded over the arm, and delicate white fans in hand, they look the very poetry of maidenhood. months of saving, weeks of stitching, these costumes may have cost, but the _feria_ is, above all, a marriage mart, and the andalusian girl, usually so strictly guarded, so jealously secluded, never allowed to walk or shop alone, is now on exhibition. as these radiant forms glide along the avenues, the men who meet them coolly bend and look full into their faces, scanning line and feature with the critical air of connoisseurs. but well these cavaliers illustrate the andalusian catch:-- "because i look thee in the face, set not for this thy hopes too high, for many go to the market-place to see and not to buy." the girl's opportunity is in her dancing. every andalusian woman, high or low, knows the _sevillana_. some have been trained in it by accredited teachers of the art, but the most learn the dance in childhood, as naturally as they learn to speak and sing. they are never weary of dancing it, morning, noon, and night, two girls together, or a girl and a lad, but such dancing is confined to the moorish privacy of the spanish home--except in fair time. then the whole world may stand before the _casetas_ and see the choicest daughters of seville dancing the dance that is very coquetry in motion. rows of girls awaiting their turn, and of matrons who are chaperoning the spectacle, sit about the three sides of the mimic drawing-room. a dense crowd of men, crying "_ole! ole!_" and commenting as freely on the figures and postures of the dancers as if they were ballet artistes in a café chantant, is gathered close in front. for their view these rhythmic maidens dance on, hour after hour, until their great, dusky eyes are dim with sleep. the tassels of curly ribbon, tinted to match the dainty touches of color in their costumes, seem to droop in exhaustion from the tossing castanets. what matter? for a spanish girl to reach her twenty-fifth birthday without a _novio_ is a tragedy of failure, and these tired dancers are well aware that _caballeros_ are making the rounds from _caseta_ to _caseta_, on purpose to select a wife. in gypsy lane there is no sugar coating. the flamenco dances are directly seductive. the life of the forest animal seems reproduced in the fierceness, the fitfulness, the abandon, of each strange series of abrupt gesticulations. yet these gypsy women, boldly as they play on the passions of the spectators, care only for gentile money, and fling off with fiery scorn the addresses that their songs and dances court. many a flouted gallant could tell the tale of one who "like a right gypsy, hath, at fast and loose, beguiled me to the very heart of loss." husbands and lovers look on at the dancers' most extreme poses, even caresses, in nonchalant security. while one _gitana_ after another takes the stage, a crescent of men and women, seated behind, cheer her on with cries and clappings, strummings of the guitar, and frenzied beatings of the floor with staff and stool. yet their excitement, even at its apparent height, never sweeps them out of their crafty selves. beyond the dancer they see the audience. disdain and dislike are in the atmosphere, and never more than when the rain of silver is at its richest. still they follow the gypsy law, "to cheat and rob the stranger always and ever, and be true only to our own blood." [illustration: the passing of the pageants] xi the route of the silver fleets "paul, the physician, to cristobal colombo, greeting. i perceive your magnificent and great desire to find a way to where the spices grow." "and thus leade they their lyves in fullfilling the holy hunger of golde. but the more they fill their handes with finding, the more increaseth their covetous desire." --_decades in the new worlde._ i wanted to go from seville to cadiz by water. i longed to sail by the "silver road" in the wake of the silver fleets. the little artist, as befitted her youth, preferred a manila shawl to that historic pilgrimage. so i proposed to make this trifling trip alone. don josé was shocked. merriest and most indulgent of hosts, he was inclined at this point to play the tyrant. if i must see cadiz, well and good. he would take me to the morning express and put me under charge of the conductor. at utrera, an hour farther on, his son would come to the train and see that all was well. at _puerto de santa maria_, another hour distant, i should be met by a trusted friend of the family, who would transfer me to another train and another conductor, and so speed me for my third hour to cadiz, where i should be greeted by a relative of mine hostess and conveyed in safety to his home. i appreciated the kindness involved in this very andalusian programme, but otherwise it did not appeal to me. that was not the way columbus went, nor cortés. and much as i delighted in the alhambra, and the mosque of cordova, and the alcázar of seville, i did not feel called upon to bow a new england bonnet beneath the moorish yoke. thus don josé and i found ourselves quietly engaged in an hispano-american contest. he heartily disapproved of my going, even by train. "_una señora sola!_ it is not the custom in andalusia." his plan of campaign consisted in deferring the arrangements from day to day. "_mañana!_" whenever i attempted to set a time for departure he blandly assented, and presently projected some irresistibly attractive excursion for that very date. his household were all with him. his wife had not been able to procure the particular _dulces_ indispensable to a traveller's luncheon. even my faithless comrade, draped in her flower-garden shawl, practised the steps of a _seguidilla_ to the rattle of the castanets and laughed at my defeats. at last, grown desperate, i suavely announced at the sunday dinner table that i was going to cadiz that week. my host said, "_bueno!_" and my hostess, "_muy bien!_" but there was no surrender in their tones. on monday, instead of writing the requisite notes to these relays of protectors along the route, don josé took us himself, on a mimic steamboat, for a judicious distance down the guadalquivír. tuesday he put me off with roman ruins, and wednesday with a private gallery of murillos. by thursday i grew insistent, and, with shrug and sigh, he finally consented to my going by train on friday. i still urged the boat, but he heaped up a thousand difficulties. there wasn't any; it would be overcrowded; i should be seasick; the boat would arrive, wherever it might arrive, too late for my train, whatever my train might be. compromise is always becoming, and i agreed to take the nine o'clock express in the morning. after the extended spanish farewells, for to kiss on both cheeks and be kissed on both cheeks down a long feminine line, mother, daughters, and maid-servants, is no hasty ceremony, i sallied forth at half-past eight with don josé in attendance. he called a cab, but in spain the cabbies are men and brothers, and this one, on learning our destination, declared that the train did not start until half-past nine and it was much better for a lady to wait _en casa_ than at the depot. this additional guardianship goaded me to active remonstrance. why not take the cab for the hour and look up a procession on our way to the station? there are always processions in seville. this appealed to both the pleasure-loving spaniards, and we drove into the palmy _plaza de san fernando_, where an array of military bands was serenading some civic dignitary. the music was of the best, and we fell in with the large and varied retinue that escorted the musicians to the palace of the archbishop. as they were rousing him from his reverend slumbers with _la marcha de cadiz_, i caught a twinkle in don josé's eye. did he hope to keep me chasing after those bands all the forenoon? i awakened the cabman, whom the music had lulled into the easy andalusian doze, and we clattered off to the station. of all silent and forsaken places! i looked suspiciously at don josé, whose swarthy countenance wore an overdone expression of innocent surprise. a solitary official sauntered out. "good morning, señor! is the express gone?" asked the driver. "good morning, señor! there isn't any express to-day," was the reply. "the express runs only tuesdays, thursdays, and saturdays." "what a pity," cooed don josé, contentedly. "you will have to wait till to-morrow." "yes, you can go to-morrow," indulgently added the driver, and the official chimed sweetly in, "_mañana por la mañana!_" "but is there no other train to-day?" i asked. the official admitted that there was one at three o'clock. don josé gave him a reproachful glance. "but you do not want to go by train," said my ingenious host. "perhaps to-morrow you can go by steamboat." "perhaps i can go by steamboat now," i returned, seizing my opportunity. "when does that boat start?" nobody knew. i asked the cabman to drive us to the golden tower, off which sea-going vessels usually anchor. don josé fell back in his seat, exhausted. the cabman drove so fast, for seville, that we ran into a donkey and made a paralyzed beggar jump, but we reached the river in time to see a small steamer just in the act of swinging loose from the pier. in the excitement of the moment don josé forgot everything save the necessity of properly presenting me to the captain, and i, for my part, was absorbed in the ecstasy of sailing from the foot of the golden tower along the silver road. it was not until a rod of water lay between boat and wharf that the captain shouted to don josé, who struck an attitude of utter consternation, that this craft went only to bonanza, and no connection could be made from there to cadiz until the following afternoon. and i, mindful of the austere dignity that befitted these critical circumstances, could not even laugh. it was a dirty little boat, with a malodorous cargo of fish, and for passengers two soldiers, two peasants, and a commercial traveller. but what of that? i was sailing on a treasure ship of the indies, one of those lofty galleons of spain, "rowed by thrice one hundred slaves and gay with streamers, banners, music," that had delivered at the golden tower her tribute from the hoard of the incas, and was proudly bearing back to the open roads of cadiz. we dropped down past a noble line of deep-sea merchantmen, from marseilles, hamburg, and far-away ports of norway and sweden. we passed fishing boats casting their nets, and met a stately spanish bark, the _calderon_. on the shores we caught glimpses of orange grove and olive orchard, lines of osiers and white poplars, and we paused at the little town of coria, famous for its earthen jars, to land one of our peasants, while a jolly priest, whose plain black garb was relieved by a vermilion parasol, tossed down cigars to his friends among the sailors. then our galleon pursued her course into the flat and desolate regions of the _marismas_. these great salt marshes of the guadalquivír, scarcely more than a bog in winter, serve as pasture for herds of hardy sheep and for those droves of mighty bulls bred in andalusia to die in the arenas of all spain. for long stretches the green bank would be lined with the glorious creatures, standing like ebony statues deep amid the reeds, some entirely black, and many black with slight markings of white. the guadalquivír intersects in triple channel this unpeopled waste, concerning whose profusion of plant life and animal life english hunters tell strange tales. they report flocks of rosy flamingoes, three hundred or five hundred in a column, "glinting in the sunshine like a pink cloud," and muddy islets studded thick with colonies of flamingo nests. most wonderful of all, the camel, that ancient and serious beast of burden, a figure pertaining in all imaginations to the arid, sandy desert, keeps holiday in these huge swamps. it seems that, in , a herd of camels was brought into the province of cadiz, from the canaries, for transport service in road-building and the like, and for trial in agriculture. but the peculiar distaste of horses for these humpy monsters spoiled the scheme, and the camels, increased to some eighty in number, took merrily to the marshes, where, in defiance of all caravan tradition, they thrive in aquatic liberty. the fascination of this wilderness reached even the dingy steamer deck. gulls, ducks, and all manner of wild fowl flashed in the sunshine, which often made the winding river, as tawny as our james, sparkle like liquid gold. if only it had been gold indeed, and had kept the traceries of the roman keels that have traversed it, the vandal swords whose red it has washed away, the moorish faces it has mirrored, the spanish-- "_usted come?_" it might have been cortes who was offering that bowl of _puchero_, but no! cortes would have mixed it in his plumy helmet and stirred it with that thin, keen sword one may see in the madrid _armería_. this was a barefooted cabin boy, in blue linen blouse and patched blue trousers, with a scarlet cloth cap tied over his head by means of an orange-colored handkerchief. the dancing eyes that lit his shy brown face had sea blues in them. he was a winsome little fellow enough, but i did not incline to his cookery. while i was watching river, shores, and herds and chatting with the _simpático_ sailor, who, taking his cue from my look, expressed the deepest abhorrence of the bull-fights, which, i make no doubt, he would sell his dinner, jacket, bed, even his guitar, to see, i had taken secret note of the cuisine. this child, who could not have counted his twelfth birthday, kindled the fire in a flimsy tin pail, lined with broken bricks. he cracked over his knee a few pieces of driftwood, mixed the fragments with bits of coal which he shook out of a sheepskin bottle, doused oil over the whole, and cheerfully applied the match, while the commercial traveller hastily drew up a bucket of water to have on hand for emergencies. then the boy, with excellent intentions in the way of neatness, whisked his blackened hands across the rough end of a rope and plunged them into the pot of _garbanzos_, to which he added beans, cabbage, remnants of fried fish, and other sundries at his young discretion. and while the mess was simmering, he squatted down on the deck, with his grimy little feet in his fists, rocking himself back and forth to his own wild malaga songs, and occasionally disengaging one hand or the other to plunge it into the pot after a tasty morsel. "will you eat?" he repeated manfully, reddening under the scrutiny of stranger eyes. "many thanks! may it profit yourself!" i opened my luncheon, and again we exchanged these fixed phrases of spanish etiquette, although after the refusals enjoined by code of courtesy, the boy was finally induced to relieve me of my more indigestible goodies. "did you ever hear of columbus?" i asked, as we munched chestnut cakes together, leaning on the rail. "no, señora," he replied, with another blush, "i have heard of nothing. i know little. i am of very small account. i cook and sing. i am good for nothing more." and is it to this those arrogant spanish boasts, which rang like trumpets up and down the guadalquivír, have come at last! we were in the heart of a perfect sapphire day. the river, often turbulent and unruly, was on this april afternoon, the sailors said, _buen muchacho_, a good boy. the boat appeared to navigate herself. the captain nodded on his lofty perch, and the engineer was curled up in his own tiny hatchway, trying to read a newspaper, which the fresh breeze blew into horns and balloons. the rough cabin bunks were full of sleeping forms, and the leather wine-bottles, flung down carelessly in the stern, had cuddled each to each in cozy shapes, and seemed to be sleeping, too. the two soldiers, who had been gambling with coppers over innumerable games of dominos, were listening grimly to the oratory of the commercial traveller. "no fighting for me!" this hero was declaiming. "in strenuous times like these a man ought to cherish his life for the sake of his country. spain needs her sons right here at home. it is sweet, as the poet says, to die for the _patria_, but to live for the _patria_ is, in my opinion, just as glorious." "and more comfortable," grunted one of the soldiers, while the other gave a hitch to those red infantry trousers which look as if they had been wading in blood, and walked forward to view from the bows the little white port of bonanza. as the boat went no farther, i had to stain my silver route by a prosaic parenthesis of land. it was some comfort to remember that magellan waited here for that expedition from seville which was the first to sail around the globe. i think i travelled the three miles from bonanza, good weather, to san lúcar de barrameda in magellan's own carriage. it was certainly old enough. as i sat on a tipsy chair in the middle of a rude wagon frame mounted on two shrieking wooden wheels, and hooded with broken arches of bamboo, from which flapped shreds of russet oilcloth, i entered into poignant sympathy with magellan's ups and downs of hope and fear. the jolting was such a torture that, to divert my attention, i questioned the driver as to the uses of this and that appliance in his rickety ark. "and what are those ropes for, there in the corner?" was my final query. "those are to tie the coffins down when i have a fare for the cemetery," he replied, cracking his whip over the incredibly lean mule that was sulkily jerking us along. "please let me get out and walk," i entreated. "you may keep the valise and show me the way to the inn, and i can go quite as fast as that mule." "now, don't!" he begged, with even intenser pathos. "strangers always want to walk before they get to the inn, and then the people laugh at me. i know my carriage isn't very handsome, but it's the only one in bonanza. just do me the favor to keep your seat a little longer." i had been lurched out of it only a minute before, but i could not refuse to sacrifice mere bodily ease to the pride of spanish spirit. notwithstanding don josé's dark predictions, this was the only trial of the trip. to realize to the full the honesty, kindliness, and dignity of the everyday spaniard, one needs to turn off from the sight-seer's route. on the beaten tourist track are exorbitant hotels, greedy guides, cheating merchants, troops of beggars--everywhere "the itching palm." but here in san lúcar, for instance, where i had to spend twenty-four hours at a genuine spanish _fonda_, the proprietor took no advantage of the facts that i was a foreigner, a woman, and practically a prisoner in the place until the saturday afternoon train went out, but gave me excellent accommodations, most respectful and considerate treatment, and the lowest hotel bill that i had seen in spain. san lúcar has, in early spanish literature, a very ill name for roguery, but, so far as my brief experience went, boston could not have been safer and would not have been so genial. i strayed, for instance, into a modest little shop to buy a cake of soap, which its owner declined to sell, insisting that i ought to have a choicer variety than his, and sending his son, a lad of sixteen, to point me out more fashionable counters. this youth showed me the sights of the pleasant seashore town, with its tiers of closely grated windows standing out from the white fronts of the houses, and its sturdy packhorses and orange-laden donkeys streaming along the rough stone streets, and when, at the inn door, i hesitatingly offered him a piece of silver, doffed his cap with smiling ease, and said he did not take pay for a pleasure. once off the regular lines of travel, however, speed is out of the question. i might have gone from seville to cadiz in three hours; thanks to historic enthusiasms, it took me nearer three days. after escaping from san lúcar, i had to pass four hours in jerez, another whitewashed, palm-planted town, whose famous sherry has made it the third city in spain for wealth. the thing to do at jerez is to visit the great _bodegas_ and taste the rich white liquors treasured in those monster casks, which bear all manner of names, from christ and his twelve disciples to napoleon the great; but mindful, in the light of don josé's admonitions, that the weak feminine estate is "as water unto wine," i contented myself with seeing the strange storage basin of the mountain aqueduct--an immense, immaculate cellar, where endless vistas of low stone arches stretch away in the silent dusk above the glimmer of a ghostly lake. the train for cadiz must needs be two hours late this particular evening, but my cabman drove me to approved shops for the purchase of bread and fruit, and then, of his own motion, drew up our modest equipage in a shady nook opposite the villa of the english consul, that i might enjoy my arcadian repast with a secure mind. jehu accepted, after due protestations, a share of the viands, and reciprocated the attention by buying me a glass of water at the nearest stand, much amused at my continued preference for jerez water over jerez wine. one of the jerez wine merchants, german by birth, shared the railway carriage with me for a while, and after the social wont of continental travel fell to discussing the war. "the spaniards deserved to be beaten," he declared, "but the yankees didn't deserve to beat. they were conceited enough before, heaven knows, and now they expect all europe to black their shoddy shoes. your own country was a bit to blame in blocking every effort to keep them in their place." i felt it time to explain that i was not english, but american. much disconcerted, he did his best to make amends. "i wouldn't have said that for the world if i had known you were an american--but it's every syllable true." he thought over this remark in silence for a moment, his teutonic spirit sorely strained between kindliness and honesty, and tried again. "i would like to say something good about the united states, i would indeed,--if there was anything to say." it seemed to occur to him, after a little, that even this apology left something to be desired, and he brightened up. "wouldn't you like some roses? they sell them here at this station. there comes a boy now with a nice, big bunch. one _peseta_! i think that's too dear, don't you?" i hastened to assent. "the lady says that's too dear. seventy-five _centimos_? no. the lady can't pay that. sixty _centimos_? no. the lady can't afford sixty _centimos_. fifty _centimos_? no. the lady says fifty _centimos_ is too much. she will take them at forty _centimos_. here's a half _peseta_. and you must give me back a fat dog." the boy held back the penny and tried to substitute a cent. "oh, sir, please, sir, forty-five _centimos_! there are two dozen roses here, and all fresh as the dawn. give me the puppy-dog over." but the german, who knew how to put even a sharper edge on the inveterate spanish bargaining, secured for the value of eight cents, instead of twenty, his great bouquet of really beautiful roses, and presented it with as much of a bow as the carriage limits permitted. "i meant to pay all the time, you know; but one can always make a better trade, in spain, if it is done in the name of a lady." and he added, with that sudden tact which innate goodness and delicacy give to the most blundering of us mortals, "if you don't like to take them from a stranger for yourself, you will take them as my peace-offering to your country." i was reminded again of my native land by another fellow-traveller--a spaniard of the spaniards, this time, one of the conservative and catholic leaders, greeted at the various stations by priests and monks and friars, whose hands he solemnly kissed. this distinguished personage was absorbed in a voluminous type-written manuscript, from which he occasionally read aloud to the band of political confidants who accompanied him. it was an arraignment of the liberal party, and, by way of exposing the errors of the sagasta government, included a merciless résumé of the spanish naval and military disasters, with elaborate comparisons of the american and spanish equipments. he was then on his way to join in a consoling pilgrimage to a certain image of christ, which had been cudgelled by a grief-maddened priest whose dying mother the image had failed to heal. these surroundings more or less jostled my sixteenth-century dream, but i held to it so stubbornly that, when pyramids of salt began to glimmer like ghosts along the way, and a sweeping curve of lights warned me of our approach to cadiz, i made a point of seeing as little as possible. it was midnight, but spanish hours are luckily so late that don josé's friends were still at the height of evening sociability and regaled me with alternate showers of sweetmeats and questions. finally, after many exclamations of horror at the audacity of the trip, all the feminine hospitality of the household lighted me to a chamber whose walls were hung with pictures of martyrs and agonizing saints. among these i counted five colored representations of christ opening his breast to display the bleeding heart. the next morning i promptly took boat to _puerto de santa maria_, embarked on the return steamer, and so at last found myself once more on the silver road, entering cadiz harbor from the sea. to be sure, the _montserrat_ was riding proudly in my view, although the warships to which she had been used to curtsy in the open roads of cadiz would never cut those shining waves again. the waters were as turquoise blue as if they had just come from the brush of an old master, and the towered city rose before us like a crystal castle in the air. its limited space, built as it is within great sea walls on an outlying rock, which only a rope of sand moors to the mainland, has necessitated narrow streets and high houses, whose _miradores_, lookouts that everywhere crown the terraced roofs, give this battlemented aspect to the town. one of the most ancient and tragic cities known to time, claiming hercules for its founder, in turn phoenician, carthaginian, roman, gothic, moorish, spanish, it yet looks fresh as a water-lily. i could have spent another three days in gazing. and this sparkling vision was spain's _copa de plata_, the silver cup which has brimmed with the gold and pearls of america, with blood and flame and glory. its riches have taken to themselves wings, but its high, free spirit and frank gayety abide. still the andalusians sing:-- "_viva_ cadiz, silver cadiz, whose walls defy the sea, cadiz of the pretty girls, of courtesy and glee! "good luck to merry cadiz, as white as ocean spray, and her five and twenty cannon that point gibraltar way!" but i am bound to add that the cannon do not look dangerous. xii murillo's cherubs "angels o'er the palm trees flying, touch their waving fronds to rest. bid them give no wind replying. jesus sleeps on mary's breast. blesséd angels, hold the peeping branches still as altar-place, for the holy child is sleeping close beneath his mother's face." --lope de vega. spanish love for childhood, and the precocity and winsomeness of spanish children, impressed me from my first hour in the peninsula. "there is no road so level as to be without rough places," and the initial days of my madrid residence, after my artist comrade had gone back to paris and the spring salons, might have been a trifle lonely save for baby society. i was living in a delightful spanish household, but the very excess of courtesy reminded me continually that i was a yankee and a heretic. as time passed, friendship ripened, and it is to-day no empty form of words when i am assured that i have "my house in madrid." but at the outset i felt myself not only an american alien, but an andalusian exile. the "only court" is such a prosaic contrast to seville that my impulse was to betake myself with books to the great park of the buen retiro, the magnificent gift of olivares to his royal master, and let the madrid world, at least the adult portion of it, go by. for while the larger madrileños were busy with their own plays of politics, bull-fights, and flirtation, the little ones had happy afternoons in that historic park of many a tragedy, where convents, palaces, and fortifications have all made way for the children's romping ground. resting on a rustic seat in the leafy shade, with the rich, thrilling notes of the nightingale answering the bell call of the cuckoo from the deeper groves beyond, i could watch these budding spaniards to heart's content. it was well to observe them from a distance, however, for their young voices were of the shrillest. among the boys, an energetic few were developing muscle by tag and leap-frog; more were flying kites, cracking whips, twirling slings, and brandishing the terrors of pewter swords; while at every turn, beside some flashing fountain or beneath some spreading oak, i would come upon a group of urchins playing _al toro_ with the cheap, gaudy capes of red and yellow manufactured for the children's sport. the girls were skipping rope, rolling hoop, teaching one another the steps of endless dances, and whispering momentous secrets in statue-guarded grottos, or thickets of flowering shrubs, or whatsoever safe, mysterious nook their fluttering search could find. here was a school out for its daily airing, a pretty procession of rainbow-clad little damsels, marshalled by the black-veiled figures of graceful nuns, and pacing with all decorum down a crowded avenue; but the moment the troop turned into some sequestered by-path, how it would break into a shimmering confusion of butterflies, darting hither and thither in those jewel-green lights and sea-green shadows, the nuns casting their dignity to the winds and scampering with the swiftest! wandering after i would come, perhaps, upon an open space where the smaller boys were gathered, delicate little lads riding horse-headed sticks, digging with mimic spades, and tossing big, soft, red and yellow balls, while mothers and nurses sat about in circle on the stone benches, calling out sharp-toned cautions to their respective charges. and everywhere in the park were toddling babies, clasping dolls, tugging at gay balloons, dragging wooden donkeys on wheels, and tumbling over live puppies. they were pale, engaging, persistent little creatures, with a true spanish inability to learn from experience. i saw one aristocratic cherub, white as snow from feathered cap to ribboned shoes, take ten successive slappings because he muddied his hands. the angry nurse would make a snatch for the naughty fingers, roughly beat off the dirt, and cuff the culprit soundly. his proud little mouth would tremble; he would wink hard and fast, but there was not a tear to be seen, not a cry to be heard, and no sooner had her peasant clutch released him than back went the baby hands, grubbing deep into the mire. a gorgeous civil guard finally distracted her attention, and the last view i had of the child showed him blissfully squatted in the very middle of a puddle, splashing with arms and legs. white is almost the universal wear of the prattling age in the buen retiro, although now and then some lily fairy would flit by with saffron sash and harmonious saffron stockings, or costume similarly touched by pink or blue. the scotch plaids, too, were in favor as sashes, and at rare intervals i encountered a tot sensibly attired in stout plaid frock. but the white of this childish multitude was thickly flecked with mourning suits, complete to bits of black gloves and even to jet studs in the collars. among the sad sights of the retiro was an epileptic boy, led and half supported between two sweet-faced, youthful ladies, both in widow's crêpe, who screened him with caresses as his fit took him and he foamed and screamed in piteous helplessness. this pathetic trio, ever seeking seclusion, was ever followed by a retinue of idlers, who, for all their intrusive staring, were silent and sympathetic. the nursemaids formed not the least attractive feature of the kaleidoscopic picture. most wore white caps, fastened with gilded pins or knots of rose or russet; but the nurses counted the best, from the mountain province of santander, were distinguished by bright-colored handkerchiefs twisted about the head. here, as in the _Élysées_, baby-wagons are seldom seen. the nurses carry in arms the black-eyed infants, who bite away at their coral necklaces quite like little yankees. but spanish traits soon declare themselves. in the centre of the park is an artificial pond, where lads in their first teens, too old for play, lean languidly over the iron railings, and, while they throw crumbs to the flock of forlorn-looking ducks or watch the dip of the red oar-blades that impel the pleasure boats, brag of their amorous adventures and exchange the scandal of the _prado_. sometimes their love chat is of sweeter tenor, for many of these schoolboys have already spoken their betrothal vows, which the church will not let them lightly break. spaniards often marry under twenty-one, and even a recent wedding in madrid, where neither bride nor bridegroom had reached the fifteenth year, was hardly thought amiss, in view of the fact that there was parental money to maintain them. and why had the stately city of valladolid been under a reign of terror for half the week just past, with shutters up, doors barred, and women and children kept at home for safety, while bands of young men swayed in bloody struggle through her famous squares and streets, but because a cadet and a student must needs lose heart to the same maid? cupid, not santiago, is the patron saint of spain. and cupid, for all his mischief, has some very winning ways. our boyish sentimentalists of the buen retiro, for instance, easily fall into song, and the native melodies, always with something wild and oriental in their beat, ring across the little lake into the woods beyond till the birds take up the challenge and every tree grows vocal. one afternoon, on my way to the park, i bought from a roadside vender a handful of small, gaudily bound children's books, and had no sooner found what i fondly supposed was a sequestered seat than a tumult of little folks surrounded me, coaxing to hear the stories. these tales, so taken at random, may throw a little light on the literature of spanish nurseries. there was the life of the madonna, which we passed over, as the children said they had read it in school and knew it, every word, already. so we turned to the astonishing career of the great soldier, kill-bullet, who could easily stop a cannon-ball against his palm, and to an account of that far-off land where it rained gold in such profusion that nobody would work, until finally all the people, weary of a wealth which induced no tailor to stitch and no shoemaker to cobble, no baker to bake and no dairy-maid to churn, rose by common consent and shovelled the gold into the river. we read of hot-tempered little ambrose, who left the gate of his garden open, so that a hen cackled in and began to scratch under a rose bush, whereupon the angry boy chased her furiously all over the garden-beds until his summer's work was trampled into ruin, and his papa came and explained to him how disastrous a thing is wrath. there was a companion moral tale for little girls, telling how inez used to make faces until her mamma told her that she would grow up with a twisted mouth and nobody would marry her, whereat did little inez promptly reform her manners. one favorite volume, with a cover which displayed a wild-whiskered old ogre in a fiery skullcap gloating over a platterful of very pink baby, told how good little violet saved her bad sisters, rose and daisy, from his dreadful gullet, by aid of an ugly monkey, whom her promised kiss transformed into a fairy prince. i was glad to find, in that country where so little is done to train children in the love of animals, the ancient tale of the four musicians, the donkey, the dog, the cat, and the cock, who escaped in their old age from the death that threatened them at the hands of ungrateful masters and, by a free exercise of their musical talents, captured the house of a robber-band, putting its inmates to confusion and flight. many of the stories, indeed, would have been recognized by young americans, but the proportion of saint-lore was larger than that of fairy-lore, and, now and then, some familiar property had suffered a spanish change, as the invisible cap which had become an invisible cape of the sort used for playing bull-fight. [illustration: the pageant of gethsemane] the nursery rhymes, too, so far as i chanced upon them, were of the universal type with spanish variations. a castilian mother plays peek-a-boo with her baby quite as an english mother does, except that the syllables are _cú? trás!_ the father's foot trots the child to a catholic market. "trot, little donkey! donkey, trot! we must buy honey to please the pet. if san francisco has it not, we'll go to san benet." baby's toes are counted as the eternal five little pigs, and also thus, with a preliminary tickling of the rosy sole:-- "here passed a little dove. this one caught it. this one killed it. this one put it on to roast. this one took it off again. and this teeny-teeny-teeny scamp ate it all up!" spanish patty-cakes are followed by a spanish grace. "patty-cakes, oh! patty-cakes, ah! the sweetest cakes are for dear mama. patty-cakes, oh! patty-cakes, ah! the hardest pats are for poor papa, "bread, o god! bread, dear god, for this little child to-day! because he's such a baby he cannot pay his way." the spanish nursery seems richer in rhymes than ours. nurse bends baby's left hand into a rose-leaf purse, for example, and gives it little taps with one finger after another of baby's right hand, singing:-- "a penny for baby's purse from papa, mama, and nurse. a penny, a penny to pay! let no thief steal it away!" and then the tiny fist is doubled tight. when the child, again, is first dressed in short clothes, he is propped up in a corner and coaxed to take his first step with the rhyme:-- "one little step, baby-boy mine! come, little man, step up! and thou shalt have a taste of wine from godfather's silver cup." this rhyming fashion the little ones take with them out of babyhood into their later childhood. the urchin admonishes his whistle:-- "whistle, whistle, margarita, and you'll get a crust of bread, but if you do not whistle i'll cut off your little head." the little girl learns the scales in process of rocking her doll to sleep:-- don't pin-prick my poor old dolly, _do_ respect my domestic matters. _re_ methinks she grows melancholy, _mi_ fast as her sawdust scatters. _fa_ sole rose of your mama's posy, _sol_ laugh at your mama, so! _la_ seal up your eyes all cozy. _si_ _la sol fa mi re do._ with spanish children, as with ours, christmas eve, or _noche buena_, is a season of gleeful excitement. they do not hang up stockings for santa claus, but they put out their shoes on the balcony for the kings of the east, riding high on camel-back, to fill with sweets and playthings. considerate children, too, put out a handful of straw for the tired beasts who have journeyed so far over the milky way. on some balconies the morning sun beholds rocking-horses and rocking-donkeys, make-believe theatres and bull-rings, with toy images of soldiers, bulls and holy families; but if the child has been naughty and displeased the magi, his poor little shoes will stand empty and ashamed. the dramatic instinct, so strong in spaniards, is strikingly manifested in the children's games. these little people are devoted to the theatre, too, and may be seen in force at the matinées in the apolo, lara, and zarzuela. afternoon performances are given only on sundays and the other catholic _fiestas_, which last, numerous enough, are well within reach of the puritan conscience. at these matinées more than half the seats in the house are occupied by juvenile ticket-holders, from rows of vociferous urchins in the galleries, to round-eyed babies cooing over their nurses' shoulders. if the play is an extravaganza, abounding in magic and misadventure, the rapture of the childish audience is at its height. the close attention with which mere three-year-olds follow the action is astonishing. "_bonito!_" lisping voices cry after each fantastic ballet, and wee white hands twinkle up and down in time with the merry music. when the clown divests himself, one by one, of a score of waistcoats, or successively pulls thirty or forty smiling dairy-maids out of a churn, little arithmeticians all over the house call out the count and dispute his numbers with him. when the dragon spits his shower of sparks, when chairs sidle away from beneath the unfortunates who would sit down or suddenly rise with them toward the ceiling, when signboards whirl, and dinners frisk up chimney, cigars puff out into tall hats, and umbrellas fire off bullets, the hubbub of wonder and delight drowns the voices of the actors. the house is never still for one single instant. babies cry wearily, nurses murmur soothingly, mystified innocents pipe out questions, papas rebuke and explain, exasperated old bachelors hiss for silence, saucy boys hiss back for fun--all together the madrid matinée affords a far better opportunity to study child life than to hear the comedy upon the boards. the boy king of spain is, of course, a fascinating figure to his child subjects. we were told at san sebastian, where the queen regent has a summer palace, that on those red-letter days when the king takes a sea dip, children come running from far and near to see him step into the surf, with two stalwart soldiers gripping the royal little fists. and no sooner has the court returned to the sumptuous, anxious palace of madrid, than the boy bathers of san sebastian delight themselves in playing king, mincing down the beach under the pompous military escort that they take turns in furnishing one another. in madrid, too, the sightseeing crowds that gather before the royal palace or at the doors of the _iglesia del buen suceso_, where the queen regent, with her "august children," sometimes attends the _salve_ on saturday afternoons, are thickly peppered with little folks, eager to "see the king." they are often disappointed, for the precious life is jealously guarded, especially while the carlist cloud still broods above the throne. during my stay in madrid, a man with a revolver under his coat was arrested on suspicion in the vestibule of the theatre known as _la comédia_, where the queen was passing the evening. sceptical madrid shrugged its shoulders and said: "stuff and nonsense! when the ministers want the queen to sign a paper that isn't to her liking, they make a great show of devotion and pounce down on some poor devil as an anarchist, to frighten her into being meek and grateful." and, in fact, the prisoner was almost immediately released for lack of any incriminating evidence. for weeks after, nevertheless, the royal movements were more difficult to forecast, and on the daily drives the kinglet was often missing from the family group. but, undiscouraged, every afternoon the children would fringe the palace side of the _plaza de oriente_, hoping to see the royal carriage go or come with their young sovereign, whose portrait, a wistful, boyish face above a broad lace collar, is printed in one of their school reading books over the inscription, "to the head of the state honor and obedience are due." expectant youngsters, in the all-enveloping black pinafores that remind the eye of paris, with book satchels made of gay carpeting over the shoulder, would shake out their smudgy handkerchiefs, often stamped with the likenesses of famous _toreros_, and help themselves to one another's hats in readiness to salute; but the elegant landau, preceded by an escort of two horsemen, dashes by so swiftly that their long waiting would be rewarded only by the briefest glimpse of bowing bonnets and of a small gloved hand touching the military cap that shades a childish face. it is a pale and sober little face as i have seen it, but madrileños resent this impression and insist that his youthful majesty is "sturdy enough," and as merry as need be. they say that the buoyancy which he inherits from his father is crossed by strange fits of brooding, due to his mother's blood, but that he is, in the main, a merry-hearted child. although he has masters for his studies now, his affection still clings to his austrian governess, whom, none the less, he dearly loves to tease. when she is honored by an invitation to drive with the queen regent, for example, alphonsito hastens to hide her hat and then joins most solicitously in her fluttered search, until her suspicion darts upon him, and his prank breaks down in peals of laughter. madrid was especially sensitive about him last year, for he, alfonso xiii, godson of pope leo xiii, was thirteen years of age--an iteration of the unlucky omen that really ought to be satisfied with the loss of the spanish colonies. his mother, in honor of his birthday, may seventeenth, distributed five thousand dollars among orphan asylums and other charities, and held a grand reception in the hall of the ambassadors, where the slight lad in cadet uniform, enthroned beside the queen regent between the two great lions of gilded bronze, received the congratulations of a long procession of bowing ministers, admirals, captain generals, prelates, and those haughty grandees of spain whose ancient privilege it is to wear their hats in the royal presence; but the shrinkage of his realm since his last birthday must have been uppermost in the mind of even the young lord of the festival. _pobrecito!_ one wonders what thoughts go on behind those serious brows of his, when, for instance, he looks down from his palace windows at the daily ceremony of guard-mounting in the courtyard. it is such a gallant sight; the martial music is so stirring; the cavalry in blue and silver sit their white steeds so proudly, with the sun glistening on their drawn swords and the wind tossing their long, white, horsehair plumes, that all these tales of defeat and loss must puzzle the sore boy heart and cast confusing shadows down the path before him. little as the spaniards love the queen regent, to whom they cannot pardon her two cardinal offences of being a "foreigner" and of disliking the bull-fight, they have a certain affection for alfonso xiii, "the only child born a king since christ." indeed, spain seems to have been always sympathetic toward childhood in palaces. enter this wonderful _armería_ of madrid, where those plumed and armored kings, on richly caparisoned chargers, whom we have come to know in the paintings of the _museo del prado_, seem to have leapt from the canvases to greet us here in still more lifelike guise, albeit not over graciously, with horse reined back and mighty lance at poise. any fine morning they may all come clattering out into the _plaza de armas_--and where will the united states be then? here stands a majestic row of them--philip ii, in a resplendent suit of gold-inlaid plate-armor; maximilian, whose visor gives him the fierce hooked beak of an eagle; sebastian of portugal, with nymphs embossed in cunning work on his rich breastplate; and charles v, three times over, in varieties of imperial magnificence. [illustration: "jesus of the passion"] but opposite these stern warriors is a hollow square of boy princes, and of noble _niños_ whose visors hide their identities in long oblivion. the armor of these childish figures is daintily wrought, with tender touches of ruffs and cuffs, scallops and flutings and rosettes. often only the upper half of the body is incased in steel, the slender legs playing the dandy in puffed trousers of striped velvet--scarlet, green, and buff--silk hose, and satin slippers. little philip iii proudly displays a diminutive round shield, with a relief of battle scenes in gold. the plate armor of little philip iv is stamped with lions and castles, eagles and spears. and his little son, don baltasar carlos, bestrides a spirited pony and wears at the back of his helmet a tuft of garnet feathers. the _prado_ galleries abound in royal children. this same _infante_, don baltasar, is seen here in the foreground of a lonely landscape, with desolate blue hills beyond and driving clouds above. but all the more bright and winsome glows the form of the six-year-old horseman, the gold-fringed, pink sash that crosses his breast streaming out far behind with the speed of his fearless gallop. supreme among the _prado_ children, of course, is the little daughter of philip iv, the central figure of the world-renowned _las meninas_. all in vain does her charming maid of honor kneel to her with the golden cup; all in vain does the dwarf tease the drowsy dog. the solemn puss, undiverted, will not stir from her pose nor alter the set of her small features until the artist, standing half disdainfully before his easel, gives the word. she has waited for it now hard upon two hundred and fifty years, but the centuries beat in vain against that inflexible bit of propriety. even the royal burial vaults beneath the grim escorial have in their chill grandeur of marble halls an especial panteon for babies, princely innocents whose lives are reckoned in months more often than in years. gold and blue and red brighten their great white sepulchre, and above the altar smiles the christ child, with the graven words, "suffer the children to come unto me." but for alfonso xiii a sombre sarcophagus waits in the haughtiest and gloomiest of all the panteons, where only kings, and queens who were mothers of kings, may lie. it is not royal childhood alone that is dear to this strange, romantic, monstrously inconsistent heart of spain. the cruelty of spaniards to horses and donkeys sickens even the roughest englishman, yet almost every voice softens in speaking to a child, and during my six months in spanish cities i saw nothing of that street brutality toward the little ones which forces itself upon daily notice in liverpool and london. spanish children are too often ill-cared for, but despite the abuses of ignorant motherhood and fatherhood, such vivid, vivacious, bewitching little people as they are! enter a spanish schoolroom and see how vehemently the small brown hands are wagged in air, how the black eyes dance and the dimples play, what a stir and bustle, what a young exuberance of energy! they race to the blackboards like colts out at pasture. they laugh at everything, these sons of "the grave spaniard," and even the teacher will duck his head behind the desk for a half-hidden ecstasy over some dunce's blunder or some rogue's detected trick. but their high spirits never make them unmindful of those courtesies of life in which they have been so carefully trained. there is an old-fashioned exaggeration about their set phrases of politeness. just as the casual caller kisses the lady's feet, in words, and she reciprocates by a verbal kissing of his hand, so the school children respond to the roll call with a glib: "your servant, sir." ask a well-bred boy his name, and he rattles back, "jesus herrera y la-chica, at the service of god and yourself." they learn these amenities of speech with their first lispings. i was much taken aback one day in seville by a child of eighteen months. not in the least expecting this infant, whose rosy face was bashfully snuggled into his young aunt's neck, to understand, i said to her, "what a fine little fellow!" whereupon master roly-poly suddenly sat up straight on her arm, ducked his head in my direction, and gravely enunciated, "_es favor que usted me hace_"--"it is a compliment you pay me." i could hardly recover from the shock in time to make the stereotyped rejoinder, "_no es favor, es justicia_"--"no compliment, but the truth." to this don chubbykins sweetly returned, "_mil gracias_"--"a thousand thanks," and i closed this uncanny dialogue with the due response, "_no las merece_"--"it does not merit them." servants, neighbors, passers-by, beggars, all prompt the children in these shibboleths of good manners, adorning the precept with example. "would you like to go with us to the picture gallery this afternoon?" i once asked a laddie of artistic tastes at a boarding-house table. "_si, señora_," he replied, whereupon several of the boarders, greatly scandalized, hastened to remind him, but in the gentlest of tones, of the essential addition, "_con mucho gusto_" to which we were bound to reply, "the pleasure will be ours." the girls, even more than the boys, are bred in these formal fashions of intercourse. every morning they ask if you have rested well, and express grief or gratification, according to your response. in mrs. gulick's school, mere midgets of six and eight, returning from class, will not close the doors of their rooms if you are in sight, though perhaps seated at a reading table in the farther end of the corridor, lest they should appear inhospitable. on our return from italica, a thirsty child of seven, heated to exhaustion with the sun and fun of that andalusian picnic, refused to touch the anise-seed water which some good samaritan had handed up to the dusty carriage, until the glass had been offered to every one else, driver included, leaving, in the sequel, little enough for her. on our midnight return from the _feria_, this same _niña_ of gentle memory, staggering and half crying with sleepiness, would nevertheless not precede any of her elders in entering the home door. "after you," she sobbed, with hardly voice enough to add, "and may you all rest well!" "the same to you," chorussed the adults, trooping by, and her faint murmur followed, "many thanks." "shall i give you this fan when i go away," i asked her once, "or would you rather have it now to take to the party?" she wanted it then and there, but what she answered was, "i shall be best pleased to take it when you like best to give it." you must beware of saying to a little spanish maid, "what a beautiful rosebud in your hair!" instantly the hand is busy with the pins. "it is at your disposal." you hastily protest, "a thousand thanks, but no, no, no! it is very well placed where it is." off comes the flower, notwithstanding, and is fastened into your belt. for when the elder sister has insisted on giving you (until the next ball) those dancing slippers which you so rashly admired, and the sister's _novio_ went home the night before without his cloak, because you had approved its colors (although he sent his man around for it before breakfast), what can the children do but follow suit? even their form of "now i lay me" is touched with their quaint politeness:-- "jesus, joseph, mary, your little servant keep, while, with your kind permission, i lay me down to sleep." the precocity of spanish children is a recognized fact. an educational expert, a frenchman who holds a chair in an english university, assured us that beyond a doubt spanish children, for the first dozen years of life, develop more rapidly than any other children of europe. yet, although these clever little spaniards are so punctiliously taught to put the pleasure of others before their own, they are treated with universal indulgence. soldiers lining the curbstones on occasion of a royal progress will let the children press in beside them and cling to their valorous legs, until the military array seems variegated with a kindergarten. my farewell glimpse of toledo, on corpus christi day, makes a pretty picture in memory. the red-robed cardinal, who had come to the station to take his train, was fairly stormed by all the children within sight, clamoring for his blessing. in vain the attendant priests tried to scatter the throng, and ladies of high degree, planting their chairs in a circle about the prelate, acted as a laughing body-guard. it was all of no avail. the little people danced up and down with eagerness, dodged under arms, and slipped between elbows. they knelt upon the cardinal's very feet, rapturously kissing his red-gloved hand and clasping to their pinafores and blouses the sacred trinkets he distributed. and he, patting the bobbing black pates, wherever he could get a chance, smiled on the little ones and forbade them not. the affection lavished on children in the household circle is often poetic and passionate. i observed one day a brusque young fellow of twenty-four, whom we had thought rather a hard, catch-penny sort of person, suddenly gather a four-year-old nephew to his heart and cover the dimpled face with kisses, while the look in his own black eyes was the look of a st. anthony. i stood once in a crowded cathedral and lost all sense of the service in contemplation of an ugly manikin, with coarse features and receding forehead, who held a frail baby boy tight against his breast. this was a blue-eyed, fair-haired wean, with a serious, far-away expression, and from time to time, attracted by the gilt of the ceiling, he raised a tiny pink fore-finger and pointed upward, while the father's animal face, never turned away from the child, became transfigured with love and worship. he took the baby out, when it had fallen asleep upon his shoulder, and it was good to see that dense throng open and make a lane for him, every man, however brutal or frivolous his aspect, being careful not to jostle the drooping, golden head. but spanish children, so caressed and so adored, are nevertheless modest in their bearing, and fall shyly back before a stranger. i remember a beaming grandfather displaying to us two blushing little men, bidding them open their eyes wide that we might contrast colors, turn back to back that we might measure heights, and in various ways put their small selves on show, all which they did in mute obedience, but at the word of release flew together, flung their arms about each other's necks, rolled under the nearest table, and curled up into the least possible bunch of bashful agony. the pictures, frescos, and carvings of spanish churches often reflect the looks of spanish childhood. the holy family gives a wide range of opportunity, especially in the ministering cherubs. there is a crucifix in one of the twenty-two aisle chapels of toledo cathedral, where three broken-hearted mites of angels, just three crying babies, are piteously striving to draw out the nails from the sufferer's hands and feet. many of the saint-groups admit of child figures, too, as the st. christopher, which almost invariably appears as a colossal nave painting, "the goliath of frescos." it would be strange, indeed, if children were not beloved in the country of murillo. spain has let the most of his beggar-boy pictures go to foreign collections, but she has cherished his holy families and cherub-peopled annunciations. such ecstatic rogues as those andalusian cherubs are! their restless ringlets catch azure shadows from the virgin's mantle; they perch tiptoe on the edges of her crescent moon; they hold up a mirror to her glory and peep over the frame to see themselves; they pelt st. francis with roses; they play bo-beep from behind the fleecy folds of cloud; they try all manner of aerial gymnastics. but a charm transcending even theirs dwells in those baby christs that almost spring from the madonna's arms to ours, in those boy christs that touch all boyhood with divinity. the son of the jewish carpenter, happy in his father's workshop with bird and dog; the shepherd lad whose earnest eyes look toward his waiting flock; the lovely playmates, radiant with innocent beauty, who bend together above the water of life--from these alone might catholic spain have learned the sacredness of childhood. but spain first showed murillo the vision that he rendered back to her. xiii the yolk of the spanish egg "from madrid to heaven, and in heaven a little window for looking back to madrid."--_popular saying._ few foreigners can understand the sentiment of spaniards for their capital. madrid is the crown city of spain, not by manifest destiny, but by decree of philip ii, who, as his nature was, better loved the harsh castilian steppe, baked by summer suns and chilled by treacherous winds, than the romantic sierras and gracious river valleys where earlier royal seats had been established. if in madrid the desert blossoms like the rose, it is a leafless rose, for the city has no suburbs. it lacks both the charm of environment so potent in granada and seville and the charm of ancient story, which these share with those other bygone courts--toledo, valladolid, valencia, saragossa. it is not a vital organ of modern european civilization, like artistic paris or strenuous london. and yet it is more cosmopolitan, and hence less distinctively spanish than other cities of the peninsula. it is devoted to the bull-fight and the lottery, abounds in beggars and prostitutes, does not take naturally to commerce, and is sadly behindhand with popular education. yet madrileños cannot be persuaded that the skies behold its equal, and even over the anglo-saxon stranger its fascination gradually steals. in the first place, the mirth of the home life beguiles the serious foreigner. spanish households have a pleasantness quite their own. all the natural vivacity and kindliness of the people find free play at home, where servants sing and children prattle, ladies chatter and gentlemen jest, all in an atmosphere of ease, leisure, and spontaneous sociability. the father is not preoccupied with business, the mother has never dreamed of belonging to a woman's club, the children have little taste for reading, and few books to read. so talking is the order of the day, and, sancho panza! how they talk! lingering half the morning over the _desayuno_ of thick, cinnamon-flavored chocolate, into which are dipped strips of bread, two-thirds of the afternoon over the _almuerzo_, a substantial repast of meat and vegetables, fruit and _dulces_, and all the evening over the _comida_, where soup and the national dish of _puchero_ are added to the noontide bill of fare, they chatter, chatter, chatter, like the teeth of harry gill. still, as of old, spaniards are temperate in food and drink. "it's as rare to see a spaniard a drunkard as a german sober," wrote middleton three centuries ago. they use more water than wine, and although they have a grand appetite for sweets, they take them in comparatively simple forms. the national lack of enterprise is conspicuous even here, for dearly as the spaniard dotes on chocolate and sugar, madrid does not make her own chocolate creams, but imports them from paris to sell, when they are too hard to eat, at a price too high to pay. but smoking and talking are indulgences which madrileños carry to excess. lounging on the balcony, a gayly painted case of paper cigarettes at hand, they will pass hours in bantering their wives, whom they worship much as they worship the images of mary, delighting to dress them in fine clothes and glittering trinkets, and expecting in return, it is said, their pardon for a multitude of sins. and when my lord saunters forth to "rest" in one of the iron chairs that line the promenades, or in a café window, or at an open-air table before one of the frequent stalls of cooling beverages, the women of the house flock together in some airy corner, stitching away on their endless embroideries, and receiving, with "a million kisses" and a chorus of shrill welcomes, the mantilla-veiled ladies who come to call. if the afternoon is frying hot, it is just possible that the gallivanting don will bethink himself to send home a tray of _horchata_, a snowy, chilly, puckery refreshment, eaten by aid of wafers in the form of little tubes that look and taste much like wrapping paper. this treat gives fresh animation to the emulous tongues. the slightest neighborhood incident, as recounted in such a group, takes on a poetic vividness and a dramatic intensity, and when it is all told over again at the dinner-table, excitement waxes so high that long after the dishes and cloth have been removed the family may still be found seated around the board, flashing a thousand lights of suggestion and surmise on that dull bit of scandal. the husband cannot cease from discussion long enough to read the evening paper, nor the wife to send the little ones to bed, and midnight may find the three generations, from grandfather to four-year-old, still talking with might and main. accustomed guests come at once to the dining room, ready to contribute their share to the lively clash of voices, or to take part in one of the characteristic games of a spanish family circle, as lottery. in this favorite pastime, victory, including a goodly handful of coppers, falls to him whose checked and numbered square of pasteboard is most quickly filled with beans. these are placed on the squares called by the bag-holder, who draws numbers haphazard from his sibylline sack. when the small hours come in, the company may adjourn to the sala for dancing and music, but conversation under cover of these gushes on more impetuously than ever--the castilian art of arts. one of the chief graces of the _tertulias_ consists in their informality--their frank simplicity. even on a saint day--a day consecrated to the saint whose name some member of the family bears--while all the nearer friends drop in for congratulation, with perhaps a gift of flowers, in case of a lady, or sweetmeats for a child, the _tertulia_ requires no further exercise of hospitality than an open door and a feast of words. there is more blithesomeness, for _hay santo en casa_ (there is a saint in the house), but no more parade, with its preliminary fret and fuss. the streets of madrid, too, have a curious fascination. in the morning hours there is the picturesque confusion of the market. the donkeys are unladen here, there, and everywhere, and the sidewalks and squares promptly dotted over with bright little heaps of delicious toledo cherries, valencian apricots, murcian lemons, and all the greens of the season. the peasant women, squatted among their lettuces and cucumbers, seem much more interested in gossiping with their neighbors than in securing customers. babies tumble about, crushing the pinks and roses, and cabmen good-naturedly pick their way as best they can among these various vegetable and human obstacles. venders of books, too, like to pave the street with rows of open volumes, whose pages are soon dimmed with dust, and artisans, especially cobblers, set up their benches just outside their doors, and add the click of their hammers to the general din. in the early afternoon the shady side of the street is lined with the outstretched forms of workingmen, taking the indispensable siesta. some rest their black pates on arm or folded jacket or bag of tools, but plenty of bronzed laborers slumber peacefully all prone on the hot paving, with not so much as a cabbage leaf for a pillow. beggars lie along the stone benches of the _paseos_ and parks, cabmen sleep on their cabs, porters over their thresholds, and i once turned away from a church i had come far to visit, not having the hardihood to waken the verger, who, keys in hand, was snoring like an organ, sprawled across half a dozen granite steps. as the cool of evening approaches, the overcrowded houses of the poor pour forth entire families into the street, where supper is cooked and eaten, and all manner of domestic operations carried on. before every door is at least one black-eyed baby, in a little wooden cage something like a churn, with rim running under the armpits, so that the child, safe from straying or falling, may be left to his own devices. as darkness deepens, out come the stars and the _serenos_. these latter, in madrid, no longer cry fair weather, but they hold the keys of the houses--an arrangement that i never learned to take seriously. returning from visit or theatre in the evening, i found it difficult to say with requisite solemnity to the driver, "would you be so kind as to shout for celestino?" the driver promptly roars, "celestino!" and twinkling lights come bobbing toward us from far and near, but no celestino. "he's in the wineshop," suggests isidro, whose charge begins three houses above. "he's eating iron," asserts pedro, in the phrase describing those colloquies which a spanish suitor carries on with his divinity through the grating. then we all chorus, "celestino!" and again, "celestino!" and again, "celestino!" at this a cloaked figure comes running across the square, waving a lantern over his head and vociferating jocund apologies: "i regret it extremely. i am stricken with sorrow. but at the first call i was wetting my lips at the fountain, and at the second i was pausing to exchange four words only with the lady of my soul, and at the third i said _vamos!_ and at the fourth--look you, i am here." so he unlocks the door and lights the stairway with his lantern until i have ascended the first flight, when he cheerily calls out, "_adios!_" and shuts me into darkness which i am expected to illuminate for my further climb by striking matches. madrid streets are by no means altogether delectable. some are broad and well kept, but others are narrow, dirty, and malodorous. worst of all, to my own thinking, is the madrid stare, which, hardly less offensive than the paris stare, is more universal. it is amusing to see how fearlessly a matron of eighteen sallies forth alone, while many madrid spinsters of fifty would not go a block unattended. nor are annoyances confined to staring. even in reputable shops a woman soon learns to be on her guard, when her attention is especially called to book or picture, lest it prove "a silliness." madrid is better than the cities of andalusia, and worse than the cities of northern spain, in its treatment of women. a young spanish girl cannot walk alone, however sedately, in seville, without a running fire of salutations--"oh, the pretty face!" "what cheeks of rose!" "blessed be thy mother!" "give me a little smile!" and even in madrid, spanish girls of my acquaintance have broken their fans across the faces of men who tried to catch a kiss in passing. in madrid, as almost everywhere in spain, begging is a leading industry. so many beg from laziness or greed that it is easy to lose patience, the most essential part of a traveller's spanish outfit. the ear is wearied by the everlasting drone and whine: "oh, dear lady, for the love of god! all day my children have had no bread. give me five _centimos_, only five _centimos_, and heaven will pay you back. lady! lady! lady! lady! five _centimos_, in the name of all the saints!" and the eye is offended by the continual obtrusion of ulcers, cripplings, and deformities. no less than seville and granada, madrid abounds with child beggars. there were two jolly little cripples on the prado, who used to race, each on his one leg, to overtake me before i should reach the museo steps. another boy, on whose face i never saw a smile, sat at the corner of a street i daily passed, holding out two shapeless blocks of hands. by the gate of the buen retiro was stationed a blind man, with a girl wean on his knee. it was pathetic and amusing to see him feeding her the supper of bread and milk, for the spoon in his groping hand and the pout of her baby mouth often failed to make connection. the prevalence of eye disease in spain is probably due to sun, to dust, and to generations of poverty. the pounding of a blind man's stick upon the pavement is one of the most common city sounds. the charitable may often be seen leading the blind across the streets. i tried it myself once with an imperious old woman, who clung to the curbstone some twenty minutes before she could muster courage for the plunge, lecturing me fluently all the time on the dangers of a rash disposition. there are, of course, many cases of fraud--cases where, when the day's work is over, the blind see and the lame walk. one of the popular _coplas_ has its fling at these:-- "the armless man has written a letter; the blind man finds the writing clear; the mute is reading it aloud, and the deaf man runs to hear." yet it is certain that among the beggars of madrid is a heartrending amount of genuine misery. one day i passed an aged _ciego_, sitting on a doorstep, in the alcalá, his white head bowed upon his breast in such utter weariness of dejection that i paused to find him a copper. but better charity than mine came to comfort that worn heart. a lame old peanut woman limped up to him, with the pity of the wretched for the wretched. she drew from her apron pocket a coin which i had rarely seen--_dos centimos_, two-fifths of a cent in value. an austrian, who had lived in spain four years, told me he had never once encountered that paltry piece of money. but she could not spare it all. "hast thou one _centimo_ for change, brother mine?" she asked. and the blind man's sensitive fingers actually found in his lean leather purse that tiny metal bit, which only the poorest of the poor ever see in circulation. he gravely kissed the coin she gave and made with it the sign of the cross on brow and breast, saying, "blessed be this gift, my sister, which thy mercy has bestowed on a man of many troubles! may our mother mary keep for thee a thornless rose!" "and may god, who sends the cold according to our rags, lighten all thy griefs! rest thou in peace," she replied. "go thou with god," was his answer. begging was a recognized and licensed industry in madrid a year ago, though a bill of reform, whose fate i have failed to learn, was then under consideration. a mother would gather her brood about her and go forth for her day's work. they beg up and down their accustomed beat during the morning, eat as their gains allow, lie down in the dust together for the afternoon siesta, and rise to be diligent in business during the hours of fashionable promenade. they stop pedestrians, chase carriages, press into shops to torment the customers at the counter, and reach beseeching palms through the open windows of cafés. gentlemen escorting ladies are their peculiar victims, for well they know that many a man who never gives under other circumstances is ashamed to seem ungenerous under survey of starry eyes. there is only one phrase that will shake off the professional beggar, "may god aid you!" on hearing this he makes it a point of religious honor to fall back. but as i could not use that formula without feeling myself something between a shirk and a hypocrite, i had to get on as best i could with the ineffectual, "pardon me, my brother," to which should properly be added _por dios_ (for god's sake). the spanish mendicant knows nothing of the anglo-saxon feeling, "to beg i am ashamed." no rare ben jonson has thundered in his ears:-- "art thou a man? and sham'st thou not to beg? to practise such a servile kind of life? why, were thy education ne'er so mean, having thy limbs, a thousand fairer courses offer themselves to thy election. either the wars might still supply thy wants or service of some virtuous gentleman, or honest labor: nay, what can i name, but would become thee better than to beg?" from the spanish point of view, on the contrary, it is manual labor, not beggary, that stains the escutcheon. a german lady of my acquaintance said to a strongly built man who was pleading for alms, "if you will carry my bag up these stairs, i will gladly pay you." deeply insulted, he folded his cloak about him with hidalgo dignity, saying, "madame, i am a beggar, not a laborer." certain monasteries send out brothers, with plates and bags, on a daily begging round--brothers who may belong to the first families of spain. the church is often cited as indorsing mendicancy. extolling almsgiving as a prime virtue, and itself maintaining a vast number of charitable institutions, it has not yet assimilated modern methods of relief. a favorite story for children, used as supplementary reading in the schools, is called "the medal of the virgin." this is, in fact, a roman catholic version of "fortunatus's purse." its small heroine, mary of the angels, is an orphan, defrauded by a miser of her rich inheritance and treated with barbarity by the uncle and aunt for whom she is an uncomplaining drudge. but once, in festive hour, they give her five _centimos_, which this generous innocent promptly bestows on a beggar woman, who holds a baby in her ragged arms. in return, the beggar gives the child a queer, old-fashioned mite of a coin, which turns out to have the wall street quality of heaving up a little mountain of gold above itself every hour or two. mary of the angels sallies forth for a tour of the country, pouring handfuls of gold into the laps of the beggars who sit at the church doors and city gates, until she is escorted wherever she goes by an army of the halt and blind singing her praises. at last, having given away such pyrenees of gold that not a beggar could be found in all the land for a century to come, the footsore little philanthropist begs the virgin to relieve her of the coin. the madonna descends in a beam of light, the christ child smiling from her arms, yet in the radiant group mary of the angels recognizes the objects of her earliest charity. "for i," explains the madonna, "am the holy beggar from heaven. the poor of the earth give me their tears and prayers, and for such alms do i hold out my hand to all the sorrowful." yet the progressive element in spain is all the more ashamed of the beggars because they are not ashamed of themselves, and a few years may see madrid swept as clear of mendicancy as is san sebastian to-day. madrid is such an easy-going city that one hardly realizes at first how well it performs certain of its functions. its water supply, for instance, is excellent, although when one sees the picturesque groups, with those same clay water-jars over which rebecca smiled on jacob, lingering about the gray stone fountains, one expects a patriarchal flavor in the liquid. the tramway service of madrid, everything radiating from the _puerta del sol_, is most convenient, although electricity is a little slow in coming to the relief of horse-flesh. the shops, fairly well stocked, gild commerce with spanish graces. you accept a chair, you pass the courtesies of the day, the gentleman who serves you, often with cigar in mouth, is seldom sure as to just what goods he has on hand, and is still more rarely dogmatic as to their price. the tug of war, however, comes in getting them delivered. ten days before quitting madrid i bought at one of the best of the _librerias_ a number of books, including several illustrated catalogues of the velázquez sala. these last were pretty trifles bound in white parchment, and as i intended them for gifts, i wanted fresh copies. "you wish them clean, all of them?" asked the proprietor, with an accent of surprise. i replied that i did, and would moreover be obliged if he could fit them with envelopes ready for mailing. envelopes he had none, but he promised to tie them up in separate parcels. "and books and bill will come without fail this afternoon?" he looked pained to the heart. "this very morning, señora. you will find them awaiting you on your return." on the third day i sent a note, and on the fifth a boy arrived with the bulk of my purchase, but no catalogues nor bill. i explained to the lad, who smilingly besought me to give myself no concern, that i was on the point of leaving the city for good, and preferred not to go away in debt; but the days passed, and my inability to extort that reckoning became the jest of the household. at last, driven to desperate measures, i went through noonday heat to the store, and actually found that procrastinating bookseller scattering cigar ashes over a little heap of catalogues, while he contemplated the pictures of each copy in turn. "behold, señora," he exclaimed, as serenely as if not ten minutes had elapsed since our parting, "here i have for you immaculate booklets, stainless, faultless, such as will rejoice those fortunate friends to whom you have the amiability to send them. and i am this instant about to prepare them for the post with inviolate security." [illustration: "christ of the seven words"] i expressed my obligations, but entreated him to draw up the account and let me settle it then and there, as i was within twenty-four hours of departure. "and in travelling," i added apologetically, "it is difficult to send back money." at the obnoxious word he flung up hands and eyebrows. "señora!" i left the shop, feeling vaguely that i had been guilty of a flagrant indelicacy, as well as black ingratitude. the catalogues, very slightly wrapped, arrived on the morrow, just in time to be thrust into my shawl strap, and i paid the bill amid the final agitation, so unfavorable to arithmetic, of porters and farewells. i had worse fortune in trying to subscribe for a certain popular periodical. i went to the office in the designated business hours, to find that, of the three men who should have been there, one had already gone, one had not arrived, and the third had "stepped out for a little rest." the janitor left in charge, a sympathetic person who could not read nor write, thought if i would return on sunday at my luncheon hour, there might be somebody there qualified to receive my subscription and address, but, he sagely added, "in this world we are sure of nothing." madrid possesses the _biblioteca nacional_ with valuable manuscripts and something like one million books, handsomely housed, where arrangements are made for over three hundred readers, but here, as in the other spanish cities, public libraries in the american sense of libraries largely used by the general public are practically non-existent. the bookstores, too, except for the latest spanish publications, leave much to be desired. as a rule, one can get only the most meagre information concerning texts and editions of the national classics, and the supply of new french novels or new german plays is far less complete than the stock of paris gloves and german cutlery. this last, so canny have the honest teutons grown, is usually engraved _toledo_. in variety of weather, however, madrid surpasses all expectations, furnishing the sultriest heat, the chilliest cold, the dustiest dust, and the most prodigious crashes of thunder and lumps of hail to be found in the meteorological market, and all these within a few hours of one another. but what with fans, _braseros_, balconies, _horchaterias_, an army of street waterers, and, most essential of all, an inexhaustible fund of good humor, the madrileño contrives to live on friendly terms with his climate, although he dares not lay aside his cloak before "the fortieth of may." apart from bull-fights and riots, those rages of excitement that seem to indicate a periodical fevering of the southern blood, the madrileño takes his pleasures with a dignified simplicity. the city is exceedingly rich in open squares, well-shaded parks, and long reaches of green promenade, and here, with several dozen cigarettes and a few coppers for water and _agráz_, he wiles the hours away, chatting with friends and admiring the ladies who roll past in spruce landaus. over the gate of the social paradise of madrid it must be written, "no admittance except in coaches," for a carriage seems essential to high life. liveried coachman, rather than powdered butler, is the _sine qua non_. during the hot season this outdoor parade is in gay career at midnight, and whole families, babies and nurses included, may be seen gathered in festive knots around small refreshment tables, within sound of fountain spray and garden music. there are open-air concerts, and concerts in smoke-beclouded halls, greensward dances, and dances stepped on café tables among disordered clusters of bottles and glasses, and there is always the theatre, on which your spaniard dotes. in the winter season there is opportunity to enjoy classic drama at the _teatro español_, where the bernhardt of spain, "la guerrero," supported by her grandee husband, mendoza, holds sway. when i saw them they were using short farces of cervantes and lope de rueda for curtain raisers to a romantic drama by tirso de molina and a modern society play by echegaray. i saw them, too, in zorrilla's singular dramatic version of "don juan," the only play allowed in spanish theatres on the night of all saints. from march to november, however, the _teatro español_ is closed, and there is little doing at the _teatro real_, an aristocratic temple of italian opera. during the summer season the theatrical opportunities of madrid are mainly limited to the popular _zarzuelas_, or operettas, four of which are usually given in an evening. each theatre offers a new programme of these every night, but there is little of literary interest except, now and then, a taking trifle from the pen of hartzenbusch or echegaray. the madrid theatre recks naught of early risers. the opening vaudeville is seldom under way before nine o'clock; the house is cleared after each performance, and often the encores and repetitions prolong a popular _zarzuela_ quite beyond the hour limit. on the other hand, if the audience is small, the opening piece may be cut down to the merest outline. i remember one such occasion when the boxes were so empty and the farce so familiar that the orchestra fairly chaffed the actors off the stage. "enough, enough! thou mayst withdraw!" chanted the lyric lover to an intruding servant. "and so mayst thou," called out a voice from among the violins. "i've told my passion to the stars," continued the actor in his most mellifluous tenor, making the distant love of the spanish stage to a lady who was smiling frankly on the audacious fiddler. "poor stars!" interpolated this worthy so sympathetically that everybody laughed, the singer wound up his transports in the shortest possible order, and the remaining scenes were hardly more than pantomime. but such was the universal good nature and indifference to business exactitudes, that neither artists nor ticket-holders took this curtailment of their rights in umbrage. among the excellences of madrid must be counted her _museos_. the _armería_, with its plumed and steel-clad warriors, all at tourney, is no mere lumber room of wicked old iron, as might have been expected, but a new canto of the "faery queene." the _museo naval_ still smells of the boundless brine and isles of spicery. the _museo arqueológico nacional_ sweeps one, as on the magic carpet of alhambra legend, through the entire tragedy of spain. here are the successive leaves of her strange picture-book--scratched, prehistoric flints, grass-woven iberian sandals, rudely sculptured shapes in sandstone grasping wine cups that suggest whole rubaiyats, phoenician anchors, bronze tables of roman laws, moorish arabesques, mediæval altars, modern wares and fineries, while barbaric spoils of peruvian idols, mexican feather-shields, sacrificial stones, and figures of forest lords speak to the imagination of that vast colonial empire which rose out of a dream to melt again like very dreamstuff, leaving "not a rack behind." these i have seen, but there are twice as many more madrid museums which i had not time to see, and which, i am told, are no less rich in rarities and no less effective in pictorial beauty of arrangement. of the art galleries, who can say enough? the supreme _museo del prado_ so magnetizes pilgrim feet that it is hard to spare even a few hours for the _académia de bellas artes_, with its grand murillos and calm zurbaráns, or the _museo de arte moderno_, with its succession of canvases depicting scene upon scene of death, decay, murder, execution, starvation, battle, torture, frenzy. whatever is most horrible in the story of the peninsula--juana the mad staring at her husband's coffin, the bloody fall of the betrayed torrijos and his band, the nobles of portugal doing shuddering homage to the exhumed corpse of inez de castro, all that moves disgust, distress, dismay, seems flaunted here. the technique is french, but the subjects are spanish. many of the pictures have historical dignity and faithfulness, a few reproduce the modern national types, with a preference for bull-fighters and anarchists over fishermen and peasants, but one misses the spiritual beauty that went hand in hand with the spiritual terror of the older art. do the spanish painters of to-day derive only from goya and ribera? the old-time popular ceremonies are fast fading out of europeanized madrid. even the christmas mirth is waning, though still on _noche buena_ the _plaza mayor_ is close set with booths, and the infanta isabel, _muy madrileña_ that she is, makes a point of driving through and heaping her carriage with fairings. on twelfth night, too, there are a few small boys to be seen scampering about the streets, looking for the arrival of the magi. every year drops something of the mediæval heritage, and it has fallen to my lot to chronicle the passing of one of madrid's most ancient and comfortable rites. the principal saint days of june, july, and august are preceded by _verbenas_, or evening fairs, chief among these being the _verbena de san juan_, on midsummer night. many a baby has a grand frolic this evening, rocked back and forth on his mamma's knees, laughing eyes to laughing eyes, while she dips her head to his and tickles his little neck with kisses in time to the ancient ditty:-- "recotín, recotón! the bells of st. john! there's a festival on. recotín, recotín, recotón!" far along the _prado_ gleam the busy fires over which are merrily bubbling the oiliest and brownest of _buñuelos_. the rows of lighted stalls, which have sprung up like mushrooms on either side of the promenade, present to the revelling, roving, shifting throng an amazing variety of tawdry knickknacks, ingeniously devised to meet no human want. as we drove slowly up and down, enjoying the scene, while beggars ran beside the carriage and hawkers darted out upon us with shrill cries, the "american girl" of our little group strove earnestly to find "something to buy." the most useful and convenient article for a traveller that could be discovered was a pasteboard bull's head on a long stick, but her chaperon, mindful of trunk dimensions, discouraged this purchase so effectively that little boston gracefully made herself amends by presenting us all with images of st. john. these scandalously represented the baptist as a ballet girl in short cotton-wool skirts and gilt ribbons, waving a banner with one hand and leading a two-legged lamb with the other. as midnight drew near, carriages and foot-folk all pressed toward the stately cybele fountain. it seems that there was once, in the _puerta del sol_, a magic spring whose waters, sprinkled at midsummer midnight on the most unlikely head, insured a wedding within the year. trams and cabs, riots and bloodshed, drove the precious charm away to the _prado_, even to this same cybele fountain, which for many generations has continued to work bridal miracles. so recently as , as soon as the clock in the tower of the stately bank of spain struck midnight, with wedding cadences lingering in its peal, eager feet went splashing through the broad marble basin, and the enchanted water, thrown by handfuls and cupfuls far out over the crowd, sparkled even on bald pates and wigs. but alas for madrid and her midsummer night's dream! some prosaic person got wet and tattled to the alcalde. so when in natural agitation, on our only verbena of st. john, we had persuaded the compassionate coachman to drive as close as close might be to the fountain, we encountered a bristling, unromantic railing, and outside of this a grim circle of police, frowning menace on that disconcerted host. every moment more carriages, with veiled ladies and rheumatic gentlemen, dashed up, and the indignant crowd surged forward to the very buttons of authority. but midnight chimed in vain. one desperate graybeard vaulted over the railing, only to be hustled back with contumely. in general, however, that great press of people remained as meek as the lions of cybele's chariot--a lack of spirit only to be accounted for by remembering that this midnight company was made up of the shamefaced and rejected, such an assemblage of blighted beings as, now that the last spell is snapped, earth will never see again. even the decorous cybele laughed in her marble sleeve. so passes the old madrid; but there is a new madrid, of which a word still waits to be said. xiv a study in contrasts "here you have them, the two spains, unlike, antagonistic, squared for conflict." --_vida nueva._ the world-old struggle between conservatism and advance is at its most dramatic point in spain. the united forces of clericalism and militarism work for the continuance of ancient institutions, methods, ideas, and those leaders who do battle in the name of liberalism are too often nothing more than selfish politicians. but with all these odds against progress, it is making way. the mass of the people, kept so long in the darkness of ignorance and superstition, are looking toward the light. during my last week in madrid i chanced upon two extreme expressions of these warring principles. the first was a royal and religious ceremony, the second a monster mass meeting,--the one intent on cherishing the past, the other clamoring at the gates of the future. i was looking over the _imparcial_ as i took my coffee one morning, when my eye fell on an item to the effect that there would be _capilla publica en palacio_ at ten o'clock. a traveller learns to jump at opportunity. public service in the royal chapel promised to be of interest, and half-past nine found me waiting, with a miscellaneous company of gentles and tatterdemalions, natives and foreigners, on the palace side of the _plaza de armas_, the expectant throng streaming far down the paved and covered way. we were well marshalled by soldiers, who kept the crowd in form of a long troop, and banded this by military lines, with gleaming bayonets. these bands, but a few feet apart, were effectual in preventing crowding and disorder, and when at last the doors were thrown open, a double rank of soldiers closed in before the portal as often as the entering file showed any tendency to press and hurry, and thus passed us through by small divisions, so that there was no unseemly struggling on the succession of bare, plain stairways that led to the upper galleries. for "public service in the royal chapel," i was now to discover, does not mean that the public is admitted to the chapel itself. this is small, but very spanish, with profusion of gilding, imposing altar, and frescoed saints, the characteristic splendor being tempered with a no less characteristic gloom, an effect enhanced by austere columns of gray marble. on days of public service, which are usually high feast days, three long galleries, forming three sides of a great quadrangle, are traversed by the court in passing from the royal rooms to the chapel door, and it is to these galleries only that the public is admitted. on such occasions the gallery walls are hung with richly colored tapestries from the magnificent collection of eight hundred pieces that enriches the royal _tapiceria_. the instant i crossed the threshold these tapestries blazed upon the eye, so dazzling in their beauty that it was difficult to grasp the general situation. civil guards, in gala uniform, each armed with a pike taller than himself, were stationed at intervals of about six feet all along these tapestried walls, holding the carpeted way open for the passage of the royal and ecclesiastical party. the public hastened to fill in the spaces left between the guards, so that when the dignitaries paced the length of the three galleries, they walked between continuous human lines of mingled soldiery and spectators. we were of various ages, sizes, colors, and quite as picturesque, take it all in all, as the slowly stepping group on which our eyes were focussed. a division of the royal escort, marching with drawn swords, preceded the queen regent, a slight and elegant figure in white and heliotrope, her mantilla pinned with diamonds. she walked in royal solitude, with a bearing of majesty and grace, but her face had a hard and almost sour look, which of itself might account for her unpopularity. the king and the younger infanta did not take part in the day's ceremony, but the princess of asturias followed her mother, a fresh-faced girl, charmingly dressed in white and blue, with pearls and turquoises. a respectful step or two in the rear of her niece, yet at her side rather than behind, came in rich green silk adorned with emeralds the stout, gray-puffed, easy-going infanta isabel, her broad, florid face beaming with affability. the guards had passed stern word down the line for all hats to be off, but there was no sign of greeting, so far as i saw, from the spectators to the royal party, except as now and then some happy spaniard bowed him to the dust in acknowledgment of a nod, as familiar as a wink, from this popular infanta. the occasion of this stately function was the elevation of the papal nuncio to the rank of cardinal. he passed in all priestly magnificence of vestments and jewels, his red hat borne before him on a cushion. he was attended by the chief clerics of court and capital, but even these gorgeous personages were outshone by the military and naval officers, whose breasts were a mosaic of medals, and whose headgear such erections of vainglory as to hush the crested cockatoo with shame. the gentlemen of the palace, too, were such peacocks in their glittering coats of many colors, their plumes and sashes, gold lace and silver lace, that the plump ladies in waiting, for all their pride of velvet, satin, and brocade, looked like mere hens in the wake of strutting chanticleers. the american mind is ill prepared to do homage to the dress parades of european courts, and i laid by the memory to laugh over when i should have reached a place and hour where laughter would be inoffensive. as the diplomatic corps, in its varied costumes, came trooping on, twice a whisper ran along the gazing lines. "the turk!" and the traditional enemy of spain limped smilingly past, a bent, shrewd-faced old mussulman, whose oriental finery was topped by the red fez. "the yankee!" and spain's latest adversary strode by in the person of the newly arrived united states minister, decorously arrayed in dress suit and a catholic expression. the chapel doors closed on this haughty train, and we, the invited public, cheerily proceeded to pass a social hour or two in chat and promenade and in contemplation of the tapestries. even the civil guards unbent, dancing their babies, lending their pikes to delighted urchins, and raising forbidden curtains to give their womenkind furtive peeps into the royal apartments. most astonishing was the maltreatment of those priceless tapestries. small boys, unrebuked, played at hide and seek under the heavy folds, old men traced the patterns with horny fingers, and the roughest fellows from the streets lounged stupidly against them, rubbing dirty-jacketed shoulders over the superb coloring. the most splendid series displayed was from a master-loom of the netherlands, illustrating the conquest of tunis by charles v--marvellously vivid scenes, where one beholds the spread of mighty camps, the battle shock of great armies and navies, and, like shrill chords of pain in some wild harmony, the countless individual tragedies of war. the scimitar of the turk flashes down on the spanish neck, while the upturned eyes are still too fierce for terror; the turbaned chief leans from his gold-wrought saddle to scan the severed heads that two blood-stained sons of the prophet are emulously holding up to his survey, hoping to recognize in those ghastly faces enemies of rank; white-robed women on the strand, their little ones clinging to their knees, reach arms of helpless anguish toward the smitten galley of their lords, who are leaping into the waves for refuge from the christian cannonade. i wondered how the turkish minister liked those tapestries, as his stooped-back excellency passed in conference with a chinese mandarin, who must have studied his costume from a teacup. for we had all been hustled into rows again to make that human lane through which the royalties and the reverends returned from their devotions. i was facing a quaint old tapestry of christ enthroned in glory, with the beasts of the apocalypse climbing over him like pet kittens, and this so distracted my attention that i omitted to ask the amiable infanta isabel, who would, i am sure, have told anybody anything, what had taken place. but i read it all in the _epocha_ that evening--how her majesty with her own august hands had fitted the red hat to the nuncio's tonsured head, and how the new-made cardinal had addressed her in a grateful oration, praising her virtues as manifested in "the double character of queen and mother, an example rich in those peculiar gifts by which your royal grace has won the veneration and love of the noble and chivalrous spanish people, the especial affection of the father of the faithful, and the respect and sympathy of all the world." for her and for the youthful monarch of spain he invoked the favor of heaven, and uttered a fervent hope that the cup of bitterness which this most catholic nation had bowed herself to drink might be blessed to her in a renewal of strength and a reconquest of her ancient preëminence among the peoples of the earth. the most significant expression of "new spain" that i encountered in madrid was a mass meeting--a rare and novel feature in spanish public life. i blundered upon it as foolishly as one well could. the second day of july was the first anniversary of the founding of a daring madrid weekly, the _vida nueva_, to which, attracted by its literary values, as well as its political courage, i had subscribed. the sheet is usually issued sunday, but as i was on the point of going out one saturday afternoon my _vida nueva_ arrived, accompanied by two non-committal tickets. they gave entrance to the _frontón central_, "only that and nothing more." i called one of the pretty señoritas of the household into council, and she sagely decided that these were tickets to _pelota_, the basque ball game, played in one or another of the various madrid halls almost every summer afternoon. it seemed a little too considerate in the _vida nueva_ to provide for the recreation of its subscribers, but i was growing accustomed to surprises of spanish courtesy, and tucked the tickets away in a safe corner. the folded newspaper rustled and whispered, and finally fluttered to my feet, but i was eager to be off, and, after the blind fashion of mortals, put it by. it was my privilege to dine that day with two compatriots, and one of these, who knows and loves spain better than many spaniards do, began at once to tell me of that most unusual occurrence, a madrid mass meeting, to take place this very evening. of course we resolved to go, although my friend's husband was not in the city, and no other escort would countenance so harebrained an expedition. for the street to which this valiant lady led the way was choked with a flood of men surging toward an open door. the hall for the "meeting," a word which the spanish language has fully adopted, was the _frontón central_, and admission was by ticket. light dawned on my dim wits, and, while my two companions, with dignified and tranquil mien, stood themselves up against the outer wall, i besought a leisurely cabman, who insisted on waiting to pick up a little ragamuffin clamoring for a ride, to drive me in hot haste to my domicile. here i searched out the tickets, put away only too carefully, and took a fleeting glance at the _vida nueva_, which urged all "men of heart" to celebrate the eve of its anniversary by their presence at this mass meeting. i had not realized that there were so many men of heart in madrid. the street on my return was worse than before. the cabman objected strenuously to leaving us in these tempestuous surroundings, and, since there were only two tickets, we two elders of the trio agreed that the american girl was all too young for such an escapade, and forthwith despatched her, under his fatherly care, to the hotel. then came the tug of war. we saw men fighting fiercely about the door, we heard the loud bandying of angry words, we were warned again and again that we could never get through the jam, we were told that, tickets or no tickets, ladies would not, could not, and should not be admitted; it was darkly hinted that, before the evening was over, there would be wild and bloody work within those walls. but we noticed a few other women in the throng, and decided, from moment to moment, to wait a little longer, and see what happened next. meanwhile, we were almost unjostled in the midst of that excited, struggling crowd, often catching the words: "stand back there! don't press on the ladies! leave room!" and when it came to the final dash we had well-nigh a clear passage. our tickets gave access only to the floor of a big, oblong hall, closely packed with a standing mass of some ten thousand men; but a debonair personage in authority conducted us, with more chivalry than justice, to the reserved boxes in the gallery, where we occupied perfect seats,--for which other people probably held tickets,--in the front row, overlooking all the house. [illustration: maria santisima] so much for spanish indulgence to audacious womenfolk. but as to the meeting itself, what was it all about? in spain one word suffices for an answer. _montjuich_ has become a liberal rallying cry, although the movement is not bound in by party lines. it is the dreyfus _affaire_ in a spanish edition. the _castello de montjuich_ is a strong fortress, with large magazines and quarters for ten thousand soldiers. it is built on a commanding height, the old mountain of the jews, just outside barcelona, and has again and again suffered bombardment and storm. but in this latest assault on montjuich the weapons are words that burn and pens keener than swords. it was on the seventh of june, , that the famous bomb was exploded in barcelona. it was taken for an anarchist outrage, and over two hundred men, including teachers, writers, and labor leaders, were arrested on suspicion. nearly two months passed, and, despite the offer of tempting rewards, no trace of the culprits had been found. in the fortress of montjuich the guards deputed to watch the prisoners, acting more or less under superior authority, which itself may have been influenced by jesuit suggestion, began on the fourth of august to inflict tortures upon the accused for the purpose of extracting evidence. the trials were by military procedure, power sat in the seat of justice, and innocent men, it is believed, were condemned on the strength of those forced confessions--mere assents, wrung from them by bodily agony, to whatever their guards might dictate. but many persisted in denial, and in course of time a number were released, maimed, in certain cases, for life. others were shot, and a score still lay in prison. the fortress dungeons are deep and dark, but little by little the cries and groans of the "martyrs of montjuich" penetrated the dull stone and sounded throughout spain. on the fourteenth of may, last year, the _vida nueva_, this bold young periodical in the van of the liberal cause, brought out an illustrated number devoted to "the torments of montjuich." other periodicals sprang to its support and kept the government busy with denunciations, while they vehemently called for a revision of the judicial process, with the hope of releasing the men still under sentence and clearing the names of those who had perished. mass meetings to urge such revision, which could be accorded only by vote of the cortes, were held in barcelona, saragossa, valencia, santander, and other principal cities, all demanding revision in the sacred names of patriotism, humanity, and justice. our madrid mass meeting was of chief consequence in impressing the government with the weight of popular opinion. the swaying multitude was called to order at quarter of ten by señor canalejas, who introduced a notable array of speakers. there were representatives of labor, of republicanism, of the press, a catalan charged with a greeting from barcelona, the champion of spanish socialism, pablo iglesias by name, and great men of the nation, azcárate, moret, and salmeron. spanish eloquence at its best thrills the blood to wine, and the swift succession of orators, fourteen all told, played on the vast audience like master artists on a murmurous organ. yet there was no disorder. a generous and grateful hearing was accorded the count of las almenas, who frankly declared himself a conservative in politics and an apostolic roman catholic in religion, but in the name of both these creeds a lover of justice and humanity. since for these he ever held himself ready to do battle in the cortes, he gave the meeting his pledge that he would support azcárate in the motion for revision. but the wrath and grief of the audience could hardly be controlled when one of the released prisoners took the platform to recount the horrors of montjuich. he told of dungeons with earth floor and one grated window, of savage guards determined to gain the crosses and pensions promised to those who should extract evidence. he told how the helpless captives, weakened by confinement, were tortured with cords, whips, sleeplessness, hunger, and thirst. bound as they were, water was held before their parched mouths, with the sinister words, "confess what we bid you, and you shall drink." when the famished men begged for food, they were answered with the lash, or, more fiendishly, with shreds of salt codfish, which increased their thirst a hundred fold. one man in his desperation sprang to the lamp and quaffed the dirty oil. they licked the moisture from their dungeon walls. they thrust white tongues through the grating to catch the drops of rain. soon the guards proceeded to more violent torments, wrenching, burning, and probing the quivering flesh with a devilish ingenuity of torture, making a derisive sport of their atrocious work. one of the victims went mad while undergoing torture by compression of the head. others, on hearing the coming steps of the guards, strove to escape their cruel hands by suicide. one drank a bowl of disinfectant found in his cell, one beat his forehead against the wall, one strove to drive a rusted nail into his heart. it was a frightful tale to hear. i looked across the hall to where a spanish flag was hung. yellow wax is funeral wax, and alarcón, who sees in yellow a symbol of death and of decay, laments that it is the color of half the spanish banner. "_ay de la bandera española!_" but surely there is hope for spain, while she has sons who, in grasp of a military tyranny which has rendered such crimes possible, contend in open field for the overthrow of the "black spain" of the inquisition, and still bear heart of hope for a white, regenerated spain, where religion shall include the love of man. xv the patron saint of madrid "labré, cultivé, cogí con piedad, con fe, con celo, tierras, virtudes y cielo." spain seems actually skied over with the wings of guardian angels. the traditional tutelar of the nation, santiago, counts for less, especially in the south and centre of the peninsula, than might be expected, and was long since officially superseded by the virgin; but cities, hamlets, families, individuals, all have their protecting saints. some are martyrs, some bishops, some apostles, while cordova rests secure beneath the shining plumes of the angel raphael. towns and townlets hold festivals for their celestial patrons, honoring them with fairs, horse-races, processions, dances, and whatsoever else may be appropriate to the season and characteristic of the locality, as ball games, bull-fights, or even a miracle play. only seville, mirth-loving seville, who makes holiday on the slightest provocation, can never invite her two beautiful guardians, santa justa and santa rufina, to a jubilee. these holy maidens used to keep a pottery booth in triana, now the gypsy quarter of the city, where, refusing to worship the roman venus, they won the crown of martyrdom. but their industrious habits cling to them still, and, by night and by day, while the centuries pass, they uphold the giralda. an anointed vision, like murillo's, may see their graceful forms hovering in mid-air on either side of the famous tower, which their strong brown arms hold firm even in tempests. if the ladies should let go, the giralda would fall, and so the sevillians are driven to the ungallant course of ignoring these really useful patrons and gadding off to adjacent towns whose saints are at leisure to be entertained. [illustration: a spanish monk] by the eternal contradiction that prevails in all things spanish, it has come to pass that madrid, the elegant capital and royal residence, is under the guardianship of a peasant saint. here, in the eleventh century, isidro was born, say the priests, of poor but catholic parents. if not precisely a hewer of wood and a drawer of water, he was next door to that humble estate, being a digger of wells and cellars. he dug with such piety that god aided him by miracles, causing troublesome rocks to melt like wax at the touch of his spade, and springs of healing water to leap in the pits of his fashioning. he was a tiller of the ground, besides, a hireling farm servant, whose agricultural methods, though seemingly irregular, caused his master's granaries to overflow. as he went to the fields in the fresh spring mornings, the young isidro would scatter handfuls of seed for the birds, saying, "eat, god's little birds, for when our lord looks forth in dawn, he looks upon us all." and as he dropped the wheat and barley in the furrows, ever he murmured, "this for god, and this for us; this for the birds, and this for the ants." "for the ants, too?" mockingly asked the rustics who planted beside him, but isidro steadfastly replied, "for the ants, too, since they are god's ants, and his royal bounty is for all his household." no wonder that the almighty had isidro's fields in special charge, sending sun and rain in due season that the harvest might suffice for every claimant. such divine care was the more necessary, because this dreamy plough-boy spent most of his time in the churches, or on his knees in the shadow of the fruit trees, until his profane companions called him lazybones. isidro was no effective patron of madrid as yet, but ran away from the moors, when they invaded the city, finding farm service in a neighboring village. here he married a maiden whose lovely soul, according to lope de vega, shone through her guileless face like a painting through its glass. she was no less devout than her husband, and went every evening to trim the altar in a lonely shrine of the virgin. there was a stream to be crossed on the way, and in times of freshet our lady would appear in person and lead her by the hand over the tops of the waves. such dainty stepping as it must have been! and once, when isidro accompanied his wife, they both crossed in a boat suddenly improvised from her mantilla, which was not a thread the worse for the experience. the miracle-working power that developed in san isidro was first exercised, as became a farmer, on suffering beasts and bad weather. his early influence over water grew more and more pronounced, rain refreshing the thirsty fields at his bidding, and medicinal fountains gushing from rocks at the stroke of his hoe. and when, one sunshiny morning, his wife let their baby boy slip from her arms into the depths of the well and ran in distress to her husband, the saint, who for once was working on the farm, did not scold her, as the priestly authors seem to think would have been the natural course, but calmly said, "my sister, what is there to cry about?" and when, after a season of prayer, these exemplary parents proceeded to the well, its waters had risen to the brink, lifting the little john, as on a silver-tissue cushion, safe to their embrace. isidro still retained his youthful peculiarities as a laborer, often praying all day long in the churches, while his yoke of oxen did the ploughing just as well without him. on one occasion, when he arrived too late for mass, the gates of heaven opened to his vision, as he knelt before the closed church door, and he was permitted to witness a celestial mass, where christ was both priest and wafer, with choirs of angels chanting the holy service. even his charities cost him little, for when the _olla_ of vegetables and fish, that his wife made every saturday for the poor, had all been eaten, a word from isidro was enough to replenish the pot. if he emptied his sack of corn on the snow for a flock of hungry pigeons, the sack was full when he reached the mill; and when he threshed his master's wheat a second and a third time for the beggars, the very chaff turned into golden grain. his best quality, which almost makes his cult desirable in spain, continued to be his love for animals, especially for birds. these sang their sweetest songs as he passed by, and often flew down from the poplar branches to brush their little wings against his blouse. and he, who had raised his master's daughter from the dead, did not disdain to work miracles of healing and of life on maltreated horses. madrid would do well to give her guardian saint a season ticket to the bull-ring. even the despised and cudgelled ass had a share in his protection. a sacrilegious wolf that thought to make a meal of isidro's donkey, left to graze outside a church where the saint had gone to pray, was struck dead--perhaps by the donkey's heels. this kindly rustic, who had separated from his wife for greater sanctity, died on st. andrew's day and was buried in the cemetery of st. andrew's church in madrid. such sepulture was not to his liking, and twice his ghost appeared to ask that the body might be removed to the church, as was presently done, all the bells of st. andrew's ringing of their own accord to give it welcome. the tomb immediately began to work miracles, and isidro became such a favorite with the people that when, in , a shepherd guided alfonso viii, lost with his vanguard in the wild passes of the sierra morena, to the great battle of las navas de tolosa, where the armies of the holy cross broke forever the dominion of the moors in central spain, nothing would do but the story that this shepherd was isidro himself. above the tomb of the saint a chapel was erected, perhaps by alfonso, perhaps by _isabel la católica_. there seems to be a conflict of authorities here, but all testimonies agree that the angels used to come down and sing in the chapel saturday afternoons. madrid formally accepted isidro as patron in the summer of , when the labors of the husbandmen, on the point of perishing from drought, were saved by the body of the holy peasant, which, borne in priestly procession, called down floods of rain; but it was not until the times of philip iii, some four centuries later, that the actual canonization of isidro was granted by rome. on may , , the _plaza mayor_, that handsome square which has been the theatre of so many tournaments, executions, and _autos de fe_, the scene, two years later, of the beatification of loyola, was inaugurated by a splendid festival in honor of san isidro. from that day to this his worship has not waned. the miracle-working bones, which were carried to the bitter death-bed of philip iii, and comforted the passing of the great and generous spirit of charles iii, are still held to be more potent than physicians. churches, oratories, and chapels have been built to him all over the peninsula, the franciscan friars founded a convent of san isidro in rome, and his name is a part of our new geography lesson in the antilles and the philippines. only four years ago his urn was borne in penitential procession through madrid, with double supplications for rain on the parched country, and for a swift and happy ending of the cuban war. all priestly, military, civic, and governmental pomp went to make up that stately escort, the ladies of madrid showering the train as it passed beneath their balconies with flowers, poems, and _confetti_. the saint did what he could. the procession had been so skilfully timed that the rains began that very night, but the cuban war was a matter out of his province. his dealings had always been with water, not with blood. there is significance in this devotion of proud castile to san isidro. spain is essentially as democratic as america. her proverbs tell the story: "many a man gets to heaven in tow breeches;" "do what your master bids you, and sit down with him at table;" "nobody is born learned, and even bishops are made of men;" "since i am a man i may come to be pope;" "the corpse of the pope takes no more ground than that of the sacristan;" "every man is the son of his own works." "said the leaf to the flower: 'o fie! you put on airs indeed! but we sprang, both you and i, from the selfsame little brown seed.'" pedler, porter, beggar treat you as social equals and expect a full return of courtesy. it is told in madrid how a great diplomatic personage not long ago was eating his picnic luncheon in a hired carriage. the driver, lunching also, leaned back from his seat, clinked glasses, and drank the gentleman's health. the dignitary glared with astonishment and wrath. "man! i am the imperial ambassador of nation so-and-so." "what of it?" returned the driver, taking another bite of his peppery spanish sausage; "i am the head hostler of stables such-and-such." again and again, in recent times as in ancient, have the rank and file of the spanish nation asserted their dignity of manhood. an edict of charles iii, forbidding the madrileños to muffle themselves in their beloved long cloaks and hide their faces under their big slouch hats, raised a furious riot in the capital. should a king dictate the fashion of a man's garments? and when the stupid weakness of charles iv and the baseness of his son fernando had delivered spain over to napoleon, when french armies held her fortresses, and murat, with twenty-five thousand troops, ruled madrid by logic of steel and iron, it was the spanish people who, from asturias to andalusia, sprang to the defence of a country abandoned by princes, councils, and grandees. the spanish people, not the spanish nobles, preserved the independence of the nation and actually broke the career of the corsican conqueror. the italian king, amadeo, so much better than his fortunes, was welcomed at valencia in with simple verses, spoken by a child, that breathe even from their opening stanza this native spirit of democracy:-- "the high lord of the heavens created men one day, all mortal and all equal, all shapen out of clay; for god recked not of nations, of white and black and brown, but on his human children impartially looked down." it is not then so strange as it appears at first hearing that a piers plowman should be patron of madrid. from alfonso viii to alfonso xiii, a matter of some seven centuries, isidro has been in high repute with royalty. the "catholic kings" made him rich gifts; philip ii, bigot of bigots, cherished an especial veneration for the ghostly protector who had brought his delicate childhood safely through smallpox and epileptic seizures; the passion-wasted philip iv did him public homage; charles the bewitched made a solemn progress to his shrine to thank him for recovery from illness; even the bright young bourbon, philip v, had scarcely arrived in madrid before he hastened to worship the efficacious body of san isidro. the urn has been opened at intervals to give their successive majesties of spain the grewsome joy of gazing on the bones, and it has been the peculiar privilege of spanish queens, on such occasions, to renew the costly cerements. the devotion of the present regent to these relics keeps pace with that of her predecessors. where royalty leads, aristocracy is swift to follow, and isidro has a gorgeous wardrobe of embroidered standards, palls, canopies, burial cloths, and everything that a skeleton could require, but "for a' that and a' that" the laboring people of castile never forget that the canonized farmer especially belongs to them. his fortnight-long _fiesta_ is the may outing of the rustic population all about madrid. we will start on this pilgrimage from the _puerta del sol_, because everything in madrid starts from the _puerta del sol_. from this great open parallelogram in the centre of the city, surrounded by lofty hotels and government buildings, bordered with shops and cafés, brightened with fountains, thronged with trams, carriages, people, always humming with voices, always surging with movement, run ten of the principal streets of the capital. the _alcalá_, most fashionable of promenades, and _san jerónimo_, beloved of wealthy shoppers, conduct to the noble reaches of parks and _paseos_ in the east; the handsome _arenal_ and historic _calle mayor_ lead west to the royal palace, with its extensive gardens known as the _campo del moro_; _montera_, with two less elegant avenues, points to the north, where one may find the university, the protestant churches, and the tragic site of the _quemadero_; and three corresponding streets open the way to the south, with its factories, hospitals, old churches, and world-famed _rastro_, or rag fair. [illustration: a seville street] but during the early days of the _romeria_, which begins on may , all the throbbing tide of life pours toward the southwest, for the goal of the pilgrimage, the hermitage of san isidro, built over one of his miraculous wells by the empress of charles i, in gratitude for a cure experienced by her august husband after drinking of the waters, stands on the farther bank of the manzanares. the trams, literally heaped with clinging humanity, pass out by the _calle mayor_ and cross the _plaza mayor_. the innumerable 'buses and cabs make a shorter cut, but all varieties of vehicle are soon wedged together in the broad thoroughfare of toledo. here we pass the big granite church of san isidro el real, once in possession of the jesuits, but on their expulsion from spain, in , consecrated to the santo labrador. his body was borne thither, with all solemn ceremonial, from the chapel in st. andrew's; and his poor wife, who had also been sainted, by a courteous spanish afterthought, under the attractive title of _maria de la cabeza_, mary of the head, was allowed to lay her celebrated skull beneath the same roof,--a greater liberty than he had permitted her during the latter half of their earthly lives. the madrid cathedral, hard by the royal palace, is still in slow process of building, the work being hampered and delayed for lack of funds, although her majesty sets a devout example by contributing $ a month. meanwhile, san isidro el real serves as the cathedral church of the diocese. this _calle de toledo_, where isidro dug several of his medicinal wells, is always gay with arcades and booths and drapers' shops; but now, during the _romeria_, it is a veritable curbstone market, where oranges, sashes, brooms, mantles, picture frames, saucepans, fiddles, mantillas, china, jackets, umbrellas, fans, dolls, bird-cages, paintings of saints, and photographs of ballet dancers are all cried and exhibited, hawked and held under nose, in one continuous tumult. as we approach the bare mass of masonry known as the gate of toledo, we cast, for all our festival mood, a clouded glance in the direction of the barbarous slaughter-houses of madrid. here the stronger beasts are blinded by the thrust of darts, and also hamstrung, to render them helpless under the deliberate butchery of their tormentors, who often amuse themselves by a little bull-fight practice with the agonized creatures before striking the final blow--a place of such atrocious cruelties that even the seasoned nerves of an austrian surgeon recently visiting it gave way, and he fainted as he looked. there is work for san isidro here. the jam of equipages on the bridge of toledo gives us abundant time to observe the statue of the holy peasant, in a stone niche, lifting his baby from the well, and the companion statue of mary of the skull. and there is the manzanares to look at, that sandy channel along which dribble a few threads of water--threads that the washerwomen of madrid seek after like veins of silver. small boys are wading from one bank to the other, hardly troubling themselves to roll up their trousers. it is said that philip iv, surveying his pompous bridge across the manzanares, was wickedly advised by one of his courtiers to sell the bridge or else buy a river. it is a curious bit of irony to hold the festival of the water saint beside a river bed almost as dry as his bones. but the crowd has now become so mad and merry that it distracts attention alike from architecture and physical geography. will all the dexterity of foot-police and mounted guards ever succeed in disentangling this snarl of equipages? who cares? everybody is laughing. everybody, too, is helping, so far as lungs can help. a daring aragonese, with a blue and white checked handkerchief knotted about his head and a scarlet blanket over his shoulders, tries to dash across the bridge and rejoin his screaming children. he stumbles before a jovial omnibus, whose four horses, adorned with beribboned straw hats, gaze coyly out from under the torn brims like so many metamorphosed maud mullers. a distant guard roars a warning. the crowd bellows in sympathy. a liveried coachman rears his spirited pair of bays. a cock-hatted gypsy, with half his tribe packed into his cart, tries to follow suit, and tugs savagely at the stubborn mouths of mules whose heads are liberally festooned with red and green tassels. in front of these safely passes the aragonese, only to bring up against the great wheel of a picnic wagon, whose occupants, mostly señoritas in the sunrise philippine shawls, thrust out their pretty heads, all crowned with flowers instead of hats, and rain down saucy salutations. the crowd chimes in with every variety of voluble impudence. he catches at the long gold fringe of the nearest shawl, saves himself from falling at the price of a shriek of wrath from the señorita, plunges desperately on, is struck by a cab horse, the poor beast being half blinded by the tickling plumes that droop over eyes and nose, and amid volleys of ridicule and encouragement reels to the shelter of the sidewalk. but a very precarious shelter it is, so narrow that the lads are positively obliged to fling their arms about the lasses to hold the fluttering skirts back from peril of wheels and hoofs. everywhere what audacity, what fun, what color, and what noise! troops on troops of foot travellers, usually in family groups, and often stained with the dust of an all-day tramp! the wives generally carry the hampers, and the husbands sometimes shoulder the babies. squads of young fellows frolic along, each with his supply of provisions tied up in a gaudy handkerchief. the closer the nudging the better they like it; a slap from a girlish hand is almost as good as a kiss. isidro knew all about it in his day. but this clownish jollity grows rougher and rougher, and the crack and sting from a coachman's whip tempt a reply with the pilgrim's staff. the guards, hoarse and purple, wipe their dripping brows. it is early afternoon yet, too, and the larking and license are as nothing to what may be expected before midnight. it is a little better when, at last, the bridge is left behind. turning to the northwest, the dusty road runs on beside the river and beneath the bluffs lined with rowdyish folk, who shout down greetings to their acquaintances and compliments to the ladies, toward the _ermita_. a certain juan de vargas, riding over this same route one day, lifted his eyes to the uplands to see how his farm-hand, isidro, was getting on with the ploughing. blessed isidro! before and after went two stalwart young angels, still in shining white, each driving a celestial yoke of oxen. times have changed. the sight that greets our eyes is emphatically human--a great country fair, a pandemonium of rude, good-natured revelry. the beggars who have been chasing the carriage, the cripples outstripping the rest, thrust withered arms, ulcerous legs, and all manner of profitable deformities into our very faces as we alight, even clutching at the coins with which we pay the coachman. we make our way, as best we can in the rough press, between two rows of booths toward the church. there is the usual spanish variety of penny toys on sale--balls, baskets, whips, kites, jumping-jacks, balloons, and every other conceivable trifle admitting of the colors red and yellow. but the great traffic is in those articles especially consecrate to san isidro--frosted cakes, probably made after the recipe of _maria de la cabeza_, clay vessels of every shape and size for carrying away the healing waters, and, first and foremost, _pitos_, or whistles. the priests would have us believe that san isidro was forever droning psalms, but ploughmen know a ploughman's music, and the sacred whistles lead the sales in the _romeria_. it is impiety not to purchase at least one of these, and the more devout you are, the more _pitos_ will you buy. the infanta isabel, aunt of his little majesty, fills her emblazoned coach every year with these shrill pipes in all their variety of queer disguises--fans, birds, puffing grotesques, and, above all, paper flowers. he is no lover worth the having who does not bring his sweetheart a san isidro rose with a _pito_ for a stem. the ear-torture of an immense fair-ground delighting in an infinity of whistles may be left to the sympathetic imagination. we cling to the memory of burns, and bear for his bonny sake what we could hardly endure for any such sham laborer as isidro. the hearing is not the only sense to do penance in this pilgrimage. the water saint has never thought to work a miracle of cleanliness upon his peasant votaries, and the smell that bursts out upon us from the opening doors of the church might put us to flight, were flight still possible. but, caught in the human current, we are swept on into the gilded, candle-lighted, foul-aired oratory, with its effigies of santo labrador and santa labradora. all day long the imperious ringing of the bell at the shortest of intervals has been calling one company of the faithful after another up the bare brown hill to that unventilated temple. when there is no squeezing room left for even a dwarf from the pygmy show, the doors are closed, the bell is silenced, and the rustics are marshalled in rapid procession before the altar, where they pay a penny each, receive a cheap print of san isidro, and kiss the mysterious, glass-cased relic which a businesslike young ecclesiastic touches hastily to their lips. the frank sound of the kissing within is accompanied by the tooting of _pitos_ without. we stand at one side, looking at the priests and wondering how their consciences are put together, but half ashamed to watch with heretic eyes the tears of joy, the fervors of prayer, the ecstasies of faith, that are to be seen in many of these simple, passionate faces filing by. here comes a little girl treading as if on air and clasping her picture of the saint to her lips, brows, and heart with such abandon of delighted adoration as one must go to spain to see. released from the hermitage, we fill our lungs with sweeter breath, give skirts a vigorous shake in the vain hope that we may not carry away too many deserters from the insect retinue of our recent associates, and turn down toward the river. our short cut leads us among heaps and heaps of bales packed with the graceful clay jars. how many an anxious mother will trudge her weary miles across this dry castilian steppe, bearing with all her other burdens a _botija_ of the healing water to some little sufferer at home! wonderful water, warranted to make whole the lame, the blind, the deaf, the dumb, and put to rout all ills that flesh is heir to, especially fevers, tumors, erysipelas, paralysis, and consumption! it is as potent to-day as when it first gushed from the earth at the bidding of the young isidro, for did it not work a notable cure, as late as , on the infanta doña paz de bourbon, sister of alphonso xii? we linger a few minutes at the edge of the bluff, looking down upon the animated scene below, from which rises the hum as of an exaggerated beehive. the long green stretch of valley meadow is one wave of restless color. thickly dotted with booths for refreshment, for sale of the san isidro wares, for penny shows, farces, wax figures, and all manner of cheap entertainments, it still has space for dancers, wrestlers, _pelota_ players, for swings, stilts, and merry-go-rounds, and, above all, for the multitude of promenaders, sleepers, and feasters. the bright may sunshine gleams and dazzles on the soldiers' helmets, flashes out all the hues and tints of the varied costumes, and even lends a grace to the brown patches on the browner tents. the tossing of limbs in the wild, free dances, the flutter of the red and yellow flags, the picturesque grouping on the grass of families, complete to dog and donkey, around the platter of homely fare and the skin bottle of wine--all this makes a panorama on which one would gladly gaze for hours. going down into the heart of the festivity, the interest still grows. we enter one of the cleanest _cantinas_ and invest a _peseta_ in a bottle of sarsaparilla, not for our own drinking, having seen the water in which the glasses are washed, but as a protection against the horde of beggars and the gypsy fortune tellers. it works like a charm. as we respond to the whining appeals with the civilities of social greeting and an offered glass of our innocent beverage, the ragged petitioners are straightway transformed into ladies and gentlemen. they draw themselves erect, quaff the cup to our long life and happiness, discuss in self-respecting tones the weather and the fête, and then, without another hint of solicitation, bid us courteous farewells. we mean to take out a patent on the sarsaparilla treatment of spanish mendicancy. the tent itself is, like the rest, shabby and tumbledown, furnished with rough tables and benches, where cadets are playing dominos as they drink, and two country sweethearts are delectably eating what appears to be a sardine omelette off the same cracked plate. a clumsy lantern hangs overhead, racks of bottles are fastened up along the canvas walls, and all about the trampled earth floor stand water jars, great bowls of greens, and baskets of the crusty spanish bread. a pale young madrileño drops in for a glass of wine, but before indulging has the shy little rustic who serves him take a sip, languidly begging her, "do me the favor to sweeten my drink." the yellow cigarette-stains show on his white fingers as he pats her plump bare arm. the child, for she is scarcely more, and as brown as an acorn, responds to these amenities by giving the smiling exquisite alternate bites of her hunk of goat's-milk cheese, while her mother keeps a sharp eye on them both. comedy and tragedy are busy all about us. a newly arrived family plods wearily by in ludicrous procession, headed by a tall father carrying a baby and closed by a short child carrying a cat. a showy man of middle age, playing the gallant to an overdressed brunette, is suddenly confronted by his furious wife in boy's attire, so unluckily well disguised that, before recognizing her, he has replied to her rush of invective with a blow which bids fair to make one of her eyes, at least, blacker than those of her rival. traditional ballads are trolled, popular songs are echoed from group to group, and, despite bad odors, fleas, and whistles, we are reluctant to leave. but the afternoon grows late, the _arganda_ and _valdepeñas_ are beginning to burn in the southern blood, an occasional flourish of cudgels or of fists sends the police scurrying across the field, and, being nothing if not discreet, we pay our parting respects to san isidro. coming home by way of the _prado_ and passing the proud shaft of yellow-brown granite that towers far above its enclosing cypress trees, as glory above death, we are reminded that this gala month has brought another _fiesta_ to madrid. every second of may the capital commemorates with solemn masses, with stately civic processions, and a magnificent military review, the patriots who fell fighting in the streets on that terrible monday of , _el dos de mayo_, which brought to pass the war of independence. one may read of that fierce carnage in the vivid pages of galdós or behold it in the lurid paintings of goya. to see once is to see forever that line of french soldiery, with steady musket at shoulder, but with eyes bent on the ground, while they shoot down squad after squad of their defenceless victims. in pools of blood lie the contorted bodies, with heads and breasts horribly torn by crimson wounds, while of those who wait their turn to fall beside them some cover the eyes, one stupidly gnaws his hands, one kneels and wildly peers from under his shaggy hair into the very muzzle of the gun before him, one flings back his head with a savage grin, half of fright and half of courage, one desperately strips bare his breast and in agony of horror glares upon the guns, but the most are crouching, shuddering, sinking--and all only an item in the awful cost that the spanish people have paid for spanish liberties. the celebration of was no less brilliant than usual, although many of the madrid papers spoke bitterly of the shadow that the disastrous first of may must henceforth cast on the glorious second. it is indeed gall and wormwood to all spain that the manila defeat so nearly coincides with the proudest day in spanish annals. the saint of _el dos de mayo_ is saint revolution, as democratic in one way as saint agriculture in another. when these two patrons of madrid understand how to work in fellowship, when there comes a government in spain that cares chiefly to promote the welfare of the laboring people, the world may discover anew the vitality and noble quality of this long-suffering nation. we saw the _romeria_ once more, driving through late in the evening, when the closed booths glimmered white on the silent meadow. "yes, it is all a pack of lies," said a thoughtful catholic, "but what is one to do? a man cannot believe in religion--and yet how to live without it? the more i stay away from mass the more i want and need it. think of the comfort these peasants take with their san isidro!" the moonlight shone serene and beautiful on those patched, shabby tents, transforming them to silver. xvi the funeral of castelar "the death of the republic will be, for you, for us, and for all, the death of liberty. the death of liberty will be the death of the republic, and as liberty is the only thing in the world that rises from the dead, with liberty shall rise again, in good time, the republic."--emilio castelar: _inaugural address_, . the present state of spanish politics was amusingly expounded to me by a spirited young philosopher of cadiz. "in the north," he said, "the prevailing sentiment is for don carlos. nocedal is doing all he can to fan it in andalusia, but it finds its natural home in the northern provinces. to be sure, there is san sebastian, where the court summers, which consequently upholds the queen, and there are republican groups; but the north of spain, broadly speaking, is carlist. the centre favors the reigning family. possession is a strong argument, and the royal forces hold madrid. barcelona is republican. those catalans are always thirsty for a fight. but the middle tract of spain, as a whole, accepts the existing monarchy. castilians are too gallant to strike against a woman and a child. the south is republican. for the best part of the century cadiz and malaga have stood for revolution. where was the army of isabel ii defeated? and why has the queen never seen the alhambra? "but, let me tell you, these carlists, these royalists, these republicans are all fools. if there is anything hopeless in this world, it's spanish politics. all the uproar of the revolution ended in murdering our best man and driving out our best king. for myself, i mean to work hard and marry soon, and have a little spain in my own house that shall express my own convictions. my children shall be good catholics, but not superstitious bigots. they shall be well educated, if i have to send them to france or england for it. they shall be disciplined, but under the law of liberty. and with that i propose to be content. all my politics are to be kept under my own roof, where i can work my ideas into permanent form. i am sick of the way in which spain boils with ideas that only destroy one another." this sir oracle was two-and-twenty, with the prettiest of girlish photographs in his vest pocket, and the smallest of savings in the bank, but i remembered his words in the days of mourning for emilio castelar. the illustrious tribune, heavy-hearted with the troubles of his country, had gone to the home of friends, at a village in sunny murcia, for the rest and comfort that nature always gave him. his almost boyish optimism, "_niño grande y grande niño_" that he was, had kept him assured of peace even after the destruction of the _maine_, and assured of victory even after the battle of manila. hence the pressure of fact told on him all the more cruelly. "i die a victim of spain's agony," he wrote in a personal letter shortly before the end, and his last article for publication, finished on the day of his death, a gloomy discussion of the outlook for the peace conference, contains bitter references to the national disasters and to the ravages of the "criminal troop of pirates in the philippines." he died on thursday, the twenty-fifth of may, within hearing of the mediterranean waves he loved so well, with tender faces bent over him, and the crucifix at his lips. the news of his death aroused this grief-weary nation to a fresh outburst of sorrow. some lamented him as one of the chief orators of modern europe, recalling his eloquence in the tempestuous times of the revolution, when he "intoned mighty hymns in praise of liberty, democracy, and the sacred fatherland!" some mourned the patriot, pointing proudly to the honorable poverty in which this holder of many offices, at one time almost absolute dictator, had lived and died. some wept for the cordial, generous, noble-hearted man, the joy of his friends and idol of his household. his political sympathizers bewailed the loss of the spanish apostle of democracy, the lifelong champion of liberty. and many not of his following nor of his faith felt that a towering national figure had disappeared and another glory of spain vanished away. the first wreath received was from a republican club that sent the pansies of memory. among the five hundred telegrams and cablegrams that arrived within a few hours at the country-seat where he had died was one from over seas, which read: "to castelar: in thy death it seems as if we had lost the last treasure left to us, the voice of the spanish race. in thy death spain has become mute. yet let me believe that thou respondest, 'she will speak again.'" the coming of the body to the capital was a triumphal progress. a large escort of friends, who had made speed to murcia from all parts of the peninsula, accompanied it, and there were crowds at the stations, even in the mid-hours of the night, with tears, handfuls of roses, wreaths, and poems of farewell. there was often something very touching about these offerings. at one of the smaller towns a young girl hastily gathered flowers from the garden attached to the station, broke off a spray from a blossoming tree, tied these with the bright ribbon from her hair, and, clambering up, hung this simple nosegay among the costly tributes that already nearly covered the outer sides of the funeral car. in another crowded station the village priest came hurrying forward, bared his head with deepest reverence before the garlanded coach, as if before the altar, and chanted the prayers for the dead. again, a group of workmen, allowed to enter the car, fell on their knees before the bier and prayed. the train was met on its arrival in madrid by an immense concourse of people. señor silvela and other distinguished representatives of the government were there, church dignitaries, presidents of political societies and literary academies, but, above all, the people. it was the great, surging multitude that gave the republican leader his grandest welcome. this poor shell of castelar, the man said to bear "the soul of a don quixote in the body of a sancho panza," lay in state through sunday and a part of monday in the _palacio del congreso_. the vestibule had been converted into a _capilla ardiente_. masses were chanted ceaselessly at the two candle-laden altars, the perfume from the ever increasing heaps of flowers was so oppressive that the guards had to be relieved at short intervals, and the procession of people that filed rapidly past the bier, often weeping as they went, reached out from the morocco lions of the doorway to the _prado_ and the fountain of neptune. many of the humblest clad, waiting half the day in line, held pinks or lilies, fast withering in the sun, to drop at the feet of the people's friend. early on monday afternoon the doors were closed, and by half-past three the funeral cortège began to form in the _prado_ for its four-hour march by way of the _calle de alcalá_, _puerta del sol_, _calle mayor_, and _cuesta de la vega_, to the cemetery of san isidro. by the never failing spanish courtesy, i was invited to see the procession from the balcony of a private house in the _alcalá_. i found my hostess, a vivacious little old lady, whose daughter had crowned her with glory and honor by marrying into the nobility, much perturbed over the failure of the queen regent to show sympathy with the popular grief. "there were one hundred and forty-nine wreaths sent in. the very number shows that the royal wreath was lacking. i am a conservative, of course. canovas was my friend, and has dined here often and often. you see his portrait there beside that of my daughter, _la marquesa_. but canovas loved castelar, and would not, like silvela, have grudged him the military honors of a national funeral. as if the dead were republicans! the dead are spaniards, and castelar is a great spaniard, as this tremendous throng of people proves. there were not nearly so many for canovas, though the aristocracy made an elegant display; there were not so many for alfonso xii, though all that court and state and army could do was done, and the queen rode in the splendid ebony coach in which juana the mad used to carry about the body of that handsome husband of hers. "but the people know their losses. never in my life have i seen the _alcalá_ so full as this. silvela has had to give way, and the troops will come--at least a few of them. but not a word, not a flower, from the queen! she sent a magnificent wreath for canovas, and a beautiful letter to his widow. but for castelar, her people's hero, nothing. ah, she is not _simpática_. she does not know her opportunities. she does not understand the art of winning love. only a year ago she sent a wreath to the funeral of frascuelo, the _torero_. and everybody knows how she hates the bull-fight. but if she could drop her prejudices then to be at one with the feeling of her capital, why not now? they say she has a neuralgic headache to-day. _ay, dios mio!_ i should think she might." listening to this frank chatter and watching that mighty multitude, i was reminded of one of the andalusian _coplas_:-- "the republic is dead and gone; bury her out of the rain. but see! there is never a _panteón_ can hold the funeral train." and this, in turn, suggested another of those popular refrains:-- "the moon is a republican, and the sun with open eye; the earth she is republican, and republican am i." but who can understand this ever baffling spain? after all, what was the significance of that assembled host? how far was it drawn by devotion to the man, and how far by devotion to the idea for which he stood? how far by idle curiosity, by the spanish passion for pomps and shows, and, above all, for a crowd, by that strange spanish delight in _mucha gente_? so far as eye could tell, this might have been the merriest of fêtes. the wide street was a sea of restless color. uniforms, liveries, parasols, hats, frocks, pinafores, kerchiefs, blouses, sashes, fans, flecked the sunshine with a thousand hues. here loitered a messenger boy in vivid scarlet; there passed a waiter with a silver tray gleaming on his head; here a market woman bent beneath her burden of russet sacks bursting with greens; there stood a priest in shovel hat and cassock, smelling a great red rose; here a gallant in violet cape escorted a lady flaming in saffron; there a beaming old peasant, with an azure scarf tied over his white head, threw an orange to attract the attention of a plodding porter, whose forehead was protected from the cords binding the boxes to his back by several folds of purplish carpeting. streets and sidewalks, balconies and windows, all were full, and everywhere such eagerness, such animation, and such stir! the children sitting on the curbstone rocked their little bodies back and forth in excitement. young mothers danced their crying infants, and young fathers shifted the babies of a size or two larger from one shoulder to the other. a boy in a red cap climbed a small locust tree, from whose foliage his head peeped out like an overgrown cherry. the crowd indignantly called the attention of authority to this violation of the city laws. a glittering member of the civil guard sonorously ordered the culprit down. the laughing lad refused to budge, inviting this embarrassed arm of the law to reach up and get him. the guard darkly surveyed the slender stem already swaying with the boy's slight weight. the fickle crowd, whose every face seemed to be upturned toward that defiant cherry, cheered the rebel and tossed him cigarettes and matches, wherewith he proceeded to enjoy a smoke. the guard caught a few cigarettes in mid-career, pocketed them, smiled benevolently, and walked away. the lad saucily saluted, and the multitude, suddenly impartial, pelted them both with peanuts. thus it was that the madrid populace awaited the last coming of castelar. even when the funeral train was passing, the crowd showed scant respect. not half the men uncovered for the bier, although i was glad to see the cherry cap whisked off. and one picturesque gentleman stood throughout with his back to the procession, making eyes at his novia in the gallery above our own. the government, which had finally assumed the charges and care of the obsequies, had been remiss in not providing lines of soldiers to hold an open way for the cortège. as it was, the procession could hardly struggle through the mass of humanity that choked the street. a solitary rider, mounted, like death, on a white horse, went in advance, threatening the people with his sword. a division of the civil guard followed, erect and magnificent as ever, their gold bands glittering across their breasts, but their utmost efforts could not effectually beat back the crowd. men scoffed at the drawn blades and pushed against the horses with both hands. the empty "coach of respect," black as night, its sable horses tossing high white plumes, pressed after, and then came some half dozen carriages overflowing with wreaths and palms, and all that wealth of floral gifts. the crowd caught at the floating purple ribbons, and called aloud the names upon the cards; a monster design, with velvet canopy, from the well-known daily, _el liberal_, a beautiful crown from the widow of canovas, and, later in the procession, alone upon the coffin, a nosegay of roses and lilies, brought in the morning by a child of four, a little "daughter of the people," and bearing the roughly written words, "glory to castelar!--a workingman." the train of mourners, impeded as it was by the multitude, seemed endless. after the representatives of certain charities there walked, in gala uniform, white-headed veterans of war. a great company of students followed, their young faces serious and calm in that tempting hurly-burly of the street, and after them an overwhelming throng of delegates from all manner of commercial and craft unions. even the press wondered that castelar's death should move so profoundly the trading and laboring classes, almost every store and workshop in madrid closing for the afternoon. then came the republican committees, and behind them the representatives of countless literary, scientific, and artistic associations. at this point in the procession a place had been made for all or any who might wish, as individuals, to follow castelar to the tomb. some fifteen hundred had availed themselves of the opportunity--a motley fellowship. the gentlemen preceding, those who had come as delegates from the industrial and learned bodies of all spain, wore almost without exception the correct black coat and tall silk hat, and paced, when they could, with a steady dignity, or halted, when they must, with a grave patience, that did more to quiet the unruly host of spectators than all the angry charges of the police. but the fifteen hundred showed the popular variety of costume--capes and blouses, broad white hats and the artisan's colored cap. some of them were smoking, an indecorum which, by a self-denial that counts for much with spaniards, nowhere else appeared in the long array. but whatever might be the deficiencies of dress or bearing, here, one felt, was the genuine sorrow, here were the men who believed in castelar and longed to do him honor. the impulsive onlookers responded to this impression, and more than one rude fellow, who had been skylarking a minute before, elbowed his way into the troop and fell soberly into such step as there was. music would have worked wonders with that disorderly scene, but the bugles and cornets were all in the far rear. the representatives of the provinces, as they struggled by, were hailed with jokes and personalities. the chanting group of clergy, uplifting the same ebony cross that they had borne for canovas, did not entirely hush the crowd, nor did even the black-plumed hearse itself, with its solemn burden. for close after came, bearing tapers, a group of political note, closed by sagasta and campos, and then the chiefs of army and navy, including blanco and weyler. behind these walked the city fathers, the senators, the diplomats, ex-ministers,--among them romero, robledo,--then the archbishop, and, finally, silvela, with his colleagues. the procession was closed by a military display and a line of empty coaches, sent, according to spanish custom, as a mark of respect. the coach sent by congress, a patriotic blaze of red and yellow, with coachman and footman in red coats and yellow trousers, and horses decked with red and yellow plumes, looked as if it had started for the circus and had missed its way. [illustration: an old-fashioned bull-fight] the sight of the politicians seemed to serve as spark to the republican fuel. even while the hearse was passing somebody shouted, "long live castelar!" but the crowd corrected the cry to "long live the glorious memory of castelar!" then came a heterogeneous uproar: "death to the friars!" "long live the republican union!" "down with reaction!" "down with the jesuits!" "down with polavieja!" "down with the government!" "up with the republic!" "long live spain!" "long live the army!" "long live weyler!" a woman was run over in the confusion and a man was trampled, but the procession, aided as much as possible by the civil guards and the police, slowly worked its way through the _alcalá_ to the _puerta del sol_, where the people poured upon it like an avalanche, with ever louder cries against ministry and clergy, until the scene in front of the government building suggested something very like a mob. silvela bore his silvered head erect and exerted a prudent forbearance. but few arrests were made, and the military force that sallied out from the government building merely stood in the gates to awe the rioters. after an hour and a quarter the transit of the square was effected. the disturbances were renewed in the _calle mayor_ with such violence that the ministers were advised to withdraw, but they only entered the funeral coaches, and, the guards exerting themselves to the utmost, a degree of order was at last secured. while the cortège was descending the difficult hill of la vega, the queen, standing in one of the palace balconies, opera glass in hand, sent a messenger for a report of the state of affairs in her capital, and was visited and reassured by a member of the government. after this stormy journey the cemetery of san isidro was reached at nightfall, and the silent orator laid to rest in the patio of _santa maria de la cabeza_, beside his beloved sister, concha castelar. even here republican _vivas_ were raised, and again, later in the evening, before the house of weyler, who appeared upon the balcony in answer to repeated calls. this general, more popular with spaniards than with us, discreetly absented himself on tuesday from the high mass chanted for castelar in the church of _san francisco el grande_, where there was an imposing display of uniforms and decorations. while the people still talked of their lost leader and proposed monuments and medals in his honor, the government held firmly on its course. the royal progress for the opening of the cortes on the following friday was a suggestive contrast to the procession of monday. soldiers lined the curbstones all the way from the royal palace to the congress hall, bands were posted at intervals, the royal escort, splendidly mounted and equipped, was in itself a formidable force, while additional troops, in gala dress, paraded all the city. the balconies along the royal route were handsomely draped, but the people looked on at the gorgeous array of coaches, gilded and emblazoned, each drawn by six or eight choice horses, with sumptuous plumes and trappings, and attended by a story-book pomp of quaintly attired postilions, coachmen, and outriders, in a silence that was variously explained to me as indicating respect, hostility, indifference. i heard no _vivas_ and saw no hats raised even for the affable infanta isabel, riding alone in the tortoise-shell carriage, nor for the princess of asturias, girlishly attractive in rose color and white, nor for the bright-faced young king, ready with his military salute as he passed the foreign embassies, nor for the stately regent, robed as richly as if she were on her way to read a gladder message than that which the opposition journals indignantly declared "no message, but a pious prayer of resignation." and while madrid jarred and wrangled, the flowers brought by the little daughter of the workingman drooped on the marble slab above castelar's repose. xvii the immemorial fashion "for as many auchours affirme (and mannes accions declare) that man is but his mynde; so it is to bee daily tride, that the bodie is but a mixture of compoundes, knitte together like a fardell of fleashe, and bondell of bones, and united as a heavie lumpe of leade (without the mynde) in the sillie substance of a shadowe."--thomas churchill, gentleman. my spanish hostess, brightest and prettiest of little ladies despite the weight of sorrow upon sorrow, came tripping into my room one afternoon with her black eyes starry bright under the lace mantilla. "and where have you been to get so nicely rested?" "to a _duelo_." i turned the word over in my mind. _duelo?_ surely that must mean the mourning at a house of death, when the men have gone forth to church and the burial, and the women remain behind to weep together, or one of those tearful _at homes_ kept, day after day, until the mass, by the ladies of the afflicted household for their condoling friends. but such a smiling little señora! i hardly knew what degree of sympathy befitted the occasion. "were you acquainted with the--the person?" "no, i had never seen him. he had been an officer in the philippines many years, and came home very ill, fifteen days since. i wept because i knew his mother, but i wept much. women, at least here in spain, have always cause enough for tears. i thought of my own matters, and had a long, long cry. that is why i feel better. there is so little time to cry at home. i must see about the dinner now." and she rustled out again, leaving me to meditate on spanish originality, even in grief. in any country the usages of death are no less significant than the usages of life. that grim necropolis of glasgow, with its few shy gowans under its lowering sky, those tender, turf-folded, church-shadowed graveyards of rural england, those trains of mourners, men by themselves and women by themselves, walking behind the bier in mid-street through the mud and rain of wintry paris to the bedizened père lachaise or montparnasse--such sights interpret a nation as truly as its art and history; but the burial customs of spain, especially distinctive, are, like most things spanish, contradictory and baffling to the tourist view. "la tierra de vice versa" is not a country that he who runs may read. the popular verses and maxims treat of death with due castilian solemnity and an always unflinching, if often ironic, recognition of the mortal fact. "when the house is finished," says the proverb, "the hearse is at the door." yet this spanish hearse is one of the gayest vehicles since cinderella's coach. if the groundwork is black, there is abundant relief in mountings of brilliant yellow, but the funeral carriage is often cream-white, flourished over with fantastic designs in the bluest of blue or the pinkest of pink. coffins, too, may be gaudy as candy-boxes. the first coffin we saw in spain was bright lilac, a baby's casket, placed on gilt trestles in the centre of a great chill church, with chanting priests sprinkling holy water about it to frighten off the demons, and a crowd of black-bearded men waiting to follow it to the grave. such a little coffin and not a woman near! the poor mother was decently at home, weeping in the midst of a circle of relatives and neighbors, and counting it among her comforts that the family had so many masculine friends to walk in the funeral procession and show sympathy with the household grief. there would be, on the ninth day after and, for several years to come, on the anniversary of the death, as many masses as could be afforded said in the parish church, when, again, the friends would make it a point of duty to attend. the daily papers abound in these notices, printed in a variety of types, so as to cover from two to ten square inches, heavily bordered with black, and surmounted, in case of adults, with crosses, and with cherubs' heads for children. i take up a copy of _la epocha_ and read the following, under a cross: "third anniversary. señorita doña francisca fulana y tal died the twenty-sixth of june, , at twenty-one years of age. r. i. p. her disconsolate mother and the rest of the family ask their friends and all pious persons to be so good as to commend her to god. all the masses celebrated to-morrow morning in the church of san pascual will be applied to the everlasting rest of the soul of the said señorita. indulgences are granted in the usual form." it is the third anniversary, too, of a titled lady, whose "husband, brothers, brothers-in-law, nephews, uncles, cousins, and all who inherit under her will" have ordered masses in two churches for the entire day to-morrow, and announce, moreover, that the ecclesiastical authorities grant "one hundred and forty days of indulgence to all the faithful for each mass that they hear, sacred communion that they devote, or portion of a rosary that they pray for the soul of this most noble lady." in the case of another lady of high degree, who died yesterday, "having received the blessed sacraments and the benediction of his holiness," the nuncio concedes one hundred days of indulgence, the archbishop of burgos eighty, and the bishops of madrid, alcalá, cartagena, leon, and santander forty each; while a marquis who died a year ago, "knight of the illustrious order of the golden fleece," is to have masses said for his soul in seven churches, not only all through to-morrow, but for the two days following. may all these rest in peace, and all who mourn for them be comforted! yet thought drifts away to the poor and lowly, whose grief cannot find solace in procuring this costly intercession of the church for the souls they love. it seems hard that the inequalities of life should thus reach out into death and purgatory. we used, during our sojourn in granada, to meet many pathetic little processions on "the way of the dead." over this hollow road, almost a ravine, the fortress walls, with their crumbling towers, keep guard on the one side, and the terraced gardens of the _generalife_, with their grand old cypresses, on the other. and here, almost every hour of the day, is climbing a company of four rough men, carrying on their shoulders a cheap coffin, which perhaps a husband follows, or a white-haired father, or, hand in hand, bewildered orphan boys. the road is so steep that often the bearers set their burden down in the shadow of the bank-side, and fling themselves at full length on the ground beside it, thriftily passing from man to man the slow-burning wax match for their paper cigarettes. i remember more than one such smoking group, with a solitary mourner, hat in hand and eyes on the coffin, yet he, too, with cigarette in mouth, standing patiently by. all who pass make the sign of the cross, and even the rudest peasant uncovers his head. very shortly the bearers may be seen again, coming down the hill at a merry pace, the empty box, with its loose, rattling lid, tilted over the shoulder now of one, now of another; for the children of poverty, who had not chambers of their own nor the dignity of solitude in life, lie huddled in a common pit after death, without coffin-planks to sever dust from dust. a century ago it was usual to robe the dead in monastic garb, especially in the habit of st. francis or of the virgin of carmen, and within the present generation bodies were borne to the grave on open biers, the bystanders saluting, and bidding them farewell and quiet rest:-- "'duerme in paz!' dicen los buenos. 'adios!' dicen los demás." but now the closed coffin of many colors is in vogue. in the santiago market we met a cheerful dame with one of these balanced on her head, crying for a purchaser, and up the broad flights of steps to the bilbao cemetery we saw a stolid-faced young peasant-woman swinging along with a child's white coffin, apparently heavy with the weight of death, poised on the glossy black coils of hair, about which she had twisted a carmine handkerchief. very strange is the look of a spanish cemetery, with its ranges of high, deep walls, wherein the coffins are thrust end-wise, each above each, to the altitude of perhaps a dozen layers. these cells are sometimes purchased outright, sometimes rented for ten years, or five, or one. when the friends of the quiet tenant pay his dues no longer, forth he goes to the general ditch, _osario común_, and leaves his room for another. such wall graves are characteristically spanish, this mode of burial in the peninsula being of long antiquity. yet the rich prefer their own pantheons, sculptured like little chapels, or their own vaults, over which rise tall marbles of every device, the shaft, the pyramid, the broken column; while a poor family, or two or three neighboring households, often make shift to pay for one large earth grave, in which their dead may at least find themselves among kith and kin. spanish cemeteries are truly silent cities, with streets upon streets enclosed between these solemn walls, which open out, at intervals, now for the ornamented patios of the rich, now for the dreary squares peopled by the poor. here in a most aristocratic quarter, shaded by willows, set with marbles, paved with flower beds, sleeps a duke in stately pantheon, which is carved all over with angels, texts, and sacred symbols, still leaving room for medallions boasting his ancestral dignities. a double row of lamps, with gilded, fantastically moulded stands, and with dangling crystals of all colors, leads to the massive iron door. what enemy has he now to guard against with that array of bolts and bars? here are a poet's palms petrified to granite, and here a monument all muffled in fresh flowers. here the magnificent bronze figure of a knight, with sword half drawn, keeps watch beside a tomb, while the grave beyond a rose bush guards as well. and here an imaged sandalphon holds out open hands, this legend written across his marble scarf, "the tear falleth; the flower fadeth; but god treasureth the prayer." there is a certain high-bred reserve about these costly sepulchres, but turning to the walls one comes so face to face with grief as to experience a sense of intrusion. each cell shows on its sealed door of slate or other stone the name and age of its occupant, and perhaps a sentiment, lettered in gilt or black, as these: "we bear our loss--god knows how heavily." "son of my soul." "for thee, that land of larger love; for me, until i find thee there, only the valley of sorrow and the hard hill of hope." most of the cells have, too, a glassed or grated recess in front of this inscription wall, holding tributes or memorials--dried flowers, colored images of saints and angels, crucifixes, and the like. sometimes the resurrection symbol of the butterfly appears. in the little cemetery at vigo we noticed that the flower-vases were in form of great blue butterflies with scarlet splashes on their wings. sometimes there are locks of hair, personal trinkets, and often card or cabinet photographs, whose living look startles the beholder. out from a wreath of yellow immortelles peeps the plump smile of an old gentleman in modern dress coat; a coquettish lady in tiara and earrings laughs from behind her fan; and a grove of paper shrubbery, where tissue fairies dressed in rose petals dance on the blossoms, half hides the eager face of a spanish midshipman. where the photographs have faded and dimmed with time, the effect is less incongruous, if not less pathetic. the niches of children contain the gayest possible little figures. here are china angels in blue frocks, with pink sleeves and saffron pantalets, pink-tipped plumes, and even pink bows in their goldy hair. here is a company of tiny hamlets, quaint dollikins set up in a circle about a small green grave, each with finger on lip, "the rest is silence." here are two elegant and lazy cherubs, their alabaster chubbiness comfortably bestowed in toy chairs of crimson velvet on each side of an ivory crucifix. and here is a bethlehem, and here a calvary, and here the good shepherd bearing the lamb in his bosom; and here, in simple, but artistic wood carving, the christ with open arms, calling to a child on sick-bed to come unto him, while the mother, prostrate before the holy feet, kisses their shadow. one cannot look for long. it is well to lift the eyes from the niche graves of granada to the glory of the sierra nevada that soars beyond, and turn from the patios of san isidro to the cheerful picture of madrid across the manzanares, even though, prominent in the vista, rises the cupola of _san francisco el grande_. this is the national pantheon, and within, beneath the frescoed dome, all aglow with blue and gold, masses are chanted for the dead whom spain decrees to honor, as, so recently, for castelar. near this church a viaduct, seventy-five feet high, crosses the _calle de segovia_; and, despite the tall crooked railings and a constant police patrol, madrileños bent on suicide often succeed in leaping over and bruising out their breath on the stones of the street below. it is a desperate exit. the seine and thames lure their daily victims with murmuring sound and the soft, enfolding look of water, but spaniards who spring from this fatal viaduct see beneath them only the cruel pavement. that life should be harder than stone! and yet the best vigilance of madrid cannot prevent fresh bloodstains on the _calle de segovia_. near the cemetery of san isidro, across the manzanares, are two other large catholic burial grounds, and the _cementério inglés_. "but murderers, atheists, and protestants are buried way off in the east," said the pretty spanish girl beside me. "oh, let's go there!" i responded, with heretic enthusiasm; but i had reckoned without the cabman, who promptly and emphatically protested. "that's not a pleasant place for ladies to see. you would better drive in the _prado_ and _recoletos_, or in the _buen retiro_." we told him laughingly that he was speaking against his own interests, for the civil cemetery was much farther off than the parks. he consulted his dignity and decided to laugh in return. "it is not of the _pesetas_ i think first when i am driving ladies. but" (with suave indulgence) "you shall go just where you like." so in kindness he gathered up his reins and away we clattered sheer across the city. presently we had left the fountain-cooled squares and animated streets behind, had passed even the ugly, sinister _plaza de toros_, and outstripped the trolley track; but still the road stretched on, enlivened only by herds of goats and an occasional _venta_, where drivers of mule trains were pausing to wet their dusty throats. we met few vehicles now save the gay-colored hearses, and few people except groups of returning mourners, walking in bewildered wise, with stumbling feet. "the cemetery of the poor is opposite the civil cemetery," said our cabman, "and they have from thirty to fifty burials a day. the keeper is a friend of mine. he shall show you all about." a bare castilian ridge rose before us, where a farmer, leaning on his scythe, was outlined against the sky like a silhouette of death. and at last our cheery driver, humming bars from a popular light opera, checked his mettlesome old mare,--who plunged down hills and scrambled up as if she were running away from the bull-ring, where she must soon fulfil her martyrdom,--between two dismal graveyards. from the larger, on our right, tiptoed out a furtive man and peered into the cab as if he thought we had a coffin under the seat. he proved a blood-curdling conductor, always speaking in a hoarse whisper and glancing over his shoulder in a way to make the stoutest nerves feel ghosts, but he showed us, under that sunset sky, memorable sights--ranks upon ranks of gritty mounds marked with black, wooden crosses, a scanty grace for which the living often pay the price of their own bread that the dead they love may pass a year or two out of that hideous general fosse. then the sexton reluctantly led us to the unblessed, untended hollow across the way, where rows of brick sepulchres await the poor babies who die before the holy water touches them, where recumbent marbles press upon the dead who knew no upward reach of hope, and where defiant monuments, erected by popular subscription and often bearing the blazonry of a giant quill, denote the resting-places of freethinkers and the agitators of new ideas. there were some christian inscriptions, whether for protestants or not i do not know, but to my two companions there was no distinction of persons in this unhallowed limbo. our dusty guide led us hurriedly from plot to plot. "they say the mothers cheat the priests, and there are babies over yonder that ought to be here, for the breath was out of them before ever they were baptized. they say the priests had this man done to death one night, because he wrote against religion. he was only twenty-two. the club he belonged to put up that stone. they say there are evil words on it. but i don't know myself. i can't read, thanks to god. they say it was through reading and writing that most of these came here." "but those are not evil words," i answered. "they are, 'believe in jesus and thou shalt be saved.'" he hastily crossed himself, "do me the favor not to read such words out loud. here is another, where they say the words are words of hell." i held my peace this time, musing on that broad marble with its one deep-cut line, "the death of god." "and over there," he croaked, pointing with his clay-colored thumb, "is _whiskers_." the señorita, whose black eyes had been getting larger and larger, gave a little scream and fairly ran for the gate. spaniards have usually great sympathy for criminals, newspaper accounts of executions often closing with an entreaty for god's mercy on "this poor man's soul," but _whiskers_, the madrid sensation of a fortnight since, was a threefold murderer. passion-mad, he had shot dead in the open street a neighbor's youthful wife, held the public at bay with his revolver, and mortally wounded two civil guards, before he turned the fatal barrel on himself. "his family wanted him laid over the way," continued that scared undertone at my ear, "but the bishop said no. a murderer like that was just as bad as infidels and protestants, and should be buried out of grace." i felt as if superstition incarnate were walking by my side, and after one more look at that strangely peopled patch of unconsecrated ground, with its few untrimmed cypresses and straggling rose bushes, hillside slopes about and glory-flooded skies above, i gave superstition a _peseta_, which he devoutly kissed, and returned to the cab, followed by the carol of a solitary bird. i remember a similar experience in cadiz. i had driven out with one of my spanish hostesses to the large seaside cemetery, a mile beyond the gate. this is arranged in nine successive patios, planted with palms and cypresses. in the niches, seashells play a prominent part. the little angel images, as gay as ever, with their pink girdles and their purple wings, may be seen swinging in shells, sleeping in shells, and balancing on the edge of shells to play their golden flutes. near by is an english and german cemetery, with green-turfed mounds and a profusion of blossoming shrubs and flower beds. not sure of the direction, as we were leaving the catholic enclosure i asked a bandy-legged, leather-visaged old sexton, who might have been the very one that dug ophelia's grave, if the "protestant cemetery" was at our right. he laid down his mattock, peered about among the mausolea to see if we were quite alone, winked prodigiously, and, drawing a bunch of keys from the folds of his black sash, started briskly down a by-path and signed to us to follow. he led us through stony passages out beyond the sanctified ground into a dreary, oblong space, a patch of weeds and sand, enclosed by the lofty sepulchral walls, but with a blessed strip of blue sky overhead. "here they are!" he chuckled. "they wouldn't confess, they died without the sacraments, and here they are." some names lettered on the wall seemed to be those of dutch and norwegian sailors, who had perhaps died friendless in this foreign port. there were pebble-strewn graves of jews, and upright marbles from which the dead still seemed to utter voice: "i refuse the prayers of all the saints, and ask the prayers of honest human souls. i believe in god." and another, "god is knowledge." and another, "god is all that works for wisdom and for love." "are there burial services for these?" i inquired. if the church of england could have seen that crooked old sexton go through his gleeful pantomime! "there's one that comes with some, and they call him pastor! and he scrapes up a handful of dirt--so! and he flings it at the coffin--so! and then he stands up straight and says, 'dust to dust!' i've heard him say it myself." "god of my soul!" cried the spanish lady in horror, and to express her detestation of such a heathenish rite, she spat upon the ground. the monarchs of spain do not mingle their ashes. who knows where roderick sleeps? or does that deathless culprit still lurk in mountain caverns, as tradition has it, wringing his wasted hands and tearing his white beard in unavailing penitence? the "catholic kings," ferdinand and isabella, lie, not where they had planned, in that beautiful gothic church of toledo, _san juan de los reyes_, on whose outer walls yet hang the moorish chains struck from the limbs of christian captives, but in granada, the city of their conquest, where they slumber proudly, although their coffins are of plainest lead and their last royal chamber a small and dusky vault. pedro the cruel is thrust away in a narrow wall-grave beneath the _capilla real_ of seville cathedral. his brother, the master of santiago, whom he treacherously slew in one of the loveliest halls of the alcázar, is packed closely in on his left, and maria de padilla, for whose sake he cut short the hapless life of queen blanche, on his right. pleasant family discussions they must have at the witching hour of night, when they drag their numb bones out of those pigeon-holes for a brief respite of elbow room! san fernando, the castilian conqueror of castile, canonized "because he carried fagots with his own hands for the burning of heretics," is more commodiously accommodated in a silver sarcophagus in the chapel above, where alfonso the learned also has long leisure for thought. another alfonso and another fernando, with another wife of pedro the cruel, keep their state in santiago de compostela, and still another alfonso and two sanchos have their splendid tombs in the _capilla mayor_ of toledo cathedral, while in its _capilla de los reyes nuevos_, a line descended from that brother whom pedro murdered, sleeps the first john, with the second and third henrys. [illustration: bull-fight of to-day] cordova cathedral, although this lovely mosque recks little of christian majesties, has the ordinary equipment of an alfonso and a fernando, and the royal monastery of las huelgas in burgos shelters alfonso viii, with his queen, eleanor of england. in less noted churches, one continually chances on them, _rey_ or _reina_, _infante_ or _infanta_, dreaming the centuries away in rich recesses of fretted marble and alabaster, with the shadow of great arches over them and the deep-voiced chant around. but since philip ii created, in his own sombre likeness, the monastery of the escorial, rising in angular austerity from a spur of the bleak guadarrama mountains, the royal houses of austria and bourbon have sought burial there. the first and chief in the dank series of sepulchral vaults, the celebrated _panteón de los reyes_, is an octagon of black marble, placed precisely under the high altar, and gloomily magnificent with jasper, porphyry, and gold. it has an altar of its own, on whose left are three recesses, each with four long shelves placed one above another for the sarcophagi of the kings of spain, and on whose right are corresponding recesses for the queens. as the guide holds his torch, we read the successive names of the great charles i, founder of the austrian line; the three philips, in whom his genius dwindled more and more; and the half-witted charles ii, in whom it ignobly perished. the coffin lid of charles i has twice been lifted, once as late as , in compliment to the visiting emperor of brazil, and even then that imperial body lay intact, with blackened face and open, staring eyes. the gilded bronze coffin of philip ii was brought to his bedside for his inspection in his last hour of life. after a critical survey he ordered a white satin lining and more gilt nails--a remarkable sense of detail in a man who had sent some ten thousand heretics to the torture. looking for the bourbons, we miss the first of them all, the melancholy philip v, who would not lay him down among these austrians, but sleeps with his second queen, the strong-willed elizabeth farnese, in his cloudy retreat of san ildefonso, within hearing of the fountains of la granja. his eldest son, luis the well-beloved, who died after a reign of seven months, rests here in the escorial, but fernando vi, also the son of philip's first queen--that gallant little savoyarde who died so young--was buried in madrid. charles iii, best and greatest of the spanish bourbons, is here, the weak charles iv, fernando vii, "the desired" and the disgraceful, and alfonso xii, while a stately sarcophagus is already reserved for alfonso xiii. to the cold society of these five austrian and five bourbon sovereigns are admitted nine royal ladies. of these, the first three are in good and regular standing--the queen of charles i and mother of philip ii, the fourth queen of philip ii and mother of philip iii, the queen of philip iii and mother of philip iv. but here is an intruder. philip iv, who had an especial liking for this grewsome vault, and used often to clamber into his own niche to hear mass, insisted on having both his french and austrian queens interred here, although the first, isabel of bourbon, is not the mother of a spanish king, the promising little baltasar having died in boyhood. the brave girl-queen of philip v is here, in double right as mother both of luis and fernando vi, and here is the wife of charles iii and mother of charles iv. but of sorry repute are the last two queens, the wife of charles iv and mother of fernando vii, she who came hurrying down those slippery marble stairs in feverish delirium to scratch _luisa_ with scissors on her selected coffin, and this other, maria cristina, wife of fernando vii and mother of the dethroned isabel, a daughter who did not mend the story. it will not be long before she returns from her french exile to enter into possession of the sarcophagus that expects her here, even as another sumptuous coffin awaits the present regent. pity it is for isabel, whose name is still a byword in the madrid cafés! but she always enjoyed hearing midnight mass in this dim and dreadful crypt, and will doubtless be glad to come back to her ancestors, such as they were, and take up her royal residence with them in "dust of human nullity and ashes of mortality." xviii corpus christi in toledo "a blackened ruin, lonely and forsaken, already wrapt in winding-sheets of sand, so lies toledo till the dead awaken, a royal spoil of time's resistless hand." --zorrilla: _toledo_. in the thirteenth century the doctrine of transubstantiation assumed especial importance. miracle plays and cathedral glass told thrilling stories of attacks made by jews on the sacred wafer, which bled under their poniards or sprang from their caldrons and ovens in complete figure of the christ. the festival of corpus christi, then established by rome, was devoutly accepted in spain and used to be celebrated with supreme magnificence in madrid. early in the reign of philip iv, prince charles of england, who, with the adventurous buckingham, had come in romantic fashion to the spanish capital, hoping to carry by storm the heart of the infanta, stood for hours in a balcony of the alcázar, gazing silently on the glittering procession. how they swept by through the herb-strewn, tapestried streets--musicians, standard-bearers, cross-bearers, files of orphans from the asylums, six and thirty religious brotherhoods, monks of all the orders, barefoot friars, ranks of secular clergy and brothers of charity, the proud military orders of alcántara, calatrava, and santiago, the councils of the indies, of aragon, of portugal, the supreme council of castile, the city fathers of madrid, the governmental ministers of spain and spanish italy, the tribunal of the holy office, preceded by a long array of cloaked and hooded familiars, bishops upon bishops in splendid, gold-enwoven vestments, priests of the royal chapel displaying the royal banner, bearers of the crosier and the sacramental vessels, the archbishop of santiago, royal chaplains and royal majordomos, royal pages with tall wax tapers, incense burners, the canopied mystery of the eucharist, the king, the prince, cardinals, nuncio, the inquisitor general, the catholic ambassadors, the patriarch of the indies, the all-powerful count-duke olivares, grandees, lesser nobility, gentlemen, and a display of spanish and german troops, closed by a great company of archers. so overwhelming was that solemn progress, with its brilliant variety of sacerdotal vestments, knightly habits, robes of state and military trappings, its maces, standards, crosses, the flash of steel, gold, jewels, and finally the sheen of candles, the clouds of incense, the tinkling of silver bells before the _santisimo corpus_, that the heretic prince and his reckless companion fell to their knees. one spanish author pauses to remark that for these, who could even then reject the open arms of the mother church, the assassin's blow and the whitehall block were naturally waiting. such a pomp would have been worth the seeing, but we had arrived at madrid almost three centuries too late. catholic friends shrugged shoulder at mention of the corpus procession, "_vale poco._" and as for the famous _autos sacramentales_, which used to be celebrated at various times during the eight days of the corpus solemnity, they may be read in musty volumes, but can be seen in the city squares no more. calderon is said to have written the trifling number of seventy-two, and lope de vega, whose fingers must have been tipped with pens, some four hundred. if only our train, which then would not have been a train, had brought us, who then would not have come, to madrid in season for a corpus celebration under the austrian dynasty, we could have attended an open-air theatre of a very curious sort. all the way to the _plaza_, we would have seen festivity at its height, pantomimic dances, merry music, struttings of giants and antics of dwarfs, and perhaps groups of boys insulting cheap effigies of snakes, modelled after the monstrous _tarasca_, carried in the corpus parade in token of christ's victory over the devil. at intervals along the route, adorned with flowers and draperies, and reserved for the procession and the dramatic cars, would have been altars hung with rich stuffs from the alcázar and the aristocratic palaces; silks and cloth of gold, brocades, velvets, and shimmering wefts of the indies. the one-act play itself might be after the general fashion of the mediæval miracles,--verse dialogue, tuned to piety with chords of fun, for the setting forth of biblical stories. abraham's sacrifice of isaac, moses feeding the israelites with manna, the patience of job, the trials of joseph, david, and daniel, were thus represented. more frequently, the _auto sacramental_ belonged to the so-called morality type of early christian drama, being an allegorical presentation of human experience or exposition of church doctrine. such were "the fountain of grace," "the journey of the soul," "the dance of death," "the pilgrim." sometimes a gospel parable, as the "lost sheep" or the "prodigal son," gave the dramatic suggestion. but these spanish spectacles sought to associate themselves, as closely as might be, with the corpus worship, and many of them bear directly, in one way or another, upon this sacrament. if, for instance, we had chanced on the madrid festival in , we could have witnessed in the decorated _plaza_, with its thronged balconies, the entrance of four scenic platforms or cars. the first, painted over with battles, bears a gothic castle; the second, with pictures of the sea, a gallant ship; the third, a starry globe; the fourth, a grove and garden, whose central fountain is so shaped as to form, above, the semblance of an altar. in the complicated action of the play, when the soul, besieged in her fortress by the devil, whose allies are the world and the flesh, calls upon christ for succor, the hollow sphere of the third car opens, revealing the lord enthroned in glory amid cherubim and seraphim; but the climax of the triumph is not yet. that stout old general, the devil, rallies fresh forces to the attack, such subtle foes as atheism, judaism, and apostasy, and whereas, before, the senses bore the brunt of the conflict, it is the understanding that girds on armor now. yet in the final outcome not the understanding, but faith draws the veil from before the altar of the fourth car, and there, in the consecrated vessel for the holding of the wafer, appears the "passion child," the white bread from heaven, "very flesh and very blood that are the price of the soul's salvation." that is the way spain kept her corpus _fiesta_ in the good old times of charles the bewitched; but not now. after the procession, the bull-fight; and after the bull-fight, the latest vaudeville or ballet. last year it rained on corpus thursday, which fell on the first of june, and madrid gave up the procession altogether. some of the opposition papers started the cry that this was shockingly irreligious in silvela, but when the government organs haughtily explained that it was the decision of the archbishop and señor silvela was not even consulted, the righteous indignation of the liberals straightway subsided. the procession, which was to have been a matter of kettledrums and clarionets, soldiery, "coaches of respect" from the palace and the city corporation, and a full showing of the parochial clergy, did not seem to be missed by the people. corpus has long ceased to be a chief event in the capital. there are a few cities in spain, however, where the corpus fête is maintained with something of the old gayety and splendor. bustling barcelona, never too busy for a frolic, keeps it merrily with an elaborate parade from the cathedral all about the city, and--delightful feature!--the distribution of flowers and sweetmeats among the ladies. the procession in valencia resembles those of holy week in seville. on litters strewn with flowers and thick-set with candle-lights are borne carved groups of sacred figures and richly attired images of christ and the virgin. but it is in lyric andalusia that these pageantries are most at home. among her popular _coplas_ is one that runs:-- "thursdays three in the year there be, that shine more bright than the sun's own ray-- holy thursday, corpus christi, and our lord's ascension day." cadiz, like valencia, carries the _pasos_ in the corpus procession. in seville, where the street displays of holy week are under the charge of the religious brotherhoods, or _cofradias_, corpus christi gives opportunity for the clergy and aristocracy to present a rival exhibition of sanctified luxury and magnificence. but it is in beautiful belated granada that the corpus fête is now at its best. a brilliantly illustrated programme, whose many-hued cover significantly groups a gamboge cathedral very much in the background, and a flower-crowned andalusian maiden, draped in a manila shawl, with a prodigious guitar at her feet, very much in the foreground, announces a medley of festivities extending over eleven days. this cheerful booklet promises, together with a constant supply of military music, balcony decorations, and city illuminations, an assortment of pleasures warranted to suit every taste--infantry reviews, cavalry reviews, cadet reviews, masses under roof and masses in the open, claustral processions, parades of giants, dwarfs, and _la tarasca_, a charity raffle in the park under the patronage of granada's most distinguished ladies, the erection of out-of-door altars, the dispensing of six thousand loaves of bread among the poor (from my experience of granada beggars i should say the supply was insufficient), a solemn corpus procession passing along white-canopied streets under a rain of flowers, three regular bull-fights with the grand masters guerrita, lagartijillo, and fuentes, followed by a gloriously brutal _corrida_, with young beasts and inexperienced fighters, cattle fair, booths, puppet shows, climbing of greased poles, exhibition of fine arts and industries, horse racing, polo, pigeon shoot, trapeze, balloon ascensions, gypsy dances, and fireworks galore. but even faithful granada shared in the strange catalogue of misfortunes which attended corpus last year. the rains descended on her chinese lanterns, and the winds beat against her arabic arches with their thousands of gas-lights. on the sacred thursday itself, the andalusian weather made a most unusual demonstration of hurricane and cloudburst, with interludes of thunder and lightning. great was the damage in field, vineyard, and orchard, and as for processions, they were in many places out of the question. even seville and cordova had to postpone both parades and bull-fights. but this was not the worst. in ecija, one of the quaintest cities of andalusia, an image of the virgin as the divine shepherdess, lovingly arrayed and adorned with no little outlay by the nuns of the conception, caught fire in the procession from a taper, like seville's virgin of montserrat in the last _semana santa_. the _divina pastora_ barely escaped with her jewels. her elaborate garments, the herbage and foliage of her pasture, and one of her woolly sheep were burned to ashes. in palma de mallorca, a romantic town of the balearic isles, a balcony, whose occupants were leaning out to watch the procession, broke away, and crashed down into the midst of the throng. a young girl fell upon the bayonet of a soldier marching beneath, and was grievously hurt. others suffered wounds which, in one case at least, proved fatal. the opposition journals did not fail to make capital out of these untoward events, serving them up in satiric verse with the irreverent suggestion that, if this was all the favor a reactionary and ultra-catholic government could secure from heaven, it was time to go back to sagasta. the ecclesiastical toledo, seat of the primate of all spain, is one of the spanish cities which still observe corpus christi as a high solemnity, and toledo is within easy pilgrimage distance of madrid. i had already passed two days in that ancient capital of the visigoths, ridding my conscience of the sightseers' burden, and i both longed and dreaded to return. the longing overcame the dread, and i dropped in at the _estacion del mediodía_ for preliminary inquiries. i could discover no bureau of information and no official authorized to instruct the public, but in this lotus-eating land what is nobody's business is everybody's business. there could not be a better-humored people. the keeper of the bookstand abandoned his counter, his would-be customers lighting cigarettes and leaning up against trucks and stacks of luggage to wait for his return, and escorted me the length of the station to find a big yellow poster, which gave the special time-table for corpus thursday. the poster was so high upon the wall that our combined efforts could not make it out; whereupon a nimble little porter dropped the trunk he was carrying, and climbed on top of it for a better view. in that commanding position he could see clearly enough, but just when my hopes were at the brightest, he regretfully explained that he had never learned to read. as he clambered down the proprietor of the trunk, who had been looking on with as much serenity as if trains never went and starting bells never rang, mounted in turn. this gentleman, all smiles and bows and tobacco smoke, read off the desired items, which the keeper of the bookstand copied for me in a leisurely, conversational manner, with a pencil lent by one bystander on a card donated by another. there is really something to be said for the spanish way of doing business. it takes time, but if time is filled with human kindliness and social courtesies, why not? what is time for? whenever i observed that i was the only person in a hurry on a madrid street, i revised my opinion as to the importance of my errand. as i entered the station again on the first of june at the penitential hour of quarter past six in the morning, i was reflecting complacently on my sagacity as a traveller. had i not bethought me that, even in the ecclesiastical centre of spain and on this solemn festival, there might be peril for a stranger's purse? what financial acumen i had shown in calculating that, since my round-trip ticket to toledo before had cost three dollars, second class, i could probably go first class on this excursion for the same sum, while two dollars more would be ample allowance for balcony hire and extras! and yet how prudent in me to have tucked away a reserve fund in a secret pocket inaccessible even to myself! but why was the station so jammed and crammed with broad-hatted spaniards? and what was the meaning of that long line of roughs, stretching far out from the third-class ticket office? bull-fight explained it all. even reverend toledo must keep the corpus holy by the public slaughter of six choice bulls and as many hapless horses as their blind rage might rend. worse than the pagan altars that reeked with the blood of beasts, spain's christian festivals demand torture in addition to butchery. there were no first-class carriages, it appeared, upon the corpus train, and my round-trip ticket, second class, cost only a dollar, leaving me with an embarrassment of riches. pursing the slip of pasteboard which, to my disgust, was stamped in vermilion letters _corrida de toros_, i sped me to the train, where every seat appeared to be taken, although it lacked twenty minutes of the advertised time for departure; but a bald-headed philanthropist called out from a carriage window that they still had room for one. gratefully climbing up, i found myself in the society of a family party, off for toledo to celebrate the saint-day of their hazel-eyed eight-year-old by that treat of treats, a child's first bull-fight. when they learned that i was tamely proposing to keep corpus christi by seeing the procession and not by "assisting at the function of bulls," their faces clouded; but they decided to make allowance for my foreign idiosyncrasies. the train, besieged by a multitude of ticket-holders for whom there were no places, was nearly an hour late in getting off. the ladies dozed and chattered; the gentlemen smoked and dozed; little hazel-eyes constantly drew pictures of bulls with a wet finger on the window glass. reminded again by my handbag literature that toledo is a nest of thieves, i would gladly have put away my extra money, but there was never a moment when all the gentlemen were asleep at once. it was after ten when we reached our destination, the boy wild with rapture because we had actually seen a pasture of grazing bulls. a swarm of noisy, scrambling, savage-looking humanity hailed the arrival of the train, and i had hardly made my way even to the platform before i felt an ominous twitch at my pocket. the light-fingered art must have degenerated in toledo since the day of that clever cutpurse of the "exemplary tales." turning sharply, i confronted a group of my fellow-worshippers, who, shawled and sashed and daggered, looked as if they had been expressly gotten up for stage bandits. from the shaggy pates, topped by gaudy, twisted handkerchiefs--a headdress not so strange in a city whose stone walls looked for centuries on moorish turbans--to the bright-edged, stealthy hemp sandals, these were pickpockets to rejoice a kodak. their black eyes twinkled at me with wicked triumph, while it flashed across my mind that my old hero, the cid, was probably much of their aspect, and certainly gained his living in very similar ways. there were a full score of these picturesque plunderers, and not a person of the nineteenth century in sight. since there was nothing to do, i did it, and giving them a parting glance of moral disapproval, to which several of the sauciest responded by blithely touching their forelocks, i pursued my pilgrim course, purged of vainglory. at all events, i was delivered from temptation as to a questionable _peseta_ in my purse--my pretty paris purse!--and i should not be obliged to travel again on that odious bull-fight ticket. we were having "fool weather," blowing now hot, now cold, but as at this moment the air was cool, and every possible vehicle seemed packed, thatched, fringed with clinging passengers, i decided, not seeking further reasons, to walk up to the town. and what a town it is! who could remember dollars? so far from being decently depressed, i was almost glad to have lost something in this colossal monument of losses. it seemed to make connection. between deep, rocky, precipitous banks, strongly flows the golden "king of rivers, the venerable tajo," almost encircling the granite pedestal of the city and spanned by ancient bridges of massy stone, with battlemented, virgin-niched, fierce old gates. and above, upon its rugged height, crumbling hourly into the gritty dust that stings the eye and scrapes beneath the foot, lies in swirls on floor and pavement, blows on every breeze and sifts through hair and clothing, is the proud, sullen, forsaken fortress of "imperial toledo." still it is a vision of turrets, domes, and spires, fretwork, buttresses, façades, but all so desolate, so dreary, isolated in that parched landscape as it is isolated in the living world, that one approaches with strangely blended feelings of awe, repugnance, and delight. on we go over the bridge of alcántara, wrought æons since by a gang of angry titans--the guidebooks erroneously attribute it to the moors and alfonso the learned--with a shuddering glance out toward the ruins of feudal castles, here a battlemented keep set with mighty towers, there a great, squat, frowning mass of stone, the very sight of which might have crushed a prisoner's heart. up, straight up, into the grim, gray, labyrinthine city, whose zigzag streets, often narrowing until two laden donkeys, meeting, cannot pass, so twist and turn that it is impossible on entering one to guess at what point of the compass we will come out. these crooked ways, paved with "agony stones," are lined with tall, dark, inhospitable house fronts, whose few windows are heavily grated, and whose huge doors, bristling with iron bosses, are furnished with fantastic knockers and a whole arsenal of bolts and chains. [illustration: the king of the gypsies] gloomy as these ponderous structures are, every step discloses a novelty of beauty,--a chiselled angel, poised for flight, chased escutcheons, bas-reliefs, toothed arches, medallions, weather-eaten groups of saints and apostles gossiping in their scalloped niches about the degeneracy of the times. the moors, whose architecture, says becquer, seems the dream of a moslem warrior sleeping after battle in the shadow of a palm, have left their mark throughout toledo in the airy elegance of the traceries magically copied from cobwebs and the milky way. that tragic race, the jews, have stamped on the walls of long-desecrated synagogues their own mysterious emblems. and goths and christian knights have wrought their very likenesses into the stern, helmeted heads that peer out from the capitals of marvellous columns amid the stone grapes and pomegranates most fit for their heroic nourishment. but all is in decay. here stands a broken-sceptred statue turning its royal back on a ragged vender of toasted _garbanzos_. even the image of wamba has lost its royal nose. you may traverse whispering cloisters heaped with fallen crosses, with truant tombstones, and severed heads and limbs of august prophets. cast aside in dusky vaults lie broken shafts of rose-tinted marbles and fragments of rare carving in whose hollows the birds of the air once built their nests. through the tangle of flowers and shrubbery that chokes the patios gleam the rims of alabaster urns and basins of jasper fountains. such radiant wings and faces as still flash out from frieze and arch and column, such laughing looks, fresh with a dewy brightness, as if youth and springtime were enchanted in the stone! and what supreme grace and truth of artistry in all this bewildering detail! on some far-off day of the golden age, when ivory and agate were as wax, when cedar and larch wood yielded like their own soft leaves, the magician must have pressed upon them the olive leaf, the acacia spray, the baby's foot, that have left these perfect traces. and how did mortal hand ever achieve the intricate, curling, unfolding, blossoming marvel of those capitals? and who save kings, wambas and rodericks, sanchos, alfonsos, and fernandos, should mount these magnificent stairways? and what have those staring stone faces above that antique doorway looked upon to turn them haggard with horror? city of ghosts! the flesh begins to creep. but here, happily, we are arrived in the _plaza de zocodovér_, where lazarillo de tormes used to display his talents as town crier, and in this long-memoried market-place, with its arcaded sides and trampled green, may pause to take our bearings. evidently the procession is to pass here, for the balconies, still displaying the yellow fronds of palm sunday, are hung with all manner of draperies--clear blue, orange with silver fringes, red with violet bars, white with saffron scallops. freed from sordid cares about my pocket, i give myself for a little to the spell of that strange scene. beyond rise the rich-hued towers of the alcázar, on the site where romans, visigoths, arabs, the cid, and an illustrious line of spanish monarchs have fortified themselves in turn; but time at last is conqueror, and one visits the dismantled castle only to forget all about it in the grandeur of the view. from the east side of the _zocodovér_ soars the arch on whose summit used to stand the _santisimo cristo del sangre_, before whom the corpus train did reverence. and here in the centre blazed that momentous bonfire which was to settle the strife between the old toledan liturgy and the new ritual of rome; but the impartial elements honored both the prayer books placed upon the fagots, the wind wafting to a place of safety the roman breviary, while the flames drew back from the other, with the result that the primitive rite is still preserved in an especial chapel of the cathedral. a glorious _plaza_, famed by cervantes, loved by lope de vega, but now how dim and shabby! on the house-fronts once so gayly colored, the greens have faded to yellows, the reds to pinks, and the pinks to browns. the awning spread along the route of the procession is fairly checkered with a miscellany of patches. i pass the compliments of the day with a smiling peasant woman, whose husband, a striking color-scheme in maroon blanket, azure trousers, russet stockings, and soiled gray sandals, offers me his seat on the stone bench beside her. but i am bound on my errand, and they bid me "go with god." i select a trusty face in a shop doorway and ask if i can rent standing room in the balcony above. mine honest friend puts his price a trifle high to give him a margin for the expected bargaining, but i scorn to haggle on a day when i am short of money, and merely stipulate, with true spanish propriety, that no gentlemen shall be admitted. this makes an excellent impression on the proprietor, who shows me up a winding stair with almost oppressive politeness. a little company of ladies, with lace mantillas drooping from their graceful heads, welcome me with that courteous cordiality which imparts to the slightest intercourse with the spanish people (barring pickpockets) a flavor of fine pleasure. because i am the last arrival and have the least claim, they insist on giving me the best place on the best balcony and are untiring in their explanations of all there is to be seen. the procession is already passing--civil guards, buglers, drummers, flower wreaths borne aloft, crosses of silver and crosses of gold, silken standards wrought with cunning embroideries. but now there come a sudden darkness, a gust of wind, and dash of rain. the ranks of _cofradias_ try in vain to keep their candles burning, the pupils from the colleges of the friars, with shining medals hung by green cords about their necks, peep roguishly back at the purple-stoled dignitary in a white wig, over whom an anxious friend from the street is trying to hold an umbrella. the jesuit _seminaristas_ bear themselves more decorously, the tonsures gleaming like silver coins on their young heads. the canons lift their red robes from the wet, and even bishops make some furtive efforts to protect their gold-threaded chasubles. meanwhile the people, that spectral throng of witches, serfs, feudal retainers, and left-overs from the arabian nights, press closer and closer, audaciously wrapping themselves from the rain in the rich old tapestries of france and flanders, which have been hung along both sides of the route from a queer framework of emerald-bright poles and bars. the dark, wild, superstitious faces, massed and huddled together, peer out more uncannywise than ever from under these precious stuffs which brisk soldiers, with green feather brushes in their caps, as if to enable them to dust themselves off at short notice, are already taking down. all the church bells of the city are chiming solemnly, and the splendid _custodia_, "the most beautiful piece of plate in the world," a treasure of filigree gold and jewels, enshrining the host, draws near. it is preceded by a bevy of lovely children, not dressed, as at granada, to represent angels, but as knights of chivalry. their dainty suits of red and blue, slashed and puffed and trimmed with lace, flash through the silvery mist of rain. motherly voices from the balconies call to them to carry their creamy caps upside down to shield the clustered plumes. their little white sandals and gaiters splash merrily through the mud. a flamingo gleam across the slanting rain announces cardinal sancha, behind whom acolytes uplift a thronelike chair of crimson velvet and gold. then follow ranks of taper-bearing soldiers, and my friends in the balcony call proudly down to different officers, a son, a husband, a blushing _novio_, whom they present to me then and there. the officers bow up and i bow down, while at this very moment comes that tinkling of silver bells which would, i had supposed, strike all catholic spaniards to their knees. it is perhaps too much to expect the people below to kneel in the puddles, but the vivacious chatter in the balconies never ceases, and the ladies beside me do not even cross themselves. the parade proceeds, a gorgeous group in wine-colored costume carrying great silver maces before the civic representation. the governor of the province is pointed out to me as a count of high degree, but in the instant when my awed glance falls upon him he gives a monstrous gape unbecoming even to nobility. the last of the spruce cadets, who close the line, have hardly passed when the thrifty housewife beseeches our aid in taking in out of the rain her scarlet balcony hanging, which proves to be the canopy of her best bed. but the sun is shining forth again when i return to the street to follow the procession into the cathedral. already this gleam of fair weather has filled the _calle de comercio_ with festive señoritas, arrayed in white mantillas and manila shawls in honor of the bull-fight. shops have been promptly opened for a holiday sale of the toledo specialties--arabesqued swords and daggers, every variety of damascened wares, and marchpane in form of mimic hams, fish, and serpents. the toledo steel was famous in shakespeare's day, even in the mouths of rustic dandies, whose geographical education had been neglected. when the clever rogue, brainworm, in one of jonson's comedies, would sell stephen, the "country gull," a cheap rapier, he urges, "'tis a most pure toledo," and stephen replies according to his folly, "i had rather it were a spaniard." but onward is the glorious church, with its symmetric tower, whose spire wears a threefold crown of thorns. the exterior walls are hung, on this one day of the year, with wondrous tapestries that queen isabella knew. an army of beggars obstructs the crowd, which presses in, wave upon wave, through the deep, rich portals in whose ornamentation whole lifetimes have carved themselves away. within this sublime temple, unsurpassed in gothic art, where every pavement slab is worn by knees more than by footsteps, where every starry window has thrown its jewel lights on generations of believers, one would almost choose to dwell forever. one looks half enviously at recumbent alabaster bishops and kneeling marble knights, even at dim grotesques, who have rested in the heart of that grave beauty, in that atmosphere of prayer and chant, so long. let these stone figures troop out into the troubled streets and toil awhile, and give the rest of us a chance to dream. but the multitude, which has knelt devoutly while _su majestad_ was being borne into the _capilla mayor_, comes pouring down the nave to salute the stone on which--ah me!--on which the virgin set her blessed foot december , , when she alighted in toledo cathedral to present the champion of the immaculate conception, st. ildefonso, with a chasuble of celestial tissue. the gilded, turreted shrine containing that consecrated block towers almost to the height of the nave. a grating guards it from the devout, who can only touch it with their finger tips, which then they kiss. hundreds, with reverend looks, stand waiting their turn--children, peasants, bull-fighters, decorated officers, refined ladies, men of cultured faces. the sound of kissing comes thick and fast. heresy begins to beat in my blood. not all that heavenward reach of columns and arches, not that multitudinous charm of art, can rid the imagination of a granite weight. i escape for a while to the purer church without, with its window-gold of sunshine and lapis-lazuli roof. when the mighty magnet draws me back again, those majestic aisles are empty, save for a tired sacristan or two, and the silence is broken only by a monotone of alternate chanting, from where, in the _capilla mayor_, two priests keep watch with _el señor_. "he will be here all the afternoon," says the sacristan, "and nothing can be shown; but if you will come back to-morrow i will arrange for you to see even our lady's robes and gems." come back! i felt myself graying to a shadow already. of course i longed to see again that marvellous woodwork of the choir stalls, with all the conquest of granada carved amid columns of jasper and under alabaster canopies, but i was smothered in a multitude of ghosts. they crowded from every side,--nuns, monks, soldiers, tyrants, magnificent archbishops, the martyred leocadia, passionate roderick, weeping florinda, grim count julian, "my cid," pedro the cruel, those five thousand christian nobles and burghers of toledo, slain, one by one, at the treacherous feast of abderrahman, those hordes of flaming jews writhing amid the inquisition fagots. i had kept my corpus. i had seen the greatest of all _autos sacramentales_, calderon's masterpiece, "life is a dream." "on a single one of the virgin's gold-wrought mantles," coaxed the sacristan, "are eighty-five thousand large pearls and as many sapphires, amethysts, and diamonds. i will arrange for you to see everything, when our lord is gone away." but no. i am a little particular about treasures. since toledo has lost the emerald table of king solomon and that wondrous copy of the psalms written upon gold leaf in a fluid made of melted rubies, i will not trouble the seven canons to unlock the seven doors of the cathedral sacristy. let the madonna enjoy her wealth alone. i have _pesetas_ enough for my ticket to madrid. xix the tercentenary of velÁzquez "it is a sombre and a weeping sky that lowers above thee now, unhappy spain; thy 'scutcheon proud is dashed with dimming rain; uncertain is thy path and deep thy sigh. all that is mortal passes; glories die; this hour thy destiny allots thee pain; but for the worker of thy woes remain those retributions slowly forged on high. "put thou thy hope in god; what once thou wert thou yet shalt be by labor of thy sons patient and true, with purpose to atone; and though the laurels of the loud-voiced guns are not with us to-day, this balms our hurt-- cervantes and velázquez are our own." --duke of rivas: _for the tercentenary_. the celebration, as planned, was comparatively simple, but enthusiasm grew with what it fed upon. the knights of santiago held the first place upon the programme, for into that high and exclusive order the artist had won entry by special grace of philip iv. even spain has been affected by the modern movement for the destruction of traditions, and certain erudite meddlers, who have been delving in the state archives, declare that there is no truth in the following story, which, nevertheless, everybody has to tell. the legend runs that velázquez became a knight of st. james by a royal compliment to the painter of _las meninas_. this picture, which seems no picture, but life itself, eternizes a single instant of time in the palace of philip iv, that one instant before the fingers of the little infanta have curved about the cup presented by her kneeling maid, before the great, tawny, half-awakened hound has decided to growl remonstrance under the teasing foot of the dwarf, before the reflected faces of king and queen have glided from the mirror, that fleeting instant while yet the courtier, passing down the gallery into the garden, turns on the threshold for a farewell smile, while yet the green velvet sleeve of the second dwarf, ugliest of all pet monsters, brushes the fair silken skirts of the daintiest of ladies-in-waiting, while yet the artist, so much more royal than royalty, flashes his dark-eyed glance upon the charming group. but if velázquez looks prouder than a king, philip proved himself here no uninspired painter. asked if he found the work complete, the monarch shook his head, and, catching up the brush, marked the red cross of st. james on the pictured breast of the artist. so says the old wives' tale. at all events, in this way or another, the honor was conferred, with the result that on the three hundredth birthday of velázquez, june , , dukes and counts and marquises flocked to the church of _las señoras comendadoras_, where the antique gregorian mass was chanted for the repose of their comrade's soul. by the latest theology, the "master of all good workmen" would not have waited for this illustrious requiem before admitting the painter to "an æon or two" of rest, but the knights of santiago have not yet accepted kipling as their pope. on the afternoon of the same day the _sala de velázquez_ was inaugurated in the _museo del prado_, taking, with additions, the room formerly known as the _sala de la reina isabel_, long the _salon carré_ of madrid, where raphaels, titians, del sartos, dürers, van dycks, correggios, and rembrandts kept the spanish masters company. portico and halls were adorned in honor of the occasion; the bust of velázquez, embowered in laurels, myrtles, and roses, was placed midway in the long gallery, fronting the door of his own demesne; but the crown of the _fiesta_ consisted in the new and far superior arrangement of his pictures. the royal family and chief nobility, the ministers of government, the diplomatic corps, and delegations of foreign artists made a brilliant gathering. the address, pronounced by an eminent critic, reviewed what are known as the three styles of velázquez. never was art lecture more fortunate, for this _museo_, holding as it does more than half the extant works of the great realist, with nearly all his masterpieces, enabled the speaker to illustrate every point from the original paintings. a rain of aristocratic poems followed, for a spaniard is a lyrist born, and turns from prose to verse as easily as he changes his cuffs. as monipodio says, in one of cervantes' "exemplary tales": "a man has but to roll up his shirt-sleeves, set well to work, and he may turn off a couple of thousand verses in the snapping of a pair of scissors." these dukes of parnassus and counts of helicon did homage to the painter in graceful stanzas, not without many an allusion to spain's troubled present. if only, as one sonneteer suggested, the soldiers of _las lanzas_ had marched out from their great gilt frame and gone against the foe! a programme of old-time music was rendered, and therewith the _sala de velázquez_ was declared open. to this, as to all galleries and monuments under state control, the public was invited free of charge for the week to come. the response was appreciative, gentility, soldiery, ragamuffins, bevies of schoolgirls with notebooks, and families of foreigners with opera glasses grouping themselves in picturesque variety, day after day, before the art treasures of madrid, while beggars sat in joyful squads on the steps of the museums, collecting the fees which the doorkeepers refused. during these seven days, artistic and social festivals in honor of velázquez abounded, not only in madrid, but throughout spain. palma must needs get up, with photographs and the like, a velázquez exposition, and seville, insisting on her mother rights, must arrange a belated funeral, with mass and sermon and a tomb of laurels and flowers, surmounted by brushes, palette, and the cloak and helmet of the order of santiago. in the capital the _circulo de bellas artes_ sumptuously breakfasted the artists from abroad. the dainties were spiced with speeches, guitars, ballet, gypsy songs and dances, congratulatory telegrams, and a letter posted from parnassus by don diego himself. two valuable new books on velázquez suddenly appeared in the shop windows, and such periodicals as _la ilustración_, _blanco y negro_, _la vida literaria_, and _el nuevo mundo_ vied with one another in illustrated numbers, while even the one-cent dailies came out with specials devoted to velázquez biography and criticism. the academy of san fernando rendered a musical programme of velázquez date, the queen regent issued five hundred invitations to an orchestral concert in the royal palace, and there was talk, which failed to fructify, of a grand masquerade ball, where the costumes should be copied from the velázquez paintings and the dances should be those stepped by the court of philip iv. the closing ceremony of the week was the unveiling of the new statue of velázquez. paris owes to fremiot an equestrian statue of the painter, who, like shakespeare in his paris statue, is made to look very like a frenchman, but the horse is of the most spirited spanish type. a younger velázquez may be seen in seville, at home among the orange trees, and the _palacio de la biblioteca y museos nacionales_ in madrid shows a statue from the hand of garcia. still another, an arrogant, striding figure, was standing in the studio of benlliure, ready for its journey to the paris exposition. the tercentenary statue, by marinas, is also true to that haughty look of velázquez. it represents him seated, brush and palette in hand, the winds lifting from his ears those long, clustering falls of hair, as if to let him hear the praises of posterity. little he cares for praises! that artist's look sees nothing but his task. the unveiling took place late on wednesday afternoon, in front of the _museo del prado_, where the statue stands. a turquoise sky and a light breeze put all the world in happy humor. the long façade of the _museo_ was hung with beautiful tapestries. handsome medallions bore the names of painters associated in one way or another with velázquez--herrera el viejo, his first master in seville; pacheco, his second sevillian teacher and his father-in-law; luis tristan of toledo, for whom he had an enthusiastic admiration; el greco, that startling mannerist, whose penetrating portraiture of faces, even whose extraordinary effects in coloring were not without influence on the younger man; zurbarán, his almost exact contemporary, enamored no less than velázquez himself of the new realism emanating from the great and terrible ribera; murillo, whose developing genius the favored court painter, too high-hearted for envy, protected and encouraged, and alonzo cano, the impetuous artist of granada, to whom, too, velázquez was friend and benefactor. spanish colors and escutcheons were everywhere. in decorated tribunes sat the royal family and the choicest of madrid society, with the members of the _circulo de bellas artes_, who were the hosts of the day, and with distinguished guests from the provinces and abroad. romero robledo, as president of the society of fine arts, welcomed the queen, closing his brief address with the following words: "never, señora, will your exalted sentiments be able to blend with those of the spanish people in nobler hour than this, commemorating him who is forever a living national glory and who receives enthusiastic testimony of admiration from all the civilized world." their majesties drew upon the cords, the two silken banners parted, and the statue was revealed to the applauding multitude. while the royal group congratulated the sculptor, the ambassadors of austria and germany laid magnificent wreaths, fashioned with a due regard to the colors of their respective nations, at the feet of velázquez. the eminent french artists, carolus duran and jean paul laurens, bore a crown from france and delighted the audience by declaring that "the painter of the spanish king was himself the king of painters." nothing since the war had gladdened spain more than the presence and praises of these two famous parisians; the reverence of madrid for paris is profound. the tributes of rome and london excited far less enthusiasm. still more wreaths, and more and more, were deposited by a procession of delegates from the art societies of all spain, headed by seville, the bands playing merrily meanwhile, until that stately form of bronze seemed to rise from out a hill of laurels, ribbons, and flowers. this is the first velázquez celebration which has had universal recognition. the painter was hardly known to europe at large until the day of fernando vii, who was induced by his art-loving wife, isabel of braganza, to send the pictures from the royal palaces, all those accumulated treasures of the austrian monarchs, to the empty building, designed for a natural history museum, in the _prado_. this long, low edifice is now one of the most glorious shrines of art in the world. it is a collection of masterpieces, showing the splendors that are rather than the processes by which they came to be. there is only one fra angelico, but there are ten raphaels and four times as many titians. in the netherlands, no less than in italy, the spanish sway gathered rich spoils. there are a score of van dycks, threescore of those precious little canvases by teniers, while as for rubens, he blazes in some sixty-four christian saints, heathen goddesses, and human sinners, all with a strong family resemblance. but although the italian and flemish schools are so magnificently represented, the wealth of spanish painting is what overwhelms the visitor. here are four rooms filled with the works of goya--whose bones, by the way, arrived in madrid from france for final sepulture a few days before the celebration. little more heed was paid to this advent than to that of the united states ambassador, who, it may be noted, was not presented to the queen until the velázquez jubilee was well over. but as for goya, this unnoised entry was appropriate enough, for he, whom de amicis has called "the last flame-colored flash of spanish genius," used, during his later life, to make the long journey from bordeaux to madrid every week for no other purpose than to gloat upon the sunday bull-fight, coming and going without speech or handshake, only a pair of fierce, bloodthirsty eyes. this fiery aragonese painted bull-fights, battles, executions, and inquisition tortures with blacks that make one shudder and reds that make one sick. he painted the brutal side of pleasure as well as of pain, filling broad canvases with dancing, feasting peasants--canvases that smell of wine and garlic, and all but send out a roar of drunken song and laughter. [illustration: gypsy tenants of an arab palace] goya lived in the day of charles iv, whose court painter he was, and against whom this natural caricaturist must have borne a special grudge, so sarcastic are his portraits of the royal family; but his genius is allied to that of velázquez's powerful contemporary, ribera. the _museo del prado_ has abundant material for a ribera _sala_, since it possesses no less than fifty-eight of his works, but the official put in charge of it would probably go mad. the paintings are mercifully scattered and, well for such of us as may be disposed to flight, can be recognized from afar by their dusks and pallors--ascetic faces gleaming out from sable backgrounds, wasted limbs of naked saints tracing livid lines in the gloom of caverns, and, against an atmosphere dark as the frown of god, the ghastly flesh of tortured martyrs, and dead christs drooping stiffly to the linen winding-sheet. one is appalled at the entrance of the long gallery by the two vast, confronting canvases of prometheus, less a titan than a convulsion of titanic agony, and of ixion, crushed not only beneath the wheel, but under that cold, tremendous blackness of hell made actual. far down one side of the hall they stretch, those paintings upon paintings of torment, emaciation, the half-crazed visionary, and the revolting corpse. but there is no escape from ribera, he who "tainted his brush with all the blood of all the sainted." turning back to the spanish cabinets that open from the vestibule we come upon a piteous san sebastian, the blanched young form bound fast and already nailed by arrows to the ebon-hued trunk of a leafless tree. descending the staircase to the _sala de alfonso xii_, we must pass an attenuated old anchoress, whose sunken face and praying hands have the very tint of the skulls that form the only ornaments, almost the only furniture, of her dreary cave. we may as well brave the terrors of this first half of the long gallery, where el greco's livid greens will at least divert attention, and where, opposite the collection of riberas, wait the gracious murillos to comfort and uplift. yet ribera, ruffian though he was, is not solely and exclusively a nightmare artist. he could give sweetest and most tranquil color when he chose, as his "jacob's dream" here testifies, with the dim gold of its angel-peopled ladder; and for all the spirit of bigotry that clouds his work, there is catholic fervor in these pictures and masterly truthfulness up to the point where the senses need the interpretation of the soul. there is more than anatomy, too, in these starved old saints; there is the dread of judgment. ribera depicts supernatural terror, where goya shows the animal shock of death. another spanish phase appears in zurbarán. in his most effective work we have not goya's blood color, nor ribera's blacks, nor the celestial violets of juan de joanes, but the grays of the monastic renunciation, the twilight that is as far from rapture as from anguish. his gowned, cowled, corded figures pass before the eye in the pale tints of the cloister. the shadow of cathedral walls is over them. the _prado_ has been strangely indifferent to zurbarán, who is far more fully represented in the galleries of andalusia; but it has in its baker's dozen two important and characteristic works, both visions of san pedro nolasco. in one the entranced saint, whose figure might be carved in stone,--stone on which ray from stained-glass window never fell,--gazes upon an angel, whose vesture, crossed by a dark green scarf, is flushed with the faintest rose. in the second the sombre cell is illuminated for an instant by the apparition of st. peter the apostle, head downward, as in his crucifixion, his naked form dazzling against a vague redness of light like a memory of pain. one glance at a wall aglow with madonna blues reminds us that spanish sacred art does not culminate in ribera nor in zurbarán. the christian faith has had almost as pure, poetic, and spiritual an utterance in the land of the inquisition as in italy itself. this is not murillo's hour; it is the triumph of velázquez and the realists that spain is celebrating to-day; but none the less it is a joy of joys to walk by the murillos on the way to the laurelled bust and the crowded _sala_. these are the pictures that are rather in heaven than earth. where mary, divine in her virginal loveliness, is not upborne among the golden clouds, the radiant-plumed angel kneels on her cottage floor and the wings of the descending dove beat whiteness through the air. here is realism and more. the mater dolorosa has those luminous sea-blue eyes of andalusia, but they tell of holy tears. the crucified is no mere sufferer, but the suffering son of god, and the crown of thorns, while dripping blood, haloes his brows with the redemption of the world. the genius of velázquez dwelt not above the earth, but upon it, in the heart of its most brilliant life. he was no dreamer of dreams; he "painted the thing as he saw it," and with what sure eyes he saw, and with what a firm and glowing brush he painted! his _sala_ surrounds us at once with an atmosphere of brightness, beauty, elegance, variety, delight. his work is so superb, so supreme, that, like perfect manners, it puts even the humblest of us at our ease. we are not artists, but we seem to understand velázquez. of course we don't. no knight of the palette would admit it for an instant. what can the rabble know of the mysterious compoundings and touchings from which sprang these splendors of color that outshine the centuries? young men with streaming hair are continually escorting awed-looking señoras about the room, discoursing with dramatic vehemence on the "periods" of the master's work. as a youth at seville, they explain, velázquez had of necessity taken religious subjects, for the church was the chief patron of art in andalusia; but his natural bent even then displayed itself in tavern studies and sketches of popular types, as the "water-seller of seville" and the "old woman frying eggs." of his early religious pieces the archbishop's palace of seville keeps "san ildefonso receiving the chasuble from the hands of the virgin," and the national gallery of london secured "christ in the house of martha," but "the adoration of the kings" hangs here at our right as we enter the velázquez _sala_. a little stiff, say these accomplished critics, with a suggestion of the dry manner of his master, pacheco, but bear you in mind that this is the production of a youth of twenty. it is obvious, too, that andalusians, not celestial visions, served him as models. a longing to see the tintorets and titians, those starry treasures of the dark escorial, drew him to madrid at twenty-three. here he was fortunate in finding friends, who brought his portraits to the notice of philip iv, a dissolute boy ruled by the count-duke olivares. youth inclines to youth. velázquez was appointed painter to the king at the same salary as that paid to the royal barber, and henceforth he had no care in life but to paint. and how he painted! his first portraits of philip show a blond young face, with high brow, curled mustache, the long hapsburg chin, and eyes that hint strange secrets. again and again and again velázquez traced those austrian features, while the years stamped them ever more deeply with lines of pride and sin--a tragic face in the end as it was ill-omened in the beginning. but the masterpiece of velázquez's twenties is "the drunkards," a scene of peasant revelry where the young are gloriously tipsy and the old are on the point of maudlin tears. here it is, _los borrachos_, farther to the right. in looking on it one remembers that a contemporary realist, in the protestant island which has often been so sharp a thorn in spain's side, likewise crowned the achievement of his springtime by a group of topers, prince hal and falstaff and their immortal crew. not the influence of rubens, who spent nine months in spain in - , painting like the wind, nor a visit to the holy land of raphael and michael angelo could make velázquez other than he was. this "vulcan's forge," which we see here, painted in italy, is mythological only in the title. back he came at the royal summons, to paint more portraits--philip over and over, on foot, on horseback, half length, full length, all lengths; the winsome infante baltasar, as a toddling baby with his dwarf, as a gallant little soldier, hunter, horseman, and in the princely dignity of fourteen, when he had but three more years to live; the sad french queen, the king's brother, the magnificent olivares, the sculptor montañes, counts, dukes, buffoons. within these twenty years velázquez produced his two most famous works of religious tenor--"christ bound to the column," a "captain jewel" of the london national gallery, and that majestic "crucifixion" before which spaniards in the _prado_ bare their heads. but the crown of this period is _las lanzas_, or "the surrender of breda," which holds the place of honor on the wall fronting the door. it is vivid past all praise, and nobler than any battle scene in its beauty of generosity. the influence of italy had told especially on velázquez's backgrounds. the bright, far landscapes opening out beyond his portrayed figures, especially those on horseback,--and his horses are as lifelike as his dogs,--give to the _sala_ an exhilarating effect of free space and wide horizons. in he made his second visit to rome, where he portrayed pope innocent x. nine years of glorious work in spain remained to him. still he painted the king, even at his royal prayers, for which there was full need, and the young austrian queen, who had succeeded the dead mother of the dead baltasar. on that happy left-hand wall of the _sala_ shines, in all its vigorous grace, the "mercury and argos," but if the hundred eyes of argos are ready to close, their place is supplied by the terrible scrutiny of a row of portraits, embarrassing the boldest of us out of note-taking. how those pairs of pursuing black eyes, sage and keen and mocking, stare the starers out of countenance! the series of pet dwarfs is here, old Æsop, and menippus, and the sly buffoon, "don juan of austria." of these two wonder-works, _las meninas_, "the maids of honor," has a room to itself, and thus _las hilanderas_, "the weavers," becomes the central magnet of this returning wall. a saint picture and even a coronation of the virgin cannot draw the crowds from before this ultimate triumph of the actual--this factory interior, where a group of peasant women fashion tapestries, while a broad shaft of sunshine works miracles in color. and this, too, is spanish. cervantes is as true a facet of many-sided spain as calderon, and velázquez as murillo. with all the national propensity to emotion and exaggeration, spaniards are a truth-seeing people. the popular _coplas_ are more often satiric than sentimental. they like to bite through to the kernel of fact, even when it is bitter. velázquez, with his rich and noble realism, is of legitimate descent. xx choral games of spanish children "thought and affliction, passion, hell itself, she turns to favor and to prettiness." --shakespeare: _hamlet_. on one of my last afternoons in madrid, i visited again my early haunts in the _buen retiro_, for a farewell sight of the children there at play. after all, it is one of the prettiest things to be seen in spain, these graceful, passionate, dramatic little creatures dancing in tireless circles, and piping those songs that every _niña_ knows, without being able to tell when or where or from whom she learned them. only very small boys, as a rule, join the girls in these fairy rings, though occasionally i found a troop of urchins marching to a lusty chorus of their own. one, which i heard in madrid, but whose parrots are more suggestive of seville, runs something like this:-- "in the street they call toledo is a famous school for boys, chundarata, chundarata, chundarata, chún-chún; where all we lads are going with a most heroic noise, chundarata, chundarata, chundarata, chún-chún. "and the parrots on their perches, they mock us as we go, chundarata, chundarata, chundarata, chún-chún. 'i hate my school,' whines polly, 'for my master beats me so,' chundarata, chundarata, chundarata, chún-chún." another, which came to me in fragments, is sung in playing soldier. "the catalans are coming, marching two by two. all who hear the drumming tiptoe for a view. ay, ay! tiptoe for a view. red and yellow banners, pennies very few. ay, ay! pennies very few. "red and yellow banners! the moon comes out to see. if moons had better manners, she'd take me on her knee. ay, ay! take me on her knee. she peeps through purple shutters, would i were tall as she! ay, ay! would i were tall as she! "soldiers need not learn letters, nor any schooly thing, but unless they mind their betters, in golden chains they'll swing. ay, ay! in golden chains they'll swing. or sit in silver fetters, presents from the king. ay, ay! presents from the king." this ironic touch, so characteristically spanish, reappears in many of the games, as in _a la limón_, known throughout the peninsula and the antilles. i should expect to find it, too, in corners of mexico, south america, the philippines, wherever the spanish oppressor has trod and the oppressor's children have sported in the sun. the little players, ranged in two rows, each row hand in hand, dance the one toward the other and retreat, singing responsively. with their last couplet, the children of the first line raise their arms, forming arches, and the children of the second line, letting go hands, dance under these arches as they respond. . "_a la limón, á la limón!_ all broken is our bright fountain. . "_a la limón, á la limón!_ give orders to have it mended. . "_a la limón, á la limón!_ we haven't a bit of money. . "_a la limón, á la limón!_ but we have money in plenty. . "_a la limón, á la limón!_ what kind of money may yours be? . "_a la limón, á la limón!_ oh, ours is money of eggshells. . "_a la limón, á la limón!_ an arch for the lords and ladies. . "_a la limón, á la limón!_ right merrily we pass under." another lyric dialogue, whose fun is spent on the lean purses of students and the happy-go-lucky life of andalusia, must have originated since the overthrow, in , of the leaning tower of saragossa. the stanzas are sung alternately by two rows of children, advancing toward each other and retreating with a dancing step. . "in saragossa --oh, what a pity!-- has fallen the tower, pride of the city. . "fell it by tempest, fairies or witches, the students will raise it, for students have riches. . "call on the students, call louder and louder! they've only two coppers to buy them a chowder. . "chowder of students is sweeter than honey, but the gay andalusians have plenty of money. . "the gay andalusians have fiddle and ballad, but only two coppers to buy them a salad. . "in saragossa --oh, what a pity!-- has fallen the tower, pride of the city." unchildlike innuendoes pervade that curious game of many variants in which the priest and abbess play a leading part. two children are chosen for these dignitaries, while the others call out the names of such flowers, fruits, or vegetables as each may decide to personate. "i'm a cabbage." "i'm a jasmine." "i'm a cherry." then the little sinners kneel in a circle, crying:-- "through the door, up the stairs, on the floor, say your prayers!" and chant some childish gibberish, during which no one must laugh on pain of a forfeit. after this, all sing:-- "the house of the priest it cracked like a cup. half fell down and half stood up. sir priest, sir priest, now tell us aright, in whose house did you sleep last night? _priest._ with the rose slept i. _rose._ fie, o fie! i never saw your tonsured head. _priest._ then with whom did you make your bed? _rose._ with the pink. _pink._ i should think! i never saw your petals red. _rose._ then with whom did you make your bed? _pink._ with the lily. _lily._ don't be silly! i never heard your fragrant tread. _pink._ then with whom did you make your bed? _lily._ with the priest. _priest._ little beast! if i went near you, may i fall dead! _lily._ then with whom did you make your bed? _priest._ with the abbess, i. _abbess._ oh, you lie!" but this seems to be the conclusion of the game. the most of these choral songs, however, are sweet and innocent, concerned with the natural interests of childhood, as this:-- "the shepherdess rose lightly larán--larán--larito, the shepherdess rose lightly from off her heather seat--o. "her goats went leaping homeward, larán--larán--larito, her goats went leaping homeward on nimble little feet--o. "with strong young hands she milked them, larán--larán--larito, with strong young hands she milked them and made a cheese for treat--o. "the kitty watched and wondered, larán--larán--larito, the kitty crept and pondered if it were good to eat--o. "the kitty sprang upon it, larán--larán--larito, the kitty sprang upon it and made a wreck complete--o. "scat, scat, you naughty kitty! larán--larán--larito, scat, scat, you naughty kitty! are stolen cheeses sweet--o?" the baby girls have a song of their own, which, as a blending of doll-play, gymnastics, music, mathematics, and religion, leaves little to be desired. "oh, i have a dolly, and she is dressed in blue, with a fluff of satin on her white silk shoe, and a lace mantilla to make my dolly gay, when i take her dancing this way, this way, this way. [_dances dolly in time to the music._ " and are , and are , and are , and is , and is , and is ! thirty-two! thirty-two! blesséd souls, i kneel to you. [_kneels._ "when she goes out walking in her manila shawl, my andalusian dolly is quite the queen of all. gypsies, dukes, and candy-men bow down in a row, while my dolly fans herself so and so and so. [_fans dolly in time to the music._ " and are , and are , and are , and is , and is , and is ! twenty-four! twenty-four! blesséd souls, i rise once more." they have a number of bird-games, through which they flit and flutter with an airy grace that wings could hardly better. in one, the children form a circle, with "the little bird pinta" in the centre. the chorus, dancing lightly around her, sings the first stanza, and pinta, while passing about the circle to make her choice, sings the rest, with the suggested action. the child chosen becomes pinta in turn. _chorus._ "the little bird pinta was poising on a scented green lemon-tree spray. she picked the leaf and the blossom, and chanted a roundelay. _pinta._ "song in the land! while april is yet a newcomer, o mate of my summer, give to me a hand now, both hands i seek, o! take a spanish kiss, now, on the rosy cheek, o!" equally pretty and simple is the andalusian play of "little white pigeons." the children form in two rows, which face each other some ten or twelve yards apart. one row sings the first stanza, dancing forward and slipping under the "golden arches" made by the lifted arms of the second row. the second row sings and dances in turn, passing under the "silver arches" to granada. . "little white pigeons are dreaming of seville, sun in the palm tree, roses and revel. lift up the arches, gold as the weather. little white pigeons come flying together. . "little white pigeons dream of granada, glistening snows on sierra nevada. lift up the arches, silver as fountains. little white pigeons fly to the mountains." the spanish form of "blindman's buff" begins with "giving the pebble" to determine who shall be the blind hen. a child shuts in one hand the pebble and then presents both little fists to the other children passing in file. each, while all sing the first stanza given below, softly touches first one of the hands, then the other, and finally slaps the one chosen. if this is empty, she passes on. if it holds the pebble, she must take it and be the one to offer the hands. the child who finally remains with the pebble in her possession, after all have passed, is the blind hen. as the game goes on, the children tease the blind hen, who, of course, is trying to catch them, by singing the second stanza given below. "pebble, o pebble! where may it be? pebble, o pebble! come not to me! tell me, my mother, which hand to choose. this or the other? that i refuse, this hand i choose." "she's lost her thimble, little blind hen. better be nimble! try it again! who'll bring a taper for the blind hen? scamper and caper! try it again! try it again!" other games as well known to american children as "blindman's buff" are played by little spaniards. they understand how to make the "hand-chair" and "drop the button," only their button is usually a ring. "hide the handkerchief" carries with it the familiar cries of _hot_ and _cold_, but our "puss in the corner" becomes "a cottage to rent." "'cottage to rent?' 'try the other side, you see that this is occupied.'" in religious seville the dialogue runs:-- "'a candle here?' 'over there.' 'a candle here?' 'otherwhere.' "'candle, a candle!' 'loss on loss.' 'where is light?' 'in the holy cross.'" for all these games, common to childhood the world over, have a rhyming element in the peninsula, where, indeed, the ordinary intercourse of children often carries verses with it. for instance, our youngsters are content with cries of "tell-tale!" and "indian-giver!" but under similar provocation the fierce little nurslings of catholic spain will sing:-- "tell-tale! tell-tale! in hell you'll be served right, all day fed on mouldy bread, and pounded all the night!" the other baby-curse is to the same effect:-- "he who gives and takes again, long in hell may he remain! he who gives and takes once more, may we hear him beat on the devil's door!" the spanish form of tag has a touch of mythological grace. one child, chosen by lot, is the moon, and must keep within the shadow. the others, morning-stars, are safe only in the lighted spaces. the game is for the morning-stars to run into the shadow, daring the moon, who, if successful in catching one, becomes a morning-star in turn, and passes out into the light, leaving the one caught to act the part of moon. as the morning-stars run in and out of the moon's domain, they sing over and over the following stanza:-- "o the moon and the morning-stars! o the moon and the morning-stars! who dares to tread--o within the shadow?" even in swinging, the little girls who push carry on a musical dialogue with the happy holder of the seat. "'say good-day, say good-day to miss fannie fly-away! at the door the guests are met, but the table is not set. put the stew upon the fire. higher, higher, higher, higher! now come down, down, down, down, or the dinner will all burn brown. soup and bread! soup and bread! i know a plot of roses red, red as any hero's sword, or the blood of our holy lord. where art thou, on the wing?' 'no, i'm sitting in the swing.' 'who're thy playmates way up there?' 'swallows skimming through the air.' 'down, come down! the stew will burn. let the rest of us have a turn.'" in playing "hide and seek," the seeker must first sit in a drooping attitude with covered eyes, while the others stand about and threaten to strike him if he peeps:-- "oil-cruet! don't do it! _ras con ras!_ pepper-pot? peep not! _ras con ras!_" the menacing little fists are then suddenly withdrawn. "no, no! not a blow! but a pinch on the arm will do no harm. now let the birdies take alarm!" and off scamper the hiders to their chosen nooks. when they are safely tucked away, the indispensable mother, standing by, sings to the seeker that stanza which is his signal for the start:-- "my little birds of the mountain forth from the cage are flown. my little birds of the mountain have left me all alone." spanish forfeit games are numerous and ingenious. in one of these, called "the toilet," the players take the names of mirror, brush, comb, towel, soap, and other essentials, including jesus, devil, and man alive, these last for exclamatory purposes. as each is mentioned by the leader of the game, he must rise instantly, on pain of forfeit, no matter how fast the speaker may be rattling on: "_jesus!_ when will that _devil_ of a _maid_ bring me my _powder_ and _perfumes_?" characteristic titles of other forfeit games are, "the key of rome," "the fan," "the fountain," "i saw my love last night." the sentences vary from such gentle penalties as "the caress of cadiz" to the predicament of putting three feet on the wall at once. the choral verses are often mere nonsense. "pipe away! pipe away! let us play a little play! what will we play? we'll cut our hands away. who cut them, who? rain from out the blue. where is the rain? hens drank it up again. hens? and where are they? gone their eggs to lay. who will eat them up? friars when they sup. what do friars do? sing 'gori-gori-goo.'" watching spanish children, one may see two little girls, say white rose and sweetness, fly out into an open space, where white rose carefully places the tips of her small shoes in touch with those of sweetness. then they clasp hands, fling their little bodies as far back as these conditions permit, and whirl round and round, singing lustily--until they are overcome by giddiness--the following rigmarole, or one of its variants:-- "titirinela, if you please! titirinela, bread and cheese: 'what is your father's worshipful name?' 'sir red-pepper, who kisses your hands.' 'and how does he call his beautiful dame?' 'lady cinnamon, at your commands.' titirinela, toe to toe! titirinela, round we go!" [illustration: from the tower of gold down the guadalquivÍr] even in some of their prettiest games the verses have a childish incoherence. some dozen little girls form a circle, for instance, with the butterfly in the centre. they lift her dress-skirt by the border, and hold it outspread about her. another child, on the outside, runs around and around the ring, singing:-- "who are these chatterers? oh, such a number! not by day nor by night do they let me slumber. they're daughters of the moorish king, who search the garden-close for lovely lady ana, the sweetest thing that grows. she's opening the jasmine and shutting up the rose." then the children suddenly lift their hands, which are holding butterfly's frock, so as to envelop her head in the folds. the little singer outside continues:-- "butterfly, butterfly, dressed in rose-petals! is it on candle-flame butterfly settles? how many shirts have you woven of rain? weave me another ere i call you again." these songs are repeated seven times. then comes another stanza:-- "now that lady ana walks in garden sweet, gathering the roses whose dew is on her feet, butterfly, butterfly, can you catch us? try it, try!" with this the circle breaks and scatters, while butterfly, blinded as she is by the folds of her own skirt wrapped about her head, does her best to overtake some one, who shall then become her successor. many of the games are simplicity itself. often the play is merely a circle dance, sometimes ending in a sudden kneeling or sitting on the ground, one of the songs accompanying this dance runs:-- "potatoes and salt must little folks eat, while the grown-up people dine off lemons and chestnuts and oranges sweet, with cocoanut milk for wine. on the ground do we take our seat, we're at your feet, we're at your feet." sometimes a line of children will form across the street and run, hand in hand, down its length, singing:-- "we have closed the street and no one may pass, only my grandpa leading his ass laden with oranges fresh from the trees. tilín! tilín! down on our knees! tilín! tilín! tilín! tilín! the holy bell of san agustín!" a play for four weans, training them early to the "eternal spanish contradiction," consists in holding a handkerchief by its four corners, while one of them sings:-- "pull and slacken! i've lost my treasure store. pull and slacken! i'm going to earn some more. _slacken!_" and at this, the other three children must _pull_, on pain of forfeit, whereas if the word is _pull_, their business is to _slacken_. they have a grasshopper game, where they jump about with their hands clasped under their knees, singing:-- "grasshopper sent me an invitation to come and share his occupation. grasshopper dear, how could i say no? grasshopper, grasshopper, here i go!" in much the same fashion they play "turkey," gobbling as they hop. i never found them "playing house" precisely after the manner of our own little girls, but there are many variants for the dialogue and songs in their game of "washerwoman." the mother says: "mariquilla, i'm going out to the river to wash. while i am gone, you must sweep and tidy up the house." "_bueno, madre._" but no sooner is the mother out of sight than naughty mariquilla begins to frisk for joy, singing:-- "mother has gone to wash. mother'll be gone all day. now can mariquilla laugh and dance and play." but the mother returns so suddenly that mariquilla sees her barely in time to begin a vigorous sweeping. "'what hast been doing, mary?' 'sweeping with broom of brier.' 'a friar saw thee playing.' 'he was a lying friar.' 'a holy friar tell a lie!' 'he lied and so do you.' 'come hither, mary of my heart, 'and i'll beat thee black and blue.'" after this lively exercise, the washerwoman goes away again, charging mariquilla to churn the butter, then to knead the bread, then to set the table, but always with the same disastrous results. the mother finally condemns her to a dinner of bread and bitters, but mariquilla makes a point of understanding her to say bread and honey, and shares this sweetness with her sympathetic mates who form the circle. this time the beating is so severe that the children of the ring raise their arms and let mariquilla dodge freely in and out, while they do all they can to trip and hinder the irate washerwoman in her pursuit. there is another washing game of more romantic sort, the chorus being:-- "'bright is the fountain, when skies are blue. who washed my handkerchief? tell me true!' 'three mountain maidens of laughing look. white went their feet in the running brook. one threw in roses, and jasmine one. one spread thy handkerchief in the sun.'" spanish children "play store," of course, but they are such dramatic little creatures that they need no broken ware for their merchandise. a row of them will squat down in the middle of the street, clasp their hands under the hollow of their knees, and crook out their arms for "handles." then a customer wanders by, asking, "who sells honey-jars?" the merchant disrespectfully replies, "that do i, uncle of the torn trousers." the shabby customer answers with castilian dignity, "if my trousers are torn, my wife will mend them." the merchant then opens negotiations. "will you buy a little jar of honey?" "what's your price?" the merchant is not exorbitant. "a flea and a louse." the probabilities are, unhappily, that the customer has these commodities about him, and he inclines, though cautiously, toward the bargain. "your little honey-jars are good?" "very good." "do they weigh much?" "let's see." so they pick up an hilarious little honey-jar by its handles and tug it away between them, not letting it touch the ground, to the sidewalk. here the merchant and customer have designated four spaces as heaven, limbo, purgatory, and hell, but on a preliminary paving-stone--let truth need no apology!--they have done some artistic spitting, with the result that four different figures in saliva are presented to the little honey-jar. these four figures bear a secret relation to the four spaces on the sidewalk, and the prisoner must make his choice. "this!" he ventures. "hell!" scream the merchant and customer, and drag him, shrieking and struggling, to his doom. the next, perhaps, will have the luck to hit on heaven, for every little honey-jar must take his chance in this theological lottery. sometimes the market becomes a transformation scene. the children hold up their forefingers for candles, but embarrass the merchant by doubling these up whenever the customer is on the point of buying. just as the bargain is about to be concluded, the little candles vanish and the children roll themselves into bunches of grapes, some proving sweet and others sour. again, they make themselves over into pitchers, cushions, and all variety of domestic articles, becoming at last a pack of barking dogs which rush out on the customer, snap at his legs, and drive him off the premises. again, it is a chicken-market on which the uncle of the torn trousers chances, where one by one he buys all the hens and chickens, but forgets to buy the rooster, and when, by and by, this lordly fowl, waxing lonely, cock-a-doodle-doos, the hens and chickens come scurrying back to him, more to the profit of the merchant than to the satisfaction of the customer. in another of the chicken games, the mother leaves mariquilla in charge of the brood, with directions, if the wolf comes, to fling him the smallest. but he comes so often that, when the mother returns, there are no chickens left. then she and little mary go hunting them, hop-hop-hop through flea street, bow-wow-wow through dog street, and so on without success, until it occurs to them to scatter corn. thereupon with peep-peep-peep and flip-flap-flutter all the chickens appear, but only to fly at the negligent mother, who left them to the jaws of the wolf, and assail her with such furious pecks that she must run for her life, the indignant chicks racing in wild pursuit. there is a market-garden game, where one acts as gardener, others as vegetables, and others as customers. others, still, come creeping up as thieves, but are opposed by a barking dog, which they kill. the gardener summons them before the judge. a trial is held, with much fluent spanish argument pro and con, and the prisoners are condemned to execution for the murder of the dog. but at the last thrilling moment, when they have confessed their sins to the priests, and been torn from the embraces of their weeping friends, the dog trots cheerfully in, so very much alive that all the criminals are pardoned in a general dance of joy. the little girls have a favorite shopping game. in this the children are seated, shoulder to shoulder, in two rows that face each other. every child takes the name of some cloth, silks and satins being preferred. the leader of the game runs around the two rows, singing:-- "up the counter, down the counter! how can i buy enough? down the counter, up the counter! i choose this velvet stuff." little velvet immediately jumps to her feet and follows the leader, who continues choosing and calling, choosing and calling, until the stock is exhausted and she can go home with all her purchases most conveniently trooping at her heels. but the plays dearest to the black-eyed _niñas_ are love plays, of which they have a countless number. most of these consist of the dancing, singing circle, with a child in the centre who chooses a mate. some are as simple as this:-- "milk and rice! i want to marry a maiden nice. i may not tarry. it is not this, nor this, nor this. 'tis only this whom i want to marry." [illustration: cadiz from the sea] _ambó, ató_ is hardly more elaborate. when in the exchange of question and answer, the child would choose her page and touches one of the circle, the mercenary mites dance on faster than ever, until she offers whatever gift she has, a flower, apple, or any trifle at hand. then the page runs in and kneels before her. the circle dances about the two, singing the refrain, until the first child slips out and joins them, leaving the second in the centre to begin the game over again. "_ambó, ató, matarile, rile, rile? ambó, ató, matarile, rile, ron?_ . "what do you want, matarile, rile, rile? what do you want, matarile, rile, ron? . "i want a page, matarile, rile, rile. i want a page, matarile, rile, ron. . "choose whom you will, matarile, rile, rile. choose whom you will, matarile, rile, ron. . "i choose pedro, matarile, rile, rile. i choose pedro, matarile, rile, ron. . "what will you give him, matarile, rile, rile? what will you give him, matarile, rile, ron? . "i'll give him an orange, matarile, rile, rile. i'll give him an orange, matarile, rile, ron. . "he answers yes, matarile, rile, rile. he answers yes, matarile, rile, ron." "the charcoal woman" requires an odd number of players. the circle dances about a little girl who stands all forlorn in the centre. the chorus sings the first stanza, the child sings the second, which has reference to the fact that spanish charcoal is often made from laurel wood, and the chorus, in a comforting tone, the third. then, while the child runs about and about the circle as if seeking, the chorus angrily sings the fourth stanza, accusing her of ambition, and the little charcoal woman retorts with the fifth, making her choice as she sings the last four words. at this the circle breaks, the children quickly choosing mates and dancing by pairs. the one who is left without a partner takes her place in the centre as the next charcoal woman. . _chorus._ "who would say that the charcoal woman, sooty, sooty charcoal woman, in all the city and all the land could find a lover to kiss her hand? . _charcoal woman._ "the little widow of good count laurel has no one left her for kiss or quarrel. i want a sweetheart and find me none. charcoal women must bide alone. . _chorus._ "poor little widow, so sweet thou art, if there's no other to claim thy heart, take thy pick of us who stand ready to kiss thy sooty hand. . _chorus._ "the charcoal woman, the charcoal woman, proud little black little charcoal woman, goes seeking up and seeking down to find the count of cabratown. . _charcoal woman._ "i would not marry the count of cabra. never will marry the count of cabra. count of cabra! oh, deary me! i'll not have him,--_if you're not he!_" just such coquettish touches of spanish spirit and maiden pride appear in many of the songs, as, for instance, in one of their counting-out carols, "the garden." "the garden of our house it is the funniest garden yet, for when it rains and rains and rains, the garden it is wet. and now we bow, skip back and then advance, for who know how to make a bow know how to dance. ab--c--ab--c de--fg--hi--j. if your worship does not love me, then a better body may. ab--c--ab--c, kl--mn--op--q. if you think you do not love me, i am sure i don't love you." sometimes these dancing midgets lisp a song of worldly wisdom:-- "if any cadet with thee would go, daughter, instantly answer no. for how can cadet, this side of heaven, keep a wife on his dollars seven? "if any lieutenant asks a caress, daughter, instantly answer yes. for the lieutenant who kisses thy hand may come to be a general grand." and, again, these babies may be heard giving warning that men betray. "the daughters of ceferino went to walk--alas! a street above, a street below, street of san tomás. the least of all, they lost her. her father searched--alas! a street above, a street below, street of san tomás. and there he found her talking with a cavalier, who said, 'come home with me, my darling, 'tis you that i would wed.' "oh, have you seen the pear tree upon my grandpa's lawn? its pears are sweet as honey, but when the pears are gone, a turtle-dove sits moaning, with blood upon her wings, amid the highest branches, and this is what she sings: 'ill fares the foolish maiden who trusts a stranger's fibs. she'd better take a cudgel and break his ugly ribs.'" the dance for "elisa of mambrú" begins merrily, and soon saddens to a funereal pace. "in madrid was born a maiden--carabí! daughter of a general--carabí, hurí, hurá!" the song goes on to tell of elisa's beautiful hair, which her aunt dressed so gently for her with a golden comb and crystal curling-pins, and how elisa died and was carried to church in an elegant coffin, and how a little bird used to perch upon her grave and chirp, _pio_, _pio_. mambrú himself is the pathetic hero of spanish childhood. this mambrú for whom the little ones from aragon to andalusia pipe so many simple elegies, the mambrú sung by trilby, is not the english marlborough to them, but, be he lord or peasant, one of their very own. "mambrú is gone to serve the king, and comes no more by fall or spring. "we've looked until our eyes are dim. will no one give us word of him? "you'd know him for his mother's son by peasant dress of aragon. "you'd know him for my husband dear by broidered kerchief on his spear. "the one i broider now is wet. oh, may i see him wear it yet!" at the end of this song, as of the following, the little dancers throw themselves on the ground, as if in despair. "mambrú went forth to battle. long live love! i listen still for his coming feet. the rose on the rose bush blossoms sweet. "he will come back by easter. long live love! he will come back by christmas-tide. the rose on the bush has drooped and died. "down the road a page is riding. long live love! 'oh, what are the tidings that you bear?' the rose on the bush is budding fair. "'woe is me for my tidings!' long live love! 'mambrú lies cold this many a morn.' ay, for a rose bush sharp with thorn! "a little bird is chirping. long live love! in the withered bush where no more buds blow, the bird is chirping a note of woe." a game that i often watched blithe young granadines playing under the gray shadow of alhambra walls, seems to be a spanish version of "london bridge is falling down." two children are chosen to be rose and pink. these form an arch with their uplifted arms, through which run the other children in a line, headed by the mother. a musical dialogue is maintained throughout. "_rose and pink._ to the viper of love, that hides in flowers, the only way lies here. _mother._ then here i pass and leave behind one little daughter dear. _rose and pink._ shall the first one or the last be captive of our chain? _mother._ oh, the first one runs too lightly. 'tis the last that shall remain. _chorus._ pass on, oho! pass on, aha! by the gate of alcalá!" the last child is caught by the falling arms and is asked whether she will go with rose or pink. she shyly whispers her choice, taking her stand behind her elected leader, whom she clasps about the waist. when all the children of the line have been successively caught in the falling arch, and have taken their places behind either rose or pink, the game ends in a grand tugging match. rose and pink hold hands as long as they can, while the two lines try to drag them apart. all the while, until the very last, the music ripples on:-- "_rose and pink._ let the young mind make its choice, as young minds chance to think. now is the rose your leader, or go you with the pink? let the young heart make its choice by laws the young heart knows. now is the pink your leader, or go you with the rose? _chorus._ pass on, oho! pass on, aha! by the gate of alcalá!" another favorite is "golden ear-rings." here the mother, this time a queen, sits in a chair, supposedly a throne, and close before her, on the floor, sits the youngest daughter; before this one, the next youngest, and so on, in order of age. two other children, holding a handkerchief by the corners, walk up and down the line, one on one side and one on the other, so passing the handkerchief above the heads of the seated princesses. then ensues the musical dialogue between these two suitors and the queen. "'we've come from france, my lady, and portugal afar. we've heard of your fair daughters, and very fair they are.' 'be they fair or no, señores, it's none of your concern, for god has given me bread for all, and given me hands to earn.' 'then we depart, proud lady, to find us brides elsewhere. the daughters of the moorish king our wedding rings shall wear.' 'come back, my sweet señores! bear not so high a crest. you may take my eldest daughter, but leave me all the rest.'" the dialogue is transferred to one of the suitors and to the princess at the farther end of the line, on whose head the handkerchief now rests. "'will you come with me, my onion?' 'fie! that's a kitchen smell.' 'will you come with me, my rosebud?' 'ay, gardens please me well.'" in similar fashion all the daughters are coaxed away until only the youngest remains, but she proves obdurate. they may call her parsley or pink; it makes no difference. so the suitors resort to bribes, the last proving irresistible. "'we'll buy you a french missal.' 'i have a book in latin.' 'in taffeta we'll dress you.' 'my clothes are all of satin.' 'you shall ride upon a donkey.' 'i ride in coaches here.' 'we'll give you golden ear-rings.' 'farewell, my mother dear.'" in some of the many variants of this game, the queen herself, adequate as she may be to earning her own living, is wooed and won at last. i have not met with fairy-lore among these children's carols. the only fairy known to spain appears to be a sort of spiritualistic brownie, who tips over tables and rattles chairs in empty rooms by night. the grown-up men who write of him say he frightens women and children. he can haunt a house as effectually as an old-time ghost, and a _casa del duende_ may go begging for other tenants. one poor lady, who went to all the trouble of moving to escape from him, was leaning over the balcony of her new home,--so the story goes,--to see the last cartful of furniture drive up, when a tiny man in scarlet waved a feathered cap to her from the very top of the load and called, "yes, señora, we are all here. we have moved." so the childish imagination of spain, shut out from fairyland, makes friends with the saints in such innocent, familiar way as well might please even ribera's anchorites. the adventurous small boy about to take a high jump pauses to pray:-- "saint magdalene, don't let me break my thigh! oh, saint thomas, help this birdie fly!" the little girls express decided preferences for one saint over another. "old san antón, what has he done? put us in the corner every one. "san sebastián is a nice young man. he takes us to walk and gives us a fan." santa rita is best at finding lost needles, and san pantaleón is a humorist. "san pantaleón, are twenty and one children enough for an hour of fun slippers of iron donkey must try on. moors with their pages ride in gold stages. but if you want a girdle, infanta, cucurucú, 'bout-face with you!" at this one of the children dancing in circle whirls around, remaining in her place, but with back turned to the centre and arms crossed over her breast, although her hands still hold those of her nearest neighbors. the rhyme is sung over and over, until all the little figures have thus turned about and the circle is dancing under laughable difficulties. but the dearest saint of all is san serení. two of the best-known games are under his peculiar blessing. one of these is of the genuine kindergarten type, the children dancing in a circle through the first two lines of each stanza, but then loosing hands to imitate, in time to the music, the suggested action. "san serení, the holy--holy-hearted! thus for thee the shoemakers are cobbling. thus, thus, thus! thus it pleases us." even so it pleases seamstresses to stitch, laundresses to wash, carpenters to saw, silversmiths to tap, ironsmiths to pound, and little folks to dance, all for "san serení de la buena, buena vida." in the second game, a gymnastic exercise, whose four movements are indicated in the four stanzas, he is apostrophized as "san serení del monte, san serení cortés." "san serení of the mountain, our saint of courtesy, i, as a good christian, will fall upon my knee. "san serení of the mountain, where the strong winds pass, i, as a good christian, will seat me on the grass. "san serení of the mountain, where the white clouds fly, i, as a good christian, upon the ground will lie. "san serení of the mountain, where earth and heaven meet, i, as a good christian, will spring upon my feet." with the legend of st. katharine and her martyrdom childish fancy has played queer caprices. "in cadiz was a wean--ah! the gentlest ever seen--ah! her name was catalina. ay, so! her name was catalina. "her father, moslem cruel, he made her bring in fuel. her mother fed her gruel. ay, so! her mother fed her gruel. "they beat her tuesday, wednesday, they beat her thursday, friday, they beat her saturday, monday. ay, so! they beat her hardest sunday. "once bade her wicked sire she make a wheel most dire, of scissors, knives, and fire. ay, so! of scissors, knives, and fire. "the noble christian neighbors, in pity of her labors, brought silver swords and sabres. ay, so! brought silver swords and sabres. "by noon her task was ended, and on that wheel all splendid her little knee she bended. ay, so! her little knee she bended. "then down a stair of amber she saw the cherubs clamber: 'come rest in our blue chamber.' ay, so! she rests in their blue chamber." little spaniards are not too intolerant to make a play-fellow of the devil. in one of their pet games, the children form in line, with the invaluable mother in charge. to each child she secretly gives the name of a color. then an angel comes in with a flying motion and calls, for instance, "purple!" but there is no purple in the company. it is then the devil's turn, who rushes in, usually armed with a table-fork, and roars for "green." there is a green in the line, and she has to follow the demon, while the angel tries again. all right-minded spectators hope that the angel will have the longer array at the last. the virgin's well-beloved name comes often into the children's songs. "for studying my lessons, so as not to be a dunce, papa gave me eight dollars, that i mean to spend at once. four for my dolly's necklace, two for a collar fine, and one to buy a candle for our lady's shrine." even the supreme solemnity of the wafer borne through the kneeling streets cannot abash the trustful gaze of childhood. "'where are you going, dear jesus, so gallant and so gay?' 'i am going to a dying man to wash his sins away. and if i find him sorry for the evil he has done, though his sins are more than the sands of the sea, i'll pardon every one.' "'where are you going, dear jesus, so gallant and so gay?' 'i'm coming back from a dying man whose sins are washed away. because i found him sorry for the evil he had done, though his sins were more than the sands of the sea, i've pardoned every one.'" the affairs of state as well as of church have left their traces on the children's play. as the little ones dance in circle, their piping music tells a confused tale of spanish history within these latter days. "in madrid there is a palace, as bright as polished shell, and in it lives a lady they call queen isabel. not for count nor duke nor marquis her father would she sell, for not all the gold in spain could buy the crown of isabel. "one day when she was feasting within this palace grand, a lad of aragon walked in and seized her by the hand. through street and square he dragged her to a dreary prison cell, and all that weary way she wept, the lady isabel. "'for whom art weeping, lady? what gives thy spirit pain? if thou weepest for thy brothers, they will not come again. if thou weepest for thy father, he lies 'neath sheet of stone.' 'for these i am not weeping, but for sorrows of mine own. "'i want a golden dagger.' 'a golden dagger! why?' 'to cut this juicy pear in two. of thirst i almost die.' we gave the golden dagger. she did not use it well. ah, no, it was not pears you cut, my lady isabel." these dancing circles keep in memory the assassination of marshal prim. "as he came from the cortes, men whispered to prim, 'be wary, be wary, for life and for limb.' then answered the general, 'come blessing, come bane, i live or i die in the service of spain.' "in the _calle del turco_, where the starlight was dim, nine cowardly bullets gave greeting to prim. the best of the spaniards lay smitten and slain, and the new king he died for came weeping to spain." this new king, amadeo, is funnily commemorated in another dancing ditty, "four sweethearts." "maiden, if they ask thee, maiden, if they ask thee, if thou hast a sweetheart--_ha_, _ha_! if thou hast a sweetheart, answer without blushing, answer without blushing, 'four sweethearts are mine--_ha_, _ha_! four sweethearts are mine. "'the first he is the son of-- the first he is the son of a confectioner--_ha_, _ha_! a confectioner. sugar-plums he gives me, sugar-plums he gives me, caramels and creams--_ha_, _ha_! caramels and creams. "'the second is the son of-- the second is the son of an apothecary--_ha_, _ha_! an apothecary. syrups sweet he gives me, syrups sweet he gives me, for my little cough--_hack_, _hack_! for my little cough. "'the third he is the son of-- the third he is the son of the barber to the court--_ha_, _ha_! the barber to the court. powders rare he gives me, powders rare he gives me, and a yellow wig--_ha_, _ha_! and a yellow wig. "'the fourth? oh, 'tis a secret, the fourth? oh, 'tis a secret. our new italian king--_ha_, _ha_! our new italian king. he gives me silk and satin, he gives me silk and satin, velvet, gold, and gems--_ha_, _ha_! velvet, gold, and gems.'" strangest of all is the dramatic little dialogue, which one with an ear for children's voices may hear any day in madrid, telling of the death of queen mercedes. "'whither away, young king alfonso? (oh, for pity!) whither away?' 'i go seeking my queen mercedes, for i have not seen her since yesterday.' "'but we have seen your queen mercedes, seen the queen, though her eyes were hid, while four dukes all gently bore her through the streets of sad madrid. "'oh, how her face was calm as heaven! oh, how her hands were ivory white! oh, how she wore the satin slippers that you kissed on the bridal night! "'dark are the lamps of the lonely palace. black are the suits the nobles don. in letters of gold on the wall 'tis written: _her majesty is dead and gone_.' "he fainted to hear us, young alfonso, drooped like an eagle with broken wing, but the cannon thundered: 'valor, valor!' and the people shouted: 'long live the king!'" spanish wiseheads say that the children's choral games are already perishing, that the blight of schools and books is passing upon the child-life of the peninsula, and soon there will be no more time for play. the complaint of the _niñas_ is much to the same effect, yet they wear their rue with a difference:-- "not even in the _prado_ can little maidens play, because those staring, teasing boys are always in the way. "they might be romping with us, for they're only children yet, but they won't play at anything except a cigarette. "now let me tell you truly: if things go on like this, and midgets care for nothing but to walk and talk and kiss, "no plays will cheer the _prado_ in future times, for then the little boys of seven will all be married men." xxi "o la seÑorita!" "since the english education came into fashion, there is not a maiden left who can feel true love."--alarcÓn. during my stifling night journey from madrid to the north i had much chat with castilian and german ladies in the carriage about spanish girls. our talk turned especially on their reading, so reminding me of an incident of the past spring. on an andalusian balcony i once found a little girl curled up in the coolest corner and poring over a shabby, paper-bound book. on my expressing interest in the volume, she presented it at once, according to the code of spanish manners. "the book is at the disposal of your worship." but as the bundle of tattered leaves was not only so precious to her own small worship, but also greatly in demand among her worshipful young mates, whose constant borrowing seemed a strain even on andalusian courtesy, i retained it merely long enough to note the title and general character. the next time i entered a book-shop i expended ten cents for this specimen of juvenile literature--"the best-selling book in seville," if the clerk's word may be taken--and have it before me as i write. on the cover is stamped a picture of two graceful señoritas, perusing, apparently, this very work, "the book of the enamored and the secretary of lovers," and throughout the two hundred pages are scattered cheap cuts, never indecent, but suggesting violent ardors of passion--embracings, kissings, gazings, pleadings, with hearts, arrows, torches, and other ancient and honorable heraldry of cupid. the title-page announces that this is a fifth edition of ten thousand copies. [illustration: the divine shepherd] the opening section is on "love and beauty," enumerating, by the way, the "thirty points" essential to a perfect woman. "three things white--skin, teeth, and hands. three black--eyes, eyebrows, and eyelashes. three rosy--lips, cheeks, and nails." but warning is duly given that even the thirty points of beauty do not make up a sum total of perfection without the mystic, all-harmonizing quality of charm. next in order are the several sets of directions for winning the affections of maid, wife, and widow, with a collection of edifying sentiments from various saints and wits concerning widows. descriptions of wedding festivities follow, with a glowing dissertation on kisses, "the banquet-cups of love." after this stands a castilian translation of an impassioned arab love-song with the burden, _todo es amor_. maxims on love, culled chiefly from french authorities, are succeeded by an eighteenth-century love-catechism:-- "_question._ art thou a lover? _answer._ yes, by the grace of cupid. _question._ what is a lover? _answer._ a lover is one who, having made true and faithful declaration of his passion, seeks the means of gaining the love of her whom he adores." this is the first lesson. the second treats of the five signs of love, the third of love's duties, the fourth gives the orison of lovers--a startling adaptation of the lord's prayer--and their creed: "i believe in cupid, absolute lord of love, who gives to lovers all their joys, and in her whom i love most, for most lovable is she, on whom i think without ceasing, and for whom i would sacrifice gladly my honor and my life." there is nothing here, it will be noticed, of the englishman's proud exception:-- "i could not love thee, dear, so much, loved i not honor more." love has its own beatitudes, too. "blessed are they who love sincerely. blessed are they of merry mood. blessed are lovers who have patience. blessed are the rich, for love delights to spend." a "divination of dreams," "copied from an ancient manuscript found in the ruins of the convent of san prudencio, in clavijo," that famous battle-ground where st. james first trampled the moors, next engages attention. to dream of a fan is sign of a coming flirtation; of a banner, success in war; of a woman's singing, sorrow and loss; of stars, fair fortune in love; of fire, good luck at cards; of a black cat, trouble from the mother-in-law; of closed eyes, your child in mortal peril; of birds, joy and sweet content; of a ghost, ill health; of scissors, a lover's quarrel; of wine, a cheating frenchman; of shoes, long journeys; of angels, good tidings from far away. some of these omens are a surprise to the uninitiated reader. it is bad luck to behold in a dream images of christ and the virgin. a church, seen from within, denotes alms; from without, death. to dream of the altar arrayed for high mass betokens grave misfortune. other omens are significant of spanish discontents. to dream of a jesuit brings miseries and betrayals; of a military officer, tyranny and brutality; of a king, danger; of a republic, "abundance, happiness, honors, and work well recompensed." often these divinations run into rhyme, as:-- "dream of god at midnight dim, and by day you'll follow him." the next section of this complete guide is given over to snatches of love-song, which andalusian children know by heart. these five are fairly representative:-- "mine is a lover well worth the loving. under my balcony he cries: 'you have maddened me with your grace of moving, and the beaming of your soft black eyes.'" "though thou go to the highest heaven, and god's hand draw thee near, the saints will not love thee half so well as i have loved thee here." "if i had a blossom rare, i would twine it in thy hair, though god should stoop and ask for it to make his heaven more exquisite." "such love for thee, sent forth from me, bears on such iron gate that i, used so, no longer know whether i love or hate." "the learnéd are not wise, the saints are not in bliss; they have not looked into your eyes, nor felt your burning kiss." then comes a "new dictionary of love," defining some two hundred doubtful terms in cupid's lexicon, as _forever_, _no_, _unselfish_. after this we are treated to the language of fan flirtation, of handkerchief flirtation, of flower flirtation, and "the clock of flora," by which lovers easily make appointments,--one, two, three, being numbered in rose, pink, tulip, and so on. a cut of a youth toiling at a manuscript-laden desk introduces some fifty pages of model love-letters, which seem, to the casual eye, to cover all contingencies. a selection of verses used for adding a grace to birthday and saint-day gifts comes after, and this all-sufficient compendium concludes with a "lovers' horoscope." a single illustration of the sort of reading that spanish girls find in their way should not, of course, be pressed too far, and yet any one who had seen the pretty group of heads clustered for hours over these very pages on that shaded balcony would not deny the book significance. a taste for the best reading is not cultivated in spanish girls, even where the treasures of that great castilian literature are accessible to them. convent education knows nothing of calderon. as for books especially adapted to girlhood, we have just examined a sample. love and religion are the only subjects with which a señorita is expected to concern herself, and the life of the convent is often a second choice. even when a spanish girl wins her crown of wifehood and motherhood, her ignorance and poverty of thought tell heavily against the most essential interests of family life. the spanish bride is often a child in years. pacheco's direction for painting the immaculate conception ran, "our lady is to be pictured in the flower of her age, from twelve to thirteen." this was three centuries ago, but spain changes slowly. the girl of to-day, nevertheless, marries later than her mother married. i remember one weary woman of forty with eighteen children in their graves and the three who were living physical and mental weaklings. she told us of a friend who married at fourteen and used to leave her household affairs in confusion while she stole away to a corner to play with her dolls. her husband, a grave lawyer in middle life, would come home to dinner and find his helpmeet romping with the other children in the _plaza_. the spanish girl is every whit as fascinating as her musical, cloaked gallant confides to her iron-grated lattice. indeed, these amorous serenades hardly do her justice, blending as she does french animation with italian fervor. in andalusia she dances with a grace that makes every other use of life seem vain. and when she bargains, there is nothing sordid about it. her haggling is a social condescension that at once puts the black-eyed young salesman at her mercy. "but the fan seems to me the least bit dear, señor." he shrugs his shoulders and flings out his arm in protest. "ah, señorita! you see not how beautiful the work is. i am giving it away at six _pesetas_." she lifts her eyebrows half incredulously, all bewitchingly. "at five _pesetas_, señor." he runs his hand through his black hair in chivalrous distress. "but the peerless work, señorita! and this other, too! i sacrifice it at four _pesetas_." she touches both fans lightly. "you will let us have the two at seven _pesetas_, señor?" her eyes dance over his confusion. he catches the gleam, laughs back, throws up his hands. "_bueno_, señorita. at what you please." it takes a spaniard to depict a throng of spanish ladies,--"fiery carnations or starry jasmine in their hair, cheeks like blush roses, eyes black or blue, with lashes quivering like butterflies; cherry lips, a glance as fickle as the light nod of a flower in the wind, and smiles that reveal teeth like pearls; the all-pervading fan with its wordless telegraphy in a thousand colors." in such a throng one sees not only the typical "eyes of midnight," but those "emerald eyes" which cervantes knew, and veritable pansy-colored eyes dancing with more than pansy mischief. but the voices! in curious contrast to the tones of spanish men, soft, coaxing, caressing, the voices of the women are too often high and harsh, suggesting, in moments of excitement, the scream of the andalusian parrot. "o jesus, what a fetching hat! the feather, the feather, see, see, see, _see_ the feather! mary most pure, but it must have cost four or five _pesetas_! ah, my god, don't i wish it were mine!" the speaker who gets the lead in a chattering knot of spanish women is a prodigy not only of volubility, but of general muscular action. she keeps time to her shrill music with hands, fan, elbows, shoulders, eyebrows, knees. she dashes her sentences with inarticulate whirs and whistles, and countless pious interjections: _gracias á dios! santa maria! o dios mio!_ the others, out-screamed and out-gesticulated, clutch at her, shriek at her, fly at her, and still, by some mysterious genius, maintain courtesy, grace, and dignity through it all. yet it is true that the vulgar-rich variety is especially obnoxious among spaniards. an overdressed spanish woman is frightfully overdressed, her voice is maddening, her gusts of mirth and anger are painfully uncontrolled. this, however, is the exception, and refinement the rule. the legendary spanish lady is forever sitting at a barred window, or leaning from a balcony, coquetting with a fan and dropping arch responses to the "caramel phrases" of her guitar-tinkling cavalier. "you're always saying you'd die for me. i doubt it nevertheless; but prove it true by dying, and then i'll answer yes." for, loving as they are, spanish sweethearts take naturally to teasing. "when he calls me his butterfly, i call him my elephant. then his eyes are like black fire, for he is ashamed to be so big, but in a twinkling i can make him smile again." the scorn of these dainty creatures for the graces of the ruling sex is not altogether affected. i shall not forget the expression with which a sevillian belle, an exquisite dancer, watched her _novio_ as, red and perspiring, he flung his stout legs valiantly through the mazes of the _jota_. "men are uglier than ever when they are dancing, aren't they?" she remarked to me with all the serenity in the world. and a bewitching maiden in madrid, as i passed some favorable comment upon the photographs of her two brothers, gave a deprecatory shrug. "handsome? _ca!_" (which is _no_ many times intensified.) "but they are not so ugly, either,--_for men_." the style of compliment addressed by _caballeros_ to señoritas is not like "the quality of mercy," but very much strained indeed. "your eyes are two runaway stars, that would rather shine in your face than in heaven, but your heart is harder than the columns of solomon's temple. your father was a confectioner and rubbed your lips with honey-cakes." little consuelo, or lagrimas, or milagros, or dolores, or peligros laughs it off, "ah, now you are throwing flowers." the _coplas_ of the wooer below the balcony are usually sentimental. "by night i go to the patio, and my tears in the fountain fall, to think that i love you so much, and you love me not at all." "sweetheart, little sweetheart! love, my love! i can't see thy eyes for the lashes above. eyes black as midnight, lashes black as grief! o, my heart is thirsty as a summer leaf." "if i could but be buried in the dimple of your chin, i would wish, dear, that dying might at once begin." "if thou wilt be a white dove, i will be a blue. we'll put our bills together and coo, coo, coo." sometimes the sentiment is relieved by a realistic touch. "very anxious is the flea, caught between finger and thumb. more anxious i, on watch for thee, lest thou shouldst not come." and occasionally the lover, flouted overmuch, retorts in kind. "don't blame me that eyes are wet, for i only pay my debt. i've taught you to cry and fret, but first you taught me to forget." "i'll not have you, little torment, i don't want you, little witch. let your mother light four candles and stand you in a niche." the average spaniard is well satisfied with his señora as she is. he did her extravagant homage as a suitor, he treats her with kindly indulgence as a husband, but he expects of her a life utterly bounded by the _casa_. "what is a woman?" we heard one say. "a bottle of wine." and those few words tell the story why, with all their charm, home-love, and piety, the spanish women have not availed to keep the social life of the peninsula sound and sweet. "but to admire them as our gallants do, 'oh, what an eye she hath! oh, dainty hand! rare foot and leg!' and leave the mind respectless, this is a plague that in both men and women makes such pollution of our earthly being." the life of the convent is attractive to girls of mystic temperament, like the _maria_ of valdés, but many of these lively daughters of the sun regard it with frank disfavor. one of the songs found in the mouths of little girls all over the peninsula is amusingly expressive of the childish aversion to so dull a destiny. "i wanted to be married to a sprightly barber-lad, but my parents wished to put me in the convent dim and sad. "one afternoon of summer they walked me out in state, and as we turned a corner, i saw the convent gate. "out poured all the solemn nuns in black from toe to chin, each with a lighted candle, and made me enter in. "the file was like a funeral; the door shut out the day; they sat me on a marble stool and cut my hair away. "the pendants from my ears they took, and the ring i loved to wear, but the hardest loss of all to brook was my mat of raven hair. "if i run out to the garden and pluck the roses red, i have to kneel in church until twice twenty prayers are said. "if i steal up to the tower and clang the convent bell, the holy abbess utters words i do not choose to tell. "my parents, o my parents, unkindly have you done, for i was never meant to be a dismal little nun." i came but slightly in contact with spanish nuns. among the figures that stand out clear in memory are a kindly old sister, at seville, in the _hospital de la caridad_, who paused midway in her exhibition of the famous murillos there to wipe her eyes and grieve that we were protestants, and an austere, beautiful woman in _la cuna_, or foundling asylum of seville, who caressed a crying baby with the passionate tenderness of motherhood denied. the merriest spanish _hermana_ of our acquaintance we encountered on the french side of the pyrenees. at anglet, halfway between biarritz and bayonne, is the convent of the bernardines, silent sisters. the visitor sees them only from a distance, robed in white flannel, with large white crosses gleaming on the back of their hooded capes. these, too, were originally white, and the hoods so deep that not even the profile of the features could be seen; but the french government, disturbed by the excessive death-rate in this order, recently had the audacity to interfere and give summary orders that the hoods be cut away, so that the healthful sunshine might visit those pale faces. the mandate was obeyed, but, perhaps in sign of mournful protest, the new hoods and capes are black as night. these women trappists may recite their prayers aloud, as they work in field or garden, or over their embroidery frames, but they speak for human hearing only once a year, when their closest family friends may visit them and listen through a grating to what their disused voices may yet be able to utter. from all other contact with the world they are shielded by an outpost guard of a few of the servants of mary, an industrious, self-supporting sisterhood, whose own convent, half a mile away, is a refuge for unwedded mothers and a home for unfathered children. hither the pitying sisters brought, a few days before our visit, a wild-eyed girl whom they had found lying on one of the sea rocks, waiting for the rising tide to cover her and her shame together. the chief treasure of this nunnery, one regrets to add, is the polished skull of mary magdalene. that one of the servants of mary who showed us over the trappist convent was a bright-eyed spanish dame of many winters, as natural a chatterbox as ever gossiped with the neighbors in the sun. her glee in this little opportunity for conversation was enough to wring the heart of any lover of old ladies. she walked as slowly as possible and detained us on every conceivable pretext, reaching up on her rheumatic tiptoes to pluck us red and white camellias, and pointing out, with a lingering garrulity, the hardness of the cots in the bare, cold little cells, the narrowness of the benches in the austere chapel, and, in the cheerless dining room, the floor of deep sand, in which the bernardines kneel throughout their friday dinner of bread and water. longest of all, she kept us in the cemetery, all spick and span, with close-set rows of nameless graves, each with a cross shaped upon it in white seashells. the dear old soul, in her coarse blue gown, with tidy white kerchief and neatly darned black hood and veil, showed us the grave of her own sister, adding, proudly, that her four remaining sisters were all cloistered in various convents of spain. "all six of us nuns," she said, "but my brother--no! he has the dowries of us all and lives the life of the world. just think! i have two nephews in toledo. i have never seen them. my sister's grave is pretty, is it not? they let me put flowers there. oh, there are many families in spain like ours, where all the daughters are put into convents. spain is a very religious country. the sons? not so often. sometimes, when there is a conscription, many young men become priests to escape military service but it is the women who are most devout in spain." and after the rustic gate was shut on the sleeping-place of the bernardines, scarcely more silent and more dead beneath the sod than above it, she still detained us with whispered hints of distinguished spanish ladies among those ghostly, far-off figures that, pitchfork or pruning knife in hand, would fall instantly upon their knees at the ringing of the frequent bell for prayers. spanish ladies, too, had given this french convent many of its most costly treasures. we said good-by to our guide near an elaborate shrine of the madonna, which a bereaved spanish mother had erected with the graven request that the nuns pray for the soul of her beloved dead. "even we servants of mary are not allowed to talk much here," said in parting this most sociable of saints, clinging to us with a toil-roughened, brown old hand. "it is a holy life, but quiet--very quiet. i have been here forty-four years this winter. my name is sister solitude." the nun whom i knew best was an exquisite little sister just back from manila. during several months i went to her, in a paris convent, twice or three times a week, for spanish lessons. the reception room in which i used to await her coming shone not as with soap and water, but as with the very essence of purity. the whiteness of the long, fine curtains had something celestial about it. the only book in sight, a bundle of well-worn leaves bound in crimson plush and placed with precision in the centre of the gleaming mahogany table, was a volume of classic french sermons,--the first two being on demons, and the next on penance. further than this i never read; for very punctually the slight figure, in violet skirt and bodice, with a white cross embroidered upon the breast, swept softly down the hall. a heavy purple cord and a large-beaded rosary depended from the waist. in conversation she often raised her hand to press her ring, sign of her sacred espousals, to her lips. her type of face i often afterward saw in spain, but never again so perfect. her complexion was the richest southern brown, the eyes brightening in excitement to vivid, flashing black. the eyebrows, luxuriant even to heaviness, were nevertheless delicately outlined, and the straight line of the white band emphasized their graceful arch. the nose was massive for a woman's face, and there was a slight shading of hair upon the upper lip. the mouth and chin, though so daintily moulded, were strong. not the meek, religious droop of the eyelids could mask the fire, vigor, vitality, intensity, that lay stored like so much electricity behind the tranquil convent look. we would go for the lesson to a severe little chamber, whose only ornament was a crucifix of olive wood fastened against the wall. then how those velvet eyes would glow and sparkle in the eagerness of rushing speech! the little sister loved to tell of her manila experience, almost a welcome break, i fancied, in the monotonous peace of cloister life. all that sunday morning, when the battle was on, the nuns maintained their customary services, hearing above their prayers and chants and the solemn diapason of the organ, the boom, boom, boom of our wicked american cannon. for, according to this naive historian, catholic spain, best beloved of our lady among the nations of the earth, had labored long in the philippines to christianize the heathen, when suddenly, in the midst of those pious labors with which she was too preoccupied to think of fitting out men-of-war and drilling gunners, a pirate fleet bore down upon her and overthrew at once the spanish banner and the holy cross. tears sparkled through flame as the _hermanita_ told of her beautiful convent home, now half demolished. the sisters did not abandon it until six weeks after the battle, but as the nunnery stood outside the city walls, their superior judged it no safe abode for spanish ladies, and ordered them away. the french consul arranged for their transport to hongkong on a dirty little vessel, where they had to stay on deck, the twenty-seven of them, during their week's voyage, suffering from lack of proper shelter and especially from thirst, the water supply running short the second day out. but all this was joy of martyrdom. "is not hongkong a very strange city?" i asked. "did it seem to you more like manila than like paris and madrid?" the little sister's voice was touched with prompt rebuke. "you speak after the fashion of the world. all cities look alike to us. ours is the life of the convent. it matters nothing where the convent stands." stimulated by reproof, i waxed impertinent. "not even if it stands within range of the guns? now, truly, truly, were you not the least bit frightened that morning of the battle?" the sunny southern smile was a fleeting one, and left a reminiscent shadow in the eyes. "frightened? oh, no! there were no guns between us and paradise. from early dawn we heard the firing, and hour after hour we knelt before the altar and prayed to the mother of god to comfort the souls of the brave men who were dying for _la patria_; but we were not frightened." there were strange jostlings of ideas in that cloistered cell, especially when the dusk had stolen in between our bending faces and the spanish page. once we talked of suicide. that morning it had been a wealthy young parisian who had paid its daily tribute to the seine. "what a horror!" gasped the little sister, clasping her slender hands against her breast. "it is a mortal sin. and how foolish! for if life is hard to bear, surely perdition is harder." "it does not seem to me so strange in case of the poor," i responded, waiving theology. "but a rich man, though his own happiness fails, has still the power of making others happy." "ah, but i understand!" cried little manila, her eyes like stars in the dimness. "the devil does not see truth as the blessed spirits do, but sees falsehoods even as the world. and so in his blindness he believes the soul of a rich man more precious than the souls of the poor, and tempts the rich man more than others. yet when the devil has that soul, will he find it made of gold?" [illustration: madrid royal palace] one chilly november afternoon, gray with a fog that had utterly swallowed the eiffel tower above its first huge uprights, which straddled disconsolately like legs forsaken of their giant, she explained in a sudden rush of words why spain had been worsted in the war with america. "whom the lord loveth, he chasteneth. as with persons, so with nations. those that are not of his fold he gives over to their fill of vainglory and greed and power, but the catholic nations he cleanses again and again in the bitter waters of defeat--ah, in fire and blood! yet the end is not yet. the rod of his correction is upon spain at this hour, and the faithful are glad in the very heart of sorrow, for even so shall her sins be purged away, even so shall her coldness be quickened, even so shall she be made ready for her everlasting recompense." "and the poor protestant nations?" i asked, between a smile and a sigh. the little sister smiled back, but the catholic eyes, for all their courtly graciousness, were implacable. she was of a titled family and had passed a petted childhood in madrid. there she had been taken, on her seventh birthday, to a _corrida de toros_, but remembered it unpleasantly, not because of the torture inflicted on the horses and bulls, but because she had been frightened by the great beasts, with their tossing horns and furious bellowing. horns always made her think of the devil, she said. from her babyhood she had been afraid of horns. one day a mischievous impulse led me to inquire, in connection with a chat about the escorial, "and how do you like philip ii?" the black eyes shot one ray of sympathetic merriment, but the spaniard and the nun were on their guard. "he was a very good catholic," she replied demurely. "so was _isabel la católica_," i responded. "but don't you think she may have been a trifle more agreeable?" "perhaps she was a little more _simpática_," admitted the _hermanita_, but that was her utmost concession. she would not even allow that philip had a sorry end. "if his body groaned, his soul was communing with the blessed saints and paid no heed." at the corner of the street which led under the great garden wall to the heavily barred gate of the convent was a flower-stand. the shrewd, swift-tongued madame in charge well knew the look of the unwary, and usually succeeded in selling me a cluster of drooping blossoms at twice the value of the fresh, throwing in an extra leaf or stem at the close of the bargain with an air of prodigal benevolence. the handful of flowers would be smilingly accepted by the little sister, but instantly laid aside nor favored with glance or touch until the close of the visit, when they would be lifted again with a winsome word of acknowledgment and carried away, probably to spend their sweetness at the marble feet of the virgin. in vain i tried to coax from this scorner of god's earth some sign of pleasure in the flowers themselves. "don't you care for tea-roses?" "_ah, el mundo pasa._ but their color is exquisite." yet her eyes did not turn to the poor posy for the two hours following. "this mignonette has only the grace of sweetness." "it is a delicate scent, but it will not last. _el mundo pasa._" she held the sprays at arm's length for a moment, and then laid them down on a mantel at the farther end of the room. "i am sorry these violets are not fresher." "but no! the touch of time has not yet found them. still, it is only a question of to-morrow. _el mundo pasa._" "yes, the world passes. but is it not good while it lasts?" "the world good! no, no, and a thousand times no. behold it now at the end of the nineteenth century,--wars and sorrows and bitter discontents, evil deeds and evil passions everywhere. do you see the peace of christ in the faces on the paris streets? the blossoms of this earth, the pleasures of this world, the affections of this life, all have the taste of death. but here in god's own garden we live even now his everlasting life." "you are always glad of your choice? you never miss the friends of your childhood?" "glad, glad, glad. glad of my choice. glad to see no more the faces of father and mother. and for them, too, it is great joy. for catholic parents it is supreme delight to give up their children to the holy church. the ways of the world are full of slippery places, but when they leave us here, they know that our feet are set on the very threshold of heaven." sometimes the slight form shivered in the violet habit, and the dark foreign face looked out with touching weariness from its frame of soft white folds. "you are cold? you are tired? will you take my cloak? were the children troublesome to-day?" it was always the same answer: "_no importa. no importa._ it matters not. our life is not the life of flesh and blood." and indeed, as i saw her in the christmas service among the other spanish sisters, those lovely figures in white and violet making obeisance before the altar until their veiled foreheads almost touched the pavement, bowing and rising again with the music like a field of lilies swaying in the breeze, i felt that she was already a being of another world, before she had known this. over her had been chanted the prayers for the dead. the strange ceremony of taking the veil had been her burial rite. the convent seemed a ghost land between earth and heaven. my _hermanita_ belonged to one of the teaching orders, and despite the strange blanks in her knowledge, for secular lore had been, so far as possible, excluded from her education, she was representative of the finer and more intelligent class of spanish nuns. in granada i heard of the nuns chiefly as the makers of those delicious _dulces_, sugared fruits, which were indispensable to a child's saint-day, and there i was taught the scoffing epitaph:-- "here lies sister claribel, who made sweetmeats very well, and passed her life in pious follies, such as dressing waxen dollies." [illustration: the royal family] to the spinster outside the nunnery spain has little to offer. small heed is paid to her except by st. elias, who, on one day of holy week, walks about all seville with a pen in his hand, peering up at the balconies and making note of the old maids. since andalusia expresses the theory of counterparts by saying, "every one has somewhere in the world his half orange," the spinster can hardly hope for a well-rounded life. careers are not open to her. there are "advanced women" in spain, the most eminent being emelia pardo bazan, novelist, lecturer, editor, who advocates for women equal educational and political privileges with men, but who has not yet succeeded in opening the doors. the voice of spanish women, nevertheless, is sometimes heard by spanish statesmen, as when delegation after delegation of señoras who had relatives held as prisoners by the filipinos invaded the senate-house with petitions until they could no longer be ignored. a more thorough and liberal education for spanish women is the pressing need to-day. there is, of course, great lack of primary schooling. a girl in her late teens, wearing the prettiest of embroidered aprons and with the reddest of roses in her hair, once appealed to me in toledo for help. she had been sent from a confectioner's to deliver a tray of wheaten rolls at a given address, and she could read neither the names of streets nor the numbers of houses. but the higher education will carry the lower with it. spain is degenerate in this regard. the moors used to have at cordova an academy for girls, where science, mathematics, and history were taught. schools for spanish girls at present impart little more than reading and writing, needle-work, the catechism, the four rules of arithmetic, and some slight notion of geography. french and music, recognized accomplishments, are learned by daughters of the privileged class from their governesses or in the convents. missionary work in spain has largely concerned itself with the educational question, and mrs. gulick's project for the establishment of a woman's college in madrid, a college without distinction of creed, is the fruit of long experience. little by little she has proven the intellectual ability of spanish girls. she established the international institute at san sebastian, secured state examination for her _niñas_ and state recognition of their eminent success, and even won for a few of them admission to the university of madrid, where they maintained the highest rank throughout the course. all that spanish girls need is opportunity. but if the señoritas are so charming now, with their roses and their graces and their fans, why not leave them as they are, a page of mediæval poetry in this strenuous modern world? if only they were dolls outright and did not suffer so! when life goes hard with these high-spirited, incapable creatures, it goes terribly hard. i can see yet the tears scorch in the proud eyes of three undowered sisters, slaving at their one art of embroidery from early till late for the miserable pittance that it brought them. "we shall rest when we are dead," said the youngest. the absolute lack of future for these brave, sensitive girls, well-born, well-bred, naturally as keen as the keenest, but more ignorant, in matters of common education, than the children of our lowest grammar grade, is heart-breaking. if such girls were stupid, shallow, coarse, it would be easier; but the spanish type is finely strung. once i saw an impulsive beauty fly into that gust of angry passion which spaniards term the _rabia española_. a clumsy, well-intentioned young austrian had said a teasing word, and in the fraction of a second the girl, overwrought with secret toils and anxieties, was in a tempest of tears; but the wrath that blazed across them burned the offender crimson. the poor fellow sent for his case of choice asturian cider, cooling in the balcony, read the evening news aloud and discoursed on the value of self-control, but not even these tactful attentions could undo, for that evening at least, the work of his blundering jest. the girl flashed away to her chamber, her handkerchief bitten through and through, and the quick fierce sound of her sobs came to me across the hall deep into the night. wandering over spain i found everywhere these winning, vivid, helpless girls, versed in needlework and social graces, but knowing next to nothing of history, literature, science, all that pertains to intellectual culture. some were hungry to learn. more did not dream of the world of thought as a possible world for them. among these it was delightful to meet, scattered like precious seed throughout the peninsula, the graduates of the international institute. so far as a stranger could see, education had enhanced in them the spanish radiance and charm, while arming these with wisdom, power, and resource. xxii across the basque provinces "the oak tree of guernica within its foliage green embraces the bright honor of all the basque demesne. for this we count thee holy, our ancient seal and sign; the fibres of our freedom are interlaced with thine. "castile's most haughty tyrants beneath thy solemn shade have sworn to keep the charter our fearless fathers made; for noble on our mountains is he who yokes the ox, and equal to a monarch the shepherd of the flocks." --_national song of the basques._ it did not seem to me historically respectful to take leave of spain without having made a pilgrimage to the shrine of santiago. a dauntless friend crossed the sea to bear me company. hygienic pilgrim that she is, she came equipped not with cockle shells and sandal shoon, but with sleeping bags, coffee, and cereals. many a morning, in traversing those northern provinces, where the scenery was better than the breakfast, we blessed her boxes of "grape nuts," and many a night, doomed to penitential beds, we were thankful to intrench ourselves against the stings and arrows of outrageous insects in those spacious linen bags, that gather close about the neck, or, when dangers thicken, above the head, leaving only a loophole for the breath. our point of departure was that city of nature's fancy-work, san sebastian. then, in the early half of july, it was all alive with expectancy, looking every day for the coming of the court. it is reputed to be the cleanest town of the peninsula, and is, in truth, as bright as a wave-washed pebble. nevertheless, it is a favorite waltz hall of the fleas, which shamelessly obtrude themselves even into conversation. the chief summer industry of san sebastian is sea-bathing. the soldiers begin it at six o'clock in the morning, marching by regiments down to the concha, clearing for action, and striking out into the gentle surf, all in simultaneous obedience to successive words of command. some two hours later teams of oxen draw scores of jaunty bathing cars down near the white lip of this opalescent shell of water, and there the long day through all ages, sizes, and ranks of humanity sport in the curling foam or swim far out into the sparkling bay. san sebastian is the capital of guipúzcoa, one of the three basque provinces. these lie among the cantabrian mountains, and are delightfully picturesque with wheat-growing valleys and well-wooded heights. as the train wandered on, in its pensive spanish fashion, we found ourselves now in scotland, in a beautiful waste of heather and gorse, now amid the english ivy and hawthorn, hearing the song of the english robin, and now in our own new england, with the hilly reaches of apple orchards and the fields upon fields of tasselled indian maize. the basques are a thrifty folk, and have cultivated their scant acres to the utmost. the valleys are planted with corn, the lower hills are ridged and terraced for a variety of crops. above are walnuts and chestnuts, and the flintiest summits serve for pasturage. it was curious to see men at work on those steep slopes that had been scooped out into a succession of narrow shelves, and more strange yet to catch glimpses of peasants ploughing the very mountain top, picturesque figures against the sky. the reaping is of the cleanest. the harvest fields have a neat, scoured look, as if the women had been over them with scrubbing brushes. yet this utilitarian soil admits of oaks and beeches, ferns and clover, morning glories, dandelions, pimpernel, and daisies. all that sunny morning the train swung us blithely on from one charm of the eyes to another--from a ruined watch-tower, where red-handed carlists had crouched, to a bright-kerchiefed maiden singing amid her beehives; from a range of abrupt peaks, cleft by deep gorges, to sycamore-shaded byways and poplar-bordered streams; from a village graveyard, the pathetic little parallelogram enclosed in high gray walls and dim with cypress shadows, to a tumbling, madcap torrent spanned by a time-gnawed roman arch. shooting the heart of some black hill, the train would run out on a mere ledge above a valley hamlet, and from pure inquisitiveness, apparently, ramble all around the circle, peering down from every point of view on the cluster of great, patriarchal houses, sometimes of timber and plaster, more often of stone, where whole clans dwell together under the same red-tiled roof. queer old houses these, occasionally topped with blue chimneys, and now and then with a fantastic coat of arms sculptured over the door, or a fresco of saints and devils blazoned all across the front. sometimes freshly whitewashed, these basque houses have more often a weather-worn, dingy look, but, however black the timbers, lines of clean linen flutter airily from roofs and balconies. they are a decent, self-respecting, prosperous people, these basque mountaineers, of whose history my companion told me stirring tales. they are supposed, though not without dispute, to be the oldest race in europe, descendants of those original iberians whom the westward-trooping aryans drove into the fastnesses of the pyrenees. they have their own language, of asiatic type. they themselves believe that it was spoken in the garden of eden. there are some twenty-five dialects of the _vascuense_, and it is so difficult for foreigners that even george borrow spoke it "with considerable hesitation," and one exhausted student, abandoning the struggle, declared that the words were all "written solomon and pronounced nebuchadnezzar." the basques attribute their hardy virtues to the crabbedness of their speech, telling how the devil, after slaving over their vocabulary for seven years, had succeeded in learning only three words, and threw up his lesson in a pet, so that to this day he remains unable to meddle with their peasant piety. what little literature there is in the basque language is naturally of the popular cast--hero songs, dancing songs, dirges, hymns, and folk-lore. the basques are noted for their passionate love of liberty. the sturdy peasant is lord of his own rugged farm, and insists on tilling it in his own primitive way, breaking the soil with rude mattock more often than with plough. an english engineer, laying a railroad through alava, tried his best to make his men abandon their slow, laborious method of carrying the earth in baskets on their heads. he finally had all the baskets removed by night, and wheelbarrows left in their places. but the unalterable basques set the loaded wheelbarrows on their heads, and staggered about beneath these awkward burdens until, for very shame, he had to give them back their baskets. the peasant drives over the mountain roads in a ponderous ox-cart, with two clumsy disks of wood for wheels. the platform is wrought of rough-hewn beams, five or seven, the middle one running forward to serve as pole. all the structure, except the iron tires and nails, is of wood, and the solid wooden wheels, as the massive axle to which they are riveted turns over and over, make a most horrible squeaking. it is a sound dear to the peasantry, for they believe the oxen like it, and, moreover, that it frightens away the devil; but once upon a time a town of advanced views voted a fine of five dollars for any man who should bring this musical abomination within its limits. thereupon a freeborn basque rose with the dawn, selected his best carved oaken yoke, draped the red-stained sheepskin a trifle more carefully than usual above the patient eyes of his great smooth oxen, and took his way, "squeakity-squeak, squeakity-squeak," straight to the door of the _ayuntamiento_, city hall, where he paid his twenty-five _pesetas_, and then devoted the rest of the day to driving all about the streets, squeaking out his money's worth. this is no servile temper, and it was not until our own generation that the dearly cherished liberties of the basques were wrested away. [illustration: the manzanares] these warders of the pyrenees, for the basques of navarre and those now known as french basques must not be forgotten, did good service in helping the visigoths beat back the northward-pressing moors and the southward-pressing franks; but when the basque provinces of spain were incorporated with leon and navarre, and later with castile, the mountaineers stood stubbornly for their _fuéros_, or peculiar rights. my comrade's lecture had reached this point, when, finding ourselves at amorebieta, in the province of vizcaya, or biscay, we suddenly descended from the train, and handed our bags to an honest basque porter, who deposited them on the floor of an open waiting room, in full reach of an honest basque population. for ourselves, we turned our faces toward the centre of vizcayan glory, the famous tree of guernica. we entered a rustic train, that seemed entirely undecided which way to go. the station agent blew a little tin horn, green meadows and wattled fences began to glide past the car windows, and the interrupted discourse was resumed. the lawmakers of vizcaya were duly chosen by their fellow-nobles, for every basque held the rank of _hidalgo_, or "son of somebody." the deputies met every two years in the village of guernica, sitting on stone benches in the open air beneath the sacred oak, and there elected the _señores de vizcaya_. even the kings of spain were allowed no grander title, but had to come to the tree of guernica, at first in person, later by deputy, and there swear to observe the _fuéros_. to this green shadow came the peasant from his lonely farm-house, high on the mountainside, to answer before his peers to such charges as might be brought against him; for within the sanctuary of his home the law could lay no hand on him or his. it was the carlist wars that changed all this. the _fuéros_, of which a list dating from is still extant, granted the basque provinces a republican constitution that almost realized an ideal democracy, with immunity from taxes save for their own needs, and from military service beyond their own boundaries. but when the dynastic strife broke out, the basques put on the white cap of don carlos and bore the brunt of the conflict. we had already passed through vergara, where, in , espartero ended the first carlist war by a treaty which compelled the basques to lay down their arms. but the cost of this rebellion was paid in blood. their political status was practically unaffected. at the close of the second carlist war, in , alfonso xii signalized his victory by meting out to them a terrible punishment, abrogating the precious _fuéros_ that the tree of guernica had guarded for so many centuries. the government imposed, moreover, its salt and tobacco monopolies, and made the basques subject to military conscription. at every station we saw spain's vizcayan soldiers, red-capped and red-trousered, with blue-belted frock coats, under which beat hearts of doubtful loyalty. the son of alfonso xii will have to reckon with the basques, when the third carlist war shall be declared, but it may be doubted whether the _fuéros_, which don carlos, of course, promises to restore, will ever come home to nest again in the guernica oak. my erudite fellow-vagabond was just pointing out the typical shape of the basque head, with its broad forehead, long, narrowing face, curved nose, and pointed chin, when we reached guernica. such a sweet and tranquil village as it is, set in the beauty of the hills, with the dignity and pathos of its history pervading every hushed, old-fashioned street! the guide, whom two affable ladies, sharers of our carriage in the little picnic train, had taken pains to look up for us at the station, was not, we judged, a favorable specimen of the haughty basque _hidalgo_. he was a dull, mumbling, slouchy lad, who sunk his voice to an awed whisper as we passed the escutcheon-carved palace of a count. but he led us by pleasant ways to the modern _casa de juntas_, or senate house, where we were shown the assembly room, with its altar for mass, the library and other apartments, together with the portraits of the twenty-six first _señores de vizcaya_, from lope the pirate, who forced back the invading galicians in , to the infante don juan, under whom the basque provinces were finally incorporated with castile. close by the _casa de juntas_, which stands in a dreamy bit of park as fresh and trim as an english cathedral close, rises a pillared portico. there, where brown-eyed little basque girls, their brown braids blowing in the breeze, were dangling green figs above their laughing mouths, used to sit, on those seven stone seats, the grave basque fathers, making laws, meting out judgment, and regulating all the affairs of this simple mountain republic. the portico, bearing as joint devices the lion and castle of spain and the three wolves of vizcaya, was formerly enveloped in the leafy shadow of the sacred tree; but what rises behind it now is only the gaunt stem of a patriarchal oak, a very abraham of plants, all enclosed in glass, as if embalmed in its casket. before the portico, however, grows a lusty scion, for the tree of guernica is of unbroken lineage, shoots being always cherished to succeed in case the centuried predecessor fail. in presence of this despoiled old trunk, majestic with memories, we felt an honest awe and longed to give it adequate salute. my comrade levelled her kodak and took front views, back views, and side views with such spendthrift enthusiasm that the custodian, deeply impressed, presented her with a dried leaf from the junior, cunningly pricked out so as to suggest the figure of the tree. the national song of the basques, a matter of some dozen stanzas, written principally in "j's," "rr's," and "tz's," takes its theme, if one may trust the castilian translation, from this symbolic oak. the historian wished to do nothing more in guernica but sit and gaze forever on that spectral trunk, but the reminder that piety was a hardly less marked basque characteristic than political independence, finally induced her to follow our guide to the church. a basque church has its distinctive features, including a belfry, a lofty, plain interior, with galleries, and often a votive ship, gayly painted and fully rigged, suspended from the ceiling. the lad bore himself with simple-minded devotion, offering us on stubby finger tips the holy water and making due obeisance before each gilded shrine. but my attention was soon fascinated by a foot-square relief on a blue ground of santiago-- "good saint james upon the milkwhite steed, who leaves his bliss to fight for chosen spain." i had hardly anticipated such a stalwart, vigorous, not to say violent saint, with his white horse galloping, his gold-sandalled feet gripping the great stirrups, his gold-fringed, crimson robe and azure mantle streaming on the wind, his terrible sword glittering high in air. this was clearly not a person to be trifled with, and i looked about for the historian to tell her that we must be pressing forward on our pilgrimage. but she had stolen out, every sympathetic basque image of the sculptured doorway conspiring to keep a stony silence and conceal her flight, and had sped back to the tree of guernica, from whose contemplation she was torn away only by a fairy-tale of supper. of the several basque churches which we visited, including the bridal church of louis xiv, far-famed san juan de luz, whose sides and west end are portioned off by three tiers of galleries, fairest in memory is the sixteenth-century church of begoña in bilbao. it abounds, as coast churches should, in suggestions of that mighty, mysterious neighbor, at once so cruel and so beneficent, the sea. instead of votive ships, the walls are hung with paintings of vessels in scenes of appalling peril. one is scudding madly before a tropical gale; one has her rigging ragged by hurricane and her decks lashed with tempest; one, careened upon her side, lies at the mercy of the billows, which are sweeping over her and tumbling her crew like ninepins into the deep. but the presence of the pictures, bold dashes of the modern brush amid dim old paintings of saints and martyrs, tells that our lady of begoña succored her sailors in distress, who, on their safe return, came hither to offer thanks for their preservation and to leave these mementos of their danger and her efficient aid. "is your virgin so very powerful?" we asked of a chorister boy while he drew the cords to part the curtains that screened the jewelled image throned in a recess above the high altar. "i should rather think she was," answered the little fellow in a glow. "why, let me tell you! robbers, the accursed ones, came here on a dark midnight to steal her precious stones. they entered by a window, those sons of wretched mothers, and put up a long ladder against the altar wall. the wickedest of them all, señoras, he climbed the ladder and raised his hand to take our lady's crown. and in that instant the great bells overhead began to ring, and all the bells of all bilbao pealed with them, and the people waked and came running to the rescue of our lady, and the robbers were put to death." our expression did not quite satisfy his boyish ardor, and he pointed convincingly toward a handsome silver plaque. "and this, too, witnesses our lady's power. it was given in memory of the cholera time, when people were dying like flies in all the towns about. but after our lady was carried in procession through the streets of bilbao, not one died here, except a sinful man who would not turn his head to look upon her." "that is a painting of the procession, the large picture over there on the wall?" "no, no, señoras. that picture commemorates another of our lady's wonderful deeds. the floods were threatening the city, but our lady, with many censers and candles, was borne down to the river bank, and she ordered the water to go back, and it obeyed her, and all the town was saved." we retreated to the cloisters, from which one has a superb view of the valley of the nervion, for our lady of begoña dwells high upon a hilltop. only the afternoon before we had been in serene guernica, a strange contrast to this mining capital of vizcaya, this bustling, noisy, iron-grimed bilbao, in which the basques take such delight. it is not a city to gratify the mere tourist, who expects the people of the lands through which he is pleased to pass to devote themselves to looking picturesque. but even spain is something more than food for the kodak, and this sooty atmosphere of smelting works and factories, traffic and commerce, means life to spanish lungs. it is little to my credit that i took more interest in the fact that bilbao used to supply shakespeare's cronies with rapiers, under the name of "bilboes," than in statistics regarding those millions of tons of ore which its iron mines are now annually exporting to great britain. the many english in bilbao, miners and artisans, with the influence they shed around them, make the streets rougher and uglier than in purely spanish towns. on the other hand, they bring a spirit of religious independence, so that it is not strange to find the spanish protestants of bilbao a numerous and vigorous body, counting as a pronounced element in the community. from the idle peace of the begoña cloisters, as from the old-time world, we looked long on this spanish city of to-day, seething with manifold activities. we seemed to understand how, to the middle-class spaniard, hemmed in by all this mediæval encumbrance of barracks, cathedrals, castles, and thrones, such cities as bilbao and barcelona, pulsing with industrial energy and enterprise, are "more beautiful than beauty's self." the basques, like the catalans, take readily to business. they set their mountain cascades to turning mill-wheels, they canal their little nervion till it can give passage to ships of four thousand tons burden, they paint the night with the flare of mighty furnaces. every year they are building more wharves, more railroads, more electric tramways, and they are so prodigiously proud of their new iron bridge, with its flying ferry, which whisks passengers over from portugalete to las arenas at the rate of two hundred a minute, that they stamp it on their characteristic jewelry. that cunning eibar work of the basque provinces displays again and again, on locket, bracelet, brooch, this incongruous design of the _puente vizcaya_ beaten on chased steel in gold. we looked regretfully out over those significant reaches of land which we would have liked to explore to the last hearthstone. the basque provinces! we had not even set foot in vitoria, the capital of alava, where is preserved the grim old _machete_ by which basque governors were sworn into office. "may my head be cut off with this knife," ran the oath, "if i do not defend the _fuéros_ of my fatherland." and we longed to attend one of the peasant festivals, to see the lads play _pelota_ and the lasses step basque dances to the music of the village pipers, to hear the wild old marches and battle tunes that have roused the roman and the moor to arms. the mystery plays of the basques were famous once, and although these naive dramas are now mainly confined to christmas and easter, who could say that we might not chance on some saint-day fragment? there was soon to take place, too, in one of the vizcayan hamlets a "blessing of the fields," a processional harvest rite of pagan antiquity, formerly universal in spain, but now confined to a few rural districts. we had a hundred reasons for lingering--but what are reasons? pilgrims of st. james must put fresh peas in their shoes and be off for compostela. [illustration: spanish cemetery] xxiii in old castile "with three thousand men of leon from the city bernard goes, to protect the soil hispanian from the spear of frankish foes; from the city which is planted in the midst between the seas, to preserve the name and glory of old pelayo's victories. "the peasant hears upon his field the trumpet of the knight,-- he quits his team for spear and shield and garniture of might; the shepherd hears it 'mid the mist,--he flingeth down his crook, and rushes from the mountain like a tempest-troubled brook." --lockhart: _spanish ballads_. the journey from bilbao to santander is a continuous glory of mountain views. the train runs saucily along under beetling crags, whence the gods of the hills may well look down in wonder and displeasure on this noisy invasion of their solitude. we almost saw those ancient majesties folding themselves grandly in mantles of purple shadow, but hardly less royal in bearing were the muffled figures of the lonely shepherds tending their flocks on the very summits. the modern province of santander is the renowned montaña, the mountain lair which nourished the chivalry of old castile, and from which they made wild sallies to the south, troop after troop, generation after generation, until the moorish standards were beaten back from the plains about toledo to the sierras of andalusia. its capital city, santander, named from st. andrew, was one of the four coast towns which rendered signal service to fernando in the conquest of seville. these towns, lying as they did over against the cinque ports of england, came into so frequent conflict with british mariners as to be made in the days of edward iii the subject of a special treaty. a summer resort, however, is a summer resort the world over, and we found the historic city, which has gracefully fitted itself to the curve of its beautiful bay, crowded with idle people, elaborately dressed, who sat long at the noonday breakfast, and longer yet at the evening dinner, and then longest of all on the benches in the park, where bands clashed and fireworks flared, until the very stars began to blink for sleepiness. spaniards have a veritable passion for pyrotechnics, and our dreams until the dawn would be punctuated by the airy report of rockets, as if, so galdós suggests, "the angels were cracking nuts in the sky." every now and then in those soft warm nights there rose a shout of song from the street, and peeping down from the balcony, we would see half a dozen lads and lasses leaping along through the middle of the road, all abreast and hand in hand, in one of their boisterous peasant dances. there are no fewer dangers and sorrows for girls in spain than in the other latin lands. in the low-vaulted, mighty-pillared, deep-shadowed crypt under the old cathedral, a crypt that is the very haunt of religious mystery and dread, we came upon a penitent kneeling before the altar, a bit of written paper pinned to her back. in a stir of the chill air this fluttered to the ground, and as she, unconscious of its loss, bowed herself before another shrine, we picked up the paper with a half thought of restoring it; but seeing in the first glance that it was a rudely written prayer, entreating the virgin's pity and pardon for her lover and herself, we let it fall again at mary's feet. all manner of thank-offerings, waxen limbs, eyes, and ears, were hung in these candle-lit recesses, little spaces of gold amid the gloom. we had grown accustomed to such fragments of anatomy in the shop-windows, where even votive stomachs are displayed for sale. although santander is a dawdler's paradise, the residents of the city to whom we had letters were no holiday makers, but spaniards of the earnest, thoughtful, liberal type, busy with large tasks of their own, but never too busy, being spaniards, to show unstinted kindness to the strangers within their gates. our brief stay did not admit of a tithe of the excursions they had in mind for us, but my comrade achieved a trip to santillana del mar, birthplace of the doughty gil blas. in the latest version of her adventures, she set forth from santander under the bluest of skies, in company with the most bewitching of señoritas. they left the train at torrelavega, where the shade of garci laso, one of king pedro's victims, would doubtless have welcomed them, had not their attention been taken up with a picturesque coachman, who was standing dreamily on the station platform. this adonis proved a complete paragon, who, as they took their romantic course over the hills, delightedly pointed out ivied tower, broken portcullis, and the like, as tidbits for the kodak. santillana is the shrine of santa juliana, a roman martyr, whose body is said to have been carried thither in the ninth century. her devotees among the mountain wilds built her in this green valley, overhung by a rude old fortress, a precious church, a jewel of the early romanesque, about whose walls a thriving community soon gathered. santillana was throughout the middle ages the most important place between burgos and oviedo, and gave name to all that part of the montaña. the successive marquises of santillana were then great personages in spain, playing a leading part at court. one of the proudest families of old castile, they claimed descent from the cid, and cherished the memory of another heroic ancestor, who, in , sacrificed his life to save his king. "'your horse is faint, my king, my lord! your gallant horse is sick,-- his limbs are torn, his breast is gored, on his eye the film is thick; mount, mount on mine, o mount apace, i pray thee mount and fly! or in my arms i'll lift your grace,--their trampling hoofs are nigh! * * * * * "'nay, never speak; my sires, lord king, received their land from yours, and joyfully their blood shall spring, so be it thine secures; if i should fly, and thou, my king, be found among the dead, how could i stand 'mong gentlemen, such scorn on my gray head?' * * * * * "so spake the brave montañez, butrago's lord was he; and turned him to the coming host in steadfastness and glee; he flung himself among them, as they came down the hill,-- he died, god wot! but not before his sword had drunk its fill." the city of santillana, whose lords once laid claim to the sovereignty of santander, has shrunk to a forgotten village, and the neglected church is dropping into ruins; but the inhabitants have abated not a jot of that fierce local patriotism which blinds the provincial spaniard to all defects of his birthplace and to all excellences of rival towns. a graybeard told the stranger ladies that santillana was the oldest city in spain and its cathedral the most beautiful. this latter statement they were almost ready to accept, so richly carven was the yellow stone and so harmonious the proportions of nave and aisle. when they arrived at this miniature durham they found it closed and silent, with three little boys sleeping on the steps. through the benevolence of the ever present spanish loafers, the sacristan was sought out and a ragged escort formed for their progress from chapel to chapel, where rare old pictures and frescos glowed across the dusk. best of all were the venerable cloisters, weed-grown and tumble-down, but lovely as a mediæval dream with mellow-tinted arch and column, and with capitals of marvellous device. this crumbling church still keeps a dazzling hoard of treasures. all the front of the high altar is wrought of solid silver, the reredos is a miracle of art, and the paintings of old masters that moulder here unseen would long since in any other land than catholic spain have been the spoils of gallery and museum. the cathedral stands just outside the town, whose narrow, crooked streets daunted the carriage; but these enthusiastic sightseers were all the better pleased to foot the flagging that many a clinking tread had worn and to touch on either side, with their extended hands, the fortresslike houses built of heavy stone and dimly emblazoned with fierce armorial bearings. these grim dwellings were gladdened by the grace of vine-clad balconies, where children frolicked and women crooned quaint melodies over their needlework. "will no one tell me what she sings? perhaps the plaintive numbers flow for old, unhappy, far-off things and battles long ago." the inn was merely the customary spanish _venta_, rough and poor, the darkness of whose long, low room clouds of tobacco smoke from clumps of gambling muleteers were making blacker yet; but lemonade was served to the ladies in the open porch with a charm of cordial courtesy far beyond delmonico's. as they quaffed this modest refreshment and watched the shifting groups about the _venta_, which seemed the centre of the social life, there suddenly appeared upon the scene a ghost from the modern world, an everyday gentleman in a straw hat, as citified and up to date as if he had that moment stepped out of a madrid café. all the loungers within and without the _venta_ sprang to their feet, bared their heads, and bowed low to this anachronism with so profound a deference that the tourists began to wonder if the irrepressible gil blas had come alive again. not he! this was the marquis of santillana, bearing under his arm instead of a sword a bundle of newspapers. the first marquis of santillana had been a famous warrior and troubadour. this latest "inheritor of old renown," seating himself in the midst of his thronging vassals, graciously proceeded, much like a university extension lecturer, to read aloud, with simple explanations, the news of the day. such is the final form of _noblesse oblige_ in the feudal valley of santillana. we were tempted to hunt out other nooks and eyries in the mountains of santander, to see something of the famous sardine fisheries, to drive along the many-storied coast all the way to gijon, paying our respects in passing to a noble oak of asturias, one of the three largest trees of europe; but always the uplifted sword of st. james drove us on. if we would reach compostela in season for the annual _fiesta de santiago_, there was no time to lose. so, in default of a nearer railway connection, we started due south for palencia. our route ran at first through a land of hills, maize, and stone walls that might have been new england, except for the women scratching away in the hay-fields, and politely saluting the train with a flourish of their pitchforks. then more and more the landscape became spanish. little stone hamlets dozed in ever shallower valleys, mule trains and solitary horsemen moved slowly down poplar-bordered highways, white as chalk; there was a slumbering peasant for every speck of shade. but while the men took their siestas, often sleeping where the drowsiness had befallen them, with arm thrown about the wooden plough or with head pillowed on the thrashing roller, there were always women at work--figures clad in the very colors of the harvest, red and gold and purple, binding sheaves, sweeping the fields with stout brush brooms, tending flocks and herds by the rivers, following stray sheep over the hills, with only a handkerchief at the most to protect their heads from the terrible noonday sun. as the afternoon wore on, we found ourselves in the melancholy reaches of brown castilian plain, with the adobe towns, the miserable mud villages, open-air threshing floors, and arid, silent, oriental look. [illustration: toledo] the only cloud in sight was that which rested for a moment on my comrade's face. she had so newly come from our clean and wholesome fatherland that certain features of the spanish inns still shook her high serenity of soul, and she had suddenly discovered that baedeker significantly characterized the palencia hotel as "an indifferent spanish house." in the discreet language of our excellent guidebook this was no less than a note of warning, a signal of alarm. but even baedeker is fallible, and on arriving at the _gran hotel continental_, we were met by all the castilian dignity and grave kindliness of greeting, and led to rooms whose floors shone with oil and scrubbing, whose curtains, towels, and sheeting were white as mountain snow, and whose furnishings were resplendent with two dozen chairs upholstered in orange satin. we seated ourselves in rapture on one saffron throne after another, drank fresh milk from polished glasses, and slept, for this only night of all our santiago pilgrimage, the sleep of the unbitten. a sweet-voiced _sereno_ intoning the hours set our dreams to music. the following morning we spent in the cathedral, which, though of plain exterior, except for the many-imaged "door of the bishop," is all lightness, grace, and symmetry within. the organ was pealing and women were kneeling for the mass as we went softly down the high-vaulted nave, our spirits played upon now by the dignity of pointed arches and of clustered columns and now by delicate beauties in tracery and carving. only here and there were we aware of a jarring note, as in chancing upon a great crucifix whose christ was decked out in two elegant lace petticoats and a white silk crinoline embroidered over with silver thread. when the chant had died away, an affectionate old sacristan, in a curious red and black coat, delivered us with sundry farewell pats and pinches over to the charge of a subordinate, who proceeded to display the hidden treasures. these are far from overwhelming, after the glittering hoards of burgos, seville, and toledo, but they are as odd an assortment as sacristy ever sheltered. there was an absurd portrait of charles i, a freak of foreshortening. at first sight it seemed to be the skeleton of a fish, but on viewing it through a peephole the creature had become a human face. even so, it was hardly a flattering likeness of the founder of the austrian line; but as it was charles i who stripped palencia of her original powers and dignities, one would not expect to find him complimented here. we turned our attention to the vestments, which, though few, are peculiarly artistic, with devices, stitched in gold thread and in jewel reds and greens, of pomegranates, roses, ecclesiastical coats of arms, angels, maries, nativities, and adorations. these were appropriate enough, but even our reserved conductor, a monastic youth who wore a white, openwork tunic over his black suit, smiled disdainfully as he put before us a time-yellowed ivory box arabesqued with men and lions, the jewel casket of some pet sultana. "but why should it be here?" he shrugged his shoulders. "in truth, it is not holy--a woman's thing! nor do i know how it came to us, but what we have we keep." the sacristy certainly seems to have kept more than its share of _custodias_. our guide first brought out a dainty structure, where grieving angels uplift the cross, and the sufferer's halo is wrought of pearls and gems. this was replaced by another, a marvel of goldsmith's craft, turreted and crocketed with fine gold, while all about the base are figured annunciations, visitations, and other mysteries. rich as they were, neither of these could compare with that famous pyx of the escorial, inlaid with ten thousand precious stones. then our conductor took us with a mighty turning of monster keys, pulling of rusty bolts, and fall of clanging chains, to see the supreme _custodia_ of all, one great dazzle of silver from fretted base to dome and pinnacle, save as among the corinthian columns of the first stage glisten golden forms of the apostles, and of the second, winged shapes of cherubim and seraphim. this shining tower, some three or four centuries old, is beheld by palencia only on corpus christi day, when, holding at its heart the golden monstrance which holds the host, it passes as a triumphal car throughout the city. priests walking on either side make a feint of drawing it by tasselled cords, but "little would it budge for that," said our guide, in high disdain, opening a door in the frame beneath to reveal the benches where strong men sit concealed and toil at a motor crank. he had much more to show us, including precious old tapestries of the netherlands, and a st. katharine by zurbarán, with a light on the kneeling figure as pure and bright as a moonbeam; but we had to press the fee on his castilian pride, when at last the vulgarity of luncheon summoned us away. for the historian, basking in this last smile of civilization, the afternoon passed blissfully among the orange chairs, but i sallied forth once more, attended by our benignant landlady. the rays of the sun flashed down like deadly arrows and i had pleaded for a carriage, but longed to beg its pardon when it came, so faded, rheumatic, and yet august was that fat old chariot, groaning and tottering as it rolled, but lowering the pomp of a velvet-carpeted staircase whenever we desired to alight. our progress made a grand sensation in those drowsy streets and squares, a retinue soon gathered, and nobody seemed surprised when, after a round of jesuit and dominican churches, we drew up before the madhouse. i had wished to look upon this building, because it is reputed to have been a dwelling of the cid; but the hero of castile was as unknown to my gentle escort as to the medical priest whom she must needs call forth to meet me, or to the hapless lunatics whom he, in turn, insisted on my seeing. a town which had forgotten its chief citizen naturally fails to keep on sale photographs of its cathedral, so we packed our memories in default of anything more substantial and took the evening train to the northwest. four hours of hushed, moonlit plain, and then leon! this is a name of thrilling memories, and we stepped out into the midnight silence of that once royal capital whose kingdom "stretched from the atlantic ocean to the rhone," so awed that even a rickety 'bus, and a smuggler who tried to hide his trunk behind our honest luggage, hardly broke the spell. my comrade, still new to spanish ways, had fears that the illustrated card which i had forgotten to stamp would not have reached the hotel. she asked me why i did not telegraph; but some days later, when we sent a telegram at noon, took a way-train at five, and reached our destination at ten, simultaneously with the telegram which i might as well have brought in my pocket, she was set free from new world prejudices. the unstamped card went through without question, a picture of a pretty mountain maid being quite as acceptable to the postal clerks as the portrait of their young king. we were expected at the hotel, the best in town, but so dirty and malodorous that we would better have camped under the stars. there had been some attempt to sweep the floor of our dingy chamber, as we could see by comparing it with stairs and corridors. sour milk and sour bread were served with a compensating sweetness of manner, but the experiences of that night belong to oblivion. the joy of the morning! guided by a shy little scullery lad, smooched of face and ragged of raiment, but with all the instincts of a cavalier, we stepped out into those stately streets, with their haughty old houses, balconies, coats of arms, arches, and battlements, as into an animated picture book. it was saturday, and the town was all astir with peasants come to market, every peasant as good as a romance. such brightness of figured kerchiefs, homespun petticoats, trunk hose, jackets, sashes! the little girls were quaintest of all, dressed precisely like their mammas, even to those brilliant skirts edged with one color and slashed with another. many of the women were carrying loads of greens, others plucked fowls, and some had indignant chickens, in full possession of chicken faculties, snuggled under the arm. as the chief city in a far reach of luxuriant plain, leon becomes the focus, every saturday, of flocks of sheep, droves of pigs, and herds of cattle, together with innumerable mules and donkeys bringing in grain, fruit, and all manner of garden produce. we chanced upon the market itself in the arcaded _plaza mayor_, under shadow of the towered court-house, with the tapering spire of the cathedral overlooking all. the great square hummed like a beehive and sparkled with shifting color like a field of butterflies. we found ourselves first in the bread market. under wide umbrellas of canvas set on poles women were perched high on wooden benches, with their gayly shod feet supported on stools. beside each woman, on her rude seat, was a brightly woven basket heaped with the horny spanish loaves. close by was the fruit market, with its piles of red and purple plums, pears, grapes, green peppers, lemons, and, beyond, patches of melons, cucumbers, cabbages, potatoes, beans, and that staff of spanish life, chick pease, or _garbanzos_. the meat market appeared to be itinerant. a man in blue blouse, short brown breeches, and dove-colored hose adorned with green tassels, was leading a cow by its crumpled horn; an old woman, with giant silver hoops in her ears, a lavender shawl knotted about her body, her scarlet skirt well slashed so as to show the gamboge petticoat beneath, and so short for all its purple frill as to display the clockwork of her variegated stockings, was carrying a black lamb, nestled like a baby in her arms; another walking rainbow bore a live turkey; and a lad, whose rosy-hued kerchief, shawl, and sash floated like sunrise clouds about him, balanced on his erect young head an immense basket of eggs. there was a pottery section, too,--square rods of cups, plates, and jars in all manner of russet tints and graceful shapes. the various divisions were intermingled and blent into one great open-air market, the cheeriest sort of neighborhood picnic, where gossip, jest, and laughter were accompanied by the cackling of fowls, braying of donkeys, and cooing of babies. here fluttered a colony of bantams cast, their legs well tied, down on the cobble-stones; there stood carts laden with bunches of the yellowish dried heather; here two patient oxen had laid themselves out for a snooze; there a wicked little ass was blinking at the greens; here squatted a damsel in gold kerchief, garnet bodice, and beryl skirt, weighing out fresh figs; there sat a cobbler pegging away at his stall, his patrons waiting with bare feet while he mended their shoes; stands of cheeses, coops of chickens, children sleeping among the sacks of grain, a boy waving a rod on which was strung a gorgeous assortment of garters; loitering soldiers, limping beggars, bargaining ladies attended by their maids, all gave notes to the harmony. yet with all that trampling, small weeds were growing green amid the slippery stones that pave the square. the leon peasantry is said to be the finest in all spain, and surely no concourse of people could have been more honest, courteous, and dignified than this. the women wore ornamented wallets beneath the skirt, and warned us gravely against carrying money in exposed pockets; but we moved freely among the press with notebook and kodak, always the centre of curious groups, and our purses were not touched. indeed we found it difficult to spend even a _peseta_, so modest were the prices. for as large a jar as our little squire could well carry we paid the value of three cents. the men often rebuked the children for staring and questioning, but stood themselves at gaze, and asked us frankly what we were about. when we replied that we had never seen so beautiful a market, and were taking notes and photographs that we might not forget, the peasants smilingly passed the word from one side of the _plaza_ to the other, and all, even to the chief of police, who was strutting about waving an unnecessary staff, were eager to offer information and to point out picturesque subjects. but the morning was slipping away, and we had almost forgotten the oracle of a spanish gentleman in palencia: "leon has three sights for the visitor, and only three--the cathedral, san isidoro, and san marcos." we proceeded to take these illustrious churches in order. the leon cathedral, closely analogous to the gothic masterpieces of northern france, is far beyond all poor praises of mine. now in process of repair and stripped of the garish shrines of modern worship, it may be enjoyed purely as architecture--a temple of high beauty. let artists tell of its towers and finials, flying buttresses, gables, cornices, galleries, piers, façades. yet one need not be an artist to delight in the glow of its great rose windows, or to spend fascinated hours poring over the chiselled story book of portals, stalls, and cloisters. such inimitable glass, burning still with the fervors of the mediæval faith! and such a world of divinity and humanity, even down to childish mischief, in those multitudinous carvings! the passion scenes are repeated over and over, creation and judgment are there, the life, death, and ascension of the virgin, hero legends, animal fables, and folk-lore. gothic energy is abundantly manifest. st. george smites the dragon, st. michael tramples the devil, samson splits the lion's jaws, and santiago, carved in ebony on a door in the mellow-hued old cloisters, is riding down the moors with such contagious fury that the very tail of his horse is twisted into a ferocious quirk. on angel-guarded tombs pictures of ancient battle, murder, vengeance, are graven in the long-remembering stone. but marble birds peck at the marble fruit, the ivory peasant drives his pigs, the alabaster shepherd watches his flock, the lad leads his donkey, the monk feeds the poor at the abbey gates, and plump stone priests, stowed away in shadowy niches, make merry over the wine. [illustration: toledo cathedral. door of lions] if we had revelled overmuch in the art values of the cathedral, san isidoro administered a prompt corrective. this romanesque church, dating from the beginning of the eleventh century and a forerunner of the escorial in that it was founded by the first fernando of castile as a royal mausoleum, is excessively holy. not merely are the bones of the patron saint kept on the high altar, but the host is on constant exhibition there. unaware of these especial sanctities, we were quietly walking toward the choir, when an angry clamor from behind caused us to turn, and there, stretching their heads out over the railing of an upper gallery, was a line of furious priests. in vain the sacristan strove to excuse us, "foreigners and ladies," who did not know that we were expected to fall upon our knees on first entering the door. we had been guilty of no irreverence beyond this omission, and even under the hail of priestly wrath did our best to withdraw correctly without turning our backs to the altar. but nothing would appease that scandalized row of gargoyles, whose violent rudeness seemed to us the greater desecration. thus it was that we did not enter the frescoed chambers of the actual panteon, said to be imposing yet, although the royal tombs were broken up by the french in . very wrong in the french, but unless the manners of san isidoro's bodyguard have degenerated, the soldiers of napoleon may have had their provocation. it was now high noon, and the market-place had poured all its peasants out upon the streets. groups of them were lying at luncheon under the trees, passing the pigskin bottle of wine from mouth to mouth. beggars were standing by and blessing them in return for scraps of the coarse and scanty fare. "may god repay! may the saints prosper thy harvest!" a woman riding home, sitting erect on the red-striped donkey-bag, handed a plum to her husband, who trudged beside her in gray linen trunks and green velveteen waistcoat, with a white square of cloth set, for ornament, into the middle of the back. he divided the fruit with a pleading cripple, who called after them as devoutly as a man with half a plum in his cheek well could, "may the blessed virgin ride forth with you and gladden all your way!" we had, because of the increasing heat, conjured up a carriage, a species of invalid stage-coach, and were therefore the envy of little schoolboys in blue pinafores. their straw satchels bobbed on their backs as they gave chase to our clattering ark and clung to steps and door. this mode of locomotion did not save us time, for our coachman had domestic cares on his mind and drew up to bargain for a chicken, which finally mounted with a squall to the box seat; but in due spanish season we stopped before the plateresque façade of san marcos. this is a still unfinished convent, rich in artistic beauties and historic memories. here, for instance, is a marvellously human head of st. francis, a triumph of the polychrome sculpture, and here is the little cell where the poet quevedo, "colossal genius of satire," was imprisoned for over three years by philip iv, the patron of velázquez. it is not so easy to cage a mocking-bird, though the satire-pencilled walls have been well whitewashed. but san marcos was originally a hospital for pilgrims on the road to compostela, and conch shells are the central ornamentation of arch and vault and frieze. we accepted the rebuke; we would loiter no more. early that afternoon we took train for coruña, after which some agency other than steam must transport us to the mediæval city of st. james. xxiv pilgrims of saint james "in galice at seint jame, and at coloigne, she koude muchel of wandrynge by the weye." --chaucer: _canterbury tales_. "pilgrimes and palmers plihten hem to-gederes for to seche seint jame." --langland: _piers plowman_. "i am saint jaques' pilgrim, thither gone." --shakespeare: _all's well that ends well_. from leon to coruña is a journey of some eighteen hours by rail. degenerate pilgrims that we were, we had taken a first-class carriage reserved for ladies, not so comfortable as the average third-class carriage on an english road. we hoped for space, at least, and solitude, but people who choose to pry into out-of-the-way corners of spain need not expect to find any slavish deference to rights of place and property. the conductor had planned to dine and sleep in this particular compartment, which was a shade cleaner than the rest, and removed his kit from the rack with natural disappointment. why should ladies be going to galicia? but the general first-class compartment, next to ours, was unoccupied, and he resignedly transferred his belongings thither. the numerous third-class carriages were crowded with raw recruits, who had all jumped down, boy fashion, on the leon platforms, and came scrambling back at the starting bell in noisiest confusion. just as the train was puffing out, a station official threw open our door with a smiling, "only to the next stop, ladies!" and precipitated upon us three belated warriors. we groaned inly with dark foreboding, for third-class occupancy of a first-class carriage is apt to leave lively souvenirs behind. our three young soldiers, each with his personal effects bundled up in an enormous red and yellow handkerchief, were of the rudest peasant type, hardly lifted above animal and clod. only one was able to spell out anything of the newspaper we offered. he labored over a large-lettered advertisement with grimy thumb, twisting brows, and muttering lips, but soon gave it up in sheer exhaustion. the hulking fellow beyond him was continually on the point of spitting,--a regular spanish pastime in travel; but, determined that the carriage should not suffer that offence, i kept strict watch on this chrysalis hero, and embarrassed him into stark paralysis with questions on the landscape whenever he was quite prepared to fire. the third conscript was a ruddy, fair-haired boy of seventeen, who had in rudimentary form the social instincts of a spaniard, and in his intervals of blue-eyed staring at the tawdry splendors about him hammered our ears with some harsh dialect, his one theme being the indignities and hardships of a spanish soldier's lot. yet dull as they were, and ignorant of railway customs, they knew enough to prefer broad cushions, whose variety of stains did not trouble their enviable simplicity, to the rough and narrow benches of the overcrowded third-class carriages, and at the "first stop" they unanimously forgot to change. but they were not unkindly lads, and after i had explained to them a dozen times or so that my friend was suffering from a headache and needed to lie down, and had, furthermore, lawlessly suggested that they could make themselves equally comfortable in the other first-class carriage, which was not "reserved for ladies," they promised to leave us at the second station; but their slow peasant hands fumbled at the door so clumsily that the train was under way again before the latch had yielded. it was not until we had been fellow-travellers for two or three hours that they finally stumbled into the neighboring compartment. from this the conductor, who had been blind and deaf to past proceedings, promptly ejected them, having no mind to let them make acquaintance with his wine bottle, and our poor exiles cast reproachful glances at us as they were hustled off to their own place. we have sometimes talked enthusiastically of democracy, but we did not discuss such exalted subjects then. indeed, we had enough to do in guarding our doors, often by frank exercise of muscle, from further intrusion, and in trying to provide ourselves with food and water. a struggling mob of soldier boys besieged the refreshment stalls at every station, and drained the jars of the water-venders long before these could arrive at the car windows. at last, by a union of silver and violence, we succeeded in gaining from an astounded little girl, who was racing after the departing carriages, all her stock in trade, even the great russet jar itself, with its treasure of cold spring water. the historian possesses a special genius for cooking over an alcohol lamp on a rocking mountain train, and having augmented our knapsack stores with scalded milk and knobby bread from a tavern near one of the depots, we lived like feudal barons "of our own" for the rest of that memorable journey. reminders of the pilgrims were all along our route. overflowing as santiago's young knights were with martial and romantic spirit, when the brigands did not give their steel sufficient sport they would break lances for the love of ladies or on any other conceivable pretext. we passed the bridge of twenty arches, where ten companions in arms once posted themselves for ten successive days, and challenged to the tilt every cavalier who came that way in journey to the compostela jubilee. all the afternoon we were climbing into the hill-country. the waste slopes were starred with purple clumps of heather, and crossed by light-footed maids, who balanced great bunches of bracken on their heads. the patches of green valley, walled in by those barren steeps, held each a few tumble-down old houses, while elsewhere we noticed human dwellings that seemed scarcely more than nests of mud plastered to the stone. yet the soil appeared to be cultivated with the most patient thrift,--wheat and potatoes growing wherever wheat and potatoes might. the view became a bewildering medley of scottish hills, italian skies, and gothic castles, with occasionally a tawny and fantastic rock from the garden of the gods. the city of astorga, whose cathedral was founded, so the pilgrims used to say, by st. james in his missionary tour, greeted us from the midst of the flinty hills. these are the home of a singular clan known as the maragatos. they wear a distinctive dress, marry only among themselves, and turn a sullen look upon their neighbors. as night came on, the road grew so rough that we had to cork our precious water-jar with a plump lemon. the historian was sleeping off her headache, except as i woke her at the stations to aid in the defence of our ignoble luxury. we remembered that queen of portugal who made the pilgrimage to compostela on foot, begging her way. in the close-packed third-class carriages it must have been a cramped and weary night, and we did not wonder that young socialists occasionally tried to raid our fortress. but we clung stoutly to the door-handles, lustily sounding our war cry of "ladies only" in lieu of "santiago," and early in the small hours had the shamefaced pleasure of seeing the herd of drowsy conscripts, with their red and yellow bundles, driven into another train, where they were tumbled two or three deep, the under layer struggling and protesting. one little fellow, nearly smothered in the hurly-burly about the steps, cried out pitifully; but the conductor silenced him with angry sarcasm: "dost mean to be a soldier, thou? or shall we put thee in a sugar-bowl and send thee back to mamma?" there was less need of sentry duty after this, but the night was too beautiful for sleep. we were crossing the wild asturian mountains, the alps of spain, and a full moon was pouring down white lustre on crag, cascade, and gorge. by these perilous ways had streamed the many-bannered pilgrim hosts,--men and women of all countries and all tongues seeking the jerusalem of the west. each nation had its own hymn to santiago, and these, sung to the mingled music of bagpipes, timbrels, bugles, flutes, and harps, must have pealed out strangely on many a silver night. the poor went begging of the rich, and often a mounted crusader cast his purse of broad gold pieces on the heather, trusting santiago and his own good sword to see him through. up and down these sheer ravines stumbled the blind and lame, sure of healing if only they could reach the shrine. deaf and dumb went in the pilgrim ranks, the mad, the broken-hearted, the sin-oppressed; only the troop of lepers held apart. some of those foot-sore wayfarers, most likely the raggedest of all, carried a secret treasure for the saint. some staggered under penitential weights of lead and stone, and others bore loads of bars and fetters in token of captivity from which st. james had set them free. [illustration: st. paul, the first hermit] but these pathetic shapes no longer peopled the moonlight. since it was the nineteenth century, a first-class passenger might as well lie down and watch the gracious progress of the moon across the heavens,-- "oft, as if her head she bowed, stooping through a fleecy cloud." but the clouds perversely made of themselves wayside crosses, urns, cathedral towers; and just as one sky-creature, "backed like a weasel" but with the face of santiago, began to puff a monstrous cigarette, i roused my dozing senses and discovered that we were entering lugo, the capital of galicia, and once, under roman rule, of all spain. this city of tumultuous history, stormed by one wild race after another, and twice sacked in our own century, first by the french and then by the carlists, lay very peacefully under the white dawn. while the chivalrous spanish sun rose unobtrusively, so as not to divert attention from the fading graces of the moon, the historian made sustaining coffee, and we tried to look as if we liked galicia. this far northwestern province is the boeotia of spain; its stupid, patient peasantry are the butt of all the peninsula, and to be called a gallego is to be called a fool. the country, as we saw it from the train, was broken and hilly, but the alpine majesty of asturias was gone. in the misty drizzle of rain, which soon hushed the pipings of the birds, all the region looked wretchedly poor. it was a wooded, watered, well-tilled land, with tufts of heather brightly fringing every bank; but the houses were mere cabins, where great, gaunt, dark-colored pigs pushed in and out among bedraggled hens and half-clad children. women were working in the fields by five o'clock in the morning, their saffron and carmine kerchiefs twisted into horns above the forehead. women were serving as porters at the stations, carrying heavy trunks and loads of valises on their heads. women were driving the plough, swinging the pickaxe in the quarries, mending the railway tracks. short, stout, vigorous brownies they were, and most of them looked old. it was mid-forenoon when we reached coruña, the seaport whence sailed the invincible armada. we had meant to rest there for the afternoon and night before undertaking the forty-mile drive to santiago, but the hotel was so filthy that, tired as we were, there was nothing for it but to go on. tarrying only for bath and breakfast, we took our places in a carriage which, setting out at one, promised to bring us into santiago in time for the eight o'clock dinner. this conveyance was a species of narrow omnibus, which an andalusian, an englishman, a son of compostela returning home after a long sojourn in foreign parts, his young wife of jewish features, and our weary selves filled to overflowing. our jehu had agreed to transport the six of us, with our effects, for the sum of sixteen dollars; but deep was our disgust when he piled our handbags, shawl straps, and all our lesser properties in upon our wedged and helpless forms, and crammed six rough gallegos, with a reeling load of trunks and boxes, on the roof. remonstrance would be futile. the places in the regular diligence were not only taken for the afternoon but engaged for several days ahead, and carriages are rare birds in galicia. the spanish gentlemen merely shrugged their shoulders, the englishman had but that morning landed in spain and could not speak a word of the vernacular, and feminine protest was clearly out of order. the four puny horses took the top-heavy vehicle at a rattling pace down the granite-paved streets of coruña, but hardly were we under way when our griefs began. on our arrival that forenoon, a fluent porter had over-persuaded us to leave our trunk at the station, letting him retain the check in order to have the baggage ready for us when we should pass the depot _en route_ for santiago. we had been absent scarcely three hours, but meanwhile the trunk had disappeared. a dozen tatterdemalions ran hither and thither, making as much noise as possible, all the top fares shouted contradictory suggestions, and our porter, heaping ossa-pelions of execration upon the (absent) railroad officials, declared that they in their most reprobate stupidity had started the trunk on that eighteen-hour journey back to leon. they were dolts and asses, the sons of imbecile mothers; but we had only to leave the check with him, and in the course of an indefinite number of "to-morrows" he would recover our property. we had grown sadder and wiser during the last five minutes, however, and insisted on taking that soiled inch of paper into our own keeping. at this the porter flew into a spanish rage, flung back his fee into my lap, and so eloquently expressed himself that we left coruña with stinging ears. it was the historian's trunk, stored with supplies for the camera, as well as with sundry alleviations of our pilgrim lot, but she put it in the category of spilled milk, and turned with heroic cheerfulness to enjoy the scenery. the horses had now drooped into the snail's pace which they consistently maintained through the rest of their long, uphill way, for the city of the apostle stands on a high plateau. as we mounted more and more, coruña, lying between bay and sea, still shone clear across the widening reach of smiling landscape. maize and vines were everywhere. so were peasants, who trudged along in family troops toward compostela. but whether afoot or astride donkeys of antique countenance, they could always outstrip our lumbering coach, and we were an easy prey for the hordes of childish bandits who chase vehicles for miles along the pilgrim road, shrieking for pennies in the name of santiago. about two leagues out of coruña we did pass something,--a group composed of a young gallego and the most diminutive of donkeys. the peasant, walking beside his beast, was trying to balance across its back an object unwonted to those wilds. "strange to see a steamer trunk here!" i remarked, turning to the historian; but she was already leaning out from the window, inspecting that label-speckled box with an eagle gaze. "it's mine!" she exclaimed, and in a twinkling had startled the driver into pulling up his horses, had leapt from the coach, and was running after the peasant, who, for his part, swerving abruptly from the main road, urged his panting donkey up a steep lane. nobody believed her. even i, her fellow-pilgrim, thought her wits were addling with our penitential fasts and vigils, and did not attempt to join in so mad a chase. as for the scandalized spaniards, inside and out, they shouted angrily that the thing was impossible and the señora was to come back. the coachman roared loudest of all. but on she dashed, ran down her man, and bade him, in inspired galician, bring that trunk to the omnibus at once. he scratched his head, smiled a child's innocent and trustful smile, and, like a true gallego, did as he was told. by this time masculine curiosity had been too much for the driver and most of the fares, and they had scrambled after, so that the few of us who kept guard by the carriage presently beheld an imposing procession advancing along the road, consisting of a galician peasant with a steamer trunk upon his head, a group of crestfallen spaniards, and a yankee lady, slightly flushed, attended by an applauding englishman. beyond a doubt it was her trunk. her name was there, a new york hotel mark, which she had tried to obliterate with a blot of leon ink, and the number corresponding to the number of our check. "by jove!" said the englishman. as for the peasant, he said even less, but in some way gave us to understand that he was taking the trunk to a gentleman from madrid. thinking that there might have been a confusion of checks in the station, we gave this childlike native a _peseta_ and a card with our santiago address in case "the madrid gentleman" should suspect us of highway robbery. our fellow-passengers took the tale to santiago, however; it made a graphic column in the local paper, and none of the several spaniards who spoke to us of the matter there doubted that the trunk was stolen by collusion between the porter and the peasant. our next adventure was more startling yet. the coachman had been heard, at intervals, vehemently expostulating with a roof passenger who wanted to get down. "man alive! by the staff of santiago! by your mother's head! by the virgin of the pillar!" whether the malcontent had taken too much wine, whether he was under legal arrest, whether it was merely a crossing of whims, we could not learn from any of the impassioned actors in the drama; but, apparently, he found his opportunity to slip unnoticed off the coach. for suddenly the driver screamed to his horses, and, like a bolt from the blue, a handsome, athletic fellow leapt to the ground and rushed back along the dusty road, brandishing clenched fists and stamping his feet in frenzy. in mid-career he paused, struck a stage attitude, tore open his pink shirt, gasped, and shook with rage. "irving isn't in it," quoth the englishman. then appeared, lurking by the roadside, a slouchy youth, on whom our tragic hero sprang like a tiger, threw him down, and stood panting over him with a gesture as if to stab. an instant later he had seized his victim by the collar, dragged him up, and was running him back to the coach. "you hurt me," wailed the truant, "and i don't want to go." but go he must, being bundled back in short order on the roof, where harmony seemed to be immediately restored. while the men were struggling, a lordly old peasant, stalking by, surveyed them with a peasant's high disdain. we had already noted the irish look of the galicians, but this magnificent patriarch, with dark green waistcoat over a light green shirt, old gold knickerbockers and crushed strawberry hose, had as welsh a face, dark and clean-cut, as snowdon ever saw. long sunset shadows lay across the hills; we had shared with our companions our slight stores of sweet chocolate, bread, and wine, and still we were not halfway to santiago. it was nine o'clock before our groaning equipage drew up at a wretched little inn, incredibly foul, where it was necessary to bait the exhausted horses. mine host welcomed the party with pensive dignity, and served us, in the midst of all that squalor, with the manners of a melancholy count. shutting eyes and noses as far as we could, and blessing eggs for shells and fruit for rind, we ate and gathered strength to bear what st. james might yet have in store for us. the diligence had resumed its weary jog; we were all more or less asleep, unconsciously using, in our crowded estate, one another as pillows, when an uproar from the box and a wild lurch of the coach brought us promptly to our waking senses. one of the wheel horses was down, and the others, frightened by the dragging harness, were rearing and plunging. out we tumbled into the misty night, wondering if we were destined, after all, to foot it to compostela in proper pilgrim fashion. the poor beast was mad with terror, and his struggles soon brought his mate to the ground beside him. the coachman, so pompous and dictatorial at the outset, stood helplessly in the road, at a safe distance, wringing his hands and crying like a baby: "alas, poor me! poor little me! o holy virgin! santiago!" the top fares, who had made good speed to _terra firma_, were wailing in unison and shrieking senseless counsels. "kill thou the horse! kill thou the horse!" one of them chanted like a keltic dirge. the coachman supplied the antiphon: "kill not my horse! kill not my horse! _ave maria!_ poor little me!" "fools! sit on his head," vociferated the englishman in his vain vernacular. the horses seemed to have as many legs as centipedes, kicking all at once. the coach was toppling, the luggage pitching, and catastrophe appeared inevitable, when santiago, such an excellent horseman himself, inspired one of the roof passengers to unbuckle a few straps. the effect was magical. first one nag, and then the other, struggled to its feet; the coachman sobbed anew, this time for joy; the spanish gentlemen, who had been watching the scene with imperturbable passivity, crawled back into the diligence, the silent wife followed with the heavy bag which her husband had let her carry all the way, and the anglo-saxon contingent walked on ahead for half an hour to give the spent horses what little relief we might. the clocks were striking two when we reached the gates of the sacred city, where fresh hindrance met us. the customs officials were on the alert. who were we that would creep into compostela de santiago under cover of night, in an irregular conveyance piled high with trunks and boxes? smugglers, beyond a doubt! but they would teach us a thing or two. we might wait outside till morning. [illustration: maids of honor] delighted boys from a peasant camp beyond the walls ran up to jeer at our predicament. our coachman, reverting to his dolorous chant, appealed to all the saints. the top fares shrilled in on the chorus; the spanish gentlemen lighted cigarettes, and after some twenty minutes of dramatic altercation, a soldier sprang on our top step and mounted guard, while the coach rattled through the gates and on to the _aduana_. here we were deposited, bag and baggage, on the pavement, and a drowsy, half-clad old dignitary was brought forth to look at us. the coachman, all his social graces restored, imaginatively presented the three anglo-saxons as a french party travelling for pleasure. "but what am i to do with them?" groaned the dignitary, and went back to bed. an appalling group of _serenos_, in slouch hats and long black capes, with lanterns and with staffs topped by steel axes, escorted us into a sort of luggage room, and told us to sit down on benches. we sat on them for half an hour, which seemed to satisfy the ends of justice, for then the _serenos_ gave place to porters, who said they would bring us our property, which nobody had examined or noticed in the slightest, after daybreak, and would now show us the way to our hotel. our farewell to the coachman, who came beaming up to shake hands and receive thanks, was cold. we had engaged rooms by letter a week in advance, but they had been surrendered to earlier arrivals, and we were conducted to a private house next door to the hotel. after the delays incident to waking an entire family, we were taken into a large, untidy room, furnished with dining table, sewing machine, and a half dozen decrepit chairs. there was no water and no sign of toilet apparatus, but in an adjoining dark closet were two narrow cots, from which the four daughters of the house had just been routed. of those beds which these sleepy children were then, with unruffled sweetness and cheeriness, making ready for us, the less said the better. our indoor hours in compostela, an incessant battle against dirt, bad smells, and a most instructive variety of vermin, were a penance that must have met all pilgrim requirements. and yet these people spared no pains to make us comfortable, so far as they understood comfort. at our slightest call, were it only for a match, in would troop the mother, four daughters, maid, dog, and cat, with any of the neighbors who might be visiting, all eager to be of service. the girls were little models of sunny courtesy, and would have been as pretty of face as they were charming in manner, had not skin diseases and eye diseases told the tale of the hideously unsanitary conditions in which their young lives had been passed. but we had come to the festival of santiago, and it was worth its price. xxv the building of a shrine (a historical chapter, which should be skipped.) that most spanish of spaniards, alarcón, is pleased in one of his roguish sketches to depict the waywardness of a certain poetaster. "alonso alonso was happy because he was thinking of many sad things,--of the past centuries, vanished like smoke, ... of the little span of life and of the absurdities with which it is filled, of the folly of wisdom, of the nothingness of ambition, of all this comedy, in short, which is played upon the earth." alonso alonso would be in his very element in santiago de compostela. the "unsubstantial pageant faded" of the mediæval world is more than memory there. it is a ghost that walks at certain seasons, notably from the twentieth to the twenty-eighth of july. the story of the birth, growth, and passing of that once so potent shrine, the jerusalem of the west, is too significant for oblivion. the corner-stone of the strange history is priestly legend. the apostle james the greater, so runs the tale, after preaching in damascus and along the mediterranean coast, came in a greek ship to galicia, then under roman rule, and proclaimed the gospel in its capital city, iria-flavia. here the virgin appeared to him, veiled, like the mother of Æneas, in a cloud, and bade him build a church. this he did, putting a bishop in charge, and then pursued his mission, not only in the remote parts of galicia, but in aragon, castile, and andalusia. at saragossa the virgin again flashed upon his sight. she was poised, this time, on a marble pillar, which she left behind her to become, what it is to-day, the most sacred object in all spain. a chip of this _columna immobilis_ is one of the treasures of toledo. the cathedral of the _virgen del pilar_,--affectionately known as pilarica,--which james then founded at saragossa, is still a popular goal of pilgrimage, the marble of the holy column being hollowed, at one unshielded spot, by countless millions of kisses. the apostle, on his return to jerusalem after seven years in spain, was beheaded by herod. loyal disciples recovered the body and set sail with it for the spanish coast. off portugal occurred the pointless "miracle of the shells." a gentleman was riding on the shore, when all at once his horse, refusing to obey the bit, leapt into the sea, walking on the crests of the waves toward the boat. steed and rider suddenly sank, but promptly rose again, all crusted over with shells, which have been ever since regarded as the emblem of st. james in particular, and of pilgrim folk in general. "how should i your true love know from another one? by his cockle hat and staff and his sandal shoon." the santiago "cockle," which thus, as a general pilgrim symbol, outstripped the keys of rome and the cross of jerusalem, is otherwise accounted for by a story that the body of st. james was borne overseas to galicia in a shell of miraculous size, but this is not the version that was told us at the shrine. the two disciples, theodore and athanasius, temporarily interred their master in padron, two leagues from iria, until they should have obtained permission from the roman dame who governed that region to allow st. james the choice of a resting-place. her pagan heart was moved to graciousness, and she lent the disciples an ox-cart, in which they placed the body, leaving the beasts free to take the apostle's course. it is hardly miraculous that, under the circumstances, lady lupa's oxen plodded straight back to iria and came to a stop before her summer villa. since this was so clearly indicated as the choice of the saint, she could do no less than put her house at his disposal. in the villa was a chapel to the war-god janus, but when the body of santiago was brought within the doors, this heathen image fell with a crash into a hundred fragments. here the saint abode, guarded by his faithful disciples, until, in process of time, they slept beside him. the villa had been transformed into a little church, so little that, when the imperial persecutions stormed over the spanish provinces, the worshippers hid it under heaps of turf and tangles of brier bushes. those early christians of iria were slain or scattered, and the burial place of st. james was forgotten of all the world. in the seventh century, a rumor went abroad that the apostle james had preached the gospel in spain. the legend grew until, in the year , a galician anchorite beheld from the mouth of his cavern a brilliant star, which shone persistently above a certain bramble-wood in the outskirts of iria. moving lights, as of processional tapers, twinkled through the matted screen of shrubbery, and solemn chants arose from the very heart of the boscage. word of this mystery came to the bishop, who saw with his own eyes "the glow of many candles through the shadows of the night." after three days of fasting, he led all the villagers in procession to the thicket which had grown up, a protecting hedge, about the ruins of the holy house. the three graves were found intact, and on opening the chief of these the bishop looked upon the body of st. james, as was proven not only by severed head and pilgrim staff, but by a latin scroll. the swiftest horsemen of galicia bore the glorious tidings to the court of the king, that most christian monarch, alfonso ii, "very catholic, a great almsgiver, defender of the faith." so loved of heaven was this pious king, that once, when he had collected a treasure of gold and precious stones for the making of a cross, two angels, disguised as pilgrims, undertook the work. when, after a few hours, alfonso came softly to the forge to make sure of their honesty and skill, no artisans were there, but from an exquisitely fashioned cross streamed a celestial glory. so devout a king, on hearing the great tidings from galicia, lost no time in despatching couriers to his bishops and grandees, and all the pomp and pride of spain, headed by majesty itself, flocked to the far-off hamlet beyond the asturian mountains to adore the relics of santiago. now began grand doings in iria, known henceforth as the field of the star, _campus stellæ_, or compostela. alfonso had a church of stone and clay built above the sepulchre, and endowed it with an estate of three square miles. the pope announced the discovery to christendom. a community of twelve monks, with a presiding abbot, was installed at compostela to say masses before the shrine. for these beginnings of homage the apostle made a munificent return. a wild people, living in a wild land at a wild time, these spaniards of the middle ages were shaped and swayed by two sovereign impulses, piety and patriotism. these two were practically one, for patriotism meant the expulsion of the moor, and piety, cross above koran. it was a life-and-death struggle. the dispossessed christians, beaten back from andalusia and castile to the fastnesses of the northern mountains, were fighting against fearful odds. they felt sore need of a leader, for although, when their ranks were wavering, the virgin had sometimes appeared to cheer them on, hers, after all, was but a woman's arm. it was in the battle of clavijo, , that santiago first flashed into view, an invincible champion of the cross. rameiro, successor to alfonso ii, had taken the field against the terrible abderrahman of cordova, who had already overrun valencia and barcelona and was demanding from galicia a yearly tribute of one hundred maidens. this exceedingly moorish tax, which now amuses madrid as a rattling farce in the summer theatre of the _buen retiro_, was no jesting matter then. not only the most famous warriors of the realm, bernardo del carpio in their van, but shepherds and ploughmen, priests, monks, even bishops, flocked to the royal standard. "a cry went through the mountains when the proud moor drew near, and trooping to rameiro came every christian spear; the blesséd saint iago, they called upon his name:-- that day began our freedom, and wiped away our shame." the hosts of cross and crescent met in battle-shock near logroño. only nightfall saved the christians from utter rout, but in those dark hours of their respite the apparition of santiago bent above their sleeping king. "fear not, rameiro," said the august lips. "the enemy, master of the field, hems you in on every side, but god fights in your ranks." at sunrise, in the very moment when the moslem host was bowed in prayer, the christians, scandalized at the spectacle, charged in orthodox fury. their onset was led by an unknown knight, gleaming in splendid panoply of war. far in advance, his left hand waving a snowy banner stamped with a crimson cross, he spurred his fierce white horse full on the infidel army. his brandished sword "hurled lightning against the half-moon." at his every sweeping stroke, turbaned heads rolled off by scores to be trampled, as turbaned heads deserve, under the hoofs of that snorting steed. the son of thunder had found his function, which was nothing less than to inspirit the reconquest. henceforth he could always be counted on to lead a desperate assault, and "_santiago y cierra españa!_" was the battle-cry of every hard-fought field. so late as , at the crucial contest of las navas de tolosa, the "captain of the spaniards" saved the day. whatever may be thought of such bloody prowess on the part of christ's disciple, the fisherman of galilee, he could not have taken, in that stormy age, a surer course to make himself respected. all europe sprang to do honor to a saint who could fight like that. charlemagne, guided by the milky way, visited the shrine, if the famous old codex calixtinus may be believed, with its convincing print of the apostle sitting upright in his coffin and pointing the great karl to the starry trail. in process of time the gran capitan came bustling from granada. the king of jerusalem did not find the road too long, nor did the pope of rome count it too arduous. england sent her first royal edward, and france more than one royal louis. counts and dukes, lords and barons, rode hundreds of miles to compostela, at the head of feudal bands which sometimes clashed by the way. saints of every clime and temper made the glorious pilgrimage,--gregory, bridget, bernard, francis of assisi. to the shrine of st. james came the cid in radiant youth to keep the vigil of arms and receive the honors of knighthood, and again, mounted on his peerless bavieca, to give thanks for victory over the five moorish kings. it was on this second journey that he succored the leper, inviting him, with heroic disdain of hygiene, to be his bedfellow "in a great couch with linen very clean and costly." [illustration: dancing the sevillana] even in the ninth century such multitudes visited the sepulchre that a society of hidalgos was formed to guard the pilgrims from bandits along that savage route, serve them as money-changers in compostela, and in all possible ways protect them from robbery and ill-usage. this brotherhood gave birth to the famous order of santiago, whose two vows were to defend the pilgrims and fight the mussulmans. these red-cross knights were as devout as they were valiant, "lambs at the sound of the church-bells and lions at the call of the trumpet." kings and popes gave liberally to aid their work. roads were cut through spain and france, even italy and germany, "to santiago." forests were cleared, morasses drained, bridges built, and rest-houses instituted, as san marcos at leon and the celebrated hostelry of roncesvalles. compostela had become a populous city, but a city of inns, hospitals, and all variety of conventual and religious establishments. even to-day it can count nearly three hundred altars. in the ninth century the modest church of alfonso ii was replaced by an ornate edifice rich in treasures, but in the gloomy tenth century, when christian energies were arrested by the dread expectation of the end of the world, the moors overran galicia and laid the holy city waste. the moslem general, almanzor, had meant to shatter the urn of santiago, but when he entered compostela with his triumphant troops, he found only one defender there, an aged monk sitting silent on the apostle's tomb. the magnanimous moor did not molest him, nor the ashes his feebleness guarded better than strength, but took abundant booty. when almanzor marched to the south again, four thousand galician captives bore on their shoulders the treasures of the apostle, even the church-bells and sculptured doors, to adorn the mosque of cordova. the fresh courage of the eleventh century began the great romanesque cathedral of santiago. donations poured in from all over europe. pilgrims came bowed under the weight of marble and granite blocks for the fabric. young and old, men and women, beggars and peasants, princes and prelates, had a hand in the building, cutting short their prayers to mix mortar and hew stone. artists from far-off lands, who had come on pilgrimage, lingered for years, often for lifetimes, in compostela, making beautiful the dwelling of the saint. the great epoch of santiago was the twelfth century, when there succeeded to the bishopric the able and ambitious diego gelmirez, who resolved that compostela should be recognized as the religious centre of spain, and be joined with jerusalem and rome in a trinity of the supreme shrines of christendom. he was a man of masterly resource, persistence, pluck. not too scrupulous for success, he found all means good that made toward the accomplishment of his one splendid dream. the clergy of santiago, who had hitherto borne but dubious repute, he subjected to instruction and to discipline, calling learned priests from france to tutor them, and sending his own, as they developed promise, to sojourn in foreign monasteries. he zealously promoted the work on the cathedral, rearing arches proud as his aspiration, and watch-towers strong as his will. he invested the sacred ceremonies, especially the ecclesiastical processions, with extraordinary pomp, so that the figure of alfonso vi, conqueror of toledo, advancing through the basilica in such a solemn progress, appeared less imposing than the bishop himself, crowned with white mitre, sceptred with ivory staff, and treading in his gold-embroidered sandals upon the broad stones that pave the church as if on an imperial palace floor. gelmirez was indefatigable, too, in building up the city. eager to swell the flood of pilgrimage, he founded in compostela, already a cluster of shrines and hostelries, still more churches, inns, asylums, hospitals, together with convents, libraries, schools, and all other recognized citadels of culture. he fought pestilence and dirt, introducing an excellent water supply, and promoting, so far as he knew how, decent and sanitary living. he was even a patron of agriculture, bringing home from his foreign journeys, which took him as far as rome, packets of new seed slipped in among parcels of jewels and no less precious budgets of saintly molars and knuckle-bones. but these missions abroad, having always for chief object the pressing of his petition upon the holy see, involved costly presents to influential prelates, especially the red-capped cardinals. the revenue for such bribes he wrung from the galician peasantry, who gave him a measure of hate with every measure of grain. gelmirez had so many uses for money that no wonder his taxes cut down to the quick. the lavish offerings sent by sea to the shrine of santiago, ruby-crusted crucifixes of pure gold, silver reliquaries sparkling with emeralds and jacinths, pontifical vestments of richest tissue and of rarest artistry, well-chased vessels of onyx, pearl, and jasper, all that constant influx of glistening tribute from the length and breadth of christendom, had drawn moorish pirates to the galician waters. to guard the treasure-ships, repel the infidels, and, incidentally, return tit for tat by plundering their galleys, the warrior bishop equipped a formidable fleet, and kept it on patrol off the coast,--a strange development from the little fishing-boat whence james and john trailed nets in the lake of galilee. the audacity of gelmirez reached its height in his struggle with the queen regent, urraca of unlovely memory, for the control of the child king, alfonso vii. this boy was the grandson of alfonso vi, "emperor of spain," who survived all his legitimate children except urraca. the father of the little alfonso, count raymond of burgundy, was dead, and urraca had taken a second husband, alfonso the battle-maker. the situation was complicated. the battle-maker wore the crowns of aragon and navarre, urraca was queen of leon and castile, while the child, by his grandfather's will, inherited the lordship of galicia. the bishop of santiago, who baptized the baby, had strenuously opposed urraca's second marriage. as that lady had, nevertheless, gone her own wilful way, setting at naught the bishop's remonstrance and inciting galicia to revolt against his tyranny, gelmirez had kidnapped the royal child, a puzzled little majesty of four summers, and solemnly crowned and anointed him before the high altar of st. james, declaring himself the protector of the young sovereign. urraca soon wearied of her aragonese bridegroom, and, casting him off, took up arms to defend her territories against his invasion. the powerful bishop came to her aid with men and money, but exacted in exchange an oath of faithful friendship, which urraca gave and broke and gave again. meanwhile the popular hatred swelled so high against gelmirez that an open insurrection, in which many of his own clergy took part, drove him and the queen to seek refuge in one of the cathedral towers, while the rebels burned and pillaged in the church below. the bishop barely escaped with his life, fleeing in disguise from compostela; but soon the baffled conspirators saw him at his post again, punishing, pardoning, rebuilding--as indomitable as st. james himself. the election of diego's friend, calixtus ii, to the papacy, gave him his supreme opportunity. money was the prime requisite, and gelmirez, not for the first nor second time, borrowed of the apostle, selling treasures from the sacristy. the sums so raised were carried to the pope, across the bandit-peopled mountains, by a canon of santiago masquerading as a beggar, and by a trusty group of particularly ragged pilgrims. this proof of ecclesiastical ripeness overcame all papal scruples, and calixtus, despite the clamor of enemies and rivals, raised santiago to the coveted archbishopric. the first half of his great purpose effected, gelmirez strove with renewed energy to wrest from toledo the primacy of spain. he fortified galicia, hurled his fleet against moorish and english pirates, built himself an archiepiscopal palace worthy of his hard-won dignities, stole from portugal the skeletons of four saints to enhance the potency of santiago, and made much of the skull of the apostle james the less, which urraca had presented in one of her fits of amity. but this time the reverend robber was not destined to success. the archbishop of toledo formed a powerful party against him, calixtus died, even the king, whom gelmirez had armed knight in the cathedral of santiago and had crowned a second time at leon, grew restive under the dictation of his old tutor. the smouldering hatred of galicia again flamed out. the aged archbishop once more had to see his church polluted, its treasures plundered, its marvels of carved work, stained glass, and gold-threaded vestments spoiled and wasted by that senseless rabble which had twisted out from under his heavy foot. faint and bleeding from a wound in his head, too white a head, for all its pride, to be battered with stones, gelmirez had almost fallen a victim to the mob, when two of his canons snatched him back to the refuge of the high altar, barring the iron-latticed doors of the _capilla major_ against those savage sheep of his pasture. the outrage was so flagrant that, for very shame, pope and king, though both had accepted the bribes of his enemies, responded to his appeal, and assisted him to resume that rigorous sway which lasted, all told, for something like forty years. such was the man and such the process that made the shrine of santiago the third in rank of mediæval christendom. under the rule of gelmirez compostela had become one of the principal cities of the peninsula, a seat of arts and sciences where spanish nobles were proud to build them palaces and to educate their sons. the mighty influx of pilgrims, which went on without abatement century after century, nearly twenty-five hundred licenses being granted, in the single year , to cockle-hatted visitors from england alone, filled the place with business. inn-keepers, physicians, money-changers, merchants were in flourishing estate, and a number of special industries developed. one street was taken up by booths for the sale of polished shells. another bears still the name of the jet-workers, whose rosaries, crucifixes, stars, gourds, staffs, and amulets were in high demand. souvenirs of santiago, little crosses delicately cut and chased, mimic churches, towers, shrines gave employ to scores of artists in silver and mother-of-pearl. the enormous revenue from the sale of phials of healing oil and from the consecrated candles must needs go to the apostle, but the cunning craftsmen who loaded their stalls with love-charms had a well-nigh equal patronage. the finished cathedral was consecrated in , and in the royal saint, fernando iii, sent to compostela a train of mohammedan captives, bringing back on their shoulders the bells almanzor had taken. these had been hung, inverted, in the beautiful mosque of cordova to serve as lamps for the infidel worship, but at last st. james had his own again. thus santiago trampled on the moors, and his ashes, or what had passed for his ashes, slept in peace, with nothing to do but work miracles on blind and crippled pilgrims, until, in , an army of english heretics, led by the horrible drake, landed in galicia. these lutheran dogs were not worthy of a miracle. the archbishop and his canons, with the enemy hammering on the gates of compostela, hastily took up and reburied the three coffins of the original shrine, so secretly that they could not be found again. in , however, a miscellany of brittle bits of bone was brought to light by a party of determined seekers, and these repulsive fragments, after scientific analysis conducted in an ecclesiastical spirit, were declared to be portions of three skeletons which might be ages old. leo xiii clenched the matter by "authenticating" one of them, apparently chosen at random, as the body of santiago. but although for us of the perverse sects, the contents of that magnificent silver casket, the centre of the santiago faith, could arouse no thrill of worship, the pilgrim city itself and its storied, strange cathedral were the most impressive sights of spain. [illustration: within the cloister] xxvi the son of thunder "thou shield of that faith which in spain we revere, thou scourge of each foeman who dares to draw near, whom the son of that god who the elements tames called child of the thunder, immortal saint james." --_hymn to santiago_, in george borrow's translation. fatigues of the journey and discomforts of our lodging melted from memory like shadows of the night when we found ourselves, on the morning of july twenty-fourth, before that rich, dark mass of fretted granite, a majestic church standing solitary in the midst of spreading _plazas_. these are surrounded by stately buildings, the archiepiscopal palace with its memories of gelmirez, the royal hospital founded by ferdinand and isabella for the succor of weary pilgrims, ancient colleges with sculptured façades, marvellous old convents whose holy fathers were long since driven out by royal decree into hungry, homesick exile, and the columned city hall with its frontal relief of the battle of clavijo and its crowning statue of st. james. the great, paved squares, the magnificent stairways and deeply recessed portals were aglow with all galicia. peasants in gala dress, bright as tropic birds, stood in deferential groups about the pilgrims, for there were actual pilgrims on the scene, men and women whose broad hats and round capes were sewn over with scallop-shells, and whose long staffs showed little gourds fastened to the upper end. they wore rosaries and crucifixes in profusion, and their habit was spangled with all manner of charms and amulets, especially the tinsel medals with their favorite device of st. james riding down the moors. we bought at one of the stalls set up before the doors for sale of holy wares a memento of the famous old jet-work, a tiny black hand, warranted, if hung about the neck, to cure disorders of the eyes. we fell to chatting with a pilgrim who was shod in genuine sandal shoon. a large gourd was tied to his belt, the rim of his hat was turned up at one side and caught there with a rosy-tinted shell, and his long, black ringlets fell loose upon his shoulders, framing a romantic dürer face. he talked with us in german, saying that he was of wittemberg, and once a lutheran, but had been converted to the true faith on a previous visit to spain. since then he had footed his penitential way to jerusalem and other distant shrines. as his simple speech ran on, we seemed to see the mountains round about santiago crossed by those converging streams of mediæval pilgrims, all dropping on their knees at the first glimpse of the cathedral towers. with that sight the fainting were refreshed, the lame ran, and jubilant songs of praise to santiago rolled out in many languages upon the air. "primus ex apostolis, martir jerusolinus, jacobus egregio, sacer est martirio." in those ages of faith all the gates of the city were choked with the incoming tide, the hostels and cure-houses overflowed, and the broad _plazas_ about the cathedral were filled with dense throngs of pilgrims, massed nation by nation, flying their national colors, singing their national hymns to the strangely blended music of their national instruments, and watching for the acolyte who summoned them, company by company, into the august presence-chamber of st. james. his shrine they approached only in posture of lowliest reverence. even now, at the end of the nineteenth century, our first glance, as we entered the lofty, dim, and incense-perfumed nave, fell on a woman-pilgrim dragging herself painfully on her knees up the aisle toward the high altar, and often falling prostrate to kiss the pavement with groans and tears. mediæval pilgrims, when they had thus won their way to the entrance of the _capilla mayor_, and there received three light blows from a priestly rod in token of chastisement, were granted the due indulgences and, in turn, laid their offerings before the great white altar. still there sits, in a niche above, the thirteenth-century image of st. james, a colossal figure wrought of red granite, with stiffly flowing vestments of elaborately figured gilt. his left hand grasps a silver staff, with gilded gourd atop, and his right, whose index finger points downward to the burial vault, holds a scroll inscribed, "hic est corpus divi jacobi apostoli ac hispaniarum patroni." once he wore a broad-brimmed hat all of pure gold, but this was melted down by marshal ney in the french invasion. at that time the sacred vessels were heaped like market produce into great ox-carts, until the cathedral had been plundered of ten hundredweight of treasure. it was "the end of the pilgrimage" to climb the steps behind this statue and kiss its resplendent silver cape, studded with cockle-shells and besprinkled with gems. but the pilgrims of the past had much more to see and worship,--the jewelled crown of the apostle set upon the altar, his very hat and staff, the very axe that beheaded him, and other relics to which the attention of the modern tourist, at least, is not invited. yet even we were conducted to the romanesque crypt beneath the high altar, where stands another altar of red marble, decorated by a relief of two peacocks drinking from a cup. this altar is surmounted by a bronze pedestal, which bears the sumptuous ark-shaped casket with its enshrined handfuls of dubious dust. our latter-day pilgrims seemed well content with the measure of wealth and sanctity which moorish sack and english piracy, french invasion and carlist wars, had spared to the cathedral. in the matter of general relics, nevertheless, santiago suffers by comparison with the neighbor cathedral of oviedo, which proudly shows a silver-plated old reliquary, believed by the devout to have been brought in the earliest christian times from rome. this chest contains, in addition to the usual pieces of the true cross and thorns from the crown, such remarkable mementos as st. peter's leathern wallet, crumbs left over from the feeding of the five thousand, bits of roast fish and honeycomb from emmaus, bread from the last supper, manna from the wilderness, a portion of moses' rod and the mantle of elijah. oviedo possesses, too, that famous cross which the angels made for alfonso ii, and one of the six water-jars of cana. but the relic chapel of santiago makes up in quantity whatever it may lack in quality, holding bones, garments, hair-tresses, and like memorials of a veritable army of martyrs, even to what ford disrespectfully calls "sundry parcels of the eleven thousand virgins." special stress is laid on a calvary thorn which turns blood-red every good friday, and a drop, forever fresh, of the madonna's milk. if pilgrims are not satisfied with these, they can walk out to los angeles, an adjacent village, whose church was built by the angels. eccentric architects they were in choosing to connect their edifice with the cathedral of santiago by an underground beam of pure gold, formerly one of the rafters in god's own house. we had speech of several pilgrims that first morning. one was a middle-aged, sun-browned, stubby little man, whom during the ensuing week we saw again and again in the cathedral, but never begging, with the most of the pilgrims, at the portals, nor taking his ease in the cloisters,--a social promenade where the laity came to gossip and the clergy to puff their cigarettes. this humble worshipper seemed to pass all the days of the festival in enraptured adoration, on his knees now before one shrine, now before another. we found him first facing the supreme architectural feature of the cathedral, that sublime and yet most lovely _portico de la gloria_. he was gazing up at its paradise of sculptured saints and angels, whose plumes and flowing robes still show traces of azure, rose, and gold, with an expression of naive ecstasy. he told us that he came from astorga, and had been nine days on the way. he spent most of his time upon the road, he added, visiting especially the shrines of the virgin. "greatly it pleases me to worship god," he said, with sparkling eyes, and ran on eagerly, as long as we would listen, about the riches and splendors of different cathedrals, and especially the robes and jewels of the _virgen del pilar_. he seemed in his devout affection to make her wealth his own. one of the most touching effects of the scene was the childlike simplicity with which the poor of galicia, coming from such vile hovels, felt themselves at home in the dwelling of their saint. not even their sins marred their sense of welcome. in the cloisters we encountered an old woman in the pilgrim dress, her staff wound with gay ribbons, limping from her long jaunt. she told us frankly that she was "only a beggar" in her own village, and had come for the outing as well as to please the priest, who, objecting to certain misdemeanors which she had the discretion not to specify, had prescribed this excursion as penance. she was a lively old soul, and was amusing herself mightily with the goya tapestries, and others, that adorned the cloisters in honor of the time. "you have a book and can read," she said, "and you will understand it all, but what can i understand? i can see that this is a queen, and she is very fine, and that those are butchers who are killing a fat pig. but we who are poor may understand little in this world except the love of god." others of the pilgrims were village folk of portugal, and, taken all together, these modern wearers of the shell were but a sorry handful as representing those noble multitudes who came, in ages past, to bow before the shrine. the fourteen doors of the cathedral then stood open night and day, and the grotesque lions leaning out over the lintels could boast that there was no tongue of europe which their stone ears had not heard. three open doors suffice in the feast days now, but with the new flood of faith that has set toward lourdes, pilgrimages to santiago, as to other latin shrines, are beginning to revive. mass was over at the late hour of our arrival, but nave and aisles, transepts and cloisters, hummed with greetings of friends, laughter of children, who sported unrebuked about those stately columns, and the admiring exclamations of strangers. we were often accosted in spanish and in french and asked from what country we came, and if we "loved the beautiful church of the apostle." when we were occasionally cornered, and driven in truthfulness to say that we were yankees, our more intelligent interlocutors looked us over with roguish scrutiny, but increased rather than abated their courtesies. as for the peasants, their geography is safely limited. noticing that our spanish differed from theirs, they said we must be from castile, or, at the most, from portugal. at all events we were strangers to santiago, and they merrily vied with one another in showing us about and giving us much graphic information not to be found in guide-books. much of their lore appears to be of their own invention. the superb _puerta de la gloria_, wrought by a then famous architect sent from the king of leon, but known to us to-day only as master mateo, was the fruit of twenty years' labor. this triple porch, which runs across the west end of the nave, being finally completed, master mateo seems to have symbolized the dedication of his service to the apostle in a kneeling statue of himself, facing the east, with back to the richly sculptured pillar of the chief portal. the head of this figure is worn almost as round and expressionless as a stone ball by the caresses of generations of childish hands. the little girls whom we watched that morning as they patted and smoothed the much-enduring pate told us, kissing the marble eyes, that this was a statue of st. lucia, which it certainly is not. in another moment these restless midgets were assaulting, with fluent phrases of insult, the carven faces of certain fantastic images which form the bases of the clustered columns. the children derisively thrust their feet down the yawning throats, kicked the grotesque ears and noses, and in general so maltreated their gothic victims that we were moved to remonstrate. "but why should you abuse them? what are these creatures, to be punished so?" "_they are jews_," hissed our little christians with an emphasis that threw new light on the dreyfus _affaire_. but an instant more, and these vivacious, capricious bits of spanish womanhood were all absorbed in aiding a blind old peasant who had groped her way to the sacred portico for its especial privilege of prayer. the central shaft, dividing into two the chief of the three doorways, represents the tree of jesse, the patriarchal figures half-enveloped in exquisitely sculptured foliage. the chiselled capital shows the trinity, dove and son and father, with adoring angels. above sits a benignant st. james, whose throne is guarded by lions, and over all, in the central tympanum of the sublime doorway, is a colossal figure of our lord, uplifting his wounded hands. about him are grouped the four evangelists, radiant with eternal youth, and eight angels bearing the instruments of the passion, the pillar of the scourging, whips, the crown of thorns, the nails, the scroll, the sponge, the spear, the cross. other angels burn incense before him, and the archivolt above is wrought with an ecstatic multitude of elders, martyrs, and saints, so vivid after all these centuries that one can almost hear the blithe music of their harps. it is the christ of paradise, enthroned amid the blest, to whom his presence gives fulness of joy forevermore. above the lesser doors on either side are figured purgatory and hell. the fresh and glowing beauty, so piquant and yet so spiritual, the truly celestial charm of this marvellous portico which street did not fear to call "one of the greatest glories of christian art," was never, during this festal week, without its throng of reverent beholders, the most waiting their turn, like our old blind peasant, to fit thumb and finger into certain curious little hollows on the central shaft, and thus offer prayer which was sure of answer. minute after minute for unbroken hours, the hands succeeded one another there,--old, knotted, toilworn hands, the small, brown hands of children, jewelled hands of delicate ladies, and often, as now, the groping hand of blindness, with childish fingers helping it to find those mystical depressions in the agate. some of the bystanders told us that st. james had descended from his seat above the capital, and laid his hand against the column, leaving these traces, but more would have it that the christ himself had come down by night from the great tympanum to place his wounded hand upon the shaft. street records that he observed several such petitioners, after removing the hand, spit into the mouths of the winged dragons that serve as base to the pillar; but that literally dare-devil form of amen must now have gone out of fashion, for we did not see it once. [illustration: the trampler of the moors] toward noon we strolled out into the grand _plaza_ before the west façade and found it a multitudinous jam of expectant merrymakers. even nuns were peeping down from a leaf-veiled balcony. we seemed to have been precipitated out of the middle ages into an exaggerated fourth of july. all the city bells were pealing, rockets and roman candles were sputtering, and grotesque fire-balloons, let off from a parapet of the cathedral, flourished bandy legs and "sagasta noses" in the resigned old faces of the carven images. and then, amid the acclamations of all the small boys in the square, sallied forth the santiago giants. these wickerwork monsters, eight all told, are supposed to represent worshippers from foreign lands. they go by couples, two being conventional pilgrims with "cockle-shell and sandal shoon"; two apparently moors, with black complexions, feather crowns, and much barbaric finery; two nondescripts, possibly the french of feudal date; and two, the leaders and prime favorites, regular punch caricatures of modern english tourists. john bull is a stout old gentleman with gray side-whiskers, a vast expanse of broadcloth back, and a single eye-glass secured by a lavender ribbon. the british matron, in a smart dolly varden frock, glares with a shocked expression from under flaxen puffs and an ostrich-feathered hat. the popular attitude of mind toward these absurdities is past all finding out. not the children alone, but the entire assemblage greeted them with affectionate hilarity. the giants, propelled by men who walked inside them and grinned out on the world from a slit in the enormous waistbands, trundled about the square, followed by the antics of a rival group of dwarfs from the city hall, and then made the round of the principal streets, executing clumsy gambols before the public buildings. on the morning after, july twenty-fifth, the great day of the feast, anniversary of the apostle's martyrdom, these same overgrown dolls played a prominent part in the solemn cathedral service. the chapter passed in stately progress to the archbishop's palace to fetch his eminence, and later to the ancient portals where the silver-workers once displayed their wares, to greet the royal delegate. at their head strutted this absurd array of giants. the high mass was superb with orchestral music and the most sumptuous robes of the vestiary. the "king of censers," the splendid _botafumeiro_ of fourteenth-century date, made so large, six feet high, with the view of purifying the cathedral air vitiated by the hordes of pilgrims who were wont to pass the night sleeping and praying on the holy pavements, flashed its majestic curves, a mighty fire bird, from roof to floor and from transept to transept. it is swung from the ceiling by an ingenious iron mechanism, and the leaping, roaring flames, as the huge censer sweeps with ever augmenting speed from vault to vault, tracing its path by a chain of perfumed wreaths, make the spectacle uniquely beautiful. knights of santiago, their white raiment marked by crimson sword and dagger, received from the royal delegate "a thousand crowns of gold," the annual state donation, instituted by rameiro, to the patron saint. the delegate, kneeling before the image of santiago, prayed fervently that the apostle would accept this offering of the regent, a queen no less devout than the famous mother of san fernando, and would raise up alfonso xiii to be another fernando, winning back for spain her ocean isles which the heretics had wrested away, even as fernando restored to compostela the cathedral doors and bell which the infidel moors had stolen. his eminence, who is said to have accumulated a fortune during his previous archbishopric in cuba, in turn besought st. james to protect catholic spain against "those who invoke no right save brute force, and adore no deity except the golden calf." in most magnificent procession the silver casket was borne around the nave among the kneeling multitudes. and then, to crown these august ceremonies, forth trotted our friends, the giants, into the open space before the _capilla mayor_. here the six subordinate boobies paused, grouping themselves in a ludicrous semicircle, while pompous john bull and his ever scandalized british matron went up into the holy of holies and danced, to the music of guitars and tambourines, in front of the high altar. every day of that festal week the cathedral services were attended by devout throngs, yet there was something blithe and social, well-nigh domestic, in the atmosphere of the scene even at the most impressive moments. kneeling groups of peasant women caught the sunshine on their orange kerchiefs and scarlet-broidered shawls. here a praying father would gather his little boy, sobbing with weariness, up against his breast; there a tired pilgrim woman slumbered in a corner, her broad hat with its cockle-shells lying on her knees. rows of kneeling figures waited at the wooden confessionals which were thick set along both aisles and ambulatory. several times we saw a priest asleep in the confessional, those who would pour out their hearts to him kneeling on in humble patience, not venturing to arouse the holy father. young officers, leaning against the pillars, smiled upon a school of spanish girls, who, guarded by veiled nuns, knelt far along the transept. pilgrims, standing outside the door to gather alms, vied with one another in stories of their travels and the marvels they had seen. but at night, walking in the illuminated _alameda_, where thousands of japanese lanterns and colored cups of flame made a fantastic fairyland, or dancing their country dances, singing their country songs, practising their country sports, and gazing with tireless delight at the fireworks in the spacious _plaza de alfonso doce_, the worshippers gave themselves up to frankest merriment. through the days, indeed, there was never any lack of noisy jollity. from dawn to dawn again cannon were booming, drums beating, bagpipes skirling, tambourines clattering, songs and cries resounding through the streets. four patients in the hospital died the year before, we were told, from the direct effects of this continuous uproar. but the thunder height of the _fiesta_ is attained toward midnight on the twenty-fourth, the "eve of santiago," when rockets and fire-balloons are supplemented by such elaborate devices as the burning of "capricious trees" and the destruction of a moorish façade built for the occasion out from the west front of the cathedral. at the first ignition of the powder there come such terrific crashes and reverberating detonations, such leaps and bursts of flame, that the peasant host sways back and the children scream. an arabic doorway with ornate columns, flanked on either side by a wall of many arches and surmounted by a blood-red cross, dazzles out into overwhelming brilliancy, all in greens and purples, a glowing, scintillating, ever changing vision. soon it is lustrous white and then, in perishing, sends up a swift succession of giant rockets. the façade itself is a very alhambra of fret and arabesque. this, too, with thunder bursts reveals itself as a flame-colored, sky-colored, sea-colored miracle, which pales to gleaming silver and, while we read above it the resplendent words "the patron of spain," is blown to atoms as a symbol of santiago's victory over the moors. this makes an ideal spanish holiday, but the cost, borne by the city, is heavy, there is distinct and increasing injury to the cathedral fabric, and all this jubilee for archaic victories over the moslem seems to be mocked by the hard facts of to-day. the santiago festivities, of which the half has not been told, closed on thursday afternoon, july twenty-seventh, with a procession through the streets. we waited a weary while for it before the doors where the old jet-workers used to set their booths, amusing ourselves meantime by watching the house maids drawing water from the fountain in the square below. these sturdy galicians were armed with long tin tubes which they dextrously applied to the spouting mouths of the fountain griffins, so directing the stream into the straight, iron-bound pails. not far away the market women covered the flags with red and golden fruit. a saucy beggar-wench, with the blackest eyes in spain, demanded alms, and when we had yielded up the usual toll of coppers, loudly prayed to santiago to pardon us for not having given her more on this his holy festival. at last out sallied the band, followed by those inevitable giants, and amid mad ringing of bells and fizzing of invisible rockets, forth from the venerable portals issued standards, crosses, tapers, priests in white and gold, and platformed effigies of pilgrims, saints, and deities. then came bishops, cardinals, and archbishop, ranks of military bearing tapers, the alcalde and his associates in the city government with antique escort of bedizened mace-bearers, a sparkling statue of st. james on horseback busily beheading his legions of moors, a bodyguard of all the pilgrims in attendance on his saintship, and finally the _virgen del pilar_, at whose passing all the concourse fell upon their knees. churches in the line of march had their own images decked and ready, waiting in the colonnaded porches to fall into the procession. the market women and the maids at the fountain threw kisses to the christ child, leaning in blue silk frock and white lace tucker against a cross of roses, but the boys waved their caps for st. michael, debonair that he was with blowing crimson robe, real feather wings fluttering in the breeze, and his gold foot set on the greenest of dragons. the procession came home by way of the great west doors, opened only this once in the round year. the setting sun, bringing out all the carven beauty of that dark gray façade, glittered on the golden balls and crosses that tip the noble towers, and on the golden staff of st. james and the golden quill of st. john, where the two sons of thunder stand colossal in their lofty niches. a baby, in yellow kerchief and cherry skirt, toddling alone across the centre of the square, pointed with adoring little hand at the mounted image of santiago, which halted at the foot of the grand stairway, his lifted sword a line of golden light, while the deep-voiced choir chanted his old triumphal hymn. john bull and the british matron, stationing themselves on either side as a guard of honor, stared at him with insular contempt. as the chant ceased, st. james chivalrously made way for the _virgen del pilar_, a slender figure of pure gold poised on an azure tabernacle, to mount the steps before him. the bells pealed out to welcome her as she neared the portals, and an ear-splitting explosion of a monster rocket, with a tempest-rain of sparks, announced the instant of her entrance beneath the chiselled arch. behind her went the penitents, arduously climbing the long stone flights of that quadruple stairway upon their knees. these, too, were but shadows of those mediæval penitents who of old staggered after this procession, bowed under the weight of crosses, or scourging themselves until they fainted in their own trail of blood. yet it is still strange and touching to see, long after the inner spaces of the cathedral are dim with evening, those kneeling figures making their painful progress about aisles and ambulatory, sobbing as they go, and falling forward on their faces to kiss the pavement that is bruising them. [illustration: santiago cathedral] xxvii vigo and away hasta la vista! our plan for the summer included a return trip across spain, _via_ valladolid, salamanca, and saragossa to barcelona and the balearic isles; but the bad food and worse lodging of galicia, the blazing heat and the incessant, exhausting warfare against vermin, had begun to tell. that spanish fever with which so many foreigners make too intimate acquaintance was at our doors, and we found ourselves forced at last to sacrifice enthusiasm to hygiene. the most eccentric train which it was ever my fortune to encounter shunted and switched us across country to vigo in about the time it would have taken to make the journey donkeyback. here we tarried for a week or so, gathering strength from the atlantic breezes, and when, one sunny august day, a stately steamboat called for an hour at vigo harbor on her way from buenos ayres to southampton, we went up over the side. our shock of astonishment at the cleanliness around us could not, however, divert our attention long from the receding shores of spain, toward which one of us, at least, still felt a stubborn longing. they lay bright in the midday sunshine, those green uplands of galicia, mysterious with that patient peasant life of which we had caught fleeting, baffling glimpses. still we seemed to see the brown-legged women washing in the brook and spreading their coarse-spun, gay-bordered garments on the heather; children, with the faces of little pats and little biddies, tugging a bleating sheep across the stepping-stones, or boosting an indignant goat over the wall; lean pigs poking their noses out of the low, stone doorways, where babies slept on wisps of hay; girls in cream-colored kerchiefs, starred with gold, bearing loads of fragrant brush or corded fagots on their heads. as the evening should come on, and the sea-breeze stir the tassels of the maize, we knew how the fields would be dotted with impromptu groups of dancers, leaping higher and higher and waving their arms in ever wilder merriment,--a scene pastoral down to the pigs, and poetic up to those gushes of song that delight the listener. "i went to the meadow day after day, to gather the blossoms of april and may, and there was mercedes, always there, sweetest white lily that breathes the air." "north-wind, north-wind, strong as wine! blow thou, north-wind, comrade mine!" "the virgin is spreading handkerchiefs on the rosemary to dry. the little birds are singing, and the brook is running by. "the virgin washes handkerchiefs, and spreads them in the sun, but st. joseph, out of mischief, has stolen every one." it was only now and then that we had realized a touch of genuine fellowship with these galician peasants. i remember a little thirteenth-century church, gray crosses topping its low gray towers, one of which was broken off as if a giant hand had snapped it. in the porch a white-headed woman, in a gold-edged blue kerchief and poppy-red skirt, was holding a dame-school. it took her all the morning session, she told us, to get the fifty faces washed, but in the afternoon the children learned to read and knit and play the choral games. she had ten cents a month for every child, when the parents were able to pay. from a convenient hollow in a pillar of arabic tradition she proudly drew her library,--a shabby primer and a few loose leaves of a book of devotion. as we talked, the midgets grew so restless and inquisitive that she shook her long rod at them with a mighty show of fierceness, and shooed them out of the porch like so many chickens. then she went on eagerly with the story of her life, telling how she was married at fifteen, how her husband went "to serve the king" in the second carlist war, and never came back, and how her only daughter had borne nine children, of whom eight died in babyhood, "_angelitos al cielo_," having known on earth "only the day and the night." the last and youngest had been very ill with the fever, and the afflicted grandmother had promised that noble roman maiden, the martyr saint of the little gray church, to go around the edifice seven times upon her knees, if only the child might live. the vow had been heard, as the presence of a thin-faced, wistful tot by the old woman's side attested, but so far only three of the seven circuits had been made. "it tires the knees much." but even with the words she knelt again, kissing the sacred threshold, and began the painful, heavy, shuffling journey around the church, while the baby, with wondering gray eyes, trotted beside her, clinging to the wrinkled hand. when at last, with puffs and groanings, the old dame had reached the carven doorway again, she rose wearily, rubbing her knees. "a sweet saint!" she said, "but _ay de mi!_ such gravel!" we ought, of course, to have been impressed in galicia with its debasing ignorance and superstition, and so, to a certain extent, we were. we went to see a _romeria_, a pilgrimage to a hilltop shrine, on one of our last afternoons in vigo, and found a double line of dirty, impudent beggars, stripped half naked, and displaying every sort of hideous deformity,--a line that reached all the way from the carriage-road up the rugged ascent to the crest. we had to run the gantlet, and it was like traversing a demoniac sculpture-gallery made up of human mockeries. we had to push our way, moreover, through scene after scene of vulgar barter in things divine, and when at last the summit was achieved, the shrine of the virgin seemed robbed of its glory by the ugliness, vice, and misery it overlooked. spain is mediæval, and the modern age can teach her much. but with all her physical foulness and mental folly, there still dwells in her that mediæval grace for which happier countries may be searched in vain. yet spain is far from unhappy. it is beautiful to see out of what scant allowance of that which we call well-being, may be evolved wisdom and joy, poetry and religion. wearied as we two bookish travellers were with lectures and libraries, we rejoiced in this wild galician lore that lives on the lips of the people. the written spanish literature, like other spanish arts, is of the richest, nor are its laurels limited to the dates of cervantes and calderon. the modern spanish novel, for instance, as mr. howells so generously insists, all but leads the line. but spain herself is poetry. what does one want of books in presence of her storied, haunted vistas,--warrior-trod asturian crags, opalescent reaches of castilian plain, orange-scented gardens of andalusia? a circle of cultivated spaniards is one of the most charming groups on earth, but spaniards altogether innocent of formal education may be walking anthologies of old ballads, spicy quatrains, riddles, proverbs, fables, epigrams. the peasant quotes "don quixote" without knowing it; the donkey-boy is as lyric as romeo; the devout shepherd tells a legend of the madonna that is half the dream of his own lonely days among the hills. where spanish life is most stripped of material prosperity, it seems most to abound in suggestions of romance. this despised galicia, the province of simpletons, is literary in its own way. the hovel has no bookshelf, but the children's ears drink in the grandmother's croon:-- "on a morning of st. john fell a sailor into the sea. 'what wilt thou give me, sailor, sailor, if i rescue thee?' "'i will give thee all my ships, all my silver, every gem, all my gold,--yea, wife and daughters, i will give thee them.' "'what care i for masted ships, what care i for gold or gem? keep thy wife and keep thy daughters, what care i for them? "'on the morning of st. john thou art drowning in the sea. promise me thy soul at dying, and i'll rescue thee.' "'i commend the sea to god, and my body to the sea, and my soul, sweet mother mary, i commit to thee.'" and well it was for this bold mariner that he did not take up the devil's offer, for everybody knows that those who have signed away their souls to the devil turn black in the moment of dying, and are borne, black and horrible, to the sepulchre. in this northwestern corner of spain are many mountain-songs as well as sea-songs. one of the sweetest tells how the blue-robed virgin met a young shepherdess upon the hills and was so pleased with the maiden's courtesy that she straightway bore her thence to paradise, not forgetting, this tender mary of bethlehem, to lead the flock safely back to the sheepfold. the love of the galician peasantry for "our lady" blends childlike familiarity with impassioned devotion. "as i was telling my beads, while the dawn was red, the virgin came to greet me with her arms outspread." her rank in their affections is well suggested by another of the popular _coplas_. "in the porch of bethlehem, sun, moon, and star, the virgin, st. joseph, and the christ child are." with their saints these spanish peasants seem almost on a household footing, not afraid of a jest because so sure of the love that underlies it. "st. john and mary magdalen played hide and seek, the pair, till st. john threw a shoe at her, because she didn't play fair." yet there is no lack of fear in this rustic religion. there is many a "shalt not" in the galician decalogue. one must not try to count the stars, lest he come to have as many wrinkles as the number of stars he has counted. never rock an empty cradle, for the next baby who sleeps in it will die. so often as you name the devil in life, so often will he appear to you in the hour of death. if you hear another name him, call quickly, before the devil has time to arrive, "jesus is here." it is ill to dance alone, casting your shadow on the wall, because that is dancing with the devil. but the prince of darkness is not the only supernatural being whom galicians dread. there is a bleating demon who makes fun of them, cloudy giants who stir up thunderstorms, and are afraid only of st. barbara, witches who cast the evil eye, but most of all the "souls in pain." for oftentimes the dead come back to earth for their purgatorial penance. you must never slam a door, nor close a window roughly, nor kick the smallest pebble from your path, because in door or stone or window may be a suffering soul. to see one is to die within the year. if you would not be haunted by your dead, kiss the shoes which the body wears to the burial. it is well to go early to bed, for at midnight all manner of evil beings prowl up and down the streets. who has not heard of that unlucky woman, who, after spinning late and long, stepped to the window for a breath of air exactly at twelve o'clock? far off across the open country she saw a strange procession of shining candles drawing nearer and nearer, although there were no hands to hold them and no sound of holy song. straight toward her house came those uncanny lights, moving silently through the meadow mists, and halted beneath her window. then the foremost one of all begged her to take it in and keep it carefully until the midnight following. scarcely knowing what she did, she closed her fingers on the cold wax and, blowing out the flame, laid away the taper in a trunk, but when, at daybreak, after a sleepless night, she raised the lid, before her lay a corpse. aghast, she fled to the priest, who lent her all the relics of the sacristy; but their united power only just availed to save her from the fury of the spirits when they returned at midnight to claim the taper, expecting, moreover, to seize upon the woman and "turn her to fire and ashes." sometimes a poor soul is permitted to condense the slow ages of purgatory into one hour of uttermost torment. galicians tell how a young priest brought his serving-maid to sorrow and how, to escape the latter burning, she shut herself, one day when the priest was engaged in the ceremonial of high mass, into the red-hot oven. on his return, he called her name and sought her high and low, and when, at last, he opened the oven door, out flew a white dove that soared, a purified and pardoned soul, into the blue of heaven. the science of this simple folk is not divorced from poetry and religion. the rainbow drinks, they say, in the sea and in the rivers. the milky way, the road to santiago, is trodden every night by pale, dim multitudes who failed to make that blessed pilgrimage, from which no one of us will be excused, in time of life. when the dust stirs in an empty house, good st. ana is sweeping there. when babies look upward and laugh, they see the cherubs at play. tuesday is the unlucky day in spain, whereas children born on friday receive the gift of second-sight, and those who enter the world on good friday are marked by a cross in the roof of the mouth and have the holy touch that cures diseases. it is a fortunate house beneath whose eaves the swallow builds, "for swallows on mount calvary plucked tenderly away from the brows of christ two thousand thorns, such gracious birds are they." [illustration: st. james] the galicians, butt of all spain for their dulness, are shrewd enough in fact. it is said that those arrant knaves, the gypsies, dare not pass through galicia for fear of being cheated. like other unlettered peasants, gallegos whet their wits on rhyming riddles. "who is the little pigeon, black and white together, that speaks so well without a tongue and flies without a feather?" "a tree with twelve boughs and four nests on a bough, in each nest seven birdlings,--unriddle me now." in many of their proverbial sayings one gets the spanish tang at its best. "a well-filled stomach praises god." "why to castile for your fortune go? a man's castile is under his hoe." and i fear if my comrade were to speak, in spanish phrase, of our return to galicia, she would bid st. james expect us "on judgment day in the afternoon." works by alice morse earle child life in colonial days _profusely illustrated_ crown vo. cloth. gilt top. $ . commercial advertiser: "once more mrs. earle has drawn on her apparently inexhaustible store of colonial lore, and has produced another interesting book of the olden days.... mrs. earle's interesting style, the accuracy of her statements, and the attractive illustrations she always supplies for her books make the volume one to be highly prized." buffalo express: "mrs. alice morse earle performs a real historical service, and writes an interesting book. it is not a compilation from, or condensation of, previous books, but the fruit of personal and original investigation into the conditions of life in the american colonies." home life in colonial days education: "mrs. earle has made a very careful study of the details of domestic life from the earliest days of the settlement of the country. the book is sumptuously illustrated, and every famed article, such as the spinning-wheel, the foot-stone, the brass knocker on the door, and the old-time cider mill, is here presented to the eye, and faithfully pictured in words. the volume is a fascinating one, and the vast army of admirers and students of the olden days will be grateful to the author for gathering together and putting into permanent form so much accurate information concerning the homes of our ancestors." literature: "mrs. earle's fidelity in study and her patient research are evident on every page of this charming book, and her pleasantly colloquial style is frequently assisted by very beautiful illustrations, both of the houses of the colonists, from the primitive cave dug out of the hillside and made to answer for warmth and shelter, to the more comfortable log cabin, the farmstead with its adjacent buildings, and the stately mansion abiding to our own day." the macmillan company fifth avenue new york among english hedgerows by clifton johnson _with an introduction by hamilton w. mabie_ illustrated. cr. vo. cloth extra. gilt top. $ . "'among english hedgerows' is one of the most beautiful of illustrated books, containing, as it does, a great number of half-tone reproductions of mr. johnson's admirable photographs. "the author, as far as possible, lived the life of the people who figure in these pages, and we have delightful accounts of village characters, and glimpses of quaint old english homes. "hamilton w. mabie, who furnishes the introduction, well summarizes mr. johnson's merits as 'a friendly eye, a hearty sympathy, and a very intelligent camera, and that love of his field and of his subject which is the prime characteristic of the successful painter of rural life and country folk.'"--_illustrated buffalo express._ along french byways by clifton johnson illustrated. cr. vo. cloth extra. gilt top. $ . "a book of leisurely strolling through one of the most picturesque countries of europe, enlivened with description and anecdote, and profusely illustrated.... mr. johnson is not only a delightful writer, but is one of the best landscape photographers of whom we have knowledge."--_boston transcript._ "this book shares the merits of mr. johnson's 'among english hedgerows': simplicity of theme and treatment, sympathy and love of nature."--_the mail and express._ "a book of strolling, a book of nature, a book of humble peasant life intermingled with the chance experiences of the narrator."--_the worcester spy._ the macmillan company fifth avenue, new york etext transcriber's note: the footnotes have been located after the etext. corrections of some obvious typographical errors have been made (a list follows the etext); the spellings of several words currently spelled in a different manner have been left un-touched. (i.e. chesnut/chestnut; sanatory/sanitary; every thing/everything; hords/hoards; visiters/visitors; her's/her;s negociation/negotiation.) the accentuation of words in spanish has not been corrected or normalized. [illustration: _on stone by t. j. rawlins from a sketch by capt c. r. scott._ _r. martin lithog., , long acre._ the generalife, palace and valley of the darro. from a window in the alhambra. _published by henry colburn, , g.t marlborough st._] excursions in the mountains of ronda and granada, with characteristic sketches of the inhabitants of the south of spain. by captain c. rochfort scott, author of "travels in egypt and candia." "_aqui hermano sancho, podemos meter las manos_ _hasta los codos, en esto que llaman aventuras._" don quijote. in two volumes. vol. i. london: henry colburn, publisher, great marlborough street.-- . london: f. shoberl, jun. , rupert street, haymarket. dedication. to the valued friends who witnessed, and whom a congeniality of taste led to _enjoy_ with me, the scenes herein described--whose wearied limbs have sought repose upon the same hard floor--whose spoons have been dipped in the same _gazpacho_, i dedicate these pages. in the course of our perigrinations we have often observed to each other, "hæc olim meminisse juvabit." c. rochfort scott. woolwich, th october. contents of the first volume. prefatory chapter. containing little more than an invocation--a dissertation--a choice of miseries--a bill of fare--and a receipt for making a favourite spanish dish..... chapter i. gibraltar--forbidden ground--derivation of the name--curious provisions of the treaty of utrecht--extraction of saints without a miracle--demoniacal possessions--beauty of the scenery--agremens of the garrison--its importance to great britain, but impolicy of making it a free port to all nations--lamentable changes--sketch of the character of the mountaineers of ronda--english quixotism--political opinions of the different classes in spain..... chapter ii. san roque--singular title of "the city authorities"--situation--climate--the late sir george don, lieutenant governor of gibraltar--anecdote illustrative of the character of the spanish government--society of spain--the tertulia--the various circles of spanish society tested by smoking--erroneous notions of english liberty and religion--startling lental ceremonies..... chapter iii. country in the vicinity of san roque--ruins of the ancient city of carteia--field of battle of alphonso the eleventh--journey to ronda--forest of almoraima--mouth of the lions--fine scenery--town of gaucin--a spanish inn--old castle at gaucin--interior of an andalusian posada--spanish humour--mountain wine..... chapter iv. journey to ronda continued--a word on the passport and bill of health nuisances, and spanish custom-house officers--romantic scenery--splendid view--benadalid--atajate--first view of the vale of ronda--a dissertation on adventures, to make up for their absence--ludicrous instance of the effects of putting the cart before the horse..... chapter v. the basin of ronda--sources of the river guadiara--remarkable chasm through which it flows--city of ronda--date of its foundation--former names--general description--castle--bridges--splendid scenery--public buildings--amphitheatre--population--trade--smuggling--wretched state of the commerce, manufactures, and internal communications of spain, and evils and inconvenience resulting therefrom--rare productions of the basin of ronda--amenity of its climate--agremens of the city--excellent society--character of its inhabitants..... chapter vi. ronda fair--spanish peasantry--various costumes--jockeys and horses--lovely view from the new alameda--bull fights--defence of the spanish ladies--manner of driving the bulls into the town--first entrance of the bull--the frightened waterseller--the mina, or excavated staircase--ruins of acinippo--the cueva del gato--the bridge of the fairy..... chapter vii. legend of the fairy's bridge..... chapter viii. departure for malaga--scenery on and dangers of the road to el burgo--fine view from casarabonela--an independent innkeeper--a spanish battle, attended with more decisive results than usual--description of casarabonela--comeliness of its washing nymphs--road to malaga--river guadaljorce--sigila of the romans--cartama..... chapter ix. unprepossessing appearance of malaga--dread of yellow fever--the alameda--derivation of the city's name, and sketch of its history--the gibralfaro and alcazaba--cathedral--cigar manufactory--calculation of the supply and consumption of cigars in spain--malaga figures--population--trade--wine harbour--society--visit to el retiro--the fandango and cachuca..... chapter x. choice of routes between malaga and granada--road to velez--malaga--observations on that town--continuation of journey to granada--fertile valley of the river velez--venta of alcaucin--zafaraya mountains--alhama--description of that place and of its thermal baths--cacin--venta of huelma--salt-pans of la mala--first view of granada and its vega--situation of the city--its salubrity--ancient names--becomes the capital of the last moslem kingdom of spain--fine approach to the modern city--it is the most purely moorish town in spain--cause of the decadence of the arts under the moors of granada, and of the easy conquest of the city--destruction of the moorish literature on the capture of the city by the spaniards..... chapter xi. the alhambra and generalife--other reliques of the moors contained within the city--the cathedral of granada--chapel of the catholic kings--antiquity of the church of eliberi--tomb of gonzalvo de cordoba--churches of san juan de dios and san domingo--carthusian convent--hermita de san anton..... chapter xii. granada continued--the zacatin--market place--bazaar--population--the granadinos-their predilection for the french costume--love of masked balls--madame martinez de la rosa's tertulia--an english country dance metamorphosed--specimen of spanish taste in fitting up country houses--the marques de montijo--anecdote of the late king and the conde de teba--constitutional enthusiasm of granada--ends in smoke--military schools--observations on the spanish army--departure for cordoba--pinos de la puente--puerto de lope--moclin--alcala la real--spanish peasants--manner of computing distance--baena--not the roman town of ulia--castro el rio--occupied by a cavalry regiment--valuable friend--curiosity of the spanish officers--ditto of our new acquaintance--influence of "sherris sack"--he relates his history--continuation of our journey to cordoba--first view of that city..... chapter xiii. blas el guerrillero.--a bandit's story..... chapter xiv. blas el guerrillero--_continued_..... chapter xv. blas el guerrillero--_continued_..... chapter xvi. blas el guerrillero--_continued_..... chapter xvii. cordoba--bridge over the guadalquivir--mills--quay--spanish projects--foundation of the city--establishment of the western caliphat--capture of cordoba by san fernando--the mezquita--bishop's palace--market place--grand religious procession--anecdote of the late bishop of malaga and the tragala..... appendix..... illustrations. vol. . the generalife, palace, and valley of the darro. from a window in the alhambra _frontispiece._ vol. ii. the castle of ximena, and distant view of gibraltar _frontispiece._ errata. volume i. (corrected by the etext transcriber. on page , line emboyó [not emboyo] was changed to embozó) page , line , for _far more_, read _few_. page , line , for _lightly_, read _slightly_. page , line , for _aguagils_, read _aguazils_. page , line , for _higa_, read _hija_. page , line , for _nuevos_, read _huevos_. page , line , for _cachuca_, read _cachucha_. page , line , for _higo_, read _hijo_. page , line , for _valga mi_, read _valgame_. page , line , for _emboyo_, read _embozo_. volume ii. page , line , for _surveyors_, read _purveyors_. page , line , for _suda_, read _sua_. page , line , for _provechosos_, read _provechosas_. page , line , for _hagged_, read _haggard_. excursions in the mountains of ronda and granada. prefatory chapter. containing little more than an invocation--a dissertation--a choice of miseries--a bill of fare--and a receipt for making a favourite spanish dish. spain! region of romance! of snow-capped mountains, dark forests, and crystal streams!--land of the olive and the vine--the perfumed orange and bright pomegranate!--country of portly priests, fierce bandits, and dark-eyed donzellas--the lively castañet and gay fandango! and thou, fair boetica! favoured province of a favoured clime, whose purple grape tempted hercules to arrest his course--whose waving corn-fields and embowelled treasures have ever since excited the cupidity of the various ambitious nations that have in turn disputed the empire of the world! is it indeed true that ye are "now chiefly interesting to the traveller for the monuments which a foreign and odious race of conquerors have left behind them?"[ ] yes, you might proudly answer, we admit such is the case. spain is chiefly interesting to the stranger on account of the monuments left by her turbaned conquerors; but she is so simply, because, in no other country, are they to be seen in so perfect a state; because, in no other part of the world subjected to moslem sway, did the arts ever reach to such perfection. but, whilst spain lays especial claim to the attention of the stranger on account of the relics of the moors that are strewed over her surface, she possesses, in common with other countries of southern europe, the usual attractions that excite the interest of travellers. can she not boast of owning monuments of the demi-god hercules,[ ] and other conquerors of the most remote antiquity? are not her shores studded with ruins of the phoenicians, carthagenians, and romans? has she not noble works of art of yet more recent times than her moorish palaces to boast of? may she not proudly point to the splendid gothic edifices raised since her release from the mussulman yoke? to the incomparable paintings of the divine murillo? to the statuary of a cano? is not the spanish peninsula one of the most beautiful as well as richest countries in the world? such is the answer that spain and her beauteous daughter, boetica, might make to the accusation which the words of the accomplished author i have quoted may be construed to bear. i will venture to add further, that spain, in her present fallen state, excites, perhaps, yet more intensely, the curiosity and interest of the traveller, than she could have done even in the days of her greatest glory: for, the contemplation of the wreck of such an empire--an empire "on whose wide dominions the sun never set;" whose resources were deemed inexhaustible--cannot but be highly interesting and instructive. at every step the stranger takes whilst wandering over spain's neglected though still fertile plains, some trace is observable of her former wealth and power, some proof is manifest of her present poverty and impotence. let him cast a glance at the ruins of the magnificent arsenals of cadiz, vigo, and barcelona[ ]--let him mark the closed door of the tower of gold,[ ] at seville--let him observe the use to which the sumptuous _lonja_[ ] has been converted--the dilapidated condition of the gorgeous palace of charles the fifth. let him notice the crumbling state of all the public buildings throughout the kingdom, even to the actual residences of its monarch--track the remains of once magnificent roads--explore the deep recesses of abandoned mines. let him, in fine, observe the commerce of the country destroyed, its manufactures ruined, its army disorganized, and its treasury penniless; and, whilst he learns what spain _has been_, he will see to what a lamentable state she is reduced. nor to the traveller alone is the contemplation of spain, in her fallen greatness, a source of interest and instruction. the philosopher, the statesman, the philanthropist, and the _patriot_, may all draw from it serious matter for reflection. who amongst them could have foreseen, but half a century back, that spain would, in the course of a few years, be reduced to her present abject condition? who can _now_ foresee the day that, phoenix-like, she may arise from her ashes? who can fully answer the yet more simple questions--what _led_ to the downfall of spain? what keeps her--gifted as she is by nature with all the germs of prosperity--in her present state of degradation? did the extraordinary influx of the precious ores, consequent on the discovery of america, occasion her gradual downfall? did the impolitic expulsion of the jews and moors from her territory lead to it? does the blighting influence of popery reply to the two-fold query? does the vacillating rule of despotism solve the problem? all, probably, have had a share in effecting this lamentable change. the great influx of money led to the neglect of the resources of spain herself, and induced habits of indolence in all classes of society. the expulsion of the jews deprived the country of its principal capitalists--that of the moors, of its most industrious inhabitants. the bigotry and intolerance of its church have kept its population in ignorance, whilst most other nations of europe have become enlightened. the numerous religious houses, endowed with the richest lands in the country, and swarming with unprofitable inmates, have preyed upon its resources. the rule of a weak and bigoted race of sovereigns--themselves governed in turn by profligate favourites and ambitious priests--has sapped the monarchy to its foundation; finally, the crude and hasty innovations of wild theorists are undermining its remaining strength, and preparing to effect its utter downfall. but, whilst many of these causes still operate most fatally in keeping the country in its present state of degradation, the last named is that which is likely to inflict upon it the greatest amount of _misery_. catholicism--such as it is in spain at least--is incompatible with free institutions; and catholicism has too firm a hold of the _mass_ of the spanish people to be easily eradicated. _atheism_, it is true, has made great progress in some quarters; and between it and popery lies the contest now carrying on. many persons are apt to think that the struggle is between _superstition_ and "_liberal catholicism_"--between a despotism and a limited monarchy. but those who know spain intimately, are aware that such is far from being the case; they know, on the contrary, that the contest must end (_when_ it would be difficult to say) either in the restoration of an absolute throne, or the establishment of a democratic republic. the limited monarchy party--or _moderados_--though the most respectable in talents, consists but of a few educated nobles, and a small portion of the mercantile and learned professions--some few even of the clergy; but amongst the mass of the people it has no supporters whatever; for amongst the lower orders the term is not understood. the leaders of this party--like the _gironde_ in france--were carried away by the breakers of reform, as they swept onwards with increasing volume; and the unprincipled men who have since usurped the direction of affairs,--with all the vanity of a mirabeau, but without one spark of his talents,--imagine they shall be listened to, when they bid the flowing tide to advance no further:--but, though they would not object to, nay, though they _desire_, the establishment of a republic, yet they too will find spanish robespierres and talliens to dispute their power. to others, however, i abandon the wide field of inquiry these questions open; the following pages, whatever glimmerings of light they may throw upon the subject, being devoted to the description of but a small portion of this ill used, ill governed, but most interesting country. the part i have selected--namely, andalusia--whilst it differs very materially from the rest of the spanish peninsula, claims in many respects the first place in the estimation of the traveller, whatever may be his _taste_ or the direction of his inquiries. if the moorish monuments be the object of his research, he will find they have been scattered with a more profuse hand throughout andalusia than in any other part of the peninsula; the lofty mountain chain which forms the northern boundary of the province[ ] having for some considerable time arrested the christian arms, after the rest of spain had been recovered from the mohammedans; whilst the yet more rugged belt that encircles granada presented an obstacle which retarded the entire reconquest of the kingdom, for upwards of two centuries and a half. during that long period, therefore, the moslems, driven within the limits of so diminished a circle, were necessarily obliged to enlarge and multiply their towns, to cultivate with greater care their fields and orchards, and to strengthen, in every possible way, the natural defences of their territory; and thus, their remains, besides being more numerous _there_ than in other parts of spain, furnish specimens, of the latest as well as of the earliest date, of their peculiar style of architecture. should matters of more general interest have drawn the traveller to spain, he will still find andalusia laying especial claim to his attention; history ascribing to each mountain pass and every crumbling ruin the fame of having been the scene of some desperate conflict between the various ambitious nations that, before the saracenic invasion, successively sought the possession of this fertile region. the peculiar manners and character of its dark inhabitants afford yet another source of interest to the stranger; although the swarthy race may almost claim to be classed amongst its _arabic remains_; for so deep-rooted was the attachment of the moors of granada to the country of their adoption, that neither the oppressive tyranny of their masters, nor the sacrifice of their religion, nay, not even the establishment of the "_holy_" inquisition, (which extirpated them by thousands) could induce them to abandon it. broken in spirit, replunged in ignorance, their industry unavailing, their language corrupted, they bent the knee to the blood-stained cross presented to them, and assumed the name of spaniards: but as a spanish nobleman once observed to me in speaking of these wild mountaineers, his dependants, "they are to this day but moors who go to mass." again, should the beauties of nature have attracted the traveller's footsteps to spain, he will find the scenery of andalusia of the most magnificent and varied kind; presenting alternately ranges of lofty mountains and broad fertile plains--boundless tracts of forest and richly cultivated valleys--picturesque towns and mountain fortresses--winding rivers and impetuous torrents. it may indeed be said to combine the wild beauties of the tyrol with the luxuriant vegetation and delightful climate of southern italy. well might the last of the alhamares[ ] weep, on taking his final leave of the lovely vega,[ ] over which it had been his fortune to be born the ruler, whence it was his "luckless" fate to be driven forth, a wanderer! even to this day, the moors of barbary preserve the title-deeds and charters by which their ancestors held their estates in spain, and offer up daily prayers to _allah_, to restore to them their lost granada; and one might almost suppose, from the nomadic life still led by many of their tribes, and the unsettled habits which distinguish them all, that they consider their actual country as but a temporary abode, and live in the hope and expectation that their oft-repeated prayer will eventually be heard. nor is the present inhabitant of this fair region less sensible than his moorish ancestor of the value of his inheritance. it is not in his nature to express himself in the passionate language of the neapolitan,--whose well known exclamation, _vedi napoli e poi mori!_ might be applied with better reason to a hundred other places;--but, with an equal degree of hyperbole though a somewhat less suicidical feeling, the _granadino_ declares with calm dignity, that "_quien no ha visto à granada_ _no ha visto nada._"[ ] but, apart from all other considerations, there is a charm in travelling in spain, which renders it peculiarly attractive to most persons possessing the locomotive mania, namely, the charm of _novelty_. every thing in that country is different from what is met with in any other; every thing is proverbially _uncertain_;[ ] and the traveller is thus kept in a constant state of excitement, from his fancy being ever busy guessing what is to come next. there can be little doubt but that the uncertainty attendant on all mundane affairs greatly enhances our enjoyment of life. take the duration of our existence itself as an instance: did we know the precise moment at which it was to terminate, we should be miserable during the whole period of its continuance. so, in like manner, does the uncertainty attendant on such trifling matters as getting a bed or a supper give a peculiar zest to _touring_ in spain. you have there no "_itineraire des voyageurs_," to mark the spot to a _millimetre_, where a relay of post-horses is to be found; no "hand-book for travellers," with a list of the best inns on the road, to spoil your appetite by anticipation; no dear pains-taking mrs. starke,[ ] to beat up quarters and sights for you, and determine beforehand the sum you have (or rather ought) to pay for bed and "_pasto_." no--you travel with a bad map of the country in your pocket over a stony track that is _not_ marked upon it--and which you are at times disposed to believe is rather the bed of a torrent than a road. before you is the prospect of passing the night on this villanous king's highway; or, should you be fortunate enough to reach the shelter of a roof, the doubt, whether a comfortable bed, a truss of straw, or a hard floor, will receive your wearied limbs; and whether you will have to go supperless to bed, or find a savoury _olla_, perfuming the whole establishment. it must, i think, be admitted, that there is a certain charm in this independent mode of travelling--this precarious manner of existence. it carries the wanderer back to the days of chivalry and romance--of the _cid campeador_ and _bernardo del carpio_; dropping him at least half a dozen centuries behind the liverpool and manchester railroad. nevertheless,--as the spaniards say--_hay gustos que merecen palos_;[ ] and many will perchance think that _mine_ is in that predicament, a settled order of things being more to their fancy:--_par exemple_, the five mile an hour clattering _en poste_ over a french _pavé_--all conversation drowned in the horrible noise made by the heavy horses' heavy tramp, or the yet more abominable clacking of their monkey jacketed driver's whips.--then the certain comforts of a _grand hotel meublé_!--the spacious whitewashed room, adorned with prints of arcola, jena, and friedland! (which i have always thought would look much better if worked in the pattern of a carpet): the classically canopied bed!--that certainly would not be less comfortable, if a foot or two longer.--others again may be found who would give up the charm of uncertainty, for the fixed pleasure of sitting behind the pipes and "_sacraments_" of german postboys, listening to the discordant notes of their bugles, and looking forward to the sudorific enjoyments (stoves and duvets) of the _gasthof_, and the dyspeptic delights (grease and _sauerkraut_) of its _speisesaal_!--some even--but these i trust are few--may like to listen to the melodiously rounded oaths of an italian _vetturino_, addressed to his attenuated horses in all the purity of the _lingua toscana_; by dint of which, and an unceasing accompaniment of merciless _sferzatone_, he provokes the wretched animals into a jog-trot, that, with _rinfresco_ and _rinforzo_, kills the whole day and them by inches, to get over a distance of forty or fifty miles. for my own part, i freely confess, that not even our english modes of "getting over the ground" have such charms for me, as the tripping and stumbling of one's horse over a spanish _trocha_[ ]--i take no delight in being dragged through the country at the rate of a mile a minute, powdered with soot, (pardon the bull) suffocated with steam, and sickened with grease. neither does our steady ten mile an hour stage-coach travelling find much favour in mine eyes; though i grant it is now most admirably conducted, the _comforts_ of the old "slow coaches" being so happily blended with the accelerated _speed_ called for in this progressive age, that a change of horses is effected in less than one minute, and a feed of passengers in something under ten!--but i always pity the victims of this unwholesome alliance of comfort and celerity.--observe that fidgety old gentleman, muzzled in a red worsted _comforter_, and crowned with a welsh wig. having started without breakfast, or at most with but half of one, he counts impatiently the minutes and milestones that intervene between him and the dining-place; arrived there, if five minutes before the appointed time, every thing is underdone; if five minutes after, a deduction of equal amount is made in the time allowed for despatching the viands. swallowing, therefore, in all haste the indigestible roast pork and parboiled potatoes that are placed before him, he resumes his seat in or upon the vehicle, declaring--whilst the unwholesome food sticking in his throat nearly chokes him--that he "_feels all the better_" for his _dinner!_ soon after which, with a flushed face and quickened pulse, he drops into a feverish slumber, dreaming of mad bulls and carniverous swine, sloe juice and patent brandy. towards midnight, the announcement of "a quarter of an hour, gentlemen" (meaning something less than half that time), relieves him from these painful reminiscences, affording an opportunity of washing them down with some scalding liquid, which, though bearing the name of tea or coffee, is a decoction of some deleterious plant or berry, that certainly never basked under the sun of china or arabia felix. at last, however, he arrives at the end of his long journey--he has got over a distance of a hundred and ninety-five miles in nineteen hours and thirty-five minutes! the hour of arrival is inconveniently early it is true, but, even at o'clock a.m., he finds a comfortable hotel open to receive him; an officious "boots" sufficiently master of his drowsy senses to present the well or rather the ill-used slippers--a smirking chambermaid sufficiently _awake_ to make him believe that the _warming_-pan, with which she precedes him up three pair of stairs, contains _hot_ coals; and impudent enough, whilst presenting him with a damp, once white, cotton nightcap, to ask at what o'clock he would _like_ to be awakened--she well knowing, all the time, that the stir of passengers about to depart by an early coach will to a certainty effect that object for him in the course of an hour, whether he _likes_ it or not. these rapid proceedings have, as i before confessed, no charms for me, and such as cannot dispense with the comforts i have slightly sketched, must abstain from travelling in spain, for very different is the entertainment they are likely to meet with at an andalusian _posada_.[ ] _there_, in the matters of "boots," hostler, and chambermaid, no uncertainty whatever exists, and the traveller must therefore be prepared to divide with his attendant the several duties of those useful personages. nor should he, amidst his multifarious occupations, neglect the cooking department; for, if he have not an _arriero_[ ] power of consuming oil and garlic, he must watch with vigilant eye, and restrain with persuasive words, the too bountiful hand of our lady of the _olla_.[ ] it is to be understood that i speak here of the south of spain only, and more especially of the mountainous country encircling the fortress of gibraltar,--from whence, in due time, i purpose taking my departure. i ought here perhaps to give notice, that it is not my intention, in the following pages, to conduct my reader, town by town, kingdom by kingdom, through every part of andalusia; giving him a detailed account of its statistics, productions, resources, &c.; in fact, spreading before him a regular three course banquet of travels; but rather to present him with a light and simple dish of the country, seasoning it with such tales and anecdotes as were picked up in the course of many excursions, made during a period of many years; a _gazpacho_, as it may be called, whereof the country furnishes the principal part, or bread and water; and to which the tales--so at least i hope it may be found--give the _gusto_, imparted to this favourite andalusian dish, by the addition of oil, vinegar, and pepper. i may as well premise, also, that i do not intend to mark with precise date the time at which any of the incidents about to be narrated occurred, excepting when the correctness due to matters of history renders such specification necessary, but to transcribe the notes of my various rambles as they come most conveniently to hand; stating generally, however, that they were written during the period comprised between the years and , (the greater portion of which i belonged to the garrison of gibraltar) and have been "revised and corrected, with additions and improvements" from the journal of an extended tour made several years subsequently. considering the small number of my countrymen to whom the spanish language is familiar, i may possibly be accused of having unnecessarily retained many of the proverbs and idioms of the country in their original garb, referring my readers to an english version of them at the foot of each page. but as the caustic, and, in general, quaintly rhymed sayings for which the _andaluz_ is celebrated cannot but lose much of their _bætic salt_ on being translated, i am led to hope that such of my readers as do _not_ understand spanish will pardon the trouble i have thus imposed on them, for the sake of those who do. in conclusion, i have but to express a hope that the spanish dish i now offer to the public may not be displeasing to the english taste, though i can hardly expect it should be _devoured_ with the relish of the unsophisticated sancho; who assigned as one of his principal reasons for resigning his government of _barateria_, that he preferred to "_hartarse de gazpachos_"[ ] than be subjected to a regimen more befitting his exalted situation. chapter i. gibraltar--forbidden ground--derivation of the name--curious provisions of the treaty of utrecht--extraction of saints without a miracle--demoniacal possessions--beauty of the scenery--agremens of the garrison--its importance to great britain, but impolicy of making it a free port to all nations--lamentable changes--sketch of the character of the mountaineers of ronda--english quixotism--political opinions of the different classes in spain. before mounting my impatient steed--not pegasus, but my faithful barb "_almanzor_,"--the companion of most of my wanderings; the partaker of many of my fastings and perils; and whom--such is the mutability of horse dealing affairs--i saw for the last time curvetting under a monstrous weight of whisker and mustaches in hyde park;--i will detain my readers a brief space, to cast a glance at the celebrated place on which we are about to turn our backs. let him not take fright, however, at this announcement. it is not my purpose to lead him the round of all the _sights_ contained within the walls of this remarkable fortress; albeit they are well worthy of his notice. nor shall i, with professional prolixity, point out to his wondering eyes its crested batteries where cannon bid defiance to the enemies of great britain; still less expose the _arcana_ of its famed excavated citadel, its interminable galleries, spacious chambers, &c. which must be as cautiously approached by the pen and ink of the discreet traveller, as by the pickaxe and shovel of the wary sapper: a mysterious veil being drawn over them, which it would ill become any of her majesty's loyal subjects to remove. the attempt at concealment is, to be sure, rather absurd; and, as the late earl of chatham drily observed, (on being informed that the plans of the fortress could only be sent to him from the engineer's office, under an escort,) reminded him of the delusion of the ostrich, which, concealing his head in a bush, fancies his whole body is hid from the sight of his pursuers--since, though we carefully lock up _our_ plans of the works in a strong box, others, equally good, may be procured for a shilling any where. to return to my premised glance at the famed rock, i will say a few words of the _unde derivatur_ of the name it now bears--gibraltar--which is generally supposed to be a compound of the arabic words gibel (mountain) and tarik, the name of the moslem general, who first landed in spain, and with whom originated the idea of making it a place of arms. for though the mount, under the name of calpe, held a distinguished place in ancient history, as one of the pillars of hercules, yet it is difficult to imagine that it was ever thought of as a site for a _town_; otherwise, the city of carteia would hardly have been built in its immediate vicinity. with respect, however, to the origin of its moorish name, it is but natural to suppose that this remarkable promontory had some distinguishing appellation in the arabic dialect, _before_ it was seized upon and fortified by _tarik ben zaide_; and if therefore it was called after him, it could only have been as indicative of the spot he had fixed upon for effecting his descent upon the spanish shore. but this can hardly be the case, since he did _not_ land there, but near where the town of tarifa now stands (which place he founded and gave his name to); and the rocky peninsula of gibraltar was only seized upon by _tarik_ on his subsequently becoming aware of its great natural strength, and the advantages its possession consequently held out, for keeping up the communication with barbary, and furthering his ulterior projects against spain. it seems, on the other hand, much more probable, that the victorious saracens, arriving at the northern extremity of africa, and finding how small a space there separated them from europe, would, whilst eagerly examining the whole line of coast presented to their longing eyes, have naturally given names of their own to the most prominent landmarks observable along it. now the remarkable head-land that stretched into the sea towards them, its bold outline rendering, to all appearance, the limited space that divided them from their prey yet narrower than it really is,--could not fail to attract their attention; and it may reasonably enough be supposed that its singular form and apparent isolation led to its being designated gibel-thar--(gibel--mountain, and thar, or tar--sp. tajar--eng. to cut or sever[ ])--the severed mountain,--in allusion to its actual separation from the mountainous country behind. the spanish historian, lopez de ayala, notices this derivation of the name gibraltar, but prefers the more improbable one of _gibel tarik_--or even _gibel phatah_--_phatah_ signifying both key and victory; whereas, the key by which spain was laid open to the moors was tarifa; the victory that made them masters of the country was gained at _xeres de la frontera_. the castle of gibraltar (or _calahorra_) was not built until thirty years (a.d. ) after the mountain had been occupied by tarik; and the fortress remained in the undisturbed possession of the moors for upwards of five centuries and a half, when it was captured by don alonzo perez de guzman; though it was afterwards recovered by the moslems, and again remained in their possession upwards of a century.[ ] by the treaty of utrecht, which confirmed this valuable possession to great britain, it was particularly stipulated that no turkish vessels should be allowed to anchor under the protection of the fortress;--so great even at that late period was the dread the spaniards entertained of mohammedan invasion. it was also stipulated that no _jews_ should be permitted to domiciliate themselves within the garrison;--an article of the treaty which has been most glaringly infringed upon. the archives, &c. were transported to san roque, whither also most of the spanish inhabitants removed with their goods and chattels. the church property does not, however, appear to have been suffered to be carried off; and an old spanish historian gives with pious exultation a very amusing account of the contraband extraction of the saints from the different churches, after the fortress had been finally ceded to heretical england. the passage cannot but lose in the translation; as indeed every thing in the spanish language must. but, even in an english garb, its ludicrous seriousness may excite a smile. "a statue of st. joseph, which, from its extreme corpulence, could not be secretly transported, was carried away by a good catholic--by name joseph martin of medina--placed on the back of a horse as if _he_ were a person riding. the saint having been well balanced, enveloped in a cloak, and his head covered with a _montera_,[ ] a person mounted _en croupe_ to aid in supporting him, and accompanied by some friends to create confusion and distract attention, they issued forth by the main street without being discovered."[ ] the fat saint was lodged with other valuables at san roque, where he may be seen to this day. a thinner saint joseph supplies his place in the "spanish church" at gibraltar, and i dare say joseph martin has been canonized, and may be heard further of at medina sidonia. i entirely forget what saint in particular--or if any--is now charged with the protection of the "town and territory" of gibraltar; but the intervention of one seems highly necessary, for the devil has obtained a great footing in the place, claiming as his own a tower--a bowling-green--a bellows--a gap, and--last, not least--a tremendous tongue of fire. perhaps these offerings have been made to the black gentleman by some good catholics,--like joseph martin,--on the same principle that the old italian lady presented him with a costly pair of horns,--observing--"_sta bene far' amicizia, anche col' signor santo diavolo._" most persons who have not visited gibraltar entertain very curious notions respecting it; picturing to themselves a mere rock, bristling with cannon, and crowded with barracks, furnaces for red-hot shot, and powder-magazines. but, in reality, there are few places of the same limited extent that can lay claim to greater and more varied natural beauties. the road which leads from the picturesque old moorish castle to the southern extremity of the rocky peninsula (a distance of upwards of two miles) presents a complete change of objects at every turn,--of hanging gardens, impending rocks, and distant vistas of the spanish and african coasts. on gaining the flats at europa point, few views, finer than that which opens upon you, are any where to be met with; none more grand than, as inclining to the eastward, the back of the singular mountain bursts upon your sight, its peaked summits rising precipitously near feet above the mediterranean, which, lashing in impotent rage its rocky base, ofttimes dashes a shower of spray over the cottage of the governor, situated under the lofty cliff, but at least feet above the angry ocean. again, ascending to the northernmost peak of the rocky ridge, what can exceed the beauty of the panoramic view?--a wide expanse of sea, studded with countless vessels of all kinds and nations, but so penned in by distant mountains as to assume the appearance of a vast lake, is spread out beneath you:--its glassy surface reflecting the richly wooded or vine-clad hills of spain, on one side, the savage and sterile mountains of barbary on the other. casting the eye beyond the sandy isthmus which to the north separates the isolated rock from the mountains of spain, it rests upon successive ranges of sierras, (marked by a most pleasing variety of tints,) that seem to convey you into the very heart of the country; and indeed the view is closed only by the alpujarra range, which is upwards of a hundred miles distant from the point of view. within the fortress, the hand of man has not neglected to deck out nature, where art could effect improvement. the red sands, formerly an unsightly burying ground, have been converted--without disturbing the dust of the tenants of the soil--into public walks and gardens. the rugged tracks, which not long since were dangerous for a horse to travel, have been rendered practicable for carriages, and sheltered from the sun by avenues of trees. the western side of the rock, which formerly presented a bare and rugged limestone surface, is now clothed with a variety of trees and shrubs, that afford cover to numerous partridges and rabbits, as well as to the aboriginal apes, which have obtained, and not undeservedly, no small share of celebrity; and this belt of verdure, besides being refreshing to the sight, tends probably to lessen the heat of the place and increase its salubrity. as a place of residence, i know of no town--being a garrison--that possesses so many agrémens. the society is composed of persons of all nations and pursuits, and is varied by the passing visits of numerous strangers, who willingly devote a few days to the examination of the wonders of the celebrated "rock," and of the beauties of the neighbourhood. the resident english merchants were, in my day, a most hospitable body, whose society afforded a grateful variation to the but too prevalent "our's" and "your's" conversation of a mess table. the _table_, by the way, possesses great attractions to the _bon vivant_; offering him the enjoyment of most of the gastronomic luxuries of the world at a very cheap rate, and champagne and claret well iced and free of duty. finally, to the sportsman, the neighbourhood affords the pleasures of hunting, fishing, shooting, and horse-racing; and to the studious is presented the resource of an excellent library. i regret to say, however, that i remained at gibraltar long enough to witness lamentable changes in many things;--to see the commerce of the place gradually decline, first from the jealousy of the spanish government at its being made a rendezvous for a worthless and ungrateful gang of refugees; secondly, from various impolitic acts emanating from the colonial office; and lastly, from an awful visitation of the yellow fever, which swept off a third of its dense population, and, for a time, (cadiz having about this epoch been also declared a free port) directed the smuggling trade into another channel. the value of gibraltar to great britain has been questioned by a recent writer on spain,[ ] who doubts whether it be worth preserving at the cost of a garrison of , ( , at most) troops, and the stones and mortar required for keeping its defences in repair. "the command of the mediterranean," he observes, "belongs to the strongest fleet." this--albeit a debateable proposition--i will not stop to dispute; since what gibraltar claims is simply the command of the _entrance_ to the mediterranean; and that clearly belongs to the power which can most readily keep a force near at hand to prevent all ingress and egress. now, gibraltar is so situated as to enable great britain to do this, with very small naval means; whereas it would require a fleet of any other nation to watch the straits, because that power would have also to blockade the port of gibraltar. this any one at all acquainted with the localities,--the prevailing winds, &c.--will readily admit to be at times an impossibility; and on every occasion that the blockading squadron might be driven from its cruising ground, the command of the straits would again be possessed by gibraltar, should its batteries shelter but a few gunboats. the importance of gibraltar will increase tenfold in the event of a _steam war_, as every thing will then depend upon the vicinity of the contending parties to their _coal depôts_. but, besides the advantage gibraltar gives great britain, by the command of the entrance of the mediterranean, it affords a secure port at which her ships can refit, reprovision, &c. without incurring the expense and loss of time attendant on a long voyage to england. and, with respect to the expense of its maintenance, the benefit accruing to the nation at large by the disposal of her manufactured and other produce to an immense amount, far more than counterbalances the cost of the few thousand troops required for its defence, and which troops may also be looked upon as a kind of support to our advanced posts, malta, corfu, &c. to furnish a proof of the value of gibraltar to great britain, as a market, it will be only necessary to state, that of british manufactured _cotton_ goods alone the "barren little rock" takes annually to the value of nearly half a million sterling;--an amount very nearly equal to that which is exported from the mother country to _all_ her north american colonies--whilst the kingdom of portugal (_favouring_ us in return for benefits conferred) takes of the same articles to the amount only of £ , ; and all the other ports of spain together, but to the value of £ , . now though the government gains but a trifling increase of revenue by the vast amount of goods exported to gibraltar, yet the _good_ that is effected by thus keeping our manufacturers at work may certainly be put down as benefiting the country at a cheap rate, when the cost is but of a few thousand troops;--the civil servants, &c., being paid out of the crown revenues of the place itself. on one point, i admit our government appears to be in error; namely, in making gibraltar "a free port to _every_ flag;" by which "other nations enjoy the benefit of the establishment, without paying any portion of the expense:"[ ] and it is more particularly to be blamed, for opening it to the produce of the _united states of america_, which, unlike france, tuscany, sardinia, and austria, give our commerce no reciprocating advantage, and whose _tobacco_, imported in immense quantities, pays as aforesaid no portion of the expense of the establishment, but is the article of all others that occasions spain to watch the transit trade of gibraltar with such excessive jealousy. the spanish government knows full well, that salt fish, manufactured goods of all sorts, and indeed most of the productions of great britain, _must_ be introduced into the country, and would take but little trouble to check the contraband trade of gibraltar, if it were confined to such articles; but the introduction of tobacco, cocoa, sugar, spices, and other productions of spain's own colonies, which the british free port affords other nations the means of pouring into the country, to the detriment of her transatlantic possessions, naturally occasions a greater degree of watchfulness to be adopted, and excites much jealousy and ill will. at one time, indeed, the combination of untoward circumstances before alluded to, added to the loss of our extensive trade with oran and algiers--(occasioned by the imposition of prohibitory duties since the north of africa became a french colony)--and the vigilance of the _farmer_ who _rented_ the preventive cordon--himself an old smuggler--threatened annihilation to the trade of gibraltar. but, at the present day, it once more "looks up:" smuggling, thanks to the lawless state of spain, having again furnished occupation to the hardy mountaineers of ronda and granada, who, careless what may be the _form_ of government at madrid provided its authority does not extend to andalusia, so as to prevent their having free access to the calicoes and tobacco of "_la plaza_",[ ]--have been alternately crying _viva la constitucion_ and _viva el rey absoluto_, for the last eighteen years. having now, for the present, concluded my remarks upon gibraltar, i will embrace the opportunity,--though "almanzor" has already been kept an unconscionable time ready saddled--of saying a few words of these rude _serranos_,[ ] ere i take my reader amongst them. smugglers by birth, education, and inclination, it could hardly be expected that they should be distinguished by the possession of any very resplendent virtues. nevertheless, they are characterized by temperance, honesty, (apart their profession) hospitality, and noble-mindedness. hardy and enduring, though generally averse to the occupation of husbandry, they can scarcely be termed indolent, since their favourite pursuit is one which exposes them to great fatigue. proverbially vain, and supremely ignorant, they look upon their country as the first in the world, themselves as its bravest inhabitants: in the latter supposition, being perhaps nearly as far from the truth as in the former; their courage, such as it is, being rather of the tiger kind. superstitious beyond all belief, and priest-ridden to the last degree, still their naturally caustic and witty temperament cannot be so bridled as to deter them from indulging in jokes and pleasantries, even at the expense of the ceremonies of their church, or the peccadilloes of their ghostly fathers. as i have stated before, they concern themselves but little with politics; but, having a most radical distaste for every species of taxation, the government that troubles them least in this particular--that is, which has the _least power_ of levying its dues--is naturally the most popular. in the eventful period in spanish history, during which i mixed constantly with the natives of all classes, i found the _serranos_ by turns _realistas_,--_constitucionalistas_,--_serviles_,--_liberales_, --_moderados_,--and _exaltados_: their opinions invariably changing for or against the existing [dis]order of things, according to the strength of the preventive cordon drawn round gibraltar, and the support given to the local authorities in exacting the payment of taxes. the only change that i ever perceived liberalism to work in their habits was, that it induced a freer circulation of the pig-skin; thus leading to inebriety and its concomitants, brawling, insubordination, and depravity; and though this departure from the sober dignity that characterizes the spaniard was most observable in the troops, yet the pernicious example set by these lawless bands could not but be of bad omen. of the _serranos_ i may in conclusion say, that, considering their ignorance and superstition, and above all the demoralizing nature of their occupation; considering also the wild impracticable country they inhabit; the distracted state of the kingdom; the lamentably ill-enforced condition of the laws, and the sad venality of all spanish authorities; they are a wonderfully moral and well-behaved race. assassinations,--when the country is not, as at present, disturbed by political dissensions--are of very rare occurrence; and the same unhappy state of things has naturally led to the perpetration of numerous personal outrages and increased the number of highway robberies: but larceny and housebreaking are even now rarely heard of; and incendiarism, infanticide, and some other heinous crimes that disgrace more civilized communities, are unknown. the condition of this singular race presents, therefore, the anomalous spectacle of the co-existence of rare moral qualities with ignorance, lawlessness, and superstition; and, by instituting a comparison between the condition of the inhabitants of spain and those of better governed and more enlightened nations, the philanthropist cannot but entertain a doubt whether a very high degree of education is, in all cases, conducive to the happiness of mankind. the experiment now in progress of sending liberty, armed cap-a-pee, to take spain by storm, ere truth and wisdom have battered bigotry and ignorance in breach, is one that cannot fail to entail the utmost misery upon that unhappy country for a long space of years. no _class_ of spaniards is, at the present moment, prepared for the great organic changes in the government and institutions of their country that _we_ are pressing upon them. there are doubtless some enlightened men in the upper ranks, who, with the welfare of their country at heart, wish for a change; but their previous life has unfitted them from taking the lead in effecting it. there are also many learned men with heads full of metaphysicks and moral and political theories, who fancy they have but to lecture on forms of government to have their views adopted; and in the mass of the people there is a great deal of intelligence sparkling through a dense cloud of ignorance and bigotry; but vanity is the besetting sin of all spaniards; they cannot bring themselves to think they are behind the rest of europe; and consequently they do not see that the more liberal institutions of other countries have followed, and not preceded, the "_march of intellect_." the various constitution builders, who, set after set, have succeeded to the direction of affairs, in this luckless country, have invariably found themselves in the situation of a man who, having pulled down his old house to erect another on the spot, after the model of one he had _read_ of, discovered, that though slate, bricks, and mortar, were all at hand, he could not meet with workmen who understood his plan, so as to put his projected structure together; and thus he was driven to seek shelter in an outhouse. but, besides the absolute want of knowledge of the world that all the ministers of spain have evinced, from manuel godoy to the present day, there is yet another want that has been almost equally conspicuous during the same period--namely, the want of _honesty_. one of the best patriots that the country has produced, since the light of liberalism first broke upon it, declared that this want was the source of all spain's misfortunes.--"_somos todos corrompidos_"[ ] was his painful confession; and without going to the _full_ extent of that assertion, it seems more than probable this rottenness at the core will not be cured, until spain produces some great tyrant like napoleon. a despot, though not over-scrupulous himself, generally makes his subordinates honest;[ ] but i doubt the possibility of any _set_ of men, who have been brought up on plunder, divesting themselves of the habit of _self-appropriation_ when possessed of the distribution of the loaves and fishes. i must no longer, however, delay taking my departure from gibraltar, or the gates of the fortress will be closed upon me for the night, and frustrate my intention of sleeping at san roque. chapter ii. san roque--singular title of "the city authorities"--situation--climate--the late sir george don, lieutenant governor of gibraltar--anecdote illustrative of the character of the spanish government--society of spain--the tertulia--the various circles of spanish society tested by smoking--erroneous notions of english liberty and religion--startling lental ceremonies. san roque is the nearest town to the british fortress, and distant from it about six english miles. a mere village at the period of the last siege of gibraltar, it has gradually increased, so as at the present day to cover a considerable extent of ground, and to contain a population of upwards of six thousand souls. the title of _city_ has even been vicariously bestowed upon it; all public acts, &c., emanating from its different authorities, being headed in the following singular manner,--"the president and individuals of the board of health of the _city of gibraltar_, which, from the material loss of that place, is established in _this of san roque_ within its territory, &c."[ ] the corregidor, alcalde, and other authorities, are also designated as of gibraltar, and not of san roque. the town is pleasantly situated on an isolated knoll, the houses entirely covering its summit, and extending some way down its northern and western slopes; but towards gibraltar and to the east, the ground falls very abruptly, so as to form a natural boundary to the town. though quite unsheltered by trees, and consequently exposed to the full power of the sun, san roque possesses great advantages over gibraltar in point of climate; for, whilst its elevation above all the ground in the immediate vicinity secures to it a freer circulation of air than is enjoyed by the pent-up fortress, it is sheltered from the damp and blighting levant wind that blows down the mediterranean, by a low mountain range, known as the sierra carbonera, or queen of spain's chair, which is distant about a mile from the town, and stretches in a north and south direction, between it and the sea. the baneful _khamseen_ of the desert is not more dreaded by the nomad arab, than is this pestiferous wind by the desk-bound inhabitant of the fortress. no sooner does it set in, than a dense cloud gathers round the isolated mountain, and, clinging with mischievous pertinacity to its rugged peaks, involves the town in a damp, unwholesome atmosphere during the whole period of its continuance. at the same time, the breeze, repelled by the precipitous cliff that bounds the rock to the eastward, sweeps in furious blasts round both its flanks, driving clouds of sand, flies, and blue devils into every dwelling, and rheumatism, asthma, and lumbago, into the bones, chests, and backs, of their inmates. san roque, being free from this intolerable nuisance, is looked upon as a sort of montpelier by the gibraltarians, and, at the period of which i write, was very much resorted to by the mercantile classes, who fitted up comfortable "boxes" there, that afforded them an agreeable retreat after their daily labours at the desk were concluded. the late sir george don, whilst lieut. governor of the fortress, invariably passed several months of the year at san roque; and his noble hospitality, his ever open purse, and constant employment of the poor in works of utility, secured to him the love and respect of all classes of its inhabitants. indeed, such was the gallant veteran's influence in the place, that i may literally say, not a stone could be turned nor a tree planted without "his excellency's" being first consulted as to the propriety of the measure. my duty requiring me to be in frequent attendance upon the lieut. governor, i generally made one of sir george's party, whenever he fixed his head-quarters at san roque; and on one of these occasions a circumstance occurred that throws such a light upon the extraordinary character of the spanish government, that i am tempted to relate it before proceeding further. i was seated one morning tête-à-tête with the general, waiting the arrival of the messenger with letters, &c. from the fortress, when we observed a guard of spanish soldiers pass by the window, headed by an officer on horseback, and having a prisoner in charge; and to our astonishment they stopped at the general's door. we were waiting with some little curiosity to learn the cause of this extraordinary visit, and were lost in conjectures as to whom the delinquent could be, when the door of the apartment was thrown open, and in rushed the prisoner himself, exclaiming with great excitement and the volubility of his nation--"general, you doubtless know me--i am prince napoleon lucien murat--i throw myself upon and claim your protection--i have been entrapped by the vile spanish government" (this was soon after the restoration of the "_inclito_" ferdinand). "invited by the commandant of san roque to pay him a visit, i was seduced to leave gibraltar, and on arriving at the spanish lines was seized upon and hurried off under an escort, to be imprisoned at algeciras, where i should have been murdered, but that fortunately i succeeded in persuading the officer charged with my safeguard to pass through san roque on his way and allow me to speak to you. he unwittingly acceded to my request, and i now place myself under the protection of the british flag." "monsieur," replied the general, with no slight astonishment, "this is indeed a very extraordinary, and apparently most unjustifiable proceeding; but i am sorry to inform you that i can afford you no _protection_. the british flag does not fly at san roque; and i myself reside here only by permission of the spanish government. my good offices,--as far as they can be of service in liberating you,--shall not be wanting; but, in the mean time, pray let me hear further particulars of this plot against your liberty; and scott,"--turning to me--"have the goodness to go to the spanish commandant, and request he will favour me with a few minutes' conversation." i proceeded as directed to the quarters of the colonel of the regiment of granada, which at that time formed the garrison of san roque, and was ushered in to the commandant, whom i found at his toilet, and not a little surprised at my early visit. now _don alonzo del pulgar apugal_--for such were the colonel's patronymics--was the least likely man in the world to be employed in a case of abduction. he was a soft, open-hearted, honeycomb-headed, fat, good-natured man, of about five and forty, without two military ideas, and not half a dozen on any other subject. what little knowledge he did possess, was of dogs, guns, charges, and wadding. but, at the same time, i knew the don to be a gentleman, and incapable of acting the part with which he was charged. when, therefore, i explained the circumstances that had led to my waiting upon him, ere his unnameables were yet finally braced round his portly person, he was most excessively astonished, and repelled with indignant warmth the vile accusation of being the abbettor--indeed, the principal mover--in the infamous plot that had placed prince lucien's body at the tender mercies of six spanish bayonets, and his neck in jeopardy of the _garrote_[ ]--"_valgame dios!_" he at length exclaimed, "surely the poor young man cannot have deceived himself by taking _al pié de la letra_, our usual spanish compliment;--for now i recollect, when he was introduced to me at the _dog-meeting_" (he meant at the fox-hunt) "some time back, we had some conversation about shooting, and i said my dogs and guns were at his disposition[ ] whenever he wished for a day's sport.--_pobrecito!_--it is possible i may thus unconsciously have been the cause of this unfortunate affair." such, however, did not turn out to be the case, for the prince had presented himself at the spanish lines, provided with both dogs and gun, and accompanied by a sportsman to show him the country. the kind-hearted colonel hurried down to sir george, buckling his sword on as he went, and was immediately on his arrival taken into a private room to consult as to what could be done in the business, as well as to hear the officer of the escort's edition of the story. mons. murat meanwhile remained in the study with one of the general's aides de camp (my friend budgen of the royal engineers) and myself, and to us, who were yet unacquainted with the heinous nature of the crime of which he was accused by the spanish government, appeared to be most unnecessarily alarmed, and to rely but little on the friendly interference of sir george; on which indeed he had as little claim as upon the protection of the british flag, beyond the jurisdiction of which he had voluntarily placed himself:--for, considering perhaps that such a step would have been beneath his dignity as an ex-prince of the two sicilies, he had neglected to pay the customary compliment of calling upon the governor on arriving at the fortress, and was consequently unknown. after sundry exclamations of regret at having suffered himself to be made a prisoner without a struggle, he asked if there was a door of communication with the street running at the back of the house; and, on my replying in the affirmative, he proposed that i should lend him my military frock coat, and ask an english officer who had accompanied him and remained outside to meet him there with his horse--"_alors_"--said he--the reckless valour of the father showing itself--"_avec le sabre de tupper[ ] je m'en--de ces laches d'espagnols_." this of course was out of the question; as however unfairly he might have been kidnapped--and of which we had yet to be convinced--it was clear that sir george's honour, on the faith of which he had been permitted to enter and remain in the house, would have been compromised by our connivance at his escape from it. we did all we could to quiet his apprehensions until the return of sir george, who informed him that it appeared from the statement of the officer of the escort, that orders had been received from the general officer commanding at algeciras to arrest him, should he, on any pretence, again pass the limits of the british garrison. the kind-hearted old general expressed the utmost regret at his having been so imprudent as to trust himself a second time in spain (for only a month before he had been conducted to gibraltar under an escort from malaga)--and hoping that his own consciousness of innocence would relieve him from any fear as to the result of the affair, gave him a letter to general josé o'donnell, who commanded in the _campo de gibraltar_; in which letter he requested, as a favour to himself, that every respect and attention might be paid to the young frenchman:--a favour he had every right to ask, from one who had received so many more important ones at his hands.-- general o'donnell, in his reply, stated that he had but acted in conformity with instructions received from madrid--that monsieur murat had some months previously landed at malaga from a vessel which, when on its passage with him to america, had been obliged to put into that port to repair some slight damage experienced in a gale of wind--that, during his stay there, he had publicly expressed his hostility to the king's government, and, instead of proceeding to his destination when the vessel again put to sea, he had appeared rather disposed to establish himself in that (not over-loyal) city.--the spanish government viewed these circumstances with a very suspicious eye; particularly as his elder brother had, but a few years before, been one of the _aspirans_ to the constitutional crown of spain;--and he had consequently been sent with a _guard of honour_ to gibraltar, from whence opportunities for america are more frequent than from malaga. in compliance with sir george don's request, general o'donnell promised that every attention should be paid to the youth's comfort, consistent with his safe custody, until instructions as to his disposal should be received from the capital. the cause of the violent proceedings adopted by the spanish government turned out eventually to be, that this scion of despotism had sung _riego's hymn_ all the way from malaga to gibraltar; some of his _guard of honour_ even joining in chorus! and that at estepona he had, through the influence of a _colonato_,[ ] persuaded an old barber who had shaved him--he being the ex-trumpeter of the _nacionales_--to play the forbidden tune to the astonished fishermen of the place! the sequel of this state affair was, that monsieur murat remained in durance at algeciras, until a vessel bound to the united states offered him the means of crossing the atlantic. i used to find that an occasional visit to san roque made a very agreeable break in the monotony of a garrison life; for what place, let its attractions be ever so great, does not become dull when one is _per forza_ obliged to make it a residence? even london, paris, or vienna, would not stand the test. the society of san roque was not of a very _exclusive_ kind; for but little of the _sangre azul_[ ] of spain flowed in the veins of its inhabitants. nevertheless, there, as elsewhere, some families were to be met with who looked upon themselves as of a superior order to the rest of the community; condescending, however, to mix with them on the most friendly footing at their nightly _tertulia_. this is a kind of "at home," announced to be held sometimes once or twice a week, sometimes nightly, at the houses of the leading families of a town; the _reunion_ taking place after the theatre--should there be one.[ ] in large towns it frequently happens that several houses are open to receive company on the same night. but, although it is considered rather a slight to neglect showing yourself at those to which you have the entrée, it is by no means necessary to do more than that; it being optional with you to pass the evening at whichever house you find most attractive, after going the round of all. even the ladies who open their houses for _tertulias_ consider it necessary to send some of the members of their family to the rival assemblies; always with a message of regret at not being able to go themselves, their own party being _so very crowded_ that they could not possibly absent themselves from it, without giving offence to their numerous guests. it must be confessed that the tertulia is a very agreeable mode of associating; that it offers great variety, without being attended with the least formality, and entails but slight expense on the entertainers; iced water and _sospiros_[ ] being, excepting on gala nights, the only refreshment offered to the company. there is very little difference observable in the various grades of spanish society. the same incessant loud talking amongst the females distinguishes the whole; dancing, singing, cards, and games of forfeits, are the amusements of all. even dress, until of late years, did not furnish a distinction, excepting, in a slight degree, by the costliness of the materials. but french taste, with its monstrous and ever-varying eccentricities, has corrupted that of the upper ranks of spain, and occasioned the graceful and becoming national costume to be in a great measure laid aside. the great distinction that marks the various grades of spanish society, is the latitude given to _smoking_. in the first circles, it is altogether prohibited. in the second, it is confined to a back room, or suffered in the patio.[ ] in all others it is freely permitted. it is a positive libel on the ladies of spain to say that they smoke under any circumstances; though the disgusting habit prevails amongst the females of mexico and other transatlantic states that formerly were included in the empire of _both worlds_. a good letter of introduction insures a foreigner admission into the best spanish society. he is taken the round of all the tertulias, and, on receiving from the lady of any house the assurance that it is _at his disposition_, may present himself there as often as he pleases. should this form be withheld, he may take it for granted--despite the whisperings of self-love--that his future attendance is not wished for. the need of some little acquaintance with the spanish language caused but few english officers to enter into the society of san roque; but living there as much as i did, and being often placed in communication with the authorities, i derived from it a source of great amusement. indeed, to lady viale[ ] and her amiable family i am indebted for many agreeable evenings; her house uniting the pleasing informality of spanish with the solid hospitality (i use the term in our eating and drinking sense of it) of english society. it would be an error to depict the manners and customs of the inhabitants of san roque, as those of the natives of andalusia generally; since, in their various pursuits, the former are so frequently thrown in contact with englishmen and other foreigners settled at gibraltar, that they cannot but have acquired some of their habits, and imbibed some of their ideas. nevertheless, there is a self-conceit about all spaniards, that makes them particularly slow in throwing off their nationality; and the difference is consequently not so great as might naturally be expected. a proof of this is afforded by the circumstance of the english language not being spoken, nor even understood, by fifty of the inhabitants of san roque; although it is evidently so much their interest to acquire it. their intercourse, on the other hand, (and this is observable in all the sea-port towns of spain) has given them strangely ill defined notions of _english liberty_, and equally extraordinary opinions of our religious tenets; and has filled their minds with highly constitutional ideas of the iniquity of taxation, and most conscientious scruples as to the propriety of supporting a national church. i fear, indeed, that deistical, nay i believe i should say atheistical, opinions prevail to a great extent amongst the upper orders of spaniards, though they still continue to observe--if not the penances--all the superstitious ceremonies and absurd fooleries of the romish church. one of their extraordinary lental ceremonies i became acquainted with under very _alarming_ circumstances. i was awaked one fine april morning, during one of my earliest visits to san roque, by a most furious fusillade, which, considering the unsettled state of spain at that particular juncture, i naturally enough concluded was occasioned by some popular commotion. the appearance of my servant in answer to a hasty summons of the bell immediately quieted my apprehensions on that score, however; the broad grin that distended his round kentish countenance plainly bespeaking the absence of all danger;--though what occasioned his unwonted merriment puzzled me to divine. in reply to my inquiries touching the firing, the only answer i could obtain was, "they're a shooting of hoodah."--"and who the deuce is hoodah?" said i, "and what has he been about?"--but on these points he was quite as ignorant as myself; so dressing with all possible despatch--the astounding rolls of musketry, and as it appeared to me of field artillery also, continuing the whole time i was so occupied, seeming indeed to spread to all parts of the town--i issued forth, armed up to the teeth, and on turning the corner of the street saw, to my horror, a human figure suspended in the air, and reduced almost to a bundle of rags by the incessant firing of--as i supposed--a party of soldiers posted in a cross street. this surely is "making assurance doubly sure," thought i. why the poor devil can't have an inch of sound flesh in his body after all this peppering. the bang, bang continued incessantly, however, accompanied by roars of laughter, until at length the ill-fated hoodah was in a blaze. a crowd of men and boys, armed with guns, pistols, and blunderbusses, now rushed from the cross street, (where they had been concealed from my view) rending the air with _vivas_. at this same moment a loud peal of music burst upon me from a neighbouring church, and from its portal issued a long train of priests preceded by the host. with these came the recollections of its being easter sunday, and of the guttural pronunciation of the spanish _j_; and quite ashamed of my war-like demonstration, i retreated to my house yet quicker than i had issued from it. the distant firing continued some time longer; and i afterwards learnt that the effigies of no less than seven _judases_ had that morning been severally hanged, shot, and burnt, to satisfy the holy rage of the devout inhabitants of san roque. chapter iii. country in the vicinity of san roque--ruins of the ancient city of carteia--field of battle of alphonso the eleventh--journey to ronda--forest of almoraima--mouth of the lions--fine scenery--town of gaucin--a spanish inn--old castle at gaucin--interior of an andalusian posada--spanish humour--mountain wine. the country in the immediate vicinity of san roque is tame and uninteresting; but, within the distance of an hour's ride, in whatever direction you may turn your horse's head, it becomes agreeably varied,--presenting wide, cultivated valleys, shady forests of cork, oak, and pine, and wild and cragged mountains. in the neighbourhood are many objects well deserving the attention of the antiquary; amongst others, the ruins of the ancient city of carteia, situated on the sea-shore, within the bay of gibraltar, and near the mouth of the river guadaranque. the walls may be traced very distinctly; they enclose an amphitheatre, in a tolerable state of preservation, reliques of baths and other edifices, and the remains of a small temple of corinthian architecture and most exquisite and elaborate workmanship. this last has only recently been discovered. it was built of beautiful white marble, and its columns, though lying prostrate, appeared to have suffered little by their fall; but such is the want of antiquarian taste in the spaniards of the present day, that it is to be feared this fine specimen of the arts has already disappeared, and is now only to be met with in detached blocks, scattered throughout the neighbouring farm-houses and walls. the learned mr. francis carter, whose interesting "journey from gibraltar to malaga" has, it is much to be regretted, been long out of print, states, that carteia was built on the ruins of a "most antique" city called tartessus, or tarsis, from whence, "once in three years," the fleets of king solomon "brought gold and silver, ivory and _apes_ and peacocks."[ ] the greeks afterwards called this city heraclea,[ ] and in yet more recent times it received the name of carteia. the carthagenians (on the authority of justin) made themselves masters of this place, about years b.c., and retained possession of it until they were finally expelled from spain by scipio africanus, b.c. . it was one of the cities most devoted to the cause of the pompeys, and that to which cneus fled for refuge after his defeat at munda. on the margin of the river guadaranque, at a short distance from the walls of the city, may be seen some remnants of its ancient quays, and about a mile higher up the stream, other vestiges of antiquity present themselves, which are supposed to be the remains of a dock or arsenal. they consist of several moles constructed of stone and brick intermixed, and held together by a very durable cement. the guadaranque (river of mares) discharges itself into the bay of gibraltar, three miles n.w. of the fortress; and some distance further to the westward, the palmones, another mountain stream, also empties itself into the bay. in the bed of this latter river may be seen the piers of a ruined bridge, said to be a work of the romans. it is evident from these remains, that a great change has taken place in the character of the two rivers: since the first can now be entered only by boats of the very lightest draught, and the other is fordable immediately above the ruins of the roman bridge. the plain between the two rivers is not devoid of interest, being celebrated as one of the battle fields of the heroic alphonso xi. (a.d. ) whose exploits, independent of his having been the most chivalric monarch of the castillian race, are particularly interesting to englishmen, from the circumstance of many of our countrymen having fought under his banner against the moslems, and particularly at the siege of algeciras: which place, notwithstanding the destructive weapons[ ] there for the first time employed against the christian army, was captured after a twenty months' siege, and in spite of the repeated attempts of the allied kings of granada and gibraltar to relieve it, a.d. . in these various endeavours to raise the siege, the plain extending between the guadaranque and palmones again became the scene of fierce contention; of which a most interesting account will be found in villasan's chronicles of alphonso xi. numerous other points in the neighbourhood of san roque are equally worthy of observation; but these i shall not detain my reader longer to particularise, as other opportunities will present themselves for doing so more conveniently, in the course of our travels; it being my purpose to make san roque a kind of "base of operations," upon which i shall from time to time retire, for a fresh supply of notes and sketches. i shall now therefore direct my steps due north, through the lonely and almost boundless forest of almoraima, towards ximena. the forest consists principally of cork, oak, and ilex; but, in the marshy parts of it, (called _sotos_,) ash, willow, and other trees to which such localities are favourable, grow very luxuriantly. the owner of this vast domain is the marquis of moscoso,--who derives from it a revenue totally disproportioned to its value and extent; and what little he does get, he squanders nightly at the gaming-table. the principal source of revenue arises from the numerous herds of swine and other cattle, that are driven from all parts of the country to feed upon the acorns, herbage, and underwood, scattered throughout the forest; the fine, well grown trees with which it abounds being turned to no better account than to furnish bark and charcoal. this is entirely owing to the want of means of conveying the timber to a market; for not even to gibraltar--in which direction the country is level--is there a road capable of bearing the draught of heavy weights. of course the ruinous passion that swallows up all the proprietor's resources prevents any attempt at improvement in the management of the estate; and thus, whilst huge trees, stript of their bark, lie rotting in some parts of the forest, in others, the underwood is set on fire by the peasantry--to the great detriment of the larger trees--to improve the pasture for their cattle. the ride through the forest is delightful, even in the most sultry season, the wide-spreading branches of the gnarled cork-trees screening the narrow paths most effectually from the sun's rays. the gurgle of the tortuous guadaranque,--which, escaped from the mountain ravines that encircle its sources, here wends its way more leisurely to the sea,--may be heard distinctly on the left, and now and then a glimpse may even be caught of its dark blue stream, winding under a perfect arbour of woodbine, clematis, and other creepers, and spanned here and there by a rustic bridge. the single stem of a tree of which these bridges usually consist is readily enough crossed by the practised feet and heads of the swineherds and foresters; but to strangers unskilled in the art of slack rope dancing, the passage of the stream, like that of the bridge leading to the mohammedan's paradise, is a feat of no very easy achievement. occasionally, wide, open glades, carpeted with a rich greensward, present themselves in the very heart of the forest, to diversify the scenery--giving it quite the character of an english park; and from these breaks in the wood a view may generally be obtained of the far-distant towers of castellar; the mountain fortress of the master of this princely domain, now inhabited by his _administrador_, or agent, his gamekeepers, and other dependents. the forest abounds in deer, wild boars, and wolves; but, excepting the first named, these animals seldom venture to descend into the level parts of the forest in open day, but confine themselves to the thickly wooded glens, that furrow the mountain range bordering the right bank of the guadaranque. permission to shoot in the forest is never refused to the british officers and inhabitants of gibraltar. indeed, excepting for the _caza mayor_,[ ] the ceremony of asking leave is not considered necessary; and in the winter season the _sotos_ afford good sport, woodcocks, ducks, and snipes, being very plentiful. turning now away from the guadaranque, and leaving a spacious convent that gives its name to the forest, about half a mile on the left, the road inclines to the eastward, and soon reaches a large solitary building, the venta _del aqua del quejigo_, but known more commonly amongst the english by the name of the long stables, and distinguished as the scene of many a festive meeting, and many a bacchanalian orgie, being a favourite place of rendezvous for a _batida_.[ ] my head aches at the very recollection of the nights passed within its walls. we will therefore pass on, and again plunge into the forest. after proceeding about a mile, the road divides into two branches. that on the right hand is the most direct way to gaucin, whither i am bending my steps; but the other, though little known, is the best, and offers more attractions to the lover of the picturesque. i will therefore take it, in the present instance, and advise all who may follow in my wake to do the like. continuing two miles further through the impervious forest, the road at length arrives at the brink of a deep ravine on the right, when a lovely view breaks upon the traveller, looking over a rich valley watered by the river sogarganta, and towards the mountain fortress of casares and lofty sierra bermeja. the road, hemmed in by steep banks, and still overshadowed by the forest, descends rather rapidly towards the before named river; and this narrow pass, being the only outlet from the forest in this direction, has, from its celebrity in days past as a place of danger, received the name of the _boca de leones_--mouth of the lions. on emerging from the pass, a wide and carefully cultivated valley presents itself. the river which fertilizes it, here makes a considerable elbow; the chain of hills clothed by the almoraima forest checking its southerly course, and directing it nearly due east towards the mediterranean. to the north, the valley extends nearly ten miles, appearing to be closed by a conical mound that is crowned by the old castle of ximena; the town itself being piled up on its eastern side. the road to that place (eight miles) keeps along the right bank of the sogarganta, which winds gracefully through the wide, flat-bottomed valley; but the track to gaucin crosses by a ford to the opposite side of the stream, and, after advancing about four miles, inclines to the right, traverses a low range of hills, and comes down upon the river guadiaro. this is crossed by means of a ferryboat, and leaving its bank, and proceeding in a northerly direction, the road passes over a gently undulated country for several miles, and then begins to ascend a high wooded ridge on the right hand. the ascent is long and tortuous, but tolerably easy, and the view, looking towards ximena (distant about five miles) is very grand and imposing. the castellated crag, so proudly conspicuous an hour before, is now, however, shorn of all its importance; the superior elevation of the point from whence it is viewed, as well as the magnificence of the mountains that rise to the westward of ximena--which now first burst upon the sight--making it appear but a pebble at their feet. but scenery of a more varied and yet more magnificent kind awaits the traveller, at the pass by which the road traverses the ridge that he has now been nearly an hour ascending. the lovely valley of the genal[ ] is there spread out to his enraptured gaze. on the left, embosomed in groves of orange, citron, and pomegranate trees, and shadowed with clustering vines, stands the picturesque town of gaucin,--its boldly outlined castle perched on the crest of a rough ledge of rock that rises abruptly behind. stretching some way down the eastern side of the cragged mound, the advanced battlements of the moorish stronghold terminate at the brink of a frightful precipice, which not only forbids all approach to the town in that direction, but threatens even some day to close up the narrow valley it overhangs. of the little stream that flows in the deep and thickly wooded ravine, an occasional glimpse only can be caught, as it turns coquettishly from side to side; but its general direction is marked by a succession of water-mills, as well as by a belt of orange and lemon groves, whose dark green foliage is easily distinguished from, and offers a pleasing variety to, the more brilliant tints of the surrounding forest. beyond, however, where the valley becomes wider and more open, the stream may be distinctly traced lingering over its pebbly bed, and finally forming its junction with the guadiaro. the steep but graceful slopes of the mountain ridge that bounds the valley to the east are thickly clothed with cork, oak, chesnut, and ilex; whilst the rugged peaks of the sierra cristellina, in which it terminates towards gibraltar, rise so precipitously as seemingly to defy even a goat to find footing. over this chain may be seen the distant sierra bermeja, celebrated in spanish history as the last refuge of the persecuted moslems, and the eastern roots of which are washed by the mediterranean. half an hour's ride brings the traveller from the pass to gaucin,--the descent being but short, and very gradual. gaucin is a long straggling town, of semi-circular form, and is built partly under the rocky eminence occupied by the castle, partly on the southern slope of a narrow gorge that connects this stronghold with the more elevated _sierra del hacho_. the principal street, which traverses the place from west to east, is wider than most one is accustomed to see in old moorish towns, and cleaner than any i have met with in modern spanish cities. but nature has all the merit of endowing it with the latter virtue; having supplied it with copious springs, which, in their downward course, carry off all the usual impurities of andalusian streets. the houses, though not good, are clean, and are decorated with a profusion of flowers of all sorts, that give out a delicious perfume; and in various parts of the town, a vine-clung trelliswork of canes is carried quite across the street, affording at the same time an agreeable shade and a pleasing vista. the first impression made by the town is therefore decidedly favourable. we--(i ought by the way to have stated before now, that the party with which i travelled on this occasion consisted of _four_)--we therefore, i repeat, had to traverse the town from one end to the other, to arrive at the _posada_; which was indicated only by the short, inorthographical, but otherwise satisfactory and invigorating announcement, painted in large black letters on the whitewashed wall of the building--"_aqui se bende vuen bino_."[ ] a cockney could not have managed to make more mistakes between his _v's_ and _w's_, than our _andaluz posadero_[ ] had succeeded in compressing into this pithy advertisement;--hoping, however, that he held his plighted word in greater respect than the rules of castillian grammar,[ ] we spurred our horses through the half-opened _porte cochère_, and, _à l'espagnole_, rode at once into the principal apartment of the hostelry. the interior was far from giving the same cheering assurance that good entertainment was to be had for money, as was announced externally of the sale of good wine. i was as yet (i speak of my first visit to gaucin) but a novice in spanish travelling, and thought i had never seen a more wretched, uncomfortable, and in every way unpromising, place. but the day was already far spent, and the chance of our finding better accommodation by proceeding further on our journey was against us;--moreover, we had been assured (which by experience i afterwards learnt to be the case) that this was the only _parador_ fit for _caballeros_ between san roque and ronda. it consisted of one long, windowless apartment, that from the number and variety of its inmates gave no bad idea of noah's ark. three fourths of the dark smoky space served as a stable, wherein four rows of quadrupeds were compactly tethered; and, impatient for their evening meal, were neighing, braying, and bleating, with all the powers of their respective lungs. amidst the filth and litter that covered the pavement, lay numberless pigs of all sizes, and every condition of life; some squeaking for mere squeaking's sake, others grunting in all the discomfort of repletion. on the rafters overhead some scores of gallinaceous animals had congregated for the night; adding, nevertheless, their quota of noise to that of the lower region, whenever one of their number was abducted from the roost, to be hurried out of its peaceful existence, into a greasy olla. the remaining portion of the apartment served both as a refectory and a dormitory for the _arrieros_,--owners of the tethered quadrupeds--and also as a kitchen, where their various odoriferous suppers were preparing. the mistress of the mansion--as wrinkle-visaged an old harridan as ever tossed off a bumper of _aguadiente_--assisted by her two daughters, was busily employed, plucking, drawing, dissecting, and otherwise preparing, divers rabbits, chickens, and other animals, to satisfy the craving appetites of her numerous guests; and cats innumerable were in close attendance, clawing and squabbling for the offal, which, to save all further trouble, was thrown to them on the floor. the prospect was any thing but inviting; but, as i have said before, there was no alternative;--so, begging the _posadera_ to draw near, we requested she would inform us whether we could be accommodated with a lodging for the night. having deliberately scanned the party, and ascertained to her satisfaction that it consisted entirely of englishmen,--whose pockets spaniards are apt to consider as inexhaustible as the mines of mexico and peru,--the old beldame, oiling her iron features into a species of smile, assured us we could be lodged _con toda comodidad_;[ ] and screeching to her daughter _mariquita_, she desired her to hand over the rabbit she was skinning to her _hermanita_[ ] _frasquita_, and show the _caballeros_[ ] to the _sala_.[ ] mariquita led us forthwith up a narrow rickety staircase, which, situated in a dark corner of the room, had escaped our observation; and into a small room, or rather loft, where she assured us we should be very quiet and comfortable; adding that it was always reserved for _gente de pelo_[ ] like ourselves. the only comfort apparent was the undisturbed possession of a space twelve feet square, enclosed by four bare walls: for of bedding or furniture of any sort it was quite destitute. we submitted with as good a grace as possible, but, after some persuasion, succeeded in procuring four mattresses to spread on the clay floor; as many pairs of clean sheets and pillows; and some pie-dishes to serve as wash-hand basins. we then descended, to have some further conversation with our hostess concerning supper. the landlady's reply to our first question, "what can we have?" was gratifying in the extreme--viz. "_lo que ustedes gusten_"--"just what you please." but, discovering by our next, more explicit demand, "what can you give us?" that we depended upon the resources of the _posada_ for our evening meal, her astonishment knew no bounds, and her doubts of the potosi state of our purses became very evident. leaving, therefore, the delicate affair to be explained and settled by one of our servants, who, being an old traveller, understood how to negociate these matters, we proceeded to examine the ruined castle, ere the sun had sunk below the horizon. a rugged zig-zag pathway--along which, at stated intervals, are represented the various sufferings and indignities endured by our saviour on his way to mount calvary--leads to the summit of the rocky ledge. the fortress that crowns it must, in the days of the moors, have possessed great military importance, as it completely commands the valley, and consequently all the roads leading through it, towards the coast. it is now merely a picturesque ruin; its artillery being dismounted, its wells choked up, and its battlements overgrown with ivy. a chapel dedicated to the _niño dios_[ ] is apparently the only thing within its precincts deemed worthy of preservation. the view from this spot is very extensive and beautiful, but hardly so fine as one (which will be hereafter noticed) that presents itself some miles higher up the valley, when the castle itself becomes one of the principal features of the landscape, whilst the distant scenery remains the same. returning to the posada, we lighted our cigars; and, feeling sensibly the change in the temperature of this elevated region, we joined the natives assembled round the fireplace, who, with the courtesy natural to all spaniards, immediately rose and offered us the seats of honour. the portion of the apartment allotted to the human kind had now become crowded with persons of all sorts and conditions; for the animals being peacefully engaged at their evening repast, their owners thought it time to be looking after their's. some, indeed, had already satisfied the cravings of nature from their own wallets and _pig_-skins, and, taking time by the forelock, were stretched full length on the floor; their _mantas_ and _capas_ serving them for mattresses and coverlets, their saddles and _alforjas_ for bolsters and pillows. others, seated on low stools composed of junks of cork, had resolved themselves into committees, to discuss the merits of a _gazpacho caliente_,[ ] or direct their inquiries into the hidden treasures of a savoury _olla_. some were assisting the hostess and her somewhat pretty daughters, in their culinary operations; and many were assembled round the wide chimney piece, drinking, smoking, manufacturing _papelitos_ for the morrow's consumption, and relating their adventures. here also were seated several of the village magnates, who repair nightly to this convenient rendezvous, as well to indulge a natural propensity to gossip, as to hear the news from _la plaza_, and negotiate with the arrieros for their contraband cottons and tobacco. the whole presented an interior quite suited to the pencil of a teniers. a bright wood fire sparkled on the wide hearth, shedding a brilliant red light upon the group of animated figures assembled in its immediate vicinity, and here and there also picking out some conspicuous figure from the more distant parties. the back ground was in deep murillo shade, excepting on one side; where the flickering flame of a solitary lamp, contrasting its pale light with that of the fire, cast a yellow tinge on the squalid features of the hostess and her helpmates, round whom the eyes of some dozen of cats danced like monster fireflies. a well polished _batterie de cuisine_; sides of bacon; ropes of onions; platters; goblets and tobacco smoke, were not wanting to fill up the picture. but it was perfect without the aid of such accessories; the spirit and expression of each actor in the spanish scene, and the diversity of costume, giving it a decided superiority over a picture of the "_flemish school_;" in which foaming pots of beer, and a melting _frau_, must needs be introduced, to extract animation from the stolid features of the assembled boors. the lower order of spaniards have a great deal of racy humour which renders them admirable _raconteurs_. the _arrieros_ assembled round the fire on the present occasion were relating some story of the barbarous treatment received by a good capuchin friar, at the hands of some wicked _ladrones_,[ ] who, finding he possessed nothing worth being plundered of, had bastinadoed his feet until he could not walk, tied his hands together, enveloped him in a goat skin, fastened a pair of ram's horns on his head, a bell to his rosary, and suspending that from his neck, had left him to crawl as he best could, to the nearest village. this tale, though not addressed to him, was evidently intended for the ears of a monk of the same mendicant order, who, pale and trembling, sat in one corner of the chimney place, listening, with open-mouthed attention, to every word the _arrieros_ said; at the same time counting his beads without intermission, and crossing himself devoutly at the relation of each fresh act of barbarity practised on his unfortunate brother. from the significant glances that from time to time passed between the narrators,--for several of the assembled group came forward to vouch for the truth of the story,--and latterly between them and ourselves, when they saw we were aware of the drift of their joke; it was evidently all fiction; but the tale was told with such minute details, and its veracity maintained by so many asseverations, that any one, not seeing the by-play, might easily, like the unhappy monk, have been made the victim of the hoax. "_caramba!_" at length exclaimed the _alcalde mayor_[ ] of gaucin, who occupied one corner of the fireplace--"_caramba!_ this is a strange story! and it is most extraordinary, that in my official capacity"--this was said with a certain magisterial air--"i should not have been made acquainted with it. pray tell me; _when_ did this happen? and what became of the pious man?"--"with respect to the time," said another muleteer, taking up the story, "i cannot precisely inform you; but that matters little; be satisfied that, in the narration of the story, _no se salga un punto de la verdad_.[ ] as for the friar, he crawled to the nearest village, driving before him all the cattle he encountered on the road, like mad things--asses braying--dogs barking; and cows with their tails in the air as erect as palm trees. the inhabitants took the alarm; and, snatching up their _niños_ and _rosarios_, scampered off without listening to what the _padre_ was crying:--indeed the louder he hallooed to them to stop, the faster they ran; for they all thought it was the devil that was at their heels."--"and i believe think so to this day," joined in another arriero, taking his cigar from his mouth, and rolling forth a long cloud of smoke--"for at last, the village priest, seizing upon a crucifix in one hand, and an _escopeta_[ ] in the other, and repeating a heap of _ave marias_, _pater nostres_, and _credos_, went out to meet the beast. on getting within gunshot, he presented the _escopeta_ (for i saw it myself, though he said afterwards it was the crucifix,) upon which the figure fell prostrate on the ground. so then the _cura_ went up to it, and, after a few minutes, beckoned the people forward, and told them how he had cast a devil out of a good capuchin, and showed the skin and horns he had kept as trophies. the skin was cut up and sold to the bystanders for charms against the evil one; and the friar was placed on an ass, and conveyed to the _cura's_ dwelling, where he remained until his feet were healed. he then returned to his convent, telling every body that he had been assailed by devils in the form of contrabandistas, and that a miracle had been wrought in his favour." here all crossed themselves--arrieros inclusive. others of the muleteers were bandying compliments with the crabbed old landlady; one swearing that her wine was as sweet as her face; another that her breath was more savoury than a _chorizo_;[ ] a third that his chocolate was less clear than her complexion: all which jokes she bore with stoical indifference, returning generally, however, a rowland for an oliver. at length our supper was announced, and we betook ourselves to the loft, where we found four chairs and a low table had been added to the furniture. our meal consisted of a stewed fowl, that had been pulled down from the roost before our eyes, not an hour before; an omelet abounding in onion and garlic; and, what we found far more palatable, ham and bread and butter, which we had taken care to come provided with. i must not, however, omit to do justice to the gaucin wine, which is excellent, and has much the flavour of a _sound_ niersteiner. the best is grown on the side of the _hacho_, or peaked mountain above the town. all the wine of the serrania is good, when not _flavoured_ with aniseed; but it must be "drunk on the premises;" for the vile habit of carrying it in pig-skins is sure to give it some bad taste--either of the skin itself, if new, or of its preceding contents, (probably aniseed brandy) if old. i tried in vain to get some pure guacin wine conveyed to gibraltar, but it had always a "smack" of the unclean animal's skin. chapter iv. journey to ronda continued--a word on the passport and bill of health nuisances, and spanish custom-house officers--romantic scenery--splendid view--benadalid--atajate--first view of the vale of ronda--a dissertation on adventures, to make up for their absence--ludicrous instance of the effects of putting the cart before the horse. "_a quien madruga, dios le ayuda_,"[ ] is a common spanish saying; and though our hard beds took off much from the merit of our early rising, it nevertheless brought its reward, by enabling us to witness a sunrise scene of most surpassing beauty. partaking of a cup of chocolate,--a breakfast that every arriero indulges in,--a slice of bread fried in hog's lard--which is a much better thing, and quite as wholesome, as _breakfast bacon_--we lit our cigars, paid our bill--a little fortune to the lady of the hostel--and bestrode our horses without more delay. in this part of spain passports are not included amongst the drags upon travelling. you should be provided with one, in case of getting into trouble of any kind; but, excepting during the prevalence of the cholera, i never, in any of my numerous peregrinations, was even asked to produce it. i happened at that particular period ( ) to have undertaken the journey from gibraltar to madrid. the disease was raging with fatal violence on the banks of the lower guadalquivir, and, spreading eastward, had appeared in various towns and villages at the foot of the serranía de ronda. at the same time, reports were rife of its existence at malaga, estepona, and other places situated on the shores of the mediterranean. i had therefore to thread my way to cordoba, (where i hoped to fall in with the diligence from seville to the capital) through the heart of the serranía, and was obliged in some cases to avoid particular towns lying in the direct route, because--though no suspicion existed of their being infected with the dreadful disease--they chanced to be within the limits of the kingdom of seville, which was placed, _in toto_, under the ban of quarantine. my passport, or, more properly speaking, my bill of health--for the political importance of the former yielded to the sanatory consequence of its more humble-looking adjunct--was then in great request; the entrance to every little village being interdicted, until the constituted authority had come forward to see that all was right. on one of these occasions, i found a beggar officiating as inspector of health and passports, and i must do him the justice to say, that he performed his duty in the most honourable manner, not asking for "_una limosnita par el amor de dios_"[ ] until he had carefully examined every part of the lengthy document, and pronounced it to be _corriente_.[ ] on another occasion, a swineherd was decorated with the yellow cockade and sword of office. in this instance, i thought the bill of the inn at san roque (which i happened to have in my pocket-book) would answer every purpose, and save time. he examined it most gravely; turned it over and over--for it was rather a long and a very illegible ms.--said it was perfectly correct, (a point on which we differed most materially) and dismissed me with a _vaya usted con dios_.[ ] on my present tour, however, we experienced no obstructions of any sort; for custom-house barriers, though now and then met with at the large towns, occasion no longer delay than a turnpike in england, and are as regularly paid; the _aduanero_[ ] holding out his hand as openly and confidently for the bribe, as the gatekeeper does for his toll. it is scarcely possible to imagine more romantic and, at the same time, more varied scenery than that which presents itself between gaucin and ronda. for the greater part of the first three leagues[ ] (full fourteen english miles) to atajate, the road winds along the summit of a low mountain chain, (i speak only as compared with the height of the neighbouring sierras) the western side of which slopes gracefully to the clear and tortuous guadiaro, whilst the eastern falls abruptly to the dark and rapid genal. in some places, the width of the mountain ridge exceeds but little that of the road itself; enabling the traveller to embrace the two valleys at one glance, and compare their respective beauties. the difference between them is very remarkable; for whilst the sides of both are clothed with the richest vegetation, yet the more gentle character of the one has encouraged the husbandman to devote his labour principally to the culture of corn, hemp, and the vine; whereas, the steep and broken banks of the other, being less accessible to the plough, are mostly planted with groves of fig, olive, chesnut, and almond trees; though vineyards are also pretty abundant. for the same reason, though both valleys are studded with villages, yet those along the sloping banks of the guadiaro are large, and distant from each other; whilst, in the more contracted valley of the genal, almost every isolated crag is occupied by a group of houses, or a dilapidated fortilage, mementoes of the saracenic occupation; as the names, benarrabá, benastépar, algatocin, genalguacil, benalhauría, benadalid, &c. sufficiently attest. beyond the valleys on either side, rise chains of rugged mountains; some covered to their very peaks with dark forests of pine and ilex; others rearing their pointed summits beyond the bounds of vegetation. the eastern chain is that which borders the mediterranean shore between estepona and marbella; the western is the yet more lofty sierra that divides the waters of the guadiaro and guadalete; directing the former to the mediterranean, the latter to the atlantic; and terminating in the ever-memorable headland of trafalgar. through the passes between the huge peaks that break the summit of this bold range, an occasional glimpse may be caught of the low and far distant ground about cadiz and chiclana; but the view that most excites the traveller's admiration is obtained from a knoll on the road side, about three miles from gaucin, looking back on that place, and down the verdant valley of the genal. the ruins of the old moorish fortress occupy the right of the picture, the cragged ridge on which it is perched jutting boldly into the valley, and (uncheered by the sun's rays) standing out in fine relief from the bright, vine-clad slope of the impending _sierra del hacho_, and yet more distant mountains. to the left, the view is bounded by the rugged peaks of the sierra cristellina, from the foot of which a dense but variegated forest spreads entirely across the valley, wherein may here and there be traced the snake-like course of the impatient genal. further on, the valley presents a wider opening; but the little stream still has to struggle for a passage amongst the wide spreading roots of the retiring mountains, which, overlapping each other in rapid succession, present, for many miles, a most singularly furrowed country. calpe's fantastic peaks rear themselves above all these intermediate ridges, marking the boundary of europe: whilst, to the left of the celebrated promontory, ceuta may be seen, stretching far into the glassy mediterranean, and to the right, the huge sierra bullones, (apes hill) falling perpendicularly to the straits of gibraltar. in the extreme distance, the african mountains rise in successive ranges, until closed by the chain of the lower atlas, the faint blue outline of which may be distinctly traced in this transparent atmosphere, although at a distance of at least one hundred miles. it is a scene that amply repays the traveller for all the désagrémens of his night's lodging, and one which, numerous as were my visits to gaucin, i always turned my back upon with regret. i do so even now, and proceed on to ronda, leaving the villages of algatocin and benalhauría, situated on the side of the mountain, to the right of the road, and about pistol-shot from it; and in a few miles more, descending by a rough zig-zag track (something worse than a decayed staircase) towards the little town of benidalid; which, with its picturesque castle, stands also somewhat off the road, and immediately under a lofty tor of decomposed rock, distinguished by the name of the _peñon de los frailes_,[ ] and seems doomed, some day or other, to have the holy mound upon its shoulders. the next and last village on the road is atajate, distant about ten miles from ronda. it is nestled in a narrow pass, overhung on one side by the mountain chain along which the road has hitherto been conducted, (and which here begins to rise considerably above it) and on the other, by a conical crag, whose summit is occupied by the picturesque ruins of a moorish fortress. in former ages, the houses of the hardy mountaineers, clustered round the base of the little fastness, must have been secure from all attack; and even now the pass, which here cuts the direct communication between gibraltar and ronda, (and consequently madrid) might be held against a very superior force. immediately after passing atajate, the character of the scenery undergoes a complete change. the mountains become more rugged and arid, rising in huge masses some thousand feet above the road, and are tossed about in curious confusion. patches of corn and flax are yet here and there to be seen, and the valley beneath is still clothed with cork and ilex; but the vineyards, olive grounds, and chesnut groves, have altogether disappeared, and the villages are far apart, and distant from the road. on advancing some little way further, all traces of cultivation cease. the road,--if a collection of jagged blocks of granite can be so called,--traverses a succession of perilous ascents and descents; sometimes being conducted along the brink of an awful precipice, at others carried under huge masses of crumbling rock. here and there may, nevertheless, be traced the remains of a paved road, that, in the days of spain's pride, was made for the express purpose of transporting artillery and stores to the siege of gibraltar. it is now--so sadly is spain fallen!--purposely suffered to go to decay, lest it should offer facilities for making irruptions from that same fortress! on drawing near the head of the valley, several narrow cut-throat passes present themselves, bringing forcibly to mind don quijote's speech to his faithful squire, on reaching the puerto lapice, "_aqui, hermano sancho, podemos meter las manos hasta los codos en esto que llaman aventuras._"[ ] but, on gaining the summit of the chain, the country becomes more open, and the traveller again breathes freely. a few meagre crops of corn are scattered here and there between the rocks, and the bells of the fathers of a herd of goats are heard tinkling amongst the gorse and palmeta that fringe the feet of the impending tors, bespeaking the vicinity of fellow man, and giving the traveller a pleasing consciousness of security, whilst he checks his horse to gaze on the splendid scene before him: for here the lovely basin of ronda first bursts upon his view, rich as ceres and pomona can make it. in the centre of the verdant plain, but crowning the summit of an isolated rocky eminence, stands the shining city,--its patched and crumbling walls telling of many a protracted siege and desperate assault. beyond, the view is bounded by a range of wooded mountains, that forms the western barrier of the secluded basin, and up the rough sides of which, the roads to cadiz, seville, and xeres, may be traced, winding their tedious way. the descent to ronda is long, and, from the badness of the road, extremely wearying. the whole distance from gaucin (about miles) occupied us seven hours. i regret much that my reader should have had to accompany me over this savage and romantic country--the reputed _head-quarters_ of banditti--without encountering a single adventure; but the truth is, they are by no means so plentiful as people have generally been led to believe. i may speak with some confidence on this point; since, independently of my long residence in the immediate vicinity of this wild tract--during which every well authenticated case of outrage and robbery came to my knowledge--i have by personal experience been able to form a pretty correct estimate of the amount of danger incurred by the traveller. i have traversed the country, however, in all directions, and at all seasons; in all characters, and in all dresses. i have gone on foot, on horseback, _en calesa_, (where the roads admitted of my so doing) alone, attended by a single servant, in parties of four, six, and eight:--as a sportsman, _en militaire_, as a peasant, as a _majo_: and yet i never "met with an adventure." it is true, i have had many very narrow escapes--that is to say, judging from the information i invariably received--for never did i leave a _venta_, that i was not mysteriously told the road i was about to take was the most dangerous in the whole serranía; that i should be sure to encounter _mala gente_; and that it was but a few days before, a robbery--perhaps murder--had taken place, on that very road, attended with most heart-rending and appalling circumstances! but a little cross-questioning soon convinced me that my informant knew nothing of the who, the when, and the where, to which his tale referred; and the story was always reduced to a shrug of the shoulders and a _se dice_.[ ] the plain truth is, that almost every one the traveller comes in contact with is, in some way or other, interested in spreading these reports to create alarm. the _ventero_[ ] has a natural disinclination to part with a good customer, and hopes either to persuade his guest to hire additional horses and guides, or to detain him whilst he seeks for further information. the guide finds it his interest to alarm his employer, if only _pour faire valoir ses services_ in piloting him clear of these reported scyllas and charybdises. the contrabandista tries to frighten the stranger, that he may learn which road he is travelling and what is his business; the arriero simply for his amusement. the peasant alone has no purpose to serve in deceiving the traveller, neither has he any intention of so doing; for he himself implicitly believes all the stories he hears, and repeats them with the usual notes and addenda of a second edition. he never stirs out of a circle of a league and a half from his dwelling--that is, beyond the range of his herd of goats, or the nearest market town--and he hears these tales repeated night after night, at the venta chimney-piece--each arriero trying to outdo his brother in the marvellous and horrible--until he becomes convinced of their veracity, and repeats them as well authenticated facts. the state of the country is also such, that when a robbery actually is committed--and such crimes will be perpetrated in the best regulated countries--the traveller hears of it from so many different people, but related with such various attendant circumstances, and stated to have occurred in so many different places, that he naturally multiplies it into a dozen at least. it is in this way that foreigners, who in general know but little of the language, and still less of the topography, of the country, become dupes to this system of deception, and adopt in consequence a most unfavourable opinion of spanish honesty; regarding every fierce-looking fellow, with piercing black eyes, a three days' beard, and a long knife stuck in his sash, as a robber; and every cross on the road side as the _memento mori_ of some waylaid traveller. whereas, in point of fact, if this mountainous and intricate tract were peopled by our own more highly educated and civilized countrymen, i fear--in spite of our vigilant and, it must be confessed, admirable police--we should be liable to have our pockets picked in a much less delicate and unobtrusive manner, than is now practised in the streets of london. that robberies and murders have taken place in this part of spain, and sometimes been attended with most revolting cruelty, is most true; but they have almost always been perpetrated at a time that some unusual political excitement agitated the country, unnerving the arm of power, and even--as has often been the case--placing the civil authorities at the mercy of a ruffian band of undisciplined soldiers. i regret, however, as before said, that though i courted adventure in every possible way, (as i think must be admitted) yet my suit was always unsuccessful; and since i cannot interest my reader with any account of my own personal risks, i will endeavour to amuse him, with the imaginary dangers of some of my countrymen, which at the same time will serve to show how easily a few simple words may, through ignorance of the language of the country, be made to tell a tale of direful import. the occurrence to which i allude took place not many years since, when the country round gibraltar was infested by a band of robbers, headed by a notorious miscreant named _josé maria_. moving about from place to place with extraordinary rapidity, these scoundrels completely baffled all pursuit, but of course gave a wide berth to the garrisons of san roque and algeciras; so that the english officers were not deterred from sallying forth from gibraltar with their fox-hounds, and pursuing the favourite national sport. on one occasion, however, renard had led them close upon the border of the almoraima forest, and some of the party--perhaps a little "_thrown out_"--were making a short cut across a field of young barley, when, the owner of the thriving crop, perceiving the mischief the horses' hoofs were doing, and unconscious of the value of the words "_'ware corn_," cried lustily out to the red-coated gentry, in his own vernacular--"_fuera!--jesús! maría! josef! mi cibada! mi cañamo! todo, se echarà à perder!_"[ ] the wave of the arm that accompanied this exclamatory "_fuera!_" clearly implied, _be off_; and the sportsmen, full of the exploits of the dread bandit, translating the words "_jesus, maria josé_," "_by the lord, here's josé maria_;" naturally concluded that the remainder of the sentence, (pronounced with much gesticulation) could mean nothing but save yourselves, or you'll be hanged, drawn, and quartered. not waiting, therefore, to lose time in questions, they set spurs to their horses, and rode _ventre à terre_ into the english garrison. now the wonderful echo of killarney is a joke compared to the reverberation that a story is sent back with, from the "four corners" in the high street of gibraltar. accordingly, a report was soon spread, that _josé maria_ had come down close to the spanish lines, and made a capture of the "whole field,"--hounds, huntsmen, and whipper-in inclusive! a statement of the case was instantly forwarded by an express boat to the spanish general commanding at algeciras; who, rejoicing at the opportunity of capturing the miscreant band which had so long eluded his vigilance, forthwith despatched "horse, foot, and dragoons," to scour the country in all directions. of course their search was fruitless; but the laughable mistake that had occurred, from simply making josé and maria change places, was discovered only on the return of the other sportsmen, who, after "a capital run," had secured master renard's services for another occasion. chapter v. the basin of ronda--sources of the river guadiaro--remarkable chasm through which it flows--city of ronda--date of its foundation--former names--general description--castle--bridges--splendid scenery--public buildings--amphitheatre--population--trade--smuggling--wretched state of the commerce, manufactures, and internal communications of spain, and evils and inconvenience resulting therefrom--rare productions of the basin of ronda--amenity of its climate--agremens of the city--excellent society--character of its inhabitants. the basin of ronda is situated in the very heart of a labyrinth of rough and arid sierras, which, distinguished, _par excellence_, by the name of the _serranía de ronda_, may be described as the gnarled and wide-spreading roots of the great mountain ridge, that, traversing spain diagonally, divides the affluents to the mediterranean from those to the atlantic, and finally unites with, and becomes a branch of, the pyrenean chain. this singularly secluded and romantic valley is about eight miles in length and five wide, and, though sunk deep below the mountain ridges that girt it in on every side, is at least feet above the level of the mediterranean. its soil is rich, and is rendered peculiarly fertile by the numerous sources of the guadiaro, which traverse it in all directions. the name of this river--composed of the arabic words, _guada al diar_--signifies, water of the houses; an appellation it probably obtained, from the number of habitations that are said to have lined its productive banks in former days. the principal branch of this mountain stream takes its rise to the eastward of ronda, amongst some curiously jagged and fantastic peaks, on which have most appropriately been bestowed the name of the "old woman's teeth," (_dientes de la vieja._) escaped from their fangs, the gurgling rivulet, increased by numerous tributary streams, directs its course more leisurely through the vale, winding its way amongst luxuriant vineyards, orchards, olive grounds, and corn-fields, until it reaches the foot of the crag, on which, as has before been stated, stands the city of ronda. here it would appear that nature had, in early ages, presented a barrier to the further progress of the stream; as a rocky ledge stretches quite across the bed of this portion of the valley, and, most probably, by damming up the waters poured down from the mountain ravines, formed a lake on its eastern side. but, gathering strength from resistance, the little mountain torrent eventually worked itself an outlet, and now rushes foaming through a deep, narrow chasm, leaping from precipice to precipice, until, the rocky barrier forced, it once more reaches a level country. on either side of the fearful chasm--or _tajo_, as it is called in the language of the country--which the persevering torrent has thus worked in the rocky ledge, stands the city of ronda; one portion of which, encircled by an old embattled wall, that overhangs the southern cliff of the fissure, is distinguished as the old town, and as the site of a roman city; whilst the more widely spread buildings on the opposite bank bear the name of _el mercadillo_,[ ] or new town. the present walls of the old town were evidently raised by the saracens, and no traces are perceptible of any others having occupied their place. nevertheless, it can hardly be supposed that so eligible a site for a station would have been overlooked by the romans; and the spanish antiquaries have accordingly determined it to be the position of _arunda_ (one of the cities mentioned by pliny as situated in that part of boetica inhabited by the _celtici_)--a conclusion which both its present name and the discovery of many ancient roman inscriptions and statues in its vicinity tend to confirm. some, however, maintain that ronda is the site of the munda, under whose walls was sealed the fate of the sons of pompey. but the adjacent country ill agrees with the description of it handed down to us; and the little town of monda, situated near the mediterranean shore, is more generally admitted to have been the scene of julius cæsar's victory[ ]. however the case may be, this city, under the domination of the moors, became one of their principal strongholds; for having, with various other cities, been ceded by ishmael king of granada to the emperor of fez--whose aid against the storm gathering in castille (a.d. ) he deemed essential for the preservation of his newly-acquired throne--it was some few years afterwards, with algeciras, ximena, marbella, and gibraltar,[ ] formed into a kingdom for that emperor's son, _abou melic_; and this prince, passing over into spain, (a.d. ) established his court at ronda; building a splendid palace there, and, according to the usual custom of the moors, erecting a formidable castle on the highest pinnacle of the rocky mound. the natural defences of the city were also strengthened by a triple circuit of walls, rendering it almost impregnable. the moorish name given to the place was _hisnorrendi_, the laurelled castle; but, on returning to the hands of the spaniards, (a.d. ) it assumed its present mongrel appellation; in which its etymological claims upon the celtic and arabic languages are pretty equally balanced, as the following old couplet partly illustrates;-- _y con el tiempo se ha desbaratado_ _el hisna randa, y ronda se ha llamado._[ ] the existing circumvallation is very irregular, and embraces little more than the mere summit of the rocky ledge on which the city stands; confining it consequently within very narrow limits. its length, however, is considerable; and at its southern extremity, where the ground slopes more gradually to the narrow gorge that connects it with the neighbouring mountains, a triple line of outworks continues yet to supply the want of the natural walls which elsewhere render the place so difficult of access. on the crest of the ridge overlooking these advanced works, stands the shell of the capacious castle; or royal palace, as it is called. its solid walls and vaulted chambers denote it to have been a work of great strength. it is now, however, but a vast heap of ruins; the french, on finally evacuating ronda in , having destroyed the principal part of it. the only entrance to the city, from the country, is through a succession of gates, in the before-mentioned outworks, the last of which is immediately under the walls of the old palace. from this gate, a long and narrow, but tolerably straight street, traverses the city from south to north, terminating at the upper or new bridge, and being nearly three quarters of a mile in length. this street is lined with handsome shops, and from it, numerous alleys (for they deserve no better name) lead off right and left, winding and turning in all directions, and communicating with numberless little courts, crooked passages, and _culs de sac_; quite in the style of an eastern city. in wandering through this labyrinth, the perplexed topographer is astonished to find a number of remarkably handsome houses. in fact, it is the _mayfair_ of ronda--the aristocratic location of all the _hidalguía_[ ] of the province;--who, proud of the little patch of land their forefathers' swords conquered from the accursed moslems, would as soon think of denying the infallibility of the pope, as of taking up their abode amongst the mercantile inhabitants of the mushroom suburb. the new town, however, i must needs confess,--despite all aristocratic predilections,--is by far the most agreeable place of residence. the principal streets are wide, and tolerably straight; it contains some fine open _plazas_ or squares; and although the houses are thus more exposed to the influence of the sun, yet, from the same cause, they enjoy a freer circulation of air. the absence of an enclosing wall tends also, in point of coolness, to give the _mercadillo_ an advantage over the city; leaving it open to receive the full benefit of the refreshing breezes that sweep down from the neighbouring mountains. but, though destitute of battlements, the new town is nearly as difficult of approach, and as incapable of expansion, as the walled city itself; for, bounded on its south side by the deep _tajo_, and to the west, by an almost equally formidable cliff that branches off from it, its eastern limits are determined by a rocky ledge that extends diagonally towards the guadiaro; thus leaving the access free only on its north side. the ground in all directions falls more or less rapidly inwards; and the town, thus spread over it, assumes the form of an amphitheatre, looking into the rocky bed of the guadiaro. there are three bridges across the river, communicating between the two towns: the first--a work of the moors--connects the suburb of san miguel, situated at the lowest part of the new town, with some tanneries and other buildings standing outside the walls of the ancient city. it is very narrow, and being thrown over the stream just before it enters the dark fissure, does not exceed forty feet in height. the second crosses the chasm at a single span, where its banks have already attained a considerable elevation, and affords an entrance to the old town by a gateway in the n.e. corner of its present walls. the last and principal bridge is a noble, though somewhat heavy structure of much more recent date than the others, and furnishes an excellent specimen of the bold conception and peculiar taste of the spaniards of the last century. it is thrown across the chasm where its precipitous banks have attained their greatest elevation, and its parapet is feet above the stream that flows beneath, and nearly above the level of the plain to which it is hastening. a bridge was erected at this same spot a hundred years back,[ ] which spanned the frightful fissure in one arch, and must have been one of the boldest works of the kind, ever (up to that time) undertaken; since its diameter could not have been less than feet. unfortunately, the workmanship was in some way defective, (or more probably the foundation,) and it fell down but a few years after its completion. the present structure was then commenced, which, if not so airy and picturesque as the former must have been, possesses the more solid qualities of safety and durability. this bridge also spans the lower portion of the fissure in one arch, springing from solid buttresses that rest on the rocky bed of the torrent. but, as the chasm widens rapidly, this first arch is merely carried sufficiently high to admit of the free passage of the stream at all seasons, and is then surmounted by a second, of the same span but much greater elevation; and the massive buttresses on either side are lightened in appearance by being pierced with arches to correspond--thus making the bridge consist of three arches above and one below. the view from the parapet of this bridge is quite enchanting. the sensation of giddiness that seizes the spectator on first leaning over the yawning abyss, leaves a feeling of pleasureable excitement, similar to that produced by a slight shock of a galvanic battery. the distant roar of the foaming torrent also warns him of his perilous height; but the solid nature of the bounding wall quickly removes all feeling of insecurity, and allows him, whilst he rests against it, to enjoy at his leisure the noble view before him, in which are combined the rich and varied tints of a southern clime, with the bold outlines and wild beauties of an alpine region. the view looking over the eastern parapet of the bridge is of a more gloomy character than that from the opposite side, but is equally grand and imposing. in the bottom of the dark fissure--which here the sun's rays seldom reach--the transparent rivulet may be tracked, winding its way leisurely through the tortuous channel; here and there interrupted in its course by masses of fallen rock, and partially overshadowed by trees and creepers; whilst its precipitous banks, from whose rugged surface it might be supposed no vegetation could possibly spring, are thickly covered with the _higo chumbo_,[ ] (prickly pear) amongst whose thorny boughs numerous ragged urchins may be seen--almost suspended in air--intent on obtaining their favourite fruit. beyond the dark tajo, the sun shines on the green fields and vineyards of the fertile plain; and yet further behind are the low wooded sierras that bound the vale of ronda to the north. the city can boast of few public buildings to excite the interest of a stranger. the churches are numerous, and gaudily fitted up; but they contain neither paintings nor statuary of any merit. in the new town, on the other hand, are the theatre--a small but conveniently fitted up edifice--the stables of the _real maestranza_;[ ] and the _plaza de los toros_; which latter, though not so large as those of the principal cities of the province, is certainly one of the handsomest in spain. it is built of stone, and nearly of a circular form, and is capable of containing , persons. the roof is continued all round; which is not the case in most amphitheatres; and it is supported by a colonnade of pillars of the tuscan order. the greatest diameter of the _arena_ is feet, which is precisely the _width_ of that of the flavian amphitheatre at rome. the internal economy of the bull-fighting establishment is well worthy the observation of those who are curious in such matters; being very complete and well ordered, though not now kept up in the style of by-gone days. the two towns together contain about , inhabitants, who are principally employed in agricultural and horticultural pursuits; though there are several manufactories of hats, two or three tanneries, and numerous water-mills. ronda is a place of considerable commerce; its secluded and at the same time central situation adapting it peculiarly for an emporium for smuggled goods; in which, it may be said, the present trade of spain entirely consists. the vicinity of gibraltar and cadiz; the impracticable nature of the country between those ports and along the mediterranean shore; the difficult and intricate mountain paths that traverse it (known only to the smugglers); and the wretched state of the national army and navy; all tend to favour the contraband trade; and more especially that of ronda, where the same facilities present themselves for getting smuggled goods _away from_ the place, as of bringing them from the coast to it. it is lamentable blindness on the part of the spanish government,--considering the deplorable state of the manufactures of the country; of the "shipping interest;" of the roads and other means of inland communication; and, to crown all, i may add, of the _finances_,--not to see the advantage that would accrue from lowering the duties on foreign produce; on tobacco, cocoa, and manufactured goods in particular, which may be considered as absolute necessaries to all classes of spaniards. by so doing, not only would the present demoralising system of smuggling be put an end to,--since it would then be no longer a profitable business,--but the money which now clings to the fingers of certain venal authorities of the customs, or finds its way into the pockets of the troops[ ] and sailors employed on the preventive service, in the way of bribes, would then stand some chance of reaching the public treasury. the sums thus iniquitously received (and willingly paid by the smugglers) amounts to a charge of per cent. on the value of the prohibited articles; a duty to that amount, or even something beyond, would therefore readily be paid, to enable the purchaser to take his goods openly into the market. the trade would thus fall into more respectable hands; competition would increase; and the sellers would be satisfied with smaller profits. this would naturally lead to an increased demand, and the revenue would be proportionably benefited. the obsolete notions that wed the spaniards to their present faulty system are, first, that, by opening the trade to foreign powers, their own country would be drained of its specie, in which they seem to think the riches of a nation consist; and secondly, that the national manufactures would be ruined, if not protected by the imposition of high duties on those of other countries. the fallacy of these ideas is evident; for it would not be possible to devise any plan by which money could be kept in a country, when the articles that country stands in need of are to be bought cheaper elsewhere; and it is futile to suppose--as, however, is fondly imagined--that spain's doubloons go only to her colonies, to be brought back in taxation, or for the purchase of the produce of the mother country. as well might _we_ imagine that zante alone could furnish england with her christmas consumption of currants, as that cuba and the philippine islands (all the colonies worth enumerating that spain now possesses) could supply her with tobacco, cocoa, and cinnamon. and, as the above-mentioned articles are as much necessaries of life in spain, as tea and sugar--not to say the aforesaid currants--are in england, the deficiency, _coute qui coute_, must be made good somewhere; and consequently spanish money will have to be expended in procuring what is wanting. a much greater evil than this, however, is occasioned by the enormously high duty placed by the mother country on these very articles, the produce of her dependencies; so that even her own colonial produce is smuggled to her through the hands of foreigners! with respect to the favour shown and encouragement given to her own manufactures, by the prohibitory duties imposed on those of other nations, it must be evident to any one at all acquainted with the state of the inland communications of spain, that the country is not in a sufficiently advanced state of civilization to warrant its engaging in such undertakings with any prospect of success. the factories that are already in existence cannot supply clothing for one fourth part of the population of the country; to which circumstance alone are they indebted for being able to continue at work; for if the number were increased, all would inevitably fail. the same cause, therefore, here also exists, to encourage smuggling, as in the case of the consumable articles, tobacco, spices, &c.--viz. the necessity of finding a supply to meet the demand. it is quite surprising that, for such a length of time, and under so many different administrations, spain should have continued thus blind to her own interest. but, without going the length i have suggested, much good might be effected, by merely giving up the farming out the taxes and various monopolies, and by putting a stop to sundry other abuses, such as the sale of places, by which the crown revenues are principally raised. if the present faulty system were abandoned,--by which a few individuals only are enriched to the prejudice of the rest of the community,--numerous speculators would be found ready to embark their capitals in mining operations, in the construction of railroads, canals, &c. which would be productive of incalculable benefit to the country; for, by such means, the produce of the fertile plains in the interior of spain would be able to come with advantage into the foreign market; whilst the varied productions of this fruitful country, by being distributed throughout its provinces with a more equal hand, would be within the reach, and add to the comforts of all classes of its inhabitants. at the present day, such is the want of these means of communication, that it frequently happens an article which is plentifully produced in one province is absolutely difficult to procure in another. one province, for instance, has wine, but wants bread; another has corn, but not any wood; a third abounds in pasture, but has no market for its cheese, butter, &c., thus rendering the cattle it possesses of comparatively little value. from the same cause, large tracts of land lie waste in many parts of spain, because the crops they would yield, if cultivated, would not pay the cost of transport, even to the adjoining province; and a prodigious quantity of wine is annually destroyed, (a cruel fate from which even the divine _val de peñas_ is not exempt!) because the casks and pig-skins containing it are of more value, on the spot where the wine is grown, than is the wine itself. what remains unsold, therefore, at the end of the year, is frequently poured into the street, in order that the casks may be available for the new wine.--such would also be the fate of all the _light_ wines grown on the banks of the guadalete, but that the vicinity of port st. mary and cadiz makes it worth the grower's while to prepare them with brandy and stronger bodied wines, to bear the rolling over the bay of biscay. in an article of produce so readily transported as barley, i have known the price of a _fanega_[ ] vary no less than four _reales vellon_[ ] on the opposite sides of the same chain of mountains; and i have seen barbary wheat selling at gibraltar, for one third less than corn of spanish growth could be purchased at san roque. this certainly would not be the case, if the riches of spain could be distributed more easily over the whole face of the country; and since the demand for exportation would thereby be greatly increased, more industrious habits would be engendered, and an important step would thus be made towards civilization. i must not, however, enlarge on this subject; otherwise, (besides peradventure wearying my reader) i shall certainly incur the displeasure of my quondam acquaintances of the serrania; since any thing that may be suggested to induce the spanish government to place the commerce of the country on a more liberal footing, would be most unfavourably viewed by the rude inhabitants of the ronda mountains; who--their present profitable occupation ceasing--would be obliged to take to their spades and pruning-knives, and labour for a livelihood in their fields and olive groves. the inhabitants, however, of the favoured basin of ronda, would rather benefit by the change; the produce of their orchards being so rare, as to be in great request all over the country. it is also worthy of remark, that, whilst the sugar-cane succeeds on the plains about malaga, this elevated mountain valley, situated under the same parallel of latitude, enjoys a climate that enables it to produce apples, cherries, plums, peaches, and other stone fruits, that are more properly natives of central europe, but which can hardly be excelled either in england or france. the climate is also considered so favourable to longevity, that it has become a common saying in the country-- _en ronda los hombres_ _de ochenta años son pollones._[ ] but although, even on such tempting terms, one would hardly consent to pass one's entire life at ronda, yet i scarcely know a place where a few weeks may be more agreeably spent. the inns are not good; though that bearing the name of the _holy trinity_--to which in my various visits i always bent my steps, until i could find a suitable lodging--is clean, and its keepers are honest and obliging. lodgings are abundant, and, for spain, very good; the great influx of strangers during the period of the fair having induced the inhabitants to fit up their houses purposely for their accommodation, and given them also some notion of what english travellers require, besides four bare walls, a roof overhead, and a mattress on the floor; the usual sum total of accommodation furnished at spanish inns and lodging-houses. the society of this place is particularly good; a number of the most ancient families of andalusia having congregated here; who, with all the polish of the first circle of spanish society, are exempt from the demoralizing vices which distinguish that of madrid and other large cities. it was only on the occasion of my second visit to the little capital of the _serranía_, that i was so fortunate as to be the bearer of letters of introduction to the principal families; and nothing could possibly exceed the kind attentions they pressed upon me. their friendly hospitality was even extended, on my account, to all the english officers who, like myself, had been attracted to ronda by the fame of its cattle fair and bull fights, and whom i was requested to invite to the balls, &c., which at that festive period were given nightly at their different houses. nor did their kindness cease there; for i afterwards received pressing invitations to visit them, as well at ronda as at the neighbouring _watering-places_, to which they are in the habit of resorting during the summer months; for the spanish fashionables--like those of other climes--deem it essential to their well being to migrate periodically to these rendezvous for dancing and dosing. one of the most _remarkable_ as well as most delightful families of ronda, is that of _holgado y montezuma_. it is lineally descended from the last cacique of mexico, whose name it bears, and whose character and features i almost fancied were to be recognized in the somewhat haughty eye, and occidental cast of countenance, of the present head of the family. the lower orders of inhabitants have, amongst travellers, the credit of being a fierce, intractable race; but this character is by no means merited, and belongs altogether to the savage mountaineers of the serranía. indeed, these latter hold the industrious artizans, and the peasants of the city and plain, in great contempt, and it is a common maledictory expression amongst them-- _en ronda mueras_ _acarreando zaques._[ ] this saying originated in the occupation of bringing up skins of water from the bed of the river,--to which labour the christian captives were condemned, when the city was possessed by the moslems--and still continues to be made use of, in allusion to the ignoble life of labour led by the peaceful inhabitants. chapter vi. ronda fair--spanish peasantry--various costumes--jockeys and horses--lovely view from the new alameda--bull fights--defence of the spanish ladies--manner of driving the bulls into the town--first entrance of the bull--the frightened waterseller--the mina, or excavated staircase--ruins of acinippo--the cueva del gato--the bridge of the fairy. the fair which is held annually at ronda, in the month of may, collects an astonishing concourse of people from all parts of the country, and offers an excellent opportunity for seeing the peculiar costumes of the different provinces, as well as for observing the various shades of character of their respective inhabitants. the national costume, (speaking generally of it) is, without dispute, extremely becoming; for, not only does it set off to advantage such as are naturally well formed, but it conceals the defects of those to whom dame nature has been less kind; making them appear stout, well built fellows--in their own expressive words, "_bien, plantado_"[ ]--when, in point of fact, it ofttimes happens that their slender legs have enough to do to bear the weight of the spare and ill-formed bodies placed upon them. this is very perceptible when, deprived of their broad-brimmed _sombreros_ and stout leather _botines_, the peasantry come to be capped and trousered in a military garb. to a stranger, indeed, it must appear that the spanish troops are collected from the very refuse of the population of the country; so miserable is their look. but the truth is, the conscription (by which the army is raised) is levied with great fairness; and to the change of dress alone, therefore, must the falling off in their appearance be attributed. the spanish peasant, moreover, is the only one in europe,[ ] whose _tenue_ is not improved by the drill serjeant; which may be accounted for by his not, like those of other countries, having been accustomed in his youth to carry burthens upon his _shoulders_. he consequently bends under the new weight of a musket and knapsack, which, so placed, he cannot but find particularly irksome. to return, however, to the crowded city; whilst ronda fair thus periodically furnishes the occasion for a general muster of the natives of all classes, the _fair_ of ronda may claim the merit of holding out to them the inducement to display their figures and wardrobes to the best advantage; and strange are the ways, and various the means, by which the andaluz _majo_[ ] seeks to win the sweet smiles or dazzle the bright eyes of his tinsel-loving countrywomen. amongst the numerous varieties of the genus _majo_, that claiming the first rank may be readily known, by the _seeming_ wish to avoid rather than to court admiration. thus, the rich waistcoat of bright silk or costly velvet, studded with buttons innumerable of the most exquisite gold or silver filigree, is partially concealed, though rendered more brilliant, by the jacket of dark cloth simply ornamented with black braid and tags, which is worn over it; whilst the plain white kerchief that protrudes from either side-pocket requires to be closely examined, to make the extreme delicacy of its texture apparent. others, of more gaudy and questionable taste, hold peagreens and lavenders to be more becoming; and here and there an ultra dandy may be seen, aping the bull-fighter, and bedizened with gold and silver lace; but he is of an inferior caste, and may generally be set down as a _chevalier d'industrie_. another class of the genus is distinguished by the glossy jacket of black goat-skin. the wearers of this singular costume are the _ganaderos_, or cattle owners; whilst those satisfied with the more humble dresses, of brown or white sheep-skin--by no means the least picturesque of the motley crowd--belong to the shepherd tribe. the breeches and gaiters undergo as many varieties as those above specified of the upper garments; but almost all who thus appear in the national costume wear the _sombrero_, or broad-brimmed hat with a high conical crown; the _montera_--a low flat cap, made of black velvet, and ornamented with silk tassels--being now used only by the bull-fighters, and some elderly sticklers for old hats as well as old habits. many scowling fellows, enveloped in capacious cloaks, seemed to have no object in view but to examine with searching eyes the persons of the assembled multitude, and to conceal as much as possible their own from counter observation; and some of the savage mountaineers,--whom nothing but a bull fight, or perhaps the hope of plunder, could draw from their mountain fastnesses,--gave evident signs of never before having seen the british uniform. i may observe here, _en passant_, that a few robberies are generally _heard of_, at the breaking up of the fair; the temptation of well filled pockets and bales of merchandize drawing all the _ladrones_ of the surrounding mountains down to the high roads. the cattle fair is held on a rocky plain beyond the northern limits of the new town. it is not so celebrated as some others held on the banks of the guadalquivir; the narrow stony tracts across the mountains being both inconvenient for driving cattle, and injurious to their feet. nevertheless, it offers a good opportunity for swapping "a _haca_,"[ ] though spanish jockeys--like all others--must be dealt with according to their own proverb--_à picaro, picaro y medio_.[ ] the horses of the south of spain are small, hardy animals, well suited to the mountain roads of the country, but possessing no claims to beauty, beyond a lively head and a sleek coat. the spaniards, by the way, have a strange prejudice in favour of _roman-nosed_ horses. they not only admire the _cabeza de carnero_, (sheep's head) as they call it, but maintain that it is a certain indication of the animal being a "good one." i presume, therefore, the protuberance must be the organ of _ambulativeness_. i was much mortified to find that "almanzor," whose finely finished head, straight forehead, sparkling eye, and dilated nostril, i certainly thought entitled him to be considered the handsomest of his kind in the fair, was looked upon as a very ordinary animal. _no ai vasija que mida los gustos, ni balanza que los iguale_,[ ] as guzman de alfarache says; and my taste will certainly be disputed in other matters besides horseflesh by all spaniards, when i confess to having frequently retired from the busy throng of the fair, or abstained from witnessing the yet more exciting bull fight, to enjoy, without fear of interruption, the lovely view obtained from the shady walks of the new _alameda_.[ ] this delightful promenade is situated at the further extremity of the modern town, overhanging the precipice which has been mentioned as bounding it to the west. the view is similar to that obtained from the parapet of the bridge; but here, the eye ranges over a greater extent of country, commanding the whole of the southern portion of the fertile valley, and taking in the principal part of the mountain chain that encompasses it. for hours together have i sat on the edge of the precipice, receiving the refreshing westerly breeze, and feasting my eyes on the beauteous scene beneath; tracing the windings of the serpent streamlet, and watching the ever-changing tints and shadows, cast by the sun on the deeply-furrowed sides of the mountains, as he rolled on in his diurnal course. all nature seemed to be at rest; not a human being could be seen throughout the wide vale; not a sound came up from it, save now and then the bay of some vigilant watch dog, or the call of the parent partridge to her infant brood. its carefully irrigated gardens, its neatly trimmed vineyards, and, here and there, a low white cottage peeping through blossoming groves of orange and lemon trees, bore evidence of its being fertilized by the hand of man: but where are its inhabitants? nay, where are those of the city itself, whose boisterous mirth but lately rent the air! all is now silent as the grave: the cries of showmen have ceased. the tramp of horses and the lowing of cattle are heard no longer; the thebaic st. anthony himself could not have been more solitary than i found myself.--but, hark. what sound is that? a buz of distant _vivas_ is borne through the air!--it proceeds from the crowded circus--the _matador_ has made a successful thrust--his brave antagonist bites the dust, and he is rewarded with a shower of _pesetas_,[ ] and those cries of triumph!--i regret not having missed witnessing his prowess! but the declining sun tells me that my retreat is about to be invaded; the glorious luminary sinks below the horizon, and the walk is crowded with the late spectators of the poor bull's last agonies. "_jesus!_[ ] _don carlos_"--would exclaim many of my bright-eyed acquaintances--"why were you not at the bull fight?"--"i could not withdraw myself from this lovely spot."--"well, _no ai vasija que mida los gustos_.... you might see this at any other time." there was no replying to such an indisputable fact, but by another equally incontrovertible--viz.--"the sun sets but once a day." the bull-fights of ronda are amongst the best of spain; the animals being selected from the most pugnacious breeds of utrera and tarifa; the _picadores_ from the most expert horsemen of xeres and cordoba; the _matadores_ from the most skilful operators of cadiz and seville; and the whole arrangement of the sports being under the superintendence of the royal _maestranza_. during the fair there are usually three corridas,[ ] at each of which, eight bulls are slaughtered. a bull-fight has been so often described that i will content myself with offering but very few remarks upon the disgusting, barbarous, exciting, interesting sport,--for such it successively becomes, to those who can be persuaded to witness it a second, third, and fourth time. in the first place, i cannot admit, that it is a bit more cruel than an english bull-bait (i speak only from hearsay of the latter), or more disgusting than a pugilistic contest; which latter, whatever pity it may occasion to see human nature so debased, can certainly possess little to _interest_ the spectator, beyond the effect its termination will have upon his _betting-book_. oh!--i hear many of my countrymen exclaim--"i do not complain so much of the cruelty practised on the bulls, or the dangers incurred by the men. the former were made to be killed for our use; the latter are free agents, and enter the arena from choice. i feel only for the poor horses, exposed to be gored and tortured by an infuriated animal, without a chance of ultimate escape." doubtless, the sufferings endured by the poor horses are very disgusting to witness; but it is merely because _we see_ their agonies, that we feel so acutely for them. before we condemn the spaniards, therefore, let us look again at the amusements of our own country, and _consider_ how many birds every sportsman dooms to linger in the excruciating torments of a broken leg or wing, or some painful bodily wound, for each one that he kills!--"but recollect," rejoins my interlocutor, "recollect the difference between a bird and such a _noble animal_ as a horse!"--certes, i reply, a horse is a nobler looking beast than a pheasant or a wild duck; but just observe the wretchedness of our own decayed equinine nobility, standing in trafalgar square and other rendezvous of cabs and hackney coaches!--would it not be comparative charity to end their sufferings by half an hour's exposure in the arena? i must next throw my gauntlet into the arena in behalf of the spanish ladies, who i maintain are vilely aspersed by those who have represented them as taking pleasure in the tortures inflicted on the unfortunate horses, and as expressing delight at the jeopardy in which the lives of the bull's human persecutors are sometimes placed. on such occasions, i have on the contrary remarked, that they always retired to the back part of their box, or, if they could not do that, turned their heads away in disgust or alarm. it may be said, that they have no business at such exhibitions. very true--but surely some allowance is due, considering their want of such breakneck sights as horse-races and steeple-chases? and,--apart the cruelty to the animals,--i see no greater harm in the spanish lady's attendance at a bull-fight, than our fair country-woman's witnessing such national sports.--the _toreadores_[ ] are certainly not exposed to greater risks than the jockeys and gentlemen whom taste or avocation leads daily to encounter the dangers of the field, for the entertainment of the public! at the numerous bull-fights i have witnessed--for i must plead guilty to having become an _aficionado_[ ]--i saw but four men hurt, and who can say as much, that has hunted regularly throughout the season with a pack of fox-hounds? or, that has walked the streets of london for a week, since cabs and omnibuses have been introduced? certainly, it is not unusual to hear female voices cry, "_bravo toro!_" when some fierce bull has, at his first sweep round the circle, borne down all the horsemen opposed to him; and then, maddened with pain, and flushed with victory, but unable to attain his human tormentors, (who, in spite of the ponderous weight of cuirasse, boot leather, and padding that encumbers them, always manage to hobble off to a place of refuge) rushes upon the poor blindfold, abandoned horses; which, with just sufficient strength to get upon their legs, stand trembling in the centre of the arena, quite conscious of their danger, but not knowing which way to avoid it, and thus, one by one, fall victims to the rage of their infuriated enemy.--on such occasions, i repeat, i have heard such encouraging cries proceed from female lips; but he who asserts that they have been uttered by a spanish _lady_ can be classed only with _monsieur pillet_, (i think that was the _quinze jours à londres_ gentleman's name) who stated that all english ladies _boxed_ and drank brandy. the most amusing part of the sport afforded by the bulls is the driving them into the town. this is done at night, and the following is the method adopted. the animals, having been conducted from their native pastures to the vale of ronda, are left to graze upon the sides of the mountains, until the night preceding the first day's _corrida_; when a number of persons--of whom a large proportion are amateurs--proceed from the city, armed with long lances, to drive them into their destined slaughterhouse. the weapons, however, are more for show than use; since the savage animals are decoyed, rather than goaded, into the snare prepared for them. to effect this, some tame animals are intermixed with the new comers on their first arrival; and these, trained by human devices in all the ways of deceit, lead them off to slake their thirst at the purest rill, and point out to them the tenderest pasture wherewith to satisfy their hunger. the unsuspecting strangers, trusting to the _pundonor_ of their new friends, abandon themselves to a cupuan enjoyment of the delights of this fertile region, and perceive not the host of human foes that, under shelter of the night, are stealthily encircling them. the investment completed, a horseman rides forward to attract the attention of their treacherous brethren, who trot off after him, followed by the whole herd. the rest of the horsemen now close upon their rear, urging the bulls forward with loud shouts and blazing torches; and, following close upon the heels of their leader, the wonder-struck animals enter the town at a brisk pace and in compact order. the cross streets having been strongly barricaded, the _avant courier_ of the _calbalgada_ proceeds straight to the court-yard attached to the amphitheatre, the entrance to which alone has been left open, and forthwith ensconces himself in a stable. the savage brutes, bewildered by the strangeness of the scene, the blaze of lights and din of voices, make no attempts either at escape or resistance, but, blindly following his track, enter the court-yard, the gate of which is immediately closed upon them. a number of doors are now thrown open, which communicate with a large apartment boarded off into narrow stalls. into these but one bull at a time can enter, and each of the decoy animals, selecting a separate entrance, is quickly followed by two or three of the strangers. the tame animal is permitted to pass through the narrow passage and escape at the other end; but the unhappy victims of his toils, in attempting to follow his footsteps, find their progress impeded by stout bars let down from above, and are thus finally and securely installed. under this unpleasant restraint they continue until their services are required in the arena; and during this brief period they are open to the inspection of the curious, who can examine them at their ease from the apartment above, the planking of the floor being left open for the express purpose. when the hour of the bull is come, the front bar of his prison is withdrawn, a goad from above urges him forward, and, rushing from his dark cell into the broad daylight, the astonished animal finds himself at once in the _arena_ and within a few paces of a _picador's_ lance, couched ready to receive his attack. some rush upon their enemy without a moment's hesitation; and i have not unfrequently seen a valiant bull overthrow the four _picadores_ placed at intervals round the circus, in less than that number of minutes. but, in general, the animal pauses ere making his first onset--looks round with amazement at the assembled multitude--paws up the dusty surface of the arena--appears bewildered at the novelty of the sight and by the din of voices,--and is undecided where to make the first attack. at length, his eye rests on the nearest picador, and it is seldom withdrawn until he has made his charge. he rushes on his enemy with his head erect, lowering it only when arrived within a few paces. the picador gives point to receive him on the fleshy part of the neck above the right shoulder; and, if his horse be steady, he generally succeeds in turning the bull off. but should the bull, regardless of his wound, return immediately to the attack, the man has not time to resume his defensive position, and his only safety is in ignominious flight. if his steed be quick in answering the spur, he is soon removed from danger, but, if otherwise, nine times in ten both horse and rider are laid prostrate. whilst in confinement, the bulls are decorated with the colours of their respective breeders (a bunch of ribbon, attached to a dart, which is forced into the animal's shoulder); and such as appear tame, and hold out small promise of sport, are often "ingeniously tormented" previously to being turned into the arena. i have heard also that it is not unusual, when the circus is small, and the _toreadores_ are not very expert, to weaken the animal's powers by letting a weight fall upon his back, so as to injure the spine; but this refinement of cruelty is certainly not practised at ronda. it doubtless requires the possession of some courage to be a bull-fighter; though at the same time it is to be recollected, that the people who devote themselves to the profession have been brought up, from their earliest youth, amongst the horns of these animals, and have thus acquired a knowledge of all their peculiarities; they are consequently aware, that the bull's furious onset requires but a little activity to be readily avoided, and they have by long habit become quick-sighted to take advantage of his blind rage, for striking their blow. but, above all, their confidence is increased by knowing with what ease the attention of the bull is drawn off; and no picador or matador ever ventures into the arena unattended by one _chulo_,[ ] at least; who, provided with a gaudy coloured flag or cloak, stands near at hand to occupy the bull's attention, should his opponent have met with any accident. i once witnessed a laughable instance--as it turned out--of the ease with which a bull's attention may be diverted. an _aguador_, or water-seller, had taken post in the narrow passage which serves as a retreat for the bull-fighters when hard pressed, between the front row of seats and the arena, and, unconscious of danger, was vending his iced liquid to the thirsty spectators--pouring it with singular dexterity from a huge jar made fast to his back into their outstretched goblets--when a bull, following close upon the heels of a _chulo_, leapt the five-foot barrier, and came with his fore legs amongst the front row spectators, but, unable to make good his footing, fell back into the narrow passage. the _chulo_, by vaulting back into the arena, readily escaped from the enraged animal, which, not having space to turn round, face and re-leap the barrier, found himself a prisoner within the narrow passage. very different, however, was the situation of the venturous _aguador_, who, labouring under his weighty liquid incubus, could not possibly have clambered over the fence, even had time permitted of his making the attempt. but, so far from that being the case, the bull having instantly recovered his legs, was coming trotting and bellowing towards him, with the most felonious intentions. the spectators shouted with all their might to the luckless water-seller, _to save himself_; alas! how was he to do so?--a single glance over his right shoulder convinced him of the vainness of the admonition! instinct prompted him to run; but escape appeared impossible; for the horns of the rabid animal were within a few feet of him, and every barrier was closed! in this awful predicament, fright made him take the only step that could possibly have saved him--namely, a _false one_. he stumbled, groaned, and fell flat upon his face. the bull, without slacking his speed, stooped down to give him his _quietus_; when a peasant--one of the spectators--having tied his pocket-handkerchief to the end of his _porra_,[ ] dangled it before the animal's eyes just as he reached the fallen _aguador_. the enraged bull, making a toss at the new object thus placed before him, bounded over the prostrate water-carrier, without doing any other injury than breaking his jar with his hind feet, and proceeded on to complete the tour of the circus. the fright of the fortunate vender of water was excessive, and _now_ most ludicrous. the liquid poured in torrents over his shoulders and down his neck, leading him to believe that he had been most desperately gored, and that it was his life's blood which was--not oozing out of, but--absolutely deluging him. he screamed most lustily that he was a dead man; and the spectators, highly amused at the scene, cried out in return, "get up--get up, or you'll be drowned!" but, until some of the _chulos_ came to his aid, and put him on his legs, he could not be persuaded that he had escaped without even a scratch. he lost no time, however, in putting the power of his limbs to the proof, running off as fast as they could carry him, to escape from the jeers of the crowd, who, amidst roars of laughter, shouted after him, "what a gash!"--"i can see right through his body."--"the bull is swimming after you!"--"_toro! toro!_" &c. we will now leave the amphitheatre, and proceed to visit one of the most interesting sights of the ancient city--namely, an extraordinary staircase, or _mina_ as it is called by the natives, which, sunk close to the edge of the chasm dividing the two towns, communicates with the rocky bed of the river. it is said to have been a work of abou melic, the first king of ronda, and was clearly undertaken to ensure a supply of water to the city in the event of a siege;--the want of this indispensable article being, in those early days, the only dread the inattackable fortress had to guard against. the entrance to the _mina_ is in the garden attached to a gentleman's house at a little distance from, and to the east of, the principal bridge. the descent, according to our cicerone's information, was formerly effected by steps, cut in the live rock; but, at the present day, it would defy the powers of numbers to reckon them, the greater part of the staircase being in so ruinous a condition as to be barely practicable. i should suppose, however, the depth of the _mina_, from its mouth to the bed of the river, is about feet. it pierces the solid rock, in short and very irregular zig-zags, for about two thirds the distance down, when, entering a natural rent in the cliff, the remaining portion is built up from the bottom of the chasm with large blocks of stone; advantage having been taken of a lateral projection, to cover this artificial facing from an enemy's projectiles. at various levels, passages lead off from the staircase into spacious and curiously arched apartments, to which light is admitted by narrow casements opening into the chasm or tajo. this subterranean edifice is supposed to have been a palace of the moorish kings. on the side walls of the narrow, crooked staircase, are numerous rudely engraved crosses, which our conductor assured us were wrought by the hands of the christian captives who, during the last siege of the place, were employed in bringing up water for the use of the garrison, and whose oft-repeated signs of faith, thus lightly marked by their passing hands, had miraculously left these deep impressions on the hard stone. "nor"--added he--"did such proofs of their devotion go unrewarded even in this world, for their liberation quickly followed; the until then unconquered city having been wrested from the mohammedans after only a few weeks' siege."--the chains of these good christians were sent to toledo, in one of the churches of which city they may yet be seen. various other remarkable legends are related of this wonderful place; which, however, i will pass over, to say a few words of other objects worthy of observation in the vicinity of the city. of these, the most interesting to the antiquary are the ruins of the roman city of acinippo,[ ] which lie scattered on the side of a mountain on the left of the road to seville by way of olbera, and distant about ten miles n.w. from ronda. some of the spanish geographers persist in calling it _ronda la vieja_, (old ronda,) but certainly on no good grounds, since no place bearing the comparatively modern name of ronda could well be of older date than the present city itself. in the time of carter, the venerable ruins of acinippo could boast of containing an amphitheatre and the foundations of several spacious temples, all in tolerable preservation; but these are now barely perceptible; and the statues, pavements, in fact, every thing considered worth removing, has long since been carried to ronda. numerous roman coins are daily turned up by the plough, as it passes over the streets of the ancient city, and cameos, intaglios, and other more valuable relics, may be procured occasionally from the peasants dwelling in the neighbourhood. but, though scarcely one stone of acinippo now rests upon another, still the view from the site is of itself a sufficient reward for the trouble of scrambling to the summit of the mountain; whence, on a clear day, it is said that even cadiz may be seen. deep in the valley, on the opposite or eastern side, flows the principal source of the guadelete, (water of _lethe_) which the spaniards maintain is the _real_ river of _oblivion_ of the ancients. where the fertilizing stream flows amongst the vineyards of xeres, it probably has often proved so without any fable. on the bank of this rivulet stands the little castellated town of setenil; famous in moorish history, as having defied all the efforts of the christians to subdue it, until the ponderous lombards of ferdinand and isabella were brought to bear with unerring aim upon its rock-based battlements. a.d. . within another morning's ride from ronda is a very remarkable cavern, in the side of a lofty mountain, about five miles to the s.w. of the city, and known by the name of the _cueva del gato_ (cat's cave). the entrance to it is some way up the face of a scarped wall of rock, that falls along the right bank of the guadiaro, and can be gained only by those whose heads and feet are proof against the dizzy and slippery perils to be encountered; the ascent being over a pile of rough granite blocks, moistened by the spray of a foaming torrent that gushes out of the narrow cavity. these difficulties surmounted, the cavern itself is tolerably practicable, and the stream flows more tranquilly, though still here and there obstructed by blocks of stone. after penetrating some way into the interior, an opening of considerable width presents itself, where a ruined building of very ancient date is observable. it is said to owe its foundation to the romans, and to have been a temple dedicated to the infernal deities. rumour alleges that in later times it has served as a refuge for banditti. to proceed further, it is necessary to be well supplied with torches: with their aid i was informed the cavern is practicable for a great distance. the stream to which this cavern gives a passage, takes its rise in a wooded basin, situated on the opposite side the mountain ridge, from whence the waters of all the other valleys are led off in a northerly direction to the guadalete. this eccentric little rivulet directs its course, however, to the south, reaches the foot of a high-peaked mount that overlooks the village of montejaque, and there, its course being obstructed by the solid rock, betakes itself once more to the earth, filtering its way for upwards of a mile through the mountain, and finally discharging itself into the guadiaro[ ] by the mouth of the _cueva del gato_. the cavern is said to have received its name from the wonderful feat of a cat, which, put into the fissure by which the stream disappears from the surface of the ground, reached the other entrance with one of its lives yet unexhausted. numerous other delightful excursions may be made from ronda, up the ravines in the surrounding mountains; and, should the sports of the field possess attractions, the country is noted for its abundance of game of all kinds; from quails and red-legged partridges, to wild boars, deer, and wolves. in following this pursuit, chance one morning directed my footsteps along the edge of the precipice, that (as i have already mentioned,) bounds the new town to the west, and which, describing a wide circle, and gradually losing something of its height, once more closes upon the guadiaro, about a mile below the city. the space that nature has thus singularly walled in, and sunk beneath the rest of the vale of ronda, is richly clad with gardens and vineyards; and the little stream, having disengaged itself from the dark chasm that divides the two towns, here once more slackens its pace, to luxuriate under refreshing groves of orange, citron, and pomegranate trees. arrived, however, at the southern extremity of this basin, the rocky ledge on which i found myself standing again presents an obstacle to the tranquil flow of the crystal stream, and it hurries fretfully through a narrow defile, of the same wild character as that in which it received its birth; the banks being thickly clothed with the endless varieties of the cistus, and shadowed by the dense and sombre foliage of the ilex and wild olive. beyond this, a glen of somewhat more easy access presents itself, and the river is spanned by a light but firmly-knit arch, that bears the romantic name of the _puente del duende_, or, the bridge of the fairy. so sequestered is this spot--for it is some distance from any public road--that the little bridge, though well known to the country people, is seldom visited by strangers; and indeed its leafy canopy is so impervious, that, until arrived at the very brink of the precipice overlooking the dell, it is not possible either to discover the bridge or to trace the further progress of the river itself, which, by its tortuous course, seems loth to leave the lovely valley that has grown rich under its fostering care. the mountains beyond appear equally unwilling that the beauteous basin should lose its benefactor; presenting themselves in such confused and successive masses, and in such intricate forms, as seem to preclude the possibility of the little stream ever finding its way through them to the mediterranean. conspicuous above all the other points of this serrated range, is the _pico de san cristoval_,--said in the country to be the first land made by columbus on his return from the discovery of the new world. certain it is, that this peak,--called also _la cabeza del moro_ (moor's head)--can be seen at an immense distance. i myself, from the blue atlantic, have traced its faint outline reaching far above the horizon, when the low land about cadiz, though comparatively near, could not even be discerned. in following the course of the stream, however, i have been carried far below the fairy's bridge, to which it is time i should retrace my steps. the narrow little structure serves, at this day, merely as a point of passage to a mill, situated on the left bank of the rivulet; from whence long trains of pig-skin laded mules convey almost as constant, if not so copious a stream, of oil and wine, _over_ the bridge, as that of water which flows beneath it. the hills that rise at the back of the mill--and which in our more level country would be called mountains--are clad to their very summits with vineyards and olive groves--the sources of this gladdening and fattening stream. there was, nevertheless, an air of solitude, and even of mystery, about the spot, that greatly excited my curiosity. the reckless muleteers devoutly crossed themselves ere they ventured to pass over the little bridge; some even prostrated themselves before a crucifix rudely carved in wood that stood overhanging it. the more timid goatherds drove their flocks far away from the holy spot; and those whom i questioned concerning it gave me to understand, that the less they said and i inquired on the subject, the better for all parties. the owner of the mill, without being quite so reserved, was equally mysterious; saying that, though in this sceptical age many persons were disposed to regard the wonderful things related of the place as mere _cuentas de viejas_--i. e. old women's tales--yet that he could vouch for their truth, and, whilst it would be unbecoming in him (as herodotus said before him) to disclose _all_ he knew, this much he _could_ say,--that it would be dangerous for most people to dwell as near the enchanted spot as he did. "but," added he, throwing open his shirt and exposing what i learnt was a piece of a black dog's skin, that he wore suspended from a rosary at his breast, "this is a sovereign charm against all manner of witchcraft." i afterwards discovered that the olive-grinding rogue was a notorious smuggler, and kept his contraband goods concealed in what are supposed to be haunted caverns, under his habitation, secure from the search of superstitious _aduaneros_.[ ] my curiosity still further excited by the difficulty experienced in gratifying it, i applied for information touching the fairy's bridge to my friend don ---- ----, who referred me to _el padre canonigo, don apodo fulano_, adding laughingly, "you will be amused at the worthy father's serious manner of relating the story; but i can assure you,--divesting it of the marvellous,--it is not _todo cisco y carbon, como tesoro de duende_."[ ] to the _padre_ i forthwith bent my steps; and the following chapter contains his account of the _puente del duende_, which i give as nearly as possible in his own words. chapter vii. legend of the fairy's bridge. "_my companions said to me, 'do you visit her monument?' but i answered, 'where but in my heart should she have a tomb?'_" arabic elegy. you must know, don carlos, commenced the worthy padre, "_con voz reposada y clara_"[ ]--you must know, that the bridge you have just visited has usurped the name it bears, which was given to a much more extraordinary structure--if such it may be called--that formerly occupied its place; or, i should rather say, that was situated near the present edifice; for the supernatural bridge of which i am about to speak was thrown across the ravine somewhat lower down the stream; where, as you may have observed, the cliff on the left bank falls quite perpendicularly along the river, and is at this day entirely overgrown with ivy. this bridge was formed of a single tree; a huge _acebuche_[ ]--a tree often employed as an agent in working miracles--which, having grown for ages on the brink of the precipice, was one night marvellously felled to the earth. that it had been prostrated by supernatural means was evident; for the trunk bore no marks of the axe; and though still adhering to the stump by the bark and some slight fibres, yet it had been most curiously blackened and charred; whilst a wild vine, which (having entwined itself gracefully round its wide-spreading branches) had accompanied it in his fall, remained unscorched, and seemed to have been purposely left unhurt, to serve as a hand-rope to steady the footsteps of the venturous passenger over the tremulous bridge. the further extremity of the tree rested on a ledge that projected slightly from the opposite cliff; above which, a fissure in the rock appeared to lead into a dark cavern. but so curiously was the rustic bridge balanced, that as sure as any mortal attempted to cross by it to the opposite side of the river, so sure was he to be precipitated into the abyss below. it is supposed that this chink in the cliff had served to admit light and air to some spacious caverns which, in remote times, had been formed in the rocks, and from which a rude staircase had communicated with a _quinta_, or country house, situated in the midst of the vineyards and olive grounds that clothe the hill side. but of these, don carlos, no vestige now remains; indeed all traces of them were lost soon after the occurrence of the events i am about to relate. the last possessor of this villa was a wealthy moor--abenhabuz by name--of the tribe of the ganzules, and one of the most distinguished _alfaquies_ of the proud city of ronda. to the treachery of this moor the capture of the moslem stronghold by the catholic kings[ ] was mainly attributed; for the bravery of its _alcaide_, the strength of its garrison, and the triple circuit of walls by which in those days its assailable points were defended, rendered it too formidable a post even for such indomitable spirits as ferdinand and isabella to think of attacking. but hamet zeli, surnamed _el zegri_, the fierce governor of ronda, dreamed not of treason, and least of all did he suppose that abenhabuz, his bosom friend, could betray him. but what will not envy stoop to do? he was persuaded by his deceitful confidant that the spaniards were laying close siege to malaga, and that a most favourable opportunity thereby was presented for making a foray in their country. sallying forth, therefore, with his brave _gomeles_--the principal strength of the garrison--el zegri crossed the mountains to the westward of the city, and fell upon the unprotected country round arcos and xeres de la frontera. ferdinand and isabella were quickly informed of his departure from ronda, and, breaking up their camp before malaga without loss of time, pressed forward through the rugged and now unguarded defiles of el burgo, to seize upon their prey. el zegri, loaded with plunder, and breathing further vengeance, bent his steps also towards his sequestered fortress; little, however, anticipating the blow that awaited him. it was only at his bivouac in the dark cork forest under the lofty _sierra del pinar_ that the thunder of the castillian artillery burst upon his astounded ear.--he mounted his courser in all haste, and, dashing forward with mad speed, stopped not until he had gained the pass of _montejaque_. you see it there, don carlos, (said the padre, pointing to a deep gap in the summit of the serrated ridge that bounds the basin of ronda to the west) it is still known in the country as _el puerto del pasmo del moro_.[ ]--what a sight there met his eager, searching eye! the proud city entrusted to his care, hemmed in on all sides by christian lances!--the sumptuous mosques and stately palaces of his ancestors, crumbling to dust, under the all-destroying projectiles of the implacable enemies of his creed!--a cry of rage burst from him; but his prudence even in that trying moment did not forsake him. checking his advancing troops, so as to keep them out of sight of the beleaguering army, he sent forward a trusty messenger, who, gaining admission to the fortress, cheered its feeble garrison with the news of his being at hand, and of his intention to force his way into the city during the night. but abenhabuz took care to have this information conveyed to the besiegers; and el zegris' bold attempt was consequently foiled. the inhabitants, seeing all hope of relief now cut off, their store of provisions nearly exhausted, and large gaps formed in the walls of their until-now unconquered city, deemed it prudent to negotiate for a capitulation; and the sagacious ferdinand, aware that el zegri was still in the field--that the place could yet hold out some weeks--that his own supplies might be cut off,--and that to carry the city by storm would be attended with immense loss of life,--willingly granted most favourable terms; the garrison and inhabitants were permitted to depart with all their effects; such of them as chose to remain in spain having even lands assigned to them, and being permitted the free exercise of their religion. but whilst the wily ferdinand hesitated not to grant these liberal terms, yet, as in duty bound, he forthwith transmitted to rome a formal declaration of his resolve to extirpate the abominable heresy of mohammed from his dominions, whenever a fitting opportunity should occur; thus piously reserving to himself the right of infringing the terms of capitulation, wherever his doing so should seem most conducive to the interests of our holy religion. the traitor abenhabuz, besides the indulgences granted by the terms of the surrender, was, as the price of his treason, permitted to reside within the city, and to retain possession of his estates. but some years after, (when, by the capture of granada, the catholic monarchs were relieved from all apprehension of evil consequences ensuing from carrying their long meditated plans into effect) he, as well as the other moslems who had chosen to remain in spain, was offered the alternative of christianity or expatriation. he balanced not in the choice; but forthwith repairing to the altar of our lady of griefs, declared himself a convert to the true faith. in consequence of this act--with the piety and generosity which have at all times distinguished the spanish nation above all others--the moor was graciously allowed to keep possession of the lovely _quinta_ and its surrounding vineyards; the rest of his vast estates being made over--for the good of his soul--as an expiatory offering to the chivalric brotherhood of santiago. abenhabuz retired to his country retreat, accompanied only by his daughter, the beauteous hinzára; for his sons--true scions of an arabic stock--chose rather to seek a home on the parched shores of africa, than abandon the accursed dogmas of their prophet. hinzára was the youngest of the moor's children, and the sole issue of a christian maiden who had been captured in a foray some time previous to the fall of ronda, and who--meditating his future treason--abenhabuz had considered it conducive to his interest to marry. at the period of his expulsion from the city, his wife had been dead some time, and his daughter had just reached the age when a maiden's footsteps most require the guidance of a mother's care. but hinzára was a being of no common order. the rosebud bursting through the petals of its mossy calyx, spreading its delicious fragrance to the summer breeze, exceeds not more in loveliness every other flower of the field, than the beauty of hinzára surpassed that of all the maidens of the neighbourhood. to you, don carlos, whose eyes are daily feasted on the charms of our comely andalusians, it will suffice to say, that in the daughter of abenhabuz were combined the regular features and soft expression of the dark-eyed _malagueña_; the blooming cheek and polished brow of the fair _serrana_[ ] of casarabonela; and the form and carriage of the graceful _gaditana_![ ] her person, in fact, was a bouquet, of the choicest flowers culled from this our hesperian garden; whilst her mind might be likened to a book, in which, as in the pages of our incomparable cervantes, were to be found united the most brilliant wit, the soundest discretion, the purest sentiment, and the nicest judgment. courted by all the principal chieftains of the day--spaniards as well as moriscoes--hinzára appeared alike regardless of their adulation, and unmoved by their importunity. but the moorish maiden was not insensible, and--unknown to all besides--had pledged her hand to a noble biscayian youth, long the possessor of her guileless heart. the ancestors of don ramiro--for such was her lover's appellation--though rich in deeds of renown, had left him little else than an untarnished sword, to support the glorious names of segastibelza y bigorre which he inherited from them. and besides his poverty, hinzára had other reasons (which will be stated as i proceed with my tale) to fear that her father's consent to their union would not be easily obtained. abenhabuz was, to all appearance, fully sensible of the generosity that had been so manifestly shown to him; and though now the possessor of but the few vineyards and olive grounds that encircled his _quinta_, he was nevertheless generally considered a wealthy man:--a reputation for which he was as much indebted to his imagined knowledge of alchymy, as for the hords he was supposed to have collected during a long life of rapine and plunder. this character for wealth, whilst it excited the cupidity of many, secured to him the protection of the governor of ronda, don guiterre mondejar; who, captivated by the charms of the beauteous hinzára, hoped, together with her hand, to obtain, what he coveted yet more, the imaginary treasures of the alchymist. the crafty moor readily promised him the immediate possession of the one, and the inheritance of the other; but he had no intention of fulfilling his engagements. the protection of a powerful friend was needful for a time, to screen his proceedings from a too-vigilant observation; particularly, since the establishment of the holy inquisition by ferdinand and isabella of blessed memory (here the worthy father crossed himself most devoutly) was a thorn in the side of these backsliding christians that obliged them to be extremely circumspect; but the implacable abenhabuz cherished hopes of wreaking vengeance on those by whom he chose to conceive he had been wronged; and the spanish governor was one of his marked victims. in the prosecution of his horrible designs, the moor was prepared to immolate even his own daughter to satisfy his revenge; though this was an extremity to which he hoped not to be driven. it may, however, be readily imagined that his stock of parental affection was not very great, and that he concerned himself but little in his daughter's affairs. he enjoined her to be strict in the outward observance of her religious duties, the better to conceal his own delinquency; but of her actual conversion to christianity, and her acquaintance with don ramiro, he was altogether ignorant. for a considerable time, abenhabuz succeeded, under various pretences, in deferring the fulfilment of his contract with don guiterre; but, at length, finding his projects of vengeance not yet ripe for execution, and that the amorous spaniard was becoming every day more urgent for the possession of hinzára, he determined to overcome the few weak qualms of conscience that had hitherto withheld him from sacrificing his daughter, and intimated to her that she was shortly to become the wife of the abhorred guiterre. to his surprise, however--for it was for the first time in her life--hinzára refused obedience to his will. commands and entreaties were alike unavailing:--to the first she opposed a calm but resolute refusal; to the latter a flood of tears. but when the infuriated father employed threats, and assailed her with invectives,--"hold!" exclaimed the daughter of the cross. "though, in casting off the execrable heresy of mohammed, i cast not off my moslem father, yet in embracing this," and she drew from her bosom a small gold crucifix, "i obtained a protector against all outrage; and should he at the cost of my plighted word,--my word, for the observance of which i have pledged my belief in a crucified redeemer--persist in exacting obedience to his will; amongst the holy sisterhood of santa ursula shall i seek, and readily find, a refuge from his tyranny." the infidel was thunderstruck--his rage unbounded. scarcely admitting that a woman had a soul to be saved, he had thought it mattered little whether his daughter was a mohammedan or a christian; conceiving that, in either case, her duty to him prescribed passive obedience. but he had always imagined that hinzára's abjuration of islamism, like his own, was a mere mockery, and that he should find in her a willing instrument to work his purpose of taking vengeance on his christian rulers. awakened now to a sense of his error,--and as he considered of his danger--he feared that she might, on the contrary, prove an insuperable bar to the execution of his plans; and he determined to lose no time in removing her. dissimulation was, however, necessary. smothering, therefore, his anger, he affected to be moved by her tears. he alluded no more to the marriage contract entered into with don guiterre; and, treating her with more than wonted kindness, lulled her into forgetfulness of his former harshness, whilst he matured the most hellish plot that ever was conceived by man, to render her subservient to his designs. informing the governor of hinzára's determined opposition to their wishes, he imparted to him the diabolical scheme he contemplated to force her into compliance; and in the vile spaniard he unfortunately found a too willing abettor of his infamous project. the cavern under the moor's habitation contained numerous chambers opening into each other, the innermost of which was known only to abenhabuz himself; the entrance being concealed by tapestry, and closed by means of secret springs. on the plea of having some repairs executed to the quinta, hinzára and her father retired to the subterranean apartments; abenhabuz occupying that which communicated with the staircase, hinzára the one from which the secret chamber opened; the intermediate chamber serving as their common refectory. one afternoon, as the sun was closing his diurnal course, an officer of the holy inquisition, accompanied by numerous aquazils and masked attendants, appeared suddenly before the abode of the renegade moor. the terrified domestics fell on their knees, repeating their _pater nosters_, too much alarmed to give notice of the approach of the visiters; and the officer, followed by his satellites, proceeded straight to the entrance of the souterrain, and demanded instant admission. "who is he," inquired abenhabuz from within, "that thus unannounced requires entry? if his business be of worldly affairs, let him choose some more fitting time, nor disturb a good christian at his evening devotions; but, if aught else, enter--the latch is now raised." the party immediately rushed forward, but the superior stopped short at the scene before him--abenhabuz, clothed in sackcloth, stretched prostrate on the bare floor before an image of the blessed virgin! beside him lay a scourge, with which he had evidently been inflicting self-punishment! "what want ye of me?" demanded the moor, without rising from the rocky floor.--"with _you_ we have _now_ no further business, good abenhabuz," replied the officer. "we must however see your daughter--for such is our duty--though doubtless she follows the example of her pious father."--"hinzára," said the moor, "is within that second chamber," pointing to the door--then raising his voice, he called out in spanish--"hinzára, my child, open, that these worthy señores may bear witness to the piety of abenhabuz' daughter;" but hinzára answered not. "what is this?" exclaimed the moor--"the heat of the summer sun has surely overcome her.--hinzára, my beloved, open quickly"--but still hinzára replied not. "force open the door, then," said the officer, "but quietly--disturb not her sleep, if such be the cause of her silence. excuse this apparent rudeness, worthy _alfaqui_; our orders are imperative." admittance was quickly gained, and disclosed to the spectators the lovely form of hinzára, extended on a divan, her eyes closed in profound sleep. her right arm, passed across her gently heaving bosom, hung over the side of the couch, and on the floor beneath it lay a book, which to all appearance had fallen from it.--that book was the _koran_! the exclamations of the astonished spectators, but, above all, the wailings of old abenhabuz, soon brought the sleeper to her senses. but not to detain you, don carlos, with superfluous details: suffice it to say, that further search was made; the secret doorway was discovered, and exposed to view a small apartment furnished with the _mehrab_,[ ] denoting it to be a mohammedan place of worship. no one of the assembled group was, or rather appeared to be, so much shocked as abenhabuz.--"father! father!" exclaimed the frantic hinzára in tones of the most piercing anguish:--but, overcome by the intensity of her emotion, she could utter no more, and fell senseless to the ground. happy had it been for the wretched hinzára had this insensibility to mundane ills been the perpetual sleep of death! but inscrutable, my friend, are the ways of providence! the innocent victim of this fiendish plot woke only to the torments of the inquisition!--oh that an institution, ordained to effect so much good, should in this instance have been the means of inflicting such unmerited anguish! but what human works are all perfect? i must not attempt, don carlos, to raise the veil that covered the events which followed. the disappearance of hinzára, whose virtues yet more than her beauty caused her to be universally beloved, excited much solicitude. but time swept on; and at length all, save _one_, seemed to have forgotten the existence of the ill-fated maiden. that _one_, however, persisted in his endeavours to trace her out; and, dangerous as was the attempt, to penetrate even the secrets of the holy inquisition. but all his efforts were unavailing. still, however, ramiro clung to the idea that she had not been removed from ronda; and despising the alluring prospects of wealth and distinction, at that time held out by the discovery of a new world, he remained rooted to the spot. at length his sad presentiment was but too truly realized. a mysteriously-worded billet, left by an unknown hand, warned him of approaching calamity; shortly after, public notice was given that an execution of heretics was about to take place; and on the appointed day, headmost of the wretched criminals, and clothed in a dress of surge, representing flames and demons,--indicative of her impending fate,--was the hapless daughter of abenhabuz. the frantic ramiro soon distinguished her from the rest. the pile that was to immolate his lovely, innocent hinzára was already lighted--the criminals destined for execution were about to be given over to the secular power--when, rushing to the feet of the grand inquisitor, the proud descendant of the bluest blood in spain, on his bent knees, supplicated for mercy. with the eloquence of despair, he pleaded her youth, her virtues, her piety;--but, alas! he pleaded in vain!--"let me at least," said he at length, "make one effort to induce her to confess?--my known loyalty--my birth--my station--entitle me to this boon." the inquisitor was moved;--ramiro's entreaties were seconded by a faint murmur that ran through the crowd; and his request was granted, despite the frowns of don guiterre, into whose hands, as governor of the city, the condemned were about to pass. a passage was quickly opened for ramiro through the dense multitude, and, amidst loud _vivas_, he flew to his hinzára. the maiden's countenance brightened at the approach of her long separated lover. starting from the posture of prayer, in which she was devoutly attending to the exhortations of one of the holy brotherhood appointed to the sad office of attending her in her last moments--yet not without first raising her eyes in gratitude to the great disposer of all things--"thanks, beloved ramiro," said she, "for this last, convincing proof of affection! i almost fear, however, to ask--didst thou receive my message?"--"i did," replied her lover; "but let me implore thee, adored hinzára, to change thy purpose--alas! beloved of my soul, hope not that thy silence will aught avail thy father. be assured his fate is sealed--nay--i know not but that he may already have been sacrificed; for, during many weeks past, i have in vain sought to gain tidings of him.--declare then all thou knowest, and at least save thyself, and me--who cannot survive thy loss--from the fate that hangs over us."----"no, ramiro," replied the maiden, in slow but steady accents, "my resolve is fixed. since there is yet a _chance_ of saving my father, _we_ must part--let us hope to meet again hereafter.--i trust thou hast been able to comply with my desire?"--he motioned assent.--"then heaven bless thee, dearest ramiro! as thou lovest me, obey my last injunctions--return not evil for evil--there is another and a better world--risk not our chance of possessing in it the happiness denied to us here." one moment of human weakness succeeded--it was but one--hinzára's head fell upon her lover's breast--her bloodless lips met his for the first--the last time. recovering herself quickly, "now, beloved," she exclaimed, "thy promise!--and thou, oh blessed saviour, before whose holy image i now, on bended knees, offer up my last supplication!--who seest the pile already laid to torment with infamous publicity thy too weak servant!--plead, oh plead forgiveness for this act, which hastens me, by but a few short moments, into the presence of an omnipotent, all-merciful creator!" ramiro listened to the words of the prostrate maiden with intense and agonised attention, and at the conclusion of her short but earnest prayer drew from his breast a glittering poignard--hinzára snatched it hastily from his hand,--and the next moment fell a corpse at his feet! the horror of the spectators, at this unlooked-for termination of ramiro's interference--the consternation of the officials of the holy inquisition--the rage and invectives of the governor--were such that, amidst the general confusion which ensued, ramiro, snatching the poignard from the reeking body of his mistress, darted through the crowd, and effected his escape.--don guiterre vented his impotent rage on the lifeless body of his victim, by having it burnt, amidst the groans and indignant cries of the assembled multitude. every attempt to trace the flight of don ramiro failed; but information was eventually received, that an individual answering his description had embarked at malaga, in a vessel bound to some italian port. the excitement caused by this tragic affair gradually subsided. years rolled on--abenhabuz was never again seen--and the fate of his daughter was nearly forgotten;--when one morning the governor of ronda was no where to be found. diligent search was of course made, and at length his corpse was discovered in the rocky bed of the guadiaro, immediately beneath the miraculous bridge, which was now seen for the first time!--on examining the body, it was found to be much bruised and mutilated, as if--which indeed was evident--don guiterre had fallen in an attempt to cross the hazardous bridge, and although one deep wound seemed to have been inflicted by some sharp instrument, yet it might have been given by the pointed rocks with which the bed of the rivulet is strewed, and there was no other reason to suppose that he had fallen by the hands of bandits; since nothing had been taken from his person. his sword was found lying near him, but it might have dropt from its scabbard. the cause of the governor's visit to this secluded spot nobody could divine; but the general astonishment on this head was still further increased, when, a few days after, the body of a near relative of don guiterre--one of the principal officers of the holy inquisition--was discovered at the very same spot, and bearing marks of having met with a similar death. a clue to the solution of these mysterious and appalling events was at length, however, obtained; though it still left many of the particulars open to conjecture. an old and faithful servant of the late governor was, not many days after, found in the bed of the stream, having also, as it appeared, fallen from the enchanted bridge. life, however, was not extinct. he was conveyed to a neighbouring monastery, where every attention was paid to his wounds, though without the slightest hope of his ultimate recovery. the excessive pain, caused by a severe wound in the head, brought on delirium; so that little information could be gathered from him; but in his paroxysms he raved of a brilliant light that shone constantly before his eyes, which, with piercing cries for mercy, intermixed with frightful imprecations on don guiterre, he fervently invoked.--but in the last moments of his wretched existence, he became somewhat more tranquil; and the monk who attended him, (a brother of one of my distant ancestors) collected at intervals the following particulars of his melancholy story. his master it appeared had willingly entered into the plot--already alluded to--projected by the old moor. the inquisitorial visit, planned by these two fiends in human form, was brought about by information secretly furnished to the holy tribunal, by the wretched maniac himself. their _professed_ object in procuring hinzára's incarceration was, to frighten her into a marriage with don guiterre, whose influence over the inquisitor, his relative, was to be employed in procuring her liberation, on condition that she gave proof of her innocence by consenting to marry him.--each of these miscreants imagined, however, that he was making a dupe of his confederate; for each breathed only vengeance on the innocent hinzára. don guiterre could not forgive her contemptuous rejection of his suit; and, his ungovernable passion continuing unabated, he hoped, by acceding to the terms on which only it was proposed, she should obtain her liberation,--to have her in his power to satisfy his revenge, after he had gratified his yet more hateful passion: or, should she, contrary to his expectations, continue obdurate, to feast his eyes on the tortures of his hapless victim. abenhabuz, on the other hand, knew his daughter too well to imagine she would consent to purchase life on the terms proposed. his sole object was to procure her death,--which, as he conceived, was merited as much by her disobedience to his commands, as by the unpardonable sin of deserting the faith of her forefathers;--and, as he himself could not inflict the punishment without exciting suspicion, he hit upon the plan of making don guiterre a tool to effect his purpose. but, in the words of the roman fabulist, "_vindictæ cupidus sibi malum accersit_." each of these monsters reaped the just fruit of his crime. whether the terms of liberation before alluded to were ever proposed to the daughter of abenhabuz, i cannot inform you, don carlos:--most probably not, however.--don guiterre doubtless overrated his influence with the holy tribunal,--the vast powers and inaccessible character of which were at that early period of its establishment not known even to spaniards themselves. at all events, the governor, finding that the doom of his victim was irrevocably fixed, and--ignorant of the secret wishes of the moor--fearing that the full weight of abenhabuz's resentment would fall upon him on the discovery of the failure of their scheme,--resolved, ere the _auto da fé_ was announced to take place, to prevent the possibility of the moor's attempting to save his daughter, by confessing the plot, and making known the share he--guiterre--had taken in it. the wretch, who, in his dying moments, confessed these atrocities, was an accomplice in the crime by which this object was attained.--the foul deed committed, the corpse of abenhabuz was destroyed by quick lime, and his papers were minutely examined, lest any proof should be furnished by them of the plot against hinzára. letters were then found from the sons of the murdered moor, (who it appeared had joined the discontented inhabitants of the alpujarras, at that time about to take up arms against the government,) which brought to light a project on the eve of being carried into execution, to seize upon the city of ronda. these, after being made up in a sealed parcel, were dropt, by the governor's faithful agent, on the road to marbella, and, being picked up by a chance traveller, were brought to don guiterre. the importance of their contents caused them of course to be forwarded to the seat of government, accompanied by a statement, that diligent but unavailing search having been made for abenhabuz, it was supposed he had escaped to the mountains, and must, in the hurry of his flight, have lost these papers, containing indubitable proofs of his treason. the policy of keeping these events secret was suggested by the artful guiterre, on the plea, that it might lead to the detection of other persons engaged in the conspiracy; which recommendation, having been approved of, it soon came to be believed that the missing abenhabuz was, as well as his daughter, an inmate of the dungeon of the inquisition. by what means don guiterre met with his death still remained a matter of mystery.--by his servant's statement it appeared that he had fallen in an attempt to pass over the rustic bridge, leading to the cavern under the _quinta_ of the deceased moor; whither by an anonymous communication he had been invited to repair unattended, under the promise of having the spot shown to him where the alchymist's riches were buried.--the wretched lopez, who had followed his master at a distance, saw a bright light shining to point out the passage made across the deep chasm, and heard his cries on falling; but, overcome by fear, he immediately took to flight, and for obvious reasons had not given any information on the subject. whatever further particulars--if any--were gathered from him ere his death, never became public. sufficient, however, was known to cause the spot to be held in great awe; so much so, indeed, that, after the miraculous abstraction of various goats, sheep, &c., from the flocks grazing in the neighbourhood, not a soul would venture near it; the common opinion being, that some vindictive fairy had taken up his abode in the cavern, and amused himself by playing off his malicious pranks upon mankind. after a lapse of some years, a hermit applied to the owner of the property, for permission to make the haunted cavern his cell; and, trusting that his prayers would be instrumental in laying the troublesome sprite, his request was readily granted. the holy man who thus proffered his good offices, though bent down and infirm, had not the eye of one stricken in years; neither did his flowing beard, though white as the undrifted snow on the surrounding mountain tops, appear to have been blanched so much by time, as by privations and sufferings. he went out but seldom, and then only to attend upon the sick and poor. within the city walls he was never known to enter. he had travelled much--had made a pilgrimage to jerusalem, and visited the holy house at loreto--was known to carry on a correspondence with some of the first dignitaries of the pontifical city,--and never wanted money. by his piety, munificence, and benevolence, father anselmo at length attained such celebrity throughout the country, that his prayers were considered nearly as efficacious as those of most saints.--he sunk gradually and quietly to his grave. not having been seen for several days, those to whose wants he was in the daily habit of administering consulted together as to the steps to be taken to ascertain his fate. they determined to enter his cell, and, as he would never permit a soul to cross the bridge, procured a long ladder to enable them to effect their purpose. on gaining admission, they discovered anselmo's body, stiffened unto death, in the attitude of prayer. his knees were bent before an altar, on which stood a small gold crucifix, of exquisite workmanship; but his head had fallen forwards on his clasped hands.--by his side lay a poignard. its point was corroded with the deep rust of years; but every other part of the shining blade bore evidence of the peculiar care which has been taken of its preservation. its hilt was a glittering mass of costly diamonds. from the deceased hermit's neck a small packet was suspended, containing a lock of auburn hair, and on the envelope, the following words were written, in anselmo's hand. "for thee have i passed a life of celibacy and seclusion!--for disobeying thy sacred injunctions have i been sorely chastened!--sainted virgin! plead for me with our heavenly father, that the sins i have committed in this world may be forgiven in that which is to come!" it was evident,--said the worthy padre, concluding his long story,--it was evident, don carlos, that his prayer could be addressed to no other than the holy virgin, mother of our blessed saviour,--and, consequently, that the lock of hair must have been her's. it was accordingly sent to toledo, and deposited in the church of _san juan de los reyes_,--where a magnificent urn--now probably melted down into some atheistical french marshal's soup tureen--enclosed for many years the precious relic. what became of the poignard i know not. the pious anselmo was buried with great pomp, and numberless miracles have been wrought at his grave;--the mischievous fairy feared to return to a place purified by so holy a person;--the passage leading to the subterranean apartments has long been filled up;--and the miraculous bridge decayed and was carried away by the stream. we have put up a cross to scare away evil spirits; but they nevertheless say, that strange noises are yet heard, and flickering lights occasionally seen in the vicinity. i do not attach much credit to such tales. "_fallax vulgi judicium_," (the good father loved a scrap of latin) and--producing from his pocket a white cambric handkerchief, and wiping his forehead with it, as if to show he had some notion of the use to which the cavern was at the present day applied, he added--"i dare say you are equally sceptical."--i will now, don carlos, wish you a pleasant _siesta_--"_dios guard' usted._"[ ] chapter viii. departure for malaga--scenery on and dangers of the road to el burgo--fine view from casarabonela--an independent innkeeper--a spanish battle, attended with more decisive results than usual--description of casarabonela--comeliness of its washing nymphs--road to malaga--river guadaljorce--sigila of the romans--cartama. bidding adieu to ronda,--its fruitful groves, crystal springs, snow-white bread, and jet-black eyes,--we will take the road to malaga. at about a mile and a half from the town, the road arrives at and passes under a long aqueduct, by means of which a stream is conveyed across the valley, for the supply of the fountains of the mercadillo; thereby saving to its inhabitants the expense of sinking deep wells in the rocky hill. at the end of another half league, the road having gained a slight acclivity, commands a fine view of the venerable old city and its fertile plain; but diving thence into a dark and narrow ravine, a contrast of the wildest character presents itself, and the road winds for many miles amongst the rugged roots of the _old women's teeth_, already noticed.--these have certainly not had the effect of grinding the path smooth--for a more execrable _trocha_ it never has been my fate to ride over. part of it is so bad,--resembling a petrified honeycomb of brobdignag dimensions,--that our horses had to pause at every step, and consider into which of the holes presented to their choice they should next venture to put their feet. the scenery is splendid. it consists of terrific precipices and impending mountains--foaming torrents and rustic bridges--umbrageous oaks and wide-spreading cork trees. but our enjoyment of these wild beauties was considerably diminished, as well by the torrents of rain that fell without ceasing from the time of our entering the mountains, as from the attention it was necessary to give our horses. our progress, necessarily slow over this _camino de perdices_,[ ] was yet further retarded by numberless trains of loaded mules, which, having left ronda with the earliest dawn, had gained an advance upon us over the plain, and, labouring under the bulky produce of the fair, were filing slowly along the same narrow track as ourselves, restricting our pace to an average rate of something less than three miles an hour. vain were all our endeavours to gain the head of the lengthened column;--for though we seized every opportunity the rugged road presented of pushing on with our less burthened animals, yet no sooner had we succeeded in passing one string of mules, than we found ourselves in contact with the tail of another. gradually, however, the _cafilas_[ ] became wider and wider apart; and on arriving within a few miles of the town of el burgo, an open and comparatively level space presenting itself, unobstructed by man or beast, we began to indulge the hope that our perseverance had earned its reward, and that thenceforth a clear road lay before us. our impatient steeds gladly availed themselves of the permission to quicken their pace; but five minutes' canter carried us across the verdant glade, when we again found ourselves immured within a rocky ravine, shadowed by the dark forest, and--to our disappointment--in contact with yet another string of mules and _boricos_. the pass was more rugged than any we had hitherto met with, and the sure-footed animals, with noses almost touching the stony path, were scrambling down the rough descent with caprinine agility; though sometimes--thrown off their equilibrium by the size rather than the weight of their burthens,--they would stagger from side to side, so as to make their destruction appear inevitable. righting themselves, however, in the most scientific manner, and making a short pause, as if to recover their self-possession, they would resume their perilous undertaking, without further incitement than an "_arre!_"[ ] glad enough not to _feel_ the usual accompaniment on their houghs or ribs. considering it advisable to follow the muleteers' example, we too allowed our beasts to use their own discretion in the selection of their stepping-places by giving them their heads; and, folding our cloaks about us, so as to afford the utmost possible protection against the pelting storm, we resigned ourselves to fate; there being nothing for it, as the philosophic sancho says, but patience and a shrug of the shoulders. whilst proceeding with our necks thus in chancery--sliding, stumbling, and dripping along, in rear of the closely formed column--we came most unexpectedly upon a peasant, mounted on a sleek mule, who, taking advantage of a favourable spot, had drawn up on the road side to allow the train to pass. the circumstance of his being the only person we had met journeying towards ronda, would of itself have caused us to notice him, but there was something in the man's deportment that peculiarly attracted observation. in the first place, he suffered all his fellow-countrymen to pass without deigning to return their usual courteous salutation; in the next, he was smoking a _tabaco_[ ] instead of a _papelito_; and, lastly, he was muffled up so completely in his _manta_ that every part of his dress was concealed, and of his face little more than the eyes could be seen. these were dark, piercing, and inquisitive, and their sidelong glances, evidently following their owner's thoughts, were directed with searching scrutiny on the tempting bales that passed successively before him. so thoroughly was the attention of this person devoted to this interesting examination, that, concealed as we were by the moving mountains of manchester goods which preceded us, our military cortège, bringing up the rear of the column, took him completely by surprise. for the moment all presence of mind forsook him. his left arm, by an instinctive jerk, removed the hat from his head; disclosing a most sinister countenance, and a brace of pistols stuck in his worsted sash; whilst, with the other, he hurriedly made the _cruz de admirado_,[ ] muttering, at the same time, the usual passing benediction. with the flurry of a person exerting himself to _appear_ composed, he then, to our great amusement and astonishment, began singing one of the peculiar ditties of the _arrieros_, at the very extent of his voice. these sudden transitions, first from arrogance to servility, then from alarm to merriment, struck us all very forcibly; and each was pondering to himself,--for it rained too hard to render talking agreeable,--what could possibly have given rise to them, when, reaching the bottom of the descent, a sharp turn in the road brought us in view of a party of some twelve or fifteen persons, who, partially concealed in a thicket of underwood, were assembled under the shelter of a huge cork tree, about fifty paces off the road. though habited as _contrabandistas_, they were armed up to the teeth, and had a far more offensive than defensive appearance. most of the party were grouped round the stem of the huge tree, under protection of which a fire was struggling for existence against the storm and rain; but some of the men were scattered amongst the brushwood, and seemed to be girthing up and preparing their horses for a start. all eyes were anxiously fixed upon us the moment we came in sight, showing that the muleteer's song had not been a spontaneous outbreak of hilarity; and the examination of our persons was evidently productive of some little distrust and apprehension; for though the folds of our capacious cloaks screened our persons most effectually from view, yet the glazed caps that protruded above, and the steel scabbards that peeped out below, sufficiently showed our military calling. a short and hurried consultation was the result of their scrutiny. that ended, one of the party, who seemed to be its chief, stepped a few paces towards us, whilst the rest, as if wishing to avoid observation, resumed their interrupted occupation at the fire. the person who thus put himself forward was a handsome, jolly-looking fellow, who, despite the heat of some fifty andalusian summers, was bordering on corpulency. richly dressed and well armed (as well with assurance as with blunderbuss and pistols), he was, in every sense of the word, _un hombre de bigote_;[ ] and, saluting our party most courteously, he requested our knightships would alight and warm ourselves at their fire; and, if we could put up with road-way fare, partake of their poor breakfast. treating this invitation as--that which no doubt it was meant to be,--a mere _compliment d'usage_, we politely, but with the brevity which the spanish language admits of, excused ourselves (for the weather was anti-ceremonious), and passed on without even exchanging a single word amongst ourselves. that fatal effects are frequently the consequence of too great _loquacity_, no one will venture to dispute; but that similar results should spring from over-_taciturnity_, many may be disposed to controvert. voltaire (i think) relates a ludicrous story of some drowning dutchmen, who would not part with their _pipes_ to cry help; but the fact may be doubted. in the present case, however, several luckless wights were actually throttled for want of one saving word of english!--but i am anticipating the catastrophe of our adventure, if so it deserve to be called. we had no sooner passed beyond hearing of the suspicious-looking troop, than a peasant, who had stuck close to our heels all the morning, rode up to inform us that the persons we had just met were _muy mala gente_,[ ] and that we had had a most fortunate escape.--we too were pretty well convinced that the party had halted at that retired spot with the intention of taking something more substantial than breakfast; but we did not feel surprised at their allowing us to pass without molestation, since our party was strong and our baggage light. on our arrival at malaga next day, we learnt that a sharp affair had taken place near el burgo, between some of the government troops and a gang of robbers; and the following afternoon, when riding on the alameda, whom should we meet but our quondam friend, and two of his companions, proceeding under an escort to the city gaol. he recognized us immediately, but his breeding was by no means improved by the air of the city;--the friendly greeting of the sierra being changed into a torrent of maledictions. curious to learn the particulars of the case, and cause of his abuse of the _malditos ingleses_, we made particular inquiries on the subject, and learnt, to our surprise, that we had ourselves been mainly instrumental in causing the apprehension of the robbers. deceived by our being muffled up in our cloaks, they had taken us for one of the detachments of spanish troops, which, at the breaking up of the fair, are sent from ronda to patrole all the principal roads leading through the serranía. the vidette whom we came upon so unexpectedly had not been able to give the bandits sufficient time, either to prepare for action, or to conceal themselves; which accounted for the confusion so perceptible when we first discovered them; as, expecting to have easy work with the muleteers, they had secured their horses in the thicket, to have all hands ready for the ransack. trusting that our suspicions had not been excited, and relieved from all apprehension of encountering another patrole for some hours, they had stopped, and were in the act of plundering one of the richly-laden trains that we had passed in the morning, when the real _gens d'armes_ came to the rescue. in their fancied security, the robbers had gone so deliberately to work, that the notice of their scout had not given them time to regain their tethered horses; and in the scuffle that ensued, three of the gang were captured, whose necks, as we were afterwards informed, were in the due course of justice submitted to the _garrote_. i must now return to el burgo,--which place we were five hours in reaching, although its distance from ronda is scarcely eleven miles; indeed, in the measure of the country, it is reckoned but two leagues. el burgo de ronda (as it is generally called) is a miserable village, containing about _vecinos_; but it is most romantically situated, in a fertile plain encompassed with magnificent woods and mountains, and watered by numerous springs. we arrived thoroughly drenched, and were glad to halt for a short time, to breathe our horses and dry our cloaks. towards noon, the weather becoming more propitious, we continued our journey to casarabonela. the road is very bad all the way, though somewhat better than we had gone over in the morning. the scenery is not by any means so fine. the direct road to malaga avoids casarabonela, leaving it, perched on the side of a steep mountain, some thousand feet above, and about half a mile off, on the right; but the view from the summit of the ridge overlooking the town is so grand, that i would strongly recommend all travellers to ascend the rugged mountain, even at the cost of an hour's delay, and risk of a displaced collar-bone. the little town, embosomed in groves of fruit-trees, lies about half way down the southern side of the mountain. on its right, and somewhat overlooking it, an old moorish fortress occupies a cragged eminence; its smoked and shattered walls seeming, after the manner of its founders, to be mourning with dirt and ashes the loss of the rich plain spread out beneath; over which, in former days, they held despotic dominion. this vast plain stretches south, to where the winding guadaljorce discharges itself into the ocean; the sierra gibalgalía rising "like a huge incumbrance" from its centre, and sheltering the mouldering walls of the famed city of cartáma. along the eastern side of the valley, the mountains of alhama, the alpujarras, and snowy ridge of granada, successively overtop the rugged ramifications of the sierra of almoxia, which bound it in that direction. to the west, the sierras of alhaurin and mijas present themselves, rising abruptly from the plain. between these two masses of mountains, and beyond the plain, a wide expanse of the blue and glassy mediterranean is visible, studded with white sails, bearing the rich produce of malaga to every part of the world. the descent to the town is good, but tedious,--winding through luxuriant vineyards and orchards. the vines are here trained on frames raised about five feet from the ground; a method by no means general in spain, and which, though certainly more pleasing to the eye, is not considered so favourable to the fruit as that usually adopted. the inn looked dirty and comfortless, and its keeper was so imbued with the constitutional doctrines of liberty and equality,--then much in vogue,--that he would hardly condescend to answer our questions concerning accommodation, and was perfectly indignant at our suggesting the expediency of his rising from his seat, and showing us the way to his stable.--"there was the door of his house if we chose to enter; if not, we had but to suit ourselves elsewhere." aware that the town did not possess another _posada_, and that the nearest _venta_ on the road was at a distance of several leagues, the dignified innkeeper trusted, from the lateness of the hour, that we should necessarily be obliged to place ourselves at his mercy. we, on the other hand, determined, if possible, to obtain accommodation elsewhere, and seeing the lady-owner of the adjoining house standing at her door, asked her if she knew any one who, for a handsome consideration, would furnish us with a night's lodging. after a short parley, it was agreed that her house and stable should be placed at our "_disposicion_" for the night, and sundry of our hard dollars at her's in perpetuity. the publican--who, pending the negociation, sat at his portal puffing a cigar, affecting the utmost indifference to its result, but in reality listening impatiently to every word that passed--no sooner found how good a thing had slipped through his fingers, than he started up in the most ungovernable passion, venting his rage upon our buxom hostess, somewhat in the following strain--"_mala pascua te dé dios! hija de puta ruin!_[ ]--may you be burnt for a witch before the year's over, for taking the bread out of a neighbour's mouth!--may the ghost of your cuckold husband appear at your bedside this night, you shameless wanton!--may"--"_que chusco es el tuerto!_"[ ] interrupted the incensed fair one, in a scream that completely drowned the rest of his good wishes, to whatever extent they may have been carried--"look at home, _cabron_,[ ] ere you call an honest man cuckold, and a virtuous woman wanton."--"virtuous woman, indeed!" resumed he of the venta; "and admits four smooth-chinned _ingleses_ into her house, to say nothing of their two stout grooms, and that monkey-faced portuguese, their guide; whom i know right well, though he has grown fat under english feeding; and whom, fat or lean, no virtuous woman would suffer within reach of her nostrils." this unlooked-for attack on "lazy antonio" drew a furious cross-fire upon the irritated _ventero_; for whilst our hostess flinched not one inch from his direct and somewhat scandalous assault--_par pari referens_--"_vosse mercé_" opened a fire of loud, nasal portuguese-spanish upon his flank, that exceeded in noise the braying of a whole troop of asses. this, in its turn, unkennelled the publican's _cara sposa_. the combat recovered its equilibrium, and seemed likely to be terminated only by the coming night; for all our endeavours to withdraw the valorous antonio proved unavailing. but, in the words of the manchegan knight, "_siempre deja la ventura, una puerta abierta_."[ ] the publican and his wife, though proof against the reputation-killing batteries of their open enemies, could not stand before an insidious covert attack that was now about to open upon them. the town's people, amongst whom the liberal _ventero_ did not appear to be in good odour, flocked in crowds to the scene of action, and, though professing to take no part in the fray, yet, by whooping, hollowing, and laughing, whenever the widow and her portuguese ally fired a successful shot at their adversaries, they gave the former a "moral support," that, in its results, proved quite as efficacious as an active interference. the innkeeper--who hitherto had manfully confronted his opponents--now saw that victory was no longer attainable, and abandoned the field; leaving his light-tongued helpmate to cover his retreat. this task she performed with consummate ability, supporting her nearly exhausted volleys of words by screams of defiance, and various offensive gesticulations. the last distinguishable turn of reproach that reached our ears, was _alarbes!_[ ] which she seemed to consider the _ne plus ultra_ of vituperation, and certainly was the very last epithet we had any right to expect would be applied to fair-skinned mortals like ourselves, by such a bronze-complexioned semi-morisco. the battle over, and stable door unlocked,--the key of which, firmly grasped in her right hand, had been the standard under which our hostess had fought and conquered,--we led our tired horses in, leaving her to fire a round of taunts in celebration of the victory. casarabonela is a clean and well-paved town. for the former quality, it is principally indebted to a stream of limpid water that, issuing from the side of the mountain, rushes down the steep streets, carrying every thing offensive before it. its supply is so bountiful that, besides doing the scavenging duty of the town, and turning a number of mill-wheels, it is led off in irrigating channels through all the gardens and orchards in the neighbourhood. the inhabitants are celebrated for their comeliness, and i willingly bear witness to the truth of common report in this particular instance; having seldom seen more lovely faces than amongst those of the bright-eyed, fair-complexioned damsels of this mountain town. nor are their figures unworthy of note, albeit, their limbs are something too muscular for naiades and oreades. it is meet, by the way, that i should explain _how_ i became acquainted with this latter fact relating to their secret history, lest scandal should blight the fair fame of the casarabonelian maidens. the truth is, then, we arrived at the town upon a _washing day_, and in taking our evening stroll, chanced to come upon the congregated village nymphs engaged knee-deep at their lavatory vocation in the mill stream; jumping and stamping with all their might upon the soiled garments of the preceding week; and certainly displaying more of their fair skins than might reasonably have been expected to meet the eyes of strangers. so they appeared to think also; for our sudden advent created an extraordinary sensation amongst them. some had sufficient presence of mind to get on dry ground ere they loosened the bandage that confined their petticoats at the knee; others, regardless of consequences, let them drop in the water; and some few were so completely bewildered as to fancy their only chance of obtaining concealment was by squatting down, even in the midst of the stream.--all laughed, but there was nothing either immodest or rude in their merriment. they were evidently ashamed that their bare legs (albeit not to be ashamed of) had been exposed to our gaze; but, at the same time, they could not but be amused at the various extraordinary expedients resorted to to conceal them. as we could not accuse ourselves of any indiscreet curiosity in this matter--for we had followed a beaten path leading to the old castle--we had but to compliment them on their fair skins and sound understandings, and pass on. indeed, i suspect it was merely our being strangers that had occasioned their modesty to be so put to the blush; for their own countrymen must have been passing to and fro the whole day, in proceeding to their work in the fields. such is the force of habit. the view from the old castle, looking towards malaga, is nearly equal to that from the top of the mountain; and in the opposite direction, the outline of the sierra itself is very bold, and is set off to great advantage by the rich foliage of well-grown forest trees that clothe its rough side. our landlady's will was better than her accommodation. our beds, which (so careful was she of her reputation) were all in one small room, looked well enough; but the somnifugeous animals domesticated therein were so numerous, so vigorous, and so insatiable, that we gladly hailed the dawn of day to escape from their persevering attentions. the road down the side of the mountain (in its windings upwards of a mile) is far from good, and it is only tolerable after gaining the plain, until it passes by a ford to the left bank of the guadaljorce, when it becomes practicable for carriages all the way to malaga. the course of this river (_guada al jars_--river of the guard) is most eccentric. it rises considerably to the eastward of the city of antequera, almost, it may be said, on the margin of the genil, and running, during the early part of its course, nearly parallel to that river, seems, like it, to be directing itself to the guadalquivír. but, after following this westerly course for upwards of thirty miles, it turns abruptly from the level country, in a southerly direction; pierces its way through a most intricate country to alora; washes the base of the rock on which that ancient city is perched; and then, entering the vale of malaga, winds round to the eastward, fertilizing that spacious plain; and discharges itself into the mediterranean:--thus, from its source to its mouth, describing a perfect semicircle. in the centre of the extensive vale of malaga, the volume of the guadaljorce is increased by the junction of the rio grande--a far less considerable stream, which comes down from the mountains encircling toloz, monda, and other roman-moorish fortresses, that guard the passes on the western side of the plain. carter, describing this latter river from its source to its embouchure, states it to be the _sigila_ of the romans. should this be the case, (though it seems probable that the larger stream of the two would have carried its name to the sea) we have yet to learn by what name the guadaljorce was known in former days.--i mention this, as i shall hereafter refer to the subject in speaking of the _salsus_, which, it strikes me forcibly, was the name given formerly to the _upper_ portion of the guadaljorce--_i. e._ before it was lost in the rocky defiles to the north of alora. the guadaljorce--jore--joz--and--quivirejo, (for it is equally known by all those names) runs in a wide, pebbly bed, and is readily enough forded at all seasons, excepting when heavy rains happen to have caused it to overflow its banks. under any circumstances, however, malaga may be reached by making a détour to the westward; crossing the rio grande at casa palma, and from thence, following the road by cartama, down the right bank of the guadaljorce, until arrived abreast of the village of aljaurinejo, where a bridge presents itself. the direct road from casarabonela crosses the river, previous to its confluence with the rio grande; and about a mile beyond the ford, reaches the _venta de cartáma_. this is often made the resting-place between ronda and malaga. now, as i write with the view of tempting others to ride after me, i feel called upon, despite the poor accommodation of casarabonela, to advise future travellers to put up with it; for certainly a more wretched hovel than the venta of cartáma i never looked into. a single glance produces an irritation of the skin, and a sympathetic restlessness of the fingers. proceeding onwards, a view of the town of cartáma is obtained on the right. it lies somewhat removed from the bank of the guadaljorce, upon the north side of the sierra gibalgalía. the harvest of statues, pavements, coins, &c. gathered amongst the ruins of this ancient roman city, has been very abundant. a few years back it possessed a forum, porticoes, and temples, in a very perfect state. but, though the spaniards talk much of their antiquities, they trouble themselves but little about their preservation; and cartáma contains now scarcely any thing worthy of note. from the _venta de cartáma_ to malaga the road is practicable for carriages to an extent of thirteen miles and a half; making the total distance from casarabonela twenty-five miles;--from ronda, forty-five. chapter ix. unprepossessing appearance of malaga--dread of yellow fever--the alameda--derivation of the city's name, and sketch of its history--the gibralfaro and alcazaba--cathedral--cigar manufactory--calculation of the supply and consumption of cigars in spain--malaga figures--population--trade--wine--harbour--society--visit to el retiro--the fandango and cachucha. the appearance of malaga on a near approach is mean and unprepossessing; nor is this an optical deception, for the suburbs are miserably poor and excessively dirty. this last, indeed, is a fault that the city may be charged with generally; and such is the contempt in which the virtue of cleanliness is held by the inhabitants, that, though the little river _guadalmedina_[ ] winds its way through the heart of the city, requiring only to be properly husbanded to keep the place sweet and clean; yet, from mismanagement, it is itself suffered to become a nuisance; the scanty stream left after supplying the fountains being in summer so obstructed by heaps of filth, brought out from the city, and thrown into its wide bed, that not having sufficient power to carry off the accumulated mass of corruption, it serves only (by keeping it constantly moist) to render the process of putrefaction more fetid and deadly. the calm indifference with which the inhabitants of malaga endure the intolerable nuisance thus generated by their improvidence and indolence, and the patience with which they look forward to the winter torrents to rid them of it, contrast singularly enough with the immoderate alarm occasioned by the arrival of a vessel from the habana, and the haste with which they send it from their port to undergo purification at minorca. thus, whilst dreading most unwarrantably the importation of the yellow fever from a place which, at the time, perhaps, was perfectly free from it, they disregard altogether the little forcing-bed of miasmatic diseases, situated under their own immediate noses. the city, it is true, has suffered so severely from visitations of this terrible disease, that the inhabitants may well dread its recurrence; but since they are aware that coin, alhaurin, and other places in the neighbourhood, situated in a purer atmosphere, are beyond its influence; surely they ought to look at home for the causes of its fatal virulence, if not of its actual production. the winter torrents come down in great force, and, from the proximity of the mountains, the guadalmedina rises very suddenly; rendering a wide bed quite necessary to carry it off, as well as strong walls to resist and direct it in its course. but, in spite of these precautions, the lower portions of the city are frequently inundated. a wooden bridge, on stone piers, keeps up the communication between the two parts of the city during _sweet winter_; but the bed of the river, which is eighty yards wide, may be crossed dry-foot the greater part of the year. the principal portion of the city is on the left bank of the guadalmedina. indeed, the part situated on the western side is, properly speaking, only a large suburb. the change on passing the bridge is most agreeable; the first object that presents itself being the alameda, a fine open space, lined on three sides with handsome houses, and on the fourth open to the refreshing westerly breezes. a shaded carriage drive goes round the quadrangle; and down its centre, a broad gravel walk, furnished with seats, and planted with flowers and shrubs, affords the public a delightful promenade. on a sunday evening this _paseo_ is crowded with all classes of the inhabitants; and the dark voluptuous malagueña, as, with mincing step, she threads the motley throng, fails not to display her skill in _fanning_ signals to her various acquaintances. the stranger, whilst following, with admiring eyes, the graceful movements of the fluttering parchment,[ ] little suspects that he is himself the subject matter of its telegraphic communications. besides the alameda, there are several fine open spaces in the city, but certainly not one good street, although some few pretend to the convenience of a _trottoir_. the inns are tolerably good. that which is dignified by the name of "_los tres reyes_" was the best, at the period of my last visit. malaga is said by some to have received its name from the hebrew work _malach_, (signifying to reign) and to have been founded by the phoenicians, eight centuries before the advent of our saviour. others, on the contrary, maintain that its name is derived from the phoenician language; the same word _malach_ signifying in it _to salt_; and that the city was so called from the quantity of fish taken and cured there. the learned florez, who inclines to this latter opinion, states that the cured fish of malaga was so esteemed at rome that a body corporate of merchants was established in that capital of the world, under the name of _malacitani_, as proved by an inscription found in the _campo di flora_. by the romans the city was called malaca; and became one of their _confederates_, (of which there were but three in boetica) as well as the great emporium for their spanish trade; although pomponius mela speaks slightingly of its importance.[ ] it was captured by the moors under tarik, a.d. ; and probably such portions of the walls as still exist were built about that period; but the fortress on the _gibralfaro_, and the _alcazaba_, or royal palace, are said to have been erected only towards the end of the thirteenth century; when the moors, by the rapid progress of the christian arms, (which had already wrested from them both cordoba and valencia) saw the necessity of strengthening the towns of their diminished territories. malaga had become a separate kingdom, however, as early as the beginning of the eleventh century; when the caliphat of cordoba ceased under the imbecile haccham ii. the first who mounted the throne of malaga was ali aben hameth. but it does not appear that the crown was regularly handed down in one family; it seems rather to have been a constant object of strife; and its power over other states seems to have varied according to the talents of him who wore it; for sometimes we find the sovereign of malaga owning obedience to the princes of seville and cordoba; at others claiming dominion over those kingdoms; and generally, over the city of granada. ishmael, a prince of the house of alhamares, was the last king who dwelt within the walls of the _alcazaba_. from the time of his being called to the throne of granada, (a.d. ), malaga was governed by a prince of the royal blood. malaga was one of the last cities that fell to the christian arms, ferdinand and isabella having succeeded in capturing it, after an obstinate siege, only five years prior to the conquest of granada, viz., a.d. . the _gibralfaro_ is, or rather has been, a fortress of great strength and considerable extent. its ruins occupy the crest of a rugged mountain, from which, and a signal tower that formerly stood on the summit, it receives its present name, _gibel al faro_. the rocky ridge stretches east and west along the mediterranean shore, falling precipitously towards the beach, and roughly and rapidly in the opposite direction, but less abruptly as it approaches the city, which it partially shelters to the s.e. a narrow, walled passage connects the castle with the _alcazaba_, which, standing on a plateau near the termination of the rocky tongue, has a better and more immediate command over the city and harbour than even the _gibralfaro_ itself. the walls of the fortress were evidently constructed at the cost of some proud roman temple, and were probably run up in great haste, as numerous fragments of columns, capitals, &c., are built in with the more suitable bricks which the moors generally used when they bestowed pains upon their works. the walls of the alcazaba, like those of the fortress, are studded with these venerable fragments, and are in an equally ruinous condition. the principal gateway is, however, tolerably perfect, and affords a fine specimen of moorish architecture. the alcazaba answered the triple purpose of a royal palace, an advanced work of the more elevated citadel, and a dock or arsenal for the city galleys. the docks were situated under its north wall; but they have long since been buried under the ruins of the impending building, and are now covered over with houses. the cathedral of malaga, commenced about the middle of the sixteenth century, is a handsome building; but, from one only of its towers having been finished, its appearance is much injured. how frequently has it happened, and how much is it to be regretted, that edifices, dedicated to the worship of the deity, have, as in this instance, been planned and partly executed on a scale of magnificence totally disproportioned to the means possessed for completing them according to the original design. besides the deformities that offend the eye in these patched-up buildings, and the unpleasant feeling to which the contemplation of an unfinished christian church ever gives birth, a deplorable conviction is forced upon the mind, that these splendid piles were erected rather with a view to commemorate their _founders_ than to promote the well-being of mankind; and that large sums of money have thus been vainly squandered, or, at best, lain profitless for ages; which might have been otherwise beneficially employed in the interests of christianity. let me not lead my reader to suppose, however, that i dislike to see stately temples raised for the worship of our creator. on the contrary, the lofty towers, high vaulted aisles, and gorgeous windows of many of our christian churches are well calculated to predispose the mind to devotion; since, wonderful as they are, considered as works of man, how contemptible do they appear, compared with the mighty works of _our_ maker! and, viewed in this light, they cannot but impress us with a sense of his power and our utter insignificance. with such feelings i have ever regarded the splendid cathedrals of antwerp, cöln, rheims, ratisbon, vienna, &c., which are amongst the number of those that remain to this day in a more or less unfinished state, though, in other respects, they are some of the finest specimens of gothic architecture extant. the cathedral of malaga is of noble proportions, but of a heavy, over-ornamented, composite style of architecture; and it is disfigured in an extraordinary degree with gilt chapels, carved saints, and votive offerings. it contains little worthy of notice besides the carved wood-work of the seats in the choir, the jewels, dresses, &c., in the _tesoreria_[ ], and one good painting by alonzo cano, in the chapel of the _rosario_. the tower of the cathedral is feet in height, and commands a fine view, though not equal to that obtained from the _gibralfaro_, since this latter includes the whole city, as well as the extensive plain of the guadaljorce, and the various ranges of mountains that stretch along the mediterranean shore between monda and marbella. immediately under the _alcazaba_ stands an immense and rather handsome edifice, built not many years since for a custom-house; but, meeting with few customers in that line of business, it has recently been converted into a royal cigar manufactory, and is now in a thriving condition. previous to the establishment of this assistant, the royal manufactory of seville had imposed on it the _impossible_ task of supplying cigars and snuff for the whole of spain; and even now, with such additional means of production, the demand is _ten times_ greater than the two factories have the power of furnishing, as the following statement will, i think, pretty clearly show. the manufactory of malaga employs persons (women and children) in making cigars. a good pair of hands at the work may furnish three hundred a day; but (as the children cannot make half that number), taking the average at two hundred, gives a daily supply of , . the manufactory of seville employs , men and , women. these , persons may be calculated as furnishing, on an average, each per diem; or, altogether, , . add to this number the , made at malaga, and we have , as the "total of the whole" manufactured daily in spain. but, as there are but six working days in the week, and seven smoking--indeed the lungs ought to be calculated as doing double work in spain on sundays and saints' days, whilst the hands are quite idle--we must reduce that amount by one seventh, to obtain the average number of cigars furnished for each day's consumption throughout the year, which amounts therefore but to , . now, taking the population of the country at , , of souls, and supposing (which is a moderate computation) that but one million and a half of that number are consumers of tobacco, it is evident that spain, with her present means, can supply her smokers with but _seven sixteenths_ of a cigar _per ora, per diem_; and, consequently, as my proposition advanced, with less than one tenth part of the demand. it follows, as a corollary, that great encouragement is given to the pernicious habits of smuggling and smoking _papelitos_[ ]. the persons employed in the manufacture of cigars are paid at the rate of one _real vellon_ for fifty, which enables even a first-rate maker to earn but fifteen pence a day. the best cigars are made entirely of habana tobacco, and are sold at the factory at the rate of thirty _reales vellon_ a hundred, or about three farthings, english, each. the second quality, composed of mixed tobaccoes, (that is, the interior of habana leaf, and the outside of virginia) cost eighteen _reales vellon_ per hundred, or something under a half-penny each. it may be seen, from this statement of the cost of cigars of the royal manufactory, that smuggling cannot but prosper; since, at the habana, the very best cigars are sold for twelve dollars a thousand (or a trifle above a half-penny each), whilst those of inferior quality may be had for one fourth that price. one of the most interesting sights of malaga is the _studio_ of señor leon, the most renowned of the numerous modellers in clay, for which the city is celebrated. his figures are admirably executed, as well as strikingly characteristic; and, from first to last, are the work of himself and family. his sons form them by hand of a very ductile clay; he goes over such parts as require the finish of an experienced artist; and they are then passed over to his daughters, who give them life by their exquisite taste and skilful management of the pencil. the price is high, the most simple figures costing four dollars (about seventeen shillings) each. a group of nine equestrian figures that señor leon had just executed for the _infante_ don francisco de paula, when i last visited malaga, he valued at nine thousand _reales vellon_, or ninety four pounds! the population of malaga is estimated at sixty thousand souls. it was formerly much greater, and, not many years since, considerably less, having been reduced from , to , , by repeated visitations of the yellow fever, about the commencement of the present century. but the city has been exempted from any very severe infliction of this scourge for some years past, and the amount of its population, and, consequently, its commercial prosperity, are rapidly increasing. the place is celebrated for its manufactures of silk, linen, and hats; but the quantity of these articles now made is trifling, the greater portion of the inhabitants being employed in the more profitable occupation of preparing wines and dried fruits for the foreign markets. upwards of , butts of wine--sweet and dry--are annually shipped from malaga, of which the chief part is taken by the americans; but a vast quantity of the latter, under the name of _malaga sherry_, finds its way also into the cellars of "_the trade_" in england; whence, after undergoing a simple metonymical process, it flows down the public throat under its new name of "old brown," or, perchance, "curiously old dry _sherry_." the cured fish of malaga, though not so celebrated as in the gastronomic days of ancient rome, continues nevertheless to be a profitable branch of its trade; anchovies being annually exported from thence, to the amount of , quintals. the export of olive oil is also very great, the average quantity being about , _arrobas_ per annum. but, perhaps, the most profitable article of produce shipped from malaga is fruit--almonds, oranges, and raisins; the preparation of which costs little, whilst they are always sure to find a market and fetch a good price. the quantity exported is enormous. the harbour of malaga is artificially formed by a stone pier, that, protruding upwards of a quarter of a mile into the sea, screens it perfectly from the prevailing easterly gales. in the opposite direction it is nearly as effectually sheltered by the coast itself, which bends for some distance to the s.w. so that, in fact, the anchorage is exposed only to a due south wind, which, besides being one that seldom blows in this part of the mediterranean, cannot, from the proximity of the african shore, occasion a heavy swell. the depth of water inside the mole is not sufficient to allow line of battle ships to lie there; and the port is otherwise inconvenient, from the difficulty of "making" it, when the wind is blowing strong on shore. but it is an excellent place of refuge for steamers, which need not apprehend so much the danger of getting on a lee shore. a light-house stands on the pier head, and the entrance of the harbour is guarded by several batteries. the society of malaga is very changeable. during the constitutional frenzy, the principal inhabitants were extremely liberal in their entertainments, as well as in their ideas; were fond of bull-fights, dancing, singing, _ponch y huevos_,[ ] and even, because it was english, of bottled porter. but a sad change afterwards came over them. these festive meetings were, on the return of absolutism, deemed vulgar, democratical, and _illegitimate_; and a more dull and gloomy city than malaga, after the star of liberty had set, can hardly be imagined. i speak, of course, of the spanish portion of the inhabitants only. the foreign merchants of the place have at all times been, and still continue to be, noted for hospitality. most of the leading men of the city have country houses, to which they retire with their families during the heat of summer. one of the most delightful of these _sin cuidados_,[ ] is "_el retiro de san tomas_," situated at the foot of the mountain range that bounds the vale of malaga to the west, and distant about eight miles from the city. this charming retreat is said to occupy the site of a villa built by one of the moslem sovereigns of malaga, and destroyed by the spaniards in one of the devastating inroads made upon the fertile valley of the guadaljorce, in the time of ferdinand and isabella. the present edifice, erected shortly after the kingdom of granada was annexed to the crown of spain, was also a royal seat, and so continued to be until the time of philip v., who bestowed it upon an illegitimate son, then bishop of the diocese; from whom, he being of the order of san domingo, it received its present name, _el retiro de san tomas_. at his death it went to the dominican convent, of which he was a member, but has since passed into other hands, and, at the period of which i write, was occupied by mr. roose, the consulgeneral of prussia, who, in favour of a letter of introduction with which i had been furnished, gave my friends and self a most courteous reception. the _retiro_ is celebrated for the rare productions and luxuriance of its gardens, the fragrance of its orange and citron groves, the splendour of its _jets d'eau_, and the beauty of the scenery it commands in all directions. after seeing all the external sights of the place, we were introduced to one of a much more novel character in spain, viz., a large circle of ladies, assembled round a steaming urn, in the fragrant enjoyment of a "cup of tea." we needed but little pressing to join in the imbibition of the refreshing beverage, at all times acceptable, but especially in this country, where, excepting in an apothecary's shop, the cherished leaves of the invaluable shrub are seldom to be seen. from the _salon_ we were conducted to a secluded part of the grounds, where another agreeable surprise awaited us, the peasantry of the neighbourhood, decked out in their holiday suits, having been assembled there, to do honour to the patron saint of the village, by belabouring the _gazon vert_ with an interminable _fandango_. the natives of the south of spain are passionately fond of this dance, which, like a scotch reel, is usually kept up as long as fingers or lungs can be found to mark time for the exhibitors. a few notes thrummed on the guitar are quite sufficient to set a _fandango_ on foot; or, in default of that instrument, a monotonous ditty chaunted by one of the bystanders answers the purpose. sometimes, when the vocalist is a _gracioso_,[ ] his part of the performance is by far the most entertaining, as he will improvise couplets on the various gymnasts, who, from time to time, relieve each other at the laborious amusement, seasoning his verses plentifully with andalusian wit. this dance is certainly of oriental parentage. it is the same, in fact, as that of the ghawazies of egypt, but clothed with _south of europe_ decency. the balancing movements of the arms are precisely the same in both, and the contortions of the body differ but slightly, though the spanish dancers have more regard for decorum than the tattoued-faced jezebels of the east. in the fandango also, the co-operation of the feet is at times much more active, affording a wide field for the display of personal activity, if offering but small opportunity for the exhibition of grace. in the end it becomes a most fatiguing affair, either to witness or take part in; and no one, without personal experience, can form an idea of the serious engagement he enters into, by inviting a fair _malagueña_ to stand up to _un poquito de fandango_; the _caballero_ exposing himself to much _badinage_ should he be forced to give in before the lady. the _cachucha_ is a refined species of _fandango_; but it is seldom witnessed in spain, except on the stage. it is doubtless a very graceful dance, but, as performed in its native land, _tant soit peu libre_. chapter x. choice of routes between malaga and granada--road to velez malaga--observations on that town--continuation of journey to granada--fertile valley of the river velez--venta of alcaucin--zafaraya mountains--alhama--description of that place and of its thermal baths--cacin--venta of huelma--salt-pans of la mala--first view of granada and its vega--situation of the city--its salubrity--ancient names--becomes the capital of the last moslem kingdom of spain--fine approach to the modern city--it is the most purely moorish town in spain--cause of the decadence of the arts under the moors of granada, and of the easy conquest of the city--destruction of the moorish literature on the capture of the city by the spaniards. several roads present themselves between malaga and granada, each (as the dover-packet skippers of the olden time were wont to say of their vessels) possessing a peculiar claim to the traveller's preference. one is good, but very long; another is short, but very bad; a third is both circuitous and bad, but across a most interesting and picturesque country. we made choice of this last, which proceeds by way of velez, malaga, and alhama. of the other two above-mentioned, the first is an excellent carriage road, that is directed in the first instance upon loxa, and will be travelled over hereafter; the second (a mere mountain track) leaves the coast at once, and proceeds straight to alhama. the distance from malaga to velez, although reckoned six leagues of spain, is only about eighteen english miles. for the greater part of the way, the road is conducted along the mediterranean shore; sometimes ascending and crossing the low, rocky promontories by which the coast is indented, but seldom stretching inland more than a quarter of a mile. it is tolerably well kept, and is at all seasons passable for carriages. the coast is rugged, and thickly set with towers and _casa fuertes_,[ ] but is marked by no picturesque features until arrived within a short distance of velez, when the road, turning away from the sea-shore, enters a flat and verdant valley, wherein stands the old town, shrouded in groves of orange and lemon trees, and backed by hills, clad to their summits with vines. a fine stream, bearing the same name as the town, serpentines through the valley, fertilizing it by a deposit of rich soil, swept from the sides of the sierras of loxa and alhama. a kind of delta has thus been formed at the river's mouth, stretching some way into the sea; so that velez, which probably, in former days, stood upon or near the coast, is now upwards of three miles from it. the town is slightly elevated above and on the left bank of the stream, and is commanded by the neighbouring hills. the streets are wide, clean, and well paved; but the thriving commerce, and abundant market, naturally looked for in a place once so noted for the productiveness of its orchards and extent of its export trade, are no longer to be seen; and the number of inhabitants has either decreased very rapidly, or has been greatly exaggerated of late years, when stated to amount to twelve thousand souls. there can be little doubt but that velez is the town of menoba, mentioned both by pliny and in the itinerary of antonius, though there is a slight discrepancy in the two accounts; for, whilst both place menoba to the eastward of malaca, the latter states the distance between the two places to be only twelve roman miles, and the former says it is on a _river_. now, there is no stream that can be called a "river" between the two towns, excepting that of velez itself, and it is full eighteen _roman_ miles from malaga. in the days of the moslems, velez was a place of considerable strength, as well as commercial importance, and only fell into the hands of the spaniards in the spring of the same year that the "catholic kings" possessed themselves of malaga, a.d., . the investment of the fortress was attended with much risk to the army of ferdinand, which at one period of the siege was cut off from its communications with the interior. the king himself also--for he personally directed the operations against the beleaguered city--incurred great danger in repulsing an attempt made by the moors to relieve the place; his life having been saved only by the devotedness of his attendants. the armorial bearings of the town commemorate this event. we had been informed that the only thing for which velez malaga is at the present day celebrated, is its breed of _fleas_; and certainly we could not in this instance say, "_nunquam ad liquidum fama perducitur_;" for never in my life--and one retains a lively recollection of these matters--did i see a more active, nor feed a more insatiable race than that which is perpetuated in the floors, walls, and bedding, of the _venta nueva_. the camphor bags, with which, at the recommendation of our malaga friends, we had come provided, were thrown away as useless. nothing loth, we started for alhama with the earliest day. the road ascends very gradually along a fine, open, and highly cultivated valley, all the way to the venta of vinuela, distant about eight miles from velez. for the first few miles the road is good, but afterwards it is so cut across by water channels as to offer serious impediments to quick travelling; for these aqueducts are formed by high banks, composed of mud and fascines, which, though bridged across and kept in good repair during the winter season, when the mountain torrents come down with great force, yet in summer are suffered to get out of order, and must, therefore, be scrambled over as the traveller best can. the valley is admirably irrigated, however, from other sources, and the crops it produces are remarkably fine and very various. they consist of fruits and vegetables of all sorts, maize, corn, and sugar-canes. on the right hand, but at some distance, rises the lofty _sierra de tejeda_; on the left are visible the rugged peaks of the mountains of antequera; whilst in front, the road continues to be directed towards the elevated passes of zafaraya, which serrate the great mountain-chain of alhama. about four miles beyond the venta of vinuela--that is, twelve miles from velez, and half way between it and alhama--is the venta of alcaucin.[ ] beyond this the ascent becomes much steeper, and the road, reaching the summit of the mountain range, enters a narrow and difficult pass, that soon shuts out the view of the sea. in exchange, however, it opens to the north, into a lovely and singularly secluded valley, which is walled in on all sides by barren and rugged tors, and carpeted with the richest vegetation; and, proceeding a short distance onwards, we were yet further gratified by obtaining an imposing view of the famed _sierra nevada_. the road from hence is tolerably good nearly all the way to alhama, which is not seen until one arrives immediately _over_ it. the descent is abrupt and bad. alhama stands on the brink of a stupendous _tajo_, or fissure, through which the river _marchan_ forces its way towards the great plain of granada. encompassed on all sides by wild, impracticable sierras, it commands the only tolerable road that, for the distance of nearly forty miles, presents itself to traverse the lofty mountain spine, which stretches east and west, along the mediterranean shore; that is to say, the portion of this chain which extends between the pass of alfarnate--where the great road from malaga to loja crosses it; and the sources of the river durcal--round which winds the road from almuñecar to granada. from this circumstance, the moors ever regarded this mountain fortress as a place of first-rate importance, calling it, indeed, the key of granada; and it was not without reason they did so, since the fall, first of malaga, and then of their beloved city itself, was mainly attributable to the capture of this place, by don rodrigo ponce de leon, who took it by surprise, a.d., . even in the present day, it is a formidable port; but artillery has now been brought to such perfection, and is made to traverse such difficult country, that its defenders would soon be buried beneath its ruins. alhama seems to occupy the site of the roman town of artigi, mentioned by pliny as one of the cities lying inland between the upper guadalquivír and the mediterranean sea. but no vestiges of walls of greater antiquity than the time of the moors are any where visible. its present name is evidently derived from the arabic, _al hamman_ (the bath). besides the fame enjoyed by alhama, from its bygone strength and strategical importance--its numerous sieges and obstinate defences--the place is in high repute from the curative properties of its thermal springs; and it derives yet further celebrity from the various laurel wreaths twined round it by the poets and romancers of all ages. the translation of one of its plaintive legends has not been thought unworthy even of the pen of byron.[ ] divest alhama, however, of its historical recollections, of its hot water, its poetry, and romance, and it is one of the dullest, dirtiest, and most sultry towns of southern spain. the streets are narrow, houses poor, and churches and convents dilapidated. it is supplied with water by means of an aqueduct, and the stream is sufficiently abundant to keep it clean and sweet, but for some filthy dyers; who first turn it to their own purpose, and then into the public streets. although so little ground in the vicinity of alhama is susceptible of cultivation, and the place contains but a few inconsiderable manufactories of woollen clothes, yet the population is said to amount to , souls. i have great doubts, however, whether it would not be over-rated at half that number. in the bottom of the fissure--which is feet below the town--are numerous picturesque water-mills; and, viewed from thence, alhama furnishes an excellent subject for the painter: the situation of the crumbling old fortress is romantic; the sides of the hills rising behind it are clad with vines, and their summits clothed with forest trees; whilst beyond are seen the distant peaks of the zafaraya passes. the hot springs are about a mile from the town, on the left of the road leading to granada. the source which supplies the baths is very copious, and its heat is about ° of fahrenheit. the water contains various salts and a considerable quantity of sulphur, smells rather offensively, and certainly does _not_ taste like chicken-broth, as some people maintain that of wiesbaden does; though, for my own part, i confess i never could discover any chicken flavour in the scalding liquid of the fashionable _koch brunnen_, unless it was of the eggs, from which, after three weeks' incubation, the chickens had not been released. the mineral water of alhama has been found very efficacious in obstinate cases of rheumatism, dyspepsia, and hypochondriasis, and is considered infallible in the cure of gun-shot wounds. its virtues were doubtless known to the romans; indeed, one of the baths is said (and appears) to be, the work of that people. but the vaulted building which now encloses the principal source is evidently of moorish workmanship. the reservoir, or bath, that first receives the beneficent stream, is built at the foot of a scarped rock, from a narrow crevice in the face of which the streaming water gushes, whilst the base of the same rock is washed by the icy-cold current of the marchan. after visiting the baths, we returned to alhama to pass the night--to sleep i cannot say, since not an eye could any one of the party close, during the half dozen tedious hours that, stretched on our cloaks, (having very soon been driven from the wool-stuffed mattresses afforded by the house) we lay alternately invoking morpheus and phoebus, and exclaiming, "woe is me, alhama!" we left the wretched _venta_ as soon as the light was sufficient to enable us to follow the winding road down the steep side of the mountain, and, reaching once more the bed of the marchan, crossed to its right bank, and took the road to granada, by way of la mala. in about two hours we passed within gunshot of the village of cacin, leaving it on our left; and then, fording a stream of the same name which runs towards the village, proceeded, by a villanously stony road, over a very broken, but not mountainous country, to the solitary venta of huelma, which, though distant only about fifteen miles from alhama, took us four hours and a half to reach. we were glad, and at the same time surprised, to find that the house, miserable as its exterior bespoke it, could furnish materials for a human breakfast, as well as a feed of barley for our famished horses; an invigorator which the _mozo_ of the posada at alhama had certainly forgotten to give the poor animals at cock-crow, according to his plighted word. from the venta of huelma to la mala is six miles of very bad road, and very uninteresting country. la mala contains a royal salt manufactory, and appears to be a thriving village. the water from which the salt is extracted is pumped up from wells sunk in all directions round the place, and is conducted by pipes and channels into extensive pans, where, exposed to the action of the sun and air, the process of evaporation is soon completed. all the hills in the vicinity contain so much salt, that even the little stream which runs through the village, and supplies its inhabitants with this necessary of life, is strongly impregnated with it, and it is difficult to procure drinkable water any where in the neighbourhood. about two miles beyond la mala (the road having reached the summit of a hill of some height), the far-famed city, and its glorious _vega_--which we had all the morning been looking for on gaining each succeeding eminence--at length burst upon our impatient sight. it is a magnificent view; though the city is at too great a distance (full seven miles) to be a striking object in a prospect of such vast extent; and the unvarying olive-green tint of the plain, and the total want of (perceptible) water, give a sameness to the scene that somewhat disappointed us. the mountains, too, that rise to the northward of the genil, dividing that river from the guadalquiver, appeared tamely outlined, after those we had so lately traversed. on a nearer approach, however, granada has an imposing appearance. its elevated citadels, hanging gardens, and wooded hills, form a fine background to the shining city; and the splendid sierra nevada, which is now again seen on the right, makes the picture almost perfect. the descent is very gradual towards gavia el grande, which stands on the edge of the plain--the road from thence to granada being on a perfect level. the luxuriance of the vegetation exceeds any thing i ever beheld. the wheat, though not yet ready for the sickle, was upwards of seven feet high, and the crops of flax, clover, &c. were gigantic in proportion. the whole plain, as we rode along, appeared to be one vast cultivated field; and the want of water we had complained of, in looking down upon the vega, was readily accounted for on observing the innumerable irrigating channels into which the genil and its various affluents are directed, and in the distribution of which, the most rigid frugality is perceptible. the plain is all watered "by the foot," as practised in the east. the city of granada is situated at the eastern extremity of the celebrated _vega_, where the golden darro and the crystal genil--long pent in amongst the tortuous ravines of the _sierra nevada_--first pour their fertilizing streams of melted snow upon the verdant plain. the greater part of the city stands within the fork of the two rivers, sheltered to the southward and eastward by the _cerro de santa elena_--a rugged hill, crowned by the lofty towers of the alhambra--and connected by several bridges with the other portion of the city, which extends along the right bank of the darro. this quarter, or _barrio_, still retains its ancient moorish appellation, _albaycin_, and is screened to the north by a steep ridge, once crowned by another formidable castle, but of which the ruined foundations alone remain to attest its strength and magnitude. granada, whilst thus sheltered on three sides from the piercing blasts that in winter sweep over the snowy summits of the _sierra nevada_, is yet sufficiently elevated to command an extensive view over the fertile _vega_, stretching far away to the west, and to receive the refreshing breezes wafted from its perfumed orange groves. the climate, consequently, is at all seasons delightful, and the shade of its ever-verdant groves, and freshness of its inexhaustible springs, might well be regretted by the sensual moslems, driven from it to seek a shelter on the parched shores of africa. the coins, monuments, inscriptions, and statues which have been discovered here, leave no doubt that the roman city of _illiberris_ stood upon or near the site of the present city; though some antiquaries have imagined they discovered in the name of the sierra _elvira_ that of the ancient city. the word elvira, however, is merely a corruption of the arabic words _al beyrah_--the unprofitable--which is quite the character of the droughty arid mountain in question; and as not a vestige of a town is to be met with in its vicinity, it may fairly be concluded that so unlikely a site was never selected for one. pliny calls the city "_iliberi, which is also liberini_;" the latter name being apparently formed from that which it bore previously to the arrival of the romans in the country, namely, liberia, a city founded, according to the spanish chronologists, years before the christian era. by the goths the name was changed to eliberi, as proved by numerous coins of that people, yet extant. the last of these bears the date a.d., , from which it may be inferred that the place had fallen to decay prior to the irruption of the saracens; particularly as little notice is taken of it in the early annals of the moors of spain, under its new name of granada. florez conjectures--and i think not unreasonably--that the name granada may be derived from the arabic words _garb_, west; and _nata_, the name of a mountain overlooking the city of damascus, from whence came the band of arabs that conquered eliberi. thus, we may suppose, that on first discovering it from the sierra of alhama, they designated it, from a resemblance to the bright city and its splendid vale in their native land, the western nata. the surpassing beauty of the wooded eminences overhanging the darro and genil, not less than the delightful temperature and excessive fertility of the outstretched _vega_, could not fail to have soon induced many of such earthly paradise-seekers as the mohammedans to settle there; and doubtless, granada, at an early date after the saracenic conquest, again became a large and populous city; though not until the power of the crescent was on the wane; in fact, not until cordoba and valencia had fallen to the christians, and seville was threatened with destruction, did she assume a proud pre-eminence, by becoming the capital of the diminished, though scarcely weakened, dominions of mohammedan spain. the first great augmentation the city had received was occasioned by the capture of the towns of alhambra and baeza, by ferdinand iii, (a.d. ) the inhabitants of which, driven to the southern side of the guadalquivír, sought shelter behind the rugged mountains of jaen, establishing themselves at granada. the exiles of the former town there built a fortress, overhanging the left bank of the darro, to which they gave the name of their regretted home; whilst those of the latter erected an equally formidable citadel on the opposite side of the river, which was called after them al bayzin, and eventually gave its name to the large and populous district of the city that, in the course of a few years, was clustered round its base. the city, thus strengthened and augmented, was shortly afterwards (a.d. ) selected as the capital of a new kingdom, founded by mohammed abou said, or, as from the name of his family he is generally called, mohammed alhamar;[ ] and the throne continued in the family of that prince until a.d. , when ferdinand and isabella planted the cross upon the towers of the alhambra; a period of upwards of two centuries and a half. the new kingdom erected by mohammed alhamar might have presented as impassable a barrier to the christian arms as turkey has offered, from the conquest of constantinople to the present day, had not anarchy and dissension pervaded the other provinces of the spanish peninsula, yet subject to the moslems. but, jealous of each other, and differing in their views, they fell successively before the two enterprising sovereigns who, at that period, occupied the thrones of castile and aragon. thus cordoba, which had already ceded the pre-eminence to seville, fell, unaided, into the hands of the castillian in the very year that granada became the capital of a formidable mohammedan kingdom; and valencia, only two years later, was also finally added to the conquests of the christians. even the city of jaen, though fiercely contested for by mohammed alhamar, was at last ceded by treaty to his better-supported antagonist, _san fernando_, who then, with consummate policy, forming an alliance with the king of granada, induced him to assist in the subjugation of seville. this important city, which, a short time previously, had adopted a republican form of government, and, with democratic jealousy, had kept aloof whilst the christians were crippling the growing power of the neighbouring kingdom of granada, now reaped the fruits of its short-sighted policy; being obliged, after a short but obstinate struggle, to bend the neck to the castillian yoke. murcia on one side, and algarbe on the other, were soon afterwards added to the conquests of the allied sovereigns of castile and aragon. so that, before the first monarch of granada had closed his reign, all the mohammedan states and cities, which had repudiated his alliance, fell in detail to the christian arms. the kingdom of mohammed alhamar, which thenceforth had to contend single-handed against the christians, was respectable in size, though but a fragment of the vast dominions of the caliphs of the west. it extended far beyond the limits of the modern kingdom of granada, and comprised all the mountainous portions of those of jaen, cordoba, seville, and murcia; thus stretching along the sea-shore from cape trafalgar to cape de gatte, and forming a compact and very defensible territory. its population, too, was great beyond all proportion to its extent; the inhabitants of the various cities captured by the christians having, by an inconceivable act of barbarity and impolicy, been driven from their homes to seek shelter within the mountain-girt kingdom of granada. so enormous, indeed, is the amount of population said to have been, that the capital alone could furnish an army of , fighting men. it is not surprising, therefore, that the moors, thus concentrated, should have been able to maintain their independence for so extended a period; especially, when we consider the want of unanimity that prevailed amongst the christian princes, from the death of st. ferdinand until the union of the crowns of castile and aragon, in the persons of ferdinand v. and isabella. the city still covers a considerable extent of ground, though certainly far less than it must have occupied when swarming with half a million mohammedans. the approach to it, on the malaga side, is particularly fine; a handsome stone bridge (built by the french during their occupation of the province in the "war of independence") spans the sparkling genil--the _singilis_ of the romans. immediately beyond this bridge rise crenated walls, and terraced gardens, domes, minarets, and shining steeples, reaching to the base of the dark rocks that bear the yet darker towers of the proud alhambra. the precincts of the city gained, every thing bears the marks of moslem hands. the narrow streets and gushing fountains, the lofty, flat-roofed houses, and heavy projecting balconies, are all quite oriental; whilst, here and there, the entrance of some old mosque, or ruined bath, bears, in its horse-shoe arch, the peculiar stamp of the morisco. granada may certainly lay claim to the title of the _most moorish_ city of spain. some few, whose glories had passed away ere it rose to distinction, may have surpassed it in wealth, extent, and even population; and others were doubtless more distinguished for the cultivation of those arts and sciences which were cherished with such peculiar care by the arabian conquerors of spain. but, when the moslem rule was drawing towards its close, and granada had to contend alone with the christians for existence, her monarchs, in their distress, naturally turned for help to their uncivilized brethren of mauritania; and, as each fresh graft was taken from the original savage stock, the character of the people of granada became more decidedly moorish; until, at last, from the frequency of these calls, they came to differ but little from the wild nomad tribes, whose assistance they had invoked. at its commencement, however, the new kingdom founded on the ruins of cordoba, seville, and valencia, gave promise of reviving the brilliant days of the early mohammedans--its sovereigns of rivalling the fame of the abdalrahmans and almanzors. the countless minarets of the renovated city selected for its capital resounded with the _muezzeem's_ cries, awakening the dozing fanaticism of "the faithful;" and the bright watch-tower[ ] of its proud alhambra served as a beacon to point out where what remained of wealth and learning, in the wreck of musa's mighty empire, would find a safe place of refuge. but the crimes which soon soiled the throne of alhamar, the fierce contentions of the princes of the royal house, and the interminable civil wars to which their pretentions led, so exhausted granada's strength, that, stripped one by one of her bulwarks, cut off from external succour, and torn by intestine dissension, she at length fell an easy prey to her persevering enemies; and, at her fall, expired the flickering light of mohammedan civilization;--a civilization, which, considering the withering tendency of the arabian impostor's scheme of religion, furnishes much greater cause for surprise, than even the rapid propagation and wide spread of the pernicious creed itself. the decadence of the arts kept pace with that in the manners of the inhabitants of this fair region;--both being natural consequences of the internal struggles by which it was agitated. the olive tree could not thrive in soil moistened only with the blood of its cultivators. during this period of progressive deterioration were erected most of the moslem buildings, whose remains are yet scattered throughout the city; and, whilst in some points of character these monuments exhibit a marked difference from the arabian structures of the east, they are more purely _moorish_ than any other saracenic edifices to be met with in spain, and are infinitely superior, in every respect, to such as were erected in barbary at a yet more recent date. the literature of the moors of spain would doubtless have exhibited a similar decadence and peculiarity of character; but on these points we have not the means of judging, the fanatic destroyer of the celebrated library of the ptolemies having, seven centuries afterwards, found an unworthy imitator in cardinal ximenes--at whose instigation every scrap of mohammedan literature found within the captured city of granada was, with intolerant fury, committed to the flames. chapter xi. the alhambra and generalife--other reliques of the moors contained within the city--the cathedral of granada--chapel of the catholic kings--antiquity of the church of eliberi--tomb of gonzalvo de cordoba--churches of san juan de dios and san domingo--carthusian convent--hermita de san anton. the famed alhambra[ ] was the first object to which we bent our steps, after depositing our effects at the _fonda del comercio_, and sending our horses to the _posada de las tablas_. it is perched on the summit of a steep but narrow ridge, which, falling precipitously to the north, along the left bank of the darro, terminates in a rugged point, overhanging the city, to the west; and, as i have already noticed, is supposed to have been erected by the exiled inhabitants of a town of the same name in la mancha, captured by _san fernando_ about the year of our lord . the walls of the fortress follow the various sinuosities of the scarped cliffs that bound the rocky ledge on three sides, and enclose a plateau, yards in length, and wide in its greatest breadth. but the form of the enceinte is very irregular, and its ground plan bears a strong resemblance to the elongated leaf of the prickly pear; the numerous towers studding the walls of the moorish stronghold having all the appearance of the _inattackable_ fruit that grows round the edge of the spanish vegetable monster. the principal entrance is by the gate of judgment, situated in one of the towers on the southern front of the fortress. the approach to this gate is by a wide and well kept carriage road, which, shadowed over by luxuriant forest trees, winds up a narrow ravine, that, on this side, divides the alhambra hill from another steep mound, which projects, in like manner, towards the city, and is occupied by the ruins of other old moorish fortifications, called _las torres bermejas_. both hills form part of the _cerro de santa elena_. on gaining the interior of the fortress, the first object that catches the eye, standing towards the centre of the plateau, and looking somewhat contemptuously down upon its moorish rival, is the gorgeous palace of the emperor charles v. it is a large quadrangular building, enclosing a spacious circular court, and its four fronts, constructed entirely of cut stone, have a handsome appearance, albeit, the heterogeneous mixture of the orders of architecture they exhibit, is of rather questionable taste. though of so much more recent date than the palace of the moorish kings, the stately pile of spain's mighty monarch seems doomed, like the throne of his successors, to fall to the ground e'en sooner than the tottering fabric of mohammedanism itself. indeed it is even now a mere shell, and the few remaining bolts and bars that hold together its shattered walls will, i have no doubt, shortly find their way to the same furnace that has already converted the bronze rings and ornaments with which it was formerly embellished, into the more useful form of _maravedis_.[ ] the celebrated palace of the moslem princes, to which our conductor now led the way, was commenced by mohammed al fakir, son of mohammed abou said, the founder of the kingdom of granada, a.d. . it rests against the north wall of the fortress, and its low and irregular brick walls, overshadowed by the stone palace of the spanish kings on one side, and by the huge tower of comares on another, have a mean and very unpromising appearance. it looks like the dilapidated stables and _remises_ attached to a french chateau of the "old school," the walls of which only have withstood the levelling system of the revolution. this unpretending exterior being common to all moorish buildings, did not occasion disappointment. not so, however, the interior; of which, for i was a young traveller then, i had conceived a much more exalted idea. indeed, the disappointment was general, for all of us had expected to see, if not a palace on a grand scale and of magnificent proportions, one, at all events, containing suites of courts and apartments, which, on the score of costliness and luxury, would not cede the palm to any erected even in these days of refinement and extravagance. when, therefore, after following our guide through several long dirty passages, we were ushered into a small quadrangular court, laid out like a dutch garden, but, unlike it, overgrown with sunflowers, larkspurs, and marigolds, so little idea had we of being within the precincts of the royal apartments, that my companions were about to pass on with eager haste, until i called out, "do stop a moment to look at this, it is so _pretty_." "_este es el patio de los leones,_"[ ] said our cicerone, describing a wide circle with his stick, to draw our attention to the light and elegant colonnade that encompassed us, adding, after a short but effective pause, and pointing at the same time to a basin in the centre of the court, supported on the backs of twelve nondescript animals which were half concealed in the flowery jungle, "and those are the _lions_, celebrated in every part of the known world, which have given the name to this terrestrial paradise!" this grandiloquent burst was evidently occasioned by our apparent _insousiance_. we stood corrected, but not the less disappointed. on paper--in type as well as in pencil--the alhambra has generally been represented in too glowing colours. in defence of the painter it may be said that he labours under a peculiar disadvantage, as far as _truth_ is concerned; for, whilst the utmost effort of his art will never enable him to do justice to the lovely tints of nature, he cannot, with all his skill, avoid conveying too favourable an idea of works of art, especially in delineating architectural subjects. it follows, that, in drawings of the building now before us, the elaborately ornamented walls, the delicately wrought arcades, the spouting lions, the flowery parterres, every thing, in fact, connected with it, appears fresh, perfect, and beautiful; the dirt, weeds, cobwebs, and scribbling that disfigure the _reality_, being omitted as unnecessary adjuncts to the _picture_; and the palace is thus represented to us (embellished a little, perhaps, according to the artist's fancy) rather such as it _may have been_ in the days of the moors, than what it _is_ at the present time;--this leads to one source of disappointment. on the other hand, whilst travellers have given the dimensions of the various courts and apartments with tolerable accuracy, they certainly have misapplied their epithets in describing them. the _reader_ is apt, therefore, to lose sight of the scale in picturing to himself these gorgeous halls, which the _spectator_, at the first glance, _sees_ are neither grand nor magnificent. we, at all events, having, from what we had previously read and seen, formed most erroneous conceptions, both as to the size of the building, and of its state of preservation, made the circuit of, and quitted the too celebrated palace, disappointed with every thing within its walls. the false impression once removed, however, and a few days given to mourn over the sad destruction of our long cherished fancies, we again ascended the wall-girt hill; and, having now brought our visual rays to bear at a proper focus, and allowed greater scope to the imagination--in other words, changing the adjectives grand and magnificent for tasteful and elaborate, and, in some matters, suffering fancy to supply the place of reality--we received much greater pleasure from our second visit to the crumbling pile; a gratification that became less alloyed at each succeeding visit. i should here observe that, at the period of which i write, a.d. , the alhambra, like every thing else in spain at that epoch, was in a deplorable state of dilapidation. no steps had yet been taken to repair the damage done by the french on evacuating the fortress ten years previously; and the royal palace, rent and shaken by the same explosions that had thrown down the towers of the moorish stronghold, was still strewed with ruins, partially unroofed, and exposed to the destructive influence of wind and rain. that it is yet standing we have to thank general sebastiani, who was governor of the province during a considerable part of the late war, and bestowed great pains upon its preservation. perhaps, indeed, but for his interference, as well as the repairs he caused to be executed, this _chef d'oeuvre_ of moorish art would have shared the fate of the walls of the fortress. i am happy, for the sake of future travellers, to be able to add that, on visiting granada many years after, i found the alhambra in a much improved state, notwithstanding that it had in the meanwhile suffered severely from the shock of an earthquake. the government seemed at length to have decided that the royal palace was worthy of preservation, though the work of infidels. an officer of rank had accordingly been appointed to its guardianship, whose permission it was requisite to obtain ere the stranger could enter its gates; and an old woman was lodged therein as his deputy, to pocket the fees and do the honours. under the watchful eye and ever busy broom of this vigilant personage, the place is now kept in excellent "_inspection order_." the white marble pillars of its corridors have, under the influence of soap and water and a scrubbing brush, been cleansed of the names, doggrel verses, and maudlin sentiment, with which, from time immemorial, travellers have thought proper to disfigure them; the rubbish of another description that concealed its mosaic pavements has been removed; the weeds with which its courts were overgrown are eradicated; and, in the words of an arabian poet, "the spider is no longer the chamberlain at the gate of koshrew." still, however, even in its improved condition, the future visitor must not go prepared to walk through stately courts and suites of magnificent apartments, else, like me, will he be sadly disappointed. the novelty in the style of architecture, the delicacy and variety of its enrichments, the tasteful patterns of its tesselated floors, and the laboured workmanship of its vaulted ceilings, constitute its chief merits, and are, i willingly admit, masterpieces of their respective kinds. these have been so well and minutely described in murphy's work on the moorish antiquities of spain, that i shall confine my observations on the royal palace to the state in which i found it at the period of my last visit, in the autumn of . the female cicero who, as aforesaid, was then charged with the exhibition of "the lions," happened to be one of those mechanical, dogmatical persons, who not only dislike, above all things, to leave the beaten track, but will insist upon regulating all tastes by their own. finding, therefore, that she had laid down a "grand tour" of the premises from which nothing could persuade her to deviate, and had determined in her own mind the precise number of minutes that should be devoted to the admiration of each object, we requested she would save herself further trouble, and us annoyance, by leaving us to the guidance of _mateo ximenes_ (a name rendered classic by the pen of washington irving), who, as a kind of director general of english travellers in granada, had attached himself to us in the capacity of _fac totum_. mateo being now, from the emoluments of his self-created appointment, one of the inhabitants _de mas tomo_[ ] of the alhambra; from his eloquent dissertations and learned disquisitions, an acknowledged dilettante and antiquary; and, as the "minister of grace and justice" of most visitors, a person of considerable influence with the deputy governor of the palace, our conductress, on payment of certain dues, made not the least scruple of acceding to our proposal, giving mateo, nevertheless, strict injunctions to have us constantly in sight, and to keep our hands from picking and stealing. for our future visits we obtained a written permission from the commandant to make sketches, in virtue of which we were enabled to wander about wherever and as long as we pleased; a privilege which i would recommend all travellers to obtain immediately on their arrival at granada, for, besides that this permit saves both trouble and expense, they will find no more delightful retreat during the heat of the day, than within the shaded courts and cool and airy halls of the moorish palace. the _patio de la alberca_, to which, following the itinerary laid down by the _tia manuela_, i will first conduct my readers, is an oblong court, ornamented at the two ends with light colonnades, and having a long pool of water, or tank (_al borkat_, whence its name is derived), in the centre. above, but a little retired from the northern arcade, the huge square tower of comares rises to the height of feet; and in it, on the level of and communicating with the court, is the grand hall of audience of the ambassador's. this, however, being the principal show-room of the palace, i will, following the discreet example of our guide, keep in reserve, and proceed to the hall of the baths, into which a passage leads from the eastern side of the _patio de la alberca_. art seems to have exhausted itself in the embellishment and fitting up of this luxurious establishment. its floors are laid with a mosaic of porcelain. its walls, faced also with glazed tiles to a certain height, are finished upwards with the most elaborate moresques, moulded in stucco to correspond with the basement. the roof of the royal bathing apartment is arched with solid blocks of stone, bidding defiance to the sun's rays, and is pierced with numerous starry apertures, admitting ventilation. the basins wherein the royal couple performed their ablutions are of white marble, and placed in separate alcoves, at the north end of the principal saloon. the windows open upon a garden without the palace walls, conveying perfumed breezes from its fragrant shrubs and orange trees to the epicurean bathers within. another apartment, communicating with the saloon of the royal baths, is called a _concert_ room. music room would, perhaps, be a more correct name for it, since i think it may be fairly doubted whether the arabs ever cultivated music to such an extent as to warrant our using the term _concert_ in speaking of it. numerous arabic ballads, some of considerable merit, have, it is true, been handed down to the present generation, and are yet chaunted by public singers in the east, but without the slightest attempt to attune either their voices or the instruments on which they sometimes strike an accompaniment. the natives of morocco, on the other hand, who may be considered as the "nearest of kin" to the moors of spain, have not the slightest notion of _music_. a diabolical noise, made by a _zambomba_[ ] and a reed pipe, which not even a civilized dog can hear without howling, is the only attempt at a _concert_ that i ever knew them to be guilty of executing. this discordant clamour appears, nevertheless, to afford them unalloyed satisfaction. the court of the lions, which, proceeding from the baths, is entered on its north side, is a rectangular peristyle, feet long, (east and west) and wide. the pillars are of white marble, extremely light and beautiful, and they support a fantastic but elegant series of arches, the superstructure of which is covered with an elaborate fretwork of stuccoed mouldings, representing moresques, and flowers, interspersed with sentences from the koran, &c. the pillars, i should observe, are perfectly plain; and, though methodically arranged, yet, from being disposed in corresponding groups of two, three, and four, produce a very bizarre effect. in the centre of the court is a handsome fountain. the basin, into which the water rises, is of oriental alabaster, as are also the twelve animals that support it on their backs, and which, by some strange zoological blunder, have been called _lions_, for panthers would be more proper. the reservoir that receives the stream they disgorge is of black marble. it is not improbable that, on the decadence of cordoba, this fountain was brought from the famous palace of zehra, built by the kaliph abdalrahman iii. as a country retreat for his favourite sultana; which, embellished, according to common report, with the works of grecian artists, is said to have contained numerous sculptured animals; and, amongst others, some golden (meaning probably gilt) lions, that spouted water into a basin of alabaster, are particularly mentioned by moorish historians. on the north side of the court of the lions is the hall of the two sisters; so called from two large slabs of delicately white marble that occupy the centre of its floor. this apartment looks upon the fountain in the centre of the court, and directly facing it, on the south side, is the hall of the abencerrages, to which the legend of the cruel massacre of the chieftains of that noble race has given a mournful interest. if the tale be true, (and from the distracted state of granada under its two last kings there is every reason to believe it is) there can be little reason to doubt that the stains, yet visible in the white marble pavement, were occasioned by the blood of boabdil's unfortunate victims. on the same side the court of the lions as the hall of the abencerrages is a small apartment, wherein, in former days, the moslem sovereigns sought the _kiblah_,[ ] and made their private prostrations. it was the burial place of ishmael farady, fifth king of granada, one of the most enterprising monarchs that occupied the throne, but whose voluptuous excesses led to his assassination, a.d. . the hall of judgment is situated at the upper end of the court, and at the eastern extremity of the palace. all these apartments are almost equally beautiful, though differing from each other in size, shape, and every part of their elaborate decorations. if any one can claim pre-eminence over the others, it is the hall of the two sisters, the ceiling of which is composed of delicate stalactites in stucco, and the colouring and gilding are perhaps fresher and more gaudy. the windows in the back, or north, wall of this apartment look upon the garden of lindaraja, which is now laid out with some little taste and care. from this garden, or, by retracing our steps through the baths, we gain a small and exquisitely finished apartment, upon which the spaniards have bestowed the name of _el tocador_, or dressing room of the sultana. it is situated in a kind of tower, or buttress, that projects beyond the walls of the fortress, and commands a lovely view in every direction. the mosaic pavement of this little room is of extreme beauty. the situation of the hall of the ambassadors, or "golden saloon," to which we will now proceed, has already been described. it is a square of feet, and occupies the whole space enclosed by the walls of the tower of comares which are of extraordinary thickness. the height of this apartment is feet, and its ceiling, vaulted in a singularly graceful manner, is inlaid with a mosaic of mother of pearl. this hall is certainly the pride of the alhambra. its proportions are more just, its stuccoed walls more highly finished, and the colouring and gilding of its ornaments more brilliant, than those of any of the other apartments. the tower in which it is situated projects far beyond the curtain wall of the fortress; so that, whilst it looks into the refreshing court of the _alberca_ on one side, from windows in the other three, it commands extensive views over the city, and the dark valley of the darro. it is the only one of the principal apartments of the palace that possesses this advantage, and it was therefore peculiarly well adapted to the purpose of a hall of audience; since, the wide circumvallated city spread out below, the fertile plain over which, as far as the eye can range, it commands a view, and the fearful height of the massive walls, upon which its casements look down, could not but impress visitors with a sense of the wealth and power of the ruler of this fair realm, and of the strength of his proud mountain citadel. the windows too of this audience hall, elevated some hundreds of feet above the rocky banks of the darro, afforded every facility for disposing--after the wonted manner of the mohammedans--of any contumacious heir presumptive, or other troublesome friend or relative, whose journey to paradise might require hastening. the view from the eastern window, looking up the valley of the darro, embraces several objects of much interest; on the right, projecting boldly into the valley, is the tower surmounted by the sultana's _tocador_, which, seen almost to its base, gives a good idea of the height of the alhambra's walls above the crouching city. beyond, but situated on the same bank of the river as the fortress, is seen the palace of the generalife, and, above it, the _silla de los moros_,[ ] a scarped rock, whereon the moslems were in the habit of watching the setting sun, as he cast his gorgeous rays upon their beloved vega. on the opposite side of the valley is the _sacro monte_ convent, an immense pile, now crumbling to the dust. the _bassi relievi_ of the stuccoed compartment round this window are very curious, and i should say they represented groups of fishes intermixed with arabesques, but that several great authorities have declared, that in all the decorations of the alhambra there are no traces of animal or vegetable life. there are many other objects well worthy of notice within the royal palace. amongst others, the cicerone does not forget to point out the apartments wherein the sultana _ayxa_ and her unfortunate son mohammed abi abdilehi, or boabdil, were confined by the licentious muley hassan,and the window in the tower of comares, whence the young prince,--who thus early, even in a father, deserved the surname of _el zogoybi_,[ ] afterwards bestowed upon him,--was lowered down and escaped from granada. the palace contains also a very handsome porcelain vase, said to be of moorish manufacture. another, which was discovered at the same time in the vaults under the royal apartments, was taken away by count sebastiani. the _granadinos_ abuse the french general in most unmeasured terms, for what they term this _theft_; but, if he carried off nothing else from the city, it must be admitted he charged them moderately enough for his guardianship of what he left behind--treasures on which, at that time, they seemed to set no value. independent of the interest with which the traveller explores the abode of granada's moslem sovereigns, his attention is called, in no slight degree, to the examination of the crumbling ruins of the fortress enclosing it; over every nook of which a fresh charm has been thrown by the delightful tales of washington irving, whose _fidus achates_, "mateo," stoutly maintains that the accomplished writer has drawn but slightly on the stores of his imagination. the views from the walls and lofty towers of the fortress are most extensive and varied. the most comprehensive is from the _torre de la vela_,[ ] situated at the western extremity of the alhambra, whence, besides the view over the city and plain, the eye embraces the whole range of the magnificent _sierra nevada_, the peaks of which are several hundred feet higher than the loftiest points of the pyrenees; and though not, as is usually supposed, covered with _perpetual_ snow, are generally capped with it during nine months of the year. the highest points of the range are the _cerros de mulahacen_ and _de la veleta_, bearing s. e. from granada, and both computed to be upwards of , feet above the level of the mediterranean. on my last visit to granada, in the month of october, the mountains were perfectly free from snow, and "mateo" had succeeded in persuading me to mount to their summit under his guidance; a journey of twenty-four hours from the city. the day was fixed accordingly, but, during the night preceding our intended scramble, the whole ridge put on its winter covering, and rendered the undertaking impracticable. leaving the fortress by a low sally-port on its north side, we will proceed to visit the generalife, or summer palace of the moorish kings, situated rather above, but on the slope of the same ridge as the alhambra, and separated from it by a deep ravine. the path is perfumed with groves of myrtle, orange, and other odoriferous trees; and is shaded with eglantine, woodbine, and wild vines, whose red autumnal leaves, entwined in the evergreen boughs of the overhanging carobs and ilexes, offer an impenetrable shield against the mid-day sun. the chief attraction of the _generalife_, (house of love) are the refreshing coolness of its courts and apartments, the sweetness and abundance of its crystal waters, the luxuriance of its flowers and fruits, and the beauty of the views that its impending balconies command. the stucco fretwork and porcelain mosaics, with which the apartments are ornamented, are in the same style as those of the alhambra; but with the highly finished and gorgeous decorations of the royal palace yet fresh in the recollection, those of the _generalife_ appear far inferior. in the opinion of mr. murphy, however, the mosaic work in the portico of the _generalife_ not only surpasses any other specimen of moorish workmanship, but "for variety of execution and delicacy of taste is fully equal, if not superior, to any roman mosaics which have come down to our times." i should have been unwilling to admit this, even at the time he wrote; but the late discoveries at pompeii have brought to light mosaic pavements far exceeding, as well in boldness of design as in beauty of execution and colouring, any thing of the kind that has ever been produced in modern times; and which, whilst causing us to estimate more highly than heretofore the proficiency of the ancients in the art of _drawing_, make us regard the mosaics of the moors as mere pieces of mechanism. the wood-work in the roofs of the various apartments of the _generalife_ is worthy of remark, not only from the beauty of the workmanship, but from its state of preservation. murphy has fallen into error in translating _nogal_ (of which they are composed) _chesnut_--he should have said _walnut_. the walls of one of the apartments are decorated with portraits of some of the most renowned warriors who figured in the siege of granada; amongst others of _gonzalvo_, "the great captain;" _ponce de leon_, the captor of alhama; _el rey chico_, boabdil; and ferdinand and isabella. they are all said to have been "taken from life," and the work of one individual. the gardens of the _generalife_ are more pleasing from the luxuriant growth of their flowers and fruits, than for the manner in which they are laid out. one must taste the _pomegranate_ of the generalife to appreciate fully the value of that refreshing fruit; and he who has eaten of its muscatel grapes can have no doubt of the wine house, from whence ganymede supplied the cups of the thirsty olympics. at a certain cypress-tree that grows within the walled court of the palace, "_mateo_" mysteriously wags his head; and should any curiosity be evinced at this intimation of a tale that he could unfold, will open a budget of royal scandal, purloined from florian, and other romancers, which furnishes him with the means of displaying his historic lore for the rest of the evening. descending from the _generalife_, and crossing the "golden" darro ere it enters the city, we will mount the rough streets of the albayzin. the hill side is perforated with numerous caverns, many of which are tenanted by a singularly savage race of beings, who, differing in character from either moors or spaniards, appear to be descended from the aborigines of the country. several curious wells, arches, and other moorish remains, are to be seen in the quarter of the albayzin; and the view it commands is one of the finest in granada, embracing the greater part of the city, and the richly wooded bank, whereon are perched the bright _generalife_, and the sombre _alhambra_, backed by the snow-clad ridge of _nevada_. amongst the numerous moorish reliques that the city contains, the most perfect, perhaps, are the baths. but, at every turn, a ruined bridge, a dilapidated gateway, or some other memento of the saracens, presents itself, giving granada peculiar interest in the eyes of the seeker after moorish antiquities. neither in modern sights does it fall short of other more populous and flourishing cities. the cathedral is not so large nor so handsome as that of malaga. the interior is heavy, excessively gaudy, and fitted up in the worst possible taste. the architecture is corinthian, but of a very spurious sort. some good paintings are to be found distributed in the various chapels; the best are in that of the _santissima trinidad_, viz.--the trinity, by _cano_, and a holy family by _murillo_--the latter a masterpiece. the pillars round the _altar mayor_--above which rises the dome--are richly gilt; and the light admitted by painted windows, above and behind, has a fine effect. some paintings by _cano_, under the dome, are very good, and the cathedral is ornamented with two busts of great merit, (adam and eve) by the same master, whose talented hand directed the chizel with the same success as the pencil. the _capilla de los reyes catolicos_ communicates with the cathedral, but is under a separate roof. it is of gothic architecture, and celebrated for a flat arch of remarkable boldness, which supports its roof. the remains of ferdinand and isabella, and their immediate successors, philip and joanna, are deposited in this chapel. their tombs, executed by order of the emperor charles v., are superbly sculptured. that of the "catholic kings" is the most elaborately wrought and highly finished; but the other is lighter, and displays more elegance of design. the recumbent figures of ferdinand and isabella are remarkably well carved;--the repose in the queen's countenance is incomparably expressed. the same cannot be said of the manner in which the "mad" joanna and her austrian husband have been sculptured; with the latter of whom, at all events, the artist could not offer the usual excuse, that crowned heads are difficult _subjects_ to manage, since the spaniards themselves surnamed philip "_el hermoso_."[ ] in ascending rather too hastily and unguardedly from the tomb of the conquerors of granada, i struck my head against the iron grating above, and was laid prostrate and senseless at the foot of the altar. it required a good pint of the church wine--which our worthy, priestly cicerone insisted upon administering, both internally and externally--to set me up again; and, as a reward for my patience under suffering, he showed us the splendidly illuminated missal, used by the "catholic kings," and deposited with the crown, sword, and sceptre of the great ferdinand, in the sacristy of the cathedral. the church of san geronimo is one of the oldest in granada--which city boasts of being the first in spain that embraced christianity--_san cicilio_, one of the seven apostles ordained by peter and paul, having founded a church at eliberi, in the first century.[ ] it contains some paintings said to be by murillo, but is more celebrated as being the burial-place of _gonzalvo de cordoba_. a plain white marble slab, let into the pavement at the foot of the principal altar, and bearing the following simple inscription, is all that marks the spot where the remains of the greatest captain spain ever produced were interred. gonzali fernandez de cordova sui propriâ virtute magni ducis nomen proprium sibi fecit ossa perpetua tandem luci restituenda huic interea loculo credita sunt gloria minime consepulta. the church of _san juan de dios_ is well worthy a visit; though its decorations are rather gaudy than handsome. it contains a few small, but very good paintings by _cano_, and a valuable silver urn, embossed with gold, wherein are deposited--so the spaniards assert--the bones of our saviour's favourite disciple, who died at granada. there are many other churches deserving of the traveller's notice, but it would be tedious to enumerate them. to the lovers of rossini's music, however, i would recommend a visit to that of _san domingo_ during _high mass_. i once heard there the whole of the airs from _mosé in egitto_, besides various _pezzi scelti_ from the _gazza ladra_, to which, in england, we dance quadrilles. the carthusian convent (_extra muros_) is noted for its riches, and collection of paintings. we could not gain admission on our first visit; as, after toiling up the eminence on which it is situated, we found the grating in the portal closed by a board, announcing "_hoy se sacan animas_"--to-day souls are extracting from purgatory;--a praiseworthy occupation, from which it would have been sinful to take the worthy friars; although it was gently hinted to us, that a few _pesetas_ would remove any scruples _they_ might entertain. the day following, however,--the funds for suborning the devil having been exhausted,--we were admitted to inspect the interior of the convent. it contains numerous paintings, some few said to be by murillo, others by cano; but i doubt whether either of those great masters ever touched them. the rest are mere daubs, representing the persecutions of the monks by henry viii, by the moors, and by the german lutherans. the _hermita de san anton_ is a small edifice on the outskirts of the city, which, on a certain day in the spring of the year, is endowed with the singular power of curing horses of the _cholic_; all that is required being to ride them nine times, at a brisk pace, round the exterior of the church--_ni mas ni menos_. chapter xii. granada continued--the zacatin--market place--bazaar--population--the granadinos--their predilection for the french costume--love of masked balls--madame martinez de la rosa's tertulia--an english country dance metamorphosed--specimen of spanish taste in fitting up country houses--the marques de montijo--anecdote of the late king and the conde de teba--constitutional enthusiasm of granada--ends in smoke--military schools--observations on the spanish army--departure for cordoba--pinos de la puente--puerto de lope--moclin--alcala la real--spanish peasants--manner of computing distance--baena--not the roman town of ulia--castro el rio--occupied by a cavalry regiment--valuable friend--curiosity of the spanish officers--ditto of our new acquaintance--influence of "sherris sack"--he relates his history--continuation of our journey to cordoba--first view of that city. granada is the see of an archbishop, and the seat of one of the two high courts of chancery of spain. it is not a place of much trade, its inhabitants being chiefly employed in horticultural pursuits; but it contains manufactories of gunpowder, of silk and woollen goods on a small scale, and numerous tanneries. the busiest part of the city is a narrow crooked street, which still retains its corrupted moorish name, _el zacatin_,[ ] the little market. but the square where the market is now held (likewise a relique of the moors,) presents also, at certain times, a scene of considerable bustle. the houses encompassing it are very lofty, and, at each successive story, have wide projecting galleries, wherein dwell the lowest classes of granada's inhabitants. the arches of these galleries are patched up with old pieces of board, canvas, and other materials, of all sizes and shapes, between the chinks, and crevices, and rents of which, smoke issues in every direction. towards the centre of the city is a _bazaar_, constructed, not like our london toy fairs so called, but on the oriental plan, each little gloomy stall being boarded off from the rest. the goods, also, as in the east, are offered for sale by smoking men, instead of being, as with us, handed to you by smiling houries. the modern merchants, however, enter their shops by a door, instead of clambering over the counter; and they occupy chairs instead of sitting in the cross-legged fashion of the founders of this remnant of mohammedanism. at a certain hour in the evening the bazaar is closed, and given over to the care of three or four large dogs, which, shut into the building for the night, will not suffer any one to enter but him whose office it is to feed them, and to unlock the gates. the population of granada may be reckoned at , souls; and i think the female portion of it the _least good looking_, not to speak harshly, of all the dark complexioned natives of southern spain. the _granadinas_ have not the carriage of either the _sevillanas_, or _gaditanas_, nor even of the _malagueñas_, who are celebrated rather for beauty than _gracia_; and, consequently, the lovely _alameda_, on the banks of the genil, has no attraction for strangers beyond that of its own intrinsic beauty. the ladies of granada lose somewhat, perhaps, in the comparison with the fair of other places, from having adopted, in a greater degree, a harlequin french costume, that but ill becomes them,--or, more correctly speaking, perhaps, that they do not become. thus, the admirable _set_ of their well poised heads is lost under a huge silk _chapeau_ and groves of _roses de meaux_, clematis, and woodbine; their lustrous eyes no longer range, _en barbette_, as it were, over three quarters of a circle, but, pointed through a narrow embrasure, can only carry destruction in one direction. their fans, too,--telegraphs of their slightest wishes or commands,--can no longer be flirted with the wonted effect; and their stately, though somewhat peculiar gait, does not receive its just tribute of admiration, unless set off by the black silk _basquiña_, under whose graceful folds their well tutored limbs have been accustomed to move. the _granadinas_ of all classes are passionately fond of masked balls; which circumstance may partly be accounted for by one of the above-named disadvantages under which they labour-want of beauty; and all the masquerades at which i "assisted" seemed expressly got up for carrying on intrigues. no _character_, in any sense of the word, appeared to be maintained; and the whole amusement seemed to consist in the ladies going about to the gentlemen, who were almost all unmasked, and asking in a screaming voice, "_mi conoces?_"[ ] although every body went to these balls, which were held at the theatre, yet, amongst the _elite_, it was deemed _fashionable_ (now quite a spanish word) for the ladies to have a box and receive masks. but the temptation of the waltz was too strong to be resisted, and all, i observed, descended occasionally, putting on a mask and domino, to join in its fascinating circumgyrations. a letter of introduction to madame _martinez de la rosa_,[ ] equally noted for her accomplishments and her hospitality, gave us an opportunity of seeing the best society of granada. the same want of beauty was observable amongst the _beau monde_ at her _tertulia_, as on the _paseo_ on the banks of the river; but, to make amends, the music and waltzing were particularly good. the spaniards may certainly be reckoned the best waltzers in europe, now that the germans have converted that graceful dance into a mere bear's hug. i afforded some amusement in the course of the first evening passed at madame martinez' house, by asking a spanish gentleman the name of a most laborious performance, which all appeared to be engaged in with great delight, to the total sacrifice of the graces. he started back with astonishment. "what description of dance? why it is an _english country dance_!" he thought it too good a joke to keep to himself, and, the performance concluded, went about telling all the ladies they had so disguised an english country dance that one of its countrymen did not recognise it. this information occasioned great dismay, _contra danzas inglesas_ being, at that particular juncture, "_muy facionables_;" and all the _señoritas_ crowded round with exclamatory "_jesuses!_" to gather the appalling truth from my own lips, and ask instructions as to their future proceedings. i explained, in the best manner i could, that, though the ladies and gentlemen in our national dance were deployed in two long opposing lines; in the same way that their sexes had respectively been drawn up, yet that various preliminary evolutions were performed by us, ere the parties began racing up and down the middle at full speed, in which their imitation entirely consisted; and, moreover, that we did not hurry the matter over, by beginning at _both ends_, as they did. before leaving granada, a favourable opportunity presenting itself, i will enable my readers to form some idea of the taste and style in which the spanish aristocracy fit up their country houses, taking as my pattern that of the _marques de montijo_, which, combining the comforts of the english with the classic taste of the french, i was assured i should find a very choice specimen. it is situated on a slightly elevated hill, rising from and commanding a lovely view over the wide _vega_. for the selection of the site, small praise is due, however, to the marquis, as he would have had difficulty in fixing on any spot within the same distance of the city, that did not afford equally as fine a view. but the embellishments of the house and grounds are "all his own;" to these, therefore, i shall confine my description. the grounds are laid out in stiff parterres, intersected with twisting footpaths, "_à la inglesa_," as they call it; a portion being hedged off as a labyrinth, which is thickly studded with rustic arbours, furnished with modern sofas. on the summit of an artificial hillock is a shallow fish-pond, from the centre of which rises a cave, or grotto (built, i believe, in imitation of the giant's causeway), composed of fragments of stalactites, brought at a great expense from a cavern in a distant mountain. a whirligig, with two horses and two _coches_--such as may be seen at bartholomew fair--weathercocks of all sizes and devices, sun-dials innumerable, hedge-rows of zoophytes, &c. are scattered tastefully about, and in fact nothing is wanting but "the sucking pig in lavender," and "adam and eve in juniper," of the inimitable mr. drugget, to complete the long catalogue of absurdities. the show-suite of apartments consists of a succession of small carpetless rooms on the ground-floor, each furnished with a bed, a few shabby gilt chairs, a sofa, some yet more monmouth-street-looking chintz window curtains, a profusion of miserly little mirrors, and two or three old family pictures. in the library, which contained some hundreds of ill-bound books, chiefly french, sat the marquis himself--the genius of the place--a grandee of spain of the first class, a reputed scholar, dilettante, and patron of the fine arts; a distinguished statesman, and at one time a pretender to the regency of spain; now, alas! the victim of paralysis, disappointed intrigues, inordinate vanity, and insane ambition.[ ] whilst at malaga i had become slightly acquainted with the marquis's brother, the _conde de teba_, who, by turns, a violent _legitimista_, _afrancesado_, and _exaltado_, was then, in the latter character, doing duty as corporal in the _city light horse_, and bore about on his crippled person the just reward of his treason to his country, having received a wound which disfigured him for life, whilst serving in the french ranks. the _conde_ married a miss k----, "the beautiful and accomplished daughter" (as the newspapers say) of one of the first british merchants of malaga. his union with this lady had been forbidden by the late king of spain, on the grounds that the pure blood of a spanish grandee was not to be contaminated by admixture with the grosser current flowing in plebeian veins. to overcome this objection, reference was made to the heraldic records of scotland (the country of the lady's family), and a genealogical tree was shipped off to spain, which proved without flaw, cross-bar, or blemish, that the family of k---- was an offset from the great fingal himself. ferdinand, who, morose as he has usually been represented, enjoyed a joke as much as most people, burst into a hearty laugh on this document being placed before him, exclaiming at length, "in god's name, let teba marry the scotch king's daughter!" this speech, though made in perfect good humour, was not soon forgotten by the lady, who, when i had the pleasure of meeting her, wore round her king-hating person (forgetting her high descent) the terrific words, _constitucion ò muerte_, embroidered on a green sash ribbon. granada, by the way, is reckoned a most constitutional city. i first visited it a few months previous to the invasion of the duc d'angoulême, when every one breathed the most deadly hate against the french, and every thing promised a most sanguinary struggle. the streets of granada, if the vile _gavachos_ ever got so far, were to be their burial place; the city was to be another zaragoza; the contest another "_guerra hasta el cuchillo_."[ ] i pictured to myself the beauteous groves of the generalife formed into abattis to defend the town; the pure streams of the darro and genil reddened with the gore of its brave inhabitants; the tottering towers of the elevated alhambra pounded into dust; the venerable deputy-governor[ ] of the royal palace exposed to the insults of a licentious soldiery! happily, however, all my anticipated fears were groundless. the french troops marched quietly into the city long after the garrison had left it by an opposite gate, and the invaders were received by the inhabitants with every outward mark of neighbourly esteem and affection. during the first days of the constitutional portion of the reign of ferdinand "the beloved," military schools were established in most of the principal cities of the kingdom. that of granada was on a scale proportioned to the "_exaltacion_" of the place, students being maintained at it. a large monastery, which, ever since the expulsion of the moslems, had been under the protecting care of st. jerome, was handed over to the more bellicose _santiago_,[ ] for the purpose of training up the youthful _granadinos_ to deeds of arms; and if the saint-militant attended to their studies as well as he did to their feeding and clothing, no complaint could possibly be brought against him. the attempt to regenerate the national army by the infusion of a body of _educated_ officers, whose advancement should depend entirely upon their own conduct and acquirements, was a praiseworthy effort to break through the barriers of presumption, ignorance, and vice, with which the pampered nobles of spain had, until then, closed the door of promotion against every kind of merit; reserving for themselves all the most influential and lucrative posts, and placing in the inferior, the illegitimate branches of their houses, their numerous hangers-on and menials, and, even yet worse, the debased panders to their vices. but venality is so strictly entailed upon all public departments in spain, that the same gross corruption and glaring favouritism continued, as before, to regulate the distribution of favour and promotion. the patronage had passed into other hands, but the new hands were not more delicate than the old; "_aunque vistan à la mona de seda, mona se queda_."[ ] legitimists and liberals were both equally corrupt; their object was the same, namely, to fill their pockets from the public purse. the difference between them consisted merely in the means by which they effected their purpose. the intrigues that had formerly been employed to manage the _court_ were now directed to influence the _political clubs_, and, under their dictation, the constitutional ministers (to retain their places) were obliged to nominate the noisiest braggarts to the command of their armies, and select for all the minor posts such as were most vociferous in their cries of "constitution or death." these, as might naturally have been expected, were, for the most part, lawyers' clerks, tavern waiters, and barbers' apprentices--self-imagined _gracchi_ and _bruti_, who thought they would be doing a great public good by bettering their own particular condition. the youths, who, under the _new system_, crowded the military schools, were all chosen under the same influence, and mostly from the same class. but whatever germs of future cids and gonzalvos these seminaries may have cherished, not any were destined to reach maturity, for, santiago not being so quick in his operations as san anton, the french army cut up the tree of liberty, root and branch, ere these seeds of military greatness had even sprung up. the extraordinary deterioration that has taken place in the spanish army, since the days of philip ii., is only to be accounted for by the demoralized state of the upper ranks of society, and the consequent corruption that pervades every department of the state. the soldiers, who now _run away_, are chosen from the same race of men, that fought so gallantly under the dukes of alba and parma; the religion they profess is the same that it was then, nay is stript in some slight degree of its bigotry and superstition. the last king to whom they swore obedience, was not a whit more despotic than any of his predecessors; so that it is futile to say, that tyranny or liberty had any weight in the matter. could any sway be more absolute than that of the spanish sovereigns of the house of hapsburg? and yet under them the spaniards behaved most nobly. would it be possible to frame a more liberal constitution than that of ? and yet no troops ever conducted themselves more shamefully than those ranged under its standard. nor can this marked change be attributed to any inferiority of theoretical military knowledge on the part of the spanish nation; for their schools of artillery and engineers are indisputably good, and their military writers by no means behind the age. indeed, the "_reflexiones militares_" of the _marques de santa cruz_ may be traced throughout the scientific pages of jomini and dumas, and are, in fact, the groundwork of some tactical compilations of recent date in our own language. the experience of the _war of independence_ proved, however, that very few officers of superior rank in the spanish army were qualified to command;[ ] and, at the same time, one cannot but be struck at the very small number amongst the inferior grades, who rose to distinction during the long period of its continuance. the civil war that followed brought forward no new men of military talent; and the invasion of the french, in , proved the utter incapacity of all the leaders who had been transformed into generals under the constitutional government. the bombast of these latter worthies rendered their imbecility the more ridiculous. i heard one say to the late sir george don, just before the entry of the duc d'angoulême into spain, "if _we spaniards_ drove the french across the pyrenees, like a flock of sheep (!) when commanded by napoleon's best generals, with how much greater ease shall we now do so, being led only by a despotic bourbon!" not very long after, i witnessed an act of imbecility yet more laughable. in ascending the staircase of the government house at gibraltar one morning, i saw, on the landing place, a spanish general officer (then, as _at this moment_, holding a most important command) explaining to an officer of the governor's staff how, by "_una grande combinacion_," he, riego, and other "_inclitos heroes_," proposed cutting off marshal molitor's division of the french army, then marching on granada. as the success of their combined operations depended entirely upon the _secrecy_ and celerity with which they were to be conducted, it could not but be extremely amusing to hear the gallant general explain the "whole progress" of the affair, before a host of orderly serjeants, messengers, and servants; who, attracted to the spot by his loquacity and gesticulations, were listening with open-mouthed astonishment, to the elucidation of his cunningly devised plan. ere i passed on, i too was fortunate enough to witness the hypothetical termination of "his marchings and counter-marchings," in the most complete success; as, suiting the action to the word, he described a wide circle with his outstretched arms and gold-headed cane, and enclosed the outmanoeuvered french marshal and his entire _corps d'armée_. the result of this "_grande combinacion_" turned out, however, to be that the marshal effected the passage of the mountains between guadiz and granada, ere the spanish captain general had yet fully explained the impossibility of his escaping from the strategical toils _about to be_ spread for him. return we now to granada--from which city, having announced at madame martinez' tertulia that it was our intention to depart on the following morning, taking the road to cordoba, certain symptoms of uneasy curiosity were manifested, attended with sundry mysterious hints, that led us to fancy some extraordinary perils were to be encountered on that particular road. less communicative than the spanish captain general, however, the utmost we could elicit from our various acquaintances was, that the country round about the city whither we were about to proceed, was in a very _volcanic_ state, and that a political explosion might be daily expected. as none of our party had professed an over-boiling admiration of the existing state of things, i believe we were set down as aiders and abettors in the revolt of the troops which shortly afterwards took place--though not until we had safely returned to the shelter of the british fortress. we left granada as proposed, taking the direct road to cordoba, by alcalà la real. as far as that town, the road, at the period of which i write, was the only carriage route leading from granada towards madrid. another by way of jaen has been opened within the last few years. if ocular demonstration of this first-named road being practicable for carriages had not, however, been afforded us, we should certainly have doubted the possibility of any thing less fragile than a bullock's cart getting over some parts of it; but as far as piños de la puente, that is, for the first twelve miles, it is tolerably good, traversing the north-eastern portion of the _vega_, and leaving the sierra de elvira at some little distance on the right. the village of piños stands on the right bank of the river cubillas, and inscriptions, which have been found and are preserved there, prove it to have been the town of ilurco, mentioned by pliny. it is celebrated, in more recent times, as a spot where many a fierce struggle took place between the moors and christians; for, in their forays into each other's country, the bridge of piños was generally the point chosen for effecting a passage across the impracticable little stream that, in this direction, bounds the _vega_. the hilly country begins immediately on leaving piños de la puente, and a fine view is obtained from the heights above the village: granada, and the line of mountains beyond, are seen to great advantage, and to the right lies the rich _vega_, stretching westward as far as loja. the _soto de roma_[ ] occupies the very heart of the fruitful plain; appearing from hence to be thickly wooded. such, however, is not the case, although some well grown timber is upon one part of it. proceeding onwards, over a very hilly country, and crossing the little river moclin, in an hour and a half we reached the _venta del puerto lope_, (pass of lopez) distant six miles from _piños de la puente_. about three miles beyond the _venta_, a view of the most romantic kind presents itself. the _sierra nevada_, and part of the plain of granada, are seen through a tremendous rent that intersects the lofty mountains which now encircle the traveller; the entrance of the rugged defile being defended by two towers, standing on bold, and almost inaccessible, rocks. some miles up this impracticable _tajo_, is situated the crag-based fortress of moclin, which, from the command it possessed of the principal pass through this mountain range, was called by the moors, "the shield of granada." the celebrated _conde de cabra_ experienced a signal defeat in attempting to surprise this fortress; which, a few years after, (a.d. ) fell into the hands of ferdinand the catholic, by the accidental explosion of its powder-magazine. about a league from the _puerto de lope_, the town of illora, erroneously placed _on_ the road in most maps, is seen two miles off, on the left. it stands on a rocky eminence, crowned by an old castle, and overlooking a fertile plain. the ancient name of the place is lost; but it was one of the strongholds of the moors, and fell to the christian arms only a few weeks prior to the capture of moclin, when the renowned _gonzalvo_ was appointed its _alcaide_. the country henceforth becomes more open and cultivated, but the soil looks cold and ungrateful after that of the plain of granada. the hills bordering the road are studded with towers at the distance of about a league asunder, which, in the days of the moslems, must have formed a very perfect line of telegraphic communication between the capital and the northern frontier towns of the kingdom of granada. the old castle of _alcalà la real_, situated on an eminence, is seen at a considerable distance, and, on a near approach, some modern works thrown up by the french give it rather an imposing appearance. the town is so pent in by hills as not to be seen until one has passed under the triumphal arch by which it is entered. it was called by the moors _alcalà abenzaide_, the castle (_al kala_) of abenzaide, and received its present distinguished name on falling to the victorious arms of alfonzo xi. a.d. . from this date it became the principal bulwark of the christian frontier, and the base of most of the offensive operations undertaken against granada. a remarkable brick tower, built by the _conde de tendilla_ as a night beacon, to assist the erring footsteps of the christians in escaping from captivity, still stands on an elevated knoll, clear of all the other hills, on the opposite side of the town to the castle. antiquaries are at issue as to what roman town stood in this important position. some imagine it to be the situation of the _agla menor_ of pliny; whilst others--as it appears to me with more reason, considering the order in which that methodical writer enumerated the cities of note lying between boetis and the sea--are of opinion that it is the site of _ebura cerealis_. alcalà la real has always been considered a military post of importance, and many a desperate conflict has been witnessed from its walls. the last (not a very desperate one, however) was in january, , between a division of the french army, commanded by general sebastiani, and a disorganized mob of spaniards, under areizaga,--by turns the most rash, and most desponding, and always the least successful, of all the spanish generals. by the defeat of the spanish host, the road to granada was thrown open to the invaders. the old castle, called _la mota_, is a moorish work, which the french strengthened by some interior retrenchments. the city, though sunk in a deep hollow, stands high as compared with the surrounding country; the springs on the opposite sides of the chain on which it is situated falling to the guadalquivir and genil respectively. the streets are tolerably wide and well paved, but steep; the _plaza_ is spacious, and rather handsome; the alameda is shady, and abounding in fountains; and the _posada_ vile, and overrun with vermin. the population may be estimated at _vecinos escasos_,[ ] or , souls, including the inmates of six large convents. on our next day's journey, to _castrò el rio_, we were most disagreeably convinced of the little dependence that can be placed on the information of the peasantry respecting distance. they invariably compute space by _time_; an hour's ride being reckoned one league. as, however, the rate at which their animals travel is by no means the same, their computation of distance varies accordingly; so that a man possessed of a good mule reckons that distance seven leagues, which the owner of the more tardy _burro_ estimates at nine. to exemplify this by our own case--we set out from alcalà under the impression, received overnight from information obtained from a party of _arrieros_--that the distance to _baena_ was seven leagues. after riding _an hour_ we overtook two peasants, mounted on sorry animals, who told us it was still seven leagues. ten minutes after, (fancying we must have taken a wrong road) we questioned a priest, bestriding a sleek mule, and learnt that it was four leagues to baena, _or five_ from a knoll some _hundred yards_ behind us. in another hour the distance had increased to four leagues and three quarters; but for the next hour and a half, we proceeded in the proper descending progression, until we had reduced the distance to three leagues, and a shrug of the shoulders, implying good measure. with this radius, and baena as a centre, we were doomed to describe the arc of a circle for two tedious hours; and at length, by a figure which it would be difficult to explain geometrically, found ourselves suddenly within a league and a half of our destination. from this stage, our journey diminished pretty regularly to its end, excepting that we were a quarter of a league from that desideratum before we were half of one! i think the real distance may be reckoned twenty-four english miles; for it occupied us seven hours to accomplish. the country is rough and intricately broken, without being elevated; and it is devoid of much interest. the road is a mere mule track, (for from alcalà the madrid road proceeds to alcaudete) and must be almost impassable in winter, as well from the stiff, clayey nature of the soil, as from the depth of the mountain rivulets which have to be forded, and which are very numerous. the plains, which here and there present themselves, are well, that is generally, cultivated; producing corn chiefly. the line of beacon-towers is continued along the points of the distant hills. the town of _alcaudete_ (distant three leagues from alcalà) lies about six miles off the road on the right; and _luque_ (some little distance farther on) stands on a slight eminence, about a mile and a half off, on the left. on drawing near _baena_, the country becomes wooded with olives, and the hills lose somewhat of their asperity. it is a large town, containing _vecinos_, and stands on the side of a rugged mound, overhanging the right bank of the little river _marbella_. the summit of the crag, in the usual moorish fashion, is crowned by an old castle, the enceinte of which is rather extensive. the walls of the town are also standing, and, within the last few years, have been plastered up and loop-holed, to enable them to resist a _coup de main_, or an attack of cholera. baena is another town to which antiquaries are puzzled to affix a roman name. by some it is imagined to be _ulia_; but this i do not think at all likely, for, in the first place, the itinerary of antoninus makes _ulia_ distant but eighteen roman miles from cordoba, whereas baena is, at least, thirty two; and, in the next, because cæsar, who, on his second coming to spain, found his own army assembled at _obulco_, (porcuna) and that of his adversaries besieging _ulia_,[ ] would scarcely have ventured to make a flank movement on _cordoba_, to draw cneus pompey from the siege of _ulia_, leaving his own magazines exposed to the enemy within half a day's march of that place. had he been strong enough to act in the bold manner this would imply, it seems more probable that he would have marched at once with his whole army to the relief of the beleaguered fortress. it strikes me, as being more probable, that _baena_ is the _baebro_ of pliny, enumerated by that author (amongst the towns of note on the left bank of the guadalquivir) next in order to _castra vinaria_, now _castrò el rio_. the last moslem king of granada, the "luckless" _boabdil_, made prisoner at the battle of lucena, (a.d. ), was confined for some time in the castle of _baena_; in which also the banners and other trophies, taken on the field of battle, were deposited by the victor, the enterprising _conde de cabra_. the accommodation of the posada we found very _hard_; so, after exploring the place, and attempting to take a _siesta_, we proceeded on to _castrò el rio_. the distance from _baena_ to this place is two very short leagues--scarcely more than six miles. the road, during the greater part of the way, is along the confined valley of the _marbella_; but, on approaching castrò, the bounding hills gradually lose themselves in an extensive plain, that stretches along the winding course of the river _badajocillo_. _castrò el rio_ has all the appearance of a very ancient place, and almost all accounts agree in placing at this spot the roman city of _castra vinaria_, called, in some authors, _castra postumii_.[ ] it is now an insignificant and thinly populated place, having little or no trade; and most of the land in its vicinity is laid out in pasture. the river _badajocillo_, or _guadajoz_, washes its walls, and, by many, is supposed to be the _salsus_, so frequently mentioned in the "spanish war" of hirtius; but without any reason, that i have been able to discover, if we are to place reliance in that author's description of the river and adjacent country. we found castrò occupied by the head-quarters and greater part of one of the royal regiments of carbineers; and every stable in the place being crowded with the troopers' horses, we had the greatest difficulty in obtaining accommodation for our own wearied animals. indeed, but for the interference of a _caballero_, muffled up in a capacious cloak (who seemed to possess extraordinary influence over the innkeeper), we should have been obliged to proceed on, or bivouac outside the walls of the town. his interference, however, caused a small shed, crowded with mules and _borricos_, to be cleared for the reception of our horses, into which, after some little trouble, they were all squeezed. a room for ourselves we were assured was quite out of the question;--and, as for beds, every mattress, bolster, _manta_, and blanket, that the _posada_ afforded, had been secured by the spanish officers. the same civil and influential personage again, however, befriended us, for, after a short time, whilst we were consulting where we should spread our cloaks for the night, the innkeeper came to acquaint us that "_ese caballero español_"[ ] had resigned in our favour "_una pequeñissima sala_,"[ ] which had been reserved for his use; and that he had further directed it to be furnished with four sacks of chopped straw for our accommodation. the spanish officers, who had entered into conversation with us whilst standing at the portal of the posada, evinced great curiosity to know whence we had come, whither we were going, and what was the motive for our travelling, and very civilly invited us to pass the evening with them at some house where they were in the habit of assembling nightly. but being both hungry and weary, we made the latter an excuse for declining their invitation. they then plied us with questions touching the state of granada; asked our opinion of the political condition of the kingdom in general; and, complaining of the difficulty experienced in obtaining news of any kind that could be relied on, begged to be informed if we had recently heard of any thing stirring at madrid, and whether we purposed visiting that capital. to all these queries we replied that, our object being merely amusement, we had not troubled ourselves much by inquiring into the state of parties--that every thing seemed to be quiet wherever we had been--and that our future plans were undetermined. with numerous offers of service, they then wished us good night, and we betook ourselves to the _sala_, sending a message to the _caballero_, who had so kindly given it up, to request he would do us the pleasure of joining his smoke with our's; an invitation that did not require pressing. our visitor, whom we now had an opportunity of inspecting more closely and critically, was a tall, powerful man, with marked but good features, though the general expression of his countenance was decidedly bad. his brows were dark and shaggy, his cheeks covered with a forest of whisker, and his fierce, uneasy eyes intimated that he was one who had stopped and would stop at nothing to effect his purpose. his curiosity concerning the object of our travels was not less, though more guardedly expressed, than that of the spanish officers; and, by degrees, a kind of distrust, with which at first he evidently regarded us, wore off, and he expressed his unbounded love for and admiration of the english nation, collectively and individually. "i have seen much of your compatriots," he proceeded, filling himself a bumper of wine, "though of late years my opportunities of mixing with them have been but few. i have ever found them to be true lovers of liberty--ever ready to lend a helping hand to neighbours in distress; yes, yes! whenever an oppressed people stand up for their rights, _carajo!_[ ] an englishman has a g--d--n in his mouth, and a musket on his shoulder in a _credo_.--_pardiez, señores!_ but these are excellent cigars! they are indeed _legitimos_,[ ] and, entre nous, they are the only things being _legitimas_ that i have any great taste for. to you englishmen i may say as much. you, like myself, are lovers of constitutional liberty--detesters of absolutism, of a domineering aristocracy, of religious bigotry, and priestly mummery. these things are all very well for the ignorant; but we, who have read, and studied, and reflected, know the just value to set upon them." we gave a ready assent. "this wine is sad trash," he continued, after a flask of execrable black strap had been disposed of, "and i know that you english like a good glass of _xeres seco_. i will therefore take the liberty, _con licencia_, of sending for some that i think will please your palate." upon which, calling the _mozo_ charged with the care of the stables, he directed him to go to the house of a certain don hilario, and request _su merced_ to send some bottles of wine. "say it is for _me_, juan," added our guest, or rather our host, with a marked emphasis on the personal pronoun; "say it is for _me_, and he will be sure to give you the right sort; but _cuida'o_![ ] tell him i have some friends with me--english _officers_; is it not so?" turning interrogatively to us, "and that half a dozen bottles will not be too many." juan took his departure with a knowing glance at our friend, and in less than the "_fumar de un cigarro_,"[ ] returned with the wine. it was excellent--the real "sherris sack." bottle after bottle was drained, and every draught of the "fertile" liquor seemed, in the words of shakspeare's droughty knight, to have a "two-fold operation" upon our convivial entertainer; "drying him up the crudy vapours" that environed his suspicious brain concerning us, and rendering him extremely communicative respecting his own affairs: so that long before even the second bottle was emptied, he had pronounced us to be _gente_ with whom he saw he could converse "_con toda confianza_,"[ ] and had awakened much curiosity on our parts, with regard to himself. although he had appeared to us to be on a friendly footing with the officers of carbineers, he now abused them in most unmeasured terms; asking if they had not evinced very impertinent curiosity, (how much sooner are the faults of others seen than our own!) to know all about our movements. "those _alacranes_,"[ ] said he, "are all traitors to their country, enemies to our glorious charter of liberty, and--whatever professions they may make to the contrary--have as little liking for a free-born englishman as sancho panza had for unadulterated water." "indeed," we replied;--truly enough, though somewhat jesuitically perhaps, wishing to draw him out;--truly, "from some observations they let fall, it is evident they are no great admirers of the present constitutional government." "admirers!" he exclaimed; "no, indeed, it brings them down to their proper level. but, _carajo!_ if i had my way i would bring them down something lower; for i'd shoot every mother's son of them, without the benefit of a dying confession. i'll tell you how _i_ would set about establishing a constitutional government, _caballeros_. i would first hang up the king; then give the _garrote_ to all your dukes, marquisses, and _condes_; and lastly, to make things sure, root every bishop, priest, _cura_, and _fraile_, out of their snug hiding-places. that would be----" "but your religion?" interrupted we. "_qu ... e religion! disparate!_[ ] that would be the way to keep the french on their own side the pyrenees! but let them come! they will find us ready to receive and able to beat them, in spite of the defection of our dastardly nobles. as for these carbineer officers, they are a set of _fanfarrones_, who are only fit to _pavonearse por las calles_.[ ] i have done more service to my country than the whole of them put together. look here," he added, removing the handkerchief bound across his forehead,[ ] and exhibiting a formidable scar; "this was not obtained in a brothel brawl; nor this," showing a mutilated hand. "no, no, caballeros, my skin would not serve to carry wine in." "you have seen much service then," we observed.--"wherever any was to be seen," he replied. a fresh supply of cigars was brought, another cork drawn, and before the bottle was finished, we had persuaded our visitor to give us his whole history. the narration occupied the best part of the night, and will consequently require a proportionate space in these pages. not therefore to detain my readers in a miserable country venta, and break the thread of my journey, i will reserve it for future chapters, concluding this with a brief description of the remaining portion of the road between granada and cordoba. we left castrò at dawn, (minus the curb chains, valise straps, and divers other little detachable articles of our equipment, which are serviceable to cavalry soldiers); taking leave of our new acquaintance, who, though he had impressed us with no great feeling of admiration for his character or principles, had, nevertheless, greatly interested us by the narration of his adventures. the road to cordoba is dreary in the extreme; being principally across extensive plains of pasture, uninterrupted by a single tree, uncheered by a solitary cottage, or even _rancha_, and after leaving the banks of the _guadajoz_, unrefreshed by a single drop of water. it does not, however, leave the river immediately on quitting castrò; on the contrary, so eccentrically does the stream wind, that it is twice crossed (by fords) within a very short distance of the town, and then continues for a considerable distance along its right bank. indeed, until arrived within a league and a half of cordoba, the road does not altogether lose sight of the winding river. the quality of the route depends upon the season. in summer it is _carriageable_;[ ] in winter, knee-deep in mud, and liable to be flooded. the distance between the two towns is reckoned six _leguas regulares_, i. e. about miles. on reaching some high table land, about five miles from cordoba, the glorious capital of the western caliphs, and the splendid valley of the guadalquiver, first burst upon the sight. the view is less extensive, perhaps, but far more striking than that on approaching granada from alhama; and when arrived at the edge of the range of hills bordering the rich valley, it becomes perfectly enchanting. the bright city, with its venerable cathedral, its moorish bridge, its castle and royal palace, is offered to the spectator's close inspection. the gracefully winding guadalquiver, bathing its mouldering walls, may be traced for miles along the spacious plain that stretches to the east; its flat and fertile banks covered with the varied foliage of the olive, pomegranate, and citron. beyond the city, a range of wooded mountains, studded with numerous _cortijos_, convents, and _quintas_, rises abruptly from the plain; presenting a fine relief to the sun-lit edifices of the city; and behind this, again, successive ranges of wild mountains show themselves, terminating at length in the cloud-capped ridge of the _sierra morena_. chapter xiii. blas el guerrillero. a bandit's story. "_la murmuracion, como hija natural del odio y de la enbidia, siempre anda procurando como manchar y escurecer las vidas y virtudes agenas. y assi en la gente de condicion vil y baja, es la salsa de mayor apetito, sin quien alguna viando no tiene buen gusto, ni està sazonada._" "guzman de alfarache." the tale which occupies this and the succeeding chapters interested us, however unworthily, so deeply, that the following day--whilst its details, as well as the peculiar phrases of the narrator, were yet fresh in our memories--was chiefly devoted to transmitting them to our journals, in as regular order as the case would admit of. by a strange coincidence, however, (which will be noted in the course of my wanderings) an opportunity was some years afterwards afforded me of revising and correcting my ms. under the eye of the hero of the tale himself; who, besides adding many minor details that had escaped our recollection, explained various circumstances which had struck us as somewhat obscure and unaccountable. i leave the tale, however, so far in its original state, as to make our acquaintance himself relate the adventures of blas el guerrillero, who, having first carefully examined the outer apartment, which was used as a kind of granary, and then closed the door of that we occupied, thus commenced his story. my name, _caballeros_, is blas maldonado; my present office, that of _corregidor_[ ] of the neighbouring town of ----.[ ] the place of my birth was m----, a small _pueblo_[ ] on the other side of the _serranía de ronda_, of which my father and mother were natives. i believe, notwithstanding the somewhat italian sound of my _appellido_,[ ] that there is a tolerable proportion of the red blood of the moors in my veins, and that my name is corrupted from the arabic. my parents were both of respectable, though humble, birth, and owned a small _pacienda_ in the vicinity of utrera, which, from time immemorial, had been in possession of my mother's family. devoid alike of pride, education, and ambition, they lived in monotonous contentment on the proceeds of their miserable farm, which i, as their only child who had reached maturity, was destined to inherit. i was beloved by my parents, but especially by my mother, with the most unbounded affection; and from my earliest youth was accustomed to have every wish gratified, every whim indulged. as i advanced in years, i soon showed that i possessed a spirit which soared above the pruning of vines and gathering of olives; and my kind mother checked not this rising ambition; for, though unaspiring herself, she was anxious that her child should be distinguished above the common herd of mankind. my father, however, was desirous of bringing me up to the occupation of my forefathers; saying to my mother, that they themselves had always been happy in the state to which it had pleased their maker to call them;--a condition which, if humble, was one of independence, and placed them, in point of worldly wealth, above the most part of their associates; and that, if they consulted their child's welfare, they should not bring him up above his calling; for he would only thereby lose the friendship and esteem of his neighbours, without increasing their respect; and might, by idleness and pride, be led to his perdition here and hereafter. these old-fashioned notions were fortunately overruled; though i must needs confess, that in the early part of my career, i often thought my father had been endowed with the gift of prophecy. my more tender-hearted parent declared, that i had a mind above the direction of a plough, even if my bodily frame had been strong enough to bear the fatigue of a life of labour; and closing her arguments with a flood of tears, she reminded my father of the children they had lost in early life, and begged that i, their last hope, might not also be sacrificed. i was accordingly sent to seville, to be educated for the church; that being the only profession my well-intentioned father would hear of my embracing. my fond mother paid me constant visits, to convince herself that my health was not suffering from too close an application to study; supplying me with money saved by her household economy, to enable me to purchase books, and whatever else i might stand in need of. her fears were not perhaps so groundless as, judging from my present strength and health, you might imagine; for, following the natural bent of my inclination, a thirst for knowledge, i gave up the whole of my time to reading; despising the amusements of my schoolfellows, to whom i felt myself as superior in intellect, as they prided themselves on being in the accidental matter of birth. i soon, however, wearied of the lives of the saints, and other good books placed in my hands; and leaving them for such as wished to learn how to merit canonization, i sought for more worldly knowledge in the pages of guzman de alfarache, gil blas, and other adventurers, who, like myself, had had their fortunes to seek; and, whilst i considered the last-named _hero_ a mere driveller, devoid of all honourable ambition, i adopted his code of morality, as the only one to be followed by one who has to push his way through the selfish crowd that throngs every avenue to wealth and power. my parents, informed by those to whose care i was entrusted, that i was by no means likely to become an ornament to the church, were at length persuaded to allow me to make trial of the law. but though at the outset i applied very diligently to the dry study to which my mind was now directed, yet i soon found it suited my taste as little as that of divinity. of the two, indeed, i think i preferred the lives of the holy fathers to the _siete partidas_ of _alfonzo el sabio_; for the former, at all events, contained ample matter for satire and ridicule, for which i had a natural turn; whereas the latter formed a mass of heavy reading, replete with incongruities, and clogged with technicalities, which ill-suited my peculiar humour. during the latter years of my residence at seville, however, my reading was altogether diverted into another channel. i became acquainted with a french youth, by name louis xavier le bas, who, intended for the mercantile profession, had been sent to our commercial capital, where some of his mother's relatives were settled, for the purpose of acquiring a knowledge of the spanish language. though this person was several years my senior in age, a similarity of tastes soon warmed into the closest friendship an acquaintance that had been commenced merely with a view to our mutual advantage. i initiated him in all the mysteries of spanish life, and he, in return, undertook _à me decrasser_, as he termed it, and render me fit to _jouer un rôle distingué_ on the theatre of the world. in short, we became inseparable; and our despised and despising fellow-students thence designated us don cleofas and asmodeus. this valuable friend, devil or not, was the means of my acquiring a tolerable knowledge of the french language, (which has proved of infinite service to me,) and of my understanding being enlarged by the writings of voltaire, diderot, condorcet, and other enlightened materialists of his nation, whose depth of reasoning and witty satires were, at that period, effecting such beneficial changes in france; removing from the eyes of the _people_ the bandages of ignorance and bigotry that had so long blinded them to their state of slavery and debasement. these works, though forbidden by the despot government of spain, were surreptitiously obtained for me by my kind friend; and their perusal opened my eyes also to the deplorable state of degradation in which my own country was plunged. i accordingly became a philosopher, and, i may say, even a _liberal_, long before the term was heard or understood in this enslaved and priest-ridden land. our school companions, unable to comprehend the elevated principles by which we were governed, shunned us as plebeian democrats and blasphemous free thinkers. but we soon collected around us a set of more congenial spirits, and became the founders of a secret political association, that has since spread widely throughout the whole kingdom. i had nearly completed the fifth year of my sojourn at seville, when an unwelcome summons from my father bade me repair forthwith to m----. his letter briefly stated, that, concluding i must by this time have thoroughly digested the contents of _all_ the law books ever published in the universe--my father, as you may perceive, was very ignorant in such matters--he had embraced a most favourable opportunity that presented itself of establishing me in the world agreeably to my desire; and, accordingly, was about to place me, together with a handsome bonus, in the hands of don benito quisquilla, the village attorney, to be by him initiated into all the practical quirks and chicaneries of the law; with the view, if i gave promise of becoming a useful co-operator in the work of litigation, of being eventually admitted to a share of his daily increasing profits. this prospect of settling down as a country attorney was, as my friend and counsellor le bas said, quite insufferable to one of my intellectual powers, cultivated mind, and honourable ambition. if i had finally determined on following the profession of the law, he observed, the only fit field for one of my abilities was the capital. _there_, he had no doubt, i should soon rise to distinction; whereas, in a country town, my pursuit of fame would be as vain as that of partridges _en campo raso_.[ ] this opinion tallied exactly with my own; for, feeling myself as superior in mental endowments as in physical powers to the decrepit piece of nobility who owned the vast plains surrounding the miserable inheritance to which i was born, i saw no reason why i should be inferior to him in worldly wealth and consideration. with these and various other arguments, therefore, i replied to my father, urging him to break off with don benito, and furnish me with the means of accompanying my friend, le bas, to madrid, where he was about to establish himself as a merchant. my father, however, would not listen to reason. he replied, that the duke of medina celi was born a grandee of spain, and i a peasant; and, with respect to a reflection i had cast upon the justice of providence in distributing so unequally the good things of this world, he maintained that, though my life was doomed to be one of labour, yet it was as sweet, probably even sweeter, than that of him whose lot i seemed so much to envy. finding that it was _predicar en el desierto_[ ] to argue with my father, and that my mother did not give me the support on which i had reckoned, i had no alternative but to acquiesce in the proposed plan, and wait for the favourable moment of relieving myself from the paternal yoke. i, therefore, took a most affectionate leave of le bas, who promised to summons me to the capital as soon as he had an opportunity of serving me, and, with a very bad grace, obeying my father's commands, proceeded to m----. my parents were delighted with the improvements that had taken place in my health, person, and deportment, and not less proud of the superiority my education and accomplishments had given me over the companions of my childhood. i was now, my fond mother declared, entitled to _llamar de vos_[ ] the first _hidalgo_ in the land; and, i believe, _caballeros_, that, without vanity, i may say, my coming caused some little sensation in my natal town. i was not long in discovering, however, that the place contained no fit associate for one of my stamp. those few amongst the inhabitants whose professions had rendered some little education necessary, were, from morning to night, occupied at their respective vocations, and affected rather to treat me as a _parvenu_. the youths of my own age, on the other hand, were ignorant clowns, of whom i could not possibly make companions; and, with pain i make the admission, even on the authors of my being i could not now avoid looking down with some slight feeling of contempt. they were all kindness, however, and my father spared not the means of enabling me to continue the same expensive manner of life to which i had so long been accustomed. deprived as i now found myself of associates of my own sex--for i believe every boor in the place hated me most thoroughly--my time was exclusively devoted to the society of the other; and i need not, therefore, tell you--for most young men are aware of the expenses attendant on such intimacies--that my father's purse was drawn heavily upon to meet my increasing exigencies. meanwhile my legal studies were prosecuted with no great assiduity. don benito, who, whilst my father's money was fresh in his pocket, had, for the sake of appearances, treated me with affected kindness, soon threw off the mask of hypocrisy, and neglected no occasion of making me aware of the little interest he took in my welfare. the soft and speaking eyes of his fair daughter told me, however, that she entertained a kindlier feeling towards me; an avowal which was quickly followed by the admission that i was the sole possessor of her affections. i must make the ungallant confession, _caballeros_, that _expediency_ was the only incentive i had for encouraging the passion of the lovely girl. my life had been too dissolute to admit so pure an affection as her's readily to take root within my breast; but i saw in it the only sure stepping-stone to greatness--money; for don benito was a wealthy man, alitéa his only daughter. whilst yet undecided as to the best means to be adopted for the accomplishment of my purpose (for it was a matter requiring some consideration, since i was perfectly aware the crafty old lawyer would never _consent_ to our union, my dissipated mode of living having involved me in pecuniary difficulties of which he could not well be ignorant), events occurred which, by opening other prospects to me, for a time drove alitéa altogether out of my thoughts. the trifling sum that my father's frugal habits had enabled him to lay by, had been entirely swallowed up in placing me with don benito; and to meet my increasing expenditure, which he fully believed was merely money put out to interest, he conceived that increased exertions on his part were necessary. against this--since in replying to my mother's objections to my following the plough, he had ever maintained that agricultural pursuits were of all others the most healthy--i could have nothing to say. but these exertions soon proved too much for the old man's strength, and he contracted a painful disorder, from which, after a tedious confinement, it became a mercy to be relieved. i mention these circumstances, _caballeros_, not for the purpose of repelling the charge brought against me by my kind fellow-townsmen, of having wilfully accelerated my parent's death, a crime of which, god be praised, my conscience is quite clear, but to show the ill will they entertained towards me; a feeling to which, in the course of my story, i shall again have occasion to refer. i had always expected, on the death of my father, to find myself in the possession of a comfortable independence, as he had ever represented to me that such would be the case. but, during his protracted illness, every thing had gone wrong at the farm: the cattle died; those of our neighbours intruded upon our crops; the vines remained unpruned; the olives rotted upon the ground; the property, in fact, had become a perfect wilderness; and, to obtain money to defray the expenses of my parent's funeral, i was obliged to sell the implements of husbandry upon the farm; those being the only property which could be immediately rendered available. before proceeding to this extremity, however, i had applied to don benito for assistance. the pettifogging rascal in reply said, that he had every disposition in the world to befriend me, and, with that view, felt called upon to say, that the further study of a profession for which i had neither the requisite talent nor application, would be merely a waste of time and money; and to advise me to apply myself to the healthful occupation of my forefathers, for which, on the other hand, my bodily strength peculiarly fitted me. "on this condition only," he concluded, "can i render you assistance. give me your promise to devote your best energies to this honest calling, and i am ready at once to return the sum advanced by your father, though not called upon to do so, either by law or equity." i spurned his offer with the contemptuous indignation it merited, withdrew from all further intercourse with the miserly wretch, and, as i have already said, sold every thing that i could lay my hands upon. could i have acted otherwise? impossible! but the blow inflicted on my mother by this sudden destruction of her long-indulged hopes was too heavy for her to bear up against. staggering already under her late loss, and now with the dread of penury and want added to her sufferings, she sank broken-hearted to the grave. i can ill describe my feelings on the heart-rending occasion. i had loved my mother with the fondest affection; yet had it been my _fate_ to drug the cup that agonised her last moments! with pleasure would i have laid down my own life to prolong her's; yet had it been my unlucky destiny to inflict the blow that hurried her to the tomb! she nevertheless felt more for me than for herself, even in her last moments; and her dying breath was spent in calling down a blessing on my head. _ya està en el cielo._[ ] to meet the fresh expenses my mother's illness and death had brought upon me, as well as to liquidate my former debts, i was now under the necessity of raising more money. i tried in vain to effect a mortgage on my property: nobody would advance a _maravedi_ upon it! to obtain a few paltry doubloons, therefore, i had no alternative left but to sell the patrimony handed down to me by a long line of ancestors. my _hacienda_ was accordingly put up to public auction; and--deteriorated in value as it was represented to be, by every one but the auctioneer--sold for something less than one third of its real value. the purchaser was don benito quisquilla. the proceeds of the sale, after paying the customary expenses, were barely sufficient to satisfy the various demands made upon me; and i was left a bankrupt in wealth as well as expectations; a being without a relative in the wide world to speak comfort to him; without a friend to advise him; without a home; without even the means of subsistence! was life any longer worth preserving? i weighed its value in the scales of experience--fleeting joys on the one side, rankling injuries on the other; and the preponderating weight of the latter had well nigh determined me to rid myself of the burthen of existence, when the sweetness of revenge, cast into the opposing balance, turned the scale, and decided me to live--to live to be revenged on _mankind_. the purchaser of my property, or rather the swindler who had obtained possession of it, again outraged my wounded feelings by the repetition of his humiliating offer of assistance. thus insulted and scorned by the specious villain whose robberies had rendered me a beggar, i swore to let fall on him the first stroke of my revenge. i kept my oath! i tore from his arms his daughter, his darling alitéa--the solace of his widowed hearth--the prop of his declining years. she fled from the paternal roof, and became my--mistress! ignorant of all that had passed between her father and myself, and but too ready to lend a favouring ear to my tale, few persuasions were necessary to induce alitéa to comply with my proposal. i assured her that i had sounded don benito on the subject of a marriage, and that he objected only on account of the disparity of years: she who was then entering her twenty-third year, being two years older than myself. but as this objection, trifling as it could not but be considered, was nevertheless one which would always exist, i convinced her that it could only be overcome by the step i proposed, a step which would readily be forgiven by an indulgent father. she trusted to my honour and her father's kindness, and became my victim. we fled to the mountains, and sought a refuge amongst the lawless bandits of olbera, a place proverbial for sheltering the outcasts of society. there we remained for several months, subsisting on the few _onzas_ that remained in my purse from the sale of my patrimony, and by disposing of various trinkets that alitéa had brought away with her. but our funds were soon exhausted, and it became necessary to take some steps to procure the means of maintenance. on matters reaching this stage, it had originally been my intention to abandon don benito's daughter to her fate, and seek my fortune in america; for, as i have already said, alitéa had awakened no feeling of love within my breast, and the idea of making her my wife, though entertained previous to my rupture with her father, had never once entered my thoughts on taking her from the paternal roof. revenge alone had instigated me to an act, by which i purposed bringing everlasting disgrace on don benito, and his vaunted high connexions. but, besides that alitéa possessed great personal attractions, and had given proof of loving me with the most boundless affection, which naturally disposed my feelings to warm towards her, she, even now, on discovering the deceit i had practised; that i was a libertine; a beggar; nay, even when i told her she was the mere instrument of my revenge, did not reproach me with one bitter word.--"blas, blas, i trust to your honour," was the only appeal made to her seducer's feelings. was it in human nature to spurn so confiding, so affectionate a being? for my _punishment_ (so a confessor would, probably, have told me) it was ordained, that the cold admiration with which i first regarded alitéa should gradually warm into the most fervent, the most ardent love, to make me feel more poignantly the wrong i had done, the misery i had brought on this admirable being! bitterly as i upbraided _fate_, and curst the author of my misfortunes, more bitter still were my self-reproaches at having exposed the object of my adoration to the hardships and privations we were doomed to suffer; for we were now obliged to labour from daylight to dark to earn a miserable pittance, barely sufficient to procure the necessaries of life, and to be satisfied with the humblest lodging, the coarsest garments, and the poorest food. at length, urged by my love for alitéa, and yet more by the prospect of a family, i determined on opening a communication with don benito, which i did by proposing to marry his daughter, and thus save the blighted honour of her family. this proposal was, of course, coupled with a stipulation--for it was now my turn to dictate terms--that a handsome settlement should be made upon us. the medium i selected for carrying on this delicate negociation was one of the villagers, a smuggler, with whom i had become intimate, and whose avocation afforded the opportunity of communicating with don benito, without furnishing a clue, by which our place of concealment could be discovered. on the fidelity of my friend--having exacted a promise of the most inviolable secrecy--i thought the fullest reliance might be placed; but "honour and profit will not both keep in one sack," as the saying is. the scoundrel had not enough virtue to resist a bribe of a few dollars, and he acquainted don benito with every thing concerning us. this abominable piece of treachery, whilst it served to increase the hatred i bore mankind, had a considerable influence in stamping my future character, for i became habitually wary and distrustful. but, to resume my narrative, on returning one evening from my daily work, i found don benito at my alitéa's bed-side, and that she had prematurely given birth to a male child--an _illegitimate_ child. i pass over the scene of mutual recrimination that ensued. what might have happened, but for the precarious state in which alitéa was lying, i know not. enraged beyond measure at the circumstance, which, for the moment, had caused the failure of his project to recover his daughter, don benito took his departure, calling down upon me every possible malediction, and declaring to the village authorities his firm resolve to return without loss of time, armed with power to lodge me in a gaol, and place his daughter in a convent; but i baulked his purpose, by making alitéa my wife that very night. her father had dropped his purse upon the floor, and i scrupled not to employ its contents in so legitimate a purpose. i soon found an obsequious priest, ready to do my bidding. they are not over-scrupulous in religious matters at olbera, neither are the laws very rigidly enforced there[ ]; so that on my _father-in-law's_ return, a few days after, with the _justicia_, i set him at defiance. i had, some time previously, made up my mind to perform this tardy act of justice to my alitéa, but had delayed it with the view of exacting favourable terms from her father, who, i thought, as our spanish saying has it, would rather see _la hija mal casada que bien abarraganada_.[ ] having failed in this, it became necessary to marry her for my own sake; since, though don benito might still send me to prison, i could now insist on my _wife_ accompanying me. he was outrageous on finding that his revengeful intention was thwarted; but, seeing that menaces had no effect upon me, changed his tone, and proposed that i should resign his daughter for a sum of money. this i resolutely declined, whilst alitéa, on her knees, implored his forgiveness. how the monster could refuse i know not; but he did, and they parted, to meet no more. a few days after this scene, a letter was delivered to alitéa from her unnatural parent. in it, after declaring that he would no longer hold communion with the villain who had brought misery on her, and disgrace on the name she bore, and who, but on her account, he would pursue with the utmost vengeance of the outraged laws of our country, he proceeded to state, that still prompted by the recollection of the unbounded affection he had borne her mother, he had determined to make an allowance sufficient for our bare support, and that a certain sum would, for that purpose, be lodged periodically in the hands of the superior of the convent of _san pablo de la breña_, in our vicinity; where he charged her, if the religious precepts he had implanted in her breast were not entirely eradicated, to make the frequent confessions necessary for the salvation of her soul. the money indeed, he added, was to be paid only on these conditions, and into her own hands, and so long as he was assured that she experienced proper treatment from me. convinced, however, he pursued, that i was actuated solely by the vilest of motives, and not influenced by any regard for _her_ in refusing to give her up, he once more repeated the offer made at our last interview; or even offered to settle on me alone the sum he purposed to allow us jointly, if i would formally resign his daughter, and allow the marriage to be annulled. in conclusion, he informed her, that though his door would ever be open to admit a repentant daughter, it was closed for ever against that daughter's seducer, and the offspring of our criminality. my wife perused the letter, and, with a steady countenance, but brimful eye, placed it in my hands. "well, alitéa," said i, "will you return to your father and luxury, or remain to share the poverty of your husband? i pledge you my word it shall be as you may choose--decide."--"i have already decided," she replied: "i remain." i sent a scornful reply to don benito's letter, returning, with usurious interest, the opprobrious terms he had lavished upon me. "villain," indeed, from him who was the source of all my misfortunes!--nevertheless, he was as good as his word; the allowance was regularly paid into the hands of alitéa; and, added to the profits arising from the cultivation of a vineyard, it enabled us, without much labour, to live in comfort, if not luxury. but short, alas! was this period of happiness; the cup of life appeared only to have been sweetened for a brief space, to render more bitter the long draught of misery that was in reserve for me. my alitéa had never entirely recovered from the effects of the shock occasioned by her father's sudden visit; and, as if fate took pleasure in mocking our tardy marriage, the illegitimate fernando was doomed to be the only issue that proceeded from it. suffice it to say, my wife fell at length a victim to her father's rash act, and i was once more alone in the world, and a beggar. even now, _caballeros_, though two-and-thirty years have elapsed since my alitéa was torn from me, i cannot speak of her loss with composure. judge then of my frantic rage at the time. in my ungovernable frenzy, i rushed into the open air, to upbraid the almighty being who had given me existence; i invoked his utmost wrath, i defied his utmost power, but in vain! i was fated to live on, to endure yet greater wretchedness. fool that i was, to repine at what was written in the book of _fate_! i returned to the house of death, to obtain the means of ridding myself of an existence that i abhorred. i was about to snatch my knife from its sheath to execute my purpose, when, casting my eyes yet once more on my adored alitéa, i saw my child, my helpless fernando, extended in violent convulsions at her side. a sense of the duty i owed the dear pledge of my alitéa's love checked my upraised arm. i determined to live for that boy--that boy thenceforth became my all. the allowance made by don benito was immediately stopped on the death of his daughter, without his condescending even to inquire after her child. it became necessary, therefore, to adopt some course of life better suited to me than that of a field labourer, to earn wherewith to support us; and i accordingly joined a band of contrabandistas, and, in the lawless life i thenceforth led, found an occupation well suited to my adventurous, and now reckless disposition. during several years that i devoted to this precarious profession, i made frequent visits to cadiz, where my knowledge of the french language threw me in constant communication with the various merchants of that nation, who were, at that period, established there. amongst these, to my inexpressible delight, i discovered my old friend le bas--though now glorying in the virtuous republican appellation of publius manlius niveleur. our intimacy was, of course, renewed, and, as he had the means of throwing a great deal of business into my hands, i soon drove a thriving trade. through him, also, i became _au fait_ as to the state of affairs in france, and, consequently, aware of the great benefits that had accrued to the people by the change from a despotic to a republican government; and of other events, which our rulers took every possible pains to prevent reaching the ears of the spanish people. i am speaking now of as distant an epoch as the year , when france, having emancipated herself from the thraldom of a tyrannical king, a vicious nobility, and a corrupt priesthood, was basking in the sunshine of liberty;--when each had his rights, and was equal to his neighbour. need i say, _caballeros_, that i longed for the day to arrive when my own country should be relieved from the ravages of similar birds of prey and devouring locusts? my early hatred of our abominated tyrants and oppressors had been fostered by numerous persecutions; for, since entering on my new vocation--a vocation made necessary for the _people_, by the infamous monopolies enjoyed by those termed _noble_--i had been twice imprisoned, and no less than three times afterwards relieved from that punishment solely by dint of bribery. once, also, i had been subjected to a heavy fine for barking trees in a forest, belonging to a worthy brotherhood of _capuchinos descalzos_;--a swarm of lazy drones, who, gaining an easy livelihood by begging impudently from door to door, could ill brook seeing others turn that to account, which, if not neglected by themselves, would render their alms-seeking unnecessary. however, i had now an excellent business, and money, i calculated, would bring me out of all further difficulties; for, by this time, i had acquired a knowledge of its value in obtaining immunity for all sorts of crimes. in an unlucky hour, however, i was detected shooting deer in a forest belonging to the _conde de aguila_; and one of the keepers, who owed me a grudge, refused the proffered bribe. the count himself proved beyond my price, though i made him a handsome offer; and, affecting great indignation at this attempt to corrupt the pure course of justice, he prosecuted me most vindictively. the consequence was, i was found guilty, and sentenced to ten years' transportation to ceuta, with chains and hard labour. who will deny that these things called for a change in the institutions of my country? was the luxury of tobacco to be placed beyond the reach of the peasant, whilst the noble _con pierna tendida_[ ] spent his whole life involved in a cloud of smoke? was the industrious husbandman to be contented with rags and tatters, whilst lazy priests were clothed in silks and brocade? and, surely, even if the neglected bark of the forest trees was sacred, the wild beasts, that sheltered in that forest, were the property of all! the most severe pang the banishment from my native land caused me, was the separation from my beloved fernando, at that time a boy of eight years old. during my frequent short absences from home, i had always left him in charge of an old crone, the widow of one of our gang, and receiver of our smuggled cargoes. but i dreaded lest, on the news of my sentence reaching her ears, she should send my poor boy adrift to beg his bread--perhaps, to starve--in this wide, uncharitable world. for the ten long years that i was doomed to exile, did this dread weigh upon me yet heavier than the chains that bound me to my task. i constantly wrote, and sent repeated messages by convicts returning to our native land, at the expiration of their term of punishment, and who invariably promised to inform me of the result of their inquiries; but never did any tidings of my boy arrive, to cheer me in my tedious captivity! the day of my release at length arrived; the shackles were struck from my emaciated limbs; and, ere i left the african shore, i registered a vow--which has been most truly kept--that the tyrants should rue the day on which blas maldonado had been condemned to labour like a highway robber, or midnight assassin. i seized the first opportunity of proceeding to gibraltar. had the means of quitting the sea-girt prison[ ] not quickly presented itself, i verily believe i should have attempted to swim across the wide channel that separated me from my country, so painful had my restraint become. the communication with the english fortress was then open. on landing there, i learnt that our imbecile old king and his hopeful son had both been persuaded to leave their country; which, distracted by parties, and without a government, was at the mercy of an ambitious priesthood, and an ignorant, perfidious nobility. the opportunity of wreaking vengeance on my oppressors was most favourable. i hastened first, however, to olbera, to obtain tidings of my son--my long estranged fernando. alas! no one could give me any information concerning him. the _tia dorotea_, in whose charge i had left him, had been dead several years; but the boy had, "it was said," absconded from her, long before her death. it was not a matter to interest the savages who had been my associates. i cursed them all from the bottom of my heart, and proceeded on to m----. my inquiries there were not more successful. don benito had long since left the place, and no one could, or _would_, give me any information concerning my son. i included the whole population in my sweeping malediction, and, with a heart panting for revenge, proceeded to seville, where i had ascertained that one of my oppressors, at all events, was within reach of my knife. reckless of life, and fearless of consequences; with a ready flow of words, and a breast full of wrongs, i soon acquired an extraordinary ascendency over the ignorant and volatile mob of that turbulent city. a riot was the consequence; and by the knife of _one of those_ engaged in it, fell the conde de aguila! for some months after this i went about exciting feelings of distrust against the nobility, and of hatred against the hypocritical monks, that eat up the produce of our fertile fields. but the battle of beylen having again restored, in some measure, the influence of these rapacious vultures, i was arrested as a seditious person, on information lodged by one of my own followers. a mockery of justice took place in the way of a trial; i was found guilty, and sentenced to death. the day of my execution was fixed; but i had a purse full of money, and managed to escape from the place allotted for my prison; and thinking that the constitution at this period, promulgated by the intrusive king, held out great promise of relieving my unhappy country from its state of degradation--as well by opening all professions to every _class_ of spaniards as by making promotion the reward of merit--i determined to seek distinction in the ranks of our liberators. accordingly, i proceeded to the north of spain, and joined the french army at the moment it was about to resume offensive operations on the banks of the ebro. my acquaintance with the invaders' language made me a valuable recruit, and i was attached as an orderly and interpreter to general----. with all my wrongs fresh rankling in my breast, i burned to bathe my sword in the blood of my base countrymen, fighting in the ranks of slavery and despotism. and too soon, alas! was the opportunity afforded me. the first operations of the french army, in the campaign which now opened, were crowned with the most brilliant success. army after army disappeared before them, like chaff before the wind. a last effort to resist the invaders was made by palafox and castaños, in the plains of tudela; and here, again, i drew my sword for those whom i hoped were to be the liberators of my country. i need not describe more of that scene of slaughter than is necessary for my tale. the arragones, posted on the spanish right, shamefully abandoned their position, after a feeble resistance. the gallant old castaños flew to the left, where the andalusian troops, whom he had led to victory at baylen, were stationed, and attempted to restore the battle; but his efforts were vain; all he could effect was to withdraw this wing of his panic-struck army with some kind of order. it is impossible for me to describe the irresistible thirst for blood which impelled me forward on that fatal day. i have since--as you will hear in the sequel--fought against these very french, whose bread i was then eating; but never was my sword edged with the same temper that now sharpened it. the moment of revenge had, i conceived, at length arrived--the long invoked opportunity of wreaking vengeance on my perfidious, abject countrymen. i thought of my wife, hurried to an untimely grave--of my child, left to perish for want--of my ignominious chains and treacherous associates; and i became frantic with rage. i had quitted the side of my general, whose division was posted towards the centre of the line, that i might be opposed to the vile _espadachines_ of my native province. i arrived at the moment that the general confusion was spreading amongst their ranks; and, seizing a lance from a frenchman, who fell wounded at my side, i rushed impetuously upon my flying countrymen. trampling down the common herd, for others who came after me to despatch, i pushed madly forward in pursuit of nobler game, and marked as my victim a young cavalry officer, who was vainly endeavouring to rally his fugitive troopers. i rode at him with my lance _en joue_, and, being an able _toreador_, had little fears of the result of the contest, though he awaited my onset with perfect self-possession. before i came within his reach, however, he was struck from his horse by a musket-ball, and fell, apparently lifeless, at my feet. i do not know what prompted me--certainly not the love of gold, for at that moment my thoughts were bent entirely on blood--not a feeling of mercy, for that was yet further from my mind than wealth; but some unaccountable impulse, perhaps the agency of the devil, persuaded me to alight, and strip the youth of his bright gold epaulettes. i found that he had been shot in the head, the ball having entered at one eye, and seemingly passed out at the other. his face was suffused with gore, but he was not dead. i was about to finish his short career with a thrust of my lance, when it struck me it would be less merciful to allow the blind wretch to eke out his miserable existence. stripping him, therefore, of his epaulettes, "you may live, young _hidalgo_," said i, "unless you are lucky enough to find some frenchman more charitably disposed towards you than myself. you will yet serve for an _espantajo_!"[ ] "what!" exclaimed the youth, "is it a spaniard who pillages a dying countryman? is it a vile renegade that taunts me with the disfigurement of an honourable wound? then may my dying curse be upon him; may it ring perpetually in his ears, as a foretaste of torments to be endured, should my arm fail in sending him at once to eternal punishment!" so saying, he snatched a pistol from his breast, and, ere i could arrest his hand, fired in the direction he judged me to be. the ball--would it had been more surely aimed!--merely grazed my left cheek, leaving the mark you may see through my bushy whisker. provoked beyond endurance by this act, i seized my adversary by the throat, and, forcing my knife into his mouth, cut out the tongue that had so lately cursed me; and then, after watching some moments the wreathings of my tortured victim, sheathed it in his breast. i felt in so doing that it had struck against something hard--i thought, perhaps, a watch; and, tearing open his jacket, discovered, oh god!--that i was the murderer of my son! chapter xiv. blas el guerrillero--_continued_. the worthy señor blas having quaffed a bumper of _xeres seco_, by way of drowning his sorrow, thus continued his story:-- i fell senseless on the mangled corpse of my beloved fernando. how long i remained in this state i know not, but i was aroused by the jeers of some french soldiers, who, tearing me rudely from the now cold body of my son, asked if i had fairly earned my compatriot's epaulettes; at the same time very unceremoniously transferring them from my sash, into which i had hastily thrust them, to their own havre-sacks. i offered no resistance; but, when they were about to rob me as unceremoniously of the chain and locket, proofs of my son's identity, which my damp and blood-stained hand yet held in its convulsive grasp, i checked their insolence by a look at my gory knife, taking at the same time from my breast, and throwing towards them, the _carte de protection_ of their general. they passed on, carrying off the epaulettes, and laughing at and mimicking the grief and anger depicted in my countenance. i was again awakened to a sense of my misfortunes. at first i tried to fancy it was all a dream; then, that i might still be mistaken in the locket of my departed alitéa; but a pocketbook, which, on further search, i discovered on the person of my ill-fated son, established the appalling fact, beyond the possibility of doubt. i hastily dug a grave for my boy, but, ere returning the corse to its native clay, i vowed to revenge his death upon the heartless foreigners, who, having led me to commit this crime, and brought a dying curse upon my head, had scoffed at my grief and misery. i accordingly took the first opportunity of quitting the french army, and falling in with a gang of lawless freebooters, who, under the pretext of fighting the enemies of their country, robbed and plundered indiscriminately friend and foe, i enlisted, a willing recruit, into the _quadrilla_.[ ] in the matter of plunder, i believe that the _best_ of the _guerrilla_ bands, which now began to be formed throughout the country, were as little scrupulous as that of which i became a member, though they had not the honesty to admit it. many, certainly, were the acts of atrocity committed by our band. we scoured the whole of old castile and leon, levying contributions wherever we moved; we hung upon the flank of the english army in its retreat to coruña, filling our pockets with doubloons, and our pouches with ammunition; we slaughtered any luckless, wearied, or wounded french straggler that came across our path, but sought not for opportunities of exchanging shots with our invaders. in this latter respect, the plan of our leader was too timid for me, and i sometimes managed to join the red-coats in a skirmish with the common enemy. on one of these occasions my life was saved by one of your countrymen. from that day i have known how to value an englishman, and have never neglected an opportunity of evincing my gratitude to the fellow-countrymen of my brave deliverer. i had straggled away from our _quadrilla_, accompanied by two of my comrades, to take part in a skirmish which was going on at the passage of a small river, between the rear-guard of the english and their pursuing enemies. the object in view was, of course, merely to retard the advance of the french; since your army was in full retreat; and just as the signal was given for the skirmishers to retire, i received a carbine ball in my thigh which unhorsed me. my frightened charger galloped off, as did also my two companions, leaving me to the tender mercies of the advancing enemy. one of your countrymen happened, however, to look round, and seeing me doomed to destruction, though doing my best to hobble off, rode back amidst a shower of bullets to render me assistance. "john," said he, "you're a brave fellow; give me your hand and jump up behind me." i did the first part of his bidding; but whilst in the act of climbing up in obedience to the second, a shot disabled his left arm. the gallant lad immediately seized me with his right hand, by the help of which i scrambled on his horse's back, when another shot brought him to the ground. poor fellow! one groan alone escaped him. i was obliged to fly, but did not do so until i had convinced myself that his life was extinct. my own wound was but slight; and soon after this affair, thinking your army had thrown away all its treasure, we betook ourselves to the mountains of asturias, returning along the northern coast of spain into navarre, and thence into catalonia, where we commenced a more decided guerrilla warfare against the enemy; embracing every opportunity of attacking him when _profit_ was to be gained without much risk. i soon distinguished myself above the rest of the quadrilla by my daring and unscrupulousness; and my influence, particularly amongst the most reckless of the band, increased daily; so great, indeed, did it become, that the chief and his chosen associates regarded me with extreme jealousy. i was always urging them to leave the north of spain, where we had numerous competitors in the field, and proceed to the less devastated province of andalusia; for i longed for the opportunity of settling my outstanding accounts with divers priests, _alcaldes_, _hidalgos_, and others, for various little acts of _kindness_, shown me during my contrabandista career; and i was anxious also to pay off a debt of more serious amount, due to don benito; to explain which i must go back a little in my story. the pocket-book which i had found on the person of my unfortunate fernando contained several letters addressed to him by don benito, from which, together with information they led me to seek by making a short visit to madrid, i learnt that my son had been removed from the care of _tia_ dorotea, very soon after my transportation to ceuta. about the same period, it appeared, don benito had been suddenly called to madrid, from whence he had been sent as _corregidor_ to some town in galicia. none of the various letters i wrote to my boy had been permitted to meet his eye; and to his anxious inquiries after the fate of his convict father, answer was made, that i had fallen a sacrifice to the unhealthy climate of africa. on his removal from olbera, fernando had at once been sent to salamanca for his education, and was yet studying at the celebrated university of that city, when the french invasion called the country to arms. with the enthusiasm natural to youth, he burned to join the ranks of the _patriots_--as the ill-organized, worse directed, and in too many cases shamefully betrayed bands of peasantry were called--and don benito, whom it appeared had conceived a tardy affection for his grandson, had long combated this desire. after vainly attempting, however, to turn him from his purpose; and fearful, probably, by prolonged opposition, of being himself denounced as an _afrancesado_, he at length acceded to fernando's wishes, and procured for him a commission in a regiment of cavalry, where he thought he would be less exposed to fatigue and hardships than as a foot-soldier. my gallant boy, as appeared as well by the letters found upon him, as by a decoration at his breast, had already distinguished himself in the field, when fate directed a father's hand to close his promising career. don benito, i further learned, overwhelmed with grief by the death of his grandson, had retired from madrid to his native town. there, clothed with power, i longed to beard him in his fancied security; to tell him that his vile deceit had caused a son to raise his arm against a father--had caused that father, in ignorance, to become the murderer of his son; to tell him, in fine, that all his property, his ill-gotten property--his life even--was at my disposal, to take and destroy as i thought fit. to accomplish this was now the ruling desire within my breast; my country's wrongs were but the pretence for acquiring power amongst my companions. esteban, the leader of our _quadrilla_, was an overbearing, avaricious, craven-hearted catalan, who, fearful of venturing far from his own mountain retreats, resolutely and effectually opposed my project of making a dash at andalusia. as a first step towards effecting my purpose, therefore, it became necessary to dispose of him. i have before stated that i had many friends in the troop, and by an assumed generosity,--my share of plunder, unless consisting of arms, horses, &c., being generally left to be divided amongst my comrades,--i gradually succeeded in increasing the number of my adherents; thus paving the way for becoming, one day, the leader of the band. in this i but adopted the maxim of my favourite _guzman de alfarache_, who says, "_ganar amigos es dar dinero a logro y sembrar en regadio_."[ ] i valued wealth, however, only as the means of obtaining _power_; and at that moment, to give money was to gain friends, and to gain friends, to attain power. the friends i gained were very uncertain ones, it may be said. they were such, nevertheless, as i could depend upon whilst fortune favoured me; and what is friendship after all? a flimsy veil thrown over the double face of mutual interest, which the slightest breath of adversity blows aside! a mere footstep to the seat of power, which is trodden upon the moment that seat is gained! friendship! i have never in my eventful life known it last when once the bond of interest was broken! strong, however, as my party had become, by the means i have stated, it was not yet sufficiently so to warrant my coming to an open rupture with esteban, even had that been advisable. on the contrary, as the band consisted principally of his countrymen, whose services i did not wish to lose, it was desirable, in the step i meditated taking, to avoid even the _suspicion_ of treachery. with this view, i arranged a plan with three of my most faithful supporters, which was crowned with complete success. esteban had obtained information, that, on a certain day, a convoy, conveying treasure and ammunition for the use of the french division employed at the siege of gerona, would be sent from figueras. the escort, on account of the value of the convoy, would of course be strong; but the avarice of our chief serving as a fillip to his courage, we succeeded in persuading him to make an attempt to capture it. taking post, therefore, in a deep ravine, situated in the heart of a forest through which the enemy must necessarily pass, a council was called to consider the best mode of making the attack. contrary to my usual custom, i recommended the adoption of the most cautious proceedings. i hinted that we must have been misinformed respecting the strength of the escort; as, doubtless, so enormous a sum as that the enemy was sending would be protected by a very strong body of troops. in fact, whilst feeding esteban's cupidity, i succeeded so completely in frightening him, that he asked me to propose a plan for the attack. i readily acquiesced; and my project meeting with unanimous approval, was immediately acted upon. it was as follows. two thirds of our force were concealed in a hollow some distance from and to the right of the road, beyond the pass. their horses were muzzled to prevent detection by their neighing, but were provided with slip knots to release them at a moment's notice. the rest of the troop took post on foot on the left side of the defilé, immediately over the road, three of the men retiring some distance into the forest with the horses of this party, and keeping them ready to bring up to the spot at the concerted signal. the first party was placed under the command of the lieutenant of the troop, the bosom friend of esteban, who, screening his men carefully from observation, was to allow the enemy's advanced guard to pass unmolested until it had gained a comparatively open space clear of the ravine, and then to charge it _à cierra ojos_,[ ] for the purpose of drawing to its support the main body of the escort, and so leave the mules with the treasure but slightly protected. this done, he was to retire, or not, according to circumstances. meanwhile, esteban concealed himself in the thick foliage of an evergreen oak that grew on the summit of an isolated crag, which, standing out from the bank of the hollow way, protruded into and commanded a perfect view of the road. from this elevated spot he was (should he deem it advisable) to make the signal for a general attack by liberating a huge eagle, which we always kept for this purpose; a signal that, instead of exciting suspicion, we found rather tended to throw the enemy off his guard. our rendezvous was given for the night at a village some ten miles from the scene of action. as much of the detail of these arrangements had been left (out of compliment) to me, i had no difficulty in selecting the _three men_ who were to take charge of the horses of the dismounted party. as to myself, to avoid suspicion, i volunteered joining the lieutenant's division, which was likely to have the warmest work. every thing happened as i expected, if not altogether as i could have wished; for the treasure was too well guarded to give us any chance of attacking the escort with success. the enemy also advanced with great caution; halted at the entrance of the pass, sent forward a cavalry piquet to reconnoitre the road in advance, and detached infantry _en eclaireurs_ up both banks of the hollow way. having taken these precautions, and closed up the train, they renewed their march. our scout gave timely notice of what was passing. we unmuzzled our steeds, whose impatient neighing gave the enemy the first notice of our vicinity, and that we had thrown ourselves between their main body and somewhat compromised advanced guard. our charge was like the swoop of an eagle upon his prey, whilst the enemy's hurried notes of recall resounded through the forest like the screams of a flight of terrified plover. but the order for their return arrived too late. we fell upon them ere they had time to make any disposition to receive our unlooked for rear-attack, and sabred them to a man. whilst this was going forward, some slight confusion manifested itself in the enemy's main body, but the commandant quickly restored order. sending forward all his horsemen to secure the head of the ravine, and rally, as he hoped, his advanced guard, he reinforced his rear guard with infantry, and then, recalling his tirailleurs to the edge of the defilé, pushed on as quickly as possible to get through the pass, and gain a field where discipline would resume its advantage over numbers. the party with which i served was again drawn up, anxiously waiting for the signal to renew the attack. we watched in vain, however, for the rising of the bird of jove. we heard a few scattered shots, which our lieutenant very justly observed augured no good, and saw a formidable body of cavalry deploying rapidly at the issue of the ravine, and preparing to charge us. it was evident, therefore, that esteban deemed it hopeless to attack, and that it was high time for us to be off. indeed, had we been briskly attacked, the half of our party would most certainly have been captured, but the good face we put upon it probably led the enemy to suppose we were well supported, and they contented themselves with firing a volley, as, putting spurs to our horses, we dispersed in all directions. on reassembling at the appointed rendezvous, the only person missing was esteban. as soon as prudence admitted, we returned to the late scene of action to make search for our absent chieftain, and found his body lying in the hollow way, but so hacked and disfigured as to render it impossible to tell what had been the manner of his death. it was the general opinion, therefore, since the shots we had heard could in no other way be accounted for, that the enemy's tirailleurs must have discovered him in the tree, and that the frenchmen, enraged at their severe loss, had thus cruelly mutilated him. i did not attempt to combat this opinion, and the three men who had _charge of the horses_ were quite silent in the matter, though they could, perhaps, have told a different tale. i see, _caballeros_, that you are shocked at the little hesitation i showed in taking this caitiff's life; but i can assure you no scruples of conscience troubled me in the matter, for i had previously learnt that the cowardly rascal had engaged the very men to shoot me, whom i employed to perform that kind action towards him. esteban's death being thus placed beyond a doubt, it became necessary to elect a new leader. rodriguez (the lieutenant) and myself were the only two competitors. i had, as i have already stated, many supporters in the band; and some money which, no matter how, came at this time into my possession, was liberally distributed to increase the number; but, nevertheless, the catalans and biscayans, of whom the _quadrilla_ principally consisted, could not be brought over to my side, and rodriguez was preferred by a majority of votes. a separation was loudly advocated by my friends; but to this, with affected humility, i refused to listen. "no," said i, "we are all one family; let us not weaken our strength by dissension. for my own part, i have no wish to command, and will willingly yield obedience to rodriguez." the bait took; my friends stood out for a separation; and the supporters of my competitor, charmed by my moderation, proposed (as a division would probably lead to the destruction of both parties) that rodriguez and i should command alternately. this proposal was adopted with general acclamation, for, whilst the catalans acknowledged my superior talents for command in the field, they thought the counsel of a nestor like rodriguez would temper with prudence my somewhat venturesome projects; besides which, he was better acquainted with the country where they wished to act. i knew that my coadjutor, though a brave old man, possessed no one other quality to fit him for the leader of a band of guerrillas, who should be decisive as well as courageous, full of resources as well as cautious, and whose eye should be quick to turn ground to the best advantage, as well as to acknowledge it as an old acquaintance. in order, therefore, to let the band see his incompetency, and that he might become convinced of it himself, i gave in to all his plans, without offering an objection, and so effectually succeeded in my own, that, after experiencing several severe checks, and reducing our _military chest_ to a very small _box_, it became the general wish to change the scene of operations, and proceed to a less devastated, and, consequently, less protected country. it was accordingly determined to make an experimental excursion into the kingdom of valencia, with which, whilst following the _contraband_ life, i had become well acquainted. our _debût_ was most successful, for so unprepared was the enemy for our sudden irruption that we captured a rich convoy under the very walls[ ] of the capital city, without the loss of a man. but a large force being immediately despatched in pursuit, i (happening to be in command for the day) directed the retreat upon murcia, thereby enabling the enemy to prevent our return to catalonia. this was a hazardous step, for the country to the north was not of a nature to afford us either shelter or resources; whilst, to the south, all the towns between us and the sea were occupied by french garrisons, which, if we were not quick in our movements, or happened to meet with any check, might easily cut short our further advance, and oblige us to disperse. to hesitate under these circumstances was to be lost; so, pushing on _à cierra ojos_, we hardly drew rein until we had passed guadix, when the vicinity of the impracticable alpujarra mountains secured us from attack on the left, and, at the same time, assured us a safe retreat in the event of being hard pressed. the enemy, however, seeing that further pursuit would be unavailing, stopped short at guadix; and, embracing the opportunity of giving our wearied horses a few days' rest, we established ourselves at the fuente de la gitana, the principal sources of the little river fardes, which, winding through a sequestered dell, at the foot of the sierra nevada, is bordered with the richest pasturage. the spot thus selected for our bivouac held out also the advantage of enabling us to watch the high road from guadix to granada, one of the principal lines of communication of the french army. whilst refreshing our horses in this secluded spot, numerous opportunities of attacking the enemy presented themselves. but without a certain prospect of obtaining booty, we were not to be tempted to give the alarm by showing ourselves. allowing, therefore, various parties to pass to and fro without molestation, we succeeded in leading the enemy to believe that we had crossed the sierra, and thrown ourselves upon the stores of arms and gunpowder in the mining district of adra. no sooner were their fears allayed, and confidence restored, than we seized the favourable occasion to pounce upon them. this was afforded us by the march of a convoy, with provisions and money, from guadix to granada. as soon as we had received certain advice of its having left the first named city, and reached diezma (its first day's march), we broke up our camp, and, riding all night, took post in the sierra jarana, where we commanded both the roads which, from diezma, are directed on granada. the enemy, wishing to keep as far as possible from the sierra nevada, chose the upper or northern road, which was by far the most favourable for our project, there being a difficult pass to get through, which must unavoidably oblige a convoy to lengthen out and straggle. we accordingly permitted the greater portion of the loaded animals to pass unmolested, and then, falling suddenly upon the rear division, succeeded in capturing and carrying off no less than thirty mules. we did not, however, escape without loss; for rodriguez was left dead upon the field, and several of the band were severely wounded. i drew the party off by a rugged pathway that leads round the sources of the darro; crossed the genil below guejar; and, by a rapid march, gained huelma that same night, ere the news of our exploit had well reached granada. we had now got upon the high road from granada to alhama, and, proceeding along it for some miles, struck off to the left, and established our bivouac in a wooded sierra, above the village of agron, from whence we commanded both the great road we had left, and that from granada to almuñecar and motril. having eluded all pursuit, and gained a point which, whilst it favoured our future operations, was in the vicinity of some of the most intricate mountain country in andalusia, but with which i was thoroughly acquainted; i determined, if possible, to obtain possession of the french governor of granada's despatches to his subordinates commanding the towns upon the sea-coast, with the view of ascertaining how his forces were distributed, their strength, &c., as well as the steps he purposed taking to interrupt or pursue my band. appointing, therefore, one of my most devoted adherents to the command of the troop during my absence, i doffed my old contrabandista dress, and, accompanied by one only of my men, proceeded to the ventas de huelma, where i understood the french orderlies were in the habit of baiting their horses for half an hour when journeying to and from alhama. the place consists only of two wretched _ventas_, and half a dozen _ranchas_. we reached it about mid-day, and, as luck would have it, just in time to see two french dragoons ride in at the door of one of the inns. after waiting a few minutes to make sure that they had not merely called for their _goutte_, we also rode up to the venta, and alighted at the portal, and, securing our horses to the stakes in the wall, entered, as the saying is, _santamente en la casa_.[ ] the inn was crowded with people, and the two frenchmen, having given their horses a feed of barley, were holding forth to the _arrieros_ and villagers grouped round them; who, with eager, though silent, interest, were listening to their discourse. our _ave maria purissima_ hardly attracted notice, an old crone, seated in the chimney corner at her spindle, being the only person to mumble in return the usual "_sin pecado concebida_."[ ] addressing myself to the _ventero_, i begged he would furnish me with a slice of bread, some oil, vinegar, and the other ingredients requisite for making a _gazpacho_. "_caramba!_" exclaimed my host, looking inquisitively at me, "these are not the cooling _alimentos_ blas maldonado used formerly to ask for!" "they are _not_, good pacheco," said i, finding that the number of years which had elapsed since our last meeting had not prevented his recognizing me,--"they are not, good pacheco; but as the proverb says, "'_ajo crudo y vino puro_ _hacen andar al mozo seguro._'"[ ] and i gave a significant glance at the frenchmen. "is it so!" replied he; "then to answer you with another proverb--'_à perro viejo no has tus tus_'[ ]--how can i serve you?" "tell me first," said i, "do you know those _gavachos_?"[ ] "i do; they have stopped here several times to bait their horses on the way backwards and forwards to alhama; but they are likely to send their despatches under a more numerous escort for the future, if the news be true that a band of _guerrillas_ has made its appearance close to granada; though they have, as _they_ say, cut it to pieces. but let us draw near, and hear their story--of which i had only caught a few words when you called me away." "i can probably give you a better account of it than _they_," said i; "therefore, tell me first what sort of men are they? think you a couple of resolute fellows could master them readily?" "for the matter of that," replied pacheco, "the _cabo_ is, i suspect, a determined dog; but the young fellow, who accompanies him, seems, like most of his countrymen, to have _mas viento que fuego_[ ] about him." "do they smoke?" "like two _carboneras_."[ ] "that will do; now let us go and hear what the braggarts have to say;" and, drawing my _capa_ round so as to conceal the lower part of my face, i joined the circle of _gobemouches_. the younger of the two frenchmen, with much gesticulation, and in very bad spanish, was giving an account of the action between my band and his countrymen. it was well i had been there, otherwise, i certainly should never have recognized it for the same affair; since he maintained that we had been completely worsted--our chief and upwards of half the band left dead upon the field, and the remainder dispersed in all directions! "were no prisoners made?" said i--having first ascertained by a glance all round that no old acquaintances were in the group of listeners. "prisoners, _mon brave_," replied he; "_pas un seul_--_sacristie_! we speared them like wild boars, without giving them time to translate _quartel_[ ] into french." "you have prudently taken care to have ready the spanish translation of the french," i observed.--"and so you were yourself in the _melée_, then?" "_je le crois bien! sacrebleu!_" said the boaster, regardless of the signs of his corporal to be less communicative, "i believe you! _sacrebleu!_ i, myself, spitted half a score of the _sacré gueux_, and i think i should know the rest of the _canaille_ by their backs, if ever my eyes lighted upon them again; for i pressed them hard enough; but my horse was too tired to overtake them all." "_a quien tanto ve, con un ojo le basta_,"[ ] said i, adding, lest the laugh my sarcasm had caused amongst my countrymen should excite the corporal's suspicions, "however, i am glad you have given so good an account of the scoundrels, and hope any other factious bands that may attempt to disturb the tranquillity of our province may be similarly dealt with. you must, however, i fear, be ill provided with cavalry, since you have been so soon sent again on duty after such sharp service?" "why, we are rather short of cavalry, no doubt," continued the loquacious _gascon_; "but, i rather think, our despatches contain an order for such as can be spared from malaga to be sent to join us at granada; and then we shall serve them out in good style." "why, i thought you had dispersed them altogether?" said i. "_allons, allons!_" cried the corporal to his companion, "_à cheval!_" adding, in the same language, which, doubtless, he conceived none of us understood--"i like not that inquisitive _embossé_--what the d--l makes you so communicative?" "communicative!" exclaimed the young dragoon; "why you know i have not told them a word of truth, excepting about the order for the cavalry to come and join us; and the sooner that piece of news is spread through the country the better." my attendant had not been an idle listener to the conversation i have just narrated; but, having glided unobserved amongst the horses, had quietly occupied himself in taking a fore shoe off the foot of one of the dragoons' chargers. he now joined the circle, making me a sign that all was right, and whispering a few words in the ear of the landlord, whilst, despatching our _gazpacho fresco_, we mounted our horses and rode off toward alhama. before we had proceeded a mile, the two frenchmen overtook us, and were about to pass on at a brisk trot, when i called out that one of their horses had thrown a shoe. it was that of the corporal. he dismounted, and, after sundry _sacrés_, proposed to his companion that they should return to the _venta_ for a smith. i said, if they had a spare shoe, i could furnish them with a hammer and nails, which would, possibly, save time. my offer was thankfully accepted, and the dragoon, dismounting and placing himself between the two horses, so as to hold both their heads, the corporal forthwith proceeded to work. i waited, of course, to receive back my hammer, and, to pass the time, struck a light and commenced smoking. "_gasta usted tabaco?_"[ ] asked i, addressing myself to the young dragoon, presenting him at the same time with a frenchified looking cigar with a straw inserted at one end. "volontiers," said he, taking it and a piece of burning _yesca_,[ ] that i offered him on the flat side of my flint.--"_volontiers!_ i am a true dragoon." in receiving the flint back, i purposely let it fall, and, begging he would not trouble himself, dismounted to pick it up, drawing near to the corporal, as if to see how he got on with his work. my companion now, also, alighted to tighten the girths of his saddle, and, at the instant, an explosion took place, the young dragoon was thrown on his back, and the two horses, disengaged from his hold, started off in a fright, pitching the corporal forward on his head. i instantly pinned him to the earth with my knee, and plunged my knife into his neck; whilst my comrade despatched the young dragoon--asking him how it was he had not recognized us by our _backs_, and what he thought of _un cigarro bomba_.[ ] we secured the despatches and horses, and made off for our bivouac with all speed. on our arrival, i found the band at _toros y cañas_;[ ] the followers of my late coadjutor, rodriguez, insisting that another captain should be joined with me in the command. having had sufficient experience of the inconveniences attending this divided form of government, and being now so situated as to insist on having my own way, i determined to cut the matter very short, exclaiming "_à otro perro con ese hueso!_"[ ] "let those who choose turn back, and god be with them! and i think--judging from the despatches that have this day fallen into my hands--they will stand in great need of his protection! those who prefer following my fortunes shall obey no orders but mine." alarmed at what i had hinted about the despatches, all but the _aspirant_ to the joint dictatorship and two of his relatives, joined my standard. these three _desgraciados_ determined to leave the band. in vain i pointed out the danger of such a proceeding--the impossibility of their making their way across a country with which they were unacquainted, and that was now beset with enemies. they, sneeringly, replied that the same road they had followed in coming would conduct them back. this, however, for a reason which i shall hereafter explain, i determined that it should _not_ do. detaining them, therefore, until the morrow, on the plea of receiving their due proportion of the booty we had made, i despatched a trusty messenger to granada, who, presenting himself to the french governor, informed him that the greater part of my troop had passed close under the walls of alhama, directing its march towards velez, after having killed the two dragoons bearing his despatches to the commandant of that town; but adding, that he had heard, on very good authority, a detachment of three men, conveying important communications from me, was to return, on the following day, into the eastern provinces of the kingdom, and that he had come to offer himself as a guide, to intercept the party. on the following morning, our seceders took their departure, having, i may truly say, "_el despeñadero a los ojos, y lobos à las espaldas_."[ ] the next day my messenger returned, and informed me of the result of his mission, giving out, however, that he had obtained intelligence that a valuable convoy was about to proceed immediately from granada to motril. the temptation was irresistible, and a rapid counter-march on alhendin was determined on that very night. we reached our destination by dawn, where i was told (what i was already fully informed of) that the convoy had already passed by, and that our quondam companions had been seized and hung up on the road-side. there they were, sure enough, dangling from the trees like _espata-lobos_,[ ] and on the forehead of each was nailed the following notice in the french language. "the undersigned, lieutenant general of the imperial french army, and governor of granada for his catholic majesty joseph napoleon, &c. &c. &c., hereby gives notice, that the band of _factieux_, under the infamous traitor blas maldonado, having appeared in the military division under his command, all persons who may be persuaded to join, harbour, or furnish information or provisions to the same, will, on conviction thereof, be deemed equally traitors to their country, as the aforesaid blas and his band, and will meet with the condign summary punishment due to their crimes; in witness whereof, he has this day caused to be hanged the rebel hereunto annexed. right "---- ----." this exceeded my hopes: the basques of my party did not fail to give a very literal translation of this notice to their comrades, who longed for an opportunity of taking vengeance on our inhuman enemies. but it was not with the motive of keeping alive the inextinguishable hate that already existed between the _guerrillas_ and the french that i had got up this melo-drama; but rather to deter the remaining catalans of my band from depending on themselves, should our interests jar on any future occasion, and they be inclined to throw off their allegiance. they were now made sensible how completely their want of acquaintance with the country rendered them dependent upon me. on my own countrymen i knew reliance might be placed, and i generally entrusted them with the out-post duty. i affected, nevertheless, to be much enraged at the treatment the _pobrecitos_, so lately our companions in arms, had experienced, and, a chapel being at hand, readily acquiesced--for i liked to encourage superstitious habits in my followers--in the proposal of offering up masses for their souls; concluding our pious work with a vow not to spare any french_man_, woman, or child, that should fall into our hands for the next six months. "al hierro caliente machacar de repente,"[ ] as the saying is. having satisfied myself, from information collected from the peasantry, that all the disposable french cavalry at granada had been laid upon the false scent i had furnished the governor, i thought the opportunity favourable for enabling my men to keep their pious vow, and, at the same time, fill their _fajas_[ ] with _onzas_. descending, therefore, boldly into the fertile _vega_ of granada, we made a dash at santa fé, reaching the little walled town at the very moment a party of french soldiers were busily occupied in loading some bullock carts with contributions raised in the surrounding district. so scared were they by our sudden appearance, that, instead of shutting the gates in our faces, and _haciendo la higa_,[ ] as they might have done, they took themselves off _à bride abattue_, and never stopped until they had placed the genil between us. so sudden, indeed, was our arrival, and so precipitate their departure, that we caught two luckless french commissaries, who, being busily engaged in taking an account of barrels of flour stored in one of the churches at the further end of the town, had not heard the alarm. my troopers were anxious to _dar quito_[ ] for their comrades hanged at alhendin; and i was far from being disposed to baulk their fancy, but thought we would do it with _éclat_. having, therefore, first plunged the two caitiffs "_patos arriba_"[ ] in one of their flour casks, we took them to the city gate facing granada; which, being old, and hanging loosely upon its hinges, we were enabled, by cutting two small notches in the side posts, to force their heads through, and so throttle them by closing the gate upon its centre, leaving their heads sticking out, like the mock-guns of a smuggler's _xebeque_.[ ] this done, i wrote with some chalk the following notice on the outside of the gate. "the undersigned, principal ratcatcher to his catholic majesty _fernando septimo_, charged by an act of the _junta_ of government now established at cadiz with the duty of clearing the province of andalusia of the rats and other vermin with which it is at this moment overrun, to the destruction and undermining of the glorious fabric of our independence, hereby gives notice, that any persons who may henceforth feed, harbour, or encourage the same, will themselves be considered equally as detrimental to the country as the aforesaid rats, and will, on conviction, meet with the same condign summary punishment. "in witness whereof, i have this day throttled the two weasels hereunto made fast. right "blas maldonado." i was ever afterwards called _el ratonero_. chapter xv. blas el guerrillero--_continued_. that the french might be sure to see their comrades, we drove all the inhabitants before us out of the place; a matter of no great difficulty, since _santa fé_, though dignified by its pious founders[ ] with the title of _city_, is but a small walled village, the principal streets of which form a greek cross; so that, standing in the centre of the place, its four gates may be seen by merely turning round, and are all within pistol-shot. carrying off all the plate, money, &c., that we could find, i determined now, whilst the country was clear, and a direct road open, to visit the place of my nativity; the thirst for revenge on my enemies and detractors increasing, as the opportunity of gratifying it appeared more within my reach. we directed our march, therefore, down the _vega_, towards osuna, demanding rations in the king's name wherever we had occasion to halt, and levying contributions whenever the least hesitation was shown in complying with our demands. in this way we picked up considerable booty, besides carrying off all the good horses we met with on the route; for the french, in consideration of the quietness with which andalusia had submitted to the yoke, had hitherto dealt very leniently with its inhabitants. avoiding loja and antequera, which were occupied by french garrisons, we struck into the mountains again on approaching osuna, proceeding by way of saucejo and villa martin de san juan, to the _venta_ of zaframagon, on the road between ronda and seville. i selected this spot, as being at a convenient distance from my native town, and as affording, at the same time, good shelter to my band during my purposed short absence. lodging two of my men, therefore, disguised as peasants, in the _venta_, and bivouacking the rest of the troop in the adjacent forest, i proceeded, accompanied only by one trusty attendant, to m----; deeming it most prudent to reconnoitre the place, ere carrying my plan of revenge into execution. it was now upwards of two years since i had paid my last hasty visit to the place, twenty-one since i had seen don benito. in that long period i had changed from youth to manhood,--to old age, i may almost say, as far as appearance went; for ten years of hard labour on the parched rock of ceuta had marked my face with the deep lines of grief and suffering; and the scar left by my son's hand had as completely changed the expression of my countenance, even since my last visit to m----, as scenes of blood and strife had changed my natural character. fancy not, however, by what i now say, that it was my purpose to take the life of the wretched old man whose presence i sought, though his deceit had been the cause of all my misfortunes. no! on my soul i swear it, i meant only to upbraid him with the wrongs he had heaped upon me, to ----. señor blas here broke off with some little sign of emotion; but, swallowing a bumper of wine, he presently continued in a calmer tone. but, to proceed with the thread of my story.--wrapping an old cloak about me, and leaving my horse in charge of my attendant at the entrance of the town, i proceeded on foot to the principal _posada_, in full confidence that, changed and disguised as i was, no one could possibly recognise me. many persons, but chiefly old men (for those capable of bearing arms had been called to the armies), were assembled round the fire. i immediately joined the circle, and entered into conversation, representing myself as a stranger to the province. after some little time i ventured to ask if don benito quisquilla still resided at the place; and, being answered in the affirmative, by way of allaying any suspicions, asked if his grandson, fernando maldonado, yet lived? "no," replied an old man, whom i recognised as the town-crier, "he is dead; he fell gloriously in the battle-field, fighting for his country's liberty!" "what!" i exclaimed, "did he not join the french army with his father?" "with his father!" cried half a dozen voices in concert. "what! did that miscreant add to his crimes by joining the ranks of the vile enemies of our country? no: fernando died like a true-born _andaluz_; he fell, covered with the blood of our oppressors, in the fatal field of tudela. but how know you, _tio_, that his father joined the french?" i stated that i had been so informed on very good authority, and had indeed come expressly to m---- to make a communication concerning blas to his father-in-law, don benito. "go not near the old man if you have aught to say of that miscreant blas," replied the town-crier, "unless it be to inform him that the devil has carried him off in a hurricane." i rose, and left the house choking with rage. "what!" i ejaculated, "does the old villain attempt to clear his own conscience by accusing me, who have been the innocent victim of his crimes? did he not blast my earliest hopes, drive me to desperation, bring my wife to the grave, rob me of my son, and, finally, send that son to fall by my hand!--miscreant in his teeth." with these excited feelings, i proceeded straight to don benito's house, and rang the bell. the door flew open; and, in answer to my inquiry if don benito was within, a female servant from the gallery informed me that i should find him in one of the apartments on the ground-floor, opening into the _patio_.[ ] it was well i had been told that it was don benito i should find there, otherwise i never could have supposed that the wretched, withered being whom i beheld, enveloped in a grey flannel dressing-gown, with slipshod feet, and a black _montera_ cap on his head, was the once personable father of alitéa. he did not attempt to rise from the _silla poltrona_[ ] in which he was seated; but, removing the spectacles from his eyes, and wiping them with his pocket-handkerchief, desired me to approach and state my business. for a moment i felt inclined to turn away and leave the house; a feeling of pity crept into my heart, and bade me spare him. though i owed him little mercy for myself, he had intended to be kind to my boy; he had never entirely cast off my alitéa; and he seemed so thoroughly wretched, that it appeared impossible to add more to his misery. i wish i had followed this first impulse, but a second thought determined me to try if his unforgiving nature remained unchanged. i began by simply asking if i was addressing don benito quisquilla. "what! can it be!" he exclaimed, starting upon his legs, as if newly invigorated with the breath of life; "is it my fernando? approach. no, no! i see--_he_ was in the bloom of youth, but you, like myself, have, it appears, bent to the gusts of many a tempest. still, that voice--that figure! say, i beseech you, stranger, who are you?" the old man's emotion nearly choked him. i was half tempted to throw myself at his feet, when he continued, without waiting for my answer: "but the wretched, misguided being, who begot him, had the same----. excuse this emotion; you have touched a chord----." "wretched being, indeed!" i exclaimed, interrupting him, "you know then the fate of the _wretched_ blas, and half my business is already executed." "his _fate_? no," said the old man. "has he then met the punishment so repeatedly due to his crimes? has his last act of disloyalty to his king and country--of which i have had tidings--brought him to the gallows?" "no, no!" i replied--all my rage returning at the old scoundrel's vindictiveness--"he lives, wretched, indeed, as you have said, for by your instrumentality he became the _murderer of his son_!" "_jesus! hijo de dios!_ what do i hear!" ejaculated don benito; "has the infamous villain crowned all his iniquities by so horrible a crime?" "vindictive old dotard!" i replied, throwing back my cloak, which had hitherto partially concealed my face, and clenching at him my right hand, "this hand, given at the altar, before all the saints of heaven, to your daughter--this very hand, through your accursed machinations, directed the point of the knife which drew the life's-blood from a son's heart!" "monster! hardened, damned, incorrigible monster!" screamed don benito, "may every curse----!" but my fiery temperament would not allow me to listen patiently to the old man's imprecations. we had approached close to each other; i raised my hand to drive the curse down his blasphemous throat--nothing more, for my knife was in my girdle, had i wished to use it--when the infatuated old man seized me by the collar, and called for help. it was the last sound that escaped from his lips--he fell dead at my feet. señor blas here paused a moment to make choice of a fresh cigar, and then thus continued his story. i left the house without a moment's delay, hurried through the town, and, mounting my horse, rode "_à toda priesa_" to rejoin my troop. i had intended to march it on m----, which was quite defenceless, and lay a heavy contribution upon the inhabitants, but a foolish weakness made me decide on keeping to myself the fatal result that had attended my visit; so, framing an excuse for the non-execution of my project, i drew my band off into another part of the serranía de ronda. we remained in this intricate country several months, watching the different approaches to ronda, which, being one of the depôts for storing the supplies collected for the siege of cadiz, afforded us abundant opportunities of making booty. during that period i became acquainted with one alonzo bazan, the chief of another guerrilla. he was a gallant young fellow, though affecting the royalist rather too much to please me. however, we joined our bands together on several occasions, to attack the common enemy, when a greater force than we respectively commanded was necessary. my intimacy with alonzo brought me acquainted with his sister, now my wife. she was at that time a blooming girl of eighteen, and over head and ears in love with a young _majocito_ of some substance, named beltran galindiz, who was the sworn friend of her brother, and had, at his persuasion--for i do not think he had a natural calling that way--raised a band of guerrillas amongst his relatives and dependents. i confess to you, _caballeros_, that i never felt the same love for engracia, for such is my _esposa's_ name, that i had for my long-lost but ever-regretted alitéa. the passion, indeed, to which her youth and beauty gave birth, might, perhaps, have passed away like many others, without leaving any impression, but for the very indifference with which my advances were received, and the passionate fondness that she evinced for the contemptible beltran. in vain i practised every art to supplant him in her affections; and, what maddened me yet more than the thought of this beardless boy being preferred to myself, was that, as if confident of his influence over her, _he_ regarded my rivalry with the most perfect indifference. it happened, soon after my acquaintance with engracia commenced, that her brother alonzo, during a visit to ronda, was arrested as a spy, and the french commandant of that fortress, thinking it would have a beneficial effect in putting down the insurrection to have him publicly executed at the place of his birth, directed him to be taken on the following day to utrera for that purpose. having obtained notice of this, i determined, short as the time was to make arrangements, to attempt a rescue. accordingly, i proceeded without delay to alfaquime (a village over-looking the road by which the escort would have to march), and, sending the horses of my party to the convent of _n. s. de los remedios_, about half a league further on towards olbera, took post with my dismounted troopers at the head of a steep and very narrow _defilé_, which the road enters after winding round the base of the rocky mound, whereon the little town of alfaquime is strewed like a stork's nest. making my men conceal themselves in the gorse and underwood that clothed the banks of the narrow pass, and giving them orders not on any account to pull a trigger until they received the word, and then with deliberate aim, i picked out two good marksmen, whom i directed to fire at the _horse_ rode by alonzo; and, finally, selecting a bold rider, posted him as a decoy on a conspicuous knoll beyond the pass, but overlooking the approach from ronda, giving him my own horse (which i knew would outstrip any pursuers, should he have to gallop for it), and directing him to mount only when he was quite sure the enemy had seen him, and then ride off, _ventre a terre_, as if taken by surprise. my plan succeeded _à merveille_. two french dragoons, who were pushed on in advance, as the party approached alfaquime, soon discovered my scout, and seeing him mount his horse in great haste, and ride off as if to carry information to others beyond, spurred after him up the ravine. the main body of the escort, seeing their comrades gain the table land at its head without obstruction, took it for granted the coast was clear, and hastened up the ravine to keep them in view. at the word, "_fuego_,"[ ] alonzo and six of the twelve frenchmen composing the escort rolled to the dust; those who were so fortunate as to escape unhurt turned their horses' heads, and fled back to ronda. alonzo was only stunned by the fall, but his horse was killed. we secured the chargers of the dead men, and rode in pursuit of the two dragoons who had given chace to our scout. we met them returning yet faster than they had gone, having discovered that we had sold them _gato por liebre_.[ ] they were two gallant fellows, and attempted to cut their way through us in spite of the fearful odds against them. this, _caballeros_, (showing his mutilated hand) is a _souvenir_ of their proficiency in the sabre exercise. _carajo!_ the hard-mouthed french brute i bestrode would not answer the bit so as to enable me to parry the blow; but my pistol brought the donor to the ground just as he had cut down one of my men, and was flattering himself he had got clear off. the other frenchman made a desperate resistance also, but was sabred after wounding two of my _quadrilla_. this exploit was followed by several others, wherein the _gavachos_ were equally maltreated, but, into the details of which, it would be wearisome to enter. suffice it to say that at length my name was so constantly _en la boca de la fama_,[ ] that a large reward was offered for the body of _blas el ratonero_, dead or alive. whether the bribe thus publicly offered, or merely the intrigues of beltran, led to an adventure, which--seeing you are not disposed to sleep--i will now relate, i never could satisfactorily learn. perhaps both had a hand in it, with a little envy to boot; for, as our _refran_ says, _donde reyna la enbidia, no puede vivir la virtud_;[ ] and i must needs confess that some of my followers were villains quite capable of _saccando los dientes de un ahorcado_,[ ] if they would gain but the price of a bottle of wine by it. i must, however, go back a little in my story, to inform you that, in gratitude for his deliverance from the french, my friend alonzo (who considered that beltran had rather held back on that occasion) declared himself in favour of my suit to his sister. but she, still infatuated with my smooth-tongued rival, whilst admitting my claims upon her esteem, said it was out of her power to regard me with a more tender feeling. my _love affair_ remained in this state, when one morning alonzo repaired to my bivouac in the neighbourhood of ubrique, and, telling me that a spy, on whose fidelity he could perfectly rely, had sent him information that the enemy's garrison at ronda had been so reduced by draughts for the siege of cadiz that the defence of the place was intrusted almost entirely to a small detachment of cavalry, proposed that we should make a combined attack upon it; he undertaking to engage beltran in the project by making a diversion in our favour to draw off part of the garrison in an opposite direction. my own accounts of the state of the garrison of ronda coinciding perfectly with that of alonzo, i readily agreed to his proposal; and it was decided that, after he had given the necessary instructions to beltran, with whom, notwithstanding their little coolness, he still continued on friendly terms, a messenger should be sent to me, to fix the day for our _rendezvous_ at grazalema, a small but strongly situated town, on the line of communication between ronda and cadiz, from which the french had recently been driven. after waiting impatiently for several days without receiving any further intelligence, a letter from alonzo at length reached me, accounting for the delay by informing me he had been seized with a bad _tertiana_, which kept him a prisoner at gaucin, and, he regretted to say, would prevent his taking an active part in the projected attack on the enemy; but that every thing had been arranged as agreed between us, excepting that beltran had preferred joining me with his troop, being but little acquainted with the country about el burgo (whither it was proposed to decoy the enemy), and would cross the guadiaro with his band at _la torre del paso_ on the third day after the date of this communication, and remain there until he heard from me. meanwhile, alonzo said, his own band had proceeded to el burgo, under the command of his brother melchor. on the receipt of this letter, i immediately quitted my bivouac, and proceeded to grazalema, so timing my movements as not to reach that town until the sun had sunk beneath the wide horizon of the atlantic ocean; and, after establishing myself in the house of an old _compadre_,[ ] i sallied forth to post the requisite videttes at the different outlets of the town. on returning to my quarters, i found a billet lying upon the table, containing the following mysterious warning, written in a female hand. "blas maldonado. "there are traitors in your band. take care how you move from grazalema, and, above all, beware of _pépé el alamin_.[ ] act with your wonted decision and circumspection, and you may yet escape the snare that is laid for you; but scorn not the advice of one who watches over you with the devoted affection that a woman's heart alone is capable of feeling." i was lost in amazement; and who my fair _inamorata_ could be was not the least part of the mystery. that there was treason of some sort stirring was evident, but where to seek for it was the difficulty. could alonzo's illness be feigned? and his intention to betray me? could it be a mere device of the french to detain me in the _guet à pans_ of grazalema, whilst they surrounded me? but how should _they_ know of my arrival? was it possible that my own secretary--the son of my adoption--pépé el _alamin_--was it possible that _he_ would betray me? my first impulse was to send for this worthy, and tax him with his treason; but circumspection was pointed out as necessary; i had no proofs to convict him, and the danger to be apprehended from others engaged in the plot would still be hanging over my head. i determined, therefore, to adopt another course, and endeavour if possible to trace the dark conspiracy to the fountain-head. my plan arranged, i sent for _jacobo_, my lieutenant, and telling him that i was about to proceed secretly to el burgo, with a view of ascertaining that every thing was going on _corriente_,[ ] gave him a sealed packet containing instructions how to act, in the event of my absence being prolonged beyond eight and forty hours; until which time had expired, however, it was not to be opened. they were very brief, _à saber_[ ]--hang pépé, and save yourself by a rapid flight to zahara. i then summoned pépé to my presence, and informing him that the receipt of a very important communication, rendering it expedient that i should without loss of time consult my confederates alonzo and beltran, i was about to proceed forthwith to gaucin; but, as it was essentially necessary that my absence should not be known to any one but himself, i directed him to meet me at a certain spot on the outskirts of the town in half an hour, bringing with him a fleet and sure-footed mule. stealing forth at the appointed time, i found pépé at his post with every thing ready. he muttered something as i threw my leg across the saddle, about having lost my confidence; hoped i was not periling myself unnecessarily, and would be prudent, as without me the quadrilla would be like an _olla sin tocino_.[ ] "as to personal danger, pépé," i made answer, "dismiss your fears for me. as i told you before, i am only going to see my friends beltran and alonzo; but unless i see them this very night, our project to surprise ronda must be abandoned." "can you not," he rejoined, "communicate this to them by letter? your presence here may be very necessary; i will be the bearer." "impossible," said i; "it may be necessary to alter the whole of our arrangements. good night, my faithful pépé; be assured you have my full confidence. should my non-appearance to-morrow excite surprise, say i am unwell, and have given orders not to be disturbed; but if my absence exceed forty-eight hours, go to jacobo, and tell him all you know of my movements. he is aware of the value i set upon you; and your head--in the situation in which he will then be placed--will be required by him. once more _adios y pesetas!_ with this stout mule i trust i shall be able to reach gaucin before midnight;" and putting spurs to the animal's sides, i urged him rapidly down the steep acclivity of the _sierra endrinal_, taking the _trocha_ to _cortes_. the dark shadows of the lofty impending mountain soon concealed my movements from observation, and quitting the beaten track, i struck into a path on the left hand, which is used only by the goatherds, and leads through a dense forest to _montejaque_. putting my animal to the utmost speed the bad road would admit, i reached that village in two hours. every inmate of the little eagle's nest was at my command. i found no difficulty, therefore, whilst a barber was robbing me of my mustaches and eyebrows, in getting my mule exchanged for a stout _burro_, my military costume for a tattered _zamarra_;[ ] and thus metamorphosed, issued forth from the village. descending by a rugged footpath to the river guadiaro, and fording the stream a little above where a remarkable cavern, called the _cueva del gato_, overhangs its right bank, i made a wide circuit round ronda, until i had gained the high road from that place to gaucin; and then turning to the left (directing my ass's head towards the french garrison), proceeded quietly along the road, until, on arriving at the commencement of the long suburb, which extends beyond the walls on the south side of the town, i fell in with an enemy's piquet. my business being demanded, i desired to be forthwith conducted to the commandant of the fortress, stating that i had information of the utmost consequence to communicate. "you have the look of one who has important _disclosures_ to make," observed the corporal of the party, pointing to a large rent in my cloak, whilst examining me from head to foot with a lantern; at which _bon mot_ his men, as in duty bound, laughed very heartily. "you wish no doubt to make a clean breast before you are shot for a _judas_!" "wit without discretion, my friend," said i, "is like a sword in the hands of a fool. great ends are sometimes gained by small means; so lead me to your officer without further parley, otherwise your shoulders will have to bear a heavy responsibility." "i have half a mind to handcuff the fellow for his self-importance," said the frenchman to his companions, not supposing i could understand his language; "and would too, only that there _does_ appear to be something stirring; for one of his cut-throat _compatriots_ has already been admitted to make '_important disclosures_,' within the last twenty-four hours. _eh bien mon vieux_, you shall be forwarded, but let us first see what you have about you." so saying, my person was strictly searched; but i had only a few _ochavos_ about me, half a dozen doubloons, which i had brought in case of need (for "_quien no trahe soga se ahoga_,"[ ] as we spaniards say), being tied to the rope passed through my _borrico's_ mouth. another short delay took place at the gate of the fortress; but an order was finally brought from the commandant to conduct me to his presence. the information i had gained, that another of my countrymen had been recently admitted to the fortress on a similar errand as myself, tended to confirm the anonymous warning of treachery, and made my position rather alarming; since, if brought face to face with the other informer, i should indubitably be recognised, and as certainly be hanged, drawn, and quartered. however, my motto was ever _a lo hecho buen pecho_.[ ] it was too late to recede; so muffling myself up in the old cloak to avoid being recognised by any of my countrymen, and taking the doubloons from their hiding-place, i left my _monture_ at the town gate, and, accompanied by a file of soldiers, proceeded on foot to the governor's abode. his excellency had just returned from his nightly _tertulia_, and, attended by a single _aide-de-camp_, or secretary, was awaiting my arrival in his dressing-room. the governor was a wizen-faced elderly man, short, thin, and phthisical, with quick grey eyes, thick bushy eyebrows, a high forehead, and a nose made expressly for taking snuff. he appeared to be, and i believe was, one of the _emigrés rentrés_, whom, about this time, the emperor napoleon was imprudently admitting into his service. the secretary, on the other hand, had all the appearance of _un vieux caporal_; his pockmarked full face, shaggy black hair, _coiffé à la brutus_, and affected _brusque fránchise_, denoting him clearly to be _un homme du peuple_. _haciendo la zalama_,[ ] and then looking round at my escort, i said, that the information i had to impart might better, perhaps, be communicated as privately as possible. "_q'uest ce qu'il dit?_" asked the governor, turning to his aide-de-camp. this having been duly translated to him, "_bien!_" he replied, in a sharp querulous key; and asking the corporal if my person had been searched, ordered him to withdraw with the escort. this done, addressing me in very bad spanish, he begged to be made acquainted with the nature of my communication, desiring his secretary, who, i soon found out, conversed fluently in the castillian language, to pay attention to what i said. i briefly stated, that a plan had been laid by some guerrilla chieftains, assembled in the neighbouring sierras, to entice him from ronda, whilst a large body of _facciosos_, collected at el burgo, was to pounce upon the fortress; that i was master of all the details of the project, and was willing to lend him my services in frustrating it. he listened attentively until i had concluded, and my harangue had been translated into french; and then, compressing his eyebrows, and looking earnestly at me, repeated, "collected at el burgo, you say?" "si, señor." "and in what force?" i stated a very exaggerated number. "and how many of the _facciosos_ may there be at grazalema?" "some forty or fifty." "this appears to be an intelligent rascal, _leboucher_," said his excellency, now addressing his aide-de-camp; who, standing at the fireplace, had been attentively perusing a paper hanging against the wall, from which, however, he from time to time turned round, to take a look at me. "this appears to be an intelligent rascal, but his information differs _in toto_ from that furnished by _the other_. keep your eye upon him, therefore, whilst i put a few more questions, but do not let him perceive that you are watching him." "i have _had_ my eye upon him," replied _mr. butcher_, "and, strange to say, the fellow corresponds in many respects with the description i have before me of _el ratonero_." "_diable!_" exclaimed the governor, "give it me;" and he cast his eye hastily over the paper handed to him, without once looking up at me. this was most fortunate; for, from the dangerous situation in which i found myself placed, my countenance would, probably, have betrayed me, notwithstanding all my efforts to appear unconcerned, had one glance been directed towards me, especially had any questions been put to me at the moment. fortunately, i say, however, the governor did not look up, nor say a word to me, until he had perused the paper which his aide-de-camp presented, and drew his attention to; but then, suddenly fixing his quick little eyes upon me, he asked rapidly, as if to throw me off my guard, "do you know one _blas malditado_?" "blas who, did your excellency say?" asked i, affecting not to know whom he meant. "blas el ratonero," he rejoined. "oh, blas _maldonado_!" i exclaimed. "ay, that i do! i know him as well as i know my right arm, and have a long account to settle with him some day; for i owe him all my ills, and, _por quien dios es_,[ ] he shall have honest payment!" "no, leboucher," said the governor, now turning to his _factotum_, "no; you are certainly mistaken--he is, decidedly, _not_ the rat-catcher. i think i am a sufficient judge of human nature to pronounce, that no man could act the part of the _injurié_ so well. this fellow's hate is heartfelt, be assured, but i will probe him a little more;" and, again addressing himself to me, he asked, "do you know where this blas now is?" "not exactly," i replied, "for he moves about like a ball of quicksilver. one day he is at _zeca_, another at _meca_. there is no catching him." "where does he say?" asked the governor, addressing his secretary--"_à meca? où diable donc est meca?_" "allow me to question him," said señor leboucher, with an ill-suppressed smile, a request to which the governor gave a pettish assent. "_allons, mon brave! sans phrases!_ you know this blas well?" commenced my new interrogator. "right well." "and is he a man of such determination as report says?" "he is a bold fellow," i replied, "one who is not to be trifled with. he is always as good as his word, and his promises are engraved with the knife's point." fixing his eyes now upon me with a penetrating glance, whilst, at the same time, a kind of smile played about his sarcastic mouth, implying, "now you understand perfectly what i mean," he very deliberately and significantly asked, "is he to be ... _bought_?" "no, _señor_," said i, "i think not. he hates your nation from the bottom of his soul; and, if you have any dealings with him, be assured you will find but a _nest_ where you think to get _birds_." "and what is _your_ name, friend?" "jacobo vargas," i replied, giving him the name of my lieutenant. "can you write?" "i can." "then do me the favour to write your name on this paper." i did so. "do you know one beltran galindiz?" continued my interrogator. "yes, by character." "is _he_ faithful to your cause, think you?" "not to my cause, certainly." (here the governor smiled, as much as to say to his assistant, you are not so clever as you think yourself.) "_i_ am a good spaniard, and loyal subject of joseph napoleon; _he_ is a friend of the _despotic bourbon_." the secretary smiled in return at the old aristocrat, and continued his cross-questioning. "and where did you leave this redoubtable blas?" "i have not yet said that i was with him." (another smile from the governor.) "true, true; but it would appear that you have lately seen him." "i saw him last at grazalema." "when?" "this very night." "_sacrebleu!_ he is already netted then," exclaimed he, turning round and addressing the governor, "and we have, therefore, no occasion for this fellow's services, except to stretch a rope; for, take my word, he is a spy--a spy of this very blas, if not the rascal himself; who, with all due deference to your superior discernment, i still think he is. suppose, however, as their accounts differ so widely, we first have our two spies confronted?" "perhaps it would be as well," replied the governor; "but we must not break faith with the _other_ either. so, show him first this fellow's name; ask if he knows him; and, then, whether he objects to see him face to face. we shall then, i think, find out whether el burgo or grazalema be the real point of concentration of the _canaille_." the foregoing questions had led me to _suspect_ who this _other_ was; the concluding speech of the governor, like the sun dispersing the _mirage_ on the guadalquivir's banks, made every thing clear. the information he possessed _could_ only have been given by one of my confederates, and if he and i were confronted my fate was sealed. it was a trying moment for me; the slightest hesitation would have been my ruin; the gibbet, i might say, was prepared; but i determined not to be hanged, without making an effort to shift the rope round the neck of my betrayer. i collected myself, therefore, for the coming crisis, and, as soon as the secretary had left the room, addressing the governor in his own language, said, "your excellency is so perfect a master of the castillian tongue, that it would be presumption in me to stammer out the few words of french with which i am acquainted, only that i wish to avoid all appearance of deceit and----." "_bon dieu de la france! mais vous parlez parfaitement!_" interrupted the governor. "_pourquoi diable! ne m'avez vous pas dit cela auparavant?_" "because i was never asked the question, please your excellency." "_vrai, vrai_--that fellow, leboucher, _will_ always be cleverer than every body else! but, since you _do_ speak french, and well too, pray have the goodness to make all further communications in that language." "willingly," i replied, "since such is your excellency's wish; and, to speak the truth, it is much more satisfactory to me to go to the fountain-head. i have ever found, with blood as with water, that the higher the stream the clearer it runs." his excellency took a pinch of snuff with unequivocal satisfaction, and begged me to proceed with what i was going to state when he interrupted me. "i was about to observe," said i, "that i might claim the same exemption from being brought before any of my countrymen, as has been granted to this _other_; but i am no secret informer--on the contrary----." here señor leboucher re-entered the apartment, and, giving the governor back the paper on which i had written my (or, rather, my lieutenant's) name, said, "the other knows this person well, but on no account will----." "hush, hush!" exclaimed the governor, "our friend here speaks french." "the devil he does!" ejaculated the secretary. "then hang him up at once for a spy! what further proof is required of his being so? depend on it, he is el ratonero, and not the person he represents himself to be." "_un moment_," said the governor, taking him aside, and whispering for some time in his ear, by which, however, whatever it may have been, the secretary did not appear at all convinced. "i am not surprised, señor," said i, addressing monsieur leboucher as soon as their consultation appeared to flag, "i am not surprised at your continuing in the mistake of supposing me to be _el ratonero_. it requires less clear-sightedness than i am sure you possess, to discover a likeness, which (in spite of all my endeavours to conceal it) has frequently been observed. but i here solemnly swear, _por dios y todos los santos_, (and i crossed myself most devoutly) that blas maldonado has been through life my greatest enemy." was not that true, caballeros? "to put all your doubts at rest, however," i continued, "bring forth this _other_--this beltran, for well i know who your informer is. as regards me, have no scruples; for, as i have said before, i am no secret informer, but an open and faithful friend of the brave nation that has come to release my country from her fetters. as it affects the matter i have come about, however, our meeting will render abortive the whole plan i was about to propose to you. _he_ will at once see that his machinations are discovered, and you will have to hang him--a poor devil that never has and never can do you any harm;--whereas, by his absence from his confederates at el burgo, _they_ will be aware that their project to entrap you has miscarried, and you will consequently miss the glorious opportunity of taking them in their own toils." "nay," said the governor, "i think, since you say that you left blas at grazalema this night, our plan has already succeeded without your assistance. by to-morrow night the pass in his rear will be occupied by a body of troops moved up from cadiz; and our arrangements are made to give him a warm reception, should he attempt to escape on this side." "and now, señor," added the secretary, "since his excellency has thought fit to make you acquainted with so much of our plans, i believe you must remain our prisoner, until they have been fully carried into execution." "that will be as his excellency pleases," i replied. "but i have yet a communication to make that may induce you to view the matter differently. blas maldonado left grazalema this night; he sleeps at gaucin, and from thence, in conjunction with the band of this very beltran, is to attack your fortress as soon as ever you have been induced to move upon grazalema, and thus...." an orderly here entered the room, and delivered a packet to the governor. it was short, and seemed to confound him. he handed it to his secretary without a word of comment, who also seemed perplexed. after another whispered consultation, the governor turned to me and said, "your information is correct--blas is now at gaucin. leboucher, reseal that letter, and carry it to the worthy señor beltran, and ask him if it contains any thing to be communicated to me. say we have imprisoned jacobo as he recommended." in a few minutes the secretary returned, and stated that beltran, having perused the letter, was desirous of departing immediately, as he feared something had gone wrong--that jacobo (meaning me) must on no account be lost sight of. "his impudence shall not save him," exclaimed the governor; "i'll have him before me this instant, and...." "_mon general_," i interrupted, "reap yourself the fruit of his perfidy; affect to place perfect reliance in him--allow him to depart, and i pledge you my word, before eight and forty hours are passed, you shall have _his ears_, if not the head of _blas el ratonero_." my real earnestness and assumed frankness, the opportune arrival of the traitor pépé's despatch to beltran, announcing my sudden departure for gaucin (for no one _but_ pépé knew i was going there), and, lastly, beltran's anxiety to get away, caused the general, and even monsieur leboucher, to place perfect confidence in me, and the rest of the night was passed in arranging a plan to circumvent beltran; a plan, which, offering no great risks, (for my object now was rather to be revenged on my traitorous associates than to occasion loss to the french) was readily adopted, and before dawn i had left the town to perform my part in the drama; beltran having been suffered to depart some hours previously. chapter xvi. blas el guerrillero--_continued_. every thing, thus far, had succeeded to the utmost of my wishes. i had now but to frame an excuse to beltran for my unexpected visit to his quarters, and for my delay in reaching them; lull his suspicions; and wreak my vengeance upon him and his accomplices. a good horse had been provided for me, and i soon reached gaucin. i found alonzo and beltran in deep consultation: the former was much surprised and pleased at my unexpected visit; the latter pretended to be so. having expressed their hopes that nothing had happened to thwart our projected plans, and assured me that every thing on their parts was going on prosperously, alonzo asked me jokingly what had occasioned my unlooked for visit, for he thought i had merely come to see his sister. i told him (keeping my eye upon beltran all the time) i had received information that a force had been moved from the french camp before cadiz, towards the mountains, as if for the purpose of reopening the communication with ronda, which had been closed by the recent capture of grazalema; and i had, therefore, come to say, that either i must abandon that post, and consequently our concerted project, (since i should find myself between two fires,) or, that we must carry our plans into execution without further delay. beltran looked very blank; and to my proposal of proceeding to work immediately, stammered out some objection about want of time. but this alonzo overruled,--observing that his brother melchor and myself were the two who would feel inconvenience on that score, since our bands were the most distant from the field of action; and as melchor was then at gaucin,--having, alonzo observed to me, arrived unexpectedly, "as if sent by providence," the preceding night,--the whole affair might be at once settled. accordingly, a messenger was despatched for his brother; whilst waiting for whom, i took the opportunity of stating that i had met with an accident on the road, which had retarded me considerably; having, i said, in consequence of the fall of my mule soon after leaving grazalema, been obliged to proceed to cortes on foot, and, arriving there in the dead of the night, had experienced great delay in procuring a horse. beltran's countenance brightened on hearing this little explanation, and he then, with affected carelessness, asked after his old friend jacobo. i replied, that i had left him quite well at grazalema; a piece of information that seemed to puzzle him amazingly. melchor did not keep us long waiting, and our final dispositions were soon made. it was settled that he should proceed with all speed to join his band at el burgo, and at daybreak on the following morning make the projected foray into the eastern part of the vale of ronda, to draw upon him a portion of the garrison of the fortress. beltran, meanwhile, was to march immediately with his troop, (which was already assembled at gaucin) and gain the valley of the guadiaro below montejaque; whilst i should post back to grazalema, to conduct my _quadrilla_ to the pass in the chain of sierra to the left of that same village. our two bands would thus be so situated as to be able to form a junction, and fall upon the defenceless city, the moment the favourable opportunity presented itself. although, as chieftain of the largest band, the direction of the operations devolved upon me, yet, out of compliment to beltran, i invited him to meet me at the village of montejaque, as soon as he had conducted his troop to its assigned position; whence we could watch the movements of the enemy in the plain below, and put the necessary "_ensemble_" in our movements. i then remounted my horse, and lost no time in rejoining my band. my first care, on regaining grazalema, was to send for pépé. the scoundrel confessed every thing. beltran, melchor, and himself, had entered into a plot to betray me into the hands of the french. alonzo, he declared, knew nothing of it. a french force was, that very night, to occupy the narrow pass between the lofty sierras of endrinal and san cristoval, in our rear, to intercept me, when--on discovering that our plan to entrap the enemy had failed--i should attempt to escape by that issue to ubrique. alarmed at my sudden determination to visit my coadjutors at gaucin, and yet more at the hint i had thrown out of the possible disarrangement of our plans, pépé rightly conjectured that i had received some hint of impending danger, and had despatched a hurried epistle to beltran, (who, he knew, was then at ronda, making final arrangements with the enemy,) acquainting him with my proceedings. my _faithful_ pépé furnished me, moreover, with a list of six of my own men, who were engaged in the plot. it was, however, with the greatest difficulty i brought him to confess what had moved him to engage in this treacherous plot; the more unpardonable on his part, since, in all our intercourse, he had received nothing but benefits at my hands. at length, he acknowledged that he had been worked upon by that strongest and strangest of all human passions, _jealousy_--that uncontrollable phrenzy, which, of all our weaknesses, is the only one that fails not with our declining years, and that--strange to say--ofttimes causes the very feeling, the suspicion alone of which gave it birth! such was the case in the present instance. the wife of pépé was a dark _gitana_,[ ] in the full bloom of woman's beauty; and, with a form as graceful, and passions as unrestrained, as those of the wild deer that bounded through her native forests, she possessed, as i soon discovered, a spirit that ill assorted with the clownish and imbecile character of her husband. the source whence the mysterious warning sprung was now evident; but, until that moment, i had not even been aware that pépé's wife had accompanied him to grazalema. i solemnly protested to him that i had never looked upon _paca_ with the eyes of love, and that his jealousy was, consequently, quite unfounded--a declaration which, at that time, was not more solemn than true; and pépé's jealousy ceased precisely at the moment when cause for it commenced. for his unreserved confession of the plot i granted the wretch his life on one condition; a condition which i will hereafter specify, and to the performance of which he bound himself in the most solemn manner. i knew him sufficiently to trust to his superstition, what i no longer could to his honour. without taking any further notice of this conspiracy, i assembled my troop, and, towards nightfall, put it in motion for its allotted position; which we reached towards midnight. i now sent for jacobo, and, communicating to him my secret, directed him to proceed on, whilst yet the shadows of night would conceal his movements, towards ronda, and, with the earliest dawn, to make the demonstration _i_ had arranged with the french governor of the fortress. this done, i proceeded myself to montejaque, to give the meeting to my confederate beltran. he came about an hour before day-break, armed up to the teeth, but was evidently very nervous and uneasy, which i remarked to him, and asked, jestingly, if he had a presentiment of death. he affected to laugh too, but his teeth chattered in the vain attempt; and, to take off my attention, he remarked that it was time we should be on the alert. we accordingly left the village, which is nestled between two cragged peaks, that protrude from the mountain like the tusks of a _javali_,[ ] and, ascending to the summit of the northernmost pinnacle, stationed ourselves on the look out. the sun had not yet risen above the eastern mountains ere we heard some distant straggling shots. "that firing must be the skirmishing of melchor's party," observed beltran; "had we not better move on?" "our attack would be premature," i replied; "let him draw the garrison off some distance further, and then we shall.... _valgame dios!_ the sounds appear to come nearer! there must indeed be some treason here!" "treason!" he exclaimed, shuddering. "ay, treason, _carajo_!" i repeated. "see! do you not distinguish the blue jackets of the french dragoons!" by this time a slight mist, which hung over the course of the guadiaro, had gradually dispersed under the influence of the rising sun, and we were enabled distinctly to perceive jacobo's party, scattered amongst the olive groves, retiring slowly before a detachment of about equal strength of french dragoons. at the same moment we heard the distant roar of artillery; and _beltran_, starting back from the edge of the precipice, exclaimed, "there is indeed, treason somewhere; i shall forthwith rejoin my band, and there await your orders." "do so," i replied quickly; "but the way through the village is circuitous. here, pépé--andres,--show my good friend beltran a shorter way down to the river:--but let me have his ears first." at my first word, pépé and another stout fellow, darting from behind a rock, seized beltran by the arms, and, holding the traitor whilst i robbed him of his ears, then pitched him headlong down the precipice. i now hastened to my troop. jacobo and his party had by this time reached the spot where the guadiaro, leaving the fertile basin of ronda, enters a narrow, tortuous valley; and, crossing to the right bank, kept down the stream; thereby passing along the front of my position, and drawing the enemy on towards the spot where beltran's troop was posted. the enemy imprudently suffered themselves to be enticed into the trap thus laid for them, and, when sufficiently advanced for my purpose, i rushed down the side of the mountain, cutting off their retreat by the road along the edge of the river, whilst, at the same moment, jacobo's detachment, reinforced by the whole of beltran's band, attacked them vigorously in front. they did not attempt to resist such fearful odds, but, plunging into the stream, endeavoured to escape amongst the vineyards that clothe the rough hills bordering its left bank. few, however, escaped. one prisoner only (according to my orders) was made. he happened to be the very corporal who commanded the piquet which had stopt me on going into ronda two nights before. i congratulated him on his lucky escape. "your saint takes good care of you," said i, "to throw you into the hands of so generous an enemy. you threatened to handcuff _me_--now i am about to liberate _you_. you must, however, be the bearer of some more _important disclosures_, which i have to communicate to your governor. they are contained in this letter and parcel;--as you value your life, deliver them safely." i then sent him about his business. the letter was as follows:-- "_mon general_, "when recently honoured with an interview, i pledged my word that, within eight-and-forty hours, your excellency should have the ears of beltran galindiz, _if not_ the head of blas el ratonero. "in performance of this promise, i herewith send the _former_; for i find that i have still further occasion for the services of the _latter_. "pray assure monsieur lavater (your sagacious secretary) of the high consideration in which i hold his extraordinary penetration; and, for yourself, accept the assurance of my earnest desire, that one so talented "may live a thousand years," to command the forces opposed to "blas maldonado." i will not weary you, _caballeros_, with any further account of my military adventures, except to tell you that some eighteen months after this affair, whilst pursuing the enemy on his retreat from before cadiz, a french officer was captured by my troop, and brought up for judgment. "monsieur," said he, addressing me in his native tongue, and not without some little surprise in his countenance, "_il me parait que votre figure me revient_." "very likely, _monsieur leboucher_," i replied in spanish; "probably you again recognise _blas el ratonero_, and have come for your reward. here, _compañeros_," i continued, addressing my attendants; "pay this worthy gentleman the thousand crowns reward due to his penetration. let them be put up in a bag, the bag tied to his heels, and he by the neck to the next tree." "savage!--monster!"--exclaimed my old acquaintance, as my orders were carrying into execution; "order your ruffians at all events to shoot me, that i may die like a french soldier." "you are a bold fellow," said i, "to beard the tiger in his lair; and i like a brave fellow although an enemy; so get ye gone, and read a lesson on humanity to your generals, for many of them stand much in need of it." he thanked me like a brave man, without expressing such extravagant gratitude as his nation is wont to do; and i felt an inward satisfaction at having spared him. nevertheless, i had my reasons for it, be assured; for, since the ronda affair, i knew not what dependence to place on my fellows, and thought i might perchance have need, some time or other, of a friend in the enemy's camp. i must now, _caballeros_, hurry on to the conclusion of my tale; for though the day is not yet dawning, the cocks are giving notice of its approach, and, like yourselves, i purpose being on horseback by sunrise. the true manner of beltran's death was never known, and his corpse was left to furnish a meal to the vultures. i knew i could depend on the secrecy of my montejaque bravo, andres; and pépé swore that he had seen beltran fall dead from his horse, whilst attempting to rejoin his troop after leaving me. not the slightest suspicion, therefore, fell upon me. it was some years, however, ere engracia could be persuaded to become my wife. she has since told me that it was her brother melchor who always dissuaded her from it; but he was killed in a skirmish with the french in the pyrenees, and her brother alonzo never recovered from the _tertiana_ that laid him up at gaucin. _paca_, on her side, opposed my marriage, with all her most impassioned rhetoric; but its influence was no longer felt, and our intimacy broke off with a violent explosion. i have never seen her since, but understand she absconded from her disconsolate pépé soon afterwards. on the termination of our glorious war of independence, and the elevation of ferdinand the seventh to the constitutional throne, as established by the national cortes, in , i proceeded to madrid to swear allegiance to the sovereign for whose return i had fought and bled, and claim the reward of my long services. but instead of surrounding himself with the valiant chieftains who had driven the vile _gavachos_ across the pyrenees, and placed the crown of the two worlds upon his head, the imbecile monarch had hedged himself round with the same impotent old grandees, intriguing priests, and other parasites and _bribones_, who, but for the in-born valour of the spanish _people_, would have been now fawning with the same abject _servilism_ at the feet of the usurper josef. at length, however, by dint of perseverance, i obtained an audience. the king received me in his usual graceless, gracious manner--regretted my wounds--presented me with a cigar--referred me to his ministers--and wished me good morning. his ministers--true jacks in office--had the impudence to tell me, that my services, like those of the _empecinado_, and so many other gallant _guerrilla_ chieftains, amounted to little more than highway robberies, and that my proper reward, if i had it, would be the gallows. was it astonishing, _caballeros_, that such black ingratitude should meet with a heavy punishment? the favourable opportunity for inflicting it did not, however, as you know, occur for several years. but the mine which was for ever to lay the throne of absolutism prostrate, was preparing, and at length the explosion took place. i need not tell you that i was amongst the first to declare for the constitution, and my patriotism was rewarded by the lucrative post i now hold. the miserable serviles and _anilleros_[ ] are still contriving plots to subvert the glorious fabric we liberals have raised. but they will find us too strong for them; and the vigour we shall exhibit will effectually deter the french from effecting their long talked of intervention. indeed, as our old spanish _refran_ says, "_olla que mucho hierve, mucho pierde_;"[ ] and i suspect they will find their army assembling to watch spain, fritter away by desertion, until nothing but its well-paid _etât-major_ remains.[ ] _pues!_[ ] _señores_, added our _hero_, after a short pause; i have now related all the most remarkable events of my eventful life. you must, i think, admit that i have had much to contend against in raising myself to my present prosperous condition, and that what little _peccadillos_ i have committed were--if not purely accidental--forced upon me by uncontrollable circumstances. _conque, amigos!--le beso las manos._ i will now leave you for a few moments to see to the feeding of my horse, who has a long journey before him, and i will take the opportunity of desiring our hostess to prepare us some chocolate. _si se oferece algo..... ustedes no tienen que mandar_,[ ] and if you can be persuaded at any future time to visit ----, be assured, _mi casa, mi muger, mis criados--todo está a lá disposicion de ustedes_.[ ] with this most liberal invitation, señor blas left us. chapter xvii. cordoba--bridge over the guadalquivir--mills--quay--spanish projects--foundation of the city--establishment of the western caliphat--capture of cordoba by san fernando--the mezquita--bishop's palace--market place--grand religious procession--anecdote of the late bishop of malaga and the tragala. the grandeur of cordoba, like the effect of stage scenery, ceases on a near inspection. the city, as has already been noticed, stands in the midst of a vast plain, bounded by ranges of distant mountains; but, on entering within the gates, the prospect of the smiling valley and darkly wooded sierras is altogether excluded, and, in exchange, the traveller finds his view confined to the white-washed walls of the low and poverty-stricken houses that line the narrow, crooked, jagged streets of the once proud capital of the abdalrahmans. from the painful glare of this displeasing contrast, the eye in vain seeks relief by turning towards the winding guadalquivír; for, the bridge once passed, not a glimpse of its dark blue current can be obtained from any part of the city. there is a suburb of some extent on the southern bank of the river; but the city, properly so called, is altogether situated on the opposite side. an old saracenic castle, modernised and kept in a defensible state, interdicts the approach to the bridge, which edifice is also a work of the moors. it is a solid structure of sixteen irregular arches, feet in width, and in length. its erection is usually attributed to the caliph hassim (son of the first abdalrahman), towards the close of the eighth century; and, according to florez, that enlightened sovereign was himself the planner and director of the work. i can see no reason to doubt this respectable authority, although some english writers have stated the bridge to be of roman construction. it is very possible that the present edifice may have been raised on an old foundation, though the bridge built by the romans is generally supposed to have been higher up the river. the summer stream of the guadalquivír scarcely warrants its being distinguished by so grandiose a name as the _great river_--_guad-al kibeer_, for its volume of water is but small, and, from being led off into numerous irrigating conduits and mill-races, is reduced to so inconsiderable a current that, during nine months of the year, the greater part of the river's wide sandy bed is left perfectly dry. some of the mills "below bridge" are moorish, and very picturesque; as are also the crenated, ivy-clustered towers of the city walls overhanging the river. on the right bank of the stream, above the bridge, a handsome quay is ( ) constructing; but, as the "great river" is navigable only for small boats, the sum expended on this costly work appears to be an absolute waste of money, which ought rather to have been laid out in sinking a channel, so as to render the river practicable for barges and trading vessels down to seville. if this were done--and it was effected to a certain extent by the french, during their occupation of the country from to --a quay would soon be constructed from the profits arising from the increased commerce of the place. but the spaniards generally begin things at the wrong end, and in this, as well as most of their projects, they might derive great advantage from the study of mrs. glasse's well known recipe for making hare soup, beginning, "first catch a hare." the precise date of the foundation of cordoba is unknown. by strabo, who calls it the first colony of roman citizens established in boetica, it is attributed to marcellus, but which individual of that name is meant it would be difficult to determine. it must, however, have been founded very soon after the romans obtained possession of spain, since the city is mentioned by appian in the war of viriatus, as well as by polybius in the expedition of marcus claudius against the lusitanians. we may suppose, therefore, that it was built by the romans, to secure their dominion over the country on the expulsion of the carthagenians, that is, about years before the christian era. by hirtius, cordoba is spoken of as the capital of the country at the period of julius cæsar's second visit to spain; and, from that time, it seems ever to have been a rich and powerful city, and the residence of many noble roman families. but the most glorious epoch in the annals of cordoba dates from the arrival of the renowned abdalrahman, sole surviving male descendant of mohammed in the ommiad line, who, being forced to seek shelter from the enemies of his race in the deserts of africa, was called over to spain, became sovereign of the country, and, fixing his residence at cordoba, assumed the title of caliph of the west, a.d. . abdalrahman repaired, strengthened, and extended the walls with which the romans had already encircled the city; built a splendid palace, and commenced the celebrated mosque; and, during his long reign, so firmly did he establish his sway over the rest of spain, as even to force a tribute from the hardy descendants of pelayo, entrenched within the wild recesses of the asturian mountains. the western caliphs continued to exercise great power for upwards of two centuries, and, indeed, the prosperity of cordoba was at its acmé during the reign of abdalrahman iii., who flourished in the middle of the tenth century. the days of its glory ceased, however, with the life of mohammed almanzor, the celebrated vizier of the weak hassim ii., a.d. ; and, not long afterwards, the caliphat of cordoba finished, and several small kingdoms were founded on its ruins. the kingdom of cordoba, in its diminished and enfeebled state, continued to exist until a.d. , when its proud capital fell an easy conquest to ferdinand iii. of castile, who, to merit the saintly title which spanish history has conferred upon him, drove the turbaned inhabitants from their homes, and rendered the beautiful city a wilderness of brick and mortar. cordoba never recovered the effects of this cruel and impolitic act; and its population, which, during the caliphat, is reputed to have amounted to upwards of a million of souls, at no after period reached a tenth, and can now, at the utmost, be estimated at a twentieth part of that number. the circumvallation of the city is still very perfect, and embraces a considerable space; but many parts of the enclosure are not built upon, and the houses generally are low and but thinly inhabited. the once flourishing trade of the place is now confined to some trifling manufactures of leather, called _cordovan_, which ill deserves the celebrity it even yet enjoys. we took up our abode at the posada _del sol_, than which a more wretched place of accommodation, either for man or beast, the sun never shone upon. nevertheless, it was represented to us as being (and i believe at that time was) the only eligible lodgment for _hidalgos_ which the city contained.[ ] one advantage it did hold out, however, namely, that of being immediately in front of the great and only _lion_ of the place, the famed cathedral, or _mezquita_, as it still continues to be called. this remarkable pile has evidently been raised upon the ruins of some gothic edifice, which again is generally supposed to have stood upon the site of a yet more ancient roman temple of janus. the _mezquita_, in fact, may be said to be made up of the reliques of those two nations, its architecture alone being moorish. it was finished by hassim (son of abdalrahman, its founder), towards the close of the eighth century; but subsequent caliphs made great additions to it. the exterior of the building is extremely gloomy and unprepossessing; its dark and windowless walls, and low engrailed parapets, giving it the appearance of a prison, rather than of a place of worship. the horse-shoe arches over the doors are nevertheless well worthy of notice, and the principal gate is covered with bronze plates of most exquisite workmanship. of the four and twenty entrances that formerly gave admission to the holy shrine of the prophet's descendant, but five are now open, which may in some degree account for the gloom that pervades the interior. never did the feeling of astonishment so completely take possession of my senses, as on first entering this most extraordinary edifice. you step at once from the hot and sun-bleached street into a cool and sombre enclosure, of vast extent, which has not inaptly been likened to a forest of marble pillars; and, indeed, to carry out the simile, the arches, springing in all directions from these polished stems, present a vaulted covering which, at first sight, appears as complicated in its construction, as even a forest canopy of nature's own formation. one soon discovers, however, that the thickly planted pillars are aligned so as to divide the dark interior into regular avenues or aisles, and that the arches springing from and connecting each column with the four adjacent pillars (thus spanning both the main and transverse intercolumniations) form arcades, extending the whole length and breadth of the building. these arches are mostly of the moorish, or horse-shoe form, but some few are of the pointed gothic, and seem to me to be the remains of a building of more ancient date than the time of the moors. the interior of the mosque is nearly a square, its dimensions being english feet from east to west, and from north to south. but on attentive examination it becomes evident that the side which, correctly speaking, must now be considered the width of the mosque, was originally its length, an addition having been made on its eastern side, which has given it greater extent in that direction than in the other, so that its original interior dimensions were feet from north to south (the same as at present), but only feet from east to west. this space was divided by ten lines of columns into eleven aisles, extending north and south through the building; the centre avenue, which was directed straight from the great gate of entrance to the _maksurah_, or sanctuary, situated in the middle of the south wall of the mosque, being (as it continues to this day) two feet wider than the others. each of these ten rows contained thirty-one columns, placed about ten feet apart, from centre to centre; but they did not extend the whole length of the building, a small space at the south end being partitioned off for the apartments of the imans. by the addition which was afterwards made to the mosque, (doubtless rendered necessary by the increasing veneration with which it came to be regarded) it gained feet in width, and eight aisles were added to the eleven already formed; and, as no part of this was reserved, it required thirty-four columns in each row to fill up the space. these, however, were not _throughout_ placed so as to align transversely with those of the original portion of the building; which circumstance has probably occasioned the discrepancies observable in the accounts given of this singular building by different writers. swinburne, whose descriptions are generally very accurate, has fallen into error by stating that the mosque was divided into but seventeen aisles, having apparently overlooked the fact, that an avenue on each side has been taken off since it became a christian church, for the erection of chapels dedicated to the divers saints of the cordoban calendar. the mosque may, therefore, be considered as having formerly been divided longitudinally into nineteen principal aisles or avenues of columns, and transversely into thirty-five. but it is to be observed that the line of columns which marks the division between the old and modern parts of the building differs from the rest; being rather a series of clusters of pillars (four in each pier), than isolated columns: and two similar lines divide the interior also, transversely; so that in making a calculation of the number of columns it formerly contained, these must be duly taken into the account; and it will then be found that the total number did not fall far short of the thousand it is rumoured to have contained. although, as i have observed, the cross alignments of the columns in the old and new portions of the building do not exactly correspond, yet in some parts of the interior the arrangement of them is so perfect, that the spectator looks down eight avenues from the spot where he stands; four being at right angles with the walls of the building, the other four bisecting these, and extending diagonally across the mosque. the columns are of polished jasper, marble porphyry, and granite, and offer as much variety in their architectural as in their geological character; some rising doric-like from the pavement, others resting on low bases; many swelling in the shaft in the early style of the egyptians, and some few ascending spirally, bespeaking the vitiated taste of the middle ages. many are capped with corinthian, others with grotesque, and some with purely gothic, capitals. all these varieties of colour, shape, and ornament, have, after a time, a displeasing effect; but on first entering the building the spectator's attention is so riveted by the novelty of its character, and the vastness of its dimensions, that these violations of the prescribed rules of taste are overlooked. the columns, which are mostly eighteen inches in diameter, rise only nine feet above the pavement; and even with the additional height of their capitals, and of the arches springing from them, the roof is elevated but thirty-five feet above the floor; a height totally disproportioned to the extent of the building. on advancing further into the interior, however, this defect is less conspicuous; for the roof is found to be there raised in a singular manner--in steps, as it were--by a second series of horse-shoe arches, that spring from square pillars raised on the columns which support the lower arches; and thus--the space between the two series of arches being left open--forming a kind of double arcade, of a peculiarly light and fanciful kind. in different parts of these raised portions of the roof, small cupolas are erected, which admit the only light that the interior receives. the distribution of light is, consequently, very unequal. but the effect produced is remarkably well suited to the character of the building; as the partial gleams of sunshine thus scattered throughout the complicated architecture of the roof, by gradually diminishing in strength as the long lines of columns recede from view, leaves them at last in a distant gloom, which makes the avenues appear interminable. the appearance of the interior is much spoilt by the erection of an enormous gothic choir, in the very centre of the building; for it intercepts the view of nearly one half the columns, (the long vistas between which constitute the great beauty and wonder of the place) and offers nothing to compensate for the injury thus inflicted but some carved wood-work, representing subjects taken from the scriptures, executed by one pedro cornejo. the life of the artist is said to have been miraculously preserved until the very day on which he had completed his pious undertaking. this gothic pile was erected so late as the time of charles the fifth, who seems to have taken a pleasure in disfiguring every thing moorish that his predecessors had not laid their intolerant hands upon. when in its pristine state, despite all its sins against good taste, the interior of the _mezquita_ must have presented a superb _coup d'oeil_. the roof, composed of wood, and wonderfully well put together, was richly painted and gilt; the walls were covered with elaborate stuccoes, and the floor was paved with gaudy mosaics. but of all this splendour little now remains. the all-destroying hand of time has long since robbed the vaulted aisles and graceful cupolas of their brilliant tints; the not less destructive hand of bigotry has stript the walls of their tasteful arabesques and inscriptions; and to the fragile mosaic pavement the change from slippers to shoes has been equally fatal; for, excepting here and there, round the foot of some column, scarcely a fragment of the bright glazed tiles with which it was originally laid can now be discovered, amidst the bricks of which it is composed, and dust with which it is covered. from this sweeping destruction one small recess has most fortunately been preserved, to afford the means of judging what the _whole_ must have been in its original state. this little compartment is situated at the south end of the mosque, near the sanctuary, and must have been included within the portion of the building set apart for the imans. it was brought to light only in , by the removal of some bookshelves and a slight brick wall, which had, probably, been put up purposely to screen it from the eyes of the superstitious multitude, and save it from mutilation. by the spaniards it is called the chapel of the moorish kings. within it was found a tomb, containing the sword, spurs, and bones, of one of the principal chieftains who accompanied san fernando to the siege of cordoba, and at whose request, we were told, this beautiful little nook has been permitted to retain its mohammedan decorations. in lightness and elegance of design it equals any portion of the alhambra, and from its high state of preservation may be looked upon as the best specimen of moorish workmanship extant. indeed, it would be difficult to imagine any thing more beautiful of its kind, such is the perfection of its mosaic pavement, the sharpness of the fretwork and brilliancy of the colouring on its walls, and the dazzling splendour of the gilt stalactites pendant from its roof. adjoining this invaluable little casket is the _maksourah_, or, as it is called by the spaniards, _el zancarron_[ ] (the heel-bone): a name which favours the supposition that it was the place of burial of the founder or finisher of the mosque, rather than the sanctuary of the koran, as is generally supposed, although, indeed, it might have been both. the architecture and ornaments of this sanctum differ from those of the rest of the mosque, being even yet more complicated and richly finished; but it is by no means in so good a state of preservation as the recess just described. the face of the arch that spans the entrance of the _zancarron_ is elaborately worked in crystals of various hues, and encompassed with moral precepts from the koran. the interior is an octagon, only fifteen feet in diameter, and is domed over by a single block of white marble, carved into the form of a scollop-shell. another huge slab of the same material forms its floor. the shrine of the caliph, descendant of the prophet, probably occupied the centre of this recess; round which the feet of the numberless pilgrims who visited the holy place have worked a groove in the hard marble. it is situated _now_ towards the south-west angle of the building, but in the original mosque it stood, as i have already stated, exactly in the centre of its south wall, facing the grand entrance. on each side were the apartments of the imans; and in front, extending east and west, across the building, a space of the width of two intercolumniations was set apart as a chancel or _mikrab_, wherein the officiating priests performed their mysterious ceremonies before the people, to whom different portions of the rest of the building were appropriated, according to their rank in life. at the north end of the mosque is a spacious court, encompassed on three sides by an open colonnade, and furnished with copious fountains. here, when occasion required, the mussulmans purified their bodies by ablutions ere entering the holy place, and, leaving their slippers under the arcades, proceeded barefoot to the shrine of mohammed's descendant, making divers prostrations in the course of their short journey. this court, now called the _patio de los naranjos_,[ ] is the same width as the mosque, and adds feet to its length; making the exterior dimensions of the building (english) feet from north to south, and from east to west. from the north wall of the court rises the _campanilla_, or belfry, from the summit of which a fine view is obtained of the city. beneath it is an archway of more recent date than the mosque, called the gate of mercy, through which a flight of steps leads from the street into the court. this gate faces the principal entrance into the _mezquita_. the cathedral is rich in silks, jewels, candlesticks, and brocades; and the altar of the chapel of villa viciosa is splendidly furnished. the sacristy contains also some tolerable paintings, said to be by murillo, and other first-rate spanish artists, but i doubt whether any of them are originals; for the french, who have a nice discrimination in these matters, twice sacked the city, and were on both occasions so little expected, that the priests had barely time to carry off the plate, and reliques of the churches, to places of greater security. besides which, the spaniards are prone to call every black, tarnished old painting a murillo or a velasquez. the bishop's palace is an immense, and rather handsome pile, standing a little removed from the cathedral, towards the river. the very face of it shows, however, that of late years the prelates have appropriated the revenues of the see to some other, perhaps more _legitimate_, though less orthodox, purpose, than that of setting their house in order, for it is in a very neglected state. the interior, which is not better looked after, exhibits, in an eminent degree, that mixture of splendour and misery so conspicuous in all things spanish. a spacious, costly, and particularly dirty marble staircase ascends to the first floor, whereon are the state apartments; they consist of a suite of long, narrow, whitewashed rooms, communicating one with another the whole extent of the building, and each furnished with a prodigious number of shabby old chairs, an antediluvian sofa, and some daubs of paintings in poverty-stricken gilt frames. the principal apartment, or _sala de la audienca_, is hung with portraits of all the goodly persons who have worn the episcopal mitre of cordoba, from the days of _san damaso_ (who flourished about the middle of the third century) to the present time. some of these paintings have much merit; but, if they are _likenesses_ of those for whom they were drawn, a disciple of lavater or spurzheim must either abandon his faith, or admit that most of the beetle-browed, low-crowned originals, deserved a gibbet rather than a bishop's cap. nevertheless, several of these peculiarly "ill-favoured" ecclesiastics are--so our conductor solemnly assured us--now saints in heaven. one old gentleman, who was not exalted to the episcopal see until he had attained a very advanced age, by way of giving a sarcastic reproof to his patron, had his portrait taken, with a grim figure of death placing the mitre on his head. another painting represents death holding the mitre in one hand, whilst with the other he is directing a dart at his victim's breast; leaving us to infer, that the bishop died whilst the pope's diploma was yet on its way to him from rome. at the head of the bench is suspended a very good painting, and admirable likeness, of the truly amiable pius vii.; and over the fireplace hangs an execrable daub, but an equally striking resemblance, of the detestable ferdinand vii. the most noble part of the episcopal palace is the kitchen; which, whether the bishop be at his residence or not, daily furnishes food for poor persons.[ ] the garden is laid out with taste, and contains some rare transatlantic plants. there is little else worth noticing in cordoba. the king's palace is not occupied; the royal stud-house, where, in former days, the best breeds of spanish horses were reared, is empty; the fine alameda, outside the city gates, is unfrequented; there is not a handsome street, i may almost say an edifice, in the place; and idleness, penury, and depravity, meet one at every step. the market is held in the _plaza real_, or _de la constitucion_ (the name varying according to circumstances), and the houses encompassing it, like those in the market-place of granada, are lofty, and furnished with rickety wooden galleries, that have a very picturesque _prouty_ appearance. some of the old buildings, in the narrow moorish streets, possess the same kind, of sketchy beauty; but the houses of the other parts of the city seldom exceed two stories in height, from which circumstance cordoba is, perhaps, the most sultry place in andalusia. the inhabitants are a diminutive race, and the most ill-looking i have seen in spain. during our stay at cordoba we witnessed the grand procession of corpus christi, at the commencement of lent, which is considered one of the most holy and imposing exhibitions of the hispano-roman church. it was a lamentably splendid sight; for a more heterogeneous, heterodoxical mixture of bigotry and liberty, superstition and constitution, wax candles and fixed bayonets, it never fell to my lot to witness. it moved through the streets, preceded by a military band of music, which played riego's hymn and the _tragala_ alternately, with sacred airs and mournful dirges. this was only in keeping with the rest of the absurdities of the ceremony; but it was a crying sin to compel the poor old bishop to parade through the streets, in his full canonicals, at a _pas de valse_. the _cordobeses_ of all classes are held to be very religious, and particularly "_servil_;" and this degrading exhibition was, probably, got up by the _exaltado_ party, then in the ascendant, to bring the prelate and priestly office into contempt. on my return to gibraltar soon after witnessing this indecent ceremony, the bishop of malaga, then a refugee within the walls of the british fortress, was publicly insulted by a shameless countrywoman (the _prima donna_ of an operatic company then performing in the garrison), who, placing herself opposite to him whilst seated on one of the benches in the public gardens, sung the _tragala_;[ ] applying most emphatically to him the word _perro_ (dog), with which each verse of the constitutional ditty concludes. the venerable prelate listened most patiently until her song was concluded, and then very composedly said, "_gracias hija mia, muchissimas gracias_;[ ] in good truth, it is a bone fit only for the mouth of a _perra_."[ ] the laugh was rather against the chaste rosina, who, i should not omit, however, to mention, received a hint, that if the bishop were favoured with any more such gratuitous proofs of her vocal powers, she would herself have a disagreeable _bone_ to pick at the town-major's office. appendix. a. the following brief notice of the numerous sieges and attacks, that the celebrated fortress of gibraltar has sustained, may possess some interest in the eyes of many of my readers. it is extracted principally from don ignacio lopez de ayala's "historia de gibraltar," which dates the first arrival of the saracens, and occupation of the rocky promontory by taric ben zaide, a.d. , and attributes the erection of the _calahorra_, or castle, to abdul malic, a.d. . the fortress (which in early days must have comprised little more than the enceinte of the present ruined castle,) appears to have remained in the undisturbed possession of the mussulmans for six entire centuries. but ferdinand the fourth, at length, breaking through the mountain barrier that defended the diminished territory of the moors, laid siege to algesiras, and despatched a force under don alonzo perez de guzman to . attack gibraltar, which very unexpectedly fell into his hands, a.d. . . the moslems, under ishmael, king of granada, failed in an attempt to recover it in . . it fell, however, to the powerful army brought over from africa by abdul malik (aboumelic), son of the emperor of fez, who thenceforth assumed the title of king of gibraltar, . . it was besieged the same year by king alphonso xi.; and again, with as little success, by the same heroic monarch, . who died of the plague under its walls, . it now again remained in the undisputed possession of the moslems for a considerable period, though it was wrested from the . hands of the king of fez by jusef, king of granada, . . the spaniards again ineffectually attempted to possess themselves of it, under don henrique de guzman, conde de nicbla, . . but it was finally taken from the moors by alonzo de arcos, alcayde of tarifa, . . from him it was taken by don juan de guzman, duke of medina sidonia, . it remained in the possession of the house of guzman, until the reign of ferdinand and isabella, who claimed it for the crown, but, on their demise, don juan de guzman attempted again to . make himself master of it, . . the town was sacked by a turkish squadron, ; . and bombarded by the french, when affording shelter to an english fleet, . . the fortress was captured by sir george rooke, ; . and besieged the same year, by a combined french and spanish force, under the conde de villadarias and monsieur de tessé. by the treaty of utrecht ( ), it was ceded to england, but, immediately on the renewal of the war, was . besieged by the spaniards, under the conde de las torres, when the lines across the isthmus were constructed, . . the last and most celebrated siege was undertaken by the spaniards and french in , and lasted until . b. "_una estatua de san josef, que por su corpulencia no se podia sacar oculta la extrajo un catolico llamado josef martin de medina, colocado sobre un caballo à imitacion de una persona que lo montaba; la afianzó bien, la embozó con una capa i la cubrió con una montera. otro montado à la gurupa ayudaba à sostener al santo, i agregandose algunos combidados para mayor confusion i disimulo salieron por la calle real sin ser descubiertos._" right _ayala, hist. de gibraltar._ c. i suspect the _apes_ tempted mr. carter to jump to the conclusion that carteia was the tarshish of sacred history. nevertheless, few places have furnished more food for conjecture than this famed city: some antiquaries, indeed, not content with tarshish as a mere port, or even country, maintaining that the vast continent of africa was so called; whilst others, differing _toto coelo_, imagine that the word implies the wide or open ocean! in spite of the great authorities arrayed against the vulgar opinion, that tarshish is the self-same city as that situated on the southern coast of asia minor, and known in after ages as tarsus, i cannot but subscribe to it. the difference in character between the hebrew and greek languages may, not unreasonably i think, be supposed to have led to the change in the mode of spelling and pronouncing the name of the place; (which in point of fact is not greater than between dover and douvres,) for most jews of the present day would still pronounce tarsus, tarshish; whilst modern greeks would as certainly call tarshish, tarsis. that _both_ were ports of the mediterranean sea will hardly, i think, admit of dispute; since jonah[ ] embarked at joppa (jaffa,) to proceed to tarshish; and tarsus was the birth-place of st. paul,[ ] and must have been situated on the coast, but a short distance to the northward of antioch. the chief difficulty in determining _what_ and where tarshish was, arises from a discrepancy in the two accounts given of the building of _jehosaphat's_ fleet, in the books of kings and chronicles: the first stating, that the king of judea "made ships _of_ tarshish to go to _ophir_ for gold,"[ ] which ships were destroyed at ezion geber on the red sea; the latter, mentioning that the ships were built at ezion geber to "_go to tarshish_."[ ] josephus makes the matter still more perplexing by saying, that "these ships were built to sail to _pontus_, and the traffic cities of thrace," but were destroyed from being so unwieldy, without mentioning _where_ they were either built or destroyed; thus differing from the account in kings, which says they were made to go to ophir, and, by implication, from the account in the book of chronicles, which states that they were made on the shores of the red sea; since vessels to trade with pontus and thrace would certainly have been built at the ports of syria. now it is quite evident, that _two_ of these three accounts must be incorrect; and it is more natural to conclude that the mistake originated in careless writing than from ignorance; since, little as the jews (being neither sailors nor travellers) may be supposed to have known of foreign countries, they could not, even with their limited knowledge of geography, have imagined that a fleet sailing from tyre, in the mediterranean, was destined to the _same_ country as another fleet built on the shores of the red sea. and, if they were not destined to the _same_ country, the two places to which they were proceeding would certainly have been distinguished by different names. it is not, i think, unwarrantable therefore to suppose, that the hebrew writers, in alluding to a fleet which all accounts agree was destroyed at the very port where it was built, may (supposing always our translations to be perfectly correct,) have fallen into a mistake in stating the _destination_ of that fleet, and hence that, in the book of chronicles, tarshish has been written for ophir. this appears the more likely when we bear in mind that the jews, after the destruction of jehosaphat's fleet, do not appear to have ever again engaged in any naval enterprises, and consequently were careless, or had no opportunity, of correcting this mistake in their histories. in support of this supposition, it may be farther observed that, throughout the scriptures, wherever the commodities brought by the fleets from tarshish and ophir are mentioned, the former is stated to have come laden with the productions of europe and northern africa; whilst the latter brought only gold and precious stones, and algum trees. on the discrepancy above pointed out--where there is evidently a mistake--is grounded, however, the hypothesis, that in early ages two cities or countries bore the name of tarshish; for such a supposition is not at all borne out by the accounts previously given in the same books of kings and chronicles of the fleets built by solomon; it being particularly specified in _both_[ ] that that king made (or more properly, perhaps, _launched_) a navy of ships at ezion geber, on the red sea, which, piloted by tyrian sailors, proceeded to _ophir_ for gold. the mention which is afterwards made[ ] of tarshish, seems merely to have been introduced to account for the vast riches of solomon; shewing that he had other sources whence he procured gold and other valuables, besides ophir. a slight discrepancy of a similar kind to that already noticed occurs, however, in the two accounts, in speaking of the voyage of solomon's fleet to tarshish; the book of kings stating, that he "had at sea _a navy of tarshish_ with the navy of hiram,"--the book of chronicles, that the king's ships "_went to tarshish_ with the servants of huram." the difference in this case is immaterial. the probability seems to be, that solomon built a fleet on the red sea to go to ophir, because he could not otherwise procure one: but that he _hired_ vessels to trade in the mediterranean; which vessels, placed under the charge of tyrian pilots, proceeded with his own servants (or supercargoes) to tarshish, or tarsus, on the coast of cilicia, whither, once in three years, returned the fleet of that port,[ ] bearing the produce of the more distant countries--spain, barbary, the cassiterides, and england. and tarsus, we may suppose, was chosen as the entrepôt for the produce of those countries, in preference to tyre--firstly, on account of its being a more commodious port; and, secondly, as being better situated for the inland trade of asia minor. end of vol. i. london: f. shoberl, jun. , rupert street, haymarket. footnotes: [ ] hallam.--europe during the middle ages. [ ] the causeway that connects the city of cadiz with the isla de leon is said to be a _fragment_ of a work undertaken by hercules; the castle of santi petri (built on a rocky island about five miles to the east of the city) to be constructed from the ruins of a temple built by that celebrated hero, and in which his bones were deposited.--traces of this temple may be seen at low water, near the mouth of the san pedro river. [ ] that of cadiz is literally a ruin. [ ] the _torre del oro_, in which the precious metals brought from mexico were formerly deposited. [ ] the lonja was built (as the word in fact implies) for an exchange, but, from the fallen state of spanish commerce, it is now used as a depôt for the american archives. [ ] the province of andalusia comprises, strictly speaking, only the three kingdoms of seville, cordoba, and jaen; but that of granada is generally included by modern geographers. [ ] the kingdom of granada was founded by mohammed abou said, of the family of alhamares, a.d. . [ ] the vale of granada is, _par excellence_, termed la vega. _vega_ signifies a plain. [ ] he who has not seen granada--has seen _nothing_. [ ] _cosas de españa!_ is a common mode of expressing the uncertainty of every thing connected with spain. "_affairs of spain._" [ ] far be it from me to disparage the information or undervalue the exertions of this most estimable lady, to turn the precious time of my _all-seeing_ countrymen to the best account: on the contrary, i can with perfect truth and from much personal experience say, that i never met with a better general itinerary than that she has given to the public: and though, as regards spain, the amount of information is scanty, yet it is nevertheless far more correct than that contained in works i have met with, devoted exclusively to the description of that country. [ ] there are tastes which deserve a stick. [ ] a mountain road. [ ] it may be as well, ere i start on my travels, to explain that there are three words in spanish by which houses of entertainment are designated, exclusive of _parador_, which may be considered a generic term, implying a _place to stop at_.--the first in rank is the _fonda_, whereat travellers are furnished with board and lodging, but which does not extend its accommodation to horses. next comes the _posada_, which accommodates man and beast, but does not always profess to supply nourishment to either.--the _venta_ is a kind of roadside public house, where bad accommodation, and whatever else the place contains, may be had for money. [ ] a muleteer. [ ] _olla_--an earthenware vessel. the well known cognominal mess is so called from being cooked therein. [ ] fill himself with gazpachos. [ ] the word tar signifies also a ridge either of a house or mountain, and might with great propriety have been applied to the strongly-marked outline of the rock of gibraltar as compared with the mountains in the neighbourhood. [ ] see note a in the appendix. [ ] peculiar spanish cap. [ ] the original spanish is given in the appendix b. [ ] a year in spain, by a young american. [ ] young american. [ ] _the place_--the name, par excellence, by which the spaniards distinguish gibraltar. [ ] mountaineers. [ ] "we are all corrupt." such were the words of merino guerra, at his parting interview with the late sir george don at gibraltar, on proceeding--an exile--to south america. [ ] napoleon certainly succeeded in making his satraps honest. in his latter days, massena would not have dared to repeat the witty reply made to the _first consul_ before all the republican generals, on his accusing him of being "_un voleur_." "_oui, mon general, je suis un voleur, tu es un voleur, il est un voleur--nous sommes des voleurs, vous êtes des voleurs, ils sont tous des voleurs._" [ ] "_el presidente e individuos de la junta de sanidad de la ciudad de gibraltar, que por la material pérdida de su plaza reside en esta de san roque de su campo, &c._"--such was the heading of the bill of health, with which i travelled when last in spain. [ ] the punishment of death by strangulation is so called, from the _short stick_, by turning which an iron collar, that goes round the criminal's neck, is brought so tight as to cause instant death. [ ] the usual complimentary mode of expression amongst spaniards, which has no more meaning than the "obedient humble servant" at the bottom of an english letter. [ ] he had fallen in with capt. tupper of the d fuzileers (with whom he was well acquainted) on his way to algeciras, who had accompanied him to san roque. poor tupper! led away by a somewhat quixotic love of strife, he was persuaded in an unlucky moment to throw up his company in one of the first regiments in the british service, to become the _colonel_ of a regiment of adventurers, and was killed whilst gallantly leading on his men at the first attack on _hernani_ of fatal memory. [ ] a spanish _pillared_ dollar. [ ] blue blood. [ ] the term _tertulia_ was originally applied to an assembly of _literati_, which met to discuss the opinions held by _tertulian_, and even to this day those who attend these, now festive, meetings, are called _tertulianos_. the following lines contain a biting satire on the _tertulians_ of the olden time, (for they can hardly be applied to those of the present) and might perhaps not inaptly be addressed to other self-appointed literary judges in various parts of the world. _y entraron los tertulianos--rigidissimos jueces, que sedientes de aganipe, se enjuagan; pero no beben._ which may be thus freely translated.--thirsting, the tertulians arrive at aganippe's fountain; infallible judges!--they rinse their mouths, but drink not. [ ] lit:--_a sigh_--a kind of puff made principally of sugar, which dissolves immediately on being dipped in water. [ ] an open court. most spanish houses are built so as to enclose a court or garden--which in summer is much used by the family, being protected from the sun by a canvass awning. [ ] widow of sir emanuel viale--roman consul in gibraltar. [ ] st book of kings, ch. . v. . see note c in appendix. [ ] according to strabo, however, the original founder of this city was hercules, from whom it received the name of heraclea. [ ] pieces of artillery. [ ] large game. [ ] the spanish term for a shooting party, where beaters are employed to drive the game. [ ] this must not be confounded with the more celebrated _genil_. [ ] _aqui se vende buen vino_--here good wine is sold. [ ] posadero--keeper of a posada--innkeeper. [ ] spaniards never say the spanish grammar, the spanish tongue, &c.--but _la gramatica castellana_--_la lingua castellana_, &c. [ ] with every convenience. [ ] little sister. [ ] strictly speaking, _knights_, but applied to all gentry. [ ] parlour. [ ] literally translated--people of _hair_, but here evidently meaning people of _substance_. [ ] infant god. [ ] a _hot_ gaspacho, which consists of the same materials as the _gazpacho fresco_, but, when an evening meal, is usually heated at the fire. [ ] thieves. [ ] chief magistrate, where there is no _corregidor_. [ ] one does not depart a point from the truth.--don quijote. [ ] fowling-piece. [ ] black pudding. [ ] god assists him who rises early. [ ] a little charity, for the love of god. [ ] quite correct. [ ] god go with you. [ ] custom-house officer. [ ] there are various league measures in spain.-- st. the _legua geografica_, of which there are - / in a degree of the meridian; ndly, the _legua de marina_, or of "an hour's journey;" and rdly, the _legua legal_. of the two last, a degree contains and - / respectively. the leagues on the _post-roads_ of andalusia must be calculated at the second of these measures; that is, at three british statute miles, and yards each: but on the cross roads the measurement depends upon whether the leagues are specified as being _largas_, _cortas_, or _regulares_, which may be computed at , , and miles respectively, whilst that of "_una hora_" (an hour) may be reckoned like a post league, at - / very nearly. [ ] friar's rock. [ ] here, brother sancho, we may thrust our hands (arms?) up to the elbows in what are called adventures. [ ] so it is said. [ ] publican. [ ] off!--jesus! maria! joseph!--my barley! my hemp! every thing will be destroyed! [ ] little market. [ ] on this subject see further at chapter xv., vol. ii. [ ] gibraltar was recaptured from the spaniards by abou melic, the year following his arrival in spain; and he assumed the title of king of ronda, algeciras, and gibraltar.--he fell at the battle of arcos, where his army was completely routed by that of alphonso the eleventh, commanded by the grand master of calatrava, a.d. . [ ] and, in the course of time, the _hisna_ trimming (randa) has been torn off, and the place called ronda. [ ] gentry--from _hidalgo_ (_higo de algo_). _son of somebody._ [ ] a.d. . part of this bold arch is yet visible. [ ] ficus indicus. [ ] a body corporate of the nobility, whose province is chiefly to encourage the breed of horses.--the present male competitor for the crown of spain was grand master of the r. maestranza of ronda, during the lifetime of ferdinand vii. [ ] it was no unusual thing to send regiments, that were very much in arrears of pay, to garrison the lines in front of gibraltar; and so well was the reason of their being sent there understood, that sometimes they would take the settlement of accounts _into their own hands_. i recollect the regiment of _la princesa_ refusing--officers and men--to embark for ceuta, because they had not been allowed to remain long enough before gibraltar to pay themselves. the regiment was permitted to remain three months longer, and at the expiration of that time embarked perfectly satisfied: a rare instance of _moderation_. [ ] a bushel nearly. [ ] a real vellon is equal to - / pence. [ ] at ronda even an octogenarian is a chicken. [ ] may you die at ronda, bearing pig-skins. [ ] well planted. [ ] the greek peasant may also perhaps be excepted. [ ] the word _majo_ originally signified bravo, or bully, but is now applied to such as court distinction by an extravagant style of dress. it is almost confined to the south of spain. [ ] _haca_--a pony--though the term is applied to horses of all sorts. our word _hack_ is evidently derived therefrom, and hackney from _hacanea_, the diminutive of haca. [ ] to a rogue, a rogue and a half. [ ] there is no vessel to measure tastes, nor scales, by which they can be tried. [ ] the public walk of every spanish town is so called.--the word is derived from _alamo_, a poplar. [ ] a small silver coin. [ ] revoltingly as this exclamation from a lady's mouth would sound to "ears polite" in england, yet it is in common use, even in the first circle of spanish society. the different manner of pronouncing the j, making it _hèsus_, mitigates in some degree the disgust with which it cannot but be heard by englishmen: the word appearing to have a different import, as it were, until the ear becomes accustomed to its use. the vulgarisms of one nation are often thus passed over by another,--most fortunately in some instances,--for with married couples it frequently happens this "ignorance is bliss." [ ] literally--courses. [ ] bull-fighters. [ ] an amateur. [ ] literally, _jester_.--the term has probably been applied to the bull-fighter's _assistant_, from the part he acts in drawing the animal's attention. [ ] a long club stick, with which the shepherds and others keep their flocks in order, and bring to the bull-fights to signify their impatience and displeasure, by striking it against the wood-work. [ ] acenipo, according to ptolemy. the ruined city was discovered a.d. , and the coins, inscriptions, and statues, that have been found there, leave no doubt of its being the acenippo mentioned by pliny as one of the cities of _celtica_, (lib iii.) the situation of which country had long been matter of dispute; some supposing it to have been on the banks of the guadiana. [ ] carter, who it is clear never visited the spot, fancied it was the guadiaro itself that issued from the _cueva del gato_. [ ] custom-house officers. [ ] all ashes and coal, like a fairy's treasure. [ ] with a clear and tranquil voice.--_don quijote._ [ ] wild olive. [ ] _los reyes catolicos_--the title by which ferdinand and isabella are invariably distinguished. [ ] the pass of the horror-struck moor. [ ] mountaineer. [ ] native of cadiz. [ ] the niche which marks the direction of mecca. [ ] _dios guarde à usted_--god preserve you. [ ] _road of partridges._ any particularly wild and stony track is so called in spain, from such localities being the favourite resort of that bird. [ ] a train of men and beasts, from the arabic, _kafel_. [ ] the cry by which muleteers keep their animals on the move. this word is the root of the term _arriero_, applied generally to the drivers of beasts of burthen. [ ] a cigar, made entirely of tobacco (in the usual way), is so called by the country people, who very seldom consume "the weed" in that form. [ ] _the cross of astonishment_--meaning the hurried cross which a devout romanist describes upon his person, whenever unexpectedly exposed to danger. [ ] literally, a _man of whisker_--but meaning a bold fellow. [ ] very bad people. [ ] god give you a bad easter--_desunt cætera_. [ ] how droll the squint-eyed fellow is! [ ] he-goat--which, in allusion to his horns, is used as a term of reproach. [ ] fortune always leaves a door open. [ ] a corruption of the word _arabes_. [ ] river of the city. [ ] the fans mostly used are made of kid-skin, richly gilt at the back, and painted on the other side.--a spanish belle does not hesitate to expend thirty or forty dollars on her fan, though she should have to live on _gazpacho_ for a month, to make up for her extravagance. [ ] de situ orbis: lib. . cap. . [ ] treasury. [ ] the name given to cigars composed of chopped tobacco rolled up in _paper_, the latter item furnishing by far the greater portion of the _smoke_. [ ] punch and eggs. [ ] without cares. [ ] buffo. [ ] literally, _strong houses_. they are brick forts of small dimensions, presenting, generally, a bastioned front on the land side, and a semi-circular battery, en barbette, to the sea. [ ] the _village_ of alcaucin, erroneously placed in lopez' and other maps _on_ the road, is situated about half a mile from it, on the right hand. [ ] woe is me, alhama! [ ] the accounts of the founder of the kingdom of granada differ materially.--florez says that he was but a common ploughman, and that the surname of alhamar was given him from his ruddy complexion.--others, however, (and i think with greater appearance of truth,) maintain that he was a distinguished inhabitant of _arjona_, of which place he made himself lord previous to founding the kingdom of granada, and that he belonged to the tribe of alhamars, from couffa, on the red sea. [ ] _torre de la vela_--the loftiest tower of the alhambra. [ ] al hamara--the red. [ ] a small spanish coin. [ ] this is the court of the lions. [ ] of most volume--meaning importance. [ ] a kind of drum, having a small hole in the parchment at one end, through which a close fitting stick is worked up and down so as to produce a noise like that made by a wheel requiring grease. [ ] the point to which mohammedans turn when praying. [ ] seat of the moors. [ ] the _little_ unfortunate, in allusion rather to the size of his person than the extent of his misfortunes. [ ] watch tower. [ ] the handsome. [ ] florez--españa sagrada. [ ] from the arabic word _suk_, a place of sale. [ ] dost thou know me? [ ] the husband of this lady was at the time of which i write, as he has lately again been, prime minister of spain. though universally admitted to be a man of great talent, his views are considered too "_confined_" for "the circumstances of the country;" and he has each time been obliged to make way for more "_stirring men_." [ ] i have already warned my readers, that in publishing the journal of my various wanderings, it did not form part of my plan to specify dates with any precision. i should perhaps state, however, that it was _not_ on the occasion of my first visit to granada that i saw the marquis of montijo, nor, indeed, do i think he had then retired from public life. but, at all events, if his so doing be considered a matter of history, it is so unimportant a one, as to excuse my here describing him eight or ten years older, and much more infirm, than he really was at the time of which i write. [ ] war to the knife. [ ] i certainly am right in calling the old lady gover_nor_, since we pray in our churches for "our most gracious queen and governor." [ ] st. james; the patron saint of spain. [ ] though you dress up a monkey in silk, a monkey he remains. [ ] i speak only of the officers of the _regular_ army, not of the _guerrilla_ chieftains, who, without performing the prodigies of valour _stated by themselves_, often behaved most gallantly, manoeuvered with great skill, and did good service to the general cause. [ ] the name of an estate granted to the duke of wellington.--see chap. xiii., vol. . [ ] the amount of population in spanish towns is calculated by vecinos; the term in a literal sense meaning neighbours, but in this case implying _hearths_, or _families_. each _vecino_ is computed at six souls, unless they are specified as being _escasos_, (scanty) when five only are reckoned for each. [ ] _hirtius--de bello hisp._ [ ] the eton atlas, however, places _ulia_ on the spot where _castrò el rio_ now stands, and gives the name of _silicense_ to the river guadajoz. [ ] _that_ spanish gentleman. [ ] a very small parlour. [ ] a common ejaculation of all spaniards. [ ] real habana cigars are so called, though those made at the royal manufactories in spain more properly deserve the _lawful_ distinction. [ ] _cuidado_--care! meaning be careful. the andalusians invariably slur over, or altogether omit, the _d_ in the final syllable, which forms the past participle of most of the spanish verbs. i once heard of a dispute between an irish and a scotch soldier, touching the _true_ pronunciation of the name, _badajos_,--one maintaining that it was _bi jadus_, the other _baddyhoose_. the question was finally referred to an andaluz contrabandista in company to decide. the spaniard, after gravely listening to both modes, declared that, of the two, sandy's was the nearer approach to the _real castillian_, which he pronounced to be _ba'jos_, anglice _bah-hose_. [ ] the smoking of a cigar. [ ] with perfect confidence--and it is astonishing and highly flattering to our national character what confidence all spaniards place in us on a very slight acquaintance. a remarkable instance of this occurred to my friend budgen (whose name i have once before taken the liberty of mentioning in these pages), when returning home alone one afternoon, from shooting in the almoraima forest. a well dressed and well mounted spaniard, who had trotted past and eyed him very hard several times, addressing some common-place observation to him on each occasion, at length, having ascertained to his satisfaction that, in spite of a half spanish costume, he was an englishman, reined his horse up alongside, and said he had a particular favour to ask. "it is granted, if in my power," was the reply. "i have here, then," added the spaniard, "a number of doubloons," mentioning a very considerable sum, "which i want to smuggle into _la plaza_, for the purchase of various goods. your person will not be examined by the custom-house officers at _the lines_, whereas mine is sure to be. will you, therefore, oblige me by carrying them in for me, and lodging them at the house of ---- and co.?" "did you ever _see_ me before," demanded my astonished friend, "that you ask me to do this?" "no," replied the other; "but i see _you are an englishman_." thanking him for the compliment paid to the national character by this proof of trust, our countryman added, that he must nevertheless decline doing what was asked of him, as the confidence shown by the spanish government in suffering englishmen to pass into gibraltar without examination would be badly returned by such an act. the spaniard (fully appreciating the high sense of honour that dictated this answer) expressed a hope that he had not given offence, wished him good day, and rode forward. [ ] scorpions. [ ] "_what about religion? stuff!_" many of my readers may suppose, that this sanguinary and summary mode of establishing a constitutional government is an _original_ project of my own, put into the mouth of _tio blas_; but i can assure them it is _word for word_ a _translation_. [ ] to strut the streets like peacocks. [ ] the andalusian peasants usually wear a handkerchief round the head, under the _sombrero_, to absorb the perspiration. [ ] in england the state of the roads is such, as to enable us to dispense with an adjective signifying _passable_ for a carriage; the spaniards have not an equally good excuse for this deficiency in their vocabulary: i venture therefore to translate the expressive italian word _carrozzabile_. [ ] chief magistrate of a town, who is never a native of the place. [ ] the names of these places, though communicated to me in the first instance, are now withheld, at the narrator's particular request. [ ] something between a town and a village. [ ] surname. [ ] in an open country. [ ] to preach in the desert. [ ] address as _you_. [ ] she is now in heaven. [ ] it is a common saying amongst the _serranos_, "kill your man, and fly to olbera for safety." [ ] the daughter badly married than well maintained. [ ] literally, with outstretched foot--at his ease. [ ] i can fancy some hypercritical persons quarrelling with this expression of the worthy señor blas; since ceuta is not actually an island. but it is cut off from the main land by so wide a salt water ditch, that i think he was almost warranted in using the word sea-girt. [ ] scarecrow. [ ] band. [ ] to gain friends is to put money out to interest, and sow on irrigated soil. [ ] with closed eyes--i. e. without hesitation. [ ] i interrupted the señor blas here, asking him if valencia was not an _open city_? "yes, _señor critico_," he replied, "but have not houses walls?" [ ] holyly into the house. [ ] conceived without sin--the invariable _acknowledgment_ of the _ave maria_ which a devout spaniard pronounces on crossing the threshold of a house, be it even to commit murder. [ ] raw garlic and pure wine make one travel safely. [ ] to an old dog you need not say _tus tus_. [ ] a nickname for frenchmen. [ ] more wind than fire. [ ] charcoal furnaces. [ ] quarter. [ ] for him who sees so well, one eye is enough. [ ] literally, _do you expend tobacco_? [ ] punk made of a dried fungus that grows round the roots of the cork tree. [ ] bomb-cigar. [ ] literally, bulls and canes--i. e. high words. [ ] throw that bone to another dog. [ ] a precipice before, wolves behind. [ ] scare _wolves_. [ ] strike the iron whilst it is hot. [ ] sash--the spanish peasants carry their money wrapped up within the folds of their wide sashes. [ ] literally, _make the fig_, that is, thrust the thumb between the fore and middle fingers in sign of contempt. [ ] give a quittance. [ ] feet uppermost. [ ] peculiar sailing boat. [ ] it was founded by ferdinand and isabella, whilst laying siege to granada. [ ] most spanish houses are built in a square form, enclosing an open court, or _patio_. a servant "answers the door," by raising the latch, by means of a pulley, and demanding your business from the gallery of the first floor, a plan which would be attended with _considerable inconvenience_ in london. [ ] arm-chair. [ ] fire. [ ] cat for hare. [ ] in the mouth of fame. [ ] where envy reigns, there virtue cannot live. the lines of burns, "o wad some pow'r, the giftie gie us, to see oursels as others see us!" often occurred to me in the course of señor blas's story. [ ] of extracting the teeth from one who has been hanged. [ ] old crony. [ ] _pépé_, short for josef.--_alamin_, faithful. [ ] without stoppage. [ ] to wit. [ ] an olla without _bacon_--an essential ingredient for its well-being. [ ] dress worn by the herdsmen, made of sheepskins. [ ] he who neglects to take a rope may be drowned. [ ] to the deed with a good heart. [ ] making the salaam. [ ] literally, by who god is. [ ] gipsy. [ ] wild boar. [ ] the _moderates_ were distinguished by wearing a ring--whence the term. [ ] an olla that boils long loses much. [ ] this was the general opinion amongst the spanish _liberales_. [ ] "_well then_"--a conjunctional expression with which, and sundry _conques_ (with which), a spaniard takes up and links together the different portions of a _cuenta_, the narration of which is generally interrupted by the necessity for lighting a fresh cigar, striking a fresh light, or getting rid of a superabundant supply of smoke. i have been purposely chary of these expressions, not to prolong a story which, even without them, many may think is somewhat tediously spun out. [ ] which may be thus literally translated (_si se ofrece algo_) if any thing occurs, ( ...) a hiatus that is filled up with a shrug of the shoulders; an expansion of the hands, palms outwards, and corresponding contortion of the muscles of the cheeks; all of which, like lord burleigh's shake of the head, has a wonderfully comprehensive meaning--viz., in which i can in any way serve you, (_ustedes no tienen que mandar_,) you have but to give me your orders. [ ] my house, my wife, my servants--every thing i possess is at your disposal. [ ] a much better, indeed a very good inn, has since been established. see chapter , vol. ii. [ ] _zancarron de mahoma_ is a contemptuous way of speaking amongst spaniards of the bones of the prophet, which the mussulmans go to visit at mecca. [ ] court of the orange-trees. [ ] this was previous to the present civil war. [ ] "swallow it;" the substance of the song being, if you do not like it (the constitution), you must swallow it, dog! [ ] thanks, my daughter, many thanks. [ ] a female dog. [ ] jonah, ch. i., v. . [ ] acts. ch. ix., v. . [ ] st kings, ch. xxii., v. . [ ] nd chron., ch. xx., v. . [ ] st kings, ch. ix., v. ., and nd chron., ch. viii., v. and . [ ] st kings, ch. x., v. , and nd chron., ch. ix., v. . [ ] ezekiel, ch. xxvii., v. . * * * * * typographical errors corrected by the etext transcriber: zefaraya mountains=> zafaraya mountains {pg v contents} an english conntry dance=> an english country dance {pg vi contents} occnpied by a cavalry regiment=> occupied by a cavalry regiment {pg vi contents} the commerce of the country detroyed=> the commerce of the country detroyed {pg } vous etes des voleurs=> vous êtes des voleurs {pg n.} they rince their mouths=> they rinse their mouths {pg n.} eluded his viligance=> eluded his vigilance {pg } bright eyed-acquaintances=> bright-eyed acquaintances {pg } the first days _corrida_=> the first day's _corrida_ {pg } the stangers=> the strangers {pg } answering his decription=> answering his description {pg } that protuded above=> that protruded above {pg } by the rapid progress of the christian arms=> by the rapid progress of the christian arms {pg } genaralife=> generalife {pg } encicle the traveller=> encircle the traveller {pg } have given orders not be disturbed=> have given orders not to be disturbed {pg } foothpath to the river=> footpath to the river {pg } i solemly protested=> i solemnly protested {pg } etext transcriber's note: the footnotes have been located after the etext. corrections of some obvious typographical errors have been made (a list follows the etext); the spellings of several words currently spelled in a different manner have been left un-touched. (i.e. chesnut/chestnut; every thing/everything; our's/ours; codoba/cordoba; sanitory/sanitary; your's/yours; janty/jaunty; visiters/visitors; negociation/negotiation.) the accentuation of words in spanish has not been corrected or normalized. [illustration: castle of ximena, and distant view of gibraltar _on stone by t. j. rawlins from a sketch by capt c. r. scott_ _r. martin lithog , long acre_ _published by henry colburn, great marlborough st._] excursions in the mountains of ronda and granada, with characteristic sketches of the inhabitants of the south of spain. by captain c. rochfort scott, author of "travels in egypt and candia." "_aqui hermano sancho, podemos meter las manos hasta los codos, en esto que llaman aventuras._" don quijote. in two volumes. vol. ii. london: henry colburn, publisher, great marlborough street. . london: f. shoberl, jun. , rupert street, haymarket. contents of the second volume. page chapter i. departure from cordoba--post road to cadiz--carlota--ecija--carmona--road from ecija to gibraltar--locusts--osuna--saucejo--an olla in perfection--ronda--splendid scenery on the road to grazalema--distant view of zahara--grazalema--extensive prospect from the pass of bozal--secluded orchards of benamajama--pajarete--el broque--ubrique--difficult road across the mountains to ximena--our guide in a rage--fine scenery--ximena--strength of its castle--road to gibraltar chapter ii. departure for cadiz--road round the bay of gibraltar--algeciras--sandy bay--gualmesi--tarifa--its foundation--error of mariana in supposing it to be carteia--battle of el salado--mistake of la martiniere concerning it--itinerary of antoninus from carteia to gades verified--continuation of journey--ventas of tavilla and retin--vejer--conil--spanish method of extracting good from evil--tunny fishery--barrosa--field of battle--chiclana--road to cadiz--puente zuazo--san fernando--temple of hercules--castle of santi petri--its importance to cadiz chapter iii. cadiz--its foundation--various names--past prosperity--made a free port in the hope of ruining the trade of gibraltar--unjust restrictions on the commerce of the british fortress--description of cadiz--its vaunted agremens--society--monotonous life--cathedral--admirably built sea wall--naval arsenal of la carraca--road to xeres--puerto real--puerto de santa maria--xeres--its filth--wine stores--method of preparing wine--doubts of the ancient and derivation of the present name of xeres--carthusian convent--guadalete--battle of xeres chapter iv. choice of roads to seville--by lebrija--mirage--the marisma--post road--cross road by los cabezas and los palacios--difficulty of reconciling any of these routes with that of the roman itinerary--seville--general description of the city--the alameda--display of carriages--elevation of the host--public buildings--the cathedral--lonja--american archives--alcazar--casa pilata--royal snuff manufactory--cannon foundry--capuchin convent--murillo--theatre of seville--observations on the state of the national drama--moratin--the bolero--spanish dancing--the spaniards not a musical people chapter v. society of seville--spanish women--faults of education--evils of early marriages, and marriages de convenance--environs of seville--triana--san juan de alfarache santi ponce--ruins of italica--italica not so ancient a city as hispalis--young pigs and the muses--departure from seville--the marques de las amarillas--weakness, deceit, and injustice of the late king of spain--alcala de guadiara--utrera--observations on the strategical importance of this town--moron--military operations of riego--apathy of the serranos during the civil war--olbera--remarks on the itinerary of antoninus chapter vi. ronda to gaucin--road to casares--difficulty in procuring lodgings--finally overcome--the cura's house--view of the town from the ruins of the castle--its great strength--ancient name--ideas of the spaniards regarding protestants--scramble to the summit of the sierra cristellina--splendid view--jealousy of the natives in the matter of sketching--the cura and his barometer--departure for the baths of manilba--romantic scenery--accommodation for visiters--the master of the ceremonies--roads to san roque and gibraltar--river guadiaro and venta chapter vii. the baths of manilba--a specimen of fabulous history--properties of the hedionda--society of the bathing village--remarkable mountain--an english botanist--town of manilba--an intrusive visiter--ride to estepona--return by way of casares chapter viii. a shooting party to the mountains--our italian piqueur, damien berrio--some account of his previous life--los barrios--the beautiful maid, and the maiden's levelling sire--road to sanona--reparation against bandits--arrival at the caseria--description of its owner and accommodations--fine scenery--a batida chapter ix. luis de castro chapter x. don luis's narrative is interrupted by a boar--the batida resumed--departure from sanona--road to casa vieja--the priest's house--adventure with itinerant wine-merchants--departure from casa vieja--alcala de los gazules--road to ximena--return to gibraltar chapter xi. departure for madrid--cordon drawn round the cholera--ronda--road to cordoba--teba--erroneous position of the place on the spanish maps--its locality agrees with that of ategua, as described by hirtius, and the course of the river guadaljorce with that of the salsus--road to campillos--the english-loving innkeeper and his wife--an alcalde's dinner spoilt--fuente de piedra--astapa--puente don gonzalo--rambla--cordoba--meeting with an old acquaintance chapter xii. history of blas el guerrillero--_continued_ chapter xiii. unforeseen difficulties in proceeding to madrid--death of king ferdinand--change in our plans--road to andujar--alcolea--montoro--porcuna--andujar--arjono--torre ximeno--difficulty of gaining admission--success of a stratagem--consternation of the authorities--spanish adherence to forms--contrasts--jaen--description of the castle, city, and cathedral--la santa faz--road to granada--our knightly attendant--parador de san rafael--hospitable farmer--astonishment of the natives--granada--el soto de roma--loja--venta de dornejo--colmenar--fine scenery--road from malaga to antequera, and description of that city chapter xiv. malaga--excursion of marbella and monda--churriana--benalmania--fuengirola--discrepancy of opinion respecting the site of suel--scale to be adopted, in order to make the measurements given in the itinerary of antoninus agree with the actual distance from malaga to carteia--errors of carter--castle of fuengirola--road to marbella--tower and casa fuertes--disputed site of salduba--description of marbella--abandoned mines--distance to gibraltar chapter xv. a proverb not to be lost sight of whilst travelling in spain--road to monda--secluded valley of ojen--monda--discrepancy of opinion respecting the site of the roman city of munda--ideas of mr. carter on the subject--reasons adduced for concluding that modern monda occupies the site of the ancient city--assumed positions of the contending armies of cneius pompey and cæsar, in the vicinity of the town--road to malaga--towns of coin and alhaurin--bridge over the guadaljorce--return to gibraltar--notable instance of the absurdity of quarantine regulations chapter xvi. the knight of san fernando appendix excursions in the mountains of ronda and granada. chapter i. departure from cordoba--post-road to cadiz--carlota--ecija--carmona--road from ecija to gibraltar--locusts--osuna--saucejo--an olla in perfection--ronda--splendid scenery on the road to grazalema--distant view of zahara--grazalema--extensive prospect from the pass of bozal--secluded orchards of benamajama--pajarete--el broque--ubrique--difficult road across the mountains to ximena--our guide in a rage--fine scenery--ximena--strength of its castle--road to gibraltar. on leaving cordoba, we turned our horses' heads homewards, taking the _arrecife_, or high road, to seville and cadiz. this appears to follow the _direct_ roman military way given in detail in the itinerary of antoninus; the distances from station to station, on the modern road, agreeing perfectly with those specified in the itinerary, which, as it runs very straight as far as ecija, would not be the case if the roman road had diverged either to the right or left, as some are disposed to make it, placing _adaras_ (one of the intermediate stations) on the margin of the guadalquivír. several monuments, bearing inscriptions alluding to this military way, are preserved at cordoba. they all describe it as being from the temple of janus _to_ the boetis, (meaning, it must be presumed, the _mouth_ of the river) and to the ocean. the road is no longer paved, as it is described to have been in those days; but, nevertheless, it is good enough to enable a lumbering diligence to pulverize the gravel daily on its tedious way between madrid and seville. it is also furnished with relays of post horses,[ ] but the posting establishments being, as in most other countries of europe, under the direction of the government, is a satire upon the term _post haste_. from cordoba to ecija is ten leagues.[ ] the road, on reaching the river _badajocillo_, or guadajoz, which is crossed by a lofty stone bridge, commanding a fine view of cordoba, leaves the rich alluvial valley of the guadalquivír, and enters upon an undulated tract of country, that extends nearly all the way to ecija. at three leagues is the scattered village and post-house of mango-negro, and three leagues beyond that again, the settlement of carlota. the ride is most uninteresting; as, besides being tamely outlined and thinly peopled, the country is nearly destitute of wood, and, in the summer season, of water; though, judging from the extraordinary number of bridges, especially on drawing near carlota, there must be a superabundance in winter. carlota is one of the numerous villages which charles the third colonized from the tyrol. it consists principally of isolated cottages, standing some hundred yards apart, and the same distance from the road; but there is a small congregation of houses round the chapel, post-house, and _casa del ayuntamiento_,[ ] and a _gasthof_, which i can say, from personal experience, would do no discredit to innsbruck itself. the parish contains houses, and a population of souls. the fields round carlota certainly appear to be better tilled than those in other parts of the country, and there is a german tidiness about its white cottages, as well as a platterfacedness about the little white-headed urchins assembled round the doors, that are quite anti-spanish. we obtained an excellent dinner at the _tyroler adler_, and, in the afternoon, taking a by-road that struck off from the post route to the right, cantered through plantations of olives nearly all the way to ecija,--four leagues. in the whole of the distance we did not see a drop of running water, until we arrived on the brow of the hill overlooking the river genil. from this spot there is a fine view of the city of ecija, situated on the opposite bank. the volume of the genil increases but little between granada and ecija; for its principal feeders, though falling into it below granada, are expended in irrigating the _vega_; and the _salados_, on the western side of the _serranía de ronda_, are mostly dry during the summer. in winter, however, the genil is so increased, that the bridge at ecija (a solid stone structure of eleven arches,) is carried quite across the valley, although the bed of the river is not above yards wide. ecija is the astigi of the romans. it stands on a gentle acclivity, some little distance from the genil, and bears evident marks of antiquity. almost all traces of its walls have disappeared, however; and what little remains of its tapia-built castle shows it to have been a work of the moors. the principal streets are wide, and contain many good houses; and the _plaza_ is particularly well worth a visit from the lovers of the picturesque. the city contains sixteen convents, and two hospitals, with churches in proportion. none of them offers much to interest the protestant traveller; but, i believe, several boast of possessing valuable relics. the royal stud-house is fast going to decay. the population of ecija is estimated at , souls; a number that appears totally disproportioned to the size of the city; particularly, as it contains but a few tanneries, and trifling manufactories of shoes, saddlery, &c. but, from the extreme fertility of the soil in its neighbourhood--considered the most productive and best cultivated in andalusia--it is very possible this amount may not be exaggerated; for in spain the agriculturalists do not scatter themselves about in small villages and hamlets over its surface, as in other countries, but assemble together in large towns; so that those places which are situated in fertile districts are as densely populated as our manufacturing towns. the distance that a spanish peasant sometimes travels daily, to and from his work, is truly surprising, in a people that, generally speaking, like to save themselves trouble. whilst getting in the harvest, however, they erect _ranchas_, or rush huts, to shelter them from the midday sun and night dews, and dwell in these temporary habitations until their work is completed. the crops of corn in the neighbourhood of ecija are remarkably fine, yielding forty to one, and though not so tall, perhaps, as those of the _vega_ of granada, the grains are larger and better ripened. i must not omit to say a good word for the _posada_,--the post-house,--which i do the more willingly from being so seldom called upon to speak in terms of commendation of spanish "houses of entertainment." suffice it to observe, that, provided the traveller be very hungry, and moderately fatigued, he may reckon on getting a supper that he will be able to eat, and a bed whereon--albeit hard--he may obtain some hours' unmolested repose. the remainder of the post road to seville is so perfectly uninteresting, that, reserving the andalusian capital for a future tour, i shall take a more direct route back to gibraltar, through the _serranía_ de ronda; merely offering a few remarks on the town of carmona, which is situated about two thirds of the way between ecija and seville, and referring my readers to the itinerary in the appendix for any further details as to the distances from place to place along the road. carmona is one of the few roman towns of boetica of whose identity there is scarcely a doubt; its name having undergone little or no change. it is mentioned by most of the ancient writers, and called by them, indifferently, carmo and carmona, and by julius cæsar was esteemed one of the strongest posts in the whole country. its position, considered relatively with the adjacent ground, is, indeed, most commanding; being on the edge of a vast plateau of very elevated land, which, stretching many miles to the south, falls abruptly along the course of the river corbones. the roman name for this river is, i think, doubtful. florez, and most antiquaries, suppose it to be the _silicensis_. some, and, as it appears to me, with better reason, give that name to the badajocillo. be that as it may, the corbones is but an inconsiderable stream, and is now crossed by a stone bridge of three arches. the ascent to carmona is very steep and tedious. the city is entered through a triumphal roman arch, which was repaired and spoilt by order of charles iii. another roman gateway stands at the southern extremity of the town, by which the road to seville leaves it; and various parts of the walls which yet encompass the place are the work of the same people. the castle, however, is a relique of the moors, and in a very ruinous condition. this stronghold was wrested from the moors by san fernando, after a six months' investment. it was a favourite place of residence of peter, surnamed the cruel, who, looking upon it as impregnable, left his children there in fancied security when he took the field for the last time against his brother. soon after peter's death, however, it fell into the hands of his rival, who, according to some accounts, caused the children (his nephews) to be put to death in cold blood. the streets of carmona are wide, clean, and well-paved; and the alameda is enchanting, commanding a superb view of the ruined fortress, and over the rich vales of the corbones, and more distant guadalquivír, and embracing, at the same time, the whole chain of the ronda mountains to the eastward. the population of the place is about , souls. the inn is execrable. the post road to cadiz is directed from carmona on alcalà de guadiara, where a branch to seville strikes off, nearly at a right angle, to the east, thereby making a considerable détour. but in summer, carriages even may proceed to seville by a cross road, which not only lessens the dust, but reduces the distance from six _long_ to the same number of _short_ leagues; or, in other words, effects a saving of about three miles. i now return to ecija, and take the road from that city to osuna; which is tolerably good, and practicable for carriages during the greater part of the year. the distance is five (very long) leagues. the country presents a slightly undulated surface, and, excepting round the edges of some basins wherein extensive lakes have been formed, is altogether under the plough. at a little distance from the road, on the left hand, a stream, called _el salado_, flows towards the genil. it does not communicate with these lakes, nor has the name it bears been given from its being impregnated with salt. during our ride, we observed a number of men advancing in skirmishing order across the country, and thrashing the ground most savagely with long flails. curious to know what could be the motive for this xerxes-like treatment of the earth, we turned out of the road to inspect their operations, and found they were driving a swarm of locusts into a wide piece of linen spread on the ground at some distance before them, wherein they were made prisoners. these animals are about three times the size of an english grasshopper. they migrate from africa, and their spring visits are very destructive; for in a single night they will entirely eat up a field of young corn. the _caza de langostas_[ ] is a very profitable business to the peasantry; as, besides a reward obtained from the proprietor of the soil in consideration for service done, they sell the produce of their _chasse_ for manure at so much a sack. osuna is generally admitted to be the urso,[ ] ursao, and ursaon, of the roman historians; though it agrees in no one particular with the description given of that place by hirtius; for it is not by any means "strong by nature;" it is in the vicinity of extensive forests--rendering it perfectly absurd to suppose that cæsar's troops "had to bring wood thither all the way from munda;"--and, so far from "there being no rivulet within eight miles of the place,"[ ] a fine stream meanders under its very walls. the town is situated at the foot of a hill that screens it effectually to the eastward, and the summit of which is occupied by an old castle of considerable strength and size, but now fast crumbling to decay. the streets are wide and well paved, the houses particularly good;--indeed, some of the palaces of the provincial nobility (with whom it was formerly a favourite place of residence) are strikingly handsome; in particular, that of the duke who takes his title from the city; and notwithstanding that the streets are overgrown with grass, and the houses covered with mildew, i am, nevertheless, disposed to call osuna the best built and handsomest city in andalusia, it contains a university, fourteen convents, for both sexes, and a population of , souls; but has little or no trade--in fact, though on the crossing of two high roads, (viz., from gibraltar to madrid, and from granada to seville) it has all the dullness of a secluded country village. the vicinity is very fruitful in olives and corn; the soil is a whitish clay. to the s.e. the country is tolerably level all the way to antequera, and to the west is nearly flat to seville; but at about a mile southward from the city, shoot up the entangled roots of the mountains of ronda, presenting on that side a belt of very intricate country. there are two roads to that place, the distance by the better, which, i think, is also rather the shorter, of the two, is nine leagues. it leaves osuna by the gate of granada, and, crossing the before-mentioned stream (which is one of the sources of the corbones), advances some distance along a wide olive-planted valley. it then quits the great road to granada (which continues along the valley), and ascends a steep and very long hill, from the crest of which, distant about three miles from osuna, there is a splendid view of the city, and of the spacious plains extending to and bordering the distant guadalquivír, studded with the towns of marchena, fuentes, palmar, and carmona. the road continues along the summit of the elevated range of hills which it has now attained, for about five miles, winding amongst some singularly mammillated hummocks, that have very much the appearance of the tumuli left in an exhausted mining country. a succession of strongly marked and peculiarly rugged ravines present themselves along the eastern side of the ridge, and the ground falls also very abruptly in the opposite direction; but to the south, whither the road is directed, the descent is much more gradual; and from the foot of the hill, which is bathed by a rivulet wending its way to the genil, the country is tolerably level, and the road extremely good the remaining distance to saucejo. in former days, this route was practicable for carriages throughout, and with very little labour it might again be made so; but, though the high road from the capital to algeciras and gibraltar, it is but little travelled. the other road from osuna to ronda joins in here on the right. the village of saucejo is a post station three leagues from osuna, and six from ronda. it contains some eight hundred inhabitants, great abundance of stabling, but not one decent house. the posada is a peculiarly unpromising establishment, and the landlady's face such as to shut out all hope of any sound wine being found within its influence. we had left osuna so late in the day, however, that it would have been vain to attempt reaching ronda ere nightfall. we, therefore, reluctantly took possession of the _sala_, and, presenting our sour-faced hostess with a rabbit and some partridges that we had purchased on the road, asked if she could furnish the other requisites for the concorporation of an _olla_, and whether it would be possible to let us have our meal ere midnight; to both of which questions, with sundry consequential nods of the head, she replied severally, _en casa llena, presto se guisa la cena_.[ ] notwithstanding this assurance, our supper was long in making its appearance, for the operations of an _olla_ cannot be hurried. but, when it did come, it bespoke our landlady to be a _cordon bleu_ of the first class; the _pimento_[ ] had been administered with judgment; the _berza_[ ] had duly extracted the flavour from the rabbit and partridges; the _chorizo_[ ] had imparted but the desirable smack of garlic to the other ingredients; and the nutty savour of the _tocino_[ ] was beyond all praise. nor was her wine such as we had expected; though somewhat too light to have much influence on the digestion of the unctuous mess placed before us. from saucejo the road again branches into two, one route proceeding by way of almargen, the other by the venta del granadal. both are _reckoned_ six leagues; but the last mentioned is better than the other, as well as shorter by several miles. it crosses a considerable stream (here called the algamitas, but which is, in fact, the main source of the corbones) by a ford, about three miles from saucejo. the descent to the stream is very bad, and, after keeping along its bank for another mile, the road mounts to some elevated table land, from which the view to the westward is obstructed by the rocky peaks of two detached mountains about a mile off. these may be considered the outposts of the serranía in that direction; and, on the rough side of the more considerable of the two, is the _hermita de caños santos_. the country becomes very wild as the road advances, and rugged tors, partially covered with wood, rise on all sides. at nine miles from saucejo is the lone venta of grañadal, and beyond it the mountains rise to a yet greater height, but their slopes are less abrupt, and are covered with forests of oak and cork. at twelve miles a track branches off to the right, proceeding to the little town of alcalà del valle, which, though distant only about half a mile, is not visible from the road. soon after, a wide valley opens to the view, at the bottom of which, encased by steep rocky banks, flows the river _guadalete_. this river is by some considered the _lethe_ of the ancients; but, if it be so, our long-cherished notions of the beauty of the elysian fields have been wofully faulty, for the country is rather tame, and the soil stony and ungrateful. thus far, however, it answers the description of virgil, that you "breathe in ample fields the soft elysian air." the town of setenil is perched on a crag overhanging the left bank of the guadalete, and distant about three miles from the road, which keeps under the broad summit of the hills forming the northern boundary of elysium. the sides of these are partially cultivated, and, from time to time, a low cottage is met with as the road proceeds; but it soon enters a cork-forest, and, threading its dark mazes for about four miles, gradually gains the crest of the chain of hills overlooking the vale of ronda to the north, whence a splendid view is obtained of the fertile basin, its rock-built fortress, and jagged sierras. the descent on the southern side of the hills is rather rapid, and, after proceeding downwards about a mile, the road is joined on the left by the other route from saucejo. from hence to ronda is two short leagues. the road still continues descending for another mile; and, in the course of the two following, it crosses three deep ravines, watered by copious streams, and planted with all sorts of fruit-trees. in the bottom of one of these dells is ensconced the village of arriate. the last is a deep and very singular rent that extends, east and west, quite across the basin of ronda. immediately after crossing this fissure, the road begins to ascend the range of hills whereon ronda is situated, and, after winding for three miles amongst vineyards, olive grounds, and corn-fields, enters the city on its north side. we were seven hours performing the journey, although the distance is but six _leguas regulares_. i have already given so full a description of ronda, that i will pass on without further remark. to vary the scenery, and moved by curiosity to visit some of the scenes of our acquaintance blas's exploits, we determined to take a somewhat circuitous route homewards, by way of grazalema and ubrique. the distance to the first named town is three long leagues. the road descends gradually to the south-western extremity of the basin of ronda, where the guadiaro, forming its junction with the rio verde, enters a rocky defile, and is lost sight of amidst the roots of the rugged sierras that spread themselves in all directions towards the mediterranean. crossing the last named stream just before its confluence with the guadiaro, the road at once begins ascending towards a deeply marked gap, that breaks the ridge of the mountains which rise along the right bank of the stream. the pass is about four miles from ronda, and commands a splendid view of the fruitful valley, which lies, like an outspread _cornucopia_, at its foot. on the other side, too, the scenery is not less fine, though of a totally different nature. there a singular double-peaked crag rises up boldly and darkly on the left hand, casting its shadow on the bright foliage of an oak forest, which, deep sunk below the rest of the country, spreads its verdant covering as far to the eastward as where the huge sierra endrinal raises its cloud-enveloped head above all the other mountains of the range. high seated on the side of this, a white speck is seen which, in the course of time, proves to be the town of grazalema, whither we are bending our steps. proceeding onwards, from the pass about a mile, the little village of montejaque shows itself, peeping from between the two peaks of the mountain on the left, and, seemingly, quite inaccessible, even to a goat. it is inhabited by a horde of half-tamed saracens, who pride themselves greatly on having foiled all the attempts of the french to make themselves masters of the place;[ ] and, as this elevated little village is but three quarters of a mile from the high road, (which is the principal communication between malaga and cadiz) it must have possessed the means of annoying the enemy considerably. for the next two miles our way lay along the spine of a somewhat elevated ridge; whence we looked down upon the before-mentioned wooded country on one side, and on the other into a well cultivated valley. from the bed of this, but at several leagues' distance, the rock-built town of zahara rears its embattled head. this little fortress is very noted in moorish history; its capture by muley aben hassan, during a period of truce, having provoked the renewal of the war which led to the loss of the crown, not only to himself first, but to his race afterwards. one of the sources of the guadalete flows in this valley, bathing the walls of zahara, which stands on the site of the roman town of lastigi.[ ] the present name, i should imagine, (considering the locality) is derived rather from the arabic word _zaharat_ (mountain top) than _z[=a]hara_, (flowery) as supposed by mr. carter; for the streets are cut out of the live rock on which the place is built. the road to grazalema, now mounting another step, enters a dark forest, and, continuing for five miles along the top of a narrow ridge, descends into a vine-clad valley, that spreads out at the foot of the rough sierra on the side of which grazalema is seated. the ascent to the town is very bad, and is rendered worse than it otherwise would be by being paved--for a paved road in spain is sure to be neglected. we scrambled up with much difficulty, and alighting at the posada, remained for an hour or two, to procure some breakfast, and examine the place. it is a singularly built town, the streets being heaped one above another, like steps; and in several instances they are even worked out of the native rock. there is, nevertheless, a fine open market-place, which we found well supplied with fruit, vegetables, and game, including venison and wild boar; and the town possesses several manufactories of coarse cloths and serges. from its situation, immediately over the mouth of a deep ravine, by which alone access can be obtained to one of the principal passes in the serranía, grazalema occupies a very important military position, and may be considered almost inassailable; for, whilst at its back a perfectly impracticable mountain covers it from attack, it is protected to the north and east by the precipitous ravine it overlooks; up the side of which, even the narrow road from ronda has not been practised without much labour. the only side, therefore, on which it has to apprehend danger, is that fronting the pass above it--i.e. to the westward. but it has the means of offering an obstinate resistance, even in that direction. commanding, as it thus does, so important a passage over the mountains, there can be but little doubt that grazalema stands upon, or near, the site of some roman fortress; and, for reasons which i shall hereafter mention, i feel inclined to place here the town of ilipa.[ ] the inhabitants amount to about , , and are a savage, ruffianly-looking race. during the "war of independence," assisted by their brethren of the neighbouring mountain fastnesses, they frequently rose against their invaders, driving them out of the place; and on one occasion they repulsed a french column of several thousand men, which was sent to dispossess them of their stronghold. on leaving grazalema, the road enters the narrow, rock-bound ravine leading up to the pass, down which a noisy torrent rushes, leaping from precipice to precipice, and lashing the base of the crag-built town, whence we had just issued. a newly-built bridge, whose high-crowned arch places it beyond the anger of the foaming stream, gives a passage to the road to zahara, which winds along the eastern face of the sierra del pinar. our route, however, continues ascending yet a mile and a half along the right bank of the torrent, ere it reaches the long descried gap in the mountain chain, the name of which is _el puerto bozal_. this is considered one of the most elevated passes in the whole serranía de ronda, and must be at least , feet above the level of the sea. the mountains on either side rise to a far greater elevation; that on the right, distinguished by the name of _el pico de san cristoval_, is said (as has already been stated) to have been the first land made by columbus on his return from the discovery of the "new world." the views from this pass are truly grand. at our backs lay the beautifully wooded country we had travelled over in the morning--ronda and its vale, and the distant sierras of el burgo and casarabonela. before us, a wild mountain country extended for several miles; and beyond, spreading as far as the eye could reach, were the vast plains of arcos, through which the gladdening guadalete, winding its way past xeres, turns to seek the bay of cadiz, whose glassy surface the white walls of its proud mistress, and the deep blue ocean, could be seen distinctly on the left, though at a distance of more than fifty miles. from the puerto bozal, a _trocha_, directed straight upon ubrique, strikes off to the left; but the saving in point of distance which this road offers, is counterbalanced by its extreme ruggedness. we, therefore, took the more circuitous route to that place by el broque, which, for the first five miles, is itself sufficiently bad to satisfy most people. the views along it, looking to the south, are very fine; but the lofty barren range of san cristoval, on the side of which it is conducted, shuts out the prospect in the opposite direction. at length, crossing over a narrow tongue that protrudes from the side of the rugged mountain, we entered a dark, wooded ravine, and began to descend very rapidly, and, to our astonishment, by a very good road. after proceeding in this way about a mile, the valley gradually expanding, we emerged from the wood, and found ourselves in a sequestered glen of surpassing loveliness. a neat white chapel, with a picturesque belfry, stood on a sloping green bank on our right hand, and, scattered in all directions about it, were the trim, vine-clad cottages of its frequenters, each screened partially from the sun in a grove of almond, cherry, and orange trees. a crystal stream gurgled through the fruitful dell, which was bounded at some little distance by high wooded hills and rocky cliffs. this secluded retreat is called _la huerta[ ] de benamajáma_,--the peculiarly guttural name proving it to have been a little earthly paradise of the moors. the road, which had thus far been nearly west, here, continuing along the course of the little river posadas, turns to the south; and, keeping under a range of wooded hills on the left hand, in about an hour reaches el broque. this portion of the road is very good, and from it, looking over the great plain bordering the guadalete, may be seen the lofty tower of _pajarete_, perched on a conical mound, at about a league's distance. the justly celebrated sweet wine called by this name was originally produced from the vineyards in its vicinity, but it is now made principally at xeres. el broque is a small clean town, abounding in wood and water, and containing from to inhabitants. to the east it is overshadowed by a range of lofty, wooded hills, which may be considered the last buttresses of the serranía; for the road to cadiz, which here branches off to the right, crossing the posadas, traverses an uninterrupted plain all the way to arcos. the route to ubrique, on the other hand, again strikes into the mountains; though, for yet two miles further, it follows the course of the little river and its impending sierra. arrived, however, at the mouth of a ravine, which brings down another mountain-torrent to the plain, it turns to the north, keeping along the margin of the stream, until the bridge of tavira offers the means of passage; when, crossing to the opposite bank, it once more enters the intricate belt of mountains. the name of the stream which is here crossed is the majaceite; and on its right bank, close to the bridge, is a solitary venta. the scenery is extremely beautiful. the mountains of grazalema, which we had traversed in the morning, form the background; the ruined tower of alamada, perched on an isolated knoll, stands boldly forward in middle distance; and close at hand are the rough, coppiced banks and crystal current of the winding majaceite. from hence to ubrique the country is very wild and rugged. the town is first seen (when about a league off) from the summit of a round-topped hill, six miles from el broque. it is nestled in the bottom of a deep valley, hemmed in by singularly rugged mountains. the first part of the descent is gradual, but a steep neck of land must be crossed ere reaching the town; and, as if to render the approach as difficult as possible, the road over this mound has been paved. amongst the rude masses of sierra that encompass ubrique, numerous rivulets pierce their way to the lowly valley, where, collected in two streams, they are conducted to the town, and, fertilizing the ground in its neighbourhood, cause it to be encircled by a belt of most luxuriant vegetation. the mountains in the vicinity abound also in lead-mines, but they are no longer worked. "where are we to find money? where are we to look for security?" were the answers given to _my_ question, "why not?" the streets of ubrique are wide, clean, and well paved; the houses lofty and good; but the inn, alas! affords the wearied traveller little more than bare walls and a wooden floor. the population of the place may be estimated at souls. it contains some tanneries, water-mills, and manufactories of hats and coarse cloths. it does not strike me as being a likely site for a roman city. we were on horseback by daybreak, having before us a long ride, and, for the first five leagues (to ximena), a very difficult country to traverse. for about a mile the road is paved, and confined to the vale in which ubrique stands by a precipitous mountain. but, the westernmost point of this ridge turned, the route to ximena (leaving a road to alcalà de los gazules on the right) takes a more southerly direction than heretofore, and, entering a hilly country, soon dwindles into a mere mule-track. ere proceeding far in this direction, another road branches off to cortes, winding up towards some cragged eminences that serrate the mountain-chain on the left. the path to ximena, however, continues yet two miles further across the comparatively undulated country below, which thus far is under cultivation; but, on gaining the summit of a hill, distant about four miles from ubrique, a complete change takes place in the face of the country; the view opening upon a wide expanse of forest, furrowed by numerous deep ravines, and studded with rugged tors. the road through this overshadowed labyrinth is continually mounting and descending the slippery banks of the countless torrents that intersect it, twisting and winding in every direction; and, on gaining the heart of the forest, the path is crossed and cut up by such numbers of timber-tracks, and is screened from the sun's cheering rays by so impervious a covering, that the difficulty of choosing a path amongst the many which presented themselves was yet further increased by that of determining the point of the compass towards which they were respectively directed. the guide we had brought with us, though pretending to be thoroughly acquainted with every pathway in the forest, was evidently as much at a _nonplus_ as we ourselves were; and his muttered _malditos_ and _carajos_, like the rolling of distant thunder, announced the coming of a storm. at length it burst forth: the track he had selected, after various windings, led only to the stump of a venerable oak. never was mortal in a more towering passion; he snatched his hat from his head, threw it on the ground, and stamped upon it, swearing by, or at--for we could hardly distinguish which--all the saints in the calendar. after enjoying this scene for some time, we spread ourselves in different directions in search of the beaten track; and, at last, a swineherd, attracted by our calls to each other, came to our deliverance; and our guide, after bestowing sundry _malditos_ upon the wood, the torrents, the timber-tracks, and those who made them, resumed his wonted state of composure, assuring us, that there was some accursed hobgoblin in this _hi-de-puta_ forest, who took delight in leading good catholics astray; that during the war an entire regiment, misled by some such _malhechor_,[ ] had been obliged to bivouac there for the night, to the great detriment of his very catholic majesty's service. soon after this little adventure we reached a solitary house, called the _venta de montera_, which is something more than half way between ubrique and ximena; _i.e._ eleven miles from the former, and nine from the latter. a little way beyond this the road reaches an elevated chain of hills, that separates the rivers sogarganta and guadiaro; the summit of which being rather a succession of peaks than a continuous ridge, occasions the track to be conducted sometimes along the edge of one valley, sometimes of the other. the mountain falls very ruggedly to the first-named river, but in one magnificent sweep to the guadiaro. the views on both sides are extremely fine; that on the left hand embraces gibraltar's cloud-wrapped peaks, the mirror-like mediterranean, spain's prison-fortress of ceuta, and the blue mountains of mauritanía; the other looks over the silvery current of the sogarganta, winding amidst the roots of a peculiarly wild and wooded country, and towards the rock-built little fortress of castellar. the road continues winding along this elevated heather-clad ridge for four miles, and then descends by rapid zig-zags towards ximena. the town lies crouching under the shelter of a rocky ledge, that, detached from the rest of the sierra, and crowned with the ruined towers of an ancient castle, forms a bold and very picturesque feature in the view, looking southward. the town is nearly a mile in length, and consists principally of two long narrow streets, one extending from north to south quite through it, the other leading up to the castle. the rest of the _callejones_[ ] are disposed in steps up the steep side of the impending hill, and can be reached only on foot. the old castle--in great part roman, but the superstructure moorish--is accessible only on the side of the town (east), and in former days must have been almost impregnable. the narrow-ridged ledge whereon it stands has been levelled, as far as was practicable, to give capacity to this citadel, which is yards in length, and varies in breadth from to . it rises gently, so as to form two hummocks at its extremities; and the narrowest part of the inclosure being towards the centre, it has very much the form of a calabash. a strongly built circular tower, mounting artillery, and enclosed by an irregular loop-holed work of some strength, occupies the southern peak of the ridge; and a fort of more modern structure, but feeble profile, covers that in which it terminates to the north. an irregularly indented wall, or in some places scarped rock, connects these two retrenched works along the eastern side of the ridge; but, in the opposite direction, the cliff falls precipitously to the river sogarganta; rendering any artificial defences, beyond a slight parapet wall, quite superfluous. numerous vaulted tanks and magazines afforded security to the ammunition and provisions of the isolated little citadel; but they are now in a wretched state, as well as the outworks generally; for the fortress was partially blown up by ballasteros, (a.d. ) upon his abandoning it, on the approach of the french, to seek a surer protection under the guns of gibraltar. in exploring the ruined tanks of this old moorish fortress, chance directed our footsteps to an unfrequented spot where some smugglers were in treaty with a revenue _guarda_, touching the amount of bribe to be given for his connivance at the entry of sundry mule loads of contraband goods into the town on the following night. we did not pry so curiously into the proceedings of the contracting parties, as to ascertain the precise sum demanded by this faithful servant of the crown for the purchase of his acquiescence to the proposed arrangement, but, from the elevated shoulders, outstretched arms, and down-stretched mouth, of one of the negociators, it was evident that the demand was considered unconscionable; and the roguish countenance of the custom-house shark as clearly expressed in reply, "but do you count for nothing the sacrifice of principle i make?" from the ruined ramparts of fort ballasteros (the name by which the northern retrenched work of the fortress is distinguished) the view looking south is remarkably fine. the keep of the ancient castle, enclosed by its comparatively modern outworks, and occupying the extreme point of the narrow rocky ledge whereon we were perched, stands boldly out from the adjacent mountains; whilst, deep sunk below, the tortuous sogarganta may be traced for miles, wending its way towards the almoraima forest. above this rise the two remarkable headlands of gibraltar and ceuta; the glassy waterline between them marking the separation of europe and africa. that ximena was once a place of importance there can be no doubt, since it gave the title of king to abou melic, son of the emperor of fez; and that it was a roman station (though the name is lost,) is likewise sufficiently proved, as well by the walls of the castle, as by various inscriptions which have been discovered in the vicinity. at the present day, it is a poor and inconsiderable town, whose inhabitants, amounting to about , are chiefly employed in smuggling and agriculture. on issuing from the town, the road to gibraltar crosses the sogarganta, having on its left bank, and directly under the precipitous southern cliff of the castle rock, the ruins of an immense building, erected some sixty years back, for the purpose of casting shot for the siege of gibraltar! the distance from ximena to the english fortress is miles. the road was, in times past, practicable for carriages throughout; and even now is tolerably good, though the bridges are not in a state to drive over. it is conducted along the right bank of the sogarganta; at six miles, is joined by a road that winds down from the little town of castellar on the right; and, at eight, enters the almoraima forest by the "lion's mouth," of which mention has already been made. the river, repelled by the steep brakes of the forest, winds away to the eastward to seek the guadiaro and genil. here i will take a temporary leave of my readers, to seek a night's lodging at a cottage in the neighbourhood, which, being frequented by some friends and myself in the shooting season, we knew could furnish us with clean beds and a _gazpacho_. chapter ii. departure for cadiz--road round the bay of gibraltar--algeciras--sandy bay--gualmesi--tarifa--its foundation--error of mariana in supposing it to be carteia--battle of el salado--mistake of la martiniere concerning it--itinerary of antoninus from carteia to gades verified--continuation of journey--ventas of tavilla and retin--vejer--conil--spanish method of extracting good from evil--tunny fishery--barrosa--field of battle--chiclana--road to cadiz--puente zuazo--san fernando--temple of hercules--castle of santi petri--its importance to cadiz. hoping that the taste of my readers, like my own, leads them to prefer the motion of a horse to that of a ship, the chance of being robbed to that of being sea-sick, and the savoury smell of an _olla_ to the greasy odour of a steam engine, i purpose in my next excursion to conduct them to cadiz by the rude pathway practised along the rocky shore of the straits of gibraltar, and thence, "_inter æstuaria bætis_," to seville, instead of proceeding to those places by the more rapid and now generally adopted means of fire and water. from the last named "fair city" we will return homewards by another passage through the mountains of ronda. to authorise _me_--a mere scribbler of notes and journals--to assume the plural _we_, that gives a delphic importance to one's opinions (but under whose shelter i gladly seek to avoid the charge of egotism), i must state that a friend bore me company on this occasion; our two servants, with well stuffed saddle-bags and _alforjas_, "bringing up the rear." proceeding along the margin of the bay of gibraltar, leaving successively behind us the ruins of fort st. philip, which a few years since gave security to the right flank of the lines drawn across the isthmus in front of the british fortress; the crumbling tower of _cartagena_, or _recadillo_, which, during the seven centuries of moslem sway, served as an _atalaya_, or beacon, to convey intelligence along the coast between algeciras and malaga; and, lastly, the scattered fragments of the yet more ancient city of carteia, we arrive at the river guadaranque. the stream is so deep as to render a ferry-boat necessary. that in use is of a most uncouth kind, and so low waisted that "almanzor," who was ever prone to gad amongst the spanish lady rosinantes, could not be deterred from showing his gallantry to some that were collected on the opposite side of the river, by leaping "clean out" of the boat before it was half way over. fortunately, we had passed the deepest part of the stream, so that i escaped with a foot-bath only. the road keeps close to the shore for about a mile and a half, when it reaches the river palmones, which is crossed by a similarly ill-contrived ferry. from hence to algeciras is three miles, the first along the sea-beach, the remainder by a carriage-road, conducted some little distance inland to avoid the various rugged promontories which now begin to indent the coast, and to dash back in angry foam the hitherto gently received caresses of the flowing tide. the total distance from gibraltar to algeciras, following the sea-shore, is nine english miles; but straight across the bay it is barely five. algeciras, supposed to be the tingentera of the ancients, and by some the julia traducta of the romans, received its present name from the moors--_al chazira_, the island. in the days of the moslem domination, it became a place of great strength and importance; and when the power of the moors of spain began to wane, was one of the towns ceded to the emperor of fez, to form a kingdom for his son, abou melic, in the hope of presenting a barrier that would check the alarming progress of the christian arms. from that time it became a constant object of contention, and endured many sieges. the most memorable was in - , during which cannon were first brought into use by its defenders. it, nevertheless, fell to the irresistible alfonso xi., after a siege of twenty months. at that period, the town stood on the right bank of the little river miel (instead of on the left, as at present), where traces of its walls are yet to be seen; but its fortifications having shortly afterwards been razed to the ground by the moors, the place fell to decay, and the present town was built so late as in . it is unprotected by walls, but is sheltered from attack on the sea-side by a rocky little island, distant yards from the shore. this island is crowned with batteries of heavy ordnance, and has, on more occasions than one, been found an "ugly customer" to deal with. the anchorage is to the north of the island, and directly in front of the town. the streets of algeciras are wide and regularly built, remarkably well paved, and lined with good houses; but it is a sun-burnt place, without a tree to shelter, or a drain to purify it. being the port of communication between spain and her _presidario_, ceuta, as well as the military seat of government of the _campo de gibraltar_, it is a place of some bustle, and carries on a thriving trade, by means of _felucas_ and other small craft, with the british fortress. the population may be reckoned at , souls, exclusive of a garrison of from twelve to fifteen hundred men. the spaniards call the rock of gibraltar _el cuerpo muerto_,[ ] from its resemblance to a corpse; and, viewed from algeciras, it certainly does look something like a human figure laid upon its back, the northernmost pinnacle forming the head, the swelling ridge between that and the signal tower, the chest and belly, and the point occupied by o'hara's tower the bend of the knees. the direct road from algeciras to cadiz crosses the most elevated pass in the wooded mountains that rise at the back of the town, and, from its excessive asperity, is called "_the trocha_," the word itself signifying a _bad_ mountain road. the distance by this route is sixty-two miles; by tarifa it is about a league more, and this latter road is not much better than the other, though over a far lower tract of country. on quitting the town, the road, having crossed the river miel, and passed over the site of "old algeciras," situated on its right bank, edges away from the coast, and, in about a mile, reaches a hill, whence an old tower is seen standing on a rocky promontory; which, jutting some considerable distance into the sea, forms the northern boundary of a deep and well sheltered bay. the spanish name for this bight is _la ensenada de getares_; but by us, on account of the high beach of white sand that edges it, it is called "sandy bay." it strikes me this must be the _portus albus_ of antoninus's itinerary, since its distance from carteia corresponds exactly with that therein specified, and renders the rest of the route to gades _intelligible_, which, otherwise, it certainly is not. but more of this hereafter. within two miles of algeciras the road crosses two mountain torrents, the latter of which, called _el rio picaro_[ ] (i presume from its occasional _treacherous_ rise), discharges itself into the bay of getares. thenceforth, the track becomes more rugged, and ascends towards a pass, (_el puerto del cabrito_) which connects the _sierra santa ana_ on the right with a range of hills that, rising to the south, and closing the view in that direction, shoots its gnarled roots into the straits of gibraltar. the views from the pass are very fine--that to the eastward, looking over the lake-like mediterranean and towards the snowy sierras of granada; the other, down upon the rough features of the spanish shore, and towards the yet more rugged mountains of africa; the still distant atlantic stretching away to the left. the former view is shut out immediately on crossing the ridge: but the other, undergoing pleasing varieties as one proceeds, continues very fine all the way to tarifa. the road is now very bad, being conducted across the numerous rough ramifications of the mountains on the right hand, midway between their summits and the sea. at about seven miles from algeciras it reaches the secluded valley of gualmesi, or guadalmesi, celebrated for the crystaline clearness of its springs, and the high flavour of its oranges; and, crossing the stream, whence the romantic dell takes its name, directs itself towards the sea-shore, continuing along it the rest of the way to tarifa; which place is distant twelve miles from algeciras. the stratification of the rocks along this coast is very remarkable: the flat shelving ledges that border it running so regularly in parallel lines, nearly east and west, as to have all the appearance of artificial moles for sheltering vessels. it is on the contrary, however, an extremely dangerous shore to approach. the old moorish battlements of tarifa abut against the rocky cliff that bounds the coast; stretching thence to the westward, along, but about yards from, the sea. it is not necessary, therefore, to enter the fortress; indeed, one makes a considerable détour in doing so; but curiosity will naturally lead all englishmen--who have the opportunity--to visit the walls so gallantly defended by a handful of their countrymen during the late war; and those who cannot do so may not object to read a somewhat minute description of them. the town closes the mouth of a valley, bound by two long but slightly marked moles, protruded from a mountain range some miles distant to the north; the easternmost of which terminates abruptly along the sea-shore. the walls extend partly up both these hills; but not far enough to save the town from being looked into, and completely commanded, within a very short distance. their general lines form a quadrangular figure, about yards square; but a kind of horn work projects from the n.e. angle, furnishing the only good flanking fire that the fortress can boast of along its north front. every where else the walls, which are only four feet and a half thick, are flanked by square towers, themselves hardly solid enough to bear the _weight_ of artillery, much less its blows. at the s.w. angle, but within the enceinte of the fortress, and looking seawards, there is a small castle, or citadel, the _alcazar_ of its moorish governors; and immediately under its machicoulated battlements is one of the three gateways of the town. the two others are towards the centre of its western and northern fronts. in the attack of , the french made their approaches against the north front of the town, and effected a breach towards its centre, in the very lowest part of the bed of the valley; thus most completely "taking the bull by the horns;" (and tarifa bulls are not to be trifled with--as every spanish _picador_ knows,) since the approach to it was swept by the fire of the projecting _horn_-work i have before mentioned. when the breach was repaired, a marble tablet was inserted in the wall, bearing a modest inscription in latin, which states that "this part of the wall, destroyed by the besieging french, was re-built by the british defenders in november, ." when the french again attacked the fortress, in , profiting by past experience, they established their breaching batteries in a large convent, distant about yards from the walls on the west front of the town; and, favouring their assault by a feigned attack on the gate in its south wall, they carried the place with scarcely any loss. the streets of tarifa are narrow, dark, and crooked; and, excepting that they are clean, are in every respect moorish. the inhabitants are rude in speech and manners, and amount to about . from the s.e. salient angle of the town, a sandy isthmus juts about a thousand yards into the sea, and is connected by a narrow artificial causeway with a rocky peninsula, or island, as it is more generally termed, that stretches yet or yards further into the straits of gibraltar. this is the most southerly point of europe, being in latitude ° ' ", which is nearly six miles to the south of europa point. the island is of a circular form, and towards the sea is merely defended by three open batteries, armed _en barbette_; but to the land side, it presents a bastioned front, that sweeps the causeway with a most formidable fire. a lighthouse stands at the extreme point of the island, which also contains a casemated barrack for troops, and some remarkable old tanks, perhaps of a date much prior to the arrival of the saracens. the foundation of the town of tarifa is usually ascribed to tarik aben zaide, the first mohammedan invader of spain; who probably, previous to crossing the straits, had marked the island as offering a favourable landing-place, as well as a secure depôt for his stores, and a safe refuge in the event of a repulse. mariana, however, imagined, that tartessus, or carteia--which he considered the same place--stood upon this spot; and, under this persuasion, he speaks of the admiral of the pompeian faction retiring there, after his action with cæsar's fleet, and drawing a chain across the mouth of the port to protect his vessels; a circumstance which alone proves that carteia was not tarifa; since it must be evident to any one who has examined the coast attentively, that no port could possibly have existed there, which could have afforded shelter to a large fleet, and been closed by drawing a chain across its mouth. others, again, suppose tarifa to occupy the site of mellaria. but i rather incline to the opinion of those who consider it doubtful whether _any_ roman town stood upon the spot; an opinion for which i think i shall hereafter be able to assign sufficient reason. as tarifa was the field wherein the mohammedan invaders of spain obtained their first success, so, six centuries after, did it become the scene of one of their most humiliating defeats; the battle of the _salado_, gained a.d. , by alphonso xi., of castile, having inflicted a blow upon them, from the effects of which they never recovered. four crowned heads were engaged in that sanguinary conflict--the king of portugal, as the ally of the castillian hero; jusuf, king of granada; and abu jacoob, emperor of morocco. the last-named, according to the spanish historians, had crossed over from africa, with an army of nearly half a million of men, to avenge the death of his son, abou melic; killed the preceding year at the battle of arcos. the little river, which gave its name to that important battle gained by the christian army on its banks, winds through a plain to the westward of tarifa, crossing the road to cadiz, at about two miles from the town.[ ] the valley is about three miles across, and extends a considerable distance inland. it is watered by several mountain streams that fall into the salado. that rivulet is the last which is met with, and is crossed by a long wooden bridge on five stone piers. the term _salado_ is of very common occurrence amongst the names of the rivers of the south of spain; though in most cases it is used rather as a term signifying a _water-course_, than as the name of the rivulet: thus _el salado de moron_ is a stream issuing from the mountains in the vicinity of the town of moron; _el salado de porcuna_ is a torrent that washes the walls of porcuna; and so with the rest. as, however, the word in spanish signifies salt, (used adjectively) it has led to many mistakes, and occasioned much perplexity in determining the course of the river _salsus_, mentioned so frequently by hirtius; but to which, in point of fact, the word _salado_ has no reference whatever, being applied to numerous streams that are perfectly free from salt. on the other hand, it might naturally be supposed that the word _salido_ (the past participle of the verb _salir_, to issue) would have been used if intended to signify a source or stream issuing from the mountains. it seems to me, therefore, that the word _salado_ must be a derivation from the arabic _s[=a]l_, a water-course in a valley; which, differing so little in sound from _salido_, continued to be used after the expulsion of the moors; until at length, its derivation being lost, it came to be considered as signifying what the word actually means in spanish, viz. impregnated with salt. at the western extremity of the plain, watered by the _salado de tarifa_, a barren sierra terminates precipitously along the coast, leaving but a narrow space between its foot and the sea, for the passage of the road to cadiz. under shelter of the eastern side of this sierra, standing in the plain, but closing the little thermopylæ, i think we may place the roman town of mellaría,[ ] eighteen miles from carteia, and six from belone claudia, according to the itinerary of antoninus; and mentioned by strabo as a place famous for curing fish. tarifa, which, as i have said before, is supposed by some authors to be on the site of mellaría, is in the first place rather too near calpe carteia to accord with that supposition; and in the next, it is far too distant from belon; the site of which is well established by numerous ruins visible to this day, at a _despoblado_,[ ] called bolonia. it may be objected, on the other hand, that the position which i suppose mellaría to have occupied, is as much too far removed from carteia, as tarifa is too near it: and following the present road, it certainly is so. but there is no reason to take for granted that the ancient military way followed this line; on the contrary, as the romans rather preferred straight to circuitous roads, we may suppose that, as soon as the nature of the country admitted of it, they carried their road away from the coast, to avoid the promontory running into the sea at tarifa. now, an opportunity for them to do this presented itself on arriving at the valley of gualmesi, from whence a road might very well have been carried direct to the spot that i assign for the position of mellaría; which road, by saving two miles of the circuitous route by tarifa, would fix mellaría at the prescribed distance from carteia, and also bring it (very nearly) within the number of miles from belon, specified in the roman itinerary, viz. six; whereas, if mellaría stood where tarifa now does, the distance would be nearly _ten_. the city of belon appears to have slipped bodily from the side of the mountain on which it was built (probably the result of an earthquake), as its ruins may be distinctly seen when the tide is out and the water calm, stretching some distance into the atlantic. vestiges of an aqueduct may also be traced for nearly a league along the coast, by means of which the town was supplied with water from a spring that rises near cape palomo, the southernmost point of the same sierra under which belon was situated. in following out the itinerary of antoninus--according to which the total distance from calpe to gades is made seventy-six miles[ ]--the next place mentioned after belon claudia is besippone, distant twelve miles. this place, it appears to me, must have stood on the coast a little way beyond the river barbate; and not at vejer, (which is several miles inland) as some have supposed; for the distance from the ruins of bolonia to that town far exceeds that specified in the itinerary. vejer (or beger, as it is indifferently written) may probably be where a roman town called besaro stood, of which besippo was the port; the latter only having been noticed in the itinerary from it being situated on the direct military route from carteia to gades; the former by pliny,[ ] as being a place of importance within the _conventus gaditani_. from besippone to mergablo--the next station of the itinerary--is six miles; and at that distance from the spot where i suppose the first of those places to have stood, there is a very ancient tower on the sea side, (to the westward of cape trafalgar) from which an old, apparently roman, paved road, now serving no purpose whatever, leads for several miles into the country. from this tower to cadiz--crossing the santi petri river _at its mouth_--the distance exceeds but little twenty-four miles; the number given in the itinerary. the distances i have thus laid down agree pretty well throughout with those marked on the roman military way; which, it may be supposed, were not _very exactly_ measured, since the fractions of miles have in every case been omitted. the only objection which can be urged to my measurements is, that they make the roman miles too long. having, however, taken the olympic stadium (in this instance) as my standard, of which there are but to a degree of the meridian, or seventy-five roman miles; and as my measurements, even with it, are still rather _short_, the reply is very simple, viz. that the adoption of any _smaller_ scale would but _increase the error_. from the spot where i suppose mellaría to have stood--which is marked by a little chapel standing on a detached pinnacle of the _sierra de enmedio_, overhanging the sea--the distance to the rio baqueros is two miles; the road keeping along a flat and narrow strip of land, between the foot of the mountain and the sea. the coast now trends to the south west, a high wooded mountain, distinguished by the name of the sierra de _san mateo_, stretching some way into the sea, and forming the steep sandy cape of _paloma_, a league on the western side of which are the ruins of belon. the road to cadiz, however, leaves the sea-shore to seek a more level country, and, inclining slightly to the north, keeping up the _val de baqueros_ for five miles, reaches a pass between the mountains of san mateo and enmedio. the valley is very wild and beautiful. laurustinus, arbutus, oleander, and rhododendron are scattered profusely over the bed of the torrent that rushes down it; and the bounding mountains are richly clothed with forest trees. from the pass an extensive view is obtained of the wide plain of vejer, and _laguna de la janda_ in its centre. descending for two miles and a half,--the double-peaked sierra _de la plata_ being now on the left hand, and that of _fachenas_, studded with water-mills, on the right--the road reaches the eastern extremity of the above-named plain, where the direct road from algeciras to cadiz falls in, and that of medina sidonia branches off to the right. the cadiz route here inclines again to the westward, and, in three miles, reaches the _venta de tavilla_. from hence two roads present themselves for continuing the journey; one proceeding along the edge of the plain; the other keeping to the left, and making a slight détour by the _sierra de retin_; and when the plain is flooded, it is necessary to take this latter route. let those who find themselves in this predicament avoid making the solitary hovel, called the _venta de retin_, their resting-place for the night, as i was once obliged to do; for, unless they are partial to a guard bed, and to go to it supperless, they will not meet with accommodation and entertainment to their liking. we will return, however, to the _venta de tabilla_, which is a fraction of a degree better than that of retin. from thence the distance to vejer is fourteen miles. the first two pass over a gently swelling country, planted with corn; the next six along the low wooded hills bordering the _laguna de la janda_; the remainder over a hilly, and partially wooded tract, whence the sea is again visible at some miles distance on the left. in winter the greater part of the plain of vejer is covered with water, there being no outlet for the _laguna_; which, besides being the reservoir for all the rain that falls on the surrounding hills, is fed by several considerable streams. a project to drain the lake was entertained some years ago; but, like all other spanish projects, it failed, after an abortive trial. in its present state, therefore, the whole surface of the plain is available only for pasture; and numerous herds are subsisted on it. the gentle slopes bounding it, being secure from inundation, are planted with corn. vejer is situated on the northern extremity of a bare mountain ridge, that stretches inland from the coast about five miles, and terminates in a stupendous precipice along the right bank of the river barbate. towards the sea, however, it slopes more gradually, forming the forked headland, for ever celebrated in history, called cape trafalgar. when arrived within half a mile of the lofty cliff whereon the town stands, the road enters a narrow gorge, by which the barbate escapes to the ocean; this part of its course offering a remarkable contrast to the rest, which is through an extensive flat. a stone bridge of three curiously constructed arches, said to be roman, gives a passage over the stream; and a venta is situated on the right bank, immediately under the town; the houses of which may be seen edging the precipice, at a height of five or six hundred feet above the river. the road to cadiz, and consequently all others,--it being the most southerly,--avoids the ascent to vejer, which is very steep, and so circuitous as to occupy fully half an hour. but the place is well worth a visit, if only for the sake of the view from the church steeple, which is very extensive and beautiful; and taken altogether, it is a much better town than could be expected, considering its truly out-of-the-way situation. that it was a roman station, its position alone sufficiently proves; but whether it be the besaro, or belippo, or even besippo of pliny, seems doubtful. it occupies a tolerably level space; though bounded on three sides by precipices, and is consequently still a very defensible post, notwithstanding its walls are all destroyed. the streets are narrow, but clean and well paved; and the place contains many good houses, and several large convents. the inns, however, are such wretched places, that on one occasion, when i passed a night there, i had to seek a resting-place in a private house. the barbate is navigable for large barges up to the bridge; but the difficulty of access to the town prevents its carrying on much trade. the population amounts to about , souls. there is a delightful walk down a wooded ravine on the western side of the town, by which the road to cadiz and the valley of the barbate may be regained quicker than by retracing our footsteps to the venta. of this latter i feel bound to say--after much experience--that there is not a better halting-place between cadiz and gibraltar; albeit, many stories are told of robberies committed even within its very walls. let the traveller take care, therefore, to show his pistols to mine host, and to lock his bedroom door. we resumed our journey with the dawn. the road keeps for nearly a mile along the narrow, flat strip between the bank of the river, and the high cliff whereon the town is perched. the gorge then terminates, and an open country permits the roads to the different neighbouring places to branch off in their respective directions. from hence to medina sidonia is thirteen miles; to alcalà de los gazules, twenty; and to chiclana--whither we were bound--fifteen;--but, leaving these three roads on the right, we proceeded by a rather more circuitous route to the last mentioned place, by conil and barrosa. the distance from vejer to conil is nine miles; the country undulated and uninteresting. conil is a large fishing town, containing a swarming population of , souls. the smell of the houses where the tunny fish (here taken in great abundance) are cut up and cured, extends inland for several miles; but the inhabitants consider it very wholesome; and to my animadversive remarks on the filth and effluvium of the place itself, answer was made, "_no hay epidemia aqui_;"[ ]--quite a sufficient excuse, according to their ideas, for submitting to live the life of hogs. we arrived just as the fishermen had enclosed a shoal of tunny with their nets; so, putting up our horses, we waited to see the result of their labours. the whole process is very interesting. the tunny can be discovered when at a very considerable distance from the land; as they arrive in immense shoals, and cause a ripple on the surface of the water, like that occasioned by a light puff of wind on a calm day. men are, therefore, stationed in the different watch towers along the coast, to look out for them, and, immediately on perceiving a shoal, they make signals to the fishermen, indicating the direction, distance, &c. boats are forthwith put to sea, and the fish are surrounded with a net of immense size, but very fine texture, which is gradually hauled towards the shore. the tunny, coming in contact with this net, become alarmed, and make off from it in the only direction left open to them. the boats follow, and draw the net in, until the space in which the fish are confined is sufficiently small to allow a second net, of great strength, to circumscribe the first; which is then withdrawn. the tunny, although very powerful, (being nearly the size and very much the shape of a porpoise) have thus far been very quiet, seeking only to escape under the net; and have hardly been perceptible to the spectators on the beach. but, on drawing in the new net, and getting into shallow water, their danger gives them the courage of despair, and furious are their struggles to escape from their hempen prison. the scene now becomes very animated. when the draught is heavy--as it was in this instance--and there is a possibility of the net being injured, and of the fish escaping if it be drawn at once to land, the fishermen arm themselves with harpoons, or stakes, having iron hooks at the end, and rush into the sea whilst the net is yet a considerable distance from the shore, surrounding it, and shouting with all their might to frighten the fish into shallow water, when they become comparatively powerless. in completing the investment of their prey, some of the fishermen are obliged even to swim to the outer extremity of the net, where, holding on by the floats with one hand, they strike, with singular dexterity, such fish as approach the edge, in the hope of effecting their escape, with a short harpoon held in the other. the men in the boats, at the same time, keep up a continual splashing with their oars, to deter the tunny from attempting to leap over the hempen enclosure; which, nevertheless, many succeed in doing, amidst volleys of "_carajos!_" the fish are thus killed in the water, and then drawn in triumph on shore. they are allowed to bleed very freely; and the entrails, roes, livers, and eyes, are immediately cut out, being perquisites of different authorities. the flesh is salted, and exported in great quantities to catalonia, valencia, and the northern provinces of the kingdom. a small quantity of oil is extracted from the bones. some years since, the duke of medina sidonia enjoyed the monopoly of the tunny fishery on this part of the coast, which was calculated to have given him a yearly profit of £ sterling. but, at the time of my visit, he had been deprived of this privilege, much to the regret of the inhabitants of conil; for the nets and salting-houses, being the property of the duke, had to be hired, and as there were no capitalists in the place able to embark in so expensive a speculation as the purchase of others, the "company" that engaged in the fishery was, necessarily, composed of strangers to conil, whose only object was to obtain the greatest possible profit during the short period for which they held the duke's property on lease. they, consequently, drove the hardest bargain they could with the poor inhabitants, who, accustomed all their lives to this employment, could not turn their hands to any other, and were forced to submit. i do not mean to defend monopolies in general, but what i have stated shows, that in the present state of spain they are almost unavoidable evils. the inhabitants of conil, at all events, complained most bitterly of the change. the fishery lasts from march to july, and the season of which i write (then drawing to a close,) was considered a very successful one, tunny having been taken at conil, and at barrosa. each fish is worth ten dollars, or two pounds sterling. the falling off has, however, been most extraordinary, as in former days we read of , fish having been taken annually. from conil the road keeps along the coast for twelve miles, to barrosa, a spot occupying a distinguished place in the pages of history, but marked only by an old tower on the coast, and a small building, called a _vigia_, or watch-house, situated on a knoll that rises slightly above the general level of the country. this was the great object of contention on the celebrated th march, . never, perhaps, were british soldiers placed under greater disadvantages than on this glorious day, through the incapacity or pusillanimity, or both, of the spanish general who commanded in chief. and though far more important victories have been gained by them, yet the cool bearing and determined courage that shone forth so conspicuously on this occasion, by completely removing the erroneous impression under which their opponents laboured, as to the fitness of englishmen for soldiers, produced, perhaps, better effects than might have attended a victory gained on a larger scale, under _more favourable_ circumstances. i have met with spaniards who absolutely shed tears when speaking of this battle, in which they considered our troops had been so shamefully abandoned by their countrymen, or rather by the general who led them. nor is it surprising that the english character should stand so high as it does in this part of the peninsula, when, within the short space of a day's ride, three such names as tarifa, trafalgar, and barrosa, are successively brought to recollection. the walls of the watch-house of barrosa still bear the marks of mortal strife, and the hill on which it stands is even yet strewed with the bleached bones of the horses which fell there; but so slight is the command the knoll possesses--indeed in so unimportant, pinched-up a corner of the coast is it situated--that those who are not aware of the unaccountable events which led to the battle, may well be surprised at its having been chosen as a military position. striking into the pine-forest, which bounds the field of battle to the west, we arrived in about half an hour at the bridge and mill of almanza, and proceeding onwards, in four miles reached chiclana; first winding round the base of a conical knoll, surmounted by a chapel dedicated to _santa ana_. chiclana is the highgate of the good citizens of cadiz, and contains many "genteel family residences," adapted for summer visiters; but the place is disgracefully dirty, so that little benefit can be expected from _change of air_. the gardens in its vicinage offer agreeable promenades, however; and there is a fine view from the chapel of _santa ana_, whence may be seen "fair cadiz, rising o'er the dark blue sea." chiclana contains a population of about souls, and boasts of possessing a tolerably good _posada_, whereat _calesas_, and other vehicles, may be hired to proceed to the neighbouring towns; the roads to all, even the direct one to vejer, being open to wheel carriages. a rivulet bathes the north side of the town, dividing it from a large suburb, and flowing on to the santi petri river. the cadiz road, crossing this stream by a long wooden bridge, proceeds for three miles and a half (in company with the routes to _puerto santa maria_, _puerto real_, and _xeres_,)[ ] along a raised causeway, which keeps it above the saltpans and marshes that render the _isla de leon_ so difficult of approach. arrived at a wide stream, a ferry-boat affords the means of passage; and, on gaining the southern bank, the great road from cadiz to madrid (passing through the towns above mentioned) presents itself. taking the direction of cadiz, our passports were immediately demanded at the entrance of a fortified post, called the _portazgo_,[ ] the first advanced redoubt of the multiplied defences of the _isla de leon_. from thence the road is conducted, for nearly a mile, through bogs and saltpans, as before, to the _puente zuazo_, a bridge over the river _santi petri_, or _san pedro_. this, by the way, is rather an arm of the sea than a river, since it communicates between the bay of cadiz and the ocean, and forms the _isla_ (island) _de leon_, which otherwise would be an isthmus. the channel is very wide, deep, and muddy; the bridge has five arches, and was built by a doctor _juan sanchez de zuazo_ (whence its name), on the foundation of one that existed in the days of the romans, and is supposed to have served as an aqueduct to supply cadiz with water from the _sierra de xeres_. it is protected by a double tête de pont; and has one arch cut, and its parapets pierced with embrasures, to enable artillery to fire down the stream. soon after reaching the right bank of the san pedro, the long straggling town of the isla, or, more properly, _san fernando_, commences. the main street is upwards of a mile in length, wide, and rather handsome. the population of this place is estimated at , souls; but it varies considerably, according to the date of the last visitation of yellow fever. at the southern extremity of the city a low range of hills begins, which stretches for a mile and a half towards the sea. the causeway to cadiz, however, is directed straight upon the _torre gorda_, standing upon the shore more to the westward, and three miles distant from the town of _san fernando_. here commences the narrow sandy isthmus that connects the point of land on which cadiz is built with the _isla_. it is five miles long, and in some places so narrow, that the waves of the atlantic on one side, and those of the bay of cadiz on the other, reach the walls of the causeway. about half way between the _torre gorda_ and cadiz, the isthmus is cut across by a fort called the _cortadura_, beyond which it becomes much wider. at five miles to the eastward of the _torre gorda_, or tower of hercules, as it is also called, is the mouth of the santi petri river, and four miles only beyond it is the _vigia de barrosa_; so that the distance from thence to cadiz is almost doubled by making the détour by chiclana. it is more than probable, therefore, that the romans had a military post, commanding a _flying bridge_, at the mouth of the river; for, in the itinerary of antoninus, the coast-road from _calpe_ to _gades_ was not directed from _mergablo_ "_ad pontem_," as in the route laid down from _gades_ to _hispalis_ (seville), but "_ad herculem_;"--that is, it may be presumed, to the temple of hercules,[ ] situated, according to common tradition, on a part of the coast near the mouth of the santi petri river, over which the waves of the atlantic now roll unobstructed; and the supposed site of which temple is the same distance from cadiz as the bridge of zuazo, thereby agreeing with the roman itineraries. at the distance of yards from the river's mouth a rocky islet rises from the sea, bearing on its scarped sides the inapproachable little castle of _santi petri_, the bleached walls of which are said to have been built from the ruins of the famed temple of hercules. contemptible as this isolated fortress appears to be, as well from its size as from any thing that art has done for it, the fate of cadiz, nevertheless, depends in a great measure upon its preservation; since, from the command the castle possesses of the entrance of the river, an enemy, who may gain possession of it, is enabled to force the passage of the stream under its protecting fire, and take in reverse all the defenses of the _isla de leon_. cadiz would thereby be reduced to its own resources; and strong as cadiz is, yet, like all fortresses defended only by art, it must eventually fall. the surrender of the castle of _santi petri_ to the french, in the siege of , occasioned the immediate fall of cadiz, its defenders seeing that further resistance would be unavailing; whereas, the capture of the _trocadero_, about which so much was thought, did little towards the reduction of the place. indeed, the _trocadero_ was in possession of the enemy during the whole period of the former siege, - . chapter iii. cadiz--its foundation--various names--past prosperity--made a free port in the hope of ruining the trade of gibraltar--unjust restrictions on the commerce of the british fortress--description of cadiz--its vaunted agremens--society--monotonous life--cathedral--admirably built sea wall--naval arsenal of la carraca--road to xeres--puerto real--puerto de santa maria--xeres--its filth--wine stores--method of preparing wine--doubts of the ancient and derivation of the present name of xeres--carthusian convent--guadalete--battle of xeres. the date of the foundation of cadiz is lost in the impenetrable chaos of heathen mythology. one of the numerous conquerors, distinguished by the general name of hercules, who, in early ages, carried their victorious arms to the remotest extremities of europe, appears to have erected a temple at the westernmost point of the rocky ledge on which cadiz now stands; and round this temple, doubtless, a town gradually sprung up. but the place came only to be known and distinguished by the name _gadira_, when the commercial enterprise of the phoenicians led them to make a settlement on this defensible island; and the foundation of the temple dedicated to hercules, which strabo describes as situated at the eastern extremity of the same island, "where it is separated from the continent by a strait only about a stadium in width," is ascribed to pygmalion, nearly nine centuries before the christian era. gadira, or gades, to which the name now became corrupted, was the first town of spain forcibly occupied by the carthagenians, who, throwing off the mask of friendship, took possession of it about the year b.c. . it was the last place that afforded them a refuge in the war which shortly followed with the romans, into whose hands it fell, b.c. . from the romans it afterwards received the name of augusta julia, probably from its adherence to the cause of cæsar, who restored to the temple of hercules the treasures of which it had been plundered during the civil wars that had previously distracted the country. but its old name, altered apparently to its present orthography by the moors, seems always to have prevailed. under the moslems, cadiz does not appear to have enjoyed any very great consideration; and it was wrested from them without difficulty by san fernando, soon after the capture of seville. on the discovery of america, cadiz became, next to seville (which was endowed with peculiar privileges), the richest city of spain. its imports at that time amounted annually to eleven millions sterling. but since the loss of the american colonies, its prosperity has been rapidly declining; and some years back, when the intestine troubles of spain rendered it impossible for her to afford protection to her commerce, the trade of cadiz may be said to have ceased. a _fillip_ was, however, given to its commerce, for it would be absurd to call it an attempt to restore it--about nine years since, by making it a free port. but this apparently liberal act, not having been accompanied by any reduction of the duties imposed on foreign produce introduced for consumption into the country, was merely a disgraceful contrivance on the part of the king and his ministers to obtain money. on the promulgation of the edict constituting cadiz a free port, it became at once an entrepôt for the produce of all nations; the goods brought to it being subjected only to a trifling charge for landing, &c. the proceeds of this pitiful tax went to the coffers of the municipality, which had paid the king handsomely for the "act of grace" bestowed upon the city; and no source of revenue was opened to the public treasury by the grant of this special privilege, since the goods landed at cadiz could only be carried into the interior of the country on payment of duties that amounted to an absolute prohibition of them, and they were, consequently, introduced surreptitiously by bribing the city authorities and custom-house officers; who, in their turn, paid large sums for their respective situations to the ministers of the crown! such is the way in which the commercial concerns of spain are conducted. the whole affair was, in fact, a temporary expedient to raise money by selling cadiz permission to smuggle. at the same time, the spanish government--by offering foreign merchants a mart which, at first sight, seemed more conveniently situated for disposing of their goods than gibraltar--hoped to give a death-blow to the commerce of the british fortress, which it had found to thrive, in spite of all the iniquitous restrictions imposed upon it; such, for instance, as the exaction of duties on goods shipped from thence, double in amount to those levied on the _same articles_, if brought from the ports of france and italy; the depriving even spanish vessels, if coming from, or touching at, gibraltar, of all advantages in regard to the rate of duty otherwise granted to the national flag;[ ] and various other abuses, to which it is astonishing the british government has so long quietly submitted. the scheme, however, though successful for a time against gibraltar, did no permanent good to cadiz; and the trade of the place has relapsed into its former sickly state. "cadiz! sweet cadiz," has been so extolled by modern authors, that i am almost afraid to say what i think of it. it strikes me, that the very favourable impression it usually makes on my countrymen is owing to its being, in most cases, the first place they see after leaving england; or, perchance, the first place they have seen out of england; to whose gloomy brick-built towns its bright houses and battlements offer as agreeable a contrast, as the picturesque costume of its inhabitants does to the ill-cut garments of the natives of our island. under any circumstances, however, the first impression made by cadiz is favourable, unless you enter by the fish-market. the streets are straight, tolerably well lighted, and remarkably well paved, many of them having even the convenience of a _trottoir_. there is one handsome square, and the houses, generally, are lofty, and those which are inhabited are clean. but many are falling rapidly to decay, from the diminished population and prosperity of the place. on the other hand, the city does not contain one handsome public building; and, if one leaves the principal thoroughfares, its boasted cleanliness and "sweetness" turn out to be mere poetical delusions. in fact, the vaunted _agrémens_ of the city to me were undiscoverable. there is but one road to ride upon, one promenade to walk upon, one sheet of water to boat upon. the alameda, on which much hyperbolical praise has been bestowed, is a dusty gravel walk, extending about half a mile along the ramparts. it is lined--not shaded--with stunted trees, and commands a fine view of the marsh-environed bay when the tide is in, and a disagreeable effluvium from it when the tide is out; and, i must say, that i never could perceive any more "harmony and fascination" in the movements of the pavonizing _gaditanas_ who frequent it, than in those of the fair promenaders of other spanish towns. the _plaza de san antonio_ is a square, situated in the heart of the city, which, paved with large flag-stones, and lighted with lamps, may be considered a kind of treadmill, that fashion has condemned her votaries to take an hour's exercise in after the fatigues of the day. the society of cadiz is now but second rate; for it is no longer inhabited as in bygone days, when the nobility from all parts of the kingdom sought shelter behind its walls. at the tertulias of the first circle, gaming is the principal pastime, and i have been given to understand that the play is very high. the public amusements are few. there is a tolerable theatre, where italian operas are sometimes performed; but, for the great national diversion, the bull-fight, the inhabitants have to cross the bay to puerto santa maria. in fine, for one whose time is not fully occupied by business, i know of few _less_ agreeable places of residence than cadiz. the transient visiter, who prolongs his stay beyond two days, will find time hang very heavy on his hands; for having, in that short space, seen all the place contains, he will be driven to wile away the tedious hours after the usual manner of its inhabitants, viz., by devoting the morning to the _cafés_ and billiard-rooms, the afternoon to the _siesta_, evening to the alameda, dusk to the plaza san antonio and its _neverias_,[ ] and night to the tertulias--for such is the life of a spanish _man of pleasure_! the hospitable mansion of the british consul general affords those who have the good fortune to possess his acquaintance a happy relief from this monotonous and wearisome life; and, besides meeting there the best society the place affords, the lovers of the fine arts will derive much gratification from the inspection of mr. brackenbury's picture gallery, which contains many choice paintings of murillo, and the best spanish masters. what few other good paintings cadiz possesses are scattered amongst private houses. the churches contain none of any merit. in one of the franciscan convents, however, is to be seen a painting that excites much interest, as being the last which occupied the pencil of murillo, though it was not finished by him. our conductor told me that a most distinguished english nobleman had offered guineas for it, but the pious monks refused to sell it to a heretic!--perhaps, his grace did not know before on what _conscientious_ grounds his liberal offer had been declined. the old cathedral is not worth visiting. the new one, as it is called, was commenced in the days of the city's prosperity; but the source from whence the funds for building it were raised, failed ere it was half finished; and there it stands, a perfect emblem of spain herself!--a pile of the most valuable materials, planned on a scale of excessive magnificence, but put together without the slightest taste, and falling to decay for want of revenue![ ] the walls of the city--excepting those of its land front, which are remarkably well constructed, and kept in tolerable order--are in a deplorable state of dilapidation, and in some places the sea has undermined, and made such breaches in them, as even to threaten the very existence of the city, should it be exposed to a tempest similar to that which did so much mischief to it some seventy years since. this decay is particularly observable, too, on the south side of the fortress, where the sea-wall is exposed to the full sweep of the atlantic; and here the mischief has resulted chiefly from the want of timely attention to its repairs, for the wall itself is a perfect masterpiece of the building art. regarding it as such, i venture to devote a small space to its description, conceiving that a hint may be advantageously taken therefrom in the future construction of piers, wharfs, &c. in our own country; and i am the more induced to do so, since so small a portion of the work remains in its pristine state, that it already must be spoken of rather as a thing that _has been_, than one which _is_. the great object of the builder was to secure the foundation of his wall from the assaults of the ocean, which, at times, breaks with excessive violence upon this coast. for this purpose, he formed an artificial beach, by clearing away the loose rocks which lay strewed about, and inserting in the space thus prepared and levelled, a strong wooden frame-work formed of cases dovetailed into and well fastened to each other. these cases were filled with stones, and secured by numerous piles. the surface was composed of beams of wood, placed close together, carefully caulked, and laid so as to form an inclined plane, at an angle of eight degrees and a half with the horizon. this beach extended twenty-seven yards from the sea-wall; and its foot, by resting against a kind of breakwater formed of large stones, was saved from being exposed, vertically, to the action of the sea. the waves, thus broke upon the artificial beach, and running up its smooth surface without meeting the slightest resistance, expended, in a great measure, their strength ere reaching the foot of the wall. to avoid, however, the shock which would still have been felt by the waves breaking against the ramparts, (especially when the sea was unusually agitated) had the planes of the beach and wall met at an angle, the upper portion of the surface of the artificial beach--for about fifteen feet--was laid with large blocks of stone, and united in a curve, or inverted arch, with the casing of the walls of the rampart; and the waves being, by this means, conducted upwards, without experiencing a check, spent their remaining strength in the air, and fell back upon the wooden beach in a harmless shower of spray. so well was the work executed, that many portions of the arch which connected the beach with the scarped masonry of the rampart are yet perfect, and may be seen projecting from the face of the wall, about twenty feet above its foundation; although the beach upon which it rested has been entirely swept away. another cause, besides neglect, has contributed greatly to the destruction of this work; namely, the injudicious removal of the stones and ledges of rock which formed the breakwater of the beach, for erecting houses and repairing the walls of the city. the ride round the ramparts would be an agreeable variety to the _eternal paseo_ on the _camino de ercoles_,[ ] but for the insufferable odours that arise from the vast heaps of filth deposited on one part of it. to such an extent has this nuisance reached, that, without another river alpheus, even the hard-working son of jupiter (the city's reputed founder) would find its removal no easy task. the arsenal of the _carracas_ is situated on the northern bank of the santi petri river, about half a mile within the mouth by which that channel communicates with the bay of cadiz, and at a distance of two leagues from the city, to which it has no access by land. its plan is laid on a magnificent scale, and it may boast of having equipped some of the most formidable armaments that ever put to sea; but it is now one vast ruin, hardly possessing the means of fitting out a cockboat. a fire, that reduced the greater part of it to ashes some five and thirty years since, furnishes the national vanity with an agreeable excuse for its present condition. the road from cadiz to port st. mary's is very circuitous, and offers little to interest any persons but military men and salt-refiners. i will, therefore, pass rapidly over it--which its condition enables me to do--merely observing that, from the branching off of the chaussée to chiclana at the _portazgo_, it makes a wide sweep round the salt marshes at the head of the bay of cadiz, to gain _puerto real_ (eighteen miles from cadiz); and then leaving the peninsula of the _trocadero_ on the left, in four miles reaches a long wooden bridge over the guadalete--here called the river san pedro. two miles further on it crosses another stream by a similar means; and this second river, which is connected with the guadalete by a canal, has become the principal channel of communication between xeres and the bay of cadiz. a road now turns off to the right to xeres; another, on the left, to puerto santa maria; and that which continues straight on proceeds to san lucar, on the guadalquivír. puerto real is a large but decayed town, possessing but little trade,[ ] and no manufactories. its environs, however, are fertile--enabling it to contend with port st. mary's in supplying the cadiz market with fruit and vegetables;--and a good crop of hay might even be taken from its streets after the autumnal rains!--the population is estimated at , souls. puerto santa maria is a yet larger town than puerto real, and is computed to contain , inhabitants. it is situated within the mouth and extending along the right bank of the river, into which the guadalete has been partly turned. the entrance to the harbour is obstructed by a sand bank, which is impassable at low tide; and at times, when the wind is strong from the s. w., this bar interrupts altogether the water communication with cadiz.[ ] the distance between the two places, across the bay, is but five miles; by the causeway, twenty-four. the main street of puerto santa maria is of great length, wide, and rather handsome; and the place has, altogether, a very thriving look; for which it is indebted, as well to the great share it enjoys of the xeres wine trade,[ ] as to the fruitfulness of its fields and orchards. the country, to some considerable extent round the town, is perfectly flat; and the soil (a dark alluvial deposit,) is rich, and highly cultivated; it is, in fact, the market-garden of cadiz, the inhabitants of which place would die of scurvy, if cut off for six months from the lemon-groves of port st. mary. the position of puerto santa maria seems to correspond pretty well with that of the portus gaditanus of antoninus, viz., miles from the puente zuazo, (_pons_;) the difference being only that between english and roman miles. but, besides that there is every appearance of the guadalete having altered its course, and consequently swept away all traces of the roman port, (or yet more ancient one of _menesthes_, according to strabo,) a fertile soil is, of all things, the most inimical to the _preservation_ of _ruins_; for gardeners will have no respect for old stones when they stand in the way of cabbage-plants. it would, therefore, be vain to look for any vestiges of the ancient town, in the vicinity of the modern one. to proceed to xeres, we must retrace our steps, along the chaussée to cadiz, for about a mile; when, leaving the two roads branching off to puerto real and san lucar on the right and left, our way continues straight on, traverses a cultivated plain for another mile, and then ascends a rather steep ridge, distinguished in this flat country by the name of _sierra de xeres_, though scarcely feet high. the view from the summit of this ridge is, nevertheless, remarkably fine. it embraces the whole extent of the bay of cadiz; the bright towns which stand upon its margin; the curiously intersected country that cuts them off from each other; and the winding courses of the guadalete and santi petri. the slope of the hill is very gradual on the side facing xeres, and the view is tame in comparison with that in the opposite direction. the road, which traverses a country covered with corn and olives, is _carriageable_ throughout; but there is a better route, which turns the sierra to the eastward, keeping nearer the marshes of the guadalete. the distance from puerto santa maria to xeres, by the direct road, is nine miles; by the post route, ten. xeres is situated in the lap of two rounded hillocks, which shelter it to the east and west; and it covers a considerable extent of ground. the city, properly so called, is embraced by an old crenated moorish wall, which, though enclosing a labyrinth of narrow, ill-built, and worse drained streets, is of no great circuit, and is so intermixed with the houses of the suburbs, as to be visible only here and there. the limits of the ancient town are well defined, however, by the numerous gateways still standing, and which, from the augmented size of the place, appear to be scattered about it without any object. some of the old buildings and narrow streets are very sketchy, and the number of gables and chimneys cannot fail to strike one who has been long accustomed to the flat-roofed cities of andalusia. the principal merchants of the place reside mostly in the suburbs; where, besides having greater space for their necessarily extensive premises, their wine stores are better situated for ventilation; a very important auxiliary in bringing the juice of the grape to a due state of perfection. the numerous clean and lofty stores, interspersed with commodious and well-built houses, gardens, greenhouses, &c., give the suburbs an agreeable, refreshing appearance. but it is needful to walk the streets with nose in air, and eyes fixed on things above; for, though much wider, and consequently more freely exposed to the action of the sun and air, than those of the circumvallated city, they are yet more filthy, and quite as nauseating. now and then, indeed, a generous brown sherry odour salutes the third sense, counteracting, in some degree, the unwholesome effects of the noxious cloacal miasms. but the bad scents prevail in the proportion of ten to one; and, like the far-famed distilling city of cologne, xeres seems to have bottled up, and hermetically sealed, all its sweets for exportation. the population of the place is enormous--being estimated at no less than , souls. but the amount is subject to great variations, dependant on the recentness of the last endemic fever, generated in its pestiferous gutters. the inhabitants are all, more or less, connected with the wine trade--which is the only thing thought of or talked of in the place. the store-houses are all above ground. they are immense buildings, having lofty roofs supported on arches, springing from rows of slender columns; and their walls are pierced with numerous windows, to admit of a thorough circulation of air. some are so large as to be capable of containing butts, and are cool, even in the most sultry weather. the exhalations are, nevertheless, rather _overcoming_, even unaided by the numerous _samples_, of which one is tempted to make trial. the number of butts annually made, or, more correctly speaking, _collected_, at xeres, amounts to , . of this number, one half is exported to england, and includes the produce of nearly all the choicest vineyards of xeres; for, in selecting their wines for shipment, the xeres houses carefully avoid mixing their first-growth wines with those of lighter quality, collected from the vineyards of moguer, san lucar, and puerto real; or even with such as are produced on their own inferior grounds. the remaining , butts are in part consumed in the country; where a light wine, having what is called a _manzanilla_[ ] flavour, is preferred--or sold to the shippers from other places, where they are generally mixed with inferior wines. the total number of butts shipped, annually, from the different ports round the bay of cadiz, may be taken at the following average-- from xeres , almost all to england. " puerto santa maria , chiefly to england and the united states. { principally to the habana, " chiclana , { the ports of mexico, and " puerto real { buenos ayres. ------- total , ------- but, besides the above, a prodigious quantity of wine finds its way to england from moguer and san lucar, which one never hears of but under the common denomination of sherry. most of the principal merchants are growers, as well as venders of wine; which, with foreign houses, renders it necessary that one partner of the firm, at least, should be a roman catholic; for "_heretics_" cannot hold lands in spain. those who are growers have a decided advantage over such as merely make up wines; for the latter are liable to have the produce of the inferior vineyards of san lucar, moguer, and other places, mixed up by the grower of whom they purchase. all sherries, however, are _manufactured_; for, it would be almost as difficult to get an unmixed butt of wine from a xeres merchant, as a direct answer from a quaker. but there is no concealment in this mixing process; and it is even quite necessary, in order to keep up the stock of old wines, which, otherwise, would soon be consumed. these are kept in huge casks--not much inferior in size to the great ton of heidelberg--called "_madre_"[ ] butts; and some of these old ladies contain wine that is years of age. it must, however, be confessed, that the plan adopted in keeping them up, partakes somewhat of the nature of "_une imposture delicate_;" since, whenever a gallon of wine is taken from the year old butt, it is replaced by a like quantity from the next in seniority, and so on with the rest; so that even the very oldest wines in the store are daily undergoing a mixing process. it is thus perfectly idle, when a customer writes for a "ten-year old" butt of sherry, to expect to receive a wine which was grown that number of years previously. he will get a most excellent wine, however, which will, probably, be prepared for him in the following manner:--three-fourths of the butt will consist of a three or four year old wine, to which a few gallons of _pajarete_, or _amontillado_,[ ] will be added, to give the particular flavour or colour required; and the remainder will be made up of various proportions of old wines, of different vintages: a dash of brandy being added, to preserve it from sea-sickness during the voyage. to calculate the age of this mixture appears, at first sight, to involve a laborious arithmetical operation. but it is very simply done, by striking an average in the following manner:--the _fond_, we will suppose, is a four-years' old wine, with which figure we must, therefore, commence our calculations. to flavour and give age to this foundation, the hundred and twenty years' old "_madre_" is made to contribute a gallon, which, being about the hundreth part of the proposed butt, diffuses a year's maturity into the composition. the centiginarian stock-butt next furnishes a quantity, which in the same way adds another year to its age. the next in seniority supplies a proportion equivalent to a space of two years; and a fourth adds a similar period to its existence. so that, without going further, we have + + + + = , as clear as the sun at noon-day, or a demonstration in euclid. this may appear very like "_bishoping_," or putting marks in a horse's mouth to conceal his real age. but the intention, _in the case of the wine_, is by no means fraudulent, but simply to distribute more equally the good things of this life, by furnishing the public with an excellent composition, which is within the reach of many; for, if this were not done, the consequence would be, that the xeres merchant would have a small quantity of wine in his stores, which, from its extreme age, would be so valuable, that few persons would be found to purchase it, and a large stock of inferior wines, which would be driven out of the market by the produce of other countries. the quality of the wine depends, therefore, upon the quantity and age of the various _madre_ butts from which it has been flavoured; and the taste is varied from dry to sweet, and the colour from pale to brown, by the greater or less admixture of _pajarete_, _amontillado_, and _boiled_ sherry. i do not think that the custom of adding boiled wine obtains generally, for it is a very expensive method of giving age. it is, however, a very effectual mode, and one that is considered equivalent to a voyage across the atlantic, at the very least. i have heard of an extensive manufacturer (not of wine) in our own country, who had rather improved on this plan of giving premature old age to his wines. he called one of the steam-engines of his factory _bencoolen_, and another _mobile_; and, slinging his butts of sherry and madeira to the great levers of the machinery, gave them the benefit of a ship's motion, as well as a tropical temperature, without their quitting his premises; and, after a certain number of weeks' oscillation, he passed them off as "east and west india _particular_." the sweet wines of xeres are, perhaps, the finest in the world. that known as _pajarete_ is the most abundantly made, but the _pedro ximenes_ is of superior flavour. there is also a sweet wine flavoured with cherries, which is very delicious. the light dry sherries are also very pleasant in their pure state, but they require to be mixed with brandy and other wines, to keep long, or to ship for the foreign market. those, therefore, who purchase _cheap sherry_ in england may be assured that it has become a _light_ wine since its departure from spain. the number of _winehouses_ at xeres is quite extraordinary. of these, as many, i think, as five-and-twenty export almost exclusively to england. the merchants are extremely hospitable; they live in very good style, and are particularly choice of the wines that appear at their tables. the spanish antiquaries have by no means settled to their satisfaction what roman city stood on the site of modern xeres. the common opinion seems to be, that it occupies the place of _asta regia_, mentioned by pliny as one of the towns within the marshes of the guadalquivír. florez, however, labours to prove that it agrees better with _asido_. but i do not think his arguments get over the difficulty arising from the expression "_in mediterraneo_," applied to that city; which agrees better with _medina sidonia_ than xeres, the latter being close upon the flats of the guadalquivír, whereas the other is decidedly _inland_ with reference to them. the medals of asido, florez describes as having sometimes a bull, and at others a "fish of the _tunny_ kind," upon them. now this latter emblem is, most certainly, more applicable to medina sidonia than xeres, since no fish of the "tunny kind" ever could have frequented the shallow muddy stream of the guadalete. and though the city of medina sidonia is situated on the summit of a high hill, sixteen miles from the sea, yet we may take it for granted that its jurisdiction extended as far as the coast, to the eastward of the isla de leon; since it does not appear that any town of note intervened between cadiz and besaro, or besippone. the same author derives the name xeres from the persian _zeiraz_ (schiras); supposing it may have been so called from that having been the country of the moslem chief who captured regia. the word assimilates with our mode of pronouncing the name of the existing town; and the wine of schiraz was not less esteemed of old amongst the easterns, than sherry is now by us, and appears ever to have been by the ancients; for tradition ascribes to bacchus the foundation of nebrissa, in the vicinity of xeres. may not, therefore, the celebrity of its vineyards have led the arabs to call the town schiraz, or xeres, rather than the country of the chief who conquered it? xeres was captured from the moors by san fernando, and, becoming thenceforth one of the bulwarks of the christian frontier, changed its name from _xeres sidonia_ to _xeres de la frontera_, by which it continues to be distinguished from others. the guadalete does not approach within a mile and a half of xeres. this river is the chryssus of the romans; and the spaniards, ever prone to boast of the ancient celebrity of their country, maintain it to be the mythological lethe of yet more remote times. on its right bank (about three miles on the road to medina sidonia) stands a carthusian convent of some note. the pious founders of this edifice--as indeed was their wont--located themselves in a most enviable situation. the "_elisios xerexanos prados_" were spread out before them, covered with fat beeves, and herds of high caste horses, belonging to the order. the perfume of the surrounding orange-groves penetrated to the innermost recesses of this house of prayer and penance. the juice of the luscious grape, and the oil of the purple olives that grew upon the sunny bank whereon it stands, found their way, with as little obstruction, into its cells and cellars. but still, with this canaan in their possession, these austere disciples of st. bruno affected to despise the things of this world, and held not communion with their fellow-creatures! the edifice is fast falling to decay; the brotherhood is reduced to a score of decrepit old men; and--what alone is to be regretted--the celebrated breed of horses has become extinct. the guadalete winds through the valley overlooked by the _cartuja_,[ ] and is crossed by a stone bridge of five arches. on gaining the southern bank of the river, roads branch off in all directions. that to the left--keeping up the valley--proceeds to paterna (sixteen miles from xeres), and _alcalà de los gazules_ (twenty-five miles). another, continuing straight on, goes to medina sidonia (eighteen miles); and a third, that presents itself to the right, is directed across the country to chiclana, reducing the distance to that place from twenty-six miles (by the post-road) to sixteen. about four miles below the bridge are some store-houses, a wharf, and ferry, called _el portal_, from whence the river is navigable to port st. mary's. _el portal_ may be considered the port of xeres, to which place (distant about three miles) there is a good wheel-road. the fatal battle which gave spain up to the dominion of the saracens (a.d. ) was fought on the southern bank of the guadalete, about five miles from xeres, on the road to paterna. the robes and "horned helmet" of roderick, which he is supposed to have thrown off to facilitate his escape, were found on the bank of the river, where a small chapel, dedicated to our lady of _leyna_, now stands. the sanguinary fight is stated--with the customary spanish exaggeration--to have lasted eight days! and then only to have been decided in favour of the mohammedans by treason. but however much we may admire the valour displayed by the gothic monarch, in thus obstinately defending his crown, yet the rashness he was guilty of, in drawing up his forces on such a field (in a country abounding in strong positions, where the enemy's superiority of numbers would not have availed them), proves him to have been as little fitted to command an army as to govern a kingdom. chapter iv. choice of roads to seville--by lebrija--mirage--the marisma--post road--cross road by las cabezas and los palacios--difficulty of reconciling any of these routes with that of the roman itinerary--seville--general description of the city--the alameda--display of carriages--elevation of the host--public buildings--the cathedral--lonja--american archives--alcazar--casa pilata--royal snuff manufactory--cannon foundry--capuchin convent--murillo--theatre of seville--observations on the state of the national drama--moratin--the bolero--spanish dancing--the spaniards not a musical people. the traveller who journeys on horseback has the choice of several roads between xeres and seville. the shortest is by the marshes of the guadalquivír, visiting only one town, lebrija, in the whole distance of eleven leagues. the longest is the post route, or _arrecife_, which makes a very wide circuit by utrera and alcalá de guadaira, to avoid the swampy country bordering the river. from this latter road several others diverge to the left, cutting off various segments of the arc it describes; and in summer these routes are even better than the highway itself, though heavy and much intersected by torrents in winter. on the first-named or shortest road, the town of lebrija alone calls for observation. it is about fifteen miles from xeres, and stands on the side of a slightly-marked mound, that stretches some little way into the wide-spreading plain of the guadalquivír. the knoll is covered with the extensive ruins of a castle--a joint work of romans and moors--which during the late war was put into a defensible state by the french. most writers agree in placing here the roman city of nebrissa;[ ] in which name that of the modern town may readily be distinguished. it is distant about five miles from the guadalquivír, and contains three convents, and a population of , souls. the posada is excellent. the country from xeres to lebrija presents an undulated surface, which is clothed with vines and olives; but thenceforth the banks of the "_olivifero boetis_" are devoted entirely to pasture, and the road is most uninterestingly flat: so flat, indeed, that there is scarcely a rise in the whole twenty-eight miles from lebrija to seville. it is not passable in winter, and but one wretched hovel, called the _venta del peleon_, offers itself as a resting-place. the river winds occasionally close up to the side of the road, and from time to time a barge or passage boat, gliding along its smooth surface, breaks the wearisome monotony of the scene; but in general the tortuous stream wanders to a distance of several miles from the road, and is altogether lost to the sight in an apparently interminable plain, that stretches to the westward. the misty vapour, or _mirage_, which rises from and hangs over the low land bordering the river, produces singular deceptions; at times giving the whole face of the country in advance the semblance of a vast lake; at others, magnifying distant objects in a most extraordinary manner. on one occasion, we were surprised to see what had every appearance of being a large town rise up suddenly before us; and it was only when arrived within a few hundred yards of the objects we had taken for churches and houses, that we became convinced they were but a drove of oxen. these imaginary oxen proved in the end, however, to be only a flock of sheep. the _marisma_,[ ] for such is the name given to this low ground, affords pasturage for immense herds of cattle of all sorts, and the herbage is so fine as to lead one to wonder what becomes of all the _fat_ beef and mutton in spain. the post road from xeres to seville, as i have already mentioned, is very circuitous, increasing the distance from forty-three to fifty-six miles--reckoned fifteen and a half post leagues. for the first thirteen miles, that is, to the post house of _la casa real del cuervo_, the road traverses a country rich in corn and olives, but skirting for some considerable distance the western limits of a vast heath, called the _llanura de caulina_, whereon even goats have difficulty in finding sustenance. the first league of the road is perfectly level, the rest hilly. a little beyond the post house of el cuervo, a road strikes off to the left to lebrija. the _arrecife_, proceeding on towards utrera, crosses numerous gulleys by which the winter torrents are led down from the side of the huge _sierra gibalbin_, which, here raising its head on the right, stretches to the north for a mile or two, keeping parallel to the road, and then again sinks to the plain. this passed, the remainder of the road to utrera is conducted along what may be termed the brow of a wide tract of low table land, which, extending to the foot of the distant _serranía de ronda_ on the right, breaks in the opposite direction into innumerable ramifications, towards the plain of the guadalquivír. in the entire distance to utrera, (twenty-four miles from _el cuervo_) there is not a single village on the road, and but very few farms or even cottages scattered along it. it is plentifully furnished with bridges for crossing the various _barrancas_[ ] that drain the mountain ravines in the winter, and by means of these bridges the chaussée is kept nearly on a dead level throughout. about midway there is another post house. this road is so perfectly uninteresting, that, availing myself of the earliest opportunity of quitting it and proceeding to seville by a more direct, if not a more diversified route, i will strike into a well-beaten track that presents itself, edging away to the left, about three miles beyond _el cuervo_, and is directed on las cabezas de san juan, distant about six miles from the post road. las cabezas de san juan is a wretched little village, which inscriptions found in its vicinity have decided to be the _ugia_[ ] of the romans. it is situated on a knoll, commanding an extensive view over the circumjacent flat country, and some years since contained a population of a thousand or twelve hundred souls. but, having been the hotbed wherein riego's conspiracy was brought to unnatural maturity, it was razed to the ground during the short contest that restored ferdinand to a despotic throne, and "all its pleasant things laid waste." from hence to _los palacios_ is ten miles. the country is flat, and but partially cultivated. a short league before reaching _los palacios_, a long ruined bridge, called _el alcantarilla_, is seen at a little distance off the road on the right. in the time of swinburne, this bridge appears to have been passable, and an inscription was then sufficiently perfect to announce its roman origin. it was probably raised to carry a road from lebrija to utrera across a marshy tract, which in winter is apt to be flooded by the _salado de moron_; or perhaps the road over it may have been directed on _dos hermanos_, which is known to be the roman town of orippo. los palacios is a clean compact village, of about , inhabitants. a plain extends for many miles on all sides of it, but a slight, perhaps artificial, mound rises slightly above the general level of the place on its eastern side, and bears the weight of its ruined castle: the walls of the village itself are also fast crumbling to the dust. the inns are miserable; but a spanish nobleman, with whom we had become acquainted at xeres, had obligingly furnished us with a letter of introduction to a gentleman of the place, who entertained us most hospitably, and very reluctantly--for he wished much to detain us--gave orders to the _dueña_ of his household to have the usual breakfast of chocolate and bread fried in lard prepared for us by daybreak on the following morning. from los palacios to seville the distance is reckoned five "_leguas regulares_," but it is barely fifteen miles. the country to the north of the village is very fruitful, and becomes hilly as one proceeds. at about nine miles there is a solitary venta, on the margin of a stream that comes down from _dos hermanos_; which village is situated about a league off on the right. it is a matter of some little difficulty to make any of the roads between cadiz and seville (that is, from port st. mary's onwards) agree with the route laid down in the itinerary of antoninus. the distance of the _portus gaditanus_ from _hispalis_ is therein stated to be seventy-six roman miles,[ ] or, according to florez, sixty-eight;[ ] which miles, if computed to contain eight _olympic_ stadia each, are equal to seventy, and sixty-three british statute miles respectively; the actual distance from puerto santa maria to seville being, by the chaussée, sixty-six miles; by lebrija and the marshes, fifty-two. on comparing these distances, therefore, one would naturally be led to suppose that the roman military way followed the circuitous line of the existent chaussée, but that monuments and inscriptions, which have been found at las cabezas de st. juan and dos hermanos, prove those places to be the towns of _ugia_ and _orippo_, mentioned in the itinerary as lying upon the road. we are under the necessity, therefore, of adopting a line which reduces the distance from the _portus gaditanus_ to _hispalis_ far below even that given by florez. the only way of meeting all these difficulties and premises seems to be by taking a smaller stadium than the _olympic_. that of - / to a degree of the meridian[ ] i have generally found to agree well with the actual distances of places in spain, and it is a scale which we are warranted in adopting, since it is sometimes used by strabo on the authority of eratosthenes, and pliny admits that no two persons ever agreed in the roman measures. taking this scale, therefore (though a yet smaller would agree better), i fix the first station, _hasta_, at a small table hill, even now called by the spaniards _la mesa de asta_, lying n.n.w. of xeres;[ ] making the distance from the _portus gaditanus_ sixteen miles, as in the itinerary, instead of eight, as altered by florez: a number, by the way, which scarcely agrees better with the actual distance from port st. mary's to xeres--at which latter place he fixes hasta--than the sixteen miles of the original. the next place mentioned in the itinerary is _ugia_; determined, as has been already stated, to have stood where las cabezas de san juan is now situated; and the distance from the _mesa de asta_ to this place, passing through _nebrissa_ (lebrija--omitted in the itinerary, as not being a convenient halting-place for the troops), agrees tolerably well with that specified, viz., twenty-seven roman miles. the remaining distances, viz., twenty-four miles to _orippo_ (dos hermanos), and nine to _hispalis_ (seville), agree yet better, though still somewhat below the scale i have adopted. the appearance of seville, approaching it on the side of the _marisma_, is by no means imposing. stretching as the city does along the bank of the guadalquivír, its least diameter meets the view; and, from its standing on a perfect flat, the walls by which it is encircled conceal the most part of the houses, and take off from the height of the hundred spires of its churches--the lofty _giralda_ being the only conspicuous object that presents itself above them. the wide avenue which, after crossing the river _guadaira_, leads up to the city gate, is, however, prepossessing; a spacious botanical garden is on the left hand, and, in advance of the city walls, are the amphitheatre, the royal snuff manufactory, and several other handsome public buildings. seville is generally considered,--at all events by its inhabitants,--the largest city of spain. it is of an oval shape, two miles long, and one and a quarter broad; and, washed by the guadalquivír on the eastern side, is enclosed on the others by a patched-up embattled wall, the work of all ages and nations. the city is tolerably free from suburbs, excepting at the carmona and _rosario_ gates on its western side; but numerous extramural convents, hospitals, barracks, and other public edifices, are scattered about in different directions, which, with the town of triana, on the opposite bank of the river, materially increase the size of the place, and swell the amount of its population to at least , souls. seville cannot be called a handsome city, for it contains but one tolerable street; the houses, however, are lofty, and generally well built, the shops good, and the lamps within sight of each other, which is not usually the case in spanish towns. most of the houses in the principal thoroughfares are built with an edging of flat roof overlooking the street. this part of the house is called the _azotea_, and, with the lower orders, serves the manifold purposes of a dormitory in summer, a place for washing and drying clothes in winter, and a place of assignation at all seasons. in hot weather awnings are spread from these _azoteas_ across the streets, rendering them delightfully cool and shady; the canvass covering, fanned by the breeze, sending down a refreshing air, whilst it serves at the same time as a shelter from the sun. even in the most sultry days of summer, i have never found the streets of seville _impracticable_. there are several spacious squares in various parts of the city; in the largest, distinguished by the extraordinary, though, perhaps, not _unsuitable_ name of _la plaza de la incarnacion_, the market is held. this is abundantly supplied with bread, meat, fish, poultry, and all sorts of vegetables and fruits, and is, perhaps, the cheapest in andalusia; it certainly is the cleanest. the _alamedas_, of which there are two, are equally as well taken care of as the market, though in point of beauty they are not quite deserving of the praise which has been bestowed upon them. one is in the interior of the city, and becomes only a place of general resort when the weather is unsettled. the other more commonly frequented walk is between the walls of the town and the guadalquivír, extending nearly a mile along the bank of the river, from the _torre del oro_ to the bridge of boats communicating with triana. it is well sheltered with trees, and furnished with seats, and is indeed a most delightful and amusing promenade, being nightly crowded with all descriptions of people, from the grandee of the first class to the goatskin clad swineherd, who visits the city for a _sombrero_ of the _ultima moda_, or a fresh supply of _bacallao_. the carriage drive round the walk is generally thronged with equipages of all sorts and ages, any one of which, shown as a _spectacle_ in england, would most assuredly make the exhibitor's fortune. the _blazon_ on the pannels, and venerable cocked hats and laced coats of the drivers and attendants, bespeak them, nevertheless, to belong to _sons of somebody_; and the wives and daughters of somebody seated therein, seem not a little proud of possessing these indubitable proofs of the antiquity of their houses. few of these distinguished personages, however, excepting such as labour under the infliction of gout, rheumatism, or the indelible marks of old age, are satisfied to remain quiet spectators of the gay scene; but, after driving once or twice round the _paseo_ to see _who_ has arrived, alight, and join the flutter of their fans, and, with grief i say it, their loud laugh and conversation to the already over-powering din of the "promiscuous multitude." this scene of gaiety is prolonged until long after the sun has ceased to gild the mirror-like surface of the guadalquivír. the walk, indeed, is still in its most fashionable state of throng, when a tinkling bell, announcing the elevation of the host, marks the concluding ceremony of the vesper service in a neighbouring church. at this signal the motley crowd appears as if touched by the wand of an enchanter. each devout romanist either reverentially bends the knee, or stands statue-like on the spot where the homage-commanding sound first reached the ear. the men take off their hats--the ladies drop their fans. the coachmen check their hacks--the hacks hang down their heads--not a whisper is heard, not an eye is raised. the bell sounds a second time, and animation returns, the breast is marked with repeated crosses, the dust brushed off the knees, "_conques_" innumerable take up the interrupted conversation, and once more "soft eyes look love to eyes which speak again." so ludicrously observant are the spaniards of this ceremony, that, on the ringing of the bell, i once remarked a water-carrier stop in the midst of his sonorous cry, "_a...._" and devoutly uncovering his head, and crossing himself, wait until the second tinkle permitted him again to open his mouth; when, with most comical gravity, he finished the wanting syllable "_gua!_ _agua fres--ca!_" the guadalquivír is about yards wide at seville, where it forms a kind of basin, and is navigable for vessels of tons burthen. it is so liable to be swollen by the freshes poured down from the mountains in the upper part of its course, that a permanent bridge has never been attempted; and the banks are so low, that the floods have frequently reached to the very gates of the city. the influence of the tide is felt some little distance above seville, rendering the water of the river unfit for general purposes. the water of the wells, on the other hand, is considered unwholesome, so that the city is, in a great measure, dependent for its supply of this most necessary article on an aqueduct, that brings a stream from _alcalà de guadaira_, a distance of about nine miles. the populous town of triana is still worse off than seville, for, as the expedient of a leather pipe has not yet been thought of, the "essential fluid" has to be carried across the river on men's or asses' backs, rendering it a most expensive article of consumption; a circumstance that accounts, in a great measure, for the very egyptian complexion of the inhabitants. the public buildings of seville fully entitle the city to its boasted title of the western capital of spain. it contains no less than sixty convents and nunneries, besides numerous other religious establishments and hospitals. the archiepiscopal church is the largest in spain,[ ] its dimensions being feet by ; and it is one of the most splendid piles in the universe. the architecture of the exterior is heavy and tasteless, so that one is but little prepared for the striking change which meets the eye on drawing aside the ponderous leathern curtain that closes the portal, and entering the vast vaulted interior. it is built in the gothic style, not of a florid kind, however, but simple, aërial, and imposing. the colour of the free stone used in its construction is a subdued white; the pavement is laid in squares of black and white marble, and the stained glass windows, which are of extreme beauty, shed a warm, variegated glow throughout the building, that produces an effect well suited to its character. indeed, no cathedral that i have any where seen either presents a more striking coup d'oeil, or draws forth, in a greater degree, that instinctive feeling of devotion implanted in the human breast. the walls, too, are not so disfigured with tawdry chapels, as those of most roman catholic churches, and the few paintings with which they are decorated are _chef d'oeuvres_ of the best spanish masters. one modern painting has, however, been admitted to the collection, rather, i should think, out of compliment to the ladies of seville, than on account of its own merit. it represents two maidens of this saintly city, who, "_mucho tiempo hay_,"[ ] to use our conductor's expression, having been accused of some heretical practices, were exposed to be devoured by a ferocious lion. the gallant sovereign of the woods and forests, instead, however, of making a meal of these tempting morsels of human flesh and imagined frailty, "_se echó à sus pies_," and began caressing them after his feline fashion, to the great astonishment of all beholders! this miraculous want of appetite on the part of the lion, making the innocence of the damsels evident, led, of course, to their liberation, and their names are now enrolled upon the long list of saints of seville. the tower of the cathedral, commonly called _la giralda_, from a colossal statue of _faith_, at its summit, which, with strange inconsistency of character, wheels about at every change of wind, is by no means a handsome structure. it was built by the moors, about years before the city was captured by san fernando, and originally was only feet in height; but a belfry has since been added, which makes it altogether feet high. the tower is fifty feet square, and the ascent is effected by an inclined plane, by means of which, some queen of spain is rumoured to have ridden on horseback to the gallery under the belfry. the view from the summit of the tower fully repays one, even for the labour of ascending it on foot, and i am not quite sure but that the inclined plane rather increases than lessens the fatigue of mounting. from hence alone can a correct idea be formed of the size and splendour of seville. the eye, from this elevation, embraces the whole extent of the city, its long narrow streets, wide circuit of walls, its gateways, magnificent public buildings, and spacious plazas, its verdant orangeries, and its house-top flower-gardens. beyond the busy city, a fruitful plain extends for several miles in every direction; on one side bearing luxuriant crops of corn and olives, on the other, giving pasture to countless herds of cattle; the lovely guadalquivír winding through and fertilizing the whole. the archiepiscopal palace occupies one side of a small square, that is immediately under the _giralda_; the façade of this building is handsome, but we had not an opportunity of seeing the interior, as its worthy occupier was unwell. near the cathedral, but on the opposite side to the archbishop's residence, is the _lonja_; a splendid edifice, which (as the name implies) was originally built for an exchange. but, though the lower suites of apartments are still set apart for the use of the merchants, the building is so inconveniently situated, that no commercial business is transacted there, and the whole of the upper story has been fitted up as a repository for the "american archives." these records are most voluminous, and are preserved with as much care, and ticketed with as great regularity, as if spain shortly intended to resume the sovereignty over her former vast transatlantic possessions. as a mark of especial favour, the tip of my little finger was permitted to rest upon the edge of the first letter written from the _other world_; the keeper of the archives requesting me, at the same time, not to press too hard upon the valuable ms., and assuring us, that most persons were obliged to be satisfied with looking at the precious document bearing the signature of the adventurous columbus, in its glass case. the whole of the shelves, drawers, &c., are of cedar; a wood which has the property of preserving the papers committed to their charge from all descriptions of insects. the floors are laid in chequers of red and blue marble, and the grand staircase is composed of the same, which is highly polished and remarkably handsome. one of the apartments of the vast quadrangle contains two original paintings of columbus and hernan cortes. a little removed from the _lonja_, is the _alcazar_, or royal palace. this is kept up in a kind of half-dress state, and has a governor appointed to its peculiar charge, who usually resides within its precincts. it is built in the moorish style, and is generally supposed to have been the work of moorish hands, though raised only--so at least a gothic inscription on its walls is said to state--by "the puissant king of castile and leon, don pedro." there is probably some little exaggeration in this, and, in point of fact, perhaps, the mighty monarch only repaired and added to the palace of the moorish kings, which the neglect of a hundred years had, in his time, rendered uninhabitable. it is a very inferior piece of workmanship to the alhambra, but, nevertheless, contains much to admire, particularly the ceilings of the apartments (of which there are upwards of seventy), and the walls of one of the courts. the different towers command very fine views over the city and adjacent country, and the gardens are delightful, though of but small extent. the walks are laid with tiles, between which little tubes are introduced vertically, that communicate with waterpipes underneath, and, by merely turning a screw, the whole of the valves of these tubes are simultaneously opened, and each shoots forth a diminutive stream of water. this plan was adopted, as being an improvement on the tedious method usually practised in watering gardens. it affords the facetiously disposed a glorious opportunity of inflicting a practical joke upon unwary visiters to the alcazar; who, conducted to the garden, and then and there seduced, out of mere politeness, to join in the complaint expressed of a want of rain, suddenly find themselves _over_ a heavy shower, and under the necessity of laughing at a piece of wit from which there is no possibility of escape. the _casa pilata_ is another of the sights of seville. it is a private house, said to be built on the exact model of that of the roman governor of jerusalem. it is fitted up with much taste, but its chief beauty consists in a profusion of glazed tiles, which give it actual coolness, as well as a refreshing look. most of the other subjects worthy of the traveller's notice are situated without the walls of the city. the first in order, issuing from the xeres gate, is the _plaza de los toros_, or amphitheatre, an immense circus, one half built of stone, and the other half of wood, and capable of accommodating , persons. the next remarkable object is the _royal tobacco manufactory_, (the term seems rather absurd to english ears,) a huge edifice, so strongly built, and jealously defended by walls and ditches, as to appear rather a detached fort, or citadel, raised to overawe the turbulent city, than an establishment for peacefully grinding tobacco leaves into snuff, and rolling them into cigars. the manufactory employs persons, and of this number are occupied solely in making cigars. but, as i have elsewhere shown, even with the assistance of the royal manufactory lately established at malaga, the supply of _lawful_ cigars is not equal to one-tenth part of the consumption of the country. the demand for snuff may probably be fully met by the royal manufactory; for the spaniards are not great consumers of tobacco through the medium of the nose; and most of the snuffs prepared at seville are extremely pungent, so that "a little goes a great way." there is a coarse kind, however, called, i think, "spanish bran," which is much esteemed by _connoisseurs_. the royal cannon foundry is in the vicinity of the tobacco manufactory, and though this establishment for furnishing the means of consuming powder is not in such activity as its neighbour employed in supplying food for smoke, yet it is in equally good order, and, on the whole, is a very creditable national establishment. the brass pieces made here are remarkably handsome, and very correctly bored, but they want the lightness and finish of our guns--qualities in which english artillery excels all others. two of the "monster mortars," cast by the french for the siege of cadiz, are still preserved here. the cavalry barracks, royal saltpetre manufactory, military hospital, and various other edifices, planned on a scale proportioned to spain's _former_ greatness, together with numerous convents, equally disproportioned to her present wants, follow in rapid succession in completing the circuit of the walls. the most interesting amongst the religious houses is a convent of capuchins, situated near the cordoba gate. it contains twenty-five splendid paintings by murillo, "any one of which," as a modern writer has justly remarked, "would suffice to render a man immortal." murillo was certainly a perfect master of his art. his style is peculiar, and in his early productions there is a coldness and formality that partake of the school of velasquez; but the works of his maturer age are distinguished by a boldness of outline, a gracefulness of grouping, and a depth and softness of colouring, which entitle him to rank with rubens and correggio. the paintings of murillo, though met with in all the best collections of europe, where they take their place amongst the works of the first masters, are, nevertheless, valued by foreigners rather on account of their rarity than of their execution. the fact is, those of his paintings which have left spain are nearly all devoted to the same subject--the madonna and child; and, even in that, offer but little variety either in the disposition, or in the colouring of the figures. the spanish artist is, consequently, accused of want of genius and self-plagiarism. nor does murillo receive due credit for the pains he took in finishing his paintings; for, amongst those of his works which have found their way into foreign collections, there are few which have not received more or less damage, either in the transport from spain, or by subsequent neglect; and, in many instances, the attempts made to restore them by cleaning or retouching have inflicted a yet more severe injury upon them. those persons only, therefore, who have visited spain, and, above all, murillo's native city--seville--can fully appreciate the merits of that wonderful artist. the vast number of master-pieces which he has there left behind him, and the variety of subjects they embrace, sufficiently prove, however, that, whilst in versatility of talent he has been equalled by few, in point of _industry_ he almost stands without a rival. besides the twenty-five paintings in the capuchin convent, already noticed, the _hóspital de la caridad_ contains several of murillo's master-pieces; two, in particular, are deserving of notice--the subjects are, the miracle of the loaves and fishes, and moses striking the rock. the great size of these two paintings saved them from a journey to paris, but the french, in their zeal for the encouragement of the fine arts, stripped the chapel of all the other works of murillo that enriched it--only a few of which were restored at the peace of . other paintings of the spanish rafael are to be found in the various churches of seville, and every private collector (of whom the city contains many,) prides himself on being the possessor of at least one _original_ of his illustrious fellow-citizen. the theatre of seville has ever held a comparatively distinguished place in the dramatic annals of spain; and, lamentable as is the condition to which the national stage has been reduced, the capital of andalusia may still be considered as one of the most _playgoing_ places in the kingdom. this may, perhaps, partly be accounted for by the number of dramatic authors to whom the city has given birth, partly by the peculiar disposition of the inhabitants of the province, who are deeper tinged with romance, and have more imagination than the rest of the natives of the peninsula. the deplorable atrophy under which the drama has of late years been languishing in every part of europe[ ] had, aided by various predisposing circumstances, long been undermining the at no-time very robust constitution of the spanish theatre; which, like a condemned criminal, existed only from day to day, at the will and pleasure of a despotic sovereign; and had, moreover, constantly to combat the hostility of the priesthood: a bigoted race, prone at all times to discourage an art, which, by enlarging the understandings of the community, tended to diminish the respect with which their own profane melo-dramatic mysteries were regarded. the priests, in fact, have always been, and ever will be, averse to their flock being fleeced by any other shears than their own. considering, therefore, the obstacles which the spanish theatre has had to contend against, obstacles which were yet more formidable in that country in times past than they are at the present day, it cannot but be admitted that the drama was cultivated in spain with a degree of success which could little have been expected. our own early dramatists, indeed, drew largely from the prolific sources opened by lope de vega, calderon, and other spanish writers of the sixteenth century; and, perhaps, to the example set by those authors is our stage indebted for its release from the thraldom in which others are yet held, by a preposterous, though _classic_, adherence to the preservation of the unities. the drama (in the strict sense of the term) never, however, became a popular amusement with the spaniards generally. the legal disabilities imposed upon the performers by the intrigues of the romish church brought the profession of an actor into disrepute, and, as a natural consequence, checked the progress of the histrionic art. the stage had no door opening to preferment, and the knight of the buskin (to whom, by the way, the _don_ was interdicted), though endowed with the talents of a talma or a kemble, of a liston or a potier, ranked below the lowest of the train of bullfighters, and could never expect to amass a fortune, or hope to be considered otherwise than as a "diverting vagabond." a spanish actress was yet more discouragingly circumstanced, as, however irreproachable her character, she held only the same grade in society as the frail ciprian whose beauty gained her livelihood. labouring under such disadvantages, it is not surprising, therefore, that thalia and euterpe should eventually have been driven from the spanish stage, and a licentious monster--the illegitimate offspring of comus and impudicitia--have been crowned with the palm-wreath snatched from the brows of the immortal parnassides. the modern spanish dramatic authors--if it be not profanation so to call them--pandering to the vitiated taste of the day, indulge in all the licence of aristophanes, without varnishing their obscenities with the brilliancy of his wit. they write, in fact, for auditors, who, whilst endowed with a quick perception of the ridiculous, are too ignorant to discriminate between right and wrong, and cannot perceive where legitimate satire ends, and libertinism commences; who, possessing a vast stock of native wit, inherit with it a coarse, degenerate taste. the human frailties of the monastic orders are, consequently, the favourite subjects now held up to ridicule on the stage, as if to prove the truth of voltaire's lines, _"les prêtres ne sont point ce qu'un vain peuple pense, _notre credulité fait toute leur science_;"_ and no modern _saynete_[ ] is considered perfect, unless some member of their church is brought forward to serve as a recipient for the ribald jokes of an andalusian _majo_, or to become the amatory dupe of an intriguing _graciosa_. these pieces are not suffered to appear in print; or rather, i should say, perhaps, would not _sell_ if they were printed, for the press of the day has far exceeded the bounds of decorum in giving light to many of the somewhat less objectionable productions of _sotomayor_, _comella_, and other prolific scribblers of vaudevilles. the only modern dramatic writers who have been at all successful in obtaining public favour on worthier grounds, are _iriate_, _martinez de la rosa_, and _moratin_, but their writings are by no means numerous. the plays of the last-named (who is considered the terence of spain) are always well received at seville, where the dramatic taste is somewhat more refined than in the minor provincial towns. they are full of incident, without being encumbered with plot, like those of the old spanish school; and the dialogue is natural and sprightly, without falling into licentiousness or vulgarity. this author's translation of shakspeare's hamlet is lamentably weak, however, for his language is not sufficiently elevated for tragedy. to molière he has done more justice. the spanish language is remarkably well adapted to the stage, being not less melodious than emphatic and dignified; and there is a raciness about it well suited to comedy, though, on the whole, i should say, it is better adapted for tragedy. the national taste is, however, in favour of comedy, which, besides being more congenial to the character of the people, speaks more intelligibly to their uncultivated understandings. and, indeed, it must be confessed, that but for the infinite superiority of the language, the long speeches of the heroes of spanish tragedy would be yet more wearying to listen to, than even the jingling, rhymed declamations of the french drama. it is not surprising, therefore, that the impatient _andaluzes_,--whose whole thoughts are bent upon the coming bolero and laughter-causing farce,--should complain of the interminable "_platicas importunas_" of their tragedies, and even of their _serious_ comedies; especially since they are delivered in a diction which to the lower orders is almost unintelligible, the dialogue being generally carried on in the second person plural, _vos_: a style which is never now heard in common parlance, and is, therefore, quite unnatural to them. i will, however, draw the curtain upon spanish tragedy, and bring the graceful _baylarinas_ upon the stage; at the first click of whose castañets, whilst even yet behind the scenes, every bright eye sparkles with animation, and every tongue is silenced. the bolero, which is the favourite national dance, admits of great variety as well of figures as of movements, for it may be executed by any number of persons, though two or four are generally preferred. it is a purified kind of _fandango_, and, when danced by spaniards, is as graceful and pleasing an exhibition as can be imagined. it is altogether divested of those dervish-like gyrations, and other wonderful displays of limbs and under-petticoats, that are so much the vogue on the boards of london and paris, and on which, in fact, the reputation of a _ballerina_ seems to depend. in spain the taste in dancing has not yet reached this pitch of refinement; for, even in the _cachucha_, when the dancer turns her back upon the spectators, a spanish lady deems it necessary to turn her face from the stage. the castañets, though furnishing but little to the entertainment in the way of music, afford the performers the means of displaying their figures to advantage; and are yet further useful, by giving employment to the hands and arms; which, with most dancers, public as well as private, are generally found to be very much in the way. there are other dances of a less _modest_ character than the _bolero_, which are performed at the minor theatres; but it may be said of spanish public dancing generally, that it is light, spirited, and _poetic_, and admits of the display of considerable grace without being _indecent_. although of all modern languages--that of dulcet italy alone excepted--the spanish is the best adapted to song, yet the spaniards have little or no relish for musical entertainments. the truth is, they are not a musical nation. in expressing this opinion, i am aware that i declare war against a host of preconceived notions; but in proof of my assertion i will ask, what country possesses so little national music as spain? has a single _known_ opera ever been produced there? is not her church music all borrowed? is not the trifling guitar the only instrument the spaniard is really master of? is not the _sostenuto_ bellow of the _arriero_ almost the only approach to melody that the peasant ever attempts? spanish music consists of a few simple airs, which are probably heir-looms of the saracens; and a medley of _boleros_, that may be considered mere variations of one tune. neither their vocal nor instrumental performances ever reach beyond mediocrity, and in concert they invariably sing and play _a faire casser la tête_. a fine climate and a gregarious disposition lead the peasantry to assemble nightly, and amuse themselves by dancing and singing to the monotonous thrumming of a cracked guitar; and this habit has earned for the nation the character of being musical--a character to which the spaniards are little better entitled than the _tom tom_-loving black _apprentices_ of our west india islands. there are exceptions to every rule, and i willingly admit that i have heard an opera of rossini very well performed by spanish "_artists_." but that they do not _pride themselves_ on being a musical nation is evident from their always preferring italian music to their own, though they like to sing spanish words to an italian opera. the theatre is a place of fashionable resort at seville. it fills up a vacuum between the paseo and the tertulia. and when the times are sufficiently quiet to warrant the outlay, a sufficient sum is subscribed to bribe a second-rate italian company to expose their melodious throats to the baneful influence of the sea breezes. the house is large and rather tastily decorated, but so ill-shaped that, unless one is close to the stage, not a word can be heard; and if there, the prompter's voice completely drowns those of the performers. the fall of the curtain at the conclusion of the _bolero_ is generally the signal for the _beau monde_ to retire, leaving the highly seasoned _saynete_ to the enjoyment of the "_gente baja y desreglada_."[ ] this breaking up is not the least amusing part of the play. the antediluvian carriages are again put in requisition; and now, besides the cocked-hatted attendants, each vehicle is accompanied by two or more torch-bearers on foot; so that the blaze of light on first issuing from the theatre is most dazzling and astounding,--astounding, because it is only on walking into the gutter, or over a heap of filth in the first cross street one has occasion to enter, that the want of lamps in these minor avenues renders the utility of this extraordinary illumination apparent. each carriage, after "taking up," moves majestically off, its torch-bearers running ahead to show the way, scattering long strings of sparks, like comets' tails, amongst the humble pedestrians. the tertulias commence after the families have supped at their respective houses, that is to say, at about eleven o'clock; and are generally kept up until a late hour. chapter v. society of seville--spanish women--faults of education--evils of early marriages, and marriages de convenance--environs of seville--triana--san juan de alfarache--santi ponce--ruins of italica--italica not so ancient a city as hispalis--young pigs and the muses--departure from seville--the marques de las amarillas--weakness, deceit, and injustice of the late king of spain--alcala de guadaira--utrera--observations on the strategical importance of this town--moron--military operations of riego--apathy of the serranos during the civil war--olbera--remarks on the itinerary of antoninus. the society of seville is divided into nearly as many circles as there are degrees in the mohammedans paradise. in former days, the bounds of each were marked with _heraldic_ precision, and those of the innermost were guarded as jealously from trespass as the precincts of a royal forest, but of late years politics have materially injured the fences. the fine edged bridge of _sirat_ is no longer difficult of passage, and a foreigner, in especial, provided some mufti of the aristocracy but holds out his hand to him, may reach the seventh heaven without the slightest chance of stumbling over his pedigree. the english, above all other foreigners, are favourably received at seville, for the nobles of the south of spain, not being so much under court influence as those of the provinces lying nearer the capital, are by no means distinguished for their love of _absolutism_. with some few, indeed, the want of courtly sunshine has engendered excessive liberalism; but the nobles of andalusia generally may be considered as favourably disposed towards a limited monarchy--that is, are of moderate, or what they term _english_, politics. of persons of such a political bias is the first circle of the society of seville composed, and it is, perhaps, in every respect, the best in the kingdom. it is adorned by many men of highly cultivated talents, and much theoretical information, who, with a sincere love of country at their hearts, are yet not arrogantly blind to the faults of its former and present institutions; and who, removed to a certain extent from the baneful influence of a corrupt court, are proportionably free from the demoralising vices which distinguish the society of the upper classes in the capital. the ladies of the _exclusive_ circle are, it must needs be confessed, deficient in education: but they possess great natural abilities, a wonderful flow of language, and--excepting that they will pitch their voices so high--peculiarly fascinating manners. the morals of spanish women have usually been commented upon with unsparing severity; it strikes me, however, that the moral _principle_ is as strong in them as in the natives of any other country or climate. the constancy of spanish women, when once their affections have been placed on any object, is, indeed, proverbial, and if they are but too frequently faithless to the marriage vow, the source of corruption may be traced, _first_, to the lamentable religious education they receive--since the demoralizing doctrines of the efficacy of penance and absolution in the remission of sins furnish them at all times with a ready palliative; and, _secondly_, to the habit of contracting early marriages, and, especially, _marriages de convenance_, by which, in their anxiety to see their daughters well established, parents--and above all spanish parents--are apt to sacrifice, not only their children's happiness, but their honour. of all the evils under which spanish society labours, this last is the most serious as well as most apparent. a marriage of this kind, in nine cases out of ten, tends to demorality. it is followed by immediate neglect on the part of the husband, whose affections were already placed elsewhere when he gave his hand at the altar; and is soon regarded by the wife merely as a civil compact, to which the usages of society oblige her to subscribe. with _her_, however, this state of things had not been anticipated. the innate, all-powerful feeling, _love_, had, up to this period, lain dormant within her breast--for in spain, if the extremely early age at which females marry did not of itself warrant this supposition, the little intercourse which, under any circumstances, an unmarried woman (of the upper classes of society) has with the world, naturally leads to the conclusion that her affections had not previously been engaged; she expects, therefore, to receive from her husband the same boundless affection that her inexperienced heart is disposed to bestow on him;--and what is the inevitable consequence? disappointed in her cherished hope of occupying the first place in her husband's affections, her innocence is tarnished at the very outset, by thus acquiring the knowledge of his turpitude; she turns from him with disgust; and her better feelings, seared by jealousy and wounded pride, seeks out some other object on whom to bestow the love slighted by him, who pledged himself to cherish it. thrown thus at an early age upon the world, without the least experience in its ways, with strong passions to lead, and evil examples to seduce her, is it surprising that a spanish wife should wander from the path of virtue, and that she should hold constancy to her lover more sacred than fidelity to a husband who quietly submits to see another possess her affections? the understanding once established, however, that jealousy is not to disturb the ménage, the parties live together with all the outward appearances of mutual esteem, and inflict the history of their private bickerings only upon their favoured friends. the spaniards of all classes have great conversational powers, but even those of the upper are sadly deficient in general information. their knowledge of other nations is picked up entirely from books, and those books mostly old ones; for few works are now written in their own language, and still fewer are translated from those of other countries; so that what little knowledge of mankind they possess is of the last century. cards help out the conversation at the tertulias of the first circle. dancing, forfeits, and other puerile games, are the resources of the rest. balls and suppers are _funciones_ reserved for great occasions, and dinner parties are of equally rare occurrence. in the entertainments of the nobility, the french style prevails even to the wines, but the national dish, the _olla_, generally serves as a prelude, and may be considered the "_piece de resistance_" of the interminable dinner. toothpicks (!!) and coffee are handed round, and the party breaks up, to seek in the _siesta_ renewed powers of digestion. to those, however, who think exercise more conducive to health, the environs of seville hold out plenty of attractions; and, if the weather be too hot for either walking or riding, the city contains hackney coaches and _calesas_ without number, by means of which (most of the roads in the vicinity being level) the various interesting points may be reached without difficulty or inconvenience. the places most deserving of a visit in the immediate environs of seville, are the villages of _san juan de alfarache_ and _santi ponce_; near the latter of which are the ruins of italica. both these places are situated on the right bank of the guadalquivír; the former, about three miles below seville, the latter a little more distant, up the stream. the road to both traverses the long town of triana, which contains nothing worthy of observation but a sombre gothic edifice, where the high altar of popish bigotry, the inquisition, was first raised in the spanish dominions. it has long, however, been converted to another purpose, never, let us hope, to be again applied to that which for so many ages disgraced christianity. by many triana is supposed to be the osset of pliny, but i think without sufficient reason, as it does not seem probable that a place merely divided from seville by a narrow river should have been distinguished by him as a distinct city. the words of pliny, "_ex adverso oppidum osset_," imply certainly that osset stood on the opposite bank of the river to hispalis, but not that it was situated _immediately opposite_, as some authors have translated it. it is yet more evident that alcalà de guadaira cannot be osset, as supposed by harduin, since that town is on the _same_ side of the guadalquivír as seville. florez imagines osset to have been where san juan de alfarache now stands,[ ] near which village traces of an ancient city have been discovered; and the position occupied by an old moorish castle, on the edge of a high cliff, impending over the river, and commanding its navigation, seems clearly to indicate the site of a roman station, since the saracens usually erected their castles upon the foundations of the dilapidated fortresses of their predecessors. the village of san juan de alfarache stands at the foot of the before-mentioned cliff, compressed between it and the guadalquivír; which river, making a wide sweep to the north on leaving seville, here first reaches the roots of the chain of hills bounding the extensive plain through which it winds its way to the sea, and is by them turned back into its original direction. of the moorish fortress little now remains but the foundation walls; the stones of the superstructure having probably been used to build the church and convent that now occupy the plateau of the hill. the view from thence is quite enchanting, embracing a long perspective of the meandering guadalquivír and its verdant plain, the whole extent of the shining city, and the distant blue outline of the ronda mountains. the hills rising at the back of the convent are thickly covered with olive trees, the fruit of which is the most esteemed of all spain: and, indeed, those who have eaten them on the spot, if they like the flavour of olive rather than of salt and water, would say they are the best in the world. the fruit is suffered to hang upon the tree until it has attained its full size, and consequently will not bear a long journey. for the same reason, it will not keep any length of time, as the salt in which it is preserved cannot penetrate to a sufficient depth in its oily flesh to secure it from decay. let no one say, however, that he dislikes _olives_, until he has been to san juan de alfarache. retracing our steps some way towards seville, we reach the great road leading from that city into portugal by way of badajoz; and, continuing along the plain for about five miles, we arrive at the priory of santi ponce, situated on the margin of the guadalquivír, and close to the ruins of italica. so complete has been the destruction of this once celebrated city, the birth-place of three roman emperors, that, but for the vestiges of its spacious amphitheatre, one would be inclined to doubt whether any town could possibly have stood upon the spot; the more so as the vicinity of seville seems, at first sight, to render it improbable that two such large cities would have been built within so short a distance of each other. opinions on the subject of the relative antiquity of these two cities are, however, very various; for, whilst some spaniards are to be found, who maintain that hispalis was founded long before italica, and some who, declaring, on the other hand, that the two cities never existed together, insist on calling italica, _sevilla la vieja_;[ ] others there are who suppose that the two cities flourished contemporaneously for a considerable period, and that hispalis (the more modern of the two) eventually caused the other's destruction. this last hypothesis might readily be received, since, from the influence of the tide being felt at seville and not at santi ponce, the situation of the former is so much more favourable for trade than that of the latter; but that, setting aside the traditionary authority of seville having been founded by _hispalis_, one of the companions of hercules, we have the testimony of several writers to prove that hispalis was a place of consequence when italica must have been yet in its infancy. for the antiquity of this latter is never carried further back than the th olympiad, i.e. b.c. now, hispalis is mentioned by hirtius, at no very great period after that date, as a city of great importance; whereas, italica is noticed by him (proving it to have been a _distinct_ place) merely as a walled town in the vicinity.[ ] the two places are again mentioned separately by pliny; the one, however, as a large city, giving its name to a vast extent of country--the _conventus hispalensis_--the other as one of the towns within the limits of that city's jurisdiction. the foundation of italica being fixed, therefore, about two hundred years before the christian era, and attributed to the veteran soldiers of p. c. scipio; that is to say, immediately after the expulsion of the carthagenians from the country; it may naturally be concluded that the romans, who had not come to spain merely to drive out their rivals, would, with their usual foresight, have planted a colony of their own people to overawe the _principal city_ of a country they intended to bring under subjection; and hence, that seville existed long before italica was founded. the amphitheatre, which alone remains to prove the former grandeur of italica, is of a wide oval shape. the dimensions of its arena are feet in its greatest diameter, in its least. it rests partly against a hill, a circumstance that has tended materially to save what little remains of it from destruction; but, nevertheless, only nine tiers of seats have offered a successful resistance to the encroachments of the plough. few of the vomitorios can be traced, but it would appear that there were sixteen. some of the caverns in which the wild beasts were confined are in tolerable preservation. from the ruined amphitheatre we were conducted to a kind of pound, enclosed by a high mud wall, and secured by a stout gate, wherein we were informed other reliques of italica were preserved. there was some little delay in obtaining the key of this _museo_, the _custodio_ being at his _siesta_; and, hearing the grunting of pigs within, we began to doubt whether it could contain any thing worth detaining us under a broiling sun to see. unwilling, however, to be disappointed, we clambered with some little difficulty to the top of the wall, and, _horresco referens!_ beheld an old sow rubbing her back against that of the emperor hadrian, whilst the profane snouts of her young progeny were grubbing at the tesselated cheeks of clio and urania, the only two of the immortal nine whose features could be distinctly traced in an elaborate mosaic pavement that covered the greater part of the court. several fragments of statues were strewed about; but all were in too mutilated a state to excite the least interest. the feeling with which we contemplated the beautiful, outraged pavement, was one of unmitigated disgust; for the workmanship of such parts of it as remained intact was of the most delicate description, the stones not being more than one fifth of an inch square, and, as far as we could judge, put together so as to form a picture of great merit. i fear that this valuable specimen of the art has long since been altogether lost, for, at the time of which i write, the stones were lying in heaps about the yard, and the pavement seemed likely to be subjected to a continuance of the mining operations of the "swinish multitude," as well as to exposure to the destructive ravages of the elements. i could not refrain from expostulating with the owner of the piggery (when he at length made his appearance) at this, in the words of don quijote, _puerco y extraordinario abuso_. he was a wag, however, and answered my "why do you keep your pigs here?" precisely in the words that an irish peasant replied to a very similar question, viz., "but am i to have the company of the pig?" put to him by a friend of mine, who had a billet for a night's lodging on his cabin: to wit, "_no hay toda comodidad_?" "isn't there every convey'nance?" we then attempted to persuade him that the pigs being young and inexperienced would probably kill themselves by swallowing the little square stones piled up against the walls, when the supply of indian corn failed them. "no, señor," he replied; "_el puerco es un animal que tiene mas sesos que una casa_." "the hog is an animal that has more (sesos) brains (or bricks) than a house." and, indeed, the discrimination of the animal is wonderful, for, whilst we were yet arguing the case, one of the little brutes grubbed up the entire left cheek of calliope, to get at a grain of corn that had fallen into one of the numerous crow's feet with which unsparing time had furrowed the muse's animated countenance. without further observation, therefore, we abandoned the chaste daughters of mnemosyne to their ignominious fate, remounted our horses, and bent our steps homewards. the foreigner who visits seville, under any circumstances, cannot but find it a most delightful place, and our short sojourn at it was rendered particularly agreeable by the kindness and hospitality of the _marques de las amarillas_, who, independent of the pleasure it at all times affords him to show his regard for the english, whom he considers as his old brothers in arms, was pleased to express peculiar gratification at having an opportunity of evincing his sense of some trifling attentions that it had been in my power to pay his only son, when, as well as himself, driven by political persecution to seek a refuge within the walls of gibraltar. the life of this distinguished nobleman, now duke of ahumado, has been singularly varied by the smiles and frowns of fortune, and furnishes a melancholy proof of the little that can be effected by talents, however exalted, and patriotism, however pure, in a country writhing, like spain, under the combined torments of religious and political revolution. for, the more sincere a lover of his country he who puts himself forward, _having aught to lose_, may be, the more he becomes an object of distrust and envy to _the many_, who seek in change but their own aggrandizement. to him who would take the helm of affairs in times of revolution, an unscrupulous conscience is yet more necessary than the possession of extraordinary talents. the marques de las amarillas, well known in the "peninsular war" as general giron, was appointed minister at war in the first cabinet formed by ferdinand vii. after he had sworn to the constitution. a sincere lover of rational liberty, and a strong advocate for a mixed form of government, the marques, himself a soldier, saw the danger of permitting the very existence of the government to be at the mercy of the undisciplined rabble army, that, seduced by its democratic leaders for their own private ends, had effected the revolution; and had projected a plan for its partial reduction and entire reorganization. the _exaltados_, however, fearful lest the establishment of a _rational_ form of government should result from a project which certainly would have had the effect of allaying the existing agitation, accused the marques of a plot to subvert the constitution, and restore ferdinand to a despotic throne; and he was obliged to save himself from the impending danger by a rapid flight, and to take refuge within the walls of gibraltar. there he remained during the period of misrule that preceded the invasion of the country by the duc d'angoulême in ; suffering, during the feeble struggle that ensued, from the most painfully conflicting feelings that could possibly enter a patriot's breast. for, aware that his unhappy country had but the sad alternative of a continuance in anarchy and misery, or of bending the neck to foreign dictation, and receiving back the cast-off yoke of a despot, he could take no active part in a struggle which, end as it would, was fraught with mischief to his native land. it ended, as he had always foreseen, in the restoration of the despicable monarch, who possessed neither the courage to draw the sword in defence of what he conceived to be his _rights_, nor the virtue to adhere to the word pledged to his people; who by his contemptible intrigues exposed, and by his vacillating plans sacrificed, his most devoted adherents; who with his dying breath bequeathed the scourge of civil war to his wretched country; whose very existence, in fine, was as hurtful to spain, as is the odour of the upas-tree to the incautious traveller who rests beneath its shade. the contemptible ferdinand, restored to his throne, forbade the _marques de las amarillas_ to present himself in the capital--the crime of having held office in a constitutional cabinet being considered quite sufficient to warrant the infliction of such a punishment. some ten years afterwards, however, he was, through the influence of his relatives, the dukes of baylen and infantado, appointed captain-general of andalusia, and on the death of ferdinand was called to madrid, to form one of the council of regency. he again held a distinguished post in the torreno administration, and again fell under the displeasure of the anarchists--his talents had less influence than the halbert of serjeant gomez. these are not merely "_cosas de españa_," however, but have been, and will be, those of every country where the hydra, democracy, is cherished. god grant that our own may be preserved from the many-headed monster! we quitted seville only "upon compulsion" (our leave of absence being limited), making choice of a road which, though, by visiting moron and ronda, it proceeds rather circuitously to gibraltar, traverses a more romantic and picturesque portion of the serranía than any other. the most direct of the numerous roads that offer themselves between seville and the british fortress, is by way of dos hermanos, coronil, ubrique, and ximena. the first place lying upon the road we selected is alcalà de guadaira. this town is distant about eight miles from seville (though generally marked much less on the maps), and is the first post station on the great road from seville to madrid. for the first five miles from seville the road traverses a gently undulated country, that is chiefly planted with corn; but, on drawing near alcalà, the features of the ground become more strongly marked, and are clothed with olive and other trees; and amongst the hills that encompass the town rise the copious springs which, led into a conduit, supply seville with water. alcalà administers to yet another of the great city's most material wants, for it almost exclusively furnishes seville with bread, whence it has received the agnomen of "_de los panaderos_" (of the bread-makers), as well as that of "_de guadaira_," which it takes from the river that runs in its vicinity. the numerous mills situated along the course of this stream, by furnishing easy means of grinding corn, probably led the inhabitants of alcalà to engage in the extensive kneading and baking operations which are carried on there. the immediate approach to the town is by a narrow gorge between two steep hills; that on the right, which is the more elevated of the two, and very rugged and difficult of access, is washed on three sides by the guadaira, and crowned with extensive ruins of a moorish fortress. the town itself is pent in between these two hills and the river, and, there can be but little doubt, occupies the site of some roman city, its situation being quite such as would have been chosen by that people. that it is not on the site of osset is, as i have before observed, quite evident, and its present name, being completely moorish, furnishes no clue whatever to discover that which it formerly bore. some have supposed it is orippo; but inscriptions found at dos hermanos determine that place to be on the ruins of the said roman town. possibly--for such a supposition accords with the order in which the towns of the county of hispalis are mentioned by pliny--alcalà may be vergentum. it is a long dirty town, full of ovens and charcoal, and contains a population of souls. the chaussée to madrid, by cordoba, here branches off to the left; whilst that to xeres and cadiz, crossing the guadaira, is directed far inland upon utrera, rendering it extremely circuitous. a more direct road strikes off from it immediately after crossing the river, proceeding by way of dos hermanos. we still continued to pursue the great road, which, after ascending a range of hills that rises along the left bank of the guadaira, traverses a perfectly flat country, abounding in olives, that extends all the way to utrera, a distance of eleven miles. utrera thus stands in the midst of a vast plain, that may be considered the first step from the marshes of the guadalquivír, towards the ronda mountains, which are yet twelve miles distant to the eastward. a slight mound, that rises in the centre of the town, and is embraced by an extensive circuit of dilapidated walls, doubtless offered the inducement to build a town here; and these walls, some parts of which are very lofty, and in a tolerably perfect state, appear to be roman, though the castle and its immediate outworks are moorish. what the ancient name of the town was would, without the help of monuments or inscriptions, be now impossible to determine, but it certainly did not lie upon either of the routes laid down in the itinerary of antoninus, between cadiz and cordoba, though some have imagined it to be ilipa.[ ] others have supposed it to be siarum; but adopting harduin's reading of pliny--"caura, siarum," instead of caurasiarum--it seems more likely that utrera was caura, and that moron, or some other town yet more distant from seville, was siarum. by its present name it is well known in moorish history, its rich _campiña_ having frequently been ravaged by the moslems, after they had been driven from the open country to seek shelter in the neighbouring mountains. at the present day, it is celebrated only for its breeds of saints and bulls, the former ranked amongst the most devout, the latter the most ferocious, of andalusia. the town is large, and not walled in; the streets are wide and clean, and a plentiful stream rises near and traverses the place--remarkable as being the only running water within a circuit of several miles. it contains , inhabitants, mostly agriculturists, and a very tolerable inn. utrera, as has already been observed, is situated on the _arrecife_, or great road, from cadiz to madrid, which _arrecife_ makes two considerable elbows to visit this place and alcalà. now from utrera there is a cross-road to carmona (which town is also situated on the great route to the capital), that, by avoiding alcalà, reduces the distance between the two places from seven to six leagues; and from utrera there is also another cross-road (by way of arajal) to ecija, which, by cutting off another angle made by the _arrecife_, effects a yet greater saving in the distance to that city, and consequently to cordoba and madrid. from these circumstances, utrera becomes, in military phrase, an important _strategical_ point; and as such, the french, when advancing upon cadiz in , attempted to gain it by the cross-road from ecija, ere the duke of albuquerque, who had taken post at carmona, with the view of covering seville, could reach it by the _arrecife_. the duke, however, with great judgment, abandoned seville to what he well knew must eventually be its fate, and by a rapid march saved cadiz, though not without having to engage in a cavalry skirmish to cover his retreat. what important consequences hung upon the decision of that moment; for how different might have been the result of the war, had the important fortress of cadiz fallen into the enemy's hands, and given them , disposable troops at that critical juncture![ ] on issuing from utrera, we once more quit the chaussée (which is henceforth directed very straight upon xeres), and, taking an easterly course, proceed towards a lofty mountain, that, seemingly detached from the serrated mass, juts slightly forward into the plain. at the distance of six miles from utrera, the ground, which thus far is quite flat and very barren, begins to be slightly undulated, and is here and there dotted with _cortijos_ and corn fields; and, at eight miles from utrera, a road crosses from arajah to coronil; the first-named town being distant about two miles on the left, the latter half a league on the right. for the next league the country is one waving corn-field. at the end of that distance we reached the steep banks of a rivulet, which here first issues from the mountains, and is called _el salado de moron_. the road crosses to the right bank of this stream, on gaining which it immediately turns to the north (keeping parallel to the ridge of the detached mountain, upon which, as i have already noticed, it had previously been directed), and ascends very gradually towards moron. the country, during this latter portion of the road, is partially wooded. the total distance from utrera to moron is about sixteen miles. moron is singularly situated, being nestled in the lap of five distinct hills, the easternmost and loftiest of which is occupied by an old castle, a mixed work of the romans and moors. according to la martinière, moron is on the site of arunci; and this opinion seems to rest on a better foundation than that of other authors, who maintain that arcos occupies the position of the above-named ancient city; for it is natural to suppose that the territory of the _celtici_ (amongst whose towns _arunci_ is enumerated by pliny) did not extend beyond the intricate belt of mountains known at the present day as the _serranía de ronda_. now, moron commands one of the principal entrances to the serranía, whereas arcos is situated far in the plains of the guadalete towards xeres, and would seem rather to have been one of the cities of the "county of cadiz." moron is a strong post, for though raised but slightly above the great plain of utrera, it commands all the ground in its immediate neighbourhood; and, standing as it does in a mountain gorge, by which several roads debouch upon seville from various parts of the _serranía_, it occupies a military position of some consequence. the french guarded it jealously during the war, and placed the castle in a defensible state. since those days its walls have again been dismantled; but the strength of its position tempted riego ( ) to try the chances of a battle with the royal army, commanded by general josef o'donnel, ere he finally abandoned the mountains. in vain, however, riego pointed out to his men the far distant hill of _las cabezas_, where they had first raised the cry of "constitution, or death;" their _exaltacion_ had abandoned them, and they in turn abandoned their exaltation, leaving their strong position after a very slight resistance. a few days afterwards, at _fuente ovejuna_, they were entirely dispersed. the successful general, ready to march either against the insurgents of the isla de leon, or upon the capital, wrote to the king, announcing that the army of riego was no more, and requesting to know his commands: but "_eheu! quam brevibus pereunt ingentia causis!_" a few weeks after this letter was penned, the victor was a prisoner at ceuta, and the vanquished general (without doing any thing in the meanwhile to retrieve his character) had become the hero of hymns and ballads! the imbecile ferdinand, fearful lest, by further delay in accepting the constitution he should lose his crown, had despatched orders to those generals who remained faithful to him, to give up their respective commands, just as the tide of affairs seemed to be turning in favour of a continuance of his despotic reign. the dispersion of the constitutional army proved two things, however; the first, that riego was no general; the second, that he and his party had deceived themselves as to the political feeling of the inhabitants of the province. in the course of his rambling operations, algeciras and malaga were the only places where riego was at all well received. in vain he tried to maintain himself in the latter city; driven out of it at the point of the bayonet, he attempted to regain cadiz, the head-quarters of the revolt; but, closely pressed by the royal army on his retreat through the serranía, was obliged, as i have stated, to receive battle at moron, where the disorganization of his force was completed. moron contains a population of , souls, and is a well built town, with wide streets, and good shops. there is a mountain road from hence to grazalema (seven leagues) by way of zahara. the road from moron to ronda passes by olbera. the distance between the two places is thirty-one miles. the country, immediately on leaving moron, becomes rough and desolate, and the road, (a mere mule-track,) traverses a succession of strongly marked ridges, which, though not themselves very elevated, are bounded on all sides by bare and rocky mountains. the numerous streams which cross the stony pathway all flow to the south, uniting their waters with the _salado de moron_. on penetrating further into the recesses of the _serranía_, the valleys become wider, and are thickly wooded, and the luxuriant growth of the unpruned trees, the absence of houses, bridges, and all the other signs of the hand of man, offer a picture of uncultivated nature that could hardly be surpassed even in the interior of new zealand. at nine miles from moron is situated the solitary venta of _zaframagon_, and, a mile further on, descending by a beautifully wooded ravine, we reached an isolated rocky mound, under the scarped side of which, embosomed in groves of orange and pomegranate trees, stands a picturesque water-mill. from hence to olbera is seven miles. the country is of the same wild description as in the preceding portion of the route, but gradually rises and becomes more bare of trees on drawing near the little crag-built town. an execrable pavé, which appears to have remained intact since the days of the romans, winds for the last two miles under the chain of hills over whose narrow summit the houses of olbera are spread, rising one above another towards an old castle perched on the pinnacle of a rocky cone. by some spanish antiquaries, olbera has been supposed to be the _ilipa_ mentioned in the roman itinerary, as being on the _second_ route laid down between cadiz and cordoba, passing by antequera. this route, by the way, is not a less strange one to lay down between the two cities, than a post road from london to dover _by way of brighton_ would be considered by us; but the fancy of winding it through the least practicable part of the mountains of ronda, from seville (if, as some imagine, it first went to that city) to antequera, is even yet more strange, since a nearly level tract of country extends between those two cities in a more direct line. considering it, however, merely as a military way, made by the romans to connect the principal cities of the province, and serving in case of need as a communication between cadiz and cordoba, _avoiding seville_; a much more probable line may be laid down, on which the distances will be found to agree infinitely better.[ ] olbera is a wretched place, containing some , or , of the rudest looking, and, if report speak true, of the least scrupulous, inhabitants of the serranía. their lawless character has already been alluded to, and, in rocca's memoirs, a most interesting account is given of their reception of him, when, with a party of dragoons, he was on the march from moron to ronda. his description of the rickety old town-house, wherein he saved his life from an infuriated mob by making a fat priest serve as a shield, is most correctly given, and, in the present dark, suspicious-looking, cloak-enveloped inhabitants, one may readily picture to one's-self the descendants of the men who skinned a dead ass, and gave it to the french troopers for beef; ever after jeering them by asking "_quien come carne de burra en olbera?_ who eats asses'-flesh at olbera?" carula (puebla de santa maria) ilipa (grazalema) ostippo[ ] (la torre de alfaquime) barba (almargen) anticaria (antequera) angellas ipagro ulia cordoba ---- total [ ] ---- the view from the old castle is very commanding; the outline of the amphitheatre of mountains is bold and varied, and the valleys between the different masses are richly wooded. to the south may be seen the rocky little fortress of zahara, sheltered by the huge _sierra del pinar_; and only about two miles distant from olbera to the north, is the old castle of pruna, similarly situated on a conical hill that stands detached from a lofty impending mountain. olbera is fourteen miles from ronda. at the distance of rather more than a mile, a large convent, _n. s. de los remedios_, stands on the right of the road, and a little way beyond this, the road descends by a narrow ravine towards _la torre de alfaquime_, and, after winding round the foot of the cone whereon that little town is perched, reaches and crosses the guadalete. this point is about four miles from olbera. the stream issues from a dark ravine in the mountains that rise up on the left of the road, and serves to irrigate a fertile valley, and turn several mills that here present themselves. a road to setenil is conducted through the narrow gorge whence the little river issues, but that to ronda, ascending for three quarters of an hour, reaches the summit of a lofty mountain on whose eastern acclivity are strewed the extensive ruins of acinippo. the view is remarkably fine; to the westward, extending as far as cadiz, and in the opposite direction looking down upon a wide, smiling valley, watered by the numerous sources of the guadalete, and upon the little castellated town of setenil, perched on the rocky bank of the principal branch of that river. this place was very celebrated in the days of the moslems, having resisted every attack of the christians,[ ] until the persevering "_reyes catolicos_" brought artillery to bear upon its defences. the road to ronda descends for two miles, and then keeps for about the same distance along the banks of the guadalete, crossing and recrossing it several times. the surrounding country is one vast corn-field. leaving, at length, this rich vale, the road ascends a short but steep ridge, whence the first view is obtained of the yet more lovely basin of ronda, which, clothed with orchards and olive grounds, and surrounded on all sides by splendid mountains, is justly called the pride of the serranía. a good stone bridge affords a passage across the _rio verde_, or of arriate, about a mile above its junction with the guadiaro; and the road falls in with that from grazalema on reaching the top of the hill whereon the town stands. chapter vi. ronda to gaucin--road to casares--fine scenery--casares--difficulty in procuring lodgings--finally overcome--the cura's house--view of the town from the ruins of the castle--its great strength--ancient name--ideas of the spaniards regarding protestants--scramble to the summit of the sierra cristellina--splendid view--jealousy of the natives in the matter of sketching--the cura and his barometer--departure for the baths of manilba--romantic scenery--accommodation for visiters--the master of the ceremonies--roads to san roque and gibraltar--river guadiaro and venta. ronda and the road from thence to gaucin have been already fully described; i will, therefore, pass on, without saying more of either than that, if the road be one of the _worst_, the scenery along it equals any to be met with in the south of spain. the road was formerly practicable for carriages throughout, but it is now purposely suffered to go to decay, lest it should furnish gibraltar with greater facilities than that great commercial mart already possesses, for destroying the manufactures of spain--such, at least, is the excuse offered for the present wretched state of the road. from the rock-built castle of gaucin we will descend--by what, though called a road, is little more than a rude flight of steps practised in the side of the mountain--to the deep valley of the genal, and, crossing the pebbly bed of the stream, take a path which, winding through a dense forest of cork and ilex, is directed round the northern side of the peaked mountain of _cristellina_, to a pass between it and the more distant and wide-spreading _sierra bermeja_. the scenery, as one advances up the steep acclivity, is remarkably fine. i do not recollect having any where seen finer woods; and the occasional glimpses of the glassy genal, winding in the dark valley below; the numerous shining little villages that deck its green banks; the outstretched town of gaucin and ruined battlements of its impending castle covering the ridge on the opposite side, and backed by the distant mountains of ubrique, grazalema, &c., furnish all the requisites for a perfect picture. soon after gaining the summit of the wooded chain, the road branches in two, that on the left hand proceeding to estepona, the other to casares. taking the latter, we emerged from the forest in about a quarter of an hour, and found ourselves at the head of a deep and confined valley, which, overhung by the scarped peaks of cristellina on one side, is bounded on the other by a narrow ridge that, stretching several miles to the south, terminates in a high conical knoll crowned by the castle of casares. the road, which is very good, keeps under the crest of the left-hand ridge, descending for two miles, and very gradually, towards the town. the view on approaching casares is remarkably fine, embracing, besides the picturesque old fortress, an extensive prospect over the apparently champaign country beyond, which (marked, nevertheless, with many a wooded dell and rugged promontory,) spreads in all directions towards the mediterranean; the dark, cloud-capped rock of gibraltar rising proudly from the shining surface of the narrow sea, and overtopping all the intervening ridges. before reaching casares, the mountain, along the side of which the road is conducted, falls suddenly several hundred feet, and a narrow ledge connects it with the conical mound more to the south, whereon the castle is perched. the town occupies the summit of this connecting link--which in one part is so narrow as to afford little more than the space sufficient for one street--but extends, also, some way round the bases and up the rude sides of the two impending heights, thus assuming the shape of an hour-glass. having reached the _plaza_,--and a tolerably spacious one it is considering the little ground the town has to spare for embellishments,--we looked about for the usual signs of a _venta_, but, failing in discovering any, applied to the bystanders for information, who, pointing to a wretched hovel, on the wall of which was painted a shield, bearing, in heraldic language, gules, a bottle sable, told us it was the only _ventorillo_[ ] in the town. now, though it is a common saying that "good wine needs no bush," we had yet to learn that dirty floors need no broom; and, unwilling to be the first to gain experience in the matter, we determined, after a minute examination of the house, to present ourselves to the _alcalde_, and, in virtue of our passports, ask his "aid and assistance" in procuring better quarters. the unusual sight of a party of strange travellers had brought that important personage himself into the market-place, who, collecting round him the principal householders of the town, forthwith laid our distressing case before them, and, in his turn, asked for aid and assistance in the shape of advice. our papers were accordingly handed round the standing council, and, having been minutely inspected, turned upside down, the lion and unicorn duly admired, the great seal of the governor of gibraltar examined with eyes of astonishment, and the question asked "_son ingleses?_"[ ] (which was excusable, considering the absurdity of giving passports in _french_ to english travellers in _spain_) a shrug of the shoulders seemed all that the _alcalde_ was likely to get in the way of advice, or we in the lieu of board and lodging. guessing at last, by the oft-repeated question concerning our nationality, "_de que pie cojeaba el negocio_";[ ] we took occasion to signify to the conclave, that a few dollars would most willingly be paid for any inconvenience the putting us up for the night might occasion. our prospects immediately brightened; each had now "_una salita_," that he could very well spare for a night or so ... "we had our own _mantas_, so that we should require but mattresses to lie down upon--and as for stabling, that there was no loss for"--in fact, the only difficulty appeared to be, how the alcalde should avoid giving offence to a dozen, by selecting _one_ to confer the favour of our company upon. he saw the delicacy of his position, and hesitated--"he himself, indeed, had a spare room, but ..." here a portly personage, clothed in a black silk cassock, and sheltered by an ample shovel hat, stepped forward to relieve the embarrassed functionary from his dilemma; and giving him a nod, and us a beckon, drew his _toga_ up behind, and walked off at a brisk pace towards the castle hill. the claims of _el señor cura_--for such our conductor proved to be--no one presumed to dispute; so making our bow to the _alcalde_, who assured us that _quien a buen arbol se arrima_ _buena sombra le cobija_,[ ] we followed the footsteps of the worthy member of the church hospitaliar, without further colloquy. our conductor stopped not, and spoke not, until we had reached the very top of the town, and then, leading our horses into a commodious stable, he ushered us into his own abode; wherein he assured us, if the accommodation he could offer was suitable, "we had but to _mandar_." it consisted of a large _sala_ and an _alcoba_, or recess, for a bed; the latter scrupulously clean, the former lofty and airy. we, therefore, expressed our entire satisfaction, requesting only that a couple of mattresses might be spread upon the floor; a friend, who had joined us at gaucin, rendering this increase of accommodation necessary. having given instructions to that effect, don francisco labato--for such our host informed us were his _nombre y appellido_,[ ] not omitting to add, that he was a _clerigo beneficiado_[ ]--proposed to accompany us, to cast an ojeada[ ] upon the curious old town, from the ruined battlements of its ancient fortress; observing that there was yet abundance of time to do so, "ere phoebus took his evening plunge into the western ocean." we gladly accepted the proffered ciceroneship of our classical host, and, mounting the rugged pathway up the isolated crag, in a few minutes reached the plateau at its summit. it would be hardly possible to select a less convenient site for a town than that occupied by casares. pent in to the north and south between impracticable crags, and bounded on the other two sides by deep ravines; it can, in fact, be reached only, either by describing a wide circuit to gain the mountains, rising at its back; or, by ascending a rough winding path, practised in the side of the castle hill. the principal part of the town is clustered round the base of the old fortress, the houses rising one above another in steps, as it were, and occupying no more of the valuable space than is necessary to give them a secure foundation. the streets, which are barely wide enough to allow a paniered donkey to pass freely, are formed out of the live rock, and, here and there, are cut in wide steps, to render the ascent less difficult and dangerous. these flat slabs of native limestone, when heated by a summer sun, though passable enough by unshod animals, afford but a precarious footing to a horse's iron-bound hoofs. the castle can only be approached through the town, and although its walls have long been in ruins, yet, so strong are its natural defences, that the muzzles of a few rusty old guns, propped up by stones, and protruded from the prostrate parapets, were sufficient to deter the french from making any attempt upon the place during the war of independence:--such, at least, is the version of the inhabitants. that casares was a roman town is almost proved by the name it yet bears; but the matter is placed beyond a doubt on examining the old foundations of the castle, which are clearly of a date anterior to the occupation of spain by the saracens. the name it anciently bore strikes me as being equally obvious, viz., _cæsaris salutariensis_; so designated from the mineral waters in its neighbourhood, which, though _now_ known by the name of the modern town of manilba, are within the _termino_ of casares. for, not only were the valuable properties of these springs well known to the romans, but, according to the common belief in the country, they performed a wonderful cure on one of the emperors--trajan, i think. _cæsaris salutariensis_ is mentioned by pliny, amongst the latin towns of the _conventus gaditanus_; the limits of which country may, at first sight, appear to be somewhat stretched to include casares; but barbesula, which stood at the mouth of the river guadiaro, at an equal distance from cadiz, (as is clearly proved by inscriptions found there,) is also mentioned by that excellent authority as one of the stipendiary towns of the same county; and the order in which they are enumerated, viz., those first which were nearest to the capital, tends to confirm my supposition. on our return from the old castle, which commands a splendid view, we were not displeased to find that our host was no despiser of the good things of this world, much as he gave us to understand that all his thoughts were directed towards the never-ending joys of that which is to come. every thing bespoke a well-conducted _ménage_; the house, besides being clean and tastily decorated with flowers, was provided with some solid comforts. the _cura's niece_--his housekeeper, butler, and factotum--was pretty, as well as intelligent and obliging. his _cuisine_ was tolerably free from garlic and grease, his wine from aniseed. our horses were up to their knees in fresh straw; and three clean beds were prepared for ourselves. our host excused himself from partaking of our meal, he having already dined, and, whilst we were doing justice to his good catering, paced up and down the room pretending to read, but in reality watching our movements, and, as it at first struck us, looking after his silver spoons: but divers testy hints given to his bright-eyed niece that her constant attendance upon us was unnecessary, soon made it evident that _she_ was the object of his solicitude; as, judging from the occasional direction of our eyes, he rightly conjectured what was the subject of our conversation. anon, however, he would approach the table, thrust the volume of homilies under his left arm, and, taking a pinch of snuff, (which he said was "_bueno para el estudio_"[ ]) ask our way of thinking on various subjects, political and theological, always prefacing his interrogatories by some observation, either on his passion for study, the cosmopolitan bent of his mind, or the superiority his learning gave him over the vulgar prejudices of the age. and, at length, when the table was cleared, the niece gone, and he had elicited from us that we were all three _english_, he observed, without further circumlocution, "_pues señores_, you are not members of the _santa iglesia, catolica romana_?" "no," we replied, "_catolica_ but not _romana_." "that is to say, you are heretical christians." "that is to say, we differ with you as regards the corporeal nature of the elements partaken of in the eucharist; we deny the efficacy of masses; the power of granting indulgences; and the necessity for auricular confession:--and so far certainly we are heretics in the eyes of the church of rome." the worthy _cura_--much as he had studied--was by no means aware that our pretensions to catholicism were so great as, on continuing the controversy, he discovered them to be.[ ] he made a stout stand, however, for the absolute necessity of auricular confession; maintaining that we, by dispensing with it, deprived the poor and ignorant of a friend, a counsellor, and an intercessor;--stript our church of the power of reclaiming sinners, and checking growing heresies;--and our government of the means of anticipating the mischievous projects of designing men. it was in vain we urged to our host that, in our favoured country, education had done away with the necessity for strengthening the hands of government by such means; that the poor were provided for by law; and that the clergy were ever ready to counsel and assist those who stood in need of spiritual consolation. but, before leaving us for the night, the _padre_ admitted that _we_ were certainly christians, and that many of the mysteries and practices of the church of rome were merely preserved to enable the clergy to maintain their influence over the people;--an influence which we deemed quite necessary for the well-being of the state. rising betimes on the following morning, we set off on foot to clamber to the lofty peak of the _sierra cristellina_; and regular climbing it was, for all traces of a footpath were soon lost, and we then had to mount the precipitous face of the cone in the best way we could. the magnificence of the view from the summit amply repaid us for the fatigue and loss of shoe-leather we had to bear with; for, though scarcely feet above the level of the sea, the peak stands so completely detached from all other mountains, that it affords a bird's eye view which could be surpassed only by that from a balloon. the entire face of the country was spread out like a map before us. to the north, penned in on all sides by savage mountains, lay the wide, forest-covered valley of the genal, its deeply furrowed sides affording secure though but scanty lodgment to the numerous little fastnesses scattered over them by the persecuted _mudejares_, when expelled from the more fertile plains of the guadalquivír and guadalete; and on which castellated crags the swarthy descendants of these "mediatised" moors still continue to reside and bid defiance to civilization. these little strongholds stand for the most part on the summit of rocky knolls that jut into the dark valley; and round the base of each a small extent of the forest has in most cases been cleared, serving, in times past, to improve its means of defence, and, at the present day, to admit the sun to shine upon the vineyards, in the cultivation of which the rude inhabitants find employment, when, obliged for a time to lay aside the smuggler's blunderbuss, they take to the axe and pruning-knife. behind, serving as a kind of citadel to these numerous outworks, rises the huge _sierra bermeja_, which afforded a last refuge to the persecuted moslems; and at its very foot, about five miles up the valley of the genal, are the ruins of _benastepar_; the birth-place of the moorish hero, _el feri_, whose courage and address so long baffled the exterminating projects of the spaniards. turning now round to the south, a totally different, and yet more magnificent, view meets the eye. gibraltar,--its lovely bay,--the african mountains, rising range above range,--and the distant atlantic, successively present themselves: whilst, from the height at which we are raised above the intermediate country, the courses of the different rivers, that issue from the gorges of the sierras at our back, may be distinctly followed through all their windings to the mediterranean, the features of the intervening ground appearing to be so slightly marked as to lead to the supposition that the country below must be perfectly accessible;--but, as one of our party drily observed, those who, like himself, had followed red-legged partridges across it could tell a different story. we returned to casares by descending the eastern side of the mountain, which is planted with vines to within a short distance of the summit. in fact, wherever a little earth can be scraped together, a root is inserted. the wine made from the grapes grown on this bank is considered the best of casares; it is not unlike cassis--small, but highly flavoured. the town, looked down upon in this direction, has a singular appearance, seeming to stand on a high cliff overhanging the mediterranean shore, though, in reality, it is six or seven miles from it. we amused ourselves during the rest of the afternoon in taking sketches of the town from various points in the neighbourhood, and excited the wrath of some passers-by to a furious degree. they swore we were _mapeando el pueblo_,[ ] and that they would have us arrested; but we were strong in our innocence, and turned a deaf ear to their menaces. it is, however, a practice that is often attended with annoying consequences; for i have known several instances of english officers having been taken before the military authorities for merely sketching a picturesque barn or cork tree--so great is the national jealousy. at our evening meal, our host, as on the former occasion walked book-in-hand up and down the room, but was evidently less watchful of his pretty niece and silver spoons. his attention, indeed, appeared to be entirely given to the state of the mercury in an old barometer, which, appended to the wall at the further end of the room, he consulted at every turn, putting divers weatherwise questions to us as he did so. and at last, he asked in plain language, whether our church ever put up prayers for rain, and if they ever brought it. the occasion of all this _pumping_ we found to be, that the country in the neighbourhood having long been suffering from drought, the husbandmen, apprehensive of the consequences, had for some days past been urging him to pray for rain, but the state of the barometer had not hitherto, he said, warranted his doing so, and he had, therefore, put them off, on various pretences. "yesterday, however," he observed, "seeing that the mercury was falling, i gave notice that i should make intercession for them; and, i think, judging from present appearances, that my prayers are likely to be as effectual as those of any bishop could possibly be." and off he started to church, giving us, at parting, a very significant, though somewhat heterodoxical grin. nevertheless, not a drop of rain fell that night; the barometer was at fault; and the only clouds visible in the morning were those gathered on the brow of the _cura_. they dispersed, however, like mist under the sun's rays; when, bidding him farewell, and thanking him for his hospitable entertainment, we slipped a _doublon de à ocho_ into his hand; which, pocketing without the slightest hesitation, he assured us, with imperturbable gravity, should be applied to the services of the _church_--"as, doubtless, we intended." threading once more the rudely _graduated_ streets of the town, we took the stony pathway, before noticed, which winds down under the eastern side of the castle hill, and in rather more than half an hour were again beyond the limits of the serranía, and in a country of corn and pasture. at the foot of the mountain two roads present themselves, one proceeding straight across the country to san roque and gibraltar (nineteen and twenty-five miles), the other seeking more directly the mediterranean shore, and visiting on its way the sulphur-baths and little town of manilba. the _cura_ had spoken in such terms of commendation of the _hedionda_ (fetid spring)--claiming it jealously as the property of casares--that we were tempted to lengthen our journey by a few miles to pay it a visit. the road to it follows the course of the little stream that flows in the valley between the cristellina mountain and casares, which, escaping by a narrow rocky gorge immediately below the town, winds round the foot of the castle crag, and takes an easterly direction to the mediterranean. the country at first is open, and the stream flows through a smiling valley, without encountering any obstacle; but, at about two miles from casares, a dark and narrow defile presents itself, which, the winding rivulet having in vain sought to avoid, finally precipitates itself into, and is lost sight of, under an entangled canopy of arbutus, lauristinus, clematis, and various creepers. so narrow and overshadowed is the chasm, so high and precipitous are its bank--themselves overgrown with coppice and forest-trees, wherever the crumbling rocks have allowed their roots to spread--that even the sunbeams have difficulty in reaching the foaming stream, as it hurries over its rough and tortuous bed; and the pathway, following the various windings of the narrow gorge,--now keeping along the shady bank of the rivulet, now climbing, by rudely carved zig-zags, some little way up the precipitous sides of the fissure,--is barely of a width to admit of the passage of a loaded mule. so wildly beautiful is the scenery, so free from artificial embellishments,--for the low moss-grown water-mills which are scattered along the course of the stream, and here and there a rustic bridge, owe their beauty rather to nature than art--so _romantic_, in fine, is the spot, that, if in the vicinity of a fashionable _baden_, it could not fail of being a little fortune to all the ragged donkey-drivers within a circuit of many leagues, and of proving a mine of wealth to the surveyors of _tables d'hôtes_, and _restaurans_, and keepers of billiard and faro tables. the amusements of the frequenters of the humble _hedionda_ are, however, very different, and the sequestered dell is visited only by chanting muleteers, driving their files of laded animals to or from the mills; or, perchance, by some sulphurated old lady, who, ensconced in a pillowed _jamuga_,[ ] is bending her way, with renovated health, towards casares or ximena: to which places the narrow fissure offers the nearest road from the baths. after proceeding about a mile down the dark ravine, its banks, crumbling down in rude blocks, recede from each other, and a huge barren sierra is discovered rising steeply along the southern bank of the stream, to which the road now crosses. it greatly excited our surprise how this lofty and strongly marked ridge could have escaped our observation from casares, for it had seemed to us, that on descending from thence we should leave the mountains altogether behind us. from the base of this barren ridge issues the _hedionda_; still, however, about a mile from us; and ere reaching it, the hills retiring for a time yet more from the stream, leave a flat space of some extent, and in form resembling an amphitheatre, which is planted with all kinds of fruit-trees, and dotted with vine-clung cottages. this spot is called _la huerta_--the orchard; and these comfortless looking little hovels--pleasing nevertheless to the eye--we eventually learnt are the lodging-houses of the most aristocratic visiters of the baths. traversing the fruitful little dell, and mounting a low rocky ledge that completes its enclosure to the east, leaving only a narrow passage for the rivulet, we found ourselves close to the baths; our vicinity to which, however, the offensive smell of the spring (prevailing even over the strong perfume of the orange blossoms) had already duly apprized us of. the baths are situated almost in the bed of the pure mountain stream, whose course we had been following from casares; and a short distance beyond, and at a slight elevation above them, stands a neat and compact little village. the season being at its height, we found the place so crowded with visiters, that it would have been impossible to procure a night's lodging, had such been our wish. all we required, however, was information concerning the place; for which purpose we repaired to the _fonda_,--a kind of booth, such as is knocked up at fairs in england for the sale of gin, "and other cordials,"--and ordered such refreshment as it afforded, asking the _moza_[ ] if she could tell us whether any of the houses were vacant, &c. she replied, that the fonda was provided with every thing necessary for travellers of distinction, being established on the footing of the hotels "_de mas fama_" of malaga and san roque; and that _el señor juan_, the "_intendente_"[ ] of the place,--who, doubtless, on hearing of our arrival, would forthwith pay his respects to us,--could furnish every sort of information respecting it. oh! a master of the ceremonies, with his book, thought we--well, this will be amusing: some urbane "captain," no doubt, all smiles to all persons!--and whilst we were yet picturing to ourselves what this spanish beau nash could possibly be like, a tall ungainly personage, with a considerable halt in his gait, a fund of humour in his long leathern countenance, and a paper cigar screwed up in the dexter corner of his mouth, presented himself, and placed his services at our disposition. he held a huge pitcher of the fragrant water in one hand, which, when he was in motion, gave him a "lurch to starboard;" a stout staff in the other, by means of which he established an equilibrium when at rest. his body was coatless, his neck cravatless, his shirt sleeves were rolled up to the elbow, leaving his brown sinewy arms bare; his trowsers hung in braceless negligence about his hips; his large bare feet were thrust into a pair of capacious shoes; and his head was covered with a high-crowned, narrow-brimmed, frenchified hat, which had evidently browned under the heat of many summers, and bent to the storms of intervening winters. round his neck hung a stout silver chain (which the fumes of the sulphur-spring had turned as black as berlin iron), whence was suspended a ponderous master-key. "he must be the prison-keeper," said we, "carrying the daily allowance of water to the incarcerated malefactors!" "this is _señor juan, el intendente_," said our smirking attendant, placing a bottle of wine upon the table before us. "oh! this is _señor juan_, the master of the ceremonies!--then pray be seated, _señor juan_; and bring another wine-glass, _mariquita_." our requests were instantly complied with; and in half an hour we had disengaged from the numberless "_por supuestos, conques_," and "_pues_," with which señor juan interlarded his conversation, and from the smoky exhalations in which he enveloped it, all the information we required concerning the baths, though by no means so full an account of them as the gossip-loving _tio_ seemed disposed to give us. so pleased were we, however, with his description of the amusements of the place, and of the valuable properties of its waters, that, assuring him we should take an early opportunity of renewing his acquaintance, and commending him to the care of _san juan nepomaceno_, we arose, and took our departure. i was not long in performing my promise. indeed, i became an annual visiter to the baths for a few days during the shooting season; and will devote the following chapter to a more particular description of the _hedionda_, and the manner of life at a spanish watering-place. the mule-track from the baths to gibraltar--for during the first few miles it is little else--keeps down the valley for some little distance, and then, ascending a steep hill, joins at its summit a road leading to casares from manilba; which latter little town is seen about three-quarters of a mile off, on the left. this road to casares turns the _sierra_ overhanging the baths on its western side, where it meets with some flat, nearly table-land; but our route to gibraltar, after keeping along it a few hundred yards, strikes off to the left, and, traversing a wild and very broken country, in something more than three miles forms its junction with the road from the town of manilba to san roque and gibraltar, which again, half a mile further on, falls into the road from malaga to those two places. this spot is distant five miles from the baths, and rather more than two from the river guadiaro. near some farm-houses on the left bank of this river, and about a mile from its mouth, are ruins of the roman town of _barbesula_. some monuments and inscriptions found here, many years since, were carried to gibraltar. the bed of the guadiaro is wide but shallow, and offers two fords, which are practicable at most seasons. there is a ferry-boat kept, however, at the upper point of passage, for cases of necessity. a venta is situated on the right bank of the stream, whereat a bevy of custom-house people generally assemble to levy contributions on the passers-by. it is a wretched place of accommodation, though better than another, distant about a mile further, on the road to gibraltar, and well known to the sportsmen of the garrison by the name of _pan y agua_--bread and water--those being the only supplies that the establishment can be depended upon to furnish. its vicinity to some excellent snipe ground occasions it to be much resorted to in the winter. at the first-named venta, two roads present themselves, that on the right hand proceeding to san roque, (eight miles,) the other seeking the coast and keeping along it to gibraltar--a distance of twelve miles. the country traversed by the former is very rugged, but the path is, nevertheless, unnecessarily circuitous. in various places--but a little off the road--are vestiges of an old paved route, which, it is by no means improbable, was the roman way from _barbesula_ to _carteia_, of which further notice will be taken, when the coast road from malaga to gibraltar is described. chapter vii. the baths of manilba--a specimen of fabulous history--properties of the hedionda--society of the bathing village--remarkable mountain--an english botanist--town of manilba--an intrusive visiter--ride to estepona--return by way of casares. the baths of manilba lie about seventeen miles n.n.e. of gibraltar, and four, inland, from the sea-fort of savanilla. the town, from which they take their name, is about midway between them and the coast; and, standing on a commanding knoll, is a conspicuous object when sailing along the mediterranean shore. the virtues of the sulphureous spring have long been known; but it is only within the last few years that the increasing reputation of the medicated source led a company of speculators to build the village which now stands in its vicinity; the scattered cottages of the _huerta_ having been found quite incapable of lodging the vast crowd of valetudinarians, annually drawn to the spot. the same parties have yet more recently erected a chapel, and also the _fonda_, mentioned in the preceding chapter. the little village is built with the regularity of even wiesbaden itself, but nothing can well be more different in other respects than it is from that, or any other watering-place, which i have ever visited. it consists of five or six parallel stacks of houses, forming streets which open at one end upon the bank overhanging the now sulphurated stream, that flows down from casares; and which abut, at the other, against the side of the lofty mountain whence the medicated spring issues. these streets are covered in with trellis-work, over which vines are trained, rendering them cool, as well as agreeable to the sight. the houses are all built on a uniform plan, namely, they have no upper story, and contain but _one room each_; which room is furnished with the usual spanish kitchen-range--that is, with three or four little bricked stoves built into a kind of dresser. by this arrangement, every room is, of itself, capable of forming a _complete establishment_; and in most cases, indeed, it does serve the triple purposes of a kitchen, a refectory, and a dormitory, to its frugal inmates. when a family is large, however, an entire lareet must be hired for its accommodation. the principal speculator in the joint-stock village is a gentleman of estepona; and _el señor juan_--or _tio juan_, as he is familiarly called by those admitted to his intimacy--is a poor relative, who, for the slight perquisites of office, readily undertook the charge of the infant establishment. the choice of the _tio_ was, in every respect, a judicious one; for, having drunk himself off the crutches on which he hobbled down to the baths, he has become a kind of walking advertisement of the efficacy of the waters. he is not, however, like the unsightly fellows who perambulate the streets of london with placards, a silent one; for i know of no man more thoroughly versed in the art of _viva voce_ puffing than _tio juan_; and then he has stored his memory with such a fund of useful watering-place information, that he is a perfect guide to the _hedionda_ and its environs. the _tio_ and i soon became wonderful cronies; i derived great amusement from his _cuentas_--he, much gratification from my nightly whisky-toddy. in fact, the two dovetailed into each other in a most remarkable manner; for, when once the _tio_ had attached one of his long stories to a (_pint_) bottle of "poteen," there was no possibility of separating them--they drew cork and breath together, and together only they came to a conclusion. he knew every body that visited the baths, and every thing about them; could point out those who came for health, and those who were allured by dissipation; could tell which ladies and gentlemen were looking out for matrimony, which for intrigue; whether the buxom widow had fruitful vineyards and olive grounds with her weeds; whether the young ladies had shining _onzas_ to recommend them as well as sparkling eyes. then the tio knew where every medicinal herb grew that was suited to any given case--could point out the haunt of every covey of red-legged partridges in the vicinity--could tell to an hour when a flight of quail would cross from the parched shores of africa--when the matchless _becafigos_ would alight upon the neighbouring fig-trees--and, as the season advanced, he would mark the time to a nicety when the first annual visit of the woodcocks might be looked for to the wooded glens beyond the baths. as the historian of the wonder-working spring, the _tio_ was not less valuable; though, it must be confessed, the terms in which he conveyed the idea of its vast antiquity were any thing but prepossessing; viz., "_pues! saben ustedes, que esa hedionda es mas vieja que la sarna._" "know then, gentlemen, that this fetid spring is older than the itch." in other respects, however, the information he had collected, besides being most rare, possessed a freshness that was truly delightful; "_siglos hay_,[ ]" he would continue, "the spring was _endemoniado_, for _carlomagno_, or some other great hero of the most remote antiquity, drove an evil spirit into the mountain, which said spirit, to be revenged on mankind, poisoned the source whence the stream flows. saint james, however, arriving in the country soon after--having taken spain under his especial protection--determined to expel this imp of satan. this was done accordingly, and the devil went over into barbary, (where he eventually stirred up the moors against the adopted children of _santiago_--the story of _don rodrigo_ and _la cava_ being all a fable,) leaving nothing but his sulphur behind." "the good saint, to perpetuate the fame of the miracle he had wrought, next determined to endue the spring with extraordinary curative properties; not depriving it, however, of the unusually bad smell left by the devil, that the marvellous work he was about to perform might be the more apparent to future generations." "some years after this, the baths were visited by '_muchos emperadores de roma_;'[ ] amongst others, trajan and hercules; as also by the famous roland; and, '_segun dicen_,' by _un ingles, llamado malbrù, y otra gente muy principal_."[ ] "in those days," continued the tio, "there were _palathios, posa'a, y to'o_,[ ] but then came the moors (with the devil in their train), and laid every thing waste. they had not the power, however, to deprive the stream of its virtues; and great they are, and most justly celebrated _por todo la españa_."[ ] in detailing the wonderful properties of the spring committed to his charge, _tio juan_ would enter with all the minuteness of an herodotus. by his account, there was no ailment to which suffering humanity is exposed that it would not reach. it was a "universal medicine"--a hygeian fountain that bestowed perpetual youth--a styx that rendered mankind invulnerable. it gave strength to the weak, and ease to those who were in pain--rendered the barren fruitful, and the splenetic, good-humoured--made the fat, lean, and the lean, fat. by it the good liver was freed from gout, and the bad liver from bile. the sores of the leper were dried up, and the lungs of the asthmatic inflated--it made the maimed whole, and patched up the broken-hearted. he had known many instances of its curing consumption, and had seen it act like a charm in cases of tympany. "in fact," said old juan--"_para todo tiene remedio_.--_mir' usted_[ ]--i, who on my arrival here could not put a foot to the ground, now, as you may perceive, walk about like a _jovencito_;[ ] and, under proper directions, i have no doubt it would make a man live for ever."[ ] nor did the long list of the water's valuable qualities end here. it was good for all the common purposes of life--for stewing and for boiling--for washing and for shaving;--and, to wind up all, as we go on sinning, until, by constant repetition, crime no longer pricks one's conscience, so, the _tio_ declared, one went on drinking this devilish water until it positively became palatable. "_jo no bebo otra_," he concluded, "_nunca bebo otra--guiso y to'o con ella_."[ ] now, though the tio painted the yellow spring thus _couleur de rose_, and his account of its wonderful properties, like his system of chronology, must be received with caution, yet i must needs confess that the _hedionda_ seemed to perform extraordinary cures; and, even in my own case, i ever fancied that after a few days passed at the baths, i returned to gibraltar with invigorated powers of digestion. i could by no means, however, bring myself to submit to the _tio's_ discipline, and he was wont to shake his head very seriously, when, returning from a hard day's shooting, i used to request him to open a bath for me after sunset--hercules, himself, he thought could not have stood that. that this spring was known to the romans there can be no manner of doubt, since the public bath, which still exists, is a work of that people. the source is very copious, and the water of an equal temperature throughout the year, viz., to degrees of fahrenheit's thermometer. on analysis it is found to contain large quantities of hydrogen and carbonic acid gases, and the following proportions of fixed substances in fifty pounds of water, viz., six grains of muriate of lime; fifty-six of sulphate of magnesia; thirty-five of sulphate of lime; ten of magnesia; and four of silica. the quantity of sulphur it holds in solution is so great, that the vine-dressers in the neighbourhood make themselves matches, by merely steeping linen rags in the waste water of the baths. the use of the bath has been found very efficacious in the cure of all kinds of cutaneous diseases, ulcers, wounds, and elephantiasis; and taken inwardly, the water is considered by the faculty as extremely beneficial in cases of gout, asthma, scrofula, rheumatism, dyspepsia, and, as the tio said, in fact, in almost every disorder that human nature is subject to. the season for taking the waters is from the beginning of june to the end of september; and it is astonishing during those four months what vast crowds of persons, of every grade and calling, are brought together. nobles, priests, peasants, and beggars--the gouty, hypochondriac, lame, and blind--all flock from every part of the kingdom to the famed hedionda. it was ever a matter of surprise to me where such a host can find accommodation. the same regimen is prescribed at this as at other watering places; viz., plenty of the spring, moderate exercise, and abstemious diet; and in this latter item, at least, the injunctions are as generally disregarded at manilba as at the brunnens of nassau: that is, comparatively speaking, for it must be borne in mind that a german's daily food would support a spaniard for a week. the principal bath is open to the public, and, being very large and tolerably deep, is by far the pleasantest, when one can be sure of its entire possession. those which have been built by the company of speculators are too small, though convenient in other respects. the charge for the use of these is moderate enough, viz., one real and a half each time of bathing; which includes a trifling gratuity to _tio juan_. the source from which the drinkers fill their goblets is open to all comers, and any one may bottle and carry off the precious water _ad libitum_. a considerable quantity is sent in stone jars to the neighbouring towns; but tio juan maintained--and i believe not without good reason--that it lost all its properties on the journey "_amen del mal olor_."[ ] the situation of the new village would have been more agreeable had it been built somewhat higher up the side of the sierra, instead of on the immediate bank of the rivulet, where it is excluded from the fine view it might otherwise command, and is sheltered from every breath of air. it is not, however, so sultry as might be expected, considering its confined situation; for the mountain behind screens it from the sun's rays at an early hour after noon, and the opposite bank of the ravine, by sloping down gradually to the stream, and being clothed to the water's edge with vines, fig, and other fruit-trees, throws back no reflected heat upon the dwellings. the manner of life of the visiters of the _hedionda_ is not less different from that of the watering places of other countries, than the place itself is from cheltenham or carlsbad. they rise with the sun; drink their first glass of water at the spring on their way to chapel; a second glass, in returning from their devotions; and then take a _paseito_[ ] in the _huerta_: but not until after the third dose do they venture on their usual breakfast of a cup of chocolate. the bath and the toilette occupy the rest of the morning. dinner is taken at one or two o'clock; the _siesta_ follows, and before sunset another bath, perhaps. the _paseo_ comes next--that is quite indispensable--and the _tertulia_ concludes the arrangements for the day. this, at the baths, is a kind of public assembly held in the open air, and generally in one of the vine-sheltered streets of the modern village. a guitar, cards, dancing, and games of forfeit, are the various resources of the _réunion_; which breaks up at an early hour. _tio juan_, in his shirt-sleeves and slippers, is a constant attendant at the _tertulia_, usually looking on at the sports and pastimes with becoming gravity, but occasionally taking a hand at _malilla_,[ ] or joining the noisy circle playing at _el enfermo_;[ ] in which, when the usual question is asked, "what will _you_ give the sick man?" he invariably answers, "_el agua--nada mas que el agua--que no hay cosa mas sano en el mundo_,"[ ] puffing away at his paper cigar all the while with the most imperturbable gravity, and casting a side glance at me, as much as to say--"not a word of our nightly _symposium_, if you please." the company on these occasions is, as may be supposed, of a very mixed kind. let it not be imagined, however, that because "_señor juan_" presents himself with bare elbows, that it is altogether of a secondary order--far from it--for such is the caprice of fashion, such the love of change, that even the noblest of the land are ofttimes inmates of the little inconvenient hovels that i have described; but _tio juan_ is a privileged person--every body consults him, every one makes him his or her confidant. and so curiously is spanish society constituted, that though considered the proudest people in the world, yet, on occasions like this, spaniards lay aside the distinction of rank, and mix together in the most unceremonious manner. indeed, no people i have ever seen treat their inferiors with greater respect than the spanish nobles. they enter familiarly into conversation with the servants standing behind their chair; and, strange as it may appear, this freedom is never taken advantage of, nor are they less respected, nor worse served in consequence. the custom of kneeling down in common at their places of public worship may have a tendency to keep up this feeling, warning the rich and powerful of the earth that, though placed temporarily above the peasant in the world's estimation, yet that he is their equal in the sight of the creator of all; an accountable being like themselves, and deserving of the treatment of a human being. the spanish nobles certainly find their reward in adopting such a line of conduct, for they are served with extraordinary fidelity; and the horrors which were perpetrated _through the instrumentality of servants_, during the french revolution, is little to be apprehended in this country; perhaps, indeed, this good understanding between master and man has hitherto saved spain from its reign of terror. the chapel of the bathing village is generally thronged with penitents; for people become very devout when they have, or fancy they have, one foot in the grave. the little edifice may be considered the repository of the _archives_ of _the hedionda_, for countless are the legs, arms, heads, and bodies, moulded in wax, or carved in wood, and telling of wondrous cures, that have been offered at the shrine of our lady of _los remedios_. leaving the good romanists at their devotions within the crowded chapel, and _tio juan_, with one knee and his pitcher of water on the ground, and his staff in hand, offering a passing prayer behind the throng collected outside the open door, we will devote the morning to a scramble to the summit of the steep mountain that rises at the back of the baths. the _sierra de utrera_, by which name this rugged ridge is distinguished, is of very singular formation. its eastern base (whence the _hedionda_ issues) is covered with a crumbling mass of schist, disposed in laminæ, shelving downwards, at an angle of or degrees with the horizon. this sloping bank reaches to about one third the height of the mountain, when rude rocks of a most peculiar character shoot up above its general surface, rising pyramidically, but assuming most fantastic forms, and each pile consisting of a series of huge blocks (sometimes fourteen or fifteen in number), resting loosely one upon another, and seemingly so much off the centre of gravity as to lead to the belief that a slight push would lay them prostrate. at first these detached pinnacles rise only to the height of fifteen or twenty feet, but, on drawing near the crest of the ridge, they attain nearly twice that elevation. the general surface of the mountain, above which these piles of rocking stones rise, is rent by deep chasms, as if the whole mass of rock had, at some distant period, been shaken to its very foundation by an earthquake. in these rents, soil has been gradually collected, and vegetation been the consequence; but the general character of the mountain is arid and sterile. the ascent becomes very difficult as one proceeds, and, in fact, it requires some little agility to reach the crest of the singular ridge. its summit presents a very rough, though nearly horizontal surface, varying in width from to yards; and, looking from its western side, the spectator fancies himself elevated on the walls of some vast castle, so precipitously does the rocky ledge fall in that direction, so level and smiling is the cultivated country spread out but a couple of hundred feet below him. this rocky plateau appears to have been covered, in former days, with the same singularly formed pyramids that protrude from the eastern acclivity of the mountain; but they have probably been hewn into mill stones, as many of the rough blocks strewed about its surface are now in process of becoming. the plateau extends nearly two miles in a parallel direction to the rock of gibraltar, that is, nearly due north and south by compass; and, when on its summit, the ridge appears continuous; but, on proceeding to examine the southern portion of the plateau, i found myself suddenly on the brink of a chasm, upwards of a hundred feet deep, which, traversing the mountain from east to west, cuts it completely in two. this cleft varies in width from to feet; and in winter brings down a copious stream, being the drain of a considerable extent of country on the western side of the ridge. it is partially clothed with shrubs and wild olive-trees, and a rude pathway leads down the dark dell to the _hedionda_, which issues from the base of the mountain, about yards to the north of the opening of the chasm. this remarkable gap, though not distinguishable from the baths situated immediately below it, is so well defined, and has so peculiar an appearance at a distance, that it is an important landmark for the coasting vessels. the southern portion of the sierra is far less accessible than that which has been described; in fact, access to its summit can be gained only by means of a ramped road, which, piercing the rocky precipice on its western side, has been made to facilitate the transport of the millstones prepared there. in other respects, this part of the plateau is of the same character as the other. wonderful are the tales of fairies, devils, and evil spirits, told by the goatherds and others who frequent this singular mountain; and _tio juan_, who never would suffer himself to be outdone in the marvellous, told us that "_un ingles_," who, about two years before, had been on a visit to the baths, had disappeared there in a most mysterious way. a goatherd of his acquaintance had seen him descend into a cleft in search of some herb, but out of it he had never returned. "_se dicen_," he concluded, "_que era uno de esos lores, de que hay tantos en inglaterra_;[ ] but i can hardly believe, if he had possessed such '_montones de oro_'[ ] as was represented, that he would have been going about like a pedlar, with a basket slung to his back, picking up all sorts of herbs, and drying them with great care every day when he returned home, spreading them out between the leaves of a large book. '_a me mi parece_,'[ ] that he was gathering them to make tea with; but i know an herb which grows on that sierra, which is worth all the medicines[ ] in the world: ay! and in some cases it is yet quicker, though not more effectual, in its cure, than even the waters of the _hedionda_; and some day, _don carlos_, i will walk up and show you the cleft wherein it grows." the _tio's_ occupations were, however, too constant to allow of his accompanying me in search of this wonderful plant, and, consequently, my curiosity concerning it was never gratified. the district of manilba is celebrated for the productiveness of its vineyards, and the undulated country between the baths and the southern foot of the _sierra bermeja_ is almost exclusively devoted to the culture of the grape. that most esteemed is a large purple kind. it is highly flavoured, and makes a strong-bodied and very palatable wine, though, in nine cases out of ten, the wine is spoilt by some defect of the skin in which it has been carried. the husks of the manilba grape, after the juice has been expressed, enjoy a reputation for the cure of rheumatism, scarcely less than that of the sulphureous spring itself. the sufferer is immersed up to the neck in a vat full of the fermenting skins, and, after remaining therein a whole morning, comes forth as purple as a printer's devil. i have met with persons who declared they had received great benefit from this vinous bath; but i question whether interment in hot sand (a mode of treatment, by the way, which has been tried with great success) would not have been found more efficacious, without subjecting the patient to this unpleasant discoloration. several interesting mornings' excursions may be made from the baths. the village of manilba (about two miles distant) is situated on a high, but narrow ridge, that protrudes from the south-eastern extremity of the sierra de utrera. it is a compactly built place, and commands fine views: towards the mountains on one side, and over the mediterranean on the other. the population amounts to about souls, principally vinedressers and husbandmen. on one occasion--having found all the lodging-houses at the _hedionda_ occupied, i established myself for a few days at the posada at manilba, where a singular adventure befel me. mine host entered my room on the evening of my arrival, and very mysteriously informed me, that a certain person--a friend of his--a spanish officer "_por fin_," who had distinguished himself greatly under the constitutional government, and was a _caballero de toda confianza_,[ ] wished very much to have the honour of paying me a visit, if i were agreeable, which, hearing i was alone, he thought it possible i might be; and, before i had time fully to explain that i was quite tired from a long day's shooting, and must beg to be excused, the _lismahago_ himself walked in--as vulgar, off-handed, free-and-easy a gentleman as i ever came across. having expressed unbounded love for the english nation, and stated his conviction--drawn from his intimate knowledge of the character of british officers--that they were, one and all, well disposed to assist in the grand work of regenerating spain, he proceeded to state, that the "friends of liberty," in various towns of that part of the peninsula, had entered into a plot to subvert the existing government of the country, and having many friends in gibraltar, wished, through the medium of an officer of that garrison, to communicate with them; that, understanding i was, &c. &c. &c. i had merely acknowledged that i comprehended what he was saying, by bowing severally to the numerous panegyrics on liberty, and compliments to myself and nation, with which he interlarded his discourse--for the above is but the skimmed milk of his eloquent harangue; but, finding that he had at length concluded, i expressed the deep regret i felt at not being able to meet his friendly proposal in the way he wished, from the circumstance of my time being fully occupied in preparing a deep-laid plot against my own government--nothing less, in fact, than to give up the important fortress of gibraltar to the emperor of morocco, until we had established a republic in england. when this grand project was accomplished, i added, i should be quite at leisure, and would most willingly enter into any treasonable designs against any other government; but, at present, he must see it was quite out of the question. my visiter gazed on me "with the eyes of astonishment," but i kept my countenance. he rose from his seat--i did the same. "are you serious?" asked he. "perfectly so," i replied; "but, of course, i reckon on your maintaining the strictest secrecy in the matter i have just communicated," i added earnestly. "you may rely in perfect confidence upon me." "do you smoke? pray accept of a gibraltar cigar. i regret that i cannot ask you to remain with me, but i have letters of the utmost importance to write, which must be sent off by daybreak." he accepted my proffered cigar, begged i would command his services on all occasions, and walked off. i made sure he was a government spy, and in a towering rage sent for the innkeeper. he protested such was not the case, adding, "but, to confess the truth," he was a poor harmless fellow,--a reduced officer of the constitutional army,--who was very fond of the english, not less so of wine; talked a great deal of nonsense, which nobody minded; and hoped i would take no notice of it. i reminded mine host, that he had said he was a "_distinguished officer_," and had called him "_his friend_."--"_si, señor, es verdad_;[ ] but the fact is, he followed me up stairs, and i knew he was at the door, listening to what i might say." i very much doubted the truth of his asseverations, and my doubts were confirmed by my never afterwards seeing the constitutional officer about the premises; but, to prevent a repetition of such introductions, i begged to be allowed the privilege of choosing my own associates, telling him, indeed, that my further stay at his house would depend upon it. i still, however, continued to look upon the fellow as a spy, until the mad attempt made by torrijos to bring about a revolution, not very long afterwards, led me to think that my visiter's overture might really have been seriously intended. manilba is distant about seven miles from estepona. the first part of the road thither lies through productive vineyards; the latter along the sea-shore, on reaching which it falls into the road from gibraltar to malaga. not many years since estepona was a mere fishing village, built under the protection of one of the _casa fuertes_ that guard the coast; but the fort stands now in the midst of a thriving town, containing inhabitants. the fish taken here finds a ready sale in the serranía, whither it is conveyed in a half-salted state, on the backs of mules or asses. the _sardina_ frequents this coast in great numbers; it is a delicious fish, of the herring kind, but more delicately flavoured. the environs of estepona are very fruitful; and oranges and lemons are exported thence to a large amount--the greater portion to england. the place is distant twenty-five miles from gibraltar (by the road), and sixteen from marbella. to the latter the road is very good. a most delightful ride offers itself to return from hence to the baths of manilba, by way of casares. the road, for the first few miles, keeps under the deeply seamed and pine-clad side of the _sierra bermeja_, and then, leaving the mountain-path to gaucin (mentioned in a preceding chapter) to the right, enters an intersected country, winding along the edge of several deep ravines, shaded by groves of chesnut-trees, and reaches casares very unexpectedly; leaving a large convent, situated on the side of a steep bank, on the left, just before entering the narrow, rock-bound town. the road from casares to the baths has already been described, but two other routes offer themselves from that town to reach manilba. the more direct of these keeps the fissure in which the _hedionda_ is situated on the right; the other makes a wide circuit round the _sierra de utrera_, and leaves the baths on the left. by the former the distance is five and a half, by the latter seven miles. chapter viii. a shooting party to the mountains--our italian piqueur, damien berrio--some account of his previous life--los barrios--the beautiful maid, and the maiden's levelling sire--road to sanona--preparations against bandits--arrival at the caseria--description of its owner and accommodations--fine scenery--a batida. in the wildest part of the mountainous belt that, stretching in a wide semicircle round gibraltar, cuts the rocky peninsula off, as it were, from the rest of spain, is situated the _casería de sanona_; a lone house, now dwindled down to a mere farm; but, as both its name implies, and its appearance bespeaks, formerly a place of some consequence. it was brought to its present lowly state during the last war, when its inhabitants were so reduced in number, as well as circumstances, that hands and means are still equally wanting for the proper looking after, and attending to, the vast herds and extensive _dehesas_[ ] and forest-lands belonging to it. the consequence is, that the wolves and wild boars, from having been so long permitted to roam about in undisputed possession of the woods, have in their turn, from being the persecuted, become the aggressors, and are now in the habit of making nightly predatory visits to the cattle folds and plantations of the _casería_, carrying off the farmer's sheep and heifers, and destroying his winter stock of vegetables, whenever, by any neglect or remissness of the watch, an opportunity is afforded them. besides the animals above mentioned, deer, and, in the winter, woodcocks, find the unfrequented ravines in the vicinity of the _casería_ equally well suited to their secluded habits; and, tempted by the promising account of the sport the place afforded, a party was formed, consisting of three of my most intimate friends, myself, and a piqueur, to proceed thither for a few days' shooting. sending forward a messenger to the casería, as well to go through the form of asking its proprietor to "put us up," during our proposed visit, as to request him to have a sufficient number of beaters collected--on which the quality of the sport mainly depends--we provided ourselves with a week's consumption of provisions and ammunition, and, leaving gibraltar late in the afternoon, proceeded to los barrios; whence, we could take an earlier departure on the following morning than from the locked-up fortress. the _piqueur_ who usually accompanied us on these shooting excursions was a personage of some celebrity in the gibraltar _sporting world_, and his name--damien berrio--will doubtless be familiar to such of my readers as may have resided any time on "the rock." by birth a piedmontese, a baker by profession, damien's bread--like that of many persons in a more elevated walk of life--was not to his taste. at the very mention of a _batida_, he would leave oven, home, wife, and children; shoulder his gun, fill his _alforjas_--for he was a provident soul, and, though a baker, ever maintained that man could not live on bread alone--borrow a horse, and, in half an hour, "be ready for a start." possessing a perfect knowledge of the country, a quick eye, an unerring aim, and a nose that could wind an _olla_ if within the circuit of a spanish league, damien was, in many respects, a valuable acquisition on a shooting party. and to the aforesaid qualifications, befitting him for the _staff_, he added that of being an excellent _raconteur_. in this he received much assistance from his personal appearance, which, like that of the inimitable liston, passed off for humour that which, in reality, was pure nature. his person was much above the common stature, erect, and well-built, but his hands and feet were "prodigious." his face--when the sun fell directly upon it, so as to free it from the shadow of his enormous nose--was intelligent, and bespoke infinite good nature, though marked, nevertheless, with the lines of care and sorrow. his costume was that of a french sportsman, except that he wore a high-crowned, weather-beaten old hat, placed somewhat knowingly on one side of his head, and which, of itself alone, marked him as "_a character_." to those who have not had the pleasure of his acquaintance, a _precis_ of his early history may not be unacceptable; those who already know it will, i trust, pardon the short digression. born on the sunny side of the alps, some fifteen years before the breaking out of the french revolution, damien, at a very early age, was called upon to defend his country against the aggression of its gallic neighbours. he was draughted accordingly to a regiment of grenadiers of the piedmontese army commanded by general colli; and, in the short and disgraceful campaign of , was made prisoner with the brave but unfortunate provèra, at the castle of cosséria. on the formation of the cisalpine republic soon afterwards, our grenadier, released, as he fondly imagined, from the necessity of any further military service, purposed returning to his family and regretted agricultural pursuits; but, on applying for his discharge, he found that he had quite misunderstood the meaning of the word _freedom_. "what!" said the regenerator of his oppressed country; "what! return home like a lazy drone, when so much still remains to be done! no, no, we cannot part with you yet; we are about to give liberty to the rest of italy; you must march; can mankind be more beneficially or philanthropically employed? _allons! en avant! vive la liberté!_"--"and so," said damien, "off we were marched, under the tail of the french eagle, to give freedom to the _facchini of venice_, and _lazzaroni_ of naples; and to spoil and pillage all that lay in our way." this marauding life was ill-suited either to our hero's taste or habits, and accordingly he embraced the first favourable opportunity of quitting the service of the "regenerator of italy." how he managed to effect his liberation i never could find out, it being one of the very few subjects on which damien was close; but i suspect--much as he liked shooting--that the love of the smell of gunpowder was not a _natural_ taste of his. be that as it may, he made his way to spain--took to himself a spanish wife--and settled at gibraltar. his language, like the dress of a harlequin, was made up of scraps,--french, spanish, english, and italian, joined in angularly and without method or regularity; and all so badly spoken, as to render it impossible to say which amongst them was the mother-tongue. nevertheless, damien got on well with every body, and his _bonhommie_ and good nature rendered him a universal favourite. in other respects, however, he was not so favoured a child of fortune; for, though no idle seeker of adventures, in fact, he was wont to go a great way to avoid them, yet, as ill luck would have it, adventures very frequently came across him. and it generally happened, as with the famed manchegan knight, that damien, in his various encounters, came off "second best." that is to say, they usually ended in his finding himself _minus_ his gun, or his horse, or both, and, perhaps, his _alforjas_ to boot. by his own account, these untoward events invariably happened through some want of proper precaution--either whilst he was indulging in a _siesta_, or taking a snack by the side of some cool stream, his trusty gun being out of his immediate reach, or when committing some other imprudent act. so it was, however, and these "_petits malheurs_," as he was in the habit of calling them, had generated a more than ordinary dread of robbers, which, in its turn, had produced in him a disposition to be gregarious whenever he passed the bounds of the english garrison. in travelling through the mountains, we always knew when we were approaching what damien considered a likely spot for an ambuscade, by his striking up a martial air that he told us had been the favourite march of the regiment of grenadiers in which he had served; giving us from time to time a hint that it would be well to be upon the look-out by observing to the person next him, "_hay muchos ladrones par ici, mon capitaine--el año pasado (maledetti sian' ces gueux d'espagnols!) on m'a volé une bonne escopète en este maldito callejon_[ ]--_il faut être preparé, messieurs!_" and then the piedmontese march was resumed with increased energy, growing _piu marcato e risoluto_, as the banks of the gorge became higher and the underwood thicker. on regaining the open country, the air was changed by a playful _cadenza_ to one of a more lively character, and, after a _da capo_, generally ended with "_n'ayez pas peur, messieurs--questi birbánti spagniuoli_"[ ] (he seldom abused them in their native language, lest he should be over-heard) "_n'osent pas nous attaquer à forces égales_." poor _damien!_ many is the good laugh your fears have unconsciously occasioned us--many the joking bet the tuning up of the piedmontese grenadiers' march has given rise to--and every note of which is at this moment as perfect in my recollection as when we traversed together the wild _puertas de sanona_. the town of los barrios, where we took up our quarters for the night, is twelve miles from gibraltar. it is a small, open town, containing some souls, and, though founded only since the capture of gibraltar, already shows sad symptoms of decay. being within a ride of the british garrison, it is frequently visited by its inmates, and two rival _posadas_ dispute the honour of possessing the _golden fleece_. one of them, for a time, carried all before it, in consequence of the beauty of the _donzella de la casa_:[ ] but beauty _will_ fade, however unwillingly--as in this case--its possessor admits that it does; and the "fair maid of los barrios," who, when i first saw her, was really a very beautiful girl, had, at the period of my last visit, become a coarse, fat, middle-aged, _young woman_; and, as the charges for looking at her remained the same as ever, i proved a recreant knight, and went to the rival posada. nothing could well be more ludicrous than the contrast, in dress and appearance, between the beauty's mother and the beauty herself--unless, indeed, the visiter arrived very unexpectedly,--the one being dirty, slatternly, and clothed in old rags; the other, _muy bien peynado_,[ ] and pomatumed, and decked in all the finery and ornaments presented by her numerous admirers. the old lady was excessively proud of her daughter's beauty and wardrobe; and in showing her off always reminded me of the _sin-par_[ ] panza's mode of speaking of his _sanchita, una muchacha a quien crio para condesa_.[ ] the father of "the beauty" was a notorious _liberal_; and, having outraged the laws of his country on various occasions, was executed at seville some years since. he was, i think, the most thorough-going leveller i ever met with--one who would not have sheathed the knife as long as any individual better off than himself remained in the country. boasting to me on one occasion of the great deeds he had done during the war, he said that in one night he had despatched eleven french soldiers, who were quartered in his house. he effected his purpose by making them drunk, having previously drugged their wine to produce sleep. he put them to death with his knife as they lay senseless on the floor, carried them out into the yard, and threw them into a pit. the monster who could boast of such a crime would commit it if he had the opportunity; and though i suspect the number of his victims was exaggerated, yet i have no doubt whatever that he did not make himself out to be a murderer without some good grounds; and, i confess, it gave me very little regret to hear, a year or two afterwards, that he had perished on the scaffold. the road to sanona enters the mountains soon after leaving los barrios, ascending, for the first few miles, along the bank of the river palmones. the scenery is very fine; huge masses of scarped and jagged sierras are tossed about in the most fantastic irregularity, whilst the valleys between are clad with a luxuriance of foliage that can be met with only in this prolific climate. looking back, the silvery palmones may be traced winding between its wooded banks towards the bay of gibraltar, which, viewed in this direction, has the appearance of a vast lake; the african shore, from ape's hill to the promontory of ceuta, seeming to complete its enclosure to the south. after proceeding some miles further, the road becomes a mere mule-track, and the country very wild and barren. the piedmontese march had been gradually _crescendo_ ever since leaving the cultivated valley of the palmones, and damien, as he rode on before us, had already given sundry yet more palpable intimations of impending danger,--firstly, by examining the priming of his old flint gun,--secondly, by trying whether the balls were rammed home,--and, lastly, by producing a brandy bottle from his capacious pocket; when, arrived at the foot of a peculiarly dreary and rocky pass, pulling up and dismounting from his horse, under pretence of tightening the girths of his saddle, he exclaimed, "_à present, messieurs, es preciso cargar--ces lâches d'espagnols viennent toujours a l'improviste, et se non siamo apparecchiati sarémo tutti inretati come tanti uccellini.--somos todos muy bien armados con escopetas à dos cañones; y con juicio, no tendremos que temer--ma ... bisogna giudizio!_"[ ] and in accordance with his wishes thus clearly expressed, we all loaded with ball, and, pushing on an advanced guard, boldly entered the rugged defile, joining our voices in grand chorus in the inspiriting grenadier's march. on emerging from this rocky gorge, we entered a peculiarly wild and secluded valley, which, so completely is it shut out from all view, one might imagine, but for the narrow path under our feet, had never been trodden by man. the road winds round the heads of numerous dark ravines, crosses numberless torrents, that rush foaming from the impending sierra on the left, and is screened effectually from the sun by an impenetrable covering of oak and other forest-trees, festooned with woodbine, eglantine, and wild vines; whilst the valley below is clothed, from end to end, with cistus, broom, wild lavender, thyme, and other indigenous aromatic shrubs. at the end of about three leagues, we reached the head of the valley, where one of the principal sources of the palmones takes its rise. the neck of land that divides this stream from the affluents to the celemin, is the pass of sanona. from hence the _casería_ is visible, and a rapid descent of about a mile brought us to the door of the lone mansion. our arrival was announced to the inmates by a general salute from the countless dogs that invariably form part of a spanish farmer's establishment. the horrid din soon brought forth the equally shaggy-coated bipeds, headed by a venerable-looking old man, who, with a slight recognition of damien, stepped to the front, and, in a very dignified manner, announcing himself as the owner of the _casería_, begged we would alight, and consider his house our own. "my habitation is but a poor one, _caballeros_; the accommodation it affords yet poorer. i wish for your sakes i had better to offer; but of this you may rest assured, that every thing _luis de castro_ possesses, will ever be at the service of the brave nation who generously aided, and by whose side i have fought, to maintain the independence of my country."--"_bravo, don luis!_" ejaculated damien, which saved us the trouble of making a suitable speech in return. we were much pleased with our host's appearance: indeed the shape of his cranium was itself sufficient to secure him the good opinion of all disciples of spurzheim; but this feeling of gratification was by no means called forth by his _casería_, from the outward inspection of which we judged the organ of accommodation to be wofully deficient. the house and out-buildings formerly occupied a considerable extent of ground, but at the present day they are reduced to three sides of a small square, of which the centre building contains the dwelling apartments of the family, and the wings afford cover to the retainers, cattle, and farming implements. a stout wall completes the enclosure on the fourth side, wherein a wide folding gate affords the only means of external communication. the _casería_ has long been possessed by the family of its present occupant, but, losing something of its importance at each succeeding generation, has dwindled down to its present insignificant condition. don luis strives hard, nevertheless, to keep up the family dignity of the de castros, though joining with patriarchal simplicity in all the services, occupations, and pastimes, of his dependents. the portion of the house reserved for himself and family consists but of two rooms on the ground-floor. the outer and larger of these serves the double purpose of a kitchen and refectory; the other is appropriated to the multifarious offices of a chapel, dormitory, henroost, and granary. in this inner room we were duly installed,--the lady de castro, and other members of the family, removing into a neighbouring _choza_ during our stay: and a sheet having been drawn over the virgin and child, the cocks and hens driven from the rafters, and the indian corn swept up into a corner, we found ourselves more _snugly_ lodged than outward appearances had led us to expect. leaving our friend damien to make what arrangements he pleased as to dinner--a discretional power that always afforded him infinite gratification--we proceeded to examine the "location," with a view of obtaining some notion of the country which was to be the scene of our next day's sporting operations. the situation of the _casería_ is singularly romantic; to the north it is backed by a richly wooded slope, above which, at the distance of about half a mile, a rocky ledge of sierra rises perpendicularly several hundred feet, its dark outline serving as a fine relief to the rich and varied green tints of the forest. in the opposite direction, the house commands a view over a wide and partially wooded valley, along the bed of which the eye occasionally catches a glimpse of a sparkling stream, that is collected from the various dark ravines which break the lofty mountain-ridges on either side. a wooded range, steep, but of somewhat less elevation than the other mountains that the eye embraces, appears to close the mouth of this valley; but, winding round its foot to the right, the stream gains a narrow outlet to the extensive plain of vejer, and empties itself into the _laguna de la janda_--a portion of which may be seen; and over this intermediate range rise, in the distance, the peaked summits of the _sierra de la plata_, whose southern base is washed by the atlantic. the beauty of the scenery, heightened by the broad shadows cast upon the mountains, and the varied tints that ever attend upon a setting sun in this elysian atmosphere, had tempted us to continue roaming about, selecting the most favourable points of view, without once thinking of our evening meal; and when, at length, the sun disappeared behind the mountains, we found we had, unconsciously, wandered some considerable distance from the _casería_. we forthwith bent our steps homewards, and, on drawing near the house, were not a little amused at hearing damien's stentorian halloos to draw our attention, which were sent back to him in echoes from all parts of the _serranía_. he was right glad to see us, though vexed at our extreme imprudence in wandering about the woods without an _escopeta_, or defensive weapon of any sort amongst us. "_messieurs, quand vous connoitrez ces gens çi aussi bien que moi----!_" we referred to don luis (who had come out with the intention of proceeding in search of us), whether there were any _mala gente_ in the neighbourhood. a faint smile played about the old man's mouth as he looked towards damien, as if guessing the source from which our interrogation had sprung, and, then waving his right hand to and fro, with the forefinger extended upwards, he replied, "_por aqui caballeros no hay mala gente alguna; esa canalla conoce demasiado quien es luis de castro!_"[ ] on entering the house, we found a large party assembled round the charcoal fire, preparing to take their evening _gazpacho_[ ] _caliente_; and, hot as had been the day, we gladly joined the circle, until our own more substantial supper should be announced. the group consisted of the wife, son, and daughter-in-law of our host, and several of his friends, who, living at a distance, had come overnight, to be ready to take part in the _batida_ on the following morning. a _batida_ bears so strong a resemblance to the same sort of thing common in germany, and indeed in some parts of scotland, that a very detailed account of one would be uninteresting to most of my readers. we turned out at daybreak, and, recruited by the neighbouring peasantry, found that we mustered twenty-three guns, and dogs innumerable, mostly of a kind called by the spaniards _podencos_, for which the most appropriate term in our language is lurcher; though that does not altogether express the strong-made, wiry-haired dog used by the spaniards on these occasions. as the _camas_[ ] about sanona are very wide, and require a number of guns to line them, only eleven of the men could be spared for beaters. these were placed under the direction of alonzo, our host's son, whilst don luis himself took command of the sportsmen in the quality of _capitan_; and his first order was to prohibit all squibbing off of guns, by which the game might be disturbed. the two parties, on leaving the house, took different directions. our's, after proceeding about a mile, was halted, and enjoined to form in rank entire, and keep perfectly silent. we then ascended a steep, thickly coppiced hill, and were placed in position along its crest, at intervals of about a hundred yards, with directions to watch the openings through the underwood in our front--to screen ourselves from observation as well as we could--not to stir from the spot until the signal was made to retire--and to observe carefully the position of our fellow sportsmen on either side, to prevent accidents. we were much amused at the manner in which don luis--to whom we were all perfect strangers--selected us to occupy the different approaches to the position. scanning us over from right to left, and from head to foot, he seemed to pick and choose his men as if perfectly aware of the peculiar qualities each possessed, befitting him for the situation in which he purposed placing him; and, beckoning the one selected out of the rank, without uttering a word he led him to the assigned post, pointed out the various openings in the underwood, and gave his final instructions in a low whisper. on leaving me he pointed to a narrow passage between two huge blocks of rock, and in a low voice said "_lobo_;"[ ] which, i must confess, made me look about for a tree, as a secure position to fall back upon, in the event of my fire failing to bring the expected visiter to the ground. the position we occupied had a deep ravine in front, a wide valley on one flank, and a precipitous wall of rock on the other; but, as the event proved, it was far too extended. thus posted, we remained for a considerable time, and i began to think very meanly of the sport, especially as i did not much like to withdraw my eyes from the rocky pass where the wolf was to be looked for; but at length the distant shouts of the beaters resounded through the mountains, and a few minutes after, the faint but true-toned yelp of one of the hounds put me quite on the _qui vive_; and when, in a few seconds, other dogs gave tongue, and several shots were fired by the beaters (who are furnished with blank cartridge), giving the assurance that game had been sprung, a feeling of excitement was produced, that can, i think, hardly be equalled by any other description of sport. the first gun from our own party almost induced me to rush forward and break the line; but, just at the moment, a rustling in the underwood drew my attention, and, looking up, i saw a fine buck "at gaze," as the heralds say, about thirty yards off, and exactly in the direction of the spot where i had seen my friend g---- posted. the animal, with ears erect, was listening, in evident alarm, to the barking of the dogs; yet, from the shot just fired in his front, scarcely knowing on which side danger was most imminent. i was so screened by the underwood that he did not perceive me, and i could have shot him with the greatest ease--that is to say, had my nervous system been in proper trim,--but that the fear of killing my neighbour withheld me; so there i stood, with my gun at the first motion of the present, and there stood the deer, in just as great a _quandary_. at length, losing all patience, i hallooed to my neighbour by name, hoping by his reply to learn whereabouts he was (for that he had moved from his post was evident), and, if possible, get a shot at the deer as he turned back, which i doubted not he would do. but, alas! my call produced no response, and the fine animal bounded forward, breaking through our line, and rendering it too hazardous for me to salute him with both barrels, as i had murderously projected. soon after the horn sounded for our reassembly. the _cama_[ ] had been very unsuccessful. one deer only, besides that which visited me, had been driven through our line; the rest of the herd, and several wild boars, turned our position by its right, which was too extensive for the small number of guns. one of the spaniards had shot a fox, which was all we had to show; and his companions shook their heads, considering it a bad omen, and that it was, indeed, likely to turn out "_una dia de zorras_."[ ] on my relating the tantalizing dilemma in which i had been placed, old _luis_, who felt somewhat sore at the signal failure of his generalship, declared we should have no sport if i stood upon such ceremony; adding, with much energy of manner, and addressing himself to the assembled party, "as soon as ever you see your game, _carajo! candela!_"[ ]--a speech that reminded us forcibly of suwarrow's reply to his austrian coadjutor, when urging the prudence of a _reconnoissance_ before undertaking some delicate operation, viz.--"_poussez en avant--chargez à la bayonette--voilà mes reconnoissances._" the beaters were now directed to make a "wide cast," and, if possible, head the game that had escaped us, whilst we moved off to a fresh position, about half a mile in rear, and perpendicular to the former. this plan was pretty successful: we killed a wolf and two deer, but don luis was by no means satisfied. it was now noon-day, and, ascending a rocky ledge that projects into the wide valley, already described as lying in front of the house, we obtained a splendid panoramic view of the whole wooded district of sanona. we found, on gaining the summit, that the provident damien had directed a _muchacho_ to meet us there, with a mule-load of provender, which he was pleased to call "_un petit peu de rafraichissement_." we were quite prepared to acknowledge our sense of his foresight and discretion in the most unequivocal manner; for the exertion of climbing the successive mountain-ridges, and forcing our way through the underwood, as well as the excitement of the sport, had given a keen edge to our appetites. whilst seated in a convivial circle, smoking our cigars at the conclusion of our repast, we observed that poor alonzo--who, though a stoutly built, was a very sickly-looking man--appeared to be quite exhausted from the heat and fatigue of the day, and that poor old luis looked from time to time on his son, as he lay full-length upon the ground, with a heart-rending expression of grief. one of our party remarked to him, that alonzo did not appear to be well, and suggested that he had better not exert himself further. don luis shook his head. "alas! señor!" he replied, "my poor alonzo is as well as ever he again will be. but do not suppose that he is a degenerate scion of the de castros; nor even that i regret seeing him in his present state. no: much as i once wished to see the family name handed down to another generation--of which there is now no chance--i would rather, much rather, that he should have sacrificed his health--his life indeed--for his country, than that any vain wish of mine should be gratified." our curiosity excited by the words, and yet more by the manner of the old man, we ventured, after some little preamble, to ask what had occasioned the change in his son that his speech implied. "it is a long story, _caballeros_," he answered; "but, as the sun is now too powerful to allow us to resume our sport, i will, if you feel disposed to listen to a garrulous old man, relate the circumstances that led to my son's being reduced to the lamentable state in which you see him." we contracted the circle round don luis, the spaniards, apparently, quite as intent on hearing the thrice-told tale as ourselves; and damien, though still busily occupied at his "_rafraichissement_," also lending an attentive ear. the fine old man was seated on a rock, elevated somewhat above the rest of the party, holding in his right hand his uncouth-looking fowling-piece, whilst the other rested on the head of a favourite dog, that came, seemingly, to beg his master to remonstrate with damien for using his teeth to tear off the little flesh that remained on a ham-bone. don luis, after patting the impatient favourite on the head and bidding him lie down, thus began his story. chapter ix. luis de castro. "_tiene este caso un no sé que de sombra de adventura de caballeria._"--don quijote. i need not tell enlightened englishmen--commenced don luis--that the name i bear is no common one. the casería which you there see, and all the shady glens we here look down upon, were granted to the renowned de castro, whose valour so materially aided the catholic kings, of blessed memory, in the pious work of extirpating the vile followers of the arabian impostor from the soil of spain; and the patrimony thus acquired by my ancestor's sword has been handed down from generation to generation to me,--too likely, alas! to be the last of the race to inherit it. i married early in life, and was blessed with several children. alonzo, the first-born, was the only one permitted to reach maturity,--but i repine not. they were all healthy, and every thing a parent could wish. years rolled on unmarked by any events of importance. our days were passed in attending to our herds; our evenings, in singing and dancing to the notes of the wild guitar. our festivals were devoted to the exhilarating sport we have this morning been following; nor did we, amidst our happiness, neglect to offer up our thanks to the omnipotent deity, who,--through the propitiating influence of our patron saints--was pleased to pour his blessings upon us. but a storm arose, which, for a time, shook our happy country to its foundation. spain became the object of a vile tyrant's insatiable ambition. the perfidious corsican, under the specious plea of friendship, marched his licentious legions into our devoted country: and having, by shameless deceit, first possessed himself of all our strongholds, threw off the mask, and treated us as a conquered nation. this favoured province was, for some considerable time saved from the desolation that wasted the rest of spain, by the heroism of one of her sons:--the brave castaños hastened to place himself at the head of the national troops, and in the defiles of the sierra morena, captured a whole french army. but jealousy and intrigue--the greatest enemies our country had to contend against--caused his services to be requited with ingratitude. another french army advanced, but we had not another castaños to oppose it. the enemy forced the barriers with which nature and art had defended the province, and, like a swarm of locusts, spread over and consumed the rich produce of its fertile fields. the mountaineers of ronda and granada, engaged in the vile contraband trade which the disorganized state of the country favoured, were slow to take up arms against the invaders, but "_io y mi gente_" (i and my people) were early in the field, harassing their parties conveying supplies to the siege of cadiz, as well as protecting the surrounding country from their predatory visits; and our secluded _casería_ afforded a secure retreat to the inhabitants of the plain, when forced to abandon their hearths. i will not take up your time with the account of the various encounters we had with the enemy--they are well known throughout the serranía--but will confine my narrative to what more particularly concerns my son. on one occasion, fortune presented him with an opportunity of saving a party of the king's troops, who had got entangled in the intricacies of the serranía; his knowledge of the country having enabled him to lead them clear of their pursuers, and bring them safely to the _casería_. disappointed of the prey they had so confidently calculated upon, and uneasy at a body of disciplined troops being added to our _guerilla_, and established so close to them, the enemy determined on sending a large force to root us out of our fastness. we, on our parts, hoping that the french were unconscious of the place where the troops had found a refuge, were meditating an attack upon their post of alcalà, when the storm burst suddenly upon our heads, and, but for the devotedness and presence of mind of my gallant son, would have involved us all in one common destruction. alonzo had gone off to reconnoitre in the direction of tarifa, a rumour having reached us that the enemy had invested that place; and we were anxiously awaiting his return to decide upon our plans, when, soon after nightfall, a lad belonging to the _venta de tabilla_ arrived at the _casería_ on my son's horse, and in hurried words, informed me that a large body of french troops was advancing upon the house. the enemy had forced this lad,--who alone had been left in charge of the _venta_,--to be their guide, and he had already conducted them across the swamps at the head of the _laguna de la janda_, and was within a hundred yards of the road leading from tarifa to casa vieja--by keeping along which to the left, he purposed gaining the shortest road into our sequestered valley--when alonzo crossed the path immediately in front of them. from what we learnt afterwards it appeared, that he had been for some time watching the enemy's movements, and, guessing from the direction they had finally taken, whither they were bound, had thus purposely thrown himself in their way; resolved--cut off as he found himself from the shortest road to the _casería_--to take this hazardous step to save us from a surprise. on being questioned as to his knowledge of the country, he at once offered to guide them to the _casería_. "this is your way," he said, pointing in the direction, whence he had just come, "but yonder is my house," motioning with his head towards the _cortijo de le las habas_; which, though about half a mile off, was yet visible in the dusk; "i will send my jaded horse home by the boy, and accompany you on foot." the commanding officer, to whom this was addressed, made no objection; in fact, he probably thought that their guide would be more in their power without his horse. alonzo gave his beast to the lad, saying significantly, "_juanillo_, tell my father i have fallen in with some friends and shall not be at home for some little time; be quick; make your way back to the venta without delay, as soon as you have delivered my message; and, as you value your life,--no babbling." my son then turned off to the right, taking the best but far the most circuitous route into the valley of sanona, whilst _juanillo_, putting his horse into a canter, proceeded in the direction of the _cortijo de las habas_, but, ere reaching it, struck into the difficult pass you see below there, whence a rude foot-path leads direct to the _casería_, and by which he had intended to conduct the enemy. it seemed to us--what indeed proved to be the case--that my son's message was intended to hint to us the necessity for flight, and _juanillo's_ account of the number of the enemy, would fully have warranted our avoiding an encounter; but, thinking alonzo's life would surely pay the forfeit of our escape, we determined to anticipate their attack and give him a chance of saving himself. prudence suggested the propriety of sending away our women and children. mounting them, therefore, on _borricos_, we hurried them off by the mountain path to the _casa de castañas_, or _de las navas_, as it is otherwise called, from the name of its proprietor--a solitary house, situated in a wooded valley, several miles to the north of sanona. the women had scarcely left the _casería_, ere we heard the distant tramp of horses in the valley below. leaving a part of the soldiers to defend the house, i led the rest, and my own people, out as silently as possible, and posted them on the upper side of the path by which the french were advancing. the enemy halted directly under the muzzles of our guns, and a corporal and two dragoons were sent on to the house to ask for a night's lodging. nothing could be more favourable than the opportunity now presented for attacking them, but i hesitated to give the word until i had discovered my son, anxious as well to give him a chance of escape, as to save him from our own fire. at last i recognised him: he was standing at the side of the commander of the party, who, with a pistol in his hand, was questioning him in a low tone of voice. the corporal now thundered at the gate of the _casería_. "_quien es?_" demanded the soldiers from within. i listened to no more; for, observing that the commander's attention was for the moment attracted to the proceedings of his advanced guard, and that alonzo, in consequence, was comparatively out of his reach, "_candela!_" i cried out to my people, directing, at the same time, my own unerring rifle at the head of the french captain. twenty guns answered to the word. the commander of the enemy fell headlong to the earth; his horse sprung violently off the ground, reared, staggered, and fell back; a dozen frenchmen bit the dust; the rest turned and fled, ere we could reload our pieces. i pressed forward to embrace my brave son, but saw him not. i called him by name, but a faint groan was the only reply i received. i turned in the direction of the sound, and found the frenchman's horse, struggling in the agonies of death, upon the bleeding body of my alonzo. he had been wounded in the breast by the frenchman's pistol, the trigger of which had, apparently, been pressed in the convulsive movement occasioned by his death-wound. the horse had been shot by one of our men, had fallen upon alonzo, and broken several of his ribs. we conveyed him to the house, without a hope of his recovery. in the excess of my grief, i thought not of sending after the women. alonzo was the first to bring me to a sense of my remissness, by enquiring for his wife and child. i expressed my joy at hearing him speak, for he had lain many hours speechless. he pressed my hand, and added, "father, i wish to see them once again before i die--to have a mother's blessing also--for i feel my end approaching." i instantly despatched four of my people to the _casa de castañas_ to escort them back, for i recollected that the three frenchmen who had been sent forward to demand admission to the house, had effected their escape, and must be, wandering about the mountains. the sun had risen some hours, and yet no tidings reached us of them. i began to feel very uneasy. a terrible presentiment disturbed me. i went to the iron cross that stands on the mound in front of our house, whence a view is obtained of the pass leading to _las navas_. i heard a wild scream, that pierced my very soul, and the moment after, caught a glimpse of a female figure, hastening with mad speed down the rocky path leading to the _casería_. it was my daughter-in-law, teresa! "see," she exclaimed, with frantic exultation, showing me her hands stained with blood, "see--i killed him! my knife pierced the heart of the murderer of my child! i killed the vile frenchman! the wife of a de castro ever carries a knife to avenge her wrongs--to defend her honour!" that some terrible catastrophe had happened was too evident, but from the unhappy maniac it was impossible to gather any thing definite. i mounted my horse, and rode with the speed of desperation towards the _casa de castañas_, but had not proceeded far ere i met my people returning, bearing my wife on a litter, and accompanied by two only of the women who had accompanied her, mounted on _borricos_. "dead?" i asked. it was the only word i could utter. "no, luis," replied one of my faithful followers, "not dead, and, we hope, not even seriously hurt; but evil has befallen your house--your three young children and your grandson are lost to you for ever." "lost! murdered? this is, indeed, a heavy blow, a severe trial. perhaps i am now childless;--god's will be done." "proceed gently to the _casería_ with your burthen; i will hasten forward, and send assistance, and such cordials as may be required to restore my ana." on my return i was surprised to see alonzo sitting up, and his wife at his bedside. i cannot describe the joy of that moment; but there was a fearful expression of determination in my son's contracted brows, that almost led me to fear for his mind. he turned to me for explanation, but as yet i could give him none. the party shortly arrived, however, and the women gave us a full account of the overwhelming disaster that had befallen us. on leaving the _casería_ they had proceeded with such speed as the darkness of the night permitted, towards the _casa de castañas_, and had reached within a quarter of a league of the house, when the trampling of horses behind them, spread the greatest alarm amongst these defenceless females. it was clear that those who were in pursuit could not be their friends, otherwise they would call to them to return; and concluding therefore, that the enemy had prevailed at the _casería_, naturally considered their danger imminent. my wife and daughter-in-law, with their children, and three of the women, being well mounted, pressed forward to the solitary house for shelter; the others, finding the frenchmen--whom they could now hear conversing--gaining rapidly upon them, with more good fortune took to the woods; and, as we eventually learnt, reached los barrios in safety. on arriving at the _casa de castañas_, it was found to be totally abandoned. they had barely time to close the outer gate, and shut themselves up in a loft,--that could be ascended only by a ladder, and through a trap-door, which they let fall--before their pursuers rode up to the house. at first the frenchmen civilly demanded admission; but this being refused, they--guessing, probably, how the case stood, from none but female voices replying to their demands--proceeded to threaten to force an entrance. my daughter-in-law, who speaks a few words of french, then appeared at the window; told them it was an abandoned house, and contained absolutely nothing, not even refreshment for their horses; that, by keeping down the valley to the left, they would, in less than an hour, reach the _hermita of el cuervo_, where they would find all they might stand in need of. the beauty of her who addressed them--for in those days my daughter-in-law was a lovely young woman of eighteen--awakened the most lawless of passions in these ruthless profligates. affecting, however, to disbelieve her statement of the unprovided condition of the house, they forced open the outer gate, and, after vainly endeavouring to persuade the terrified females to descend from their place of refuge, collected all the straw and other combustible articles that were scattered about the premises, in the apartment beneath, and threatened to set fire to the house. in vain was appeal made to their clemency, to the boasted gallantry of their nation, to every honourable feeling that inhabits the breast of man. and at length, exasperated at the determination of these devoted women, and possibly--it is a compliment i am willing to pay human nature--thinking that a little smoke would soon induce them to descend, the reckless monsters fired the straw. the whole building was quickly enveloped in flames. for some minutes the unhappy beings above thought that the straw, being damp, would not ignite so as to communicate with the wooden rafters of the floor which supported them, and hoped that they were free from danger; but the smoke which ascended soon, of itself, became intolerable. two of my children dropped on the floor from the effects of suffocation; and one of women, taking her infant in her arms, jumped from the window and was killed on the spot. my daughter-in-law, seeing that for herself there was but a choice of death,--for the flames had now burst through the crackling floor,--determined to make an effort to save her child. pressing him to her bosom, and covering him with her shawl to protect him from the flames in her descent, she lifted the trap-door and placed her foot upon the ladder. the fire had yet spared the upper steps, but ere she reached the bottom the charred wood gave way, and she fell. the child escaped from her arms and rolled amongst the blazing straw; she started upon her feet to save him, but the rude hand of one of the ruffians seized and dragged her from the flames into the court-yard. vainly she implored to be allowed to go to the rescue of her helpless infant; the monster--even at such a moment looking upon his victim with the eyes of lust--would not listen to her heart-rending appeals. the agonizing screams of her writhing offspring gave her superhuman strength; she seized her knife; plunged it deep in the frenchman's breast; and, released from his paralyzed arms, rushed back into the flames. alas! it was too late--nothing but the blackened skeleton now remained of her darling child. she darted, with the fury of a tigress robbed of its young, upon one of the other frenchmen, but he disarmed her, and, with a returning feeling of humanity, forbore inflicting any further injury upon the frantic woman; and, after some apparent altercation with his companion, both mounted their horses and rode away. they were just in time to make their escape, as the four men i had despatched rode up to the front gate of the house, as they went off by the other. one of my people was an inhabitant of the _casa de castañas_, and knowing the premises, quickly brought a ladder from a place of concealment, and applied it to the window of the burning portion of the building. my wife and the other two women were brought down safely, though all more or less scorched, but the floor gave way before the children, who were lying in an insensible state from suffocation, could be removed. i despatched an indignant remonstrance to the french general, on the inhuman conduct of his troops towards helpless women and children; and threatened, if the perpetrators were not signally punished, to hang every one of his countrymen that might fall into my hands, but he never deigned to answer my letter. some weeks elapsed after these events, ere alonzo could leave his couch; and the enemy seemed now so fully occupied in pressing the siege of cadiz, that we were led to believe they entertained no idea of paying the _casería_ a second visit. want of provisions, and still more of ammunition, had hitherto prevented our being of much service, in harassing the enemy during their operations; but, having obtained supplies from algeciras, i determined to follow up my remonstrance with a blow, and mustering all our strength, to make an attempt to carry the enemy's post at _casa vieja_. for this purpose i fixed on the _casa de castañas_ for the general rendezvous; that spot being more conveniently situated than sanona, for those who were to join our ranks from castellar, ximena, and other places, and equally as near the projected point of attack. at the appointed day, i proceeded with my people to the place of concentration. alonzo had insisted on accompanying us, though yet hardly able to cross a horse; but he thirsted for the blood of the destroyers of his child and brothers. on reaching the _casa de castañas_, however, his strength failed him, and he was obliged to remain there. leaving _pepito_, who sits there, then a beardless boy, to tend upon alonzo, and accompany him back to sanona on the morrow, we departed on our expedition. the chapel and few houses which compose the village of _casa vieja_, are situated on the brow of a high hill overlooking a wide plain, watered by the river barbate. not a bush interrupts the view for several miles in any direction, so that to approach the place some circumspection was requisite. i halted my men in the woods bordering the celemin--on the very spot, perhaps, where muley aben hassan, king of granada, fixed his camp, when he sallied forth from malaga to plunder the estates of the duke of medina sidonía--and sent one of my most trustworthy followers on to reconnoitre, purposing, if a favourable report was received, to make an attack at the point of day, trusting to the shadows of night to conceal our march across the open plain. our scout returned only a couple of hours before dawn. he had experienced much difficulty in fording the barbate, which was swollen by recent rains. he brought us the startling news, that a considerable french force had left alcalá de los gazules, the preceding day, to penetrate into the mountains, and was now probably in our rear, either at the _casa de castañas_ or at sanona. it was necessary to fall back immediately. we were at the fork of the roads leading from those two places to _casa vieja_, but on which should we direct our march? my heart whispered, to the former, where my alonzo, the last of my race, was left defenceless; but the wives and families of my companions were all at sanona, and duty bade me hasten thither for their protection. the struggle of my feelings was severe, but short. i sent a trusty friend on a swift horse to save alonzo, if time yet permitted, and hurried the march of my troop to the _casería_. we reached it in three hours. we found every thing as we had left it. those who had remained there had neither seen nor heard anything of the enemy, but my son had not returned home. i now regretted not having proceeded to the _casa de castañas_, and proposed to my wearied men to march on and attack the _gavachos_ in their passage through the passes, fully expecting they would now direct their steps to the _casería_. they acceded to my proposal with _vivas_. a cup of wine and a mouthful of bread were given to each, and we were off. we had not yet gained the pass yonder, at the back of the house, when we met the man i had sent to the _casa de castañas_, coming towards us at full speed. he informed us that he had encountered the french when on his way to _las navas_, directing their march towards _casa vieja_. fortunately escaping their observation, he had concealed himself in a thicket whilst they passed. _pepito_--whom, it will be recollected, i had left with alonzo--was walking by the side of one of their officers, undergoing a strict examination respecting our movements, &c. they had several other prisoners in charge, who were tied together in couples, but he could not distinguish alonzo amongst them. my son's favourite dog, _hubilon_, however, brought up the rear, led by one of the marauders; and the faithful creature's oft-averted head and restive attempts to escape, sufficiently proved that his master had been left behind. under this conviction, he had pushed on to the _casa de castañas_ as soon as the enemy were out of sight, and had thoroughly searched every part of the building; but not a living being did it contain. the pigeons even had deserted it, or, more probably, had been sacrificed, for feathers and bones were scattered about on all sides, the smoke of numerous fires darkened the white-washed walls, and the stains of wine were left on the stone pavement, proving that the house had lately been the scene of a deep carouse. from this account, it was evident that the frenchmen had marched upon our track in the hope of taking us between two fires, and it was most fortunate we had returned to sanona, instead of falling back upon the _casa de castañas_; for the superiority of their number, in a chance encounter, would have given them every advantage. it was probable that the enemy would now continue their pursuit in hopes of taking us by surprise at sanona; we countermarched immediately therefore, and passing the _casería_, took up a strong position about two miles beyond it, on the road to _casa vieja_, where we waited for the enemy. we were not mistaken in our supposition, for scarcely were my men posted, when the french advance appeared in sight. i allowed them to approach to within pistol shot, and gave them a volley. my men were scattered among the bushes, so that the extent of our fire made our force appear much larger than it was in reality. we killed and wounded several. the enemy paused, and seeing by their numbers that if they pushed boldly on, resistance on our parts would be vain, i determined to try and intimidate them; and taking for this purpose eight or ten active fellows, we made our way through the brushwood which covered the hill side on our left, and opened a flank fire upon the main body of the enemy; who, imagining a fresh column had come to take part in the action, fell back in some confusion to a place of greater security, and one where they had more space to deploy their strength. we had effectually succeeded in frightening them, however, and no further attempt was made to force our position; but it was not until the next day that they finally left the mountains and retired to their fortified posts of casa vieja and alcalà. no sooner had i seen them fairly out of the serranía, than i retraced my steps with all possible speed to sanona; still indulging the fond hope that alonzo might have made his escape and reached home; but, disappointed in this expectation, i proceeded on without loss of time to the _casa de castañas_. i had scarcely entered the house ere i was greeted by "_hubilon_,"--ay, my good dog, said don luis, caressing his pet, your grandsire--who evidently had come on the same errand as myself. but our search was fruitless. the well, the vaults, the lofts and out-houses, every place, was ransacked, but i discovered nothing to lead to the belief that alonzo had either been left there or been murdered. i mounted my horse to return home, and had proceeded some little way, when i heard the howl of _hubilon_. thinking i had inadvertently shut him in the house, i sent back one of my companions to release him, but he returned, saying that the dog would not leave the spot. i returned myself, but the sagacious animal was not to be enticed away; he gave evident signs of pleasure at seeing me, and began scratching furiously at the boarded floor of one of the interior apartments. i approached to see what it was that excited his attention, and discovered a trap door. with some little difficulty i raised it up, and _hubilon_ instantly leapt into the dark abyss. his piteous whining soon informed me that he had found the body of his master; a light was struck; i let myself down, and on the stone floor of the cold, damp vault lay the body of my unfortunate son; his hands were tied behind his back, and a handkerchief was drawn across his mouth to stifle his cries! to me it appeared that the spirit of my alonzo had long left its earthly tenement, but the affectionate brute, by licking his master's face, proved that life was not yet entirely extinct. assisted by my companions, i lifted my son out of the noxious vault, and, by friction, a dram of _aguadiente_, and exposure to the sun and a purer atmosphere, animation was gradually restored; and in the course of a few days he was able to bear the journey home; but from the effects of this confinement he has never recovered. he had no recollection of any of the circumstances which preceded his incarceration. a raging fever, brought on by fatigue and exposure to the sun in his previously weak state, had affected his brain, as well as deprived him of all strength. but _pepito_ (who rejoined us a few days after,) stated, that alonzo himself, in his delirium, had declared to the french on their arrival, who he was, and had besought them to put an end to his sufferings. the superior officer of the party had directed, however, that he should not be ill-treated; "what if he be the son of the _old wild boar_?" (the name by which they honoured me,) said he to his men; "we came not to murder our enemies in cold blood--carry him into the house and let him die in peace." _pepito_ guessed by the malignant glance of one italian-looking scoundrel--"i ask your pardon, señor damien," said don luis, in a parenthesis; "_servitore umilissimo_," replied he of the _val d'aosta_.--_pépé_ guessed, i say, by the look that he who stepped forward to execute the orders of his officer gave one of his companions, whom he invited to assist him, that their superior's humane intentions would not be fulfilled; he begged hard, therefore, to be allowed to remain and wait upon his young master. "impossible," replied the officer, "you must be our guide." the two men were absent but a few minutes, and then came out of the house and informed the officer that they had placed the rebel chief in the coolest place they could find; probably their fear of alonzo's cries had deterred them from killing him outright. the abominable cruelties of these dastards exasperated every one. the expedition which was at this time undertaken to raise the siege of cadiz promised to afford us a favourable opportunity of taking vengeance; but the cowardice of a spaniard--the cowardice, if not treason, of a spanish general--marred our fair prospects. the glorious field of barrosa decked with fresh laurels the brows of our brave allies; but, to this day, the very name fills the breast of every loyal spaniard with shame. oh! that i and my people had been thereto share the danger and glory of that day; but we fulfilled with credit the part allotted to us. in the plan adopted by the allied generals it was settled that the _serraños_, should make a diversion in the direction of _casa vieja_ and _alcalà de los gazules_, to draw the enemy's attention on that side, whilst their combined forces should proceed along the coast to chiclana; accordingly _io y mi gente_.... chapter x. don luis's narrative is interrupted by a boar--the batida resumed--departure from sanona--road to casa vieja--the priest's house--adventure with itinerant wine-merchants--departure from casa vieja--alcala de los gazules--road to ximena--return to gibraltar. the old man, excited by the stirring recollections of the eventful times to which his narrative referred, his eyes sparkling with animation, and his words flowing somewhat more rapidly than in their wonted even current, had risen from his rocky seat, and, having transferred his fowling-piece to the left hand, was standing with his right arm extended in the direction of the scene of his former exploits, when he suddenly dropt his voice, and, after slowly, and, as it appeared to us, abstractedly, repeating his favourite expression, "_io y mi gente_," he ceased altogether to speak, and appeared transfixed to the spot. his right arm remained stretched out towards cadiz, and his head was turned slightly to one side, but the only motion perceptible was a tightening of the fingers round the barrel of his long gun. as if from the effect of sympathy, damien's jaws--which for the last hour had been keeping _hubilon_ in a state of tantalization, threatening to produce st. vitus's dance--suddenly became equally motionless; his huge proboscis was turned on one side for a moment to allow free access to his left ear, and then starting up he exclaimed, "_javali! cospetto!_"[ ] "_quiet ... o!_" said don luis, in an undertone, at the same time motioning damien to resume his seat, "_si, es una puerca_."[ ] and then making signs to his men, they rose without a word, and went stealthily off down the hill. we now distinctly heard the grunting of a pig, and were hastily distributed in a semicircle, along the crest of the steep ridge we had selected for our resting-place. we had scarcely got into position before the cries of the beaters, and several shots fired in rapid succession, gave us notice that they had come in sight of the chase; but the sounds died away, and we were beginning to speak to each other in terms of disappointment, when a loud grunt announced the vicinity of a visiter. hearing our voices, however, he went off at a tangent, and attempted to cross the ridge lower down; but this was merely, as the spaniards say, "_escapar del trueno y dar en el relampago_:"[ ] a sharp fire there opened upon him, and after various trips he was fairly brought to the ground. our _couteaux de chasse_ were instantly brandished, but the grisly monster, recovering himself quickly, once more got into a long trot, and, most probably, would have effected his escape, but that he was encountered and turned back by some of the dogs. finding himself thus pressed on all sides by enemies, he again attempted to force the line of sportsmen, and a second time was made to bite the dust. he managed, nevertheless, to recover himself once more, and might, even yet possibly, have got away from us but for the dogs, which hung upon and detained him until some of the beaters came up and despatched him with their knives; not, however, until he had killed one dog outright, and desperately gored two others. the dogs showed extraordinary _pluck_ in attacking him. on examining the huge monster, we found he had received no less than four bullets: two in the neck, and two in the body. a fire was immediately kindled, and, having been singed, to destroy the vermin about him, he was decorated with laurel and holly, placed on the back of a mule, and, with the rest of our spoils, sent off to the _casería_. the beaters informed us, that they had seen the wild sow and four young ones, which don luis had sent them after; but that they had made off through the wooded valley to the right, ere they could succeed in heading and turning them up the hill. it was decided that we should proceed immediately after them, and leave the conclusion of don luis's tale for the charcoal fire-circle in the evening; but, as the rest of his story related principally to events that are well known, and was all "_santiago y cierra españa_,"[ ] i will spare my readers the recital. the rest of the day's sport was poor, but the grand and ever-varying mountain scenery was of itself an ample reward for the fatigue of scrambling up the steep braes. towards sunset we retraced our steps, thoroughly tired, to the _casería_. damien, mounting a stout mule, rode on to prepare dinner, saying, "_messieurs, sans doute, désireront goûter du chevreuil de sanone; vado avanti con questo motivo, e subito, subito, all red-dy"_;[ ] and, digging his heels into the animal's side, he thereupon started off at a jog-trot, his huge feet sticking out at right angles, like the paddle-boxes of a steamer, the smoke of a cigar rolling away from his mouth, like the clouds from the steamer's tall black funnel. on the following morning we departed from sanona, taking the road to casa vieja, and sending our game into gibraltar. don luis would on no account receive any remuneration for the use of his house, &c.; and a very moderate sum satisfied the beaters he had engaged for us. the distance to casa vieja is about twelve miles, the country wild and beautiful; but the view, after gaining a high pass, about three miles from sanona, is confined to the valley along which the road thenceforth winds, until it reaches the river celemin. this stream is frequently rendered impassable by heavy rains. emerging now from the woods and mountains, the road soon reaches the barbate, which river, though running in a broad and level valley, is of a like treacherous character as the celemin. the little chapel and hamlet, whither we were directing our steps, now became visible, being situated under the brow of a high hill on the opposite bank of the river, and distant about a mile and a half. the road across the valley is very deep in wet weather, and the barbate is often so swollen, as to render it necessary, in proceeding from casa vieja to the towns to the eastward, to make a wide circuit to gain the bridges of vejer or alcalà de los gazules. we "put up" at the house of the village priest, which adjoins the chapel. indeed the portion of his habitation allotted to our use was under the same roof as the church, and communicated with it by a private door; and i have been credibly informed that, on some occasions, when the party of sportsmen has been large, beds have been made up within the consecrated walls of the chapel itself, whereon some of the visiters have stretched their wearied heretical limbs and rested their _aching_ heads. in our case there was no occasion to lead the _padre_ into the commission of such a sin, since the small apartment given up to us was just able to contain four stretchers, in addition to a large table. the priest was another "_amigo mio de mucha aprec'ion_"[ ] of señor damien. their friendship was based upon the most solid of all foundations--mutual interest; for, it being an understood thing that the accommodation, and whatever else we might require, was to be paid for at a fixed rate, both parties were interested in prolonging our stay: the _padre_, to gain wherewith to shorten the pains of purgatory, either for himself or others; damien, simply because he liked shooting better than even baking in this world. to us also this was an agreeable arrangement, since it granted us a dispensation from all ceremony in ordering whatever we wanted, and gave us also the privilege of making the padre's house our home as long as we pleased. accordingly, finding the sport good, we passed several days here very pleasantly. the snipe and duck shooting in the marshes bordering the barbate is excellent; francolins, bustards, plover, and partridges, are to be met with on the table-lands to the westward of the village; and the woods towards alcalà and vejer abound, at times, in woodcocks. an adventure befel me during our short stay at casa vieja, which i relate, as affording a ludicrous exemplification of the power of flattery--an openness to which, that is to say, vanity, is certes the great foible of the spanish character. i had devoted one afternoon to a solitary ride to vejer, (which town is about eleven miles from casa vieja,) and had proceeded some little distance on my way homewards, when, observing a very curious bird on a marshy spot by the road-side, i dismounted--knowing my pony would not stand fire--to take a shot at it. the gun missed fire, as i expected it would; for, in consequence of its owner not having been able to discharge it during the whole morning, i had lent him mine to visit the snipe-marsh, and taken his to bear me company on my ride. the explosion of the detonating cap was enough, however, to frighten my pony; he started--jerked the bridle off my arm--and, finding himself free, trotted away towards casa vieja. i ran after him for some distance, fondly hoping that the tempting green herbage on the road-side would induce him to stop and taste, but my accelerated speed had only the effect of quickening his; from a trot he got into a canter, from a canter into a gallop; and, panting and perspiring, i was soon obliged to abandon the chase, and trust that the animal's natural sagacity would take him back to his stable. i had long lost sight of the runaway--for a thick wood soon screened him from my view,--and had arrived within four miles of casa vieja, when i met a party of very suspicious-looking characters, who, under the pretence of being itinerant _wine-merchants_, were carrying contraband goods about the country. they were all very noisy; all, seemingly, very tipsy; and most of them armed with guns and knives. the van was led by a fat silenus-looking personage, clothed in a shining goatskin, and seated on a stout ass, between two well-filled skins of wine; who saluted me with a very gracious wave of the hand, evidently to save himself the trouble of speaking; but his followers greeted me with the usual "_vaya usted con dios_;" to which one wag added, in an undertone, "_y sin caballo_,"[ ]--a piece of wit that put them all on the grin. regardless of their joke, i was about to make enquiries concerning my pony, which it was evident they knew something about, when i discovered a stout fellow, bringing up the rear of the party, astride of the delinquent. considering the disparity of force, and aware of the unserviceable condition of my weapon, i thought it best to be remarkably civil, so informing the gentleman riding my beast that i was its owner, and extremely obliged to him for arresting the fugitive's course, i requested he would only give himself the further trouble of dismounting, and putting me in possession of my property. this, however, he positively refused to do. "how did he know i was the owner? it might be so, and very possibly was, but i must go with him to vejer, and make oath to the fact before _la justicia_." this, i said, was out of the question: it was evident that the horse was mine, since i had claimed him the moment i had seen him; and as, by his own admission, he had found the animal, he must have done so out of my sight, since we were now in a thick wood. if, i added, he chose to return with me to casa vieja, the _padre_, at whose house i was staying, would convince him of the truth of my statement, and i would remunerate him for his trouble. but i argued in vain! "if," he replied, "i felt disposed to give him an _onza_,[ ] he would save _me_ further trouble, but otherwise justice must take its course." i remarked that the _haca_ was not worth much more than a doubloon. "no!" exclaimed one of the party, jumping off his mule, thrusting his hand into his belt, and producing _two_, "i'll give you these without further bargaining." this occasioned a laugh at my expense. i turned it off, however, by telling my friend, that if he would bring his money to gibraltar we might possibly deal; but, as i had occasion for my pony to carry me back there, i could not at that moment conveniently part with him. there seemed but slight chance, however, of my recovering my pony without trudging back to vejer; and, probably, they would have ridden off, and laughed at me, after proceeding half way; or by paying a handsome ransom, which i was, in fact, unable to do, having only the value of a few shillings about me. the dispute was getting warm, and my patience exhausted; for vain were my representations that the _haca could_ belong to no one else--that the saddle, bridle, and even the very _tail_ of the animal, were all english. the don kept his seat, and coolly asked, whether i thought they could not make as good saddles, and cut as short tails, in spain? the party had halted during this altercation, and old silenus, who, by his dress and position, seemed to be the head of the _firm_, had taken no part in the dispute. he appeared, indeed, to be so drowsy, as to be quite unconscious of what was passing. i determined, however, to make an appeal to him, and summoning the best spanish i could muster to my aid, called upon him as a spanish _hidalgo_, a man of honour, and a person of sense, as his appearance bespoke, to see justice done me. he had heard, i continued, in fact he had _seen_, how the case stood; and was it to be believed that a foreigner travelling in spain--perhaps the most enlightened country in the world--and trusting to the well-known national probity, should be thus shamefully plundered? an englishman, above all others, who, having fought in the same ranks against a common enemy, looked upon every individual of the brave spanish nation as a brother! could a people so noted for honour, chivalry, gratitude, and every known virtue, be guilty of so bare-faced an imposition? oh, "flattery! delicious essence, how refreshing art thou to nature! how strongly are all its powers and all its weaknesses on thy side!" "_baj' usted!_" grunted forth silenus to the man mounted on my pony, accompanying the words with a circular motion of his right arm towards the earth. "_baj' usted luego!_"[ ] repeated the irate leader in a louder tone, seeing that there was a disposition to resist his commands. "mount your horse, caballero," he continued, turning to me, "you have not over-estimated the spanish character." i did not require a second bidding, but, vaulting into the vacated saddle, pushed my pony at once into a canter, replying to the man's application for something for his trouble, by observing, that i did not reward people for merely obeying the orders of their superiors; and, kissing my hand to the fat old satyr, rode off, amidst the laughter occasioned by the discomfiture of the dismounted knight. on the morning fixed for our departure from casa vieja, damien came to us at a very early hour--a smile breaking through an assumed cloudy expression of countenance--to report that the barbate was so swollen by the rain which had fallen without cessation during the night, as to be no longer fordable: "_nous pouvons demeurer encore trois ou quatre jours_," he added, "_car il nous reste de quoi manger--du thé, du sucre, du jambon, un bon morceau de bouilli de rosbif, et autres bagatelles; et comme il fait beau temps à présent, puede ser que havra una entrada de gallinetas esta noche--no es verdad señor padre?_"[ ] turning to the priest, who had followed him into the room. we were prepared for this contingency, however, and, stating that we _must_ go, signified our intention of returning home by way of alcalà de los gazules. damien was horror-struck. "_corpo di bacco! messieurs, celle là est la plus mauvaise route du pays! è infestata di cattivissima gente, ad ogni passo. no es verdad, don diego, que esa trocha de alcalà allà 'se llama el camino del infierno!_" "_si, si_," replied the priestly lodging-house keeper with a nod, "_tan verdad como la santa escritura._"[ ] finding, however, that we were bent on departing, don diego went to make his bill out; and damien, now truly alarmed, proposed that, at all events, we should take the shorter and more practicable route homewards, by way of vejer. but the name of the other had taken our fancy, and orders were given accordingly, our departure being merely postponed until the afternoon; for, as it would be necessary to sleep at alcalà, which is but nine miles from casa vieja, we agreed to have another brush at the snipes ere leaving the place. in the afternoon we set out. at two miles from casa vieja the road crosses a tributary stream to the barbate, which reached up to our saddle-girths, and then traverses some wooded hills for about an equal distance. the rest of the way is over an extensive flat. little is seen of alcalà but an old square tower, and the ruined walls of its moorish castle, in approaching it on this side. the town is built on a rocky peninsulated eminence, which, protruding from a ridge of sierra that overlooks the place to the east, stretches about a mile in a southerly direction, and, excepting along the narrow neck that connects it with this mountain-range, is every where extremely difficult of access. a road, however, winds up to the town by a steep ravine on the south-eastern side of the rugged eminence; and a good approach has also been made, though with much labour, at its northern extremity. the river barbate washes the western side of the mound, and across it, and somewhat above the town--which is huddled together along the northern crest of the ridge--a solid stone bridge presents itself, where the roads from casa vieja, medina sidonia, and xeres, concentrate. the ascent from the bridge, as i have mentioned, is good, but very steep. the position of the town is most formidable; its walls, however, are all levelled; and, of the castle, the square tower, or keep, alone remains. the streets are narrow, but not so steep as we expected to find them, and they are remarkably well paved. the houses are poor, though some trifling manufactories of cloths and tanneries give the place a thriving look. its population amounts to about souls. _this_ alcalà receives its distinctive name of "_los gazules_" (i.e. the castle of the gazules), from a tribe of moors so called; but what roman city stood here is a mere matter of conjecture. the inn afforded but indifferent accommodation; but our host and hostess were obliging people, and very good-naturedly made over to us the olla prepared for their own supper. it was a fine specimen of the culinary art; the savoury odour alone, that exuded from the bubbling stew, drew a smile from damien's unusually lugubrious countenance; and, on afterwards witnessing the justice we did to its merits, he kindly wished--with a doubt-implying compression of the lips--that we might have as good an appetite to enjoy as good a supper on the following night. we set out at daybreak, accompanied by a guide, though, i think, we could have dispensed with his services. the road enters the serranía, immediately on leaving alcalà, taking an easterly direction, and ascends for five miles by a rock-bound valley, partially under cultivation, and watered by several streams, along which mills are thickly scattered. on leaving them behind, the country becomes very wild and desolate; the mountains ahead appear quite impracticable; and, long ere we reached their base, the piedmontese march had several times resounded through the rocky gorges that encompassed us. at length we began to scramble up towards a conical pinnacle, called _el peñon de sancho_,[ ] which presents a perpendicular face, to the south-west, of some hundreds of feet, and whose white cap, standing out from the dark sierra behind, is a landmark all along the coast from cipiona to cape trafalgar. we soon attained a great elevation, crossing a pass between the _peñon de sancho_ and the main sierra on our left. the view, looking back towards cadiz, is magnificent, and the scenery for the next four miles continues to be of the most splendid kind, the road being conducted along the side of the great sierra _monteron_, and by the pass of _la brocha_ to the sierra _cantarera_. the road is by no means so bad as, from the name it bears, we were prepared to expect; in fact, there are many others in the serranía of a far more infernal character. after riding about four hours--a distance of twelve miles--we reached a verdant little vale, enclosed on all sides by rude mountains, wherein the celemin takes its rise, and whence it wends its way through a deep and thickly wooded ravine to the south. this gullet is called the _garganta de los estudientes_, from the circumstance, as our guide informed us, of some scholars having ventured down it who never afterwards were heard of--to which story damien listened with great dismay. we halted at this delightful spot for half an hour, as well to breathe our horses as to examine the contents of damien's _alforjas_, who took his meal, pistol in hand, for fear of a surprise. continuing our journey, we had to traverse some more very difficult country, the views from which were now towards ximena, casares, gibraltar, and the mediterranean; including an occasional peep of castellar, as we advanced to the eastward. at four miles and a half from our resting-place, the road branches into two, the left proceeding to ximena (five miles and a half), the other leading toward estepona, and the towns bordering the mediterranean. taking the latter path, in about two hours we reached the river sogarganta, along the right bank of which is conducted the main road from ximena to gibraltar. damien's countenance brightened on his once more finding himself in "_un pays reconnu_," and, turning joyfully into the well-known track, he struck up one of his most _scherzosa_ arias; the heretofore dreaded _boca de leones_ and almoraima forest (which we had yet to pass), being robbed of their terrors by the superior dangers we had safely surmounted; and, in the words of the favourite poet of his country, _"dopo sorte si funesta_ _sarà placida quest alma_ _e godrà--tornata in calma--_ _i perigli rammentar."_ chapter xi. departure for madrid--cordon drawn round the cholera--ronda--road to cordoba--teba--erroneous position of the place on the spanish maps--its locality agrees with that of ategua, as described by hirtius, and the course of the river guadaljorce with that of the salsus--road to campillos--the english-loving innkeeper and his wife--an alcalde's dinner spoilt--fuente de piedra--astapa--puente don gonzalo--rambla--cordoba--meeting with an old acquaintance. the next and last excursion of which i purpose extracting some account from my notebook, was commenced with the intention of proceeding from gibraltar to madrid, late in the autumn of the year ; at which time, the cholera having broken out in various parts of the kingdom of seville, it was necessary to "shape a course" that should not subject my companion and self to the purifying process of a lazaret; a rigid quarantine system having been adopted by the other kingdoms bordering the infected territory. we hired three horses for the journey; that is to say, for any portion of it we might choose to perform on horseback: two for ourselves, and one to carry our portmanteaus, as well as the _mozo_ charged with their care and our guidance. we found, on enquiry, that by avoiding two or three towns lying upon the road, we could reach cordoba without deviating much from the direct route to that city, whence we purposed continuing our journey to the capital by the diligence. we proceeded accordingly to ronda, which place being in the kingdom of granada, was open to us; and thither i will at once transport my readers, the road to it having already been fully described. after sojourning a couple of days at the little capital of the serranía, comforting my numerous old and kind friends with the opinion (which the event, i was happy to find, confirmed), that the new enemy against which their country had to contend--the dreaded cholera--would not cross the mountain barrier that defended their city; we proceeded on our journey, taking the road to puente don gonzalo, on the genil, thereby avoiding osuna, which lay upon the direct road to cordoba, but in the infected district. in an hour from the time of our leaving ronda, we crossed the rocky gulley which has been noticed as traversing the fertile basin in which the city stands, laterally, bearing the little river arriate to irrigate its western half, and in the course of another hour reached the northern extremity of this fruitful district. the hills here offer an easy egress from the rock-bound basin; but, though nature has left this one level passage through the mountains, art has taken no advantage of it to improve the state of the road, for a viler _trocha_ is not to be met with, even in the rudest part of the serranía. the view of the rich plain and dark battlements of ronda is remarkably fine. after winding amongst some round-topped hills, the road at length reaches a narrow rocky pass, which closes the view of the vale of ronda, and a long deep valley opens to the north, the mouth of which appears closed by a barren mountain, crowned by the old castle of _teba_. the path now undergoes a slight improvement, and, after passing some singular table-rocks, and leaving the little village of _la cueva del becerro_ on the left, reaches the _venta de virlan_. we, however, had inadvertently taken a track that, inclining slightly to the right, led us into the bottom of the valley, and in about four miles (from the pass) brought us to the miserable little village of _serrato_. the proper road, from which we had strayed, keeps along the side of the hills, about half a mile off, on the left; and upon it, and three miles from the first venta, is another, called _del ciego_. yet a little further on, but situated on an elevated ridge overlooking the valley, is the little town of _cañete la real_. from serrato our road led us to the old castle of ortoyecar, ere rejoining the direct route; which it eventually does, about a mile before reaching the foot of the mountain of teba. this singular feature is connected by a very low pass with the chain of sierra on the left, and, stretching from west to east about three-quarters of a mile, terminates precipitously along the river _guadaljorce_. the road, crossing over the pass, and leaving on the right a steep paved road, that zig-zags up the mountain, winds round to the west, keeping under the precipitous sides of the ridge, and avoiding the town of teba, which, perched on the very summit, but having a northern aspect, can only be seen when arrived at the north side of the rude mound; and there another winding road offers the means of access to the place. the base of the mountain is, on this side, bathed by a little rivulet that flows eastward to the guadaljorce, called the _sua de teba_. it is erroneously marked on the spanish maps as running on the south side of the ridge, but the only stream which is there to be met with, is a little rivulet that takes its rise near becerro and waters the valley by which we had descended; and it does not approach within a mile of teba, but sweeps round to the eastward a little beyond the old castle of ortoyecar, and discharges itself into the river ardales. the deep-sunk banks and muddy bottom of the _suda de teba_, render it impassable excepting at the bridge. this rickety structure is apparently the same which existed in the time of rocca, who, in his "memoirs of the war in spain," gives a very spirited account of the military operations of the french and _serranos_ in this neighbourhood. the locality of teba is most faithfully described by that author; indeed i know no one who has given so graphic an account of this part of spain generally. the ascent to the town on this (the northern) side, is yet more difficult than that in the opposite direction; but the place will amply repay the labour of a visit, for the view from it is extremely fine, and the extensive ruins of its ancient defences, evidently of roman workmanship, are well worthy of observation. the position of teba, with reference to other places in the neighbourhood, and to the circumjacent country, is so inaccurately given in all maps which i have seen, that the antiquaries seem quite to have overlooked it as the probable site of _ategua_, so celebrated for its obstinate defence against julius cæsar. morales--without the slightest grounds, as far as the description of the country accords with the assumption--imagined _ategua_ to have stood where he maintains some ruins, "called by the country-people _teba la vieja_," are to be seen between castrò el rio and codoba; but, as i pointed out in the case of ronda, and ronda _la vieja_, it is absurd to suppose that an _old teba_ could ever have existed, since teba itself is a roman town, and its present name a mere corruption of that which it bore in times past. other spanish authors place _ategua_ at castro el rio, some at baena, some elsewhere; but almost all appear anxious to fix its site near the river guadajoz, which they have determined, in their own minds, must be the _salsus_ mentioned by hirtius. la martinière, with his usual _inaccuracy_, says, that the guadajoz falls into the _salado_: he should rather have said, that it is _formed_ from the confluence of _various salados_; for, as i have elsewhere observed, salado is a general term for all water-courses, and not the name of a river.[ ] it seems, however, probable, that the romans gave the name _salsus_ to some river impregnated with salt, which many streams in this part of spain are; and since there is an extensive salt-lake still existing near alcaudete, on the very margin of the guadajoz, that river has hastily been concluded to be that of the roman historian. but, it appears strange, if the guadajoz be the salsus of hirtius, that pliny, when describing the course of the boetis, and the principal streams which fell into it, should have omitted to mention that river, as being one of its affluents; for the salsus, from the recentness of the war between cæsar and the sons of pompey, must have been much spoken of in pliny's time. but what, to me, proves most satisfactorily that the _guadajoz_ is _not_ the salsus, is, that it so ill agrees with the minute description given of the river by hirtius himself;--for, in speaking of the salsus he says,[ ] "it runs through the plains, and _divides_ them from the mountains, which all lie upon the side of ategua, at about two miles' distance from the river;" and again, "but what proved principally favourable to pompey's design of drawing out the war, was the nature of the country, (i. e. about ategua) full of mountains, and extremely well adapted to encampments;"[ ] and, from what again follows, it is evident that ategua stood upon the summit of a mountain. now the guadajoz nowhere runs so as to _divide_ the plains from the mountains. it _issues from_ the mountains of alcalà real, many miles before reaching castrò el rio, and between that last-named town and cordoba, there is no ground that can be called mountainous. the country bordering the guadajoz, in the lower part of its course, differs as decidedly with the statement that the neighbourhood of ategua was "full of mountains," if we suppose the town to have stood anywhere _below_ castrò el rio. it is again improbable that ategua could have stood on the site of the supposed _teba la vieja_, or any place in that neighbourhood, since it is mentioned[ ] as being a great provision dépôt of the pompeians; which would scarcely have been the case had it been within twenty miles of the city of cordoba. and again, it is not likely that cæsar would have commenced the campaign by laying siege to a place within such a short distance of cordoba, since the invested town might so readily have received succour from that city, and his adversary would, by such a step, have had the advantage of combining all his forces to attack him during the progress of the siege. again, another objection presents itself, namely, that ategua is represented as a particularly strong place,[ ] which, from the nature of the ground in that part of the country--that is, between castrò el rio and cordoba--no town could well have been; situation, rather than art, constituting the strength of towns in those days. we will now return to teba, the locality of which agrees infinitely better with the account of ategua given by hirtius, whilst the river _guadaljorce_, which flows in its vicinity, answers perfectly his description of the salsus; for, along its right bank a plain extends all the way to the genil; on its left, "at two miles' distance," rises a wall of sierra; and the whole country, beyond, is "full of mountains, all lying on the side of" teba. that is to say, the mountain range continues in the same direction, and possesses the same marked character, although the guadaljorce breaks through it ere reaching so far west as teba; for, by a vagary of nature, this stream quits the wide plain of the genil to throw itself into a rocky gorge, and after describing a very tortuous course, gains, at length, the vale of malaga. now this very circumstance strikes me, on attentive consideration, as tending rather to strengthen than otherwise the supposition that teba is ategua; for cæsar's army is not stated to have _crossed_ the salsus on its march from cordoba to ategua; from which we must conclude that ategua was on the _right_ bank of the river; whilst other circumstances prove that the town was some distance from the river, and encompassed by mountains. pompey, however, following cæsar from cordoba, and proceeding to the relief of ategua, _crosses the salsus_, and fixes his camp "on these mountains (i. e. the mountains 'which all lie on the side of ategua') between ategua and ucubis, but within sight of both places," being, as is distinctly said afterwards, separated from his adversary by the salsus. thus, therefore, though his camp was on the same range of mountains as ategua, yet he was separated from that town by a river: a peculiarity, in the formation of the ground, which suits the locality of teba, but would be difficult to make agree with any other place. the only very apparent objection to this hypothesis is, that cæsar's cavalry is mentioned as having, on one occasion, pursued the foraging parties of his adversary "almost to the very walls of codoba." but this was when pompey (after his first failure to relieve ategua) had drawn off his army towards cordoba. it does not follow, therefore, that cæsar's troops pursued his adversary's parties from ategua, though he was still besieging that place, but it may rather be supposed that his cavalry was sent after the enemy to harass them on their march, and watch their future movements. one might, indeed, on equally good grounds, maintain that ategua was _within a day's march of seville_; since, on pompey's finally abandoning the field, hirtius says,[ ] "the same day he decamped, (from ucubis, which was within sight of ategua) and posted himself in an olive wood over against hispalis." with respect to this knotty point of distance it is further to be observed, that on cæsar's breaking up his camp from before cordoba, his march is spoken of as being _towards_ ategua, implying that the two places did not lie within a day's march of each other; and the supposition that they were more than a few leagues apart is strengthened by the place, and order in which ategua is mentioned by the methodical pliny; viz., amongst the cities lying between the boetis and the mediterranean sea, and next in succession to _singili_,[ ] which, doubtless, was on the southern bank of the genil, towards antequera. the guadaljorce has as good claims to the name of _salsus_, as any other river in the country, since the mountains about antequera, amongst which it takes its rise, were in former days noted for the quantity of salt they produced; and though the river guadaljorce now carries its name to the sea, yet, in the time of the romans, such was not the case; for, in those days, by whatever name that river may have been distinguished, it was dropt on forming its junction with the sigila, (now the rio grande) in the _vega_ of malaga, although, of the two, the latter is the inferior stream. the fort of ucubis, stated by hirtius to have been destroyed by cæsar, we may suppose stood on the side of the mountains overlooking the salsus or guadaljorce, towards antequera; and it does not seem improbable that that city is the _soricaria_ mentioned by the same historian; for _anticaria_, though noticed in the itinerary of antoninus, is not amongst the cities of boetica enumerated by pliny. teba was taken from the moors by alphonso xi., a.d. . the inhabitants are a savage-looking tribe, and boast of having kept the french at bay during the whole period of the "war of independence."[ ] there is a tolerable venta at the foot of the hill, near the bridge, at which we baited our horses. the distance from ronda to teba is miles; from hence to campillos is about six; the country is undulated, and road good, crossing several brooks, some flowing eastward to the guadaljorce, others in the opposite direction to the genil. campillos is situated at the commencement of a vast track of perfectly level country, that extends all the way to the river genil. by some strange mistake it is laid down in the spanish maps due east of teba, whereas it is nearly north. it is four leagues (or about seventeen miles) from antequera, and five leagues from osuna. it is a neat town, clean, and well-paved, and contains _vecinos escasos_;[ ] which may be reckoned at souls, six being the number usually calculated per _vecino_. campillos lies just within the border of the kingdom of seville, and was, therefore, on forbidden ground; since, had we entered it, our clean bills of health would have been thereby tainted. we were consequently obliged to skirt round the town at a tether of several hundred yards. i regretted this much, for the place contains an excellent _posada_, bearing the--to protestant ears--somewhat profane sign of "_jesus nazarino_," and its keepers were old cronies of mine, our friendship having commenced some years before under rather peculiar circumstances, viz., in travelling from antequera to ronda, my horse met with an accident which obliged me to halt for the night at campillos. leaving to my servant the task of ordering dinner at the inn, i proceeded on foot to examine the town, and gain, if possible, some elevated spot in its vicinity whence i could obtain a good view of the country, being desirous to correct the mistake before alluded to, in the relative positions of teba and campillos on the maps. having found a point suited to this purpose, from whence i could see both teba and the _peñon de los enamorados_, (a remarkable conical mountain near antequera,) i drew forth a pocket surveying compass, and took the bearings of those two points, as well as of several other conspicuous objects in the neighbourhood. these ill-understood proceedings caused the utmost astonishment to a group of idlers, who, at a respectful distance, but with significant nods and mysterious whisperings, were narrowly watching my operations. these concluded, and the result of my observations committed to my pocket-book, i took a slight outline sketch of the bold range of mountains that stretches towards granada, and returned to the inn. on my first arrival there, i had merely addressed the usual compliment of the country to the innkeeper and his wife, and now, repeating my salutation to the lady--who only was present--i seated myself at the fire-place of the common apartment, and began writing in my pocket-book, replying very laconically to her various attempts at conversation; and at length obtaining no immediate answer to another endeavour to _draw me out_, she said, addressing herself, "_no entiende_,"[ ] and offered no further interruptions to my scribbling. i confess to the practice of a little deceit in the matter, as my answers certainly must have led her to believe that i was a very _tyro_ at the spanish vocabulary--a fancy in which i used often to indulge the natives when i wished to shirk conversation. soon afterwards the _posadero_ came in, and a whispered communication took place between him and his spouse, which gradually acquiring _tone_, i at length was able to catch distinctly, and heard the following conversation. "you are quite certain he does not understand spanish?" said mine host. "not a syllable," replied his helpmate. "he is about no good here, wife, that i can tell you." "there does not appear to be much mischief in him." "we must not trust to looks; i was at the chapel of the rosario just now, and he walked up there, took an instrument from his pocket, marked down all the principal points of the country, and then drew them in that little book he is now writing in ... are you quite sure he does not understand spanish?--i observed him smile just now." "_no tienes cuidado_,"[ ] replied the wife; "i have tried him on all points." "depend upon it he is _mapeando el pais_,"[ ] resumed the husband. "i think you ought forthwith to give notice of his doings to the _justicia_," answered the lady. "ay, and lose a good customer by having him taken to prison!" rejoined the patriotic innkeeper; "time enough to do that in the morning after he has paid his bill; but as to the propriety of giving information wife, i agree with you perfectly." "he must be one of the rascally _gavachos_ from cadiz," (a french garrison at this time occupied that fortress,) "but what right has he to take his notes of our _pueblo_?[ ] i thought of questioning the servant, who does speak a few words of spanish, before he took the horses to the smithy, but don guillelmo came in and put it out of my head. suppose i make another attempt to find out from himself what brings him here?" "do so," said her lord and master; and, with this permission, she advanced towards me with a very gracious smile, and _articulating_ every syllable most distinctly, in the hope of making her interrogation perfectly intelligible, "begged to know if my worship was a frenchman." "_yo_," said i, pointing to myself, as if i did not clearly understand her; "_nix_." "_ingles?_" demanded she, returning to the charge. "_si_," replied i, with a nod affirmative. "_valga mi dios!_" exclaimed she, turning to her husband; "he is english! how delighted i am! what a time it is since i saw an englishman! how can we make him comfortable?" "_poco a poco_,"[ ] observed the inn-keeper--"english or french he has no business to be _mapeando_ our country, and the alcalde ought to know of it." "_disparate!_"[ ] exclaimed the wife; "what does his _mapeando_ signify if he is an englishman? are they not our best friends?[ ] is it not the same as if a spaniard were doing it, only that it will be better done?" "very true," admitted mine host; "they have, indeed, been our friends, and will soon again, i trust, give us a proof of their friendship, by assisting to drive these french scoundrels across the pyrenees, and allowing us to settle our own differences." pocketing my memorandum book, i now rose from my seat and addressing the landlady, "_con gentil donayre y talante_,"[ ] as don quijote says, asked, in the best castillian i could put together, when it was probable i should have dinner, as from having been the greater part of the morning on horseback, i was not only very hungry, but should be glad to retire early to my bed. never were two people more astonished than mine host and his spouse at this address. had i detected them in the act of pilfering my saddlebags, they could not have looked more guilty. they offered a thousand apologies, but seemed to think the greatest affront they had put upon me was that of mistaking me for a frenchman. "i ought at once to have known you were no braggart _gavacho_," said the landlord, "by your not making a noise on entering the house--calling for every thing and abusing every body--how do you think one of these gentry, who came into spain as _friends_, to tranquillize the country, behaved to our _alcalde_? the frenchman wanted a billet, and finding the office shut, went to the _alcalde's_ house for it. the _alcalde_ was at dinner with a couple of friends; he begged the officer to be seated, saying he would send for the _escribano_ and have a billet made out for him--'and am i to be kept waiting for your clerk?' said the frenchman; 'a pretty joke, indeed.' 'he will be here in an instant,' said the _alcalde_; 'pray have a little patience, and be seated.' 'patience, indeed!' exclaimed the other; 'make the billet out directly yourself, or i'll pull the house about your ears.' '_juicio!_ señor,' replied the mayor; 'do you not see that i am at dinner?' 'what are you at _now_?' said the frenchman; and, laying hold of one corner of the tablecloth, he drew it, plates, dishes, glasses, and every thing, off the table. this is the way our french _friends_ behave to us!" i now satisfied the worthy couple that their fears of mischief arising from my "_mapeando el pais_," were quite groundless; and mine host showed great intelligence in comprehending what i wished to correct in the spanish map; the error in which he saw at once, when i pointed to the setting sun; his wife standing by and exclaiming "_que gente tan fina los ingleses_!"[ ] no advantage was taken of the knowledge of _my_ country in making out _the bill_, and i departed next morning with their prayers that i might travel in company with all the saints in the calendar. the direct road from campillos to cordoba is by way of la rodd; but, in the present instance, it was necessary to avoid that town, and proceed to _la fuente de piedra_, which is situated a few miles to the eastward, and without the sanitory circle drawn round the cholera. the distance from campillos to this place is two long leagues, which may be reckoned nine miles. _la fuente de piedra_ is a small village, of about sixty houses, surrounded with olive-grounds, and abounding in crystal springs. the medicinal virtues of one of these sources (which rises in the middle of the place) led to the building of the village; and the painful disease for which in especial this fountain is considered a sovereign cure, has given its name to the place. we arrived very late in the evening, and found the _posada_ most miserable. on leaving _la fuente de piedra_ we took the road to _puente don gonzalo_, and at about three miles from the village crossed the great road from granada to seville, which is practicable for carriages the greater part, but _not all_ the way; a little beyond this the _sierra de estepa_ rises on the left of the route, to the height of several hundred feet above the plain. the town of estepa is not seen, being on the western side of the hill; it is supposed to be the astapa of the romans, the horrible destruction of which is related by livy. the inhabitants, on the approach of scipio, aware of the exasperated feelings of the romans towards them, piled all their valuables in the centre of the forum, placed their wives and children upon the top, and leaving a few of their young men to set fire to the pile in the event of their defeat, rushed out upon the roman army. they were all killed, the pile was lighted, and a heap of ashes was the only trophy of their conquerors. the roman historian says, the people of astapa "delighted in robberies." i wonder if he thought his countrymen exempt from similar propensities! in three hours we reached cazariche. the road merely skirts the village, being separated from it by an abundant stream, which, serving to irrigate numerous gardens and orchards, renders the last league of the ride very agreeable, which otherwise, from the flatness of the country to the eastward, would be uninteresting. this rivulet is called _la salada_; but its volume is far too small to make one suppose for a moment that it is the _salsus_. at five miles from cazariche, keeping along the left bank of the salada the whole distance, but not crossing it, as marked on the maps, the road reaches miragenil. this is a small village, situated on the southern bank of the genil, and communicating, by means of a bridge, with _puente don gonzalo_. the river here forms the division between the kingdoms of seville and cordoba; and the two governments not having agreed as to the superior merits of wood or stone, one-half the bridge is built of the former, the other half of the latter material. puente don gonzalo stands on a steep acclivity, commanding the bridge and river. it is a town of some consideration, containing several manufactories of household furniture, numerous mills, and a population of souls. florez, on the authority of a _stone_ found _near_ cazariche (which he calls casaliche), whereon the word ventipo was inscribed, supposed _ventisponte_,[ ] to have been situated somewhere in the vicinity of puente don gonzalo. but if this stone had been _carried_ to cazariche, it may have been taken there from any other point of the compass as well as from that in which puente don gonzalo is situated. other authorities suppose this town to be on the site of singilis; but that place, as already stated, has been pretty clearly proved to have been nearer antequera. the "_provechasos aguas del divino genil_,"[ ] after cleansing the town of puente don gonzalo, are turned to the best possible account, in irrigating gardens and turning mill-wheels; and the road to cordoba, after proceeding for about a mile along the verdant valley that stretches to the westward, ascends the somewhat steep bank which pens in the stream to the north, and for four hours wanders over a flat uninteresting country to rambla; passing, in the whole distance of fifteen miles, but two running streams, three farm-houses, and the miserable village of montalban. this latter is distant about a mile and a half from rambla. we saw but little of this town, having arrived late at night, and departed from it at an early hour on the following morning; but it is of considerable size, and situated on the north side of a steep hill. we found the inn excessively dirty and exorbitantly dear; indeed it may be laid down as a general rule with spanish as well as swiss inns, that the charges are high in proportion to the _badness_ of the fare and accommodation. the ground in the vicinity of rambla is planted chiefly with vines, and but two short leagues to the eastward is situated montilla, where, in the estimation of spaniards, the best wine of the province is grown. it is extremely dry; and, as i have mentioned before, gives its name to the sherry called _amontillado_. rambla is just midway between puente don gonzalo and cordoba, viz. sixteen miles from each. the country is hilly, and mostly under tillage, but where its cultivators reside puzzles one to guess, as there is not a house on the road in the whole distance, and but two towns visible from it, viz. montemayor and fernan nuñez, both within six miles of rambla. the first-named of these places disputes with montilla the honour of being the roman city of _ulía_, the only inland town of boetica that held out for cæsar against the sons of pompey, previous to his arrival in the country.[ ] it appears doubtful[ ] whether _ulía_ is mentioned by pliny, but it is noticed in the roman itinerary (_gadibus cordubam_) as eighteen miles from cordoba, a distance that agrees better with montilla than montemayor; indeed the former almost declares itself in the very name it yet bears, _montilla_; the double _l_ in spanish having the liquid sound of _li_, making it a corruption of _mont ulía_. at about four miles from cordoba the guadajoz, or river of castro, is crossed by fording, and between it and the guadalquivír the ground is broken by steep hills. the road falls into the _arrecife_ from seville, on reaching the suburb on the left bank of the river. we took up our abode at the _posada de la mesangería_; a particularly comfortable house, as spanish inns go, that had been opened for the accommodation of the diligence travellers since my former visit to the city. the _patio_, ornamented with a bubbling fountain of icy-cold water, and shaded with a profusion of all sorts of rare creepers and flowering shrubs, afforded a cool retreat at all hours of the day; which, though we were in the month of october, was very acceptable. whilst seated at breakfast, under the colonnade that encompasses the court, the morning after our arrival, the master of the inn waited upon us to know if we required a _valet de place_ during our sojourn at cordoba, as a very intelligent old man, who spoke french like a native, and was in the habit of attending upon _caballeros forasteros_[ ] in the above-named capacity, was then in the house, and begged to place his services at our disposition. i replied, that having before visited his city, i considered myself sufficiently acquainted with its _sights_ to be able to dispense with this, otherwise useful, personage's attendance; but our host seemed so desirous that we should employ the old man, "we might have little errands to send him upon--some purchases to make; in fact, we should find the tio blas so useful in any capacity, and it would be such an act of charity to employ him,"--that we finally acceded to his proposal, and the _tio_ was accordingly ushered in. he was a tall, and, though emaciated, still erect old man, whose tottering gait, and white and scanty hairs, would have led to the belief that his years had already exceeded the number usually allotted to the life of man, but that his deep-sunk eyes were shaded by dark and beatling brows, and yet sparkled occasionally with the fire of youth; proving that hardships and misfortunes had brought him somewhat prematurely to the brink of the grave. it struck me at the first glance that i had seen him before, but when, and under what circumstances, i could not recall to my recollection. after some conversation, as to what had been his former occupation, &c., he remarked, addressing himself to me, "i think, _caballero_, that this is not the first time we have met--many years have elapsed since--many (to me) most eventful years, and they have wrought great changes in my appearance. and, indeed, some little difference is perceptible also in yours, for you were a mere boy then; but, still, time has not laid so heavy a hand on you as on the worn-out person of him who stands before you, and in whom you will, doubtless, have difficulty in recognizing the reckless _blas maldonado_!" time had, indeed, effected great changes in him, morally as well as physically; for not only had the powerful, well-built man, dwindled into a tottering, emaciated driveller, but the daring, impious bandit, had become a weak and superstitious dotard. my curiosity strongly piqued to learn how changes so wonderful had been brought about, we immediately engaged the _tio_ to attend upon us; and, during the few days circumstances compelled us to remain at cordoba, i elicited from him the following account of the events which had chequered his extraordinary career since we had before met. chapter xii. history of blas el guerrillero--_continued._ "_la rueda de la fortuna anda mas lista que una rueda de molino, y que los que ayer estaban en pinganitos, hoy estan por el suelo._"[ ]-- don quijote. it was at castrò el rio that we last met don carlos; it is now eleven years since,--rather more, but still i have a perfect recollection of it. my memory, indeed, is the only thing that has served me well through life. friends have abandoned--riches corrupted--success has hardened--ambition disappointed me; and now, as you see, my very limbs are failing me, but memory--excepting for one short period, when my brain was affected--has never abandoned me. i cannot flee from it--it pursues me incessantly: it is as impossible to get rid of, as of one's shadow in the sun's rays, and seems indeed, like it, to become more perfect, as i too proceed downward in my rapidly revolving course. alas! it often brings to mind the words of my good father, addressed, whilst i was yet a child, to my too-indulgent mother:--"if we consult the happiness of our son, we must not bring him up above the condition to which it has pleased providence to call him." it was my unhappy lot, however, to become an _educated pauper_. i grew up discontented, and became a profligate: i coveted riches, to feed my unnatural cravings, and became criminal: i scoffed at religion, and came to ridicule the idea of a future state of rewards and punishments. and as i thus brought myself to believe that i was not an accountable creature, nothing thenceforth restrained me from committing any act which gratified my passions. what is man, i argued, that i should not despoil him, if he possess that which i covet? what should deter me from taking his life, if he stand between me and that which i desire? _crime_ is a mere word,--a term for any act which certain _men_, for their mutual advantage, have agreed shall meet with punishment. but what right have those men to say, this is just, and that is unlawful? such were my feelings at the time i met and related to you the adventures of my early life; adventures of which i was then not a little proud, though, nevertheless, i slurred over some little matters that i thought would not raise me in your opinion. well was it for me that i was not cut off in the midst of my iniquitous career, but have, on the contrary, been allowed time, by penance and prayer, to make what atonement is in my power for my former sinful life. my journey to castrò had been undertaken at the desire of the political chief of ----, for the purpose of watching the proceedings of the royal regiment of carbineers, which, as you may remember, was at that time quartered there. i soon, under pretence of being a stanch royalist, wormed myself into the confidence of the officers, and learnt that they were in communication with the king's guards at madrid, and were plotting a counter-revolution, to reestablish ferdinand on a despotic throne. the advice i gave them, and the information i furnished the government, led to the unconnected and premature developement of their treason, and to the vigorous steps which were taken by the executive to meet and put it down. these, however, are matters of history, on which it is unnecessary to dwell; suffice it, therefore, to say, that my good services on the occasion were rewarded by promotion to a more lucrative _corregimiento_. i did not long enjoy this new post, for, on the french columns crossing the pyrenees the following spring, i threw up my civil employment, and, collecting a small band of _guerrillas_, flew to the defence of my country; joining the traitor ballasteros, then entrusted with the command of the army of the south. the deplorable events which followed deprived me of a home; but, leaving my wife and infant son (the only child, of three, whom it had pleased providence to spare us) at the secluded little town of cañete la real, perched high up in the sierra de terril, i wandered about the country with a few adherents, seeking opportunities of harassing the french during their operations before cadiz. they afforded us no opportunities, however, of attacking their convoys with any chance of success, and my followers could not be brought to engage in any daring enterprise without the prospect of booty. the feeling of patriotism appeared, indeed, to be extinct in the breasts of spaniards, and after a few weeks my band, which was nowhere well received, having been induced to commit excesses in some of the villages situated in the open country about arcos, several parties of royalist volunteers were formed to proceed in quest of us; and so disheartened were my followers, that i shortly found my band reduced to a dozen desperadoes, who, like myself, had no hopes of obtaining pardon. we betook ourselves, therefore, to the innermost recesses of the ronda mountains, moving constantly from place to place, as well to harass our pursuers, as to avoid being surrounded by them; and such is the intricacy of the country, and so numerous are the rocky fastnesses of the smugglers (from whom we were always sure of a good reception), that we readily baffled all pursuit, and exhausted the patience of our enemies; and, at length, seizing a favourable opportunity of inflicting a severe loss upon one of their parties, the patriotic zeal of these gentry so completely evaporated, that we were left in the undisturbed command of the serranía. all hope of being serviceable to our country at an end, we were compelled, as a last resource, to adopt the only calling to which we were suited, viz., that of highway robbers; and for several months every road between gibraltar and malaga, and the inland towns, was, in turn, subject to our predaceous visits. on one occasion a dignitary of the church, whose name and particular station it would not be prudent of me to mention, fell into our hands. his attendants, who were of a militant order, defended their master with great obstinacy. they were eventually overpowered, however, but several of my men having been badly wounded in the scuffle, were so exasperated, that they determined to shoot all those who had fallen into our hands, as well as the ---- himself; who, though he had not taken an active part in the combat, had made no attempt to restrain his pugnacious adherents. as soon as our prisoners had been secured, therefore, the portly ecclesiastic was directed to descend from his sleek mule, deliver up his money, and prepare for death. he inveighed in eloquent terms at our barbarity, pointed out to us the iniquity of our proceedings, the probability of a speedy punishment overtaking us in this life, and the certainty of having to endure everlasting torments in that which is to come. but it was to no purpose; indeed, it only tempted my miscreants to prolong his misery; and, having tied him to a tree, they insisted upon his blessing them all round, ere they proceeded to shoot him. "my children," said the worthy ----, "my blessing, from the tone in which you ask it, would serve you little. my life is in the hands of my maker, not in your's; and if it be his pleasure to make you the instruments of his divine will, so be it. i am prepared; death has no terrors for me; and may you obtain _his_ forgiveness for the sin you are about to commit, as readily as i grant you _mine_. now, i am ready;" and, looking upwards to the seat of all power and grace, he paid no further attention to their scoffing. "now señor bias," said one of my men, "since he will give us no more sport, give the word, and let us finish his business." "hold!" exclaimed one of the ----'s suite, addressing me, "is your name blas maldonado?" "it is: wherefore?" "because, if such be the case, in his excellency's _portefuille_ you will find a letter addressed to you." i forthwith proceeded to examine its contents, and, true enough, found a letter bearing my address. it was from my old friend _jacobo_, requesting, should the ---- fall into my hands, that i would suffer him to pass without molestation, in return for services conferred on him, which would be explained at our next meeting.[ ] _jacobo_, though we had not met for many months, i knew was in that part of the country, following the honest calling of a _contrabandista_, and i felt, in honour, bound to grant this request of my old friend and ever faithful lieutenant. my followers, however, objected strongly to spare either the ----, or his attendants, and a violent altercation ensued; for, i declared that my life must be taken ere that of any one of our prisoners. four only of the band sided with me, and we had already assumed a hostile attitude, when the ---- called earnestly upon me to desist. "peril not your sinful souls!" he exclaimed, "by hurrying each other, unrepented of your manifold sins, into the presence of an offended maker.--take our gold--take every thing we possess; and if those misguided men cannot be satisfied without blood, let mine flow to save the lives of these, my followers, who have stronger ties than i to bind them to this world." my hot temper, little used to contradiction, would listen, however, to no terms; my word was pledged that the ---- and his attendants should go free, and my word was never given in vain. i persisted, therefore, in declaring that those must pass over my body who would touch a hair of the ----'s head, or take a m_aravedi_ from his purse.... if he chose to make them a present after he had been released, he was his own master to do so. this delicate hint was eagerly seized by the worthy dignitary's attendants, and a large sum of money was distributed amongst the gang, in which i declined sharing. the ----, meanwhile, remounted his mule, and, calling me to his side, placed a valuable ring upon my finger. "i am indebted to you for my life, blas maldonado," he said, with the most lively emotion; "but that is little; i owe to you--what i value infinitely more--the safety of these faithful attendants, whose attachment had led them, like simon peter, to defend their pastor. such debts cannot be cancelled by any gift i can bestow, and it is not with that view i offer you this bauble, but a day may come when you may need an intercessor--if so, return this ring to me by some faithful member of our holy church, and let me know how i can serve you: or--which is probable, considering my age and infirmities--should i, ere that comes to pass, have been called from this world to give an account of my stewardship; then, fear not to lay it at the foot of fernando's throne, and, in the name of its donor, beg for mercy. i trust you may not have occasion to require its services, for my prayers shall not be wanting for your conversion from your present evil ways--my blessing be upon you--farewell." how powerful is the influence of religion! whilst listening to the worthy ----'s words, my head, which since the days of my childhood no act of devotion had ever led me to uncover, was bared as if by instinct; and, to receive the blessing he had called down upon me, i humbled myself to the earth! although those of the band who had so vehemently opposed sparing the ----'s life had finally been satisfied with the _donation_ bestowed upon them, yet their disobedience made me determine on ejecting them from my band, and accordingly, accompanied only by my four supporters in the late dispute, i proceeded to my old rendezvous, montejaque, hoping to pick up some recruits. i purposed, also, availing myself of the first favourable opportunity to remove my wife and child to that place, it being more conveniently situated, and offering greater security than even cañete la real. we had been there but a few days, when i received a letter without a signature, but in the well-known characters of my bosom friend, miguel clavijo, under whose protection i had placed my wife and child, giving warning of impending danger to them. there was yet time to avert it, my correspondent concluded, but in twenty-four hours from the date of this communication, their fate would probably be sealed. it was within two hours of sunset when i received this letter, and eight hours had already elapsed since it had been written. not a moment, therefore, was to be lost. i procured a pillion, and, placing it on an active horse, set off with all possible haste for cañete, keeping along the course of the river ariate to avoid the town of ronda, and traversing at full speed the village bearing the name of the stream, in order to escape recognition. i reached the rounded summit of the chain of hills which forms the northern boundary of the cultivated valley of ronda, just as the sun was sinking behind the western mountains; and, checking my horse to give him a few moments' breath ere commencing the rugged descent on the opposite side, i turned round to see if all were quiet in the wide-spread plain i had just traversed, and that no one was following my traces. at this moment the last ray of the glorious luminary lit upon the distant town of grazalema. the remarkable coincidence of the warning of treason i had received there on this very day, twelve years before, came vividly to mind, and with it the recollection of my extraordinary escape from the snare laid for me--the debt of gratitude due to her who had risked her life, and sacrificed her honour to save me--the cruelty with which my preserver had been treated. poor abandoned paca! from the moment of our angry separation, never had i once taken the trouble of enquiring what had been her fate. scarcely, indeed, had i ever bestowed a thought upon her. i resumed my way down the rough descent, pondering, for the first time in my life, on the ingratitude i had been guilty of, and had reached some high cliffs that border the road beneath the village of la cuera del becerro, when a pistol was discharged within a few yards of me, and, looking up, i saw a witchlike figure standing on the edge of the precipice overhanging the path--it was paca! had my eyes wished to deceive me, she would not have allowed them, for, with a wild, demonaical laugh, she screamed out "_adelante, adelante, embustero desalmado!_[ ]--you will yet be in time to dig the grave for your child, though too late to snatch your _wife_ from the arms of her paramour. forward, forward; recollect the old saying, '_no hay boda, sin tornabóda_;'[ ] you may have forgotten paca of _benaocaz_, but i shall never forget blas maldonado. the creditor has ever a better memory than the debtor. i have paid myself now, however--ride on, and see the receipt i have left for you at cañete--ha, ha, ha!" there was something perfectly fiendish in her laughter. a horrible presentiment possessed me.--with a hand tremulous with passion, i drew forth a pistol and fired. paca staggered, and fell backwards; but, not waiting to see if she were killed, i put spurs to my horse, and hurried forward to cañete. i rode straight to the house where i had left my wife, but it was uninhabited. i turned from it with a shudder, and proceeded to the abode of my faithful friend clavijo, who was confined to his bed with ague. he received me with a face foreboding evil. "where is my wife?" i hastily demanded--"my child, where is he?" "alas!" he replied, "why came you not earlier?" "earlier! how could that be? it is but twelve hours since your summons was penned! tell me, i implore you--what horrible misfortune has befallen?" "but twelve hours, say you?" exclaimed clavijo; "it is now _three days_ since i intrusted my letter to paca to convey to you! she it was who informed me of the plot to carry off your wife, (which has been but too truly effected,) and offered to be herself the bearer of my letter to you at montejaque, where she assured me you were. i have not seen her since, and fancied she had not succeeded in finding you." i stood stupified whilst listening to this explanation--for such it was to me; the truth, the horrible truth, at once flashing upon me--and then, without waiting to obtain further information from the bed-ridden miguel, hastened to the late residence of my wife, which one of his domestics pointed out to me. in few words, i explained to its owner the object of my visit, begging for information concerning my child. "this will explain all, señor blas," she replied, taking a letter from a cupboard, and placing it in my hands; "would to god it had been in my power to prevent what has happened." the letter was in my wife's hand-writing, i tore it open, and to my astonishment read as follows. "monster of iniquity! the veil that has but too long concealed thy unequalled crimes from the eyes of a confiding woman, has been rudely torn aside. murderer of my brother! apostate! traitor! adulterer! receive at my hands the first stroke of the almighty's anger. the illegitimate offspring of our intercourse lies a mangled corpse upon our adulterous bed! yes, unparalleled villain; my hand, like thine own, is stained with the blood of my child--_our_ child. but on thy head rests the sin. in a moment of delirium, produced by the sight of my husband, and the knowledge of thy atrocious crimes, the horrid deed was committed. i leave thee to the pangs of remorse. i cannot curse thee. even with the bleached corpse of my poor boy before me, i cannot bring myself to call down a heavy punishment upon thee. we shall never meet again; but fly instantly and save thyself if possible; and may the almighty being, whose every command thou hast violated, extend the term of thy life for repentance; and may a blessed saviour and the holy saints, whose mediation thou hast ever derided, intercede for the salvation of thy sinful soul." my first feeling on reading this epistle was incredulity! _i_, who had stopped at no crime to gratify any evil passion; even i could not persuade myself that it was not a forgery, nor believe that one so gentle, so affectionate, as engracia, could be guilty of so diabolical an act. i took up a lamp and walked composedly to the adjoining chamber, to satisfy my doubts. with a steady hand i drew aside the curtain of the bed--nothing was visible. a thrill of delight ran through my veins. i tore off the counterpane, and--horrible revulsion of feeling!--discovered my boy, my darling boy, with anguish depicted in every feature, and every muscle contracted with excessive suffering; a cold--black--fetid--putrid corpse! until that moment i had not known the full extent to which the chords of the human heart are capable of being stretched. all my love of life had centred in that child. each of his infantile endearments came fresh upon my memory. the pangs of jealousy and hate, too, had never before been so acutely felt; and, lastly, i thought of my fernando's dying malediction! it seemed as if a poisoned dart had pierced to the very innermost recess of the heart, and that my envenomed blood waited but its extraction, to gush forth in one irrepressible flood. i stood speechless--awe-struck--motionless; but not yet humbled. i thought of paca, and a curse rose to my throat; but ere i had time to give it utterance, a noise, as of many persons assembled at the door of the house, attracted my attention, and i heard an unknown voice say, "this, _tio_, you are sure is the house? then in with you, comrades, without ceremony, and bring out every soul you may find there, dead or alive." in another moment the door was broken open and a party of armed men rushed in. my precaution of extinguishing the lamp was vain, as several of them bore blazing torches. i rushed to a back window of the inner apartment, and drew forth a pistol to keep them at bay whilst i effected my escape by it. it had the desired effect. not one of the dastard crew would approach to lay his hand upon me. the shutter was already thrown open; the strength of desperation had enabled me to tear down one of the iron bars of the _reja_; and one foot rested on the window-sill; when, rushing past the soldiers, a ghost-like female figure, whose face was bound up in a cloth clotted with gore, seized me in her convulsive grasp, and in a half-articulate scream cried, "wretch! you shall not so escape me!"--it was paca! i tried in vain to shake her off; she clung to me with the pertinacity of a vampire, i placed the muzzle of my pistol to her temple, and pulled the trigger; but, in my hurry, i had drawn that which i had already fired at her. i attempted to snatch another from my belt, but the soldiers taking courage rushed forward and overpowered me, just as paca, from whose mouth i now perceived blood was rapidly issuing, fell exhausted upon the floor. the commander of the party was now called in, who gave directions for a priest and a surgeon to be instantly sent for, and that i should be bound hand and foot with cords. they took the bedding from under the corpse of my son to form a rest for paca, whose life seemed ebbing rapidly. in a few minutes the surgeon arrived, and shortly after a tinkling bell announced the approach of the host. the doctor having examined paca's wounds, pronounced them to have been inflicted by the discharge of some weapon loaded with slugs, one of which had fractured her jaw-bone, whilst another had inflicted a wound that occasioned an inward flow of blood which threatened immediate dissolution, and consequently the services of the church were more likely to be beneficial than his own. the priest then approached, and offered the last and cheering consolation that our holy religion offers to a dying penitent. paca opened her now lustreless eyes, and with a motion of impatience, putting aside the proffered cup, pointed to me. "there is my murderer," she muttered in broken accents; "villain! monster! my vengeance is at length complete. i leave you in the hands of justice, and die ... happy." an agonized writhe belied her assertion. she never spoke after, but continued groaning whilst the worthy priest attempted to call her attention to her approaching end. i have not much more to add to my history. it appeared, by what i learnt afterwards, that beltran had most miraculously escaped death, when thrown from the rock of montejaque, and having been discovered by some french soldiers who made an attack upon the place a few days afterwards, was conveyed to ronda, when the loss of his ears led to his being recognised by the french governor, who had, in the meanwhile, received my _present_, and discovered the trick i had played him. beltran's tale thus proved to have been the true one, he was well-treated, and sent with a party of prisoners to france, where he remained until the conclusion of the war. he was then on his way back to his native country, in company with several other spaniards, when he was arrested as being an accomplice, "_sans préméditation_," in a robbery, attended with loss of life, and was sentenced to ten years' imprisonment; but, before this term was fully completed, he obtained his release, returned to spain, and proceeding immediately to his native province, there first learnt that engracia had become my wife. i think, by the way, that in the former part of my narrative i omitted to mention--for fully persuaded as i _then_ was of beltran's death, it was a matter of no moment--that previous to engracia's becoming my wife, she informed me of her having, at the urgent instances of her brother melchor, consented to a private marriage with my rival; and from this circumstance she had expressed the greatest anxiety to ascertain his fate with certainty, and had delayed for so long a period bestowing her hand upon me. this marriage with beltran had taken place at gaucin within an hour of my departure from that town, after making the arrangements for our combined attack on ronda; and had been strongly advocated by melchor, from an apprehension that, should any thing happen to him in the approaching conflict, his elder brother, alonzo, who was kept in perfect ignorance of this proceeding, would abandon his friend beltran, and insist on their sister's marrying me, whom he (melchor) detested. i, however, as you are aware, had every reason to believe that beltran had been killed by his fall from the rock of montejaque; and therefore, on eventually eliciting from engracia the reason of her reluctance to marry me, i had no scruple in declaring that beltran's dead body had been seen rolling down the shallow pebbly bed of the guadiaro, after our action with the french. the crime i had led her to commit was consequently unintentional. would i could as easily acquit myself of another her letter accused me of, namely, that of being the murderer of her brother: for, through my machinations was his death brought about. whilst the crop-eared traitor, beltran, (the _tio's_ revengeful feelings were not so entirely allayed as to prevent his bestowing an occasional term of reproach on those who had thwarted his prosperous career of iniquity) was skulking about the mountains, endeavouring to obtain tidings of his re-married wife, chance threw him in the way of paca, engaged in a similar pursuit, but with a very different purpose. this wretched woman had, for many years after our separation, been the inmate of a mad-house; but, at length, her keepers finding that, excepting on the subject of her supposed wrongs, she was perfectly tractable, became careless of watching her, and she effected her escape. the sole object of this vindictive creature's life appears now to have been to wreak vengeance upon me. but not satisfied with the mere death of her victim, she sought first to torture him with worldly pangs; and informed that engracia lived, and had given birth to a son, whom i loved with a more fervent affection than even the mother, she determined _they_ should first be sacrificed to her revenge. on discovering beltran alive, however, a scheme yet more hellishly devised entered her imagination; in the execution of which he became a willing agent, though in some degree her dupe. well acquainted with all my haunts, she soon got upon my track; and that discovered, had little difficulty in finding out the hiding-place of engracia. making a shrewd guess at the person under whose protection i had placed my wife and child, she forthwith presented herself to don miguel, and informed him that a plot was laid, and on the eve of execution, to carry them both off; adding, that it might yet be frustrated if i could but arrive at cañete within twenty-four hours--that she knew where i then was, and would undertake to have any warning conveyed to me which his prudence might suggest--that her messenger was sure, but still the utmost caution, as well as despatch, was necessary. miguel, quite taken by surprise, and unable from illness to leave his bed, wrote the short note which has already been given; and this point gained, paca proceeded to the nearest town to give information to the authorities that the bandit blas, whom they were seeking in every direction, was to be at cañete la real on a certain night; and proposed, if a detachment of troops was sent quietly to the neighbouring village of el becerro, that she would repair thither at the proper time, and conduct the soldiers to the traitor's very lair. this proposal was readily acceded to, and paca then repaired to cañete, to tell miguel not to be uneasy as to the result of his message to me, as, since sending it, she had ascertained on good authority that something had occurred to postpone the elopement of engracia for a day or two. bending her steps thence to where beltran was anxiously awaiting her return, she told him that after much difficulty she had discovered engracia was at cañete; he had therefore but to proceed there after dark, provided with the means of carrying her off. but this, she informed him, must be done with the utmost celerity and circumspection, as the inhabitants of the place were so desperate a set, and so attached to me, that, if they got the slightest inkling of what was going forward, they certainly would handle him very roughly; and the authorities, unless backed by a body of troops, would be afraid to interfere in his behalf. if, however, she pursued, he preferred waiting until an escort could be procured, that he might avoid all personal risk--but delays were dangerous, for frequently _"de la mano a la boca_ _se cae la sopa._"[ ] the law, too, was uncertain.--he thought so also, and they proceeded together to cañete. beltran, imagining that paca had informed engracia of his being alive, conceived that no intimation of his coming was requisite; but such was not the case, and the shock given by his unexpected visit caused the aberration of mind which led the hapless engracia to commit the horrid crime of infanticide; and, in the state of inanition that followed, she was carried out of the town. the letter to me was written afterwards, and delivered to the old woman of the house by paca, the last act of whose fiendish plot now commenced. altering the date of miguel's letter, so as to make it correspond with the time arranged for the arrival of the troops at _la cueva del becerro_, she forwarded it to me at montejaque--what followed has already been stated. these details became known on my trial, which took place shortly afterwards. i was condemned to suffer death by the _garrote_. the day was fixed; i sent for a priest, and entrusting to him the ring given me by the ----, begged he would forward it without delay to madrid. this was done, but day after day passed without bringing any answer to my appeal. at first i had been so sanguine as to the result, that i was affected but little at my position, for i knew how easily a pardon is obtained in spain, when application is made in the proper quarter; but, as the fatal time approached, the darkest despair took possession of my soul. i cannot indeed convey to you, don carlos, an adequate idea of the horrible torments i endured during the last few days preceding that fixed for my execution. the pious father ignacio--he has since (sainted soul!) been taken from this earth, and is now, i trust, my intercessor in heaven--was unremitting in his endeavours to bring me to repentance; but satan was yet strong within me, and my heart remained hardened. the pardon came not, and i exclaimed against the justness of the most high: i, whom no considerations of justice had influenced in any one action of my life--who had recklessly transgressed each of his commandments! "we must not ask for _justice_ at the hands of the almighty," urged ignacio; "we are all born in sin, in sin we all live; _mercy_ is what we must pray for." "mercy!" i exclaimed; "_why_ was i born in sin? why led to commit crime? why...." "your unbridled passions led you to transgress the laws of your creator," replied ignacio; "be thankful that you were not cut short in your mad career, and that time has been allowed you for repentance." "repent!--i cannot--i have ever denied, i cannot now believe in the existence of a maker." "unhappy man!" ejaculated the worthy priest; "unhappy, impious, inconsistent man! you deny the existence of the being against whose justice your voice was raised e'en now in reproaches! do you not look forward to behold again to-morrow the bright luminary round which this atom of a world revolves? look on that pale moon, which perhaps you now see rising for the last time--observe that fiery meteor which has this moment dashed through the wondrous, boundless firmament; and ask yourself if this admirable system can be the effect of accident? do the trees yearly yield us their fruits by chance? is the punctual return of the seasons a mere casualty? if so, how is it that this accidental atom--this globe we inhabit, has so long held together _without_ accident? has any work of man, however cunningly devised, in like manner withstood the effects of time? is not the protecting hand of the deity clearly perceptible in the unvarying continuance of these phenomena? "my son, had you studied the holy scriptures more, and the philosophy of voltaire and other infidels less, you would not have been brought to this strait; neither would you have shocked my ears with a confession, which, a few years since, would have consigned you to the dungeons of the inquisition. repent! unhappy man, repent! and save your soul--there is still time. nay, an omnipotent maker may even yet think fit to prolong your life here below, for the perfection of this good work, if you will but pray to him in all sincerity." the pious father saw that i was touched, and, pouring in promises of future happiness, brought me to reflect. i begged him to be with me early on the following morning. he came; i had passed the night in prayer; and now unburdened my mind, by making to him a full confession of my sins. ignacio remained comforting me, until the hour of the arrival of the post, when he repaired, as usual, to the _corregidor_, to ascertain whether any pardon had reached him. he returned not, however. eleven o'clock was the hour fixed for my execution; it came, but still ignacio did not appear. hours passed away, and not a soul visited me; the sun again sank below the horizon, and i yet lived. it was evident--so, at least, i thought--that a pardon had arrived, and my spirits rose accordingly. at length, towards nightfall, ignacio entered my cell. "blas," he said, "though it would appear there is no longer a chance of your receiving a pardon, yet your life has been miraculously spared this day, to give you time for repentance. i trust you have turned it to good account." "how!" i exclaimed, "have i not been pardoned? what, then, has occasioned this delay?" "you owe your life," he replied, "to a rumour, that a band of robbers had appeared in the vicinity--some of your old friends, it was thought--which caused all the troops to be sent out in pursuit. they have but now returned, and to-morrow you will be executed." a pang of withering disappointment ran through me, for i had confidently imagined that the delay had been the consequence of the arrival of a pardon, and satan once more obtained dominion over me. ignacio read in my overcast countenance the change his information had wrought in my feelings. "your repentance is not sincere, my son," he observed. "alas! when death is in sight, how fondly do we cling to this earth. and yet you have braved death in the field a thousand times!" "father," i replied, "it is not death i fear--it is the disgrace of a public execution." "what absurd sophistry is this?" said he. "can one, who but yesterday denied the existence of a future state, care for one moment _how_ he quits this world, or regard the opinion of those he leaves behind in it?--as well might he be fearful of losing the good opinion of a herd of swine. away with such fine-spun subtilties--it is the prospect of meeting your maker face to face that makes you quail. you are yet but ill prepared, i see. oh! may he yet mercifully extend your life, if but a short span." the morrow came, but the pious ignacio's prayer remained apparently unheard. he repaired to my call soon after the arrival of the post, to exhort and prepare me. alas! i was as much in want of his assistance as ever, for i had all along clung to the hope of obtaining a pardon through the influence of the ----, and was more inclined to rail than to pray. a party of soldiers at length arrived, and i was led off in chains to the place of execution. a vast crowd was assembled from all the neighbouring towns to witness my punishment. ignacio addressed the multitude on our way, saying, i was a repentant sinner, and implored the prayers of all good christians. for myself i said not a word, and the crowd gave no signs of either gratification or commiseration. i mounted the scaffold, the fatal instrument was placed round my throat, a curse was yet on my lips, when a distant shout attracted the father's attention. laying a hand upon the arm of the executioner to stay his proceedings, he watched with eager eyes the signs of some one who was approaching at a rapid pace, holding a paper high in the air. the paper was handed to ignacio by the breathless messenger. "it is a pardon," he exclaimed; "your life is miraculously spared--it has been sent express from the escurial! return your thanks, to him, who has been pleased thus to extend his mercy towards you." i had already sunk on my knees--i prayed earnestly for the first time in my life. marvellously, indeed, had my life been preserved. but for the rumoured appearance of the band of robbers, i should have suffered death the day before; again, this day, but for ignacio's presence, the pardon would have arrived too late. i was immediately released, but a fever, caused, probably, by my previously excited feelings, confined me to my bed for many weeks. i became delirious, and my life was despaired of. ignacio tended me like a brother. a second time he saved my life; but, alas! he himself contracted the contagious disorder, and fell a victim to his warm and disinterested friendship. i expended all i was worth in masses for his soul, and was once more thrown upon the world to seek a livelihood. i thought of applying to the ---- to procure me some employment, but learnt that he too had closed his mortal career. the fever had given such a shock to my constitution, that old age, i may say, came suddenly upon me, and to gain a livelihood by hard labour was out of the question. i had no relations; my friends were all new; so that i had no claims on any one: my present occupation presented itself, as the only one i was fit for; and, thank god, it enables me to earn my bread without begging, and even to lay by a little store for pious purposes:--for much of my time is devoted to the performance of penances and austerities, to expiate the sins of my past life. thrice, on my knees, have i ascended to the _ermita_ you see there peeping through the clouds gathered round the peaks of the sierra morena. once, too, have i walked barefoot to prostrate myself before the _santa faz_[ ] of jaen; and this winter (god willing!) i purpose visiting the most holy shrine of _sant' iago de compostela_. it is a long journey, and will, probably, be my last pilgrimage, for i feel myself sinking fast. you have now had the history of my whole life, don carlos--i wish it could be published. it might, probably, warn my fellow-creatures to rest contented with the lot to which it has pleased god to call them; and, if so, i may have lived to some purpose. chapter xiii. unforeseen difficulties in proceeding to madrid--death of king ferdinand--change in our plans--road to andujar--alcolea--montoro--porcuna--andujar--arjona--torre ximeno--difficulty of gaining admission--success of a stratagem--consternation of the authorities--spanish adherence to forms--contrasts--jaen--description of the castle, city, and cathedral--la santa faz--road to granada--our knightly attendant--parador de san rafael--hospitable farmer--astonishment of the natives--granada--el soto de roma--loja--venta de dornejo--colmenar--fine scenery--road from malaga to antequera, and description of that city. i found cordoba the same dull, sultry, loyal city as at the period of my former visit; after devoting a day, therefore, to the incomparable _mezquita_, we repaired to the police office to redeem our passports, and have them _visé_ for madrid, purposing to proceed to the capital by _diligence_. we there learnt, however, that our route from gibraltar, having passed _near_ the district wherein the cholera had appeared, the public safety demanded that our journey should be continued on horseback, and, moreover, that each day's ride should not exceed eight leagues! the prospect of a fortnight's baking on the parched plains of la mancha and castile, which this preposterous precaution held out, was, of itself, enough to make any one _crusty_; but the additional vexation of finding that all our precautions had been unavailing, all our information erroneous, made us return to the _posada_, thoroughly out of humour with _las cosas de españa_. our landlord comforted us, however, by engaging--if we would but wait patiently for a few days, and leave the business entirely in his hands--to get matters arranged so that we might yet proceed on to madrid by the diligence; and, knowing the wheels within wheels by which spanish affairs of state are put in motion, we willingly came to this compromise, and remained quietly paying him for our breakfasts and dinners during the best part of a week, receiving each day renewed assurances that every thing was proceeding "_corriente_." the second day after our arrival at cordoba, the inhabitants were moved to an unusual degree of excitement, in consequence of an _estafette_ having passed through the city during the night, bearing despatches from madrid to the captain general of the province, and rumours were afloat that the king was so seriously ill as to occasion great fears for his life; and, on the following day, public anxiety was yet further excited by a report that the captain general had passed through cordoba on his way to the capital; leading to the general belief that ferdinand was actually dead. in the evening our host came to us with a very long face, and informed us, confidentially, that such was the case, though, for political reasons, it had been deemed prudent not to make the melancholy news public; adding, that, in consequence of this unforeseen and unfortunate event, he regretted to say the authorities had been seized with such a panic, that he had altogether failed in his endeavour to have the stain effaced from our bill of health. nevertheless, he said, he hoped yet to be able to arrange matters so as to ensure our being received into the diligence, _without any questions being asked_ at andujar, if we would but remain quietly where we were for a few days longer, and then proceed to that place on horseback. the news received from madrid had, however, decided us to give up the plan of continuing our journey thither. i knew enough of spain to foresee what would be the result of all the intrigues which had been carried on behind the curtains of the imbecile ferdinand's death-bed. "you are quite right, señor," said blas, to whom i made known our change of plans, "we shall now have a disputed succession, for, be assured, don carlos is not the man to forego his just rights without a struggle.--alas! this only was wanting to fill my unhappy country's cup of misery to overflowing." although thus unwillingly forced to abandon the project of crossing the sierra morena, we determined, whilst the country yet remained quiet, to extend our tour further to the eastward, and, by proceeding along the _arrecife_ to madrid as far as andujar, gain the road which leads from thence to jaen; a city, which the want of practicable roads leading from it to the south has, until late years (during which that deficiency has been remedied), been very rarely visited by travellers. recommending señor blas to postpone his projected barefoot pilgrimage into gallicia, until the rainy season had set in, and made the roads soft, we departed from cordoba by the great post route to the capital, which, as far as alcolea, is conducted along the right bank of the guadalquivír, and is a fine, broad, and well-kept gravel road. alcolea is seven miles from cordoba. it is a small village of but twenty or thirty houses, and, in the opinion of florez, occupies the site of the ancient town of arva. the _arrecife_ here crosses to the left bank of the river by a handsome marble bridge, of eighteen arches, built in - . the passage of this bridge was obstinately contested by the spaniards, in the campaign of , but a party of the french, which had crossed the river at montoro, falling upon its defenders in flank, forced them to retreat. from hence to carpio is ten miles. the country is undulated, and the road--along which there is not a single village, and scarcely half a dozen houses--keeps within sight of the guadalquivír the whole way, affording many pleasing views of the winding stream and its overhanging woods and olive groves. the town of carpio is left about a quarter of a mile off, on the right. it is situated on a hill, and by some is supposed to be the ancient city of corbulo. pliny, however, distinctly says that place was _below_ cordoba, and florez fixes it in the vicinity of palma. from carpio to aldea del rio is twelve miles, the country continuing much the same as heretofore. at three miles, the road reaches the small town of pedro abad (or perabad) in the vicinity of which is a _despoblado_,[ ] where various medals and vestiges have been found that determine it to be the site of sacili, mentioned by pliny. proceeding onwards, the town of bujalance may occasionally be seen on the right, distant about a league and a half from the guadalquivír; and at seven miles from carpio, we passed montoro, a large town situated on the margin of the river, and about three quarters of a mile to the left of the _arrecife_. this town has been determined by antiquaries to be ripepora. the country about aldea del rio is rather pretty, and the place has a thriving look compared with the miserable towns we had lately seen; its population is about , souls. we halted here for the night, and found the _posada_ most wretched. at a distance of nine (geographic) miles from aldea del rio, in a south-east direction, is the town of porcuna; its situation, florez justly observes, agreeing so well with that of obulco, as given both by strabo[ ] and pliny,[ ] as to leave no doubt of their identity. inscriptions, monuments, coins, &c., which have been found there, quite confirm this opinion, and an important point is thus gained in tracing the operations of cæsar in his last campaign against the sons of pompey; since obulco, which he is mentioned as having reached in twenty-seven days from rome, may be considered the advanced post of the country that was favourable to his cause. the present ignoble name of the town--porcuna,--appears to have been bestowed upon it from the extraordinary fecundity of a _sow_; an inscription, commemorative of the birth of thirty young pigs at one litter, being preserved to this day in the church of the benedictine friars, and is thus worded:-- c. cornelivs. c. f. cn. gal. cÆso. aed. flamen. ii. vir mvnicipii. pontif c. corn. cÆso. f. sacerdos. gent. mvnicipii scrofam cvm porcis xxx impensa ipsorvm. d. d. from aldea del rio to andujar is fourteen miles, making the whole distance from cordoba to that place forty-three miles. the country is very gently undulated, and principally under tillage; the ride, however, is dreary, there being but one house on the road. andujar stands altogether on the right bank of the guadalquivír, which is crossed by a bridge of nine arches. the town is reputed to contain a population of , souls, but that number is a manifest exaggeration. it is encompassed by old roman walls, and defended by an ancient castle, and is celebrated for its manufacture of pottery. it is, nevertheless, a dilapidated, impoverished looking place. by some andujar is supposed to be the illiturgi,[ ] or, as it is otherwise written, illurtigis of the ancient historians; but florez fixes the site of that city two leagues higher up, but on the same bank of the guadalquivír, and imagines andujar to be ipasturgi. the locality of the existing town certainly but ill agrees with the description of illurtigis given by livy, for no part of andujar is "covered by a high rock."[ ] the _arrecife_ to madrid leaves the banks of the guadalquivír at andujar, striking inland to baylen, and thence across the sierra morena by the pass of _despeña perros_. after devoting a few hours to exploring the old walls of the town, we recrossed the river, and bent our steps towards granada, taking the road to jaen. we proceeded that afternoon to torre ximena, twenty miles from andujar. the country is undulated, and mostly under cultivation. the road is--or, more properly, i should say, perhaps, the places upon the road are--very incorrectly laid down on the spanish maps; for, instead of being scattered east and west over the face of the country, they are so nearly in line, as to make the general direction of the road nearly straight. though but a cross-country track, it is tolerably good throughout. the first town it visits is arjona, said to be the ancient urgao, or virgao.[ ] it is a poor place, of some twelve or fifteen hundred inhabitants, and distant seven miles from the guadalquivír. five miles beyond arjona, but lying half pistol shot off the road to the right, is the miserable little village of escañuela; and three miles further on, the equally wretched town of villa don pardo. from hence to torre ximeno (five miles) the road traverses a vast plain, but, ere we had proceeded half way, night overtook us, and on reaching the town we found all the entrances most carefully closed. after making various attempts to gain admission--groping our way from one barricade to another, until we had nearly completed the circuit of the town--we perceived a light glimmering at some little distance in the country, and hoping it proceeded from some _rancha_, where we might obtain shelter from an approaching storm, if not accommodation for the night, we spurred our jaded animals towards it as fast as the ruggedness of the ground would admit. it proved, however, to be only the remains of a fire made for the purpose of destroying weeds; but a peasant lad, who was warming his evening meal over the expiring embers, pointed out a path leading to one of the town gates, at which, he said, we might, perhaps, gain admission. following his directions, we found the gate without much trouble; but a difficulty now arose that promised to be of a more insuperable nature, namely, that of _awaking the guard_, for the combined efforts of our voices proved quite inadequate to the purpose. it was very vexatious, but irresistibly ludicrous; and, prompted by this mixed feeling of wrath and merriment, we determined to try what effect would be produced by a general discharge of our pistols, and, accordingly riding close up to the gate, fired a volley in the air. a tremendous discharge of _carajos!_ responded to our _salvo_, and soldiers, policemen, custom-house officers, and health-officers, sallied forth, helter skelter, from the guard-house and adjacent dwellings, making off "with the very extremest inch of possibility," under the impression that the place was attacked. one _aduanero_, however, more enterprising and valiant than the rest, ventured to peep through the bars of the stockade and demand our business; on learning which he encouragingly invited the _urbanos_ to return to their _military duty_, whilst he despatched a messenger to the _alcalde_ to request instructions for their further proceedings. we were subjected meanwhile to a most vexatious detention, occasioned by various causes. firstly, because the village dictator was nowhere to be found. he had--so it eventually turned out--started from his comfortable seat at the fire of the _posada_ (where, surrounded by a knot of politicians, he was discussing the justice of abrogating the salique law), at the first report of our fire-arms, and, wrapping his cloak around him, had rushed into the street, declaring his intention of meeting death like the last of the palæologi, rather than be recognised and spared, to grace the triumph of a victorious enemy. then we had to wait for the key of the gate, which had been carried off in the pocket of one of the runaway soldiers; and, lastly, for a light, the guard-lamp having been overturned in the general confusion, and all the oil spilt. during the half hour's delay occasioned by these various untoward circumstances, we were subjected to a long verbal examination, touching the part of the country whence we had come; for having wandered round the town in our attempts to gain admission, until we had reached a gate at the very opposite point of the compass to that which points to andujar, the account we gave seemed to awaken great doubts of our veracity in the minds of these vigilant functionaries; and, even after a lantern had been brought, and our passports delivered up, we underwent a minute personal examination, ere being permitted to repair to the posada. the spaniards say, that we english are "_victimas de la etiqueta_;" and, certes, we may compliment them, in return, on being the most complete _slaves to form_. instances in proof thereof,--which, though on a smaller scale, were scarcely less laughable than the foregoing,--occurred daily in the course of our journey. _par example_, on leaving the _venta_ at fuente de piedra, where our sleeping apartment was little better than the stable into which it opened, the hostess insisted on serving our morning cup of chocolate on a table partially covered with a dirty towel, saying, it would not be "_decente_" to allow us to take it standing at the kitchen fire. here again, at torre ximeno, the landlord was conducting us into what he conceived to be a befitting apartment, when his better half cried out, "_à la sala! à la sala!_"[ ] we pricked up our ears, fancying we were to be in clover. the _sala_, however, proved to be a room about ten feet longer than that into which we were first shown, but in every other respect its _fac simile_; that is to say, it had bare white-washed walls and a plastered floor, was furnished with half a dozen low rush-bottomed chairs, and ventilated by two apertures, which at some distant period had been closed by shutters. the floor presented so uneven a surface, and was marked with so many rents, that, until encouraged by the landlord's "_no tiene usted cuidado_,"[ ] i was particularly careful where i placed my feet, taking it to be a highly finished model of the circumjacent sierras and water-courses. after more than the usual difficulties about bills of health and passports, we received a very civil message from the _alcalde_, to say, that his house, &c. &c., were at our disposal; but our host and his helpmate seemed so well inclined to do what was in their power to make us _comfortable_, that we declined his polite offer. our landlady was still remarkably pretty, though the mother of four children--a rare occurrence in spain, where mothers, however young they may be, usually look like old women. we had some little difficulty in persuading her that we did not like garlic, and that we should be satisfied with a very moderate quantity of oil in the _guisado_[ ] she undertook to prepare for our supper, and on which, with bread and fruit, and some excellent wine, we made a hearty meal. contrasts in spain are most absurd. we slept on thin woollen mattresses, spread upon the before-mentioned mountainous floor--the serrated ridges of which we had some little difficulty in fitting to our ribs--and in the morning were furnished with towels bordered with a kind of thread lace and fringe to the depth of at least eighteen inches; very ornamental, but by no means useful, since the serviceable part of the towel was hardly get-at-able. on asking our hostess for the bill, we were referred to her husband, which, as the easterns say, led us to regard her with the eyes of astonishment; for this reference from the lady and mistress to her helpmate, is the exception to the rule, and it was to save trouble we had applied to her, experience having taught us that the landlady was generally the oracle on these occasions; _invariably_, indeed, when there is any intention to cheat. this, without explanation, may be deemed a most ungallant accusation; i do not mean by it, however, to screen my own sex at the expense of the fairer, for the truth is, the man adds duplicity to his other sins, by retiring from the impending altercation. this he does either from thinking that imposition will come with a better grace from his better half, or, that she will be more ingenious in finding out reasons for the exorbitance of the demand, or, at all events, words in defending it; for any attempt at expostulation is drowned in such a torrent of whys and wherefores, that one is glad, _coute qui coute_, to escape from the encounter. and thus, whilst the lady's volubility is extracting the money from their lodger's pocket, mine host stands aloof, looking as like a hen-pecked mortal as he possibly can, and shrugging his shoulders from time to time, as much as to say, "it is none of my doing! i would help you if i dare, but you see what a devil she is!" on the present occasion, however, we had no reason to remonstrate, for, to a very moderate charge, were added numerous excuses for any thing that might have been amiss in our accommodation, in consequence of their ignorance of our wants. torre ximeno is situated in a narrow valley, watered by a fine stream; its walls, however, reach to the crest of the hills on both sides, and apparently rest on a roman foundation. it contains a population of , souls. from hence a road proceeds, by way of martos and alcalà la real, to granada, but it is more circuitous than that by jaen. from torre ximeno to that city is two long leagues, or about nine miles. the road now takes a more easterly direction than heretofore, and, at the distance of three miles, reaches the village of torre campo. the rest of the way lies over an undulated country, which slants gradually towards the mountains, that rise to the eastward. jaen is situated on the outskirts of the great sierra de susana, which, dividing the waters of the guadalquivír and genil, spreads as far south as the vale of granada. the city is built on the eastern slope of a rough and very inaccessible ridge, whose summit is occupied by an old castle, enclosed by extensive outworks. the ancient name of the place was aurinx, and it appears to have stood just without the limits of ancient boetica. it is now the capital of one of the kingdoms composing the province of andalusia, and the see of a bishop in the archbishoprick of toledo. its population amounts to at least , souls. jaen is in every respect a most interesting city. it is frequently mentioned by the roman historians, was equally noted in the time of the moors, from whom it was wrested by san fernando, a.d. , and of late years has held a distinguished place in the pages of military history. its situation is picturesque in the extreme, the bright city being on the edge of a rich and fertile basin, encased by wild and lofty mountains. the asperity of the country to the south is such indeed, that, until within the last few years no road practicable for carriages penetrated it, and jaen has consequently been but very-little visited by travellers; for granada and cordoba, being the great objects of attraction, the most direct road between those two places was that which was generally preferred. a direct and excellent road has now, however, been completed, between granada and the capital, passing through jaen. this route crosses the guadalquivír at menjiber, and, directed thence on baylen, falls into the _arrecife_ from cordoba to madrid, ere it enters the défilés of the sierra morena. the castle of jaen stands feet above the city, and is still a fine specimen of a moslem fortress, though the picturesque has been sacrificed to the defensive by various french additions and demolitions. it crowns the crest of a narrow ridge much in the style of the castle of ximena, to which, in other respects, it also bears a strong resemblance. its tanks and subterraneous magazines are in tolerable preservation, but the exterior walls of the fortress were partially destroyed by the french, in their hurried evacuation of it in . the view it commands is strikingly fine. an extensive plain spreads northward, reaching seemingly to the very foot of the distant sierra morena, and on every other side rugged mountains rise in the immediate vicinity of the city, which, clad with vines wherever their roots can find holding ground, present a strange union of fruitfulness and aridity. the city contains fifteen convents, and numerous manufactories of silk, linen and woollen cloths, and mats, and has a thriving appearance. the streets are, for the most part, so narrow, that, with outstretched arms, i could touch the houses on both sides of them. the cathedral is a very handsome edifice of corinthian architecture, feet long, and built in a very pure style; indeed every thing about it is in good keeping for spanish taste. the pavement is laid in chequered slabs of black and white marble; the walls are hung with good paintings, but not encumbered with them; the various altars, though enriched with fine specimens of marbles and jaspers, are not gaudily ornamented; the organ is splendid in appearance and rich in tone. some paintings by moya, particularly a holy family, and the visit of elizabeth to the virgin mary, are remarkably good; and the _capilla sagrada_ contains several others by the same master, which are equally worthy of notice: their frames of polished red marble have a good effect. the only specimens of sculpture of which the cathedral can boast, are some weeping cherubim, done to the very life. the greatest curiosity it contains is the figure of our saviour on the cross, dressed in a kilt; but the treasure of treasures of the holy edifice, the proud boast of the favoured city itself, in fact, is the _santa faz_--the holy face. the _santa faz_--so our conductor explained to us--is the impression of our saviour's face, left in stains of blood on the white napkin which bound up his head when deposited in the sepulchre. this cloth was thrice folded over the face, so that three of these "_pinturas_," as the priest called them, were taken. that of jaen, he said, was the second or middle one, the others are in italy--where, i know not, but i have some recollection of having heard of them when in that country. this miraculous picture is only to be viewed on very particular occasions, or by paying a very considerable fee; but we were perfectly satisfied with our cicerone's assurance of its "striking resemblance" to our saviour, without requiring the ocular demonstration he was most solicitous to afford. attached to the cathedral is a kitchen for preparing the morning chocolate of the priests, and which serves also as a snuggery, where-unto they retire to smoke their _legitimos_ during the breaks in their tedious lental services. the _parador de los caballeros_, in the plaza _del mercado_ is remarkably good, and the view from the front windows, looking towards the castle is very fine. the distance from jaen to granada, by the newly made _arrecife_, is fifty-one miles. it descends gradually into the valley of the campillos, arriving at, and crossing the river about two miles from jaen. the valley is wide, flat, and covered with a rich alluvial deposit; and extends for several leagues in both directions along the course of the stream, encircling the city with an ever-verdant belt of cultivation. for the succeeding three leagues, the road proceeds along this valley, at first bordered with gardens, orchards, and vineyards, amongst which numerous cottages and water-mills are scattered, but, after advancing about five miles, overhung by rocky ridges, and occasionally shaded with forest-trees. on a steep mound, on the right hand, forming the first mountain gorge that the road enters, is situated the _castillo de la guarda_, and, at the distance of three leagues from jaen, is the _torre de la cabeza_, similarly situated on the left of the road. beyond this, another verdant belt of cultivation gladdens the eye, extending about a mile and a half along the course of the campillos. in the midst of this, is the _venta del puerto suelo_, on arriving at which our _mozo_, who for several days had been suffering from indisposition, came to inform us "_que no podía mas_,"[ ] requested we would leave him there to rest for a couple of days; when he hoped to be able to rejoin us at granada by means of a _galera_ that travelled the road periodically. we could not but accede to his request, and as we purposed reaching granada on the following day, the loss of his attendance for so short a period was of little importance; the only difficulty was, who should lead the baggage animal.--fortune befriended us. on our arrival at the inn we had been accosted by a smart-looking young fellow, in the undress uniform of a spanish infantry soldier, who, seeing the disabled state of our esquire, volunteered his services to lead our horses to the stable, and minister to their wants; and now, learning from our _mozo_ how matters stood, he again came forward, and offered to be our attendant during the remainder of the journey to granada, to which place he himself was proceeding. we gladly accepted his proffered services, and, after a short rest, remounted our horses, and pursued our way; the young soldier--like an old campaigner--seating himself between our portmanteaus on the back of the baggage animal. whilst jogging on before us, i observed, for the first time, that he carried a bright tin case suspended from his shoulder by a silken cord, and curious to know the purpose to which it was applied, asked what it contained. without uttering a word in reply, he took off the case, produced therefrom a roll of parchment, and, spreading before us a long document concluding with the words _io el rey_,[ ] offered it for my perusal. if my surprise was great at the length of the scroll, it was not diminished on finding, after wading through the usual verbose and bombastic preamble, that it dubbed our new acquaintance a knight of the first class of _san fernando_, and decorated him with the ribbon and silver clasp of the same distinguished order. on first addressing him at the venta, i had noticed a bit of ribbon on his breast, but, aware that the very smell of powder, even though it should be but that of his own musket, often _entitles_ a spanish soldier to a decoration; and, indeed, that it is more frequently an acknowledgment of so many months' pay due, than of so much good service done,[ ] i had abstained from questioning him concerning it; but that the first class decoration of a military order should have been bestowed on one so low in rank as a corporal, i confess, surprised me; and i concluded that its possessor was either the brother of the mistress of some great man, or that he was passing off some other person's _honors_ as his own. being a very young man, it was evident he could not have seen much service; my suspicions were, therefore, excusable, and i took the liberty of cross-questioning him concerning the fields wherein his laurels had been gathered. the result gave me such satisfaction that i feel in justice bound to make the _amende honorable_ to the gallant fellow for the foul suspicions i had entertained, by giving my readers his history. as, however, it is somewhat long, i will postpone it for the present--as, indeed, not having arrived at its conclusion for several days, it is but methodically correct i should do--merely premising in this place, that, besides the _diploma_, the tin case contained a statement of the particular services for which he obtained his knighthood, drawn up and attested by the officers of his regiment. about a mile beyond the venta where we had fallen in with our new attendant, the country again becomes very wild and broken, and the hills are covered with pine woods. the valley of the campillos gets more and more confined as the road proceeds, and is bounded by precipitous rocks; and, at length, on reaching the _puerta de arenas_, the passage, for the road and river together, does not exceed sixty feet, the cliffs rising perpendicularly on both sides to a considerable height. this is a very defensible pass, looking towards granada, but not so in the opposite direction, as it is commanded by higher ground. it is about eighteen miles from jaen. on emerging from the pass, an open, cultivated valley presents itself; towards the head of which, distant about four miles, is campillos arenas, a wretched village, containing some fifty or sixty _vecinos_. we were stopt at the entrance by an old beggarman, who was officiating as _health_ officer, and demanded our passports, which, on receiving, he ceremoniously forwarded to head quarters by a ragged, barefoot urchin, with the promise of an _ochavo_[ ] if he used despatch in bringing them back to us. our passports had now become a serious nuisance, from being completely covered with _visés_ both inside and out; for, of course, the curiosity of the natives was proportioned to the number of signatures they contained, and their astonishment was boundless that we should be travelling south at such a moment. at length, our papers were returned to us, and the boy gained his promised reward by running with all his might, to prove that the tedious delay we experienced was not attributable to him. proceeding onwards, in three quarters of an hour, we reached the _parador de san rafael_, a newly built house of call for the diligence, recently established on this road. it is about twenty-four miles from jaen, and twenty-seven from granada, though, as the crow flies, the distance is rather shorter, perhaps, to the latter city than to the first named. it is a place of much resort, and we were happy to find that san rafael presided over comfortable beds, and good dinners, though rather careless of the state of the wine-cellar. we started at an early hour next morning, our knightly attendant, with his red epaulettes, and janty foraging cap, together with a _de haut en bas_ manner assumed towards the passing peasantry and arrieros, causing us to be regarded with no inconsiderable degree of respect. the road, for the first eight miles, is one continuation of zig zags over a very mountainous country, and must be kept up at an immense expense to the government, for there is but very little traffic upon it. the hills are principally covered with forests of ilex, but patches of land have recently been taken into cultivation in the valleys, and houses are thinly scattered along the road. at ten miles and a half, we passed the first village we had seen since leaving campillos arenas. it is about a mile from the road on the left. the country now becomes less rugged than heretofore, though it continues equally devoid of cultivation and inhabitants. we were much disappointed at not finding a good _posada_ on the road, as we had been led to expect. we passed two in process of building on a magnificent scale, but nothing could be had at either. at last, after riding four long leagues--at a foot's pace, on account of our baggage animal--a farmer took compassion upon us, and, leading the way to his _cortijo_, supplied our famished horses with a feed of barley, and set before ourselves all the good things his house afforded--melons, grapes, fresh eggs, and delicious bread. we arrived at the farmer's dinner hour, and a wide circle, comprising his wife, children, cowherds, ploughboys, and dairymaids, was already formed round the huge family bowl of _gazpacho fresco_, of which we received a general invitation to partake. it was far too light a meal, however, to satisfy the cravings of our appetites, and politely declining to dip our spoons in their common mess, we commenced making the usual preparations for an english breakfast, by unpacking our travelling canteen and placing a skillet of water upon the fire. the curiosity of the peasantry on these occasions amused us exceedingly. in this instance the spectators, who probably had never before come in such close contact with englishmen, watched each of our movements with the greatest interest. the beating up an egg as a substitute for milk, excited universal astonishment; and the production of knives, forks, and spoons, took their breath away; but when our travelling teapot was placed on the table, their wonderment defies description; many started from their seats to obtain a near view of the extraordinary machine, and our host, after a minute examination, venturing, at last, to expose his ignorance by asking to what use it was applied, exclaimed in raptures, as if it was a thing he had heard of, "_y esa es una tepà!_"[ ] "_una tepà!_" was repeated in all the graduated intonations of the three generations of spectators present; "_una tepà! caramba! que gente tan fina los ingleses!_" we now carried on the joke by inflating an air cushion, but the use to which it was applied alone surprised them; for our host with a nod signifying "i understand," took down a huge pig-skin of wine, and made preparations to transfer a portion of its contents to our portable _caoutchouc_ pillow. on explaining the purpose to which it was applied, "_jesus! una almohada!_"[ ] exclaimed all the women with one accord--"_que gente tan deleytosa!_"[ ] our percussion pistols next excited their astonishment, and by ocular demonstration only could we convince them that they were fired without "una piedra;"[ ] but when i assured our host that, in england, _diligences_ were propelled by steam at the rate of ten leagues an hour, his amazement was evidently stretched beyond the bounds of credulity. "_como! sin caballos, sin mulas, sin nada, sino el vapor!_"[ ] he ejaculated; and his shoulders gradually rising above his ears, as i repeated the astounding assertion, he turned with a look, half horror, half amazement, to his assembled countrymen, saying as plainly as eyes could speak--either these english deal largely with the devil, or are most extraordinary romancers. if our equipment surprised them, we were not less astonished at the number of cats, without tails, that were prowling about the house; and asking the reason for mutilating the unfortunate creatures in this unnatural way, our host replied, "these animals, to be useful, must have free access to every part of the premises; but, when their tails are long, they do incredible mischief amongst the plates, dishes, and other friable articles, arranged upon the dresser, or left upon the table; whereas, docked as you now see them, they move about without ceremony, and, even in the midst of a labyrinth of crockery, do not the slightest damage. all the mischief of this animal is in his tail." we had great difficulty in persuading our hospitable entertainer to accept of any remuneration for what he had furnished us, and only succeeded by requesting he would distribute our gift amongst his children. from his farm, which is called the _cortijo de los arenales_, to granada, is nine miles. the country, during the whole distance, is undulated, and mostly covered with vines and olives. on the right, some leagues distant, we saw the town and _tajo_ of moclin; and at three miles from the _cortijo_ crossed the river cubillas, which, flowing westward to the plain of granada, empties itself into the genil. a little way beyond this the sierra de elvira rises abruptly on the right, and thenceforth the ground falls very gradually all the way to granada. our sojourn at granada was prolonged much beyond the period we had originally intended, by the difficulty of ascertaining the truth of a report that the cholera had appeared at malaga; but, at length, it was officially notified by a proclamation of the captain-general, that in answer to a despatch sent to the governor of malaga, he had been assured that city was perfectly free from the disease; and a caravan, composed of numberless _galeras_, _coches_, and _arrieros_, that had been detained at granada for a fortnight in consequence of this rumour, forthwith proceeded to the sea-port. sending our baggage animal forward, directing the mozo--whose indisposition had abated so as to allow of his rejoining us, and resuming his duty--to proceed along the high road to loja until we overtook him, we set off ourselves at mid-day to visit the _soto de roma_.[ ] the road thither strikes off from the _arrecife_ to loja, soon after passing the city of santa fé,[ ] and traversing chauchina, after much twisting and turning, reaches fuente vaquero, a village belonging to the duke of wellington, where his agent, general o'lawler, has a house. from thence a long avenue leads to the _casa real_, which is situated on the right bank of the genil. the avenue, both trees and road, is in a very bad state. on the left hand there is a wood of some extent; the forest-trees it contains are chiefly elms and white poplars, but there are also a few oaks. the ground is extremely rich, and was covered with fine crops of maize and hemp; and, on the whole, it struck me the estate was in better order than the properties adjoining it. the house, however, which at the period of my former visit to granada was in a tolerable state of repair, i now found in a wretched plight. the court-yard was made the general receptacle for manure; the coach-house and stables were turned into barns and cattle-sheds; the garden was overgrown with weeds; and, basking in the sun, lay young pigs amongst the roses. from having been the favourite retreat of the minister wall, it has degenerated, in fact, into a very second-rate description of farmhouse. this change, however, was inevitable; for, besides that the taste for country-houses is very rare amongst spaniards, and that the difficulty of procuring a tenant who would keep it in order would, consequently, be very great, the situation of the house is not such as a lover of fine scenery would choose in the vicinity of granada. the estate of the soto de roma has suffered great damage within the last few years, from the genil having burst its banks, laid waste the country, and formed itself a new bed; and the stream not being now properly banked in, keeps continually "_comiendo_"[ ] the ground on both sides. this evil should be corrected immediately, or, in the event of another extraordinary rise in the river, it may lead to incalculable mischief. the best and cheapest plan of doing this, would be to force the stream back into its old channel. the elm woods on the estate would furnish excellent piles for this purpose, and, by being cut down, would clear some valuable ground which at present lies almost profitless. after recrossing the genil we arrived at another village, inhabited by the peasantry of the soto de roma, and soon after at a wretched place called cijuela. the country in its vicinity was flooded for a considerable extent, and we had great difficulty in following the road, and avoiding the ditches that bound it. at length we got once more upon the _arrecife_, and reached lachar; a vile place, reckoned four leagues from granada. from thence to the venta de cacin is called two leagues, but they are of brobdignag measurement. the road is heavy, and the country becomes hilly soon after leaving lachar. a league beyond the venta de cacin is the venta del pulgar, situated in the midst of gardens and olive plantations. it was p.m. when we arrived, for, having missed our way in fording the wide bed of the river cacin (which crosses the road just beyond the venta of that name), we had wandered for two hours in the dark; and might have done so until morning, but that our progress was cut short by the river genil. we thought the wisest plan would be to return to the venta, and endeavour to procure a guide, which we fortunately succeeded in doing. the _ventero_ had previously informed us that he had seen our _mozo_ pass on with the baggage animal towards loja, which made us rather anxious for its safety, otherwise we should have rested at his house for the night. on arriving at the venta del pulgar, we found our attendant established there, and in some little alarm at our prolonged absence. indeed the faithful fellow was so uneasy, that he was about proceeding on a fresh horse in search of us. the night was excessively cold, and we duly appreciated the fire and hot supper his providence had caused to be prepared. this venta is but a short league from loja, the ride to which place is very delightful, the rich valley of the genil (here contracted to the width of a mile) being on the right, a fine range of mountains on the left, whilst the river frequently approaches close to the road, adding by its snakelike windings to the beauty of the scenery. the town of loja stands on the south side of a rocky gorge, by which the genil escapes from the fertile _vega_ of granada. the mountains on both sides the river are lofty, and of an inaccessible nature, so that the old moorish fortress, though occupying the widest part of the défilé, completely commands this important outlet from the territory of granada, as well as the bridge over the genil. it was a place of great strength in times past, and ferdinand and isabella were repulsed with great loss on their first attempt to gain possession of it. the second attack of the "catholic kings," made some years afterwards (i. e. in ), was more successful, and the english auxiliaries, under the earl of rivers, particularly distinguished themselves on the occasion. loja is proverbially noted for the fertility of its gardens and orchards, the abundance and purity of its springs, and the loose morals and hard features of its inhabitants. its situation is peculiarly picturesque, the town being built upon a steep acclivity, unbosomed in groves of fruit trees and overlooked by a toppling mountain. the view of the distant _sierra nevada_ gives additional interest to the scenery. it contains a population of souls. from loja to malaga is forty-three miles. the country throughout is extremely mountainous, but the road, nevertheless, is so good as to be traversed by a diligence. soon after leaving loja, a road strikes off to the right to antequera, four leagues; and this, in fact, is the great road from granada to seville, and the only portion of it that is interrupted by mountains. the _arrecife_ to malaga, leaving the village of alfarnate to the left, at sixteen miles, reaches the solitary venta of the same name; and two miles beyond, the equally lonely venta of dornejo, considered the half-way house from loja. the view from hence is remarkably fine, and we enjoyed the scenery to perfection, having remained the night at the venta, and witnessed the splendid effects of both the setting and rising sun. this is the highest point the road reaches, and is, i should think, about feet above the level of the mediterranean. from the venta de dornejo the road proceeds to el colmenar, eight miles. the mountains that encompass this little town are clad to their very summits with vines, and from the luscious grapes grown in its neighbourhood is made the sweet wine, well known in england under the name of mountain. from el colmenar the road is conducted nine miles along the spine of a narrow tortuous ridge, that divides the gualmedina, or river of malaga, from various streams flowing to the eastward, reaching, at last, a point where a splendid view is obtained of the rich vale of malaga, encircled by the boldly outlined mountains of mijas, monda, and casarabonela. the _coup d'oeil_ is truly magnificent; the bright city lies basking in the sun, on the margin of the mediterranean, seemingly at the spectator's feet; but eight miles of a continual descent have yet to be accomplished ere reaching it. the engineer's pertinacious adherence to his plan of keeping the road on one unvarying inclined plane, tries the patience to an extraordinary degree, but the work is admirably executed. in the whole of these last eight miles there is not one house on the road side, though several neat villas are scattered amongst the ravines below it, on drawing near malaga. this difficult passage through the serranía has been effected only at an enormous cost of money and labour; but, as a work of art, it ranks with any of the splendid roads lately made across the alps. the scenery along it, especially after gaining the southern side of the principal mountain-chain, when the mediterranean is brought to view, surpasses any thing that is to be met with in those more celebrated, because more frequented, cloud-capped regions. another very fine road has been opened through the mountains between malaga and antequera. the scenery along this is very grand, though inferior to that just described. the distance between the two places is about twenty-eight miles, reckoned eight leagues. the road is conducted along the valley of rio gordo, or campanillos; and, it is alleged, through some private influence was made unnecessarily circuitous, to visit the venta de galvez. this, and two other ventas, are almost the only habitations on the road. about four miles from antequera, the road reaches the summit of the great mountain-ridge that pens in the guadaljorce, which falls very rapidly on its northern side. antequera is situated near the foot of the mountain, but in a hollow formed by a swelling hill, which, detached from the chain of sierra, shelters it to the north. it is a large, well-built, and populous city, contains twenty religious houses, numerous manufactories of linen and woollen cloths, silks, serges, &c., and , souls. an old castle, situated on a conical knoll, overlooks the city to the east. it formerly contained a valuable collection of ancient armour, but the greater part has been removed. the city of _anticaria_ is mentioned in the itinerary of antoninus; but, as no notice is taken of it by pliny, it probably was known in his day by some other name. some antiquaries have imagined antequera to be singilia; but this is very improbable, as it is nearly four leagues distant from the singilis (genil). even the guadaljorce does not approach within a mile of the city, which depends upon its fountains for water; for though a fine rivulet flows down from the mountains at the back of the city, washing the eastern base of the castle hill, and sweeping round to the westward, where it unites with the guadaljorce, yet it merely serves to render the valley fruitful, and to turn the wheels of the mills which supply the city with flour and oil. at a league north-east from antequera a lofty conical mountain, distinguished by the romantic name of _el peñon de los enamorados_ (rock of the lovers), rises from the plain; and a league beyond it is the town of archidona, on the great road from granada to seville. chapter xiv. malaga--excursion to marbella and monda--churriana--benalmaina--fuengirola--discrepancy of opinion respecting the site of suel--scale to be adopted, in order to make the measurements given in the itinerary of antoninus agree with the actual distance from malaga to carteia--errors of carter--castle of fuengirola--road to marbella--towers and casa fuertes--disputed site of salduba--description of marbella--abandoned mines--distance to gibraltar. we found malaga a deserted city, for the dread of cholera had carried off half its inhabitants; not, however, to their last home, but to alhaurin, coin, churriara, and other towns in the vicinity, in the hope of postponing their visit to a final resting-place by a temporary change to a more salubrious atmosphere than that of the fetid seaport. our zealous and indefatigable consul, mr. mark, still, however, remained at his post, and his hospitality and kindness rendered our short stay as agreeable as, under existing circumstances, it well could be. understanding that a vessel was about to proceed to ceuta in the course of a few days, we resolved to take advantage of this favourable opportunity of visiting that fortress--the port jackson of spain; and having already seen every thing worthy of observation in malaga (of which due notice has been taken in a former chapter), we agreed to devote the intervening days to a short excursion to marbella, monda, and other interesting towns in the vicinity. leaving, therefore, the still hot, but no longer bustling city, late in the afternoon, we took the road to the ferry near the mouth of the guadaljorce, and leaving the road to _el retiro_ to the right on gaining the southern bank of the river, proceeded to churriana. we were disappointed both in the town and in the accommodation afforded at the inn, for the place being much resorted to by the merchants of malaga, we naturally looked forward to something above the common run of spanish towns and spanish posadas, whereas we found both the one and the other rather below par. the town is quite as dirty as malaga, but, perhaps, somewhat more wholesome; for the filth with which the streets are strewed _not_ being watered by a trickling stream, to keep it in a state of fermentation throughout the summer, is soon burnt up, and becomes innoxious. the town stands at a slight elevation above the vale of malaga, and commands a fine view to the eastward. we left the wretched venta betimes on the following morning, and proceeded towards marbella, leaving on our left the little village of torre molinos, situated on the mediterranean shore (distant one league from churriana), and reaching benalmaina in two hours and a half. the road keeps the whole way within half a mile of the sea, and about the same distance from a range of barren sierras on the right. no part of it is good but the ascent to benalmaina (or, as it is sometimes, and perhaps more correctly written, benalmedina), is execrable. this village is surrounded with vineyards, and groves of orange and fig trees; is watered by a fine clear stream, which serves to irrigate some patches of garden-ground, as well as to turn numerous mill-wheels; and, from the general sterility of the country around, has obtained a reputation for amenity of situation that it scarcely deserves. in something less than an hour, descending the whole time, we reached the mediterranean shore, and continuing along it for a mile, arrived at the torre blanca--a high white tower, situated on a rugged cliff that borders the coast, and in the vicinity of which are numerous ruins. some little distance beyond this the cliffs terminate, and a fine plain, covered with gardens and orchards, stretches inland for several miles. nature has been peculiarly bountiful to this sunny valley, for the river of mijas winds through, and fertilizes the whole of its eastern side; whilst the western portion is watered by the river gomenarro, or--word offensive to british ears--fuengirola. the plain is about two miles across, and near its western extremity; and a little removed from the seashore is the fishing village of fuengirola. it is a small and particularly dirty place, but contains a population of souls. the distance from malaga is reckoned by the natives five leagues, "three long and two short," according to their curious mode of computation; but, i think, in reducing them to english miles, the usual average of four per league may be taken. the last league of the road is very good. the town of mijas, rich in wine and oil, is perched high up on the side of a rugged mountain, about four miles north of fuengirola. a _trocha_ leads from thence, over the mountains, into the valley of the guadaljorce, debouching upon alhaurinejo; and to those in whose travelling scales the picturesque outweighs the breakneck, i would strongly recommend this route from malaga in preference to the tamer, somewhat better, and, perhaps, rather shorter road, that borders the coast. the old and, alas! too celebrated castle of fuengirola, or frangirola, occupies the point of a rocky tongue that juts some way into the sea, about half a mile beyond the fishing village of the same name. it is a work of the moors, built, as some say, on an ancient foundation, imagined to be that of suel; whilst others maintain, that the vestigia of antiquity built into its walls, were brought there from some place in the neighbourhood. that _suel_ did not stand here appears to me very evident; for though the actual distance from malaga to fuengirola exceeds but little that given in the itinerary of antoninus from malaca to suel, viz., twenty-one miles--calculating seventy-five roman miles to a degree of the meridian;--yet, as the itinerary makes the whole distance from malaca to calpe carteia eighty-nine miles,[ ] whereas, even following all the sinuosities of the coast, it can be eked out only to eighty (of the above standard), it seems clear that the length of the mile has been somewhat overrated. that i may not incur the reproach of "extreme confidence," in venturing to publish an opinion differing from that of various learned antiquaries who have written on the subject, i will endeavour to show that my doubt has, at all events, some reasonable foundation to rest upon. supposing that the distances given in the itinerary between malaca and calpe carteia were respectively correct, but that the error--which, in consequence, was evident--had been made by over-estimating the length of the roman mile in use at the period the itinerary was compiled, i found, by dividing the _actual_ distance into eighty-nine parts (following such an irregular line as a road, considering the ruggedness of the country, might be supposed to take), that it gave a scale of eighty-three and a third of such divisions to a degree of the meridian; a scale which, as i have observed in a former chapter, is mentioned by strabo, on the authority of eratosthenes, as one in use amongst the romans. now, by measuring off twenty-one such parts along the indented line of coast from malaga westward, to fix the situation of suel, i find that, according to this scale, it would be placed about a mile beyond the torre blanca; that is, at the commencement of the fertile valley, which has been mentioned as stretching some way inland, and at the bottom of the bay, of which the rocky ledge occupied by the castle of fuengirola forms the western boundary; certainly a much more suitable site, either for a commercial city, or for a fortress, than the low, rocky headland of fuengirola, which neither affords enough space for a town to stand upon, nor is sufficiently elevated above the adjacent country, to have the command that was usually sought for in building fortresses previous to the invention of artillery. proceeding onwards, and measuring twenty-four divisions (of this same scale) from the point where i suppose suel to have stood, along the yet rugged coast to the westward of fuengirola, the site of cilniana, the next station of the itinerary, is fixed a little beyond where the town of marbella now stands; another most probable spot for the phoenicians or romans to have selected for a station; as, in the first place, the proximity of the high, impracticable, sierra de juanel, would have enabled a fortress there situated to intercept most completely the communication along the coast; and, in the second, the vicinity of a fertile plain, and the valuable mines of istan (from whence a fine stream flows), would have rendered it a desirable site for a port. the next distance, thirty-four miles to barbariana, brings me to the _mouth_ of the guadiaro, (which _can be_ no other than the barbesula of the romans, if we suppose that the road continued, as heretofore, along the seashore); or, carries me across that river, and also the sogarganta, which falls into it, if, striking inland, _as soon as the nature of the country permitted_, we imagine the road to have been directed by the straightest line to its point of destination. now, in the first case, the discovery of numerous vestigia, and inscriptions at a spot two miles up from the mouth, on the eastern bank of the barbesula, (i. e. guadiaro) have clearly proved that to be the position of the city[ ] bearing the same name as the river. we must not, therefore, look in its neighbourhood for barbariana; especially as the vestiges of this ancient town are twelve _english_ miles from carteia, whereas the distance from barbariana to carteia is stated in the itinerary to be but ten _roman_ miles. in the second case, having crossed the sogarganta about a mile above its confluence with the guadiaro, we arrive, at the end of the prescribed thirty-four miles from cilniana, at the mouth of a steep ravine by which the existing road from gaucin and casares to san roque ascends the chain of hills forming the southern boundary of the valley, and this spot is not only well calculated for a military station, but exceeds by very little the distance of ten miles to carteia, specified in the itinerary. i suppose, therefore, that barbariana stood here, where it would have been on the most direct line that a road _could take_ between estepona and carteia, as well as on that which presented the fewest difficulties to be surmounted in the nature of the country. i will now follow the roman itinerary as laid down by mr. carter, in his "journey from gibraltar to malaga."[ ] the first station, suel, he fixes at the castle of fuengirola; the second, cilniana, at the ruins of what he calls old estepona. these he describes as lying _three leagues_ to the eastward of the modern town of that name, and upwards of a league to the westward of the torre de las bovedas, in the vicinity of which he assumes salduba stood; but this very site of salduba (i. e. the torre de las bovedas) is little more than _two leagues_ from modern estepona, being just half way between that place and marbella--the distance from the one town to the other scarcely exceeding four leagues, or sixteen english miles--so that, in point of fact, he fixes cilniana at _four miles_ to the eastward of estepona, instead of three leagues. passing over this error, however, and allowing that his site of cilniana was where _he wished it to be_, mr. carter, nevertheless, still found himself in a difficulty; for he had already far exceeded the greater portion of the _actual_ distance between malaga and carteia, although but half the number of miles specified in the itinerary were disposed of; so that twenty-five miles measured along the coast now brought him within the prescribed distance of barbariana from carteia (ten miles), instead of thirty-four, as stated in the itinerary! to extricate himself, therefore, from this dilemma, he carries the road, first to the town of barbesula, situated near the mouth of the river of the same name, and then _eight miles up the stream_ to barbariana. the objections to this most eccentric route are, however, manifold and obvious. in the first place, had the road visited barbesula, that town would assuredly have been noticed in the itinerary of antoninus, because it would have made so much more convenient a break in the distance between cilniana and carteia, than barbariana. in the next,--had the road been taken to the mouth of the guadiaro, it would _there_ have been as near carteia as from any other point along the course of that river, with nothing in the nature of the intervening country to prevent its being carried straight across it: every step, therefore, that the road was taken up the stream would have unnecessarily increased the distance to be travelled. thirdly,--had barbariana been situated _eight miles_[ ] up the river, the road from barbesula must not only have been carried that distance out of the way to visit it, but, for the greater part of the way, must actually have been led back again towards the point of the compass whence it had been brought; and the town of barbariana would thereby have been situated nearly eighteen miles from calpe carteia, instead of ten. mr. carter probably fell into this error, through ignorance of the direction whence the guadiaro flows, for though the last four miles of its course is easterly, yet its previous direction is due south, or straight upon gibraltar; and, consequently, taking the road up the stream beyond the distance of _four miles_, would have been leading it away from its destination. and if, on the other hand, we suppose that mr. carter's mistake be simply in the name of the river, and that, by two leagues up the guadiaro, he meant up its tributary, the sogarganta;[ ] still, so long as the road continued following the course of that stream, it would get no nearer to carteia, and was, therefore, but uselessly increasing the distance. it is quite unreasonable, however, to suppose that the romans, who were in the habit of making their roads as straight as possible, should have so unnecessarily departed from their rule in this instance, and not only have increased the distance by so doing, but also the difficulties to be encountered; for, in point of fact, a road would be more readily carried to the guadiaro by leaving the seashore on approaching manilba, and directing it straight upon carteia, than by continuing it along the rugged and indented coast that presents itself from thence to the mouth of the river. objections may be taken to the sites i have fixed upon for the different towns mentioned in the roman itinerary, from the absence of all vestiges at those particular spots; but when the ease with which all traces of ancient places are lost is considered, particularly those situated on the seashore, i think such objections must fall to the ground: and, indeed, carter himself, who found fault with florez for supposing the town of salduba[ ] _could_ have entirely disappeared, furnishes a glaring instance of the futility of such objections, when he states that not the least remains of barbesula were to be traced, whereas, _now_, they are quite visible. the castle of fuengirola--to which it is time to return from this long digression--has lately undergone a thorough repair; the whole of the western front, indeed, has been rebuilt, and the rest of the walls have been modernised, though they still continue to be badly flanked by small projecting square towers, and are exposed to their very foundations, so that the fortress _ought not_ to withstand even a couple of hours' battering. from hence to marbella is four leagues. during the first, the road is bad enough, and, for the remaining three, but indifferently good. the last eight miles of the stony track may, however, be avoided by riding along the sandy beach, which, when the sun is on the decline, the breeze light and westerly, and, above all, when the _tide is out_, is pleasant enough. i may as well observe here, that the mediterranean sea really does ebb and flow, notwithstanding anything others may have stated to the contrary. the whole line of coast bristles with towers, built originally to give intelligence by signal of the appearance of an enemy. they are of all shapes and ages; some circular, having a roman look; others angular, and either moorish, or built after saracenic models; many are of comparatively recent construction, though all seem equally to be going to decay. these towers can be entered only by means of ladders, and such as are in a habitable state are occupied by custom-house guards, or, more correctly, custom-house defrauders. here and there a _casa fuerta_ has been erected along the line, which, furnished with artillery and a small garrison of regular troops, serves as a _point d'appui_ to a certain portion of the _peculative_ cordon, enabling the soldiers to render assistance to the revenue officers in bringing the smugglers to _terms_. marbella has ever been a bone of contention amongst the antiquaries; some asserting that it does not occupy the site of any ancient city; others, that it is on the ruins of _salduba_. of this latter opinion is la martinière, who certainly has better reason for maintaining than carter for disputing it. for if that city "stood on a steep headland, between which and the hill" (behind) "not a beast could pass," it could not possibly have been on the site where our countryman places it, viz., at the ruins near the _torre de las bovedas_ (seven miles to the westward), where a wide plain stretches inland upwards of two miles. in fact, there are but two headlands between the river guadiaro and marbella, where a town could be built at all answering the foregoing description; namely, at the _torre de la chullera_ and the _torre del arroyo vaquero_, the former only three, the latter ten miles from the guadiaro: and a far more likely spot than either of these is the knoll occupied by the _torre del rio real_, about two miles to the _eastward_ of marbella.[ ] marbella stands slightly elevated above the sea, and its turreted walls and narrow streets declare it to be thoroughly moorish. its sea-wall is not actually washed by the waves of the mediterranean, so that the town may be avoided by such as do not wish to be delayed by or subjected to the nuisance of a passport scrutiny; and the spanish saying, "_marbella es bella, pero no entras en ella_,"[ ] significantly, though mysteriously, suggests the prudence of staying outside its walls; but this poetical scrap of advice was perhaps the only thing some luckless _contrabandista_ had left to bestow upon his countrymen, and we, being in search of a dinner and night's lodging, submitted patiently to the forms and ceremonies prescribed on such occasions at the gates of a fortress. to do the spaniards justice, they are not usually very long in their operations, the first offer being in most instances accepted without haggling; and accordingly, the _peseta_ pocketed, and every thing pronounced _corriente_, we proceeded without further obstruction to the _posada de la corona_, which, situated in a fine airy square, we were agreeably surprised to find a remarkably good inn. marbella, though invested with the pomp and circumstance of war, is but a contemptible fortress. an old moorish castle, standing in the very heart of the town, constitutes its chief strength; for, though its circumvallation is complete and tolerably erect, considering its great age, yet, from the inconsiderable height of the walls, and the inefficient flanking fire that protects them, they could offer but slight resistance to an enemy. a detached fort, that formerly covered the place from attack on the sea side, and flanked the eastern front of the enceinte of the town, has been razed to the ground, so that ships may now attack it almost with impunity. the town is particularly clean and well inhabited, the fishing portion of the population being located more conveniently for their occupation in a large suburb on its eastern side. the fortress encloses several large churches and religious houses, besides the citadel or moorish castle, so that within the walls the space left for streets is but small; the inhabitants of the town itself cannot therefore be estimated at more than five thousand, whilst those of the suburb may probably amount to fifteen hundred. the trade of marbella is but trifling; the fruit and vegetables grown in its neighbourhood are, it is true, particularly fine, but the proximity of the precipitous sierra de juanal limits cultivation to a very narrow circuit round the walls of the town; and, on the other hand, the valuable mines in the vicinity, which formerly secured marbella a prosperous trade, have for many years been totally abandoned: so that, in fact, there is little else than fish to export. there is no harbour, but vessels find excellent holding ground and in deep water, close to the shore; the landing also is good, being on a fine hard sand, and i found a small pier in progress of construction. it seems probable that in remote times numerous commercial towns were situated along the coast, between malaca and calpe, whence a thriving trade was carried on with the east, for the whole chain of mountains bordering the mediterranean abounds in metallic ores, especially along that part of the coast between marbella and estepona; and it is evident that mining operations on an extensive scale were formerly carried on here, since the tumuli formed by the earth excavated in searching for the precious metals are yet to be seen, as well as the bleached channels by which the water that penetrated into the mines was led down the sides of the mountains. the metals contained in this range of mountains are, principally, silver, copper, lead, and iron; of the two former i have seen some very fine specimens. the richness and comparative proximity of these mines led the phoenicians and romans, by whom there is no doubt they were worked, to neglect the copper mines of cornwall; for, whilst necessity obliged them to come to england for tin, it is observable that in many places, where, in working for that metal, they came also upon lodes of copper, they carried away the tin only; a circumstance that has rendered some of the recently worked cornish copper mines singularly profitable, and leads naturally to the supposition that the ancients procured copper at a less expense from some other country. in the same way that the old roman mines in england, from our knowledge of the vast power of steam, and of the means of applying that power to hydraulical purposes, have been reopened with great advantage, so also might those of spain be again worked with a certainty of success. capital and security--the two great wants of spain--are required however to enable adventurers to embark in the undertaking. marbella is four leagues from estepona, and ten from gibraltar; but though the first four may be reckoned at the usual rate of four miles each, yet the remaining six cannot be calculated under four and a half each, making the whole distance to gibraltar forty-three miles, and from malaga to gibraltar seventy-nine miles.[ ] chapter xv. a proverb not to be lost sight of whilst travelling in spain--road to monda--secluded valley of ojen--- monda--discrepancy of opinion respecting the site of the roman city of munda--ideas of mr. carter on the subject--reasons adduced for concluding that modern monda occupies the site of the ancient city--assumed positions of the contending armies of cneius pompey and cÆsar, in the vicinity of the town--road to malaga--towns of coin and alhaurin--bridge over the guadaljorce--return to gibraltar--notable instance of the absurdity of quarantine regulations. "_mas vale paxaro en mano, que buytre volando_"--_anglicè_, a bird in the hand is worth more than a vulture flying--is a proverb that cannot be too strongly impressed upon the minds of travellers in spain; and, acting up to the spirit of this wise saw, we did not leave our comfortable quarters at the _posada de la corona_ until after having made sure of a breakfast. for, deeming even a cup of milk at marbella worth more than a herd of goats up the sierra, there appeared yet more reason to think that no venta on the unfrequented mountain track by which we purposed returning to malaga could furnish anything half so estimable as the _café au lait_ promised overnight, and placed before us soon after daybreak. we commenced ascending the steep side of the _sierra de juanal_ immediately on leaving marbella, and, in something under an hour, reached a pass, on the summit of a ridge, whence a lovely view opens to the north. the little town of ojen lies far down below, embosomed in a thicket of walnut, chesnut, and orange trees; whilst all around rise lofty sierras, clothed, like the valley, with impervious woods, though with foliage of a darker hue, their forest covering consisting principally of cork and ilex. numerous torrents, (whose foaming streams can only occasionally be seen dashing from rock to rock amidst the dense foliage) furrow the sides of the impending ridges, directing their course towards the little village, threatening, seemingly, to overwhelm it by their united strength; but, wasting their force against the cragged knoll on which it stands, they collect in one body at its foot, and, as if exhausted by the struggle, flow thenceforth tranquilly towards the mediterranean, meandering through rich vineyards, and under verdant groves of arbutus, orange, and oleander. excepting by this outlet, along the precipitous edge of which our road was practised, there seemed to be no possibility of leaving the sylvan valley, so completely is it hemmed in by wood and mountain. the descent from the pass occupied nearly as much time as had been employed in clambering up to it from the sea-coast, but the road is better. the situation of the little town, on the summit of a scarped rock, clustered over with ivy and wild vines, and moistened by the spray of the torrents that rush down on either side, is most romantic; the place, however, is miserable in the extreme, containing some two hundred wretched hovels, mostly mud-built, and huddled together as if for mutual support. an ill-conditioned _pavé_ zigzags up to it, and proceeds onwards along the edge of a deep ravine towards monda. the woods, rocks, and water afford ever-varying and enchanting vistas, but, from the vile state of the road, it is somewhat dangerous to pay much attention to the beauties of nature. in something more than an hour from ojen, we reached a pass in the northern part of the mountain-belt that girts it in, whence we took a last lingering look at the lovely valley, compared to which the country now lying before us appeared tame and arid. the fall of the mountain on the western side is much more gradual than towards the mediterranean, and the road--which does not however improve in due proportion--descends by an easy slope towards the little river seco. the valley, at first, is wide, open, and uncultivated; but, at the end of about a mile, it contracts to an inconsiderable breadth, and the steep hills that border it give signs of the husbandman's toils, being every where planted with vines and olive trees. arriving now at the margin of the _seco_, the road crosses and recrosses the rivulet repeatedly, in consequence of the rugged nature of its banks, and, at length, quitting the pebbly bed of the stream, and crossing over a lofty mountain ridge that overlooks it to the east, the stony track brings us to monda, which is nestled in a deep ravine on the opposite side of the mountain, and commanded by an old castle situated on a rocky knoll to the north-west. the view from the summit of this mountain is very extensive, embracing the greater portion of the _hoya_ de malaga, the distant sea-bound city, and yet more remote sierras of antequera, alhama, and granada. the descent to monda is extremely bad, though by no means rapid. the distance of this place from marbella is stated in the spanish itineraries to be three leagues, but the incessant windings of the road make it fourteen miles, at least. the houses of monda are mostly poor, though some of the streets are wide and good. the population is estimated at , souls. it is to this day a mooted question amongst spanish antiquaries whether monda, or ronda _la vieja_, (as some of them call the ruins of acinippo), or any other of several supposed places, be the roman _munda_, where cneius scipio gave battle to the carthaginian generals, mago and asdrubal, b.c. , and near whose walls julius cæsar concluded his wonderful career of victory by the defeat of cneius pompey the younger, b.c. . from this discrepancy of opinion, and the inaccuracy of the spanish maps, i am induced to offer the following observations (the result of a careful examination of the country), touching the site of this once celebrated spot. and, first, with respect to ronda and ronda _la vieja_, i may repeat what i have already stated in a former chapter, that neither the situation of those places, nor the nature of the ground in their vicinity, agrees in any one respect with the description of munda and its battle-field, as given by hirtius;[ ] nor, from discoveries that have recently been made, does there appear to be any ground left for doubting that those places occupy the sites of arunda and acinippo. of the other positions which have been assigned to _munda_, that most insisted upon is a spot "three leagues to the _west_ of the present town of monda,"[ ] and here carter, adopting the opinion of don diego mendoza, confidently places it, stating that bones of men and horses had, in former days, been dug up there; that the peasants called the spot _monda la vieja_, and averred they sometimes saw squadrons of apparitions fighting in the air with cries and shouts! such a host of circumstantial and phantasmagorical evidence our countryman considered irresistible, and concluded, accordingly, that this spot could be no other than that whereon the two mighty roman armies contended for empire. he admits, however, that, even in the days of his precursor, don diego, "scarcely any ruins were to be found, the _whole_ having by degrees been transplanted to modern monda and other places." why they should have been carried three leagues across some of the loftiest mountains in the country, to be used merely as building stones, he does not attempt to explain, but, believing such to be the case, one wonders it never struck him as being somewhat extraordinary that these pugnacious ghosts should continue fighting for a town of which not a stone remains. but, leaving mr. carter for the present, i will retrace my steps to modern monda, where it must be acknowledged some little difficulty is experienced in fitting the roman city to the spot allotted to it on the maps, as well as in placing the contending armies upon the ground in its neighbourhood, so as to agree with the order in which they were arrayed on the authority of hirtius. still, with certain admissions, which admissions i do not consider it by any means unreasonable to beg, all apparent discrepancies may be reconciled and difficulties overcome; and, on the other hand, unless these points be granted, ronda, gaucin, or gibraltar agree just as well with the munda of the roman historian as the little town of monda i am about to describe. it will be necessary, however, for the perfect understanding of the subject,--and, i trust, my endeavour to establish the site of cæsar's last battle-field will be considered one of sufficient interest to warrant a little prolixity,--to take a glance at the country in the vicinity of monda, ere proceeding to describe the actual ground whereon, according to my idea, the contending armies were drawn up; as it is only from a knowledge of the country, and of the communications that intersected it, that the reasons can be gathered for such a spot having been selected for a field of battle. the old castle of monda, under the walls of which we must suppose--for this is one of the premised admissions--the town to have been clustered, instead of being, as at present, sunk in a ravine, stands on the eastern side of a rocky ridge, projected in a northerly direction from the lofty and wide-spreading mountain-range, that borders the mediterranean between malaga and estepona. this range is itself a ramification of the great mountain-chain that encircles the basin of ronda, from which it branches off in a southerly direction, and under the names of sierras of tolox, blanca, arboto, and juanal, presents an almost impassable barrier between the valley of the rio verde (which falls into the mediterranean, three miles west of marbella), and the fertile plains bordering the guadaljorce. this steep and difficult ridge terminates precipitously about marbella; but another branch of the range, sweeping round the little town of ojen, turns back for some miles to the north, rises in two lofty peaks above monda, and then, taking an easterly direction, juts into the mediterranean at torre molinos. the towns of coin and alhaurin are situated, like monda, on rocky projections from the north side of this range, overhanging the vale of malaga; and the solitary town of mijas stands upon its southern acclivity, looking towards the sea. the rugged ramification on which monda is situated stretches north about two miles from the double-peaked sierra above mentioned; and though completely overlooked by that mountain, yet, in every other direction, it commands all the ground in its immediate neighbourhood, and, without being very elevated, is every where steep, and difficult of access. the summit of the ridge is indented by various rounded eminences, and, consequently, is of very unequal breadth, as well as height. the castle of monda stands on one of these knolls, but quite on the eastern side of the hill, the breadth of which, in this place, scarcely exceeds yards. at its furthest extremity, however, the ridge, which extends northward, _nearly a mile_, beyond the town, sends out a spur to the east, following the course of, and falling abruptly to the rio seco; and the breadth of the hill may here be said to be increased to nearly two miles. between the river seco and the rio grande (a more considerable stream, which runs nearly parallel to, and about seven miles from the seco), the country, though rudely moulded, is by no means lofty; but round the sources of the latter river, and along its left bank, rise the huge sierras of junquera, alozaina, and casarabonela, closing the view from monda to the north. from the description here given it will be apparent, that the communications across so mountainous a country must not only be few, but very bad. such, indeed, is the asperity of the sierras west of monda, that no road whatever leads through them; and, to the south, but one tolerable road presents itself to cross the lateral ridge, bordering the mediterranean, between marbella and torre molinos, viz., that by which we had traversed it. even on the other half circle round monda, where the country is of a more practicable nature, only two roads afford the means of access to that town, viz., one from guaro, where the different routes from ronda (by junquera), el burgo, alozaina, and casarabonela, unite; the other from coin, upon which place, from an equal necessity, those from alora, antequera, and malaga, are first directed. monda thus becomes the point of concentration of all the roads proceeding from the inland towns to marbella; the pass of ojen, in its rear, offering the only passage through the mountains to reach that city. the road from this pass, as has already been described, approaches monda by the valley watered by the river seco; which stream, directed in the early part of its course by the sierra de monda on its right, flows nearly due north for about a mile and a half beyond where the road to monda leaves its bank, receiving in its progress several tributary streams that rise in the mountains on its left. on gaining the northern extremity of the ridge of monda, the rivulet winds round to the eastward, still washing the base of that mountain, but leaving the hilly country on its left bank, along which a plain thenceforth stretches for several miles. the stream again, however, becomes entangled in some broken and intricate country, ere reaching the wide plain of the guadaljorce, into which river it finally empties itself. the situation of monda, with reference to the surrounding country, having now been fully described, it is necessary, ere proceeding to shew that the ground in its neighbourhood answers perfectly the account given of it by hirtius, to offer some remarks on the causes that may be supposed to have led to a collision between the hostile roman armies on such a spot, since the present unimportant position of monda seems to render such an event very improbable. cæsar, it would appear, after the fall of ategua, proceeded to lay siege to ventisponte and carruca--two places, whose positions have baffled the researches of the most learned antiquaries to determine--his object, evidently, having been to induce pompey to come to their relief. his adversary, however, was neither to be forced nor tempted to depart from his politic plan of "drawing the war out into length;" but, retiring into the mountains, compelled cæsar, whose interest it was, on the other hand, to bring the contest to as speedy an issue as possible, to follow him into a more defensible country. with this view, leaving the wide plain watered by the genil and guadaljorce on the northern side of the mountains, pompey, we may imagine, retired towards the mediterranean, and stationed himself at monda; a post that not only afforded him a formidable defensive position, but that gave him the means of resuming hostilities at pleasure, since it commanded the roads from cartama to hispalis (seville), by way of ronda, and from malaca, along the mediterranean shore, to carteía,[ ] where his fleet lay; and, should his adversary not follow him, the situation thus fixed upon was admirably adapted for carrying the war into the country in arms against him, the two opulent cities of cartama and malaca (which there is every reason to conclude were attached to the cause of cæsar), being within a day's march of monda. here, therefore, pompey occupied a strategical point of great importance; and cæsar, fully aware of the advantage its possession gave his opponent, determined to attack him at all risks. the hostile armies were separated from each other by a plain five miles in extent.[ ] that of cæsar was drawn up in this plain, his cavalry posted on the left; whilst the army of pompey, whose cavalry was stationed on _both_ wings, occupied a strong position on a range of mountains, protected on one side by the town of munda, "_situated on an eminence_;" on the other, by the nature of the ground, "_for across this valley_" (i.e. that divided the two armies), "_ran a rivulet, which rendered the approach to the mountain extremely difficult, because it formed a morass on the right_." now although the town of munda is here described as protecting pompey's army on one side, yet from what follows it must be inferred that it was some distance in the rear of his position, since, not only is it stated that "_pompey's army was at length obliged to give ground and retire towards the town_," but it may be taken for granted that, had either flank rested upon the town, the cavalry would _not_ have been posted on "_both wings_." moreover, it is stated that "_cæsar made no doubt but that the enemy would descend to the plain and come to battle_," the superiority of cavalry being greatly on pompey's side--"_but_," hirtius proceeds to say, "_they durst not advance a mile from the town_," and, in spite of the advantageous opportunity offered them, "_still kept their post on the mountain in the neighbourhood of the town_." it may therefore be fairly concluded, that pompey's position was on the edge of a range of hills, some little distance in advance of the town of munda, having a stream running in a deep valley along its front, and a morass on one flank. now the question is, can the ground about monda be made to agree with these various premises? certainly not, if, as is generally assumed, the battle was fought on the eastern side of the town; for pompey's position must, in that case, have extended along the ridge, so as to have the peaked sierra, above monda, on its right, and the river seco on its left, whilst monda itself would have been an advanced post of the line; and so far from there being a plain "_five miles_" in extent in front, the country to the east of monda--though for some way but slightly marked--is, at the distance of _two_ miles, so abruptly broken as to render the drawing up of a roman army impossible. in addition to these objections it will be obvious that the half of pompey's cavalry on the right, would have been posted on a high mountain, where it could not possibly act, whilst the whole of cæsar's (on his left), would have been paralyzed by having to manoeuvre on the acclivity of a steep mountain and against a fortified town, instead of being kept in the valley of the river seco, ready to fall upon the weak part of the enemy's line as soon as it should be broken. what, however, seems to me to be fatal to the supposition that this was the side of the town on which the battle was fought is, that cæsar's army would have occupied the road by which alone the small portion of pompey's army, that escaped, could have retired upon cordoba. against the supposition that the battle took place on the _western_ side of the ridge on which monda is situated, the objections, though not so numerous, are equally insurmountable; since there is nothing like a plain whereon cæsar's army could have been drawn up; the valley of the river seco being so circumscribed that, for pompey's army to have "_advanced a mile from monda_," it must not only have crossed the stream, but mounted the rough hills that there border its left bank; whereas cæsar's army is stated to have been posted in a plain that extended five miles from monda. the half of pompey's cavalry on the _left_ would, in this case also, have been uselessly posted on an eminence. in other respects the supposition is admissible enough, since monda would have been in the rear of the left of pompey's position, but still a support to the line, and the whole front would have been "_difficult of approach_," and along the course of a rivulet. we will now examine the ground to the north of the town, to which it strikes me no insuperable objections can be raised. we may suppose that pompey took post with his army fronting toloz and guaro, the only direction in which his enemy could be looked for, and where the ground is so little broken, as certainly to allow of its being called _a plain_, as compared with the rugged country that encompasses it on all sides; and his position would naturally have been taken up along the edge of the last ramification of the ridge of monda, which extends about two miles from west to east along the right bank of the river seco. the town would then have been half a mile or so _in rear_ of the left centre of pompey's position; _a rivulet_, "_rendering the approach of the mountain difficult_," would have run along its front. his cavalry would naturally have been disposed on _both flanks_, where, the hills terminating, it would be most at hand either to act offensively, or for the security of the position; and the cavalry of cæsar, on the contrary, would _all_ have been posted on _his_ left, where the access to pompey's position was easiest, and where, in case of his enemy's defeat, its presence would have produced the most important results. we may readily conceive, also, that in times past _a morass_ bordered the seco where it first enters the plain, since several mountain streams there join it, whose previously rapid currents must have experienced a check on reaching this more level country. the industrious moslems, probably, by bringing this fertile plain into cultivation, drained the morass so that no traces of it are now perceptible, but twenty years hence there may possibly be another. every condition required, therefore, to make the ground agree with the description given of it by hirtius, is here fulfilled; and, occupying such a position, the army of pompey seemed likely to obtain the ends which we cannot but suppose its general had in view. the objections of mr. carter to modern monda being the site of the roman city are, first, the want of space in its vicinity for two such vast hosts to be drawn up in battle array; and, secondly, the little distance of the existing town from the river sigila and city of cártama, which, according to an ancient inscription, referring to the repairs of a road from munda to cártama, he states was twenty miles. in consequence of these imaginary discrepancies, he suffered himself to be persuaded that the spot where the apparitions are fighting "three leagues to the westward of the modern town," is the site of the roman _munda_. in which case it must have been situated in a _narrow valley_, bounded on all sides by lofty mountains, and _twenty-eight_ roman miles, at least, from the city of cártama! with respect to his first objections, however, it may be observed, that the _want of space_ can only apply to the army posted on the mountain, for, on the level country between its base and the village of guaro, an army of any amount might be drawn up. and as regards the mountain, as i have already stated, its north front offers a strong position, nearly two miles in extent, and one in depth. now, considering the compact order in which roman armies were formed; the number of lines in which they were in the habit of being drawn up; and making due allowance for exaggeration[ ] in the number of the contending hosts; such a space, i should say, was more than sufficient for pompey's army. in reply to the second objection urged by mr. carter, i may, in the first place, observe, that the inscription whereon it is grounded-- * * * * * a mvnda et flvvio sigila ad certimam vsqve xx m.p.p.s. restitvit.[ ]-- seems to have no reference to the actual distance between munda and cártama, since, by attaching any such meaning to it--coupled as munda is with the river sigila--the inscription, to one acquainted with the country, becomes quite unintelligible. thus, if translated: "from munda and the river sigila, he (i. e. the emperor hadrian) restored the twenty miles of road to cártama," any one would naturally conclude that munda was upon the sigila, and cártama at a distance of twenty miles from it; whereas, whatever may have been the situation of munda, cártama certainly stood upon the very bank of the river. it must, therefore, either have been intended to imply that the emperor restored twenty miles of a road which from munda and the sources,[ ] or upper part of the course of the sigila, led to cártama, and various traces of such a roman road exist to this day on the road to ronda by junquera; or, that the road from munda was conducted along part of the course of the sigila ere it reached cártama: and such, from the nature of the ground, undoubtedly was the case, since cártama stood at the eastern foot of a steep mountain, the northern extremity of which must (in military parlance) have been turned, to reach it from monda, and the road, in making this détour, would first reach the river guadaljorce, or sigila. in this case it must be admitted that the _twenty miles_ refer to the actual distance between the two towns, and this tends only more firmly to establish modern monda on the site of the roman town, since the distance from thence to cártama, measured with _a pair of compasses_ on a _correct_ map,[ ] is fourteen english miles, which are equal to fifteen roman of seventy-five to a degree, or seventeen of eighty-three and one third to a degree; and considering the hilly nature of the country which the road must unavoidably have traversed, the distance would have been fully increased to twenty miles, either by the ascents and descents if carried in a straight line from place to place, or by describing a very circuitous course if taken along the valley of the rio seco. carter further remarked upon the foregoing inscription that "it seems to place" munda to the _west_ of the river sigila, which ran _between_ that town and cártama; but this, he said, does not agree with the situation of modern monda, which is on the same side the river as cártama. i suppose for _west_ he meant to say _east_, but, in either case, his assumed site for munda, "three leagues to the west of the present town," is open to this very same objection, and to the yet graver one, of being--even allowing that he meant english leagues--_twenty-three english miles_ in a _direct_ line from the town of cártama, and in a contracted and secluded valley, to the possession of which, no military importance could possibly have been attached. on the whole, therefore, i see no reason to doubt what, for so many years was looked upon as certain, viz., that the modern town of monda is on the site of the ancient city. i must nevertheless own that in following strictly the text of hirtius, an objection presents itself to this spot with reference to the relative position of ursao; that is, if osuna be ursao; since, in allusion to pompey's resolve to receive battle at munda, he says that ursao "served as a sure resource _behind_ him."[ ] this objection holds equally good with the position carter assigns to munda; but that there is some error respecting ursao is evident, for, if osuna be ursao, then hirtius described it most incorrectly by saying it was exceedingly strong by nature, and eight miles distant from any rivulet.[ ] and, on the other hand, it is clear that ursao did _not_ serve as a _sure_ resource to pompey, since no part of his defeated army found refuge there. we must read this passage, therefore, as implying rather that pompey _calculated_ on orsao as a place of refuge, but that, by the able manoeuvres of his adversary, he was cut off from it. now a town placed high up in the mountains like alozaina, or junquera, and like them distant from any stream but that which rises within their walls, answers the description of orsao, much better than osuna;[ ] and, supposing one of these, or any other town in the vicinity, similarly situated, to have been orsao, pompey might have flattered himself that he could fall back upon it in the event of being defeated at monda. cæsar, however, by moving along the valley of the seco, and, taking post in the plain to the north of pompey's position, effectually deprived him of this resource. the modern town of monda contains numerous fragments of monuments, inscriptions, &c., which, though none of them actually prove it to be on the site of the ancient place of the same name, satisfactorily shew that it stands near some old roman town, and that, therefore, to call it _new_ monda, in contradistinction to _monda la vieja_, is absurd. the road to coin traverses a succession of tongues, which, protruding from the side of the steep sierra de monda on the right, fall gradually towards the rio seco, which flows about a mile off on the left. for the first three miles the undulations are very gentle, and the face of the country is covered with corn, but, on arriving at the peyrela, a rapid stream that rushes down from the mountains in a deep rocky gully, the ground becomes much more broken, and the hills on both sides are thickly wooded. the road, nevertheless, continues very good, and in about two miles more reaches coin. the approach to this town is very beautiful. it is situated some way up the northern acclivity of a high wooded hill, and commands a splendid view of the valley of the guadaljorce. coin is supposed to be of moorish origin, and, from the amenity of its situation, abundance of crystal springs and fruitfulness of its orchards, was, no doubt, a favourite place of retreat with the turbaned conquerors of spain. nor are its merits altogether lost upon the present less contemplative race of inhabitants, for they flee to its pure atmosphere whenever any endemic disease frightens them from the close and crowded streets of filthy malaga. during the last few years that the divided moslems yet endeavoured to struggle against the fate that too clearly awaited them, the fields of coin were doomed to repeated devastations, though the city itself still set the christian hosts at defiance; but at length the artillery of ferdinand and isabella reduced it to submission, a.d. . the population of coin is estimated by the spanish authorities at souls, but i should say it is considerably less. the houses are good, streets well paved, and the place altogether is clean and wholesome. the posada, except in outward appearance, is not in keeping with the town. it is a large white-washed building, with great pretensions and small comfort. we left it at daybreak without the least regret, carrying our breakfast with us to enjoy _al fresco_. at the foot of the hill two roads to malaga offer themselves, one by way of cártama (distant ten miles), which turns the sierra gibalgalía to the north, the other by alhaurin, which crosses the neck of land connecting that mountain with the more lofty sierras to the south. the distance is pretty nearly the same by both, and is reckoned five leagues, but the _leguas_ are any thing but _regulares_, and may be taken at an average of four miles and a half each. the first named is a carriage road, and the country flat nearly all the way; we therefore chose the latter, as likely to be more picturesque. in about an hour from coin, we reached a clear stream, which, confined in a deep gulley, singularly scooped out of the solid rock, winds round at the back of alhaurin, and tumbles over a precipice on the side of the impending mountain. the crystal clearness of the water and beauty of the spot, tempted us to halt and spread the contents of our alforjas on the green bank of the rivulet, though the white houses of alhaurin, situated immediately above, peeped out from amidst trelissed vines and perfumed orange groves, seeming to beckon us on. but appearances are proverbially deceitful all over the world, and more especially in spanish towns, as we had recently experienced at coin. our repast finished, we remounted our horses, and ascended the steep acclivity, on the lap of which the town stands. the environs are beautifully wooded, and the place contains many tasteful houses and gardens, wide, clean, and well-paved streets, abundance of refreshing fountains, and groves of orange and other fruit trees, and, in fact, is a most delightful place of abode. the view from it is yet finer than from coin, embracing, besides the fine chain of wooded sierras above alozaina and casarabonela, the lower portion of the vale of malaga, and the splendid mountains that stretch into the mediterranean beyond that city. nevertheless, in spite of these advantages, the scared _malagueños_ consider coin a more secure retreat from the dreaded yellow fever than alhaurin, perhaps because from the former even the view of their abandoned city is intercepted. alhaurin contains, probably, inhabitants. the road from thence to malaga is _carriageable_ throughout. it winds along the side of the mountain, continuing nearly on a dead level from the town to the summit of the pass that connects the sierra gibalgalía with the mountains of mijas; thence it descends gradually, by a long and rather confined ravine, into the vale of malaga. arrived in the plain, it leaves the little village of alhaurinejo about half a mile off on the right, and at thirteen miles from alhaurin reaches a bridge over the guadaljorce. this bridge, commenced on a magnificent scale by one of the bishops of malaga, was to have been built entirely of stone; but, before the work was half completed, either the worthy dignitary of the church came to the last of his days, or to the bottom of his purse, and it is left to be completed, "_con el tiempo_"--a very celebrated spanish bridge-maker. forty-four solid stone piers remain, however, to bear witness to the good and liberal intentions of the bishop; and the weight of a rotten wooden platform, which has since been laid down, to afford a passage across the stream when swollen by the winter torrents, for at most other times it is fordable. a road to the retiro and churriana continues down the right bank of the river; but that to malaga crosses the bridge, and on gaining the left bank of the river is joined by the roads from casarabonda and cártama. from hence to malaga is about five miles. on arriving at malaga we found the dread of cholera had attained such a height during our short absence, that the _xebeque_, for ceuta, had sailed, whilst clean bills of health were yet issued. we also thought it advisable to save our passports from being tainted, and, without further loss of time, departed for gibraltar by land. our haste, however, booted us but little; for, amongst the absurdities of quarantine be it recorded, on reaching the british fortress, on the morning of the third day from malaga, admittance was refused, until we had undergone a three days' purification at san roque. thither we repaired, therefore; and there we remained during the prescribed period, shaking hands daily with our friends from the garrison, until the dreaded _virus_ was supposed to have parted with all its infectious properties. our _decorated_ attendant had left us on reaching malaga, promising to take the earliest opportunity of acquainting us with the result of an ordeal, to which the little blind god, in one of his most capricious moods, had been pleased to subject two of his votaries. the circumstances attending this trial of _true love_, will be found related in the following chapter, which contains also a sketch of the previous history of the hero of the tale, the knight of san fernando. chapter xvi. the knight of san fernando. _don fernando septimo, por la gracia de dios, rey de castilla, de leon, de aragon, de las dos sicilias, de jerusalem, de navarra, de granada, de toledo, de valencia, de galicia, de mallorca, de sevilla, de cerdeña, de cordoba, de corcega, de murcia, de jaen, de los algarbes, de algeciras, de gibraltar, de las islas de canaria, de las indias orientales y occidentales, islas y tierra ferme del mar oceano; archiduque de austria; duque de borgoña, de brabante y de milan; conde de absparg, flandes, tirol y barcelona; señor de viscaya y de molina,[ ] &c._ such was the heading of the document which conferred the honour of knighthood (silver cross of the first class of the royal and military order of st. ferdinand), upon _don_ antonio condé, a soldier of the light company (cazadores) of the queen's, or second regiment of the line, in acknowledgment of his distinguished services against the _revolutionarios_ of the _isla de leon_, who surrendered at bejer on the th march, . the bearer of this _certificate_ of gallant conduct--for the gratification that its possession afforded his vanity was the only sense in which it could be considered a _reward_--was in person rather below the usual stature of the andalusian peasantry; but his square shoulders, open chest, and muscular limbs, bespoke him to be possessed of more than their wonted strength and activity. in other respects too he differed somewhat from his countrymen, his hair being light, even lighter than what they call _castaños_, or chestnut, his chin beardless, and his eyes hazel. his manners were those of a frank young soldier, rather, perhaps, of the french school, with a dash of the _beau garçon_ about him, but, on the whole, very prepossessing. in his carriage to us, though rather inquisitive, he was at all times respectful; but towards his fellow countrymen, not of _the cloth_, a certain hauteur was observable in his deportment, which clearly showed that he prided himself on the "_don_." the document, encased with the brevet of knighthood, of which mention has before been made, briefly, but in very honourable terms, described the gallant conduct of the young soldier, and forms the groundwork of the following _memoir_; a circumstance i feel called upon to mention, lest my hero should be wrongfully accused of vain-gloriously boasting of his achievements; and this also will explain why his story is not, throughout, told in the first person. the secluded little village of guarda, which has been noticed in the course of my peregrinations, as lying to the right of the high road from jaen to granada (about five miles from the former city), was the birth-place of antonio condé. his parents, though in a humble station of life, were of _sangre limpio_;[ ] and never having heard of malthus, had married early, and most unphilosophically added a family of seven human beings to the already overstocked population of this wisdom-getting world. five of these unfortunate mortals were daughters, and our hero was the younger of the two masculine lumps of animated clay. his brother, who was many years his senior, had joined the army at an early age, and at the conclusion of the war had proceeded with his regiment to the habana, where he still remained; their parents, therefore, now declining in years, were anxious to keep their remaining son at home, to assist in supporting the family. such, however, was not to be the case, for, on the _quintos_ being called out in , it fell to antonio's lot to be one of the quota furnished by the district that included his native village. to purchase a substitute was out of the question--the price was quite beyond his parents' means; and though his brother had, at various times, transmitted money home, which, with praiseworthy foresight, had been hoarded up to make some little provision for his sisters, but was now urgently offered to buy him off, yet antonio would not listen to its being so applied. to confess the truth, indeed, he secretly rejoiced at his lot, having always wished to be a soldier, though he could never bring himself voluntarily to quit his aged parents. now, he maintained, there was no alternative; and accordingly, with the brilliant prospect of making a fortune, which the military life opened to him, he marched from his native village, and joined the queen's regiment, then quartered at seville, to the cazador company of which he was shortly afterwards posted. antonio's zeal, and assiduous attention to his duties, as well as his general good conduct and intelligence, made him a great favourite with his officers; whilst his youth, good humour, and gay disposition, endeared him equally to his comrades, in whose amusements he generally took the lead. in fact, he soon became the pattern man of the pattern company, and attained the rank of corporal. early in the month of march, , the queen's regiment received orders to proceed by forced marches to cadiz, where the _soi-disant_ "liberals," having again raised the standard of revolt, commenced the work of regeneration by murdering the governor of the city in the streets at noon day. the cold-blooded, calculating miscreants, who committed this act, excused themselves for the premeditated murder of a man _universally_ beloved and respected, by saying it was necessary for the success of their plans to commence with a blow that should strike terror into the hearts of their opponents. they killed, therefore, the most virtuous man they could select, to show that no one would be spared who thenceforth ventured to entertain a doubt, that the constitution they upheld was the _beau idéal_ of liberal government; and, i regret to say, englishmen were found who applauded this atrocious doctrine, and considered the subsequent punishment inflicted on torrijos, and the other abettors and instigators of this barbarity, as an act of unprecedented cruelty on the part of the "tyrant ferdinand" and his "_servile_" ministers. antonio's regiment proceeded to the scene of revolt by way of utrera and xeres, and on reaching puerto santa maria received orders to continue its march round the head of the bay of cadiz, and occupy, without delay, the puente zuazo, with the view of confining the rebels to the isla de leon, their attempt to gain possession of cadiz having failed, through the loyalty and firmness of the troops composing its garrison. the rebels, however, effected their escape, ere the queen's regiment reached its destined position, and had marched to chiclana, in the hope of being there joined by another band of "_facciosos_," under an ex-officer, named torrijos; which, long collected in the bay, and protected by the guns of gibraltar, was to have effected a landing on the coast to the westward of tarifa, and marched thence to support the ruffians of the isla. the royal troops were instantly sent in pursuit of the rebels, who, abandoning chiclana, fell back successively upon conil and vejer. the strength of the position of this latter town induced them to make a stand, and await the momentarily expected reinforcement under torrijos; and the king's troops having assembled in considerable force at the foot of the mountain, determined on attempting to dislodge them from the formidable post, ere they received this accession of strength; a sharp conflict was the consequence, which terminated in the royalists being repulsed with severe loss. antonio, who was well acquainted with the ground, now respectfully hinted to the captain of his company, that the retreat of the rebels might be effectually cut off by taking possession of the bridge over the barbate, which--all the boats on the river having been destroyed--alone offered the rebels the means of reaching tarifa, or torrijos that of coming to the assistance of the blockaded town. the captain communicated our hero's plans to the commander of the expedition, who immediately adopted it, wisely abstaining from wasting further blood to obtain a result by force, which starvation, sooner or later, would be sure to bring about. in pursuance, therefore, of antonio's project, the queen's regiment received orders to take possession of the bridge, and the _cazador_ company was pushed on with all speed, to facilitate the execution of this rather difficult operation. the bridge, as i have described in a former chapter, is situated immediately under the lofty precipitous cliff whereon the town of vejer is perched, and the road to it is conducted, for nearly half a mile, along a narrow strip of level ground, between the bank of the barbate and the foot of the precipice. in their advance, therefore, the _cazadores_ were exposed to a most destructive shower of bullets, stones, &c. from above, and, of the whole company, only corporal condé, and seven of his comrades, made good their way, and threw themselves into the venta; which stands on the right bank of the stream, close to the bridge. they instantly opened a fire from the windows of the inn upon the rebels in the town overhead, who, at first, returned it with interest; but after some time antonio was beginning to flatter himself, from the slackening of their fusillade, that he was making their post too hot for them, when, looking round, he perceived the whole force of the _facciosos_ descending from the town in one long column, by the road which winds down to the bridge, round the eastern face of the mountain, their intention evidently being to force a passage _à todo precio_.[ ] antonio's comrades were daunted; they had no officer with them; there was no appearance of support being at hand; and the odds against them were fearful. prudence suggested, therefore, that they should shut themselves up in the venta, and let the enemy pass. our hero, however, saw how much depended on the decision of that moment. if the rebels succeeded in crossing the bridge, nothing could prevent their forming a junction with the band of torrijos, and in that case the country might, for many months, be subjected to their outrages and rapine, and gibraltar would afford them a sure retreat; he determined, therefore, to make an effort to intimidate them, and knowing the weight his example would have upon his comrades, rushed out of the venta, calling upon them to follow; and taking post behind some old walls, that formed, as it were, a kind of _tête de pont_, opened a brisk fire upon the advancing column of the enemy. the boldness of the manoeuvre intimidated the rebels, who, thinking that this handful of men must be supported by a considerable force, hesitated, halted for further orders, and, finally, threw out a line of skirmishers to cover their movements, between whom and antonio's party a sharp fire was kept up for several minutes. in this skirmish one of antonio's companions was killed, another fell badly wounded by his side, and he himself received a wound in his head, which, but that the ball had previously passed through the top of his chako, would, probably, have been fatal. the rebels, discovering at length that the small force opposed to them was altogether without support, again formed in column of attack to force the bridge. the word "forward" was given, and antonio feared that his devotion would prove of no avail, when, at the critical moment, the remainder of his company advanced from behind the venta at the _pas de charge_, rending the air with loud cries of "_viva el rey_," and opening a fire which took the enemy in flank. the rebels saw that the golden opportunity had been missed, and, seized with a panic, retired hastily to their stronghold, closely pressed by the _cazadores_, who hoped to enter the town pêle mêle with them. the commander of the king's troops, who had galloped to the spot where he heard firing, determined, however, to adhere to the plan of reducing the rebels to starvation; which now, by antonio's gallantry, he was certain of eventually effecting; and ordered, therefore, the recall to be sounded as soon as he saw the enemy had regained the town. unfortunately for our hero, who, attended by a single comrade, was at the extreme left of the extended line of skirmishers, and had taken advantage of one of the deep gullies that furrow the side of the mountain to advance unobserved on the enemy; he neither heard the signal to retire, nor saw his companions fall back; continuing, therefore, to advance, it was only on gaining the head of the ravine that he suddenly became aware of the extreme peril of their situation, and that a quick retreat alone could save them. it was, however, too late; his comrade--his bosom friend, gaspar herrera--fell, apparently dead, a dozen paces from him, and he, himself, in the act of raising up his brave companion, was brought to the ground by a ball, which splintered his ankle-bone. he managed, with great difficulty, to crawl to some palmeta bushes, having first sheltered the body of his friend behind the stem of a stunted olive tree, which would not afford cover for both; and, lying flat on the ground, waited for some time in the hope that his company had merely moved round to the left to gain a more accessible part of the mountain, and would speedily renew the attack. at length, his patience becoming exhausted, he thought it would be well to let his comrades know where he was, and once more levelling his musket, resumed the offensive by attacking a pig, which, unconscious of danger, came grunting with carniverous purpose towards that part of the gory field where the body of his friend gaspar lay extended. this drew a heavy fire upon antonio, but, as he was much below the rebels, who had all retired into the town, and was tolerably well sheltered by the friendly palmetas, he escaped further damage. in the meanwhile, antonio and gaspar had had been reported as killed to the captain of the _cazadores_, who, whilst deploring with the other officers the loss of the two most promising young men of his company, heard the renewed firing in the direction of the late skirmish. "_corajo!_" he exclaimed, "that must be condé and herrera still at it." "no, señor," replied the serjeant, "they were both seen to fall as we retreated from the hill; that firing must be an attack upon our friends posted on the other side of the town; the rebels are probably attempting to force a passage in that direction." "well then, i cannot do wrong in advancing," said the captain, "so let us on. nevertheless, i still think it is the fire of condé and his comrade, and i know, my brave fellows," he continued, addressing his men, "i know that if it be possible to bring them off, you will do it." they advanced, accordingly, in the direction of the firing, and, as the captain had conjectured, there they found condé continuing the combat _à l'outrance_, extended full length upon the ground under cover of the palmeta bushes, with his head and ankle bandaged, and his ammunition nearly exhausted. they fortunately succeeded in bearing him off without sustaining any loss, though condé insisted on their first removing the seemingly lifeless body of his friend gaspar, which he pointed out to them. the detachment at the venta had now been reinforced by some cavalry and artillery, and the remainder of the queen's regiment, whilst the rest of the royalist force took post on the opposite side of the town, in a position that covered the roads to chiclana, medina, sidonia, and alcalà de los gazules, thereby depriving the beleaguered rebels of all chance of escape. towards dusk that same evening, one of torrijos's troopers was brought in a prisoner. unconscious of the state of affairs, he had mistaken a cavalry piquet of the king's troops for the advanced guard of the _facciosos_, and had not even discovered his error in time to destroy the despatches of which he was the bearer. by these it was learnt that torrijos, apprized of the failure on cadiz and subsequent escape of the rebel-band from the isla de leon, had not budged from the spot where he had effected his landing; but he now sent to acquaint his coadjutors that he had collected a sufficiency of boats to take them all off, and that the bearer would be their guide to the place of embarkation. this information was forwarded to the rebels at vejer, who, not giving credit to it, continued to hold out until the third day, when their provisions being exhausted and no torrijos appearing, they agreed to capitulate, and were marched prisoners to the isla, where, but a few days before, "_quantam est in rebus inane!_" they had styled themselves the liberators of spain. the queen's regiment was now marched in all haste towards tarifa, in the hope of surprising and capturing torrijos and his band, ere the news of what had passed at vejer could reach him, but he had taken the alarm at the prolonged absence of his messenger, and, re-embarking his doughty heroes, regained the anchorage of gibraltar without having fired a shot to assist their friends. the regiment, therefore, proceeded to algeciras, and from thence marched to san roque, where it remained stationary for several months. here antonio rejoined it, accompanied by his friend herrera, who, thanks to the timely surgical aid his comrade had been the means of procuring him, yet lived to evince his gratitude to his preserver. here, also, our hero received the distinction which his gallant conduct had so well earned, as well as the grant of a--to-this-day-unpaid--pension of a real per diem. promotion, too, was offered, but he chose rather to wait for a vacancy in his own regiment than to receive immediate rank in any other. our hero's military career was shortly, however, doomed to be brought to a close. he had resumed his duty but a few days, when an order arrived for the queen's regiment to proceed to seville. the wound in antonio's ankle, though apparently quite healed, had been suffered to close over the bullet that had inflicted it, and the first day's march produced inflammation of so dangerous a character as to threaten, not only the loss of his shattered limb, but even of life itself. in this deplorable state antonio was left behind at ximena, where, fortunately, an aunt of gaspar resided. the good dame felipa required only to hear the young soldier's name--his noble act of friendship having long made it familiar to her ear--to receive him as her son. "never can i forget her kindness," said antonio; "my own mother could not have tended me with more unremitted attention, and--under the almighty--i feel that my recovery is entirely their work." here an "_ay!_" drawn seemingly from the innermost recess of his heart, escaped from the young soldier's lips, which, appearing quite out of keeping with the terms in which he spoke of dame felipa's _maternal_ solicitude, induced me, after a moment's pause, to ask, "but who are _they_, antonio?" "the aunt and sister of gaspar," he replied, with some little confusion. "and you find the wounds of cupid more incurable than those of bellona?" said i, jestingly--"_vamos_, don antonio! as sancho says, '_gusto mucho destas cosas de amores_,'[ ] so let us have the sequel of your story by all means." "i shall not be very long in relating it," continued our hero. "for three months i remained the guest of doña felipa. a fever, produced by my intense sufferings, rendered me for many days quite insensible to the extraordinary kindness of which i was the object; at length it was subdued, leaving me, however, so reduced, that for weeks i could not quit my couch. indeed, the most perfect repose was ordered on account of my wound, the cure of which was rendered far more tedious and troublesome from former mismanagement. during this long period, the sister of my friend gaspar was my constant attendant. she read to me, sang to me, or touched the guitar to break--what she imagined must be--the wearisome monotony of my confinement. i have even, when consciousness first returned, on the abatement of the fever, heard her, thinking i was sleeping, _pray_ for the recovery of her brother's preserver. "it was impossible to be thus the object of manuela's tender solicitude, without being impressed with the most ardent love and admiration for one so pure, so engaging, and so beauteous! had she indeed been less lovely and captivating, had she even been absolutely plain, still her assiduous and disinterested attention could not but have called forth my warmest gratitude and regard; but i trust you will one day see manuela, and then be able to judge if i could resist becoming the captive of such _enganchamientos_[ ] as she possesses. "vainly i endeavoured to stifle the rising passion at its birth. alas! the greater my efforts were to eradicate it, the deeper it took root in my heart. i hoped, nevertheless, to have sufficient self-control to conceal my passion from the eyes of all, even of her who had called it into existence, for gratitude and honour equally forbade my endeavouring to engage the affections of one whose family, placed in a walk of life far above mine--that is in point of _wealth_, added the k. s. f. somewhat proudly--i had little right to hope, would consider a poor soldier of fortune a suitable match for the daughter of the rich don fadrique herrara. nor did i know, indeed, how manuela herself would receive my addresses, for i scarcely ventured to attribute the soft glances of her love-inspiring eyes to any other feeling than that of compassion for the sufferings of her brother's friend. "the day of separation came, however, and the veil which had so long concealed our mutual feelings was gently and unpremeditatedly drawn aside. manuela's father and her brother gaspar came to ximena to pass a few days with doña felipa, and finding that, though still a prisoner to my room, i was now declared to be out of all danger, don fadrique announced his intention of taking his daughter home with him--her visit having already been prolonged far beyond the time originally fixed, in consequence of my illness, and the fatigue which, unassisted, the attendance upon me would have imposed on her aunt. "when the dreaded hour of departure arrived, my lovely nurse came to the side of my couch, to bid her last farewell. a tear stood in her bright eye; the silvery tones of her voice faltered; her hand trembled as she placed it in mine, and a blush suffused her cheeks as i pressed it to my lips. but that soft hand was not withdrawn until her own lips had confessed her love, and had sealed the unsolicited promise, never to bestow that hand upon another! "the difficulty now was to make known our mutual attachment to her father, who i dreaded would think but ill of me, for the return thus made for all the kindness of his family. my pride pinched me, also, lest allusion should be made to my poverty, for, though poor, the blood of the condé's is pure as any in the serranía. "i had but little time for consideration, for don fadrique was about to mount his horse, and i thought the best channel of communication would be my friend gaspar. he listened attentively to my tale, which was not told without much embarrassment, and then, to my confusion, burst into a loud laugh. "'pretty _news_, truly, _amigo_ antonio,' he at length exclaimed. '_my_ eyes, however, have not been so exclusively occupied with one object for this week past--like your's and my sister's--as to render the communication of this wonderful secret at all necessary. but be of good cheer; i have seen how the matter stood, and, on the part of my sister, encouraged it; and i hope to be able to overcome all difficulties, so leave the affair in my hands:--on our way homewards i will talk the matter over with my father, and you shall hear the result shortly.' "nor did he disappoint me. in a few days a letter came from gaspar: the result of his interference exceeded my expectations: don fadrique had received his communication very calmly, and told him that before returning any definite answer, he should take time to fathom manuela's feelings. "not long after this, i received a letter, of a less satisfactory kind, however, from don fadrique himself. it simply stated that he could not at present give his consent to his daughter's accepting me; that he had no objections to urge on the score of my rank in life, or the way in which i had acted in the matter, but that his daughter's expectations entitled him to look for a wealthier son-in-law, and that, in fact, it had long been a favorite plan of his, to unite her to the son of an old and intimate friend, when they should be of a proper age. "nevertheless--his letter concluded--provided i would abstain from seeing, writing to, or holding _in any way_ communication with his daughter for the space of two years, he would, at the expiration of that period, consent to our union, should we both continue to wish it. "this chilling letter was accompanied by a hastily written billet from manuela. it was as follows:--'i know my father's conditions--accept them, and have full confidence in the constancy of your manuela.' "i accordingly wrote to don fadrique, subscribing to the terms he proposed, and, from that day to this, have neither seen nor communicated with either manuela or any member of her family." "but have you not heard from time to time of the welfare of your manuela?" i asked; "are you sure she is yet unmarried?" for it struck me that the young son of "an old and intimate friend" was a dangerous person to have paying court to one's mistress during a two years' absence; especially in spain, where _love matches_ are rather scouted. a story that one of manuela's countrywomen related to me of herself, recurring to me at the same time. this lady had, early in life, formed an attachment to a young officer, whom poverty alone prevented her marrying. his regiment was ordered to ceuta, and she remained at malaga, consoling herself with the hope that brighter days would dawn upon them. her friends laughed at the idea of such interminable constancy, especially as a most advantageous _parti_ presented itself for her acceptance. the proposer--it is true--was neither so handsome nor so youthful as the exile, but then he was also an officer, and "_in very good circumstances_." she could not forget her first love, however--indeed, she _never_ could--and long turned a deaf ear to the tender whisperings of her new admirer; but, at length, her relations became urgent, as well as her lover; the mail boat from ceuta gradually came to be looked for with less impatience; and, "_por fin_," she observed, "_como era capitan por capitan (!!)_,[ ] i had no great objections to urge, and we were married!" she confessed to me, however, that this exchange was not effected "_without paying the difference_," as the treatment she experienced from her rich husband, caused her ever after to regret having given up her poor lover. but to return to antonio--"i have had but few opportunities of hearing from manuela," he replied, "for my native village is removed from any high road, and the close attendance required by my aged parents--my wound having incapacitated me from further military service--has been such, that i seldom could get as far as jaen to make enquiries amongst the _contrabandistas_ and others who visit the neighbourhood, of her place of residence; but about a month since i met an _arriero_ of arcos, who knew don fadrique well, and from him i learnt that manuela is still unmarried, has lost all her beauty, is wasted to a shadow; and said to be suffering from some disease that baffles the skill of the most eminent physicians of the place. "this intelligence has made me the more anxious to see her, and claim her promised hand, for no change in her personal appearance--even if the account be true--can alter the sentiments i entertain for her; but, at the same time, it has placed a weight upon my spirits which in vain i endeavour to throw off. "the morning it was my good fortune to fall in with you, caballeros, i had set out from my home to proceed to ximena, whither i understand manuela has been removed for change of air. for the term of my probation, though not yet expired, is fast drawing to a close, and having some business to transact with the military authorities at granada and malaga respecting my pension (of which not a _maravedi_ has ever been paid), i have timed my movements so as to reach ximena by the day on which i may again present myself to manuela, and receive, i trust, the reward of my constancy." antonio's narrative was here brought to a conclusion, but ere he left us, i exacted the promise mentioned in the preceding chapter, that he would acquaint us with the result of don fadrique's essay in experimental philosophy. circumstances, however, occurred to prevent our meeting him at the place of appointment, and i had almost given up the hope of hearing more of antonio and his love story, when, to my surprise, he one morning presented himself at my breakfast table at san roque. i saw, at the first glance, that the course of true love had not run smooth--he was pale and hagged--flurried, yet dispirited. "my good antonio," said i, unwilling to give utterance to a doubt of his fair one's constancy, "i fear don fadrique has not proved to be a man of his word." "_perdon usted_," he replied--"he has been faithful to his word"--worse and worse, thought i--"and manuela not less constant in her affection," he continued; guessing at once the suspicion that flitted across my mind--"alas! i could even wish it were not so, if all otherwise were well; but fate has ordered differently. a calamity has befallen manuela; compared to which, death would be a mercy. she is in a state that is heart-rending to behold. her sufferings are almost beyond the power of bearing. oh, caballero! it is fearful--it is awful to see her. she has the best advice that money can procure, but nothing can be done to give us a hope of her recovery." "mad?" i exclaimed, with a shudder--"oh, cursed love of riches...." "_nada, nada_,"[ ] interrupted antonio, "she is as sensible as ever. alas! i could even bear to see her insane, for then i might hope that time would effect a change." "is it _etica_?" i asked, knowing that the spaniards consider consumption both incurable and highly infectious. a mournful shake of the head was his reply. "what then, my good antonio, _is_ the nature of her malady?" "_ojala_[ ] that it could be called a malady, don carlos," ejaculated the silver cross of san fernando; "it might not then be beyond the reach of the physician's art. but _dios de mi vida!_ there is no hope for her, unless a miracle can be wrought. it is to have a consultation on that point, i am come to san roque." "what," said i, my patience thoroughly exhausted, "has she embraced mohammedanism?" "not far from it, don carlos--she is possessed of a devil!" "friend antonio," said i, "congratulate yourself;--such discoveries are seldom made _before_ marriage. let me, however, persuade you, instead of consulting with priests, to allow an heretical english doctor to meet this devil face to face; his simple nostrums may perchance be found more efficacious than the exorcisms of the most pious divines. but explain to me the signs and symptoms of the presence of this imp of darkness; and pardon my making light of so serious an affair, for, rest assured, the evil one is not now permitted to torment the human frame with bodily anguish; his toils are spread for catching _souls_; and worldly pleasures, not personal sufferings, are the means he employs to effect his purpose." antonio then entered into a detailed account of his betrothed's ailment, as well as of the mode of treatment that had been adopted; but, ignorant, superstitious, and bigoted, as i knew the campestral spanish _faculty_ to be, i had yet to learn how far they could practise on the credulity of their infatuated _patients_. manuela, it appeared, had, one day during the preceding lent, been so imprudent as to taste some chicken broth that had been prepared for her sick father; and it was supposed, that the devil, assuming the appearance of the egg of some insect, had gained admission to her throat and settled in her breast, where he had ever since been nurtured and was gradually "_comiendo su vida_!"[ ] the doctors assured her friends that the only way of appeasing the monster's appetite, was by the constant application of thick slices of raw beef to the exterior of the part affected--but this remedy was daily losing its effect. my astonishment knew no bounds.--was it possible such gross ignorance could exist, or such horrible imposition be practised in the nineteenth century! after much persuasion, antonio promised to bring his betrothed to san roque, to have the advice of an english doctor; my proposal of taking one to see her, at ximena, having at once been negatived on the grounds that it would cause great irritation amongst the people of that town; and, accordingly, on the day appointed for the meeting, manuela, borne on a kind of litter, and accompanied by her aunt, came to san roque on the pretence of its being her wish to offer a wax bust at the shrine of one of the emigré saints of gibraltar "now established in the city of _san roque de su campo;_" which said saint, having taken a very active part in expelling the moors from spain, it was naturally concluded might feel an interest in driving the devil out of manuela's breast. antonio's mistress had evidently been a lovely creature. her features were beautifully outlined, but her white lips and bloodless cheeks, her sunken eyes and wasted figure, declared the ravages making by some terrible inward disease. she was suffering excessive pain from the effects of the journey, but received us with a faint smile. "i fear, sir," she said, with some emotion, addressing herself to my friend, dr. ----, "i fear, sir, that i have given you unnecessary trouble in coming to see me, for i am told that my disorder is beyond the reach of medical skill; but my friend here," pointing to her lover, who, with brimful eyes, stood watching alternately the pain-distorted countenance of his mistress and that of the doctor, hoping, if possible, to discover his thoughts, "my friend here requested me so earnestly to come and meet you, that, as we shall be so short a time together on this earth, i could not, as far as concerned myself, refuse him so slight a favour, and i hope you will pardon the inconvenience to which we have put you." antonio and myself now withdrew, leaving manuela and doña felipa with dr. ----, who, in a short time rejoined us, and, to antonio's inexpressible delight, informed him that the case of his betrothed was not by any means hopeless, though she would have to submit to a painful surgical operation, and then turning round to me, he added, "the poor creature is suffering from a cancerous affection, which, fortunately, is just in the state that i could most wish it to be. but no time must be lost." the nature of the case having been fully explained to antonio, it was left to him to persuade manuela to submit to the necessary operation, and to inform her, that though it might be performed with safety _then_, yet death must inevitably be the consequence of delay. the prejudices we were prepared to encounter were numerous, but they were propounded chiefly by manuela's aunt, she herself agreeing without hesitation to every thing antonio suggested. at length, however, the old lady said a positive answer should be given after consulting with a priest, and i forthwith accompanied antonio to don ---- ----, and requested his attendance. antonio was present at the consultation, and gave us an amusing account of it. the main objection of the doña felipa was to the heretical hand that was to direct the knife; but the worthy _padre_--who had good reason to know the superior skill of the english faculty over those of his own country, and was himself _spelling_ for a little advice on the score of an over-strained digestion--took the case up most zealously, and eventually overcame all their scruples. "fear not," said he, winding up his arguments, "fear not, good dame, to trust the maiden in his hands. like as the lord opened the mouth of balaam's ass to admonish her master, so has he put wisdom into the heads of these heretical doctors for the good of us, his faithful servants. quiet your conscience, señora felipa, i myself have been physicked by these semi-christian _medicos_." the case was not much in point, but it served the purpose. doña felipa was convinced; her niece submitted; the operation was successfully performed; the colour in a short time returned to the cheeks of the truly lovely and loveable manuela; the smile of health once again lighted up her intelligent countenance. and, ere i left the country, the small share it had fallen to my lot to take in producing this happy change, was gratefully acknowledged by the expressive, though downcast glance that gleamed from manuela's bright and joyous eyes, on my addressing her as the bride of the knight of san fernando. the end. appendix. _itinerary of the principal roads of andalusia, and of the three great routes leading from that province to the cities of madrid, lisbon, and valencia._ n.b. the measurements on the post roads are given in spanish leagues, conformably with the government regulations by which postmasters are authorized to charge for their horses. on these, therefore, the distances from stage to stage cannot be calculated with much precision; but a spanish _post_ league may generally be reckoned ½[ ] english miles. on the other roads the distances are more accurately specified in english miles. no. . baylen to madrid. (a post road, travelled by diligences.) leagues. from baylen to guarroman thence to la carolina santa elena la venta de cardenas visillo sta. cruz de mudela val de peñas n. s. de la consalacion manzanares la casa nueva del rey ½ villaharta ½ vta. del puerto lapice madridejos caña de la higuera tembleque guardia ocaña ½ aranjuez espartinas ½ los angeles madrid ½ --- total leagues ½ --- ½ leagues = english miles. no. . seville to lisbon. (post road, travelled by carriages.) leagues. from seville to santi ponce thence to la venta de guillena ronquillo santa olalla monasterio fuente de cantos los santos de maimona santa marta albuera badajos elvas (portugal) lisbon -- total leagues -- leagues = miles. no. . granada to valencia. (post road, no diligence.) leagues. from granada to diezma thence to guadiz from guadiz to baza thence to lorca murcia alicante san felipe valencia -- total leagues -- leagues= miles. no. . cadiz to madrid. (post road travelled by carriages.) leagues. from cadiz to san fernando thence to puerto sta. maria xeres de la frontera ½ de casa real del cuervo ½ ventllo de la torre de orcas ½ utrera ½ alcalà de guadaira mairena del alcor carmona da venta de la portugueza ½ luisiana ½ ecija la carlota cortijo de mangonegro cordoba alcolea carpio aldea del rio ½ andujar ½ la casa del rey ½ baylen ½ by no. , from baylen to madrid ½ ---- total leagues ½ ---- ½ leagues= miles no. . cadiz to seville. (post and carriage road.) leagues. from cadiz to alcalà de guadaira, by route no. thence to seville -- total leagues leagues= miles. no. . cadiz to seville, by the marisma. (direct road, passable for carriages in summer only.) miles. from cadiz, by boat, to el puerto de santa maria thence to xeres lebrija seville -- total miles -- no. . cadiz to lisbon. (post road.) leagues. from cadiz to seville, by no. . seville to lisbon, by no. . -- total leagues -- leagues = miles. no. . gibraltar to cadiz. (bridle road.) miles. from gibraltar to los barrios thence to la venta de ojen la venta de tabilla la venta de vejer (town of vejer ½ a mile on left.) chiclana el puente zuazo ½ cadiz --- total miles ½ --- no. . gibraltar to cadiz. (another bridle road.) miles. from gibraltar to algeciras[ ] thence to la venta de ojen by no. ½ ---- total miles ½ ---- no. . gibraltar to xeres. (bridle road.) miles. from gibraltar to san roque thence to la venta la gamez ½ la casa de castañas alcalà de los gazules (the town left ½ a mile to the right.) paterna xeres --- total miles ½ --- no. . gibraltar to seville. (bridle road.) miles. from gibraltar to ximena thence to ubrique el broque villa martin utrera dos hermanos seville -- total miles -- no . gibraltar to lisbon. (bridle road to seville, from thence a carriage road.) miles. from gibraltar to seville, by route no. from seville to lisbon, by route no. --- total miles --- no. . gibraltar to madrid. (a post, but only bridle road to osuna, from thence a carriage route.) miles. from gibraltar to san roque thence to gaucin atajate ronda from ronda to saucejo thence to osuna ecija by route no. , from thence to baylen, leagues = by route no. , from baylen to madrid, ½ leagues = --- total miles --- no. . gibraltar to madrid. by benemeji. (a bridle road only as far as andujar.) miles. from gibraltar to ronda, by route no. from ronda to la venta de teba (town of teba ½ mile on the right) thence to campillos fuente de piedra benemeji lucena baena porcuna andujar baylen by route no. , to madrid, ½ leagues = --- total miles --- no. . gibraltar to malaga. (bridle road.) miles. from gibraltar to venta guadiaro thence to estepona marbella fuengirola benalmedina malaga -- total miles -- no. . gibraltar to granada. (bridle road.) miles. from gibraltar to malaga, by route no. from malaga to valez thence to la venta de alcaucin alhama la venta de huelma la mala granada ---- total miles ---- no. . gibraltar to valencia. (bridle road.) miles. from gibraltar to granada, by route no. thence to valencia, by route no. ---- total miles ---- no. . malaga to seville. (bridle road.) miles. from malaga to venta de cartama ½ (leaves town of cartama mile on left.) venta de cartama to casarabonela ½ (the ascent to this town may be avoided, keeping it to the left) casarabonela to el burgo thence to ronda zahara (town half a mile off, on the left.) thence to puerto serrano coronil utrera dos hermanos seville ---- total miles ---- no. . malaga to cordoba. (practicable for carriages.) miles. from malaga to venta de galvez ¾ thence to antequera ¼ puente don gonzalo rambla cordoba --- total miles --- no. . malaga to madrid. (post road, travelled by a diligence.) miles. from malaga to el colmenar thence to venta de alfarnate loja venta de cacin lachar santa fé granada venta de san rafael jaen menjiber baylen to madrid by route no. ---- total miles ---- no. . malaga to madrid. (a more direct road, but in part only practicable for carriages.) miles. from malaga to loja, by route thence to montefrio alcalà la real alcaudete martos arjona andujar baylen ---- madrid by route no. no. . malaga to valencia. (bridle road.) miles. from malaga to granada, by route no. thence to valencia, by route no. ---- total miles ---- no. . granada to cordoba. (a wheel road as far as alcalà.) miles. from granada to pinos de la puerte thence to alcalà la real baena castro el rio cordoba --- total miles --- no. . granada to madrid. (diligence road.) miles. from granada to baylen, by route no. ½ thence to madrid by route no. ----- total miles ½ ----- no. . granada to seville. (not a wheel road throughout.) miles. from granada to santa fé thence to lachar la venta de cacin loja archidona[ ] alameda pedrera osuna marchena maraina del alcor alcalà del guadiaro seville ---- total miles ---- no. . seville to madrid. (post and diligence road.) miles. from seville to alcalà de guadaira thence to beylen, by route no. baylen to madrid, by route no. ---- total miles ---- no. . seville to valencia. miles. from seville to granada, by route no. from granada to valencia, by route no. ---- total miles ---- * * * * * _just published_, in vols., vo. with illustrations, captain scott's travels in egypt and candia; with details of the military power and resources of those countries, and observations on the government, policy, and commercial system of mohammed ali. "one of the most sterling publications of the season. we have recently had no small supply of information on egypt, but there is a freshness in captain scott's narrative that affords a new desire respecting the events of this most interesting country. the narrative is throughout light, and amusing; the habits and customs of the people are sketched with considerable spirit and talent, and there is much novelty in the gallant author's details."--_naval and military gazette._ "we do not recollect to have read a better book of travels than this, since slade's able publication on turkey. the field of african and egyptian investigation has been variously trodden, but captain scott, trusting to a shrewd observation and a sound understanding, has struck out new lights and improved upon the information of others."--_united service journal._ henry colburn, publisher, , great marlborough street. to be had of all booksellers. _in a few days will be published_, a travelling map of part of the south of spain, including the greater portion of the kingdoms of seville, cordoba, jaen, and granada. compiled from the best authorities, and corrected from his own notes and sketches, by captain c. rochfort scott, author of "excursions in the mountains of ronda and granada, &c. &c. &c." to be had of mr. new, mapseller and publisher, no. , strand, price _s._ _d._ footnotes: [ ] see the posting itinerary in the appendix. [ ] the post league has already been stated to contain english miles, and yards. [ ] town-hall. [ ] lobster-hunting--such is the name for locust in spanish. [ ] or genua urbanorum.--pliny. [ ] hirt. bel. hist. cap. lxi. [ ] in an abundant house supper is soon cooked. [ ] red pepper. [ ] cabbage. [ ] a kind of sausage, resembling those made at bologna. [ ] bacon.--spanish bacon is certainly the best in the world, which may be accounted for by the swine being fed principally on acorns, chesnuts, and indian corn. [ ] no vain boast--the fact being established on the testimony of rocca. [ ] florez medallas de las colonias, &c. [ ] mentioned in the itinerary of antoninus--not the ilipa of strabo and pliny, situated on the river boetis, and in the county of seville. [ ] the orchard. [ ] evil doer. [ ] alleys. [ ] the dead body. [ ] roguish. [ ] la martinière fell into a strange error in describing this river and the battle field on its bank; making the stream fall into the bay of cadiz, and the scene of alfonso's victory some fifty miles from tarifa. this mistake has been followed by several modern authors. [ ] not the mellaria of pliny, which was a city of the turduli, within the county of cordoba. [ ] a ruined town, no longer inhabited. [ ] by strabo ninety-four miles, following the coast: i.e. stadia. [ ] lib. iii. some editions enumerate two cities called _besippo_, thus, "bæsaro tauilla dicte bæsippo, barbesula, lacippo, bæsippo, &c.;" but holland and harduin give only one, calling the first "_belippo_." [ ] there is no epidemic here. [ ] there are more direct cross-roads to these places, but they are not always passable in winter. [ ] _toll-house._ [ ] strabo. [ ] this one amongst the various restraints laid on the trade of gibraltar has very lately been removed on the remonstrance of our government. [ ] shops where ice is sold. [ ] i understand this cathedral is now being patched up in an economical way to render it serviceable. [ ] road of hercules. the causeway connecting cadiz with the isla de leon is so called, and supposed to be a work of the demi-god. [ ] or butts of wine are shipped yearly from this place. [ ] the old mouth of the guadalete is obstructed by a yet more impracticable bar. [ ] , butts of wine are collected annually from the vineyards of puerto santa maria. the exports amount to , . [ ] camomile. [ ] mother. [ ] so called from the town of _montilla_, whence the grape, that originally produced this description of dry, light-coloured wine, was brought to xeres. [ ] carthusian convent. [ ] strabo and pliny. [ ] a fen, subject to the inundations of the sea. such, however, is not the case here. [ ] water-courses, which are dry in summer. [ ] written _vrgia_ by pliny--_vcia_ by ptolemy. [ ] itin. anton. [ ] españa sagrada. [ ] this supposes the earth's circumference to have been reckoned , stadia, giving - / miles to a degree of the meridian. by the calculation of eratosthenes, the circumference of the earth was , stadia, which gives exactly stadia, or ½ miles to a degree. [ ] mariana (lib. . cap. ) has quite mistaken the situation of this place, which he describes as two leagues from xeres, _on the banks of the guadalete_. it is two leagues from xeres, certainly, but nearly three from the guadalete, and but one and a half from the guadalquivir. [ ] the area of the mezquita at cordoba, taken altogether, is larger, but not the enclosed portion of gothic architecture, which is, properly speaking, the episcopal church. [ ] a long time since. [ ] in england, however, it must be the taste of the nation that is suffering from disease, rather than its drama, if, with such writers as sheridan knowles, talfourd, and bulwer, the theatre does not once more become a popular place of resort. [ ] farce; but, literally, goût, highly seasoned dish. [ ] low and disorderly people. [ ] florez medallas descubiertas, &c. [ ] old seville. [ ] de bell. civ. [ ] hollond--intending, of course, the itipa of the itinerary, since the city of that name, mentioned by pliny, was on the right bank of the guadalquivír; and from medals discovered of it, whereon a fish is borne, may be concluded to have stood on the very margin of the river. [ ] the gallant and talented author of the "history of the peninsular war" has fallen into some slight topographical errors (caused, probably, by the extraordinary inaccuracy of the spanish maps) in describing the movements of the contending armies. he describes, for instance, the french as obliging the duke of albuquerque to abandon his position at carmona (where he had hoped to cover both seville and cadiz), by moving from ecija upon utrera (i.e. in rear of the spanish army), along "a road by moron, shorter" than that leading to the same place through carmona. but so far from this road by moron being "_shorter_," it is yet more circuitous than the chaussée; and, moreover, by skirting the foot of the ronda mountains, it is both bad and hilly. he furthermore represents the duke of albuquerque as falling back from utrera upon xeres, with all possible speed, and, nevertheless, taking lebrija in his way, which town is, at least, eight miles out of the direct road. a french account (_la pène, campagne de _) says, the spanish army fell back from carmona "par le chemin _le plus direct, utrera et arcos sur xeres_,"--an error equally glaring, for the chaussée is the shortest road from utrera to xeres;--in fact, it is as direct as a road can well be, and leaves arcos some twelve miles on the left! we may suppose, in attempting to reconcile these discrepant accounts, that the main body of the duke's army retreated from utrera to xeres by the chaussée; the cavalry by arcos, to cover its right flank during the march; and that the road by lebrija was taken by the troops withdrawn from seville, as being the most direct route from that city to xeres. [ ] don maldonado saavedra viewed it in this light, imagining that, in the itinerary of antoninus from cadiz to cordoba, two distinct roads were referred to; one proceeding direct, by way of seville, whence it was taken up by another road, afterwards described, to cordoba; the other (starting again from cadiz) traversing the serranía de ronda to antequera, and proceeding thence to cordoba by ulía. florez, however, disputes this hypothesis, conceiving that but one route is intended, and that from seville onwards it was given, not as a direct road, but merely as one by which troops might be marched if occasion required. but why, if such were the case, a road should have been made that increased the distance from seville to antequera from to miles, he does not explain; and i confess, therefore, it seems to me, that don maldonado saavedra's supposition is the more probable. the distances, however, between the modern places which he has named as corresponding with those mentioned in the itinerary do not at all agree; and he also, in laying down the road from cadiz to antequera, has made it unnecessarily circuitous. the following towns will be found to answer much better with those mentioned in the roman itinerary, and the line connecting them is one of the most practicable through the serranía. _iter a gadis corduba, milia plus minus sic._ roman miles. ad pontem (puente zuazo) m. p. m. portu gaditano (puerto santa maria) hasta (near la mesa de asta) ugia (las cabezas de san juan) orippo (dos hermanos) hispali (seville) (returning now to the puente zuazo, we have to) basilippo (a rocky mound and ruins between paterna and alcalà de los gazules) [ ] olbera, according to saavedra. [ ] this disagreement with the heading is in the original. [ ] cura de los palacios. [ ] the diminutive of venta. [ ] are they english? [ ] literally--on which foot the business was lame. [ ] he who shelters himself under a good tree, gets a good shade. [ ] name and surname. [ ] beneficed clergyman. [ ] glance--from ojo, eye. [ ] good for study. [ ] the lower orders of spaniards, generally speaking, imagine that protestantism implies a denial of the godhead in the person of our saviour, and consider that but for our eating pork, like _christianos viejos_, we should be little better than jews. for the whole seed of israel, they entertain a most preposterous dislike; so deep rooted is it, indeed, that i once knew an instance of a young spanish woman--far removed from a _low_ station in life, however--who was perfectly horrified on being told by an english lady that our saviour was a jew. her exclamation of "jesus!" was in a key which seemed to express wonder that such a blasphemous assertion had not met with the summary punishment of annanias and sapphira. i have no doubt but that the bad success which has attended the _cristina_ arms is attributed by the lower orders less to the incapacity of espartero and co. than to the jewish blood flowing in the veins of señor mendizabel. [ ] mapping the town. [ ] a spanish side-saddle; or, more properly, an _arm-chair_, placed sideways on a horse's back, with a board to rest the feet upon. [ ] female attendant. [ ] managing person. [ ] ages ago. [ ] many roman emperors. [ ] as it is said, by an englishman named marlborough, and other very distinguished persons. [ ] palacios, posadas, y todo--i.e., palaces, inns, and _every thing_. [ ] throughout spain. [ ] for every thing it has a cure--look you, &c. [ ] youngster. [ ] the poor old tio could not have acted under "proper directions," as i am informed that he died the year following my last visit to the _hedionda_. [ ] i drink no other--never any other--i cook and every thing with it. [ ] even to its bad smell. [ ] little walk. [ ] a game that bears some resemblance to boston. [ ] the invalid. [ ] the water--nothing but the water--there is nothing in the world more salutary. [ ] they say that he was one of those lords, of whom there are so many in england. [ ] heaps of gold. [ ] to me it appears. [ ] the spaniards considered tea a medicine. [ ] a gentleman in whom perfect confidence might be placed. [ ] yes, sir; that is true. [ ] pastures. [ ] there are many robbers hereabouts--last year (accursed be these rascally spaniards!) a good fowling-piece was stolen from me in this confounded narrow pass, &c. [ ] these beggarly spaniards, &c. [ ] young lady of the house. [ ] very well _combed_, literally--her hair well dressed. [ ] unequalled. [ ] a young girl i am bringing up for (_i. e._ to be) a countess. [ ] now, gentlemen, it is necessary to load--these cowardly spaniards always fall suddenly upon one; and, if we are not prepared, we shall be all netted, like so many little birds.--we are all well armed with double-barrelled guns, and, with prudence, we shall have nothing to fear--but ...! prudence is necessary. [ ] in these parts, no evil-disposed persons whatever are to be met with; that sort of _canaille_ know too well who louis de castro is. [ ] a gazpacho, eaten hot. [ ] literally, _beds_--spots frequented by the deer. [ ] wolf. [ ] the position taken up by the sportsmen is called the _cama_, as well as the haunt of the game. [ ] a day of foxes--an expression amongst spanish sportsmen, signifying an unlucky day. [ ] literally, light--here used as "_fire!_" [ ] a wild boar! zounds! [ ] yes, it is a sow. [ ] to escape from the thunder, and encounter the lightning. [ ] the war-cry of the spaniards. [ ] i precede you with this motive, and in the shortest possible time _all will be ready_. [ ] very dear friend of mine; aprec'ion, abbreviation of apreciacion; esteem. [ ] go you with god ... and without a horse. [ ] an ounce; i. e. a doubloon. [ ] get down directly. [ ] perhaps a flight of woodcocks will arrive to-night. is it not true, good father? [ ] "it is infested with banditti at each step. is it not true, don diego, that that rocky path beyond alcalà is called the road to the infernal regions?" "yes, yes--as true as holy writ." [ ] rock of sancho. [ ] the little stream that empties itself into the sea, near tarifa, is called _el_ salado, _par excellence_, in consequence of the great victory gained on its banks by alfonso xi.; but, properly speaking, it is el salado _de tarifa_. [ ] hirtius, bel. hisp. cap . [ ] ibid. cap. . [ ] dion--lib. . [ ] dion and hirtius. [ ] cap. . [ ] _singilia hegua_, corrected by hardouin to singili ategua.--the ruins of singili are on the banks of the genil (singilis) to the north of antequera. [ ] it is a mere boast, however, for, according to rocca, the french entered the town and levied a contribution. [ ] scanty _vecinos_--a _vecino_, used as a _statistical_ term, implies a hearth or family, though literally a neighbour. the spanish computation of population is always made by _vecinos_. [ ] he does not understand. [ ] have no anxiety. [ ] mapping the country. [ ] town. [ ] fair and softly. [ ] nonsense. [ ] should this good woman be yet living, i suspect her opinion on this point will have undergone a material change--like that of most spaniards. [ ] with polite mien and deportment. [ ] what a rare people are these english! [ ] mentioned by hirtius--bell. hisp. cap. xxvii. [ ] the salutary waters of the divine genil.--don quijote. [ ] dion and hirtius. [ ] zurita and hardouin maintain, that it is not in the old editions of pliny. [ ] foreign gentlemen. [ ] the wheel of fortune revolves more rapidly than that of a mill, and those who were elevated yesterday, to-day are on the ground. [ ] these _salvo conductos_ were by no means uncommon in those days. a friend of mine offered to procure me one to ensure me the protection of the celebrated _josé maria_. [ ] forward, forward, heartless deceiver! [ ] there is no wedding without its morrow's festival. [ ] between the hand and the mouth the soup falls [ ] holy face. [ ] uninhabited place. [ ] distant from cordoba stadia. [ ] distant fourteen miles from the guadalquivír. [ ] _illiturgi quod forum julium._--pliny. [ ] titus livius, lib. . [ ] pliny. [ ] to the parlour! to the parlour! [ ] be not afraid. [ ] stew. [ ] literally, that he could no more. [ ] i, the king. [ ] with us, i am sorry to say, "the honour of knighthood" has, in too many instances, become rather an acknowledgment of so many years' _good salary received_, than of any meritorious service performed. [ ] a very small copper coin. [ ] and this is a teapot! [ ] a pillow! [ ] what voluptuous people! [ ] a stone--a flint. [ ] how! without horses, without mules, without any thing, save steam! [ ] the estate, so called, was bestowed on the duke of wellington, as a slight acknowledgment of the distinguished services rendered by him to the spanish nation. [ ] santa fé, built by ferdinand and isabella during the siege of granada, and dignified by them with the title of _city_, is a wretched little walled town, of some twelve or fifteen hundred inhabitants; and, excepting two full-length portraits of the catholic kings contained in the church, possesses nothing worthy of notice. [ ] eating; to use the expression of one of the peasants we conversed with. [ ] _itinerary of antoninus._ malaca to suel m. p. m. to cilniana " to barbariana " to calpe carteia " -- total miles. pomponius mela has made sad confusion of the itinerary from malaca to gades (of which the above is a part), by introducing barbesula and calpe, and mentioning carteia twice; but, on attentive observation, it is evident he intended to imply that the road bifurked at cilniana, one branch going straight to carteia by barbariana, the other making a detour by barbesula and calpe, and rejoining the former at carteia; the distance from malaga to cadiz, by the first route, being miles, by the latter . [ ] pliny. [ ] published in . [ ] "two leagues" are his words--meaning spanish measure, or eight miles english; since he estimates the league at four miles. [ ] otherwise called horgarganta. [ ] florez fixes salduba where i suppose cilniana to have stood, i. e. on the eastern bank of the rio verde, about two miles to the westward of marbella. cilniana he places at the torre de bovedas, a site to which the objections above stated apply equally as to the position assigned to that place by mr. carter. [ ] pliny places salduba between barbesula and suel. [ ] marbella is a fine place, but do not enter it. [ ] this may appear at variance with what i have said in computing the distance from malaca to calpe carteía in roman miles--viz., only eighty of eighty-three and one third to a degree of the meridian: but, besides that the distance from malaga to gibraltar is at least three english miles greater than to carteía, the measurement i here give is along a winding pathway, that makes the distance considerably more than it would have been by a properly made road, even though it had followed all the irregularities of the coast. [ ] bell. hisp. cap. xxix. [ ] journey from gibraltar to malaga. [ ] traces of the first-named of these roman roads may yet be seen about tolox. the latter was one of the great military roads mentioned in the itinerary of antoninus, and, doubtless, existed long before that work was compiled. [ ] hirtius, de bell. hisp. xxix. et seq. [ ] great allowance must be made for exaggeration in enumerating the strength of contending armies in those early times, since even in these days of despatches, bulletins, and moniteurs, it is so extremely difficult to get at the truth. the battle of waterloo offers a remarkable instance of this, for no two published accounts agree as to the respective numbers of the belligerents, and one which i have read--a french one, of course--swells the force under the duke of wellington, on the th june, to , men!!! [ ] the inscription is given at length in florez españa sagrada. [ ] the source of the sigila, now called el rio grande, is twenty-five english miles from cartama, following the course of the river. [ ] certainly _not_ mr. carter's, than which i never saw a more complete caricature. not one of the rivers is marked correctly upon it, and the towns are scattered about where chance directed. [ ] hirtius bell. hisp. xxviii. [ ] ibid. xli. [ ] an account of which place has already been given in chapter i. of this volume. [ ] "don ferdinand the seventh, by the grace of god, king of castile, leon, aragon, the two sicilies, jerusalem, navarre, granada, toledo, valencia, gallicia, majorca, seville, sardinia, cordoba, corsica, murcia, jaen, the algarves, algeciras, gibraltar, the canary islands, the east and west indies, islands and terra firma of the great ocean; archduke of austria; duke of burgundy, brabant, and milan; count of hapsburg, flanders, the tyrol, and barcelona; lord of biscay and molina, &c."--the seeming wish to avoid prolixity, implied by this "&c." is admirable. [ ] _clean_ blood. [ ] at any price. [ ] these love affairs are much to my taste. [ ] attractions--literally, _hooking_ qualities. [ ] in fine--as it was captain for captain. [ ] not a bit. [ ] would to god! [ ] eating her life. [ ] a post league is equal to british statute miles and yards. [ ] to algeciras, by boat, saves miles. [ ] this is the only stage that is not perfectly practicable for a carriage. * * * * * typographical errors corrected by the etext transcriber: adventnre with itinerant=> adventure with itinerant {pg v} gradully hauled=> gradually hauled {pg } rocky islot rises=> rocky islet rises {pg } in the joint-stock vilstge=> in the joint-stock village {pg } he exclaimed=> he ex-exclaimed {pg } it was necessry=> it was necessary {pg } the chace, and trust=> the chase, and trust {pg } addressiug me=> addressing me {pg } extarordinary=> extraordinary {pg } woollen mattrasses=> woollen mattresses {pg } too many intances=> too many instances {pg } decsends=> descends {pg } considered irresisitble=> considered irresistible {pg } acccordingly=> accordingly {pg } to unite her to to the son=> to unite her to the son {pg } long turned a a deaf ear=> long turned a deaf ear {pg } every attempt has been made to replicate the original as printed. no attempt has been made to correct or normalize the spelling or anglicization of non-english words. some typographical errors have been corrected; a list follows the text. some illustrations have been moved from mid-paragraph for ease of reading. (etext transcriber's note) northern spain _painted and described_ by edgar t. a. wigram [illustration: colophon] london adam & charles black "there is, sir, a good deal of spain which has not been perambulated. i would have you go thither." dr johnson. "and so you travel on foot?" said leon. "how romantic! how courageous!" * * * * * "yes," returned the undergraduate, "it's rather nice than otherwise, when once you're used to it; only it's devilish difficult to get washed. i like the fresh air and these stars and things." "aha!" said leon, "monsieur is an artist." "oh, nonsense!" cried the englishman. "a fellow may admire the stars and be anything he likes." r. l. stevenson. [illustration: segÓvia the aqueduct.] to w. a. w. saepe mecum tempus in ultimum deducto preface it is ill gleaning for a necessitous author when ford and borrow have been before him in the field, and i may not attempt to justify the appearance of these pages by the pretence that i have any fresh story to tell. yet, if my theme be old, it is at least still unhackneyed. the pioneers have done their work with unapproachable thoroughness, but the rank and file of the travelling public are following but slackly in their train. year after year our horde of pleasure-seekers are marshalled by companies for the invasion of europe: yet it would seem that there are but few in the total who have any real inkling of how to play the game. some seem to migrate by instinct, and to make themselves miserable in the process. these ought to be restrained by their families, or compelled to hire substitutes in their stead. others can indeed relish a flitting; but cannot find it in their hearts to divorce themselves from their dinner-table and their toilet-battery, their newspaper, their small-talk and their golf. to them all petty annoyances and inconveniences assume disproportionate dimensions, and they are well advised in checking their _razzias_ at san sebástien, pau, or biarritz. but, to the elect, the very root of the pleasure of travel lies in the fact that their ordinary habits may be frankly laid aside. it is a mild method of "going _fanti_" which rejoices their primitive instincts: and they will find both the land and the people just temperately primitive in spain. many of us have felt the fascination of italy. but those who have "heard the east a-calling" tell us that her call is stronger still;--and spain is the echo of the east. "lofty and sour to them that love her not, but to those men that seek her sweet as summer." even italy, with all its charm, tastes flat to a spanish enthusiast. he craves no other nor no better land. * * * * * it has been said of spain, that none who have not been there are particularly desirous of going, and none who have been there once can refrain from going again. the author has not found himself exempt from this common fatality; and his notes and sketches, as embodied in this volume, are the fruit of four successive bicycle tours, undertaken sometimes alone, and sometimes in company with a kindred spirit. of their shortcomings he believes that no one can be so conscious as himself. but in the hope that they may prove of interest to sympathisers he ventures to expose them to the public gaze. note all spanish names ending in vowels are pronounced with the stress on the penultimate; and those ending in consonants with the stress on the final syllable. any exception is indicated by an accent. contents chapter i page the north coast of castile chapter ii covadonga and eastern astÚrias chapter iii across the mountains to leon chapter iv the pilgrim road chapter v the circuit of galÍcia chapter vi western astÚrias chapter vii benavente, zamora, and toro chapter viii salamanca chapter ix bÉjar, Ávila, and escorial chapter x toledo chapter xi a raid into estremadura chapter xii segÓvia chapter xiii bÚrgos chapter xiv across navarre index list of illustrations . segóvia. the aqueduct _frontispiece_ facing page . castro urdiáles. the bilbao coastline . castro urdiáles. the harbour . santoña . san vicente de la barquera . the deva gorge. la hérmida . the deva gorge. urdon . cángas de onís. the bridge over the sella . the sella valley. below arrióndas . pasana. an asturian mountain village . llánes. the harbour . leon. an old palace doorway . leon. from the pajáres road . leon. church of san isidoro . leon. the market place, and casa del ayuntamiento . astorga. from the south-east . the vierzo. from ponferrada, looking towards the pass of piedrafita . lugo. the santiago gate . lugo. fuente de san vicente . santiago de compostela. from the lugo road . santiago de compostela. the cathedral from the north-east . orense. the bridge over the miño . tuy and valencia. the frontier towns on the miño . vigo bay. the inner harbour, looking out towards the sea . nuestra señora de la esclavitud . betánzos. a colonnaded calle . the masma valley. near mondoñedo . rivadeo. an approach to the harbour . the návia valley . cudillero. the harbour . oviedo. a street near the cathedral . in the pass of pajáres. near pola de gordon . benavente. from above the bridge of castro gonzalo . zamora. from the banks of the duero . zamora. church of sta maria de la horta . a spanish patio . toro. from the banks of the duero . salamanca. arcades in the plaza de la verdura . salamanca. church of san martin . salamanca. from the left bank of the tormes . salamanca. the puerta del rio, with the cathedral tower . béjar. an approach to the town . béjar. a corner in the market-place . Ávila. from the north-west . Ávila. a posada patio . escorial. from the east . toledo. bridge of alcántara, from the illescas road . toledo. the bridge of alcántara . toledo. puerta del sol . toledo. calle del comércio, with the cathedral tower . toledo. the gorge of the tagus . talavera de la reina. from the banks of the tagus . plaséncia. puente san lazaro . plaséncia. the town walls and cathedral . cáceres. within the old town walls . cáceres. calle de la cuesta de aldana . mérida. "los milagros," the ruins of the great aqueduct . alcántara . segóvia. church of san miguel . segóvia. arco san estéban . segóvia. the alcázar . segóvia. arco santiago . segóvia. church of san estéban . búrgos. arco san martin . dueñas . búrgos. hospital del rey . búrgos. arco sta maria . búrgos. patio of the casa de miranda . búrgos. from the east . the gorge of pancorvo . la rioja alavesa. looking northwards across the ebro . miranda del ebro. a corner in the town . pamplona. from the road to the frontier . olite. the castle . pamplona. a patio near the cathedral _map at end of volume._ _the design of the cover is adapted from the façade of the casa de las conchas (house of the shells) at salamanca._ _the device on the title page is taken from a wrought-iron knocker of the cathedral at toledo._ _the illustrations in this volume have been engraved and printed in england by messrs carl hentschel, ltd._ northern spain chapter i the north coast of castile dear e.,--can you manage to get off some time in may and go bicycling with me in norway? blank's have offered me a passage to bergen. * * * * * dear w.,--i can manage your date, but don't quite feel drawn to your country. norway is all mountains, and i want a little archæology. i had been thinking of provence. * * * * * dear e.,--no objection to provence. blank's will give us a passage in one of their colliers to bilbao, and we can ride in across the pyrenees. you must allow me some mountains. * * * * * dear w.,--it's awfully good of blank's. but once at bilbao, why not stick to spain? toledo is no further than toulouse, and cantabria as mountainous as the pyrenees. * * * * * dear e.,--very good! spain first; and provence second string if necessary. there's a boat sailing about may th. * * * * * the casting vote was indisputably the collier's; but our plans were not quite so inconsequent as this conclusion might lead one to infer. some nebulous notion of a spanish expedition had been miraging itself before our eyes for several seasons previously; and it is the nature of such nebulous notions to materialise accidentally at the last. hitherto we had been awed by the drawbacks; for spain had been pictured to us as positively alive with bugbears. travelling was difficult--nay, even dangerous; the people were anglophobists, the country a desert, and the cities dens of pestilence. the roads were unridable, and the heat unbearable. we should be eaten of fleas, and choked with garlic; and to crown all our other tribulations, we should have to learn a new and unknown tongue. the knight who plunged into the lake of pitch had hardly a more inviting prospect; and the fairy palaces beneath it did not yield him an ampler reward. provence still waits unvisited; neither have we now any immediate intention of going there. we still keep going to spain. * * * * * the owners said she would sail on thursday; but wednesday brought down the captain in a highly energetic condition, and confident of catching the midnight tide. we had to make a bolt for the docks by the last train of the evening, and groped our way to the _amadeo_ through a haze of coal dust, only to be met by the intelligence that the captain had gone home to bed! there was nothing for it but to camp in the cabin, where night was made constantly hideous by the coal roaring into the after-hold: and next morning found us out in the middle of the dock, sitting on our tail with our bows pointing to heaven. the coal for the fore-hold had failed us, and a luckier rival had ousted us from our berth at the staithes. the morning was occupied in resolving a general tangle; for every ship in the basin seemed to fall foul of all the others in turn. soon a second tide was lost. and when we regained the staithes there came another break in our procession of coal trucks. "oh! the little cargo boats that clear with _every_ tide!" we flung ashore in despair. but a more hopeful sight saluted us when we returned. the _amadeo_ lay out by the dock gates, long and low, with her main deck but eighteen inches above the water. at last she was fully laden; and we sailed on the friday morn. so long as we remained in tyne dock we had not judged ourselves conspicuously dirty; but we showed as a crying scandal when out in the clean blue sea. the mate even bewailed the calm weather. if we "took it green" once we should be clean immediately. but such heroic methods of labour-saving we very contentedly excused. meanwhile we made leisurely progress, for the _amadeo_ was no greyhound. "she never yet caught anything with steam in her" according to her despondent engineer. saturday's sun set behind dover--the great cliffs looming darkly over us, and the town lights showing like pin-holes pricked through the blackness to the glowing sky beyond. sunday showed us the grim teeth of the caskets; and the weird natural dolmens of ushant were passed the following day. but providence still continued to temper the wind to that very shorn lamb the _amadeo_, and the dreaded bay was as smooth as a sheet of rippled glass. about wednesday evening the captain began to wax very bitter concerning spanish lighthouses, and we went below better satisfied that deep water should last us till dawn! but the first rays of light showed us a long line of blue peaks high on the horizon to the southward, and within an hour our voyage was over. "in we came--and time enough--'cross bilbao bar." it was from the sea that i had my first view of genoa and the italian riviera, and the seaward approach to bilbao deserves no meaner comparison than this. the romantic hills reared themselves from the water's edge, unwinding their veils at the touch of the early sunshine; and the sparkling villages clinging to the cliffs round the shell-shaped harbour of portugalete made a picture which might have been borrowed from lugano or lucerne. a tumult of tossing peaks was piled in disorder to the eastward, above the smoke of the iron furnaces in the winding valley of the nervion; and far away to the westward, ridge upon ridge fell sloping down into the blue waters of the atlantic; sometimes breaking off so sheer at the finish that the ore ships could actually moor alongside to load. the beauty of the spanish coast is a favourite theme of visitors to san sebástien, but they know not a tithe of the truth which they are so eager to proclaim. the whole atlantic littoral from the bidassoa to the miño is teeming with equal attractions, and the immediate vicinity of bilbao is a stretch which is second to none. neither were our first impressions of the people less favourable than those of the country. and that though they were formed in the custom house, which is scarcely a promising beat. these hospitable officials were if anything over-considerate; for we were only anxious to pay and have done with it, while they were all intent on excusing us, if they could find any justification under the code. at last, however, we were allowed to purchase our freedom; fled to our machines amid a haze of reciprocal compliments; and a few minutes later were drifting along the road to the westward, with no more care for the morrow than flotsam on uncharted seas. [illustration: castro urdiÁles the bilbao coastline.] the busy industries of bilbao have unfortunately gone some way towards marring its lovely situation. its valley is choked with smoky factories; and its mountains are one vast red scar from base to summit, the entire face having been flayed away for ironstone, and ladled out into the ore ships along the aërial railways to feed the blast furnaces of sheffield and middlesborough. our uglier trades seem to take malicious delight in ruining the prettiest landscapes. but their dominion is but for a season, and the land will enjoy its sabbaths in the end. we only scratch nature skin-deep, and her wealds will devour our black countries. "after a thousand years," say the spaniards, "the river returns to his bed." beyond the blight of the quarries, the scenery is of the type of our own welsh highlands--steep, rocky ridges and gullies, thickly clothed with bracken and scrub oak. even the railway has a most charming ramble, hunting its own tail up and down the long, steep, corkscrew gradients of the inland valleys. but the road clambers along the deeply fissured coast line, and no free agent will elect to follow the rail. our first stage, however, was but a short one, for it was evening when we quitted bilbao. castro urdiales gaped for us with its cavernous little _calle_, and we dived in to seek quarters for the night. surely a town so close to bilbao might have been expected to be inured to visitors! yet our modest progress through the streets of castro created as great a sensation as though we had been "corsica" boswell in his costume of scarlet and gold. the children formed up in procession behind us. their elders turned out to take stock of us from the balconies. and a voluble old pilot (whose knowledge of english was about equal to our spanish) came bustling out of a café to conduct us to the primitive little inn. it is a fortunate thing that a traveller's needs can be guessed without much vocabulary; for our first task was to order our supper, and mistakes may be serious when you have to eat the result. the enterprise, however, is not so hazardous as one imagines. like sancho panza, you may ask for what you will;--but what you get is "the pair of cow heels dressed with chick peas, onions and bacon which are just now done to a turn." after all, we did not fare badly; mine hostess was a damsel of resources, and our old pilot prompted us vigorously from the rear. it was he who suggested the "lamp-post"--a threat at which we jibbed somewhat visibly. but the girl plunged promptly into the kitchen behind her and returned displaying the "lamp-post"--which was a lobster. as to the three weird courses which followed him, our conclusions were not equally positive. they appeared in cryptic disguises;--_carne_, "meat" which defied identification. there is no declaration of origin in most of the dishes of spain. yet the traveller need not be nervous. he can generally trust maritornes. let him eat what is set before him, asking no questions for conscience sake. one might travel a long way along any coast line before finding a prettier haven than castro urdiales. the nucleus of the town, with the church and castle, is perched upon a rocky promontory, whose cliffs drop sheer into the deep water, and whose outlying pinnacles have been linked up to the mainland by irregular arches so as to form natural wharves. a little harbour for fishing-craft nestles under the cliff to the eastward; looking back along the coast to bilbao, and the bold conical hill with the watch-tower (reminiscent of barbary pirates), which guards the entrance to the harbour of portugalete. yet all this fair exterior hides a hideous secret, and at last we surprised it unaware. we were well acquainted with sardines in england, and it had not escaped our cognisance that sardines were commonly bereft of heads. had it ever occurred to us that all those heads were somewhere? well, the dreadful truth must be acknowledged; they were here. yes, here at castro urdiales--a mountain of gibbous eyes and a smell to poison the heavens--awaiting the kindly wave which would eventually garner them in from the ledge upon which they were stewing, and deliver them over to the "lamp-posts" in the crevices of the rock below. castro urdiales is a city of ambitions. it is keeping pace with the era, and in its most antiquated alley had been already dignified by the title of "twentieth century street." since then it has developed a ponderous steel bridge in the harbour, and thrown out a massive concrete break-water from the end of the modest jetty. but its progress is not to be deprecated where it does not interfere with its beauty; and now a comfortable _fonda_ has supplanted the humble _venta_ which was our first lodging on spanish soil. [illustration: castro urdiÁles the harbour.] our road next day still followed the mountainous coast line, and we descended at noon upon the roofs of laredo, a delightful little town, climbing up the steep hillside above its tiny anchorage, and facing the great mass of santoña, the "gibraltar of the north." this imposing fortress lies across the mouth of an immense land-locked lagoon, and in size, shape, and situation is almost a replica of the famous rock. it has no such strategical value, but is probably equally impregnable; for it was the only northern city where the french flag was still waving at the close of that "war of liberation" which we style the peninsular war. at laredo we dined, and as spanish meals are the subject of much needless apprehension, perhaps we may pause to say a word in their defence before proceeding further upon our way. we begin with _desayuno_ or _petit déjeuner_, and here, in a genuinely spanish _ménage_, chocolate will generally take the place of the frenchman's _café au lait_. it is served in tiny cups, very hot and very thick. it is really a substitute for butter, and you eat it by dipping your bread in it, washing it down with a glass of cold water, which you are expected to "sugar to taste." the peasants, however, eschew this fashion as new-fangled, and content themselves with a draught of wine or a thimbleful of "the craythur." this is not recommended by the faculty, but travellers have sometimes to be content. [illustration: santona] dinner, or _comida_, is served about mid-day; the nominal time varies, but it is always half an hour late. in many districts, however, this title is transferred to the supper, and then the luncheon is known as _almuerzo_--_déjeuner_. it is a very substantial banquet of some half-dozen courses, inaugurated (in strictly classical fashion) by an egg. next comes a dish of haricot beans, or chick peas, or rice garnished with _pimientos_, closely pursued by another containing boiled meat, bacon, and sausages, all which you may tackle separately or simultaneously, according to your greatness of soul. then comes a stew--the celebrated _olla podrida_; and then (to the great astonishment of the stranger) the belated fish. fish seems to have methods of penetrating to all spots which are accessible by railway. hake is the general stand-by, but in the mountains you get most excellent little trout. the solid portion of the meal is concluded by a "biftek" and salad, but there is still an appendix in case you are not satisfied yet. on sundays, in superior _fondas_ you will get caramel pudding, and always and everywhere cheese, accompanied by a sort of quince jelly known as _membrillo_, a very excellent institution indeed. finally (again classically) comes the fruit; but this is usually rather inferior, considering how very cheap and excellent it is in the markets outside. wine is, of course, supplied _ad lib._ to every diner, and water in porous earthenware bottles which evaporation keeps deliciously cool. olives are eaten steadily at all intervals; and if you have long to wait between courses, you fill up the intervals with cigarettes! the evening meal--_cena_--is generally very similar to the mid-day, except that soup takes the place of the egg. the cooking is by no means deserving of all the strictures that have been showered upon it; for most nations know how to cook their own dishes, and only come seriously to grief when they try to imitate french. the dreaded garlic is used but sparingly; oil is a much more dominating feature. but then oil has a double debt to pay, because spaniards make no butter. at all events the food is plentiful, and "st bernard's sauce" will cover a multitude of deficiencies; for appetite is a blessing that is seldom lacking to the traveller in spain! after dinner, the café. and a spanish café is a most noteworthy assemblage. it is comparatively empty in the evenings, for the spaniard's homing instincts are much more strongly developed than the frenchman's, and he seldom quits his house and his family circle after dark. but in the early afternoon it is thronged to repletion with all sorts and conditions of customers, from the general in command of the garrison to the ragged vine-dresser and muleteer. here they sit through the long, sultry hours of siesta-tide in a roomful of shuttered twilight, chattering like a mill-wheel in flood-time, sipping their coffee and aniseed brandy,[ ] and steadily consuming cigarettes. it often seems mild dissipation for such very truculent-looking desperadoes. fancy an english navvy regaling his carnal appetites on black coffee and dominoes! not but that dominoes (as played in a spanish café) is an exciting, even an athletic, pastime. it entails alarming vociferation; and every piece that you play must be slammed down on the marble table top with all the force at your command. the domino volleys echo through the café like musketry on a field-day on salisbury plain, and if you feel at all dubious as to your direction when you chance to be seeking that edifice, you may readily succeed in locating it by listening in the street for the din. but the heat of the day is now passing, and the traveller must answer the call. his road is at least more level than hitherto; for the coast hills westward of laredo are gradually losing their mountainous character, and over their heads to the southward we begin to catch glimpses of the great rock walls of the cantabrian sierras, which grow ever higher and grander as we near the asturian march. the environs of santander are again disfigured by quarrying; and the soil, where disturbed, is of a deep red ferruginous hue. truly "a land whose stones are iron, and out of whose hills thou mayest dig brass"; though "rivers and fountains of water" are not quite so common as we might desire. santander itself, however, we will avoid altogether. like bilbao, it is quite a modern city; and the direct road through the mountain glens behind it brings us down to the sea again at torrelavega by a very much pleasanter line. meanwhile we pursued our career to an intermittent orchestral accompaniment--a tune in two keys, like m'alpin's drone and small pipes, but far more powerful and piercing than the most brazen-lunged piper could blow. occasionally we met the musician. he is only an ordinary ox-cart--a pair of wheels, a pole, and a plank or two, actuated by a pair of sleepy kine. in galicia the yoke is fastened round the necks of the oxen; but more generally it is bound with thongs to their horns and finished off with a bonnet of goat-skin, or in asturias with a fleecy busby of most imposing size. the wheels have often only a single spoke, or sometimes three arranged in the form of the letter h. altogether it is probably the simplest, slowest, and most vociferous affair on wheels. for the amount of lamentation that can be extracted from one dry axle is a thing that is scarcely credible even when it is heard. the natives encourage it. they have one theory that it pleases the oxen, and another (far more probable) that it scares the fiend. but at any rate it has no apparent effect upon the spanish teamster, who lounges along in front waving his goad like a drum-major's baton; or sleeps--yes, sleeps--on the summit of his yelling load. verily the man who first invented sleep must have been a waggoner! this evening, as we were crossing the ridge between two parallel valleys, our ears were saluted by the unmistakable long-drawn scream of an impatient locomotive. our map showed no railway, however; and we were just beginning to plume ourselves on an important geographical discovery, when we caught sight of a single ox-cart-- feet below and half a mile away! the hill sloped away straight and smooth before us, and we fled! we felt no shame at the time; yet perhaps it was rather faint-hearted to shirk the chance of a personal interview with the most musical axle in the world. but the bicyclist has one grievance in spain which is not so easily avoided as ox-carts, and it is about the end of the second day that the iron of it begins to enter his soul. thenceforward for ever he cherishes a deadly and undying rancour against the spanish dogs. we had been partly prepared for the infliction beforehand. the captain had mentioned them, and had talked of ammonia pistols; but we spurned the suggestion with humane horror. we knew quite well that all foreign dogs were brutes, but we were confident in our own benignity and scornful of "methods of barbarism." and in these noble sentiments we persisted--for about a day and a half. next morning we were awakened out of our beauty sleep by the yellings of some miserable cur in the _fonda patio_;--"hurrah! there's a dog getting hurt," was our simultaneous comment; and ere we recrossed the frontier we had registered a grim resolve that next time we would bring revolvers, and strew our path with carcases from fuenterrabia to cadiz. so much for the deterioration of moral fibre under the strain of spanish dog. well, we are not the first (nor the last) whose amiability has been ruined by "dogs barking at us as we pass by"; and when every brute in the countryside, from the toy mongrel to the wolf-hound as big as an ass-colt, dances yelling and snapping at your heels for half a mile together, it is not entirely surprising that patience should wear thin. of course there are stones. the guadarrama district in particular produces a beautiful white quartzose,--hard and heavy, with many sharp angles,--an excellent article to throw at a dog. but what is a pocketful among so many? besides, you often miss them, and never hurt them enough. truly i could feel no sure confidence in anything short of a loaded revolver. but only a very even-tempered man could trust himself with that _ultima ratio_ within reach of his fingers; and i cherish a rooted objection to "going heeled" in a civilised land. perhaps a lion-tamer's whip with a loaded butt and a bullet at the end of the lash may prove effective enough to compromise upon. meanwhile there is some silver lining to the cloud. there are already some convertites among the dogs of spain. the majority pour themselves upon the cyclist, clamorous and open-mouthed, like the demons in malebolge; but a remnant clap their tails between their legs and make a bee-line for the horizon. we humbly hope that our own modest assiduity will have effected a small but perceptible increase in the latter class. beyond torrelavega there is again a parting of roadways. one passes along the coast by santillana, the birthplace of gil blas; and the other through cabezon, threading the mountain glens. they reunite at san vicente de la barquera, another minor seaport of cantabria, less progressive than castro, but quite as attractive after its style. the town lies at the extremity of a tongue of land between two wide estuaries. it is the meeting-place of the two long bridges which cross them, and its precipitous acropolis and arcaded market-place afford endless studies to the lover of the picturesque. san vicente had got a hideous secret of its own as well as castro, only at san vicente it was hardly a secret--in fact, they were rather booming it as a show. an old sunken coasting vessel had recently been recovered and beached in the estuary, and its hold was positively teeming with lobsters, like sir thomas ingoldsby's pockets with eels. truly it was a gruesome sight; and a novelist in search of an appropriate ending for a really desperate villain could hardly do better than have him pincered to death in that crawly inferno by the black clanking monsters which inhabited it! the cantabrian sierras, already sufficiently majestic, now reach their culmination in the acknowledged monarchs of the range--the picos de europa, the landmark of all the old navigators who once steered their mexican argosies into gijon or santander. this vast mass of snow-crowned peaks forms a most imposing spectacle. they are great "cloud compellers," and are seldom entirely clear. but they are sometimes seen unveiled in the calm of the early morning, an apparently impassable barrier filling half the horizon towards the south. [illustration: san vicente de la barquera] yet the road which we have taken to guide us aims right at the very heart of them, and at the little village of unquera it bears up square to the left. a copious sea-green river (officially known as the tina mayor, but invariably styled the deva by the inhabitants) comes hurrying down at this point from the mountains, and charges the great ridge of limestone which edges the coast-line like a natural sea-wall. we look in vain for the outlet: the barrier seems absolutely unbroken. but a stream that has pierced the picos recks little of minor obstacles, and the waves are booming to welcome it but half a mile beyond. turning our backs on the sea, we enter a noble valley, walled in by crags of alpine grandeur, and populated by families of imperial eagles swinging to and fro their eyries, high amid the cornices of rock; but the pastures at the foot of the steeps are everywhere level and placid, and from unquera up to abándames can scarcely be called an ascent. there is a waters-meet just above abándames, and the traveller as he approaches it begins to experience considerable misgivings concerning the future of his road. if it will but condescend to follow the valley, there seems just a chance that it may emerge as a staircase; but when it bears resolutely to the left to knock its head against the precipices of the picos, he resignedly concludes that now there's nothing for it but a lift. a deep notch in the crags lets out the river, and here the road slips in. there seems every prospect that it will be promptly confronted by a precipice and a waterfall; but beyond the first notch is a second, and beyond the second a third. at every turn the passage grows narrower and deeper, and the way is never clear before us for more than a few score yards. yet the unhoped-for outlet is invariably forthcoming, and at last we cease to marvel at the unfailing surprise. it is the great cañon of the deva, one of the finest passes in the world. it is but a few miles since we quitted sea level, and we have risen but little on the way. yet the cliffs that edge the roadway make but one leap of it to the clouds, and their tops are streaked with snow. here rises a staircase of gigantic terraces; here a fringe of crooked fingers, black and jagged against the sky; here a range of sheer bluff bastions, like the _cubos_[ ] of a titanic wall; and from time to time the glittering crest of some remoter peak peers over their shoulders into the depths of the gulf below. the mountain limestone is as hard as granite, and has shed but few screes or boulders to obstruct the passage of the stream, and the road squeezes itself along whichever bank happens to be widest at the moment, crossing and recrossing as occasion requires. at one point a magnificent osprey, looking twice as large as life, came sailing slowly down the chasm, and passed but a few feet above our heads, regally indifferent to the presence of trespassers in his domain. but apart from him the passage was practically solitary--mile after mile of the same stupendous scenery, till our necks ached from craning up the precipices, and our minds seemed oppressed with a sort of hopelessness of escape. [illustration: the deva gorge la hérmida.] at the hamlet of la hermida the valley makes a momentary attempt to widen; but this little ebullition is promptly squashed in the grip of the mountains, and the great beetling cliffs once more shoulder in upon the defile. the effects seemed finer than ever, for the clouds of a gathering tempest were tearing themselves to ribbons among the jagged _aiguilles_, and their streamers were pierced and illuminated by the level rays of the setting sun. not till we had burrowed our way for some fifteen miles through the roots of the mountains did we escape at last into the upland vale of liebana; and looking back on the snow-wreathed fangs behind us, wondered (like ali baba before his cavern) what had become of the crevice from which we had just emerged. chapter ii covadonga and eastern asturias far be it from me to disparage vizcaya or galicia, but the prize "for the fairest" must be awarded to asturias. no other province in spain--few even in italy--can show such wealth of natural beauty; and it is the district around the picos de europa that is the crowning glory of the whole. the stranger pays his homage to its scenery, but for the spaniard it has a more sentimental appeal. this great mountain citadel is his isle of athelney, the last refuge of the little band of stalwarts who never bowed the knee to the dominion of mahound. here the first gleam of victory broke the long darkness of disaster; and seven years after the downfall of roderic, pelayo began the redemption of spain. it still remains a place of pilgrimage; for our lady herself fought from heaven against the infidel upon that momentous day. her miraculous image, in its extravagant tinsel nimbus and stiff brocaded gown, holds its state over the high altar in the _colegiata_,[ ] and its picture adorns the walls of half the cottages in asturias. decidedly no tour would be complete without a visit to covadonga. i had lingered sketching in the rocky labyrinth of the deva till the failing light would no longer serve my turn. darkness would be upon me ere i could emerge from its recesses; but i had not been caught unaware, for the gully can boast an occasional _venta_, and i had resolved to trust the resources of the little inn at urdon. urdon consists of a single house, and that, to be strictly accurate, is only half a house, for it abuts straight upon the vertical face of the precipice, and the naked rock is its inner wall. if anything disturbed that rock (quoth mine hostess airily, as she handed me my candlestick), urdon would become an omelet. and perhaps that fate is in store for it eventually, for the rocks do drop an occasional sugar-plum into the valley at their feet. urdon looks up a bend of the river, and faces southerly; yet for six months in the year no ray of direct sunshine falls upon that little red roof. it is only from near the zenith that the sun can peer into so deep a well. the traveller plumps upon it suddenly round an abrupt corner, and "here," thinks he, "is the most secluded nook in all the habitable globe." yet urdon is the hub of the universe to tresviso--its inn, its post-office, its commercial emporium, the one link that unites it with the balance of mankind. the pathway to tresviso struggles up the tiny gully which debouches upon the main gorge at urdon; but tresviso itself lies high above the cloud wreaths, a good hard three-hours climb. the tresvisans aver that there is another village, sontres, some hours above them. perhaps there is something above sontres;--but this imagination boggles at. the little shop was thronged with a company of tresvisan women. they had been to the market at potes to sell their cheeses,--a sort of gorgonzola, and excellent feeding for a zoophagist,--and had paused at the stair-foot of their nephelococcygia to wipe something off the slate before returning home. sturdy active figures, clad in patched and weather-stained garments which had once been bright-coloured, they formed a striking group which would have attracted attention anywhere. their features were hard yet not ill-favoured, and their skins as brown as mahogany; but there was not a grey hair nor a wrinkle among them all. perhaps they were younger than they looked, but they are a long-lived race in the mountains; and even their octogenarians are capable of running errands to urdon. [illustration: the deva gorge urdon.] "'try not the path,' the old man said." and the path in question was steep and narrow and stony, wriggling up along the brink of the torrent and the brow of the precipice; the little party had done some nine hours' journeying already, and the shades of night had fallen. yet for them and their beasts it was but the fag end of their regular monday tramp, and they made naught of it. evidently when the "blue-eyed youth" flourishes off with his banner a-climbing the picos, the maiden of tresviso is not likely to be vastly impressed. she takes that walk with her grandfather on sunday afternoons. the inn at urdon may be small, but at least it is commendably early. they sped their parting guest with the twilight, and i was well clear of the gorge before i caught my first glimpse of the sun. the mists had not yet bestirred themselves to gather on the sides of the mountains; and the whole line of peaks stood out sharp and clear as i crossed the bridge at abándames and headed westward up the left bank of the cares, which joins the deva at the waters-meet below the gorge. just beyond the gash that marks the exit of the deva, a prominent peak, like a small cousin of the matterhorn, stands out boldly into the centre of the valley. the river circles round from behind it, and the road once more plunges in among the roots of the hills. but that the deva cliffs still towered overwhelmingly in the memory, one would have declared it impossible for any ravine to be finer than this. indeed, in many respects the cares is complementary of its rival. its rocks may be less terrific, but its slopes are more generously wooded, and its pale sea-green waters seem of ampler volume than the sister-stream. the river boils along beside the road in a deep, rocky trench--a series of rapids and pot-holes--a dangerous river for a swim; and every turn that it takes opens some new and wonderful vista--huge buttresses of precipitous limestone, and shaggy floods of pinewood pouring out of the gaps between. the cares gorge is hardly so long as the deva's; but it ekes out its interest in an appendix which is not much inferior to the text. the road begins to heave itself slowly upward along the face of the mountain towards the saddle at the head of the valley; and every foot that it rises seems to magnify the grandeur of the opposing heights. now at last the upper slopes of the picos surge into sight above their terraced pedestal; and far away into the distance behind us ridge after ridge in endless series radiates out from the great central chaos which towers close and high across the vale. this final view from the culminating point of the roadway is one of the most striking of all. in spain it seems never permissible to travel entirely for pleasure. the gossips provide you a business if you have none ready to hand. in the rioja district you are branded as a wine-bibber. in the asturias you are promptly consigned to the mines. such was my fate at carreño, the little hamlet which sits astride the watershed. an aged crone was squatting on the hearth in the _venta_, performing the functions of a meat-jack over the smouldering embers of the fire. she unhesitatingly diagnosed my profession, and at once began to reel off the local directory--don jorge, and don juan, and don jaime and his wife and family--all english mining engineers in the various villages around. everybody seems to know everybody else in asturias and to speak of them familiarly by their christian names. but this latter custom is practically universal in the peninsula; and i have surprised myself figuring as don edgar on the strength of a second day's stay. however, rather to "mine aunt's" bewilderment, i did not linger at carreño. the descent to cángas lay before me, and i was soon speeding on the way. this valley is of a less daring type of beauty than that which debouches at abándames. it is wider, shallower, and shadier, and moulded in gentler curves. the picos are still upon the left, but they are now growing more distant; and the most prominent feature is the parallel range upon the right, between them and the sea; a fine bold line of hills some four thousand feet high known as the sierra de cuera. presently i became conscious of an ox-cart. it was grinding along the road in front of me. i overhauled it rapidly, and was close up when it arrived at the turn. but when the road straightened, behold! it was entirely empty; and a second glance showed the cart-wheels peeping over the margin, and the driver gathering himself together out of the bushes beyond. the oxen, maddened by flies, had made a dash for a pool at the roadside, and the whole equipage had incontinently turned turtle. the accident was entirely the fault of the beasts, and one would not have been surprised if the man had been angry. but this rough-looking fellow took his mishap with admirable equanimity, and thanked me most impressively for my help in righting his cart. "_gracias a dios_ that i was thrown clear!" said he, crossing himself, as i approached him. and he even spared some sympathy for his oxen, "ah! but they annoy them greatly--the flies." the spanish peasant is not usually of a surly temper, and even a double back somersault may leave his manners in working trim. once before it had been my lot to witness a similar accident in england, where the driver, just extricated from beneath his vehicle, was indignantly demanding his hat. the incident was not without humour, and was gratifying to a student of dickens; but it struck me that "_gracias a dios_" was distinctly a happier phrase. cángas de onis, the little town which was the goal of my day's journey, boasts that it was once the capital of spain. and so it was--in the sense that caerleon was of england--for here pelayo first established his modest court when all the rest of the peninsula was mahommedan. the days of its greatness, however, are too remote to have left much trace. it still retains its lovely situation; but a few rude monastic fragments are the only relics left by its early kings. it boasts, however, one striking monument (more modern than pelayo), in the grand old mediæval bridge; one of those lofty gable-shaped structures that are so typical of southern countries, and perhaps, next to orense, the finest example of its kind in spain. like most of its class, it is now little used, for the modern bridge is but a few yards distant. and, indeed, none of them could ever have accommodated wheel traffic, for they are steep and narrow, and frequently innocent of parapets. bar archery, one can well believe that diego garcia de paredes with his two-handed sword might have held such a pass against a host; though (in justice to that doughty warrior's modesty, so highly commended by the curate) i believe his autobiography never states that he actually did. [illustration: cÁngas de onis the bridge over the sella.] a most attractive-looking road leads up the sella valley, inviting the traveller to adventure himself for sahagun; and the view frames itself delightfully into the great arch of the bridge. it was obviously impossible to do it justice on a sketching block, and exceedingly probable that one would get sunstroke in the attempt; but there was no deferring to the promptings of prudence, and the clouds charitably came to my rescue before i was quite melted away. the natives at first watched me in horror from a distance; but they crowded in around me as soon as the sun retired, and began to volunteer information concerning the annals of the dale. "one morning in ' ," said an old peasant, tapping the roadway impressively with his cudgel, "the water was over here!" _car-r-ramba_, my brother! but that must have been an anxious day for cángas de onis! a twenty-five-foot spate must have wrought pretty havoc in the valley! it was no mere vaulting ambition that induced the old architects to build their bridge so high! covadonga itself lies at the head of a little lateral valley some seven miles above cángas de onis. the spot is a veritable _cul-de-sac_. the steep wooded slopes are battlemented with a fringe of _aiguilles_, and over their tops one catches an occasional glimpse of the pathless pikes beyond, their steel-grey summits streaked with wreaths of snow. a huge semi-detached rock stands out boldly in the centre of this natural auditorium, and the valley curling around its foot finishes in a hook against the isthmus which connects it to the hillside. upon its summit is the church of our lady of covadonga, with its attendant buildings, and behind it, at the end of the hook, is a broad beetling precipice, coving itself out over its own base--the famous "cave," sacred for ever in the legendary annals of spain. here it was that pelayo and his dauntless made their stand against the , who had been sent against them by the moor; and sallying out smote them with very great slaughter, in so much that , were left dead upon the field and about half as many more killed in the course of the pursuit! truly we deal with gorgeous round figures in these early battles against the infidel! but why should the spanish chroniclers have modestly stopped short at , ? a full quarter of a million is their standard casualty list. it is a pity that the legend should have got so fantastically attired in buckram, for the facts upon which it is founded are indubitably historical, and, stripped of extravagances, they reveal a gallant episode enough. the moorish invasion of the peninsula seemed at the moment invincible, and the first rush of conquest had carried them even to gijon. but the northern provinces were as yet rather overrun than subjugated; and many bands of broken men had taken refuge in the mountains, where they were carrying on a _guerilla_ warfare according to the immemorial habit of spain. one of the most formidable of these bands was captained by pelayo, whose stronghold was the rock of covadonga, an ideal natural citadel for a bandit chief. him it was resolved to suppress; and a "punitive column"--shall we say ten thousand strong?--was despatched from gijon under command of alxaman for that purpose. what force pelayo had at his disposal it is impossible to guess; certainly more than three hundred, yet far too few to admit of encountering his foe in the open field. cornered at last with his back to the wall at the head of the covadonga valley, he drew his followers together into his rocky eyrie and prepared to fight to the death. the nucleus of his force would no doubt have been posted upon the rock itself and the neck by which it is approached; others would be scattered along the hillside, lest the foe should endeavour to crown the heights and deliver the attack from above. this last, indeed, was the only move to be dreaded. against a _coup de main_ the position was practically impregnable. yet the attempt was made. some of the moors would perhaps have pushed straight ahead to storm the neck from the valley; but the main column circled around the base of the rock to take the position in reverse. it was upon these that the great destruction fell. their ranks were disordered by the steep and broken ground, their flanks exposed to the great rock batteries which the asturians had prepared upon the slopes above, and a well-timed sally by the party in ambush in the cave completed their discomfiture. from such a rout there was no possibility of rally. the whole army, deeply committed in the intricate recesses of the mountains, was overwhelmed in irremediable disaster; and on the little _campo del rey_ at the foot of the crag, all cumbered with the bodies of the infidels, the enthusiastic victors saluted their chieftain with the title of king. the victory was indeed even more decisive than its magnitude appeared to warrant. the destruction of alxaman rendered it impossible for munuza to maintain himself at gijon, and the forces of pelayo, rapidly increasing with the prestige of success, overwhelmed his army also in the pass of pajáres as he was attempting to regain leon. the moors made no further attempt to establish themselves beyond the mountains. their emirs were intent upon the invasion of aquitania; and the civil wars which succeeded their great defeat at tours allowed ample time for the consolidation of the infant kingdom of asturias, until it finally grew strong enough to cope with them upon equal terms. covadonga has always been sacred to asturians, but of late some attempt has been made to excite a more national cult. the new memorial church is one symptom of this ambition, but it is to be hoped the design will never develop sufficiently to mar the quiet retirement of this solitary glen. the church itself is a graceful little building enough, but contains nothing of antiquarian interest except the miraculous image before alluded to; and i regret to say that the feature which sticks most resolutely in my memory is an engraved bronze plate over the western door, of which the following is a literal translation:--"out of respect for the house of god, and the principles of hygiene, you are requested not to enter in wooden shoes, nor to expectorate in this sacred edifice." at arriondas, a little below cángas de onis, the sella receives a strong reinforcement from the pilona; and thence to the sea it is a fine copious river--broad swift shallows alternating with deep calm pools in the very best salmon-stream style. it has the repute of being an excellent fishing river, as, indeed, its appearance would warrant. yet i fear it gets but scurvily treated; for the local piscatorial methods cannot strictly be classified as "sport." once upon a time, saith tradition, there came a "little englishman" to arriondas, and sallied forth to inveigle the _truchas_ with fragments of feather and wool. "and he caught some! yes, he actually did! he even tried to induce us to do likewise. but we of arriondas know better. we go angling with shot-guns and bombs." it seems characteristic of asturian rivers that they should keep persistently running into mountains instead of away from them, and the sella below arriondas is no exception to the rule. the stormy hills of the sierra de cuera throng tumultuously across its pathway and appear to prohibit all egress. but the river slips like an eel through the tangle, and its agile windings map out a passage for the road. no one looking downstream at the view which i sketched from the banks of it would imagine that the sea was within six miles of him and the river tidal up to his feet. but at least those six miles through the glens are picturesque enough for a dozen; and they reach no unworthy conclusion when they finish at rivadesella on the little hill-girt harbour where the sella meets the sea. [illustration: the sella valley below arrióndas.] all roads are charming in cantabria: but where there are two to select from, it is generally best to bear inland in preference to following the coast. this is rather a cruel observation in connection with so pretty a ride as that from rivadesella to unquera; but nothing short of the corniche road should pit itself against the route from cángas to abándames. if the coast-line could be adequately seen, there might be more doubt about the verdict: for the bold black limestone cliffs which front the biscay rollers would supply as fine a spectacle as anyone need desire. but it is only here and there that the road allows us a peep at some sandy beach ensconced between its jagged breakwaters, or some more distant prospect of cliff and headland where the coast trends forward beyond the general line. for the greater part of the way the view is entirely one-sided--the high, steep slopes of the sierra de cuera, and the idyllic villages nestling in the meadows at their feet. how goldsmith would have rejoiced in this series of sweet auburns, with their rustic shrines and _pergolas_, their skittle-alleys, and their little _alamedas_![ ] how he would have loved to haunt the road at eventide where the village athletes scatter the ninepins with their great wooden discus, and the maidens dance together under the shadow of the trees! the corydon and phyllis of the eclogues still survive in these odd corners of the globe. the little town of llanes cannot boast nearly so good a harbour as that of rivadesella. it is but a creek in the coast-line through which a mountain burn makes its exit to the sea. the town is, however, larger and busier, and full of quaint balconied houses overhanging the harbour and the stream. half a dozen fishing boats were unloading their catch upon the quay in the evening. some rigged with short masts and long cross yards carrying square sails; others with two tall spars carrying lateen sails. the latter are the larger in size and more picturesque in appearance, but both types are common along the whole atlantic coast. they carry large crews, and beside their sails they have sweeps for use in calm weather. when these are being worked the spars are lowered into a crutch above the heads of the crew. [illustration: pasana an asturian mountain village.] their catch consisted principally of the ubiquitous hake which forms such a persistent feature in spanish bills of fare; but there were also a few squid, which at first i regarded as wastage, but which proved to have practical value in the _fonda_ at _comida_ time. they were served up complete, beak and all, with their tentacles drawn up inside themselves, and looking exactly like boiled parsnips. i tackled one on principle, having a well-broken palate, and being ambitious to do in rome as the romans: but it tasted of nothing in particular so far as i was able to make out. they are better stewed, however; and in this guise a gastronomical companion has pronounced them rather a delicacy; so perhaps they are yet destined to obtain recognition at prince's and the _maison chevet_. there is a mail-coach which works the road between llanes and san vicente de la barquera--one of those miraculous rattle-traps wherein no sane person would dream of risking his neck if he were at home. they ply in all districts whither the railway has not yet penetrated; but an extensive nodding acquaintance among the tribe has introduced me to few crazier specimens than this. the fact that its hind wheels are considerably larger than the front gives a vague resemblance to a kangaroo; and as it whoops along bounding and lurching behind its five disjointed mules, it always seems just on the point of resolving into its ultimate sparables like the deacon's one-horse shay. at our first meeting i watched it out of sight with some anxiety; but it was still holding together three years later, and so, no doubt, it is doing still. nevertheless its days are numbered. a light railway is being constructed along the coast to link up the two dead ends at cabezon and arriondas, and soon the visitor to the picos will be able to reach unquera by train. this last stage has completed our circle and brought us again to the deva. our late-travelled road to abándames turns off from the end of the wooden bridge, and again guides us through the gorges into the secluded vale of liebana, sheltering behind its alpine shield. at nightfall we crept into potes like a couple of mice from the mountains, and baited at the little balconied _fonda_, the first stage on the road to the south. [illustration: llÁnes the harbour.] chapter iii across the mountains to leon we had penetrated the loftiest mountains in cantabria without any ascent worth mentioning. consequently it was somewhat disconcerting to discover that the pass was still to win. this preliminary canter had merely admitted us into a great cup, the bed of an ancient lake. we had entered it through the outlet, but must leave it over the lip. within its mountain pale the whole internal area of castile and leon consists of a lofty tableland, two thousand feet and upwards above the coast-line. it is vain to sue entry on the level: there can be no dispensation from the climb. potes itself lies just above the mouth of the great gorge, and the precipices of the picos dominate it as the wetterhorn dominates grindelwald. the deep, narrow vale of liebana comes winding down upon it from the southward, its slopes gay with mountain flowers, and shaggy with beech and chestnut, and dotted here and there with quaint little red-roofed villages overhanging the brawling stream. but ever across the exit the great rock wall frowns gloomy and impassive, its base in the warm green valley and its battlements in the snow. we in our sanguine ignorance had fancied ourselves upon the watershed, and thought that some two hours' collar-work would have earned us a spell of downhill. but the mountains were still thronging round us at the village of valdeprado; and an old neat-herd, driving his cows to the pastures, unfeelingly assured us that the pass was two leagues[ ] further on. we tried to hope that he was mistaken; but the castilian peasant knows his roads well, and is annoyingly accurate in his estimates of distance. it is seldom indeed that he errs on the merciful side. now the road began to ascend in real earnest, climbing coil on coil up the shoulders of the mountain, and marking its course far ahead at yet loftier altitudes by faint zigzags traced among the trees. a couple of easy-going ox-waggons had lost heart at the very first corner. their drivers and cattle were all placidly slumbering, and the whole caravan had stuck fast in the middle of the road. it seemed a pity to disturb so much unanimity; and quite an hour later, looking down from the loftier terraces, we could still distinguish their figures in the same position as before. at last we emerged upon a bare and rocky saddle, just brushed by the drifting clouds--a pass by courtesy, for it was almost as high as the peaks, and the snow-wreaths lay unmelted in the shady spots by the road. a great craggy postern shot us out from the ridge into the head of an upland valley; and beneath hotter skies, through a more sunburnt country, we sped towards the plateau of castile. the descent on the southern side of the _puerto_ is nothing like so formidable as upon the northern; and the mountains, shorn of half their elevation by the altitude to which we have risen, look much less imposing than on the seaward side. they eventually come to an end with startling suddenness a mile or so beyond the village of cervera; and from their feet to the southward the great treeless level sweeps away unbroken--an almost uncanny contrast to the tossing wilderness behind. we had counted upon finding a road of some kind towards leon from cervera, but the inhabitants evidently needed none and declined to encourage the idea. a railroad, yes;--the train would start at one o'clock to-morrow. but the only road went southward. if we followed that we might possibly find a way round. at all events it was a good road, sagging steadily down over the moors and marshes, shaded here and there by rustling poplar avenues, and musical with philharmonic frogs. it delivered us safely at nightfall in the little village of buenavista, a collection of forlorn mud cabins, dumped disconsolately in the tawny plain. the _fondas_ in the larger towns are generally very tolerable, and even the humbler hostels in cantabria are presentable after their kind. but the little _posadas_ and _paradors_ of the villages in the interior are much more primitive institutions, and these are the lot of the traveller who ventures to take to the road. i should imagine that they have not changed one tittle since the day when don quixote, and the curate, and the barber, and the beautiful dorothea, and the tattered cardenio, foregathered with don ferdinand and dona lucinda at the _venta de cárdenas_ in the sierra morena; and one wonders much how the whole of that illustrious company were able to find accommodation under its roof. externally it suggests an abandoned cowshed, and the wayfarer introduced to one for the first time will apply for quarters with something bordering on despair. the gateway admits us into a barn-like entrance-hall, disordered and unpaved. one of the four rooms opening out of it is the stable, and the mules stroll sociably through the family circle in the course of their passage to and fro. another is the kitchen, with the hearth in the middle of the floor,[ ] and the ceiling funnelled to an aperture in the apex, through which the log-reek escapes as best it can. a third (the smallest) is the guestroom, and the fourth one would call a lumberroom, if any of the others could be called anything else. the bedrooms are mere attics, reached by a crazy staircase, and the chinks in the floor communicate freely with the rooms (or stables) below. the furniture is of the scantiest, and the food of spartan simplicity; and the family poultry cackle about between our legs picking up the crumbs which fall from the table. but at least the dishes are clean and the sheets obviously washed this very evening; and a wayworn philosopher can brook a good number of hardships so long as he is not compelled to wear them next his skin. the villagers were dancing before the door at the moment of our arrival, but the ball was at once interrupted to interview such extraordinary guests. "they came round about us like bees," wrote poor sir e. verney in , "touching one thing and handling another, and did not leave us till we were abed!" of course they did! but sir edmund was a little particular; and we suspect old james howell had some reason for his strictures anent the stand-offishness of the members of prince charles' suite. our catechising was conducted by the hostess and her daughter: what were our names? whence were we? whither did we go? they surveyed the bicycles with gasps of "_madre mia!_" and i am sure their fingers itched to explore the inside of our packs. were we married? no? the english married very little! and this depressing reflection cost them a sad little shake of the head. it grew rather wearying at last, but discourtesy was nowise intended. a stranger in these forgotten villages is as rare as a blue moon. spain is socially the most democratic of countries; but it is an aristocratic democracy; and we must not forget that fact because our interlocutor happens to be wearing rags. he and his may have been as poor as church mice for generations;--that is his misfortune. but he is as good a gentleman as the king, and, as like as not, fully entitled to all the proud quarterings that are graven up over his door. "i'm an old christian," quoth that powerful thinker, the governor designate of barataria, "a high and dry old christian, and that's good enough for a lord." the castilian peasant regards you as an equal, and expects to be so treated in return: and i have no doubt that a modern sancho, if he found himself in the society of a duchess, would be fully as unembarrassed as the great original himself. in many points--even in physiognomical features--he has much in common with that other "foinest pisantry" the irish; and it is worth noting that the original milesians are traditionally reputed to have come from spain. individually he is "a very fine fellow." the verdict is the duke of wellington's. and probably no one in history knew their failings better than he. spain is no "dying nationality," though her day be still rather "_mañana_." it is idle to deny a future to so robust and prolific a race. the traveller need not look to fare sumptuously in a _posada_. if he does not carry his own food with him he must take what comes. mine host does not profess to find accommodation for man, only for beast; and anything he does for the beast's owner is regarded as a work of supererogation. we cannot lodge with the peasantry without sharing some few of their holiday hardships; and there can be no doubt that in many districts they are miserably poor. "there is no milk in the place," said mine hostess to me on one occasion, in answer to a request for that commonest of luxuries:--"this village is in _la ultima miseria_!" yet even there they seemed cheerful and contented; and the common taunt of idleness certainly did not apply to them. spanish townsfolk are by no means early risers: but the villages are stirring at cock-crow and the labourers out in the fields with the first rays of the sun. [illustration: leon an old palace doorway.] this last is no inconsiderable advantage in a country which gets hot by eight o'clock in the morning; and the great red disk was but half clear of the horizon when we bade farewell to buenavista, and began our long ride to leon. washing arrangements had no share in our _posada's_ economy, so this mysterious british ritual was celebrated at saldaña, on the banks of the carrion; and being here favoured with a branch road which made a cast to the westward, we resumed our journey across the level in the direction of sahagun. strictly speaking this is one of those levels which slope upwards and downwards a good deal; for the streams coming down from the mountains have cut themselves good deep valleys, though they seldom supply any water except on special occasions during the autumn rains. in the dips are trees and greenery, but the general impression is that of a bleak red ploughland interspersed with wide stretches of heath. here and there, marooned at haphazard, are the casual villages, with their umber-coloured mud walls and red-tiled roofs, rich blotches of colour against the blue of the distant hills. and the desolate aspect of the country is enhanced by the dearth of inhabitants. there is scarcely a labourer in the fallows, scarcely a traveller on the road. no! the little squared stones that we keep passing so regularly do not record the kilometres--only the ordinary roadside murders incidental to an ancient highway. upon each is graven the simple fact of the tragedy:--_aqui murió_,[ ] with the name and date,--no more. they are generally said to have been erected as a trespass offering by the remorseful murderer: and their persistent recurrence cannot be said to make for gaiety;--a large group is even depressing at a specially desolate spot. of course we endeavour to solace ourselves with the reflection that there is at least one similar monument in england; and we note with gratification that very few are of recent date. but then that does not prove that the murders are now less frequent, only that the murderers have less remorse. yet, after all, the traveller may take courage; his position is not quite desperate, however unpromising it may look. many of these untimely deaths were the result of ordinary accidents--storm or sunstroke, falls from horses ("a grave that is always open"), or drowning in the flooded streams. sometimes a private vendetta may have reached its _dénouement_ in a chance roadside meeting; but genuine highway murders form a very small proportion of the whole. the roads in spain are as safe as those in england. and though i have been warned that "there are men in this village who would not hesitate to cut your throat for a dollar," yet the country folk generally (as one of themselves bore me witness) are _gente muy regular_, "a very law-abiding folk." the only really reliable method of getting murdered upon a spanish highway nowadays is to quarrel with the arm of the law! see,--out of one of the dips in the road before us rise the figures of two horsemen;--big men, well mounted, in white puggarees and smart blue uniforms, with sabre at saddle and carbine on thigh;--the civil guard of spain. _vayan vs con dios, caballeros!_ spain owes you a debt that is not to be readily computed. those who have delivered her from her long tyranny of lawlessness deserve a niche beside the old knightly orders of calatrava and alcántara, who kept the border in the days of raiding moors. don bernardo de castel blazo distrusted those who kept company with _alguazils_; but it is a highly desirable privilege to be friends with the civil guard. _en passant_ it may be mentioned that it is imprudent to be otherwise, for they are authorised to shoot at sight, and are reputed seldom to miss. but this vexatious habit is one which they seldom indulge in, and so long as you keep the right side of them they are very good fellows indeed. should our misguided rulers ever signalise their ineptitude by the disbandment of the royal irish constabulary, we shall lose the one body in europe which is altogether comparable to the _guardia civil_. readers of borrow may perhaps recall his description of a forlorn and melancholy township halfway between paléncia and leon, a hotbed of carlism, which he discreetly alludes to as ----. but it seems somewhat superfluous reticence to throw such a very thin veil of anonymity over a name which is obviously sahagun. once the great romanesque monastery, whose massive square tower forms such an imposing landmark, was first in wealth and dignity in all the kingdom of leon. but now it is but the wreck of its former greatness; and the crazy mud hovels and hummocky streets which surround it form an abomination of dilapidation that it would not be easy to match even in spain. what a fit scene for disillusion it must have presented to moore and his army as they here turned their backs upon victory and commenced their disastrous retreat! the soldiers were all spoiling for a battle, and the th hussars had brilliantly opened the scoring. but just as they savoured their appetiser they were dragged off, disappointed and morose. no wonder they sulked! how were they to know the true cause of their retirement? they were thinking only of soult at saldaña; it was their general who had been watching for the rush of napoleon from madrid. there is still a carlist at sahagun, because we saw him. the inhabitants, recognising us as strangers, naturally assumed that we should be interested in seeing their carlist, and he was accordingly fetched and paraded, much as a man who had been "out" in the ' might have been shown to dr johnson in the hebrides. he was a white-haired and mild-mannered old gentleman,--a greatly sobered edition of the dashing young _guerillero_ who had ranged the mountains of biscay in . and though he evidently enjoyed his repute as a fire-eater, i doubt whether he really considered that the game had been quite worth the candle after all. the carlists of to-day seem much in the same position as the jacobites of the reign of george iii. they may defiantly show you "king carlos'" portrait upon their parlour wall, or even exhibit it for sale in their shop windows. but all this enthusiasm is rather sentimental than active; and in their heart of hearts they must feel with redgauntlet that a cause so much tolerated is lost. meanwhile the road to leon did not seem nearer realisation at sahagun than at cervera. there was only a "dead road," they told us, and this we should scarcely have recognised had we not been introduced. the "dead road" proved a sort of consensus of cart tracks, straying vaguely across the moorland with a general trend towards the west. it had died in a most dissipated fashion all asprawl among the boulders and heather: and as each of us soon grew fully absorbed in negotiating his own wheel rut, we frequently found ourselves drifting poles asunder, and had to regain connection by cross-country sprints. the water-courses were ineffably stony, and, of course, there were no bridges. we had good cause to congratulate ourselves on the absence of rain in the mountains, for had the streams been in spate we should have had no resource but to follow the example of the expectant rustic, and wait for them to run down. the occasional walled sheepfolds, and the spiked collars of the dogs which guarded them, hinted broadly at the inroads of wolves in winter-time; and our only way-fellows, a party of gypsies, savage-looking and half-naked, with tangled elf locks and skins of negro blackness, formed a group that to outward appearance seemed scarcely more amenable than the wolves. fortunately, however, there was small chance of missing our direction. we could not stray many miles to our right without coming upon the railway, nor to the left without striking the high-road from mayorga. the one thing needed was to keep our right shoulders to the mountains; and eventually we emerged sure enough at mansilla de las mulas, where, after twenty miles cross-country, our wilderness came to an end. mansilla lies upon the banks of the esla, and the mules were grazing under the ancient ramparts along the margin of the stream. a pretty picture it made as we crossed the old bridge in the twilight and entered the long colonnade of poplars that leads towards the city of leon. the poplar pollen carpeted the road before us as thick and white as newly-fallen snow, and the whirl of our wheels flung it up on either side in little wavelets, as the foam is flung up by the bows of a racing eight. the effect was quite poetical, but we could not linger to rhapsodise, for the causeway had been broken by floods in several places, and unless we made use of the daylight we should be breaking our necks in the pits. it does not seem to occur to the authorities that there is any risk in delaying repairs for a year or so. and perhaps we have no right to grumble, for at least we got safe to our goal. leon is a city for which i have acquired a growing affection with each successive visit, a grave old gothic capital, all filled with memories of the past. it was founded originally by the romans to control the cantabrian passes; and the massive walls which surround it still bear witness to the solidity of their work. unfortunately they are much masked by the surrounding houses; but they are of most imposing dimensions, about twenty feet in thickness, and strengthened by huge _cubos_ or solid semicircular bastions, spaced at very frequent intervals, some two and a half diameters apart. the city is best viewed from the pajares road to the northward, but as it is situated on the level it does not show very conspicuously from without. its most prominent object is the delightfully elegant cathedral; obviously french by inspiration, and of extraordinary lightness of construction, more like a lantern of stained glass than a monument of stone. it is step-sister to beauvais and amiens; and, on the whole, it need not fear comparison. but the spanish builders were not quite at home in dealing with the unfamiliar style. one problem evidently routed them, and they have left it still crying for an answer. how on earth was it possible to reconcile the steep french gables with the low-pitched spanish roof? [illustration: leon from the pajáres road.] the cathedral has been recently restored (not before it was necessary, according to street's description); but this difficult work has been admirably executed, though the newness of the stone still renders it rather conspicuous to the eye. the interior is gorgeous with carving and tapestry; and a word may be spared for the gotho-renaissance cloisters, and for the great western portals with the last judgment graven over the doors. some of the details of the latter are not without suspicion of humour. a monarch, walking delicately like agag towards the gates of paradise, is remorselessly barred by st peter, and directed to the opposite road. one blessed spirit has been set to play the organ--and another has been deputed to blow it! truly "one star differeth from another star in glory"; but an eternity of organ-blowing must rank low in the scale of bliss! scarcely less famous than the cathedral is the collegiate church of st isidore; not the shepherd saint of madrid, but the doctor of spain who compiled the mozarabic ritual;[ ] the "second daniel" of pope gregory the great. it is a queer patchwork edifice, but mostly of the eleventh century. the tower forms a bastion in the city rampart; and the little _panteon_ chapel beneath it is the burial-place of the early monarchs of leon. here in occurred the strange death scene of the founder, the warrior monarch fernando i. of leon and castile. smitten with sore disease while camping on the marches of valencia, he had been borne back to make his dying confession before the altar of his metropolitan church. there he laid aside his crown and robes, and clad his wasted limbs in sack-cloth, and for a full day and night lay writhing in ashes on the pavement till his self-inflicted penance was at last ended by his death. we are assured that his original sickness really had been mortal from the first. [illustration: leon church of san isidoro.] few capitals of spain are without some memorial of las navas de tolosa, the great victory won by alfonso viii. in , which crippled the spanish moslems for offensive warfare, and paved the way for the conquest of andalusia by ferdinand iii. búrgos and pamplona have the trophies of the fighting; but leon has only a legend; and it is to _san isidoro_ and king fernando that they are indebted for having anything at all. for it came to pass on the eve of the battle that a sound was heard at midnight in the streets of the slumbering city. a sound as of the passage of a mighty army, the clang of armour and the tramp of horse and man. the priest who was keeping vigil at the shrine of st isidore heard the phantom host halt before the portal and their thundering summons beat upon the door. "who knocks?" he cried; and the ghostly captains answered him, "ferdinand gonzalez and roderic of bivar![ ] and we are come to call king fernando the great, who lies buried in this holy temple, that he may rise and ride with us to deliver spain!" the terrified monk fell fainting on the pavement, and when he revived the door stood open. the last great recruit had joined the colours, and the spirit host had passed upon their way. no doubt we may read in this legend the rebuke of the church against the selfish policy of the crown, for no soldier of leon drew sword in that great battle for the deliverance of christendom. castile and navarre and aragon were the people that jeoparded their lives in the high places of the morena. nay, the leonese monarch was even mean enough to seize the occasion for "rectifying his frontier" at the expense of his brother the castilian. and this at a crisis when the very dead could rise from their graves and forget the feuds of their lifetime in the hour of national stress! the main streets of the city are overshadowed by several fine _solares_, the mansions of the old _hidalgos_, and, beside all its churches and monasteries, the town boasts an attractive guildhall. but perhaps its most interesting feature is supplied by the crowd that frequents them; for leon is the metropolis of a big agricultural population, a grave and stalwart race attired in the most picturesque old-world costumes. the dresses of the women are perhaps somewhat lacking in brightness; for they have a taste for sombre shades, especially a mauve-coloured head kerchief which does not accord nearly so well with their olive complexions as the brilliant scarlets and yellows of the girls in galicia and the south. but this quakerish tinge in the individual does not produce much effect in the aggregate, and they look bright enough in the busy market beneath their forest of umbrella-shaped booths. they are reputed to "wear _carambas_ in their hair," but this we cannot corroborate. they kept them discreetly covered with the kerchief--perhaps from fear of the police. in any case it is to be hoped that the fashion will not spread indiscriminately. imagine a german lady in a "_donnerwetter_" _coiffure_! [illustration: leon the market place, and casa del ayuntamiento.] chapter iv the pilgrim road "he that is minded to go to _santiago_ may fare thither in many ways both by sea and land";--and to continue in sir john mandeville's vein we might add "by the heavens also," for our old friend the galaxy--milk street as it has been irreverently nicknamed--masquerades in spain as the "santiago road." the holy apostle himself stranded at el padron (after a rapid passage from joppa in three days and in a stone coffin); and the pious pilgrims of our own land were wont for the most part to take ship to coruña. but the main pilgrim stream poured along the old roman road through leon and astorga and the vierzo passes; and perhaps when the fame of the shrine was at its height there was no other spot in europe which drew so great a throng. even to this day we may catch faint echoes of its ancient celebrity:--"please to remember the grotto!" our school-children's august refrain. they do not know what they commemorate; but their date (by the julian calendar) and their grotto and candle-ends and cockle-shells are all the prerogatives of st james. as we thread the long poplar avenues which radiate from the gates of leon, and climb from its fertile valley on to the bald bleak moors, we might almost persuade ourselves that the days of pilgrimage are not over even yet. the road is thronged for miles with a steady procession of country-folk, trooping into the early market in the old gothic capital--as picturesque a medley as ever delighted the student of costume. market-women stride-legged between their donkey's panniers, like dulcinea del toboso when she was enchanted; bronzed and tattered countrymen with the sun glinting on their shouldered scythes; long teams of mules jingling in gaudy trappings; and lumbering ox-carts with their prodigious loads of chaff. here and there we met substantial yeomen well horsed and muffled, with their womenkind a-pillion; and sometimes a broad-breeched _maragato_ tramping along beside his loaded wain. the clear crisp light of the early morning revealed all the landscape in its brightest colours. to the southward the dun plain sweeps away unbroken till it is lost in illimitable distance; and the view to the northward is bounded by the long blue line of the cantabrian mountains, peak beyond peak in endless range, like a string of chevrons on the horizon. no wonder the spaniards call their mountain chains _sierras_, "saws." the wide bed of the orbigo river is crossed by a long uneven bridge; the scene of the famous "pass of honour," dear to the heart of don quixote and all the annalists of chivalry. in the year of the great jubilee at santiago in don suero quinones, a valiant leonese, made a vow to maintain that bridge for thirty days against all knights who refused to admit the pre-eminent beauty of his lady-love. in token whereof an iron collar was riveted round his neck, not to be removed till he had redeemed his vow. he was a knight of the military order of santiago, hailing from what is now the convent of san marcos.[ ] but membership of the spanish military orders was no impediment to love-making, or even to marriage (except in the case of widowers); so that don suero (a paladin of his day, who was wont to fight moors with his right arm bare like king pentapolin of the garamantas), was quite in order in paying these courtesies to the fair. now there were many knights going to santiago for the jubilee, and don suero and his nine companions enjoyed an extremely busy time. seven hundred and thirty combats did they accomplish during those thirty days--a daily working average of two and a half apiece. don suero, however, duly got rid of his collar, to his eternal honour and glory; and seeing that even philip the prudent had his story republished as a perpetual example, perhaps it is not surprising that poor don quixote should have taken the pamphlet _au pied de la lettre_. the bridge itself is long and narrow, with a pronounced kink in the middle, and if the tilts were actually run upon it, it is easy to understand the challenger's success. it needed but knowledge of the ground and a little judicious timing, and he could cut into his disordered opponent broadside as he rounded the bend. but doubtless this unworthy suggestion is a libel on the gallant suero. his lists would have been fairly pitched in the open plain. when we crossed the venerable arches they were in the state described by mr chucks as "precarious and not at all permanent." the ox-carts preferred fording the river. but perhaps this has been "mitigated" by now. another stage across the moorland brings us up under the massive ramparts of astorga, standing "four square to all the winds that blow," as it stood in the days of that cæsar augustus whose name it now so barbarously mis-spells.[ ] "it is absurd to speak of astorga as a fortress," wrote the impatient duke; "it is merely a walled town." and a walled town it is, most emphatically; but the "merely" seems rather inadequate, for the walls of astorga are a trifle of twenty-two feet thick. they are sadly battered indeed, and mercilessly plundered of their facing stones; yet their huge rugged nakedness, scowling truculently across the plain from the crest of their natural _glacis_, makes them a far more impressive spectacle than their house-encumbered rivals at lugo and leon. they have at all events stood two artillery sieges; for the citizens held them for two months against junot in , and the french for three against castaños in ; yet the old roman mason who built them might readily acknowledge them still. [illustration: astorga from the south-east.] my santiago pilgrimage was not the first occasion of my visiting astorga. i had called the previous year--and incidentally had left my heart there--but was not aware that my unobtrusive transit had sown any tender memories to sprout at my return. no sooner, however, had my nose inserted itself within the fonda doorway than the señora swooped upon me out of the kitchen like a hospitable avalanche, and welcomed me back with as much fervour as if i had been a long-lost son. this pleasure at the sight of an old face is a very engaging feature in spanish character. they are by no means forgetful to entertain strangers even at first sight; and often upon quitting a café i have found that my bill has been already paid by an unknown neighbour with whom i had exchanged a few commonplace remarks. yet these earlier courtesies are formal; they are cordial to older acquaintances; and, like the briton, they are reserved in their intimacies, and rather inclined to resent a too rapid advance. one worthy old gentleman indeed, a frequenter of the café at astorga, proved more insistently amiable even than mine hostess herself. he would no longer have me as a guest, but wished to sign me on as a townsman; there was no need for me to go further, i might stay and be naturalised out of hand. he could even supply me with a wife, and would warrant her "very beautiful!" had faustina been the guerdon, i doubt whether my constancy could have endured! and faustina: where meanwhile was faustina? in vain had we come to astorga if we might not have sight of its belle! i remembered her curled on the window settle, nursing her baby brother. her raven tresses flooded her shoulders like a mantle, and her great dark eyes and cupid's bow lips--the touchstones of spanish beauty--were set off by the most piquant features and the clearest olive skin. faustina was quite conscious of her attractions, and seemed by no means averse to challenging a little flirtation; but this time she was away "in the country," and the baby brother was as much aggrieved as ourselves. by now, belike, she is another's. spanish maidens grow early to womanhood. would that i could show future visitors how fair a sight they have missed! the broad brown moors which environ the city tilt themselves up toward the westward till they culminate at the pass of manzanal. their interest is principally due to their unique population, for they are the recognised reserve of the _maragatos_, that strange self-centred tribe who were long such a puzzle to ethnologists, but who now seem definitely identified as direct descendants of the original berbers who came over with tarik and musa twelve hundred years ago. astorga is regarded as their centre, but they are now more readily met with in the neighbouring villages; and the little hamlet of combarros produced quite a respectable crowd. they are carriers by caste: and their burly, big-framed men, in their wide zouave breeches and scarlet waistcoats and garters, had already become familiar to us even on the remoter roads. but this was the only place where we caught a glimpse of the women, who were attired in short orange skirts and scarlet cross-overs, with their hair drawn tight back from their foreheads and knit into trim little buns. they wore, too, some striking jewelry in the shape of large filigree earrings. but in point of physique the ladies were scarcely a match for their lords. the ascent of the pass upon the eastern side is comparatively gentle, and its height not very much above the general level of the moors; but towards the west the ground breaks away more sharply, and the hillside is scored with deep rocky gulches, which are a source of great perplexity to the descending road. it is a savage bit of country, and a fit scene for the thrilling adventure which is furnished to gil blas; for near ponferrada was the cave of the redoubtable captain rolando, who interfered so masterfully with his intended scholastic career. our hero was kidnapped at cacabellos; he reached astorga the night after his escape; and his distressed damsel, the unfortunate doña mencia, was waylaid upon this very road. the robbers must have found it a more profitable beat in those days than it would be at present, for then there was no road at pajares, and even travellers from oviedo had to come this way to the south. the vierzo basin into which we are now descending is one of the most interesting districts in the mountains of northern spain. it is a great natural saucer some twenty-five miles in diameter, considerably below the level of the plateau of leon, and completely surrounded by a ring of mountain peaks. geologically it is the bed of a primeval lake, long since emptied of its waters through the gorges of the sil; and its many ancient monastic establishments, the primitive character of its peasantry, and the wild and picturesque scenery in the surrounding mountains, render it an admirable hunting-ground for the vagrant pleasure-seeker. mere birds of passage like ourselves could see but a tithe of its attractions. it should be explored with a guide and a pack mule, a rod and a gun. and sportsmen need never complain of the lack of sufficient variety:--the nimrod whom we encountered was combining "partridges and bears!" the hills are rugged and precipitous, the birthplace of unnumbered rivulets, their flanks flooded chin deep with oceans of white heather, and their feet hidden in primeval forests wellnigh impenetrable to man. [illustration: the vierzo from ponferrada, looking towards the pass of piedrafita.] at our first view the country seemed hardly in holiday humour, for the sky was dark and lowering; and though the cloud effects were magnificent, the landscape beneath them looked eerie and morose. but, like all southern landscapes, it woke up wonderfully under the witchery of the sunshine, and donned its brightest colours next morning in honour of its patroness, our lady of the oak-tree, whose festival was to be celebrated that day. ponferrada, the centre and capital of the district, is a picturesque little township, situated on a steep bank over the river sil. its most prominent feature is an imposing castle once a preceptory of the knights templar; but this was the evening of the vigil, and the townfolk were all thronging into the portals of the church. the vast, gloomy interior was lit only by two or three tapers, which scarcely served to make darkness visible; and at first we could discern nothing but the white snoods of the women, who were kneeling in companies about the great aisleless nave. but presently the spring blind over the altar went up with a sudden snap, and disclosed _nuestra señora de la encina_ herself, the little black wooden image which is the palladium of the whole vierzo, clad in white satin and tinsel, and set in a halo of incandescent lamps! this startling modern _finale_ gave a queer jar to the old-world solemnity of the preliminaries; and the chant which burst out at the signal scarcely helped to restore the effect. the men's voices in spain are frequently powerful and impressive; but here they were relying entirely on their trebles, who are always terribly shrill and grating, even to the least musical ear. the great road which passes through ponferrada on its way across the vierzo has been the track followed by numberless armies from the days of rome to our own; and to englishmen it has a special interest as being the path of the ill-fated moore. the second and more arduous stage of the famous retreat began at astorga, where napoleon abandoned the command of the french armies to soult. moore might very possibly have checked his pursuers on the great natural _glacis_ of manzanal; but it was the aim of his strategy to entangle them as deeply as possible in the galician mountains, and he did not wish to make a stand too soon. accordingly the english army, with soult hot upon their track, swept swiftly through the vierzo. they got abominably drunk in the wine-cellars at bembibre and ponferrada. they had a sharp brush with the enemy's cavalry at the hamlet of cacabellos. then at villafranca they were swallowed again by the mountains, and headed for lugo by the long and labyrinthine pass. the road across the pass of piedrafita is a very different thing nowadays to what it was in the time of moore; yet even now it would be no pleasant journey in january, with the snow-drifts blocking the narrow "prison vale." gradually ascending the left bank of the river valcarce, we passed through several picturesque but grimy villages romantically placed amid the rocky and wooded hills. the ascent became steeper and more tortuous as the road climbed up towards the saddle; and at last, on the very summit, we reached the "fixed stone" which is the boundary of leon and galicia, and entered the head of the návia valley, which guided us down the long descent. the western portal of the pass a little above nogales is guarded by a solitary watch-tower, perched upon the point of an isolated boulder in the centre of the v-shaped vale. this outlet, however, does not get us clear of the mountains; for another lofty ridge rises immediately beyond it, and it was at this point that some of the most terrible scenes occurred in the course of moore's retreat. hundreds lay dying of cold, hunger, and exhaustion; and the army treasure-chests, containing , dollars, were rolled down the hillside into the river gully, to save them from falling into the hands of the french. the closeness of the pursuit, however, was checked by paget in a sharp action at the old roman bridge of constantino, which spans a rocky gorge half-way up the hill; and moore was enabled to reach lugo without much further loss. we spent the night at the mountain village of becerrea, high up near the summit of the ridge--a night of the most brilliant moonlight, which showed up the distant mountains almost as clearly as the day. next morning, however, found the village buried in clouds; and through these we laboriously groped our way, with the trained fog-craft of londoners, till at last we succeeded in rising above them, and emerging on the summit of the ridge. the scene was such as seldom falls to the lot of a cyclist, for the vapour choked all the valleys beneath us, and the mountain peaks that reared themselves out of it showed like so many islands in a sea of cotton-wool. the gorse and bracken around us were silver with the webs of the gossamer spiders, and the moisture that still hung to the tree-twigs sparkled like jewels in the rising sun. before us a great pale mist-bow was outlined upon a paler curtain; and it cost us some regret to desert so striking a spectacle and plunge again into the cold cloud-bath that awaited us on the other side. the series of parallel ridges which the road crosses upon its journey westward sink gradually lower and lower, till the environs of lugo appear comparatively level. the valleys are green and well wooded with tall timber trees; and as the sun got the better of the clouds some hours before mid-day, we had good cause to remember them in a favourable light. many of the wayside cottages were extremely pretty--irregular old stone shanties with shadowy eaves and balconies, and rude verandahs heavily draped with vines; and the distant prospect of plain and mountain forms a delightful background to the views. lugo stands upon one of the minor ridges which help to compose what galicia calls a plain; and the river miño, broad and placid like the thames at richmond, flows far beneath it in a deep, well-wooded vale. like many of the galician mountain townships, lugo is roofed with rough, grey slating, and this fact at the first glance gives it a curiously un-spanish air; yet there is no town in all the peninsula more thoroughly national in tone. the massive walls of the city are its greatest and most impressive feature. they are probably of genuine roman workmanship, for they are built of square stones, instead of the random courses which were the fashion in mediæval days, and of such portentous thickness as only a roman could conceive. at astorga the walls are battered and incomplete: but at lugo the facing is still practically intact; and one might drive a horse and trap round the top the full circuit of the town, without apprehending any particular difficulty if one met another horse and trap coming the other way. [illustration: lugo the santiago gate.] the cathedral is situated just inside the gate of santiago. it is a thirteenth century building, but--like many other galician churches--completely cased externally in late renaissance days. its three tall towers form a very conspicuous group from all quarters of the city; and it was a great grief of mind to my friends at the santiago gateway that i had not included them all in my sketch. it was evidently a slight upon lugo to insinuate that it had only one steeple. a spaniard's idea of a "fine view" is invariably a panorama. but the true charm of lugo consists in its squares and fountains and the picturesque gallego peasantry eddying in the narrow streets. the fountains in particular are a perpetual delight to an artist, and it is in the last hour before dusk in the evening that they may really be seen at their best. then the entire feminine population of the city sally forth to obtain their water supply,--a kaleidoscopic medley of colour, and a babel of chattering tongues. an unfortunate _alguazil_ is usually told off to keep order and preserve some kind of a _queue_. but no one thinks of taking the _alguazil_ seriously except himself, for the girls are all in the highest spirits, and regard the whole function as a sort of glorified game of tom tiddler's ground, with the _alguazil_ as a semi-official "he." the aim of every player is to slip in out of her turn. and directly she scores her first point, and the exasperated official rushes round to expel her, there is, of course, a gap left for number two. the sparkle and gaiety of the crowd is a standing reproach to us northerners. it would be a very dour and drab-coloured assemblage if it had to be managed by us. macaulay's artistic new zealander will never make much of a picture out of the hebes of seven dials filling their buckets in trafalgar square. the pitchers which are seen at the fountains would require a monograph all to themselves, for the designs are always strictly local, and in no two districts are they ever fashioned alike. the big peg-top-shaped jars of red earthenware are peculiar to lugo itself. vigo prefers them white, and shapes them like an exaggerated teapot, with no lid and a very rudimentary spout; their rude resemblance to a hen--(any relation, i wonder, to the "tappit hen" of scotland?)--is an idea which is often exploited by a potter of artistic mind. the black oval keg shown in the sketch of rivadeo is monopolised by western asturias; pajares boasts an elegant three-handled speciality; and the pitchers at caceres are of "forty thieves" design. the little wooden buckets are less susceptible of variety, yet even of these there are several kinds. the commonest type (much wider at the base than at the top) are hooped with three metal bands about two and a half inches wide. in asturias these hoops become very broad indeed, leaving only about half an inch of wood showing between; they are kept brightly polished, and make a very handsome show on a cottage dresser, but must be rather heavy on the head. at pamplona the hoops are equally wide, but there are only two of them; and at pontevedra we saw a queer jug-shaped bucket which we never encountered elsewhere. [illustration: lugo fuente de san vicente.] next comes a great tribe of metal pitchers of various shapes and sizes, used by the inhabitants of villafranca, plaséncia, and leon; and the very last ride i took on spanish soil, in the neighbourhood of santander, introduced me to a round-bellied, long-necked bottle of rough green glass, which opens a new vista of possibilities. alas! that among all these delightful old vessels one should see so many outsiders in the shape of common cheap pails of galvanised and enamelled iron! one thinks with a shudder of the lean kine in the vision which eventually devoured all the rest. the three tall towers of santiago de compostela salute the traveller from afar off across the wild moors that flank the lugo road. the city is deceitfully situated--for when we are once within it we imagine ourselves on an eminence; but, viewed from without, it is undeniably in a hole. yet there is no lack of impressiveness in this first view of "the city of our solemnities." the early pilgrim used to prostrate himself at the sight of it, and many would finish the last stage of the journey upon their knees. such thoroughgoing devotion is probably very rare nowadays, but we would not like to assert that it is yet entirely extinct. for once in the little town of briviesca, on the furthest confines of castile, we did indeed come across a genuine pilgrim, with his "cockle hat" and rusty gabardine, his staff, his gourd, and his "sandal shoon," all quite complete. the retinue of urchins which followed him proved that he was not altogether a common spectacle; but in what other country than spain could one look for such a survival at all? it is consoling to think that among his own people st james is not quite without due honour even yet. [illustration: santiago de compostela from the lugo road.] "ballads are too old to lie," said sancho panza, and i love to think the same of legends. the mere fact that they have passed current for centuries should be a bar to further investigation of title; and a spot which has been held sacred by fifty generations of pilgrims does not need to be hall-marked by dr dryasdust. nevertheless when a blind man is bent upon going into a dark room to look for a black cat, it is but charity to inform him that it isn't there, and the pedantically-minded may be glad to receive the assurance that the whole proof of santiago's identity is entirely visionary. it is related by a monkish chronicler of the english abbey of st alban, how one night in the fourteenth century it was revealed in a dream to one of the brethren that the relics of saint amphibalus were awaiting the quest of the faithful beneath a certain barrow on the watling street. which barrow being reverently opened, there were discovered (sure enough) the bones of amphibalus, and of sundry of his disciples, and the axe where-with he was martyred, and various other articles of great interest and sanctity. whereby it came to pass that some grim old neolithic chieftain, buried æons before amid his weapons and his wives, was piously installed as a tutelary in the abbey sanctuary. and much dumfoundered he must have been at it all, if he was present in spirit at the ceremony. "oh, bottom! how thou art translated!" it was evidently something very similar that happened in the ninth century at santiago de compostela. but the spanish chroniclers have been lacking in the englishman's regard for circumstantial detail; so whether it was an untamed cantabrian or a roman centurion who was annexed as _hero eponymus_ for the basilica of iria flavia it is now impossible to guess. be that as it may, the bones were certainly lost not long after they were beatified, and the authorities had to account for their disappearance by protesting that archbishop gelmirez had built them, for safety's sake, into the foundations of his great cathedral. this delightfully incontrovertible statement was the sole satisfaction provided for the medieval pilgrims. but we are now no longer permitted to build our faith upon such a stolid foundation. the relics were rediscovered little more than a generation ago. this, however, is, of course, rank heresy. if any had ever doubted the genuineness of the original relics, their cavilling was speedily silenced by the direct interposition of santiago himself. sword in hand, upon his white horse, he rallied the christian host at the crisis of the battle of clavijo, mowing down the astonished moslems ten thousand to a swathe. that day made his fortune for ever: but it was by no means his only exploit. through many generations of warfare there was hardly a battle contested without his appearance in the ranks. the warrior saint, however, was not allowed to score all the tricks in the rubber; and one fancies that the hated infidel must have fairly wiped out the adverse balance on the day when al manzor, the great vizier of córdova, led his ever-victorious army across the vierzo passes, and carried off the very bells from the steeple to adorn the _ceca_[ ] of mahound. none had ventured to bar his progress, for the very name of "the conqueror" spelt despair to the christians of that day. the walls were unguarded, the city deserted,--man, woman, and child had escaped to the mountains lest they should be consumed. but as the vizier spurred his charger through the cathedral portal, behold, before the tomb of the apostle there knelt a solitary monk. "what dost thou here?" the moor demanded. the monk raised his eyes to the terrible soldier whose face none else had dared to look upon. "i am praying," he answered. and for the sake of that one brave simple-minded man, the conqueror bade spare the shrine. christian monarchs were not always equally scrupulous; for gelmirez himself had to use his cathedral as a fortress; and pedro the cruel murdered archbishop suero on the very steps of the sanctuary--his motive being solely robbery, as usual with that royal ruffian. the interior of the cathedral is disappointing. it is a large and imposing romanesque building; but the furniture is tawdry and uninteresting when judged by a spanish standard; and the colossal image of santiago over the high altar, though genuinely ancient, has rather a heathenish air.[ ] externally the structure is completely cased in late spanish renaissance or "_churrigueresque_" work. this is not a beautiful type,--overloaded, _bizarre_, and extravagant: but everything that can be said in its favour may be said of the cathedral of santiago; and it must be a source of no little surprise to a purist that so poor a style can produce such a splendid result. the west front is indeed churriguera's masterpiece; and a noble conception it is, had it but been erected elsewhere! but it is almost a blot at compostela, for it hides the great romanesque portal "_de la gloria_," which (as ruskin might say) is the only really perfect thing of its kind in the world. [illustration: santiago de compostela the cathedral from the north-east.] the cathedral is most admirably situated, for it forms the central mass to four great quadrangles which keep a clear space in front of it on each of the four façades. and colleges, hospitals, and palaces are grouped around the quadrangles, like a party of lordly vassals assembled to do honour to a king. the streets of the city are narrow, paved with great slabs of granite; and in most cases arcaded, as protection against, not the sun, but the rain. for santiago is notoriously the rainiest spot in the peninsula, and is heartily bantered in consequence by all who are envious of its complaint. there is a tale told of a preaching friar who was making a round of the churches, and whose sermons upon the delights of heaven drew large congregations in every country-side. beneath the _nebulæ malusque jupiter_ of santiago he discoursed upon warmth and sunshine, and won all the hearts of his hearers by the tale of such fabulous bliss. but he needed a different bait when he reached the far end of his circuit. the scene and the season were altered, and the unfortunate franciscan, _sub curru nimium propinqui solis_, was sizzling on the fiery plains of murcia. like horace, he was still faithful to his text, but his reading of it had altered, and his song was now all of a heaven that was deliciously moist and cool! our much-maligned english climate has at all events got compensations. let a man have a surfeit of sunshine and he learns to think tenderly of the rain. chapter v the circuit of galicia lugo is the hub of galicia. it lies at the mouth of the pass of piedrafita, on the great main road which enters the province from leon; and which at this point trifurcates southward, westward, and northward to orense, santiago, and coruña. sir john moore had reserved his option to the last, and up to this point his pursuers could not tell for certain whether he were bound for coruña or vigo. here then he paused to re-form his straggling regiments, and boldly offered battle upon the eastern front of the town. but soult was too cautious to fight till he had concentrated his whole army; and moore having gained his two days' rest, made a last spurt for coruña after nightfall on the second day. we shall come across his traces later, as we work our way around the northern coast; but first we would see something further of galicia, and turn to chase the miño to the sea. there are many parts of galicia in which the scenery has an english flavour, and the miño valley at lugo is one of the cases in point. the fields are green and well-wooded, fenced with rough stone walls or sometimes with slabs set edgewise. the hilltops, rounded and heathy, are plentifully studded with celtic and roman earthworks; and when we mount to their summits (an event which happens more frequently than is quite agreeable to the cyclist) it is only like straying from dorset to exmoor or the yorkshire fells. the moist climate of galicia gives the vegetation a chance that it does not obtain in the interior, and of which it avails itself enthusiastically. the trees in the village _alamedas_ are planted so thickly that they would seem doomed to suffocation. yet they flourish luxuriantly, plaiting their branches together till the foliage forms a thick matted blanket over the whole area; and beneath them is "darkness that may be felt," so dense and solid that one feels one might dig a way in. our first stage from lugo brought us to monforte--a real "strong mount," not unlike st michael's, but standing in the centre of a great plain encircled by a ring of lofty hills. thence we proceeded up a long, winding mountain roadway; through the vine-clad villages that covered the lower slopes, and over the bare wild moorland that rose above them to the crest of the ridge. a big celtic camp was planted commandingly upon the summit, and here we paused like mariners out of their bearings as we peered over into the valley which yawned for us on the further side. surely this could not be the miño! we had parted from it yesterday at lugo--a domesticated and navigable-looking river, quite different from the uncivilised little torrent that we now saw far beneath us, tearing along the bottom of this v-shaped glen. the map was a little ambiguous, but it offered no plausible alternative; and when, after several very crooked miles, the road at last succeeded in curling itself down alongside, behold! it was the miño, sure enough. the miño is undoubtedly the most beautiful of all the great rivers in northern spain, and the variety of its moods is, perhaps, its most attractive feature. nothing could be wilder than the glen by which it forces the mountains, unless it be the sister-glen by which the sil comes down to unite with it, brimming with the waters from the vierzo springs. yet from the confluence to orense it flows through an eden of fertility, its hilly banks festooned with vine and olive, and the meadows beneath them teeming with corn and maize. then comes a sterner stretch amid the mountains along the portuguese frontier--more majestic, yet scarcely less fertile,--till it emerges at last in the broad, rich valley of tuy, and circling under its ramparts glides slowly onward to the sea. orense, the capital of the district, lies a little back from the river on the crest of a slight eminence, an offshoot of the neighbouring hills. its fine old romanesque cathedral would of itself be enough to dignify any town; but the great lion of orense is its magnificent bridge. this mammoth structure was the work of the mediæval bishops, whose reverence for the memory of st christopher did not entirely expend itself in frescoes on their cathedral walls. it is the greatest of all the gable bridges, and its main central span, one hundred and fifty feet from pier to pier, is the widest of any in spain. neither martorell nor toledo can quite equal it; but almaraz is considered superior, and it has neither the dizzy height nor the stupendous bulk that might rank it as a rival to alcántara. [illustration: orense the bridge over the miño.] the bridge of orense was the pivot of the french operations when soult led his power from coruña to renew the subjugation of portugal. his earlier attempts to cross the miño at tuy were foiled by the flooded river, the bad watermanship of his landlubbers, and a little plucky opposition from the further shore. orense gave him an opening, and the country was for a moment at his mercy. but the respite had been invaluable--he had now but a short time. within two months his army was reeling back from oporto, without hospital, baggage, or artillery, in a worse plight even than moore's. he had wrestled his first fall with the great antagonist who was destined to beat him from the douro to toulouse. and while he was clutching at portugal, and ney at western asturias, galicia had slipped from their fingers and the heather was aflame. the outlying garrisons were captured, the foragers waylaid and massacred, even the camps and columns incessantly sniped from the hills. one noted _guerrillero_ assured freire that he had personally superintended the drowning of seven hundred french in the waters of the miño. probably it is permissible to discount his arithmetic; but the ugly boast is a sufficient indication of the spirit in which the struggle was carried on. the invaders were finally drawn away by wellington's advance up the tagus valley; but indeed their whole scheme of occupation had been foredoomed to failure from the first. "it is impossible for any army to hold galicia," wrote soult to his imperial taskmaster. the mountains and irreconcilables were too much for any force that could be spared. the galician methods of viniculture have at least the merit of elegance, and the miño is still undisciplined by the stiff formal terraces of the rhine. the vines are trained over light rustic _pergolas_, the horizontal sticks being fixed at a height of about six feet above the ground, so that there is just room for a man to walk beneath them. the whole area of the field is thus covered with a leafy awning, and in most instances the old stone cottages are half surrounded with verandahs constructed in similar style. these are certainly the prettiest vineyards with which we have yet made acquaintance, but they are seldom seen beyond the limits of galicia. the vines of the duero are ground vines, and the landscape gets very little profit out of them. the local _vins ordinaires_ of the northern provinces are generally somewhat similar to burgundy, but their quality varies greatly in the different districts. often they are really excellent, but sometimes exceedingly harsh and rough--attuned to the "hard stomachs of the reapers," and flavoured with the pitch which is used in dressing the pig skins in which they are stored. the most famous of all is sancho's beloved valdepeñas from the arid plains of la mancha; but the miño wines also are excellent, and our hostess had good reason for confidence when she produced "her own wine" so proudly at la cañiza. old james howell refers very affectionately to the "gentle sort of white wine" which is grown at ribadávia; and he might without any injustice have extended his approval to the red. at all events it was nobly thought of by don francisco de toledo, commandant of the _tertia_ of the miño, who sailed in the spanish armada, for he shipped an ample stock of it on board the _san felipe_. whereby it chanced that three hundred convivial zeelanders were carried incontinently to the bottom as they were carousing in the battered derelict. the truly accommodative traveller should drink, like the natives, _a trago_, out of the regulation glass teapot or time-honoured "leather bottle." these experts hold the vessel well above their heads, and squirt the thin jet of liquid straight into their open mouths. but the art needs a long apprenticeship, and is painfully hazardous to a novice. it should not be essayed before strangers, nor in any elaborate get-up. we had hoped that our mountaineering experiences would cease for a while at orense--that our road would consent to abide by the miño, and accept its guidance to the sea. we had got no further than ribadávia, however, before we found ourselves again going up to the heavens, and the little riverside towns between ribadávia and tuy are only to be approached by branch roads which drop upon them from above. the hillsides are clothed with pine woods, plentifully sugared with huge boulders as big as ordinary cottages; and if (as seems probable) these are indeed _blocs perchés_, the ancient glaciers of galicia must have been of respectable size. all over the lower slopes they are scattered in lavish profusion, and the topmost are gingerly balanced on the very summits of the _arrêtes_. [illustration: tuy and valencia the frontier towns on the miño.] the clouds were massing ominously upon the heights above us as we rose clear of the pine woods, and our further impressions of the landscape were merged in the universal deluge that swallowed us when we reached the top. but the little mountain village of la cañiza rescued us, and fed us and dried us, and made itself agreeable to us next morning ere it set us again on our way. la cañiza was preparing a _fiesta_; and a fact that excited our interest was that fresh figs were selling in the market at sixteen a penny--or indeed over twenty a penny, with allowance for the rate of exchange. we hope they were favoured with fine weather, but the outlook was not altogether assuring; and we were glad when we found ourselves across the _puerto_ and dropping once more into the summer-like climate of the deep rich vale beyond. tuy is the frontier town of the miño, and the portuguese fortress of valencia confronts it across the river like some "deadly opposite" in an interrupted duel. but its quaint old houses and cathedral do not now wear a very martial appearance; and as i was allowed to sketch uninterrupted under the very nose of a sentry, it would seem that the rival cities have agreed to differ without any unnecessary parade. vigo (to our surprise) proved quite unknown to all the inhabitants of tuy. "bigo" they knew; but they rejected any other designation. and that with a firmness which would be warmly approved at "balladolid." the consonants _b_ and _v_ seem everywhere at odds for supremacy; and it rather adds to the perplexity of the stranger that they often get written as pronounced. "_villar_," at the first glance, is not at all suggestive of "billiards"; and "_aqui se bende bino_" would be so much more comprehensible if it were "spelt with a we." "'_vivere_' is the same as '_bibere_' to a spaniard," laughs martial; so the provincialism is at all events of respectable antiquity. yet it is not countenanced in the cloisters of toledo, where the "sir oracle" of classical castilian is reputed to hold his court. at the same time we must confess that when we visited those hallowed precincts we did not hear so much as a syllable of any language at all. vigo lies about twenty miles from tuy, on the further side of a wall of pointed hills; and our first intimation of our approach to that famous seaport was a procession of barelegged fishwives with their big dripping baskets balanced upon their heads. untrammelled by their burden, they came swinging down the road towards us at a good five miles an hour, the elderly and grizzled among them as upright and elastic as the girls. if ever the craze for pedestrianism should culminate in an international team race for ladies, the fishwives of vigo would be a "very strong tip." indeed, if we felt quite sure that they would not get disqualified for "lifting," we might even venture to pronounce them a "moral cert." a galician woman thinks nothing of a moderate-sized haystack as her ordinary walking head-dress; and any article she may carry, from an umbrella to a harmonium, is invariably poised upon her head. no doubt they considered us extremely foolish not to do the same with our knapsacks, for the theory of equilibrium comes as natural to them as their breath. walking or sitting, standing or stooping, they never so much as raise a hand to steady their baskets or their pails. and the lifelong habit has certainly given them a most stately carriage. a duchess who is ambitious of walking worthy of her vocation could hardly do better than go into training with them. the spanish peasant girls may not be classically beautiful, but they are well-built, strong and active; a healthy-looking, open-air race. the chamber-maids of the hotel at vigo seemed to spend the whole of their existence carrying buckets of water upstairs on their heads to the bedrooms. the hotel was five storeys high; and their labour was as the "well of ronda."[ ] yet these cheerful danaids were quite unconcerned about their task. even the peerless dulcinea del toboso, it may be remembered (upon identification), proved capable of heaving the crowbar as well as the lustiest young fellow of the village, and her remarks to the reapers could be heard at a distance of half a league. nature has dowered vigo with the most magnificent natural harbour in europe; but vigo is only a fishing port, "a place for the spreading of nets." the economist who chances to wander thither will weep his eyes out over neglected opportunities; but an artist may use his to better purpose. seldom can he feast them upon a more delightful spectacle than that great landlocked mountain-girt firth, with its deep blue waters bosomed amid the luxuriant vegetation of the hills. my sketch was taken looking seaward from the extreme end of the inner harbour; where admiral rooke sank the "silver fleet" in , and where many generations of treasure-seekers have since groped over the muddy bottom in their vain endeavours to recover the "pieces of eight." beyond the bottle-necked entrance lies the outer harbour upon which the town is situated; and further still, out of sight in the extreme distance, the natural breakwater of the islas de cies repels the ocean from the bay. [illustration: vigo bay the inner harbour, looking out towards the sea.] but in the town itself the most attractive feature is indubitably the fishing quarter. the throng of picturesque fishing craft elbowing each other in the crowded basin; the crazy old arcaded houses that ring the harbour round; the sailors staggering up the inclines with their baskets full of gleaming silver; the women sitting along the quay and deftly decapitating sardines with their thumbs. the mess, the noise, the crowd, the bustle, the glitter, form one of the most brilliant pictures that a painter could possibly conceive. and as for the smell, we do declare upon our veracity that it is distinctly perceptible at a distance of five miles. there are many such _rias_ as vigo along the coast to the northward; and the road rising sharply over the intervening ridges, finds in each successive valley a fresh garden of delight. the huge mountain groynes push themselves far out into the ocean; and their precipitous headlands, vilano, toriñana, and finistierra, form the mighty spur stones of the sea-borne traffic to the south. between them lie the gleaming estuaries, each a harbour fit for a navy, and the deep verdant valleys well watered by the streams from the hills. perhaps there is no plant in the world which could not be induced to grow here with a little attention; for the range from palms to heather is a wide one, but they flourish as if to the country born. "it is the paradise of spain," exclaimed an enthusiastic astorgan. and one can well imagine how such a picture would appeal to a native of the arid plateaus of leon. yet galicia has a plague of its own lest the angels should prefer it to heaven; for the lord of that land is beelzebub, and its children are fodder for his flies. on the dry, lofty plains of the interior these pests are less virulent than one might expect in a tropical country; but in galicia even the ordinary house-fly thinks nothing of transfixing a worsted stocking, and our shanks were soon spotted like currant dumplings with the scars of their innumerable bites. the chief tormentors, however, are the horse-flies--the "clegs" of the highlands of scotland--a terror even to the thick-skinned mule and pony, and cordially anathematised by the galician muleteer. their only redeeming quality is a certain bull-dog tenacity, which is all in favour of the avenger; though death is no adequate penalty for such horribly venomous bites. the village granaries in this district are a very insistent feature. there is one in nearly every cottage garden--a little stone ark raised on six lofty legs. in asturias they are much larger, built of wood and capped with a pyramidical roof. there no one could mistake them for anything but what they are; but here their shape, and their size, and the little stone crosses on their gables, are all so irresistibly suggestive of a sarcophagus, that at first we could not imagine that they had any other purpose to serve. the average gallego's fancy seems to turn on thoughts of funerals. his peculiar local type of bullock-cart also was manifestly derived from a coffin on wheels. at el padron we turned inland past the local shrine of _nuestra señora de la esclavitud_. (_penal_ servitude, i regret to say, for it was a noted sanctuary for criminals.) the west front is a modest imitation of that of santiago cathedral, and the niche under its great stairway enshrines a beautifully cool fountain, which we could recommend more confidently if it did not issue from the churchyard. at this point it was that borrow left the main track on his weird journey to corcuvion; but we pushed straight ahead for santiago de compostela; and once more threaded its arcaded _ruas_ in search of the coruña road. the coach that runs daily from santiago to coruña prides itself upon possessing the most numerous team of any vehicle in spain. we were assured that sixteen mules were frequently requisitioned to drag it over the snowy hills in winter-time; but from our own personal observation (in august) we cannot vouch for more than ten. the passengers were just stowing themselves into it as we passed them. they had a ten hours' journey before them, and it promised to be a roasting day. yet the "insides" were packed like sardines in a basket; and some brave spirits were even occupying the roof among the interstices of the baggage, where they were all corded down together under a general tarpaulin! we wondered what they would look like when they emerged from their travelling oven at the other end! the road is rather homelike in character, remote alike from coast-line and mountain: and more than one stage of the journey might have been borrowed from hindhead or rake hill. yet we gleaned passing hints of our latitude from the picturesque figures of the husbandmen, with their mild little cream-coloured oxen, their mattocks, and their primitive ploughs. [illustration: nuestra seÑora de la esclavitud.] these last are of adamite construction, made entirely of wood and so light that the long-suffering women can carry them upon their heads. such was the pattern known to hesiod and to virgil. such an one was wamba using when the lords of the visigoths came to summon their cincinnatus to the throne of toledo, and the haft blossomed in his hand in token that their tidings were true. we have continued gradually rising for the greater part of our journey; but the ground breaks away suddenly and sharply a few miles short of the coast. the view from the crest is delightful. a wide expanse of green undulating woodland maps itself out beneath us at the foot of the deep descent; and beyond gleam the still blue waters of the ocean, and the little saucepan-shaped city of coruña standing out boldly in the centre of its bay. what a welcome sight it must have presented to moore and his soldiers as they struggled over the puerto bello, a few miles along the ridge to the east! barefoot, ragged, and hungry, and drenched by the pelting tempest, like xenophon's harassed ten thousand, at last they were in sight of the sea. the long night march from lugo had been the most trying and disastrous of any. yet there was no slackness when they turned to bay; and near betánzos even the stragglers proved that they retained sufficient cohesion to repulse a cavalry charge. dropping in long steep sweeps from the heathery heights to the woodland, the road gradually settles itself down beside the banks of the mero river; and just as the streamlet widens into an estuary we dip across the mouth of a little lateral valley, where the village of palávia nestles between two parallel hills. the bones of three thousand men lie buried along that little valley, and the trim villas and gay gardens of the coruña suburbanites cover the ground where french and english fought out their desperate struggle a hundred years ago. the focus of the fighting, however, was not at palávia, but higher up the valley towards our left, where the ground was more favourable to the assailants, and where the defenders had no river to protect their flank. here soult made his grand attack under the fire of his great battery; here moore fell mortally wounded on the slopes above elviña at the very moment when he felt assurance of success. moore's grave is in the citadel of coruña. an unpretentious monument, but now well kept, and the centre of a charming little walled garden. like many another faithful servant of his country, he had been set to do impossibilities, and was vilified by the impatient stay-at-homes, because they could not grasp the measure of his success. they had sent out a gallant army; and it was restored to them hungry and naked, broken by cruel marches, and reeking from a stricken field. they had never before realised what war was, and they blamed their general for revealing it. indeed, as even condé admitted, the details are ugly in spain. moore's famous victory was not the only one achieved by british arms in this neighbourhood. over two centuries before, in the year after the spanish armada, drake and norreys landed an expeditionary force to chastise the port from which it had sailed. they captured and plundered the town, and upon the very margin of moore's battle-field they stormed the bridge of el burgo and defeated the spanish militia who had assembled for its relief. of these they slew "a thousand," while they lost but three of their own men. from which it may be inferred that drake and norreys had been reading the exploits of santiago, and thought that a little local colour in their dispatches would serve as a guarantee of good faith. we had intended to make but one stage of it from coruña, and encompass the bay to ferrol. but our plans were all blown to the winds when we spied the little town of betánzos clustered together upon its conical hill in a loop of the mendo river,--far too attractive a spectacle to be skipped with a casual call. it won our hearts at first sight, as we stooped to the vale from the uplands: and our affections were confirmed the moment we entered the gates. a delightful little township, with none of its lines parallel and none of its angles right angles; and a whole population of models grouping themselves in its ramshackle arcades.[ ] [illustration: betÁnzos a colonnaded calle.] we had been commended to betánzos by valentina, the waitress at santiago. betánzos was valentina's _pueblo_, and "a very gay place" (so said valentina). betánzos played up to its reputation by an improvised ball in the evening; and few set ballets in a theatre could provide so pretty a sight. the _plaza_ is paved with cobbles, which are disadvantageous for dancing. but the fountain which stands in the centre acts as hub to a multitude of smooth flagged pathways; and up and down these, in to the centre and out again, the couples swung unwearyingly in a great vibrating star. the electric lamps (oh yes! they have electric lamps in betánzos) only partially illuminated the area; and the patches of light and shadow gave an additional variety to the effect. the galician peasant woman's costume is one of the prettiest in the peninsula. as usual, it is very simple; a skirt and bodice, a kerchief tied over the head, and another crosswise over the shoulders. but the charm is in the colouring, and the galician women wear the brightest of colours: brave reds and yellows for the kerchiefs, with something rather quieter for the skirt. they almost all go barefoot; a spendthrift use of commodities, but doubtless extremely convenient so long as the wear does not tell. the foot will grow coarsened in time; but the girls have not any misgivings,--and the beggar maid probably profited when she came before king cophetua. it is rather humiliating to compare the square-toed natural foot with the narrow, artificially pointed article which has been evolved for us by our boot-makers. verily we have small cause to laugh at the fashions of the chinese! the men wear loose "white" shirts with dark-coloured breeches and stockings, and a _cummerbund_ wrapped round the loins. sometimes there happens to be a waistcoat, or a cloak slung over the shoulder; and the costume is usually completed by a battered broad-brimmed hat. "capital stuff, this," cried ferdinand the catholic, with reference to the royal jerkin, "it has worn out three pairs of sleeves!" and his highness's predilection for patching still appeals to the lieges of to-day. so piously do they practise his precept that it is often difficult to determine whether any part of their garments was original; and they all appear (justly enough) to have clung to a working hypothesis that the matching of colours is hazardous, but there is always safety in contrast. the picturesqueness of the result, however, is as obvious as its economy. perhaps some day an english ferdinand will revive the example for us. [illustration: the masma valley near mondoñedo.] the beautiful bay of coruña lay still within the curve of our advancing roadway, and every re-entering angle was filled with a gleaming creek. to our right rose rugged hills, plentifully besprinkled with farmsteads; and more than one rustic township punctuated the stages of the way. the last and most important of the inlets was the great bottle-necked lagoon of ferrol; and the famous arsenal itself lay half concealed at the mouth of it, close under the guardian headlands that form the gateway to the bay. ferrol surrendered to soult without a blow after coruña, and the pusillanimity of its governor probably robbed it of a creditable success. with half the spirit of gerona or zaragoza it would have proved impregnable, in the light of subsequent events. the galicians were taken unaware when moore drew the war into their mountains, and were stunned before they were aroused. the season, too, was winter, when a _guerrilla_ was almost impracticable. they showed a better spirit when their torpor was thawed in the spring. from ferrol the road heaved us aloft to the crest of the great moorland plateau where the miño hoards its fountains, and from which we looked out westward and northward over an almost limitless length of coast-line, with the dark upland ridges running out between the creeks like the ribs of a fan. how high we had risen we scarcely realised till we came to descend again, and saw the long, deep, highland glen dropping visibly before us mile beyond mile. yet when we reached the corner, the little cathedral town of mondoñedo still lay far below us; for what show as mountains over the masma valley are really only the edges of the moor. we eventually came down to the sea at the estuary of foz a little before sunset; and just as the dusk was turning to darkness we ran into the narrow streets of rivadeo, and the arms of the motherly old hostesses who rule the "castilian hotel." chapter vi western asturias a buxom old lady who was occupying the shadow of a large umbrella in the centre of rivadeo marketp-lace greeted us volubly as we emerged from the _fonda_ door. "a good day to your honours! it seems then that they are upon a journey? ah! without doubt they are going to castropol. yes, there is a road there, but it is a long way round the _ria_. they will save an hour,--two hours,--by taking a boat!" our honours, indeed, had already come to the same conclusion; neither were they altogether surprised when their friend's eloquence culminated in the announcement that she herself (thank god) was a castropolitan, and her boat in waiting at the quay below. a small black-eyed damsel was hastily installed commandant of the big umbrella, and the old lady sallied forth to rout out her boatman and steer us down to the shore. this spirited attempt to corner the entire passenger traffic was hotly resented by a partner in a rival firm; an unprincipled operator who endeavoured to gain control of the market by the most shameless rate-cutting. he would take us across for six _reals_! for five _reals_! for four!! he followed us down the street, waving his arms and gesticulating and pitching his voice a tone higher at every bid. but the old dame resolutely headed off all his attempts to get at her convoy; silenced his feebler abuse with broadsides of the bitterest sarcasm; and finally expressed her scorn for competition and equilibrium by a dance of derision executed upon the poop as the boat shoved off into the bay. it was truly a lovely morning, and the view was worthy of the sunshine. behind were the white walls and shiny slate roofs of rivadeo scrambling one above the other up the steeply sloping cliff; before us castropol rose from the water's edge in a pyramid of purple shadow,--for the sun was dead behind it,--and between the two lay the glassy _ria_, a long narrow fiord, winding away inland, reach beyond reach, till it lost itself in the bosom of the hazy hills. evidently the path before us was at least cast in pleasant places. [illustration: rivadeo an approach to the harbour.] we had made bold to confide somewhat in fortune when we embarked on this stage of our campaign. the map gave no pledge of a road, and the guide-books were equally uncommitted. borrow, indeed, had traversed the province, with his honest guide, martin of rivadeo; but borrow made his journey on horseback, and his description did not lead one to infer that there was any opening for wheels. yet our trust in the chapter of accidents brought a suitably generous reward. take the mountains of the lake district, and double their height; plant them under an italian sky behind a cornish coast; add plenty of old broad-eaved, balconied houses, not unlike swiss chalets, a primitive picturesque population clad in bright colours, and draught cattle, ploughs, waggons, pack mules, and other appointments _en suite_. such a picture is fairly typical of the scenes that awaited us upon our way. here the road dipped to carry us past the end of a rocky inlet, where the waves were breaking upon the chesil beach some fifty yards away. here it rose again to disclose a panorama of sea and mountain, with the thin blue smoke of the charcoal burners' fires trailing lazily across the plateau or wreathing itself around the shoulders of the hills. to borrow's eyes it had all seemed gloomy and desolate; but he had traversed it in the mists of a stormy autumn, and beneath the halcyon skies of summer it is a veritable fairyland. the _ria_ at návia is scarcely worthy of the name, for it is merely the mouth of a little tidal river, not a harbour for sea-going ships, like the firth of rivadeo. yet it is a beautiful valley, and the queerly-cropped poplars give a very _bizarre_ effect to the view. a little further on is a more striking feature. a huge serrated ridge, known as the sierra de rañadoiro, flings itself out at right angles to the _cordillera_, and stands like a wall across the plateau which divides the mountains from the sea. just before it reaches the coast it branches off into a number of smaller ridges, ravelling out like the strands of a cable; and the last group in the series are the seven _bellotas_, which proved such formidable obstacles to borrow and his guide. there is no chance of "shirking the fences." each ridge terminates in a bold and lofty headland, each valley in a rocky creek; and seventy years ago those deep narrow gorges must have been ugly places enough. but borrow's stony bridle-path is now a fine broad roadway, his "miserable venta" is a comfortable inn; and he certainly would not have troubled to push on to muros had he found such good entertainment as did we. [illustration: the navia valley] mine host was a stout and jovial yeoman with a loud voice and a hearty laugh. he sat very wide at the head of the table, and promised us that we should have our cutlets raw. "what! were we not englishmen? and should he set cooked meat before englishmen? no, indeed; that perfectly comprehended itself. _spaniards_ ate cooked meat, but _englishmen_ devoured it raw." of course (as a special concession) _we_ might have them cooked--"_á la española_." but this without prejudice to the eternal verity that "_á la inglesa_" was "raw." we struggled in vain to persuade him that we knew as much about england as he did. an asturian dalesman is commonly reputed capable of driving a nail into a wall with his head. but so long as his principles were not controverted he certainly was excellent company for his guests. he regaled us with a capital white wine, "_vino castellano_" (i suppose from the medina del campo district, which is the only place where i know of white wine in castile); he discoursed to us on the beauties of právia and the excellence of asturian cider; and sped us at parting with the assurance that there were very few hills on the road. but this last piece of information (as we subsequently discovered) was to be accepted in a strictly asturian sense. luarca and cudillero, the two little coast towns of the district, are twin brothers in situation, but moving in different sets. luarca is aspiring to the dignity of a watering-place:--it must have quite a dozen visitors in the season even now. cudillero is a fishing village pure and simple, and is content to leave vanities alone. each town lies nestling in a deep narrow notch of the lofty coast-line, with its quaint shanties spilling themselves pell-mell down the precipitous escarpments in all shapes, sizes, and positions, like rubble shot out of a cart. the brawling waters of a little brook go tumbling down the middle; and the tiny creek at the bottom is lined with a sturdy array of quays and breakwaters, where the fishing fleet can shelter itself from the tempests of the bay. perhaps of the two luarca has the prettier harbour; but the unabashed raggedness and dilapidation of cudillero, and the old-world simplicity of its people, will appeal more strongly to an artist's eye. the main road drops in to call at luarca, but it is quite unaware of the existence of cudillero, and but for the directions of an auspicious waggoner we might have strayed past it altogether. a break-neck descent of a mile or so eventually brought us on to the roofs of some houses; and it presently transpired that the town was "underneath." down we plunged into it by a ricketty corkscrew street, as steep as that at clovelly; ducked under the weather-beaten old church which is plugged like a bung in the outlet; and eventually emerged at the waterside, where the fishwives were sitting in a long parti-coloured fringe along the edge of the quay, armed with their large flat baskets, and awaiting the return of the boats. the _fonda del comércio_ was a poky and primitive little hostelry, but they had plenty of fresh sardines; and his lot is not entirely pitiable who sups upon fresh sardines. we slept in tiny alcoves curtained off from our dining-room; and our last recollections were connected with parties of happy fishermen in the street without, singing rollicking ditties in honour of "_amor_." i was down in the harbour early in the morning for the purpose of sketching, and so also were a goodly contingent of the townsfolk, intent on their morning dip. it is a libel on the spanish nation to imagine that they do not wash. perhaps it is true of the central plains,--poor people, they lack the water, but all along the coast they are much given to bathing. the women stroll unconcernedly down to the beach, armed with a huge towel and a sort of glorified sack which serves as a bathing costume. the huge towel, spread over their heads, envelopes them completely, and under cover of it they make their toilet. at cudillero the beach where the boats were drawn up was reserved for the women, and the men bathed off the rocks a little distance away. but neither party made any pretence of privacy; and there is an air of primitive innocency about the whole proceeding which forbids all notion of offence. another primitive sight, though of a different character, was awaiting me as i re-entered the town. it was sunday morning, and the early mass was being celebrated in the church at the stairfoot of the roadway. the building was crowded even beyond its utmost capacity, for a long _queue_ of kneeling worshippers had thrust itself out from the open door, like bees hanging from a hive when they are about to swarm. whatever may be the case in the cities, it is certain that the peasantry are as devout as ever in their religious observances; and once or twice upon holy days we have found the highway itself absolutely blocked with a crowd of worshippers intent on their orisons before some wayside shrine. [illustration: cudillero the harbour.] we regained the high road above cudillero by a long winding ascent; and leaving far below us on our left the beautiful estuary of muros, bore up into the mountains for the secluded vale of právia at the confluence of the narcea and the nalon. "právia is better than switzerland," our host at bellotas had informed us, and we do not wish to deny it. but the comparison could only be made by one who had never seen switzerland, for there is nothing in common between the two. our own lake district would supply a nearer parallel; but i know nothing quite like právia except právia itself; a meeting-place of many valleys with vistas of mountain scenery opening out on every side. yet the heart of the range still holds remote and invisible. it is not till we have progressed some distance up the nalon valley, and are drawing near to oviedo, that we get acquainted with the higher peaks. then, indeed, the scale becomes truly alpine, and the valleys which lie across our path would not discredit piedmont or savoy. oviedo is not a town for which i have ever been able to acquire much enthusiasm. a traveller newly landed from france might find it delightfully spanish, but to one who is fresh from the interior it has a flavour of underdone french. it lies amid beautiful scenery, but just out of sight of the best of it; and perhaps, as it is bent upon a career of commercial enterprise, this retirement is creditable to its taste. yet its situation is by no means commonplace, its atmosphere not generally smoky, and its fine old palaces and narrow cobbled _calles_ must be allowed to weigh something in the balance against its boulevards and tram-lines and plate-glass. the cathedral is a fine building, though it hardly can rank with the finest; and it seems to be somewhat infected by the prevailing frenchified air. yet in sanctity it is pre-eminent; for it boasts the holiest relics in the peninsula--all the miracle-working treasures which the kings of the visigoths had hoarded in their temple at toledo, and which the faithful bore away with them into the mountains when they fled from the invading moors. some splendid specimens of early jewellery may be seen among the caskets and monstrances; and the reredos behind the high altar is quite in the best spanish style. the children seem afflicted with an uncontrollable mania for getting their pictures taken. perhaps there is thought to be luck in it, for even their elders are not entirely exempt. this fact accounts for the presence of the venerable _sereno_ in the foreground of my drawing of the cathedral. he insisted on shaking hands with me for my kindness in putting him there, although i had conceived the obligation to be all on my side. these quaint old watchmen are a sort of hall-mark of municipal respectability. no spanish city "of any degree of _ton_" would think of dispensing with its _serenos_. indeed, in some instances the _sereno_ has survived where the city is now little more than a name. fine picturesque old figures clad in cloaks and slouch hats, and armed with javelins and lanterns,--(the towns are all lighted by electricity, but that is a detail),--they give a deliciously old-world flavour to the deserted streets at night. it is questionable whether they would be much use in a row; for like our own late lamented "charlies," they are often aged and infirm. but their pictorial effect is incomparable: and they are real good samaritans to the belated reveller, for they carry the keys of all the street doors on their beat, so that the errant householder can always steal quietly to cover, after he has awakened half the parish in summoning "_ser-êno-o!_" light sleepers abominate the whole tribe; for they have powerful voices, and their melodious bellow, "twelve o'clock, and all serene!"--(the refrain to which they owe their title)--is sure to arouse all the dogs that happen to have stopped barking since eleven. it sounds such gratuitous worry to make night hideous because the weather is fine. but it seems quite a passion with spaniards to know how the time is progressing--not from any regard of its monetary value, but merely from an altruistic and dilettante point of view. they adopt at least three bases of reckoning--the local time, the madrid time, and the western european (by which the trains do _not_ start). all the clocks are at variance with all of them: and the whole system seems solely contrived for the bewilderment of the foreigner, for the _habitué_ impartially ignores the lot. the people of oviedo,--and, indeed, all asturians and gallegans,--are esteemed an inferior race by your true castilian. the prejudice is rather puzzling: for "the mountains" are the cradle of the oldest and bluest blood in spain. but it is of very old standing; for even the cid campeador, when administering the oath to alfonso vi. (who was suspected of complicity in king sancho's murder[ ]), could devise no more humiliating adjuration than "if you swear falsely, may you be slain by an oviedan!" [illustration: oviedo a street near the cathedral.] perhaps the early warriors who sallied forth to achieve the reconquest despised those who remained quietly behind in the mountains. and when in later days royalty and chivalry made their home in the south, the simpler northerners would come to be regarded as boors. even to this day the asturian peasant seems to lack something of the formality of the castilian. he is less punctilious in enquiring "how you have passed the night" of a morning; less prompt with the regular roadside greeting, "may your honour go with god!" the slurring of these little niceties may possibly be sufficient to brand him as a "bounder"; and there is no stigma more hard to obliterate than this. for all these courteous trifles are the _shibboleth_ of high breeding to a spaniard, and a terrible stumbling-block to the blunt-spoken englishman,--so apt to give unwitting offence. the spanish generals always waited on wellington to ask how he had slept, even when they knew that he had watched all night in the trenches. if they omitted the ceremony they feared he would deem himself slighted. "on the contrary," quoth alava drily, "he will be very much obliged." the asturian monarchs had good reason for fixing their capital at oviedo; for it guards the main gateway of their kingdom, the chief of the passes to the south. it lies not indeed at the actual mouth of the valley, but a little on one side of it. our road has to struggle over a couple of thousand-foot ridges ere it can lay its course straight for its goal. these two preliminary mountains we resolved to put behind us in the evening, and keep a clear day for the pass of pajares itself. our overture was by no means a trifle. it was dark when we began the second descent, and the iron furnaces of miéres glowed up out of the black profundity beneath us like little volcano craters anxious to win themselves fame. miéres is a village of ironworkers, and rather shabby and grimy in consequence: yet we were glad to gain its shelter, for the sky had long been threatening, and the storm broke soon after our arrival--a true mountain tempest, with the rain roaring on the roof like a cataract, and incessant flashes of lightning illuminating the valley with the brightness of day. storm succeeded storm throughout the night, and the outlook next morning was far from promising. but we took our courage in both hands and started at the first break in the downpour. the valley was choked with mist, and the road in a state of unutterable slabbiness: yet our enterprise was soon rewarded, for the weather had done its worst in the darkness, and the sunshine brought the vapours steaming up out of the meadows and banished them with the clouds across the summits of the hills. the symptoms of industrial activity do not extend far above miéres, and lena is but the quiet head village of a peaceful mountain glen. lena is famous for the possession of the precious little eighth-century church of sta cristina, perhaps the most notable of the group for which the oviedo district is renowned; and the scenery amid which it is situated is very similar to that of our own welsh or cumberland highlands, though planned on a larger scale. hitherto the ascent has been gradual; but now the road takes to the side of the mountain, and heaves itself up from shoulder to shoulder in a vast skein of steadily rising zigzags; while the railway which has so far accompanied it wanders off by itself into remote lateral valleys, groping for an easy gradient to help it up its four-thousand-foot climb. twenty miles by road from lena, and over thirty by rail, the approach to the summit is long and arduous, though redeemed by most lovely views. we have a vivid recollection of the glass of water which was bestowed upon us by the woman in charge of the level crossing at the foot of the final ascent. she was a navarrese woman, and the water was the most delicious in the world! at the final pitch the railway takes to a tunnel; and the road scrambles alone to the saddle, rewarding its clients with the most magnificent panorama,--looking out over the abysmal valley to the wilderness of pike and fell on the westward, where the rigid outlines of the peña ubiña are seldom destitute of snow. a rock-climber might break his neck very satisfactorily among these savage crags. one great _aiguille_ in particular seems to challenge him by its sheer inaccessibility--a rocky splinter torn apart from its parent precipice, like another napes needle, but probably a thousand feet high. when the alps have become unbearably roshervilled, perhaps these untrodden fastnesses may solace the _blasé_ mountaineer. the step which carries us across the pass of pajares is one of the most decisive of any we have yet taken. it spans the frontier of leon and asturias, the boundary of the realms of cloud and sun. the ridge parts not merely two provinces but two climates, and we seem to enter the tropics at a stride. behind lies the green and flowery valley, and the heathery slopes half veiled in tender haze; before are the hot bare rocks, and the parched grass toasting itself under the stare of the sunshine; and though the atlantic clouds bank thick upon the northward, it is only an occasional straggler who ventures across to the south. the scenery is perhaps less attractive, but on the whole even more striking; for the rocks, as in all spanish landscapes, take most daring and original forms. the most remarkable example is near the foot of the descent, just before arriving at the village of pola de gordon. here the limestone strata have been tilted up absolutely vertical, hard layers alternating with soft, like the fat and lean in a piece of streaky bacon. the principal hard layer forms the precipitous face of a mountain, and stretches for a mile or more along the river, like a huge surcharged retaining wall. the complementary layers are at first buried in the mass behind; but presently the ridge dips to give passage to the river, and rises again beyond in a bold conical hill, so that all the layers become at once exposed. the soft strata at this point are entirely weathered away, and the hard remain, like huge parallel cock's-combs, rising as straight and steep as the parapets of a gigantic stairway. these razor-back limestone ridges are a very characteristic feature of spanish mountain scenery; but nowhere else have i seen them quite so strongly marked as here. we were not to escape from the pass without one final downpour, but luckily it caught us within reach of shelter at pola de gordon. a black, oily cloud glued itself onto the mountain above the village, the windows of heaven were opened, and the deluge fell. it only lasted some thirty minutes; but by that time the village was paddling, and all the bye-lanes had converted themselves into foaming torrents which had piled great dykes of shingle at intervals across the street. yet all the while we had been able to see the sky clear and brilliant under the fringe of the storm-rack towards the southward; and three miles away, the road was dry and dusty, and even the river that ran beside it was unconscious of the coming flood. [illustration: in the pass of pajÁres near pola de gordon.] we finally slipped from the valley at the village of la robla, and mounted onto the bare, brown moorlands that slope towards the city of leon. the mountains come to a halt behind us as abruptly as if they were toeing a line; and the vast level sweeping away from their feet to the southward is broken only by the deeply grooved valleys of the esla's tributary streams. the effect is somewhat similar to the line of the merionethshire mountains breaking down into the morfa. but this remarkable emphasising of primary physical features is specially characteristic of the geology of spain. leon itself lies low beside the river, and only comes into view when we are close upon it; but the cathedral spires are just high enough to overtop the upland, and form a solitary landmark for several miles around. chapter vii benavente, zamora, and toro the esla valley runs down broad and level from leon towards the south; a monotonous umber-coloured valley, very different from the wild glens whence its waters are derived. the road is straight and featureless, though its newly-planted acacia avenues give some promise of ultimate redemption; and the mud-built wayside villages have a forlorn and collapsible air. occasionally one lights upon a regular troglodyte settlement, a group of bee-hive cellars excavated in the hillside, with the chimneys struggling out among the sparse herbage which covers them. these caves have no windows, and are lit only through the open doors, yet they continued to be the homes of the peasantry till within comparatively recent days. indeed, in some few instances they are still inhabited; but generally they are utilised only as storehouses and stables, while the population has migrated bodily into the more modern cottages which have sprung up to form the village at their side. the esla itself is the most interesting item in the scenery. it flows parallel with the road some two or three miles to the left, close under the crumbling yellow cliffs which overlook the vale. its course is marked by trees and greenery, chiefly the inevitable poplar; and its thin line of verdure, shot with flashes of sparkling water, is a welcome relief to the dun and dusty plain. the riverside hamlets plastered upon the face of the cliffs are so weather-nibbled and irregular, and so exactly the colour of the grounding, that they might be taken for some weird growth of parasitic fungus; and the whole scene has a most convincingly nilotic air. a short distance from benavente occurred one of the few mishaps which it was our lot to occasion. an old countryman was jogging sleepily along the road before us with a mule and a donkey, when the animals suddenly took fright at our approach. a spaniard is commonly a good horseman--when he is riding a horse. but he does not think it worth while to ride a donkey, so he merely sits on it,--sans reins, sans stirrups, with both his legs on one side, and no more control over his mount than a sack of turnips. for a few strides our victim bounded wildly between his panniers like an animated shuttlecock; and then toppled over in ruin, while his beasts stampeded across the fields. we recaptured his fugitives for him, and purchased his broken eggs; but i fear that it somewhat soured our sympathy when we found him doing nothing but wring his hands and bewail his losses meanwhile. we could not help feeling that the "language" of an english teamster would have furnished a much more satisfactory solution of his woes. benavente stands upon a tongue of high ground between the esla and orbigo valleys. the extreme tip is occupied by the old castle of the counts of benavente, one of whom is immortalized by velasquez in the prado gallery, clad in suit of armour which seems capable of reflecting your face. but his once splendid palace is now a ruin,--plundered and burnt by the stragglers of sir john moore's army; and the poor old town itself, though it contains some interesting churches, has grown wofully battered and threadbare since its _seigneurs_ were driven from their home. [illustration: benavente from above the bridge of castro gonzalo.] yet benavente is not without honour among us englishmen. its name figures upon a clasp of the peninsular medal, and upon the colours of the th hussars. here the leading squadrons of napoleon just got into touch with the rearguard of the retreating moore;--and received a smart buffet for their forwardness, which was not at all to the emperor's taste. the cavalry of the imperial guard had unexpectedly forded the river; and were wellnigh overwhelming the pickets, when paget and his horsemen swooped upon them from behind the houses, rolled them up with the loss of half their number, and captured their general, lefebre desnouettes. had napoleon been an hour or two earlier he might himself have been an eye-witness of their discomfiture from the high ground above the esla, the point from which my sketch was made. and it is a pity he missed the opportunity; for it was not till waterloo that he would again see british cavalry in action, and it was the same paget who was to lead them on that momentous day. the _mêlée_ took place on the broad poplared plain which lies between the town and the river, and the old bridge of castro gonzalo spans the torrent a little below the frenchmen's ford. it is a long, uneven stone structure, with three timbered spans to remind us of the work of moore's sappers; and the steep bank which rises above it is famed for a humbler scuffle, but one which was no less creditable to the parties chiefly concerned. three days before the cavalry skirmish, when the french were known to be approaching, privates walton and jackson of the rd were posted here at nightfall with orders that, if attacked, one should hold his ground and the other run back to call the picket. the night was dark and squally, and the flood of foemen poured over them before they were aware. jackson ran back: but the horsemen were close behind him, and he was cut down even as he gave the alarm. but when the picket stormed up and the assailants were swept back into the darkness, they had not yet finished with walton,--that sentry was still at his post. his uniform was pierced in twenty places and his bayonet was twisted like a corkscrew; but like the "brave lord willoughby"[ ] he was scrupulously holding his ground! a finger-post and a kilometre stone stood side by side on the branch road at the summit. the former said "to zamora," and the latter " kilos"; whereat we rejoiced and set our pace more leisurely, for the daylight would last us for nearly another three hours. yet presently as the tale of _kilos_ petered out we began to experience misgivings. the bare wide plateau of the _tierra de campos_ still rolled away before us fold beyond fold; the sun was already close upon the horizon; and where was the duero valley wherein zamora lies? three _kilos_ more,--and still no sign of our haven.--two _kilos_,--one,--and our hopes were dashed to the ground. our road shot us out into one of the most desolate stretches of the great highway from madrid to vigo; and a venerable shepherd who suddenly materialised out of the empty landscape blandly informed us that zamora was just "four leagues." our mistake was obvious enough. the _kilos_, had of course been reckoned from the junction with the highway. but a couple of wary continental travellers should have been on their guard against so stale a trap. at the first blush it seemed as though we were destined to fare every bit as badly as we merited. the last glow was dying out of the sky behind us, and a grumbling thunderstorm was nursing its wrath for us ahead. but our good luck came to our rescue, and found us a city of refuge:--the little hamlet of montamarta, which was ambushed in a dip of the road. by this time we had learned not to be too dainty about our quarters; yet the _parador_ at montamarta was so very unassuming that at first we gave it the go-by; and the landlord was an unshaven ruffian who seemed fully capable of the blackest crimes. but the dingy little den to which he ushered us was full of familiar faces:--velasquez' jolly "topers" beaming over their wine-cups, the matchless "booby of cória," and wild ragged goatherds and vine dressers, with whom salvator rosa might have joined in "painting _jabeques_."[ ] rough as they looked, they were all in the mildest of humours. it was a sight to see our murderous-looking landlord truculently dandling his infant; while the mother crouched upon the great hearth in the centre, supervising a multitude of pipkins which were simmering in the glowing embers of the fire. "it is good, isn't it?" she asked eagerly, as we essayed her stew: and she watched every mouthful down our throats with affectionate solicitude to be sure that we did justice to our meal. the kitchen was both dining and sitting-room, and our garret was shared with the children, but our hosts were determined to make us comfortable, and we forgot their deficiencies in their zeal. there is no gilded luxury in a _parador_, but at least we felt sure we were welcome. one barely obtains toleration in a _metropole_ or a _grand_. with dawn we were again on our journey, dodging our way past the cavalcade of country-folk who were pouring along to market from the various villages around. it was an easy stage. we had nearly made port yester even. within a few miles we were at zamora gates. in our protestant ignorance of times and seasons we were unaware that the day was the festival of corpus christi; consequently the apparition of a fifteen-foot pasteboard giant lurching deviously down the main thoroughfare occasioned us a little mild bewilderment. this wandering ogre, however, was fully entitled to liberty. all respectable spanish cities retain a team of giants as part of their ordinary municipal outfit, and corpus christi day is the great occasion for parading them. the tourist should always arrange to spend that festival in some good old-established city where the choicest breeds are preserved. zamora itself is quite old enough for the purpose. its fine old romanesque cathedral was built by no less a person than the bishop don hieronymo, "that good one with the shaven crown," who so ably represented the church militant among the companions of the cid. but long before his day the old frontier fortress had made itself a name by many a desperate resistance to the moor, and the boast that "zamora was not won in an hour," still clings to the old dismantled ramparts which were once its justification.[ ] moreover, the story of the greatest leaguer of all, is it not written in the book of the chronicle of the cid, and as famous in spanish annals as the siege of troy? for it came to pass that in the eleventh century king fernando the great,[ ] on his deathbed, divided his kingdoms among his children; and the immediate and obvious consequence was a five-cornered family duel which set all the said kingdoms by the ears. sancho of castile had quickly dispossessed his brothers garcia and alfonso of galicia and leon; and his sister elvira had yielded to him her town of toro. only urraca his elder sister still held her patrimony; and zamora was too important a pledge to be left in any hands but his own. [illustration: zamora from the banks of the duero.] "so king sancho drew near and beheld zamora how strongly it was built, upon a cliff, with many massy towers and the river duero running at the foot thereof." it was no light task to reduce it, and he proffered valladolid in exchange. but my lady was in no mood to barter her beautiful stronghold for commonplace valladolid, and doubtless regarded the offer from the same standpoint as her practical councillors,--"he who assails you on the rock would soon drive you from the plain." the castilian army lacked the aid of its champion: for ruy diaz had been bred up with the princess at zamora in don arias gonzalo's household, and would not fight against her in person "for the sake of old times." yet king sancho was very competent to manage his own battles; and though his assaults were abortive, he soon began to feel more sanguine of blockade. zamora was reduced to the last extremity when vellido dolphos, a knight of the princess's, put into practice against king sancho the old ruse of gobryas and sextus tarquinius. he feigned desertion, won the confidence of the king, and assassinated him under the walls in the course of a pretended reconnaissance, escaping again to the city when the deed was done. less fortunate than his prototypes who gained credit for their services, vellido dolphos has ever since been held up to execration as the very type and pattern of a traitor; and don diego ordoñez gave voice to the wrath of the castilians by issuing a formal challenge to the whole city of zamora,--man, woman, and child, the babe unborn, and the fishes in the river:--which even don quixote considered was going a trifle too far. yet the city was saved; for the heir to the throne was alfonso, and his return from exile put an end to the civil war. it is a shame to tell the story in prose. yet we cannot refrain from recalling how don arias gonzalo, the princess' foster-father, pointed out to don diego ordoñez what a very serious thing he had done in challenging a whole cathedral city. how (no doubt with a grim chuckle) he produced the rules for such case made and provided, whereby it appeared that the challenger must meet five champions in succession, and be declared disgraced if he failed against any one;--which was considerably more than don diego had bargained for! nevertheless he put a bold face on the matter and gallantly met and slew his two first antagonists. but the third contest was indecisive; so honour was declared satisfied, and all imputations withdrawn. the old chivalrous legend makes a capital sauce for our musings as we pace the still formidable ramparts from which doña urraca once looked down upon her foes; or gaze up from the fortified bridge at the rock-built city above us, towering over the waters of the duero like the very embodiment of romance. but meanwhile it is still corpus christi day; and the giants are becoming impatient. we found them all four at the bridge-head, attended by a large retinue of loiterers, and waiting outside a church door, like camels at the eye of a needle. the show had not really begun. but as we approached to investigate, there suddenly gushed upon us out of the church itself as strange a medley as that which encountered don quixote on a similar anniversary in the chariot of the cortes of death. first, four minor giants--great goggling pumpkin-headed prince bulbos--and the drum and fife band of falstaff's ragged regiment. then the processional cross and candlesticks, and our lady gorgeous in a white silk frock, borne shoulder-high on a litter, with her canopy bucketting along behind her about half a length to the bad. more saints, also on litters--the boys struggling and fighting for the honour of acting as bearers, and getting cuffed into a shortlived sobriety by their indignant elders. and finally the host itself in its silver ark surrounded by chanting priests with banners and tapers. the giants closed in behind it as it issued from the door and beamed serenely down the long procession from their commanding elevation in the rear. whether the spectacle were a sacrament or a circus, seemed at first an open question; but it was soon resolved. at once every head was uncovered and every knee was bowed, and "_his majesty's_"[ ] progress through the kneeling throng seemed all the more impressive for its incongruous trappings. beyond the bridge the procession received its final embellishment in the accession of a mounted guard of honour; and throughout the rest of the day it continued to parade the streets and call at the various churches, while the populace thronged the balconies, crossing themselves, and cheering, and showering their paper flowers impartially upon saints and giants and the bald heads of the accompanying priests--an attention which did not appear at all gratifying to the cavalry horses of the escort. [illustration: zamora church of sta. maria de la horta.] the last we saw of them was in the market square at evening. the giants were standing at the corners; and in the centre sat margaret of antioch, virgin and martyr, on a grand practicable dragon which could wag its own head and tail. she was understood to be an "extra," the exclusive property of zamora, and not to be met with in less favoured localities. but precisely what she was doing in this galley we could not ascertain. as for the giants, they are allegorical, and typify the four quarters of the globe;--concerning which explanation one can only say that it is little better than none. the very highest of high masses was celebrated in the cathedral in honour of the occasion. the priests were in their most gorgeous vestments; the altar almost buried under a pyramid of silver plate; and the walls of the cloisters draped with magnificent pieces of old spanish tapestry--corah, dathan and abiram going down into the pit on horseback like true _caballeros_, and pharaoh pursuing the israelites in a coach and four. the service as usual was rather of a go-as-you-please character; for the _coro_ and _capilla mayor_[ ] being completely enclosed, it is only possible to watch the proceedings from the transepts at the intersection. the congregation generally seem to treat the affair like a "caucus race." they look on when they like, and leave off when they like, and spend the intervals strolling round the aisles. you are of course requested not to spit, or wear wooden shoes (which seem equally obnoxious to roman catholics and orangemen[ ]). but otherwise there are no restrictions: and there are certainly great attractions in the side shows; for the chapels are a museum of medieval art. the silver ark in which the host made its progress was on show in one of the aisles. all spanish cathedral bodies are inordinately proud of this piece of furniture (which is generally modern and tawdry); and there is no nearer way to the sacristan's heart than to tell him that his specimen is a finer one than that which you saw last at some rival town--salamanca, for instance. there is a warm neighbourly hatred between zamora and salamanca; and once when i incautiously admitted that the salamanca people had told me there was nothing to see here, i thought i should have produced an _émeute_. wherefore i would exhort future travellers not to be misled by those salamanca people. for zamora is not merely ancient; it is even (in some ways) up to date. it is somewhat of a shock to an antiquarian to discover that the town is fully equipped with electric light; still more so to realise that the power station is established in the old church of sta maria de la horta, with the dynamos purring among the arcades, and the chimney tucked in behind the tower. but one soon gets reconciled to these little incongruities. in spain they are really so common that one learns to expect them from the first. the town of toro stands some twenty miles further up the river than zamora, and makes a capital partner for its neighbour. indeed, at first sight it seems even more imposingly situated, for it rises on a much loftier hill. but its cliffs are only of soft alluvial deposit instead of solid rock; and its walls built only of mud, which has now nearly crumbled away. in other respects they are not ill-matched, for the streets of toro are fully as picturesque as those of zamora, and its great collegiate church not unworthy of comparison with the cathedral. the streets, as in most spanish towns, are empty and deserted during the heat of the afternoon; the houses closely shuttered, and the people within doors. but as soon as the shadows have lengthened across the roadway, they turn out unanimously on to the pavement, where they sit spinning, sewing, and gossiping, in a sort of semi-publicity. in unsophisticated districts the women (like mermaids) are much addicted to combing each other's hair. the operator sits on a low chair or doorstep, while her subject settles herself upon the ground at her feet, with her head thrown back upon the other's lap, and her thick black mane flooding out over her knees. a very pretty and poetical little group they make--_if you do not pry too curiously into the details_. the younger women have frequently magnificent hair; for they are quite innocent of "transformations," yet their brows are most copiously crowned. one girl at salamanca wore a thick black pigtail that was positively tapping her heels; and the beauty of astorga (who was also of pigtail age) was not many inches inferior. [illustration: a spanish patio] the majority of the houses in the town are probably not more than a couple of centuries old; but amongst them are a few genuine _solares_, once the homes of _hidalgos_ and grandees. it was to one of these that the "_conde duque_" of olivares, the celebrated minister of philip iv., retired upon his disgrace and banishment from court; philosophically busying himself with the cultivation of cabbages,--those gawky long-stalked abortions, uncannily suggestive of encrinites, which still fill all the gardens round the town. here he was visited by gil blas, his quondam secretary, who flattered him with smug allusions to diocletian. here also he used occasionally to entertain a more worthy guest,--the painter velasquez, who was too high-minded to desert his old patron merely because he was under the displeasure of the king. politically olivares was as worthless and corrupt as any of his rivals, yet he evidently had an attractive personality. quevedo, imprisoned four years in the leonese dungeon for lampooning him, would probably remember him in a less amiable light! the lofty situation of the city gives it an immensely extensive outlook; for the left bank of the duero is flat and low-lying, and but for the interposition of the high heathy ground about fuentesauco, one would almost certainly be able to descry the spires of salamanca itself. doubtless marshal marmont used frequently to pace the terrace of the collegiate church when his headquarters were established here in the summer of ; gazing out over his future battleground and planning those intricate manoeuvres which were to close in disaster and disgrace. the scene of that final catastrophe is too far distant to be visible. but a scarcely less notable conflict actually takes its name from the town. this was the famous battle of toro, which put an end to the civil war at the opening of the reign of ferdinand and isabella, and seated the catholic kings firmly upon their throne. the rebellious nobles had fortified themselves by an alliance with alfonso of portugal, and both toro and zamora were in their hands. alfonso's headquarters were at toro, but zamora was besieged by ferdinand, and alfonso marched to its relief. seeing that both towns stand on the northern bank of the river, it is difficult to understand what the portuguese king could hope to effect by advancing on the south. perhaps he fancied that zamora still commanded the bridge and that he would thus be able to enter unopposed. but ferdinand's grip was too close; the bridge was in his hands, and alfonso had no choice but to return. [illustration: toro from the banks of the duero.] ferdinand hurried his forces across the river in pursuit. his own army, as usual in medieval days, could not be maintained at fighting strength for many weeks together, and he was now nowise loth "to put it to the touch to gain or lose it all." he came up with his foe a little distance short of toro. mendoza was leading; and headed the charge against the troops of his brother prelate the cardinal archbishop of toledo, with a breezy vehemence worthy of old picton at vitória, "come on, you villains! i'm as good a cardinal as he!" the weary, overmarched portuguese were unable to sustain the onset; and their only retreat to toro lay over the narrow patchwork bridge. alfonso himself escaped, but there was no further fighting. the catholic kings commemorated their victory by the erection of the great church of san juan de los reyes at toledo, and the revolted nobles hastened to "come in" upon the best available terms. chapter viii salamanca spain is far poorer in lakes than in mountains: and the deficiency has compensations, as it discourages the breeding of flies. but it offers a rare opportunity for the disquisitions of a militant geologist, for the lakes must have swamped all other physical features in the days when the hills were young. liebana and the vierzo have been already conceded, but he regards these as drops in the ocean. now he claims the whole basin of the duero from the cordillera of cantabria to the sierras of grédos and guadarrama, from the highlands of la demanda and moncayo to the rocky barrier on the frontiers of portugal, through which the pent-up waters at length cleft their passage to the sea. now the dry bed of an ancient lake is not in itself an ideal foundation for a landscape; particularly when its original conformation is remorselessly emphasised by the entire omission of fences and of trees. the mud which formed the bottom has settled unevenly; and the rivers have eroded it into yawning channels, whose steep sides (so prominent at toro) are scarped and furrowed into myriads of wrinkles by the scouring of the winter rains. the district is not unfertile, for it is a land of corn and wine and oil-olive, and water may be found at no great depth; yet the surface soil is parched and dusty, the villages few and far between, and great tracts of the higher ground consist of untilled heaths where the ilex and cistus make their profit out of the heritage unclaimed by man. it scarcely seems an interesting district for a walking tour, yet we were barely started before we fell in with one who thought otherwise. he was english, of course:--mad as usual, despite his spanish domicile; and we fraternised with him at a wayside fountain where he recognised us as compatriots (by our spanish) directly we saluted him. our programmes had something in common, but his was by far the more onerous, and none but the veriest devotee of the _wanderlust_ could have ventured to undertake it without some inward qualms. a long solitary tramp, and mostly through desolate country, over mountain and moorland, from toro, all the way to valéncia del cid. true, he was a naturalist and an antiquary, and could speak the language like a native; yet, if he was proof against boredom, he must have been very good company to himself. it is not every traveller who could rely so exclusively on his own resources. the ideal tramp, like don quixote's ideal knight-errant, needs to be equipped with "most of the sciences in the world." fortunately the cyclist's self-sufficiency is not tested nearly so highly. he moves both further and faster than the pedestrian,--covering two days' march in a single morning's ride. for him the great spanish plains are shorn of half their monotony; and if he loves spain he may blame me for hinting at monotony even here. he finds something strangely exhilarating in the gorgeous sunshine, the dry crisp air, the unrivalled immensity of landscape, and the all-pervading silence, so grateful after london's maddening din. spain is pre-eminently a land of ample horizons, of panoramas, and bird's-eye views. the hollow conformation of the plains gives the widest of scope to the vision, and the pale blue peaks which enclose them may be as much as one hundred miles away. standing on the summit of the guadarrama passes, we were wellnigh able to persuade ourselves that the peaks just above us might disclose a view extending from the cantabrian mountains even to the sierra nevada;--all the kingdoms of spain and the glory of them at a single _coup-d'oeil_. the purity of the atmosphere indeed is downright bewildering, and our first preconceptions of distances went wandering wildly astray. even as far on our way as madrid, a fortnight later, we found that we had not yet been schooled to credit the milestones against the evidence of our eyes. madrid lay there before us: we could tell every house, every window. it was absurd to try and convince us that it was ten kilometres away! yet we passed nine stony compurgators ere we reached the toledo gateway; and even our own cyclometers professed themselves "all of a tale." the illusion is accentuated by the great distances which separate the hamlets, and the absence of any intervening landmarks on the bare red plains between. meanwhile the details of the landscape are far from uninteresting. the heath flowers are varied and plentiful and the butterflies brilliant in the extreme. the whole air rings with the yelling of the cicadas or the croaking of the frogs in the rare and starveling streams. little brown lizards are numerous even in the mountains, but here on the plains is a more imposing breed; great green monsters fifteen inches in length, who lie out sunning themselves in the dust of the roadway, and scuttle wildly to cover as our shadows sweep silently by. the natives eat them;--so possibly does the tourist also, for many are the unsuspected ingredients which are involved in the meshes of a spanish stew. the birds also, such as there are, seem exclusively decorative specimens. first among these are the hoopoes, with their black and white barred plumage, and their feather crowns, the gift of solomon the wise. they have a strong fellow-feeling for the cyclist, and flit from tree to tree along the road beside him with the most engaging _cameraderie_. if they get too far ahead they will perch and await him, cocking their crests and _hoo-poo-pooing_ encouragement; and once more resume their swift drooping flight as soon as he draws level. should these lines meet their eyes they are assured that their companionship was much appreciated. the little watery gullies where the frogs live are generally picketted by the storks. magpies too are alarmingly plentiful in the wild stony districts along the feet of the mountains. seven at a time is all very well,--at least one knows who to expect then,--but what grislier horror is portended by thirteen? a grand inquisitor? [illustration: salamanca arcades in the plaza de la verdura.] men as a rule seem scarcely so numerous as magpies, and one may ride for miles at a stretch without encountering a soul; but those whom you do meet are admirably in rapport with their surroundings; and though their pursuits may be prosaic their appearance would illustrate a romance. this solitary horseman, for instance, is probably a most commonplace personage in reality. we shall sit next to him at _comida_ in an hour or two, and discover that he is an eminently innocuous bagman. but out here in the midst of the wilderness, clad in his broad-brimmed hat and his ample black cloak which muffles him up to the eyes, he might pass as a living embodiment of roque guinart himself, and we rather plume ourselves on our resolution in venturing to keep to the road. the spaniard as a rule wraps himself up amazingly when he goes a-travelling; and the scotch shepherd sallying out to visit his flock in a december snowstorm is not more jealously plaided than the castilian carrier trudging along beside his pack mules, with his purple shadow blotting the dusty roadway at his feet. by way of contrast one may occasionally see the small children scampering about outside the cabin doors without so much as a rag of any description whatever--an infinitely more enviable costume. the greater number of the vehicles are ramshackle tilt-waggons, drawn by a goodly array of mules, five or seven in a string. these have a horrid habit of pulling _en échelon_, so that each beast has a clear view of all the road ahead of him, and can make up his mind exactly what he means to shy at. this formation occupies the whole width of the roadway, and the driver (being a driver) is of course asleep; consequently, if you have a rock wall on one side and an everlasting vertical precipice on the other, you had better be careful how you pass. indeed, it is well to give them a wide berth in any case, for even the immortal bayard himself, "without fear and without reproach," professed himself anxious about his shins in the neighbourhood of a spanish mule. they are harnessed with delightful inconsequence in all sorts of gay tags and fringes, and scraps of old caparisons of yellow cordovan leather; while all deficiencies are eked out with string. this requires great quantities of string. the waggons which they draw are equally patchworky, with their cargoes bulging out on all sides in an imminently precarious fashion. in the wine districts they generally carry an "extra" in the shape of a huge tun slung under the axle between the lofty wheels. it is worthy of remark that a spanish "gee-upper"[ ] is commonly unable to think of any worse name for a mule than its own. "arré! mula!!" he cries, and collapses impotently. what more can he call it? it _is_ a mule. to do him justice, however, he seldom resorts to blows to reinforce his vocabulary; and the cruelty so often inveighed against in southern countries is not very noticeable in northern spain. the beasts are gaunt, bony, and ill-kempt, but herein they are no worse off than their drivers: they are too often worked when galled or foundered; yet this is but negative heedlessness, and positive misusage is rare. the temper of the beasts is uncertain. the ox and the ass are phlegmatic, but the horse and mule (which have no understanding) have decidedly fidgetty nerves. the mules are frequently gigantic animals, as high-standing and big-boned as an english dray-horse, though much less heavy and muscular. mixed teams are frequently requisitioned in the mountain districts. one sample that we met had a horse for leader, then two mules tandem, a pair of oxen, and a mule in the shafts; another had a mule for shafter, with two more mules outside the shafts, a fourth ahead, and three yoke of oxen to lead the way. it is extremely fashionable to finish off the string with a diminutive donkey (generally the smaller the better) tacked on as a sort of afterthought at the head of the whole cavalcade. he looks as though meant for a tassel, but is really played as a pace-maker; for he is always the fastest walker and the most enthusiastic worker in the team. there was a real "little benjamin" of jackasses that we met on the road near segóvia. two men were coming into the town in charge of a bull; and by way of getting the hulk steered with as little personal attention as might be, it had struck them to harness this trifle to the monster's spreading horns. had the bull really resented the arrangement it would have cost him but a turn of the head to heave the whole equipage over the parapet among the tops of the poplars below. fortunately, however, he was not actively annoyed--only rather grumpy and puzzled. every few steps he would stop, shaking his head and bellowing; while his little pilot gathered himself together, drove in his toes, and flung himself into the collar with the exalted enthusiasm that does not reck of odds. he fairly squirmed with glee as his charge condescended to move a step or two forward, and evidently considered that every yard of progress was exclusively attributable to himself. [illustration: salamanca church of san martin.] we took our last look at the cantabrian mountains from the crest of the watershed between the duero and tormes; and the same hill that concealed them brought us into full view of another equally imposing range to the southward--the sierra de grédos, whose monarch, the plaza almanzor, is only a few feet inferior even to the rock of ages which dominates europa pikes. but it is to the fallows around us that our first attention is owing;--a site which should stir the imagination of an englishman as don quixote's was stirred on the campo de montiel. over these bleak, red plough lands for six long july days in the armies of marmont and of wellington marched and countermarched and circled round each other like dancers in some vast quadrille or chess players fencing for an opening. neither leader would risk a doubtful action; for the french army of the centre was rapidly approaching, and its junction might make or mar a victory. almost within speaking distance, they raced for advantage in position, and scarcely once did they pause to exchange a blow. it was a repetition of the old drama enacted centuries before by cæsar and afranius upon the plains of lérida. but the cæsar of this production was playing afranius' _rôle_. marmont had the pace of his opponent, and wellington pivoted round salamanca to guard his communications with rodrigo. foiled on the right, marmont dashed round to the left, forded the tormes and thrust at salamanca from the south. wellington still faced him; but king joseph was now close upon him, and within two days at furthest the english would be hopelessly outnumbered by the junction of the hostile hosts. retreat was inevitable: had, indeed, already commenced; for the baggage was on the move, and wellington was but waiting for nightfall to cover the withdrawal of his fighting line. "a silver bridge for a retreating enemy," saith the spanish proverb; but napoleon's aspiring young marshal had been trained in a more aggressive school. he knew that his troops were the speedier, that joseph's junction would bring a winning superiority of numbers. if he could but hold the english to their position for another day the campaign might be finished at a blow;--and he eagerly pushed on his left under maucune to command the rodrigo road. clausel's brigade, already wheeling in from the rear, would link the left to the centre; and his foe would be in a cleft stick. but clausel's march was limed in the thick web of olive woods which mantles the hills towards alba; the fatal gap yawned conspicuous behind the hurrying columns; and in an instant wellington pounced upon maucune. well was it for marmont that the day was now far spent, and that the fords of the tormes had been left unguarded! for never was victory more rapid or more complete. in forty minutes marmont's magnificent army of forty thousand men were a horde of disorganized fugitives; and the whole of the central provinces lay defenceless at the feet of his foe. it seems a little strange that salamanca should contain no monument of the great battle which freed half spain from the grasp of the invader, and which, in after years, the mighty victor himself was wont to regard as his masterpiece--the austerlitz of his career. its only memorials nowadays are a few forgotten tablets on the walls of the great cathedral: from the roof of which the anxious townsfolk once heard the sudden roar of the closing battle, and watched the great column of smoke and dust soaring up slowly over arapiles into the placid evening sky. salamanca shows itself off to best advantage when approached from the southern side. it stands upon rising ground on the right bank of the tormes, with a fine old roman bridge leading up to it across the stream. the river banks are lined with voluble washerwomen,--at least a quarter of a mile of them, fairly elbowing one another as they chatter over their work; and behind them the red-roofed houses of the city are piled up the slope in picturesque disarray. the most prominent object is the great cathedral, a sixteenth century gothic building of the type that is only to be encountered in spain. it is of imposing proportions, and lavishly ornamented with a marvellous profusion of delicate carving which could not possibly have stood the exposure to the weather in any less favourable clime. yet it lacks the deep mouldings and majestic solidity of earlier works; and this somewhat academic pretentiousness is not nearly so impressive as the stunted strength of the old cathedral which nestles under the shadow of its more showy sister--a typical romanesque edifice, rude, massive, and solemn, like an oak beside a poplar colonnade. [illustration: salamanca from the left bank of the tormes.] no city suffered more than salamanca from napoleon's disastrous invasion; and what that implies let her fellow victims testify! the french are pleased to regard themselves as the modern athenians;--the modern vandals is the name that their neighbours might prefer! gaiseric himself never systematised pillage like napoleon; and who can wonder at the savage retaliation of the _partidas_ when he sees the havoc which was wrought in unhappy spain? "twenty-five convents, twenty-five colleges, and twenty-five arches to the bridge," was the boast of the citizens of salamanca before the days of their visitation. but no less than twenty colleges and thirteen convents (amongst them some of the noblest renaissance monuments) were razed to the ground by the remorseless marmont when he built his three great redoubts to fortify the town against wellington in ; and a ghastly bald scar in the midst of the crowded city still marks the spot where the tyrant's hand was laid. it is but poor consolation to remember that the ramparts erected at this frightful cost crumpled up like the pasteboard helmet beneath the stroke of his mightier foe: and that marmont himself reaped a small instalment of his whirlwind within actual sight of the city which he had marred. perhaps it is hardly too much to assert that at the end of the eighteenth century salamanca must have been the most magnificently housed university in the world. even now, after all her losses, i can think of no other on the continent which can so well stand comparison with our own. but, alas! she has fallen upon evil days. the famous irish college had a population of seven (dons and students included) at the time of our visit; and the salaries of the professors are such as no master of a board school would consider adequate in england. the augustan age of salamanca commenced in the reign of ferdinand and isabella; and was perhaps already declining when gil blas visited it with his adventurous young mistress masquerading in her doublet and hose. then the city had more students than it has now inhabitants; and even paris and bologna admitted the superiority of the salamanca schools. she was a progressive university too; and albeit she rejected columbus, she at least accepted copernicus--a considerable step on the way. in one respect her example might inspire present-day universities, for here it was that a lady first held a professorial chair. the great gate of the library is now the chief relic of these bygone glories: and that gem of the early renaissance is worthily supported by the arcaded quadrangles of some of the colleges and schools. they are built of the warm golden-brown stone which is common to most salamancan monuments, and their richly-carved parapets and fantastically-shaped arches have an air of oriental opulence which is very taking to the eye. but even apart from its churches, convents, and colleges, salamanca would still remain notable by reason of its palaces alone. first among these is the _casa de las conchas_,--spangled all over with the great stone scallop shells from which it derives its name. it is even more striking and original than its larger and lordlier rival, the famous _palacio de monterey_; and i owe it a special acknowledgment for the liberty which i have taken with it in pirating its façade to serve as the cover of this volume. the castilian and leonese _casas_ have much in common with the typical florentine palaces; and even their cousins of aragon only differ from them in so far as they are brick instead of stone. towards the street they present a square and solemn façade, plain or heavily rusticated, and pierced with but few windows, which are always stoutly barred. the entrance is large and plain, and generally arched over with enormously deep _voussoirs_, which have a very imposing effect. within is an open _patio_ surrounded by a double arcade. a fine staircase in a recess gives access to the upper tier; and the rooms which are ranged around the gallery all open direct into the air. the centre of the _patio_ is occupied by a well or fountain, and is often filled with flowers. the type seems exceptionally suitable to a semi-tropical country; yet modern builders will have none of it; and, though common in all provincial capitals, it is nowhere to be met with in madrid. in a second and smaller type of house the great entrance doorway occupies practically the whole of the ground-floor frontage. obviously it was generally entered on horseback, and the hall within (like that of a village _posada_) served as antechamber both to the living rooms above and to the stables behind. the family lived on the first and second floors, while the third was originally a _belvedere_. but nowadays the latter has been enclosed and the ground floor generally converted into a shop. [illustration: salamanca the puerta del rio, with the cathedral tower.] it is one of the penalties of sketching in a crowded city that everybody who has no immediate occupation of his own becomes consumingly interested in yours. there is but one spot in salamanca where one is quite secure from surveillance, and that is opposite the porch of san martin, perhaps the most frequented corner in the town. here, balanced gingerly upon a narrow ledge, you overlook the heads of the bystanders, and even the most agile urchin can find no foothold in your rear. yet the immunity is hardly worth winning. at best it is very uncomfortable; and if you submit to your heckling, the entertainment is not all on one side. at the bridge head it even secured me the offer of a commission. the boniface of the little wine-shop was urgent with me to reproduce my sketch enlarged upon the front of his bar. my recompense was to comprise full board and lodging during the operation,--and that would have been no trifle. but he must have had considerable faith in the covering capacity of water colours to pit a little twenty-pan paint-box against fifty square feet of deal boards. but it was at the _puerta del rio_ that i found my _entourage_ of most practical utility. it had been snowing overnight in the mountains, and the sierra de grédos was draped from base to summit in a mantle of dazzling white. in spite of the brilliant sunshine the wind was incredibly bitter, and the miserable sketcher would have been frozen without his human screen. truly "winter is not over till the fortieth of may" within reach of those icy summits. the duke of wellington asserted that the coldest thing in his recollection was the wind at salamanca in july! chapter ix bÉjar, Ávila, and escorial there were "bulls at salamanca" (so ran the placards) on the day when we were to resume our journey towards the south; and the _señor patron_ seemed quite crestfallen at realising that we had no intention of deferring our departure in order to witness the fun. bull-fighting was _not_ cruel, he protested. that was all our inexplicable british prejudice. and as patrons of prize-fights and football we ought to be the last to throw stones. we were rather expected to sympathise with the national sport of spain. his conclusion was truer than his reasoning. there are certain thrilling forms of playing with death amiably tolerated by the british public which are logically no whit better than bull-fighting: and it is not humanity but fashion that dictates to us which to condemn. only a few days earlier an unfortunate woman had been killed at madrid while "looping the loop" on a motor; and the spanish papers (those eager reporters of bull-fights) were all most properly indignant at the dangerous and degrading character of this new-fangled foreign show. our british high-toned repugnance is distinctly less moral than squeamish. but we did not want our feelings harrowed in the midst of a holiday tour. bull-fighting is one of the many sports that have been ruined by professionalism. in the days when the young gallants of the court encountered the bull themselves, on their own horses, before the eyes of their lady-loves in the _plaza mayor_, there was a spice of chivalry about the proceeding that half redeemed its brutality. it was truly a sport then, albeit a savage one; but now it is merely a show. moreover, even our host admitted that this time the _corrida_ would be shorn of its foremost attraction. it was to have been inaugurated by a bull-fighting _pierrot_ who was wont to await the first rush of the monster motionless upon a tub in the centre of the arena. the bull would charge headlong upon him,--check, sniff, and turn away. no doubt he owed his immunity to his apparent lifelessness; but it was billed as the "power of the human eye." alas! on the last occasion his programme had miscarried. just at the critical moment a fly had settled on his nose; and for one infinitesimal fraction of a second the entire voltage of the human eye was switched upon that miserable insect. the effect on the fly was not stated, but it markedly reassured the bull. poor _pierrot_ had been tossed as high as a rocket, and apparently was not expected down again in time for the performance to-day. the two english visitors to salamanca also failed to figure at the function. they had crossed the bridge very early in the morning, and were heading for the mountains of grédos by the highway leading to béjar. the actual battlefield was passed upon the left, about four miles distant from salamanca, subtending the angle formed by the roads to alba and béjar; and the olive woods which so hampered clausel spread wide around us over the hills behind. it was a just nemesis which overtook the invaders on this occasion, for the destruction of olive trees for fuel had been one of their most gratuitous outrages during the war. the olive is a slow grower, and a few hours' reckless cutting might take half a century to repair. at first the road rises gradually and the country is open and undulating; but soon it gets deeply involved in a labyrinth of mountains, and tacks despairingly backwards and forwards in vain endeavours to twist itself free from the toils. finally it extricates itself by a frantic rush up a long steep hill, and resumes its journey at first-floor level along the shoulders of the range. some distance further west it manages to discover a passage across the main ridge into the province of estremadura; but the town of béjar itself lies four or five miles upon the hither side. [illustration: bÉjar an approach to the town.] hope had told us a flattering tale concerning the attractions of béjar. a salamanca gentleman to whom we confided our intention of visiting it had kissed his finger-tips ecstatically at the mere mention of its name. "_muy bonita!_"[ ] he exclaimed. "_preciosa!!_" and truly his adjectives were excusable; for a more charming situation for a mountain township it is almost impossible to conceive. a long knife-edged ridge is thrown out from the range at right angles. the one street is carried along its crest, and the houses cling to either side of it like panniers on the back of a mule. a great snowclad peak, one of the minor summits of the sierra, towers above the head of the ridge and gravely surveys the street from end to end; while the extreme point looks out over the wild hummocky country towards ciudad rodrigo, with the great masses of the sierra de gata and peña de francia surging up truculently above the lower hills. béjar is a fragment of tyrolean scenery dropped accidentally on the borders of estremadura. its buildings are nothing remarkable, but its situation is irreproachably picturesque. the town was holding a little _fiesta_ of its own upon the day of our visit, and the advent of two pedlars with knapsacks was naturally accepted as a part of the show. several anxious enquirers stopped us in the street to ascertain "what our honours were selling"; and the prevalent notion appeared to be that we were vendors of edible snails! many of the country-folk had come in from the remoter villages and were attired in the quaintest of costumes. the women wore very brief skirts, which gave an exceedingly squat appearance to their sturdy thick-set figures. the men had tight black breeches and jerkins adorned with polished metal buttons; enormously broad leather belts something like the cuirasses of the roman legionaries, and forked leather aprons loosely strapped down their thighs. this weird type of dress we had already noticed at salamanca; and for a hot climate it must be about the most unsuitable ever conceived by man. the journey from salamanca to Ávila entails a longer spell of duero valley scenery than that from salamanca to béjar; and for the best part of a day we were perseveringly reeling off league after league of the same dry red plough lands which had already wearied us in the north. it was not till towards evening that the road at last began swerving and plunging upon the great ground-swell which ripples out into the plain from the feet of the sierra de guadarrama; and the huge granite boulders littered about among the stunted ilex and gorse which clothed the shaggy ridges apprised us that we had drawn within reach of the derelict _moraines_. still as we held our course each successive wave bore us higher than its predecessor, till at last we looked down into a wide upland basin, and beheld the towers of Ávila rising proudly upon their daïs in the midst. [illustration: bÉjar a corner in the market-place.] there is no other walled town of my acquaintance that flaunts its defences quite so defiantly as Ávila. its circlet of tower and curtain crests its great natural _glacis_ like the substantialised vision of a mural crown. the walls themselves are only about twelve feet in thickness, which is, of course, a mere trifle compared to lugo and astorga; but it is height that tells, and their commanding situation gives them an incomparably finer effect.[ ] only on the further side has the city begun to overflow its ancient cincture; and with its core of tightly-packed houses clustering round its great cathedral-fortress which crowns the brow of the eminence, it still receives its latter-day visitors in the same garb that it donned for the cid. doubtless the old rebel barons had an eye to its scenic capabilities when they selected it as the theatre for their mock deposition of henrique iv. this thing was not to be done in a corner, and the impudent pageant which they enacted under its walls must have been visible for miles round. but the chief pride and glory of Ávila is the boast that it was the birthplace of sta theresa, the "seraphic" lady whom a more emotional epoch has preferred to the martial santiago, and almost matched with the virgin herself as the modern patroness of spain. sta theresa was quite a modern saint; and, like her contemporary ignatius loyola, much more truly saintly than hagiologists would have us infer. they would rather persist in belauding her visionary ecstasies and ascetic self-mortification. her practical common-sense and her gentle resolution are dismissed as earthlier virtues: yet it was these that made her a power. she certainly lost no time in beginning the practice of her profession, for at the age of seven she persuaded her baby brother to run away with her to barbary to get martyred by the moors. being captured and brought home by their distracted parents, they next decided upon becoming hermits. but this notable scheme was also vetoed;--poor little mites! maybe we know other small children who have started somewhat similarly on the road to canonization; but theresa's romantic devotion outlasted this fanciful stage. at the age of sixteen she assumed the veil--a step which in wiser years she was not so eager to advocate, but in which she found ample opportunity for the exercise of her piety and her zeal. her reform of the carmelite nunneries was achieved in the teeth of great opposition from the hierarchy of the day; and her literary work is of an excellence that places her high among the classical writers of spain. it is to such as her and loyola, rather than to torquemada and ximenes, that the roman church owes its hold upon the people. and by these she is dowered with the attributes which belong to catherine of siena in another land. but perhaps the most remarkable honour ever accorded to her is the fact that two hundred years after her death she was actually gazetted commander-in-chief of the spanish armies in the peninsula war! certainly louis xi. had previously honoured our lady of embrun with the colonelcy of his scottish guards. but here was a popular assembly, in the nineteenth century, which could "see him and go one better"; a far more deliberate extravagance than the whim of a fetish-cowed king. of course there was more method in their madness than appears on the surface. they did not really want a commander-in-chief at all. what they did want was a name which should fire the enthusiasm of the peasantry, as the citizens of zaragoza had been fired by the name of our lady of the pillar. at the same time it must be admitted that matters seemed to move more smoothly when she was superseded by the duke of wellington. the cathedral is a most massive structure of stern grey granite, with its apse bulging out beyond the city walls--battlemented, loop-holed, and machicolated like the profanest bastion of them all. it looks every inch a castle, and has not served amiss when so utilised; for in the great western tower the infant king alfonso xi. (father of pedro the cruel) was kept safe from his would-be guardians during his long minority, by the bishop and people of Ávila. the interior of the building is one of the noblest in spain--severe, gloomy and solemn; but furnished with that surpassing magnificence which only spanish cathedrals can boast. the old town itself is full of quaint nooks and corners, and most of its streets and houses are as unalterably medieval as the walls. a county council inspector would probably play sad havoc with them, for even if they are sanitary they are terribly out of repair. there is a smell which lingers distinctive in these old spanish townships. not indeed altogether unpleasant, but rather grateful from association, like the smell of the stone walls of the west country after a summer shower. it is compounded of many simples, and its leading ingredient is garlic. but it would be hard to prove its innocency before our stern courts of hygiene. [illustration: Ávila from the north-west.] a spaniard, however, takes his risks more lightly than an englishman. like sancho panza, he argues that the physician is worse than the disease. life is a shockingly hazardous business even on wafers and _membrillo_, and perhaps, after all, roast partridge is not quite so deadly as hippocrates supposed. perhaps the most notable of the many monasteries and churches of Ávila is the convent of san tomas at the foot of the hill to the south. as in many important spanish churches, the choir is placed in a great stone gallery at the west end, and in this instance the arrangement is balanced by a similar gallery for the high altar at the east. the floor is occupied by the beautiful marble monument of prince juan, the only son of ferdinand and isabella. the catholic kings, fortunate in all else, desired in vain that greatest blessing of all, the happiness of their children. juan, the hope of their kingdom, died a few months after his marriage, and his posthumous child was still-born. isabella, their eldest daughter, torn from the cloister to give an heir to the crown, was married to the crown prince of portugal. her young husband was killed by a fall from his horse; and though she was again married to his successor, she died in child-birth; and her infant son, heir to the whole peninsula, did not long survive. poor mad juana, crazed by the neglect of her worthless husband, was the second daughter of the ill-starred family, and the youngest was catherine of aragon. Ávila lies at an extremely lofty elevation, three thousand feet above sea level; and both here and at segóvia snow frequently falls as late as the middle of may. the mountains immediately behind it, however, are but the connecting link between the sierras of grédos and guadarrama, and all the loftier peaks lie at some distance east and west. a road leads through the gap to talavera de la reyna (a circumstance, it may be remembered, which was extremely fortunate for sir john moore).[ ] but we, being bound for madrid, set our course along the north of the mountains, heading eastward to join the main road from vigo at the little town of villacastin. our course lay over a brown and undulating moorland, with the duero plains to the left of us and the broken ridges of the sierra rising up boldly upon the right. the scene might well be matched in scotland, donegal, or connemara; for the granite mountains are very similar in formation, and the purple hardhead which clothes them is an excellent imitation of heather, though of a deeper shade, suggestive of royal mourning. here and there great tracts of the moorland, many acres in extent, are thickly strewn with gigantic boulders, singly or in heaps, like huge natural cairns. doubtless these are _blocs perchés_, the relics of extinct glaciers, like the similar blocks on the road from salamanca, or those near ribadávia above the miño vale. the road, as usual, was almost deserted, but conscientiously patrolled by two very large and splendid _carabineros_ mounted on humble asses, which could scarcely raise their riders off the ground. at villacastin we struck the great royal road for which we had been making, and the mountains stretched out their arms to receive us as we turned our faces towards the south. the day had been well advanced when we quitted Ávila, and now it was nearly dusk. the mountains were of indigo darkness, and the deep, closed valley into which we were plunging was as black as the throat of a wolf. but the white road led us on surely and steadily; and we knew that somewhere in the chasm before us was the shelter upon which we were counting for the night. the _fonda san rafael_ is a long, low, straggling building, very similar to our own old coaching inns, but much more primitive in style. the village aristocracy were engaged at dominoes in the kitchen; and the time which we wasted in dining they attempted to utilise more profitably by mastering the english tongue. they borrowed our pocket dictionary and started their task with enthusiasm. but this laudable access of energy did not win the success it deserved. unluckily they commenced operations among the _sn's_--a combination which no spaniard can ever pronounce without an antecedent e. and they came such amazing croppers over "_es-na-îl_," "_es-nâ-ké_" and "_es-ne-êzé_," that their bewildered interpreters got as much at sea as themselves. [illustration: Ávila a posada patio.] the ascent of the _puerto de guadarrama_ begins immediately beyond the village; a series of long steep zigzags well shaded by slender pine trees--the "spindles of guadarrama," to which don quixote likened dulcinea. the climb in itself is not particularly arduous, but no doubt it is an ugly place in a december snowstorm; and so napoleon found to his cost, when he forced the passage in , rushing northwards from madrid to fall upon the adventurous moore. marbot has left us a grisly description of its snow-drifts and precipices; and the furious eddies of whirlwind which swept horse and man to destruction as they struggled up the icy paths. but probably his account is a little over-painted; for precipices should be perennial both in summer and winter; but the steepest which we could identify were about of tobogganing pitch. viewed from the north, the pass is a saddle at the end of a long deep valley; but its southern face forms an embrasure in a great mountain wall. the whole valley of the tagus seemed spread beneath us as we gazed down from the summit; the plains all shimmering in a sea of purple heat haze, and the blue toledan mountains rising faint and ethereal upon the further shore. so "lot lifted up his eyes and looked and beheld all the vale of jordan." the text seems singularly appropriate to many of these vistas of spain. a little later in the day, when the haze had been lifted by the sunshine, every detail of the country would have shown up as clearly as on a map. at the foot of the descent we swung to the right along a pleasant undulating road amid trees and meadows and hedgerows. and here, as in private duty bound, let us record our gratitude to don fernando, who erected the noble fountain whereat we refreshed ourselves by the way. don fernando's fountain is a great stone cistern, with the water gushing into it from an upright pillar behind. verily his spirit is at rest if the wayfarers' prayers may avail him; for nowhere is water more appreciated than in this land of wine. don fernando (_requiescat in pace_) is by no means the only benefactor who has conferred such a boon on his countrymen. almost every village near the mountains is dowered with a tank in the _plaza_, and a generous jet of water beneath which you may seethe your hissing head. would that we were as well off in england! for our fountains can furnish no more than a miserable trickle, and even that is frequently dry. how often have we raged unsatisfied from one faithless nozzle to another, while the yokels mocked our agonies with commendations of the beer! beer is excellent in its way--but not when one is thirsty. then _on revient toujours à ses premiers amours_. [greek: ariston men udÔr]. the famous palace of escorial opened suddenly before us as we rounded a shoulder of the mountain, and there can be few palaces in the world which occupy so imposing a site. it is often referred to as standing upon a plain, but the description is entirely misleading. it rises upon the lap of the mountains, high above the level of madrid. our first view, moreover, much discounted our preconceived notions regarding its gloomy appearance; for bathed in a flood of southern sunshine, it had rather a cheerful aspect. but the very sunshine itself grew chilled as we narrowed the radius; and the bare rude walls, vast, grey, and featureless, like an enormously exaggerated newgate, seemed to crush out all the gladness of nature with their cold, unalterable frown. "first a tomb, next a convent, last a palace," was the ideal at which the founder was aiming; and the massive asceticism of the building is an apt reflection of his mood. it boasts itself the finest of all the great monasteries: and if tested by weight or by measure, the claim could hardly be denied. but this vast gloomy prison is a thing which has nothing in common with the staid beauty of poblet,[ ] or the aladdin-like brilliance of the certosa at pavia. yet the extreme severity of its style is by no means inappropriate to the great church which forms the central feature; and none that remember its grim associations would wish to see the escorial other than it is. the memory of philip the prudent is still held in honour by spaniards, for he reigned in the days of their glory, and was probably the most powerful autocrat who ever occupied the throne. but history's more equable judgment has condemned the reign as a failure, and the monarch as one of the scourges of mankind. true, he has not lacked apologists; for there is an uncanny fascination about his grim personality; and it is not difficult to show some redeeming quality even in a louis xi. or a richard iii. but most of us prefer our history broadly coloured, with good strong lights and shadows. we must be allowed a real villain occasionally; and, till such time as we get iago incarnate, philip ii. will do very sufficiently well. "a rake in his youth, a monster in his manhood, a miser in his old age;"--the bitter epitaph scribbled up over his deathbed paints his character in three lines. [illustration: escorial from the east.] and yet none who has once visited the escorial will thereafter think of philip without some glimmerings of respect. our loathing for his selfish and cruel tyranny is tempered with a kind of shuddering pity for that other side of his character;--his gloomy religious mania, the taint inherent in his blood. there was something of gruesome greatness in the mind which could conceive such a building, "reserving for himself but a cell in the house he was erecting for god." the escorial was philip's most cherished creation. probably he had a large share in designing it; certainly he watched it stone by stone as it grew. here he dwelt as "brother philip," a monk in his own monastery, "ruling two worlds with a scrap of paper, from a cell on a mountain side." here he was worshipping when he received the news of lepanto, and of the destruction of the armada. and it was with the same resolute stoicism that he learned of the victory and of the defeat. here he died--the death of herod agrippa; sustaining his two months' agony with a constancy worthy of de seso himself.[ ] and all that is left of him rests in the little octagonal chapel beneath the high altar, where his sire and his successors share his tomb. his portrait by pantoja hangs on the walls of the library. a dreadful visage,--heartless, deceitful, obstinate,--miserable beyond the power of words to express. but no picture ever painted, no statue ever carved, could reveal his character more vividly than the great gloomy pile of hard grey granite which he himself has bequeathed as a legacy to posterity. yet on one point the tyrant-hermit claims our unreserved approbation. he displayed a most excellent taste in the matter of selecting a site. here we can feel no shadow of sympathy for his critics. his choice was unexceptionable: and those who impugn it are blind. indeed, this whole range of sierras is a region of singular beauty, and the charming old towns which lie on the foot hills beneath it,--béjar and plaséncia, Ávila and segóvia,--give it an added interest which mountain districts do not often possess. charles v. was drawn hither to yuste, as philip to escorial: yet each held an ample dominion and neither was an incapable _connoisseur_. the jaded soldier and statesman could wish for no pleasanter resting-place than these grave highland solitudes which form the backbone of spain. the road which leads plainwards from escorial to madrid--"that splendid road constructed regardless of cost for the gratification of a royal caprice"--seems now scarce worthy of macaulay's eulogies. many of the roads to the northward have had to encounter far greater engineering difficulties, and show quite excellent results. yet this and all other madrid roads are uniformly villanous; and when they amalgamate they produce the madrid paving, which is a thing to remember in bad dreams. the capital itself, however, does not show up badly when approached from the northward; and the royal palace which dominates it, on the hill above the manzanares, is an exceedingly imposing pile. aránjuez (we were given to understand) considers itself equal to windsor; but no one of our acquaintance would dare mention buckingham palace in competition with the _palacio real_ at madrid. chapter x toledo there are but three reasons, that i know of, for anyone visiting madrid. first, that the roads (which are very bad) lead there; second, that the prado picture gallery (which was closed) is exceeding magnifical; and third, that there is a bicycle repairer--which is an unsatisfactory reason at best. smart, well-groomed, busy cities with commodious mansions and boulevards may be found (by such as have need of them) within easier distances than this. and for those who seek old streets, historic monuments, and that delightful aroma of medievalism which is the true inward charm of the peninsula,--are not the little crooked _calles_ of Ávila and segóvia and toledo better than all the _carreras_ of madrid? to them the "only court" is no more than a convenient "jumping-off place"; a head office of "cooks'"; an _entrepôt_ of the central roads. the mecca of their pilgrimage lies fifty miles to the southward,--toledo, the ancient stronghold of the moor, the visigoth, and the roman in the days when none dreamed of such a kingdom as castile. the map showed two roads to toledo, and already i had sampled one of them. "the illescas road," i argued, "was as bad as possible"; and "therefore the aránjuez road is the best." my premise had been quite unassailable, yet after all my deduction proved fallacious. more just, and equally logical, was "therefore it has necessarily improved." the aránjuez road, to do it justice, starts off with the most admirable intentions; and as if it were really determined to arrive (as it proposes) at cadiz. but there is a sad slump in its prospects before it has got far on the journey. it becomes stony and bumpy and hummocky, with ruts like the furrows of a plough; and to steer a bicycle along the narrow ribbon of practicable track at the margin is an operation of some nicety, which is not at all facilitated by a heavy side wind. presently there is a lucid interval of good smooth surface, which lasts just long enough to put the victim into good humour; and the final stage into aránjuez is like the shingle that is upon the sea-shore. such are the habits of a spanish road; and in a way its eccentricities are consolatory. however bad it may be, you can always cherish the hope that it will reform itself altogether round the next turn. there is no reason why it should, but it often does. of course, "in the alternative" the converse is equally true, but that is a point which needs glossing. unless you foster a sanguine temperament you will make no progress at all. i have dwelt at some length on the state of the road, but, indeed, at this stage there is little else to dwell upon. a struggling avenue is pluckily endeavouring to push a line of green pickets across the dun-coloured plain; and here and there are a few miserly olives, each perched upon the little hoard of soil clutched by its hungry roots. but the only things that seem really to flourish are the gigantic six-foot thistles, and i fear that is an ill-omened fertility. it is a greener and leafier world when we descend into the jarama valley. [illustration: toledo bridge of alcántara, from the illescas road.] yet those who have heard aránjuez described as a garden of eden in the midst of a desolate wilderness are likely to find themselves somewhat disillusioned by the reality. true, a tree is always a welcome object in verdureless castile; but the english elms which are the boast of king philip's oasis, "they grow best at home in the north countree"; and though they wear a brave face, they must envy the ample glades and rich green turf which their brethren enjoy in the parks of england. that the much-vaunted palace itself should prove rather a failure need surprise no one. the spanish nobles are town-dwellers, and a country seat such as haddon, or hatfield, or burleigh, is quite beyond their ken. aránjuez was a first attempt, and is not the right plant for the soil. perhaps hampton court, enlarged and remodelled in the style of an alexandra palace, might convey some notion of its cheap tea-gardeny air: but even the river is uninteresting--a reproach that can seldom be levelled at the tagus! i had been cheering my flagging spirits by the anticipation of a nice shady road down the tagus banks to toledo: but now an old muleteer regretfully mentioned that the road was dead, and truly it was the spectre of a road to which he introduced me. the ox-carts had been wallowing in it axle deep throughout the winter, and the spring sun had baked it into a chaos of _seracs_ and _crevasses_ which might have been practicable for a goat. it was wide and straight indeed, and it boasted a noble avenue; but its sole saving feature, from a practical standpoint, was a grassy footpath at the side. so long as the avenue continued, the track maintained some semblance of coherency; but when that also defaulted, it frankly abandoned all further interest in life. as a guide it was luckily needless; i had simply to follow the valley, and as there were no walls or hedges i could make a bee-line if i chose. moreover, on the further side of the river a lofty detached hill, with a ruined castle on the summit, formed a prominent landmark by which to gauge my progress; and with plenty of time before me, i was bound to arrive in the end. a sympathetic bandit, who found me hauling my bicycle across a ploughed field, dispassionately suggested that i might find the railroad better. this opinion was loyally endorsed by second bandit a mile or so to the rearward; and third bandit (ever the most practical of the trio) fairly marched me up the embankment and launched me along the permanent way. they were quite right--it was better; but sleepers and ballast are not a desirable cycle track, and my well-regulated english mind revolted against the scandalous impropriety of the whole proceeding. however, it is sheer waste of one's scruples to squander them over the infraction of spanish bye-laws. they are humoured so long as convenient; but for everything there is a season: and nobody dreams of enforcing them if they chance to be inopportune. there was a wayside station to pass before i reached toledo; there was a train drawn up at the platform, with all the officials _en evidence_, and the passengers, as usual, profiting by the stoppage to indulge in a stroll and cigarettes. i dismounted perforce at the points; but through the station i rode unblushingly: and no one seemed to regard the circumstance as the least unusual or reprehensible. no doubt from aránjuez to toledo all bicyclists travel that way. meanwhile i had been making fair progress, and my goal was nearly gained. my castellated beacon had dropped out of sight behind me; and in front, at the end of the valley, silhouetted against the western sky, rose the great rocky knoll which is the seat of imperial toledo. a bend of the river had brought its waters within easy reach, and having washed off the dust of travel, i was indulging in a few minutes' idleness before resuming the road. suddenly a herd of cattle plashed down into the river a few yards away from me; and their diminutive corydon--a little brown wisp of humanity in the costume of a second-hand scarecrow--came pattering happily at their heels. an english yokel would have been hopelessly flabbergasted by such an unlooked-for encounter; but not so my little castilian. he bowed, sat down beside me, and launched out into conversation with the most delicious confidence and self-possession, as if it were all the most natural occurrence in the world. he accepted a cigarette with becoming gravity, and made sympathetic murmurs when the matches refused to light. our final success was acknowledged with a prim little "blessed be god!" at the end of our chat he escorted me back to the pathway, and made his adieu with a quaint courtliness that conferred a dignity on his rags. yet probably he had never set foot outside his village, nor set eyes on a stranger in his life. good manners, like good looks, are sometimes bred in the bone. [illustration: toledo the bridge of alcántara.] hitherto the valley has been wide and open; but now the river begins to reveal itself in its true character,--_el tajo_, the gash,[ ]--deep and narrow between its riven walls. across its path lies the massive granite barrier of the mountains of toledo. the stream drives squarely into them and recoils away sullenly towards the west. but ere it turns it has bitten deep, and a great outlying bastion is held in the hollow of its curve. the sun at his creation shone first upon that rocky dais! the dignity of toledo demands no meaner site! it is indeed an ideal situation for a medieval fortress; in plan a rough approximation to the shape of a rather square d. the curved line is formed by the gorge of the tagus, whose steep, rocky banks would alone be an adequate defence; the straight by the landward face,--also lofty and precipitous, and crowned with the remnants of wamba's ancient walls. and at the two corners the grand fortified medieval bridges of san martin and alcántara throw their lofty arches across the stream. the site is very similar to that of durham: but the toledo plateau is larger; and the tagus is all unwooded, and wilder and grander than the wear. the founder, of course, was hercules. all spanish cities were founded by hercules, except a few which had been previously founded by tubal. no doubt a large man with a club was a somewhat recurrent phenomenon; and the tale of his legendary prowess was the sole evidence of identity that an early phoenician colonist was likely to require. after the phoenicians came the romans. but the glory of toledo first reached its height in the dark ages which succeeded the roman, when the visigoth dwelled in the land. toledo was the capital of the visigothic kingdom; and that kingdom in the day of its power, during the reigns of leovigild and wamba, was probably the most potent among all the nations of the west. how dire must have been the consternation of austrasia and neustria and lombardy, when, scarcely a generation later, their protagonist succumbed so utterly before the onset of the moors!--when the jews opened the gates of the unwary capital to admit the hordes of tarik, and the fall of imperial toledo set the seal on the disaster of guadalete. neither christian nor moslem underrated the catastrophe of that fatal palm sunday; and the meagre outline of history has been gaudily coloured by romance. who has not heard the tale of the enchanted tower of hercules, wherein the self-willed roderic sought and learned the secret of his doom? the fascinating shahrazad won a full night's respite from her dangerous lord by her catalogue of the loot of the "city of labtayt"--the hundred and seventy crowns of pearl and jacinth, the magical mirror, and the emerald table of solomon! [illustration: toledo puerta del sol.] the tower of hercules is no longer alive to testify: but an old moorish ruin down by the water's edge, under the bridge of san martin, is still pointed out as the scene of the companion tale. here the fair florinda was bathing in the tagus when her beauty caught the eye of the royal roderic, and fired the passion which brought unnumbered woes to spain. it is, indeed, a little hard upon poor florinda that she should never have been forgiven for her share in the disaster. it was her father, not she, who let loose the moors to avenge her; and even the legend describes her as more sinned against than sinning. yet the ballads, which can spare pity for roderic, have nothing but contumely for her. it is argued, i suppose, that all the trouble arose out of her unbridled passion for bathing. but this is a failing which we northerners regard more leniently. arletta's ablutions were under a happier star! during the palmy days of moslem dominion, toledo had to yield pride of place to córdova. but after the fall of the western caliphate it disputed the _hegemony_ with seville; and it was with considerable equanimity that mohammed, the king of andalusia, saw his formidable rival grappled by the christians under alfonso vi. the author of the _poema del cid_ bitterly deplores the fact that there was no "sacred bard" to immortalise the chivalrous incidents of that great two years' leaguer; but, at least, the result was satisfactory, and three hundred and seventy years after its capture toledo was won again from the moor. its fall was wellnigh fatal to the spanish moslems; for mohammed himself was now unable to resist the conqueror; and willing to live "a camel-driver in the african deserts rather than a swineherd in castile," he despairingly summoned the almoravides from morocco to his aid. he had sold his kingdom to save it; yet the newcomers beat back alfonso: and the cid's newly-won kingdom of valéncia went under in the flood. but toledo, once the stronghold of paynimry, was now the bulwark of christendom; and against its iron ramparts the wave of moslem reaction spent itself in vain. now began the second period of toledo's greatness. the city became the seat of the spanish primate and the favourite residence of the castilian kings. some of its importance leaked away southward when córdova and seville were reconquered by ferdinand iii. in . but the first great blow to its prosperity was the inhuman expulsion of the jews by ferdinand and isabella at the end of the fifteenth century. toledo had been one of their chief asylums ever since the destruction of jerusalem; and though goth and moor and christian had all alike persecuted them whenever they became rich enough to make it worth while, yet they were now a numerous colony, wealthy, honoured, and well affected to the crown. but torquemada's savage fanaticism overbore the scruples of the queen. the whole nation was ruthlessly exiled at a bare six months' notice; and perhaps it is no exaggeration to say that nearly all of them, beggared and hopeless, perished of hardship by the way. toledo was still important enough to play the leading rôle in the great revolt of the _communeros_ at the beginning of the reign of charles v. it was indeed the last city to succumb; and that resolute lady, maria pacheco, the widow of padilla, held it for many months against the imperial forces before she finally abandoned the struggle and fled from the realm. the thoroughness with which this rising was suppressed is perhaps a matter for regret. the triumph of the crown was too complete; and spain, once the most democratic of medieval monarchies, was henceforth an absolute autocracy. with this last effort toledo's prominence upon the stage of history comes practically to an end. henceforth it retired upon its reputation, and let the busy world go on without it as it chose. it still turns out a few of those famous sword blades, "the ice brook's temper," which othello bore upon his thigh; but, for the rest, it is but a quiet country town, dozing placidly under the _ægis_ of the great cathedral, which now seems to furnish its only _raison d'être_. [illustration: toledo calle del comércio, with the cathedral tower.] nearly a thousand years have elapsed since toledo was recovered by the christians; and, though but few of its monuments are of genuine moresco workmanship,[ ] yet to all outward appearance it remains a moorish city still. the trade-mark of the east is stamped indelibly upon it;--steep, narrow, crooked streets; and square, sombre palaces, whose grim façades give no hint of the lovely _patios_ within. its mazy network of _calles_ is spread all over the surface of the great domed rock upon which it stands; and the fact that the calle del comércio is the widest, longest and straightest of any, may serve as some indication of the character of the rest. street frankly admits that it is one of the few cities where he could not find his way without a guide; and but that i found all ways equally fascinating, it is highly probable that i should have been in the same predicament myself. every corner of the stage seems still set exactly as it was quitted by the heroes and heroines of lope de vega and calderon. lazarillo de tormes might still be town crier. it might be but yesterday that the horrified gil blas recognised the comrades of his early escapades walking among the condemned in the procession of the _auto-da-fé_. one little alley that i discovered in the course of my wanderings bore the remarkable title of "_calle del diablo pertinece al ayuntamiento_," "the-devil-belongs-to-the-corporation street." he does!--to many corporations! but few are ingenuous enough to proclaim the fact at the street corners! and few have such slight cause to lament it;--he is generally a devil of unrest. the great alcázar,[ ] which is the most prominent object in the city, is too uncompromisingly cubical to be strictly picturesque; and the cathedral, which is its chief glory, is singularly unobtrusive in a general view. the houses shoulder up against it as though anxious to keep it hidden; and when, after much circumnavigation, we do manage at last to unmask it, behold! it is bare and featureless, only redeemed from meanness by its noble western tower. but the moment we pass the portal all cavilling is awed to silence. out of the blaze of the southern sunshine we step into a vast, mysterious twilight, lit only by the jewelled pictures in the clerestory overhead. the air is heavy with the odour of incense; and the chant of the canons thunders down the aisles. the style of this great temple is the purest and most solemn of thirteenth-century gothic. built by the canonized king, st ferdinand, out of the spoils of seville, it is equal to rheims in majesty, and ranks next to cologne in point of size. but noble as is the edifice itself, this is but the casket for its nobler treasures. no other cathedrals in the world can compete with the spanish in the richness of their furniture; and here, for more than three centuries, the richest of all the great chapters[ ] lavished their wealth upon the adornment of their shrine. the skilfulest craftsmen of the renaissance,--copin and rodrigo, de arfe and villalpando, borgoña and berruguete,--spent the best years of their lives upon its stalls and _rejas_ and _custodias_.[ ] they were furnished with gold and silver, jasper and alabaster, with a prodigality worthy of solomon himself; and we may well apply to them all the boast that is recorded of two of them,--that no one can ever determine who best deserves the palm. the great masterpieces of the cathedral are concentrated in bewildering profusion about the _coro_ and _capilla mayor_; but each and all of the score of chapels that surround it, is stored with relics of history and gems of ancient art. here lies alvaro de luna, the cardinal wolsey of spanish history. the great constable died on the scaffold in the _plaza_ at valladolid, and his vindictive enemies would not spare even his tomb; but his beautiful marble monument shows that his daughter's piety was respected in a later reign. here lies the grand cardinal mendoza, _tertius rex_ to the wedded "kings" who made spain a nation; and his tomb is worthy of a king. here lie the early monarchs of castile,--their sarcophagi caught up in the tangle of intricate tracery which encloses the _capilla mayor_. and here, among all these kings and princes, are the monuments of two others;--abu walid the moslem, "the good _alfaqui_" who pled for his persecutors against the wrath of alfonso vi.; and the humble shepherd of the morena, who led alfonso viii. by the secret pass across the mountains, and died on the plains of tolosa in the great victory which his guidance gained.[ ] "they buried them in the city of david among the kings, because they had done good in israel." the men of the thirteenth century were no respecters of persons, and could understand an honourable reward. [illustration: toledo the gorge of the tagus.] one of the chapels is specially reserved for the performance of the mozarabic[ ] ritual, the ancient use of st isidore, which had been preserved by the toledan christians throughout the period of their subjection to the moors. at the reconquest the romanizers were anxious to suppress it, and after much controversy the question was referred to ordeal by battle. two bulls were appointed champions for the rival churches! but the defeat of the roman representative left his clients unconvinced, and two knights took the place of the bulls. again the toledan was victorious, but again the argumentative romanists refused to accept the result. the arm of the flesh was a vain thing in such a matter; "the god that answereth by fire, let him be god!" the protests of the _mozárabes_ were overborne, and the arbitrary bonfire was kindled in the triangular toledan market-place. the romanists astutely conceded the privilege of "first go." they complacently watched their antagonists commit st isidore's precious missal to the flames. _and, behold, it would not burn!_ had the romanists kept their heads it might have occurred to them that the old parchment tome, with its thick oak boards and solid metal clasps, was about as unpromising a bit of fuel as mortal bonfire could tackle. but this third defeat gave them a panic. there was only a draw to be hoped for, and they dared not expose their own volume to such an unprofitable risk. with desperate ingenuity they once more tried to revive the controversy from the beginning; but their opponents were now upon too firm ground, and their orthodoxy had to be conceded. in later years, however, the mozarabic ritual fell into disuse, and was only rescued from oblivion by the enterprise of cardinal ximenes, who collated and republished it, and founded the chapel wherein it is still performed. this sounds rather a broad-minded act for a grand inquisitor; but ximenes, an ascetic and a conqueror, a foe to knowledge and a patron of learning, was one of those strange complex characters whose actions seem consistent to no one but himself. one might readily fill a volume with a list of the glories of toledo, and not a tithe of its attractions can be mentioned in these meagre notes. its proximity to madrid renders it somewhat better known than the majority of castilian cities, yet most visitors appear to imagine that they can "do" it adequately in a day. a cheerful american whom i met there had come over from madrid in the morning, and was returning the same afternoon. he was seeing toledo in three hours, and was spending one of them in dining! a month might well prove insufficient; but a month was not to be spared. one further visit, however, is incumbent on every englishman. a pilgrimage down the tagus to the battlefield of talavera is a duty that he may not ignore. the tagus valley becomes more tame and domesticated below the grim defiles of toledo; and its mountain fences, the sierras of grédos and guadalupe, face one another at a distance of some fifty miles. yet the intervening plains have not nearly the amplitude of the duero's, though the ground is comparatively open and even comparatively green. it is a very interesting district; for the tagus was long a frontier river, and its banks were as diligently fortified as those of our own tweed. the roads from madrid and toledo unite at the castle of magueda; and it was at the brook beneath it that i made the acquaintance of _el maestre_ pedro and his wife and family, a couple of pyrenean bears and a barbary ape. what an ungainly group they looked as they came scrambling down the road towards me! but they were all true castilians (at least all the human section), and offered me a share of their food when they stopped to lunch at the water side, as all well-bred wayfarers should:--would my honour please to eat? "many thanks! a good meal to your honours!" is the correct reply to this courtesy: and therewith i went my way. and now the military tourist will begin to recognise that he is approaching a classic neighbourhood. his ear is caught by the names of the villages--torrijos, sta olalla, alcabon. they are humble little hamlets enough, yet their names ring vaguely familiar. they each dropped a card upon history one hundred years ago. now, too, the landscape is pervaded by an additional feature, which was likewise important enough to win historical mention on the battlefield.[ ] to wit, pigs. pigs and pigs and pigs. pigs by single spies, pigs in battalions. no fat and greasy citizens, like their cousins in england, but sinewy, razor-backed racers of strong sporting proclivities, who rioted along beside the bicycle in sheer exuberance of athleticism. there was a big pig fair toward at talavera on the morrow, and its votaries were mustering from all points of the compass like the sorcerers of domdaniel when eblis summoned them to doom. they were all washed beautifully clean by a tremendous thunderstorm which caught us at the bridge over the alberche: but the streets and lanes of the city were reduced to an indescribable state. [illustration: talavera de la reina from the banks of the tagus.] talavera de la reyna lies upon low ground on the right bank of the tagus, which here is comparatively wide and shallow, and is crossed by a long and very crooked bridge. the town is not strictly fortified; but it is walled, and well screened by its orchards; and as the plain is here narrowed by outlying hummocks from the mountains, it forms an effective position for disputing the passage of the road. all the main fighting in the battle took place upon the higher ground to the northward. the town itself, with its enclosures and orchards, was occupied by the spaniards under their obstinate old captain-general cuesta. they had nearly come to grief two days before in retreating across the alberche, but were now entrenched in a position too strong for assault; and jourdan and victor directed all their efforts against the left and centre where the english were drawn up. here the ground is more open and more elevated, sloping up from the flats by the river till it culminates in the hill of medellin. the position (as in most other battlefields) does not seem very formidable to a layman. but then any position that did would probably never be attacked. the battle was one of the bloodiest in the peninsula; for the british were heavily outnumbered, and their raw militia battalions lacked three years' tempering of the ironsides of albuera and badajoz. but what they lacked in warcraft they redeemed in staunchness. for two days and a night they were fighting, and then their assailants sullenly withdrew. yet, after all, sir arthur wellesley had won merely a tactical victory. his strategic position was too perilous to permit him to garner the fruits. soult's galician army corps, already reorganised after the _debacle_ of the douro, was threatening his rear from plaséncia; and it was only by an adroit retreat across the tagus at arzobispo that he was able to elude the stroke. one of the minor incidents of the battle was an extraordinary piece of marching. the light division, under general craufurd, was far in the rear at the commencement of the fighting, and were eager to get up before the close. the task was too great, but the attempt was something homeric. they covered sixty-two miles in twenty-six hours, all in full marching order: and lost but seventeen stragglers by the way! this was probably a record for the peninsula; though wellington himself thought that it might be paralleled in india; and some of marmont's marches previous to salamanca were not far behind. what manner of men were they who could achieve such feats in july under a spanish sun? chapter xi a raid into estremadura the estremadura road launches out boldly from the end of the segóvia bridge at madrid, and the fingerpost which points along it laconically observes that that way you will get to badajos. but quite a lot of water will flow under the segóvia bridge first, even though it is only the manzanares which runs there. wherefore, to avoid over-watering this narrative, we will not begin it at madrid, nor even at talavera, but transport ourselves at one stride right away to the other end of the long line of snowy mountains which guards the northern side of the estremadura road. here the sierra de grédos ends in a forked tail like one of its own falcons, and between the forks a long, straight valley runs up into the centre of the range. the great snow-peaks sit along either side of that long, straight valley like a parliament of gods, with the shaggy ilex woods wrapped around their knees; and at its mouth, on a slight eminence half encircled by the new-born waters of the jerte, stands the ancient city of plaséncia. i were ungrateful not to retain a warm corner in my heart for pretty little plaséncia, for i arrived there limping and dog-wrecked, and plaséncia was kind to me. but he would be an unimpressionable mortal who could not love her for her beauty alone; and i am not sure that even i--such is man's gratitude--would remember her as kindly had she been less fair. the crumbling walls, the solemn palaces, the quaint old streets and beautiful situation, make this little hesperian township one of the most charming in spain. is she not rightly named "pleasaunce"? queenly segóvia herself need not disdain so fair a cousin. but plaséncia should not strictly be included in the castilian family circle; she has married into estremadura, and the mountains part her from her kind. the picturesque estremenian peasantry lounge about her squares and _plazas_, but her site and her buildings seem still to proclaim her kinship. like other spanish wives, she has not quite dropped her maiden name. [illustration: plasÉncia puente san lazaro.] there is not much traffic in the streets of plaséncia, neither is much expected. the workmen patching the cathedral roof were heaving over the broken tiles on to the pavement without so much as a prefatory "heads below!" yet the place looks far from dead, for the balconies are gay with flower-boxes, and the numerous old palaces still wear a comparatively prosperous air. the cathedral stands right upon the ancient walls, which form a sort of terrace to it upon the southern side. internally its effect is marred by a transverse partition; but externally, though (like mr mantelini's countesses) it has no outline, it is decked with a fanciful miscellaneous finery which makes it inordinately picturesque. moreover, it is an educational centre, and we are indebted to it for constant processions of demure little students, clad in black cassocks with a burning heart worked in crimson upon the breast. they are beyond comparison the best-behaved children in the peninsula, and make most appropriate figures in the quiet and shady square. the _fonda_ where i brought myself to anchor was situated entirely upon the first floor; and this waste of good space was gratuitous, for the ground floor was all empty vaults. my bedroom was at the back. to reach it i had to pass through the kitchen; and incidentally to make myself amiable to the cook, who was manipulating her pots over a range of strictly classical construction which might have been imported from pompeii. beyond was a tiny _patio_ where maria and the señora were busy at their household duties under the shade of the vines; and then came my room. there was no window except the glazed upper panel of the door; and no ventilation when the door was shut, so it was usually open. i could shut it without getting out of bed. our meals were served in the little _comedor_ adjoining the kitchen. maria waited, handing round the viands in their native earthenware pipkins, piping hot from the fire. also she led the conversation, being a notable authority on all the latest gossip and scandal; and the cook popped her head through the serving-hatch and chimed in volubly at every suitable opening. there is a homeliness about these little hostels which is very delightful; but it is always a puzzle to me how the women get their meals. they seldom dine with their men-folk, and, so far as my observation goes, must subsist entirely on "tasters." [illustration: plasÉncia the town walls and cathedral.] of course you seldom get a bill. "this is no time o'night to use our bills! with one word of my mouth i can tell them what is to betall."[ ] the señora confined herself literally to one word when i asked her, and responded "thirty-two," but i suppose my face must have betrayed some uncertainty, for "_reals_[ ] not _pesetas_!" added the señora hastily, knocking seventy-five per cent. off my mental calculation, and bringing her charges for full board and lodging down to about three shillings a day. i wonder who was responsible for the libel that spanish innkeepers cheat; any attempt at overcharging is an almost unprecedented event. the borderland character of plaséncia is reflected in its surroundings. the castilian sierras wall it in upon the east; but away to the west stretches the wilderness of estremadura--vast rugged moors interlaced with wide belts of olive and ilex, or small rare patches of cultivated ground. the lonely road holds steadily upon its way till it reaches the lip of the tagus ravine, and then plunges abruptly down to the level of the river. there is a marked contrast in the scenery along the two great rivers of northern spain. the duero valley is wide and tame, a great unfenced expanse of vineyard and cornfield, edged by low hills of petrified earth; but the tagus rift is narrow and savage, walled in by bare black rock, and showing few traces of the hand of man. the road swings down the hill in admirable style, but startles the traveller by coming to an abrupt and untimely end about half a mile short of the river; and i had to plough my way down through the shingle to the water's edge to prospect for a continuation. far away up stream a few shattered piers and arches testify to the neglected munificence of some old _pontifex maximus_ of toledo; and overhead the great lattice girders of the railway spring from pier to pier across the gulf; but where is there a passage for a wayfaring man? "it strictly prohibits itself" to use the railway line; moreover, the sleepers are laid directly upon the naked girders, so that the passenger gets a fine bird's-eye view of the landscape between his toes; but there is neither ferry nor ford,--at least none where a stranger can see them; and why strain at the strict prohibition if you can swallow the bird's-eye view? some little way up the further shore i stumble across the road again. it is getting along capitally, thank you, and tackles the steep ascent in a most business-like system of curves and gradients without bestowing a thought upon the lamentable _hiatus_ in the rear. elsewhere one might reprobate such conduct, but here one accepts it as natural. "_cosas de españa_,"--it's the way with spain. at the top is a wilderness of rocky pasture powdered with flocks of merino sheep, the great nomad hordes that migrate every winter into these southern latitudes, and are now working their way north again towards the mountains of leon. among them stand the cloaked figures of their shepherds, tall and motionless,--a hermit race; and the pale peaks of almanzor and his brother giants far away in the background, survey with complacent approval a picture as antiquated as themselves. presently this desert gives way to olive woods, and the olive woods to more cultivated ground. thick cactus hedges, fringed round with an edging of blossom, begin to hint at a southern climate; and the peasantry are already reaping the barley harvest, though it is yet but the middle of may. at last a cluster of towers planted in the saddle of a low serrated ridge marks the goal of my day's journey, and with a wide sweep to the right, to outflank an intervening valley, i enter the town of cáceres. the tourist who wishes to explore estremadura will find that the inexorable laws of geography have fixed his headquarters at cáceres. but he need have no grudge against the inexorable laws aforesaid; they might have chosen a much worse place. to begin with, cáceres is a town of resources; there is a man in it who owns a bicycle, and who did own till recently a tube of rubber solution, but this rare and costly curio has since been acquired by a foreign collector. moreover, it is the capital of its province, and it rejoices in a picturesque and busy little market; but the gem of the whole, to an artist's eyes, is the "old town" which crowns the rising ground in the centre, a delightful relic of antiquity all untainted by the contact of to-day. nobody seems to go into the old town of cáceres except the girls with their water pitchers _en route_ for the fountain of council on the further side. the streets are so steep that they are all stepped, and so narrow that it is impossible for two loaded mules to pass. no sound is heard in them but the clattering of the storks, and the grim old palaces which wall them in have an indescribable air of mystery and romance. i am convinced that any bold spirit who dared to penetrate into their flowery _patios_ would find them still inhabited by the old comrades of cortes and pizarro and diego garcia de paredes, the great estremenian warriors of yore. no mere modern mortals can dwell behind those changeless walls. the grey old ramparts which enclose them must have checked the march of time. [illustration: cÁceres within the old town walls.] four main roads diverge from cáceres towards the four points of the compass. that towards the east leads to trujillo, the birthplace of pizarro, and the mountain sanctuary of guadalupe, which the estremenian conquerors enriched with the spoils of mexico and peru. i was scheming in vain to attain to them, but my fate was most resolutely hostile. two sallies resulted in breakdowns, and at last i reluctantly succumbed. my first successful foray was towards the south. this road leads over a queer wild country, half common, half moor, sparsely inhabited, and fringed with the low, rugged ridges which are such a feature of the district. it was a notable haunt of robbers a couple of generations ago. towards the south-east rises the sierra de montanchez, which at this point forms the watershed between the tagus and guadiana, and the road gradually rises to pass over its tail. the sierra piles itself up into fine bold masses on the left of the road; and beneath it on the further side lies the hamlet of arroyo molinos, where three thousand french soldiers, reputed the best in spain, were surprised and crushed by general hill in . girard was retreating before hill from cáceres, and had halted here for the night, leaving pickets along the road to the northward to give warning of pursuit. but the pursuers he dreaded had already outstripped and intercepted him. hill had followed the parallel road (which is now the main one) and lay unsuspected at alcuesca, three miles to the south. not a spaniard in either village but knew of the intended _coup_; but who would betray it to a frenchman? and no whisper of his danger reached girard till the st and nd regiments swept the street with fixed bayonets in the grey of the stormy dawn. estremadura was hill's province, and his other most notable exploit, the seizing of the bridge of almaraz, was also achieved in this locality. two victories of which wellington himself might have been proud. from the summit of the pass the ground sweeps away to the southward, an ocean of white-flowered cistus bushes interspersed with the vivid yellow of the broom. but this brilliant spectacle does not continue for many miles; it soon gives way to the usual jumble of rock and grass and olive; and at last from this stony upland one looks down across the sloping cornfields to the distant guadiana and the town of mérida. a big red-roofed village with no special feature, built beside the broad and sandy bed of a great river, mérida from a distance looks commonplace enough. yet the wide, smooth cornfields around it might disclose a different scene. time was when the garrison of augusta emerita was fifteen-fold more numerous than her present population, when her walls were twenty miles in circumference, and even in her decay her astonished conqueror could confess that it was "impossible to enumerate" the marvels she contained. comparing what she is with what she was, the wonder is not that so much has survived, but that so much has disappeared; and yet in good truth the remains are ample enough, "equal to rome" say the meridans, and who should know better than they? first the great aqueduct (the greatest of three); the bridge of sixty-four[ ] arches which spans the guadiana, and the mighty castle which guards its townward end. the theatre, still almost perfect; the ruins of the temple of diana, and of the massive arch of trajan. the amphitheatre is now but an heap, and the hippodrome can only be traced by its foundations; but the whole soil teems with coins and fragments of pottery, and if ever systematic excavation could be hoped for in this happy-go-lucky country, who can guess what treasures might be revealed? it is at least an encouraging symptom that the meridans are very proud of their "_antiguedades_," and are always eager to act as showmen; in which capacity they are equipped with the most startling archæological heresies that have ever been foisted upon an astonished world. it was a hard-worked little room that was assigned to me for my lodging at mérida. at night i slept there, but by day it was a tailor's shop, and between times it was borrowed by juanita for the conduct of her little _affaires du coeur_. its many-sidedness was the result of its situation, for it was on the ground floor, with a large french window opening direct on to the pavement, and guarded with a stout iron grille. to myself this entailed a rather embarrassing publicity, but it just suited juanita, who could interview her lover comfortably through the bars. [illustration: cÁceres calle de la cuesta de aldana.] each night as i returned from the café i beheld the same little picture (it was being produced in replica in half the streets of the town); the moonlight bright upon the _fonda_ walls, and the black cloaked figure clinging like a bat to the rails. i am proud to remember that i always tried to play the game properly, and glided off unobtrusively into a side street before i got near enough to interfere. but i doubt if i ever really escaped observation, for at my next round the pavement would be untenanted, and juanita waiting at the street door to let me in. it might be supposed that there was no ostensible motive why she should not have kept tryst at the door instead of the window, or "gone out walking" with her lover as an english girl would have done. but no! that would not be "proper." la señora grundy insists upon a barred window. perhaps that is one of the reasons why all spanish windows are barred. "marriage is honourable to all." but in spain it is considered expedient to give an elaborately clandestine flavour to the indispensable preliminary of courtship; and during the whole of that period romeo is officially tabooed by juliet's kin. he may be a most desirable _parti_, and the bosom friend of all her brothers. but now he is remorselessly "cut." when they meet, they never see him;--neither (logically enough) do they ever notice that cryptic enigma who is "feeding on iron" at the lattice every evening soon after dark. so matters continue until the courtship has ripened and the happy lover can formally demand his lady's hand. then he is at once received into all honour and affection, and the lovers are put on a regular footing by being formally betrothed, a ceremony scarcely less binding than marriage itself. mérida was my southernmost limit, and detained me somewhat longer than i had intended. but, indeed, the very origin of the city seems to constitute an invitation to repose. first invaded and last subdued of all the roman provinces, spain was just witnessing the dawn of her early millennium when augustus founded this home of rest for the veterans of the final campaign. if rest was his intention, it would rejoice his heart to see how diligently it is still practised by the descendants of his original colonists. but my own sojourn was not entirely voluntary. i had tried once more for trujillo, and been forced to put back for repairs. even a fate-compelled idleness, however, may sometimes be found opportune. [illustration: mÉrida "los milagros," the ruins of the great aqueduct.] the great ruined aqueduct, the headquarters of all the storks of the guadiana, towered over the cáceres road to the right of me as i again bore away to the northward. it had been the first object to greet my arrival, and was the last to haunt me as i left. the huge gaunt piers and crumbling arches seem more imposing in their ruin even than the complete structure at segóvia, though i believe actual measurements place the latter first by a short head. "the miracles," the townsfolk call them; and the title is well bestowed. yet estremadura can boast one other miracle more stupendous even than these. once more i sallied forth from cáceres, and set my face towards the west; and surely in all the solitudes of estremadura there are none more solitary than this. mile after mile the straight, white road heaves its long line across the ridges of the rolling moor. its dust is seamed with the trail of the viper, and here and there the eagle hangs poised above his hunting-ground; but other life or landmark there is none for leagues together, till one feels one has been riding there for ever, and will probably continue till the end of time. sometimes a ruined watch-tower will afford a distant beacon; sometimes a well-ambushed hamlet, whose swine are reputed to develop a specially succulent bacon by a strict adherence to a viper dietary. they appear like the phases in a dream, and are swallowed in the immensity of their surroundings. as well seek a pin in a haystack as a homestead in this boundless waste. if there be any faith in the milestones, alcántara cannot lie beyond that great purple combe ahead of me. yet how can there be room for the tagus valley on the hither side? but even as i am flouting their promise, the road dives gracefully over the lip of an unsuspected hollow, and the fragments of a crumbling rampart resolve themselves into the long-sought town. the gateway admits me to a forlorn and grimy street; the houses are ruinous and neglected; everywhere is dirt and misery and dilapidation. what went ye out into the wilderness to see? just beyond the town, and far below the level of the moors, the tagus has carved its deep and savage glen. right and left, as far as the eye can reach, the bare bluff headlands stoop down into the abyss like the tors on the devonshire coast; and at the bottom, pent between its walls of rock, the tawny river swirls down the ravine. all is vast and huge and desolate; the town itself hardly shows in such a picture; yet in the midst one object catches the eye which seems to challenge comparison even with nature itself,--the work of titans rather than men,--the bridge--_al kántarah_. spain is the land of bridges. in all europe they have few rivals, but here they own a king. since the day when caius julius lacer finished his great work for the emperor trajan, and was laid to rest beside it, no other bridge has ever challenged comparison with his;--a work to vie with the pyramids of egypt, or the flavian amphitheatre at rome. it is long before the eye can learn to grasp its full dimensions; all around it is rock and mountain, there is nothing to give scale. we are warned of it first by the camera, for the lens will not look at so wide an angle; and then by the size of the archway flung across the road at the centre pier. presently, as we peer over the parapet into the depths of the gulf below us, we realise that there is a man down there walking by the waterside, and a dog which seems to bark though we cannot hear the sound. our eye slowly sizes up the _voussoir_ above which we are standing; it is a twelve-ton block of granite; and the huge vault with its eighty such _voussoirs_ seems to widen and deepen beneath us as we gaze; for the brook that it spans is the river tagus, whose waters have their source three hundred miles away. thus hint by hint we have pieced together the astonishing conclusion that the span of each of the two great central arches is rather wider, and nearly as high as the interior of the dome of st paul's; and that the height of the railway lines above the firth of forth is sixty feet less than that of the road above the tagus! what must the scene be like in winter, when the waters are foaming against the springer stones one hundred and fifty feet above their summer level! how vast the strength of these massive piers which for eighteen hundred years have defied the fury of the floods! where now is the great _via lata_ that ran from gades to rome? where are the famous cities which it threaded on the way? the vine and olive grow in the forum of italica, and the miracles of mérida are a dwelling for the stork. but here at the wildest point of all its wild journey our eyes may still behold a memorial which nature has assailed in vain:--"pontem perpetui mansurum in sæcula mundi,"--the monument of caius julius lacer, more enduring even than wren's. [illustration: alcÁntara] we english, i regret to say, were responsible for blowing up one of the smaller arches in ; and our makeshift restoration,--a suspension bridge made out of ships' cables, probably the earliest introduction of the type to europe,--lasted till the time of the carlist wars. then it was again destroyed, and the spaniards were long content with a ferry. now, however, they have restored it in its native granite, a feat of which they are justly proud. only, seeing that no cement at all was used in the original building, it was really a little too bad of them to insist upon pointing the joints! it seems rather farcical to make a parade of military secrecy about a structure that has been famous for eighteen centuries; but there is a sentry assigned to it to make sure of preserving its privacy, and i think i acted kindly towards him in providing one culprit for the year. our re-arrival in the town to interview the _teniente_ created quite a little sensation, particularly as that official was not to be found at his office, and had to be hunted through the parish by packs of importunate boys. the _teniente_ was eventually run to earth in his bedroom, in a state of great deshabille, but as polite as if he had been attired in full court uniform. his house and his goods were at my service, and himself only too anxious to do anything in the world to oblige me; but i must not sketch within twenty-five miles of the frontier without a special permit from the minister of war at madrid! the travelling englishman (when not admittedly mad) is always an object of suspicion. but it must be confessed that his vagaries are generally humoured in spain. he only gets gently restrained in remote and inaccessible places, where the official (never having seen a stranger before) naturally feels it incumbent upon him to do something, but it is not quite certain what. i made no attempt to protest. it would, of course, have been entirely useless; and my spanish had been already heavily strained in compliments. moreover, in this instance the _genius loci_ had benignantly decreed that i should have got the horse before they locked the stable door. meanwhile i had been left some consolation. the bridge is not quite the only lion at alcántara, and the grand benedictine convent of its old military monks rises most imposingly upon the edge of the impending moors. it is now ruinous and dismantled, its fine church perfect but empty, and its cloisters used as a cart-shed by the thrifty usurpers of its halls. beyond this feature, however, the town has little attraction. it was mercilessly sacked in the spring of by general lapisse,--killed three months later while striving to rally his division during the great assault at talavera,--and since that crushing disaster it has never had spirit to raise its head. there comes a stage when ruin ceases to be picturesque and becomes only depressing. it is rather in this connection that i remember alcántara and sahagun.[ ] it is not altogether surprising, in such an inconsequent country, to discover that by crossing alcántara you will arrive--nowhere! and that the only traffic across that stupendous edifice is limited to a few flocks of sheep and some casual mules. i had hoped to return to plaséncia by way of cória. it is no great distance. alcántara is in cória diocese, and there are no special obstacles beyond the river; but there is no vestige of a road. no, i must return from alcántara to cáceres, and from cáceres to plaséncia, and from plaséncia i might find a road to cória--perhaps. which is the reason why cória is now bracketted with trujillo and guadalupe as one of the places i hope to see some day. i returned, therefore, to plaséncia the same way that i had come; and passing round the end of the sierra de grédos, took my farewell of these "extrema durii"[ ] from the summit of the pass of béjar. i have since learned that "nothing but a lively historical curiosity, and a keen sympathy with the lonely melancholy of the heaths, could have enabled me to endure with equanimity the privations to which i was exposed." it is astonishing how little i realised my fortitude at the time. chapter xii segÓvia few streams are so mercilessly bantered as the hapless manzanares, and it is rough on an honest little river to rag it because it is poor. it is "navigable at all seasons for a coach and six"; it is mockingly urged "to sell its bridges for water"; and it labours under a gross imputation (not to be whispered in the presence of touchy madrilenos), that upon one occasion when it happened to be sufficiently copious to float a mule's pack-saddle, the enthusiastic citizens turned out to capture the "whale." even its few partisans show a calculated _gaucherie_ in their compliments. "duke of streams and viscount of rivers" is quite a preposterous flight. but perhaps the bitterest tribute is the gibe of a jealous young sportsman (a toledan, and consequently part-proprietor of the tagus) who had fainted from heat at a bull-fight, and to whom his neighbours were kindly proffering a pitcher of water:--"pour it into the manzanares," gasped the spanish sidney, "it needs it more than i." no one would have had an ill word to say of it had it clung to its lowlier destiny. it reaps the reward of the tuft-hunting which sent it to visit madrid. a mile above the iron gate it is as pretty and secluded a little brooklet as anyone need desire;--a clean shingly bed, and broken banks fringed with brushwood and poplars, beneath whose shade we very contentedly dozed through the hot hours of siesta-time, cooling our toes in the water and restfully contemplating the distant summits of the sierra de guadarrama,--faint opalescent outlines above the tree-tops in the glen. we had ridden in that morning from toledo; and to push on across the mountains the same afternoon was too heavy a task to be seriously contemplated. no; we would take matters easily during the heat, and drift on in the evening towards the foot of the pass. we should find lodging--of a sort--at some little village _posada_, and could tackle the long ascent in the cool of the early dawn. [illustration: segÓvia church of san miguel.] the sun was sinking as we passed las rozas, but there was still an hour of daylight before us, and it seemed a pity to waste such a beautiful evening, so we launched out venturously on to the moors. at first we had fellow-voyagers;--a homeward ploughman with his yoke of oxen,--a shepherd with his whip--(is there any other region where shepherds use whips?)--and his droop-necked flock earing the ground towards their fold. but soon the dusk won its will, and the darkling track lay empty. the only survivor astir was the habitual belated _arriero_, with his team outspanned for the night and his waggon beached upon the margin of the road. the stars had already begun to flicker up in the heavens, and we could see that torrelodones, the next village, must be hobson's choice for ourselves. at torrelodones, saith the proverb, are twenty-four burgesses and twenty-five thieves (the twenty-fifth being the curate); yet there is no innkeeper among so many. bread and wine, however, were forthcoming at one of the cabins, and eggs at a second, which we got cooked at a third; and if anyone wanted to wash himself, was there not the fountain on the village green? beds, however, were a different matter. a muleteer would have rolled himself up on the floor in his blanket; but we had no blankets, and did not fancy the floor. as for the reputation of the villagers, no doubt that was wholly unmerited; but we thought of the fresh air of heaven, and the scent of the clean sweet herbage was borne in to us upon the breeze. it was already dark when we quitted the hamlet, and the distant lights of madrid were twinkling up at us from the misty plain below. but another beacon rose in sight as we breasted the surge of the moorland--a large brilliantly-lighted building, apparently right in front of us and only a few hundred yards away. what was it? evidently no ordinary farmstead--the lights were so many and so small. but anyway it would not do to camp right under its windows, so the question was shelved unanswered. we wheeled aside from the roadway, and picked out a bedroom under the lee of a huge boulder which promised us shelter from the wind. anyone who has ever tried the experiment must be perfectly well aware that the delights of an extemporary bivouac are better imagined than endured; but we had not bargained to take our discomfort in exactly the form that it came. the last few nights we had spent at toledo kicking the last sheets off our beds in a vain endeavour to get reposefully cool.[ ] but the boot was on the other leg up here in the lap of the mountains. in vain did we empty our knapsacks; we could not get the clothes to keep us warm. about midnight the wind veered. our faithless boulder no longer gave us shelter; and as we rose to shift our berth, behold, there was that brilliantly lighted building still shining in front of us as steadily as before. what could it be, keeping this night-long vigil when all the rest of the world was asleep? but now the mist had cleared and our eyes had grown accustomed to the starlight, and the true solution of the riddle flashed suddenly across our minds. a dozen miles off at the least, on the further side of the intervening valley, the thousand windows of the escorial were staring out unwinkingly into the night! the stars seemed to travel very slowly across the zenith as we dozed through the dog-watches in our chilly nest. but at last a lightening in the east heralded the approach of dawn; and no sooner was there enough light to swear by than we were again upon the road, thankful for the excuse to work some warmth into our shivering limbs. our teeth fairly chattered as we dipped into the cold shadowy hollows; but the level rays of the rising sun caught us as we topped the ridges, and cheered us with an ample promise of a warm time to come. it was not long before our troubles were forgotten, and a big bowl of hot coffee at villalba sent us to the pass like giants refreshed. the puerto de navacerrada is one thousand feet higher than that of guadarrama, and the road, being less frequented, is unfortunately not so well kept. but for all that it can be cordially recommended to the traveller, for it boasts far finer scenery as a reward for the extra toil. to our right the shadowy dome of the great iron head cut a bold arc of purple out of the glowing eastern sky, while to our front and left lay the long serrated ridge of the seven pikes, a prominent landmark to travellers across the northern plains. the hillsides were draped from foot to summit with the rich purple mantle of the flowering hard-head, variegated with vivid splashes of gold where the broom had ousted its hardier rival; and every here and there the slope was broken by groves of pine, or jutting crags of grey granite, with the cool blue shadows sleeping at their feet. looking back over our left shoulders along the southern face of the mountains, our eyes were caught by the towers of the escorial rising up nobly from the lower slopes, and scarcely dwarfed even by their mountain background; while, a little nearer, the vigo road--a pyramid of persevering zigzags--was struggling up the face of the range to reach the puerto de guadarrama. our own pass rejoices in the possession of a multitude of summits, and the sixth or seventh of these (upon which we had really pinned our faith) disappointed us bitterly by abdicating in favour of another, distant at least an hour away. this last, however, was guaranteed genuine by the inevitable hall-mark of a _caminero's_ hut, and was, moreover, on such intimate terms with the seven pikes that we felt there was no room for deception. the gradient of the northern face is distinctly steeper than the southern, and the road zigzags down sharply through the shadowy pine-woods which clothe all this portion of the range. not a soul crossed our path as we threaded their silent alleys; and the only house is a solitary _venta_ midway down the descent, which rejoices in the ominous title of mosquito tavern. we thought of polonius at supper and did not risk a meal. deep down in the dingle beneath us a mountain stream was chattering towards the plain; and as we neared the outlet of the valley, and felt that we had broken the back of our day's journey, we began to cast envious glances at the inviting waters. our bedroom had not proved altogether a success, but our bathroom was worthy of diana. the clear cold stream gushed smoothly over its pebbly bed, and the pines which thronged its mossy banks spread a green network against the blaze of the noonday sun. a skein of brilliant blue dragon-flies flashed to and fro across the ripples; and at the head of the glade a solitary peak rose clear and sharp against the sky. the beautiful dorothea cooling her crystal feet in the limpid water was the sole thing lacking to complete the picture. and even she would have been an embarrassment from a practical point of view. how much they miss who travel through spain by railway, and grumble (legitimately enough) at the difficulty of obtaining baths at their hotels! the wayfarer has happier fortune;--but not an eresma every day! at the mouth of the valley stands the royal palace of la granja, built by philip iv. as a rival to versailles. the structure is not nearly so fine, though the site and the fountains are finer. but who goes to spain to see copies of things french? and we swung disdainfully past the gateway, and headed our course for the great cathedral tower that marks the position of segóvia. [illustration: segÓvia arco san estéban.] we were drawing quite close to the city when we overtook a party of four,--two _carabineros_ and two civilians,--sauntering arm in arm along the roadway and amicably sharing cigarettes. but a hideous blight descended upon this innocent idyll when they drew up with us at the _fielato_.[ ] the _carabineros_ shouldered their rifles and gave an extra twirl to their mustachios,--the civilians meekly held out their wrists for the handcuffs,--and law and order with their miserable captives strutted inspiringly into public view. evidently segóvia demanded a certain amount of style, and we two vagabonds eyed each other dubiously. but the eresma had given us a "clean slate." no one would have guessed from our looks that we had spent the night in the open and ridden across the mountains since the dawn. "nevertheless," quoth one of us sententiously, "what with the bad night, and the early start, and the long ride, and the hot sun, and the bathe, and the pine-woods, and the _comida_ which we are going to eat, i expect there'll be more _siesta_ than sight-seeing for us this afternoon." there are a certain number of towns in europe which form a class by themselves--a class of professional models for the delectation of the artist. they do not necessarily possess the most interesting monuments, but they are blessed with a certain genius for assuming graceful poses, for wearing harmonious colours, and framing themselves into pictures from whatever point they are viewed. they are a very select company,--even florence and nuremburg can scarcely be included,--but venice is one, and bruges, and rothenburg-a-tauber; and segóvia ranks with them. the principal lion of the city was lying in wait at the gates thereof,--the huge granite aqueduct, one of the wonders of spain. its mighty piers go striding like colossi across the valley, and the little puny houses "peep about under their huge legs." by whom it was built is a matter of some question; possibly by augustus,--more probably by trajan[ ]; so at least say the learned, who are wofully wrong-headed about such things. the true story is that it was erected by the devil in a single night, out of his love and affection for a fair damsel of segóvia, to save her the trouble of going down the hill to draw water. her townswomen unto this hour are profiting by her sumptuous love-token. but her poor suitor was not so fortunate. his delilah found one stone a-missing, and took advantage of the flaw to repudiate her contract. beneath its broad shadow we dived in among the crazy patchwork houses of the _azoquejo_, the once disreputable "little market" where don quixote's rascally innkeeper had been wont to "practise knight-errantry" in his callow days. a steep crooked street led us up under the toppling balconies, past the beautiful romanesque arcades of the church of san martin, and the heavily rusticated façade of the sombre palace of pikes. truly this was a captivating city; we made the confession immediately. and as yet all the grounds of our verdict were a few steps inside the back door. segóvia is queen of castilian cities, as toledo is the king of them. but segóvia does not lend her countenance to those who approach from the south. she sits with her face to the northward towering over the road from valladolid:--an unforgettable vision, the fairy city of our dreams. spain seems to take a delight in concentrating her fascinations. for mile after mile she will trail you over a dull and spirit-quelling country, till all your enthusiasm is properly subdued. then she will suddenly overwhelm you with a whole cargo of accumulated perfections, an extravagance of beauty which leaves admiration aghast. and never was _coup de théâtre_ more artfully developed than this great spectacle of segóvia. a far-distant glimpse of a little group of turrets bristling upon the base of the mountains at the foot of the seven pikes; a tardy approach up the valley of the eresma, whose trees and rocks impede all further view. the valley becomes a trench; and a vision of towers and cliffs begins to stir our anticipation; while the trench narrows down to a gullet, with sides so straight and smooth that they might have been cut by hand. then comes a sudden turn; the rock gates swing wide open, and all in a moment the marvel stands revealed. perched upon the precipitous cliffs of a long wedge-shaped promontory between two confluent gorges, segóvia has been aptly likened to a ship stranded sidelong on the mountains with its bows slanting towards the plain. the sharp prow and lofty forecastle are formed by the heights of the _alcázar_; a little further aft is the "bridge,"--the high ground round the _plaza mayor_, where stands the cathedral, the central feature of the whole. and if one is to run the comparison to death, i suppose the funnel would be represented by the cathedral campanile, and the stern galleries by the aqueduct arcades. the likeness is undeniable, but altogether too prim and pedantic. as well might one picture a fairy in a tailor-made costume. [illustration: segÓvia the alcázar] there is something almost life-like in the sweep of the tilted strata as the great cliff leaps above the summit of the poplars. it seems like the "station of the herald mercury";--arrested motion rather than repose;--a great wave petrified in the act of breaking, with spires and gables for the spray upon the crest. beneath it curves the green and fertile valley, the "terrestrial paradise" of the monks of el parral[ ]; and the richness, brilliance and daring of the whole wonderful composition form a theme which is the despair both of pen and pencil alike. the _alcázar_, which is poised upon the extremity of the precipice, was gutted by fire some forty years ago, and is consequently largely a restoration; but it harmonises so admirably with the lines of nature that one hardly realises that it has not grown of its own accord. it has always been a royal stronghold, but never played any very important part in the tumultuous drama of spanish history; our friend the enemy, with commendable discretion, having commonly preferred to gather his laurels from some less inaccessible bough. it has, however, attained a minor celebrity through the carelessness of a nursemaid. this sounds but a threadbare method of achieving greatness; but the girl who accidentally dropped an heir-apparent out of a window of the _alcázar_ at segóvia must be allowed to have fixed the standard at the very highest conceivable peg. but the proudest day in its annals was that upon which isabella the catholic (newly apprised of the death of her brother king henry) rode forth from its gateway to claim the homage of castile and leon. the moment was critical, for her succession was disputed; but segóvia stood firmly in her favour,--a worthy birthplace for the worthiest era of spain. the site seems designed for such a pageant; but it bore its own bane in the setting: for from the little convent of sta cruz, below the gateway of san estéban, torquemada was drawn to sway his nobler queen. torquemada was isabella's evil genius--the demon who was to turn all her blessings to a curse. it is but just to him to admit that he was honest in his wrong-headedness; that he believed as sincerely in the wickedness of an unauthorised conscience as in the righteousness of persecution, and would have gone to the stake himself in support of his tenets with as much resolution as any of his victims. it is the standing puzzle with such men how they could fail to recognise in their own spirit the condemnation of their own methods. persecution they would have derided if applied to them by others. why should they credit its efficacy when applied to others by them? and an even saner thought they might have gleaned from the old essayist[ ]:--"when all is done it is an over-valuing of one's convictions by them to cause that a man be burned alive." the cruelty for which we chiefly condemn them is a crime for which they were not wholly responsible. the age was cruel,--"the most cruel of all ages," wrote the grave montaigne:--and the inquisition did but deal with heresy as treason was dealt with by the state. its secrecy was its new and horrible feature and the one most deeply resented at the time. for at first, even in spain, the inquisition was not tamely accepted; and some of the noblest churchmen were loudest in its rebuke.[ ] it sinned against the light. it was a thing of devils; an atrocity only to be paralleled by the witch-doctors of ashanti and benin. these grisly reflections are the inevitable nemesis of all romantic and chivalrous associations; but they seem as sadly out of place in this sunny eden as the trail of the serpent in its prototype. isabella was a generous patroness to the little convent, and her own mottoes and badges figure in its delicate carving. she needed no such piety to keep her memory green. [illustration: segÓvia arco santiago.] the valladolid road skirts the foot of the precipice on the larboard side and doubles back into the city, where the slope is easiest at the stern. but the straight path is taken by an irresponsible little bye-way, which rushes the steep ascent along the feet of the beetling ramparts, and succeeds in winning a footing inside the santiago gate. here the elegant horse-shoe arches look as if they might have been borrowed from the alhambra; and as we issued from under their shadow we were confronted by the graceful campanile of the church of san estéban, a work of the thirteenth century, and unique in spanish architecture, though it may be mated in provence. _were_ confronted, alas! for i fear it now stands no longer. the tower was badly cracked when first we saw it, and on the occasion of my second visit was being taken down as dangerous. as to its ultimate destiny it is quite impossible to prophesy: but spaniards are capable restorers should they happen to think it worth while. it may be as reverently revived as the work at leon cathedral, or (_di meliora!_) razed with as little compunction as the late leaning tower at zaragoza. the gateway of san estéban is a little abaft the church, and, like its neighbour of santiago, has distinctly a moorish air. not so the arco san andres, the other great gate, to the starboard. that is uncompromisingly gothic, and large and massive enough to balance both the other two. upon this side the city is bounded by the little bourn of the clamores, a scantier stream than the eresma, but equally romantic and picturesque. it flows in a straight-sided gully like a natural moat, the upper reaches becoming gradually shallower and wider till they expand into the broad valley which is crossed by the aqueduct arcade. here the most prominent feature is the cathedral, which surges up out of the medley of houses, overtopping even the pinnacles of the _alcázar_. it is the latest important gothic monument ever erected upon spanish soil, a sister church to the new cathedral of salamanca, and, like it, of imposing and elegant proportions, though its details are less elaborately ornate. we are far from exhausting the subject, but it is vain to continue the catalogue. the true fascination of the town must be felt and not described. i am afraid that even the segóvians are not fully appreciative; for our host considered that we were wasting our time there, and wished to pack us off to la granja to see the fountains play. "it was a shame," he said, "to spend every day in segóvia." segóvia!--where every street corner is worth a wilderness of fountains! [illustration: segÓvia church of san estéban.] when gil blas was imprisoned in the "tower of segóvia," his kind-hearted gaoler assured him that he would find the view from his window very fine--when he cared to look. this casual remark gains significance from the fact that it is about the only allusion to scenery in all that veracious biography.[ ] for any hint to the contrary the cantabrian mountains might be mole-hills, and grenada itself as commonplace as valladolid. le sage dealt with men, not with scenery, and no doubt, like dr johnson, would have preferred fleet street; but segóvia wrings a tiny tribute even from him. gil blas, it may be remembered, was not impressed by the prospect. he had a very bad fit of the blues, and could only observe that there were nettles by the stream. but doubtless he saw better ere leaving. his character (never much to boast of) was at least vastly improved by his involuntary sojourn, and perhaps it is not too fanciful to suggest that "the view from the window" may deserve some of the credit of the cure. "there are none of beauty's daughters with a magic like thee," sings byron to one of his _houris_; and the same whole-hearted allegiance to segóvia will be paid by most of those who have once come under her spell. grenada, perhaps, may equal her. so does albarracin, in tertio-decimo: and the situation of cuenca is probably the grandest of all. but even grenada herself will not steal her admirers from segovia; and cuenca, for all its brilliance, is a gem of fewer facets than this. chapter xiii bÚrgos last but not the least among the merits of segóvia is to be reckoned the fact that it pays some attention to its roads, for these are decidedly the best in all the central provinces. no doubt they owe something to their proximity to the sierra de guadarrama, which supplies them with their granite metalling, and even vouchsafes them an occasional shower. yet there is a balance of credit to be shared among the worthy _camineros_,--those humble "pawns" who are posted at long intervals along the roadway (each with his donkey and his dog), diligently trimming the margins and spreading the tags of herbage over the surface of the road. the method seems somewhat original, but at least it has the merit of success; for the scraps of turf serve to catch the dews at night-time--and moisture is the chief desideratum upon every spanish road. the wide tawny plains which spread themselves northward from segóvia are chequered with mighty pine-forests, the homes of solitude and shade. these rich green masses form a striking contrast to the bare red earth around them, and the pale blue of the distant mountains which show faintly upon the horizon beyond. for miles at a stretch the road burrows through these colonnades of tree-stems,--all plentifully blazed for resin, and festooned with the little earthenware pipkins in which it is collected;--and seldom indeed is either man or beast encountered to give a touch of life to the shadowy depths around. at one point we passed a venerable _padre_, faithfully conning his breviary as he trudged behind his mule; at another a small brown damsel lording it over a herd of gigantic kine. but the only other living creature was a large snake dusting itself in the roadway, over whom we narrowly escaped riding, for we were right upon him before we saw what he was. once clear of the pine-belt, the country quickly relapses into the monotony typical of the duero vale. one may partly avoid it by taking the road to the eastward, and making straight for búrgos by sepúlveda and aranda de duero across a region of wild and lofty moors. but of the two roads to valladolid there is little to choose between olmedo and medina del campo, and we may as well follow the more direct. it is easy to understand, as we cross these great limitless levels, in what manner the moors were so long able to maintain their supremacy against the hardier races of the north. the whole district is an ideal battle-field for the light-armed cavalry in which their strength consisted; and to set a medieval man-at-arms, cased in full panoply, to do a hard day's fighting under that roasting sun is a conception worthy of perillus himself. the battles with which history concerns itself, however, are of a later age. the disconsolate little walled town of olmedo (once one of the keys of castile) has given its name to two desperate conflicts in the interminable civil wars which ravaged the peninsula in the middle of the fifteenth century. here it was that alvaro de luna[ ] gained his great victory over his confederate enemies in the reign of john ii. here, too, in the following reign, was fought a bloody fratricidal action between henrique iv. and alfonso, the brothers of isabella the catholic. on the eve of this latter battle, archbishop carillo of toledo[ ] (as usual "agin the government") sent a courteous message to his special enemy, the king's favourite, apprising him that forty knights had bound themselves by an oath to fight neither with small nor great, but only with him, the following day. don beltran de la cueva, however, though he might not deserve his honours, at least knew how to wear them gallantly. he countered by remitting a full description of his horse and armour, so that the forty knights might make no mistake;--rode into battle as advertised;--and escaped unscathed. his spirit deserved no less:--perhaps even carillo thought so. but one would like to know what became of the forty knights. olmedo figures also in fiction, but not in so martial a vein. hither, in fear of his life along the road from valladolid, fled our old friend gil bias--ex-assistant to dr sangrado--with more murders on his conscience than even that seasoned article felt quite easy under, and the avenger of blood at his heels in the shape of an enraged biscayan. we followed the track of his agitated _hegira_, but, of course, in the reverse direction, dropping gradually down to the level of the duero by a bare and undulating road. the broad river-basin looks comparatively green and well-wooded when viewed from the heights above simancas; yet as one crosses it, it is arid enough; and the steep, flat-topped hills which bound it seem absolutely saharan, whether looked at from above or below. the duero itself at this point flows in a trench between crumbling yellow banks; and the village near it, where gil blas struck up acquaintance with the barber and the strolling actor, lingers in our memory as the scene of our most decisive victory over our enemies the dogs. our pockets were fairly bulging with ammunition as we descended into the _mêlée_, and whatever we missed on the volley seemed fated to catch the _ricochet_. our last missile was expended absolutely at random on the sound of a dog behind us. but to judge from the yell which followed it, it was none the less effective for that. valladolid has the general unfinished air befitting a town that has made several unsuccessful attempts to establish itself as a capital; and its failure to support that dignity is perhaps less surprising than the fact that it should have been cast for the _rôle_. it stands upon no important river, on no commanding hill. there is hardly a village in the plain around it but might equally well have drawn a prize in the lottery which decreed its eminence. [illustration: bÚrgos arco san martin.] in strategical position it is inferior to búrgos--to toledo in historical prestige. its memories, too (even apart from dr sangrado), are none of the most cheerful; for it was one of the chief seats of the dreaded inquisition, and no city save seville can boast a blacker fame. the wretched jews and moors fill up the roll of the _quemadero_,[ ] but there were many scholars and nobles among the victims of the _plaza mayor_ at valladolid. here died the noble san roman, the first of the spanish reformers. his ashes were collected by the very soldiers that guarded his pyre and were brought to london by the english ambassador,--a foretaste of evil to come. here it was that don carlos de seso, his limbs mangled by torture and disfigured by the ghastly _san benito_, paused as he passed the royal daïs, and sternly demanded of philip, "as one gentleman of another," how he could have the heart to tolerate such atrocities in his domain. "i would slay mine own son were he as thou art," was the bigot's answer. and so, to do him justice, he would;--on even less provocation;--as a certain grave in the escorial can testify unto this day. but surely even philip's conscience can not have been appeased by such a rejoinder. the memory of that awful indictment must have haunted him years afterwards in the long terrible days when he was himself meeting a yet more hideous death with equally resolute fortitude. there was one at least of the judges who sickened at his share in that day's butchery: for when, many years afterwards, carranza, archbishop of toledo, himself fell under the suspicion of the holy office, the remorse which he felt for de seso was imputed to him for a crime. and the spirit which such a man could inspire in his fellows may be judged from young julian sanchez, who suffered the same day. the flames burnt the cords which bound him, and in his agony he wrenched himself free. the friars sprang forward to hear his recantation. but julian's eye fell upon the heroic figure of his leader, still steadfast amid his sufferings, and with the cry, "let me die like de seso!" he flung himself back into the flames. nowhere in europe had protestantism nobler martyrs than the spaniards: and numbers of them were men of eminence; for their very judges lamented that the learned men whom they had sent to confute foreign heretics were returning to preach the faith which they were commissioned to destroy. but against such persecutors their cause was hopeless. philip and valdez were men with hands of iron. valladolid has many fine monuments, but they are scattered and lost among newer and less interesting surroundings. even the old arcaded _plaza_ is becoming deplorably modernised; and the old-world charm of toledo and segóvia may here be sought in vain. the pisuerga river (upon which the city stands) forms the eastern boundary of the _tierra de campos_, as the esla forms the western.[ ] and the scenery of the two valleys is so nearly identical that a traveller dropped unexpectedly in either might be puzzled to say which. there are the same wide basin, the same crumbling yellow cliffs, the same troglodyte villages, the same nilotic-looking stream. the only speciality of the pisuerga is the extreme dustiness of the roads. dueñas is one of the most typical little towns of the district. perched in full sunshine on one of the bare hills that flank the valley, it looks as thoroughly baked as a pie-crust, in spite of the poplared meadows at its feet. here ferdinand and isabella first started their housekeeping, on a very modest scale indeed, with scarcely enough capital to guarantee to-morrow's dinner. "saving a crown, he had nothing else beside," sings the scottish lassie of her suitor in the old ballad. but the royal lovers' crowns were still in abeyance; and the then wearer of the castilian diadem had very different matrimonial plans for his high-spirited sister. wherefore he, whom history remembers as the austere and politic ferdinand, stole secretly across the hostile frontier, disguised as groom to his own attendants, at the imminent risk of a broken head; and the knot was safely tied in the cathedral at valladolid, with the connivance of a few of isabella's staunchest partisans. [illustration: dueÑas] the little cathedral town of paléncia lies a little off the direct road; but it is most conveniently situated as a half-way house to búrgos. the cathedral is a singularly fine one, though rather ramshackle externally; and, like a true spanish cathedral, it is crammed with works of art. the streets are all quaintly colonnaded; but we were somewhat taken aback when we were shown the entrance to the _fonda_, a miserable rat-hole in a blank and dirty wall. we had expected something better of paléncia:--yet nothing quite so good as the delicious shady _patio_ which we found at the end of the passage; for the hotel is really an excellent one, and its true entrance is from a street at the back. on the whole, we have nothing but commendation for paléncia. only we wish that the little sisterhood, "_siervas de maria, ministras para los enfermos_,"[ ] would mind--not their p's and q's, but their m's and n's. a little ambiguity in the final syllable is so extremely compromising! we quitted paléncia early on midsummer morning, and soon regained the búrgos road. the villages that lay before us were vomiting such volumes of smoke that we concluded torquemada must be justifying its title by the celebration of an _auto-da-fé_. but it proved to be only lime-kilns; and torquemada is pretty enough to deserve a gentler name. here the pisuerga is crossed by a long crooked old bridge; and in the fields near by occurred the incident which forms the subject of pradilla's famous picture, when poor mad juana, escorting her husband's body from búrgos to grenada, elected to spend the night in the open sooner than shelter the faithless corpse in a convent of nuns. an incident worthy of lear! now we deserted the pisuerga to follow the arlanzon, a greener and narrower valley, though still somewhat dreary at times. the poppies were blazing in the brilliant sunshine with a splendour that dazzled the eye. they grow best where blood has been spilled, if we are to credit old folklore; and the arlanzon valley may well bear out the assertion, for every stage in the journey--torquemada, quintana del puente, venta del pozo--was the scene of some fierce skirmish during wellington's retreat from búrgos in . his army suffered terribly hereabouts; for the roads were wellnigh impassable in that rainy autumn, and the sulky troops broke out of all control. at one time there were twelve thousand of them all drunk together in the wine-vaults at torquemada! the result was almost disaster. but fortunately the stock of wine was a large one, and they left enough for the french. it may be urged in extenuation that the country vintages are more heady than one would think, especially for exhausted and starving men. [illustration: bÚrgos hospital del rey.] our own difficulties arose not from rain but from sunshine, and the last few miles over the hilly ground were distinctly exhausting. but at these high levels even the sultriest sun is tempered by a crisp and bracing air. the traveller who starts early can generally ride out the morning, and the leafy avenues of búrgos were our haven at mid-day. búrgos shows itself off at best advantage when seen from the eastern side, but the approach from the west is not unworthy of the capital of old castile. first we pass the beautiful _plateresque_[ ] gateway of the hospital del rey. then the towers of las huelgas, the most famous nunnery in spain. the convent was founded by alfonso viii.,--a trespass offering after his great defeat by the _miramamolin_[ ] at alarcon. and his atonement was accepted; for twenty years later he was able to hang up over the high altar the sacred banner captured at las navas de tolosa, the great victory which extinguished for ever the long domination of the moor. under its folds the young prince edward of england knelt watching his arms on the eve of his knighthood in . here he was married--a boy bridegroom--to his girl-bride, the princess leonora of castile; and hence he carried her away with him to his home in his northern island, where as the "dear queen" of the eleanor crosses her name is held in honour to this day. "laws go as kings wish," says the spanish proverb; otherwise it is difficult to imagine how the nuns could have ever permitted such a shocking thing as a wedding in their own conventual church. when we peeped into it, the very effigies of the kings on the royal tombs were jealously shrouded--for propriety's sake! formerly ten thousand dollars dowry and sixteen quarterings were indispensable to the lady who wished to renounce the vanities of the world in this exclusive cloister! but now the sisterhood is sadly reduced, and takes in "paying guests,"--to wit, another sisterhood, with whom they live (it is said) in peace and amity. i mention this because an old french curé, who visited the convent with us, seemed to regard it as the most astounding miracle that búrgos had to boast. [illustration: bÚrgos arco sta maria.] the main entrance to the city is formed by the magnificent arco de sta maria at the head of the bridge over the arlanzon. it was erected to propitiate charles v. after the revolt of the _communeros_; and that monarch's effigy consequently occupies the most conspicuous niche. he is surrounded by all the local heroes of búrgos;--diego de porcelos, _fundator noster_, whose german son-in-law erected the _burg_,--lain calvo, chief of the early "judges,"--and fernan gonzalez, the great count who founded the kingdom of castile. but of course the greatest of all the city demi-gods is their "champion chief," my cid ruy diaz of bivar. doubtless he would have been their patron saint if the pope could have been induced to canonize him;--a queer type of saint perhaps;--but there are queer types in the calendar. "my cid" flourished about the time of our norman conquest, and from his youth upward was recognised as the doughtiest warrior in spain. he was the sword-arm (according to legend) of three successive castilian sovereigns; and his services culminated in the conquest of toledo, where (again according to legend) he was commander-in-chief. afterwards he fell into disgrace;--chiefly owing to his invincible ignorance of the dogma that you ought to stop killing moors as soon as your king has made peace with them; and alfonso vi. arranged the difficulty by banishing him from castile,--to kill more moors. "my cid" now obtained letters of marque (or their equivalent) from the moorish king of zaragoza, and proceeded to carve out a kingdom for himself by the conquest of valéncia. this enterprise required money, and "my cid" raised it from the jews, leaving in pawn a sealed chest full of gravel, which purported to contain his family gems. apparently he was indignant with the hebrews because they would not accept his bare word; and it never occurred to either party that they were, in fact, accepting his bare word in the matter of the sealed chest. as a commercial transaction it seems a little bewildering; but it all came right in the end; and "my cid" loyally redeemed his chest of gravel at full face value when valéncia was subdued. at valéncia he reigned in great glory, reconciled to the king and victorious against all assaults of the moors. there he made an edifying end, serenely indifferent to the gathering of the mighty host which his foes were assembling for their final effort. thence he sallied for the last time at the head of his comrades,--a ghastly figure, stiff in death, but clad in full armour, and mounted on bavieca, as he was wont to ride of yore; and all the moors that beleaguered him fled at the sight of him, so that the spoil that he took at his death was more than he had ever taken in his life. ximena, his widow, bore back his body to búrgos, as he had bidden her; and his bones are exhibited to inquisitive strangers in the town hall at a _peseta_ a head! how could the burgalese have the heart to ravish them from his own monastery of san pedro de cardena, where he slept with ximena and bavieca, like the tough old berseker that he was? of all the cities of northern spain, búrgos is probably the best known to the average tourist; but though the english language (for which one acquires a very keen ear after a month's abstinence) may be occasionally heard in the environs of the cathedral, yet the quaint old _calles_ and palaces are still much less visited than they deserve. many of the latter are particularly fine examples of their class, especially the stern old _casa del cordon_, which takes its name from the great cord of st francis, sculptured over the portal,--a common embellishment in the palaces of that date; and the more graceful _casa miranda_, built (as we may surmise) by some relative of the "prudent" don diego, don quixote's hospitable host. this last is a lovely old building of italian delicacy of ornament, but, now, alas! sadly mutilated and partitioned off into squalid tenements, not entirely innocent of fleas. "it is never hot at búrgos," we had been told by a friendly mentor: and i can testify that it is often cold there, for the place stands high, and the mountains of la demanda rear their snowy crests at no great distance away. yet the local saying, "nine months of winter, and three of h--l"[ ] is distinctly a more impartial summary, and this month was apparently one of the three. the narrow streets blazed white and scintillating under the flood of sunshine. the wayfarer edged his way gingerly along the shady margin, and picked out the narrowest point before he would venture to cross. then, after a timid pause, he would draw a deep breath and make a bolt for it. the sun caught him in transit like the blast from the mouth of a furnace; and he scuttled gasping into shelter, and cooled off on the further side. the spanish shade temperature may perhaps be matched on a hot day in england, but it needs the _piazza_ at venice to rival the fury of the sun. [illustration: bÚrgos patio of the casa de miranda.] there are, indeed, some few salamanders who do not appear to mind it. a party of tonsured franciscans were unconcernedly challenging it to do its worst. but most of the saner inhabitants wisely keep indoors till the evening; and whoso wishes to see búrgos society taking its airing, let him seat himself after dusk in front of the café suizo upon the espolon. then all the beauty and fashion turn out to promenade upon a regulation hundred yards of pavement, under the eyes of their fathers and brothers, who sit sipping their coffee and _anis_ beneath the trees. a very handsome company they are; but, alas! their hats and frocks are mostly parisian creations. that most graceful of all head-dresses, the _mantilla_, is reserved for state occasions, such as high masses and bull-fights. "nothing is sacred to a sapper,"--nor to a milliner, unless it is new. there is a cathedral at búrgos; and we feel ourselves justified in mentioning it, because we heard it frankly admitted that it was "a vurry fine church _for such a small town_." our amurrican ruskin seemed to think it hardly class enough for chicago; but in contests of this description the battle is not to the millionaire. the builder of the escorial, for all his great possessions, knew that it was not for his craftsmen to rival the cartuja tombs.[ ] indeed, there is something overwhelming about the magnificence of búrgos. it is rather german in character, as leon is rather french. yet though juan de colónia was a rhinelander and archbishop maurice an englishman, there is too much pure spanish at búrgos to assign all the credit to them. the building ranks as one of the wonders of europe:--a cathedral perhaps as large as canterbury, but finished throughout with the delicate extravagance of the _bijou_ chapel of roslin;--which, of course, is really spanish also, if scotchmen will excuse my saying so. and, moreover, the splendour of the furniture is fully in keeping with the fabric: particularly the gorgeous metal _rejas_,--for what other craftsmen in europe could vie with the spanish smiths? riches which might deck out a whole church among us lovers of bare walls are here found packed within the compass of a single chapel; and little gems of carving and inlay are thrust aside like lumber into corners where they can be scarcely seen. the whole is a dream of magnificence unsurpassable even in italy: yet it is the gorgeous gloom of toledo which still springs first to the memory when we contrast our own chaste chilly churches with the opulence of the shrines of spain. the cathedral stands upon steeply sloping ground well above the level of the arlanzon. a long broad flight of steps leads up from the street to the south transeptal entrance; and from the pavement of the northern transept the noble staircase of diego de silöe climbs up to another street level upon the further side. beyond it and above are piled the quaint red-roofed houses, clambering tier upon tier up the flanks of the escarpment; yet for all their aspirations the bare steep mound draws clear of them, and "dubreton's thundering citadel" frowns alone upon the crest. this castle has rather an unsatisfactory interest for englishmen, for it was the obstacle which checked the advance of wellington in his great campaign of . it stands at the tip of a long tongue of high ground which runs up to the river almost at right angles; and this extreme end is separated from the rest of the ridge by a deep depression, so that it forms a sort of semi-detached hillock, shaped like a gigantic mole-hill some three hundred and fifty feet high. the castle is included within the circuit of the city walls; and the cathedral is so close beneath it that it is wonderful that it escaped destruction during the bombardment. yet even the stained glass which once adorned the clerestory was only destroyed by the explosion which occurred the following year. the castle was once the royal residence of castile: but nothing now remains of it except a few lines of grass-grown earthworks, which are utilised as rope-walks by the peaceful burgalese. the modern fortress is on the hill of san miguel, on the other side of the depression. in wellington's day san miguel was merely an outwork. its capture was a preliminary operation, and it was stormed early in the siege. with modern artillery such a _coup_ would have been decisive. the citadel itself would have been blown over the pinnacles of the cathedral without more ado. but in those times the old line-of-battle ships fought their thirty-two pounders muzzle to muzzle, and "three or four feet between the mouths of your pistols" was considered "as good as a mile." wellington was, moreover, miserably provided with artillery, and the guns of the castle were far superior to his own. his troops were endeavouring to "tear down the ramparts with their naked hands"; and the conspicuous pillar which overlooks three counties from the lonely heights of malvern, records the fate of the young heir of eastnor who was killed while directing the approaches. a month's siege and five desperate assaults left the castle still unwon when the french armies had gathered to relieve it: and the besiegers with muffled wheels stole away over the bridges in the night-time. the campaign which began so gloriously at salamanca[ ] had ended in another retreat. [illustration: bÚrgos from the east.] yet the labour and carnage were not wasted. joseph had neither time nor money to spend upon repairing the battered fortress, and next year the tide of war rolled back like the surge of the sea. wellington, riding at the head of his troops across the hills from the westward, was saluted by the thunder of a terrific explosion which darkened the heavens above him and shook the ground beneath his feet. then first, with stern elation, he recognised the presage of vitória. his foes had despaired of resisting him. the castle of búrgos was no more. chapter xiv across navarre it must give some flavour of unreality to our impressions of the peninsula that we should not allude to the beggars until the ultimate chapter of all. and our only excuse for our negligence will sound like an aggravation of the error; for we hold that the spanish beggar has been much over-advertised and does not (on his merits) deserve any more prominent place. the number of beggars in spain varies directly in proportion to the number of tourists. they are most persistent at búrgos; there is a moderate superfluity at segóvia and toledo: but in the out-of-the-way districts there is only the fundamental residue, and that (to speak frankly) we should be rather loth to spare. "his honour the beggar, your brother"--the authorised official beggar--is a gentleman. he is frequently distinguished by a badge, like old edie ochiltree; and his resemblance to that worthy philosopher does not terminate with the badge. he is seldom unduly importunate. he begs "in god's name"; and when "in god's name" you implore him to excuse you, he seems to resignedly argue that such an adjuration would never be refused on insufficient grounds. his station is in the church porches; but he sometimes goes stumping the _calles_, and breathing a supplicating "_ave maria_" into every open door--an invocation which generally brings a very peppery blessing rattling down the staircase from the busy housewife overhead. and in fine, his entire demeanour is so eminently high-bred and dignified that it seems a privilege to oblige him. you feel as if you were conferring an obol on belisarius, and are consequently on the best of terms with yourself for all the rest of the day. this "lord high vagabond of the stocks" is, however, not quite pushing enough for the era. in be-touristed cities he is swamped by an army of interlopers. these are perhaps most frequently children; but the tribe is bewrayed by their cry,--"_perrita por pan![ ]--señor-e-e-to! una perr-e-e-ta!_" a capital phrase for a beggar's whine! a small initiate was squatting beside me all the time i was sketching the casa miranda. she was engaged in coaching the baby--these were to be his first words. the baby being unresponsive, she maintained the refrain herself, at intervals of five minutes, in an uninterested semi-detached tone. if she got the _perrita_, that would be so much profit; but she would not be depressed if she didn't--she was not so keen about the _pan_. the benevolent stranger is misled by their bare feet and rags and persistency, and imagines that they are all on the brink of starvation; but if he wants to see real poverty let him penetrate to the remoter villages--and he will find no beggars there. there more than once i have been humbled to the dust at having my "tip" politely spurned by the dignified ragamuffins who have rendered me some trifling service. and lest i should ruin their self-respect with coppers, i have been forced to undermine their constitutions with cigarettes. the last beggars whom we encountered at búrgos, however, were "right" beggars. they were clustering round the entrance of the great monastery of la cartuja[ ] de miraflores, awaiting their daily dole. everybody visits la cartuja to see the marvellous tombs which isabella erected for her father and brother--the masterpieces of _el mæstre_ gil; yet not the least attractive feature are the white-robed carthusian brethren themselves, and the ragged mendicants "coming for their soup" according to the immemorial usage of old. the convent stands about two miles from búrgos, on a slight eminence to the right of the pancorvo road, and was the last of the great monuments of the city that we passed on our departure towards the east. the road had been rising almost imperceptibly all the way from valladolid. gradually the fields had got greener and the trees more plentiful as we left the dun plains behind; and now a fine row of big shady elms introduced a welcome variety to the everlasting poplars and half-grown acacias which had been our only solace for many a sultry mile. the country, moreover, now begins to assume a more mountainous character. away to the right rises the desolate sierra de la demanda, the northern outpost of the rugged ranges round sória,--perhaps one of the wildest districts in all western europe at the present day. the wolf and the boar still roam at will through its untrodden valleys, though i believe the bear now only survives in the western cantabrians and the pyrenees. here the venerable monastery of silos lay securely hidden even from the sacrilegious moors; and here in later years the dreaded _partidas_ of mina the _guerillero_ were able to defy the utmost efforts of the french. our road passes only over the merest outskirts of these mountains, and leads us on through briviesca by a long, gradual, and monotonous descent. yet the gates of castile are still before us, and we do not quit that most spanish of provinces without seeing it once more in its sternest and wildest mood. north of the road lies the long level-topped ridge of the montes obarenes, a range not dissimilar to our own mendips, and, like them, cleft with an unsuspected pass. for some distance we skirt the base of the hills; and then with a sharp turn to the left we dive suddenly into the grim defile of pancorvo, a deva gorge in miniature, where road, river, and railway jostle each other through a maze of fantastic limestone crags. [illustration: the gorge of pancorvo] these mountain ramparts, pierced with their deep natural posterns, are a most characteristic feature of the castilian frontiers; and probably that "land of castles" owes its name as much to them as to its man-built donjons and citadels. indeed, it requires no very vivid imagination to discover the outlines of towers and battlements among the sheer bare weather-beaten stones. one magnificent imitation overshadowed our road in the _serranía_ of cuenca, with keep and watch-tower and ballium as complete as a _château gaillard_. another more ambiguous specimen we caught sight of in this very district;--one of those isolated conical hills crowned with a square rocky tooth, which are not uncommon in the neighbourhood of pamplona. first it seemed that it was a rock,--then that it was a castle; and the balance of probability appeared to change every half mile. the road led straight up to our landmark and circled around the base, so that we saw it fairly close, and from three different sides; but whether it was really a rock or a castle we are not quite positive even to this day. there can be little doubt that it is to some of these _fate morgane_ that we owe the old proverb concerning castles in spain. the northern face of the montes obarenes is much more broken than the southern; and as we run down from the pass into the pretty little town of miranda, we may see, far away on our right, that other great notch to the eastward where the ebro forces its passage out into the rioja plains. the ebro is but young up here in the vizcayan highlands; yet it is already a fine broad river; and the massive old stone bridge of miranda, flanked by quaint houses and churches, makes a singularly attractive sample of spanish scenery to the tourist newly arrived from bayonne. the river breaks through the mountains some ten miles lower, by a gap between two rocky headlands, known as the cliffs of bilibio and buradon; and beyond are the tawny undulating plains around haro,--a famous wine-growing district, whose vintages usually reach the english market under the name of bordeaux, though they taste just as good under their own. the view (given in the illustrations as la rioja alavesa) is one which is very typical of spanish inland scenery. but a special local touch is given by the navarrese villages bunched together at the tops of their conical hills, like so many hedgehogs with their bristles out. navarre was a buffer state in medieval times, and anyone who had nothing else to do used to kill time by invading it. the navarrese villages were always upon the defensive, and evidently acquired the habit of arranging themselves to suit. [illustration: la rioja alavesa looking northwards across the ebro.] meanwhile our road to pamplona keeps still to the northward of the mountains, and, crossing the ebro at miranda, makes straight for the heights of puebla and morillas, which answer to the montes obarenes on the opposite side of the vale. the little river zadora comes rippling out to meet us; and the gap from which it issues admits us into a wide level basin some ten miles in diameter, to which the zadora itself forms a somewhat irregular chord. the ground on the left bank of the river rises considerably higher than on the right, and culminates in a little shaggy knoll which stands close beside our road. watch for it, and do not pass it unnoticed; it is the "englishmen's hill." well has it earned that name, for it has been twice baptized in the blood of our nation. once when a detachment of the black prince's army, under the command of sir thomas felton, fell fighting valiantly against thirty times their number on the eve of the battle of navarrete.[ ] again when picton's "fighting devils" came like a storm against it in the crisis of the battle of vitória, cutting their path through the centre of king joseph's tottering array. salamanca was wellington's most brilliant victory, but vitória was unquestionably the ablest of his campaigns. this invasion was not like those that had gone before it--no mere sally from his impregnable mountain lines. at last he could wield an undivided command and an army as numerous as his opponents; and as he crossed the little frontier river agueda, he had looked back to portugal with a confident "adieu." hill to the right and graham to the left had already been slipped on their quarry; and against such a sweeping combination neither tormes, duero, nor carrion could provide any adequate defence. madrid was abandoned before him,--búrgos was dismantled. and the retreating french convoys, with all their baggage, plunder, and munitions, were jammed in the city of vitória at the head of the road to bayonne. joseph sought to bar the advance at pancorvo, and thought the defile was impregnable. he looked for assault from the southward, but the storm broke upon him from behind. wellington had shifted his base by sea from lisbon to santander; and sweeping reille and maucune before him, came pouring down the ebro from the north. the stroke was a _coup de jarnac_, as fatal as it was unexpected. the heights of obarenes and morillas were no longer barring the way; and joseph hastily fell back to the hills behind the zadora, the only remaining position which he could possibly hope to defend. as it was in the days of las navas de tolosa, so was it also in this "crowning mercy" of the peninsular war. it was a peasant who led kempt's brigade over the unguarded bridge at tres pontes, and fell, like his prototype of the morena, at the moment of the victorious attack. clinging in desperation to each successive thicket and farmstead, the french were pushed remorselessly backward into the chaos of transport behind. and even more fatal than the frontal onset was the blow struck far to the left on the very confines of the plain. there graham stormed the village of gamarra mayor, and shut off the flying army from the use of the great royal road. nothing that ran upon wheels could go along the branch road to pamplona. guns, ammunition, treasure, baggage, and plunder all fell entire into the hands of the victors; and probably at the moment joseph was very well contented that the prize was sufficiently valuable to effectually hamper the pursuit. the battle was the ruin of napoleon, as well as of his cause in the peninsula. the struggle had sapped his strength for years, and the catastrophe came at the very crisis of his fate.[ ] among all his enterprises there had been none more thoroughly inexcusable;--wantonly conceived, treacherously undertaken, ruthlessly carried out. as great a blunder in statecraft as it was an outrage on humanity. "the spanish canker destroyed him"; and so in bare justice it should. our route follows the track of the flying army along a deep green navarrese valley between lofty and cliff-like hills. by its side runs the single line which connects madrid with the frontier; but this turns off to the north about halfway to pamplona, making for san sebástien and irun. [illustration: miranda del ebro a corner in the town.] the villages are much devoted to _pelota_[ ]; and few are too poor to possess some species of primitive court. those in the larger towns are most imposing erections; but any bare wall will do, and some of the churches have hoisted pathetic petitions that the parishioners will not practise against the walls _during the hours of divine service_. the houses themselves seem almost built with a view to the pastime, for they are solid square stone buildings, shouldering close up against the roadway; and their blank expanses of ashlar are persistently commandeered by the boys. _pelota_ is exclusively a basque game. in castile and leon the men are content with skittles, and the boys are generally engrossed in the enacting of miniature bull-fights--a game in which the star performer invariably elects to play bull. dancing is, of course, an amusement which is common to all provinces and to both sexes: but a game in the english significance is an institution which seldom appeals to the southern mind. in this district, however, the cyclist provides a good deal of salutary exercise for the conscientious toll-keeper. for the basque roads are not national but provincial, and the provinces maintain them by taking tolls. the stranger, however, is not generally aware of this custom; and as the toll-bars are quite unobtrusive, he rides innocently past them on his way. his first intimation takes the shape of a breathless and howling _caminero_ sprinting desperately along the road behind him, and smarting under the conviction that he is being wilfully bilked. some little distance before we reach pamplona we pass one of the most remarkable examples of rock formation that is to be met with even in spanish hills. here the deep glen of larraun debouches upon the main valley, and across its mouth is drawn a huge natural wall of precipitous limestone which can hardly be less than a thousand feet high. the top is serrated, but both faces are equally sheer; and the thickness at the base is not relatively greater than one would expect in an artificial masonry dam. probably, indeed, it was a natural dam originally, retaining a vast reservoir in the vale behind; but now it is cleft in the centre from top to base with a huge gash, clean-cut and narrow; and through this stupendous portal the little river issues from the vale. [illustration: pamplona from the road to the frontier.] pamplona stands in the centre of an amphitheatre of mountains, rising out of the level arena on a sort of daïs covered with walls and spires. it is the chief of the northern frontier fortresses; but its bastions date mostly from the days of vauban, and its strength (from a modern military standpoint) must depend on the forts which cap the neighbouring hills. the cathedral is an interesting building, and possesses a most lovely cloister; but the town generally is not very attractive to the artist, though it forms a good "jumping-off place" for exploring the country around. the bare, windy wastes that stretch away from the city towards the pyrenean foot-hills are not altogether so tenantless as they seem to a casual view. several of the villages still bear traces of ancient prosperity;--estella, charmingly situated in a rocky hollow; sangüesa, with its noble monastery; olite, once the windsor of navarre. the last-named might almost rank as a working model for an antiquarian. its lanes are packed with the decaying mansions of the long-departed courtiers, and dominated by the huge ruined castle which was the home of the warrior kings. this palatial stronghold is noted as one of the finest examples in the peninsula: a match for our own bamburgh or warkworth, and consequently with few rivals in the world. as the capital of navarre, pamplona has, of course, been pre-eminent for its sieges; and it was in one of these that ignatius loyola received the wound which converted him from a dandy into an ascetic, and led to the foundation of the order of jesuits. but the siege which possesses the greatest interest for an englishman is that undertaken by the duke of wellington after vitória; the enterprise which led to that series of desperate struggles usually lumped together vaguely as "the battles of the pyrenees." the sieges of san sebástien and pamplona had been undertaken simultaneously; but neither made very rapid progress, and soult was not the man to let them fall without an attempt to come to their aid. he had re-formed the wrecks of joseph's army on the french side of the frontier; and advancing towards the passes of maya and roncesvalles, he assailed them both suddenly the same day. the detachments which guarded them were overpowered after a most resolute resistance, and soult pushed down the valleys towards pamplona, reuniting his forces on the road. wellington had expected that the blow would be aimed at san sebástien. he was momentarily outwitted; but he recovered just in time. soult found his path barred at the fatal ridge of saurauren,--just outside the pamplona basin, and literally within sight of his goal. the beleaguered garrison heard the roar of that furious battle; they could watch the smoke-wreaths curling above the intervening ridge. but no french standards appeared in the mouth of the pass in the evening. when the battle was renewed two days later, the english were the assailants; and soult and his beaten army could barely find safety in flight. [illustration: olite the castle.] saurauren was wellington's last great battle on spanish soil. a few weeks later the two great fortresses had fallen, and--first of all the allied generals--he carried the war into france. five years previously he had landed in portugal--a "sepoy general," little more distinguished than cornwallis or eyre coote. but those five years in the peninsula had fixed his reputation for ever; and the giant who crossed the bidassoa had but little to add to his stature on the field of waterloo. there is a choice of two roads from pamplona to the frontier. the _kilos_ are reckoned from maya; but roncesvalles bears the more historic name. in point of scenery there is little to choose between them; but perhaps maya is the harder journey, for maya includes vellate, and this extra pass is the loftiest of the three. the country towards roncesvalles is at first much less mountainous in character than that towards vitória; for the high peaks of the pyrenees lie in the centre of the range, to the eastward; and those immediately before us, though wild and rugged, do not show up very imposingly above the lofty levels upon the spanish side. near pamplona the meadows are green and civilised, but the view becomes sterner and more barren as we draw near to the feet of the hills; and presently we enter a long, narrow, rocky gully--the bed of a mountain river--whose steep, bare sides are dotted with trim little bushes of box. how hot it was in that narrow gully! the sun's rays poured vertically into the breathless hollow, and their heat was radiated by every burning stone. even the six-inch shadows of the box bushes were quoted at fancy values; and shedding our outer garments one after another, we eventually emerged at the further end in an almost aboriginal state. "are you thinking of resuming the garb of civilisation?" enquired one vagabond of another, as we halted for a moment on the little bridge near the village of burguete. "i am thinking of resuming the garb of adam," retorted his comrade desperately, as he glared into the pool beneath. it was rather a public place for a bathe; but there are no passengers on a spanish road at _comida_ time. and as that meal is invariably unpunctual, we knew that the little _fonda_ could be reached in plenty of time. burguete stands in the centre of a little cup-like valley; and prominent upon the further lip rises a big domed hill, one of the flankers of the pass. it is a sleek, smooth mountain, upholstered with green turf, and spangled with grazing sheep; and the big round beeches and chestnuts herd together all over its crest, as domesticated as on an english lawn. yet the little hillock beneath it was the scene of one of the greatest of tragedies; for there stood the abbey of roncesvalles, the sepulchre of charlemagne's slaughtered peers. a good deal of controversial ink has been spilt over charlemagne's famous spanish expedition: and all the confusion of history has been worse confounded by romance. the french epics tell of it as a glorious and successful crusade, undertaken in the cause of christendom against the insolence of the moors. the emperor dictated his own terms in his enemy's palace at córdova, and it was only the treachery of ganelon that led to the regrettable incident at the end. very different is the story of the spanish ballads. their bards were most wofully sceptical of religious and disinterested invasion; they wished to be left to fight out their own quarrels with their own infidels, and felt no sort of satisfaction at the prospect of spain becoming a province of the franks. it was their own native heroes, bernardo del carpio and the chivalry of leon, who overthrew the paladins at roncesvalles. is not roland's "durandal" in the armoury of madrid to this day, to prove that the spaniard was the better man? [illustration: pamplona a patio near the cathedral.] in truth the expedition was directed against the newly-established caliphate of córdova, in alliance with suleiman ibn-al-arabi, the moorish king of barcelona, who was jealous of abderahman's growing power. charlemagne captured pamplona (which was christian), and obtained some acknowledgment of suzerainty from the sheikhs of gerona and huesca. but zaragoza held out against him with all its traditional obstinacy: the ill-matched allies could by no means pull together; and the campaign fizzled out abortively without any substantial gain. as for the dolorous rout which concluded it, that was the work of neither goth nor moor, but of the angry basques of the mountains, a nation whom charlemagne had not regarded, and whom he probably despised. they had seen their country pillaged, their capital pamplona taken; and now, when the rearguard was entangled in the mountains, they at last got the chance of plunder and revenge. no doubt they trapped them in that long rocky defile--straggling, way-worn, and cumbered with plunder and baggage--a position as hopeless as elphinstone's in the koord kabul. the disjointed line was toiling painfully along the gullet; the slippery screes rose unscalable on either side; and the jutting crags that frowned at every corner afforded both ramparts and missiles to the unweariable mountaineers. none but the doughtiest warriors could have succeeded in breaking out into the basin of burguete. and here their superior arms and discipline would enable them to fight their way across to the further side. only one short ascent still remained to be surmounted; but their active enemy was before them, and the task was beyond their power. wounded and exhausted, they drew together in a rallying square upon the little hillock; and there, fighting desperately, they were cut down to a man. the course of that fight is retold in the very conformation of the valley, yet somehow the picture is inadequate. the drama is not quite worthily staged. the place is too homely and pastoral for the scene of that great saga which taillefer chanted between the embattled hosts at hastings; and which has since thrilled the hearts of generations of warriors, as sidney's was thrilled by the tale of chevy chase. we need a more rugged environment for the memory of a departed demi-god. "he who aspires to be a hero," said dr johnson, "should drink brandy!" and perhaps, while he is about it, he might get killed in a deva gorge. there is a softer lay for the minstrel who would linger by the braes of burguete; a tale of two true lovers, who, as usual, were distressingly ill-starred. their story is even more ancient than the doughty deeds of arms that we have just been rehearsing; for it relates to the days of charlemagne's illustrious grand-sire, charles martel. othman ben abu neza, the moorish warden of the marches, had espoused a christian bride, lampegia, daughter of duke eudo of aquitaine; and fleeing with her across the mountains to seek refuge from his indignant suzerain, was overtaken in the pass of roncesvalles, and slain in his lady's arms. the unemotional historian is convinced that the marriage was political, and hints that both eudo and othman were conspiring against their respective liege lords. but at least he will grant us a certificate as to the authenticity of the final catastrophe: and he flatly declines to go further even for roland and his peers. battlefields lie thick in navarre, and even the vale of thorns is not absolutely the last of them. a second battle of roncesvalles was contested upon the heights of altobiscar, at the very crest of the pass, in . here the british had been posted for six weeks, covering the blockade of pamplona; and had greatly vexed the soul of their general by persistently deserting in twos and threes every night. why these seasoned soldiers, at this very hour of their triumph, should have been seized with so strange an epidemic, is a problem which might take a good deal of arguing. the only contemporary theory was the suggestion that they were finding things slow! but their fighting qualities did not seem to have got much affected. soult finally attacked them in person with much superior numbers: and they offered a most resolute resistance, only giving ground after night-fall, when it was evident they were being outflanked. cole, the hero of albuera, led them stubbornly back along the mountain ridges towards pamplona; and the act was played out at saurauren, where he arrived just in time to seize the hill. the ascent of the pass upon the spanish side is but trifling. a few brisk turns in the track, and we have climbed from the abbey ruins to the summit of the _col_ behind. before us the road to france drops coil below coil into the deep green valley, a long descent of over three thousand feet. the actual frontier is some dozen miles further, at the village of valcarlos; where a modest little bridge, shepherded by a horde of sentries, spans the waters of the infant nive. but the spirit of spain lags behind us up here upon this breezy saddle. here is the true parting of the nations; and as we turn our faces plainwards, we feel that we are taking our leave. farewell and adieu to you, fair spanish ladies! farewell and adieu to you, ladies of spain! for we've received orders to cross the salt waters; _we hope before long we shall see you again_! index page abándames, , , , , abderahman i., caliph of córdova, abu walid, alfaqui of toledo, alarcon, battle of, alba de tormes, , albarracin, alberche, river, - alcÁntara, - bridge, , - monastery, , alfonso vi. of castile and leon, - , , , , , alfonso viii. of castile, , , alfonso xi. of castile and leon, alfonso v. of portugal, - alfonso, prince of castile, , _alguazils_, , , al manzor, vizier of córdova, - mountain, , almaraz, bridge, , _almoravides_, altobiscar, mountain ridge, alxaman, moorish emir, andalusia, , aragon, , aránjuez, , - arapiles, arlanzon, river, , , armada, the, , , arriondas, - , arroyo molinos, battle of, arzobispo, bridge, astorga, - , , , asturias, eastern, - , - western, , - augustus, emperor, , , _autos da fé_, , - Ávila, - , , barcelona, basques, , bathers, bavieca, - becerrea, - beggars, - bÉjar, - , bellotas, bembibre, benavente, - battle of, - berruguete, alonzo, sculptor, betÁnzos, , - bidassoa, river, , bilbao, - , birds (wild). eagles, , ; falcons, ; hoopoes, ; magpies, ; ospreys, - ; partridges, ; storks, , , , biscay, bay of, - , bivar, rodrigo diaz de. _see_ cid. borgoña, felipe de, sculptor, borrow, george, , , _note_, - briviesca, , buenavista, , , bull fights, - , , , bÚrgos, , , - , - , castle, - cathedral, - monasteries, - , - palaces, siege, - burguete, - , - cabezon, , cacabellos, , cÁceres, , - , , _cafés_, - , - , calderon, pedro, dramatist, camps, celtic and roman, - cÁngas de onis, - , , cantabrian mountains, , - , , , , , cares, river, - cardena, san pedro de, monastery, carillo, archbishop of toledo, , - carlists, - carpio, bernardo del, carranza, archbishop of toledo, carreño, - carrion, river, , castaños, general, castile, kingdom, - , , old, - , - , - , - , - new, - , - castles. benavente, ; búrgos, - ; magueda, ; mérida, ; olite, ; ponferrada, ; segóvia, - ; toledo, in spain, - castro gonzalo, bridge, - castropol, - castro urdiales, - , cathedrals. avila, ; búrgos, - ; leon, - ; lugo, ; orense, ; oviedo, ; paléncia, ; pamplona, - ; plaséncia, ; salamanca, - ; santiago, - ; segóvia, - ; toledo, - ; tuy, ; zamora, - catharine of aragon, queen of england, cervera del pisuerga, cervantes, miguel. _see_ quixote, don. charlemagne, emperor, - charles v., king of spain and emperor of germany, , , charles, prince of wales (charles i.), charles martel, mayor of the franks, churriguera, architect, _cicadas_, cid, the. rodrigo diaz de bivar, , - , - , , , - cies, islas de, clamores, river, clausel, general, , clavijo, battle of, climate, , , , - , , cole, general, colonia, juan de, architect, combarros, communeros, revolt of, - , constantino, bridge, corcuvion, córdova, , , - cória, _corpus christi_, festival of, , - cortes, hernando, coruÑa, , , - , , battle of, , - , costume, , - , , , - , - , - courtship, - covadonga, , - battle of, - , - nuestra señora de, - , , craufurd, general, _cubos_, , cudillero, - cuenca, , cuera, sierra de, , - cuesta, captain general, cueva, don beltran de la, cuidad rodrigo, - , dancing, , , - , de arfe, metal worker, deva, river, - , , gorge, - , - , , , dogs, - , , dorothea. _see_ quixote, don. douro, battle of the, , drake, sir francis, dubreton, general, dueÑas, - duero, river, , , , - valley, , - , , , , , dulcinea del toboso. _see_ quixote, don. ebro, river, - , edward, prince of england (edward i.), "the black prince", el burgo, bridge, eleanor of castile, queen of england, - electric lighting, , el padron, , elviña, elvira, princess, encina, nuestra señora de la, - eresma, river, - , esclavitud, nuestra señora de la, escorial, - , - , esla, river, , , - , estella, estremadura, , - eudo, duke of aquitaine, europa, picos de, - , - , , , felton, sir thomas, ferdinand i. of leon and castile, - , iii. of castile and leon, , , of aragon (the catholic), , , - and isabella of castile, "the catholic kings", , , - , , - ferrol, , finistierra, cape, fishing ports, - , - , - , - , - rivers, fishwives, , , flies, , florinda (la cava), flowers (wild). broom, , ; cactus, ; cistus, , ; hardhead, , ; heather, , ; poppy, fountains, - , , , , foz, francia, peña de, galicia, , , , - , gamarra mayor, ganelon, garlic, , gata, sierra de, gelmirez, archbishop of santiago, , gerona, , _gigantes_, , - gijon, , - gil blas de santillana. birth-place, ; captain rolando, ; dr sangrado, - ; flight from valladolid, - ; don bernardo de castel blazo, ; at salamanca, ; imprisonment, - ; at toledo, ; visit to olivares, ; liria, _note_ girard, general, gonzalez, count fernando, , gonzalo, don arias, - graham, general, - grÉdos, sierra de, , , - , , , , , grenada, , guadalete, battle of the, guadalupe, monastery, , sierra de, guadarrama, sierra de, , , , , , puerto de, - , - guadiana, river, , , _guardia civil_, - , , _guerrilleros_, - , , haro, henrique iv. of castile, , , hercules (at toledo), - hieronymo, bishop of zamora, hill, general, , howell, james, , , _note_ huesca, illescas, inns, - , - , , - , , , - , , - , - , - inquisition, - , - isabella of castile (the catholic), , , . _see also_ ferdinand. princess, isidoro, san, - , - jackson, private, jarama, river, jerte, river, jews, , , , joseph buonaparte, - , , - jourdan, marshal, juan ii. of castile, , prince of spain, juana, queen of spain, , junot, marshal, la cañiza, - lacer, caius julius, engineer, - la demanda, sierra de, , - la granja, , la hermida, la mancha, lampegia, lapisse, general, laredo, - , la robla, las huelgas, convent, - las rozas, lefebre desnouettes, general, lena, - leon province (old kingdom), , - , , , - , - , city, , , , - , _note_, , , cathedral, - church of san isidoro, - leovigild, king of the goths, le sage, . _see also_ gil blas. liebana, vale of, , - , llanes, - lobsters, - , - lope de vega, dramatist, loyola, ignatius, - , luarca, lugo , - , - , , luna, don alvaro de, , madrid, - , , , mansilla de las mulas, _mantillas_, manzanal, puerto de, - , manzanares, river, , - _maragatos_, , - marbot, general, maritornes. _see_ quixote, don. marmont, marshal, - , - , - , martorell, bridge, masma, river, maucune, general, , maurice, archbishop of búrgos, maya, puerto de, - mayorga, meals, - , - , , , , medellin, hill of, medina del campo, , _membrillo_, , mendo, river, mendoza, cardinal, , mÉrida, - , mero, river, mexico, , miéres, - military orders, , , , mina, general, miÑo, river, , , - miraflores, la cartuja de, , - miranda del ebro, - casa de, , mondoñedo, money, , _note_ monforte, montamarta, - montanchez, sierra de, moore, sir john, at salamanca, _note_; at sahagun, - ; assailed by napoleon, - ; benavente, - ; retreat across the vierzo, - ; pass of piedrafita, ; lugo, ; march to coruña, - ; battle of coruña, - moors. conquest of spain, , ; repulsed from asturias, - ; caliphate of córdova, , ; charlemagne's invasion, - ; clavijo, ; al manzor, - ; sieges of zamora, ; reconquest of toledo, ; the cid, - ; fresh irruption, ; battle of alarcon, ; battle of las navas de tolosa, , ; reconquest of andalusia, , ; persecuted, morena, sierra, , , morillas mountains, _mozarabes_, - _mudejares_, _note_, _note_ mules, , , , - munuza, emir, muros, , nalon, river, napoleon buonaparte. pursuit of sir john moore, , - , , spanish war, , narcea, river, navacerrada, puerto de, - navarre, , - navarrete, battle of, navas de tolosa, battle of, - , , , nÁvia, river, , nervion, river, ney, marshal, nive, river, nogales, norreys, sir john, - obarenes, montes, - olivares, conde duque de, - olite, olmedo, - orbigo, river, - , ordoñez, don diego, orense, bridge, , city, , - othman ben abu neza, emir, oviedo, - cathedral, oxen, - , - , - , , , pacheco, doña maria, paget, general, , pajares, puerto de, , , , - palaces. búrgos, ; cáceres, - ; leon, ; olite, ; oviedo, ; plaséncia, - ; salamanca, - ; santiago, ; segóvia, ; toledo, ; toro, palávia, paléncia, - pamplona, , , , - , siege, - , pancorvo, defile, - , pantoja, painter, paredes, don diego garcia de, , peasantry, - , , , - , , , , , - , , , - , - , - , , , pedro, the cruel, of castile, , _el maestre._ _see_ quixote, don. pelayo, king of asturias, , - , - _pelota_, - _peones camineros_, , philip ii. of spain, , - , , - , iv. of spain, , phoenicians, - picton, general, , - piedrafita, puerto de, - , pigs, , - pilar, nuestra señora del, pilgrimages, - , - , - pilona, river, pisuerga, river, , pizarro, plasÉncia, , , - ploughs, poblet, monastery, pola de gordon, - ponferrada, - pontevedra, porcelos, diego de, portugal, - , , , , portugalete, , potes, , , právia, , pyrenees, mountains, , - battles of the, - , quevedo, francisco, satirist, quinones, don suero, - quixote, don. tales of chivalry, - , , - , , ; ideal knight errant, ; company at the inn, ; innkeeper, ; dorothea, ; dulcinea del toboso, , , ; sancho panza, , , , , ; maritornes, ; the cortes of death, ; don diego miranda, ; _el maestre_ pedro, ; roque guinart, rañadoiro, sierra de, reille, general, religious observances, - , - , reptiles, frogs, , lizards, snakes, - , ribadávia, - , rioja, the, , rivadeo, , - rivadesella, - rock formations, - , , - , - , roderic, king of the visigoths, , - roland, - roman remains. aqueducts, , - , bridges, , , - camps, theatres, walls, , , , , roncesvalles. puerto de, - battles of, , - ronda, well of, rooke, admiral, roque guinart. _see_ quixote, don. sahagun, , - , salamanca - , , - , cathedrals, - , colleges and palaces, - battle of, , - , , , saldaña, , sanchez, julian, sancho ii. of castile, - , - panza. _see_ quixote, don. sangüesa, monastery, san rafael, fonda, san roman, san sebástien, , , santander, , , , santiago (st james the greater), , - , de compostela, , - , cathedral, , , - , santillana, santoÑa, - san vicente de la barquera, - , sardines, - , , sauráuren, battle of, - , segÓvia, , , , , - alcázar, - aqueduct, - cathedral, - sella, river, , - _serenos_, - seso, don carlos de, , seville, , shepherds, , , , siete picos, mountain, - , sil, river, - , silöe, diego de, sculptor, gil de, sculptor, silos, san domingo de, monastery, simancas, somers cocks, major, sontres, sória, soult, marshal. pursuit of sir john moore, , - , ; at coruña, ; conquest of galicia, - , ; repulsed from the douro, ; advance upon talavera, - , ; battles of the pyrenees, - , stage coaches, - , street, g. e., architect, , suero, archbishop of santiago, suleiman ibn-al-arabi, emir, tagus, river, , - , , , , , - valley, , , - , - , - talavera de la reina, , - battle of, - , tarik, , theresa de Ávila, sta, - tierra de campos, , tina mayor, river. _see_ deva, river. toledo, , , , - , - , , bridges, , cathedral, , - , toledo, montes de, , don francisco de, toriñana, cape, tormes, river, - lazarillo de, toro , - , battle of, - torquemada, - tomas de, inquisitor, , , - torrelavega, , torrelodones, - trajan, emperor, , , trees. acacia, , ; box, ; beech, , ; chestnut, , ; elm, - , ; ilex, , - , ; olive, , , ; palm, ; pine, , - , ; poplar, , , , tresviso, - troglodyte villages, - , trujillo, , tuy, - , - ubiña, peña, unquera, - , , urdon, - urraca, princess, - valcarce, valcarlos, valdepeñas, valdeprado, valdez, inquisitor, valéncia del cid, , , , do minho (portugal) valladolid, , , , - , velasquez, painter, , , vellate, puerto de, vellido dolphos, - verney, sir edmund, victor, marshal, vierzo, the, - , , vigo, , - bay, battle of, vilano, cape, villacastin, - villafranca, , villalba, villalpando, francisco de, metal worker, vineyards, , , visigoths, , , vitÓria, battle of, , , - , vizcaya, - , walton, private, wamba, king of the visigoths, , - water pitchers, , - , wellington, duke of. campaign of the douro, ; campaign of talavera, , - ; at salamanca, - , ; battle of salamanca, - ; criticises siege of astorga, ; siege of búrgos, - ; retreat from búrgos, ; generalissimo of spanish armies, ; campaign and battle of vitória, , - ; battles of the pyrenees, - ; allusions to spanish character, , - wines, - , - , , ximena, - ximenes, cardinal, , yakub aben yussef of morocco, yuste, zadora, river, , zamora, - , - , cathedral, - , - zaragoza, sieges of, , , [illustration: map northern spain] printed by neill and co., ltd., edinburgh. * * * * * black's beautiful books all with full-page illustrations in colour by post. price s. d. the s. net series size x - / ins. algeria and tunis painted and described by frances e. nesbitt. full-page illustrations in colour. the alps described by sir martin conway. painted by a. d. m'cormick. full-page illustrations in colour. ancient tales and folk-lore of japan by r. gordon smith. f.r.g.s. painted by japanese artists. full-page illustrations in colour. australia painted by percy f. s. spence. described by frank fox. full-page illustrations in colour. belgium painted by a. forestier. described by g. w. t. omond. full-page illustrations in colour. birds of britain by j. lewis bonhope, m.a., f.l.s., f.z.s. full-page illustrations in colour, selected by h. e. dresser. birket foster by h. m. cundall, i.s.o., f.s.a. full-page illustrations (over in colour) and many sketches in the text. burma painted and described by r. talbot kelly, r.b.a. full-page illustrations in colour. cambridge by m. a. r. tuker. painted by william matthison. full-page illustrations in colour. canada painted by t. mower martin, r.c.a. described by wilfred campbell. full-page illustrations in colour. the channel islands painted by henry b. wimbush. described by edith f. carey. full-page illustrations in colour. the clyde painted by mary y. hunter and j. young hunter. described by neil munro. full-page illustrations in colour. constantinople painted by warwick goble. described by prof. alexander van millingen, d.d. full page illustrations in colour. from damascus to palmyra by john kelman, m.a., d.d. painted by margaret thomas. full-page illustrations in colour. egypt painted and described by r. talbot kelly, r.b.a. full-page illustrations in colour. egyptian birds painted and described by charles whymper. f.z.s., b.o.u. full-page illustrations in colour. happy england by helen allingham. r.w.s. text by marcus b. huish. full-page illustrations in colour. (size - / x ins.) the rivers and streams of england painted by sutton palmer. described by a. g. bradley. full-page illustrations in colour. english costume by dion clayton calthrop. full-page illustrations in colour and numerous sketches in the text. the english lakes painted by a. heaton cooper. described by william t. palmer. full-page illustrations in colour. essex painted by burleigh bruhl, r.b.a. described by a. r. hope muncrieff. full-page illustrations in colour. florence and some tuscan cities painted by colonel r. c. goff. described by mrs. goff. full-page illustration in colour the flowers and gardens of japan painted by ella du cane. described by florence du cane. full-page illustrations in colour. the lake of geneva painted by j. hardwicke lewis and may hardwicke lewis. described by francis gribble. full-page illustrations in colour. greece painted by john fulleylove, r.i. described by rev. j. a. m'clymont. m.a., d.d. full-page illustrations in colour. kate greenaway by m. 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(size crown quarto). the highlands and islands of scotland painted by william smith, jun. described by a. r. hope moncrieff. full-page illustrations in colour from sketch-book and diary by lady elizabeth butler. full-page illustrations in colour and line drawings in the text by lady butler. by post, price s. d. the s. d. net series size x - / ins. abbotsford painted by william smith, jun. described by rev. w. s. crockett. full-page illustrations in colour. adventures among pictures by c. lewis hind. full-page illustrations ( in colour and in black and white). alpine flowers and gardens painted and described by g. flemwell. full-page illustrations in colour. the beautiful birthday book by gertrude demain hammond, r.i. full-page illustrations in colour. decorative borders by a. a. turbayne. brabant & east flanders painted by a. forestier. text by g. w. t. omond. full-page illustrations in colour. british floral decoration by r. f. felton, f.r.h.s., f.n.c.s., etc. (florist to the late king edward vii. and many courts of europe). full-page illustrations ( in colour). william callow by h. m. cundall, i.s.o., f.s.a. full-page illustrations in colour and numerous illustrations in the text. canterbury by w. teignmouth shore. painted by w. biscombe gardner. full-page illustrations in colour. chester painted by e. harrison compton. described by francis duckworth. full-page illustrations in colour. a history of the church of england by j. f. kendall, m. a. illustrated from autochromes of the church pageant taken by ernest c. elliott. full-page illustrations ( in colour). country sketches for city dwellers by mrs. willingham rawnsley. full-page illustrations in colour. dutch bulbs & gardens painted by mima nixon. described by una silberrad & sophie lyall. full-page illustrations in colour. edinburgh painted by john fulleylove, r.i. described by rosaline masson. full-page illustrations in colour. english costume painted and described by dion clayton calthrop. in four sections, each containing to full-page illustrations in colour, and many illustrations in the text: section i. early english--ii. middle ages--iii. tudor and stuart--iv. georgian, etc. price s. d. net each. eton painted by e. d. brinton. described by christopher stone. full-page illustrations in colour. eton from a backwater (portfolio) painted by h. e. luxmore. coloured plates. gardens of england painted by beatrice parsons. described by e. t. cook. full-page illustrations in colour. the garden that i love by alfred austin (_poet laureate_). painted by george s. elgood, r.i. full-page illustrations in colour. the charm of gardens text by dion clayton calthrop. full page illustrations in colour (size - / x ins.). geneva painted by j. hardwicke lewis and may hardwicke lewis. described by francis gribble. full-page illustrations in colour. grouse and grouse moors painted by charles whymper, f.z.s. text by george malcolm and captain aymer maxwell. full-page illustrations in colour (size large crown vo.). haunts of ancient peace by alfred austin (_poet laureate_). painted by agnes locke. full-page illustrations in colour. the heart of scotland painted by sutton palmer. described by a. r. hope moncrieff. full-page illustrations in colour. (size - / × - / ins.) inns of court painted by gordon home. described by cecil headlam. full-page illustrations in colour. isle of man painted by a. heaton cooper. described by w. ralph hall caine. full-page illustrations in colour. isle of wight painted by a. heaton cooper. described by a. r. hope moncrieff. full-page illustrations in colour. lamia's winter quarters by alfred austin (_poet laureate_). painted by george s. elgood, r.i. full-page illustrations in colour, and head and tail pieces by william scott. lausanne painted by j. hardwicke lewis and may hardwicke lewis. described by francis h. gribble. full-page illustrations in colour. letters from the holy land by lady butler, painter of "the roll call." full-page illustrations in colour by lady butler. liége and the ardennes painted by a. forestier. described by g. w. t. omond. full-page illustrations in colour. london text by a. r. hope moncrieff. full-page illustrations in colour (size - / × ins.). the tower of london painted by john fulleylove, r.i. described by arthur poyser. full-page illustrations in colour. flowers and gardens of madeira painted by ella du cane. described by florence du cane. full-page illustrations in colour. malta painted by signor v. boron. described by frederick w. ryan. full-page illustrations in colour. middlesex painted by john fulleylove, r.i. described by a. r. hope moncrieff. full-page illustrations in colour. montreux painted by j. hardwicke lewis. described by francis h. gribble. full-page illustrations in colour. moscow painted by f. de harnen. described by henry m. grove (h.m.'s consul at moscow). full-page illustrations ( in colour). the new forest painted and described by mrs. willingham rawnsley. full-page illustrations in colour. nuremberg painted by arthur george bell. described by mrs. a. g. bell. full-page illustrations in colour. the rubáiyát of omar khayyám translated by edward fitzgerald. painted by gilbert james. edited, with notes, by reynold alleyne nicholson, m.a. full-page illustrations in colour. (size - / × - / ins.) pompeii painted by alberto pisa. described by w. m. mackenzie, m.a., f.s.a. full-page illustrations ( in colour). st. petersburg painted by f. de haenen. described by s. dobson. full-page illustrations ( in colour). scottish life and character painted by h. j. dobson, r.s.w., a.r.c.a. described by william sanderson. full-page illustrations in colour. our life in the swiss highlands by john addington symonds and his daughter margaret. painted by j. hardwicke lewis. with a preface by mrs. vaughan (margaret symonds). full-page illustrations ( in colour). the homes of tennyson painted by helen allingham, r.w.s. described by arthur h. paterson. full-page illustrations in colour. days with velasquez by c. lewis hind. full-page illustrations ( in colour and in black and white). westminster abbey painted by john fulleylove, r.i. described by mrs. a. murray smith. full-page illustrations in colour. winchester painted by wilfrid ball, r.e. described by the rev. telford varley, m.a., b.sc. full-page illustrations in colour. windsor painted by george m. henton. described by sir richard rivington holmes, k.c.v.o. full-page illustrations in colour. worcestershire painted by thomas tyndale. described by a. g. bradley. full-page illustrations in colour. the wye painted by sutton palmer. described by a. g. bradley. full-page illustrations in colour. yorkshire coast and moorland scenes by gordon home. full-page illustrations in colour. yorkshire dales and fells painted and described by gordon home. full-page illustrations in colour. yorkshire vales and wolds painted and described by gordon home. full-page illustrations in colour. by post, price s. d. the s. net series size - / × - / ins. the cotswolds painted by g. f. nicholls. described by francis duckworth. full-page illustrations in colour. the upper engadine painted by j. hardwicke lewis. described by spencer c. musson. full-page illustrations in colour. galloway painted by james faed, jun. described by j. m. sloan. full-page illustrations in colour. ireland painted by francis s. walker, r.h.a. described by frank mathew. full-page illustrations in colour. jamaica painted by a. s. forrest. described by john henderson. full-page illustrations in colour. kew gardens painted by t. mower martin, r.c.a. described by a. r. hope moncrieff. full-page illustrations in colour. liverpool painted by j. hamilton hay. described by walter scott. full-page illustrations in colour. the norwegian fjords painted and described by a. heaton cooper. full-page illustrations in colour. paris by mortimer menpes. text by dorothy menpes. full-page illustrations in colour and numerous line illustrations in the text. the peak country painted by w. biscombe gardner. described by a. r. hope moncrieff. full-page illustrations in colour. tyrol painted by e. harrison compton. described by w. a. baillie-grohman. full-page illustrations in colour. black's beautiful books all with full-page illustrations in colour for anglers by post, price s. d. price s. d. net each size x - / ins. fishermen's weather edited by f. g. aflalo. opinions and experiences by well-known anglers. containing full-page illustrations in colour from pictures by charles whymper, f.z.s. trout fishing by w. earl hodgson. third edition. containing frontispiece and a model book of flies in colour. salmon fishing by w. earl hodgson. containing full-page illustrations in colour, including model cases of varieties of salmon flies, and full-page reproductions from photographs. miscellaneous china painted by mortimer menpes. text by the hon. sir henry arthur blake, g.c.m.g. full-page illustrations in colour and many line drawings in the text. demy quarto, cloth, gilt top. price s. net; by post, price s. d. the ramparts of empire painted by norman l. wilkinson. text by frank fox. full-page illustrations in colour. large crown octavo, cloth. price s. net; by post, price s. d. oriental carpets, runners and rugs, and some jacquard reproductions by sydney humphries. full-page reproductions in colour and full-page illustrations in black and white. demy quarto, cloth, gilt top. price £ s. net; by post, price £ s. d. gainsborough engraved by mortimer menpes. text by james greig, r.h.a. full-page examples of the master's work in colour-facsimile. imperial quarto, cloth, gilt top. (size x inches.) price £ s. net; by post, price £ s. d. the "motor routes" series by gordon home the motor routes of england a guide to the beautiful scenery and interesting localities in the country southern section (south of the thames) large crown octavo. containing full-page illustrations in colour, and sketch maps in the text. western section large crown octavo. containing full-page illustrations in colour and sketch maps in the text. _in preparation._ cloth, each price s. net (by post, price s. d.); leather, each price s. d. net (by post, price s. d.) the motor routes of france. part i. to the châteaux country, biarritz, the pyrenees, the riviera, and the rhone valley large crown octavo. containing full-page illustrations in colour, in black and white, and maps and plans. cloth, price s. net (by post, price s. d.); leather, price s. d. net (by post, price s. d.) rembrandt by mortimer menpes. with an essay on the life and work of rembrandt by c. lewis hind. demy quarto, cloth, gilt top( × - / inches). examples of the master's work, reproduced in colour-facsimile by a special process. price s. d. net; by post, price s. the lady of the lake by sir walter scott. large crown octavo, cloth, gilt top. full-page illustrations ( of them in colour, from paintings by sutton palmer). price s. net by post, price s. d. the practical angler or, the art of trout fishing, more particularly applied to clear water by w. c. stewart. large crown octavo, cloth. containing coloured facsimiles of the flies used by mr. stewart ( plates). price s. d. net by post, price s. d. _the "portrait biographies" series_. sir henry irving by mortimer and dorothy menpes. containing portraits of irving in colour. (size - / × ins.) price s. net by post, price s. d. the "peoples of many lands" series each large fcap. quarto ( × - / ins.). cloth, price s. net each; by post, price s. d. the people of holland painted by nico jungman. containing full-page plates in colour, tipped on grey mounts, and the interleaves with descriptive notes quaintly ornamented. the people of egypt painted by lance thackeray. containing full page plates in colour, tipped on grey mounts, and the interleaves, with the descriptive notes illustrated with thumb-nail sketches in black and white. the people of india painted by mortimer menpes. containing full-page plates in colour, tipped on grey mounts. footnotes: [ ] "infernal _anis_," says the advertisement, "made from the worst wines of the priorato, is neither tonic, digestive, nor restorative, and has never been commended at any exhibition." [ ] literally "tubs", the solid semicircular bastions of spanish town walls. [ ] a collegiate church, intermediate in dignity between a parish church and a cathedral. [ ] a public promenade, thickly planted with trees. [ ] a spanish league is about an hour's march, say - / miles. [ ] at one place it consisted of a huge earthenware bowl, feet high and feet in diameter, filled up solid with earth to within inches of the rim. [ ] here died ----. [ ] see p. . [ ] see p. . [ ] this monastery is a very notable leonese monument, a masterpiece of _plateresque_, somewhat similar to the _otto heinrichs bau_ at heidelberg, and formerly the property of the knights of santiago. [ ] astorga = _ast_urica _aug_usta. [ ] literally the "house of purification," _i.e._ the great mosque of córdova. [ ] there is something of the same flavour about the inscription on the gates of the _hospital del rey_ at burgos; "blessed is the man that provideth for the sick and needy, st james (!) shall deliver him in the time of trouble." [ ] the fate most dreaded by the spanish prisoners in the moorish wars. [ ] borrow stigmatises betánzos as a filthy and evil-smelling pest-house. but then his horse broke down there. so much depends upon the point of view! [ ] see page . [ ] /p "who would not give a foot of ground for all the devils in hell."--_ballad of lord willoughby._ p/ [ ] a cant term for knifing. the neapolitan had a standing feud with spain. [ ] the proverb is still quite current. a carrier of whom we inquired the distance to zamora oracularly answered that "it could never be gained in an hour." [ ] see p. . [ ] the recognised spanish title for the host. [ ] presbytery. [ ] "here's to the glorious, pious and immortal memory of the great and good king william, who delivered us from popery, brass money, _and wooden shoes_!" [ ] _arriero_, from _arré_! gee-up! [ ] as in italian, the diminutive is a sort of endearing form of superlative. [ ] they were built at the end of the eleventh century. a singularly fine bit of work for so early a date. [ ] moore was at salamanca and his artillery at talavera when napoleon reached madrid. [ ] the burial-place of the kings of aragon. [ ] see p. . [ ] such is the meaning of the word, but i would not like to vouch for the etymology. the derivation is possibly the other way. [ ] the tiny mosque of _san cristo de la luz_ is the only genuine moorish fragment. the _puerta del sol_, the church of _sta maria la blanca_, etc., are _mudéjar_ work. cp. note on p. . [ ] _i.e._ "citadel," _cæsareum_. [ ] james howell in estimates the annual income of toledo at £ , , a sum equivalent to nearly half a million to-day. [ ] metal screens and reliquaries. [ ] he has only a statue at toledo; but his actual grave has a scarcely less honourable site in _las huelgas_ at búrgos. [ ] the _mozárabes_ were christians under the dominion of the moors, as _mudéjares_ were moors under the dominion of the christians. [ ] several such herds were seized by the hungry regiments in the course of the retreat. [ ] heywood, _fair maid of the west_. [ ] the country people invariably reckon in _reals_--the old coinage. the piece is no longer struck, but its value is one-fourth of a _peseta_. [ ] some call it eighty-one. but this includes some arches of construction in the spandrils, and is not fair counting. [ ] cp. p. . [ ] the province derives its name from the conquests "beyond the duero" won in the earlier stages of the struggle with the moors. [ ] _noche toledana_ is proverbial in spanish as equivalent to a sleepless night. [ ] the _octroi_ office, to receive the city tolls. [ ] trajan was a spaniard born, and his reign an extremely prosperous period for spain. [ ] "the vineyard," a lovely dismantled monastery planted beside the eresma, just underneath the town. [ ] montaigne. [ ] _e.g._ talavera, first archbishop of grenada, and peter martyr, the confessor and biographer of isabella. [ ] the beautiful _huerta_ of liria is the only district actually praised. [ ] cp. p. . [ ] cp. p. . [ ] the place of execution at seville. [ ] cp. p. . [ ] the ambiguity would not be apparent to a spaniard. to him _invierno_, "winter," is the assonym to _infierno_, "hell." [ ] the "silversmith style," or early spanish renaissance. so called from the cellini-like carving which is its leading characteristic. [ ] the emperor of morocco; at this time the martial yakub aben yussef. [ ] cp. note on p. . [ ] see p. . [ ] see p. . [ ] "a ha'penny for bread." the _perrita_ or "little dog" = a halfpenny, and the _perro gordo_ or fat dog = a penny. thus "two reals minus a little dog" is _centimos_. the animal irrelevantly called a "dog" is the lion on the reverse of the coin. [ ] _certosa._ charterhouse. [ ] this incident has been utilised by conan doyle in his _white company_. but that story rather exaggerates the height and steepness of the hill. [ ] during the sitting of the congress of dresden. [ ] a highly developed form of fives. life in morocco by the same author in uniform style. demy vo, s. each. the moors: an account of people and customs. with illustrations. contents:--"the madding crowd"--within the gates--where the moors live--how the moors dress--moorish courtesy and etiquette--what the moors eat and drink--everyday life--slavery and servitude--country life--trade--arts and manufactures--matters medical. some moorish characteristics--the mohammedan year (feasts and fasts)--places of worship--alms, hospitality, and pilgrimage--education--saints and superstitions--marriage--funeral rites. the morocco berbers--the jews of morocco--the jewish year. the land of the moors: a comprehensive description. with a new map and illustrations. contents:--physical features--natural resources--vegetable products--animal life. descriptions and histories of tangier, tetuan, laraiche, salli-rabat, dar el baida, mazagan, saffi and mogador; azîla, fedála, mehedia, mansûrîya, azammûr and waladîya; fez, mequinez and marrákesh; zarhôn, wazzán and shesháwan; el kasar, sifrû, tadla, damnát, táza, dibdû and oojda; ceuta, velez, alhucemas, melilla and the zaffarines; sûs, the draa, tafilált, fîgîg, and tûát. reminiscences of travel--in the guise of a moor--to marrákesh on a bicycle--in search of miltsin. the moorish empire: a historical epitome. with maps, illustrations, and a unique chronological, geographical, and genealogical chart. contents:--mauretania--the mohammedan invasion--foundation of empire--consolidation of empire--extension of empire--contraction of empire--stagnation of empire--personification of empire--the reigning shareefs--the moorish government--present administration. europeans in the moorish service--the salli rovers--record of the christian slaves--christian influences in morocco--foreign relations--moorish diplomatic usages--foreign rights and privileges--commercial intercourse--the fate of the empire. works on morocco reviewed ( vols. in languages)--the place of morocco in fiction--journalism in morocco--works recommended--classical authorities on morocco. london: swan sonnenschein, ltd. * * * * * an introduction to the arabic of morocco: vocabulary, grammar notes, etc., in roman characters. specially prepared for visitors and beginners on a new and eminently practical system. crown vo, cloth, round corners for pocket, _ s._ also, uniform with this, in english or spanish, price _ s._ _in arabic characters_ morocco-arabic dialogues, or diÁlogos en arabe maroquÍ. by c.w. baldwin. * * * * * london: bernard quaritch, piccadilly. tangier: british and foreign bible society's depÔt. [illustration: _photograph by edward lee, esq., saffi._ a moorish thoroughfare.] * * * * * =life in morocco= and glimpses beyond by budgett meakin author of "the moors," "the land of the moors," "the moorish empire," "model factories and villages," etc. [illustration] with twenty-four illustrations london chatto & windus printed by william clowes and sons, limited, london and beccles. =foreword= which of us has yet forgotten that first day when we set foot in barbary? those first impressions, as the gorgeous east with all its countless sounds and colours, forms and odours, burst upon us; mingled pleasures and disgusts, all new, undreamed-of, or our wildest dreams enhanced! those yelling, struggling crowds of boatmen, porters, donkey-boys; guides, thieves, and busy-bodies; clad in mingled finery and tatters; european, native, nondescript; a weird, incongruous medley--such as is always produced when east meets west--how they did astonish and amuse us! how we laughed (some trembling inwardly) and then, what letters we wrote home! one-and-twenty years have passed since that experience entranced the present writer, and although he has repeated it as far as possible in practically every other oriental country, each fresh visit to morocco brings back somewhat of the glamour of that maiden plunge, and somewhat of that youthful ardour, as the old associations are renewed. nothing he has seen elsewhere excels morocco in point of life and colour save bokhára; and only in certain parts of india or in china is it rivalled. algeria, tunisia and tripoli have lost much of that charm under turkish or western rule; egypt still more markedly so, while palestine is of a population altogether mixed and heterogeneous. the bazaars of damascus, even, and constantinople, have given way to plate-glass, and nothing remains in the nearer east to rival morocco. notwithstanding the disturbed condition of much of the country, nothing has occurred to interfere with the pleasure certain to be afforded by a visit to morocco at any time, and all who can do so are strongly recommended to include it in an early holiday. the best months are from september to may, though the heat on the coast is never too great for an enjoyable trip. the simplest way of accomplishing this is by one of messrs. forwood's regular steamers from london, calling at most of the morocco ports and returning by the canaries, the tour occupying about a month, though it may be broken and resumed at any point. tangier may be reached direct from liverpool by the papayanni line, or indirectly _viâ_ gibraltar, subsequent movements being decided by weather and local sailings. british consular officials, missionaries, and merchants will be found at the various ports, who always welcome considerate strangers. comparatively few, even of the ever-increasing number of visitors who year after year bring this only remaining independent barbary state within the scope of their pilgrimage, are aware of the interest with which it teems for the scientist, the explorer, the historian, and students of human nature in general. one needs to dive beneath the surface, to live on the spot in touch with the people, to fathom the real morocco, and in this it is doubtful whether any foreigners not connected by ties of creed or marriage ever completely succeed. what can be done short of this the writer attempted to do, mingling with the people as one of themselves whenever this was possible. inspired by the example of lane in his description of the "modern egyptians," he essayed to do as much for the moors, and during eighteen years he laboured to that end. the present volume gathers together from many quarters sketches drawn under those circumstances, supplemented by a _resumé_ of recent events and the political outlook, together with three chapters--viii., xi., and xiv.--contributed by his wife, whose assistance throughout its preparation he has once more to acknowledge with pleasure. to many correspondents in morocco he is also indebted for much valuable up-to-date information on current affairs, but as most for various reasons prefer to remain unmentioned, it would be invidious to name any. for most of the illustrations, too, he desires to express his hearty thanks to the gentlemen who have permitted him to reproduce their photographs. much of the material used has already appeared in more fugitive form in the _times of morocco_, the _london quarterly review_, the _forum_, the _westminster review_, _harper's magazine_, the _humanitarian_, the _gentleman's magazine_, the _independent_ (new york), the _modern church_, the _jewish chronicle_, _good health_, the _medical missionary_, the _pall mall gazette_, the _westminster gazette_, the _outlook_, etc., while chapters ix., xix., and xxv. to xxix. have been extracted from a still unpublished picture of moorish country life, "sons of ishmael." b.m. hampstead, _november ._ contents part i chapter page i. retrospective ii. the present day iii. behind the scenes iv. the berber race v. the wandering arab vi. city life vii. the women-folk viii. social visits ix. a country wedding x. the bairns xi. "dining out" xii. domestic economy xiii. the native "merchant" xiv. shopping xv. a sunday market xvi. play-time xvii. the story-teller xviii. snake-charming xix. in a moorish cafÉ xx. the medicine-man xxi. the human mart xxii. a slave-girl's story xxiii. the pilgrim camp xxiv. returning home part ii xxv. diplomacy in morocco xxvi. prisoners and captives xxvii. the protection system xxviii. justice for the jew xxix. civil war in morocco xxx. the political situation xxxi. france in morocco part iii xxxii. algeria viewed from morocco xxxiii. tunisia viewed from morocco xxxiv. tripoli viewed from morocco xxxv. foot-prints of the moors in spain appendix "morocco news" index list of illustrations to face page a moorish thoroughfare _frontispiece_ gate of the seven virgins, salli crossing a morocco river a berber village in the atlas an arab tent in morocco roofs of tangier from the british consulate a moorish caravan fruit-sellers a tunisian shopkeeper the sunday market, tangier group around performers, marrÁkesh a morocco fandak (caravansarai) rabhah, narrator of the slave-girl's story waiting for the steamer a city gateway in morocco central morocco homestead jewesses of the atlas a moorish kaÏd and attendants tunisia under the french--an execution tent of an algerian sheÏkh a tunisian jewess in street dress outside tripoli a shrine in cordova mosque the market-place, tetuan note.--_the system of transliterating arabic adopted by the author in his previous works has here been followed only so far as it is likely to be adopted by others than specialists, all signs being omitted which are not essential to approximate pronunciation._ =life in morocco= part i i retrospective "the firmament turns, and times are changing." _moorish proverb._ by the western gate of the mediterranean, where the narrowed sea has so often tempted invaders, the decrepit moorish empire has become itself a bait for those who once feared it. yet so far morocco remains untouched, save where a fringe of europeans on the coast purvey the luxuries from other lands that moorish tastes demand, and in exchange take produce that would otherwise be hardly worth the raising. even here the foreign influence is purely superficial, failing to affect the lives of the people; while the towns in which europeans reside are so few in number that whatever influence they do possess is limited in area. moreover, morocco has never known foreign dominion, not even that of the turks, who have left their impress on the neighbouring algeria and tunisia. none but the arabs have succeeded in obtaining a foothold among its berbers, and they, restricted to the plains, have long become part of the nation. thus morocco, of all the north african kingdoms, has always maintained its independence, and in spite of changes all round, continues to live its own picturesque life. picturesque it certainly is, with its flowing costumes and primitive homes, both of which vary in style from district to district, but all of which seem as though they must have been unchanged for thousands of years. without security for life or property, the mountaineers go armed, they dwell in fortresses or walled-in villages, and are at constant war with one another. on the plains, except in the vicinity of towns, the country people group their huts around the fortress of their governor, within which they can shelter themselves and their possessions in time of war. no other permanent erection is to be seen on the plains, unless it be some wayside shrine which has outlived the ruin fallen on the settlement to which it once belonged, and is respected by the conquerors as holy ground. here and there gaunt ruins rise, vast crumbling walls of concrete which have once been fortresses, lending an air of desolation to the scene, but offering no attraction to historian or antiquary. no one even knows their names, and they contain no monuments. if ever more solid remains are encountered, they are invariably set down as the work of the romans. [illustration: _cavilla, photo., tangier._ gate of the seven virgins, salli.] yet morocco has a history, an interesting history indeed, one linked with ours in many curious ways, as is recorded in scores of little-known volumes. it has a literature amazingly voluminous, but there were days when the relations with other lands were much closer, if less cordial, the days of the crusades and the barbary pirates, the days of european tribute to the moors, and the days of christian slavery in morocco. constantly appearing brochures in many tongues made europe of those days acquainted with the horrors of that dreadful land. all these only served to augment the fear in which its people were held, and to deter the victimized nations from taking action which would speedily have put an end to it all, by demonstrating the inherent weakness of the moorish empire. but for those whose study is only the moors as they exist to-day, the story of morocco stretches back only a thousand years, as until then its scattered tribes of berber mountaineers had acknowledged no head, and knew no common interests; they were not a nation. war was their pastime; it is so now to a great extent. every man for himself, every tribe for itself. idolatry, of which abundant traces still remain, had in places been tinged with the name and some of the forms of christianity, but to what extent it is now impossible to discover. in the roman church there still exist titular bishops of north africa, one, in particular, derives his title from the district of morocco of which fez is now the capital, mauretania tingitana. it was among these tribes that a pioneer mission of islám penetrated in the eighth of our centuries. arabs were then greater strangers in barbary than we are now, but they were by no means the first strange faces seen there. ph[oe]nicians, romans and vandals had preceded them, but none had stayed, none had succeeded in amalgamating with the berbers, among whom those individuals who did remain were absorbed. these hardy clansmen, exhibiting the characteristics of hill-folk the world round, still inhabited the uplands and retained their independence. in this they have indeed succeeded to a great extent until the present day, but between that time and this they have given of their life-blood to build up by their side a less pure nation of the plains, whose language as well as its creed is that of arabia. to imagine that morocco was invaded by a muslim host who carried all before them is a great mistake, although a common one. mulai idrees--"my lord enoch" in english--a direct descendant of mohammed, was among the first of the arabian missionaries to arrive, with one or two faithful adherents, exiles fleeing from the khalîfa of mekka. so soon as he had induced one tribe to accept his doctrines, he assisted them with his advice and prestige in their combats with hereditary enemies, to whom, however, the novel terms were offered of fraternal union with the victors, if they would accept the creed of which they had become the champions. thus a new element was introduced into the berber polity, the element of combination, for the lack of which they had always been weak before. each additional ally meant an augmentation of the strength of the new party out of all proportion to the losses from occasional defeats. in course of time the mohammedan coalition became so strong that it was in a position to dictate terms and to impose governors upon the most obstinate of its neighbours. the effect of this was to divide the allies into two important sections, the older of which founded fez in the days of the son of idrees, accounted the second ameer of that name, who there lies buried in the most important mosque of the empire, the very approaches of which are closed to the jew and the nazarene. the only spot which excels it in sanctity is that at zarhôn, a day's journey off, in which the first idrees lies buried. there the whole town is forbidden to the foreigner, and an attempt made by the writer to gain admittance in disguise was frustrated by discovery at the very gate, though later on he visited the shrine in fez. the dynasty thus formed, the shurfà idreeseeïn, is represented to-day by the shareef of wazzán. in southern morocco, with its capital at aghmát, on the atlas slopes, was formed what later grew to be the kingdom of marrákesh, the city of that name being founded in the middle of the eleventh century. towards the close of the thirteenth, the kingdoms of fez and marrákesh became united under one ruler, whose successor, after numerous dynastic changes, is the sultan of morocco now.[ ] [ : for a complete outline of moorish history, see the writer's "moorish empire."] but from the time that the united berbers had become a nation, to prevent them falling out among themselves again it was necessary to find some one else to fight, to occupy the martial instinct nursed in fighting one another. so long as there were ancient scores to be wiped out at home, so long as under cover of a missionary zeal they could continue intertribal feuds, things went well for the victors; but as soon as excuses for this grew scarce, it was needful to fare afield. the pretty story--told, by the way, of other warriors as well--of the arab leader charging the atlantic surf, and weeping that the world should end there, and his conquests too, may be but fiction, but it illustrates a fact. had europe lain further off, the very causes which had conspired to raise a central power in morocco would have sufficed to split it up again. this, however, was not to be. in full view of the most northern strip of morocco, from ceuta to cape spartel, the north-west corner of africa, stretches the coast of sunny spain. between el k'sar es-sagheer, "the little castle," and tarifa point is only a distance of nine or ten miles, and in that southern atmosphere the glinting houses may be seen across the straits. history has it that internal dissensions at the court of spain led to the moors being actually invited over; but that inducement was hardly needed. here was a country of infidels yet to be conquered; here was indeed a land of promise. soon the berbers swarmed across, and in spite of reverses, carried all before them. spain was then almost as much divided into petty states as their land had been till the arabs taught them better, and little by little they made their way in a country destined to be theirs for five hundred years. córdova, sevílle, granáda, each in turn became their capital, and rivalled fez across the sea. the successes they achieved attracted from the east adventurers and merchants, while by wise administration literature and science were encouraged, till the berber empire of spain and morocco took a foremost rank among the nations of the day. judged from the standpoint of their time, they seem to us a prodigy; judged from our standpoint, they were but little in advance of their descendants of the twentieth century, who, after all, have by no means retrograded, as they are supposed to have done, though they certainly came to a standstill, and have suffered all the evils of four centuries of torpor and stagnation. civilization wrought on them the effects that it too often produces, and with refinement came weakness. the sole remaining state of those which the invaders, finding independent, conquered one by one, is the little pyrenean republic of andorra, still enjoying privileges granted to it for its brave defence against the moors, which made it the high-water mark of their dominion. as peace once more split up the berbers, the subjected spaniards became strong by union, till at length the death-knell of moorish rule in europe sounded at the nuptials of the famous ferdinand and isabella, linking aragon with proud castile. expelled from spain, the moor long cherished plans for the recovery of what had been lost, preparing fleets and armies for the purpose, but in vain. though nominally still united, his people lacked that zeal in a common cause which had carried them across the straits before, and by degrees the attempts to recover a kingdom dwindled into continued attacks upon shipping and coast towns. thus arose that piracy which was for several centuries the scourge of christendom. further east a distinct race of pirates flourished, including turks and greeks and ruffians from every shore, but they were not moors, of whom the salli rover was the type. many thousands of europeans were carried off by moorish corsairs into slavery, including not a few from england. those who renounced their own religion and nationality, accepting those of their captors, became all but free, only being prevented from leaving the country, and often rose to important positions. those who had the courage of their convictions suffered much, being treated like cattle, or worse, but they could be ransomed when their price was forthcoming--a privilege abandoned by the renegades--so that the principal object of every european embassy in those days was the redemption of captives. now and then escapes would be accomplished, but such strict watch was kept when foreign merchantmen were in port, or when foreign ambassadors came and went, that few attempts succeeded, though many were made. sympathies are stirred by pictures of the martyrdom of englishmen and irishmen, franciscan missionaries to the moors; and side by side with them the foreign mercenaries in the native service, englishmen among them, who would fight in any cause for pay and plunder, even though their masters held their countrymen in thrall. and thrall it was, as that of israel in egypt, when our sailors were chained to galley seats beneath the lash of a moor, or when they toiled beneath a broiling sun erecting the grim palace walls of concrete which still stand as witnesses of those fell days. bought and sold in the market like cattle, europeans were more despised than negroes, who at least acknowledged mohammed as their prophet, and accepted their lot without attempt to escape. dark days were those for the honour of europe, when the moors inspired terror from the balearics to the scilly isles, and when their rovers swept the seas with such effect that all the powers of christendom were fain to pay them tribute. large sums of money, too, collected at church doors and by the sale of indulgences, were conveyed by the hands of intrepid friars, noble men who risked all to relieve those slaves who had maintained their faith, having scorned to accept a measure of freedom as the reward of apostasy. thousands of english and other european slaves were liberated through the assistance of friendly letters from royal hands, as when the proud queen bess addressed ahmad ii., surnamed "the golden," as "our brother after the law of crown and sceptre," or when queen anne exchanged compliments with the bloodthirsty ismáïl, who ventured to ask for the hand of a daughter of louis xiv. in the midst of it all, when that wonderful man, with a household exceeding solomon's, and several hundred children, had reigned forty-three of his fifty-five years, the english, in , ceded to him their possession of tangier. for twenty-two years the "castle in the streights' mouth," as general monk had described it, had been the scene of as disastrous an attempt at colonization as we have ever known: misunderstanding of the circumstances and mismanagement throughout; oppression, peculation and terror within as well as without; a constant warfare with incompetent or corrupt officials within as with besieging moors without; till at last the place had to be abandoned in disgust, and the expensive mole and fortifications were destroyed lest others might seize what we could not hold. such events could only lower the prestige of europeans, if, indeed, they possessed any, in the eyes of the moors, and the slaves up country received worse treatment than before. even the ambassadors and consuls of friendly powers were treated with indignities beyond belief. some were imprisoned on the flimsiest pretexts, all had to appear before the monarch in the most abject manner, and many were constrained to bribe the favourite wives of the ameers to secure their requests. it is still the custom for the state reception to take place in an open courtyard, the ambassador standing bareheaded before the mounted sultan under his imperial parasol. as late as the brutal sultan el yazeed, who emulated ismáïl the bloodthirsty, did not hesitate to declare war on all christendom except england, agreeing to terms of peace on the basis of tribute. cooperation between the powers was not then thought of, and one by one they struck their bargains as they are doing again to-day. yet even at the most violent period of moorish misrule it is a remarkable fact that europeans were allowed to settle and trade in the empire, in all probability as little molested there as they would have been had they remained at home, by varying religious tests and changing governments. it is almost impossible to conceive, without a perusal of the literature of the period, the incongruity of the position. foreign slaves would be employed in gangs outside the dwellings of free fellow-countrymen with whom they were forbidden to communicate, while every returning pirate captain added to the number of the captives, sometimes bringing friends and relatives of those who lived in freedom as the sultan's "guests," though he considered himself "at war" with their governments. so little did the moors understand the position of things abroad, that at one time they made war upon gibraltar, while expressing the warmest friendship for england, who then possessed it. this was done by mulai abd allah v., in , because, he said, the governor had helped his rebel uncle at arzîla, so that the english, his so-called friends, did more harm than his enemies--the portuguese and spaniards. "my father and i believe," wrote his son, sidi mohammed, to admiral pawkers, "that the king your master has no knowledge of the behaviour towards us of the governor of gibraltar, ... so gibraltar shall be excluded from the peace to which i am willing to consent between england and us, and with the aid of the almighty god, i will know how to avenge myself as i may on the english of gibraltar." previously spain and portugal had held the principal moroccan seaports, the twin towns of rabat and salli alone remaining always moorish, but these two in their turn set up a sort of independent republic, nourished from the berber tribes in the mountains to the south of them. no europeans live in salli yet, for here the old fanaticism slumbers still. so long as a port remained in foreign hands it was completely cut off from the surrounding country, and played no part in moorish history, save as a base for periodical incursions. one by one most of them fell again into the hands of their rightful owners, till they had recovered all their atlantic sea-board. on the mediterranean, ceuta, which had belonged to portugal, came under the rule of spain when those countries were united, and the spaniards hold it still, as they do less important positions further east. the piracy days of the moors have long passed, but they only ceased at the last moment they could do so with grace, before the introduction of steamships. there was not, at the best of times, much of the noble or heroic in their raids, which generally took the nature of lying in wait with well-armed, many-oared vessels, for unarmed, unwieldy merchantmen which were becalmed, or were outpaced by sail and oar together. early in the nineteenth century algiers was forced to abandon piracy before lord exmouth's guns, and soon after the moors were given to understand that it could no longer be permitted to them either, since the moorish "fleets"--if worthy the name--had grown so weak, and those of the nazarenes so strong, that the tables were turned. yet for many years more the nations of europe continued the tribute wherewith the rapacity of the moors was appeased, and to the united states belongs the honour of first refusing this disgraceful payment. the manner in which the rovers of salli and other ports were permitted to flourish so long can be explained in no other way than by the supposition that they were regarded as a sort of necessary nuisance, just a hornet's-nest by the wayside, which it would be hopeless to destroy, as they would merely swarm elsewhere. and then we must remember that the moors were not the only pirates of those days, and that europeans have to answer for the most terrible deeds of the mediterranean corsairs. news did not travel then as it does now. though students of morocco history are amazed at the frequent captures and the thousands of christian slaves so imported, abroad it was only here and there that one was heard of at a time. to-day the plunder of an italian sailing vessel aground on their shore, or the fate of too-confident spanish smugglers running close in with arms, is heard of the world round. and in the majority of cases there is at least a question: what were the victims doing there? not that this in any way excuses the so-called "piracy," but it must not be forgotten in considering the question. almost all these tribes in the troublous districts carry european arms, instead of the more picturesque native flint-lock: and as not a single gun is legally permitted to pass the customs, there must be a considerable inlet somewhere, for prices are not high. ii the present day "what has passed has gone, and what is to come is distant; thou hast only the hour in which thou art." _moorish proverb._ far from being, as hood described them, "poor rejected moors who raised our childish fears," the people of morocco consist of fine, open races, capable of anything, but literally rotting in one of the finest countries of the world. the moorish remains in spain, as well as the pages of history, testify to the manner in which they once flourished, but to-day their appearance is that of a nation asleep. yet great strides towards reform have been made during the past century, and each decade sees steps taken more important than the last. for the present decade is promised complete transformation. but how little do we know of this people! the very name "moor" is a european invention, unknown in morocco, where no more precise definition of the inhabitants can be given than that of "westerners"--maghribîn, while the land itself is known as "the further west"--el moghreb el aksa. the name we give to the country is but a corruption of that of the southern capital, marrákesh ("morocco city") through the spanish version, marueccos. the genuine moroccans are the berbers among whom the arabs introduced islám and its civilization, later bringing negroes from their raids across the atlas to the sudán and guinea. the remaining important section of the people are jews of two classes--those settled in the country from prehistoric times, and those driven to it when expelled from spain. with the exception of the arabs and the blacks, none of these pull together, and in that case it is only because the latter are either subservient to the former, or incorporated with them. first in importance come the earliest known possessors of the land, the berbers. these are not confined to morocco, but still hold the rocky fastnesses which stretch from the atlantic, opposite the canaries, to the borders of egypt; from the sands of the mediterranean to those of the sáhara, that vast extent of territory to which we have given their name, barbary. of these but a small proportion really amalgamated with their muslim victors, and it is only to this mixed race which occupies the cities of morocco that the name "moor" is strictly applicable. on the plains are to be found the arabs, their tents scattered in every direction. from the atlantic to the atlas, from tangier to mogador, and then away through the fertile province of sûs, one of the chief features of morocco is the series of wide alluvial treeless plains, often apparently as flat as a table, but here and there cut up by winding rivers and crossed by low ridges. the fertility of these districts is remarkable; but owing to the misgovernment of the country, which renders native property so insecure, only a small portion is cultivated. the untilled slopes which border the plains are generally selected by the arabs for their encampments, circles or ovals of low goat-hair tents, each covering a large area in proportion to the number of its inhabitants. the third section of the people of morocco--by no means the least important--has still to be glanced at; these are the ubiquitous, persecuted and persecuting jews. everywhere that money changes hands and there is business to be done they are to be found. in the towns and among the thatched huts of the plains, even in the berber villages on the slopes of the atlas, they have their colonies. with the exception of a few ports wherein european rule in past centuries has destroyed the boundaries, they are obliged to live in their own restricted quarters, and in most instances are only permitted to cross the town barefooted and on foot, never to ride a horse. in the atlas they live in separate villages adjoining or close to those belonging to the berbers, and sometimes even larger than they. always clad in black or dark-coloured cloaks, with hideous black skull-caps or white-spotted blue kerchiefs on their heads, they are conspicuous everywhere. they address the moors with a villainous, cringing look which makes the sons of ishmael savage, for they know it is only feigned. in return they are treated like dogs, and cordial hatred exists on both sides. so they live, together yet divided; the jew despised but indispensable, bullied but thriving. he only wins at law when richer than his opponent; against a muslim he can bear no testimony; there is scant pretence at justice. he dares not lift his hand to strike a moor, however ill-treated, but he finds revenge in sucking his life's blood by usury. receiving no mercy, he shows none, and once in his clutches, his prey is fortunate to escape with his life. the happy influence of more enlightened european jews is, however, making itself felt in the chief towns, through excellent schools supported from london and paris, which are turning out a class of highly respectable citizens. while the moors fear the tide of advancing westernization, the town jews court it, and in them centres one of the chief prospects of the country's welfare. into their hands has already been gathered much of the trade of morocco, and there can be little doubt that, by the end of the thirty years' grace afforded to other merchants than the french, they will have practically absorbed it all, even the frenchmen trading through them. they have at least the intimate knowledge of the people and local conditions to which so few foreigners ever attain. when the moorish empire comes to be pacifically penetrated and systematically explored, it will probably be found that little more is known of it than of china, notwithstanding its proximity, and its comparatively insignificant size. a map honestly drawn, from observations only, would astonish most people by its vast blank spaces.[ ] it would be noted that the limit of european exploration--with the exception of the work of two or three hardy travellers in disguise--is less than two hundred miles from the coast, and that this limit is reached at two points only--south of fez and marrákesh respectively,--which form the apices of two well-known triangular districts, the contiguous bases of which form part of the atlantic coast line, under four hundred miles in length. beyond these limits all is practically unknown, the language, customs and beliefs of the people providing abundant ground for speculation, and permitting theorists free play. so much is this the case, that a few years ago an enthusiastic "savant" was able to imagine that he had discovered a hidden race of dwarfs beyond the atlas, and to obtain credence for his "find" among the best-informed students of europe. [ : an approximation to this is given in the writer's "land of the moors."] but there is also another point of view from which morocco is unknown, that of native thought and feeling, penetrated by extremely few europeans, even when they mingle freely with the people, and converse with them in arabic. the real moor is little known by foreigners, a very small number of whom mix with the better classes. some, as officials, meet officials, but get little below the official exterior. those who know most seldom speak, their positions or their occupations preventing the expression of their opinions. sweeping statements about morocco may therefore be received with reserve, and dogmatic assertions with caution. this empire is in no worse condition now than it has been for centuries; indeed, it is much better off than ever since its palmy days, and there is no occasion whatever to fear its collapse. few facts are more striking in the study of morocco than the absolute stagnation of its people, except in so far as they have been to a very limited extent affected by outside influences. of what european--or even oriental--land could descriptions of life and manners written in the sixteenth century apply as fully in the twentieth as do those of morocco by leo africanus? or even to come later, compare the transitions england has undergone since höst and jackson wrote a hundred years ago, with the changes discoverable in morocco since that time. the people of morocco remain the same, and their more primitive customs are those of far earlier ages, of the time when their ancestors lived upon the plain of palestine and north arabia, and when "in the loins of abraham" the now unfriendly jew and arab were yet one. it is the position of europeans among them which has changed. in the time of höst and jackson piracy was dying hard, restrained by tribute from all the powers of europe. the foreign merchant was not only tolerated, but was at times supplied with capital by the moorish sultans, to whom he was allowed to go deeply in debt for custom's dues, and half a century later the british consul at mogador was not permitted to embark to escape a bombardment of the town, because of his debt to the sultan. many of the restrictions complained of to-day are the outcome of the almost enslaved condition of the merchants of those times in consequence of such customs. indeed, the position of the european in morocco is still a series of anomalies, and so it is likely to continue until it passes under foreign rule. the same old spirit of independence reigns in the berber breast to-day as when he conquered spain, and though he has forgotten his past and cares naught for his future, he still considers himself a superior being, and feels that no country can rival his home. in his eyes the embassies from europe and america come only to pay the tribute which is the price of peace with his lord, and when he sees a foreign minister in all his black and gold stand in the sun bareheaded to address the mounted sultan beneath his parasol, he feels more proud than ever of his greatness, and is more decided to be pleasant to the stranger, but to keep him out. instead of increased relations between moors and foreigners tending to friendship, the average foreign settler or tourist is far too bigoted and narrow-minded to see any good in the native, much less to acknowledge his superiority on certain points. wherever the sultan's authority is recognized the european is free to travel and live, though past experience has led officials not to welcome him. at the same time, he remains entirely under the jurisdiction of his own authorities, except in cases of murder or grave crime, when he must be at once handed over to the nearest consul of his country. not only are he and his household thus protected, but also his native employees, and, to a certain extent, his commercial and agricultural agents. thus foreigners in morocco enjoy within the limits of the central power the security of their own lands, and the justice of their own laws. they do not even find in morocco that immunity from justice which some ignorant writers of fiction have supposed; for unless a foreigner abandons his own nationality and creed, and buries himself in the interior under a native name, he cannot escape the writs of foreign courts. in any case, the moorish authorities will arrest him on demand, and hand him over to his consul to be dealt with according to law. the colony of refugees which has been pictured by imaginative raconteurs is therefore non-existent. instead there are growing colonies of business men, officials, missionaries, and a few retired residents, quite above the average of such colonies in the levant, for instance. for many years past, though the actual business done has shown a fairly steady increase, the commercial outlook in morocco has gone from bad to worse. yet more of its products are now exported, and there are more european articles in demand, than were thought of twenty years ago. this anomalous and almost paradoxical condition is due to the increase of competition and the increasing weakness of the government. men who had hope a few years ago, now struggle on because they have staked too much to be able to leave for more promising fields. this has been especially the case since the late sultan's death. the disturbances which followed that event impoverished many tribes, and left behind a sense of uncertainty and dread. no european bourse is more readily or lastingly affected by local political troubles than the general trade of a land like morocco, in which men live so much from hand to mouth. it is a noteworthy feature of moorish diplomatic history that to the moors' love of foreign trade we owe almost every step that has led to our present relations with the empire. even while their rovers were the terror of our merchantmen, as has been pointed out, foreign traders were permitted to reside in their ports, the facilities granted to them forming the basis of all subsequent negotiations. now that concession after concession has been wrung from their unwilling government, and in spite of freedom of residence, travel, and trade in the most important parts of the empire, it is disheartening to see the foreign merchant in a worse condition than ever. the previous generation, fewer in number, enjoying far less privileges, and subjected to restrictions and indignities that would not be suffered to-day, were able to make their fortunes and retire, while their successors find it hard to hold their own. the "hundred tonners" who, in the palmy days of mogador, were wont to boast that they shipped no smaller quantities at once, are a dream of the past. the ostrich feathers and elephants' tusks no longer find their way out by that port, and little gold now passes in or out. merchant princes will never be seen here again; commercial travellers from germany are found in the interior, and quality, as well as price, has been reduced to its lowest ebb. a crowd of petty trading agents has arisen with no capital to speak of, yet claiming and abusing credit, of which a most ruinous system prevails, and that in a land in which the collection of debts is proverbially difficult, and oftentimes impossible. the native jews, who were interpreters and brokers years ago, have now learned the business and entered the lists. these new competitors content themselves with infinitesimal profits, or none at all in cases where the desideratum is cash to lend out at so many hundreds per cent. per annum. indeed, it is no uncommon practice for goods bought on long credit to be sold below cost price for this purpose. against such methods who can compete? yet this is a rich, undeveloped land--not exactly an el dorado, though certainly as full of promise as any so styled has proved to be when reached--favoured physically and geographically, but politically stagnant, cursed with an effete administration, fettered by a decrepit creed. in view of this situation, it is no wonder that from time to time specious schemes appear and disappear with clockwork regularity. now it is in england, now in france, that a gambling public is found to hazard the cost of proving the impossibility of opening the country with a rush, and the worthlessness of so-called concessions and monopolies granted by sheïkhs in the south, who, however they may chafe under existing rule which forbids them ports of their own, possess none of the powers required to treat with foreigners. as normal trade has waned in morocco, busy minds have not been slow in devising illicit, or at least unusual, methods of making money, even, one regrets to say, of making false money. among the drawbacks suffered by the commerce which pines under the shade of the shareefian umbrella, one--and that far from the least--is the unsatisfactory coinage, which till a few years ago was almost entirely foreign. to have to depend in so important a matter on any mint abroad is bad enough, but for that mint to be spanish means much. centuries ago the moors coined more, but with the exception of a horrible token of infinitesimal value called "floos," the products of their extinct mints are only to be found in the hands of collectors, in buried hoards, or among the jewellery displayed at home by mooresses and jewesses, whose fortunes, so invested, may not be seized for debt. some of the older issues are thin and square, with well-preserved inscriptions, and of these a fine collection--mostly gold--may be seen at the british museum; but the majority, closely resembling those of india and persia, are rudely stamped and unmilled, not even round, but thick, and of fairly good metal. the "floos" referred to (_sing._ "fils") are of three sizes, coarsely struck in zinc rendered hard and yellow by the addition of a little copper. the smallest, now rarely met with, runs about , to £ when this is worth - / spanish pesetas; the other two, still the only small change of the country, are respectively double and quadruple its value. the next coin in general circulation is worth _d._, so the inconvenience is great. a few years ago, however, europeans resident in tangier resolutely introduced among themselves the spanish ten and five céntimo pieces, corresponding to our _d._ and / _d._, which are now in free local use, but are not accepted up-country. what passes as moorish money to-day has been coined in france for many years, more recently also in germany; the former is especially neat, but the latter lacks style. the denominations coincide with those of spain, whose fluctuations in value they closely follow at a respectful distance. this autumn the "hasáni" coin--that of mulai el hasan, the late sultan--has fallen to fifty per cent. discount on spanish. with the usual perversity also, the common standard "peseta," in which small bargains are struck on the coast, was omitted, the nearest coin, the quarter-dollar, being nominally worth ptas. . . it was only after a decade, too, that the government put in circulation the dollars struck in france, which had hitherto been laid up in the treasury as a reserve. and side by side with the german issue came abundant counterfeit coins, against which government warnings were published, to the serious disadvantage of the legal issue. even the spanish copper has its rival, and a frenchman was once detected trying to bring in a nominal four hundred dollars' worth of an imitation, which he promptly threw overboard when the port guards raised objections to its quality. the increasing need of silver currency inland, owing to its free use in the manufacture of trinkets, necessitates a constant importation, and till recently all sorts of coins, discarded elsewhere, were in circulation. this was the case especially with french, swiss, belgian, italian, greek, roumanian, and other pieces of the value of twenty céntimos, known here by the turkish name "gursh," which were accepted freely in central morocco, but not in the north. twenty years ago spanish carolus, isabella and philippine shillings and kindred coins were in use all over the country, and when they were withdrawn from circulation in spain they were freely shipped here, till the country was flooded with them. when the merchants and customs at last refused them, their astute importers took them back at a discount, putting them into circulation later at what they could, only to repeat the transaction. in morocco everything a man can be induced to take is legal tender, and for bribes and religious offerings all things pass, this practice being an easier matter than at first sight appears; so in the course of a few years one saw a whole series of coins in vogue, one after the other, the main transactions taking place on the coast with country moors, than whom, though none more suspicious, none are more easily gulled. a much more serious obstacle to inland trade is the periodically disturbed state of the country, not so much the local struggles and uprisings which serve to free superfluous energy, as the regular administrative expeditions of the moorish court, or of considerable bodies of troops. these used to take place in some direction every year, "the time when kings go forth to war" being early summer, just when agricultural operations are in full swing, and every man is needed on his fields. in one district the ranks of the workers are depleted by a form of conscription or "harka," and in another these unfortunates are employed preventing others doing what they should be doing at home. thus all suffer, and those who are not themselves engaged in the campaign are forced to contribute cash, if only to find substitutes to take their places in the ranks. the movement of the moorish court means the transportation of a numerous host at tremendous expense, which has eventually to be recouped in the shape of regular contributions, arrears of taxes and fines, collected _en route_, so the pace is abnormally slow. not only is there an absolute absence of roads, and, with one or two exceptions, of bridges, but the sultan himself, with all his army, cannot take the direct route between his most important inland cities without fighting his way. the configuration of the empire explains its previous sub-division into the kingdoms of fez, marrákesh, tafilált and sûs, and the reef, for between the plains of each run mountain ranges which have never known absolute "foreign" rulers. [illustration: crossing a morocco river. _molinari, photo., tangier._] to european engineers the passes through these closed districts would offer no great obstacles in the construction of roads such as thread the himalayas, but the moors do not wish for the roads; for, while what the government fears to promote thereby is combination, the actual occupants of the mountains, the native berbers, desire not to see the arab tax-gatherers, only tolerating their presence as long as they cannot help it, and then rising against them. often a tribe will be left for several years to enjoy independence, while the slip-shod army of the sultan is engaged elsewhere. when its turn comes it holds out for terms, since it has no hope of successfully confronting such an overwhelming force as is sooner or later brought against it. the usual custom is to send small detachments of soldiers to the support of the over-grasping functionaries, and when they have been worsted, to send down an army to "eat up" the province, burning villages, deporting cattle, ill-treating the women, and often carrying home children as slaves. the men of the district probably flee and leave their homes to be ransacked. they content themselves with hiding behind crags which seem to the plainsmen inaccessible, whence they can in safety harass the troops on the march. after more or less protracted skirmishing, the country having been devastated by the troops, who care only for the booty, women will be sent into the camp to make terms, or one of the shareefs or religious nobles who accompany the army is sent out to treat with the rebels. the terms are usually hard--so much arrears of tribute in cash and kind, so much as a fine for expenses, so many hostages. then hostages and prisoners are driven to the capital in chains, and pickled heads are exposed on the gateways, imperial letters being read in the chief mosques throughout the country, telling of a glorious victory, and calling for rejoicings. to any other people the short spell of freedom would have been too dearly bought for the experiment to be repeated, but as soon as they begin to chafe again beneath the lawless rule of moorish officials, the berbers rebel once more. it has been going on thus for hundreds of years, and will continue till put an end to by france. in morocco each official preys upon the one below him, and on all others within his reach, till the poor oppressed and helpless villager lives in terror of them all, not daring to display signs of prosperity for fear of tempting plunder. merit is no key to positions of trust and authority, and few have such sufficient salary attached to render them attractive to honest men. the holders are expected in most cases to make a living out of the pickings, and are allowed an unquestioned run of office till they are presumed to have amassed enough to make it worth while treating them as they have treated others, when they are called to account and relentlessly "squeezed." the only means of staving off the fatal day is by frequent presents to those above them, wrung from those below. a large proportion of moorish officials end their days in disgrace, if not in dungeons, and some meet their end by being invited to corrosive sublimate tea, a favourite beverage in morocco--for others. yet there is always a demand for office, and large prices are paid for posts affording opportunities for plunder. the moorish financial system is of a piece with this method. when the budget is made out, each tribe or district is assessed at the utmost it is believed capable of yielding, and the candidate for its governorship who undertakes to get most out of it probably has the task allotted to him. his first duty is to repeat on a small scale the operation of the government, informing himself minutely as to the resources under his jurisdiction, and assessing the sub-divisions so as to bring in enough for himself, and to provide against contingencies, in addition to the sum for which he is responsible. the local sheïkhs or head-men similarly apportion their demands among the individuals entrusted to their tender mercy. a fool is said to have once presented the sultan with a bowl of skimmed and watered milk, and on being remonstrated with, to have declared that his majesty received no more from any one, as his wazeers and governors ate half the revenue cream each, and the sheïkhs drank half the revenue milk. the fool was right. the richer a man is, the less proportion he will have to pay, for he can make it so agreeable--or disagreeable--for those entrusted with a little brief authority. it is the struggling poor who have to pay or go to prison, even if to pay they have to sell their means of subsistence. three courses lie before this final victim--to obtain the protection of some influential name, native or foreign, to buy a "friend at court," or to enter nazarene service. but native friends are uncertain and hard to find, and, above all, they may be alienated by a higher bid from a rival or from a rapacious official. such affairs are of common occurrence, and harrowing tales might be told of homes broken up in this way, of tortures inflicted, and of lives spent in dungeons because display has been indulged in, or because an independent position has been assumed under cover of a protection that has failed. but what can one expect with such a standard of honour? foreigners, on the other hand, seldom betray their _protégés_--although, to their shame be it mentioned, some in high places have done so,--wherefore their protection is in greater demand; besides which it is more effectual, as coming from outside, while no moor, however well placed, is absolutely secure in his own position. thus it is that the down-trodden natives desire and are willing to pay for protection in proportion to their means; and it is this power of dispensing protection which, though often abused, does more than anything else to raise the prestige of the foreigner, and in turn to protect him. the claims most frequently made against moors by foreign countries are for debt, claims which afford the greatest scope for controversy and the widest loophole for abuse. although, unfortunately, for the greater part usurious, a fair proportion are for goods delivered, but to evade the laws even loan receipts are made out as for goods to be delivered, a form in which discrimination is extremely difficult. the condition of the country, in which every man is liable to be arrested, thrashed, imprisoned, if not tortured, to extort from him his wealth, is such as furnishes the usurer with crowding clients; and the condition of things among the indian cultivators, bad as it is, since they can at least turn to a fair-handed government, is not to be compared to that of the down-trodden moorish farmer. the assumption by the government of responsibility for the debts of its subjects, or at all events its undertaking to see that they pay, is part of the patriarchal system in force, by which the family is made responsible for individuals, the tribe for families, and so on. no other system would bring offenders to justice without police; but it transforms each man into his brother's keeper. this, however, does not apply only to debts the collection of which is urged upon the government, for whom it is sufficient to produce the debtor and let him prove absolute poverty for him to be released, with the claim cancelled. this in theory: but in practice, to appease these claims, however just, innocent men are often thrown into prison, and untold horrors are suffered, in spite of all the efforts of foreign ministers to counteract the injustice. a mere recital of tales which have come under my own observation would but harrow my readers' feelings to no purpose, and many would appear incredible. with the harpies of the government at their heels, men borrow wildly for a month or two at cent. per cent., and as the moorish law prohibits interest, a document is sworn to before notaries by which the borrower declares that he has that day taken in hard cash the full amount to be repaid, the value of certain crops or produce of which he undertakes delivery upon a certain date. very seldom, indeed, does it happen that by that date the money can be repaid, and generally the only terms offered for an extension of time for another three or six months are the addition of another fifty or one hundred per cent. to the debt, always fully secured on property, or by the bonds of property holders. were not this thing of everyday occurrence in morocco, and had i not examined scores of such papers, the way in which the ignorant moors fall into such traps would seem incredible. it is usual to blame the jews for it all, and though the business lies mostly in their hands, it must not be overlooked that many foreigners engage in it, and, though indirectly, some moors also. but besides such claims, there is a large proportion of just business debts which need to be enforced. it does not matter how fair a claim may be, or how legitimate, it is very rarely that trouble is not experienced in pressing it. the moorish courts are so venal, so degraded, that it is more often the unscrupulous usurer who wins his case and applies the screw, than the honest trader. here lies the rub. another class of claims is for damage done, loss suffered, or compensation for imaginary wrongs. all these together mount up, and a newly appointed minister or consul-general is aghast at the list which awaits him. he probably contents himself at first with asking for the appointment of a commission to examine and report on the legality of all these claims, and for the immediate settlement of those approved. but he asks and is promised in vain, till at last he obtains the moral support of war-ships, in view of which the moorish government most likely pays much more than it would have got off with at first, and then proceeds to victimize the debtors. it is with expressed threats of bombardment that the ships come, but experience has taught the moorish government that it is well not to let things go that length, and they now invariably settle amicably. to our western notions it may seem strange that whatever questions have to be attended to should not be put out of hand without requiring such a demonstration; but while there is sleep there is hope for an oriental, and the rulers of morocco would hardly be moors if they resisted the temptation to procrastinate, for who knows what may happen while they delay? and then there is always the chance of driving a bargain, so dear to the moorish heart, for the wazeer knows full well that although the nazarene may be prepared to bombard, as he has done from time to time, he is no more desirous than the sultan that such an extreme measure should be necessary. so, even when things come to the pinch, and the exasperated representative of christendom talks hotly of withdrawing, hauling down his flag and giving hostile orders, there is time at least to make an offer, or to promise everything in words. and when all is over, claims paid, ships gone, compliments and presents passed, nothing really serious has happened, just the everyday scene on the market applied to the nation, while the moorish government has once more given proof of worldly wisdom, and endorsed the proverb that discretion is the better part of valour. an illustration of the high-handed way in which things are done in morocco has but recently been afforded by the action of france regarding an alleged algerian subject arrested by the moorish authorities for conspiracy. the man, boo zîan miliáni by name, was the son of one of those algerians who, when their country was conquered by the french, preferred exile to submission, and migrated to morocco, where they became naturalized. he was charged with supporting the so-called "pretender" in the reef province, where he was arrested with two others early in august last. his particular offence appears to have been the reading of the "rogi's" proclamations to the public, and inciting them to rebel against the sultan. but when brought a prisoner to tangier, and thence despatched to fez, he claimed french citizenship, and the minister of france, then at court, demanded his release. this being refused, a peremptory note followed, with a threat to break off diplomatic negotiations if the demand were not forthwith complied with. the usual _communiqués_ were made to the press, whereby a chorus was produced setting forth the insult to france, the imminence of war, and the general gravity of the situation. many alarming head-lines were provided for the evening papers, and extra copies were doubtless sold. in morocco, however, not only the english and spanish papers, but also the french one, admitted that the action of france was wrong, though the ultimate issue was never in doubt, and the man's release was a foregone conclusion. elsewhere the rights of the matter would have been sifted, and submitted at least to the law-courts, if not to arbitration. while the infliction of this indignity was stirring up northern morocco, the south was greatly exercised by the presence on the coast of a french vessel, _l'aigle_, officers from which proceeded ostentatiously to survey the fortifications of mogador and its island, and then effected a landing on the latter by night. naturally the coastguards fired at them, fortunately without causing damage, but had any been killed, europe would have rung with the "outrage." from mogador the vessel proceeded after a stay of a month to agadir, the first port of sûs, closed to europeans. here its landing-party was met on the beach by some hundreds of armed men, whose commander resolutely forbade them to land, so they had to retire. had they not done so, who would answer for the consequences? as it was, the natives, eager to attack the "invaders," were with difficulty kept in hand, and one false step would undoubtedly have led to serious bloodshed. of course this was a dreadful rebuff for "pacific penetration," but the matter was kept quiet as a little premature, since in europe the coast is not quite clear enough yet for retributory measures. the effect, however, on the moors, among whom the affair grew more grave each time it was recited, was out of all proportion to the real importance of the incident, which otherwise might have passed unnoticed. iii behind the scenes "he knows of every vice an ounce." _moorish proverb._ though most eastern lands may be described as slip-shod, with reference both to the feet of their inhabitants and to the way in which things are done, there can be no country in the world more aptly described by that epithet than morocco. one of the first things which strikes the visitor to this country is the universality of the slipper as foot-gear, at least, so far as the moors are concerned. in the majority of cases the men wear the heels of their slippers folded down under the feet, only putting them up when necessity compels them to run, which they take care shall not be too often, as they much prefer a sort of ambling gait, best compared to that of their mules, or to that of an english tramp. nothing delights them better as a means of agreeably spending an hour or two, than squatting on their heels in the streets or on some door-stoop, gazing at the passers-by, exchanging compliments with their acquaintances. native "swells" consequently promenade with a piece of felt under their arms on which to sit when they wish, in addition to its doing duty as a carpet for prayer. the most public places, and usually the cool of the afternoon, are preferred for this pastime. the ladies of their jewish neighbours also like to sit at their doors in groups at the same hour, or in the doorways of main thoroughfares on moonlight evenings, while the gentlemen, who prefer to do their gossiping afoot, roam up and down. but this is somewhat apart from the point of the lazy tendencies of the moors. with them--since they have no trains to catch, and disdain punctuality--all hurry is undignified, and one could as easily imagine an elegantly dressed moorish scribe literally flying as running, even on the most urgent errand. "why run," they ask, "when you might just as well walk? why walk, when standing would do? why stand, when sitting is so much less fatiguing? why sit, when lying down gives so much more rest? and why, lying down, keep your eyes open?" in truth, this is a country in which things are left pretty much to look after themselves. nothing is done that can be left undone, and everything is postponed until "to-morrow." slipper-slapper go the people, and slipper-slapper goes their policy. if you can get through a duty by only half doing it, by all means do so, is the generally accepted rule of life. in anything you have done for you by a moor, you are almost sure to discover that he has "scamped" some part; perhaps the most important. this, of course, means doing a good deal yourself, if you like things done well, a maxim holding good everywhere, indeed, but especially here. the moorish government's way of doing things--or rather, of not doing them if it can find an excuse--is eminently slip-shod. the only point in which they show themselves astute is in seeing that their rubicon has a safe bridge by which they may retreat, if that suits their plans after crossing it. to deceive the enemy they hide this as best they can, for the most part successfully, causing the greatest consternation in the opposite camp, which, at the moment when it thinks it has driven them into a corner, sees their ranks gradually thinning from behind, dribbling away by an outlet hitherto invisible. thus, in accepting a moor's promise, one must always consider the conditions or rider annexed. this can be well illustrated by the reluctant permission to transport grain from one moorish port to another, granted from time to time, but so hampered by restrictions as to be only available to a few, the moorish government itself deriving the greatest advantage from it. then, too, there is the property clause in the convention of madrid, which has been described as the sop by means of which the powers were induced to accept other less favourable stipulations. instead of being the step in advance which it appeared to be, it was, in reality, a backward step, the conditions attached making matters worse than before. in this way only do the moors shine as politicians, unless prevarication and procrastination be included, machiavellian arts in which they easily excel. otherwise they are content to jog along in the same slip-shod manner as their fathers did centuries ago, as soon as prosperity had removed the incentive to exert the energy they once possessed. the same carelessness marks their conduct in everything, and the same unsatisfactory results inevitably follow. but to get at the root of the matter it is necessary to go a step further. the absolute lack of morals among the people is the real cause of the trouble. morocco is so deeply sunk in the degradation of vice, and so given up to lust, that it is impossible to lay bare its deplorable condition. in most countries, with a fair proportion of the pure and virtuous, some attempt is made to gloss over and conceal one's failings; but in this country the only vice which public opinion seriously condemns is drunkenness, and it is only before foreigners that any sense of shame or desire for secrecy about others is observable. the moors have not yet attained to that state of hypocritical sanctimoniousness in which modern society in civilized lands delights to parade itself. the taste for strong drink, though still indulged comparatively in secret, is steadily increasing, the practice spreading from force of example among the moors themselves, as a result of the strenuous efforts of foreigners to inculcate this vice. european consular reports not infrequently note with congratulation the growing imports of wines and liqueurs into morocco, nominally for the sole use of foreigners, although manifestly far in excess of their requirements. as yet, it is chiefly among the higher and lower classes that the victims are found, the former indulging in the privacy of their own homes, and the latter at the low drinking-dens kept by the scum of foreign settlers in the open ports. among the country people of the plains and lower hills there are hardly any who would touch intoxicating liquor, though among the mountaineers the use of alcohol has ever been more common. tobacco smoking is very general on the coast, owing to contact with europeans, but still comparatively rare in the interior, although the native preparations of hemp (keef), and also to some extent opium, have a large army of devotees, more or less victims. the latter, however, being an expensive import, is less known in the interior. snuff-taking is fairly general among men and women, chiefly the elderly. what they take is very strong, being a composition of tobacco, walnut shells, and charcoal ash. the writer once saw a young englishman, who thought he could stand a good pinch of snuff, fairly "knocked over" by a quarter as much as the owner of the nut from which it came took with the utmost complacency. the feeling of the moorish government about smoking has long been so strong that in every treaty with europe is inserted a clause reserving the right of prohibiting the importation of all narcotics, or articles used in their manufacture or consumption. till a few years ago the right to deal in these was granted yearly as a monopoly; but in the late sultan, mulai el hasan, and his aoláma, or councillors, decided to abolish the business altogether, so, purchasing the existing stocks at a valuation, they had the whole burned. but first the foreign officials and then private foreigners demanded the right to import whatever they needed "for their own consumption," and the abuse of this courtesy has enabled several tobacco factories to spring up in the country. the position with regard to the liquor traffic is almost the same. if the moors were free to legislate as they wished, they would at once prohibit the importation of intoxicants. of late years, however, a great change has come over the moors of the ports, more especially so in tangier, where the number of taverns and _cafés_ has increased most rapidly. during many years' residence there the cases of drunkenness met with could be counted on the fingers, and were then confined to guides or servants of foreigners; on the last visit paid to the country more were observed in a month than then in years. in those days to be seen with a cigarette was almost a crime, and those who indulged in a whiff at home took care to deodorize their mouths with powdered coffee; now moors sit with europeans, smoking and drinking, unabashed, at tables in the streets, but not those of the better sort. thus morocco is becoming civilized! however ashamed a moor may be of drunkenness, no one thinks of making a pretence of being chaste or moral. on the contrary, no worse is thought of a man who is wholly given up to the pleasures of the flesh than of one who is addicted to the most innocent amusements. if a moor is remonstrated with, he declares he is not half so bad as the "nazarenes" he has come across, who, in addition to practising most of his vices, indulge in drunkenness. it is not surprising, therefore, that the diseases which come as a penalty for these vices are fearfully prevalent in morocco. everywhere one comes across the ravages of such plagues, and is sickened at the sight of their victims. without going further into details, it will suffice to mention that one out of every five patients (mostly males) who attend at the dispensary of the north africa mission at tangier are direct, or indirect, sufferers from these complaints. the moors believe in "sowing wild oats" when young, till their energy is extinguished, leaving them incapable of accomplishing anything. then they think the pardon of god worth invoking, if only in the vain hope of having their youth renewed as the eagle's. yet if this could happen, they would be quite ready to commence a fresh series of follies more outrageous than before. this is a sad picture, but nevertheless true, and, far from being exaggerated, does not even hint at much that exists in morocco to-day. the words of the korán about such matters are never considered, though nominally the sole guide for life. the fact that god is "the pitying, the pitiful, king of the day of judgement," is considered sufficient warrant for the devotees of islám to lightly indulge in breaches of laws which they hold to be his, confident that if they only perform enough "vain repetitions," fast at the appointed times, and give alms, visiting mekka, if possible, or if not, making pilgrimages to shrines of lesser note nearer home, god, in his infinite mercy, will overlook all. an anonymous writer has aptly remarked--"every good mohammedan has a perpetual free pass over that line, which not only secures to him personally a safe transportation to paradise, but provides for him upon his arrival there so luxuriously that he can leave all the cumbersome baggage of his earthly harem behind him, and begin his celestial house-keeping with an entirely new outfit." here lies the whole secret of morocco's backward state. her people, having outstepped even the ample limits of licentiousness laid down in the korán, and having long ceased to be even true mohammedans, by the time they arrive at manhood have no energy left to promote her welfare, and sink into an indolent, procrastinating race, capable of little in the way of progress till a radical change takes place in their morals. nothing betrays their moral condition more clearly than their unrestrained conversation, a reeking vapour arising from a mass of corruption. the foul ejaculations of an angry moor are unreproducible, only serving to show extreme familiarity with vice of every sort. the tales to which they delight to listen, the monotonous chants rehearsed by hired musicians at public feasts or private entertainments, and the voluptuous dances they delight to have performed before them as they lie sipping forbidden liquors, are all of one class, recounting and suggesting evil deeds to hearers or observers. the constant use made of the name of god, mostly in stock phrases uttered without a thought as to their real meaning, is counterbalanced in some measure by cursing of a most elaborate kind, and the frequent mention of the "father of lies," called by them "the liar" _par excellence_. the term "elaborate" is the only one wherewith to describe a curse so carefully worded that, if executed, it would leave no hope of paradise either for the unfortunate addressee or his ancestors for several generations. on the slightest provocation, or without that excuse, the moor can roll forth the most intricate genealogical objurgations, or rap out an oath. in ordinary cases of displeasure he is satisfied with showering expletives on the parents and grand-parents of the object of his wrath, with derogatory allusions to the morals of those worthies' "better halves." "may god have mercy on thy relatives, o my lord," is a common way of addressing a stranger respectfully, and the contrary expression is used to produce a reverse effect. i am often asked, "what would a moor think of this?" probably some great invention will be referred to, or some manifest improvement in our eyes over moorish methods or manufactures. if it was something he could see, unless above the average, he would look at it as a cow looks at a new gate, without intelligence, realizing only the change, not the cause or effect. by this time the moors are becoming familiar, at least by exaggerated descriptions, with most of the foreigner's freaks, and are beginning to refuse to believe that the devil assists us, as they used to, taking it for granted that we should be more ingenious, and they more wise! the few who think are apt to pity the rush of our lives, and write us down, from what they have themselves observed in europe as in morocco, as grossly immoral beside even their acknowledged failings. the faults of our civilization they quickly detect, the advantages are mostly beyond their comprehension. some years ago a friend of mine showed two moors some of the sights of london. when they saw st. paul's they told of the glories of the karûeeïn mosque at fez; with the towers of westminster before them they sang the praises of the kûtûbîya at marrákesh. whatever they saw had its match in morocco. but at last, as a huge dray-horse passed along the highway with its heavy load, one grasped the other's arm convulsively, exclaiming, "m'bark allah! aoûd hadhá!"--"blessed be god! that's a horse!" here at least was something that did appeal to the heart of the arab. for once he saw a creature he could understand, the like of which was never bred in barbary, and his wonder knew no bounds. an equally good story is told of an englishman who endeavoured to convince a moor at home of the size of these horses. with his stick he drew on the ground one of their full-sized shoes. "but we have horses beyond the mountains with shoes _this_ size," was the ready reply, as the native drew another twice as big. annoyed at not being able to convince him, the englishman sent home for a specimen shoe. when he showed it to the moor, the only remark he elicited was that a native smith could make one twice the size. exasperated now, and not to be outdone, the englishman sent home for a cart-horse skull. "now you've beaten me!" at last acknowledged the moor. "you christians can make anything, but _we can't make bones!_" bigoted and fanatical as the moors may show themselves at times, they are generally willing enough to be friends with those who show themselves friendly. and notwithstanding the way in which the strong oppress the weak, as a nation they are by no means treacherous or cruel; on the contrary, the average moor is genial and hospitable, does not forget a kindness, and is a man whom one can respect. yet it is strange how soon a little power, and the need for satisfying the demands of his superiors, will corrupt the mildest of them; and the worst are to be found among families which have inherited office. the best officials are those chosen from among retired merchants whose palms no longer itch, and who, by intercourse with europeans, have had their ideas of life broadened. the greatest obstacle to progress in morocco is the blind prejudice of ignorance. it is hard for the moors to realize that their presumed hereditary foes can wish them well, and it is suspicion, rather than hostility, which induces them to crawl within their shell and ask to be left alone. too often subsequent events have shown what good ground they have had for suspicion. it is a pleasure for me to be able to state that during all the years that i have lived among them, often in the closest intercourse, i have never received the least insult, but have been well repaid in my own coin. what more could be wished? [illustration: _photograph by dr. rudduck._ a berber village in the atlas] iv the berber race "every lion in his own forest roars." _moorish proverb._ few who glibly use the word "barbarian" pause to consider whether the present meaning attached to the name is justified or not, or whether the people of barbary are indeed the uncivilized, uncouth, incapable lot their name would seem to imply to-day. in fact, the popular ignorance regarding the nearest point of africa is even greater than of the actually less known central portions, where the white man penetrates with every risk. to declare that the inhabitants of the four barbary states--morocco, algeria, tunisia, and tripoli--are not "blackamoors" at all, but white like ourselves, is to astonish most folk at the outset. of course in lands where the enslavement of neighbouring negro races has been an institution for a thousand years or more, there is a goodly proportion of mulattoes; and among those whose lives have been spent for generations in field work there are many whose skins are bronzed and darkened, but they are white by nature, nevertheless, and town life soon restores the original hue. the student class of fez, drawn from all sections of the population of morocco, actually makes a boast of the pale and pasty complexions attained by life amid the shaded cloisters and covered streets of the intellectual capital. then again those who are sunburned and bronzed are more of the arab stock than of the berber. these berbers, the original barbarians, known to the romans and greeks as such before the arab was heard of outside arabia, are at once the greatest and the most interesting nation, or rather race, of the whole of africa. had such a coalition as "the united states of north africa" been possible, europe would long ago have learned to fear and respect the title "barbarian" too much to put it to its present use. but the weak point of the berber race has been its lack of homogeneity; it has ever been split up into independent states and tribes, constantly indulging in internecine warfare. this is a principle which has its origin in the relations of the units whereof they are composed, of whom it may be said as of the sons of ishmael, that every man's hand is against his neighbour. the vendetta, a result of the _lex talionis_ of "eye for eye and tooth for tooth," flourishes still. no youth is supposed to have attained full manhood until he has slain his man, and excuses are seldom lacking. the greatest insult that can be offered to an enemy is to tell him that his father died in bed--even greater than the imputation of evil character to his maternal relatives. some years ago i had in my service a lad of about thirteen, one of several reefians whom i had about me for the practice of their language. two or three years later, on returning to morocco, i met him one day on the market. "i am so glad to see you," he said; "i want you to help me buy some guns." "what for?" "well, my father's dead; may god have mercy on him!" "how did he die?" "god knows." "but what has that to do with the gun?" "you see, we must kill my three uncles, i and my two brothers, and we want three guns." "what! did they kill your father?" "god knows." "may he deliver you from such a deed. come round to the house for some food." "but i've got married since you saw me, and expect an heir, yet they chaff me and call me a boy because i have never yet killed a man." i asked an old servant who had been to england, and seemed "almost a christian," to try and dissuade him, but only to meet with an appreciative, "well done! i always thought there was something in that lad." so i tried a second, but with worse results, for he patted the boy on the back with an assurance that he could not dissuade him from so sacred a duty; and at last i had to do what i could myself. i extorted a promise that he would try and arrange to take blood-money, but as he left the door his eye fell on a broken walking-stick. "oh, do give me that! it's no use to you, and it _would_ make such a nice prop for my gun, as i am a very bad shot, and we mean to wait outside for them in the dark." the sequel i have never heard. up in those mountains every one lives in fortified dwellings--big men in citadels, others in wall-girt villages, all from time to time at war with one another, or with the dwellers in some neighbouring valley. fighting is their element; as soon as "the powder speaks" there are plenty to answer, for every one carries his gun, and it is wonderful how soon upon these barren hills an armed crowd can muster. their life is a hard fight with nature; all they ask is to be left alone to fight it out among themselves. even on the plains among the arabs and the mixed tribes described as moors, things are not much better, for there, too, vendettas and cattle lifting keep them at loggerheads, and there is nothing the clansmen like so well as a raid on the governor's kasbah or castle. these kasbahs are great walled strongholds dotted about the country; in times of peace surrounded by groups of huts and tents, whose inhabitants take refuge inside when their neighbours appear. the high walls and towers are built of mud concrete, often red like the alhambra, the surface of which stands the weather ill, but which, when kept in repair, lasts for centuries. the reefian berbers are among the finest men in morocco--warlike and fierce, it is true, from long habit and training; but they have many excellent qualities, in addition to stalwart frames. "if you don't want to be robbed," say they, "don't come our way. we only care to see men who can fight, with whom we may try our luck." they will come and work for europeans, forming friendships among them, and if it were not for the suspicion of those who have not done so, who always fear political agents and spies, they would often be willing to take europeans through their land. i have more than once been invited to go as a moor. but the ideas they get of europeans in tangier do not predispose to friendship, and they will not allow them to enter their territories if they can help it. only those who are in subjection to the sultan permit them to do so freely. the men are a hardy, sturdy race, wiry and lithe, inured to toil and cold, fonder far of the gun and sword than of the ploughshare, and steady riders of an equally wiry race of mountain ponies. their dwellings are of stone and mud, often of two floors, flat-topped, with rugged, projecting eaves, the roofs being made of poles covered with the same material as the walls, stamped and smoothed. these houses are seldom whitewashed, and present a ruinous appearance. their ovens are domes about three feet or less in height outside; they are heated by a fire inside, then emptied, and the bread put in. similar ovens are employed in camp to bake for the court. instead of that forced seclusion and concealment of the features to which the followers of islám elsewhere doom their women, in these mountain homes they enjoy almost as perfect liberty as their sisters in europe. i have been greatly struck with their intelligence and generally superior appearance to such arab women as i have by chance been able to see. once, when supping with the son of a powerful governor from above fez, his mother, wife, and wife's sister sat composedly to eat with us, which could never have occurred in the dwelling of a moor. no attempt at covering their faces was made, though male attendants were present at times, but the little daughter shrieked at the sight of a nazarene. the grandmother, a fine, buxom dame, could read and write--which would be an astonishing accomplishment for a moorish woman--and she could converse better than many men who would in this country pass for educated. the berber dress has either borrowed from or lent much to the moor, but a few articles stamp it wherever worn. one of these is a large black cloak of goat's-hair, impervious to rain, made of one piece, with no arm-holes. at the point of the cowl hangs a black tassel, and right across the back, about the level of the knees, runs an assagai-shaped patch, often with a centre of red. it has been opined that this remarkable feature represents the all-seeing eye, so often used as a charm, but from the scanty information i could gather from the people themselves, i believe that they have lost sight of the original idea, though some have told me that variations in the pattern mark clan distinctions. i have ridden--when in the guise of a native--for days together in one of these cloaks, during pelting rain which never penetrated it. in more remote districts, seldom visited by europeans, the garments are ruder far, entirely of undyed wool, and unsewn, mere blankets with slits cut in the centre for the head. this is, however, in every respect, a great difference between the various districts. the turban is little used by these people, skull-caps being preferred, while their red cloth gun-cases are commonly twisted turban-wise as head-gear, though often a camel's-hair cord is deemed sufficient protection for the head. every successive ruler of north africa has had to do with the problem of subduing the berbers and has failed. in the wars between rome and carthage it was among her sturdy berber soldiers that the southern rival of the great queen city of the world found actual sinews enough to hold the roman legions so long at bay, and often to overcome her vaunted cohorts and carry the war across into europe. where else did rome find so near a match, and what wars cost her more than did those of africa? carthage indeed has fallen, and from her once famed byrsa the writer has been able to count on his fingers the local remains of her greatness, yet the people who made her what she was remain--the berbers of tunisia. the ph[oe]nician settlers, though bringing with them wealth and learning and arts, could never have done alone what they did without the hardy fighting men supplied by the hills around. when rome herself had fallen, and the fames of carthage and utica were forgotten, there came across north africa a very different race from those who had preceded them, the desert arabs, introducing the creed of islám. in the course of a century or two, north africa became mohammedan, pagan and christian institutions being swept away before that onward wave. it is not probable that at any time christianity had any real hold upon the berbers themselves, and islám itself sits lightly on their easy consciences. the arabs had for the moment solved the berber problem. they were the amalgam which, by coalescing with the scattered factions of their race, had bound them up together and had formed for once a nation of them. thus it was that the muslim armies obtained force to carry all before them, and thus was provided the new blood and the active temper to which alone are due the conquest of spain, and subsequent achievements there. the popular description of the mohammedan rulers of spain as "saracens"--easterners--is as erroneous as the supposition that they were arabs. the people who conquered spain were berbers, although their leaders often adopted arabic names with an arab religion and arab culture. the arabic language, although official, was by no means general, nor is it otherwise to-day. the men who fought and the men who ruled were berbers out and out, though the latter were often the sons of arab fathers or mothers, and the great religious chiefs were purely arab on the father's side at least, the majority claiming descent from mohammed himself, and as such forming a class apart of shareefs or nobles. though nominal mohammedans, and in morocco acknowledging the religious supremacy of the reigning shareefian family, the moorish berbers still retain a semi-independence. the mountains of the atlas chain have always been their home and refuge, where the plainsmen find it difficult and dangerous to follow them. the history of the conquest of algeria and tunisia by the french has shown that they are no mean opponents even to modern weapons and modern warfare. the kabyles,[ ] as they are erroneously styled in those countries, have still to be kept in check by the fear of arms, and their prowess no one disputes. these are the people the french propose to subdue by "pacific penetration." the awe with which these mountaineers have inspired the plainsmen and townsfolk is remarkable; as good an illustration of it as i know was the effect produced on a moor by my explanation that a highland friend to whom i had introduced him was not an englishman, but what i might call a "british berber." the man was absolutely awe-struck. [ : _i.e._ "provincials," so misnamed from kabîlah (_pl._ kabáïl), a province.] separated from the arab as well as from the european by a totally distinct, unwritten language, with numerous dialects, these people still exist as a mine of raw material, full of possibilities. in habits and style of life they may be considered uncivilized even in contrast to the mingled dwellers on the lowlands; but they are far from being savages. their stalwart frames and sturdy independence fit them for anything, although the latter quality keeps them aloof, and has so far prevented intercourse with the outside world. many have their own pet theories as to the origin of the berbers and their language, not a few believing them to have once been altogether christians, while others, following native authors, attribute to them canaanitish ancestors, and ethnologists dispute as to the branch of noah's family in which to class them. it is more than probable that they are one with the ancient egyptians, who, at least, were no barbarians, if berbers. but all are agreed that some of the finest stocks of southern and western europe are of kindred origin, if not identical with them, and even if this be uncertain, enough has been said to show that they have played no unimportant part in european history, though it has ever been their lot to play behind the scenes--scene-shifters rather than actors. [illustration: _photograph by dr. rudduck._ an arab tent in morocco.] v the wandering arab "i am loving, not lustful." _moorish proverb._ some strange fascination attaches itself to the simple nomad life of the arab, in whatever country he be found, and here, in the far west of his peregrinations, he is encountered living almost in the same style as on the other side of suez; his only roof a cloth, his country the wide world. sometimes the tents are arranged as many as thirty or more in a circle, and at other times they are grouped hap-hazard, intermingled with round huts of thatch, and oblong ones of sun-dried bricks, thatched also; but in the latter cases the occupants are unlikely to be pure arabs, for that race seldom so nearly approaches to settling anywhere. when the tents are arranged in a circle, the animals are generally picketed in the centre, but more often some are to be found sharing the homes of their owners. the tent itself is of an oval shape, with a wooden ridge on two poles across the middle third of the centre, from front to back, with a couple of strong bands of the same material as the tent fixed on either side, whence cords lead to pegs in the ground, passing over two low stakes leaning outwards. a rude camel's hair canvas is stretched over this frame, being kept up at the edges by more leaning stakes, and fastened by cords to pegs all round. the door space is left on the side which faces the centre of the encampment, and the walls or "curtains" are formed of high thistles lashed together in sheaves. surrounding the tent is a yard, a simple bog in winter, the boundary of which is a ring formed by bundles of prickly branches, which compose a really formidable barrier, being too much for a jump, and too tenacious to one another and to visitors for penetration. the break left for an entrance is stopped at night by another bundle which makes the circle complete. the interior of the tent is often more or less divided by the pole supporting the roof, and by a pile of household goods, such as they are. sometimes a rude loom is fastened to the poles, and at it a woman sits working on the floor. the framework--made of canes--is kept in place by rigging to pegs in the ground. the woman's hand is her only shuttle, and she threads the wool through with her fingers, a span at a time, afterwards knocking it down tightly into place with a heavy wrought-iron comb about two inches wide, with a dozen prongs. she seems but half-dressed, and makes no effort to conceal either face or breast, as a filthy child lies feeding in her lap. her seat is a piece of matting, but the principal covering for the floor of trodden mud is a layer of palmetto leaves. round the "walls" are several hens with chicks nestling under their wings, and on one side a donkey is tethered, while a calf sports at large. the furniture of this humble dwelling consists of two or three large, upright, mud-plastered, split-cane baskets, containing corn, partially sunk in the ground, and a few dirty bags. on one side is the mill, a couple of stones about eighteen inches across, the upper one convex, with a handle at one side. three stones above a small hole in the ground serve as a cooking-range, while the fuel is abundant in the form of sun-dried thistles and other weeds, or palmetto leaves and sticks. fire is obtained by borrowing from one another, but should it happen that no one in the encampment had any, the laborious operation of lighting dry straw from the flash in the pan of a flint-lock would have to be performed. to light the rude lamp--merely a bit of cotton protruding from anything with olive-oil in it--it is necessary to blow some smoking straw or weed till it bursts into a flame. little else except the omnipresent dirt is to be found in the average arab tent. a tin or two for cooking operations, a large earthen water-jar, and a pan or two to match, in which the butter-milk is kept, a sieve for the flour, and a few rough baskets, usually complete the list, and all are remarkable only for the prevailing grime. making a virtue of necessity, the arab prefers sour milk to fresh, for with this almost total lack of cleanliness, no milk would long keep sweet. their food is of the simplest, chiefly the flour of wheat, barley, or indian millet prepared in various ways, for the most part made up into flat, heavy cakes of bread, or as kesk'soo. milk, from which butter is made direct by tossing it in a goat-skin turned inside out, eggs and fowls form the chief animal food, butcher's meat being but seldom indulged in. vegetables do not enter into their diet, as they have no gardens, and beyond possessing flocks and herds, those arabs met with in barbary are wretchedly poor and miserably squalid. the patriarchal display of arabia is here unknown. of children and dogs there is no lack. both abound, and wallow in the mud together. often the latter seem to have the better time of it. two families by one father will sometimes share one tent between them, but generally each "household" is distinct, though all sleep together in the one apartment of their abode. as one approaches a dûár, or encampment, an early warning is given by the hungry dogs, and soon the half-clad children rush out to see who comes, followed leisurely by their elders. hospitality has ever been an arab trait, and these poor creatures, in their humble way, sustain the best traditions of their race. a native visitor of their own class is entertained and fed by the first he comes across, while the foreign traveller or native of means with his own tent is accommodated on the rubbish in the midst of the encampment, and can purchase all he wishes--all that they have--for a trifle, though sometimes they turn disagreeable and "pile it on." a present of milk and eggs, perhaps fowls, may be brought, for which, however, a _quid pro quo_ is expected. luxuries they have not. whatever they need to do in the way of shopping, is done at the nearest market once a week, and nothing but the produce already mentioned is to be obtained from them. in the evenings they stuff themselves to repletion, if they can afford it, with a wholesome dish of prepared barley or wheat meal, sometimes crowned with beans; then, after a gossip round the crackling fire, or, on state occasions, three cups of syrupy green tea apiece, they roll themselves in their long blankets and sleep on the ground. the first blush of dawn sees them stirring, and soon all is life and excitement. the men go off to their various labours, as do many of the stronger women, while the remainder attend to their scanty household duties, later on basking in the sun. but the moment the stranger arrives the scene changes, and the incessant din of dogs, hags and babies commences, to which the visitor is doomed till late at night, with the addition then of neighs and brays and occasional cock-crowing. it never seemed to me that these poor folk enjoyed life, but rather that they took things sadly. how could it be otherwise? no security of life and property tempts them to make a show of wealth; on the contrary, they bury what little they may save, if any, and lead lives of misery for fear of tempting the authorities. their work is hard; their comforts are few. the wild wind howls through their humble dwellings, and the rain splashes in at the door. in sickness, for lack of medical skill, they lie and perish. in health their only pleasures are animal. their women, once they are past the prime of life, which means soon after thirty with this desert race, go unveiled, and work often harder than the men, carrying burdens, binding sheaves, or even perhaps helping a donkey to haul a plough. female features are never so jealously guarded here as in the towns. yet they are a jolly, good-tempered, simple folk. often have i spent a merry evening round the fire with them, squatted on a bit of matting, telling of the wonders of "that country," the name which alternates in their vocabulary with "nazarene land," as descriptive of all the world but morocco and such portions of north africa or arabia as they may have heard of. many an honest laugh have we enjoyed over their wordy tales, or perchance some witty sally; but in my heart i have pitied these down-trodden people in their ignorance and want. home they do not know. when the pasture in shechem is short, they remove to dothan; next month they may be somewhere else. but they are always ready to share their scanty portion with the wayfarer, wherever they are. when the time comes for changing quarters these wanderers find the move but little trouble. their few belongings are soon collected and packed, and the tent itself made ready for transportation. their animals are got together, and ere long the cavalcade is on the road. often one poor beast will carry a fair proportion of the family--the mother and a child or two, for instance--in addition to a load of household goods, and bundles of fowls slung by their feet. at the side men and boys drive the flocks and herds, while as often as not the elder women-folk take a full share in the porterage of their property. to meet such a caravan is to feel one's self transported to bible times, and to fancy jacob going home from padan aram. vi city life "seek the neighbour before the house, and the companion before the road." _moorish proverb._ few countries afford a better insight into typical mohammedan life, or boast a more primitive civilization, than morocco, preserved as it has been so long from western contamination. the patriarchal system, rendered more or less familiar to us by our bibles, still exists in the homes of its people, especially those of the country-side; but moorish city life is no less interesting or instructive. if an englishman's house is his castle, the mohammedan's house is a prison--not for himself, but for his women. here is the radical difference between their life and ours. no one who has not mixed intimately with the people as one of themselves, lodging in their houses and holding constant intercourse with them, can form an adequate idea of the lack of home feeling, even in the happiest families. the moment you enter a town, however, the main facts are brought vividly before you on every hand. you pass along a narrow thoroughfare--maybe six, maybe sixteen feet in width--bounded by almost blank walls, in some towns whitewashed, in others bare mud, in which are no windows, lest their inmates might see or be seen. even above the roofs of the majority of two-storied houses (for very many in the east consist but of ground floor), the wall is continued to form a parapet round the terrace. if you meet a woman in the street, she is enveloped from head to ankle in close disguise, with only a peep-hole for one or both eyes, unless too ugly and withered for such precautions to be needful. you arrive at the door of your friend's abode, a huge massive barrier painted brown or green--if not left entirely uncoloured--and studded all over with nails. a very prison entrance it appears, for the only other breaks in the wall above are slits for ventilation, all placed so high in the room as to be out of reach. in the warmer parts of the country you would see latticed boxes protruding from the walls--meshrabîyahs or drinking-places--shelves on which porous earthen jars may be placed to catch the slightest breeze, that the god-sent beverage to which mohammedans are wisely restricted may be at all times cool. you are terrified, if a stranger, by the resonance of this great door, as you let the huge iron ring which serves as knocker fall on the miniature anvil beneath it. presently your scattered thoughts are recalled by a chirping voice from within-- "who's that?" you recognize the tones as those of a tiny negress slave, mayhap a dozen years of age, and as you give your name you hear a patter of bare feet on the tiles within, but if you are a male, you are left standing out in the street. in a few moments the latch of the inner door is sedately lifted, and with measured tread you hear the slippers of your friend advancing. "is that so-and-so?" he asks, pausing on the other side of the door. "it is, my lord." "welcome, then." the heavy bolt is drawn, and the door swings on its hinges during a volley and counter-volley of inquiries, congratulations, and thanks to god, accompanied by the most graceful bows, the mutual touching and kissing of finger-tips, and the placing of hands on hearts. as these exercises slacken, your host advances to the inner door, and possibly disappears through it, closing it carefully behind him. you hear his stentorian voice commanding, "_amel trek!_"--"make way!"--and this is followed by a scuffle of feet which tells you he is being obeyed. not a female form will be in sight by the time your host returns to lead you in by the hand with a thousand welcomes, entreating you to make yourself at home. the passage is constructed with a double turn, so that you could not look, if you would, from the roadway into the courtyard which you now enter. if one of the better-class houses, the floor will be paved with marble or glazed mosaics, and in the centre will stand a bubbling fountain. round the sides is a colonnade supporting the first-floor landing, reached by a narrow stairway in the corner. above is the deep-blue sky, obscured, perhaps, by the grateful shade of fig or orange boughs, or a vine on a trellis, under which the people live. the walls, if not tiled, are whitewashed, and often beautifully decorated in plaster mauresques. in the centre of three of the four sides are huge horseshoe-arched doorways, two of which will probably be closed by cotton curtains. these suffice to ensure the strictest privacy within, as no one would dream of approaching within a couple of yards of a room with the curtain down, till leave had been asked and obtained. you are led into the remaining room, the guest-chamber, and the curtain over the entrance is lowered. you may not now venture to rise from your seat on the mattress facing the door till the women whom you hear emerging from their retreats have been admonished to withdraw again. the long, narrow apartment, some eight feet by twenty, in which you find yourself has a double bed at each end, for it is sleeping-room and sitting-room combined, as in barbary no distinction is known between the two. however long you may remain, you see no female face but that of the cheery slave-girl, who kisses your hand so demurely as she enters with refreshments. thus the husband receives his friends--perforce all males unless he be "on the spree,"--in apartments from which all women-folk are banished. likewise the ladies of the establishment hold their festive gatherings apart. most moors, however, are too strict to allow much visiting among their women, especially if they be wealthy and have a good complexion, when they are very closely confined, except when allowed to visit the bath at certain hours set apart for the fair sex, or on fridays to lay myrtle branches on the tombs of saints and departed relatives. most of the ladies' calls are roof-to-roof visitations, and very nimble they are in getting over the low partition walls, even dragging a ladder up and down with them if there are high ones to be crossed. the reason is that the roofs, or rather terraces, are especially reserved for women-folk, and men are not even allowed to go up except to do repairs, when the neighbouring houses are duly warned; it is illegal to have a window overlooking another's roof. david's temptation doubtless arose from his exercise of a royal exemption from this all-prevailing custom. but for their exceedingly substantial build, the moorish women in the streets might pass for ghosts, for with the exception of their red morocco slippers, their costume is white--wool-white. a long and heavy blanket of coarse homespun effectually conceals all features but the eyes, which are touched up with antimony on the lids, and are sufficiently expressive. sometimes a wide-brimmed straw hat is jauntily clapped on; but here ends the plate of moorish out-door fashions. in-doors all is colour, light and glitter. in matters of colour and flowing robes the men are not far behind, and they make up abroad for what they lack at home. no garment is more artistic, and no drapery more graceful, than that in which the wealthy moor takes his daily airing, either on foot or on mule back. beneath a gauze-like woollen toga--relic of ancient art--glimpses of luscious hue are caught--crimson and purple; deep greens and "afternoon sun colour" (the native name for a rich orange); salmons, and pale, clear blues. a dark-blue cloak, when it is cold, negligently but gracefully thrown across the shoulders, or a blue-green prayer-carpet folded beneath the arm, helps to set off the whole. _chez lui_ our friend of the flowing garments is a king, with slaves to wait upon him, wives to obey him, and servants to fear his wrath. but his everyday reception-room is the lobby of his stables, where he sits behind the door in rather shabby garments attending to business matters, unless he is a merchant or shopkeeper, when his store serves as office instead. if all that the teuton considers essential to home-life is really a _sine quâ non_, then orientals have no home-life. that is our way of looking upon it, judging in the most natural way, by our own standards. the eastern, from his point of view, forms an equally poor idea of the customs which familiarity has rendered most dear to us. it is as difficult for us to set aside prejudice and to consider his systems impartially, as for him to do so with regard to our peculiar style. there are but two criteria by which the various forms of civilization so far developed by man may be fairly judged. the first is the suitability of any given form to the surroundings and exterior conditions of life of the nation adopting it, and the second is the moral or social effect on the community at large. under the first head the unbiassed student of mankind will approve in the main of most systems adopted by peoples who have attained that artificiality which we call civilization. an exchange among westerners of their time-honoured habits for those of the east would not be less beneficial or more incongruous than a corresponding exchange on the part of orientals. those who are ignorant of life towards the sunrise commonly suppose that they can confer no greater benefit upon the natives of these climes than chairs, top-hats, and so on. hardly could they be more mistaken. the easterner despises the man who cannot eat his dinner without a fork or other implement, and who cannot tuck his legs beneath him, infinitely more than ill-informed westerners despise petticoated men and shrouded women. under the second head, however, a very different issue is reached, and one which involves not only social, but religious life, and consequently the creed on which this last is based. it is in this that moorish civilization fails. * * * * * but list! what is that weird, low sound which strikes upon our ear and interrupts our musings? it is the call to prayer. for the fifth time to-day that cry is sounding--a warning to the faithful that the hour for evening devotions has come. see! yonder moor has heard it too, and is already spreading his felt on the ground for the performance of his nightly orisons. standing mekka-wards, and bowing to the ground, he goes through the set forms used throughout the mohammedan world. the majority satisfy their consciences by working off the whole five sets at once. but that cry! i hear it still; as one voice fails another carries on the strain in ever varying cadence, each repeating it to the four quarters of the heavens. it was yet early in the morning when the first call of the day burst on the stilly air; the sun had not then risen o'er the hill tops, nor had his first, soft rays dispelled the shadows of the night. only the rustling of the wind was heard as it died among the tree tops--that wind which was a gale last night. the hurried tread of the night guard going on his last--perhaps his only--round before returning home, had awakened me from dreaming slumbers, and i was about to doze away into that sweetest of sleeps, the morning nap, when the distant cry broke forth. pitched in a high, clear key, the muslim confession of faith was heard; "lá iláha il' al-lah; wa mohammed er-rasool al-l-a-h!" could ever bell send thrill like that? i wot not. [illustration: _cavilla, photo., tangier._ roofs of tangier from the british consulate, showing flagstaffs of foreign legations.] vii the women-folk "teach not thy daughter letters; let her not live on the roof." _moorish proverb._ of no country in the world can it more truly be said than of the moorish empire that the social condition of the people may be measured by that of its women. holding its women in absolute subjection, the moorish nation is itself held in subjection, morally, politically, socially. the proverb heading this chapter, implying that women should not enjoy the least education or liberty, expresses the universal treatment of the weaker sex among mohammedans. it is the subservient position of women which strikes the visitor from europe more than all the oriental strangeness of the local customs or the local art and colour. advocates of the restriction of the rights of women in our own land, and of the retention of disabilities unknown to men, who fail to recognize the justice and invariability of the principle of absolute equality in rights and liberty between the sexes, should investigate the state of things existing in morocco, where the natural results of a fallacious principle have had free course. no welcome awaits the infant daughter, and few care to bear the evil news to the father, who will sometimes be left uninformed as to the sex of his child till the time comes to name her. it is rarely that girls are taught to read, or even to understand the rudiments of their religious system. here and there a father who ranks in morocco as scholarly, takes the trouble to teach his children at home, including his daughters in the class, but this is very seldom the case. only those women succeed in obtaining even an average education in whom a thirst for knowledge is combined with opportunities in every way exceptional. in the country considerably more liberty is permitted than in the towns, and the condition of the berber women has already been noted. nevertheless, in certain circumstances, women attain a power quite abnormal under such conditions, usually the result of natural astuteness, combined--at the outset, at least--with a reasonable share of good looks, for when a woman is fairly astute she is a match for a man anywhere. a mohammedan woman's place in life depends entirely on her personal attractions. if she lacks good looks, or is thin--which in barbary, as in other muslim countries, amounts to much the same thing--her future is practically hopeless. the chances being less--almost _nil_--of getting her easily off their hands by marriage, the parents feel they must make the best they can of her by setting her to work about the house, and she becomes a general drudge. if the home is a wealthy one, she may be relieved from this lot, and steadily ply her needle at minutely fine silk embroidery, or deck and paint herself in style, but, despised by her more fortunate sisters, she is even then hardly better off. if, on the other hand, a daughter is the beauty of the family, every one pays court to her in some degree, for there is no telling to what she may arrive. perhaps, in morocco, she is even thought good enough for the sultan--plump, clear-skinned, bright-eyed. could she but get a place in the royal hareem, it would be in the hands of god to make her the mother of the coming sultan. but good looks alone will not suffice to take her there. influence--a word translatable in the orient by a shorter one, cash--must be brought to bear. the interest of a wazeer or two must be secured, and finally an interview must take place with one of the "wise women" who are in charge of the imperial ladies. she, too, must be convinced by the eloquence of dollars, that his majesty could not find another so graceful a creature in all his dominions. when permission is given to send her to court, what joy there is, what bedecking, what congratulation! at last she is taken away with a palpitating heart, as she thinks of the possibilities before her, bundled up in her blanket and mounted on an ambling mule under strictest guard. on arrival at her new home her very beauty will make enemies, especially among those who have been there longest, and who feel their chances grow less as each new-comer appears. perhaps one friday the sultan notices her as he walks in his grounds in the afternoon, and taking a fancy to her, decides to make her his wife. at once all jealousies are hidden, and each vies with the other to render her service, and assist the preparations for the coming event. for a while she will remain supreme--a very queen indeed--but only till her place is taken by another. if she has sons her chances are better; but unless she maintains her influence over her husband till her offspring are old enough to find a lasting place in his affections, she will probably one day be despatched to tafilált, beyond the atlas by the sáharah, whence come those luscious dates. there every other man is a direct descendant of some moorish king, as for centuries it has served as a sort of overflow for the prolific royal house. as islám knows no right of primogeniture, each sultan appoints his heir; so each wife strives to obtain this favour for her son, and often enough the story of ishmael and isaac repeats itself among these reputed descendants of hagar. the usual way is for the pet son to be placed in some command, even before really able to discharge the duties of the post, which shall secure him supreme control on his father's death. the treasury and the army are the two great means to this end. those possible rivals who have not been sent away to tafilált are as often as not imprisoned or put to death on some slight charge, as used to be the custom in england a few hundred years ago. this method of bequeathing rights which do not come under the strict scale for the division of property contained in the korán is not confined to royalty. it applies also to religious sanctity. an instance is that of the late shareef, or noble, of wazzán, a feudal "saint" of great influence. his father, on his deathbed, appointed as successor to his title, his holiness, and the estates connected therewith, the son who should be found playing with a certain stick, a common toy of his favourite. but a black woman by whom he had a son was present, and ran out to place the stick in the hands of her own child, who thus inherited his father's honours. some of the queens of morocco have arrived at such power through their influence over their husbands that they have virtually ruled the empire. supposing, however, that the damsel who has at last found admittance to the hareem does not, after all, prove attractive to her lord, she will in all probability be sent away to make room for some one else. she will be bestowed upon some country governor when he comes to court. sometimes it is an especially astute one who is thus transferred, that she may thereafter serve as a spy on his actions. though those before whom lies such a career as has been described will be comparatively few, none who can be considered beautiful are without their chances, however poor. many well-to-do men prefer a poor wife to a rich one, because they can divorce her when tired of her without incurring the enmity of powerful relatives. marriage is enjoined upon every muslim as a religious duty, and, if able to afford it, he usually takes to himself his first wife before he is out of his teens. he is relieved of the choice of a partner which troubles some of us so much, for the ladies of his family undertake this for him: if they do not happen to know of a likely individual they employ a professional go-between, a woman who follows also the callings of pedlar and scandal-monger. it is the duty of this personage, on receipt of a present from his friends, to sing his praises and those of his family in the house of some beautiful girl, whose friends are thereby induced to give her a present to go and do likewise on their behalf in the house of so promising a youth. personal negotiations will then probably take place between the lady friends, and all things proving satisfactory, the fathers or brothers of the might-be pair discuss the dowry and marriage-settlement from a strictly business point of view. at this stage the bride-elect will perhaps be thought not fat enough, and will have to submit to a course of stuffing. this consists in swallowing after each full meal a few small sausage-shaped boluses of flour, honey and butter, flavoured with anise-seed or something similar. a few months of this treatment give a marvellous rotundity to the figure, thus greatly increasing her charms in the native eye. but of these the bridegroom will see nothing, if not surreptitiously, till after the wedding, when she is brought to his house. by that time formal documents of marriage will have been drawn up, and signed by notaries before the kádi or judge, setting forth the contract--with nothing in it about love or honour,--detailing every article which the wife brings with her, including in many instances a considerable portion of the household utensils. notwithstanding all this, she may be divorced by her husband simply saying, "i divorce thee!" and though she may claim the return of all she brought, she has no option but to go home again. he may repent and take her back a first and a second time, but after he has put her away three times he may not marry her again till after she has been wedded to some one else and divorced. theoretically she may get a divorce from him, but practically this is a matter of great difficulty. the legal expression employed for the nuptial tie is one which conveys the idea of purchasing a field, to be put to what use the owner will, according him complete control. this idea is borne out to the full, and henceforward the woman lives for her lord, with no thought of independence or self-assertion. if he is poor, all work too hard for him that is not considered unwomanly falls to her share, hewing of wood and drawing of water, grinding of corn and making of bread, weaving and washing; but, strange to us, little sewing. when decidedly _passée_, she saves him a donkey in carrying wood and charcoal and grass to market, often bent nearly double under a load which she cannot lift, which has to be bound on her back. her feet are bare, but her sturdy legs are at times encased in leather to ward off the wayside thorns. no longer jealously covered, she and her unmarried daughters trudge for many weary miles at dawn, her decidedly better-off half and a son or two riding the family mule. from this it is but a short step to helping the cow or donkey draw the plough, and this step is sometimes taken. until a woman's good looks have quite disappeared, which generally occurs about the time they become grandmothers--say thirty,--intercourse of any sort with men other than her relatives of the first degree is strictly prohibited, and no one dare salute a woman in the street, even if her attendant or mount shows her to be a privileged relative. the slightest recognition of a man out-of-doors--or indeed anywhere--would be to proclaim herself one of that degraded outcaste class as common in moorish towns as in europe. of companionship in wedlock the moor has no conception, and his ideas of love are those of lust. though matrimony is considered by the muslim doctors as "half of islám," its value in their eyes is purely as a legalization of license by the substitution of polygamy for polyandry. slavishly bound to the observance of wearisome customs, immured in a windowless house with only the roof for a promenade, seldom permitted outside the door, and then most carefully wrapped in a blanket till quite unrecognizable, the life of a moorish woman, from the time she has first been caught admiring herself in a mirror, is that of a bird encaged. lest she might grow content with such a lot, she has before her eyes from infancy the jealousies and rivalries of her father's wives and concubines, and is early initiated into the disgusting and unutterable practices employed to gain the favour of their lord. her one thought from childhood is man, and distance lends enchantment. a word, the interchange of a look, with a man is sought for by the moorish maiden more than are the sighs and glances of a coy brunette by a spaniard. nothing short of the unexpurgated arabian nights' entertainments can convey an adequate idea of what goes on within those whited sepulchres, the broad, blank walls of moorish towns. a word with the mason who comes to repair the roof, or even a peep at the men at work on the building over the way, on whose account the roof promenade is forbidden, is eagerly related and expatiated on. in short, all the training a moorish woman receives is sensual, a training which of itself necessitates most rigorous, though often unavailing, seclusion. both in town and country intrigues are common, but intrigues which have not even the excuse of the blindness of love, whose only motive is animal passion. the husband who, on returning home, finds a pair of red slippers before the door of his wife's apartment, is bound to understand thereby that somebody else's wife or daughter is within, and he dare not approach. if he has suspicions, all he can do is to bide his time and follow the visitor home, should the route lie through the streets, or despatch a faithful slave-girl or jealous concubine on a like errand, should the way selected be over the roof-tops. in the country, under a very different set of conventionalities, much the same takes place. in a land where woman holds the degraded position which she does under islám, such family circles as the briton loves can never exist. the foundation of the home system is love, which seldom links the members of these families, most seldom of all man and wife. anything else is not to be expected when they meet for the first time on their wedding night. to begin with, no one's pleasure is studied save that of the despotic master of the house. all the inmates, from the poor imprisoned wives down to the lively slave-girl who opens the door, all are there to serve his pleasure, and woe betide those who fail. the first wife may have a fairly happy time of it for a season, if her looks are good, and her ways pleasing, but when a second usurps her place, she is generally cast aside as a useless piece of furniture, unless set to do servile work. although four legal wives are allowed by the korán, it is only among the rich that so many are found, on account of the expense of their maintenance in appropriate style. the facility of divorce renders it much cheaper to change from time to time, and slaves are more economical. to the number of such women that a man may keep no limit is set; he may have "as many as his right hand can possess." then, too, these do the work of the house, and if they bear their master no children, they may be sold like any other chattels. the consequence of such a system is that she reigns who for the time stands highest in her lord's favour, so that the strife and jealousies which disturb the peace of the household are continual. this rivalry is naturally inherited by the children, who side with their several mothers, which is especially the case with the boys. very often the legal wife has no children, or only daughters, while quite a little troop of step-children play about her house. in these cases it is not uncommon for at least the best-looking of these youngsters to be taught to call her "mother," and their real parent "dadda m'barkah," or whatever her name may be. the offspring of wives and bondwomen stand on an equal footing before the law, in which islám is still ahead of us. such is the sad lot of women in morocco. religion itself being all but denied them in practice, whatever precept provides, it is with blank astonishment that the majority of them hear the message of those noble foreign sisters of theirs who have devoted their lives to showing them a better way. the greatest difficulty is experienced in arousing in them any sense of individuality, any feeling of personal responsibility, or any aspiration after good. they are so accustomed to be treated as cattle, that their higher powers are altogether dormant, all possibilities of character repressed. the welfare of their souls is supposed to be assured by union with a muslim, and few know even how to pray. instead of religion, their minds are saturated with the grossest superstition. if this be the condition of the free woman, how much worse that of the slave! the present socially degraded state in which the people live, and their apparent, though not real, incapacity for progress and development, is to a great extent the curse entailed by this brutalization of women. no race can ever rise above the level of its weaker sex, and till morocco learns this lesson it will never rise. the boy may be the father of the man, but the woman is the mother of the boy, and so controls the destiny of the nation. nothing can indeed be hoped for in this country in the way of social progress till the minds of the men have been raised, and their estimation of women entirely changed. though turkey was so long much in the position in which morocco remains to-day, it is a noteworthy fact that as she steadily progresses in the way of civilization, one of the most apparent features of this progress is the growing respect for women, and the increasing liberty which is allowed them, both in public and private. viii social visits[ ] [ : contributed by my wife.--b. m.] "every country its customs." _moorish proverb._ "calling" is not the common, every-day event in barbary which it has grown to be in european society. the narrowed-in life of the moorish woman of the higher classes, and the strict watch which is kept lest some other man than her husband should see her, makes a regular interchange of visits practically impossible. no doubt the moorish woman would find them quite as great a burden as her western sister, and in this particular her ignorance may be greater bliss than her knowledge. in spite of the paucity of the "calls" she receives or pays, she is by no means ignorant of the life and character of her neighbours, thanks to certain old women (amongst them the professional match-makers) who go about as veritable gossip-mongers, and preserve their more cloistered sisters at least from dying of inanition. thus the veriest trifles of house arrangement or management are thoroughly canvassed. nor is it a privilege commonly extended to european women to be received into the hareems of the high-class and wealthy moors, although lady missionaries have abundant opportunities for making the acquaintance of the women of the poorer classes, especially when medical knowledge and skill afford a key. but the wives of the rich are shut away to themselves, and if you are fortunate enough to be invited to call upon them, do not neglect your opportunity. you will find that the time named for calling is not limited to the afternoon. thus it may be when the morning air is blowing fresh from the sea, and the sun is mounting in the heavens, that you are ushered, perhaps by the master of the house, through winding passages to the quarters of the women. if there is a garden, this is frequently reserved for their use, and jealously protected from view, and as in all cases they are supposed to have the monopoly of the flat roof, the courteous male foreigner will keep his gaze from wandering thither too frequently, or resting there too long. do not be surprised if you are ushered into an apparently empty room, furnished after the moorish manner with a strip of richly coloured carpet down the centre, and mattresses round the edge. if there is a musical box in the room, it will doubtless be set going as a pleasant accompaniment to conversation, and the same applies to striking or chiming clocks, for which the moors have a strong predilection as _objets d'art_, rather than to mark the march of time. of course you will not have forgotten to remove your shoes at the door, and will be sitting cross-legged and quite at ease on one of the immaculate mattresses, when the ladies begin to arrive from their retreats. as they step forward to greet you, you may notice their henna-stained feet, a means of decoration which is repeated on their hands, where it is sometimes used in conjunction with harkos, a black pigment with which is applied a delicate tracery giving the effect of black silk mittens. the dark eyes are made to appear more lustrous and almond-shaped by the application of antimony, and the brows are extended till they meet in a black line above the nose. the hair is arranged under a head-dress frequently composed of two bright-coloured, short-fringed silk handkerchiefs, knotted together above the ears, sometimes with the addition of an artificial flower: heavy ear-rings are worn, and from some of them there are suspended large silver hands, charms against the "evil eye." but undoubtedly the main feature of the whole costume is the kaftán or tunic of lustrous satin or silk, embroidered richly in gold and silver, of a colour showing to advantage beneath a white lace garment of similar shape. the women themselves realize that such fine feathers must be guarded from spot or stain, for they are in many cases family heir-looms, so after they have greeted you with a slight pressure of their finger tips laid upon yours, and taken their seats, tailor fashion, you will notice that each sedulously protects her knees with a rough turkish towel, quite possibly the worse for wear. in spite of her love for personal decoration, evidenced by the strings of pearls with which her neck is entwined, and the heavy silver armlets, the well-bred moorish woman evinces no more curiosity than her european sister about the small adornments of her visitor, and this is the more remarkable when you remember how destitute of higher interests is her life. she will make kindly and very interested inquiries about your relatives, and even about your life, though naturally, in spite of your explanations, it remains a sealed book to her. the average moorish woman, however, shows herself as inquisitive as the chinese. it is quite possible that you may see some of the children, fascinating, dark-eyed, soft-skinned morsels of humanity, with henna-dyed hair, which may be plaited in a pig-tail, the length of which is augmented by a strange device of coloured wool with which the ends of the hair are interwoven. but children of the better class in morocco are accustomed to keep in the background, and unless invited, do not venture farther than the door of the reception room, and then with a becoming modesty. if any of the slave-wives enter, you will have an opportunity of noticing their somewhat quaint greeting of those whom they desire to honour, a kiss bestowed on each hand, which they raise to meet their lips, and upon each shoulder, before they, too, take their seats upon the mattresses. probably you will not have long to wait before a slave-girl enters with the preparations for tea, orange-flower water, incense, a well-filled tray, a samovar, and two or three dishes piled high with cakes. if you are wise, you will most assuredly try the "gazelle's hoofs," so-called from their shape, for they are a most delicious compound of almond paste, with a spiciness so skilfully blended as to be almost elusive. if you have a sweet tooth, the honey cakes will be eminently satisfactory, but if your taste is plainer, you will enjoy the f'kákis, or dry biscuit. three cups of their most fragrant tea is the orthodox allowance, but a moorish host or hostess is not slow to perceive any disinclination, however slight, and will sometimes of his or her own accord pave your way to a courteous refusal, by appearing not over anxious either for the last cup. if you have already had an experience of dining in morocco, the whole process of the tea-making will be familiar; if not, you will be interested to notice how the tea ("gunpowder") is measured in the hand, then emptied into the pot, washed, thoroughly sweetened, made with boiling water from the samovar, and flavoured with mint or verbena. if the master of the house is present, he is apt to keep the tea-making in his own hands, although he may delegate it to one of his wives, who thus becomes the hostess of the occasion. after general inquiries as to the purpose of your visit to morocco, you may be asked if you are a tabeebah or lady doctor, the one profession which they know, by hearsay at least, is open to women. if you can claim ever so little knowledge, you will probably be asked for a prescription to promote an increase of adipose tissue, which they consider their greatest charm; perhaps a still harder riddle may be propounded, with the hope that its satisfactory solution may secure to them the wavering affection of their lord, and prevent alienation and, perhaps, divorce. yet all you can say is, "in shá allah" (if god will!) when you bid them farewell it will be with a keen realization of their narrow, cramped lives, and an appreciation of your own opportunities. did you but know it, they too are full of sympathy for that poor, over-strained nazarene woman, who is obliged to leave the shelter of her four walls, and face the world unveiled, unprotected, unabashed. and thus our proverb is proved true. ix a country wedding "silence is at the door of consent." _moorish proverb._ thursday was chosen as auspicious for the wedding, but the ceremonies commenced on the sunday before. the first item on an extensive programme was the visit of the bride with her immediate female relatives and friends to the steam bath at the kasbah, a rarity in country villages, in this case used only by special favour. at the close of an afternoon of fun and frolic in the bath-house, zóharah, the bride, was escorted to her home closely muffled, to keep her bed till the following day. next morning it was the duty of mokhtar, the bridegroom, to send his betrothed a bullock, with oil, butter and onions; pepper, salt and spices; charcoal and wood; figs, raisins, dates and almonds; candles and henna, wherewith to prepare the marriage feast. he had already, according to the custom of the country, presented the members of her family with slippers and ornaments. as soon as the bullock arrived it was killed amid great rejoicings and plenty of "tom-tom," especially as in the villages a sheep is usually considered sufficient provision. on this day mokhtar's male friends enjoyed a feast in the afternoon, while in the evening the bride had to undergo the process of re-staining with henna to the accompaniment of music. the usual effect of this was somewhat counteracted, however, by the wails of those who had lost relatives during the year. on each successive night, when the drumming began, the same sad scene was repeated--a strange alloy in all the merriment of the wedding. on the tuesday zóharah received her maiden friends, children attending the reception in the afternoon, till the none too roomy hut was crowded to suffocation, and the bride exhausted, although custom prescribed that she should lie all day on the bed, closely wrapped up, and seen by none of her guests, from whom she was separated by a curtain. every visitor had brought with her some little gift, such as handkerchiefs, candles, sugar, tea, spices and dried fruits, the inspection of which, when all were gone, was her only diversion that day. throughout that afternoon and the next the neighbouring villages rivalled one another in peaceful sport and ear-splitting ululation, as though, within the memory of man, no other state of things had ever existed between them. meanwhile mokhtar had a more enlivening time with his bachelor friends, who, after feasting with him in the evening, escorted him, wrapped in a háïk or shawl, to the house of his betrothed, outside which they danced and played for three or four hours by the light of lanterns. on returning home, much fun ensued round the supper-basin on the floor, while the palms of the whole company were stained with henna. then their exuberant spirits found relief in dancing round with basins on their heads, till one of them dropped his basin, and snatching off mokhtar's cloak as if for protection, was immediately chased by the others till supper was ready. after supper all lay back to sleep. for four days the bridegroom's family had thus to feast and amuse his male friends, while the ladies were entertained by that of the bride. on wednesday came the turn of the married women visitors, whose bulky forms crowded the hut, if possible more closely than had their children. gossip and scandal were now retailed with a zest and minuteness of detail not permissible in england, while rival belles waged wordy war in shouts which sounded like whispers amid the din. the walls of the hut were hung with the brightest coloured garments that could be borrowed, and the gorgeous finery of the guests made up a scene of dazzling colour. green tea and cakes were first passed round, and then a tray for offerings for the musicians, which, when collected, were placed on the floor beneath a rich silk handkerchief. presents were also made by all to the bride's mother, on behalf of her daughter, who sat in weary state on the bed at one end of the room. as each coin was put down for the players, or for the hostess, a portly female who acted as crier announced the sum contributed, with a prayer for blessing in return, which was in due course echoed by the chief musician. at the bridegroom's house a similar entertainment was held, the party promenading the lanes at dusk with torches and lanterns, after which they received from the bridegroom the powder for next day's play. [illustration: a moorish caravan.] thursday opened with much-needed rest for zóharah and her mother till the time came for the final decking; but mokhtar had to go to the bath with his bachelor friends, and on returning to his newly prepared dwelling, to present many of them with small coins, receiving in return cotton handkerchiefs and towels, big candles and matches. then all sat down to a modest repast, for which he had provided raisins and other dried fruits, some additional fun being provided by a number of the married neighbours, who tried in vain to gain admission, and in revenge made off with other people's shoes, ultimately returning them full of dried fruits and nuts. then mokhtar's head was shaved to the accompaniment of music, and the barber was feasted, while the box in which the bride was to be fetched was brought in, and decked with muslin curtains, surmounted by a woman's head-gear, handkerchiefs, and a sash. the box was about two and a half feet square, and somewhat more in height, including its pointed top. after three drummings to assemble the friends, a procession was formed about a couple of hours after sunset, lit by torches, lanterns and candles, led by the powder-players, followed by the mounted bridegroom, and behind him the bridal box lashed on the back of a horse; surrounded by more excited powder-players, and closed by the musicians. as they proceeded by a circuitous route the women shrieked, the powder spoke, till all were roused to a fitting pitch of fervour, and so reached the house of the bride. "behold, the bridegroom cometh!" presently the "litter" was deposited at the door, mokhtar remaining a short distance off, while the huge old negress, who had officiated so far as mistress of the ceremonies, lifted zóharah bodily off the bed, and placed her, crying, in the cage. in this a loaf of bread, a candle, some sugar and salt had been laid by way of securing good luck in her new establishment. her valuables, packed in another box, were entrusted to the negress, who was to walk by her side, while strong arms mounted her, and lashed the "amariah" in its place. as soon as the procession had reformed, the music ceased, and a fátihah[ ] was solemnly recited. then they started slowly, as they had come, mokhtar leaving his bride as she was ushered, closely veiled, from her box into her new home, contenting himself with standing by the side and letting her pass beneath his arm in token of submission. the door was then closed, and the bridegroom took a turn with his friends while the bride should compose herself, and all things be made ready by the negress. later on he returned, and being admitted, the newly married couple met at last. [ : the beautiful opening prayer of the korán.] next day they were afforded a respite, but on saturday the bride had once more to hold a reception, and on the succeeding thursday came the ceremony of donning the belt, a long, stiff band of embroidered silk, folded to some six inches in width, wound many times round. standing over a dish containing almonds, raisins, figs, dates, and a couple of eggs, in the presence of a gathering of married women, one of whom assisted in the winding, two small boys adjusted the sash with all due state, after which a procession was formed round the house, and the actual wedding was over. thus commenced a year's imprisonment for the bride, as it was not till she was herself a mother that she was permitted to revisit her old home. x the bairns "every monkey is a gazelle to its mother." _moorish proverb._ if there is one point in the character of the moor which commends itself above others to the mind of the european it is his love for his children. but when it is observed that in too many cases this love is unequally divided, and that the father prefers his sons to his daughters, our admiration is apt to wane. though by no means an invariable rule, this is the most common outcome of the pride felt in being the father of a son who may be a credit to the house, and the feeling that a daughter who has to be provided for is an added responsibility. all is well when the two tiny children play together on the floor, and quarrel on equal terms, but it is another thing when little hamed goes daily to school, and as soon as he has learned to read is brought home in triumph on a gaily dressed horse, heading a procession of shouting schoolfellows, while his pretty sister fátimah is fast developing into a maid-of-all-work whom nobody thinks of noticing. and the distinction widens when hamed rides in the "powder-play," or is trusted to keep shop by himself, while fátimah is closely veiled and kept a prisoner indoors, body and mind unexercised, distinguishable by colour and dress alone from habîbah, the ebony slave-girl, who was sold like a calf from her mother's side. yes, indeed, far different paths lie before the two play-mates, but while they are treated alike, let us take a peep at them in their innocent sweetness. their mother, ayeshah, went out as usual one morning to glean in the fields, and in the evening returned with two bundles upon her back; the upper one was to replace crowing hamed in his primitive cradle: it was fátimah. next day, as ayeshah set off to work again, she left her son kicking up his heels on a pile of blankets, howling till he should become acquainted with his new surroundings, and a little skinny mite lay peacefully sleeping where he had hitherto lived. no mechanical bassinette ever swung more evenly, and no soft draperies made a better cot than the sheet tied up by the corners to a couple of ropes, and swung across the room like a hammock. the beauty of it was that, roll as he would, even active hamed had been safe in it, and all his energies only served to rock him off to sleep again, for the sides almost met at the top. yet he was by no means dull, for through a hole opposite his eye he could watch the cows and goats and sheep as they wandered about the yard, not to speak of the cocks and hens that roamed all over the place. at last the time came when both the wee ones could toddle, and ayeshah carried them no more to the fields astride her hips or slung over her shoulders in a towel. they were then left to disport themselves as they pleased--which, of course, meant rolling about on the ground,--their garments tied up under their arms, leaving them bare from the waist. no wonder that sitting on cold and wet stones had threatened to shrivel up their thin legs, which looked wonderfully shaky at best. it seems to be a maxim among the moors that neither head, arms nor legs suffer in any way from exposure to cold or heat, and the mothers of the poorer classes think nothing of carrying their children slung across their backs with their little bare pates exposed to the sun and rain, or of allowing their lower limbs to become numbed with cold as just described. the sole recommendation of such a system is that only the fittest--in a certain sense--survive. of the attention supposed to be bestowed in a greater or less degree upon all babes in our own land they get little. one result, however, is satisfactory, for they early give up yelling, as an amusement which does not pay, and no one is troubled to march them up and down for hours when teething. yet it is hardly surprising that under such conditions infant mortality is very great, and, indeed, all through life in this doctorless land astonishing numbers are carried off by diseases we should hardly consider dangerous. beyond the much-enjoyed dandle on father's knee, or the cuddle with mother, delights are few in moorish child-life, and of toys such as we have they know nothing, whatever they may find to take their place. but when a boy is old enough to amuse himself, there is no end to the mischief and fun he will contrive, and the lads of barbary are as fond of their games as we of ours. you may see them racing about after school hours at a species of "catch-as-catch-can," or playing football with their heels, or spinning tops, sometimes of european make. or, dearest sport of all, racing a donkey while seated on its far hind quarters, with all the noise and enjoyment we threw into such pastimes a few years ago. to look at the merry faces of these lively youths, and to hear their cheery voices, is sufficient to convince anyone of their inherent capabilities, which might make them easily a match for english lads if they had their chances. but what chances have they? at the age of four or five they are drafted off to school, not to be educated, but to be taught to read by rote, and to repeat long chapters of the korán, if not the whole volume, by heart, hardly understanding what they read. beyond this little is taught but the four great rules of arithmetic in the figures which we have borrowed from them, but worked out in the most primitive style. in "long" multiplication, for instance, they write every figure down, and "carry" nothing, so that a much more formidable addition than need be has to conclude the calculation. but they have a quaint system of learning their multiplication tables by mnemonics, in which every number is represented by a letter, and these being made up into words, are committed to memory in place of the figures. a moorish school is a simple affair. no forms, no desks, few books. a number of boards about the size of foolscap, painted white on both sides, on which the various lessons--from the alphabet to portions of the korán--are plainly written in large black letters; a switch or two, a pen and ink and a book, complete the furnishings. the dominie, squatted tailor-fashion on the ground, like his pupils, who may number from ten to thirty, repeats the lesson in a sonorous sing-song voice, and is imitated by the little urchins, who accompany their voices by a rocking to and fro, which occasionally enables them to keep time. a sharp application of the switch is wonderfully effectual in re-calling wandering attention. lazy boys are speedily expelled. on the admission of a pupil the parents pay some small sum, varying according to their means, and every wednesday, which is a half-holiday, a payment is made from a farthing to twopence. new moons and feasts are made occasions for larger payments, and count as holidays, which last ten days on the occasion of the greater festivals. thursday is a whole holiday, and no work is done on friday morning, that being the mohammedan sabbath, or at least "meeting day," as it is called. at each successive stage of the scholastic career the schoolmaster parades the pupils one by one, if at all well-to-do, in the style already alluded to, collecting gifts from the grateful parents to supplement the few coppers the boys bring to school week by week. if they intend to become notaries or judges, they go on to study at fez, where they purchase the key of a room at one of the colleges, and read to little purpose for several years. in everything the korán is the standard work. the chapters therein being arranged without any idea of sequence, only according to length,--with the exception of the fátihah,--the longest at the beginning and the shortest at the end, after the first the last is learned, and so backwards to the second. most of the lads are expected to do something to earn their bread at quite an early age, in one way or another, even if not called on to assist their parents in something which requires an old head on young shoulders. such youths being so early independent, at least in a measure, mix with older lads, who soon teach them all the vices they have not already learned, in which they speedily become as adept as their parents. those intended for a mercantile career are put into the shop at twelve or fourteen, and after some experience in weighing-out and bargaining by the side of a father or elder brother, they are left entirely to themselves, being supplied with goods from the main shop as they need them. it is by this means that the multitudinous little box-shops which are a feature of the towns are enabled to pay their way, this being rendered possible by an expensive minutely retail trade. the average english tradesman is a wholesale dealer compared to these petty retailers, and very many middle-class english households take in sufficient supplies at a time to stock one of their shops. one reason for this is the hand-to-mouth manner in which the bulk of the people live, with no notion of thrift. they earn their day's wage, and if anything remains above the expense of living, it is invested in gay clothing or jimcracks. another reason is that those who could afford it have seldom any member of their household whom they can trust as housekeeper, of which more anon. it seems ridiculous to send for sugar, tea, etc., by the ounce or less; candles, boxes of matches, etc., one by one; needles, thread, silk, in like proportion, even when cash is available, but such is the practice here, and there is as much haggling over the price of one candle as over that of an expensive article of clothing. often quite little children, who elsewhere would be considered babes, are sent out to do the shopping, and these cheapen and bargain like the sharpest old folk, with what seems an inherent talent. very little care is taken of even the children of the rich, and they get no careful training. the little sons and daughters of quite important personages are allowed to run about as neglected and dirty as those of the very poor. hence the practice of shaving the head cannot be too highly praised in a country where so much filth abounds, and where cutaneous diseases of the worst type are so frequent. it is, however, noteworthy that while the moors do not seem to consider it any disgrace to be scarred and covered with disgusting sores, the result of their own sins and those of their fathers, they are greatly ashamed of any ordinary skin disease on the head. but though the shaven skulls are the distinguishing feature of the boys in the house, where their dress closely resembles that of their sisters, the girls may be recognized by their ample locks, often dyed to a fashionable red with henna; yet they, too, are often partially shaved, sometimes in a fantastic style. it may be the hair in front is cut to a fringe an inch long over the forehead, and a strip a quarter of an inch wide is shaved just where the visible part of a child's comb would come, while behind this the natural frizzy or straight hair is left, cut short, while the head is shaved again round the ears and at the back of the neck. to perform these operations a barber is called in, who attends the family regularly. little boys of certain tribes have long tufts left hanging behind their ears, and occasionally they also have their heads shaved in strange devices. since no attempt is made to bring the children up as useful members of the community at the age when they are most susceptible, they are allowed to run wild. thus, bright and tractable as they are naturally, no sooner do the lads approach the end of their 'teens, than a marked change comes over them, a change which even the most casual observer cannot fail to notice. the hitherto agreeable youths appear washed-out and worthless. all their energy has disappeared, and from this time till a second change takes place for the worse, large numbers drag out a weary existence, victims of vices which hold them in their grip, till as if burned up by a fierce but short-lived fire, they ultimately become seared and shattered wrecks. from this time every effort is made to fan the flickering or extinguished flame, till death relieves the weary mortal of the burden of his life. xi "dining out"[ ] [ : contributed by my wife.--b. m.] "a good supper is known by its odour." _moorish proverb._ there are no more important qualifications for the diner-out in morocco than an open mind and a teachable spirit. then start with a determination to forget european table manners, except in so far as they are based upon consideration for the feelings of others, setting yourself to do in morocco as the moors do, and you cannot fail to gain profit and pleasure from your experience. one slight difficulty arises from the fact that it is somewhat hard to be sure at any time that you have been definitely invited to partake of a moorish meal. a request that you would call at three o'clock in the afternoon, mid-way between luncheon and dinner, would seem an unusual hour for a heavy repast, yet that is no guarantee that you may not be expected to partake freely of an elaborate feast. if you are a member of the frail, fair sex, the absence of all other women will speedily arouse you to the fact that you are in an oriental country, for in morocco the sons and chief servants, though they eat after the master of the house, take precedence of the wives and women-folk, who eat what remains of the various dishes, or have specially prepared meals in their own apartments. for the same reason you need not be surprised if you are waited upon after the men of the party, though this order is sometimes reversed where the host is familiar with european etiquette with regard to women. if a man, perhaps a son will wait upon you. the well-bred moor is quite as great a stickler for the proprieties as the most conservative anglo-saxon, and you will do well if you show consideration at the outset by removing your shoes at the door of the room, turning a deaf ear to his assurance that such a proceeding is quite unnecessary on your part. a glance round the room will make it clear that your courtesy will be appreciated, for the carpet on the floor is bright and unmarked by muddy or dusty shoes (in spite of the condition of the streets outside), and the mattresses upon which you are invited to sit are immaculate in their whiteness. having made yourself comfortable, you will admire the arrangements for the first item upon the programme. the slave-girl appears with a handsome tray, brass or silver, upon which there are a goodly number of cups or tiny glass tumblers, frequently both, of delicate pattern and artistic colouring, a silver tea-pot, a caddy of green tea, a silver or glass bowl filled with large, uneven lumps of sugar, which have been previously broken off from the loaf, and a glass containing sprigs of mint and verbena. the brass samovar comes next, and having measured the tea in the palm of his right hand, and put it into the pot, the host proceeds to pour a small amount of boiling water upon it, which he straightway pours off, a precaution lest the nazarenes should have mingled some colouring matter therewith. he then adds enough sugar to ensure a semi-syrupy result, with some sprigs of peppermint, and fills the pot from the samovar. a few minutes later he pours out a little, which he tastes himself, frequently returning the remainder to the pot, although the more europeanized consume the whole draught. if the test has been satisfactory, he proceeds to fill the cups or glasses, passing them in turn to the guests in order of distinction. to make a perceptible noise in drawing it from the glass to the mouth is esteemed a delicate token of appreciation. the tray is then removed; the slave in attendance brings a chased brass basin and ewer of water, and before the serious portion of the meal begins you are expected to hold out your right hand just to cleanse it from any impurities which may have been contracted in coming. orange-flower water in a silver sprinkler is then brought in, followed by a brass incense burner filled with live charcoal, on which a small quantity of sandal-wood or other incense is placed, and the result is a delicious fragrance which you are invited to waft by a circular motion of your hands into your hair, your ribbons and your laces, while your moorish host finds the folds of his loose garments invaluable for the retention of the spicy perfume. a circular table about eight inches high is then placed in the centre of the guests; on this is placed a tray with the first course of the dinner, frequently puffs of delicate pastry fried in butter over a charcoal fire, and containing sometimes meat, sometimes a delicious compound of almond paste and cinnamon. this, being removed, is followed by a succession of savoury stews with rich, well-flavoured gravies, each with its own distinctive spiciness, but all excellently cooked. the host first dips a fragment of bread into the gravy, saying as he does so, "b'ísm illah!" ("in the name of god!"), which the guests repeat, as each follows suit with a sop from the dish. there is abundant scope for elegance of gesture in the eating of the stews, but still greater opportunity when the _pièce de résistance_ of a moorish dinner, the dish of kesk'soo, is brought on. this kesk'soo is a small round granule prepared from semolina, which, having been steamed, is served like rice beneath and round an excellent stew, which is heaped up in the centre of the dish. with the thumb and two first fingers of the right hand you are expected to secure some succulent morsel from the stew,--meat, raisins, onions, or vegetable marrow,--and with it a small quantity of the kesk'soo. by a skilful motion of the palm the whole is formed into a round ball, which is thrown with a graceful curve of hand and wrist into the mouth. woe betide you if your host is possessed by the hospitable desire to make one of these boluses for you, for he is apt to measure the cubic content of your mouth by that of his own, and for a moment your feelings will be too deep for words; but this is only a brief discomfort, and you will find the dish an excellent one, for moorish cooks never serve tough meat. if your fingers have suffered from contact with the kesk'soo, it is permitted to you to apply your tongue to each digit in turn in the following order; fourth (or little finger), second, thumb, third, first; but a few moments later the slave appears, and after bearing away the table with the remains of the feast gives the opportunity for a most satisfactory ablution. in this case you are expected to use soap, and to wash both hands, over which water is poured three times. if you are at all acquainted with moorish ways, you will not fail at the same time to apply soap and water to your mouth both outwardly and inwardly, being careful to rinse it three times with plenty of noise, ejecting the water behind your hand into the basin which is held before you. orange-flower water and incense now again appear, and you may be required to drink three more glasses of refreshing tea, though this is sometimes omitted at the close of a repast. of course "the feast of reason and the flow of soul" have not been lacking, and you have been repeatedly assured of your welcome, and invited to partake beyond the limit of human possibility, for the moor believes you can pay no higher compliment to the dainties he has provided than by their consumption. for a while you linger, reclining upon the mattress as gracefully as may be possible for a tyro, with your arm upon a pile of many-coloured cushions of embroidered leather or cloth. then, after a thousand mutual thanks and blessings, accompanied by graceful bowings and bendings, you say farewell and step to the door, where your slippers await you, and usher yourself out, not ill-satisfied with your initiation into the art of dining-out in barbary. [illustration: _photograph by dr. rudduck._ fruit-sellers.] xii domestic economy "manage with bread and butter till god sends the jam." _moorish proverb._ if the ordinary regulations of social life among the moors differ materially from those in force among ourselves, how much more so must the minor details of the housekeeping when, to begin with, the husband does the marketing and keeps the keys! and the consequential moor does, indeed, keep the keys, not only of the stores, but also often of the house. what would an english lady think of being coolly locked in a windowless house while her husband went for a journey, the provisions for the family being meanwhile handed in each morning through a loophole by a trusty slave left as gaoler? that no surprise whatever would be elicited in barbary by such an arrangement speaks volumes. woman has no voice under mohammed's creed. early in the morning let us take a stroll into the market, and see how things are managed there. round the inside of a high-walled enclosure is a row of the rudest of booths. over portions of the pathway, stretching across to other booths in the centre--if the market is a wide one--are pieces of cloth, vines on trellis, or canes interwoven with brushwood. as the sun gains strength these afford a most grateful shade, and during the heat of the day there is no more pleasant place for a stroll, and none more full of characteristic life. in the wider parts, on the ground, lie heaps two or three feet high of mint, verbena and lemon thyme, the much-esteemed flavourings for the national drink--green-tea syrup--exhaling a most delicious fragrance. it is early summer: the luscious oranges are not yet over, and in tempting piles they lie upon the stalls made of old packing-cases, many with still legible familiar english and french inscriptions. apricots are selling at a halfpenny or less the pound, and plums and damsons, not to speak of greengages, keep good pace with them in price and sales. the bright tints of the lettuces and other fresh green vegetables serve to set off the rich colours of the god-made delicacies, but the prevailing hue of the scene is a restful earth-brown, an autumnal leaf-tint; the trodden ground, the sun-dried brush-wood of the booths and awnings, and the wet-stained wood-work. no glamour of paint or gleam of glass destroys the harmony of the surroundings. but with all the feeling of cool and repose, rest there is not, or idleness, for there is not a brisker scene in an oriental town than its market-place. thronging those narrow pathways come the rich and poor--the portly merchant in his morning cloak, a spotless white wool jelláb, with a turban and girth which bespeak easy circumstances; the labourer in just such a cloak with the hood up, but one which was always brown, and is now much mended; the slave in shirt and drawers, with a string round his shaven pate; the keen little jew boy pushing and bargaining as no other could; the bearded son of israel, with piercing eyes, and his daughter with streaming hair; lastly, the widow or time-worn wife of the poor mohammedan, who must needs market for herself. her wrinkled face and care-worn look tell a different tale from the pompous self-content of the merchant by her side, who drives as hard a bargain as she does. in his hand he carries a palmetto-leaf basket, already half full, as with slippered feet he carefully picks his way among puddles and garbage. "good morning, o my master; god bless thee!" exclaims the stall-keeper as his customer comes in sight. sáïd el faráji has to buy cloth of the merchant time and time again, so makes a point of pleasing one who can return a kindness. "no ill, praise god; and thyself, o sáïd?" comes the cheery reply; then, after five minutes' mutual inquiry after one another's household, horses and other interests, health and general welfare, friend sáïd points out the daintiest articles on his stall, and in the most persuasive of tones names his "lowest price." all the while he is sitting cross-legged on an old box, with his scales before him. "what? now, come, i'll give you _so_ much," says the merchant, naming a price slightly less than that asked. "make it _so_ much," exclaims sáïd, even more persuasively than before, as he "splits the difference." "well, i'll give you _so_ much," offering just a little less than this sum. "i can't go above that, you know." "all right, but you always get the better of me, you know. that is just what i paid. anyhow, don't forget that when i want a new cloak," and he proceeds to measure out the purchases, using as weights two or three bits of old iron, a small cannon-ball, some bullets, screws, coins, etc. "go with prosperity, my friend; and may god bless thee!" "and may god increase thy prosperity, and grant to thee a blessing!" rejoins the successful man, as he proceeds to another stall. by the time he reaches home his basket will contain meat, fish, vegetables, fruit and herbs, besides, perhaps, a loaf of sugar, and a quarter of a pound of tea, with supplies of spices and some candles. bread they make at home. the absurdly minute quantities of what we should call "stores," which a man will purchase who could well afford to lay in a supply, seem very strange to the foreigner; but it is part of his domestic economy--or lack of that quality. he will not trust his wife with more than one day's supply at a time, and to weigh things out himself each morning would be trouble not to be dreamed of; besides which it would deprive him of the pleasure of all that bargaining, not to speak of the appetite-promoting stroll, and the opportunities for gossip with acquaintances which it affords. in consequence, wives and slaves are generally kept on short allowances, if these are granted at all. an amusing incident which came under my notice in tangier shows how little the english idea of the community of interest of husband and wife is appreciated here. a moorish woman who used to furnish milk to an english family being met by the lady of the house one morning, when she had brought short measure, said, pointing to the husband in the distance, "_you_ be my friend; take this" (slipping a few coppers worth half a farthing into her hand), "don't tell _him_ anything about it. i'll share the profit with you!" she probably knew from experience that the veriest trifle would suffice to buy over the wife of a moor. instructions having been given to his wife or wives as to what is to be prepared, and how--he probably pretends to know more of the art culinary than he does--the husband will start off to attend to his shop till lunch, which will be about noon. then a few more hours in the shop, and before the sun sets a ride out to his garden by the river, returning in time for dinner at seven, after which come talk, prayers, and bed, completing what is more or less his daily round. his wives will probably be assisted in the house-work--or perhaps entirely relieved of it--by a slave-girl or two, and the water required will be brought in on the shoulders of a stalwart negro in skins or barrels filled from some fountain of good repute, but of certain contamination. in cooking the moorish women excel, as their first-rate productions afford testimony. it is the custom of some europeans to systematically disparage native preparations, but such judges have been the victims either of their own indiscretion in eating too many rich things without the large proportion of bread or other digestible nutriment which should have accompanied them, or of the essays of their own servants, usually men without any more knowledge of how their mothers prepare the dishes they attempt to imitate than an ordinary english working man would have of similar matters. of course there are certain flavourings which to many are really objectionable, but none can be worse to us than any preparation of pig would be to a moor. prominent among such is the ancient butter which forms the basis of much of their spicings, butter made from milk, which has been preserved--usually buried a year or two--till it has acquired the taste, and somewhat the appearance, of ripe gorgonzola. those who commence by trying a very slight flavour of this will find the fancy grow upon them, and there is no smell so absolutely appetizing as the faintest whiff of anything being cooked in this butter, called "smin." another point, much misunderstood, which enables them to cook the toughest old rooster or plough-ox joint till it can be eaten readily with the fingers, is the stewing in oil or butter. when the oil itself is pure and fresh, it imparts no more taste to anything cooked in it than does the fresh butter used by the rich. articles plunged into either at their high boiling point are immediately browned and enclosed in a kind of case, with a result which can be achieved in no other manner than by rolling in paste or clay, and cooking amid embers. moorish pastry thus cooked in oil is excellent, flaky and light. xiii the native "merchant" "a turban without a beard shows lack of modesty." _moorish proverb._ háj mohammed et-tájir, a grey-bearded worthy, who looks like a prince when he walks abroad, and dwells in a magnificent house, sits during business hours on a diminutive tick and wool mattress, on the floor of a cob-webbed room on one side of an ill-paved, uncovered, dirty court-yard. light and air are admitted by the door in front of which he sits, while the long side behind him, the two ends, and much of the floor, are packed with valuable cloths, manchester goods, silk, etc. two other sides of the court-yard consist of similar stores, one occupied by a couple of jews, and the other by another fine-looking háj, his partner. enters a moor, in common clothing, market basket in hand. he advances to the entrance of the store, and salutes the owner respectfully--"peace be with thee, uncle pilgrim!" "with thee be peace, o my master," is the reply, and the new-comer is handed a cushion, and motioned to sit on it at the door. "how doest thou?" "how fares thy house?" "how dost thou find thyself this morning?" "is nothing wrong with thee?" these and similar inquiries are showered by each on the other, and an equal abundance is returned of such replies as, "nothing wrong;" "praise be to god;" "all is well." when both cease for lack of breath, after a brief pause the new arrival asks, "have you any of that 'merican?" (unbleached calico). the dealer puts on an indignant air, as if astonished at being asked such a question. "_have_ i? there is no counting what i have of it," and he commences to tell his beads, trying to appear indifferent as to whether his visitor buys or not. presently the latter, also anxious not to appear too eager, exclaims, "let's look at it." a piece is leisurely handed down, and the customer inquires in a disparaging tone, "how much?" "six and a half," and the speaker again appears absorbed in meditation. "give thee six," says the customer, rising as if to go. "wait, thou art very dear to us; to thee alone will i give a special price, six and a quarter." "no, no," replies the customer, shaking his finger before his face, as though to emphasize his refusal of even such special terms. "al-l-láh!" piously breathes the dealer, as he gazes abstractedly out of the door, presently adding in the same devout tone, "there is no god but god! god curse the infidels!" "come, i'll give thee six and an okea"--of which latter six and a half go to the 'quarter' peseta or franc of which six were offered. "no, six and five is the lowest i can take." the might-be purchaser made his last offer in a half-rising posture, and is now nearly erect as he says, "then i can't buy; give it me for six and three," sitting down as though the bargain were struck. "no, i never sell that quality for less than six and four, and it's a thing i make no profit on; you know that." the customer doesn't look as though he did, and rising, turns to go. "send a man to carry it away," says the dealer. "at six and three!" "no, at six and four!" and the customer goes away. "send the man, it is thine," is hastily called after him, and in a few moments he returns with a jewish porter, and pays his "six and three." so our worthy trader does business all day, and seems to thrive on it. occasionally a friend drops in to chat and not to buy, and now and then there is a beggar; here is one. an aged crone she is, of most forbidding countenance, swathed in rags, it is a wonder she can keep together. she leans on a formidable staff, and in a piteous voice, "for the face of the lord," and "in the name of my lord slave-of-the-able" (mulai abd el káder, a favourite saint), she begs something "for god." one copper suffices to induce her to call down untold blessings on the head of the donor, and she trudges away in the mud, barefooted, repeating her entreaties till they sound almost a wail, as she turns the next corner. but beggars who can be so easily disposed of at the rate of a hundred and ninety-five for a shilling can hardly be considered troublesome. a respectable-looking man next walks in with measured tread, and leaning towards us, says almost in a whisper-- "o friend of the prophet, is there anything to-day?" "nothing, o my master," is the courteously toned reply, for the beggar appears to be a shareef or noble, and with a "god bless thee," disappears. a miserable wretch now turns up, and halfway across the yard begins to utter a whine which is speedily cut short by a curt "god help thee!" whereat the visitor turns on his heel and is gone. with a confident bearing an untidy looking figure enters a moment later, and after due salaams inquires for a special kind of cloth. "call to-morrow morning," he is told, for he has not the air of a purchaser, and he takes his departure meekly. a creaky voice here breaks in from round the corner-- "hast thou not a copper for the sake of the lord?" "no, o my brother." after a few minutes another female comes on the scene, exhibiting enough of her face to show that it is a mass of sores. "only a trifle, in the name of my lord idrees," she cries, and turns away on being told, "god bring it!" then comes a policeman, a makházni, who seats himself amid a shower of salutations-- "hast thou any more of those selháms" (hooded cloaks)? "come on the morrow, and thou shalt see." the explanation of this answer given by the "merchant" is that he sees such folk only mean to bother him for nothing. and this appears to be the daily routine of "business," though a good bargain must surely be made some time to have enabled our friend to acquire all the property he has, but so far as an outsider can judge, it must be a slow process. anyhow, it has heartily tired the writer, who has whiled away the morning penning this account on a cushion on one side of the shop described. yet it is a fair specimen of what has been observed by him on many a morning in this sleepy land. xiv shopping[ ] [ : contributed by my wife.--b. m.] "debt destroys religion." _moorish proverb._ if any should imagine that time is money in morocco, let them undertake a shopping expedition in tangier, the town on which, if anywhere in morocco, occidental energy has set its seal. not that one such excursion will suffice, unless, indeed, the purchaser be of the class who have more money than wit, or who are absolutely at the mercy of the guide and interpreter who pockets a commission upon every bargain he brings about. for the ordinary mortal, who wants to spread his dollars as far as it is possible for dollars to go, a tour of inspection, if not two or three, will be necessary before such a feat can be accomplished. to be sure, there is always the risk that between one visit and another some coveted article may find its way into the hands of a more reckless, or at least less thrifty, purchaser, but that risk may be safely taken. [illustration: _albert, photo., tunis._ a tunisian shopkeeper.] there is something very attractive in the small cupboard-like shops of the main street. their owners sit cross-legged ready for a chat, looking wonderfully picturesque in cream-coloured jelláb, or in semi-transparent white farrajîyah, or tunic, allowing at the throat a glimpse of saffron, cerise, or green from the garment beneath. the white turban, beneath which shows a line of red fez cap, serves as a foil to the clear olive complexion and the dark eyes and brows, while the faces are in general goodly to look upon, except where the lines have grown coarse and sensuous. so strong is the impression of elegant leisure, that it is difficult to imagine that these men expect to make a living from their trade, but they are more than willing to display their goods, and will doubtless invite you to a seat upon the shop ledge--where your feet dangle gracefully above a rough cobble-stone pavement--and sometimes even to a cup of tea. one after another, in quick succession, carpets of different dimensions (but all oblong, for moorish rooms are narrow in comparison with their length) are spread out in the street, and the shop-owners' satellite, by reiterated cries of "bálak! bálak!" (mind out! mind out!) accompanied by persuasive pushes, keeps off the passing donkeys. a miniature crowd of interested spectators will doubtless gather round you, making remarks upon you and your purchases. charmed by the artistic colourings, rich but never garish, you ask the price, and if you are wise you will immediately offer just half of that named. it is quite probable that the carpets will be folded up and returned to their places upon the shelf at the back of the shop, but it is equally probable that by slow and tactful yielding upon either side, interspersed with curses upon your ancestors and upon yourself, the bargain will be struck about halfway between the two extremes. the same method must be adopted with every article bought, and if you purpose making many purchases in the same shop, you will be wise to obtain and write down the price quoted in each case as "the _very_ lowest," and make your bid for the whole at once, lest, made cunning by one experience of your tactics, the shopman should put on a wider marginal profit in every other instance to circumvent you. it is also well for the purchaser to express ardent admiration in tones of calm indifference, for the moor has quick perceptions, and though he may not understand english, when enthusiasm is apparent, he has the key to the situation, and refuses to lower his prices. nevertheless, it is sometimes difficult to avoid a warm expression of admiration at the handsome brass trays, the morocco leather bags into which such charming designs of contrasting colours are skilfully introduced, or the graceful utensils of copper and brass with which a closer acquaintance was made when you were the guest at a moorish dinner. many and interesting are the curious trifles which may be purchased, but they will be found in the greatest profusion in the bazaars established for the convenience of nazarene tourists, where prices will frequently be named in english money, for an english "yellow-boy" is nowhere better appreciated than in tangier. in the shops in the sôk, or market-place, prices are sometimes more moderate, and there you may discover some of the more distinctively moorish articles, which are brought in from the country; nor can there be purchased a more interesting memento than a flint-lock, a pistol, or a carved dagger, all more or less elaborately decorated, such as are carried by town or country moor, the former satisfied with a dagger in its chased sheath, except at the time of "powder-play," when flint-locks are in evidence everywhere. but in the market-place there are exposed for sale the more perishable things of moorish living. some of the small cupboards are grocers' shops, where semolina for the preparation of kesk'soo, the national dish, may be purchased, as well as candles for burning at the saints' shrines, and a multitude of small necessaries for the moorish housewives. in the centre of the market sit the bread-sellers, for the most part women whose faces are supposed to be religiously kept veiled from the gaze of man, but who are apt to let their háïks fall back quite carelessly when only europeans are near. an occasional glimpse may sometimes be thus obtained of a really pretty face of some lass on the verge of womanhood. look at that girl in front of us, stooping over the stall of a vendor of what some one has dubbed "sticky nastinesses," her háïk lightly thrown back; her bent form and the tiny hand protruding at her side show that she is not alone, her little baby brother proving almost as much as she can carry. her teeth are pearly white; her hair and eyebrows are jet black; her nut-brown cheeks bear a pleasant smile, and as she stretches out one hand to give the "confectioner" a few coppers, with the other clutching at her escaping garment, and moves on amongst the crowd, we come to the conclusion that if not fair, she is at least comely. the country women seated on the ground with their wares form a nucleus for a dense crowd. they have carried in upon their backs heavy loads of grass for provender, or firewood and charcoal which they sell in wholesale quantities to the smaller shopkeepers, who purchase from other countryfolk donkey loads of ripe melons and luscious black figs. there is a glorious inconsequence in the arrangement of the wares. here you may see a pile of women's garments exposed for sale, and not far away are sweet-sellers with honey-cakes and other unattractive but toothsome delicacies. if you can catch a glimpse of the native brass-workers busily beating out artistic designs upon trays of different sizes and shapes, do not fail to seize the opportunity of watching them. you may form one in the ring gathered round the snake-charmer, or join the circle which listens open-mouthed and with breathless attention to that story-teller, who breaks off at a most critical juncture in his narrative to shake his tambourine, declaring that so close-fisted an audience does not deserve to hear another word, much less the conclusion of his fascinating tale. but before you join either party, indeed before you mingle at all freely in the crowd upon a moorish market-place, it is well to remember that the flea is a common domestic insect, impartial in the distribution of his favours to moor, jew and nazarene, and is in fact not averse to "fresh fields and pastures new." if you are clad in perishable garments, beware of the water-carrier with his goat-skin, his tinkling bell, his brass cup, and his strange cry. beware, too, of the strings of donkeys with heavily laden packs, and do not scruple to give them a forcible push out of your way. if you are mounted upon a donkey yourself, so much the better; by watching the methods of your donkey-boy to ensure a clear passage for his beast, you will realize that dwellers in barbary are not strangers to the spirit of the saying, "each man for himself, and the de'il take the hindmost." yet they are a pleasant crowd to be amongst, in spite of insect-life, water-carriers, and bulky pack-saddles, and there is an exhaustless store of interest, not alone in the wares they have for sale, and in the trades they ply, but more than all in the faces, so often keen and alert, and still more often bright and smiling. one typical example of moorish methods of shopping, and i have done. among those who make their money by trade, you may find a man who spends his time in bringing the would-be purchaser into intimate relations with the article he desires to obtain. he has no shop of his own, but may often be recognized as an interested spectator of some uncompleted bargain. having discovered your dwelling-place, he proceeds to "bring the mountain to mohammed," and you will doubtless be confronted in the court-yard of your hotel by the very article for which you have been seeking in vain. of course he expects a good price which shall ensure him a profit of at least fifty per cent. upon his expenditure, but he too is open to a bargain, and a little skilful pointing out of flaws in the article which he has brought for purchase, in a tone of calm and supreme indifference, is apt to ensure a very satisfactory reduction of price in favour of the shopper in barbary. xv a sunday market "a climb with a friend is a descent." _moorish proverb._ one of the sights of tangier is its market. sundays and thursdays, when the weather is fine, see the disused portion of the mohammedan graveyard outside _báb el fahs_ (called by the english port st. catherine, and now known commonly as the sôk gate) crowded with buyers and sellers of most quaint appearance to the foreign eye, not to mention camels, horses, mules, and donkeys, or the goods they have brought. hither come the sellers from long distances, trudging all the way on foot, laden or not, according to means, all eager to exchange their goods for european manufacturers, or to carry home a few more dollars to be buried with their store. sunday is no sabbath for the sons of israel, so the money-changers are doing a brisk trade from baskets of filthy native bronze coin, the smallest of which go five hundred to the shilling, and the largest three hundred and thirty-three! hard by a venerable rabbi is leisurely cutting the throats of fowls brought to him for the purpose by the servants or children of jews, after the careful inspection enjoined by the mosaic law. the old gentleman has the coolest way of doing it imaginable; he might be only peeling an orange for the little girl who stands waiting. after apparently all but turning the victim inside out, he twists back its head under its wings, folding these across its breast as a handle, and with his free hand removing his razor-like knife from his mouth, nearly severs its neck and hands it to the child, who can scarcely restrain its struggles except by putting her foot on it, while he mechanically wipes his blade and prepares to despatch another. eggs and milk are being sold a few yards off by country women squatted on the ground, the former in baskets or heaps on the stones, the latter in uninviting red jars, with a round of prickly-pear leaf for a stopper, and a bit of palmetto rope for a handle. by this time we are in the midst of a perfect babel--a human maëlstrom. in a european crowd one is but crushed by human beings; here all sorts of heavily laden quadrupeds, with packs often four feet across, come jostling past, sometimes with the most unsavoury loads. we have just time to observe that more country women are selling walnuts, vegetables, and fruits, on our left, at the door of what used to be the tobacco and hemp fandak, and that native sweets, german knick-knacks and spanish fruit are being sold on our right, as amid the din of forges on either side we find ourselves in the midst of the crush to get through the narrow gate. here an exciting scene ensues. continuous streams of people and beasts of burden are pushing both ways; a drove of donkeys laden with rough bundles of cork-wood for the ovens approaches, the projecting ends prodding the passers-by; another drove laden with stones tries to pass them, while half a dozen mules and horses vainly endeavour to pass out. a european horseman trots up and makes the people fly, but not so the beasts, till he gets wedged in the midst, and must bide his time after all. meanwhile one is almost deafened by the noise of shouting, most of it good-humoured. "zeed! arrah!" vociferates the donkey-driver. "bálak!" shouts the horseman. "bálak! guarda!" (pronounced warda) in a louder key comes from a man who is trying to pilot a minister plenipotentiary and envoy extraordinary through the gate, with her excellency on his arm. at last we seize a favourable opportunity and are through. now we can breathe. in front of us, underneath an arch said to have been built to shelter the english guard two hundred years ago (which is very unlikely, since the english destroyed the fortifications of this gate), we see the native shoeing-smiths hacking at the hoofs of horses, mules, and donkeys, in a manner most extraordinary to us, and nailing on triangular plates with holes in the centre--though most keep a stock of english imported shoes and nails for the fastidious nazarenes. spanish and jewish butchers are driving a roaring trade at movable stalls made of old boxes, and the din is here worse than ever. now we turn aside into the vegetable market, as it is called, though as we enter we are almost sickened by the sight of more butchers' stalls, and further on by putrid fish. this market is typical. low thatched booths of branches and canes are the only shops but those of the butchers, the arcade which surrounds the interior of the building being chiefly used for stores. here and there a filthy rag is stretched across the crowded way to keep the sun off, and anon we have to stop to avoid some drooping branch. fruit and vegetables of all descriptions in season are sold amid the most good-humoured haggling. emerging from this interesting scene by a gate leading to the outer sôk, we come to one quite different in character. a large open space is packed with country people, their beasts and their goods, and towns-people come out to purchase. women seem to far outnumber the men, doubtless on account of their size and their conspicuous head-dress. they are almost entirely enveloped in white háïks, over the majority of which are thrown huge native sun-hats made of palmetto, with four coloured cords by way of rigging to keep the brim extended. when the sun goes down these are to be seen slung across the shoulders instead. very many of the women have children slung on their backs, or squatting on their hips if big enough. this causes them to stoop, especially if some other burden is carried on their shoulders as well. [illustration: the sunday market, tangier. _cavilla, photo., tangier._] on our right are typical moorish shops,--grocers', if you please,--in which are exposed to view an assortment of dried fruits, such as nuts, raisins, figs, etc., with olive and argan oil, candles, tea, sugar, and native soap and butter. certainly of all the goods that butter is the least inviting; the soap, though the purest of "soft," looks a horribly repulsive mass, but the butter which, like it, is streaked all over with finger marks, is in addition full of hairs. similar shops are perched on our left, where old english biscuit-boxes are conspicuous. beyond these come slipper- and clothes-menders. the former are at work on native slippers of such age that they would long ago have been thrown away in any less poverty-stricken land, transforming them into wearable if unsightly articles, after well soaking them in earthen pans. just here a native "medicine man" dispenses nostrums of doubtful efficacy, and in front a quantity of red moorish pottery is exposed for sale. this consists chiefly of braziers for charcoal and kesk'soo steamers for stewing meat and vegetables as well. a native _café_ here attracts our attention. under the shade of a covered way the káhwajî has a brazier on which he keeps a large kettle of water boiling. a few steps further on we light upon the sellers of native salt. this is in very large crystals, heaped in mule panniers, from which the dealers mete it out in wooden measures. it comes from along the beach near old tangier, where the heaps can be seen from the town, glistening in the sunlight. ponds are dug along the shore, in which sea water is enclosed by miniature dykes, and on evaporating leaves the salt. pressing on with difficulty through a crowd of horses, mules and donkeys, mostly tethered by their forefeet, we reach some huts in front of which are the most gorgeous native waistcoats exposed for sale, together with manchester goods, by fat, ugly old women of a forbidding aspect. further on we come upon "confectioners." a remarkable peculiarity of the tables on which the sweets are being sold in front of us is the total absence of flies, though bees abound, in spite of the lazy whisking of the sweet-seller. the sweets themselves consist of red, yellow and white sticks of what cousin jonathan calls "candy;" almond and gingelly rock, all frizzling in the sun. a small basin, whose contents resemble a dark plum-pudding full of seeds, contains a paste of the much-lauded hasheesh, the opiate of morocco, which, though contraband, and strictly prohibited by imperial decrees, is being freely purchased in small doses. on the opposite side of the way some old spaniards are selling a kind of coiled-up fritter by the yard, swimming in oil. then we come to a native restaurant. trade does not appear very brisk, so we shall not interrupt it by pausing for a few moments to watch the cooking. in a tiny lean-to of sticks and thatch two men are at work. one is cutting up liver and what would be flead if the moors ate pigs, into pieces about the size of a filbert. these the other threads on skewers in alternate layers, three or four of each. having rolled them in a basin of pepper and salt, they are laid across an earthen pot resembling a log scooped out, like some primæval boat. in the bottom of the hollow is a charcoal fire, which causes the khotbán, as they are called, to give forth a most appetizing odour--the only thing tempting about them after seeing them made. half loaves of native bread lie ready to hand, and the hungry passer-by is invited to take an _al fresco_ meal for the veriest trifle. another sort of kabáb--for such is the name of the preparation--is being made from a large wash-basin full of ready seasoned minced meat, small handfuls of which the jovial _chef_ adroitly plasters on more skewers, cooking them like the others. squatted on the ground by the side of this "bar" is a retailer of ripened native butter, "warranted five years old." this one can readily smell without stooping; it is in an earthenware pan, and looks very dirty, but is weighed out by the ounce as very precious after being kept so long underground. opposite is the spot where the camels from and for the interior load and unload. some forty of these ungainly but useful animals are here congregated in groups. at feeding-time a cloth is spread on the ground, on which a quantity of barley is poured in a heap. each animal lies with its legs doubled up beneath it in a manner only possible to camels, with its head over the food, munching contentedly. in one of the groups we notice the driver beating his beast to make it kneel down preparatory to the removal of its pack, some two hundred-weight and a half. after sundry unpleasant sounds, and tramping backwards and forwards to find a comfortable spot, the gawky creature settles down in a stately fashion, packing up his stilt-like legs in regular order, limb after limb, till he attains the desired position. a short distance off one of them is making hideous noises by way of protest against the weight of the load being piled upon him, threatening to lose his temper, and throw a little red bladder out of his mouth, which, hanging there as he breathes excitedly, makes a most unpleasing sound. here one of the many water-carriers who have crossed our path does so again, tinkling his little bell of european manufacture, and we turn to watch him as he gives a poor lad to drink. slung across his back is the "bottle" of the east--a goat-skin with the legs sewn up. a long metal spout is tied into the neck, and on this he holds his left thumb, which he uses as a tap by removing it to aim a long stream of water into the tin mug in his right hand. two bright brass cups cast and engraved in fez hang from a chain round his neck, but these are reserved for purchasers, the urchin who is now enjoying a drink receiving it as charity. tinkle, tinkle, goes the bell again, as the weary man moves on with his ever-lightening burden, till he is confronted by another wayfarer who turns to him to quench his thirst. as these skins are filled indiscriminately from wells and tanks, and cleaned inside with pitch, the taste must not be expected to satisfy all palates; but if hunger is the best sauce for food, thirst is an equal recommendation for drink. a few minutes' walk across a cattle-market brings us at last to the english church, a tasteful modern construction in pure moorish style, and banishing the thoughts of our stroll, we join the approaching group of fellow-worshippers, for after all it is sunday. xvi play-time "according to thy shawl stretch thy leg." _moorish proverb._ few of us realize to what an extent our amusements, pastimes, and recreations enter into the formation of our individual, and consequently of our national, character. it is therefore well worth our while to take a glance at the moor at play, or as near play as he ever gets. the stately father of a family must content himself, as his years and flesh increase, with such amusements as shall not entail exertion. by way of house game, since cards and all amusements involving chance are strictly forbidden, chess reigns supreme, and even draughts--with which the denizens of the coffee-house, where he would not be seen, disport themselves--are despised by him. in shiráz, however, the sheïkh ul islám, or chief religious authority, declared himself shocked when i told him how often i had played this game with moorish theologians, whereupon ensued a warm discussion as to whether it was a game of chance. at last i brought this to a satisfactory close by remarking that as his reverence was ignorant even of the rules of the game,--and therefore no judge, since he had imagined it to be based on hazard,--he at least was manifestly innocent of it. the connection between chess and arabdom should not be forgotten, especially as the very word with which it culminates, "checkmate," is but a corruption of the arabic "sheïkh mát"--"chief dead." the king of games is, however, rare on the whole, requiring too much concentration for a weary or lazy official, or a merchant after a busy day. their method of playing does not materially differ from ours, but they play draughts with very much more excitement and fun. the jocular vituperation which follows a successful sally, and the almost unintelligible rapidity with which the moves are made, are as novel to the european as appreciated by the natives. gossip, the effervescence of an idle brain, is the prevailing pastime, and at no afternoon tea-table in great britain is more aimless talk indulged in than while the cup goes round among the moors. the ladies, with a more limited scope, are not far behind their lords in this respect. otherwise their spare time is devoted to minutely fine embroidery. this is done in silk on a piece of calico or linen tightly stretched on a frame, and is the same on both sides; in this way are ornamented curtains, pillow-cases, mattress-covers, etc. it is, nevertheless, considered so far a superfluity that few who have not abundant time to spare trouble about it, and the material decorated is seldom worth the labour bestowed thereon. the fact is that in these southern latitudes as little time as possible is passed within doors, and for this reason we must seek the real amusements of the people outside. when at home they seem to think it sufficient to loll about all the day long if not at work, especially if they have an enclosed flower-garden, beautifully wild and full of green and flowers, with trickling, splashing water. i exclude, of course, all feasts and times when the musicians come, but i must not omit mention of dancing. easterns think their western friends mad to dance themselves, when they can so easily get others to do it for them, so they hire a number of women to go through all manner of quaint--too often indecent--posings and wrigglings before them, to the tune of a nasal chant, which, aided by fiddles, banjos, and tambourines, is being drawled out by the musicians. some of these seemingly inharmonious productions are really enjoyable when one gets into the spirit of the thing. at times the moors are themselves full of life and vigour, especially in the enjoyment of what may be called the national sport of "powder-play," not to speak of boar-hunting, hawking, rabbit-chasing, and kindred pastimes. just as in the days of yore their forefathers excelled in the use of the spear, brandishing and twirling it as easily as an indian club or singlestick, so they excel to-day in the exercise of their five-foot flint-locks, performing the most dexterous feats on horseback at full gallop. here is such a display about to commence. it is the feast of mohammed's birthday, and the market-place outside the gate, so changed since yesterday, is crowded with spectators; men and boys in gay, but still harmonious, colours, decked out for the day, and women shrouded in their blankets, plain wool-white. an open space is left right through the centre, up a gentle slope, and a dozen horsemen are spurring and holding in their prancing steeds at yonder lower end. at some unnoticed signal they have started towards us. they gallop wildly, the beat of their horses' hoofs sounding as iron hail on the stony way. a cloud of dust flies upward, and before we are aware of it they are abreast of us--a waving, indistinguishable mass of flowing robes, of brandished muskets, and of straining, foaming steeds. we can just see them tossing their guns in the air, and then a rider, bolder than the rest, stands on his saddle, whirling round his firearm aloft without stopping, while another swings his long weapon underneath his horse, and seizes it upon the other side. but now they are in line again, and every gun is pointed over the right, behind the back, the butt grasped by the twisted left arm, and the lock by the right under the left armpit. in this constrained position they fire at an imaginary foe who is supposed to have appeared from ambush as they pass. immediately the reins--which have hitherto been held in the mouth, the steed guided by the feet against his gory flanks--are pulled up tight, throwing the animal upon his haunches, and wheeling him round for a sober walk back. this is, in truth, a practice or drill for war, for such is the method of fighting in these parts. a sortie is made to seek the hidden foe, who may start up anywhere from the ravines or boulders, and who must be aimed at instanter, before he regains his cover, while those who have observed him must as quickly as possible get beyond his range to reload and procure reinforcements. the only other active sports of moment, apart from occasional horse races, are football and fencing, indulged in by boys. the former is played with a stuffed leather ball some six or eight inches across, which is kicked into the air with the back of the heel, and caught in the hands, the object being to drive it as high as possible. the fencing is only remarkable for its free and easy style, and the absence of hilts and guards. yet there are milder pastimes in equal favour, and far more in accordance with the fancy of southerners in warm weather, such as watching a group of jugglers or snake-charmers, or listening to a story-teller. these are to be met with in the market-place towards the close of hot and busy days, when the wearied bargainers gather in groups to rest before commencing the homeward trudge. the jugglers are usually poor, the production of fire from the mouth, of water from an empty jar, and so on, forming stock items. but often fearful realities are to be seen--men who in a frenzied state catch cannon balls upon their heads, blood spurting out on every side; or, who stick skewers through their legs. these are religious devotees who live by such performances. from the public _raconteur_ the moor derives the excitement the european finds in his novel, or the tale "to be continued in our next," and it probably does him less harm. xvii the story-teller "gentleman without reading, dog without scent." _moorish proverb._ the story-teller is, _par excellence_, the prince of moorish performers. even to the stranger unacquainted with the language the sight of the arab bard and his attentive audience on some erstwhile bustling market at the ebbing day is full of interest--to the student of human nature a continual attraction. after a long trudge from home, commenced before dawn, and a weary haggling over the most worthless of "coppers" during the heat of the day, the poor folk are quite ready for a quiet resting-time, with something to distract their minds and fill them with thoughts for the homeward way. here have been fanned and fed the great religious and political movements which from time to time have convulsed the empire, and here the pulse of the nation throbs. in the cities men lead a different life, and though the townsfolk appreciate tales as well as any, it is on these market-places that the wandering troubadour gathers the largest crowds. like public performers everywhere, a story-teller of note always goes about with regular assistants, who act as summoners to his entertainment, and as chorus to his songs. they consist usually of a player on the native fiddle, another who keeps time on a tambourine, and a third who beats a kind of earthenware drum with his fingers. less pretentious "professors" are content with themselves manipulating a round or square tambourine or a two-stringed fiddle, and to many this style has a peculiar charm of its own. each pause, however slight, is marked by two or three sharp beats on the tightly stretched skin, or twangs with a palmetto leaf plectrum, loud or soft, according to the subject of the discourse at that point. the dress of this class--the one most frequently met with--is usually of the plainest, if not of the scantiest; a tattered brown jelláb (a hooded woollen cloak) and a camel's-hair cord round the tanned and shaven skull are the garments which strike the eye. waving bare arms and sinewy legs, with a wild, keen-featured face, lit up by flashing eyes, complete the picture. this is the man from whom to learn of love and fighting, of beautiful women and hairbreadth escapes, the whole on the model of the "thousand nights and a night," of which versions more or less recognizable may now and again be heard from his lips. commencing with plenty of tambourine, and a few suggestive hints of what is to follow, he gathers around him a motley audience, the first comers squatting in a circle, and later arrivals standing behind. gradually their excitement is aroused, and as their interest grows, the realistic semi-acting and the earnest mien of the performer rivet every eye upon him. suddenly his wild gesticulations cease at the entrancing point. one step more for liberty, one blow, and the charming prize would be in the possession of her adorer. now is the time to "cash up." with a pious reference to "our lord mohammed--the prayer of god be on him, and peace,"--and an invocation of a local patron saint or other equally revered defunct, an appeal is made to the pockets of the faithful "for the sake of mulai abd el káder"--"lord slave-of-the-able." arousing as from a trance, the eager listeners instinctively commence to feel in their pockets for the balance from the day's bargaining; and as every blessing from the legion of saints who would fill the mohammedan calendar if there were one is invoked on the cheerful giver, one by one throws down his hard-earned coppers--one or two--and as if realizing what he has parted with, turns away with a long-drawn breath to untether his beasts, and set off home. but exciting as are these acknowledged fictions, specimens are so familiar to most readers from the pages of the collection referred to that much more interest will be felt in an attempt to reproduce one of a higher type, pseudo-historical, and alleged to be true. such narratives exhibit much of native character, and shades of thought unencountered save in daily intercourse with the people. let us, therefore, seize the opportunity of a visit from a noted _raconteur_ and reputed poet to hear his story. tame, indeed, would be the result of an endeavour to transfer to black and white the animated tones and gestures of the narrator, which the imagination of the reader must supply. [illustration: _photograph by a. lennox, esq._ group around performers, marrÁkesh.] the initial "voluntary" by the "orchestra" has ended; every eye is directed towards the central figure, this time arrayed in ample turban, white jelláb and yellow slippers, with a face betokening a lucrative profession. after a moment's silence he commences the history of-- "mulai abd el kÁder and the monk of monks." "the thrones of the nazarenes were once in number sixty, but the star of the prophet of god--the prayer of god be on him, and peace--was in the ascendant, and the religion of resignation [islám] was everywhere victorious. many of the occupiers of those thrones had either submitted to the lieutenant ['caliph'] of our lord, and become muslimeen, or had been vanquished by force of arms. the others were terrified, and a general assembly was convoked to see what was to be done. as the rulers saw they were helpless against the decree of god, they called for their monks to advise them. the result of the conference was that it was decided to invite the resigned ones (muslimeen) to a discussion on their religious differences, on the understanding that whichever was victorious should be thenceforth supreme. "the leader of the faithful having summoned his wise men, their opinion was asked. 'o victorious of god,' they with one voice replied, 'since god, the high and blessed, is our king, what have we to fear? having on our side the truth revealed in the "book to be read" [the korán] by the hand of the messenger of god--the prayer of god be on him, and peace--we _must_ prevail. let us willingly accept their proposal.' an early day was accordingly fixed for the decisive contest, and each party marshalled its forces. at the appointed time they met, a great crowd on either side, and it was asked which should begin. knowing that victory was on his side, the lieutenant of the prophet--the prayer of god be on him, and peace--replied, 'since ye have desired this meeting, open ye the discussion.' "then the chief of the nazarene kings made answer, 'but we are here so many gathered together, that if we commence to dispute all round we shall not finish by the judgement day. let each party therefore choose its wisest man, and let the two debate before us, the remainder judging the result.' "'well hast thou spoken,' said the leader of the faithful; 'be it even so.' then the learned among the resigned selected our lord abd el káder of baghdad,[ ] a man renowned the world over for piety and for the depth of his learning. now a prayer [fátihah] for mulai abd el káder!" [ : so called because buried near that city. for an account of his life, and view of his mausoleum, see "the moors," pp. - .] here the speaker, extending his open palms side by side before him, as if to receive a blessing thereon, is copied by the by-standers.[ ] "in the name of god, the pitying, the pitiful!" all draw their hands down their faces, and, if they boast beards, end by stroking them out. [ : "the hands are raised in order to catch a blessing in them, and are afterwards drawn over the face to transfer it to every part of the body."--hughes, "dictionary of islám."] [ : a term applied by mohammedans to christians on account of a mistaken conception of the doctrine of the trinity.] "then the polytheists[ ] likewise chose their man, one held among them in the highest esteem, well read and wise, a monk of monks. between these two, then, the controversy commenced. as already agreed, the nazarene was the first to question: "'how far is it from the earth to the first heaven?' "'five hundred years.' "'and thence to the second heaven?' "'five hundred years.' "'thence to the third?' "'five hundred years.' "'thence to the fourth?' "'five hundred years.' "'thence to the fifth?' "'five hundred years.' "'thence to the sixth?' "'five hundred years.' "'thence to the seventh?' "'five hundred years.' "'and from mekka to jerusalem?' "'forty days.' "'add up the whole.' "'three thousand, five hundred years, and forty days.' "'in his famous ride on el borak [lightning] where did mohammed go?' "'from the sacred temple [of mekka] to the further temple [of jerusalem], and from the holy house [jerusalem] to the seventh heaven, and the presence of god.'[ ] [ : this was the occasion on which mohammed visited the seven heavens under the care of gabriel, riding on an ass so restive that he had to be bribed with a promise of paradise.] "'how long did this take?' "'the tenth of one night.' "'did he find his bed still warm on his return?' "'yes.' "'dost thou think such a thing possible; to travel three thousand five hundred years and back, and find one's bed still warm on returning?' "'canst thou play chess?' then asked mulai abd el káder. "'of course i can,' said the monk, surprised. "'then, wilt thou play with me?' "'certainly not,' replied the monk, indignantly. 'dost thou think me a fool, to come here to discuss the science of religion, and to be put off with a game of chess?' "'then thou acknowledgest thyself beaten; thou hast said thou couldst play chess, yet thou darest not measure thy skill at it with me. thy refusal proves thy lie.' "'nay, then, since thou takest it that way, i will consent to a match, but under protest.' "so the board was brought, and the players seated themselves. move, move, move, went the pieces; kings and queens, elephants, rooks, and knights, with the soldiers everywhere. one by one they disappeared, as the fight grew fast and furious. but mulai abd el káder had another object in view than the routing of his antagonist at a game of chess. by the exercise of his superhuman power he transported the monk to 'the empty third' [of the world], while his image remained before him at the board, to all appearances still absorbed in the contest. "meanwhile the monk could not tell where he was, but being oppressed with a sense of severe thirst, rose from where he sat, and made for a rising ground near by, whence he hoped to be able to descry some signs of vegetation, which should denote the presence of water. giddy and tired out, he approached the top, when what was his joy to see a city surrounded by palms but a short way off! with a cry of delight he quickened his steps and approached the gate. as he did so, a party of seven men in gorgeous apparel of wool and silk came out of the gate, each with a staff in his hand. "on meeting him they offered him the salutation of the faithful, but he did not return it. 'who mayest _thou_ be,' they asked, 'who dost not wish peace to the resigned?' [muslimeen]. 'my lords,' he made answer, 'i am a monk of the nazarenes, i merely seek water to quench my thirst.' "'but he who comes here must resign himself [to mohammedanism] or suffer the consequences. testify that 'there is no god but god, and mohammed is his messenger!' 'never,' he replied; and immediately they threw him on the ground and flogged him with their staves till he cried for mercy. 'stop!' he implored. 'i will testify.' no sooner had he done so than they ceased their blows, and raising him up gave him water to drink. then, tearing his monkish robe to shreds, each deprived himself of a garment to dress him becomingly. having re-entered the city they repaired to the judge. "'my lord,' they said, 'we bring before thee a brother resigned, once a monk of the monks, now a follower of the prophet, our lord--the prayer of god be on him, and peace. we pray thee to accept his testimony and record it in due form.' "'welcome to thee; testify!' exclaimed the kádi, turning to the convert. then, holding up his forefinger, the quondam monk witnessed to the truth of the unity [of god]. 'call for a barber!' cried the kádi; and a barber was brought. seven believers of repute stood round while the deed was done, and the convert rose a circumcised muslim--blessed be god. "then came forward a notable man of that town, pious, worthy, and rich, respected of all, who said, addressing the kádi: 'my lord--may god bless thy days,--thou knowest, all these worthy ones know, who and what i am. in the interests of religion and to the honour of god, i ask leave to adopt this brother newly resigned. what is mine shall be his to share with my own sons, and the care i bestow on them and their education shall be bestowed equally on him. god is witness.' 'well said; so be it,' replied the learned judge; 'henceforth he is a member of thy family.' "so to the hospitable roof of this pious one went the convert. a tutor was obtained for him, and he commenced to taste the riches of the wisdom of the arab. day after day he sat and studied, toiling faithfully, till teacher after teacher had to be procured, as he exhausted the stores of each in succession. so he read: first the book 'to be read' [the korán], till he could repeat it faultlessly, then the works of the poets, kálûn, el mikki, el bisri, and sîdi hamzah; then the 'lesser' and 'greater ten.'[ ] then he commenced at sîdi íbnu ashîr, following on through the ajrûmiyah,[ ] and the alfîyah,[ ] to the commentaries of sîdi khalîl, of the sheïkh el bokhári, and of ibnu asîm, till there was nothing left to learn. [ : grammarians and commentators of the korán.] [ : a preliminary work on rhetoric.] [ : the "thousand verses" of grammar.] "thus he continued growing in wisdom and honour, the first year, the second year, the third year, even to the twentieth year, till no one could compete with him. then the judge of judges of that country died, and a successor was sought for, but all allowed that no one's claims equalled those of the erstwhile monk. so he was summoned to fill the post, but was disqualified as unmarried. when they inquired if he was willing to do his duty in this respect, and he replied that he was, the father of the most beautiful girl in the city bestowed her on him, and that she might not be portionless, the chief men of the place vied one with another in heaping riches upon him. so he became judge of judges, rich, happy, revered. "and there was born unto him one son, then a second son, and even a third son. and there was born unto him a daughter, then a second daughter, and even a third daughter. so he prospered and increased. and to his sons were born sons, one, two, three, and four, and daughters withal. and his daughters were given in marriage to the elders of that country, and with them it was likewise. "now there came a day, a great feast day, when all his descendants came before him with their compliments and offerings, some small, some great, each receiving tenfold in return, garments of fine spun wool and silk, and other articles of value. "when the ceremony was over he went outside the town to walk alone, and approached the spot whence he had first descried what had so long since been his home. as he sat again upon that well-remembered spot, and glanced back at the many years which had elapsed since last he was there, a party of the faithful drew near. he offered the customary salute of 'peace be on you,' but they simply stared in return. presently one of them brusquely asked what he was doing there, and he explained who he was. but they laughed incredulously, and then he noticed that once again he was clad in robe and cowl, with a cord round his waist. they taunted him as a liar, but he re-affirmed his statements, and related his history. he counted up the years since he had resigned himself, telling of his children and children's children. "'wouldst thou know them if you sawst them?' asked the strangers. 'indeed i would,' was the reply, 'but they would know me first.' "'and you are really circumcised? we'll see!' was their next exclamation. just then a caravan appeared, wending its way across the plain, and the travellers hailed it. as he looked up at the shout, he saw mulai abd el káder still sitting opposite him at the chess-board, reminding him that it was his move. he had been recounting his experiences for the last half century to mulai abd el káder himself, and to the wise ones of both creeds who surrounded them! "indeed it was too true, and he had to acknowledge that the events of a life-time had been crowded into a period undefinably minute, by the god-sent power of my lord slave-of-the-able [mulai abd el káder]. "now, where is the good man and true who reveres the name of this holy one? who will say a prayer to mulai abd el káder?" here the narrator extends his palms as before, and all follow him in the motion of drawing them down his face. "in the name of the pitying and pitiful! now another!" the performance is repeated. "who is willing to yield himself wholly and entirely to mulai abd el káder? who will dedicate himself from the soles of his feet to the crown of his head? another prayer!" another repetition of the performance. "now let those devoted men earn the effectual prayers of that holy one by offering their silver in his name. nothing less than a peseta[ ] will do. that's right," as one of the bystanders throws down the coin specified. [ : about eightpence, a labourer's daily wage in tangier.] "now let us implore the blessing of god and mulai abd el káder on the head of this liberal believer." the palm performance is once more gone through. the earnestness with which he does it this time induces more to follow suit, and blessings on them also are besought in the same fashion. "now, my friends, which among you will do business with the palms of all these faithful ones? pay a peseta and buy the prayers of them all. now then, deal them out, and purchase happiness." so the appeal goes wearisomely on. as no more pesetas are seen to be forthcoming, a shift is made with reals--nominally - / _d._ pieces--the story-teller asking those who cannot afford more to make up first one dollar and then another, turning naïvely to his assistant to ask if they haven't obtained enough yet, as though it were all for them. as they reply that more is needed, he redoubles his appeals and prayers, threading his way in and out among the crowd, making direct for each well-dressed individual with a confidence which renders flight or refusal a shame. meanwhile the "orchestra" has struck up, and only pauses when the "professor" returns to the centre of the circle to call on all present to unite in prayers for the givers. a few coppers which have been tossed to his feet are distributed scornfully amongst half a dozen beggars, in various stages of filthy wretchedness and deformity, who have collected on the ground at one side. here a water-carrier makes his appearance, with his goat-skin "bottle" and tinkling bell--a swarthy soudanese in most tattered garb. the players and many listeners having been duly refreshed for the veriest trifle, the performance continues. a prayer is even said for the solitary european among the crowd, on his being successfully solicited for his quota, and another for his father at the request of some of the crowd, who style him the "friend of the moors." at last a resort is made to coppers, and when the story-teller condescendingly consents to receive even such trifles in return for prayers, from those who cannot afford more, quite a pattering shower falls at his feet, which is supplemented by a further hand-to-hand collection. in all, between four and five dollars must have been received--not a bad remuneration for an hour's work! already the ring has been thinning; now there is a general uprising, and in a few moments the scene is completely changed, the entertainer lost among the entertained, for the sun has disappeared below yon hill, and in a few moments night will fall. xviii snake-charming "whom a snake has bitten starts from a rope." _moorish proverb._ descriptions of this art remembered in a book for boys read years before had prepared me for the most wonderful scenes, and when i first watched the performance with snakes which delights the moors i was disappointed. yet often as i might look on, there was nothing else to see, save in the faces and gestures of the crowd, who with child-like simplicity followed every step as though for the first time. these have for me a never-ending fascination. thus it is that the familiar sounds of rapid and spasmodic beating on a tambourine, which tell that the charmer is collecting an audience, still prove an irresistible attraction for me as well. the ring in which i find myself is just a reproduction of that surrounding the story-teller of yester-e'en, but where his musicians sat there is a wilder group, more striking still in their appearance. this time, also, the instruments are of another class, two or three of the plainest sheep-skin tambourines with two gut strings across the centre under the parchment, which gives them a peculiar twanging sound; and a couple of reeds, mere canes pierced with holes, each provided with a mouthpiece made of half an inch of flattened reed. nothing is needed to add to the discord as all three are vigorously plied with cheek and palm. the principal actor has an appearance of studied weirdness as he gesticulates wildly and calls on god to protect him against the venom of his pets. contrary to the general custom of the country, he has let his black hair grow till it streams over his shoulders in matted locks. his garb is of the simplest, a dirty white shirt over drawers of similar hue completing his outfit. selecting a convenient stone as a seat, notebook in hand, i make up my mind to see the thing through. the "music" having continued five or ten minutes with the desired result of attracting a circle of passers-by, the actual performance is now to commence. on the ground in the centre lies a spare tambourine, and on one side are the two cloth-covered bottle-shaped baskets containing the snakes. the chief charmer now advances, commencing to step round the ring with occasional beats on his tambourine, rolling his eyes and looking demented. presently, having reached a climax of rapid beating and pacing, he suddenly stops in the centre with an extra "bang!" "now, every man who believes in our lord mohammed ben aïsa,[ ] say with me a fátihah." [ : for the history of this man and his snake-charming followers see "the moors," p. .] each of the onlookers extending his palms side by side before his face, they repeat the prayer in a sing-song voice, and as it concludes with a loud "ameen," the charmer gives an agonized cry, as though deeply wrought upon. "ah rijál el blád" ("oh saints of the town!"), he shouts, as he recommences his tambourining, this time even with increased vigour, beating the ground with his feet, and working his body up and down in a most extraordinary manner. the two others are also playing, and the noise is deafening. the chief figure appears to be raving mad; his starting eyes, his lithe and supple figure, and his streaming hair, give him the air of one possessed. his face is a study, a combination of fierceness and madness, yet of good-nature. at last he sinks down exhausted, but after a moment rises and advances to the centre of the circle, picking up a tambourine. "now, sîdi aïsa"--turning to one of the musicians, whom he motions to cease their din--"what do you think happens to the man who puts a coin in there? why, the holy saint, our lord mohammed ben aïsa, puts a ring round him like that," drawing a ring round a stone on the ground. "is it not so?" "it is, ameen," from sidi aïsa. "and what happens to him in the day time?" "he is in the hands of god, and his people too." "and in the night time?" "he is in the hands of god, and his people too." "and when at home?" "he is in the hands of god, and his people too." "and when abroad?" "he is in the hands of god, and his people too." at this a copper coin is thrown into the ring, and the charmer replies, "now he who is master of sea and land, my lord abd el káder el jîláni,[ ] bless the giver of that coin! now, for the love of god and of his blessed prophet, i offer a prayer for that generous one." here the operation of passing their hands down their faces is performed by all. [ : the surname of the baghdád saint.] "now, there's another,"--as a coin falls--"and from a child, too! god bless thee now, my son. may my lord ben aïsa, my lord abd es-slám, and my lord abd el káder, protect and keep thee!" then, as more coppers fall, similar blessings are invoked upon the donors, interspersed with catechising of the musicians with a view to making known the advantages to be reaped by giving something. at last, as nothing more seems to be forthcoming, the performance proper is proceeded with, and the charmer commences to dance on one leg, to a terrible din from the tambourines. then he pauses, and summons a little boy from the audience, seating him in the midst, adjuring him to behave himself, to do as he is bid, and to have faith in "our lord ben aïsa." then, seating himself behind the boy, he places his lips against his skull, and blows repeatedly, coming round to the front to look at the lad, to see if he is sufficiently affected, and returning to puff again. finally he bites off a piece of the boy's cloak, and chews it. now he wets his finger in his mouth, and after putting it into the dust makes lines across his legs and arms, all the time calling on his patron saint; next holding the piece of cloth in his hands and walking round the ring for all to see it. "come hither," he says to a bystander; "search my mouth and see if there be anything there." the search is conducted as a farmer would examine a horse's mouth, with the result that it is declared empty. "now i call on the prophet to witness that there is no deception," as he once more restores the piece of cloth to his mouth, and pokes his fingers into his neck, drawing them now up his face. "enough!" the voices of the musicians, who have for the latter part of the time been giving forth a drawling chorus, cease, but the din of the tambourines continues, while the performer dances wildly, till he stops before the lad on the ground, and takes from his mouth first one date and then another, which the lad is told to eat, and does so, the on-lookers fully convinced that they were transformed from the rag. now it is the turn of one of the musicians to come forward, his place being taken by the retiring performer, after he has made another collection in the manner already described. "he who believes in god and in the power of our lord mohammed ben aïsa, say with me a fátihah," cries the new man, extending his palms turned upwards before him to receive the blessings he asks, and then brings one of the snake-baskets forward, plunging his hand into its sack-like mouth, and sharply drawing it out a time or two, as if afraid of being bitten. finally he pulls the head of one of the reptiles through, and leaves it there, darting out its fangs, while he snatches up and wildly beats the tambourine by his side. he now seizes the snake by the neck, and pulls it right out, the people starting back as it coils round in the ring, or uncoils and makes a plunge towards someone. now he pulls out another, and hangs it round his neck, saying, "i take refuge with the saint who was dead and is alive, with our lord mohammed son of aïsa, and with the most holy abd el káder el jîláni, king of land and sea. now, let every one who believes bear witness with me and say a fátihah!" "say a fátihah!" echoes one of the still noisy musicians, by way of chorus. "now may our lord abd el káder see the man who makes a contribution with his eyes." _chorus:_ "with his eyes!" "and may his heart find rest, and our lord abd er-rahmán protect him!" _chorus:_ "protect him!" "now, i call you to witness, i bargain with our lord abd el káder for a forfeit!" _chorus:_ "for a forfeit!" a copper is thrown into the ring, and as he picks it up and hands it to the musician, the performer exclaims-- "take this, see, and at the last day may the giver of it see our lord abd el káder before him!" _chorus:_ "before him!" "may he ever be blessed, whether present or absent!" _chorus:_ "present or absent!" "who wishes to have a good conscience and a clean heart? oh, ye beloved of the lord! see, take from that dear one" (who has thrown down a copper). the contributions now apparently sufficing for the present, the performance proceeds, but the crowd having edged a little too close, it is first necessary to increase the space in the centre by swinging one of the reptiles round by the tail, whereat all start back. "ah! you may well be afraid!" exclaims the charmer. "their fangs mean death, if you only knew it, but for the mercies of my lord, the son of aïsa." "ameen!" responds the chorus. hereupon he proceeds to direct the head of the snake to his mouth, and caressingly invites it to enter. darting from side to side, it finally makes a plunge down his throat, whereon the strangers shudder, and the _habitués_ look with triumphant awe. wildly he spins on one foot that all may see, still holding the creature by the neck with one hand, and by the tail with the other. at length, having allowed the greater part of its length to disappear in this uncanny manner, he proceeds to withdraw it, the head emerging with the sound of a cork from a bottle. the sight has not been pleasant, but the audience, transfixed, gives a sigh of relief as the tambourines strike up again, and the reed chimes in deafeningly. "who says they are harmless? who says their fangs are extracted?" challenges the performer. "look here!" the seemingly angry snake has now fastened on his arm, and is permitted to draw blood, as though in reward for its recent treatment. "is any incredulous here? shall i try it on thee?" the individual addressed, a poverty-stricken youth whose place was doubtless required for some more promising customer behind, flees in terror, as the gaping jaws approach him. one and another having been similarly dismissed from points of vantage, and a redistribution of front seats effected, the incredulous are once more tauntingly addressed and challenged. this time the challenge is accepted by a foreigner, who hands in a chicken held by its wings. "so? blessed be god! its doom is sealed if it comes within reach of the snake. see here!" all eagerly press forward, many rising to their feet, and it is difficult to see over their shoulders the next gruesome act. the reptile, held by the neck in the performer's right hand, is shown the chicken in the other, and annoyed by having it poked in its face, too frightened to perceive what is happening. in a moment the fangs are shot out, and a wound inflicted in the exposed part under the wing. blood appears, and the bird is thrown down, being held in place by the performer's foot till in a few minutes its struggles cease. then, picking the victim up, he holds it aloft by one wing to show its condition, and exultingly calls for a fátihah. it is enough: my patience is exhausted, and i rise to make off with stiff knees, content at last with what i have seen and heard of the "charming" of snakes in morocco. [illustration: _cavilla, photo., tangier._ a morocco fandak (caravansarai).] xix in a moorish cafÉ "a little from a friend is much." _moorish proverb._ to the passer-by, least of all to the european, there is nothing in its external appearance to recommend old hashmi's _café_. from the street, indeed, it is hardly visible, for it lies within the threshold of a caravansarai or fandak, in which beasts are tethered, goods accumulated and travellers housed, and of which the general appearance is that of a neglected farm-yard. round an open court a colonnade supports the balcony by which rooms on the upper story are approached, a narrow staircase in the corner leading right up to the terraced roof. in the daytime the sole occupants of the rooms are women whose partners for the time being have securely locked them in before going to work. beside the lofty archway forming the gate of this strange hostelry, is hashmi's stall, at which green tea or a sweet, pea-soupy preparation of coffee may be had at all hours of the day, but the _café_ proper, gloomy by daylight, lies through the door behind. here, of an evening, the candles lit, his regular customers gather with tiny pipes, indulging in flowing talk. each has before him his harmless glass, as he squats or reclines on the rush-matted floor. nothing of importance occurs in the city but is within a little made known here with as much certainty as if the proprietor subscribed to an evening paper. any man who has something fresh to tell, who can interest or amuse the company, and by his frequent visits give the house a name, is always welcome, and will find a glass awaiting him whenever he chooses to come. old hashmi knows his business, and if the evening that i was there may be taken as a sample, he deserves success. that night he was in the best of humours. his house was full and trade brisk. fattah, a negro, was keeping the house merry, so in view of coming demands, he brewed a fresh pot of real "mekkan." the surroundings were grimy, and outside the rain came down in torrents: but that was a decided advantage, since it not only drove men indoors, but helped to keep them there. mesaôd, the one-eyed, had finished an elaborate tuning of his two-stringed banjo, his ginbri--a home-made instrument--and was proceeding to arrive at a convenient pitch of voice for his song. with a strong nasal accent he commenced reciting the loves of si marzak and his fair azîzah: how he addressed her in the fondest of language, and how she replied by caresses. when he came to the chorus they all chimed in, for the most part to their own tune and time, as they rocked to and fro, some clapping, some beating their thighs, and all applauding at the end. the whole ballad would not bear translation--for english ears,--and the scanty portion which may be given has lost its rhythm and cadence by the change, for arabic is very soft and beautiful to those who understand it. the time has come when azîzah, having quarrelled with si marzak in a fit of perhaps too well-founded jealousy, desires to "make it up again," and thus addresses her beloved-- "oh, how i have followed thy attractiveness, and halted between give and take! oh, how i'd from evil have protected thee by my advice, hadst thou but heeded it! yet to-day taste, o my master, of the love that thou hast taught to me! "oh, how i have longed for the pleasure of thy visits, and poured out bitter tears for thee; until at last the sad truth dawned on me that of thy choice thou didst put me aside! yet to-day taste, o my master, of the love that thou hast taught to me! "thou wast sweeter than honey to me, but thou hast become more bitter than gall. is it thus thou beginnest the world? beware lest thou make me thy foe! yet to-day taste, o my master, of the love that thou hast taught to me! "i have hitherto been but a name to thee, and thou took'st to thy bosom a snake, but to-day i perceive thou'st a fancy for me: o god, i will not be deceived! yes, to-day taste, o my master, of the love that thou hast taught to me! "thou know'st my complaint and my only cure: why, then, wilt thou heal me not? thou canst do so to-day, o my master, and save me from all further woe. yes, to-day taste, o my master, of the love that thou hast taught to me!" to which the hard-pressed swain replies-- "of a truth thine eyes have bewitched me, for death itself is in fear of them: and thine eyebrows, like two logs of wood, have battered me each in its turn. so if thou sayest die, i'll die; and for god shall my sacrifice be! "i have neither yet died nor abandoned hope, though slumber at night i ne'er know. with the staff of deliverance still afar off, so that all the world knows of my woe. and if thou sayest die, i'll die, but for god shall my sacrifice be!" while the singing was proceeding sáïd and drees had been indulging in a game of draughts, and as it ceased their voices could be heard in eager play. "call thyself a mallem (master). there, thy father was bewitched by a hyena; there, and there again!" shouted sáïd, as he swept a first, a second and a third of his opponent's pieces from the board. but drees was equal with him in another move. "so, verily, thou art my master! let us, then, praise god for thy wisdom: thou art like indeed unto him who verily shot the fox, but who killed his own cow with the second shot! see, thus i teach thee to boast before thy betters: ha, i laugh at thee, i ride the donkey on thy head. i shave that beard of thine!" he ejaculated, taking one piece after another from his adversary, as the result of an incautious move. the board had the appearance of a well-kicked footstool, and the "men"--called "dogs" in barbary--were more like baseless chess pawns. the play was as unlike that of europeans as possible; the moves from "room" to "room" were of lightning swiftness, and accompanied by a running fire of slang ejaculations, chiefly sarcastic, but, on the whole, enlivened with a vein of playful humour not to be englished politely. just as the onlookers would become interested in the progress of one or the other, a too rapid advance by either would result in an incomprehensible wholesale clearing of the board by his opponent's sleeve. yet without a stop the pieces would be replaced in order, and a new game commenced, the vanquished too proud to acknowledge that he did not quite see how the victor had won. then fattah, whose _forte_ was mimicry, attracted the attention of the company by a representation of a fat wazeer at prayers. amid roars of laughter he succeeded in rising to his feet with the help of those beside him, who had still to lend occasional support, as his knees threatened to give way under his apparently ponderous carcase. before and behind, his shirt was well stuffed with cushions, and the sides were not forgotten. his cheeks were puffed out to the utmost, and his eyes rolled superbly. at last the moment came for him to go on his knees, when he had to be let gently down by those near him, but his efforts to bow his head, now top-heavy with a couple of shirts for a turban, were most ludicrous, as he fell on one side in apparently vain endeavours. the spectators roared with laughter till the tears coursed down their cheeks; but that black and solemn face remained unmoved, and at the end of the prescribed motions the pseudo-great man apparently fell into slumber as heavy as himself, and snored in a style that a prize pig might have envied. "Áfuk! Áfuk!" the deafening bravos resounded, for fattah had excelled himself, and was amply rewarded by the collection which followed. a tale was next demanded from a jovial man of fez, who, nothing loth, began at once-- "evening was falling as across the plain of háhá trudged a weary traveller. the cold wind whistled through his tattered garments. the path grew dim before his eyes. the stars came out one by one, but no star of hope shone for him. he was faint and hungry. his feet were sore. his head ached. he shivered. "'may god have pity on me!' he muttered. "god heard him. a few minutes later he descried an earthly star--a solitary light was twinkling on the distant hillside. thitherward he turned his steps. "hope rose within him. his step grew brisk. the way seemed clear. onward he pushed. "presently he could make out the huts of a village. "'thank god!' he cried; but still he had no supper. "his empty stomach clamoured. his purse was empty also. the fiendish dogs of the village yelped at him. he paused discomfited. he called. "widow záïdah stood before her light. "'who's there?' "'a god-guest' "'in god's name, then, welcome! silence there, curs!' "abd el hakk approached. "'god bless thee, my mother, and repay thee a thousand-fold!' "but záïdah herself was poor. her property consisted only of a hut and some fowls. she set before him eggs--two, hard-boiled,--bread also. he thanked god. he ate. "'yes, god will repay,' she said. "next day abd el hakk passed on to marrákesh. there god blessed him. years passed on; one, two, three, four, five, six, seven. abd el hakk was rich. melûdi the lawyer disliked him. said he to widow záïdah-- "'abd el hakk, whom once thou succouredst, is rich. the two eggs were never yet paid for. hadst thou not given them to him they would have become two chickens. these would each have laid hundreds. those hundreds, when hatched, would have laid their thousands. in seven years, think to what amount abd el hakk is indebted to thee. sue him.' "widow záïdah listened. what is more, she acted. abd el hakk failed to appear to rebut the claim. he was worth no more. "'why is the defendant not here?' asked the judge. "'my lord,' said his attorney, 'he is gone to sow boiled beans.' "'boiled beans!' "'boiled beans, my lord.' "'is he mad?' "'he is very wise, my lord.' "'thou mockest.' "'my lord, if boiled eggs can be hatched, sure boiled beans will grow!' "'dismissed with costs!' "the tree that bends with every wind that blows will seldom stand upright." * * * * * a round of applause greeted the clever tale, of which the speaker's gestures had told even more than his words. but the merriment of the company only began there, for forthwith a babel of tongues was occupied in the discussion of all the points of the case, in imagining every impossible or humorous alternative, and laughter resounded on every side, as the glasses were quickly refilled with an innocent drink. xx the medicine-man "wine is a key to all evil." _moorish proverb._ under the glare of an african sun, its rays, however, tempered by a fresh atlantic breeze; no roof to his consulting-room save the sky, no walls surrounding him to keep off idle starers like ourselves; by the roadside sits a native doctor of repute. his costume is that of half the crowd around, outwardly consisting of a well-worn brown woollen cloak with a hood pulled over his head, from beneath the skirts of which protrude his muddy feet. by his side lies the basket containing his supplies and less delicate instruments; the finer ones we see him draw from a capacious wallet of leather beneath his cloak. though personally somewhat gaunt, he is nevertheless a jolly-looking character, totally free from that would-be professional air assumed by some of our medical students to hide lack of experience; for he, empiric though he be, has no idea of any of his own shortcomings, and greets us with an easy smile. he is seated on the ground, hugging his knees till his attention is drawn to us, when, observing our gaze at his lancets on the ground, he picks one up to show it. both are of rude construction, merely pieces of flat steel filed to double-edged points, and protected by two flaps slightly bigger, in the one case of bone, in the other of brass. a loose rivet holding all together at one end completes the instrument. the brass one he says was made by a jew in fez out of an old clock; the other by a jew in marrákesh. for the purpose of making scratches for cupping he has a piece of flat steel about half an inch wide, sharpened across the end chisel-fashion. then he has a piece of an old razor-blade tied to a stick with a string. that this is sharp he soon demonstrates by skilfully shaving an old man's head, after only damping the eighth of an inch stub with which it is covered. a stone and a bit of leather, supplemented by the calves of his legs, or his biceps, serve to keep the edges in condition. from a finger-shaped leather bag in his satchel he produces an antiquated pair of tooth extractors, a small pair of forceps for pulling out thorns, and a stiletto. the first-named article, he informs us, came from france to tafilált, his home, _viâ_ tlemçen; it is of the design known as "fox's claw," and he explains to us that the difference between the french and the english article is that the one has no spring to keep the jaws open, while the other has. a far more formidable instrument is the genuine native contrivance, a sort of exaggerated corkscrew without a point. but here comes a patient to be treated. he troubles the doctor with no diagnosis, asking only to be bled. he is a youth of medium height, bronzed by the sun. telling him to sit down and bare his right arm, the operator feels it well up and down, and then places the tips of the patient's fingers on the ground, bidding him not to move. pouring out a little water into a metal dish, he washes the arm on the inside of the elbow, drying it with his cloak. next he ties a piece of list round the upper arm as tightly as he can, and selecting one of the lancets, makes an incision into the vein which the washing has rendered visible. a bright stream issues, squirting into the air some fifteen inches; it is soon, however, directed into a tin soup-plate holding fourteen ounces, as we ascertained by measurement. the operator washes and dries his lancet, wraps the two in a white rag, and puts them into a piece of cane which forms an excellent case. meanwhile the plate has filled, and he turns his attention once more to the patient. one or two passers-by have stopped, like ourselves, to look on. "i knew a man," says one, "who was being bled like that, and kept on saying, 'take a little more,' till he fell back dead in our arms." "yes," chimes in another, "i have heard of such cases; it is very dangerous." although the patient is evidently growing very nervous, our surgical friend affects supreme indifference to all this tittle-tattle, and after a while removes the bandage, bending the forearm inward, with the effect of somewhat checking the flow of blood. when he has bound up with list the cane that holds the lancets, he closes the forearm back entirely, so that the flow is stopped. opening it again a little, he wipes a sponge over the aperture a few times, and closes it with his thumb. then he binds a bit of filthy rag round the arm, twisting it above and below the elbow alternately, and crossing over the incision each time. when this is done, he sends the patient to throw away the blood and wash the plate, receiving for the whole operation the sum of three half-pence. another patient is waiting his turn, an old man desiring to be bled behind the ears for headache. after shaving two patches for the purpose, the "bleeder," as he is justly called, makes eighteen scratches close together, about half an inch long. over these he places a brass cup of the shape of a high italian hat without the brim. from near the edge of this protrudes a long brass tube with a piece of leather round and over the end. this the operator sucks to create a vacuum, the moistened leather closing like a valve, which leaves the cup hanging _in situ_. repeating this on the other side, he empties the first cup of the blood which has by this time accumulated in it, and so on alternately, till he has drawn off what appears to him to be sufficient. all that remains to be done is to wipe the wounds and receive the fee. some years ago such a worthy as this earned quite a reputation for exorcising devils in southern morocco. his mode of procedure was brief, but as a rule effective. the patient was laid on the ground before the wise man's tent, face downward, and after reading certain mystic and unintelligible passages, selected from one of the ponderous tomes which form a prominent part of the "doctor's" stock-in-trade, he solemnly ordered two or three men to hold the sufferer down while two more thrashed him till they were tired. if, when released, the patient showed the least sign of returning violence, or complained that the whole affair was a fraud, it was taken as a sure sign that he had not had enough, and he was forthwith seized again and the dose repeated till he had learned that discretion was the better part of valour, and slunk off, perhaps a wiser, certainly a sadder man. it is said, and i do not doubt it--though it is more than most medical men can say of their patients--that no one was ever known to return in quest of further treatment. all this, however, is nothing compared with the moor's love of fire as a universal panacea. not only for his mules and his horses, but also for himself and his family, cauterization is in high repute, especially as he estimates the value of a remedy as much by its immediate and visible action as by its ultimate effects. the "fire-doctor" is therefore even a greater character in his way than the "bleeder," whom we have just visited. his outfit includes a collection of queer-shaped irons designed to cauterize different parts of the body, a portable brazier, and bellows made from a goat-skin with a piece of board at one side wherewith to press and expel the air through a tube on the other side. he, too, sits by the roadside, and disposes of his groaning though wonderfully enduring "patients" much as did his rival of the lancet. rohlfs, a german doctor who explored parts of morocco in the garb of a native, exercising what he could of his profession for a livelihood, tells how he earned a considerable reputation by the introduction of "cold fire" (lunar caustic) as a rival to the original style; and pellow, an english slave who made his escape in , found cayenne pepper of great assistance in ingratiating himself with the moors in this way, and even in delaying a pursuer suffering from ophthalmia by blowing a little into his eyes before his identity was discovered. in extenuation of this trick, however, it must be borne in mind that cayenne pepper is an accredited moorish remedy for ophthalmia, being placed on the eyelids, though it is only a mixture of canary seed and sugar that is blown in. every european traveller in morocco is supposed to know something about medicine, and many have been my own amusing experiences in this direction. nothing that i used gave me greater fame than a bottle of oil of cantharides, the contents of which i applied freely behind the ears or upon the temples of such victims of ophthalmia as submitted themselves to my tender mercies. only i found that when my first patient began to dance with the joy and pain of the noble blister which shortly arose, so many people fancied they needed like treatment that i was obliged to restrict the use of so popular a cure to special cases. one branch of moroccan medicine consists in exorcising devils, of which a most amusing instance once came under my notice. an english gentleman gave one of his servants who complained of being troubled with these unwelcome guests two good-sized doses of tartaric acid and carbonate of soda a second apart. the immediate exit of the devil was so apparent that the fame of the prescriber as a medical man was made at once. but many of the cases which the amateur is called upon to treat are much more difficult to satisfy than this. superstition is so strongly mingled with the native ideas of disease,--of being possessed,--that the two can hardly be separated. during an epidemic of cholera, for instance, the people keep as close as possible to walls, and avoid sand-hills, for fear of "catching devils." all disease is indeed more or less ascribed to satanic agency, and in morocco that practitioner is most in repute who claims to attack this cause of the malady rather than its effect. although the moors have a certain rudimentary acquaintance with simple medicinal agents--and how rudimentary that acquaintance is, will better appear from what is to follow,--in all their pharmacop[oe]ia no remedy is so often recommended or so implicitly relied on as the "writing" of a man of reputed sanctity. such a writing may consist merely of a piece of paper scribbled over with the name of god, or with some sentence from the korán, such as, "and only god is the healer," repeated many times, or in special cases it may contain a whole series of pious expressions and meaningless incantations. for an ordinary external complaint, such as general debility arising from the evil eye of a neighbour or a jealous wife, or as a preventative against bewitchment, or as a love philtre, it is usually considered sufficient to wear this in a leather bag around the neck or forehead; but in case of unfathomable internal disease, such as indigestion, the "writing" is prescribed to be divided into so many equal portions, and taken in a little water night and morning. the author of these potent documents is sometimes a hereditary saint descended from mohammed, sometimes a saint whose sanctity arises from real or assumed insanity--for to be mad in barbary is to have one's thoughts so occupied with things of heaven as to have no time left for things of earth,--and often they are written by ordinary public scribes, or schoolmasters, for among the moors reading and religion are almost synonymous terms. there are, however, a few professional gentlemen who dispense these writings among their drugs. such alone of all their quacks aspire to the title of "doctor." most of these spend their time wandering about the country from fair to fair, setting up their tents wherever there are patients to be found in sufficient numbers. attired as natives, let us visit one. arrived at the tent door, we salute the learned occupant with the prescribed "salám oo alaïkum" ("to you be peace"), to which, on noting our superior costumes, he replies with a volley of complimentary inquiries and welcomes. these we acknowledge with dignity, and with as sedate an air as possible. we leisurely seat ourselves on the ground in orthodox style, like tailors. as it would not be good form to mention our business at once, we defer professional consultation till we have inquired successfully after his health, his travels, and the latest news at home and from abroad. in the course of conversation he gives us to understand that he is one of the sultan's uncles, which is by no means impossible in a country where it has not been an unknown thing for an imperial father to lose count of his numerous progeny. feeling at last that we have broken the ice, we turn the conversation to the subject of our supposed ailments. my own complaint is a general internal disorder resulting in occasional feverishness, griping pains, and loss of sleep. after asking a number of really sensible questions, such as would seem to place him above the ordinary rank of native practitioners, he gravely announces that he has "the very thing" in the form of a powder, which, from its high virtues, and the exceeding number of its ingredients, some of them costly, is rather expensive. we remember the deference with which our costumes were noted, and understand. but, after all, the price of a supply is announced to be only seven-pence halfpenny. the contents of some of the canisters he shows us include respectively, according to his account, from twenty to fifty drugs. for our own part, we strongly suspect that all are spices to be procured from any moorish grocer. together with the prescription i receive instructions to drink the soup from a fat chicken in the morning, and to eat its flesh in the evening; to eat hot bread and drink sweet tea, and to do as little work as possible, the powder to be taken daily for a fortnight in a little honey. whatever else he may not know, it is evident that our doctor knows full well how to humour his patients. the next case is even more easy of treatment than mine, a "writing" only being required. on a piece of very common paper two or three inches square, the doctor writes something of which the only legible part is the first line: "in the name of god, the pitying, the pitiful," followed, we subsequently learn, by repetitions of "only god is the healer." for this the patient is to get his wife to make a felt bag sewed with coloured silk, into which the charm is to be put, along with a little salt and a few parings of garlic, after which it is to be worn round his neck for ever. sometimes, in wandering through morocco, one comes across much more curious remedies than these, for the worthy we have just visited is but a commonplace type in this country. a medical friend once met a professional brother in the interior who had a truly original method of proving his skill. by pressing his finger on the side of his nose close to his eye, he could send a jet of liquid right into his interlocutor's face, a proceeding sufficient to satisfy all doubts as to his alleged marvellous powers. on examination it was found that he had a small orifice near the corner of the eye, through which the pressure forced the lachrymal fluid, pure tears, in fact. this is just an instance of the way in which any natural defect or peculiarity is made the most of by these wandering empirics, to impose on their ignorant and credulous victims. even such of them as do give any variety of remedies are hardly more to be trusted. whatever they give, their patients like big doses, and are not content without corresponding visible effects. epsom salts, which are in great repute, are never given to a man in less quantities than two tablespoonfuls. on one occasion a poor woman came to me suffering from ague, and looking very dejected. i mixed this quantity of salts in a tumblerful of water, with a good dose of quinine, bidding her drink two-thirds of it, and give the remainder to her daughter, who evidently needed it as much as she did. her share was soon disposed of with hardly more than a grimace, to the infinite enjoyment of a fat, black slave-girl who was standing by, and who knew from personal experience what a tumblerful meant. but to induce the child to take hers was quite another matter. "what! not drink it?" the mother cried, as she held the potion to her lips. "the devil take thee, thou cursed offspring of an abandoned woman! may god burn thy ancestors!" but though the child, accustomed to such mild and motherly invectives, budged not, it had proved altogether too much for the jovial slave, who was by this time convulsed with laughter, and so, i may as well confess, was i. at last the woman's powers of persuasion were exhausted, and she drained the glass herself. when in fez some years ago, a dog i had with me needed dosing, so i got three drops of croton oil on sugar made ready for him. mine host, a man of fifty or more, came in meanwhile, and having ascertained the action of the drug from my servant, thought it might possibly do him good, and forthwith swallowed it. of this the first intimation i had was from the agonizing screams of the old man, who loudly proclaimed that his last hour was come, and from the terrified wails of the females of his household, who thought so too. when i saw him he was rolling on the tiles of the courtyard, his heels in the air, bellowing frantically. i need hardly dilate upon the relief i felt when at last we succeeded in alleviating his pain, and knew that he was out of danger. among the favourite remedies of morocco, hyena's head powder ranks high as a purge, and the dried bones and flesh may often be seen in the native spice-shops, coated with dust as they hang. some of the prescriptions given are too filthy to repeat, almost to be believed. as a specimen, by no means the worst, i may mention a recipe at one time in favour among the jewesses of mogador, according to one writer. this was to drink seven draughts from the town drain where it entered the sea, beaten up with seven eggs. for diseases of the "heart," by which they mean the stomach and liver, and of eyes, joints, etc., a stone, which is found in an animal called the horreh, the size of a small walnut, and valued as high as twelve dollars, is ground up and swallowed, the patient thereafter remaining indoors a week. ants, prepared in various ways, are recommended for lethargy, and lion's flesh for cowardice. privet or mallow leaves, fresh honey, and chameleons split open alive, are considered good for wounds and sores, while the fumes from the burning of the dried body of this animal are often inhaled. among more ordinary remedies are saraparilla, senna, and a number of other well-known herbs and roots, whose action is more or less understood. roasted pomegranate rind in powder is found really effectual in dysentery and diarrh[oe]a. men and women continually apply for philtres, and women for means to prevent their husbands from liking rival wives, or for poison to put them out of the way. as arsenic, corrosive sublimate, and other poisons are sold freely to children in every spice-shop, the number of unaccounted-for deaths is extremely large, but inquiry is seldom or never made. when it is openly averred that so-and-so died from "a cup of tea," the only mental comment seems to be that she was very foolish not to be more careful what she drank, and to see that whoever prepared it took the first sip according to custom. the highest recommendation of any particular dish or spice is that it is "heating." great faith is also placed in certain sacred rocks, tree-stumps, etc., which are visited in the hope of obtaining relief from all sorts of ailments. visitors often leave rags torn from their garments by which to be remembered by the guardian of the place. others repair to the famous sulphur springs of zarhôn, supposed to derive their benefit from the interment close by of a certain st. jacob--and dance in the waters, yelling without intermission, "cold and hot, o my lord yakoob! cold and hot!" fearful lest any cessation of the cry might permit the temperature to be increased or diminished beyond the bearable point. xxi the human mart "who digs a pit for his brother will fall into it." _moorish proverb._ the slave-market differs in no respect from any other in morocco, save in the nature of the "goods" exposed. in most cases the same place is used for other things at other times, and the same auctioneers are employed to sell cattle. the buyers seat themselves round an open courtyard, in the closed pens of which are the slaves for sale. these are brought out singly or in lots, inspected precisely as cattle would be, and expatiated upon in much the same manner. for instance, here comes a middle-aged man, led slowly round by the salesman, who is describing his "points" and noting bids. he has first-class muscles, although he is somewhat thin. he is made to lift a weight to prove his strength. his thighs are patted, and his lips are turned to show the gums, which at merrier moments would have been visible without such a performance. with a shame-faced, hang-dog air he trudges round, wondering what will be his lot, though a sad one it is already. at last he is knocked down for so many score of dollars, and after a good deal of further bargaining he changes hands. the next brought forward are three little girls--a "job lot," maybe ten, thirteen, and sixteen years of age--two of them evidently sisters. they are declared to be already proficient in arabic, and ready for anything. their muscles are felt, their mouths examined, and their bodies scrutinized in general, while the little one begins to cry, and the others look as though they would like to keep her company. round and round again they are marched, but the bids do not rise high enough to effect a sale, and they are locked up again for a future occasion. it is indeed a sad, sad sight. the sources of supply for the slave-market are various, but the chief is direct from guinea and the sáhara, where the raids of the traders are too well understood to need description. usually some inter-tribal jealousy is fostered and fanned into a flame, and the one which loses is plundered of men and goods. able-bodied lads and young girls are in most demand, and fetch high prices when brought to the north. the unfortunate prisoners are marched with great hardship and privation to depôts over the atlas, where they pick up arabic and are initiated into mohammedanism. to a missionary who once asked one of the dealers how they found their way across the desert, the terribly significant reply was, "there are many bones along the way!" after a while the survivors are either exposed for sale in the markets of marrákesh or fez, or hawked round from door to door in the coast towns, where public auctions are prohibited. some have even found their way to egypt and constantinople, having been transported in british vessels, and landed at gibraltar as members of the dealer's family! another source of supply is the constant series of quarrels between the tribes of morocco itself, during which many children are carried off who are white or nearly so. in this case the victims are almost all girls, for whom good prices are to be obtained. this opens a door for illegal supplies, children born of slaves and others kidnapped being thus disposed of for hareems. for this purpose the demand for white girls is much in excess of that for black, so that great temptation is offered. i knew a man who had seventeen such in his house, and of nearly a dozen whom i saw there, none were too dark to have passed for english brunettes. though nothing whatever can be said in defence of this practice of tearing our fellow-men from their homes, and selling them as slaves, our natural feelings of horror abate considerably when we become acquainted with its results under the rule of islám. instead of the fearful state of things which occurred under english or american rule, it is a pleasure to find that, whatever may be the shortcomings of the moors, in this case, at any rate, they have set us a good example. even their barbarous treatment of christian slaves till within a century was certainly no worse than our treatment of black slaves. to begin with, mohammedans make no distinction in civil or religious rights between a black skin and a white. so long as a man avows belief in no god but god, and in mohammed as the prophet of god, complying with certain outward forms of his religion, he is held to be as good a muslim as anyone else; and as the whole social and civil fabrics are built upon religion and the teachings of the korán, the social position of every well-behaved mohammedan is practically equal. the possession of authority of any kind will naturally command a certain amount of respectful attention, and he who has any reason for seeking a favour from another is sure to adopt a more subservient mien; but beyond this, few such class distinctions are known as those common in europe. the slave who, away from home, can behave as a gentleman, will be received as such, irrespective of his colour, and when freed he may aspire to any position under the sultan. there are, indeed, many instances of black men having been ministers, governors, and even ambassadors to europe, and such appointments are too common to excite astonishment. they have even, in the past, assisted in giving rise to the misconception that the people of morocco were "black-a-moors." in many households the slave becomes the trusted steward of his owner, and receives a sufficient allowance to live in comfort. he will possess a paper giving him his freedom on his master's death, and altogether he will have a very good time of it. the liberation of slaves is enjoined upon those who follow mohammed as a most praiseworthy act, and as one which cannot fail to bring its own reward. but, like too many in our own land, they more often prefer to make use of what they possess till they start on that journey on which they can take nothing with them, and then affect generosity by bestowing upon others that over which they lose control. one poor fellow whom i knew very well, who had been liberated on the death of his master, having lost his papers, was re-kidnapped and sold again to a man who was subsequently imprisoned for fraud, when he got free and worked for some years as porter; but he was eventually denounced and put in irons in a dungeon as part of the property of his _soi-disant_ master. the ordinary place of the slave is much that of the average servant, but receiving only board, lodging, and scanty clothing, without pay, and being unable to change masters. sometimes, however, they are permitted to beg or work for money to buy their own freedom, when they become, as it were, their own masters. on the whole, a jollier, harder-working, or better-tempered lot than these negroes it would be hard to desire, and they are as light-hearted, fortunately, as true-hearted, even in the midst of cruel adversities. the condition of a woman slave--to which, also, most of what has been said refers--is as much behind that of a man-slave as is that of a free-woman behind that of her lord. if she becomes her master's wife, the mother of a child, she is thereby freed, though she must remain in his service until his death, and she is only treated as an animal, not as a human being. after all, there is a dark side--one sufficiently dark to need no intensifying. the fact of one man being the possessor of another, just as much as he could be of a horse or cow, places him in the same position with regard to his "chattel" as to such a four-footed animal. "the merciful man is merciful to his beast," but "the tender mercies of the wicked are cruel," and just as one man will ill-treat his beast, while another treats his well, so will one man persecute his slave. instances of this are quite common enough, and here and there cases could be brought forward of revolting brutality, as in the story which follows, but the great thing is that agricultural slavery is practically unknown, and that what exists is chiefly domestic. "know the slave," says an arab proverb, "and you know the master." [illustration: _freyonne, photo., gibraltar._ rabbah, narrator of the slave-girl's story.] xxii a slave-girl's story "after many adversities, joy." _moorish proverb._ outside the walls of mazagan an english traveller had pitched his camp. night had fallen when one of his men, returning from the town, besought admission to the tent. "well, how now?" "sir, i have a woman here, by thy leave, yes, a woman, a slave, whom i found at the door of thy consulate, where she had taken refuge, but the police guard drove her away, so i brought her to thee for justice. have pity on her, and god will reward thee! see, here! rabhah!" at this bidding there approached a truly pitiable object, a dark-skinned woman, not quite black, though of decidedly negroid appearance--whose tattered garments scarcely served to hide a half-starved form. throwing herself on the ground before the foreigner, she begged his pity, his assistance, for the sake of the pitiful god. "oh, bashador," she pleaded, addressing him as though a foreign envoy, "i take refuge with god and with thee! i have no one else. i have fled from my master, who has cruelly used me. see my back!" suiting action to word, she slipped aside the coverings from her shoulder and revealed the weals of many a stripe, tears streaming down her face the while. her tones were such as none but a heart of stone could ignore. "i bore it ten days, sir, till i could do so no longer, and then i escaped. it was all to make me give false witness--from which god deliver me--for that i will never do. my present master is the sheïkh bin záharah, lieutenant kaïd of the boo azeezi, but i was once the slave-wife of the english agent, who sold me again, though they said that he dare not, because of his english protection. that was why i fled for justice to the english consul, and now come to thee. for god's sake, succour me!" with a sob her head fell forward on her breast, as again she crouched at the foreigner's feet, till made to rise and told to relate her whole story quietly. when she was calmer, aided by questions, she unfolded a tale which could, alas! be often paralleled in morocco. "my home? how can i tell thee where that was, when i was brought away so early? all i know is that it was in the sûdán" (_i.e._ land of the blacks), "and that i came to mogador on my mother's back. in my country the slave-dealers lie in wait outside the villages to catch the children when they play. they put them in bags like those used for grain, with their heads left outside the necks for air. so they are carried off, and travel all the way to this country slung on mules, being set down from time to time to be fed. but i, though born free, was brought by my mother, who had been carried off as a slave. the lines cut on my cheek show that, for every free-born child in our country is marked so by its mother. that is our sultan's order. in mogador my mother's master sold me to a man who took me from her, and brought me to dár el baïda. they took away my mother first; they dragged her off crying, and i never saw or heard of her again. when she was gone i cried for her, and could not eat till they gave me sugar and sweet dates. at dár el baïda i was sold in the market auction to a shareefa named lálla moïna, wife of the mountain scribe who taught the kádi's children. with her i was very happy, for she treated me well, and when she went to mekka on the pilgrimage she let me go out to work on my own account, promising to make me free if god brought her back safely. she was good to me, bashador, but though she returned safely she always put off making me free; but i had laid by fifteen dollars, and had bought a boxful of clothes as well. and that was where my trouble began. for god's sake succour me! "one day the agent saw me in the street, and eyed me so that i was frightened of him. he followed me home, and then sent a letter offering to buy me, but my mistress refused. then the agent often came to the house, and i had to wait upon him. he told me that he wanted to buy me, and that if he did i should be better off than if i were free, but i refused to listen. when the agent was away his man sarghîni used to come and try to buy me, but in vain; and when the agent returned he threatened to bring my mistress into trouble if she refused. at last she had to yield, and i cried when i had to go. 'thou art sold to that man,' she said; 'but as thou art a daughter to me, he has promised to take care of thee and bring thee back whenever i wish.' "sarghîni took me out by one gate with the servants of the agent, who took care to go out with a big fat jew by another, that the english consul should not see him go out with a woman. we rode on mules, and i wore a white cloak; i had not then begun to fast" (_i.e._ was not yet twelve years of age). "after two days on the road the agent asked for the key of my box, in which he found my fifteen dollars, tied up in a rag, and took them, but gave me back my clothes. we were five days travelling to marrákesh, staying each night with a kaïd who treated us very well. so i came to the agent's house. "there i found many other slave girls, besides men slaves in the garden. these were ruby, bought in saffi, by whom the agent had a daughter; and star, a white girl stolen from her home in sûs, who had no children; jessamine the less, another white girl bought in marrákesh, mother of one daughter; jessamine the greater, whose daughter was her father's favourite, loaded with jewels; and others who cooked or served, not having children, though one had a son who died. there were thirteen of us under an older slave who clothed and fed us. "when the bashador came to the house the agent shut all but five or six of us in a room, the others waiting on him. i used to have to cook for the bashador, for whom they had great receptions with music and dancing-women. next door there was a larger house, a fandak, where the agent kept public women and boys, and men at the door took money from the muslims and nazarenes who went there. the missionaries who lived close by know the truth of what i say. "a few days after i arrived i was bathed and dressed in fresh clothes, and taken to my master's room, as he used to call for one or another according to fancy. but i had no child, because he struck me, and i was sick. when one girl, named amber, refused to go to him because she was ill, he dragged her off to another part of the house. presently we heard the report of a pistol, and he came back to say she was dead. he had a pistol in his hand as long as my forearm. we found the girl in a pool of blood in agonies, and tried to flee, but had nowhere to go. so when she was quite dead he made us wash her. then he brought in four men to dig a pit, in which he said he would bury butter. when they had gone we buried her there, and i can show you the spot. "one day he took two men slaves and me on a journey. one of them ran away, the other was sold by the way. i was sold at the tuesday market of sîdi bin nûr to a dealer in slaves, whom i heard promise my master to keep me close for three months, and not to sell me in that place lest the nazarenes should get word of it. some time after i was bought by a tax-collector, with whom i remained till he died, and then lived in the house of his son. this man sold me to my present master, who has ill-treated me as i told thee. oh, bashador, when i fled from him, i came to the english consul because i was told that the agent had had no right to hold or sell me, since he had english protection. thou knowest what has happened since. here i am, at thy feet, imploring assistance. i beseech thee, turn me not away. i speak truth before god." no one could hear such a tale unmoved, and after due inquiry the englishman thus appealed to secured her liberty on depositing at the british consulate the $ paid for her by her owner, who claimed her or the money. rabhah's story, taken down by independent persons at different times, was afterwards told by her without variation in a british court of law. subsequently a pronouncement as to her freedom having been made by the british legation at tangier, the $ was refunded, and she lives free to-day. the last time the writer saw her, in the service of a european in morocco, he was somewhat taken aback to find her arms about his neck, and to have kisses showered on his shoulders for the unimportant part that he had played in securing her freedom. xxiii the pilgrim camp "work for the children is better than pilgrimage or holy war." _moorish proverb._ year by year the month succeeding the fast of ramadán sees a motley assemblage of pilgrims bound for mekka, gathered at most of the north african ports from all parts of barbary and even beyond, awaiting vessels bound for alexandria or jedda. this comparatively easy means of covering the distance, which includes the whole length of the mediterranean when the pilgrims from morocco are concerned--not to mention some two-thirds of the red sea,--has almost entirely superseded the original method of travelling all the way by land, in the once imposing caravans. these historic institutions owed their importance no less to the facilities they offered for trade, than to the opportunity they afforded for accomplishing the pilgrimage which is enjoined on every follower of mohammed. although caravans still cross the deserts of north africa in considerable force from west to east, as well as from south to north, to carry on the trade of the countries to the south of the barbary states, the former are steadily dwindling down to mere local affairs, and the number of travellers who select the modern route by steamer is yearly increasing, as its advantages become better known. for the accommodation of the large number of passengers special vessels are chartered by speculators, and are fitted up for the occasion. only some £ are charged for the whole journey from tangier, a thousand pilgrims being crowded on a medium-sized merchant vessel, making the horrors of the voyage indescribable. but the troubles of the pilgrims do not begin here. before they could even reach the sea some of them will have travelled on foot for a month from remote parts of the interior, and at the coast they may have to endure a wearisome time of waiting for a steamer. it is while they are thus learning a lesson of patience at one of the moorish ports that i will invite you for a stroll round their encampment on the market-place. this consists of scores of low, makeshift tents, with here and there a better-class round one dotted amongst them. the prevailing shape of the majority is a modified edition of the dwelling of the nomad arab, to which class doubtless belongs a fair proportion of their occupants. across the top of two poles about five feet high, before and behind, a ridge-piece is placed, and over this is stretched to the ground on either side a long piece of palmetto or goat-hair cloth, or perhaps one of the long woollen blankets worn by men and women alike, called haïks, which will again be used for its original purpose on board the vessel. the back is formed of another piece of some sort of cloth stretched out at the bottom to form a semi-circle, and so give more room inside. those who have a bit of rug or a light mattress, spread it on the floor, and pile their various other belongings around its edge. the straits to which many of these poor people are put to get a covering of any kind to shelter them from sun, rain, and wind, are often very severe, to judge from some of the specimens of tents--if they deserve the name--constructed of all sorts of odds and ends, almost anything, it would seem, that will cover a few square inches. there is one such to be seen on this busy market which deserves special attention as a remarkable example of this style of architecture. let us examine it. the materials of which it is composed include hair-cloth, woollen-cloth, a cotton shirt, a woollen cloak, and some sacking; goat skin, sheep's fleece, straw, and palmetto cord; rush mats, a palmetto mat, split-cane baskets and wicker baskets; bits of wood, a piece of cork, bark and sticks; petroleum tins flattened out, sheet iron, zinc, and jam and other tins; an earthenware dish and a stone bottle, with bits of crockery, stones, and a cow's horn to weight some of the other items down. now, if any one can make anything of this, which is an exact inventory of such of the materials as are visible on the outside, he must be a born architect. yet here this extraordinary construction stands, as it has stood for several months, and its occupant looks the jolliest fellow out. let us pay him a visit. stooping down to look under the flap which serves as a door, and raising it with my stick, i greet him with the customary salutation of "peace be with you." "with you be peace," is the cheery reply, to which is added, "welcome to thee; make thyself at home." although invited to enter, i feel quite enough at home on the outside of his dwelling, so reply that i have no time to stay, as i only "looked in" to have the pleasure of making his acquaintance and examining his "palace." at the last word one or two bystanders who have gathered round indulge in a little chuckle to themselves, overhearing which i turn round and make the most flattering remarks i can think of as to its beauty, elegance, comfort, and admirable system of ventilation, which sets the whole company, tenant included, into a roar of laughter. mine host is busy cleaning fish, and now presses us to stay and share his evening meal with him, but our appetites are not quite equal to _that_ yet, though it is beyond doubt that the morsel he would offer us would be as savoury and well cooked as could be supplied by any restaurant in piccadilly. inquiries elicit the fact that our friend is hoping to leave for mekka by the first steamer, and that meanwhile he supports himself as a water-carrier, proudly showing us his goat-skin "bottle" lying on the floor, with the leather flap he wears between it and his side to protect him from the damp. here, too, are his chain and bell, with the bright brass and tin cups. in fact, he is quite a "swell" in his way, and, in spite of his uncouth-looking surroundings, manages to enjoy life by looking on the bright side of things. "what will you do with your palace when you leave it?" we ask, seeing that it could not be moved unless the whole were jumbled up in a sack, when it would be impossible to reconstruct it. "oh, i'd let it to some one else." "for how much?" "well, that i'd leave to god." a glance round the interior of this strange abode shows that there are still many materials employed in its construction which might have been enumerated. one or two bundles, a box and a basket round the sides, serve to support the roof, and from the ridge-pole hangs a bundle which we are informed contains semolina. i once saw such a bundle suspended from a beam in a village mosque in which i had passed the night in the guise of a pious muslim, and, observing its dusty condition, inquired how it came there. "a traveller left it there about a year and a half ago, and has not yet come for it," was the reply; to judge from which it might remain till doomsday--a fact which spoke well for the honesty of the country folk in that respect at least, although i learned that they were notorious highwaymen. though the roof admits daylight every few inches, the occupier remarks that it keeps the sun and rain off fairly well, and seems to think none the worse of it for its transparent faults. a sick woman lying in a native hut with a thatched roof hardly in better condition than this one, remarked when a visitor observed a big hole just above her pallet bed-- "oh, it's so nice in the summer time; it lets the breeze in so delightfully!" it was then the depth of winter, and she had had to shift her position once or twice to avoid the rain which came through that hole. what a lesson in making the best of things did not that ignorant invalid teach! having bid the amiable water-carrier "à dieu,"--literally as well as figuratively--we turn towards a group of tents further up, whence a white-robed form has been beckoning us. after the usual salutations have been exchanged, the eager inquiry is made, "is there a steamer yet?" "no; i've nothing to do with steamers--but there's sure to be one soon." a man who evidently disbelieves me calls out, "i've got my money for the passage, and i'll hire a place with you, only bring the ship quickly." since their arrival in tangier they have learnt to call a steamer, which they have never seen before,--or even the sea,--a "bábor," a corruption of the spanish "vapor," for arabic knows neither "v" nor "p." another now comes forward to know if there is an eye-doctor in the place, for there is a mist before his eyes, as he is well-advanced in the decline of life. the sound of the word "doctor" brings up a few more of the bystanders, who ask if i am one, and as i reply in the negative, they ask who can cure their ears, legs, stomachs, and what not. i explain where they may find an excellent doctor, who will be glad to do all he can for them gratis--whereat they open their eyes incredulously,--and that for god's sake, in the name of seyïdná aïsa ("our lord jesus"), which they appreciate at once with murmurs of satisfaction, though they are not quite satisfied until they have ascertained by further questioning that he receives no support from his own or any other government. hearing the name of seyïdná aïsa, one of the group breaks out into "el hamdu l'illah, el hamdu l'illah" ("praise be to god"), a snatch of a missionary hymn to a "moody and sankey" tune, barely recognizable as he renders it. he has only been here a fortnight, and disclaims all further knowledge of the hymn or where he heard it. before another tent hard by sits a native barber, bleeding a youth from a vein in the arm, for which the fee is about five farthings. as one or two come round to look on, he remarks, in an off-hand way--probably with a view to increasing his practice--that "all the pilgrims are having this done; it's good for the internals." as we turn round to pass between two of the tents to the row beyond, our progress is stayed by a cord from the ridge of one to that of another, on which are strung strips of what appear at first sight to be leather, but on a closer inspection are found to be pieces of meat, tripe, and apparently chitterlings, hung out to dry in a sun temperature of from ° to ° fahrenheit. thus is prepared a staple article of diet for winter consumption when fresh meat is dear, or for use on journeys, and this is all the meat these pilgrims will taste till they reach mekka, or perhaps till they return. big jars of it, with the interstices filled up with butter, are stowed away in the tents "among the stuff." it is called "khalia," and is much esteemed for its tasty and reputed aphrodisiac qualities--two ideals in morocco cookery,--so that it commands a relatively good price in the market. the inmates of the next tent we look into are a woman and two men, lying down curled up asleep in their blankets, while a couple more of the latter squat at the door. having noticed our curious glances at their khalia, they, with the expressive motion of the closed fist which in native gesture-parlance signifies first-rate, endeavour to impress us with a sense of its excellence, which we do not feel inclined to dispute after all we have eaten on former occasions. this brings us to inquire what else these wanderers provide for the journey of thirteen or fourteen days one way. as bread is not to be obtained on board, at the door of the tent a tray-full of pieces are being converted into sun-dried rusks. others are provided with a kind of very hard doughnut called "fikáks." these are flavoured with anise and carraway seeds, and are very acceptable to a hungry traveller when bread is scarce, though fearfully searching to hollow teeth. then there is a goodly supply of the national food, kesk'soo or siksoo, better known by its spanish name of couscoussoo. this forms an appetizing and lordly dish, provocative of abundant eructations--a sign of good breeding in these parts, wound up with a long-drawn "praise be to god"--at the close of a regular "tuck in" with nature's spoon, the fist. a similar preparation is hand-rolled vermicelli, cooked in broth or milk, if obtainable. a bag of semolina and another of zummeetah--parched flour--which only needs enough moisture to form it into a paste to prepare it for consumption, are two other well-patronized items. a quaint story comes to mind _à propos_ of the latter, which formed part of our stock of provisions during a journey through the province of dukkála when the incident in question occurred. a tin of insect powder was also among our goods, and by an odd coincidence both were relegated to the pail hanging from one of our packs. under a spreading fig-tree near the village of smeerah, at lunch, some travelling companions offered us a cup of tea, and among other dainties placed at their disposal in return was the bag of zummeetah, of which one of them made a good meal. later on in the day, as we rested again, he complained of fearful internal gripings, which were easily explained by the discovery of the fact that the lid of the "flea's zummeetah," as one of our men styled it, had been left open, and a hole in the sack of "man's zummeetah" had allowed the two to mix in the bottom of the pail in nearly equal proportions. when this had been explained, no one entered more heartily into the joke than its victim, which spoke very well for his good temper, considering how seriously he had been affected. but this is rather a digression from our catalogue of the pilgrim's stock of provisions. rancid butter melted down in pots, honey, dates, figs, raisins, and one or two similar items form the remainder. water is carried in goat-skins or in pots made of the dried rind of a gourd, by far the most convenient for a journey, owing to their light weight and the absence of the prevailing taste of pitch imparted by the leather contrivances. several of these latter are to be seen before the tents hanging on tripods. one of the moors informs us that for the first day on board they have to provide their own water, after which it is found for them, but everything else they take with them. an ebony-hued son of ham, seated by a neighbouring tent, replies to our query as to what he is providing, "i take nothing," pointing heavenward to indicate his reliance on divine providence. and so they travel. the group before us has come from the sáhara, a month's long journey overland, on foot! yet their travels have only commenced. can they have realized what it all means? [illustration: _cavilla, photo., tangier._ waiting for the steamer.] xxiv returning home "he lengthened absence, and returned unwelcomed." _moorish proverb._ evening is about to fall--for fall it does in these south latitudes, with hardly any twilight--and the setting sun has lit the sky with a refulgent glow that must be gazed at to be understood--the arc of heaven overspread with glorious colour, in its turn reflected by the heaving sea. one sound alone is heard as i wend my way along the sandy shore; it is the heavy thud and aftersplash of each gigantic wave, as it breaks on the beach, and hurls itself on its retreating predecessor, each climbing one step higher than the last. there, in the distance, stands a motley group--men, women, children--straining wearied eyes to recognize the forms which crowd a cargo lighter slowly nearing land. away in the direction of their looks i dimly see the outline of the pilgrim ship, a cardiff coaler, which has brought close on a thousand hájes from port saïd or alexandria--men chiefly, but among them wives and children--who have paid that toilsome pilgrimage to mekka. the last rays of the sun alone remain as the boat strikes the shore, and as the darkness falls apace a score of dusky forms make a wild rush into the surging waters, while an equal number rise up eager in the boat to greet their friends. so soon as they are near enough to be distinguished one from another, each watcher on the beach shouts the name of the friend he is awaiting, proud to affix, for the first time, the title háj--pilgrim--to his name. as only some twenty or thirty have yet landed from among so many hundreds, the number of disappointed ones who have to turn back and bide their time is proportionately large. "háj mohammed! háj abd es-slám! háj el arbi! háj boo sháïb! ah, háj drees!" and many such ejaculations burst from their lips, together with inquiries as to whether so-and-so may be on board. one by one the weary travellers once more step upon the land which is their home, and with assistance from their friends unload their luggage. now a touching scene ensues. strong men fall on one another's necks like girls, kissing and embracing with true joy, each uttering a perfect volley of inquiries, compliments, congratulations, or condolence. then, with child-like simplicity, the stayer-at-home leads his welcome relative or friend by the hand to the spot where his luggage has been deposited, and seating themselves thereon they soon get deep into a conversation which renders them oblivious to all around, as the one relates the wonders of his journeyings, the other the news of home. poor creatures! some months ago they started, full of hope, on an especially trying voyage of several weeks, cramped more closely than emigrants, exposed both to sun and rain, with hardly a change of clothing, and only the food they had brought with them. arrived at their destination, a weary march across country began, and was repeated after they had visited the various points, and performed the various rites prescribed by the korán or custom, finally returning as they went, but not all, as the sorrow-stricken faces of some among the waiters on the beach had told, and the muttered exclamation, "it is written--_mektoob_." meanwhile the night has come. the creator's loving hand has caused a myriad stars to shine forth from the darkness, in some measure to replace the light of day, while as each new boat-load is set down the same scenes are enacted, and the crowd grows greater and greater, the din of voices keeping pace therewith. donkey-men having appeared on the scene with their patient beasts, they clamour for employment, and those who can afford it avail themselves of their services to get their goods transported to the city. what goods they are, too! all sorts of products of the east done up in boxes of the most varied forms and colours, bundles, rolls, and bales. the owners are apparently mere bundles of rags themselves, but they seem no less happy for that. seated on an eminence at one side are several customs officers who have been delegated to inspect these goods; their flowing garments and generally superior attire afford a striking contrast to the state of the returning pilgrims, or even to that of the friends come to meet them. these officials have their guards marching up and down between and round about the groups, to see that nothing is carried off without inspection. little by little the crowd disperses; those whose friends have landed escort them to their homes, leaving those who will have to continue their journey overland alone, making hasty preparations for their evening meal. the better class speedily have tents erected, but the majority will have to spend the night in the open air, probably in the rain, for it is beginning to spatter already. fires are lit in all directions, throwing a lurid light upon the interesting picture, and i turn my horse's head towards home with a feeling of sadness, but at the same time one of thankfulness that my lot was not cast where theirs is. part ii xxv diplomacy in morocco "the beheaded was abusing the flayed: one with her throat cut passed by, and exclaimed, 'god deliver us from such folk!'" _moorish proverb._ instead of residing at the court of the sultan, as might be expected, the ministers accredited to the ruler of morocco take up their abode in tangier, where they are more in touch with europe, and where there is greater freedom for pig-sticking. the reason for this is that the court is not permanently settled anywhere, wintering successively at one of the three capitals, fez, marrákesh, or mequinez. every few years, when anything of note arises; when there is an accumulation of matters to be discussed with the emperor, or when a new representative has been appointed, an embassy to court is undertaken, usually in spring or autumn, the best times to travel in this roadless land. what happens on these embassies has often enough been related from the point of view of the performers, but seldom from that of residents in the country who know what happens, and the following peep behind the scenes, though fortunately not typical of all, is not exaggerated. even more might have been told under some heads. as strictly applicable to no power at present represented in morocco, the record is that of an imaginary embassy from greece some sixty or more years ago. to prevent misconception, it may be as well to add that it was written previous to the failure of the mission of sir charles euan smith. i. the reception in a sloop-of-war sent all the way from the Ægean, the ambassador and his suite sailed from tangier to saffi, where his excellency was received on landing by a royal salute from the crumbling batteries. the local governor and the greek vice-consul awaited him on leaving the surf boat, with an escort which sadly upset the operations of women washing wool by the water-port. outside the land-gate, beside the ancient palace, was pitched a moorish camp awaiting his arrival, and european additions were soon erected beside it. at daybreak next morning a luncheon-party rode forward, whose duty it was to prepare the midday meal for the embassy, and to pitch the awning under which they should partake of it. arrived at the spot selected, drees, the "native agent," found the village sheïkh awaiting him with ample supplies, enough for every one for a couple of days. this he carefully packed on his mules, and by the time the embassy came up, having started some time later than he, after a good breakfast, he was ready to go on again with the remainder of the muleteers and the camel-drivers to prepare the evening meal and pitch for the night a camp over which waved the flag of greece. here the offerings of provisions or money were made with equal profusion. there were bushels of kesk'soo; there were several live sheep, which were speedily despatched and put into pots to cook; there were jars of honey, of oil, and of butter; there were camel-loads of barley for the beasts of burden, and trusses of hay for their dessert; there were packets of candles by the dozen, and loaves of sugar and pounds of tea; not to speak of fowls, of charcoal, of sweet herbs, of fruits, and of minor odds and ends. by the time the europeans arrived, their french _chef_ had prepared an excellent dinner, the native escort and servants squatting in groups round steaming dishes provided ready cooked by half-starved villagers. when the feasting was over, and all seemed quiet, a busy scene was in reality being enacted in the background. at a little distance from the camp, háj marti, the right-hand man of the agent, was holding a veritable market with the surplus mona of the day, re-selling to the miserable country folk what had been wrung from them by the authorities. the moorish government declared that what they paid thus in kind would be deducted from their taxes, and this was what the minister assured his questioning wife, for though he knew better, he found it best to wink at the proceedings of his unpaid henchman. as they proceeded inland, on the border of each local jurisdiction the escort was changed with an exhibition of "powder-play," the old one retiring as the new one advanced with the governor at its head. thus they journeyed for about a week, till they reached the crumbling walls of palm-begirt marrákesh. the official _personnel_ of the embassy consisted of the minister and his secretary nikolaki glymenopoulos, with ayush ben lezrá, the interpreter. the secretary was a self-confident dandy with a head like a pumpkin and a scrawl like the footprints of a wandering hen; reputed a judge of ladies and horse-flesh; supercilious, condescending to inferiors, and the plague of his tailor. the consul, paolo komnenos, a man of middle age with a kindly heart, yet without force of character to withstand the evils around him, had been left in tangier as _chargé d'affaires_, to the great satisfaction of his wife and family, who considered themselves of the _crême de la crême_ of tangier society, such as it was, because, however much the wife of the minister despised the bumptiousness of madame komnenos, she could not omit her from her invitations, unless of the most private nature, on account of her husband's official position. now, as madame mavrogordato accompanied her husband with her little son and a lady friend, the consul's wife reigned supreme. then there were the official _attachés_ for the occasion, the representative of the army, a colonel of roman nose, and eyes which required but one glass between them, a man to whom death would have been preferable to going one morning unshaved, or to failing one jot in military etiquette; and the representative of the navy, in cocked hat and gold-striped pantaloons, who found it more difficult to avoid tripping over his sword than most landsmen do to keep from stumbling over coils of rope on ship-board; beyond his costume there was little of note about him; his genial character made it easy to say "ay, ay," to any one, but the yarns he could spin round the camp-fire made him a general favourite. the least consequential of the party was the doctor, an army man of honest parts, who wished well to all the world. undoubtedly he was the hardest worked of the lot, for no one else did anything but enjoy himself. finally there were the "officious" _attachés_. every dabbler in politics abroad knows the fine distinctions between "official" and "officious" action, and how subtle are the changes which can be rung upon the two, but there was nothing of that description here. the officious _attachés_ were simply a party of the minister's personal friends, and two or three strangers whose influence might in after times be useful to him. one was of course a journalist, to supply the special correspondence of the _acropolis_ and the _hellenike salpinx_. these would afterwards be worked up into a handy illustrated volume of experiences and impressions calculated to further deceive the public with regard to morocco and the moors, and to secure for the minister his patron, the longed-for promotion to a european court. another was necessarily the artist of the party, while the remainder engaged in sport of one kind or another. si drees, the "native agent," was employed as master of horse, and superintended the native arrangements generally. with him rested every detail of camping out, and the supply of food and labour. right and left he was the indispensable factotum, shouting himself hoarse from before dawn till after sunset, when he joined the gay blades of the embassy in private pulls at forbidden liquors. no one worked as hard as he, and he seemed omnipresent. the foreigners were justly thankful to have such a man, for without him all felt at sea. he appeared to know everything and to be available for every one's assistance. the only draw-back was his ignorance of greek, or of any language but his own, yet being sharp-witted he made himself wonderfully understood by signs and a few words of the strange coast jargon, a mixture of half a dozen tongues. the early morning was fixed for the solemn entry of the embassy into the city, yet the road had to be lined on both sides with soldiers to keep back the thronging crowds. amid the din of multitudes, the clashing of barbarous music, and shrill ululations of delight from native women; surrounded by an eastern blaze of sun and blended colours, rode incongruous the envoy from greece. his stiff, grim figure, the embodiment of officialism, in full court dress, was supported on either hand by his secretary and interpreter, almost as resplendent as himself. behind his excellency rode the _attachés_ and other officials, then the ladies; newspaper correspondents, artists, and other non-official guests, bringing up the rear. in this order the party crossed the red-flowing tansift by its low bridge of many arches, and drew near to the gate of marrákesh called that of the thursday [market], báb el khamees. [illustration: _molinari, photo., tangier._ a city gateway in morocco.] at last they commenced to thread the narrow winding streets, their bordering roofs close packed with shrouded figures only showing an eye, who greeted them after their fashion with a piercing, long-drawn, "yoo-yoo, yoo-yoo; yoo-yoo, yoo-yoo; yoo-yoo, yoo-yoo--oo," so novel to the strangers, and so typical. then they crossed the wide-open space before the kûtûbîyah on their way to the garden which had been prepared for them, the mamûnîyah, with its handsome residence and shady walks. three days had to elapse from the time of their arrival before they could see the sultan, for they were now under native etiquette, but they had much to occupy them, much to see and think about, though supposed to remain at home and rest till the audience. on the morning of the fourth day all was bustle. each had to array himself in such official garb as he could muster, with every decoration he could borrow, for the imposing ceremony of the presentation to the emperor. what a business it was! what a coming and going; what noise and what excitement! it was like living in the thick of a whirling pantomime. at length they were under way, and making towards the kasbah gate in a style surpassing that of their entry, the populace still more excited at the sight of the gold lace and cocked hats which showed what great men had come to pay their homage to their lord the sultan. on arrival at the inmost courtyard with whitewashed, battlemented walls, and green-tiled roofs beyond, they found it thickly lined with soldiers, a clear space being left for them in the centre. here they were all ranged on foot, the presents from king otho placed on one side, and covered with rich silk cloths. presently a blast of trumpets silenced the hum of voices, and the soldiers made a show of "attention" in their undrilled way, for the sultan approached. in a moment the great doors on the other side flew open, and a number of gaily dressed natives in peaked red caps--the royal body-guard--emerged, followed by five prancing steeds, magnificent barbs of different colours, richly caparisoned, led by gold-worked bridles. then came the master of the ceremonies in his flowing robes and monster turban, a giant in becoming dress, and--as they soon discovered--of stentorian voice. behind him rode the emperor himself in stately majesty, clothed in pure white, wool-white, distinct amid the mass of colours worn by those surrounding him, his ministers. the gorgeous trappings of his white steed glittered as the proud beast arched his neck and champed his gilded bit, or tried in vain to prance. over his head was held by a slave at his side the only sign of royalty, a huge red-silk umbrella with a fringe to match, and a golden knob on the point, while others of the household servants flicked the flies away, or held the spurs, the cushion, the carpet, and other things which might be called for by their lord. on his appearance deafening shouts broke forth, "god bless our lord, and give him victory!" the rows of soldiers bowed their heads and repeated the cry with still an increase of vigour, "god bless our lord, and give him victory!" at a motion from the master of the ceremonies the members of the embassy took off their hats or helmets, and the representative of modern greece stood there bareheaded in a broiling sun before the figure-head of ancient barbary. as the sultan approached the place where he stood, he drew near and offered a few stereotyped words in explanation of his errand, learned by heart, to which the emperor replied by bidding him welcome. the minister then handed to him an engrossed address in a silk embroided case, which an attendant was motioned to take, the sultan acknowledging it graciously. one by one the minister next introduced the members of his suite, their names and qualities being shouted in awful tones by the master of the ceremonies, and after once more bidding them welcome, but with a scowl at the sight of drees, his majesty turned his horse's head, leaving them to re-mount as their steeds were brought to them. again the music struck up with a deafening din, and the state reception was over. but this was not to be the only interview between the ambassador and the sultan, for several so-called private conferences followed, at which an attendant or two and the interpreter ayush were present. kyrios mavrogordato's stock of polite workable arabic had been exhausted at the public function, and for business matters he had to rely implicitly on the services of his handy jew. such other notions of the language as he boasted could only be addressed to inferiors, and that but to convey the most simple of crude instructions or curses. at the first private audience there were many matters of importance to be brought before the sultan's notice, afterwards to be relegated to the consideration of his wazeers. this time no fuss was made, and the affair again came off in the early morning, for his majesty rose at three, and after devotions and study transacted official business from five to nine, then breakfasting and reserving the rest of the day for recreation and further religious study. ii. the interview at the appointed time an escort waited on the ambassador[ ] to convey him to the palace, arrived at which he was led into one of the many gardens in the interior, full of luxuriant semi-wild vegetation. in a room opening on to one side of the garden sat the emperor, tailor-fashion, on a european sofa, elevated by a sort of daïs opposite the door. with the exception of an armchair on the lower level, to which the ambassador was motioned after the usual formal obeisances and expressions of respect, the chamber was absolutely bare of furniture, though not lacking in beauty of decoration. the floor was of plain cut but elegant tiles, and the dado was a more intricate pattern of the same in shades of blue, green, and yellow, interspersed with black, but relieved by an abundance of greeny white. above this, to the stalactite cornice, the walls were decorated with intricate mauresque designs in carved white plaster, while the rich stalactite roofing of deep-red tone, just tipped with purple and gilt, made a perfect whole, and gave a feeling of repose to the design. through the huge open horse-shoe arch of the door the light streamed between the branches of graceful creepers waving in the breeze, adding to the impression of coolness caused by the bubbling fountain outside. [ : strictly speaking, only "minister plenipotentiary and envoy extraordinary."] "may god bless our lord, and prolong his days!" said ayush, bowing profoundly towards the sultan, as the minister concluded the repetition of his stock phrases, and seated himself. "may it please your majesty," began the minister, in greek, "i cannot express the honour i feel in again being commissioned to approach your majesty in the capacity of ambassador from my sovereign, king otho of greece." this little speech was rendered into arabic by ayush to this effect-- "may god pour blessings on our lord. the ambassador rejoices greatly, and is honoured above measure in being sent once more by his king to approach the presence of our lord, the high and mighty sovereign: yes, my lord." "he is welcome," answered the sultan, graciously; "we love no nation better than the greeks. they have always been our friends." _interpreter._ "his majesty is delighted to see your excellency, whom he loves from his heart, as also your mighty nation, than which none is more dear to him, and whose friendship he is ready to maintain at any cost." _minister._ "it pleases me greatly to hear your majesty's noble sentiments, which i, and i am sure my government, reciprocate." _interpreter._ "the minister is highly complimented by the gracious words of our lord, and declares that the greeks love no other nation on earth beside the moors: yes, my lord." _sultan._ "is there anything i can do for such good friends?" _interpreter._ "his majesty says he is ready to do anything for so good a friend as your excellency." _minister._ "i am deeply grateful to his majesty. yes, there are one or two matters which my government would like to have settled." _interpreter._ "the minister is simply overwhelmed at the thought of the consideration of our lord, and he has some trifling matters for which perhaps he may beg our lord's attention: yes, my lord." _sultan._ "he has only to make them known." _interpreter._ "his majesty will do all your excellency desires." _minister._ "first then, your majesty, there is the little affair of the greek who was murdered last year at azîla. i am sure that i can rely on an indemnity for his widow." _interpreter._ "the minister speaks of the greek who was murdered--by your leave, yes, my lord--at azîla last year: yes, my lord. the ambassador wishes him to be paid for." _sultan._ "how much does he ask?" this being duly interpreted, the minister replied-- "thirty thousand dollars." _sultan._ "half that sum would do, but we will see. what next?" _interpreter._ "his majesty thinks that too much, but as your excellency says, so be it." _minister._ "i thank his majesty, and beg to bring to his notice the imprisonment of a greek _protégé_, mesaûd bin aûdah, at mazagan some months ago, and to ask for his liberation and for damages. this is a most important case." _interpreter._ "the minister wants that thief mesaûd bin aûdah, whom the báshá of mazagan has in gaol, to be let out, and he asks also for damages: yes, my lord." _sultan._ "the man was no lawful _protégé_. i can do nothing in the case. bin aûdah is a criminal, and cannot be protected." _interpreter._ "his majesty fears that this is a matter in which he cannot oblige your excellency, much as he would like to, since the man in question is a thief. it is no use saying anything further about this." _minister._ "then ask about that jew botbol, who was thrashed. though not a _protégé_, his majesty might be able to do something." _interpreter._ "his excellency brings before our lord a most serious matter indeed; yes, my lord. it is absolutely necessary that redress should be granted to maimon botbol, the eminent merchant of mogador whom the kaïd of that place most brutally treated last year: yes, my lord. and this is most important, for botbol is a great friend of his excellency, who has taken the treatment that the poor man received very much to heart. he is sure that our lord will not hesitate to order the payment of the damages demanded, only fifty thousand dollars." _sultan._ "in consideration of the stress the minister lays upon this case, he shall have ten thousand dollars." _interpreter._ "his majesty will pay your excellency ten thousand dollars damages." _minister._ "as that is more than i had even hoped to ask, you will duly thank his majesty most heartily for this spontaneous generosity." _interpreter._ "the minister says that is not sufficient from our lord, but he will not oppose his will: yes, my lord." _sultan._ "i cannot do more." _interpreter._ "his majesty says it gives him great pleasure to pay it." _minister._ "now there is the question of slavery. i have here a petition from a great society at athens requesting his majesty to consider whether he cannot abolish the system throughout his realm," handing the sultan an elaborate arabic scroll in syrian characters hard to be deciphered even by the secretary to whom it is consigned for perusal; the sultan, though an arabic scholar, not taking sufficient interest in the matter to think of it again. _interpreter._ "there are some fanatics in the land of greece, yes, my lord, who want to see slavery abolished here, by thy leave, yes, my lord, but i will explain to the bashador that this is impossible." _sultan._ "certainly. it is an unalterable institution. those who think otherwise are fools. besides, your agent drees deals in slaves!" _interpreter._ "his majesty will give the petition his best attention, and if possible grant it with pleasure." _minister._ "you will thank his majesty very much. it will rejoice my fellow-countrymen to hear it. next, a greek firm has offered to construct the much-needed port at tangier, if his majesty will grant us the concession till the work be paid for by the tolls. such a measure would tend to greatly increase the moorish revenues." _interpreter._ "the minister wishes to build a port at tangier, yes, my lord, and to hold it till the tolls have paid for it." _sultan._ "which may not be till doomsday. nevertheless, i will consent to any one making the port whom all the european representatives shall agree to appoint"--a very safe promise to make, since the emperor knew that this agreement was not likely to be brought about till the said domesday. _interpreter._ "your excellency's request is granted. you have only to obtain the approval of your colleagues." _minister._ "his majesty is exceedingly gracious, and i am correspondingly obliged to him. inform his majesty that the same firm is willing to build him bridges over his rivers, and to make roads between the provinces, which would increase friendly communications, and consequently tend to reduce inter-tribal feuds." _interpreter._ "the minister thanks our lord, and wants also to build bridges and roads in the interior to make the tribes friendly by intercourse." _sultan._ "that would never do. the more i keep the tribes apart the better for me. if i did not shake up my rats in the sack pretty often, they would gnaw their way out. besides, where my people could travel more easily, so could foreign invaders. no, i cannot think of such a thing. god created the world without bridges." _interpreter._ "his majesty is full of regret that in this matter he is unable to please your excellency, but he thinks his country better as it is." _minister._ "although i beg to differ from his majesty, so be it. next there is the question of our commerce with morocco. this is greatly hampered by the present lack of a fixed customs tariff. there are several articles of which the exportation is now prohibited, which it would be really very much in the interest of his people to allow us to purchase." _interpreter._ "the minister requests of our lord a new customs tariff, and the right to export wheat and barley." _sultan._ "the tariff he may discuss with the wazeer of the interior; i will give instructions. as for the cereals, the bread of the faithful cannot be given to infidels." _interpreter._ "his majesty accedes to your excellency's request. you have only to make known the details to the minister for internal affairs." _minister._ "again i humbly render thanks to his majesty. since he is so particularly good to me, perhaps he would add one kindness more, in abandoning to me the old house and garden on the marshan at tangier, in which the foreign minister used to live. it is good for nothing, and would be useful to me." _interpreter._ "the minister asks our lord for a couple of houses in tangier. yes, my lord, the one formerly occupied by the foreign minister on the marshan at tangier for himself; and the other adjoining the new mosque in town, just an old tumble-down place for stores, to be bestowed upon me; yes, my lord." _sultan._ "what sort of place is that on the marshan?" _interpreter._ "i will not lie unto my lord. it is a fine big house in a large garden, with wells and fruit trees: yes, my lord. but the other is a mere nothing: yes, my lord." _sultan._ "i will do as he wishes--if it please god." (the latter expression showing the reverse of an intention to carry out the former.) _interpreter._ "his majesty gives you the house." _minister._ "his majesty is indeed too kind to me. i therefore regret exceedingly having to bring forward a number of claims which have been pending for a long time, but with the details of which i will not of course trouble his majesty personally. i merely desire his instructions to the treasury to discharge them on their being admitted by the competent authorities." _interpreter._ "the minister brings before our lord a number of claims, on the settlement of which he insists: yes, my lord. he feels it a disgrace that they should have remained unpaid so long: yes, my lord. and he asks for orders to be given to discharge them at once." _sultan._ "there is neither force nor power save in god, the high, the mighty. glory to him! there is no telling what these nazarenes won't demand next. i will pay all just claims, of course, but many of these are usurers' frauds, with which i will have nothing to do." _interpreter._ "his majesty will give the necessary instructions; but the claims will have to be examined, as your excellency has already suggested. his majesty makes the sign of the conclusion of our interview." _minister._ "assure his majesty how deeply indebted i am to him for these favours he has shown me, but allow me to in some measure acknowledge them by giving information of importance. i am entirely _au courant_, through private channels, with the unworthy tactics of the british minister, as also those of his two-faced colleagues, the representatives of france and spain, and can disclose them to his majesty whenever he desires." _interpreter._ "his excellency does not know how to express his gratitude to our lord for his undeserved and unprecedented condescension, and feels himself bound the slave of our lord, willing to do all our lord requires of his hands; yes, my lord. but he trusts that our lord will not forget the houses--and the one in town is only a little one,--or the payment of the indemnity to maimon botbol, yes, my lord, or the discharging of the claims. god bless our lord, and give him victory! and also, pardon me, my lord, the minister says that all the other ministers are rogues, and he knows all about them that our lord may wish to learn: yes, my lord." "god is omniscient. he can talk of those matters to the foreign minister to-morrow. in peace!" once more a few of his stock phrases were man[oe]uvred by kyrios mavrogordato, as with the most profound of rear-steering bows the representatives of civilization retreated, and the potentate of barbary turned with an air of relief to give instructions to his secretary. iii. the result a few weeks after this interview the _hellenike salpinx_, a leading journal of athens, contained an article of which the following is a translation:-- "our interests in morocco "(_from our special correspondent_) "marrákesh, october . "the success of our embassy to morocco is already assured, and that in a remarkable degree. the sultan has once more shown most unequivocally his strong partiality for the greek nation, and especially for their distinguished representative, kyrios dimitri mavrogordato, whose personal tact and influence have so largely contributed to this most thankworthy result. it is very many years since such a number of requests have been granted by the emperor of morocco to one ambassador, and it is probable that under the most favourable circumstances no other power could have hoped for such an exhibition of favour. "the importance of the concessions is sufficient to mark this embassy in the history of european relations with morocco, independently of the amount of ordinary business transacted, and the way in which the sultan has promised to satisfy our outstanding claims. among other favours, permission has been granted to a greek firm to construct a port at tangier, the chief seat of foreign trade in the empire, which is a matter of national importance, and there is every likelihood of equally valuable concessions for the building of roads and bridges being made to the same company. "our merchants will be rejoiced to learn that at last the vexatious customs regulations, or rather the absence of them, will be replaced by a regular tariff, which our minister has practically only to draw up for it to be sanctioned by the moorish government. the question of slavery, too, is under the consideration of the sultan with a view to its restriction, if not to its abolition, a distinct and unexpected triumph for the friends of universal freedom. there can be no question that, under its present enlightened ruler, morocco is at last on the high-road to civilization. "only those who have had experience in dealing with procrastinating politicians of the eastern school can appreciate in any degree the consummate skill and patience which is requisite to overcome the sinuosities of oriental minds, and it is only such a signal victory as has just been won for greece and for progress in morocco, as can enable us to realize the value to the state of such diplomatists as his excellency, kyrios mavrogordato." this article had not appeared in print before affairs on the spot wore a very different complexion. at the interview with the minister for the interior a most elaborate customs tariff had been presented and discussed, some trifling alterations being made, and the whole being left to be submitted to the sultan for his final approval, with the assurance that this was only a matter of form. the minister of finance had promised most blandly the payment of the damages demanded for the murder of the greek and for the thrashing of the jew. it was true that as yet no written document had been handed to the greek ambassador, but then he had the word of the ministers themselves, and promises from the sultan's lips as well. the only _fait accompli_ was the despatch of a courier to tangier with orders to deliver up the keys of two specified properties to the ambassador and his interpreter respectively, a matter which, strange to say, found no place in the messages to the press, and in which the spontaneous present to the interpreter struck his excellency as a most generous act on the part of the sultan. quite a number of state banquets had been given, in which the members of the embassy had obtained an insight into stylish native cooking, writing home that half the dishes were prepared with pomatum and the other half with rancid oil and butter. the _littérateur_ of the party had nearly completed his work on morocco, and was seriously thinking of a second volume. the young _attachés_ could swear right roundly in arabic, and were becoming perfect connoisseurs of native beauty. in the palatial residence of drees, as well as in a private residence which that worthy had placed at their disposal, they had enjoyed a selection of native female society, and had such good times under the wing of that "rare old cock," as they dubbed him, that one or two began to feel as though they had lighted among the lotus eaters, and had little desire to return. but to kyrios mavrogordato and glymenopoulos his secretary, the delay at court began to grow irksome, and they heartily wished themselves back in tangier. notwithstanding the useful "tips" which he had given to the foreign minister regarding the base designs of his various colleagues accredited to that court, his own affairs seemed to hang fire. he had shown how france was determined to make war upon morocco sooner or later, with a view to adding its fair plains to those it was acquiring in algeria, and had warned him that if the sultan lent assistance to the ameer abd el káder he would certainly bring this trouble upon himself. he had also shown how england pretended friendship because at any cost she must maintain at least the neutrality of that part of his country bordering on the straits of gibraltar, and that with all her professions of esteem, she really cared not a straw for the moors. he had shown too that puny spain held it as an article of faith that morocco should one day become hers in return for the rule of the moors upon her own soil. he had, in fact, shown that greece alone cared for the real interests of the sultan. iv. diamond cut diamond yet things did not move. the treaty of commerce remained unsigned, and slaves were still bought and sold. the numerous claims which he had to enforce had only been passed in part, and the moorish authorities seemed inclined to dispute the others stoutly. at last, at a private conference with the wazeer el kiddáb, the ambassador broached a proposal to cut the gordian knot. he would abandon all disputed claims for a lump sum paid privately to himself, and asked what the moorish government might feel inclined to offer. the wazeer el kiddáb received this proposal with great complacency. he was accustomed to such overtures. every day of his life that style of bargain was part of his business. but this was the first time that a european ambassador had made such a suggestion in its nakedness, and he was somewhat taken aback, though his studied indifference of manner did not allow the foreigner to suspect such a thing for a moment. the usual style had been for him to offer present after present to the ambassadors till he had reached their price, and then, when his master had overloaded them with personal favours--many of which existed but in promise--they had been unable to press too hard the claims they had come to enforce, for fear of possible disclosures. so this was a novel proceeding, though quite comprehensible on the part of a man who had been bribed on a less extensive scale on each previous visit to court. once, however, such a proposition had been made, it was evident that his government could not be much in earnest regarding demands which he could so easily afford to set aside. as soon, therefore, as kyrios mavrogordato had left, the wazeer ordered his mule, that he might wait upon his majesty before the hours of business were over. his errand being stated as urgent and private, he was admitted without delay to his sovereign's presence. "may god prolong the days of our lord! i come to say that the way to rid ourselves of the importunity of this ambassador from greece is plain. he has made it so himself by offering to abandon all disputed claims for a round sum down for his own use. what is the pleasure of my lord?" "god is great!" exclaimed the sultan, "that is well. you may inform the minister from me that a positive refusal is given to every demand not already allowed in writing. what _he_ can afford to abandon, _i_ can't afford to pay." "the will of our lord shall be done." "but stay! i have had my eye upon that greek ambassador this long while, and am getting tired of him. the abuses he commits are atrocious, and his man drees is a devil. háj taïb el ghassál writes that the number of his _protégés_ is legion, and that by far the greater number of them are illegal. inform him when you see him that henceforth the provisions of our treaties shall be strictly adhered to, and moreover that no protection certificates shall be valid unless countersigned by our foreign commissioner el ghassál. if i rule here, i will put an end to this man's doings." "on my head and eyes be the words of my lord." "and remind him further that the permits for the free passage of goods at the customs are granted only for his personal use, for the necessities of his household, and that the way háj taïb writes he has been selling them is a disgrace. the man is a regular swindler, and the less we have to do with him the better. as for his pretended information about his colleagues, there may be a good deal of truth in it, but i have the word of the english minister, who is about as honest as any of them, that this mavrogordato is a born villain, and that if his government is not greedy for my country on its own account, it wants to sell me to some more powerful neighbour in exchange for its protection. greece is only a miserable fag-end of europe." "our lord knows: may god give him victory," and the wazeer bowed himself out to consider how best he might obey his instructions, not exactly liking the task. on returning home he despatched a messenger to the quarters of the embassy, appointing an hour on the morrow for a conference, and when this came the ambassador found himself in for a stormy interview. the wazeer, with his snuff-box in constant use, sat cool and collected on his mattress on the floor, the ambassador sitting uneasily on a chair before him. though the language used was considerably modified in filtering through the brain of the interpreter, the increasing violence of tone and gesture could not be concealed, and were all but sufficiently comprehensible in themselves. the ambassador protested that if the remainder of the demands were to be refused, he was entitled to at least as much as the french representative had had to shut his mouth last time he came to court, and affected overwhelming indignation at the treatment he had received. "besides," he added, "i have the promise of his majesty the sultan himself that certain of them should be paid in full, and i cannot abandon those. i have informed my government of the sultan's words." "dost suppose that my master is a dog of a nazarene, that he should keep his word to thee? nothing thou may'st say can alter his decision. the claims that have been allowed in writing shall be paid by the customs administrators on thy return to tangier. here are orders for the money." "i absolutely refuse to accept a portion of what my government demands. i will either receive the whole, or i will return empty-handed, and report on the treacherous way in which i have been treated. i am thoroughly sick of the procrastinating and prevaricating ways of this country--a disgrace to the age." "and we are infinitely more sick of thy behaviour and thine abuse of the favours we have granted thee. our lord has expressly instructed me to tell thee that in future no excess of the rights guaranteed to foreigners by treaty will be permitted on any account. thy protection certificates to be valid must be endorsed by our foreign commissioner, and the nature of the goods thou importest free of duty as for thyself shall be strictly examined, as we have the right to do, that no more defrauding of our revenue be permitted." "your words are an insult to my nation," exclaimed the ambassador, rising, "and shall be duly reported to my government. i cannot sit here and listen to vile impeachments like these; you know them to be false!" "that is no affair of mine; i have delivered the decision of our lord, and have no more to say. the claims we refuse are all of them unjust, the demands of usurers, on whom be the curse of god; and demands for money which has never been stolen, or has already been paid; every one of them is a shameful fraud, god knows. leeches are only fit to be trodden on when they have done their work; we want none of them." "your language is disgraceful, such as was never addressed to me in my life before; if i do not receive an apology by noon to-morrow, i will at once set out for tangier, if not for greece, and warn you of the possible consequences." * * * * * the excitement in certain circles in athens on the receipt of the intelligence that the embassy to morocco had failed, after all the flourish of trumpets with which its presumed successes had been hailed, was great indeed. one might have thought that once more the brave hellenes were thirsting for the conquest of another sicily, to read the columns of the _palingenesia_, some of the milder paragraphs of which, translated, ran thus:-- "a solemn duty has been imposed upon our nation by the studied indignities heaped upon our representative at the court of morocco. greece has been challenged, europe defied, and the whole civilized world insulted. the duty now before us is none other than to wipe from the earth that nest of erstwhile pirates flattered by the name of the moorish government.... "as though it were insufficient to have refused the just demands presented by kyrios mavrogordato for the payment of business debts due to greek merchants, and for damages acknowledged to be due to others for property stolen by lawless bandits, his excellency has been practically dismissed from the court in a manner which has disgraced our flag in the eyes of all morocco. "here are two counts which need no exaggeration. unless the payment of just business debts is duly enforced by the moorish government, as it would be in any other country, and unless the native agents of our merchants are protected fully by the local authorities, it is hopeless to think of maintaining commercial relations with such a nation, so that insistence on these demands is of vital necessity to our trade, and a duty to our growing manufactories. "the second count is of the simplest: such treatment as has been meted out to our minister plenipotentiary in morocco, especially after the bland way in which he was met at first with empty promises and smiles, is worthy only of savages or of a people intent on war." the _hellenike salpinx_ was hardly less vehement in the language in which it chronicled the course of events in morocco:-- "notwithstanding the unprecedented manner in which the requests of his excellency, kyrios dimitri mavrogordato, our minister plenipotentiary and envoy extraordinary at the court of morocco, were acceded to on the recent embassy to mulai abd er-rahmán, the moors have shown their true colours at last by equally marked, but less astonishing, insults. "the unrivalled diplomatic talents of our ambassador proved, in fact, too much for the moorish government, and though the discovery of the way in which a nazarene was obtaining his desires from the sultan may have aroused the inherent obstinacy of the wazeers, and thus produced the recoil which we have described, it is far more likely that this was brought about by the officious interference of one or two other foreign representatives at tangier. it has been for some time notorious that the sardinian consul-general--who at the same time represents portugal--loses no opportunity of undermining grecian influence in morocco, and in this certain of his colleagues have undoubtedly not been far behind him. "nevertheless, whatever causes may have been at work in bringing about this crisis, it is one which cannot be tided over, but which must be fairly faced. greece has but one course before her." xxvi prisoners and captives "misfortune is misfortune's heir." _moorish proverb._ externally the gaol of tangier does not differ greatly in appearance from an ordinary moorish house, and even internally it is of the plan which prevails throughout the native buildings from fandaks to palaces. a door-way in a blank wall, once whitewashed, gives access to a kind of lobby, such as might precede the entrance to some grandee's house, but instead of being neat and clean, it is filthy and dank, and an unwholesome odour pervades the air. on a low bench at the far end lie a guard or two in dirty garments, fitting ornaments for such a place. by them is the low-barred entrance to the prison, with a hole in the centre the size of such a face as often fills it, wan and hopeless. a clanking of chains, a confused din of voices, and an occasional moan are borne through the opening on the stench-laden atmosphere. "all hope abandon, ye who enter here!" could never have been written on portal more appropriate than this, unless he who entered had friends and money. here are forgotten good and bad, the tried and the untried, just and unjust together, sunk in a night of blank despair, a living grave. around an open courtyard, protected by an iron grating at the top, is a row of dirty columns, and behind them a kind of arcade, on to which open a number of doorless chambers. filth is apparent everywhere, and to the stifling odour of that unwashed horde is added that caused by insanitary drainage. to some of the pillars are chained poor wretches little more than skeletons, while a cable of considerable length secures others. it is locked at one end to a staple outside the door under which it passes, and is threaded through rings on the iron collars of half a dozen prisoners who have been brought in as rebels from a distant province. for thirteen days they have tramped thus, carrying that chain, holding it up by their hands to save their shoulders, and two empty rings still threaded on show that when they started they numbered eight. since the end rings are riveted to the chain, it has been impossible to remove them, so when two fell sick by the way the drivers cut off their heads to effect the release of their bodies, and to prove, by presenting those ghastly trophies at their journey's end, that none had escaped. many of the prisoners are busy about the floor, where they squat in groups, plaiting baskets and satchels of palmetto leaves, while many appear too weak and disheartened even to earn a subsistence in this way. one poor fellow, who has been a courier, was employed one day twenty-five years since to carry a despatch to court, complaining of the misdeeds of a governor. that official himself intercepted the letter, and promptly despatched the bearer to tangier as a sultan's prisoner. he then arrested the writer of the letter, who, on paying a heavy fine, regained his liberty, but the courier remained unasked for. in course of time the kaïd was called to his account, and his son, who succeeded him in office, having died too, a stranger ruled in their stead. the forgotten courier had by this time lost his reason, fancying himself once more in his goat-hair tent on the southern plains, and with unconscious irony he still gives every new arrival the arab greeting, "welcome to thee, a thousand welcomes! make thyself at home and comfortable. all before thee is thine, and what thou seest not, be sure we don't possess." some few, in better garments, hold themselves aloof from the others, and converse together with all the nonchalance of gossip in the streets, for they are well-to-do, arrested on some trivial charge which a few dollars apiece will soon dispose of, but they are exceptions. a quieter group occupies one corner, members of a party of no less than sixty-two brought in together from fez, on claims made against them by a european power. a sympathetic inquiry soon elicits their histories.[ ] the first man to speak is hoary and bent with years; he was arrested several years ago, on the death of a brother who had owed some $ to a european. the second had borrowed $ in exchange for a bond for twice that amount; he had paid off half of this, and having been unable to do more, had been arrested eighteen months before. the third had similarly received $ for a promise to pay $ ; he had been in prison five years and three months. another had borrowed $ , and knew not the sum which stood yet against him. another had been in prison five years for a debt alleged to have been contracted by an uncle long dead. another had borrowed $ on a bond for $ . another had languished eighteen months in gaol on a claim for $ ; the amount originally advanced to him was about $ , but the acknowledgment was for $ , which had been renewed for $ on its falling due and being dishonoured. another had borrowed $ on agreeing to refund $ , which was afterwards increased to $ and then to $ . he has been imprisoned three years. the debt of another, originally $ for a loan of half that amount, has since been doubled twice, and now stands at $ , less $ paid on account, while for forty-two measures of wheat delivered on account he can get no allowance, though that was three years ago, and four months afterwards he was sent to prison. another had paid off the $ he owed for an advance of $ , but on some claim for expenses the creditor had withheld the bond, and is now suing for the whole amount again. he has been in prison two years and six months. another has paid twenty measures of barley on account of a bond for $ , for which he has received $ , and he was imprisoned at the same time as the last speaker, his debt being due to the same man. another had borrowed $ on the usual terms, and has paid the whole in cash or wheat, but cannot get back the bond. he has previously been imprisoned for a year, but two years after his release he was re-arrested, fourteen months ago. another has been two months in gaol on a claim for $ for a loan of $ . the last one has a bitter tale to tell, if any could be worse than the wearisome similarity of those who have preceded him. [ : all these statements were taken down from the lips of the victims at the prison door, and most, if not all of them, were supported by documentary evidence.] "some years ago," he says, "i and my two brothers, drees and ali, borrowed $ from a jew of mequinez, for which we gave him a notarial bond for $ . we paid him a small sum on account every month, as we could get it--a few dollars at a time--besides presents of butter, fowls, and eggs. at the end of the first year he threatened to imprison us, and made us change the bond for one for $ , and year by year he raised the debt this way till it reached $ , even after allowing for what we had paid off. i saw no hope of ever meeting his claim, so i ran away, and my brother drees was imprisoned for six years. he died last winter, leaving a wife and three children, the youngest, a daughter, being born a few months after her father was taken away. he never saw her. by strenuous efforts our family paid off the $ , selling all their land, and borrowing small sums. but the jew would not give up the bond. he died about two years ago, and we do not know who is claiming now, but we are told that the sum demanded is $ . we have nothing now left to sell, and, being in prison, we cannot work. when my brother drees died, i and my brother ali were seized to take his place. my kaïd was very sorry for me, and became surety that i would not escape, so that my irons were removed; but my brother remains still in fetters, as poor drees did all through the six years. we have no hope of our friends raising any money, so we must wait for death to release us." here he covers his face with his hands, and several of his companions, in spite of their own dire troubles, have to draw their shrivelled arms across their eyes, as silence falls upon the group. as we turn away heartsick a more horrible sight than any confronts us before the lieutenant-governor's court. a man is suspended by the arms and legs, face downwards, by a party of police, who grasp his writhing limbs. with leather thongs a stalwart policeman on either side is striking his bare back in turn. already blood is flowing freely, but the victim does not shriek. he only winces and groans, or gives an almost involuntary cry as the cruel blows fall on some previously harrowed spot. he is already unable to move his limbs, but the blows fall thick and fast. will they never cease? by the side stands a young european counting them one by one, and when the strikers slow down from exhaustion he orders them to stop, that others may relieve them. the victim is by this time swooning, so the european directs that he shall be put on the ground and deluged with water till he revives. when sufficiently restored the count begins again. presently the european stays them a second time; the man is once again insensible, yet he has only received six hundred lashes of the thousand which have been ordered. "well," he exclaims, "it's no use going on with him to-day. put him in the gaol now, and i'll come and see him have the rest to-morrow." "god bless thee, but surely he has had enough!" exclaims the lieutenant-governor, in sympathetic tones. "enough? he deserves double! the consul has only ordered a thousand, and i am here to see that he has every one. we'll teach these villains to rob our houses!" "there is neither force nor power save in god, the high, the mighty! as thou sayest; it is written," and the powerless official turns away disgusted. "god burn these nazarenes, their wives and families, and all their ancestors! they were never fit for aught but hell!" he may be heard muttering as he enters his house, and well may he feel as he does. the policemen carry the victim off to the gaol hard by, depositing him on the ground, after once more restoring him with cold water. "god burn their fathers and their grandfathers, and the whole cursed race of them!" they murmur, for their thoughts still run upon the consul and the clerk. leaving him sorrowfully, they return to the yard, where we still wait to obtain some information as to the cause of such treatment. "why, that dog of a nazarene, the greek consul, says that his house was robbed a month ago, though we don't believe him, for it wasn't worth it. the sinner says that a thousand dollars were stolen, and he has sent in a claim for it to the sultan. the minister's now at court for the money, the satan! god rid our country of them all!" "but how does this poor fellow come in for it?" "he! he never touched the money! only he had some quarrel with the clerk, so they accused him of the theft, as he was the native living nearest to the house, just over the fence. he's nothing but a poor donkey-man, and an honest one at that. the consul sent his clerk up here to say he was the thief, and that he must receive a thousand lashes. the governor refused till the man should be tried and convicted, but the greek wouldn't hear of it, and said that if he wasn't punished at once he would send a courier to his minister at marrákesh, and have a complaint made to the sultan. the governor knew that if he escaped it would most likely cost him his post to fight the consul, so he gave instructions for the order to be carried out, and went indoors so as not to be present." "god is supreme!" ejaculates a bystander. "but these infidels of nazarenes know nothing of him. his curse be on them!" answers the policeman. "they made us ride the poor man round the town on a bare-backed donkey, with his face to the tail, and all the way two of us had to thrash him, crying, 'thus shall be done to the man who robs a consul!' he was ready to faint before we got him up here. god knows _we_ don't want to lash him again!" * * * * * next day as we pass the gaol we stop to inquire after the prisoner, but the poor fellow is still too weak to receive the balance due, and so it is for several days. then they tell us that he has been freed from them by god, who has summoned his spirit, though meanwhile the kindly attentions of a doctor have been secured, and everything possible under the circumstances has been done to relieve his sufferings. after all, he was "only a moor!" * * * * * the greek consul reported that the condition of the moorish prisons was a disgrace to the age, and that he had himself known prisoners who had succumbed to their evil state after receiving a few strokes from the lash. a statement of claim for a thousand dollars, alleged to have been robbed from his house, was forwarded by courier to his chief, then at court, and was promptly added to the demands that it was part of his excellency's errand to enforce. xxvii the protection system "my heart burns, but my lips will not give utterance." _moorish proverb._ i. the need crouched at the foreigner's feet lay what appeared but a bundle of rags, in reality a suppliant moor, once a man of wealth and position. hugging a pot of butter brought as an offering, clutching convulsively at the leg of the chair, his furrowed face bespoke past suffering and present earnestness. "god bless thee, bashador, and all the christians, and give me grace in thy sight!" "oh, indeed, so you like the christians?" "yes, bashador, i must love the christians; they have justice, we have none. i wish they had rule over the country." "then you are not a good muslim!" "oh yes, i am, i am a háj (pilgrim to mekka), and i love my own religion, certainly i do, but none of our officials follow our religion nowadays: they have no religion. they forget god and worship money; their delight is in plunder and oppression." "you appear to have known better days. what is your trouble?" "trouble enough," replies the moor, with a sigh. "i am hamed zirári. i was rich once, and powerful in my tribe, but now i have only this sheep and two goats. i and my wife live alone with our children in a nuállah (hut), but after all we are happier now when they leave us alone, than when we were rich. i have plenty of land left, it is true, but we dare not for our lives cultivate more than a small patch around our nuállah, lest we should be pounced upon again." [illustration: _photograph by dr. rudduck._ a central morocco homestead (nuÁllas).] "how did you lose your property?" "i will tell you, bashador, and then you will see whether i am justified in speaking of our government as i do. it is a sad story, but i will tell you all.[ ] a few years ago i possessed more than six hundred cows and bullocks, more than twelve hundred sheep, a hundred good camels, fifty mules, twenty horses, and twenty-four mares. i had also four wives and many slaves. i had plenty of guns and abundance of grain in my stores; in fact, i was rich and powerful among my people, by whom i was held in great honour; but alas! alas! our new kaïd is worse than the old one; he is insatiable, a pit without a bottom! there is no possibility of satisfying his greed! [ : this story is reproduced from notes taken of the man's narrative by my father.--b. m.] "i felt that although by continually making him valuable presents i succeeded in keeping on friendly terms with him, he was always coveting my wealth. we have in our district two markets a week, and at last i had to present him with from $ to $ every market-day. i was nevertheless in constant dread of his eyes--they are such greedy eyes--and i saw that it would be necessary to look out for protection. i was too loyal a subject of the sultan then, and too good a muslim, to think of nazarene protection, so i applied for help to si mohammed boo aálam, commander-in-chief of our lord (whom may god send victorious), and to enter the sultan's service. "we prepared a grand present with which to approach him, and when it was ready i started with it, accompanied by two of my cousins. we took four splendid horses, four mares with their foals, four she-camels with their young, four picked cows, two pairs of our best bullocks, four fine young male slaves, each with a silver-mounted gun, and four well-dressed female slaves, each carrying a new bucket in her hand, many jars containing fresh and salted butter and honey, beside other things, and a thousand dollars in cash. it was a fine present, was it not, bashador? "well, on arrival at si mohammed's place, we slaughtered two bullocks at his door, and humbly begged his gracious acceptance of our offering, which we told him we regretted was not greater, but that as we were his brethren, we trusted to find favour in his sight. we said we wished to honour him, and to become his fortunate slaves, whose chief delight it would be to do his bidding. we reminded him that although he was so rich and powerful he was still our brother, and that we desired nothing better than to live in continual friendship with him. "he received and feasted us very kindly, and gave us appointments as mounted guards to the marshal of the sultan, as which we served happily for seven months. we were already thinking about sending for some of our family to come and relieve us, that we might return home ourselves, when one day si mohammed sent for us to say that he was going away for a time, having received commands from the sultan to visit a distant tribe with the effects of royal displeasure. after mutual compliments and blessings he set off with his soldiers. "five days later a party of soldiers came to our house. to our utter astonishment and dismay, without a word of explanation, they put chains on our necks and wrists, and placing us on mules, bore us away. remonstrance and resistance were equally vain. we were in mequinez. it was already night, and though the gates were shut, and are never opened again except in obedience to high authority, they were silently opened for us to pass through. once outside, our eyes were bandaged, and we were lashed to our uncomfortable seats. thus we travelled on as rapidly as possible, in silence all night long. it was a long night, that, indeed, bashador, a weary night, but we felt sure some worse fate awaited us; what, we could not imagine, for we had committed no crime. finally, after three days we halted, and the bandages were removed from our eyes. we found ourselves in a market-place in rahámna, within the jurisdiction of our cursëd kaïd. all around us were our flocks and herds, camels, and horses, all our movable property, which we soon learnt had been brought there for public sale. a great gathering was there to purchase. "the kaïd was there, and when he saw us he exclaimed, 'there you are, are you? you can't escape from me now, you children of dogs!' then he turned to a brutal policeman, crying, 'put the bastards on the ground, and give them a thousand lashes.' those words ring in my ears still. i felt as in a dream. i was too utterly in his power to think of answering, and after a very few strokes the power of doing so was taken from me, for i lost consciousness. how many blows we received i know not, but we must have been very nearly killed. when i revived we were in a filthy matmorah, where we existed for seven months in misery, being kept alive on a scanty supply of barley loaves and water. at last i pretended to have lost my reason, as i should have done in truth had i stayed there much longer. when they told the kaïd this, he gave permission for me to be let out. i found my wife and children still living, thank god, though they had had very hard times. what has become of my cousins i do not know, and do not dare to ask, but thou couldst, o bashador, if once i were under thy protection. "all i know is that, after receiving our present, si mohammed sold us to the kaïd for twelve hundred dollars. he was a fool, bashador, a great fool; had he demanded of us we would have given him twelve hundred dollars to save ourselves what we have had to suffer. "wonderest thou still, o bashador, that i prefer the nazarenes, and wish there were more of them in the country? i respect the dust off their shoes more than a whole nation of miscalled muslims who could treat me as i have been treated; but god is just, and 'there is neither force nor power save in god,' yes, 'all is written.' he gives to men according to their hearts. we had bad hearts, and he gave us a government like them." ii. the search the day was already far spent when at last abd allah led his animal into one of the caravansarais outside the gate of mazagan, so, after saying his evening prayers and eating his evening meal, he lay down to rest on a heap of straw in one of the little rooms of the fandak, undisturbed either by anxious dreams, or by the multitude of lively creatures about him. ere the sun had risen the voice of the muédhdhin awoke him with the call to early prayer. shrill and clear the notes rang out on the calm morning air in that perfect silence-- "g-o-d is gr-ea--t! g-o-d is gr-ea--t! g-o-d is grea--t! i witness that there is no god but god, and mohammed is the messenger of god. come to prayer! come to prayer! come to prayer! prayer is better than sleep! come to prayer!" quickly rising, abd allah repaired to the water-tap, and seating himself on the stone seat before it, rapidly performed the prescribed religious ablutions, this member three times, then the other as often, and so on, all in order, right first, left to follow as less honourable, finishing up with the pious ejaculation, "god greatest!" thence to the mosque was but a step, and in a few minutes he stood barefooted in those dimly-lighted, vaulted aisles, in which the glimmering oil lamps and the early streaks of daylight struggled for the mastery. his shoes were on the ground before him at the foot of the pillar behind which he had placed himself, and his hands were raised before his face in the attitude of prayer. then, at the long-drawn cry of the leader, in company with his fellow-worshippers, he bowed himself, and again with them rose once more, in a moment to kneel down and bow his forehead to the earth in humble adoration. having performed the usual series of prayers, he was ready for coffee and bread. this he took at the door of the fandak, seated on the ground by the coffee-stall, inquiring meanwhile the prospects of protection in mazagan. there was tájir[ ] pépé, always ready to appoint a new agent for a consideration, but then he bore almost as bad a name for tyrannizing over his _protégés_ as did the kaïds themselves. there was tájir yûsef the jew, but then he asked such tremendous prices, because he was a vice-consul. there was tájir juan, but then he was not on good enough terms with his consul to protect efficiently those whom he appointed, so he could not be thought of either. but there was tájir vecchio, a new man from gibraltar, fast friends with his minister, and who must therefore be strong, yet a man who did not name too high a figure. to him, therefore, abd allah determined to apply, and when his store was opened presented himself. [ : "merchant," used much as "mr." is with us.] under his cloak he carried three pots of butter in one hand, and as many of honey in the other, while a ragged urchin tramped behind with half a dozen fowls tied in a bunch by the legs, and a basket of eggs. the first thing was to get a word with the head-man at the store; so, slipping a few of the eggs into his hands, abd allah requested an interview with the tájir, with whom he had come to make friends. this being promised, he squatted on his heels by the door, where he was left to wait an hour or two, remarking to himself at intervals that god was great, till summoned by one of the servants to enter. the merchant was seated behind his desk, and abd allah, having deposited his burden on the floor, was making round the table to throw himself at his feet, when he was stopped and allowed but to kiss his hand. "well, what dost thou want?" "i have come to make friends, o merchant." "who art thou?" "i am abd allah bin boo shaïb es-sálih, o merchant, of aïn haloo in rahámna. i have a family there, and cattle, and very much land. i wish to place all in thy hands, and to become thy friend," again endeavouring to throw himself at the feet of the european. "all right, all right, that will do. i will see about it; come to me again to-morrow." "may god bless thee, o merchant, and fill thee with prosperity, and may he prolong thy days in peace!" as tájir vecchio went on with his writing, abd allah made off with a hopeful heart to spend the next twenty-four anxious hours in the fandak, while his offerings were carried away to the private house by a servant. next morning saw him there again, when much the same scene was repeated. this time, however, they got to business. "how can i befriend you?" asked the european, after yesterday's conversation had been practically repeated. "thou canst very greatly befriend me by making me thy agent in aïn haloo. i will work for thee, and bring thee of the produce of my land as others do, if i may only enjoy thy protection. may god have mercy on thee, o merchant. i take refuge with thee." "i can't be always appointing agents and protecting people for nothing. what can you give me?" "whatever is just, o merchant, but the lord knows that i am not rich, though he has bestowed sufficient on me to live, praise be to him." "well, i should want two hundred dollars down, and something when the certificate is renewed next year, besides which you would of course report yourself each quarter, and not come empty-handed. animals and corn i can do best with, but i don't want any of your poultry." "god bless thee, merchant, and make thee prosperous, but two hundred dollars is a heavy sum for me, and this last harvest has not been so plentiful as the one before, as thou knowest. grant me this protection for one hundred and fifty dollars, and i can manage it, but do not make it an impossibility." "i can't go any lower: there are scores of moors who would give me that price. do as you like. good morning." "thou knowest, o merchant, i could not give more than i have offered," replied abd allah as he rose and left the place. but as no one else could be found in the town to protect him on better terms, he had at last to return, and in exchange for the sum demanded received a paper inscribed on one side in arabic, and on the other in english, as follows:-- "vice-consulate for great britain, "mazagan, _oct. , _. "_this is to certify that abd allah bin boo shaïb es-sálih, resident at aïn haloo in the province of rahámna, has been duly appointed agent of edward vecchio, a british subject, residing in mazagan: all authorities will respect him according to existing treaties, not molesting him without proper notice to this vice-consulate._[ ] "_gratis_ seal. [signed] "john smith. "_h.b.m.'s vice-consul, mazagan._" [ : a genuine "patent of protection," as prescribed by treaty, supposed to be granted only to wholesale traders, whereas every beggar can obtain "certificates of partnership." the native in question has then only to appear before the notaries and state that he has in his possession so much grain, or so many oxen or cattle, belonging to a certain european, who takes them as his remuneration for presenting the notarial document at his legation, and obtaining the desired certificate. moreover, he receives half the produce of the property thus made over to him. this is popularly known as "farming in morocco."] xxviii justice for the jew "sleep on anger, and thou wilt not rise repentant." _moorish proverb._ the kaïd sat in his seat of office, or one might rather say reclined, for moorish officials have a habit of lying in two ways at once when they are supposed to be doing justice. strictly speaking, his position was a sort of halfway one, his back being raised by a pile of cushions, with his right leg drawn up before him, as he leant on his left elbow. his judgement seat was a veritable wool-sack, or rather mattress, placed across the left end of a long narrow room, some eight feet by twenty, with a big door in the centre of one side. the only other apertures in the whitewashed but dirty walls were a number of ventilating loop-holes, splayed on the inside, ten feet out of the twelve above the floor. this was of worn octagonal tiles, in parts covered with a yellow rush mat in an advanced state of consumption. notwithstanding the fact that the ceiling was of some dark colour, hard to be defined at its present age, the audience-chamber was amply lighted from the lofty horse-shoe archway of the entrance, for sunshine is reflection in morocco to a degree unknown in northern climes. on the wall above the head of the kaïd hung a couple of huge and antiquated horse-pistols, while on a small round table at his feet, some six inches high, lay a collection of cartridges and gunsmith's tools. behind him, on a rack, were half a dozen long flint-lock muskets, and on the wall by his feet a number of moorish daggers and swords. in his hand the governor fondled a european revolver, poking out and replacing the charges occasionally, just to show that it was loaded. his personal attire, though rich in quality, ill became his gawky figure, and there was that about his badly folded turban which bespoke the parvenu. like the muzzle of some wolf, his pock-marked visage glowered on a couple of prostrated litigants before him, as they fiercely strove to prove each other wrong. near his feet was squatted his private secretary, and at the door stood policemen awaiting instructions to imprison one or both of the contending parties. the dispute was over the straying of some cattle, a paltry claim for damages. the plaintiff having presented the kaïd with a loaf of sugar and a pound of candles, was in a fair way to win his case, when a suggestive sign on the part of the defendant, comprehended by the judge as a promise of a greater bribe, somewhat upset his calculations, for he was summarily fined a couple of dollars, and ordered to pay another half dollar costs for having allowed the gate of his garden to stand open, thereby inviting his neighbour's cattle to enter. without a word he was carried off to gaol pending payment, while the defendant settled with the judge and left the court. into the midst of this scene came another policeman, gripping by the arm a poor jewish seamstress named mesaôdah, who had had the temerity to use insulting language to her captor when that functionary was upbraiding her for not having completed some garment when ordered, though he insisted on paying only half-price, declaring that it was for the governor. the jewess had hardly spoken when she lay sprawling on the ground from a blow which she dare not, under any provocation, return, but her temper had so far gained the mastery over her, that as she rose she cursed her tormentor roundly. that was enough; without more ado the man had laid his powerful arm upon her, and was dragging her to his master's presence, knowing how welcome any such case would be, even though it was not one out of which he might hope to make money. reckless of the governor's well-known character, mesaôdah at once opened her mouth to complain against mahmood, pitching her voice in the terrible key of her kind. "my lord, may god bless thee and lengthen...." a fierce shake from her captor interrupted the sentence, but did not keep her quiet, for immediately she continued, in pleading tones, as best she could, struggling the while to keep her mouth free from the wretch's hand. "protect me, i pray thee, from this cruel man; he has struck me: yes, my lord." "strike her again if she doesn't stop that noise," cried the kaïd, and as the man raised his hand to threaten her she saw there was no hope, and her legs giving way beneath her, she sank to the ground in tears. "for god's sake, yes, my lord, have mercy on thine handmaid." it was pitiful to hear the altered tones, and it needed the heart of a brute to reply as did the governor, unmoved, by harshly asking what she had been up to. "she's a thief, my lord, a liar, like all her people; god burn their religion; i gave her a waistcoat to make a week ago, and i purposed it for a present to thee, my lord, but she has made away with the stuff, and when i went for it she abused me, and, by thy leave, thee also, my lord; here she is to be punished." "it's a lie, my lord; the stuff is in my hut, and the waistcoat's half done, but i knew i should never get paid for it, so had to get some other work done to keep my children from starving, for i am a widow. have mercy on me!" "god curse the liar! i have spoken the truth," broke in the policeman. "fetch a basket for her!" ordered the kaïd, and in another moment a second attendant was assisting mahmood to force the struggling woman to sit in a large and pliable basket of palmetto, the handles of which were quickly lashed across her stomach. she was then thrown shrieking on her back, her bare legs lifted high, and tied to a short piece of pole just in front of the ankles; one man seized each end of this, a third awaiting the governor's orders to strike the soles. in his hand he had a short-handled lash made of twisted thongs from tafilált, well soaked in water. the efforts of the victim to attack the men on either side becoming violent, a delay was caused by having to tie her hands together, her loud shrieks rending the air the while. "give her a hundred," said the kaïd, beginning to count as the blows descended, giving fresh edge to the piercing yells, interspersed with piteous cries for mercy, and ribbing the skin in long red lines, which were soon lost in one raw mass of bleeding flesh. as the arm of one wearied, another took his place, and a bucket of cold water was thrown over the victim's legs. at first her face had been ashy pale, it was now livid from the blood descending to it, as her legs grew white all but the soles, which were already turning purple under the cruel lash. then merciful unconsciousness stepped in, and silence supervened. "that will do," said the governor, having counted eighty-nine. "take her away; she'll know better next time!" and he proceeded with the cases before him, fining this one, imprisoning that, and bastinadoing a third, with as little concern as an english registrar would sign an order to pay a guinea fine. indeed, why should he do otherwise. this was his regular morning's work. it was a month before mesaôdah could touch the ground with her feet, and more than three before she could totter along with two sticks. her children were kept alive by her neighbours till she could sit up and "stitch, stitch, stitch," but there was no one to hear her bitter complaint, and no one to dry her tears. one day his faithful henchman dragged before the kaïd a jewish broker, whose crime of having bid against that functionary on the market, when purchasing supplies for his master, had to be expiated by a fine of twenty dollars, or a hundred lashes. the misguided wretch chose the latter, loving his coins too well; but after the first half-dozen had descended on his naked soles, he cried for mercy and agreed to pay. [illustration: _photograph by dr. rudduck._ jewesses of the atlas.] another day it was a more wealthy member of the community who was summoned on a serious charge. the kaïd produced a letter addressed to the prisoner, which he said had been intercepted, couched in the woefully corrupted arabic of the moorish jews, but in the cursive hebrew character. "canst read, o moses?" asked the kaïd, in a surly tone. "certainly, yes, my lord, may god protect thee, when the writing is in the sacred script." "read that aloud, then," handing him the missive. moses commenced by rapidly glancing his eye down the page, and as he did so his face grew pale, his hand shook, and he muttered something in the hebrew tongue as the kaïd sharply ordered him to proceed. "my lord, yes, my lord; it is false, it is a fraud," he stammered. "the devil take thee, thou son of a dog; read what is set before thee, and let us have none of thy impudence. the gaol is handy." with a trembling voice moses the usurer read the letter, purporting to have been written by an intimate friend in mogador, and implying by its contents that moses had, when in that town some years ago, embraced the faith of islám, from which he was therefore now a pervert, and consequently under pain of death. he was already crouched upon the ground, as is the custom before a great man, but as he spelled out slowly the damnatory words, he had to stretch forth his hands to keep from falling over. he knew that there was nothing to be gained by denial, by assurances that the letter was a forgery; the kaïd's manner indicated plainly enough that _he_ meant to be satisfied with it, and there was no appeal. "moses," said the kaïd, in a mock confidential tone, as he took back the letter, "thou'rt in my power. all that thou hast is mine. with such evidence against thee as this thy very head is in my hands. if thou art wise, and wilt share thy fortune with me, all shall go well; if not, thou knowest what to expect. i am to-day in need of a hundred dollars. now go!" an hour had not elapsed before, with a heart still heavier than the bag he carried, moses crossed the courtyard again, and deposited the sum required in the hands of the kaïd, with fresh assurances of his innocence, imploring the destruction of that fatal document, which was readily promised, though with no intention of complying with the request, notwithstanding that to procure another as that had been procured would cost but a trifle. these are only instances which could be multiplied of how the jews of morocco suffer at the hands of brutal officials. as metal which attracts the electricity from a thunder-cloud, so they invariably suffer first when a newly appointed, conscienceless governor comes to rule. with all his faults the previous kaïd had recognized how closely bound up with that of the moors under his jurisdiction was the welfare of jews similarly situated, so that, favoured by his wise administration, their numbers and their wealth had increased till, though in outward appearance beggarly, they formed an important section of the community. the new kaïd, however, saw in them but a possible mine, a goose that laid golden eggs, so, like the fool of the story, he set about destroying it when the supply of eggs fell off, for there was of necessity a limit to the repeated offerings which, on one pretext or another, he extorted from these luckless "tributaries," as they are described in moorish legal documents. when he found that ordinary means of persuasion failed, he had resort to more drastic measures. he could not imagine fresh feasts and public occasions, auspicious or otherwise, on which to collect "presents" from them, so he satisfied himself by bringing specious charges against the more wealthy jews and fining them, as well as by encouraging moors to accuse them in various ways. many of the payments to the governor being in small and mutilated coin, every friday he sent to the jews what he had received during the week, demanding a round sum in spanish dollars, far more than their fair value. then when he had forced upon them a considerable quantity of this depreciated stuff, he would send a crier round notifying the public that it was out of circulation and no longer legal tender, moreover giving warning that the "jew's money" was not to be trusted, as it was known that they had counterfeit coins in their possession. it was then time to offer them half price for it, which they had no option but to accept, though some while later he would re-issue it at its full value, and having permitted its circulation, would force it upon them again. the repairs which it was found necessary to effect in the kasbah, the equipment of troops, the contributions to the expenses of the sultan's expeditions, or the payment of indemnities to foreign nations, were constantly recurring pretexts for levying fresh sums from the jews as well as from the moors, and these were the legal ones. the illegal were too harrowing for description. young children and old men were brutally thrashed and then imprisoned till they or their friends paid heavy ransoms, and even the women occasionally suffered in this way. on sabbaths and fast days orders would be issued to the jews, irrespective of age or rank, to perform heavy work for the governor, perhaps to drag some heavy load or block of stone. those who could buy themselves off were fortunate: those who could not do so were harnessed and driven like cattle under the lashes of yard-long whips, being compelled when their work was done to pay their taskmasters. indeed, it was egypt over again, but there was no moses. men or women found with shoes on were bastinadoed and heavily fined, and on more than one occasion the sons of the best-off israelites were arrested in school on the charge of having used disrespectful language regarding the sultan, and thrown into prison chained head and feet, in such a manner that it was impossible to stretch their bodies. thus they were left for days without food, all but dead, in spite of the desire of their relatives to support them, till ransoms of two hundred dollars apiece could be raised to obtain their release, in some cases three months after their incarceration. xxix civil war in morocco "wound of speech is worse than wound of sword." _moorish proverb._ spies were already afield when the sun rose this morning, and while their return with the required information was eagerly expected, those of asni who would be warriors took a hasty breakfast and looked to their horses and guns. directly intelligence as to the whereabouts of the aït mîzán arrived, the cavalcade set forth, perforce in indian file, on account of the narrow single track, but wherever it was possible those behind pressed forward and passed their comrades in their eagerness to reach the scene of action. no idea of order or military display crossed their minds, and but for the skirmishers who scoured the country round as they advanced, it would have been easy for a concealed foe to have picked them off one by one. nevertheless they made a gallant show in the morning sun, which glinted on their ornamented stirrups and their flint-locks, held like lances, with the butts upon the pummels before them. the varied colours of their trappings, though old and worn, looked gay by the side of the red cloth-covered saddles and the gun-cases of similar material used by many as turbans. but for the serious expression on the faces of the majority, and the eager scanning of each knoll and shrub, the party might have been intent on powder-play instead of powder-business. for a mile or two no sign of human being was seen, and the ride was already growing wearisome when a sudden report on their right was followed by the heavy fall of one of their number, his well-trained horse standing still for him to re-mount, though he would never more do so. nothing but a puff of smoke showed whence the shot had come, some way up the face of a hill. the first impulse was to make a charge in that direction, and to fire a volley; but the experience of the leader reminded him that if there were only one man there it would not be worth while, and if there were more they might fall into an ambush. so their file passed on while the scouts rode towards the hill slope. a few moments later one of these had his horse shot under him, and then a volley was fired which took little effect on the advancing horsemen, still too far away for successful aim. they had been carefully skirting a wooded patch which might give shelter to their foes, whom they soon discovered to be lying in trenches behind the first hill-crests. unless they were dislodged, it would be almost impossible to proceed, so, making a rapid flank movement, the asni party spurred their horses and galloped round to gain the hills above the hidden enemy. as they did so random shots were discharged, and when they approached the level of the trenches, they commenced a series of rushes forward, till they came within range. in doing so they followed zig-zag routes to baffle aim, firing directly they made out the whereabouts of their assailants, and beating a hasty retreat. what success they were achieving they could not tell, but their own losses were not heavy. soon, as their firing increased, that from the trenches which they were gradually approaching grew less, and fresh shots from behind awoke them to the fact that the enemy was making a rear attack. by this time they were in great disorder, scattered over a wide area; the majority had gained the slight cover of the brushwood to their rear, and a wide space separated them from the new arrivals, who were performing towards them the same wild rushes that they themselves had made towards the trenches. they were therefore divided roughly into two divisions, the footmen in the shelter of the shrubs, the horsemen engaging the mounted enemy. among the brushwood hardly was the figure of friend or foe discernible, for all lay down behind any available shelter, crawling from point to point like so many caterpillars, but firing quickly enough when an enemy was sighted. this style of warfare has its advantages, for it greatly diminishes losses on either side. for the horsemen, deprived of such shelter, safety lay in rapid movements and unexpected evolutions, each man acting for himself, and keeping as far away from his comrades as possible. so easily were captures made that it almost seemed as if many preferred surrender and safety to the chances of war, for they knew that they were sure of honourable treatment on both sides. the prisoners were not even bound, but merely disarmed and marched to the rear, to be conveyed at night in a peaceful manner to their captors' tents and huts, there to be treated as guests till peace should result in exchange. by this time the combatants were scattered over a square mile or so, and though the horsemen of asni had driven the aït mîzán from the foremost trenches by the bold rushes described, and their footmen had engaged them, no further advantage seemed likely to accrue, while they were terribly harassed by those who still remained under cover. the signal was therefore given for a preconcerted retreat, which at once began. loud shouts of an expected victory now arose from the aït mîzán, who were gradually drawn from their hiding-places by their desire to secure nearer shots at the men of asni as they slowly descended the hill. at length the aït mîzán began to draw somewhat to one side, as they discovered that they were being led too far into the open, but this movement was outwitted by the asni horsemen, who were now pouring down on the scene. the wildest confusion supervened; many fell on every hand. victory was now assured to asni, which the enemy were quick to recognize, and as the sun was by this time at blazing noon, and energy grew slack on both sides, none was loth to call a conference. this resulted in an agreement by the vanquished to return the stolen cattle which had formed the _casus belli_, for indeed they were no longer able to protect them from their real owners. as many more were forfeited by way of damages, and messages were despatched to the women left in charge to hand them over to a party of the victors. prisoners were meantime exchanged, while through the medium of the local "holy man" a peace was formally ratified, after which each party returned to its dead, who were quickly consigned to their shallow graves. such of the asni men as were not mourners, now assembled in the open space of their village to be feasted by their women as victors. basins, some two feet across, were placed on the ground filled with steaming kesk'soo. round each of these portions sat cross-legged some eight or ten of the men, and a metal bowl of water was handed from one to the other to rinse the fingers of the right hand. they sat upon rude blankets spread on mats, the scene lit by roman-like olive-oil lamps, and a few french candles round the board of the sheïkh and allied leaders. a striking picture, indeed, they presented, there in the still night air, thousands of heaven-lights gleaming from the dark blue vault above, outrivalling the flicker of those simple earth-flames on their lined and sun-burnt faces. the women who waited on them, all of middle age, alone remained erect, as they glided about on their bare feet, carrying bowl and towel from man to man. from the huts and the tents around came many strange sounds of bird, beast, and baby, for the cocks were already crowing, as it was growing late,[ ] while the dogs bayed at the shadow of the cactus and the weird shriek of the night-bird. [ : a way they have in barbary.] "b'ism illah!" exclaimed the host at each basin ("in the name of god!")--as he would ask a blessing--when he finished breaking bread for his circle, and plunged his first sop in the gravy. "b'ism illah!" they all replied, and followed suit in a startlingly sudden silence wherein naught but the stowing away of food could be heard, till one of them burnt his fingers by an injudiciously deep dive into the centre after a toothsome morsel. in the midst of a sea of broth rose mountains of steamed and buttered kesk'soo, in the craters of which had been placed the contents of the stew-pot, the disjointed bones of chickens with onions and abundant broad beans. the gravy was eaten daintily with sops of bread, conveyed to the mouth in a masterly manner without spilling a drop, while the kesk'soo was moulded in the palm of the right hand into convenient sized balls and shot into the mouth by the thumb. the meat was divided with the thumb and fingers of the right hand alone, since the left may touch no food. at last one by one sat back, his greasy hand outstretched, and after taking a sip of cold water from the common jug with his left, and licking his right to prevent the waste of one precious grain, each washed his hands, rinsed his mouth thrice, polished his teeth with his right forefinger, and felt ready to begin again, all agreeing that "he who is not first at the powder, should not be last at the dish." xxx the political situation "a guess of the informed is better than the assurance of the ignorant." _moorish proverb._ ever since the accession of the present sultan, mulai abd el azîz iv., on his attaining the age of twenty in , morocco has been more than ever the focus of foreign designs, both public and private, which have brought about a much more disturbed condition than under his father, or even under the subsequent wazeer regent. the manifest friendlessness of the youth, his lack of training for so important a part, and the venality of his entourage, at once attracted birds of prey, and they have worked their will. since the death of el hasan iii., in , the administration had been controlled by the former lord high chamberlain, or "curtain" of the shareefian throne, whose rule was severe, though good, and it seemed doubtful whether he would relinquish the reins of authority. the other wazeers whom his former master had left in office had been imprisoned on various charges, and he stood supreme. he was, however, old and enfeebled by illness, so when in his end came instead of his resignation, few were surprised. what they were not quite prepared for, however, was the clearing of the board within a week or two by the death of his two brothers and a cousin, whom he had promoted to be respectively commander-in-chief, chamberlain, and master of the ceremonies--all of them, it was declared, by influenza. another brother had died but a short while before, and the commissioner sent to tangier to arrange matters with the french was found dead in his room--from asphyxia caused by burning charcoal. thus was the cabinet dissolved, and the only remaining member resigned. there then rose suddenly to power a hitherto unheard of arab of the south, el menébhi, who essayed too much in acting as ambassador to london while still minister of war, and returned to find his position undermined; he has since emigrated to egypt. it was freely asserted that the depletion of the moorish exchequer was due to his peculation, resulting in his shipping a large fortune to england in specie, with the assistance of british officials who were supposed to have received a handsome "consideration" in addition to an enormous price paid for british protection. thus, amid a typically moorish cloud, he left the scene. from that time the court has been the centre of kaleidoscopic intrigues, which have seriously hampered administration, but which were not in themselves sufficient to disturb the country. what was of infinitely greater moment was the eagerness with which the young ruler, urged by his circassian mother, sought advice and counsel from europe, and endeavoured to act up to it. one disinterested and trusted friend at that juncture would have meant the regeneration of the empire, provided that interference from outside were stayed. but this was not to be. the few impartial individuals who had access to the sultan were outnumbered by the horde of politicians, diplomats, adventurers, and schemers who surrounded him, the latter at least freely bribing wazeers to obtain their ends. in spite of an unquestionable desire to do what was best for his country, and to act upon the good among the proffered advice, wild extravagance resulted both in action and expenditure. thus mulai abd el azîz became the laughing-stock of europe, and the butt of his people's scorn. his heart was with the foreigners--with dancing women and photographers,--he had been seen in trousers, even on a bicycle! what might he not do next? a man so implicated with unbelievers could hardly be a faithful muslim, said the discontented. no more efficacious text could have been found to rouse fanaticism and create dissatisfaction throughout his dominions. black looks accompanied the mention of his name, and it was whispered that the leader of the faithful was selling himself and his empire, if not to the devil, at least to the nazarenes, which was just as bad. any other country would have been ripe for rebellion, as europe supposed that morocco was, but scattered and conflicting interests defeated all attempts to induce a general rising. one of the wisest measures of the new reign was the attempt to reorganize finances in accordance with english advice, by the systematic levy of taxes hitherto imposed in the arbitrary fashion described in chapter ii. this was hailed with delight, and had it been maintained by a strong government, would have worked wonders in restoring prosperity. but foreign _protégés_ refused to pay, and objections of all sorts were raised, till at last the "terteeb," as it was called, became impossible of collection without recourse to arms. fearing this, the money in hand to pay the tax was expended on guns and cartridges, which the increasing demand led foreigners to smuggle in by the thousand. it is estimated that some millions of fire-arms--a large proportion of them repeating rifles with a large supply of ammunition--are now in the hands of the people, while the government has never been worse supplied than at present. ship-load after ship-load has been landed on the coast in defiance of all authority, and large consignments have been introduced over the algerian frontier, the state of which has in consequence become more than ever unsettled. in short, the benign intentions of mulai abd el azîz have been interpreted as weakness, and once again the nazarenes are accused--to quote a recent remark of an atlas scribe--of having "spoiled the sultan," and of being about to "spoil the country." active among the promoters of dissatisfaction have been throughout the idreesi shareefs, representatives of the original muslim dynasty in morocco; venerated for their ancestry and adherence to all that is retrogressive or bigoted, and on principle opposed to the reigning dynasty. these leaders of discontent find able allies in the algerians in morocco, some of whom settled there years ago because sharing their feelings and determined not to submit to the french; but of whom others, while expressing equal devotion to the old order, can from personal experience recommend the advantages of french administration, to which even their exiled brethren or their descendants no longer feel equal objection. the summary punishment inflicted a few years ago on the murderer of an englishman in the streets of fez was, like everything else, persistently misinterpreted through the country. in the distant provinces the story--as reported by natives therefrom--ran that the nazarene had been shot by a saint while attempting to enter and desecrate the sacred shrine of mulai idrees, and that by executing him the sultan showed himself an unbeliever. when british engineers were employed to survey the route for a railway between fez and mequinez this was reported as indicating an absolute sale of the country, and the people were again stirred up, though not to actual strife. only in the semi-independent district of the ghaïáta berbers between fez and táza, which had never been entirely subjugated, did a flame break out. a successful writer of amulets, hitherto unknown, one jelálli zarhôni, who had acquired a great local reputation, began to denounce the sultan's behaviour with religious fervour. calling on the neighbouring tribesmen to refuse allegiance to so unworthy a monarch, he ultimately raised the standard of revolt in the name of the sultan's imprisoned elder brother, m'hammed. finally, the rumour ran that this prince had escaped and joined jelálli, who, from his habitual prophet's mount, is better known throughout the country as boo hamára--"father of the she-ass." according to the official statement, jelálli zarhôni was originally a policeman (makházni), whose bitterness and subsequent sedition arose from ill-treatment then received. although exalted in newspaper reports to the dignity of a "pretender," in morocco he is best known as the "rogi" or "common one." fez clamoured to see m'hammed, that the story might be disproved, and after much delay, during which he was supposed to be conveyed from mequinez, a veiled and guarded rider arrived, preceded by criers who proclaimed him to be the sultan's brother. but as no one could be sure if this were the case or not, each party believed what it wished, and jelálli's hands were strengthened. boldly announcing the presence with him of mulai m'hammed, in his name he sought and obtained the allegiance of tribe after tribe. although the sultan effected a reconciliation with his presumed brother--whose movements, however, still remain restricted--serious men believe him to be in the rebel camp, and few know the truth. at first success attended the rebellion, but it never spread beyond the unsettled eastern provinces, and after three years it ineffectually smoulders on, the leader cooped up by the sultan's forces near the coast, though the sultan is not strong enough to stamp it out. by those whose knowledge of the country is limited to newspaper news a much more serious state of affairs is supposed to exist, a "pretender" collecting his forces for a final coup, etc. something of truth there may be in this, but the situation is grossly exaggerated. the local rising of a few tribes in eastern morocco never affected the rest of the empire, save by that feeling of unrest which, in the absence of complete information, jumps at all tales. even the so-called "rout" of an "imperial army" three years ago was only a stampede without fighting, brought about by a clever ruse, and there has never been a serious conflict throughout the affair, though the "rogi" is well supplied with arms from algeria, and his "forces" are led by a frenchman, m. delbrel. meanwhile comparative order reigns in the disaffected district, though in the north, usually the most peaceful portion of the empire, all is disturbed. there a leader has arisen, raïsûli by name, who obtained redress for the wrongs of tribes south of tangier, and his own appointment as their kaïd, by the astute device of carrying off as hostages an american and an englishman, so that the pressure certain to be brought to bear by their governments would compel the sultan to grant his demands. all turned out as he had hoped, and the condign punishment which he deserves is yet far off, though a local struggle continues between him and a small imperial force, complicated by feuds between his sometime supporters, who, however, fight half-heartedly, for fear of killing relatives pressed into service on the other side. those who once looked to raïsûli as a champion have found his little finger thicker than the sultan's loins, and the country round tangier is ruined by taxation, so that every one is discontented, and the district is unsafe, a species of civil war raging. the full name of this redoubtable leader is mulai ahmad bin mohammed bin abd allah er-raïsûli, and he is a shareef of beni arôs, connected therefore with the wazzán shareefs; but his prestige as such is low, both on account of his past career, and because of his acceptance of a civil post. his mother belonged to anjera, near tangier, where he was born about thirty-six years ago at the village of zeenát, being well educated, as education goes in morocco, with the beni m'sawah. but falling into bad company, he first took to cattle-lifting, afterwards turning highwayman, as which he was eventually caught by the abd es-sadok family--various members of which were kaïds from ceuta to azîla--and consigned to prison in mogador. after three or four years his release was obtained by háj torres, the foreign commissioner in tangier, but when he found that the abd es-sadoks had sequestrated his property, he vowed not to cut his hair till he had secured their disgrace. hence, with locks that many a woman might envy, he has plotted and harassed till his present position has been achieved. but as this is only a means to an end, who can tell what that may be? raïsûli is allowed on all hands to be a peculiarly able and well-bred man, full of resource and determination. though his foes have succeeded in kidnapping even his mother, it will certainly be a miracle if he is taken alive. should all fail him, he is prepared to blow his brains out, or make use of a small phial of poison always to hand. it is interesting to remember that just such a character, abd allah ghaïlán, held a similar position in this district when tangier was occupied by the english, who knew him as "guyland," and paid him tribute. the more recent imitation of raïsûli's tactics by a native free-booter of the ceuta frontier, in arresting two english officers as hostages wherewith to secure the release of his brother and others from prison, has proved equally successful, but as matters stand at present, it is more than doubtful whether the moorish government is in a position to bring either of these offenders to book, and the outlook in the north is decidedly stormy. it is, indeed, quite in accordance with the traditions of moorish history, throughout which these periods of local disorganization have been of constant recurrence without danger to the state. [illustration: _photograph by dr. rudduck._ the kaÏd. a moorish kaÏd and attendants.] in the south things are quiet, though a spirit of unrest pervades the people, especially since it has been seen that the sultan no longer either collects the regular taxes or maintains the regular army. there the immediate result of the failure to collect the taxes for a year or two was that the people had more to spend on cattle and other stock, which rapidly rose in price, no one needing to sell unless he wished. within the last two years, however, the kaïds have recommenced their oppressive treatment, under the pretext of a levy to put down the rising in the eastern provinces. men and money were several times furnished, but though now more difficult to raise, the demands continue. the wonder is that the people remain so quiet, but they are of a more peaceable nature than the berbers of the north. three of the sultan's brothers have been for some time camped in as many centres, engaged in collecting funds, but tribe after tribe has refused to pay, declaring that they have been exempted by their lord, and until he returns they will submit to no kaïd and pay no dues. it is only in certain districts that some of the funds demanded have been forthcoming, and the kaïds have full authority, but these are officials of long standing and great repute, whose jurisdiction has been much extended in consequence. changes among the less important kaïds have been continual of late. one man would buy the office and struggle to establish himself, only to find a new man installed over his head before he was settled, which has frequently led to local disorders, fighting and plundering. in this way the government has quite lost prestige, and a strong hand is awaited. the moors would have preferred another ismáïl the bloodthirsty, who could compel his will, and awe all other rascals in his dominions, to the mild and well-intentioned youth now at the helm. some would even welcome any change that would put an end to present insecurity, but only the french _protégés_ desire to see that change effected by france, and only those under the german flag already would hail that with joy. the jews alone would welcome any, as they have good cause to do. such was already the condition of things when the long-threatening clouds burst, and the anglo-french agreement was published in april, . rumours of negotiations for the sale of british interests in morocco to france had for some time filled the air, but in face of official denials, and the great esteem in which england was held by the moors, few gave credence to them. mulai abd el azîz had relied especially on great britain, and had confidently looked to it for protection against the french; the announcement of the bargain between them broke him down. it may have been inevitable; and since an agreement among all the powers concerned was so remote a possibility, an understanding between the three most interested may have been the wisest course, in view of pending internal troubles which would certainly afford excuses for interference. it was undoubtedly good policy on their part to decide who should inherit the vineyard, and on what terms, that conflict between them might be avoided. but on the unconsulted victim it came a cruel blow, unexpected and indefensible. it is important not to forget this. but the one absorbing thought of all for nearly a year past has been the drought and consequent famine. between november, , and october, , there was practically no rainfall over a large portion of the country, and agriculture being interfered with, grain rose to five times its normal price. although relief has now come, it will be months before the cattle are in proper condition again, and not till after next year's harvest in may and june, should it prove a good one, will contentment be restored. under such conditions, though more ready than ever to grumble, the people have had no heart to fight, which has, to some degree, assisted in keeping them quiet. the famine has, however, tried them sore, and only increased their exasperation. added to this, the general feeling of dissatisfaction regarding the sultan's foreign predilections, and the slumbering fanaticism of the "learned" class, there is now a chronic lack of funds. the money which should have been raised by taxation has been borrowed abroad and ruthlessly scattered. fortunes have been made by foreigners and natives alike, but the sultan is all but bankrupt. yet never was his entourage so rich, though many who to-day hold houses and lands were a few years ago penniless. as for the future, for many years the only answer possible to tediously frequent inquiries as to what was going to happen in morocco has been that the future of the shareefian empire depended entirely on what might happen in europe, not to any degree on its own internal condition. the only way in which this could affect the issue was by affording an excuse for outside interference, as in the present case. corrupt as the native administration may be, it is but the expression of a corrupt population, and no native government, even in europe, is ever far in advance of those over whom it rules. in spite, too, of the pressure of injustice on the individual here and there, the victim of to-day becomes the oppressor of to-morrow, and such opportunities are not to be surrendered without a protest. the vast majority is, therefore, always in favour of present conditions, and would rather the chances of internecine strife than an exotic peace. no foreign ruler, however benign, would be welcome, and no "penetration," however "pacific," but will be endured and resented as a hostile wound. even the announcement of the anglo-french agreement was sufficient to gravely accentuate the disorders of the country, and threaten immediate complications with europe, by provoking attacks on europeans who had hitherto been safe from interference save under exceptional circumstances. a good deal of the present unrest is attributable to this cause alone. it is, therefore, a matter of deep regret that the one possible remedy--joint action of the powers in policing the moors, as it were, by demanding essential reforms in return for a united guarantee of territorial integrity--was rendered impossible by the rivalries between those powers, especially on the part of france. great britain's step aside has made possible the only alternative, the surrender of the coveted task to one of their number, in return for such _quid pro quo_ as each could obtain. had the second-class powers been bargained with first, not only would they have secured substantial terms, which now it is no use their asking, but the leading powers could have held out for terms yet undreamed of. france did well to begin with great britain, but it was an egregious diplomatic error to overlook germany, which was thereby promoted to the hitherto unhoped-for position of "next friend" and trusted adviser of morocco. up to that point germany had played a waiting game so patiently that france fell into the trap, and gave her all she wanted. it is inconceivable how the astute politicians of the quai d'orsay committed such a blunder, save on the assumption that they were so carried away by the ease with which they had settled with great britain, that they forgot all other precautions--unless it was that they feared to jeopardize the conclusion of the main bargain by delay in discussing any subsidiary point. when the agreement was made known, the writer pointed out in the _westminster review_, that, "portugal, italy and austria have but to acquiesce and rest assured of the 'most favoured nation' treatment, as will all the other powers save one. that one, of course, is germany, _whose sole interest in morocco is the possibility of placing a drag on france_. she will have to be dealt with. having disposed of england, which had real interests at stake, in the command of the straits and the maintenance of gibraltar, france should be able to accomplish this as well. five and twenty years ago germany had not even a commercial interest in morocco. great britain did three-fourths of the trade, or more, france about a tenth, spain and others dividing the crumbs between them. but an active commercial policy--by the encouragement and support of young firms in a way that made britishers envious, and abusive of their own foreign office--has secured for germany a growing share of the trade, till now she stands next to great britain, whose share is reduced to one-half."[ ] [ : it is curious, indeed, how little the german empire or its component states figure in the history of diplomatic relations with morocco. one has to go back to the time of rudolf ii., in , to find an active policy in force with regard to moroccan affairs, when that remarkable adventurer or international diplomatist, sir anthony sherley, was accredited to abd el azîz iii., the last of the moorish rulers to bear the same name as the present one. this intrepid soldier, a man after the kaiser's own heart, had been accredited to germany by the great shah of persia, abbás, whose confidence he had won to a marvellous degree, and he appears to have made as great an impression on rudolf, who sent him as his envoy to morocco. arrived there, he astonished the natives by coolly riding into the court of audience--a privilege still reserved to the sultan alone. but the ameer, as he was called in those days, was too politic or too polite to raise the question, only taking care that the next time the "dog of a christian" should find a chain stretched across the gateway. this sir anthony could not brook, so rode back threatening to break off negotiations, and it affords a striking lesson as to the right way of dealing with orientals, that even in those days the moors should have yielded and imprisoned the porter, permitting sir anthony's entrance on horseback thereafter. the treaty he came to negotiate was concluded, and relations with the germans were established on a right footing, but they have been little in evidence till recent years.] after all, the interests of germany in morocco were but a trifling consideration, meaning much less to her than ours do to us, and it was evident that whatever position she might assume, however she might bluster, she, too, had her price. this not being perceived by the ill-informed press of this country, the prey of political journalists in paris, cologne and madrid--more recently even of washington, whence the delusive reports are now re-echoed with alarming reverberations--there was heated talk of war, and everything that newspapers could do to bring it about was done. even a private visit of the kaiser to tangier, the only important feature of which was the stir made about it, was utilized to fan the flame. however theatrical some of the political actions of wilhelm ii. may have been, here was a case in which, directly he perceived the capital being made of his visit, he curtailed it to express his disapprobation. it was in tangier bay that he received the newspaper cuttings on the subject, and although the visit was to have extended in any case but to a few hours, he at once decided not to land. it was only when it was urged upon him what disappointment this would cause to its thirty thousand inhabitants and visitors for the occasion, that he consented to pay one short visit to his legation, abandoning the more important part of the programme, which included a climb to the citadel and an interchange of visits with a kinsman of the sultan. nothing more could have been done to emphasize the private nature of the visit, in reality of no greater moment than that of king edward to algeria almost at the same time. neither such a personal visit, nor any other action should have been required to remind great britain and france that they and spain alone were affected by their agreements, and that not even official notification to morocco or the other powers could restrict their perfect liberty of action. when, therefore, the distracted sultan turned to germany as the most influential power still faithful to its undertakings, the response of germany was perfectly correct, as was his own action. but germany, although prepared to meet him with a smile, and not averse to receiving crumbs in the form of concessions, had no more intention of embroiling herself on his behalf than great britain. extraordinary rumours, however, pervaded the country, and the idea of german intervention was hailed with delight; now general disappointment is felt, and germany is classed with england among the traitors. mulai abd el azîz had but one resource, to propose another conference of the powers, assured that france and germany would never come to an understanding, and that this would at least ward off the fatal day indefinitely. yet now that france and germany have agreed, it is probable that this step is regretted, and that, since the two have acted in concert, the moorish court has been at its wits' ends; it would now regard as a god-send anything which might prevent the conference from being held, lest it should strengthen the accord among its enemies, and weaken its own position. the diplomatic negotiations between fez, berlin, and paris have been of a character normal under the circumstances; and as the bickerings and insinuations which accompanied them were foreign to morocco, the sultan's invitation only serving as an opportunity for arriving at an understanding, they need not be dwelt on here. it is the french press which has stirred up the commotion, and has misled the british public into the belief that there has been some "morocco tangle." the facts are simply these: since , the date of the madrid convention regarding the vexed question of foreign rights of protecting natives and holding property in morocco, all nations concerned have been placed on an equal footing in their dealings with that country. the "most favoured nation" clause has secured for all the advantages gained by any in its special treaties. nothing has since occurred to destroy this situation. in asking his "friends" to meet again in conference now, the sultan acted wisely and within his rights. the fact that any two or three of them may have agreed to give one of their number a "free hand," should it suit her purposes to upset the _status quo_, does not theoretically affect the position, though it has suggested the advisability of further discussion. it is only in virtue of their combined might that the powers in question are enabled to assume the position they do. spain, the only power with interests in morocco other than commercial, had been settled with by a subsequent agreement in october, , for she had been consulted in time. special clauses dealing with her claims to consideration had even been inserted in the anglo-french agreement-- art. vii. "this arrangement does not apply to the points now occupied by spain on the moorish shore of the mediterranean. art. viii. "the two governments, animated by their sincerely friendly sentiments for spain, take into particular consideration the interests she possesses, owing to her geographical position and to her territorial possessions on the moorish shore of the mediterranean, in regard to which the french government will make some arrangement with the spanish government ... (which) will be communicated to the government of his britannic majesty." these articles apply to ceuta, which spain withheld from the portuguese after the brief union of the crowns in the sixteenth century; to veléz, an absolutely worthless rock, captured in by garcia de toledo with fifteen thousand men, the abandonment of which has more than once been seriously urged in spain; to alhucemas, a small island occupied in ; to melilla, a huge rock peninsula captured, on his own account, by medina sidonia in ; and to the zaffarine (or saffron) islands, only one of which is used, in the seizure of which the french were cleverly forestalled in . all are convict stations; unless heavily fortified in a manner that at present they are not, they would not be of sufficient value to tempt even a foe of spain. ceuta and melilla alone are worthy of consideration, and the former is the only one it might ever pay to fortify. so far have matters gone. the conference asked for by morocco--the flesh thrown to the wolves--is to form the next act. to this conference the unfortunate sultan would like to appeal for protection against the now "free hand" of france, but in consenting to discuss matters at all, she and her ally have, of course, stipulated that what has been done without reference to treaty shall not be treated of, if they are to take part, and as an act of courtesy to us, the united states has followed suit. other matters of importance which mulai abd el azîz desired to discuss have also been ruled out beforehand, so that only minor questions are to be dealt with, hardly worth the trouble of meeting. foremost among these is the replenishing of the moorish exchequer by further loans, which might more easily have been arranged without a conference. indeed, there are so many money-lenders anxious to finance morocco on satisfactory terms, that the competition among them has almost degenerated into a scramble. but all want some direct guarantee through their governments, which introduces the political element, as in return for such guarantee each power desires to increase its interests or privileges. thus, while each financier holds out his gold-bags temptingly before the sultan, elbowing aside his rival, each demands as surety the endorsement of his government, the price of which the sultan is hardly prepared to pay. he probably hopes that by appealing to them all in conference, he will obtain a joint guarantee on less onerous terms, without affording any one of them a foothold in his country, should he be unable to discharge his obligations. he is wise, and but for the difficulties caused by the defection of england and france from the political circle, this request for money might alone have sufficed to introduce a reformed _régime_ under the joint auspices of all. as it is, attempts to raise funds elsewhere, even to discharge the current interest, having failed, his french creditors, who do possess the support of their government, have obligingly added interest to capital, and with official sanction continue to roll the snowball destined one day to overwhelm the state. in the eyes of the moors this is nothing less than a bill-of-sale on the empire. a second point named by the sultan for submission to the conference is the urgency of submitting all inhabitants of the country without distinction to the reformed taxation; a reasonable demand if the taxes were reasonable and justly assessed, but who can say at present that they are either? the exchequer is undoubtedly defrauded of large sums by the exemptions enjoyed by foreigners and their _protégés_, on account of the way in which these privileges are abused, while, to begin with, the system itself is unfair to the native. here again is an excellent lever for securing reforms by co-operation. let the sultan understand that the sole condition on which such a privilege can be abandoned is the reform of his whole fiscal and judicial systems, and that this effected to the satisfaction of the powers, these privileges will be abandoned. nothing could do more to promote the internal peace and welfare of morocco than this point rightly handled. a third demand, the abolition of foreign postal services in his country, may appear to many curious and insignificant, but the circumstances are peculiar. twenty years ago, when i first knew morocco, there were no means of transmitting correspondence up country save by intermittent couriers despatched by merchants, whom one had to hunt up at the _cafés_ in which they reposed. on arrival the bundle of letters was carried round to likely recipients for them to select their own in the most hap-hazard way. things were hardly more formal at the ports at which eagerly awaited letters and papers arrived by sea. these were carried free from gibraltar, and delivered on application at the various consular offices. at one time the moorish government maintained unsatisfactory courier services between two or three of the towns, but issued no stamps, the receipt for the courier's payment being of the nature of a postmark, stamped at the office, which, though little known to collectors, is the only genuine and really valuable moorish postage stamp obtainable. all other so-called morocco stamps were issued by private individuals, who later on ran couriers between some two moorish towns, their income being chiefly derived from the sale of stamps to collectors. some were either entirely bogus services, or only a few couriers were run to save appearances. stamps of all kinds were sold at face value, postmarked or not to order, and as the issues were from time to time changed, the profits were steady and good. the case was in some ways analogous to that of the yangtse and other treaty ports of china, where i found every consul's wife engaged in designing local issues, sometimes of not inconsiderable merit. in morocco quite a circle of stamp-dealers sprang up, mostly sharp jewish lads--though not a few foreign officials contracted the fever, and some time ago a stamp journal began to be issued in tangier to promote the sale of issues which otherwise would not have been heard of. now all is changed; great britain, france, spain and germany maintain head postal offices in tangier, the british being subject to that of gibraltar, whose stamps are used. all have courier services down the coast, as well as despatching by steamer, and some maintain inland mails conveyed by runners. the distance from tangier to fez, some hundred and fifty miles, is covered by one man on foot in about three days and a half, and the forty miles' run from tangier to tetuan is done in a night for a dollar, now less than three shillings. but a more enlightened sultan sees the advantage it would be to him, if not to all parties, to control the distribution of the growing correspondence of both europeans and natives, the latter of whom prefer to register their letters, having very little faith in their despatch without a receipt. and as mulai abd el azîz is willing to join the postal union, provided that the service is placed in efficient european hands there is no reason why it should not be united in one office, and facilities thereby increased. france, however, in joining the conference, has quite another end in view than helping others to bolster up the present administration, and that is to obtain a formal recognition by all concerned, including morocco, of the new position created by her agreement with great britain. that is to say, without permitting her action to be questioned in any way, she hopes to secure some show of right to what at present she possesses only by the might of herself and her friends. she has already agreed with germany to recognize her special claim for permission to "police" the morocco-algerian frontier, and those who recall the appropriation of tunisia will remember that it originated in "policing" the khomaïr--known to the french as "kroumirs"--on the tunisian frontier of algeria. it is, indeed, a curious spectacle, a group of butchers around the unfortunate victim, talking philanthropy, practising guile: two of the strongest have at last agreed between themselves which is to have the carcase, but preparations for the "pacific" death-thrust are delayed by frantic appeals for further consultation, and by the refusal of one of their number who had been ignored to recognize the bargain. consultation is only agreed to on conditions which must defeat its object, and terms are arranged with the intervener. everything, therefore, is clear for the operation; the tender-hearted are soothed by promises that though the "penetration" cannot but be painful, it shall at least not be hostile; while in order that the contumacious may hereafter hold their peace, the consultation is to result in a formal but carefully worded death-warrant. meanwhile it is worth while recalling the essential features of the madrid convention of , mainly due to french claims for special privileges in protecting natives, or in giving them the rights of french citizens. this was summoned by spain at the suggestion of great britain, with the concurrence of morocco. holland, sweden and norway, denmark, belgium, portugal, france, germany, the united states, italy, brazil, and austria-hungary accepted the invitation in the order named, but brazil was ultimately unrepresented. russia was also invited as an after-thought, but did not consider it worth while accepting. the scope of the conference was limited to the subject of foreign protection, though the question of property was by mutual consent included. the representatives of the conferring powers accredited to the spanish court were nominated as members--the english plenipotentiary acting for denmark--as it was felt that those accredited to morocco already held too decided views of the matter. the moorish foreign minister attended on behalf of morocco, and señor canovas, president of the council, represented spain. seventeen meetings were held, under the presidency of señor canovas, between may and july , the last being purely formal. the convention then signed contained little that was new, but it re-stated clearly and harmonized with satisfactory results rights previously granted to one and another. in several particulars, however, its provisions are faulty, and experience of their working has long led to demands for revision, but conflicting interests, and fears of opening up larger issues, have caused this to be postponed. now that the time has arrived for a re-definition of the whole position and rights of foreigners and their governments in morocco, it is earnestly to be hoped that the opportunity may not be lost. the great fault of the madrid convention is that while it recognizes the right of foreigners to acquire land in morocco, it stipulates for the previous consent of the native authorities, which is only to be obtained, if at all, by liberal "presents." but the most pressing need is the establishment of an international tribunal for the trial of cases involving more than one nationality, to replace the present anarchy, resulting from the conflict in one case of any of the thirteen independent jurisdictions at present in force in morocco. such a measure would be an outcome of more value than all possible agreements to respect the independence and integrity of morocco till it suited the purpose of one party or another to encroach thereon. in lands knowing but one jurisdiction it is hard to conceive the abuses and defeats of justice which result from the confusion reigning in morocco, or those which existed in egypt previous to the establishment of international tribunals there. for instance, plaintiff, of nationality a., sues defendants, of nationalities b., c., and d., for the return of goods which they have forcibly carried off, on the ground that they were pledged to them by a party of nationality e., who disputes their claim, and declares the goods sold to original plaintiff. here are five jurisdictions involved, each with a different set of laws, so that during the three separate actions necessitated, although the three defendants have all acted alike and together, the judgment in the case of each may be different, _e.g._ case under law b. dismissed, that under law c. won by plaintiff, while law d. might recognize the defendants' claim, but condemn his action. needless to follow such intricacies further, though this is by no means an extreme case, for disputes are constantly occurring--to say nothing of criminal actions--involving the several consular courts, for the most part presided over by men unequipped by legal training, in which it is a practical impossibility for justice to be done to all, and time and money are needlessly wasted. xxxi france in morocco "who stands long enough at the door is sure to enter at last." _moorish proverb._ in a previous work on this country, "the land of the moors," published in , the present writer concluded with this passage: "france alone is to be feared in the land of the moors, which, as things trend to-day, must in time form part of her colony. there is no use disguising the fact, and, as england certainly would not be prepared to go to war with her neighbour to prevent her repeating in morocco what she has done in tunis, it were better not to grumble at her action. all england cares about is the mouth of the mediterranean, and if this were secured to her, or even guaranteed neutral--were that possible--she could have no cause to object to the french extension. our moorish friends will not listen to our advice; they keep their country closed, as far as they can, refusing administrative reforms which would prevent excuses for annexation. why should we trouble them? it were better far to come to an agreement with france, and acknowledge what will prove itself one day--that france is the normal heir to morocco whenever the present empire breaks up." unpopular as this opinion was among the british and other foreign subjects in the country, and especially among the moors, so that it had at first no other advocate, it has since been adopted in downing street, and what is of more moment, acted upon. nay more, great britain has, in return for the mere recognition of a _fait accompli_ in egypt, agreed to stand aside in morocco, and to grant france a free hand in any attempt to create there a similar state of things. though the principle was good, the bargain was bad, for the positions of the two contracting powers, in egypt and morocco respectively, were by no means analogous. france could never have driven us out of egypt save with her sword at our throat; england had but to unite with other powers in blocking the way of france in morocco to stultify all her plans. had england stood out for terms, whether as regarding her commercial interests in morocco, which have been disgracefully sacrificed, or in the form of concessions elsewhere, a very much more equal-handed bargain might have been secured. the main provisions of the agreement between the two countries, concluded april , , are-- art. ii. "the british government recognizes that it appertains to france, more especially as being the power in contiguity with morocco, to control the peace of the country, and to lend its assistance in all administrative, economical, financial, and military reforms. the british government declares that it will not interfere with the action of france in this regard, provided that this action will leave intact the rights which, in virtue of treaties, conventions, and usages, great britain enjoys in morocco, including the right of coasting between the morocco ports, of which english vessels have had the benefit since ." art. vii. "in order to secure the free passage of the straits of gibraltar, both governments agree not to allow fortifications or any strategic works to be erected on that part of the moorish coast between melilla and the heights which dominate the right bank of the sebu exclusively." france has secured all that she wanted, or rather that her aggressive colonial party wanted, for opinions on that point are by no means identical, even in france, and the agreement at once called forth the condemnation of the more moderate party. what appears to be permissive means much more. now that great britain has drawn back--the power to which the late sir john drummond hay taught the moors to look with an implicit confidence to champion them against all foes, as it did in the case of the wars with france and spain, vetoing the retention of a foot of moorish soil--morocco lies at the feet of france. france, indeed, has become responsible for carrying out a task its eager spirits have been boiling over for a chance of undertaking. morocco has been made the ward of the hand that gripped it, which but recently filched two outlying provinces, figig and tûát. englishmen who know and care little about morocco are quite incapable of understanding the hold that france already had upon this land. separated from it only by an unprotected boundary, much better defined on paper than in fact, over which there is always a "rectification" dispute in pickle, her province of algeria affords a prospective base already furnished with lines of rail from her ports of oran and algiers. from oojda, an insignificant town across the border from lalla maghnîa (marnia), there runs a valley route which lays fez in her power, with táza by the way to fortify and keep the mountaineers in check. at any time the frontier forays in which the tribes on both sides indulge may be fomented or exaggerated, as in the case of tunis, to afford a like excuse for a similar occupation, which beyond a doubt would be a good thing for morocco. fez captured, and the seaports kept in awe or bombarded by the navy, mequinez would fall, and an army landed in mazagan would seize marrákesh. all this could be accomplished with a minimum of loss, for only the lowlands would have to be crossed, and the mountaineers have no army. but their "pacification" would be the lingering task in which lives, time, and money would be lost beyond all recompense. against a european army that of the sultan need not be feared; only a few battalions drilled by european officers might give trouble, but they would see former instructors among the foe, and without them they would soon become demoralized. it would be the tribal skirmishers, of whom half would fall before the others yielded to the nazarenes, who would give the trouble. the military mission which france has for many years imposed on the sultan at his expense, though under her control, which follows him in his expeditions and spies out the land, has afforded a training-ground for a series of future invading leaders. her algerian mohammedan agents are able to pass and repass where foreigners never go, and besides collecting topographical and other information, they have lost no opportunity of making known the privileges and advantages of french rule. in case it may be found advisable to set up a dummy sultan under a protectorate, the french have an able and powerful man to hand in the young idreesi shareef of wazzán, whom the english refused to protect, and who, with his brother, received a french education. but while we, as a nation, have been unable to comprehend the french determination to possess morocco, they have been unable to comprehend our calm indifference, and by the way in which they betray their suspicions of us, they betray their own methods. protestant missionaries in algeria and tunisia, of whatever nationality, are supposed to be the emissaries of the british government, and in consequence are harassed and maligned, while tourists outside the regular beat are watched. when visiting oojda some years ago, i myself was twice arrested in algeria, at tlemçen and lalla maghnîa, because mingling with natives, and it was with difficulty that i could persuade the _juges d'instruction_ of my peaceful motives. determined and successful efforts to become acquainted with the remotest provinces of morocco, the distribution of its population, and whatever could be of use to an invading or "pacifying" force have long been made by france, but the most valuable portion of this knowledge remains pigeon-holed, or circulates only in strictly official _mémoires_. many of the officials engaged here, however, have amused themselves and the public by publishing pretty books of the average class, telling little new, while one even took the trouble to write his in english, in order to put us off the scent! if ever means could justify an end, france deserves to enjoy the fruit of her labours. no longer need she foment strife on the algerian frontier, or wink at arms being smuggled across it; no longer need the mis-named "pretender" be supplied with french gold, or intrigues be carried on at court. abd el azîz must take the advice and "assistance" of france, whether he will or no, and curse the british to whom he formerly looked. this need not necessarily involve such drastic changes as would rouse the people to rebellion, and precipitate a costly conquest. there are many reforms urgently required in the interests of the people themselves, and these can now be gradually enforced. such reforms had been set on foot already by the young sultan, mainly under british advice; but to his chagrin, his advisers did not render the financial and moral support he needed to carry them out. france is now free to do this, and to strengthen his position, so that all wise reforms may be possible. these will naturally commence with civil and judicial functions, but must soon embrace the more pressing public works, such as roads, bridges, and port improvements. railways are likely to be the first roads in most parts, and mulai abd el azîz will welcome their introduction. the western ideas which he has imbibed during the last few years are scoffed at only by those who know little of him. what france will have to be prepared for is court intrigue, and she will have to give the moors plainly to understand that "whatsoever king shall reign, she'll still be 'boss of the show,' sir." as one of the first steps needed, but one requiring the co-operation of all other powers on treaty terms with the moors, the establishment of tribunals to which all should be amenable, has already been touched upon. these must necessarily be presided over by specially qualified europeans in receipt of sufficient salary to remove them from temptation. a clear distinction should then be made between a civil code administered by such tribunals and the jurisdiction of the muslim law in matters of religion and all dependent upon it. but of even more pressing importance is the reform of the currency, and the admission of morocco to the latin union. this could well be insisted on when the financial question is discussed at the algeciras conference, as well as the equally important establishment in competent hands of a state bank. this and the reform of the whole fiscal system must precede every other measure, as they form the ground-work of the whole. whatever public works may be eventually undertaken, the first should be, as far as possible, such as the moors themselves can execute under european direction, and as they can appreciate. irrigation would command enthusiasm where railways would only provoke opposition, and the french could find no surer way of winning the hearts of the people than by coping at once with the agricultural water supply, in order to provide against such years of famine as the present, and worse that are well remembered. that would be a form of "pacific penetration," to which none could object. education, too, when attempted, should be gradually introduced as a means of personal advancement, the requirements of the public service being raised year by year, as the younger generation has had opportunities of better qualifying themselves. above all, every post should be in theory at least thrown open to the native, and in practice as soon as the right man turned up. better retain or instal more of the able moors of to-day as figureheads with european advisers, than attempt a new set to start with. but a clean sweep should be made of the foreigners at present in the moorish service, all of whom should be adequately pensioned off, that with the new order might come new men, adequately paid and independent of "commissions." it is essential that the people learn to feel that they are not being exploited, but that their true welfare is sought. every reform should be carried out along native lines, and in conformity with native thought. [illustration: _albert, photo., tunis._ tunisia under the french--an execution.] the costly lesson of algeria, where native rights and interests were overthrown, and a complete detested foreign rule set up, has taught the french the folly of such a system, however glorious it may appear on paper. they have been wiser in tunisia, where a nominally native government is directed by frenchmen, whom it pays, and sooner or later morocco is almost certain to become a second tunisia. this will not only prove the best working system, but it will enable opposition to be dealt with by moorish forces, instead of by an invading army, which would unite the berber tribes under the moorish flag. this was what prolonged the conquest of algeria for so many years, and the berbers of morocco are more independent and better armed than were those of algeria seventy years ago. what france will gain by the change beyond openings for frenchmen and the glory of an extended colonial empire, it is hard to imagine, but empty glory seems to satisfy most countries greedy of conquest. so far the only outward evidences of the new position are the over-running of the ports, especially of tangier, by frenchmen of an undesirable class, and by an attempt to establish a french colony at the closed port of mehedîya by doubtful means, to say nothing of the increased smuggling of arms. how the welfare of the moors will be affected by the change is a much more important question, though one often held quite unworthy of consideration, the accepted axiom being that, whether they like it or not, what is good for us is good for them. needless to say that most of the reforms required will be objected to, and that serious obstacles will be opposed to some; the mere fact that the foreigner, contemptuously called a "nazarene," is their author, is sufficient to prejudice them in native eyes, and the more prominent the part played by him, the more difficult to follow his advice. but if the sultan and his new advisers will consent to a wise course of quiet co-operation, much may be effected without causing trouble. it is astonishing how readily the moors submit to the most radical changes when unostentatiously but forcibly carried out. never was there a greater call for the _suaviter in modo, fortiter in re_. power which makes itself felt by unwavering action has always had their respect, and if the sultan is prepared not to act till with gold in his coffers, disciplined troops at his command, and loyal officials to do his behest, he can do so with unquestioned finality, all will go well. then will the prosperity of the people revive--indeed, achieve a condition hitherto unknown save in two or three reigns of the distant past, perhaps not then. the poor will not fear to sow their barren fields, or the rich to display their wealth; hidden treasure will come to light, and the groan of the oppressed will cease. individual cases of gross injustice will doubtless arise; but they will be as nothing compared with what occurs in morocco to-day, even with that wrought by europeans who avail themselves of existing evils. so that if france is wise, and restrains her hot-heads, she may perform a magnificent work for the moors, as the british have done in egypt; at least, it is to be hoped she may do as well in morocco as in tunisia. but it would be idle to ignore the deep dissatisfaction with which the anglo-french agreement has been received by others than the moors.[ ] most british residents in morocco, probably every tourist who has been conducted along the coast, or sniffed at the capital cities; those firms of ours who share the bulk of the moorish trade, and others who yearned to open up possible mines, and undertake the public works so urgently needed; ay, and the concession-prospectors and company-mongers who see the prey eluding their grasp; even the would-be heroes across the straits who have dreamed in vain of great deeds to be done on those hills before them; all unite in deploring what appears to them a gross blunder. after all, this is but natural. so few of us can see beyond our own domains, so many hunger after anything--in their particular line--that belongs to a weaker neighbour, that it is well we have disinterested statesmen who take a wider view. else had we long since attempted to possess ourselves of the whole earth, like the conquering hordes of asia, and in consequence we should have been dispossessed ourselves. [ : see appendix.] even to have been driven to undertake in morocco a task such as we were in egypt, would have been a calamity, for our hands are too full already of similar tasks. it is all very well in these times of peace, but in the case of war, when we might be attacked by more than one antagonist, we should have all our work cut out to hold what we have. the policy of "grab," and dabbing the world with red, may be satisfactory up to a certain point, but it will be well for us as a nation when we realize that we have had enough. in morocco, what is easy for france with her contiguous province, with her plans for trans-sáharan traffic, and her thirst to copy our colonial expansion--though without men to spare--would have been for us costly and unremunerative. we are well quit of the temptation. moreover, we have freed ourselves of a possible, almost certain, cause of friction with france, of itself a most important gain. just as france would never have acquiesced in our establishing a protectorate in morocco without something more than words, so the rag-fed british public, always capable of being goaded to madness by the newspapers, would have bitterly objected to french action, if overt, while powerless to prevent the insidious grasp from closing on morocco by degrees. the first war engaging at once british attention and forces was like to see france installed in morocco without our leave. the early reverses of the transvaal war induced her to appropriate tûát and figig, and had the fortune of war been against us, morocco would have been french already. these facts must not be overlooked in discussing what was our wisest course. we were unprepared to do what france was straining to do: we occupied the manger to no one's good--practically the position later assumed by germany. surely we were wiser to come to terms while we could, not as in the case of tunisia, when too late. but among the objecting critics one class has a right to be heard, those who have invested life and fortune in the morocco trade; the men who have toiled for years against the discouraging odds involved, who have wondered whether moorish corruption or british apathy were their worst foe, in whom such feeling is not only natural but excusable. only those who have experienced it know what it means to be defrauded by complacent orientals, and to be refused the redress they see officials of other nations obtaining for rivals. yet now they find all capped by the instructions given to our consuls not to act without conferring with the local representatives of france, which leads to the taunt that great britain has not only sold her interests in morocco to the french, but also her subjects! the british policy has all along been to maintain the _status quo_ in spite of individual interests, deprecating interference which might seem high-handed, or create a precedent from which retraction would be difficult. in the collection of debts, in enforcing the performance of contracts, or in securing justice of any kind where the policy is to promise all and evade all till pressure is brought to bear, british subjects in morocco have therefore always found themselves at a disadvantage in competition with others whose governments openly supported them. the hope that buoyed them up was that one day the tide might turn, and that great britain might feel it incumbent on her to "protect" morocco against all comers. now hope has fled. what avails it that grace of a generation's span is allowed them, that they may not individually suffer from the change? it is the dream of years that lies shattered. here are the provisions for their protection: art. iv. "the two governments, equally attached to the principle of commercial liberty, both in egypt and morocco, declare that they will not lend themselves to any inequality either in the establishment of customs rights or other taxes, or in the establishment of tariffs for transport on the railways.... this mutual agreement is valid for a period of thirty years" (subject to extensions of five years). art. v. secures the maintenance in their posts of british officials in the moorish service, but while it is specially stipulated that french missionaries and schools in egypt shall not be molested, british missionaries in morocco are committed to the tender mercies of the french. thus there can be no immediate exhibition of favouritism beyond the inevitable placing of all concessions in french hands, and there is really not much ground of complaint, while there is a hope of cause for thankfulness. released from its former bugbears, no longer open to suspicion of secret designs, our foreign office can afford to impart a little more backbone into its dealings with moorish officials; a much more acceptable policy should, therefore, be forthwith inaugurated, that the morocco traders may see that what they have lost in possibilities they have gained in actualities. still more! the french, now that their hands are free, are in a position to "advise" reforms which will benefit all. thus out of the ashes of one hope another rises. part iii xxxii algeria viewed from morocco "one does not become a horseman till one has fallen." _moorish proverb._ a journey through algeria shows what a stable and enlightened government has been able to do in a land by no means so highly favoured by nature as morocco, and peopled by races on the whole inferior. the far greater proportion of land there under cultivation emphasizes the backward state of morocco, although much of it still remains untouched; while the superior quality of the produce, especially of the fruits, shows what might be accomplished in the adjoining country were its condition improved. the hillsides of algeria are in many districts clothed with vines which prosper exceedingly, often almost superseding cereals as objects of cultivation by europeans. the european colonists are of all nationalities, and the proportion which is not french is astonishingly large, but every inducement is held out for naturalization as algerians, and all legitimate obstacles are thrown in the way of those who maintain fidelity to their fatherlands. every effort is made to render algeria virtually part of france, as politically it is already considered to be. it is the case of the old days of slavery revived under a new form, when the renegade was received with open arms, and the man who remained steadfast was seldom released from slavery. of course, in these days there is nothing approaching such treatment, and it is only the natives who suffer to any extent. these are despised, if not hated, and despise and hate in return. the conquerors have repeated in algeria the old mistake which has brought about such dire results in other lands, of always retaining the position of conquerors, and never unbending to the conquered, or encouraging friendship with them. this attitude nullifies whatever good may result from the mixed schools in which muslim, jew, and european are brought in contact, in the hope of turning out a sort of social amalgam. most of the french settlers are too conceited and too ignorant to learn arabic, though this is by no means the fault of the government, which provides free public classes for instruction in that language in the chief towns of algeria and tunisia. the result is that the natives who meet most with foreigners have, without the most ordinary facilities enjoyed by the europeans, to pick up a jargon which often does much more credit to them than the usual light acquaintance of the foreigner with arabic does to him. those who make any pretence at it, usually speak it with an accent, a pronunciation and a nonchalance which show that they have taken no pains whatever to acquire it. evidently it pays better to spend money educating natives in french than frenchmen in arabic. it is an amusing fact that most of the teachers have produced their own text-books, few of which possess special merit. as a colony algeria has proved a failure. foreign settlers hold most of the desirable land, and till it with native labour. the native may have safety and justice now, but he has suffered terribly in the past, as the reports of the bureau arabe, established for his protection, abundantly prove, and bitterly he resents his fate. no love is lost between french and natives in tunisia, but there is actual hatred in algeria, fostered by the foreigner far more than by the smouldering bigotry of islám. they do not seem to intermingle even as oil and water, but to follow each a separate, independent course. among the foreign colonists it is a noteworthy fact that the most successful are not the french, who want too much comfort, but almost any of the nationalities settled there, chiefly spaniards and italians. the former are to be found principally in the neighbourhood of Óran, and the latter further east; they abound in tunisia. englishmen and others of more independent nature have not been made welcome in either country, and year by year their interests have dwindled. even in tunisia, under a different system, the same result has been achieved, and every restriction reconcilable with paper rights has been placed on other than french imports. there may be an "open door," but it is too closely guarded for us. the english houses that once existed have disappeared, and what business is done with this country has had to take refuge with agents, for the most part jews. in studying the life of algerian towns, the almost entire absence of well-to-do arabs or berbers is striking. i never came across one who might be judged from his appearance to be a man of means or position, unless in military or official garb, though there are doubtless many independent natives among the berber and arab tribes. the few whom i encountered making any pretence of dressing well were evidently of no social rank, and the complaint on every hand is that the natives are being gradually ousted from what little is left to them. as for european law, they consider this to have no connection with justice, and think themselves very heavily taxed to support innovations with which they have no concern, and which they would rather dispense with. one can, indeed, feel for them, though there is no doubt much to be said on both sides, especially when it is the other side which boasts the power, if not the superior intelligence. the jews, however, thrive, and in many ways have the upper hand, especially so since the wise move which accorded them the rights of french citizenship. it is remarkable, however, how much less conspicuous they are in the groups about the streets than in morocco, notwithstanding that their dress is quite as distinctive as there, though different. the new-comer who arrives at the fine port of algiers finds it as greatly transformed as its name has been from the town which originally bore it, el jazîrah. the fine appearance of the rising tiers of houses gives an impression of a still larger city than it really is, for very little is hidden from view except the suburbs. from a short way out to sea the panorama is grand, but it cannot be as chaste as when the native city clustered in the hollow with its whitewashed houses and its many minarets, completely surrounded by green which has long since disappeared under the advancing tide of bricks and mortar. one can hardly realize that this fine french city has replaced the den of pirates of such fearful histories. yet there is the original light-house, the depôt for european slaves, and away on the top of yonder hill are remains of the ancient citadel. it was there, indeed, that those dreadful cruelties were perpetrated, where so many christians suffered martyrdom. yes, this is where once stood the "famous and war-like city, el jazîrah," which was in its time "the scourge of christendom." whether the visitor be pleased or disappointed with the modern city depends entirely on what he seeks. if he seeks europe in africa, with perhaps just a dash of something oriental, he will be amply satisfied with algiers, which is no longer a native city at all. it is as french as if it had risen from the soil entirely under french hands, and only the slums of the arab town remain. the seeker after native life will therefore meet with complete disappointment, unless he comes straight from europe, with no idea what he ought to expect. all the best parts of the town, the commercial and the residential quarters, have long since been replaced by european substitutes, leaving hardly a trace of the picturesque originals, while every day sees a further encroachment on the erstwhile african portion, the interest of which is almost entirely removed by the presence of crowds of poor europeans and european-dressed jews. the visitor to algiers would therefore do well to avoid everything native, unless he has some opportunity of also seeing something genuine elsewhere. the only specimens he meets in the towns are miserable half-caste fellows--by habit, if not by birth,--for their dress, their speech, their manners, their homes, their customs, their religion--or rather their lack of religion,--have all suffered from contact with europeans. but even before the frenchmen came, it is notorious how the algerines had sunk under the bane of turkish rule, as is well illustrated by their own saying, that where the foot of the turk had trod, grass refused to grow. of all the barbary states, perhaps none has suffered more from successive outside influences than the people of algeria. the porter who seizes one's luggage does not know when he is using french words or arabic, or when he introduces italian, turkish, or spanish, and cannot be induced to make an attempt at arabic to a european unless the latter absolutely refuses to reply to his jargon. then comes a hideous corruption of his mother tongue, in which the foreign expressions are adorned with native inflexions in the most comical way. his dress is barbarous, an ancient and badly fitting pair of trousers, and stockingless feet in untidy boots, on the heels of which he stamps along the streets with a most unpleasant noise. the collection of garments which complete his attire are mostly european, though the "fez" cap remains the distinctive feature of the muslim's dress, and a selhám--that cloak of cloaks, there called a "bûrnûs"--is slung across his shoulder. some few countrymen are to be seen who still retain the more graceful native costume, with the typical camel-hair or cotton cord bound round the head-dress, but the old inhabitants are being steadily driven out of town. [illustration: tent of an algerian sheÏkh.] the characteristic feature of algerian costumes is the head-cord referred to, which pervades a great part of arabdom, in syria and arabia being composed of two twists of black camel hair perhaps an inch thick. in algeria it is about an eighth of an inch thick, and brown. the slippers are also characteristic, but ugly, being of black leather, excellently made, and cut very far open, till it becomes an art to keep them on, and the heels have to be worn up. the use of the white selhám is almost universal, unhemmed at the edges, as in tunis also; and over it is loosely tied a short haïk fastened on the head by the cord. there is, however, even in algiers itself, one class of men who remain unaffected by their european surroundings, passive amid much change, a model for their neighbours. these are the beni m'záb, a tribe of mohammedan protestants from southern algeria, where they settled long ago, as the puritans did in new england, that they might there worship god in freedom. they were the abadîya, gathered from many districts, who have taken their modern name from the tribe whose country they now inhabit. they speak a dialect of berber, and dress in a manner which is as distinctive as their short stature, small, dark, oily features, jet-black twinkling eyes, and scanty beard. they come to the towns to make money, and return home to spend it, after a few years of busy shop-keeping. a butcher whom i met said that he and a friend had the business year and year about, so as not to be too long away from home at a time. they are very hard-working, and have a great reputation for honesty; they keep their shops open from about five in the morning till nine at night. as the beni m'záb do not bring their wives with them, they usually live together in a large house, and have their own mosque, where they worship alone, resenting the visits of all outsiders, even of other muslims. admission to their mosque is therefore practically refused to europeans, but in moorish dress i was made welcome as some distinguished visitor from saintly fez, and found it very plain, more like the kûbbah of a saint-house than an ordinary mosque. there are also many moors in algeria, especially towards the west. these, being better workmen than the algerines, find ready employment as labourers on the railways. great numbers also annually visit Óran and the neighbourhood to assist at harvest time. those moors who live there usually disport themselves in trousers, strange to stay, and, when they can afford it, carry umbrellas. they still adhere to the turban, however, instead of adopting the head cord. at blidah i found that all the sellers of sfinges--yeast fritters--were moors, and those whom i came across were enthusiastic to find one who knew and liked their country. the algerines affect to despise them and their home, which they declare is too poor to support them, thus accounting for their coming over to work. the specimens of native architecture to be met with in algeria are seldom, if ever, pure in style, and are generally extremely corrupt. the country never knew prosperity as an independent kingdom, such as morocco did, and it is only in tlemçen, on the borders of that empire, that real architectural wealth is found, but then this was once the capital of an independent kingdom. the palace at constantine is not moorish at all, except in plan, being adorned with a hap-hazard collection of odds and ends from all parts. it is worse than even the bardo at tunis, where there is some good plaster carving--naksh el hadeed--done by moorish or andalucian workmen. in the palaces of the governor and the archbishop of algiers, which are also very composite, though not without taste, there is more of this work, some of it very fine, though much of it is merely modern moulded imitation. of more than a hundred mosques and shrines found in algiers when it was taken by the french, only four of the former and a small number of the latter remain, the rest having been ruthlessly turned into churches. the mosque of hasan, built just over a century ago, is now the cathedral, though for this transformation it has been considerably distorted, and a mock-moorish façade erected in the very worst taste. inside things are better, having been less interfered with, but what is now a church was never a good specimen of a mosque, having been originally partly european in design, the work of renegades. the same may be said of the mosque of the fisheries, a couple of centuries old, built in the form of a greek cross! one can well understand how the dey, according to the story, had the architect put to death on discovering this anomaly. these incongruities mar all that is supposed in algeria to be arabesque. the great mosque, nevertheless, is more ancient and in better style, more simple, more chaste, and more awe-inspiring. the zawîah of sîdi abd er-rahmán, outside the walls, is as well worth a visit as anything in algiers, being purely and typically native. it is for the opportunities given for such peeps as this that one is glad to wander in algeria after tasting the real thing in morocco, where places of worship and baths are closed to europeans. these latter i found all along north africa to be much what they are in morocco, excepting only the presence of the foreigners. the tile work of algeria is ugly, but many of the older italian and other foreign specimens are exceptionally good, both in design and colour. some of the tunisian tiles are also noteworthy, but it is probable that none of any real artistic value were ever produced in what is now conveniently called algeria. there is nothing whatever in either country to compare with the exquisite fez work found in the alhambra, hardly to rival the inferior productions of tetuan. a curious custom in algeria is to use all descriptions of patterns together "higgledy-piggledy," upside down or side-ways, as though the idea were to cover so much surface with tiling, irrespective of design. of course this is comparatively modern, and marks a period since what art algeria ever knew had died out. it is noticeable, too, how poor the native manufacturers are compared with those of morocco, themselves of small account beside those of the east. the wave of civilization which swept over north africa in the middle ages failed to produce much effect till it recoiled upon itself in the far, far west, and then turned northward into spain. notwithstanding all this, algeria affords an ample field for study for the scientist, especially the mountain regions to the south, where berber clans and desert tribes may be reached in a manner impossible yet in morocco, but the student of oriental life should not visit them till he has learnt to distinguish true from false among the still behind-hand moors. xxxiii tunisia viewed from morocco "the slave toils, but the lord completes." _moorish proverb._ fortunately for the french, the lesson learned in algeria was not neglected when the time came for their "pacific penetration" of tunisia. their first experience had been as conquerors of anything but pacific intent, and for a generation they waged war with the berber tribes. everywhere, even on the plains, where conquest was easy, the native was dispossessed. the land was allotted to frenchmen or to natives who took the oath of allegiance to france, and became french subjects. those who fought for their fatherland were driven off, the villages depopulated, and the country laid waste. in the cities the mosques were desecrated or appropriated to what the native considered idolatrous worship. they have never been restored to their owners. those algerines only have flourished who entered the french army or government service, and affected manners which all but cut them off from their fellow-countrymen. in tunisia the french succeeded, under cover of specious assurances to the contrary, in overthrowing the turkish beys, rehabilitating them in name as their puppets, with hardly more opposition than the british met with in burma. the result is a nominally native administration which takes the blame for failures, and french direction which takes the credit for successes. all that was best in algeria has been repeated, but native rights have been respected, and the cities, with their mosques and shrines, left undisturbed as far as possible. the desecration of the sacred mosque of kaïrwán as a stable was a notable exception. the difference between the administration of algeria and that of tunisia makes itself felt at every step. in the one country it is the ruling of a conquered people for the good of the conquerors alone, and in the other it is the ruling of an unconquered people by bolstering up and improving their own institutions under the pretence of seeking their welfare. the immense advantage of the tunisian system is apparent on all sides. the expense is less, the excuses for irregularities are greater, and the natives still remain a nominal power in the land, instead of being considered as near serfs as is permissible in this twentieth century. the results of the french occupation were summed up to me by a tunisian as the making of roads, the introduction of more money and much drunkenness, and the institution of laws which no native could ever hope to understand. but france has done more than that in tunis, even for the native. he has the benefit of protection for life and property, with means of education and facilities for travel, and an outlet for his produce. he might do well--and there are many instances of commercial success--but while he is jibbing against the foreign yoke, the expatriated jews, whom he treated so badly when he had the upper hand, are outstripping him every day. the net result of the foreigners' presence is good for him, but it would be much better had he the sense to take advantage of his chances as the jew does. many of the younger generation, indeed, learn french, and enter the great army of functionaries, but they are rigidly restricted to the lowest posts, and here again the jew stands first. in business or agriculture there is sure to come a time when cash is needed, so that french and jewish money-lenders flourish, and when the tunisian cannot pay, the merciless hand of foreign law irresistibly sells him up. in the courts the complicated procedure, the intricate code, and the swarm of lawyers, bewilder him, and he sighs for the time when a bribe would have settled the question, and one did at least know beforehand which would win--the one with the longer purse. now, who knows? but the tunisian's principal occasions for discontent are the compulsory military service, and the multiplication and weight of the taxes. from the former only those are exempt who can pass certain examinations in french, and stiff ones at that, so that arabic studies are elbowed out; the unremitted military duties during the ramadán fast are regarded as a peculiar hardship. to the taxes there seems no end, and from them no way of escape. even the milkman complains, for example, that though his goats themselves are taxed, he cannot bring their food into town from his garden without an additional charge being paid! with the superficial differences to be accounted for by this new state of things, there still remains much more in tunisia to remind one of morocco than in algeria. what deeper distinctions there are result in both countries from turkish influence, and turkish blood introduced in the past, but even these do not go very deep. beneath it all there are the foundations of race and creed common to all, and the untouched countryman of tunisia is closely akin to his fellow of morocco. even in the towns the underlying likeness is strong. the old city of tunis is wonderfully like that of fez; the streets, the shops, the paving, being identical; but in the former a picturesque feature is sometimes introduced, stone columns forming arcades in front of the shops, painted in spiral bands of green and red, separated by a band of white. the various trades are grouped there as further west, and the streets are named after them. the mellah, or jewish quarter, has lost its boundary, as at tangier, and the gates dividing the various wards have disappeared too. hardly anything remains of the city walls, new ones having arisen to enclose the one european and two native suburbs. but under a modern arcade in the main street, the avenue de france, there is between the shops the barred gate leading to a mosque behind, which does not look as if it were often opened. tramways run round the line of the old walls, and it is strange to see the natives jumping on and off without stopping the car, in the most approved western style. there, as in the trains, european and african sit side by side, though it is to be observed that as a rule, should another seat be free, neither gets in where the other is. as for hopes of encouraging any degree of amalgamation, these are vain indeed. a mechanical mixture is all that can be hoped for: nothing more is possible. a few french people have embraced islám for worldly aims, and it is popularly believed by the natives that in england thousands are accepting mohammed. the mosques of tunis are less numerous than those of fez, but do not differ greatly from them except in the inferior quality of the tile-work, and in the greater use of stone for the arches and towers. the latter are of the moorish square shape, but some, if not all, are ascended by steps, instead of by inclined planes. the mosques, with the exception of that at kaïrwán--the most holy, strange to say--are as strictly forbidden to europeans and jews as in morocco, and screens are put up before the doors as in tangier. the moors are very well known in tunis, so many of them, passing through from mekka on the hajj, have been prevented from getting home by quarantine or lack of funds. clad as a moor myself, i was everywhere recognized as from that country, and was treated with every respect, being addressed as "amm el háj" ("uncle pilgrim"), having my shoulders and hands kissed in orthodox fashion. there are several _cafés_ where morocco men are to be met with by the score. one feature of this cosmopolitan city is that there are distinct _cafés_ for almost every nation represented here except the english. the arabs of morocco are looked upon as great thieves, but the sûsis have the highest reputation for honesty. not only are all the gate-keepers of the city from that distant province, but also those of the most important stores and houses, as well as of the railway-stations, and many are residents in the town. the chief snake-charmers and story-tellers also hail from sûs. the veneration for mulai táïb of wazzán, from whom the shareefs of that place are descended, is great, and the aïsáwa, hailing from mequinez, are to be met with all along this coast; they are especially strong at kaïrwán. in tunis, as also in algeria and tripoli, the comparative absence of any objection to having pictures taken of human beings, which is an almost insurmountable hindrance in morocco, again allowed me to use my kodak frequently, but i found that the jews had a strong prejudice against portraits. the points in which the domestic usages of tunisia differ from those of morocco are the more striking on account of the remarkably minute resemblance, if not absolute identity, of so very many others, and as the novelty of the innovations wears off, it is hard to realize that one is not still in the "far west." in a native household of which i found myself temporarily a member, it was the wholesale assimilation of comparatively trivial foreign matters which struck me. thus, for instance, as one of the sons of my host remarked--though he was dressed in a manner which to most travellers would have appeared exclusively oriental--there was not a thing upon him which was not french. doubtless a closer examination of his costume would have shown that some of the articles only reached him through french hands, but the broad fact remained that they were all foreign. it is in this way that the more civilized countries show a strong and increasing tendency to develop into nations of manufacturers, with their gigantic workshops forcing the more backward, _nolens volens_, to relapse to the more primitive condition of producers of raw material only. there was, of course, a time when every garment such a man would have worn would have been of native manufacture, without having been in any feature less complete, less convenient, or less artistic than his present dress. in many points, indeed, there is a distinct loss in the more modern style, especially in the blending of colours, while it is certain that in no point has improvement been made. my friend, for instance, had the addition, common there, of a pair of striped merino socks, thrust into a pair of rubber-soled tennis shoes. underneath he wore a second pair of socks, and said that in winter he added a third. above them was not much bare leg, for the pantaloons are cut there so as often to reach right down to the ankles. this is necessitated by the custom of raising the mattresses used for seats on divans, and by sitting at table on european chairs with the legs dangling in the cold. the turban has nothing of the gracefulness of its moorish counterpart, being often of a dirty-green silk twisted into a rope, and then bound round the head in the most inelegant fashion, sometimes showing the head between the coils; they are not folds. heads are by no means kept so carefully shaved as in morocco, and i have seen hair which looked as though only treated with scissors, and that rarely. the fashion for all connected with the government to wear european dress, supplemented by the "fez" (fortunately not the turkish style), brings about most absurd anomalies. this is especially observable in the case of the many very stout individuals who waddle about like ducks in their ungainly breeches. i was glad to find on visiting the brother of the late bey that he retained the correct costume, though the younger members of his family and all his attendants were in foreign guise. the bey himself received me in the frock-coat with pleated skirt, favoured by his countrymen the turks. [illustration: _albert, photo., tunis._ a tunisian jewess in street dress.] the mohammedan women seen in the streets generally wear an elegant fine silk and wool haïk over a costume culminating in a peaked cap, the face being covered--all but the eyes--by two black handkerchiefs, awful to behold, like the mask of a stage villain. more stylish women wear a larger veil, which they stretch out on either side in front of them with their hands. they seem to think nothing of sitting in a railway carriage opposite a man and chatting gaily with him. i learn from an english lady resident in tunis that the indoor costume of the women is much that of the jewesses out of doors--extraordinary indeed. it is not every day that one meets ladies in the street in long white drawers, often tight, and short jackets, black or white, but this is the actual walking dress of the jewish ladies of tunis. xxxiv tripoli viewed from morocco "every sheep hangs by her own legs." _moorish proverb._ when, after an absence of twenty months, i found myself in tripoli, although far enough from morocco, i was still amid familiar sights and sounds which made it hard to realize that i was not in some hitherto unvisited town of that empire. the petty differences sank to naught amid the wonderful resemblances. it was the turkish element alone which was novel, and that seemed altogether out of place, foreign as it is to africa. there was something quite incongruous in the sight of those ungainly figures in their badly fitting, quasi-european black coats and breeches, crowned with tall and still more ungainly red caps. the turks are such an inferior race to the berbers and arabs that it is no wonder that they are despised by the natives. they appear much more out of place than do the europeans, who remain, as in morocco, a class by themselves. to see a turk side by side with a white-robed native at prayer in a mosque is too ridiculous, and to see him eating like a wild man of the woods! even the governor, a benign old gentleman, looked very undignified in his shabby european surroundings, after the important appearance of the moorish functionaries in their flowing robes. the sentinels at the door seemed to have been taught to imitate the wooden salute of the germans, which removes any particle of grace which might have remained in spite of their clumsy dress. it is a strange sight to see them selling their rations of uninviting bread in the market to buy something more stimulating. they squat behind a sack on the ground as the old women do in tangier. these are the little things reminding one that tripoli is but a turkish dependency. we may complain of the moorish customs arrangements, but from my own experience, and from what others tell me, i should say that here is worse still. not only were our things carefully overhauled, but the books had to be examined, as a result of which process arabic works are often confiscated, either going in or out. the confusing lack of a monetary system equals anything even in southern morocco, between which and this place the poor despised "gursh" turns up as a familiar link, not to be met with between casablanca and tripoli. perhaps the best idea of the town for those readers acquainted with morocco will be to call it a large edition of casablanca. the country round is flat, the streets are on the whole fairly regular, and wider than the average in this part of the world. indeed, carriages are possible, though not throughout the town. a great many more flying arches are thrown across the streets than we are accustomed to further west, but upper storeys are rare. the paving is of the orthodox barbary style. the tripolitan mosques are of a very different style from those of morocco, the people belonging to a different sect--the hánafis--moors, algerines and tunisians being of the more rigorous málikis. instead of the open courtyard surrounded by a colonnade, here they have a perfectly closed interior roofed with little domes, and lighted by barred windows. the walls are adorned with inferior tiles, mostly european, and the floors are carpeted. round the walls hang cheap glazed texts from the korán, and there is a general appearance of tawdry display which is disappointing after the chaste adornment of the finer moorish mosques, or even the rude simplicity of the poorer ones. orders may be obtained to view these buildings, of which it is hardly necessary to say i availed myself, in one case ascending also the minaret. these minarets are much less substantial than those of morocco, being octangular, with protruding stone balconies in something of the florentine style, reached by winding stairs. the exteriors are whitewashed, the balconies being tiled, and the cupolas painted green. lamps are hung out at certain feasts. as for the voice of the muédhdhin, it must be fairly faint, since during the week i was there i never heard it. in morocco this would have been an impossibility. the language, though differing in many minor details from that employed in morocco, presents no difficulty to conversation, but it was sometimes necessary to try a second word to explain myself. the differences are chiefly in the names of common things in daily use, and in common adjectives. the music was identical with what we know in the "far west." religious strictness is much less than in morocco, the use of intoxicants being fairly general in the town, the hours of prayer less strictly kept, and the objection to portraits having vanished. there seemed fewer women in the streets than in morocco, but those who did appear were for the most part less covered up; there was nothing new in the way the native women were veiled, only one eye being shown--i do not now take the foreign turks into account. in the streets the absence of the better-class natives is most noticeable; one sees at once that tripoli is not an aristocratic town like fez, tetuan, or rabat. the differences which exist between the costumes observed and those of morocco are almost entirely confined to the upper classes. the poor and the country people would be undistinguishable in a moorish crowd. among the townsfolk stockings and european shoes are common, but there are no native slippers to equal those of morocco, and yellow ones are rare. i saw no natives riding in the town; though in the country it must be more common. the scarcity of four-footed beasts of burden is noticeable after the crowded moorish thoroughfares. on the whole there is a great lack of the picturesque in the tripoli streets, and also of noise. the street cries are poor, being chiefly those of vegetable hawkers, and one misses the striking figure of the water-seller, with his tinkling bell and his cry. the houses and shops are much like those of morocco, so far as exteriors go, and so are the interiors of houses occupied by europeans. the only native house to which i was able to gain access was furnished in the worst possible mixture of european and native styles to be found in many jewish houses in morocco, but from what i gleaned from others this was no exception to the rule. unfortunately the number of grog-shops is unduly large, with all their attendant evils. the wheeled vehicles being foreign, claim no description, though the quaintness of the public ones is great. palmetto being unknown, the all-pervading halfah fibre takes its place for baskets, ropes, etc. the public ovens are very numerous, and do not differ greatly from the moorish, except in being more open to the street. the bread is much less tempting; baked in small round cakes, varnished, made yellow with saffron, and sprinkled with gingelly seed. most of the beef going alive to malta, mutton is the staple animal food; vegetables are much the same as in morocco. the great drawback to tripoli is its proximity to the desert, which, after walking through a belt of palms on the land side of the town--itself built on a peninsula--one may see rolling away to the horizon. the gardens and palm groves are watered by a peculiar system, the precious liquid being drawn up from the wells by ropes over pulleys, in huge leather funnels of which the lower orifice is slung on a level with the upper, thus forming a bag. the discharge is ingeniously accomplished automatically by a second rope over a lower pulley, the two being pulled by a bullock walking down an incline. the lower lip being drawn over the lower pulley, releases the water when the funnel reaches the top. the weekly market, sôk et-thláthah, held on the sands, is much as it would be in the gharb el jawáni, as morocco is called in tripoli. the greater number of blacks is only natural, especially when it is noted that hard by they have a large settlement. [illustration: _photograph by g. michell, esq._ outside tripoli.] it would, of course, be possible to enter into a much more minute comparison, but sufficient has been said to give a general idea of tripoli to those who know something of morocco, without having entered upon a general description of the place. from what i saw of the country people, i have no doubt that further afield the similarity between them and the people of central and southern morocco, to whom they are most akin, would even be increased. xxxv foot-prints of the moors in spain "every one buries his mother as he likes." _moorish proverb._ i. first impressions. much as i had been prepared by the accounts of others to observe the prevalence of moorish remains in the peninsula, i was still forcibly struck at every turn by traces of their influence upon the country, especially in what was their chief home there, andalucia. though unconnected with these traces, an important item in strengthening this impression is the remarkable similarity between the natural features of the two countries. the general contour of the surface is the same on either side of the straits for a couple of hundred miles; the same broad plains, separated by low ranges of hills, and crossed by sluggish, winding streams, fed from distant snow-capped mountains, and subject to sudden floods. the very colours of the earth are the same in several regions, the soil being of that peculiar red which gives its name to the blád hamrá ("red country") near marrákesh. this is especially observable in the vicinity of jeréz, and again at granáda, where one feels almost in morocco again. even the colour of the rugged hills and rocks is the same, but more of the soil is cultivated than in any save the grain districts of morocco. the vegetation is strikingly similar, the aloe and the prickly pear, the olive and the myrtle abounding, while from the slight glimpses i was able to obtain of the flora, the identity seems also to be continued there. yet all this, though interesting to the observer, is not to be wondered at. it is our habit of considering the two lands as if far apart, because belonging to separate continents, which leads us to expect a difference between countries divided only by a narrow gap of fourteen miles or less, but one from whose formation have resulted most important factors in the world's history. the first striking reminders of the moorish dominion are the names of arabic origin. some of the most noteworthy are granáda (gharnátah), alcazar (el kasar), arjona (r'honah), gibraltar (gibel tárik), trafalgár (tarf el gharb, "west point"), medinah (madînah, "town"), algeciras (el jazîrah, "the island"), guadalquivir (wád el kebeer--so pronounced in spain--"the great river"), mulahacen (mulai el hasan), alhama (el hama, "the hot springs"), and numberless others which might be mentioned, including almost every name beginning with "al." the rendering of these old arabic words into spanish presents a curious proof of the changes which the pronunciation of the spanish alphabet has undergone during the last four centuries. to obtain anything like the arabic sound it is necessary to give the letters precisely the same value as in english, with the exception of pronouncing "x" as "sh." thus the word "alhaja," in everyday use--though unrecognizable as heard from the lips of the modern castilian, "aláha,"--is nothing but the arabic "el hájah," with practically the same meaning in the plural, "things" or "goods." to cite more is unnecessary. the genuine pronunciation is still often met with among jews of morocco who have come little in contact with spaniards, and retain the language of their ancestors when expelled from the peninsula, as also in spanish america. the spanish language is saturated with corrupted arabic, at all events so far as nouns are concerned. the names of families also are frequently of arabic origin, as, for instance, alarcos (er-rakkás--"the courier"), alhama, etc., most of which are to be met with more in the country than in the towns, while very many others, little suspected as such, are jewish. although when the most remarkable of nations was persecuted and finally expelled from spain, a far larger proportion nobly sacrificed their all rather than accept the bauble religion offered them by "the catholic kings" (king and queen), they also have left their mark, and many a noble family could, if it would, trace its descent from the jews. some of their synagogues are yet standing, notably at toledo--whence the many toledános,--built by samuel levy, who was secretary to don pedro the cruel. this was in , a century and a half before the moors were even conquered, much less expelled, and if the sons of ishmael have left their mark upon that sunny land, so have the sons of israel, though in a far different manner. morocco has ever since been the home of the descendants of a large proportion of the exiles. the spanish physiognomy, not so much of the lower as of the upper classes, is strikingly similar to that of the mountaineers of morocco, and these include some of the finest specimens. the moors of to-day are of too mingled a descent to present any one distinct type of countenance, and it is the same with the spaniards. so much of the blood of each flows in the veins of the other, that comparison is rendered more difficult. it is a well-known fact that several of the most ancient families in the kingdom can trace their descent from mohammedans. a leading instance of this is the house of mondéjar, lords of granáda from the time of its conquest, as the then head of the house, sidi yahia, otherwise don pedro de granáda, had become a christian. in the generalife at that town, still in the custody of the same family, is a genealogical tree tracing its origin right back to the goths![ ] [ : andalucia is but a corruption of vandalucia.] next to physiognomy come habits and customs, and of these there are many which have been borrowed, or rather retained, from the moors, especially in the country. the ploughs, the water-mills, the water-wheels, the irrigation, the treading out of the corn, the weaving of coarse cloth, and many other daily sights, from their almost complete similarity, remind one of morocco. the bread-shops they call "tahônas," unaware that this is the arabic for a flour-mill; their water-wheels they still call by their arabic name, "naôrahs," and it is the same with their pack-saddles, "albardas" (bardah). the list might be extended indefinitely, even from such common names as these. the salutations of the people seem literal translations of those imported from the orient, such as i am not aware of among other europeans. what, for instance, is "dios guarda vd." ("god keep you"), said at parting, but the "allah îhannak" of morocco, or "se lo passe bien," but "b'is-salámah" ("in peace!"). more might be cited, but to those unacquainted with arabic they would be of little interest. then, again, the singing of the country-folk in southern spain has little to distinguish it from that indulged in by most orientals. the same sing-song drawl with numerous variations is noticeable throughout. once a more civilized tune gets among these people for a few months, its very composer would be unlikely to recognize its prolongations and lazy twists. the narrow, tortuous streets of the old towns once occupied by the invaders take one back across the straits, and the whole country is covered with spots which, apart from any remains of note, are associated by record or legend with anecdotes from that page of spanish history. here it is the "sigh of the moor," the spot from which the last ameer of andalucia gazed in sorrow on the capital that he had lost; there it is a cave (at criptana) where the moors found refuge when their power in castile was broken; elsewhere are the chains (in toledo) with which the devotees of islám chained their christian captives. in addition to this, the hills of a great part of spain are dotted with fortresses of "tabia" (rammed earth concrete) precisely such as are occupied still by the country kaïds of morocco; and by the wayside are traces of the skill exercised in bringing water underground from the hills beyond marrákesh. how many church towers in spain were built for the call of the muédhdhin, and how many houses had their foundations laid for hareems! in the south especially such are conspicuous from their design. to crown all stand the palaces and mosques of córdova, sevílle, and granáda, not to mention minor specimens. when we talk of the moors in spain, we often forget how nearly we were enabled to speak also of the moors in france. their brave attempts to pass that natural barrier, the pyrenees, find a suitable monument in the perpetual independence of the wee republic of andorra, whose inhabitants so successfully stemmed the tide of invasion. the story of charles martel, too, the "hammer" who broke the muslim power in that direction, is one of the most important in the history of europe. what if the people who were already levying taxes in the districts of narbonne and nîmes had found as easy a victory over the vineyards of southern france, as they had over those of spain? where would they have stopped? would they ever have been driven out, or would st. paul's have been a second kûtûbîya, and westminster a karûeeïn? god knows! ii. cÓrdova the earliest notable monument of moorish dominion in andalucia still existing is the famous mosque of córdova, now deformed into a cathedral. its erection occupied the period from to of the christian era, and it is said that it stands on the site of a gothic church erected on the ruins of a still earlier temple dedicated to janus. portions, however, have been added since that date, as inscriptions on the walls record, and the european additions date from , when, notwithstanding the protests of the people of córdova, the bishops obtained permission from charles v. to rear the present quasi-gothic structure in its central court. the disgust and anger which the lover of moorish architecture--or art of any sort--feels for the name of "_carlos quinto_," as at point after point hideous additions to the moorish remains are ascribed to that conceited monarch, are somewhat tempered for once by the record that even he repented when he saw the result of his permission in this instance. "you have built here," he said, "what you might have built anywhere, and in doing so you have spoiled what was unique in the world!" in each of the three great centres of moorish rule, sevílle, granáda and córdova, the same hand is responsible for outrageous modern erections in the midst of hoary monuments of eastern art, carefully inscribed with their author's name, as "cæsar the emperor, charles the fifth." the córdova mosque, antedated only by those of old cairo and kaïrwán, is a forest of marble pillars, with a fine court to the west, surrounded by an arcade, and planted with orange trees and palms, interspersed with fountains. nothing in morocco can compare with it save the karûeeïn mosque at fez, built a century later, but that building is too low, and the pillars are for the most part mere brick erections, too short to afford the elegance which here delights. this is grand in its simplicity; nineteen aisles of slightly tapering columns of beautiful marbles, jasper or porphyry, about nine feet in height, supporting long vistas of flying horse-shoe arches, of which the stones are now coloured alternately yellow and red, though probably intended to be all pure white. other still more elegant scolloped arches, exquisitely decorated by carving the plaster, spring between alternate pillars, and from arch to arch, presumably more modern work. the aisles are rather over twenty feet in width, and the thirty-three cross vaultings about half as much, while the height of the roof is from thirty to forty feet. in all, the pillars number about , though frequently stated to total out of an original , but it is difficult to say where all these can be, since the sum of by is only , and a deduction has to be made for the central court, in which stands the church or choir. since these notes were first published, in , i have seen it disputed between modern impressionist writers which of them first described the wonderful scene as a palm grove, a comparison of which i had never heard when i wrote, but the wonder to me would be if any one could attempt to picture the scene without making use of it. who but a nation of nomads, accustomed to obey the call to prayer beneath the waving branches of african and arabian palm-groves, would have dreamed of raising such a house of god? unless for the purpose of supporting a wide and solid roof, or of dividing the centre into the form of a cross, what other ecclesiastical architects would have conceived the idea of filling a place of worship with pillars or columns? no one who has walked in a palm-grove can fail to be struck by the resemblance to it of this remarkable mosque. the very tufted heads with their out-curving leaves are here reproduced in the interlacing arches, and with the light originally admitted by the central court and the great doors, the present somewhat gloomy area would have been bright and pleasant as a real grove, with its bubbling fountains, and the soothing sound of trickling streams. i take the present skylights to be of modern construction, as i never saw such a device in a moorish building. most of the marble columns are the remains of earlier erections, chiefly roman, like the bridge over the guadalquivir close by, restored by the builder of the mosque. some, indeed, came from constantinople, and others were brought from the south of france. they are neither uniform in height nor girth--some having been pieced at the bottom, and others partly buried;--so also with the capitals, certain of which are evidently from the same source as the pillars, while the remainder are but rude imitations, mostly corinthian in style. the original expenses of the building were furnished by a fifth of the booty taken from the spaniards, with the subsidies raised in catalonia and narbonne. the moors supplied voluntary, and european captives forced labour. [illustration: a shrine in cordova mosque.] on fridays, when the faithful met in thousands for the noon-day prayer, what a sight and what a melody! the deep, rich tones of the organ may add impressiveness to a service of worship, but there is nothing in the world so grand, so awe-inspiring as the human voice. when a vast body of males repeats the formulæ of praise, together, but just slightly out of time, the effect once heard is never forgotten. i have heard it often, and as i walk these aisles i hear it ringing in my ears, and can picture to myself a close-packed row of white-robed figures between each pillar, and rows from end to end between, all standing, stooping, or forehead on earth, as they follow the motions of the leader before them. a grand sight it is, whatever may be one's opinion of their religion. in the manner they sit on the matted floors of their mosques there would be room here for thirteen thousand without using the orange court, and there is little doubt that on days when the court attended it used to be filled to its utmost. to the south end of the cathedral the floor of two wide aisles is raised on arches, exactly opposite the niche which marks the direction of mekka, and the space above is more richly decorated than any other portion of the edifice except the niche itself. this doubtless formed the spot reserved for the ameer and his court, screened off on three sides to prevent the curiosity of the worshippers overcoming their devotion, as is still arranged in the mosques which the sultan of morocco attends in his capitals. until a few years ago this rich work in arabesque and tiles was hidden by plaster. the kiblah niche is a gem of its kind. it consists of a horse-shoe arch, the face of which is ornamented with gilded glass mosaic, forming the entrance to a semi-circular recess beautifully adorned with arabesques and inscriptions, the top of the dome being a large white marble slab hollowed out in the form of a pecten shell. the wall over the entrance is covered with texts from the korán, forming an elegant design, and on either side are niches of lesser merit, but serving to set off the central one which formed the kiblah. eleven centuries have elapsed since the hands of the workmen left it, and still it stands a witness of the pitch of art attained by the berbers in spain. it is said that here was deposited a copy of the korán written by othmán himself, and stained with his blood, of such a size that two men could hardly lift it. when, for a brief period, the town fell into the hands of alfonso vii., his soldiers used the mosque as a stable, and tore up this valuable manuscript. when a moorish embassy was sent to madrid some years ago, the members paid a visit to this relic of the greatness of their forefathers, and to the astonishment of the custodians, having returned to the court-yard to perform the required ablutions, re-entered, slippers in hand, to go through the acts of worship as naturally as if at home. what a strange sight for a christian cathedral! right in front of the niche is a plain marble tomb with no sign but a plain bar dexter. evidently supposing this to be the resting-place of some saint of their own persuasion, they made the customary number of revolutions around it. it would be interesting to learn from their lips what their impressions were. of the tower which once added to the imposing appearance of the building, it is recorded that it had no rival in height known to the builders. it was of stone, and, like one still standing in baghdád from the days of harûn el rasheed, had two ways to the top, winding one above the other, so that those who ascended by the one never met those descending by the other. according to custom it was crowned by three gilded balls, and it had fourteen windows. this was of considerably later date than the mosque itself, but has long been a thing of the past. the european additions to the córdova mosque are the choir, high altar, etc., which by themselves would make a fine church, occupying what must have been originally a charming court, paved with white marble and enlivened by fountains; the tower, built over the main entrance, opening into the court of oranges; and a score or two of shrines with iron railings in front round the sides, containing altars, images, and other fantastic baubles to awe the ignorant. an inscription in the tower records that it was nearly destroyed by the earth-quake of , and though it is the least objectionable addition, it is a pity that it did not fall on that or some subsequent occasion. it was raised on the ruins of its moorish predecessor in . the chief entrance, like that of sevílle, is a curious attempt to blend roman architecture with mauresque, having been restored in , but the result is not bad. recent "restorations" are observable in some parts of the mosque, hideous with colour, but a few of the original beams are still visible. i am inclined to consider the greater part of the roof modern, but could not inspect it closely enough to be certain. though vaulted inside, it is tiled in ridges in the usual moorish style, but very few green tiles are to be seen. from the tower the view reminds one strongly of morocco. the hills to the north and south, with the river winding close to the town across the fertile plain, give the scene a striking resemblance to that from the tower of the spanish consulate at tetuan. all around are the still tortuous streets of a moorish town, though the roofs of the houses are tiled in ridges of moorish pattern, as those of tangier were when occupied by the english two hundred years ago, and as those of el k'sar are now. the otherwise moorish-looking building at one's feet is marred by the unsightly erection in the centre, and its court-yard seems to have degenerated into a play-ground, where the neighbours saunter or fill pitchers from the fountains. after enduring the apparently unceasing din of the bells in those erstwhile stations of the muédhdhin, one ceases to wonder that the lazy moors have such a detestation for them, and make use instead of the stirring tones of the human voice. rest and quiet seem impossible in their vicinity, for their jarring is simply head-splitting. and as if they were not excruciating enough, during "holy week" they conspire against the ear-drums of their victims by revolving a sort of infernal machine made of wood in the form of a hollow cross, with four swinging hammers on each arm which strike against iron plates as the thing goes round. the keeper's remark that the noise was awful was superfluous. the history of the town of córdova has been as chequered as that of most andalucian cities. its foundation is shrouded in obscurity. the romans and vandals had in turn been its masters before the moors wrested it from the spaniards in the year a.d. though the spaniards regained possession of it in , it was not for long, as it soon fell into the hands of the invaders once more. the spanish victors only left a moorish viceroy in charge, who proved too true a berber to serve against his countrymen, so he betrayed his trust. in it was finally recovered by the spaniards, after five hundred and twenty-four years of moorish rule. since that time the traces of that epoch of its history have been gradually disappearing, till there only remain the mutilated mosque, and portions of the ancient palace, or of saint-houses (as the side-chapel of the church of st. miguel), and of a few dwellings. since the first train steamed to this ancient city, in , the railway has probably brought as many pilgrims to the mosque as ever visited it from other motives in its greatest days. the industry founded here by the moors--that of tanning--which has given its name to a trade in several countries,[ ] seems to have gone with them to morocco, for though many of the old tan-pits still exist by the river side, no leather of any repute is now produced here. the moorish water-mills are yet at work though, having been repaired and renewed on the original model. these, as at granáda and other places, are horizontal wheels worked from a small spout above, directly under the mill-stone, such as is met with in fez and tetuan. [ : sp. _cordován_, fr. _cordonnier_, eng. _cordwainer_, etc.] iii. sevÍlle in the girálda tower of sevílle i expected to find a veritable moorish trophy in the best state of preservation, open to that minute inspection which was impossible in the only complete specimen of such a tower, the kutûbîya, part of a mosque still in use. imagine, then, my regret on arriving at the foot of that venerable monument, to find it "spick and span," as if just completed, looking new and tawdry by the side of the cathedral which has replaced the mosque it once adorned. instead of the hoary antiquity to which the rich deep colour of the stone of the sister towers in morocco bears witness in their weather-beaten glory, this one, built, above the first few stone courses, of inch pan-tiles, separated by a like thickness of mortar, has the appearance of having been newly pointed and rubbed down, while faded frescoes on the walls testify to the barbarity of the conquerors of the "barbarians." the delicate tracery in hewn stone which adds so greatly to the beauty of the morocco and tlemçen examples, is almost entirely lacking, while the once tasteful horse-shoe windows are now pricked out in red and yellow, with a hideous modern balcony of white stone before each. the quasi-moorish belfry is the most pardonable addition, but to crown all is an exhibition of incongruity which has no excuse. the original tile-faced turret of the moors, with its gilded balls, has actually been replaced by a structure of several storeys, the first of which is doric, the second ionic, and the third corinthian. imagine this crowning the comely severity of the solid moorish structure without a projecting ornament! but this is not all. swinging in gaunt uneasiness over the whole, stands a huge revolving statue, supposed to represent faith, holding out in one hand a shield which catches the wind, and causes it to act as a weather-vane. such is the girálda of the twentieth century, and the guide-books are full of praises for the restorer, who doubtless deserves great credit for his skill in repairing the tower after it had suffered severely from lightning, but who might have done more towards restoring the original design, at all events in the original portion. we read in "raôd el kártás" that the mosque was finished and the tower commenced in , during the reign of mulai yakûb el mansûr, who commenced its sisters at marrákesh and rabat in the same year. one architect is recorded to have designed all three--indeed, they have little uncommon in their design, and have been once almost alike. some assert that this man was a christian, but there is nothing in the style of building to favour such a supposition. the plan is that of all the mosque towers of morocco, and the only tower of a mosque in actual use which i have ascended in that country--one at mogador--was just a miniature of this. it is, therefore, in little else than point of size that these three are remarkable. the similarity between these and the recently fallen tower of st. mark's at venice is most striking, both in design and in the method of ascent by an inclined plane; while around the italian lakes are to be seen others of less size, but strongly resembling these. all three are square, and consist of six to eight storeys in the centre, with thick walls and vaulted roof, surrounded by an inclined plane from base to summit, at an angle which makes it easy walking, and horses have been ridden up. the unfinished hassan tower at rabat having at one time become a place of evil resort, the reigning ameer ordered the way up to be destroyed, but it was found so hard that only the first round was cut away, and the door bricked up. each ramp of the girálda, if i remember rightly, has its window, but in the hassan many are without light, though at least every alternate one has a window, some of these being placed at the corner to serve for two, while here they are always in the centre. the girálda proper contains seven of these storeys, with thirty-five ramps. to the top of the eighth storey, which is the first addition, dating from the sixteenth century, now used as a belfry, the height is about feet. the present total height is a little over feet. the original turret of the girálda, similar to that at marrákesh, was destroyed in by a hurricane. the additions were finished in . an old view, still in existence, and dating from the thirteenth century, shows it in its pristine glory, and there is another--moorish--as old as the tower itself. after all that i had read and heard of the palace at sevílle, i was more disappointed than even in the case of the girálda. not only does it present nothing imposing in the way of moorish architecture, but it has evidently been so much altered by subsequent occupants as to have lost much of its original charm. to begin with the outside, instead of wearing the fine crumbling appearance of the palaces of morocco or granáda, this also had been all newly plastered till it looks like a work of yesterday, and coloured a not unbecoming red. even the main entrance has a gothic inscription half way up, and though its general aspect is that of moorish work, on a closer inspection, the lower part at least is seen to be an imitation, as in many ways the unwritten laws of that style have been widely departed from. the gothic inscription states that don pedro i. built it in . inside, the general ground plan remains much as built, but connecting doorways have been opened where moors never put them, and with the exception of the big raised tank in the corner, there is nothing african about the garden. even the plan has been in places destroyed to obtain rooms of a more suitable width for the conveniences of european life. the property is a portion of the royal patrimony, and is from time to time occupied by the reigning sovereign when visiting sevílle. a marble tablet in one of these rooms tells of a queen having been born there during the last century. much of the ornamentation on the walls is of course original, as well as some of the ceilings and doors, but the "restorations" effected at various epochs have greatly altered the face of things. gaudy colours show up both walls and ceilings, but at the same time greatly detract from their value, besides which there are coarse imitations of the genuine tile-work, made in squares, with lines in relief to represent the joints, as well as patterns painted on the plaster to fill up gaps in the designs. then, too, the most prominent parts of the ornamentation have been disfigured by the interposition of spanish shields and coats-of-arms on tiles. the border round the top of the dado is alternated with these all the way round some of the rooms. to crown all, certain of the fine old doors, resembling a wooden patchwork, have been "restored" with plaster-of-paris. some of the arabesques which now figure on these walls were actually pillaged from the alhambra. many of the arabic inscriptions have been pieced so as to render them illegible, and some have been replaced upside down, while others tell their own tale, for they ascribe glory and might to a spanish sovereign, don pedro the cruel, instead of to a "leader of the faithful." a reference to the history of the country tells us that this ruler "reconstructed" the palace of the moors, while later it was repaired by don juan ii., before ferdinand and isabella built their oratories within its precincts, or charles v., with his mania for "improving" these monuments of a foreign dominion, doubled it in size. for six centuries this work, literally of spoliation, has been proceeding in the hands of successive owners; what other result than that arrived at, could be hoped for? when this is realized, the greater portion of the historic value of this palace vanishes, and its original character as a moorish palace is seen to have almost disappeared. there still, however, remains the indisputable fact, apparent from what does remain of the work of its builders, that it was always a work of art and a trophy of the skill of its designers, those who have interfered with it subsequently having far from improved it. according to arab historians, the foundations of this palace were laid in a.d. and it was reconstructed between and . in a fire did considerable damage, which was not repaired till . the inscriptions are of no great historical interest. "wa lá ghálib ílá allah"--"there is none victorious but god"--abounds here, as at the alhambra, and there are some very neat specimens of the kufic character. of moorish sevílle, apart from the girálda and the palace--el kasar, corrupted into alcazar--the only remains of importance are the torre del oro--borj ed-daheb--built in at the riverside, close to where the moors had their bridge of boats, and the towers of the churches of ss. marcos and marina. others there are, built in imitation of the older erections, often by moorish architects, as those of the churches of omnium sanctorum, san nicolas, ermita de la virgen, and santa catalina. many private houses contain arches, pillars, and other portions of moorish buildings which have preceded them, such as are also to be found in almost every town of southern spain. as late as the town had thirteen gates more or less of moorish origin, but these have all long since disappeared. sevílle was one of the first cities to surrender to the moors after the battle of guadalete, a.d. , and remained in their hands till taken by st. ferdinand after fifteen months' siege in , six years after its inhabitants had thrown off their allegiance to the emperor of morocco, and formed themselves into a sort of republic, and ten years after the moorish kingdom of granáda was founded. it then became the capital of spain till charles v. removed the court to valladolid. iv. granÁda "o palace red! from distant lands i have come to see thee, believing thee to be a garden in spring, but i have found thee as a tree in autumn. i thought to see thee with my heart full of joy, but instead my eyes have filled with tears." so wrote in the visitors' album of the alhambra, in , an arab poet in his native tongue, and another inscription in the same volume, written by a moor some years before, remarks, "peace be on thee, o granáda! we have seen thee and admired thee, and have said, 'praised be he who constructed thee, and may they who destroyed thee receive mercy.'" as the sentiments of members of the race of its builders, these expressions are especially interesting; but they can hardly fail to be shared to some extent by visitors from eastern lands, of whatever nationality. although the loveliest monument of moorish art in spain, and a specimen of their highest architectural skill, destructions, mutilations, and restorations have wrought so much damage to it that it now stands, indeed, "as a tree in autumn." it was not those who conquered the moors on whom mercy was implored by the writer quoted--for they, ferdinand and isabella, did their best to preserve their trophy--but on such of their successors as charles v., who actually planted a still unfinished palace right among the buildings of this venerable spot, adjoining the remains of the alhambra, part of which it has doubtless replaced. this unartistic austrian styled these remains "the ugly abominations of the moors," and forthwith proceeded to erect really ugly structures. but the most unpardonable destroyers of all that the moors left beautiful were, perhaps, the french, who in entered granáda with hardly a blow, and under sebastian practically desolated the palace. they turned it into barracks and storehouses, as inscriptions on its walls still testify--notably on the sills of the "miranda de la reina." ere they left in , they even went so far as to blow up eight of the towers, the remainder only escaping through the negligence of an employee, and the fuses were put out by an old spanish soldier. the spaniards having thus regained possession, the commissioners appointed to look after it "sold everything for themselves, and then, like good patriots, reported that the invaders had left nothing." after a brief respite in the care of an old woman, who exhibited more sense in the matter than all the generals who had perpetrated such outrages upon it, the alhambra was again desecrated by a new governor, who used it as a store of salt fish for the galley slaves. while the old woman--washington irving's "tia antonia"--was in possession, that famous writer did more than any one to restore the ancient fame of the palace by coming to stay there, and writing his well-known account of his visit. mr. forde, and his friend mr. addington, the british ambassador, helped to remind people of its existence, and saved what was left. subsequent civil wars have, however, afforded fresh opportunities of injury to its hoary walls, and to-day it stands a mere wreck of what it once was. the name by which these buildings are now known is but the adjective by which the arabs described it, "el hamra," meaning "the red," because of its colour outside. when occupied it was known only as either "the palace of granáda," or "the red palace." the colour of the earth here is precisely that of the plains of dukála and marrákesh, and the buildings, being all constructed of tabia, are naturally of that colour. in no part of spain could one so readily imagine one's self in morocco; indeed, it is hard to realize that one is not there till the new european streets are reached. in the palace grounds, apart from the fine carriage-drive, with its seats and lamp-posts, when out of sight of the big hotels and other modern erections, the delusion is complete. even in the town the running water and the wayside fountains take one back to fez; and the channels underneath the pavements with their plugs at intervals are only moorish ones repaired. on walking the crooked streets of the part which formed the town of four centuries ago, on every hand the names are moorish. here is the kaisarîya, restored after a fire in ; there is the street of the grain fandaks, and beyond is a hammám, now a dwelling-house. the site of the chief mosque is now the cathedral, in the chief chapel of which are buried the conquerors of granáda. there lie ferdinand and isabella in plain iron-bound leaden coffins--far from the least interesting sights of the place--in a spot full of memories of that contest which they considered the event of their lives, and which was indeed of such vital importance to the country. the inscription on their marble tomb in the church above tells how that the moors having been conquered and heresy stamped out (?), that worthy couple took their rest. the very atmosphere of the place seems charged with reminiscences of the moors and their successful foes, and here the spirits of prescott and gayangos, the historians, seem to linger still. on either side of the high altar are extremely interesting painted carvings. on one is figured the delivering up of the alhambra. ferdinand, isabella and mendoza ride in a line, and the latter receives the key in his gloved hand as the conquered king offers him the ring end, followed by a long row of captives. behind the victors ride their knights and dames. on the other the moors and mooresses are seen being christened wholesale by the monks, their dresses being in some respects remarkably correct in detail, but with glaring defects in others, just what might be expected from one whose acquaintance with them was recent but brief. before these carvings kneel real likenesses of the royal couple in wood, and on the massive square tomb in front they repose in alabaster. a fellow-tomb by their side has been raised to the memory of their immediate successors. in the sacristry are to be seen the very robes of cardinal mendoza, and his missal, with the sceptre and jewel-case of isabella, and the sword of ferdinand, while that of the conquered bû abd allah is on view elsewhere. here, too, are the standards unfurled on the day of the recapture, january , , and a picture full of interest, recording the adieux of "boabdil" and ferdinand, who, after their bitter contest, have shaken hands and are here falling on each other's necks. as a model of moorish art, the palace of granáda, commenced in , is a monument of its latest and most refined period. the heavy and comparatively simple styles of córdova and sevílle are here amplified and refined, the result being the acme of elegance and oriental taste. this i say from personal acquaintance with the temples of the far east, although those present a much more gorgeous appearance, and are much more costly erections, evincing a degree of architectural ability and the possession of hoards of wealth beside which what the builders of the alhambra could boast of was insignificant; nor do i attempt to compare these interesting relics with the equally familiar immensity of ancient masonry, or with the magnificent work of the middle ages still existing in europe. these monuments hold a place of their own, unique and unassailable. they are the mementoes of an era in the history of europe, not only of the peninsula, and the interest which attaches itself to them even on this score alone is very great. as relics on a foreign soil, they have stood the storms of five centuries under the most trying circumstances, and the simplicity of their components lends an additional charm to the fabric. they are to a great extent composed of what are apparently the weakest materials--mud, gypsum, and wood; the marble and tiles are but adornments. from without the appearance of the palace has been well described as that of "reddish cork models rising out of a girdle of trees." on a closer inspection the "cork" appears like red sandstone, and one wonders how it has stood even one good storm. there is none of that facing of stone which gives most other styles of architecture an appearance of durability, and whatever facing of plaster it may once have possessed has long since disappeared. but inside all is different. instead of crumbling red walls, the courts and apartments are highly ornamented with what we now call plaster-of-paris, but which the moors have long prepared by roasting the gypsum in rude kilns, calling it "gibs." a full description of each room or court-yard would better become a guide-book, and to those who have the opportunity of visiting the spot, i would recommend ford's incomparable "handbook to spain," published by murray, the older the edition the better. to those who can read spanish, the "estudio descriptivo de los monumentos arabes," by the late sr. contreras (government restorer of the moorish remains in spain), to be obtained in granáda, is well worth reading. such information as a visitor would need to correct the mistaken impressions of these and other writers ignorant of moorish usages as to the original purpose of the various apartments, i have embodied in macmillan's "guide to the western mediterranean." certain points, however, either for their architectural merit or historic interest, cannot be passed over. such is the court of the lions, of part of which a model disfigured by garish painting may be seen at the crystal palace. in some points it is resembled by the chief court of the mosque of the karûeeïn at fez. in the centre is that strange departure from the injunctions of the korán which has given its name to the spot, the alabaster fountain resting on the loins of twelve beasts, called, by courtesy, "lions." they remind one rather of cats. "their faces barbecued, and their manes cut like the scales of a griffin, and the legs like bed-posts; a water-pipe stuck in their mouths does not add to their dignity." in the inscription round the basin above, among flowery phrases belauding the fountain, and suggesting that the work is so fine that it is difficult to distinguish the water from the alabaster, the spectator is comforted with the assurance that they cannot bite! the court is surrounded by the usual tiled verandah, supported by one hundred and twenty-two light and elegant white marble pillars, the arches between which show some eleven different forms. at each end is a portico jutting out from the verandahs, and four cupolas add to the appearance of the roofs. the length of the court is twice its width, which is sixty feet, and on each side lies a beautiful decorated apartment with the unusual additions of jets of water from the floor in the centre of each, as also before each of the three doors apiece of the long narrow moorish rooms, and under the two porticoes. the overflows, instead of being hidden pipes, are channels in the marble pavement, for the moors were too great lovers of rippling water to lose the opportunity as we cold-blooded northerners would. to fully realize the delights of such a place one must imagine it carpeted with the products of rabat, surrounded by soft mattresses piled with cushions, and with its walls hung with a dado of dark-coloured felt cloths of various colours, interworked to represent pillars and arches such as surround the gallery, and showing up the beautiful white of the marble by contrast. thus furnished--in true moorish style--the place should be visited on a hot summer's day, after a wearisome toil up the hill from the town. then, lolling among the cushions, and listening to the splashing water, if strong sympathy is not felt with the builders of the palace, who thought it a paradise, the visitor ought never to have left his armchair by the fire-side at home. if, instead of wasting money on re-plastering the walls until they look ready for papering, and then scratching geometrical designs upon them in a style no moor ever dreamed of, the spanish government would entrust a moor of taste to decorate it in his own native style, without the modern european additions, they would do far better and spend less. one step further, and the introduction of moorish guides and caretakers who spoke spanish--easy to obtain--would add fifty per cent. to the interest of the place. then fancy the christian and muslim knights meeting in single combat on the plains beneath those walls. people once more the knolls and pastures with the turban and the helm, fill in the colours of robe and plume; oh, what a picture it would make! doubtless similar apartments for the hareem exist in the recesses of the palaces of fez, mequinez, marrákesh and rabat. some very fine work is to be seen in the comparatively public parts, in many respects equalling this, and certainly better than that of the palace of sevílle. various alterations and "restorations" have been effected from time to time in this as in other parts of the palace, notably in the fountain, the top part of which is modern. it is probable that originally there was only one basin, resting immediately on the "lions" below. its date is given as a.d. the room known for disputed reasons as the hall of the two sisters was originally a bedroom. the entrance is one of the most elaborate in the palace, and its wooden ceiling, pieced to resemble stalactites, is a charming piece of work, as also are those of the other important rooms of the palace. another apartment opening out of the court of lions, known as the hall of justice--most likely in error--contains one of the most curious remains in the palace, another departure from the precepts of the religion professed by its builders. this is no less than a series of pictures painted on skins sewn together, glued and fastened to the wooden dome with tinned tacks, and covered with a fine coating of gypsum, the gilt parts being in relief. though the date of their execution must have been in the fourteenth century, the colours are still clear and fresh. the picture in the centre of the three domes is supposed by some to represent ten moorish kings of granáda, though it is more likely meant for ten wise men in council. on the other two ceilings are pictures, one of a lady holding a chained lion, on the point of being delivered from a man in skins by a european, who is afterwards slain by a mounted moor. the other is of a boar-hunt and people drinking at a fountain, with a man up a tree in a dress which looks remarkably like that of the eighteenth century in england, wig and all. this work must have been that of some christian renegade, though considerable discussion has taken place over the authorship. it is most likely that the lions are of similar origin, sculptured by some one who had but a remote idea of the king of the forest. after the group of apartments surrounding the court of the lions, the most valuable specimen of moorish architecture is that known as the hall of the ambassadors, probably once devoted to official interviews, as its name denotes. this is the largest room in the palace, occupying the upper floor in one of the massive towers which defended the citadel, overlooking the vega and the remains of the camp-town of santa fé, built during the siege by the "catholic kings." the thickness of its walls is therefore immense, and the windows look like little tunnels; under it are dungeons. the hall is thirty-seven feet square, and no less than seventy-five feet high in the centre of the roof, which is not the original one. some of the finest stucco wall decoration in the place is to be seen here, with elegant arabic inscriptions, in the ancient style of ornamental writing known as kufic, most of the instances of the latter meaning, "o god, to thee be endless praise, and thanks ascending." over the windows are lines in cursive arabic, ascribing victory and glory to the "leader of the resigned, our lord the father of the pilgrims" (yûsef i.), with a prayer for his welfare, while everywhere is to be seen here, as in other parts, the motto, "and there is none victorious but god." between the two blocks already described lie the baths, the undressing-room of which has been very creditably restored by the late sr. contreras, and looks splendid. it is, in fact, a covered patio with the gallery of the next floor running round, and as no cloth hangings or carpets could be used here, the walls and floor are fully decorated with stucco and tiles. the inner rooms are now in fair condition, and are fitted with marble, though the boiler and pipes were sold long ago by a former "keeper" of the palace. the general arrangement is just the same as that of the baths in morocco. one room of the palace was fitted up by ferdinand and isabella as a chapel, the gilt ornaments of which look very gaudy by the side of the original moorish work. opening out of this is a little gem of a mosque, doubtless intended for the royal devotions alone, as it is too small for a company. surrounding the palace proper are several other buildings forming part of the alhambra, which must not be overlooked. among them are the two towers of the princesses and the captives, both of which have been ably repaired. in the latter are to be seen tiles of a peculiar rosy tint, not met with elsewhere. in the dar aïshah ("gabinete de lindaraxa"--"x" pronounced as "sh") are excellent specimens of those with a metallic hue, resembling the colours on the surface of tar-water. ford points out that it was only in these tiles that the moors employed any but the primary colours, with gold for yellow. this is evident, and holds good to the present day. both these towers give a perfect idea of a moorish house of the better class in miniature. outside the walls are of the rough red of the mud concrete, while inside they are nearly all white, and beautifully decorated. the thickness of the walls keeps them delightfully cool, and the crooked passages render the courts in the centre quite private. of the other towers and gates, the only notable one is that of justice, a genuine moorish erection with a turning under it to stay the onrush of an enemy, and render it easier of defence. the hand carved on the outer arch and the key on the inner one have given rise to many explanations, but their only significance was probably that this gate was the key of the castle, while the hand was to protect the key from the effects of the evil eye. this superstition is still popular, and its practice is to be seen to-day on thousands of doors in morocco, in rudely painted hands on the doorposts. the watch tower (de la vela) is chiefly noteworthy as one of the points from which the spanish flag was unfurled on the memorable day of the entry into granáda. the anniversary of that date, january nd, is a high time for the young ladies, who flock here to toll the bell in the hopes of being provided with a husband during the new-begun year. at a short distance from the alhambra itself is a group known as the torres bermejas (vermilion towers), probably the most ancient of the moorish reign, if part did not exist before their settlement here, but they present no remarkable architectural features. across a little valley is the generalife, a charming summer residence built about , styled by its builder the "paradise of the wise,"--jinah el arîf--which the spaniards have corrupted to its present designation, pronouncing it kheneraliffy. truly this is a spot after the moor's own heart: a luxuriant garden with plenty of dark greens against white walls and pale-blue trellis-work, harmonious at every turn with the rippling and splashing of nature's choicest liquid. of architectural beauty the buildings in this garden have but little, yet as specimens of moorish style--though they have suffered with the rest--they form a complement to the alhambra. that is the typical fortress-palace, the abode of a martial court; this is the pleasant resting-place, the cool retreat for love and luxury. nature is here predominant, and art has but a secondary place, for once retaining her true position as great nature's handmaid. light arched porticoes and rooms behind serve but as shelter from the noonday glare, while roomy turrets treat the occupier to delightful views. superfluous ornament within is not allowed to interfere with the contemplation of beauty without. between the lower and upper terrace is a remarkable arrangement of steps, a moorish ideal, for at equal distances from top to bottom, between each flight, are fountains playing in the centre, round which one must walk, while a stream runs down the top of each side wall in a channel made of tiles. what a pleasant sight and sound to those to whom stair climbing in a broiling sun is too much exercise! the cypresses in the garden are very fine, but they give none too much shade. the present owner's agent has bû abd allah's sword on view at his house in the town, and this is a gem worth asking to see when a ticket is obtained for the generalife. it is of a totally different pattern and style of ornament from the modern moorish weapons, being inlaid in a very clever and tasteful manner. to the antiquary the most interesting part of granáda is the albaycin, the quarter lying highest up the valley of the darro, originally peopled by refugees from the town of baeza--away to the north, beyond jaen--the baïseeïn. as the last stronghold of moorish rule in the peninsula, when one by one the other cities, once its rivals, fell into the hands of the christians again, granáda became a centre of refuge from all parts, and to this owed much of its ultimate importance. unfortunately no attempt has been made to preserve the many relics of that time which still exist in this quarter, probably the worst in the town. many owners of property in the neighbourhood can still display the original arabic title deeds, their estates having been purchased by spanish grandees from the expelled moors, or later from the expelled jews. a morning's tour will reveal much of interest in back alleys and ruined courts. one visitor alone is hardly safe among the wild half-gipsy lot who dwell there now, but a few copper coins are all the keys needed to gain admission to some fine old patios with marble columns, crumbling fandaks, and ruined baths. by the roadside may be seen the identical style of water-mill still used in morocco, and the presence of the spaniard seems a dream. v. hither and thither having now made pilgrimages to the more famous homes of the moor in europe, let us in fancy take an aërial flight over sunny spain, and glance here and there at the scattered traces of muslim rule in less noted quarters. everything we cannot hope to spy, but we may still surprise ourselves and others by the number of our finds. even this task accomplished, a volume on the subject might well be written by a second borrow or a ford, whose residence among the modern moors had sharpened his scent for relics of that ilk.[ ] let not the reader think that with these wayside jottings all has been disclosed, for the moor yet lives in spain, and there is far more truth in the saying that "barbary begins at the pyrenees" than is generally imagined. [ : to the latter i am indebted for particulars regarding the many places mentioned in this final survey which it was impossible for me to visit.] we will start from tarifa, perhaps the most ancient town of andalucia. the moors named this ancient punic city after t'arîf ibn málek ("the wise, son of king"), a berber chief. they beleaguered it about , and it is still enclosed by moorish walls. the citadel, a genuine moorish castle, lies just within these walls, and was not so long ago the abode of galley-slaves. close to sevílle, where the river guadalquivir branches off, it forms two islands--islas mayor y menor. the former was the kaptal of the moors. at coria the river winds under the moorish "castle of the cleft" (el faraj), now called st. juan de alfarache, and passes near the torre del oro, a monument of the invader already referred to. old xeres, of sherry fame, is a straggling, ill-built, ill-drained moorish city. it was taken from the moors in . part of the original walls and gates remain in the old town. the moorish citadel is well preserved, and offers a good specimen of those turreted and walled palatial fortresses. but it is not till we reach sevílle that we come to a museum of moorish antiquities. here we see arabesque ceilings, marqueterie woodwork, stucco panelling, and the elegant horse-shoe arches. there are beautiful specimens in the citadel, in calle pajaritos no. , in the casa prieto and elsewhere. the moors possessed the city for five hundred years, during which time they entirely rebuilt it, using the roman buildings as materials. many moorish houses still exist, the windows of which are barricaded with iron gratings. on each side of the patios, or courts, are corridors supported by marble pillars, whilst a fountain plays in the centre. these houses are rich in moorish porcelain tilings, called azulejos--from the arabic ez-zulaïj--but the best of these are in the patio of the citadel. carmona is not far off, with its oriental walls and castle, famous as ever for its grateful springs. the tower of san pedro transports us again to tangier, as do the massy walls and arched gate. some eight leagues on the way to badajos from sevílle rises a moorish tower, giving to the adjoining village the name of castillo de las guardias. five leagues beyond are the mines of the "inky river"--rio tinto--a name sufficiently expressive and appropriate, for it issues from the mountain-side impregnated with copper, and is consequently corrosive. the moors seem to have followed the romans in their workings on the north side of the hill. further on are more mines, still proclaiming the use the moors made of them by their present name almádin--"the mine"--a name which has almost become spanish; it is still so generally used. five leagues from rio tinto, at aracena, is another moorish castle, commanding a fine panorama, and the belfry of the church hard by is arabesque. many more of these ruined kasbahs are to be seen upon the heights of andalucia, and even much further north; but the majority must go unmentioned. one, in an equally fine position, is to be seen eleven leagues along the road from sevílle to badajos, above santa olalla--a name essentially moorish, denoting the resting-place of some female mohammedan saint, whose name has been lost sight of. (lallah, or "lady," is the term always prefixed to the names of canonized ladies in morocco.) three leagues from sevílle on the granáda road, at gandul, lies another of these castles, picturesquely situated amid palms and orange groves; four leagues beyond, the name arahal (er-rahálah--"the day's journey") reminds the arabicist that it is time to encamp; a dozen leagues further on the name of roda recalls its origin, raôdah, "the cemetery." riding into jaen on the top of the diligence from granáda, i was struck with the familiar appearance of two brown tabia fortresses above the town, giving the hillside the appearance of one of the lower slopes of the atlas. this was a place after the moors' own heart, for abundant springs gush everywhere from the rocks. in their days it was for a time the capital of an independent kingdom. at ronda, a town originally built by the moors--for old ronda is two leagues away to the north,--their once extensive remains have been all but destroyed. its tortuous streets and small houses, however, testify as to its origin, and its moorish castle still appears to guard the narrow ascent by which alone it can be reached from the land, for it crowns a river-girt rock. down below, this river, the guadalvin, still turns the same rude class of corn-mills that we have seen at fez and granáda. other remnants are another moorish tower in the calle del puente viejo, and the "house of the moorish king" in calle san pedro, dating from about . descending to the river's edge by a flight of stairs cut in the solid rock, there is a grotto dug by christian slaves three centuries later. some five leagues on the road thence to granáda are the remains of the ancient teba, at the siege of which in , when it was taken from the moors, lord james douglas fought in obedience to the dying wish of the bruce his master, whose heart he wore in a silver case hung from his neck, throwing it among the enemy as he rushed in and fell. on the way from ronda to gibraltar are a number of villages whose arab names are startling even in this land of ishmaelitish memories. among these are atajate, gaucin, benahali, benarraba, benadalid, benalaurin. at gaucin an excellent view of gibraltar and jibel mûsa is obtainable from its moorish citadel. this brings us to old "gib," whose relics of tárîk and his successors are much better known to travellers than most of those minor remains. an inscription over the gate of the castle, now a prison, tells of its erection over eleven centuries ago, for this was naturally one of the early captures of the invaders. yet the mud-concrete walls stand firm and sound, though scarred by many a shot. algeciras--el jazîrah--"the island" has passed through too many vicissitudes to have much more than the name left. malaga, though seldom heard of in connection with the history of mohammedan rule in the peninsula, played a considerable part in that drama. it and cadiz date far back to the time of the carthaginians, so that, after all, their origin is african. if its name is not of an earlier origin, it may be from málekah, "the queen." every year on august , at p.m. the great bell of the cathedral is struck thrice, for that is the anniversary of its recovery from the aliens in . the flag of ferdinand then hoisted is (or was recently) still to be seen, together with a moorish one, probably that of the vanquished city, over the tomb of the conde de buena vista in the convent of la victoria. though odd bits of moorish architecture may still be met with in places, the only remains of note are the castle, built in , with its fine horse-shoe gate--sadly disfigured by modern barbarism--and what was the dockyard of the moors, now left high and dry by the receding sea. the name alhama, met with in several parts of spain, merely denotes "the hot," alluding to springs of that character which are in most instances still active. this is the case at the alhama between malaga and granáda, where the baths are worth a visit. the moorish bath is called the strong one, being nearer the spring. at antequera the castle is moorish, though built on roman foundations, and it is only of recent years that the mosque has disappeared under the "protection" of an impecunious governor. leaving the much-sung andalûs, the first name striking us in murcia is that of guadíx (pronounced wadish), a corruption of wád aïsh, "river of life." its moorish castle still stands. some ten leagues further on, at cullar de baza is another moorish ruin, and the next of note, a fine specimen, is fifteen leagues away at lorca, whose streets are in the genuine intricate style. the city of murcia, though founded by the moors, contains little calling them to remembrance. in the post-office and prison, however, and in the public granary, mementoes are to be found. orihuela, on the road from carthagena to alicante, still looks oriental with its palm-trees, square towers and domes, and elche is just another such, with flat roofs and the orthodox kasbah, now a prison. the enormous number of palms which surround the town recall marrákesh, but they are sadly neglected. monte alegre is a small place with a ruined moorish castle, about fifteen leagues from elche on the road to madrid. between alicante and xativa is the moorish castle of tibi, close to a large reservoir, and there is a square moorish tower at concentaina. xativa has a hermitage, san felin, adorned with horse-shoe arches, having a moorish cistern hard by. valencia the moors considered a paradise, and their skill in irrigation has been retained, so that of the guadalaviar (wad el abîad--"river of the whites") the fullest use is made in agriculture, and the familiar water-wheels and conduits go by the corruptions of their arabic names, naôrahs and sakkáïahs. the city itself is very moorish in appearance, with its narrow tortuous streets and gloomy buildings, but i know of no remarkable legacy of the moors there. there are the remains of a moorish aqueduct at chestalgár--a very arabic sounding name, of which the last two syllables are corrupted from el ghárb ("the west") as in the case of trafalgár (terf el ghárb--"west point"). all this district was inhabited by the moriscos or christianized moors as late as the beginning of the seventeenth century, and there must their descendants live still, although no longer distinguished from true sons of the soil. whatever may remain of the ancient saguntum, what is visible is mostly moorish, as, for instance, cisterns on the site of a roman temple. not far from valencia is burjasot, where are yet to be seen specimens of matmôrahs or underground granaries. morella is a scrambling town with moorish walls and towers, coroneted by a castle. entering catalonia, tortosa, at the mouth of the ebro, is reached, once a stronghold of the moors, and a nest of pirates till recovered by templars, pisans and genoese together. it was only withheld from the moors next year by the valour of the women besieged. the tower of the cathedral still bears the title of almudena, a reminder of the muédhdhin who once summoned muslims to prayer from its summit. here, too, are sundry remnants of moorish masonry, and some ancient matmôrahs. tarragona and barcelona, if containing no moorish ruins of note, have all, in common with other neighbouring places, retained the arabic name rambla (rimlah, "sand") for the quondam sandy river beds which of late years have been transformed into fashionable promenades. in the cathedral of tarragona an elegant moorish arch is noticeable, with a kufic inscription giving the date as a.d. for four centuries after this city was destroyed by tarîf it remained unoccupied, so that much cannot be expected to call to mind his dynasty. of a bridge at martorell over the llobregat, ford says it is "attributed to hannibal by the learned, and to the devil, as usual, by the vulgar. the pointed centre arch, which is very steep and narrow to pass, is feet wide in the span, and is unquestionably a work of the moors." not far away is a place whose name, mequineza, is strongly suggestive of moorish origin, but i know nothing further about it. now let us retrace our flight, and wing our way once more to the north of sevílle, to the inland province of estremadura. here we start from mérida, where the roman-moorish "alcazar" towers proudly yet. the moors repaired the old roman bridge over the guadiana, and the gateway near the river has a marble tablet with an arabic inscription. the muslims observed towards the people of this place good faith such as was never shown to them in return, inasmuch as they allowed them to retain their temples, creed, and bishops. they built the citadel in , and the city dates its decline from the time that alonzo el sabio took it from them in . zámora is another ancient place. it was taken from the moors in , when , of them are said to have been killed. the moorish designs in the remarkable circular arches of la magdalena are worthy of note. in toledo the church of santo tomé has a brick tower of moorish character; near it is the moorish bridge of san martin, and in the neighbourhood, by a stream leading to the tagus, moorish mills and the ruins of a villa with moorish arches, now a farm hovel, may still be seen. the ceiling of the chapel of the church of san juan de la penetencia is in the moorish style, much dilapidated ( a.d.). the toledan moors were first-rate hydraulists. one of their kings had a lake in his palace, and in the middle a kiosk, whence water descended on each side, thus enclosing him in the coolest of summer-houses. it was in toledo that ez-zarkal made water-clocks for astronomical calculations, but now this city obtains its water only by the primitive machinery of donkeys, which are driven up and down by water-carriers as in barbary itself. the citadel was once the kasbah of the moors. the cathedral of toledo is one of the most remarkable in spain. the arches of the transept are semi-moorish, xamete, who wrought it in arcos stone in - , having been a moor. the very ancient manufactory of arms for which toledo has a world-wide fame dates from the time of the goths; into this the moors introduced their damascene system of ornamenting and tempering, and as early as this identical "fabrica" was at work under abd er-rahman ibn el hákim. the moors treasured and named their swords like children. these were the weapons which othello, the moor, "kept in his chamber." [illustration: _cavilla, photo., tangier._ the market-place, tetuan.] at alcazar de san juan, in la mancha, i found a few remnants of the moorish town, as in the church tower, but the name is now almost the only moorish thing about it. hence we pass to alarcon, a truly moorish city, built like a miniature toledo, on a craggy peninsula hemmed in by the river jucar. the land approach is still guarded by moorish towers and citadel. in zocodovar--which takes its name from the word sôk, "market-place"--we find a very moorish "plaza," with its irregular windows and balconies, and in san eugenio are some remains of an old mosque with kufic inscriptions, as well as an arch and tomb of elaborate design. in the calle de las tornarías there used to be a dilapidated moorish house with one still handsome room, but it is doubtful whether this now survives the wreck of time. it was called el taller del moro, because ambron, the moorish governor of huesca, is said to have invited four hundred of the refractory chiefs of toledo to dine here, and to have cut off the head of each as he arrived. there is a curious mosque in the calle del cristo de la luz, the roof is supported by four low square pillars, each having a different capital, from which spring double arches like those at córdova. the ceiling is divided into nine compartments with domes. madrid has passed through such various fortunes, and has been so much re-built, that it now contains few traces of the moors. the only relic which i saw in was a large piece of tabia, forming a substantial wall near to the new cathedral, which might have belonged to the city wall or only to a fortress. the museum of the capital contains a good collection of moorish coins. in the armoury are moorish guns, swords, saddles, and leather shields, the last named made of two hides cemented with a mortar composed of herbs and camel-hair. in old castile the footprints grow rare and faint, although the name of valladolid--blád walîd, "town of walîd," a moorish ameer--sufficiently proclaims its origin, but i am not aware of any moorish remains there. in burgos one old gate near the triumphal arch, erected by philip ii., still retains its moorish opening, and on the opposite hill stands the castle in which was celebrated the bridal of our edward i. with eleanor of castile. it was then a true moorish kasar, but part has since been destroyed by fire. on the road from burgos to vittoria we pass between the mountains of oca and the pyrenean spurs, in which narrow defile the old spaniards defied the advancing moors. moorish caverns or cisterns are still to be seen. turning southward again, we come to medinaceli, or "the city of selim," once the strong frontier hold of a moor of that name, the scene of many conflicts among the moors themselves, and against the christians. here, on august , , died the celebrated el mansûr--"the victorious"--the "cid" (seyyid) of the moors, and the most terrible enemy of the christians. he was born in near algeciras, and by a series of intrigues, treacheries and murders, rose in importance till he became in reality master of the puppet ameer. he proclaimed a holy crusade against the christians each year, and was buried in the dust of fifty campaigns, for after every battle he used to shake off the soil from his garments into a chest which he carried about with him for that purpose. in aragon the situation of daroca, in the fertile basin of the jiloca, is very picturesque. the little town lies in a hill-girt valley around which rise eminences defended by moorish walls and towers, which, following the irregular declivities, command charming views from above. the palace of the mendozas at guadalajara, in the same district, boasts of an elegant row of moorish windows, though these appear to have been constructed after guadalajara was reconquered from the moors by the spaniards. near this place is a moorish brick building, turned into a battery by the invaders, and afterwards used as a prison. before leaving this town it will be worth while to visit san miguel, once a mosque, with its colonnaded entrance, horse-shoe arches, machiolations, and herring-bone patterns under the roof. calatayud, the second town of aragon, is of moorish origin. its moorish name means the "castle of ayûb"--or job--the nephew of mûsa, who used the ancient bilbilis as a quarry whence to obtain stones for its construction. the dominican convent of calatayud has a glorious patio with three galleries rising one above another, and a portion of the exterior is enriched with pseudo-moorish work like the prisons at guadalajara. saragossa gave me more the impression of moorish origin than any town i saw in spain, except sevílle and córdova. the streets of the original settlement are just those of mequinez on a small scale. the only object of genuinely moorish origin that i could find, however, was the aljaferia, once a palace-citadel, now a barrack, so named after jáfer, a muslim king of this province. since his times ferdinand and isabella used it, and then handed it over to the inquisition. some of the rooms still retain moorish decorations, but most of the latter are of the period of their conquerors. on one ceiling is pointed out the first gold brought from the new world. the only genuine moorish remnant is the private mosque, with beautiful inscriptions. the building has been incorporated in a huge fort-like modern brick structure, which would lead no one to seek inside for arab traces. passing from saragossa northwards, we arrive at jaca, the railway terminus, which to this day quarters on her shield the heads of four sheïkhs who were left behind when their fellow-countrymen fled from the city in , after a desperate battle in which the spanish women fought like men. the site of the battle, called las tiendas, is still visited on the first friday in may, when the daughters of these amazons go gloriously "a-shopping." the municipal charter of jaca dates from the moorish expulsion, and is reckoned among the earliest in spain. gerona, almost within sight of france, played an important part, too, in those days, siding alternately with that country and with spain when in the possession of the moors. the ameer sulaïmán, in a.d., entered into an alliance with pepin, and in charlemagne took the town, which the moors re-captured ten years later. it became their headquarters for raids upon narbonne and nîsmes. castellon de ampurias, once on the coast, which has receded, was strong enough to resist the moors for a time, but after they had dismantled it, the normans appeared and finally destroyed it. now it is but a hamlet. we are now in the extreme north-west of the peninsula, where the relics we seek grow scanty, and, in consequence, of more importance. instead of buildings in stone or concrete, we find here a monument of independence, perhaps more interesting in its way than any other. when the pyrenees and their hardy mountaineers checked the onward rush of islám, several independent states arose, recognized by both france and spain on account of their bravery in opposing a common foe. the only one of these retaining a semi-independence is the republic of andorra, a name corrupted from the arabic el (al) darra, "a plenteous rainfall," showing how the moors appreciated this feature of so well wooded and hilly a district after the arid plains of the south. the old moorish castle of the chief town bears the name of carol, derived from that of charlemagne, who granted it the privileges it still enjoys, so that it is a memento of the meeting of arab and teuton. at planes is a church said to be of moorish origin, and earlier than charlemagne; it certainly dates from no later than the tenth century. these "foot-prints" show that the moor got a fairly good footing here, before he was driven back, and his progress stayed. appendix "morocco news" "a lie is not worth the lying, nor is truth worth repeating." _moorish proverb._ so unanimous have been the uninformed reiteration of the press in contravention of much that has been stated in the foregoing pages, that it will not be out of place to quote a few extracts from men on the spot who do know the facts. the first three are from leaders in _al-moghreb al-aksa_, the present english paper in morocco, which accurately voices the opinion of the british colony in that country, opinions shared by most disinterested residents of other nationalities. "however we look upon the situation as it stands to-day, and wherever our sympathies may lie, it is impossible to over-estimate the danger attending the unfortunate anglo-french agreement. we have always--as our readers will acknowledge--advocated the simple doctrine of the _status quo_, and in this have received the support of every disinterested person in and out of morocco. our policy has at times thrown us into antagonism with the exponents of the french colonial schemes; but we at least have the satisfaction of knowing that, however we may have fallen short of our duty, it has been one which we have persevered in, prompted by earnest conviction, by love of the country and its people, and by admiration for its sultan. the simplicity of our aim has helped us in our uphill fight, and will, no doubt, continue to do so in the future. "needless to say we look forward with no little anxiety to the result of the conference. this needs no explanation. in the discussion of such a question it is absolutely imperative that the individual members of the conference should be selected from those who know their morocco, and who are acquainted with the causes which led up to the present dead-lock. only the keenest, shrewdest men should be selected, for it must be borne in mind that france will spare no pains to uphold the recent anglo-french convention. her most astute diplomats will figure largely, for her dignity is at stake. indeed, her very position, diplomatic and political, is in effect challenged. taking this into consideration, it is more than necessary to see that the representatives of great britain are not chosen for their family influence or for the perfection they may have attained in the french language. "the task is hard and perilous. england is waking to the fact that she has blundered, and, as usual, she is unwilling to admit the fact. circumstances, however, will sooner or later force her to modify her terms. germany, spain, the united states, and other nations, to say nothing of morocco, must point out the absurdity of the situation. if the agreement is inoperative with regard to morocco, it may as well be openly admitted to be useless. this is not all. should english statesmanship direct that this injudicious arrangement be adhered to, france and great britain will stand as self-confessed violators of the convention of madrid. "fortunately the moorish cause has some excellent champions. for many years she has been dumb. now, however, that she is assailed, we find a small but influential band of writers coming forward with their pens to do battle for her. "this is the great consolation we have. moorish interests will no longer be the sport of european political expediency. these men will, no doubt, protest against the land-grabbing propensities of the french colonial party, and they may find time to point out that after a thousand years of not ignoble independence, the moorish race deserves a little more consideration than has hitherto been granted. "even those people who are responsible for this deplorable state of affairs must now stand more or less amazed at their handiwork. no diplomatic subterfuge can efface the humiliation that underlies the situation; and no one can possibly exaggerate the danger that lies ahead of us." * * * * * "two centuries ago great britain abandoned tangier, and it is only the present generation that has realized the huge mistake. a maudlin sentimentalism, to avoid displeasing the french king, prevented us from handing the city back to portugal; an act which would have been wise, either strategically, commercially, or with a view to the suppression of the famous salee rovers, who were for long a scourge to ships entering the straits. a commission of experts was appointed to consider the question of the abandonment, one of them being mr. pepys.... "whatever the opinion may have been of the experts consulted by the government on the present agreement with france, we are strongly disposed to believe that if they have been endowed with greater sense than those of , there is probably more, as we must hope there is, in favour of british interests, than appears to the public eye. time alone will tell what reservation, mental or otherwise, may be locked up in the british foreign office. it is difficult to believe that any british statesman would wantonly give away any national interest, but too lofty a policy has often been wanting in practical sense which, had that policy descended from principles to facts, would have saved the nation thousands of lives, millions of money, and sacrifices of its best interests." * * * * * "the events that have been fully before the eyes of british subjects in morocco in the abnormal condition of the country during the past two years, seem to have been ignored by our foreign office. in short, it fully appears that our foreign office policy has been designed to lead the sultan to political destruction, and to sacrifice every british interest. "about two years ago our foreign office began well in starting the sultan on the path of progress: in carrying out its aims it has done nothing but blunders. had it but acted with a little firmness, the opening up of this country would have already begun, and there would have been no 'declaration' which will assuredly give future foreign secretaries matter for some anxiety. the declaration is only a display of political fireworks that will dazzle the eyes of the british public for a while, delighting our little englanders, but only making the future hazy and possibly more dangerous to deal with. it seems only a way of putting off the real settlement, which may not wait for thirty years to be dealt with, on the points still at issue, and for which a splendid opportunity has been thrown away at downing street, and could have been availed of to maintain british interests, prestige, and influence in this country. briefly, we fear that the attainment of the end in view may yet cost millions to the british nation. "that morocco will progress under french guidance there can be no question, and france may be congratulated on her superior diplomacy and the working of her foreign office system." with regard to the moorish position, a contributor observes in a later issue-- "the attitude of the sultan and his cabinet may be summed up in a few words. 'you nations have made your agreements about our country without consulting us. we owe you nothing that we are unable to pay on the conditions arranged between us. we did not ask your subjects to reside and trade on moorish soil. in fact, we have invariably discouraged their so doing. troubles exist in morocco, it is true, but we are far greater sufferers than you--our unbidden guests. and but for the wholesale smuggling of repeating rifles by _your_ people, our tribes would not be able to cause the disorders of which you complain. as to your intention to intervene in our affairs, we agree to no interference. if you are resolved to try force, we believe that the faith of the prophet will conquer. we still believe there is a god stronger than man. and should the fight go against us, we believe that it is better to earn paradise in a holy war for the defence of our soil, than to submit tamely to christian rule.' "the position, however lamentable, is intelligible; but on the other hand it is incredible that france--her mind made up long ago that she is to inherit the promised land of sunset--will sit down meekly and allow herself to be flouted by the monarch and people of a crumbling power like morocco. and this is what she has to face. not indeed a nation, as we understand the term, but a gathering of units differing widely in character and race--arabs, berbers, mulattoes, and negroes--unable to agree together on any subject under the sun but one, and that one the defence of islám from foreign intervention. under the standard of the invincible prophet they will join shoulder to shoulder. and hopeless and pathetic as it may seem, they will defy the disciplined ranks and magazine guns of europe. thus, wherever our sympathies may lie, the possibilities of a peaceful settlement of the morocco question appear to be dwindling day by day. the anarchy paramount in three-quarters of the sultanate is not only an ever-increasing peril to european lives and property, but a direct encouragement to intervention. of one thing we in morocco have no kind of doubt. the landing of foreign troops, even for protective service, in any one part of the coast would infallibly be the signal for a general rising in every part of the empire. no sea-port would be safe for foreigners or for friendly natives until protected by a strong european force. and, once begun, the task of 'pacifying' the interior must entail an expenditure of lives and treasure which will amply satisfy french demands for colonial extension for many a year to come." one more quotation from an editorial-- "and so it would appear, that, with the smiling approval of the world's press, the wolf is to take over the affairs of the lamb. we use the phrase advisedly. we have never hesitated to criticize the action, and to condemn the errors, of the makhzen where such a course has been needful in the public interest. we can, therefore, with all the more justice, call attention to the real issues of the compact embodied in the morocco clauses of the anglo-french agreement of april, . how long the leading journals of england may continue to ignore the facts of the case it is impossible to say; but that there will come a startling awakening seems inevitable. every merely casual observer on this side of the mediterranean knows only too well that the most trifling pretext may be at any hour seized for the next move in the development of french intervention. evidence is piling up to show that the forward party in france, and still more in algeria, is burning to strike while yet the frantic enthusiasm of the entente lasts, and while they can rely upon the support--we had almost written, the moral support--of great britain. can we shut our eyes to the deliberate provocations they are giving the makhzen in almost every part of the sultanate? "these things are not reported to europe, naturally. in spite of all our comfortable cant about justice to less powerful races, who in england cares about justice to morocco and her sultan? we owe it to germany that the thing was not rushed through a few months ago. who has heard, who wants to hear, the moorish side of the question? morocco is mute. the sultan pulls no journalistic wires. he has no advocate in the press, or in parliament, or in society. hardly a public man opens his mouth in england to refer to morocco, without talking absolute twaddle. the only member of either house of parliament who has shown a real grasp of the tremendous issues of the question is lord rosebery, in the memorable words-- "'no more one-sided agreement was ever concluded between two powers at peace with each other. i hope and trust, but i hope and trust rather than believe, that the power which holds gibraltar may never have cause to regret having handed morocco over to a great military power.' "had that true statesman, and true englishman, been in power eighteen months ago, england would never have been pledged to sacrifice her commercial interests in morocco, to abandon her wholesome, traditional policy in the mediterranean, and to revoke her solemn engagement to uphold the integrity of the sultan's dominions." an excellent idea of the discrepancies between the alarmist reports with which the press is from time to time deluged, and the facts as known on the spot, is afforded by the following extracts from _al-moghreb al-aksa_ of january , , when the london papers had been almost daily victimized by their correspondents regarding morocco:-- "the dismissal of the military _attachés_ at the moorish court threatened to raise a terrible conflagration in europe, and great indignation among foreign residents in this country--according to certain press reports. this fiery disposition of some offered a remarkable contrast with the coolness of the others. for instance, the british took almost no interest in the matter, for the simple reason that there has never been any british official military mission in the moorish court. it is true there are a few british subjects in moorish military service, but they are privately employed by the sultan's government, and their service is simply voluntary. even personally, they actually show no great concern in remaining here or not. "the italian military mission is composed of very few persons. the chief, col. ferrara, is on leave in italy, and the mission is now represented by captain campini, who lives at fez with his family. they report having received all kind attentions from the sultan quite recently, and that they know nothing about the dismissal which has so noisily sounded in europe. according to the same press reports, great fears were entertained of a general rising against the foreign residents in fez and other places in the interior, and while it is reported that the military _attachés_, consular officers and residents of all nations were notified to leave fez and come to tangier or the coast ports as a matter of precaution, we find that nobody moves from the court, because, they say, they have seen nothing to induce them to leave that residence. and what has mulai abd el azîz replied to french complaints and demands respecting the now historical dismissal of the military _attachés_? a very simple thing--that h.s.m. did not think that the dismissal could resent any of the civilized nations, because it was decided as an economic measure, there being no money to pay even other more pressing liabilities. however, the sultan, wishing to be on friendly terms with france and all other nations, immediately withdrew the dismissal and promised to pay the _attachés_ as long as it is possible to do so. the missions, consuls, etc., have now no need to leave fez, and everything remains stationary as before. the only thing steadily progressing is the insecurity of life and property in the outskirts and district of tangier, where murders and robberies proceed unabated, and this state of affairs has caused the british and german residents in this town to send petitions to their respective governments, through their legations, soliciting that some measure may be adopted to do away with the present state of insecurity which has already paralysed all overland traffic between this city and the neighbouring towns. "the contrasts of the situation are as remarkable as they are comic, and while the whole country is perfectly quiet, those places more in contact with the civilized world, like tangier and the algerian frontier, are the only spots which are seriously troubled with disturbances." so much for northern morocco. the same issue contains the following report from its mogador correspondent regarding the "disturbed state" of southern morocco. "it would puzzle even the trained imagination of certain journalists we wot of to evolve anything alarmist out of the condition of the great tribes between mogador and the atlas. during the recent tribal differences not one single highway robbery, even of a native, was, i believe, committed. the roads are open everywhere; the rival chieftains have, figuratively, exchanged the kiss of peace, and the tribes have confessed that it was a mistake to leave their farms and farm-work simply to please an ambitious and utterly thankless governor. "as for europeans, they have been rambling all over the country with their wonted freedom from interference. a frenchman, travelling almost alone, has just returned from imintanoot. another has twice crossed the atlas. needless to say the route to marrákesh is almost as devoid of other than pleasurable novelty as a stroll on the embankment or down the shady side of pall mall. when, indeed, will folks at home grasp the fact that the berber clans of southern morocco belong to a race differing utterly in character and largely in customs from the ruffians infesting the northern half of the sultanate? "'nothing but the unpleasant prospect of being held up by brigands,' writes a friend, 'prevents me from revisiting your beautiful country.' how convince such people that brigandage is an art unknown south of the oom rabya? that the prayer of the shluh, when a nazarene visits their land, is that nothing may happen to bring trouble on the clan? they may inwardly hate the _rûmi_, or they may regard him merely as an uncouth blot on the scenery; but should actual unpleasantness arise, he will, in almost every case, have himself to thank for it. (london papers please copy!)" this letter was dated two days after the paris correspondent of the _times_ had telegraphed-- "events would seem likely to be coming to a head in consequence of the anarchy prevailing in the shereefian empire. the pretender is just now concentrating his troops in the plain of angad, and is preparing to take an energetic offensive against ujda. the camp of the pretender is imposing in its warlike display. all the caids and the sons of bu amema surround mulai mahomed. the men are armed with french _chassepots_, and are well dressed in new uniforms supplied by an oran firm. all the war material was embarked on board the french yacht _zut_, which landed it last month on the shores of rastenga between cape eau and melilla under the direction of the pretender's troops." towards christmas, , circumstantial reports began to appear in the newspapers of an overwhelming defeat of the imperial army by rebels who were marching on fez, who had besieged it, and had cut off the aqueduct bringing its water, the sultan retreating to the palace, europeans being ordered to the coast, etc., etc. these statements i promptly and categorically denied in an interview for the london _echo_; there was no real "pretender," only a religious fanatic supported by two disaffected tribes, the imperial army had not been defeated, as only a small body had been despatched to quell the disturbance; the "rebels" were not besieging fez, as they had no army, and only the guns captured by the clever midnight surprise of sleeping troops, of which the "battle"--really a panic--consisted; they had not cut the "aqueduct," as fez is built on the banks of a river from which it drinks; the sultan's palace was his normal abode; the europeans had not fled, seeing no danger, but that _on account of the alarming telegrams from europe_, their ministers in tangier had advised them to withdraw, much against their will. so sweeping a contradiction of statements receiving daily confirmation from tangier, heightened colour from oran, and intensification from madrid, must have been regarded as the ravings of a madman, for the interview was held over for a week for confirmation. had not thirty-four correspondents descended on tangier alone, each with expenses to meet? something had to be said, though the correspondent nearest to the scene, in fez, was two days' journey from it, and six from tangier, the nearest telegraph station. it is true that some years ago an american boldly did the journey "from fez to fleet street in eight days," by forgetting most of the journey to tangier, but this was quite out-done now. meanwhile every rumour was remodelled in oran or madrid, and served up afresh with confirmatory _sauce piquante_, _à la française_ or _à l'espagnol_, as the case might be. it was not till reuter had obtained an independent, common-sense report, that the interview was published, my statements having been all confirmed, but by that time interest had flagged, and the british public still believes that a tremendous upheaval took place in morocco just then. yet, notwithstanding the detailed accounts of battles and reverses--a collation of which shows the "father of the she-ass" fighting in several places at once, captured or slain to-day and fighting to-morrow, and so on--the government of morocco was never in real danger from the "rogi's" rising, and the ultimate issue was never in doubt. the late sultan, el hasan, more than once suffered in person at the hands of the same tribes, defeats more serious than those experienced by the inadequate forces sent by his son. the moral of all this is that any news from morocco, save that concerning europeans or events on the coast, must be received with caution, and confirmation awaited. the most reliable accounts at present available are those of the _times_ correspondent at tangier, while the _manchester guardian_ is well informed from mogador. whatever emanates from paris or algeria, not referring directly to frontier events; or from madrid, not referring to events near the spanish "presidios," should be refused altogether, as at best it is second-hand, more often fabricated. how the london press can seriously publish telegrams about morocco from new york and washington passes comprehension. the low ebb reached by american journals with one or two notable exceptions in their competitive sensationalism would of itself suffice to discredit much that appears, even were the countries in touch with each other. the fact is that very few men in morocco itself are in a position to form adequate judgements on current affairs, or even to collect reliable news from all parts. so few have direct relations with the authorities, native and foreign; so many can only rely on and amplify rumour or information from interested sources. so many, too, of the latter _must_ make money somehow! the soundest judgements are to be formed by those who, being well-informed as to the conditions and persons concerned, and moorish affairs in general, are best acquainted with the origin of the reports collected by others, and can therefore rightly appraise them. index a abbas, shah of persia, _note_ abd allah bin boo shaïb es-sálih, story of: protection system, - abd allah ghaïlán, former rebel leader, abd el hakk and the widow záïdah, story of the, , addington, mr., british ambassador at granáda, aghmát, capital of southern morocco, ahmad ii., "the golden," addressed by queen elizabeth, algeria, ; the french in, - , ; viewed from morocco, - ; under french rule, - ; failure as a colony, ; arabs in, ; moors in, ; mosques, ; tilework, ; field for scientist, algiers (el jazîrah), the city and people, - alhambra, the, at granáda (_q.v._) _al-moghreb al-aksa_ on the political situation, - andorra, the pyrenean republic of, , , ; its privileges granted by charlemagne, anglo-french agreement, , , , , ; clauses in, , anne, queen, arabs, the wandering, - ; tent-life, - ; food, ; hospitality, ; in algeria, ; in tunisia, b beggars, native, , berber race, , , - ; pirates, ; men brave and warlike, , ; reefian, , ; women often very intelligent, ; they, not saracens or arabs, real conquerors of spain, , ; origin still a problem, ; ghaïátà berbers in revolt, - boabdil, , boo ziaro miliáni, arrest and release of, c café, moorish, - carthage, ; christian and mohammedan, charlemagne, charles martel, the "hammer," charles v., "improver" of spanish monuments of moorish art, , , chess, , ; an arab game, child-life, moorish, - ; infancy, ; school days, ; youth, ; early vices, "cid," the, el mansûr, city life in morocco, - civil war in morocco: asni and the aït mîzán, - coinage, moorish, - , córdova, , - , ; its famous mosque (cathedral), - ; aisles, columns, arches, , ; the kiblah niche, ; moorish worshippers in, ; european additions to, - ; history of the town, corrosive sublimate tea--for disgraced officials, d debts in morocco, how settled, - delbrel, m., leader of the "rogi's" forces, dining out in morocco, - diplomacy in morocco. _see_ embassy draughts, game of, e edward i. and eleanor of castile, edward vii. in algeria, elizabeth, queen, el k'sar es-sagheer, el menébhi, ambassador to london and minister of war, el moghreb el aksa, native name of morocco, el yazeed, sultan in , declares war on all christendom, embassy to court of sultan, a typical, - ; requisitioning provisions, , ; _personnel_ and _attachés_, , ; native agent, ; arrival at marrákesh, ; reception, , ; the diplomatic interview: ambassador, interpreter, and sultan, - ; the result: as it appeared in the press, ; as it was in reality, , ; diamond cut diamond, - ; failure, and its causes, - england and morocco, , , , - ; british trade, ; british policy in, - ; anglo-french agreement (_q.v._); "morocco news," - f ferdinand and isabella of spain, , , , , , ; their nuptials the death-knell of moorish rule in europe, ; tomb of, fez, founded by son of mulai idrees, ; karûeeïn mosque at, , , , football, moorish, , ford's "handbook to spain," , , france in morocco, , - ; "policing" the frontier, ; her rule inevitable and desirable, - ; hope for the moors, , , ; anglo-french agreement (_q.v._); in algeria, - ; in tunisia, - ; _see_ political situation, the, and appendix, - g german interests in morocco, - gerona: sulaïmán, pepin, and charlemagne, , gibraltar, moorish castle, granáda, , - ; the alhambra palace, loveliest monument of moorish art in spain, - , - ; despoiled by charles v. and the french, ; "tia antonia," , ; morocco-like surroundings, ; mosques, ; tomb of ferdinand and isabella, ; remains of cardinal mendoza, , ; bu abd allah's sword, , ; courts and halls of the alhambra, - ; other moorish remains, - h hamed zirári, story of: protection system, - hareems, royal, - ; and other, - hasheesh, opium of morocco, hay, sir john drummond, herbs, fragrant, use of, , , i infant mortality in morocco high, irving, washington, at granáda, ; his "tia antonia," ismaïl the bloodthirsty exchanges compliments with queen anne, j jaca, site of desperate battle between spaniards and moors, jelálli zarhôni, the "rogi," head of the revolt of the ghaïátà berbers, - jewish interpreter, astute, - jews in morocco, - ; justice for, - ; in spain, traces of, k kabyles, kaïd, the, and his court, - kesk'soo, the national dish, , , , , khalia, staple article of winter diet, korán, the, at schools, ; the standard work at colleges, kufic inscriptions, , , , l _l'aigle_ at mogador and agadir, "land of the moors, the," _lex talionis_, m machiavellian arts, moors excel in, madrid convention of ... , ; essential features of, , madrid, moorish remains in, malaga, moorish dockyard, market-place, moorish, - , - , - ; and marketing, , - , - marrákesh, founded in the middle of the th century, ; kingdom of, , ; the kûtûbîya at, , , marriage in morocco, , ; country wedding, - ; feastings, presents, and rejoicings, - mauretania tingitana, titular north african bishopric still, mavrogordato, kyrios dimitri: typical embassy, - medicine-men, - ; cupping, - , ; exorcising, , ; cauterizing, ; charms, ; curious remedies, - ; philtres and poisons, mekka, pilgrimage to. _see_ pilgrimage mendoza, cardinal, , ; remains of the mendozas, merchants, moorish, , - mérida, muslim toleration at, mokhtar and zóharah, wedding of, - monk, general, moors in spain, traces of. _see_ spain morals, moorish, lax, - , morocco: retrospect, - ; of present day, - ; races: berbers, arabs, moors, - , - ; life of the people--society, business, pastime, religion, - ; diplomacy (_q.v._); law and justice, - ; the political situation (_q.v._); her neighbours, - ; moors in spain (_q.v._); "morocco news," _al-moghreb al-aksa_, - morocco-algerian frontier, france "policing" the, mosques, french treatment of, , mulai abd allah v., , makes war upon gibraltar, mulai abd el azîz iv., present sultan, - mulai abd el káder, a favourite saint, mulai el hasan iii., late sultan, , , mulai idrees, direct descendant of mohammed, and early arabian missionary to morocco, ; founded the shurfà idreeseeïn dynasty, mulai yakûb el mansûr, builder of mosque towers at sevílle, marrákesh, and rabat, musical instruments, , , , o official rapacity, , - , - orihuela, palms at, p pawkers, admiral, pepys, samuel, once on a moorish commission, pilgrims to mekka, - ; sea-route preferred to-day, ; camp at tangier, - ; comforts and discomforts, - ; a novel tent, - ; food, - ; returning home, - piracy of moors, - ; tribute extorted from european powers, , , ; abandoned by algiers, ; not wholly unknown to-day, political situation, the, - ; the sultan and reforms, - ; unsettled state of the empire, - ; a change welcome, ; agreement among the three great powers remote, ; anglo-french agreement (_q.v._); famine and unrest, ; german interests, ; spanish interests, ; conference proposed, , ; points for discussion, - ; "morocco news" must be received with caution, - postal reform needed, powder play, , , , prayer, moslem, , , ; call to, , prisons and prisoners, miserable, - ; long terms, - ; the lash, , ; the bastinado, ; jews in, protection system, the, , - ; the need: story of hamed zirári, - ; the search: story of abd allah bin boo shaïb es-sálih, - ; patent of, ; "farming," _note_ r rabat, hassan tower at, , railways would be welcomed by the sultan, raïsûli, rebel leader in the disaffected north, - rio tinto copper-mines, ronda, corn-mills at, rosebery, lord, on morocco, rudolf ii., : his active policy respecting moroccan affairs, _note_ s saragossa, the aljaferia at, school, moorish, , sevílle, , - , ; girálda tower, - ; palace, el kasar, - ; royal "improvers" of moorish work, ; capital of charles v., ; moorish remains at, sherley, sir anthony, , adventurer and diplomatist, _note_ shurfà idreeseeïn dynasty founded by mulai idrees, sidi mohammed, son of mulai abd allah v., si marzak and his fair azîzah, the loves of, - slave-markets, marrákesh and fez, - slavery in morocco, , , _et passim_, - ; sources of supply, ; girls for hareems, ; treatment fairly kind, , ; men have risen to high positions, ; use chiefly domestic, ; a slave-girl's cruel story, - smeerah, quaint incident at, smin, use of, , smith, sir chas. euan, snake-charming, , - social life, moorish, - spain, moorish empire in, founded by berbers, , ; footprints of moors in, - ; place-names and words of arabic origin, , ; physiognomy of the people, ; habits and customs, ; salutations, ; narrow streets, ; forts and mosques (churches), ; the mosque at córdova (_q.v._); girálda and el kasar at sevílle (_q.v._); the alhambra at granáda (_q.v._); other moorish towns, villages, castles, and remains, - ; women of, at the battle of jaca, sports and pastimes, moorish: active, , - ; passive, - , - , - stamps and stamp-dealers, story-teller, the, , , - ; mulai abd el káder and the monk of monks, - t tafilált, home for discarded sultanas, tangier, english cede possession of, , ; drunkenness and vice, ; north african mission, ; shopping in, - ; market-place, - ; sunday market, - ; salt-pans, ; english church at, ; starting-place for mekka pilgrims, , ; residence of ambassadors, ; gaol at, ; many frenchmen at, tarifa, moorish remains at, tarragona, cathedral of, tea, making, , tilework of algeria, toledo, , ; moorish hydraulists, ; ez-zarkal's water-clocks, ; cathedral, ; sword-manufacture, tortosa, ancient pirate stronghold, tripoli, city and people, - ; the turkish element in, ; viewed from morocco, - ; mosques, ; irrigation, tunis, city, , tunisia, , ; viewed from morocco, - ; under french rule, - ; jews in, ; arabs in, ; moors in, ; women in, v valencia, ancient moorish paradise, w water-carriers, moorish, , water-clocks, ez-zarkal's, wazzân, shareef of, present representative of shurfá idreeseeïn dynasty, , wilhelm ii. in tangier bay, women of morocco, occupations, , , , , ; seclusion, , , , , ; subservient position, - , ; possibilities of influence, ; marriages, , , - ; divorce, ; social visits, - ; wearing apparel, ; excellent cooks, , , , ; slaves, , , , ; women in tunisia, ; in tripoli, x xeres, old, moorish citadel, z zarhôn, most sacred town, zawîah of sîdi abd er-rahmán, zummeetah, "mixed," quaint story of, the end printed by william clowes and sons, limited, london and beccles. transcriber's note: page : missing accent added to seville (sevílle). page : corrected mis-matched quotes. page : restored missing ^ accent to karûeeïn page : 'whch' corrected to 'which'. page : 'beats' changed to 'beasts', to fit context. page : 'flead' [sic] page : corrected mis-matched quotes. ("and when at home? ') page : 'rabhah' is spelled 'rabbah' in previous illustration. page : sic: carraway/caraway page : changed comma for period at sentence end. (sighted, this) page : 'through' changed to 'though', to fit context. page : 'accetpance' changed to 'acceptance'. page : 'territoral' changed to 'territorial'. page : carcase/carcass, both are correct: oxford dictionary. page : sic: instal/install. page : added missing accent to iii seville (sevÍlle), for conformity. (ii cÓrdova is accented). page : added missing accent to giralda (girálda), for conformity. page : corrected 'architectual' to 'architectural'. page : comma corrected to period. (a moorish cistern hard by.) page : colon corrected to semicolon. (moorish worshippers in, ;). page : added comma (debts in morocco, how settled, - ). page : added closing quote to "castle of ayûb. page : 'bobadil' changed to 'boabdil'. page : removed extraneous ' ' reference for charlemagne. page : removed extraneous ' ' reference for ferdinand and isabella. page : removed extraneous entry ( ) for 'kufic inscriptions'; changed ' ' to ' '. page , : missing accent added to seville (sevílle). page : missing accent added to cordova (córdova). page : comma added after 'remains' (other moorish towns, villages, castles, and remains, - ;). page : comma added after 'occupations' (women of morocco, occupations, , , , , ;). oe ligatures are indicated with [oe] i also removed the partial square brackets before or after the photographer's names accompanying illustration titles. cathedral cities of spain _uniform with this volume_ cathedral cities of england. by george gilbert. with reproductions from water-colours by w.w. collins, r.i. demy vo, s. net. cathedral cities of france. by herbert and hester marshall. with reproductions from water-colours by herbert marshall, r.w.s. demy vo, s. net. also large paper edition, £ s. net. _books illustrated by joseph pennell_ italian hours. by henry james. with plates in colour and numerous illustrations in black and white by joseph pennell. large crown to. price s. net. a little tour in france. by henry james. with illustrations by joseph pennell. pott to. price s. net. english hours. by henry james. with illustrations by joseph pennell. pott to. price s. net. italian journeys. by w.d. howells. with illustrations by joseph pennell. pott to. price s. net. castilian days. by the hon. john hay. with illustrations by joseph pennell. pott to. price s. net. london: william heinemann bedford street, w.c. [illustration] [illustration: burgos. the cathedral] cathedral cities of spain written and illustrated by w. w. collins, r.i. [illustration: colophon] london: william heinemann new york: dodd, mead and company _all rights reserved_ _copyright, london, , by william heinemann and washington, u.s.a., by dodd, mead & co_ preface spain, the country of contrasts, of races differing from one another in habits, customs, and language, has one great thing that welds it into a homogeneous nation, and this is its religion. wherever one's footsteps wander, be it in the progressive provinces of the north, the mediævalism of the great plain, or in that still eastern portion of the south, andalusia, this one thing is ever omnipresent and stamps itself on the memory as the great living force throughout the peninsula. in her cathedrals and churches, her ruined monasteries and convents, there is more than abundant evidence of the vitality of her faith; and we can see how, after the expulsion of the moor, the wealth of the nation poured into the coffers of the church and there centralised the life of the nation. in the mountain fastnesses of asturias the churches of santa maria de naranco and san miguel de lino, dating from the ninth century and contemporary with san pablo and santa cristina, in barcelona, are the earliest christian buildings in spain. as the moor was pushed further south, a new style followed his retreating steps; and the romanesque, introduced from over the pyrenees, became the adopted form of architecture in the more or less settled parts of the country. creeping south through leon, where san isidoro is well worth mention, we find the finest examples of the period in the eleventh and twelfth centuries, at segovia, avila, and the grand catedral vieja of salamanca. spain sought help from france to expel the moor, and it is but natural that the more advanced nation should leave her mark somewhere and in some way in the country she pacifically invaded. before the spread of this influence became general, we find at least one great monument of native genius rise up at tarragona. the transition cathedral there can lay claim to be entirely spanish. it is the epitome and outcome of a yearning for the display of spain's own talent, and is one of the most interesting and beautiful in the whole country. toledo, leon, and burgos are the three cathedrals known as the "french" cathedrals of spain. they are gothic and the first named is the finest of all. spanish gothic is best exemplified in the cathedral of barcelona. for late-gothic, we must go to the huge structures of salamanca, segovia, and the cathedral at seville which almost overwhelms in the grandeur of its scale. after the close of the fifteenth century italian or renaissance influence began to be felt, and the decoration of the plateresque style became the vogue. san marcos at leon, the university of salamanca, and the casa de ayuntamiento at seville are among the best examples of this. the influence of churriguera, who evolved the churrigueresque style, is to be met with in almost every cathedral in the country. he it is who was responsible for those great gilded altars with their enormous twisted pillars so familiar to travellers in spain; and which, though no doubt a tribute to the glory of god, one feels are more a vulgar display of wealth than a tasteful or artistic addition to her architecture. the finest of the renaissance cathedrals is that of granada, and the most obtrusive piece of churrigueresque is the cartuja in the same city. taking the cathedrals as a whole the two most unfamiliar and notable features are the coros or choirs, and the retablos. these latter--gorgeous backings to the high altar, generally ill-lit, with a superabundance of carving sometimes coloured and gilded, sometimes of plain stone--are of low-country or flemish origin. the former, with one exception at oviedo, are placed in the nave west of the crossing, and enclose, as a rule, two or more bays in this direction. every cathedral is a museum of art, and these two features are the most worth study. note.--_since the revolution in catalonia of july-august , the king has decreed that no one can secure exemption from military service by the payment of a sum of money._ contents page cadiz seville cordova granada malaga valencia tortosa tarragona barcelona gerona toledo salamanca avila segovia saragossa santiago tuy orense astorga zamora leon oviedo valladolid burgos index illustrations _to face page_ burgos. the cathedral _frontispiece_ cadiz. the cathedral cadiz. the market place seville. in the cathedral seville. the giralda tower seville. in the alcázar, the patio de las doncellas seville. view over the town cordova. interior of the mesquita cordova. the campanario tower cordova. the bridge cordova. fountain in the court of oranges granada. carrera de darro granada. exterior of the cathedral granada. the alhambra granada. the alhambra, court of lions granada. generalife malaga. view from the harbour malaga. the market valencia. san pablo valencia. door of the cathedral valencia. religious procession tortosa tarragona tarragona. the archbishop's tower tarragona. the cloisters barcelona. the cathedral barcelona. the rambla gerona. the cattle market gerona. the cathedral toledo. the cathedral toledo. the south transept toledo. the zócodover toledo. the alcántara bridge salamanca salamanca. the old cathedral salamanca. an old street avila avila. puerta de san vicente segovia at sunset segovia. the aqueduct segovia. plaza mayor saragossa. la seo saragossa. in the old cathedral saragossa. easter procession santiago. the cathedral santiago. south door of the cathedral santiago. interior of the cathedral tuy orense. in the cathedral astorga zamora. the cathedral leon. the cathedral leon. the west porch of the cathedral leon. san marcos oviedo. in the cathedral oviedo. the cloisters valladolid.santa maria la antigua valladolid.san pablo burgos. the capilla mayor burgos. arch of santa maria cadiz at one time the greatest port in the world--"where are thy glories now, oh, cadiz?" she is still a white city lying embosomed on a sea of emerald and topaz. her streets are still full of the colour of the east, but alas! seville has robbed her of her trade, and in the hustle of modern life she is too far from the busy centre, too much on the outskirts of everything, to be anything more than a port of call for american tourists and a point from whence the emigrant leaves his native country. this isolation is one of her great charms, and the recollections i have carried away of her quiet clean streets, her white or pink washed houses with their flat roofs and _miradores_, her brilliant sun and blue sea, can never be effaced by time's subtle hand. landing from a coasting-boat from gibraltar, i began my travels through spain at cadiz; and it was with intense regret, so pleasant was the change from the grey skies and cold winds of england, that i took my final stroll along the broad alameda bordered with palms of all sorts, and lined with other exotic growth--that i bid good-bye to the parque de genoves where many a pleasant hour had been spent in the grateful shade of its trees. i shall probably never again lean idly over the sea-washed walls and watch the graceful barques with their cargoes of salt, spread their sails to the breeze and glide away on the long voyage to south america. looking out eastwards over the marshes i was at first much puzzled to know what were the white pyramids that stood in rows like the tents of an invading host. then i was told. shallow pans are dug out in the marsh and the sea let in. after evaporation this is repeated again and again, until the saline deposit is thick enough to be scraped and by degrees grows into a pyramid. every pan is named after a saint from whom good luck is implored. no, i doubt if ever my eyes will wander again over the blue waters to the marsh lands of san fernando. [illustration: cadiz. the cathedral] life is short and i can hardly hope that fate will carry me back to those sea walls and once more permit me as the sun goes down to speculate on the catch of the fishing-fleet as each boat makes for its haven in the short twilight of a southern clime. i cannot but regret that all this is of the past, but i shall never regret that at cadiz, the most enchanting of spain's seaports, began my acquaintance with her many glorious cities. in ancient times cadiz was the chief mart for the tin of the cassiterides and the amber of the baltic. founded by the tyrians as far back as b.c., it was the gadir (fortress) of the phoenicians. later on hamilcar and hannibal equipped their armies and built their fleets here. the romans named the city gades, and it became second only to padua and rome. after the discovery of america, cadiz became once more a busy port, the great silver fleets discharged their precious cargoes in its harbour and from the estuary sailed many a man whose descendants have created the great spain over the water. the loss of the spanish colonies ruined cadiz and it has never regained the place in the world it once held. huge quays are about to be constructed and the present king has just laid the first stone of these, in the hopes that trade may once more be brought to a city that sleeps. there are two cathedrals in cadiz. the catedral nueva is a modern structure commenced in and finished in by the bishop whose statue faces the rather imposing west façade. built of limestone and jérez sandstone, it is white--dazzling white, and rich ochre brown. there is very little of interest in the interior. the _silleria del coro_ (choir stalls) were given by queen isabel, and came originally from a suppressed carthusian convent near seville. the exterior can claim a certain grandeur, especially when seen from the sea. the drum of the _cimborio_ with the great yellow dome above, and the towers of the west façade give it from a distance somewhat the appearance of a mosque. the catedral vieja, built in the thirteenth century, was originally gothic, but being almost entirely destroyed during lord essex's siege in , was rebuilt in its present unpretentious renaissance form. cadiz possesses an académia de bellas artes where zurbaran, murillo and alfonso cano are represented by second-rate paintings. to the suppressed convent of san francisco is attached the melancholy interest of murillo's fatal fall from the scaffolding while at work on the _marriage of st. catherine_. the picture was finished by his apt pupil meneses osorio. another work by the master, a _san francisco_, quite in his best style also hangs here. [illustration: cadiz. the market place] the churches of cadiz contain nothing to attract one, indeed if it were not for the fine setting of the city surrounded by water, and the semi-eastern atmosphere that pervades the place, there is but little to hold the ordinary tourist. the mercado, or market-place, is a busy scene and full of colour; the fish market, too, abounds in varieties of finny inhabitants of the deep and compares favourably in this respect with that of bergen in far away norway. the sole attraction in this city of the past--in fact, i might say in the past of spain as far as it concerns cadiz--lies on the stretch of water into which the rivers guadalete and san pedro empty themselves. from the very earliest days down to the time when columbus sailed on his voyage which altered the face of the then known globe, and so on to our own day, it is in the bahia de cadiz that her history has been written. seville seville, the "sephela" of the phoenicians, "hispalis" of the romans, and "ishbilyah" of the moors, is by far the largest and most interesting city of southern spain. in visigothic times seville was the capital of the silingi until leovigild moved his court to toledo. it was captured by julius cæsar in b.c., but during the roman occupation was overshadowed by italica, the birthplace of the emperors trajan, adrian, and theodosius, and the greatest of rome's cities in hispania. this once magnificent place is now a desolate ruin, plundered of its glories and the haunt of gipsies. under the moors, who ruled it for five hundred and thirty-six years, seville was second only to cordova, to which city it became subject when abdurrhaman established the western kalifate there in the year . san ferdinand, king of leon and castile, pushed his conquests far south and seville succumbed to the force of his arms in . seville is the most fascinating city in spain. it is still moorish in a way. its houses are built on the eastern plan with _patios_, their roofs are flat and many have that charming accessory, the _miradore_. its streets are narrow and winding, pushed out from a common centre with no particular plan. it is andalusian and behind the times. triana, the gipsy suburb, is full of interest. the cathedral, though of late and therefore not particularly good gothic, is, on account of its great size, the most impressive in the whole country. the alcázar, once more a royal residence, vies with granada's alhambra in beauty; and as a mercantile port, sixty miles from the estuary, seville ranks second to none in southern spain. the cathedral stands third in point of size if the ground space is alone considered, after st. peter's at rome and the mesquita at cordova. the proportions of the lofty nave, one hundred feet in height, are so good that it appears really much higher. the columns of the double aisles break up the two hundred and sixty feet of its width and add much to the solemn dignity of the vast interior, enhanced greatly by the height of the vaulting above the spectator. standing anywhere in the cathedral i felt that there was a roof above my head, but it seemed lost in space. and this is the great characteristic of seville's cathedral, _i.e._, space. [illustration: seville. in the cathedral] the _coro_ is railed off from the crossing by a simple iron-gilt _reja_. the _silleria_, by sanchez, dancart, and guillier are very fine and took seventy years to execute. between the _coro_ and capilla mayor, in holy week the great bronze candlestick, twenty-five feet high, a fine specimen of sixteenth-century work, is placed alight. when the _misere_ is chanted during service, twelve of its thirteen candles are put out, one by one, indicating the desertion of christ by his apostles. the thirteenth left burning symbolises the virgin, faithful to the end. from this single light all the other candles in the cathedral are lit. the _reja_ of the capilla mayor is a grand example of an iron-gilt screen, and with those to the north and south, is due to the talent of the dominican, francisco de salamanca. the fine gothic _retablo_ of the high altar surpasses all others in spain in size and elaboration of detail. it was designed by dancart and many artists were employed in its execution. when the sun finds his way through the magnificent coloured glass of the windows between noon and three o'clock, and glints across it, few "interior" subjects surpass the beautiful effect on this fine piece of work. in front of the high altar at the feast of corpus christi and on three other occasions, the _seises's_ dance takes place. this strange ceremony is performed by chorister boys who dance a sort of minuet with castanets. their costume is of the time of philip iii., _i.e._, , and they wear plumed hats. of the numerous chapels the most interesting is the capilla real. it possesses a staff of clergy all to itself. begun in by martin de gainza, it was finished fifty years later. over the high altar is the almost life-size figure of the virgin de los reyes, given by st. louis of france to san ferdinand. its hair is of spun gold and its numerous vestments are marvellous examples of early embroidery. the throne on which the virgin is seated is a thirteenth-century piece of silver work, with the arms of castile and leon, san ferdinand's two kingdoms. before it lies the king himself in a silver shrine. three times a year, in may, august and november, a great military mass takes place before this royal shrine, when the garrison of seville marches through the chapel and colours are lowered in front of the altar. in the vault beneath are the coffins of pedro the cruel and maria padilla his mistress, the only living being who was humanly treated by this scourge of spain. their three sons rest close to them. on the north and south sides of this remarkable chapel, within arched recesses, are the sarcophagi of beatrice of swabia and alfonso the learned. they are covered with cloth of gold emblazoned with coats-of-arms. a crown and sceptre rest on the cushion which lies on each tomb. in the dim light, high above and beyond mortal reach rest these two--it is very impressive. each of the remaining twenty-nine chapels contains something of interest. in the capilla de santiago is a beautiful painted window of the conversion of st. paul. the _retablo_ in the capilla de san pedro contains pictures by zurbaran. in the north transept in a small chapel is a good virgin and child by alonso cano; in the south is the altar de la gamba, over which hangs the celebrated _la generacion_ of louis de vargas, known as _la gamba_ from the well-drawn leg of adam. on the other side of this transept is the altar de la santa cruz and between these two altars is the monument to christopher columbus. erected in havana it was brought to spain after the late war and put up here. murillo's work outshines all other's in the cathedral. the grand _san antonio de padua_, in the second chapel west of the north aisle, is difficult to see. the window which lights it is covered by a curtain, which, however, the silver key will pull aside. over the altar of nuestra señora del consuelo is a beautiful guardian angel from the same brush. close by is another, _santa dorotea_, a very choice little picture. in the sacristy are two more, _s.s. isidore_ and _leander_. in the sala capitular a _conception_ and a _mater dolorosa_ in the small sacristy attached to the capilla real complete the list. besides these fine pictures there are others which one can include in the same category by cano, zurbaran, morales, vargas, pedro campaña and the flemish painter sturm, a veritable gallery! and when i went into the treasury and saw the priceless relics which belong to seville's cathedral, priceless in value and interest, and priceless from my own art point of view, "surely," thought i, "not only is it a picture gallery, it is a museum as well." the original mosque of abu yusuf yakub was used as a cathedral until , when it was pulled down, the present building, which took its place, being finished in . the dome of this collapsed five years later and was re-erected by juan gil de hontañon. earthquake shocks and "jerry-building" were responsible for a second collapse in the august of . the restoration has since been completed in a most satisfactory manner--let us hope it will last. [illustration: seville. the giralda tower] the exterior of the cathedral is a very irregular mass of towers, domes, pinnacles and flying buttresses, which give no clue to the almost over-powering solemnity within the walls. three doorways occupy the west façade, which is of modern construction, and there are three also on the north side of the cathedral, one of which opens into the _segrario_, another into the patio de los naranjos and the third into the arcade of the same patio. this last retains the horse-shoe arch of the old mosque. in the porch hangs the stuffed crocodile which was sent by the sultan of egypt to alfonso el sabio with a request for the hand of his daughter. on the south is one huge door seldom opened. on the east there are two more, that of la puerta de los palos being under the shadow of the great giralda tower. this magnificent relic of the moslem's rule rears its height far above everything else in seville. erected at the close of the twelfth century by order of abu yusuf yakub, it belongs to the second and best period of moorish architecture. on its summit at the four corners rested four brazen balls of enormous size overthrown by one of the numerous earthquakes which have shaken seville in days gone by. the belfry above the moorish portion of the tower, which ends where the _solid_ walls stop, was put up in , and has a second rectangular stage of smaller dimensions above. both these are in keeping with the moorish work below and in no way detract from its beauty. on top of the small cupola which caps the whole is the world-famed figure of faith. cast in bronze, with the banner of constantine spread out to the winds of heaven, this, the _giraldilla_, or weather-cock, moves to the slightest breeze. it is thirteen feet high, and weighs one and a quarter tons. over three hundred feet above the ground, the wonder is--how did it get there? and how has it preserved its equipoise these last three hundred years? it is difficult to find a point from which one can see the giralda tower, in fact the only street from which it is visible from base to summit is the one in which i made my sketch. even this view does not really convey its marvellous elegance and beauty. next to the cathedral the alcázar is the most famous building in seville. it is now a royal residence in the early part of the year, and when the king and queen are there, no stranger under any pretext whatever is admitted. its courtyards and gardens are its glory. the scent of orange blossom perfumes the air, the fountains splash and play, all is still within these fascinating courts save the tinkle of the water and cooing of doves. of its orange trees, one was pointed out to me which pedro the cruel planted! and many others are known to be over two hundred years old. [illustration: seville. in the alcÁzar, the patio de las doncellas] of all its courts, the patio de las doncellas is the most perfect. fifty-two marble columns support the closed gallery and rooms above, and the walls of the arcade are rich with glazed tiles. of all its chambers, the hall of ambassadors is the finest and is certainly the architectural gem of the alcázar. its dome is a marvel of media naranja form, and the frieze of window-shaped niches but adds to its beauty. very little remains of the first alcázar, which, by the way, is a derivation of al-kasr or house of cæsar, and the present building as it now stands was due to pedro the cruel, henry ii., charles v. and philip v. the first named employed moorish workmen from granada, who emulated, under his directions, the newly finished palace of the alhambra. many a treacherous deed has taken place within these walls, and none more loathsome than those credited to pedro the cruel. however, one thing can be put to his credit and that is this fairy palace, this flower from the east, by the possession of which seville is the gainer. to the east of the alcázar is the old jewish quarter, the most puzzling in plan, if plan it has, and the oldest part of seville. the balconies of the houses opposite one another almost touch; there certainly, in some cases, would be no difficulty in getting across the street by using them as steps, and if a laden donkey essayed the passage below i doubt if he could get through. poking about in these narrow alley-ways one day, i fell into conversation with a _guardia municipal_ who entertained me greatly with his own version of seville's history, which ended, as he melodramatically pointed down the lane in which we were standing--"and here, señor, one man with a sword could keep an army at bay, and"--this in confidence, whispered--"i should not like to be the first man of the army"! in almost every quarter of the city fine old houses are to be found amidst most squalid and dirty surroundings. you may wander down some mean _calle_, where children in dozens are playing on the uneven pavement, their mothers sit about in the doorways shouting to one another across the street. suddenly a wall, windowless save for a row of small openings under the roof, is met. a huge portal, above which is a sculptured coat-of-arms, with some old knight's helmet betokening a noble owner, is let into this, look inside, as you pass by--behind the iron grille is a deliciously cool _patio_, full of palms and shrubs. a moorish arcade runs round supporting the glazed galleries of the first floor. a man in livery sits in a rocking chair dosing with the eternal cigarette between his lips. beyond the first _patio_ you can see another, a bigger one, which the sun is lighting up. the life in this house is as different to the life of its next door neighbours as park lane is to shoreditch. one of these great houses--owned by the duke of medinaceli--the casa del pilatos, has a large moorish court, very similar to those of the alcázar. they will tell you in seville, that pilate was a spaniard, a lawyer, and failing to win the case for christ, left the holy land, where he had a good practice, and returned to spain to assist ferdinand to drive out the moors. "yes, señor, he settled here and built this fine house about five hundred years ago." as a rule, in the better-class houses a porch opens into the street. on the inner side of this there is always a strong iron gate with a grille around to prevent any entry. these gates served a purpose in the days of the inquisition, when none knew if the holy office might not suddenly descend upon and raid the house. seville suffered terribly from the horrors of those dark times; even now--when a ring at the bell calls forth: "who is there?" from the servant in the balcony above, before she pulls the handle which connects with the catch that releases the lock of the gate--the answer often is: "people of peace." some houses have interior walls six feet thick and more, which being hollow contain hiding-places with access from the roof by a rope. in the heat of summer--and seville is called the "frying-pan of europe"--when the temperature in the shade of the streets rises to over ° fahr. family life is spent below in the cool _patio_. a real house moving takes place as the heat comes on. the upper rooms, which are always inhabited in the winter, the kitchen, servants' rooms and all are deserted, every one migrates with the furniture to the lower floors. the upper windows are closed, shutters put up and a great awning drawn across the top of the courtyard. despite the great heat, summer is a perfectly healthy period. no one dreams of going out in the daytime, and all seville begins life towards five o'clock in the afternoon; a.m. to a.m. being the time to retire for the night! seville can be very gay, and _sevillanos_ worship the _torrero_ or bull-fighter (_toreador_ is a word unknown to the spaniard). if a favourite _torrero_, who has done well in the ring during the afternoon, enters the dining-room of a hotel or goes into a café it is not unusual for every one at table to rise and salute him. [illustration: seville. view over the town] there is another life in seville, the life of the roofs. in early spring before the great heat comes, and in autumn before the cold winds arrive, the life of the roofs fascinated me. up on the roofs in the dry atmosphere, seville's washing hangs out to air, and up on the roofs, in the warm sun, with the hum of the streets far below, you will hear the quaint song--so arabian in character--of the _lavandera_, as she pegs out the damp linen in rows. in the evening the click-a-click-click of the castanets and the sound of the guitar, broken by merry laughter, tells one that perhaps the _sevillano_ has fathomed the mystery of knowing how best to live. and as sundown approaches what lovely colour effects creep o'er this city in the air! the light below fades from housetop and _miradore_, pinnacle and dome, until the last rays of the departing majesty touch the vane of the giralda, that superb symbol of faith,--and all is steely grey. over the guadalquiver lies triana, and as i crossed the bridge for the first time the remains of an old tower were pointed out to me on the river bank. the subterranean passage through which the victims of the inquisition found their exit to another world in the dark waters below is exposed to view, the walls having fallen away. it was therefore with something akin to relief i reached the gipsy quarter in this quaint, dirty suburb and feasted my eyes on the colours worn by its dark-skinned people. the potteries of triana are world-renowned, and still bear traces in their output of moorish tradition and design. seville's quays are the busiest part of the city, and the constant dredging of the river permits of vessels of four thousand tons making this a port of call. next to the prado in madrid, the museum of seville is more full of interest than any other. it is here that murillo is seen at his best. the building was at one time the convento de la mercede founded by san ferdinand. the exhibits in the archæological portion nearly all come from that ruin, the wonderful city of italica. among the best of murillo's work are _st. thomas de villa nueva distributing alms_, _saint felix of cantalicio_ and a _saint anthony of padua_. a large collection of zurbaran's works also hangs in the gallery, but his big composition of the _apotheosis of saint anthony_, is not so good as his single-figure subjects, and none of these approach in quality the fine _monk_ in the possession of the bankes family at kingston lacy in dorset. seville is the home of bull-fights. the first ever recorded took place in , in the plaza del triunfo, in honour of the birth of a son to henry ii. of castile. the world of fashion takes the air every evening in the beautiful paseo de las delicias. the humbler members of society throng the walks watching their wealthier sisters drive down its fine avenues--this daily drive being the only exercise the ladies of seville permit themselves to take. it is a pretty sight to watch the carriages coming home as twilight begins, and the last rays of the sun light up the torre del oro. built by the almohades this moorish octagon stood at the river extremity of moslem seville. the golden yellow of the stone no doubt gave it the name of "borju-d-dahab," "the tower of gold," which has stuck to it under christian rule. but "how are the mighty fallen," and one of the glories of the moor debased. it is now an office used by clerks of the port, and, instead of the dignified tread of the sentinel, resounds to the scribble of pens. cordova it is hard to realise that the cordova of to-day was, under the rule of the moor, a city famous all the world over and second only to the great damascus. long before the moor's beneficent advent, in the far-off days of carthage, cordova was known as "the gem of the south." its position on the mighty guadalquiver, backed by mountains on the north, always seems to have attracted the best of those who conquered. in the time of the romans, marcellus peopled it with poor patricians from rome, and cordova became colonia patricia, the capital of hispania ulterior. but it was left to the infidel to make it what is now so difficult to realise--the first city in western europe. the zenith of its fame was reached during the tenth century, when the mighty abderrhaman iii., ruler of the omayyades reigned, and did not begin to decrease until the death of almanzor at the beginning of the next century. if we are to believe the historian almakkari, cordova contained at one time a million inhabitants, for whose worship were provided three hundred mosques, and for whose ablutions nine hundred baths were no more than was necessary. (the arch-destroyer of all things infidel, philip ii., demolished these.) it was the centre of art and literature, students from all parts flocked hither, its wealth increased and its fame spread, riches and their concomitant luxury made it the most famous place in western europe. nothing could exceed the grace and elegance of its life, the courtly manners of its people, nor the magnificence of its buildings. from the years to , when ferdinand drove him out, the cultivated moslem reigned in this his second mecca. and now?--under christian rule it has dwindled down to what one finds it to-day--a quiet, partly ruinous town. of all its great buildings nothing remains to remind one of the past but the ruins of the alcázar--now a prison, a portion of its walls, and the much mutilated mesquita--the cathedral. [illustration: cordova. interior of the mesquita] i could not at first entry grasp the size of this the second largest church of any in existence. coming suddenly into the cool shade of its many pillared avenues, i felt as if transplanted into the silent depths of a great forest. in every direction i looked the trunks of huge trees apparently rose upwards in ordered array. the light here and there filtered through gaps on to the red-tiled floor, which only made the deception greater by its resemblance to the needles of a pine-wood or the dead leaves of autumn. then the organ boomed out a note and the deep bass of a priest in the _coro_ shattered the illusion. the first mosque built on the site of leovigild's visigothic cathedral, occupied one-fifth of the present mesquita. it was "ceca" or house of purification, and a pilgrimage to it was equivalent to a visit to mecca. it contained ten rows of columns, and is that portion which occupies the north-west corner ending at the south-east extremity where the present _coro_ begins. this space soon became insufficient for the population, and the mosque was extended as far as the present capilla de nuestra señora de villavicosia. subsequent additions were made by different rulers. the caliph al-hakim ii., who followed abderrhaman iii., expanded its size by building southwards as far as the inclination of the sloping ground would allow. to him is due the third mihrâb, or holy of holies, the pavement of which is worn by the knees of the devout who went thus round the mihrâb seven times. this mihrâb is the most beautiful chamber i came across in all spain. the byzantine mosaics which adorn it are among the most superb that exist, the domed ceiling of the recess is hewn out of a solid block of marble, and its walls, which leo the emperor of constantinople sent a greek artist and skilled workmen to put up, are chiselled in marble arabesques and moulded in stucco. the entrance archway to this gem of the east, an intricate and well-proportioned feature, rests on two green and two dark coloured columns. close by is the private door of the sultan which led from the alcázar to the mesquita. the last addition of all nearly doubled the size of the mosque. building to the south was impracticable on account of the fall in the land towards the river. eastwards was the only way out of the difficulty unless the beautiful court of the oranges was to be enclosed. eastwards, therefore, did almanzor extend his building, and the whole space in this direction from the transepts or _crucero_ of the present church, in a line north and south, was due to his initiative. [illustration: cordova. the campanario tower] the mesquita at one time contained twelve hundred and ninety columns. sixty eight were removed to make room for the _coro_, _crucero_ and _capilla major_, which is the portion reserved for service now. in the _coro_, the extremely fine _silleria_, are some of the best in spain. the lectern is very good flemish work in brass of the sixteenth century. the choir books are beautifully illuminated missals, especially those of the "crucifixion" and the "calling of the apostles." all this does not, however, compensate for the partial destruction of the mosque. so thought the people of cordova, who petitioned charles v. in vain against the alterations which have destroyed the harmony of the wonderful building. when passing through the city at a later date and viewing the mischief that had been done, the king rebuked the chapter thus: "you have built here what you, or any one, might have built anywhere else; but you have destroyed what was unique in the world." eight hundred and fifty columns now remain out of the above number. the odd four hundred and forty occupied the place where now stand the rows of orange trees in the courtyard, one time covered in, which is known as the patio de los naranjos, or court of the oranges. the fountain used for the ablutions of the holy still runs with a crystal stream of pure water, and is to-day the meeting place of all the gossips in cordova. of the five gates to this enchanting court, that of the puerta del perdon, over which rises the great tower, el campanario, is the most important. it is only opened on state occasions. erected in by henry ii. it is an imitation of moorish design. the immense doors are plated with copper arabesques. the exterior of the mesquita is still moorish despite the great church which has been thrust through the centre and rises high above the flat roof of the remainder of the mosque. a massive terraced wall with flame-shaped battlements encircles the whole, the view of which from the bridge over the river is more eastern than anything else i saw in spain. this fine bridge, erected by the infidel on roman foundations, is approached at the city end by a doric gateway, built by herrera in the reign of philip ii., that philip who married mary of england. it consists of sixteen arches and is guarded at its southern extremity by the _calahorra_ or moorish tower, round which the road passes instead of through a gateway, thus giving additional security to the defence. the mills of the moslem's day still work, both above and below bridge, and the patient angler sits in the sun with his bamboo rod, while the wheels of these relics groan and hum as they did in days gone by. more cunning is isaac walton's disciple who fishes from the bridge itself. a dozen rods with heavily weighted lines, for the guadalquiver runs swift beneath the arches, and a small bell attached to the end of each rod is his armament. and when the unwary fish impales himself on the hook and the bell gives warning of a bite, the excitement is great. greater still when a peal begins as three or four rods bend! [illustration: cordova. the bridge] the beggars of cordova were the most importunate that fate sent across my path in the whole of spain. i found it impossible to sit in the streets where i would gladly have planted my easel, and it was only by standing with my back to the wall that i was able to make my sketch of the campanario. these streets are tortuous and narrow, and the houses, built on the moorish plan with a beautiful _patio_ inside, are low. at many a corner i came across marble columns, some with roman inscriptions, probably from italica, placed against the house to prevent undue wear and tear. in the narrowest ways i noticed how the load borne by the patient ass had scooped out a regular track on either wall about three or four feet from the ground. wherever i went, to the oldest quarters of the town in the south-east corner or the modern in the north-west, i could never rid myself of the feeling that cordova was a city of the past. her life is more eastern than that of seville, and her people bear more traces of the moor. decay and ruin are apparent at every turn, but how picturesque it all is!--the rags, the squalor, and the ruin. how i anathematised those beggars with no legs, or minus arms, when i tried to begin a street sketch! the patience of job would not have helped me, it was the loathsomeness of these cripples that drove me away. begging is prohibited in seville and madrid and in one or two other towns, would that it were so in cordova. away up in the southern slopes of the sierra de cordoba stands the convento de san jerónimo, now a lunatic asylum. built out of the ruins of the once magnificent medînat-az-zahrâ, the palace that abderrhaman iii. erected, its situation is perfect. in the old days this palace surpassed all others in the wonders of its art and luxury. the plough still turns up ornaments of rare workmanship, but like so many things in spain its glories have departed. yes, cordova has seen its grandest days, the birthplace of seneca, lucan, averroes, juan de mena--the spanish chaucer--morales, and many another who became famous, can now boast at best with regard to human celebrities as being the government establishment for breaking in horses for the cavalry. certainly the men employed in this are fine dashing specimens of humanity, and they wear a very picturesque dress. but cordova like her world-famed sons, sleeps--and who can say that it would be better now if her sleep were broken? [illustration: cordova. fountain in the court of oranges] granada spread out on the edge of a fertile plain at the base of the sierra nevada, granada basks in the sun; and though the wind blows cold with an icy nip from the snows of the highest peaks in spain, i cannot but think that this, the last stronghold of the moors, is the most ideal situation of any place i have been in. the city is divided into three distinct districts, each with its own peculiar characteristics. the albaicin, antequeruela, and alhambra. the first named covers the low ground and the hills on the bank of the darro, a gold-bearing stream which rushes below the alhambra hill on the north. the second occupies the lower portion of the city which slopes on to the plain, and the alhambra rises above both, a well-nigh demolished citadel, brooding over past glories of the civilised moor, the most fascinating spot in all spain. the albaicin district is practically the rebuilt moorish town, where the aristocrats of seville and cordova settled when driven out of those cities by st. ferdinand in the thirteenth century. many traces remain to remind one of their occupation in the tortuous streets which wind up the steep hill sides, and the wall which they built for greater security is still the boundary of the city on the north. the albaicin is a grand place to wander in and lose oneself hunting for relics and little bits of architecture. at every turn of the intricate maze i came across something of interest, either moorish or mediæval. a mean looking house with a fine coat-of-arms over the door had evidently been built by a knight with the collector's craze. he had specialised in millstones; a round dozen or more were utilised in the lower portions of the wall and looked strange with stones set in the plaster between them. a delicious _patio_, now given over to pigs and fowls, with a broken-down fountain in the centre of its ruined arcaded court, recalled the luxuries of the infidel. the terraced gardens standing behind and above many a blank wall carried me back to those days of old when the opulence of the east pervaded every dwelling in this mayfair of granada. of all these the casa del chapiz, though degraded into a low-class dwelling, is with its beautiful garden the most perfect remnant of the exotic moor. [illustration: granada. carrera de darro] in the carrera de darro, just opposite the spot where once a handsome moorish arch spanned the stream, stands a house wherein is a moorish bath surrounded by horseshoe arcades. the bath is ft. square, and in the vaulted recess beyond is one of smaller dimensions commanding more privacy for the cleanly eastern whose day was never complete without many ablutions. not far away up the hillside, in cave-dwellings amidst an almost impenetrable thicket of prickly pears, live the _gitanos_. i fear they now exist on the charity of the tourist, and make a peseta or two by fortune-telling or in the exercise of a more reprehensible cleverness, a light-fingered dexterity which is generally only discovered by those who "must go to the gipsy quarter" on their return to the hotel. these gipsies no longer wander in the summer months and lie up for the winter as they did of yore. they are not the romanies of old times, and a nomadic life holds no charm for them now. they make enough out of the tourist to eke out a lazy existence throughout the year, and are fast losing all the character of a wandering tribe and the lively splendour of their race. higher up, the banks of the darro are lined with more cave-dwellings, a great many of which, to judge by their present inaccessibility, are undoubtedly of prehistoric origin. those that i took to be of later date have a sort of level platform in front of the entrance, from which the approach of a stranger could be seen and due warning taken by those inside of any hostile intent. the antequeruela quarter, called thus from the remnant of moorish refugees who driven from antequera found here a home, extends from the base of monte mauro to some distance below the confluence of the darro and genil, granada's other river. it is the most modern quarter and busiest part of the city. the life of an ordinary spanish town passes in front of me as i sit in the sun sharing a seat with an old man wrapped closely in a _capa_. it is april. we are in the alameda, a broad promenade which leads to the gardens of the paseo de salòn and de la bomba. on either side are many coloured houses with green shutters. they are very french, and to this day i try to recall the town in france where i had seen them before. how often this happens when we travel abroad!--a face, a scent, a sound. memory racks the tortuous channels of half-forgotten things stored away somewhere in the brain, and for days with an irritating restlessness we wander fruitlessly amid the paths of long ago. i turned to my companion on the seat, he looked chilled despite the warmth of an april sun. "tell me, sir, to whom does all the fine country of the vega belong?" "absent landlords, señor; they take their rents and they live in madrid, and the poor man has no one to care for him." "but surely he begs and does not wish to work or to be cared for. the beggars in granada are more numerous than in any place i know." "that is true, señor," and with a shake he relapsed into silence, drawing his _capa_ closer around him. the turn the conversation had taken was not worth pursuing. new buildings are superseding the old in antequeruela, and poverty and squalor pushed further out of the sight of el caballero, his highness the tourist. Æsthetically we appreciate the picturesque side of poverty, the tumble-down houses, the rags, the graceful attitudes of the patient poor for ever shifting in the patches of sunlight as the great life-giver moves round. dinner will be ready for us at o'clock in the hotel, there would be no call to leave home if every town we came to was clean and its people prosperous. "but what about _los pobres_, the beggars?" you ask. "are they really deserving of charity, or only lazy scoundrels?" i cannot answer you. i can only tell you that i have never seen such terrible emaciated bundles of rags as those i saw in granada. in seville, though it is forbidden to beg, it was the one-eyed that predominated; in cordova he of no legs, who having marked down his prey, displayed great agility as he scuttled across the street with the help of little wooden hand-rests; but here not only were both combined, but various horrors of crippled and disfigured humanity with open sores and loathsome disease thrust themselves before me wherever i went. it was disgusting--but oh! how picturesque! if only, my good _pobres_, you would not come so close to me! they say spain is the one unspoilt country in europe. personally i think she is the one country that wants regenerating. her girls are women at sixteen, old at thirty, and aged ten years later. her men take life as it comes with very little initiative to better themselves. very few display any energy. their chief thoughts are woman, and how to pass the day at ease. luckily for the country, at the age when good food and clean living helps to make men, her youth is invigorated by army service. true it is not popular. in the late war they died like flies through fever and ill-feeding, and many were the sad tales i heard of josé and pedro returning from the front with health ruined for life. it was a sad blow to spain, that war. her navy demolished and her colonies lost. it may be the regeneration of the nation, her well-wishers hope so, but it is a difficult thing to change the leopard's spots. the beggar being hungry begs, and well-nigh starves, his children follow his example and probably his great grandchildren will be in the same line of business a hundred years hence--_quien sabe?_ who knows? i still sit in the sun rolling cigarettes; it is extraordinary how soon the custom becomes a habit, and think of all this. a string of donkeys passes with baskets stuffed tight with half a dozen large long-funnelled water cans. they have come in with fresh drinking water from the spring up the darro under the alhambra hill, and a little later the water-sellers will be offering glasses of the refreshingly cool contents of their cans. granada is a city running with water, but the pollution from the drains and the never-ending ranks of women on their knees wrinsing clothes in its two streams, into which, by the way, all dead refuse is thrown, makes that which is fit to drink a purchasable quantity only. i watch the peasants from the vega, who come in with empty panniers slung across their donkeys, scraping up the dirt of the streets which they take away to fertilise their cottage gardens. herds of goats go by muzzled until milking is over. they make for that bit of blank wall opposite, and stand licking the saline moisture which oozes from the plaster in the shade. the goats of granada are reckoned the finest in spain, and, as is the custom throughout andalusia, graze in the early spring on the tender shoots of the young corn. this not only keeps them in food, but improves the quality of that part of the crop which reaches maturity. i could sit all day here if only the sun stood still. my companion removed himself half an hour ago and it is getting chilly in the shade, so up and on to the cathedral. what a huge renaissance pile it is. built on the gothic plans of diego de siloe it is undoubtedly the most imposing edifice of this style in spain. fergusson considers its plan makes it one of the finest churches in europe. the western façade was erected by alonso cano and josé granados, and does not follow siloe's original design. the name of the sculptor-painter is writ in big letters throughout the building. to him are due the colossal heads of adam and eve, let into recesses above the high altar, and the seven pictures of the _annunciation_, _conception_, _presentation in the temple_, _visitation_, _purification_ and _assumption_ in the capilla mayor. the two very fine colossal figures, bronze gilt, which stand above the over-elaborated pulpits; a couple of beautiful miniatures on copper in the capilla de la trinidad; a fine christ bearing the cross and a head of s. pedro over the altar of jesus nazareno, are also by cano. many other examples from his carving tools and brush are to be found in the cathedral, of which he was made a "racione" or minor canon, after fleeing from valladolid when accused of the murder of his wife. the little room he used as a workshop in the great tower may still be visited and his remains lie tranquilly beneath the floor of the _coro_. [illustration: granada. exterior of the cathedral] in the capilla de la antigua there is that curious little image which, found in a cave, served ferdinand as a battle banner; and also contemporary (?) portraits of the king and his queen. to me the thing of surpassing interest, which ought to be the most revered building in all spain, was the capilla real and its contents. the _reja_, which separates the choir from the rest of the chapel, is a magnificent piece of work, coloured and gilded, by bartolomé. as the verger unlocked the great gate he drew my attention to the box containing the lock with its three beautifully wrought little iron figures and intricate pattern. we passed in, the gate swung to with a click, the lock was as good as if it had but recently been placed there. these _rejas_ throughout the country are all in splendid condition. a dry climate no doubt preserves them as it has preserved everything else, and i very seldom detected rust on any iron work. the humidity of the winter atmosphere is insufficient, i suppose, to set up much decay in metal, and certainly the only decay in spain is where inferior material has been used in construction, or the negligence of man has left things to rot. with the gate locked behind me i stood in front of the two marble monuments, the one of the recumbent figures of ferdinand and isabella, the other of philip and juana la loca--crazy jane. beyond rose the steps up to the high altar, close at my side those--a short flight--that led to the crypt where the coffins of these four rest. i felt surrounded by the great of this earth, and certainly a feeling of awe took hold of me as their deeds passed through my mind and i realised that here lay the remains of those who had turned out the moor, bidden god-speed to columbus, and instituted the inquisition. they are wonderful tombs these two. ferdinand wears the order of st. george, the ribbon of the garter, isabella that of the cross of santiago, philip and his wife the insignia of the order of the golden fleece. four doctors of the church occupy the corners of the first tomb, with the twelve apostles at the sides. the other has figures of ss. michael, andrew, and john the baptist, and the evangelist. both tombs are elaborately carved, the medallions in _alto-relievo_ being of very delicate work. next to that magnificent tomb in the cartuja de miraflores at burgos, these are the finest monuments in all spain. above the high altar is a florid _retablo_ with not much artistic merit. my interest was entirely centred in the two portrait figures of ferdinand and isabella. they each kneel at a prie-dieu facing one another on either side of the altar--the king to the north, the queen to the south. below them in double sections are four wooden panels in bas-relief, to which i turned after a long examination of these authentic and contemporary portraits. these panels are unsurpassed as records of the costume of the day and a faithful representation of their subject. on the left is the mournful figure of boabdil giving up the key of the alhambra to cardinal mendoza, who seated on his mule between the king and queen, alone wears gloves. surrounding them are knights, courtiers and the victorious soldiery. in the background are the towers of the alhambra. to the right is seen the wholesale conversion by baptism of the infidel, the principal figures being monks who are very busy over their work, inducing the reluctant moor to enter an alien faith. there is something very impressive about these panels, they render so well and in such a naïve manner the history they record. the surrender of the moor after years' rule, the end of his dreams, the final triumph of the king and queen, who devoted the first portion of their reign to driving him out of the country, and the great church receiving the token of submission at the end of last act, they are all here.--the verger touched my arm, my reverie of those stirring times was broken, he had other things to show and noon was fast approaching. pointing to three iron plates let into the floor of the chapel, he inquired if i would like to see the spot where rest the coffins of these great makers of history. certainly; i could not leave the cathedral without a silent homage to those who placed spain first among the nations. he lifted the plates, and lighting a small taper which he thrust into the end of a long pole, disappeared down the steps, with a warning to mind my head for the entry was very low. i followed, stooping. at the bottom of the steps was a small opening heavily barred. the verger pushed his lighted taper and pole through the bars, and beckoned to me to look. i peered into the dark chamber, there resting on a marble slab were the rough iron-bound coffins of the "catholic kings." the taper flickered and cast long shadows in the gloom, discovering the coffins of philip and juana. it was all very eerie, a fitting climax in its simplicity to the magnificent monuments above and to the history writ on the walls of the capilla real. i shall never forget it. in the sacristy i was shown the identical banner which floated from the torre de la vela when the alhambra had surrendered. isabella herself had worked this for the very object to which it was put. next to it hangs ferdinand's sword, with a remarkably small handle. i had thought, from the kneeling effigy in the capilla real, that both he and isabella must have been small-made and this verified my guess. many other personal relics of the two were shown me. the queen's own missal, a beautiful embroidered chasuble from her industrious fingers, an exquisitely enamelled viril, &c. time was short, my verger wanted his dinner, and i had seen enough for one morning. he let me out through the closed door into the placeta de la lonja and in a sort of dream i carried away all i had seen. the next morning i returned to the placeta and stood in the doorway of the old royal palace, now used as a drapery warehouse, and commenced the drawing figured in the illustration. the rich late gothic ornament of the exterior of the capilla real is well balanced by the lonja which backs on to the sacristy. here pradas's work has been much mutilated and the lower stage of the arcading built up. the twisted columns of the gallery and its original wooden roof remain to tell us what this fine façade once was. there is a great deal of interest in this huge cathedral, which to the tourist is quite overshadowed by the alhambra. in the north-west corner of the segrario which adjoins the building on the south, is the capilla de pulgar. herman perez del pulgar was a knight serving under ferdinand's banner. filled with holy zeal, he entered granada one stormy night in december by the darro conduit, and making his way to the mosque which then stood where the segrario now is, pinned a scroll bearing the words ave maria to its principal door with his dagger. this daring deed was not discovered until the next morning, by which time the intrepid knight was safe back in camp. his courage was rewarded by a seat in the _coro_ of the cathedral, and at his death his body was interred in the chapel which bears his name. nearly all the churches of granada occupy the sites of mosques. santa anna, like san nicolás, has a most beautiful wooden roof. san juan de los reyes contains portraits of ferdinand and isabella; its tower is the minaret of what was once a mosque. the cathedral itself is so crowded in by other buildings, that no comprehensive view of the fabric is possible. unfortunately this is the case, with one or two notable exceptions, throughout the country. its fine proportions are thus lost, and it is only the interior with its great length and breath, its lofty arches and fine corinthian pilasters that serve to dignify this house of god. taking a morning off, i walked out to the cartuja convent. the gran capitan, gonzalo de cordoba, at one time granted an estate to the carthusians and on it they erected the convent to which i turned my steps. the order about this time was immensely wealthy and they spent money with reckless lavishness on the interior of their church. mother-of-pearl, tortoiseshell, ebony and cedar-wood entered largely into their decorations, as well as ivory and silver. but perhaps the marbles in the church are the most remarkable part of their scheme. these were chosen for the wonderful patterns of the sections, and with a little stretch of the imagination i could trace well-composed landscapes, human and animal forms in a great many of the slabs. the overdone chirrugueresque work, to which add these fantastic wall decorations, makes this interior positively scream. it is nothing more nor less than a vulgar display of wealth. the cloisters of the convent also attest the bad taste of the carthusians, they contain a series of pictures which represent the most repugnant and bloodthirsty scenes of persecutions and martyrdoms of the order. in another convent, san gerónimo, was buried the gran capitan. a slab marks the spot, but his poor bones were exhumed and carried off to madrid in to form the nucleus of a spanish pantheon. needless to say, like so many other great ideas in spain, nothing further was done, and gonzalo's remains still await a last resting-place. one more fact before i reach the alhambra. in the church of san juan de dios you may see the cage in which the founder, juan de robles, was shut up as a lunatic. what do you think his lunacy was? having the infirm and the poor always before him, this tender-hearted man went about preaching the necessity of hospitals to alleviate their distress. aye, he was a hundred years and more before his time, so they shut him up in a cage and there let him rot and die. those that came after in more enlightened days valued the good man's crusade at its proper price, and he was eventually canonised, and his supposed remains now rest in an _urna_. up a toilsome approach, splashing through the mud, i drove on the night i reached granada. as the horses slowed up, i put my head out of the carriage window, we were passing under an archway and i knew that at last one of the dreams of my life was realised. i was in the alhambra. i became conscious of rows and rows of tall trees swaying in the wind. i smelt the delicious scent of damp earth, and could just distinguish, as the carriage crawled up the steep ascent, in the lulls of the storm, the sound of running water. it was fairyland, it was peace. after that long, tedious journey and the glare of the electric lit streets i had just passed through, i sank back on the cushions and felt my reward had come. [illustration: granada. the alhambra] how is it possible to describe the alhambra? it has been done so often and so well. every one has read washington irving, and most of us know victor hugo's eulogy. i had better begin at the beginning, which is the gateway erected by charles v. under which i passed with such a happy consciousness. further up the hill, through which only pedestrians can go, is the gate of judgment, the first gateway into the moorish fortress. above it is the torre de justicia erected by yusuf i. in . on the external keystone is cut a hand, on the inner a key. much controversy rages round these two signs and i leave it to others to find a solution. in old days the kadi sat in this gateway dispensing justice. the massive doors still turn on their vertical pivots, the spear rests of the moorish guard are still attached to the wall, and you must enter, as the moors did, by the three turns in the dark passage beyond the gate. a narrow lane leads to the plaza de las algibes, under the level of which are the old moorish cisterns. to the right is the torre del vino, and on the left the acazaba. come with me up the short flight of steps into the little strip of garden. let us lean over the wall and look out on to the vega. is there anywhere so grand and varied an outline of plain and mountain? do you wonder at the tears that suffused the eyes of boabdil as he turned for a last look at this incomparable spot? the brown roofs of granada lie at our feet. far away through the levels of the green plain, the vega, i can see the winding of many silver streams. beyond those rugged peaks to the south lies the alpujarras district, the last abiding place of the conquered moor. further on the mass of the sierra aburijara bounds the horizon, west of it is the town of loja, thirty miles away, buried in the dip towards antequerra. to the north is mount parapanda, the barometer of the vega, always covered with mist when rain is at hand. nearer in is the sierra de elvira, spread out below which are the dark woods of the duke of wellington's property--he is known in spain as duque de ciudad rodriguez. it is clear enough for us to see the blue haze of the mountains round jaen, and the rocky defile of mochin. the torre de la vela shuts out the rest of the view. there is a bell hanging in this tower which can be heard as far away as loja. now turn and look behind. right up into the blue sky rise the snow peaks of the sierra nevada. mulhacen, the highest point in all spain, is not visible, but we can see veleta which is but a few feet lower. the whole range glistens in the afternoon sun, but it is the evening hour that brings such wonderful changes of colour over these great snowfields, and, after the sun is down, such a pale mother-of-pearl grey silhouetted against the purple sky. the entrance into what we call the alhambra is hidden away behind the unfinished palace of charles v. the low door admits us directly in the patio de los arrayanes, or court of the myrtles. running north and south it gets more sun than any other court of the alhambra. what a revelation it is! in the centre is an oblong tank full of golden carp. the neatly kept myrtle hedges encircle this, reflected in the clear water they add refreshing charm to a first impression of the moorish palace. on the north rises the torre de comares, the approach to which is through a beautifully proportioned chamber, the roof of which was unfortunately destroyed by fire in . the whole of the ground-floor of this tower is known as the hall of the ambassadors. the monarch's throne occupied a space opposite the entrance and it was here that the last meeting to consider the surrender was held by boabdil. the elaborate domed roof of this magnificent chamber is of larch wood, but the semi-darkness prevents one realising to the full extent its beauties. from the windows, which almost form small rooms, so thick are the walls of the tower of comares, fine views over the roofs of the city and the albaicin hill are obtained. the court of the lions, so called from the central fountain upheld by marble representations of the kingly beast, is surrounded by a beautiful arcade. at either end this is thrown out, forming a couple of extremely elegant pavilions. fairy columns support a massive roof, the woodwork of which is carved with the pomegranate of granada. intricate fret-work is arranged to break the monotony of strong sunlight on a flat surface. arabesques and inscriptions, stamped with an iron mould on the wet clay, repeat themselves all round the frieze. orange trees at one time adorned the court and cast gracious shade on its surface. the fountain threw up jets of splashing water, the musical sound harmonising with the wonderful arrangement of light and shade. i tried to picture all this as i sat making my sketch, but even in april, though hot in the sun, i required an overcoat in the shadow, and i must own that the ever-present tourist with his kodak sadly disturbed all mental attempts at the reconstruction of moorish life. [illustration: granada. the alhambra, court of lions] on the south side of the court is the hall of the abencerrages, named after that noble family. the massive wooden doors, which shut it off from the arcade, are of most beautiful design. the hall is rectangular and has a fine star-shaped stalactite dome. the _azulejos_, or tiles, are the oldest that remain in the alhambra. a passage leads to what was once the royal sepulchral chamber. on the east side is the so-called sala de la justicia divided into several recesses and running the whole length of this portion of the court. the central recess was used by ferdinand and isabella when they held the first mass after the surrender of the moors. the chief interest of the sala i found to be in a study of the paintings on the semicircular domed roofs. they portray the moor of the period. the middle one, that in the chapel-recess, no doubt contains portraits of granada's rulers in council. the other two represent hunting scenes and deeds of chivalry. it is supposed that the koran forbids the delineation of any living thing. the moor got over this difficulty by portraying animal life in as grotesque a manner as possible, or by employing foreign captives to do this for him. one theory of the origin of the lion fountain is that a captive christian carved the lions and gave his best--or his worst--as the price of his liberation. personally i think they are of phoenician origin. animals and birds in decoration reached the moor from persia, where from unknown ages they had always been employed in this way; and the môsil style of hammered metal work is replete with this feature. on the north side of the court lies the room of the two sisters, with others opening out from it, which seems to point to the probability that this was the suite occupied by the sultana herself. moorish art has here reached its highest phase. the honeycomb roof contains nearly five thousand cells, all are different, yet all combine to form a marvellously symmetrical whole. fancy ran free with the architect who piled one tiny cell upon another and on these supported a third. pendant pyramids cluster everywhere and hang suspended apparently from nothing. in the fertility of his imagination the designer surpassed anything of the kind that went before or has since been attempted. truly the verses of a poem copied on to the _azulejos_ are well set. "look well at my elegance, and reap the benefit of a commentary on decoration. here are columns ornamented with every perfection, the beauty of which has become proverbial." beyond this entrancing suite of rooms is the miradoro de daraxa with three tall windows overlooking that little gem of a garden the patio de daraxa. it was here that washington irving lodged when dreaming away those delicious days in the alhambra. the old council chamber of the moors, the meshwâr, is reached through the patio de mexuar. charles v. turned this chamber into a chapel, and the hideous decorations he put up are still extant. an underground passage, which leads to the baths, ran from the _patio_ and gave access to the battlements and galleries of the fortress as well as forming a connecting link between each tower. the baths are most interesting, but to me were pervaded by a deadly chill. i felt sorry for the guardian who spends his days down in such damp, icy quarters. a remark i made to him inquiring how long his duty kept him in so cold a spot, called forth so terrible a fit of coughing that i got no reply. i was told afterwards that he was only placed there as he was too ill for other duty, and it was expected he would not live much longer! there are two baths of full size and one for children. the _azulejos_ in them are very beautiful, as they also are in the disrobing room and chamber for rest. an open corridor leads from the hall of the ambassadors to the torre del peinador which yusuf i. built. the small tocador de la reina, or queen's dressing-room, with its quaint frescoes, was modernised by charles v. let into the floor is a marble slab drilled with holes, through which perfumes found their way from a room below while the queen was dressing. the glamour of the east clings to every corner of the alhambra, and the wonder of it all increased as i began to grow familiar with its courtyards and halls, the slender columns of its arcades, with their tracery and oft-repeated verses forming ornament and decoration, and the well thought-out balance of light and shade. what must it all have been like when the sedate moor glided noiselessly through the cool corridors, or the clang of arms resounded through the now silent halls! it is difficult to imagine. the inner chambers were then lined with matchless carpets and rugs and the walls were covered with subtly coloured _azulejos_. many are the changes since those days of the infidel who cultivated the art of living as it has never been cultivated since. restoration is judiciously but slowly going on, and every courtesy is shown to the visitor. a small charge might be levied, however, to assist the government, even in a slight degree, with restoration, and i am sure no one would grudge paying for the privilege of sauntering through the most interesting remains of the moorish days of spain. the unfinished palace of charles v. occupies a large space, to clear which a great deal of the moorish palace was demolished. the interior is extremely graceful. the double arcades, the lower of which is doric and the upper ionic, run round a circular court which for good proportion it would be hard to beat. [illustration: granada. generalife] on the corre de sol, a little way out of the alhambra and situated above it, is the generalife. it belongs to the pallavicini family of genoa, but on the death of the present representative becomes the property of the spanish government. a stately cypress avenue leads to the entrance doorway, through which one enters an oblong court full of exotic growth and even in april a blaze of colour. through a tank down the centre runs a delicious stream of clear water. at the further end of this captivating court are a series of rooms, one of which contains badly painted portraits of the spanish sovereigns since the days of ferdinand and isabella. up some steps is another garden court with another tank, shaded by more cypress trees. one huge patriarch is over six hundred years old, and it is supposed that under it boabdil's wife clandestinely met hamet the abencerrage. space will not permit me to tell of the many entrancing excursions i made to the foot-hills of the sierra nevada and up the two rivers. i can only add that the valleys disclosed to the pedestrian are a wealth of rare botanical specimens, and if time permits will well repay a lengthened sojourn in the last stronghold of the moors in spain. malaga malaga disputes with cadiz the honour of being the oldest seaport in the country. in early days the phoenicians had a settlement here, and in after times both the carthagenians and romans utilised "malacca" as their principal port on the mediterranean littoral of spain. in the goths under their redoubtable king, leovigild, wrested the town from the byzantines. once more it was captured, by tarik, in the year and remained a moorish stronghold until ferdinand took it after a long siege in . it is said that gunpowder was first used in spain at this siege, when the "seven sisters of ximenes," guns planted in the gibralfaro, belched forth fire and smoke. in the year the berber tarif entered into an alliance with julian, governor of ceuta, who held that place for witiza the gothic king of spain. with four ships and five hundred men he crossed the narrow and dangerous straits to reconnoitre the european coast, having secretly in view an independent kingdom for himself on the iberian peninsula. he landed at cape tarifa. this expedition was so far successful that in two years' time another berber, of a name almost similar, tarík to wit, was sent over with twelve thousand men and landed near the rock which received the name of jabal-tarík, or mountain of tarík, the present gibraltar. witiza in the meantime died and was succeeded by roderic, who, hearing of the invasion of this moorish host, hastened south from toledo and met his death in the first decisive battle between christian and infidel on the banks of the guadalete near cadiz. tarík then commenced his victorious march, which ended in less than three years with the subjugation of the whole country as far as the foot of the pyrenees--pelayo, in his cave at covadonga near oviedo, alone holding out with a mere remnant against the all-conquering moor. [illustration: malaga. view from the harbour] if you ask me, "what is malaga to-day?" i can reply with truth, "the noisiest town in spain." like all places in the south it is a babel of street-cries, only a little more so than any of the others. the _seranos_, or night-watchmen, disturb one's rest as they call out the hour of the night, or whistle at the street corners to their comrades. a breeze makes hideous the hours of darkness by the banging to and fro of unsecured shutters. the early arrival of herds of goats with tinkling bells heralds the dawn, which is soon followed by the discordant clatter of all those, cracked and otherwise, which hang in the church belfries. the noisiest town i visited, most certainly, but for all that a very enchanting place. in a way not unlike naples, for the malagueno is the spanish prototype of the neapolitan. lazy, lighthearted, good-natured, but quick to take affront, he gets through the day doing nothing in a manner that won my sincere admiration. "why work, señor, when you have the sun? i do not know why the english travellers are always in such a hurry. and the north american, he is far worse. i earned two pesetas yesterday. to-day i have no wants, i do not work. to-morrow? yes, perhaps to-morrow i work, but to-day i sit here in the sun, i smoke my cigarette, i am content to watch others, that is life!"--and who can say that the malagueno is far wrong? not i. malaga's cathedral, an imposing building of a very mixed corinthian character, occupies the site of a moorish mosque which was converted into a church. of this early church of the incarnation, the gothic portal of the _segragrio_ is the only portion remaining. the present edifice was begun in from the plans of that great architect diego de siloe, but being partially destroyed by an earthquake in , was not completed until . it cannot be called complete even now, and the long period over which its construction has been spread accounts for the very many inconsistencies in a building which is full of architectural defects. the west façade is flanked by two towers, only one of which has been finished; this is drawn out in three stages like the tower of la seo at saragossa, and has a dome with lantern above. the doors of the north and south transepts are also flanked by towers, but they do not rise beyond the cornice line. the interior, reminding one of granada's cathedral, is seemingly immense. the proportions are massive and decidedly good. it was in his proportions that siloe excelled. the length of this is three hundred and seventy-five feet, the width two hundred and forty, and the height one hundred and thirty feet. the columns which support the heavy roof consist of two rows of pillars one above the other. the vaulting is of round arches. a picture by alonso cano in the chapel of our lady of the rosary, and one of a _virgin and child_, in that of san francisco, by morales, were the only two objects that i could say interested me, besides the magnificently carved _silleria del coro_, the work of many hands, but chiefly those of pedro de mena, a pupil of cano. with all its architectural incongruities it is an impressive fabric, and rises high above the surrounding roofs, like a great liner with a crowd of smaller boats lying around her. so it struck me as i sat on the quayside of the malagueta making my sketch, sadly interfered with by an unpleasant throng of idling loafers. beyond malagueta lies caleta, and on the hill above them is the castilla de gibralfaro, from which when the sky is clear the african mountains near ceuta can be seen. below the gibralfaro and between it and the cathedral, lies the most ancient part of the city, the alcazába, the glorious castle and town of moorish days. and now?--like so many of spain's departed glories, it is not much more than a ruined conglomeration of huts and houses of a low and very insanitary order. at the other end of malaga is the mercado, and close by is the old moorish sea gateway, the puerta del mar, washed by the waters of the blue mediterranean in their day, but at the present time well away from the sea and surrounded by houses. the everyday market is held in the dry bed of the treacherous guadelmedina, a stream which rose in the fatal october of and swept away all the bridges, swamping the lower quarters of the city. many lives were lost in this disastrous flood and many bodies picked up by fishing-boats far out at sea. however, when i made my sketch there was no chance of such a visitation, and i found the market folk more polite than the loafers on the quay. the country lying at the back of the city and at the base of the sun-baked and scarred mountains by which it is surrounded, produces almost everything that grows. from this--the vega--come grapes, raisins, figs, oranges, lemons, water and sweet melons, quinces, pomegranates, medlars, plantains, custard-apples, guava, olives and sugar-cane--a veritable paradise for the fruit grower. up the hill slopes, where the olive luxuriates, fine woods of sweet acorn and cork trees are passed, and any day you may see large herds of swine feeding on the acorns that have fallen, and routing out other delicacies that their sensitive noses tell them lie hidden beneath the surface. the pork of estremadura is reckoned the best in spain, and that from these oak woods a good second. the pig in spain is a clean feeder, and you can eat him with perfect safety anywhere. such a thing as the offensive pig-sty, the disgrace of rural england, is absolutely unknown here. [illustration: malaga. the market] malaga's climate is delightful, despite the fierce winds and the dust they raise. though rain seldom falls the cool sea breezes in summer bring a refreshing tonic to the dweller up country; and many spaniards at this season come here for bathing, and obtain a maximum of sunshine without the intense heat of the interior. valencia valencia del cid is inseparably connected with the hero of spanish romance, rodrigo diaz of bivar, to give him his real name, "cid" being a corruption of the moorish _seyyid_, and first appearing in historical documents of the year . rising to great power, alfonso of leon appointed him to the command of his army, but through jealousy banished him in . from that date the cid became a true knight-errant. barred from the kingdom of leon, he was ever ready to sell his services to the highest bidder; and after many wanderings found himself with a goodly following of knights, only too eager in those days, when might was right, to be in the train of so redoubtable a champion, _en route_ to saragossa. the moorish ruler of that city being at logger-heads with the count of barcelona accepted the cid's proffered services, and the result was a battle in which the catalans were badly beaten. with no prospects of further service in aragon, the cid turned his face south and marched on valencia, whose moorish king yahya was only too pleased to request his protection in advance, instead of succumbing to his conquering arm. thus began rodrigo's connection with the city, which with one or two intervals ended only at his death. it was from the top of the miguelete tower, which is pictured in my illustration of the cathedral, that he showed his wife ximena and their daughters the fair land he had conquered. this was in , when after having rejoined alfonso and left him again, he had returned and recaptured the city after a siege of twenty months. four years later died the man whose name was a terror to the infidel, and his widow ximena, following the traditions of her warrior husband, held valencia against overwhelming hordes of moors. the story of the bitter end, how she placed his body on his favourite war-horse and drove it through the ranks of the enemy, has always been a theme for the balladmonger of spain. it was in b.c. that junius brutus founded a small roman colony on the banks of the river turia. pompey destroyed this settlement and rebuilt it. in the goths took possession. the emir of cordova captured it in and valencia remained a vassal state until the fall of the omayeh dynasty. like other provinces, it became merged under the single banner that floated over the greater part of the peninsula at the union of aragon and castile. being a coast town and savouring of the south, it was not until the time of the bigoted philip iii. that the industrious and unfortunate moriscoe was finally expelled from the shelter of valencia's walls. [illustration: valencia. san pablo] souchet sacked the place in the napoleonic wars and received the title of duke of albufera from his master. rather an empty honour, albufera being the large and malarious tract of marshland along the coast a few miles to the south of el grao, and worth but very little. el grao is valencia's port, and is three miles distant from the city. the road which connects the two is about the busiest high road i saw in spain. from sunrise till long after sunset two streams of vehicles pass to and fro. strings of laden donkeys, waggonettes crammed with good-humoured laughing fisher and country folk pass along, an electric tram carries those who can afford the extra _centimos_, and the carriages of valencia's well-to-do citizens take them to the harbour for a breath of sea air out on the breakwaters. everything seems alive, and though there is that balmy feeling in the air which one gets in andalusia, there is none of the indolence and seductive _dolce far niente_ of that enchanting province. no! quite the other way in valencia. the peasants are extremely industrious. the soil of the _huerta_ bears them three crops during the year. the system of irrigation, the old moorish system by-the-way, is perfect, and though the product of a soil which is forced to bear more than it naturally can, is reinforced at sowing time, in the case of corn, by russian grain, it cannot be said that valencia depends on any outside help for her prosperity. the swamps bordering the coast grow the finest rice in the world. the wines of the province are good and cheap, held in much esteem by french merchants to fortify the lighter produce of their own country. so cheap are they in fact, that in some parts of the province it costs more to get a drink of water than a glass of wine. yet drunkenness is unknown. if a valencian took a drop too much, he would be promptly boycotted by his neighbours, and for ever after looked upon as a disgusting and outlandish boor, a disgrace to his village and a man to be shunned. the peasant is very illiterate and scrupulously honest--the one follows the other. like the andalusian, he is absolutely trustworthy in all his dealings, which are conducted by word of mouth. in buying and selling no signatures to documents pass between the contracting parties. if any paper is ever signed, it is confirmed by certain scratches or marks known to belong to so and so--the signee. his word is his bond, it is generally all he can give, but it is enough and is worth more than signatures sometimes are. further north, where modern ways of life are more in vogue, and where all is more "advanced," there are ten lawyers to the one in valencia and the south. [illustration: valencia. door of the cathedral] the cathedral was originally a gothic structure, but one fashion following another, has been at different times so altered and robbed of all architectural beauty that there remains but little of interest in the building. it was founded in and finished two hundred years later. el miguelete, the celebrated bell tower, is so named because the bells were first hung on st. michael's day. like the torre de vela of the alhambra, a bell is here struck which regulates the irrigation of the _huerta_. in this connection, and as an exemplification of the peasant's trustworthiness, once a month, on a thursday, the tribunal de aguas sits in the plaza de la seo outside the puerto de los apóstoles or north door of the cathedral. its presiding members are chosen by their fellow peasants for their integrity and general standing in the community. they exercise absolute control over the seven different irrigation districts. the government has once or twice interfered with this, but unsuccessfully. plaintiffs and defendants appear before this primitive tribunal seated in a public square. the case is stated, _pros_ and _cons_ weighed, and judgment given fairly on its merits. any one passing can stop and hear the arguments of both sides. as a proof of the shrewdness the peasants possess and the confidence they have in their dealings with one another, no appeal is ever made from the judgment of their elders. this north door has good sculptured figures in the jambs and archivolt. above is a fine rose window. these are among the remains of the first building. another relic of the early structure is the octagonal _cimborio_ erected about the same time as the doorway, _i.e._, . the lancet windows over the puerta del paláu, which is surmounted by a round arch with carvings in the jambs, are all of the same period. the third doorway, the puerta del miguelete, is florid and overdone, and dates from the eighteenth century. its bronze doors however are extremely fine. the best features of the much-spoilt interior are the octagon and the very beautiful corinthian _silleria del coro_. the original _retablo_ over the high altar was set on fire by the lighted cotton attached to a pigeon let loose at a religious ceremony in . the side panels alone were saved from the results of the terrified bird's erratic flight. close by on a pillar is hung the armour of james i. of aragon. over the sacristy door is a good painting by ribalta of _christ bearing the cross_, and in the ante-room an _adoration_ by ribera, besides five good examples of juanes' brush. among the treasures of the cathedral is an extraordinary piece of goldsmith's work, a calix, showing four different periods of this art, _i.e._, roman, ixth, xvth and xvith centuries. it figures in the picture of the _last supper_ by juanes, which is now in the prado at madrid. an interesting trophy also belongs to the cathedral in the shape of the chain which at one time closed the old port of marseilles. the many different varieties of marble used in the decoration of the building form a very pleasing series, and go some way towards compensating the disappointment one experiences with the much-altered style of what ought to be a grand interior. i saw a good procession one evening wending its way through the crowds which lined the narrow street near the church of santa catalina. the balconies were filled with occupants who showered rose leaves down as the effigy of st. john passed by. the light from the torches carried by some boys flickered upwards and caught the faces of those peering over from their vantage posts above. the crowd knelt as the saint passed, and once more the vitality of the church, which i could not but feel wherever i went in spain is _the_ thing that lives, was again in evidence. over the door of the church of san martin is a good equestrian group in bronze. san domingo has some very beautiful cloisters of late gothic date, and san salvador possesses valencia's miraculous image. nicodemus is reputed to have made this, the christ of beyrout. the marvellous relic navigated itself from syria across the waters of the mediterranean and reached valencia against the river's stream. a monument on the bank marks the spot where the wonderful voyage ended by the safe landing of the christ. it is much visited by the devout. in the chapel attached to the colegio del patriarca hangs ribalta's fine _last supper_. every friday morning at ten o'clock the _miserere_ is celebrated here. the impressive ceremony commences with the slow lowering of this picture from its place above the high altar. the void is filled by a dark cloth, which, as the service proceeds, is gently drawn aside disclosing a second cloth, this is again repeated, followed by another, and when this, the fourth cloth, is parted asunder a fine painting of _christ crucified_ is revealed. meanwhile chants appropriate to the solemn service have been filling the church and increasing the tension of the congregation. the whole ceremony is a very good piece of stage management and certainly most thrilling and inspiring. the black _mantilla_ for ladies is _de rigeur_. [illustration: valencia. religious procession] valencia's walls, erected in , were demolished in to give work to the unemployed, and the spacious _paseo_ made in their stead. the trees planted along this carriage drive have added materially to the health of the city. of the two remaining gates, the torres de serranos is much the better. built in the second half of the fourteenth century on roman foundations, its massive construction and great height are very grand. it is one of the best gates i know. the archway itself is rather low. the double floors above have fine gothic vaulting and are approached by a flight of steps. the gallery is supported on heavy corbels, and the cornice has deep machicolations. the whole rises in isolated grandeur and may perhaps gain, from the painter's point of view, by the absence of flanking walls. the torre de cuarto is another enormous gateway with two huge round towers on either side. it still bears the marks of souchet's artillery--whose round shot did apparently no damage whatever. not far from this gate lies the mercado situated in the middle of the old quarters of the city. valencia is quite a modern town, it is rapidly losing everything of any age, and changing its narrow insanitary streets for spacious well-built thoroughfares. the mercado is by far the largest and most attractive market in spain. fruit and vegetables, wicker goods of all sorts, baskets, chairs, toys, leather-work and harness, brightly coloured mule trappings, every description of wood and metal-work, the usual assortment of old iron, lamps antique and modern, oleographs and chromos, saints and virgins jostling the latest cheap reproduction of a famous _torrero_ or _bailarina_, furniture, worn-out field implements and new cutlery, lace, everything, in fact, including smells, the variety of which i found unequalled anywhere. strong garlic assaulted my nostrils--in three more steps i was in the midst of roses and carnations, half a dozen more and a horribly rank cheese made the air vibrate; and so it continued from one end to the other of this most fascinating kaleidoscopic throng, to study which i returned every day of my sojourn in valencia. on one side of this wonderful market-place stands the lonja de la seda. it dates from and occupies the site of the moorish alcázar. perhaps of all the examples of gothic civil architecture in europe, the lonja de la seda can claim the first place. the west façade, facing the mercado, has a double row of square-topped gothic windows, above which is a traceried gallery running round the entire building with gargoyles and a frieze of heads below the embattled parapet. in the centre is a tower with a couple of gothic windows. there are two separate buildings in this "silk exchange," one of which has a beautiful court. the whole of the other is occupied by the exchange hall. the rich star vaulting of the interior is borne by two rows of spiral columns without capitals; they branch out to the roof like the leaves of a palm tree and it is very evident that this beautiful treatment was suggested by the growth of the tree. valencia has always been celebrated for a certain style or school of painting, and in the museum, which occupies the buildings of the old convento del carmen, ribalta, espinosa and juanes are seen at their best. the school is noted for the peculiar deep red undertone of the shadows, which is very markedly apparent in the works hanging on these walls. there are also some beautiful examples of native faience and pottery, for valencia is still the home of spanish lustre ware. the valencians are great bird fanciers, and very keen pigeon shots. numerous lofts built on the roofs for these birds cut the sky-line in the old quarters of the city. sunday sees the dry bed of the turia full of competitors in shooting matches, when toll is taken of the feathered inhabitants of these airy dwellings. if it were not for the rather bad drinking water and the malarious marshes, the breeding-ground of a most particularly venomous mosquito, valencia would be as pleasant and lively a spot for residence as any in spain. the climate is good and it is near the sea. it stands on the edge of a veritable fruit garden, and its people are pleasant and friendly. tortosa journeying to valencia from the north one is carried along a grand bit of coast with glimpses of the blue mediterranean rolling in on stretches of yellow sand, and breaking into spray on the rocks above which the train runs. the _rapido_ stops for lunch at tortosa, and i got out intending to stay if there was anything in the famous old city or its cathedral which might bear illustrating in this book. i reached the best _fonda_ in the place, and was heartily welcomed by its lively little landlord, who immediately handed me one of his cards, whereon was set out, amongst many superlatives, the news that an interpreter was attached to the house. "gone away for the day, señor," was the reply when i asked for an interview. he was always away i fear; however, i did not need his services and my host and i became fast friends. so friendly indeed that i only just avoided an embrace at parting on the day i left. he took great interest in my doings, and on his side gave me much information. he explained to me how the mighty ebro, on which tortosa is situated, and to which it owes its existence, had risen in flood during the disastrous october of . "right up to here, señor"--this while i was having lunch--and he pointed to a spot a couple of inches off the floor of the _comedor_, which was on the first floor of the house--"a terrible flood that?"--"yes, señor, the streets were for weeks full of mud and all sorts of things. hundreds of poor people lost everything and many were swept out to sea." another day i remarked on the gas that lit the _fonda_ and asked my host why he had not put in electric light. "it is too expensive, señor; some people have it, and the market hall is lit by it; but you must understand that tortosa long ago did away with oil lamps and was one of the first places in spain to use gas. and now?--well it is enough for us, and the electric light is too expensive." elsewhere in spain i have been told with pride that the country is still in the foremost rank of civilisation--whatever the progressive press says--and the almost universal use of electricity has been pointed out to verify the boast. but tortosa, which led the van when gas was a novelty, is the only place of any importance that i know which is still lit by this means. local tradition has it, that the city dates back to the time of st. paul who, i was told, settled here and built himself a nice little house. whatever the saint did it is on record that before his day the town was an important iberian port of the ilercaones tribe, and in later years under the romans, possessed a mint of its own, being then known as julia augusta dertosa. strategically the key of the great river, tortosa was subject to repeated attempts at capture by those not in occupation. during the time when it was held by the moors, charlemagne's son louis, after an unsuccessful attempt, gained possession, only to be driven out in the year . it was not until that the infidel's reign was finally terminated by ramon bereuguer, count of barcelona. in the following year a desperate attempt was made by the moors to retake their stronghold, and the inhabitants, reduced to the last stage of despair, contemplated the sacrifice of their women and children, and then a final sortie to end their own lives. the women, however, showed a true militant spirit, they courted death, but not in this mean manner. mounting the hardly defensible walls with every and any weapon they could lay hands on, the men were directed to sally forth. the gates were opened, and cheered on by their wives and daughters, the sterner sex rushed out. so determined was the onslaught that the moorish host was beaten back and fled leaving all the plunder in his camp behind. ramon, to show his appreciation of the heroism displayed by the fair ones, invested them with the order of the axe (la hacha) and decorated them with the red military scarf. also decreeing that at their marriage they should precede mankind, and to this added the privilege of duty-free dress materials. what more could woman want? the cathedral occupies the site of a mosque erected in by abderrhaman. a cufic inscription in the wall at the back of the sacristy relates this with the date. bishop lanfredo dedicated the building to the virgin in , but the present structure dates from . it is extremely good gothic, with a heavy baroque west façade, ugly and ill-proportioned. of the exterior but little is visible, and my sketch simply includes the upper part of the façade, visible over the roofs of the quaint old town, with the river flowing in front. the interior is very simple and dignified. the slender columns of the nave rise to a great height; the light that filters through the few clerestory windows that are not blocked subdues the garishness of a bad _trascoro_, and finds its way amongst the tracery of the arches of the double apse. in avila cathedral this same feature prevails. a double aisled apse with open-work tracery between the arches and below the vaulting of the aisles. [illustration: tortosa] the _silleria_ of the _coro_ were carved by cristóbal de salamanca in , and are really beautiful. the two pulpits are covered with interesting iron bas-reliefs, and the high altar encased in a mass of plateresque silver work. the _retablo_ is a good specimen of early gothic work, and i could not help thinking how much better such an one is than the many overdone chirrugueresque atrocities met with in more famous places. tortosa is the centre of a district the mountains of which yield many different kinds of marble, and the cathedral is especially rich in these. perhaps the chapel of cinta contains the best; the most used is the _broccatello di spagna_ a purple colour with tiny marine molluscs embedded in the hard clay. the cathedral is adorned at certain festivals with a series of splendid tapestries, and amongst many relics overlooked and left by the french is a fine moorish casket of ivory. pope adrian iv., the englishman, was at one time bishop of tortosa, a fact which added interest to this beautiful little cathedral. the cloisters are early pointed gothic, now much dilapidated and uncared for. on the encircling walls are many highly interesting mural tablets, a few of which have recumbent figures cut in low relief with their backs to the wall, as is the case in the earliest gothic effigies of this sort. tarragona my recollections of tarragona can be summed up in three words--blue sea, sunshine, and peace. some fifteen or twenty years ago the quays of its fine harbour were full of life and bustle, ships entered the port and ships went out. the trade with france in light wines was good, and with england and america in those of heavier quality, better still. nowadays it is cheaper to send wines by rail. reus, a railway centre a few miles inland, has captured a great deal of tarragona's trade, and modern history repeats itself once more. cheap and quick delivery are the watchwords. hurry and hustle are leaving the old trading towns behind. barcelona is not far away. centralisation is everything, and thus it happened that i found very few places in spain so reposeful as tarragona. and i might add so beautifully situated as this old city which climbs and crowns a hill that rises from the very edge of the blue mediterranean. very few cities in spain can boast of prehistoric walls still extant. tarragona can do so. the huge uneven blocks of granite, which may be seen in my sketch of the archbishop's tower, occupy the lower portion of the old roman walls. on the north side of the city they are even more visible than in the sketch. some of the blocks measure thirteen by seven by five feet. three of the ancient portals, the stone of which is faced inside, still exist, but apparently no records do, to tell us who placed these cyclopean defences where they stand to-day. many remains of roman days may be seen built into the houses of the old and higher town, tablets, mural inscriptions, bits of columns, &c. the cathedral possesses numerous plinths and pillars of marble from the quarries at tortosa, built into its walls, and the font in the baptistery is an old roman basin. what a glorious city it must have been when the emperor augustus made it his capital! and the overland trade met the sea-going in the harbour below. twenty miles away at gayá the romans tapped a continuous supply of fresh water, and their aqueduct, a good deal of which remains, ranks next to that of segovia in size, and stands as an example of how the romans built. roman villas with incomparable views out to sea, dotted the hillsides; temples to every god and goddess rose in the city, which contained a million inhabitants. it possessed a mint of its own, and, favoured by nature and art, became known as "colonia victrix togata turrita." [illustration: tarragona] the moslem sacked tarragona, and for four centuries one of the glories of colonial rome lay a heap of ruins. in , at the commencement of the building of the cathedral, the see, much to the disgust of toledo, was raised to metropolitan dignity. thenceforth, between the two cities, endless disputes have arisen as to the primacy of spain. though begun at the above date, most of the cathedral is of twelfth and early thirteenth-century work. it is not known who designed this magnificent church, the finest example of transition in spain. the interior is very simple and very dignified. the roof is borne by grand piers, thirty-five feet in circumference. their bases are broken by four seats, one in each corner, placed thus to enhance the line of the composition, and break the otherwise too great severity of the foundations. there is no triforium; but an early pointed clerestory of large bays, and a superb rose window in the west, of date , admit a flood of light. nothing could well be simpler than the pairs of massive columns which carry the centre arches of the vaulting, nor finer than the delicate single attendant at their sides from which spring the transverse sections. all these are capped with square romanesque capitals. the chancel is pure romanesque and very beautiful. the semicircular end of the capilla mayor and the two small apses are the oldest part of this noble building. the _retablo_ of the high altar is alabaster, and carved with reliefs of the martyrdom of santa tecla, tarragona's patroness. the delicate tapering finials and the figures under canopies below, are carved in wood. behind the high altar is a very interesting urn which contains the ashes of cyprian, a gothic archbishop. the fine _cimborio_ which rises above the crossing has eight windows of three and four lights alternately, which contain fragments of very brilliant coloured glass. in the transepts are two magnificent wheel windows full of good glass, indeed i know of no better scheme of colour than that which adorns this window on the south side. the _silleria del coro_ are the work of francisco gomar and date from . the body of james i. of aragon lies in a tomb at the west end of the _trascoro_, having been brought here from the ruined monastery of poblet--the escorial of aragon. a ruin where still lie under their much despoiled and mutilated tombs some of the rulers of that kingdom. [illustration: tarragona. the archbishop's tower] this grand cathedral is not dependent on gloom or subdued light for its great impressiveness. on the contrary it is the best lit of any of spain's cathedrals, and it is on its excellent proportions and scale alone that its reputation for solemnity will always rest, and its majesty be ever remembered. the west façade, commenced in , is constructed of a light-coloured stone, which time has improved into a very beautiful sienna brown. the upper portion is unfinished. in the centre is a fine and deeply recessed gothic portal, flanked by two massive buttresses. under gothic canopies stand statues of the apostles and prophets, the lintel of the doorway is supported by a virgin and child, above which is the saviour, and a row of figures rising out of their tombs on the judgment day. above all is the already-mentioned rose window. so well does the mass of the building rise above the adjacent roofs that this window is visible from the breakwater of the harbour. the two doorways on either side of the façade are pure romanesque. each is surmounted by a small wheel window. the iron work which covers the doors is of a very intricate design; and the huge iron knockers with grotesque heads, the hinges of the doors, and the copper work as well, gave me many pleasant moments in marvelling at the skill of the smiths of days gone by. it was in the cloisters however that i found the greatest charm of the whole cathedral. the court is a veritable garden, where date palms, fig trees and oleanders crowd one another in the neatly arranged beds behind box hedges. i spent many pleasant hours in this delightful spot, my solitude broken by occasional visits from the sacristan, who, in his faded and patched purple cassock, came in at odd times for a chat. very proud of his cathedral was this quiet custodian, and i shall never forget his soft voice and winning smile, nor the great interest he evinced in my sketch. the swifts rushed screaming past, the bees hummed from flower to flower, the scent of the plants was delicious, the warm sun and the splash of the fountain--turned on for my benefit--all went to help the welcome repose and forgetfulness of the outer world that overcame me as long as i was at work in this little paradise. the double doorway in the north transept through which one enters the cloisters from the cathedral, is the finest of all. the capitals of its detached shafts are wonderfully carved. they represent the awaking of the three kings by an angel, the nativity and the journey of the magi. the arcading of the cloisters consists of six bays on all four sides, these bays are subdivided into three round arches, with a couple of circular openings above and enclosed within the arch. some of these openings contain very beautifully carved tracery. [illustration: tarragona. the cloisters] the capitals of the columns are a museum of quaint fancy and good carving. in one set, all the incidents of a sea voyage are cut, in another, mice are seen carrying a cat to his grave, who, shamming death, turns and devours some of them before his obsequies are complete. there is a descent from the cross, where one of the faithful wields a pair of pincers much longer than his own arms, so determined is he to pull out the nails that cruelly wound christ's hands. many fragments of roman sculpture are let into the walls; and a lovely little moorish arch, with a cufic inscription and date , reminds one of the infidel's rule over the city. to reach times nearer our own, there are two inscriptions telling of the occupation by british troops, which run--_ th company_ and further on _ th company_--obviously pointing to the fact that these lovely cloisters sheltered some of our own troops during the peninsular war. like many other cathedrals, tarragona's possesses a grand series of tapestries, which are hung round the columns and walls during certain festivals. they are mostly flemish and not in any way ecclesiastical. one indeed that i saw was anything but this. cupid was leading a lady, who was in _déshabille_, into her chamber, wherein, by a four-post bed, stood a gentleman with a lighted taper in his hand! it was pleasant in the evening to stroll down to the harbour and out along the mole, to watch the deep-sea fishing fleet race home with the long sweeps out in every boat as the wind dropped and the sea became an oily calm. i must own it was with great regret i left this now peaceful spot--a city that once boasted of a million inhabitants, and prior to that was a great phoenician port! of all the cathedral cities of spain i would rather return to tarragona than any other, hold converse with my friend the sacristan, who knows and loves his cathedral so well, and end the day as the sun goes down watching the boats return from long hours of toil. barcelona barcelona the progressive, the finest port of spain, with its large harbour, its wide boulevards, splendid suburbs, good hotels, huge factories and modern prosperity has well earned the title of first city of the new spain. amilcar barca in b.c. founded the carthagenian city which occupied the taber hill on which the cathedral now stands, and twenty years later it became a colony of rome. remnants of the old walls can still be traced in the narrow streets which centre round the holy fabric. under the goths, barcino, as it was then called, rose to some importance, money coined here bears the legend "barcinona." the moors were in possession of the sea-washed fortress for about one hundred years, and then the reign of the counts of barcelona, independent sovereigns, began. count ramon berenguer i., who ruled from to , instituted the famous "códego de los usatjes de cataluña," an admirable code of laws, to which was added in the thirteenth century the "consulado del mar de barcelona." this latter code obtained in the commercial world of europe the same authority as the old "leges rhodiæ" of the ancients. when at the height of its prosperity, barcelona, the centre of commerce, received a severe blow by the union of cataluña with aragon, on the occasion of the marriage of count ramon berenguer iv. to petronila daughter of ramiro ii. king of aragon. when aragon and castile were united barcelona became subject to the "catholic kings," and ever since, in language, in habits and enterprise has shown her dislike for and her struggle against the ways of castile. to-day barcelona is far in advance of any other city of spain. i felt i was once more in europe when the comfortable hotel 'bus rattled along through the well-lit streets. perhaps i was getting tired of life in the middle ages, and was obsessed with mediæval cities! at any rate, a clean bed in a modern hotel was a luxury i thoroughly appreciated, and i started the next morning to explore, with a mind at ease and a consciousness that there would be no irritating little pin-pricks, no _mañana_ for a couple of weeks at least. [illustration: barcelona. in the cathedral] the cathedral stands on the site of a pagan church converted by the moors into a mosque. the present edifice replaced the christian church which superseded this mosque, and was begun in . the crypt was finished in and the cloisters in . the west façade was covered with scaffolding while i was there, and so may perhaps be completed in another thirty years. the interior of this splendid gothic church is very dark. the pointed windows are all filled with magnificent fifteenth-century glass. at the sunset hour, when the rays of light strike low and filter through the many colours of these windows, the effect in the gloom of this solemn building is most beautiful. as the orb of day sinks lower and lower the light lingers on column after column right up the lofty nave to the high altar until he suddenly disappears, and all within is wrapt in deep twilight. the nave is very narrow and very high. the clustered columns seem to disappear into space, and the vaulting is almost lost in the darkness. there are deep galleries over the side chapels in the aisles, which have a rather curious arrangement of vaulting. from the roof of the aisles at each bay depend massive circular lamps which catch the light and heighten the effect of mystery which is omnipresent throughout the cathedral. a flight of steps in front of the high altar--an almost unique feature--leads down to the crypt, where rests the body of santa eulalia, barcelona's patron saint. her alabaster shrine is adorned with reliefs of different incidents in her life. the _retablo_ of the high altar is richly ornate with tapering gothic finials of the fifteenth century; below it is a sarcophagus containing the remains of st. severus. above the gothic _silleria del coro_ hang the coats-of-arms of the knights of the golden fleece. among them are those of henry viii. of england. the only installation of the order was held here by charles v. the side chapels contain very little of interest, but the cloisters are otherwise. entered either from the street or the south door of the cathedral their beauty is very striking. in the centre palms and orange trees rear their heads, and the splash of the fountains, in one of which the sacred geese are kept, is refreshingly cool after the bustle of streets outside. san pablo del campo, now a barrack, is the most interesting of barcelona's ecclesiastical remains. this church, built by wilfred ii. in , is more like the ancient churches of galicia than those of catalonia. very small and cruciform, a solid dome rises from the centre. its cloisters are perfect, the arcading is composed of double shafts with well-cut figures on the capitals. the peculiarity of catalonia's churches is well illustrated in the aisleless santa maria del mar, san just, and santa maria del pi. the first named has some magnificent glass and four good pictures by viladomát, and in the crypt beneath the high altar a curious wooden figure of san alajo. san just has the belfry common to the churches of catalonia, an open iron-work screen, from which depend the bells, and santa maria del pi contains a fine wheel window and more magnificent glass. a relic of loyola, the sword that he offered on the altar of the virgin at montserrat, is still preserved in the old jesuit church of nuestra señora de belen. among the many notable buildings in barcelona is the casa consistorial, or town hall. it was built in , and has a very original gothic front. a beautiful _patio_ with slender arches and twisted columns adds to the interest of the interior. the casa de la diputacion opposite contains the picture on which fortuny was at work when he died. the _patio_ here is perhaps better than that in the casa consistorial. it is in three stages, from the topmost of which huge gargoyles of all sorts of devils and monsters rear their ugly heads. in the old quarters of the city, where the five-and six-storied houses almost touch, the streets are very tortuous and not considered safe at night. in this respect, however, barcelona does not stand alone. any one who ventures into the low parts of a mediterranean seaport after dusk generally does so at his own risk. very few brawls commence among the hot-blooded lower orders of the south without the finale of the knife. by far the most interesting suburb of the city is barceloneta. this self-contained town is entirely given up to the fisherfolk and seafaring portion of barcelona's inhabitants. philip v., when planning his citadel, now demolished, turned out the people who dwelt where he afterwards erected it. to compensate them for loss of home and property, he built this well-planned and well-paved suburb out along the coast to the north-east. with the breeze coming in every afternoon off the sea my favourite walk was through the park to barceloneta. of all the seaports i know, naples not excepted, though the sta. lucia of five-and-twenty years ago might have beaten it, the harbour front of barceloneta is without an equal. here one may watch the boat-builders at work under the oddest roofs imaginable, carpenters busy with the shaping of masts and oars, and ship's painters putting the finishing touches to boat accessories. i used to stand awhile admiring the inventive turn displayed on the exterior embellishments of the marine-dealers' stores. wonderful pictures, of ships that could never float, from brushes wielded by very local talent in glaring vermilion and green. i watched the holiday-makers sitting in ramshackle booths, rapidly putting away all sorts of curiosities of the shell-fish order, and i wondered if they would survive the day. perhaps the copious draughts of wine they took was an antidote, at any rate their laughter and good humour gave point to my unspoken thought--"let us eat and drink, for to-morrow we die." [illustration: barcelona. the rambla] going on, i often spent some time comparing the drill of artillery recruits, whose instructors marched them up and down on a quiet bit of the roadway, with those at home, and i generally finished my walk and sat me down on the glorious stretch of sand that runs away north as far as eye can follow. the evening would then draw in, and the twinkling lights on the ships in the harbour warn me it was time to return. while twilight lasted i retraced my steps homewards along the quay-side, invigorated by an afternoon of sea breeze and salt spray. the focus of barcelona's life is the celebrated rambla. the derivation of this word is arabic--"raml-sand"--a river bed, for a small stream at one time meandered down to the sea where now is the liveliest street in the north of spain. on either side of the central promenade, under the shade of stately plane trees, are the carriage drives. the broad walk itself is thronged, especially in the morning when marketing is done, with an ever-changing crowd. boys distribute hand-bills, dog-fanciers stroll about bargaining with dealers, itinerant merchants cry their wares. a family of father, mother, and children cross the stream of promenaders, followed by a pet lamb. acquaintances meet and gossip away a good ten minutes. at the top end of the rambla are situated the stalls of the bird-sellers, who also deal in mice, a great place this for mama and her small daughters. lower down, the flower-sellers congregate under their red-striped umbrellas. it was here that i made my sketch, in which luckily, for a bit of colour, i was able to include the blue-bloused porters in their red caps who wait about for a job with the rope of their calling slung over their shoulders. here too all the odd job men stand awaiting hire. house painters in white blouses with insignia of their trade--a whitewash brush on the end of a pole--held high, and others--an endless variety. barcelona, being a business town, is democratic to the core, it is also to the core, catalan. the names of streets are displayed in catalan as well as spanish. the animals in the zoological gardens also are known by their catalan, and castilian as well as latin names! barcelona will have no dealings with castile, its people speak their own language and address the foreigner in french. barcelona is go-ahead. in the houses of the new suburbs l'art nouveau screams at one, and everything is up-to-date! the spaniard is well-known to be lazy, not so the catalan. i have never seen a spaniard running, but i have seen a catalan walking fast! gerona the siege of gerona is as celebrated in the spanish history of the napoleonic wars as that of saragossa. both exemplify the bravery and tenacity of the spaniard of the north. in the first siege in , three hundred men of the ulster regiment, under their gallant leader o'daly, helped to garrison the place against two ferocious attacks by duchesne and his french soldiery. the first failed and the second ended in the utter rout of the besiegers with the loss of all the artillery and baggage train. in the following year three french generals with an army of thirty thousand men invested the city. alvarez, the spanish governor, was almost without any means of defence, and the women of gerona enrolled themselves under the banner of santa barbara, the patron saint of spain's artillery, and took their places on the ramparts side by side with their husbands and sweethearts. alvarez, ably seconded by a few english under marshall, held out until he was struck down by disease and death. the city then, without a leader, its inhabitants starving, at length surrendered. so ancient is gerona that its early history is lost in the mist of ages. charlemagne drove the moors out when they were in possession, but it soon passed back into their hands again. the counts of barcelona ruled over the place until the union of catalonia and aragon, an event which gave birth to the crown prince's title of principe de gerona. hence we know that in the twelfth century it was a city of great importance. in consequence of its adhesion, at the end of the war of succession, to the house of hapsburg, gerona was deprived of its privileges and university, since which time it has steadily gone down hill. down hill it may have proceeded, but i found it a very pleasant, quaint old-world city set in the midst of verdant hills and running waters. shady walks are taking the place of now useless fortifications; and have not i sat in one of the most delightful rose gardens you could wish to rest in, and heard the note of the nightingale trilling on the perfumed air? most of spain has gone down hill, and most of spain is nothing but enchanting. [illustration: gerona. the cattle market] gerona is bisected by the river oñar, and from its waters which wash them, the houses rise tier above tier up the hill side. in the summer when the river is running low, and if it happens to be a saturday, you will see one of the most remarkable sights that spain can boast of. under and around the arches of the old bridge are congregated hundreds of brown and fawn-coloured cattle. the background of ancient houses, yellow, grey, white, brown--every tone, rises up above this throng. coloured garments, the week's washing, flutter in the breeze, green shutters and blinds hang from the creeper-clad balconies. it is market day. the lowing of oxen, mingled with the hum of bargaining humanity in red caps and prussian-blue blouses, surges up like the sound of breakers on a distant shore. you who enter spain by the east route, go to gerona at the end of the week--you will never regret its saturday market. the cathedral stands well. the west façade, a renaissance addition, is approached from the plaza below by a grand flight of ninety steps in three tiers. in the unfinished jambs of the south door are a series of interesting terra-cotta figures dating from . there is nothing else in the exterior worthy of note, but directly i entered i stopped in amazement at the daring of an architect who could build so enormous a span as that under which i found myself. this span is seventy-three feet, the clear width of the nave, and unsupported by any pillars. no flying buttresses outside give additional strength to the thrust of the roof. the stonework is perfect and the vaulting inside simple. so bold and hazardous were the plans of guillermo boffy that the chapter at first refused to sanction them. being in doubts as to his sanity, they sought the opinion of twelve other architects, who were examined separately. as they all approved and passed boffy's plans, the construction of this marvel was commenced, and the first stone laid in . the apsidal chancel had been begun a century earlier and finished in , pretty much on the same lines as this part of barcelona's cathedral. unfortunately--how often does one have to acknowledge this!--the _coro_, with its hideous _respaldos_, painted to imitate gothic arches in perspective, almost ruins this splendid and solemn interior. among the seats of the _silleria del coro_ there are still preserved some that date from the fourteenth century. early carved work of the same period is found in the elaborate _retablo_ over the high altar, which is surmounted by three fine processional crosses. the _baldaquino_, also of wood, is covered like the _retablo_ with plates of silver. it is a mass of precious metal, enamelled coats-of-arms and gems, and is an extremely interesting relic of that century. [illustration: gerona. the cathedral] over the sacristy door are the tombs of count ramon berenguer ii. and his wife ermensendis, who died in , predeceasing her husband by twenty-four years. the sacristy itself contains a remarkable piece of twelfth-century crewel work, said to be the earliest known specimen in existence. it is covered with figures of a type similar to those of contemporary mss. the romanesque cloisters form an irregular trapezium. the columns are doubled and about a foot apart, not unlike those of tarragona. the finest romanesque example that gerona possesses is the church of san pedro de los galligans. the apse, little damaged during the siege, forms a tower in the town wall. there is no doubt of the great antiquity of this building, which dates probably from the early part of the tenth century. the east end is mostly constructed of black volcanic scoriæ. the nave and aisles, the bays of which are very simply built, are almost prehistoric in their roughness. in the cloisters attached to the church is the museo provincial. many relics of gerona's heroic defence can here be seen, as well as some early christian and hebrew remains. toledo standing high above the yellow tagus, which, confined in a deep gorge, rushes and swirls far below between precipitous granite cliffs, toledo was always an ideal position for a fortress before modern firearms rendered nature's defences of little avail. its name is associated with the great cardinals of the rodrigo, tenorio, and foncesca families, as well as scions of the houses of ximenes, mendoza, tavera, and lorenzana. the wealth of these prelates was immense, and their power, ecclesiastical and temporal, proportionate. they practically had no rivals, they certainly feared none, they ruled kings as well as countries, and their allegiance to rome was purely nominal. they made wars and fought in them. for their patronage of art and literature future generations have had good cause to be grateful. they built schools and improved the means of communication throughout the land. under their influence the church was omnipotent, and they have written their names deep in the pages of spanish history. in fact, so great was the power of toledo's clergy that it grew to be the cause of the foundation of the capital at madrid. philip ii., who removed the court from valladolid to toledo, found it better, after a short residence here, to take himself and his court to a town where he no longer encountered the arrogance of ecclesiastical rule. under the romans, who captured it in b.c., "toletum" became the capital of hispania. leovigild removed hither from seville, and his successor, reccared, who embraced the orthodox form of christianity, made it the ecclesiastical as well as political capital of his dominions. for nearly four centuries, from , when the moors took toledo, it was under their rule; but divided counsels and the treachery of the down-trodden hebrew enabled alfonso vi. to enter in triumph with the cid. the king then styled himself emperor, and promoted the archbishop to the primacy of spain. under alfonso's rule the city grew rapidly in every way. churches and convents were built, defences strengthened, and toledo knew no rival. with far-seeing wisdom, moor and christian were allowed to intermarry, and lived together in peace for wellnigh one hundred and fifty years. the advent in of that ecclesiastical firebrand, st. ferdinand, however, altered this. one of his first acts was to pull down the mosque, wherein the moors of the city, by alfonso's royal prerogative, had been allowed to worship, and commence the building on its site of the great cathedral. [illustration: toledo. the cathedral] for two hundred years and more did the architects who followed pedro perez add bit by bit, leaving their mark on its stones. partly constructed of granite it is immensely strong. a softer stone has been used with great discretion in the decorative portions of the building. no comprehensive view of the cathedral is obtainable, so closely do the houses surround it on the south and east, and creep up the hill on which it is built, on the north. the west front is best seen from the plaza ayuntamiento, a pleasant little garden which the town hall bounds on one side. i managed a sketch from the narrow street below this garden. only one of the two towers of the west façade is finished as originally intended. the other is capped by a dome, designed by el greco, that painter of the weird, and under which is the chapel wherein the mozárabic ritual is celebrated daily at a.m. the great west door, la puerta del perdon, is enriched with embossed bronze work. flanking on it either side are the doors of las palmas, and de los escribanos. the arches of all three have figures in the jambs, which are continued round each arch in the very best gothic of the fifteenth century. above the doors the façade is adorned with a sculptured last supper and colossal figures in niches. in the centre is a splendid rose window twenty-eight feet in diameter. the north transept is entered from the steep calle de la chapineria by la puerta del reloj, the oldest doorway of the cathedral. its bronze doors, of later date than the doorway, were cast to match those of la puerta de los leones in the south transept. this doorway's name is derived from the lions, which holding shields, occupy positions on its pillars. another entrance is through la puerta de la presentacion which opens on the cloisters. the effect produced by the magnificent interior is much enhanced by the beauty of the glass which fills most of the windows. the earliest are on the north side of the nave, and form a series which was commenced in and finished one hundred and fifty years later. the glass in the rose window over the west door is superb, and the same may be said for that in the north transept and the wheel window over la puerta de los leones. there is no triforium, and the transepts do not project beyond the nave. the arches of the very beautiful chancel serve as niches for figures. here in each bay is a rose window forming a clerestory, and the colours in the glass of these shine like jewels in a crown. [illustration: toledo. the south transept] there are in all twenty chapels, every one of which contains something worth study. the lofty _retablo_ in the capilla mayor is of the richest gothic. above is a colossal calvary of later workmanship. cardinal ximenes built this chapel, among the many monuments of which are the tombs of spain's earliest kings. separating it from the _crucero_ is a magnificent plateresque _reja_, on either side of which stands a gilded pulpit. behind the _retablo_ is the _transparente_, much admired by toledans, but the one jarring note in the finest of spain's cathedrals. this theatrical mass of marble figures, in the midst of which the archangel rafael kicks his feet high in the air and squeezes a gold fish in one hand! is lit from a window let into the roof of the apse. the capilla de reyes nuevos contains the tombs of the kings descended from henry ii. his tomb and that of his wife, as well as the spouse of henry iii., a daughter of john of gaunt duke of lancaster, are among the many that crowd the walls. the capilla de san ildefonso is an extremely beautiful example of early gothic work. the much-mutilated tomb in the centre of cardinal albornoz is a masterpiece of the same style. many other great ecclesiastics rest in this elegant octagon, notably inigo de mendoza, viceroy of sardinia, who was killed at the siege of granada. the capilla de santiago was erected in by alvaro de luna, the man who saved spain for juan ii. by repressing the turbulent nobles, and who for his fidelity was rewarded by disgrace and execution in the plaza mayor at valladolid. the scallop shells which decorate the walls represent de luna's office of grand master of the order of santiago. cardinal ximenes re-established the mozárabic ritual, which is celebrated in the capilla mozárabe, as a reminder to the pope that spain did not owe implicit allegiance to rome. the small detached capilla de la descension de nuestra señora stands against the second pier in the north aisle. it marks the spot where the virgin came down and presented san ildefonso with the _casulla_ or chausable. the salle capitular is a grand example of early sixteenth-century work, with a plateresque frieze and gilt _artesonado_ ceiling by francisco de lara. it contains a series of portraits of the cardinal archbishops of toledo, and frescoes by juan de borgoña. the work of this painter is to be met with throughout the cathedral. the _coro_ occupies two bays of the nave and is a veritable museum of carving and sculpture. its _silleria_ are in two rows. the lower is of walnut and enriched with scenes representing the campaigns of ferdinand and isabella. the upper of the same wood is a perfect classical contrast and is inlaid not carved. berruguete, whose work may be best studied in valladolid, executed the seats on the south side, and vigarney those on the north. a small figure of the virgin in blackened stone looks really ancient. it stands in the middle of the _coro_ on a pedestal. nicolas de vergara was responsible for the two reading desks, which are masterpieces of gilded metal work. the gothic cloisters enclose a delightful garden, and have an upper cloister reached by a door in the archbishop's palace. from this pleasant _claustro alto_ a very good idea of the size of the cathedral is obtained. space does not permit me to enlarge on the manifold works of art which this noble building contains. the pictures, the iron work--though i must just mention a beautifully fanciful knocker of two nude nymphs hanging downwards from the head of a satyr whose hands clasped together form the handle, which adorns la puerta de la presentacion--the sculpture, notably that on the _respaldo_, or outer wall of the _coro_, and the many relics in the treasury, would all occupy more than i can afford. suffice it to say that nowhere in spain is there a gothic building of such well-proportioned dimensions, such simplicity in its leading features, such a fine idea in the interior of the spacing out of light and shade, as in this magnificent cathedral--the grandest of the three due to french influence. and toledo's churches? there are nearly sixty still remaining, every street seems to contain one! and toledo's convents? there are almost as many. of the former, san juan de los reyes, on the high ground above the bridge of saint martin, the last remnant left of a once wealthy franciscan convent, was built by cardinal ximenes in commemoration of the "catholic kings" victory of toro. on its outer walls still hang the manacles and chains of the captive christians who were set free at the conquest of granada, and the interior is embellished with the arms of ferdinand and isabella, and covered with sculptured heraldry. [illustration: toledo. the zÓcodover] santa maria la blanca, originally a jewish synagogue, is in the _mudéjar_ style, and has some charming arabesques, with a fine cedar ceiling said to be of wood from the trees at lebanon. almost opposite--we are in the juderia, or jews' quarter, to the south-east of san juan de los reyes--is another synagogue, el transito. built in by samuel levi, pedro the cruel's treasurer, in the moorish style, it is almost a better piece of architecture than santa maria la blanca. levi lived next door, in the house known now as la casa del greco, that painter having occupied it during his residence in toledo. the house and synagogue are connected by a secret passage from the vaults of the former. these are of immense size and strength, and in levi's day held an enormous amount of treasure--too much for the poor man's good. his royal master, when sufficient was accumulated, put him to death and appropriated all he could find. el cristo de la luz, one of the most interesting churches in toledo, was originally a tiny mosque. it is divided into nine different compartments by four columns, from the capitals of which spring sixteen arches. it was here that alfonso vi. attended the first mass after the city was captured. close by is the convent of san domingo el real, where a glimpse may be had of picturesque nuns while at their devotions during early service. as the station 'bus rattled up the steep winding ascent to the despacho central we dashed through the zocodovér, the square celebrated for numerous _auto de fés_ and other executions. all day long it is crowded with sauntering folk, who walk up and down, quietly enough now, on the scene of much former cruelty, bloodshed, and many bull-fights. on its eastern side a fine moorish arch leads down the hill by a footpath to the bridge of alcántara. immediately the arch is passed on the left lies the old hospital de santa cruz. it is one of the best examples of the transition to renaissance in spain. the portal is deeply undercut and elaborately carved in soft "white rose" stone and marble. the inner gate is plateresque and only surpassed by san marcos at leon and the gateway of the university at salamanca. cardinal mendoza's arms adorn the beautiful _patio_, which has a double arcade of great elegance, and the stone work on the balustrade of the staircase leading out of this is very fine. opposite, on the other side of this steep descent, are the military governor's quarters which are dominated by the huge alcázar, now the military academy for infantry cadets. destroyed by fire in , the present edifice, rebuilt soon after, is seen in the illustration of the alcántara bridge rising a great square mass on the top of the hill. it was the fortress and palace of moorish days. alvaro de luna had a share in its alteration and herrera completed it to the present size by additions executed for philip ii. many a time has it been sacked by the conquerors of toledo and many a prisoner of note passed his last hours within its gloomy walls, before being led out to death in the zocodovér. [illustration: toledo. the alcÁntara bridge] both toledo's bridges are magnificent. the alcántara, crossed on the way from the station, has but a couple of arches which span the mighty river at a great height. it is defended by a gateway at either end, that on the inner side being the moorish tower in my sketch. the bridge of saint martin has one arch of enormous span with four smaller, which carry it over the rushing tagus. between these two bridges from the opposite bank of the river one gets the best idea of toledo's strength. nothing in spain surpasses the grim majesty of the city, which rises above the sun-baked and wind-blistered crags that form the gorge below through which the river has cut its way. no spot could have been better chosen for defence than the hill enclosed in this "horseshoe" of mad waters. small wonder that within its encircling walls grew up a race of prelates whose rule spread far beyond the borders of castile, and whose powerful hand was felt in countries of an alien tongue. of the eight city gates the most interesting is the puerta del sol, a moorish structure with two towers on either side of a horseshoe arch. it is close to the little church of el cristo de la luz, and from either of the towers a very good idea is obtained of toledo's defences. near the puerta del cambon, another of the gates, is the site of the old palace of the last of the spanish goths, roderic, who lost his life on the banks of the guadalete near cadiz when giving battle to tarik and his berbers. my whole impression of toledo was that of a city of gloom. its larger houses were forbidding in the extreme. in these a huge portal, with armorial bearings and massive pillars, defended by a stout iron-bound door, opens into a dark porch, from which one enters the _patio_ through an equally strong entrance. the windows that look on to the street are heavily barred and none are within reach of the pedestrian. its streets, too narrow and steep for vehicular traffic, are as silent as the grave (most spaniards wear shoes made of esparto grass or soft leather), save when a young cadet from the alcázar passes along rattling his sword, and attracts the attention of the señoritas who sit high up in those inaccessible balconies. built on the moorish plan, these tortuous thoroughfares twist and turn like a maze, and it seemed to me that the sun never entered them. houses and streets, walls and towers, still remain as they were in the great cardinal's days, and stand, even now, as symbols of the iron rule of the church. the cardinal's hat is to be found graved in stone over many a door, and the "sheaf of arrows," the arms of the "catholic kings," is still to be seen over the entrance of what was once the palace of pedro the cruel. toledo blades are still made and proved in the ugly factory a mile outside the city. toledo ware (made in germany) is sold by most of the shops. the growing trade in liquorice is a modern industry, but if it were not for another recent innovation, the military academy, it would take no stretch of the imagination to carry one back again into the middle ages and to sink one's individuality and become a human atom under the rule of the great church. salamanca before i ever thought that fate would take me to spain, i had formed in my mind, as one is apt to do, a spain of my own, a spain of glorious romance. i had been in many cities throughout the country, but it was not until i reached salamanca that, "surely," thought i, "the spain of my imagination is now realised." here in the middle of the plain, with which one's thoughts are somehow familiar, rises the great cathedral, its towers are landmarks for miles round. here is a beautiful river winding through valleys deep cut in the ochre-coloured soil, its banks are clad with verdure and it is spanned by an ancient bridge. away over the plain, just visible in the haze, are the blue mountains of the south. in the midst of all, the dull mud and yellow walls of the city, the many-hued roofs of red and brown, with deep shadows under their eaves, rise tier above tier to the cathedral above. and this, the prototype of spain's greatness, her church, the ever-present reminder that in days gone by its princes led her armies to victory and placed her in the van of nations. i am standing on the noble bridge, half of which is even now as it was in the days of the roman occupation. those massive walls up there of monasteries and convents always formed part of the picture of my imagination. they bake under a september sun, just as all spain ought to do. a long string of heavily laden mules trots past, their bells jingling merrily, their drivers shouting and cracking their whips. a well set-up peasant with his head in a handkerchief and broad-brimmed hat, cut-away tunic, red sash and tight knee breeches, canters by seated on a high peaked saddle. his well-bred horse shows a good deal of the arab strain, across its quarters are a couple of rugs and its rider carries an umbrella. a beggar stops before me, and prays that, for the love of the holy mary, i will give him a _perro chico_. two wizened old cronies go by chattering about manuelo's wife. one carries a couple of fowls tied together by their legs, the poor birds are doing their best to hold their heads in a natural position. some little urchins are throwing stones at the washerwomen by the riverside below. an old man seated on a donkey's rump ambles past. yes, this is what i imagined spain to be. i turn my steps towards the city. i wander by the cathedral and reach the great university of the middle ages. what would salamanca have been without its university! i pass many fine houses, with coats-of-arms emblazoned over their portals. i gaze at their high walls and windows barred to keep the intruder from the fair sex. most of them seem falling into decay, but this only adds to the romance. at length i reach an arcaded square. the columns of the arcades are wooden, they are at all sorts of angles, but the houses above still stand. the sun blazes down on scores of picturesque market folk, who sell almost everything from peaches and fowls to little tinsel images and double-pronged hoes. dogs are sniffing about picking up stray scraps. children run in and out, fall down and get up laughing. every one is busy. the animation of this little square, as i suddenly come upon it out of a deeply shaded and aristocratic street, is just the spain i had always thought of--a spain of contrasts. brilliant sun and grateful shade. seclusion behind high walls, and a strange medley of noisy folk, for ever bargaining, buying and selling. certainly in salamanca it is all here. i hear the click of the castanets and the sound of the guitar in the evening, i see the ardent lover standing at those iron bars whispering soft raptures to his mistress, and the picture is complete. [illustration: salamanca] salamanca is a sleepy old city which the world seems to have left behind. in the summer it is a veritable furnace, in the winter it is swept by icy blasts. before the christian era it was known as salmantica. hannibal came and captured it in b.c. and under the romans it was the ninth military station on the great road which they built connecting cadiz and merida with astorga and gijón. alfonso ix. of leon founded the university, which reached its zenith as a seat of learning during the sixteenth century. philip ii., having transferred his court from valladolid to toledo, made salamanca's bishop suffragan to that city's, since when it seems to have been left out in the cold and slowly but surely proceeded down hill. this is the reason, i think, why it attracted me so much. it is essentially a city with a past and of the past. the french under thiébaut pulled it to pieces and used the material from its demolished buildings to fortify the place. this was in . the following year saw marmont's troops utterly routed by wellington, three miles south of the fortifications. it was this victory that gained him his marquisate and a grant from parliament of £ , . like saragossa, salamanca possesses two cathedrals. the older intensely interesting in every way, the later, a huge late gothic pile begun in and finished in . this immense structure affords a good study of the changes of architectural taste spread over the years which intervened between these two dates. [illustration: salamanca. the old cathedral] the west façade is a marvel of intricate sculpture in the richly-coloured soft stone that has been used as if it were plaster or wax. late gothic predominates amidst a deal of plateresque and barroque ornament. despite its incongruities it is extremely fine, but would look even better if some of the numerous niches had not lost their statues, and if little boys did not find a pastime in lodging stones amongst those that are left, greatly i fear to their detriment. over the double doorway are high reliefs of the nativity and adoration of the magi, a negro prince being an especially good figure in the latter subject. above is a crucifixion. the north porch is also very fine and gains in effect, as indeed does the whole of this side of the cathedral, by the raised piazza on which it is built. the approach is up some dozen steps, the whole of the piazza being surrounded by pillars as at leon and seville. juan gil de hontañon, who designed this and the sister cathedral at segovia, surpassed himself with the great tower and its finely-proportioned dome, the top of which is feet high. the crocketed pinnacles, the flying buttresses, the dome over the crossing, and the wonderful deep yellow of this huge church, whatever may be one's opinion about the architecture, make it one of the most impressive of spain's cathedrals. i was disappointed with the interior on first acquaintance, but it has only to be known to be appreciated. the imposing proportions, it is feet long, feet wide and close on feet high, gradually asserted themselves, and before i left salamanca i was much in love with hontañon's masterpiece. a pierced balustrade takes the place of a triforium, flamboyant renaissance in the aisles and classical in nave. it runs round the whole church and in the transepts and choir these two occur together. medallions in the spandrils of the arches add to the rich effect. many details in this interior i found to be worth a second and third visit. the chapel of dorado, a veritable museum, contains the tomb of the builder, fransico de palenzuela. its walls are covered with a profusion of coloured saints on gilt pedestals. there is a very curious old organ, standing at the back of an also curious old minstrel's gallery. a sad-looking skeleton, with "memento mori" cut on a slab at his feet, occupies a dark hole in one of the walls. fine _azulejos_ decorate the chapel, and many other antiquities too, which i cannot enumerate. in the capilla del carmen rest the remains of gerómino, the cid's bishop and confessor. an ancient wooden crucifix stands over the altar, it is the identical one carried by the bishop in the wars of the cid. another relic of the great campeador is to be seen in the relicario. a small byzantine bronze, "el crucifijo de las batallas," studded with chequer work--a fine specimen of early limoges enamel. all this interested me muchly, but the "catedral vieja," a grand example of late romanesque style, interested me more. fortis salmantica, as it was called, on account of the thickness of its walls, has not been used for service since its huge neighbour was erected. i made a drawing of the only view which can be obtained of the exterior from the plazuela chica. the central lantern is surmounted by the emblem of nobility, a cock, and is formed by an octagonal tower with a stone dome. the tower is arcaded and has four domed turrets and dormers at the corners similar to those at zamora. street considers that he has "never seen any central lantern more thoroughly good and effective from every point of view than this is." to reach the interior one has to retrace one's steps to the "catedral nueva" and from its south aisle pass through a doorway into the other building. this was erected on a lower level than its big neighbour and with the attendant verger i descended ten steps and found myself in a very beautiful mellow-coloured church. the arches of the nave and aisles are pointed, but the windows and arcading are round. the capitals of the columns are a museum of carved fantasies, imps, animals, birds, &c. on the wall of the north aisle, which was partly demolished when the "catedral nueva" was built, are some very curious frescoes; the church has a clerestory of single lights but no triforium. there is a wonderful _retablo_ in the capilla mayor by an italian, nicolas florentino. it is still in perfect preservation, and the fifty-five frescoes set in white and gold of which it is composed have a beautiful effect in the semi-gloom of the dark chapel. the mozárabic ritual is celebrated six times a year in another chapel, la capilla de talavera. the groining of its roof is the only one of the sort i have seen, it is composed of parallel ribs which cross one another. in the capilla de san bartolomé lies bishop diego de anaya. his tomb is surrounded by one of the finest examples of wrought and hammered iron work in the whole of spain. some other members of this family are also interred in the chapel, which contains a mediæval organ covered by a screen of coloured moorish arabesques. [illustration: salamanca. an old street.] the cloisters were built in , but have been partly modernised and totally disfigured by a coat of whitewash. an uncared-for garden filled with rubbish occupies the centre. surely some one might be found to tend this little secluded patch of quietness and make it a place for delightful repose instead of the disgrace it now is! before the french occupation salamanca was a city of churches and monastic buildings. to build their fortifications they destroyed thirteen convents and twenty colleges besides many churches. the south-west corner of the city is still an empty desert full of rubble and stone strewn about everywhere, the remains of the now dismantled fortress which overlooked the valley of the tormes. among the churches left, that attached to the now suppressed dominican convent of san estéban is by far the finest. it is a miniature cathedral in itself. the gothic exterior is extremely good. the great west façade is highly enriched with plateresque ornament. an elliptical arch of great dimensions roofs the porch. below it is a realistic group illustrating the martyrdom of st. stephen, with the date cut upon a stone which one of the figures is picking up to hurl at the saint. the _coro_ is over the west end, and for once the whole of the interior is visible. this is very lofty, and the view up to the immense high altar, executed by chirriguera himself, superb. there are two more altars in the church by the same hand, and although his flamboyant style is not to my liking, i could not help admiring the way in which he had evidently allowed himself all the licence he was capable of in their sumptuous design. to the south of the little _plaza_ in which san estéban stands are the cloisters of the convent, in the upper storey of which is salamanca's museum. unfortunately it contains nothing of interest. columbus was lodged by the dominicans in this convent, and propounded those schemes to the monks, which the learned members of the university had pronounced worthless and crack-brained. he found in fray diego de deza and the other brothers warm supporters. the once magnificent convent of las agustinas recoletas, founded by the count of monterey, has a beautiful church in the shape of a latin cross. over the high altar is one of ribera's masterpieces--_the immaculate conception_. monterey was known as "the good slow man" and was viceroy of naples in philip iv.'s reign. he accumulated great wealth during his viceroyalty and built himself the fine palace which stands close to the convent. there is an anecdote current in salamanca that when a peasant woman craved an audience of the king, which he granted, she prayed "god might make him also viceroy of naples." the university which made salamanca famous was united with that of palencia by ferdinand, and very soon took the foremost rank as a seat of learning in europe, though at the council of constance in the year , oxford was given precedence, a ruling which much disgusted the patriotic spaniard. the building was entirely altered by the "catholic kings," who erected the marvellous west façade, one of the best examples of plateresque work in the country. like that of the cathedral and san estèban, it is a wonderful example of what can be done with soft stone, and how well the most delicate modelling has survived in this dry climate. some of the moorish ceilings of the interior have been restored. the grand staircase leading to the upper floors and cloister is especially well carved with dancers and foliage. over the door of each _aula_, or lecture room, is a tablet denoting the science taught within. the fine library is rich in theological lore and early editions of aristotle, &c. the little square on to which the west façade opens also leads through a good doorway into the grammar school, with a delicious cloister and shady garden. the four sides of the square and the walls of the cathedral are covered with numerous hieroglyphics and names in roman characters. they are the initials, signs, and names of the numerous scholars who have distinguished themselves in different walks of life. a custom now followed in all our own schools on boards of honour. the collegio mayor de santiago apostol is a seminary for irish priests. the number in training is generally about twenty. this building, originally founded in by philip ii. and dedicated to st. patrick, is a very good example of cinquecento architecture. among the many fine houses still left after french depredations, that of la casa de las conchas is the most celebrated. it dates from , and is so named on account of the scallop shells which decorate the exterior walls. the window grilles are exceptionally fine. the spanish proverb "la mujer y el vidrio siempre estan en peligro"--"a woman and glass are always in danger," evidently held good when these intricate and beautiful guards were let into the stone. the house has a lovely _patio_ and a very fine staircase. la casa de sal is another house with a good court, the gallery above being supported by life-size figures. la casa de las duendes, or ghosts, built by archbishop fonseca, was supposed to be haunted, hence the name. the torre del clavero is a good specimen of the castilian keep. it was built in by a sotomayer who was clavero or key-bearer to the alcántara order, and is still in the possession of this noble family. throughout the churches, in these houses, and the convents which remain unsuppressed are many fine pictures, and except for seville, i found here more of interest than in any other city of spain. in the convents of course mortal man is forbidden entrance, and i could only look at their lofty walls and wish myself a nearer acquaintance with the artistic treasures which i was told lay buried behind them. perhaps the best example of a square in the whole of the country is the plaza mayor. a lofty colonnade runs around the four sides and every evening the beauties and others of salamanca make it their promenade. the men stroll round in one direction and the women in the opposite. the social life of a spanish town passed in view before me, with all its fan and language of the eyes, as i sat at one of the small tables of a café and got this cheap and harmless entertainment for one _real_. the square dates from ; the houses are four storeys high and on the north and south sides bear medallions of kings and celebrated men. the ayuntamiento, with its chirrigueresque façade, occupies the centre of the north side and adds greatly to the appearance of this fine plaza where up to fifty years ago bull fights took place. my work over, i nearly always found myself wandering on to the desert created by the french at the south-west angle of the city, and with my pipe spending half an hour or so meditating on the salamanca of the past and its contrast with the present. the rock stands high here over the road and river below, and there is a drop of feet or more down on to the former. it is but a narrow lane hedged in by a high wall and this forbidding-looking rock. when walking along this lane one day i noticed many crosses cut in the wall and chalked red. on inquiry i was told that each cross represented a suicide. from the height above, those tired of life or disappointed in love hurl themselves down and it is the unwritten law or prerogative of him who finds the mutilated body to carve a little cross on the wall at the spot where the unhappy mortal has ended his days. but it was not to prevent suicides that i wandered there and sat smoking my afternoon pipe. no, i fear it was something inglorious, it was to get away from the stenches and filth of the town and breathe the fresh air of the plain. i do not think that anywhere, unless it be in tarragona, were my olfactory nerves so insulted as in salamanca. flies in thousands settled on my colour box and paper wherever i sat sketching. i can now appreciate fully the torture of the egyptians during the plague. add to the flies beggars innumerable, with horrible sores, offal and filth in the streets and some of the romance vanishes. yet salamanca still remains the spain of my imagination, for was not all this part and parcel of my dream? avila avila is one of the most perfectly preserved towns in spain. it gave me the impression of having been dropped from the sky,--complete as it is--so desolate and barren is the boulder-strewn waste that surrounds it. a sort of suburb pushes its mean houses straggling beyond the walls, but avila itself lies snugly within them. they are perfect--these walls that entirely encircle the old portion of the town. forty feet high, twelve thick, with eighty-six defensive towers and bastions, and ten gates, they are constructed of slabs of granite set end upwards, and were always a hard nut for invaders to crack. the roman avela afterwards fell into the hands of the moors, who for long held it as a fortress of the first class. alfonso vi., the conqueror of toledo, drove them out after a lengthy siege, and avila was rebuilt by his son ramon of burgundy. it was then that the present walls were built, being erected under the supervision of two foreigners, a frenchman and an italian, florian de pituenga and cassandro. since their day avila has played an important _rôle_ in the history of the country and witnessed many strange events. in an extraordinary scene took place on the plain outside the city. that unpopular king, enrique iv., was reigning at the time, and the hatred of the people towards him reached its height when his effigy was dragged from the city and set upon a throne which had been prepared for the ceremony of degradation. the archbishop of toledo having recounted the people's grievances, removed the crown from the effigy's head, others high in the land insulted it and at length pushed it off the throne, the people then kicked it about and a game of "socker" ensued. prince alfonso, a mere boy, was raised to the unoccupied seat, and hailed king by the archbishop, nobles and people, amidst a blare of trumpets and general rejoicing. avila is an intensely cold place, frosts often occur here in may, but the summer months are delightful. every street, every house almost is of interest, and in the old days of its importance there could have been few strongholds in the country so safe as this. the cathedral is almost a fort in itself. the east end forms part of the city walls, the apse abutting in line with the next two towers on either side forms part of the defensive works. [illustration: avila] commenced at the end of the eleventh century by alva garcia, a native of navarre, this early gothic building is still unfinished. not much is, however, of this early date, for the general style of the building is of the end of the next century, and many alterations have followed this in later years. the west front has but one tower, the north--the other, the south, does not rise above the roof. the favourite ball decoration of late gothic spain is in evidence, and guarding the doorway are a couple of uncouth mace-bearers. very terrible are these hairy granite men, but not so dangerous looking as the two lions which stand on pedestals and are chained to the cathedral walls. always on guard, these four strange figures have no doubt many a time struck a holy terror into the hearts of would-be evil-doers as they entered the church, and i daresay kept the thoughts of others in the straight line. the north door is early pointed and carries figures in each jamb, the tympanum is decorated with reliefs of the betrayal and last supper, but all the figures are sadly mutilated. the third entrance is at the south-east corner of the cathedral, and is a later addition, opening outside the walls of the city on to the calle de s. segundo. the interior of the cathedral is very simple and massive, partaking more of strength than elegance. it is a fitting inside to the severity of the fortress-like exterior. the nave is narrow and lofty, and so are the aisles. the large clerestory windows have their tracery above blocked up, and the lower lights have been treated in the same way, thus giving a certain resemblance to a triforium, a feature the church does not possess. the aisles in the apse are double, like those at tortosa, and although the single columns in the centre are very beautiful, these aisles have not the elegance of those in the other cathedral. the apse is very dark, the stone work at one time was painted red and the little that remains of this colour adds to the religious gloom of its double aisles. the columns throughout the cathedral were built to bear great weight, their capitals are simple and their bases the same. the little light that glimmers through the windows adds greatly to the sombre strength of this fine building, which, more than any other of its size, reflects the life of the spain of those days in which it was erected. street thinks it less influenced by outside art than any other building in the country, and instances the unique method of laying the stone of the root as supporting this opinion. the transepts contain some good glass, as also do the windows in the chancel. there are many good early tombs throughout the cathedral. judging from their style avila was left alone when chirriguera was erecting monstrosities elsewhere, and to me it is the most homogeneous of spain's cathedrals. the _retablo_ over the high altar rises in three stages and contains pictures by berruguete, santos cruz and juan de borgoña. on this account my last remark might be criticised, for the whole piece is a jumble of styles. the chancel is, however, too narrow for a view of this medley from the body of the church, and wherever one roams in the building nothing attracts the eye or disturbs the mind by being too flagrantly incongruous. so dark is the apse that the renaissance _trassegrario_ does not obtrude in the early gothic of its surroundings. the very fine tomb of bishop alfonso de madrigal, the solomon of his day, is fortunately illumined by a little light, and i could see the effigy of this wise prelate seated at his desk busily engaged with his pen and scroll, while above him the magi and shepherds are adoring in a good relief. there are some early paintings in most of the chapels, the _retablo_ in that of san pedro being perhaps the best. the work of cornielis, a flemish sculptor, _circa_ - , is admirably displayed in the very beautiful carving of the _silleria de coro_, and there is no better example of spanish metal work of the fifteenth century to be found than in the two iron-gilt pulpits. the sacristy contains a splendid silver monstrance by arfe, and an italian enamelled chalice of the fourteenth century by petrucci orto of siena. the cloisters are disappointing, having been much mutilated and the fourteenth-century tracery of the arches blocked up. avila, like its neighbour segovia, contains some of the best examples of romanesque work, and its many churches are archæologically as interesting as the cathedral. sheltering from the keen north wind under the arcade of san vicente i made a sketch of the gateway of that name. the church was founded in and dedicated to three martyrs who were put to death on the rock which may still be seen in the crypt below. the west façade has two incomplete towers, between which is a most elaborately carved romanesque doorway, standing in a deeply recessed arch. [illustration: avila. puerta de san vicente] the pure romanesque nave has both triforium and clerestory and the unusual feature of pointed vaulting. the proportions of this noble church are very fine, but the interest of the non-architectural visitor will be centred in the tomb of san vicente and his two sisters ss. sabina and cristeta. a metal work canopy resting on twisted columns surmounts the tomb which is a sarcophagus of the thirteenth century. the legend tells how, after the martyrdom of these three, the body of the first-named was cast out to the dogs, and that a serpent came out of the hole in the rock (still visible) and watched over it. a jew who mocked was smitten unto death by the reptile and lies buried in the south transept. the transept choir and three semicircular apses are transitional, and carry a barrel vaulting. outside the city wall, a little way down the hillside and beyond the dirty suburb that intervenes, is the late gothic church of san tomás. it possesses a fine _retablo_ of the patron st. thomas aquinas. the high altar is placed in a gallery above a low elliptical arch, this feature being repeated at the west end with the _coro_ above. at the crossing of the transepts is the beautiful but greatly mutilated tomb of prince juan, the only son of ferdinand and isabella, by whose untimely death the crown of spain passed to austria. two other tombs of great interest are those of juan de avila and juana velasquez. messer dominco, the florentine, executed them both. san pedro, standing at the east side of the mercado grande, is another romanesque church of great beauty. over the west door is a fine wheel window. the interior is pure romanesque and rich in ornament, and the north portal is replete with the same. santa teresa was born of noble parents in avila. in her early youth her heart hungered for saintly adventures in the broiling sun of africa and her mind was set upon martyrdom at the hands of the moors. fate, however, decreed otherwise. at twenty years of age she took the veil and within a few years had founded seventeen convents of bare-footed carmelite nuns. a favourite saint of spain, the date of her death, august , is kept all over the peninsula and her festival celebrated with great honour in avila on october . segovia dirty, dilapidated and sleepy, but the most enchanting town in spain. what a treat it was to find myself once more in the middle ages after the bustle and noise of madrid! the springs of a spanish 'bus are good. i never entered one without great misgivings as to how long i was fated to remain in this world. to drive into a town such as segovia is a grand test for the nerves. crack goes the whip, off start the sorry-looking horses with a jerk. i am flung violently against my neighbour. i hasten to apologise. a disconcerting jolt knocks the hat over my eyes, before it is adjusted i find myself in an attitude of prayer with my head buried in the lap of the stout lady who pants opposite, another bump and she is embracing me, we disentangle ourselves, we apologise, every one in the 'bus is doing the same. the jehu on the box fears no obstacles, a rock or a rut, they are all the same to him, he takes them all with utter disregard to everything in his way. we fly along, and somehow we land safely. we always do. yes, the steel of those spiderlike springs must be good, or the saints are watching our venture. perhaps both. the scenery on the journey from madrid is very fine after the train leaves the junction at villalba. slowly we crawled up the incline winding round and doubling on our course. merry little snow-fed streams eager to join with their fellows below sped along in a race to the sea. the summer villas of the madrileños dot the hill slopes on the ground above the withy beds. we went up and up until the highest point on the line was reached under the road along which, marching north, napoleon's troops toiled in the face of a fearful blizzard. before entering the tunnel at the top of the pass a glorious panorama is spread out to the south. away in the distance are the mountains of toledo and the spires of far-off madrid. on leaving this point the descent became rapid, and we whirled through a magnificent valley amidst true alpine scenery. the rugged tops of the sierra rose above thick forests of pine, brawling torrents dashed headlong down through green pastures, grand cattle were browsing on every side, it was indeed more swiss than spanish. [illustration: segovia at sunset] one often hears the question asked--why are there no trees in spain? a french writer answers, that the moors are responsible for the lack of shade in a spanish landscape. he tells us they cut down all the trees they found, because trees harbour birds, and birds destroy all fruit and grain!--a truly ingenious theory, quite worthy of the fertile brains of the french, but surely a most ridiculous solution. the moor brought the orange and the lemon to europe; he was a lover of shade, he was also a great gardener. no, the reason why spain has apparently no trees, is that very few have been planted for hundreds of years. wood is necessary for fires in a country where there is practically no coal. the peasant has always been poor, he has always taken anything that came to hand. he helped himself to the wood of the forests around him. his betters did the same. all the trees near madrid are known to have been ruthlessly cut down and sold to defray the expenses of philip ii.'s court; and it is only of recent years that any replanting has been taken in hand. when the present king was a boy of four years old, a ceremony, now repeated every year at the fiesta del arbol, was inaugurated. the queen mother took him to guindebra outside madrid, where he planted several trees. at every anniversary the day is devoted by school children all over the country to this same object. as many as , saplings have been put into the ground in a single day, thus laying by a store of wealth for future generations. segovia is surrounded by trees. hidden from the great plain in which the town lies, they cover the banks of the two streams which join issue below the city, thus forming the mass of rock on which it stands. these valleys, eaten out by the running water, are among the great charms of this romantic place. nothing can exceed the beauty of early spring. fruit trees in full blossom, tall poplars bending their graceful heads in the breeze and chestnuts bursting into leaf. the air is filled with the twitterings of nesting birds, the sloping banks covered with the tender green of young grass; all nature is alive, the sun is warm and the sound of rushing waters brings peace to the soul. perched high up, hanging apparently on mighty rocks, the alcázar broods grimly over the gorge below. still further up and beyond, rises the mass of the cathedral, towers, domes and pinnacles. three hundred and thirty feet high, the great tower rears itself like a sentinel, a landmark for many miles. round the base cluster the houses of the town like chickens seeking shelter under the wings of a mother hen. no place in all spain appealed to me so much. no town was so replete with subjects for my brush, and nowhere else did i feel the romance of this marvellous country as in segovia. [illustration: segovia. the aqueduct] a town of iberian origin and name, under the roman rule it was of some importance. the great aqueduct, which spans the valley that divides segovia in the plaza del azoquéjo, brought pure water from a mountain torrent, the rio frio, ten miles away. it does the same to-day. constructed of granite blocks, laid cyclopean fashion without mortar or cement, it commences near san gabriel. to break the force of the rushing stream the conduit has many angles. without doubt it is the most important roman remain in spain, for this alone segovia would be famous. once upon a time his satanic majesty fell desperately in love with a beautiful segovian. to further his suit, an offer was made to do anything she might require. her home was on a hill; her work, to fetch water from the stream below. finding the continual tramp down and up rather irksome, this daughter of eve bethought herself of a request to mitigate her toil. "done," said the evil one, and the aqueduct was built in one night! in terror she fled to the church, and the church discovered that one stone had been left out, also that the aqueduct was extremely useful. the contract was declared void and the maiden freed from the rash promise she had playfully given his majesty. the country folk still know it by the name of the puento del diabolo. during the siege of segovia, the moors destroyed thirty-five of the arches, but these were cleverly rebuilt in by juan escovedo, a monk of el parral, who received the scaffolding in payment for his work. more recently, extensive repairs in the same way have been successfully carried out. the most imposing view is in the plaza del azoquéjo, from which it towers upwards in a double line of arches one above the other, and its length is best grasped from el calvario, a hill to the south of the town. the cathedral is a late gothic pile, built of a warm yellow stone, and looks particularly impressive from the shady walk among the rocks on the left bank of the clamores, the stream which cuts off segovia from the southern plateau. it was begun in by the builder of salamanca's cathedral which it greatly resembles, juan gil de hontañon, and continued at his death by his son. the weak point in the exterior, which masses very grandly, is the western façade. the interior is very striking. the wide span of the arches, the richness of the admirable vaulting, the splendid late gothic windows and the feeling of light and space are fine examples of the last stage of gothic work, just before the influence of the oncoming renaissance took hold of the architects of that day. the floor is beautifully laid with red, blue and white diamond-shaped slabs of marble; and the very necessary notice--"no escupir, la religiosidad y higiene la prohibur"--keeps it clean and decent. in the _coro_, which occupies nearly the whole of the centre of the nave, there is a _retablo_ by sabatini. the _silleria_ are very fine. they were rescued from the old cathedral, which was destroyed in charles v.'s time by the comunéros, who started business by pulling down churches, appropriating all they could lay hands on, plundering the wealthy and generally behaving as a mob that has the upper hand always does. the outer walls of the _coro_ are stucco, painted to represent different species of marble; described, by the way, in a reputable guide book--"beautifully coloured marbles"! most of the _rejas_ which shut off the side chapels are good gilded iron work. in that of la piedad there is a good _retablo_ with life-sized figures by juan de juni, ; and in the chapel of the segragrio a wooden figure of christ by alonso cano. through a fine gothic portal in the capilla del cristo del consuelo i entered the cloisters in company with a verger, who took great pride in his cathedral. these cloisters are surpassingly beautiful; a very good example of flamboyant gothic. in vain did i search for a corner from which to make a sketch. the courtyard was overgrown with shrubs, tall cypresses and vines climbing at random shut out everything. the garden itself was a mass of rubbish and old timber. the well in the centre, overgrown with creepers and weeds; while in the cloisters themselves preparations were afoot for the coming easter processions, and all available space taken up by carpenters and painters at work on the pasos. in the little dark chapel of santa catalina on the west side, is the tiny tomb of the unfortunate infante pedro, the three-year-old son of henry ii. the poor little child was dropped by his nurse from a window in the alcazar, and ended his young life on the rocks below. 'tis a pitiful object this pathetic tomb, alone, here in this damp spot where daylight only enters when the door is opened. in the sacristy there is a custodia in the form of a temple, six feet high, silver and exquisitely chased. the vestments possessed by the clergy are most rarely worked and of great value. segovia was once rich in churches. like the rest of the city, a great many have alas! fallen into decay, and those not in this state are rapidly approaching it. they are mostly small and retain the apse. several are cloistered and every one of them is architecturally of great interest. here again is another charm of this romantic old city, evidence of past glories and ecclesiastical power, the history of spain written in its stones. [illustration: segovia. plaza mayor] san millan, a romanesque structure of the twelfth century, is the best preserved church in segovia. the exquisite arcades on the north and south sides have coupled columns with elaborately carved capitals. like most of the buildings of this period solidity rather than grace was the effect aimed at by their architects. it possesses a triple apse; the piers supporting the roof are very massive, the capitals to the columns are formed of semi-grotesque figures of man and beast. the two doorways are good. in the church of san martin there is a carved wooden passion. four life-sized figures take the place of shafts in the great doorway, and again a cloister forms the exterior of the south and west walls. in the dominican convent of santa cruz, founded by ferdinand and isabella, is still to be seen a sepulchral urn of one of the original companions of st. dominic. "tanto monta" the motto of the king and queen is cut both inside and out on the walls. over the west portal are good reliefs of the crucifixion and the pietà. la vera cruz, a church built by the templars in , is difficult of access. i procured the key after much trouble, and found the twelve-sided nave forming a sort of ambulatory round the central walled-in chamber. it is an imitation of the holy sepulchre at jerusalem. the templars were suppressed in , so this gem had but a short existence as their house of prayer. nestling amidst a grove of acacia trees, hidden away under the rock, is the santuario de fuencisla. built to commemorate the miraculous rescue of maria del salto, a beautiful jewess, this little sanctuary is much affected by pilgrims. the rock which overshadows it is known as la peña grajera, or "crow's cliff," taking this name from the multitude of carnivorous birds who always assembled here for a meal after a victim had been hurled down to expiate his crime in a death below. maria, accused of adultery, was led to the top and pushed off the edge to find the fate of so many before her. with great presence of mind she called loudly on the virgin, who hearing, came to her assistance; and so retarded her downward flight that she alighted gently, escaping unhurt. here in days long gone by lived a hermit, whose good life and deeds are still a much-reverenced legend among segovians. the monastery of el parral, once a wealthy and powerful house of the brotherhood of san gerónimo, contains a very good _retablo_ by diego de urbina. it was founded by a member of the great pacheco family, who fought three antagonists one after another and came off successful. he vowed to build a church on the spot where his skill and prowess gave him so splendid a victory, and to endow it as well. it is now a convent of franciscan nuns. next in importance to the cathedral is the comparatively new building of the alcázar. standing high up on the crags, below which the eresma and clamores meet, it occupies an unrivalled position. a fine view of this truly castilian fortress is obtained from the beautiful walk which encircles the city on the further bank of each stream. above the tall poplars and thick scrub rise its turrets and spires. the massive walls go sheer up from the rock on which their foundations rest. the huge embattled tower and drawbridge assist the feeling of strength; and it only requires the weathering of years, adding broken colour to the somewhat new-looking exterior, to make this a perfect specimen of mediæval architecture. the building was originally moorish, but the many vicissitudes of troublous times saw it in a bad state when henry iv., "el impotente," repaired and made it his residence. within its walls isabella was proclaimed queen of castile in . cabrera, the husband of her greatest friend, beatrice of boabdilla, held the fortress and its treasure, and it was mainly through his valour that isabella succeeded to the throne. during the comunéros insurrection the alcázar held out for charles v. at the quelling of the revolt charles did all in his power to thoroughly restore the building and furnish it with great splendour. his son philip added much that the father's death had left unfinished. our own king, charles i., was here entertained, and gil blas confined a prisoner. the great fire, originated by some of the students of the military college, almost entirely destroyed the whole castle in . the present edifice dates from shortly after that year and is now used as a storehouse for military archives and an academy for artillery officers. a very good gateway spans the road that leads out past the santuario de fuencisla along the right bank of the eresma. the river here is an ideal looking trout stream, but alas! fish are not as plentiful now as when charles i. was entertained and fed on "fatte troute" in the alcázar. follow the path over the bridge to the left, it soon narrows into a mere goat track as it skirts the rock; a few steps farther on and the wonderful position of the fortress-castle bursts into view. how fascinating it looked as i saw it one night in the moonlight with the silver beams glinting on its spires. all was very still as i entered the wood of stunted pines beyond. across the ravine rose the mighty cathedral silhouetted against a dark star-laden sky. a light here and there shone from a window in the houses beneath. i heard the distant cry of the watchman on his rounds. a faint scent from the heavy dew rose to my nostrils, a scent of mother earth. it was with unwilling steps i crossed the stream and sought my bed that night. such moments are rare. on the left bank of the eresma, almost hidden in the trees, stands a building which once was the mint of spain. up till the year all spain's money was coined here, the proximity to the impregnable alcázar, which was used as the treasury, affording security against untimely raids. the old mint is now a flour mill, but still bears the royal arms over its gateway. at one time segovia was the great castilian mart for wool. the church, and monasteries of el parral, el paular, and the escorial owning immense flocks. these were driven to the pure waters of the eresma, to be cleansed before being shorn. after the sheep-washing, the animals were put into the sweating house, and their legs tied together. the shearer then commenced operations, and as each sheep passed out of his hands it was branded; the shepherds standing by made a selection of the older animals for the butcher, the remainder being taken away to their mountain pastures. even now there are many flocks in the country around, particularly on the lower hills near la granja, where i noticed a large number not at all unlike the kentish breed of romney marsh. seven miles from segovia the summer royal palace of la granja lies in the midst of beautiful woods and clear streams. at the foot of the sierra, the highest peak of which, la peñalara, raises its crest a few miles off, this elysium is a beautiful spot for those who have earned a holiday from the cares of state. the gardens are most charmingly arranged, and the fountains with a never ending supply of water, better than those at versailles. built by philip v., whose tastes and inclinations were thoroughly french, la granja has been the scene of important events in the history of the country. the treaty which handed spain over to france in was here signed by godoy. in ferdinand vii. revoked the decree by which he had abolished the salic law, and summoned don carlos to the palace as heir to the throne, a call which plunged his unhappy country into civil war. four years later the queen regent was compelled within its walls, by the leader of the revolutionary soldiery, to accept the constitution of cadiz. every corner of spain holds history, but none can compare with segovia and its surroundings in romance and old-world charm. saragossa saragossa lies midway on the railway between madrid and barcelona, and, having about it a touch of both these, can qualify as one of spain's progressive cities. the unsightly factory chimney is beginning to sprout up in the suburbs; old and narrow streets are making way for broader and better; and insanitary quarters giving place to modern hygiene. aragon is the poorest portion of this fair land, and saragossa is its capital. in every age this little kingdom has been torn by war and has suffered heavily, but its people have never wavered in their faith, and are still among the most pious and superstitious of the many different races that people the iberian peninsula. they possess that strong attachment for their sterile plains and barren mountains so common to those who wring from nature a bare existence. the emperor augustus, in the year b.c., vastly improved "salduba," and gave it the title of cæsarea augusta. when in the occupation of rome it was a free city and had a coinage of its own. the first place in spain to renounce paganism, saragossa has always been a city of great holiness. when besieged by the french under childebert in , the inhabitants carried the stole of san vicente round the walls--and the invader fled. the infidel, however, proved less susceptible to a christian relic, and the city fell to the weight of his arms in the eighth century. being a berber infidel he recognised no kalif of cordova, and between the two there soon began one of those internecine conflicts that in the end led to the termination of moorish rule. it was in this connection that charlemagne was implored to assist the northern moor against the andalusian and crossed the pyrenees with an eye, no doubt, in the long run, to the acquisition of new territory. no sooner had he reached the plains of aragon than he was recalled to quell a rising in his own dominions. his back turned, and he being presumably in retreat, the ungrateful people, eager for plunder, followed and inflicted on his rearguard a terrible defeat in the most famous pyrenean pass, the pass of roncesvalles, a disaster in which roland, that hero of romance, lost his life. thence onward, as the centuries went by, saragossa was the scene of many a fight. alfonso i. in recovered it from the moor after a long siege, and moslem rule was ended. [illustration: saragossa. la seo] saragossa is best known in the annals of its warfare for the heroic defence, immortalised by byron, in the war with france. in the month of may , the invader was close at hand, and the citizens organised themselves for defence. a young aristocrat, josé palafox, was chosen as the nominal leader, and had at his right hand the redoubtable peasant, tio jorge ibort--gaffer george. his two lieutenants were mariano cerezo and tio marin, while the courageous priest santiago sas assisted greatly, through his influence with the populace, to keep things together and prevent petty squabbles. one hundred _duros_ supplied the sinews of war! sixteen cannon, a few old muskets and two hundred and twenty fighting men were all that the leaders could count upon to repel the army of lefebvre. the siege began in june and was abandoned in august, in consequence of the disaster to dupont at bailén. in the following december four marshals of france, junot, lannes, mortier and moncey, with eighteen thousand men, invested the city, but it was not until february of the next year that, having driven the defenders out of the jesuit convent across the river, the french were able to establish a foothold in the outskirts of the city itself. every one knows how the maid of saragossa took the place of her dead artillery lover who was killed at his gun; an episode that has since become a theme to instil the young with heroic ideals. such was the spirit that gained for the city the proud title of _siempre heróica_. her citizens fought from house to house, every street had barricades, and it was only that when decimated by pestilence and famine, with half the place a smoking ruin, one of the most celebrated sieges of history came to end. as in cadiz and salamanca, there are two cathedrals in saragossa, la seo and el pilar. the former occupies the site of a church which stood here before the moors took possession of the place and turned it into a mosque. a year after the advent of alfonso i., bishop pedro de lebrana reconsecrated la seo, and its walls have witnessed many historical events in the life of aragon before the kingdom became merged into one with castile. it was before the high altar that her kings were crowned, and at the font many a royal babe baptized. la seo is constructed almost entirely of the dull brown brick with which the older part of the city is also built; the interior piers and vaulting alone being of stone. on the north-east wall, which faces the gloomy palace of the archbishop, there is still extant the most elaborate arrangement of brick work, inlaid with coloured glazed tiles, blue, green, red, white and yellow, forming a very harmonious and attractive scheme. from the centre of the north-west façade, which is extremely ugly, rises a well-proportioned tower arranged in four stages, with corinthian columns, the top of which is surmounted by a red tiled cupola and spire. the colour of this took my fancy, it "sang out" so much against the blue of the sky--a contrast i thought worthy of an illustration. entering the building by the door in the façade, i was immediately nonplussed as to the orientation of the cathedral. to add to the puzzle, for the structure is almost square, four rows of columns seemed mixed up in endless confusion, and the dim light admitted from the few windows only accentuated the mystery. very beautiful, however, is this gothic interior which runs north-east and south-west, and i soon found a spot from whence to make a sketch. the columns rise from marble bases of a rich crimson; the vaulting above was lost in gloom, the light coming in from the south-west window struck vividly on portions of the renaissance _respaldos_, the niches of which are filled with saints and archbishops, and the pattern of the marble floor served but to heighten the general effect. in the picture may be seen a tabernacle with twisted black marble columns, this marks the spot where the virgin suddenly appeared and held converse with canónigo fuenes. besides the archbishop's throne, the _coro_, which is not particularly interesting, contains a huge reading desk. there is a great deal of alabaster throughout the cathedral, notably the very fine gothic _retablo_ of the high altar by dalman de mur, around which are many tombs of the kings of aragon. close by, a black slab marks the place where rests the heart of don baltazar carlos, the son of philip iv., who was immortalised by the brush of velasquez, and who died in saragossa at the early age of seventeen. among the chapels, that used as the _segrario_, or parish church, has a magnificent moorish ceiling, and the fine alabaster tomb of bernardo de aragon. the cathedral is rich in splendid tapestries and ecclesiastical vestments. among the former is certainly the best i have ever set eyes upon. it is a very early piece and has a wonderful blue sky. in it are woven the last supper, christ bearing the cross, the agony in the garden and the crucifixion, while in the lower right-hand corner our saviour is assisting with a long pole to stir up devils who are roasting in hades. among the vestments is an extremely beautiful chasuble brought here at the time of the reformation from old st. paul's in london. i wondered, when i looked at it, whether catherine of aragon, henry viii.'s consort, had been instrumental in its removal from england. [illustration: saragossa. in the old cathedral] the cathedral of el pilar is thus named as it possesses the identical pillar on which the virgin descended from heaven and appeared to st. james. at first a modest chapel, it has grown by the addition of cloisters and subsidiary chapels to the present stupendous building. the length is close on five hundred feet and the breadth two hundred. the possession of this miraculous pillar has brought untold wealth to the cathedral. votive offerings on the anniversary of the festival at the shrine often amount to many thousands of pounds. jewelry, gems and costly objects of every description are given; these are now sold by auction, the large sum of £ , being realised a few years ago. to these sales we owe a fine rock crystal and gold medallion, given to the virgin of el pilar by henry iv. of france, and now in south kensington museum. many examples of old spanish goldsmith's work have also been acquired for the same collection in this way. the towers and pinnacles of el pilar pile up grandly, and are best seen from the fine bridge which spans the yellow flood of the river ebro. silhouetted against the evening sky, with the smooth running waters below, it seemed to me a worthy example in brick and stone of the church's magnificence. the interior is an immense temple, the frescoes of which are from the brush of that extraordinary genius, goya, who turned his talent to any job that was productive of the cash he spent so freely. the _retablo_ of the high altar is a fine piece of work from the alabaster quarries at escatron. composed of three good gothic canopies with tapering finials, it has seven smaller divisions below. damian forment was the artist who designed and carried out this, one of the most beautiful _retablos_ in the country. the _reja_ which stands in front of _coro_ is superb, and considered to be juan celma's masterpiece. behind the high altar is the celebrated chapel of the virgin. the figure itself is of very old blackened wood, evidently a specimen of early christian work. on october , the anniversary of her descent, thousands of pilgrims flock hither to kiss her foot through a hole in the wall at the back of the chapel. the city is then full of visitors and it is next to impossible to find quarters or a room of any sort. [illustration: saragossa. easter procession] i happened to be in saragossa for _semana santa_. and watched the processions of groups of heavy wooden figures, illustrative of our lord's life-history, proceed through crowded streets. my sketch shows the last _paso_ of the crucifixion, with a figure of the virgin bringing up the rear, as they passed the intensely devout throngs on good friday. masked members of different religious brother and sisterhoods, walk along keeping the route clear. the whole procession was led by soldiery, and "romans," men attired in the garb of ancient rome, while an infantry band followed the virgin. the _pasos_ are deposited in the church of santiago built on the spot where st. james passed a night. in the belfry of this church is an old gothic bell of which the inhabitants are justly proud. san pablo is a very interesting fabric, dating from the year . the floor of the church is a dozen steps below the street. the _retablo_ is another fine example of damian forment's art. the aisles are cut off from the nave by a flat wall with square pillars and ill-proportioned pointed arches. the _coro_ is at the west end, from whence also issue the notes of a very beautifully toned organ. the extraordinary octagonal brick steeple might pass as of russian or tartar origin. of all the gateways to the city, there remains but one, the puerta del carmen. it has been left as it stood after the french bombardment, and retains many marks of shot and soft-nosed bullets. the site of the historic puerta del portillo, where the maid of saragossa won immortal fame, is in the square of the same name. outside it stands the castillo de la aljaferia, the palace of the sheikhs of saragossa, and the residence of the kings of aragon. ferdinand gave it to the holy office, and from out its portals issued many terrible orders for the suppression of the wretched heretic. there still remains a small octagonal mosque, and many of the rooms have their original _artesonado_ ceilings. in it also is the "torreta," the dungeon in _il trovatore_; while from the tower can be seen the castillo de castlejar, mentioned in the drama by garcia gaturrio, from which the libretto of the opera was taken. this one-time fine palace is now a barrack, and i used to watch the recruits drilling and exercising outside. when the recruiting season commences, the numbers are drawn among those liable to serve--the lucky ones being those who are not compelled to take any part in the military service of their country. there exist societies in spain to which a sum of pesetas can be paid, that undertake to pay another pesetas to the state, if the payee's name is drawn for service, pesetas being the sum which enables any one to forego his military career. if his number is not drawn, he loses his deposit, if it is, the society pays the full sum. in the old days the nobles of aragon safe-guarded their privileges by the fuéros de sobrarbe, a code something like our magna charta, which reduced the king's authority to almost vanishing point. pedro iv. got rid of the fuéros by cutting to pieces the parchment incorporating the union or confederacy, whose members, if the king was thought to have exceeded his prerogative, were absolved from allegiance. they were a hard-headed race, these aragonese, and are still like those of the other northern provinces, very independent and jealous of castile's rule. among other things handed down from time immemorial is a national dance, and the jota aragonesa, the national air, known beyond the limits of spain. very few of these old airs still exist. as a fact, the old songs of spain and their music are better known in the jewish colony of salonika than in the country of their origin. the upper classes of this colony still speak the pure castilian of cervantes' time, and being the descendants of spanish refugees hounded out of the country by the inquisition, still observe the customs, songs and language of their immigrant forefathers. the aragonese also have a national game, tirando a la barra, which consists in passing an iron bar from one hand to the other, thereby gaining impetus for the final swing which sends it hurtling through the air towards a mark on the ground, like a javelin. one or two good old houses still remain in saragossa to testify to its former greatness, notably that of the great luna family. two gigantic uncouth figures with clubs stand on either side of the doorway which is the centre of a simple but good façade. the cornice above is very heavy and the eaves project far out, a feature that i noticed was very characteristic of the old quarters of the city. it was in this house that the besieged, during the french war, held their councils. the casa zaporta can boast of a very fine staircase and beautiful _patio_ with elegant fluted columns and reliefs and medallions breaking the spandrils. a few other good houses still exist, but as they are in the old quarters of the city, and as these are rapidly disappearing, i fear that saragossa will not contain for long anything beyond her cathedrals that is of tangible interest. santiago the evening train from pontevedra deposited me sometime about midnight at cernes, the hamlet outside santiago where the line ends. the full moon during the latter portion of the journey had been a source of endless delight. my face was glued to the window watching the ever-changing hills and valleys through which the train crept, shrouded in that mystery which obliterates detail and suggests so much in great masses of subdued light and deep shade. i reached the hotel, procured a room, threw open the window, and stood on the balcony listening to the intense stillness of a wonderful night. suddenly a dull rumbling down some side street disturbed my reverie of the santiago of days gone by. the only thing to be expected at this time of night was the station 'bus, but i heard no clattering hoofs and was lost in surmise, when out of the dark shadow of a narrow lane into the moonlight swung a yoke of oxen drawing a long cart with slow majestic pace. but what a cart! a low sort of wooden box balanced between two solid wooden wheels. the rumbling was explained. it was primitive and the most mediæval thing i had yet seen in a country which is barely european. the peasant owner, a few steps in advance, never turned his head, but guided his beasts with a long stick which he waved from side to side over his back. there was no shout, no cry of command. the _mise en scène_ was beautifully arranged, it was complete. there was the background of ancient grey houses, beyond them, tapering into the starry sky, the slender pinnacles of the great cathedral. a row of stunted trees occupied places down one side of the little square which filled my stage. the subdued colour and silence of the moonlit night, and the slow passage of the ox-cart as it passed out of sight, bettered irving's best effects at the lyceum. a clock in a neighbouring tower struck the quarters, the moment had arrived for the anti-climax! i expected every minute to see a door open, a light stream across the square, a cloaked figure steal furtively out, and disappear down into the shadow of the lane. it was perfect, nothing could have been arranged better as an introduction to santiago de compostela. [illustration: santiago. the cathedral] the body of st. james landed itself at padron on the coast not far from santiago, and his bones were brought to the spot where now stands the cathedral. in the course of time their whereabouts was forgotten and it remained for bishop theodomir to rediscover the sacred spot in , guided thither by a star. hence the campus stellæ--or compostela. the shrine of the saint is still visited by innumerable pilgrims, and perhaps more arrive in santiago than any other city of spain. in olden days so great was the number that "el camino de santiago"--"the road to santiago," gave rise to the spanish term for the "milky way." i have watched them in the cathedral, peasants, men and women, come from afar, to judge by their dress. they each carried a staff decorated with tufts of herbs and little star-shaped pieces of bread tied on with gay ribbons. i have seen women making the round of the altars in the different chapels with great bundles of clothes, through which were thrust umbrellas, balanced on their heads. they never lost the poise of their burden as they knelt and rose again. but of all the pilgrims i saw, one who might have stepped out of chaucer's pages carried me back to the days of long ago. she wore a short skirt of thick brown material, sandals protected her stockinged feet, from her girdle hung rosary, scallop shells and a stoneware pilgrim's bottle, a hooked staff lent support to her bent, travelled-stained figure. her leather wallet was stuffed with bread, and covering her short cropped hair was a grey felt hat, mushroom shaped. a little black dog entered the cathedral with her, and squatted silently by his mistress's side as she knelt praying in the dim light of a grey day. chaucer's "wyt of bath" had made a pilgrimage to "seynt jame," and my pilgrim with her little lame companion might very well have been with him too. the cathedral, founded in , was built on the site of one destroyed by almanzor in . the legend of the destruction of the first church, which had been standing for just one hundred years, was thus--almanzor, after sacking leon and astorga, swept all the country westwards with his moorish hosts until he reached santiago. so great was his fame and in such terror was his name held that no one had the courage to face him and fight for saint and city. riding through its deserted streets he came to the church, and to his surprise at last espied a solitary christian, a monk, praying alone at the shrine of the saint. "what dost thou here?" inquired the haughty moor. "i am at my prayers," curtly answered the holy man, continuing his devotions. this reply and the courage of the single enemy so called forth the admiration of almanzor, that his life was spared and an infidel guard set over the tomb. [illustration: santiago. south door of the cathedral] the west façade, a renaissance outer covering, so to speak, of the older façade, would not look so imposing as it does if granite had not been used in its construction. the grey tones of the lichen-covered stone redeem the somewhat overdone florid design, and it stands well above a double flight of steps on the east side of the huge plaza mayor. the south door, or puerta de las platerias, takes this name from the silversmiths whose workshops are still under the arcades around the plaza on to which it opens. it is the oldest portion of the cathedral and dates from the foundation. the shafts contain tiers of figures in carved niches, and the tympanum has rows of smaller ones. the north door fronts on to the plaza fuente san juan, and faces the convent of san martin pinario, which was founded in by ordoño ii. in the days before this plaza was officially given its present name, it was known as azabacheria, _azabache_ is jet, and it was here that vast quantities of rosaries made of this were sold to pilgrims. in the south-east angle of the cathedral is the puerta santa, bearing the inscription "hace est domus dei et porta coeli." it is only opened in the jubilee year and then by the archbishop himself. the entrance to it is from the plaza de los literarios. it will be seen from this that the cathedral is practically set in four great plazas, el mayor, de las platerías, la fuente san juan, and de los literarios, and for this reason, although the roof towers high above, it is one of the few cathedrals the size of which can be appreciated by an exterior view. the early romanesque interior is superb, and not unlike our own ely cathedral. the finest thing in it of archæological interest is the "portico de la gloria," which street calls "one of the greatest glories of christian art." this portico, situated at the west end of the nave, formed at one time the façade. the idea of the whole doorway is christ at the last judgment. his figure, twice life-size, occupies the centre. below him is seated st. james, while around them are angels worshipping. four and twenty elders are arranged in the circumference of the archivolt; each one holds a musical instrument, most of which are shaped like violas and guitars. a most beautifully sculptured marble column supports this in the centre, resting on a base of devils, with the portrait of maestro matio, who executed the whole from his own designs, facing the nave. an inscription under this doorway states that the work was finished in . to the right and left are smaller arches, portraying in well-cut granite good souls on their way to paradise and wicked ones in the clutches of devils on their way to hell. nothing can exceed the primitive religious feeling pervading this work. mateo must have given his whole soul with fervour to his labours; and the almost obliterated traces of painting and gilding enhance their result by giving a touch of warmth to the cold colour of the stone. west of the portico, above which are the remains of a fine wheel window, has been built the present renaissance façade known as el obradorio, the two being connected by quadripartite vaulting. the nave itself has a walled-in triforium, but no clerestory and the vaulting of the roof is barrel. the saint's shrine is in the crypt beneath the capilla mayor. the extra extravagant _retablo_ above the high altar is chirrigueresque, and hardly redeemed by the lavish employment of jasper, alabaster and silver with which it is decorated. a jewelled figure of st. james is seated in a niche above the mass of precious metal in which the altar is encased. it is all very gorgeous and must impress the pious pilgrim who has journeyed hither from afar, but i could not help wishing it were simpler. however, the one living vital thing in spain is her religion, and her church knows so well how to conduct its business that my feelings of regret are purely æsthetic. the _cimborio_ is a fine creation, under which swings on certain _fiestas_ the huge silver _incensario_, a lamp wellnigh six feet high. the two bronze pulpits are real masterpieces of cinquecento art and are adorned by subjects from the old testament by juan bantista celma. in one of the side chapels, known as the relicario, are recumbent figures on the tombs of don ramon, the husband of urraca, berenguela , fernando ii. , alfonso xii. of leon , and that faithful, pitiable figure juan de castro, wife of pedro the cruel. even now, after the spoliation by soult, who carried away ten hundredweight of precious metal in sacred vessels, the relicario is a perfect museum. all the other chapels contain good tombs, especially that of espiritu santo in the north transept; and among other beautiful objects with which the cathedral is replete are two ancient _limosneras_ or alms-boxes, two very ancient gilt pyxes, a carved wooden cross, similar to the much-revered cross of los angeles at oviedo, given by don alfonso and doña jimena in . the large cloisters to the south-west of the cathedral were built by archbishop fonseca in . they are bad gothic enriched with renaissance details. the centre court is paved with granite and gives an impression of bareness which is not redeemed by the architecture. it was in this cathedral that john of gaunt, duke of lancaster, was crowned king of spain. [illustration: santiago. interior of the cathedral] santiago possesses a much frequented university, which is extremely well provided with books. in the church of santa maria de la sar may be seen relics of the holy office which held its sittings in the adjoining monastery. the president's chair, marked with a palm, a cross and a red sword is perhaps the most notable. this monastic church, at one time owned by templars, is situated outside the city boundary on the orense road. like all the others, in fact like the whole of santiago, it is built of granite. it possesses a triple apse; the nave is of five bays without a triforium or clerestory, and the interior, in consequence, is very dark, heavy and gloomy. in it is the tomb of archbishop bernardo, . the cloister at one time must have been exceptionally fine, but alas! only nine arches now remain; and the whole edifice is of the fast-crumbling away type not uncommon in the country. the fine plaza mayor, or plaza alfonso doce, is bounded on the north by the huge hospice erected by enrique de egas for ferdinand and isabella for the use of poor pilgrims. the royal coat-of-arms is in evidence over the entrance portal, enriched, in addition, with figures of saints and pilgrims. the massive cornice has a course of heavy chain work and the ball decoration so common in toledo. this huge pile of buildings is now used as a hospital. it is divided into four courts with fountains and is admirably adapted for its present use. the small chapel is one of the gems of santiago. the roof springs from four arches with gothic statues and niches clustered round a central column. on the west side of the plaza stands the great seminario founded in for the education of young priests. the ground floor is now occupied as the ayuntamiento of santiago. to the south is the collegio de san gerónimo, with a remarkable early doorway. the college was known as _pan y sardina_ from the poverty of its accommodation. sardines, the staple industry of vigo and other coast towns of the district, are the cheapest food obtainable, hence the appellation. santiago is delightfully situated amidst heather-clad hills, the lower slopes of which are well wooded with oak, fir, and eucalyptus. great boulders of granite stand out like the monoliths of prehistoric ages. many a pleasant walk through the purple heather revealed to me a landscape such as one sees in parts of cornwall and scotland. the grey city with its red-tiled roofs, its huge deserted monastic buildings, the many spires and domes of the cathedral and other churches, all set in patches of brilliant green meadows and maize fields look particularly beautiful from monte pedroso, a fine vantage point surmounted by a huge calvary. the climate is comparatively moist, ferns of all sorts grow in the shade of garden walls, and bracken is thick in the oak woods. the galician is well favoured by nature, and being a patient, hard-working man of not much mental capacity, very pious and an ardent advocate of small holdings, gets through life with a contented spirit. he is very close and knows the value of a peseta. unfortunately he is looked down upon by the castilian, and the term "gallego" is rather one of abuse than respect. driven to emigration by the subdivision of land which cannot support more than those who own and work it now, he goes south in great numbers and is the trusted _concierge_ in many a large house and hotel in madrid and elsewhere. the panama canal too attracts him from his native hills, in fact the gallego is to be met with wherever spanish is the spoken language. tuy the train deposited me one morning at this little frontier town. it was very hot, and it was sunday. the only porter in the station volunteered to carry my bag to the fonda, so we joined a long file of peasants and tramped up the dusty road to the old gothic capital which stands splendidly situated above the river minho. from a distance the cathedral rises like a fort, capping the white houses and brown roofs which are terraced below. at one time in the far away past tuy was a town of great importance. greek remains have been dug up here, but history does not go further back than Ætolian diomede, the son of tydeus, who founded what became under king witiza the gothic capital. this was in the year . ordoño i. rebuilt it two hundred years later, and i did not find it difficult to trace the massive granite walls which sheltered the inhabitants, and preserved it as the most important city of these parts. truly a crown to the fortress, the castellated walls of the cathedral give it a martial air. the nave of five bays is early pointed, with a blind triforium and blocked up clerestory. so narrow and dark are the aisles and so massive the columns which support the fine vaulting of the roof, that i could never get rid of the feeling that i was in some great hall of an ancient castle. it only wanted a few halberdiers or men-at-arms, instead of the black-garbed peasant women kneeling at the different altars, to make the illusion perfect. the transepts, which have aisles, are romanesque with an early pointed triforium. after the great earthquake at lisbon many strengthening additions were made to the interior, blocking out most of the light. in the case of the aisles arches were run up at different intervals with no sense of proportion, quite hap-hazard, and creating a very much askew appearance in this part of the building. transoms were built across the nave to add to the disfigurement of one of the most perfect little cathedrals in spain. the west doorway is very fine, with four detached columns on either side, thus forming a narrow porch. the upper half of these columns each consists of a good figure of a saint whose feet rest on a devil. in the tympanum are good reliefs and a well-cut adoration of the magi. the archivolt is seven-fold and is an excellent piece of rich carving. all is granite, and all is solemn, quite in keeping with this hard material. [illustration: tuy] the cloister court, round which runs a most beautiful arcade of early pointed work with detached shafts, has unfortunately fallen into decay. but the charming little garden in the centre somewhat compensates for this. when i strolled in the silence was only broken by the cooing of doves and the hum of bees. the sun seemed to find his way into every nook and cranny, and here, thought i, is peace. away beyond the outer wall, a wall which is part of the old defence of ordoño's day, is the road to portugal. passing through vineyards it reaches the river a mile distant and crosses the water by a very fine bridge. it was from this road that i made my sketch of the quaint old-world town. down by the river at the end of the one broad street that tuy possesses is the old convent of santo domingo. now a barrack, it still keeps its grand transitional church. the chancel is extremely fine and among its many tombs a knight in armour with his lady at his side i thought the best. on the grassy platform in front of the church i spent one or two pleasant evenings. the river flows below and the mountains of portugal rise sublimely from the opposite bank. i was decidedly pleased with my short sojourn in this typical spanish town, the wonderful position of which, right on the frontier overlooking another land, makes it one of spain's most unique cathedral cities. orense "in the gold district," such is the meaning of orense. in roman days it was the headquarters for working the gold in which the district abounded. three warm springs, situated close to the road which leads out of the town to the south-west, also brought fame to orense, though they possessed, apparently, no medicinal properties. nowadays the poorer classes use the water for domestic purposes, thereby saving fires. in visigothic times orense was the capital of the suevi, and was the scene of the renunciation of paganism by this tribe. besides its warm springs the town boasts of two other wonders, its bridge and its cathedral. the former is certainly a grand piece of work. the centre arch rises one hundred and thirty-five feet above the river minho, with a magnificent span of one hundred and forty feet. of the six remaining arches some are pointed and some are round. the cathedral is a most interesting structure, more's the pity it is so little known. built on an artificial platform to throw it out from the hillside, it rises well above the neighbouring roofs. silversmiths and metal workers ply their trades in the dark shops between the buttresses which hold up this platform on three sides. there is nothing much to attract one in the exterior of the cathedral except the gothic north and south doors. they both have rounded arches with good figures in the jambs and archivolts. the south is the better of the two, as the north bears traces of alteration, the case in the whole appearance of the exterior. a third door opens in the second bay west of the north aisle, and is approached from the street below by steps leading up between two shops. the massive north-west tower is adjoining and stands over perhaps half a dozen small rooms where all day long the musical tap of the metal workers' hammers are heard. the side chapels of the interior are all recessed, and standing in the south-west corner of the cathedral i obtained an uninterrupted view for my sketch along the south aisle into the apse. there is no triforium in the nave, but a beautiful lancet clerestory enhances both this and the aisles. i thought the octagon at the crossing extremely good. two rows of lights, one above the other, have an interior gallery with an unobtrusive balustrade round each. the supporting corbels are well-cut bosses. the spandrils between the arches are recessed with well-carved figures of angels and archangels playing on musical instruments. of course this octagon bears no comparison with that at burgos, it is much simpler and much smaller, but has a tentative beauty of its own. [illustration: orense. in the cathedral] the transepts are of earlier date, and have been altered, though not injudiciously. the _coro_ is small, very dark and solemn, and in this respect bears favourable comparison with many another which may be far finer. its _reja_, like that of the capilla mayor, is a very good example of wrought and hammered iron-work, and does credit to the skill of those who no doubt sat in the little shops below giving their life-work to the adornment of the church above. the high altar is a mass of silver with a background of glittering carving which forms the gilded _retablo_. the warm yellow of the cathedral stone and the time-worn colour of the figures which decorate this _retablo_ have a very pleasing effect to the eye. the ashes of santa eufemia, orense's patroness, rest beneath her effigy which stands to the south of the high altar, and those of ss. facundo and primivo under theirs on the north side. santa eufemia's body was found by a poor shepherdess lying out on the mountain slopes of the portuguese border, and was brought here to rest. the cathedral is full of fine tombs, among which that of cardinal quintata in carrara marble is the best. it is placed on the north side of the chancel facing a much earlier gothic tomb with a well-carved canopy which stands on the south side. the present edifice was founded in by bishop lorenzo, displacing the older church erected in and dedicated to saint martin. wandering at random up the narrow streets which covered the hill i found myself outside the convent of san francisco. like so many institutions of a kindred nature it is now a barrack, and difficult of access. however, i managed to get in and found the chief interest centred in the cloisters. they are beautiful relics of the thirteenth century. sixty arches complete the arcade, with coupled shafts standing free. the capitals are well carved and the dog-tooth moulding above them has not suffered much from the ravages of time. here, as in other towns where money in late mediæval days was scarce, it is pleasant to find untouched remains of an earlier past. the streets are mostly arcaded and very tortuous and quaint. the market is held on the plaza of the cathedral, and fruit vendors sit in the sun on the steps which lead into the holy fane. the _alamedas_ are thronged at night with a crowd which, for spain, seemed to take life seriously. i had finished my usual after-dinner stroll one evening, and returned to my hotel. it was a balmy night and i pulled my chair out on to the balcony. the lights in the cottages on the hill opposite went out one by one, and away down below, amongst the dark foliage of a vineyard, i heard the sound of a guitar. a voice breathed out a love song, and once more i felt the romance of the south--that indescribable feeling which comes over one when nerves are attune to enchanting surroundings. astorga "no, you won't find much for your brush to do in astorga, señor"--was the answer to a query addressed to a fellow passenger in the train. i fear he was not far wrong, though i knew with the cathedral i should not be disappointed. it was a wet evening, and i landed at the station in the dark; gave my traps to a porter, and found myself after a tramp through the mud at the only fonda in the place. my baggage was deposited in a sort of glorified cupboard containing a bed. the small window had no glass, and i discovered the next day that it opened on to the stables. i objected to these quarters, and later on in the evening my belongings were moved into a room just vacated by some one who had gone on to madrid in _el rapido_. the next morning i made my way to the cathedral. it stands well and quite isolated, except for the "new art" bishop's palace which is in course of erection. the cathedral is late gothic, built in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries on the site of a former church. the interior is lofty and very beautiful, though spoilt by a bad _trascoro_ in execrable taste and quite out of keeping with the elegant columns of the nave. this consists of seven bays. the bases of the piers run up ten feet or more, and resemble the later additions to leon cathedral and those at oviedo. the intersecting mouldings on them are the very last style of gothic work and exemplify the beginning of a more florid taste. there is no triforium. the clerestory windows are of unusual height, as at leon, and are filled with very fine glass. the aisles are also very lofty. the chapels attached to that on the north have their vaulting carried up to the height of the aisle, a very unusual feature. all the windows on this side, with one exception, are blocked. in the south aisle the vaulting of the lateral chapels is low. the windows are glazed and contain good glass; and in the first chapel from the west is a very fine early german _retablo_. the transepts are of one bay only. the south has perhaps the best glass in a cathedral which is specially rich in this. [illustration: astorga] there is much good iron work in the different _rejas_, and the walnut _silleria_ in the _coro_ are exceptionally well carved. but the gem of the cathedral is undoubtedly the magnificent _retablo_ over the high altar. its author, gaspar becerra, was a native of baeza, and studied in italy under michael angelo. it is his masterpiece, and well merits this title. of the fourteen panels, _the disputation_ and _ascension_ are the best. the exterior of this lofty church is much enhanced by its flying buttresses. the west façade is good renaissance work, with flanking towers, only one of which is, however, finished. a flying buttress connects them with the centre of the façade as at leon, in fact i could not help drawing comparison, when i knew them both, between these two cathedrals. the warm red stone of which this at astorga is built has weathered most beautifully, and contrasts with the grey balustrade composed of figures holding hands--a very quaint device, by the way--which adorns the ridge above the clerestory. at the south-east corner, instead of the usual pinnacle, a huge weathercock stands. it is a wooden statue of pedro mato, a celebrated maragato, in the dress of his tribe. la maragateria is a territory of small extent in the middle of which astorga is situated. the inhabitants, the maragatos, mix with no one. they live exclusively to themselves, preserve their costume and their customs, and never marry out of their own clan. the men hire themselves out as carriers, the women stay at home and work. it is supposed that as they have many arabic words still in use, they are a remnant of the moorish occupation left behind when christian armies finally swept the infidel back into the south. this may be so, for the moors are past masters at caravan work, and the maragatos are the great carriers of spain. when on the road their strings of mules take precedence, and everything clears out of their way. the men dress in loose baggy knickers and the women attire themselves in short red or canary-coloured skirts with green or light blue lining, one pleat remains open and shows either of these colours. they wear white stockings, black shoes, and very gaily-coloured handkerchiefs cover their heads. on a sunday they swarm into the town, going off in the evening at sundown to their different villages in picturesque chattering throngs. twice a year the whole tribe assembles at the feasts of corpus christi and the ascension, when they dance for an hour, el cañizo, a dance which if an outsider dare join in is immediately stopped. i had heard a great deal of the dignity of the spaniard, before i went to spain, and had failed to find that this reputation was at all justified, except in the case of the _guardia civil_, until i came across the maragatos. i found them to be among the most self-respecting and courteous folk that one could meet anywhere; they certainly are amongst the most interesting of the many distinct tribes that people the peninsula. astorga, the asturia augusta of the romans, is described by pliny as a "magnificent city." it was once the capital of southern asturia and was always an important outpost fortress. as indicative of its strength i may mention that astorga bears for arms a branch of oak. like leon, the importance of its position as a base, both for those who lived in the mountains to the north and west, as well as for those who came from the plain, was always appreciated, and was for ever a bone of contention between the inhabitants of these districts. the bishopric was founded in by alfonso el catolico, but no man of note has ever been appointed to the see as far as i could discover. indeed, astorga is another of those old spanish cities which are passed by in the train, with the remark--"how nice the old walls look, i do wish we had time to stop here." a saunter round the walls i must own is very disappointing. it is so evident that but little veneration is felt, or respect shown, for any antiquities or historical associations. in many places they have been pulled about for the sake of the building materials they yielded. they are the rubble heaps of astorga and have fallen into sad decay. one portion is, however, preserved. in the south corner, where a pretty little _paseo_ garden affords shade and a pleasant promenade, a splendid view is obtained "over the hills and far away." here, at any rate, restoration has been undertaken for the sake of the common ground where men and women walk, as custom dictates, every evening. at the spot where the cathedral stands a great deal of demolition has taken place, and even to-day the huge new château-like palace of the bishop, now in process of erection, closes in a fine space and detracts from the little antiquity which is left in this corner of astorga. such is modern taste in spain. besides its walls, astorga is celebrated for its _mantecadas_, small square sponge-cakes, neatly folded in pieces of greased paper, which find their way all over this part of the country; but the farther off you find them the less do they resemble the originals, and these are very good. zamora travelling through the great plain of leon by train is apt to become intensely monotonous, especially when, as in the case of reaching zamora, fate decreed that i should sit baking for hours in the slowest of all, the undesirable _mercantilo_. very few villages enlivened the yellow landscape, which bare of vegetation lay blistering under the midday sun; those that were visible were all _tapia_ built with unglazed lights, and seemed to have grown outwards from the little brown-walled churches in their midst. on rising ground beyond the limits of these sad-looking hamlets, i could see the dwellings of the poorest of the poor. dug out of the bank-sides, they resemble rabbit holes more than anything else. a door gives light, ventilation and access to the interior, a tiny chimney sticking out of the ground above carries off the extra fumes of smoke. life inside must be nearer that of the beasts than that of any other race in europe; and as the slow _mercantilo_ crawled along i had plenty of time to note the stunted growth and wearied mien of those whose day of toil ends in these burrows under the earth. in many places, the year's vintage is stored in these subterranean holes. at last the train crept into the station and i read the name of my destination on its wall. zamora adds another to the list of those very interesting old cities of spain which still have a remnant of their ancient walls left standing. known at one time as ocellum duri, "the eye of the douro," from its strategical position on that barrier river, it still bears many traces of a glorious past. of old, an outpost for defence against the infidel of the south, with its natural barrier, zamora nevertheless changed hands many times. the veracious chronicler records how in ramiro ii. came to the city's relief and slew forty thousand moors--their whole force, in fact, to a man!--only to be revenged a few years later by the all-conquering almanzor. ferdinand i. in rebuilt the defences which this redoubtable warrior had levelled and presented the city to his daughter urraca, whose son, alfonso vi., was the first king of united leon and castile. zamora figures, too, in the cid's meteoric life. he appointed geronimo, his confessor, who lies buried in salamanca, to the bishopric, and when sancho besieged the place, it being then held by urraca, the defence was so excellent that "no se tomó zamora en una hora" (zamora was not taken in one hour) became a proverb. it was at this siege that five moorish sheiks brought the cid tribute and saluted him as "campeador." there are more tangible remains of the quaint old city's importance to be found in its cathedral and streets than its proverbs and anecdotes. here is the house of urraca, with an almost obliterated inscription over the gateway--"afuera! afuera! rodrigo el soberbio castellano"--culled from the ballad of the cid, and referring to his exclusion from the place. in the church of san pedro y ildefonso are a couple of fine bronze-gilt shrines containing the remains of ss. ildefonso and atilano. the romanesque church of the templars, la magdalena, dates from the twelfth century. its rose window is formed with small columns like the temple church in london; and within are some beautiful tombs. the hospital is a good building with an overhanging porch, very effectively coloured and having the appearance of glazed tiles. many old houses of the nobility now slumber tranquilly in slow decay, and zamora, like so many other spanish towns of its class, seems left behind in the modern hurry of life; and this is one of its greatest charms, the charm that is so typical of old spain. the cathedral abuts on to the city wall and is almost surrounded by a bare piece of ground, where the remains of dismantled fortifications give a deserted and forlorn air to the very unecclesiastical aspect of the exterior. i made a sketch among these ruins and could not help feeling the result looked more like an eastern farm enclosure than a really fine cathedral. there was the huge unfinished square tower, baked a brilliant yellow, the _cimborio_ and dome, with its eight curious little domes, all roofed in cement, and a copy of, if not contemporary with, the same in the old cathedral of salamanca; the low mud walls and almost flat roofs; a party of peasants in a sort of nomad encampment, innumerable fowls pecking at the dust--what more could you have to remind one of the east. the sun was broiling, and nothing disturbed this "bit" of the spain of long ago. the exterior of the cathedral has been much marred by the poor renaissance north façade, not visible in my drawing, and a tower with a slate roof. the south porch is, however, intact, and from it, for the building stands high above the douro, the view must have been grand before the bishop's palace was built and obliterated the whole prospect. a dozen steps, narrowing as they approach the portal, lead up to the door which is surrounded by four good round arches with scroll mouldings of simple design. inside this i found myself in the south transept. [illustration: zamora. the cathedral] the interior, with the exception of that portion east of the crossing, which is poor renaissance with perpendicular vaulting, is exceedingly massive. the nave is but twenty-five feet in width, the columns which support the bays are ten feet through; the aisles are very narrow, but so good are the proportions of all these that this miniature cathedral is one of the finest romanesque churches in the country. the _cimborio_ is round in plan with sixteen windows from which the ribs of the vaulting spring. unfortunately the columns have been decorated with a spiral pattern of a chocolate colour, quite destroying the beauty and simple grandeur of a feature which for simplicity ranks next to that of the catedral vieja at salamanca. in the capilla del cardenal at the west end of the nave is a very fine _retablo_ divided into six panels painted by gallegos, whose signature is on the central one. i was examining this one morning when an old priest passed through into the adjoining sacristy. he stopped and explained the subjects to me, taking particular interest in this when he learnt i was a painter and what my mission to zamora was. i cannot forget his courtesy and pride while showing me some of the treasures the cathedral possesses, and shared his regret that the wonderful tapestries were only on view at certain festivals. in this chapel are some good tombs of the great romero family, others too of interest are in the capilla de san miguel, and the finest of all that of canon juan de grado has the genealogy of the virgin sculptured above the effigy of the canon. i was very grateful for the seats which here are available for a rest and quiet examination of the church. in burgos is the only other cathedral where it is possible to sit and gaze. leon situated on the edge of the great plain which stretches away south to the sierra de gredos and beyond to toledo, leon served as a sort of buffer town between the highlanders of the north and the dwellers on the castilian uplands. the headquarters of the seventh roman legion, from which the name is derived, it may be described as a great fortress of bygone days. astorga, some thirty miles westwards, being an outpost in that direction no doubt helped to preserve leon from the ravages of the galician visigoths. the romans held their fortress for five hundred years until leovigild in captured it after a long and strenuous siege. so highly was the position and strength of these two towns appreciated, that when witiza, the king of the goths, issued a decree levelling all defensive works to the ground, they were exempted and their fortifications preserved. the moors held leon for a very short spell, and then only as a defence against northern invasion. when ordoño i. descended from his mountain fastnesses and drove them out, leon changed front with its new occupants, and became a stronghold to be held at all costs against invaders from the south. the great almanzor, in his victorious march north with the soldiery of cordova, swept away all opposition and this buffer town was sacked. however, after his defeat at calatanavor and subsequent death, the banner of christ was once more unfurled to the breeze from what little was left of its walls. these were almost entirely rebuilt of _tapia_ and cob-stones by alfonso v., since whose time they have remained or slowly fallen away. leon stands in a verdant pasture valley intersected by many streams and shady roads lined with tall poplars. the fields on either side are divided from one another by hedges and willow trees, thick scrub follows the streams and grows down to the water edge, and walking in these pleasant places it was not difficult to imagine myself back in england. the city itself is really little better than a big village, and considering the important part it has played in the history spain, seems sadly neglected and left out in the cold. this, too, despite the fact that it is an important junction and railway centre. there are no buildings of any present importance, and those that once could lay claim to this are in a state of decay. it is only on sundays and market days, when the peasants in picturesque costume and gay colours come in, that leon can boast of the smallest animation. i remember one sabbath evening as i stood on my balcony, that vantage ground from which one sees all the life of the place pass by in the street below, watching the folk parade up and down. a military band discoursed "brassy" music, the crowd was packed as tight as sardines in a tin, when suddenly the "toot, toot" of a motor horn was heard above the clash of cymbals and boom of the drum. a large car came down a by-street opposite, turned sharply and charged the crowd. the spaniard is of an excitable temperament, loud cries of disapproval, and screams from the gentler sex drowned all else. the chauffeur discovered his mistake none too soon and attempted to turn the car. at this the uproar grew louder and he brought it to a standstill. youths climbed the steps, boys hung on behind, "toot, toot" went the horn; the bandmaster, with an eye to the situation, waved his _bâton_ more energetically than ever, the big drum boomed, the trombones blurted out for all they were worth, but the hooting and whistling drowned everything. at last the car began to back and became disengaged, the chauffeur adroitly turned, and started down the street followed by the noisier elements of the crowd eventually pulling up at a café, just out of the parade zone. in leon as elsewhere, fashion dictates a limit to the walk in either direction and the chauffeur had stopped beyond this. the two occupants of the car got out in a very unconcerned manner, sat down at a table and ordered a drink. for at least a quarter of an hour, while these two were taking their coffee, the crowd stood round booing, whistling and shouting. i do not think i have ever seen anything cooler than the way in which, their thirst satisfied, and the account settled, they got up and walked slowly after the car which long ago had disappeared out of danger. by this time, despite the presence of a couple of the _guardia civil_, the crowd was excited. a cart full of peasant folk next essayed the perils of the thoroughfare, they however got through safely after much badinage and fun. no sooner had they gone, the band meantime had vanished, when out from a wine shop came some peasants with castanets a little light-headed for once. there were four of them, two men and two women. they immediately began a dance on the pavement. a ring was formed and a storm of hand-clapping encouraged them, for ten minutes they footed it admirably. more castanets appeared from somewhere and soon half leon was dancing in the middle of the calle. the feeble-looking policemen, who had been terribly worried over the motor-car incident, thrust out their chests, or tried to, and beamed all over. the scene had changed from what had first looked very much like an ugly row, to one of pure enjoyment, they were safe, every one else was out of danger, and leon too was saved. [illustration: leon. the cathedral] the night i arrived in leon, having finished dinner, i left the hotel and taking the first turn hap-hazard wandered up the street. the electric lights were soon behind me and i found myself in what seemed to be a huge deserted square. the dark night was lit by milliards of twinkling stars, and gazing upwards at them my eye followed the line of what appeared to be immensely tall poplar trees. i looked again, i had never seen trees that colour, then it slowly dawned on me that i was in front of the great cathedral. slowly, slowly as my eye became accustomed to the dark i made out tapering spires that met the very stars themselves embedded in the purple-blue sky, an infinitude of pinnacles, with a wonderful building beneath. the mystery of a beautiful night conjures up all that is best in this country. squalor and dirt are hidden; one's thoughts take flight and wander back to the spain of old, the glorious spain of bygone days. at moments like this i certainly would never have been surprised to hear the clatter of hoofs and see a band of knights with pennons flying and armour glinting appear suddenly in the semi-darkness. well, the days of chivalry have gone but the romance of a starry night will never die. the next morning i returned eager to discover what my impressions would unfold. much to my delight i found the restoration of the cathedral, which i knew was in progress, so far finished that not a single scaffold pole, nor any rubbish heaps of old stones were anywhere to be seen. extremely well have the designs of señor don juan madrazo been carried out, and the cathedral to-day stands a magnificent church and grand monument of christianity. santa maria de regla is the third cathedral which has existed in leon. the site of the first is supposed to have been outside the city walls. the second was built where once stood the palace of ordoño ii., and this had been raised on ground occupied by roman baths. the present edifice was founded in by bishop manrique de lara, a scion of a great family which was always in revolt, but was not completed until the early part of the fourteenth century. with toledo and burgos, leon's cathedral forms the group of three great churches that are distinctly french, and closely resemble amiens and rheims. it would be difficult to find another building the interior of which exceeded the colour elegance and grace of this airy structure. [illustration: leon. the west porch of the cathedral] the west porch is the finest gothic specimen of its kind which exists in spain and recalls those of notre dame de paris and the cathedral at chartres. three archways are supported by cloistered columns to which are attached figures under beautiful canopies. the archivolts and tympanum are covered with sculpture representing the reward of the just and unjust, the nativity, adoration, flight in egypt, and massacre of the innocents. all are extremely interesting, many of the figures being in contemporary costume. two grand towers flank the west façade, of which the north is the older and some thirty feet less in height than its neighbour. both are surmounted by spires, that of the south being an excellent example of open filigree work, rivalling those at burgos and very much better than that of oviedo. between these towers and above the porch is a pediment with spires and a glorious wheel window, underneath which is a row of windows that corresponds to the triforium. this portion is part of the late restoration. the south porch also has three arches, which have been well renovated. the centre one alone has a door to admit into the interior, it is double and surrounded by figures in the archivolt with reliefs in the tympanum. on the centre column is a figure of san froilan, at one time bishop of leon. a beautiful balustrade follows the sky-line of the whole cathedral. this is broken by many pinnacles, some of which are spiral, with others on the façades and finishing the supports of the flying buttresses, give the exterior a resemblance to a forest of small spires. the interior is a marvel of beauty and lightness. the nave and aisles consist of six bays, no lateral chapels disfigure the latter with chirrigueresque atrocities. the triforium runs round the whole cathedral. so cleverly has the spacing here been arranged, that with the clerestory it makes one magnificent panel of gorgeous light. the windows of this, forty feet high, were at one time blocked up for safety. they now contain stained glass, and soar upwards to the vaulting of the roof. every window in the cathedral is coloured and the effect as the sun streams through can well be imagined. no flamboyant _retablo_ spoils the simplicity of the east end, the place of what might have been a jarring note amidst the gothic work being taken by good paintings in flat gilded frames. it was señor madrazo's idea to remove the _coro_ from the centre of the nave, and had this been done santa maria de regla would have gained immensely. the carved stalls are good, and the _trascoro_ sculptured in white marble, which age has toned, and picked out in gold, is decidedly a fine work. among the chapels in the apse that of la nuestra señora del dado contains a miraculous virgin and child. tradition tells that a gambler who had lost heavily threw his dice at her and smote her on the nose. this forthwith bled copiously, hence the miracle and the name of "dado" or "die." another chapel contains the tomb of a great benefactress of the cathedral, the condesa sancha. an expectant nephew, seeing her property slowly dwindling in the cause of the faith, put an end to his aunt, and thereby met his own death by being pulled asunder by horses to which he was tied. however, the chapels are not very interesting, but the tombs in the cathedral are. of all these that of ordoño ii., behind the chancel, is certainly the finest. the king lies at full length with a herald at his head and a monk at his feet holding a scroll inscribed "aspice." he wears his crown and carries the royal emblems. this tomb was erected five hundred years after the king's death, and is guarded by a quaint iron grille. the cloisters, entered from a door in the north transept, are a jumble of gothic and renaissance, with a romanesque arcade and a good deal of plateresque work as well. some of the earliest frescoes in spain are fast disappearing from the walls. they illustrate events in the life of christ, and are in an early italian style that places their origin in doubt. from the western spires to the angular exterior of the chevet, a good idea is obtained of the beauty of the cathedral as one stands in these cloisters, and when they, too, are restored the great work begun in will be finished. next to the cathedral, and perhaps in a way more interesting, is the convent of san isidoro el real. this, the escorial of leon and castile, is a building which soult's soldiers desecrated in a most abominable manner; next to the lower or roman portion of the city walls it is the most ancient building in leon. the body of san isidoro was brought hither in the reign of ferdinand i. who obtained it from the emir of seville, and the present church was erected to receive it. this was in , the original convent being a hundred years older. san isidoro was declared by the council of toledo to be the egregious doctor of spain, and in his capacity of titular saint fought with cross and sword at the battle of baeza against the moors. the church is romanesque and dark with a lofty clerestory but no triforium. the high altar shares with that at lugo in galicia the privilege of having the host always _manifestado_. [illustration: leon. san marcos] in the panteon, a small low chapel at the west end, lie buried the kings and queens and other royalties of leon. the columns are very massive with heavy capitals; the ceiling is adorned with early frescoes which happily escaped the depredations of the french, they are crude, but the colour adds to the impressiveness of this gloomy abode of the dead. representing scenes from the lives of our lord and his apostles, with signs of the zodiac and months of the year, they date from . the whole convent is replete with mural paintings, and before soult sacked it contained many extremely interesting and rare missals of the seventh and eighth centuries. unique is another convent, that of san marcos, which stands on the river bank outside the city on the road to astorga. founded as a chapel in for the knights of santiago, it was rebuilt in - by juan de badajos, and is certainly his masterpiece. it would be difficult to find a façade of greater beauty than this marvel of plateresque work. the remarkable pink and golden colour of the stone, intensified against the background of a deep blue sky, the delicacy of the carving in which angels and cherubs, griffons and monsters intermingle with floral wreaths and branches of fruit in orderly confusion, the elegant pillars and pilasters, all so truly spanish under the blazing sun, fascinated me immensely as time after time i returned to wonder and admire. here again i could conjure up the past, the romance of spain's greatest order; well housed were those knights of old in their glorious hospice, and now--the river still runs under the walls of what afterwards became a convent, its banks are lined with tall poplars, far away rise the mountains of the north in rugged outline just as they did of yore--and san marcos? alas! half is a museum and the rest a barrack. a forlorn air pervades the place, the old garden wants tending, and despite the life of the military, i could not help sighing once again, as i have so often sighed in spain--"how are the mighty fallen!" oviedo oviedo, seldom visited by the foreigner, lies well situated on rising ground in a fine open valley. grand mountains surround and hem it in on the east, south and west, to the north the country undulates until it reaches the biscay coast twenty odd miles away. these natural barriers gather the clouds and the climate is humid; on an average there are but sixty cloudless days in the year. while i was in oviedo it rained almost incessantly, and the "clang of the wooden shoon" kept the streets lively with a clattering "click-clack." all the poorer classes wear sabots in wet weather, sabots that are pegged on the soles, difficult to walk in, but kept well out of the mud and puddles by these pegs. this particular make is common to asturias, just as the ordinary french shape is to galicia. oviedo is one of spain's university cities, and i happened to strike the week when the festivities in celebration of its tercentenary were in progress. wet weather and pouring rain never damp the ardour of the spaniard during a _fiesta_, and despite the rain, powder was kept dry somehow or other, and enthusiasm vented itself regularly up to eleven o'clock every night by terrific explosions. functions of some sort seemed to be going on all day long. societies from the country paraded the streets, led by music, in most cases bagpipes and a drum, and oviedo was evidently "doing itself proud." i happened on a ceremony in the cathedral one morning. the bishop was preaching to an immense crowd when i entered. seated in the nave were the professors of the university, doctors of law and medicine, the military governor and his staff, the alcalde and town councillors, besides representatives from the universities of every european country, except, strangely enough, germany, and one from harvard, the first to attend a function of this sort since the war. it was a really wonderful sight, for the cathedral is not marred by a _coro_ in the nave. the hues of the many-coloured robes, from canary yellow and scarlet to cerulean blue and black, the vast throng literally filling every available bit of space, even on to the pulpit steps, gave me a subject for my brush, and i surreptitiously made a hasty sketch, to be finished afterwards in my room. [illustration: oviedo. in the cathedral] the cathedral was founded by fruela in , and enlarged in by alfonso the chaste, who made oviedo the capital of asturias, and with his court resided here. he created the see in . the present edifice was begun by bishop gutierrez of toledo in , and the tower added by cardinal mendoza in . hedged in, although fronting on to a little _plaza_, the grand west façade with its beautiful porch can hardly be said to be visible. this lofty portico of richly ornamented gothic, under the shelter of which the gossips parade to and fro, leads into the cathedral and stands thrust out and between the two towers. only one of these towers is completed, and it is surmounted by a good open-work spire the top of which rises two hundred and seventy feet from the ground. i wandered about hopelessly trying to gain some idea of the exterior of the cathedral and found that it was only by walking outside the city that anything at all can be seen of it, and then the towers and roof of the nave, with the flying buttresses attached, were the only features that came into view. the entrance by the south door leads through a dark passage, in which many votive offerings hang over a tiny shrine where burnt a little flickering lamp; going in i found myself at the spot from which i had made my sketch the previous day. what a relief it was to find no _coro_ blocking up the nave! the eye could wander over the whole of this lofty interior--could follow the beautiful open work of the triforium and rest on the stained glass of the clerestory windows. the aisles are very shadowy, all the light being concentrated in the nave and the crossing, and the vision, with a great sense of good effect, is led up to the white tabernacle on the high altar and the immense _retablo_ beyond. a little theatrical if you like, but it is business, and the church understands this so well. among the chapels, good, bad and indifferent, is one containing a gorgeous silver-gilt shrine wherein rests the body of santa eulalia, oviedo's patroness. in another, tucked away behind the north transept, the capilla del rey casto, lies buried alfonso the chaste who did so much for the city. six niches in the walls contain stone coffins, which are supposed to hold the remains of fruela i., urraca, wife of ramiro i., alfonso el católico, ramiro, and ordoño i. the bodies of these royalties at one time lay here, and a modern inscription on a mural tablet relates how they were removed, but not how their tombs were destroyed. many other kings and princes we are told by this tablet also lie here, and as there are but half a dozen coffins their bones must be _bien mélange_. there are the usual overdone chirrigueresque altars which do their best to mar this imposing church, though i am glad to say they hardly succeed. from them, however, it was a relief to be taken by a very intelligent verger up the winding stairs which led to the cámara santa. this is by far the most interesting portion of the cathedral. built by alfonso in to hold the sacred relics brought hither from toledo at the time of the moorish invasion, it stands above a vaulted basement; the reason for this arrangement evidently being the damp climate, and the wish to keep so holy a charge free from moisture. the chapel is divided into two parts. the inner, of very small dimensions, has a low barrel vaulting borne by arches with primitive twelfth-century figures. the _sanctum sanctorum_ is slightly raised, and from this inmost holy of holies the relics are shown to the devout who kneel in front of a low railing every day at . a.m. and . p.m. the cedar wood _arca_ in which they are kept is of byzantine workmanship. the relics include some of mary magdalene's hair, and crumbs left over from the feeding of the five thousand. the outer chamber of the chapel has a finely-groined roof, attached to the columns supporting which are statues of the twelve apostles. the richly-tesselated pavement resembles the norman-byzantine work of sicily, and was not uncommon in spain prior to the thirteenth century. a bell tower, in which at one time hung "wamba," the great bell of the church cast in , stands partly on the roof and at the south-east corner of the cámara santa. it was erected by alfonso vi., and to judge by its present state will not long survive, most decidedly "wamba" could not swing there now. the cathedral possesses three remarkable crosses, la cruz de los angeles, maltese in shape, is studded with uncut gems. it dates from , and like the cross at santiago is years old. la cruz de la victoria, the cross of pelayo, is encased in beautiful filigree work, and is the identical one borne aloft before pelayo at his glorious victory over the moor at the cave of covadonga. the third is a crucifix on an ivory diptych, absolutely identical with the cristo de las batallas of the cid at salamanca. many other relics of great archæological interest belong to the cathedral, and make it well worth the journey to see. this journey from leon is long and trying, but the line, which climbs to an altitude of feet, is one of the finest pieces of engineering skill in spain. [illustration: oviedo. the cloisters] the dark entry of the south door leads not only into the cathedral and up to the cámara santa, but also through a side door opens on to the fourteenth-century cloisters. they are well kept and the little garden court a paradise in comparison with some of those i know. the capitals of the columns are well carved with prophets and saints under canopies, angels and angels' heads, grotesques and good floral cutting; while into the walls beneath them and round the arcades are let many tombs and gravestones brought here from different ruined or desecrated churches. i went off one morning to see the earliest christian church in the country. braving the rain i tramped through mud ankle-deep for an hour up the hill slopes westward. it was a case of two steps forward and one back, but the spirit of the tourist was on me. i could not leave oviedo and acknowledge i had not been to naranco. i was desperate and i got there. what a charming out-of-the-way spot it is! hidden behind a grove of ancient chestnut trees, under the brow of the mountain, stands santa maria. a triple arched porch at the top of a dozen steps gives entrance on the north side to this minute and primitive place of worship. i entered and found myself in a barrel-vaulted parallelogram, with a curious arcade running round the walls. the west end is raised three steps above the nave, from which it is cut off by three arches ten feet high at the centre. the east end also has this feature, but the floor is level with the nave. all the columns in the church are of twisted cable design with shield capitals containing figures in low relief. the arcades, which are walled up, have depending from the plain groining bands slabs of cut stone with plaques below, something like a ribbon and medal in the way they hang. the interior is but thirty-five feet in length and fifteen feet across. beneath the church is a semicircular stone crypt, similar to that beneath the cámara santa; it is entered from the cottage in which at one time lived the officiating priest. the caretaker inhabits this cottage, which is built on to the church, and i had come at her dinner hour. alas! she could not leave me in peace, and i must own to a defeat. i was practically driven away, for the meal was spoiling and required her undivided attention, but i had seen santa maria de naranco; i had grasped how in the early days, when the infidel was overrunning the land, this little building on the lone hillside was a centre of the faith, and how from the surrounding mountain fastnesses worshippers had gathered here and gone away strengthened by prayer, and how from this little seed of the church sown on the forest-clad hill spain's mightiness had grown. valladolid for nearly one hundred and fifty years, from the reign of juan ii., , to philip ii., , valladolid was a royal city and the capital of castile. it lies on the plain through which the river pisuerga meanders, just touching the outskirts of the city on the western side. in the moorish days valladolid was known as belad al wali, "the town of the governor," and flourished as a great agricultural centre. it is still the focus of the corn trade of old castile. it was here that prince ferdinand, despite attempts on the part of his father juan ii. to frustrate it, was introduced to isabella the reigning queen of castile and leon. many suitors had proposed themselves and paid their addresses to this paragon among women, but possessing a will of her own she made her choice and selected the prince whom she married on october , . valladolid suffered more severely at the hands of the french than any other city of spain. they demolished most of the good houses and despoiled the churches; among those that are left, however, i found plenty to interest me and to make a stay, after i had discovered them, well worth the while. i made a sketch of santa maria la antigua, which is the most interesting edifice in the place. the fine romanesque tower is surmounted by a tiled steeple which recalls lombardy, and although many additions have been made to the original fabric the whole building piles up very well, the early gothic east end being particularly beautiful. this church dates from the twelfth century, but the greater part of it is pure gothic. the roof is richly groined; there are three parallel apses, and the _coro_ is at the west end--an always welcome place to find it. the _retablo_ by juan de juni, whose work is scattered throughout the churches of valladolid, is fine though over-elaborate. another good church is san pablo, partly rebuilt by the great cardinal torquemada, whose name will for ever be associated with the terrors of the inquisition. i found another subject for my brush in its very intricate late gothic west façade. the upper part of this contains the arms of the catholic kings, below which on either side are those of the duque de lerma. the niches are luckily all filled with their original figures, and the wonderful tracery of the round window is also in good preservation. the grey finials are weather-worn and contrast well with the rich yellow and pink of the rest of the front, a façade which is absolutely crammed with intricate design. two hideous towers of later date and of the same stone as that with which the cathedral is built, flank this and detract unfortunately from one of the best examples of late gothic work in the country. [illustration: valladolid. santa maria la antigua] hard by, up the street pictured in my sketch, stands the colegiata de san gregorio, with an equally fine façade, though being an earlier gothic it is more severe in type. the doorway of this is surmounted by a genealogical tree and the arms of ferdinand and isabella. some of the figures of rough hairy men with cudgels are very primitive. san gregorio was a foundation of cardinal ximenes, it is now used as municipal offices. passing through the doorway i entered a beautiful little court, rather dark, but with sufficient light to enable me to appreciate the good artesonade ceiling of its cloisters. the second court is a blaze of light. spiral fluted columns form the cloister, the ceiling of which is picked out in a cerulean blue and white; they support a recently restored gallery, a mixture of moorish, romanesque and plateresque work, into which the sheaves and yoke of the catholic kings is introduced as at granada and santiago, making a very effective whole. a fine old stone stairway leads from this court up to what in the old collegiate days was a library. of the cathedral i fear i can write but little. it is a huge gloomy edifice without a single redeeming feature, and of all those i saw the most incomplete and disappointing. the exterior north and south walls are still unfinished, the stone work is not even faced! the east are built of brick, and the west façade, altered by chirriguera himself from the original plan of herrara, is extremely bald and ugly. this enormous building is four hundred feet in length and over two hundred wide, yet these proportions give it no grandeur. the interior is absolutely devoid of ornament, and if it were not for the _silleria_ in the _coro_, which were originally intended for san pablo and are good, there would be nothing to warrant a visit to this cold and depressing church. by the way, the sacristy contains a silver _custodia_ in the shape of an open temple, a good example of the work of juan de arfe. there is a third-rate french air about valladolid, at least so it struck me, and it was only after a visit to the old colegio de santa cruz, wherein is the museum, that my first disappointment wore off and i felt that i was still in spain. [illustration: valladolid. san pablo] the contents of the museum are mostly objects which the french plundered from the churches and monasteries of castile, and were recovered after their disastrous defeat at vitoria. the styles of berruguete, hernandez and juan de juni can be examined here at leisure. some of the life-size carved wooden figures of the last named, formerly used on the processional cars which parade the streets at certain festivals, are remarkable more from the extravagant attitudes of the figures than from their artistic merit. the custodian who accompanied me was a pleasant fellow, and evinced surprise that a _pintor_ could not see the beauties he pointed out. i fear he thought little of my artistic discrimination; especially when in the sala de juntas he invited me to ascend a pulpit over which hung a large crucifix, and with fervour solicited my admiration of the face of christ, on which was a most agonised look, "cheap" and quite according to academic rules. "no, no, it is bad." "but, señor, he suffers." i could not make him understand that acute suffering need not be so painfully apparent. in this sala are placed the whole of the _silleria de coro_ from the church of san benito. arranged on either side of the room they give it a superb effect. at the far end are the red velvet-covered chairs of spanish chippendale used by the council of the academy of arts at their meetings. beyond them, on a raised platform, are the two bronze-gilt kneeling figures of the duke and duchess de lerma. a few pictures hang on the walls and other treasures and relics help to make this fine sala an ideal council chamber for the academicians. of the hundreds of carved figures in other rooms those by berruguete, very greek in type, flat brow and straight nose, are artistically by far the best, though the "death of our lord," a life-size composition by hernandez, follows not far behind. just as madrid contains the finest armoury in the world, i doubt if any other museum can compete with valladolid's for figures and compositions of carved wood. the university holds at present a high rank, most of its professors being progressive. the building itself is a chirrigueresque concern of the seventeenth century with a very extravagant façade. it possesses a good library which is get-at-able, and not like others belonging to the church which are very difficult of access. À propos of this one of the professors here told me the following hardly credible experience of a friend of his, whom i will call a. there is a movement at present in spain to catalogue some at least of the many thousands of priceless historical arabic documents and mss. which, hidden away in cathedral and other libraries, would throw invaluable light on the history of early times if they could be examined. a. is engaged in trying to compile this catalogue, and, hearing that in a certain cathedral city--not valladolid--the cathedral library contained some treasures of arabic lore, procured an introduction to the bishop, and requested permission to search the archives of the diocese. explaining that he was unable to help in the matter, the bishop sent a. to the chapter authorities. the basis of their refusal was that any ms. if taken down from its shelf might be injured, and if once taken down might not be replaced in the same position! "yes, they certainly possessed many supposed arabic documents, but as none had been disturbed in living memory, why take the trouble to make a catalogue? surely this would be superfluous, the books were there no doubt, a. could see them in their shelves, the librarian would be happy to show them, but no, they could not be taken down." in the library of the escorial the books are all placed with their titles against the wall and their edges turned towards the spectator, so that no vulgar touch could defame them by reading. small wonder that the progressists of spain shrug their shoulders sometimes at the many petty obstacles encountered in their attempts to better their country, and regard it as an almost hopeless task. two foreign colleges are situated in valladolid, the scotch and the english. the first named was founded by colonel semple in madrid and removed hither in , the second by sir francis englefield, who came to spain after the execution of mary queen of scots. they are both seminaries for the education of young priests and with the irish college in salamanca complete the trio. the focus of the city's life is in the plaza mayor, a fine square where the first _auto da fé_, which philip ii. and his court witnessed, took place in october . it was here also that alvaro de luna was executed, after faithfully serving his king, juan ii., for thirty years. spain thereby lost the strong will and the arm which enforced it, and which out of chaos had brought the country into a semblance of order by quelling the turbulent nobles. such has been in the past the fickleness of spain's rulers that not one of the great men who have served their country, with perhaps the exception of general prim, and he died a disappointed man, has ever ended his life in peace and quiet. they have nearly all died at the stake, on the scaffold, or been foully murdered. the much dilapidated house in a narrow street where columbus died is fast falling into ruin, but that in the calle de rastro, where cervantes lived and wrote the first part of don quixote, is in better condition. burgos unlike most folk who enter the country from the north, i left burgos for the end of my last visit to spain, and found it in a way not unlike cadiz, the first place i arrived at. they are both clean cities--for spain; the streets in both are narrow, and the houses tall with double-glazed balconies. there is but little traffic in either, the squares in both are numerous, but the resemblance stops at this. the streets of burgos run east and west in lines more or less parallel with the river arlanzón. they are draughty and cold. the city stands feet above sea level and the winds sweep down from the distant sierra in bitter blasts. the life of burgos is eminently ecclesiastical with a large sprinkling of the military element, for here all three branches of the service are quartered. it is a quiet place and i worked in peace unmolested. what a pity the builders of the great cathedral could not find another site whereon to erect their wonderful church. how much better it would have looked if placed on the flat ground near the river than on the spot where a summer palace of gonzalez once stood. however, one cannot move mountains and i was perforce obliged to plant my easel on the slope of the hill and paint the stock view from in front of the west façade. in alfonso vi. moved the archiepiscopal see from oca to burgos and gave the site of the royal palace for its erection. the present edifice was founded in by ferdinand el santo on the occasion of his marriage with beatrice of swabia, who in her train brought the englishman, bishop maurice. employing a french architect, maurice was more or less responsible for the present building, though another foreigner, john of cologne, added the beautiful open work spires with their parapets to the towers of the west end. it is curious that this, the most richly ornate cathedral in the country, should be the outcome of patronage of the foreigner, though at the same time it is the most spanish of the three "foreign" cathedrals. so rich is this magnificent church in every style of architectural decoration that it would take a lifetime to know it thoroughly. john of cologne's beautiful spires are better than those at leon and oviedo, and rise with the towers that support them to a height close on ft. the gorgeous central lantern, with its twelve traceried pinnacles, the grace of those that surmount the constable's chapel, the many, many others that break the skyline and adorn this glorious fabric, all go to make it a building that, despite the different styles employed, will be a wonder and a joy as long as man's handiwork lasts. the lower portion of the west front was renewed in . the puerta principal in the centre is flanked by two small doors, with reliefs of the conception and crowning of the virgin, while the chief door has four statues of ferdinand el santo, alfonso vi., and bishops oca and maurice. large gothic windows occupy the third stage of the front, their bases being filled with statues. the central stage, which has a single arch, contains a splendid rose window. the upper portion of the two towers is occupied by very beautiful perforated double windows in which crochet decoration is profusely used. it is altogether a wonderful façade which i greatly wished could be seen from the level. the chief entrance on the north is closed. it is on the street, and through it the descent into the north transept is by the well-known escalada dorada. the early gothic portal--puerta alta--is adorned by statues and with the whole of this façade is one of the earliest portions of the cathedral. the door, which on this side leads into the cathedral, is the puerta de la pellejeria and opens on to the north-east angle of the transept below the golden staircase. on the south the puerta del sarmental is approached from the street by three tiers of steps, it is also part of the original gothic and is decorated with statues and coats-of-arms. above it rises a similar façade to that of the north transept. the arcading in both these façades is most beautiful and from some points, where the roof-line can be seen cutting the sky, they look like two towers surmounted by an elegant balustrade. very probably the pitch of the roofs was intended to be higher, and the building of the central lantern has interfered with the original design. the nave of pure early gothic is lofty but sadly spoilt by the height of the _coro_. the aisles are low, but very beautiful. the _cimborio_ runs up in double stages with windows in each and balustrades, it is a perfect maze of intricate design and fine carving. the walls are covered with the royal arms of charles v. and the city of burgos; there are figures of patriarchs and prophets standing in the niches, seraphim and angels occupy the recesses of the spandrils, and the beautiful groining of this superb octagon is quite unmatched anywhere in spain. it all looks as if just finished, the stone is white and in perfect preservation. how my neck used to ache when looking aloft, unweaving the intricacies of that splendid interior! to strengthen the cathedral and support the weight of this addition, the original piers were altered at the crossing, and the huge cylindrical columns, which are richly chased with renaissance decoration, substituted. one can hardly say that juan de vallejo has spoilt the church by this octagon, for his work here would grace any building, but all the same i think the gothic of the interior has suffered by the introduction of his designs, and i would sooner have seen the crossing in its original state. [illustration: burgos. the capilla mayor] the triforium is composed of wide bays with an uneven number of closed lights in each. a single arch, the mouldings of which are surmounted by carved heads, spans each group. the clerestory contains a little modern glass, most of the old having been destroyed by a powder explosion in the fort on the hill above. in the _coro_ the _silleria_ are exquisitely carved; the main panels represent subjects from the new testament, the lower, which are divided by pilasters with arabesques, represent scenes of martyrdom. philip vigarni, who was responsible for this fine _coro_, surpassed himself in some of its decoration, which adds one more item to all that ought to be thoroughly studied in the great cathedral. on the north side of the high altar, in front or which hangs a magnificent silver lamp, are the tombs of three of the infantes of castile. behind this, the _trassagrario_ is covered with well-executed reliefs in white stone, some of this is very soft and has crumbled away a good deal. every morning a deposit of dust is swept up and it will soon be necessary to thoroughly restore these fine panels or the designs will be lost for ever. they represent the agony in the garden, our lord bearing the cross, the crucifixion, the descent, the resurrection and the ascension. the three centre are by vigarni, and the others by alfonso de los rios. nearly all the chapels are replete with interest, be it architecture, tombs, pictures or relics, but of them all the capilla del condestable is the grandest. built in by john of cologne for the hereditary constable of castile, don pedro fernandez de velasco, it is the private property of the duque de frias. the _reja_, the masterpiece of cristobal andino, bears date mdxxiii. and is certainly the finest in the cathedral. it is a worthy entrance to this magnificent octagon, which, viewed from outside, rises detached from the main building with eight elaborate pinnacles pointing heavenwards. the tracery of the pierced ceiling of the lantern with its gilded bosses, vies in intricacy with that of the cathedral itself. there is a double clerestory with sculptured knights at the bases of the columns holding coloured metal banners. the undercutting of the mouldings in the arches is very marvellous, the lowest course is formed of detached figures hanging downwards and from a little distance off looks like a piece of lacework. in front of the _retablo_ and high altar are the superbly sculptured tombs of the constable and his wife. he is in full armour, she lies by his side on a richly embroidered cushion with her little lap-dog nestling comfortably in the folds of her robe near her feet. the chapel teems with interest; the wealth of red marble from the quarries of atapuerca and the very effective chequer arrangement of black and white steps leading to the high altar give it just the note of colour its whiteness otherwise would lack. attached to the chapel is a small vestry entered through a diminutive plateresque doorway of exquisite design. amongst other priceless relics the vestry contains a fine gold chalice studded with precious stones and a good madonna by luini. another fine picture, a _virgin and child_ by sebastian del piombo, hangs over the altar in the capilla de la presentacion. in the capilla del santissimo cristo is a very ancient crucifix of life-sized proportions. tradition and the vergers say that it came from the east and was carved by nicodemus. the figure is flexible and very attenuated, it is covered with a buff-coloured leather to represent dried flesh and is very gruesome. in san juan de sahagun are six panels of the fifteenth century; good specimens of the early spanish school, they represent the nativity, adoration and four scenes from the passion. the great bishop alfonso de cartagena lies interred in the capilla de san enrique, and his tomb is remarkably fine. others in this chapel and in the cloisters are cut in slate and have been worked with great cleverness considering the way in which a blow splinters this material so easily. the chapel of santa ana, unfortunately restored recently, belongs to the duque de abrantes, and contains the best _retablo_ in the cathedral. on it are displayed incidents in the life of christ which spring from and are enclosed by the branches of a genealogical tree. it is a quaint idea very well carried out. it is a difficult task to try and give an idea of the contents and admirable style of all these chapels in the space of a short chapter, suffice it to say that they are, one and all, worthy pendants to the rest of the great church, and exemplify in their contents the glorious age of the ruling bishops and nobility of old castile. in the south transept is a wonderful low doorway in front of which i had often stood examining the well-carved wooden panels on the doors themselves. it leads into the cloisters, but it was not until i had become thoroughly acquainted with the groups representing the entry into jerusalem and the descent into hades which grace this portal, that i passed through. the door dates from the early fifteenth century and considering the many thousands of times it has swung open and shut is in most excellent preservation. the cloisters are fourteenth-century work and form an upper storey to a basement cloister of low arches surrounding a courtyard which at the time of my visit was undergoing extensive repair. in the centre is a huge cross; the flagstones of the court were all up, and the bones from many disturbed graves were being thrown into a pit. the beautiful cloisters proper are filled with modern opaque glass--"muy frio" answered the verger to my question, "por que?"--and no doubt it is in the winter months. but the charm about a cloister is the vista through the arches; this burgos has lost for the sake of the well-being of her priests; the pity is that funds would not allow of better glass when the utilitarian aspect demanded the shutting out of the cold winds. the sacristy on the east side of the cloisters is a very beautiful early fifteenth-century room with a fine groined roof, the peculiarity of which is that it has no supporting columns. the half-piers end in corbels of hunting scenes and i daresay have often recalled to many a priest days of his early boyhood. the chapter house, with an artesonade ceiling, contains some good pictures and is reached through the capilla del corpus christi. high up on the wall of this chapel, and fixed to it with iron clamps, is the cofre del cid, a wooden coffer which the campeador filled with sand, and telling the jews it was full of gold, raised six hundred marks. he redeemed the pledge later on and paid up the sum he had borrowed. the tomb of enrique iii.'s head cook, who is lying in armour with a sword, occupies a space on the floor. he was not a bad-looking man and i daresay took his turn at the enemy and used his sword when occasion offered. street writes of these cloisters--"i know none more interesting and more varied"--but i left them and the many fine tombs and statues they contain wishing that priests were not mortal nor liable to chills. [illustration: burgos. arch of santa maria] the capital of old castile is a quiet little place and i felt i was in a northern clime far away from the charm of andalusia and the south. the name burgos is of iberian origin, "briga" signifying "a fortified hill." founded as long ago as by diego de porcelos, it was for many generations the capital of castile. at the marriage of ferdinand i. in castile and leon became one and ten years later the seat of government was removed by alfonso vi. to toledo. serious troubles ensued between the inhabitants of the two cities. old castile could not brook the interference of the great archbishops of new castile and the loss of prestige attached to royalty and its court. in charles v.'s reign burgos joined the comunéros, the opponents of centralised government, but was wisely pardoned with other towns by the king, who held a court in state for this purpose in the plaza mayor at valladolid. as a result of this forgiveness the inhabitants erected the fine entrance gateway of santa maria of which i made a sketch. since that day, except for wellington's futile sieges, burgos has slept the sleep of the just and being an eminently ecclesiastical city will continue in this happy state. much of interest lies tucked away in the narrow streets. there is the casa del cordon, at one time the palace of the velasco family, and a royal residence. within its walls the catholic kings received columbus on his return from the new world, and here was signed the incorporation of navarre with castile. this fine example of a town house is flanked by two square towers, with a rope from which it takes its name carved over the portal. the casa de miranda, with a noble courtyard and well-proportioned fluted columns, near which is the casa de angulo a strong fortress-like building. the façade of the old collegio de san nicolas is replete with fine workmanship and the church of this name with tombs. the richly-carved stone _retablo_, illustrating events of the saint's life, is also a work of real art. under the wall of the cemetery stood the house wherein the cid was born, and in the castle on the hill, now a ruin, he was married. the nuptials of edward i. of england with eleanor of castile were celebrated in this fortress, which can also claim the birth of pedro the cruel. for a provincial town burgos possesses a most interesting museum. among the many relics i saw was a bronze altar font with coloured enamels of saints and a moorish ivory casket, both from the monastery of san domingo de silos. the fine kneeling figure in alabaster of juan de padilla, who lost his life at an early age during one of the sieges of granada, is almost as beautiful as that of the infante alfonso in the cartuja. roman and mediæval remains, found at different times and taken from disestablished convents, added to the interest of a short visit. there is so much to see in burgos and its surroundings, and the seeing of it all is so pleasant, so undisturbed, and so different to the south, where for ever i was annoyed by touting loafers and irrepressible boys, that when i left it was with feelings of great regret. [illustration] across the river, about an hour's walk one morning brought me to the convent of las huelgas, which is still inhabited by shy nuns. founded in by alfonso viii. it has always loomed large in the history of castile. many of her kings have kept vigil before the high altar, when receiving knighthood, our own edward i. among them. many royal pairs have been wedded within the church, and many sleep their long sleep within its quiet precincts. the abbess was mitred, she possessed powers of life and death, she ranked as a princess-palatine next to the queen, and she was styled "por la gracia de dios." her nuns were, and still are, daughters of noble houses, and some even of royal birth. in the chapel of santiago hangs a copy of the embroidered banner captured at the great fight of las navas de tolosa, a victory which crippled and drove out the infidel from the north. the original hangs in the nun's choir, a fitting pendant to the splendid tapestries which cover the walls. i was told of other treasures invisible to the eye of man and once again wished i could have changed my sex for a short time. being mere man, i heard the gate shut as i left the convent with a rather crestfallen feeling, so walked another half-mile on to the hospital del rey. alfonso viii. built this hospice for pilgrims _en route_ to santiago. but little remains of the original building, though the renaissance façade and thirteenth-century doorway, with curious figures of adam and eve, repaid me for my extra trudge and i returned to my hotel with the imagined slight dissipated and my _amour propre_ restored. my last pilgrimage in spain happened one cold afternoon when i went out to the cartuja de miraflores. the clouds hung low over the hills and the damp smell of autumn was in the air. the road thither passes through avenues of great poplars. the leaves had begun to fall and it was wet under foot. a slight drizzle was imperceptibly saturating everything and i thought the time of my departure from sunny spain not ill-chosen. despite all this, and the depressing day, i can always recall with pleasure the road that my companion and i traversed before we passed under the arch that marks the monastic boundary. beggars accosted us at the door of the monastery, for once i gave them alms and received a blessing. we passed in, and found ourselves in a pretty little courtyard filled with dahlias and other autumnal flowers. the bright colours cheered us a bit, the church lay on our left, we entered it under a gothic arch. a monk in the stalls was at prayer, he also kept an observant eye on the two visitors. our footsteps seemed to sound intensely loud on the stone pavement, and we spoke in very low whispers. the cold white-washed walls and this solitary figure droning out his prayers were depressing. we furtively admired the finely-carved stalls, the grand _retablo_ over the high altar with its terribly life-like crucifix, all the time with a feeling on my part of that vigilant eye boring a hole in my back like a gimlet. we next examined the alabaster tomb the masterpiece of gil de siloe, executed to the order of isabella the catholic, which stands in front of the altar. juan ii. and his wife isabella of portugal lie side by side clothed in their robes of state. at his feet are two lions, at hers a lion and a dog. i forgot the solitary monk and the gimlet stopped its work as i became lost in admiration while following the intricacies of gil de siloe's greatest production. at the eight corners of this magnificent tomb, most undoubtedly the finest i have ever seen, and by some considered unsurpassed in europe, sixteen lions support the royal arms, above them along the cornice beautiful little statuettes stand under canopies which are a marvel of delicate tracery. the embroidery on the robes of the royal pair is exquisite and the imitation of the lace work unsurpassed. for a long time we stood discussing and admiring the marvellous cleverness of the designer of a monument which is worthy of the great and pious woman who erected it to the memory of her parents. hard by in the west wall of the church is the tomb of the infante alfonso, whose death at the early age of sixteen left the accession vacant for isabella and so changed the history of castile. it is likewise a wonderful piece of work by the same skilful hand. the young prince kneels alone in an attitude of prayer which gains dignity from the half-shadow thrown by the recess in which the monument is placed. the arch above is decorated with a twining vine, while men-at-arms support the tomb. we turned from the contemplation of these two memorials and the monotone of the old monk's prayer filled the church. i think we both shared a feeling of relief when we found ourselves once more outside under the grey sky, though i shall ever remember the impression of that aisleless church with its magnificent tombs, that white robed monk with his droning voice, the chill of the autumn air and those long lines of stately poplars under which i passed in my last pilgrimage in spain. index abderrhaman, mosque of, adrian iv., pope, albornoz, cardinal, tomb of, alfonso vi., , alfonso viii., alfonso de cartagena, bishop, alfonso el catolico, ; coffin of, alfonso the chaste, , alfonso the learned, sarcophagus of, alfonso de los rios, alhambra, , , _sqq._ court of lions, almakkari, historian, almanzor, alva garcia, alvaro de luna, antequerra, arabic documents, aragon, union of, with castile, arfe, silver monstrance by, arfe, juan de, arlanzón, river, astorga, - cathedral, , _sqq._ historical sketch, augustus, emperor, averroes, avila, - cathedral, , avila, historical sketch, avila, tomb of, badajos, juan de, baeza, barcelona, , - cathedral, , _sqq._ church of san pablo del campo, church of santa marica del mar, church of santa marica del pi, historical sketch, , _sqq._ rambla, barceloneta, suburb of barcelona, bartolomé, and the capilla real, granada, beatrice of swabia, sarcophagus of, becerra, gaspar, beggars, at cordova, , ; at seville, , ; at madrid, bernardo de aragon, tomb of, berruguete, carvings by, , , boabdil, figure of, at granada, brutus, junius, founds colony on the turia, bull-fights, at seville, burgos, - capilla del condestable, capilla del corpus christi, capilla de la presentacion, capilla de san enrique, capilla del santissimo cristo, cathedral, , _sqq._ chapel of santa anna, church of san domingo de silos, church of san juan de sahagun, convent of las huelgas, collegio de san nicolas, historical sketch, , _sqq._ museum, cadiz, - académia de bellas artes, cathedral, , historical sketch, mercado, cæsar, julius, captures seville, calix at valencia, campaña, pedro, pictures at seville, cano, alonso, pictures by, at cadiz, ; at seville, , ; builds façade of cathedral at granada, ; pictures by, ; pictures by, at malaga, ; figure by at segovia, cartuja de miraflores, casa consistorial, barcelona, casa del cordon, burgos, cataluña, union with aragon, cervantes, house of, charles v., palace of, ; arms of, chartres cathedral, chirriguera, high altar by, , , cid, the, , cofre del cid, columbus, monument at seville, ; house of, comunéros, cordova, - capilla de nuestra señorade villavicosia, cathedral, , _sqq._ convent de san jeronimo, historical sketch, , mosques, , cornielis, work of, corre de sol, granada, cristóbal, carving by, at tortosa, dalman de mur, high altar by, damian forment, retablo, , darro, river at granada, , , , de gainza, martin, diego de porcelos, diego de siloe, plans cathedral at granada, ; at malaga, duque de lerma, edward i., marriage of, , el calvario, el campanario, tower at cordova, el cristo de la luz, toledo, el grao, port of valencia, el parral, segovia, el transito, toledo, englefield, sir francis, escovedo, juan, essex, siege of cadiz by lord, ferdinand i., , marriage of, ferdinand and isabella, monument at granada, ; portraits, , , ; arms of, ferdinand el santos, , francisco de lara, ceiling by, francisco de palenzuela, tomb of, fruela i., coffin of, gallegos, panels by, gayá, genil, river at granada, geromino, tomb of, geronimo, gerona, - cathedral, , _sqq._ church of san pedro de los gallegans, historical sketch, , _sqq._ gibraltar, gil de siloe, giralda tower, seville, , gomar, francisco, work at tarragona, gonzalo de cordoba, grado, canon juan de, tomb of, granada, - albaicin, alhambra, , _sqq._ antequeruela, capilla de la antigue, capilla de pulgar, capilla real, capilla de trinidad, cathedral, , church of san juan de los reyes, church of san nicólas, church of santa anna, convent of cartuja, convent of san geronimo, greek remains, tuy, guadalete, river at cadiz, ; battle on banks of, guadalquiver, position of cordova on, guadelmedina, the, guillermo boffy, gutierrez, bishop, hernandez, , hontañon, rebuilt dome of seville cathedral, ; salamanca cathedral, ; segovia, hospital de santa cruz, toledo, infante alfonso, tomb of, inigo de mendoz, tomb of, james i., of aragon, armour of at valencia, ; tomb of, jews at seville, john of cologne, , john of gaunt, josé granados, builds western facade of cathedral, granada, juan ii., juan bantista celma, juan, prince, tomb of, juan de borgoña, frescoes by, , juan de castro, juan de juni, juan de mena, juan de padilla, figure of, juan de vallejo, juanes, _last supper_ by, la magdena, zamora, lanfredo, bishop, la peña gajera, la peñarala, las navas de tolosa, leon, - cathedral, chapel of la nuestra señora del dado, convent of san isidoro el real, convent of san marcos, historical sketch, , _sqq._ leovigild, loja, loyola, relic of, lucan, madrazo, designs by, maestro matio, portrait of, malaga, - alcazába, cathedral, historical sketch, , _sqq._ mercado, malagueta, river, manrique de lara, bishop, maragatos, the, marcellus peoples cordova, maria padilla, mistress of pedro the cruel, coffin of, maurice, bishop, , mena, pedro de, pupil of cano, mendoza, cardinal, meshwâr, miguelete tower, minho, river, monte mauro, morales, mulhacen, murillo, pictures at cadiz, ; _san antonio de padua_ at seville, ; in seville museum, museum, seville, napoleonic wars, naranco, church of santa maria, , nicodemus, nicolas florentino, retablo by, nicolas de vergara, carving by, notre dame de paris, oca, bishop, oñar, river, ordoño i., coffin of, ordoño ii., orense, - cathedral, , _sqq._ convent of san francisco, historical sketch, oviedo, - capilla del rey casto, cathedral, historical sketch, , _sqq._ panteon, leon, parapanda, mount, pedro the cruel, coffin of, ; trees planted by, pedro mato, statue of, pelayo, petrucci orto, chalice by, philip ii. destroys mosques at cordova, philip vigarni, , philip and juana la loca, tomb of, at granada, ; coffins of, pisuerga, river, pliny quoted, pradas, work of, at granada, quintata, cardinal, tomb of, ramiro ii., ramiro, coffin of, ramon berenguer i., count, ramon berenguer ii., and emensendis, tombs of, reus, ribalta, painting by, at valencia, ribera, _adoration_ by, roman remains, at tarragona, ; at segovia, roman sculpture at tarragona, salamanca, - capilla del carmen, capilla mayor, capilla de san bartolomé, capilla de talavera, cathedrals, , , _sqq._, church of san pedro, collegio mayor de santiago apostol, convent of las agustinas recoletas, grammar school, historical sketch, , _sqq._ university, san pedro, river at cadiz, santa eulalia, body of, , santiago, - cathedral, , _sqq._ collegio de san gerónimo, historical sketch, santos cruz, pictures by, saragossa, , - church of san pablo, cathedrals, , _sqq._ el pilar, historical sketch, , _sqq._ la seo, , _sqq._ sebastian del piombo, segovia, - capilla del cristo del consuelo, cathedral, , _sqq._ chapel of santa cantalina, church of san martin, church of san millan, church of la vera cruz, convent of santa cruz, historical sketch, , _sqq._ semple, colonel, seneca, seville, - capilla de san pedro, capilla de santiago, cathedral, , _sqq._ historical sketch, jewish quarter, sierra de elvira, sierra nevada, , souchet, sacks valencia, tarragona, - cathedral, , _sqq._ historical sketch, , _sqq._ toledo, - bridges, , cathedral, capilla de la descension de nuestra señora, capilla de reyes nuevo, capilla de san ildefonso, capilla de santiago, church of san juan de los reyes, church of santa maria la blanca, convent of san domingo el real, historical sketch, , _sqq._ jews' quarter, torquemada, cardinal, tortosa, - carving at, by cristobal, cathedral , _sqq._ historical sketch, , _sqq._ triana, tribunal de aguas, tuy, - cathedral, , _sqq._ convent of santa domingo, historical sketch, , _sqq._ urraca, ; coffin of, valencia, - cathedral, church of san martin, church of santa catalina, convent del carmen, convent espinose, convent juanes, convent ribalta, historical sketch, , _sqq._ mercado, , valladolid, - church of santa maria la antigua, colegiata de san gregorio, collegio de santa cruz, historical sketch, scotch and english colleges, university, vargas, louis de, _la gamba_ at seville, , vega, the, velasquez, tomb of, vigarney, carvings by, viladomát, pictures by, at barcelona, "wamba," great bell, oviedo, wellington, duke of, ximenes, , yahya, moorish king, zamora , - capilla del cardinal, capilla de san miguel, cathedral, , _sqq._ church of la magdalena, church of san pedro of ildefonso, historical sketch, hospital, zurbaran, pictures at cadiz, ; at seville, , printed by ballantyne & co. limited tavistock street, covent garden, london * * * * * typographical errors corrected by the etext transcriber. matyrdoms of the order=>martyrdoms of the order witiza in the meantime died and was suceeded=>witiza in the meantime died and was succeeded the whole rises in isolated grandeur and and may perhaps gain=>the whole rises in isolated grandeur and may perhaps gain and if it happen to be a=>and if it happens to be a the arches of the the old bridge=>the arches of the old bridge so named on acount of the scallop shells=>so named on account of the scallop shells she is embracing me, we disentagle ourselves=>she is embracing me, we disentangle ourselves but a short exsistence as their house of prayer=>but a short existence as their house of prayer who fought three antagonists one ofter another and came off successful=>who fought three antagonists one after another and came off successful i was immediatley nonplussed=>i was immediately nonplussed bernardo de arragon, tomb of, =>bernardo de aragon, tomb of, a year's journey through france, and part of spain. by philip thicknesse. volume i dublin printed by j. williams, (no. .) skinner-row. m,dcc,lxxvii. +----------------------------------------------------------+ | | | transcriber's note: the long-s has been modernized to s. | | | +----------------------------------------------------------+ a journey, &c. * * * * * letter i calais, june th, dear sir, as you are kind enough to say, that those letters which i wrote from this kingdom, nine or ten years ago, were of some use to you, in the little tour you made through france soon after, and as they have been considered in some degree to be so to many other persons, (since their publication) who were unacquainted with the manners and customs of the french nation, i shall endeavour to bring together, in this second correspondence with you, not only some of the former hints i gave you, but such other remarks as a longer acquaintance with the country, and a more extensive tour, may furnish me with; but before i proceed any further, let me remind you, of one great fault i was then guilty of; for though your partiality to me might induce you to overlook it, the public did not, i mean that of writing when my temper was disturbed, either by cross incidents i met with upon the road, or disagreeable news which often followed me from my own country into this. i need not tell a man of your discernment, in what a different light all objects, whether animate, or inanimate, appear to those, whose temper is disturbed, either by ill health, ill treatment, or, what is perhaps more prevalent than either, the chagrin he may feel at not being rated in the estimation of others, according to that value he puts upon himself. could dr. smollett rise from the dead, and sit down in perfect health, and good temper, and read his travels through france and italy, he would probably find most of his anger turned upon himself. but, poor man! he was ill; and meeting with, what every stranger must expect to meet at most french inns, want of cleanliness, imposition, and incivility; he was so much disturbed by those incidents, that to say no more of the writings of an ingenious and deceased author, his travels into france, and italy, are the least entertaining, in my humble opinion, of all his works. indeed i have observed that most travellers fall into one extreme, or the other, and either are all panegyric or all censure; in which case, all they say cannot be just; for, as all nations are governed by men, and the bulk of men of all nations live by artifice of one kind or other, the few men who pass among them, without any sinister views, cannot avoid feeling, and but few from complaining of the ill treatment they meet with; not considering one of swift's shrewd remarks; _i never_ said he, _knew a man who could not bear the misfortunes of another perfectly like a christian_. remember therefore, when i tell you how ill i have been treated either by _lords_ or _aubergists_, or how dirtily served by either, it is to prepare myself and you too, to be content with neighbours' fare. when a man writes remarks upon the manners and customs of other nations, he should endeavour to wean himself from all partiality for his own; and i need not tell you that i am in _full possession_ of that single qualification, which i hope will make you some amends for my defects in all the others; for it is certainly unjust, uncandid, and illiberal, to pronounce a custom or fashion absurd, because it does not coincide with our ideas of propriety. a turk who travelled into england, would, upon his return to constantinople, tell his countrymen, that at canterbury; (bring out of _opium_,) his host did not know even what he demanded; and that it was with some difficulty he found out, that there were shops in the town where _opium_ was sold, and even then, it was with greater, he could prevail upon the vender of it to let him have above half an ounce: if he were questioned, why all these precautions? he would tell them, laughingly, that englishmen believe _opium_ to be a deadly poison, and those people suspected that he either meant to kill himself, or to poison another man with it. a french gentleman, who travelled some years since into spain, had letters of recommendation to a spanish bishop, who received him with every mark of politeness, and treated him with much hospitality: soon after he retired to his bedchamber, a priest entered it,[a] holding a vessel in his hand, which was covered with a clean napkin; he said something; but the frenchman understanding but little spanish, intimated by signs his thanks, and desired him to put it down, believing, that his friend, the bishop, had sent him a plate of sweetmeats, fruit, iced cream, or some kind of refreshment to eat before he went to bed, or to refresh his exhausted spirits in the night; but his astonishment was great indeed, when he found the priest put the present under the side of the bed; and more so, when he perceived that it was only a _pot de chambre_;--for, says the frenchman, "in spain, they do not use the _chaise percee_!" the frenchman is surprized at the spaniard, for not using so convenient a vehicle; the englishman is equally surprized, that the frenchman does;--the frenchman is always attentive to his own person, and scarce ever appears but clean and well dressed; while his house and private apartments are perhaps covered with litter and dirt, and in the utmost confusion;--the englishman, on the other hand, often neglects his external dress; but his house is always exquisitely clean, and every thing in it kept in the nicest order; and who shall say, which of the two judge the best for their own ease and happiness? i am sure the frenchman will not give up his powdered hair, and laced coat, for a clean house; nor do i believe those fineries would sit quietly upon the back of an englishman, in a dirty one. in short, my dear sir, we must take the world, and the things in it, as they are; it is a dirty world, but like france, has a vast number of good things in it, and such as i meet with, in this my third tour, which shall be a long one, if i am not _stopped_ by the way, you shall have such an account of as i am able to convey to you: i will not attempt to _top the traveller_ upon you, nor raise monuments of wonder, where none are to be seen; there is real matter enough to be found upon this great continent, to amuse a man who travels slowly over it, to see what is to be seen, and who wishes not to be seen himself. my style of travelling is such, that i can never be disturbed in mind for want of respect, but rather be surprised when i meet with even common civility. and, after all, what does it signify, whether monsieur _ou tel_ travels in a laced coat _et très bien mis_, attended by half a dozen servants, or, as pope says, "will run the lord knows whither in a chaise and one." i am, your's &c. [a] the bishops in spain are attended and waited upon by inferior clergy. letter ii. june th, . before i leave calais, let me remind you, that an english guinea is worth more than a _louis d'or_; and observe, that the first question _my friend mons. dessein_, at the _hotel d'angleterre_ will put to you, (after he has made his bow, and given you a side look, as a cock does at a barley-corn) is, whether you have any guineas to change? because he gets by each guinea, full weight, ten _sols_. by this hint, you will conclude, he will not, upon your return, ask you for your french gold; but in this too you will be mistaken, for he finds an advantage in that also; he will, not indeed give you guineas, but, in lieu thereof, he has always a large quantity of _birmingham shillings_, to truck with you for your _louis d'ors_. i am afraid, when lord north took into consideration the state of the gold coin, he did not know, that the better state it is put into in england, is the surest means of transporting it into france, and other countries; and that scarce a single guinea which travellers carry with them to france, (and many hundred go every week) ever returns to england: beside this, the quantity of gold carried over to the ports of _dunkirk_, _boulogne_, and _calais_, by the smugglers, who always pay ready money, is incredible; but as money, and matters of that kind, are what i have but _little concern in_, i will not enlarge upon a subject no way interesting to me, and shall only observe, that my landlord, _mons. dessein_, who was behind-hand with the world ten years ago, is now become one of the richest men in _calais_, has built a little theatre in his garden, and has united the profitable business of a banker, to that of a publican; and by studying the _gout_ of the english nation, and changing their gold into french currency, has made, they say, a _demi plumb_. notwithstanding the contiguity of _calais_ to england, and the great quantity of poultry, vegetables, game, &c. which are bought up every market-day, and conveyed to your coast, i am inclined to believe, there are not many parts of france where a man, who has but little money, can make it go further than in this town; nor is there any town in england, where the fishery is conducted with so much industry. yesterday i visited my unfortunate daughter, at the convent at _ardres_;--but why do i say unfortunate? she is unfortunate only, in the eyes of the world, not in her own; nor indeed in mine, because she assured me she is happy. i left her here, you know, ten years ago, by way of education, and learning the language; but the small-pox, which seized her soon after, made such havock on a face, rather favoured by nature, that she desired to hide it from the world, and spend her life in that retirement, which i had chosen only to qualify her _for_ the world. i left her a child; i found her a sensible woman; full of affection and duty; and her mangled and seamed face, so softened by an easy mind, and a good conscience, that she appeared in my partial eyes, rather an agreeable than a plain woman; but she did not omit to signify to me, that what others considered her misfortune, she considered (as it was not her fault) a happy circumstance; "if my face is plain (said she) my heart is light, and i am sure it will make as good a figure in the earth, as the fairest, and most beautiful." my only concern is, that i find the _prieure_ of this convent, either for want of more knowledge, or more money, or both, had received, as parlour boarders, some english ladies of very suspicious characters. as the conversation of such women might interrupt, and disturb that peace and tranquillity of mind, in which i found my daughter, i told the _prieure_ my sentiments on that subject, not only with freedom, but with some degree of severity; and endeavoured to convince her, how very unwarrantably, if not irreligiously she acted. an abandoned, or vicious woman, may paint the pleasures of this world in such gaudy colours, to a poor innocent nun, so as to induce her to forget, or become less attentive to the professions she has made to the next. it was near this town, you know, that the famous interview passed between henry the eighth, and _francis_ the first, in the year ; and though it lasted twenty-eight days, and was an event which produced at that time so many amusements to all present, and so much conversation throughout europe, the inhabitants of this, town, or calais, seem to know little of it, but that one of the bastions at _ardres_ is called the bastion of the two kings.--there still remains, however, in the front of one of the houses in _calais_, upon an ornamented stone, cut in old letter, =god save the king=; and i suppose that stone was put, where it now remains, by some loyal subject, before the king arrived, as it is in a street which leads from the gate (now stopped up) which henry passed through. letter iii. in a very few days i shall leave this town, and having procured letters of recommendation from some men of fashion, now in england, to their friends in _spain_, i am determined to traverse this, and make a little tour into that kingdom; so you may expect something more from me, than merely such remarks as may be useful to you on any future tour you make in france; i mean to conduct you at least over the _pyrenean_ hills to _barcelona_; for, though i have been two or three times before in spain, it was early in life, and when my mind was more employed in observing the _customs_ and _manors_ of the birds, and beasts of the field, than of their lords and masters, and made too, on the other side of that kingdom. having seen as much of paris as i desired, some years ago, i intend to pass through the provinces of _artois_, _champaigne_, _bourgogne_, and so on to _lyons_; by which route you will perceive, i shall leave the capital of this kingdom many leagues on my right hand, and see some considerable towns, and taste now and then of the most delicious wines, on the spots which produce them; beside this, i have a great desire to see the remains of a roman subterranean town, lately discovered in _champaigne_, which perhaps may gratify my curiosity in some degree, and thereby lessen that desire i have: long had of visiting _herculaneum_, an _under-ground_ town you know, i always said i would visit, if a certain person happened to be put _under-ground_ before me; but the cause, and the event, in all human affairs, are not to be fathomed by men; for though the event happened, the _cause_ frustrated my design; and i must cross the _pyranean_ not the _alpian_ hills. but lest i forget it, let me tell you, that as my travelling must be upon the frugal plan, i have sold my four-wheel post-chaise, to _mons. dessein_, for twenty-two guineas, and bought a french _cabriolet_, for ten, and likewise a very handsome english coach-horse, (a little touched in the wind indeed) for seven. this equipage i have fitted up with every convenience i can contrive, to carry me, my wife, two daughters, and all my _other_ baggage; you will conclude therefore, _light_ as the latter may be, we are _bien charge_; but as we move slowly, not above seven leagues a day, i shall have the more leisure to look about me, and to consider what sort of remarks may prove most worthy of communicating from time to time to you. i shall be glad to leave this town, though it is in one respect, something like your's,[b] everyday producing many _strange faces_, and some very agreeable acquaintance. the arrival of the packet-boats from dover constitutes the principal amusement of this town. [b] bath. the greater part of the english _transports_ who come over, do not proceed much further than to see the tobacco plantations near _st. omer_'s; nor is their return home less entertaining than their arrival, as many of them are people of such _quick parts_, that they acquire, in a week's tour to _dunkirk_, _bologne_, and _st. omer_'s, the _language_, dress and manners of the country. you must not, however, expect to hear again from me, till i am further _a-field_. but lest i forget to mention it in a future letter, let me refresh your memory, as to your conduct at dover, at sea, and at _calais_. in the first of these three disagreeable places, (and the first is the worst) you will soon be applied to by one of the captains of the packets, or bye-boats, and if you hire the boat to yourself, he will demand five guineas; if you treat with another, it is all one, because they are all, except one, partners and equally interested; and therefore will abate nothing. captain watson is the only one who _swims upon his own bottom_; and as he is a good seaman, and has a clean, convenient, nay an elegant vessel, i would rather turn the scale in his favour, because i am, as you will be, an enemy to all associations which have a tendency to imposition upon the public, and oppression to such who will not join in the general confederacy; yet i must, in justice to the captains of the confederate party, acknowledge, that their vessels are all good; _well found_; and that they are civil, decent-behaved men. as it is natural for them to endeavour to make the most of each _trip_, they will, if they can, foist a few passengers upon you, even after you have taken the vessel to your own use only. if you are alone, this intrusion is not agreeable, but if you have ladies with you, never submit to it; if they introduce men, who appear like gentlemen upon your vessel, you cannot avoid treating them as such; if women, you cannot avoid them treating them with more attention than may be convenient, because they _are_ women; but were it only in consideration of the sea-sickness and its _consequences_, can any thing be more disagreeable than to admit people to _pot_ and _porringer_ with you, in a small close cabin, with whom you would neither eat, drink, or converse, in any other place? but these are not the only reasons; every gentleman going to france should avoid making new acquaintance, at dover, at sea, or at _calais_: many _adventurers_ are always passing, and many honest men are often led into grievous and dangerous situations by such inconsiderate connections; nay, the best, and wisest men, are the most liable to be off their guard, and therefore you will excuse my pointing it out to you. i could indeed relate some alarming consequences, nay, some fatal ones, which have befallen men of honour and character in this country, from such unguarded connections; and such as they would not have been drawn into, on the other side of the "_invidious streight_." when an englishman leaves his own country, and is got no further from it than to this town, he looks back upon it with an eye of partial affection; no wonder then, if he feels more disposed to be kind to a countryman and a stranger he may meet in this.--i do not think it would be difficult to point out, what degree of intimacy would arise between two men who knew but little of each other, according to the part of the world they were to meet in.--i remember the time, when i only knew your person, and coveted your acquaintance; at that time we lived in the same town, knew each other's general character, but passed without speaking, or even the compliment of the hat; yet had we met in london, we should certainly have taken some civil notice of each other: had the interview been at york, it is five to one but it would have produced a conversation: at edinburgh, or dublin, we should have dined, or gone to the play together: but if we had met at barbadoes, i should have been invited to spend a month at your penn, and experienced many of those marks of hospitality, friendship, and generosity, i have found from the creoles in general. when you get upon the french coast, the packet brings to, and is soon boarded by a french boat, to carry the passengers on shore; this passage is much longer than it appears to be, is always disagreeable, and sometimes dangerous; and the landing, if the water be very low, intolerable: in this case, never mind the advice of the captain; his advice is, and must be regulated by his _own_ and his owner's interest, more than your convenience; therefore stay on board till there is water enough to sail up to the town, and be landed by a plank laid from the packet to the shore, and do not suffer any body to persuade you to go into a boat, or to be put on shore, by any other method, tho' the _packet-men_ and the _frenchmen_ unite to persuade you so to do, because they are mutually benefited by putting you to more expence, and the latter are entertained with seeing your cloaths dirted, or the ladies _frighted_. if most of the packet-boats are in _calais_ harbour, your captain will use every argument in his power to persuade you to go on shore, in the french boat, because he will, in that case, return directly to dover, and thereby save eight-and-twenty shillings port duty. when we came over, i prevailed upon a large company to stay on board till there was water enough to sail into the harbour: it is not in the power of the captain to deceive you as to that matter, because there is a red flag hoisted gradually higher and higher, as the water flows into the harbour, at a little fort which stands upon _stilts_ near the entrance of it. when you are got on shore, go directly to _dessein_'s; and be in no trouble about your baggage, horses, or coach; the former will be all carried, by men appointed for that purpose, safely to the custom-house, and the latter wheeled up to your _hotel_, where you will sit down more quietly, and be entertained more decently, than at dover. letter iv. rheims, in champagne. little or nothing occurred to me worth remarking to you on my journey hither, but that the province of _artois_ is a fine corn country, and that the french farmers seem to understand that business perfectly well. i was surprised to find, near _st. omer_'s, large plantations of tobacco, which had all the vigour and healthy appearance of that which i have seen grow in _poor_ america. on my way here, (like the countryman in london, in gazing about) i missed my road; but a civil, and, in appearance, a substantial farmer, conducted us half a league over the fields, and marked out the course to get into it again, without returning directly back, a circumstance i much hate, though perhaps it might have been the shorter way. however, before i gained the high road, i stumbled upon a private one, which led us into a little village pleasantly situated, and inhabited by none other but the poorest peasants; whose tattered habits, wretched houses, and smiling countenances, convinced me, that chearfulness and contentment shake hands oftener under thatched than painted roofs. we found one of these villagers as ready to boil our tea-kettle, provide butter, milk, &c. as we were for our breakfasts; and during the preparation of it, i believe every man, woman, and child of the hamlet, was come down to _look at us_; for beside that wonderful curiosity common to this whole nation, the inhabitants of this village had never before seen an englishman; they had heard indeed often of the country, they said, and that it was _un pays très riche_. there was such a general delight in the faces of every age, and so much civility, i was going to say politeness, shewn to us, that i caught a temporary chearfulness in this village, which i had not felt for some months before, and which i intend to carry with me. i therefore took out my guittar, and played till i set the whole assembly in motion; and some, in spite of their wooden shoes, and others without any, danced in a manner not to be seen among our english peasants. they had "shoes like a sauce-boat," but no "steeple-clock'd hose." while we breakfasted, one of the villagers fed my horse with some fresh-mowed hay, and it was with some difficulty i could prevail upon him to be paid for it, because the trifle i offered was much more than his _court of conscience_ informed him it was worth. i could moralize here a little; but i will only ask you, in which state think you man is best; the untaught man, in that of nature, or the man whose mind is enlarged by education and a knowledge of the world? the behaviour of the inhabitants of this little hamlet had a very forcible effect upon me; because it brought me back to my earlier days, and reminded me of the reception i met with in america by what we now call the _savage_ indians; yet i have been received in the same courteous manner in a little hamlet, unarmed, and without any other protection but by the law of nature, by those _savages_;--indeed it was before the _savages of europe_ had instructed them in the art of war, or mr. whitfield had preached _methodism_ among them. therefore, i only tell you what they _were_ in , not what they _are at present_. when i visited them, they walked in the flowery paths of nature; now, i fear, they tread the polluted roads of blood. perhaps of all the uncivilized nations under the sun, the native indians of america _were_ the most humane; i have seen an hundred instances of their humanity and integrity;--when a white man was under the lash of the executioner, at _savannah in georgia_, for using an indian woman ill, i saw _torno chaci_, their king, run in between the offender and the corrector, saying, "_whip me, not him_;"--the king was the complainant, indeed, but the man deserved a much severer chastisement. this was a _savage king_. christian kings too often care not who is whipt, so they escape the smart. letter v. rheims. we arrived at this city before the bustle which the coronation of _louis_ the th occasioned was quite over; i am sorry i did not see it, because i now find it worth seeing; but i staid at _calais_ on purpose to avoid it; for having paid two guineas to see the coronation of george the third, i determined never more to be put to any extraordinary expence on the score of _crowned heads_. however, my curiosity has been well gratified in hearing it talked over, and over again, and in reading _marmontell_'s letter to a friend upon that subject; but i will not repeat what he, or others have said upon the occasion, because you have, no doubt, seen in the english papers a tolerably good one; only that the queen was so overcome with the repeated shouts and plaudits of her new subjects, that she was obliged to retire. the fine gothic cathedral, in which the ceremony was performed, is indeed a church worthy of such a solemnity; the portal is the finest i ever beheld; the windows are painted in the very best manner; nor is there any thing within the church but what should be there. i need not tell you that this is the province which produces the most delicious wine in the world; but i will assure you, that i should have drank it with more pleasure, had you been here to have partook of it. in the cellars of one wine-merchant, i was conducted through long passages more like streets than caves; on each side of which, bottled _champaigne_ was piled up some feet higher than my head, and at least twelve deep. i bought two bottles to taste, of that which the merchant assured me was each of the best sort he had, and for which i paid him six livres: if he sells all he had in bottles at that time, and at the same price, i shall not exceed the bounds of truth if i say, i saw ten thousand pounds worth of bottled _champaigne_ in his cellars. neither of the bottles, however, contained wine so good as i often drank in england; but perhaps we are deceived, and find it more palatable by having sugar in it; for i suspect that most of the _champaigne_ which is bottled for the use of english consumption, is so prepared. that you may know however, for the future, whether champaigne or any other wine is so adulterated, i will give you an infallible method to prove:--fill a small long-necked bottle with the wine you would prove, and invert the neck of it into a tumbler of clear water; if the wine be genuine, it will all remain in the bottle; if adulterated, with sugar, honey, or any other sweet substance, the sweets will all pass into the tumbler of water, and leave the genuine wine behind. the difference between still _champaigne_, and that which is _mousser_, is owing to nothing more than the time of the year in which it is bottled. i found in this town an english gentleman, from whom we received many civilities, and who made us acquainted with a french gentleman and lady, whose partiality to the english nation is so great, that their neighbours call their house "the english hotel." the partiality of such a family is a very flattering, as well as a very pleasing circumstance, to those who are so happy to be known to them, because they are not only the first people in the town, but the _best_; and in point of talents, inferior to none, perhaps, in the kingdom. i must not, after saying so much, omit to tell you, it is _monsieur & madame de jardin_, of whom i speak; they live in the grande place, _vis-a-vis_ the statue of the king; and if ever you come to rheims, be assured you will find it a good place. _madame de jardin_ is not only one of the highest-bred women in france, but one of the first in point of letters, and that is saying a great deal, for france abounds more with women of that turn than england. mrs. macaulay, mrs. carter, miss aikin, and mrs. montague, are the only four ladies i can recollect in england who are celebrated for their literary genius; in france, i could find you a score or two. to give you some idea of the regard and affection _mons. de jardin_ has for his wife,--for french husbands, now and then, love their wives as well as we englishmen do,--i send you a line i found in his study, wrote under his lady's miniature picture: "chaque instant à mes yeux la rend plus estimable." this town stands in a vast plain, is of great extent, and enclosed within high walls, and a deep ditch. the public walks are of great extent, nobly planted, and the finest in the whole kingdom. it is, indeed, a large and opulent city, and abounds not only with the best wine, but every thing that is good; and every thing is plenty, and consequently cheap. the fruit market, in particular, is superior to every thing of the kind i ever beheld; but i will not tantalize you by saying any more upon that subject. adieu! _p.s._ the antiquarian will find amusement in this town. there are some roman remains worthy of notice; but such as require the information of the inhabitant to be seen. letter vi. dijon. you will laugh, perhaps, when i tell you, i could hardly refrain from tears when i took leave of the _de jardin_ family at _rheims_,--but so it was. good-breeding, and attention, have so much the appearance of friendship, that they may, and often do, deceive the most discerning men;--no wonder, then, if i was unhappy in leaving a town, where i am sure i met with the first, and had some reason to believe i should have found the latter, had we staid to cultivate it. _bourgogne_ is, however, a much finer province than champaigne; and this town is delightfully situated; that it is a cheap province, you will not doubt, even to english travellers, when i tell you, that i had a good supper for four persons, three decent beds, good hay, and plenty of corn, for my horse, at an inn upon this road, and was charged only four livres ten sols! not quite four shillings. nor was it owing to any mistake; for i lay the following night at just such another inn, and was charged just the same price for nearly the same entertainment. they were carriers' inns, indeed, but i know not whether they were not, upon the whole, better, and cleaner too, than some of the town _auberges_. i need not therefore tell you, i was straggled a little out of _le route anglois_, when i found such a _bon marche_. dijon is pleasantly situated, well built, and the country round about it is as beautiful as nature could well make it. the shady walks round the whole town are very pleasing, and command a view of the adjacent country. the excellence of the wine of this province, you are better acquainted with than i am; though i must confess, i have drank better burgundy in england than i have yet tasted here: but i am not surprized at that; for at madeira i could not get wine that was even tolerable. i found here, two genteel english gentlemen, mess. plowden and smyth, from whom we received many marks of attention and politeness.--here, i imagined i should be able to bear seeing the execution of a man, whose crimes merited, i thought, the severest punishment. he was broke upon the wheel; so it is called; but the wheel is what the body is fixed upon to be exposed on the high road after the execution. this man's body, however, was burnt. the miserable wretch (a young strong man) was brought in the evening, by a faint torch light, to a chapel near the place of execution, where he might have continued in prayer till midnight; but after one hour spent there, he walked to, and mounted the scaffold, accompanied by his confessor, who with great earnestness continually presented to him, and bade him kiss, the crucifix he carried in his hand. when the prisoner came upon the scaffold, he very willingly laid himself upon his back, and extended his arms and legs over a cross, that was laid flat and fixed fast upon the scaffold for that purpose, and to which he was securely tied by the executioner and his mother, who assisted her son in this horrid business. part of the cross was cut away, in eight places, so as to leave a hollow vacancy where the blows were to be given, which are, between the shoulder and elbow, elbow and wrist, thigh and knee, and knee and ancle. when the man was securely tied down, the end of a rope which was round his neck, with a running noose, was brought through a hole in and under the scaffold; this was to give the _coup de grace_, after breaking: a _coup_ which relieved him, and all the agitated spectators, from an infinite degree of misery, except only, the executioner and his mother, for they both seemed to enjoy the deadly office. when the blows were given, which were made with a heavy piece of iron, in the form of a butcher's cleaver without an edge, the bones of the arms and legs were broke in eight places; at each blow, the sufferer called out, o god! without saying another word, or even uttering a groan. during all this time, the confessor called upon him continually to kiss the cross, and to remember christ, his redeemer. indeed, there was infinite address, as well as piety, in the conduct of the confessor; for he would not permit this miserable wretch to have one moment's reflection about his bodily sufferings, while a matter of so much more importance was depending; but even those eight blows seemed nothing to two dreadful after-claps, for the executioner then untied the body, turned his back upwards, and gave him two blows on the small of the back with the same iron weapon; and yet even that did not put an end to the life and sufferings of the malefactor! for the finishing stroke was, after all this, done by the halter, and then the body was thrown into a great fire, and consumed to ashes. there were two or three executions soon after, but of a more moderate kind. yet i hope i need not tell you, that i shall never attend another; and would feign have made my escape from this, but it was impossible.--here, too, i saw upwards of fourscore criminals linked together, by one long chain, and so they were to continue till they arrived in the galleys at _marseilles_. now i am sure you will be, as i was, astonished to think, an old woman, the mother of the executioner, should willingly assist in a business of so horrid a nature; and i dare say, you will be equally astonished that the magistrates of the city permitted it. decency, and regard to the sex, alone, one would think, should have put a stop to a practice so repugnant to both; and yet perhaps, not one person in the town considered it in that light. indeed, no other person would have assisted, and the executioner must have done all the business himself, if his mother had not been one of that part of the _fair sex_, which addison pleasantly mentions, "_as rakers of cinders_;" for the executioner could not have found a single person to have given him any assistance. there was a guard of the _marechaussee_, to prevent the prisoners' escape; but none that would have lifted up a little finger towards forwarding the execution; the office is hereditary and infamous, and the officer is shut out of all society. his perquisites, however, were considerable; near ten pounds, i think, for this single execution; and he had a great deal more business coming on. i would not have given myself the pain of relating, nor you the reading, the particulars of this horrid affair, but to observe, that it is such examples as these, that render travelling in france, in general, secure. i say, in general; for there are, nevertheless, murders committed very frequently upon the high roads in france; and were those murders to be made known by news-papers, as ours are in england, perhaps it would greatly intimidate travellers of their own, as well as other nations. but as the murdered, and murderers, are generally foot-travellers, though the dead body is found, the murderer is escaped; and as nobody knows either party, nobody troubles themselves about it. all over france, you meet with an infinite number of people travelling on foot, much better dressed than you find, in general, the stagecoach gentry in england. most of these foot-travellers are young expensive tradesmen, and artists, who have paid their debts by a light pair of heels; when their money is exhausted, the stronger falls upon the weaker, knocks out his brains, and furnishes himself with a little money; and these murders are never scarce heard of above a league from the place where they are committed; for which reason, you never meet a foot-traveller in france, without arms, of one kind or other, and carried for one _purpose_, or the _other_. gentlemen, however, who travel only in the day-time, and who are armed, have but little danger to apprehend; yet it is necessary to be upon their guard when they pass through great woods, and to keep in the _middle_ of the road, so as not to be too suddenly surprized; because a _convenient_ opportunity may induce two or three _honest_ travellers to embrace a favourable occasion of replenishing their purses; and as they always murder those whom they attack, if they can, those who are attacked should never submit, but defend themselves to the utmost of their power. though the woods are dangerous, there are, in my opinion, plains which are much more so; a high hill which commands an extensive plain, from which there is a view of the road some miles, both ways, is a place where a robber has nothing to fear but from those whom he attacks; and he is morally certain of making his escape one way or the other: but in a wood, he may be as suddenly surprized, as he is in a situation to surprize others; for this reason, i have been more on my guard when i have seen people approach me on an extensive plain, than when i have passed through deep woods; nor would i ever let any of those people come too near my chaise; i always shewed them the _utmost distance_, and made them return the compliment, by bidding them, if they offered to come out of their line, to keep off: this said in a peremptory manner, and with a stern look, is never taken ill by honest men, and has a forcible effect upon rascals, for they immediately conclude you think yourself superior to them, and then they will think so too: whatever comes unexpected, is apt to dismay; whole armies have been seized with a panic from the most trifling artifice of the opposite general, and such as, by a minute's reflection, would have produced a contrary effect: the king's troops gave way at falkirk; the reason was, they were dismayed at seeing the rebels (_i beg pardon_) come down _pell mell_ to attack them with their broad swords! it was a new way of fighting, and, they weakly thought, an invincible one; but had general cope previously rode through the ranks, and apprised the troops with the manner of their fighting, and assured them how feeble the effect of such weapons would be upon men armed with musket and bayonet, which is exactly the truth, not a man would have retired; yet, _trim-tram_, they all ran, and the general, it is said, gave the earliest notice of his own defeat! but i should have observed, above, that the laws of france being different, in different provinces, have the contrary effect in the southern parts, to what they were intended. the _seigneur_ on whose land a murdered body is found, is obliged to pay the expence of bringing the criminal to justice. some of these lordships are very small; and the prosecuting a murderer to punishment, would cost the lord of the manor more than his whole year's income; it becomes his interest, therefore, to hide the dead body, rather than pursue the living villain; and, as whoever has property, be it ever so small, has peasants about him who will be glad to obtain his favour, he is sure that when any of these peasants see a murdered body, they will give him the earliest notice, and the same night the body is for ever hid, and no enquiry is made after the offender. i saw hang on the road side, a family of nine, a man, his wife, and seven children, who had lived many years by murder and robberies; and i am persuaded that road murders are very common in france; yet people of any condition may nevertheless, travel through france with great safety, and always obtain a guard of the _marechaussee_, through woods or forests, or where they apprehend there is any danger. _p.s._ the following method of buying and selling the wine of this province, may be useful to you. to have good burgundy, that is, wine _de la premiere tete_, as they term it, you must buy it from to livres. there are wines still dearer, up to or livres; but it is allowed, that beyond livres, the quality is not in proportion to the price; and that it is in great measure a matter of fancy. the carriage of a queue of wine from dijon to dunkirk, or to any frontier town near england, costs an hundred livres, something more than four sols a bottle; but if sent in the bottle, the carriage will be just double. the price of the bottles, hampers, package, &c. will again increase the expence to six sols a bottle more; so that wine which at first cost livres, or sols a bottle, will, when delivered at dunkirk, be worth sols a bottle, if bought in cask; if in bottles, sols.--now add to this the freight, duties, &c. to london; and as many pounds sterling as all these expences amount to upon a queue of wine, just so many french sols must be charged to the price of every bottle. the reduction of french sols to english sterling money is very plain, and of course the price of the best burgundy delivered in london, easily calculated. if the wine be sent in casks, it is adviseable to choose rather a stronger wine, because it will mellow, and form itself in the carriage. it should be double casked, to prevent as much as possible, the frauds of the carriers. this operation will cost six or eight livres per piece; but the great and principal object is, whom to trust to buy the best; and convey it safely. i doubt, it must not pass through the hands of mons. c----, if he deals in wine as he does in drapery, and bills of exchange. letter vii. lyons. upon our arrival at _chalons_, i was much disappointed; as i intended to have embarked on the _soane_, and have slipped down here in the _coche d'eau_, and thereby have saved my horse the fatigue of dragging us hither: but i could only spare him that of drawing my heaviest baggage. the _coche d'eau_ is too small to take horses and _cabriolets_ on board at _chalons_; but at _lyons_, they will take horses, and coaches, or houses, and churches, if they could be put on board, to descend the rhone, to _pont st. esprit_, or _avignon_. so after we have taken a fortnight's rest here, i intend rolling down with the rapid current, which the united force of those two mighty rivers renders, as i am assured, a short, easy, and delightful passage. nothing can be more beautiful than the country we passed through from _chalons_ hither. when we got within a few leagues of this great city, we found every mountain, hill, and dale, so covered with _chateaux_, country houses, farms, &c. that they appeared like towns, villages, and hamlets. nothing can be a stronger proof of the great wealth of the citizens of _lyons_, than that they can afford to build such houses, many of which are more like palaces, than the country retreat of _bourgeois_. the prospect from the highest part of the road, a league or two from lyons, is so extensive, so picturesque, and so enchantingly beautiful, that, impatient as i was to enter into the town, i could not refrain stopping at a little shabby wine-house, and drinking coffee under their mulberry-trees, to enjoy the warm day, the cooling breeze, and the noble prospects which every way surrounded us. the town of _lyons_, too, which stands nearly in the center of europe, has every advantage for trade, which men in trade can desire. the _soane_ runs through the centre of it, and is covered with barges and boats, loaded with hay, wood, corn, and an infinite variety of goods from all parts of the kingdom; while the _rhone_, on the other side, is still more serviceable; for it not only supplies the town with all the above necessaries of life, but conveys its various manufactures down to the ports of the _mediterranean_ sea expeditiously, and at little expence. the small boats, which ply upon the soane as ours do upon the thames, are flat bottomed, and very meanly built; they have, however, a tilt to shelter them from the heat, and to preserve the complexion, or hide the _blushes_ of your female _patronne_:--yes, my dear sir, female!--for they are all conducted by females; many of whom are young, handsome, and neatly dressed. i have, more than once, been disposed to blush, when i saw a pretty woman sitting just opposite me, labouring in an action which i thought would have been more becoming myself. i asked one of these female _sculls_, how she got her bread in the winter? oh, sir, said she giving me a very significant look, such a one as you can better conceive, than i convey, _dans l'hiver j'ai un autre talent_. and i assure you i was glad she did not exercise _both her talents_ at the same time of the year; yet i could not refrain from giving her a double fee, for a single fare, as i thought there was something due to her _winter_ as well as summer abilities. but i must not let my little _bateliere's_ talents prevent me, while i think of it, telling you, that i did visit, and stay some days at the roman town lately discovered in champaigne, which i mentioned to you in a former letter: it stood upon a mountain, now called the _chatelet_, the foot of which is watered by a good river, and its sides with _good wine_. _monsieur grignon_, whose house stands very near it, and who has there an iron manufacture, first discovered the remains of this ancient town; his men, in digging for iron ore, found wrought gold, beside other things, which convinced _mons. grignon_ (who is a man of genius) that it was necessary to inform the king with what they had discovered; in consequence of which, his majesty ordered the foundations to be laid open; and i had the satisfaction of seeing in _mons. grignon_'s cabinet an infinite number of roman utensils, such as weights, measures, kitchen furniture, vases, busts, locks, swords, inscriptions, pottery ware, statues, &c. which afforded me, and would you, a great deal of pleasure, as well as information. _mons. grignon_ the elder, was gone to paris; a circumstance which gave me great concern to hear before i went to his house, but which was soon removed by the politeness, and hospitable manner i was received by his son: yet, my only recommendation to either, was my being a stranger; and being a stranger is, in general, a good recommendation to a frenchman, for, upon all such occasions, they are never shy, or backward in communicating what they know, or of gratifying the curiosity of an inquisitive traveller; their houses, cabinets, and gardens, are always open; and they seem rather to think they receive, than grant a favour, to those who visit them. how many fine gardens, valuable cabinets, and curiosities, have we in england, so shut up, that the difficulty of access renders them as unentertaining to the public, as they are to the sordid and selfish possessors! i am thoroughly satisfied that the town i am speaking of was destroyed by fire, and not, as has been imagined, by any convulsion of the earth, as i found, among a hundred other strong proofs of it, an infinite number of pieces of melted glass, lead, &c. but though i examined the cellars of eight hundred roman citizens, the selfish rogues had not left a single bottle of wine.--i longed to taste the _old falernian_ wine, of seventeen hundred years. i write from time to time to you; but not without often thinking it is a great presumption in me to suppose i can either entertain or instruct you; but i proceed, upon your commands, and the authority of lord bacon, who says, he is surprised to find men make diaries in sea voyages, where nothing is to be seen but sky and sea, and for the most part omit it in land travels, where so much is to be observed; as if chance were better to be registered than observation. when you are tired of my register, remember, i can _take_ as well as _give a hint_. letter viii. port st. esprit. after a voyage of one whole, and one half day, without sail or oar, we arrived here from lyons. the weather was just such as we could wish and such as did not drive us out of the seat of my _cabriolet_ into the cabbin, which was full of priests, monks, friars, milleners, &c. a motley crew! who were very noisy, and what they thought, i dare say, very good company; the deck, indeed, afforded better and purer air; three officers, and a priest; but it was not till late the first day before they took any civil notice of us; and if a frenchman shews any backwardness of that sort, an englishman, i think, had better _hold up_; this rule i always religiously observe. when the night came on, we landed in as much disorder as the troops were embarked at _st. cas_, and lodged in a miserable _auberge_. it was therefore no mortification to be called forth for embarkation before day-light. the bad night's lodging was, however, amply made up to us, by the beautiful and picturesque objects and variety which every minute produced. for the banks of this mighty river are not only charged on both sides with a great number of towns, villages, castles, _chateaux_, and farm-houses; but the ragged and broken mountains above, and fertile vales between and beneath, altogether exhibit a mixture of delight and astonishment, which cannot be described, unless i had gainsborough's elegant pencil, instead of my own clumsy pen. upon comparing notes, we found that the officers, (and no men understand the _etiquette_ of travelling better than they do,) had not fared much better than we had; one of them therefore proposed, that we should all sup together that night at _pont st.-esprit_, where, he assured us, there was one of the best cooks in france, and he would undertake to regulate the supper at a reasonable price. this was the first time we had eat with other company, though it is the general practice in the southern parts of france. upon entering the house, where this _maitre cuisinier_ and prime minister of the kitchen presided, i began to conceive but an indifferent opinion of the major's judgment; the house, the kitchen, the cook, were, in appearance, all against it; yet, in spite of all, i never sat down to so good a supper; and should be sorry to sit often at table, where such a one was set before me. i will not--nay, i cannot tell you what we had; but you will be surprised to know what we paid,--what think you of three livres each? when i assure you, such a supper, if it were to be procured in london, could not be provided for a guinea a head! and we were only seven who sat down to it. i must not omit to tell you, that all the second day's voyage we heard much talk of the danger there would be in passing the bridge of _pont st. esprit_; and that many horses and men landed some miles before we arrived there, choosing rather to walk or ride in the hot sun, than swim through _so much danger_. yet the truth is, there was none; and, i believe, seldom is any. the _patron_ of the barge, indeed, made a great noise, and affected to shew how much skill was necessary to guide it through the main arch, for i think the bridge consists of thirty; yet the current itself must carry every thing through that approaches it, and he must have skill, indeed, who could avoid it. there was not in the least degree any fall; but yet, it passed through with such violence, that we run half a league in a minute; and very soon after landed at the town of pont. st. esprit, which has nothing in it very remarkable, but this long bridge, the good cook, and the first olive tree we had seen. this is lower _languedoc_, you know, and the province in which ten thousand pounds were lately distributed by the sagacious chancellor of england, among an hundred french peasants; and though i was _weak enough_ to think it _my property_, i am not wicked enough to envy them their good fortune. if the decision made one man wretched; it made the hearts of many glad; and i should be pleased to drink a bottle of wine with any of my fortunate cousins, and will if i can find them out; for they are my cousins; and i would shake an honest cousin by the hand tho' he were in wooden shoes, with more pleasure than i would the honest chancellor, who put them _so unexpectedly_ upon a better footing. i think, by the _laws_ of england, no money is to be transported into other kingdoms; by the justice of it, it may, and is;--if so, law and justice are still at variance; which puts me in mind of what a great man once said upon reading the confirmation of a decree in the house of lords, from an irish appeal:--"it is (said he) so very absurd, inconsistent, and intricate, that, in truth, i am afraid it is really made according to law." letter ix. nismes. on our way here we eat an humble meal; which was, nevertheless, a most grateful _repas_, for it was under the principal arch of the _pont du gard_. it will be needless to say more to you of this noble monument of antiquity, than that the modern addition to it has not only made it more durable, but more useful: in its original state, it conveyed only horse and man, over the river _gordon_, (perhaps _gardon_) and water, to the city of _nismes_. by the modern addition, it now conveys every thing over it, but water; as well as an high idea of roman magnificence; for beside the immense expence of erecting a bridge of a triple range of arches, over a river, and thereby uniting the upper arches to the mountains on each side, the source from whence the water was conveyed, is six leagues distant from _nismes_. the bridge is twenty-four _toises_ high, and above an hundred and thirty-three in length, and was _my sole property_ for near three hours; for during that time, i saw neither man nor beast come near it; every thing was so still and quiet, except the murmuring stream which runs gently under two or three of the arches, that i could almost have persuaded myself, from the silence, and rude scenes which every way presented themselves, that all the world were as dead as the men who erected it. that side of the bridge where none of the modern additions appear, is nobly fillagreed by the hand of time; and the other side is equally pleasing, by being a well executed support to a building which, without its aid, would in a few ages more have fallen into ruins. i was astonished to find so fine a building standing in so pleasant a spot, and which offers so many invitations to make it the abode of some hermit, quite destitute of such an inhabitant; but it did not afford even a beggar, to tell the strange stories which the common people relate; tho' it could not fail of being a very lucrative post, were it only from the bounty of strangers, who visit it out of curiosity; but a frenchman, whether monk, or mumper, has no idea of a life of solitude: yet i am sure, were it in england, there are many of our, _first-rate beggars_, who would lay down a large sum for a money of _such a walk_. if a moiety of sweeping the kennel from the mews-gate to the irish coffee-house opposite to it, could fetch a good price, and i was a witness once that it did, to an unfortunate beggar-woman, who was obliged by sickness to part with half of it; what might not a beggar expect, who had the _sweeping_ of the _pont du gard_; or a monk, who erected a confessional box near it for the benefit of _himself_, and the fouls of poor travellers? after examining every part of the bridge, above and below, i could not find the least traces of any ancient inscription, except three initial letters, c, p, a; but i found cut in _demi relief_ very extraordinary kind of _priapus_, or rather group of them; the country people, for it is much effaced, imagine it to be dogs in pursuit of a hare; but if i may be permitted to _imagine_ too perhaps, indeed, with no better judgment, might not the kind of representations be emblematical of the populousness, of the country? though more probably the wanton fancies of the master mason, or his journeymen; for they are too diminutive pieces of work to bear any proportion to the whole, and are therefore blemishes, not ornaments, even allowing that in those ages such kind of works were not considered in the light they would be in these days of more delicacy and refinement. letter x. nismes. i have now been here some time, and have employed most of it, in visiting daily the _maison carree_, the _amphitheatre_, the temple of _diana_, and other roman remains, which this town abounds with above all others in france, and which is all the town affords worthy of notice, (for it is but a very indifferent one.) the greater part of the inhabitants are protestants, who meet publicly between two rocks, at a little distance from the city, every sunday, sometimes not less than eighteen thousand, where their pastors, openly and audibly, perform divine service, according to the rites of the reformed church: such is the difference between the mild government of _louis_ the th, and that which was practised in the reign of his great grandfather. but reason and philosophy have made more rapid strides in france, within these few years, than the arts and sciences. it is, however, a great and mighty kingdom, blest with every convenience and comfort in life, as well as many luxuries, beside good wine; and good wine, drank in moderation (and _here_ nobody drinks it otherwise) is not only an excellent cordial to the nerves, but i am persuaded it contributes to long life, and good health. here, where wine and _eau de vie_ is so plenty, and so cheap too, you seldom meet a drunken peasant, and never see a gentleman (_except he be a stranger_) in that shameful situation. perhaps there is not, on any part of the continent, a city or town which has been so frequently sacked by foreign invaders, nor so deeply stained with human blood, by civil and religious wars, as this: every street and ancient building within its walls still exhibit many strong marks of the excesses committed by the hands of domestic as well as foreign barbarians, except only the temple now called, and so called from its form, the _maison carree_, which has stood near eighteen hundred years, without receiving any other injuries than the injuries of time; and time has given it rather the face of age, than that of ruins, for it still stands firm and upright; and though not quite perfect in every part, yet it preserves all its due proportions, and enough of its original and lesser beauties, to astonish and delight every beholder, and that too in a very particular manner. it is said, and i have felt the truth of it in part, that there does not exist, at this day, any building, ancient or modern, which conveys so secret a pleasure, not only to the _connoisseur_, but to the clown also, whenever, or how often soever they approach it. the proportions and beauties of the whole building are so intimately united, that they may be compared to good breeding in men; it is what every body perceives, and is captivated with, but what few can define. that it has an irresistible beauty which delights men of sense, and which _charms_ the eyes of the vulgar, i think must be admitted; for no other possible reason can be assigned why this building alone, standing in the very centre of a city, wherein every excess which religious fury could inspire, or barbarous manners could suggest, has stood so many ages the only uninsulted monument of antiquity, either within or without the walls; especially, as a very few men might, with very little labour, soon tumble it into a heap of rubbish. the _amphitheatre_ has a thousand marks of violences committed upon it, by fire, sledges, battering rams, &c. which its great solidity and strength alone resisted. the _temple of diana_ is so nearly destroyed, that, in an age or two more no vestige of it will remain; but the _maison carree_ is still so perfect and beautiful, that when _cardinal alberoni_ first saw it, he said it wanted only _une boete d'or pour le defendre des injures de l'air_; and it certainly has received no other, than such as rain, and wind, and heat, and cold, have made upon it; and those are rather marks of dignity, than deformity. what reason else, then, can be assigned for its preservation to this day; but that the savage and the saint have been equally awed by its superlative beauty. having said thus much of the perfections of this edifice, i must however confess, it is not, nor ever was, perfect, for it has some original blemishes, but such as escape the observation of most men, who have not time to examine the parts separately, and with a critical eye. there are, for example, thirty modillions on the cornice, on one side and thirty-two on the other; there are sixty-two on the west side, and only fifty-four on the east; with some other little faults which its aged beauty justifies my omitting; for they are such perhaps as, if removed, would not add any thing to the general proportions of the whole. no-body objected to the moles on lady coventry's face; those specks were too trifling, where the _tout ensemble_ was so perfect. _cardinal richlieu_, i am assured, had several consultations with builders of eminence, and architects of genius, to consider whether it was practicable to remove all the parts of this edifice, and re-erect it at _versailles_: and, i have no doubt, but lewis the th might have raised this monument to his fame there, for half the money he expended in murdering and driving out of that province sixty thousand of his faithful and ingenious subjects, merely on the score of religion; an act, which is now equally abhorred by catholics, as well as protestants. but, lord chesterfield justly observes, that there is no brute so fierce, no criminal so guilty, as the creature called a sovereign, whether king, sultan, or sophy; who thinks himself, either by divine or human right, vested with absolute power of destroying his fellow-creatures. _louis_ the xith of france caused the duke of _nemours_, a descendant of king _clovis_, to be executed at paris, and placed his children under the scaffold, that the blood of their father might run upon their heads; in which bloody condition they were returned to the bastile, and there shut up in iron cages: and a king of siam, having lost his daughter, and fancying she was poisoned, put most of his court, young and old, to death, by the most exquisite torture; by this horrid act of cruelty, near two thousand of the principal courtiers suffered the most dreadful deaths; the great mandarins, their wives, and children, being all scorched with fire, and mangled with knives, before they were admitted to his last favour,--that of being thrown to the elephants. but to have done with sad subjects.--it was not till the year that it was certainly known at what time, or for what purpose, the _maison carree_ was erected; but fortunately, the same town which produced the building so many ages ago, produced in the latter end of the last, a gentleman, of whom it may be justly said, he left no stone unturned to come at the truth. this is _mons. seguier_, whose long life has been employed in collecting a cabinet of roman antiquities, and natural curiosities, and whose penetrating genius alone could have discovered, by the means he did, an inscription, of which not a single letter has been seen for many ages; but this _habile observateur_, perceiving a great number of irregular holes upon the frontal and frize of this edifice, concluded that they were the cramp-holes which had formerly held an inscription, and which, according to the practice of the romans, were often composed of single letters of bronze. _mons. seguier_ therefore erected scaffolding, and took off on paper the distances and situation of the several holes, and after nicely examining the disposition of them, and being assisted by a few faint traces of some of the letters, which had been impressed on the stones, brought forth, to the full satisfaction of every body, the original inscription, which was laid before _l'academie des inscriptions & de belles lettres de paris_ of which he is a member, and from whom he received their public thanks; having unanimously agreed that there was not a doubt remained but that he had produced the true reading: which is as follows: +-------------------------------------------------+ | taurobolio matris deum magnÆ idÆÆ | | quod factum est ex imperio | | matris idÆÆ deum | | pro salute imperatoris cÆsaris | | titi Ælii | | adriani antonini augusti pii patris patriÆ | | liberorumque ejus | | et status coloniÆ lugdunensis | | lucius Æmilius carpus sextumvis | | augustalis item dendrophorus | | | | vires excepit et a vaticano | | transtulit aramet bucranium | | suo impendio consecravit | | sacerdote | | quinto sammio secundo ab quindecemviris | | occabo et corona exornato | | cui sanctissimus ordo lugdunensis | | perpetuitatem sacerdotis decrevit | | appio annia atilio bradua tito | | clodio vibio varo consulibus | | locus datus decreto decurionum. | +-------------------------------------------------+ the _maison carree_ is not however, quite square, being something more in length than breadth; it is eighty-two feet long and thirty-seven and a half high, exclusive of the square socle on which it stands, and which is, at this time, six feet above the surface; it is divided into two parts, one enclosed, the other open; the facade is adorned with six fluted pillars of the corinthian order, and the cornice and front are decorated with all the beauties of architecture. the frize is quite plain, and without any of those bas-reliefs or ornaments which are on the sides, where the foliage of the olive leaf is exquisitely finished. on each side over the door, which opens into the enclosed part, two large stones, like the but-ends of joists, project about three feet, and these stones are pierced through with two large mortices, six inches long, and three wide; they are a striking blemish, and must therefore have been fixed, for some very necessary purpose--for what, i will not risque my opinion; it is enough to have mentioned them to you. as to the inside, little need be said; but, that, being now consecrated to the service of god, and the use of the order of _augustines_, it is filled up with altars, _ex votos_, statues, &c. but such as we may reasonably conclude, have not, exclusive of a religious consideration, all those beauties which were once placed within a temple, the outward structure of which was so highly finished. truth and concern compel me to conclude this account of the _maison carree_, in lamenting, that the inhabitants of nismes (who are in general a very respectable body of people) suffer this noble edifice to be defiled by every species of filth that poverty and neglect can occasion. the approach to it is through an old ragged kind of barn door: it is surrounded with mean houses, and disgraced on every side with filth, and the _offerings_ of the nearest inhabitants. i know not any part of london but what would be a better situation for it, than where it now stands: i will not except even rag-fair, nor hockly in the hole. letter xi. nismes. the state in which that once-superb edifice, the temple of diana, now appears; with concern, i perceived that there remains only enough to give the spectator an idea of its former beauty; for though the roof has been broken down, and every part of it so wantonly abused yet enough remains, within, and without, to bear testimony that it was built, not only by the greatest architect, but enriched also by the hands of other great artists: indeed, the mason's work alone is, at this day, wonderful; for the stones with which it is built, and which are very large, are so truly worked, and artfully laid, without either cement or mortar, that many of the joints are scarce visible; nor is it possible to put the point of a penknife between those which are most open. this temple too is, like the _maison carree_, shut up by an old barn-door: a man, however, attends to open it; where, upon entering, you will find a striking picture of the folly of all human grandeur; for the area is covered with broken statues, busts, urns, vases, cornices, frizes, inscriptions, and various fragments of exquisite workmanship, lying in the utmost disorder, one upon another, like the stript dead in a field of battle. here, the ghost of shakespeare appeared before my eyes, holding in his hand a label, on which was engraven those words you have so often read in his works, and now see upon his monument. i have often wondered, that some man of taste and fortune in england, where so much attention is paid to gardening, never converted one spot to an _il penseroso_, and another to _l'allegro_. if a thing of that kind was to be done, what would not a man of such a turn give for an _il penseroso_, as this temple now is?--where sweet melancholy sits, with a look "that's fastened to the ground, a tongue chain'd up, without a sound." the modern fountain of _nismes_ or rather the roman fountain recovered, and re-built, falls just before this temple; and the noble and extensive walks, which surround this pure and plentiful stream, are indeed very magnificent: what then must it have been in the days of the romans, when the temple, the fountain, the statues, vases, &c. stood perfect, and in their proper order? though this building has been called the temple of diana, by a tradition immemorial, yet it may be much doubted, whether it was so. the temples erected, you know, to the daughter of jupiter, were all of the ionic order, and this is a mixture of the corinthian, and composit. is it not, therefore, more probable, from the number of niches in it to contain statues, that it was, in fact, a pantheon? directly opposite to the entrance door, are three great tabernacles; on that of the middle stood the principal altar; and on the side walls were twelve niches, six on the right-hand are still perfect. the building is eleven _toises_ five feet long, and six _toises_ wide, and was thrown into its present ruinous state during the civil wars of henry the third; and yet, in spite of the modern statues, and gaudy ornaments, which the inhabitants have bestrewed to decorate their matchless fountain, the temple of diana is still the greatest ornament it has to boast of. letter xii. montpellier. never was a traveller more disappointed than i was upon entering into this renowned city; a city, the name of which my ears have been familiar to, ever since i first heard of disease or medicine. i expected to find it filled with palaces; and to perceive the superiority of the soft air it is so celebrated for, above all other places; instead of which, i was accompanied for many miles before i entered it with thousands of moschettos, which, in spite of all the hostilities we committed upon them, made our faces, hands and legs, as bad in appearance as persons just recovering from a plentiful crop of the small-pox, and infinitely more miserable. bad as these flies are in the west-indies, i suffered more in a few days from them at, and near montpellier, than i did for some years in jamaica. however fine and salubrious the air of this town might have been formerly, it is far otherwise now; and it may be naturally accounted for; the sea has retired from the coast, and has left three leagues of marshy ground between it and the town, where the hot sun, and stagnated waters, breed not only flies, but distempers also; beside this, there is, and ever was, something very peculiar in the air of the town itself: it is the only town in france where verdigris is made in any great quantity; and this, i am inclined to think, is not a very favourable circumstance; where the air is so disposed to cankerise, and corrode copper, it cannot be so pure, as where none can be produced; but here, every cave and wine-cellar is filled with sheets of copper, from which such quantities of verdigris are daily collected, that it is one of the principal branches of their trade. the streets are very narrow, and very dirty; and though there are many good houses, a fine theatre, and a great number of public edifices beside churches, it makes altogether but an indifferent figure. without the walls of the town, indeed, there stands a noble equestrian statue of louis the xivth, surrounded with spacious walks, and adorned with a beautiful fountain. their walks command a view of the mediterranean sea in front, and the alps and pyrenees on the right and left. the water too is conducted to a most beautiful _temple d' eau_ over a triple range of arches, in the manner of the _pont du gard_, from a very considerable distance. the modern arches over which it runs, are indeed, a great and mighty piece of work; for they are so very large, extended so far, and are so numerous, that i could find no person to inform me of their exact number; however, i speak within the bounds of truth, i hope, when i say there are many hundred; and that it is a work which the romans might have been proud of, and must therefore convey an high idea of the riches and mightiness of a kingdom, wherein one province alone could bear, and be willing too to bear, so great an expence, and raise so useful, as well as beautiful a monument; for beside the immense expence of this triple range of arches, the source from whence the water is conveyed is, i think, three leagues distant from the town, by which means every quarter of it is plentifully supplied with fountains which always run, and which in hot climates are equally pleasing, refreshing, and useful. the town abounds with apothecaries' shops, and i met a great many physical faces; so that if the air is not good, i conclude the physic is, and therefore laid out two _sols_ for a pennyworth of ointment of _marsh-mallows_ which alleviated a little the extreme misery we all were in, during our stay at this celebrated city. if, however, it still has a reputation for the cure of a _particular disorder_, perhaps that may arise from the impurity of the air,--and that the air which is so prone to engender verdigris, may wage war with other subtile poisons; yet, as i found some of my countrymen there, who had taken a longer trial of the air, and more of the physic, than i had occasion for, who neither admired one, nor found benefit from the other, i will not recommend _montpellier_ as having any peculiar excellencies within its walls, but good wine, and some good actors. it is a dear town, even to the natives, and a very imposing one to strangers; and therefore i shall soon leave it, and proceed southward. perhaps you will expect me to say something of the _sweets_ which this town is so famed for: there are indeed some sweet shops of that sort; and they are _bien places_. at these shops they have ladies' silk pockets, sachels for their shifts, letter cases, and a multitude of things of that kind, quilted and _larded_ with something, which does indeed give them a most pleasing and lasting perfume. at these shops too, beside excellent lavender water, essence of bergamot, &c. they sell _eau de jasmin de pourri, de cedre, de girofle, sans pareille, de mille fleurs, de zephir, de oiellet, de sultan_ and a hundred other sorts; but the _essence of bergamot_ is above all, as a single drop is sufficient to perfume a handkerchief; and so it ought to be, for it is very dear. letter xiii. cette. i was very impatient till i had drove my horse from the british to the mediterranean coast, and looked upon a sea from _that land_ which i had often, with longing eyes, viewed _from the sea_, in the year , when i was on board the russel, with admiral medley. i have now compleatly crossed this mighty kingdom and great continent, and it was for that reason i visited _cette_. this pretty little sea-port, though it is out of my way to _barcelona_, yet it proves to be in _the way_ for my poor horse; as i found here a spanish bark, upon which i put part of my baggage. i was obliged to have it, however, opened and examined at the custom-house; and as the officer found in it a bass viol, two guittars, a fiddle, and some other musical instruments, he very naturally concluded i was a musician, and very kindly intimated to me his apprehensions, that i should meet with but very little _encouragement in spain_: as i had not any better reason to assign for going there, but to fiddle, i did not undeceive this good-natured man till the next morning, when i owned, i was not sufficiently _cunning_ in the art of music to get my bread by it; and that i had unfortunately been bred to a worse profession, that of arms; and if i got time enough to _barcelona_ to enter a volunteer in the _walloon_ guards, and go to _algiers_, perhaps i might get from his catholic majesty, by my services, more than i could acquire from his britannic--something to live upon in my old age: but i had no better encouragement from this frenchman as an adventurer in arms, than in music; he assured me, that spain was a _vilain pays_, and that france was the only country in the world for a _voyageur_. but as i found that france was the only country he had _voyaged_ in, and then never above twenty leagues from that spot, i thanked him for his advice, and determined to proceed; for though it is fifteen miles from _montpellier_, we are not got out of the latitude of the _moschettos_. on the road here, we met an infinite number of carts and horses, loaded with ripe grapes; the gatherers generally held some large bunches (for they were the large red grape) in their hands, to present to travellers; and we had some from people, who would not even stay to receive a trifling acknowledgment for their generosity and politeness. nothing could be more beautiful than the prospects which every way surrounded us, when we came within three or four miles of this town; both sides of the road were covered with thyme and lavender shrubs, which perfumed the air; the sea breeze, and the hot sun, made both agreeable; and the day was so clear and fine, that the snow upon the _alps_ made them appear as if they were only ten leagues from us; and i could have been persuaded that we were within a few hours drive of the _pyrenees_; yet the nearest of them was at least a hundred miles distant. the great canal of _languedoc_ has a communication with this town, where covered boats, neatly fitted up for passengers, are continually passing up and down that wonderful and artificial navigation. it is a convenient port to ship wine at; but the people have the reputation of playing tricks with it, before and after it is put on board; and this opinion is a great baulk to the trade it is so happily situated to carry on, and of great benefit to the free port of _nice_. letter xiv. perpignan. dear sir, before i leave this kingdom, and enter into that of spain, let me trouble you with a letter on a subject which, though no ways interesting to yourself, may be very much so _to a young gentleman of your acquaintance_ at oxford, for whose happiness i, as well as you, am a little anxious. it is to apprize you, and to warn him, when he travels, to avoid the _gins and man-traps_ fixed all over this country; traps, which a thorough knowledge of latin and greek, combined even with father and mother's wit, will not be sufficient to preserve him from, unless he is first shewn the manner in which they are set. these traps are not made to catch the legs, but to ruin the fortunes and break the hearts of those who unfortunately step into them. their baits are artful, designing, wicked men, and profligate, abandoned, and prostitute women. paris abounds with them, as well as lyons, and all the great towns between london and rome; and are principally set to catch the young englishman of fortune from the age of eighteen to five and twenty; and what is worse, an honest, sensible, generous young man, is always in most danger of setting his foot into them. you suspect already, that these traps are made only of paper, and ivory, and that cards and dice are the destructive engines i mean. do you know that there are a set of men and women, in _paris_ and _lyons_, who live elegantly by lying in wait and by catching every _bird of passage_?--but particularly the english _gold-finch_. i have seen and heard of such wicked artifices of these people, and the fatal consequences to the unfortunate young men they have ensnared, that i really think i could never enjoy a single hour of contentment, if i had a large fortune, while a son of mine was making what is called the tour of europe. the minute one of these young men arrive, either at _paris_ or _lyons_, some _laquais de place_, who is paid for it, gives the earliest notice to one of the confederacy, and he is instantly way-laid by a french _marquis_, or an english _chevalier d'industrie_, who, with a most insinuating address, makes him believe, he is no sooner arrived at _paris_ than he has found a sincere friend. the _chevalier_ shews him what is most worthy of notice in _paris_, attends him to _versailles_ and _marly_, cautions him against being acquainted with the honest part of the french nation, and introduces him to the knaves only of his own and this country; carries him to see french ladies of the _first distinction_, (and such who certainly _live in that style_) and makes the young man giddy with joy. but alas! it is but a short-lived one!--he is invited; to sup with the _countess_; and is entertained not only voluptuously, but they play after supper, and he wins too. what can be more delightful to a young man, in a strange country, than to be flattered by the french, courted by the english, entertained by _the countess_, and cheered with success?--nay, he flatters himself, from the particular _attention_ the _countess_ shews him, above all other men admitted to her toilet, that she has even some _tendre_ for his person:--just at this _critical moment_, a _toyman arrives_, to shew _madame la comtesse_ a new fashioned trinket; she likes it, but has not money enough in her pocket to pay for it:--here is a fine opportunity to make madame la comtesse a present;--and why should not he?--the price is not above four or five guineas more than his last night's winnings;--he offers it; and, with _great difficulty_ and much persuasion, she accepts it; but is quite _ashamed_ to think of the trouble he has given himself:--but, says she, you englishmen are so charming,--so generous,--and so--so--and looks so sweet upon him, that while her tongue faulters, _egad_ he ventures to cover her confusion by a kiss;--when, instead of giving him the two broad sides of her cheek, she is so _off her guard_, and so overcome, as to present him _unawares_, with a pretty handsome dash of red pomatum from her lovely pouting lips,--and insists upon it that he sups with her, _tete a tete_, that very evening,--when all this happiness is compleated. in a few nights after, he is invited to meet the _countess_, and to sup with _monsieur le marquis_, or _monsieur le chevalier anglais_; he is feasted with high meat, and inflamed with delicious wines;--they play after supper, and he is stript of all his money, and gives--drafts upon his banker for all his credit. he visits the countess the next day; she receives him with a civil coolness,--is very sorry, she says,--and wished much last night for a favourable opportunity to give him a hint, not to play after he had lost the first thousand, as she perceived luck ran hard against him:--she is extremely mortified;--but; as a friend, advises him to go to _lyons_, or some provincial town, where he may study the language with more success, than in the hurry and noise of so great a city as _paris_, and apply for further credit. his _new friends_ visit him no more; and he determines to take the countess's advice, and go on to _lyons_, as he has heard the south of france is much cheaper, and there he may see what he can do, by leaving paris, and an application to his friends in england. but at _lyons_ too, some artful knave, of one nation or the other, accosts him, who has had notice of his _paris_ misfortunes;--he pities him;--and, rather than see a countryman, or a gentleman of fashion and character in distress, he would lend him fifty or a hundred pounds. when this is done, every art is used to debauch his principles; he is initiated into a gang of genteel sharpers, and bullied, by the fear of a gaol, to connive at, or to become a party in their iniquitous society. his good name gives a sanction for a while to their suspected reputations; and, by means of an hundred pounds so lent to this honest young man, some thousands are won from the _birds of passage_, who are continually passing thro' that city to the more southern parts of _france_, or to _italy_, _geneva_, or _turin_. this is not an imaginary picture; it is a picture i have seen, nay, i have seen the traps set, and the game caught; nor were those who set the snares quite sure that they might not put a stop to my peregrination, for they _risqued a supper at me_, and let me win a few guineas at the little play which began before they sat down to table. indeed, my dear sir, were i to give you the particulars of some of those unhappy young men, who have been ruined in fortune and constitution too, at _paris_ and _lyons_, you would be struck with pity on one side, and horror and detestation on the other; nor would ever risque such a _finished part_ of your son's education. tell my oxonian friend, from me, when he travels, never to let either lords or ladies, even of his own country, nor _marquises_, _counts_, or _chevaliers_, of this, ever draw him into play; but to remember that shrewd hint of lord chesterfield's to his son;--"when you play with men (says his lordship) know with _whom_ you play; when with women, _for what_ you play."--but let me add, that the only sure way, is never to play at all. at one of these towns i found a man, whose family i respected, and for whom i had a personal regard; he loaded me with civilities, nay, made me presents, before i had the most distant suspicions _how_ he became in a situation to enable him so to do. he made every profession of love and regard to me; and i verily believed him sincere; because i knew he had been obliged by a part of my family; but when i found a coach, a country-house, a good table, a wife, and servants, were all supported by the _chance_ of a gaming-table, i withdrew myself from all connections with him; for, i fear, he who lives to play, may _play_ to _live_. upon the whole, i think it is next to an impossibility for a young man of fortune to pass a year or two in _paris_, the southern parts of france, italy, &c. without running a great risque of being beggared by sharpers, or seduced by artful women; unless he has with him a tutor, who is made wise by years, and a frequent acquaintance with the customs and manners of the country: an honest, learned clergyman tutor, is of less use to a young man in that situation, than a trusty _valet de chambre_. a travelling tutor must know men; and, what is more difficult to know, he must know women also, before he is qualified to guard against the innumerable snares that are always making to entangle strangers of fortune. it is certainly true, that the nearer we approach to the sun, the more we become familiar with vices of every kind. in the _south of france_, and _italy_, sins of the blackest dye, and many of the most unnatural kind, are not only committed with impunity, but boasted of with audacity; and, as one proof of the corruption of the people, of a thousand i could tell you, i must tell you, that seeing at _lyons_ a shop in which a great variety of pictures were hung for sale, i walked in, and after examining them, and asking a few questions; but none that had the least tendency to want of decorum, the master of the shop turned to his wife, (a very pretty woman, and dressed even to a _plumed_ head)--shew _monsieur_ the little miniature, said he; she then opened a drawer and took out a book, (i think it was her mass-book) and brought me a picture, so indecent, that i defy the most debauched imagination to conceive any thing more so; yet she gave it me with a seeming decent face, and only observed that it was _bien fait_. after examining it with more attention than i should, had i received it from the hands of her husband, i returned it to her prayer-book, made my bow, and was retiring; but the husband called to me, and said, he had a magazine hard by, where there was a very large collection of pictures of great value, and that his wife would attend me. my curiosity was heightened in more respects than _one_: i therefore accepted the offer, and was conducted up two pair of stairs in a house not far off, where i found a long suite of rooms, in which were a large number of pictures, and some, i believe, of great value. but i was a little surprised on entering into the furthermost apartment, as that had in it an elegant _chintz_ bed, the curtains of which were festooned, and the foliages held up by the paintings of two naked women, as large as life, and as indecent as nakedness could be painted; they were painted, and well painted too, on boards, and cut out in human shape; that at first i did not know whether i saw the shadow or the substance; however, as this room was covered with pictures, i began to examine them also, with the fair attendant at my elbow; but in the whole collection i do not remember there was one picture which would not have brought a blush in the face of an english lady, even of the most easy virtue. yet, all this while, when i asked the price of the several parts and pieces, she answered me with a gravity of countenance, as if she attended me to sell her goods like other shopkeepers, and in the way of business; however, before i left the room, i could not, i thought, do less than ask her--her own price. she told me, she was worth nothing; and immediately invited me to take a peep through a convex glass at a picture which was laid under, on the table, for that purpose:--it was a picture of so wicked a tendency, that the painter ought to have been put upon a pillory, and the exhibitor in the stocks. the lady observed to me again, that it was well painted; but, on the contrary, the only merit it had, was, being quite otherwise, i therefore told her, that the subject and idea only was good; the execution bad. just at this time, several french gentlemen came in to look at the pictures, and my surprise became infinitely greater than ever; they talked with her about the several pieces, without betraying the least degree of surprise at the subjects, or the woman who shewed them; nor did they seem to think it was a matter of any to me; and i verily believe the woman was so totally a stranger to sentiment or decency, that she considered herself employed in the ordinary way of shopkeepers, that of shewing and selling her goods: as her shop was almost opposite to the general post-office, where i went every day for my letters, i frequently saw women of fashion at this shop; whether they visited the magazine, or not, i cannot say, but i think there is no doubt but they might borrow the _mass-book_ i mentioned above. i shall leave you to make your own comments upon this subject; and then i am sure you will tremble for the fatal consequences which your son, or any young man, may, nay must be led into, in a country where vice is painted with all her bewitching colours, in the fore-ground of the picture; and where virtue, if there be any, is thrown so far behind in the back shade, that it is ten to one but it escapes the notice of a youthful examiner. i cannot help adding another instance of the profligacy of this town. lord p---- being invited by a french gentleman to spend a day at his _chateau_, in this country, took occasion to tell his lordship, that in order to render the day as agreeable as possible to his company, he had provided some young people of _both sexes_ to attend, and desired to know his lordship's _gout_. the young nobleman concealed his surprise, and told his _generous_ host, that he was not fashionable enough to walk out of the paths of nature. the same question was then put to the other company, in the order of their rank; and the last, an _humble frenchman_, replied, it was to him _egal l'un, et l'autre_, just as it proved most convenient. this is not a traveller's story; it is a fact; and i dare say the nobleman, who was of the party, will give it the sanction of his name, though i cannot with any degree of propriety. letter iv. jonquire. i have now crossed the _pyrenees_, and write this from the first village in spain. these mountains are of such an enormous height, as well as extent, that they seem as if they were formed even by nature to divide nations. nor is there any other pass by land into this kingdom but over them; for they extend upwards of thirty leagues from the _mediterranean_ sea, near _perpignan_ in _rousillon_ to the city of _pompelina_ in _navarre_; i should have said, extend _into_ the _mediterranean_ sea, for there the extremity projects its lofty head, like a noble fortress of nature, into the ocean, far beyond the low lands on either side. indeed the extensive plains on both side these lofty mountains (so unusual in the southern parts of europe) would almost make one suspect, that nature herself had been exhausted in raising such an immense pile, which, as if it were the back-bone of an huge animal, was made to hold, and bind together, all the parts of the western world. there are, i think, nine passes over these hills into _spain_, two or three of which are very commodious, and wonderfully _picturesque_: others are dreadful, and often dangerous; the two best are at the extremities; that which i have just passed, and the other near _bayonne_; the former is not only very safe, except just after very heavy and long-continued rains, but in the highest degree pleasing, astonishing, and wonderfully romantic, as well as beautiful. at _boulon_, the last village in france, twelve long leagues from _perpignan_, and seemingly under the foot of the _pyrenees_, we crossed a river, for the first time, which must be forded three or four times more, before you begin to ascend the hills; but if the river can be safely crossed at _boulon_, there can be no difficulty afterwards, as there alone the stream is most rapid, and the channel deepest. at this town there are always a set of fellows ready to offer their service, who ford the river, and support the carriage; nor is it an easy matter to prevent them, when no such assistance is necessary; and i was obliged to handle my pistols, to make them _unhandle_ my wheels; as it is more than probable they would have overset us in shallow water, to gain an opportunity of shewing their _politeness_ in picking us up again. the stream, indeed, was very rapid; and i was rather provoked by the rudeness of the people, to pass through it without assistance, than convinced there needed none. having crossed the river four or five times more, and passed between rocks, and broken land, through a very uncultivated and romantic vale, we began to ascend the _pyrenees_ upon a noble road, indeed! hewn upon the sides of those adamantine hills, of a considerable width, and an easy ascent, quite up to the high _fortress of bellegarde_, which stands upon the pinnacle of the highest hill, and which commands this renowned pass. you will easier conceive than i can describe the many rude and various scenes which mountains so high, so rocky, so steep, so divided, and, i may add too, so fertile, exhibit to the traveler's eyes. the constant water-falls from the melted snow above, the gullies and breaches made by water-torrents during great rains, the rivulets in the vale below, the verdure on their banks, the herds of goats, the humble, but picturesque habitations of the goat-herds, the hot sun shining upon the _snow-capt_ hills above, and the steep precipices below, all crowd together so strongly upon the imagination, that they intoxicate the passenger with delight. the french nation in no instance shew their greatness more than in the durable and noble manner they build and make their high-roads; here, the expence was not only cutting the hard mountain, and raising a fine road on their sides, but building arches of an immense height from mountain to mountain, and over breaks and water-falls, with great solidity, and excellent workmanship. the invalide guard at this fortress take upon themselves, very improperly, and i am sure very unwarrantably, to examine strangers who pass, with an impertinent curiosity; for they must admit all who come with a proper _passa-porte_ into _spain_, and durst not admit any without it. on my arrival at the guard-house, they seized my horse's head, and called for my _passa-porte_, in terms very unlike the usual politeness of french guards; and while my pass was carried into a little office, hard by, to be registered, those who remained on the side of my chaise took occasion to ask me of what country i was: i desired to refer them to my _passa-porte_, (where i knew no information of that kind was given,) as it was a question i could not very well answer; but upon being further urged, i at length told them, i was an _hottentot_.--"_otentot_--_otentot_--pray what king governs that country?" said one of them. no king governs the _hottentots_ replied i. "what then, is your country without a king?" said another, with astonishment! no; not absolutely so, neither; for the _hottentots_ have a king; but he always keeps a number of ambitious and crafty men about his court, who govern him; and those men, who are generally knaves, feed the people with guts, and entrails of beasts, give the king now and then a little bit of the main body, and divide the rest among themselves, their friends, their favourites, and sycophants. but i soon found, these were questions leading to a more important one; and that was, what _countryman_ my horse was;--for, suspecting him to be an _englishman_, they would perhaps, if i had been weak enough to have owned it, have made me pay a considerable duty for his admission into _spain_; though i believe it cannot legally be done or levied upon any horse, french, or english, (to use an act of parliament phrase) but such "as are not actually in harness, nor drawing in a carriage." the spaniards too have done their duty, as to the descent of the _pyrenees_ from _bellegarde_, but no further; from thence to this village, is about the same distance that _boulon_ is from the foot of the mountains on the other side; but though this road is quite destitute of art it is adorned highly by nature. but, before i left _bellegarde_, i should have told you, that near that fortress the arms of france and spain, cut on stone pillars, are placed _vis-a-vis_ on each side of the road; a spot where some times an affair of _honour_ is decided by two men, who engage in personal combat; each standing in a different kingdom; and where, if one falls, the other need not run; for, by the family compact, it is agreed, not to give up deserters or murderers. the road is not less romantic on the spanish, than on the french side of the _pyrenees_; the face of the country is more beautiful, and the faces of all things, animate and inanimate, are quite different; and one would be apt to think, that instead of having passed a few hills, one had passed over a large ocean: the hogs, for instance, which are all white on the french side, are all black on this. we arrived here upon a sunday, when the inhabitants had on their best apparel: but instead of high head-dresses, false curls, plumes of feathers, and a quantity of powder, the women had their black hair combed tight from their foreheads and temples, and tied behind, in either red, blue, or black nets, something like the caul of a peruke, from which hang large tassels down to the middle of their back; the men's hair was done up in nets in the same manner, but not so gaudy. before we arrived here, i overtook a girl with a load of fresh hay upon her head, whom (_at the request of my horse_) i entreated to spare me a little, but, till she had called back her brother, who had another load of the same kind, would not treat with me; they soon agreed, however, that my request was reasonable; and so was their demand; and there, under the shade of a noble grove of large cork-trees, we and our horse eat a most luxurious meal: appetite was the sauce; and the wild scenes, and stupendous rocks, which every way surrounded our _salle a manger_, were our dessert. and that you may not be alarmed about this mighty matter, (as it is by many thought) of parting from _france to spain_, by the way of _perpignan_, it may not be amiss to say, that i left the last town about seven o'clock in the morning, in a heavy french _cabriolet_, drawn by one strong english horse, charged with four persons, and much baggage; yet we arrived here about three o'clock the same day; where at our supper, we had a specimen of spanish cookery, as well as spanish beds, bills, and custom-house officers: to the latter, a small donative is better bestowed, than the trouble of unpacking all your baggage, and much better relished by them: as to the host, he was neither rude, nor over civil; the cookery more savoury than clean; the window frames without glass, the rooms without chimneys. the demand for such entertainment is rather dearer than in france. before i left _perpignan_, i found it necessary to exchange some french gold for spanish, and to be well informed of the two kingdoms. there were many people willing to change my money; though but few, indeed, who would give the full value. formerly, you know, the _pyrenees_ were charged with gold, from whence the phoenicians fetched great quantities every year. in the time of the romans, much of the _pyrenean_ gold was sent to rome; and a king of portugal, so lately as the year , had a crown and sceptre made of the gold washed from those hills into the _tagus_; their treasures were known, you may remember, even to ovid. "quod suo tagus amne vehit fluit ignibus aurum." but as i did not expect to find a gold mine on my passage into spain, i thought it best to carry a little with me, and leave nothing to chance; and i should have been content to have found, by the help of my gun, the bird vulgarly called the _gelinotte des pyrenees_; it has a curved bill like a hawk, and two long feathers in the tail; but though i saw a great number of different birds, i was not fortunate enough to find the _ganga_, for that is the true name of a bird, so beautiful in feather, and of so delicate a flavour, that it is even mentioned by aristotle, and is a native of these hills. p.s. i forgot to tell you, that the day we left _cette_ we stopped, according to custom, to eat our cold dinner, in an olive grove; from whence we had a noble view of the mediterranean sea, and a most delightfully situated _chateau_, standing upon the banks of a salt-water lake, at least twenty miles in circumference, "clear as the expanse of heaven;" and that while we were preparing to spread our napkin, a gentleman of genteel appearance came out from a neighbouring vineyard, and asked us if any accident had happened, and desired, if we wanted any thing, that we would command him, or whatever his house afforded, pointing to the _chateau_, which had so attracted our notice: we told him, our business was to eat our little repast, with his leave, under, what we presumed, was his shade also, and invited him to partake with us. he had already captivated us by his polite attention, and by his agreeable conversation: we lamented that we had not better pretensions to have visited his lovely habitation. we found he was well acquainted with many english persons of fashion, who have occasionally resided at montpellier; and i am sure, his being a winter inhabitant of that city, must be one of the most favourable circumstances the town affords. these little attentions to strangers, are never omitted by the well-bred part of the french nation. i could not refill asking the name of a gentleman, to whom i felt myself so much obliged, nor avoid telling him my own, and what had passed at the town of _cette_, relative to the musical instruments, as one of the largest was still with us.--he seemed astonished, that i preferred the long and dangerous journey by land, as he thought it, to _barcelona_, when i might, he said, have run down to it over a smooth sea, in the same bark i had put my baggage on board. letter xvi. girone. from _jonquere_ to _figuere_ (about four hours journey, so they reckon in spain) the road is intolerable, and the country beautiful; over which the traveller may, as nature has done, repose himself upon a flowery bed, indeed; for nature surely could not do more for the pleasure and profit of man, than she has done from _jonquere_ to _girone_. the town of _figuere_ is, properly speaking, the first town in spain; for _jonquere_ is rather a hamlet; but _figuere_ has a decent, comfortable appearance, abounds with merchants and tradesmen, and at a little distance from it stands the strongest citadel in spain; indeed it is the frontier town of the kingdom. the quietness of the people, and seeming tranquility of all ranks and orders of men in spain, is very remarkable to a person who has just left a kingdom in every respect so different. strangers as we were, and as we must be known to be, we passed unnoticed; and when we stopped near a cottage to eat our hedge dinner, neither man, woman, or child came near us, till i asked for water, and then they brought with it, unasked, dried grapes, and chesnuts, but instantly retired. i was charmed with the arcadian inhabitants, and visited the inside of their cabin; but its situation upon a little _tump_, on the bank of a brook, shaded by ever-green oaks, and large spreading fig-trees, was all it had to boast of; it had nothing within but straw beds, indian corn, dried grapes, figs, &c. from _figuere_ to _girone_, which is a good day's journey, the country is enclosed, and the hedgerows, corn fields, &c. had in many places the appearance of the finest parts of england, only warmed by a hotter sun, and adorned with woods and trees of other species; instead of the hawthorn, i found the orange and the pomegranate, the myrtle and the cypress; in short, all nature seemed to rejoice here, but man alone. from many parts of this road we had a view of the _mediterranean_ sea, and the golfe _de royas_, a fine bay, over which the heads of the _pyrenees_ hang; and on the banks of which there seemed to be, not only villages, but large towns; the situations of which appeared so enchanting, that i could hardly resist the temptation of visiting them;--and now wonder why i did not; but at that time, i suppose i did not recollect i had nothing else to do. we entered this town rather too late, and were followed to our inn by an armed soldier, who demanded, in harsh terms, my attendance upon the governor; i enquired whether it was customary for a gentleman, just off a journey, to be so called upon, and was assured it was not; that my _passa-porte_ was sufficient. i therefore gave that to my conductor, and desired him to take it, and return it, which he did, in about half an hour; but required to be paid for his trouble--a request i declined understanding. this is a fortified city, well built, but every house has the appearance of a convent. i went into the market, where fruit, flesh, and vegetables, were to be sold in abundance; but instead of that noise which french and english markets abound with, a general silence and gravity reigned throughout; which, can hardly be thought possible, where so many buyers and sellers were collected together. i bought a basket of figs, but the vender of them spoke to me as softly as if we had been engaged in a conspiracy, but she did not attempt to impose; i dare say, she asked me no more than she would have demanded of a spaniard. the manners of people are certainly infectious; my spirits sunk in this town; and i wanted nothing but the language, and a long cloak, to make me a compleat spaniard. our inn was the golden fountain; and, considering it was in spain, not a bad one. if the town, however, was gloomy, the country round about it exhibited all the beauties nature can boast of. in climates, says some writer, where the earth seems to be the pride and masterpiece of nature, rags, and dirt, ghastly countenances, and misery under every form, are oftener met with, than in those countries less favoured by nature; and the forlorn and wretched condition of the people in general seemed to belie and disgrace their native soil. certain it is, that the natives of the southern parts of europe have neither the beauty, the strength, nor comeliness of men born in more northern climates. i have seen in the south of france, in spain, and portugal, the aged especially of both sexes, who hardly appeared human! nor do you see, in general, even among the youthful, much more beauty than that which youth alone must give; for youth itself is beauty. whoever compares the natives of switzerland, england, ireland, and scotland, with those of spain, portugal, or other southern climates, will find, that men born among cold, bleak mountains, are infinitely superior to those of the finest climates under the sun. perhaps, however, this difference may arise more from the want of liberty than the power of climate. oh liberty! sweet liberty! without thee life cannot be enjoyed! thou parent of comfort, whose children bless thee, though they dwell among the barren rocks, or the most surly regions of the earth! thou blessest, in spite of nature; and in spite of nature, tyranny brings curses. letter. xvii. martory. after we left _girone_ we passed thro' a fine country, but not equal to that which is between _jonquire_ and that town; we lay the first night at a _veritiable_ spanish _posada_; it was a single house, called the _grenade_. we arrived there early in the afternoon; and though the inside of the house was but so-so, every thing without was charming, and our host and his two daughters gave us the best they had, treated us with civility enough; and gave us good advice in the prosecution of our journey to barcelona; for about four leagues from this house, we found two roads to that city, one on the side of the mediterranean sea, the other inland. he advised us to take the former, which exactly tallied with my inclination, for wherever the sea-coast affords a road in hot climates, that must be the pleasantest; and i was very impatient till we got here. after we had left the high inland road, we had about three leagues to the sea side, and the village on its margin where we were to lie; this road was through a very wild, uncultivated country, over-run with underwood and tall firs. we saw but few houses and met with fewer people. when we came near the sea, the country, however, improved upon us; and the farms, churches, convents, and beacons, upon the high lands, rendered the prospects every way pleasing. we crossed a shallow river several times, adorned on both sides with an infinite quantity of tall beeches, on one of which trees (boy like) i cut my name, too high for _other boys_, without a ladder, to cut me _out_ again. at length we arrived at the village, and at a _posada_, than which nothing could be more dreadful, after the day-light was gone; for beside the rudest mistress, and the dirtiest servants that can be conceived, there lay a poor frenchman dying in the next room to us; nay, i may almost say, in the same room with us, for it could hardly be called a door which parted us. this poor man, who had not a shilling in his pocket, had lain twenty days ill in that house; but was attended by the priests of the town with as much assiduity as if he had been a man of fashion: he had been often exhorted by them, it seems, to confess, but had refused. the night we came, he feared would be his last, and he determined to make his confession; i was in the room when he signified his desire so to do; and all the people were dismissed by the parish priest. i returned to my room, and could now and then hear what the priest said: but the sick man's voice was too low: his crimes however, i fear, were of an high nature, for we heard the priest say, with a voice of impatience and seeming horror, _adonde--adonde--adonde_?--where--where--where? you may imagine, a bad supper, lighted by stinking oil, burning in an iron lamp hung against the side of a wall, (for there were no candles to be had) and while the sick man was receiving the last sacrament, would have been little relished had it been good; that our dirty straw beds were no very comfortable retreat; and that day-light the next morning was what we most wanted and wished for. indeed, i never spent a more miserable night; but it was amply made up to us by this day's journey to _martory_, for we coasted it along the sea, which sometimes washed the wheels of my chaise at others, we crossed over high head-lands, which afforded such extensive views over both elements, as abundantly overpaid us for the sufferings of the preceding evening. the roads, indeed, over these head-lands were bad enough, in some places dangerous; but between walking and riding, with a steady horse, we got on very well. on this coast, we found a village at every league, inhabited by rich fishermen, and wealthy ship-builders, and found all these artificers busy enough in their professions; in some places, there were an hundred men dragging in, by bodily strength, the _saine_; at others, still more surprising, ships of two hundred tons were building on the dry land, where no tide rises to launch them! these villages are built close to the sea; nothing intervenes between their houses and the ocean but their little gardens, in which, under the shade of their orange, lemon, and vine trees, which were loaded with fruit, sat the wives and daughters of the fishermen, making black silk lace. though i call them villages, and though they are in reality so, yet the houses were such, in general, as would make a good figure even in a fine city; for they were all well built, and many adorned on the outside with no contemptible paintings. the town, indeed, from which i write, is situated in the same manner, but is a little city, and affords a _posada_, (i speak by comparison, remember) comfortable enough; and the sea a fish, they call the red fish, than which nothing can be more delicious; i may venture almost to call it the sea woodcock, for it is eaten altogether in the same manner. we fared better than my poor horse, for not a grain of oats or barley did this city afford; nor has he tasted, or have i seen, a morsel of hay since i parted from my little _dona_, near the foot of the _pyrenees_. tomorrow we have seven hours to _barcelona_; i can see the high cape under which it stands, and from under which, you shall soon hear again from me. letter xviii. barcelona. upon our arrival at this town, we were obliged to wait at the outward gate above half an hour, no person being admitted to enter from twelve till one, tho' all the world may go out; that hour being allotted for the guards, &c. to eat their dinner. as i had no letter to any person in this city, but to the french consul, i had previously wrote to a mr. ford, a merchant at barcelona, with whom i had formerly travelled from london to bath, to beg the favour of him to provide lodgings for me; i therefore enquired for mr. ford's house, and found myself conducted to that of a mr. curtoys; mr. ford, unfortunately for me, was dead; but the same house and business is carried on by messrs. adams and curtoys, who had received and opened my letter. after this family had a little _reconnoitred_ mine, mr. curtoys came down, and with much civility, and an hospitable countenance, told me his dinner was upon the table, and in very pressing terms desired that we would partake of it. we found here a large family, consisting of his wife, a motherly good-looking woman; mrs. adams, her daughter by a former husband, a jolly dame; and several children. mrs. adams spoke fluently the catalan, french, english, and spanish tongues; all which were necessary at a table where there were people who understood but one only of each language. mr. curtoys pressed us to dine with him a few days after, a favour which i, only, accepted; when he told me, he was nominated, but not absolutely fixed in his consulship of this city; that he had obtained it by the favour of lord rochford, who had spent some days at his house, on his way to madrid, when his lordship was ambassador to this court; and before i went from him, he desired i and my family would dine with him at his country-house the next day: instead of which, i waited upon him in the morning, and told him, that i had formerly received civilities from his friend, lord rochford, and believed him once to have been mine; but that, unfortunately, i found now it was much otherwise; and observed, that perhaps his politeness to me might injure him with his lordship; and that i thought it right to say so much, that he might be guided by his own judgment, and not follow the bent of his inclination, if he thought it might be prejudicial to his interest; and by the way of a little return for the hospitable manner in which he had received and entertained me, and my family, i took out an hundred and twenty-five pound in banknotes, and desired him to send them to england; adding, that i had about thirty pounds in my pocket, which i hoped would be sufficient for my expences, till he had an account of their safe arrival. but instead of his wonted chearful countenance, i was _contunded_ with an affected air of the man of business; my bank notes were shined against the window, turned and twisted about, as if the utmost use they could be of were to light the consul's pipe after supper. i asked him whether he had any doubts of their authenticity; and shewed him a letter to confirm my being the person i said i was, written to me but a short time before, from his friend lord rochford, from whom he too had just received a letter: he then observed; that a burnt child dreads the fire; that their house had suffered; that a moor had lately passed thro' france, who had put off a great number of false bank notes, and that i might indiscreetly have taken some of them; but assuring him that i had received all mine from the hands of messrs. hoare, and that i would not call upon him for the money till he had received advice of their being good, i took my leave, and left my notes. but as there was a possibility, nay, a probability, that mr. curtoys might not have very early advice from england, or might not give it to me if he had, (for all his hospitality of countenance and civility was departed) i thought it was necessary to secure a retreat; for i should have informed you, that i found at his table a mr. wombwell, whose uncle i had lived in great intimacy with many years before at gibraltar, and who left this man (now a spanish merchant) all his fortune. indeed, i should have said, that mr. wombwell had visited me, and even had asked me to dine with him; and as he appeared infinitely superior both in understanding, address, and knowledge of the world to good mr. curtoys, i went to him, with that confidence which a good note, and a good cause, gives to every man. i told him the consul's fears, and my own, lest i might want money before mr. curtoys was ready to supply me; in which case, and which only, i asked mr. wombwell if he would change me a twenty pound bank note, and shewed him one which i then took out of my pocket; but mr. wombwell too examined my notes, with all the attention of a cautious tradesman, and put on all that imperiousness which riches, and the haughty spanish manners to an humble suitor, could suggest. i tell you, my dear sir, what passed between us, more out of pity than resentment towards him; he said i will recollect it as nearly as i can, "that if you are mr. thicknesse, you must have lived a great deal in the world; it is therefore unfortunate, you are not acquainted with sir thomas gascoyne, a gentleman of fashion, well known in england, and now in the same auberge with you." i confessed that i had seen, and conversed with sir thomas gascoyne there, and that it was very true, he was to me, and i to him, utter strangers; but i observed, that sir thomas had been ten years upon his travels, and that i had lived fourteen years in retirement before he set out, and therefore that was but a weak circumstance of my being an impostor; i observed too, that impostors travelled singly, not with a wife and children; and that though i by no means wished to force his money out of his pocket, i coveted much to remove all suspicions of my being an adventurer, for many obvious reasons. this reply opened a glimpse of generosity, though sullied with arrogance and pride. "i should be sorry (said he) to see a countryman, who is an honest man, in want of money; and therefore, as i think it is probable you are mr. thicknesse, i will, when you want your note changed, change it;" adding, however, that "he thanked god! if he lost the money, he could afford it." i then told him, he had put it in my power to convince him i was mr. thicknesse, by declining, as i did, the boon he offered me; i declined it, indeed, with an honest indignation, because i am sure he did not doubt my being mr. thicknesse, and that _he_, not _i_, was the real pretender. i had before told him, that i had some letters in my pocket written by a spanish gentleman of fashion, whose hand-writing must be well known in that town;--but to this he observed, that there was not a moor in spain who could not write spanish;--he further remarked, that if i was mr. thicknesse, i had, in a publication of my travels, spoke of sir john lambert, a parisian banker, in very unhandsome terms, and, for aught he knew, i might take the same liberty with his name, in future. i acknowledged that his charge was very true, and that his suggestion might be so; that i should always speak and publish such truths as i thought proper, either for the information of others, or the satisfaction of myself. mr. wombwell, however, acknowledged, that mr. curtoys, to whom i shewed lord rochford's letter to me, ought to have been quite satisfied whether i was, or was not an impostor; but i still left him under real or pretended doubts, with a resolution to live upon bread and water, or the bounty of a taylor, my honest landlord; for, tho' a spaniard, i am sure he had that perception, and that humanity too, which mess. curtoys and wombwell have not, or artfully concealed from me: yet, in spite of all the unkind behaviour of the latter, i could not help shewing him my share of vanity too; i therefore sent him a letter, and enclosed therein others written to me by the late lord holland, the duke of richmond, lord oxford, and many other people of rank; and desired him to give me credit, at least, for _that_ which he could lose nothing by--that of my being, if i was an impostor, an ingenuous one. he sent the letters, handsomely sealed up, back again, without any answer; and there finished for ever, our correspondence, unless _he should renew it_. i am ashamed of saying so much about these men and myself, where i could find much better subjects, and some, perhaps, of entertainment; but it is necessary to shew how very proper it is for a stranger to take with him letters of recommendation when he travels, not only to other kingdoms, but to every city where he proposes to reside, even for a short time; for, as mr. wombwell justly observed, when i have a letter of recommendation from my friend, or correspondent, i can have no doubt who the bearer is; and i had rather take that recommendation than bank notes.--i confess, that merchants cannot be too cautious and circumspect; i can, and do forgive mr. curtoys, for reasons he shall shew you under his own hand: but i have too good an opinion of mr. wombwell's perception to so readily forget his shrewd reprisals; though i must, i cannot refrain from telling you what a flattering thing he said to me: i had shewn him a printed paper, signed _junius_; said he, "if you wrote this, you may be, for aught i know, really junius." i assured him that i was not; for being in spain, and out of the reach of the inquisitorial court of westminster-hall, i would instantly avow it, for fear i should die suddenly, and carry that secret, like _mrs. faulkner_, to the grave with me. letter xix. barcelona. you will, as i am, be tired of hearing so much about messrs. wombwell, curtoys, adams, and co.--but as there are some other persons here, which my last letter must have put you in some pain about, i must renew the subject. i had, you know, some letters of recommendation to the _marquis of grimaldi_, which i had reserved to deliver into his excellency's hands at _madrid_; but which i found necessary to send away by the post, and to request the honour of his excellency to write to some spaniard of fashion here, to shew me countenance, and to clear up my suspected character. i accordingly wrote to the _marquis_, and sent him my letters of recommendation, but sixteen days was the soonest i could expect an answer. i therefore, in the mean time, wrote myself to the _intendant_ of _barcelona_, a man of sense, and high birth; i told him my name, and that i had letters in my pocket from a spanish gentleman of fashion, whom he knew, which would convince him who i was, and desired leave to wait upon him. the intendant fixed six o'clock the same evening. i was received, and conducted into his apartment, for he was ill, by one of his daughters; the only woman i had seen in barcelona that had either beauty or breeding;--this young lady had both in a high degree. after shewing my letters, and having conversed a little with the intendant, a lady with a red face, and a nose as big as a brandy bottle, accosted me in english: "behold, sir, (said she) your countrywoman." this was madam o'reilly, wife to the governor of _monjuique_ castle, and brother to the gentleman of that name, so well known, and so amply provided for, by the late and present king of spain. she was very civil, and seemed sensible. her husband, the governor, soon after came in, and the whole family smiled upon me. i then began to think i should escape both goal and inquisition. mrs. o'reilly visited my family. mr. o'reilly borrowed a house for me, and a charming one too; i say borrowed it, for no spaniard letts his house; i was only to make him some _recompense for his politeness and generosity_. the intendant even sent gov. o'reilly to know why mr. curtoys had not presented me, on the court-day, to the captain-general. mr. consul curtoys was obliged to give his reasons in person; had they been true, they were good: the intendant accepted them, and said he would present me himself. things seemed now to take a favourable turn: mr. curtoys visited me on his way back from the intendant's; assured me he had told him that i was a man of character, and an honest man; and that though he could not _see me_ as _consul curtoys_, he should be glad to see me as _merchant curtoys_. on the other hand, the _marquis of grimaldi_, with the politeness of a minister, and the feelings of humanity, wrote me a very flattering letter indeed, and sent it by a special _courier_, who came in four days from _madrid_. now, thought i, a fig for your wombwells, curtoys, &c. the first minister's favour, and the _shining countenance_ of madam o'reilly, must carry me through every thing. but alas! it was quite otherwise;--the _courier_ who brought my letter had directions to deliver it into my own hands; but either by _his blunder_, or _madam o'reilly's_, i did not get it till _nine hours_ after it arrived, and then _from the hands_ of _madam o'reilly's_ servant. the contents of this letter were soon known: the favour of the minister at _madrid_ did not shine upon me at the _court of barcelona_! i visited madam o'reilly, who looked at me,--if i may use such a coarse expression,--"like god's revenge against murder." i could not divine what i had done, or what omitted to do. i could get no admittance at the intendant's, neither. i proposed going to _montserrat_, and asked my _fair_ countrywoman for a letter to one of the monks; but--_she knew nobody there, not she_:--why then, madam, said i, perhaps i had better go back to france:--oh! but, says she, perhaps the _marquis of grimaldi_ will not let you; adding, that the laws of france and spain were very different.--but, pray, madam, said i, what have the laws of either kingdom to do with me, while i violate none of them? i am a citizen of the world, and consequently free in every country.--now, sir, to decypher all this, which i did by the help of some _characters_ an honest spaniard gave me:--why, says he, they say you are a _great captain_; that you have had an attention shewn you by the _marquis of grimaldi_, which none of the o'reilly's ever obtained; and they are afraid that you are come here to take the eldest brother's post from him, and that you are to command the troops upon the second expedition to _algiers_; for every body is much dissatisfied with his conduct on the first; adding, that the spaniards do not love him.--i told him, that might arise from his being a stranger; but i had been well assured, and i firmly believed it, that he is a gallant, an able, and a good officer; but, said i, that cannot be the reason of so much shyness in the _intendant_, even if it does raise any uneasiness in the o'reilly's family:--yes, said he, it does; for the captain-general o'reilly is married lately to one of the intendant's daughters. so you see here was another mine sprung under me; and i determined to set out in a day or two for _montserrat_. i had but one card more to play, and that was to carry the open letter i had to the french consul, and which, i forgot to tell you, i had shewn to the acute, discerning, and sagacious merchant wombwell. it was written by _madame de maigny_, the lady of the _chevalier de maigny_, of the regiment _d'artois_, one of the gentlemen with whom i had eat that voluptuous supper in company at _pont st. esprit_; but, as mr. wombwell shrewdly observed, my name was not even mentioned in that letter, it was the _bearer only_ who was recommended; and how could that lady, any more than mr. wombwell, tell, but that i had murdered the first bearer, and robbed him of his recommendatory letter, and dressed myself in his scarlet and gold-laced coat, to practise the same wicked arts upon their lives and fortunes? now, you will naturally wish to know how sir thomas gascoyne, my _vis-a-vis_ neighbour in the same _hotel_, conducted himself. i had, before all this fuss, eat, drank, and conversed with him: he is a sensible, genteel, well-bred man; and there was with him mr. swinburne, who was equally agreeable: no wonder, therefore, if i endeavoured to cultivate an acquaintance with two such men, so much superior, in all respects, to what the town afforded. sir thomas, however, became rather reserved; perhaps not more so than good policy made necessary for a man who was only just entering upon a grand tour through the whole kingdom, from barcelona to cadiz, madrid, &c. &c. i perceived this shyness, but did not resent it, because i could not censure it. he had no suspicion of me at first; and if he had afterwards, i could not tell what circumstances might have been urged against me; and i considered, that if a man of his fortune and figure could have been suspected, there was much reason for him to join with others in suspecting me. the moor, it seems, who had put off the counterfeit bank notes, had been advertised in all the foreign papers; his person was particularly described; and as application had been made to the courts of france and spain, to stop the career of such a villain, the governor of _barcelona_ had, upon sir thomas gascoyne's first arrival, stopped him, and sent for the consul, verily believing he had got the offender. the moor was described as a short, plump, black man; and as sir thomas has black eyes, and is rather _en bon point_, the plain, honest governor had not discernment enough to see that ease and good breeding in sir thomas, which no moor, however well he may imitate bank notes, can counterfeit. but as sir thomas had letters of credit upon mr. curtoys, which ascertained his person and rank, this adventure became a laughable one to him. it is, indeed, from his mouth i relate it, though, perhaps, not with all the circumstances he told me.--now, had my person tallied as well as sir thomas's did with that of the itinerant moor, i should certainly have been in one of the round towers, which stick pretty thick in the walls of the fortification of this town. you will tremble--i assure you, i do--when i think of another escape i had; and i will tell you how:--the day after i left _cette_, i came to a spot where the roads divide; here i asked two men, which was mine to _narbonne_? one of them answered me in english; he was a shabby, but genteel-looking young man, said he came from _italy_, and was going to _barcelona_; that he had been defrauded of his money at _venice_ by a parcel of sharpers, and was going to _spain_ to get a passage to holland, of which country he was a native; he was then in treaty, he said, with the other man to sell him a pair of breeches, to furnish him with money to carry him on; and as i had no servant at that time, he earnestly intreated me to take him into my service: i would not do that, you may be sure; but lest he might be an unfortunate man, like myself, i told him, if he could contrive to lie at the inns i did, i would pay for his bed and supper. he accepted an offer, i soon became very sorry i had made; and when we arrived at _perpignan_, i gave him a little money to proceed, but absolutely forbad him either to walk near my chaise, or to sleep at the same inns i did; for as i knew him not, he should not enter into another kingdom as one in my _suite_; and i saw no more of him till some days after my arrival at barcelona, where he accosted me in a better habit, and shewed me some real, or counterfeit gold he had got, he said, of a friend who knew his father at amsterdam. he was a bold, daring fellow; and it was with some difficulty i could prevail upon him not to walk _cheek by jole_ with me along the ramparts. soon after this i was informed, that a fine-dressed, little black-eyed man was arrived in a bark from italy. this man proved to be, as mr. curtoys informed me, the very moor whom sir thomas gascoyne was suspected to be: he was apprehended, and committed to one of the round towers. but what will you say, or what would have been my lot, had i taken the other man into my service?--for the minute _my white man_, for he was a _whitish_ moor, saw the black one arrive, he decamped; they were afraid of each other, and both wanted to escape; my man went off on foot; the black man was apprehended, while he was in treaty with the master of the same bark he came in, to carry him to some other sea-port. now had i come in with such a servant, and with my suspected bank notes, without letters of credit, or recommendation; had the moor arrived, who is the real culprit, and who had been connected with my man, what would have become of his master, your unfortunate humble servant?--i doubt the _abilities_ of his britannic majesty's consul would not have been able to have divided our degrees of _guilt_ properly; and that i should have experienced but little charity on my straw bed, from the humanity of mr. wombwell. however, i had still one card more to play to reinforce my purse; it was one, i thought could not fail, and the money was nearer home:--i had lent, while i was at calais, thirty guineas to a french officer, for no other reason but because he wanted it: i knew the man; and as he promised to pay me in three months, and as that time was expired, i applied to mr. harris, a scotch merchant, at his house at barcelona, on whom the london bankers of the same name give letters of credit to travellers. i begged the favour of him to send the note to his correspondents at paris, and to procure the money for me, and when it was paid, that he would give it to me at barcelona; but mr. harris too, begged to be excused: he started some difficulties, but at length did give me a receipt for the note, and promised, reluctantly enough, to send it. i began now to think that i should starve indeed. every article of life is high in spain, and my purse was low. i therefore wrote to mr. curtoys, to know if he had any tidings of the bank bills; for i had immediately wrote to messrs. hoare, to beg the favour of them to send mr. curtoys the numbers of those which i received at their house; and they very politely informed me, they had so done. mr. consul curtoys favoured me with the following answer: "mr. curtoys presents his compliments to mr. thicknesse; no ways doubts the bank bills _to be good_, from london this post under the th past, they _accuse_ receipt thereof, &c. _barcelona_, th of december, ." as mr. curtoys's correspondent had _accused receipt thereof_, i thought i might too, and accordingly i went and desired my money. the cashier was sick, they said, and i was desired to call again the next morning, _when he would be much better_;--i did so, and received my money; and shall set off immediately for _montserrat_, singing, and saying what i do not exactly agree to; but, being at rome, i would do as they do there: i therefore taught my children to repeat the following spanish proverb: "barcelonaes buéno, si la bolsa fuéno; suéno ô no fuéno; barcelonaes buéno." i will not translate what, i am sure, you will understand the sense of much better than you will think i experienced the truth. i hope, however, to have done with my misfortunes; for i am going to visit a spot inhabited by virtuous and retired men; a place, according to all reports, cut out by nature for such who are able to sequester themselves from all worldly concerns; and from such strangers as they are i am sure i shall meet with more charity for they deal in nothing else than i met with humanity or politeness at barcelona. _p.s._ i should have told you, that before sir thomas gascoyne left this town, he sent a polite message, to desire to take leave of me and my family: i therefore waited upon him; and as he proposed visiting gibraltar, i troubled him with a letter to my son, then on that duty; and was sorry soon after to find that my son had left the garrison before sir thomas could arrive at it. if you ask me how sir thomas gascoyne ventured to make so great a tour through a country so aukwardly circumstanced for travellers in general, and strangers in particular, i can only say, that when i saw him he had but just began his long journey, and that he had every advantage which _religion_ and fortune could give him. i had none: he travelled with two coaches, two sets of horses, two saddle mules, and was protected by a train of servants. i had religion, (but it was a bad one in that country) and only one footman, who strictly maintained his character, for he always walked. indeed, it is the fashion of all spanish gentlemen to be followed by their servant on foot. i therefore travelled like a spaniard; sir thomas like an englishman. the whole city of _barcelona_ was in an uproar the morning sir thomas's two coaches set off; and i heard, with concern, that they both broke down before they got half way to _valencia_; but, with pleasure, by a polite letter soon after from mr. swinburne, that they got so far in perfect health. i am, dear sir, &c. _p.s._ before i quit barcelona, it will be but just to say, that it is a good city, has a fine mole, and a noble citadel, beside _monjuique_, a strong fort, which stands on a high hill, and which commands the town as well as the harbour. the town is very large and strongly fortified, stands in a large plain, and is encompassed with a semi-circular range of high hills, rather than mountains, which form _un coup-d'oeil_, that is very pleasing, as not only the sides of the hills are adorned with a great number of country houses, but the plain also affords a great many, beside several little villages. the roads too near the town are very good. as to the city itself, it is rather well built in general, than abounding with any particular fine buildings. the inquisition has nothing to boast of now, either within or without, having (fortunately for the public) lost a great part of its former power: it, however, still keeps an awe upon all who live within its verge. i never saw a town in which trade is carried on with more spirit and industry; the indolent disposition of the spaniards of _castile_, and other provinces, has not extended ever into this part of spain. they have here a very fine theatre; but those who perform upon the stage are the refuse of the people, and are too bad to be called by the name of actors. they have neither libraries nor pictures worthy of much notice, though they boast of one or two paintings in their churches by natives of the town, françois _guirro_, and john _arnau_. in the custom-house hangs a full-length of the present king, so execrable, that one would wonder it was not put, with the painter, into the inquisition, as a libel on royalty and the arts. i am told, at _la fete dieu_ there are some processions of the most ridiculous nature. the fertility of the earth in and about the town is wonderful; the minute one crop is off the earth, another is put in; no part of the year puts a stop to vegetation. in the coldest weather, the market abounds with a great variety of the choicest flowers; yet their sweets cannot over-power the intolerable smell which salt fish, and stinking fish united, diffuse over all that part of the city; and rich as the inhabitants are, you will see the legs, wings, breasts, and entrails of fowls, in the market, cut up as joints of meat are in other countries, to be sold separately: nor could i find in this great city either oil, olives, or wine, that were tolerable. i paid a guinea a day at the _fontain d'or_ for my table; yet every thing was so dirty, that i always made my dinner from the dessert; nor was there any other place but the stable of this dirty inn to put up my horse, where i paid twelve livres a week for straw only; and whoever lodges at this inn, must pay five shillings a day for their dinner, whether they dine there or not. _catalonia_ is undoubtedly the best cultivated, the richest, and most industrious province, or principality, in spain; and the king, who has the sun for his hat, (for it always shines in some part of his dominions) has nothing to boast of, equal to _catalonia_. as i have almost as much abhorrence to the moors, as even the spaniards themselves, (having visited that coast two or three times, many years ago) you may be sure i was grieved to meet, every time i went out, so many maimed and wounded officers and soldiers, who were not long returned from the unsuccessful expedition to _algiers_. there are no troops in the world more steady than the spaniards; it was not for want of bravery they miscarried, but there was some sad mismanagement; and had the moors followed their blows, not a man of them would have returned. my servant, (a french deserter) who was upon that expedition, says, gen. o'reilly was the first who landed, and the last who embarked;--but it is the head, not the _arm_ of a commander in chief, which is most wanted. the moors at _le point du jour_, advanced upon the spaniards behind a formidable _masked and moving battery_ of camels: the spaniards, believing them, by a faint light, to be cavalry, expended a great part of their strength, spirits, and ammunition, upon those harmless animals; and it was not till _this curtain_ was removed that the dreadful carnage began, in which they lost about nine thousand men. there seems to have been some strange mismanagement; it seems probable that there was no very good understanding between the marine and the land officers. the fleet were many days before the town, and then landed just where the moors expected they would land. there is nothing so difficult, so dangerous, nor so liable to miscarriage, as the war of _invading_: our troops experienced it at _st. cas_; and they either have, or will experience it in america. the wild negroes in jamaica, to whom gov. trelawney wisely gave, what they contended for, (liberty) were not above fifteen hundred fit to bear arms. i was in several skirmishes with them, and second in command under mr. adair's brother, a valiant young man who died afterwards in the field, who made peace with them; yet i will venture to affirm, that though five hundred disciplined troops would have subdued them in an open country, the united force of france and england could not have extirpated them from their fast holds in the mountains. did not a baker battle and defeat two marshals of france in the cevennes? and is it probable, that all the fleets and armies of great-britain can conquer america?--england may as well attempt moving that continent on this side the atlantic. letter xx. montserrat. i never left any place with more secret satisfaction than i did _barcelona_; exclusive of the entertainment i was prepared to expect, by visiting this holy mountain; nor have i been disappointed; but on the contrary, found it, in every respect, infinitely superior to the various accounts i had heard of it;--to give a perfect description of it is impossible;--to do that it would require some of those attributes which the divine power by whose almighty handy it was raised, is endowed with. it is called _montserrat_, or _mount-scie_,[c] by the _catalonians_, words which signify a cut or _sawed mountain_; and so called from its singular and extraordinary form; for it is so broken, so divided, and so crowned with an infinite number of spiring cones, or pine heads, that it has the appearance, at distant view, to be the work of man; but upon a nearer approach, to be evidently raised by him alone, to whom nothing is impossible. it looks, indeed, like the first rude sketch of god's work; but the design is great, and the execution such, that it compels all men who approach it, to lift up their hands and eyes to heaven, and to say,--oh god!--how wonderful are all thy works! [c] the arms of the abbey are--a saw in the middle of a rock. it is no wonder then, that such a place should be fixed upon for the residence of holy and devout men; for there is not surely upon the habitable globe a spot so properly adapted for retirement and contemplation; it has therefore, for many ages, been inhabited only by monks and hermits, whose first vow is, never to forsake it;--a vow, without being either a hermit or a monk, i could make, i think, without repenting. if it be true, and some great man has said so, that "_whosoever delighteth in solitude, is either a wild beast, or a god_;" the inhabitants of this spot are certainly more than men; for no wild beast dwells here. but it is the _place_, not the people, i mean at present to speak of. it stands in a vast plain, seven leagues they call it, but it is at least thirty miles from _barcelona_, and nearly in the center of the principality of _catalonia_. the height of it is so very considerable, that in one hour's slow travelling towards it, after we left _barcelona_, it shewed its pointed steeples, high over the lesser mountains, and seemed so very near, that it would have been difficult to have persuaded a person, not accustomed to such deceptions, in so clear an atmosphere to believe, that we had much more than an hour's journey to arrive at it; instead of which, we were all that day in getting to _martorel_, a small city, still three leagues distant from it, where we lay at the three kings, a pretty good inn, kept by an insolent imposing italian. _martorel_ stands upon the steep banks of the river _lobregate_, over which there is a modern bridge, of a prodigious height, the piers of which rest on the opposite shore, against a roman triumphal arch of great solidity, and originally of great beauty. i think i tell you the truth when i say, that i could perceive the convent, and some of the hermitages, when i first saw the mountain, at above twenty miles distance. from _martorel_, however, they were as visible as the mountain itself, to which the eye was directed, down the river, the banks of which were adorned with trees, villages, houses, &c. and the view terminated by this the most glorious monument in nature. when i first saw the mountain, it had the appearance of an infinite number of rocks cut into _conical_ forms, and built one upon another to a prodigious height. upon a nearer view, each cone appeared of itself a mountain; and the _tout ensemble_ compose an enormous mass of the _lundus helmonti_, or plumb-pudding stone, fourteen miles in circumference, and what the spaniards _call_ two leagues in height. as it is like unto no other mountain, so it stands quite unconnected with any, though not very distant from some very lofty ones. near the base of it, on the south side, are two villages, the largest of which is _montrosol_; but my eyes were attracted by two ancient towers, which flood upon a hill near _colbaton_, the smallest, and we drove to that, where we found a little _posada_, and the people ready enough to furnish us with mules and asses, for we were now become quite impatient to visit the hallowed and celebrated convent, _de neustra senora_; a convent, to which pilgrims resort from the furthest parts of europe, some bearing, by way of penance, heavy bars of iron on their backs, others cutting and slashing their naked bodies with wire cords, or crawling to it on all-fours, like the beasts of the field, to obtain forgiveness of their sins, by the intercession of _our lady of montserrat_. when we had ascended a steep and rugged road, about one hour, and where there was width enough, and the precipices not too alarming, to give our eyes the utmost liberty, we had an earnest of what we were to expect above, as well as the extensive view below; our impatience to see more was encreased by what we had already seen; the majestic convent opened to us a view of her venerable walls; some of the hermits' cells peeped over the broken precipices still higher; while we, glutted with astonishment, and made giddy with delight and amazement, looked up at all with a reverential awe, towards that god who raised the piles, and the holy men who dwell among them.--yes, sir,--we caught the holy flame; and i hope we came down better, if not wiser, than we went up. after ascending full two hours and a half more, we arrived on a flat part on the side, and about the middle of the mountain, on which the convent is built; but even that flat was made so by art, and at a prodigious expence. here, however, was width enough to look securely about us; and, good god! what an extensive field of earth, air, and sea did it open! the ancient towers, which at first attracted my notice near _colbaton_, were dwindled into pig-sties upon a _mounticule_. at length, and a great length it was, we arrived at the gates of the _sanctuary_; on each side of which, on high pedestals, stand the enormous statues of two saints; and nearly opposite, on the base of a rock, which leans in a frightful manner over the buildings, and threatens destruction to all below, a great number of human sculls are fixed in the form of a cross. within the gate is a square cloister, hung round with paintings of the miracles performed by the holy virgin, with votive offerings, &c. it was advent week, when none of the monks quit their apartments, but one whose weekly duty it was to attend the call of strangers; nor did the whole community afford but a single member (_pere tendre_, a _fleming_) who could speak french. it was _pere pascal_, by whom we were shewn every mark of politeness and attention, which a man of the world could give, but administered with all that humility and meekness, so becoming a man who had renounced it. he put us in possession of a good room, with good beds; and as it was near night, and very cold, he ordered a brazier of red-hot embers into our apartment; and having sent for the cook of the strangers' kitchen, (for there are four public kitchens) and ordered him to obey our commands, he retired to evening _vespers_; after which he made us a short visit, and continued to do so, two or three times every day, while we staid. indeed, i began to fear we staid too long, and told him so; but he assured me the apartment was ours for a month or two, if we pleased. during our stay, he admitted me into his apartments, and filled my box with delicious spanish snuff, and shewed us every attention we would wish, and much more than, as _unrecommended_ strangers, we could expect. all the poor who come here are fed gratis for three days, and all the sick received in the hospital. sometimes, on particular festivals, seven thousand arrive in one day; but people of condition pay a reasonable price for what they eat. there was before our apartment a long covered gallery; and tho' we were in a deep recess of the rocks, which projected wide and high on our right and left, we had in front a most extensive view of the _world below_, and the more distant mediterranean sea. it was a moon-light night; and, in spite of the cold, it was impossible to be shut out of the enchanting lights and shades which her silver beams reflected on the rude rocks above, beneath, and on all sides of us.--every thing was as still as death, till the sonorous convent bell warned the monks to midnight prayer. at two o'clock, we heard some of the tinkling bells of the hermits' cells above give notice, that they too were going to their devotion at the appointed hour: after which i retired to my bed; but my mind was too much awakened to permit me to sleep; i was impatient for the return of day-light, that i might proceed still higher; for, miser like, tho' my _coffers were too full_, i coveted more; and accordingly, after breakfast, we eagerly set our feet to the first _round_ of the _hermit's ladder_; it was a stone one indeed, but stood in all places dreadfully steep, and in many almost perpendicular. after mounting up a vast chasm in the rock, yet full of trees and shrubs, about a thousand paces, fatigued in body, and impatient for a safe resting place, we arrived at a small hole in the rock, through which we were glad to crawl; and having got to the secure side of it, prepared ourselves, by a little rest, to proceed further; but not, i assure you, without some apprehensions, that if there was no better road down, we must have become _hermits_. after a second clamber, not quite so dreadful as the first, but much longer, we got into some flowery and serpentine walks, which lead to two or three of the nearest hermitages then visible, and not far off, one of which hung over so horrible a precipice, that it was terrifyingly picturesque. we were now, however, i thought, certainly in the garden of eden! certain i am, eden could not be more beautifully adorned; for god alone is the gardener here also; and consequently, every thing prospered around us which could gratify the eye, the nose and, the imagination. "profuse the myrtle spread unfading boughs, expressive emblem of eternal vows." for the myrtle, the eglantine, the jessamin, and all the smaller kind of aromatic shrubs and flowers, grew on all sides thick and spontaneously about us; and our feet brushed forth the sweets of the lavender, rosemary and thyme, till we arrived at the first, and peaceful hermitage of _saint tiago_. we took possession of the holy inhabitants little garden, and were charmed with the neatness, and humble simplicity, which in every part characterised the possessor. his little chapel, his fountain, his vine arbor, his stately cypress, and the walls of his cell, embraced on all sides with ever-greens, and adorned with flowers, rendered it, exclusive of its situation, wonderfully pleasing. his door, however, was fast, and all within was silent; but upon knocking, it was opened by the venerable inhabitant: he was cloathed in a brown cloth habit, his beard was very long, his face pale, his manners courteous; but he seemed rather too deeply engaged in the contemplation of the things of the next world, to lose much of his time with _such things_ as _us_. we therefore, after peeping into his apartments, took his benediction, and he retired, leaving us all his worldly possessions, but his straw bed, his books, and his beads. this hermitage is confined between two pine heads, within very narrow bounds; but it is artfully fixed, and commands at noon day a most enchanting prospect to the east and to the north. though it is upwards of two thousand three hundred paces from the convent, yet it hangs so directly over it, that the rocks convey not only the sound of the organ, and the voices of the monks singing in the choir, but you may hear men in common conversation from the piazza below. this is a long letter; but i know you would not willingly have left me in the midst of danger, or before i was safe arrived at the first stage towards heaven, and seen one humble host on god's high road. _p.s._ at two o'clock, after midnight, these people rise, say mass, and continue the remainder of the night in prayer and contemplation. the hermits tell you, it was upon high mountains that god chose to manifest his will:--_fundamenta ejus in montibus sanctis_, say they;--they consider these rocks as symbols of their penitence, and mortifications; and their being so beautifully covered with fine flowers, odoriferous and rare plants, as emblems of the virtue and innocence of the religious inhabitants; or how else, say they, could such rocks produce spontaneously flowers in a desart, which surpass all that art and nature combined can do, in lower and more favourable soils? they may well think so; for human reason cannot account for the manner by which such enormous quantities of trees, fruits, and flowers are nourished, seemingly without soil. but that which established a church and convent on this mountain, was the story of a hermit who resided here many years; this was _juan guerin_, who lived on this mountain alone, the austerity of whose life was such, that the people below believed he subsisted without eating or drinking. as some very extraordinary circumstances attended this man's life, all which are universally believed here, it may not be amiss to give you some account of him:--you must know, sir, then, that the devil envying the happiness of this good man equipped himself in the habit of a hermit, and possessed himself of a cavern in the same mountain, which still bears the name of the _devil's grot_; after which he took occasion to throw himself in the way of poor _guerin_, to whom he expressed his surprize at seeing one of his own order dwell in a place he thought an absolute desert; but thanked god, for giving him so fortunate a meeting. here the devil, and _guerin_ became very intimate, and conversed much together on spiritual matters; and things went on well enough between them for a while, when another devil chum to the first, possessed the body of a certain princess, daughter of a count of _barcelona_, who became thereby violently tormented with horrible convulsions. she was taken to the church by her afflicted father. the dæmon who possessed her, and who, spoke for her, said, that nothing could relieve her from her sufferings but the prayers of a devout and pious hermit, named _guerin_, who dwelt on _montserrat_. the father, therefore, immediately repaired to _guerin_, and besought his prayers and intercession for the recovery of his daughter. it so happened (for so the devil would have it) that this business could not be perfectly effected in less than nine days; and that the princess must be left that time alone with _guerin_ in his cave. poor _guerin_, conscious of his frail nature, opposed this measure with all his might; but there was no resisting the argument and influence of the devil, and she was accordingly left. youth, beauty, a cave, solitude, and virgin modesty, were too powerful not to overcome even the chaste vows and pious intentions of poor _guerin_. the devil left the virgin, and possessed the saint. he consulted his false friend, and told him how powerful this impure passion was become, and his intentions of flying from the danger; but the devil advised him _to return to his cell_, and pray to god to protect him from sin. _guerin_ took his council, returned and fell into the fatal snare. the devil then persuaded him to kill the princess, in order to conceal his guilt, and to tell her father she had forsaken his abode while he was intent on prayer. _guerin_ did so; but became very miserable, and at length determined to make a pilgrimage to rome, to obtain a remission of his complicated crimes. the pope enjoined him to return to _montserrat_, on all fours, and to continue in that state, without once looking up to heaven, for the space of seven years, or 'till a child of three months old told him, his sins were forgiven: all which _guerin_ chearfully complied with, and accordingly crawled back to the defiled mountain. soon after the expiration of the seven years count _vifroy_, the father of the murdered princess, was hunting on the mountain of _montserrat_, and passing near _guerin's_ cave, the dogs entered, and the servant seeing a hideous figure concluded they had found the wild beast they were in pursuit of: they informed the count of what they had seen, who gave directions to secure the beast alive, which was accordingly done; for he was so over-grown with hair, and so deformed in shape, that they had no idea of the creature being human. he was therefore kept in the count's stable at _barcelona_, and shewn to his visitors as a wonderful and singular wild beast. during this time, while a company were examining this extraordinary animal, a nurse with a young child in her arms looked upon it, and the child after fixing his eyes stedfastly for a few minutes on _guerin_, said, "_guerin, rise, thy sins are forgiven thee_!"--_guerin_ instantly rose, threw himself at the count's feet, confessed the crimes he had been guilty of, and desired to receive the punishment due to them, from the hands of him whom he had so highly injured; but the count, perceiving that god had forgiven him, forgave him also. i will not trouble you with all the particulars which attended this miracle; it will be sufficient to say, that the count and _guerin_ went to take up the body of the murdered princess, for burial with her ancestors; but, to their great astonishment found her there alive, possessing the same youth and beauty she had been left with, and no alteration of any kind, but a purple streak about her neck where the cord had been twisted, and wherewith _guerin_ had strangled her. the father desired her to return to _barcelona_; but she was enjoined by the holy virgin, she said, to spend her days on that miraculous spot; and accordingly a church and convent was built there, the latter inhabited by nuns, of which the princess (who had risen from the dead) was the abbess. it was called the abbey _des pucelles_, of the order of _st. benoit_, and was founded in the year . but such a vast concourse of people, of both sexes, resorted to it, from all parts of the world, that at length it was thought prudent to remove the women to a convent at _barcelona_, and place a body of _benedictine_ monks in their place. strange as this story is, it is to be seen in the archives of this holy house; and in the street called _condal_, at _barcelona_, may be seen in the wall of the old palace of the count's, an ancient figure, cut in stone, which represents the nurse with the child in her arms, and a strange figure, on his knees, at her feet, and that is friar _guerin_. now, whether you will believe all this story, or not, i cannot take upon me to say; but i will assure you, that when you visit this spot, it will be necessary to _say you do_; or you would appear in their eyes a much greater wonder than any thing which i have related, of the devil, the friar, the virgin, and the count. letter xxi. the second hermitage, for i give them in the order they are usually visited, is that of _st. catharine_, situated in a deep and solitary vale: it however commands a most extensive and pleasing prospect, at noon-day, to the east and west. the buildings, garden, &c. are confined within small limits, being fixed in a most picturesque and secure recess under the foot of one of the high pines. though this hermit's habitation is the most retired and solitary abode of any, and far removed from the _din_ of men, yet the courteous, affable, and sprightly inhabitant, seems not to feel the loss of human society, though no man, i think, can be a greater ornament to human nature. if he is not much accustomed to hear the voice of men, he is amply recompensed by the notes of birds; for it is their sanctuary as well as his; for no part of the mountain is so well inhabited by the feathered race of beings as this delightful spot. perhaps indeed, they have sagacity enough to know that there is no other so perfectly secure. here the nightingale, the blackbird, the linnet, and an infinite variety of little songsters greater strangers to my eyes, than fearful of my hands, dwell in perfect security, and live in the most friendly intimacy with their holy protector, and obedient to his call; for, says the hermit, "haste here, ye feather'd race of various song, bring all your pleasing melody along! o come, ye tender, faithful, plaintive doves, perch on my hands, and sing your absent loves!"-- when instantly the whole _vocal band_ quit their sprays, and surround the person of their daily benefactor, some settling upon his head, others entangle their feet in his beard, and in the true sense of the word, take his bread even out of his mouth; but it is freely given: their confidence is so great, (for the holy father is their bondsman) that the stranger too partakes of their familiarity and caresses. these hermits are not allowed to keep within their walls either dog, cat, bird, or any living thing, lest their attention should be withdrawn from heavenly to earthly affections. i am sorry to arraign this good man; he cannot be said to transgress the law, but he certainly _evades_ it; for though his feathered band do not live within his walls, they are always attendant upon his _court_; nor can any prince or princess on earth boast of heads so _elegantly plumed_, as may be seen at the court of st. _catharine_; or of vassals who pay their tributes with half the chearfulness they are given and received by the humble monarch of this sequestered vale. if his meals are scanty, his dessert is served up with a song, and he is hushed to sleep by the nightingale; and when we consider, that he has but few days in the whole year which are inferior to some of our best in the months of may and june, you may easily conceive, that a man who breathes such pure air, who feeds on such light food, whose blood circulates freely from moderate exercise, and whose mind is never ruffled by worldly affairs, whose short sleeps are sweet and refreshing, and who lives confident of finding in death a more heavenly residence; lives a life to be envied, not pitied.--turn but your eyes one minute from this man's situation, to that of any monarch or minister on earth, and say, on which side does the balance turn?--while some princes may be embruing their hands in the blood of their subjects, this man is offering up his prayers to god to preserve all mankind:--while some ministers are sending forth fleets and armies to wreak their own private vengeance on a brave and uncorrupted people, this solitary man is feeding, from his own scanty allowance, the birds of the air.--conceive him, in his last hour, upon his straw bed, and see with what composure and resignation he meets it!--look in the face of a dying king, or a plundering, and blood-thirsty minister,--what terrors the sight of their velvet beds, adorned with crimson plumage, must bring to their affrighted imagination!--in that awful hour, it will remind them of the innocent blood they have spilt;--nay, they will perhaps think, they were dyed with the blood of men scalped and massacred, to support their vanity and ambition!--in short, dear sir, while kings and ministers are torn to pieces by a thirst after power and riches, and disturbed by a thousand anxious cares, this poor hermit can have but one, _i.e._ lest he should be removed (as the prior of the convent has a power to do) to some other cell, for that is sometimes done, and very properly. the youngest and most hardy constitutions are generally put into the higher hermitages, or those to which the access is most difficult; for the air is so fine, in the highest parts of the mountain, that they say it often renders the respiration painful. nothing therefore can be more reasonable than, that as these good men grow older, and less able to bear the fatigues and inconveniencies the highest abodes unavoidably subject them to, should be removed to more convenient dwellings, and that the younger and stouter men should succeed them. as the hermits never eat meat, i could not help observing to him, how fortunate a circumstance it was for the safety of his little feathered friends; and that there were no boys to disturb their young, nor any sportsman to kill the parent.--god forbid, said he, that one of them should fall, but by his hands who gave it life!--give me your hand, said i, and bless me!--i believe it did; _but it shortened my visit_:--so i stept into the _grot_, and _stole_ a pound of chocolate upon his stone table, and myself away. if there is a happy man upon this earth, i have seen that extraordinary man, and here he dwells!--his features, his manners, all his looks and actions, announce it;--yet he had not even a single _maravedi_ in his pocket:--money is as useless to him, as to one of his black-birds. within a gun-shot of this _remnant_ of _eden_, are the remains of an ancient hermitage, called _st. pedro_. while i was there, my hermit followed me; but i too _coveted retirement_. i had just bought a fine fowling-piece at _barcelona_; and when he came, i was availing myself of the hallowed spot, to make _my vow_ never to use it. in truth, dear sir, there are some sorts of pleasures too powerful for the body to bear, as well as some sort of pain: and here i was wrecked upon the wheel of felicity; and could only say, like the poor criminal who suffered at _dijon_,--o god! o god! at every _coup_. i was sorry my host did not understand english, nor i spanish enough, to give him the sense of the lines written in poor _shenstone_'s alcove. "o you that bathe in courtlye bliss, "or toyle in fortune's giddy spheare; "do not too rashly deeme amisse "of him that hides contented here. i forgot the other lines; but they conclude thus: "for faults there beene in busye life from which these peaceful glennes are free." letter xxii. i know you will not like to leave _st. catherine_'s harmonious cell so soon;--nor should i, but that i intend to visit it again. i will therefore conduct you to _st. juan_, about four hundred paces distant from it, on the east side of which, you look down a most horrid and frightful precipice,--a precipice, so very tremendous, that i am persuaded there are many people whose imagination would be so intoxicated by looking at it, that they might be in danger of throwing themselves over: i do not know whether you will understand my meaning by saying so; but i have more than once been so bewildered with such alarming _coup d'oeil_ on this mountain, that i began to doubt whether my own powers were sufficient to protect me:--horses, from sudden fright, will often run into the fire; and man too, may be forced upon his own destruction, to avoid those sensations of danger he has not been accustomed to look upon. perhaps i am talking non-sense; and you will attribute what i say to lowness of spirits; on the contrary, i had those feelings about me only during the time my eyes were employed upon such frightful objects; for my spirits were enlivened by pure air, exercise, and temperance:--nay, i remember to have been struck in the same manner, when the grand explosion of the fireworks was played off, many years ago, upon the conclusion of peace! the blast was so great, that it appeared as if it were designed to take with it all earthly things; and i felt almost forced by it, and summoned from my seat, and could hardly refrain from jumping over a parapet wall which stood before me. the building of this hermitage, however, is very secure; nothing can shake or remove it, but that which must shake or remove the whole mountain. at this cell, small as it is, king philip the third dined on the eleventh of july ;--a circumstance, you may be sure, the inhabitant will never forget, or omit to mention. it commands at noon-day a fine prospect eastward, and is approached by a good stage of steps. not far from it, on the road side, is a little chapel called st. michael, a chapel as ancient as the monastery itself; and a little below is the grotto, in which the image of the virgin, now fixed in the high altar of the church, was found. the entrance of this grotto is converted into a chapel, where mass is said every day by one of the monks. all the hermitages, even the smallest, have their little chapel, the ornaments for saying mass, their water cistern, and most of them a little garden. the building consists of one or two little chambers, a little refectory, and a kitchen; but many of them have every convenience within and without that a single man can wish or desire, except he should wish for or desire _such things_ as he was obliged to renounce when he took possession of it. from hence, by a road more wonderful than safe or pleasing, you are led on a ridge of mountains to the lofty cell of _st. onofre_. it stands in a cleft in one of the pine heads, six and thirty feet (i was going to say) above the earth; its appearance is indeed astonishing, for it seems in a manner hanging in the air; the access to it is by a ladder of sixty steps, extremely difficult to ascend, and even then you have a wooden bridge to cross, fixed from rock to rock, under which is an aperture of so terrifying an appearance, that i still think a person, not over timid, may find it very difficult to pass over, if he looks under, without losing in some degree that firmness which is necessary to his own preservation. the best and safest way is, to look forward at the building or object you are going to.--fighting, and even courage, is mechanical; a man may be taught it as readily as any other science; and i would _pit_ the little timid hermit of _st. onofre_ to a march, on the margin of the precipices on this mountain, against the bravest general we have in america. the man that would not wince at the whistle of a cannon-ball over his head, may find his blood retire, and his senses bewildered, at a dreadful precipice under his feet. _st. onofre_ possesses no more space than what is covered in by the tiling, nor any prospect but to the south. the inhabitant of it says, he often sees the islands of _minorca_, _mallorca_, and _ivica_, and the kingdoms of _valencia_ and _murcia_. the weather was extremely fine when i visited it, but there was a distant haziness which prevented my seeing those islands; indeed, my eyes were better employed and entertained in examining objects more interesting, as well as more pleasing. going from this hermitage, you have a view of the vale of _st. mary_, formerly called la _vallee amere_, through which the river _lobregate_ runs, and which divides the bishoprick of barcelona from that of _de vic_. lest you should think i am rather too tremendously descriptive of this _upland_ journey, hear what a french traveller says, who visited this mountain about twenty years ago. after examining every thing curious at the convent, he says, "_il ne me restoit plus rien a voir que l'hermitage qui est renomme, il est dans la partie la plus elevee de la montagne, & partage en treize habitations, pour autant d'hermites. le plaisir de le voir devoit me dedommager de la peine qu'il me falloit prendre pour y monter, en grimpant pendant plus de heux heures. j'aurois pre me servir de ma mule, mais il m'auroit fallu prendre un chemin ou j'aurois mis le double du tems. je m'armai donc de courage, & entre dans une enceinte par une porte que l'on m'ouvrit avec peine au dehors du monastere, je commencai a monter par des degres qui sembloient perpendiculaires, tant ils etoient roides; & je fus oblige de m'agraffer a des barres qui y font placees expres: ensuite, je me trainai par-dessous de grosses pierres, qui sont comme des voutes ruinees, dont les ouvertures sont le seul passage qu'il y ait pour quiconque a la temerite de s'engager dans ces defiles; apres avoir grimpe, environ mille pas, je trouvai un petit terrein uni ou je me laissai tomber tout etendu afin de reprendre ma respiration qui commencoit a me manquer_." and yet this was only the frenchman's first stage on his way to the first and nearest hermitage; and who i find clambered up the very road we did, rather than take the longer route on mule-back; and, for aught i know, a route still more dangerous, for there are many places where the precipice is perpendicular on both sides of a ridge, and where the road is too narrow even to turn the mule; so he that sets out, must proceed. after ascending a ladder fixed in the same pine where _st. onofre_ is situated, at an hundred and fifty paces distant, is the fifth hermitage of the penitent _madalena_; it stands between two lofty pines, and on some elevated rocks, and commands a beautiful view, towards noon-day, to the east and west; and near to it, in a more elevated pine, stands its chapel, from whence you look down (dreadful to behold) a rugged precipice and steep hills, upon the convent at two miles distance where are two roads, or rather passages, to this cell, both exceedingly difficult; by one you mount up a ladder of at least an hundred steps; the other is of stone steps, and pieces of timber to hold by; that the hermit who dwells there says, the whistling of the wind in tempestuous nights sounds like the roaring of baited bulls. letter xxiii. i must now lead you up to the highest part of the mountain; it is a long way up, not less than three thousand five hundred paces from _st. madalena_, and over a very rugged and disagreeable road for the feet, which leads, however, to the cell of _st. geronimo_; from the two turrets of which, an immense scene is opened, too much for the head of a _low-lander_ to bear; for it not only takes in a view of a great part of the mountain beneath, but of the kingdoms of _arragon_, _valencia_, the mediterranean sea, and the islands; but as it were, one half of the earth's orbit. the fatigue to clamber up to it is very great; but the recompense is ample. this hermitage looks down upon a wood above a league in circumference, in which formerly some hermits dwelt; but at present it is stocked with cattle belonging to the convent, who have a fountain of good water therein. near this hermitage, in a place they call _poza_, the snow is preserved for the use of the _religieux_. the inhabitant either was not within, or would not be disturbed; so that after feasting my eyes on all sides, my conductor led me on eastward to the seventh hermitage, called _st. antonio_, the father of the anchorites; it stands under one of the highest pines, and the access to it is so difficult and dangerous, that very few strangers visit it;--a circumstance which whetted my curiosity; so, like the boy after a bird's-nest, i _risqued it_, especially as i was pretty sure i should _take the old bird sitting_. this hermit had formerly been in the service; and though he had made great intercession to the holy virgin and saints in heaven, as well as much interest with men on earth, he was not, i think, quite happy in his exalted station; his turret is so small, that it will not contain above two men; the view from it, to the east and north, is very fine; but it looks down a most horrible and dreadful precipice, above one hundred and eighty toises perpendicular, and upon the river _lobregate_. no man, but he whom custom has made familiar to such a tremendous _eye-ball_, can behold this place but with horror and amazement; and i was as glad to leave it, as i was pleased to have seen it. at about a gun-shot distance from it rises the highest pine-head of the mountain, called _caval hernot_, which is eighty toises higher than any other _cone_, and three thousand three hundred paces from the convent below. keeping under the side of the same hill, and along the base of the same pine-head, you are led to the hermitage of _st. salvador_, eight hundred paces from _st. antonio_, which hermitage has two chapels, one of which is hewn out of the heart of the pine, and consequently has a natural as well as a beautiful cupola; the access to this cell is very difficult, for the crags project so much, that it is necessary to clamber over them on all-four; the prospects are very fine to the southward and eastward. the inhabitant was from home; but as there was no fastening to his doors, i examined all his worldly goods, and found that most of them were the work of his own ingenious hands. a little distant from hence stands a wooden cross, at which the road divides; one path leads to _st. benito_, the other to the _holy_ trinity. by the archives of the convent, it appears, that in the year , _francis bertrando_ died at the hermitage of _st. salvador_, after having spent forty-five years in it, admired for his sanctity and holy life, and that he was succeeded therein by _françois durando mayol_, who dwelt in it twenty-seven years. descending from hence about six or seven hundred paces, you arrive at the ninth hermitage, _st. benito_; the situation is very pleasing, the access easy, and the prospects divine. it was founded by an _abbot_, whose intentions were, that it should contain within a small distance, four other cells, in memory of the five wounds made in the body of christ. this hermit has the privilege of making an annual entertainment on a certain day, on which day all the other hermits meet there, and receive the sacrament from the hands of the mountain vicar; and after divine service, dine together. they meet also at this hermitage on the day of each titular saint, to say mass, and commune with each other. letter xxiv. i cannot say a word to you on any other subject, till you have taken a turn with me in the shrubberies and gardens of the glorious (so they call it) hermitage of _st. ana_. coming from _st. benito_, by a brook which runs down the middle of the mountain, six hundred paces distant from it, stands _st. ana_, in a spacious situation, and much larger than any other, and is nearly in the center of them all. the chapel here is sufficiently large for the whole society to meet in, and accordingly they do so on certain festivals and holidays, where they confess to their mountain vicar, and receive the sacrament, this habitation is nobly adorned with large trees; the ever-green oak, the cork, the cypress, the spreading fig-tree, and a variety of others; yet it is nevertheless dreadfully exposed to the fury of some particular winds; and the buildings are sometimes greatly damaged, and the life of the inhabitant endangered, by the boughs which are torn off and blown about his dwelling. the foot-road from it to the monastery is only one thousand three hundred paces, but it is very rugged and unsafe; the mule-road is above four times as far: it was built in , and is the hermitage where all the pilgrims pay their ordinary devotion. eight hundred and fifty paces distant, on the road which leads to the hermitage of _st. salvador_, stands, in a solitary and deep wood, the hermitage of the _holy trinity_. every part of the building is neat, and the simplicity of the whole prepares you to expect the same simplicity of manners from the man who dwells within it: and a venerable man he is; but he seemed more disposed to converse with his neighbours, _messrs. nature_, than with us. his trees, he knows, never flatter or affront him; and after welcoming us more by his humble looks than civil words, he retired to his long and shady walk; a walk, a full gun-shot in length, and nothing in nature certainly can be more beautiful; it forms a close arbour, though composed of large trees, and terminates in a view of a vast range of pines, which are so regularly placed side by side, and which, by the reflection of the sun on their yellow and well burnished sides, have the appearance of the pipes of an organ a mile in circumference. the spaniards say that the mountain is a block of coarse jasper, and these _organ pipes_, it must be confessed, seem to confirm it; for they are so well polished by the hand of time, that were it not too great a work for man, one would be apt to believe they had been cut by an artist. five hundred and sixty paces from the hermitage of the holy trinity, stands _st. cruz_; it is built under the foot of one of the smaller pines; this is the nearest cell of any to the convent, and consequently oftenest visited, being only six hundred and sixty steps from the bottom of the mountain. letter xxv. i am now come to _st. dimas_, the last, and most important, if not the most beautiful of all the hermits' habitations. this hermitage is surrounded on all sides by steep and dreadful precipices, some of which lead the eyes straight down, even to the river _lobregate_; it can be entered only on the east side by a draw-bridge, which, when lifted up, renders any access to it almost impossible. this hermitage was formerly a strong castle, and possessed by a _banditti_, who frequently plundered and ravaged the country in the day-time, and secured themselves from punishment, by retiring to this fast hold by night. as it stands, or rather hangs over the buildings and convent below, they would frequently lower baskets by cords, and demand provisions, wine, or whatever necessaries or luxuries the convent afforded; and if their demands were not instantly complied with, they tumbled down rocks of an immense size, which frequently damaged the buildings, and killed the people beneath: indeed, it was always in their power to destroy the whole building, and suffer none to live there; but that would have been depriving themselves of one safe means of subsistence:--at length the monks, by the assistance of good glasses, and a constant attention to the motion of their troublesome _boarders_, having observed that the greater part were gone out upon the _marauding_ party, persuaded seven or eight stout farmers to believe, that heaven would reward them if they could scale the horrid precipices, and by surprise seize the castle, and secure the few who remained in it;--and these brave men accordingly got into it unobserved, killed one of the men, and secured the others for a public example. the castle was then demolished, and a hermitage called _st. dimas_, or the good thief, built upon the spot. the views from it are very extensive and noble to the south and eastward. and now, sir, having conducted you to make a short visit to each of these wonderful, though little abodes, i must assure you, that a man well versed in _author craft_ might write thirteen little volumes upon subjects so very singular. but as no written account can give a perfect idea of the particular beauties of any mountain, and more especially of one so unlike all others, i shall quit nature, and conduct you to the works of art, and treasures of value, which are within the walls of the holy sanctuary below; only observing, what i omitted to mention, that the great rains which have fallen since the creation of all things, down the sides of this steep mount, have made round the whole base a prodigious wide and deep trench, which has the appearance of a vast river course drained of its water. in this deep trench lie an infinite number of huge blocks of the mountain, which have from age to age caved down from its side, and which renders the _tout au tour_ of the mountain below full as extraordinary as the pointed pinnacles above: beside this, there are many little recesses on the sides of the hill below, so adorned by stately trees and natural fountains, that i know not which part of the enchanted spot is most beautiful. i found in one of these places a little garden, fenced in by the fallen rocks, a spring of so clear and cool a water, and the whole so shaded by, oaks, so warmed by the sun, and so superlatively romantic, that i was determined to find out the owner of it, and have set about building a house or a hut to the garden, and to have made it my abode; but, alas! upon enquiry, i found the well was a holy one, and that the water, the purest and finest i ever saw or tasted could only be used for holy purposes. and here let me observe, that the generality of strangers who visit this mountain, come prepared only to stay one day;--but it is not a day, nor a week, that is sufficient to see half the smaller beauties which a mountain, so great and wonderful of itself, affords on all sides, from the highest pinacle above, to the foundation stones beneath. but i should have told you, that there are other roads to some of the hermitages above, which, by twisting and turning from side to side, are every week clambered up by a blind mule, who, being loaded with thirteen baskets containing the provision for the hermits, goes up without any conductor, and taking the hermitages in their proper order, goes as near as he can to each, and waits till the hermit has taken his portion; and proceeds till he has discharged his load, and his trust, and then returns to his stable below. i did not see this animal on the road, but i saw some of his _offerings there_, and you may rely upon the truth of what i tell you. before i quit the hermits, however, i must tell you, that the hardships and fatigues which some of them voluntarily inflict upon themselves, are almost incredible: they cannot, like the monks in _russia_, sit in water to their chins till they are froze up, but they undergo some penances almost as severe. letter xxvi. _pere pascal_ having invited me to high mass, and to hear a spanish sermon preached by one of their best orators, we attended; and though i did not understand the language sufficiently to know all i heard, i understood enough to be entertained, if not edified. the decency of the whole congregation too, was truly characteristic of their profession. there sat just before us a number of lay-brothers, bare-headed, with their eyes fixed the whole time upon the ground; and tho' they knew we were strangers, and probably as singular in their eyes as they could be in ours, i never perceived one of them, either at or after the service was over, to look, or even glance an eye at us. the chapel, or church of this convent, is a very noble building; and high over the great altar is fixed the image of the virgin, which was found eight hundred years ago in a deep cave on the side of the mountain: they say the figure is the work of st. luke; if that be true, st. luke was a better carver than a painter, for this figure is the work of no contemptible artist; it is of wood, and of a dark-brown it is of wood, and of a dark-brown or rather black colour, about the size of a girl of twelve years of age; her garments are very costly, and she had on a crown richly adorned with _real_ jewels of great value; and i believe, except our lady of _loretto_, the paraphernalia of her person is superior to all the saints or crowned heads in europe. she holds on her knees a little jesus, of the same complexion, and the work of the same artist. the high altar is a most magnificent and costly structure, and there constantly burn before it upwards of fourscore large silver lamps. the balustrades before the altar were given by king philip the third, and cost seven thousand crowns; and it cost fourteen thousand more to cut away the rock to lay the foundation of this new church, the old one being so small, and often so crowded by pilgrims and strangers, that many of the monks lost their lives in it every year. the whole expence of building the new one, exclusive of the inward ornaments, is computed at a million of crowns; and the seats of the choir, six and thirty thousand livres. the old church has nothing very remarkable in it but some good ancient monuments, one of which is of _bernard villomarin_, admiral of naples; a man (as the inscription says) illustrious in peace and war. there is another of _don john d'arragon, dux lunæ_, who died in ; he was nephew to king ferdinand. but the most singular inscription in this old church is one engraven on a pillar, under which _st. ignatius_ spent a whole night in prayer before he took the resolution of renouncing the world, which was in the year . after mass was over, we were shewn into a chamber behind the high altar, where a door opened to the recess, in which the virgin is placed, and where we were permitted, or rather required to kiss her hand. at the same time, i perceived a great many pilgrims entering the apartments, whose penitential faces plainly discovered the reverence and devotion with which they approached her sacred presence. when we returned, we were presented to the prior; a lively, genteel man, of good address; who, with _pere tendre_, the frenchman, shewed us an infinite quantity of jewels, vessels of gold and silver, garments, &c. which have been presented by kings, queens, and emperors, to the convent, for the purpose of arraying this miraculous image. i begin to suspect that you will think i am become half a catholic;--indeed, i begin to think so myself; and if ever i publicly renounce that faith which i now hold, it shall be done in a pilgrimage to _montserrat_; for i do not see why god, who delights so much in variety, as all his mighty works testify; who has not made two green leaves of the same tint,--may not, nay, ought not to be worshipped by men of different nations, in variety of forms. i see no absurdity in a set of men meeting as the quakers do, and sitting in silent contemplation, reflecting on the errors of their past life, and resolving to amend in future. i think an honest, good quaker, as respectable a being as an archbishop; and a monk, or a hermit, who think they merit heaven by the sacrifice they make for it, will certainly obtain it: and as i am persuaded the men of this society think so, i highly honour and respect them: i am sure i feel myself much obliged to them. they have a good library, but it is in great disorder; nor do i believe they are men of much reading; indeed, they are so employed in confessing the pilgrims and poor, that they cannot have much time for study. i forgot to tell you, that at _narbonne_ i had been accosted by a young genteel couple, a male and female, who were upon a _pilgrimage_; they were dressed rather neat than fine, and their garments were adorned with cockle and other marine shells; such, indeed, all the poorer sort of pilgrims are characterised with. they presented a tin box to me, with much address, but said nothing, nor did i give them any thing; indeed, i did not _then_ know, very well, for what purpose or use the charity they claimed was to be applied. this young couple were among the strangers who were now approaching the sacred image. i was very desirous of knowing their story, who they were, and what sins people so young, and who looked so good, had been guilty of, to think it necessary to come so far for absolution. _their sins on the road_, i could be at no loss to guess at; and as they were such as people who love one another are very apt to commit, i hope and believe, they will obtain forgiveness of them.--they were either people of some condition, or very accomplished _chevaliers d'industrie_; though i am most inclined to believe, they were _brother and sister_, of some condition. after visiting the holy virgin, i paid my respects to the several monks in their own apartments, under the conduct of _pere pascal_, and was greatly entertained.--i found them excellently lodged; their apartments had no finery, but every useful convenience; and several good harpsichords, as well as good performers, beside an excellent organist. the prior, in particular, has so much address, of the polite world about him, that he must have lived in it before he made a vow to retire from it. i never saw a more striking instance of national influence than in the person of _pere tendre_, the frenchman!--in spite of his holy life, and living among spaniards of the utmost gravity of manners, i could have known him at first sight to have been a frenchman. i never saw, even upon the _boulevards_ at paris, a more lively, animated, or chearful face. indeed, one must believe, that these men are as good as they appear to be; for they have reason enough to believe, that every hour may be their last, as there hangs over their whole building such a terrifying mass of rock and pine heads, so split and divided, that it is difficult to perceive by what powers they are sustained: many have given way, and have no other support than the base they have made by slipping in part down, among the smaller rocks and broken fragments. about an hundred years ago, one vast block fell from above, and buried under it the hospital, and all the sick and their attendants; and where it still remains, a dreadful monument, and memento, to all who dwell near it!--i should fear (god avert the day!) that the smallest degree of an earthquake would bury all the convent, monks, and treasure, by one fatal _coup_. letter xxvii. before i bring forth the treasures of this hospitable convent, and the jewels of _neustra senora_, it may be necessary to tell you, that they could not be so liberal, were not others liberal to them; and that they have permission to ask charity from every church, city, and town, in the kingdoms of france and spain, and have always lay-brothers out, gathering money and other donations. they who feed all who come, must, of course, be fed themselves; nor has any religious house in europe (_loretto_ excepted) been more highly honoured by emperors, kings, popes, and prelates, than this: nay, they have seemed to vie with each other, in bestowing rich and costly garments, jewels of immense value, and gold and silver of exquisite workmanship, to adorn the person of _neustra senora_; as the following list, though not a quarter of her _paraphernalia_, will evince: but before i particularize them, it may be proper to mention, the solemn manner in which the virgin was moved from the old to the new church, by the hands of king philip the third, who repaired thither for that purpose privately as possible, to prevent the prodigious concourse of people who would have attended him had it been generally known. he staid at the convent four days, in which time he visited all the hermitages above, in one; but returned, greatly fatigued, and not till ten o'clock at night. after resting himself the next day, he heard mass, and being confessed, assisted at the solemnity of translating the virgin, in the following manner:--after all the monks, hermits, and lay-brothers had heard mass, and been confessed, the virgin was brought down and placed upon the altar in the old church, and with great ceremony, reverence, and awe, they cloathed her in a rich gold mantle, the gift of the duke of _branzvick_, the sleeves of which were so costly, that they were valued at eighteen thousand ducats. the abbots, monks, hermits, &c. who were present, wore cloaks of rich gold brocade, and in the procession sung the hymn _te deum laudamus_; one of whom bore a gold cross, of exquisite workmanship, which weighed fifty marks, and which was set with costly jewels. the procession consisted of forty-three lay-brothers, fifteen hermits, and sixty-two monks, all bearing wax-tapers; then followed the young scholars, and a band of music, as well as an infinite number of people who came from all parts of the kingdom to attend the solemnity; for it was impossible to keep an act of so extraordinary a nature very private. when the virgin was brought into the new church, she was placed on a tabernacle by four of the most ancient monks; the king held also a large lighted taper, on which his banner and arms were emblazoned, and being followed by the nobles and cavaliers of his court, joined in the procession; and having placed themselves in proper order in the great cloyster of the church, the monks sung a hymn, addressed to the virgin, accompanied by a noble band of music: this being over, the king taking the virgin in his arms, placed her on the great altar; and having so done, took his wax taper, and falling on his knees at her feet, offered up his prayers near a quarter of an hour: this ceremony being over, the monks advanced to the altar, and moved the virgin into a recess in the middle of it, where she now stands: after which, the abbot, having given his pontifical benediction, the king retired to repose himself for a quarter of an hour, and then set off for _martorell_, where he slept, and the next day made his entry into _barcelona_. among an infinite number of costly materials which adorn this beautiful church, is a most noble organ, which has near twelve hundred pipes. in the _custodium_ you are shewn three crowns for the head of the infant jesus, two of which are of pure gold, the third of silver, gilt, and richly adorned with diamonds; one of the gold crowns is set with two hundred and thirty emeralds, and nineteen large brilliants; the other has two hundred and thirty-eight diamonds, an hundred and thirty pearls, and sixteen rubies; it cost eighteen thousand ducats. there are four crowns also for the head of the virgin; two of plated gold, richly set with diamonds, two of solid gold; one of which has two thousand five hundred large emeralds in it, and is valued at fifty thousand ducats; the fourth, and richest, is set with one thousand one hundred and twenty-four diamonds, five of which number are valued at five hundred ducats each; eighteen hundred large pearls, of equal size; thirty-eight large emeralds, twenty-one zaphirs, and five rubies; and at the top of this crown is a gold ship, adorned with diamonds of eighteen thousand dollars value. the gold alone of these crowns weighs twenty-five pounds, and, with the jewels and setting, upwards of fifty. these crowns have been made at _montserrat_, from the gold and separate jewels presented to the convent from time to time by the crowned heads and princes of europe. there is also another small crown, given by the marquis de _aytona_, set with sixty-six brilliants. the infanta gave four silver candlesticks, which cost two thousand four hundred ducats. ann of austria, daughter to philip the third, gave a garment for the virgin, which cost a thousand ducats. there are thirty chalices of gilt plate, and one of solid gold, which cost five thousand ducats. prince charles of austria, with his consort christiana of brunswick, visited _montserrat_ in the year , and having kissed the virgin's hand, left at her feet his gold-hilted sword, set with seventy-nine large brilliants. this sword was given the emperor by anne, queen of england. in the church are six silver candlesticks, nine palms high, made to hold wax flambeaux. there are diamonds and jewels, given by the countess de aranda, count alba, duchess of medina, and forty other people of high rank, from the different courts of europe, to the value of more than an hundred thousand ducats.--but were i to recite every particular from the list of donations, which my friend, _pere pascal_, gave me, and which now lies before me, with the names of the donors, they would fill a volume instead of a letter. letter xxviii. i know you will expect to hear something of the ladies of spain; but i must confess i had very little acquaintance among them: when they appear abroad in their coaches, they are dressed in the modern french fashion, but not in the extreme; when they walk out, their head and shape is always covered with a black or white veil, richly laced; and however fine their gowns are, they must be covered with a very large black silk petticoat; and thus holding the fan in one hand, and hanging their _chapelets_ over the wrist of the other, they walk out, preceded by one or two shabby-looking servants, called pages, who wear swords, and always walk bare-headed. i have already told you, that the most beautiful, indeed the only beautiful woman, i saw at _barcelona_, was the intendant's daughter; and i assure you, her, black petticoat and white veil could not conceal it; nor, indeed, is the dress an unbecoming one. among the peasants, and common females, you never see any thing like beauty, and, in general, rather deformity of feature. no wonder then, where beauty is scarce, and to be found only among women of condition, that those women are much admired, and that they gain prodigious influence over the men.--in no part of the world, therefore, are women more caressed and attended to, than in spain. their deportment in public is grave and modest; yet they are very much addicted to pleasure; nor is there scarce one among them that cannot, nay, that will not dance the _fandango_ in private, either in the decent or indecent manner. i have seen it danced both ways, by a pretty woman, than which nothing can be more _immodestly agreeable_; and i was shewn a young lady at _barcelona_, who in the midst of this dance ran out of the room, telling her partner, she could _stand it_ no longer;--he ran after her, to be sure, and must be answerable for the consequences. i find in the music of the _fandango_, written under one bar, _salida_, which signifies _going out_; it is where the woman is to part a little from her partner, and to move slowly by herself; and i suppose it was at _that bar_ the lady was so overcome, as to determine not to return. the words _perra salida_ should therefore be placed at that bar, when the ladies dance it in the high _gout_. the men dress as they do in france and england, except only their long cloak, which they do not care to give up. it is said that frenchmen are wiser than, from the levity of their behaviour, they seem to be; and i fancy the spaniards look wiser from their gravity of countenance, than they really are; they are extremely reserved; and make no professions of friendship till they feel it, and know the man, and then they are friendly in the highest degree. i met with a german merchant at _barcelona_, who told me he had dealt for goods to the value of five thousand pounds a year with a spaniard in that town; and though he had been often at _barcelona_ before, that he had never invited him to dine or eat with him, till that day. the farrier who comes to shoe your horse has sometimes a sword by his side; and the barber who shaves you crosses himself before he _crosses your chin_. there is a particular part of the town where the ladies of easy virtue live; and if a friend calls at the apartment of one of those females, who happens to _be engaged_, one of her neighbours tells you, she is _amancebados y casarse a mediacarta_; _i.e._ that she is half-married.--if you meet a spanish woman of any fashion, walking alone without the town, you may join her, and enter into whatever _sort of conversation_ you chuse, without offence; and if you pass one without doing so, she will call you _ajacaos_, and contemn you: this is a custom so established at madrid, that if a footman meets a lady of quality alone, he will enter into some indecent conversation with her; for which reason, the ladies seldom walk but with their husbands, or a male friend by their side, and a foot-boy before, and then no man durst speak, or even look towards them, but with respect and awe:--a blow in spain can never be forgiven; the striker must die, either _privately_ or publicly. no people on earth are less given to excess in eating or drinking, than the spaniards; the _olio_, or _olla_, a kind of soup and _bouilli_, is all that is to be found at the table of some great men: the table of a _bourgeois_ of paris is better served than many _grandees_ of spain; their chocolate, lemonade, iced water, fruits, &c. are their chief luxuries; and the chocolate is, in some houses, a prodigious annual expense, as it is offered to every body who comes in, and some of the first houses in madrid expend twenty thousand _livres_ a year in chocolate, iced waters, &c. the grandees of spain think it beneath their dignity to look into accounts, and therefore leave the management of their household expenses to servants, who often plunder and defraud them of great sums of money. unlike the french, the spaniards (like the english) very properly look upon able physicians and surgeons in a very respectable light:--is it not strange, that the french nation should trust their health and lives in the hands of men, they are apt to think unworthy of their intimacy or friendship?--men, who must have had a liberal education, and who ought not to be trusted in sickness, if their society was not to be coveted in health. perhaps the spanish physicians, who of all others have the least pretensions, are the most caressed. in fevers they encourage their patients to eat, thinking it necessary, where the air is so subtile, to put something into the body for the distemper to feed upon; they bleed often, and in both arms, that the blood may be drawn forth _equally_; the surgeons do not bleed, but a set of men called _sangerros_ perform that office, and no other; the surgeons consider it dishonourable to perform that operation. they seldom trepan; a surgeon who attempted to perform it, would himself be perhaps in want of it. to all flesh wounds they apply a powder called _coloradilla_, which certainly effects the cure; it is made of myrrh, mastic, dragon's blood, bol ammoniac, &c.--when persons of fashion are bled, their friends send them, as soon as it is known, little presents to amuse them all that day; for which reason, the women of easy virtue are often bled, that their lovers may shew their attention, and be _bled too_.--the french disease is so ignorantly treated, or so little regarded, that it is very general; they consider a _gonorrhoea_ as health to the reins; and except a tertian ague, all disorders are called the _calentura_, and treated alike, and i fear very injudiciously; for there is not, i am told, in the whole kingdom, any public academy for the instruction of young men, in physic, surgery, or anatomy, except at madrid. notwithstanding the sobriety, temperance, and fine climate of spain, the spaniards do not, in general, live to any great age; they put a prodigious quantity of spice into every thing they eat; and though sobriety and temperance are very commendable, there are countries where eating and drinking are carried to a great excess, by men much more virtuous than those, where temperance, perhaps, is their principal virtue. letter xxix. i forgot to tell you that, though i left the convent, i had no desire to leave the spot where i had met with so cordial a reception; nor a mountain, every part of which afforded so many scenes of wonder and delight. i therefore hired two rooms at a wretched _posada_, near the two ancient towers below, and where i had left my horse, that i might make my daily excursions on and about the mountain, as well as visit those little solitary habitations above once more. my host, his wife, and their son and daughter, looked rather cool upon us; they liked our money better than our company; and though i made their young child some little presents, it scarce afforded any return, but prevented rudeness, perhaps. the boys of the village, though i distributed a little money every day to the poor, frequently pelted me with stones, when they gained the high ground of me; and i found it necessary, when i walked out, to take my fuzee. i would have made a friend of the priest, if i could have found him, but he never appeared!--it was a poor village, and you may easily conceive our residence in such a little place, where no stranger ever staid above an hour, occasioned much speculation. my servant too (a french deserter) had neither the politeness nor the address so common to his countrymen; but i knew i was _within a few hours_ of honest _pere pascal_; and while the hog, mule, and ass of my host continued well, i flattered myself i was not in much danger; had either of those animals been ill, i should have taken my leave; for if a suspicion had arose that an heretic was under their roof, they would have been at no loss to account for the cause or the calamity which had, or might befall them.--during my residence at this little _posada_, i saw a gaudy-dressed, little, ugly old man, and a handsome young woman, approach it; the man smiled in my face, which was the only smile i had seen in the face of a stranger for a fortnight; he told me, what he need not, that he was a frenchman, and a noble advocate of _perpignan_; that his name was _anglois_, and that his ancestors were english; that he had walked on foot, with his maid, from _barcelona_, in order to pay his devotions to the holy virgin of _montserrat_, though he had his own chaise and mules at _barcelona_: he seemed much fatigued, so i gave him some chocolate, for he was determined, he said, to get up to the convent that night. during this interview, he embraced me several times, professed a most affectionate regard for me and my whole family; and i felt enough for him, to desire he would fix the day of his return, that i might not be out upon my rambles, and that he would dine and spend the evening with me; in which case, i would send him back to _barcelona_ in my _cabriolet_; all which he chearfully consented to; and having lent him my _couteau de chasse_, as a more convenient weapon on ass-back than his fine sword, we parted, reluctantly, for five days; that was the time this _noble advocate_ had allotted for making his peace with the holy virgin;--i say, his peace with the holy virgin; for he was very desirous of leaving _his_ virgin with us, as she was an excellent cook, and a most faithful and trusty servant, both which he perceived we wanted; yet in spite of his encomiums, there was nothing in the behaviour of the girl that corresponded with such an amiable character: she had, indeed a beautiful face, but strongly marked with something, more like impudence than boldness, and more of that of a pragmatic mistress than an humble servant; and therefore we did not accept, what i was very certain, she would not have performed. i impatiently, however, waited their return, and verily believed the old man had bought his crimson velvet breeches and gold-laced waistcoat in honour of the virgin, and that his visit to her was a pious one.--he returned to his time, and to a sad dinner indeed! but it was the best we could provide. he had lost so much of that vivacity he went up with, that i began to fear i had lost his friendship, or he the benediction of the holy virgin. indeed, i had lost it in some measure, but it was transferred but a little way off; for he took the first favourable occasion to tell my wife, no woman had ever before made so forcible an impression upon him, and said a thousand other fine things, which i cannot repeat, without losing the esteem i still have for my countryman; especially as he did not propose staying only _one night_ with us, nay, that he would depart the next morning _de bon matin_. during the evening, all his former spirits returned, as well as his affection for me: he told me, he suspected i wanted money, and if that was the case, those wants should be removed; so taking out a large parcel of gold _duras_, he offered them, and i am persuaded too, he would have lent or given them to me. i arose early, to see that my man and chaise were got in good order, to conduct so good a friend to _barcelona_; but not hearing any thing of _monsieur anglois_, i directed my servant to go into his chamber, to enquire how he did;--my man returned, and said, that _madame_ was awake, but that _monsieur_ still sleeps. madame! what madame? said i!--is it the young woman who came with him? i then found, what i had a little suspected, that the mountain virgin was not the _only_ virgin to whom _monsieur anglois_ made his vows. he soon after, however, came down, drank chocolate with us, and making a thousand professions of inviolable regard, he set off in my chaise for _barcelona_; but i should have told you, not till he had made me promise to visit him at _perpignan_, where he had not only a town, but country house, at my service.--all these professions were made with so much openness, and seeming sincerity, that i could not, nor did doubt it; and as i was determined then to leave that unhospitable country, and return to france, i gave him my _passa-porte_, to get it _refreshed_ by the captain-general at _barcelona_, that i might return, and pass _by_ the walls only of a town i can never think of but with some degree of pain, and should with horror, but that i now know there is one man lives in it, and did then,[d] who has lamented that he had not an opportunity to shew me those acts of hospitality his nature and his situation often give him occasion to exercise; but the _etiquette_ is, for the stranger to visit first; and i found but little encouragement to visit a german gentleman, though married to an english lady, after the hostile manners i had experienced from my _friends_ and _countrymen_, messrs. _curtoys_, _wombwell_, &c. [d] mr. thalditzer. letter xxx. in the archives of _montserrat_ they shew you a letter written to the abbe by king philip the second, who begins, "venerable and devout _religieux_," and tells him, he approves of his zeal, of his building a new church at _montserrat_, charges him to continue his prayers for him, and, to shew his zeal for that holy house, informs him, that the bearer of his letter is _etienne jordan_, the most famous sculptor then in spain, who is to make the new altar-piece at the king's expence, and they agreed to pay _jordan_ ten thousand crowns for the design he laid before them: the altar was made at _valladolid_, and was brought to _montserrat_ on sixty-six waggons; and as jordan did much more to the work than he had engaged to perform, the king gave him four thousand crowns over and above his agreement, and afterwards gave nine thousand crowns more, to gild and add further ornaments to it. at the death of philip the second, his son, philip, the third, assisted in person to remove the image of the virgin from the old to the new church; which i shall hereafter mention more fully. before this noble altar, in which the figure of the virgin stands in a nitch about the middle of it, are candlesticks of solid silver, each of which weighs eighty pounds; they are a yard and a half high; and yet these are mere trifles, when compared to the gold and jewels which are shewn occasionally. the monks observe very religiously their statutes; nor is there a single hour in the day that you find the church evacuated.--i always heard at least two voices chanting the service, when the monks retire from the church, which is not till seven o'clock at night; the pilgrims continue there in prayer the greater part of the night. i should have told you, that beside the superior among the hermits, there are two sorts of them, neither of which can possess a hermitage till they have spent seven years in the monastery, and given proofs of their holy disposition, by acts of obedience, humility, and mortification; during, which they spend most of their time, night as well as day, in the church, but they never sing or chant. after the expiration of the seven years, the abbot takes the advice of his brethren, and if they think the probationer's manners and life entitle him to a solitary life above, he is sent,--but not, perhaps, without being enjoined to wait upon some old hermit, who is past doing the necessary offices of life for himself.--their habit, as i said before, is brown, and they wear their long beards; but sometimes the hermits are admitted into holy orders, and then they wear black, and shave their beards: however, they are not actually fixed to the lonely habitations at first, but generally take seven or eight months trial. many of the abbes, whose power, you may be sure, is very great, and who receive an homage from the inferiors, very flattering, have, nevertheless, often quitted their power for a retirement above. they observe religiously their abstinence from all sorts of flesh; nor are they permitted to eat but within their cells. when any of them are very ill, they are brought down to the convent; and all buried in one chapel, called st. joseph. the lay-brothers are about fourscore in number; they wear a brown habit, and are shaved; their duty is to distribute bread, wine, and other necessaries, to the poor and the pilgrims, and lodge them according to their condition: and many of them are sent into remote parts of the kingdom, as well as france and other catholic countries, to collect charity; while those who continue at home assist in getting in their corn, and fetching provisions from the adjacent towns, for which purposes they keep a great number, upwards of fifty mules.--these men too have a superior among them, to whom they are all obedient. there are also a number of children and young students, educated at the convent who are taken in at the age of seven or eight years, many of whom are of noble families; they all sleep in one apartment, but separate beds, where a lamp constantly burns, and their decent deportment is wonderful. dom jean de cardonne, admiral of the galleys, who succoured malta when it was besieged by the turks, was bred at _montserrat_, and when he wrote to the abbe, "recommend me," he said, "to the prayers of my little brethren." as i have already told you of the miracle of a murdered and violated virgin coming to life, and of a child of three months old saying, _guerin, rise, thy sins are forgiven thee_; perhaps you will not like to have further proofs of what miracles are wrought here, or i could give you a long list, and unanswerable arguments to prove them. _frere benoit d'arragon_ was a hermit on this mountain, whose sanctity of life has made his name immortal in the hermitage of st. croix. the following sketch of his life is engraven. "occidit hac sacrã frater benedictus in sede, inclytus & sama, & religione sacer, hic sexaginta & septem castissimus annos, vixit in his saxis, te, deus alme, peccans usque senex, senio mansit curvatus & annis corpus humo retulit, venerat unde prius ast anima exultans, clarum repetivit olympum, nunc sedet in summo glorificata throno." it appears, that louis the fourteenth, king of france, gave a certain sum to this convent, to say mass and pray for the soul of his deceased mother; the sum however was not large, being something under fifty pounds; and the donation is recorded in the chapel of _st. louis_, upon a brass lamp. _p.s._ the time that this wonderful mountain became the habitation of a religious community, may be pretty nearly ascertained by the following singular epitaph, on a beautiful monument, still legible in the great church of _tarragona_. "_hic quiescit corpus sanctæ memoriæ domini joannis filii domini jacobi, regis arragonum, qui decimo septimo anno ætatis suæ factus archiepiscopus toletanus, sic dono scientiæ infusus divinitus & gratia prædicationis floruit, quod nullus ejusdem ætatis in hoc ei similis crederetur. carnem suam jejuniis & ciliciis macerans, in vigesimo octavo anno ætatis suæ factus patriarcha alexandrinus & administrator ecclesiæ tarraconensis ordinato per eum, inter multa alia bona opera_ novo monasterio scalæ dei _diacessis tarraconensis, ut per ipsam scalam ad coelum ascenderet reddidit spiritum creatori xiv. kalendas septembris, anno domini mcccxxxiv. anno vero ætatis suæ xxxiii. pro quo deus tam in vita, quam post mortem ejusdem est multa miracula operatus_." this very young bishop was the son of james the second, and his queen _dona blanca_; and that he was prior of the monastery of montserrat, appears in their archives; for i find the names of several hermits of this mountain, that came down to pay homage to him.--_dederunt obedientiam domino joanni patriarchæ alexandrino, & administratori prioratus montis serrati_, &c.--it is therefore probable, that he was the first prior, and that the convent was built about the year ; but that the mountain was inhabited by hermits, or men who retired from the world many ages before, cannot be doubted. letter xxxi. dear sir, i have had (since i mentioned the spanish ladies in a former letter) an opportunity of seeing something more of them; what they may be at _madrid_, i cannot take upon me to say; but i am inclined to believe, that notwithstanding what you have heard of spanish beauty, you would find nature has not been over liberal as to the persons of either sex in spain; and though tolerable good features upon a brown complexion, with very black hair finely combed and pinned up with two or three gold bodkins, may be very pleasing, as a _new object_, yet a great deficiency would appear, were you to see the same women dressed in the high fashion of england or france. england, for real and natural female beauty, perhaps surpasses all the world; france, for dress, elegance, and ease. the spanish women are violent in their passions, and generally govern every body under their roof; husbands who contend that point with them, often finish their days in the middle of a street, or in a prison; on the other hand, i am told, they are very liberal, compassionate, and charitable. they have at _barcelona_ a fine theatre, and tolerable good music; but the actors of both sexes are execrable beyond all imagination: their first woman, who they say is rich by means of one _talent or other_, (for me, like my little lyons water girl, has _two talents_) is as contemptible in her person as in her theatrical abilities: it is no wonder, indeed; for these people are often taken from some of those gipsey troops, i mentioned in a former letter, and have, consequently, no other qualifications for the stage but impudence instead of confidence, and ignorance instead of a liberal education. perhaps you will conclude, that the theatre at _madrid_ affords much better entertainment; on the contrary, i am well assured it is in general much worse: a gentleman who understands the language perfectly, who went to _madrid_ with no other view but to gratify his curiosity, in seeing what was worthy of notice there, went only once to the theatre, where the heat of the house, and the wretchedness of the performance, were equally intolerable; nor are the subjects very inviting to a stranger, as they often perform what they call "_autos sacramentales_"--_sacramental representations_. the people of fashion, in general, have no idea of serving their tables with elegance, or eating delicately; but rather, in the stile of our fore-fathers, without spoon or fork, they use their own fingers, and give drink from the glass of others; foul their napkins and cloaths exceedingly, and are served at table by servants who are dirty, and often very offensive. i was admitted, by accident, to a gentleman's house, of large fortune, while they were at dinner; there were seven persons at a round table, too small for five; two of the company were visitors; yet neither their dinner was so good, nor their manner of eating it so delicate, as may be seen in the kitchen of a london tradesman. the dessert (in a country where fruit is so fine and so plenty) was only a large dish of the seeds of _pomegranates_, which they eat with wine and sugar. in truth, sir, an englishman who has been in the least accustomed to eat at genteel tables, is, of all other men, least qualified to travel into either kingdoms, and particularly into spain; especially, if what swift says be true, that "a nice man is a man of dirty ideas,"--i know not the reason, whether it proceeds from climate, or food, or from the neglect of the poorer order of the people; but _head combing_ seems to be a principal part of the day's business among the women in spain; and it is generally done rather publicly.--the most lively, chearful, neat young woman, i saw in spain, lived in the same house i did at _barcelona_; she had a good complexion, and, what is very uncommon, rather light hair; and though perfectly clean and neat in her apparel, yet i observed a woman, not belonging to the house, attended every morning to comb this girl's head, and i believe it was _necessary_ to be combed. i could not very well ask the question; but i suspect that there are people by profession called _headcombers_; every shop door almost furnishes you with a specimen of that business; and if it is so common in _barcelona_, among a rich and industrious people, you may imagine, it is infinitely more so among the slothful part of the inland cities and smaller towns;--but this is not the only objection a stranger (and especially an english protestant) will find to spain; the common people do not look upon an englishman as a christian; and the life of a man, not a christian, is of no more importance in their eyes than the life of a dog: it is not therefore safe for a protestant to trust himself far from the maritime cities, as an hundred unforeseen incidents may arise, among people so ignorant and superstitious, to render it very unsafe to a man known to be a protestant. if it be asked, how the consuls, english merchants, &c. escape?--i can give no other reason than what a spaniard gave me, when i put that question to him:--"sir," said he, "we have men here, (meaning barcelona) who are protestants all day, and papists all night; and we have a chapel where they go, into which no other people are admitted." however, i was convinced, before i went into spain this time, from what i remembered formerly, that it was necessary to appear a good catholic; so that i always carried a little crucifix, or two, some beads, and other _accidental_ marks of my faith; and where i staid any time, or, indeed, where i slept upon the road, i took occasion to let some of those _powerful protectors_ be seen, as it were, by chance;--it is very necessary to avail one's self of such innocent frauds, in a country where innocence itself may not be sufficient to shield you from the fury of religious bigotry, where people think they are serving god, by destroying men: the best method to save yourself, is by serving god in the same manner they do, till you are out of their power. i really thought, that philosophy and reason entered into spain at the same gate that the jesuits were turned out of the kingdom; and, i suppose, some did; but it must be many years before it is sufficiently diffused over the whole nation, to render it a country like france; where men, who behave with decency and decorum, may live, or pass through, without the least apprehension or inconvenience on the score of religion; if they do not meddle with politics or fortifications. that you may not imagine my suspicions of the danger of passing thro' spain are ill founded, i will relate what happened to two english gentlemen of fashion at _marcia_ as i had it from the mouth of one of them lately:--they had procured letters of recommendation from some friends to the _alguazile_, or chief magistrate of that town; and as there were some unfavourable appearances at their first entering _marcia_, and more so at their _posada_, they thought it right to send their letters directly to the _alguazile_; who, instead of asking them to his house, or visiting them, sent a servant to say he was ill, and who was directed to invite them to go that night to the comedy: they thought it right, however, to accept the invitation, extraordinary as it was: the _alguazile_'s servant conducted them to the theatre, and paid (for he was directed so to do, he said) for their admittance; and having conducted his strangers into the pit, he retired. the comedy was then begun; but, nevertheless, the eyes of the whole house were turned upon them, and their's, to their great astonishment, upon the _sick alguazile_ with his whole family. those near whom they at first stood, retired to some distance: they could not, he said, consider the manner in which they were looked at, and retired from, but to arise from disgust or dislike, more than from curiosity. this reception, and the manner in which they had been sent there, deprived them of all the amusement the house afforded; for though the performers had no great excellence, there was, among the female part of the audience, more beauty than they expected. mr. b----, one of the gentlemen, at length discovered near him in the pit a man whom he knew to be an irishman, and in whole countenance he plainly perceived a desire to speak, but he seemed with-held by prudence. at length, however, he was got near enough to his countryman to hear him say, without appearing to address himself to any body, "_go hence! go hence_!" they did so; and the next morning, tho' it was a fine town, which they wished to examine, and to spend some time in, set off early for _carthagena_, where they had some particular friends, to whom they related the _alguazile_'s very extraordinary behaviour, as well as that of the company at the theatre. it was near the time of the carnival at _carthagena_: the conduct of _don marco_ to the two gentlemen strangers, became the subject of conversation, and indeed of indignation, among the spaniards of that civilized city; and the _alguazile_, who came to the carnival there soon after, died by the hands of an assassin; he was stabbed by a mask in the night. now suppose this man lost his life at _carthagena_, for his ill behaviour to the two strangers at _marcia_, or for any other cause, it is very certain, if natives are so liable to assassination, strangers are not more secure. p.s. to give you some idea of the address of the pulpit oratory in spain, about sixty or seventy years ago, (and it is not in general much better at present) take the following specimen, which i assure you, is strictly true:-- a preacher holding forth in the place called _las_ mancanas at madrid, after informing his auditors of the sufferings of jesus christ, added,--and is it not strange, that we still continue to sin on, and live without repentance? o lord god! said he, why sufferest thou such ungrateful and wretched sinners to live?--and instantly giving himself a violent box on the ear, the whole assembly followed his example, and four thousand _soufflets_ were given and received in the twinkling of an eye.--the french embassador, from whose _memoires_ i take this story, was upon that instant bursting out in laughter at the pious ceremony, had he not been checked by one of his friends, who happened to stand near, and who assured him, that his rank and character would not have saved him, had he been so indiscreet, for the enraged populace would have cut him in a thousand pieces; whereupon he hid his face in his handkerchief, and boxed his own ears more for the love of himself than from gratitude to his redeemer. letter xxxii. there are in spain twelve councils of state, viz. of _war_, of _castile_, of the _inquisition_, of the royal orders of _st. iago_, of _arragon_, of the _indies_, of the chamber of _castile_, of the _croisade_, of the _state_, of _italy_, of the _finances and treasure_, and lastly, that (of no use) of _flanders_. the council of _war_ is composed of experienced men of various orders, who are thought capable of advising upon that subject, and not of any determinate number. that of _castile_ has a president and sixteen other members, beside a secretary and inferior officers; it is the first of all the councils, and takes cognizance of civil as well as criminal matters. the king calls this council only our council, to mark its superiority to all others. the president is a man of great authority, and is treated with the utmost respect; nor does he ever visit any body. the council of the _inquisition_, established by _don fernando_ in , has an inquisitor general for its president, who is always a _grandee_ of the first condition; he has six counsellors, who are called apostolic inquisitors. this court, (the power of which has, fortunately for mankind, been of late years greatly abridged) has a great number of inferior officers, as well as _holy spies_, all over the kingdom, particularly at _seville_, _toledo_, _valladolid_, _barcelona_, and other places, where these horrid tribunals are fixed; each is governed by three counsellors, who, however, are dependant on that of madrid; and to whom they are obliged every month to give a particular account of what has passed through their hands. these men have not power to imprison a priest, a religious, nor even a gentleman, without obtaining the consent of the supreme court above; they meet at _madrid_ twice every day, and two of the king's council always attend at the afternoon meeting. of the council of the three royal orders of spain; that of _santiago_ is the first; the other two are _calatrava_ and _alcantara_. it is composed of a president, six counsellors, and other officers. the president of the council of _arragon_ is called the vice chancellor; who is assisted by nine counsellors, and inferior officers. this council attend to the public state of the kingdom of _arragon_, as well as to the islands of _majorca_, _ivica_, &c. the council of the _indies_ was established in , for the conservation and augmentation of the new kingdoms discovered by _columbus_ in south america, in ; and where the spaniards have at this time four thousand nine hundred leagues of land, including _mexico_ and _peru_; land divided into many kingdoms and provinces, in which they had built, in the year , upwards of eight thousand churches, and more than a thousand convents. they have there a patriarch, six arch-bishops, and thirty-two bishops, and three tribunals of the inquisition. this council is composed of a president, a grand chancellor, and twelve counsellors, a treasurer, secretary, advocates, agents, and an infinite number of inferior officers. they meet twice a week, to regulate all the affairs, both by land and sea, relative to that part of the king's dominions. the council of the _croisade_ is composed of a president, who is called the commissary general, and who has great privileges. the clergy are obliged to pay something annually to it; and if any one finds a purse of money in the streets, they are obliged to deliver it to the secretary of this council. the council of _state_ is composed of men of the first birth and understanding about the court. the king presides, and is assisted by the archbishop of _toledo_. this council is not confined to any certain number; they meet three times a week, to deliberate on the most important affairs of the kingdom. the council of _italy_ attends to the affairs of _naples_, _sicily_, and _milan_; it is composed of a president, and six counsellors, three of whom are spaniards, one neapolitan, one italian, and one sicilian; each of which have their separate charge on the affairs of those countries. the council of _finances and treasure_ is composed of a president, who is called _presidente de hazienda_, that is, superintendant of the finances; eight counsellors, and a great number of other officers, beside treasurers, controllers, &c, who have a great share of the most important affairs of the nation to regulate; they hear causes, and are not only entrusted with the treasures of the kingdom, but with administration of justice to all the king's subjects. you may easily judge what a number of officers compose this council, when i tell you, that they have twenty-six treasurers. the council of _flanders_ have now only the _name_; as the king of england bears that of france.--the formal manner which men, high in office or blood, observe in paying or receiving visits, is very singular: the inquisitor-general, for instance, has several black lines marked upon the floor of his anti-chamber, by which he limits the civilities he is to shew to men, according to the rank or office they bear: he has his _black_ marks for an embassador, an envoy, &c. when people of condition at madrid propose to make a visit, it is previously announced by a page, to know the day and hour they can be received; and this ceremony is often used on ordinary visits, as well as those of a more public nature: the page too has his coach to carry him upon these errands. i have seen the account of a visit made by the cardinal of _arragon_ to the admiral of _castile_, the train of which filled the whole street; he was carried by six servants in a magnificent chair, and followed by his body coach drawn by eight mules, attended by his gentlemen, pages, esquires, all mounted on horseback, and arrayed in a most sumptuous manner. every order of men assume an air of importance in spain. i have been assured, that when a shoemaker has been called upon to make a pair of shoes, he would not undertake the work till he had first enquired of _dona_, his wife, whether there was any money in the house? if she answered in the affirmative, he would not work. even the beggars do not give up this universal privilege, as the following instance will evince:--a foreigner of fashion, who was reading in a bookseller's shop in madrid, was accosted by one of the town beggars, who in an arrogant manner asked his charity, in terms which implied a demand rather than a favour. the stranger made no reply, nor did he take the least notice, but determined to continue reading, and dismiss the insolent beggar by his silent contempt: this encreased the beggar's hardiness; he told him, he might find time enough to read after he had attended to his request, and what he had to say. but still the gentleman read on, and disregarded his rudeness. at length, the beggar stept up to him, and with an air of the utmost insolence, at the same time taking him hold by the arm, added, what! neither charity, nor courtesy? by this time, the stranger lost all patience, and was going to correct him for his temerity:--stop, sir, (said the beggar, in a lower tone of voice) hear me;--pardon, me, sir; do you not know me? no, certainly; replied the stranger, but, said he, you ought, for i was secretary to an embassy in a certain capital, where we lived together in intimacy; and then told him his name, and the particular misfortunes which had reduced him to that condition; he expressed himself with art, address, and eloquence, and succeeded in getting money from the gentleman, though he could not convince him that he was his old acquaintance. there are in spain an infinite number of such sort of beggars, who are men of sense and letters, and so _au fait_ in the art, that they will not be denied. the grand secret of the art of begging is in perseverance; and all the _well-bred_ part of beggars do not despair, though they have ten refusals. but the worst sort of beggars in spain, are the troops of male and female gipsies: these are the genuine breed, and differ widely from all other human beings. in spain i often met troops of these people; and when that interview happens in roads very distant from towns or dwellings, the interview is not very pleasing; for they ask as if they knew they were not to be refused; and, i dare say, often commit murders, when they can do it by surprize. whenever i saw any of these people at a distance, i walked with a gun in my hand, and near to the side of my chaise, where there were pistols visible; and by shewing them i was not afraid, or, at least, making them believe so, they became afraid of us. they are extremely swarthy, with hair as black as jet; and form a very picturesque scene under the shade of those rocks and trees, where they spend their evenings; and live in a manner by no means disagreeable, in a climate so suitable to that style, where bread, water, and idleness is certainly preferable to better fare and hard labour. it is owing to this universal idleness that the roads, the inns, and every thing, but what is absolutely necessary, is neglected; yet, bad as the roads are, they are better than the _posada_, or inns. _el salir de la posada, es la mejor jornada_,--"_the best part of the journey_, say the spaniards, _is the getting_ _out of the posada_." for as neither king nor people are at much expence to make or mend the high ways, except just about the capital cities, they are dry or wet, rough or smooth, steep or rugged, just as the weather or the soil happens to favour or befoul them.--now, here is a riddle for your son; i know he is an adept, and will soon overtake me. i'm rough, i'm smooth, i'm wet, i'm dry; my station's low, my title's high; the king my lawful master is; i'm us'd by all, though only his: my common freedom's so well known, i am for that a proverb grown. the roads in spain are, like those in ireland, very _narrow_, and the leagues very long. when i complained to an irish soldier of the length of the miles, between kinsale and cork, he acknowledged the truth of my observation; but archly added, that though they were _long_, they were but _narrow_.--three spanish leagues make nearly twelve english miles; and, consequently, seventeen spanish leagues make nearly one degree. the bad roads, steep mountains, rapid rivers, &c. occasion most of the goods and merchandize, which are carried from one part of the kingdom to the other, to be conveyed on mule-back, and each mule has generally a driver; and as these drivers have their fixed stages from _posada_ to _posada_, so must the gentlemen travellers also, because there are no other accommodations on the roads but such houses; the stables therefore at the _posadas_ are not only very large, but the best part of the building, and is the lodging-room of man and beast; all the muleteers sleep there, with their cloaths on, upon a bundle of straw: but while your supper is preparing, the kitchen is crowded with a great number of these dirty fellows, whose cloaths are full of vermin; it would be impossible, therefore, for even a good cook to dress a dish with any decency or cleanliness, were such a cook to be found; for, exclusive of the numbers, there is generally a quarrel or two among them, and at all times a noise, which is not only tiresome, but frequently alarming. these people, however, often carry large sums of money, and tho' they are dirty, they are not poor nor dishonest.--i was told in france, to beware of the _catalans_; yet i frequently left many loose things in and about my chaise, where fifty people lay, and never lost any thing. when i congratulated myself in a letter to my brother, upon finding in wales a gentleman of the name of cooke, whose company, conversation, and acquaintance, were so perfectly pleasing to me; my brother observed, however, that my welch _friend_ was not a _welchman_, for, said he, "there are no cooks in wales;"--but this observation may be with more justice applied to spain; for i think there are no cooks in spain; but there are, what is better, a great number of honest, virtuous men: i look upon the true, genuine spaniards to be as respectable men as any in europe; and that, among the lower order of them there is more honour and honesty than is to be found among more polished nations; and, i dare say, there were an hundred spaniards at _barcelona_, had they been as well informed about my identity as messrs. curtoys and wombwell, that would have changed my notes, or lent me money without. _p.s._ the tour through spain and portugal by udal ap rhys, grandfather to the now mr. price of foxley in herefordshire, abounds with more falshoods than truths; indeed i have been told it was written, as many modern travels are, over a pipe in a chimney corner: and i hope mr. udal never was in spain, as "_one fib is more excusable than a thousand_." letter xxxiii. nismes. _monsr anglois_ having sent me back my _passa-porte_, signed by _don philipe cabine_, the captain-general of _barcelona_, accompanied by a very kind and friendly letter, i determined to quit the only place in spain which had afforded me pleasure, amusement, and delight. we accordingly sat off the next day for _martorel_, and went to the three kings, where our italian host, whose extortions i had complained of before, received us with a face of the utmost disdain; and though he had no company in his house, put us into much worse apartments than those we had been in before. i ordered something for supper, and left it to him, as he had given us a very good one before; but he was not only determined to punish us in lodging, but in eating also, and sent only four little mutton cutlets, so small, that they were not sufficient for one, instead of four persons; we pretended, however, not to perceive his insolence, that he might not enjoy our punishment; and the next day, as i was desirous of looking about me a little, we removed to another _posada_, where, about noon, a canon of great ecclesiastical preferment arrived, with a coach, six mules, and a large retinue, to dinner: the canon had no more the marks of a gentleman than a muleteer; and he had with him two or three persons, of no better appearance. while his dinner, a kind of _olla_, was preparing, i went into the kitchen, where the smell of the rancid oil with which it was dressed, would have dined two or three men of moderate or tender stomachs; nor had he any other dish. there was behind his coach a great quantity of bedding, bed-steads, &c. so you will perceive he travelled _comme il faut_. his livery servants were numerous, and had on very short livery coats, with large sleeves, and still shorter waists. after he had eat a dinner, enough to poison a pack of hounds, he sat off in great pomp for _barcelona_, a city i passed the next day with infinite pleasure, without entering its inhospitable gates; which i could not have done, had not _mons. anglois_ saved me that mortification by getting my _passa porte refreshed_. i confess, sir, that while i passed under the fortifications of that city, which the high road made necessary, i felt, i knew not why, a terror about me, that my frame is in general a stranger to; and rather risqued two hours' night travelling, bad and dangerous as the roads were, than sleep within four leagues of it; so that it was ten o'clock before we got to _martereau_, a little city by the sea side, where we had lodged on our way to _barcelona_. the next day, we proceeded on the same delightful sea coast we had before passed, and through the same rich villages, on our way to _girone_, _figuiere_, &c. and avoided that horrid _posada_ where the frenchman died, by lying at a worse house, but better people: but having bought a brace of partridges, and some _red fish_ on the road, we fared sumptuously, except in beds, which were straw mattrasses, very hard, and the room full of wet indian corn; but we were no sooner out of our _posada_, than the climate and the beautiful country made ample amends for the town and _posada_ grievances. it is contrary to the law of spain to bring more than a certain quantity of spanish gold or silver out of the kingdom, and i had near an hundred pounds in gold _duras_, about the size of our quarter guineas. i endeavoured to change them at _figuiere_, but i found some very artful, i may say roguish, schemes laid, to defraud me, by a pretended difficulty to get french money, and therefore determined to proceed with it to _jonquiere_, the last village, where it was not probable i could find so much french money. i therefore had a very large french _queue_ made up, within which the greater part of my spanish gold was bound; and as the weight _made_ me hold up my _tete d'or_, the custom-house officers there, who remembered my entrance into spain, found half-a-crown put into their hands less trouble than examining my baggage gratis; they accordingly _passed_ me on my way to _bellegarde_, without even opening it; and we found the road up to that fortress, though in the month of december, full as good as when we had passed it in the summer; and after descending on the french side, and crossing the river, got to the little _auberge_ at _boulon_, the same we had held too bad when we went into spain, even to eat our breakfast at; but upon our return, worthy of a place of rest, and we accordingly staid there a week: beds with curtains, rooms with chimnies, and paper windows, though tattered and torn, were luxuries we had been unaccustomed to.--but i must not omit to tell you, that on our road down on the french side of the _pyrenees_, two men, both armed with guns, rushed suddenly out of the woods, and making towards us, asked, whether we wanted a guard? i was walking, perhaps fortunately at that time, with my fuzee in my hand, and my servant had a double barrelled pistol in his; and therefore forbid them to approach us, and told them, we had nothing else to lose but our lives, and that if they did not retire i should look upon them as people who meant to plunder, rather than protect us: they accordingly retired into the woods, and i began to believe they had no evil intent; but finding an _exempt_ of the _marechaussee_ at _boulon_, i told him what had passed, and asked him whether his men attended upon that road, in coloured cloaths, or any others were allotted, to protect or guard travellers? he assured me there were no such people of any kind; that his men always moved on horseback, in their proper character, and suspected _our guard_ would have been very troublesome, had they found us _off our guard_; but he did not offer, nor did i ask him, to send after them, though he was a very civil, sensible man, who had been three years on duty in _corsica_; and, consequently, his company, for the week i staid in such a poor town, was very agreeable. and as _mons. bernard_, or some officer of the _marechaussee_, is always in duty at this town, i would advise those who enter into spain, by that route, to procure a couple of those men to escorte them up to _bellegarde_--an attention that no officer in france will refuse to shew, when it is not incompatible with his duty. the rapid water at this town, which i had passed going into spain, was now lower than usual. here too my horse, as well as his master, lived truly _in clover_; and though our habitation was humble, a habitation at the very foot of the _pyrenees_ could not but be very beautiful; no part of france is more so; it is indeed a beautiful and noble sight, to see the hanging plantations of vines, olives, and mulberry-trees, warmed by a hot sun on the sides of those mountains, the upper parts of which are covered with a perpetual snow. but beautiful as all that part of the country is, there was not a single gentleman's house in the environs. after a compleat week's refreshment, we proceeded to _perpignan_ to spend our christmas, where we found the _chevalier de maigny_ and his lady, who had given us the letter of recommendation to the french consul at _barcelona_; who shewed us those marks of civility and politeness, french officers in general shew to strangers. there we staid a fortnight; and _mons. de maigny_ got me a considerable profit, in changing my spanish gold for french. in this town, i found an unfortunate young irishman; he had been there three months, without a friend or a shilling in his pocket; and as he was a man of education and good breeding, i could not so soon forget my own situation at _barcelona_, not to pity his: but what most induced me to assist him a little, was, what he feared might have had a contrary effect. when i asked him his name, he readily answered, "r--h; an unfortunate name!" said he;--"but, as it is my name, i will _wear it_."--he had a well-wisher in the town, a french watch-maker, to whom he imparted the little kindness i had shewn him; and as it was not enough to conduct him on foot to the north side of this kingdom, the generous, but poor watch-maker, gave him as much as i had done, and he sat off with a light heart, though a _thin pair of breeches_, for his own country. he had been to visit a rich relation at madrid; and, i believe, did not meet with so cordial a reception there as he expected. at this town i drank, at a private gentleman's house, part of a bottle of the wine made at a little village hard by, called _rios alto_; the most delicious wine i ever tasted: but as the spot produces but a small quantity, that which is really of the growth is very scarce, as well as dear: it has the strength of full port, with a flavour superior to burgundy. _perpignan_ is the principal city of _rosillein_; it is well fortified, but the works are in a ruinous condition: the streets are narrow and dirty, but the governor's, and the botanic gardens are worthy of notice: the climate is remarkably fine, and the air pure. the _pyrenees_, which are at least fifteen miles distant, appear to hang in a manner over the town: to see so much snow, and feel so much sun, is very singular. wood is very scarce and dear in that town: i frequently saw mules and asses loaded with rosemary and lavender bushes, to sell for firing. the barbarous language of the common people of this province, is very convenient, as they understand french, and can make themselves understood thro' a great part of spain: from which kingdom not a day passes but mules and carriages arrive, except when the heavy rains or snow obstruct the communication.--the mules and asses of spain, and this part of france, are not only very useful but valuable beasts: the only way to get a valuable one of either sort from spain, is, to fix upon the beast, and promise a round sum to one of the religious mendicants to smuggle it out of the kingdom, who covers the animal with bags, baskets, and a variety of trumpery, as if he was going into france to collect charity: and passes either by _not_ being suspected, or by being a _religieux_ if he is suspected. as we took exactly the same route from _perpignan_ to this town as we went, except leaving _cette_ a few leagues on our left; i shall say nothing of our return, but that we relished our reception at the french inns, and the good cheer we found there, infinitely more than as we went: and that we were benighted for some hours before we got into _montpellier_, and caught in the most dreadful storm of rain, thunder and lightning i ever was exposed to. i was obliged for two hours to hold my horse's bridle on one side, as my man did on the other, and feel with sticks for the margin of the road, as it was elevated very high above the marshy lands, and if the heel had slipped over on either side, it must have overset the chaise into the lowlands: besides which, the roaring of the water-streams was so great, that i very often thought we were upon the margin of some river or high bridge: nor was my suffering quite over even after i got into the city: i could not find my former _auberge_, nor meet with any body to direct me: and the water-spouts which fell into the middle of those narrow streets almost deluged us.--my poor horse, too, found the steep streets, slippery pavement, and tons of water which fell upon him, as much as he could well bear: but, as the old song says, "alas! by some degree of woe, we every bliss obtain;" so we found a good fire and good cheer an ample recompence for our wet jackets. it was so very dark, that though i led my horse by the head above a league, i could but seldom see him: nor do i remember in my whole life to have met with any difficulty which so agitated my mind:--no: not even at the _bar of the house of lords_, i did not dread the danger so much, as the idea of tumbling my family over a precipice, without the power to assist them; or, if they were _gone_, resolution enough to _follow them_. end _of the_ first volume. by internet archive (http://www.archive.org) note: project gutenberg also has an html version of this file which includes the lovely original illustrations in color. see -h.htm or -h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/ / -h/ -h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/ / -h.zip) images of the original pages are available through internet archive. see http://www.archive.org/details/cathedralcitieso colluoft cathedral cities of spain reproductions from original water colours by w. w. collins. r. i. william wiehe collins * * * * * five portfolios of colour plates these make good studies and are full of suggestions for everyone doing water colour work. all uniform in size. - / x . like sample. each portfolio done by a different artist sent prepaid on receipt of price new series spanish cathedrals. $ . reproductions from original water colours by w. w. collins. r. i. english cathedrals. $ . reproductions from original water colours by w. w. collins, r. i. french cathedral. $ . reproductions from original water colours by herbert marshall. r. w. s. versailles and the trianons. $ . reproductions from original water colours by renei binet. cairo, jerusalem and damascus. $ . reproductions from original water colours and paintings by w. s. s. tyrwhitt, r. b. a. and reginald barratt, a. r. w. s. the five portfolios will be sent, express paid on receipt of $ . they are all interesting j. h. jansen successor to m. a. vinson publisher, importer and dealer books on architecture, decoration and illustration - caxton building cleveland, o. _portion of review from "american architect," page , issue of july , ._ "probably the most interesting moments of the trip abroad by the architectural students are those spent in sketching bits of interest in water color. and it is equally true, we believe, that nothing is so helpful, so reminiscent as these same notes of color when viewed in alter years. we have been prompted to these remarks by the receipt of five portfolios of color plates, being copies of original water color drawings by english and french water colorists." * * * * * list of plates [illustration: barcelona. _in the cathedral._] [illustration: astorga.] [illustration: malaga. _the market._] [illustration: tortosa.] [illustration: toledo. _the cathedral._] [illustration: gerona. _the cattle market._] [illustration: gerona. _the cathedral._] [illustration: segovia. _plaza mayor._] [illustration: toledo. _the alcántara bridge._] [illustration: granada. _the alhambra, court of lions._] [illustration: valencia. _san pablo._] [illustration: leon. _san marcos._] [illustration: santiago. _the cathedral._] [illustration: cordoba. _interior of the mesquita._] [illustration: saragossa. _la seo._] [illustration: burgos. _the cathedral._] [illustration: cadiz. _the cathedral._] [illustration: cordoba. _the campanario tower._] [illustration: oviedo. _the cloisters._] [illustration: salamanca. _the old cathedral._] [illustration: segovia. _the aqueduct._] [illustration: burgos. _arch of santa maria._] [illustration: burgos. _the capilla mayor._] [illustration: leon. _the west porch of the cathedral._] [illustration: seville. _in the alcazar._] [illustration: seville. _view over the town._] [illustration: santiago. _south door of the cathedral._] [illustration: valencia. _door of the cathedral._] [illustration: valladolid. _san pablo._] [illustration: orense. _in the cathedral._] [illustration: tuy.] [illustration: seville. _the giralda tower._] [illustration: seville. _in the cathedral._] [illustration: tarragona.] [illustration: valencia. _religious procession._] [illustration: tarragona. _the cloisters._] [illustration: tarragona. _the archbishop's tower._] [illustration: salamanca.] [illustration: salamanca. _an old street._] [illustration: avila.] [illustration: toledo. _the south transept._] [illustration: malaga. _view from the harbour._] oviedo. _in the cathedral._ [illustration: zamora. _the cathedral._] [illustration: granada. _calle del darro._] [illustration: santiago. _interior of the cathedral._] [illustration: toledo. _the zócodover._] [illustration: gateway at avila. _puerta de san vicente._] [illustration: cadiz. _the market place._] [illustration: granada. _the alhambra._] [illustration: granada. _exterior of the cathedral._] transcriber's note: extensive research found no evidence that the copyright on this book has been renewed getting to know spain illustrated by don lambo getting to know spain by dee day coward-mccann, inc. new york © , by coward-mccann, inc. all rights reserved. this book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission in writing from the publishers. published simultaneously in the dominion of canada by longmans, green & company, toronto. acknowledgments the author wishes to acknowledge the assistance and hospitality of direccion general del turismo in all its offices in spain, the spanish state tourist department in new york, and iberia air lines of spain, without whose co-operation the gathering of much of the material and the personal experience reflected in this book would have been impossible. a majority of the pictures were drawn from photographs by herb kratovil, taken especially for this book. new york, dee day editor of this series: sabra holbrook seventh impression library of congress catalog number: - manufactured in the united states of america for my parents [illustration] you probably know that it was a queen of spain, isabella, who made it possible for america to be discovered in . it was an italian sailor, christopher columbus, who first had the strange new idea that he could sail westward from spain in order to reach the far east. he came to spain to tell people about his idea, and everybody he met thought he was crazy because they knew, or thought they knew, that the northern corner of spain, jutting out into the atlantic, was the very end of the world. even the most daring sailors and fishermen wouldn't go very far from that shore for fear they would drop over the rim into nothingness. but queen isabella didn't think columbus was crazy. she took time to listen to him and decided she wanted to help him. she didn't have any money to buy ships for his expedition, so she ordered a little fishing village, palos, to build three ships as a way of paying a fine they owed her. the fishermen of palos knew how to build good, sturdy sailing vessels, and they soon had the three ships ready for columbus and his brave sailors. that is why, in august of , the daring expedition started from this little spanish village. what a sight! three little ships, the _niña_ (small girl), the _pinta_ (spotted), and the _santa maria_ (named in honor of the virgin mary) cast off from the wharf of palos. flags fluttered in the breeze as the sails billowed out from the masts. all the villagers were lined up on the shore to pray and to cheer, and the bells in the church rang as columbus and his crew sailed off "the rim" to the west in search of wealth and glory for spain! [illustration] many spanish explorers followed columbus to the new world, and even sailed all the way around the world, west to east, but the spanish people today are mostly "stay-at-homes." sometimes they leave home for a little while to make money, like the spanish shepherds who are so good at handling flocks of sheep that american ranchers in california, new mexico, nevada and other western states pay them a lot of money to come and work for them. but those who leave always go back to their beloved land as soon as they have earned what they need. [illustration] if you were to meet a spanish person, you would find that he would be interested in america and other countries, but he couldn't imagine living the rest of his life anywhere except in spain. "why should i ever live anywhere else?" he would ask you. "everything beautiful and good in life is right here." he would feel this way even though he might be very poor and might even have to leave for a little while, like the shepherds. to him, the important things in life are his family, his friends, his church and his country. [illustration] his country is a large, squarish, mountainous land at the southwesternmost tip of europe. to the north, over the tall wall of the pyrenees mountains, is france. to the west is portugal and the atlantic ocean, and to the east is the mediterranean sea. spain has more seacoast than any other european country and more mountains than any except switzerland. spain and portugal together make up what is called the iberian peninsula. it is named for the iberian people who came there from north africa almost , years ago and settled down to become the ancestors of the spanish people. if you were to stand at the bottom of the iberian peninsula, on a hill overlooking a town called algeciras, you could look right into africa, only twelve miles away. you would also see the rock of gibraltar--a giant rock rising out of the sea and turned into a fort to guard the narrow passage between the atlantic ocean and the mediterranean sea. this passage is the strait of gibraltar, and all ships must go through it to get from the sea to the ocean. [illustration] in this mountainous country between two seas, more babies are born every day than in any other country in europe. there are million people in spain already, although it is only the size of our state of montana, where , people live. this country might seem very small to us, but it is the third largest country in europe. and because their mountains shut different parts of the country away from each other, there are many differences in ways of living among the million spaniards. there are different regions in spain, and each one has a different way of dressing, different music and dances, different ways of fixing food, a different sort of house to live in, and even different ways of speaking. sometimes you will meet a spaniard who has never been out of his own region, or even away from his own village, because the mountains make it very difficult to travel when your way of getting around is on your own two feet or in a little cart pulled by a small burro or donkey. [illustration] another reason for the many different ways of living is that spain is a very old country which has been invaded many times by other countries. these countries were jealous of the beauty and wealth of spain and wanted to get it for themselves. for hundreds of years the spanish people were always fighting to protect their beloved homeland against invading armies. [illustration] the iberians themselves were invaders, because they weren't the first people who lived in spain. we don't even know the names of those very first people who lived there when most of europe was covered with ice. we only know that they lived in caves and hunted wild animals, because some of their caves have been discovered and the walls are covered with bright drawings of the animals these people hunted--bison, deer, wild horses and wild boars. [illustration] after the iberians, came the celts, greeks, phoenicians, carthaginians and romans. from rome, spain took her language, her system of laws, and her church. there were once more than roman cities in spain, with roads and bridges and walls which were built so well that they are still used by spanish people today. in the city of segovia, the romans built an aqueduct to bring drinking water into the town from the nearby mountains, and this aqueduct still brings water to the people of segovia. the romans liked spain so much they stayed years, but finally barbaric tribes from central europe drove them out. a short time later, these tribes were conquered by moors from north africa. the moors brought many new ways to the spanish people. they spoke the arabic language, and worshiped mohammed instead of christ, in churches called mosques. they taught the spanish people algebra and the science of astronomy; they introduced a new kind of poetry, music and dancing. they brought many new kinds of trees and flowers to spain, like the date palm, the orange and the pomegranate, and taught the people how to grow them with an irrigation system which is still in use today. many little spanish boys learn how to run it, so that they can help their fathers and mothers. the moors built many mosques and palaces in spain which are still in use, and they look like buildings from arabian fairy tales. these moorish buildings have their rooms built around open courtyards, called patios, where orange and lemon trees and many bright flowers grow, and fountains splash in the sunshine. the rooms have many pillars to support the ceiling, and all the pillars and arches and ceilings are beautifully carved. the moors could carve hard stone so that it looks like delicate lace, and this is what gives their buildings such a fairy-tale look. [illustration] the spanish christians, however, didn't like the moors, and during all of the years the moors ruled spain, the christians were fighting to drive them out. finally, queen isabella and her husband, king ferdinand, led their christian army to victory against the last moorish stronghold, granada. because of this victory, queen isabella didn't have to worry about fighting for a while, and she was able to help columbus. [illustration] when columbus discovered america on october , , he began spain's most exciting period of history. the next century after columbus was called the age of the conquistadores. conquistadores were adventurers who set out to find and conquer new lands for spain in the new world which columbus had discovered. many of their conquests later became part of the united states. for instance, de soto claimed the mississippi river and all the rivers that run into it, as well as part of the land that is now the american southwest. ponce de leon, looking for a magic fountain that would keep people young forever, discovered florida and claimed for spain the land that is now the american southeast. cortez, who had conquered mexico for spain and had sent millions of dollars' worth of gold and jewels back to his homeland, also traveled through the southwest and as far north as colorado. the great pacific ocean, which washes the western coast of both north and south america, was discovered by a spaniard named balboa. one spanish sailor, juan sebastian elcano, was the very first man to sail all the way around the world. the conquistadores sent back a huge treasure of gold, silver, copper and jewels to spain, and more than paid queen isabella and her family for her faith in columbus. in fact, spain became one of the most important countries in europe. her queens and kings and princesses married rulers of other countries so that soon, in addition to being very rich and owning many countries across the ocean, spain owned most of europe too. she was sitting on top of the world. only england had stood up against the spanish power. so in , spain sent a great fleet of warships, called the armada, to challenge england. england won. spain never recovered from this defeat by england. it became harder for her to govern the lands she had conquered. today only two places outside the country are still spanish. they are the canary islands out in the atlantic ocean near the coast of africa, and the balearic islands in the mediterranean. at the same time that spain was losing lands she had conquered, her own lovely land tempted other countries, and the spanish people were called upon to fight invading armies from england and france. the real losers during all these years of fighting were the spanish people. they had to fight instead of grow crops, and natural resources, like forests, were neglected or used up. spain fell further and further behind other countries, and even today she hasn't been able to catch up as far as she would like. all the unhappy years of fighting in spain weren't in the long-ago past. just a while ago, in , a civil war broke out between the spanish people who wanted their king to come back to the throne he'd left in , and the people who wanted spain to set up a republic, like ours in the united states. this war went on for three years, and in the end, everybody lost. general francisco franco and his army defeated the forces which wanted a republic, and also those who wanted to set up communism. he is now the head of the spanish government. because he is considered a dictator, there are many spanish people who disagree with the way he runs the government and are hoping to change it. in a new constitution was written in which general franco agreed that spain would one day have a king again, but the person who becomes king must be at least twenty-five years old. the old king is dead and there is nobody for the job right now. but the king's grandson, young prince juan carlos, is taking special studies so he will be ready to be king when he is old enough. and of course there are still people who would like to see spain become a democratic republic, like the united states, and not have a king at all. [illustration] in the meantime, the spanish people and their government have a lot to do to make their country stable and strong again. if you were to visit spain, you would see why the spanish people love their country so much. you could also understand why so many different nations wanted to conquer spain. spain is a very beautiful country and also a country that can produce many good things. it has minerals such as iron, lead, copper and sulphur in the earth. in the south, it has a warm climate that helps grow luscious crops of oranges, lemons, olives and grapes for wine. [illustration] you might like to take a trip from one region to another by riding on a little donkey as spanish boys do, or in a little high-wheeled cart pulled by a donkey, the way little spanish girls might do. your donkey would probably not have a saddle, but just a rug or a straw mat folded across his back, and he might wear a headband of bright red and blue wool woven into a gay pattern to shade his eyes from the sun. you could carry your food and clothes for the journey in a pair of straw bags hung one on each side of your donkey's back. along the way, you would see dozens of other little donkeys and burros. the burro is a donkey-cousin but even smaller. donkeys and burros work with the spanish men and boys in the fields or carry stones to help build new roads, or carry jars of water from a well to someone's house. these gentle little animals work to earn their keep in spain. [illustration] [illustration] [illustration] suppose you start your trip in the north. at the very most northwestern tip of spain is the region of galicia, which everybody thought was the end of the world before columbus showed them it wasn't. people in galicia call themselves "gallegos," and they live in a country of rocky seacoasts, where the ocean pokes long fingers called "rias" back into green hills and fog rolls in almost every day. in galicia and the neighboring region of asturias, fathers earn their living by fishing or by farming, and mothers make all the clothes for their families from cloth they weave themselves. families live in houses built from stones cleared from their own fields. this is where the bagpipes are played while the young people, gaily dressed in red and green, dance their lively dances. this northern region is quite different from the sunny south, where the climate is very hot in the summer and never really gets cold in the winter. here in the south is andalusia, where mountain ranges may have snow on their peaks all year round, but down in the valleys and plains sweet-scented tropical flowers bloom in bright colors every single month. on the hillsides, grapes are grown to make wine, or silvery-green olive trees make groves against the red earth. this is a region of horses and good horsemen. here big ranches stretch along the river banks and huge black bulls are raised. [illustration] the people of andalusia are full of music, dancing and the love of life. they live in white houses built around courtyards full of flowers, with windows covered with designs in black wrought iron. black-haired andalusian women wear black lace mantillas draped over their heads, a kind of veil and shawl. they like to carry lacy fans and wear long flashing earrings. lots of gypsies live in andalusia, many of them in caves in the chalky-white hillsides. gypsy girls wear long red or green or blue dresses dotted with white. they fold bright-colored silk fringed scarves around their necks, and they love to wear many gold bracelets. andalusia is the region the moors loved the most, so this is where you'll see many of their lovely stone buildings full of lacelike carvings. [illustration] [illustration] it's like going into another world to journey from andalusia into western spain. in extremadura, the land where the conquistadores lived, and in león, there are great sweeping plains where the land is not very fertile because there are long dry seasons. raising sheep, fruit and pigs are the main sources of making a living, and the people must work very hard. they don't have time for as much fun as the andalusians do. these people are quiet but proud. they are especially proud of their universities, libraries and cathedrals. [illustration] still another little world in this country of contrasts is found in the eastern part of spain, along the mediterranean coast and in the region inland from this coast. the coastal regions are called, from north to south, catalonia, valencia and murcia, all very pretty names. catalonia has a long seacoast which is cut by many bays and coves reaching back right into the mountains, which rise straight from the sea. many white sand beaches, rimmed with pine trees, invite you to stop and swim and sun. if you stopped, you could have fun climbing around the ruins of old walls and watchtowers on the hills looking out to sea. once upon a time on these hills, lookouts used to give warning when pirates were sailing up to plunder the villages. one of these catalonian villages, called tossa de mar, has a whole village built inside the walls on top of a hill above the regular village. people used to gather in this hilltop hideout for protection against pirates. the second largest city in spain, barcelona, is in catalonia, and it has a very busy harbor where ships of all nations sail in and out every day. valencia, south of catalonia, is a land of flowers. carnations, roses, jasmine, scarlet bougainvillea vines, and orange and lemon blossoms fill the air with perfume. every spaniard loves flowers, and every window and courtyard is full of blossoms. in the city of valencia there's a battle of flowers every year during one of their festivals. great baskets of rose petals and carnations line the streets and everyone dips out handfuls to toss over his neighbors and friends. you can imagine that in a very short time the whole city looks as if it were paved with flowers. in sitges, a small fishing village a few miles north of valencia where the most beautiful carnations in spain are grown, there is a carnation festival every june, and here the main square actually _is_ paved with flower petals, laid out in gorgeous designs for the occasion. the land in the region of valencia is so fertile that, with the help of the irrigation system set up long ago by the moors, the people today grow as many as four crops a year of rice, vegetables, melons and oranges. murcia has a small bit of seacoast, but the rest of it is mostly desert land where the earth looks like chalk-dust. it gets so hot people can't go out in the middle of the day. they stay indoors in the cool darkness as much as possible. murcia is very much like north africa, and in some of the old towns the women still wear heavy veils over their faces the way the moors from north africa did. you wouldn't be at all surprised to see a camel train in the chalky dust of the dry river bed, but instead, it's just another procession of little donkeys carrying goods to market in their straw saddlebags, driven by men hiding under huge hats from the burning sun. the regions of navarre and aragon, in the northeast, are quite different from murcia's desert. they have a rich, mountainous countryside with the tall pyrenees marching across the north. many wild animals are found in these regions, including some which are rare in other parts of the world, like the chamois, the ibex, the wild boar, bears, several kinds of deer, and the great golden eagle. like other northern regions of spain, there's snow in the winter and people go sledding and skiing. [illustration] just to the north are the basque provinces, on the southern slopes of the pyrenees and stretching along the bay of biscay. the basque people are known as the "mystery men of europe," because nobody is sure where they came from. nobody knows where the strange language they speak came from either. we do know that they are a very ancient people, perhaps direct descendants of the original iberians. the basques are fearless and daring, and are noted throughout the world as excellent sailors and sheep-herders. when you visit the basques, you will notice that they all like to eat enormous meals, they like to gamble, and they like to play "jai alai," a very fast ball game which they invented. [illustration] "jai alai" means "happy festival" in the basque language, and the game is a very exciting and happy one. the ball, slightly smaller than a baseball, is very hard and can travel very fast. players have curved baskets attached to their right wrists, and they must scoop up or catch the ball in these baskets and immediately throw it and try to hit a certain spot marked off on the wall. if it doesn't hit the right spot, the opposing team scores a point. if it hits the right spot, the other team must try to scoop it up before it bounces and send it back, hitting a certain spot on the other side of the court. you can see that it can be a very fast and complicated game. you could see jai alai played in specially built concrete courts in many cities in spain, also in the state of florida, right here in our own country. a jai alai court is called a "fronton." but in the basque country you'd see all the men and boys in the village playing jai alai back of the church, using the high stone wall as their court. girls don't play it very often, but when they do it is a very pretty sight, because they wear wide skirts of blue or red with many white petticoats underneath. when they run and turn to hit the ball, their skirts swing around wildly and make them look like spinning tops. completely different from the basque country and all other regions is the central part of spain. it is a high plateau bordered by still higher rugged rocky mountains. the weather is very hot in summer and very cold in winter, with scorching or icy winds blasting across the land because there are no forests to break their force. great gray boulders thrust out of purple-green hillsides, and rivers cut deep gorges in the gray soil. this central part is made up of two regions, old and new castile. old castile is to the north, and cattle are raised in the green fields fed by mountain streams. castile means "land of castles," and both old and new castile have cities built around castles and cathedrals, sometimes surrounded by walls built during the years of warfare. one of these cities in castile is avila, which has high stone walls so thick that four or five soldiers could march side by side on top all the way around the city. there are round towers rising from these walls, where sentries and lookouts were posted, but only ways to get in and out, so that the city could be guarded more easily. [illustration] not far from avila is the famous palace of el escorial, where most of the kings and queens of spain are buried. castile isn't the only part of spain with castles, of course. if you were visiting spain today, you could stay overnight in many of these castles and pretend you were a king or queen of lovely spain. these castles made into hotels are called "paradores," and a visit to one of them is great fun. because castile is in the very heart of spain, the capital, madrid, is located there. madrid is a lively, bustling, modern city of more than - / million people. it is the highest capital in europe, being almost half a mile above sea level in the center of the great mesa or tableland of castile. madrid is not a very old city compared with such ancient cities as avila, but it has an old section built around the plaza mayor--the main square--where steps lead down into winding, narrow streets with arches and covered sidewalks. the larger part of madrid is a modern city with wide boulevards lined with trees, where people can sit at sidewalk terrace cafés sipping coffee or wine or lemonade and watching other people streaming by. sometimes it seems that everybody in madrid lives outdoors all the time, because there are always so many people on the streets all day and all night. meals are served very late--lunch is at o'clock or later, and dinner not until about . concerts, plays and movies don't start until o'clock at night, or even midnight. even very young children and babies stay up late with their parents, to visit with friends at a sidewalk café or to go to a movie. only in the middle of the day, when it is hot, everybody goes indoors for a long nap. this is called a "siesta," and during siesta time the streets of madrid and all other spanish cities are deserted. shops and offices are closed. there is almost no traffic on the streets and boulevards. from to every afternoon, a stranger in spain might think that a great calamity had happened and made spain a land of sleeping princes and princesses. after siesta, the streets wake to an even more bustling life than before. offices and stores open again to serve their customers until or o'clock at night. the sidewalk cafés and restaurants become busier than ever. every chair is taken, and the conversation goes on at such a fast rate that unless you understood spanish very well, you could be lost in the rushing sound of it. spain has other proud cities besides madrid. two, whose history goes way back to the days of the moors, are granada and toledo. [illustration] granada is the city in andalusia which the moors loved most and held longest. they fought hard to keep it, and when they finally surrendered it to ferdinand and isabella in they wept bitterly, for it seemed to them they had lost a paradise. the great fortress-palace of the moors in granada is called the alhambra, which means "red castle." about a hundred years ago an american author, washington irving, went to live in the alhambra. he found the romantic castle very much as the moors had left it, except for the dust which hadn't been removed in years. he walked through the echoing corridors and into the moonlit courtyards with their silent fountains. he talked with dozens of old spanish and gypsy storytellers to learn all he could about the alhambra. he even claimed he could see the ghosts of the sultans who had once lived there. then he wrote a book, _tales of the alhambra_, which we can still read and enjoy. because of his book, the alhambra was cleaned and restored to all its former beauty. today the carved white and golden stonework of this castle shines with the splendor of long ago. one of its most interesting courtyards is called the court of the lions. twelve very old stone lions, each with a different expression on his face, stand in a circle in the center, supporting the curved bowl of a fountain on their backs. out of each lion's mouth trickles a little stream of water, helping to cool the air. everyone who visits the alhambra loves these funny old lions and goes away with a picture of them. [illustration] the moorish sultans entertained their guests and held big parties in courtyards like this one. but they lived with their families and servants in another part of the alhambra, with gardens and a sparkling pool where the royal ladies bathed. looking out through certain of the arching, carved windows, the sultans could see the snow-covered sierra nevada mountains. the sierra nevada peaks have snow the year round, even in the hottest summers. when the moors lived in the alhambra, swift-running slaves would bring snow from the mountains to make sherbet for the sultans and their guests in hot weather. from other windows in the alhambra the sultans could see sacro monte--the holy mountain--where gypsies still live today in whitewashed caves. many centuries ago the gypsies didn't have homes, but wandered throughout the world. when some of them came to granada, they fell in love with the city and decided to stay. now there are thousands of them living in andalusia, many of them in sacro monte. their cave-homes are really quite comfortable. many have fine copper cooking pots hanging on the walls and beautiful works of art, and hangings of hand-woven fabrics. if you go to granada, you can visit a gypsy cave and the gypsies will dance for you to a kind of music which is called "flamenco." nobody knows where the flamenco came from, but some say it is as old as the phoenicians, and some say--even older. toledo is another old, old city in spain--at one time the capital. toledo is built on a series of hills above a river, called tagus, which winds around the base of the city like a natural moat around a fortress. nearly four hundred years ago a greek painter came to toledo and stayed to become one of spain's--and the world's--greatest artists. he was known as "el greco," which means the greek, and today most people have forgotten his real name. perhaps you have seen his famous painting of the city he loved, called "view of toledo." if you have, you know what toledo looks like today, for it has changed very little since el greco painted it. you could take your crayons or paints to the same spot across the river tagus where he stood with his canvas and easel, and you would see the same rapids in the river, the same arched gateways in the city walls, the same cathedral spire rising from a hill. then you could cross an old bridge, and go through a moorish gateway into town. walking along a cobblestone street, you might pass an old church which has iron chains hanging on its walls. these are the chains of christian slaves captured by moors, then freed by christian armies. at the top of one hill you would discover an old house with red tiled roof and a garden full of roses, geraniums, mimosa, jasmine and oleanders. this is the house where el greco lived, and you'd see his easel, his bedroom, his kitchen and furniture just as he left them. in a small museum next to the house you'd find paintings by el greco, mostly pictures of saints and portraits of famous spaniards of his time. one of his paintings is in a chapel in town and others are in other churches throughout spain, and in the prado museum in madrid, along with those of other great spanish painters like valesquez, goya and murillo. the people of toledo have a special art of their own--making fine jewelry called "toledo ware." the moors brought the knack from the ancient city of damascus. threads of gold and silver are woven into intricate patterns with fine steel. when the piece is put into a hot furnace, the steel part of the pattern turns black, then the gold and silver designs are polished until they shine. originally the moors made their big swords this way, but today toledo ware is bracelets, earrings, cuff links and other small jewelry. the people of toledo also make glistening glazed tiles. some of these show scenes from the lives of favorite spanish heroes, real and imaginary. there are some toledo tiles that will tell you about don quixote of la mancha, a hero invented years ago by miguel cervantes. [illustration] cervantes wanted to tease his fellow countrymen about reading so many books with stories that could never happen in real life. so he wrote a book of his own about don quixote, a foolish old fellow who imagined he was a handsome knight. the poor don rode all around the country on a rickety old horse dreaming he was rescuing beautiful ladies and fighting imaginary battles for his king. once he even tried to fight a windmill, thinking it was a giant! another time he thought a shepherd and his flock were an army! cervantes' fun-poking book is still read and laughed over by people throughout the whole world. today, if you were to drive from granada to toledo or madrid, you would pass through don quixote's country, la mancha, and you would see windmills and the shepherds leading their sheep and goats, with all the countryside looking much as cervantes described it through don quixote's eyes. wherever you stopped for the night, you would see a great walking-around, which begins at o'clock. every family comes out to join in this evening custom which is called "paseo." of course the children come too, dressed in their best clothes. but boys and girls do not walk together. two or three girls will walk by, arm-in-arm, and several boys will walk by, talking together and looking at the girls from the corner of their eyes. in the smaller places, all the older boys walk together in one direction while all the older girls walk arm-in-arm in the opposite direction, or else on the other side of the street. just as boys and girls don't walk together in the paseo, they don't often play games together either--at least not after they are old enough to go to school. before school days start, all children play singing and dancing games something like our "london bridge." they play tag and a favorite game called "hit the pot." they put a tin can or an old clay pot on the end of a long stick and blindfold the child who is "it." the others then run around with the stick while "it" tries to knock off the can with another stick. but when they are six years old, all little boys and girls must go to school, and--except in small villages where there are only a few children to study with one teacher--they go to separate schools, so they stop playing together then, too. little girls jump rope, play with jacks and dolls. or they play singing games which act out the parts of kings and queens and princesses. little boys are most interested in games with balls, like jai alai or football. the favorite game of most little boys in spain is "torero." in this game they pretend they are bullfighters, who are called "toreros." every boy in spain dreams of growing up to be the greatest bullfighter in the world. bullfighting is one of the most exciting things in life to every spaniard. [illustration] every big city has a great bullring, a round building with many steps of seats and no roof, called the "plaza de toros." "toro" is the bull. the bulls are especially bred for the ring, because no ordinary cow or bull would be able to take part in this colorful pageant. almost every sunday afternoon throughout the year, and at holiday times, there is a "corrida" or bullfight, and everybody goes to see the toreros fight the bulls. bullfighters in spain are the same heroes to spanish boys and girls that baseball players are to american youngsters. this is the reason why you'll see all the little spanish boys playing torero. one pretends he is the toro and wears a basket over his head as he charges at the one pretending he is the torero with a red cape and wooden sword. although spanish children like to play, they are also very serious about schoolwork, because they know that if spain is to be a wise member of the family of nations, she needs educated citizens. during the civil war it was very hard for young people to get an education, and some of the schools and universities were destroyed by bombs or fires. now the universities have been rebuilt, and more schools are being built every year. [illustration] some boys and girls go to schools run by their church, and they are taught by priests and nuns. according to law, everyone must go to school until the age of fourteen. then, if the family can afford it, they can go on to higher schools and the university. if the family is poor but a boy is very bright, he may win a scholarship by getting high marks. because boys are more likely than girls to go to a university, they study more science and mathematics in school than their sisters do. of course they all study reading, writing, history, arithmetic and good manners. when a spanish boy grows up and has a university education, he may become a doctor, lawyer, banker, newspaperman or government worker, just as any of you may. if he is going to be a farmer, a fisherman, or fashion things with his hands as a carpenter or wrought-iron maker does, he probably won't go to school after he is fourteen. if he's going to do the same thing his father does, his father will teach him. otherwise, he may become an apprentice, which means that he will work right along with grownups who already do what he wants to learn. he learns by doing it with them. little spanish girls, who wear pinafores to school and do their hair in pigtails, are more interested in learning how to be good mothers, because every little spanish girl dreams of marrying and having lots of children. they learn how to read and write, and the history of their country, but they also learn how to cook and sew and bring up children. recently some spanish girls have started learning how to be lawyers, doctors and teachers. these girls, like their brothers, go on to universities. some girls also learn shorthand and typing so that they can work in offices. before the civil war there were no girls in offices, but today they like being secretaries and typists just as girls in america do. still, even these modern spanish girls don't have the freedom to go to parties or on dates with boys, the way american girls do, unless they are engaged to be married. when they go out at night for the paseo or to attend the theater or a movie, they go with other girls or with their whole family. a strong family bond unites all spanish people. fathers and mothers and children spend as much time together as they possibly can. if being together means that children must go with parents into the fields at harvest time, then they go, even if they only play around and don't really help. in the evenings when the father and mother go to the paseo or sit in a café to talk with their friends, their children go with them. always the whole family goes to church together. one of the most important days in a spanish child's life is the day of confirmation. then the family and relatives and friends from miles around come to celebrate. all over spain, on a sunday morning, you'll see the little girls in their long white dresses with white gloves and veils, looking proud and happy as they walk to church with their beaming mothers and fathers for their confirmation. when boys are confirmed, they wear white suits, with a cape lined in scarlet or blue satin and trimmed with gold braid. if the family has enough money, they may hire a horse-drawn carriage. the driver wears a tall black stovepipe silk hat and the carriage doors and horses' bridles are decorated with white flowers. the church is very important in spanish life. the apostle james himself came to preach in spain, and later, after he had been killed in palestine, his body was brought back to spain for burial. his tomb is in the beautiful cathedral of santiago--which is the way spanish people say st. james--in compostela, in northern spain. for thousands of years people from all over the world have come as pilgrims to compostela. many little spanish boys are named santiago, or perhaps jaime, another way to say james in spanish, for santiago is the patron saint of all spain. every city and village also has its very own private patron saint. once a year there is a village festival or "fiesta" in his or her honor. if you were to travel through spain you would find a fiesta somewhere every day of the year! these fiestas start in the morning when all the people go to church, which is always decorated with hundreds of flowers and candles. then in the afternoon or evening there is a long parade from the church through the main streets and back to the church again, with the figure of the saint standing on a flower-draped platform which is carried on the shoulders of young men. [illustration] choirs sing, candles and incense burn, and all the people stand in reverence along the route. a bullfight is usually a feature of a saint's day too, with the whole town going to the plaza de toros to watch. the paseo will be especially gay at fiesta time, and as darkness falls, the guitars will start to twang, castanets will click and all the young people will gather in the main square to take part in folk dances until morning. sometimes the saint's fiesta will last a whole week, with bullfights every afternoon and a fair every night. one of the most unusual fiestas in all spain is held every march in valencia in honor of st. joseph. it is called the "fallas de san josé" because of the huge, grotesque figures called "fallas" which are the main feature of the celebration. every club and religious group in the city spends weeks in advance of st. joseph's day building these figures out of papier-màché, and each group tries to keep its design secret until the fiesta takes place. the best falla wins a prize, and at the end of the three-day celebration, all the fallas except the prize-winner are burned in a big bonfire while the people dance around it and fireworks are shot into the sky. of all holidays, christmas is one of the merriest in spanish homes. "noche buena," or christmas eve, is a time for families to sit down to a wonderful feast. the mothers and older sisters of the family have been preparing this feast for months, and fathers have been collecting the best spanish wines to store away until now. turkey is the traditional dish at spanish christmas dinners just as it is here. but christmas is one of the few times turkey is ever served in most spanish homes, so it is really a special treat. spicy hams, stuffed roast lamb, and special fish dishes are also served with the roast turkey. and no christmas table would be complete without "turrones"--a candy made of honey and almonds, something like our nougats. dried figs and grapes, walnuts and hazelnuts load the table even more. after dinner, the family goes to midnight services at church called "misa de gallo"; then they come home and celebrate until morning. there are no christmas trees in spain, but each family makes its own nativity scene, which is set out in time for christmas eve. in some cities contests are held for the most beautiful "belen" scenes, as they are called, because "belen" is the way spanish people say bethlehem. on christmas day everybody goes calling to see the belens in other people's houses. sometimes grownups exchange gifts on christmas day, but spanish children don't receive their gifts until january , three king's day. instead of santa claus, the three wise men, melchior, gaspar and balthasar leave gifts in the children's shoes. the shoes are set out in a window or near the fireplace, filled with hay so the camels of the three kings may feast. in the morning the hay is gone and toys, nuts, fruit and candy have taken its place. [illustration] holy week, the week starting with palm sunday and ending with easter, is another important time in spanish life. on palm sunday, everyone throughout the country has palm branches from elche, an old town where the only palm grove in europe grows. after carrying the branches in processions through the streets and into the churches and cathedrals, people hang them on the balconies of their houses, where they remain until the fresh palm branches of the next year replace them. the most colorful celebration of holy week is held in seville, a city in sunny andalusia. every night there are processions of robed and hooded men moving silently through streets lined with thousands of men, women and children. all the figures of saints and madonnas from all the churches and the cathedral are carried in one procession or another. the figures are dressed in costly vestments and jewels, and the procession is lighted by flickering torches and candles. as the figures pass beneath balconies crowded with watchers, a singer will suddenly break into a spontaneous, unaccompanied song, called a "saeta," to salute the saint being carried by. the saeta is the same sort of song the moors used to sing when they lived in seville and other cities in andalusia, and today it is usually sung by gypsies, thousands of whom live here. night after night these processions go on, until good friday, when the most gorgeous one of all starts at o'clock in the morning. this is the procession of the virgin of macarena, the patron saint of bullfighters and all seville. the virgin is dressed up in robes of silver and gold and wears jewels given by famous bullfighters and wealthy people. the men who march in this procession wear costumes of rich red and gold, and there is an honor guard dressed like ancient roman centurions. the "macarena" is the most popular saint in seville, and everyone watches her procession until it takes her back to her shrine in the gypsy section, triana, followed by thousands of gaily clad gypsies who spend the rest of the night singing and dancing to the throbbing of guitars. shortly after holy week, seville has another gay festival, this time called a "feria," which is rather like a big country fair. for two weeks everybody celebrates all day and all night, singing and dancing and visiting friends for a glass of wine. every day there is a bullfight, and at night there are concerts, dance and art shows, and plays. the huge fair grounds blaze with light, and ferris wheels and merry-go-rounds spin gaily round and round. once upon a time, the feria was an auction for horses and cattle, and today it is still a time when the best horsemen show off their fine horses and their skill at riding. during the feria, the proud horsemen wear leather aprons something like our cowboys' chaps over their tight gray riding pants. their bolero jackets are black trimmed with braid, and their hats are black too, the flat, wide-brimmed felt hats which horsemen always wear in spain. horses are curried until they shine, and flowers and ribbons are twined in their manes and tails and decorate their bridles. beautiful black-haired girls dress up like gypsies, something they would not be allowed to do at any other time. as the girls ride in the saddles behind their young men, the long, flounced, polka-dotted skirts of red, green or blue fall down over the horse's side. black lace mantillas are draped over very tall combs in their hair, and a gay flower is usually pinned behind one ear. every carriage, every farm cart, every house and every person is decorated with flowers. at harvest time, when olives, grapes, fruit or grain are brought in from the land, there is much merry-making, too. at jerez de la frontera, a sunny town in andalusia where everybody works at growing grapes and making them into a famous wine called sherry, the harvest festival comes just before the grapes are ready to be harvested, in september. [illustration] high-wheeled vineyard carts decorated with vines and flowers are pulled, by sturdy oxen, out of every vineyard in the countryside, carrying all the pretty girls who work there and a basket of new grapes. the carts wind through the streets to the cathedral, where the grapes are blessed and all the people pray and give thanks for a good harvest. then, in the square in front of the cathedral, a great flock of pigeons is loosed into the air. these are homing pigeons, and they fly back to their homes in every part of spain, carrying the message that the harvest is about to begin. there's dancing in the streets all night, and the next day there are bullfights, races and more dancing. then the people all go to work to harvest the grapes. [illustration] on spanish holidays, there is plenty to eat and drink. for visitors, eating is fun even on any ordinary day. if you were to travel from region to region in spain, you would notice that people eat different foods in different places. along the seacoasts, of course, they eat many kinds of fish. in the north, one of the favorite seafood dishes is made of codfish cooked in a delicious sauce of red and green peppers flavored with garlic. in valencia you would eat "paella" made of many kinds of shellfish, chicken, ham and rice flavored with saffron, a yellow spice which grows in spain. paella is made in a big round iron pan over a charcoal fire, and the little clams, shrimps, pieces of chicken and everything else that makes it good are tossed in, a handful at a time, until the whole dish is ready to be served, right from the pan it was cooked in. most families have a big lunch, at about o'clock. if the weather is cool, this is very likely to be a pot of stew, or "cocido." depending on what part of the country you are in, this cocido might be made of fish, lamb, beef or chicken. whatever the meat or fish may be, the cocido also includes all the vegetables that grow in the garden at that time of year. it's apt to be flavored with garlic, sweet spanish red peppers, and perhaps several spoonfuls of sherry wine. in the hot summer weather in andalusia, people eat a delicious cold soup as their main dish at lunch, and sometimes at dinner too. this soup is called _gazpacho_, and it is made with spanish olive oil, vinegar, tomato juice and ice water. very fine bread crumbs help make it thick, and little pieces of fresh, cold tomatoes, cucumbers, green peppers, olives and onions float on top. everybody in spain eats a great many "churros." churros are something like doughnuts, but they are twisted into odd shapes and fried in olive oil until they are crisp all the way through, not just on the outside. they are very fine for breakfast with hot chocolate, and they are also good with sugar sprinkled on them as a between-meals snack. another snack is almonds, grown right in spain, and shrimp the size of your little finger. some of the foods the spanish children eat are the same ones their great-great-great-grandfathers and mothers ate, too. mostly, the houses where they live are also very old--as old as the holiday customs that haven't changed in hundreds of years. these old ways and scenes are some of the reasons spain has been called "the land where time stands still." only just now is this old spain about to become modern spain. new roads, railroads and airfields are being built to help people get around the country faster and to send food from farms and seacoasts to markets in a hurry. all over spain you hear the sound of hammers and chisels, busily building a new life for the people. spain has joined the united nations and spanish boys and girls are eager to join all boys and girls who want their countries to be partners in progress. if, in getting to know spain, you have learned to like it, perhaps you'll want to say "hello" and "good luck" to your spanish friends. here is how to say it: "saludos, amigos!" history before b.c.--earliest people lived in caves in northern spain; were conquered by iberians, then celts. phoenicians and greeks came, and finally all were conquered by carthaginians. b.c.--romans conquered carthaginians, began a rule lasting more than years. a.d.--barbarians, especially visigoths, came into spain from central europe and eventually drove out the romans. a.d.--the moors came from north africa and conquered all spain in less than years. although the christian spaniards started fighting almost immediately for the "reconquest" of spain, the moors were masters for almost years. january , --the reconquest of spain was completed when the armies of ferdinand and isabella drove the moors out of the alhambra in granada, their last stronghold. august, --columbus sailed with his three ships from palos in an effort to reach the far east by sailing west; on october , he made his first landfall in the new world and claimed it for spain. - --the golden age of spain. columbus discovered more lands in the new world, and conquistadores planted the spanish flag all through north and south america. spain controlled most of europe. it was a time of great artists and writers like velasquez, el greco, murillo, lope de vega and cervantes. --spain's great naval armada was defeated by england and the power of spain began to decline throughout the world. last overseas possessions were lost at the end of the spanish-american war in . --king alfonso xiii abdicated from his throne, went into exile; spain became a republic. - --the spanish civil war. nationalists led by general francisco franco won the war and the general became chief of state. --the law of succession was adopted by spanish parliament, providing for a future king and new spanish monarchy; this law altered in so that the monarchy may be established sooner than originally planned. --american aid program began; airfields, pipelines and other construction projects using american money and american builders help spain develop a defense network and natural resources. --spain admitted to the united nations. index alhambra, - andalusia, - , , , , aragon, armada, asturias, avila, balearic islands, barcelona, basque, bulls & bullfighting, , - , - , , burros, , canary islands, castile, - castles, - catalonia, , cave drawings, christmas, - church, - , , - civil war, , columbus, christopher, , , conquistadores, , , donkeys, , , don quixote, - elche, el escorial, el greco, - extremadura, festivals, , - fiestas, - flamenco, food, , , - franco, francisco, galicia, games, geography, , , - gibraltar, granada, , - gypsies, , , history, - , - holy week, - iberians, , , isabella, , , , , jai alai, - , jerez, león, lions, madrid, - , moors, , , , , , - , - , murcia, , navarre, palos, paradores, paseo, , , prado museum, pyrenees, , regions, , , - , romans, , saints, - , schools, , , - segovia, seville, - shepherds, , , siesta, - three kings day, toledo, , - valencia, , , , , sources in preparing this book, the author drew upon her own experience in spain as well as historical and other information supplied by official spanish sources both in spain and the u.s. teachers may obtain additional information from library of congress, washington, d. c.; hispanic american society, inc. wall street, n. y.; hispanic institute, west th street, n. y.; hispanic society of america (museum and library), broadway between and streets, n. y.; iberia air lines of spain, madison avenue, n. y.; spanish embassy, washington, d. c. (commercial office and office of cultural relations); spanish state tourist department, madison avenue, n. y. the getting to know books cover today's world _africa_ getting to know africa's french community getting to know algeria getting to know the congo river getting to know egypt getting to know kenya getting to know liberia getting to know nigeria getting to know the sahara getting to know south africa getting to know rhodesia, zambia and malawi getting to know tanzania _arctic_ getting to know the arctic _asia_ getting to know burma getting to know the central himalayas getting to know hong kong getting to know india getting to know japan getting to know the northern himalayas getting to know pakistan getting to know the river ganges getting to know thailand getting to know the two chinas getting to know the two koreas getting to know the two vietnams _caribbean and central america_ getting to know the british west indies getting to know costa rica, el salvador and nicaragua getting to know cuba getting to know guatemala and the two honduras getting to know mexico getting to know panama getting to know puerto rico getting to know the virgin islands _europe; east and west_ getting to know eastern europe getting to know england, scotland, ireland and wales getting to know france getting to know greece getting to know italy getting to know poland getting to know scandinavia getting to know spain getting to know switzerland getting to know the soviet union getting to know the two germanys _middle east_ getting to know iran-iraq getting to know israel getting to know lebanon getting to know saudi arabia getting to know the tigris and euphrates rivers getting to know turkey _north america_ getting to know alaska getting to know american indians today getting to know canada getting to know the mississippi river getting to know the u.s.a. _pacific_ getting to know australia getting to know hawaii getting to know indonesia getting to know malaysia and singapore getting to know the philippines getting to know the south pacific _south america_ getting to know argentina getting to know brazil getting to know chile getting to know colombia getting to know peru getting to know the river amazon getting to know venezuela _united nations agencies_ getting to know f.a.o. getting to know the human rights commission getting to know unesco getting to know unicef getting to know the united nations peace forces getting to know who getting to know wmo page images generously made available by the bibliothèque nationale de france (http://gallica.bnf.fr/) note: project gutenberg also has volume i of this work. see http://www.gutenberg.org/etext/ images of the original pages are available through the bibliothèque nationale de france. see http://visualiseur.bnf.fr/visualiseur?destination=gallica&o=numm- a year's journey through france, and part of spain. by philip thicknesse. volume ii dublin printed by j. williams, (no. .) skinner-row. m,dcc,lxxvii. a journey, &c. letter xxxiv. nismes sir, i am very certain that a man may travel twice through spain, and half through france, before he sees a woman of so much beauty, elegance, and breeding, as the mistress of the house i lodge in near this city. i was directed to the house, and recommended to the lady, as a lodger; but both were so fine, and superior in all respects to any thing i had seen out of paris, that i began to suspect i had been imposed upon. the lady who received me appeared to be (it was candle-light) about eighteen, a tall, elegant figure, a beautiful face, and an address inferior to none: i concluded she was the daughter, till she informed me, that _mons. saigny_, her husband, was gone to _avignon_. what added, perhaps, to this lady's beauty in my eyes, or rather ears, was her misfortune,--she could not speak louder than a gentle whisper. after seeing her sumptuous apartments, i told her i would not ask what her price was, but tell her what i could afford only to give; and observed, that as it was winter, and the snow upon the ground, perhaps she had better take my price than have none. she instantly took me by the hand and said, she had so much respect for the english nation, that my price was her's; and with a still softer whisper, and close to my ear, said, i might come in as soon as i pleased--"_quand vous voudrez, monsieur_," said she. we accordingly took possession of the finest apartments, and the best beds i ever lay on. the next day, i saw a genteel stripling about the house, in a white suit of cloaths, dressed _en militaire_, and began to suspect the virtue of my fair hostess, not perceiving for some hours that it was my hostess herself; in the afternoon she made us a visit in this horrid dress,--(for horrid she appeared in my eyes)--her cloaths were white, with red cuffs and scarlet _lappels_; and she held in her straddling lap a large black muff, as big as a porridge-pot. by this visit she lost all that respect her superlative beauty had so justly entitled her to, and i determined she should visit me no more in man's apparel. when i went into the town i mentioned this circumstance, and there i learnt, that the real wife of _mons. saigny_ had parted from him, and that the lady, my hostess, was his mistress. the next day, however, the master arrived; and after being full and finely dressed, he made me a visit, and proffers of every attention in his power: he told me he had injured his fortune, and that he was not rich; but that he had served in the army, and was a gentleman: he had been bred a protestant, but had just embraced the true faith, in order to qualify himself for an employment about the court of the pope's _legate_ at _avignon_. after many expressions of regard, he asked me to dine with him the next day; but i observed that as he was not rich, and as i paid but a small rent in proportion to his noble apartments, i begged to be excused; but he pressed it so much, that i was obliged to give him some _other reasons_, which did not prove very pleasing ones, to the lady below. this fine lady, however, continued to sell us wood, wine, vinegar, sallad, milk, and, in short, every thing we wanted, at a very unreasonable price. at length, my servant, who by agreement made my soup in their kitchen, said something rude to my landlord, who complained to me, and seemed satisfied with the reprimand i had given the man; but upon a repetition of his rudeness, _mons. saigny_ so far forgot himself as to speak equally rude to me: this occasioned some warm words, and so much ungovernable passion in him, that i was obliged to tell him i must fetch down my pistols; this he construed into a direct challenge, and therefore retired to his apartments, wrote a card, and sent it to me while i was walking before the door with a priest, his friend and visitor, and in sight of the _little female captain his second_, and all the servants of the house; on this card was wrote, "_sir, i accept your proposition_;" and before i could even read it, he followed his man, who brought it in the true stile of a butler, rather than a butcher, with a white napkin under his arm. you may be sure, i was no more disposed to fight than _mons. saigny_; indeed, i told him i would not; but if any man attacked me on my way to or from the town, where i went every day, i would certainly defend myself: and fortunately i never met _mons. saigny_ in the fortnight i staid after in his house; for i could not bear to leave a town where i had two or three very agreeable acquaintance, and one (_mons. seguier_) whose house was filled as full of natural and artificial curiosities, as his head is with learning and knowledge. here too i had an opportunity of often visiting the amphitheatre, _the maison carree_, (so mons. seguier writes it) and the many remains of roman monuments so common in and about _nismes_. i measured some of the stones under which i passed to make the _tout au tour_ of the amphitheatre, they were seventeen feet in length, and two in thickness; and most of the stones on which the spectators sat within the area, were twelve feet long, two feet ten inches wide, and one foot five inches deep; except only those of the sixth row of seats from the top, and they alone are one foot ten inches deep; probably it was on that range the people of the highest rank took their seats, not only for the elevation, but the best situation for sight and security; yet one of these great stones cannot be considered more, in comparison to the whole building, than a single brick would be in the construction of hampton-court palace. when i had the sole possession (and i had it often) of this vast range of seats, where emperors, empresses, roman knights, and matrons, have been so often seated, to see men die wantonly by the hands of other men, as well as beasts for their amusement, i could not but with pleasure reflect, how much human nature is softened since that time; for notwithstanding the powerful prevalency of custom and fashion, i do not think the ladies of the present age would _plume_ their towering heads, and curl their _borrowed_ hair, with that glee, to see men murdered by missive weapons, as to die at their feet by deeper, tho' less visible wounds. if, however, we have not those cruel sports, we seem to be up with them in prodigality, and to exceed them in luxury and licentiousness; for in rome, not long before the final dissolution of the state, the candidates for public employments, in spite of the penal laws to restrain it, _bribed openly_, and were chosen sometimes _by arms_ as well as money. in the senate, things were conducted no better; decrees of great consequence were made when very few senators were present; the laws were violated by private knaves, under the colour of public necessity; till at length, _cæsar_ seized the sovereign power, and tho' he was slain, they omitted to recover their liberty, forgetting that "a day, an hour, of virtuous liberty is worth a whole eternity of bondage." _addison's_ cato. i can almost think i read in the parallel, which i fear will soon be drawn between the rise and fall of the british and roman empire, something like this;--"rome had her cicero; britain her camden: cicero, who had preserved rome from the conspiracy of _catiline_, was banished: camden, who would have preserved britain from a bloody civil war, removed." the historian will add, probably, that "those who brought desolation upon their land, did not mean that there should be no commonwealth, but that right or wrong, they should continue to controul it: they did not mean to burn the capitol to ashes, but to bear absolute sway in the capitol:--the result was, however, that though they did not mean to overthrow the state, yet they risqued all, rather than be overthrown themselves; and they rather promoted the massacre of their fellow-citizens, than a reconciliation and union of parties,"--thus fell rome--take heed, britain! letter xxxv. arles. i left _nismes_ reluctantly, having formed there an agreeable and friendly intimacy with mr. _d'oliere_, a young gentleman of switzerland; and an edifying, and entertaining acquaintance, with mons. _seguier_. i left too, the best and most sumptuous lodgings i had seen in my whole tour; but a desire to see _arles_, _aix_, and _marseilles_, &c. got the better of all. but i set out too soon after the snow and rains, and i found part of the road so bad, that i wonder how my horse dragged us through so much clay and dirt. when i gave you some account of the antiquities of _nismes_, i did not expect to find _arles_ a town fraught with ten times more matter and amusement for an antiquarian; but i found it not only a fine town now, but that it abounds with an infinite number of monuments which evince its having once been an almost second rome. there still remains enough of the amphitheatre to convince the beholder what a noble edifice it was, and to wonder why so little, of so large and solid a building, remains. the town is built on the banks of the rhone, over which, on a bridge of barges, we entered it; but it is evident, that in former days, the sea came quite up to it, and that it was a haven for ships of burden; but the sea has retired some leagues from it, many ages since; beside an hundred strong marks at _this_ day of its having been a sea-port formerly, the following inscription found a century or two ago, in the church of _st. gabriel_, will clearly confirm it: m. frontoni evpor iiiiiivir avg. col. jvlia. avg. aqvis sextiis navicvlar. mar. arel. cvrat ejvsd. corp. patrona navtar drventicorvm. et vtricvlariorvm. corp. ernaginensium. julia nice vxor. conjvgi karissimo. indeed there are many substantial reasons to believe, that it was at this town _julius cæsar_ built the twelve gallies, which, from the cutting of the wood to the time they were employed on service, was but thirty days.--that it was a very considerable city in the time of the first emperors, is past all doubt. _constantine_ the great held his court, and resided at _arles_, with all his family; and the empress _faustina_ was delivered of a son here (_constantine_ the younger) and it was long before so celebrated for an annual fair held in the month of august, that it was called _le noble marche de gaules_. and _strabo_, in his dedication of his book to the emperor, called it "_galliarum emporium non parvum_;" which is a proof that it was celebrated for its rich commerce, &c. five hundred years before it became under the dominion of the romans. but were i capable of giving you a particular description of all the monuments of antiquity in and near this town, it would compose a little book, instead of a sheet or two of paper. i shall therefore only pick out a few things which have afforded me the most entertainment, and i hope may give you a little; but i shall begin with mentioning what must first give you concern, in saying that in that part of the town called _la roquette_, i was shewn the place where formerly stood an elevated altar whereon, three young citizens were sacrificed annually, and who were fattened at the public expence during a whole year, for the horrid purpose! on the first of may their throats were cut in the presence of a prodigious multitude of people assembled from all parts; among whom the blood of the victims was thrown, as they imagined all their sins were expiated by that barbarous sacrifice; which horrid practice was put a stop to by the first bishop of _arles_, st. trophime. the jews, who had formerly a synagogue in _arles_, were driven out in the year , when that and their celebrated school were demolished. there were found about an hundred after, among the stones of those buildings some hebrew characters neatly cut, which were copied and sent to the rabbins of avignon, to be translated, and who explained them then thus: chodesh: elvl. chamescheth, lamech, nav. nislamv. bedikoth. schradai. i.e. they say, "in the month of august five thousand and thirty--the visitation of god ceased." perhaps the plague had visited them.--there was also another hebrew inscription, which was on the tomb of a famous rabbin called solomon, surnamed the grandson of david. the amphitheatre of _arles_ was of an oval form, composed of three stages; each stage containing sixty arches; the whole was built of hewn stone of an immense size, without mortar, and of a prodigious thickness: the circumference above, exclusive of the projection of the architecture, was toises three feet, the frontispiece toises high and the area toises long and wide; the walls were toises thick, which were pierced round and round with a gallery, for a convenience of passing in and out of the seats, which would conveniently contain , men, allowing each person three feet in depth and two in width; and yet, there remain at this day only a few arches quite complete from top to bottom, which are of themselves a noble monument. indeed one would be inclined to think that it never had been compleated, did we not know that the romans left nothing unfinished of that kind; and read, that the emperor _gallus_ gave some superb spectacles in the amphiteatre of _arles_, and that the same amusements were continued by following emperors. nothing can be a stronger proof than these ruins, of the certain destruction and corruption of all earthly things; for one would think that the small parts which now remain of this once mighty building would, endure as long as the earth itself; but what is very singular is, that this very amphitheatre was built upon the ruins of a more mighty building, and perhaps one of a more substantial structure. _tempus edax rerum, tuque invidiosa vetustas omnia destruis_. in the street called _st. claude_, stood a triumphal arch which was called _l'arche admirable_; it is therefore natural to conclude, that the town contained many others of less beauty. there are also within the walls large remains of the palace of _constantine_. a beautiful antique statue of _venus_ was found here also, about an hundred and twenty years ago.--that a _veritable_ fine woman should set all the beaux and _connoisseurs_ of a whole town in a flame, i do not much wonder; but you will be surprized when i tell you that this cold trunk of marble, (for the arms were never found) put the whole town of _arles_ together by the ears; one _sçavant_ said it was the goddess _diana_, and wrote a book to prove it; another insisted upon it, that it was the true image of _venus_; then starts up an ecclesiastic, who _you know has nothing to do with women_, and he pronounced in dogmatical terms, it was neither one nor the other; at length the wiser magistrates of the town agreed to send it as a present to their august monarch lewis the xivth; and if you have a mind to see an inanimate woman who has made such a noise in the world, you will find her at _versailles_, without any other notice taken of her or the quarrels about her, than the following words written (i think) upon her pedestal, _la venus d'arles_. this ended the dispute, as i must my letter. letter xxxvi. i have not half done with _arles_. the more i saw and heard in this town, the more i found was to be seen. the remains of the roman theatre here would of itself be a sufficient proof that it was a town of great riches and importance. among the refuse of this building they found several large vases of baked earth, which were open on one side, and which were fixed properly near the seats of the audience to receive and convey the sounds of the instruments and voices of the actors distinctly throughout the theatre, which had forty-eight arches, eleven behind the scenes of ten feet wide, three grand arches of fourteen feet wide, and thirty-one of twelve feet; the diameter was thirty-one canes, and the circumference seventy-nine; and from the infinite number of beautiful pieces of sculpture, frizes, architraves, pillars of granite, &c. which have been dug up, it is very evident that this theatre was a most magnificent building, and perhaps would have stood firm to this day, had not a bishop of _arles_, from a principle of more piety than wisdom, stript it of the finest ornaments and marble pillars, to adorn the churches. near the theatre stood also the famous temple of _diana_; and, as the famous statue mentioned in my former letter was found beneath some noble marble pillars near that spot, it is most likely _la venus d'arles_ is nevertheless the goddess _diana_. i never wish more for your company than when i walk, (and i walk every day) in the elysian fields. the spot is beautiful, the prospect far and near equally so: in the middle of this ancient _cimetiere_ stands a motly building, from the middle of which however rises a cupola, which at the first view informs you it is the work of a roman artist; and here you must, as it were, thread the needle between an infinite number of pagan and christian monuments, lying thick upon the surface in the utmost disorder and confusion, insomuch, that one would think the day of judgment was arrived and the dead were risen. neither _stepney_ church-yard, nor any one in or near a great city, shew so many headstones as this spot does stone coffins of an immense size, hewn out of one piece; the covers of most of which have been broken or removed sufficiently to search for such things as were usually buried with the dead. some of these monuments, and some of the handsomest too, are still however unviolated. it is very easy to distinguish the pagan from the christian monnments, without opening them, as all the former have the roman letters dm (_diis manibus_) cut upon them. it is situated, according to their custom, near the high-way, the water, and the marshes. you know the ancients preferred such spots for the interment of the dead. the tombs of _ajax_ and _hector_, homer says, were near the sea, as well as other heroes of antiquity; for as they considered man to be composed of earth and water, his bones ought to be laid in one, and near the other. i will now give you a few of the most curious inscriptions; but first i will mention a noble marble monument, moved from this spot into the _cimetiere_ of the great hospital. this tomb is ornamented with cornucopiæ, _pateræ_, &c. and in a shield the following inscription: cabiliae d.f. apprvllae flam d designatae col. dea. aug. voc. m o. annos xiiii, mens ii. dies v. maritvs vxori pientissimae. posuit. this poor girl was not only too young to die, but too young to marry, one would think; i wish therefore her afflicted husband had told us how many years he had been married to a wife who died at the age of fourteen, two months, and five days. the cornucopiæ, i suppose, were to signify that this virtuous wife, i was going to say maid, was the source of all his pleasure and happiness. the _pateræ_ were vases destined to receive the blood of the victims. supponunt alij cultros, tepidumque cruorem suscipiunt pateris,--_says the poet_. on each side of the tomb are the symbols of sacrifice. it is very evident from the fine polish of this monument, that her husband had obtained the emperor's particular leave to finish it highly. rogum _ascia ne polito_ says the law of the twelve tables. on another tomb, which is of common stone, in the middle of a shield supported by two cupids, is the following inscription: m ivnio messiano ----vtrici. corp. arelat. d eivs d. corp. mag. iii. f m qui vixit ann. xxviii. m. v. d. x. ivnia valeria. alvmno clarissimo. the first word of the second line is much obliterated. there are an infinite number of other monuments with inscriptions; but those above, and this below, will be sufficient for me to convey to you, and you to my friend at _winchester_. l domit. domitiani ex trierarchi class. germ. d peccoceia valentina m coniugi pientissima. before i leave _arles_, and i leave it reluctantly, whatever you may do, i must not omit to mention the principal monument, and pride of it, at this day, i.e. their obelisque. i will not tell you where nor when it was dug up; it is sufficient to say, it was found here, that it is a single piece of granite, sixty-one feet high, and seven feet square below; yet it was elevated in the market-place, upon a modern pedestal, which bears four fulsome complimentary inscriptions to _lewis_ the xiv. neither of which will i copy. in elevating this monstrous single stone, the inhabitants were very adroit: they set it upright in a quarter of an hour, in the year , just an hundred years ago, amidst an infinite number of joyful spectators, who are now all laid in their lowly graves; for though it weighed more than two thousand hundred weight, yet by the help of capsterns, it was raised without any difficulty. the great king _harry_ the ivth had ordered the houses in the arena of the amphitheatre to be thrown down, and this obelisk to be fixed in the center of it; but his death, and _lewis_'s vanity, fixed it where it now stands; it has no beauty however to boast of but its age and size, for it bears neither polish, characters, nor hieroglyphicks, but, as it seems to have been an egyptian monument, the inhabitants of _arles_ have, like those people, consecrated it below to their king, and above to the sun: on the top is fixed a globe of azure, sprinkled with _fleurs de lis d'or_, and crowned with a radiant sun, that is to say, as the sun was made by god to enlighten the world, so lewis le grand was made to govern it. i am sure now, you will excuse my mentioning what is said of this great man _below_; but speaking of light, i must not omit to mention, that there are men of veracity now living in this town, who affirm, that they have seen, upon opening some of the ancient monuments here, the eternal lamps burning. the number of testimonies we have of this kind puts the matter past a doubt, that a flame has appeared at the lip of these lamps when first the tombs have been opened; one was found, you know, on the _appian_ way, in the tomb of _cicero_'s daughter, which had burnt more than seventeen centuries; another at _padua_, which had burnt eight hundred years, and which was found hanging between two little phials, one of gold, the other of silver, which were both quite full of liquor, extremely clear, as well as many others; but as it is impossible to believe that flame can exist, and not consume that which feeds it, is it not more natural to conclude that those lamps, phials, &c. contained a species of phosphorus, which became luminous upon the first opening of the tombs and the sudden rushing in of fresh air; and that the reverse of what is generally supposed is the fact, that they are not extinguished, but illuminated by the fresh air they receive? i have seen several of these lamps here and elsewhere, most of which are of baked earth. it has been said, that there is an oil to be extracted from gold, which will not consume, and that a wick of _asbestos_ has burnt many years in this oil, without consumption to either. i have seen a book written by a german jesuit, to confirm this fact; so there is authority for you, if not conviction. as i know your keen appetite after antiquities, i will send you a few other inscriptions, and leave you to make your own comments; and _voila_. d m l. hostil. ter. silvani. ann. xxiiii. m. ii. d. xv mater fil pijssimi misera et in lvciv. aeternali benifici. o novercae. the following inscription is cut upon a marble column, which stands near the jesuits' church: salvis d.d.n.n. theodosio, et valentiniano. p.f.v. ac trivm. semper aug. xv. cons. vir. inl. auxiliaris prÆ. prÆt, gallia. de arelate ma, milliaria poni. s. m.p.s. in the ancient church of _st. honore_, which stands in the center of all these heathen and christian monuments, are to be seen nine bacchanalians of very ancient workmanship; where also is the tomb of _st. honore_, employed as the altar of the church; and beneath the church are catacombs, where the first christians retired to prayer during the persecution by the emperors, and where is still to be seen their altar and seven ancient sepulchres, of beautiful marble, and exquisitely worked; the first is the tomb of _st. genet_; the second of _st. roland_, archbishop of _arles_; the third of _st. concord_, with an epitaph, and two doves with olive branches in their beaks, cut in bass relief, and underneath are the two letters x and p; on this tomb is the miraculous cross seen in the heavens by _constantine_, who is represented before it on his knees; and on the cover of this tomb are the heads of _constantine_, _faustina_, and his son; and they say the emperor saw this miracle in the heaven from the very _cimetiere_ in which this monument stands, i.e. in the year ; the fifth is the tomb of _st. dorothy_, virgin and martyr of _arles_; the sixth _st. virgil_, and the seventh _st. hiliare_, (both archbishops of _arles_,) who has borrowed a pagan sepulchre, for it is adorned with the principal divinities of the ancients in bass relief.--it seems odd to see on a christian bishop's tomb _venus_, and the three destinies. the people here say, that this tomb represents human life, as the ancients believed that each god contributed something towards the being. be that as it may, the tomb is a very curious one, and much admired by the _connoisseurs_, for its excellent workmanship; but what is more extraordinary than all these, is, that this catacomb, standing in the middle of the others, with its cover well and closely fixed, has always water in it, and often is quite full, and nobody can tell (_but one of the priests perhaps_) from what source it comes. there is also in this church the tomb and a long latin epitaph of _st. trophime_, their first bishop; but the characters are very gothic, and the cs are square, [image: e e with no mid bar]; he came here in the year , and preached down that abominable practice of sacrificing three young men annually. he died in the year , at years of age. on the front of the metropolitan church of _arles_, called _st. trophime_, are the two following lines, in gothic characters, cut above a thousand years: cernitur eximius vir christi discipulorum, de numero trophimus, hic septuaginta duorum. this church was built in the year , by _st. virgil_, and is a curious piece of antiquity within, and particularly without; but i will not omit to give you one of its singularities within; it is an ancient and curious inscription in large gothic letters, near the organ: terrarum roma gemina de luce majistra. ros missus semper aderit: velut incola iosep olim contrito letheo contulit orcho. to read this you will see you must take the first letter of each verse: tro, _trophemus_; gal, _galliæorum_; and apo, _apostolus_. the letter h, belonging to the word _joseph_, must be carried to the word _orcho_, and the p must stand by itself. _trophimus galliarum apostolus, ut ros missus est, ex urbe romæ rerum dominæ gemina de luce, scilicet a petro et paulo, ecclesiæ luminaribus; contrito orcho letheo, nempe statim post christi passionem qua dæmonis & orchi caput contrivit, semper animos nostras nutriet, cibo illo, divinæ fidei quem nobis contulit: ut alter joseph qui olim Ægypti populum same pereuntem liberavit._ letter xxxvii. marseilles. soon after we left the town of _arles_, on our way to _aix_, and this city, we entered upon a most extraordinary and extensive plain; it is called the _crau_, and is a principal and singular domain, belonging to and situated on the south side of that city; it is ten leagues in diameter; on which vast extent, scarce a tree, shrub, or verdure is visible; the whole spot being covered with flint stones of various sizes, and of singular shapes. _petrarch_ says, as _strabo_, and others have said before him, that those flint stones fell from heaven like hail, when _hercules_ was fighting there against the giants, who, finding he was likely to be overcome, invoked his father _jupiter_, who rained this hard shower of flint stones upon his enemies, which is confirmed by _Æschylus_. "jupiter alcidem quando respexit inormem, illachrymans, ligures saxoso perpluit imbre." but as this account may not be quite satisfactory to you, who i know love truth more than fable, i am inclined to think you will consider _possidonius_'s manner of accounting for it more feasible: he says, that it was once a great lake, and having a bed of gravel at the bottom, those pebble stones, by a succession of ages, have grown to the size they now appear; but whether stones grow which lie upon the surface of the earth and out of their proper strata, i must leave you and other naturalists to determine, without repeating to you what _aristotle_, and others, have said upon that subject; and therefore, instead of telling you either what they say, or i think, i will tell you what i know, which is, that barren as the _crau_ appears to be, it not only feeds, but fattens an infinite number of sheep and cattle, and produces such excellent wine too in some parts of it, that it is called _vin de crau_, by way of pre-eminence: it has a poignant quality, is very bright, and is much esteemed for its delicious flavour. the herb which fattens the sheep and feeds such quantities of cattle is a little plant which grows between and under the flint stones, which the sheep and other animals turn up with their feet, to come at the bite; beside which, there grows a plant on this _crau_ that bears a vermilion flower, from which the finest scarlet dye is extracted; it is a little red grain, about the size of pea, and is gathered in the month of may; it has been sold for a crown a pound formerly; and a single crop has produced eleven thousand weight. this berry is the harvest of the poor, who are permitted to gather it on a certain day, but not till the lord of the manor gives notice by the sound of a horn, according to an ancient custom and privilege granted originally by king rene.--on my way over it, i _gathered_ only a great number of large larks by the help of my gun, though i did not forget my _montserrat_ vow: it was a fine day, and therefore i did not find it so tedious as it must be in winter or bad weather; for if any thing can be worse than sea, in bad weather, it must be this vast plain, which is neither land or sea, though not very distant from the latter, and in all probability was many ages since covered by the ocean. the first town we came to after passing this vast plain, i have forgot the name of; but it had nothing but its antiquity and a noble and immense old castle to recommend it, except a transparent agate statue of the virgin in the church, as large as the life, with a _tin crown_ upon her head. neither the town nor the inhabitants had any thing of the appearance of french about them; every thing and every body looked so wild, and the place was in such a ruinous condition, that i could scarce believe i was not among the arabs in _egypt_, or the ruins of _persepolis_. without the town, in a fine beautiful lawn stands a most irregular high and rude rock, perpendicular on all sides, and under one side of it are ruins of a house, which i suppose was inhabited by the first _seigneur_ in the province. i looked in, and found the ruins full of miserable inhabitants, i fancy many families; but it exhibited such a scene of woe, that i was glad to get out again; and upon inquiry, i found it had been in that state ever since it had been used as an hospital during the last plague. letter xxxviii. marseilles. as the good and evil, which fall within the line of a road, as well as a worldly traveller, are by comparison, i need not say what a heavenly country _france_ (with all its untoward circumstances) appeared to us _after_ having journeyed in _spain_: what would have put me out of temper before, became now a consolation. _how glad i should i have been, and how perfectly content, had it been thus in spain_, was always uppermost, when things ran a little cross in france. travellers and strangers in france, in a long journey perhaps, have no connection with any people, but such who have a design upon their purse. at every _auberge_ some officious coxcomb lies in wait to ensnare them, and under one pretence or other, introduces himself; he will offer to shew you the town; if you accept it, you are saddled with an impertinent visiter the whole time you stay; if you refuse it, he is affronted; so let him; for no gentleman ever does that without an easy or natural introduction; and then, if they are men of a certain age, their acquaintance is agreeable and useful. an under-bred frenchman is the most offensive civil thing in the world: a well-bred frenchman, quite the reverse.--having dined at the table of a person of fashion at _aix_, a pert priest, one the company, asked me many questions relative to the customs and manners of the english nation; and among other things, i explained to him the elegance in which the tables of people of the first fashion were served; and told him, that when any one changed his dish, that his plate, knife and fork, were changed also, and that they were as perfectly bright and clean as the day they came from the silver-smith's shop. after a little pause, and a significant sneer,--pray sir, (said he) and do you not change your napkins also? i was piqued a little, and told him we did not, but that indeed i had made a little mistake, which i would rectify, which was, that though i had told him the plate, knife, and fork, were so frequently changed at genteel tables in england, there was one exception to it; for it sometimes happened that low under-bred priests (especially on a sunday) were necessarily admitted to the tables of people of fashion, and that the butler sometimes left them to wipe their knife upon their bread, as i had often seen _lewis_ the fifteenth do, even after eating fish with it.--as it was on a sunday i had met with this fop of divinity, at a genteel table, i thought i had been even with him, and i believe he thought so too, for he asked me no more questions; yet he assured me at his going out, "_he had the honour to be my most obedient humble servant_." this over-strained civility, so unlike good-breeding, puts me in mind of what was said of poor sir wm. st. q----n, after his death, by an arch wag at _bath_: sir william, you know, was a polite old gentleman, but had the manners and breeding rather of the late, than the present age, and though a man deservedly esteemed for his many virtues, was by some thought too ceremonious. somebody at the round table at _morgan_'s coffee-house happened to say, alas! poor sir william! he is gone; but he was a good man, and is surely gone to heaven, and i can tell you what he said when he first entered the holy gates! the interrogation followed of course: why, said he, seeing a large concourse of departed souls, and not a soul that he knew, he bowed to the right and left, said he begged pardon,--he feared he was troublesome, and if so, he would instantly retire.--so the frenchman, when he says he would cut himself in four pieces to serve you, only means to be very civil, and he will be so, if it does not put him to any expence. _aix_ is a well built city; the principal street called the _course_, is very long, very broad, and shaded by stately trees; in the middle of it are four or five fountains, constantly running, one of which is of very hot water, at which man and beast are constantly drinking. the city abounds with a great deal of good company, drawn to it from all parts of europe by the efficacy of the waters, and to examine its antiquities, for it has in and about it many greek as well as roman monuments. some part of the country between _aix_ and this populous city is very beautiful, but near the town scarce any vegetation is seen; on all sides high hills and broken rocks present themselves; and one wonders how a city so large and so astonishingly populous is supported. when i first approached the entrance gate, it opened a perspective view of the _course_, a street of great extent, where the heads of the people were so thick together, that i concluded it was a fair day, and that the whole country was collected together; but i found it was every day the same. i saw a prodigious quantity of game and provisions of all kinds, not only in the shops, but in the streets, and concluded it was not only a cheap, but a plentiful country; but i soon found my mistake, it was the evening before lent commenced, and i could find no provisions of any kind very easily afterwards, and every thing very dear. you may imagine the price of provisions at _marseilles_ when i tell you that they have their poultry from _lyons_; it is however a noble city, crouded with men of all nations, walking in the streets in the proper habits of their country. the harbour is the most secure sea-port in europe, being land-locked on all sides, except at a verry narrow entrance; and as there is very little rise or fall of water, the vessels are always afloat. many of the galley slaves have little shops near the spot where the galleys are moored, and appear happy and decently dressed; some of them are rich, and make annual remittances to their friends. in the _hotel de ville_ are two fine large pictures, which were taken lately from the jesuits' college; one represents the dreadful scenes which were seen in the _grand course_ during the great plague at _marseilles_; the other, the same sad scene on the quay, before the doors of the house in which it now hangs. a person cannot look upon these pictures one minute before he becomes enthralled in the woes which every way present themselves. you see the good bishop confessing the sick, the carts carrying out the dead, children sucking at the breasts of their dead mothers, wives and husbands bewailing, dead bodies lowering out of the higher windows by cords, the slaves plundering, the priests exhorting, and such a variety of interesting and afflicting scenes so forcibly struck out by the painter, that you seem to hear the groans, weepings, and bewailings, from the dying, the sick and the sound; and the eye and mind have no other repose on these pictures but by fixing it on a dead body. the painter, who was upon the spot, has introduced his own figure, but armed like a serjeant with a halberd. the pictures are indeed dreadfully fine; one is much larger than the other; and it is said the town magistrates cut it to fit the place it is in; but it is impossible to believe any body of men could be guilty of such an act of _barbarism_! there is still standing in this town, the house of a roman senator, now inhabited by a shoe-maker. in the cathedral they have a marble-stone, on which there is engraved, in arabic characters, a monumental inscription to the following effect: "god is alone permanent. this is the sepulchre of his servant and martyr, who having placed his confidence in the most high, he trusts that his sins will be forgiven." joseph, son of abdallah, of the town of _metelin_, died in the moon _zilhage_. i bought here an egyptian household _god_, or _lar_ of solid metal, which was lately dug up near the city walls; it is about nine inches high, and weighs about five pounds. several of the hieroglyphic characters are visible on the breast and back, and its form is that of an embalmed mummy. by a wholesome law of this city, the richest citizen must be buried like the poorest, in a coffin of nine livres value, and that coffin must be bought at the general hospital. the sale of these coffins for the dead, goes a great way towards the support of the poor and the sick. at this town i experienced the very reverse in every respect of what i met with at _barcelona_, though i had no better recommendation to mr. birbeck, his britannick majesty's agent here, than i had to the consul of _barcelona_; he took my word, at first sight, nay, he took my notes and gave me money for them, and shewed me and my family many marks of friendly attention: such a man, at such a distance from ones own country, is a cordial to a troubled breast, and an acquisition to every englishman who goes there either for health or curiosity. mr. _birbeck_ took me with him to a noble concert, to which he is an annual subscriber, and which was performed in a room in every respect suitable to so large a band, and so brilliant an assembly: he and his good wife were the only two british faces i had seen for many months, who looked like britons. i shall, indeed i must, soon leave this town, and shall take _avignon_ on my way to _lyons_, from whence you shall soon hear from me again. i had forgot to mention, when i was speaking of _montpellier_, that the first gentry are strongly impressed with the notion of the superiority of the english, in every part of philosophy, more especially in the science of physic; and i found at _montpellier_, that these sentiments so favourable to our countrymen, had been much increased by the extraordinary knowledge and abilities of dr. milman, an english physician, who resided there during the winter . this gentleman, who is one of doctor radcliffe's travelling physicians, had performed several very astonishing cures, in cases which the french physicians had long treated without success: and indeed the french physicians, however checked by interest or envy, were obliged to acknowledge this gentleman's uncommon sagacity in the treatment of diseases. what i say of this ingenious traveller, is for your sake more than his; for i know nothing more of him than the fame he has left behind him at _montpellier_, and which i doubt not will soon be verified by his deeds among his own countrymen. letter xxxix. avignon. there is no dependence on what travellers say of different towns and places they have visited, and therefore you must not lay too much stress upon what i say. a lady of fashion, who had travelled all over france, gave the preference to the town i wrote last to you from (_marseilles_); to me, the climate excepted, it is of all others the most disagreeable; yet that lady did not mean to deceive; but people often prefer the town for the sake of the company they find, or some particular or local circumstance that attended their residence in it; in that respect, i too left it reluctantly, having met with much civility and some old friends there; but surely, exclusive of its fine harbour, and favourable situation for trade, it has little else to recommend it, but riot, mob, and confusion; provisions are very dear, and not very good. on our road here we came again through _aix_. the _mule blanche_ without the town, is better than any auberge within, and mons. _l'abbe abrard prætor, de la ordre de st. malta_, is not only a very agreeable, but a very convenient acquaintance for a stranger, and who is always ready to shew the english in particular, attention, and who had much attention shewn him by lord a. percy and his lady. from _aix_ we passed through _lambresque_, _orgon_, and _sencage_, a fine country, full of almond trees, and which were in full blossom on the th of march. at _orgon_ the post-house was so bad, that after my horse was in the stable, i was obliged to put him to, and remove to the _soleil d'or_, without the town, and made a good move too. the situation of _notre dame de st. piere_, a convent on a high hill, is worthy of notice, and the antiquity of the town also.--five leagues from _orgon_ we crossed a very aukward passage in a ferry-boat, and were landed in the pope's territories, about five miles from _avignon_. the castle, and higher part of the town, were visible, rising up in the middle of a vast plain, fertile and beautiful as possible. if we were charmed with the distant view, we were much more so upon a nearer approach; nothing can be more pleasing than the well-planted, and consequently well-shaded coach and foot roads all round this pretty little city; all shut in with the most beautiful ancient fortification walls i ever beheld, and all in perfect repair; nor were we asked any questions by the pope's soldiers, or custom-house officers. i had a letter to dr. power, an english physician in this town, who received me with great civity, and made me known to lord mountgarret, and mr. butler, his son, with whom i had the honour to spend some very agreeable hours: his lordship has an excellent house here, and keeps a table, truly characteristic of the hospitality of his own country.--and now i cannot help telling you of a singular disorder which attacked me the very day i arrived; and the still more singular manner i got well: the day before i arrived, we had been almost blown along the road to _orgon_ by a most violent wind; but i did not perceive that i had received any cold or injury from it, till we arrived here, and then, i had such an external soreness from head to foot, that i almost dreaded to walk or stir, and when i did, it was as slow as my feet could move; after continuing so for some days, i was much urged to dine with lord mountgarret, on st. patrick's day; i did so, and by drinking a little more than ordinary, set nature to work, who, without any other doctor, did the business, by two or three nights' copious sweats. i would not have mentioned this circumstance, but it may be the _mal du pais_, and ought to be mentioned for the _method of cure_. there was not quite so good an understanding between the pope's _legate_ and the english residing here, as could be wished; some untoward circumstance had happened, and there seemed to be faults on both sides; it was carried, i think, to such a length, that when the english met him, they did not pull off their hats; but as it happened before i came, and as in our walks and rides we often met him airing in his coach, we paid that respect which is everywhere due to a first magistrate, and he took great pains to return it most graciously; his livery, guards, &c. make a very splendid appearance: he holds a court, and is levee'd every sunday, though not liked by the french. at the church of st. _didier_, in a little chapel, of mean workmanship, is the tomb of the celebrated _laura_, whose name _petrarch_ has rendered immortal; the general opinion is, that she died a virgin; but it appears by her tomb, that she was the wife of _hugues de sade_, and that she had many children. about two hundred years after her death, some curious people got permission to open her tomb, in which they found a little box, containing some verses written by _petrarch_, and a medallion of lead, on one side of which was a lady's head and on the reverse, the four following letters, m.l.m.e. _francis_ the first, passing thro' _avignon_, visited this tomb, and left upon it the following epitaph, of his own composition: "en petit lien compris vous pouvez voir ce qui comprend beaucoup par renommèe plume, labour le langue & le devoir furent vaincus par l'aimant de l'aimée o gentille ame, etant tant estimée qui le pourra louer quen se laissant? car la parole est toujours reprimée quand le sujet surmonte le disant." this town is crowded with convents and churches. the convent of the _celestines_, founded by _charles_ the vith, is richly endowed, and has noble gardens: there are not above fourteen or fifteen members, and their revenue is near two thousand pounds sterling a year. in their church is a very superb monument of pope _clement_ the viith, who died here in the year , as a long latin inscription upon it announces. they shew in this house a picture, painted by king _renee_; it represents the frightful remains of his beloved mistress, whose body he took out of the grave, and painted it in the state he then found it, i.e. with the worms crawling about it: it is a hideous figure, and hideously painted; the stone coffin stands on a line with the figure, but is above a foot too short for the body; and on the other side is a long scrole of verses, written in gothic characters, which begin thus: "_une fois fus sur toutes femmes belle mais par la mort suis devenue telle machair estoit tres-belle fraische & tendre o'r est elle toute tournee en cendre._" there follow at least forty other such lines. there is also in this convent, a fine monument, on which stands the effigies of _st. benezet_, a shepherd of _avignon_, who built (they say) the bridge from the town over the rhone, in consequence of a dream, in the year : some of the noble arches are still standing, and part of a very pretty chapel on it, nearly in the middle of the river; but a great part of the bridge has been carried away, many years since, by the violence of the river, which often not only overflows its banks, but the lower part of the town. in , it rose seventeen feet higher than its usual flowing, and i saw marks in many of the streets, high above my head, against the sides of houses, which it had risen to; but with all my industry, i could find no _mark upon the house where lady mary wortley montagu dwelt_, though she resided some time here, and though i endeavoured to find it. i need not describe the celebrated fountain of _vaucluse_, near this town, where _petrarque_ composed his works, and established mount parnassus. this is the only part of france in which there is an inquisition, but the officers seem content with their profits and honours, without the power. one part of the town is allotted to the jews, where about six or seven hundred live peaceably and have their synagogue; and it was here the famous rabbin _joseph meir_ was born; he died in the year ; he was author, you know, of _annals des rois de france_, and _de la maison ottomane_. not far from _avignon_, on the banks of the same rapid river, stands _beaucaire_, famous for its annual fair, where merchandize is brought from all parts of europe, free of all duties: it begins on the d of july; and it is computed that eight million of livres are annually expended there in eight days. _avignon_ is remarkable for the no. seven, having seven ports, seven parishes, seven colleges, seven hospitals, and seven monasteries; and i may add, i think, seven hundred bells, which are always making a horrid jingle, for they have no idea of ringing bells harmoniously in any part of france. letter xl. lyons. after a month's residence at _avignon_, where i waited till the weather and roads amongst the high _dauphine_ mountains were both improved, i sat out for this city. i had, you know, outward bound, dropt down to _port st. esprit_ by water, so it was a new scene to us by land, and i assure you it was a fine one; the vast and extensive rich vales, adorned on all sides with such romantic mountains, could not be otherwise, in such a climate. our first stage was only four leagues to _orange_; this is the last town in the pope's territories; and within a quarter of a mile of it stands, in a corn field, a beautiful roman triumphal arch, so great in _ruins_, that it would be an ornament even in rome. the _palais royal_ at this town, has nothing to recommend it, but that it affords a prospect of this rich morsel of antiquity. from _orange_ we passed through _pierlaite, donzeir_, and several smaller towns, and we lay one night at a single house, but an excellent auberge, called _souce_, kept by an understanding sensible host. at a little village called _a'tang_, on the banks of the rhone, we stopped a day or two, to enjoy the sweet situation. just opposite to it, on the other side of the river, stands a large town, (_tournau_,) which added to the beauty of our village, over which hangs a very high mountain, from whence the best hermitage wine is collected: i suppose it is called _hermitage_, from a hermit's cell on the top of it; but so unlike the _montserrat_ hermitages, that i contented myself with only tasting the hermit's wine; it was so good indeed, that though i did not see how it was possible to get it safe to the north side of france, i could not withstand the temptation of buying a cask, for which i was to pay twelve guineas, and did pay one as earnest, to a very sensible, and i believe honest and opulent wine merchant, who, however, made me a present of two bottles when i came away, almost worth my guinea; it is three livres a bottle on the spot; and he shewed me orders he had received from men of fashion in england, for wine; among which was one from mr. _ryder_, sir _dudley ryder_'s son i fancy, who, i found, was well satisfied with his former dealings. do you know that claret is greatly improved by a mixture of hermitage, and that the best claret we have in england is generally so _adulterated_? the next towns we passed were _pevige_ and _vienne_, the latter only five leagues from this city. it is a very ancient town, and was formerly a roman colony. the cathedral is a large and noble gothic structure, and in it is a fine tomb of cardinal _mountmoin_, said to be equal in workmanship to _richlieu_'s in the _sorbonne_, but said to be so, by people no ways qualified to judge properly; it is indeed an expensive but a miserable performance, when put in competition with the works of _girrardeau_. about half a mile without the town is a noble pyramidal roman monument, said to have stood in the center of the market-place, in the time of the romans. there is also to be seen in this town, a mosaic pavement discovered only a few years since, wonderfully beautiful indeed, and near ten feet square, though not quite perfect, being broken in the night by some malicious people, out of mere wantonness, soon after it was discovered. at this town i was recommended to the _table round_; but as there are two, the _grande_ and the _petit_, i must recommend you to the _petit_ where i was obliged to move; for, of all the dreadful women i ever came near, madam _rousillion_ has the _least mellifluous_ notes; her ill behaviour, however, procured me the honour of a very agreeable acquaintance, the _marquis devalan_, who made me ashamed, by shewing us an attention we had no right to expect; but this is one, among many other agreeable circumstances, which attend strangers travelling in france. french gentlemen never see strangers ill treated, without standing forth in their defence; and i hope english gentlemen will follow their example, because it is a piece of justice due to strangers, in whatever country they are, or whatever country they are from; it is doing as one would be done by. that prejudice which prevails in england, even among some people of fashion, against the french nation is illiberal, in the highest degree; nay, it is more, it is a national disgrace.--when i recollect with what ease and uninterruption i have passed through so many great and little towns, and extensive provinces, without a symptom of wanton rudeness being offered me, i blush to think how a frenchman, if he made no better figure than i did, would have been treated in a tour through britain.--my monkey, with a pair of french jack boots, and his hair _en queue_, rode postillion upon my sturdy horse some hours every day; such a sight, you may be sure, brought forth old and young, sick and lame, to look at him and his master. _jocko_ put whole towns in motion, but never brought any affront on his master; they came to look and to laugh, but not to deride or insult. the post-boys, it is true, did not like to see their fraternity _taken off_, in my _little theatre_; but they seldom discovered it, but by a grave salutation; and sometimes a good humoured fellow called him comrade, and made _jocko_ a bow; they could not laugh at his bad seat, for not one of them rode with more ease; or had a handsomer laced jacket. mr. _buffon_ says, the monkey or _maggot_, (and mine is the latter, for he has no tail) make their grimace or chattering equally to shew their anger or to make known their appetite. with all due deference to this great naturalist, i must beg leave to say, that his observation is not quite just; there is as much difference between the grimace of my _jocko_, when he is angry or hungry, and when he grins to shew delight, as there is in a man, when he gnashes his teeth in wrath, or laughs from mirth. between _avignon_ and this town i met a dancing bear, mounted by a _maggot_: as it was upon the high road, i desired leave to present _jocko_ to his grandfather, for so he appeared both in age and size; the interview, though they were both males, was very affecting; never did a father receive a long-lost child with more seeming affection than the _old gentleman_ did my _jocko_; he embraced him with every degree of tenderness imaginable, while the _young gentleman_ (like other young gentlemen of the present age) betrayed a perfect indifference. in my conscience i believe it, there was some consanguinity between them, or the reception would have proved more mutual. between you and me, i fear, were i to return to england, i might find myself a sad party in such an interview. it is a sad reflection; but perhaps providence may wisely ordain such things, in order as men grow older, to wean them from the objects of their worldly affections, that they may resign more readily to the decree of fate. that good man, dr. arbuthnot, did not seem to dread the approach of death on his own account, so much as from the grievous affliction he had reason to fear it would bring upon his children and family. letter xli. lyons, _the harangue of the_ emperor claudius, _in the_ senate. _copied from the original bronze plate in the hotel de ville, of_ lyons. first table. moererum . nostr ::::: sii ::::::::: equidem · primam · omnium · illam · cogitationem · hominum · quam · maxime · primam · occursuram · mihi · provideo · deprecor · ne · quasi · novam · istam · rem · introduci · exhorrescatis · sed · illa · potius · cogitetis · quam · multa · in · hac · civitate · novata · sint · et · quidem · statim · ab · origine · vrbis · nostræ · in · quod · formas · statusque · res · p · nostra · diducta · sit. quandam · reges · hanc · tenuere · vrbem · nec tamen · domesticis · successoribus · eam · tradere · contigit · supervenere · alieni · et · quidam · externi · vt · numa · romulo · successerit · ex. sabinis · veniens · vicinus · quidem · se · tunc. sed · tunc · externus · ut · anco · marcio · priscus · tarquinius · propter · temeratum · sanguinem · quod · patre · demaratho · corinthio · natus · erat · et · tarquiniensi · matre · generoso · sed · inopi · ut · quæ · tali · marito · necesse · habuerit · succumbere · cum · domi · repelleretur. a · gerendis · honoribus · postquam · roman · migravit · regnum · adeptus · est · huic · quoque · et · filio · nepotive · ejus · nam · et · hoc · inter · auctores · discrepat · insertus · servius · tullius · si · nostros · sequimur · captiva · natus · ocresia · si · tuscos · coeli · quandam · vivennæ · sodalis · fidelissimus · omnisque · ejus · casus · comes · post · quam · varia · fortuna · exactus · cum · omnibus · reliquis · cæliani · exercitus · etruria · excepit · mentem · cælium · occupavit · et · a · duce · suo · cælio · ita · appellitatus · mutatoque · nomine · nam · tusce · mostrana · ei · nomen · erat · ita · appellatus · est · ut · dixi · et · regnum · summa · cum · rei · p · utilitate · optinuit · deinde · postquam · tarquini · superbi · mores · invisi · civitati · nostræ · esse · coeperunt · qua · ipsius · qua · filiorum · ejus · nempe · pertæsum · est · mentes · regni · et · ad·consules. annuos · magistratus · administratio · rei · p · translata · est · quid · nunc · commemorem · dictatu · valentius · repertum · apud · majores · nostros · quo · in · asperioribus · bellis · aut · in · civili · motu · difficiliore · uterentur · aut · in · auxilium · plebis · creatos · tribunos · plebei · quid · a · latum · imperium · solutoque · postea · decemvirali · regno · ad · consules · rursus · reditum · quid · indecoris · distributum · consulare · imperium · tribunosque · militum · consulari · imperio · appellatos · qui · seni · et · sæpe · octoni · crearentur · quid · communicatos · postremo · cum · plebe · honores · non · imperi · solum · sed · sacerdotiorum · quoque · jam · si · narrem · bella p · quibus · coeperint · majores · nostri · et · quo · processerimus · vereor · ne · nimio · insolentior · esse · videar · et · quæsisse · jactationem · gloria · prolati · imperi · ultra · oceanum · sed · illoc · potius · revertor · civitatem. second table. :::::::::::::::::: sane ::: novo :: divvs :: aug ::: lvs. et · patruus · ti · cæsar · omnem · florem · ubisque · coloniarum · ac · municipiorum · bonorum · scilicet · virorum · et · locupletium · in · hac curia · esse · voluit · quid · ergo · non · italicus · senator · provinciali · potior · est · jam · vobis · cum · hanc · partem · censuræ · meæ · ad · probare · coepero · quid · de · ea · re · sentiam · rebus · ostendam · sed · ne · provinciales · quidem · si · modo · ornare · curiam · poterint · rejiciendos · puto. ornatissimæ · ecce · colonia · volentissimaque viennensium · quam · longo · jam · tempore · senatores · huic · curiæ · confert · ex · qua · colonia · inter · paucas · equestris · ordinis · ornamentum l · vestinum · familiarissime · diligo · et · hodieque · in · rebus · meis · detineo · cujus · liberi · tiorum · gradu · post · modo · cum · annis · promoturi · dignitatis · suæ · incrementa · ut · dirum · nomen · latronis · taceam · et · odi · illud · palæstricum · prodigium · quod · ante · in · domum · consulatum · intulit · quam · colonia · sua · solidum civitatis · romanæ · beneficium · consecuta · est idem · de · patre · ejus · possum · dicere · miserabili · quidem · invtilis · senator · esse · non · possit tempus · est · jam · ri · cÆsar · germanice · detegere · te · patribus · conscriptis · quo · tendat · oratio · tua · jam · enim · ad · extremos · fines · galliæ · narbonensis · venisti. tot · ecce · insignes · juvenes · quot · intuetor · non · magis · sunt · poenitendi · senatores · quam · ænitet · persicum · nobilissimum · virum · amicum · meum · inter · imagines · majorum · suorum · allobrogici · nomen · legere · quod · sl · hæc · ita · esse · consentitis · quid · ultra · desideratis · quam · ut · vobis · digito · demonstrem · solum · ipsum · ultra · fines · provinciæ · narbonensis · jam · vobis · senatores · mittere · quando · ex · luguduno · habere · nos · nostri · ordinis · viros · non · poenitet · timide · quidem · p · c · vobis · provinciarum · terminos · sum · sed · destricte · jam · comatæ · galliæ · causa · argenda · est · in · qua · si · quis · hoc · intuetur · quod · bello · per · decem · anno · exercuerunt · divom · julium · diem · opponat · centum · armorum · immobilem · fidem · obsequiumque · multis · trepidis · rebus · nostris · plusquam · expertum · illi · patri · meo · druso · germaniam · subi · genti · tutam · quiete · sua · securamque · a · tergo · pacem · præstiterunt · et · quidem · cum · ad · census · novo · tum · opere · et in · adsueto · gallis · ad · bellum · avocatus · esset · quod · opus · quam · arduum · sit · nobis · nunc · maxime · quam · vis · nihil · ultra · quam · ut · publice · notæ · sint · facultates · nostræ · exquiratur · nimis · magno · experimento · cognoscimus. the above harangue, made by claudius, in favor of the lyonoise, and which he pronounced in the senate, is the only remains of the works of this emperor, though he composed many. _suetonius_ says he composed forty-three books of a history, and left eight compleat of his own life; and adds, that he wrote more elegantly than judiciously. letter xlii. lyons. i have now spent a month in my second visit to this great and flourishing city, and fortunately took lodgings in a _hotel_, where i found the lady and sister of _mons. le marquis de valan_, whose politeness to us i mentioned in a former letter at _vienne_, and by whose favour i have had an opportunity of seeing more, and being better informed, than i could have been without so respectable an acquaintance. at _vienne_ i only knew his rank, here i became acquainted with his good character, and fortune, which is very considerable in _dauphine_, where he has two or three fine seats. his lady came to _lyons_ to lye-in, attended by the marquis's sister, a _chanoinesse_, a most agreeable sensible woman, of a certain age; but the countess is young and beautiful. you may imagine that, after what i said of _lyons_, on my way _to_ spain, i did not associate much with my own country-folks. on my return, indeed, my principal amusement was to see as much as i could, in a town where so much is to be seen; and in relating to you what i have seen, i will begin with the _hotel de ville_; if it had not that name, i should have called it a palace, for there are few palaces so large or so noble; on the first entrance of which, in the vestibule, you see, fixed in the wall, a large plate of bronze, bearing stronger marks of fire than of age; on which were engraven, seventeen hundred years ago, two harangues made by the emperor _claudius_ in the senate, in favour of the _lyonoise_, and which are not only legible at this day, but all the letters are sharp and well executed; the plate indeed is broke quite through the middle, but fortunately the fraction runs between the first and second harangues, so as to have done but little injury among the the letters. as i do not know whether you ever saw a copy of it, i inclose it to you, and desire you will send it as an agreeable exercise, to be well translated by my friend at oxford. on the other side of the vestibule is a noble stair-case, on which is well painted the destruction of the city, by so dreadful a fire in the time of the romans, that _seneca_, who gives an account of it in a letter to his friend, says, "_una nox fuit inter urbem maximam et nullum._" i.e. one night only intervened between a great city and nothing. there is something awful in this scene, to see on one side of the stair-case the conflagration well executed; on the other, strong marks of the very fire which burnt so many ages ago; for there can be no doubt, but that the bronze plate then stood in the _roman hotel de ville_, and was burnt down with it, because it was dug up among the refuse of the old city on the mountain called _fourvire_, on the other side of the river, where the original city was built.--in cutting the letters on this large plate of bronze, they have, to gain room, made no distance between the words, but shewn the division only by a little touch thus < with the graver; and where a word eroded with a c, or g, they have put the touch within the concavity of the letter, otherwise it is admirably well executed. upon entering into the long gallery above stairs, you are shewn the late king and queen's pictures at full length, surrounded with the heads of some hundred citizens; and in one corner of the room an ancient altar, the _taurabolium_, dug up in , near the same place where _claudius's_ harangue was found; it is of common stone, well executed, about four feet high, and one foot and a half square; on the front of it is the bull's head, in demi relief, adorned with a garland of corn; on the right side is the _victimary_ knife[a] of a very singular form; and on the left the head of a ram, adorned as the bull's; near the point of the knife are the following words, _cujus factum est_; the top of the altar is hollowed out into the form of a shallow bason, in which, i suppose, incense was burnt and part of the victims. [a] the knife, which is cut in demi relief, on the _taurobolium_, is crooked upon the back, exactly in the same manner, and form, as may be seen on some of the medals of the kings of macedonia. the latin inscription under the bull's head, is very well cut, and very legible, by which it appears, that by the express order of cybele, the reputed mother of the gods, for the honour and health of the emperor _antoninus pius_, father of his country, and for the preservation of his children, children, _lucius Æmilius carpus_[b] received the horns of the bull, by the ministration of _quintus samius secundus_, transported them to the vatican, and consecrated, at his own expence, this altar and the head of the bull[c]; but i will send the inscription, and a model[d] of the altar, as soon as i can have it made, as i find here a very ingenious sculptor and modeller; who, to my great serprize, says no one has hitherto been taken from it. and here let me observe, lest i forget it, to say, that _augustus_ lived three years in this city. [b] _lucius Æmilius carpus_ was a priest, and a man of great riches: he was of the quality of _sacrovir_, and probably one of the six priests of the temple of angustus.--_sextumvir augustalii_. [c] several inscriptions of this kind have been found both in italy and spain, but by far the greater number among the gauls; and as the sacrifices to the goddess cybele were some of the least ancient of the pagan rites, so they were the last which were suppressed on the establishment of christianity. since we find one of the taurobolian inscriptions, with so recent a date as the time of the emperor valentinian the third. the silence of the heathen writers on this head is very wonderful; for the only one who makes any mention of them is julius firmicus maternus, in his dissertation on the errors of the pagan religion; as dalenius, in his elaborate account of the taurobolium, has remarked. the ceremony of the consecration of the high priest of cybele, which many learned men have mistaken for the consecration of the roman pontifex maximus; which dignity, from the very earliest infancy of the roman empire, was always annexed to that of the emperor himself. the priests who had the direction of the taurobola, wore the same vestments without washing out the bloody stains, as long as they would hold together. by these rites and baptisms by blood, they thought themselves, as it were re-born to a life eternal. sextilius agefilaus Ædesius says, that he was born a-new, to life eternal, by means of the taurobolium and criobolium. nor were the priests alone initiated in this manner, but also others, who were not of that order; in particular cases the regenerations were only promised for twenty years. besides the taurobolia and criobolia, which were erected at the expence of whole cities and provinces, there were others also, which were founded by the bounty of private people. we often meet with the names of magistrates and priests of other gods, who were admitted into these mysteries, and who erected taurobolia as offerings for the safety of the emperor, or their own. the rites of the taurobolia lasted sometimes many days. the inscription, on the taurobolium, which is on the same side with the head of the bull, we have endeavoured to explain by filling up the abbreviations which are met with in the roman character. taurobolio matris deum magnÆ idÆÆ quod factum est ex imperio matris idÆÆ deum pro salute imperatoris cÆsaris titi Ælii adriani antonini augusti pii patris patriÆ liberorumque ejus et status coloniÆ lugdunensis lucius Æmilius carpus sextumvir augustalis item dendrophorus vires excepit et a vaticano transtulit aram et bucranium suo impendio consecravit sacerdote quinto sammio secundo ab quindecemviris occabo et corona exornato cui sanctissimus ordo lugdunensis perpetuitatem sacerdotis decrevit appio annia atilo bradua tito clodio vibio varo consulibus locus datus dicreto decurionum. [d] _the model is now in the possession of the ingenious_ dr. harrington _at bath_. the _taurobolium_ was one of the great mysteries, you know, of the roman religion, in the observance of which, i think, they dug a large hole in the earth, and covered it with planks, laid at certain distances, so as to give light into the subterranean temple. the person who was to receive the _taurobolio_ then descended into the theatre, and received on his head and whole body, the smoaking hot blood of the bull, which was there sacrificed for that purpose. if a single bull was only sacrificed, i think they call it a simple _taurabolio_, if a ram was added to it, as was sometimes done, it was then called a _torobolia_, and _criobolio_; sometimes too, i believe a goat was also slain. after all the blood of the victim animals was discharged, the priests and cybils retired beneath the theatre, and he who had received the bloody sacrifice, came forth and exposed himself, besmeared with blood, to the people, who all prostrated themselves before him, with reverential awe, as one who was thereby particularly sanctified, and whose person ought to be regarded with the highest veneration, and looked upon with holy horror; nor did this sanctification, i think, end with the ceremony, but rendered the person of the sanctified holy for twenty years. an inscription cited by _gruter_, seems to confirm this matter, who, after speaking of one _nepius egnatius faventinus_, who lived in the year of christ , says, _"percepto taurobolio criobolioque feliciter,_" concludes with these words, _"vota faventinus bis deni suscipit orbis, ut mactet repetens aurata fronte bicornes._" the _bis denus orbis_ seems to imply, the space of twice ten years. and here i cannot help making a little comparison between the honours paid by the roman citizens to their emperors, and those of the present times to the princes of the blood royal. you must know that the present king's brother, came to _lyons_ in the year , and thus it is recorded in letters of gold upon their quay: louis xvi. regnant. en memoire de l'heureux jour cinq. septembre m,dcc,lxxv. ou monsieur frere du roi et madame sont arrives en cette ville ce quai de l'agrement du prince et par ordonnance du consulat du douze du meme mois a ete nomme a perpetuite quai monsieur. if the _bourgeoise_ of _lyons_, however, are not men of genius, they are ingenious men, and they have a most delightful country to dwell in. i think i may say, that from the high hills which hang about this city, and taking in the rivers, fertile vales, rude rocks, vine-yards, and country seats, far and near, that _lyons_ and its environs, afford a greater variety of natural and artificial beauties, than any spot in europe. it is, however, by no means a place for the winter residence of a stranger. most of the natives advanced in years, were carried off last winter. the surly winds which come down the rhone, with impetuous blasts, are very disagreeable and dangerous. i found the cold intolerable in the beginning of may, out of the sunshine, and the sun intolerable in it. in england i never wore but one under waistcoat; in spain, and in the south of france, i found two necessary. the spaniards wear long cloaks, and we laugh at them; but the laugh would come more properly from them. there is in those climates a _vifness_ in the air that penetrates through and through; and i am sure that such who travel to the southward for the recovery of their health, ought to be ten times more upon their guard, to be well secured against the keen blasts the south of france, than even against an easterly wind in england. the disorder which carried off so many last winter at _lyons_, was called the gripe. in a large hotel only one person escaped it, an english lady. they called it the _gripe_, from the fast hold it took of the person it seized; nor did it let them go till april. on my way here, i found it sometimes extremely hot; it is now the first of may, and i am shaking by the side of a good fire, and have had one constantly every day for this fortnight. letter xliii. lyons. the _lyonoise_ think their town was particularly honoured by the _taurobolium_; but it was a common practice to offer that sacrifice not only for the emperor's health, but for the preservation of a city. there are two of these altars in the town of _letoure_; one consecrated for the preservation of the emperor _gordian_, on which is the following inscription: pro salvte imp. antonini gordiano pii fel. avg. totivsqve domvs divinÆ proqve statv civit. lactor toropolivm fecit ordo lactor d.n. gordiano ii et pompliano cos vi id dec cvrantis m erotio et festo caninis sacerd. and in a little village near _marseilles_, called _pennes_, there is a stone, on which is engraven, matri devm magnÆ ideÆ and on another, in the same town, matri devm tavropolivm. i must not omit to give you a copy of a singular inscription on the tomb of a mint-master which was found in _lyons_, and is preserved entire: nobilis tib. cÆsarius avg. ser Æq. monet hic ad qvi locit jvlia adepta conjunx et perpetua filia d.s.d. the most ancient money which has been found in and about this city, is the little coin of _mark antony_; on one side of which is represented the triumvirate; on the other, a lion, with the word _lugudani_ under it; on each side of the lion are the letters a and xl. the antiquarians here think those letters marked the value of the piece, and that it was about forty _sous_; but is it not more probable, that this was only the mint-master's touch? nothing can be a stronger proof of the importance of this city in the time of the romans, than the immense expence they were at in erecting such a number of grand aquæducts, one of which was eighteen leagues in length; many parts of them are still visible; and it appears that they spent for the reparation of them at _one_ time, near one thousand talents; and here it was that the four grand roman highways divided; one of which went directly to the sea, and another to the _pyrenees_. _agrippa_, who was the constructor of most of these noble monuments of roman grandeur, would not permit the _lyonoise_ to erect any monument among them to his memory; and yet, his memory is, in a very particular manner, preserved to this day in the very heart of the city, for in the front of a house on the quay _de villeroy_, is a medallion of baked earth, which, i think, perfectly resembles him; sure i am it is an unquestionable antique; it is a little disfigured indeed, and disgraced by his name being written upon it in modern characters. but there is another monument of _agrippa_ here; it is part of the epitaph of an officer or soldier of the third cohort, whose duty it was to take an account of the expence of each day for the subsistence of the troops employed to work on the high-ways, and this officer was called _a. rationibus agrippæ_. there are an infinite number of roman inscriptions preserved at _lyons_, among which is the following singular one: diis iniqvis qui animvlam tvam rapvervnt. i have already told you of a modern monument erected by the _lyonoise_, and now, with grief and concern, i must tell you of an ancient one which they have demolished! it was a most beautiful structure, called the tomb of the two lovers; that, however, was a mistake; it was the tomb of a brother and sister named _amandas_, or _amans_, for near where it stood was lately found the following monumental inscription: d m et memoriae ÆternÆ oliÆ tribvtÆ feminÆ sanctissime arvescivs amandvs frater sorori karissmÆ sibiqve amantissimÆ p.c. et svb oscia dedicavit. i have seen a beautiful drawing of this fine monument, which stood near the high road, a little without the town; the barbarian _bourgeoises_ threw it down about seventy years ago, to search for treasure. but enough of antiquities; and therefore i will tell you truly my sentiments with respect to the south of france, which is, that _lyons_ is quite southward enough for an englishman, who will, if he goes farther, have many wants which cannot be supplied. after quitting _lyons_, he will find neither good butter, milk, or cream. at _lyons_, every thing, which man can wish for, is in perfection; it is indeed a rich, noble, and plentiful town, abounding with every thing that is good, and more _finery_ than even in _paris_ itself. they have a good theatre, and some tolerable actors; among whom is the handsomest frenchman i ever beheld, and, a little stiffness excepted, a good actor. any young gentleman traveller, particularly _of the english nation_, who is desirous of _replenishing his purse_, cannot, even in _paris_, find more convenient occasions to throw himself in _fortune's way_, than at the city of _lyons_. an english lady, and two or three gentlemen, have lately been so _fortunate there_, as to find lodgings _at a great hotel_, gratis; and i desire you will particularly _recommend a long stay at_ lyons _to my oxonian friend_; where he may _see the world_ without looking out at a window. letter xliv. i find i omitted to give you before i left _nismes_, some account of monsieur _seguier_'s cabinet, a gentleman whose name i have before mentioned, and whose conversation and company were so very agreeable to me. among an infinite number of natural and artificial curiosities, are many ancient roman inscriptions, one of which is that of _t. julius festus_, which _spon_ mentions in his _melanges d'antiquite_. there are also a great number of roman utensils of bronze, glass, and earthen-ware. the romans were well acquainted with the dangerous consequences of using copper vessels[e] in their kitchens, as may be seen in this collection, where there are a great many for that purpose; but all strongly gilt, not only within, but without, to prevent a possibility of _verdigris_ arising. there is also a bronze head of a colossal statue, found not many years since near the fountain of _nismes_, which merits particular attention, as well as a great number of roman and greek medals and medallions, well preserved, and some which are very rare. the natural curiosities are chiefly composed of fossils and petrifications; among the latter, are an infinite number of petrified fish _embalmed_ in solid stones; and where one sees the finest membranes of the fins, and every part of the fish, delineated by the pencil of nature, in the most exquisite manner; the greater part of these petrifications were collected by the hands of the possessor, some from _mount bola_, others from _mount liban_, _switzerland_, _&c._ [e] see dr. falconer, of _bath_, his treatise on this subject. mr. _seguier_'s _herbary_ consists of more than ten thousand plants; but above all, mr. _seguier_ himself, is the first, and most valuable part of his cabinet, having spent a long life in rational amusements; and though turned of four-score, he has all the chearfulness of youth, without any of the garrulity of old age. when he honoured me with a visit, at my country lodgings, he came on foot, and as the waters were out, i asked him how he _got at me_, so dry footed? he had walked upon the wall, he said; a wall not above nine inches thick, and of a considerable length! and here let me observe that a frenchman eats his _soup_ and _bouille_ at twelve o'clock, drinks only _with_, not _after_ his dinner, and then mixes water with his _genuine_ wine; he lives in a fine climate, where there is not as with us, for six weeks together, easterly winds, which stop the pores, and obstruct perspiration. a frenchman eats a great deal, it is true, but it is not all _hard meat_, and they never sit and drink after dinner or supper is over.--an englishman, on the contrary, drinks much stronger, and a variety of fermented liquors, and often much worse, and sits _at it_ many hours after dinner, and always after supper. how then can he expect such health, such spirits, and to enjoy a long life, free from pain, as most frenchmen do; when the negro servants in the west-indies find their masters call _after_ dinner for a bowl of punch extraordinary they whisper them, (if company are present) and ask, "_whether they drink for drunk_, or _drink for dry_?" a frenchman never drinks for _drunk_.--while the englishman is earning disease and misery at his bottle, the frenchman is embroidering a gown, or knitting a handkerchief for his mistress. i have seen a lady's sacque finely _tamboured_ by a captain of horse, and a lady's white bosom shewn through mashes netted by the man who made the snare, in which he was himself entangled; though he made it he did not perhaps know the powers of it till she _set it_. letter xlv. i write to you just as things come into my head, having taken very few notes, and those, as you must perceive, often without much regard to _unison_ or _time_. it has this minute occurred to me, that i omitted to tell you on my journey onwards, that i visited a little town in _picardie_, called _ham_, where there is so strong a castle, that it may be called a _petit bastile_, and which was then and still is, full of state prisoners and debtors. to this castle there is a monstrous tower, the walls of which are thirty six feet thick, and the height and circumference are proportionable thereto; it was built by the _conetable de st. paul_, in order to shut up his master, _charles_ the vith, king of france, and contemporary, i think, with our _henry_ the vth; but such are the extraordinary turns of all human affairs, that _mons. le conetable_ was shut up in it himself many years, and ended his days there.--the fate of this constable brings to my mind a circumstance that happened under my _administration_, at _land-guard fort_, when the king was pleased to trust me with the command of it. i had not been twenty-four hours in possession of what i thought a small sovereignty, before i received a letter in the following terms: "sir, having observed horses grazing on the covered way, that _hath_ done apparent damage, and may do more, i think it my duty to inform you, that his majesty does not permit horses to feed thereon, &c. &c. (signed) "anthony goode, overseer of the works." i never was more surprized, than to find my wings were to be thus clipt, by a civil officer of the board of ordnance; however wrong i or my horses had acted, i could not let mr. goode _graze_ so closely upon my authority, without a reprimand; i therefore wrote him an answer in terms as follow: "that having seen a fat impudent-looking strutting fellow about the garrison, it was my order that when his duty led him to communicate any thing to me relative to the works thereof, that he came himself, instead of writing impertinent letters." mr. _goode_ sent a copy of his letter and mine to sir _charles frederick_; and the post following, he received from the office of ordnance, several printed papers in the king's name, forbidding horses grazing on the works, and _ordering mr. goode_ to nail those orders up in different parts of the garrison! but as i had not then learnt that either he, or his _red ribband master_, had any authority to give out, even the king's orders, in a garrison i commanded, but through my hands, i took the liberty, while mr. _goode_ and his assistant-son were nailing one up _opposite to my parlour window_, to send for a file of men and put them both into the black-hold, an apartment mr. _goode_ had himself built, being a master-mason. by the time he had been ten minutes _grazing_ under this _covered way_, he sent me a message, that he was _asthmatic_, that the place was too close, and that if he died within a _year and a day_, i must be deemed accessary to his death. but as i thought mr. _goode_ should have considered, that some of the poor invalids too might now and then be as subject to the asthma as he, it was a proper punishment, and i kept him there till he knew the duty of a soldier, as well as that of a mason; and as i would _his betters_, had they come down and ventured to have given out orders in a garrison under my command; but instead of getting me punished as a _certain gentleman_ aimed at, that able general _lord ligonier_ approved my conduct, and removed the man to another garrison, and would have dismissed him the ordnance service, had i not become a petitioner in his favour; for he was too fat and old to work, too proud and arrogant to beg, and he and _his advisers_ too contemptible to be angry with.--but i must return to the castle of _ham_, to tell you what a dreadful black-hold there is in that tower; it is a trap called by the french _des obliettes_, of so horrible a contrivance, that when the prisoners are to suffer in it, the mechanical powers are so constructed, as to render it impossible to be again opened, nor would it signify, but to see the body _molue_, i.e. ground to pieces. there were formerly two or three _obliettes_ in this castle; one only now remains; but there are still several in the _bastile_.--when a criminal suffers this frightful death, (for perhaps it is not very painful) he has no previous notice, but being led into the apartment, is overwhelmed in an instant. it is to be presumed, however, that none but criminals guilty of high crimes, suffer in this manner; for the state prisoners in the _bastile_ are not only well lodged, but liberal tables are kept for them. an irish officer was lately enlarged from the _bastile_, who had been twenty-seven years confined there; and though he found a great sum of money in the place he had concealed it in a little before his confinement, he told colonel c----, of fitz-james's regiment, that "having out-lived his acquaintance with the world, as well as with men, he would willingly return there again." at _ham_ the prisoners for debt are quite separated from the state prisoners; the latter are in the castle, the former in the tower. the death of _lewis_ the xvth gave liberty to an infinite number of unhappy people, and to many who would have been enlarged before, but had been forgotten. when one of these unhappy people (a woman of fashion) was told she might go out; then, (said she) i am sure _lewis_ the xvth is dead; an event she knew nothing of, tho' it was a full year after the king's death.--things are otherwise conducted now than in his reign; a wicked vain woman then commanded with unlimited power, both in war and domestic concerns. in this reign, there are able, and i believe virtuous ministers. i suppose you think as i did, that madame _pompadour_ governed by her own powerful charms; but that was not the case; she governed as many other women do, by borrowed charms; she had a correspondence all over the kingdom, and offices of intelligence, where _youth_, _beauty_, and _innocence_, were registered, which were sent to her according to order; upon the arrival of the _goods_, they were dressed, and trained for _use_, under her inspection, till they were fit to be _shewn up_. she had no regard to birth, for a shoe-maker's daughter of great beauty, belonging to one of the irish brigades, being introduced to the king, he asked her whether she knew him? no: she did not: but did you ever see me before, or any body like me? she had not, but thought him very like the face on the _gros eccuis_ of france. madame _pompadour_ soon found out which of these girls proved most agreeable to the king, and such were retained, the others dismissed.--the expence of this traffick was immense. i am assured where difficulties of birth or fashion fell in the way, ten thousand pounds sterling have been given. had _lewis_ the xvth lived a few years longer, he would have ruined his kingdom. _lewis_ the xvith bids fair to aggrandize it. letter xlvi. post-house, st george, six leagues from lyons. i am particular in dating this letter, in hopes that every english traveller may avoid the place i write from, by either stopping short, or going beyond it, as it is the only house of reception for travellers in the village, and the worst i have met with in my whole journey. we had been scurvily treated here as we went; but having arrived at it after dark, and leaving it early, i did not recollect it again, till the mistress by her sour face and sorry fare betrayed it; for she well remembered _us_. as a specimen of french auberge cookery, i cannot help serving up a dish of spinnage to you as it was served to me at this house. we came in early in the afternoon, and while i was in the court-yard, i saw a flat basket stand upon the ground, the bottom of which was covered with boiled spinnage; and as my dog, and several others in the yard, had often put their noses into it, i concluded it was put down for _their_ food, not _mine_, till i saw a dirty girl patting it up into round balls, and two children, the eldest of them not above three years old, slavering in and playing with it, one of whom, _to lose no time_, was performing _an office_ that none could _do for her_. i asked the maid what she was about, and what it was she was so preparing? for i began to think i had been mistaken, till she told me it was spinnage;--not for me, i hope, said i,--'_oui, pour vous et le monde_.' i then forbad her bringing any to my table, and putting the little girl _off her center_, by an angry push, made her almost as dirty as the spinnage; and i could perceive her mother, the hostess, and some french travellers who were near, looked upon me as a brute, for _disturbing la pauvre enfant_; nevertheless, with my _entree_ came up a dish of this _delicate spinnage_, with which i made the girl a very pretty _chapeau anglois_, for i turned it, dish and all, upon her head; this set the house in such an uproar, that, if there had not come in an old gentleman like _bourgeois_ of _paris_, at that instant, i verily believe i should have been turned out; but he engaged warmly in my defence, and insisted upon it that i had treated the girl just as he would have done, had she brought such a dirty dish to him after being cautioned not to do so; nor should i have got any supper, had i not prevailed on this good-natured man, who never eat any, to order a supper for himself, and transfer it to me. he was a native of _lyons_, and had been, for the first time after thirty years absence, to visit his relations there. my entertainment at this house, _outward-bound_, was half a second-hand roasted turkey, or, what the sailors call a _twice-laid_ dish, i.e. one which is _done over_ a second time. i know the french in general will not like to see this dirty charge, brought even against an _aubergiste_, and much less to hear it said, that this disregard to cleanliness is almost general in the public inns; but truth justifies it, and i hope the publication may amend it. a modern french anonymous traveller, who i conclude by the company he kept in england, is a man of fashion, gives in general a just account of the english nation, their customs and manners; and acknowledges, in handsome terms, the manner he was received by some of the first families in england. he owns, however, he does not understand english, yet he has the temerity to say, that _gulliver's_ travels are the _chef d'oeuvre_ of _dean swift_; but observes, that those travels are greatly improved by passing through the hands of _desfontaines_.--this gentleman must excuse me in saying, that _desfontaines_ neither understood english, nor _dean swift_, better than he does. he also concludes his first volume, by observing, that what a french ambassador to england said of that nation, in the year , constitutes their character at this day! 'alas! poor england! thou _be'st_ so closely situated, and in such daily conversation with the polite and polished nation of france, thou hast gained nothing of their ease, breeding, and compliments, in the space of two hundred and fifty years!'--what this gentleman alludes to, is the ambassador's letter to the _conetable montmorency_, previous to the meeting of _henry_ the eighth and _francis_ the first, near _ardres_; for, (says the ambassador) _sur-tout je vous prie, que vous ostiez de la cour, ceux qui unt la reputation d'etre joyeux & gaudisseur, car c'est bien en ce monde, la chose la plus haie de cette nation_. and in a few lines after, he foists in an extract from a scotchman, one _barclay_, who, in his _examen of nations_, says, _jenenc connoit point de plus aimable creature, qui un françois chez qui l'enjoument est tempore par le judgment, & par discretion_; to all which i subscribe: but such men are seldom to be met with in any kingdom. this gentleman says, the most remarkable, or rather the only act of gaiety he met with in _london_, was an harangue made for an hour in the house of lords, previous to the trial of lord _byron_; and that, as he afterwards understood, it was made by a drunken member of parliament. he says it made him and every body laugh exceedingly; but he laughed only (i presume) because every body else did, and relates the story, i fear, merely to make it a national laugh; for the harangue was certainly very ill placed, and the mirth it produced, very indecent, at a time a peer of the realm was to be brought forth, accused of murder; and the untimely death of a valuable and virtuous young man, revived in every body's memory. this is the unfavourable side of what the gentleman says of the first people in england. of the peasants and lower order, he observes, that, though they are well fed, well cloathed, and well lodged, yet they are all of a melancholy turn.--the french have no idea of what we call _dry humour_; and this gentleman, perhaps, thought the english clown melancholy, while he was laughing in his sleeve at the foppery of his _laquais_. these observations put me in mind of another modern traveller, a man of sense and letters too, who observes, that the ballustrades at _westminster_ bridge are fixed very close together, to prevent the english getting through to drown themselves: and of a gentleman at _cambridge_, who, having cut a large pigeon-hole under his closet door, on being asked the use of it, said, he had it cut for an old cat which had kittens, to go in and out; but added, _that he must send for the carpenter, to cut little holes for the young ones_. his _acute visitor_ instantly set up a _horse_ laugh, and asked him whether the little cats could not come out at the same hole the big one did? the other laughing in his turn, said, he did not _think of that_. though i have spoken with freedom of this french traveller's remarks, yet i must own that, in general, he writes and thinks liberally, and speaks highly of the english nation, and very gratefully of many individuals to whom he was known; and, i dare say, a frenchman will find many more mistakes of mine, which i shall be happy to see pointed out, or rectified: but were i to pick out the particular objects of laughter, pity, and contempt, which have fallen in my way, in twice crossing this great continent, i could make a second _joe miller_ of one, and a _jane shore_ of the other. if this traveller could have understood the _beggars' opera_, the _humour_ of _sam. foote_, or the pleasantry among english sailors, watermen, and the lower order of the people, he would have known, that, though the english nation have not so much vivacity as the french, they are behind-hand with no nation whatever, where true wit and genuine humour are to be displayed. what would he have said, could he have seen and entered into the spirit of the procession of the _miserable scalds_, or mr. _garrick_ in _scrub_; _shuter_, _woodward_, mrs. _clive_, or even our little _edwin_ at _bath_? had he seen any of these things, he must have laughed with the multitude, as he did in the house of lords, though he had not understood it, and must have seen how inimitably the talents of these men were formed, to excite so much mirth and delight, even to a heavy _unpolished_ english audience. letter xlvii. from _st. george_ to _macon_ is five leagues. nothing on earth can be more beautiful than the face of this country, far and near. the road lies over a vast and fertile plain, not far distant from the banks of the _soane_ on one side, and adorned with mountains equally fertile, and beautiful, on the other. it is very singular, that all the cows of this part of the country are white, or of a light dun colour, and the dress of all the _maconoise_ peasants as different from any other province in france, as that of the turkish habit; i mean the women's dress, for i perceived no difference among the men, but that they are greater clowns, than any other french peasants. the women wear a broad bone lace ruff about their necks, and a narrow edging of the same sort round their caps, which are in the form of the charity girls' caps in england; but as they must not bind them on with any kind of ribband, they look rather _laid upon_ their heads, than _dressed upon them_; their gowns are of a very coarse light brown woollen cloth, made extremely short-waisted, and full of high and thick plaits over the hips, the sleeves are rather large, and turned up with some gaudy coloured silk; upon the shoulders are sewed several pieces of worsted livery lace, which seem to go quite under their arms, in the same manner as is sometimes put to children to strengthen their leading-strings; upon the whole, however, the dress is becoming, and the very long petticoat and full plaits, have a graceful appearance. at _lyons_ i saw a _macinoise_ girl of fashion, or fortune, in this dress; her lace was fine, her gown silk, and her shoulder-straps of silver; and, as her head had much more of the _bon gout_ than the _bon ton_, i thought her the most inviting object i had seen in that city, my delicate landlady at _nismes_ always excepted. i think france cannot produce such another woman _for beauty_ as _madame seigny_. i bought a large quantity of the _macon_ lace, at about eight-pence english a yard, which, at a little distance, cannot easily be distinguished from fine old _pointe_. between _st. george_ and _macon_, at a time we wanted our breakfast, we came to a spot where two high roads cross each other, and found there a little _cabbin_, not unlike the iron house, as to whim, but this was built, sides, top, and bottom, with sawed boards; and as a little bit of a board hung out at the door informed us they sold wine, i went in, and asked the mistress permission to boil my tea-kettle, and to be permitted to eat our breakfast in her pretty _cabbin_? the woman was knitting; she laid down her work, rose up, and with the ease and address of a woman of the first fashion, said we did her honour, that her house, such as it was, and every thing in it, were at our service; she then sent a girl to a farmer's hard by, for milk, and to a village a quarter of a league distant, for hot bread; and while we breakfasted, her conversation and good breeding made up a principal part of the _repas_; she had my horse too brought to the back part of her _cabbin_, where he was well fed from a portable manger. i bought of her two bottles of white wine, not much inferior to, and much wholesomer than, champaigne, and she charged me for the whole, milk, bread, fire, _conversation_, and wine, thirty six _sols_, about seventeen pence english! though this gentlewoman, for so i must call her, and so i believe she is, lived in such a small hut, she seemed to be in good circumstances, and had _liqueurs_, tea, and a great variety of _bons choses_ to sell. this was the only public house, (if it maybe called by that name,) during my whole journey _out_ and _in_, where i found perfect civility; not that the publicans in general have not civility _in their possession_, but they will not, either from _pride_ or _design_, _produce it_, particularly to strangers. my _wooden-house landlady_ indeed, was a prodigy; and it must be confessed, that no woman of the lower order in england, nor even of the middling class, have any share of that ease and urbanity which is so common among the lower order of the _people_ of this kingdom: but the woman i now speak of, had not, you will perceive, the least design even upon my purse; i made no previous agreement with her for my good fare, and she scorned to take any advantage of my confidence; and i shewed my sense of it, by giving her little maid eight times more than she ever received for such services before--an english shilling. let not this single, and singular woman, however, induce you to trust to the confidence of a french _aubergiste_ especially a _female_; you may as well trust to the conscience of an itinerant jew. frenchmen are so aware of this, that have heard a traveller, on a _maigre_ day, make his bargain for his _aumlet_ and the number of eggs to be put in it, with an exactness scarce to be imagined; and yet the upshot was only two pence english. the easy manner in which a french officer, or gentleman, can traverse this mighty kingdom, either for pleasure or business, is extremely agreeable, and worthy of imitation among young british officers.--in england, if an ensign of foot is going a journey, he must have two horses, and a groom, though he has nothing but a regimental suit of cloaths, and half a dozen shirts to carry; his horses too must _set both ends well_ because he is a _captain_ upon the road! and he travels at about five times the expence of his pay. the french officer buys a little _biddet_, puts his shirts and best regimental coat into a little _portmanteau_, buckles that behind his saddle, and with his sword by his side, and his _croix_ at his button-hole, travels at the expence of about three shillings a day, and often less, through a kingdom where every order of people shew him attention, and give him precedence. i blush, when i recollect that i have _rode_ the risque of being wet to the skin because i would not _disgrace my saddle_, nor load my back with a great coat; for i have _formerly_, as well as _latterly_, travelled without a servant. i have a letter now before me, which i received a few days ago from a french captain of foot, who says, _sur le champ j'ay fait seller ma petite rossinante (car vous scavez que j'ay achete un petit cheval de livres selle et bride) et me voila a epernay chez monsieur lechet_, &c. this gentleman's whole pay does not amount to more than sixty pounds a year, yet he has always five guineas in his pocket, and every convenience, and some luxuries about him; he assists now and then an extravagant brother, appears always well dressed; and last year i bought him a ticket in the british lottery: he did not consider that he employed an unfortunate man to buy it, and i _forgot_ to remind him of it. after saying thus much of a virtuous young man (_though a frenchman_) there will be no harm in telling you his name is _lalieu_, a captain in the regiment _du maine_.--before i took my last leave of him, talking together of the horrors of war, i asked him what he would do if he were to see me _vis-a-vis_ in an hostile manner? he embraced me, and said, "turn the but end of my fusee towards you, my friend." i thank god that neither his _but-end_, nor my _muzzle_ can ever meet in that manner, and i shall be happy to meet him in any other. _p.s._ i omitted to say, that the _maconoise_ female peasants wear black hats, in the form of the english straw or chip hats; and when they are tied on, under the chin, it gives them with the addition of their round-eared laced cap, a decent, modest appearance which puts out of countenance all the borrowed plumage, dead hair, black wool, lead, grease, and yellow powder, which is now in motion between _edinburgh_ and _paris_. it is a pity that pretty women, at least, do not know, that the simplicity of a quaker's head-dress, is superior to all that art can contrive: and those who remember the elegant _miss fide_, a woman of that persuasion, will subscribe to the truth of my assertion. and it is still a greater pity, that plain women do not know, that the more they adorn and _artify_ their heads, the more conspicuous they make their natural defects. letter xlviii. at _challons sur la soane_, (for there is another town of the same name in _champaigne_) i had the _honor_ of a visit from _mons. le baron shortall_, a gentleman of an ancient family, _rather in distress at this time_, by being _kept out_ of six and thirty thousand a year, his legal property in ireland; but as the baron made his visit _ala-mode de capuchin friar_, without knocking, and when only the female part of my family were in the apartment, he was dismissed _rather abruptly_ for a man of _his high rank_ and _great fortune in expectation_. this dismission, however, did not dismay him; he rallied again, with the reinforcement of _madame la baroness_, daughter, as he positively affirmed, of _mons. le prince de monaco_; but as i had forbad his being _shewn up_, he desired me to _come down_, a summons curiosity induced me to obey. never, surely, were two people _of fashion_ in a more pitiable plight! he was in a _russet brown black_ suit of cloaths; madame _la baroness_ in much the same colour, wrapt up in a tattered black silk capuchin; and i knew not which to admire most, their folly or their impudence; for surely never did an _adventurer_ set out with less _capabilities_ about him; his whole story was so flagrant a fib, that in spite of the _very respectable certificates of my lord mayor, john wilkes, and mr. alderman bull_, i was obliged to tell him plainly, that i did not believe him to be a gentleman, nor his wife to be a relation of the prince of _monaco_. all this he took in good part, and then assured me they were both very hungry, and without meat or money; i therefore ordered a dinner at twenty _sols_ a head; and, as i sat by while they eat it, i had reason to believe that he told me _one plain truth_, for in truth they eat as if they had never eaten before. after dinner the baron did me the honour to consult with me _how_ he should get down to _lyons_? i recommended to him to proceed by _water_; but, said he, my dear sir, i have no money;--an evil i did not chuse to redress; and, after several unsuccessful attempts at my purse, and some at my person,--he whispered me that even six livres would be acceptable; but i held out, and got off, by proposing that the baroness should write a letter to the prince her father, to whom i had the honour to be known, and that i would carry him the letter, and enforce their prayer, by making it my own. this measure she instantly complied with, and addressed her father _adorable prince_; but concluded it with a name which could not belong to her either as maid, wife, or widow. i remarked this to the _baron_, who acknowledged at once _the mistake_, said she had signed a false name, and she should write it over again; but when i observed to him that, as the prince knew the handwriting of his _own_ dear child, and as the name of women is _often varying by marriage_, or _miscarriage_, it was all one: to this he agreed; and i brought off the letter, and my purse too, for forty _sols_; yet there was so much falshood, folly, and simplicity in this _simple pair of adventurers_, that i sorely repented i did not give them their passage in the _coche d'eau_ to _lyons_; for he could not speak a word of french, nor _madame la baroness_ a word of english; and the only _insignia_ of distinction between them, was, a vast clumsy brass-hilted sword which the baron, instead of wearing at his side, held up at his nose, like a physician's gold-headed cane.--when i took my leave of this _sir james shortall_, (for he owned _at last_ he was _only a baronet_) he promised to meet me _next time_ dressed in his blue and silver. i verily believe my irish _adventurer_ at _perpignan_, is a gentleman, and therefore i relieved him; i am thoroughly persuaded my _challons_ adventurer is not, yet perhaps he was a real object of charity, and his true tale would have produced him better success than his _borrowed story_. _sir james_ was about sixty, _lady shortall_ about fifty.--_sir james_ too had a pretty large property in america, and would have visited his estates on that continent, had i not informed him of the present unhappy differences now subsisting between that and the mother country, of which he had not heard a single syllable. after having said thus much, i think i must treat you with a copy of _lady shortall's_ letter, a name very applicable to their unhappy situation, for they did indeed seem short of every thing;--so here it is, _verbatim et literatim_: "_monsieur thickness gentilhomme anglaise_ "adorable preince de monaco que tout mordonne deme, lise au de fus de cette lette le non deun digne homme qui me randu ser visse, je suis malade, le convan; serois preferable a mon bouneur je veux sepandant sauve non marij mais je me meure tre seve mon derinier soupire, je ne le doit qua vous. "julie baronne de chatterre. _le may ._" "_a sont altess ele preince de monaco, dans sont hautelle rue de vareinne a paris_." letter xlix. from _challons_ to _bonne_, is five leagues. _bonne_ is a good town, well walled-in, pleasantly situated, and remarkable for an excellent and well-conducted hospital, where the poor sick are received _gratis_, without distinction, and where the rich sick are accommodated with nurses, physicians, medicines, food, and lodging, with every assistance that can be wanted, for four livres a day. the apartments in which the poor are received, are so perfectly clean and sweet, that they are fit for people of any condition; but those provided for the better sort, are indeed sumptuously furnished. the women who act as nurses, are of a religious order, and wear a particular, decent, and uniform habit, to which their modest deportment exactly coincides; yet most of them are young, and many of them very beautiful. between these two towns we met an english servant, in a rich laced livery, conducting, behind a post-chaise, a large quantity of baggage; and soon after, a second servant, in the same uniform; this excited our curiosity, and we impatiently proceeded, in hopes of meeting the equipage, which it was natural to expect would soon follow; instead of which, it was an old english four-wheel chaise, the _contents_ of which were buckled close up behind a pair of dirty leather curtains; and on the coach-box sat, by the side of the driver, a man who had the appearance of an english farmer. this contrast rather increased than lessened our curiosity; and, therefore, at _bonne_, i made some enquiry about them of the post-master; who told me they came in, and set off, separately, just as i had met them; but that one servant paid for the horses to all the carriages, and that the woman _behind the curtain, according to custom, did not chuse to shew herself_. just as i was returning with this blind account, an english servant, who i had not perceived, but who stood near, told me, he was sure _as how_ it was either the _duchess_ of _kingston_ or _mrs rudd_, for that he _seed_ her very plain. i was much surprized at finding an englishman so near me; and the singularity of the man's observation had a very forcible effect upon me. when the mirth which it unavoidably occasioned, was a little subsided, i could not help correcting, in gentle terms, (though i was otherwise glad to see even an english footman so far from _english land_) a man in his station for speaking of people of high rank with so much indecent levity, and then told him, that there was no such person living as the _duchess_ of _kingston_, but that it was probable the lady he thought he had seen might be _lady bristol_; that there was not however, the least resemblance between the person of her ladyship and the other lady he had mentioned, the latter being young, thin, and rather handsome; whereas _lady bristol_ was very fat, and advanced in years; i therefore suspected, i told him, that he had confounded the trials of those two ladies, and fancied he saw a likeness in their persons, by an association of ideas; but in reality, there was as much difference in their crimes as in their persons. _crimes_! did i say? that is an improper expression, because i am informed _mrs. rudd_ has been acquitted; but that, if the foreign papers might be relied on, _lady bristol_ had been found guilty of bigamy: but as he seemed not to understand what i meant by _bigamy_, or the _association of ideas_, i was unavoidably led into a conversation, and explanation, with this young man; which nothing but my pride, and his ignorance, could justify; but as the fellow was overjoyed to see me, i could not help giving him something to drink, and with it a caution never to speak of people of high rank and condition, even behind their backs, but under their proper names or titles, and with decency and respect: he then begged my pardon, and assured me, if he had known that either of the ladies had been a friend of mine, he would not have coupled them so improperly together; and i am thoroughly convinced, the man left me with a resolution, never to hazard a conjecture without a better foundation than that he started to me, and which i rather believe he hit off _extempore_, to speak to me, and shew himself my countryman, than from really suspecting that the woman behind the curtain was either _lady bristol_, or _mrs. rudd_; though i was inclined to think it very probable, for i had seen _lord bristol_ on his way through _lyons_ from _italy_ to _england_, and had been informed, _lady bristol_ was then on her road to _italy_; in which case, i, like the footman, had my conjectures, and accounted for the leather curtains being so _closely buckled to_. these are trifling remarks, you will say; but if a sign-painter can paint only a bear, those who employ him must have a bear for their sign; nevertheless, we have all a certain curiosity to know even the most trifling actions, or movements of people, who by their virtues or vices, especially if they are people of rank or condition, have occasioned much talk in the world; and therefore, ridiculous as this incident is, yet as we have long known one of the ladies, and often _admired_ both, i could not let either one or the other pass me unnoticed, on a road too, where even an english duchess (if she would own the truth) would feel a secret delight in meeting of a hyde-park-corner groom. i have already mentioned what partiality and degree of notice, countrymen take of each other when they meet far from home. that notice is always in proportion to the distance. had my _bonne_ footman spoke of _lady bristol_, or _mrs. rudd_, in such free terms as _how he seed 'em_, &c. &c. at hyde-park-corner, or in tyburn-road, i should have knocked him down with the but end of my whip; but at _bonne_ (five hundred miles from either of those places) he and i were _quatre cousins_; and i could not help treating him with a bottle of _vin de pais_. letter l. from _bonne_ we intended to have taken the high road to _dijon_; but being informed that there was another, though not much frequented, by way of _autun_, and that _that_ town, which was a roman colony, still contained many curious monuments worthy of notice, we pursued the latter, which twisted in between a vast variety of small, but fertile valleys, watered with brooks, bounded by romantic hills, and some high mountains, most of which were covered with vines, which _did_ produce the most delicious red wine in the world; i say _did produce_, for the high _gout_ and flavour of the burgundy grape has for many years failed, and perhaps so as never to return again. we, however, missed the road to _autun_, and, after four leagues' journey through a most delightful country, we arrived at a miserable auberge in a dirty village called _yozy_, which stands upon the margin of a large forest, in which, some years since, the _diligence_ from _lyons_ to _paris_ was attacked by a banditti, and the whole party of travellers were murdered: ever since that fatal day, a guard of the _marechaussee_ always escort the _diligence_ through this deep and dreadful forest, (so they called it), and we were persuaded it was right to take a couple of the _marechaussee_, and did so; but as we found the forest by no means so long, deep, or dreadful, as it had been represented, we suspected that the advice given us, was more for the sake of the men who _guarded us_, than from any regard _to us_, two men could have made no great resistance against a banditti; and a single man would hardly have meddled with us. the next day we passed thro' _arnay-le-duc_, a pretty country village, three leagues from _yozy_, and it being their annual fair-day, we had an opportunity of seeing all the peasantry, dressed in their best, and much chearfulness, not only in the town, but upon the road before we arrived, and after we passed it. amongst the rest of the company, were a bear and a monkey, or rather what _buffon_ calls the _maggot_. i desired the shew-man to permit my _maggot_, as he was the least, the youngest, and the _stranger_, to pay a visit to _mons. maggot_, the elder, who embraced the _young gentleman_ in a manner which astonished and delighted every body, myself only excepted; but as _my young gentleman_ seemed totally indifferent about the _old one_, i suspected he had _really met his father_, and i could not help moralizing a little. from _arnay-le-duc_ we passed through _maupas_, _salou_, _rouvray_, _quisse la forge_, and _vermanton_ to _auxerre_, the town where the french nobleman _was said_ to live, whom dr. _smollett_ treated so very roughly, and who, in return, was so _polite_ as to _help to tie_ the doctor's baggage behind his coach! about a quarter of a mile without this town, stands a royal convent, richly endowed, and delightfully situated; the walls of which take in near twenty acres of land, well planted on the banks of a river; and here i left my two daughters, to perfect themselves in the french language, as there was not one person within the convent, nor that i could find, within the town, who could speak a word of english. and here i must not omit to tell you, how much i was overcome with the generosity of this virtuous, and i must add amiable, society of _religieux_. upon my first inquiry about their price for board, lodging, washing, cloaths, and in short, every thing the children did, or might want, they required a sum much beyond the limits of my scanty income to give; but before we left them, they became acquainted with _some circumstances_, which induced them to express their concern that the price i had offered (not half what they had demanded) could not be taken. we therefore retired, and had almost fixed the children in a cheaper convent, but much inferior in all respects, within the town, when we received a polite letter from the lady abbess, to say, that after consulting with her sister-hood, they had come to a resolution to take the children at our _own_ price, rather than not shew how much they wished to oblige us. upon this occasion, we were _all_ admitted within the walls of the convent; and i had the pleasure of seeing my two daughters joined to an elegant troop of about forty genteel children, and of leaving them under the care of the same number of _religieux_. and yet these good people knew nothing of us, but what we ourselves communicated to them, not being known, nor knowing any person in the town.--the lady-abbess of this convent is a woman of high rank, about twenty-four years of age, and possesses as large a share of beauty as any reasonable woman, even on the _outside_ of a convent, could wish for. _auxerre_ is a good town, pleasantly situated, and in a plentiful and cheap country. from _auxerre_ to _ioigni_ is five leagues. the _petit bel vue_ on the banks of the river is very pleasantly situated, but a dreadful one within side, in every respect, being a mixture of dirt, ignorance, and imposition; but it is the only inn for travellers, and therefore travellers should avoid it. in order to put my old hostess in good humour, i called early for a bottle of champaigne; and in order to put me into a bad humour, she charged me the next day for two; but i _charged her_ with _mons. le connetable_, who behaved like a gentleman, though i think he was only a _marchand de tonneau_: but then he was a _wine_ not _beer_ cooper, who hooped the old lady's barrel. where-ever i was ill-used or imposed upon, i always sent a pretty heavy packet by the post, after i had run down a hundred miles or two, by way of _draw-back_, upon my host, and recompence to the king's high road; for in france, _"like the quakers' by-way, 'tis plain without turnpikes, so nothing to pay"_ an old witch, who had half starved us at _montpellier_, for want of provisions, when we went, and for want of fire to dry us, when we came back, left a piece of candle in my budget, which i did not omit to return by the post, _well packed up_, lest it should grease other packets of more importance, by riding an hundred leagues; besides this it was accompanied by a very civil _letter of advice_, under another cover. letter li. the next town of any note is _sens_, a large, _ragged_, ancient city; but adorned with a most noble gothic cathedral, more magnificent than even that of _rheims_, and well worthy of the notice of strangers; it is said to have been built by the english: with the relicks and _custodiums_ of the host, are shewn the sacerdotal habits, in which archbishop _becket_ (who resided there many years) said mass, for it was his head-quarters, when he _left_ britain, as well as _julius cæsar_'s before he went there. the silver hasps, and some of the ornaments of these garments, are still perfect, though it has undergone so many darnings, as to be little else. _becket_ was a very tall man; for though it has many tucks in it, yet it is generally too long for the tallest priest in the town, who constantly says mass in it on _st. thomas_'s day. how times and men are changed! this town, which resisted the arms of _cæsar_ for a considerable time, was put in the utmost consternation by _dr. smollett_'s causing his travelling blunderbuss to be only fired in the air, a circumstance "which greatly terrified all the _petit monde!_" it is very singular, that the doctor should have frightened a french nobleman of _burgundy_, by shaking his cane at him, and even made him assist in the most servile offices; and in the next town, terrify all the common people, by only firing a blunderbuss in the air! i would not willingly arraign a dead man with telling two fibbs so close upon the back of each other; but i am sure there was but that single french nobleman, in this mighty kingdom, who would have submitted to such insults as the doctor _says_ he treated him with; nor any other town but _sens_, where the firing of a gun would have so terrified the inhabitants; for, drums, guns, and noise of every sort, seem to afford the common french people infinite pleasure. i spent in this town a day or two, and part of that time with a very agreeable scotch family, of the name of _macdonald_, where lieutenant colonel _stuart_ was then upon a visit. i have some reason to think that _sens_ is a very cheap town. several english, scotch, and irish families reside in it. from _sens_ to _port sur yonne_ is three leagues, and from _yonne_ to _foussart_ the same distance. at the three kings at _foussart_, suspecting there was a cat behind the bed in wait for my bird, i found, instead thereof, a little _narrow door_, which was artfully hid, and which opened into another room; and as i am sure the man is a cheat, i suspect too, that upon a _good occasion_, he would have made some _use_ of his little door. _foussart_ is a small place, consisting only of three or four public houses. from thence to _morret_, is three leagues, on which road is erected a noble pillar of oriental marble, in memory of the marriage of _lewis_ the xvth. soon after we passed this monument, we entered into the delightful forest of _fontainbleau_; and passing three leagues to the center of it, we arrived at that ancient royal palace: it stands very low, and is surrounded by a great many fine pieces of water, which, however, render the apartments very damp. the king and royal family had been there six weeks, and were gone but ten days, and with them, all the furniture of the palace was also gone, except glasses, and a few pictures, of no great value. in a long, gallery are placed, on each side of the wall, a great number of stags' heads, carved in wood, and upon them are fixed the horns of stags and bucks, killed by the late, and former kings; some of which are very _outre_, others singularly large and beautiful. _fontainbleau_ is a good town, stands adjacent to the palace; and as the gardens, park, &c. are always open, it is a delightful summer residence. we staid a few days there, to enjoy the shady walks, and to see the humours of a great annual fair, which commenced the day after we arrived. all sorts of things are sold at this fair; but the principal business is done in the _wine way_, many thousand pieces of the inferior burgundy wine being brought to this market. we made two little days' journey from _fontainbleau_ to _paris_, a town i entered with concern, and shall leave with pleasure.--as i had formerly been of some service to _faucaut_ who keeps the _hotel d'york_, when he lived in _rue de mauvais garçon_ i went to this _famous hotel_, which would have been more in character, if he had given it the name of his former street, and called it, _l'hotel de mauvais garçon_ for it is an hospital of bugs and vermin: the fellow has got the second-hand beds of _madame pompadour_, upon his first floor, which he _modestly_ asks thirty _louis d'ors_ a month for! all the rest of the apartments are pigeon-holes, filled with fleas, bugs, and dirt; and should a fire happen, there is no way of escaping. nothing should be more particularly attended to in _paris_ than the security from fire, where so many, and such a variety of strangers, and their servants, are shut up at night, within one _porte cochere_. letter lii. paris. i found no greater alteration in _paris_, after ten years' absence from it, than the prodigious difference of expence; most articles, i think, are one-third dearer, and many double; a horse is not half so well fed or lodged at _paris_ as at _london_; but the expence is nearly a guinea a week, and a stranger may drive half round the city before he can lodge himself and his horses under the same roof.[f] [f] _paul gilladeau_ who lately left the silver lion, at _calais_, has, i am informed, opened a livery stable at _paris_, upon the _london_ plan, in partnership with _dessein_, of the _hotel d'angleterre_ at _calais_: a convenience much wanted, and undertaken by a man very likely to succeed. the beauties, the pleasures, and variety of amusements, which this city abounds with, are, without doubt, the magnets which attract so many people of rank and fortune of all nations to it; all which are too well known to be pointed out by me.--to a person of great fortune in the _hey-day_ of life, _paris_ may be preferable even to _london_; but to one of my age and walk in life, it is, and was ten years ago, the least agreeable place i have seen in france.--walking the streets is extremely dangerous, riding in them very expensive; and when those things which are worthy to be seen, (and much there is very worthy) have been seen, the city of _paris_ becomes a melancholy residence for a stranger, who neither plays at cards, dice, or deals in the principal manufacture of the city; i.e. _ready-made love_, a business which is carried on with great success, and with more decency, i think, that even in _london_. the english ladies are _weak_ enough to attach themselves to, and to love, one man. the gay part of the french women love none, but receive all, _pour passer le tems_.--the _english_, unlike the _parisian_ ladies, take pains to discover _who_ they love; the french women to dissemble with those they hate. it is extremely difficult for even strangers of rank or fortune, to get among the first people, so as to be admitted to their suppers; and without that, it is impossible to have any idea of the luxury and stile in which they live: quantity, variety, and show, are more attended to in france, than neatness. it is in england alone, where tables are served with real and uniform elegance; but the appetite meets with more provocatives in france; and the french _cuisine_ in that respect, certainly has the superiority. ten years ago i had the honour to be admitted often to the table of a lady of the first rank. on _st. ann's-day_, (that being her name-day) she received the visits of her friends, who all brought either a valuable present, a poesy, or a compliment in verse: when the dessert came upon the table, which was very magnificent, the middle plate seemed to be the finest and fairest fruit (_peaches_) and i was much surprized, that none of the ladies, were helped by the gentlemen from _that_ plate: but my surprize was soon turned into astonishment! for the peaches suddenly burst forth, and played up the saint's name, (_st. ann_) in artificial fire-works! and many pretty devices of the same kind, were whirled off, from behind the coaches of her visitors, to which they were fixed, as the company left the house, which had a pretty effect, and was no indelicate way of _taking a french leave_. there is certainly among the french people of fashion an ease and good-breeding, which is very captivating, and not easily obtained, but by being bred up with them, from an early age; the whole body must be formed for it, as in dancing, while there is the pliability of youth; and where there is, as in france, a constant, early, and intimate correspondence between the two sexes. men would be fierce and savage, were it not for the society of the other sex, as may be seen among the turks and moors, who must not visit their own wives, when other men's wives are with them. in france, the lady's bed-chamber is always open, and she receives visits in bed, or up, with perfect ease. a noble lord, late ambassador to this country, told me, that when he visited a young and beautiful woman of fashion, (i think too it was a first visit after marriage) she received him sitting up in her bed; and before he went, her _fille de chambre_ brought his lordship _madame le comtesse_'s shift elegantly festooned, which his lordship had the honour to put over the lady's head, as she sat in bed!--nor was there, by that favour, the least indecency meant; it was a compliment intended; and, as such only, received. marks of favour of _that_ sort, are not marks of _further favours_ from a french lady. in this vast city of amusements, among the _other arts_, i cannot help pointing out to your particular notice, _richlieu_'s monument in the _sorbonne_, as an inimitable piece of modern sculpture[g] by _girardeau_; and _madame la valliere's_ full-length portrait by _le brun_: she was, you know, mistress to _lewis_ the xivth, but retired to the convent, in which the picture now is, and where she lived in repentance and sorrow above thirty years.[h] [g] voltaire says, this monument is not sufficiently noticed by strangers. [h] madame valliere, during her retirement, being told of the death of one of her sons, replied, "i should rather grieve for his birth, than his death." the _connoisseurs_ surely can find no reasonable fault with the monumental artist; but they do, i think, with _le brun_; the drapery, they say, is too full, and that she is overcharged with garments; but fulness of dress, adds not only dignity, but decency, to the person of a fine woman, who meant (or the painter for her) to hide, not to expose her charms. if fulness be a fault, it is a fault that _gainsborough_, _hoare_, _pine_, _reynolds_, and many other of our modern geniuses are _guilty of_; and if it be _sin_, the best judges will acquit them for committing it, where dignity is to be considered. _madame valliere_ appears to have been scattering about her jewels, is tearing her hair, crying, and looking up to the heavens, which seem bursting forth a tempest over her head. the picture is well imagined, and finely executed. i found upon the bulk of a _portable shop_ in _paris_, a most excellent engraving from this picture,[i] and which carried me directly to visit the original; it is indeed stained and dirty, but it is infinitely superior to a later engraving which now hangs up in all the print shops, and i suppose is from the first plate, which was done soon after the picture was finished. under it are written the following ingenious, tho' i fear, rather impious lines: magdala dam gemmas, baccisque monile coruscum projicit, ac formæ detrahit arma suæ: dum vultum lacrymis et lumina turbat; amoris mirare insidias! hac capit arte deum. [i] in the possession of mr. gainsborough. shall i attempt to unfold this writer's meaning? yes, i will, that my friend at _oxford_ may laugh, and do it as it ought to be done. i. the pearls and gems, her beauty's arms, see sad valliere foregoes; and now assumes far other charms superior still to those. ii. the tears that flow adown her cheek, than gems are brighter things; for these an earthly monarch seek, but those the king of kings. this seems to have been the author's thought, if he thought _chastely_.--shall i try again? the pearls and gems her beauty's arms, see sad valliere foregoes: yet still those tears have other charms, superior far to those: with those she gained an earthly monarch's love: with these she wins the king of kings above. yet, after all, i do suspect, that the author meant more than even _to sneer_ a little at _poor madam valliere_; but, as i dislike common-place poetry, (and poetry, as you see, dislikes _me_) i will endeavour to give you the literal meaning, according to my conception, and then you will see whether our _joint wits_ jump together. while magdalene throws by her bracelets, adorned with gems and pearls, and (thus) disarms her beauty: while tears confound her countenance and eyes, with wonder mark the stratagems of love, with this she captivates the god above. the impious insinuation of the latin lines, is the reason, i suppose, why they were omitted under the more modern impression of this fine print, and very middling french poetry superseding them. letter liii. paris. if you do not use _herreis_' bills, i recommend to you at _paris_, a french, rather than an english banker; i have found the former more profitable, and most convenient. i had, ten years since, a letter of credit on _sir john lambert_, for £ , from _mess. hoares_. the _knight_ thought proper, however, to refuse the payment of a twenty pound draft i gave upon him; though i had not drawn more than half my credit out of his hands. _mons. mary_, on whom i had a draft from the same respectable house, this year will not do _such things_; but on the contrary, be ready to serve and oblige strangers to the utmost of his power: he speaks and writes english very well, and will prove an agreeable and useful acquaintance to a stranger in _paris_. his sister too, who lives with him, will be no less so to the female part of your family. his house is in _rue saint sauveur_. the english bankers pay in silver, and it is necessary to take a wheel-barrow with you to bring it away; a small bag will do at the french bankers'. there is as much difference between the bankers of _london_ and bankers in _paris_, as between a rotten apple and a sound one. you can hardly get a word from a london banker, but you are sure of getting your money; in _paris_, you will get _words_ enough, and civil ones too. remember, however, i am speaking only of the treatment i have experienced. there may be, and are, no doubt, english bankers at _paris_ of great worth, and respectable characters. it is not reckoned very decent to frequent coffee-houses at _paris_; but the politeness of _monsieur_ and _madame felix, au caffe de conti_, opposite the _pont neuf_, and the english news-papers, render their house a pleasant circumstance to me; and it is by much the best, and best situated, of any in _paris, au vois le monde_. i am astonished, that where such an infinite number of people live in so small a compass, (for _paris_ is by no means so large as _london_) that they should suffer the dead to be buried in the manner they do, or within the city. there are several burial pits in _paris_, of a prodigious size and depth, in which the dead bodies are laid, side by side, without any earth being put over them till the ground tier is full; then, and not till then, a small layer of earth covers them, and another layer of dead comes on, till by layer upon layer, and dead upon dead, the hole is filled with a mass of human corruption, enough to breed a plague; these places are enclosed, it is true, within high walls; but nevertheless, the air cannot be _improved_ by it; and the idea of such an assemblage of putrifying bodies, in one grave, so thinly covered, is very disagreeable. the burials in churches too, often prove fatal to the priests and people who attend; but every body, and every thing in _paris_, is so much alive, that not a soul thinks about the dead. i wish i had been born a frenchman.--frenchmen live as if they were never to die. englishmen die all _their lives_; and yet as _lewis_ the xivth said, "i don't think it is so difficult a matter to die, as men generally imagine, when they try in earnest." i must tell you before i leave _paris_, that i stept over to _marli_, to see the queen; i had seen the king nine years ago; but he was not then a king over eight millions of people, and the finest country under the sun; yet he does not seem to lay so much stress upon his mighty power as might be expected from so young a prince, but appears grave and thoughtful. i am told he attends much to business, and endeavours to make his subjects happy. his resolution to be inoculated, immediately after succeeding to such a kingdom, is a proof of his having a great share of fortitude. in england such a determination would have been looked upon with indifference; but in france, where the bulk of the people do not believe that it secures the patient from a second attack; where the clergy in general consider it unfavourable, even in a religious light; and where the physical people, for want of practice, do not understand the management of the distemper, so as it is known in england; i may venture to say, without being charged with flattery, that it was an heroic resolution: add to this, the king knowing, that if his subjects followed his example, it must be chiefly done by their own surgeons and physicians, he put himself under their management alone, though i think _sutton_ was then at _paris_. the queen is a fine figure, handsome, and very sprightly, dresses in the present _gout_ of head dress, and without a handkerchief, and thereby displays a most lovely neck. i saw in a china shop at _paris_, the figure of the king and queen finely executed, and very like, in china: the king is playing on the harp, and the queen dropping her work to listen to the harmony. the two figures, about a foot high, were placed in an elegant apartment, and the _toute ensemble_ was the prettiest toy i ever beheld: the price thirty guineas. i shall leave this town in a few days, and take the well-known and well-beaten _route anglois_ for _calais_, thro' _chantilly_, _amiens_, and _boulogne_, and then i shall have twice crossed this mighty kingdom. letter liv. calais. i am now returned to the point from whence i sat out, and rather within the revolution of one year; which, upon the whole, though i met with many untoward circumstances, has been the most interesting and entertaining year of my whole life, and will afford me matter of reflection for the little which remains unfinished of that journey we must all take sooner or later, a journey from whence no traveller returns.--and having said so much of myself, i am sure you will be glad to change the subject from man to beast, especially to such a one as i have now to speak of. i told you, when i set out, that i had bought a handsome-looking english horse for seven guineas, but a little touched in his wind; i can now inform you, that when i left this town, he was rather thin, and had a sore back and shoulder; both which, by care and caution; were soon healed, and that he is returned fair and fat, and not a hair out of its place, though he drew two grown persons, two children, (one of thirteen the other ten years old) a very heavy french cabriolet, and all our baggage, nay, almost all my goods, chattels, and worldly property whatever, outward and homeward, except between _cette_ and _barcelona_, _going_, and _lyons_ and this town _returning!_ i will point out to you one of his day's work, by which you will be able to judge of his general power of working: at _perpignan_, i had, to save him, hired post-horses to the first town in spain, as i thought it might be too much for him to ascend and descend the _pyrenees_ in one day; beside sixteen miles to the foot of them, on this side, and three to _jonquire_ on the other; but after the horses were put to, the post-master required me to take two men to _boulou_, in order to hold the chaise, and to prevent its overturning in crossing the river near the village. such a flagrant attempt to impose, determined me to take neither horses nor men; and at seven o'clock i set off with _callee_ (that is my houyhnhnm's name) and arrived in three hours at _boulou_, a paltry village, but in a situation fit for the palace of augustus! so far from wanting men from _perpignan_ to conduct my chaise over the river, the whole village were, upon our arrival, in motion after the job. we, however, passed it, without any assistance but our own weight to keep the wheels down, and the horse's strength and sturdiness, to drag us through it. in about three hours more we passed over the summit of this great chain of the universe; and in two more, arrived at _jonquire_: near which village my horse had a little bait of fresh mown hay, the first, and last, he eat in that kingdom. and when i tell you that this faithful, and (for a great part of my journey) only servant i had, never made a _faux pas_, never was so tired, but that upon a pinch, he could have gone a league or two farther; nor ever was ill, lame, physicked, or bled, since he was mine; you will agree, that either he is an uncommon good horse, or that his master is a good groom! indeed i will say that, however fatigued, wet, hundry, or droughty i was, i never partook of any refreshment till my horse had every comfort the inn could afford. i carried a wooden bowl to give him water, and never passed a brook without asking him to drink.--and, as he has been my faithful servant, i am now his; for he lives under the same roof with me, and does nothing but eat, drink, and sleep.--as he never sees me nor hears my voice, without taking some affectionate notice of me, i ventured to ask him _tenderly_, whether he thought he should be able to draw two of the same party next year to _rome?_ no tongue could more plainly express his willingness! he answered me, _in french_, indeed, _we-we-we-we-we_, said he; so perhaps he might not be sincere, tho' he never yet deceived me. if, however, he should not go, or should out-live me, which, is very probable, my dying request to you will be, to procure him a peaceful walk for the remainder of his days, within the park-walls of some humane private gentleman; though i flatter myself the following petition will save _you_ that trouble, and _me_ the concern of leaving him without that comfort which his faithful services merit. _to_ sir james tylney long, _bart._ _a faithful servant's humble petition_, sheweth, that your petitioner entered into the service of his present master, at an advanced age, and at a time too, that he laboured under a pulmonic disorder, deemed incurable; yet by gentle exercise, wholesome food, and kind usage, he has been enabled to accompany his master from _calais_ to _artois_. _cambray_, _rheims_, _st. dezier_, _dijon_, _challons_, _macon_, _lyons_, _pont st. esprit_, _pont du garde_, _nismes_, _montpellier_, _cette_, _narbonne_, _perpignan_ the _pyrenees_ _barcelona_, _montserrat_, _arles_, _marseilles_, _toulouse_, _avignon_, _aix_, _valence_, _paris_, and back to _calais_, in the course of one year: and that your petitioner has acquitted himself so much to his master's satisfaction, that he has promised to take him next year to _rome_; and upon his return, to get him a _sine-cure_ place for the remainder of his days; and, as your petitioner can produce a certificate of his honesty, sobriety, steadiness, and obedience to his master; and wishes to throw himself under the protection of a man of fortune, honour and humanity, he is encouraged by his said master to make this his humble prayer to you, who says that to above three hundred letters he has lately written, to ask a small boon for himself, he did not receive above three answers that gave him the pleasure your's did though he had twenty times better pretensions to an hundred and fifty. and as your petitioner has _seen a great deal of the world, as well as his master_, and has always observed, that such men who are kind to their fellow-creatures, are kind also to brutes; permit an humble brute to throw himself at your feet, and to ask upon his return from _rome_ a _lean-to_ shed, under your park-wall, that he may end his days in his native country, and afford a _repas_, at his death, to the dogs of a man who feeds the poor, cloaths the naked, and who knows how to make use of the noblest privilege which a large fortune can bestow,--that of softening the calamities of mankind, and making glad the hearts of those who are oppressed with misfortunes.--your petitioner, therefore, who has never, been upon his _knees before_ to any man living, humbly prays that he may be admitted within your park-pail, and that he may partake of that bounty which you bestow in common to your own servants, who, by age or misfortunes are past their labour; in which request your petitioner's master impowers him to use his name and joint prayer with callee. i do hereby certify, that nothing is advanced in the above petition, but what is strictly true, and that if the petitioner had been able to express himself properly, his merits and good qualities would have appeared to much greater advantage, as well as his services; as he has omitted many towns he attended his master to, besides a variety of smaller journies; that he is cautious, wary, spirited, diligent, faithful, and honest; that he is not nice, but eats, with appetite, and good temper, whatever is set before him; and that he is in all respects worthy of that asylum he asks, and which his master laments more on his account than his own, that he cannot give him. philip thicknesse. _calais, the th of nov._ . letter lv. calais. on our way here, we spent two or three days at _chantilly_, one, of fifty _chatteaus_ belonging to the prince of conde: for, though we had visited this delightful place, two or three times, some years ago, yet, beside its natural beauties, there is always something new. one spot we found particularly pleasing, nay flattering to an englishman; it is called _l'isle d'amour_, in which there are some thatched cottages, a water-mill, a garden, shrubbery, &c. in the english taste, and the whole is, in every respect, well executed. the dairy is neat, and the milkmaid not ugly, who has her little villa, as well as the miller. there is also a tea-house, a billiard-room, an eating-room, and some other little buildings, all externally in the english village stile, which give the lawn, and serpentine walks that surround them, a very pastoral appearance. the eating-room is particularly well fancied, being covered within, and so painted as to produce a good idea of a close arbor; the several windows, which are pierced through the sides, have such forms, as the fantastic turn of the bodies of the painted trees admit of; and the building is in a manner surrounded with natural trees; the room, when illuminated for the prince's supper, has not only a very pleasing effect, but is a well executed deception, for the real trees falling into perspective with those which are painted, through the variety of odd-shaped windows, has a very natural, and consequently a very pleasing effect; but what adds greatly to the deception, is, that at each corner of the room the floor is opened, and lumps of earth thrown up, which bear, in full perfection, a great variety of flowers and flowering shrubs. we had the honour to be admitted while the prince of _conde_, the duke and duchess of _bourbon_, the princess of _monaco_, and two or three other ladies and gentlemen were at supper; a circumstance which became rather painful to us, as it seemed to occasion some to the company, and particularly to the prince, who inquired who we were, and took pains to shew every sort of politeness he could to strangers he knew nothing of. the supper was elegantly served on plate; but there seemed to me too many servants round the table. the conversation was very little, and very reserved. i do not recollect that i saw scarce a smile during the whole time of supper. the prince is a sprightly, agreeable man, something in person like _lord barrington_; and the _duke_ of _bourbon_ so like his father, that it was difficult to know the son from the father. the _duchess_ of _bourbon_ is young, handsome, and a most accomplished lady. during the supper, a good band of music played; but it was all wind instruments. mr. _lejeune_, the first bassoon, is a most capital performer indeed. after the dessert had been served up about ten minutes, the princess of _monaco_ rose from the table, as did all the company, and suddenly turning from it, each lady and gentleman's servant held them a water glass, which they used with great delicacy, and then retired. the princess of _monaco_ is separated from the prince her husband; yet she has beauty enough for any prince in europe, and brought fortune enough for two or three. the duchess of _bourbon_ had rather a low head-dress, and without any feather, or, that i could perceive, _rouge_; the princess of _monaco's_ head-dress was equally plain; the two other ladies, whose rank i do not recollect, wore black caps, and hats high dressed. there were eight persons sat down to table, and i think, about twenty-five servants, in and out of livery, attended. the next day, we were admitted to see the prince's cabinet of natural and artificial curiosities; and as i intimated my design of publishing some account of my journey, the prince was pleased to allow me as much time as i chose, to examine his very large and valuable collection; among which is a case of gold medallions,( ) of the kings of france, in succession, a great variety of birds and beasts, ores, minerals, petrifactions, gems, cameos, &c. there is also a curious cabinet, lately presented to the prince by the king of denmark; and near it stood a most striking representation, in wax, of a present said to be _served up_ to a late unfortunate queen; it is the head and right hand of _count struensee_, as they were taken off after the execution; the head and hand lie upon a silver dish, with the blood and blood vessels too, well executed; never surely was any thing so _sadly_, yet so finely done. i defy the nicest eye, however near, to distinguish it (suppose the head laid upon a pillow in a bed) from nature; nor must mrs. _wright_, or any of the workers in wax i have ever yet seen, pretend to a tythe of the perfection in that art, with the man who made this head.--sad as the subject is, i could not withstand the temptation of asking permission to take a copy of it; and fortunately, i found the man who made it was then at _paris_,--nor has he executed his work for me less perfect than that he made for the prince.--i have been thus particular in mentioning this piece of art, because, of the kind, i will venture to say, it is not only _deadly_ fine, but one of the most perfect deceptions ever seen. when you, or any of the ladies and gentlemen who have honoured this poor performance of mine with their names, or their family or friends, pass this way, i shall be happy to embrace that occasion, to shew, that i have not said more of this inimitable piece of art, than it merits; nor do i speak thus positively from my own judgment, but have the concurrent opinion of many men of unquestionable judgment, that it is a master-piece of art; and among the rest, our worthy and valuable friend mr. _sharp_, of the _old jewry_. before we left _chantilly_, we had a little concert, to which _my train_ added one performer; and as it was the only string instrument, it was no small addition. the day we left this charming place, we found the prince and all his company under tents and pavilions on the road-side, from whence they were preparing to follow the hounds. at _amiens_, there is in the _hotel de ville_, a little antique god in bronze, which was found, about four years ago, near a roman urn, in the earth, which is very well worthy of the notice of a _connoisseur_; but it is such as cannot decently be described; the person in whose custody it is, permitted me to take an impression from it in wax; but i am not _quite so good_ a hand at waxwork as the artist mentioned above, and yet my little houshold-god has some merit, a merit too that was not discovered till three months after it had been fixed in the _hotel de ville_; and the discovery was made by a female, not a male, _connoisseur_. it is said, that a hottentot cannot be so civilized, but that he has always a hankering after his savage friends, and _dried chitterlins_; and, that gypsies prefer their roving life, to any other, a circumstance that once did, but now no longer surprizes me; for i feel such a desire to wander again, that i am impatient till the winter is past, when i intend to visit _geneva_, and make the tour of italy; and if you can find me cut a sensible valetudinarian or two, of either sex, or any age, who will travel as we do, to see what is to be seen, to make a little stay, where _the place_, or _the people_ invite us to do so, who can dine on a cold partridge, in a hot day, under a shady tree; and travel in a _landau and one_, we will keep them a _table d'hote_, that shall be more pleasant than expensive, and which will produce more health and spirits, than half the drugs of apothecary's hall. if god delights so much in variety, as all things animate and inanimate sufficiently prove, no wonder that man should do so too: and i have now been so accustomed to move, though slowly, that i intend to creep on to my _journey's end_, by which means i may live to have been an inhabitant of every town almost in europe, and die, as i have lately (and wish i had always) lived, a free citizen of the whole world, slave to no sect, nor subject to any king. yet, i would not be considered as one wishing to promote that disposition in others; for i must confess, that it is in england alone, where an innocent and virtuous man can sit down and enjoy the blessings of liberty and his own chearful hearth, in full confidence that no earthly power can disturb it; and the best reason which can be offered in favour of englishmen visiting other kingdoms, is, to enable them, upon their return, to know how to enjoy the inestimable blessings of their own. letter lvi. for what should i cross the streight which divides us, though it were but _half_ seven leagues? we should only meet to part again, and purchase pleasure, as most pleasures are purchased, too dearly; i have dropt some heavy tears, (ideally at least) over poor buckle's[j] grave, and it is all one to a man, now with god! on what king's soil such a _tribute as that_ is paid: had some men of all nations known the goodness of his heart as we did, some men of all nations would grieve as we do. when i frequented _morgan's_[k] i used him as a touch-stone, to try the hearts of other men upon; for, as he was not rich, he was out of the walk of knaves and flatterers, and such men, who were moot prejudiced in his favour at first sight, and coveted not his company after a little acquaintance, i always avoided as beings made of base metal. it was for this reason i despised that ****** ****, (you know who i mean) for you too have seen him _snarl_, _and bite_, _and play the dog_, even to buckle! [j] william buckle, esq. [k] morgan's coffee-house, grove, bath. our sunday night's tea club, round his chearful hearth, is now for ever dissolved, and sharpe and rye have administered their last friendly offices with a potion of sorrow. were i the hermit of _st. catharine_, i would chissel his name as deeply into one of my pine-heads, as his virtues are impressed on my memory. though i have lost _his guinea_, i will not lose his name; he looked down with pity upon me when here; who can say he may not do so still? i should be an infidel, did not a few such men as he _keep me back_. and now, my dear sir, after the many trifling subjects in this very long correspondence with you, i will avail myself of this good one, to close it, on the noblest work of god, an honest man. the loss of such a friend, is sufficient to induce one to lay aside all pursuits, but that of following his example, and to prepare to follow him. if you should ever follow me _here_, i flatter myself you will find, that i have, to the best of my poor abilities, made such a sketch of _men and things_ on this side of the water, that you will be able to discover some likeness to the originals. a bad painter often hits the general features, though he fall ever so short of the graces of _titian_, or the _morbidezza_ of _guido_. i am sure, therefore, you and every man of candour, will make allowances for the many inaccuracies, defects, &c. which i am sensible these letters abound with, tho' i am incapable of correcting them. my journey, you know was not made, as most travellers' are, to indulge in luxury, or in pursuit of pleasures, but to soften sorrow, and to recover from a blow, which came from a mighty hand indeed; but a hand still more mighty, has enabled me to resist it, and to return in health, spirits, and with that peace of mind which no _earthly power_ can despoil me of, and with that friendship and regard for you, which will only cease, when i cease to be philip thicknesse. _calais, nov. , ._ p.s. i found _berwick's_ regiment on duty in this town: it is commanded by _mons. le duc de fitz-james_, and a number of irish gentlemen, my countrymen, (for so i will call them.) you may easily imagine, that men who possess the natural hospitality of their own country, with the politeness and good-breeding of this, must be very agreeable acquaintance in general: but i am bound to go farther, and to say, that i am endeared to them by marks of true friendship. the king of france, nor any prince in europe, cannot boast of troops better disciplined; nor is the king insensible of their merit, for i have lately seen a letter written by the king's command from _comte de st. germain_, addressed to the officers of one of these corps, whereby it appears, that the king is truly sensible of their distinguished merit; for braver men there are not in any service:--what an acquisition to france! what a loss to britain! as the _marquis_ of _grimaldi_ is retired from his public character, i am tempted to send you a specimen of his private one, which flattering as it is to me, and honourable to himself, i should have withheld, had his excellency continued first minister of spain; by which you will see, that while my own countrymen united to set me in a suspicious light, (though they thought otherwise) the ministers politeness and humanity made them tremble at the duplicity of their conduct; and had i been disposed to have acted the same sinister part they did, some of them might have been reminded of an old spanish proverb, "_a las màlas lénguas tigéras_" "muy s^or. mio. por la carta de i^o del corr^te. veo su feliz llegada a esta ciudad, en donde habia tomado una casa, y por las cartas que me incluye, y debuelbo, reconosco los terminos honrados y recomendables con que ha efectuado su salida de inglaterra, cosa que yo nunca podria dudar. "deseo que a v.s. le va' ya muy bien en este reyno, y espero que me avifara el tiempo que se propusiere detener en barcelona, y tambien quando se verificara su yda a valencia: cuyo pais se ha creydo el mas propio para su residencia estable, por la suavidad del clima y demas circunstantias.--v.s. me hallara pronto a complacerle y sevirle en lo que se le ofrezca: que es quendo en el dia puedo decirle, referiendome ademas a mis cartas precedentes communicadas por medio de ... dios quiere a v.s. m^o c^o d^o s^r el nov^re. de . "b l.m. en. s. su mayor fer^or. el marq^s de grimaldi, _a don felipe thickness_." _a madame_ thicknesse. voila, madame, quelques amusemens de ma plume, vous avez paru les desirer, mon empressement a vous obeir sera le merite de ces legeres productions; la premiere a eu assez de succes en france, je doute qu'elle puisse en avoir un pareil en angleterre, parce que le mot n'a peut-etre pas la meme signification ce que nous appellons grelot est une petite cochette fermee que l'on attache aux hochets des enfans pour les amuser; dans le sens metaphysique on en fait un des attributs de la folie: ice je l'employe comme embleme de gaiete et d'enfance. le pritems est une epitre ecrite de la campagne a un de mes amis; j'etois sous le charme de la creation, pour ainsi dire; les vers en font d'une mesuretres difficile. la description de courcelles est celle d'une terre qu'avoit ma mere, et ou j'ai passe toute ma jeunesse; enchantee de son paysage, et de la vie champetre que j'aime passion, je l'adressois a un honnete homme de rheims que j'appellois par plaisanterie mon papa: ce que j'ai de meilleur dans mon porte-feuille, ce sont des chansons pour mon mari; comme je l'aime parfaitement mon coeur m'a servi de muse: mais cette tendresse toujours si delicieuse aux interesses ne peut plaire a ceux qui ne le sont pas. quand j'auri l'honneur de vous revoir, madame, je vous communiquerai mon recueil, et vous jugerez. recevez les hommages respectueux de mon mari, et daignezfaire agreér nos voeux a mons. tiennerse; je n'ai point encore reçu les jolies poches, je pars demain pour la campagne, et j'y resterai quinze jours; nous avons des chaleurs cruelles, messrs. les anglois qui sont ici en souffrent beaucoup, j'ai l'honneur d'etre avec le plus inviolable attachement, madame, votre tres humble et tres obeissante servante, _de courcelles desjardins._ juillet, . _epitre au grelot._ de la folie aimable lot don plus brillant que la richesse, et que je nommerai sagesse si je ne craignois le fagot, c'est toi que je chante ô grelot! hochet heureux de tous les ages l'homme est à toi dès le maillot, mais dans tes nombreux appanages jamais tu ne comptas le sot: de tes sons mitigés le sage en tapinois se rejouït tandis que l'insensé jouït du plaisir de faire tapage. plus envié que dédaigné par cette espece atrabilaire qui pense qu'un air refrogné la met au dessus du vulgaire, la privation de tes bienfaits seule fait naître sa satyre; charmante idole du françois chez lui réside ton empire: tes détracteurs font les pedans, les avares et les amans de cette gloire destructive qui peuple l'infernale rive, et remplit l'univers d'excès. l'ambitieux dans son délire n'eprouve que de noirs accès, le genre-humain seroit en paix, si les conquérans savoient rire. contre ce principe évident c'est en vain qu'un censeur declame, le mal ne se fait en riant. si de toi provient l'epigrame, son tour heureux ne'est que plaisant et ne nuit jamais qu'au méchant que sa conscience décèle. nomme t-on la rose cruelle lorsqu'un mal-adroit la cueillant se blesse lui-même au tranchant de l'epine qu'avec prudence nature fit pour sa défense. tes simples et faciles jeux prolongent dit-on notre enfance censeur, que te faut-il de mieux! des abus, le plus dangereux, le plus voisin de la démence est de donner trop d'importance a ces chiméres dont les cieux ont composé notre existence notre devoir est d'être heureux a moins de frais, à moins de voeux de l'homme est toute la science. par tes sons toujours enchanteurs tu fais fuir la froide vieillesse ou plutôt la couvrant de fleurs tu lui rends l'air de la jeunesse. du temps tu trompes la lenteur, par toi chaque heure est une fête _démocrite_ fut ton docteur _anacréon_ fut ton prophête; tous deux pour sages reconnus, l'un riant des humains abus te fit sonner dans sa retraite l'autre chantant à la guingette te donna pour pomme à _venus_ après eux ma simple musette t'offre ses accens ingénus charmant grelot, sur ta clochette je veux moduler tous mes vers, sois toujours la douce amusette source de mes plaisirs divers heureux qui te garde en cachette et se passe l'univers. _le printems._ epitre à mons. d---- déjà dans la plaine on ressent l'haleine du léger zephir; déja la nature sourit au plaisir, la jeune verdure a l'eclat du jour oppose la teinte que cherit l'amour fuyant la contrainte, au pied des ormeaux; ma muse naïve reprend ses pipeaux; sur la verte rive aux tendres echos elle dit ces mots. volupté sure bien sans pareil! o doux réveil de la nature! que l'ame pure dans nos guérets avec yvresse voit tes attraits; de la tendresse et de la paix les doux bienfaits sur toute espéce vont s'epandant, et sont l'aimant dont la magie enchaîne et lie tout l'univers l'homme pervers dans sa malice ferme son coeur a ces delices, et de l'erreur des goûts factices fait son bonheur la noire envie fille d'orgueil, chaque furie jusqu'au circueil, tisse sa vie. les vains désirs les vrais plaisirs sont antipodes; a ces pagodes culte se rend, l'oeil s'y méprend et perd de vuë felicité, la déité la plus couruë la moins connuë simple réduit et solitaire jadis construit par le mystére est aujourd'hui sa residencei la bienveillance. au front serein de la déesse est la prêtresse; les ris badins sont sacristains, joyeux fidelles, de fleurs nouvelles offrent les dons. tendres chansons tribut du zele, jointes au sons de philoméle, de son autel sont le rituel dans son empire telle est la loi, "aimer et rire de bonne foy." cet evangile peu difficile du vrai bonheur seroit auteur si pour apôtre il vous avoit; en vain tout autre le prêcheroit. la colonie du double mont du vraie génie vous a fait don, sans nul caprice entrez en lice, et de passif venant actif pour la déesse enchanteresse qui dans ces lieux nous rend heureux donnez moi rose nouvelle éclose: du doux printems hâtez le tems il etincelle en vos écrits, qu'il renouvelle mes esprits. adieu beau sire, pour ce délire le sentiment est mon excuse. s'il vous amuse un seul moment, et vous rapelle un coeur fidelle depuis cent ans, comme le vôtre en tous les tems n'ai désir autre. fable _les aquilons et l'oranger._ de fougeux aquilons une troupe emportée contre un noble oranger éxhaloit ses fureurs ils soufflerent en vain, leur rage mutinée de l'arbre aux fruits dorés n'ôta que quelques fleurs. madrigal du tumulte, du bruit, des vaines passions fuyons l'eclat trompeur: à leurs impressions préférons les douceurs de ce sejour paisible, disoit un jour _ariste_ à la tendre _délos_. soit, repart celle-ci; mais las! ce doux repos n'est que le pis-aller d'une ame trop sensible. quatrain telle que ce ruisseau qui promene son onde dans des lieux ecartés loin du bruit et du monde je veux pour peu d'amis éxister desormais c'est loin des faux plaisirs que l'on trouve les vrais. reverie sur une lecture. aux froids climats de l'ourse, et dans ceux du midi, l'homme toujours le même est vain, foible, et crédule, sa devise est partout _sottise et ridicule_. le célébre chinois, le françois étourdi de la raison encore n'ont que le crepuscule jadis au seul hazard donnant tout jugement, par les effets cuisans du fer rougi qui brule on croyoit discerner le foible et l'innocent; a siam aujourd'hui pareille erreur circule, et l'on voit même esprit sous une autre formule: quand quelque fait obscur tient le juge en suspens on fait aux yeux de tous à chaque contendant d'esculape avaler purgative pillule, celui dont l'estomac répugne à pareil mets est réputé coupable et paye tous les frais. du pauvre genre-humain telles sont les annales: rome porta le deuil de l'honneur des vestales, du saint pere à présent, elle baise l'ergot: plus gais, non plus sensés dans ce siécle falot nous choisissons au moins l'erreur la plus jolie: de l'inquisition, le bal, la comédie remplacent parmi nous le terrible fagot; notre légéreté détruit la barbarie mais nous n'avons encore que changé de folie. envoi a mon mari. tandis, mon cher, que tes travaux me procurent ce doux repos. et cette heureuse insouciance but incertain de l'opulence; mon ame l'abeille imitant aux pays d'esprit élancée cueille les fleurs de la pensée et les remet aux sentiment. mais helas! dans ce vaste champ en vain je cherche la sagesse, près de moi certain dieu fripon me fait quitter l'école de _zenon_ pour le charme de la tendresse; "l'homme est crée pour être bon et non savant, dit il, qu'il aime, du bonheur c'est le vrai systême" je sens, ma foi, qu'il a raison. description _de la terre dans laquelle j'habitois, adressée à un homme très respectable que j'appellois mon papa._ que vous êtes aimable, mon cher papa, de me demander une description de ma solitude. votre imagination est gênée de ne pouvoir se la peindre. vous voulez faire de _courcelles_ une seconde étoile du matin, et y lier avec moi un de ces commerces d'ames réservés aux favoris de brama. votre idée ne me perdra plus de vue, j'en ferai mon génie tutélaire. je croirai à chaque instant sentir sa présence, ah! elle ne peut trop tôt arriver, montrons lui donc le chemin. quittant votre cité rhémoise, ville si fertil en bons vins, en gras moutons, en bons humains, après huit fois trois mille toises toujours suivant le grand chemin, on découvre enfin le village où se trouve notre hermitage. là rien aux yeux du voyageur ne presente objet de surprise, petit ruisseau, des maisons, une eglise tout à côté la hutte du pasteur; car ces messieurs pour quelques patenôtres. pour un surplis, pour un vêtement noir en ce monde un peu plus qu'en l'autre ont droit près du bon dieu d'établir leur manoir. ce début n'est pas fort seduisant; aussi ne vous ai-je rien promis de merveilleux. je pourrois cependant pour embellir ma narration me perdre dans de brillantes descriptions, et commencer par celle de notre clocher; mais malheureusement nous n'en avons point; car je ne crois pas que l'on puisse appeller de ce nom l'endroit presque souterrain où logent trois mauvaises cloches. elles m'étourdissent par fois au point que sans leur baptême, je les enverrois aux enfers sonner les diners de _pluton_ et de _proserpine_. on apperçoit près de l'eglise, entre elle et le curé, une petite fenêtre grillée, ceci est une vraie curiosité; c'est un sépulcre bâti par _saladin d'anglure_, ancien seigneur de _courcelles_ il vivoit du tems des croisades, et donna comme les autres dans la manie du siécle. il ne fut pas plus heureux que ses confreres. son sort fut d'être prisonnier du vaillant saladin dont il conserva le surnom. sa captivité l'ennuyant, il fit voeu, si elle finissoit bientôt, de bàtir dans sa seigneurie un sépulcre, et un calvaire à même distance l'un de l'autre qu'ils le sont à jérusalum. c'est aussi ce qu'il fit. quand par une aventure heureuse, des fers du vaillant _saladin_ il revint chez lui sauf et sain; mais la chronique scandaleuse qui daube toujours le prochain, et ne se repâit que de blame pretend que trop tôt pour madame, et trop tard pour le pelerin dans son châtel il s'en revint. ce fut, dit on, le lendemain, la veille, ou le jour que la dame, croyant son mari très benin parti pour la gloire éternelle venoit de contracter une hymenée nouvelle. la tradition étoit en balance sur ces trois dates; mais la malignité humaine a donné la préférence à la derniére, ensorte qu'il paroit trés sur que l'epoux n'arriva que le lendemain. quel affront pour un chef couronné de lauriers! tel est pourtant le sort des plus fameux guerriers; ceux d'aujourd'hui n'en font que rire mais ceux du tems passé mettoient la chose au pis, ils n'avoient pas l'esprit de dire nous sommes quitte, et bons amis. pendant que vous êtes en train de visiter nos antiquités courcelloises, il me prend envie de vous faire entrer dans notre réduit. quoique du titre de château, pompeusement on le decore, ne vous figurez pas qu'il soit vaste ni beau. tel que ces grands que l'on honore pour les vertus de leurs ayeux pour tout mérite il n'a comme eux qu'un nom qui se conserve encore. ainsi pour vous en former une juste idée, ne cherchez votre modéle ni dans les romans, ni dans les miracles de féerie. ce n'est pas même un vieux château fort, comme il en éxiste encore quelques uns dàns nos entours. point, on n'y voit fossé ni bastion ni demi-lune ni dongeon, ni beaux dehors de structure nouvelle, mais bien une antique tourelle flanquant d'assez, vieux bâtimens dont elle est l'unique ornement. un poëte de nos cantons a dit assez plaisamment en parlant de ceci. sur les bords de la vesle est un château charmant n'allez pas chicaner, lecteur impertinent) (le bâtiment à part, la dame qui l'habite par ses rares vertus en fait tout le mérite. vous verrez tout-à l'heure s'il avoit raison. je ne m'arrêterai point à vous peindre la ferme quoi qu'elle tienne au château, ni l'attirail des animaux de toute espèce qu'elle renferme. ces spectacles vraiment rustiques offrent pourtant plus de plaisirs a des regards philosophiques, que ce que l'art et les desirs de notre insatiable espèce inventent tous les jours aidés par la mollesse. je vous ferai entrer tout de suite dans une grande cour de gazon où effectivement je voudrois bien vous voir. deux manieses de perrons y conduisent, l'un aux appartemens, l'autre à la cuisine. commençons par ce dernier quoique ce ne soit pas trop la coutume. là chaque jour, tant bien que mal, on apprete deux fois un repas très frugal, mais que l'appétit assaisonne. loin, bien loin, ces bruyans festins, toujours suivis des médecins où le poison dans cent ragoûts foisonne nous aimons mieux peu de mets bien choisis de la santé, moins de plats, plus de ris. voilà notre devise, mon cher papa, je crois qu'elle est aussi la vôtre; notre réz de chaussée consiste en cuisine, office, salle à manger, chambre et cabinets, rien de tout cela n'est ni élegant ni commode. nos devanciers fort bonnes gens n'entendoient rien aux ornemens et leurs désirs ne passoient guére les bornes du seul necessaire. ils étoient plus heureux et plus sages que nous, car la vraie sagesse n'est autre chose que la modération des desirs. d'après cette definition on pourroit, je crois, loger tout notre siécle aux petites maisons. ce qu'il y a de plus agréable dans la notre est la vuë du grand chemin. de ce chemin où chacun trotte où nous voyons soirs et matins passer toute espece d'humains; tantôt la gent portant calote, et tantôt de jeunes plumets, les rusés disciples d'ignace puis ceux de la grace efficace, des piétons, des cabriolets tant d'etres à deux pieds, sots, et colifichets, enfin cent sortes d'équipages et mille sortes de visages. ce tableau mouvant est par fois fort récréatif, il me paroit assez plaisant d'y juger les gens sur la mine, et de deviner leur motif, et le sujet de leurs courses. mais, papa, qu'il est consolant voyant leurs soins et leur inquiétude de jouir du repos constant qu'on goute dans la solitude. a dire vrai, le spectacle du grand chemin, est celui qui m'occupe le moins; j'aime mille fois mieux nos promenades champêtres; avant de yous y conduire, il faut en historien fidelle vous rendre compte de notre chaumiére. vous croyez peut-être trouver un premier étage au dessus de la façade dont je vous ai parlé? point du tout. ne vous ai-je pas dit que nos péres préferoient l'utile à l'agréable: aussi ont ils mieux aimé construire de grands greniers que de jolis appartemens; mais en revanche ils out jetté quantité de petites mansardes sur un autre côté du logis. ce dernier donne sur un verger qui fait mes délices, il est précédé d'un petit parterre, et finit par un bois charmant. une onde toujours claire et pure y vient accorder souo murmure au son mélodieux de mille et mille oiseaux que cachent en tous tems nos jeunes arbrisseaux. c'est là que votre fille se plait à rêver à vous, mon cher papa, c'est dans ce réduit agréable qu'elle s'occupe tour à tour de morale et de tendresse. _epictete, pope, zénon._ et _socrate_, et surtout l'ingenieux _platon_, viennent dans ces lieux solitaires me prêter le secours de leurs doctes lumiéres: mais plus souvent la soeur de l'enfant de cypris ecartant sans respect cette foule de sages occupe seule mes esprits en y gravant de mes amis les trop séduisantes images. je n'entreprendrai pas de vous peindre nos autres promenades, elles sont toutes charmantes; un paysage coupé, quantité de petits bosquets, mille jolis chemins, nous procurent naturellement des beautés auxquelles l'art ne sauroit atteindre. la vesle borde nos prairies sur sa rive toujours fleurie regne un doux air de bergerie dangereux pour les tendres coeurs. là, qui se sent l'ame attendrie s'il craint de l'amour les erreurs doit vite quitter la partie. quittons la donc, mon cher papa; aussi bien ai-je seulement oublié de vous montrer la plus piéce de l'hermitage. c'est un canal superbe. il a cent vingt toises de long sur douze de large, une eau courante et crystalline en rend la surface toujours brillante, cest la digne embléme d'un coeur ami, jugez si cette vuë me fait penser à vous. de grands potagers terminent l'enclos de la maison. si j'étois méchante je continuerois ma description, et ne vous ferois pas grace d'une laitue, mais je me contenteraide vous dire que le ciel fit sans doute ce canton pour des etres broutans. si les israëlites en eussent mangé jadis, ils n'auroient ni regretté l'egypte ni desiré la terre promise. voilà mon cher papa une assez mauvaize esquisse du pays courcellois. l'air m'en seroit plus doux et le ciel plus serein si quelque jour, moins intraitable et se laissant flechir, le farouche destin y conduisoit ce _trio_ tant aimable que j'aime, et chérirai sans fin mais las! j'y perds tout mon latin, et ce que de mieux je puis faire est d'espérer et de me taire * * * * * i should have stopt here, and finished my present correspondence with you by leaving your mind harmonized with the above sweet stanzas of _madame des jardins_, but that it may seem strange, to give a specimen of one french lady's literary talents, without acknowledging, that this kingdom abounds with many, of infinite merit.--while england can boast only of about half a dozen women, who will immortalize their names by their works, france can produce half an hundred, admired throughout europe, for their wit, genius, and elegant compositions.--were i to recite the names and writings only of female authors of eminence, which france has produced, since the time of the first, and most unfortunate _heloise_, who died in , down to _madame riccoboni_, now living, it would fill a volume. we have, however, a carter, and a barbauld, not less celebrated for their learning and genius than for their private virtues; and i think it may, with more truth be said of women, than of men, that the more knowledge, the more virtue; the more understanding, the less courage. why then is the _plume elevated to the head_? and what must the present mode of female education and manners end in, but in more ignorance, dissipation, debauchery and luxury? and, at length, in national ruin. thus it was at rome, the mistress of the world; they became fond of the most vicious men, and such as meant to enslave them, who corrupted their hearts, by humouring and gratifying their follies, and encouraging, on all sides, idleness and dissolute manners, blinded by cÆsar's complaisance; from his _almsmen_, they became his _bondmen_; he charmed them in order to enslave them. when the tragedy of _tereus_ was acted at rome, _cicero_ observed, what plaudits the audience gave with their hands at some severe strokes in it against tyranny; but he very justly lamented, that they employed their hands, _only in the theatre_, not in defending that liberty which they seemed so fond of. and now, as bayes says, "let's have a dance." ---- general hints to strangers who travel in france. general hints, &c. i. if you travel post, when you approach the town, or bourg where you intend to lie, ask the post-boy, which house he recommends as the best? and never go to that, if there is any other.--be previously informed what other inns there are in the same place. if you go according to the post-boy's recommendation, the aubergiste gives him two or three livres, which he makes you pay the next morning. i know but one auberge between _marseilles_ and _paris_, where this is not a constant practice, and that is at _vermanton_, five leagues from _auxerre_, where every english traveller will find a decent landlord, _monsieur brunier_, _a st. nicolas_; good entertainment, and no imposition, and consequently an inn where no post-boy will drive, if he can avoid it. ii. if you take your own horses, they must be provided with head-pieces, and halters; the french stables never furnish any such things; and your servant must take care that the _garçon d'ecurie_ does not buckle them so tight, that the horses cannot take a full bite, this being a common practice, to save hay. iii. if the _garçon d'ecurie_ does not bring the halters properly rolled up, when he puts your horses to, he ought to have nothing given him, because they are so constantly accustomed to do it, that they cannot forget it, _but in hopes you may too_. iv. direct your servant, not only to see your horses watered, and corn given them, but to _stand by_ while they eat it: this is often necessary in england, and always in france. v. if you eat at the _table d'hote_, the price is fixed, and you cannot be imposed upon. if you eat in your own chamber, and order your own dinner or supper, it is as necessary to make a previous bargain with your host for it, as it would be to bargain with an itinerant jew for a gold watch; the _conscience_ and _honour_ of a _french aubergiste_, and a travelling jew, are always to be considered alike; and it is very remarkable, that the publicans in france, are the only people who receive strangers with a cool indifference! and where this indifference is most shewn, there is most reason to be cautious. vi. be careful that your sheets are well aired, otherwise you will find them often, not only damp, but perfectly wet.--frenchmen in general do not consider wet or damp sheets dangerous, i am sure french _aubergistes_ do not. vii. young men who travel into france with a view of gaining the language, should always eat at the _table d'hote_.--there is generally at these tables, an officer, or a priest, and though there may be none but people of a middling degree, they will shew every kind of attention and preference to a stranger. viii. it is necessary to carry your own pillows with you; in some inns they have them; but in villages, _bourgs_, &c. none are to be had. ix. in the wine provinces, at all the _table d'hotes_, they always provide the common wine, as we do small beer; wine is never paid for separately, unless it is of a quality above the _vin du pays_; and when you call for better, know the price _before_ you drink it. x. when fine cambrick handkerchiefs, &c. are given to be washed, take care they are not trimmed round two inches narrower, to make borders to _madame la blanchisseuse's_ night caps: this is a little _douceur_ which they think themselves entitled to, from my lord _anglois_, whom they are sure is _tres riche_, and consequently ought to be plundered by the poor. xi. whenever you want honest information, get it from a french officer, or a priest, provided they are on the _wrong_ side of forty; but in general, avoid all acquaintance with either, on the _right_ side of thirty. xii. where you propose to stay any time, be very cautious with whom you make an acquaintance, as there are always a number of officious forward frenchmen, and english adventurers, ready to offer you their services, from whom you will find it very difficult to disengage yourself, after you have found more agreeable company.--frenchmen of real fashion, are very circumspect, and will not _fall in love with you_ at first sight; but a designing knave will exercise every species of flattery, in order to fix himself upon you for his dinner, or what else he can get, and will be with you before you are up, and after you are in bed. xiii. wherever there is any cabinet of curiosities, medals, pictures, &c. to be seen, never make any scruple to send a card, desiring permission to view them; the request is flattering to a frenchman, and you will never be refused; and besides this you will in all probability thereby gain a valuable acquaintance.--it is generally men of sense and philosophy, who make such collections, and you will find the collector of them, perhaps, the most pleasing part of the cabinet. xiv. take it as a maxim, unalterable as the laws of the medes and persians, that whenever you are invited to a supper at _paris_, _lyons_, or any of the great cities, where a _little_ trifling play commences before supper, that great play is intended after supper; and that you are the marked pigeon to be plucked. always remember _lord chesterfield's_ advice to his son: "if you play with men, know with _whom_ you play; if with women, for _what_:" and don't think yourself the more secure, because you see at the same table some of your own countrymen, though they are lords or ladies; a _london_ gambler would have no chance in a _parisian_ party. xv. dress is an essential and most important consideration with every body in france. a frenchman never appears till his hair is well combed and powdered, however slovenly he may be in other respects.--not being able to submit every day to this ceremony, the servant to a gentleman of fashion at whose house i visited in _marseilles_, having forgot my name described me to his master, as the gentleman whose hair was _toujours mal frise_.--dress is a foolish thing, says _lord chesterfield_; yet it is a foolish thing not to be well dressed. xvi. you cannot dine, or visit after dinner, in an undress frock, or without a bag to your hair; the hair _en queue_, or a little cape to your coat, would be considered an unpardonable liberty. military men have an advantage above all others in point of dress, in france; a regimental or military coat carries a man with a _bonne grace_ into all companies, with or without a bag to his hair; it is of all others the properest dress for a stranger in france, on many accounts. xvii. in france it is not customary to drink to persons at table, nor to drink wine after dinner: when the dessert is taken away, so is the wine;--an excellent custom, and worthy of being observed by all nations. xviii. it is wrong to be led into any kind of conversation, but what is absolutely necessary, with the common, or indeed the middling class of people in france. they never fail availing themselves of the least condescension in a stranger, to ask a number of impertinent questions, and to conclude, you answer them civilly, that they are your equals.--sentiment and bashfulness are not to be met with, but among people of rank in france: to be free and easy, is the etiquette of the country; and some kinds of that free and easy manner, are highly offensive to strangers, and particularly to a shy englishman. xix. when well-bred people flatter strangers, they seldom direct their flattery to the object they mean to compliment, but to one of their own country:--as, what a _bonne grace_ the english have, says one to the other, in a whisper loud enough to be heard by the whole company, who all give a nod of consent; yet in their hearts they do not love the english of all other nations, and therefore conclude, that the english in their hearts do not love them. xx. no gentleman, priest, or servant, male or female, ever gives any notice by knocking before they enter the bed-chamber, or apartment of ladies or gentlemen.--the post-man opens it, to bring your letters; the capuchin, to ask alms; and the gentleman to make his visit. there is no privacy, but by securing your door by a key or a bolt; and when any of the middling class of people have got possession of your apartment, particularly of a stranger, it is very difficult to get them out. xxi. there is not on earth, perhaps, so curious and inquisitive a people as the lower class of french: noise seems to be one of their greatest delights. if a ragged boy does but beat a drum or sound a trumpet, he brings all who hear it about him, with the utmost speed, and most impatient curiosity.--as my monkey rode postillion, in a red jacket laced with silver, i was obliged to make him dismount, when i passed thro' a town of any size: the people gathered so rapidly about me at _moret_, three leagues from _fontainbleau_, while i stopped only to buy a loaf, that i verily believe every man, woman, and child, except the sick and aged, were paying their respects to my little groom; all infinitely delighted; for none offered the least degree of rudeness. xxii. the french never give coffee, tea, or any refreshment, except upon particular occasions, to their morning or evening visitors. xxiii. when the weather is cold, the fire small, and a large company, some young frenchman shuts the whole circle from receiving any benefit from it, by placing himself just before it, laying his sword genteely over his left knee, and flattering himself, while all the company wish him at the devil, that the ladies are admiring his legs: when he has gratified his vanity, or is thoroughly warm, he sits down, or goes, and another takes his place. i have seen this abominable ill-breeding kept up by a set of _accomplished_ young fops for two hours together, in exceeding cold weather. this custom has been transplanted lately into england. xxiv. jealousy is scarce known in france; by the time the first child is born, an indifference generally takes place: the husband and wife have their separate acquaintance, and pursue their separate _amusements_, undisturbed by domestic squabbles: when they meet in the evening, it is with perfect good humour, and in general, perfect good breeding.--when an english wife plays truant, she soon becomes abandoned: it is not so with the french; they preserve appearances and proper decorum, because they are seldom attached to any particular man. while they are at their toilet, they receive the visits of their male acquaintance, and he must be a man of uncommon discernment, who finds out whom it is she prefers at that time.--in the southern parts of france, the women are in general very _free_ and _easy_ indeed. xxv. it is seldom that virgins are seduced in france; the married women are the objects of the men of gallantry. the seduction of a young girl is punished with death; and when they fall, it is generally into the arms of their confessor,--and that is seldom disclosed. auricular confession is big with many mischiefs, as well as much good. where the penitent and the confessor happen both to be young, he makes her confess not only all her sins, but sinful thoughts, and then, i fear he knows more than his prudence can absolve _decently_, and even when the confessor is old, the penitent may not be out of danger. xxvi. never ask a frenchman his age; no question whatever can be more offensive to him, nor will he ever give you a direct, though he may a civil answer.--_lewis_ the xvth was always asking every man about him, his age. a king may take that liberty, and even then, it always gives pain.--_lewis_ the xivth said to _comte de grammont_, "_je sais votre age, l'eveque de senlis qui a ans, m'a donne pour epoque, que vous avez etudie ensemble dans la meme classe_." _cet eveque, sire_, (replied the _comte,) n'accuse pas juste, car ni lui, ni moi n'avons jamais etudie_.--before i knew how offensive this question was to a frenchman, i have had many equivocal answers,--such as, _o! mon dieu_, as old as the town, or, i thank god, i am in good health, &c. xxvii. a modern french author says, that the french language is not capable of the _jeux de mots_. _les jeux de mots_, are not, says he, in the genius _de notre langue, qui est grave, de serieuse_. perhaps it maybe so; but the language, and the men, are then so different, that i thought quite otherwise,--though the following beautiful specimen of the seriousness of the language ought, in some measure; to justify his remark: un seul est frappé, & tous sont delivrés, dieu frappe sons fils innocent, pour l'amour des hommes coupables, & pardonne aux hommes coupables, pour l'amour de son fils innocent. xxviii. all english women, as well as women of other nations, prefer france to their own country; because in france there is much less restraint on their actions, than there is, (should i not say, than there _was_?) in england. all englishmen, however, who have young and beautiful wives, should, if they are not indifferent about their conduct, avoid a trip to _paris_, &c. tho' it be but for "_a six weeks tour_." she must be good and wise too, if six weeks does not corrupt her mind and debauch her morals, and that too by her own sex, which is infinitely the most dangerous company. a french woman is as great an adept at laughing an english-woman into all contempt of fidelity to her husband, as married english-women are in general, in preparing them during their first pregnancy, for the touch of a man-midwife,--and both from the same motive; _i.e._ to do, as they have done, and bring all the sex upon a level. xxix. the french will not allow their language to be so difficult to speak properly, as the english language; and perhaps they are in the right; for how often do we meet with englishmen who speak french perfectly? how seldom do we hear a frenchman speak english without betraying his country by his pronunciation? it is not so with the spaniards; i conversed with two spaniards who were never twenty miles from _barcelona_, that spoke english perfectly well.--how, for instance, shall a frenchman who cannot pronounce the english, be able to understand, (great as the difference is) what i mean when i say _the sun is an hour high_? may he not equally suppose that i said _the sun is in our eye_? xxx. when you make an agreement with an _aubergiste_ where you intend to lie, take care to include beds, rooms, &c. or he will charge separately for these articles. xxxi. after all, it must be confessed, that _mons. dessein's a l'hotel d'angleterre_ at _calais_, is not only the first inn strangers of fashion generally go to, but that it is also the first and best inn in france. _dessein_ is the decoy-duck, and ought to have a salary from the french government: he is always sure of a good one from the english. xxxii. in frontier or garrison towns, where they have a right to examine your baggage, a twenty-four _sols_ piece, and assuring the officer that you are a gentleman, and not a merchant, will carry you through without delay. xxxiii. those who travel post should, before they set out, put up in parcels the money for the number of horses they use for one post, two posts, and a post _et demi_, adding to each parcel, that which is intended to be given to the driver, or drivers, who are intitled by the king's ordinance to five _sols_ a post; and if they behave ill, they should be given no more; when they are civil, ten or twelve _sols_ a post is sufficient. if these packets are not prepared, and properly marked, the traveller, especially if he is not well acquainted with the money, cannot count it out while the horses are changing, from the number of beggars which surround the carriage and who will take no denial. xxxiv. people of rank and condition, either going to, or coming from the continent, by writing to peter fector, esq; at _dover_, will find him a man of property and character, on whom they may depend. lastly, valetudinarians, or men of a certain age, who travel into the southern parts of france, spain, or italy, should never omit to wear either a callico or fine flannel waistcoat under their shirts: strange as it may seem to say so, this precaution is more necessary in the south of france, than in england. in may last it was so hot at _lyons_, on the side of the streets the sun shone on, and so cold on the shady side, that both were intolerable. the air is much more _vif_ and penetrating in hot climates, than in cold. a dead dog, thrown into the streets of madrid at night, will not have a bit of flesh upon his bones after it has been exposed to that keen air twenty-four hours. finis. [list of possible typos or transcriber changes:] ltr. para. : monnments [monuments?] several inscriptions were blurred or missing in this source. educated guesses were made in a few cases. ltr. : this is what was visible to the transcriber: l domit. domitiani ex trierarchi class. germ. d pecco****a valentina m co*****entissima. some characters blurred or missing. the full transcription was entered from other sources. some of this looks wrong--e.g. the third line should probably begin p f, rather than pe--but it matches the text as printed. ltr. para. : typo: that [than?] ltr. para. : typo: hundry [hungry?] [every attempt has been made to replicate the original as printed. some typographical errors have been corrected; a list follows the text. misspelled spanish has not been corrected or normalized. archaic usages in english (i.e. fulfil, etc.) have been retained. (note of etext transcriber)] _toledo_ _the story of an old spanish capital_ _the mediæval town series_ *assisi. by lina duff gordon. [_ th edition._ +bruges. by ernest gilliat-smith. [_ rd edition._ +brussels. by ernest gilliat-smith. +cairo. by stanley lane-poole. [_ nd edition._ +cambridge. by the rt. rev. c. w. stubbs, d.d. [_ nd edition._ +chartres. by cecil headlam, m.a. [_ nd edition._ *constantinople. by wm. h. hutton. [_ rd edition._ +dublin. by d. a. chart, m.a. +edinburgh. by oliphant smeaton, m.a. +ferrara. by ella noyes. +florence. by edmund g. gardner. [_ th & revised edition._ +london. by henry b. wheatley. [_ nd edition._ +milan. by ella noyes. *moscow. by wirt gerrare. [_ rd edition._ *nuremberg. by cecil headlam. m.a. [_ th edition._ +oxford. by cecil headlam. m.a. +padua. by cesare foligno. +paris. by thomas okey. *perugia. by m. symonds and lina duff gordon. [_ th edition._ +pisa. by janet ross. *prague. by count lÜtzow. [_ nd edition._ +rome. by norwood young. [_ th edition._ +rouen. by theodore a. cook. [_ rd edition._ +seville. by walter m. gallichan. [_ nd edition_ +siena. by edmund g. gardner. [_ nd edition._ *toledo. by hannah lynch. [_ nd edition._ +venice. by thomas okey. [_ rd & revised edition._ +verona. by alethea wiel. [_ rd edition._ _the price of these marked (*) is s. d. net in cloth, s. d. net in leather; +, s. d. net in cloth, s. d. net in leather._ _all rights reserved_ _first edition_, _august _ _second edition_, _july _. _third edition_, _may _. [illustration: _antonio de covarrubias._] toledo. _the story of an old spanish capital by hannah lynch illustrated by helen m. james_ [illustration: colophon] _london, _ _j. m. dent & sons, ltd._ _new york: e. p. dutton & co._ "_anda el tiempo y anda y todo se acaba._" romancero general. contents chapter i page _earliest history of toledo_ chapter ii _under goth rule_ chapter iii _under the moslems_ chapter iv _her latest history_ chapter v _the old capital, once and now_ chapter vi _the cathedral_ chapter vii _domenico theotocopoulos, "el greco"_ chapter viii _san juan de los reyes, santa maria la blanca, el transito_ chapter ix _vanished palaces_ chapter x _minor churches, convents, and hospitals_ chapter xi _bridges and gates_ appendix _practical information_ illustrations page _portrait of antonio de covarrubias, from the painting by el greco_ _frontispiece._ _puente de alcántara_ _puente de alcántara_ _the cathedral_ _puente s. martino_ _moorish arch leading to zocodover_ _house cervantes stayed in, toledo_ _the zocodover_ _the tagus_ _mill on the tagus_ _toledo from left bank of tagus_ _puente s. martino of bano de la cava_ _a street corner, toledo_ _interior of cathedral_ _north transept door of cathedral_ _interior of cathedral coro from s. aisle_ _detail of reja to capilla mayor, cathedral, toledo_ _detail, tomb of king, gospel side of high altar, cathedral, toledo_ _tomb of cardinal mendoza_ _capitular door in toledo cathedral_ _tombs of count alvaro de luna and wife, the cathedral, toledo_ _the cathedral tower_ _"the burial of the count of orgaz," from the painting by el greco_ _detail of ornament, interior of s. juan de los reyes_ _cloister, s. juan de los reyes_ _s. luke angle of cloister, s. juan de los reyes_ _detail of ornament, el transito_ _santa maria la blanca_ _remains of palace, said to be that of don pedro el cruel_ _casa fuensalida_ _moorish window in casa de mesa_ _the castle of san servando_ _san tomé_ _santiago, toledo_ _santo pablo_ _cristo de la luz_ _door of santa cruz_ _tomb of cardinal tavera_ _puerta visagra (antigua)_ _puerta del sol_ toledo the story of an old spanish capital chapter i _what is known of toledo's earliest history_ what more stupefying contrast than that of cheap commonplace madrid (cheap alas! only in the artistic sense) and the legendary still visage of toledo? the capital you leave abustle with modern movement, glaring, gesticulating, chattering, animated in its own empty and insignificant fashion, with its pleasant street of alcala, so engagingly unhistoric, its shop-fronts full of expensive and second-rate articles from other capitals, the vulgar vivacity of the puerta del sol thronged with everlasting gossips in trousers and wide-brimmed hats; with its swindling hotel-keepers and insolent drivers. the train sweeps you past the wide empty bed of the manzanares, covered here and there with a film you understand by courtesy to represent a river, and the city behind is a gay compact picture, slightly waving upward from its bridges, white and flourishing above the broad yellow plain. the tones of the land are rough and crude, red striking hotly against brown and greyish purple. here and there a solitary hill, burnt and defoliaged, with a glimpse of ruined ramparts, a mule-path along which a file of peasants pass, the women lost in roomy saddles, with feet dangling in the air, and red or yellow handkerchiefs tied under their chins. carts move slowly along the old diligence road, guided by heavy-browed males. the swallows' flight reveals the exquisite limpidity of the air and the height of the unstained heaven, azure in the infinite depths of aërial sapphire, blue beyond blue, translucent almost to the furthest reach of vision. and the light shines broadly upon an incomparable mingling in landscape of insensate ardour and changeless moroseness. so still, so brilliant, so burnt and empty! revealing the national traits of mournful hopelessness and unembittered, unregretful resignation. the rays lie in a luminous quietude upon the red-brown land, while the breath of fresh day just touches the leaves of the scant olives and shows them silver. then midway the desert swims behind, and the eye is mildly refreshed with little signs of pastoral life, ineffectual efforts at gaiety amid tyrannous sadness. imagination leaps at sight of a cheering bit of verdure, not for the beauty of it, though beauty is not altogether absent, but for the old familiar eloquence of trees and grassy spaces, the twinkling brightness of rills and flashing water and wooded fringes, with a hint of shadow along the horizon. between the poplared banks of the river, yellow and waveless as befits a river of dead romance, the eye lingers on glimpses of emerald islets, with reedy edges against the fuller foliage of elm. above, exposed on a rocky throne, belted by the sombre tagus, sits toledo. "the landscape of toledo and the banks of the tagus," writes m. maurice barrès, with singular felicity, "are amongst the saddest and most ardent things of this world. whoever lives here has no need to consider the grave youth, the _penseroso_, of the medicis chapel; he may also do without the biography and the _pensées_ of blaise pascal. with the very sentiment realised by these great solitary works, he will be filled, if he but give himself up to the tragic fierceness of the magnificences in ruins upon these high rocks. "toledo, on its hillside, with the tawny half circle of the tagus at its feet, has the colour, the roughness, the haughty poverty of the sierra on which it is built, and whose strong articulations from the very first produce an impression of energy and passion. it is less a town, a noisy affair yielding to the commodities of life, than a significant spot for the soul. beneath a crude illumination, which gives to each line of its ruins a vigour, a clearness by which the least energetic characters acquire backbone, at the same time it is mysterious, with its cathedral springing towards the sky, its alcázars and palaces that only take sight from their invisible patios. thus secret and inflexible, in this harsh overheated land, toledo appears like an image of exaltation in solitude, a cry in the desert." the train leaves you at the foot of the town before the quaint fortressed bridge of alcántara. in these days of unpretentious exits and entrances, when we scarcely detect the outskirts of a city from the open way, or the suburbs from the heart of urban movement, these two castellated bridges, by which you enter and leave toledo, have a strange and insistent air of feudality that at once captures fancy, and resembles the flourish of trumpets in martial dramas. civilisation instantly waves backward, and leaves imagination thrilled upon the shores of legend. at a bound memory is at the core of troubled spanish history, a sad and spectral ghost, in the thrall of wonderment and admiration. surely never was town, with all our modern needs of bread-winning and competition, of commerce and politics, of cheap ambition and every-day social intercourse, so curiously, magnificently faithful to its past. so precisely must toledo have looked, barring the electric light, when the last page of its intimate history was written. just so brown and barren, with its front of unflinching austerity, its stern wealth of architecture, the air of romantic elegance and charmed slumber it breathes upon sadness, with its look of legendary musing and widowed remembrance. so, unchanged, must it have been in its great day of hieratic glory, of gothic rule, of saracen triumph and of feudal revolt. [illustration: puente de alcantara] from the bridges, the road winds up the steep rock, upon whose summit this unique old city is built. the views at every turn of the winding path are entrancing. there is every strange effect to gratify the eager eye in search of the picturesque: an unsurpassed boldness of site, from the wide zone of the tagus to the point of the cathedral tower pinnacled against the upper arch of heaven. project high rocks upon which odd and delightful passages, neither street nor lane, full of colour and curve and varied line, are cut like sharp upward and downward strokes, over frowning ravines, and swelling by swift ascent from the yellow band of water below, that imprisons the town like a moat, and along with the martial bridges, give the impression of being cut off from the big lively world, a prisoner in a city of dreamland. at once you yield yourself to the gracious grip of your enchanter and gaoler. the eye rests in ineffable contentment upon the violent line of empty hills, yellow and brown and rose, turned violet by the sun's retreat, and you feel no longing for the vulgar and bustling present you have left behind. here to sit awhile and dream, not days but unending months, in the shadow of a mighty cathedral, in what a spanish writer with iberian imagery, has called "a case of mediæval jewels." it is a fitting note of environment that the landscape should be stamped by an ardent and ineffaceable desolation, incessantly exposed to devastating winds, swept by fierce rains and blinding dust and remorseless sunfire. nature is neither instigated by contrast, nor softened by charm. unsmiling in its arid austerity, it is grand by the magic of its simplicity. the audacity with which it reveals its nakedness in the glare of unshaded light that has burnt its flanks a peculiar reddish-brown hue, sinks all impression of crudity, and becomes the supreme effect of natural art. it makes no pretence to shield the peril of its broken precipices with the beguilement of verdure, but lets them hack their murderous way to the river-brim without shrub or any vigorous sign of vegetation. heavy and still, like the glittering light that fatigues the eye, it has nevertheless its secret, matchless captivation, such as venice, its sister-town in strangeness (though of softer and more alluring beauty, feminine to its stern masculine), and casts the mind, conquered, into the mazes of reverie. you may have come by a train into this mausoleum of petrified memories, you may sit at the usual table d'hôte, but you cannot feel modern: the present slips away, and forgotten is the march of centuries. * * * * * of the town's earliest history knowledge is merely the wildest assumption, and we have no reason to believe any of the legends handed down to us by historians as tradition. for instance, that obscure if venerable voice, asserts, that when god made the sun he placed it over toledo (previously made, of course) and planted the foot of adam, first king, beneath it at that particular spot of the globe. this is at least a fine testimony of the spaniard's lofty faith in the antiquity of toledo. a less sweeping assertion connects the first light of the town with tubal, the grandson of noah, who is supposed to have come hither after the deluge, and this view is naïvely supported by the verses of gracia dei, the chronicler of king pedro: "tubal, nieto de noé,[ ] alphonsus the learned, in his _cronica general_, maintains and is supported in his no less extravagant opinion by diego mossem valera, isabel the catholic's historian, that toledo was founded by pyrrhus, captain of the army of cyrus, and son-in-law of king hispan, father of iberia. it is imagined that iberia, pyrrhus's wife, was in need of the freshness and verdure of the leafy banks of the tagus, and that her husband brought her hither to taste the air and delights of the gardens around. but we are not told how there came to be gardens and foliaged places along the silent tagus, nor who fashioned them, nor how pyrrhus heard of them. the wife, iberia, and the father-in-law appear as adequate explanations of the subsequent history of spain, since both furnish the names of the land that europe is familiar with. once upon the banks of the tagus, the gardens did not content pyrrhus, so he began to enlarge the spot he had chosen. he discovered two towers, one at san roman, and the other at the alcázar, called _los dos hermanos_, (the two brothers), built, tradition then told him, by the two sons of king rocas in defence against the enemies of rocas and his father tartus. but whence came rocas and tartus and the two brothers? why should alphonso the learned choose pyrrhus and his wife, those remote tourists, as the founders of toledo, rather than rocas and tartus? rufo festo avieno regards hercules as the founder of the carpetanian city, and celebrates the achievement in verse: "et carpetanos inter proverbe sub auras toletum labor alcide præclareque gentes metropolis in gente tajo ses undique iactat in qua tardi gradus conspectat parte trionis haud pater alcides (ut dicunt) condidit urbem, mor ubi ter gemina victor gerione perempto, in latium meditatus iter dionysii quondam, prium dicta fuit de fundatoris honesto nomine; toletum alii dixere coloni." this version explains the name of toledo as ptoliethron, signifying important race, bestowed by hercules. honour is also awarded to a certain greek astrologer, ferecio, who came to galicia with teucer, ulysses and diomedes, after the siege of troy, and having killed one of his companions, flew from the anger of the others into the heart of the peninsula, until the security of the high rocks on which toledo is built, tempted him to seek shelter amid these altitudes, which he at once consecrated to hercules. as the natives gathered round him, and the town spread, he initiated them in the mysteries of magic and astrology, arts until then unknown in spain, and for this reason called _arta toledana_. less wild and improbable is the last legend, that the jews came hither when nebuchadnezzar took jerusalem, and created the town they called toledoth, "city of generations." from this period is supposed to date the synagogue santa maria la blanca. the explanation of the fact that under christian rule the jews of toledo were permitted to have their synagogues and worship unmolested according to their rites, is based on the tradition that the jews of jerusalem consulted them before condemning christ to death. they withheld their consent, and pronounced the sentence both heedless and imprudent, but their letter arrived too late for consideration. the mere belief that this letter had been sent, however, secured them for some centuries from insult or persecution.[ ] the famous archbishop, don rodrigo jimenez de rada, rejects all these theories, and goes to rome in search of founders, which he discovers in two consuls, tolemon and brutus, years before cæsar's time, when ptolemy evergetes was reigning. but this seems no nearer truth, since there exists no vestige of any domination anterior to the roman conquest, and there are no data on which to found a definite statement. the most convenient way of disposing of the question, up to the day of livy's emphatic description of toledo as "parva urbs, sed loco munita," is to say with the old-fashioned writers that its beginning is "lost in the night of ages." for lost it most certainly is, and the ancient spanish historians are not to be trusted. it is probable that the first start of the race was a celtic group of shepherds, wild and rude, whose wanderings led them to the leafy and verdant banks of the tagus, and here, finding abundance of water, and rich and fertile land between aranjuez and toledo, they agreed to settle. gradually the little town, pitched high above the river upon its unattackable rocky seat, spread itself; the number of huts grew into streets and lanes, the vague and wandering groups became more dense, and attracted others within their dominating influence, until the capital of carpetania was formed. the shepherds left their flocks to build themselves walls and strong places, and thus bring upon their little city the imperious and conquering eye of rome. here again we have nothing but untrustworthy generalities to guide us, and no prehistoric remains on which to base conclusions about this vanished race. alcocer, the old historian of toledo, asserts that the very mystery and obscurity of the city's earliest days is proof of its antiquity and nobility, "since a race is all the more ancient by the less that is known of its origin and beginning." in a pleasing concession to this naïve statement, we need feel no shame in allowing to toledo all the nobility and antiquity our unenlightened ignorance permits it to claim. the first dim figure in its history that shows out upon a vague and discutable background is that of tago, a governor of the town in the days of carthagenian domination. before the second punic war, the carthagenians sought to strengthen their forces by alliance with the carpetanians, whom they had already partially subjugated. according to rasis, the moorish writer, there were then eleven governors in carpetania, one of whom was tago, at toledo. hasdrubal had succeeded hamilcar, and reversing his mild policy, entertained his fancy with every kind of ferocious injustice and cruelty. the carpetanians were handy, half allies, half conquered subjects, and the account of tago's assassination, for hasdrubal's mere pleasure, is one of unmitigable barbarity, one of those incidents that leave us stunned and stupefied by the revelation of an inexplicable instinct of cruelty in uncivilised man. not content with repeatedly stabbing the unfortunate governor with his own hand, hasdrubal ordered the body to be crucified, then drew his sword across the throat, severing the head, exposed the headless trunk, and forbade it decent burial. one of tago's slaves revenged his master by assassinating hasdrubal, and the infuriated carpetanians rose up in revolt against carthagenian oppression. they joined neighbouring tribes, and determined to resist hannibal. hannibal marched against them, and met them near ancient oresia, eight leagues from toledo, and here a long and fierce battle was fought, equal on both sides in losses, endurance, courage and fury. night fell before either side had obtained the slightest advantage, and when day came, the confederates had the wild joy of forcing the world's greatest general to retreat. this obscure and miserable little people, a handful of raw celtiberians, had no means of measuring the extent of their forgotten glory. hannibal to them was no more than hasdrubal, and they little suspected the kind of hero they had to do with. so they feasted and shouted and sang in their rash triumph, while hannibal, who had folded his tent before their impetuous charge, grimly looked on, and planned to take advantage of their unbuckled hour. in the midst of their feasting and pleasuring, he bore down unexpectedly upon the victors, and all the confederates, struck at their brightest moment in the full flush of pride, were broken on the remorseless wheel of carthagenian rule. from this onward, light begins to gather over toledan history, dimly, of course, and by the very necessity of its vicissitudes, intermittent and dubious. after the fall of carthage, we find, years b.c., marcus fulvius nobilior directing the roman forces against the capital of carpetania, and as besieger occupying the opposite bank of the tagus. the reigning king of the celtiberians was hilermo. fulvius defeated him in the plain, and then laid siege to the town and took it with ease. but though now subject to rome, the romans never appear to have dominated this stolid and sturdy celtic race. under whatever sway, toledo ever wears its unwearying face of sullen independence. rome itself could stamp no permanent impression on such a wilful and indomitable subject. her armies might sweep it off the field of rebellion, but could neither chain it nor secure its sympathy. it remained obstinately neutral in all the successive roman strifes; took no notice whatever of viriate's imperious call from the foot of its walls to join him on the bank of the tagus below, and wage war with him against the praetor, caius plancius. what was viriate to the aloof and self-centred toledans more than a man of another country fighting a personal battle with which they had no concern? toledo willingly opened its gates to sylla's victim, sertorius, and allowed him to shelter and nourish his hate and burning sense of injury behind its walls, but it flatly declined to help him in his plan of vengeance. he might stay there and win, as he did, the people's esteem and a kind of grudging affection, but war was his own affair, and if he stayed it should be as one of themselves, content with an inactive recognition of wrongs. to these wild and independent celtiberians it mattered nothing whether rome ran herself to ruin in her fierce quarrels and dissensions. so sertorius stayed on in protected exile, almost as a ruler adopted by those who sheltered him, who yielded him admiration and sympathy, while sturdily declining to grant him troops or subsidies, and would not hear of marching under his leadership against the great republic. this same haughty indifference toledo maintained throughout the civil wars between cæsar and pompey, and showed the same coldness in the fortunes of augustus. her voice was not heard in the chorus of enthusiasm when the temple of janus was closed, and the augustan peace affected her as little as had the previous disorders and rivalries and battles. silent and sullen vassals rome ever found these toledans, holding themselves persistently aloof from all her interests. the single roman ruler they appear to have favoured with some measure of homage was marcus julius philippicus, who, to win his way with them probably granted them unrecorded favours or some special privilege. this rare mood of gratitude to rome was expressed on a marble slab which maestro alvar gomez, the chronicler of cisneros, the great cardinal, found in the porch of a door where it served as an ordinary seat: imp. caes. m. julio philippo pio fel. aug. pont. max. trib. pot. p. p. consul. toletam devotes sini nuninis maestati que eius d. d. the gratitude was apparently of modified value if we may judge by the unceremonious treatment of its monument. though toledo must have had a distinct existence under the romans, since pliny calls it the metropolis of carpetania, there is not to be found definite evidence of the precise nature of that existence. the few coins that have come down to us in various collections, said to belong to that period, are of dubious origin; the inscriptions are not a whit more authentic. so little is clear or authentic that alcover may continue to delight in the mystery and obscurity of its history as proof, according to his cherished phrase, of the town's antiquity and nobility. we are hardly justified in supposing anything, and imagination is barely assisted in its effort to penetrate its inhospitable walls. for we know that there were walls in those days, since viriate is depicted standing under them, and calling on the citizens to join his forces below and march behind the standard of civil war. it is pretty certain that the town was extensive and populous, or viriate would not have troubled to clamour for its assistance; and assuredly of some importance, else would pliny have described it as the capital of carpetania? but what was the measure and nature of its civilisation, of its customs, dress? did it adopt any of the roman ways? we may assume from its rude and central position that in progress it was far behind the mediterranean towns. but it undoubtedly had its place along the great roman roads, and was connected with tarragona and carthagena, of which superior and more notable centres it was a dependency. while tarragona has remained to this day pre-eminently an old roman town, the very physiognomy of the race a kind of diminished roman, and cordova and granada are as romantically and faithfully moorish, toledo has swept from off its face nearly every vestige of roman domination but a few miserable stones, and is as insistently gothic. so obscure and unrevealed is this period of transition that beyond the indication of the _circo romano_ and portion of the puente de alcántara outside the town, there are no remains to prove the passage of the world's conquerors and civilisers, nothing to suggest their imperishable influence. of its position under roman rule it is difficult to form an exact opinion. its rank at first was probably that of a stipendary town, left to the despotic will of centurions without a responsible governor. it was merely regarded as an insignificant source of tribute. in this period of partial servitude it would have contracted the habit of idleness, the most prominent curse of slavery. later on it was raised to municipal rank, had its own coin and commerce, and developed a racial preference for the arts of war rather than for those of peace. finally, when augustus came to reign, he raised toledo to the rank of a colony, and transmitted to the town the privileges of merida, making the carpetanian capital the centre for the collection of tribute. but whatever difference these honours may have made in the town's private history, whatever amount of added prosperity they may have brought it, we are not permitted by the historians to obtain a clearer or more striking figure of toledo as a colony of rome than we had of toledo in its first stage of stipendary town. here and there an inscription exists as testimony of her advanced rank, such as. l. terentius gn. pomp. f. p. p. bassino totelano quaestori q. q. redidili primo flamini perpetuo toleti et totius hispanae quod hic termas et viam. of the baths and the roman way nothing now remains. cristobal lozano, in his _reyes nueves de toledo_, devotes a chapter to the roman glories of the town, speaks of the circo maximo, the temple of hercules, the naumachia and amphitheatre, and tells us that the bullfights of spain date from this period. the temple he describes as being feet in length and feet in width; it was situated in the vega, and was an object of devotion to the entire province of carpetania. the celebrated cave of hercules into which rodrigo, the last of the gothic kings, is supposed to have penetrated before the fatal battle of guadalete, lozano describes at greater length. the cave is as legendary as rodrigo's sombre experience therein. it covered the prodigious extent of three leagues, and was composed of thousands of arches, pillars and columns. it was said to have been used as a secret treasury, but was built by hercules as a royal subterranean palace, and here in prehistoric days the arts of magic were studied. the romans enlarged it, and during the persecutions it served the christians as church and oratory and cemetery. part of it lay under the spell of enchantment by the order of hercules, and when spain was flooded with barbarians, and the goths swept the classic romans out of toledo, hercules hermetically sealed the doors, and tradition asserted that whoever should succeed in bursting open these doors would learn his doom and wed calamity. no gothic king, until rodrigo, was strong-minded enough to risk such dreadful peril, and the doors remained sealed. but the unfortunate rodrigo was as brave as he was curious. he burst through the magic doorway, on which was written in greek letters: _the king who opens this cave and discovers the wonders it holds, will discover good and evil_. those who preceded him into the mysterious palace speedily fell back in a state of shuddering alarm and fear, shouting that they had seen an awful vision. instead of staying to learn the nature of the vision, rodrigo, angry and impatient, pushed his way in before his cowardly followers. he encountered an immense bronze statue in a beautiful frame work, highly sculptured. it held a wooden hammer, and struck fierce blows with it against the earth, thus moving the air and causing a terrible noise which bewildered and frightened rodrigo's courtiers. it stopped its movements as rodrigo approached, and on the wall of a closed arch beside it was written: _whoever opens this arch will find wonders_. the king ordered his men to break open a passage, and instead of the treasures he expected to find, there was a picture of arabian troops, some afoot, some on horseback, turbaned and armed, and underneath written: _whoever reaches this spot and opens this arch, will lose spain, and will be beaten by this race_. "the king," writes lozano, "with sorrow in his heart and such sadness as we can understand, though carefully hiding it, ordered the door to be closed again." all those present also dissimulated their feelings, not to increase the affliction of the king. and while they went about seeking if among so many misfortunes they might find some consolation, lifting their eyes, they saw on the wall, on the left hand of the statue, other lines of writing: _sorry king for thy doom hast thou entered here_. and on the right lines saying: _for foreign nations wilt thou be dispossessed, and thy people will be heavily punished_. behind the statue they read: _i call upon the moors_, and on its breast was written: _i fulfil my task_. that same night in the roar of many voices and loud battle cries, the earth opened and swallowed up in a clap of thunder the enchanted palace and every vestige of it. the legend is an excellent one, and has well served the poets, but unhappily it is only a legend of no historic value whatever. rodrigo no more penetrated this mythical cave than he kissed florinda, who never existed. cardinal siliceo is said to have explored what remained of the part without the vanished enchanted part of the palace, and after penetrating half a league inward, found bronze statues on the altar; and while examining one of them, the statue fixed him with a grave and austere glance, while a loud noise was heard, which filled the explorers with terror, and lozano naïvely suggests that nothing of the sort possibly happened, for fear is a great inventor, and "they were filled with fear to the eyes." they fled without king rodrigo's courage to go further. though it was summer time, most of them died immediately afterwards from cold and fright, and the "good" archbishop, who had caused this devastation among his flock, ordered the mouth of the cave to be built up and covered with mud, . antonio ponz, commenting on this prodigious and serious account given by lozano of a fabulous cave and an impossible tale, makes merry over the naïve spaniard's accuracy of description and facts. "one would really believe he had seen it all," writes the unenthusiastic ponz, "the statue, the bronze, the _admirable_ sculpture, and had measured the extent of the cave." the same may be said of lozano's grandiose description of the roman buildings of which hardly a vestige remained in his time, . the circo maximo, gamero asserts, was built to hold a hundred thousand persons, from which we might infer that toledo under the romans had an important population. approaching less apocryphal days, we learn that toledo was one of the earliest towns of spain to embrace christianity. it is even said that st peter and st james passed here, and some add st paul, preaching the gospel and creating bishops. st eugenius, of greek or roman origin, was the first. the spanish historians decline to accept the tradition that st denis of paris sent eugenius to spain, preferring to keep him in company with the apostles. but it allows that he went to paris to see st denis, and here was martyred near the city by the prefect, fescenino sicino, his headless body being flung into a filthy lagoon so that his disciples and admirers should never be able to find it. two hundred years later the lake gave up its dead, uncorrupted. one ercoldo, being ill, saw st denis in sleep, who told him to rise cured, and go to the lake, where he would find the body of the illustrious martyr awaiting burial. at the same time he promised for the sake of eugenius, great health to the neighbourhood and the honour of many miracles. pisa records this tale at some length with unction and faith. several centuries later the emperor, alfonso vii., grandson of the victor of toledo, obtained from his son-in-law, louis of france, the right arm of eugenius as a relic, and the arm was brought to spain in all pomp by the abbot of st denis in person. later, philip ii. obtained the entire body from charles ix., with the consent of the cardinal, duke of lorrain, abbot of st denis. the town prepared a magnificent reception for the remains of the founder of its cathedral. antonio de rivera, the choir-master, gives a detailed description of the triumphal arches, the latin and castillian poems, the dances and other diversions of the hour. the king was present as well as his unfortunate son, don carlos, the princes of hungary and bohemia, rodolpho and hernesto, sons of maximilian, the bishops of cordova, siguenza, segovia, palencia, cuenca, osuna, lugo and gerona. francisco bayeu painted a fine fresco of the scene for the cathedral cloisters, representing the entrance of the remains under the puerta de visagra. the next saint connected with the christian history of the town, and its real patron, is st leocadia. she was of noble birth, beautiful, young and gifted. she is depicted a kind of spanish st elisabeth of hungary, succouring the poor and sick, speaking words of wisdom to the weak, of sympathy to the suffering. her father, leocadio, was governor under dacian, and her uncle was melancius the archbishop. while yet a child she vowed herself to maidenhood and the service of the needy and those in trouble, and her doors like her compassionate heart were open to all. on his arrival at toledo, dacian heard of the wonderful maid, and learnt that her influence spread far and wide. he ordered her to appear before him, and she came surrounded by friends and admirers. the roman in the interview is painted as brutal and inexorable, the girl-saint as mild but firm. she would change neither her faith nor her ways, and valiantly announced herself as ready for death. we hear of flagellations, of chains, of torture, of every form of explosion of roman fury, till finally unable to invent further atrocities, dacian flung her into a dark dungeon, where she died a natural death, some assert, others preferring the more ghastly version of dacian in person ordering her to be flung down a steep rock into the tagus. but this, i imagine, has been tacked on to the legend as a more picturesque conclusion for a martyr than a natural death in a prison. gamero does not endorse it, and his history is admitted to be the most accurate of any that deals with toledo. this is how pisa writes of dacian:--"dacian, haughty, famished for blood, drunk with the blood of french martyrs, came to accomplish a like butchery in spain. he inflicted terrible tortures on st folia and st cucufato and st eulalia at barcelona, and went like a mad lion through zaragoza, with the blood of martyrs ever flowing behind him. this minister of satan came to the town of alcala, where he shed the blood of the children, justo and pastor, so young that their blood was yet partly milk. then he came to this famous city of toledo, where the people received him with honour. he sat on the tribune to receive recognizance and vassalage to the emperor's published edict, and commanded the public to adore the idols of his gods. he ordered an inquisition among the toledan christians to torture them and then destroy their bodies." good dr pisa had not humour enough to perceive the irony of spanish history, since these are the very proceedings of the castellian monarchs to heretics in later centuries. one wonders at the censorious use of the ominous word "inquisition" from a spanish pen. "tell me, young lady," dacian suavely enough addresses leocadia summoned before him, "for such is the exceeding beauty of thy face that nobody born has ever beheld one more fair, and being well-born and of pure and noble lineage, how is it thou canst so lightly be deceived by such vanities, despising thus the ancient ceremonies and worship of our gods and preferring to follow the new sect of the crucified." methinks, so might some urbane cardinal have addressed a pretty heretic some centuries later as much a martyr, albeit uncanonised, as leocadia. and such a desperate wrath would the maiden's answer have provoked as that which sent leocadia to imprisonment and death. certainly the early christians were not courteous to the pagans they defied. the gods leocadia contemptuously called "miserable," and the polite and flattering dacian came in for a share of her impassioned vituperation with the consequences she naturally desired. at so early a period dawns the celebrated hieratic fame of toledo, which for centuries made it less subject to the sovereign than to the archbishop. melancius was raised to the bishopric in the year , and after him, under the domination of rome, may be said to have reigned over the celtic citizens, ten important bishops, whose portraits can be studied in the sala capitular of the cathedral. gothic rule in toledo is little else but the story and development of gothic christianity. more than on kings and their battles and doings does the town's early fame rest upon those councils of the church in its midst. they send the name of toledo as far as rome in a warning note of independence and power. this primitive church had its own rite, its own customs, its emphatically racial way of viewing matters, and for centuries no high-handed effort of rome could smooth the angles of its stubborn individuality, or latinise the tone of its worship and faith. it remained for france and french influence to accomplish what rome had vainly striven to achieve, and it is to be deplored that france should have succeeded in the defacing task. the first of these councils took place in the year , and the second in , to consider the election of dictinius to the bishopric of astorga, one of the sect of priscilianists. this deliberate battle waged by toledo against the priscilianists took place in september, and its minutes are preserved intact in the toledan collection. nineteen bishops assisted at it, and the bishop of merida, patriuno, presided over it, as the oldest present. the meeting took place in the church of toledo, the bishops seated, and the deacons and congregation admitted, standing. in a long address the president exposed the scandals and vicissitudes of the times, and then discussed in ten different points various details connected with the church. woman seems to have been the victim of austere episcopal reprobation. she must not presume to chaunt antiphones whether nun or widow, in the absence of the bishop, neither with her confessor nor his attendant. such communion of the sexes under the banner of religion the council held as pernicious and a snare. it fulminated against the _frail_ sex, but for whose existence man were a sage and a saint. what a pity the almighty did not consult the fathers before casting this fatal and corrupting instrument of misfortune upon the world! however, woman must not complain. to quote one of the delightful and ironical sayings of renan, the fathers of the church increased her power by making her a sin. as a mere woman she is only a human being, like her feeble and fugitive mate. but as a combustible engine requiring the reunion of hoary fathers from time to time to drown and extinguish her beneath the founts of holy water set to play upon her wickedness and peril, she really becomes something diabolical and magnificent, a creature to inspire alarm and excite curiosity. it is not improbable that the saintly sages and modest deacons, as they issued from the church into the rocky and tortuous streets of toledo, on the september day of the council in the year , gazed in a fresh instinct of fearful wonder and shuddering attraction at the first skirted fiend that crossed their path. however plain or beautiful she might be, they would be greatly more preoccupied with the thought of her sex than her looks. yet the clergy still might marry, and they had full rights over their wife except death. they could beat her, tie and lock her up, give her all "salutary" punishment that was not mortal, deprive her of food, and forbid her to sit at table. never mind, she had her revenge. she felt her power be sure, and was conscious that she was a _sin_. before the council of nice, toledo adopted the belief that the holy ghost proceeds from the father and son, which doctrine only became universal several centuries later. this is the toledan credo of the fifth century: "we believe in one sole and true god, father, son, and holy ghost, maker of all things visible and invisible, by whom were created all things in heaven and on earth; that this sole god and this sole trinity are of divine substance; that the father is not the same as the son, but has a son who is not the father; that, the son is not the father, but is the son of god from the nature of the father; that the spirit is the paraclete, and is neither the father nor the son, but proceeds from both. the father was not engendered but the son, but not the paraclete which proceeds from the father and son. the father is he who was heard from the heavens, crying: _this is my son in whom i am well pleased. hearken to him._ the son is he who said: _i left the father and came from god to this world_; and the paraclete it is of whom the son said: _if i went not to the father, the paraclete would not come to you._ that this trinity is distinct in three persons, and is a substance united by virtue and indivisible by power and majesty, beyond this we do not believe there is any divine nature, nor of angel, nor of spirit, nor of any virtue that believes itself god. this son of god, born of god the father, before all beginning, sanctified the womb of the virgin mary, and became real man in her, _sine virili generatum semine_; uniting both natures, that is divine and fleshly, in one sole person, who is our lord, jesus christ; neither was his body imaginary or any phantasm, but solid and real; he ate, was thirsty, endured pain, wept and suffered the injuries of the body; ultimately was crucified by the jews, and buried, rose again the third day; spoke afterwards with his disciples, and the day of quadragesimo, after the resurrection ascended to heaven. this son of man also called himself son of god, and the son of god also called himself god, son of man. we believe in the future resurrection of human flesh, and maintain that the soul of man is not a divine substance, or part of god, but a creature formed by divine will." among the singular subjects of excommunication of this toledan council are three worthy of notice: vegetarians are excommunicated, it being decided by the fathers that birds and beasts were intended to be eaten by man. mathematicians are excommunicated, unfortunately we are not told why. those who execrate marriage are excommunicated. surely this last sentence is inconsistent with the fathers' professed execration of the "frail sex"! but the triumphs and severities of the fathers were soon interrupted by the invasion of the terrible north barbarians. the goths were pouring across the pyrenees, soon to make toledo their capital and "royal city." fire, ruin, pillage, and death, lafuente describes as the traces of their path. fields, orchards, cities, and woods were swept by their ferocity. the horrors of famine and pest succeeded, calamity stalked the earth, and the toledan sages sat and talked in the desert. the vandals were already in the beautiful southern province of betica, which they called vandalusia. rome had fallen, and the conquering visigoth, unsettled in the north since ataulfo's assassination at barcelona, turned his eyes upon the strong-walled city perched up above on its seven rocks. toledo had successfully resisted the vandals; it succumbed to the goths, and euric took it by force. she was momentarily extinguished after her first little hour of sacerdotal pride and power. euric died at arles, and the gothic court for a time drifted to sevilla. but a brighter day dawned when atanagildo was elected king. married to gosuinda, the bishop of toledo's sister, he had formed a liking for the place, and brought hither the court, making toledo the capital of his kingdom. chapter ii _the gothic kings of toledo_ here may be said to begin the real history of toledo, from this until the fatal battle of guadalete, the capital of spain, since it was the heart of gothic rule. the backward pages of its story are blurred and insignificant, judged by their traces, though we may imagine, if it were possible to build up the effaced picture of toledo under roman power, we should find a very superior civilisation. instead of a flourishing roman colony, atanagildo's choice of this "strong place" was merely the establishment of a rough barbaric camp. it is doubtful if, until wamba's time, the goths had the art of profiting by such heritage as the decadent vanquished had left them. as a race they inspire even less interest than their brethren east and north. family love was no strong element in the development of the royal house, as the quaintly heartless story of san hermengildo proves. leovigildo was reigning then, and he, an arian, committed the imprudence of marrying his eldest son, hermengildo, to a french goth, ingundus, the niece of saint leander of seville. with such powerful interests on the side of rome, it is not surprising that the arian prince speedily abjured his heresy, to the anger and dismay of his father. unfortunately, his conversion did not imply the practice of any of the christian virtues. religion accomplishes the very thing we should have thought its mission to forbid: it arms the son against his father. the two sects, oddly enough representing the doctrine of peace and goodwill on earth, meet outside the walls of seville in armed encounter. hitherto the spectacle had been war and persecution and their attendant horrors on the side of pagan against the noble and martyred christian. from this we were to learn that christian _versus_ christian could show quite as pretty a figure in atrocities as ever the persecuting worshipper of the gods. here we have an infuriated father and a rebellious son ready to cut one another's throat, and of the two it can hardly be said that the catholic saint shows to better advantage. indeed, in their correspondence both reason and dignity are on the side of leovigildo, who writes to his son: "i associated you with my power from earliest years, not that you should arm strangers against me. thou dost blunt thy conscience, and cover thyself with the veil of religion," he acutely adds, while hermengildo's reply is an inflated and pragmatical attack on the baseness of his father's creed and the superiority of his own.[ ] hermengildo is beaten, his forces scattered, and thanks to the intercession of his brother, recaredo, instead of the expected death sentence, his father sentences him to exile at valencia. as a christian, a martyr, and a canonised saint, hermengildo presents an original figure. even the harsh wisdom of moses condemns him, and the worst pagan would hardly condone his unprovoked assault on his father, by way of converting him to a belief in christ's divinity; while instead of quietly enduring the consequences of his abortive rebellion and his inappropriate expression of faith, he went about the coast, begging the assistance of the greeks in another attempt to proselytise by the sword, and seize his father's throne by the same stroke. the spanish historians, to whom this method of conversion is particularly sympathetic and of unquestionable logic, disregard the side question of revolt, and delight in weighing upon hermengildo's lofty efforts in behalf of truth. his object they accept as the laudable extirpation of error. indifferent to his natural relations to the king he desired to dethrone, gamero says: "perhaps, like alaric, within his breast, a secret voice had commanded him to go forth and destroy the power of arianism in spain; to establish upon the ruins of paganism and false sects the immortal throne where the god of sabahot is worshipped, and on which shines with eternal splendour the immaculate purity of mary." and so he complacently follows the unfilial prince on his bellicose mission through estremadura, now occupying merida, again attempting to take seville and his former court, seeking support in france with the hope of arming his brother-in-law, sigeric, against his father. all gamero laments is his unsuccess. the arian father did precisely what hermengildo would have done in his place; he seized his son, flung him into a dungeon, first at toledo, then at tarragona, where he was beheaded after stoutly refusing to accept communion from the hands of an arian bishop. his form of refusal is proudly recorded by st gregory of tours as an admirable one: "as a minister of the devil, only to hell couldst thou guide me. away and go, coward, to the punishment prepared for thee, and which thou deservest." we hardly detect the influence of christian mildness and sweetness in this address. however, all saints cannot resemble st francis of assisi, and even st fernando of castille boiled his enemies alive in great pots of water over huge fires. this is gamero's admiring epitaph: "thus on the th april, , ended with glorious martyrdom the life of this hero of the spanish church, whose blood effaced any faults as a man he may have committed, and was a perennial source of happiness and fortune to our country." morality is, after all, like criticism, only a matter of existing convention and national temperament. believe the right thing, and one's vices are a matter of small account. in the mediæval times, with a proper amount of faith, one might with impunity, boil one's enemies or roast them before a fire, and be duly canonised and offered to posterity as a saint and a just man. but be as virtuous and as austere as marcus aurelius, believing the wrong thing, and the orthodox historian will manage to be blind to your virtues, and offer you for public contumely. so we have a legend of sanctity centred round this extremely unedifying prince, who took up arms against a father not convicted of any particular injustice or enormity, plotted with france to dethrone him, and after an unnatural career, died furious and unresigned, breathing curses upon his enemies. behold him one of the glories of that curious medley of pagan qualities and unchristian vices, mediæval catholicism. the historians will not even permit the poor father to grieve and regret his own harshness in peace. his sorrow and remorse are not accepted as the natural sentiments of a man whom a just anger had carried beyond the endurance of nature. we are forced to regard them as the tardy recognition of his own iniquity and error. we are told in triumph that the monarch died weeping and repentant in the arms of st leander of seville, the friend and uncle by marriage of his exiled son. could anything be more natural than this touching and piteous picture of an old man, doubtful of himself, turning in his grief to the one great friend of his son? the action in its simple humanity is worth all the grandiloquent insolence of the saint and martyr leovigildo mourned, in whose story virtue and sanctity are equally unevident. recaredo, his son and successor, solemnly abjured arianism before the third toledan council, as the inscription on his statue outside the alcázar records. we may imagine this unhappy son and brother weary for the moment of bloodshed and strife, and anxious to put an end to dissension in his kingdom. it would suffice to explain the wise and eloquent speech he addressed to his subjects, exhorting all to be of one faith, to enter the bosom of the church, and accept its dogmas as he had done. his speech must have been miraculously persuasive, and his influence over his people almost magnetic, since nearly all to a man yielded to the earnest prayer of a tired and suffering heart, and consented to make his religion theirs. and thus it might be hoped, after the terrible domestic tragedy recaredo had been obliged to witness, powerless to prevent it, the reign of violence, persecution, and discord was over, and the religious power of toledo permanently established upon tolerant lines. but this was to count without the spirit of the times. after the first shock of misery and bereavement had passed, the turbulent sense of revolt on one side, and determination to crush it on the other, broke out in all its malignant force. the arian bishops, goaded on by leovigildo's widow, hurled their vote of resistance to the establishment of roman influence. here we have another instance of the charming inconsistency of the prolix spanish historians. leovigildo was nothing less than a monster, because he punished conspiracy and rebellion, and his catholic son, condemned justly by the laws of the day to death, was a haloed martyr. recaredo remains a just and magnanimous sovereign when he cuts off the heads and hands of the arian conspirators; and the premature death of the queen dowager, gosvintha, is deeply lamented, because her step-son was thus deprived of the duty of cutting off her rebellious head. why was she less of a saint, one asks, than hermengildo? she, too, rebelled on behalf of principle, and surely a step-son is a more natural antagonist in the field than a father! but for the historian conspiracy against a legitimate heretical sovereign may be an article of faith and duty, whereas the heretic who conspires against the monarch of the right faith is a fiend. it is this hopeless lack of logic and sense that renders so dreary and unillumined a task the reading of spanish history. the humorists, alas! wrote dramas and novels, and history was left to the terrible mariana, the credulous masdeu, and the one-sided gamero. at the next toledan council, recaredo presided in all pomp, accompanied by his queen, baddo. the sovereigns first, then all the converted arians, bishops, priests, deacons, and lords and leaders, read aloud this act of allegiance to rome. recaredo was the first to swear: "i, recaredo, king, maintaining with my heart, and affirming with my word, this true and holy confession, which alone the catholic church professes all over the globe, have subscribed with my right hand, god protecting me." baddo, his wife, then swore: "i, baddo, glorious queen, have subscribed with my hand and all my heart to that faith i believe in and have admitted." followed the oath of each bishop and priest; and then came the turn of the nobles. imagination readily enough evokes the scene from such dry details, and pictures one of exceptional solemnity, with a touch of barbarism, beginning to borrow undreamed of luxury from a departed civilisation, without taste or tact to render that luxury beautiful. we have only to visit the musée de cluny to form some notion of gothic gold-work by inspection of the gothic votive crowns discovered in toledo, and it is easy to picture this rough humanity, from monarch to knight, in their flowing cloaks, grave, impressed, all in deadly earnest, and the mitred and mighty prelates forming an inner circle, in gold and silvered embroideries, bejewelled, and full of glory and contentment. the importance of the nobles we gather from a list of gothic dignitaries. first came the dukes, counts, palatines of the royal house. then came the first count, the count of the drinking-cup, _escansias_; the chamberlain, count _cubiculario_; the chief groom, count _estabulario_; then the major domos, counts of the patrimony, the counters-in-chief, count _numerario_, the count of the viands, count _silonario_; knight of the youths, count of the _espartarios_, captain of the guard; count of the _sagrarios_, keeper of sacred things; count of the _sargentarios_, keeper of the treasure. the grandees or _ricos hombres_ were governors of the territories and kingdoms. st isidor has painted recaredo as a model of all the christian virtues, which is decidedly excessive praise in the face of such accentuated vices against the mild sublimity of that scarce practised creed as an inflexible spirit of vengeance and cruelty, and a bigotry in his new religion as hard and determined as that of his arian fathers, once the early lesson in adversity had been learnt and forgotten. however, in spite of defects rather belonging to his barbarous times, few natures being able to resist the forces of environment and general feeling, than to the man himself perhaps, he remains unquestionably one of the wisest and strongest of gothic kings, and his personality is all the more marked by contrast with that of his feeble son, luiva ii., who was dethroned by viterico, a senseless usurper, shortly afterwards assassinated at table by his own servants and cast into the street, where the infuriated populace seized the corpse and dragged it up and down the hilly streets and lanes of toledo, eventually flinging it into a filthy hole as unfit for decent burial. gundmar's short reign furnished no reason to doubt his well-meaning intentions. he quelled a rising among the vasco navarrese and the imperial troops, and convened a council at toledo to decide in the town's favour against the sacerdotal pretensions of carthagena. but his successor is a figure worth noting, and in his reign takes place the first of those unfortunate outbreaks against the jews, for which dismantled and impoverished spain still pays so heavy a price. before the moors came, toledo's source of prosperity and wealth sprang from her hebrew colony, and the anti-semitic movement, started by sisebuth, had probably no other object than the barbarians' desire to appropriate jewish gold. sisebuth himself is spoken of in history as the father of the poor, and is extolled for his compassionate heart and his liberality. his horror of suffering and blood was so great that he sent his own doctors to tend the stricken enemy when he was compelled to go to war, and paid out of his own purse to his soldiers the ransom of their captives. servitude and blood-shedding were equally abhorrent to him. the annalist frêdégaire tells of him, as an example of exquisite sensibility in those rude times, which would be no less rare in our own, that in the thick of battle with the imperial army, seeing the greek soldiers fall in numbers under the savage blow of his men, he rushed into their midst, shouting: "woe to me whose reign should see the flowing of so much human blood," and frantically drove away his soldiers from the wounded byzantines. the pity was such excellent sentiments were not cultivated on behalf of the jews. having twice defeated the byzantine army, cesario only procured a treaty of peace on condition the jews were expelled from spain. and in , sisebuth published his famous edict against the children of israel, offering them the harsh alternative, within the year, of professing the christian faith, and accepting baptism, or being publicly flogged a hundred whip-strokes, shaven and shorn, robbed of their goods, and expelled from the kingdom. one hardly understands why the shaving and flogging should have been ordered, since appropriation and expulsion ought to have sufficed. even the fathers of the church had the grace to protest against the needless inhumanity of this edict, though the toledan bishops in a council upheld it. yet history accepts him as a mild and upright judge, a magnificent prince, a valiant and humane captain, the friend of the poor, the protector of letters. he himself dabbled in literature, wrote in the swollen and exaggerated gothic manner, composed several earnest and dogmatic letters in refutation of arianism, which he addressed to the king and queen of lombardy, severely reprimanded bishop eusebius for the disorders of his existence, and commanded bishop caecilius to return to his diocese, which he had forsaken for the monastery. clearly a monarch not to be trifled with even by the bishops, whom he kept in check, and whose public and private life he insisted on regulating. he conquered the asturians and the vascons, and overthrew the byzantine power in spain, seizing most of the imperial towns and weakening the imperial forces at cadiz. at home he built the church of st leocadia. but of the growth of the town we learn little. literature in those days was more moral than descriptive, and the gothic kings of toledo, when not fighting the byzantines and vascons, seem chiefly to have been engaged in discovering elegant flowers of speech, and cultivating the very finest obscurity of expression. suinthila, looking from the seven rocky hills of his martial town, could tell himself that the kings of toledo ruled from cadiz to the pyrenees, from atlantic to mediterranean shores, while chindasvinthe, in his semi-roman palace, looked peacefully across the vega and along those foliaged banks of the quiet tagus that had beguiled pyrrhus and his mate from the east, and recreated himself with the art of letters. st eugenius and st braulion of zaragoza were the honoured recipients of his royal epistles, in which he writes of "an eloquence adorned with the most flowery words and girdled with all the harmonies of fine language," and plunging further into unlucid intricacies hymns an "eloquence suggesting a royal clemency, an observation wherein shines the zeal displayed in the travail of literary composition." when he led his troops to battle, it is to be hoped that his military addresses to them revealed less fearfully the travail of literary composition. surely the harmonies of fine language so admired by him were never more inappropriately "girdled" against the encroachments of ordinary sense. he speaks of someone "who will not succumb from a need of understanding" and "who is not meagre through poverty of spirit." his successor, recesvinthus, displayed the same gothic tendencies and rhymed in the highest obscurity, in proof of the "fatness" of his wisdom, which verses he dedicated to the grateful fathers of the viith council, who being gothic, probably understood and relished them. but recesvinthus deserves the recognition of bibliophiles, for he had a passion for collecting old manuscripts, and was extremely particular about their authenticity and corrections. he too persecuted the jews, and his morals were doubtful. the most famous archbishop of toledo under gothic rule was san ildephonso. his parents, stephen and lucy, were noble goths of almost royal blood, distantly related to the king atanagildo. ildephonso was educated by his uncle, st eugenius iii. at an early age he developed a passion for learning, and was sent to seville to the care of the famous doctor st isidor. it would be astonishing if breathing so much sanctified air the young ildephonso did not become himself a saint, or the reverse. his saintly master grew so attached to his pupil that when ildephonso expressed a wish to return to his parents at toledo, st isidor locked him up. after a considerable while he yielded to his disciple's prayer, and allowed him to depart. the youth, after a short stay at his father's house, left it for the monastery of agalia outside toledo. stephen flew into a violent rage upon the discovery, and attacked the monastery with armed followers. the monks hid the lad, while stephen and his band searched the building from roof to cellars, and departed swearing profusely. his mother was more reasonable, and besought st eugenius to intervene and obtain her son's permission to follow his vocation. shortly before his death, st eladio consecrated him and gave him holy orders ( ). he was first abbot of the monastery of st cosmos and st damian, and on the death of adeodato, became abbot of the monastery of agalia where he had received orders. inheriting from his parents, he devoted the inheritance to the foundation of a convent for nuns, and on his uncle's death, , he was raised to the vacant archbishopric of toledo. heretics began to discuss the perpetual virginity of our lady, and ildephonso wrote his first notable book, _de virginitate perpetua sanctae mariae adversus tres infideles_, the three infidels being elvidio, theudio, and eladio, natives of narbonne. the saint's triumph in polemics was immediate, and the infidels were pronounced as completely crushed. the whole court followed the king and the archbishop to the church of saint leocadia to give loud thanks. kneeling at the saint's tomb, suddenly a group of angels appeared through clouds and sweet scents; the clouds fainting, the young martyr was revealed in the midst of the group, and smiling graciously upon ildephonso, said, _ildephonse per te vivit domina mea_. the astounded archbishop, rapidly recovering his bewilderment, held out his hand to grasp the saint's veil, and the king recesvinthus, kneeling beside him, passed him his knife, with which ildephonso cut off a piece of the veil, which, together with the knife, is now kept among the cathedral treasures. the mass of st leocadia, composed by the archbishop, was then solemnly sung, and this was the first inauguration of a feast since adopted by the church of rome, the feast of the immaculate conception. thanks from heaven did not rest with mary's messenger, st leocadia. nine days after entering the church to recite matins, the archbishop saw a strange flame upon the wall. approaching, he discovered the queen of heaven seated on his own marble chair enveloped in heavenly radiance, who thus addressed him: _propera, serva dei charissime, in occursum, et accipe munusculum de manu mea, quod de thesausus filii sevi attuli_. the present she brought him from heaven was a splendid chasuble wrought by angels, in which the virgin with her own hands vested him, while the celestial choir chanted around him. the vision faded in a faint smoke, and only the perfumes and the vague echo of remote music remained, while st ildephonso lay prostrate in ecstasy, kissing the spot the virgin's feet had touched, _ubi steterum pedes ejus_. he was found in this attitude by the clergy and multitudes, and his fame, owing to this second miracle, spread far and wide, till rome dispatched two legates to inquire into the legend. thus it was that the pope and the king of spain came to be canons of the cathedral of toledo, which took precedence of all others in the land. in a few weeks st ildephonso returned the virgin's visit in heaven, and he was buried in all pomp beside the patron of the city, st leocadia. but of all these gothic sovereigns, the most important for toledo was wamba, the only one now gloriously remembered. wamba it was who built the great walls, traces of which to-day remain. most of the gothic inscriptions were in honour of wamba, though these have nearly all disappeared. his defaced statue it is that greets you welcome to his ancient citadel and capital. one of these vanished inscriptions is preserved in the _chronique rimée des rois de tolède_ by the anonymous writers of cordova.[ ] it was traced on wamba's famous walls: _erexit factore deo rex inclitus urbem, wamba suæ celebrem protendedens, gentis honorem. vos sancti domini, quorum hic præsentia fulget. hunc urbem et golebem solito salvate favore._ for the toledans, wamba remains a personage of fabulous virtue and merit. we first meet him at the funeral of recesvinthus, when by general election he was proclaimed king. he was an old warrior, neither ambitious nor over-confident, it would appear, and he humbly declined an honour he did not feel fitted to accept. so frantic was the sense of disappointment that a duke walked up to him angrily and threatened to kill him on the spot if he persisted in his refusal, and confronted with a crown and a formidable toledan blade, the humblest sage that ever drew breath would naturally choose the crown. wamba bowed to spontaneous choice, and made his triumphal entry into the capital, sep. , , nineteen days after his compulsory acceptance of the throne. it was no easy seat, and all his prowess, his undoubted genius and his popularity could not keep him thereon unmolested, though bishop quiricus had anointed him amid universal rejoicings. lope de vega assumes that this really remarkable man was of peasant origin, but later historians agree that he was of good blood, a much more likely fact, as the barbarous goths were sticklers for aristocratic prestige, and the law kept very distinct the _nobiles_ and the _vilidies_. however virtuous the man of obscure origin might be, it is doubtful if a fierce gothic duke would have threatened to murder him if he declined so stupendous an honour as the right of ruling that duke and his fellow-nobles. the start of wamba's brief but glorious reign was marked by treachery and revolt. his general, of greek origin, count paul, in conspiracy with the count of nîmes and the bishop of maguelonne, rose against him in narbonese gaul. wamba was then fighting the eternal vascon, the hereditary enemy of the kings of toledo, but he left the basque country and marched into gaul, capturing the pyrenean fortresses, attacking narbonne by land and sea, and seizing béziers, agde, maguelonne, and then he fell upon nîmes. never were french prisoners treated with greater courtesy and consideration. not only did he free them but sent them off with splendid gifts. for count paul alone was he adamantine. he condemned the rebel to walk barefooted between two dukes on horseback, who led him in leash by the hair of his greek head through the gothic ranks at nîmes. then wamba on horseback coldly surveyed the ignoble procession, while poor paul was forced to prostrate himself before his outraged master. in public the king rebuked him, and then we are sorry to record of so great a man, publicly kicked him and ordered his head to be shaved. the shaving and the kick might fittingly have been suppressed with dignity added to the picture of stern wamba on horseback. to see his enemy grovelling at his feet ought to have contented even a goth. but no. when wamba made his triumphal entry into toledo, the unfortunate paul and his accomplices walked behind--shaven, forlorn, barefooted, robed in camel's hair, and instead of graceful, superfluous locks, paul wore a mock crown of laurel. he was not without a certain grim humour king wamba, you perceive, and one would like to have seen his gothic visage as his glance fell upon the laurel crown. not benignant of a surety, possibly sardonic. but it is not in connection with count paul that wamba's name reaches us to-day and like that of the fatal rodrigo, is permanently attached to toledo. forgotten the long list of gothic sovereigns, forgotten the councils they presided over, the battles they lost and won, their achievements, follies and virtues, their epistolary flowers of speech and decrees. only wamba and rodrigo remain, one a historic fact, the other vaguely and unveraciously defined through legend and romance. as i have said, coming up from the station, the traveller is greeted upon the dusty curving road by the noseless statue of king wamba, who built upon the roman remains a magnificent wall round the city, raised ramparts, towers, and chapels, and for eight years was the untiring benefactor of the city and the people, till treachery rewarded his splendid services by deposition in the hour of illness and condemned him to claustral reclusion. in his days, the bridge of alcántara still existed with its marvellous roman arch, one of the most finished and graceful roman monuments of spain. for the goths had the virtue not to destroy any of the roman remains, though they were incapable of profiting by what they found. they it was who, at wamba's orders, built the walls and palaces of toledo, and gave [illustration: puente de alcantara.] the city its definite note of architecture, a note the moors were careful not to efface, all in adding their own ineffaceable stamp, for the moors were great artists and had the secret of utilising what they influenced. if the spanish goths began by modelling their architecture on the roman remains in their capacity of imitators and not inventors, the moors, inventors and assimilators, forced the goths to modify their style by the famous mudejar order. violence must be a rudimentary instinct of humanity, since the milder and less florid mudejar remains a single feature in spanish architecture, while the rough goths have the secret of impressing their individuality on all the entire peninsula, and so with their flowers of speech, vapid, empty, and void of sincerity which to this day have entered the language of the country, unaltered by the march of centuries, ornate and unintelligent, untouched by modern civilisation, of which the spaniards take no heed. the ruins of this dead gothic art are best studied at toledo. here you have it purest, the fourth century style with its coarse and pointed leafage, its laboured workmanship, its ornamentation, symbols, and figurative caprices, then so new and bold, and which are never repeated in the arabic or byzantine architecture later. fragments of this art of wamba's days may be seen in the ruined church of san genes, in the bath of the cava, never a bath, where never the legendary florinda bathed, and in the wall of a house in the _calle lechuga_, as well as in the façade of the bridge of alcántara. in the beginning of gothic rule it was chiefly architecture that flourished, but wamba's immediate predecessors, we have seen, preferred literature and libraries, cultivated poetry, the epistolary art, and such research as the obscure times afforded, which they called science, and founded colleges. their costume was half roman, since they borrowed what they knew of civilisation from the romans. they wore silk embroidered cloaks, let their hair grow long, like their merovingian brethren, to mark their superiority to the short-cropped celt-iberians they had conquered; the women wore costly habits and splendid jewels, and all the nobles drank from golden cups and washed in silver basins. the value and beauty of their goldsmiths' work are abundantly testified by the nine great votive crowns in the musée de cluny, where the famous treasure of guarrazar is preserved. these magnificent gold crowns of the seventh century were discovered near toledo in by a french officer who owned the property _la fuente de guarrazar_ where these historic crowns were buried. they were probably buried at the time of tarik's invasion, and remained nearly eight centuries underground. the most important, as well as the largest and most beautiful, is the crown which bears the inscription in letters of gold cloisonné and incrusted, reccesvinthus rex offeret. to show the value of the workmanship of this crown, i cannot do better than quote here in full its official description in the catalogue of the musée cluny by m. du sommerard: "king recesvinthus' crown is composed of a large and massive golden band. it opens with a double hinge, and is richly framed by two borders of gold cloisonné, and incrusted with red carian stones, those which anastasius calls _gemmis alabandinsis_, and in relief has thirty oriental sapphires of the greatest beauty set in golden borders, mostly of considerable dimension. thirty-five pearls of a no less notable size alternate with the sapphires on a golden ground incrusted with the same stones, and twenty-four little gold chains, starting from the lower circle of the crown, suspend large letters in gold cloisonné and incrusted, whose disposition form the words: reccesvinthus rex offeret. each of these letters ends with a pendant of gold and fine pearls holding a pear of rose sapphire. the king's crown is suspended by a quadruple chain of beautiful workmanship which attaches it to a double gem of massive gold enriched with twelve pendants in sapphire, and this gem, whose branches are open, is surmounted by a capital in rock-crystal, finely wrought; then comes a ball of the same material, and then a golden stem which forms the starting point of the suspension. the cross which occupies the centre of the crown and is attached to the gem by a long golden chain, is not less remarkable for its elegance of form and richness of material. it is in massive gold relieved by six lovely sapphires and eight big fine pearls, each jewel is set in relief in open claws, and behind is still the fibula that hooked it to the royal mantle. the diadem is of plain gold within, but the exterior, which the sapphires and fine pearls set in relief ornament, has another particular decoration, which consists in a set of palm leaves in open cutting whose leaves are filled with blades of the same red material which looks like cornelian stone at first sight, of which we have already spoken. the sapphires which decorate the band, and whose setting is largely treated, are, we have said, thirty, all of the finest water, and many of them show traces of a natural crystallisation by facets; the two principal ones, which are placed in the centre of each face, are not in diameter less than thirty millimetres. the pearls are also of an exceptional size, and only a few have been affected by time. the suspension chains are composed each of five fine gems cut in open work, and the stem that supports the whole is of massive gold. the number of sapphires that ornament this crown, the cross and the gem are not less than seventy, of which thirty are of matchless size, the pearls the same. the pendants which terminate the letters of the diadem are, as well, decorated with enamel enchased in golden borders. so much to prove that the charge of luxury against the toledan goths is not unfounded. a people so enamoured of gold and jewels and embroidered silks as they at this time were, would naturally be disposed to forget the rude lessons of war and camp. wamba had improved their town and made it a fair and comfortable place to dwell in, and the barbarians without the gates were quieted now by frequent defeat. and so, the wise and virtuous wamba once deposed by trickery and smuggled off the throne in a cataleptic fit, garbed in the monk's gown of renouncement, the period of gothic decadence set in. its day of triumph and ordered rule had been a brief if brilliant one, and it had by patient effort evolved its own rude and unstable civilisation out of rough-shod conquest. from ataulfo and his horde of barbarians, pouring, famished and athirst, across the pyrenees, to lettered recesvinthus and austere wamba, who would make an effective figure even in our own times, the range in humanity is long, the dividing sea is wide and deep. but if swift had been the triumph, swifter still and more inexplicable was the decline. a more unhappy and reckless descent to oblivion history does not record. towards the end of the seventh century, the glory of toledo had so sensibly diminished that a haze lies upon its subsequent history to the lurid fame of the doomed day of guadalete. we hear dimly of deplorable vices, of a demoralised clergy, of effaced and degraded sovereigns, of a people given up to every shameful pleasure and wrapped in effeminacy and indolence. the private story of king egica is a curious and an unedifying one, told at length by lozana in his _reyes nuevos_ and by the conde de mora in his history of toledo. egica fell violently in love with his niece, doña luz, who, on her side, loved more passionately than wisely her other uncle, don favila. favila seems a disreputable enough fellow, since he took the last advantage of his niece's passion, and left her to face the most atrocious troubles that might have ceased by manly behaviour on his part. it is one of those complicated and incomprehensible episodes in history that leave us aghast. favila is elsewhere supposed to have murdered his brother by a blow on the head for the sake of that brother's wife. at any-rate he pursued doña luz and, as lozana naïvely asserts, with her permission entered her bedroom one night, and there kneeling before the statue of the virgin (exquisite absence of all sense of the ludicrous revealed even in modern spanish plays where the same sort of thing happens), they proclaim themselves man and wife with the usual results. in a little while the watchful and suspicious king perceives that his niece, doña luz, is _enceinte_. the lady understands her own and the coming infant's danger, so she has an ark made, and after a secret delivery, places the infant in it like another moses, with quantities of linen, jewellery and money, and her women float it down the tagus, where, by a miracle, it is found by her uncle, grafeses, who lives at alcántara. not knowing whose is the child, grafeses takes it home. at toledo the king suspects what has happened, but can find out nothing definite, so, still true to biblical tradition, he decides to tackle the new-born infants. he sends for a list of all the children born in and without toledo during the past three months, with the name of each father, hoping thus to discover an unfathered babe with which to charge doña luz. the number of babies born during the three months in the city of toledo reached , , and in the suburbs surpassed , . what a different story from that of to-day! one wonders where there was room for the immense population of olden times. alas for the vindictive king! all the babies had authentic fathers and mothers, and there was no reaching doña luz by this device. there remained another and less primitive vengeance. he ordered one of his gentlemen, melias, to attack her publicly as "a lost woman." because she refused to become _his_ mistress, and became somebody else's (his brother's), he decided she should be burnt for impurity. excellent logic of man! on doña luz's first appearance at court melias charged her with impropriety, and the king fiercely ordered her to reply to the accusation. "my lord," said luz, with much dignity, "how would you have me reply to such a charge? god knows, and you, my lord, see that i cannot give him the reply he merits, since he is a cavalier and yet accuses me, a woman, of evil." the king, base churl, not touched by this admirable reply, mockingly assures her that he is uncertain whether to address her as dame or maid, and defies her to find a defender, having previously forbidden his courtiers to take up her cause. at all times the picture of a disappointed lover vindictively pursuing the woman who has refused to listen to him is particularly hideous, but never more than here, where the insulted lady is so noble and patient and he such a ruffian. without a defender, he adds, she is destined to burn for her lack of chastity. she asks for a delay, and this is surlily granted. just as the fire is being prepared for the unfortunate doña luz, don favila arrives from the asturias. it is not made clear to us why he did not remain and provoke a duel with melias at once, but the historians unctuously assure us that he kissed his wife (in the eyes of god) wept over her, told her to hold her soul in patience, and returned to the asturias in search of money. the delay must have been unendurably long, and one wonders at egica's unnatural command of temper, when even now, as i, alas! too well know, it takes a long time, even with the aid of steam, to get from toledo to the asturias. in hot haste, however, don favila returned to toledo, challenged melias, and all the court assembled in the vega beneath the archbishop's palace, to watch the fight. doña luz remained in her chamber, full of sorrow and fear for favila. the king ordered the duke of cabra and count of merida with three hundred cavaliers to guard the vega, and, under pain of death, prevent anyone from assisting the combatants. his fierce desire, not even concealed, was that favila should be killed, and doña luz thus placed more utterly at his mercy. the knights met with a terrible shock of steel, so that both were unhorsed and nearly killed. this report reached doña luz and prostrated her. she hurried out to see for herself; and favila, recovered from his faint, looked up and gave her a glance of reassurance and love. he was only dizzy as was proved by his alert spring to his feet and quick rush upon his lady's enemy, through whose slanderous mouth he thrust his sword inflicting thus a death wound. he coolly drew out his sword, wiped it, and advancing to the royal seat, he bowed before the king and queen, and haughtily hoped that doña luz's reputation now was cleared. not satisfied, egica sent another knight, bristes, (what unutterable cads those gothic knights were!), to challenge the lady's innocence, and bristes went gaily forth on his base sovereign's behalf to meet favila to whom he shouted: "i will kill you and have doña luz burnt." favila wisely replied: "deeds not words weigh" and ran his sword through the braggart's body. much to his grief and disappointment egica was forced to admit the lady's vindication, but demanded her lover's sword, which provoked a fresh onslaught. grafeses stayed the clash of steel by coming to court to learn the meaning of all these wild doings, and, on passing through his niece's room, on his way to the queen's chamber, recognised a handkerchief which resembled those folded round the infant of the ark he had picked up on the banks of the tagus at alcantara. questioning his niece, he discovered the nature of her relations with favila, and instantly insisted on their marriage. the king was still bent on another duel, and sent longaris to fight favila about the sword, when a hermit comes to court and, in the name of heaven, stops the duel by revealing, as a divine message from above, the secret loves of doña luz and don favila. both the cavaliers were wounded, and doña luz flung herself on her knees before the king and begged for mercy for her lover. after long hesitation, impelled by the hermit's command from heaven to accept the inevitable, egica gives in, signals the end of the third duel against doña luz's happiness, and permits, gracelessly of course, after favila's recovery, his public marriage with the thrice unfortunate doña luz. he and the queen were witnesses, and grafeses, a kind of _deus ex machina_, proclaimed the infante childe pelayo, the future hero and victor of covadonga. egica's other feat was to persecute anew the jews for an imaginary conspiracy to convert spain into a hebrew kingdom. he pronounced them slaves, took their children from them, and forebade them to intermarry. two figures stand out in this prolonged and monotonous legend in exaggerated, it may even be said, in false relief. witiza and rodrigo are charged with the ruin of the toledan kingdom. no less than four archbishops, in no moderate language, have recorded the tale of witiza's iniquities, sebastian of salamanca, isidor pacense, lucas of tuy, and rodrigo of toledo. none of these writers were contemporaries of witiza, and they wrote in days when research was nigh impossible, and when we may doubt if a premium was put upon accuracy. how much even of our own history is a matter of hearsay? and does there exist a man so fortressed by virtue as to live without the range of slander if he be so unfortunate as to excite enmity or jealousy; above all, if he tread on the susceptible toes of prejudice? this is what witiza precisely did. and the prejudice he wounded was ecclesiastical, and ecclesiastical rancour we know at all times has proved the bitterest man can provoke. but we also find the notable figure of the archbishop of toledo, julian, a fluent and accomplished writer, and a saint. the anonymous chronicler of cordova tells us that his origin was jewish, a fact suppressed by the anti-semitical spanish historians. he succeeded quiricus and wrote the history of wamba's reign, all in proving himself a model pastor. his accomplishments were varied. he was a historian, an orator, theologian, polemist, poet, and musician. so much genius and sanctity in a goth was little short of an impertinence. the list of his writings is vast, but only a few remain. some are in greek, most are in latin, and their matter is hardly of general interest. he wrote the _apology of real faith_ in reply to the heresies of apollinarius, and sent it to pope leo ii. it reached rome after the pope's death. the succeeding pope, benedict, replied to it, and two years later the reply reached the archbishop of toledo. it provoked a learned treatise to prove that the writer was in accord with isidor of seville, fulgence, ambrose, augustine and cyril of alexandria. three ecclesiastics were dispatched with the precious document, and it took them fourteen months to reach rome. meanwhile three other popes had succeeded benedict, and the fourth called a council to consider the matter. all spain hung on the decision; the king was worried and alarmed, not knowing if he should regard his erudite archbishop as a heretic or one of the faithful. at last the messengers from rome arrived, bringing praise and admiration from a pope to whom the document had not been addressed, while between him and leo, the original disputer of julian's orthodoxy, four popes placidly lay in their tombs. julian died three years after this triumph, having ruled during ten brilliant years of primacy, , and was buried with st ildefonso in the church of st leocadia. this is the incongruous legend of witiza. during his father's life-time, he ruled at tuy in galicia, and proved himself pious, mild, just and generous. his morals were unimpeachable, and while humane to all, he was indulgent to his personal enemies, and freely granted pardon and favours to malcontents. such a man seems a fitter subject for canonisation than san hermengildo. then this excellent monarch, in middle life, with character and habits formed, comes down to toledo, and without rhyme or reason, we hear of him suddenly as a blind and bloody-minded scoundrel. from sage and saint he turns into an historic ogre, not content with libertinage in himself but constraining his subjects to follow his example, and for sheer viciousness' sake, commanding an austere and chaste clergy to marry. no villany, no crime seems too base and preposterous for the archbishops to lay to his account. for the benevolence of tuy we have rank injustice, for the mildness envenomed cruelty, and every anterior virtue is replaced by its pendant vice. yet witiza's power at tuy was no less than his power at toledo. he had his court and his throne in both towns, and there was no reason on earth why he should act the wise man in the north, and the unreasoning reprobate in the south. we suspect his first act of clemency on reaching toledo, in annulling sisebuth's edict against the jews, had much to do with the joint vituperation of the archbishops and the subsequent historians. not only did he recall them, but, misplaced generosity in mediæval eyes, he restored to the unfortunates their appropriated property and wealth, and permitted them to live and earn unmolested in his kingdom. witiza's defence has been ingeniously undertaken by the père tailhan in his interesting notes to the rhyming chronicler of cordova, a contemporary of witiza. here we meet the clement prince of tuy, whose mildness, in spite of a natural impetuosity held in check, was his greatest crime in the eyes of immediate posterity, unswervingly kind to all who approached and addressed him, described by his enemies, the moors, as the most just and pious of all the christian kings of his time, and a man of blameless life. count fernando gonzalez refers to him as "a powerful king, of indomitable courage and of noble heart." the anonymous writer of cordova, who was in a position to judge, writes of his reign as one of peace and prosperity and universal happiness. was the devil incarnate the invention of the four respectable archbishops? of course the dull and bigoted mariana follows in their footsteps. don josé godoz alcantara is of a different opinion:--"witiza," he writes, "initiated his reign by the most ample act of generosity. he restored to the destitute their dignities and wealth, publicly burnt all proofs and denunciations of conspiracy; wishing to cure a degenerate aristocracy of the passion of power, and direct their spirit of sedition to the arts of peace, he knocked down wamba's famous walls, and according to the picturesque phrase of the archbishop don rodrigo, 'pretended to turn arms into spades.'"[ ] the only crime the traveller in spain will find it difficult to forgive, is this act of vandalism in knocking down wamba's walls. he could have exhorted his subjects to practise the arts of peace, all in leaving these great walls untouched in their monumental beauty. but this is what the reformers of humanity never will do. they are never happy until they have sacrificed the picturesque on the altar of utility. witiza, we see, was in advance of his age. he was a "modern" man, a creature of fads and fantasies. this was how he came by his quaint notion of refining the deplorable morals of toledo. he could think of no other way of steming the tide of general sensuality but in legalising polygamy. so fierce a race fallen into bad habits was hardly to be sermonised with success. the legal state of polygamy he regarded, along with oriental sages, as preferable to indiscriminate and wide-spread libertinage. it is still a nice question unsolved in civilised europe whether several legitimate wives or their unrecognised substitutes constitute a higher or lower state of morality. witiza was only less hypocritical than civilised europe, that is all. but to pretend that bigamy is more scandalous than private disorder is absurd. witiza's notion of reform may have been primitive and instructive, but it does not justify the legend of his own evil life. to begin with, if he had been the degraded sensualist the archbishops and mariana describe him, he would not have troubled about reform at all, and he may have had sound reason for requesting the clergy to marry since historians are agreed that they had become utterly demoralised. the same haze of legends blurs for us the figure of his unfortunate successor, roderick of the chronicle. on one side we hear of him as ascending the throne an octogenarian, on another as the impassioned lover of the beautiful florinda, the brilliant president of a brilliant court; carried to battle in a litter, and riding thither on a legendary steed, fulgent and valiant; disappearing from the field and disgracefully hiding in a monastery; fighting like a hero and falling in the fray. we are told that he was a coward by the pen that depicts him valorously and recklessly approaching the unknown terrors of the enchanted palace of hercules, though florinda's charming leg is not more vaporous upon research than the vanished walls of this palace. it matters little now whether the archbishop rodrigo's ivory-carven car drawn by mules carried his unhappy namesake to the fatal field of guadalete or the legendary steed flashing its way through mailed ranks. however he comported himself, he lost his kingdom, and his resting place is forever unknown. but the tale of the great tournament with which he started his disastrous reign, must be told at length as one of the most resplendent pages of courtly history. whatever may have been the end of his reign, he certainly began it in the most sumptuous spirit of hospitality and generosity yet recorded. was ever such a tournament given before? princes and lords and their followers came in swarms from all parts of europe to high toledo, upon her seven steep hills. hearken only to the names, and say if they do not make a page in themselves as delightful as any of froissart's. the lords of gascony, elmet de bragas, with a hundred cavaliers; guillamme de comenge, with a hundred and twenty; the duke of viana, with four hundred cavaliers; the count of the marches, with a hundred and fifty; the duke of orleans, with three hundred cavaliers; and four other dukes of france, with four hundred. then came the king of poland, with a luxurious train, and six hundred gentlemen of lombardy; two marquises, four captains, with twelve hundred cavaliers. rome sent three governors and five captains, with fifteen hundred cavaliers. the emperor of constantinople, his brother, three counts, and three hundred cavaliers came, as well as an english prince, with great lords, and fifteen hundred cavaliers. from turkey, syria, and other parts, nobles and princes to the number of five thousand came, without counting their followers and servitors, and different parts of spain alone furnished an influx of fifty thousand cavaliers. what a poor affair our modern exhibitions and sights, even the queen's jubilee, seem after reading of such a brilliant and stupendous gathering of guests at king roderick's court of toledo. he was, as i have said, a king to visit, with nothing of spanish inhospitality about him. he ordered all the citizens to sleep without the city walls in the ten thousand tents he had fixed in the wide vega, and give up their houses to his foreign guests. be sure he paid them for the sacrifice in princely style, for out of eastern fable never was such a prince as don rodrigo, the last of the goths. all the expenses of the foreigners, including their mounts and armour, were his, for they were not permitted to use their own lances, swords, armour or horses. never were guests entertained with such prodigious splendour. he ordered palaces to be built for them, and laid injunctions on builders, furnishers and purveyors to spare neither expense nor luxury. the whole peninsula was scoured in search of armourers and iron-workers, and over fifteen hundred master armourers with their apprentices and under-hands were hastily gathered together in toledo in more than a thousand[ ] improvised iron-shops, working for six busy months at shields and lances and exquisitely wrought damascene armour for every lord and knight, the guest of their king. each guest on arriving received, as well as house and board, his horse, full armour, shield and lance. the tourney opened on a sunday, and presented such a scene as imagination alone can depict. we are not told the precise spot, but we may suppose the quaint three-cornered, the ever irresistible zocodover. rasis el moro records each guest's formal reply when asked if he desired to fight? "for this we have come from our lands; firstly, to serve and honour these feasts; secondly, to see how they are carried out; thirdly, to prove your body, your strength, and learn what you are worth in arms." hearing of these great feasts, the duchess of lorraine, persecuted by her brother-in-law, lembrot, came to toledo to implore rodrigo's protection. rodrigo received her with cordiality, and lodged her in the royal palace, and as official defender charged sacarus with her cause. lembrot was called to toledo to meet the duchess's knight, and came with a great train. he, too, was generously entertained, and pending the clash of steel which was to decide the quarrel between lembrot and the duchess, the queen gave a sarao, which was even a more brilliant and gorgeous spectacle than the tourney. fifty ladies danced with fifty of the greatest lords, and never was such a constellation of european titles joined in a single diversion. the ladies' names are not recorded, but there were in the first dance the king of poland, the french prince, the emperor of constantinople, the son of the king of england (simply called _el hijo del rey de inglaterra_), the spanish infante, the duke of viana, the duke of orleans, the count of the marshes, the marquis of lombardy, and count william of saxony. this enchanting moment preceded bloodshed, for on the next day the two uncles of lembrot were killed by sacarus, thus proclaiming the innocence of the duchess to whom lorraine was then restored, and, along with other fallen knights, lay the king of africa. the dead were buried with great pomp at the expense of their splendid host, and thus ended a tournament surely without equal as a spectacle in history. the chronicle of don rodrigo devotes nearly a hundred pages to this picturesque event. the most prominent episode in the life of the legendary rodrigo is his famous intrigue with florinda. we are told that count julian, governor of ceuta, sent his daughter to be brought up at court, where she was in a sense the king's ward. nothing remains in history to support this tradition, for it is now asserted it was never the gothic habit to have the daughters of absent noblemen brought up at court as the sovereign's wards. then we hear of the cava's baths, where rodrigo, from his palace windows, overhanging the river outside the puenta de san martin, beheld her bathing. inspection proves these ruins to be the old foundation of a bridge, nothing more. the story of the cava dates from the fourteenth century, when an arabian writer, aben-en-noguairi, in a volume called _el limita de la prudencia en las reglas de la prudencia_, gives the legend. the historian gamero thus defines the word _cava_ as applied to florinda in explanation of her condition of violated maiden. caba proceeds from caat, an arabian tribe that came to spain in wamba's reign, descended from heber of jewish origin. when the jews at the seventeenth council of toledo, under egica, were ordered to be destituted and sold as slaves, while their children were to be taken from them and forcibly brought up as christians, the saying was that the _caba was violated_, that is, that this entire tribe, forced to become christian in preservation of its wealth and property, had prostituted itself. from the current phrase, the historians applied the word to a particular woman, and poetically named her florinda. from eve downward all her daughters have had to share her fate in supporting all the blame of human disasters. neither war, defeat, nor blunder nor wreckage of nations or of individuals is accepted by man as properly and adequately explained, if some woman is not the man's or the nation's evil genius. unprompted by woman, man is a serene and prudent animal, and but for florinda, who never existed (though the historians gravely reproduce a touching and eloquent letter of hers to her father recording in fine and dignified phrases the story of her wrongs, and beseeching her father to vindicate her outraged honour and punish the unworthy king), the last of the toledan sovereigns might have ended his days in his bed, and, undesirable fate for spain! the moors might never have crossed the narrow strait. as gamero says: "ultimately the story of rodrigo's guilty love for a lady of the palace was created." a lady's name once introduced, it followed a fatal and romantic legend should be invented, and what prettier than conversion of the broken bridge on the enchanting marge of yellow tagus into a syren's bath, with rodrigo, the inflammable warrior, fresh from his encounter with dethroned gods and their emissaries in an enchanted palace, looking down on the maiden as she disported in the water from the windows of his luxurious gothic palace? the legend once started, it is inevitable that the traitor should follow, and hence the elusive and mysterious figure of count julian, who advances into the picture on a mission of paternal vengeance, and treacherously opens the gates of spain to the predatory berbers. the turks had entered spain, and it needed some other explanation than national pluck, enterprise and determination to account for their almost unopposed approach towards toledo; and what so likely an instrument of misfortune as the mythical father of the fabulous florinda? so history was written, in all faith in those naïve days. don faustina de bourbon remarks that this fable was not heard of before the dominion of the asturian monarchs in southern spain; not until the cid took valencia, and alonzo basely seized toledo, the kingdom of his moorish protector and host. such fables accord with the childish, superstitious yearning and need to associate the land's misfortunes with the personal iniquities of those who rule it. roderick may have been no saint, and small blame to him in those grossly immoral times, but we need not attach to his shoulders the packet of national sins and disorders. because the abuses among the clergy and the nobles had reached a repulsive depth of infamy, and public morals were in a lamentable state, is no reason to insist on his violation of florinda, or refer as the viscount palazuelos does in his modern guide-book of toledo, in an excess of unromantic austerity and disdain "to the guilty loves of rodrigo and count julian's daughter."[ ] there is no proof whatever that rodrigo was the wretched sensualist the historians delight to paint. his crime was (and that the gothic race shares with him) that he unworthily lost a large kingdom to a small invading force, and his shame lies in his inexplicable defeat. but for traitor there was never any need to invent count julian (whom the père tailhan insists was a certain roman urban who accompanied tarik, and whose name was distorted into julian), nor florinda. treachery existed nearer home in witiza's family. rodrigo had deposed witiza, and the usurper was repaid by the treachery of witiza's sons and his brother, oppas, foolishly thinking the berber raid would only prove a transient panic which would permit them to dispossess the usurper, and claim witiza's throne. instead of a mere raid, the invasion turned out one of the most astonishing conquests of history. rodrigo's army was immense; tarik's only numbered twelve thousand men. the battle took place on the banks of the wadi-becca; it lasted a week, beginning on july th, . two wings of the spanish army were commanded by witiza's worthless sons, chiefly manned by malcontents and their serfs. so when the commanders ordered their men to give their backs to the enemy, there was no difficulty on the question of obedience. the centre, commanded by rodrigo, stood its ground valiantly, but unassisted, at length gave way, and the turks literally hacked the christians to pieces. it was an appalling massacre. rodrigo's fate, as i have said, remains unknown. did he fly, was he killed? did he sink into the marsh where his embroidered saddle and silken cloak were found? we hear on one side that roderick disappeared mysteriously from the battle-field; on the other, that he fought valiantly and when forced to retreat, did so, fighting his way step by step, sword in hand, and fell with his face to the enemy as befits a soldier. he was supposed in this version to have been buried at visein, and years later, alfonso the great, in reconstituting that fallen town, discovered the dust of the defeated monarch with the inscription on a stone--_hic requiescit rudericus (ultimus) rex gothorem_.[ ] it is idle now to ask what is true in all these conflicting accounts, or stop to ask which statement is the right one, that rodrigo was a gallant prince in the prime of life when he began his short reign of one year, or, as an arabian historian has asserted, a sick and feeble old man of over eighty. his defection or disappearance completed the catastrophy, the most fatal and final in the record of any land, and tarik profited by the circumstance. both malcontents and jews joyfully received him and threw wide open the gates of toledo to his advance. hither he came with fresh laurels gathered at ecija, surrounded with the flower of his army, while he sent around detachments against cordova, archidme, and elvira. to the jews he owed his easy conquest of toledo, and the goths alone were to blame for this. it was only natural the unhappy and persecuted jews should welcome any foreign invasion that helped to deliver them and sweep their brutal oppressors into obscurity. witiza's clemency was too isolated a fact in gothic rule to be remembered by them or to inspire the faintest hope for continued tolerance. the next monarch might even prove worse than sisebuth or egica. it was safer to rely on the moor, who would probably remember their good-will, and would hardly maintain a prejudice against them in favour of the christians. as for the nobles and prelates, they lost their heads and flew northward. the city was speedily emptied of all the goths who had the means of flight. most of the patricians emigrated to galicià; the archbishop retreated to rome, and in payment for their treachery, witiza's sons claimed land to the extent of three thousand farms, which tarik granted them. oppas, witiza's brother, was named governor of toledo, until tarik's splendid victory brought over from africa musa, infuriated and jealous. instead of thanking his lieutenant, he acknowledged his services by publicly horsewhipping him when the dismayed victor came submissively to meet him at the city gates. chapter iii _toledo under moslem rule_ "it must not be supposed that the moors," writes mr lane poole in his "history of the moors in spain," "like the barbarian hordes who preceded them, brought desolation and tyranny in their wake. on the contrary, never was andalusia so mildly, justly, and wisely governed as by her arab conquerors.... all the administrative talent of spain had not sufficed to make the gothic domination tolerable to its subjects. under the moors, on the other hand, the people were on the whole contented--as contented as any people can be whose rulers are of a separate race and creed--and far better pleased than they had been when their sovereigns belonged to the same religion as that which they nominally professed.... what they wanted was not a creed, but the power to live their lives in peace and prosperity. this their moorish masters gave them.... the christians were satisfied with the new regime, and openly admitted that they preferred the rule of the moors to that of the franks or the goths." toledo alone, true to its character of rebel, met the moors in an attitude of violent resistance. the jews had opened her gates to the invaders, but the exact date of the fall of toledo into saracen hands is unknown. historians differ, but keep within the dates and . the town capitulated with considerable advantages. she maintained her right to hold arms and horses, and all the citizens who remained were secured perfect freedom, but those who left the city forfeited their property and rights. the citizens were inviolable in their houses, their orchards, and farms, and the annual tribute levied by the moors was a very moderate one. the free exercise of religion was permitted, and the christians were allowed seven churches by the state, santa justa, santa eulalia, san sebastian, san marcos, san lucas, san torcuato, and santa maria de alficin. but they were not allowed to build others without permission, nor were processions or public ceremonies allowed. they were left to the observance of their own laws and customs, subject to sentence at the hands of their own judges, but were exempted of christian punishment if they chose to accept their conqueror's creed. tarik, entering toledo, found it almost empty, but for the jewish colony. most of the inhabitants had taken refuge among the steep and rocky mountain-passes outside the city. only a few noble families had decided to remain and make the best of moslem rule. in the royal palace tarik seized twenty-five golden and jewelled crowns, and amongst the vast gothic treasure, the psalms of david, written upon gold leaf in water made of dissolved rubies, and solomon's emerald table wrought in burnished silver and gold, which the arabian chronicler describes as "the most beautiful thing ever seen, with its golden vases and plates of a precious green stone, and three collars of rubies, emerald, and pearls." this sumptuous table is said to have been one of the causes of quarrel between tarik and mûsa, the latter holding his brilliant lieutenant as responsible for the missing golden leg. whither have this emerald table and the psalms of david written in dissolved rubies on gold leaf been spirited? we have the crowns of the gothic kings still; why not the table of solomon fashioned of material just as enduring? the first quaint episode after the conquest of toledo is the marriage of mûsa's son, belacin, with king roderick's widow, blanche. mûsa decided upon the marriage in his high-handed way, and doña blanche bitterly complained in belacin's presence of the indignity offered her in this incongruous union. "good mistress," said belacin, in protesting affability, "do not fret, for by the law we are permitted to have seven wives. if it can be settled, i would have you for my wife as each one of these; and all the things that your law commands a man to do to his wife, will i do unto you. and for this, do not lift your voice in complaint, for it will be to my honour that all who wish me well shall serve you well if you will consent to be the lady of all my wives."[ ] the poor wives, we may imagine, had the worst of the bargain. blanche naturally could not forget that she had been sole christian queen, the president of the greatest tourney of the age, and her first exaction was that the moorish court should kneel to her. belacin yielded to her every wish, and bade his nobles cheerfully humble themselves. he went so far as to order the palace gates to be closed to those who refused to prostrate themselves before doña blanche as she sat in foolish state awaiting their obedience in a lofty chamber, with a crown on her head and a royal mantle about her. how wild and strange this must have seemed to the moorish wives in their latticed harem, fugitive and hidden articles of pleasure, and what a preposterous innovation in the eyes of the astounded courtiers! this haughty attitude on the part of a captive christian raised to the moorish throne by the good nature and affection of a moor, who might have condemned her to servitude and indignity, so angered the moors that isyed, the ruler's son-in-law, spread the report that belacin had become a christian, and then murdered the unfortunate as he knelt to pray in the mezquita. for a time, toledo was a secondary town under the saracens, infatuated as they were with seville and cordova. the latter town was chosen as the khalif's residence and thus became one of the wonders of the world. meanwhile toledo stormily sulked. abandoned to herself, she grew to be a thorn in the moslem side. no sooner conquered by one chief, she rose up furiously against the next, and in , we find cassim, her moorish ruler, so far impregnated with toledan principles of independence, that he declined to recognise the sovereignty of cordova. so that abderraman, when he came to rule over the spanish arabs, found himself confronted with the necessity of conquering toledo anew, and was compelled to send a fresh army to besiege it. the old city was by this wearied of cassim's tyranny and gladly capitulated to the more distant sovereign in . when abderraman came to visit the town in person, he left behind him as wali, his son, suleiman. but his conquest was an unstable one. toledo's history at this time is a monotonous tale of broken peace and futile revolt. she yielded to one moor only to rise up against the next. an arabian chronicler has asserted that no subjects were ever so mutinous and unruly. but the moors respected her, not only for her formidable strength, for her ramparts and fortresses, but also for her renown and prestige, for the learning of her prelates and the kingly authority of her great archbishops. and so the old gothic capital remained for them "the royal city." the popular poet, gharbib, kept the new sultan in awe and terror, and was careful to maintain the revolutionary fires blazing in constant menace. as long as he lived, the sultan did not dare to complain of the haughty and intolerable toledans, but when he died hakam summoned up courage to address them as their sovereign, and try a policy of conciliation. he chose for their governor a renegade christian, one amron of huesca, the worst choice he could have made. "you alone can help me to punish these rebels who refuse to acknowledge a moor for their chief, but who will perhaps submit to one of their own race," he said to amron, who was officially recognised as governor of toledo in . the sultan wrote to the toledans: "by a condescension which proves our extreme solicitude for your interests, instead of sending you one of our own subjects, we have chosen one of your compatriots." the toledans were speedily to receive immortal proof of the special delicacy of this attention. there exists no more shameless and inconceivable barbarity in the blood-stained pages of history than this same amron's horrible method of cowing a haughty people. he began with the arts of beguilement, and left nothing undone to win the confidence and affection of the toledan nobles. he feigned with them an implacable hatred of the sultan and their conquerors, mysteriously asserted his faith in the national cause--that is toledo's independence--and by this was able, without exciting suspicion, to quarter soldiers in private houses. without difficulty he obtained the town's consent to build a strong castle at its extremity as a barrack for his troops, and then, to show their confidence in him, the nobles suggested the very thing he wanted, that the castle should be raised in the middle of the town. when the fortress was built, amron installed himself therein with a strong guard, and then sent word to the sultan, whose heart by this was well hardened against the sullen and untameable toledans. troops were speedily gathered from other towns, and set marching upon the royal city. the young prince, abderraman, commanded one wing, and the others were commanded by three vizirs. amron then persuaded the unfortunate nobles to accompany him to meet the sultan's son outside the walls. the nobles plumed themselves on their power and value, and gaily set out to visit the young prince, who received them splendidly. after a private consultation with the vizirs, amron came back to the nobles, whom he found enchanted with the prince's kindness and courtesy, and proposed that they should invite abderraman to honour the town with his visit. the toledans applauded the proposition to entertain a prince with whom they were so satisfied in every way. they had a governor of their own nationality, they enjoyed perfect freedom, and abderraman had personally won them. in their innocence they besought an honour now desired. abderraman acted the part of coy visitor, delicately apprehensive of giving trouble, but finally yielded to the persuasion of such genial hospitality. he came to the fortified castle, and ordered a great feast to which all the nobles and wealthy citizens of toledo were invited. the guests came in crowds, but they were only permitted to enter the castle one by one. the order was that they should enter by one gate, and the carriages should round the fortress to await them at another. in the courtyard there was a ditch, and beside it stood the executioners, hatchet in hand, and as each guest advanced, he was felled and rolled into the ditch. the butchery lasted several hours, and the fatal day is ever since known in spanish history as the _day of the foss_. in toledan legends it has given rise to the proverb _una noche toledana_, which is lightly enough now applied to any contrariety that produces sleeplessness, headache, or heartache. but only conceive the horrible picture in all its brutal nakedness! the gaily-apparelled guest, scented, jewelled, smiling, alights from his carriage, looking forward to pleasure in varied form; brilliant lights, delicate viands, exquisite wines, lute, song, flowers, sparkling speech. then the quick entrance into a dim courtyard, a step forward, perhaps in the act of unclasping a silken mantle; the soundless movement of a fatal arm in the shadowy silence, the invisible executioner's form probably hidden by a profusion of tall plants or an oriental bush, and body after body, head upon head, roll into the common grave till the ditch is filled with nigh upon five thousand corpses. not even the famous st bartholomew can compete with this in horror, in gruesomeness. compared with it, that night of paris was honourable and open warfare. it is the stillness of the hour, the quickness of doing, the unflinching and awful personality of the executioners, who so remorselessly struck down life as ever it advanced with smiling lip and brightly-glancing eye, that lend this scene its matchless colours of cruelty and savagery. beside it, few shocking hours in history will seem deprived of all sense of mitigation and humanity. the place of this monstrous episode is said to have been the famous _taller del mora_, now a degraded ruin. suspicion was first aroused by a doctor, who had strolled out to watch the arrival of all these distinguished citizens come to the feast of the moorish prince. having time to kill, he decided to stay and see the departure, but as the hours went by, and no one came out by the door so many had gone in by, while report carried him the fact that the other door had not yet opened for the exit of a single guest, he began to express his fears to the loungers gathered round him to watch for the end of the entertainment. alarm was quickly spread. who, after all, were these brilliant strangers but the enemy armed, unscrupulous and powerful? apprehension was strained to its utmost tension, when the doctor shouted, as all began to perceive the rising of a heavy vapour: "unfortunates, i swear to you that that vapour is never the smoke of a feast, but that of the blood of our butchered brethren." never was a town so completely stupefied by a moment's blow before. not a single voice was lifted in protest. toledo, on ordinary occasions, so resentful, proud, rebellious, was simply prostrate from emotion and horror; and in her stunned and terrorised condition the turk might have done what he willed with her. she was bereft of tears, bereft of reproaches, of will and force. the remaining citizens dared hardly speak of the dreadful occurrence in whispers among themselves, so heavily gripped were they by the nightmare of reality. now, whether the young prince or the sultan was aware of the wali's atrocious design remains for ever a mystery. how far were they accomplices? to what extent did they reprove the action? we are told that amron took abderraman into his confidence before the feast, and protested loudly in upholding his design as a justifiable measure, since the toledans were such a harsh and unmanageable race, and its nobles so insupportable and dangerous, and that the young prince demurred to such ruthlessness of method, and begged the wali to be prudent and not bring unnecessary odium upon moslem rule. this precisely would seem the deep design of amron's double treason. did he wish to accumulate fresh odium on his adopted race, or pay off old scores by one fell blow on his forsaken people? anyhow, we are glad to learn that he was deservedly punished. after a while the town woke up from its stunned resignation. the toledans shook themselves out of their trance of horror; met once more in the zocodover, talked fiercely together, and remembered that they too could be ferocious with less provocation than this last outrage, and from the zocodover the murmur broke out and travelled along the outlying streets and remote little markets, and down by the river among the armourers and silversmiths. the people rose up, and swooped willingly down upon amron, and burnt him and his castle. and surely never was vengeance more holy. but in spite of siege, insurrection, and temporary surrender, which were the constant conditions of public life in toledo, the town increased, and moorish influence began to show itself triumphantly in architecture and in horticulture. gardens spread along the vega, and arabian palaces brightened the sombre landscape. both jews and christians were becoming enormously rich, and the wali, aben magot ben ibraham, decided to raise the tribute of the christian merchants and persons of means. this was quite enough to quicken the slumbering fires of revolt, and a young toledan, hacam, nicknamed _el durrete_, striker of blows, resolved to expend his great wealth in assisting to fan the flames. like every other toledan, he thirsted for an excuse for sedition, and called his fellow-conspirators together in the market-place. there it needed nothing but a judicious use of strong language to induce the people to fling stones and shower blows on the unfortunate palace guard, so handy to the zocodover, and from blows was only a step to the massacre of all the officials and seizure of the alcazar. reprisals naturally followed, and hacam, routed for the moment, retired to devise a fresh attack. he sent abroad the report that he had gone off to make a raid upon catalonia, and kept his spies on the look-out for the first signs of relaxed supervision. the instant he found the town-gates unlocked, he poured his men silently into the city at night, and recovered toledo without a blow, and set fire to the greater part of the upper town. in the sultan sent omaiga to besiege the seditious town, but the toledans repulsed him triumphantly, and hacam was practically the uncrowned king of the city. skirmishes continued with success, now on one side, now on the other, but always leaving toledo unsubdued. maisara, a renegade spaniard in command of moslem troops, routed the toledans outside the walls, and died shortly after his victory, of remorse and shame, when the soldiers, according to a hateful custom, presented him with the heads of the slain. in discord broke out anew between the renegades and the christians. a toledan chief, ibn mohâdjir, offered his services to the commander of calatrava, and walid, the sultan's brother, was charged to direct the siege, which lasted a year. an envoy of walid stole secretly into the town, and discovered the famished and weakened state of the inhabitants, urged capitulation, which advice was rejected. but the envoy's report of the people's misery induced walid to press on a vigorous assault, and once more was toledo tamed and taken, and amron's fatal castle rebuilt. later fresh troubles hailed from cordova, whither came eulogius burning for martyrdom, and exciting the christians to exasperate the moslems into persecution. we know that left alone the spanish arabs were not in the least given to religious persecution. the christians were free to practice their religion, and in toledo lived tranquilly under mozarabe law. only the condemned christian might always appeal from the mozarabe tribunal to the moslem judge, who could grant him immunity. this was no very great hardship, for in general mediæval law made it too easy to kill and too difficult to reprieve. no masters have ever been more tolerant than the moors, and it needed all the blind and unreasoning fanaticism of eulogius to discover persecution and a means of forcing martyrdom. the surest method naturally was to revile the false prophet in public, and insult every instinct and prejudice of the conquerors. this was to prove oneself a saint in those far-off days, while now we should pronounce a distinctly different opinion on such proceedings. so eulogius, with his lamentable tales, fresh from his romantic parting with the martyred flora, fired the toledans with indignation, and again they took up arms under sindola, arrested their moorish governors, and sent word to the sultan at cordova that his life would answer for that of their fellow-christians. they declared war, took calatrava, which the sultan retook in , filed through the sierra morena, and defeated the moors at andujar. mohammed assembled his troops and marched against toledo in june , when sindola turned to ordoño, king of leon, for help. the christian king sent a large army to toledo under gaton, count bierzo. the moors, by a false assault and retreat, drew gaton and the toledan troops into an ambush, where girdled by moslem forces, they were massacred to a single man. over christian heads were stuck on the walls of different towns, and for a time was toledo again cowed. but she took her revenge in electing as archbishop, on wistremir's death, the sultan's impassioned enemy, eulogius, and this time to punish the rebels the sultan resorted to a stratagem worthy of amron of the foss renown. he began to undermine their bridge while his own troops occupied it, and before the operation was completed, he withdrew his men, thus inveigling after them the rash toledans. the bridge split, and the unfortunate rebels were drowned in a heap in the deep and sullen tagus. an arabian poet triumphantly sings the infamy: "the eternal could not allow a bridge to exist built for the squadrons of miscreants. deprived of her citizens, toledo is mournful and desolate as a grave." but a people that could shake off the nightmare stun of the day of the foss could rise above this blow. toledo had resisted for twenty years, and she was not yet conquered. leon was at her back, and its king was her proclaimed knight. in she forced from the sultan a treaty acknowledging her as an independent republic under annual tribute, and concluded an alliance with the famous beni casi of aragon, a great visigoth family converted to islamism, who sent lope, the chief's son, to toledo as consul. then came to the throne of cordova the great khalif, abd-ar-rahman iii., and toledo was to discover that here was a very different enemy from the incapable generals that had hitherto striven in vain to subdue her. here was a mighty commander who was not to be daunted by her frowns and her wild spirit, and whose patience and dogged determination she was to find the match of her own. genius alone could quell her, and genius came in the handsome and valiant young monarch who would win her or die. first he sent a royal order, commanding her to surrender to him her rights as a free and independent republic, and humbly acknowledge him as liege lord. this toledo roughly and proudly declined to do. her reply was couched in terms of evasive menace, for eighty-four years of freedom, under the protection of the beni casi of aragon and the king of leon, had taught her to regard herself as an enemy to be duly reckoned with. then the sultan sent his general vizier, said-ibn-moudhir in may to open the siege, and in june he joined him with the flower of his army, and encamped on the banks of algodor near the castle of mora. here he forced the commander to evacuate, and placed his own garrison in the fortress before advancing on toledo. he began by camping in the cemetery and burning the outlying villages, and then, in order to show the toledans the kind of man they had to deal with, he proceeded to build a town on the opposite bank of the tagus, exactly fronting the royal city, on a mountain side as high as hers. here he and his troops dwelt for eight years, persistent and unswerving, calling the town he built "victory" in anticipation of the inevitable result. a siege of eight years! what a tale of magnificent determination and stupendous force of will and endurance on both sides. which to praise most, wonder most at, the toledans or abd-ar-rahman? what a town, what a sultan! with such a watchful power outside the walls, the marvel is that famine so long delayed its fatal presence; but it came at last, and stalked the gaunt dim streets and humbled the city of the goths as no other force or persuasion could have done, and after years of accumulated sufferings and privations, bereft of pride and strength and dignity, she yielded her haggard front to the sultan's swift assault, as soon as he knew her power undermined, her patience at bay, and by nightfall the heads of her insurgent chiefs were grinning lividly over the puerta de visagra. after the great khalif's death, the town recovered a partial independence, and remained, until the christian conquest, a kingdom apart under the rule of tolerated arabian princes, independent of cordova. successive feeble efforts to win her prove ever unavailing, and she continues to glower above the river in unquiet and mutinous temper, while the princes make believe to rule and do but obey, proud but fearful of so uneasy a charge. her rulers during the unsatisfactory eleventh century were: yaîch-ibn-mohammed-ibn yaîch, till ; ismail dhafir, till ; abou-i-hassan yah[^y]r mamon, till ; and yah[^y]a ibn ismaïl ibn yah[^y]a câdir, till the conquest. the most picturesque episode is that which leads to the downfall of the demoralised moslems. alphonso of leon, escaping from the monastery of sagahun, fled to toledo and besought the hospitality and protection of the moorish king almamon. the generous and courteous moor gave him considerably more than shelter; affection and all the outward show of his rank. persecuted by a christian brother, he was nobly befriended by a loyal enemy, whose generosity he ill repaid by treachery and ingratitude. almamon gave him the castle of brihuega, and constituted him the chief of the mozarabes, that is the christians of toledo under moorish rule. furthermore, he bestowed on him farms and orchards outside the town on the bank of the tagus, and a residence within the walls near his own alcazar. at the moorish court of tolaitola, as the arabs called toledo, the proscribed prince was granted all the honours of his rank. alcocer tells us that in return alphonso swore to be loyal, not to leave toledo without permission, and to fight all men of the world for the moorish king. almamon, on his side, swore to treat alfonso well and faithfully; to pay him and all his people. alcocer, with quaint garrulity, describes the king's fondness for hunting, and his delight in fresh green places and luxuriant foliage, and his great sadness in looking across from brihuega to toledo, and contemplating the possibility of such a strong and beautiful town falling once more into the hands of the christians. the story runs that one day almamon visited his guest at brihuega, and in the gardens the courtiers began to discuss the marvels and attractions of tolaitola, "that pearl placed in the middle of the necklace, that highest tower of the empire."[ ] from this the talk fell upon the probabilities of its being attacked, and at this point alphonso, lounging beneath a tree, feigned sleep. the moorish prince described at length the only way of taking the town, and his plan of siege was well remembered by his treacherous guest. the courtiers glancing anxiously at the sleeping prince asked themselves if his sleep were real, and to try him began to pierce one of his hands with shot. still unconvinced, they begged the king to order him to be killed, but, says alcocer naively: "our lord kept him for his greater good, and would not hear of this." when sancho was murdered by bellido dolphos at the foot of the walls of zamora, alphonso left this friendly court with the blessings of its sovereign, who offered him money, arms, and horses, and escorted him part of the way as far as monuela, separating with embraces and vows of eternal friendship on both sides. both swore never under any circumstances to war on opposite sides, but each to assist the other in all difficulties with hostile powers. alfonso returned to toledo, and sent messengers to invite his former host to dinner. the king came, and found himself surrounded by armed men. demanding the reason of such a strange reception, alfonso replied, "when you held me in your power you made me swear to assist you against all men, and be your loyal friend." the moorish king assented, whereupon alfonso sent for the gospels, and swore upon them again, with almanon in his power, never to fight against him _or his son_, and to assist him against all the world. alfonso's word, it will be seen, was strangely flexible. this spontaneous and solemn promise to a friend and ally could, with honour, be broken, while elsewhere his word, compromised by wife and friend, demanded their instant death by fire. shortly after almamon died, and toledo returned to its normal condition of disquiet. flying kings, invading powers, rivalries and skirmishes, overtures between moor and moor, and between moor and christian, all terminated by alphonso's deliberate baseness in laying siege to the town ruled incapably by the incapable son, yahya, of his late friend and guest, who should have been sacred to him. he followed the plan of siege so unguardedly suggested by almanon in the gardens of brihuega, and took the town on the th may . yahya and his court left toledo, their hardly won and deeply loved tolaitola, with their treasure, and went towards cuenca, mournful and silent, eaten by regrets and humiliation. so toledo, after three and a half centuries of roughly and persistently disputed moslem sovereignty, returned to christian rule. true, she was always less of a moorish centre than cordova, sevilla, valencia and granada, and glowed less than these in the bloom of its brilliant civilisation. her temper was too obstinate and harsh for such flowery development. but she had so far profited as to gather charm to her austere beauty. the aspect of her walls had suffered modification and improvement, and the moors had built handsome bridges, which alas! have since disappeared, both the bridge near santa leocadia, and that across the old roman waterway. in dozy, a quotation from the arabian chronicle, abou-l-hasan, tells us how "alphonso, the tyrant of the galicians, that infidel people (that god may cut it in pieces!), seized the town of toledo, that pearl of the necklace, that highest tower of the empire in this peninsula." he describes toledo as "a softbed" for alphonso, and the people "henceforth resembling docile camels." for docility the people were not more remarkable than before, and as for the softness of toledo as a royal bed, its quality of ease and security never wavered, whoever wore the crown and wielded the sceptre. alphonso residing "up among her high walls," had his own troubles to face, just as had cadir, yahya ibn-dzin, who gave her up to him. "may god renew her past splendour," cries the arabian chronicler, "and write her name again on the register of mussulman towns!" the weak and unfortunate yahya accepted valencia in exchange, which he was not destined long to keep, thanks to that magnificent hero, el mio cid, the campeador. chapter iv _the last period of toledo's story_ the start of spanish rule in toledo was clouded and stormy. the cid was named the first alcalde, and the castillians expressed their dissatisfaction with mozarabe law, which was the gothic law of toledo. they clamoured for castillian judges and the castillian _fueros_ or privileges. the king granted their request in all civil cases, but in criminal cases decided that every citizen should be subject to the mozarabe alcalde, and in case of death the first application for burial had to be made to the mozarabe authorities, who gave permission to the castillians to consult their own. but slowly the word castillian came to be employed in toledo in place of the more picturesque designation mozarabe. after the conquest, alfonso left his french wife, constance and the french archbishop, bernard of cluny, as regents in toledo, and hurried off on the usual business of war to leon. now one of the conditions on yahya's surrender of the city was that the mezquita, formerly the christian cathedral, should remain in the hands of the moors, as their place of worship. but neither the queen nor the archbishop approved of this clause, and could not conceive that a promise given to the reprobate moslem should be held as binding. so the king once gone, the queen gave orders, and the archbishop headed his followers, and took the mosque by force. great, naturally, were moorish outcries against christian perfidy, and word of the atrocious deed was instantly conveyed to alfonso, who hurried back from leon, sending word before him that his intention was nothing less than to burn alive the queen and the archbishop. for a king who had scandalously broken the laws of hospitality, and who had no intention of helping to maintain yahya on his throne in valencia, according to his solemn engagement, this was making a mighty mountain of a smaller offence, and placing a disproportionate price on so fragile and fugitive a thing as his honour. the moors were so dismayed by this assurance, that their indignation evaporated and gave way to pity and terror for the delinquents. the alfaqui went out beyond the city walls to meet the irate monarch, and plead their cause. seeing him from afar, alfonso, misinterpreting his purpose, cried out: "friends, this injury is not done to you but to me, since my word is compromised, which i have ever guarded with all my power. but i will so act that neither she nor others will again dare to commit such audacities." the alfaqui, kneeling to the spaniard, exclaimed in the name of his co-religionists: "my lord, we well know that the queen is your wife, and if she should die for our cause, we should be abhorred of all men. and the same should the archbishop die, who is the prince of your law. we of our will beseech you to forgive them both, and we freely relieve you of the oath by which we hold you, so that in all things else you are true to it." thanks to moorish generosity, neither the queen nor the french archbishop was burnt alive, and the mezquita became the christian cathedral we may see to-day. as a mark of gratitude, "the good alfaqui's" statue was ordered to be placed in the _capilla major_, an honour [illustration: the cathedral] shared with the mysterious pastor _de las navas_, a shepherd, supposed to be the instrument of that victory. the church was solemnly consecrated in , and then it was that toledo had the misfortune to fall completely under french influence. to bernard of cluny's ill-judged introduction of the roman liturgy may be traced the inquisition. the quaint old gothic rite was ordered to be abolished in favour of the roman breviary. aragon and navarre yielded at once, but castille held out for the isidorian ritual, and excitement ran high in toledo, the very heart and head of the gothic rite. nothing could make her willingly faithless to the severe and simple mozarabe service, inherited from the early christians. hers was the primitive form of worship of christians when christianity was still fresh and unformed, before rome had introduced its dazzling magnificences of ceremony. both the clergy and the people ignored the decree forbidding the mozarabe ritual, and steadily rejected the latin. then the french archbishop resolved to put the matter to the test of the sword, and if that did not settle it, to that of fire. he called these tests "the judgment of god." a duel was fought consequently, under the eyes of all toledo, which left the judgment of god on the side of the mozarabe ritual. this did not satisfy the archbishop, who found that the almighty had erred, so he lit a big fire on the public place, the precursor of the terrible fires that were to follow, in which spain was to burn out all her glory and greatness. the historians do not agree in their reports. the archbishop rodrigo says, "_exustus ibi fuit liber gallicus; rumansitque ibi toletanus illæsus_." alfonso the learned says: "both books were cast into the flames, and the french office struggled with the fire that endeavoured to devour it, and then gave a leap over all the flames, and jumped out of the bonfire, seeing which, all gave praise to god for the great miracle he had deigned to work; and the toledan office fell into the flames without any harm, so that no part of it was touched by the flames, and no injury was done to any part of it." this appears to have settled the dispute: the toledans were allowed to preserve their ritual in six parishes reduced now to two. cisneros, a century later, founded the mozarabe chapel of the cathedral, and ordered the printing of the ancient office with its queer primitive chaunt, and in the eighteenth century, cardinal lorenzana had another edition of the text printed. the traveller curious to know how the old goths prayed in the days of recesvinthus and wamba, of st isidor and st ildefonso, may hear the old service any morning in the mozarabe chapel. the rite was probably more impressive in the days of the great councils of toledo than in ours. though first castillian alcalde of toledo, the cid is not associated with the town by any picturesque or splendid deed. his great achievements belong to the story of other towns. here is only recorded of him a sordid domestic quarrel. alfonso convened the cortes to consider the challenger's differences with his miserable sons-in-law, the infantes of carrion, and the meeting took place in the beautiful palace of galiana-- "la mora mas celebrada de toda la moreria." the cid came with his kinsmen, alvar fañez, and twelve hundred cavaliers. the king rode two leagues beyond the city gates to meet him, and when the cid had kissed his hand, embraced him. when informed that he was to dwell in the royal palace, the cid protested against the excessive honour, and asked for himself and his suite the castle of san servando. the king and the cid together rested at the posada, and then rode on to the palace. here carpets and gold brocade lay along the walls, and in the middle of the great chamber the splendid and richly-wrought throne; close by it was the cid's celebrated marble bench brought from valencia, and round it a hundred shields of hidalgos. day and night, while the case lasted, this bench was guarded, and in the _cronica del cid_, it is described as "a very noble and subtle work." it was covered with the richest of gold cloth. when the king, followed by the infantes of carrion, and all the court, entered the palace chamber, the uncle of the infantes began to cast ridicule upon the cid's famous bench, whereupon the king sternly rebuked him: "you who are jeering, when have you ever sent me such a present?" instead of wasting their time in jealousy of the challenger, why did not the rest of his subjects accomplish such noble deeds as his, he wondered. the cid was then called, and when he entered the chamber, the king rose up and welcomed him. amidst profound attention, the cid solemnly pleaded his case. he demanded that the infantes should give up to him their dishonoured swords, tolada and tizona. this the infantas haughtily refused to do, upon which the king ordered the swords to be taken from them, and given to the cid. the cid kissed the king's hand, and both sat down, the king on his throne, and the cid on his marble bench. the cid then, a passionate father, eloquently told the roll of his wrongs and his daughters' injuries. he reminded the king that he it was who had made these lamentable marriages. "it was you, señor, who married my daughters, and not i, because i could not say you nay. but you did it for their good, not for their doom." he demanded the return of his money from the infantes and an explanation of their evil conduct to his daughters. he became so violent from grief and indignation that the king thought fit to interfere, and while recognising the justice of his most bitter complaints, urged him to respect his children in their husbands, and, in a word, be less personal in public. he then commanded the infantes to salute their father-in-law, and the court to pronounce sentence. the infantes, worthless scamps, stood and insolently proclaimed themselves the social superiors of their wives, whom the choice of princes had inordinately honoured. "then why," sensibly asks the king, "did you press me to obtain for you their hands in marriage?" and proceeds to give the ladies' pedigree to the affronted cid's delight. the wretched infantes were very properly disgraced, when their discomfort was accentuated by the appropriate arrival of hot messengers from the kings of aragon and navarre, begging in marriage doña elvira and doña sol for their sons, don sancho and don ramiro. in those odd and delightful times, divorce seems to have been a matter of royal judgment or caprice. spanish sovereigns, unlike henry viii., never had any difficulty in arranging those little affairs without scandal, or war, or revolution, either in their own case or in that of their vassals. alfonso stoutly advised the cid to accept proposals that gave his outraged and forsaken daughters kingdoms instead of obscure retreats, and bestowed the last affront on the miscreants who had offended him and them. so the scandal terminated, and the chronicler tells us that "the infantes left the palace very sorrowful, and hastened with all speed back to carrion." alfonso's reign was no quiet one. he had to contend with the fierce yussuf and his son, and grief pierced him through his young son, sancho, whom he sent to war with count garcia of cabra, when only eleven. twenty thousand christians, along with the brave little prince, lay dead on the battlefield, and the king's anguish, when the news reached toledo, was overpowering. he died soon afterwards, and his body was exposed for twenty days, for the towns-people to come and gaze upon the remains of the christian monarch. toledo still remained the centre of castillian rule. here the cortes was held; here was each christian monarch proclaimed in a quaint ceremony that merits description, said to have been transmitted to the castillians by the goths. as soon as the municipality received the new king's letter, they announced that the royal standard would be raised, and opened all the rooms of the town hall. soon the building was crowded with magistrates, jurors, pleaders, cavaliers and citizens. the streets and the plazas overflowed with the people in holiday array, all laughing and excited. the buildings were decorated, hung with beautiful silks and stuffs, and illuminated pretty much as in our own days. balconies were covered with brocade, and from each window fell pieces of rare tapestry. at eight o'clock in the morning the town was gathered near the ayuntamiento to hear the chief scriviner read the deposition, and watch the lifting of the royal standard and the new king's banner. the city then named four commissioners, two officers and two juries, and despatched them to the ensign's house, telling him to bring instantly the royal standard to the town hall. the ensign took the standard and went forth, followed by a large crowd of cavaliers, of archers and of troops, all in full uniform, while the bells rang, and music played, and the populace shouted. a joyous moment hugely enjoyed by this fierce, excitable race of toledans. at the town hall the standard was placed on an altar, and the commissioners and jurors took their places. then the order of the day was read, and all swore allegiance to the new king as loyal and faithful vassals, and in the kingdom's name the banners were lifted. the magistrate then kissed the paper and put it on his head, likewise the rest present, and all shouted response in a single voice. the bells rang anew, the trumpets blew, and deafening roars of applause rent the air. then the chief magistrate thus addressed the citizens: "imperial and most illustrious city, kingdom of toledo, seated at the head of the monarchy of spain, would that my brief eloquence could match my desire--not to repeat your obligations to the king, our lord, since you are better aware of them than i, which compels us to recognise in him his most high father and grandfather, of eternal memory, most worthy kings and our lords, whom your highness always canonised with your tongue, and forced the remotest nations to obey, fearing your sword of iron, which is the head of this spotless city, whose arts and letters are of the first class, and whose cathedral is above all others. but to be able to weigh and tell your highness on this occasion, that as thus, by direct succession come to and remain with the king our lord, these kingdoms and seigneuries, so by the same are due to him, and constitute part of his heritage, obedience for being as he is, a prince of the best promise any kingdom has ever had; affable, benign, generous, upright, catholic, and gifted with many other virtues. that all this your highness deserves, and that you may enjoy much happiness, with all prosperity. such a king deserves such a kingdom, and such a city deserves such a king. may his majesty live a thousand years and may your highness live them with exceeding multiplication." when one remembers such amiable sovereigns of castille as pedro the cruel, who happily died in the thirties, this hope of toledo's chief magistrate seems a peculiarly grim one. a thousand years of pedro's reign would have decimated the entire spanish kingdom, and left none to-day to tell the tale. the alferez (ensign) then replied in the name of toledo, and the standard was lifted and carried to the alferez, who received it standing, while every head was uncovered. then the alferez carried the standard, followed by a group of officers, and swung it flying from the balcony, crying in a loud voice: "hear, hear, hear! know, know, know; that this pendant and royal is raised for the king, don ----, whom god preserve many and happy years. amen. spain, spain, spain; toledo, toledo, toledo, for the king, don ----, our lord, whom god keep many and happy years. amen." the populace shouted 'amen'; the trumpets blew, and shrill rough music rent the air. three times was this address repeated, the citizens each time shrieking 'amen' with intervals of triumphant music, and the banners remained waving until sunset, the alferez and the municipality all those long hours mounted guard over the royal and civic colours. at sunset the standard was solemnly carried to the cathedral to be blessed, and the entire city walked behind the alferez and the magistrates. trumpeters, minstrels and archers went before, and awaited the colours at the gate of pardon, where all the dignitaries of the church were gathered to receive them. the archbishop, the canons, the dean, the chaplains and priests, in their richest brocades and lace surplices, and all the representatives of the town parishes, were there in state. the dean advanced outside the cathedral gates, surrounded by deacons, and in a circle behind stood the chaplains and canons with precious relics. after ceremonious salutations exchanged, the alferez followed the dean into the church, and then began the procession of the chapter and the parishes up the immense central nave to the chapel of our lady of the star, while the organs rolled their thunderous sound and the choir solemnly chanted. at the high altar the dignitaries passed inside, and toledo, with the chief magistrate, remained in the wide space between the altar and the choir, only the standard-bearer entering the choir with the prelates. here a chaplain offered him a brocaded cushion, on which he knelt, while the choir chanted the psalm _deus judicium tuum regi da_. the standard was blessed, and then the te deum was sung. with the same brilliancy and impressiveness of ceremony, the standard was afterwards borne down to the brightly hung and festive zocodover, and then up the narrow hilly street to the imposing alcazar. all the balconies and windows were filled with lace-wreathed women's heads, and the excitement and enthusiasm were intense. at the gates of the alcazar the standard-bearer knocked thrice loudly, and called out: "alcalde, alcalde, alcalde! are you there? hear, hear, hear!" within a voice as loudly demanded: "who calls without the gates of the royal alcazar?" to which the standard-bearer haughtily replied: "the king." the gates were opened, revealing an immense and picturesque concourse of splendidly apparelled knights and men in gleaming armour, a blaze of brocade and damascene. the standard-bearer cried again: "alcalde, alcalde, alcalde; hear, hear, hear; toledo to-day has lifted this royal pennon for the king, don ----, our lord, whom god preserve for many and happy years. and, accompanied by its municipality, it has sent me, its standard-bearer, to bring it to you as the alcalde of those royal palaces, that you may receive it in his majesty's name, and place it in the tower, which is called the tower of the atambor." the palace doors were then closed, and as soon as the pennon floated above the high tower wall, the alcalde shouted thrice the same formula as that of the standard-bearer when he raised the standard above the balcony of the town hall, and the people below each time responded 'amen.' the procession returned to the town hall, and this ended the picturesque ceremony. the greatest toledan figure of this period is the mitred figure of the conqueror of the battle that virtually demolished the moor in spain, las navas de la tolosa. rodrigo jimenez de rada was more than an illustrious archbishop at a time when archbishops were rulers of men, and when the archbishop of toledo might be said to be the practical sovereign of spain. he was a valiant soldier, a commander of genius on the battlefield, a zealous prelate and an erudite man of letters and historian. conqueror of _las navas de tolosa_, no mean victory, since the moors were in tremendous excess, conqueror of quezada, of cazuola and cordova, the honoured friend and adviser of two kings, first of his day in all things by right of genius, industry and merit, toledo owes him something more than christian victory over the moor, something far more immortal and magnificent than that dull and prejudiced monument his history, so often quoted--la historia de españa--which he wrote in . it owes him her great, her unique, her matchless cathedral. to have won the most glorious of spanish battles--a victory so stupendous, considering the odds and the results that the great archbishop himself insisted it was nothing less than due to the intervention of heaven--and to have built the cathedral of toledo! what epitaph needs a man who accomplished two such deeds in a single life? his epitaph, as befits so illustrious a personage, is simplicity itself: _mater navarra, metrix castilla tolatum_ _sedes parisius studium, mons rhodams horta,_ _mausoleum, coelum requies, nomen rodericus._ what a dazzling achievement the lives of these toledan archbishops, martial, learned, literary, eloquent, and artistic; every facet of multiple genius. now they build ships, then cathedrals, colleges or palaces. they print rare editions, collect rare mss., debate in councils, rule the land, vociferate magnificently from the pulpit, decide on all questions of education and civil law, advise their sovereign, guide foreign politics, voyage in foreign lands, win glorious battles, and write histories and verse! what modern life can match theirs? even mr gladstone has neither built a great cathedral nor won a great battle! this archbishop of toledo, a mighty chancellor of castille, was as charitable a pastor as victor hugo's bishop. indeed, nothing remains to his discredit as a great and simple nature, but the unavoidable bigotry and injustice of his history. he died on his last voyage back from rome, and was buried, as his quoted epitaph indicates, in the monastery of huesta, june th, . alfonso's crusade against the moors was followed by dreadful dearth, by famine and sickness, and the entire ruin of villages and farms. public misfortune habitually forges fresh unexpected miseries for man, and bands of armed robbers and assassins, called _golfines_, descended in hordes from the mountains of toledo, of ciudad real and talavera. they pitched their tents in the outlying woods, and in self-defence the toledans formed their celebrated _hermandad_, a brotherhood of citizens sworn to persecute robbers and assassins. this brotherhood was so successful that in it was qualified as "holy," and was conceded as a right one head of every flock and cattle that crossed the mountains. the society held its feast on st pedro advinada's day, st august, and consisted of sixty toledan proprietors and hidalgoes, whose sons inherited their office; two governors, a squadron, archers and minor subalterns elected by the two alcaldes. the uniform was green, with collar and cuffs of vivid scarlet trimmed with gold, and pointed caps. the inferior officers wore a loose green garment suitable for the road, and capes and bonnets of green, without the bright touch of scarlet and gold, and their uniform may still be seen on a stone station above a sixteenth century porch in a laneway opposite the calle de la tripería, where the ancient prison of the hermandad is. they rode in procession, preceded by timbrals and clarinets, and carried a green banner with the arms of castille. it was this brotherhood that philip ii. presented with a magnificent camp of green cloth which to-day may be seen in the museum of artillery in madrid, and here the hermandad received their sovereigns when they visited toledo. the success of this brotherhood provoked the creation of minor fraternities and another toledan order was started against robbers, _san martin de la montiña_, with similar privileges granted by royal decree as those of the more famous _hermandad_. later, the catholic kings instituted the _hermandad nueva_, of disastrous memory, formed of one thousand horse and foot with a captain, general, and a supreme council, whose duties and functions were multiplied and extended beyond the province all over the unhappy peninsula. this brotherhood we know, alas! played a terrible part in the terrible inquisition, and hunted down bigger and more historic game than mere robbers and assassins. the hum of the moorish wars ever accompanied the interior war of discord and turbulent dissensions. when st fernando entered toledo as the new sovereign, he found the town groaning under the tyranny of the wicked governor, fernandez gonzalo. two girls, one a young lady and the other a girl of the people, flung themselves before the saintly young monarch to complain of seduction under promise of marriage. san fernando, who did not trifle in these matters, expressed his horror and demanded the name of the seducer. the instant the governor, fernandez gonzalo, was mentioned, he turned furiously to his men and cried, "cut me off that rascal's head this very moment." within an hour the gallant governor's livid features were fixed above the puerta del sol. here was a man without any of the freemasonry of his sex. death itself was the penalty he unhesitatingly meted out without debate for wrong done to women. not a word of blame for the girls, no compliance to the conventional theory of gallantry. the man who betrays a woman is a blackguard; then off with his head, and space for cleaner souls. a little drastic, perhaps, but conceive our civilised world in the eyes of a san fernando. conceive him presiding over one of our courts of justice for the settlement of breaches of promises! so wise his judgment in the esteem of toledo that to-day the historic scene is in relief on the glorious puerta del sol. under castillian rule toledo's supremacy could not continue without rivalry. first, santiago had disputed her right to hold her celebrated councils, and a furious quarrel raged between the pope, calixtus, and the king, alfonso, as to whether the councils should be held at toledo or at santiago in the north. the pope took the part of diego the galician archbishop, and, for a while, santiago was regarded as the primacy of spain. but, under honorius, toledo and her archbishop, raymond, recovered their prestige with this time the king against them. in a council was held at palencia. here toledo sat at the feet of compostella. charlemagne, himself, is said to have broken a lance in favour of santiago which, one knows not by what right, he proclaimed the head of spain. beside the question of the primacy, burgos put in her claim for the cortes, which she held should meet within her walls, and not on the banks of the tagus. here the king was the stout defender of toledo. at the great meeting convened to discuss this rivalry, the king entered the council chamber, and haughtily cried: "let burgos speak, i will reply for toledo." the rivalry of the great families of the castros and laras nearly became a civil war, toledo fighting on the side of the laras, whose chief, don manrique, was a character after her heart: intrepid, dominating and fierce, unequalled in war, untameable in peace. the little king's uncle settled the dispute by killing don manrique de lara, and to avenge him toledo violently conspired through her great citizen, stephen illan, a descendant of the illustrious byzantine family, the paleologos. these animosities were quieted for a while by the terrible plague and famine that followed quick upon the heels of victory, and avenged the defeated moors of las navas de tolosa. misery implacably stalked castille. seeds bore no fruit for one entire year; trees were dead and leafless, the land was sterile and the people, wild with hunger, forsook their dead, their orchards and meadowland. of toledo's private story we get no glimpse. the thunder of battle and strife roars ever down the pages of her history in the succeeding centuries, and we continually hear of new breaches in her magnificent walls, while the trumpets blow their noisy defiance from her mutinous ramparts. that toledo was no comfortable place to dwell in then (or now) we gather from the acrid description of the streets, rivers of mud in winter, and in summer, waves of dust, full of filth, evil odours, foul sights and breathing mortal disease. alfonso the learned in ordered the streets to be cleansed and the plazas to be kept free of dead beasts. the chapter gave ten thousand ducats for paving the street, but this was not done until fernando the catholic ordered the work in . alas! these sanitary improvements heralded the hour of her decline. she bartered her prestige for improved paths down to the river, and lost the greater part of her greatness along with her rugged incivility. and for all her progress she never shook off the old sway of goth and moor. she built churches, but persistently gave them a quaint moorish aspect, and when she adopted printing, it was to print the isidorian office. true, she exhaled her martial contempt of women in her first profane print, _el tratado contra las mujeres_, by alfonso martinez de toledo in . [illustration: puento s. martino] nobody contributed more than the magnificent cardinal tenorio, commendador and master of santiago, to beautify the town. he built the cathedral cloisters, and the chapel of st blas, liberally endowed the church, built the bridge of st martin and the castle of san servando as well as several convents, the archbishop's bridge, the hospital of st catherine, and a splendid palace at talavera, which he gave to the monks of st hieronymo. he constructed several fortresses along the moorish frontiers. of him is told the legend that once at burgos he gave such a princely feast to the nobles of that town, that when the king returned from the chase there was nothing to be had to eat but a few quail and bread and wine. the great tenorio had cleared burgos of all its provisions for his banquet. toledan laws, which were stringent, were based upon the _fueros_, a castillian modification of the gothic code. nothing could be more precise, more minute, more searching in detail of offence and punishment of all that relates to private and civic life. the very dress of women, mozarabe and castillian, was regulated according to their social status, the expenses of marriages, baptisms, and funerals regulated; the expenses of fathers and husbands limited by their income to prevent injury to the family. the moors and jews had their own judges unless christian interests were at stake, when they were judged before mozarabe tribunals. the mayor's jury consisted of five nobles and five citizens. each court had its magistrate and official staff, and the municipality met twice a week, tuesday and friday, to judge the decisions in block. the people might assist, but could not vote or question. the magistrates were salaried, and could not leave the city unless sent for by royal command. the municipal constitution was composed of two bodies: _cabildo de regidores_, cavaliers and citizens, to deliberate; the other, _cabildo de jurados_, sworn to observe the _fueros_, and to administer justice. the privileges of nobles and plebeians were distinctly defined and maintained. the _regidores_ were paid annually maravedis, and the _jurados_ . assistance at the councils was voluntary for the former, obligatory for the latter; a fine of maravedis being imposed in case of absence, which fines were at the end of the year divided between the rest of the jurados who had not once been fined. a juror could not be imprisoned for debt, nor forced to lend his mules for public service, and his widow and children partook of his privileges if he died in office. toledo was always strongly garrisoned, but its military decline began with the reign of pedro the cruel. the inexplicable and monstrous tale of pedro's cruelties need not be told here. he has become one of the legends of universal history, one of the nursery terrors of civilisation. that such a monster ever lived out of a fairy tale, where giants for pure pleasure spend their days consuming human flesh and marrying wives for the gratification of decorating secret chambers with hanging corpses, seems incredible. his palace at toledo is now a miserable ruin, near the ruin of the trastamare palace, of which now only remains the door with the huge toledan iron nails, so charming and distinctive a feature along the city streets. here was the theatre of many of his stupefying iniquities, as well as of the single redeeming sentiment of a senseless life, his love for the unfortunate and beautiful maria de padilla, the one pale flower of romance in a stony and stormy period. kings' mistresses are not usually admirable or sympathetic figures, and their mission is not infrequently fraught with direst results. but this pale little maria, with lovely hands and large sad eyes, is the one ray of light and sweetness amidst violence, cruelty, and perfidy. such good as love could work amidst such elements she wrought. when she could she interposed between pedro and his victims, and even the outraged wife reveals no traces of vindictiveness towards her. at the other side of the town, in the big alcázar, was imprisoned blanche of bourbon, under the care of maria's uncle, juan fernandez de hinestrosa, and all that now remains of her high chamber is the window overlooking a superb landscape. it is to the credit of toledo that the citizens were the first to rise up against pedro's iniquities. the queen, accompanied by hinestrosa, entered the cathedral to pray, and to the dismay of everyone called out "sanctuary," and refused to leave it. word flew round the town, and all the ladies and women of the people gathered round the unhappy woman. the knights and hidalgoes could do no less than follow the lead of their courageous women folk. they drew their swords, made a circle round her, and walking thus escorted the queen to the palace gates. the flag of revolt was instantly raised, and the people called the infante, don fadique, to come and take command. he came with men, and doña blanca was proclaimed free and sovereign. toledo then sent a commission to the king, bearing the town's orders: that maria de padilla and her relatives should be banished, and the queen occupy her rightful place. the king made short work of the commission, and laughed in the face of his rebellious town. his morals were his own affair, and if they did not suit his people they must hold their tongues until he had time to cut off their heads. meanwhile henry of trastamare and don fadique had taken the town by the bridge of st martin. they sacked and pillaged, robbed samuel levi, pedro's great and wealthy treasurer, and murdered jews. then came pedro, and the trastamares fled, leaving what remained of the town to the mercies of the ruthless royal troops. toledo paid a heavy price for her chivalrous defence of the discarded queen. the unhappy woman was again locked up in the alcázar, and like the wicked ogre of story, pedro, entertained himself by hacking off the heads of those around him. twenty men were decapitated in a single day by this mild monarch, whom philip ii. called _el justiciero_, and of whom the _cronica_ writes: "el gran rey, don pedro, que el vulgo reprueva, pos serle enemigo quien hizo su historia, fue digno de clara y muy digna memoria." these verses quotes the prelate of jaen, juan of castro, who rehabilitated pedro, by asserting that he only "wrought justice upon rebels," and who laments the baseness of his assassination at the hand of the worthless trastamare, a vile termination of a vile life, in which one regrets to see as accomplice one of the old heroes of our youth, du guesclin. the list of pedro's cruelties and assassinations is stupendous. he married women and cast them aside at will, without even the troubles of our english henry. shortly after his marriage with the unfortunate blanche of france, he married juana de castro, sister of the portuguese king, yet neither france nor portugal went to war, and the church did not interfere. he instantly abandoned juana, and returned to maria de padilla, whom he always acknowledged as his sole wife, and whose children he named his heirs. there can be no doubt that he passionately loved these little girls of maria, taking them with him as his most precious treasure when he travelled, and leaving in their behalf a will, so tender and precise, so burthened with anxiety for their welfare, that his life becomes a greater enigma than ever after reading it. beatrice he named queen, to the detriment of his legitimate son by juana de castro. his love for maria de padilla was no less deep and lasting. she was buried with royal honours, and at the cortes convened after her death, he publicly, and it must be admitted with a manly devotion and courage that does him credit, acknowledged her as his wife. here his wilfulness becomes a virtue, and we are touched by his unswerving love for the woman, of whom the churchman, lozano, writes, "in her little body heaven had placed great qualities and merits of the highest order." his real love for maria is all the more extraordinary, since he was one of the vilest libertines, who burnt women alive for refusing his addresses, and in his conduct to his unfortunate french wife, he showed himself nothing less than insane. the hero of mr meredith's modern novel, "the amazing marriage," is a model of conventional behaviour to a bride beside don pedro the cruel. after torturing her he murdered her, which explains the attitude of france towards him, and the sorry figure of the great du guesclin at the tragedy of montiel. toledo only roused herself out of stupor in the first gaieties of juan ii.'s reign. this prince preferred song and dance to bloodshed. he heard of the people of toledo as insupportable, haughty and rebellious, and came to conquer them by luth and feast. never was toledo so gay before. the great alvaro de luna, the constable of castille, was beside him, and the city danced and sang, and feasted itself into oblivion of terror and disaster. even a war with the moors was an added and pleasurable excitement. king john prayed and watched in the cathedral all night like a knight, and there was a solemn ceremony next day, when vasco de guzman, before the magnificently apparelled king and constable, kissed the royal standard and banners. still grander feasts on their return fresh from conquests at granada and cordova; there was the great te deum in the cathedral, and the bullfights by torchlight on the zocodover, and by day feasts and tourneys in the brilliant vega. here begins the rivalry of the celebrated toledan families, the ayalas and the silvas, and the quarrels of the constable of castille and pedro sarmiento, in which the meaner figure wins. the jews, too, were persecuted in a monstrous crusade provoked by the bigoted and atrociously unchristian eloquence of that most unsympathetic of saints, vicente ferrer. under his lead, the christians seized the beautiful little synagogue, santa maria la blanca, an act of injustice it would be difficult to explain by any pronouncement of christ, himself a jew. but all was not black at this period, despite perfidy, cowardice, betrayal and persecution. juan ii. was fond of rivalry and bright apparel, and his splendid victim, alvaro de luna, remains one of the finest figures of castillian history. john himself dabbled in poetry, and patronised letters. he instituted a kind of provençal court, and one of his contemporaries was the celebrated marquis of villena, henry, the man in advance of his time, man of science and scholar, mathematician and reader of the stars. later, alas, his valuable library and his writings, treasures of erudition and memory, were publicly burnt at madrid, by order of fray lope barriento, a dominican, who accused him of witchcraft, and juan de mena wrote his famous "coplas" to the memory of the great and learned marquis: "aquel que te ves estar contemplando en el movimiento de tantas estrellas, la fuerza, la bra, el orden de aquellas, que mide los cursos de cómo y de cuando, y ovo noticia filosofando del movedos, y de los comovidos de fuego, de razos, de son de tronidos, y supo las causas del mundo velando: aquel claro padre, aquel dulce fuente, aquel que en el cástalo monte resuena. es don enrique, señor de villena, honra de españa y del siglo presente. o inclito sabio, autor muy sciente! otra y aun otra vegado te lloro, porque castillo perdio tal tesoro no conveido delante la gente perdio los tus libros sin sea conveidos y como en exequias te fueron ya luego unos metidos al avido fuego, y otros sin orden no bien repartidos. cierto en atenas los libros fingidos que de protagoras se reprobaron con armenia mejor se quemaron cuando al senado le fueron leidos." here as elsewhere the nobles and people of toledo were constantly at loggerheads, though it would be difficult to say on which side reason preponderated. now it was the silvas who sided with the rebels, then the ayalas who opened the city gates to them. one ayala, mayor of the town, rode to meet an invading infante; the infante reproached him insolently, on which ayala flung back his words, and turning rode into toledo to shut the gates in his face. they were not to be trifled with, these haughty toledans. in a measure their prince was their valet, and was subject to insult upon provocation. the same may be said of the artisans. there exists a toledan proverb: "soplaré el odrero alborazarse ha toledo." let the ironmonger (or pot-maker) blow and toledo will rise up. this proverb dates from the time of john ii., who begged the toledans to supply him with a certain amount of maravedis towards the expenses of his wars with aragon and navarre. the people indignantly refused, and the first to hiss the toledan note of revolt was a maker of iron pots. previously someone had discovered a gothic inscription which proved that the ironmongers of gothic days were the centre of urban revolution, hence the proverb proving their traditional contumelious disposition. king john's love of poetry produced two toledan poets, praised by dr pisa, antonio de heredia, a poet who "added rare glory to the castillian muse" (probably an ancestor of the french academician, jose maria de heredia) and a woman, aloysia de sigea, whose portrait may be seen in the biblioteca provincial de toledo. the fame of her erudition travelled to portugal, and she is said to have written fluently in latin, greek, hebrew, syriac, and arabian, though with so inconceivable a lack of decency that her muse to-day is not translateable in modern tongue. doña luisa sigea of toledo, and her witty daughter doña angela, were called "women philosophers," and their depraved works are supposed to be founded on the traditions of a mysterious association discovered under john ii. at sevilla, "a bizarre school whose immorality is understood by the terms of the law that prescribes it."[ ] alvaro de luna found the toledans no easy subjects to deal with. pedro sarmiento constituted himself chief of the revolution against the mighty constable, and instead of a great lord the people had to do with a mean and avaricious hound. don alvaro appointed captains his sons, pedro de luna and fernando de rivadeneira, and ordered them to cross the river and besiege the town by the puente de alcantara. sarmiento sent horses and foot out by the puerta del cambron under his son to surprise the constable's forces near the river. a fierce battle ensued, and the king himself had to make conditions for the constable with the violent and haughty citizens. sarmiento demanded that the constable should be given up or the king resign, and roundly accused his sovereign of weakness and favouritism. the king demurred, upon which sarmiento invited his son to come and reign, but henry soon found that he was only a tool in sarmiento's hands, and left the city in dudgeon, to return speedily at the head of an army to crush the too powerful sarmiento. ordered to leave toledo, sarmiento loaded two hundred beasts with gold, silver, jewels, carpets, brocade, silk, and linen he had robbed of the citizens he oppressed, and to the prince's shame the impudent thief was permitted to carry off his treasure unmolested. the execution of the great constable, infamously abandoned by his friend and sovereign, did not secure peace and content to rebel toledo. the state of the town in the succeeding years was so terrible that the citizens sent the bachelor fernan sanchez calderon to supplicate the king's interference, and enable them to possess in security their goods and products of those who had beaten, robbed, and ruined the town. the king declined to interfere himself, and expressed surprise that a man of such marvellous learning and science as the bachelor should come on such an errand. to the king's rebuke, the bachelor replied: "god forfend, illustrious lord, that i should hold as worthy of your majesty's attention such things, but i accepted this embassy to make manifest to your excellency the evil things that are being done." the king retorted: "it is my duty to punish evil, not to reward it." temporary peace came with the union of the two powerful houses of ayala and silva, in the marriage of doña maria de silva and pero lopez de ayala. but king henry's entry into toledo aroused the old lion. the alarm bells rung, and the citizens rushed armed to the bishop's palace, where the king was. fearing bloodshed, a squadron of cavaliers rode hot haste to the palace and begged the king to leave the city, and he went forth surrounded by the reconciled ayalas and silvas. to all the troubles that followed between isabel and henry, toledo added more than her share. one moment the nobles held the town, and then the people, both parties ever opposed in interests, allegiance, and both in reality caring greatly more for their own archbishop, their real sovereign, than the throned king who ruled all castille. with two parties contending for the crown of castille, isabel and the _beltranaje_, henry's acknowledged heiress, his wife's but not his own daughter, sympathy ran high in toledo on both sides. the marquis of villena attempted to capture the princess isabel, but was defeated by the vigilant archbishop, who collected a body of horse, and carried her off to valladolid. never were betrothal and marriage solemnised under more romantic and thrilling circumstances than were those of isabel, shakespeare's "queen of earthly queens," the sole majestic and perfect sovereign of spain, and ferdinand her unworthy husband, whose single virtue lay in the admirable way during her lifetime in which he seconded her rule. in gratitude for toledo's sympathy, the great queen visited the town immediately after her marriage, but the scenes of her triumphs and glory lie elsewhere. there is but one blot on them, due to her husband and the terrible torquemado, the introduction of the inquisition into castille. this was shortly before the great cortes held at toledo, , where the salutary measures of reform instituted by her were such to leave her subjects awestruck in admiration of her genius. but there were the portuguese and the moors calling her attention, with blare of trumpet and shock of steel, while toledo's true sovereign was the great cardinal, the cardinal of spain, mendoza. gallant, learned and liberal, a _grand seigneur_, he was in every way in contrast with his austere successor, cisneros. he was not unfamiliar with illicit love and its complications, and acknowledged two sons, iñigo de mendoza, and diego, count of melito. his gifts to various cities in the shape of palaces, churches, colleges, jewels and rich church ornaments, were incredible, while toledo possesses his most beautiful hospital of santa cruz. he left all his wealth to this hospital, appointing queen isabel his executor. he it was who waved the royal standard from the highest tower of the alhambra after the taking of granada, and, better still, counselled isabel to lend a friendly and helpful hearing to columbus. his library was the most magnificent of mediæval spain. philip ii. was in treaty to purchase this rare collection for the escorial, and a correspondence exists between his secretary and the vicar of toledo, maese alvar gomez. it afterwards fell into the hands of cardinal loaysa, and was valued at twenty thousand ducats. mendoza employed a staff of writers in copying and transcribing rare mss., the chief of whom was a greek, calosynas, a pupil of darmarius. we approach the last hours of toledan history. the great queen's death revealed the worthlessness of her husband, and the unfortunate juana became the victim of the vilest conspiracy between the three men to whom she should have been most sacred. first her father, not willing to step down from the throne of castille to make way for his daughter, decided to proclaim her mad. then her husband, won over by promises of fernando, consented to accept the situation, but was cut off suddenly, after the agreement, poisoned it is said, by fernando's orders. then the heartless young prince, her son, resolved to carry on the infamous persecution, in order to reign in her stead, and kept the poor woman nearly fifty years in a dark comfortless chamber, ill-treated by her keepers, the marquis and marchioness of denia, with no communication with the outer world. the story of juana _la loca_, to whose perfect sanity cisneros and her confessor, juan de avila, testify, is one of the saddest of history. in , the marquis of villena received orders to place toledo under flemish rule. the town murmured rebelliously, and as soon as philip died at burgos, declared itself independent. the nobles, headed by silva and ayala, met and swore that under no consideration should the sword or any artillery be employed to keep the peace. the silvas held the gates and bridges, but the ayalas, exasperated by the dominance of their old rivals, talked the townspeople into a rising, and bloodshed ensued. the silvas conquered, flung the magistrate and his party out of the city, and the streets were strewn with wounded and dead. on fernando's death, cisneros became the regent of castille, with adriano of utrecht and armestoff. cisneros filled the town with militia, and the ramparts glittered with steel. now toledo's pet aversion was a uniform. she liked to fight, but in her own rough, free-lance style. so she rose up against the cardinals, and after a futile rebellion, in which neighbouring towns engaged, was speedily quelled. but the insurgents within her gates kept muttering of treachery on charles' side and of his unhappy mother. so toledo, "the crown of spain and light of the whole world, ever free since the high reign of the goths," decided to fight for the queen, and depose the tyrannical young charles. insolent verses rang round the town, jeering at xebres the favourite:-- "doblon de à dos horabuena estedes, que con vos no topó xebres." "señor ducado de à dos no topó xebres con vos." "salveos dios, ducado de à dos que monsieur de xebres no topó con vos." the favourite had to fly from the city, and when his nephew, william of croy, was appointed to the great see of toledo, there was a frantic explosion. everything combined to excite indignation. austrian fashions were adopted to please charles, goods were imported from every foreign port to the detriment of home productions, and toledo, that employed over ten thousand workmen in silk factories, was nearly ruined by the royal decree limiting the use of silk, and forbidding the use of spanish embroideries of gold, and silver, and rich brocade. this tyranny brought about the famous rising of the _comuneros_, under juan de padilla. padilla is the greatest figure of mediæval toledo. historians delight in him as a true hero, brave, gallant, honourable, wise, a perfect hidalgo, as romance paints him, punctillious, unaffected and pious. the worst his bitterest enemies ever said of him was, that he played second fiddle to his heroic wife, maria de pacheco, and coveted the mantle of master of santiago. his influence over the citizens and people was immense. for a single word of his, , workmen armed themselves, and stood round him. they named him captain-general of the combined forces of the _comuneros_, with francisco maldonado in command at salamanca, and juan bravo in command at segovia. toledo seized all the outlying towns and villages, and her voice of command reached to the portuguese frontier and as far north as valladolid. the cruelty and treachery practised by the imperial army, with the prince of perfidy at its head, were such to send all castille vigorously marching behind the heroic padilla. war once set a-going, padilla went down to tordesillas to see the queen. toledo remembered that the outraged sovereign had been born within her walls, and despatched her gallantest son with words of sympathy and allegiance. at a sign from juana, he was ready to translate the junta from toledo to tordesillas, and make a rampart of his men for her protection. he forced the gates, and learnt the miserable tale of the queen's compulsory detention and sufferings, and found that "she was in her right senses, and quite as capable of governing as her mother, isabel." to every urgent prayer to sign the decree proclaiming her inviolable rights, and her son's base usurpation, she answered "that all that she has is her son's." "the queen," wrote hurtado de mendoza to charles, "spoke nobly to the rebels," and adds that he regards her as "perfectly sane." while padilla was being worshipped as a popular idol at valladolid, jealousy and disunion were working against him at toledo. great men had joined the people and padilla, the duke of infantado, the marquis of villena, juan de avila, and many prelates and knights. they had imprisoned the king's messengers and ministers in the chapel of st blas, and forced the governor to swear fealty to the _commindad_. the mayor defending the bridge of st martin had fallen, and the silvas, guarding the alcázar against men, were forced to evacuate when the insurgents burnt down the gates and walls, and were masters of all the fortifications. they made canons of the church bells, stopped up every entrance by the river, and defied the imperial army. such a proud and congenial hour for toledo. all the citizens went about puffed up with glory and addressed one another as "brutus," swaggering abroad, and ready to ring the bells as soon as word came from tordesillas that the queen had signed.[ ] padilla hurried back, hearing his wife was ill, and in his absence the imperial army sacked tordesillas. jealousy as usual had weakened the force of the comuneros, though padilla's gallant presence impelled them to some brilliant skirmishing. but their fate was sealed at villalar, where the conde de haro defeated them, and took prisoners to the castle of villalar, the infamous ulloa's property, three noble gentlemen of old castille, padilla, maldonado and bravo, whose names are writ upon the walls of the parliament house of madrid, and printed large upon the hideous page of charles quint's early reign. padilla's noble letters of farewell to his wife, maria de pacheco, and to toledo, may be seen in the archives of simancas, letters full of stately sentiment, of dignified tenderness and virile pathos. history proudly records his rebuke to bravo's last lament as they walked to the gallows: "señor juan bravo, yesterday it befitted us to fight like cavaliers; to-day it befits us to die like christians." their heads were exposed over the gates of toledo, and then flung into the river. maria de pacheco, "the great widow," as a spanish poet calls her, still held the town against the imperial army. she was found praying at the foot of the cross when her servants brought her the news of padilla's defeat and death. she rose, robed herself in black, and walked to the alcázar between her husband's lieutenants, davalos and acuña, who bore a standard representing padilla's execution. they named her captain of the insurgents, and found her implacable and violent, but still a sovereign commander. she took gold from the churches without any compunction, ordered the massacre of her enemies and their bodies to be flung over the castle walls, but could liberally admire gallantry in an enemy too. pedro de guzman, wounded, was carried into her presence. he had fought magnificently, and she ordered him to be treated well. when cured, she offered him the command of the _comuneros_ which he indignantly refused, whereupon she gave him freedom and paid for his carriage, only asking him to free any toledan who should fall into his hands. a generous if a ruthless enemy! her influence over the town was extraordinary. the imperialists and _comuneros_ met in a violent clash upon the zocodover. on one side shouts of _viva el rey_; on the other, _padilla y commindad_. too ill to walk, maria was carried out in a chair into the midst of the conflict, and cried out loudly, "peace! peace!" her cry was enough. there was no need of eloquence, of menace, of adjuration. one single word and a look, and swords were sheathed as by magic, and both parties, in pacific rivalry, enthusiastically escorted her back to the alcázar where she was throned a queen. she it was who interposed between charles and toledo, and obtained the town's pardon. but the dead remained unforgiven, and padilla's palace, by royal decree, was levelled to the ground, and the place is now an ugly little square planted with acacias, without even the tablet that used to mark the spot where the house stood. the great widow died in exile in portugal. her flight from toledo was worthy of her romantic career. dressed as a villager, by dead of night, she stole out of the town to join her knights in the silent vega. here a horse awaited her, and the little band, gallantly guarding a brave woman and the baby son she clasped in her arms, padilla's proscribed heir, made for the portuguese frontier. with this heroic figure vanishes the last gleam of toledo's greatness. charles v. came here, and had some liking for the town, since he rebuilt the alcázar with its magnificent staircase, but did not live to enjoy it, and his wife, doña isabel, died here. to him toledo owed the great water works of juanelo turriano, the wonder of the times, a machine composed of tin cases pinned together and rising in file from the river to the castle. the water entering the first case was pushed into the second by wheels, and thus up to the castle, where it fell into a reservoir. this _artificio_ is written of in paris in in "l'inventaire général des plus curieuses recherches des royaumes d'espayne": "là tu verras le grand, fort et mémorable alcázar, où l'eau monte en grande abondance par un artifice admirable, qui rejaillit de la rivière du tage. a ceste invention est semblable celle que fit faire henry le grand d'heureu mémoire sur le pont neuf de cette bonne ville de paris où il y a deux belles figures de bronze, l'une de jésus christ, et l'autre de la samaritáine. il n'y a que cette différence que l'eau de tolède monte deux fois plus haut que l'autre, et jette aussi gros que le corps d'un boeuf." but henceforth toledo is an effaced figure among spanish towns. she is no longer the imperial city or the royal town, and is only a great historic memory. chapter v _the old spanish capital, once and now_ the tale of toledo's rough and broken history, ending as i have shown with the last struggle of the _comuneros_, will have amply prepared the reader for the town's present physiognomy. few cities in europe that for so long were accustomed to opulence and power, have known a reverse so instantaneous, so complete, an extinction against which all effort, all hope, all aspiration have proved vain, as that which toledo was crushed beneath, when felipe segundo chose miserable, ugly, undistinguished madrid for his country's capital. until then the vicissitudes, the fortunes of toledo were those of all spain. even now in her ruin, the violent and imperious character of the race remains imperishably stamped on the harsh, sad mixture of beauty and ugliness of her conservative features. but the country itself takes no note of her. she has lived, she lives no more, except in the memory of historians, for the fugitive admiration of the traveller. unchanged i have said she is in all respects; a perfect mediæval picture in high relief against the background of civilised europe. nothing less civilised will you find along the least traversed byways of our modern world. of her ancient splendours she presents such vestiges as to shame all that the ages have done for us. in beauty, alas, we have not progressed. that remains behind along with many other divine things, the portion of this sadly-used old world's bright morning. such vast centres as london and paris are mean enough compared with what such a town as toledo must have been when her semi-royal archbishops flourished and kings were proud and delighted if she but smiled upon them, more used as they were to her frowns and her visage of haughty revolt; when the jews throve, great capitalists, and ruled the exchange, when the muezzin was heard over her narrow streets and the crescent floated from her towers, and her weekly markets in the zocodover were so thronged that magistrates had to preside at the coming and going of strangers, such was the influx on all sides. if the town wears so unique and imposing an aspect after centuries of silence and decay, what must it not have been in each of its great hours of domination, under goth, moor, and christian? would that toledo were but the mausoleum of regrets and memories. there is a dignity and charm in noble widowhood, a grandeur in unobtrusive poverty. but such is not her portion. she has become the home of the most shameless and persecuting beggary it has been my lot to see. all over italy and spain beggars thrive in the sun of winter and in the shade of summer. but here they are worse than a plague of mosquitoes. castillian good-nature, a grand manner in money matters, and courtesy, vanish at toledo, where a sullen discourtesy and importunate mendicity reign. the people reverse every notion travels in north spain and old castille had led me to form of the spaniards, of their kindliness, of distinguished honesty, and of disinterestedness. the toledans regard the foreigner with the eye of the bird of prey. the instant his foot touches their ground they pounce upon him, and he knows neither rest nor freedom from their mercenary and dishonest attentions till the train carries him away from their mean little station. it is not safe to ask a question of even a well-dressed toledan. if he tells you to take the right instead of the left, he is sure to ask you either for a tip or alms. but you may rest assured he regards himself entitled to one or the other. all the boys of whatever class, bourgeois or artizan, coming out from the institute with sachels slung over their shoulders, or running errands, well-shod and clothed, along the streets, at the sight of a foreigner shriek out "un canki sou" if they imagine they know french, and "cinco centimes" when they are content with castillian. if you take no notice, they will pursue you in a vituperative procession, and not scruple to fling their caps, ay, even stones at you. other spanish towns are proud and noble in their decay, toledo is unhappily degraded and brutalised. she has no commerce, no stir, no money. she has no communication with the outer world except through the travellers who briefly pass her way, and upon whose exploitation she lives. she has no standard of civilisation. her object is to make every foreigner pay for every step he takes along her rude and inhospitable pavements. the people have no desire whatever to make a good impression, no pride in the hope that the stranger shall go away and speak them fair in remote parts. they neither want his good opinion nor his sympathy; but they want as much of his money as they can get. the ill-will is general. canons, citizens, sacristans, guides, interpreters--all appear to be in a secret league to multiply difficulties and exact tips. only the common women, all over spain the cream of the race, retain something of spanish good-nature and courtesy. if spain should ever be redeemed and lifted once again to her old position as a nation of the earth--for now she is but a squalid and disorderly province--it will be due to the persistent amiability and kindliness of the women of the people. these want nothing but intelligence to make them the equals of the french, and here the intelligence is only dormant. it would take so little to develop it, and they are so unconsciously the better half, in such pathetic and humble ignorance of their superiority to their pretentious mates. so little love have the people for anything that is graceful, or charming or pleasant, that the guitar-players would not dream, as they wander down the dark romantic streets at night, of thrumming their guitar for mere pleasure. they must be paid a real ( - / d.) before they will play a single air, and then of the shortest, and if you wish them to continue you must continue producing reals at intervals. i have not heard any good playing here, and the music is of the vulgarest, but such as it is, in a dead town without a single distraction or break in the night's monotony, one would gladly pay a peseta to hear undisturbed a little toledan music. but no. they have no artistic desire to please before receiving payment. their mean terror is of playing a bar that shall go unpaid for, and for this reason they stop in the middle of an air and spoil their effect. but perhaps we should not grumble, great a blot on an impressive landscape and down streets that have not altered since the spurred and belted centuries, as this grasping and mendicant race is.[ ] with a different people toledo must surely have changed her physiognomy, and taken on a more civilised and prosperous air. and though this would be her gain, it would assuredly be our eternal loss. the city as it stands is one of the oldest and most interesting of europe. coming straight to it from nuremberg, a painter has told me that nuremberg seemed new and artificial beside it. the streets, so terrible for the modern shod foot, could not well be other than they are, taking into consideration the fact that the town is built upon seven rocky peaks feet above the sea. perched so high, one has no right, even in the face of electric light, with which we could better dispense, to expect comfortable circulation. as a matter of fact, you do not circulate. you tumble down, and you climb up; you twist round high-walled passages the natives call streets and seem to understand, and your walk is little better than an undignified limp. the feet of the people through the influence of centuries, no doubt, appear to be impervious to the lacerating effect of pointed stones, and you have nothing to do but rise superior to the sensation of pain if you can; if not, to groan in private. but you are so well repaid by every step you take, that you have no claim upon sympathy. was ever city so strongly placed, so superbly fortressed as toledo must have been in roman, gothic and moorish days? we need nothing but her gates to tell us this, though all her great successive walls have been thrown down. let us gather from her historian of the beginning of the last century, dr francisco pisa, some idea of the town's features after the christian conquest, since we can only hope to seize fragmentary notions of the splendours of moorish rule, and the rudest suggestion of gothic sway. the life of the city then, as now, spread from the zocodover, word of inexplicable charm, said to be arabian and to signify "place of the beasts." to-day even it offers us quite a fresh and startling study of the famous picaresca novel. down the picturesque archway, cut in deep yellow upon such a blue as only southern europe can show at all seasons, a few steps lead you to the squalid ruin where cervantes slept, ate and wrote the _ilustre fregona_. so exactly must it have been in the days cervantes suffered and smiled, offering to his mild glance just such a wretched and romantic front. in the courtyard muleteers and peasants sit about, and above runs a rude wooden balcony, in the further corner of which was cervantes' room, where he sat looking down upon the beasts being fed and watered, cheerfully writing, we may imagine, in the din of idle clatter, in the dense and evil atmosphere of an age and land when the nose was not an inconvenience. if he were no more comfortable than i presume the guests must be to-day, he cannot have suffered more in the prison of argamasilla, or in slavery to the turk. stepping upon the plaza, there would not now be much that is novel to shock his eye beyond the dress. the plaza has preserved its old triangular form, two sides straight, and the third curved, with the single broad path that leads to the alcázar. the shops still run inside the rough arcade that makes the circuit of the place, and loafers and gossips loll upon the stone benches, while water-laden mules amble by, and girls, effective and unimaginably graceful, with well-dressed heads and brilliant eyes, in groups saunter into view, carrying on their hips earthen amphoras, which they have filled at the public fountain. these are features that have not changed since the grave sweet humourist trod this broken pavement. visit it in the dropping twilight, when the early stars are out, and you will find it alive with promenaders, uniforms in excess among the males. priests, soldiers and beggars abound, and dwelling on the dulness of toledo, it can be no [illustration: moorish arch leading to zocodover] [illustration: house cervantes stayed in, toledo] wonder to us that the spruce young officers of madrid detest being quartered here. what have they to do in a town where there is not even a decent café, and social existence is not partially understood? and the pleasures of walking round a romantic city cannot be offered them as adequate distraction. for us, of course, it suffices as long as taste keeps us at toledo, and each walk has its fresh surprise, if not a fresh enchantment. impossible to find a more intricate, maze-like arrangement of streets, and some of the passages behind the alcázar, and round by the cathedral look so dreadful and perilous that the marvel is there are to be found persons with sufficient courage to dwell in such places. one is disposed to agree with robida the french artist, who attributes the excellence of toledan steel in bygone ages to the desperate danger of the streets, since nobody then but a citizen armed to the teeth would be insane enough to leave his house. but if the main features of the zocodover have not changed, the fulness of its life has diminished. in the sixteenth century the tuesday markets of the place were widely famous. don enrique iv. granted the citizens a free market every tuesday in return for toledo's gracious reception of him. for toledo, as i have shown, did not spoil her rulers, and like all ill-tempered persons, she received a disproportionate acknowledgment of her rare soft moods. fruit, flowers, provisions of every kind, birds, fish, oil, honey, bacon and cheese were sold, and the exceeding moderation of the prices, owing to the untaxed sales, attracted crowds from all parts. the influx of trade even at this period, though the jews and moors, source of her wealth, art and civilisation, had been destituted and expelled, was enormous, so that the magistrates held audience every tuesday to judge the cases of purchase and sale, and see that the peace was kept. trade was then so important an affair in toledo, that priests and magistrates kept the interests of the traders in view in the settlement of church and legal matters, and mass was celebrated over the archway leading to cervantes' inn and cardinal mendoza's most beautiful hospital (see façade of santa cruz) in a little chapel dedicated to the precious blood, expressly set aside for the market people, at the earliest hour of day to suit them, and the audience chamber timed its hearing of civil cases at an hour in the interest of the same class, so that business should not be interfered with. there was a smaller market up near santo tomé, ruled and protected like that of the zocodover, with also a high chapel for service for [illustration: the zocodover] the market folk. one side was given over to the butchers' shops, above which was inscribed: "reigning in spain the most high and powerful felipe ii., he has ordered in the town of toledo these butchers' shops with the concurrence of perafande ribera, his magistrate. year mdlxxxix." there was another little meat market down in the old place of sanchez minaya, near the hospital of the misericordia. the slaughter-houses were in the wide place close to the puertas del cambron and san martin, where, as pisa says, "the air of the open country came to cleanse away the evil odour of the dead remains." grain and wheat were sold near the alcázar, down by the cardinal's hospital. the exchange of toledo was the most important of spain. it was founded by martin ramirez, in the parish of st nicholas, near san josé. near here the gilders and silversmiths worked, and their work was as prized as it was costly; while the tanners, leather-cutters and dyers were relegated to the barriers above the river, between the mills of the hierro and san sebastian. the potters lived at the top of the town, under san isidro, and spread everywhere were countless weavers of cloth, and silk and fine embroiderers. running from the zocodover to the puerta de perpiñan was the famous street of arms where the sword-makers, the armourers, the iron and damascene-workers lived, and in the wide street opposite (now the _calle del comercio_) the shoemakers and jewellers had their shops. the jews had their own barrier before their expulsion, one of the wealthiest and most important of the city. the four streets on the further side of the cathedral were called the _alcayzerias_, and here dwelt the silk-sellers, the hosiers, the linen-sellers, the clothiers and haberdashers. these shopkeepers did an enormous trade with valencia, xativa, murcia; with medina del campo, medina del rioseca, sevilla, cádiz and ecija, even as far as portugal. after the discovery of america all the ships that went out laden with spanish goods purchased these at toledo. the scriveners dwelt round the ayuntamiento. in early days the ayuntamiento was an insignificant body, and all the power lay between the sovereign and the mighty archbishop. but after the conquest of the saracens, the kings of castille found their realm too large and complicated for anything so minute as mere civic rule, and gradually the magistrature increased in power, till this ayuntamiento, with its president, came to be the important body it was, and rivalled the archbishopric in semi-royal powers. pedro the cruel was the first to grant it the privilege of the arms of castille, and it was to the famous corregidor, gomez manrique, who had his namesake's famous inscription painted on the staircase, that isabel the catholic, on her first visit, gave the castles and gates of the city. under the corregidor were four mayors, who judged civil cases, one of whom sat only in the zocodover to settle disputes between the traders. these magistrates were usually powerful nobles, such as the toledos--the present dukes of alba--the castillas, the silvas, the ayalas, montemayors and fuensalidas, all great historic names. the city jury, half latin, half mozarabe, in religion, was furnished by all the parishes. as well as the ayuntamiento, there was the santa hermandad behind the plaza mayor, with its prison and officers. to-day it is a muleteer's inn, the _posada de la hermandad_, and the big kitchen, once the judgment chamber of the inquisition, and the wooden benches around have not been changed, nor the dark-beamed ceiling within the gothic façade, with the royal arms and the statues of the archers and members of the brotherhood. the town prison was situated at san roman, and was rebuilt and improved in by one of toledo's most enlightened corregidors, juan guttierrez tello. less joyous and profitable than the tuesday fairs of the zocodover were the terrible autos-da-fé, and, indeed, so agreeably wedded is the memory of this quaint little triangular plaza to the picture of heroes of _capa_ and _espada_, to betitled loafers and dinnerless dons, that the mind with difficulty conceives it made over to gloomy and flaming images of the most solemn and atrocious hour of spanish cruelty. more in keeping with the bright and busy scene are the bull-fights that used to be held here, when there were no seats or trees in the middle as now. a curious document is the charter to toledo of alfonso the emperor, after the conquest of the moors: "in the name of god and his grace, i, aldefonso, by the will of god, emperor of spain, conjointly with my wife, the empress, doña berenguela, with an agreeable spirit, and of our own will, without being forced by anyone, give this letter of donation and confirmation to all christians who to this day have come to people toledo, or will come, mozarabe, castillian and french, that they may pay toll neither on entering nor on leaving the city, nor in any part of my lands. they shall be free of duty on all the things they purchase and sell, except those who carry to or bring from the land of the moors articles of trade, which shall be taxed according to their weight and value." this little touch of spite against the vanquished moor is the more intolerable when we remember the old relations of alfonso's predecessor with that same generous enemy; remember that the man he had conquered and exiled was the son of his benefactor and host when he was himself conquered and exiled by an unnatural brother; that the king, on whose throne he sat, had been his loyal and kindly comrade, and that the conquest his successor so grandiloquently recalls in this charter was the basest act of ingratitude perpetrated in the record of castillian treachery. from such slight indications it will be seen that the commerce of toledo flourished upon a large scale. there is something stately and commanding about this method of confining each trade and business to its own quarter. how dearly now one would like to evoke the street of arms, and follow some slim young knight down from the royal alcázar on the higher hill-point, with slashed sleeves, cloak flung jauntily from shoulder, and plumed cap, on his way to this deadly and interesting street to purchase a "trusty toledo," and linger over an exquisitely-wrought poniard. or earlier still, and more delightful, accompany a turbaned turk, wonderfully arrayed, and gaze with him in ecstasy upon the rows of damascened scimitars. toledo was used to travellers in the days of her greatness for, near all the gates, pisa tells us, there were inns for strangers. not strangers only, but the bishops and great lords, and sovereigns even, seem to have patronised the inns of toledo. alfonso the perfidious stayed at a posada near the town gates when he came to visit his old protector and host, almenor, whom he invited to dinner here. more astonishing still than this hospitable provision for travellers, is the fact we learn that there was not only a foundling hospital for unclaimed children, but also several homes for lost or strayed animals. spain was more advanced in this respect centuries ago than now, for it is pretty certain the race shows no concern that we know of on behalf of forlorn and unprotected brutes. if you would have some dim notion of the castellated and walled aspect of toledo in pisa's days, you have only to thread your way through his prolix geographical history of the town. he begins with the magnificent puerta de visagra, and when we examine this double gate in its present battered and defaced condition, we cannot carp at the word "sumptuous" which he applies to it. sumptuous it must have been then, if now it is magnificent. it holds the imperial arms, two eagles and a crown, with castles and lions of middle size gilt, and an inscription. outside this gate, which, pisa tells us, was shut at night, there was a broad space, and another entrance without. entering the city on this side, you came by the parish of santiago and san isidro, and the barrier of la granja. the ascent was made by the old hermitage of the cross to the zocodover. here were two gates in a strong wall, probably half roman and half gothic, and this was the entrance to the town. pisa calls these gates intermediary. between the puerta de visagra and this latter gate in the great tower, he describes another, smaller and less important, which was always closed, and was called the gate of almohada. beyond this was another called the gate of the twelve stones, descending from the monastery of the carmen by the bridge of alcántara. before pisa's time, this gate was lower, and the twelve stones around obtained it the odd name of _doce cantos_, there being supposed twelve fountains once here. another gate anciently called _adabazim_, and afterwards _hierro_, was near the bridge and the mills, on the limits of the lovely gardens of alcurnia. above the old hermitage of the cross were the tower and gate of king aquila, and above santo domingo el real, the tower of alarcon, with another intermediate between it and the zocodover. from this ran round a castellated wall, and here you entered the street of arms by the puerta de perpiñan. the gardens of the alcurnia were famed all over spain, as beautiful as any of valencia or granada, or cordova, laid down by the moors between the bridges of st martin and alcántara. the tagus was used here as the turia is used still at valencia, for purposes of irrigation, so that fruit and flowers and trees abounded. at the time of the conquest, these lovely grounds became the property of the christian monarchs, until king alonso the good, in , granted them to the archbishop rodrigo, who built the mills and greatly improved the grounds. the name is said to signify "horn-shaped," on account of the curves the river takes as it runs under the bridge of alcántara. but a fierce inundation swept away all this loveliness from the eyes of the dismayed toledans in cardinal tavera's time. the ungrateful waters of the tagus laid waste this green and flowery paradise upon a burnt and rocky hill-side, and tavera died before he could carry out his project of restoring it. true, even then, the cigarrales beyond the town walls were noted spots of refreshment, whither the jaded citizens and nobles betook themselves to their country houses for the enjoyment of orchards, gardens and trees. the apricots of the cigarrales have always been famous. but they constituted small comfort for the loss of such radiance and perfume, such oriental splendour as the _huerta de alcurnia_. they spread still from the river bank up among the cool hill breezes, and make a charming walk towards sunset. in the huerta del rey was one of the palacios de galiana, known through the legend of galafre's fair daughter and charlemagne, the other having served as wamba's palace or _prætorium_, and later still as the palace in which the cortes sat to judge the case between the immortal cid and his wretched sons-in-law. westward from santa leocadia ran a long, broad space of foliaged and flowered land, vines, and pleasant country houses. the rich cigarrel of cardinal quiroga was here, and the dean and chapter of the cathedral possessed on the other side gardens and orchards nearly as beautiful. when you left all this cultivated brilliance of nature, that showed the passage of the moors, narrow and stony streets and lanes confronted you in your upward road from the bridges and gates. then as now! _cuestas_ and harsh passages, built upon peaks of rock and iron, pisa calls them; twisted and narrow laneways. he accuses the moors of having spoiled the town, of having obliterated the lustre and loveliness roman and goth bestowed upon it. this is an ill-tempered charge. the moors gave in spain everywhere more than the christians lost, and the trial is, seeing the sad use the christians made of what they received, to hold one's soul in patience, and not cry out against their philistinism. he believes that in christian hands, "fine places, wide and noble streets, churches and hospitals will spread." churches and convents, yes. but the streets remain the same, an expiation of the sins of civilisation, as twisted, as narrow, as stony as ever, good dr pisa, after eight centuries of christian rule. the present alcázar, which dominates the city, was first built by the cid's sovereign, alfonso, while the moorish palace stood on the site of the monastery of st augustine. in the parish of san martin was the alcázar of the infante fadique, sancho the brave's uncle, within a magnificent view of the river and the vega, its walls running as far as the puerta del cambron. it fell into the hands of maria de molina, sancho's widow, and she gave the property to gonzalo ruiz de toledo, lord of orgaz, tutor of king alonso and the infanta beatrix. gonzalo ruiz, on his death, bequeathed it to the augustines. in the time of gothic rule the councils of toledo were held in this alcázar. a wall ran then from the alcázar to the palacio de galiana, and continued from the zocodover to the gate of perpignan to separate the dwellings of the moors from those of their conquerors. the christians lived between the arch under the chapel of the precious blood and the bridge of alcántara. later on isabel and fernando embellished the royal alcázar, which was guarded by a thousand castillian hidalgoes, and carlos v. built the great staircase, one of the most regal of the world, while a superb salon, richly wrought in arabesque, was the introduction of the constable of castillo, alvaro de luna, at an earlier period. all these glories are departed, negligently burnt. the first subject to occupy the alcázar in state was the cid, ruiz diaz, whom alfonso named first governor of toledo after its capture from the moors. but the cid chose to build his own house near it, and installed a cavalier therein in his place. the cid's house is now san juan de los caballeros. true, rasis el moro, in the beautiful copy of his arabian manuscript,[ ] translated into castillian by ambrosio de morales from the portuguese translation ordered by king denys of portugal, of maestre mahomed and gil perez, says that caesar was the first governor of toledo, and built the bridge over the tagus, and caesar, he tells us, came hither upon his tour in spain, and in a quarrel with the praetor, aulus, was beaten and departed "feeling a great weight on his heart, and longed for great power to come back and vanquish aulus, and revenge himself of his wrongs." rasis also mentions "the marvellous bridge of toledo" at the time of the moorish conquest, "most subtly wrought, that in truth he saw nothing to equal it in all spain." the town he describes as "a very good city, extremely pleasant, and very strong and well fortified." every man was well off, and the workmen were paid. the air was so sanative and dry that wheat could remain ten years in cover without rotting. alcocer describes toledo, the head of spain, as a town mightily privileged by nature, placed in the centre of the land "like the heart in the human body"; a city, "high, rough, most firm and inexpugnable, founded upon a high mountain and on brave and hard rocks, round which turns the most famous tagus, which forms a horse shoe, the town thus being nearly an island." he waxes eloquent on the theme of the land's fertility and freshness, the abundance of fruit trees, the mines of various metals, the quantities of stone, lime, wood, and every facility for building. theodoric, the king of italy, he tells us, came to toledo to see for himself if report had not exaggerated its wonders, if it really were the strong and noble city rumour described it. so delighted with both town and people was this ostrogothic sovereign that he took for second wife a wealthy lady of toledo, sancha, and was married in great pomp in the city. but we are less inclined to believe alcocer when he assures us that toledo declined from the hour of moorish conquest, "for those barbarians knew nothing of architecture(!), and laid out narrow, little streets, and built vile little houses, no less ugly and filthy." o worthy alcocer, if he could but know that now the very spaniards themselves, in the interests of art and loveliness, lament the expulsion of the moors, and humbly admit that all they learnt of civilisation came from those same adorable "barbarians!" the tagus then, as now, was always the great natural charm of the town. like the arno, it takes on every hue; some mornings just after dawn, it is the palest blue, again is a still sleepy jade, or silver like a curled mirror, and as stirless as it gives back the ardent flash of the sunrays; or after sunset, when all the rich hues have faded from sky and earth, and crimson and russet gold have waved into an indigo dusk, you will see a white mist rise and travel in flakes from the bosom of the enazured water over the dim landscape. capricious as these cold or fervent hours may be, the permanent colour of the tranquil untravelled tagus is yellow. all poets and writers see but the yellow in it, as in the tiber, though its blue and green and silvered hours are much more beautiful. "del dorado tago ausente," sings the old _romancero general_, as far back as , and continues to describe toledo above her golden river: "dize ay cristal del tago que con murmurio entre arenas vais regando amenos sotos de agradable primavera. [illustration: the tagus] hasto do bates los muros de aquella cuidad soberbio, tans alebrada en el mundo por tu artífio y nobleza. que entre peñas levantada de inexpugnable firmeza, y de torres coronada compitos con las estrellas. y luego vañas los prados de tu elana y ancha vega, que de ninfas adornada es nueva gloria en la tierra." the most witching element in the enchantment of this river is its stillness, its unfathomable, unbroken quietude. in the sixteenth century it was navigable as far as toledo, but the mills upon its banks are now for ever silent; no traffic has deflowered its legendary charms; neither boat nor barge cuts a way along its inactive waters. in an age when every resource of nature is feverishly applied to the service of commerce or luxury, there is something majestic in such uselessness. when the wherry that plies sleepily from bank to bank floats into view, the sight is a positive shock to artistic sensibilities. it seems an idle desecration. only the gold-seekers--symbol of eternal illusion, ever nourished and ever elusive to the grasp of man, who builds fresh illusions of the ashes of past deceptions--may continue to trouble its wild untamed depths. so from time to time these children of tradition, believing in the tale of its golden sands, go down to the reedy banks, after an inundation, with sifters, and industriously gather up the sand the river has flung from its bottom. they pour water over it, shake it well, and then hungrily examine the grains that remain in the vain hope of finding gold. before ponz's time the dean of the church of the infantas was said to possess a piece of gold cast up by the tagus, and the complaint then was that many another piece had been carelessly broken and scattered by the silversmiths. but ponz doubts the golden legend even so early as the last century. to explain the undoubted fact that the river had at different times cast up treasure, he assumes that in each reversal and exodus of race brought about by the evolution of toledo's history, roman, gothic, moorish, hebrew, and christian, the fugitives had the habit of burying near the river treasure in provision for the expected return. even this is no supposition to be scorned, and adds to the romantic interest of the deserted tagus. [illustration: mill on the tagus] garcilaso de la vega has chanted the golden charms of the tagus, and cervantes writes of "the delicate works wrought by the four nymphs who, from their crystal dwelling, lifted their heads above the waves of the tagus, and sat on the green meadow to work at those rich stuffs which the ingenious poet paints for us, and which were fashioned of gold and silk and pearls." now, as then, like lope the asturian, aquadores descend to the river-brink with their donkeys laden with water-jars, which they fill below, and bridge the upward rocky paths shouting: _agua fresca_. the plays of cervantes were acted at toledo, which permitted lope de vega, who lived then in the royal city, to make an ill-natured reference to the great biographer of the ingenious hidalgo in his correspondence, and jeering at his plays, call him a "nescio."[ ] lope little dreamed in his bitterness and jealousy that the "nescio" would forever stand before posterity as the sole representative of castillian genius, and that the miserable little inn he dwelt in at toledo would be forever a spot of pious pilgrimage. a more substantial source of wealth than the gold of tagus was the valuable lead and mineral mines of the montes de toledo, forty leagues distance. in the bright days of civic power they belonged to the municipality. king fernando, the saint, sold them to the town for the sum of , golden ducats, but the city little by little disposed of a considerable part of this property to private individuals for exploitation, and, like everything else, here the mines to-day have lost in value. in his few succinct pages on toledo, mr street gives us a very excellent bit of sober impressionism, which merits quotation: "the road from the famous bridge of alcántara, passing under the gateway which guards it into a small walled courtyard, turns sharply to the right under another archway, and then rises slowly below the walls until, with another sharp turn, it passes under the magnificent moorish puerta del sol, and so on into the heart of the city. "the alcázar is the only important building seen on entering on this side; but from the other side of the city, where the bridge of san martin crosses the tagus, the cathedral is a feature in the view, though it never seems to be so prominent as might be expected with a church of its grand scale.[ ] from both these points of view, indeed, it must be remembered that the effect is not produced by the beauty or grandeur of any one building; it is the desolate sublimity of the dark rocks that bound the river; the serried phalanx of wall, and town, and house that line the cliffs; the tropical colour of sky and earth, and masonry; and finally the forlorn, decaying and deserted aspect of the whole that makes the views so impressive and so unusual. looking away from the city walls towards the north, the view is much more _riant_, for there the tagus, escaping from its rocky defile, meanders across a fertile vega, and long lines of trees, with here a ruined castle, and there the repose of the curious church of the cristo de la vega, and there again the famous factory of arms, give colour and incident to a view which would anywhere be thought beautiful, but is doubly grateful by comparison with the sad dignity of the forlorn old city." toledo's finest hour is at sunset, especially in the month of october. nowhere have i seen the setting sun cast such a rich and lovely flush over the earth. the brown visage of the town for one intense moment is made radiant by the deep crimson flames, and the red light sheds a glorious beauty upon empty hill-sides and river-washed plains. magic enfolds city and land, and space is so abridged by the matchless purity of the atmosphere that the eye is tricked into the belief that distant objects are quite close. painters complain of this singular deception, which makes it so difficult to seize and reproduce the features of town and landscape. but the mere observer will naturally rejoice in an attraction the more. sunset is the hour for a divine walk along the jagged and broken precipices above the river. you follow the steep calle de la barca behind the cathedral down to the ferry, where a few lazy oar strokes take you across the narrow tagus. the effect midway is surprising. looking towards the bridge of alcántara and san servando, the waters seem to force their way between the immense brown rocks from the castle ruins, and lie steep and still like a mountain tarn. little splashes of green and flowery bloom high up among the rocks give a pretty touch to the grim picture, and over the harsh remains of the city walls you will note a common but bright little suggestion of garden life. on the road above, rounding the superb curve of antiquerela, a boy on mule-back is a slight silhouette of vanishing grace, and the evening bells in the upper air sound thin and ethereal above the sea-like roar of the water breaks below the silent moorish mills. not even the modern hint of existence and the squalid little galleries, with linen hanging out to dry over a broken bit of castellated wall, will disturb your feeling of reverie among the forgotten ages. nor will the living light upon the trees, flashing rose and yellow through their branches and across the reeds along the river, nor the quaint figures moving lazily up the mule-path that cuts its crooked way over the naked rocks to the valle, in the least disturb your bemused sensation of enchanted negation. the beauty of the hour and scene will trouble you less than its strangeness and quietude. go further up, until you reach nuestra señora de la valle, and from this point the old city will show you its most admirable grouping. at your feet, far down the precipitous shore line, a broken mirror of jade or muddy gold, zig-zagged by lines of foam along the breakwaters, and above the opposite bank, mapped upward, roof against roof, in [illustration: toledo from left bank of tagus] pale brown, with spaces of green here and there where the gardens show, the town reveals itself in all its magnificent eccentricity. here some notion of the cathedral from outside may be gathered. the gate of lions directly fronts you, and the apse stands out from its crowd of buildings, while the bell tower dominates the scene in all its majestic isolation. from the flat roofs rise a mass of upper domes and mudejar towers that add an arabian note to the great gothic picture, and the immense square of the alcázar with its three towers, bold, undecorated, and monotonous, is perched in odd supremacy above the girdling path that now runs under the mutilated wall. the hills lie backward, reddish-purple, silent, perfumed, and sombre, and the vega with its broad bright smile of verdure and bloom travels beyond the famous bridge of san martin. between the rocky shore and the ruins of a roman bridge are big sandy reaches, and every step you take among the brushwood scents the air with the strong aromatic odours of the herbs. about here perez bayen tells us,[ ] the roman cañeria ran, carrying water from san servando by the bridge of san martin. the little tower, _el horno del vidro_, near the monastery of la sisla, he suggests, was a roman _castellum aquarium_. the steep waterway of la sisla, called the valle de la desgollada (in honour of the customary legend of a lover's broken neck for love's sake), was probably used for the aqueduct, as the ruins of the arches below, along the old road of la plata, indicate. the water must have been conducted into the city by the gate of the twelve stones, where the bridge was high. now, alas, the aqueduct, like the wonderful artifice of juanelo turriano of cremona, in charles v.'s reign, has vanished. the water-works of toledo nowadays are sadly deficient after the roman, moor, and even early castillian, though the glory of this period belongs to lombardy and not to castille. juanelo, as well as giving his name to his famous "artifice," was the means of bestowing a quaint and striking name on a street below the cathedral, so-called to-day, _hombre de palo_ (man of wood) where he lived. he fabricated a wooden statue that went from his house to the archbishop's for bread and meat, bowing and nodding, first in gracious overtures and then in obsequious thanks, and carried back the offerings to juanelo's house. few toledanos, dawdling in and out of this little curved street, now remember why it is so oddly named, or bestow a thought upon the ingenious italian who dwelt there in the sixteenth century, and whose fame drew admiring travellers even from remote oxford. [illustration: fuente s. martino of bano de la cava] entering the city by the striking bridge of san martin, you pass the picturesque ruin of the _baño de la cava_, where the too charming florinda is supposed to have bathed for the doom of don rodrigo and the ruin of gothic spain. rodrigo's castle, of which not a trace now remains, was built on the high rock above, and indiscreet eyeshot sent down upon this sacred spot is said to have revealed to him a seductive vision of a beautiful bare limb. the ruin is probably that of a towered bridge, suggested by the big grey stone on the opposite bank. the spot is, however, romantic enough for any legend, and those who prefer tradition to fact will say, if florinda did not bathe there, she ought to have done so. the view on this side is more beautiful than even on the other. a spanish friend, whose privilege it is to paint toledo in all her wild and sad enchantment, in a big house above the puerta del cambron, overlooking the wavy water-line from the bridge of san martin and the exquisite diversity of orchard and meadow-land, has offered me many delightful moments of contemplation of this unique view from his broad terrace. it combines in the rarest form a light and smiling charm with a superb and matchless melancholy. from this point of entrance you twist up and down through the most mysterious streets of the world. who designed them, who fashioned them? how came any town to be so built? streets so narrow that hand may touch hand from either side, and soft converse be held through opposite windows; so rounded that an enemy advancing might fall upon you unperceived. how many lovely façades, alas! eaten away, a sullen magnificent protest against modern times, with divine arches showing here and there through miserable plaster! everywhere moorish faience, and curious toledan doors in arabian or gothic porches, for all the world like the doors of palaces in fairyland, ornamented with huge carved iron nails. and when the doors stand open, glimpses of bright clean patios, with their gleaming bands of _azulejos_, their centre well and little stunted trees. all so dull, so still, so silent. now and then you may chance to meet a woman following a mule laden with fruit and vegetable, which she sells from house to house, or a water-carrier, or an itinerant pedlar shouting the value and nature of his wares up to the balconies. some of the street effects of grouping and colouring are of an indescribable witchery. where will you match such a corner as that of the old palace of the cardinal d. pascual de aragon, now a convent? words are useless to convey an idea of its quaintness, the effect of pink and green, of iron balcony, of wrought stone, of broken façade and charming variety of line. these are things that even a painter can hardly hope to reproduce. and such corners abound in toledo. the foot treads the very pavement of romance and legend, where everything is a gratification for the eye, and the dream of the mourner of departed centuries is remorselessly realised. of commerce hardly a hint. here and there an offer to supply daily wants of the simplest kind, and, in the calle del comercio, a few shop-fronts with belated appointments. the most interesting is that of alvarez, the best maker of damascene. murray's guide-book recommends travellers to purchase this famous toledo work at the fabrica de armas, the government enterprise. this is wrong advice. the fabrica produces inferior work, and charges twenty-five per cent. more than the private factories. some of the work in alvarez's shop is exquisite, and, when you have entered his workshop behind, and watched the men slowly and carefully produce this minute art, [illustration: a street corner, toledo] the wonder is not that it should be so expensive, but that it should not cost more. the fabrica outside the town is only interesting to the lovers of steel. it is quite a vulgar and modern institution, dating from the days of charles iii., the bourgeois monarch, whom a spanish writer contemptuously described as "an excellent mayor." in the middle ages, the armourers worked in their own houses, and each master had a band of apprentices. they formed a corporation, and were exempt from taxes and duties in the purchase of materials for this art. the sword-makers of toledo were a company of european importance, and even the mere sellers of daggers and blades were privileged citizens, whom the very sovereigns and archbishops respected. toledan steel was renowned in france and england, as well as in italy. on his way to captivity in madrid, francis of france cried, seeing beardless boys with swords at their sides, "oh! most happy spain, that brings forth and brings up men already armed." the steel used by the _espaderos_ of toledo came from the iron mines of mondragon in the basque provinces. palomario explains its peculiar excellence by the virtues of the sand and water of the tagus. when the metal was red-hot, it was covered with sand, and, the blade then formed, it was placed in a hollow of sixty centimetres, and red-hot, was plunged into a wooden tank full of tagus water. the most celebrated _espadero_ of toledo was _guiliano el moro_, a native of granada, in the fifteenth century. he became converted after the surrender of boabdil, and king ferdinand being his sponsor, was also called guiliano _el rey_. cervantes mentions his mark, which was a little dog. other great _espaderos_ were--joannes de la horta, tomás de ayala, sagahun, dionisio corrientes, miguel cantera, whose motto was _opus laudat artificem_, tomás ghya, hortensio de aguerre and menchaca sebastian hernandez. the decline of toledan steel is traced to the introduction of french costume; and though attempts have been made to revive it, the old art, in all its unrivalled beauty, has forever vanished. gone forever, too, all traces of the great toledan palaces, except a wall, a doorway here and there, or maybe the degraded remains of a beautiful chamber or courtyard, or, as in the case of the house of the great family of the toledos (to-day, the dukes of alba), just an impressive façade. but of the villena palace nothing, of the fuensalida nothing to give us to-day a definite notion of its former splendour. nothing of the great houses of the montemayors, the ayalas, the silvas, maqueda, cifuentes, count orgaz, and so many others who rivalled the mighty archbishops in power, and whose followers clashed steel so noisily once in these dim, deserted streets. sadder still, beyond what remains of the palacios de galiana, in the king's garden, little of moorish beauty, nothing of their sway but floating, vaporous impressions and cherished suggestions, never absent, though ever vague and full of the mystery and charm of the uncertain and the elusive. chapter vi _the cathedral_ the monument which dominates toledo, and which is not only the most prominent feature in a town whose every feature is so marked and significant, so unlike all the travelled eye is most familiar with, but is the centre of its changes and vicissitudes, of its triumphs and humiliations, is the cathedral. writing of the high terrace on which it stands, m. maurice barrès says: "c'était toujours le même sublime qui jamais ne rassasie les âmes, car en même temps qu'elles s'en remplissent il les dilate à l'infini." who is to seize and express with any adequacy or even coherence the first swift and stupefying impression of this superb edifice? there are many things in this world more beautiful--no one for instance would dream of speaking of it in the same breath as the parthenon--but nothing more sumptuous; nothing in all the treasures of spain to match its magnificence. it is simpler and more majestic than that of burgos, and before heeding the instinct of examination, or noting its mass of detail, the first imperious command is to yield in charmed surrender to its spirit. we are silenced and held by the general effect long before we come to admire the exquisite sculpture of berruguete and of philip of burgundy, and the splendours of chapels and treasury. and should time be short for detailed inspection, it is this general effect of immense naves, of a forest of columns and of jewelled windows that we carry away, feeling too small amidst such greatness of form and incomparable loveliness of lights for the mere expression of admiration. at sunset, should you have the fortune to be alone among its pillars and stained-glass windows, you will find nothing on earth to compare with the mysterious eloquence of its silence; you will feel it a place not for prayer but for a salutary conception of man's insignificance. castillian genius has nowhere imprinted a haughtier effigy of its invincible pride and fanaticism, insusceptible to the humiliations of decay and defeat, impervious to the encroachments of progress and enlightenment. it is the vast monumental note of spanish character and spanish history. it tells the eternal tale of ecclesiastical domination and triumph, and is the fitting home of portraits of warlike cardinals and armoured bishops, of princes of the church who wore the purple and ruled with the sword. it is a superb and majestic harmony of marvellous stone-work and painted glass. the foundation of this most gorgeous temple is attributed to saint eugenius, the first bishop of toledo, and on the conversion of recaredo from arianism, was dedicated to the virgin mary, april th, . when the moors took toledo, the cathedral was converted into a mosque, which it remained for nearly three centuries. then when alfonso vi. won back the town from the moors, one of the conditions we know in the treaty for surrender was that the cathedral should continue as a mosque, and remain in the hands of the conquered, upon which stipulation, solemnly ratified, the moors gave up the alcázar, the city gates and bridges. alfonso intended that this condition should be fulfilled, but the queen and the french archbishop, sorely troubled by the monstrous continuance of heretical service in the consecrated temple of st eugenius, decided to cast out the saracen, which injustice furnishes us with a pretty evidence of moorish magnanimity. alfonso's was an exceedingly grim interpretation of the chivalrous sentiment, "i could not love thee, dear, so much, loved i not honour more." however, the moors gallantly tore up the treaty and resigned all right to the cathedral. the least they might have expected from their enemies is a full and fine recognition of their generosity, first in pleading for those who had insulted them, and then in foregoing their own advantage in order to procure the pardon of their insulters. but no. the moors, in this matter, are regarded as having simply done their duty. one would hesitate to credit their conquerors with a like behaviour in similar circumstances. the alfaqui's statue in the capilla major is regarded as adequate thanks, and perhaps it is. in the thirteenth century, ferdinand iii. and the archbishop rodrigo jimenez de rada, decided to rebuild the cathedral and efface all remembrance of saracen occupation. pedro perez was chosen for the immense work, which he continued for forty-nine years, beginning in . the names of his successors have not reached us. it took two and a half centuries to conclude, and as the building went on, naturally gathered into its entire expression more than one mood of spanish history and art. one needs only to contrast the rudeness of the _puerta de la feria_, built in the thirteenth century, with the finish and grace of the _puerta de los leones_, one of the most beautiful specimens of gothic architecture, the work of the fifteenth century. egas, fernandez and juan aleman wrought it, and in salvatierra restored part of it. the temple stands upon eighty-eight pillars, each one composed of sixteen light columns, and seventy-two vaults above the five wide naves, forming a cross over the centre nave which is higher than the rest. the side aisles rise gradually to [illustration: interior of cathedral] the height of feet, the height of the central nave. its length is feet, its width . the whole is lit up by glorious stained windows, whose effect is best seized just before sunset. broad patches of ruby, amethyst, emerald, topaz, and sapphire lie upon the pillars and flags, and above the light seems to strike through irridescent flashes of jewels. how fresh and full imagination must have been in those grand ages of art to have devised such permanent triumphs of colours, such witchery of hue upon such majesty of form, the greatness of the one tempered by the delightful loveliness of the other. the patient uplifted glance will at length be rewarded by learning to decipher from such a distance the legend of these matchless windows, which are wonderfully vivid scenes from the new testament. a spanish painter, who has devoted his life to the study of his beloved toledo, tells me that when you penetrate up to these far-off heights, you will find the scenes in finish and detail and drawing as perfect as paintings, some of the german and flemish school, some of the richer and suaver italian. the principal artists were dolfin, alberto de holanda, maestro christobal, juan de campos, luis, pedro francès, and vasco troya. dolfin's work, begun in , was continued after his death by nicolás de vergara, assisted by his two sons. the principal façade on the west side is composed of three doors, diversely named _del infierno_ or _de la torre_; _del perdon_, and _de escribanos_ or _del juicio_. the middle door is the pardon, the largest and richest of the three. it forms a magnificent arch, covered with gothic ornaments and figures, and is divided in two smaller arches by a column on which rests the figure of christ, while above are twelve statues of the apostles. in the centre of the arch a fine bas-relief represents the virgin in the act of bestowing the chasuble on st ildefonso, who is kneeling at her feet. it is an imposing specimen of renaissance work. amador de los rios complains that there is too much of the stiffness of dürer in the studied attitudes, while antonio ponz remarks that the statues and the folds have that excellence and largeness of treatment so often lacking even in the best renaissance work. the two other doors on either side are smaller and of equal size. they are formed of a single, undivided arch, delicately sculptured, rich in figures of angels and patriarchs in mediæval costume, which belong to a later date than the principal work. seven steps lead down to the church, and above the arch of the _torre_ is a painting of the resurrection of some merit, and above the _escribanos_ is a long inscription commemorating the taking of granada by the catholic sovereigns, cardinal mendoza being then archbishop of the cathedral, and the expulsion of the jews from the kingdoms of castille, aragon, and sicily. over the _pardon_ is a splendid rose window, with glazed arcade beneath. the façade was restored, and not too well, by durango, a toledan artist, during the last century. the little square towers that separate the doors are chiselled like jewels, but the effect of the whole is perhaps effaced by the more insistent beauty of the great tower. the south door, _los leones_, is a particularly beautiful piece of gothic work, of finished elegance and profusion of detail. ponz describes the statues and ornaments as the most perfect of their kind. the portal forms a deep recess richly sculptured, full of delicate fancy in figure and leafage. the assumption is by salvatierra of the last century, inferior to the rest of the façade, and below it are two bas-reliefs with charming little figures representing scenes from the old testament. the six columns of the atrium, on which are seated six carved lions, give its name to the door. each lion holds a shield. on the centre shields are repeated in bas-relief the eternal legend of our lady and st ildefonso, while the four others show sculptural crosses and eagles. the bronze doors, attributed by ponz to berreguete, because they recall the work of his master, michael angelo, were wrought by francisco villalpando and ruy diaz del corral in , the carving having been done by the famous sculptor, aleas copin. their great artistic work is sufficiently indicated by ponz's error in attributing them to the magnificent genius of berreguete. as a fact, many masters were engaged upon these bronze gates: velasco, troyas, lebin, cantala, the two copins as well as villalpando, and diaz del corral, the payment divided between all being , maravedis. it would seem that the supreme excellence of artistic achievement in those days was due to the modesty of remuneration, if we are to judge by the results of exorbitant payment to-day. in his accurate (if for the general reader perhaps somewhat technical) pages on the interior, street says: "the original scheme of the church is only to be seen now in the choir and its aisles. these are arranged in three gradations of height--the choir being upwards of a hundred feet, the aisle round it about sixty feet, and the outer aisle about thirty-five feet in height. the outer wall of the aisle is pierced with arches for the small chapels between the buttresses. the intermediate aisle has in its outer wall a triforium, formed by an arcade of cusped arches, and above this quite close to the point of the vault, a rose window in each bay. it is in this triforium that the first evidence of any knowledge on the part of the architect of moorish architecture strikes the eye. the cusping of the arcade is not enclosed within an arch, and takes a distinctly horse-shoe outline, the lowest cusp near to the cap spreading inwards at the base. now it would be impossible to imagine any circumstances which could afford better evidence of the foreign origin of the first design than this slight concession to the customs of the place in a slightly later portion of the works. an architect who came from france, bent on designing nothing but a french church, would be very likely, after a few years' residence in toledo, somewhat to change in his views, and to attempt something in which the moorish work, which he was in the habit of seeing, would have its influence. the detail of this triforium is, notwithstanding, all pure and good. the foliage of the capitals is partly conventional, and in part a stiff imitation of natural foliage, somewhat after the fashion of the work in the chapter house at southwell; the abaci are all square; there is a profusion of nail-head used in the labels; and well-carved heads are placed in each of the spandrels of the arcade. the circular windows above the triforium are filled in with cusping of various patterns. the main arches of the innermost arcade (between the choir and its aisle) are of course much higher than the others. the space above them is occupied by an arcaded triforium reaching to the springing of the main vault. this arcade consists of a series of trefoil-headed arches on detached shafts, with sculptured figures, more than life-size, standing in each division; in the spandrels above the arches are heads looking out from moulded circular openings, and above these again, small pointed arches are pierced, which have labels enriched with the nail-head ornament. the effect of the whole of this upper part of the design is unlike that of northern work, though the detail is all pure and good. the clerestory occupies the height of the vault and consists of a row of lancets (there are five in the widest bay, and three in each of the five bays of the apse) rising gradually to the centre, with a small circular opening above them. the vaulting-ribs in the central division of the apse are chevroned and increased in number, this being the only portion of the early work in which any, beyond transverse and diagonal ribs, are introduced. there is a weakness and want of purpose about the treatment of this highest portion of the wall that seems to make it probable that the work, when it reached this height, had passed out of the hands of the original architect. in the nave the original design (if it was ever completed) has been altered. there is now no trace of the original clerestory and triforium which are still seen in the choir, and in their place the outer aisle has fourteenth century windows of six lights with geometrical tracery, and the clerestory of the nave and transepts great windows, also of six lights, with very elaborate traceries. they have transomes (which in some degree preserve the recollection of the old structural divisions) at the level of the springing of the groining. the groining throughout the greater part of the church seems to be of the original thirteenth century work, with ribs finely moulded, and vaulting cells slightly domical in section. the capitals of the columns are all set in the direction of the arches and ribs they carry, and their abaci and bases are all square in plan." street is of the opinion, based upon the singular purity of this vigorous specimen of gothic of the thirteenth century, that the architect must have been french, or at least a spaniard who had lived for years in france, and studied the best french churches. the architect, we learn, was pedro perez, whose name we gather from the latin epitaph: _aqui: jacet: petrus petri: magister_ _eclesia: sete: marie: toletani: fama:_ _per exemplum: pro more_: huic: bona: _crescit: qui presens: templem: construxit:_ _et hic quies cit: quod: quia: tan: mire:_ _fecit_: vili: sentiat: ire: ante: dei: _vultum: pro: quo: nil: restat: inultum:_ _et sibi: sis: merce: qui solus: cuncta:_ _coherce: obiit: x dias de novembris:_ _era: de m: et cccxxviii._ (_a.d. _). street suggests that petrus petro may more probably have meant the french pierre, son of pierre, than the spanish translation of pedro perez, but putting one uncertainty against another, the toledans are perfectly right to hold out for their dubious compatriot, pedro perez. [illustration: north transept door of cathedral] in spite of the enormous height of the cathedral, the spectator is not at first impressed with this fact, owing to the immensity of its dimensions and the vastness of the columns that support the vaults. but the impression of spaciousness is, on the contrary, insistent, and this by the beautiful simplicity and classical uniformity of the whole. when you have recovered the first stupendous shock of admiration, you will wonder where to begin in your exploration. if you enter by the north door, which is the first you will meet coming from the zocodover, you will at once be confronted with the wonderfully wrought screen of the coro. inside and out this choir is rich in interest. first there is the railed entrance to examine. before the napoleonic war, this railing, as well as the _reja_ of the capilla major, opposite, was silver-plated and heavily gilt, but at the time of the french invasion, it was designed to save it from ruthless hands by concealing its value under an iron coating. the inventor of this stain succeeded so well that never since has anyone been able to clean the railings, which now only show here and there a gleam of the covered plate. domingo de céspedes, aided by fernando bravo, designed this handsome work. nothing finer than the ornamentation could be imagined. the arms of cardinal siliceo and those of diego lopez de ayala, one of the great toledan families of the middle ages, are worked into the design, along with the inscriptions: _pro cul esto prophani_ and _psale et psile_. to attempt anything like a detailed description of so much elaborate work as the impressive screen round the choir, or the interior multiplied creations of berruguete and philip of burgundy, of vergara and rodrigo, would demand an entire book upon the cathedral alone. the sculptures of the screen are most varied and beautiful, and repay careful study. the subjects are separated by light arches and supported on jasper columns. above are fifty-eight reliefs of biblical scenes, and the whole forms an admirable combination of decorative richness and delicacy, unfortunately spoiled by later and incongruous additions and improvements. of the famous choir seats everybody has heard. the thirty-five upper seats on the gospel side are the work of philip of burgundy, the seats on the epistle side are berruguete's work. it is a matter of taste which of the two is the better. some foreign critics prefer vigarny's sculpture as more delicate and more finished; while all spaniards give their preference to berruguete, one of the national idols, and delight in his more exuberant genius. writing of the three ranks of stalls of this truly marvellous choir, théophile gautier says: "l'art gothique, sur les confins de la renaissance, n'a rien produit de plus parfait ni de mieux dessiné." antonio ponz in the last century wrote of it: "the sculpture of the choir has been and always will be the great admiration of the intelligent and those who understand this noble art, as much for the quantities of figures and adornments, which seem innumerable, as for the elegance, taste, and greatness of the style with which alonzo berruguete and philip of burgundy have executed them." in his _toledo pintoresca_, amador de los rios thus begins his description of the stalls: "portent of spanish art, in which two great geniuses of our golden century competed, the victory to our own times, remaining undecided; and astounded the judges who have endeavoured to give their opinion on this matter." the stalls are of two ranks, upper and lower, both of different periods, fifty years lying between the work of each rank. the upper stalls are unquestionably more beautiful and of a purer style. the rich and splendid influence of italian art is visible in all berruguete's work, who himself was a disciple of michael angelo. he has something of the large and virile touch of his master, something of his nervous strength, of his intensity. but he lacks the exquisite grace and soft, subtle finish of philip vigarny. so that in the eternal rivalry of these great artists, hand-in-hand, as it were before posterity, with the unsolved question [illustration: interior of cathedral coro from s. aisle] of superiority upon their combined production of the best wood sculpture of spain, it will always be in the spectators' choice a matter of temperament and tendency. the more delicate art of vigarny will appeal to one, while another will unhesitatingly pronounce for the sweep and force of berruguete's touch. the reliefs represent scenes from the old and new testament, and the single statues are prophets and saints. the stalls are of walnut, separated by jasper and alabaster pillars. in the middle is the arch-episcopal throne. the lower portion is formed of seventy-one arches, supported by seventy-two columns of red jasper, with white marble capitals; within each arch is a vault of red jasper with gilt decorations. in the panels above are sixty-eight superbly sculptured figures. the lower stalls are fifty years earlier and less beautiful work. they were wrought under the direction of maese rodrígo in the time of cardinal mendoza. they are composed of fifty stalls, with three stairs, two of which are used by the canons and the third only by the archbishop, the dean of the chapter, and the high priest. the reliefs are none the less remarkable and interesting because of their inferiority to those of the upper stalls. they tell with delightful and seizing brevity the romantic, if deplorable, tale of the conquest of granada, from the taking of alhama by rodrigo ponce de leon to the surrender of the moorish citadel. they belong to a less finished school; reveal an imagination more simple and limited, with a certain naïve stiffness and monotony of line that provoke contrast with the finer work above. battles, assaults, armed knights, moors, horses, fortresses and fanciful introductions of inappropriate animals are repeated in each relief. street prefers them to berruguete's work, which he abhors, but in this he is alone. it is a prejudice with him. the reading-desks are most lovely, the work of the two vergaras, father and son, who finished them in . the ornamented friezes of gilt bronze are things to marvel at. each desk possesses three bas-relief exquisitely wrought. on the epistle side are the stories of david and saul, the virgin bestowing the chasuble on st ildefonso, and the seven seals and lake of fire of the apocalypse; on the gospel side, st ildefonso, the holy ark carried by the priests behind david, and other figures dancing and playing various instruments, and the crossing of the red sea. there is not anything among the extraordinary splendours of this cathedral more perfect and remarkable than these two masterpieces of the vergaras. the great eagle on its pinnacled pedestal is truly a magnificent work. the gothic pedestal was wrought in , and the eagle and desk in by vicente salinas. when you leave the cora, you naturally cross the space in front to the capilla major. portion of this chapel was originally the _capilla de los reyes viejos_, and the rest was added by the great cardinal, cisneros. the railing, one of the best specimens of spanish wrought iron, is the work of francisco villalpando. gorgeous is the adjective that best describes it. exquisite chiselling, capricious and varied designs, gilt and plated portions here and there showing out from the more sombre whole, make this _grilla_ one of the striking objects among massed treasures. to villalpando also are due the rich gilt pulpits beside it, made from the bronze tomb the constable of castille, alvazo de luna, had fashioned for himself and his wife before his death. in a less sumptuous setting, these pulpits would excite enthusiastic admiration, but the whole here is so great that it takes days for the blunted senses to realise the full value of details. the reliefs are admirable, and give a [illustration: detail of reja, cathedral, toledo] brilliant note to the resplendent face of the chapel. all inside maintains the same insistent look of artistic wealth. the marble altar shines like a gigantic agathe, the highly-wrought tabernacle, the bronze candlesticks, the jasper and the marvellous _retablo_ are, to my poor thinking, excessive claims upon attention. so many masters co-operated in the production of all this accumulated art that the effect of excess is not surprising: philip and john of burgundy, maestre petit jean, egas, pedro gumiel, copin of holland, sebastian de almonacid, all sculptors and artists of renown; francisco of antwerp and fernando del rincòn, famous painters and gilders. the details are innumerable, and elsewhere would merit separate and full attention. the scenes are mostly taken from the new testament, terminating with a colossal calvary. the fine tombs on either side are the work of copin of holland ( ), and the gilding and painting were done by juan de arevalo. they were erected by order of cisneros for the kings buried in the old chapel. they are highly decorated and imposing monuments, worthy of the great man who commanded them and of the great artists who wrought them under his inspiration, worthy of century and temple that created and shelter them. classical elegance and gothic fancy, exuberant imagination and austere repose, are the complex qualities of these superb tombs. there are two figures among those of the lateral pillars that divide the vaults it is customary to bestow extra attention upon: the alfaqui, who went out to meet alfonso vi. on his furious return to toledo to burn his wife and the french archbishop, to intercede on behalf of those who had so grievously injured his people, and who, in order to obtain their pardon, resigned moorish rights to the cathedral; and the _pastor de las navas_, a legendary shepherd who is supposed to have indicated to alfonso viii. the way of winning the battle of navas de tolosa. the sculpture is coarse and heavy, and indicates an earlier period than the rest of the work, alfonso himself supposed to have been the designer of his shepherd assistant in war. the cardinal of spain, as mendoza was called, won the distinction of a place in the royal chapel by order of isabel, his friend and sovereign. to make room for his tomb, she had the wall between the two pillars near it knocked down. ponz calls this tomb a _maquina suntuosa_, but where there is so much to admire, it may be passed by with merely a nod. [illustration: detail, tomb of king, gospel side of high altar, cathedral, toledo] [illustration: tomb of cardinal mendoza] not so the too famous and too horrible _trasparente_ behind the high altar. what such a thing can possibly mean surpasses the average understanding. in the midst of all that one must venerate, in the home of majesty and loveliness, where beauty in stone and wood and colour takes its supreme form and hues, what effect but that of artistic scandal can such a monstrous creation have? one stares, one wonders, one could even weep for such inexplicable desecration, but one remains mystified and disheartened. ponz a century ago wrote: "it is marble, an enormous affair in which it would have been better to have forever in the bowels of the hills of carrara than to have brought it here to be a real blot in the cathedral." this celebrated atrocity is the work of narciso tomé, a native of toledo, who, if he were useful for nothing else to posterity, offers an exceptional opportunity of measuring the frightful depths into which the dignity of spanish art was plunged in the beginning of the last century. the degraded art of churriguera may be bad enough elsewhere; here only does it stand out a gilt, magnificent marble nightmare, which cannot even be criticised, so awed is imagination by an ugliness that defies classification and repels reason. the man who paid , ducats for this blot upon a perfect temple, were he pope or bishop, merited at least a strait-waistcoat. instead, he and the artist, and the thing itself, evoked, on its conclusion, national triumph and rejoicings, processions, illuminations, fire-works and bull-fights. consistency is not a virtue we have a right to expect from races any more than from persons, so the massacre of horses and the idle torture of bulls, the encouragement of the brute instinct of cruelty, the destruction of which is admittedly the object of the mild and tolerant religion of christ, may be regarded as nothing inordinately outrageous in ecclesiastical feastings. a modern spanish critic is proud to own that for his part "he would not touch a hair of the smallest statue of this sumptuous fabrication," and regards it as an interesting page in the history of spanish architecture. there are of course curious natures who find interest in corruption and a certain majesty in madness. to these churrigueresque masterpieces may be left, and with so many stupendous demands upon our admiration as the cathedral holds, such a flaunting provocation of the contrary feeling may by the wise and grateful be accepted as a pause, a rest in interjectional contentment. in the dim subterranean chapel of the sepulchre, there are sculptures and paintings worthy of inspection if there were light enough to see them by. one can see, however, that the sculptural group representing the burial of christ by copin of holland is remarkable, but the paintings remain vague and blurred in the partially illuminated obscurity. but however interesting each of the chapels may be, it is the general view that remains the loveliest thing about the cathedral. before you enter the space between the coro and the capilla major, on looking up to the circular pierced arches between the curving line of columns, you will perceive a clear and charming evidence of moorish influence in the architecture. the delicate pillars and horse-shoe arcade are familiar and welcome, and may again be seen running across the outer aisles. nothing more graceful could be imagined than this light foreign touch in the sombre austerity of gothic art. again you are reminded of the moors by a rich arch covered with lace-work in the chapel of santa lucia, mudejar rather than wholly moorish, which looks quite oriental in front of the renaissance arch of the other side of the chapel. it is such a variety in beauty that lends perpetual freshness to this monumental glory of toledo. it has a face for every tone of reverie and musing. the light is always softly brilliant, and shadow not dense but suggestive; the very silence has the penetrative quality of mysticism, so that already on your second visit you will have ceased to feel a mere tourist, so intimate and instantaneous is its possession of you. each day i have dwelt in the old imperial city, i have unconsciously wended my way to its doors. no matter what direction i started to take, it almost became a necessity to begin or end my daily wanderings by a pause in this spiritualised immensity of stone. i have never found its wonderful charm diminished by familiarity; on the contrary, the coloured rays of light from above, striking upon the brown shade of stone, seem ever more and more witching; the delicate tones of shadow more and more mysterious, and the unrivalled grandeur of long forested perspectives of aisles and of spacious naves, with the multiplicity of arches and windows, ever a greater testimony of toledo's departed glory. space forbids anything like a detailed account of the chapels and cloisters of the cathedral. these latter are not to be compared with most of the other spanish cloisters,--with, for instance, those of segovia, of santiago, of burgos or oviedo. there is the inevitable felicitous contrast of foliage and columned arch, and here, certainly, the note is more joyous than elsewhere, with the deep yellow light striking radiantly upon this large, airy square of sun-shot leafage open to the heavens. the cloisters were built by cardinal tenorio, and blas ortiz, a contemporary toledan of philip ii. describes them in his beautiful caligraphy, preserved in the _biblioteca provinciale_, as "sumptuous." this is a favourite adjective with the spaniards who write about toledo. it saves a multiplicity of explanations. the frescoes on the walls, painted by bayeu after the manner of vanloo, represent scenes from the life of st eugenius and the famous legend of the _niño perdido_. they are decorative but not interesting, and gautier pronounces them out of keeping with the austere elegance of the architecture. it must be earlier paintings, since effaced, that blas ortiz describes as _perfectissime_. the fine door of the presentation, a good specimen of _plateresca_ work, was wrought by pedro castañeda, juan vasquez, toribio rodriguez, juan manzano, and andréz hernandez. the design and the reliefs are well worth careful examination. the _portada de santa catalina_ commands attention. it is excessively decorated, and bears the arms of spain and of the tenorios; one of the finest details of the façade is the statue of st catherine holding in one hand the wheel and in the other the sword, emblems of her martyrdom. historical value is attached to bayeu's frescoe representing the reception at toledo of the bones of st eugenius, . philip ii. and his son are there, as well as the archdukes rudolph and ernest, and there is a view of the puerta visagra through which the procession entered. other frescoes treat of the moorish saint casilda, and on the north side is the chapel of st blaise, built also by tenorio as his coat of arms indicates. on a pedestal within a railing is a fragment found near st john of the penetencia testifying to the date of the consecration of the cathedral. near the cloister entrance is the chapel of st john or the canons, as mass can only be said here by the chapter. the old tower chapel here used to be called the _quo vadis_, and was dedicated to st peter. cardinal tavera, designing it for his sepulchre, consecrated it to st john. the fine _artesonado_ ceiling is picked out in gold and black, with carved flowers and figures; the altars are richly wrought and painted. antonio ponz in the last century greatly praises luiz velasco's three pictures here. on the opposite side of the great gates is the mozarabe chapel, set apart by cisneros for the famous gothic rite; the porch is gothic; the doors of good renaissance style, were wrought in by juan frances; and the frescoes, painted by john of burgundy, representing the conquest of oran and triumph of the founder have no great value. there is a retablo of st francis placed by dr francisco of pisa, the historian of toledo, who is buried outside. the chief interest of the mozarabe chapel is centred in its quaint old ritual which may be heard here every morning at a.m., and will be found extremely puzzling to follow. the canons behind, in a sombre, flat monotone, chant responses to the officiating priest at the altar. the sound combines the enervating effect of the hum of wings, whirr of looms, wooden thud of pedals, the boom and rush of immense wings circling round and round. after the first stupefaction, i have never heard anything more calculated to produce headache, nervous irritation, or the contrary soporific effect. in summer it must be terrible. in an old ms. of the biblioteca in the last century there is a grave complaint made that the gothic mozarabe rite had already fallen from its beautiful solemnity, and that it was to be deplored that it should now be performed with such little decency and so little in accord with the founder's idea. the writer naïvely hopes that the advent of carlos iii., which promised such general reform, would lift up again a degraded ritual and "that it would be placed in the rank of decency and splendour that a vestige so singular and worthy of appreciation deserves." a hope not realised if i may judge from my assistance at the service. there was neither quaintness nor piety that i could see, but the canons looked and gabbled as if their thoughts were several miles away, staring roundly at the foreigners, and exchanging smiles as they altered their places. there are many minor chapels and offices one must overlook in a general description. the wood-work of the _sala capitular_ and the _anté sala_ was wrought by copin of holland and antonio gutierrez. the ceiling of the _anté sala_ is most charming, a brilliant moresque style, admirably painted and of quite regal magnificence, one of the best specimens of artesonada. the long carved [illustration: capitular door in toledo cathedral] cupboards on either side are copin's and durango's work. copin's especially is delightful, simple, dignified, not over elaborated. both are divided in panels which are covered with reliefs, exquisitely designed. vases, heads, figures, masks, and every kind of mediaeval fancy abound. a moorish doorway executed by bonéfacio in , leads into the _sala capitular_, one of the loveliest of spain. the doors are of a rich renaissance, full of busts, leafage, and gilt reliefs. the painted arms of cisneros and of lopez de ayala are worked into the garlands above, and the archiepiscopal choir below is another good specimen of copin of holland, who did so much for this cathedral. round the walls are the portraits of the archbishops, beginning with st eugenius. the old series ends with cisneros, and the second begins with william of croy. most of the recent portraits are wretched daubs. there are paintings here by john of burgundy on a level with those of the mozarabe chapel, while the effect of the giordano ceiling is striking. the light seems to fall in perpendicular rays. in the matter of paintings the cathedral would be poor enough but for a titian and the splendid picture of el greco in the sacristy. when you have gazed at that virile, majestic figure of christ, felt the charm of its lofty expression, of its wonderful suggestion of aloofness and fatality, marvelled at the colouring, the splendid boldness of design and grouping, the vigour and naturalness of the figure of the first plan bent forward to bore a hole in the cross at his feet previous to inserting the nails, you may ask yourself in dismay what gave rise to the legend of el greco's madness. stay a moment. this is unfortunately not the last word of el greco. this grave and lovely _expolio de jesus_, hardly second to that other astounding masterpiece, "the burial of count orgaz" in santo tomé, has its lamentable sequel in the st john the baptist of the _hospital de afuera_, which lets you into the secret. whether or no el greco ever went mad we have no means now of knowing, though he undoubtedly gives the impression in the st john of genius labouring under some wild and extraordinary influence. but the expolio is as perfect and sane a masterpiece as artist ever produced. all the tones are cold and subdued, as if a brilliant imagination purposely steadied and held itself in check to realise the highest and simplest expression of repose. the agony is past, transient revolt is over, and here stands the son of man in the hands of his ruthless enemies, insusceptible to personal indignity, greater than death, the supreme ideal of resignation, of its majesty rather than its sweetness. no wonder the lovers of el greco regard him as the precursor of velasquez, and will have it that velasquez studied him as master, and from him learned the secret of his own immortal dignity and cold majestic grace. when you look long at this great picture, you wonder how an artist like théophile gautier came to write the flippant nonsense he did about el greco. even if the legend of the painter's madness were true, it is certainly not apparent in this canvas. what is apparent is a complete want, felt everywhere in el greco's work, of sensibility of the more subtle and penetrative kind, an inaptitude that made the limitation of his art to conceive or paint emotion on a woman's face. the three maries are present, so close as to touch the robe of jesus. well, the three faces express nothing stronger in feeling than curiosity, in the case of the middle figure more slightly depressed by a vague instinct of passive grief; in the case of the younger women such a curiosity as a passing incident might excite, with neither a touch of terror nor abhorrence much less that of martyred love. the dark and lovely head behind of the third woman, said to be the painter's daughter, with the superb hand and arm, is that of a young toledan girl placidly watching some street procession and looking for the appearance of her lover. the smile is not far from the shadowed eyes and sweet, grave mouth, and the whole suggests soft, young romance. a rash youth, passing at that moment, if his eyes fell first upon her in the tragic scene, would greet her with an eloquent smile, and probably fling her a kiss through the air, but he would never suppose she was looking on at barbarous men as they bored holes in a cross and tore the garments from the form of her lord and saviour about to be crucified. the same curious indifference to appropriate form and expression is shown in his st john the evangelist. the last of the row of apostles on the right of the sacristy, a pallid, lean young man enveloped in the peculiar tints of dull green and faded pink, one soon learns to recognise as el greco's hues of predilection, which are more than once reproduced elsewhere in the figures of st joseph, the infant jesus and mary. this is not the dreamy and loving youth of the new testament, full of tenderness and mystical reverie. the face is delicately hard, long, pointed and intellectual, its cold ardour clouded with a suggestion of impatience and contempt. opposite the _trasparente_ is the chapel of san ildephonso. painted on a vault outside is an armed cavalier bearing a standard in one hand and an emblazoned shield in the other. this is the famous estevan illan, descended as we have seen from don pedro paleologus, of imperial greek origin, and founder of the powerful family of the toledos, since the dukes of alba. the general effect of this chapel is costly rather than beautiful. it is impossible not to be oppressed by the sensation of display, not that it is in the least gaudy; it is too solidly wealthy and artistic in its elaboration for that. the mouldings are rich, the decorations are rich, and rich beyond calculation are the tombs. grander and less elaborate is the really great chapel of santiago, better known perhaps as the constable's chapel. this was built by alvaro de luna as a vast mausoleum for himself and his wife. it is astonishingly bright when you remember its dimensions and its imposing height; of sober taste notwithstanding its flowered ogival style, subdued, while what the spaniards delight to call everything here, "sumptuous." the word indeed may not be grudged in this instance, where it is sonorous and appropriate. to do honour to this edifice, don alvaro de luna commanded truly miraculous tombs for himself and his wife, on which lay their full-length figures in gilt-bronze, so fashioned that whenever mass was recited, these life-sized figures rose from their recumbent attitudes, and knelt during the service. on its conclusion, they quietly lay down again. such tombstones, had they remained, would speedily have turned into a form of local entertainment for the townsfolk. but the great constable fell into his sovereign's disgrace, he poor, sorry, feeble king, hounded into the basest ingratitude by the clamouring populace and the constable's jealous foes. so in the hour of his fall, the infante, don enrique of aragon, had the wonderful tombs with the gilt moving statues, broken up, on which the constable sarcastically addressed him in verse: "si flota vos combatió en verdad, señor infante mi bulto non vos prendió cuando fuistes mareante; porque ficiesedes nada a una semblante figura, que estaba en mi sepultura para mi fui ordenada." [illustration: tombs of count alvaro de luna and wife, the cathedral, toledo] the tombs that have replaced these were ordered by the constable's daughter, and erected, with queen isabel's permission, in , to the memory of a king's great servant and friend scandalously abandoned by his master. for this isabel had nearly all the virtues, barring, alas! religious tolerance. she could be trusted to prove true to her own friends, and not meanly condone betrayal of a subject in a fellow-sovereign. but the constable has fared all the better because of the infante's petty spite. i doubt if we should have been much impressed--except as children are by dolls that squeak and walk, or as the child in most of us is delighted with every kind of mechanical spring, from the wheels of watches to cuckoo clocks and german town-clocks, that send dear, quaint little men and women in and out with the day's revolution--by these gilt tombs, and they serve a wiser and nobler purpose as the exquisitely-wrought pulpits of villalpando, outside the _reja_ of the capilla major. now don alvaro and doña juana repose in sculptured marble between life-size kneeling figures of singular impressiveness. nothing could be grander and more massive than the simple effect of both tombs. there are more beautiful ones, even in spain--the splendid italian tomb of cisneros at alcala de henares, tombs in the cathedral and cartuja of burgos, the grand and lovely tomb of tavera, berruguete's last work, in the _hospital de afuera_--but, nevertheless, these great sculptures of an obscure artist, pablo ortiz, are worthy of the crowned and castellated mausoleum built for them. the reliefs are gracious, the treatment fluent, large and sober. the noble statues are unfortunately much mutilated, but the flow of folds, the finish and delicacy of detail, are quite italian. in the retablo are the painted portraits of don alvaro and doña juana, painted by juan of segovia, and on either side of the altar, under canopied tombs, lie other figures. the _artesonado_ ceiling of the chapel of the new kings is similar to that of st john the baptist. the gothic retablo is one of the best of the cathedral. a passage leads to it, and the interior is extremely gilt and ornate. the sovereigns are buried on either side of the chapter, the first being henry of trastamare, the founder of the chapel. rich as it is in gilding, wrought-iron, marble and paintings, it looks small and unimposing after the great chapel of st jago. mass is celebrated here every morning at nine. an official in ragged and embroidered finery, at the end of the chapter, stands, holding the crowned and jewelled mace with the arms of spain. there is small space to dwell upon the incredible value of the church treasures, only shown at stated periods. seven canons open the seven doors, each with a separate key. the hour for showing these matchless splendours is p.m., a bad one on account of the light, and the miserable candle the sacristan carries is of small use. here will you see pearl and precious stones, embroidered mantles, such jewels and gold and silver brocade as surely the eye of man never elsewhere beheld--the rarest of wrought cloaks and robes and laces--all royal presents, or the gifts of cardinals to the virgin of the sagrario. the custodia is, for sheer magnificence, a thing to gape at. it is the work, rather the monument, of a german silver-smith, henry of arfe, and his son and grandson. the guide-book describes it as of an unheard-of wealth in jewels, gold work and chiselling. to attempt its description would involve me in another chapter on the cathedral. perhaps the most precious thing of all among so many treasures is the sad and mystical wood statue of st francis of assisi, by alonso cano, some say, by his pupil, pedro de mena, later critics aver. unfortunately, it is vilely placed in a corner, and as well, just in the middle of the face, the glass cover is broken, so that it is difficult to obtain a real view of the head without some portion of the features distorted. the object of the devotion of the chapel of the treasury is a statue of the virgin, which our lady is said to have kissed on her descent from heaven to bestow the chasuble on st ildefonso. hence the astounding mantle embroidered by felipe corral, made of gold, pearls, rubies, sapphires and emeralds. other notable treasures are the charming specimens of silver repoussé--one, the rape of the sabines, so beautifully wrought as for years to have been attributed to benvenuto cellini. to-day, the flemish artist, mathias méline, is recognised as the creator. it was the gift to the church of cardinal lorenzana. the big silver figures on four globes, with belts and sandals all gleaming with jewels, belong to the time of felipe ii. they command attention, even in all this magnificence of precious metal, precious stones, silk, lace and art; but i do not know who made these statues that represent the four parts of the world. two hundred and fifty ounces of seed pearls, , pearls, as immense a number of diamonds, rubies and amethysts, were expended alone on the virgin's celebrated mantle. as for the reliquaries of gold, silver and rock-crystal, the church plate, the incensors, only an auctioneer's list could do them justice. one hails them marvels of their kind, and passes by. in staring, with an abashed modern gaze, unfamiliar with such sights, at arfe's masterpiece, the custodio, that weighs its weight in precious metal over , ounces, note the gold cross on the top, said to have been wrought of the first piece of gold brought from america by columbus, and was raised by mendoza over the surrendered walls of the alhambra in the same year.[ ] historic interest is still more attached to the modest sword shown as that of alphonso vi., worn by this monarch on his triumphal entry into toledo, and to the original letter in latin of st louis of france to the chapter of toledo, on sending some sacred relics for the church. it runs: "luys, by the grace of god, king of the french, to his beloved in christ, the canons and all the clergy and church of toledo, salutations and love. desiring to adorn your church with a precious gift, by the hand of our beloved john, the venerable archbishop of toledo, and at his prayer, we send to you some precious parts of our venerable and excellent sanctuaries that we had from the treasure of the empire of constantinople as follows: some wood of our lord's cross, a thorn of our lord's holy crown, some of the glorious virgin's milk, some of our lord's crimson garment, worn by him; of the napkin he wound round him when he washed his disciples' feet, of the sheet in which his body was wrapped in the sepulchre, and some of the saviour's swaddling clothes. we beg and pray of your friendship in the lord to accept and guard these sacred relics, and in your masses and offices to keep us in benign memory. given at etampes, the year of our lord, , month of may." this document is stamped with a golden seal. the _ochavo_ is like everything here, an impressive chamber, the home of vast treasure. it is a monument of bronze and marble, containing massive silver coffins wonderfully wrought for the bones of st leocadia and st eugenius, statues of silver and ivory, and priceless reliquaries. behind are guarded the church vestments. nowhere are such embroideries and brocades to be seen. the hundred altar-pieces are works of art to set the mouth of the collector awatering. the older they are the more lovely, and beside the early gothic brocade-embroidery, the finest effort of the last century seems poor and vulgar, though seen apart would cause the beholder to exclaim at its loveliness. whence did these rude goths obtain their secret of such exquisite work? and how has it died from amongst us? were the sacristan willing, and human nature capable of such a prolonged effort of admiration, one might spend days among these gold and silver embroidered brocades, and complacently dream of impossible times. but when the sacristan has shown you a dozen chasubles and a dozen altar-pieces, he thinks it quite enough--and so do you, wearied from excess of strain upon admiration and ravenous envy. the beautiful and massive tower which lends majesty to an exterior not nearly so impressive as the interior of the cathedral, was begun by rodrigo alfonso in , but the work went on very slowly until the archbishop contreras put it into the hands of the architect, alvar gomez, who finished it ( ). there have been changes since, especially in , when the capital was burnt and rebuilt. it is worth while to ascend the interminable stairs to the belfry, not to marvel at the largest bell, i believe, of the world, whose terrible note reaches as far as madrid, but to revel in the view. you seem to look down upon the earth from alpine heights. below, through incredible depths of space, flows the tagus, with its broad horse-shoe curve that makes almost an island of the town, and with charming little breaks in joyous verdure and soft little dashes of blue shade and white mist, the sombre and austere hills of toledo make an upper and more violent rampart against the world beyond. such is the sense of imprisonment here, that the eye instinctively seeks, as a chance of escape, the long white way of madrid. it is good to breathe a moment in so exalted an atmosphere, to behold so vast and wonderful a scene, in which all remembrance of human miseries vanishes, and our very joys drop into relative significance. nature has nowhere else attained a note of beauty harsher, more intense, more indifferently sublime. elsewhere you feel that an effort has been made to captivate you, a deliberate combination of effects to win your admiration. not so here. the moors never succeeded, during their long sovereignty, in stamping the place with their voluptuous charm, as they did in granada, cordova, and valencia. they left it as they found it, the stern home of revolt, the nest of mailed warriors and hardy artisans, so hard and quarrelsome that not even their loves furnish us with a soft legend, nor their literature a witching profile, or any hint of seductive grace in their womanhood. [illustration: the cathedral tower] chapter vii _domenico theotocopulos_ el greco there is but one great painter permanently and almost exclusively associated with toledo, _el greco_. all the notable pictures of the town are his, and so vast is his work here, that the toledan churches possess at least fifty pictures of his, a dozen of which are nothing less than masterpieces, and the rest the work of a master in weaker and more erratic moments. masters are so rare in the history of this world that one would gladly know something of this tardily recognised great one; learn the secret of his preposterous defects in the second stage of his development, and the no less enigmatic secret of his occasional reach to supreme perfection. how came the man who could paint the glorious under picture of the burial of count orgaz (see illustration), to draw and paint the inconceivable picture of st john the baptist in the _hospital de afuera_? how, in fact, rose the absurd legend of his madness, since no details of the man's life has reached us on which to base such an idea? théophile gautier, with lamentable flippancy, gives echo in france to the ill-natured supposition of palomino, the least trustworthy of guides. nearly every fact given by palomino concerning _el greco_ is false. he states the painter's age, though no mortal being, contemporary of _el greco_, or researcher of our own times, has the faintest ground for any such statement. the registrar of his death, which a spanish painter, an impassioned student of all that concerns _el greco_, has seen, proves that the artist's age was uncertain, since nobody about him knew the date of his birth. furthermore, palomino tells us triumphantly that _el greco_ was buried in the parish of san bartolomé, "and instead of a slab they placed a railing over his grave to indicate that nobody else should be buried there." the church fell down years afterwards, he assures us, and the place of _el greco's_ burial was no longer known. this is all mere supposition, just as palomino's statement of _el greco's_ age, seventy-seven, and more innocent in the way of loose statements than his information that theotocopulos went mad with rage from hearing himself compared with titian, and purposely distorted his work to extinguish a similarity that did him honour. such is the flimsy tale so genial and witty a writer as gautier lightly spreads. to begin with, it is now denied that _el greco_ ever was titian's pupil. it is admitted that he studied under tintoretto, and however much he may preserve (and wisely!) of the noble italian school, there can be no doubt to the least discerning that he has brought to its interpretation his own forcible individuality and cold temperament. great he often is, supreme sometimes, but never voluptuous or charming. you admire him with your head; your heart he leaves always untouched, unless we make an exception in the solitary instance of the delightful figure of st martin in the chapel of san josé. here you have a touch of romantic pathos and charm in the slim young knight, which evokes reverie and remembrance of warm soft legendary love such as _el greco_ is elsewhere persistently blind to. we accept his own word for it, that he came from crete, but when, why, how, we know not. we hear of him in italy, but at no fixed spot, and he blazes unexplained upon the horizon of spanish art, first known by one of the masterpieces of spain. pacheco, earlier than palomino, tells us that he was a curious student, a philosopher, an architect, a sculptor, as well as a painter. of his studies, his philosophy, no proof has come down to us; but of his sculpture, his wood-carving, his architecture, toledo possesses many a sample as evidence of the man's versatility. he is said to have left behind him, as a monument of industry in a life so full and varied, a complete copy in clay of everything he wrought or painted. the only faint hint of the man himself that we get is a reference pacheco makes to a conversation he had with _el greco_ in toledo, when the great painter told him that in his opinion colour alone was of value, and form and drawing quite secondary considerations in the art of painting. it was this feeling that made el greco so persistently cold to the work of michael angelo, says palomino. michael angelo, he said to pacheco, was a very good fellow, but a very poor painter. beyond two legal squabbles, we learn nothing of the man's life at toledo. he is said to have painted his own visage in the burial of count orgaz: lean, hard, nervous, exceedingly dark and striking, the face of a man in whom energy was an unsleeping disease, who worked with his mind concentrated upon the accomplishment of an ideal achievement, not as an idealist, as a materialist rather with an ideal object in view. there is the same curious modern expression in this dark, impassioned face that i noticed in the desperate portrait of the italian novelist, m. gabriel d'annunzio, whom the face strangely resembles; an eager, ravenous, cruel sensuality which knows neither rest nor satiety, and which gives meaning to the charge of habits of harsh gallantry and deliberate ostentation. he is said to have kept a band of musicians to play during his carefully-prepared and selected repasts. yet nothing could be less sensual than the work of el greco. he is colder than velasquez, and only understands feminine emotion in a certain austere intensity, passion fed upon the perfume of incense and saintly legend, as in the striking head of st agnes in his great virgin and child of san josé. but this statement also is untrustworthy. it is incredible that a man, who left so much behind him, whose life was so active, and whose achievement was so important for a town in which he lived for so many years, should be merely a name, leaving no evidence of social or civic existence, no word of friend or foe in the annals of that town, nothing in its contemporary letters to guide us to any knowledge of the man himself. pacheco in three lines reports a conversation with him, that is all. we do not know even where he lived in toledo, how he lived, who his wife was, if he loved her, who his friends were, what manner of father and citizen he was. we know that he painted pictures, that he built churches, carved statues, and, since he was well paid for his work, that he must have possessed considerable means, and was probably an influential personage as well as a great master. sir william stirling maxwell possesses a portrait said to be that of el greco's daughter by him, but this, too, is regarded as doubtful. of a son's existence, however, we are certain, and the charming figure of the delicate and pensive st martin on horseback, as well as that of the dreamy youth in the plan of toledo of the museum, are the portraits of george manuel theotocopulos, architect, like his father. it is now certified that he was buried in the church, built by himself, of the dominican convent, _santo domingo el antiguo_. i have said that an impenetrable obscurity lies upon the personal life of el greco, though here his artistic existence is one of the most insistent facts about us. he seems first to have come to toledo about to build the church of _santo domingo el antiguo_, and paint the fine assumption, the original of which was bought by don sebastian de bourbon, and is now the property of the infanta cristina, the picture of the retablo being only a copy, from which we may infer that his name in the world of italian art was already known. how else could he have come to toledo upon direct invitation, unless he came upon chance, hearing of toledo as a flourishing city, where art was more appreciated and better remunerated than anywhere else in spain. then the chapter of the cathedral ordered the most beautiful expolio of the sacristy. when the ordered picture was painted, with the group of three women in the foreground, the canons were shocked by the audacious innovation, sent it back to the painter, and refused to pay for it. there was no justification, they asserted, for the presence of the three maries at the crucifixion, and they could only consent to receive it if the figures were rubbed out. this el greco haughtily and properly declined to do. having painted his picture, he announced himself ready to stand by it, good or ill, as it was, without the slightest alteration. but he demanded his money, whether the chapter took the picture or not. this, too, the chapter refused, whereupon the irate and humiliated artist went to law. it was a long case, lasting for years, during which time el greco whiled away his enforced leisure at toledo by marching off to illescas, where he found time to build the church and paint some noble pictures. his defence against the chapter was a naïve and lame one. he asserted that the presence of the women did not matter, "as they were a long way off," which is not true. but the main fact was true, "it did not matter," any more than radically matters the mediaeval knight in armour behind them. such inaccuracies and discrepancies leave the artist's genius undiminished. so apparently thought the judges and jury, for el greco won his case, gained his price, and maintained his artistic dignity without offensive concession to his pride. the women remained, the picture was hung in a frame of jasper and marble, the wood-work wrought by el greco, which cost the chapter considerably more than the painting, and el greco himself lived to die an old man in the town he had started in so stormily. his next proceedings were at illescas where, having built the church of our lady of charity, painted retablos and carved statues, it was seriously proposed to tax his pictures as common merchandise. el greco went to law again, and this time, too, won his case. only this was not merely a personal triumph, it was a big justice wrung in these far-off days from the stupid bourgeois to art. palomino, commenting on it, writes: "immortal thanks are due to el greco for having broken a lance for art and thus forced the proclamation of its immunities." he compelled the court to accept his theory that art was a thing apart from merchandise, not like mere fabrications, subject to the control of taxes or to the law of duty. while the process went on, el greco refused to sell any of his pictures, but simply hired them out for a certain sum, as the good counsellors of illescas only proposed to tax _sold_ pictures. as the case with the chapter of toledo was concluded before that of illescas, he only accepted a loan on account of the future sum, from the canons for the expolio. his fame now was spreading through spain, and that on no common unattuned voice. his superb portrait of the monk, felix de artiaga, won from that distinguished poet the first of the two celebrated sonnets to el greco. "divino griego de tu obrar yo admira que en la imagen exceda a el ser el arte" it begins, and having descanted on the superiority of the artist's creature to god's, wittily ends: "y contra veinte y nueve años de trato entre tu mano y la de dios, perplexa qual es el cuerpo, en que ha de vivir duda." the second sonnet was brought forth by el greco's tomb of queen margarita, when fray felix de artiaga addresses him: _huesped curioso, a qui la pompa admira_ _de este aparato real_, milagro griego! _no lugubres exequias juzgues ciego,_ _ni marmol fiel en venerable pyra_ _el sol que margarita estable mira_ _le arraneo del fatal desassossiego_ _de esta vana region, y en puro fuego_ _vibrantes luces de su rostro aspira_ _a el nacer que vistió candido, pone_ _toledo agradecido_ por valiente mano _en aquesta caxa peregrina._ _tosca piedra la maquina compone_ _que ya su grande margarita ausente_ _no le ha quedado si españa piedra fria_. we know that el greco had disciples, since his two most famous, fray bautista maino and luis tristan, were considerable artistes, whose work in toledo is only second to his own. but had he a school such as had the great italian masters? was he beloved, admired, followed through the town? what was his influence upon the young men around him? was his personality intense and commanding? strong, yes, else he would never have dabbled in litigation. we may imagine too some intemperateness of character to explain the intemperate blemishes of his work. the strange obscurity of so successful a career as his must have been, if the most important commissions of the time mean anything, leaves us in doubt of the man's personal attractiveness. he can scarcely have formed strong friendships, or some testimony, some facts would have reached us through these. a wilful, obstinate, self-centred nature is revealed in all his works, and a curious lack of temperament and charm in it would explain to some extent the man's lack of personal magnetism and influence to account for the century's indifference to the creator of work it seems to have appreciated so thoroughly. we find him again at loggerheads with felipe segundo. the escorial was built, and the morose philip ordered el greco to paint a picture of the martyrdom of st maurice for the chapel. he had by this entered into his last period of accentuated eccentricity, of which the st john the baptist of the _hospital de afuera_, beyond the puerta de visagra, is a sufficiently exasperating example. the st maurice i have not seen, but if the saint's legs in any way resembled those of st john the baptist, small blame to the astounded king when he refused to accept the picture. the sacristan of the _hospital de afuera_ explains the outrageous anatomical contortions in the blunt good-natured fashion of the people: "picture by el greco when he went mad." but as el greco never went mad, we rest dissatisfied with the information. there can be no doubt that every strongly-marked nature reveals excess of some sort in whatever direction development may tend. neither men nor things, nor colour nor line, can appear the same to all. the same sex and nation produced rossetti's women and romney's. greuze and puvis de chavannes see frenchwomen with a different eye, though woman herself is the eternally unchanged, the same variously-imaged enigma of the beginning, rather reflected and modified through the glance that scans her than seriously altered or influenced by environment and impression. humanity was not an elegant affair for hogarth, and viewed through el greco's imagination, it ceased to possess proportion, and man became absurdly tall and grotesquely contorted. he bestows the finished hand of twenty on a child of ten, and shoots his saints up to such a height as would make them ridiculous in frederick's famous potsdam regiment of giants. but this is no indication of madness, any more than any other exaggeration of a natural tendency. even in the _expolio_, his first known great picture, painted when he was a young man, his predilection for excessive height is visible in the tall figure of christ, and as the years go on this predilection accentuates itself, till his figures cease to be natural. the same tendency to distort the human limbs reveals itself in his magnificent picture in the little church of santo tomé, in the upper portion of which one notes extraordinary figures of angels out of drawing, with twisted limbs over clouds. philip, in his dissatisfaction with his bargain was, however, as befits a prince, more honourable than the chapter of toledo. he paid el greco the price of his work, and only with difficulty did the unhappy artist obtain, for his reputation's sake, a grudging admission of the picture into the _sala de capitular_, while philip ordered for the chapel, in its stead, another picture of romulo cincinnato. but these rebuffs were few in a truly brilliant career. the wonder is how he found time, as well as physical strength, for all the commissions he received. he built the extremely elegant façade of the ayuntamiento, which makes an odd and formal note in its gothic and semi-moorish environment, in greco-roman style, but has a fine and dignified effect against an appropriate depth of azure to carry out the classical intention of a son of greece. the side towers give lightness to the solidity of the immense base, and if the columns and arches do not succeed in producing a general impression of grace--a quality absent in nearly all el greco's work--there is no sin anywhere against harmony. the interior is worth a visit if it were only for the pleasure of reading on stone manrique's sententious and noble lines, with their indubitable ring of the plumed, dramatic ages and the hidalgo's studious search for the fitting word, the fitting gesture, that shall send him down to posterity in the worthiest form: "nobles, discretos varones, que gobernais à toledo, en aquestas escalones desechad las aficiones, codicio, temor, y miedo. por los comunes provechos dejad los particulares; pues vos fizo dios pilares de tan riquisimos techos, estad firmes y derechos." when the toledans wore their famed steel, and damascene armour was the fashion and not a curiosity, the "discreet and noble males" manrique so magnificently addresses, may have lived up to the high civic ideal of these verses, but it is much to be doubted if the modern toledans, who no longer seek distraction in the excitement of excellent steel, and fashion paper-knives for books they never read, of damascene instead of exquisite armour, maintain this level of austere civic virtue. to our lasting gratitude, cardinal quiroga, at the instance of the augustines, ordered el greco's immortal and glorious picture of the "burial of gonzalo ruiz, count of orgaz." it is no exaggeration to describe this picture as one of the greatest of spain. one puts it only immediately below the [illustration: the burial of the count of orgaz] masterpieces of velasquez. the toledans went wild with admiration, and writing of it a century ago, antonio ponz describes their admiration as still unabated. at the time part of the excitement was due to the superb portraits of well-known personages, which the townspeople contemplated with ever fresh delight. we, who have not this interest in the picture, may wisely, nay, must enforcedly, follow their example to-day. "since its appearance," writes ponz, "the city has never tired of admiring it, visiting it continually, always finding new beauties in it, and contemplating the life-like portraits of the great men of toledo." how modern, how seizing, what a subtle, magnificent impressionist the man was! is the first surprised exclamation when confronted with all these living, speaking faces of old spain. faces so spanish, so delicately and forcibly varied and individual in their maintenance of a rigid, racial type. every shade of national character stands out separate and in union with the general expression: harsh pride, insane wilfulness, stupendous fanaticism, exalted and untender mysticism, a sensuality so dominant as to tread on cruelty, a delicate humour, an inflated self-consciousness, exquisite kindliness, morose indifference, the very genius of selfishness and a sterile sensibility. did ever a canvas before so perfectly gather all the fugitive moods, all the underlying currents, all the grace and charm, the vices and defects of a single race, and give them complete stability in their wavering expression? this is to carry portraiture to the rarest perfection. among these twenty or so living faces, there is not one that is insignificant or mediocre, not one that apart would not make a superb picture, not one that does not carry the enveloping stamp of moment, race and environment. in some the type is so unchanged that to-day in spain such faces may be seen looking precisely as they did then; unaltered even by costume, so marked is the individuality, so seemingly imperishable the large strong utterance of the castillian physiognomy. this picture has something of the eternal freshness of "don quixote." there is the simple, unconscious stroke of cervantes in the fashioning of these hidalgoes' heads, something of his mild incomparable humour, something of his nobility and the underlying depth of sadness in his easy wit. no painter who was not both witty and humorous could observe so deeply, so wisely, with such an obvious kindliness of regard; could accentuate so suggestively, so delicately, national traits, and yet not break the consistent harmony of a solemn scene; could tell posterity so much with the most charming air of telling it nothing. "the burial of the count of orgaz" proves el greco something more than a complete artist; it proves his intellectual force, for here he brings all the distinguished qualities of the brain to the very different qualities of the painter's eye and hand. of these latter it would be difficult to say too much. look at the wonderful shadow of death in the livid grey of the corpse, and then at the brilliance of st augustine's episcopal robes! examine above all the lovely head of the boy, st stephen, not in the least spanish, a dream of sweet and stainless youth, with warm-hued beauty to thrill the glance, and just enough of heaven about the young brown head to suggest the absent aureole. and from these fresh-tinted cheeks, so purely rounded, look at the two emaciated and pallid monks behind, and then down at little acolyte, who has much more of the air of a proud and charming little princess, with a practised grace of gesture and an inherited dignity of glance than a church lad. is it possible to paint more supremely four such different hours and moods of life--dawn, radiant morning, dull twilight, and cold night,--to unite in a higher degree the skill and power of a master? no wonder the enthusiastic sonneteer addressed him as "miraculous greek" and "divine greek." this picture has indeed genius's rare and inimitable touch of divinity. all else, with patience and talent, may be acquired but this, and had el greco never painted anything else, by the "burial" of santo tomé alone he would stand apart in the history of spanish art, with the world's select few. it is a singular fact, as i have pointed out, that such a painter's influence on the town he lived in should not be more marked in every way than references to the period would lead us to assume. he had pupils certainly, but we only hear of two, luis tristan, his favourite, and fray bautista maino. tristan has left a good deal of work in toledo which is often taken to be el greco's in decline. apart from the master's, it is notable in its way, still and rather colourless; but a story told of master and pupil bears retelling as an excellent trait in el greco. the one characteristic we are permitted to gather from the obscurity that envelopes the man, is a haughty conviction of the value of his art. there was no lack of confidence here, no feeble self-depreciation, no meek concern for the judgment of others. in all altercations between him and the purchasers, the purchasers were naturally the blockheads, and in no circumstance whatever could he possibly err, not even when he was convicted of wilfully contorting and dislocating the human body. he only went on seeing more and more crooked by a natural perversity. now, not content to worship art and its rights in his own emphatic work, he taught his disciples to do likewise in theirs. this is his uncompromising method of teaching such a lesson. the monks of la sisla, a vanished powerful monastery of the middle ages, ordered of young tristan a picture for their chapel. tristan painted the picture and brought it to the abbot, claiming in payment two hundred dollars. the abbot, noting the painter's youth, objected to the price, and said it was far too high. tristan modestly protested, and referred the abbot to his master, who shortly called on el greco at an hour when tristan was working in his studio. he opened the interview by remarking that he believed there was a mistake in the terms demanded by tristan. "what were they?" dryly asked el greco. the abbot blandly named two hundred dollars. "a mistake," cried el greco, "i should think so indeed." he jumped up and flung himself violently on the astounded youth, and began to thump him. "how comes it, you rascal, you could make such a mistake? how dare you ask such a sum as two hundred dollars for a picture worth five hundred? this will teach you to go about the world asking such prices and proving yourself an ass." thump, thump, and the unfortunate abbot looked on while the blows hailed on the shoulders of the too humble artist. "i buy that picture for five hundred dollars," said el greco to the abbot, when he had finished tristan's castigation, whereupon the abbot, who knew his man and was glad enough to get off quietly by the immediate payment to tristan of five hundred instead of two, politely requested permission to keep the picture. here was a master worth having. if he did use physical violence to his pupils, he paid a lordly price for the privilege, and in the reckoning it may be said the pupils were more than compensated for affront or wound. in space so limited, it is not to be hoped to find room for mention of all el greco's pictures in toledo. all i can endeavour to do is to indicate the best, and thus, perhaps, provoke in the reader by whom his work is ignored, a desire for fuller knowledge than i am able to impart. the first picture he painted here, the "assumption" of _santo domingo el antiguo_, was purchased by don sebastian of bourbon, and though the copy in its place is not good, a fair idea of the picture might be obtained if the nuns had not the bad taste to place a large and unutterable atrocity in the shape of a hideous tabernacle in front of it. whatever virtues the ladies of st dominick may possess, an understanding of art is not among them. before all their painted retablos, they place offensive dressed statues and tawdry ornaments, out of keeping with the cold severity of this beautiful church of el greco's. the pictures on either side of the "assumption," all greco's, are fine; st john the baptist and st paul below, st benedict and st bernard above. the annunciation at the end of the church is by carducci, and the st ildefonso opposite by luis tristan, neither equal to the master's strong, harmonious work, which they show out in greater relief. interest is attached to this church by the curious fact that not only did el greco build it, and build it so well with such cold and classical correctness and simplicity, but here he lies at rest forever in his own large temple. the precise spot of his grave is not known, and it is quite an accident that such indication has been found. all the writers have been content with the loose statement that he was buried either in santo tomé or san bartolomé, without a word of regret that he who wrought such lasting monuments with his hand has found no reverent hand to carve a slab above his dust. it was only quite lately that the spanish landscape painter, señor de berruete, to whose kindness i owe the information and a copy of the registrar of the death, by sheer dint of perseverance and conviction, brought to light the definite and correct knowledge at last of el greco's resting-place. he lies in some obscure corner of this church, forgotten by the nuns on whose business he first came to toledo, and the record of his death and burial dryly runs:--_libro de entierros de santo tomé de - , en siete del abril del falescio dominico greco. no hizo testamento, recibio los sacramentos, enterose en santo domingo el antiguo. dio velas._ and that is all we know of his illness and death. he made no will, he received the sacraments, he died on the th of april , and left tapers for his funeral. under some stone of santo domingo he lies forever ignored and unhonoured! many of the convents that possessed pictures of el greco have disappeared, amongst them the old convent of the visitation called the queen's, which contained a superb crucifixion. of the figures at the foot of the cross, palomino wrote: "they are very titian-like, and how superior to anything else here!" we are told of a certain magdalen, a lovely bit of colouring, painted while the influence of the venetian school was still marked in his work, but this has become private property. some of his best pictures were painted for the little town of bayona near cienpozuelos. the scenes from the dramatic life of magdalen were so beautiful that cardinal portocarrero offered pesos (about a crown piece) and the same quantity of giordanos to replace them to the church, which were indignantly refused. in the college of atocha and the monastery of la sisla there were considerable collections of some of the best grecos. into whose hands have they since passed? and in how many obscure parts of spain may not these treasures lie hidden and unrecognised? palomino tells us of "an unapproachable judgment." alas! nobody to-day knows anything about it. three other great pictures, however, remain. in the little chapel of san josé, opposite the exchange of carlos iii., a painted insignificant edifice that has fallen into deserved decay, there are five or six grecos, two of which arrest immediate attention. on the left is the singularly beautiful figure of st martin, a portrait of the painter's son, a delicate high-bred and dreamy young knight in armour, inappropriately cutting his mantle in two with toledan steel to bestow half on the beggar standing beside his white horse. no roman soldier this conception of martin of tours, making a gift of half of his single cloak, but a charming youth who is playing at charity as he rides out beyond the town, while above the river, in some gothic-arabian palace, he has his choice of variously-hued satin cloaks as well as damascene armour, and as he cuts his mantle, he has the dainty and sentimental air of one who muses tristefully on the absent or perfidious beloved, and hugs despair as the more graceful part of passion, the while anxiously asking himself if he shall meet her glance as he rides past her lattice. except the lovely girl's head of the _expolio_, also said to be a family portrait, and if so proving, along with the st martin, that el greco was the father of beautiful children, el greco has done no more witching and romantic work than this boyish figure of st martin. the colouring is extraordinarily cold, and grey of an exquisite tone, with shadows of a dull silvered blue. it suggests the pale borderland where dream and reality meet and merge. when el greco first came to spain, he was fresh from the warm voluptuous school of venice. nothing proves more than the rapid alteration of his style, the invading influence of atmosphere. the austere and hieratic capital of spain developed a racial coldness, till his art became like the city that remained its temple, something aloof from and above the gusts of temperament, an art unmoved by passion or the senses, too violent to be called serene, too reflective and intellectual to touch the heart. one would look in vain for the exquisite sweetness of andrea del sarto, for a particle of the delight and radiance the italians had the secret of gathering into their canvases, for any of the superlative charm of da vinci or the surpassing tenderness of raphael. el greco has much of the modern hardness, much of its quick impressionability, much of its accentuated indifference to mere loveliness, much of its cold force and deliberate self-cultivation. instead of learning from error, he cultivated error as part of his individuality, a thing that was right in him since it defined his peculiar perception of things. even in this fine picture, the horse is out of drawing, since it is a settled thing that no large work of his can utterly satisfy, can come to us without some distinguished blemish and oddness by which we recognise our greco all in greeting him. opposite the st martin is a virgin and child, with two angels on either side, and below two saints. the angel, on the left hand, almost confronts me with inaccuracy in denying el greco warmth. nothing could be warmer, even on a murillo canvas, than the soft brown head and shadowed cheek and eyes bent over the infant with an ineffable inward curve that suggests, but does not reveal, the hidden smile. there is a melting sweetness about this drooped visage that el greco has not accustomed us to expect from him. underneath, st agnes strains upwards a very different cast of countenance: dark, severely outlined, intense, and full of pain and yearning, the brows are tragically marked, and the expression of the mouth is that of scornful resignation. by no means the legendary saint agnes, meek and mild, but vigorously individual and passionate, with a soul and intellect inconveniently above the little joys of maidenhood. the virgin, too, as are all el greco's madonnas, is off the beaten track. this maiden-mother has none of the bland and unintelligent sweetness of the italian madonna. the face is long and pointed, and about the brow and eyes there is something greek, a scarce perceptible imperiousness, an intellectual quality in the expression of reverie, more marked still in the virgin of san vicente. as a whole, the picture is one of commanding interest. the sacristan will assure you, despite the conviction of your eyes and senses, that the altar picture is a murillo. nowhere have i found sacristans so stupid and so ignorant as in toledo. for that matter, stupidity reigns over the town. for a home of relics, never were relics more densely guarded, and there is not a single intelligent or recommendable guide to be had. one remembers a delicate little masterpiece of sensibility and pathos by mr henry james, "the madonna of the future," with yearning, and wishes some learned monomaniac would start across one's path, like the neo-florentine hero of that story, to guide one wisely through toledo's forlorn treasures. but toledo does not seem to have inspired disinterested love in any human breast. those who know her decline to share their knowledge, and those in care of her inheritance, from the canons of the cathedral to the sacristans and keepers of the museum, are, without exception, wrapped in an impenetrable fog of ignorance, accentuated by indifference. the murillo of the sacristan of san josé is a very striking greco--one would recognise it a long way off by the stupendous height of st joseph, the hand of twenty of the infant jesus, and the flowing wealth of drapery in dull green, dim yellow, and faded pink, with the big deep folds so peculiarly the master's. the sacristan also denied el greco to be the painter of a grey mystical st francis, an emaciated, spiritualised head, in a dim twilight, livid grey, half shadow, and ghostly white, blurred with faint yellow. the hands show out whitely in the intensity of gloom, and the expression in this grey atmosphere is mystic and serene. not one of the best examples, but good enough to suggest that there may be some truth in the supposition that el greco was the sculptor of the famous little statue of st francis of assisi in the cathedral treasury, and not alonzo cano or pedro de mena. but doubtful of my sacristan's knowledge, i struck a match, mounted a chair, and convinced him by reading out the half obliterated greek letters of theotocopulos's signature. nothing but the patronymic could be deciphered, but the signature of the picture of the escorial m. demetrius bikelas deciphered more fully: [**greek: domênichos theotochoulos kpês, 'epoíe], which is our sole assurance of his birthplace. there remains another great picture of el greco to draw attention to, overlooking, as i am compelled to, the very names of so many others. the assumption of san vicente is no less magnificent than singular. most rare is its realistic impression of a scene mid air. you feel about it the very hurricane of the upper air, the dizzy velocity of flight. this is no image of calm soaring through space, the idea of dreamy swim most painters of the assumption are content to convey. the very modernity and the violent realism of el greco's genius forced him to forsake in all things the notion of simple reverie. he seeks to convey distinct impressions; veracity as far as possible must stamp these. he does not delight in pampering the spectator with sentimental musings or the inanely beautiful. ugliness, too, has its beauty when accompanied by strength. you must understand to enjoy, must bring the brain as well as the senses to the contemplation of his work. like all preoccupied artists, he inevitably sins by excess, and overtaxes the bewildered spectator. something of his spirit went into our own browning. his drawing is often like browning's verse, inexplicably rough and out of gear. but nothing could change either genius. one leaves you to make what you can of his volumes; the other leaves you for ever exasperated by eccentricities of pencil and brush it is now no use seeking to understand. for instance, in this picture, shocking and glorious at the same time, who is to account for the profile of the angel in yellow with the grand beating wings of shaded purple and grey that support the lifted virgin through the rushing air? the limbs are grotesque, the pointed nose almost stands away from the face, the ears protrude in graceless deformity, and the chin is nearly rugged in its absurd upward curve. a more painful presentment of an angel sane man never painted. yet look away, and you will see two exquisite slender limbs and feet, pointed downward in the air, to show that el greco knew a lovely thing as well as any other painter. and yet higher still, examine the virgin with her dark, oval, intellectual, modern visage, beautiful with the beauty of our own troubled and eager times, half spiritual, half poetical, but partaking not in the least of the old-fashioned ideal of maiden-mother, the mild benignant madonna of italy, the soulless virgin of spain, eastern peasant women painted from the mistresses of italian artists or from the pretty dancing girls of the spanish people. here is an innovation, here is originality: a mournful mary, leaving earth with doubt and pain in her expression rather than rapture; with small refined face and intense brows; a mary who bears the mark of our fugitive common suffering, the deep, enigmatic impress of life accompanied by thought, and not the stereotyped dolorous brand of the seven times stabbed mother catholic art accepts. he boldly rejects the old ideal both in maiden and in mother, and paints a mary who is neither sweet nor quiet. how tall she is too, and slenderly outlined beneath the superb green-blue drapery that bears her on its floating folds, as it waves down from the rich pink garment that covers the slim bust. surely, in spite of defects so monstrous as to provoke laughter, angel's limbs like gnarled trees, such biceps as no athlete ever possessed, hands to fell the heaviest beast, this picture for composition, for the vivid impression of intense velocity of upward flight, for the grand treatment of drapery and colour, for the vigorous reality of those outspread wings, and above all for that beautiful, delicately-strong grieved face of mary, with the soft dark cloud of hair marking its most charming oval, this original conception of the assumption may be reckoned as one of el greco's triumphs of art. it does not enchant, or captivate, but it seizes. elsewhere you must look for delight. here your satisfaction is disturbed by deliberate and deplorable defections, but you have boundless compensations. el greco's portraits have none of the defects of his large compositions. the best perhaps is the admirable portrait of cardinal tavera in the _hospital de afuera_. this is in the full sense of the word a masterpiece. no blemish to irritate, no deliberate eccentricity to recall his wrong-headed theory that in painting colour alone is of importance and drawing of no value whatever. here is a square of canvas of sober and solid worth, which might be the work of any of the best italian masters for suavity and restraint, and has no fraternity whatever with the extraordinary st john the baptist so near it, and so preposterously offensive. the other superb portraits by el greco that toledo holds are those of antonio covarrubias and juan de alava in the provincial museum at san juan de los reyes. the rest are chiefly at madrid, and hold no inferior place in that glorious assembly. they stand out, individual, insistent, and seem to assure you with all the eloquence of so violent and marked a personality as el greco's, that in spite of the general venetian tone that so vividly recalls titian and tintoretto, with whom proximity invites contrast, it is no imitator who has painted these magnificent portraits of lean castillian gentlemen, with their austere pride of regard, their air of imperturbable breeding and beautiful hands. they are the work of one of the world's masters, who himself created a school to which we owe velasquez. chapter viii _san juan de los reyes, santa marta la blanca, el transito_ religion and revolt are the chief features in toledo's story. when her sons were not quarrelling within or warring without, they were building churches and convents, and none more famous than san juan de los reyes, built in fulfilment of a vow by the catholic kings after the victory of toro, gained over the portuguese sympathisers with the _beltraneja_, henry's luckless heiress. the architect was juan guas, master builder of the cathedral, and the church was finished in , and given over by isabel to the order of st francis, magnificently endowed. it stands high above the bridge of san martin and the puerta del cambron, the portico facing north and the lovely cloisters south. writing of it, señor amador de los rios in his _toledo pintoresca_, says: "this sumptuous monument belongs to the class of architecture known as _gotica-gentil_, and is indubitably one of the most famous of toledo. raised at the most flourishing period of the castillian monarchy, it awakens before the vision of the enthusiastic traveller, memories of lofty and difficult enterprises, happily concluded by our elders, so that the vandalism of the present century stands sharply out with all its rubbish, and still more the envy of a neighbouring nation, that, while it was in the act of flinging the most unjust charges at the spanish people, destroyed with steel and fire the most precious jewels of its art. i refer to the burning of san juan de los reyes by the french on their invasion. it would seem false that the armies of the marshals, whose culture and value nobody may dare doubt, could display such rage against a few edifices, whose only wrong in their estimation was that they were erected by the victors of cirinola and pavia; false would it seem that napoleon's soldiers came to spain to react the scenes of attila and genserico. but for our misfortune it is only too true." one cannot blame the spaniards for their bitterness towards the french. no invading nation ever behaved more shamelessly, comported itself with a more inexcusable barbarity than the french in the peninsula. but on the other hand, the spaniards themselves in reality care so little about the beautiful things they have inherited from bygone times, are so calamitously indifferent to their own historic glories, that we may well hesitate to credit the french with all the ruin we see about us in spain. an archaeological body was appointed for the maintenance of public monuments, and see for yourself in toledo and elsewhere what these gentlemen have been able to achieve. it is not money alone that is lacking, but competence and the great important instinct _that it matters_. the canons, those hopeless autocrats of ruined toledo, who stand so deliberately on the brink of oblivion and the dark abyss of ignorance, have covered the beautiful bronze doors of the cathedral _puerta del reloj_ with a hideous wooden screen. when i asked one of them the meaning of this disfigurement, he blandly assured me that it was to ward off draughts in winter, when the big stone forest is mighty cold. and so the lovely works of zurreño and dominguez might just as well have been riddled with french shot for all the pleasure they are permitted to give us to-day. so with everything in the hands of these terrible canons, who care for nothing on earth but their ease and their leisure. the famous archiepiscopal library which the republic had wisely made state property, was given back to the canons by alfonso xii., on the distinct understanding that it should remain open to the public. but the canons locked the doors, and whenever you ask to see it, you are informed that the librarian has the keys and is away at madrid, where he expects to remain another fortnight. during the month i stayed at toledo, to collect material for this volume, i was sent from one canon to another, all of whom "deeply sympathised," but assured me in dull, indifferent tones that it was impossible for me to see the library. the penetenciario was at madrid. and for anything the canons cared, he might stay away six months, and keep the library keys with him all that time. i asked one canon what the rest did, if in the absence of their singular librarian, there happened to present itself a rare necessity for the chapter to open this hermetically sealed door. he smiled deprecatingly, but did not enlighten me. not requiring information themselves, the search for it is a form of insanity not to be encouraged in others. and señor amador de los rios and all other spanish writers lament, and justly, the french invasion, but forget to note their own cruel inertia, the disastrous results of indifference and indolence. there is nothing remarkable about the exterior of san juan de los reyes. alonso de covarrubias completed the portico in . the effect of the rusty chains, the famous chains of the christians of granada round the walls, is hideous. the spaniards are extremely moved by the sight of this queer ornament, one wonders why, and amador de los rios nearly weeps with rage because some of them have been removed. he solaces himself with drawing an elaborate picture of the awed and reverential attitude of emotional foreigners gazing upon them. the sculpture outside is very rough. many will find the interior of this renowned edifice a distinct disappointment. one misses the mystery, the charm of aisled perspectives. there are here no long reaches of shadow and brilliant variations of light. the effect is bold, free, ample, but curiously short. the altar recess is shallow, the nave is broad and open, ending in a semi-circle and six lateral arches. the body of the church is divided by two light pillars, richly decorated. the beauty of the church consists in the extraordinary magnificence of its sculpture. pillars and walls are extravagantly overlaid with the richest gothic ornamentation, and the impression is rather bewildering than beautiful. it seems a bold thing to say of one of the most admired and renowned monuments of toledo, that it is ugly from excess of sculptural splendour. it is too wide, too short, too solid and heavy, too open, above all too florid. i can think of no fitter comparison than a stout, low-sized, middle-aged woman, excessively bejewelled, carrying gracelessly garments too heavy and too gorgeous. it lacks the elusive charm of shadow, the subtlety of simplicity. san juan de los reyes is a church to visit and to wonder at, but not a place to muse in. you will admire the octagonal vault, the pinnacles, the gallery running out of the clerestory in front of the south window, pierced parapet and highly-wrought choir; you will marvel at the statues, the foliage, the rich gothic fancies, the shields, all the magnificent elaboration of detail, the rarest to be found anywhere, and still will all this leave you cold and unimpressed. it is like an admirably finished poem, that appeals to the head and leaves the heart untouched. from immemorial time the principal entrance has been covered with plaster, which only permits us to see the great gothic window in the centre. the workmanship of the interior of the church leads us to infer that this entrance was more in keeping with the whole than the present façade of covarrubias, which is decadent gothic, constructed many years later, and only finished in the reign of philip iii. the length of this single nave is feet, its width in the transept is over , and in the body of the church . there are seven chapels, four on one side and three on the other, all insignificant. the tomb of don pedro de ayala, bishop of the canaries, is a fine specimen of renaissance sculpture. the cupola rests on four admirably wrought pillars, its form is octagon, with an ogival dome and a window in each face. nothing could be richer or more effective than the elaborately decorated sides of the transept. such a splendid prodigality of gothic sculpture was surely never lavished on so small a space. to give anything like a detailed account of it would require an art and a knowledge nothing less stupendous than the imagination that devised such work. the retablo, painted by francis of antwerp in the sixteenth century, that ponz praised so enthusiastically, disappeared in the time of the fatal french occupation, when the church was the stables of napoleon's soldiers, and along with it the life-sized portraits of the founders, fernando and isabel. hardly any of the old stainglass remains, to which fact is due the glaring effect of crude light upon the white stone. but this light permits you to examine at ease the superlative magnificence of the transept sides and the sculptured pillars. everywhere the initials f and i, with the yoke and the arrows of both sovereigns. letters and inscriptions are exquisitely finished, and nothing could be more graceful than the general effect of arches and capitals. the high broad nave forms a latin cross, composed of apse, transept and the body of the church, all the most prodigious and exuberant specimen of florid renaissance. the choir is situated over a low, broad, painted vault. the pillars that support the four domes of the naves are richly sculptured and adorned with statues, and a fine frieze runs above the chapels on either side, with a window above each arch divided by graceful gothic pillars. the inscriptions are many, and surprisingly clear and beautiful in finish. here is one of the most elaborate in gothic letters: [illustration: detail of ornament, interior of s. juan de los reyes] "este monasterio è églesia mandaron hacer los muy esclarecidos principes è señores d. hernando è doña isabel, rey y reina de castilla, de leon, de aragon, de sicilia, los cuales señores por bienaventurado matrimonio y untaron los dichos reinos, seyendo el dicho rey y señor natural de los reinos de aragon y sicilia, y seyendo la dicha señora reina y señora natural de los reinos de castilla y leon; el cual fundaron à gloria de nuestro señor dios, y de la bienaventurado madre suya nuestra señora la virgin maria, y por especial devocion que le ovieron." the few pictures are quite worthless, but pictures are not needed in such a wealth of stone-work. what are needed to make san juan de los reyes less crude in its frank over-decoration are, shadow, the dim luminosity of stained glass, the softened glow of bejewelled light, the tender mystery and charm of pillared aisle, the grace of length to give majesty to solidity. it totally lacks the essential quality of reverence, that elusive and unanalysable suggestion of the beyond, the supreme, the intangible, of that inexplicable aspiration that ever stirs the soul of primitive and civilised man, and has taught him to seek its expression in the building of church and temple; in the white splendour of the parthenon, the very soul of greek genius in stone, in the grey dimness of gothic cathedral, in which christian fervour finds almost an immaterial beauty of definition, the quality of lofty distinction which belongs to the highest poetry and eloquence. here you are not assailed by a sense of the melancholy loveliness of death, as when you stand beside some canopied tomb of greatness in the softened gloom of an old cathedral. there is none of the lingering charm of legend and peopled shade, none of the obscurity of deep recess, the chill shiver of vaulted solitude, the vibrant ache of other days, that serene and bewitching [illustration: cloister, s. juan de los reyes] misery we feel whenever we travel backward by the road of strange and wonderful experience that has moulded and developed humanity. for san juan de los reyes reveals to us nothing of that past whose enigma forever tortures the curious mind, nothing but the admirable skill of some unknown sculptors, provokes neither musing nor aspiration, nor instils the poisonous enchantment of artistic sadness. for this reason the lovely cloisters, despite the defacing stamp of restoration and the preposterous glare of white plaster, win you to fervour and lure you to reverie. ruined, monstrously ill-treated, they yet preserve a delicate freshness, an incomparable grace that give us some notion of the mediaeval paradise they must have been when flower and verdure bloomed between their fretted arches, and the statues in their canopied niches stood fresh from each master's hands. not melancholy cloisters these, but gay and charming, with their supreme elegance, their matchless distinction, an airiness and lightness, a gaiety not in the least ecclesiastical or claustral. they were built to harbour the measured mirth of breeding, the sweet and elegant piety of romance, the charity, the contentment that knows naught of suffering or revolt, all the placid and decorous joys of religion. beautiful flowers and delicate foliage grew thickly in the broad sunny space between the double row of exquisite galleries, and branches spread and swayed against the arched columns of the upper cloisters. truly it must have been delightful to have worn the habit of the franciscan monk in the days of isabella the catholic, and the great cisneros, the first novice of this convent, can have found no more vivid satisfaction in the hours he was busy making spanish history than in the radiant peace of these most beautiful cloisters. the architecture is superb; the richest specimen of florid ogival with twenty-four vaults, windows cut and chiselled with the fine perfection of the sonnet, pillars delicate enough and daintily wrought for some vision of dreamland, with once fifty-six statues of franciscan monks between (the number now is sadly diminished, and some of the statues that have not been rashly replaced are in a state of most lamentable mutilation), and charming friezes. the whole effect is that of an exquisite harmony, a harmony that not even the profane and degrading hand of the modern restorer has been able to obliterate. vulgarised certainly, since vulgarity is, alas! the fatal, the inevitable price we must pay for modern comforts and improvements, for the refining process of our material progress and the pleasures of civilisation. the cloisters are composed of four double galleries, supported on twenty-four vaults between the upper and lower cloisters and a flat roof above. the pillars, like those of the church, are miraculously sculptured; not a space an inch big, without its gothic fancy of animal and leaf, its finely-wrought crowd in flowing fold, grotesque and lovely forms and multiplied foliage of every kind. the pillars spread like palms above to sustain the arches that divide the vaults, with an indescribable grace of effect. inscriptions vary the legend of frieze and ornament. gothic windows between frail arches look into the airy and delightful gardens, where green southern growths have the curled droop of plumes and the very grass seems to smile through the golden wave along its green. if only the restorers had spared the white-wash. if only this joyous little poem of gothic architecture were less vulgarly, remorselessly white; less, as murray's guide-book aptly remarks, like the frosted top of wedding-cake. in a corner, fastened into the wall, is a fragment [illustration: s. luke angle of cloister, s. juan de los reyes] of stucco arabesque from the ancient palace of king rodrigo, restored by the moors, afterwards given by maria de molino, the widow of sancho el bravo, to gonzalo de ruiz, count of orgaz. i have never seen a more beautiful specimen of azulejo. this vanished palace of king rodrigo is one of the few the moors deemed worthy of preservation. very little of the visigothic remains, for the moors had no fancy to profit by what they found after their conquest, and what has been left us is rude and unimportant enough to make their sparing use of visigothic inspiration no matter of regret. the capitals of the cristo de la luz, the arcades of san roman, and some fragments of the patio of santa cruz, are the most notable examples, and are only of significance as a slight indication of the transitional period between two great civilisations, the roman and saracen. all over toledo, in the twelfth, thirteenth, and fourteenth centuries, the moorish note in architecture prevailed, and, except granada and cordova, no other town of spain possesses so much of the work of the moors, is so strongly stamped with their individuality. this is due to the fact that even after the christian conquest most of the workmen employed were moors, for the tolerance between moors and christians in toledo under both rules seems to have been admirable. they fraternised here on both sides, whether khalif or castillian sovereign wielded the sceptre, hence the undisputed preponderance of mudejar architecture in the hieratic city of the goths. on the east side a portion of the monastery has been converted into a museum. never was a collection more insignificant than that of the _museo provincial_ of toledo. the ground floor displays a quantity of wood carvings, of moorish azulejo, which is always a delight for the eye, of bits of ancient monuments, of inscriptions, arabic brims of walls, with inscriptions and moorish work, ever worth examining. most of the pictures and statues are exceedingly mediocre. but there is a superb bust of juanelo by berruguete, and two portraits of el greco, juan de alava and covarrubias, as well as his famous plan of toledo, with the slim and musing youth, his poetic-looking son, who was the charming model of his st martin as well. there is a holy family by spagnoletto, st vicente ferrer by giordano, some saints by carreño, and an original canvas of juan de sevilla. here, by examination of fourteen pictures of luis tristan, you may test the absurdity of the statement by more than one foreign art critic, that the disciple was greater than the master. if tristan was more sane and sound than _el greco_, he was certainly less distinguished and less great. there is a crucifix of ribalta, a st jerome of carducci, some fine subjects from holy scripture by frank, and a remarkable christ of morales, and a number of flemish imitations. the saloon above, where most of these pictures are preserved, was the cell of the great cisneros. the most interesting relic of all the collection of inscriptions and stones is the mutilated slab taken from the roof of the church of the capucine friars near the alcázar, and found among the materials used for building the patio of this palace, whose broken letters show it to be a fragment of king wamba's tomb: vs rex wamba lxx lxxxiiiiiii hunc egionis iv which antonio ponz recomposes thus: en tumulatus jacet inclitus rex wamba; regnum contempsit anno dclxxx monachus obiit anno dclxxxiiiiiii a cænobio translatus in hunc locum ab alphonsus x. legionis castellae autem iv. reye. in the now forsaken ghetto, where, in king wamba's days, stood a strong fortress called the _castillo de la juderia_, and which then was the centre of toledo's wealth and commerce, a flourishing quarter, full of the activities of business, of intelligence, of industry, where riches and science and the treasures of the king were gathered, where the money-changers clinked golden promise in the face of reckless and needy nobles, and rabbis read out the law in their beautiful temples to the prosperous and numerous descendants of the exiles of babylon, to-day may be seen the lovely little synagogues, _el transito_ and _santa maria la blanca_. writing several centuries ago to his fellow-jews of amsterdam, hassadrin, a jewish traveller, thus mentions _el transito_, one of the marvels of toledo: "i find in this town, with other antiquities, roman, gothic and arabian, a spacious temple which, since , with king pedro's permission, was built in this town for the jewish people by samuel levi, his treasurer and private friend, which temple remains substantially intact, with all the early ornamentation seen on its four principal walls since its foundation, and thus its two atriums, its temple for women and other corresponding offices. all this i have drawn with as much care as possible, and with the expression of the smallest ornamentation, and have even copied three lines of hebrew, which run along each of the walls, south, north, and west, without interruption; and here also four hebrew inscriptions, the shortest in verse and rhythm, the two longest in prose; six others on the east wall." but he bitterly complains that "they have white-washed the temple so thickly that, even though the letters were originally in relief, they are entirely obliterated, and much of the ornamentation remains hopelessly confused." those unwhitened above, that are left coloured and solid, he describes as "most beautiful."[ ] when samuel levi built this lovely temple of semi-moorish design, which the restorers are slowly relieving of its execrable load of whitewash that the venerable hassadrin complained of to his fellow-townspeople of amsterdam, the jews were at their highest point of fortune in toledo. they stood at the bedside of the sovereign in sickness, they counselled him in all difficulties; they filled his purse, kept his city flourishing. they might have known that they would soon pay dearly for all this power and glory. the anti-semitic feeling has ever been the same, since the first christian days to our own time. it breaks out in waves, like an epidemic, and always, it must be remarked, when the jews are most prosperous and wealthy. so it has broken out in france at the end of this enlightened century, with all the virulence and spite and shameless injustice of the primitive centuries. it is no exaggeration to say, in the year , that the french, if they dared, would gladly wreck--as, in the days of samuel levi, the spaniards wrecked levi's palace and all the great jewish houses of the toledan ghetto--the jewish centre, if the jews still congregated in any particular part of paris. it is not unjust to say that it is jewish gold, jewish power, jewish subtlety and intelligence that inspire to-day, as then, this bitter and vindictive hate. for if the jews remained poor, insignificant, ignorant, they would never have suffered persecution, which is proof sufficient that the war is rather one of race than of religion, rather one of base and brutal envy [illustration: detail of ornament, el transito] on the christian side than of anything resembling a religious crusade. in all periods of its history, toledo was subject to these sudden and inexplicable outbursts against the jews, in spite of the historic legend that toledo was first peopled and created by the jews sent adrift by nebuchadnezzar--a legend that should have entitled the unfortunates to regard themselves as at home upon her seven hills. not so at any time. first the carthaginians, then the romans, then the arians, the christians, the saracens, again, the christians. hideous persecution, continually and intermittently, of the chosen people, the followers of moses and the prophets, the brethren of christ, the apostles and mary! one toledan law against the jews was a righteous one: the money-lenders were not allowed to exceed thirty-five per cent. on monies lent. many a beggared scamp and spendthrift to-day would be the better off if such a law in usury had always existed. but there was no inducement to conversion, for the converted jew was never recognised by his adopted brethren. he always wore a piece of coloured stuff on his shoulder as the _señal de judio_. the inquisition started the final and worst persecution of all, and the catholic isabel publicly banished them from the kingdom. abhorrence of the race has never died, never even diminished, in the peninsula. a grandee once married the granddaughter of a converted jew, and, even a hundred and fifty years later, his descendants could not hope to marry into their own rank. he might have hoped for pardon and oblivion if he had married a ballet-dancer or a courtesan. in the cathedral, a host is preserved, supposed to have been traversed by a jewish spear which pierced it in three places, the sacrilege having taken place in holland. the legend runs that the light from the holes was so intense that the jew instantly became converted. there is also a legend of a highroad cross near the town having been struck by a jewish sword, bleeding humanly as it fell upon the sacrilegious slayer, the drops of blood as he carried it home revealing to the toledans his crime, which was naturally the motive of a fresh persecution of the race. so that god, finding the christians too pacific and lukewarm, used this dumb instrument of painted wood to provoke an onslaught, and redden the streets of toledo with hebrew blood. these things you must read seriously when you take to study of the spanish historians. so they explain to you the legend of the cathedral gate, the _puerta del niño perdido_. in , a jew of quintana went to toledo to witness the edifying sight of an _auto-da-fé_. he stood on the brilliant and thronged little zocodover, and watched the sombre flare of the torches, listened to the lugubrious chants. turning to a neighbour, he exclaimed: "i know something that will drive these people wild, and will, at the same time, proclaim the triumph of the law of moses." he appointed a meeting with his neighbour at tembleque, and settled to carry off a child of three or four. he stole the child from toledo, and brought it to the village of la guardia. at passiontide, they met at a grotto outside la guardia, and submitted the baby to a repetition of the insults and outrages christ had endured; then lanced him, tore out his heart, and buried the little body. the child's mother was blind, and at this instant miraculously recovered her sight. not content with this, they bribed a recently converted jew, juan gomez, to steal a host, paying him thirty reals for the sacrilege, and sent him off with the child's heart to zamora. thus the crime was traced to juan gomez, who, opening his prayer-book in the cathedral of avila, on his return, attracted attention by the wonderful projection of bright rays from the leaves. he was instantly seized, examined, papers were found on him, and he and the gang of jewish torturers of babies were burnt by the inquisition. this charming little temple was built for levi by the jew, d. meir abdeli, a rabbi to whom an elaborate hebrew inscription on one wall does honour as a man of transcendent virtue. the architecture is _morisco_. slowly the restorers are unveiling the admirably-wrought stucco walls, where the sculpture is as fine and delicate as the most exquisite lace, and has lain for centuries under a degrading coat of whitewash. you must mount the high scaffolding with lighted wax or lamp, and here you may examine at your leisure the inexhaustible delights of the moorish-andalusian style in its most florid period. the prodigality of ornament is as amazing as the gothic wealth of sculpture of san juan de los reyes, but i confess this pleases far more. it is much more charming, more fairy-like, with that delicately-sensual note which forms the eternal witchery of the east. the friezes are magnificent, and nothing could be prettier than the effect of the semi-horseshoe windows and their frail pillars and arches. above the famous hebrew inscriptions, quotations from the psalms mostly, run a row of arches, highly decorated, resting on slim columns fancifully wrought. here the extreme elegance of design and finish touches upon preciosity. the moorish windows are most lovely, perfect little poems in stone, of a marvellous fragility and grace. from their dainty lines and traceries, you look in stupor up at the massive _artesonado_ ceiling, with its geometrical figures, its infinitude of design carven in heavy wood--blurred, it is true, and brutally defaced by time and neglect. here and there the woodwork is discoloured, here and there hopelessly degraded; but some notion of its pristine magnificence may be gathered even yet. _el transito_ was seized by isabel the catholic, on her expulsion of the jews from her kingdom, and handed over to the knights of calatrava, whose arms are stamped on every corner of the temple. the knights did what every other religious body in all ages and lands has done on taking possession of the temple of the dethroned gods. they marred the harmony of eastern architecture by the erection of christian altars, less flagrantly, of course, than the great mosque of cordova was marred. but still the false note is there: it greets us with singular bad taste in the fifteenth century retablo, in a _plateresca_ altar, in mediocre sixteenth century paintings that represent scenes from the new testament, oddly unsuitable to the walls of a synagogue, and out of keeping with the long hebrew inscriptions in relief above the frieze. some of these meritless canvases are attributed to john of burgundy. there is a choir neither decorative nor impressive, and a plateresca door, a tolerable specimen of that spanish architecture. these are mere blots upon a graceful whole. the jews under moorish influence, built this lovely little temple, and its spirit, its essence, its genius, remain jewish after more than four centuries of dispossession. the origin of the name _santa maria la blanca_ dates from the fourth century, when our lady, in a miraculous vision, is said to have chosen the spot for the erection of a church in her honour, which was covered with snow. pope liberius then ordered the church to be built and consecrated to the white lady--_nuestra señora la blanca_. later, the church became the property of the jews, who rebuilt above its ruins the imposing synagogue we see to-day, in the moorish ninth century style. unhappily for them st vicente ferrer, a mediaeval fanatic who to-day would be called a demagogue, came to toledo in , on his famous crusade against the unfortunate race. you may see the highly sculptured pulpit half moorish, half gothic, he preached his frantic sermons from to the inflammatory toledans in the little church of santiago below the puerta del sol, now closed up with a wooden statue of the saint in the middle, holding in one hand a wooden crucifix, and flourishing the other in exhortation to the populace to destruction and cruelty. the man of sorrow, who preached peace and goodwill to all men, love of enemies, forgiveness of injuries, himself a jew, son of a jewess, is held up to excite the furious passions of the mob, to urge them to crime and infamous injustice. how much fatal misery humanity in all ages, even in our own, might have been spared by the prevalence of so small a quality as a sense of humour! the valencian saint himself died in bleak far-off vannes, in brittany. but there was no humour then in grim and blood-saturated toledo. the mob rushed from the church to the synagogue, tore the obnoxious jews limb from limb, thrust them into the streets and the highways, robbed, tortured, wounded, took possession of their beautiful temple, sacked their houses, carried off their money-bags, (naturally), hooted, hissed, and kicked them precisely as it would to-day in paris, for all our enlightenment and progress, if it dared. all this in the pacific name of christ! centuries after the synagogue became a magdalen's asylum, under cardinal siliceo, until , when it was converted into a barrack and military stores. it was only rescued from this ignoble use thirty years ago, and restored by public subscription. nothing could be more miserable than the exterior of _santa maria la blanca_; nothing more squalid than its surroundings. a deserted quarter, mean little laneways, towzled babies, unfortunate beggars. "as soon as you descend the steps that lead to it," writes quadrado, "you are arrested by the surprise of this singular mingling of magnificence and nakedness, of capricious strangeness of lines, the exquisite taste of the ornaments; you fancy yourself transported to a fantastic pagoda. the glance is lost in the midst of this forest of great octagonal pillars, which from the point of view of proportion, lack half of their height. they are seven in a line, forming five naves, and holding moorish arches of a bold curve. the capitals in stucco are of different forms, composed of branches, of leaves and garlands, mixed with fir-cones, reminiscences of the old byzantine style. varied ornaments, arabesques, lovely rose windows along with arches, and prominent above the central nave a frieze in slight relief, formed of lines crosswise and intermingling, and even still of a remarkable precision and purity. no dome, not even a ceiling; a roof of wood, of miserable aspect, descending from the height of the central nave to the two lateral extremities, gives to the whole edifice an appearance of ruin and abandonment." the restorers, with customary clumsiness, have coated the whole temple in plaster, like the cloisters of san juan de los reyes, with a result almost facetious, taking into consideration the name of the building. it is now white with a sorry vengeance. the ceiling is said to have been made from beams of the cedars of lebanon, and the soil the synagogue is built upon to have been brought from mount zion. the moorish and byzantine style mingle most artistically, with the accumulated delicate and artistic effects of both and the enchanting azulejos, here of an admirable beauty of colour and design; but arabesque, tiles and horse-shoe arches are sadly out of harmony with the gothic altars of the chancel. one finely sculptured, is supposed to be by berruguete or one of his pupils. elsewhere it would show to better advantage than here. curious detail, the wells may still be seen where the jews and jewesses performed their ablutions. [illustration: santa maria la blanca] for grace and a certain note of distinction and wealth in its beauty, _santa maria la blanca_ cannot compare with _el transito_, which in the days of its splendour, must have been a gem of the most delicate perfection. but as a religious temple, as the expression of solemn worship rooted in the strange and mysterious east, the former is by far the more imposing, the more earnest and harmonious. prayer in the _transito_ seems a matter of graceful and artistic dilletantism; here it appears a great racial cry of the soul. chapter ix _vanished palaces_ coming out from the station, instead of taking the road up to the town, you may cross the fields, and thus into the famous _huerta del rey_, where old arabian splendours and romance once were castled in the legendary palace of galiana. now alas! beauty and legend in disgraceful abandonment. all this rich land of the vega is the property of the ex-empress of the french, doña eugenia de guzman and condesa de teba. to bear a glorious name (beside which the title of french empress is but a trumpery decoration) and inherit land so crowded with historic interests, inherit above all the ruins of a palace of fairyland, and treat her inheritance as the empress eugenie has done, is adequately to explain the reason of spain's irretrievable decadence and slow death. the palace of legend is let out in miserable tenements to muleteers and peasants, who little heed the damage done to wrought arabian wall and ceiling by their smoky lamps, wood fires in unventilated chambers, by beasts and meal-bags housed in a princess's boudoir, in a dismantled reception chamber. the empress eugenie may receive a few pesetas quarterly for this desecration, and we lose a few hours of inestimable musing, while the entire world is the poorer by a dainty monument the less. even thirty years ago the palace of galiana was still a constructable dream. the lovely staircase was half preserved, the lace-work was less and less obliterated, the arches still undegraded. but mlle. de montijo, seated afar on a foreign throne, was too busy with intrigues destined to ruin france less permanently than her neglect of property she never visits has ruined an historic poem. calderon, in his drama, _cado uno por se_, speaks of this palace, and its heroine has been immortalised by moratin in verses forever quoted: "galiana de toledo muy hermosa y maravilla! la mora la mas celebrada de toda la moreria. boca de claveles rojas, alto pecho que palpita, frente eburnea que adorno oro flamante de tyras."[ ] the story runs that galafre, the kingling of toledo, under the great khalif of cordova, abd-er-rahman i., built a wonder of human dwelling for his beautiful and bewitching daughter, the infanta galiana. part of the palace already existed in the eighth century, and was visigothic. to this he added the ineffaceable moorish note, the horse-shoe arches, the ajimez windows, still admirably defined despite decay, the moorish trickery of brickwood, the arabesques and tiled roofs and the square towers of the east. to-day we can trace the ajimez windows, the horse-shoe arches, and even the beautiful arabesques of the walls are faintly discernible through their deplorable coating of smoke-stain. but within the past thirty years the exquisite tiled roof of the tower has disappeared, along with the lovely staircase. the degradation of the moorish patio, which must have been a thing divine, leaves us in our vulgar modern days, stupefied by man's indifference to the eternal eloquence of beauty. the mystery of this arabian genius is forever sealed. nothing we can strive, nothing we can hope to do, will reveal it to us, will unlock the doors of an enchanted past. whence it sprung is just as inexplicable to us as how it vanished, but alas! vanished it is like the mysterious city of enchantment and of a civilisation that since has never been equalled--the outlying town of cordova, built by a mighty moorish emperor in honour of a loved wife, and but a memory of superlative witchery and delight. in those days the waters of the tagus ran high, and water here was abundant. the moors, those subtle hydraulists, alone possessed the secret of drawing from river and well their full value, and irrigating plentifully a thirsty land. to this day valencia is a garden of flowers and an orchard of fruit, because the moors passed by there. of all this toledan vega they made a paradise of leaf and bloom and rill. it sparkled and scented the air afar, and such was the over-powering beauty of the gardens of galiana that lozano, in his _reyes nuevos_, forgets that he is writing of the nameless one, and bursts into high-phrased enthusiasm. one would think the learned doctor of the church was describing the conventional heaven of his imagination. the river then flowed further inward than it does now, and ran along one side of the palace, forming a broad moat. the gardens were a spiced and many-hued paradise, and the palace a wonder of terraces and arches, with halls of arabesques and moorish inscriptions, pillared patios and dainty boudoirs, with broad-beamed ceilings. imagination easily fills in all the omitted details of silks and couches, and marble and silver and gold, of flowing water and music, of musked solitude and towered reverie, of the glamour of guarded romance peeping through high arched windows over the silence of the flowery vega, and adown the quiet course of the curved tagus. no wonder legend makes charlemagne, from the blighting disasters of roncevalles, pass down to this magic spot to fall enamoured of the lovely galiana, _la mora la mas celebrada de toda la moreria_, and on her behalf challenge the moorish prince bradamante, who persecuted her with his addresses, cut off his head in a single-handed encounter, and carry away to france the exquisite creature, when she was baptised, and reigned picturesquely over a grateful and admiring france. spanish legend is not awed by charlemagne's fame. either it blows his armies to pieces at roncevalles, or it lures him beyond the guadarrama, like a mere knight errant in the protection of damsels, caught by ordinary love, and riveted to its chain. under castillian rule, the palace of galiana became the property of the guzmans, whose arms may be seen upon its dismantled front, and who, like most spaniards, have so ill appreciated a priceless inheritance. one of the most famous attractions of this palace in olden times was the _clepsydras_, or water-clocks, made by the celebrated astronomer, abou-l'-casem, abdo-er-rahman, better known as az-zarcal. in a description of toledo a curious arabian document gives us a quaintly vague idea of these clepsydras, or ponds, whose waters rose and fell with the moon. "one of the greatest towns of spain is toledo, and toledo is a large and well-populated city. on all sides it is washed by a splendid river called the tagus.... among the rare and notable things of toledo is that wheat may be kept more than seventy years without rotting, which is a great advantage, as all the land abounds in grain and seed of all kinds. but what is still more marvellous and surprising in toledo, and what we believe no other inhabited town of all the world has anything to equal, are some clepsydras or water-clocks. it is said that az-zarcal, hearing of a certain talisman, which is in the city of arin, of eastern india, and which masudi says shows the hours by means of _aspas_ or hands, from the time the sun rises till it sets, determined to fabricate an artifice by means of which people could know the hour of day or night, and calculate the day of the moon. he made two great ponds in a house on the bank of the tagus, not far from the gate of the tanners, making them so that they should be filled with water or emptied according to the rise and fall of the moon." we are told that the movements of these clepsydras were thus regulated, that as soon as the moon became visible by means of invisible conducts, the waters began to flow into the ponds, and by day-rise the ponds were filled four-sevenths. at night another seventh was added, so that by day or night the ponds continued to increase in water a seventh every twenty-four hours, and were quite full by the time the moon was full. on the th of the month, when the moon began to fall, the ponds fell too in like proportion. on the st of the month they were half empty, and on the th completely so. king alfonso the learned, desiring to master the secret of these clepsydras, sent one of his bungling astronomers to examine them, which he did so well, that he broke the delicate machinery, and the moors, to comfort their wounded pride in the loss of so unique a moorish monument, called the bungler a jew, one houayn-ben-rabia. another palace in ruins belonging to the ex-empress of the french is all that remains to-day of the magnificent _casa de vargas_. it was built by the celebrated architect, juan de herrera, and antonio ponz describes it at length as one of the architectural splendours of toledo, as late as the war of independence, when bonaparte's soldiers laid it waste with shot and shell. "the façade," writes ponz, "is perfect doric, of exquisite marble, with fluted columns on either side, and the pedestals have military emblems in bas-relief. the frieze consists of helmets, heads of bulls and goblets. the coat-of-arms above the cornice is most beautiful, and the women's forms seated on each side are life-size. nothing could be finer than the details as well as the whole of this façade, and for sure it is the most serious, the most lovely, and most finished of all i have seen in toledo. you enter a spacious courtyard, with lofty galleries running round it, above and below, the lower gallery sustained by doric pillars, and by the upper ionic columns. the staircase is truly regal, and likewise the various inner chambers. they contain different chimney-pieces, ornamented with graceful fancies, executed in bas-relief; and thus in the lower quarters as in the principal, are other galleries with columns like those of the courtyard, with delicious views of the meadows and the tagus." nothing of all this remains but a mere unsightly ruin called the _casa de la direccion_, the property of the counts of mora. the list of these vanished palaces of toledo is a long one, and is the subject of most melancholy musing. in the old forsaken quarter once known as the _juderia_, the prosperous and magnificent ghetto of mediaeval toledo, where the transito, samuel levi's synagogue, stands, was the great palace of the villenas. henry of aragon, lord of villena, was a famous figure in those remote ages. of royal blood, uncle of king juan ii., he was an erudite scholar, a mathematician, a man of science in advance of his times, a splendid prince, a collector of books, the possessor of a library as famous as mendoza's, a wizard, a man of evil odour, of the black craft, who was gravely charged with putting his enemies alive into bottles, and of holding intercourse with the evil one. all his valuable library, and in special his own manuscript tomes, for he was an indefatigable writer, were publicly burnt at madrid by order of fray lope barrientos, a dominican, on the solemn accusation of witchcraft. juan de mena, in his celebrated _coplas_, protested against ecclesiastical iniquity, and lifted his voice in the learned prince's glory: "aquel que tu ves estar contemplando en el movimento de tantas estrellas, la fuerza, la obra, el orden de aquellas que mide los cursos de cómo, y de quando, y ovo noticia filosofando del movedor, y de los comovidos, de fuego, de razos, de son de tronidos, y supo las causas del mundo velando: "aquel claro padre, aquel dulce fuente, aquel que en el castalo monte resuena es don enrique, señor de villena, honra de españa, y del siglo presente. o inclito sabio, autor muy sciente, otra y aun otra vegada te lloro, porque castilla perdio tal tesoro no conveido delante la gente. "perdio los tus libros sin sea conveidos y como en exeginas le fueron ya luego, unos metidos al avido fuego, y otros sin orden no bien repartidos. cierto en atenas los libros fingidos que de protagoras se reprobaron con armonia mejor se quemaron cuando el senado le fueron leidos." the quantity of subterranean chambers and passages of this immense palace were supposed to have been used by don enrique for his parliaments of witches and wizards, and his awful meetings with the horned one and his sulphureous satellites. afterwards the palace fell into the hands of samuel levi, pedro the cruel's treasurer, the wealthy jew who built the transito close by. then the master of santiago's haunts of witchcraft were used as levi's treasury, until pedro, in want of money, seized his treasurer's person, and the town sacked his palace. henry iv. afterwards gave the palace to his minion, juan pacheco, with the titles of duke of escalona and marquis of villena. neither title nor palace now exist. in a miserable part of the town, high up above the river, you may see a few broken arches and formless vaults and great blocks of stone. that is all. it was destroyed by fire in the reign of charles quint under circumstances of exceptional and romantic interest. charles appointed the casa de villena as the residence of the great constable of france, the treacherous bourbon. the second duke of escalona, indignant at the thought that the french traitor should cross the threshold of his house, informed his sovereign that a house so polluted should prove the grave of such an insult to his family, and threatened to burn it in the event of the constable's visit. charles never believed in such an extravagant menace, and the constable arrived. diego lopez de pacheco, with all his family and servants, left toledo for ever, and in a few days the stained house was burned to the ground as henceforth unworthy the habitation of honest men. in the little plaza of santa isabel there is another, supposed to have been one of the palaces of king pedro, now the property of the duke of frias. one of the half-obliterated arabian inscriptions has been traced by the late d. pascual de gallangos as meaning: "lasting prosperity and perpetual glory to the master of this edifice." there are many moorish [illustration: remains of palace said to be that of don pedro el cruel] traces about it, the highly decorated wall-work, the horse-shoe arches and fine relief. of the palace of the trastarmares little now remains but the door with the big toledan nails. somewhere about here was the house hernan cortes was married from, when the bride's page stabbed himself at her feet as the procession left the courtyard for the church. i cannot indicate the precise spot, as i was shown it vaguely one lovely moonlit night, when toledo takes on its spectral and fantastic aspect of white shadow-worked dream, a thing of elusive radiance, wherein reality is lost in mysterious beauty. one walks knee-deep in the sadness and enchantment of "old, unhappy, far-off things," and the petulant little page, stabbing himself in the folds of the bride's white satin, as she crosses the threshold of her father's house, is just the kind of picture one is prompted to evoke. alas, and alas! if we were only so fortunate as to possess some clue by which we could hope to evoke the bride's face, some faint perfumed trace of toledan dame and damsel of those days. but the toledan school of painters has only left us an interminable gallery of cavaliers, proud austere heads, with the mild, cold and implacable regard of spain. of poetry, of womanhood, of soft sensuous charm, not a hint. the exquisite maria de padilla, with her little white visage and passionate, sad eyes, is only a name now; but such was her gentle sorcery that she is still a dominating memory. we cling to her the more as she is the single woman's form that floats above this past of hard-featured and imperious knights, who ever jostled and fought in these murderous streets and lanes, conspired, rebelled and fashioned the roughest and strangest history written. near santa ursula is the façade of the famous house of the toledos. the founder of this great family, since known in history as the dukes of alva, was a member of the imperial house of paleologus, pedro, a byzantine prince of the days of gothic rule. his immediate descendants were the illans; stephen illan, for whom was built the beautiful casa de mesa, and whose portrait on horseback may be seen in the cathedral, behind the hideous _trasparente_, was one of the greatest figures of mediaeval toledo, great citizen, unruly noble, defender of the town, and lord of the people. it was after his day that the family was honoured with the significant private name of toledo, the present family name of the house of alva. the palace of the toledos was like that of villena, an immense edifice covering all the square. now only the façade remains as a triumphal assertion of vanished splendour; a disfigured gothic porch and a couple of ajimez windows in the north wall in front of santa ursula. time has laid a heavy hand on the arches, the slim columns, the cornices, the shields, the stone sculptures and friezes; but the latin inscription is still visible: _dominus custodiat introitum tuum et exitum tuum_ _ex hox nunc et usque in sæculum._ we need only look at the single chamber of the _casa de mesa_ to reconstruct the interior of this dismantled palace, its exquisite moorish walls and azulejos or tile-work, its arches, ajimez windows and lofty galleries, its sumptuous _artesonado_ ceilings. the house itself began to decline with the disgrace of the great duke of alva, whom philip struck so brutally on the trivial pretext of his son's love affairs. don fadique, the heir of the house of the toledos, fell in love with the daughter of the guzmans, the unfortunate magdalena. they became engaged without philip's permission, and instantly both were imprisoned, don fadique at medina del campo, magdalena in the convent of santa fé at toledo (also known as santiago). on his release, the duke of alva decided to marry don fadique to his cousin, maria de toledo. the king feigned to approve of the marriage, and afterwards made it a pretext of persecution. magdalena de guzman, from her conventual retreat, was summoned to lay her claim to don fadique's hand; the duke and duchess of alva were exiled, and don fadique and his bride were literally ruined. the toledos once humiliated, magdalena de guzman was ordered back to her convent and to silence, philip's minister advising her to write no more letters to the king. "what would you do at court?" he asks philip's unhappy victim, who, at a king's extraordinary caprice, had wasted twelve years in the cloisters. "you are too young to be a duenna, too old to be a maid of honour. since you have spent twelve years in the convent, stay there altogether." and to the king he writes: "may god give her good sense. one can't make a step without finding a letter from her." a melancholy time for youth and romance, when a vicious and sour-tempered old king and his corrupt ministers pulled the strings that made its amiable puppets dance. a man with the care of the two spains, the netherlands, and all the intrigues of europe, finds time to glance down at toledo, and enter into miserable battle with innocent young hearts, mar and make marriages for their doom! the palace of fuensalida, the property of the duke of frias, never seems to have been an edifice of any particular architectural claim. all history records of it is the fact that charles quint's wife, the empress isabel, died here while charles was building the alcázar for her reception. the house was built by lopez de ayala early in the fifteenth century, whose tomb may be admired in the church of san pedro martir. the origin of the famous _casa de las tornerias_ is disputed. some regard it as an ancient mosque, because of its emphatic mark of saracen architecture, contemporaneous with that of the little mosque, _el cristo de la luz_. the whole is now too hopelessly built round with vulgar stone and too terribly dilapidated and mutilated for a proper estimate to be formed of its earliest origin and form. it is still, and must always be, mere matter of conjecture whether it was originally built for a mesquita or a moorish palace. [illustration: casa fuensalida] in the calle del barco, which runs from the cathedral down by a breakneck slant to the river (here you can take the ferry for our lady _del valle_) is the casa de munarriz, so called from a canon who a century ago dwelt there a full hundred years. in the days of toledo's greatness it was a fine mansion of some importance with double galleries round the immense courtyard, a handsome staircase of beautifully wrought stone, each storey supported by sixteen arches and thirty-two delicate marble columns with graceful capitals, shields, and sculptured subjects in frieze. the windows are half arabian, and the emblazoned doorway, between its huge columns, is most imposing. here and there quantities of beautifully wrought façades speak eloquently of departed days, but it is not possible now to discover the forgotten history of these signs of degraded palaces. the gothic ornamentation will guide you as to date, or mayhap an exquisitely carven moorish inscription in the wood-work of a half-ruined wall. ponz called toledo the city of fine inscriptions, and latin and moorish inscriptions everywhere abound. here is one still quite distinct in the old house of the templars, near san miguel: "blessings come from god. let us adore him. power is god's the only one. abundance, wealth, and perfect security assist the master of this house. power is god's. let god's blessing complete it. god is eternal. his is power. blessing." round these walls are verses from the koran. in close neighbourhood were two historic and important palaces, that of juan de padilla, which occupied the whole ugly square to-day of his name, and down the steps which lead to it by a narrow street, the palace of garcilaso de la vega. to-day we have no means of forming the faintest notion of what these famous houses were like. juan de padilla's was razed to the ground by order of charles quint after the unfortunate hero's execution. we judge it to have been large from the size of the empty square it stood upon above the puerta del cambron, commanding a full view of the vega and the river; and necessarily splendid from the fact that isabel and fernando occupied it as guests at the time of their daughter's marriage with the king of portugal. garcilaso de la vega's mansion is now a mere mud wall sheltering several tenement houses. here the king of portugal stayed, and with royal guests in such close vicinity, it is easy to imagine the picturesque hum of life in this now silent and insignificant quarter four centuries ago. alas! not a stone, not a page to help us to reconstrue one bright scene, to relive one vivid hour. humble walls below the pretty modern little garden of the miradero, as you approach from the puente de alcántara, indicate where gerardo lobo, _el capitan coplero_, so nick-named by philip v. to avenge a satire on the french, lived and wrote _el triunfo de las mugeres_, and in the calle del refugo, near the hospital of that name, dwelt the poet moreto. i have left for the last the two most important remains of mudejar palaces in toledo: the casa de mesa, the mansion of estevan de illan, and the _taller del moro_, supposed to have been the palace where the terrible massacre of the _noche toledana_ took place. all that remains of the casa de mesa is a single chamber with a charming little boudoir at the top. it is granadine-arabian style, highly and marvellously ornamented; quite the most beautiful specimen of mudejar architecture of toledo. the chamber is sixty feet by twenty-two, and thirty-six in height, and every detail of its delicate and complicated moorish decoration is a delight. one hardly knows what to marvel most at, the fineness or the extraordinary wealth of relief upon the walls, which is the most enchanting kind of lace-work imaginable. fairies seem to have wrought it, and its perfection even to-day is nothing less than a mystery and a miracle. and then the arches, the foliage, the inscriptions, the lovely ajimez windows, the friezes and gorgeous _artesonado_ ceilings of chamber and boudoir, stellar-shaped to recall the stars of heaven. here are points of exclamation and pain enough to think that the secret of so much beauty is lost to us forever. the christian arms everywhere on the azulejo border [illustration: moorish window in casa de mesa] demonstrate that the house was built after the christian conquest by moorish builders, but one may ask oneself, was the rest of the mansion in keeping with this glorious chamber? who designed it, wrought it? what sort of life was lived therein? what the fashion of the garments that swept it, the dreams dreamed within its fabulous walls? why should this single jewel remain in a sordid setting, and nothing to tell us how the rest came to vanish, why this alone was preserved? all we know is that cardinal siliceo turned the house into a college for young ladies in the sixteenth century, and placed his own arms above the exquisite ajimez window between the chamber and the boudoir, and the chamber served the carmelites as a chapel for many years. the _taller del moro_ is probably earlier by four centuries than the _casa de mesa_. here we have the influence of the cordovese-arabian architecture, of an art less delicate and fairy-like than the granadine-arabian. there is every reason to believe that this palace was built after the gothic downfall for a saracen magnate. the street was called the street of the moor to prove that an illustrious moor dwelt there, and its resemblance to the alcázar of sevilla indicates that the owner was in every probability a ruler of some kind, a governor or viceroy. it may be on this slight ground that it has been hinted it was here all the nobles of toledo were invited to a banquet to meet the khalif's son, and as each one entered the dusky garden, his head, with a single stroke, was sent rolling into the ditch near the gate. there is nothing now about it to bear out this shuddering suggestion. the long moorish chamber is turned into a vulgar workshop. the wooden door from the street opens into a squalid yard, with carts and wheelbarrows about, and placid christians, for a couple of pence, receive you without any hint of knife or blood, or lugubrious ditch. not even the ghost of a turbaned moor to disturb your musing as you stand in the degraded workshop, where the light is dim, and vex your soul with mutterings against the damp and smoke. the chamber is a hundred feet long by twenty-four. it is of a singularly rich and splendid design, with moorish inscriptions running along the walls, with delicate friezes, and all the oriental luxury of red and gold and blue. the artesonado ceiling is superb, and it requires no very violent effort of imagination to evoke a vague picture of this banqueting hall in the days of moorish revelry, when passion and policy wrapped themselves in the magic charm of colour, and mere civilisation was an inexhaustible enchantment, a pure and indolent delight. the _corral_ of don diego is an extensive courtyard near the church of the magdalena, said to have been the property called the _barrio del rey_, which alfonso, after the conquest, gave to don pedro paleologus, who came to toledo to fight the moor, and remained to found the great house of the toledos. the arms of the toledos may still be seen above the gates, and henry of trastamare, we are told, bestowed the palace upon his auxiliary, bertrand de guesclin, with the title of trastamare, which has since fallen to the duke of montemar. nothing now remains of the palace but the courtyard, and a magnificent moorish archway of horse-shoe shape, and arabesques recalling the style of the alcázar of seville, but we may gather some notion of its size and importance from the ruin. there are indications miserably faint and buried away under plaster, that the palace was richly ornamented in the mudejar style. inscriptions, moorish arches, and ajimez windows are dimly discoverable beneath the broken plaster-work and the primitive roughness of modern repairs. an impression of splendid halls and chambers, of delicately ornamented moorish alcoves and boudoirs and inscriptions, of artesonado ceilings and emblazoned doors, is seized under the frost of neglect, through the mildew of centuries, the wood-work, design, and gilt of the octagonal ceilings now almost hopelessly obliterated, and the friezes mere shapeless dilapidation. the castillo de san servando or cervantes, just outside the bridge of alcántara, is an impressive looking ruin, that seems mysteriously to have become inter-penetrated with the burnt and arid tones of the landscape. it has no historic or architectural interest whatever, is not even beautiful, but impresses the eye in its decay, with its rough, battlemented, and scarred visage, the ancient note of its barbican and square rude towers. it is indubitably mozarabe, built by the moors as a fortress, and employed as such by alfonso after the conquest. calderon makes mention of it in _cado uno por se_, and in the civil war of pedro and henry of trastamare, having been abandoned by the knights templars, whose property it had become, it resumed its use as a strong place. the archbishop tenorio ordered its repair, and many of the arches and vaults date from this period. tramps now sleep comfortably in its shadow, and scare you in your moonlit walks by midnight. though the alcázar can by no means be described as a _vanished_ palace, since it is the most substantial and dominating feature of the town, as an illusion it may be classed with these. a wide pathway leads to it from the zocodover. it was twice burnt, and now all that remains of it are the imposing facades, the three towers, the glorious patio, large enough to hold an army, and the magnificent staircase, up which an army might march abreast. it stands upon the ruins of wamba's walls, in full command of the city, and in roman days was the prison where st leocadia suffered martyrdom. under alfonso vi. it was a strong fortress, guarded by the cid. don alvaro de luna first, and the catholic kings afterwards, had some hand in adorning it, but charles quint, designing to reside in toledo, may be said to have rebuilt it altogether. he gave the commission to the best spanish architects of the century--covarrubias, vergara, villalpando, jaspar de vega, gonzalez de lara, and the great herrera, with a host [illustration: the castle of san servando] of minor artists. he built it for the empress, who, like himself, died before it was finished. philip ii. sent to brussels, to london and italy, in search of other artists to help to complete the colossal edifice, and it stood for long the most splendid palace of spain. came staremberg and his troops in , who turned it into a barrack, burnt the superb woodwork as fuel, broke the windows, tore down the _artesonado_ ceilings, the carved doors, and set fire to the palace on leaving it. spain has never been fortunate in her allies--english, french, or austrian; they invariably found their entertainment in spreading ruin among her grandeurs. carlos iii. attempted to restore the alcázar, but the french then came in and set fire to it again. the fire lasted three days, and now only the walls remain. the regal staircase, surely the widest of the world, ends in the void. you are shown the window at which the unfortunate blanche sat in her solitary misery, but there are no walls to indicate the size of the chamber. you can see the lovely view from the window by picking your way across the scaffolding, but there is nothing else to see. for years the restorers have been busy with the roof of the galleries that run round the immense patio, only the _artesonado_ will be reproduced in iron instead of wood, and the imitation is good. it may be completed, at the rate of modern work in spain, in a couple of hundred years. the façade is _plateresca_, sober, and cold. indeed, i cannot say that there is anything about this palace except its immensity calculated to provoke admiration. it towers imperiously above the town, crowded beneath it--a gigantic illusion; substantial without, void within; dreary and featureless in all its futile ostentation of measureless space. chapter x _minor churches, hospitals, and convents_ to write of all the churches and convents of toledo would be to burthen the reader with a needless and confusing fatigue. it is enough to know that the city was pre-eminently a hieratic centre to understand that both were once innumerable. to-day they are still too many to remember and certainly more than are worth visiting. some, like san josé, are of no architectural value whatever, only known as a poor little hall which contains some of el greco's finest pictures. the fame of others, like san roman, rests upon their mudejar towers, which give so quaint and individual an air to the general aspect of toledo from the hills or the river. others again, like san tomé, combine both attractions in a pure mudejar tower and el greco's most wonderful masterpiece, the burial of count ruiz de orgaz, as well as alonzo cano's prophet elia in sculptured wood, a marvellous specimen of spanish wood-sculpture. of _santo domingo el antiguo_ nothing here need be said since i have already written about it in my chapter on el greco. perhaps one of the finest of the minor churches is san andrès. it was transformed after the conquest by order of alonso vi. from a mosque into a christian church as the remains of moorish inscriptions as late as the sixteenth century would indicate. in the lateral nave above the transept there [illustration: san tomÉ] are still traces of arabian architecture in the vaults and stucco ornamentation of the same period. but the general appearance of the edifice is more modern, of a sober gothic style, less highly decorated, but to my thinking more graceful in form than san juan de los reyes. the three long naves appear to be of a more recent date than the transept and _capilla major_. the pillars that sustain the dome are extremely graceful, and there is a bold freshness about the arches between that give the whole an air of distinction which none of the other minor churches of toledo possess. the general effect is delightfully harmonious. in each of the chapels of the aisles there is something to examine. the founder of the restored temple, as the long inscription in gothic letters along the friezes of the transept tells us, was francisco de rojas, commendador and ambassador at the court of maximilian i., buried here in . the high altar is of wrought wood of the sixteenth century, with paintings of that period of some merit. the shafts of the transept are in excellent taste, and on one of the lateral altars, under the retablo of painted wood, is a little sculptured mater dolorosa by an unknown artist, exquisitely touching and life-like. it has the beauty of a profound and tremulous sensibility and a vivid sweetness that reminded me of a lovely st scholastica of painted wood by pereira i saw at santiago de compostello, but the spanish painter who accompanied me to san andrès assures me that it is not a pereira. the hand that wrought this symbol of gracious grief remains unknown to fame like that which sculptured the symbol of divine sweetness in the head of st francis of assisi above the cloister door of burgos cathedral. there are two grecos here badly placed. with the aid of a chair and a candle even in the early afternoon you can barely distinguish them, so high do they hang in the dim light. one is st peter of alcántara and the other st francis. visibly grecos, but of their merits it would be impossible to write, because of the squinting view you get of them. there is a calvary of the genoese painter, semini, and an adoration of the kings by antonio vanderpere, with the unedifying legend of lot and his daughters, a copy of guido. the church of san pedro martir, attached to the monastery of that order, and affiliated to st john of latran in rome since , is as black and chill as a colossal vault. señor parro in _toledo en la mano_ writes of this dull and unbeautiful edifice in terms of flatulent praise, several pages long. he calls it the pantheon of toledan glory. it is certainly an excellent tomb if nothing else. the coldest churches i have ever set foot in are this and san benito of valladolid, both warranted to provoke pneumonia on a summer's day. in winter i should imagine the rash traveller would remain therein embalmed in ice. the architecture is of the greco-roman style, bewilderingly spacious without any majesty of effect in its immense proportions. señor parro tells us that the façade is "most lovely." my expectations were not realised. i found the corinthian columns, the cornices, the "grandiose" central arch, the pilasters perfectly insignificant, but there are two marble statues on either side, sometimes mistakenly attributed to berruguete, extremely fine, and also a life-size statue of st peter effective in a lesser degree. the frescoes have disappeared, and the high altar is now defaced with commonplace modern pictures of no value whatever. but the gilt wood and sculpture remain. once the degraded squares were filled with paintings of fray bautista maino, the distinguished master of felipe iv., velasquez's friend and patron. these vanished pictures were excellent imitations of paul veronese, so good that they were seized for the musée of madrid, and to fill up the horrid vacancy modern monstrosities, mere daubs, were ordered, which to-day grotesquely offend the eye. the celebrated _virgen del rosario_, an object of special devotion to the toledans, may be seen in one of the chapels. the _plateresca_ iron-railing of the sanctuary would be remarkable in any other land, but the railings of spain are so sumptuous that one hardly notices this one. still it is worth inspection, being a rich and profusely gilt specimen of that special work, with a fine centre cross and a rich frieze. attached to the cross is the standard of the great cardinal of spain, pedro gonzalez de mendoza, pale blue damask, with four jerusalem crosses in each corner, and in the centre an oval figure of st helena holding the cross, before which kneels the great cardinals. at the foot of the middle nave, below the choir, are a group of wooden statues representing the saints of the preaching orders and a scarce distinguishable fresco of maino. the choir is large and free, with a fine reading-desk and sculptured seats, an inferior imitation of those of the cathedral. off the sacristy, a large but insignificant chamber, with an imposing marble table worthy a nobler setting, there is a little gothic chapel dedicated to st agnes, part of the primitive building, and here you may see an ancient retablo of extreme interest. alonzo carrillo of toledo and don alvaro de guzman were buried here as early as , as the half-effaced gothic characters tell us. among the great men of toledo buried in the church are the counts of cifuentes, above whose arms fray maino painted a fresco. in the chapel of the virgin of the rosary is buried the famous poet garcilaso de la vega, whose statue, life-size in marble kneeling, is encased in armour, interesting rather as an historic figure than for any intrinsic merit of art. the fiscal of holy office and prior of santillana, pedro soto cameno, has also his statue as founder of the chapel; he was buried in . in this same chapel is the impressive gothic tomb of the _malograda_, a surpassingly beautiful young woman, magnificently apparelled, lying upon a marble couch above the funeral urn that contains her ashes. historians disagree as to the identity of this romantic figure. some say she was doña maria, the bride of don lorenzo suarez de figueroa, master of santiago in , whose despair on losing a loved young wife is thus immortalised. others identify the _malograda_ with doña estefania de castro, mysteriously done to death in the days of alonso the emperor. the tomb rests on superb marble lions, and angels as usual hold the shields, in gothic fashion. the ample folds of the dead girl's garments are charmingly graceful, and to the beauty of art is added the mystery of romance. bride or mistress, this fair girl, asleep for six centuries, holds in the stillness of her delicate sculptured visage the enigma of her broken destiny. sorrow or remorse built her splendid monument. the tombs of the fuensalidas in the transept are notable works of art. the statues representing the mighty and turbulent ayalas and their wives are of alabaster, and close by, brought from ruins of the augustine convent, is a double tomb of _plateresca_ style, highly sculptured and divided by two arches on delicate pillars, crowned with an intricate frieze in really fine relief, belonging to diego de mendoza, a great figure in the sixteenth century, and his wife, ana de la cerda. a niece of st theresa also is buried here, doña marina de rivadeneira y cepeda. the purest mudejar steeple of toledo is that of san roman. this moorish steeple, with its arcaded windows and ingenious brickwork, was erected by the famous esteban de illan, chief of the toledos. formerly the church was a mosque remodelled from the original gothic chapel, as the remains of arabic inscriptions indicate. after the conquest it was refashioned again into a christian temple, and has since undergone frequent restoration. here st ildefonso, after st leocadia, the patron of toledo, was baptised in remoter centuries. in the sixteenth century the _plateresca_ capilla major was built. four wide arches, the two in front of the central nave open, and the others wrought into the lateral walls, with their graceful pillars and reliefs are extremely effective, and are regarded, with the florid sculpture and half-orange cupola, as constituting one of the finest specimens of plateresca architecture of toledo. the light, however, is imperfect for full inspection. the retablo belongs to the same debased form of renaissance, an excess in sculpture, legends in relief and medallion, every kind of architectural fancy a combination of gothic and classic could suggest. nearly all evidence of its earlier form has vanished, but for a defaced arabian inscription and a few horse-shoe arches, and a line of blocked arcades with the cusped arches above, bold and large, while a simple ceiling covers the primitive artesonado. in a little chapel on the epistle side, are a few forsaken specimens of old spanish painting, before it blossomed out into our european school. they are stiff and dull enough, and their subject the conventional scenes from the new testament, but interesting as a development of spanish art. [illustration: santiago, toledo] from the moorish windows of its tower the flag of castille waved in , while the little king downstairs, in the safe keeping of the mighty illans was proclaimed, _toledo, toledo, toledo por el rey don alonso viii._, and the town, in one of its customary phases of turbulent revolt, was divided between the followers of the great families of the illans, the laras, and the castros. the tower is of plain reddish-brown stone, the brick-work rough and unmoulded of a supremely singular and distinguished effect, in perfect keeping with the rude, strange aspect of the city. among the smaller mudejar steeples is a good example in that of santa magdalena. this is rougher and simpler than the rest. it has only two arched windows above, while the lower part is perfectly plain and solid. the bells hang in the window, adding thus to the picturesque rudeness of the general effect, so unfamiliar to the northern eye, so quaintly barbaric, so distinguished in its freedom from the curse of modern banality or vulgarity. [illustration: santo pablo] a double interest is attached to the little church between the _puerta del sol_ and the _puerta bisagra_, the _cristo de la luz_. it remains still a perfect mosque, where to-day a mohammedan might pray and proclaim allah the only god and mohammed his prophet, and here the conquering castillian, entering the city, stopped and ordered mass to be said, hanging up his shield upon the wall in memory of the first mass celebrated after the defeat of the moors, . there are traces of anterior occupation in visi-gothic days, and nothing more quaint, more curious, exists in toledo. legends are naturally attached to it. in the time of atanagildo, there hung over the door a crucifix much venerated by the toledanos, and it entered the minds of two foolish jews, sacao and abisain, to outrage it. they pricked a lancet hole in the side, and instantly blood gushed forth. in consternation they carried off the cross to hide it in their dwelling, and the christians, hunting everywhere for their stolen crucifix, traced it by the blood-marks to the house of these stupid jews. the jews were torn to pieces, of course, and a solemn procession led back the insulted image to its revered spot. then the incorrigible jews, to avenge the deaths of sacao and abisain, are said to have poisoned the feet of the statue, so that the christians prompted to kiss them should be destroyed. a woman knelt to perform this pious action, when to her surprise and terror, the statue withdrew its foot from her kiss. the name christ of the light comes from moorish days. when the moors took toledo, the sacred image was hidden by an outer wall, with space enough to permit of a burning lamp being placed before it. this lamp, unreplenished, burnt the entire years of moorish dominion, and was discovered still aflame on may th, when alonso vi. entered the town. passing the hidden spot as he rode along the valmardones, the king's horse suddenly knelt, some say; some say it was the cid's. a warrior's horse that performed such an action nowadays would receive the whip. in those days, everyone seems to have been on the look-out for miracles as natural events. the king and the cid dismounted, the wall was instantly broken down, and discovered the crucifix and the burning lamp fixed in the wall of a moorish mosque. mass was said on the spot by the archbishop bernardo, and there being no cross above the altar, the king offered his shield, on which a large cross was painted, and there it hangs to-day, a fine martial offering. at that time the church lay beyond the town walls, at the vanished gate of valmardon, whereas now the town entrance from the vega begins at the puerta bisagra. the architecture is moorish-byzantine, quite the oldest and most perfect specimen of moorish architecture in spain, and, for that reason, one of the most interesting monuments of the peninsula. the body of the church is feet by , while the outside is by only. the whole building is white-washed, and gives an amazing impression of strength for so limited a space. it looks so small and simple, and yet is so fantastic, of an oriental art so complete and finished. the six short naves cross each other under nine vaults, and in the middle are four strong low columns with sculptured capitals and twelve heavy horse-shoe arches. the walls above are pierced with arcades cusped in moorish fashion and supported on shafts, each division crowned with a little vault. the forest of naves and arches of the mosque of cordova is an enlarged and magnificent reproduction of this oriental style. above are smaller semicircular arches, some double resting on smaller pillars. varied little cupolas complete the design, with the centre inevitable half-orange, and above the central arch is the shield of don alfonso (which may or may not be authentic) a white cross on a crimson ground with the inscription below: _esto es el escudo que dejo en esta ermita el rey don alonso vi. cuando ganó à toledo y se dijo aqui la primera misa_. the cristo de la luz makes an admirable contrast with the later arabian work, the more decorative period of the brilliant morisco granadian architecture of which it is a foil. another notable church is the oldest and most celebrated of toledo, the basilica of santa leocadia, now called the cristo de la vega. before king sisebuth's days it was a prætorian temple, and this monarch converted it into a christian chapel in the sixteenth century. here prelates and monarchs met to hold the earlier of the famous councils of toledo. it is said, i know not if upon authentic fact, that some of the wealth of this ancient church has been carried off to adorn the cathedral choir, some to the school of infantry which now oddly desecrates the hospital of santa cruz. as early as the eleventh council, an abbot of santa leocadia was named, which proves its early importance; and consecration for ever came with the apparition of the saint, in the reign of recesvinthus. juana le loca carried part of the body of the saint to flanders, to a monastery in hainault. the archbishop of sevilla paid ducats to the flemish monastery for the return of these relics, which, in an explosion of universal joy, occurred in . philip ii. sent troops to cambrai under miguel hernandez, where they were met by a procession of abbesses and holy persons. letters went between cardinal quiroga and alexander farnese, prince of parma, on the subject, and the matter was almost one of european importance. the relics were said to have been stolen by the count of hainault when he came to spain to [illustration: christo de la luz] help the castillians against the moors; but ambrosio de morales is of opinion that they were taken to oviedo, which would have been at the date of the moorish conquest, when favila and pelayo, with their asturian followers, were at rodrigo's court. for their reception at toledo, all the town went out in procession under triumphal arches, banners flying, trumpets blowing. a throne was erected at the puerta bisagra, and a chapel, where eight dignitaries and canons received the relics; and the procession turned back, with music, singing and dancing. every parish had its banner wrought for the occasion, and each child carried a flag. more than a thousand monks walked behind; and, as well as fifteen hundred priests of the town, there were all the canons, the brotherhood of the hermandad, foreign priests, and every order of the catholic church was present. then came all the officers and ministry of the inquisition, more than seven hundred and forty doctors and masters, fifty-five juries, thirty-three magistrates, the mayor, the duke of maqueda, the count of fuensalida and pedro de silva, the city standard-bearer. all the grandees of castille followed--six dukes, nine marquises, six counts, quantities of minor noblemen, and a regiment of cavaliers and lords. the procession went by all the principal streets from the puerta bisagra to the cathedral. all were gaily decorated with tapestries and silks, and arches were built everywhere, with latin inscriptions and elegant verses among their bright flowers. at the cathedral doors, philip ii., his two children, don carlos and doña ysabel clara, his sister, doña maria de austria, and the princes rodolph and ernest of hapsburg stood in the porch to receive the relics. the majesty of the ceremony here becomes so dazzling that our prolix friend, dr pisa, lays down his pen and weeps from emotion. he cannot hope to trace such a picture, nor can we. but we strive to imagine the splendour of cardinal quiroga in his sumptuous pontifical robes, a blaze of gold, brocade and jewels, such as not to be beheld out of eastern legend; the dignitaries with their jewelled mitres; the king, infantas and princes, all hardly less resplendent, and the laity rivalling them as far as possible, in the gemmed lights of toledo's glorious cathedral. a picture one would gladly have seen, if it could be seen at a price less terrible than that of philip's contemporary or subject. the church is situated under the ruins of the old city walls, below the puerta del cambron. it is rough and simple enough, and derives its name from the wooden crucifix over the altar, to which legend attaches a romantic interest. becquer and zorilla have told the tale in thin and sentimental prose, and in thinner and more sentimental verse. a gallant pledged his word to marry a maid within sight of this crucifix: afterwards he forgot his promise and denied the pledge, on which the broken-hearted maid flung herself at the foot of the crucifix, and addressed it as the witness of violated vows. the crucified held out a wooden arm, and a voice from above exclaimed, "_i testify_." there is one lovely thing in this quaint old basilica, the statue of st leocadia by berruguete, originally sculptured for the gate of cambron. nothing more sweet and delicate was ever wrought by that famous hand; no more fitting expression of brave and beautiful maidenhood was ever conceived in stone; and italian influence in its best form is here visible, and berruguete's strength is subtilised by an exquisite and penetrative charm. as well as st leocadia and st ildefonso, an arabian inscription in relief tells us that the first moorish king of toledo, mahomad ben-raman, was buried here. some of the convents of toledo have been famous. that of san pedro de las dueñas, in the reign of henry the impotent, created quite a scandalous interest. tired of his mistress, doña catalina de sandoval, he insisted on naming her abbess of this convent, and with this object ordered the public expulsion of the abbess, the marquesa de guzman. in his pretence lies the humour of the situation: he found the convent needed a purifying influence, and that the ladies were not sufficiently scrupulous in the maintenance of their vows. spanish convents, before st theresa's time, were not harsh abodes. indeed, i fancy they were freer and pleasanter dwellings than the home of father or husband. cavaliers thronged the parlours, and there was much thrumming of lute and guitar, much singing of soft sequidilla between belted knights and veiled ladies, who only left off these gentle recreations when the bell summoned them to meal or prayer. however, st pedro so exceeded the limit of ecclesiastical tolerance that the archbishop alonzo of carrillo placed it under interdict, and forbade any priest to cross its threshold. the scandal only ended with the austere and lofty presence of queen isabel upon the scene. santa fé was originally a royal moorish palace beautifully situated on the north edge of the zocodover, which alonso vi., the conqueror, at the instance of his french queen constance, bestowed upon a french order for noble ladies. a charming and perfect suggestion of its antique moresque beauty may be had from the view of its wall in an old garden above the river where you see the moorish apse and brick arcading. the ground covered by the palace must have been enormous, since in the time of alfonso viii. the priory of the knights of calatrara was established here. nothing now remains but the moorish choir and arcaded wall, and the best of it is to be seen from the wild patch of garden outside the convent walls. it is another case of senseless destruction, a monument we are only permitted to rebuild in imagination with the help of a few moorish arches and brown brickwork half-hidden by exuberant foliage. a stately dream, if mournful and evanescent, san juan de la penitencia ineffectively situated below the cathedral in a broken and dilapidated quarter, is a franciscan convent founded by cisneros for poor girls, where after six years' free schooling they may remain as nuns, and if they prefer marriage the convent dowers them with about £ , with a life-seat in the choir. the church is one of the minor sights of toledo. it was finished by the secretary of cisneros, who lies buried here, francisco ruiz, bishop of avila. about the convent halls and corridors are still traces of moorish ornamentation in which the castillian conquerors delighted quite as much as the moslem. the chapel ceiling is a good specimen of artesonado in terrible decay alas, and the architecture is a medley of gothic, moorish, and renaissance. above the porch are the arms of cisneros. within it is of a gloomy and depressing simplicity: a single nave, a high altar, a tribune. true the plateresca frieze of the tribune is graceful, and the iron railing of the high altar is quite the best of the minor churches, and admirably decorative, while the tomb of the bishop of avila brought from palermo is a most beautiful work of art. writing of it, ponz says:--"above a large stone divided by three pilasters to form three pedestals, there are an equal number of statues seated, almost life-size, representing faith, hope, and charity. between the pilasters are the arms of the bishop, five castles. in a framed niche are contained the urn, couch, and recumbent statue. in front of the urn there are two weeping children, and in the depths of the niche four angels hold up the curtains. on either side are two doric pillars sustaining the architecture, frieze, and cornices, and along the frieze runs: _beato mortui, qui in domino moriuntur_. on the edge are two wrought columns of a very antique taste, excellently executed.... between these columns and pilasters on either side is a statue, st james and st andrew, and above the figures of children. over the whole is a bas-relief of the annunciation, with the statues of st john the baptist and st john the evangelist, half the size of the virtues below." ponz is of opinion that this magnificent work of art is of two distinct periods, the frame work having been wrought later by toledan sculptures after the tomb within had been brought from palermo, and revealing the delicacy, the finish and unerring taste of the finer italian school. nothing could be more graceful, more effective than the curtains held apart by the angels, or more delightfully touching than the slight shadow thus cast upon the recumbent statue, lending it something of the immediate stillness and impressiveness of recent death. santa isabel is worth a visit. some good azulejo and the artesonado ceiling testify to moorish influences and a queen and a royal princess, daughter of isabel the glorious, were buried here, and the whole forms an agreeable note of quaintness and dimness without however any special attraction in architecture or decoration or art. not so san clemente. the façade is what my spanish friends call _una preciosidad_, the strong and beautiful work of berruguete. the architecture rests on two ionic pillars, and above is the statue of the titular saint. the reliefs of the porch are exquisite, and the frieze abounds in all the wild and exuberant fancies of the spanish renaissance, every caprice in figure, in leafage, in image, and phantasmal suggestion. like santa fé the convent prides itself upon aristocratic traditions. in the church is buried the infante, don fernando, son of the founder, alonso vii., the emperor, the tomb a restoration by order of felipe ii. in . the interior is pleasing with an air of sober wealth, but has nothing to show in the way of art that can compare with the noble façade. it is stated that the archives contain arabian manuscripts, but these statements the intelligent foreigner must take on trust. _santo domingo el real_ is another aristocratic convent of historical interest. it was founded by an illegitimate daughter of pedro the cruel, doña maria de castilla, who was its first abbess. two sons of pedro were buried here, results of the thousand vagabond caprices of this crowned blue-beard; the infanta of aragon, queen of portugal, hence the qualification, st dominick the royal, the guzmans, the silvas, and ayalas reconciled first by marriage and then by death. there is a fine retablo if there were only light enough to see it by. * * * * * of the many hospitals of toledo, two alone are famous, one what the spanish guides very properly call "a sumptuous work of art." descending the steps through the moorish archway of the zocodover, you leave cervantes' inn on the right, and a little lower down on the left is the hospital of santa cruz, the hospital of mendoza, "the cardinal of spain," now incongruously enough a school of infantry. the traveller, enamoured of the picturesque, in awed surrender to the charm of noble ruins, grows to loathe the military all over europe. they take up their quarters so profanely in monuments one hardly dares to lift one's voice in. they sprawl in their motley uniforms over the loveliest homes of romance and memories, and burthen the silence with their futile miseries, labours, and tyrannies. in times of war the army makes a gallant figure. then each man is a hero, and we willingly tend his wounds. but in times of [illustration: door of santa cruz] peace the soldier is frankly an anachronism and a nuisance. he desecrates ruins and spoils the view; he vulgarises the atmosphere of legend, and cheapens the majesty of dismantled walls. there is, of course, no reason but a sentimental one why the sabred heroes of spain should not sleep within the walls of a magnificent monument, and exercise their muscles in the lovely chapel of mendoza, now their gymnasium, but what will you?--a traveller is necessarily sentimental. the great cardinal of spain designed to build an hospital for foundlings, and had engaged the architect, enrique egas, and with him traced the plan, when death overtook him at guadalajara in , and he bequeathed his idea, with over , ducats for its completion, to queen isabel and his relative the duke of infantado. the queen chose the spot on account of the wide view of the hills rolling upward from the opposite river banks, and the hospital was called santa cruz because of the founder's devotion to the holy cross. it was originally a royal gothic palace, converted later into a moorish palace, it is said, the town residence of galiana's father, galafré. possibly here may have dwelt casilda, the king's daughter, who from her earliest years, loved the christians and pitied them, and carried food to the christian prisoners. she vowed to devote herself to the poor and live a maid, to king almenor's dismay, who proposed one after another brilliant match to her in vain. standing at the palace gate one day he found her carrying a basket of provisions to the prisoners, and asked her what the basket contained. "roses," said casilda like st elisabeth of hungary, and opening the basket, to her surprise discovered it full of red and white roses. there, too, may have taken place that strange bridal of doña theresa, sister of the king of leon and the moorish king abdallah, when, it is said, an angel interposed to prevent the union of christian princess and moorish monarch, and the king thus convinced of the sacrilege, sent his bride away with camels loaded with gold and silver and jewels, which she carried to the convent of st pelayo, where she became abbess. when alfonso reigned over toledo, he gave the property to the nuns of san pedro de las dueñas, and in the building of the cardinal's hospital was begun. it is the first sample of plateresque architecture then introduced into spain by covarrubias. the façade is superb, one of the many glories of toledo. impossible to conceive anything more charming than all this wonder of chiselled stone, with its delicate arches and most exquisite reliefs. one represents st helena holding the cross, and kneeling in front of her, cardinal mendoza; behind the cardinal is st peter, and behind the empress is st paul; a suite of pages hold mitre and hat. the decoration of leafage, flower and cross is rich and fanciful. one particularly lovely relief represents charity, with statues on either side, while the architecture, the friezes and cornices are elaborately wrought in every gothic fancy, bucklers, arms, and armour mingling with flower and foliage, and the cardinal's arms held reverently by little angels. between the magnificent columns are the four cardinal virtues, and above are other reliefs whose general effect is beautiful enough, but whose details it is difficult to follow at such a height (one is supposed to represent st joachim and st anne embracing, and is somewhat crudely defined by the spanish guidebooks), while the whole is surmounted by the cardinal's favourite jerusalem cross. the large windows are extremely harmonious, with their toledan railings so grimly artistic, with all the sombre beauty of a taste more largely decorative than prettily fanciful. on entering you face three sculptured doors leading to the chapel, now the gymnasium, and to the splendid patios, to-day fallen into a scandalous state of neglect and decay. the superb staircase, despite the fact that all the wealth of its beautiful ornamentation is half defaced, gives some indication of what a work of art it once was in its mingling of arabesque and plateresque note, and something of the delicate finish of details may still be seized. the chapel forms a greek cross, degraded, too, like the rest of the edifice, showing remains of what was once a singularly fine specimen of the artesonado ceiling. the heavy gothic pillars are richly wrought in an incredible variety of reliefs, and we have no difficulty in believing that this was once one of the architectural gems of the gothic capital. but what is still more impressive, as unique as the great staircase, is the immense empty patio, with its long galleries and pillars of italian marble, its reliefs and armorial bearings. i know nothing in toledo that seizes the imagination so vividly with the tragic sensation of vanished magnificence as this great courtyard. not a courtyard surely, but an esplanade enclosed within arcaded marble galleries, where a prince might hold a review for his private satisfaction. the hospital of san juan bautista or afuera is another remarkable building it behoves us to mention. this was founded by one of the noblest of toledo's archbishops, tavera, who died after his journey to valladolid to baptise the infant, prince carlos, of unfortunate renown, and to bury the queen, and was buried here. berruguete wrought his tomb in the chapel, a monument as noble as the cardinal it honours. the hospital lies beyond the puerta de bisagra in the covachuelas, with a little public garden in front, and a view of all the vega on either side. the spot takes its name, plazuela de marchan, from one of the earliest corregidors, pedro de navarra, marshal and marques de cortes, who owned it. the emperor charles quint bestowed it on tavera for his hospital in . the primitive plan was bustamente's, but the building was concluded by the two vergaras. many grandees and bishops were connected with the work before its termination in , while the outer portal dates from the eighteenth century. the two patios are superb, and the general effect of the building is imposing. in one of the south rooms, under the big clock, berruguete died in , after having finished cardinal tavera's tomb, his last work, the fitting termination of a fruitful and laborious existence. not a spanish town, hardly a church, but has something from the hand of this stupendous worker, who seems to have crowded as much production into a single lifetime as might easily have supported an entire century. his death is dryly recorded, without any details, and of the man himself we are not permitted to gather any impression. we obtain no glimpse of him at work, or abroad taking his pleasures. like el greco, he is a name without any distinct personality for us, attached to toledo in glowing evidence. if there were nothing else in toledo but this monument of cardinal tavera in the hospital chapel, it would be worth while to travel from remote parts to see it. the church is fine, composed of a single large and lofty nave, paved with white and black marble, and the impression it makes is one of seizing quietude. here you may examine el greco at his worst and best: the appalling eccentricities of vision and manner revealed in the st john the baptist, lurid, livid, with gnarled limbs and swollen muscles, and the noble and dignified portrait of cardinal tavera, [illustration: tomb of cardinal tavera] one of the most beautiful portraits el greco ever painted. but all your admiration is claimed by berruguete's monument before the altar. as the work of an old and dying man, it confounds minute and modern talent. it has the virility, the freshness, the superb strength of youth; it has the serenity, the stillness, the awful majesty of death. mount the steps beside this marble tomb, and you will look on such a picture of death in all its restful sublimity as the hand, the imagination of man have rarely seized. nothing like that old man's head under the mitre has berruguete himself ever done. it is the supreme attainment of genius on the eve of eternal night, the culmination of a magnificent art, when the great strong hand is about to lay down the chisel forever, and gathers in a supreme moment all that is best in a life's work, to give it a noble ending. you should examine all the splendid details, the large gracious statues at either corner, the shields, the eagles, the urns and masterly mouldings, before looking at the dead cardinal's visage, for after that you will have no mind left for any emotion but awe. here so cheap a thing as praise melts into stupefied silence. the aged sculptor began this monument in and finished it in , the year of his death, and it was his sons who received the payment due to him, , maravedis. it seems extraordinary that anyone should dare to put a price on such work, or even offer vulgar coin for it. there are things that lie without the radius of commerce and competition, and this is surely one of them. one is almost content to think that berruguete was never actually paid for such an inspiration, but dropped into immortality before the revolting , maravedis unworthily touched a hand so honoured. chapter xi _bridges and gates of toledo_ i have said there are but two bridges guarding the wide sweep of the tagus round toledo, the puente de alcántara and the puente de san martin. these bridges are unimaginably picturesque and fine. the first you enter from the railway station, with an excellent view of the double line of walls, broken by towers built upon the rugged rocks. no more superb and impressive scene is to be found elsewhere than that the old city makes behind this castellated bridge. the bridge in its actual state was built by alfonso x., on the ruins of the moorish bridge, of which rasis el moro wrote: "it was such a rich and marvellous work and so subtly wrought, that never man with truth could believe there was any other such fine work in spain." the moors in constructed this in turn upon the ruins of the old roman bridge, of which some traces still remain, and which the goths repaired in , and it was destroyed in . since alfonso's time, the vicissitudes of spanish history have wrought damage enough to this noble monument. in tenorio restored it, and in the interior arch was repaired at the town's cost by andrès manrique, in the entrance from the city was repaired, in the outer towers had to be restored, and in , as well as in , the entire bridge was submitted to general repairs. these alterations are all carefully noted by various inscriptions. in philip ii.'s reign was placed under the statue of st ildefonso by berruguete-- s. ildefonso divo tutelari tolet, d.d., anno dom. mdlxxv., philippo ii., hisp. rege. a longer one of that period was: _año dclxxiiii._ _wamba rey godo restauró los muros des esta cuidad y los ofreció en versos latinos a dios y los santos patrones de ella_: _los moros los quitaron y pusieron letreros_ arabigos de blasfemias _y errores_--_el rey d. felipe ii._ con zelo de religion y de conservas las memorias de los reyes pasados, mandó, a jo. gutierrez tello, corregidor de la cuidad los quitase y pusiere como antes estaten los santos patrones con los versos del rey wamba. ano de mdlxx.[ ] another tells us of a great deluge that lasted for five months, from august to december, and carried off portions of the bridge, which was rebuilt by alef, son of mohamed alameri, mayor of toledo, in the time of almanzor. on one of the inner vaults are sculptured the arms of the catholic kings, isabella and fernando, and the inevitable relief of st ildefonso receiving the chasuble from our lady. the entrance arch was constructed under felipe v. instead of the moorish tower that stood there. these restorations are insignificant. what one notes is the general impression, which is magnificent. the bridge of san martin is early thirteenth century work, built in after a terrible inundation that carried off the old bridge, which was probably a little lower down, where the _baño de la cava_, as this broken tower and the broken pillar opposite would indicate. in the civil war of pedro the cruel and henry of trastamare, the principal arch was cut in two, and the archbishop tenorio had to restore the whole bridge almost in order to repair the damage. one of the legends of toledo relates to this restoration. the architect to whom tenorio confided the work miscalculated, and while the woodwork and scaffolding still enveloped the central arch, he discovered to his horror that the instant these supports were removed the bridge would fall. this would mean nothing less than ruin and disgrace, and the unfortunate architect confided his despair to his wife. without a word, at the dead of night, she went down to the bridge and set the scaffolding on fire. nobody saw her, and the accident was believed in and deplored. while the arch was being rebuilt, this time happily with the error rectified, the woman, finding the burden of remorse greater than she could bear, went to the archbishop and told her tale. tenorio was so delighted with her ingeniousness that he congratulated her fortunate husband and ordered her figure to be sculptured on the keystone of the central arch. señor parro doubts if the little figure on the north side is that of a woman, and after careful examination is inclined to believe that it is meant for a bishop, probably tenorio himself. one would prefer to believe in the woman, of course, as legends are always pretty and graceful, but facts are facts, and if the headgear be really a mutilated mitre and not a woman's cap? the bridge is narrow and extremely high above the river, as here the thunderous rush of water down the rocky gorge comes often with the menace of flood, and beside this splendid central arch that gave rise to the legend tenorio's arch, feet wide and above the water level, most lofty and grand, there are four smaller arches. at either end, like the alcántara bridge, there is a tower and gateway, with moorish arches and battlements, and vaulted arches for the passengers; inscriptions and reliefs abound, a statue of st julian by monegro and of alfonso vii. the emperor. across the southern hills, among their bare scented folds, beyond silent gorge and wild waterway, lie the famous cigarrales, the villas, the gardens, the orchards, where the apricots grow as they grow nowhere else. tirso de molina sings their charms, and the aubergines of the cigarrales were famous even in the days of guzman de alfarache. here towards evening the townsfolk wander out to taste the air of the hills and revel in cool leafage, and the walk back in the gathering shade, when the town is getting ready its feeble electric illumination, and the stars are out, and the streets are dim and silent. then more than ever will toledo appear to you as something too beautiful for reality, the imagined city of wild romantic legend, an intangible evocation that surely the morning lights must disperse, that the reality of day must vulgarise. it is not in the nature of modern eyes to gaze with security upon a picture so mysteriously strange, so solemnly sad in its grandeur, so complete a surprise. to-day there are three gates in the outer walls of toledo, the _puerta visagra_, the _puerta del cambron_ and the _puerta nueva_. entering the city by the bridge of san martin, you front the gate of the cambron here, so called from the brambles that grew about that small, charming, pinnacled edifice, built upon the spot of wamba's old gate in alfonso vi.'s time, and was then completely moorish in style. in it was restored and took on its present half renaissance, half classical aspect, with its four towers, its centre court and columns. berruguete's lovely statue of st leocadia used to stand in the niche above the lines in her honour from the mozarabe ritual sculptured below: _in nostra civis inclita_ _tu es patrona vernul[ae]_ _ab urbis hujus termino_ _procul reptile tedium._ gutierrez tello, we know, was ordered by philip ii., iniquitous vandal, to break up all the beautiful moorish inscriptions on the bridges and gates, but one of these inscriptions still remains on the fragment of a column; the finest have disappeared. this was one: "there is but one god on earth, and mohamad is his messenger. all the faithful who believe in our prophet, mohamad, and continue to kiss the hands and feet of murabito muley abda alcadar every day, will be without stain, will not be blind, nor deaf, nor lame, nor wounded; and receiving his benediction, when the time of his death comes, will only be three days ill, and dying, will go with open eyes to paradise forgiven of all sins." who would not willingly kiss the hands and feet of murabito muley every day in return for such promises? there was another interesting inscription to the same muley on an old gateway: "prayer and peace over our lord and prophet mohamad. all the faithful, when they went to lie down in their beds, mentioning the alfaqui murabito abdala, and recommending themselves to him, will enter no battle out of which they will not come victorious, and in whatever battle against christians they may stain their lances with christian blood, dying that same day, will go alive and whole with eyes open to paradise, and his descendants will remain till the fourth generation forgiven." evidently a man to have on one's side in the struggle for existence and in the hope of joys to come in a better world. small wonder ponz called toledo the city of magnificent inscriptions. you are greeted everywhere with grandiloquent or heroic utterances. [illustration: puerta visagra (antigua)] the old puerta visagra is now blocked up. through it alphonso vi. entered toledo. the work is entirely moorish, of the first period, heavy and simple, with the triple arches so delightfully curved in horseshoe shape, and the upper crenelated apertures. the meaning of the name is still disputed. some give it a latin origin, signifying _via-sacra_, others an arabian origin, _bab_, gate, and _shara_, meadow, as it leads into the stony fields without, in the vega. this seems to be the more probable one, since the _puerta visagra_ distinctly dates from the time of the moors. the new gate faces the highroad of estremadura, and was built under charles quint, . it forms two edifices, joined by a large square courtyard with high turreted walls on either side. the outer arch and tower are magnificent; the whole is impressive. on the south front is the shield with the arms of spain, and the emperor's eagles, in sculptured granite, with a latin inscription below. there is another front behind the vaulted entrance, with two graceful square towers, adorned with balconies and elegant capitals narrowing to a pyramidal point, roofed with white and green tiles, which make an odd and not-unpleasing note against the brown rampart running upward. these gleaming _azulejo_ tower-roofs dominate the plain, and, seen from above, the effect of this little dash of brightness amidst all these brown tones of earth and stone is indescribably gay. within, on the doorway, is the inscription of the senate's dedication of the gate to charles quint, and beyond the patio, in a niche in the central arch, is an exceedingly fine statue of st eugenio, either by berruguete or monegro. both these artists were engaged by toledo to make statues for the gates and bridges, and confusion now rests upon all the statues except that of st leocadia (now in the hermitage of the cristo de la vega), which is assuredly a berruguete, and perhaps the most exquisite thing he has ever done. monegro's work will be sufficiently appreciated by the fact of this confusion. here, again, are finely sculptured, in large relief, the arms of the emperor, and a life-size angel guards the city with unsheathed sword. this statue and the shield were originally gilt, but time has worn the gilt away; in either tower-front, on both sides of the shield, are two statues of gothic kings. but a mere description of the details of this splendid gate can really give no impression of its general effect. if there were not the _puerta del sol_--one of the world's masterpieces--so near, one would be tempted to call it the finest on earth. but to write of the _puerta del sol_--moorish gem against a spanish sky, miracle of loveliness upon a rough and naked rampart! a thing of bewildering beauty, even among crowded enchantments! it is to pick one's way through superlatives and points of exclamation, and call in vain on the goddess of sobriety to subdue our tendency to excess and incoherence. put this matchless gate in the middle of the desert of sahara: it would then be worth while making the frightful voyage alone to look at it. however far you may have journeyed, you would still be forever thankful to have seen such a masterpiece--incontestably a work of supreme art, perhaps the rarest thing of the world. is there a flaw in it? mine were not the eyes to detect it. i could only look on and worship. the last evening of my stay in toledo, i went out to make my farewell visits by dusk to the town, accompanied by my friend, the spanish painter. into that lovely walk i gathered too many impressions to disengage them, but i still see the _puerta del sol_ in the blue twilight, with a big star--like a lamp--trembling on the edge of it, in the fluid luminosity of a fading sunset. "_una preciocedad_," murmured my spanish friend, familiar with its witchery for more than fifteen years; and we stood there for a half hour in dead silence, making our prayer of thanks to the strong, great hands, the commanding genius, that wrought for our delight, so long ago, a work which defies the banality of description. this impressive moorish monument is fashioned of rough stone, above the brilliant vega, with the arid hills around. the towers are of brown granite, and above span the vaulted entrance. the sides form a semi-circular and a half square tower, and the interior is divided into three compartments. there is a great centre ogival arch, resting on two columns with moorish [illustration: puerta del sol] inscriptions; from the zones of ornamental arches enlaced, bayed above and horseshoe-shaped beneath, break away other architectural flourishes of raised ogival, the zones divided by angles with the points inward. behind the great arch, there is another horseshoe arch, and above it is a round medallion, with a relief, of the virgin offering the chasuble to st ildefonso; beyond are two simple ogival arches, united to form the rising line of the portcullis, and then another horseshoe arch in the back façade forms the same design. above are three similar little arches, with railings, and in the semi-circular tower below are three apertures for barbaric hostilities, in each façade joining the central compartment. each aperture, in front, has an ornamental bayed arch, placed above three corbels crowned with towers turreted in pyramidal capitals. within, a series of arabian arches--the quadrangular tower only adorned with little moorish arches. the age of this most exquisite gate is uncertain. it is believed to be of the second period of moorish architecture in toledo, that is, tenth century, with alterations as far as the thirteenth. while the architecture is perfectly moorish, there is some indication of christian influence--in the use of a stone not generally used by the moors, and also in the reliefs of the virgin and st ildefonso, and in the little marble relief of the two women and the man, supposed to perpetuate the tale of the governor fernando gonzalez, lord of yegros, whom san fernando, that uncompromising king, sentenced to death for betraying two women: by some believed to represent st john the baptist, herodias and her mother. the simple traveller, who loves righteousness and truth, will stick to the avenging sovereign sentencing thus summarily the rascal governor. but it is like the figure in the central arch of the bridge of san martin. believe what you like best. fernando may have boiled his enemies in pots of water over huge logs, or roasted them alive before roaring fires. he himself was such an admirable fellow in his private life that we are constrained to believe his enemies merited such treatment. he died during the third period of moorish architecture in spain, and left all he possessed to the hospital of santiago. it was perhaps a little excessive on the part of st fernando, after chopping off the governor's perfidious head, to confiscate all his property and bestow it on the poor. the governor's relations might justly have regarded themselves as defrauded. but those were the happy days when subjects had no rights, and only breathed by divine permission of the sovereign. young people who fell in love without the king's leave were dispatched to prison or a nunnery. in the leisure that war and revolt occasionally allowed him, the king made and unmade marriages; and if, glancing from his palace windows, he chanced to see a man pass by who looked as if, at some future date, he might be tempted to commit a crime, he ordered his instant execution, in the interests of humanity. sure, indeed was it worth while to be a king in those delightful days, a life never monotonous for the lack of surprises, never empty of vicissitudes and every odd and stupendous stroke of fortune. a word must be said about the legendary _baño de la cava_. the probability is that this celebrated and picturesque ruin was portion of a turreted bridge that existed before the construction of san martin, and was swept away in one of the inundations that wrought at periods so much damage to the town. the ruin is undoubtedly moorish, and moorish letters may be traced on one of the broken columns, which would prove it posterior to the berber invasion under tarik. the height of the old bridge is sufficiently indicated to show us that a wild rush of water from the upper rocky defile as it thunders down the gorge would quickly carry off the stoutest construction so lowly placed, hence the exceeding height of the central arch of tenorio's bridge, through which the tagus in its most turbulent hour can gush at will. the ruin is a delightful one, and nothing could be more romantic than its situation. graceless facts that so ruthlessly demolish poetic legends! the walls and ramparts are dismantled now, but there are considerable traces of the visigothic walls of , while the twelfth century walls of alfonso, the conqueror, are naturally more distinct. quite recent is the easy sloping road that winds up from the bridge of alcántara to the zocodover. if one regrets the old double walls that used to guard the city on this side, it must be admitted that there are agreeable compensations. the town is more open to the breezes of the vega; the new road itself is a comfortable invention as a substitute for the battlemented and rocky altitude it was once to climb, and the pretty _miradero_ makes a graceful modern note in a mediæval picture. but giving your back to san servando, and mounting the road of _nuestra señora de la valle_, you may trace on the other side the broken ramparts in their extreme age and admirable preservation. and leaving the town by the _puerta de visagra_, wander round by the vega, and here beyond the _puerta lodada_, you will admire the martial aspect of what remains of wamba's jagged walls within and the outer walls of alfonso that run from the puerta nueva to the lunatic asylum. _appendix_ the traveller to toledo will be glad, perhaps, of some practical information. a guide for a short stay is indispensable. i did not claim the services of any, so cannot speak from personal experience, but the proprietor of the hotel castilla assures me that his german guide can be recommended. his charge is ten pesetas a day, nominally eight shillings, but often considerably less owing to the rate of change. my friend and guide, the spanish painter, who came fifteen years ago to toledo lo sketch and has since never been able to leave the witching city, highly recommends a young italian guide, g. borraino, who speaks several languages and knows his toledo to the last stone. his charge, i imagine, is less, and he dwells up in the little plaza de las carmelitas, above the puerta del cambron, with amiable italians who make and sell plaster casts. there are four hotels in toledo; the castilla, the norte, the lina, and the imperial. the castilla is the best hotel of spain, admirably situated, overlooking, behind, the broad vega and the long serpentine tagus curled upon the landscape. the table is french and good, the rooms are fine, the service quite modern, the whole fitted up with luxury and taste. the building is extremely handsome and spacious, with every modern comfort, and cost the marquis who built it a fortune. he rashly spent his money, but he is the benefactor of travellers to toledo, and such is now the reputation of this first-class hotel that newly married couples from madrid, and embassadors in search of distraction, come here instead of going abroad. murray's guide-book describes it as dear, which is not true, for such accommodation and service are cheap enough at fifteen pesetas a day. older travellers who have had to put up with the older hotels give appalling accounts of their experience, so that for the sake of a few shillings it is the height of folly to be miserable while sight-seeing, when for very little more, you may enjoy comfort, harmony, and an excellent table, with the most scrupulous cleanliness. the churches should be visited early; tips are everywhere indispensable but small. a plan of toledo will be found very useful. [illustration: toledo _santiago apostolo del arrabal._ _domingo el real (sto) dominicas._ _domingo el antiguo._ _san vicente_: _anejo_. _san juan bautista._ _pantheon provincial._ _biblioteca publica._ _palazio arzobiscal._ _san marcos_: _muzarabe_. _fabricia de utensilios militaires._ _santo tomé._ _casos de los templarios._ _el salvador_: _anejo_. _taller del moro._ (_palacio arabe_) _san andrés._ _posada de la sangre_ (_donde residio cervantes_) _plazueta santa isabel._ _san clemente._ _san pedro._ _san roman._ _santa fé._ _san pablo._ ] index a abderraman, moorish sovereign, . abd-ar-rahman iii., the great khalif, , . abdulla, . aben-en-noguairi, . alcÁzar, , , , , , , . alcocer, historian, , , , . alcurnia, . alfaqui, the generous moor who pleaded for his christian enemies and whose memory is honoured by a statue in the cathedral, ayuntamiento, , , , , , . alfonso, the learned, _cronica general_, origin of toledo, , . alfonso vi., , , , , , , , , , , , , . alfonso vii., , , . alfonso viii., , , . alfonso martinez de toledo, . almamon, toledan king, , , . aloysia de sigea, woman poet of toledo, . alvaro de luna. great constable, , , , . alvar gomez, chronicler of cisneros, , . alvarez, modern damascene worker, . amador de los rios, , . ambrosia de morales, . amron, of huesca, slaughter of the terrible _day of the foss_, , , . angela sigea, woman philosopher, . antonio de heredia, toledan poet, . atanagildo, first gothic sovereign of toledo, , . augustus, . avieno, . ayala, great toledan family, rival of the silvas, , , , . b baddo, gothic queen, renounces arianism, . baÑo de la cava, . bayeu, spanish painter, , . belacin, mûsa's son, who married rodrigo's widow after the conquest, . beltranaje, illegitimate daughter of henry the impotent, cause of portuguese war with isabel, . bernard of cluny, french archbishop of toledo, who took the cathedral from the moors and introduced the latin rite, . berruguete, , , , , , , , , . blanche, rodrigo's widow, . blanche of bourbon, pedro the cruel's ill-treated wife, , . blaz ortiz, . bristes, legend of doña luz, . burial of count orgaz, el greco's masterpiece, . c caius plancius, . calderon, , . carlos iii., . casa de mesa, , . casa de las tornerias, . casilda, . cassim, toledan moorish ruler, . cathedral, , , , , , . cava, origin of the word, . cervantes, , . charles quint, , , , , . chapel of the new kings, . childe pelayo, conqueror of covadonga, and son of doña luz, . chindasvinthe, gothic king, . chronique rimée des rois de tolède, , . cid, el campeador, , , , , . cigarrales, , . cisneros' great cardinal, , , , . clepsydras of az-zarcal, . cloisters of cathedral, . cloisters of san juan de los reyes, . comuneros, the rising under juan de padilla, . copin of holland, , , , . coro of cathedral, , . corral of don diego, . cortes of toledo, . councils of toledo, . credo of toledo, . cristo de la luz, . cristo de la vega, . d dacian, persecution and death of leocadia, , , . diego mossem valera, historian, . dozy, historian, . denis, st, , . e egica, . el greco, ; his quarrel with the chapter of toledo, ; his quarrel with philip ii, ; his "assumption," . enrique of aragon, . eugenius, first bishop of toledo, , , . expolio of el greco, , . f fabrica de armas, . faustina de bourbon, historian, . favila, , , , . felix de artiaga, sonnets on el greco, . ferecio, one of the many supposed greek founders of toledo, . fernando of aragon, husband of isabel and unnatural father of juana, called _la loca_, , . fernando gonzalez, . fernando, st, castillian monarch, , , . fernan sanchez calderon, , . florinda, , , . francisco de rojas, . francisco ruiz, bishop of avila, . fray bautista maino, , , . frÊdÉgaire, annalist, . fuensalidas, . fuente de guarrazaz, where the famous gothic votive crowns were discovered, . g galafre, , . gamero, historian, , , , , . garcilaso de la vega, . gaton, toledan ally sent by ordoño, king of leon, against the sultan in , . gerardo lobo, . gharbib, revolutionary poet, . gosuinda, wife of atanagildo, . gosvintha, widow of leovigildo, who revolts against her step-son, recaredo, . gothic tournament, , . gothic votive crowns, , , . gracia dei, chronicler of don pedro; note, . grafeses, , . guadalete, famous battle, , , . gundmar, . gutierrez tello, , . h hacam, moorish sovereign, . hacam, _el durrete_, insurgent, , . hannibal, conquers toledo, . hasdrubal, ; his assassination, . hassadrin, jewish writer, . henry the impotent, , , . henry of trastamare, . henry of villena, . hermandad, famous brotherhood founded , , , . hermengildo, prince and martyr, , , , . hilermo, king of carpetania, . hinestrosa, uncle of maria de padilla, , . hospital of santa cruz, , . hospital of san juan bautista or afuera, . hotel castilla, . huerta del rey, . i ildephonso, st, . isabel, the great queen, , , . isidor, st, , . j josÉ godoz alcÁntara, . juan ii., , . juan guttierrez tello, toledan magistrate, . juana, unfortunate daughter of isabel the catholic, , , . juana de castro, one of pedro the cruel's wives, . juan de mena, poet; _see_ his famous _coplas_ on henry of villena, . juan de padilla, , , , . juanelo turriano, _see_ description of his _artificio_, , , . julian, archbishop, . julian, florinda's father, and governor of ceuta, , . l leander of seville, , . legend of puerta del niño perdido, . lembrot, _see_ great tournament, . leocadia, st, , , , , , . leocadia, st, basilica, , . leovigildo, , , , , . loaysa, cardinal, . lope de vega, , . lorenzana, cardinal, . louis, st, of france, . lozano, author of the _reyes nueves de toledo_, , , , , , , , , , . lucy, mother of san ildephonso, . luisa sigea, woman philosopher, . luiva, . luz, doÑa, , , , . m maese rodrigo, . magdalena, . maisara, spanish renegade, . malograda, . marcus fulvius nobilior, , . marcus julius philippicus, . maria de molina, widow of sancho el bravo, . maria de padilla, , , . mariana, historian, . maria pacheco, the great widow, , , . melancius, bishop of toledo, , . melias, _see_ tale of doña luz, . mendoza, cardinal of spain, , , , . miradero, . mohammed, sultan, . montiel, tragedy of pedro cruel's death, . moratin, . moreto, . mozarabe chapel, . musa, , , . museo provincial, . n narciso tomÉ, author of celebrated _trasparente_, . nuestra, señora de la valle, , . o ochavo, . oppas, _see_ battle of guadalete, . p pacheco, . palace of fuensalida, . palace of galiana, . palace of garcilaso de la vega, . palace of juan de padilla, . palace of king pedro, . palazuelos (viscount), modern historian of toledo, . palomino, , , , . parro, _toledo en la mano_, , . pascual de gallangos, . paul, rebel under wamba, , . pedro the cruel, , , , , . pedro de las dueÑas, , . pedro de navarre, . pedro perez, , . perez bayeu, . persecution of the jews, . philip ii., , , , , , . philip of burgundy, , . pisa, historian, , , , , . plazuela de marchan, . ponz, traveller in the last century, , , , , , , , , , . priscilianists, . puente de alcÁntara, , , , , , . puerta del cambron, , . puerta de sans martin, , , , . puerta del sol, , . puerta visagra, , , , , . pyrrhus, , . q quadrado, . quiricus, bishop, . quiroga, , . quiroga, archbishop, . quo vadis chapel, . r rasis el moro, , , . recaredo, , , . recesvinthus, . retablo of cathedral, . rivera, choir-master of toledo, . rodrigo, last of gothic kings, ,, , , , , , , , , . rodrigo jimenez de rada, , , , , , , , . s sala capitular, . samuel levi, . san andrÈs, . san clemente, . san genes, church, . san ildephonso (chapel), . san josÉ, . san juan de la penitencia, . san juan de los reyes, . san pedro martir, . san roman, , . san servando, . san tomÉ, . san vicente, . sancho, alfonso vi.'s little son, died on the battlefield at eleven, . santa cruz, . santo domingo el antiguo, . santo domingo el real, . santa fÉ, . santa isabel, . santa maria la blanca, . santiago (chapel), . sarmiento, revolutionary chief and tyrant, . sertorius, . siliceo, cardinal, . silvas, great toledan family, , , . sisebuth, . solomon's table, . staremberg, . stephen, father of san ildephonso, . st john the baptist of el greco, , . st john the evangelist of el greco, . st martin by el greco, . st vicente ferrer, . street quoted in chapter on the cathedral, , , , . suinthila, . sword makers of toledo, . t tago, governor of toledo, , . tailhan, the _père_, , . taller del moro, moorish palace, said to be where the tragic _day of the foss_ took place, , . tarik, , , . tavera, cardinal, , , . tenorio, cardinal, , , , . toledan laws, , . tower, . transito, . trasparente, . treasury, . tristan, el greco's favourite pupil, , . v valle de la desgollada, . vergara, , . villalar, where the great _comuneros_, juan de padilla, maldonado, and bravo were taken and beheaded, , . vlllalpando, . villena, marquis of, astronomer and celebrated scholar, . virgen del rosario, . viriate, , . viterico, . w walls of toledo, . wamba, the greatest gothic king, , , , , , . witiza, , , , . y yahya, the last moorish sovereign of toledo, . z zocodover, , , , , , , , . zorilla, . printed by turnbull and spears, edinburgh footnotes: [ ] tubal, grandson of noah, son of japhet his son, peopled spain, that i know for sure. and he was the first king from whom the name of tubalia. and this first king through fright, made his seat in toledo, because of the waters he did not dare to settle in the plain, but chose the rocky heights. this was forty and three and a hundred years more after the great and savage deluge. and after tubal reigned ibero, from whom is said iberia. entered tago with courage, who peopled the south, and much enlarged toledo and the tagus, and in conclusion, to his kingdom gave the name of taja. hijo, de japhet su hijo, poblo à españa, cierto sé, y es el primer rey que fué, por quien tubalia se dijo. y esto primer rey de miedo hizo su assiento en toledo que pon las aguas no ha ossado en lo llano hacer poblado sino en alto y en roquedo. "esto fué a quarenta y tres y mas cien años despues del diluvio grande, y fiero, y tras tubal reyno ibero, por quien dicha iberia es, entra tajo, con denuedo, que poblo en el meridion, y aumento mucho a toledo, y al tajo y su reyna ledo nombro taga en conclusion." [ ] a document exists purporting to be the original letter sent by the jews of toledo to their co-religionists of jerusalem at the time of the crucifixion. it is addressed: _levi archisinagogo é samuel joseph, omes bonos de la aljama de toledo à eleazar mint gran sacerdote é à samuel ecaniet, annas y caiphas, omes bones de la aljama de la terra sancta, salud en el dios de israel_. it is signed: de toledo à xiv. dais del mes de nizan era del césar xviii. y de augusto octaviano lxx. but the "omes bonos" of the holy land had settled the question before the lengthy epistle of the "good men" of toledo reached them. [ ] conde de mora: "historia de toledo." [ ] "bib. nat.," p. , v. [ ] it was chiefly in other gothic towns that wamba's fortifications were demolished. toledo comparatively escaped. [ ] my notes from the chronicle says _a hundred thousand workshops_, but this in revision seems a slip of the pen. such a number of workshops even at so flourishing an hour would have encumbered toledo very seriously, i imagine. [ ] dozy regards count julian as an authentic historical figure though both his rank and authority are undefined. he believes he was neither a vassal nor a spanish subject, and consequently no traitor. but was he a berber, a greek, an independent prince or tributary of spain or of the emperor of constantinople? dozy suggests he may have been an arabian governor of ceuta, under the byzantine emperor, while arabian authors describe him as a mere merchant. [ ] mr stanley lane poole in his "moors in spain" (wherein he accepts the old-fashioned but improbable legend of julian or florinda as history) suggests that rodrigo was drowned and washed out by the great ocean, and describes the last of the goths as a kind of legendary arthur, enfolded in mystery and awaited by his mourning subjects like the irish knights who in mediæval times were expected to return from some dim region of rest to take up again the burden of our life, and lead their followers to victory and prosperity. [ ] rasis el moro, spain, ms. bib. pro.--toledo. [ ] abou-l-hasan: dozy, _recherches sur l'histoire et la littérature d'espagna_. [ ] "histoire de philippe ii." by h. fornaron. [ ] the archbishop of zamora, antonio de acuña, a fierce _comunero_, commanded in the absence of padilla, and was mighty profane in his method of war for an archbishop. after leading his troops against the king's castle of aguila, he resolutely stormed the cathedral gates and maltreated the resident canons. the insurgents held the cloisters and prevented the celebration of any church office during their stay. the unfortunate chapter was kept for three entire days and nights from sleeping or eating. what an incredible scandal in hieratic toledo! [ ] complaining at the hotel castilla to a spanish painter of my daily persecution at the hands of the beggars of toledo, i threatened to visit the governor and make my plaint. the artist, something of a humorist, gravely said, "his excellency the governor will listen to you with all courtesy and attention, and when you have finished, he will hold out his hand with a graceful gesture, and say: _da mi una limosna tambien_ (give me also alms). [ ] bibliotica provincial de toledo. [ ] ms. correspondence of lope de vega in possession of señor menendez y pelayo. [ ] street's visit to toledo was unfortunately hurried, or he would have been forced to change many of his views. had he seen the cathedral from nuestra señora de la valle, considerably above the bridge of san martin, he would have found it prominent. [ ] _de toletano hebraeorum templo_, ms. bib. pro. toledo. [ ] ms. correspondence of lope de vega, in possession of señor menendez y pelayo. [ ] ms. _de toletano hebraeorum templo_, bib. provincial, toledo. [ ] galiana of toledo most beautiful and marvellous! the moor the most celebrated of all the moorish race. mouth of rosy pinks, high bosom that palpitates, ivory forehead adorned with the flaming gold of tyre. [ ] wamba, gothic king, restored the walls of this city, and offered them in latin verses to god and the saints, its patrons; the moors effaced them and placed instead blasphemies and errors in arabian letters. king philip ii., in religious zeal and to preserve the memory of the departed kings, ordered gutierrez tello, city magistrate, to efface them and place, along with the patron saints, the verses of king wamba. * * * * * typographical errors corrected by the etext transcriber: gamera=> gamero {pg } toleda is mournful=> toledo is mournful {pg } almamon=> almanon {pg } abon l. hasan=> abou-l-hasan {pg } gonzala ruiz=> gonzalo ruiz {pg } toribio rodrignez=> toribio rodriguez {pg } fomnder's=> founder's {pg } hospital de afuero=> hospital de afuera {pg } the facade=> the façade {pg } vegado te lloro=> vegada te lloro {pg } ofrció en versos latinos=> ofreció en versos latinos {pg } alfonso vii., . alfonso vii., , .=> alfonso vii., , , . {pg } the lands of the saracen or, pictures of palestine, asia minor, sicily, and spain. by bayard taylor. twentieth edition. to washington irving, this book--the chronicle of my travels through lands once occupied by the saracens--naturally dedicates itself to you, who, more than any other american author, have revived the traditions, restored the history, and illustrated the character of that brilliant and heroic people. your cordial encouragement confirmed me in my design of visiting the east, and making myself familiar with oriental life; and though i bring you now but imperfect returns, i can at least unite with you in admiration of a field so rich in romantic interest, and indulge the hope that i may one day pluck from it fruit instead of blossoms. in spain, i came upon your track, and i should hesitate to exhibit my own gleanings where you have harvested, were it not for the belief that the rapid sketches i have given will but enhance, by the contrast, the charm of your finished picture. bayard taylor. preface. this volume comprises the second portion of a series of travels, of which the "journey to central africa," already published, is the first part. i left home, intending to spend a winter in africa, and to return during the following summer; but circumstances afterwards occurred, which prolonged my wanderings to nearly two years and a half, and led me to visit many remote and unexplored portions of the globe. to describe this journey in a single work, would embrace too many incongruous elements, to say nothing of its great length, and as it falls naturally into three parts, or episodes, of very distinct character, i have judged it best to group my experiences under three separate heads, merely indicating the links which connect them. this work includes my travels in palestine, syria, asia minor, sicily and spain, and will be followed by a third and concluding volume, containing my adventures in india, china, the loo-choo islands, and japan. although many of the letters, contained in this volume, describe beaten tracks of travel, i have always given my own individual impressions, and may claim for them the merit of entire sincerity. the journey from aleppo to constantinople, through the heart of asia minor, illustrates regions rarely traversed by tourists, and will, no doubt, be new to most of my readers. my aim, throughout the work, has been to give correct pictures of oriental life and scenery, leaving antiquarian research and speculation to abler hands. the scholar, or the man of science, may complain with reason that i have neglected valuable opportunities for adding something to the stock of human knowledge: but if a few of the many thousands, who can only travel by their firesides, should find my pages answer the purpose of a series of cosmoramic views--should in them behold with a clearer inward eye the hills of palestine, the sun-gilded minarets of damascus, or the lonely pine-forests of phrygia--should feel, by turns, something of the inspiration and the indolence of the orient--i shall have achieved all i designed, and more than i can justly hope. new york, _october_, . contents chapter i. life in a syrian quarantine. voyage from alexandria to beyrout--landing at quarantine--the guardians--our quarters--our companions--famine and feasting--the morning--the holy man of timbuctoo--sunday in quarantine--islamism--we are registered--love through a grating--trumpets--the mystery explained--delights of quarantine--oriental _vs._ american exaggeration--a discussion of politics--our release--beyrout--preparations for the pilgrimage chapter ii. the coast of palestine. the pilgrimage commences--the muleteers--the mules--the donkey--journey to sidon--the foot of lebanon--pictures--the ruins of tyre--a wild morning--the tyrian surges--climbing the ladder of tyre--panorama of the bay of acre--the plain of esdraelon--camp in a garden--acre--the shore of the bay--haifa--mount carmel and its monastery--a deserted coast--the ruins of cæsarea--the scenery of palestine--we become robbers--el haram--wrecks--the harbor and town of jaffa. chapter iii. from jaffa to jerusalem. the garden of jaffa--breakfast at a fountain--the plain of sharon--the ruined mosque of ramleh--a judean landscape--the streets ramleh--am i in palestine?--a heavenly morning--the land of milk and honey--entering the hill country--the pilgrim's breakfast--the father of lies--a church of the crusaders--the agriculture of the hills--the valley of elah--day-dreams--the wilderness--the approach--we see the holy city chapter iv. the dead sea and the river jordan. bargaining for a guard---departure from jerusalem--the hill of offence--bethany--the grotto of lazarus--the valley of fire--scenery of the wilderness--the hills of engaddi--the shore of the dead sea--a bituminous bath--gallop to the jordan--a watch for robbers--the jordan--baptism--the plains of jericho--the fountain of elisha--the mount of temptation--return to jerusalem chapter v. the city of christ. modern jerusalem--the site of the city--mount zion--mount moriah--the temple--the valley of jehosaphat--the olives of gethsemane--the mount of olives--moslem tradition--panorama from the summit--the interior of the city--the population--missions and missionaries--christianity in jerusalem--intolerance--the jews of jerusalem--the face of christ--the church of the holy sepulchre--the holy of holies--the sacred localities--visions of christ--the mosque of omar--the holy man of timbuctoo--preparations for departure. chapter vi. the hill-country of palestine. leaving jerusalem--the tombs of the kings--el bireh--the hill-country--first view of mount hermon--the tomb of joseph--ebal and gerizim--the gardens of nablous--the samaritans--the sacred book--a scene in the synagogue--mentor and telemachus--ride to samaria--the ruins of sebaste--scriptural landscapes--halt at genin--the plain of esdraelon--palestine and california--the hills of nazareth--accident--fra joachim--the church of the virgin--the shrine of the annunciation--the holy places. chapter vii. the country of galilee. departure from nazareth--a christian guide--ascent of mount tabor--wallachian hermits--the panorama of tabor--ride to tiberias--a bath in genesareth--the flowers of galilee--the mount of beatitude--magdala--joseph's well--meeting with a turk--the fountain of the salt-works--the upper valley of the jordan--summer scenery--the rivers of lebanon--tell el-kadi--an arcadian region--the fountains of banias chapter viii. crossing the anti-lebanon. the harmless guard--cæsarea philippi--the valley of the druses--the sides of mount hermon--an alarm--threading a defile--distant view of djebel hauaran--another alarm--camp at katana--we ride into damascus chapter ix. pictures of damascus. damascus from the anti-lebanon--entering the city--a diorama of bazaars--an oriental hotel--our chamber--the bazaars--pipes and coffee--the rivers of damascus--palaces of the jews--jewish ladies--a christian gentleman--the sacred localities--damascus blades--the sword of haroun al-raschid--an arrival from palmyra chapter x. the visions of hasheesh. chapter xi. a dissertation on bathing and bodies. chapter xii. baalbec and lebanon. departure from damascus--the fountains of the pharpar--pass of the anti-lebanon--adventure with the druses--the range of lebanon--the demon of hasheesh departs--impressions of baalbec--the temple of the sun--titanic masonry--the ruined mosque--camp on lebanon--rascality of the guide--the summit of lebanon--the sacred cedars--the christians of lebanon--an afternoon in eden--rugged travel--we reach the coast--return to beyrout chapter xiii. pipes and coffee chapter xiv. journey to antioch and aleppo. change of plans--routes to baghdad--asia minor--we sail from beyrout--yachting on the syrian coast--tartus and latakiyeh--the coasts of syria--the bay of suediah--the mouth of the orontes--landing--the garden of syria--ride to antioch--the modern city--the plains of the orontes--remains of the greek empire--the ancient road--the plain of keftin--approach to aleppo. chapter xv. life in aleppo. our entry into aleppo--we are conducted to a house--our unexpected welcome--the mystery explained--aleppo--its name--its situation--the trade of aleppo--the christians--the revolt of --present appearance of the city--visit to osman pasha--the citadel--view from the battlements--society in aleppo--etiquette and costume--jewish marriage festivities--a christian marriage procession--ride around the town--nightingales--the aleppo button--a hospital for cats--ferhat. chapter xvi. through the syrian gates. an inauspicious departure--the ruined church of st. simon--the plain of antioch--a turcoman encampment--climbing akma dagh--the syrian gates--scanderoon--an american captain--revolt of the koords--we take a guard--the field of issus--the robber-chief, kutchuk ali--a deserted town--a land of gardens. chapter xvii. adana and tarsus. the black gate--the plain of cilicia--a koord village--missis--cilician scenery--arrival at adana--three days in quarantine--we receive pratique--a landscape--the plain of tarsus--the river cydnus--a vision of cleopatra--tarsus and its environs--the _duniktash_--the moon of ramazan. chapter xviii. the pass of mount taurus. we enter the taurus--turcomans--forest scenery--the palace of pan--khan mezarluk--morning among the mountains--the gorge of the cydnus--the crag of the fortress--the cilician grate--deserted forts--a sublime landscape--the gorge of the sihoon--the second gate--camp in the defile--sunrise--journey up the sihoon--a change of scenery--a pastoral valley--kolü kushla--a deserted khan--a guest in ramazan--flowers--the plain of karamania--barren hills--the town of eregli--the hadji again chapter xix. the plains of karamania. the plains of karamania--afternoon heat--a well--volcanic phenomena--karamania--a grand ruined khan--moonlight picture--a landscape of the plains--mirages--a short interview--the village of ismil--third day on the plains--approach to konia chapter xx. scenes in konia. approach to konia--tomb of hazret mevlana--lodgings in a khan--an american luxury--a night-scene in ramazan--prayers in the mosque--remains of the ancient city--view from the mosque--the interior--a leaning minaret--the diverting history of the muleteers chapter xxi. the heart of asia minor. scenery of the hills--ladik, the ancient laodicea--the plague of gad-flies--camp at ilgün--a natural warm bath--the gad-flies again--a summer landscape--ak-sheher--the base of sultan dagh--the fountain of midas--a drowsy journey--the town of bolawadün chapter xxii. the forests of phrygia. the frontier of phrygia--ancient quarries and tombs--we enter the pine forests--a guard-house--encampments of the turcomans--pastoral scenery--a summer village--the valley of the tombs--rock sepulchres of the phrygian kings--the titan's camp--the valley of kümbeh--a land of flowers--turcoman hospitality--the exiled effendis--the old turcoman--a glimpse of arcadia--a landscape--interested friendship--the valley of the pursek--arrival at kiutahya chapter xxiii. kiutahya, and the ruins of oezani. entrance into kiutahya--the new khan--an unpleasant discovery--kiutahya--the citadel--panorama from the walls--the gorge of the mountains--camp in a meadow--the valley of the rhyndacus--chavdür--the ruins of oezani--the acropolis and temple--the theatre and stadium--ride down the valley--camp at daghjköi chapter xxiv. the mysian olympus. journey down the valley--the plague of grasshoppers--a defile--the town of taushanlü--the camp of famine--we leave the rhyndacus--the base of olympus--primeval forests--the guard-house--scenery of the summit--forests of beech--saw-mills--descent of the mountain--the view of olympus--morning--the land of harvest--aineghiöl--a showery ride--the plain of brousa--the structure of olympus--we reach brousa--the tent is furled chapter xxv. brousa and the sea of marmora. the city of brousa--return to civilization--storm--the kalputcha hammam--a hot bath--a foretaste of paradise--the streets and bazaars of brousa--the mosque--the tombs of the ottoman sultans--disappearance of the katurgees--we start for moudania--the sea of marmora--moudania--passport difficulties--a greek caïque--breakfast with the fishermen--a torrid voyage--the princes' islands--prinkipo--distant view of constantinople--we enter the golden horn chapter xxvi. the night of predestination. constantinople in ramazan--the origin of the fast--nightly illuminations--the night of predestination--the golden horn at night--illumination of the shores---the cannon of constantinople--a fiery panorama--the sultan's caïque--close of the celebration--a turkish mob--the dancing dervishes chapter xxvii. the solemnities of bairam. the appearance of the new moon--the festival of bairam--the interior of the seraglio--the pomp of the sultan's court--reschid pasha--the sultan's dwarf--arabian stallions--the imperial guard--appearance of the sultan--the inner court--return of the procession--the sultan on his throne--the homage of the pashas--an oriental picture--kissing the scarf--the shekh el-islàm--the descendant of the caliphs--bairam commences chapter xxviii. the mosques of constantinople. sojourn at constantinople--semi-european character of the city--the mosque--procuring a firman--the seraglio--the library--the ancient throne-room--admittance to st. sophia--magnificence of the interior--the marvellous dome--the mosque of sultan achmed--the sulemanye--great conflagrations--political meaning of the fires--turkish progress--decay of the ottoman power chapter xxix. farewell to the orient--malta. embarcation--farewell to the orient--leaving constantinople--a wreck--the dardanelles--homeric scenery--smyrna revisited--the grecian isles--voyage to malta--detention--la valetta--the maltese--the climate--a boat for sicily chapter xxx. the festival of st. agatha. departure from malta--the speronara--our fellow-passengers--the first night on board--sicily--scarcity of provisions--beating in the calabrian channel--the fourth morning--the gulf of catania--a sicilian landscape--the anchorage--the suspected list--the streets of catania--biography of st. agatha--the illuminations--the procession of the veil--the biscari palace--the antiquities of catania--the convent of st. nicola chapter xxxi. the eruption of mount etna. the mountain threatens--the signs increase--we leave catania--gardens among the lava--etna labors--aci reale--the groans of etna--the eruption--gigantic tree of smoke--formation of the new crater--we lose sight of the mountain--arrival at messina--etna is obscured--departure chapter xxxii. gibraltar. unwritten links of travel--departure from southampton--the bay of biscay--cintra--trafalgar--gibraltar at midnight--landing--search for a palm-tree--a brilliant morning--the convexity of the earth--sun-worship--the rock chapter xxxiii. cadiz and seville. voyage to cadiz--landing--the city--its streets--the women of cadiz--embarkation for seville--scenery of the guadalquivir--custom house examination--the guide--the streets of seville--the giralda--the cathedral of seville--the alcazar--moorish architecture--pilate's house--morning view from the giralda--old wine--murillos--my last evening in seville chapter xxxiv. journey in a spanish diligence. spanish diligence lines--leaving seville--an unlucky start--alcalà of the bakers--dinner at carmona--a dehesa--the mayoral and his team--ecija--night journey--cordova--the cathedral-mosque--moorish architecture--the sierra morena--a rainy journey--a chapter of accidents--baylen--the fascination of spain--jaen--the vega of granada chapter xxxv. granada and the alhambra. mateo ximenez, the younger--the cathedral of granada--a monkish miracle--catholic shrines--military cherubs--the royal chapel--the tombs of ferdinand and isabella--chapel of san juan de dios--the albaycin--view of the vega--the generalife--the alhambra--torra de la vela--the walls and towers--a visit to old mateo--the court of the fishpond--the halls of the alhambra--character of the architecture-- hall of the abencerrages--hall of the two sisters--the moorish dynasty in spain chapter xxxvi. the bridle-roads of andalusia. change of weather--napoleon and his horses--departure from granada--my guide, josé garcia--his domestic troubles--the tragedy of the umbrella--the vow against aguardiente--crossing the vega--the sierra nevada--the baths of alhama--"woe is me, alhama!"--the valley of the river vélez--vélez malaga--the coast road--the fisherman and his donkey--malaga--summer scenery--the story of don pedro, without fear and without care--the field of monda--a lonely venta chapter xxxvii. the mountains of fonda. orange valleys--climbing the mountains--josé's hospitality--el burgo--the gate of the wind--the cliff and cascades of ronda--the mountain region--traces of the moors--haunts of robbers--a stormy ride--the inn at gaucin--bad news--a boyish auxiliary--descent from the mountains--the ford of the guadiaro--our fears relieved--the cork woods--ride from san roque to gibraltar--parting with josé--travelling in spain--conclusion the lands of the saracen chapter i. life in a syrian quarantine. voyage from alexandria to beyrout--landing at quarantine--the guardiano--our quarters--our companions--famine and feasting--the morning--the holy man of timbuctoo--sunday in quarantine--islamism--we are registered--love through a grating--trumpets--the mystery explained--delights of quarantine--oriental _vs_. american exaggeration--a discussion of politics--our release--beyrout--preparations for the pilgrimage. "the mountains look on quarantine, and quarantine looks on the sea." quarantine ms. in quarantine, beyrout, _saturday, april_ , . everybody has heard of quarantine, but in our favored country there are many untravelled persons who do not precisely know what it is, and who no doubt wonder why it should be such a bugbear to travellers in the orient. i confess i am still somewhat in the same predicament myself, although i have already been twenty-four hours in quarantine. but, as a peculiarity of the place is, that one can do nothing, however good a will he has, i propose to set down my experiences each day, hoping that i and my readers may obtain some insight into the nature of quarantine, before the term of my probation is over. i left alexandria on the afternoon of the th inst., in company with mr. carter harrison, a fellow-countryman, who had joined me in cairo, for the tour through palestine. we had a head wind, and rough sea, and i remained in a torpid state during most of the voyage. there was rain the second night; but, when the clouds cleared away yesterday morning, we were gladdened by the sight of lebanon, whose summits glittered with streaks of snow. the lower slopes of the mountains were green with fields and forests, and beyrout, when we ran up to it, seemed buried almost out of sight, in the foliage of its mulberry groves. the town is built along the northern side of a peninsula, which projects about two miles from the main line of the coast, forming a road for vessels. in half an hour after our arrival, several large boats came alongside, and we were told to get our baggage in order and embark for quarantine. the time necessary to purify a traveller arriving from egypt from suspicion of the plague, is five days, but the days of arrival and departure are counted, so that the durance amounts to but three full days. the captain of the osiris mustered the passengers together, and informed them that each one would be obliged to pay six piastres for the transportation of himself and his baggage. two heavy lighters are now drawn up to the foot of the gangway, but as soon as the first box tumbles into them, the men tumble out. they attach the craft by cables to two smaller boats, in which they sit, to tow the infected loads. we are all sent down together, jews, turks, and christians--a confused pile of men, women, children, and goods. a little boat from the city, in which there are representatives from the two hotels, hovers around us, and cards are thrown to us. the zealous agents wish to supply us immediately with tables, beds, and all other household appliances; but we decline their help until we arrive at the mysterious spot. at last we float off--two lighters full of infected, though respectable, material, towed by oarsmen of most scurvy appearance, but free from every suspicion of taint. the sea is still rough, the sun is hot, and a fat jewess becomes sea-sick. an italian jew rails at the boatmen ahead, in the neapolitan patois, for the distance is long, the quarantine being on the land-side of beyrout. we see the rows of little yellow houses on the cliff, and with great apparent risk of being swept upon the breakers, are tugged into a small cove, where there is a landing-place. nobody is there to receive us; the boatmen jump into the water and push the lighters against the stone stairs, while we unload our own baggage. a tin cup filled with sea-water is placed before us, and we each drop six piastres into it--for money, strange as it may seem, is infectious. by this time, the _guardianos_ have had notice of our arrival, and we go up with them to choose our habitations. there are several rows of one-story houses overlooking the sea, each containing two empty rooms, to be had for a hundred piastres; but a square two-story dwelling stands apart from them, and the whole of it may be had for thrice that sum. there are seven frank prisoners, and we take it for ourselves. but the rooms are bare, the kitchen empty, and we learn the important fact, that quarantine is durance vile, without even the bread and water. the guardiano says the agents of the hotel are at the gate, and we can order from them whatever we want. certainly; but at their own price, for we are wholly at their mercy. however, we go down stairs, and the chief officer, who accompanies us, gets into a corner as we pass, and holds a stick before him to keep us off. he is now clean, but if his garments brush against ours, he is lost. the people we meet in the grounds step aside with great respect to let us pass, but if we offer them our hands, no one would dare to touch a finger's tip. here is the gate: a double screen of wire, with an interval between, so that contact is impossible. there is a crowd of individuals outside, all anxious to execute commissions. among them is the agent of the hotel, who proposes to fill our bare rooms with furniture, send us a servant and cook, and charge us the same as if we lodged with him. the bargain is closed at once, and he hurries off to make the arrangements. it is now four o'clock, and the bracing air of the headland gives a terrible appetite to those of us who, like me, have been sea-sick and fasting for forty-eight hours. but there is no food within the quarantine except a patch of green wheat, and a well in the limestone rock. we two americans join company with our room-mate, an alexandrian of italian parentage, who has come to beyrout to be married, and make the tour of our territory. there is a path along the cliffs overhanging the sea, with glorious views of lebanon, up to his snowy top, the pine-forests at his base, and the long cape whereon the city lies at full length, reposing beside the waves. the mahommedans and jews, in companies of ten (to save expense), are lodged in the smaller dwellings, where they have already aroused millions of fleas from their state of torpid expectancy. we return, and take a survey of our companions in the pavilion: a french woman, with two ugly and peevish children (one at the breast), in the next room, and three french gentlemen in the other--a merchant, a young man with hair of extraordinary length, and a _filateur_, or silk-manufacturer, middle-aged and cynical. the first is a gentleman in every sense of the word, the latter endurable, but the young absalom is my aversion, i am subject to involuntary likings and dislikings, for which i can give no reason, and though the man may be in every way amiable, his presence is very distasteful to me. we take a pipe of consolation, but it only whets our appetites. we give up our promenade, for exercise is still worse; and at last the sun goes down, and yet no sign of dinner. our pavilion becomes a tower of famine, and the italian recites dante. finally a strange face appears at the door. by apicius! it is a servant from the hotel, with iron bedsteads, camp-tables, and some large chests, which breathe an odor of the commissary department. we go stealthily down to the kitchen, and watch the unpacking. our dinner is there, sure enough, but alas! it is not yet cooked. patience is no more; my companion manages to filch a raw onion and a crust of bread, which we share, and roll under our tongues as a sweet morsel, and it gives us strength for another hour. the greek dragoman and cook, who are sent into quarantine for our sakes, take compassion on us; the fires are kindled in the cold furnaces; savory steams creep up the stairs; the preparations increase, and finally climax in the rapturous announcement: "messieurs, dinner is ready." the soup is liquified bliss; the _cotelettes d'agneau_ are _cotelettes de bonheur_; and as for that broad dish of syrian larks--heaven forgive us the regret, that more songs had not been silenced for our sake! the meal is all nectar and ambrosia, and now, filled and contented, we subside into sleep on comfortable couches. so closes the first day of our incarceration. this morning dawned clear and beautiful. lebanon, except his snowy crest, was wrapped in the early shadows, but the mediterranean gleamed like a shield of sapphire, and beyrout, sculptured against the background of its mulberry groves, was glorified beyond all other cities. the turf around our pavilion fairly blazed with the splendor of the yellow daisies and crimson poppies that stud it. i was satisfied with what i saw, and felt no wish to leave quarantine to-day. our italian friend, however, is more impatient. his betrothed came early to see him, and we were edified by the great alacrity with which he hastened to the grate, to renew his vows at two yards' distance from her. in the meantime, i went down to the turkish houses, to cultivate the acquaintance of a singular character i met on board the steamer. he is a negro of six feet four, dressed in a long scarlet robe. his name is mahommed senoosee, and he is a _fakeer_, or holy man, from timbuctoo. he has been two years absent from home, on a pilgrimage to mecca and medina, and is now on his way to jerusalem and damascus. he has travelled extensively in all parts of central africa, from dar-fur to ashantee, and professes to be on good terms with the sultans of houssa and bornou. he has even been in the great kingdom of waday, which has never been explored by europeans, and as far south as iola, the capital of adamowa. of the correctness of his narrations i have not the least doubt, as they correspond geographically with all that we know of the interior of africa. in answer to my question whether a european might safely make the same tour, he replied that there would be no difficulty, provided he was accompanied by a native, and he offered to take me even to timbuctoo, if i would return with him. he was very curious to obtain information about america, and made notes of all that i told him, in the quaint character used by the mughrebbins, or arabs of the west, which has considerable resemblance to the ancient cufic. he wishes to join company with me for the journey to jerusalem, and perhaps i shall accept him. _sunday, april_ . as quarantine is a sort of limbo, without the pale of civilized society, we have no church service to-day. we have done the best we could, however, in sending one of the outside dragomen to purchase a bible, in which we succeeded. he brought us a very handsome copy, printed by the american bible society in new york. i tried vainly in cairo and alexandria to find a missionary who would supply my heathenish destitution of the sacred writings; for i had reached the east through austria, where they are prohibited, and to travel through palestine without them, would be like sailing without pilot or compass. it gives a most impressive reality to solomon's "house of the forest of lebanon," when you can look up from the page to those very forests and those grand mountains, "excellent with the cedars." seeing the holy man of timbuctoo praying with his face towards mecca, i went down to him, and we conversed for a long time on religious matters. he is tolerably well informed, having read the books of moses and the psalms of david, but, like all mahommedans, his ideas of religion consist mainly of forms, and its reward is a sensual paradise. the more intelligent of the moslems give a spiritual interpretation to the nature of the heaven promised by the prophet, and i have heard several openly confess their disbelief in the seventy houries and the palaces of pearl and emerald. shekh mahommed senoosee scarcely ever utters a sentence in which is not the word "allah," and "la illah il' allah" is repeated at least every five minutes. those of his class consider that there is a peculiar merit in the repetition of the names and attributes of god. they utterly reject the doctrine of the trinity, which they believe implies a sort of partnership, or god-firm (to use their own words), and declare that all who accept it are hopelessly damned. to deny mahomet's prophetship would excite a violent antagonism, and i content myself with making them acknowledge that god is greater than all prophets or apostles, and that there is but one god for all the human race. i have never yet encountered that bitter spirit of bigotry which is so frequently ascribed to them; but on the contrary, fully as great a tolerance as they would find exhibited towards them by most of the christian sects. this morning a paper was sent to us, on which we were requested to write our names, ages, professions, and places of nativity. we conjectured that we were subjected to the suspicion of political as well as physical taint, but happily this was not the case. i registered myself as a _voyageur_, the french as _negocians_ and when it came to the woman's turn, absalom, who is a partisan of female progress, wished to give her the same profession as her husband--a machinist. but she declared that her only profession was that of a "married woman," and she was so inscribed. her peevish boy rejoiced in the title of "_pleuricheur_," or "weeper," and the infant as "_titeuse_," or "sucker." while this was going on, the guardiano of our room came in very mysteriously, and beckoned to my companion, saying that "mademoiselle was at the gate." but it was the italian who was wanted, and again, from the little window of our pavilion, we watched his hurried progress over the lawn. no sooner had she departed, than he took his pocket telescope, slowly sweeping the circuit of the bay as she drew nearer and nearer beyrout. he has succeeded in distinguishing, among the mass of buildings, the top of the house in which she lives, but alas! it is one story too low, and his patient espial has only been rewarded by the sight of some cats promenading on the roof. i have succeeded in obtaining some further particulars in relation to quarantine. on the night of our arrival, as we were about getting into our beds, a sudden and horrible gush of brimstone vapor came up stairs, and we all fell to coughing like patients in a pulmonary hospital. the odor increased till we were obliged to open the windows and sit beside them in order to breathe comfortably. this was the preparatory fumigation, in order to remove the ranker seeds of plague, after which the milder symptoms will of themselves vanish in the pure air of the place. several times a day we are stunned and overwhelmed with the cracked brays of three discordant trumpets, as grating and doleful as the last gasps of a dying donkey. at first i supposed the object of this was to give a greater agitation to the air, and separate and shake down the noxious exhalations we emit; but since i was informed that the soldiers outside would shoot us in case we attempted to escape, i have concluded that the sound is meant to alarm us, and prevent our approaching too near the walls. on inquiring of our guardiano whether the wheat growing within the grounds was subject to quarantine, he informed me that it did not ecovey infection, and that three old geese, who walked out past the guard with impunity, were free to go and come, as they had never been known to have the plague. yesterday evening the medical attendant, a polish physician, came in to inspect us, but he made a very hasty review, looking down on us from the top of a high horse. _monday, april_ . eureka! the whole thing is explained. talking to day with the guardiano, he happened to mention that he had been three years in quarantine, keeping watch over infected travellers. "what!" said i, "you have been sick three years." "oh no," he replied; "i have never been sick at all." "but are not people sick in quarantine?" "_stafferillah!_" he exclaimed; "they are always in better health than the people outside." "what is quarantine for, then?" i persisted. "what is it for?" he repeated, with a pause of blank amazement at my ignorance, "why, to get money from the travellers!" indiscreet guardiano! it were better to suppose ourselves under suspicion of the plague, than to have such an explanation of the mystery. yet, in spite of the unpalatable knowledge, i almost regret that this is our last day in the establishment. the air is so pure and bracing, the views from our windows so magnificent, the colonized branch of the beyrout hotel so comfortable, that i am content to enjoy this pleasant idleness--the more pleasant since, being involuntary, it is no weight on the conscience. i look up to the maronite villages, perched on the slopes of lebanon, with scarce a wish to climb to them, or turning to the sparkling mediterranean, view "the speronara's sail of snowy hue whitening and brightening on that field of blue," and have none of that unrest which the sight of a vessel in motion suggests. to-day my friend from timbuctoo came up to have another talk. he was curious to know the object of my travels, and as he would not have comprehended the exact truth, i was obliged to convey it to him through the medium of fiction. i informed him that i had been dispatched by the sultan of my country to obtain information of the countries of africa; that i wrote in a book accounts of everything i saw, and on my return, would present this book to the sultan, who would reward me with a high rank--perhaps even that of grand vizier. the orientals deal largely in hyperbole, and scatter numbers and values with the most reckless profusion. the arabic, like the hebrew, its sister tongue, and other old original tongues of man, is a language of roots, and abounds with the boldest metaphors. now, exaggeration is but the imperfect form of metaphor. the expression is always a splendid amplification of the simple fact. like skilful archers, in order to hit the mark, they aim above it. when you have once learned his standard of truth, you can readily gauge an arab's expressions, and regulate your own accordingly. but whenever i have attempted to strike the key-note myself, i generally found that it was below, rather than above, the oriental pitch. the shekh had already informed me that the king of ashantee, whom he had visited, possessed twenty-four houses full of gold, and that the sultan of houssa had seventy thousand horses always standing saddled before his palace, in order that he might take his choice, when he wished to ride out. by this he did not mean that the facts were precisely so, but only that the king was very rich, and the sultan had a great many horses. in order to give the shekh an idea of the great wealth and power of the american nation, i was obliged to adopt the same plan. i told him, therefore, that our country was two years' journey in extent, that the treasury consisted of four thousand houses filled to the roof with gold, and that two hundred thousand soldiers on horseback kept continual guard around sultan fillmore's palace. he received these tremendous statements with the utmost serenity and satisfaction, carefully writing them in his book, together with the name of sultan fillmore, whose fame has ere this reached the remote regions of timbuctoo. the shekh, moreover, had the desire of visiting england, and wished me to give him a letter to the english sultan. this rather exceeded my powers, but i wrote a simple certificate explaining who he was, and whence he came, which i sealed with an immense display of wax, and gave him. in return, he wrote his name in my book, in the mughrebbin character, adding the sentence: "there is no god but god." this evening the forbidden subject of politics crept into our quiet community, and the result was an explosive contention which drowned even the braying of the agonizing trumpets outside. the gentlemanly frenchman is a sensible and consistent republican, the old _filateur_ a violent monarchist, while absalom, as i might have foreseen, is a red, of the schools of proudhon and considerant. the first predicted a republic in france, the second a monarchy in america, and the last was in favor of a general and total demolition of all existing systems. of course, with such elements, anything like a serious discussion was impossible; and, as in most french debates, it ended in a bewildering confusion of cries and gesticulations. in the midst of it, i was struck by the cordiality with which the monarchist and the socialist united in their denunciations of england and the english laws. as they sat side by side, pouring out anathemas against "perfide albion," i could not help exclaiming: "_voilà, comme les extrêmes se rencontrent_!" this turned the whole current of their wrath against me, and i was glad to make a hasty retreat. the physician again visited us to-night, to promise a release to-morrow morning. he looked us all in the faces, to be certain that there were no signs of pestilence, and politely regretted that he could not offer us his hand. the husband of the "married woman" also came, and relieved the other gentlemen from the charge of the "weeper." he was a stout, ruddy provençal, in a white blouse, and i commiserated him sincerely for having such a disagreeable wife. to-day, being the last of our imprisonment, we have received many tokens of attention from dragomen, who have sent their papers through the grate to us, to be returned to-morrow after our liberation. they are not very prepossessing specimens of their class, with the exception of yusef badra, who brings a recommendation from my friend, ross browne. yusef is a handsome, dashing fellow, with something of the dandy in his dress and air, but he has a fine, clear, sparkling eye, with just enough of the devil in it to make him attractive. i think, however, that, the greek dragoman, who has been our companion in quarantine, will carry the day. he is by birth a boeotian, but now a citizen of athens, and calls himself françois vitalis. he speaks french, german, and italian, besides arabic and turkish, and as he has been for twelve or fifteen years vibrating between europe and the east, he must by this time have amassed sufficient experience to answer the needs of rough-and-tumble travellers like ourselves. he has not asked us for the place, which displays so much penetration on his part, that we shall end by offering it to him. perhaps he is content to rest his claims upon the memory of our first quarantine dinner. if so, the odors of the cutlets and larks--even of the raw onion, which we remember with tears--shall not plead his cause in vain. beyrout (out of quarantine), _wednesday, may_ . the handsome greek, diamanti, one of the proprietors of the "hotel de belle vue," was on hand bright and early yesterday morning, to welcome us out of quarantine. the gates were thrown wide, and forth we issued between two files of soldiers, rejoicing in our purification. we walked through mulberry orchards to the town, and through its steep and crooked streets to the hotel, which stands beyond, near the extremity of the cape, or ras beyrout. the town is small, but has an active population, and a larger commerce than any other port in syria. the anchorage, however, is an open road, and in stormy weather it is impossible for a boat to land. there are two picturesque old castles on some rocks near the shore, but they were almost destroyed by the english bombardment in . i noticed two or three granite columns, now used as the lintels of some of the arched ways in the streets, and other fragments of old masonry, the only remains of the ancient berytus. our time, since our release, has been occupied by preparations for the journey to jerusalem. we have taken françois as dragoman, and our _mukkairee_, or muleteers, are engaged to be in readiness to-morrow morning. i learn that the druses are in revolt in djebel hauaran and parts of the anti-lebanon, which will prevent my forming any settled plan for the tour through palestine and syria. up to this time, the country has been considered quite safe, the only robbery this winter having been that of the party of mr. degen, of new york, which was plundered near tiberias. dr. robinson left here two weeks ago for jerusalem, in company with dr. eli smith, of the american mission at this place. chapter ii. the coast of palestine. the pilgrimage commences--the muleteers--the mules--the donkey--journey to sidon--the foot of lebanon--pictures--the ruins of tyre--a wild morning--the tyrian surges--climbing the ladder of tyre--panorama of the bay of acre--the plain of esdraelon--camp in a garden--acre--the shore of the bay--haifa--mount carmel and its monastery--a deserted coast--the ruins of cæsarea--the scenery of palestine--we become robbers--el haram--wrecks--the harbor and town of jaffa. "along the line of foam, the jewelled chain, the largesse of the ever-giving main." r. h. stoddard. ramleh, _april_ , . we left beyrout on the morning of the d. our caravan consisted of three horses, three mules, and a donkey, in charge of two men--dervish, an erect, black-bearded, and most impassive mussulman, and mustapha, who is the very picture of patience and good-nature. he was born with a smile on his face, and has never been able to change the expression. they are both masters of their art, and can load a mule with a speed and skill which i would defy any santa fé trader to excel. the animals are not less interesting than their masters. our horses, to be sure, are slow, plodding beasts, with considerable endurance, but little spirit; but the two baggage mules deserve gold medals from the society for the promotion of industry. i can overlook any amount of waywardness in the creatures, in consideration of the steady, persevering energy, the cheerfulness and even enthusiasm with which they perform their duties. they seem to be conscious that they are doing well, and to take a delight in the consciousness. one of them has a band of white shells around his neck, fastened with a tassel and two large blue beads; and you need but look at him to see that he is aware how becoming it is. he thinks it was given to him for good conduct, and is doing his best to merit another. the little donkey is a still more original animal. he is a practical humorist, full of perverse tricks, but all intended for effect, and without a particle of malice. he generally walks behind, running off to one side or the other to crop a mouthful of grass, but no sooner does dervish attempt to mount him, than he sets off at full gallop, and takes the lead of the caravan. after having performed one of his feats, he turns around with a droll glance at us, as much as to say: "did you see that?" if we had not been present, most assuredly he would never have done it. i can imagine him, after his return to beyrout, relating his adventures to a company of fellow-donkeys, who every now and then burst into tremendous brays at some of his irresistible dry sayings. i persuaded mr. harrison to adopt the oriental costume, which, from five months' wear in africa, i greatly preferred to the frank. we therefore rode out of beyrout as a pair of syrian beys, while françois, with his belt, sabre, and pistols had much the aspect of a greek brigand. the road crosses the hill behind the city, between the forest of pines and a long tract of red sand-hills next the sea. it was a lovely morning, not too bright and hot, for light, fleecy vapors hung along the sides of lebanon. beyond the mulberry orchards, we entered on wild, half-cultivated tracts, covered with a bewildering maze of blossoms. the hill-side and stony shelves of soil overhanging the sea fairly blazed with the brilliant dots of color which were rained upon them. the pink, the broom, the poppy, the speedwell, the lupin, that beautiful variety of the cyclamen, called by the syrians "_deek e-djebel_" (cock o' the mountain), and a number of unknown plants dazzled the eye with their profusion, and loaded the air with fragrance as rare as it was unfailing. here and there, clear, swift rivulets came down from lebanon, coursing their way between thickets of blooming oleanders. just before crossing the little river damoor, françois pointed out, on one of the distant heights, the residence of the late lady hester stanhope. during the afternoon we crossed several offshoots of the lebanon, by paths incredibly steep and stony, and towards evening reached saïda, the ancient sidon, where we obtained permission to pitch our tent in a garden. the town is built on a narrow point of land, jutting out from the centre of a bay, or curve in the coast, and contains about five thousand inhabitants. it is a quiet, sleepy sort of a place, and contains nothing of the old sidon except a few stones and the fragments of a mole, extending into the sea. the fortress in the water, and the citadel, are remnants of venitian sway. the clouds gathered after nightfall, and occasionally there was a dash of rain on our tent. but i heard it with the same quiet happiness, as when, in boyhood, sleeping beneath the rafters, i have heard the rain beating all night upon the roof. i breathed the sweet breath of the grasses whereon my carpet was spread, and old mother earth, welcoming me back to her bosom, cradled me into calm and refreshing sleep. there is no rest more grateful than that which we take on the turf or the sand, except the rest below it. we rose in a dark and cloudy morning, and continued our way between fields of barley, completely stained with the bloody hue of the poppy, and meadows turned into golden mosaic by a brilliant yellow daisy. until noon our road was over a region of alternate meadow land and gentle though stony elevations, making out from lebanon. we met continually with indications of ancient power and prosperity. the ground was strewn with hewn blocks, and the foundations of buildings remain in many places. broken sarcophagi lie half-buried in grass, and the gray rocks of the hills are pierced with tombs. the soil, though stony, appeared to be naturally fertile, and the crops of wheat, barley, and lentils were very flourishing. after rounding the promontory which forms the southern boundary of the gulf of sidon, we rode for an hour or two over a plain near the sea, and then came down to a valley which ran up among the hills, terminating in a natural amphitheatre. an ancient barrow, or tumulus, nobody knows of whom, stands near the sea. during the day i noticed two charming little pictures. one, a fountain gushing into a broad square basin of masonry, shaded by three branching cypresses. two turks sat on its edge, eating their bread and curdled milk, while their horses drank out of the stone trough below. the other, an old mahommedan, with a green turban and white robe, seated at the foot of a majestic sycamore, over the high bank of a stream that tumbled down its bed of white marble rock to the sea. the plain back of the narrow, sandy promontory on which the modern soor is built, is a rich black loam, which a little proper culture would turn into a very garden. it helped me to account for the wealth of ancient tyre. the approach to the town, along a beach on which the surf broke with a continuous roar, with the wreck of a greek vessel in the foreground, and a stormy sky behind, was very striking. it was a wild, bleak picture, the white minarets of the town standing out spectrally against the clouds. we rode up the sand-hills, back of the town, and selected a good camping-place among the ruins of tyre. near us there was an ancient square building, now used as a cistern, and filled with excellent fresh water. the surf roared tremendously on the rocks, on either hand, and the boom of the more distant breakers came to my ear like the wind in a pine forest. the remains of the ancient sea-wall are still to be traced for the entire circuit of the city, and the heavy surf breaks upon piles of shattered granite columns. along a sort of mole, protecting an inner harbor on the north side, are great numbers of these columns. i counted fifteen in one group, some of them fine red granite, and some of the marble of lebanon. the remains of the pharos and the fortresses strengthening the sea-wall, were pointed out by the syrian who accompanied us as a guide, but his faith was a little stronger than mine. he even showed us the ruins of the jetty built by alexander, by means of which the ancient city, then insulated by the sea, was taken. the remains of the causeway gradually formed the promontory by which the place is now connected with the main land. these are the principal indications of tyre above ground, but the guide informed us that the arabs, in digging among the sand-hills for the stones of the old buildings, which they quarry out and ship to beyrout, come upon chambers, pillars, arches, and other objects. the tyrian purple is still furnished by a muscle found upon the coast, but tyre is now only noted for its tobacco and mill-stones. i saw many of the latter lying in the streets of the town, and an arab was selling a quantity at auction in the square, as we passed. they are cut out from a species of dark volcanic rock, by the bedouins of the mountains. there were half a dozen small coasting vessels lying in the road, but the old harbors are entirely destroyed. isaiah's prophecy is literally fulfilled: "howl, ye ships of tarshish; for it is laid waste, so that there is no house, no entering in." on returning from our ramble we passed the house of the governor, daood agha, who was dispensing justice in regard to a lawsuit then before him. he asked us to stop and take coffee, and received us with much grace and dignity. as we rose to leave, a slave brought me a large bunch of choice flowers from his garden. we set out from tyre at an early hour, and rode along the beach around the head of the bay to the ras-el-abiad, the ancient promontorium album. the morning was wild and cloudy, with gleams of sunshine that flashed out over the dark violet gloom of the sea. the surf was magnificent, rolling up in grand billows, which broke and formed again, till the last of the long, falling fringes of snow slid seething up the sand. something of ancient power was in their shock and roar, and every great wave that plunged and drew back again, called in its solemn bass: "where are the ships of tyre? where are the ships of tyre?" i looked back on the city, which stood advanced far into the sea, her feet bathed in thunderous spray. by and by the clouds cleared away, the sun came out bold and bright, and our road left the beach for a meadowy plain, crossed by fresh streams, and sown with an inexhaustible wealth of flowers. through thickets of myrtle and mastic, around which the rue and lavender grew in dense clusters, we reached the foot of the mountain, and began ascending the celebrated ladder of tyre. the road is so steep as to resemble a staircase, and climbs along the side of the promontory, hanging over precipices of naked white rock, in some places three hundred feet in height. the mountain is a mass of magnesian limestone, with occasional beds of marble. the surf has worn its foot into hollow caverns, into which the sea rushes with a dull, heavy boom, like distant thunder. the sides are covered with thickets of broom, myrtle, arbutus, ilex, mastic and laurel, overgrown with woodbine, and interspersed with patches of sage, lavender, hyssop, wild thyme, and rue. the whole mountain is a heap of balm; a bundle of sweet spices. our horses' hoofs clattered up and down the rounds of the ladder, and we looked our last on tyre, fading away behind the white hem of the breakers, as we turned the point of the promontory. another cove of the mountain-coast followed, terminated by the cape of nakhura, the northern point of the bay of acre. we rode along a stony way between fields of wheat and barley, blotted almost out of sight by showers of scarlet poppies and yellow chrysanthemums. there were frequent ruins: fragments of sarcophagi, foundations of houses, and about half way between the two capes, the mounds of alexandro-schoenæ. we stopped at a khan, and breakfasted under a magnificent olive tree, while two boys tended our horses to see that they ate only the edges of the wheat field. below the house were two large cypresses, and on a little tongue of land the ruins of one of those square towers of the corsairs, which line all this coast. the intense blue of the sea, seen close at hand over a broad field of goldening wheat, formed a dazzling and superb contrast of color. early in the afternoon we climbed the ras nakhura, not so bold and grand, though quite as flowery a steep as the promontorium album. we had been jogging half an hour over its uneven summit, when the side suddenly fell away below us, and we saw the whole of the great gulf and plain of acre, backed by the long ridge of mount carmel. behind the sea, which makes a deep indentation in the line of the coast, extended the plain, bounded on the east, at two leagues' distance, by a range of hills covered with luxuriant olive groves, and still higher, by the distant mountains of galilee. the fortifications of acre were visible on a slight promontory near the middle of the gulf. from our feet the line of foamy surf extended for miles along the red sand-beach, till it finally became like a chalk-mark on the edge of the field of blue. we rode down the mountain and continued our journey over the plain of esdraelon--a picture of summer luxuriance and bloom. the waves of wheat and barley rolled away from our path to the distant olive orchards; here the water gushed from a stone fountain and flowed into a turf-girdled pool, around which the syrian women were washing their garments; there, a garden of orange, lemon, fig, and pomegranate trees in blossom, was a spring of sweet odors, which overflowed the whole land. we rode into some of these forests, for they were no less, and finally pitched our tent in one of them, belonging to the palace of the former abdallah pasha, within a mile of acre. the old saracen aqueduct, which still conveys water to the town, overhung our tent. for an hour before reaching our destination, we had seen it on the left, crossing the hollows on light stone arches. in one place i counted fifty-eight, and in another one hundred and three of these arches, some of which were fifty feet high. our camp was a charming place: a nest of deep herbage, under two enormous fig-trees, and surrounded by a balmy grove of orange and citron. it was doubly beautiful when the long line of the aqueduct was lit up by the moon, and the orange trees became mounds of ambrosial darkness. in the morning we rode to acre, the fortifications of which have been restored on the land-side. a ponderous double gateway of stone admitted us into the city, through what was once, apparently, the court-yard of a fortress. the streets of the town are narrow, terribly rough, and very dirty, but the bazaars are extensive and well stocked. the principal mosque, whose heavy dome is visible at some distance from the city, is surrounded with a garden, enclosed by a pillared corridor, paved with marble. all the houses of the city are built in the most massive style, of hard gray limestone or marble, and this circumstance alone prevented their complete destruction during the english bombardment in . the marks of the shells are everywhere seen, and the upper parts of the lofty buildings are completely riddled with cannon-balls, some of which remain embedded in the stone. we made a rapid tour of the town on horseback, followed by the curious glances of the people, who were in doubt whether to consider us turks or franks. there were a dozen vessels in the harbor, which is considered the best in syria. the baggage-mules had gone on, so we galloped after them along the hard beach, around the head of the bay. it was a brilliant morning; a delicious south-eastern breeze came to us over the flowery plain of esdraelon; the sea on our right shone blue, and purple, and violet-green, and black, as the shadows or sunshine crossed it, and only the long lines of roaring foam, for ever changing in form, did not vary in hue. a fisherman stood on the beach in a statuesque attitude, his handsome bare legs bathed in the frothy swells, a bag of fish hanging from his shoulder, and the large square net, with its sinkers of lead in his right hand, ready for a cast. he had good luck, for the waves brought up plenty of large fish, and cast them at our feet, leaving them to struggle back into the treacherous brine. between acre and haifa we passed six or eight wrecks, mostly of small trading vessels. some were half buried in sand, some so old and mossy that they were fast rotting away, while a few had been recently hurled there. as we rounded the deep curve of the bay, and approached the line of palm-trees girding the foot of mount carmel, haifa, with its wall and saracenic town in ruin on the hill above, grew more clear and bright in the sun, while acre dipped into the blue of the mediterranean. the town of haifa, the ancient caiapha, is small, dirty, and beggarly looking; but it has some commerce, sharing the trade of acre in the productions of syria. it was sunday, and all the consular flags were flying. it was an unexpected delight to find the american colors in this little syrian town, flying from one of the tallest poles. the people stared at us as we passed, and i noticed among them many bright frankish faces, with eyes too clear and gray for syria. o ye kind brothers of the monastery of carmel! forgive me if i look to you for an explanation of this phenomenon. we ascended to mount carmel. the path led through a grove of carob trees, from which the beans, known in germany as st. john's bread, are produced. after this we came into an olive grove at the foot of the mountain, from which long fields of wheat, giving forth a ripe summer smell, flowed down to the shore of the bay. the olive trees were of immense size, and i can well believe, as fra carlo informed us, that they were probably planted by the roman colonists, established there by titus. the gnarled, veteran boles still send forth vigorous and blossoming boughs. there were all manner of lovely lights and shades chequered over the turf and the winding path we rode. at last we reached the foot of an ascent, steeper than the ladder of tyre. as our horses slowly climbed to the convent of st. elijah, whence we already saw the french flag floating over the shoulder of the mountain, the view opened grandly to the north and east, revealing the bay and plain of acre, and the coast as far as ras nakhura, from which we first saw mount carmel the day previous. the two views are very similar in character, one being the obverse of the other. we reached the convent--dayr mar elias, as the arabs call it--at noon, just in time to partake of a bountiful dinner, to which the monks had treated themselves. fra carlo, the good franciscan who receives strangers, showed us the building, and the grotto of elijah, which is under the altar of the convent church, a small but very handsome structure of italian marble. the sanctity of the grotto depends on tradition entirely, as there is no mention in the bible of elijah having resided on carmel, though it was from this mountain that he saw the cloud, "like a man's hand," rising from the sea. the convent, which is quite new--not yet completed, in fact--is a large, massive building, and has the aspect of a fortress. as we were to sleep at tantura, five hours distant, we were obliged to make a short visit, in spite of the invitation of the hospitable fra carlo to spend the night there. in the afternoon we passed the ruins of athlit, a town of the middle ages, and the castel pellegrino of the crusaders. our road now followed the beach, nearly the whole distance to jaffa, and was in many places, for leagues in extent, a solid layer of white, brown, purple and rosy shells, which cracked and rattled under our horses' feet. tantura is a poor arab village, and we had some difficulty in procuring provisions. the people lived in small huts of mud and stones, near the sea. the place had a thievish look, and we deemed it best to be careful in the disposal of our baggage for the night. in the morning we took the coast again, riding over millions of shells. a line of sandy hills, covered with thickets of myrtle and mastic, shut off the view of the plain and meadows between the sea and the hills of samaria. after three hours' ride we saw the ruins of ancient cæsarea, near a small promontory. the road turned away from the sea, and took the wild plain behind, which is completely overgrown with camomile, chrysanthemum and wild shrubs. the ruins of the town are visible at a considerable distance along the coast. the principal remains consist of a massive wall, flanked with pyramidal bastions at regular intervals, and with the traces of gateways, draw-bridges and towers. it was formerly surrounded by a deep moat. within this space, which may be a quarter of a mile square, are a few fragments of buildings, and toward the sea, some high arches and masses of masonry. the plain around abounds with traces of houses, streets, and court-yards. cæsarea was one of the roman colonies, but owed its prosperity principally to herod. st. paul passed through it on his way from macedon to jerusalem, by the very road we were travelling. during the day the path struck inland over a vast rolling plain, covered with sage, lavender and other sweet-smelling shrubs, and tenanted by herds of gazelles and flocks of large storks. as we advanced further, the landscape became singularly beautiful. it was a broad, shallow valley, swelling away towards the east into low, rolling hills, far back of which rose the blue line of the mountains--the hill-country of judea. the soil, where it was ploughed, was the richest vegetable loam. where it lay fallow it was entirely hidden by a bed of grass and camomile. here and there great herds of sheep and goats browsed on the herbage. there was a quiet pastoral air about the landscape, a soft serenity in its forms and colors, as if the hebrew patriarchs still made it their abode. the district is famous for robbers, and we kept our arms in readiness, never suffering the baggage to be out of our sight. towards evening, as mr. h. and myself, with françois, were riding in advance of the baggage mules, the former with his gun in his hand, i with a pair of pistols thrust through the folds of my shawl, and françois with his long turkish sabre, we came suddenly upon a lonely englishman, whose companions were somewhere in the rear. he appeared to be struck with terror on seeing us making towards him, and, turning his horse's head, made an attempt to fly. the animal, however, was restive, and, after a few plunges, refused to move. the traveller gave himself up for lost; his arms dropped by his side; he stared wildly at us, with pale face and eyes opened wide with a look of helpless fright. restraining with difficulty a shout of laughter, i said to him: "did you leave jaffa to-day?" but so completely was his ear the fool of his imagination, that he thought i was speaking arabic, and made a faint attempt to get out the only word or two of that language which he knew. i then repeated, with as much distinctness as i could command: "did--you--leave--jaffa--to-day?" he stammered mechanically, through his chattering teeth, "y-y-yes!" and we immediately dashed off at a gallop through the bushes. when we last saw him, he was standing as we left him, apparently not yet recovered from the shock. at the little village of el haram, where we spent the night, i visited the tomb of sultan ali ebn-aleym, who is now revered as a saint. it is enclosed in a mosque, crowning the top of a hill. i was admitted into the court-yard without hesitation, though, from the porter styling me "effendi," he probably took me for a turk. at the entrance to the inner court, i took off my slippers and walked to the tomb of the sultan--a square heap of white marble, in a small marble enclosure. in one of the niches in the wall, near the tomb, there is a very old iron box, with a slit in the top. the porter informed me that it contained a charm, belonging to sultan ali, which was of great use in producing rain in times of drouth. in the morning we sent our baggage by a short road across the country to this place, and then rode down the beach towards jaffa. the sun came out bright and hot as we paced along the line of spray, our horses' feet sinking above the fetlocks in pink and purple shells, while the droll sea-crabs scampered away from our path, and the blue gelatinous sea-nettles were tossed before us by the surge. our view was confined to the sand-hills--sometimes covered with a flood of scarlet poppies--on one hand; and to the blue, surf-fringed sea on the other. the terrible coast was still lined with wrecks, and just before reaching the town, we passed a vessel of some two hundred tons, recently cast ashore, with her strong hull still unbroken. we forded the rapid stream of el anjeh, which comes down from the plain of sharon, the water rising to our saddles. the low promontory in front now broke into towers and white domes, and great masses of heavy walls. the aspect of jaffa is exceedingly picturesque. it is built on a hill, and the land for many miles around it being low and flat, its topmost houses overlook all the fields of sharon. the old harbor, protected by a reef of rocks, is on the north side of the town, but is now so sanded up that large vessels cannot enter. a number of small craft were lying close to the shore. the port presented a different scene when the ships of hiram, king of tyre, came in with the materials for the temple of solomon. there is but one gate on the land side, which is rather strongly fortified. outside of this there is an open space, which we found filled with venders of oranges and vegetables, camel-men and the like, some vociferating in loud dispute, some given up to silence and smoke, under the shade of the sycamores. we rode under the heavily arched and towered gateway, and entered the bazaar. the street was crowded, and there was such a confusion of camels, donkeys, and men, that we made our way with difficulty along the only practicable street in the city, to the sea-side, where françois pointed out a hole in the wall as the veritable spot where jonah was cast ashore by the whale. this part of the harbor is the receptacle of all the offal of the town; and i do not wonder that the whale's stomach should have turned on approaching it. the sea-street was filled with merchants and traders, and we were obliged to pick our way between bars of iron, skins of oil, heaps of oranges, and piles of building timber. at last we reached the end, and, as there was no other thoroughfare, returned the same way we went, passed out the gate, and took the road to ramleh and jerusalem. but i hear the voice of françois, announcing, "_messieurs, le diner est prêt._" we are encamped just beside the pool of ramleh, and the mongrel children of the town are making a great noise in the meadow below it. our horses are enjoying their barley; and mustapha stands at the tent-door tying up his sacks. dogs are barking and donkeys braying all along the borders of the town, whose filth and dilapidation are happily concealed by the fig and olive gardens which surround it. i have not curiosity enough to visit the greek and latin convents embedded in its foul purlieus, but content myself with gazing from my door upon the blue hills of palestine, which we must cross to-morrow, on our way to jerusalem. chapter iii. from jaffa to jerusalem. the garden of jaffa--breakfast at a fountain--the plain of sharon--the ruined mosque of ramleh--a judean landscape--the streets of ramleh--am i in palestine?--a heavenly morning--the land of milk and honey--entering the hill-country--the pilgrim's breakfast--the father of lies--a church of the crusaders--the agriculture of the hills--the valley of elah--day-dreams--the wilderness--the approach--we see the holy city. --"through the air sublime, over the wilderness and o'er the plain; till underneath them fair jerusalem, the holy city, lifted high her towers." paradise regained. jerusalem, _thursday, april_ , . leaving the gate of jaffa, we rode eastward between delightful gardens of fig, citron, orange, pomegranate and palm. the country for several miles around the city is a complete level--part of the great plain of sharon--and the gray mass of building crowning the little promontory, is the only landmark seen above the green garden-land, on looking towards the sea. the road was lined with hedges of giant cactus, now in blossom, and shaded occasionally with broad-armed sycamores. the orange trees were in bloom, and at the same time laden down with ripe fruit. the oranges of jaffa are the finest in syria, and great numbers of them are sent to beyrout and other ports further north. the dark foliage of the pomegranate fairly blazed with its heavy scarlet blossoms, and here and there a cluster of roses made good the scriptural renown of those of sharon. the road was filled with people, passing to and fro, and several families of jaffa jews were having a sort of pic-nic in the choice shady spots. ere long we came to a fountain, at a point where two roads met. it was a large square structure of limestone and marble, with a stone trough in front, and a delightful open chamber at the side. the space in front was shaded with immense sycamore trees, to which we tied our horses, and then took our seats in the window above the fountain, where the greek brought us our breakfast. the water was cool and delicious, as were our jaffa oranges. it was a charming spot, for as we sat we could look under the boughs of the great trees, and down between the gardens to jaffa and the mediterranean. after leaving the gardens, we came upon the great plain of sharon, on which we could see the husbandmen at work far and near, ploughing and sowing their grain. in some instances, the two operations were made simultaneously, by having a sort of funnel attached to the plough-handle, running into a tube which entered the earth just behind the share. the man held the plough with one hand, while with the other he dropped the requisite quantity of seed through the tube into the furrow. the people are ploughing now for their summer crops, and the wheat and barley which they sowed last winter are already in full head. on other parts of the plain, there were large flocks of sheep and goats, with their attendant shepherds. so ran the rich landscape, broken only by belts of olive trees, to the far hills of judea. riding on over the long, low swells, fragrant with wild thyme and camomile, we saw at last the tower of ramleh, and down the valley, an hour's ride to the north-east, the minaret of ludd, the ancient lydda. still further, i could see the houses of the village of sharon, embowered in olives. ramleh is built along the crest and on the eastern slope of a low hill, and at a distance appears like a stately place, but this impression is immediately dissipated on entering it. west of the town is a large square tower, between eighty and ninety feet in height. we rode up to it through an orchard of ancient olive trees, and over a field of beans. the tower is evidently a minaret, as it is built in the purest saracenic style, and is surrounded by the ruins of a mosque. i have rarely seen anything more graceful than the ornamental arches of the upper portions. over the door is a lintel of white marble, with an arabic inscription. the mosque to which the tower is attached is almost entirely destroyed, and only part of the arches of a corridor around three sides of a court-yard, with the fountain in the centre, still remain. the subterranean cisterns, under the court-yard, amazed me with their extent and magnitude. they are no less than twenty-four feet deep, and covered by twenty-four vaulted ceilings, each twelve feet square, and resting on massive pillars. the mosque, when entire, must have been one of the finest in syria. we clambered over the broken stones cumbering the entrance, and mounted the steps to the very summit. the view reached from jaffa and the sea to the mountains near jerusalem, and southward to the plain of ascalon--a great expanse of grain and grazing land, all blossoming as the rose, and dotted, especially near the mountains, with dark, luxuriant olive-groves. the landscape had something of the green, pastoral beauty of england, except the mountains, which were wholly of palestine. the shadows of fleecy clouds, drifting slowly from east to west, moved across the landscape, which became every moment softer and fairer in the light of the declining sun. i did not tarry in ramleh. the streets are narrow, crooked, and filthy as only an oriental town can be. the houses have either flat roofs or domes, out of the crevices in which springs a plentiful crop of weeds. some yellow dogs barked at us as we passed, children in tattered garments stared, and old turbaned heads were raised from the pipe, to guess who the two brown individuals might be, and why they were attended by such a fierce _cawass_. passing through the eastern gate, we were gladdened by the sight of our tents, already pitched in the meadow beside the cistern. dervish had arrived an hour before us, and had everything ready for the sweet lounge of an hour, to which we treat ourselves after a day's ride. i watched the evening fade away over the blue hills before us, and tried to convince myself that i should reach jerusalem on the morrow. reason said: "you certainly will!"---but to faith the holy city was as far off as ever. was it possible that i was in judea? was this the holy land of the crusades, the soil hallowed by the feet of christ and his apostles? i must believe it. yet it seemed once that if i ever trod that earth, then beneath my feet, there would be thenceforth a consecration in my life, a holy essence, a purer inspiration on the lips, a surer faith in the heart. and because i was not other than i had been, i half doubted whether it was the palestine of my dreams. a number of arab cameleers, who had come with travellers across the desert from egypt, were encamped near us. françois was suspicious of some of them, and therefore divided the night into three watches, which were kept by himself and our two men. mustapha was the last, and kept not only himself, but myself, wide awake by his dolorous chants of love and religion. i fell sound asleep at dawn, but was roused before sunrise by françois, who wished to start betimes, on account of the rugged road we had to travel. the morning was mild, clear, and balmy, and we were soon packed and in motion. leaving the baggage to follow, we rode ahead over the fertile fields. the wheat and poppies were glistening with dew, birds sang among the fig-trees, a cool breeze came down from the hollows of the hills, and my blood leaped as nimbly and joyously as a young hart on the mountains of bether. between ramleh and the hill-country, a distance of about eight miles, is the rolling plain of arimathea, and this, as well as the greater part of the plain of sharon, is one of the richest districts in the world. the soil is a dark-brown loam, and, without manure, produces annually superb crops of wheat and barley. we rode for miles through a sea of wheat, waving far and wide over the swells of land. the tobacco in the fields about ramleh was the most luxuriant i ever saw, and the olive and fig attain a size and lusty strength wholly unknown in italy. judea cursed of god! what a misconception, not only of god's mercy and beneficence, but of the actual fact! give palestine into christian hands, and it will again flow with milk and honey. except some parts of asia minor, no portion of the levant is capable of yielding such a harvest of grain, silk, wool, fruits, oil, and wine. the great disadvantage under which the country labors, is its frequent drouths, but were the soil more generally cultivated, and the old orchards replanted, these would neither be so frequent nor so severe. we gradually ascended the hills, passing one or two villages, imbedded in groves of olives. in the little valleys, slanting down to the plains, the arabs were still ploughing and sowing, singing the while an old love-song, with its chorus of "_ya, ghazalee! ya, ghazalee!_" (oh, gazelle! oh, gazelle!) the valley narrowed, the lowlands behind us spread out broader, and in half an hour more we were threading a narrow pass, between stony hills, overgrown with ilex, myrtle, and dwarf oak. the wild purple rose of palestine blossomed on all sides, and a fragrant white honeysuckle in some places hung from the rocks. the path was terribly rough, and barely wide enough for two persons on horseback to pass each other. we met a few pilgrims returning from jerusalem, and a straggling company of armed turks, who had such a piratical air, that without the solemn asseveration of françois that the road was quite safe, i should have felt uneasy about our baggage. most of the persons we passed were mussulmen, few of whom gave the customary "peace be with you!" but once a syrian christian saluted me with, "god go with you, o pilgrim!" for two hours after entering the mountains, there was scarcely a sign of cultivation. the rock was limestone, or marble, lying in horizontal strata, the broken edges of which rose like terraces to the summits. these shelves were so covered with wild shrubs--in some places even with rows of olive trees---that to me they had not the least appearance of that desolation so generally ascribed to them. in a little dell among the hills there is a small ruined mosque, or chapel (i could not decide which), shaded by a group of magnificent terebinth trees. several arabs were resting in its shade, and we hoped to find there the water we were looking for, in order to make breakfast. but it was not to be found, and we climbed nearly to the summit of the first chain of hills, where in a small olive orchard, there was a cistern, filled by the late rains. it belonged to two ragged boys, who brought us an earthen vessel of the water, and then asked, "shall we bring you milk, o pilgrims!" i assented, and received a small jug of thick buttermilk, not remarkably clean, but very refreshing. my companion, who had not recovered from his horror at finding that the inhabitants of ramleh washed themselves in the pool which supplied us and them, refused to touch it. we made but a short rest, for it was now nearly noon, and there were yet many rough miles between us and jerusalem. we crossed the first chain of mountains, rode a short distance over a stony upland, and then descended into a long cultivated valley, running to the eastward. at the end nearest us appeared the village of aboo 'l ghosh (the father of lies), which takes its name from a noted bedouin shekh, who distinguished himself a few years ago by levying contributions on travellers. he obtained a large sum of money in this way, but as he added murder to robbery, and fell upon turks as well as christians, he was finally captured, and is now expiating his offences in some mine on the coast of the black sea. near the bottom of the village there is a large ruined building, now used as a stable by the inhabitants. the interior is divided into a nave and two side-aisles by rows of square pillars, from which spring pointed arches. the door-way is at the side, and is gothic, with a dash of saracenic in the ornamental mouldings above it. the large window at the extremity of the nave is remarkable for having round arches, which circumstance, together with the traces of arabesque painted ornaments on the columns, led me to think it might have been a mosque; but dr. robinson, who is now here, considers it a christian church, of the time of the crusaders. the village of aboo 'l ghosh is said to be the site of the birth-place of the prophet jeremiah, and i can well imagine it to have been the case. the aspect of the mountain-country to the east and north-east would explain the savage dreariness of his lamentations. the whole valley in which the village stands, as well as another which joins it on the east, is most assiduously cultivated. the stony mountain sides are wrought into terraces, where, in spite of soil which resembles an american turnpike, patches of wheat are growing luxuriantly, and olive trees, centuries old, hold on to the rocks with a clutch as hard and bony as the hand of death. in the bed of the valley the fig tree thrives, and sometimes the vine and fig grow together, forming the patriarchal arbor of shade familiar to us all. the shoots of the tree are still young and green, but the blossoms of the grape do not yet give forth their goodly savor. i did not hear the voice of the turtle, but a nightingale sang in the briery thickets by the brook side, as we passed along. climbing out of this valley, we descended by a stony staircase, as rugged as the ladder of tyre, into the wady beit-hanineh. here were gardens of oranges in blossom, with orchards of quince and apple, overgrown with vines, and the fragrant hawthorn tree, snowy with its bloom. a stone bridge, the only one on the road, crosses the dry bed of a winter stream, and, looking up the glen, i saw the arab village of kulonieh, at the entrance of the valley of elah, glorious with the memories of the shepherd-boy, david. our road turned off to the right, and commenced ascending a long, dry glen between mountains which grew more sterile the further we went. it was nearly two hours past noon, the sun fiercely hot, and our horses were nigh jaded out with the rough road and our impatient spurring. i began to fancy we could see jerusalem from the top of the pass, and tried to think of the ancient days of judea. but it was in vain. a newer picture shut them out, and banished even the diviner images of our saviour and his disciples. heathen that i was, i could only think of godfrey and the crusaders, toiling up the same path, and the ringing lines of tasso vibrated constantly in my ear: "ecco apparir gierusalemm' si vede; ecco additar gierusalemm' si scorge; ecco da mille voci unitamente, gierusalemme salutar si sente!" the palestine of the bible--the land of promise to the israelites, the land of miracle and sacrifice to the apostles and their followers--still slept in the unattainable distance, under a sky of bluer and more tranquil loveliness than that to whose cloudless vault i looked up. it lay as far and beautiful as it once seemed to the eye of childhood, and the swords of seraphim kept profane feet from its sacred hills. but these rough rocks around me, these dry, fiery hollows, these thickets of ancient oak and ilex, had heard the trumpets of the middle ages, and the clang and clatter of european armor--i could feel and believe that. i entered the ranks; i followed the trumpets and the holy hymns, and waited breathlessly for the moment when every mailed knee should drop in the dust, and every bearded and sunburned cheek be wet with devotional tears. but when i climbed the last ridge, and looked ahead with a sort of painful suspense, jerusalem did not appear. we were two thousand feet above the mediterranean, whose blue we could dimly see far to the west, through notches in the chain of hills. to the north, the mountains were gray, desolate, and awful. not a shrub or a tree relieved their frightful barrenness. an upland tract, covered with white volcanic rock, lay before us. we met peasants with asses, who looked (to my eyes) as if they had just left jerusalem. still forward we urged our horses, and reached a ruined garden, surrounded with hedges of cactus, over which i saw domes and walls in the distance. i drew a long breath and looked at françois. he was jogging along without turning his head; he could not have been so indifferent if that was really the city. presently, we reached another slight rise in the rocky plain. he began to urge his panting horse, and at the same instant we both lashed the spirit into ours, dashed on at a break-neck gallop, round the corner of an old wall on the top of the hill, and lo! the holy city! our greek jerked both pistols from his holsters, and fired them into the air, as we reined up on the steep. from the descriptions of travellers, i had expected to see in jerusalem an ordinary modern turkish town; but that before me, with its walls, fortresses, and domes, was it not still the city of david? i saw the jerusalem of the new testament, as i had imagined it. long lines of walls crowned with a notched parapet and strengthened by towers; a few domes and spires above them; clusters of cypress here and there; this was all that was visible of the city. on either side the hill sloped down to the two deep valleys over which it hangs. on the east, the mount of olives, crowned with a chapel and mosque, rose high and steep, but in front, the eye passed directly over the city, to rest far away upon the lofty mountains of moab, beyond the dead sea. the scene was grand in its simplicity. the prominent colors were the purple of those distant mountains, and the hoary gray of the nearer hills. the walls were of the dull yellow of weather-stained marble, and the only trees, the dark cypress and moonlit olive. now, indeed, for one brief moment, i knew that i was in palestine; that i saw mount olivet and mount zion; and--i know not how it was--my sight grew weak, and all objects trembled and wavered in a watery film. since we arrived, i have looked down upon the city from the mount of olives, and up to it from the valley of jehosaphat; but i cannot restore the illusion of that first view. we allowed our horses to walk slowly down the remaining half-mile to the jaffa gate. an englishman, with a red silk shawl over his head, was sketching the city, while an arab held an umbrella over him. inside the gate we stumbled upon an italian shop with an italian sign, and after threading a number of intricate passages under dark archways, and being turned off from one hotel, which was full of travellers, reached another, kept by a converted german jew, where we found dr. robinson and dr. ely smith, who both arrived yesterday. it sounds strange to talk of a hotel in jerusalem, but the world is progressing, and there are already three. i leave to-morrow for jericho, the jordan, and the dead sea, and shall have more to say of jerusalem on my return. chapter iv. the dead sea and the jordan river. bargaining for a guard--departure from jerusalem--the hill of offence--bethany--the grotto of lazarus--the valley of fire--scenery of the wilderness--the hills of engaddi--the shore of the dead sea--a bituminous bath--gallop to the jordan--a watch for robbers--the jordan--baptism--the plains of jericho--the fountain of elisha--the mount of temptation--return to jerusalem. "and the spoiler shall come upon every city, and no city shall escape; the valley also shall perish and the plain shall be destroyed, as the lord hath spoken." --jeremiah, xlviii. . jerusalem, _may_ , . i returned this after noon from an excursion to the dead sea, the river jordan, and the site of jericho. owing to the approaching heats, an early visit was deemed desirable, and the shekhs, who have charge of the road, were summoned to meet us on the day after we arrived. there are two of these gentlemen, the shekh el-aràb (of the bedouins), and the shekh el-fellaheen (of the peasants, or husbandmen), to whom each traveller is obliged to pay one hundred piastres for an escort. it is, in fact, a sort of compromise, by which the shekhs agree not to rob the traveller, and to protect him against other shekhs. if the road is not actually safe, the turkish garrison here is a mere farce, but the arrangement is winked at by the pasha, who, of course, gets his share of the , piastres which the two scamps yearly levy upon travellers. the shekhs came to our rooms, and after trying to postpone our departure, in order to attach other tourists to the same escort, and thus save a little expense, took half the pay and agreed to be ready the next morning. unfortunately for my original plan, the convent of san saba has been closed within two or three weeks, and no stranger is now admitted. this unusual step was caused by the disorderly conduct of some frenchmen who visited san saba. we sent to the bishop of the greek church, asking a simple permission to view the interior of the convent; but without effect. we left the city yesterday morning by st. stephen's gate, descended to the valley of jehosaphat, rode under the stone wall which encloses the supposed gethsemane, and took a path leading along the mount of olives, towards the hill of offence, which stands over against the southern end of the city, opposite the mouth of the vale of hinnon. neither of the shekhs made his appearance, but sent in their stead three arabs, two of whom were mounted and armed with sabres and long guns. our man, mustapha, had charge of the baggage-mule, carrying our tent and the provisions for the trip. it was a dull, sultry morning; a dark, leaden haze hung over jerusalem, and the _khamseen_, or sirocco-wind, came from the south-west, out of the arabian desert. we had again resumed the oriental costume, but in spite of an ample turban, my face soon began to scorch in the dry heat. from the crest of the hill of offence there is a wide view over the heights on both sides of the valley of the brook kedron. their sides are worked into terraces, now green with springing grain, and near the bottom planted with olive and fig trees. the upland ridge or watershed of palestine is cultivated for a considerable distance around jerusalem. the soil is light and stony, yet appears to yield a good return for the little labor bestowed upon it. crossing the southern flank of mount olivet, in half an hour we reached the village of bethany, hanging on the side of the hill. it is a miserable cluster of arab huts, with not a building which appears to be more than a century old. the grotto of lazarus is here shown, and, of course, we stopped to see it. it belongs to an old mussulman, who came out of his house with a piece of waxed rope, to light us down. an aperture opens from the roadside into the hill, and there is barely room enough for a person to enter. descending about twenty steps at a sharp angle, we landed in a small, damp vault, with an opening in the floor, communicating with a short passage below. the vault was undoubtedly excavated for sepulchral purposes, and the bodies were probably deposited (as in many egyptian tombs) in the pit under it. our guide, however, pointed to a square mass of masonry in one corner as the tomb of lazarus, whose body, he informed us, was still walled up there. there was an arch in the side of the vault, once leading to other chambers, but now closed up, and the guide stated that seventy-four prophets were interred therein. there seems to be no doubt that the present arab village occupies the site of bethany; and if it could be proved that this pit existed at the beginning of the christian era, and there never had been any other, we might accept it as the tomb of lazarus. on the crest of a high hill, over against bethany, is an arab village on the site of bethpage. we descended into the valley of a winter stream, now filled with patches of sparse wheat, just beginning to ripen. the mountains grew more bleak and desolate as we advanced, and as there is a regular descent in the several ranges over which one must pass, the distant hills of the lands of moab and ammon were always in sight, rising like a high, blue wall against the sky. the dead sea is , feet below jerusalem, but the general slope of the intervening district is so regular that from the spires of the city, and the mount of olives, one can look down directly upon its waters. this deceived me as to the actual distance, and i could scarcely credit the assertion of our arab escort, that it would require six hours to reach it. after we had ridden nearly two hours, we left the jericho road, sending mustapha and a staunch old arab direct to our resting-place for the night, in the valley of the jordan. the two mounted bedouins accompanied us across the rugged mountains lying between us and the dead sea. at first, we took the way to the convent of mar saba, following the course of the brook kedron down the wady en-nar (valley of fire). in half an hour more we reached two large tanks, hewn out under the base of a limestone cliff, and nearly filled with rain. the surface was covered with a greenish vegetable scum, and three wild and dirty arabs of the hills were washing themselves in the principal one. our bedouins immediately dismounted and followed their example, and after we had taken some refreshment, we had the satisfaction of filling our water-jug from the same sweet pool. after this, we left the san saba road, and mounted the height east of the valley. from that point, all signs of cultivation and habitation disappeared. the mountains were grim, bare, and frightfully rugged. the scanty grass, coaxed into life by the winter rains, was already scorched out of all greenness; some bunches of wild sage, gnaphalium, and other hardy aromatic herbs spotted the yellow soil, and in sheltered places the scarlet poppies burned like coals of fire among the rifts of the gray limestone rock. our track kept along the higher ridges and crests of the hills, between the glens and gorges which sank on either hand to a dizzy depth below, and were so steep as to be almost inaccessible. the region is so scarred, gashed and torn, that no work of man's hand can save it from perpetual desolation. it is a wilderness more hopeless than the desert. if i were left alone in the midst of it, i should lie down and await death, without thought or hope of rescue. the character of the day was peculiarly suited to enhance the impression of such scenery. though there were no clouds, the sun was invisible: as far as we could see, beyond the jordan, and away southward to the mountains of moab and the cliffs of engaddi, the whole country was covered as with the smoke of a furnace; and the furious sirocco, that threatened to topple us down the gulfs yawning on either hand, had no coolness on its wings. the horses were sure-footed, but now and then a gust would come that made them and us strain against it, to avoid being dashed against the rock on one side, or hurled off the brink on the other. the atmosphere was painfully oppressive, and by and by a dogged silence took possession of our party. after passing a lofty peak which françois called djebel nuttar, the mountain of rain, we came to a large moslem building, situated on a bleak eminence, overlooking part of the valley of the jordan. this is the tomb called nebbee moussa by the arabs, and believed by them to stand upon the spot where moses died. we halted at the gate, but no one came to admit us, though my companion thought he saw a man's head at one of the apertures in the wall. arab tradition here is as much at fault as christian tradition in many other places. the true nebo is somewhere in the chain of pisgah; and though, probably, i saw it, and all see it who go down to the jordan, yet "no man knoweth its place unto this day." beyond nebbee moussa, we came out upon the last heights overlooking the dead sea, though several miles of low hills remained to be passed. the head of the sea was visible as far as the ras-el-feshka on the west; and the hot fountains of callirhoë on the eastern shore. farther than this, all was vapor and darkness. the water was a soft, deep purple hue, brightening into blue. our road led down what seemed a vast sloping causeway from the mountains, between two ravines, walled by cliffs several hundred feet in height. it gradually flattened into a plain, covered with a white, saline incrustation, and grown with clumps of sour willow, tamarisk, and other shrubs, among which i looked in vain for the osher, or dead sea apple. the plants appeared as if smitten with leprosy; but there were some flowers growing almost to the margin of the sea. we reached the shore about p.m. the heat by this time was most severe, and the air so dense as to occasion pains in my ears. the dead sea is , feet below the mediterranean, and without doubt the lowest part of the earth's surface. i attribute the oppression i felt to this fact and to the sultriness of the day, rather than to any exhalation from the sea itself. françois remarked, however, that had the wind--which by this time was veering round to the north-east--blown from the south, we could scarcely have endured it. the sea resembles a great cauldron, sunk between mountains from three to four thousand feet in height; and probably we did not experience more than a tithe of the summer heat. i proposed a bath, for the sake of experiment, but françois endeavored to dissuade us. he had tried it, and nothing could be more disagreeable; we risked getting a fever, and, besides, there were four hours of dangerous travel yet before us. but by this time we were half undressed, and soon were floating on the clear bituminous waves. the beach was fine gravel and shelved gradually down. i kept my turban on my head, and was careful to avoid touching the water with my face. the sea was moderately warm and gratefully soft and soothing to the skin. it was impossible to sink; and even while swimming, the body rose half out of the water. i should think it possible to dive for a short distance, but prefer that some one else would try the experiment. with a log of wood for a pillow, one might sleep as on one of the patent mattresses. the taste of the water is salty and pungent, and stings the tongue like saltpetre. we were obliged to dress in all haste, without even wiping off the detestable liquid; yet i experienced very little of that discomfort which most travellers have remarked. where the skin had been previously bruised, there was a slight smarting sensation, and my body felt clammy and glutinous, but the bath was rather refreshing than otherwise. we turned our horses' heads towards the jordan, and rode on over a dry, barren plain. the two bedouins at first dashed ahead at full gallop, uttering cries, and whirling their long guns in the air. the dust they raised was blown in our faces, and contained so much salt that my eyes began to smart painfully. thereupon i followed them at an equal rate of speed, and we left a long cloud of the accursed soil whirling behind us. presently, however, they fell to the rear, and continued to keep at some distance from us. the reason of this was soon explained. the path turned eastward, and we already saw a line of dusky green winding through the wilderness. this was the jordan, and the mountains beyond, the home of robber arabs, were close at hand. those robbers frequently cross the river and conceal themselves behind the sand-hills on this side. our brave escort was, therefore, inclined to put us forward as a forlorn-hope, and secure their own retreat in case of an attack. but as we were all well armed, and had never considered their attendance as anything more than a genteel way of buying them off from robbing us, we allowed them to lag as much as they chose. finally, as we approached the pilgrims' ford, one of them took his station at some distance from the river, on the top of a mound, while the other got behind some trees near at hand; in order, as they said, to watch the opposite hills, and alarm us whenever they should see any of the beni sukrs, or the beni adwams, or the tyakh, coming down upon us. the jordan at this point will not average more than ten yards in breadth. it flows at the bottom of a gully about fifteen feet deep, which traverses the broad valley in a most tortuous course. the water has a white, clayey hue, and is very swift. the changes of the current have formed islands and beds of soil here and there, which are covered with a dense growth of ash, poplar, willow, and tamarisk trees. the banks of the river are bordered with thickets, now overgrown with wild vines, and fragrant with flowering plants. birds sing continually in the cool, dark coverts of the trees. i found a singular charm in the wild, lonely, luxuriant banks, the tangled undergrowth, and the rapid, brawling course of the sacred stream, as it slipped in sight and out of sight among the trees. it is almost impossible to reach the water at any other point than the ford of the pilgrims, the supposed locality of the passage of the israelites and the baptism of christ. the plain near it is still blackened by the camp-fires of the ten thousand pilgrims who went down from jerusalem three weeks ago, to bathe. we tied our horses to the trees, and prepared to follow their example, which was necessary, if only to wash off the iniquitous slime of the dead sea. françois, in the meantime, filled two tin flasks from the stream and stowed them in the saddle-bags. the current was so swift, that one could not venture far without the risk of being carried away; but i succeeded in obtaining a complete and most refreshing immersion. the taint of gomorrah was not entirely washed away, but i rode off with as great a sense of relief as if the baptism had been a moral one, as well, and had purified me from sin. we rode for nearly two hours, in a north-west direction, to the bedouin village of rihah, near the site of ancient jericho. before reaching it, the gray salt waste vanishes, and the soil is covered with grass and herbs. the barren character of the first region is evidently owing to deposits from the vapors of the dead sea, as they are blown over the plain by the south wind. the channels of streams around jericho are filled with nebbuk trees, the fruit of which is just ripening. it is apparently indigenous, and grows more luxuriantly than on the white nile. it is a variety of the _rhamnus_, and is set down by botanists as the spina christi, of which the saviour's mock crown of thorns was made. i see no reason to doubt this, as the twigs are long and pliant, and armed with small, though most cruel, thorns. i had to pay for gathering some of the fruit, with a torn dress and bleeding fingers. the little apples which it bears are slightly acid and excellent for alleviating thirst. i also noticed on the plain a variety of the nightshade with large berries of a golden color. the spring flowers, so plentiful now in all other parts of palestine, have already disappeared from the valley of the jordan. rihah is a vile little village of tents and mud-huts, and the only relic of antiquity near it is a square tower, which may possibly be of the time of herod. there are a few gardens in the place, and a grove of superb fig-trees. we found our tent already pitched beside a rill which issues from the fountain of elisha. the evening was very sultry, and the musquitoes gave us no rest. we purchased some milk from an old man who came to the tent, but such was his mistrust of us that he refused to let us keep the earthen vessel containing it until morning. as we had already paid the money to his son, we would not let him take the milk away until he had brought the money back. he then took a dagger from his waist and threw it before us as security, while he carried off the vessel and returned the price. i have frequently seen the same mistrustful spirit exhibited in egypt. our two bedouins, to whom i gave some tobacco in the evening, manifested their gratitude by stealing the remainder of our stock during the night. this morning we followed the stream to its source, the fountain of elisha, so called as being probably that healed by the prophet. if so, the healing was scarcely complete. the water, which gushes up strong and free at the foot of a rocky mound, is warm and slightly brackish. it spreads into a shallow pool, shaded by a fine sycamore tree. just below, there are some remains of old walls on both sides, and the stream goes roaring away through a rank jungle of canes fifteen feet in height. the precise site of jericho, i believe, has not been fixed, but "the city of the palm trees," as it was called, was probably on the plain, near some mounds which rise behind the fountain. here there are occasional traces of foundation walls, but so ruined as to give no clue to the date of their erection. further towards the mountain there are some arches, which appear to be saracenic. as we ascended again into the hill-country, i observed several traces of cisterns in the bottoms of ravines, which collect the rains. herod, as is well known, built many such cisterns near jericho, where he had a palace. on the first crest, to which we climbed, there is part of a roman tower yet standing. the view, looking back over the valley of jordan, is magnificent, extending from the dead sea to the mountains of gilead, beyond the country of ammon. i thought i could trace the point where the river yabbok comes down from mizpeh of gilead to join the jordan. the wilderness we now entered was fully as barren, but less rugged than that through which we passed yesterday. the path ascended along the brink of a deep gorge, at the bottom of which a little stream foamed over the rocks. the high, bleak summits towards which we were climbing, are considered by some biblical geographers to be mount quarantana, the scene of christ's fasting and temptation. after two hours we reached the ruins of a large khan or hostlery, under one of the peaks, which françois stated to be the veritable "high mountain" whence the devil pointed out all the kingdoms of the earth. there is a cave in the rock beside the road, which the superstitious look upon as the orifice out of which his satanic majesty issued. we met large numbers of arab families, with their flocks, descending from the mountains to take up their summer residence near the jordan. they were all on foot, except the young children and goats, which were stowed together on the backs of donkeys. the men were armed, and appeared to be of the same tribe as our escort, with whom they had a good understanding. the morning was cold and cloudy, and we hurried on over the hills to a fountain in the valley of the brook kedron, where we breakfasted. before we had reached bethany a rain came down, and the sky hung dark and lowering over jerusalem, as we passed the crest of mount olivet. it still rains, and the filthy condition of the city exceeds anything i have seen, even in the orient. chapter v. the city of christ. modern jerusalem--the site of the city--mount zion--mount moriah--the temple--the valley of jehosaphat--the olives of gethsemane--the mount of olives--moslem tradition--panorama from the summit--the interior of the city--the population--missions and missionaries--christianity in jerusalem--intolerance--the jews of jerusalem--the face of christ--the church of the holy sepulchre--the holy of holies--the sacred localities--visions of christ--the mosque of omar--the holy man of timbuctoo--preparations for departure. "cut off thy hair, o jerusalem, and cast it away, and take up a lamentation in high places; for the lord hath rejected and forsaken the generation of his wrath."--jeremiah vii. . "here pilgrims roam, that strayed so far to seek in golgotha him dead, who lives in heaven." milton. jerusalem, _monday, may_ , . since travel is becoming a necessary part of education, and a journey through the east is no longer attended with personal risk, jerusalem will soon be as familiar a station on the grand tour as paris or naples. the task of describing it is already next to superfluous, so thoroughly has the topography of the city been laid down by the surveys of robinson and the drawings of roberts. there is little more left for biblical research. the few places which can be authenticated are now generally accepted, and the many doubtful ones must always be the subjects of speculation and conjecture. there is no new light which can remove the cloud of uncertainties wherein one continually wanders. yet, even rejecting all these with the most skeptical spirit, there still remains enough to make the place sacred in the eyes of every follower of christ. the city stands on the ancient site; the mount of olives looks down upon it; the foundations of the temple of solomon are on mount moriah; the pool of siloam has still a cup of water for those who at noontide go down to the valley of jehosaphat; the ancient gate yet looketh towards damascus, and of the palace of herod, there is a tower which time and turk and crusader have spared. jerusalem is built on the summit ridge of the hill-country of palestine, just where it begins to slope eastward. not half a mile from the jaffa gate, the waters run towards the mediterranean. it is about , feet above the latter, and , feet above the dead sea, to which the descent is much more abrupt. the hill, or rather group of small mounts, on which jerusalem stands, slants eastward to the brink of the valley of jehosaphat, and the mount of olives rises opposite, from the sides and summit of which, one sees the entire city spread out like a map before him. the valley of hinnon, the bed of which is on a much higher level than that of jehosaphat, skirts the south-western and southern part of the walls, and drops into the latter valley at the foot of mount zion, the most southern of the mounts. the steep slope at the junction of the two valleys is the site of the city of the jebusites, the most ancient part of jerusalem. it is now covered with garden-terraces, the present wall crossing from mount zion on the south to mount moriah on the east. a little glen, anciently called the tyropeon, divides the mounts, and winds through to the damascus gate, on the north, though from the height of the walls and the position of the city, the depression which it causes in the mass of buildings is not very perceptible, except from the latter point, moriah is the lowest of the mounts, and hangs directly over the valley of jehosaphat. its summit was built up by solomon so as to form a quadrangular terrace, five hundred by three hundred yards in dimension. the lower courses of the grand wall, composed of huge blocks of gray conglomerate limestone, still remain, and there seems to be no doubt that they are of the time of solomon. some of the stones are of enormous size; i noticed several which were fifteen, and one twenty-two feet in length. the upper part of the wall was restored by sultan selim, the conqueror of egypt, and the level of the terrace now supports the great mosque of omar, which stands on the very site of the temple. except these foundation walls, the damascus gate and the tower of hippicus, there is nothing left of the ancient city. the length of the present wall of circumference is about two miles, but the circuit of jerusalem, in the time of herod, was probably double that distance. the best views of the city are from the mount of olives, and the hill north of it, whence titus directed the siege which resulted in its total destruction. the crusaders under godfrey of bouillon encamped on the same hill. my first walk after reaching here, was to the summit of the mount of olives. not far from the hotel we came upon the via dolorosa, up which, according to catholic tradition, christ toiled with the cross upon his shoulders. i found it utterly impossible to imagine that i was walking in the same path, and preferred doubting the tradition. an arch is built across the street at the spot where they say he was shown to the populace. (_ecce homo_.) the passage is steep and rough, descending to st. stephen's gate by the governor's palace, which stands on the site of the house of pontius pilate. here, in the wall forming the northern part of the foundation of the temple, there are some very fine remains of ancient workmanship. from the city wall, the ground descends abruptly to the valley of jehosaphat. the turkish residents have their tombs on the city side, just under the terrace of the mosque, while thousands of jews find a peculiar beatitude in having themselves interred on the opposite slope of the mount of olives, which is in some places quite covered with their crumbling tombstones. the bed of the brook kedron is now dry and stony. a sort of chapel, built in the bottom of the valley, is supposed by the greeks to cover the tomb of the virgin--a claim which the latins consider absurd. near this, at the very foot of the mount of olives, the latter sect have lately built a high stone wall around the garden of gethsemane, for the purpose, apparently, of protecting the five aged olives. i am ignorant of the grounds wherefore gethsemane is placed here. most travellers have given their faith to the spot, but dr. robinson, who is more reliable than any amount of mere tradition, does not coincide with them. the trees do not appear as ancient as some of those at the foot of mount carmel, which are supposed to date from the roman colony established by titus. moreover, it is well known that at the time of the taking of jerusalem by that emperor, all the trees, for many miles around, were destroyed. the olive-trees, therefore, cannot be those under which christ rested, even supposing this to be the true site of gethseniane. the mount of olives is a steep and rugged hill, dominating over the city and the surrounding heights. it is still covered with olive orchards, and planted with patches of grain, which do not thrive well on the stony soil. on the summit is a mosque, with a minaret attached, which affords a grand panoramic view. as we reached it, the chief of the college of dervishes, in the court of the mosque of omar, came out with a number of attendants. he saluted us courteously, which would not have been the case had he been the superior of the latin convent, and we greek monks. there were some turkish ladies in the interior of the mosque, so that we could not gain admittance, and therefore did not see the rock containing the foot-prints of christ, who, according to moslem tradition, ascended to heaven from this spot. the mohammedans, it may not be generally known, accept the history of christ, except his crucifixion, believing that he passed to heaven without death, another person being crucified in his stead. they call him the _roh-allah,_ or spirit of god, and consider him, after mahomet, as the holiest of the prophets. we ascended to the gallery of the minaret. the city lay opposite, so fairly spread out to our view that almost every house might be separately distinguished. it is a mass of gray buildings, with dome-roofs, and but for the mosques of omar and el aksa, with the courts and galleries around them, would be exceedingly tame in appearance. the only other prominent points are the towers of the holy sepulchre, the citadel, enclosing herod's tower, and the mosque on mount zion. the turkish wall, with its sharp angles, its square bastions, and the long, embrasured lines of its parapet, is the most striking feature of the view. stony hills stretch away from the city on all sides, at present cheered with tracts of springing wheat, but later in the season, brown and desolate. in the south, the convent of st. elias is visible, and part of the little town of bethlehem. i passed to the eastern side of the gallery, and looking thence, deep down among the sterile mountains, beheld a long sheet of blue water, its southern extremity vanishing in a hot, sulphury haze. the mountains of ammon and moab, which formed the background of my first view of jerusalem, leaned like a vast wall against the sky, beyond the mysterious sea and the broad valley of the jordan. the great depression of this valley below the level of the mediterranean gives it a most remarkable character. it appears even deeper than is actually the case, and resembles an enormous chasm or moat, separating two different regions of the earth. the _khamseen_ was blowing from the south, from out the deserts of edom, and threw its veil of fiery vapor over the landscape. the muezzin pointed out to me the location of jericho, of kerak in moab, and es-salt in the country of ammon. ere long the shadow of the minaret denoted noon, and, placing his hands on both sides of his mouth, he cried out, first on the south side, towards mecca, and then to the west, and north, and east: "god is great: there is no god but god, and mohammed is his prophet! let us prostrate ourselves before him: and to him alone be the glory!" jerusalem, internally, gives no impression but that of filth, ruin, poverty, and degradation. there are two or three streets in the western or higher portion of the city which are tolerably clean, but all the others, to the very gates of the holy sepulchre, are channels of pestilence. the jewish quarter, which is the largest, so sickened and disgusted me, that i should rather go the whole round of the city walls than pass through it a second time. the bazaars are poor, compared with those of other oriental cities of the same size, and the principal trade seems to be in rosaries, both turkish and christian, crosses, seals, amulets, and pieces of the holy sepulchre. the population, which may possibly reach , , is apparently jewish, for the most part; at least, i have been principally struck with the hebrew face, in my walks. the number of jews has increased considerably within a few years, and there is also quite a number who, having been converted to protestantism, were brought hither at the expense of english missionary societies for the purpose of forming a protestant community. two of the hotels are kept by families of this class. it is estimated that each member of the community has cost the mission about £ , : a sum which would have christianized tenfold the number of english heathen. the mission, however, is kept up by its patrons, as a sort of religious luxury. the english have lately built a very handsome church within the walls, and the rev. dr. gobat, well known by his missionary labors in abyssinia, now has the title of bishop of jerusalem. a friend of his in central africa gave me a letter of introduction for him, and i am quite disappointed in finding him absent. dr. barclay, of virginia, a most worthy man in every respect, is at the head of the american mission here. there is, besides, what is called the "american colony," at the village of artos, near bethlehem: a little community of religious enthusiasts, whose experiments in cultivation have met with remarkable success, and are much spoken of at present. whatever good the various missions here may, in time, accomplish (at present, it does not amount to much), jerusalem is the last place in the world where an intelligent heathen would be converted to christianity. were i cast here, ignorant of any religion, and were i to compare the lives and practices of the different sects as the means of making my choice--in short, to judge of each faith by the conduct of its professors--i should at once turn mussulman. when you consider that in the holy sepulchre there are _nineteen_ chapels, each belonging to a different sect, calling itself christian, and that a turkish police is always stationed there to prevent the bloody quarrels which often ensue between them, you may judge how those who call themselves followers of the prince of peace practice the pure faith he sought to establish. between the greek and latin churches, especially, there is a deadly feud, and their contentions are a scandal, not only to the few christians here, but to the moslems themselves. i believe there is a sort of truce at present, owing to the settlement of some of the disputes--as, for instance, the restoration of the silver star, which the greeks stole from the shrine of the nativity, at bethlehem. the latins, however, not long since, demolished, _vi et armis_, a chapel which the greeks commenced building on mount zion. but, if the employment of material weapons has been abandoned for the time, there is none the less a war of words and of sounds still going on. go into the holy sepulchre, when mass is being celebrated, and you can scarcely endure the din. no sooner does the greek choir begin its shrill chant, than the latins fly to the assault. they have an organ, and terribly does that organ strain its bellows and labor its pipes to drown the rival singing. you think the latins will carry the day, when suddenly the cymbals of the abyssinians strike in with harsh brazen clang, and, for the moment, triumph. then there are copts, and maronites, and armenians, and i know not how many other sects, who must have their share; and the service that should be a many-toned harmony pervaded by one grand spirit of devotion, becomes a discordant orgie, befitting the rites of belial. a long time ago--i do not know the precise number of years--the sultan granted a firman, in answer to the application of both jews and christians, allowing the members of each sect to put to death any person belonging to the other sect, who should be found inside of their churches or synagogues. the firman has never been recalled, though in every place but jerusalem it remains a dead letter. here, although the jews freely permit christians to enter their synagogue, a jew who should enter the holy sepulchre would be lucky if he escaped with his life. not long since, an english gentleman, who was taken by the monks for a jew, was so severely beaten that he was confined to his bed for two months. what worse than scandal, what abomination, that the spot looked upon by so many christians as the most awfully sacred on earth, should be the scene of such brutish intolerance! i never pass the group of turkish officers, quietly smoking their long pipes and sipping their coffee within the vestibule of the church, without a feeling of humiliation. worse than the money-changers whom christ scourged out of the temple, the guardians of this edifice make use of his crucifixion and resurrection as a means of gain. you may buy a piece of the stone covering the holy sepulchre, duly certified by the greek patriarch of jerusalem, for about $ . at bethlehem, which i visited this morning, the latin monk who showed us the manger, the pit where , innocents were buried, and other things, had much less to say of the sacredness or authenticity of the place, than of the injustice of allowing the greeks a share in its possession. the native jewish families in jerusalem, as well as those in other parts of palestine, present a marked difference to the jews of europe and america. they possess the same physical characteristics--the dark, oblong eye, the prominent nose, the strongly-marked cheek and jaw--but in the latter, these traits have become harsh and coarse. centuries devoted to the lowest and most debasing forms of traffic, with the endurance of persecution and contumely, have greatly changed and vulgarized the appearance of the race. but the jews of the holy city still retain a noble beauty, which proved to my mind their descent from the ancient princely houses of israel the forehead is loftier, the eye larger and more frank in its expression, the nose more delicate in its prominence, and the face a purer oval. i have remarked the same distinction in the countenances of those jewish families of europe, whose members have devoted themselves to art or literature. mendelssohn's was a face that might have belonged to the house of david. on the evening of my arrival in the city, as i set out to walk through the bazaars, i encountered a native jew, whose face will haunt me for the rest of my life. i was sauntering slowly along, asking myself "is this jerusalem?" when, lifting my eyes, they met those of christ! it was the very face which raphael has painted--the traditional features of the saviour, as they are recognised and accepted by all christendom. the waving brown hair, partly hidden by a jewish cap, fell clustering about the ears; the face was the most perfect oval, and almost feminine in the purity of its outline; the serene, child-like mouth was shaded with a light moustache, and a silky brown beard clothed the chin; but the eyes--shall i ever look into such orbs again? large, dark, unfathomable, they beamed with an expression of divine love and divine sorrow, such as i never before saw in human face. the man had just emerged from a dark archway, and the golden glow of the sunset, reflected from a white wall above, fell upon his face. perhaps it was this transfiguration which made his beauty so unearthly; but, during the moment that i saw him, he was to me a revelation of the saviour. there are still miracles in the land of judah. as the dusk gathered in the deep streets, i could see nothing but the ineffable sweetness and benignity of that countenance, and my friend was not a little astonished, if not shocked, when i said to him, with the earnestness of belief, on my return: "i have just seen christ." i made the round of the holy sepulchre on sunday, while the monks were celebrating the festival of the invention of the cross, in the chapel of the empress helena. as the finding of the cross by the empress is almost the only authority for the places inclosed within the holy sepulchre, i went there inclined to doubt their authenticity, and came away with my doubt vastly strengthened. the building is a confused labyrinth of chapels, choirs, shrines, staircases, and vaults--without any definite plan or any architectural beauty, though very rich in parts and full of picturesque effects. golden lamps continually burn before the sacred places, and you rarely visit the church without seeing some procession of monks, with crosses, censers, and tapers, threading the shadowy passages, from shrine to shrine it is astonishing how many localities are assembled under one roof. at first, you are shown, the stone on which christ rested from the burden of the cross; then, the place where the soldiers cast lots for his garments, both of them adjoining the sepulchre. after seeing this, you are taken to the pillar of flagellation; the stocks; the place of crowning with thorns; the spot where he met his mother; the cave where the empress helena found the cross; and, lastly, the summit of mount calvary. the sepulchre is a small marble building in the centre of the church. we removed our shoes at the entrance, and were taken by a greek monk, first into a sort of ante-chamber, lighted with golden lamps, and having in the centre, inclosed in a case of marble, the stone on which the angel sat. stooping through a low door, we entered the sepulchre itself. forty lamps of gold burn unceasingly above the white marble slab, which, as the monks say, protects the stone whereon the body of christ was laid. as we again emerged, our guide led us up a flight of steps to a second story, in which stood a shrine, literally blazing with gold. kneeling on the marble floor, he removed a golden shield, and showed us the hole in the rock of calvary, where the cross was planted. close beside it was the fissure produced by the earthquake which followed the crucifixion. but, to my eyes, aided by the light of the dim wax taper, it was no violent rupture, such as an earthquake would produce, and the rock did not appear to be the same as that of which jerusalem is built. as we turned to leave, a monk appeared with a bowl of sacred rose-water, which he sprinkled on our hands, bestowing a double portion on a rosary of sandal-wood which i carried but it was a mohammedan rosary, brought from mecca, and containing the sacred number of ninety-nine beads. i have not space here to state all the arguments for and against the localities in the holy sepulchre, i came to the conclusion that none of them were authentic, and am glad to have the concurrence of such distinguished authority as dr. robinson. so far from this being a matter of regret, i, for one, rejoice that those sacred spots are lost to the world. christianity does not need them, and they are spared a daily profanation in the name of religion. we know that christ has walked on the mount of olives, and gone down to the pool of siloam, and tarried in bethany; we know that here, within the circuit of our vision, he has suffered agony and death, and that from this little point went out all the light that has made the world greater and happier and better in its later than in its earlier days. yet, i must frankly confess, in wandering through this city--revered alike by christians, jews and turks as one of the holiest in the world--i have been reminded of christ, the man, rather, than of christ, the god. in the glory which overhangs palestine afar off, we imagine emotions which never come, when we tread the soil and walk over the hallowed sites. as i toiled up the mount of olives, in the very footsteps of christ, panting with the heat and the difficult ascent, i found it utterly impossible to conceive that the deity, in human form, had walked there before me. and even at night, as i walk on the terraced roof, while the moon, "the balmy moon of blessed israel," restores the jerusalem of olden days to my imagination, the saviour who then haunts my thoughts is the man jesus, in those moments of trial when he felt the weaknesses of our common humanity; in that agony of struggle in the garden of gethsemane, in that still more bitter cry of human doubt and human appeal from the cross: "my god, my god, why hast thou forsaken me!" yet there is no reproach for this conception of the character of christ. better the divinely-inspired man, the purest and most perfect of his race, the pattern and type of all that is good and holy in humanity, than the deity for whose intercession we pray, while we trample his teachings under our feet. it would be well for many christian sects, did they keep more constantly before their eyes the sublime humanity of christ. how much bitter intolerance and persecution might be spared the world, if, instead of simply adoring him as a divine mediator, they would strive to walk the ways he trod on earth. but christianity is still undeveloped, and there is yet no sect which represents its fall and perfect spirit. it is my misfortune if i give offence by these remarks. i cannot assume emotions i do not feel, and must describe jerusalem as i found it. since being here, i have read the accounts of several travellers, and in many cases the devotional rhapsodies--the ecstacies of awe and reverence--in which they indulge, strike me as forced and affected. the pious writers have described what was expected of them, not what they found. it was partly from reading such accounts that my anticipations were raised too high, for the view of the city from the jaffa road and the panorama from the mount of olives are the only things wherein i have been pleasantly disappointed. by far the most interesting relic left to the city is the foundation wall of solomon's temple. the mosque of omar, according to the accounts of the turks, and mr. gather wood's examination, rests on immense vaults, which are believed to be the substructions of the temple itself. under the dome of the mosque there is a large mass of natural rock, revered by the moslems as that from which mahomet mounted the beast borak when he visited the seven heavens, and believed by mr. catherwood to have served as part of the foundation of the holy of holies. no christian is allowed to enter the mosque, or even its enclosure, on penalty of death, and even the firman of the sultan has failed to obtain admission for a frank. i have been strongly tempted to make the attempt in my egyptian dress, which happens to resemble that of a mollah or moslem priest, but the dervishes in the adjoining college have sharp eyes, and my pronunciation of arabic would betray me in case i was accosted. i even went so far as to buy a string of the large beads usually carried by a mollah, but unluckily i do not know the moslem form of prayer, or i might carry out the plan under the guise of religious abstraction. this morning we succeeded in getting a nearer view of the mosque from the roof of the governor's palace. françois, by assuming the character of a turkish _cawass,_ gained us admission. the roof overlooks the entire enclosure of the haram, and gives a complete view of the exterior of the mosque and the paved court surrounding it. there is no regularity in the style of the buildings in the enclosure, but the general effect is highly picturesque. the great dome of the mosque is the grandest in all the orient, but the body of the edifice, made to resemble an octagonal tent, and covered with blue and white tiles, is not high enough to do it justice. the first court is paved with marble, and has four porticoes, each of five light saracenic arches, opening into the green park, which occupies the rest of the terrace. this park is studded with cypress and fig trees, and dotted all over with the tombs of shekhs. as we were looking down on the spacious area, behold! who should come along but shekh mohammed senoosee, the holy man of timbuctoo, who had laid off his scarlet robe and donned a green one. i called down to him, whereupon he looked up and recognised us. for this reason i regret our departure from jerusalem, as i am sure a little persuasion would induce the holy man to accompany me within the mosque. we leave to-morrow for damascus, by way of nazareth and tiberius. my original plan was to have gone to djerash, the ancient geraza, in the land of gilead, and thence to bozrah, in djebel hauaran. but djebel adjeloun, as the country about djerash is called, is under a powerful bedouin shekh, named abd-el azeez, and without an escort from him, which involves considerable delay and a fee of $ , it would be impossible to make the journey. we are therefore restricted to the ordinary route, and in case we should meet with any difficulty by the way, mr. smith, the american consul, who is now here, has kindly procured us a firman from the pasha of jerusalem. all the travellers here are making preparations to leave, but there are still two parties in the desert. chapter vi. the hill-country of palestine. leaving jerusalem--the tombs of the kings--el bireh--the hill-country--first view of mount hermon--the tomb of joseph--ebal and gerizim--the gardens of nablous--the samaritans--the sacred book--a scene in the synagogue--mentoi and telemachus--ride to samaria--the ruins of sebaste--scriptural landscapes--halt at genin--the plain of esdraelon--palestine and california--the hills of nazareth--accident--fra joachim--the church of the virgin--the shrine of the annunciation--the holy places. "blest land of judea! thrice hallowed of song, where the holiest of memories pilgrim-like throng: in the shade of thy palms, by the shores of thy sea, on the hills of thy beauty, my heart is with thee!" j. g. whittier. latin convent, nazareth, _friday may_ , . we left jerusalem by the jaffa gate, because within a few months neither travellers nor baggage are allowed to pass the damascus gate, on account of smuggling operations having been carried on there. not far from the city wall there is a superb terebinth tree, now in the full glory of its shining green leaves. it appears to be bathed in a perpetual dew; the rounded masses of foliage sparkle and glitter in the light, and the great spreading boughs flood the turf below with a deluge of delicious shade. a number of persons were reclining on the grass under it, and one of them, a very handsome christian boy, spoke to us in italian and english. i scarcely remember a brighter and purer day than that of our departure. the sky was a sheet of spotless blue; every rift and scar of the distant hills was retouched with a firmer pencil, and all the outlines, blurred away by the haze of the previous few days, were restored with wonderful distinctness. the temperature was hot, but not sultry, and the air we breathed was an elixir of immortality. through a luxuriant olive grove we reached the tombs of the kings, situated in a small valley to the north of the city. part of the valley, if not the whole of it, has been formed by quarrying away the crags of marble and conglomerate limestone for building the city. near the edge of the low cliffs overhanging it, there are some illustrations of the ancient mode of cutting stone, which, as well as the custom of excavating tombs in the rock, was evidently borrowed from egypt. the upper surface of the rocks, was first made smooth, after which the blocks were mapped out and cut apart by grooves chiselled between them. i visited four or five tombs, each of which had a sort of vestibule or open portico in front. the door was low, and the chambers which i entered, small and black, without sculptures of any kind. the tombs bear some resemblance in their general plan to those of thebes, except that they are without ornaments, either sculptured or painted. there are fragments of sarcophagi in some of them. on the southern side of the valley is a large quarry, evidently worked for marble, as the blocks have been cut out from below, leaving a large overhanging mass, part of which has broken off and fallen down. some pieces which i picked up were of a very fine white marble, somewhat resembling that of carrara. the opening of the quarry made a striking picture, the soft pink hue of the weather-stained rock contrasting exquisitely with the vivid green of the vines festooning the entrance. from the long hill beyond the tombs, we took our last view of jerusalem, far beyond whose walls i saw the church of the nativity, at bethlehem. the jewish synagogue on the top of the mountain called nebbee samwil, the highest peak in palestine, was visible at some distance to the west. notwithstanding its sanctity, i felt little regret at leaving jerusalem, and cheerfully took the rough road northward, over the stony hills. there were few habitations in sight, yet the hill-sides were cultivated, wherever it was possible for anything to grow. the wheat was just coming into head, and the people were at work, planting maize. after four hours' ride, we reached el bireh, a little village on a hill, with the ruins of a convent and a large khan. the place takes its name from a fountain of excellent water, beside which we found our tents already pitched. in the evening, two englishmen, an ancient mentor, with a wild young telemachus in charge, arrived, and camped near us. the night was calm and cool, and the full moon poured a flood of light over the bare and silent hills. we rose long before sunrise, and rode off in the brilliant morning--the sky unstained by a speck of vapor. in the valley, beyond el bireh, the husbandmen were already at their ploughs, and the village boys were on their way to the uncultured parts of the hills, with their flocks of sheep and goats. the valley terminated in a deep gorge, with perpendicular walls of rock on either side. our road mounted the hill on the eastern side, and followed the brink of the precipice through the pass, where an enchanting landscape opened upon us. the village of yebrood crowned a hill which rose opposite, and the mountain slopes leaning towards it on all sides were covered with orchards of fig trees; and either rustling with wheat or cleanly ploughed for maize. the soil was a dark brown loam, and very rich. the stones have been laboriously built into terraces; and, even where heavy rocky boulders almost hid the soil, young fig and olive trees were planted in the crevices between them. i have never seen more thorough and patient cultivation. in the crystal of the morning air, the very hills laughed with plenty, and the whole landscape beamed with the signs of gladness on its countenance. the site of ancient bethel was not far to the right of our road. over hills laden with the olive, fig, and vine, we passed to ain el-haramiyeh, or the fountain of the bobbers. here there are tombs cut in the rock on both sides of the valley. over another ridge, we descended to a large, bowl-shaped valley, entirely covered with wheat, and opening eastward towards the jordan. thence to nablous (the shechem of the old and sychar of the new testament) is four hours through a winding dell of the richest harvest land; on the way, we first caught sight of the snowy top of mount hermon, distant at least eighty miles in a straight line. before reaching nablous, i stopped to drink at a fountain of clear and sweet water, beside a square pile of masonry, upon which sat two moslem dervishes. this, we were told, was the tomb of joseph, whose body, after having accompanied the israelites in all their wanderings, was at last deposited near shechem. there is less reason to doubt this spot than most of the sacred places of palestine, for the reason that it rests, not on christian, but on jewish tradition. the wonderful tenacity with which the jews cling to every record or memento of their early history, and the fact that from the time of joseph a portion of them have always lingered near the spot, render it highly probable that the locality of a spot so sacred should have been preserved from generation to generation to the present time. it has been recently proposed to open this tomb, by digging under it from the side. if the body of joseph was actually deposited here, there are, no doubt, some traces of it remaining. it must have been embalmed, according to the egyptian custom, and placed in a coffin of the indian sycamore, the wood of which is so nearly incorruptible, that thirty-five centuries would not suffice for its decomposition. the singular interest of such a discovery would certainly justify the experiment. not far from the tomb is jacob's well, where christ met the woman of samaria. this place is also considered as authentic, for the same reasons. if not wholly convincing to all, there is, at least, so much probability in them that one is freed from that painful coldness and incredulity with which he beholds the sacred shows of jerusalem. leaving the tomb of joseph, the road turned to the west, and entered the narrow pass between mounts ebal and gerizim. the former is a steep, barren peak, clothed with terraces of cactus, standing on the northern side of the pass. mount gerizim is cultivated nearly to the top, and is truly a mountain of blessing, compared with its neighbor. through an orchard of grand old olive-trees, we reached nablous, which presented a charming picture, with its long mass of white, dome-topped stone houses, stretching along the foot of gerizim through a sea of bowery orchards. the bottom of the valley resembles some old garden run to waste. abundant streams, poured from the generous heart of the mount of blessing, leap and gurgle with pleasant noises through thickets of orange, fig, and pomegranate, through bowers of roses and tangled masses of briars and wild vines. we halted in a grove of olives, and, after our tent was pitched, walked upward through the orchards to the ras-el-ain (promontory of the fountain), on the side of mount gerizim. a multitude of beggars sat at the city gate; and, as they continued to clamor after i had given sufficient alms, i paid them with "_allah deelek_!"--(god give it to you!)--the moslem's reply to such importunity--and they ceased in an instant. this exclamation, it seems, takes away from them the power of demanding a second time. from under the ras-el-ain gushes forth the fountain of honey, so called from the sweetness and purity of the water. we drank of it, and i found the taste very agreeable, but my companion declared that it had an unpleasant woolly flavor. when we climbed a little higher, we found that the true source from which the fountain is supplied was above, and that an arab was washing a flock of sheep in it! we continued our walk along the side of the mountain to the other end of the city, through gardens of almond, apricot, prune, and walnut-trees, bound each to each by great vines, whose heavy arms they seemed barely able to support. the interior of the town is dark and filthy; but it has a long, busy bazaar extending its whole length, and a café, where we procured the best coffee in syria. nablous is noted for the existence of a small remnant of the ancient samaritans. the stock has gradually dwindled away, and amounts to only forty families, containing little more than a hundred and fifty individuals. they live in a particular quarter of the city, and are easily distinguished from the other inhabitants by the cast of their features. after our guide, a native of nablous, had pointed out three or four, i had no difficulty in recognising all the others we met. they have long, but not prominent noses, like the jews; small, oblong eyes, narrow lips, and fair complexions, most of them having brown hair. they appear to be held in considerable obloquy by the moslems. our attendant, who was of the low class of arabs, took the boys we met very unceremoniously by the head, calling out: "here is another samaritan!" he then conducted us to their synagogue, to see the celebrated pentateuch, which is there preserved. we were taken to a small, open court, shaded by an apricot-tree, where the priest, an old man in a green robe and white turban, was seated in meditation. he had a long grey beard, and black eyes, that lighted up with a sudden expression of eager greed when we promised him backsheesh for a sight of the sacred book. he arose and took us into a sort of chapel, followed by a number of samaritan boys. kneeling down at a niche in the wall, he produced from behind a wooden case a piece of ragged parchment, written with hebrew characters. but the guide was familiar with this deception, and rated him so soundly that, after a little hesitation, he laid the fragment away, and produced a large tin cylinder, covered with a piece of green satin embroidered in gold. the boys stooped down and reverently kissed the blazoned cover, before it was removed. the cylinder, sliding open by two rows of hinges, opened at the same time the parchment scroll, which was rolled at both ends. it was, indeed, a very ancient manuscript, and in remarkable preservation. the rents have been carefully repaired and the scroll neatly stitched upon another piece of parchment, covered on the outside with violet satin. the priest informed me that it was written by the son of aaron; but this does not coincide with the fact that the samaritan pentateuch is different from that of the jews. it is, however, no doubt one of the oldest parchment records in the world, and the samaritans look upon it with unbounded faith and reverence. the pentateuch, according to their version, contains their only form of religion. they reject everything else which the old testament contains. three or four days ago was their grand feast of sacrifice, when they made a burnt offering of a lamb, on the top of mount gerizim. within a short time, it is said they have shown some curiosity to become acquainted with the new testament, and the high priest sent to jerusalem to procure arabic copies. i asked one of the wild-eyed boys whether he could read the sacred book. "oh, yes," said the priest, "all these boys can read it;" and the one i addressed immediately pulled a volume from his breast, and commenced reading in fluent hebrew. it appeared to be a part of their church service, for both the priest and _boab_, or door-keeper, kept up a running series of responses, and occasionally the whole crowd shouted out some deep-mouthed word in chorus. the old man leaned forward with an expression as fixed and intense as if the text had become incarnate in him, following with his lips the sound of the boy's voice. it was a strange picture of religious enthusiasm, and was of itself sufficient to convince me of the legitimacy of the samaritan's descent. when i rose to leave i gave him the promised fee, and a smaller one to the boy who read the service. this was the signal for a general attack from the door-keeper and all the boys who were present. they surrounded me with eyes sparkling with the desire of gain, kissed the border of my jacket, stroked my beard coaxingly with their hands, which they then kissed, and, crowding up with a boisterous show of affection, were about to fall on my neck in a heap, after the old hebrew fashion. the priest, clamorous for more, followed with glowing face, and the whole group had a riotous and bacchanalian character, which i should never have imagined could spring from such a passion as avarice. on returning to our camp, we found mentor and telemachus arrived, but not on such friendly terms as their greek prototypes. we were kept awake for a long time that night by their high words, and the first sound i heard the next morning came from their tent. telemachus, i suspect, had found some island of calypso, and did not relish the cold shock of the plunge into the sea, by which mentor had forced him away. he insisted on returning to jerusalem, but as mentor would not allow him a horse, he had not the courage to try it on foot. after a series of altercations, in which he took a pistol to shoot the dragoman, and applied very profane terms to everybody in the company, his wrath dissolved into tears, and when we left, mentor had decided to rest a day at nablous, and let him recover from the effects of the storm. we rode down the beautiful valley, taking the road to sebaste (samaria), while our luggage-mules kept directly over the mountains to jenin. our path at first followed the course of the stream, between turfy banks and through luxuriant orchards. the whole country we overlooked was planted with olive-trees, and, except the very summits of the mountains, covered with grain-fields. for two hours our course was north-east, leading over the hills, and now and then dipping into beautiful dells. in one of these a large stream gushes from the earth in a full fountain, at the foot of a great olive-tree. the hill-side above it was a complete mass of foliage, crowned with the white walls of a syrian village. descending the valley, which is very deep, we came in sight of samaria, situated on the summit of an isolated hill. the sanctuary of the ancient christian church of st. john towers high above the mud walls of the modern village. riding between olive-orchards and wheat-fields of glorious richness and beauty, we passed the remains of an acqueduct, and ascended the hill the ruins of the church occupy the eastern summit. part of them have been converted into a mosque, which the christian foot is not allowed to profane. the church, which is in the byzantine style, is apparently of the time of the crusaders. it had originally a central and two side-aisles, covered with groined gothic vaults. the sanctuary is semi-circular, with a row of small arches, supported by double pillars. the church rests on the foundations of some much more ancient building--probably a temple belonging to the roman city. behind the modern village, the hill terminates in a long, elliptical mound, about one-third of a mile in length. we made the tour of it, and were surprised at finding a large number of columns, each of a single piece of marble. they had once formed a double colonnade, extending from the church to a gate on the western side of the summit. our native guide said they had been covered with an arch, and constituted a long market or bazaar--a supposition in which he may be correct. from the gate, which is still distinctly marked, we overlooked several deep valleys to the west, and over them all, the blue horizon of the mediterranean, south of cæsarea. on the northern side of the hill there are upwards of twenty more pillars standing, besides a number hurled down, and the remains of a quadrangular colonnade, on the side of the hill below. the total number of pillars on the summit cannot be less than one hundred, from twelve to eighteen feet in height. the hill is strewn, even to its base, with large hewn blocks and fragments of sculptured stone. the present name of the city was given to it by herod, and it must have been at that time a most stately and beautiful place. we descended to a valley on the east, climbed a long ascent, and after crossing the broad shoulder of a mountain beyond, saw below us a landscape even more magnificent than that of nablous. it was a great winding valley, its bottom rolling in waves of wheat and barley, while every hill-side, up to the bare rock, was mantled with groves of olive. the very summits which looked into this garden of israel, were green with fragrant plants--wild thyme and sage, gnaphalium and camomile. away to the west was the sea, and in the north-west the mountain chain of carmel. we went down to the gardens and pasture-land, and stopped to rest at the village of geba, which hangs on the side of the mountain. a spring of whitish but delicious water gushed out of the soil, in the midst of a fig orchard. the women passed us, going back and forth with tall water-jars on their heads. some herd-boys brought down a flock of black goats, and they were all given drink in a large wooden bowl. they were beautiful animals, with thick curved horns, white eyes, and ears a foot long. it was a truly biblical picture in every feature. beyond this valley we passed a circular basin, which has no outlet, so that in winter the bottom of it must be a lake. after winding among the hills an hour more, we came out upon the town of jenin, a turkish village, with a tall white minaret, at the head of the great plain of esdraelon. it is supposed to be the ancient jezreel, where the termagant jezebel was thrown out of the window. we pitched our tent in a garden near the town, under a beautiful mulberry tree, and, as the place is in very bad repute, engaged a man to keep guard at night. an english family was robbed there two or three weeks ago. our guard did his duty well, pacing back and forth, and occasionally grounding his musket to keep up his courage by the sound. in the evening, françois caught a chameleon, a droll-looking little creature, which changed color in a marvellous manner. our road, next day, lay directly across the plain of esdraelon, one of the richest districts in the world. it is now a green sea, covered with fields of wheat and barley, or great grazing tracts, on which multitudes of sheep and goats are wandering. in some respects it reminded me of the valley of san josé, and if i were to liken palestine to any other country i have seen, it would be california. the climate and succession of the seasons are the same, the soil is very similar in quality, and the landscapes present the same general features. here, in spring, the plains are covered with that deluge of floral bloom, which makes california seem a paradise. here there are the same picturesque groves, the same rank fields of wild oats clothing the mountain-sides, the same aromatic herbs impregnating the air with balm, and above all, the same blue, cloudless days and dewless nights. while travelling here, i am constantly reminded of our new syria on the pacific. towards noon, mount tabor separated itself from the chain of hills before us, and stood out singly, at the extremity of the plain. we watered our horses at a spring in a swamp, were some women were collected, beating with sticks the rushes they had gathered to make mats. after reaching the mountains on the northern side of the plain, an ascent of an hour and a-half, through a narrow glen, brought us to nazareth, which is situated in a cul-de-sac, under the highest peaks of the range. as we were passing a rocky part of the road, mr. harrison's horse fell with him and severely injured his leg. we were fortunately near our destination, and on reaching the latin convent, fra joachim, to whose surgical abilities the traveller's book bore witness, took him in charge. many others besides ourselves have had reason to be thankful for the good offices of the latin monks in palestine. i have never met with a class more kind, cordial, and genial. all the convents are bound to take in and entertain all applicants--of whatever creed or nation--for the space of three days. in the afternoon, fra joachim accompanied me to the church of the virgin, which is inclosed within the walls of the convent. it is built over the supposed site of the house in which the mother of christ was living, at the time of the angelic annunciation. under the high altar, a flight of steps leads down to the shrine of the virgin, on the threshold of the house, where the angel gabriel's foot rested, as he stood, with a lily in his hand, announcing the miraculous conception. the shrine, of white marble and gold, gleaming in the light of golden lamps, stands under a rough arch of the natural rock, from the side of which hangs a heavy fragment of a granite pillar, suspended, as the devout believe, by divine power. fra joachim informed me that, when the moslems attempted to obliterate all tokens of the holy place, this pillar was preserved by a miracle, that the locality might not be lost to the christians. at the same time, he said, the angels of god carried away the wooden house which stood at the entrance of the grotto; and, after letting it drop in marseilles, while they rested, picked it up again and set it down in loretto, where it still remains. as he said this, there was such entire, absolute belief in the good monk's eyes, and such happiness in that belief, that not for ten times the gold on the shrine would i have expressed a doubt of the story. he then bade me kneel, that i might see the spot where the angel stood, and devoutly repeated a paternoster while i contemplated the pure plate of snowy marble, surrounded with vases of fragrant flowers, between which hung cressets of gold, wherein perfumed oils were burning. all the decorations of the place conveyed the idea of transcendent purity and sweetness; and, for the first time in palestine, i wished for perfect faith in the spot. behind the shrine, there are two or three chambers in the rock, which served as habitations for the family of the virgin. a young christian nazarene afterwards conducted me to the house of joseph, the carpenter, which is now inclosed in a little chapel. it is merely a fragment of wall, undoubtedly as old as the time of christ, and i felt willing to consider it a genuine relic. there was an honest roughness about the large stones, inclosing a small room called the carpenter's shop, which i could not find it in my heart to doubt. besides, in a quiet country town like nazareth, which has never knows such vicissitudes as jerusalem, much more dependence can be placed on popular tradition. for the same reason, i looked with reverence on the table of christ, also inclosed within a chapel. this is a large, natural rock, about nine feet by twelve, nearly square, and quite flat on the top. it is said that it once served as a table for christ and his disciples. the building called the school of christ, where he went with other children of his age, is now a church of the syrian christians, who were performing a doleful mass, in arabic, at the time of my visit. it is a vaulted apartment, about forty feet long, and only the lower part of the wall is ancient. at each of these places, the nazarene put into my hand a piece of pasteboard, on which was printed a prayer in latin, italian, and arabic, with the information that whoever visited the place, and made the prayer, would be entitled to seven years' indulgence. i duly read all the prayers, and, accordingly, my conscience ought to be at rest for twenty-one years. chapter vii. the country of galilee. departure from nazareth--a christian guide--ascent of mount tabor--wallachian hermits--the panorama of tabor--ride to tiberias--a bath in genesareth--the flowers of galilee--the mount of beatitude--magdala--joseph's well--meeting with a turk--the fountain of the salt-works--the upper valley of the jordan--summer scenery--the rivers of lebanon--tell el-kadi--an arcadian region--the fountains of banias. "beyond are bethulia's mountains of green, and the desolate hills of the wild gadarene; and i pause on the goat-crags of tabor to see the gleam of thy waters, o dark galilee!"--whittier. banias (cæsarea philippi), _may_ , . we left nazareth on the morning of the th inst. my companion had done so well under the care of fra joachim that he was able to ride, and our journey was not delayed by his accident. the benedictions of the good franciscans accompanied us as we rode away from the convent, past the fountain of the virgin, and out of the pleasant little valley where the boy jesus wandered for many peaceful years. the christian guide we engaged for mount tabor had gone ahead, and we did not find him until we had travelled for more than two hours among the hills. as we approached the sacred mountain, we came upon the region of oaks--the first oak i had seen since leaving europe last autumn. there are three or four varieties, some with evergreen foliage, and in their wild luxuriance and the picturesqueness of their forms and groupings, they resemble those of california. the sea of grass and flowers in which they stood was sprinkled with thick tufts of wild oats--another point of resemblance to the latter country. but here, there is no gold; there, no sacred memories. the guide was waiting for us beside a spring, among the trees. he was a tall youth of about twenty, with a mild, submissive face, and wore the dark-blue turban, which appears to be the badge of a native syrian christian. i found myself involuntarily pitying him for belonging to a despised sect. there is no disguising the fact that one feels much more respect for the mussulman rulers of the east, than for their oppressed subjects who profess his own faith. the surest way to make a man contemptible is to treat him contemptuously, and the oriental christians, who have been despised for centuries, are, with some few exceptions, despicable enough. now, however, since the east has become a favorite field of travel, and the frank possesses an equal dignity with the moslem, the native christians are beginning to hold up their heads, and the return of self-respect will, in the course of time, make them respectable. mount tabor stands a little in advance of the hill-country, with which it is connected only by a low spur or shoulder, its base being the plain of esdraelon. this is probably the reason why it has been fixed upon as the place of the transfiguration, as it is not mentioned by name in the new testament. the words are: "an high mountain apart," which some suppose to refer to the position of the mountain, and not to the remoteness of christ and the three disciples from men. the sides of the mountain are covered with clumps of oak, hawthorn and other trees, in many places overrun with the white honeysuckle, its fingers dropping with odor of nutmeg and cloves. the ascent, by a steep and winding path, occupied an hour. the summit is nearly level, and resembles some overgrown american field, or "oak opening." the grass is more than knee-deep; the trees grow high and strong, and there are tangled thickets and bowers of vines without end. the eastern and highest end of the mountain is covered with the remains of an old fortress-convent, once a place of great strength, from the thickness of its walls. in a sort of cell formed among the ruins we found two monk-hermits. i addressed them in all languages of which i know a salutation, without effect, but at last made out that they were wallachians. they were men of thirty-five, with stupid faces, dirty garments, beards run to waste, and fur caps. their cell was a mere hovel, without furniture, except a horrid caricature of the virgin and child, and four books of prayers in the bulgarian character. one of them walked about knitting a stocking, and paid no attention to us; but the other, after giving us some deliciously cold water, got upon a pile of rubbish, and stood regarding us with open mouth while we took breakfast. so far from this being a cause of annoyance, i felt really glad that our presence had agitated the stagnant waters of his mind. the day was hazy and sultry, but the panoramic view from mount tabor was still very fine. the great plain of esdraelon lay below us like a vast mosaic of green and brown--jasper and verd-antique. on the west, mount carmel lifted his head above the blue horizon line of the mediterranean. turning to the other side, a strip of the sea of galilee glimmered deep down among the hills, and the ghor, or the valley of the jordan, stretched like a broad gash through them. beyond them, the country of djebel adjeloun, the ancient decapolis, which still holds the walls of gadara and the temples and theatres of djerash, faded away into vapor, and, still further to the south, the desolate hills of gilead, the home of jephthah. mount hermon is visible when the atmosphere is clear but we were not able to see it. from the top of mount tabor to tiberias, on the sea of galilee, is a journey of five hours, through a wild country, with but one single miserable village on the road. at first we rode through lonely dells, grown with oak and brilliant with flowers, especially the large purple mallow, and then over broad, treeless tracts of rolling land, but partially cultivated. the heat was very great; i had no thermometer, but should judge the temperature to have been at least ° in the shade. from the edge of the upland tract, we looked down on the sea of galilee--a beautiful sheet of water sunk among the mountains, and more than feet below the level of the mediterranean. it lay unruffled in the bottom of the basin, reflecting the peaks of the bare red mountains beyond it. tiberias was at our very feet, a few palm trees alone relieving the nakedness of its dull walls. after taking a welcome drink at the fountain of fig-trees, we descended to the town, which has a desolate and forlorn air. its walls have been partly thrown down by earthquakes, and never repaired. we found our tents already pitched on the bank above the lake, and under one of the tottering towers. not a breath of air was stirring; the red hills smouldered in the heat, and the waters of genesareth at our feet glimmered with an oily smoothness, unbroken by a ripple. we untwisted our turbans, kicked off our baggy trowsers, and speedily releasing ourselves from the barbarous restraints of dress, dipped into the tepid sea and floated lazily out until we could feel the exquisite coldness of the living springs which sent up their jets from the bottom. i was lying on my back, moving my fins just sufficiently to keep afloat, and gazing dreamily through half-closed eyes on the forlorn palms of tiberias, when a shrill voice hailed me with: "o howadji, get out of our way!" there, at the old stone gateway below our tent, stood two galilean damsels, with heavy earthen jars upon their heads. "go away yourselves, o maidens!" i answered, "if you want us to come out of the water." "but we must fill our pitchers," one of them replied. "then fill them at once, and be not afraid; or leave them, and we will fill them for you." thereupon they put the pitchers down, but remained watching us very complacently while we sank the vessels to the bottom of the lake, and let them fill from the colder and purer tide of the springs. in bringing them back through the water to the gate, the one i propelled before me happened to strike against a stone, and its fair owner, on receiving it, immediately pointed to a crack in the side, which she declared i had made, and went off lamenting. after we had resumed our garments, and were enjoying the pipe of indolence and the coffee of contentment, she returned and made such an outcry, that i was fain to purchase peace by the price of a new pitcher. i passed the first hours of-the night in looking out of my tent-door, as i lay, on the stars sparkling in the bosom of galilee, like the sheen of assyrian spears, and the glare of the great fires kindled on the opposite shore. the next day, we travelled northward along the lake, passing through continuous thickets of oleander, fragrant with its heavy pink blossoms. the thistles were more abundant and beautiful than ever. i noticed, in particular, one with a superb globular flower of a bright blue color, which would make a choice ornament for our gardens at home. at the north-western head of the lake, the mountains fall back and leave a large tract of the richest meadow-land, which narrows away into a deep dell, overhung by high mountain headlands, faced with naked cliffs of red rock. the features of the landscape are magnificent. up the dell, i saw plainly the mount of beatitude, beyond which lies the village of cana of galilee. in coming up the meadow, we passed a miserable little village of thatched mud huts, almost hidden by the rank weeds which grew around them. a withered old crone sat at one of the doors, sunning herself. "what is the name of this village?" i asked. "it is mejdel," was her reply. this was the ancient magdala, the home of that beautiful but sinful magdalene, whose repentance has made her one of the brightest of the saints. the crystal waters of the lake here lave a shore of the cleanest pebbles. the path goes winding through oleanders, nebbuks, patches of hollyhock, anise-seed, fennel, and other spicy plants, while, on the west, great fields of barley stand ripe for the cutting. in some places, the fellahs, men and women, were at work, reaping and binding the sheaves. after crossing this tract, we came to the hill, at the foot of which was a ruined khan, and on the summit, other undistinguishable ruins, supposed by some to be those of capernaum. the site of that exalted town, however, is still a matter of discussion. we journeyed on in a most sweltering atmosphere over the ascending hills, the valley of the upper jordan lying deep on our right. in a shallow hollow, under one of the highest peaks, there stands a large deserted khan; over a well of very cold; sweet water, called _bir youssuf_ by the arabs. somewhere near it, according to tradition, is the field where joseph was sold by his brethren; and the well is, no doubt, looked upon by many as the identical pit into which he was thrown. a stately turk of damascus, with four servants behind him, came riding up as we were resting in the gateway of the khan, and, in answer to my question, informed me that the well was so named from nebbee youssuf (the prophet joseph), and not from sultan joseph saladin. he took us for his countrymen, accosting me first in turkish, and, even after i had talked with him some time in bad arabic, asked me whether i had been making a pilgrimage to the tombs of certain holy moslem saints, in the neighborhood of jaffa. he joined company with us, however, and shared his pipe with me, as we continued our journey. we rode for two hours more over hills bare of trees, but covered thick with grass and herbs, and finally lost our way. françois went ahead, dashing through the fields of barley and lentils, and we reached the path again, as the waters of merom came in sight. we then descended into the valley of the upper jordan, and encamped opposite the lake, at ain el-mellaha (the fountain of the salt-works), the first source of the sacred river. a stream of water, sufficient to turn half-a-dozen mills, gushes and gurgles up at the foot of the mountain. there are the remains of an ancient dam, by which a large pool was formed for the irrigation of the valley. it still supplies a little arab mill below the fountain. this is a frontier post, between the jurisdictions of the pashas of jerusalem and damascus, and the _mukkairee_ of the greek caloyer, who left us at tiberias, was obliged to pay a duty of seven and a half piastres on fifteen mats, which he had bought at jerusalem for one and a half piastres each. the poor man will perhaps make a dozen piastres (about half a dollar) on these mats at damascus, after carrying them on his mule for more than two hundred miles. we pitched our tents on the grassy meadow below the mill--a charming spot, with tell el-khanzir (the hill of wild boars) just in front, over the waters of merom, and the snow-streaked summit of djebel esh-shekh--the great mount hermon--towering high above the valley. this is the loftiest peak of the anti-lebanon, and is , feet above the sea. the next morning, we rode for three hours before reaching the second spring of the jordan, at a place which françois called tell el-kadi, but which did not at all answer with the description given me by dr. robinson, at jerusalem. the upper part of the broad valley, whence the jordan draws his waters, is flat, moist, and but little cultivated. there are immense herds of sheep, goats, and buffaloes wandering over it. the people are a dark arab tribe, and live in tents and miserable clay huts. where the valley begins to slope upward towards the hills, they plant wheat, barley, and lentils. the soil is the fattest brown loam, and the harvests are wonderfully rich. i saw many tracts of wheat, from half a mile to a mile in extent, which would average forty bushels to the acre. yet the ground is never manured, and the arab plough scratches up but a few inches of the surface. what a paradise might be made of this country, were it in better hands! the second spring is not quite so large as ain el-mellaha but, like it, pours out a strong stream from a single source the pool was filled with women, washing the heavy fleeces of their sheep, and beating the dirt out of their striped camel's hair abas with long poles. we left it, and entered on a slope of stony ground, forming the head of the valley. the view extended southward, to the mountains closing the northern cove of the sea of galilee. it was a grand, rich landscape--so rich that its desolation seems forced and unnatural. high on the summit of a mountain to the west, the ruins of a large crusader fortress looked down upon us. the soil, which slowly climbs upward through a long valley between lebanon and anti-lebanon, is cut with deep ravines. the path is very difficult to find; and while we were riding forward at random, looking in all directions for our baggage mules, we started up a beautiful gazelle. at last, about noon, hot, hungry, and thirsty, we reached a swift stream, roaring at the bottom of a deep ravine, through a bed of gorgeous foliage. the odor of the wild grape-blossoms, which came up to us, as we rode along the edge, was overpowering in its sweetness. an old bridge of two arches crossed the stream. there was a pile of rocks against the central pier, and there we sat and took breakfast in the shade of the maples, while the cold green waters foamed at our feet. by all the naiads and tritons, what a joy there is in beholding a running stream! the rivers of lebanon are miracles to me, after my knowledge of the desert. a company of arabs, seven in all, were gathered under the bridge; and, from a flute which one of them blew, i judged they were taking a pastoral holiday. we kept our pistols beside us; for we did not like their looks. before leaving, they told us that the country was full of robbers, and advised us to be on the lookout. we rode more carefully, after this, and kept with our baggage on reaching it, an hour after leaving the bridge, we came to a large circular, or rather annular mound, overgrown with knee-deep grass and clumps of oak-trees. a large stream, of a bright blue color, gushed down the north side, and after half embracing the mound swept off across the meadows to the waters of merom. there could be no doubt that this was tell el-kadi, the site of dan, the most northern town of ancient israel. the mound on which it was built is the crater of an extinct volcano. the hebrew word _dan_ signifies "judge," and tell el-kadi, in arabic, is "the hill of the judge." the anti-lebanon now rose near us, its northern and western slopes green with trees and grass. the first range, perhaps , feet in height, shut out the snowy head of hermon; but still the view was sublime in its large and harmonious outlines. our road was through a country resembling arcadia--the earth hidden by a dense bed of grass and flowers; thickets of blossoming shrubs; old, old oaks, with the most gnarled of trunks, the most picturesque of boughs, and the glossiest of green leaves; olive-trees of amazing antiquity; and, threading and enlivening all, the clear-cold floods of lebanon. this was the true haunt of pan, whose altars are now before me, graven on the marble crags of hermon. looking on those altars, and on the landscape, lovely as a grecian dream, i forget that the lament has long been sung: "pan, pan is dead!" in another hour, we reached this place, the ancient cæsarea philippi, now a poor village, embowered in magnificent trees, and washed by glorious waters. there are abundant remains of the old city: fragments of immense walls; broken granite columns; traces of pavements; great blocks of hewn stone; marble pedestals, and the like. in the rock at the foot of the mountain, there are several elegant niches, with greek inscriptions, besides a large natural grotto. below them, the water gushes up through the stones, in a hundred streams, forming a flood of considerable size. we have made our camp in an olive grove near the end of the village, beside an immense terebinth tree, which is inclosed in an open court, paved with stone. this is the town-hall of banias, where the shekh dispenses justice, and at the same time, the resort of all the idlers of the place. we went up among them, soon after our arrival, and were given seats of honor near the shekh, who talked with me a long time about america. the people exhibit a very sensible curiosity, desiring to know the extent of our country, the number of inhabitants, the amount of taxation, the price of grain, and other solid information. the shekh and the men of the place inform us that the druses are infesting the road to damascus. this tribe is in rebellion in djebel hauaran, on account of the conscription, and some of them, it appears, have taken refuge in the fastnesses of hermon, where they are beginning to plunder travellers. while i was talking with the shekh, a druse came down from the mountains, and sat for half an hour among the villagers, under the terebinth, and we have just heard that he has gone back the way he came. this fact has given us some anxiety, as he may have been a spy sent down to gather news and, if so, we are almost certain to be waylaid. if we were well armed, we should not fear a dozen, but all our weapons consist of a sword and four pistols. after consulting together, we decided to apply to the shekh for two armed men, to accompany us. i accordingly went to him again, and exhibited the firman of the pasha of jerusalem, which he read, stating that, even without it, he would have felt it his duty to grant our request. this is the graceful way in which the orientals submit to a peremptory order. he thinks that one man will be sufficient, as we shall probably not meet with any large party. the day has been, and still is, excessively hot. the atmosphere is sweltering, and all around us, over the thick patches of mallow and wild mustard, the bees are humming with a continuous sultry sound. the shekh, with a number of lazy villagers, is still seated under the terebinth, in a tent of shade, impervious to the sun. i can hear the rush of the fountains of banias--the holy springs of hermon, whence jordan is born. but what is this? the odor of the velvety weed of shiraz meets my nostrils; a dark-eyed son of pan places the narghileh at my feet; and, bubbling more sweetly than the streams of jordan, the incense most dear to the god dims the crystal censer, and floats from my lips in rhythmic ejaculations. i, too, am in arcadia! chapter viii. crossing the anti-lebanon. the harmless guard--cæsarea philippi--the valley of the druses--the sides of mount hermon--an alarm--threading a defile--distant view of djebel hauaran--another alarm--camp at katana--we ride into damascus. damascus, _may_ , . we rose early, so as to be ready for a long march. the guard came--a mild-looking arab--without arms; but on our refusing to take him thus, he brought a turkish musket, terrible to behold, but quite guiltless of any murderous intent. we gave ourselves up to fate, with true arab-resignation, and began ascending the anti-lebanon. up and up, by stony paths, under the oaks, beside the streams, and between the wheat-fields, we climbed for two hours, and at last reached a comb or dividing ridge, whence we could look into a valley on the other side, or rather inclosed between the main chain and the offshoot named djebel heish, which stretches away towards the south-east. about half-way up the ascent, we passed the ruined acropolis of cæsarea philippi, crowning the summit of a lower peak. the walls and bastions cover a great extent of ground, and were evidently used as a stronghold in the middle ages. the valley into which we descended lay directly under one of the peaks of hermon and the rills that watered it were fed from his snow-fields. it was inhabited by druses, but no men were to be seen, except a few poor husbandmen, ploughing on the mountain-sides. the women, wearing those enormous horns on their heads which distinguish them from the mohammedan females, were washing at a pool below. we crossed the valley, and slowly ascended the height on the opposite side, taking care to keep with the baggage-mules. up to this time, we met very few persons; and we forgot the anticipated perils in contemplating the rugged scenery of the anti-lebanon. the mountain-sides were brilliant with flowers, and many new and beautiful specimens arrested our attention. the asphodel grew in bunches beside the streams, and the large scarlet anemone outshone even the poppy, whose color here is the quintessence of flame. five hours after leaving banias, we reached the highest part of the pass--a dreary volcanic region, covered with fragments of lava. just at this place, an old arab met us, and, after scanning us closely, stopped and accosted dervish. the latter immediately came running ahead, quite excited with the news that the old man had seen a company of about fifty druses descend from the sides of mount hermon, towards the road we were to travel. we immediately ordered the baggage to halt, and mr. harrison, françois, and myself rode on to reconnoitre. our guard, the valiant man of banias, whose teeth already chattered with fear, prudently kept with the baggage. we crossed the ridge and watched the stony mountain-sides for some time; but no spear or glittering gun-barrel could we see. the caravan was then set in motion; and we had not proceeded far before we met a second company of arabs, who informed us that the road was free. leaving the heights, we descended cautiously into a ravine with walls of rough volcanic rock on each side. it was a pass where three men might have stood their ground against a hundred; and we did not feel thoroughly convinced of our safety till we had threaded its many windings and emerged upon a narrow valley. a village called beit jenn nestled under the rocks; and below it, a grove of poplar-trees shaded the banks of a rapid stream. we had now fairly crossed the anti-lebanon. the dazzling snows of mount hermon overhung us on the west; and, from the opening of the valley, we looked across a wild, waste country, to the distant range of djebel hauaran, the seat of the present rebellion, and one of the most interesting regions of syria. i regretted more than ever not being able to reach it. the ruins of bozrah, ezra, and other ancient cities, would well repay the arduous character of the journey, while the traveller might succeed in getting some insight into the life and habits of that singular people, the druses. but now, and perhaps for some time to come, there is no chance of entering the hauaran. towards the middle of the afternoon, we reached a large village, which is usually the end of the first day's journey from banias. our men wanted to stop here, but we considered that to halt then would be to increase the risk, and decided to push on to katana, four hours' journey from damascus. they yielded with a bad grace; and we jogged on over the stony road, crossing the long hills which form the eastern base of the anti-lebanon. before long, another arab met us with the news that there was an encampment of druses on the plain between us and katana. at this, our guard, who had recovered sufficient spirit to ride a few paces in advance, fell back, and the impassive dervish became greatly agitated. where there is an uncertain danger, it is always better to go ahead than to turn back; and we did so. but the guard reined up on the top of the first ridge, trembling as he pointed to a distant hill, and cried out: _"ahò, ahò henàk!"_ (there they are!) there were, in fact, the shadows of some rocks, which bore a faint resemblance to tents. before sunset, we reached the last declivity of the mountains, and saw far in the dusky plain, the long green belt of the gardens of damascus, and here and there the indistinct glimmer of a minaret. katana, our resting-place for the night, lay below us, buried in orchards of olive and orange. we pitched our tents on the banks of a beautiful stream, enjoyed the pipe of tranquillity, after our long march, and soon forgot the druses, in a slumber that lasted unbroken till dawn. in the morning we sent back the man of banias, left the baggage to take care of itself, and rode on to damascus, as fast as our tired horses could carry us. the plain, at first barren and stony, became enlivened with vineyards and fields of wheat, as we advanced. arabs were everywhere at work, ploughing and directing the water-courses. the belt of living green, the bower in which the great city, the queen of the orient, hides her beauty, drew nearer and nearer, stretching out a crescent of foliage for miles on either hand, that gradually narrowed and received us into its cool and fragrant heart. we sank into a sea of olive, pomegranate, orange, plum, apricot, walnut, and plane trees, and were lost. the sun sparkled in the rolling surface above; but we swam through the green depths, below his reach, and thus, drifted on through miles of shade, entered the city. since our arrival, i find that two other parties of travellers, one of which crossed the anti-lebanon on the northern side of mount hermon, were obliged to take guards, and saw several druse spies posted on the heights, as they passed. a russian gentleman travelling from here to tiberias, was stopped three times on the road, and only escaped being plundered from the fact of his having a druse dragoman. the disturbances are more serious than i had anticipated. four regiments left here yesterday, sent to the aid of a company of cavalry, which is surrounded by the rebels in a valley of dejebel hauaran, and unable to get out. chapter ix. pictures of damascus. damascus from the anti-lebanon--entering the city--a diorama of bazaars--an oriental hotel--our chamber--the bazaars--pipes and coffee--the rivers of damascus--palaces of the jews--jewish ladies--a christian gentleman--the sacred localities--damascus blades--the sword of haroun al-raschid--an arrival from palmyra. "are not abana and pharpar, rivers of damascus, better than all the waters of israel?"-- kings, v. . damascus, _wednesday, may_ , . damascus is considered by many travellers as the best remaining type of an oriental city. constantinople is semi-european; cairo is fast becoming so; but damascus, away from the highways of commerce, seated alone between the lebanon and the syrian desert, still retains, in its outward aspect and in the character of its inhabitants, all the pride and fancy and fanaticism of the times of the caliphs. with this judgment, in general terms, i agree; but not to its ascendancy, in every respect, over cairo. true, when you behold damascus from the salahiyeh, the last slope of the anti-lebanon, it is the realization of all that you have dreamed of oriental splendor; the world has no picture more dazzling. it is beauty carried to the sublime, as i have felt when overlooking some boundless forest of palms within the tropics. from the hill, whose ridges heave behind you until in the south they rise to the snowy head of mount hermon, the great syrian plain stretches away to the euphrates, broken at distances of ten and fifteen miles, by two detached mountain chains. in a terrible gorge at your side, the river barrada, the ancient pharpar, forces its way to the plain, and its waters, divided into twelve different channels, make all between you and those blue island-hills of the desert, one great garden, the boundaries of which your vision can barely distinguish. its longest diameter cannot be less than twenty miles. you look down on a world of foliage, and fruit, and blossoms, whose hue, by contrast with the barren mountains and the yellow rim of the desert which incloses it, seems brighter than all other gardens in the world. through its centre, following the course of the river, lies damascus; a line of white walls, topped with domes and towers and tall minarets, winding away for miles through the green sea. nothing less than a city of palaces, whose walls are marble and whose doors are ivory and pearl, could keep up the enchantment of that distant view. we rode for an hour through the gardens before entering the gate. the fruit-trees, of whatever variety---walnut, olive, apricot, or fig--were the noblest of their kind. roses and pomegranates in bloom starred the dark foliage, and the scented jasmine overhung the walls. but as we approached the city, the view was obscured by high mud walls on either side of the road, and we only caught glimpses now and then of the fragrant wilderness. the first street we entered was low and mean, the houses of clay. following this, we came to an uncovered bazaar, with rude shops on either side, protected by mats stretched in front and supported by poles. here all sorts of common stuns and utensils were sold, and the street was filled with crowds of fellahs and desert arabs. two large sycamores shaded it, and the seraglio of the pasha of damascus, a plain two-story building, faced the entrance of the main bazaar, which branched off into the city. we turned into this, and after passing through several small bazaars stocked with dried fruits, pipes and pipe-bowls, groceries, and all the primitive wares of the east, reached a large passage, covered with a steep wooden roof, and entirely occupied by venders of silk stuffs. out of this we passed through another, devoted to saddles and bridles; then another, full of spices, and at last reached the grand bazaar, where all the richest stuffs of europe and the east were displayed in the shops. we rode slowly along through the cool twilight, crossed here and there by long pencils of white light, falling through apertures in the roof, and illuminating the gay turbans and silk caftans of the lazy merchants. but out of this bazaar, at intervals, opened the grand gate of a khan, giving us a view of its marble court, its fountains, and the dark arches of its storerooms; or the door of a mosque, with its mosaic floor and pillared corridor. the interminable lines of bazaars, with their atmospheres of spice and fruit and fragrant tobacco, the hushed tread of the slippered crowds; the plash of falling fountains and the bubbling of innumerable narghilehs; the picturesque merchants and their customers, no longer in the big trowsers of egypt, but the long caftans and abas of syria; the absence of frank faces and dresses--in all these there was the true spirit of the orient, and so far, we were charmed with damascus. at the hotel in the soog el-haràb, or frank quarter, the illusion was not dissipated. it had once been the house of some rich merchant. the court into which we were ushered is paved with marble, with a great stone basin, surrounded with vases of flowering plants, in the centre. two large lemon trees shade the entrance, and a vine, climbing to the top of the house, makes a leafy arbor over the flat roof. the walls of the house are painted in horizontal bars of blue, white, orange and white--a gay grotesqueness of style which does not offend the eye under an eastern sun. on the southern side of the court is the _liwan_, an arrangement for which the houses of damascus are noted. it is a vaulted apartment, twenty feet high, entirely open towards the court, except a fine pointed arch at the top, decorated with encaustic ornaments of the most brilliant colors. in front, a tesselated pavement of marble leads to the doors of the chambers on each side. beyond this is a raised floor covered with matting, and along the farther end a divan, whose piled cushions are the most tempting trap ever set to catch a lazy man. although not naturally indolent, i find it impossible to resist the fascination of this lounge. leaning back, cross-legged, against the cushions, with the inseparable pipe in one's hand, the view of the court, the water-basin, the flowers and lemon trees, the servants and dragomen going back and forth, or smoking their narghilehs in the shade--all framed in the beautiful arched entrance, is so perfectly oriental, so true a tableau from the times of good old haroun al-raschid, that one is surprised to find how many hours have slipped away while he has been silently enjoying it. opposite the _liwan_ is a large room paved with marble, with a handsome fountain in the centre. it is the finest in the hotel, and now occupied by lord dalkeith and his friends. our own room is on the upper floor, and is so rich in decorations that i have not yet finished the study of them. along the side, looking down on the court, we have a mosaic floor of white, red, black and yellow marble. above this is raised a second floor, carpeted and furnished in european style. the walls, for a height of ten feet, are covered with wooden panelling, painted with arabesque devices in the gayest colors, and along the top there is a series of arabic inscriptions in gold. there are a number of niches or open closets in the walls, whose arched tops are adorned with pendent wooden ornaments, resembling stalactites, and at the corners of the room the heavy gilded and painted cornice drops into similar grotesque incrustations. a space of bare white wall intervenes between this cornice and the ceiling, which is formed of slim poplar logs, laid side by side, and so covered with paint and with scales and stripes and network devices in gold and silver, that one would take them to be clothed with the skins of the magic serpents that guard the valley of diamonds. my most satisfactory remembrance of damascus will be this room. my walks through the city have been almost wholly confined to the bazaars, which are of immense extent. one can walk for many miles, without going beyond the cover of their peaked wooden roofs, and in all this round will find no two precisely alike. one is devoted entirely to soap; another to tobacco, through which you cough and sneeze your way to the bazaar of spices, and delightedly inhale its perfumed air. then there is the bazaar of sweetmeats; of vegetables; of red slippers; of shawls; of caftans; of bakers and ovens; of wooden ware; of jewelry---a great stone building, covered with vaulted passages; of aleppo silks; of baghdad carpets; of indian stuffs; of coffee; and so on, through a seemingly endless variety. as i have already remarked, along the line of the bazaars are many khans, the resort of merchants from all parts of turkey and persia, and even india. they are large, stately buildings, and some of them have superb gateways of sculptured marble. the interior courts are paved with stone, with fountains in the centre, and many of them are covered with domes resting on massive pillars. the largest has a roof of nine domes, supported by four grand pillars, which inclose a fountain. the mosques, into which no christian is allowed to enter, are in general inferior to those of cairo, but their outer courts are always paved with marble, adorned with fountains, and surrounded by light and elegant corridors. the grand mosque is an imposing edifice, and is said to occupy the site of a former christian church. another pleasant feature of the city is its coffee shops, which abound in the bazaars and on the outskirts of the gardens, beside the running streams. those in the bazaars are spacious rooms with vaulted ceilings, divans running around the four walls, and fountains in the centre. during the afternoon they are nearly always filled with turks, armenians and persians, smoking the narghileh, or water-pipe, which is the universal custom in damascus. the persian tobacco, brought here by the caravans from baghdad, is renowned for this kind of smoking. the most popular coffee-shop is near the citadel, on the banks and over the surface of the pharpar. it is a rough wooden building, with a roof of straw mats, but the sight and sound of the rushing waters, as they shoot away with arrowy swiftness under your feet, the shade of the trees that line the banks, and the cool breeze that always visits the spot, beguile you into a second pipe ere you are aware. _"el mà, wa el khòdra, wa el widj el hassàn_--water, verdure and a beautiful face," says an old arab proverb, "are three things which delight the heart," and the syrians avow that all three are to be found in damascus. not only on the three sundays of each week, but every day, in the gardens about the city, you may see whole families (and if jews or christians, many groups of families) spending the day in the shade, beside the beautiful waters. there are several gardens fitted up purposely for these picnics, with kiosks, fountains and pleasant seats under the trees. you bring your pipes, your provisions and the like with you, but servants are in attendance to furnish fire and water and coffee, for which, on leaving, you give them a small gratuity. of all the damascenes i have yet seen, there is not one but declares his city to be the garden of the world, the pearl of the orient, and thanks god and the prophet for having permitted him to be born and to live in it. but, except the bazaars, the khans and the baths, of which there are several most luxurious establishments, the city itself is neither so rich nor so purely saracenic in its architecture as cairo. the streets are narrow and dirty, and the houses, which are never more than two low stories in height, are built of sun-dried bricks, coated with plaster. i miss the solid piles of stone, the elegant doorways, and, above all, the exquisite hanging balconies of carved wood, which meet one in the old streets of cairo. damascus is the representative of all that is gay, brilliant, and picturesque, in oriental life; but for stately magnificence, cairo, and, i suspect, baghdad, is its superior. we visited the other day the houses of some of the richest jews and christians. old abou-ibrahim, the jewish servant of the hotel, accompanied and introduced us. it is customary for travellers to make these visits, and the families, far from being annoyed, are flattered by it. the exteriors of the houses are mean; but after threading a narrow passage, we emerged into a court, rivalling in profusion of ornament and rich contrast of colors one's early idea of the palace of aladdin. the floors and fountains are all of marble mosaic; the arches of the _liwan_ glitter with gold, and the walls bewilder the eye with the intricacy of their adornments. in the first house, we were received by the family in a room of precious marbles, with niches in the walls, resembling grottoes of silver stalactites. the cushions of the divan were of the richest silk, and a chandelier of bohemian crystal hung from the ceiling. silver narghilehs were brought to us, and coffee was served in heavy silver _zerfs_. the lady of the house was a rather corpulent lady of about thirty-five, and wore a semi-european robe of embroidered silk and lace, with full trowsers gathered at the ankles, and yellow slippers. her black hair was braided, and fastened at the end with golden ornaments, and the light scarf twisted around her head blazed with diamonds. the lids of her large eyes were stained with _kohl_, and her eyebrows were plucked out and shaved away so as to leave only a thin, arched line, as if drawn with a pencil, above each eye. her daughter, a girl of fifteen, who bore the genuine hebrew name of rachel, had even bigger and blacker eyes than her mother; but her forehead was low, her mouth large, and the expression of her face exceedingly stupid. the father of the family was a middle-aged man, with a well-bred air, and talked with an oriental politeness which was very refreshing. an english lady, who was of our party, said to him, through me, that if she possessed such a house she should be willing to remain in damascus. "why does she leave, then?" he immediately answered: "this is her house, and everything that is in it." speaking of visiting jerusalem, he asked me whether it was not a more beautiful city than damascus. "it is not more beautiful," i said, "but it is more holy," an expression which the whole company received with great satisfaction. the second house we visited was even larger and richer than the first, but had an air of neglect and decay. the slabs of rich marble were loose and broken, about the edges of the fountains; the rich painting of the wood-work was beginning to fade; and the balustrades leading to the upper chambers were broken off in places. we were ushered into a room, the walls and ceilings of which were composed entirely of gilded arabesque frame-work, set with small mirrors. when new, it must have had a gorgeous effect; but the gold is now tarnished, and the glasses dim. the mistress of the house was seated on the cushions, dividing her time between her pipe and her needle-work. she merely made a slight inclination of her head as we entered, and went on with her occupation. presently her two daughters and an abyssinian slave appeared, and took their places on the cushions at her feet, the whole forming a charming group, which i regretted some of my artist friends at home could not see. the mistress was so exceedingly dignified, that she bestowed but few words on us. she seemed to resent our admiration of the slave, who was a most graceful creature; yet her jealousy, it afterwards appeared, had reference to her own husband, for we had scarcely left, when a servant followed to inform the english lady that if she was willing to buy the abyssinian, the mistress would sell her at once for two thousand piastres. the last visit we paid was to the dwelling of a maronite, the richest christian in damascus. the house resembled those we had already seen, except that, having been recently built, it was in better condition, and exhibited better taste in the ornaments. no one but the lady was allowed to enter the female apartments, the rest of us being entertained by the proprietor, a man of fifty, and without exception the handsomest and most dignified person of that age i have ever seen. he was a king without a throne, and fascinated me completely by the noble elegance of his manner. in any country but the orient, i should have pronounced him incapable of an unworthy thought: here, he may be exactly the reverse. although damascus is considered the oldest city in the world, the date of its foundation going beyond tradition, there are very few relics of antiquity in or near it. in the bazaar are three large pillars, supporting half the pediment, which are said to have belonged to the christian church of st. john, but, if so, that church must have been originally a roman temple. part of the roman walls and one of the city gates remain; and we saw the spot where, according to tradition, saul was let down from the wall in a basket. there are two localities pointed out as the scene of his conversion, which, from his own account, occurred near the city. i visited a subterranean chapel claimed by the latin monks to be the cellar of the house of ananias, in which the apostle was concealed. the cellar is, undoubtedly, of great antiquity; but as the whole quarter was for many centuries inhabited wholly by turks, it would be curious to know how the monks ascertained which was the house of ananias. as for the "street called straight," it would be difficult at present to find any in damascus corresponding to that epithet. the famous damascus blades, so renowned in the time of the crusaders, are made here no longer. the art has been lost for three or four centuries. yet genuine old swords, of the true steel, are occasionally to be found. they are readily distinguished from modern imitations by their clear and silvery ring when struck, and by the finely watered appearance of the blade, produced by its having been first made of woven wire, and then worked over and over again until it attained the requisite temper. a droll turk, who is the _shekh ed-dellàl,_ or chief of the auctioneers, and is nicknamed abou-anteeka (the father of the antiques), has a large collection of sabres, daggers, pieces of mail, shields, pipes, rings, seals, and other ancient articles. he demands enormous prices, but generally takes about one-third of what he first asks. i have spent several hours in his curiosity shop, bargaining for turquoise rings, carbuncles, persian amulets, and circassian daggers. while looking over some old swords the other day, i noticed one of exquisite temper, but with a shorter blade than usual. the point had apparently been snapped off in fight, but owing to the excellence of the sword, or the owner's affection for it, the steel had been carefully shaped into a new point. abou-anteeka asked five hundred piastres, and i, who had taken a particular fancy to possess it, offered him two hundred in an indifferent way, and then laid it aside to examine other articles. after his refusal to accept my offer, i said nothing more, and was leaving the shop, when the old fellow called me back, saying: "you have forgotten your sword,"--which i thereupon took at my own price. i have shown it to mr. wood, the british consul, who pronounced it an extremely fine specimen of damascus steel; and, on reading the inscription enamelled upon the blade, ascertains that it was made in the year of the hegira, , which corresponds to a.d. . this was during the caliphate of haroun al-raschid, and who knows but the sword may have once flashed in the presence of that great and glorious sovereign--nay, been drawn by his own hand! who knows but that the milan armor of the crusaders may have shivered its point, on the field of askalon! i kiss the veined azure of thy blade, o sword of haroun! i hang the crimson cords of thy scabbard upon my shoulder, and thou shalt henceforth clank in silver music at my side, singing to my ear, and mine alone, thy chants of battle, thy rejoicing songs of slaughter! yesterday evening, three gentlemen of lord dalkeith's party arrived from a trip to palmyra. the road thither lies through a part of the syrian desert belonging to the aneyzeh tribe, who are now supposed to be in league with the druses, against the government. including this party, only six persons have succeeded in reaching palmyra within a year, and two of them, messrs. noel and cathcart, were imprisoned four days by the arabs, and only escaped by the accidental departure of a caravan for damascus. the present party was obliged to travel almost wholly by night, running the gauntlet of a dozen arab encampments, and was only allowed a day's stay at palmyra. they were all disguised as bedouins, and took nothing with them but the necessary provisions. they made their appearance here last evening, in long, white abas, with the bedouin _keffie_ bound over their heads, their faces burnt, their eyes inflamed, and their frames feverish with seven days and nights of travel. the shekh who conducted them was not an aneyzeh, and would have lost his life had they fallen in with any of that tribe. chapter x. the visions of hasheesh. "exulting, trembling, raging, fainting, possessed beyond the muse's painting." collins. during my stay in damascus, that insatiable curiosity which leads me to prefer the acquisition of all lawful knowledge through the channels of my own personal experience, rather than in less satisfactory and less laborious ways, induced me to make a trial of the celebrated _hasheesh_--that remarkable drug which supplies the luxurious syrian with dreams more alluring and more gorgeous than the chinese extracts from his darling opium pipe. the use of hasheesh--which is a preparation of the dried leaves of the _cannabis indica_--has been familiar to the east for many centuries. during the crusades, it was frequently used by the saracen warriors to stimulate them to the work of slaughter, and from the arabic term of "_hashasheën,"_ or eaters of hasheesh, as applied to them, the word "assassin" has been naturally derived. an infusion of the same plant gives to the drink called "_bhang_," which is in common use throughout india and malaysia, its peculiar properties. thus prepared, it is a more fierce and fatal stimulant than the paste of sugar and spices to which the turk resorts, as the food of his voluptuous evening reveries. while its immediate effects seem to be more potent than those of opium, its habitual use, though attended with ultimate and permanent injury to the system, rarely results in such utter wreck of mind and body as that to which the votaries of the latter drug inevitably condemn themselves. a previous experience of the effects of hasheesh--which i took once, and in a very mild form, while in egypt--was so peculiar in its character, that my curiosity, instead of being satisfied, only prompted me the more to throw myself, for once, wholly under its influence. the sensations it then produced were those, physically, of exquisite lightness and airiness--of a wonderfully keen perception of the ludicrous, in the most simple and familiar objects. during the half hour in which it lasted, i was at no time so far under its control, that i could not, with the clearest perception, study the changes through which i passed. i noted, with careful attention, the fine sensations which spread throughout the whole tissue of my nervous fibre, each thrill helping to divest my frame of its earthy and material nature, until my substance appeared to me no grosser than the vapors of the atmosphere, and while sitting in the calm of the egyptian twilight, i expected to be lifted up and carried away by the first breeze that should ruffle the nile. while this process was going on, the objects by which i was surrounded assumed a strange and whimsical expression. my pipe, the oars which my boatmen plied, the turban worn by the captain, the water-jars and culinary implements, became in themselves so inexpressibly absurd and comical, that i was provoked into a long fit of laughter. the hallucination died away as gradually as it came, leaving me overcome with a soft and pleasant drowsiness, from which i sank into a deep, refreshing sleep. my companion and an english gentleman, who, with his wife, was also residing in antonio's pleasant caravanserai--agreed to join me in the experiment. the dragoman of the latter was deputed to procure a sufficient quantity of the drug. he was a dark egyptian, speaking only the _lingua franca_ of the east, and asked me, as he took the money and departed on his mission, whether he should get hasheesh "_per ridere, a per dormire?_" "oh, _per ridere_, of course," i answered; "and see that it be strong and fresh." it is customary with the syrians to take a small portion immediately before the evening meal, as it is thus diffused through the stomach and acts more gradually, as well as more gently, upon the system. as our dinner-hour was at sunset, i proposed taking hasheesh at that time, but my friends, fearing that its operation might be more speedy upon fresh subjects, and thus betray them into some absurdity in the presence of the other travellers, preferred waiting until after the meal. it was then agreed that we should retire to our room, which, as it rose like a tower one story higher than the rest of the building, was in a manner isolated, and would screen us from observation. we commenced by taking a tea-spoonful each of the mixture which abdallah had procured. this was about the quantity i had taken in egypt, and as the effect then had been so slight, i judged that we ran no risk of taking an over-dose. the strength of the drug, however, must have been far greater in this instance, for whereas i could in the former case distinguish no flavor but that of sugar and rose leaves, i now found the taste intensely bitter and repulsive to the palate. we allowed the paste to dissolve slowly on our tongues, and sat some time, quietly waiting the result. but, having been taken upon a full stomach, its operation was hindered, and after the lapse of nearly an hour, we could not detect the least change in our feelings. my friends loudly expressed their conviction of the humbug of hasheesh, but i, unwilling to give up the experiment at this point, proposed that we should take an additional half spoonful, and follow it with a cup of hot tea, which, if there were really any virtue in the preparation, could not fail to call it into action. this was done, though not without some misgivings, as we were all ignorant of the precise quantity which constituted a dose, and the limits within which the drug could be taken with safety. it was now ten o'clock; the streets of damascus were gradually becoming silent, and the fair city was bathed in the yellow lustre of the syrian moon. only in the marble court-yard below us, a few dragomen and _mukkairee_ lingered under the lemon-trees, and beside the fountain in the centre. i was seated alone, nearly in the middle of the room, talking with my friends, who were lounging upon a sofa placed in a sort of alcove, at the farther end, when the same fine nervous thrill, of which i have spoken, suddenly shot through me. but this time it was accompanied with a burning sensation at the pit of the stomach; and, instead of growing upon me with the gradual pace of healthy slumber, and resolving me, as before, into air, it came with the intensity of a pang, and shot throbbing along the nerves to the extremities of my body. the sense of limitation---of the confinement of our senses within the bounds of our own flesh and blood--instantly fell away. the walls of my frame were burst outward and tumbled into ruin; and, without thinking what form i wore--losing sight even of all idea of form--i felt that i existed throughout a vast extent of space. the blood, pulsed from my heart, sped through uncounted leagues before it reached my extremities; the air drawn into my lungs expanded into seas of limpid ether, and the arch of my skull was broader than the vault of heaven. within the concave that held my brain, were the fathomless deeps of blue; clouds floated there, and the winds of heaven rolled them together, and there shone the orb of the sun. it was--though i thought not of that at the time--like a revelation of the mystery of omnipresence. it is difficult to describe this sensation, or the rapidity with which it mastered me. in the state of mental exaltation in which i was then plunged, all sensations, as they rose, suggested more or less coherent images. they presented themselves to me in a double form: one physical, and therefore to a certain extent tangible; the other spiritual, and revealing itself in a succession of splendid metaphors. the physical feeling of extended being was accompanied by the image of an exploding meteor, not subsiding into darkness, but continuing to shoot from its centre or nucleus--which corresponded to the burning spot at the pit of my stomach--incessant adumbrations of light that finally lost themselves in the infinity of space. to my mind, even now, this image is still the best illustration of my sensations, as i recall them; but i greatly doubt whether the reader will find it equally clear. my curiosity was now in a way of being satisfied; the spirit (demon, shall i not rather say?) of hasheesh had entire possession of me. i was cast upon the flood of his illusions, and drifted helplessly whithersoever they might choose to bear me. the thrills which ran through my nervous system became more rapid and fierce, accompanied with sensations that steeped my whole being in unutterable rapture. i was encompassed by a sea of light, through which played the pure, harmonious colors that are born of light. while endeavoring, in broken expressions, to describe my feelings to my friends, who sat looking upon me incredulously--not yet having been affected by the drug--i suddenly found myself at the foot of the great pyramid of cheops. the tapering courses of yellow limestone gleamed like gold in the sun, and the pile rose so high that it seemed to lean for support upon the blue arch of the sky. i wished to ascend it, and the wish alone placed me immediately upon its apex, lifted thousands of feet above the wheat-fields and palm-groves of egypt. i cast my eyes downward, and, to my astonishment, saw that it was built, not of limestone, but of huge square plugs of cavendish tobacco! words cannot paint the overwhelming sense of the ludicrous which i then experienced. i writhed on my chair in an agony of laughter, which was only relieved by the vision melting away like a dissolving view; till, out of my confusion of indistinct images and fragments of images, another and more wonderful vision arose. the more vividly i recall the scene which followed, the more carefully i restore its different features, and separate the many threads of sensation which it wove into one gorgeous web, the more i despair of representing its exceeding glory. i was moving over the desert, not upon the rocking dromedary, but seated in a barque made of mother-of-pearl, and studded with jewels of surpassing lustre. the sand was of grains of gold, and my keel slid through them without jar or sound. the air was radiant with excess of light, though no sun was to be seen. i inhaled the most delicious perfumes; and harmonies, such as beethoven may have heard in dreams, but never wrote, floated around me. the atmosphere itself was light, odor, music; and each and all sublimated beyond anything the sober senses are capable of receiving. before me--for a thousand leagues, as it seemed--stretched a vista of rainbows, whose colors gleamed with the splendor of gems--arches of living amethyst, sapphire, emerald, topaz, and ruby. by thousands and tens of thousands, they flew past me, as my dazzling barge sped down the magnificent arcade; yet the vista still stretched as far as ever before me. i revelled in a sensuous elysium, which was perfect, because no sense was left ungratified. but beyond all, my mind was filled with a boundless feeling of triumph. my journey was that of a conqueror--not of a conqueror who subdues his race, either by love or by will, for i forgot that man existed--but one victorious over the grandest as well as the subtlest forces of nature. the spirits of light, color, odor, sound, and motion were my slaves; and, having these, i was master of the universe. those who are endowed to any extent with the imaginative faculty, must have at least once in their lives experienced feelings which may give them a clue to the exalted sensuous raptures of my triumphal march. the view of a sublime mountain landscape, the hearing of a grand orchestral symphony, or of a choral upborne by the "full-voiced organ," or even the beauty and luxury of a cloudless summer day, suggests emotions similar in kind, if less intense. they took a warmth and glow from that pure animal joy which degrades not, but spiritualizes and ennobles our material part, and which differs from cold, abstract, intellectual enjoyment, as the flaming diamond of the orient differs from the icicle of the north. those finer senses, which occupy a middle ground between our animal and intellectual appetites, were suddenly developed to a pitch beyond what i had ever dreamed, and being thus at one and the same time gratified to the fullest extent of their preternatural capacity, the result was a single harmonious sensation, to describe which human language has no epithet. mahomet's paradise, with its palaces of ruby and emerald, its airs of musk and cassia, and its rivers colder than snow and sweeter than honey, would have been a poor and mean terminus for my arcade of rainbows. yet in the character of this paradise, in the gorgeous fancies of the arabian nights, in the glow and luxury of all oriental poetry, i now recognize more or less of the agency of hasheesh. the fulness of my rapture expanded the sense of time; and though the whole vision was probably not more than five minutes in passing through my mind, years seemed to have elapsed while i shot under the dazzling myriads of rainbow arches. by and by, the rainbows, the barque of pearl and jewels, and the desert of golden sand, vanished; and, still bathed in light and perfume, i found myself in a land of green and flowery lawns, divided by hills of gently undulating outline. but, although the vegetation was the richest of earth, there were neither streams nor fountains to be seen; and the people who came from the hills, with brilliant garments that shone in the sun, besought me to give them the blessing of water. their hands were full of branches of the coral honeysuckle, in bloom. these i took; and, breaking off the flowers one by one, set them in the earth. the slender, trumpet-like tubes immediately became shafts of masonry, and sank deep into the earth; the lip of the flower changed into a circular mouth of rose-colored marble, and the people, leaning over its brink, lowered their pitchers to the bottom with cords, and drew them up again, filled to the brim, and dripping with honey. the most remarkable feature of these illusions was, that at the time when i was most completely under their influence, i knew myself to be seated in the tower of antonio's hotel in damascus, knew that i had taken hasheesh, and that the strange, gorgeous and ludicrous fancies which possessed me, were the effect of it. at the very same instant that i looked upon the valley of the nile from the pyramid, slid over the desert, or created my marvellous wells in that beautiful pastoral country, i saw the furniture of my room, its mosaic pavement, the quaint saracenic niches in the walls, the painted and gilded beams of the ceiling, and the couch in the recess before me, with my two companions watching me. both sensations were simultaneous, and equally palpable. while i was most given up to the magnificent delusion, i saw its cause and felt its absurdity most clearly. metaphysicians say that the mind is incapable of performing two operations at the same time, and may attempt to explain this phenomenon by supposing a rapid and incessant vibration of the perceptions between the two states. this explanation, however, is not satisfactory to me; for not more clearly does a skilful musician with the same breath blow two distinct musical notes from a bugle, than i was conscious of two distinct conditions of being in the same moment. yet, singular as it may seem, neither conflicted with the other. my enjoyment of the visions was complete and absolute, undisturbed by the faintest doubt of their reality, while, in some other chamber of my brain, reason sat coolly watching them, and heaping the liveliest ridicule on their fantastic features. one set of nerves was thrilled with the bliss of the gods, while another was convulsed with unquenchable laughter at that very bliss. my highest ecstacies could not bear down and silence the weight of my ridicule, which, in its turn, was powerless to prevent me from running into other and more gorgeous absurdities. i was double, not "swan and shadow," but rather, sphinx-like, human and beast. a true sphinx, i was a riddle and a mystery to myself. the drug, which had been retarded in its operation on account of having been taken after a meal, now began to make itself more powerfully felt. the visions were more grotesque than ever, but less agreeable; and there was a painful tension throughout my nervous system--the effect of over-stimulus. i was a mass of transparent jelly, and a confectioner poured me into a twisted mould. i threw my chair aside, and writhed and tortured myself for some time to force my loose substance into the mould. at last, when i had so far succeeded that only one foot remained outside, it was lifted off, and another mould, of still more crooked and intricate shape, substituted. i have no doubt that the contortions through which i went, to accomplish the end of my gelatinous destiny, would have been extremely ludicrous to a spectator, but to me they were painful and disagreeable. the sober half of me went into fits of laughter over them, and through that laughter, my vision shifted into another scene. i had laughed until my eyes overflowed profusely. every drop that fell, immediately became a large loaf of bread, and tumbled upon the shop-board of a baker in the bazaar at damascus. the more i laughed, the faster the loaves fell, until such a pile was raised about the baker, that i could hardly see the top of his head. "the man will be suffocated," i cried, "but if he were to die, i cannot stop!" my perceptions now became more dim and confused. i felt that i was in the grasp of some giant force; and, in the glimmering of my fading reason, grew earnestly alarmed, for the terrible stress under which my frame labored increased every moment. a fierce and furious heat radiated from my stomach throughout my system; my mouth and throat were as dry and hard as if made of brass, and my tongue, it seemed to me, was a bar of rusty iron. i seized a pitcher of water, and drank long and deeply; but i might as well have drunk so much air, for not only did it impart no moisture, but my palate and throat gave me no intelligence of having drunk at all. i stood in the centre of the room, brandishing my arms convulsively, an heaving sighs that seemed to shatter my whole being. "will no one," i cried in distress, "cast out this devil that has possession of me?" i no longer saw the room nor my friends, but i heard one of them saying, "it must be real; he could not counterfeit such an expression as that. but it don't look much like pleasure." immediately afterwards there was a scream of the wildest laughter, and my countryman sprang upon the floor, exclaiming, "o, ye gods! i am a locomotive!" this was his ruling hallucination; and, for the space of two or three hours, he continued to pace to and fro with a measured stride, exhaling his breath in violent jets, and when he spoke, dividing his words into syllables, each of which he brought out with a jerk, at the same time turning his hands at his sides, as if they were the cranks of imaginary wheels, the englishman, as soon as he felt the dose beginning to take effect, prudently retreated to his own room, and what the nature of his visions was, we never learned, for he refused to tell, and, moreover, enjoined the strictest silence on his wife. by this time it was nearly midnight. i had passed through the paradise of hasheesh, and was plunged at once into its fiercest hell. in my ignorance i had taken what, i have since learned, would have been a sufficient portion for six men, and was now paying a frightful penalty for my curiosity. the excited blood rushed through my frame with a sound like the roaring of mighty waters. it was projected into my eyes until i could no longer see; it beat thickly in my ears, and so throbbed in my heart, that i feared the ribs would give way under its blows. i tore open my vest, placed my hand over the spot, and tried to count the pulsations; but there were two hearts, one beating at the rate of a thousand beats a minute, and the other with a slow, dull motion. my throat, i thought, was filled to the brim with blood, and streams of blood were pouring from my ears. i felt them gushing warm down my cheeks and neck. with a maddened, desperate feeling, i fled from the room, and walked over the flat, terraced roof of the house. my body seemed to shrink and grow rigid as i wrestled with the demon, and my face to become wild, lean and haggard. some lines which had struck me, years before, in reading mrs. browning's "rhyme of the duchess may," flashed into my mind:-- "and the horse, in stark despair, with his front hoofs poised in air, on the last verge, rears amain; and he hangs, he rocks between--and his nostrils curdle in-- and he shivers, head and hoof, and the flakes of foam fall off; and his face grows fierce and thin." that picture of animal terror and agony was mine. i was the horse, hanging poised on the verge of the giddy tower, the next moment to be borne sheer down to destruction. involuntarily, i raised my hand to feel the leanness and sharpness of my face. oh horror! the flesh had fallen from my bones, and it was a skeleton head that i carried on my shoulders! with one bound i sprang to the parapet, and looked down into the silent courtyard, then filled with the shadows thrown into it by the sinking moon. shall i cast myself down headlong? was the question i proposed to myself; but though the horror of that skeleton delusion was greater than my fear of death, there was an invisible hand at my breast which pushed me away from the brink. i made my way back to the room, in a state of the keenest suffering. my companion was still a locomotive, rushing to and fro, and jerking out his syllables with the disjointed accent peculiar to a steam-engine. his mouth had turned to brass, like mine, and he raised the pitcher to his lips in the attempt to moisten it, but before he had taken a mouthful, set the pitcher down again with a yell of laughter, crying out: "how can i take water into my boiler, while i am letting off steam?" but i was now too far gone to feel the absurdity of this, or his other exclamations. i was sinking deeper and deeper into a pit of unutterable agony and despair. for, although i was not conscious of real pain in any part of my body, the cruel tension to which my nerves had been subjected filled me through and through with a sensation of distress which was far more severe than pain itself. in addition to this, the remnant of will with which i struggled against the demon, became gradually weaker, and i felt that i should soon be powerless in his hands. every effort to preserve my reason was accompanied by a pang of mortal fear, lest what i now experienced was insanity, and would hold mastery over me for ever. the thought of death, which also haunted me, was far less bitter than this dread. i knew that in the struggle which was going on in my frame, i was borne fearfully near the dark gulf, and the thought that, at such a time, both reason and will were leaving my brain, filled me with an agony, the depth and blackness of which i should vainly attempt to portray. i threw myself on my bed, with the excited blood still roaring wildly in my ears, my heart throbbing with a force that seemed to be rapidly wearing away my life, my throat dry as a pot-sherd, and my stiffened tongue cleaving to the roof of my mouth--resisting no longer, but awaiting my fate with the apathy of despair. my companion was now approaching the same condition, but as the effect of the drug on him had been less violent, so his stage of suffering was more clamorous. he cried out to me that he was dying, implored me to help him, and reproached me vehemently, because i lay there silent, motionless, and apparently careless of his danger. "why will he disturb me?" i thought; "he thinks he is dying, but what is death to madness? let him die; a thousand deaths were more easily borne than the pangs i suffer." while i was sufficiently conscious to hear his exclamations, they only provoked my keen anger; but after a time, my senses became clouded, and i sank into a stupor. as near as i can judge, this must have been three o'clock in the morning, rather more than five hours after the hasheesh began to take effect. i lay thus all the following day and night, in a state of gray, blank oblivion, broken only by a single wandering gleam of consciousness. i recollect hearing françois' voice. he told me afterwards that i arose, attempted to dress myself, drank two cups of coffee, and then fell back into the same death-like stupor; but of all this, i did not retain the least knowledge. on the morning of the second day, after a sleep of thirty hours, i awoke again to the world, with a system utterly prostrate and unstrung, and a brain clouded with the lingering images of my visions. i knew where i was, and what had happened to me, but all that i saw still remained unreal and shadowy. there was no taste in what i ate, no refreshment in what i drank, and it required a painful effort to comprehend what was said to me and return a coherent answer. will and reason had come back, but they still sat unsteadily upon their thrones. my friend, who was much further advanced in his recovery, accompanied me to the adjoining bath, which i hoped would assist in restoring me. it was with great difficulty that i preserved the outward appearance of consciousness. in spite of myself, a veil now and then fell over my mind, and after wandering for years, as it seemed, in some distant world, i awoke with a shock, to find myself in the steamy halls of the bath, with a brown syrian polishing my limbs. i suspect that my language must have been rambling and incoherent, and that the menials who had me in charge understood my condition, for as soon as i had stretched myself upon the couch which follows the bath, a glass of very acid sherbet was presented to me, and after drinking it i experienced instant relief. still the spell was not wholly broken, and for two or three days i continued subject to frequent involuntary fits of absence, which made me insensible, for the time, to all that was passing around me. i walked the streets of damascus with a strange consciousness that i was in some other place at the same time, and with a constant effort to reunite my divided perceptions. previous to the experiment, we had decided on making a bargain with the shekh for the journey to palmyra. the state, however, in which we now found ourselves, obliged us to relinquish the plan. perhaps the excitement of a forced march across the desert, and a conflict with the hostile arabs, which was quite likely to happen, might have assisted us in throwing off the baneful effects of the drug; but all the charm which lay in the name of palmyra and the romantic interest of the trip, was gone. i was without courage and without energy, and nothing remained for me but to leave damascus. yet, fearful as my rash experiment proved to me, i did not regret having made it. it revealed to me deeps of rapture and of suffering which my natural faculties never could have sounded. it has taught me the majesty of human reason and of human will, even in the weakest, and the awful peril of tampering with that which assails their integrity. i have here faithfully and fully written out my experience, on account of the lesson which it may convey to others. if i have unfortunately failed in my design, and have but awakened that restless curiosity which i have endeavored to forestall, let me beg all who are thereby led to repeat the experiment upon themselves, that they be content to take the portion of hasheesh which is considered sufficient for one man, and not, like me, swallow enough for six. chapter xi. a dissertation on bathing and bodies. "no swan-soft woman, rubbed with lucid oils, the gift of an enamored god, more fair." browning. we shall not set out from damascus--we shall not leave the pearl of the orient to glimmer through the seas of foliage wherein it lies buried--without consecrating a day to the bath, that material agent of peace and good-will unto men. we have bathed in the jordan, like naaman, and been made clean; let us now see whether abana and pharpar, rivers of damascus, are better than the waters of israel. the bath is the "peculiar institution" of the east. coffee has become colonized in france and america; the pipe is a cosmopolite, and his blue, joyous breath congeals under the arctic circle, or melts languidly into the soft airs of the polynesian isles; but the bath, that sensuous elysium which cradled the dreams of plato, and the visions of zoroaster, and the solemn meditations of mahomet, is only to be found under an oriental sky. the naked natives of the torrid zone are amphibious; they do not bathe, they live in the water. the european and anglo-american wash themselves and think they have bathed; they shudder under cold showers and perform laborious antics with coarse towels. as for the hydropathist, the genius of the bath, whose dwelling is in damascus, would be convulsed with scornful laughter, could he behold that aqueous diogenes sitting in his tub, or stretched out in his wet wrappings, like a sodden mummy, in a catacomb of blankets and feather beds. as the rose in the east has a rarer perfume than in other lands, so does the bath bestow a superior purification and impart a more profound enjoyment. listen not unto the lamentations of travellers, who complain of the heat, and the steam, and the dislocations of their joints. they belong to the stiff-necked generation, who resist the processes, whereunto the oriental yields himself body and soul. he who is bathed in damascus, must be as clay in the hands of a potter. the syrians marvel how the franks can walk, so difficult is it to bend their joints. moreover, they know the difference between him who comes to the bath out of a mere idle curiosity, and him who has tasted its delight and holds it in due honor. only the latter is permitted to know all its mysteries. the former is carelessly hurried through the ordinary forms of bathing, and, if any trace of the cockney remain in him, is quite as likely to be disgusted as pleased. again, there are many second and third-rate baths, whither cheating dragomen conduct their victims, in consideration of a division of spoils with the bath-keeper. hence it is, that the bath has received but partial justice at the hands of tourists in the east. if any one doubts this, let him clothe himself with oriental passiveness and resignation, go to the hamman el-khyateën, at damascus, or the bath of mahmoud pasha, at constantinople, and demand that he be perfectly bathed. come with me, and i will show you the mysteries of the perfect bath. here is the entrance, a heavy saracenic arch, opening upon the crowded bazaar. we descend a few steps to the marble pavement of a lofty octagonal hall, lighted by a dome. there is a jet of sparkling water in the centre, falling into a heavy stone basin. a platform about five feet in height runs around the hall, and on this are ranged a number of narrow couches, with their heads to the wall, like the pallets in a hospital ward. the platform is covered with straw matting, and from the wooden gallery which rises above it are suspended towels, with blue and crimson borders. the master of the bath receives us courteously, and conducts us to one of the vacant couches. we kick off our red slippers below, and mount the steps to the platform. yonder traveller, in frank dress, who has just entered, goes up with his boots on, and we know, from that fact, what sort of a bath he will get. as the work of disrobing proceeds, a dark-eyed boy appears with a napkin, which he holds before us, ready to bind it about the waist, as soon as we regain our primitive form. another attendant throws a napkin over our shoulders and wraps a third around our head, turban-wise. he then thrusts a pair of wooden clogs upon our feet, and, taking us by the arm, steadies our tottering and clattering steps, as we pass through a low door and a warm ante-chamber into the first hall of the bath. the light, falling dimly through a cluster of bull's-eyes in the domed ceiling, shows, first, a silver thread of water, playing in a steamy atmosphere; next, some dark motionless objects, stretched out on a low central platform of marble. the attendant spreads a linen sheet in one of the vacant places, places a pillow at one end, takes off our clogs, deposits us gently on our back, and leaves us. the pavement is warm beneath us, and the first breath we draw gives us a sense of suffocation. but a bit of burning aloe-wood has just been carried through the hall, and the steam is permeated with fragrance. the dark-eyed boy appears with a narghileh, which he places beside us, offering the amber mouth-piece to our submissive lips. the smoke we inhale has an odor of roses; and as the pipe bubbles with our breathing, we feel that the dews of sweat gather heavily upon us. the attendant now reappears, kneels beside us, and gently kneads us with dexterous hands. although no anatomist, he knows every muscle and sinew whose suppleness gives ease to the body, and so moulds and manipulates them that we lose the rigidity of our mechanism, and become plastic in his hands. he turns us upon our face, repeats the same process upon the back, and leaves us a little longer to lie there passively, glistening in our own dew. we are aroused from a reverie about nothing by a dark-brown shape, who replaces the clogs, puts his arm around our waist and leads us into an inner hall, with a steaming tank in the centre. here he slips us off the brink, and we collapse over head and ears in the fiery fluid. once--twice--we dip into the delicious heat, and then are led into a marble alcove, and seated flat upon the floor. the attendant stands behind us, and we now perceive that his hands are encased in dark hair-gloves. he pounces upon an arm, which he rubs until, like a serpent, we slough the worn-out skin, and resume our infantile smoothness and fairness. no man can be called clean until he has bathed in the east. let him walk directly from his accustomed bath and self-friction with towels, to the hammam el-khyateën, and the attendant will exclaim, as he shakes out his hair-gloves: "o frank! it is a long time since you have bathed." the other arm follows, the back, the breast, the legs, until the work is complete, and we know precisely how a horse feels after he has been curried. now the attendant turns two cocks at the back of the alcove, and holding a basin alternately under the cold and hot streams, floods us at first with a fiery dash, that sends a delicious warm shiver through every nerve; then, with milder applications, lessening the temperature of the water by semi-tones, until, from the highest key of heat which we can bear, we glide rapturously down the gamut until we reach the lowest bass of coolness. the skin has by this time attained an exquisite sensibility, and answers to these changes of temperature with thrills of the purest physical pleasure. in fact, the whole frame seems purged of its earthy nature and transformed into something of a finer and more delicate texture. after a pause, the attendant makes his appearance with a large wooden bowl, a piece of soap, and a bunch of palm-fibres. he squats down beside the bowl, and speedily creates a mass of snowy lather, which grows up to a pyramid and topples over the edge. seizing us by the crown-tuft of hair upon our shaven head, he plants the foamy bunch of fibres full in our face. the world vanishes; sight, hearing, smell, taste (unless we open our mouth), and breathing, are cut off; we have become nebulous. although our eyes are shut, we seem to see a blank whiteness; and, feeling nothing but a soft fleeciness, we doubt whether we be not the olympian cloud which visited lo. but the cloud clears away before strangulation begins, and the velvety mass descends upon the body. twice we are thus "slushed" from head to foot, and made more slippery than the anointed wrestlers of the greek games. then the basin comes again into play, and we glide once more musically through the scale of temperature. the brown sculptor has now nearly completed his task. the figure of clay which entered the bath is transformed into polished marble. he turns the body from side to side, and lifts the limbs to see whether the workmanship is adequate to his conception. his satisfied gaze proclaims his success. a skilful bath-attendant has a certain aesthetic pleasure in his occupation. the bodies he polishes become to some extent his own workmanship, and he feels responsible for their symmetry or deformity. he experiences a degree of triumph in contemplating a beautiful form, which has grown more airily light and beautiful under his hands. he is a great connoisseur of bodies, and could pick you out the finest specimens with as ready an eye as an artist. i envy those old greek bathers, into whose hands were delivered pericles, and alcibiades, and the perfect models of phidias. they had daily before their eyes the highest types of beauty which the world has ever produced; for of all things that are beautiful, the human body is the crown. now, since the delusion of artists has been overthrown, and we know that grecian art is but the simple reflex of nature--that the old masterpieces of sculpture were no miraculous embodiments of a _beau ideal_, but copies of living forms--we must admit that in no other age of the world has the physical man been so perfectly developed. the nearest approach i have ever seen to the symmetry of ancient sculpture was among the arab tribes of ethiopia. our saxon race can supply the athlete, but not the apollo. oriental life is too full of repose, and the ottoman race has become too degenerate through indulgence, to exhibit many striking specimens of physical beauty. the face is generally fine, but the body is apt to be lank, and with imperfect muscular development. the best forms i saw in the baths were those of laborers, who, with a good deal of rugged strength, showed some grace and harmony of proportion. it may be received as a general rule, that the physical development of the european is superior to that of the oriental, with the exception of the circassians and georgians, whose beauty well entitles them to the distinction of giving their name to our race. so far as female beauty is concerned, the circassian women have no superiors. they have preserved in their mountain home the purity of the grecian models, and still display the perfect physical loveliness, whose type has descended to us in the venus de medici. the frank who is addicted to wandering about the streets of oriental cities can hardly fail to be favored with a sight of the faces of these beauties. more than once it has happened to me, in meeting a veiled lady, sailing along in her balloon-like feridjee, that she has allowed the veil to drop by a skilful accident, as she passed, and has startled me with the vision of her beauty, recalling the line of the persian poet: "astonishment! is this the dawn of the glorious sun, or is it the full moon?" the circassian face is a pure oval; the forehead is low and fair, "an excellent thing in woman," and the skin of an ivory whiteness, except the faint pink of the cheeks and the ripe, roseate stain of the lips. the hair is dark, glossy, and luxuriant, exquisitely outlined on the temples; the eyebrows slightly arched, and drawn with a delicate pencil; while lashes like "rays of darkness" shade the large, dark, humid orbs below them. the alabaster of the face, so pure as scarcely to show the blue branching of the veins on the temples, is lighted by those superb eyes-- "shining eyes, like antique jewels set in parian statue-stone," --whose wells are so dark and deep, that you are cheated into the belief that a glorious soul looks out of them. once, by an unforeseen chance, i beheld the circassian form, in its most perfect development. i was on board an austrian steamer in the harbor of smyrna, when the harem of a turkish pasha came out in a boat to embark for alexandria. the sea was rather rough, and nearly all the officers of the steamer were ashore. there were six veiled and swaddled women, with a black eunuch as guard, in the boat, which lay tossing for some time at the foot of the gangway ladder, before the frightened passengers could summon courage to step out. at last the youngest of them--a circassian girl of not more than fifteen or sixteen years of age--ventured upon the ladder, clasping the hand-rail with one hand, while with the other she held together the folds of her cumbrous feridjee. i was standing in the gangway, watching her, when a slight lurch of the steamer caused her to loose her hold of the garment, which, fastened at the neck, was blown back from her shoulders, leaving her body screened but by a single robe of-light, gauzy silk. through this, the marble whiteness of her skin, the roundness, the glorious symmetry of her form, flashed upon me, as a vision of aphrodite, seen "through leagues of shimmering water, like a star." it was but a momentary glimpse; yet that moment convinced me that forms of phidian perfection are still nurtured in the vales of caucasus. the necessary disguise of dress hides from us much of the beauty and dignity of humanity, i have seen men who appeared heroic in the freedom of nakedness, shrink almost into absolute vulgarity, when clothed. the soul not only sits at the windows of the eyes, and hangs upon the gateway of the lips; she speaks as well in the intricate, yet harmonious lines of the body, and the ever-varying play of the limbs. look at the torso of ilioneus, the son of niobe, and see what an agony of terror and supplication cries out from that headless and limbless trunk! decapitate laocoön, and his knotted muscles will still express the same dreadful suffering and resistance. none knew this better than the ancient sculptors; and hence it was that we find many of their statues of distinguished men wholly or partly undraped. such a view of art would be considered transcendental now-a-days, when our dress, our costumes, and our modes of speech either ignore the existence of our bodies, or treat them with little of that reverence which is their due. but, while we have been thinking these thoughts, the attendant has been waiting to give us a final plunge into the seething tank. again we slide down to the eyes in the fluid heat, which wraps us closely about until we tingle with exquisite hot shiverings. now comes the graceful boy, with clean, cool, lavendered napkins, which he folds around our waist and wraps softly about the head. the pattens are put upon our feet, and the brown arm steadies us gently through the sweating-room and ante-chamber into the outer hall, where we mount to our couch. we sink gently upon the cool linen, and the boy covers us with a perfumed sheet. then, kneeling beside the couch, he presses the folds of the sheet around us, that it may absorb the lingering moisture and the limpid perspiration shed by the departing heat. as fast as the linen becomes damp, he replaces it with fresh, pressing the folds about us as tenderly as a mother arranges the drapery of her sleeping babe; for we, though of the stature of a man, are now infantile in our helpless happiness. then he takes our passive hand and warms its palm by the soft friction of his own; after which, moving to the end of the couch, he lifts our feet upon his lap, and repeats the friction upon their soles, until the blood comes back to the surface of the body with a misty glow, like that which steeps the clouds of a summer afternoon. we have but one more process to undergo, and the attendant already stands at the head of our couch. this is the course of passive gymnastics, which excites so much alarm and resistance in the ignorant franks. it is only resistance that is dangerous, completely neutralizing the enjoyment of the process. give yourself with a blind submission into the arms of the brown fate, and he will lead you to new chambers of delight. he lifts us to a sitting posture, places himself behind us, and folds his arms around our body, alternately tightening and relaxing his clasp, as if to test the elasticity of the ribs. then seizing one arm, he draws it across the opposite shoulder, until the joint cracks like a percussion-cap. the shoulder-blades, the elbows, the wrists, and the finger-joints are all made to fire off their muffled volleys; and then, placing one knee between our shoulders, and clasping both hands upon our forehead, he draws our head back until we feel a great snap of the vertebral column. now he descends to the hip-joints, knees, ankles, and feet, forcing each and all to discharge a salvo _de joie_. the slight languor left from the bath is gone, and an airy, delicate exhilaration, befitting the winged mercury, takes its place. the boy, kneeling, presents us with _finjan_ of foamy coffee, followed by a glass of sherbet cooled with the snows of lebanon. he presently returns with a narghileh, which we smoke by the effortless inhalation of the lungs. thus we lie in perfect repose, soothed by the fragrant weed, and idly watching the silent orientals, who are undressing for the bath or reposing like ourselves. through the arched entrance, we see a picture of the bazaars: a shadowy painting of merchants seated amid their silks and spices, dotted here and there with golden drops and splashes of sunshine, which have trickled through the roof. the scene paints itself upon our eyes, yet wakes no slightest stir of thought. the brain is a becalmed sea, without a ripple on its shores. mind and body are drowned in delicious rest; and we no longer remember what we are. we only know that there is an existence somewhere in the air, and that wherever it is, and whatever it may be, it is happy. more and more dim grows the picture. the colors fade and blend into each other, and finally merge into a bed of rosy clouds, flooded with the radiance of some unseen sun. gentlier than "tired eyelids upon tired eyes," sleep lies upon our senses: a half-conscious sleep, wherein we know that we behold light and inhale fragrance. as gently, the clouds dissipate into air, and we are born again into the world. the bath is at an end. we arise and put on our garments, and walk forth into the sunny streets of damascus. but as we go homewards, we involuntarily look down to see whether we are really treading upon the earth, wondering, perhaps, that we should be content to do so, when it would be so easy to soar above the house-tops. chapter xii. baalbec and lebanon. departure from damascus--the fountains of the pharpar--pass of the anti-lebanon--adventure with the druses--the range of lebanon--the demon of hasheesh departs--impressions of baalbec--the temple of the sun--titanic masonry--the ruined mosque--camp on lebanon--rascality of the guide--the summit of lebanon--the sacred cedars--the christians of lebanon--an afternoon in eden--rugged travel--we reach the coast--return to beyrout. "peor and baälim forsake their temples dim." milton. "the cedars wave on lebanon, but judah's statelier maids are gone." byron. beyrout, _thursday, may_ , . after a stay of eight days in damascus, we called our men, dervish and mustapha, again into requisition, loaded our enthusiastic mules, and mounted our despairing horses. there were two other parties on the way to baalbec--an english gentleman and lady, and a solitary englishman, so that our united forces made an imposing caravan. there is always a custom-house examination, not on entering, but on issuing from an oriental city, but travellers can avoid it by procuring the company of a consular janissary as far as the gate. mr. wood, the british consul, lent us one of his officers for the occasion, whom we found waiting, outside of the wall, to receive his private fee for the service. we mounted the long, barren hill west of the plain, and at the summit, near the tomb of a moslem shekh, turned to take a last long look at the bowery plain, and the minarets of the city, glittering through the blue morning vapor. a few paces further on the rocky road, a different scene presented itself to us. there lay, to the westward, a long stretch of naked yellow mountains, basking in the hot glare of the sun, and through the centre, deep down in the heart of the arid landscape, a winding line of living green showed the course of the barrada. we followed the river, until the path reached an impassable gorge, which occasioned a detour of two or three hours. we then descended to the bed of the dell, where the vegetation, owing to the radiated heat from the mountains and the fertilizing stimulus of the water below, was even richer than on the plain of damascus. the trees were plethoric with an overplus of life. the boughs of the mulberries were weighed down with the burden of the leaves; pomegranates were in a violent eruption of blossoms; and the foliage of the fig and poplar was of so deep a hue that it shone black in the sun. passing through a gateway of rock, so narrow that we were often obliged to ride in the bed of the stream, we reached a little meadow, beyond which was a small hamlet, almost hidden in the leaves. here the mountains again approached each other, and from the side of that on the right hand, the main body of the barrada, or pharpar, gushed forth in one full stream. the fountain is nearly double the volume of that of the jordan at banias, and much more beautiful. the foundations of an ancient building, probably a temple, overhang it, and tall poplars and sycamores cover it with impenetrable shade. from the low aperture, where it bursts into the light, its waters, white with foam, bound away flashing in the chance rays of sunshine, until they are lost to sight in the dense, dark foliage. we sat an hour on the ruined walls, listening to the roar and rush of the flood, and enjoying the shade of the walnuts and sycamores. soon after leaving, our path crossed a small stream, which comes down to the barrada from the upper valleys of the anti-lebanon, and entered a wild pass, faced with cliffs of perpendicular rock. an old bridge, of one arch, spanned the chasm, out of which we climbed to a tract of high meadow land. in the pass there were some fragments of ancient columns, traces of an aqueduct, and inscriptions on the rocks, among which mr. h. found the name of antoninus. the place is not mentioned in any book of travel i have seen, as it is not on the usual road from damascus to baalbec. as we were emerging from the pass, we saw a company of twelve armed men seated in the grass, near the roadside. they were wild-looking characters, and eyed us somewhat sharply as we passed. we greeted them with the usual "salaam aleikoom!" which they did not return. the same evening, as we encamped at the village of zebdeni, about three hours further up the valley, we were startled by a great noise and outcry, with the firing of pistols. it happened, as we learned on inquiring the cause of all this confusion, that the men we saw in the pass were rebel druses, who were then lying in wait for the shekh of zebdeni, whom, with his son, they had taken captive soon after we passed. the news had by some means been conveyed to the village, and a company of about two hundred persons was then marching out to the rescue. the noise they made was probably to give the druses intimation of their coming, and thus avoid a fight. i do not believe that any of the mountaineers of lebanon would willingly take part against the druses, who, in fact, are not fighting so much against the institution of the conscription law, as its abuse. the law ordains that the conscript shall serve for five years; but since its establishment, as i have been informed, there has not been a single instance of discharge. it amounts, therefore, to lifelong servitude, and there is little wonder that these independent sons of the mountains, as well as the tribes inhabiting the syrian desert, should rebel rather than submit. the next day, we crossed a pass in the anti-lebanon beyond zebdeni, descended a beautiful valley on the western side, under a ridge which was still dotted with patches of snow, and after travelling for some hours over a wide, barren height, the last of the range, saw below us the plain of baalbec. the grand ridge of lebanon opposite, crowned with glittering fields of snow, shone out clearly through the pure air, and the hoary head of hermon, far in the south, lost something of its grandeur by the comparison. though there is a "divide," or watershed, between husbeiya, at the foot of mount hermon, and baalbec, whose springs join the orontes, which flows northward to antioch, the great natural separation of the two chains continues unbroken to the gulf of akaba, in the red sea. a little beyond baalbec, the anti-lebanon terminates, sinking into the syrian plain, while the lebanon, though its name and general features are lost, about twenty miles further to the north is succeeded by other ranges, which, though broken at intervals, form a regular series, connecting with the taurus, in asia minor. on leaving damascus, the demon of hasheesh still maintained a partial control over me. i was weak in body and at times confused in my perceptions, wandering away from the scenes about me to some unknown sphere beyond the moon. but the healing balm of my sleep at zebdeni, and the purity of the morning air among the mountains, completed my cure. as i rode along the valley, with the towering, snow-sprinkled ridge of the anti-lebanon on my right, a cloudless heaven above my head, and meads enamelled with the asphodel and scarlet anemone stretching before me, i felt that the last shadow had rolled away from my brain. my mind was now as clear as that sky--my heart as free and joyful as the elastic morning air. the sun never shone so brightly to my eyes; the fair forms of nature were never penetrated with so perfect a spirit of beauty. i was again master of myself, and the world glowed as if new-created in the light of my joy and gratitude. i thanked god, who had led me out of a darkness more terrible than that of the valley of the shadow of death, and while my feet strayed among the flowery meadows of lebanon, my heart walked on the delectable hills of his mercy. by the middle of the afternoon, we reached baalbec. the distant view of the temple, on descending the last slope of the anti-lebanon, is not calculated to raise one's expectations. on the green plain at the foot of the mountain, you see a large square platform of masonry, upon which stand six columns, the body of the temple, and a quantity of ruined walls. as a feature in the landscape, it has a fine effect, but you find yourself pronouncing the speedy judgment, that "baalbec, without lebanon, would be rather a poor show." having come to this conclusion, you ride down the hill with comfortable feelings of indifference. there are a number of quarries on the left hand; you glance at them with an expression which merely says: "ah! i suppose they got the stones here," and so you saunter on, cross a little stream that flows down from the modern village, pass a mill, return the stare of the quaint arab miller who comes to the door to see you, and your horse is climbing a difficult path among the broken columns and friezes, before you think it worth while to lift your eyes to the pile above you. now re-assert your judgment, if you dare! this is baalbec: what have you to say? nothing; but you amazedly measure the torsos of great columns which lie piled across one another in magnificent wreck; vast pieces which have dropped from the entablature, beautiful corinthian capitals, bereft of the last graceful curves of their acanthus leaves, and blocks whose edges are so worn away that they resemble enormous natural boulders left by the deluge, till at last you look up to the six glorious pillars, towering nigh a hundred feet above your head, and there is a sensation in your brain which would be a shout, if you could give it utterance, of faultless symmetry and majesty, such as no conception of yours and no other creation of art, can surpass. i know of nothing so beautiful in all remains of ancient art as these six columns, except the colonnade of the memnonium, at thebes, which is of much smaller proportions. from every position, and with all lights of the day or night, they are equally perfect, and carry your eyes continually away from the peristyle of the smaller temple, which is better preserved, and from the exquisite architecture of the outer courts and pavilions. the two temples of baalbec stand on an artificial platform of masonry, a thousand feet in length, and from fifteen to thirty feet (according to the depression of the soil) in height, the larger one, which is supposed to have been a pantheon, occupies the whole length of this platform. the entrance was at the north, by a grand flight of steps, now broken away, between two lofty and elegant pavilions which are still nearly entire. then followed a spacious hexagonal court, and three grand halls, parts of which, with niches for statues, adorned with cornices and pediments of elaborate design, still remain entire to the roof. this magnificent series of chambers was terminated at the southern extremity of the platform by the main temple, which had originally twenty columns on a side, similar to the six now standing. the temple of the sun stands on a smaller and lower platform, which appears to have been subsequently added to the greater one. the cella, or body of the temple, is complete except the roof, and of the colonnade surrounding it, nearly one-half of its pillars are still standing, upholding the frieze, entablature, and cornice, which altogether form probably the most ornate specimen of the corinthian order of architecture now extant. only four pillars of the superb portico remain, and the saracens have nearly ruined these by building a sort of watch-tower upon the architrave. the same unscrupulous race completely shut up the portal of the temple with a blank wall, formed of the fragments they had hurled down, and one is obliged to creep through a narrow hole in order to reach the interior. here the original doorway faces you--and i know not how to describe the wonderful design of its elaborate sculptured mouldings and cornices. the genius of greek art seems to have exhausted itself in inventing ornaments, which, while they should heighten the gorgeous effect of the work, must yet harmonize with the grand design of the temple. the enormous keystone over the entrance has slipped down, no doubt from the shock of an earthquake, and hangs within six inches of the bottom of the two blocks which uphold it on either side. when it falls, the whole entablature of the portal will be destroyed. on its lower side is an eagle with outspread wings, and on the side-stones a genius with garlands of flowers, exquisitely sculptured in bas relief. hidden among the wreaths of vines which adorn the jambs are the laughing heads of fauns. this portal was a continual study to me, every visit revealing new refinements of ornament, which i had not before observed. the interior of the temple, with its rich corinthian pilasters, its niches for statues, surmounted by pediments of elegant design, and its elaborate cornice, needs little aid of the imagination to restore it to its original perfection. like that of dendera, in egypt, the temple of the sun leaves upon the mind an impression of completeness which makes you forget far grander remains. but the most wonderful thing at baalbec is the foundation platform upon which the temples stand. even the colossal fabrics of ancient egypt dwindle before this superhuman masonry. the platform itself, , feet long, and averaging twenty feet in height, suggests a vast mass of stones, but when you come to examine the single blocks of which it is composed, you are crushed with their incredible bulk. on the western side is a row of eleven foundation stones, each of which is thirty-two feet in length, twelve in height, and ten in thickness, forming a wall three hundred and fifty-two feet long! but while you are walking on, thinking of the art which cut and raised these enormous blocks, you turn the southern corner and come upon _three_ stones, the united length of which is _one hundred and eighty-seven feet_--two of them being sixty-two and the other sixty-three feet in length! there they are, cut with faultless exactness, and so smoothly joined to each other, that you cannot force a cambric needle into the crevice. there is one joint so perfect that it can only be discerned by the minutest search; it is not even so perceptible as the junction of two pieces of paper which have been pasted together. in the quarry, there still lies a finished block, ready for transportation, which is sixty-seven feet in length. the weight of one of these masses has been reckoned at near , tons, yet they do not form the base of the foundation, but are raised upon other courses, fifteen feet from the ground. it is considered by some antiquarians that they are of a date greatly anterior to that of the temples, and were intended as the basement of a different edifice. in the village of baalbec there is a small circular corinthian temple of very elegant design. it is not more than thirty feet in diameter, and may have been intended as a tomb. a spacious mosque, now roofless and deserted, was constructed almost entirely out of the remains of the temples. adjoining the court-yard and fountain are five rows of ancient pillars, forty (the sacred number) in all, supporting light saracenic arches. some of them are marble, with corinthian capitals, and eighteen are single shafts of red egyptian granite. beside the fountain lies a small broken pillar of porphyry, of a dark violet hue, and of so fine a grain that the stone has the soft rich lustre of velvet. this fragment is the only thing i would carry away if i had the power. after a day's sojourn, we left baalbec at noon, and took the road for the cedars, which lie on the other side of lebanon, in the direction of tripoli. our english fellow-travellers chose the direct road to beyrout. we crossed the plain in three hours; to the village of dayr el-ahmar, and then commenced ascending the lowest slopes of the great range, whose topmost ridge, a dazzling parapet of snow, rose high above us. for several hours, our path led up and down stony ridges, covered with thickets of oak and holly, and with wild cherry, pear, and olive-trees. just as the sun threw the shadows of the highest lebanon over us, we came upon a narrow, rocky glen at his very base. streams that still kept the color and the coolness of the snow-fields from which they oozed, foamed over the stones into the chasm at the bottom. the glen descended into a mountain basin, in which lay the lake of yemouni, cold and green under the evening shadows. but just opposite us, on a little shelf of soil, there was a rude mill, and a group of superb walnut-trees, overhanging the brink of the largest torrent. we had sent our baggage before us, and the men, with an eye to the picturesque which i should not have suspected in arabs, had pitched our tents under those trees, where the stream poured its snow-cold beakers beside us, and the tent-door looked down on the plain of baalbec and across to the anti-lebanon. the miller and two or three peasants, who were living in this lonely spot, were christians. the next morning we commenced ascending the lebanon. we had slept just below the snow-line, for the long hollows with which the ridge is cloven were filled up to within a short distance of the glen, out of which we came. the path was very steep, continually ascending, now around the barren shoulder of the mountain, now up some ravine, where the holly and olive still flourished, and the wild rhubarb-plant spread its large, succulent leaves over the soil. we had taken a guide, the day before, at the village of dayr el-ahmar, but as the way was plain before us, and he demanded an exorbitant sum, we dismissed him, we had not climbed far, however, before he returned, professing to be content with whatever we might give him, and took us into another road, the first, he said, being impracticable. up and up we toiled, and the long hollows of snow lay below us, and the wind came cold from the topmost peaks, which began to show near at hand. but now the road, as we had surmised, turned towards that we had first taken, and on reaching the next height we saw the latter at a short distance from us. it was not only a better, but a shorter road, the rascal of a guide having led us out of it in order to give the greater effect to his services. in order to return to it, as was necessary, there were several dangerous snow-fields to be passed. the angle of their descent was so great that a single false step would have hurled our animals, baggage and all, many hundred feet below. the snow was melting, and the crust frozen over the streams below was so thin in places that the animals broke through and sank to their bellies. it were needless to state the number and character of the anathemas bestowed upon the guide. the impassive dervish raved; mustapha stormed; françois broke out in a frightful eruption of greek and turkish oaths, and the two travellers, though not (as i hope and believe) profanely inclined, could not avoid using a few terse saxon expressions. when the general indignation had found vent, the men went to work, and by taking each animal separately, succeeded, at imminent hazard, in getting them all over the snow. we then dismissed the guide, who, far from being abashed by the discovery of his trickery, had the impudence to follow us for some time, claiming his pay. a few more steep pulls, over deep beds of snow and patches of barren stone, and at length the summit ridge--a sharp, white wall, shining against the intense black-blue of the zenith--stood before us. we climbed a toilsome zig-zag through the snow, hurried over the stones cumbering the top, and all at once the mountains fell away, ridge below ridge, gashed with tremendous chasms, whose bottoms were lost in blue vapor, till the last heights, crowned with white maronite convents, hung above the sea, whose misty round bounded the vision. i have seen many grander mountain views, but few so sublimely rugged and broken in their features. the sides of the ridges dropped off in all directions into sheer precipices, and the few villages we could see were built like eagles' nests on the brinks. in a little hollow at our feet was the sacred forest of cedars, appearing like a patch of stunted junipers. it is the highest speck of vegetation on lebanon, and in winter cannot be visited, on account of the snow. the summit on which we stood was about nine thousand feet above the sea, but there were peaks on each side at least a thousand feet higher. we descended by a very steep path, over occasional beds of snow, and reached the cedars in an hour and a half. not until we were within a hundred yards of the trees, and below their level, was i at all impressed with their size and venerable aspect. but, once entered into the heart of the little wood, walking over its miniature hills and valleys, and breathing the pure, balsamic exhalations of the trees, all the disappointment rising to my mind was charmed away in an instant there are about three hundred trees, in all, many of which are of the last century's growth, but at least fifty of them would be considered grand in any forest. the patriarchs are five in number, and are undoubtedly as old as the christian era, if not the age of solomon. the cypresses in the garden of montezuma, at chapultepec, are even older and grander trees, but they are as entire and shapely as ever, whereas these are gnarled and twisted into wonderful forms by the storms of twenty centuries, and shivered in some places by lightning. the hoary father of them all, nine feet in diameter, stands in the centre of the grove, on a little knoll, and spreads his ponderous arms, each a tree in itself, over the heads of the many generations that have grown up below, as if giving his last benediction before decay. he is scarred less with storm and lightning, than with the knives of travellers, and the marble crags of lebanon do not more firmly retain their inscriptions than his stony trunk. dates of the last century are abundant, and i recollect a tablet inscribed: "souard, ," around which the newer wood has grown to the height of three or four inches. the seclusion of the grove, shut in by peaks of barren snow, is complete. only the voice of the nightingale, singing here by daylight in the solemn shadows, breaks the silence. the maronite monk, who has charge of a little stone chapel standing in the midst, moves about like a shade, and, not before you are ready to leave, brings his book for you to register your name therein, i was surprised to find how few of the crowd that annually overrun syria reach the cedars, which, after baalbec, are the finest remains of antiquity in the whole country. after a stay of three hours, we rode on to eden, whither our men had already gone with the baggage. our road led along the brink of a tremendous gorge, a thousand feet deep, the bottom of which was only accessible here and there by hazardous foot-paths. on either side, a long shelf of cultivated land sloped down to the top, and the mountain streams, after watering a multitude of orchards and grain-fields, tumbled over the cliffs in long, sparkling cascades, to join the roaring flood below. this is the christian region of lebanon, inhabited almost wholly by maronites, who still retain a portion of their former independence, and are the most thrifty, industrious, honest, and happy people in syria. their villages are not concrete masses of picturesque filth, as are those of the moslems, but are loosely scattered among orchards of mulberry, poplar, and vine, washed by fresh rills, and have an air of comparative neatness and comfort. each has its two or three chapels, with their little belfries, which toll the hours of prayer. sad and poetic as is the call from the minaret, it never touched me as when i heard the sweet tongues of those christian bells, chiming vespers far and near on the sides of lebanon. eden merits its name. it is a mountain paradise, inhabited by people so kind and simple-hearted, that assuredly no vengeful angel will ever drive them out with his flaming sword. it hangs above the gorge, which is here nearly two thousand feet deep, and overlooks a grand wilderness of mountain-piles, crowded on and over each other, from the sea that gleams below, to the topmost heights that keep off the morning sun. the houses are all built of hewn stone, and grouped in clusters under the shade of large walnut-trees. in walking among them, we received kind greetings everywhere, and every one who was seated rose and remained standing as we passed. the women are beautiful, with sprightly, intelligent faces, quite different from the stupid mahometan females. the children were charming creatures, and some of the girls of ten or twelve years were lovely as angels. they came timidly to our tent (which the men had pitched as before, under two superb trees, beside a fountain), and offered us roses and branches of fragrant white jasmine. they expected some return, of course, but did not ask it, and the delicate grace with which the offering was made was beyond all pay. it was sunday, and the men and boys, having nothing better to do, all came to see and talk with us. i shall not soon forget the circle of gay and laughing villagers, in which we sat that evening, while the dark purple shadows gradually filled up the gorges, and broad golden lights poured over the shoulders of the hills. the men had much sport in inducing the smaller boys to come up and salute us. there was one whom they called "the consul," who eluded them for some time, but was finally caught and placed in the ring before us. "peace be with you, o consul," i said, making him a profound inclination, "may your days be propitious! may your shadow be increased!" but i then saw, from the vacant expression on the boy's face, that he was one of those harmless, witless creatures, whom yet one cannot quite call idiots. "he is an unfortunate; he knows nothing; he has no protector but god," said the men, crossing themselves devoutly. the boy took off his cap, crept up and kissed my hand, as i gave him some money, which he no sooner grasped, than he sprang up like a startled gazelle, and was out of sight in an instant. in descending from eden to the sea-coast, we were obliged to cross the great gorge of which i spoke. further down, its sides are less steep, and clothed even to the very bottom with magnificent orchards of mulberry, fig, olive, orange, and pomegranate trees. we were three hours in reaching the opposite side, although the breadth across the top is not more than a mile. the path was exceedingly perilous; we walked down, leading our horses, and once were obliged to unload our mules to get them past a tree, which would have forced them off the brink of a chasm several hundred feet deep. the view from the bottom was wonderful. we were shut in by steeps of foliage and blossoms from two to three thousand feet high, broken by crags of white marble, and towering almost precipitously to the very clouds. i doubt if melville saw anything grander in the tropical gorges of typee. after reaching the other side, we had still a journey of eight hours to the sea, through a wild and broken, yet highly cultivated country. beyrout was now thirteen hours distant, but by making a forced march we reached it in a day, travelling along the shore, past the towns of jebeil, the ancient byblus, and joonieh. the hills about jebeil produce the celebrated tobacco known in egypt as the _jebelee_, or "mountain" tobacco, which is even superior to the latakiyeh. near beyrout, the mulberry and olive are in the ascendant. the latter tree bears the finest fruit in all the levant, and might drive all other oils out of the market, if any one had enterprise enough to erect proper manufactories. instead of this the oil of the country is badly prepared, rancid from the skins in which it is kept, and the wealthy natives import from france and italy in preference to using it. in the bottoms near the sea, i saw several fields of the taro-plant, the cultivation of which i had supposed was exclusively confined to the islands of the pacific. there would be no end to the wealth of syria were the country in proper hands. chapter xiii. pipes and coffee. --"the kind nymph to bacchus born by morpheus' daughter, she that seems gifted upon her natal morn by him with fire, by her with dreams-- nicotia, dearer to the muse than all the grape's bewildering juice." lowell. in painting the picture of an oriental, the pipe and the coffee-cup are indispensable accessories. there is scarce a turk, or arab, or persian--unless he be a dervish of peculiar sanctity--but breathes his daily incense to the milder bacchus of the moderns. the custom has become so thoroughly naturalized in the east, that we are apt to forget its comparatively recent introduction, and to wonder that no mention is made of the pipe in the arabian nights. the practice of smoking harmonizes so thoroughly with the character of oriental life, that it is difficult for us to imagine a time when it never existed. it has become a part of that supreme patience, that wonderful repose, which forms so strong a contrast to the over-active life of the new world--the enjoyment of which no one can taste, to whom the pipe is not familiar. howl, ye reformers! but i solemnly declare unto you, that he who travels through the east without smoking, does not know the east. it is strange that our continent, where the meaning of rest is unknown, should have given to the world this great agent of rest. there is nothing more remarkable in history than the colonization of tobacco over the whole earth. not three centuries have elapsed since knightly raleigh puffed its fumes into the astonished eyes of spenser and shakspeare; and now, find me any corner of the world, from nova zembla to the mountains of the moon, where the use of the plant is unknown! tarshish (if india was tarshish) is less distinguished by its "apes, ivory, and peacocks," than by its hookahs; the valleys of luzon, beyond ternate and tidore, send us more cheroots than spices; the gardens of shiraz produce more velvety _toombek_ than roses, and the only fountains which bubble in samarcand are those of the narghilehs: lebanon is no longer "excellent with the cedars," as in the days of solomon, but most excellent with its fields of jebelee and latakiyeh. on the unvisited plains of central africa, the table-lands of tartary, and in the valleys of japan, the wonderful plant has found a home. the naked negro, "panting at the line," inhales it under the palms, and the lapp and samoyed on the shores of the frozen sea. it is idle for those who object to the use of tobacco to attribute these phenomena wholly to a perverted taste. the fact that the custom was at once adopted by all the races of men, whatever their geographical position and degree of civilization, proves that there must be a reason for it in the physical constitution of man. its effect, when habitually used, is slightly narcotic and sedative, not stimulating--or if so, at times, it stimulates only the imagination and the social faculties. it lulls to sleep the combative and destructive propensities, and hence--so far as a material agent may operate--it exercises a humanizing and refining influence. a profound student of man, whose name is well known to the world, once informed me that he saw in the eagerness with which savage tribes adopt the use of tobacco, a spontaneous movement of nature towards civilization. i will not pursue these speculations further, for the narghileh (bubbling softly at my elbow, as i write) is the promoter of repose and the begetter of agreeable reverie. as i inhale its cool, fragrant breath, and partly yield myself to the sensation of healthy rest which wraps my limbs as with a velvet mantle, i marvel how the poets and artists and scholars of olden times nursed those dreams which the world calls indolence, but which are the seeds that germinate into great achievements. how did plato philosophize without the pipe? how did gray homer, sitting on the temple-steps in the grecian twilights, drive from his heart the bitterness of beggary and blindness? how did phidias charm the cerberus of his animal nature to sleep, while his soul entered the elysian fields and beheld the forms of heroes? for, in the higher world of art, body and soul are sworn enemies, and the pipe holds an opiate more potent than all the drowsy syrups of the east, to drug the former into submission. milton knew this, as he smoked his evening pipe at chalfont, wandering, the while, among the palms of paradise. but it is also our loss, that tobacco was unknown to the greeks. they would else have given us, in verse and in marble, another divinity in their glorious pantheon--a god less drowsy than morpheus and somnus, less riotous than bacchus, less radiant than apollo, but with something of the spirit of each: a figure, beautiful with youth, every muscle in perfect repose, and the vague expression of dreams in his half-closed eyes. his temple would have been built in a grove of southern pines, on the borders of a land-locked gulf, sheltered from the surges that buffet without, where service would have been rendered him in the late hours of the afternoon, or in the evening twilight. from his oracular tripod words of wisdom would have been spoken, and the fanes of delphi and dodona would have been deserted for his. oh, non-smoking friends, who read these lines with pain and incredulity--and you, ladies, who turn pale at the thought of a pipe--let me tell you that you are familiar only with the vulgar form of tobacco, and have never passed between the wind and its gentility. the word conveys no idea to you but that of "long nines," and pig-tail, and cavendish. forget these for a moment, and look upon this dark-brown cake of dried leaves and blossoms, which exhales an odor of pressed flowers. these are the tender tops of the _jebelee_, plucked as the buds begin to expand, and carefully dried in the shade. in order to be used, it is moistened with rose-scented water, and cut to the necessary degree of fineness. the test of true jebelee is, that it burns with a slow, hidden fire, like tinder, and causes no irritation to the eye when held under it. the smoke, drawn through a long cherry-stick pipe and amber mouth-piece, is pure, cool, and sweet, with an aromatic flavor, which is very pleasant in the mouth. it excites no salivation, and leaves behind it no unpleasant, stale odor. the narghileh (still bubbling beside me) is an institution known only in the east. it requires a peculiar kind of tobacco, which grows to perfection in the southern provinces of persia. the smoke, after passing through water (rose-flavored, if you choose), is inhaled through a long, flexible tube directly into the lungs. it occasions not the slightest irritation or oppression, but in a few minutes produces a delicious sense of rest, which is felt even in the finger-ends. the pure physical sensation of rest is one of strength also, and of perfect contentment. many an impatient thought, many an angry word, have i avoided by a resort to the pipe. among our aborigines the pipe was the emblem of peace, and i strongly recommend the peace society to print their tracts upon papers of smoking tobacco (turkish, if possible), and distribute pipes with them. i know of nothing more refreshing, after the fatigue of a long day's journey, than a well-prepared narghileh. that slight feverish and excitable feeling which is the result of fatigue yields at once to its potency. the blood loses its heat and the pulse its rapidity; the muscles relax, the nerves are soothed into quiet, and the frame passes into a condition similar to sleep, except that the mind is awake and active. by the time one has finished his pipe, he is refreshed for the remainder of the day, and his nightly sleep is sound and healthy. such are some of the physical effects of the pipe, in eastern lands. morally and psychologically, it works still greater transformations; but to describe them now, with the mouth-piece at my lips, would require an active self-consciousness which the habit does not allow. a servant enters with a steamy cup of coffee, seated in a silver _zerf_, or cup-holder. his thumb and fore-finger are clasped firmly upon the bottom of the zerf, which i inclose near the top with my own thumb and finger, so that the transfer is accomplished without his hand having touched mine. after draining the thick brown liquid, which must be done with due deliberation and a pause of satisfaction between each sip, i return the zerf, holding it in the middle, while the attendant places a palm of each hand upon the top and bottom and carries it off without contact. the beverage is made of the berries of mocha, slightly roasted, pulverized in a mortar, and heated to a foam, without the addition of cream or sugar. sometimes, however, it is flavored with the extract of roses or violets. when skilfully made, each cup is prepared separately, and the quantity of water and coffee carefully measured. coffee is a true child of the east, and its original home was among the hills of yemen, the arabia felix of the ancients. fortunately for mussulmen, its use was unknown in the days of mahomet, or it would probably have fallen under the same prohibition as wine. the word _kahweh_ (whence _café_) is an old arabic term for wine. the discovery of the properties of coffee is attributed to a dervish, who, for some misdemeanor, was carried into the mountains of yemen by his brethren and there left to perish by starvation. in order to appease the pangs of hunger he gathered the ripe berries from the wild coffee-trees, roasted and ate them. the nourishment they contained, with water from the springs, sustained his life, and after two or three months he returned in good condition to his brethren, who considered his preservation as a miracle, and ever afterwards looked upon him as a pattern of holiness. he taught the use of the miraculous fruit, and the demand for it soon became so great as to render the cultivation of the tree necessary. it was a long time, however, before coffee was introduced into europe. as late as the beginning of the seventeenth century, sandys, the quaint old traveller, describes the appearance and taste of the beverage, which he calls "coffa," and sagely asks: "why not that black broth which the lacedemonians used?" on account of the excellence of the material, and the skilful manner of its preparation, the coffee of the east is the finest in the world. i have found it so grateful and refreshing a drink, that i can readily pardon the pleasant exaggeration of the arabic poet, abd-el kader anazari djezeri hanbali, the son of mahomet, who thus celebrates its virtues. after such an exalted eulogy, my own praises would sound dull and tame; and i therefore resume my pipe, commending abd-el kader to the reader. "o coffee! thou dispellest the cares of the great; thou bringest back those who wander from the paths of knowledge. coffee is the beverage of the people of god, and the cordial of his servants who thirst for wisdom. when coffee is infused into the bowl, it exhales the odor of musk, and is of the color of ink. the truth is not known except to the wise, who drink it from the foaming coffee-cup. god has deprived fools of coffee, who, with invincible obstinacy, condemn it as injurious. "coffee is our gold; and in the place of its libations we are in the enjoyment of the best and noblest society. coffee is even as innocent a drink as the purest milk, from which it is distinguished only by its color. tarry with thy coffee in the place of its preparation, and the good god will hover over thee and participate in his feast. there the graces of the saloon, the luxury of life, the society of friends, all furnish a picture of the abode of happiness. "every care vanishes when the cup-bearer presents the delicious chalice. it will circulate fleetly through thy veins, and will not rankle there: if thou doubtest this, contemplate the youth and beauty of those who drink it. grief cannot exist where it grows; sorrow humbles itself in obedience before its powers. "coffee is the drink of god's people; in it is health. let this be the answer to those who doubt its qualities. in it we will drown our adversities, and in its fire consume our sorrows. whoever has once seen the blissful chalice, will scorn the wine-cup. glorious drink! thy color is the seal of purity, and reason proclaims it genuine. drink with confidence, and regard not the prattle of fools, who condemn without foundation." chapter xiv. journey to antioch and aleppo. change of plans--routes to baghdad--asia minor--we sail from beyrout--yachting on the syrian coast--tartus and latakiyeh--the coasts of syria--the bay of suediah--the mouth of the orontes--landing--the garden of syria--ride to antioch--the modern city--the plains of the orontes--remains of the greek empire--the ancient road--the plain of keftin--approach to aleppo. "the chain is loosed, the sails are spread, the living breath is fresh behind, as, with dews and sunrise fed, comes the laughing morning wind." shelley. aleppo, _friday, june_ , . a traveller in the east, who has not unbounded time and an extensive fortune at his disposal, is never certain where and how far he shall go, until his journey is finished. with but a limited portion of both these necessaries, i have so far carried out my original plan with scarcely a variation; but at present i am obliged to make a material change of route. my farthest east is here at aleppo. at damascus, i was told by everybody that it was too late in the season to visit either baghdad or mosul, and that, on account of the terrible summer heats and the fevers which prevail along the tigris, it would be imprudent to undertake it. notwithstanding this, i should probably have gone (being now so thoroughly acclimated that i have nothing to fear from the heat), had i not met with a friend of col. rawlinson, the companion of layard, and the sharer in his discoveries at nineveh. this gentleman, who met col. r. not long since in constantinople, on his way to baghdad (where he resides as british consul), informed me that since the departure of mr. layard from mosul, the most interesting excavations have been filled up, in order to preserve the sculptures. unless one was able to make a new exhumation, he would be by no means repaid for so long and arduous a journey. the ruins of nineveh are all below the surface of the earth, and the little of them that is now left exposed, is less complete and interesting than the specimens in the british museum. there is a route from damascus to baghdad, across the desert, by way of palmyra, but it is rarely travelled, even by the natives, except when the caravans are sufficiently strong to withstand the attacks of the bedouins. the traveller is obliged to go in arab costume, to leave his baggage behind, except a meagre scrip for the journey, and to pay from $ to $ for the camels and escort. the more usual route is to come northward to this city, then cross to mosul and descend the tigris--a journey of four or five weeks. after weighing all the advantages and disadvantages of undertaking a tour of such length as it would be necessary to make before reaching constantinople, i decided at beyrout to give up the fascinating fields of travel in media, assyria and armenia, and take a rather shorter and-perhaps equally interesting route from aleppo to constantinople, by way of tarsus, konia (iconium), and the ancient countries of phrygia, bithynia, and mysia. the interior of asia minor is even less known to us than the persian side of asiatic turkey, which has of late received more attention from travellers; and, as i shall traverse it in its whole length, from syria to the bosphorus, i may find it replete with "green fields and pastures new," which shall repay me for relinquishing the first and more ambitious undertaking. at least, i have so much reason to be grateful for the uninterrupted good health and good luck i have enjoyed during seven months in africa and the orient, that i cannot be otherwise than content with the prospect before me. i left beyrout on the night of the th of may, with mr. harrison, who has decided to keep me company as far as constantinople. françois, our classic dragoman, whose great delight is to recite homer by the sea-side, is retained for the whole tour, as we have found no reason to doubt his honesty or ability. our first thought was to proceed to aleppo by land, by way of homs and hamah, whence there might be a chance of reaching palmyra; but as we found an opportunity of engaging an american yacht for the voyage up the coast, it was thought preferable to take her, and save time. she was a neat little craft, called the "american eagle," brought out by mr. smith, our consul at beyrout. so, one fine moonlit night, we slowly crept out of the harbor, and after returning a volley of salutes from our friends at demetri's hotel, ran into the heart of a thunder-storm, which poured down more rain than all i had seen for eight months before. but our raïs, assad (the lion), was worthy of his name, and had two good christian sailors at his command, so we lay in the cramped little cabin, and heard the floods washing our deck, without fear. in the morning, we were off tripoli, which is even more deeply buried than beyrout in its orange and mulberry groves, and slowly wafted along the bold mountain-coast, in the afternoon reached tartus, the ancient tortosa. a mile from shore is the rocky island of aradus, entirely covered by a town. there were a dozen vessels lying in the harbor. the remains of a large fortress and ancient mole prove it to have been a place of considerable importance. tartus is a small old place on the sea-shore--not so large nor so important in appearance as its island-port. the country behind is green and hilly, though but partially cultivated, and rises into djebel ansairiyeh, which divides the valley of the orontes from the sea. it is a lovely coast, especially under the flying lights and shadows of such a breezy day as we had. the wind fell at sunset; but by the next morning, we had passed the tobacco-fields of latakiyeh, and were in sight of the southern cape of the bay of suediah. the mountains forming this cape culminate in a grand conical peak, about , feet in height, called djebel okrab. at ten o'clock, wafted along by a slow wind, we turned the point and entered the bay of suediah, formed by the embouchure of the river orontes. the mountain headland of akma dagh, forming the portal of the gulf of scanderoon, loomed grandly in front of us across the bay; and far beyond it, we could just distinguish the coast of karamania, the snow-capped range of taurus. the coasts of syria might be divided, like those of guinea, according to the nature of their productions. the northern division is bold and bare, yet flocks of sheep graze on the slopes of its mountains; and the inland plains behind them are covered with orchards of pistachio-trees. silk is cultivated in the neighborhood of suediah, but forms only a small portion of the exports. this region may be called the wool and pistachio coast. southward, from latakiyeh to tartus and the northern limit of lebanon, extends the tobacco coast, whose undulating hills are now clothed with the pale-green leaves of the renowned plant. from tripoli to tyre, embracing all the western slope of lebanon, and the deep, rich valleys lying between his knees, the mulberry predominates, and the land is covered with the houses of thatch and matting which shelter the busy worms. this is the silk coast. the palmy plains of jaffa, and beyond, until syria meets the african sands between gaza and el-arish, constitute the orange coast. the vine, the olive, and the fig flourish everywhere. we were all day getting up the bay, and it seemed as if we should never pass djebel okrab, whose pointed top rose high above a long belt of fleecy clouds that girdled his waist. at sunset we made the mouth of the orontes. our lion of a captain tried to run into the river, but the channel was very narrow, and when within three hundred yards of the shore the yacht struck. we had all sail set, and had the wind been a little stronger, we should have capsized in an instant. the lion went manfully to work, and by dint of hard poling, shoved us off, and came to anchor in deep water. not until the danger was past did he open his batteries on the unlucky helmsman, and then the explosion of arabic oaths was equal to a broadside of twenty-four pounders. we lay all night rocking on the swells, and the next morning, by firing a number of signal guns, brought out a boat, which took us off. we entered the mouth of the orontes, and sailed nearly a mile between rich wheat meadows before reaching the landing-place of suediah--two or three uninhabited stone huts, with three or four small turkish craft, and a health officer. the town lies a mile or two inland, scattered along the hill-side amid gardens so luxuriant as almost to conceal it from view. this part of the coast is ignorant of travellers, and we were obliged to wait half a day before we could find a sufficient number of horses to take us to antioch, twenty miles distant. when they came, they were solid farmers' horses, with the rudest gear imaginable. i was obliged to mount astride of a broad pack-saddle, with my legs suspended in coils of rope. leaving the meadows, we entered a lane of the wildest, richest and loveliest bloom and foliage. our way was overhung with hedges of pomegranate, myrtle, oleander, and white rose, in blossom, and occasionally with quince, fig, and carob trees, laced together with grape vines in fragrant bloom. sometimes this wilderness of color and odor met above our heads and made a twilight; then it opened into long, dazzling, sun-bright vistas, where the hues of the oleander, pomegranate and white rose made the eye wink with their gorgeous profusion. the mountains we crossed were covered with thickets of myrtle, mastic, daphne, and arbutus, and all the valleys and sloping meads waved with fig, mulberry, and olive trees. looking towards the sea, the valley broadened out between mountain ranges whose summits were lost in the clouds. though the soil was not so rich as in palestine, the general aspect of the country was much wilder and more luxuriant. so, by this glorious lane, over the myrtled hills and down into valleys, whose bed was one hue of rose from the blossoming oleanders, we travelled for five hours, crossing the low ranges of hills through which the orontes forces his way to the sea. at last we reached a height overlooking the valley of the river, and saw in the east, at the foot of the mountain chain, the long lines of barracks built by ibrahim pasha for the defence of antioch. behind them the ancient wall of the city clomb the mountains, whose crest it followed to the last peak of the chain, from the next hill we saw the city--a large extent of one-story houses with tiled roofs, surrounded with gardens, and half buried in the foliage of sycamores. it extends from the river orontes, which washes its walls, up the slope of the mountain to the crags of gray rock which overhang it. we crossed the river by a massive old bridge, and entered the town. riding along the rills of filth which traverse the streets, forming their central avenues, we passed through several lines of bazaars to a large and dreary-looking khan, the keeper of which gave us the best vacant chamber--a narrow place, full of fleas. antioch presents not even a shadow of its former splendor. except the great walls, ten to fifteen miles in circuit, which the turks have done their best to destroy, every vestige of the old city has disappeared. the houses are all of one story, on account of earthquakes, from which antioch has suffered more than any other city in the world. at one time, during the middle ages, it lost , inhabitants in one day. its situation is magnificent, and the modern town, notwithstanding its filth, wears a bright and busy aspect. situated at the base of a lofty mountain, it overlooks, towards the east, a plain thirty or forty miles in length, producing the most abundant harvests. a great number of the inhabitants are workers in wood and leather, and very thrifty and cheerful people they appear to be. we remained until the next day at noon, by which time a gray-bearded scamp, the chief of the _mukkairees_, or muleteers, succeeded in getting us five miserable beasts for the journey to aleppo. on leaving the city, we travelled along a former street of antioch, part of the ancient pavement still remaining, and after two miles came to the old wall of circuit, which we passed by a massive gateway, of roman time. it is now called _bab boulos_, or st. paul's gate. christianity, it will be remembered, was planted in antioch by paul and barnabas, and the apostle peter was the first bishop of the city. we now entered the great plain of the orontes--a level sea, rioting in the wealth of its ripening harvests. the river, lined with luxuriant thickets, meandered through the centre of this glorious picture. we crossed it during the afternoon, and keeping on our eastward course, encamped at night in a meadow near the tents of some wandering turcomans, who furnished us with butter and milk from their herds. leaving the plain the next morning, we travelled due east all day, over long stony ranges of mountains, inclosing only one valley, which bore evidence of great fertility. it was circular, about ten miles in its greater diameter, and bounded on the north by the broad peak of djebel saman, or mount st. simon. in the morning we passed a ruined castle, standing in a dry, treeless dell, among the hot hills. the muleteers called it the maiden's palace, and said that it was built long ago by a powerful sultan, as a prison for his daughter. for several hours thereafter, our road was lined with remains of buildings, apparently dating from the time of the greek empire. there were tombs, temples of massive masonry, though in a bad style of architecture, and long rows of arched chambers, which resembled store-houses. they were all more or less shattered by earthquakes, but in one place i noticed twenty such arches, each of at least twenty feet span. all-the hills, on either hand, as far as we could see, were covered with the remains of buildings. in the plain of st. simon, i saw two superb pillars, apparently part of a portico, or gateway, and the village of dana is formed almost entirely of churches and convents, of the lower empire. there were but few inscriptions, and these i could not read; but the whole of this region would, no doubt, richly repay an antiquarian research. i am told here that the entire chain of hills, which extends southward for more than a hundred miles, abounds with similar remains, and that, in many places, whole cities stand almost entire, as if recently deserted by their inhabitants. during the afternoon, we came upon a portion of the ancient road from antioch to aleppo, which is still as perfect as when first constructed. it crossed a very stony ridge, and is much the finest specimen of road-making i ever saw, quite putting to shame the appian and flaminian ways at rome. it is twenty feet wide, and laid with blocks of white marble, from two to four feet square. it was apparently raised upon a more ancient road, which diverges here and there from the line, showing the deeply-cut traces of the roman chariot-wheels. in the barren depths of the mountains we found every hour cisterns cut in the rock and filled with water left by the winter rains. many of them, however, are fast drying up, and a month later this will be a desert road. towards night we descended from the hills upon the plain of keftin, which stretches south-westward from aleppo, till the mountain-streams which fertilize it are dried up, when it is merged into the syrian desert. its northern edge, along which we travelled, is covered with fields of wheat, cotton, and castor-beans. we stopped all night at a village called taireb, planted at the foot of a tumulus, older than tradition. the people were in great dread of the aneyzeh arabs, who come in from the desert to destroy their harvests and carry off their cattle. they wanted us to take a guard, but after our experience on the anti-lebanon, we felt safer without one. yesterday we travelled for seven hours over a wide, rolling country, now waste and barren, but formerly covered with wealth and supporting an abundant population, evidences of which are found in the buildings everywhere scattered over the hills. on and on we toiled in the heat, over this inhospitable wilderness, and though we knew aleppo must be very near, yet we could see neither sign of cultivation nor inhabitants. finally, about three o'clock, the top of a line of shattered wall and the points of some minarets issued out of the earth, several miles in front of us, and on climbing a glaring chalky ridge, the renowned city burst at once upon our view. it filled a wide hollow or basin among the white hills, against which its whiter houses and domes glimmered for miles, in the dead, dreary heat of the afternoon, scarcely relieved by the narrow belt of gardens on the nearer side, or the orchards of pistachio trees beyond. in the centre of the city rose a steep, abrupt mound, crowned with the remains of the ancient citadel, and shining minarets shot up, singly or in clusters, around its base. the prevailing hue of the landscape was a whitish-gray, and the long, stately city and long, monotonous hills, gleamed with equal brilliancy under a sky of cloudless and intense blue. this singular monotony of coloring gave a wonderful effect to the view, which is one of the most remarkable in all the orient. chapter xv. life in aleppo. our entry into aleppo--we are conducted to a house--our unexpected welcome--the mystery explained--aleppo--its name--its situation--the trade of aleppo--the christians--the revolt of --present appearance of the city--visit to osman pasha--the citadel--view from the battlements--society in aleppo--etiquette and costume--jewish marriage festivities--a christian marriage procession--ride around the town--nightingales--the aleppo button--a hospital for cats--ferhat pasha. aleppo, _tuesday, june_ , . our entry into aleppo was a fitting preliminary to our experiences during the five days we have spent here. after passing a blackamoor, who acted as an advanced guard of the custom house, at a ragged tent outside of the city, and bribing him with two piastres, we crossed the narrow line of gardens on the western side, and entered the streets. there were many coffee-houses, filled with smokers, nearly all of whom accosted us in turkish, though arabic is the prevailing language here. ignorance made us discourteous, and we slighted every attempt to open a conversation. out of the narrow streets of the suburbs, we advanced to the bazaars, in order to find a khan where we could obtain lodgings. all the best khans, however, were filled, and we were about to take a very inferior room, when a respectable individual came up to françois and said: "the house is ready for the travellers, and i will show you the way." we were a little surprised at this address, but followed him to a neat, quiet and pleasant street near the bazaars, where we were ushered into a spacious court-yard, with a row of apartments opening upon it, and told to make ourselves at home. the place had evidently been recently inhabited, for the rooms were well furnished, with not only divans, but beds in the frank style. a lean kitten was scratching at one of the windows, to the great danger of overturning a pair of narghilehs, a tame sea-gull was walking about the court, and two sheep bleated in a stable at the further end. in the kitchen we not only found a variety of utensils, but eggs, salt, pepper, and other condiments. our guide had left, and the only information we could get, from a dyeing establishment next door, was that the occupants had gone into the country. "take the good the gods provide thee," is my rule in such cases, and as we were very hungry, we set françois to work at preparing dinner. we arranged a divan in the open air, had a table brought out, and by the aid of the bakers in the bazaar, and the stores which the kitchen supplied, soon rejoiced over a very palatable meal. the romantic character of our reception made the dinner a merry one. it was a chapter out of the arabian nights, and be he genie or afrite, caliph or merchant of bassora, into whose hands we had fallen, we resolved to let the adventure take its course. we were just finishing a nondescript pastry which françois found at a baker's, and which, for want of a better name, he called _méringues à la khorassan,_ when there was a loud knock at the street door. we felt at first some little trepidation, but determined to maintain our places, and gravely invite the real master to join us. it was a female servant, however, who, to our great amazement, made a profound salutation, and seemed delighted to see us. "my master did not expect your excellencies to-day; he has gone into the gardens, but will soon return. will your excellencies take coffee after your dinner?" and coffee was forthwith served. the old woman was unremitting in her attentions; and her son, a boy of eight years, and the most venerable child i ever saw, entertained us with the description of a horse which his master had just bought--a horse which had cost two thousand piastres, and was ninety years old. well, this aleppo is an extraordinary place, was my first impression, and the inhabitants are remarkable people; but i waited the master's arrival, as the only means of solving the mystery. about dusk, there was another rap at the door. a lady dressed in white, with an indian handkerchief bound over her black hair, arrived. "pray excuse us," said she; "we thought you would not reach here before to-morrow; but my brother will come directly." in fact, the brother did come soon afterwards, and greeted us with a still warmer welcome. "before leaving the gardens," he said, "i heard of your arrival, and have come in a full gallop the whole way." in order to put an end to this comedy of errors, i declared at once that he was mistaken; nobody in aleppo could possibly know of our coming, and we were, perhaps, transgressing on his hospitality. but no: he would not be convinced. he was a dragoman to the english consulate; his master had told him we would be here the next day, and he must be prepared to receive us. besides, the janissary of the consulate had showed us the way to his house. we, therefore, let the matter rest until next morning, when we called on mr. very, the consul, who informed us that the janissary had mistaken us for two gentlemen we had met in damascus, the travelling companions of lord dalkeith. as they had not arrived, he begged us to remain in the quarters which had been prepared for them. we have every reason to be glad of this mistake, as it has made us acquainted with one of the most courteous and hospitable gentlemen in the east. aleppo lies so far out of the usual routes of travel, that it is rarely visited by europeans. one is not, therefore, as in the case of damascus, prepared beforehand by volumes of description, which preclude all possibility of mistake or surprise. for my part, i only knew that aleppo had once been the greatest commercial city of the orient, though its power had long since passed into other hands. but there were certain stately associations lingering around the name, which drew me towards it, and obliged me to include it, at all hazards, in my asiatic tour. the scanty description of captains irby and mangles, the only one i had read, gave me no distinct idea of its position or appearance; and when, the other day, i first saw it looming grand and gray among the gray hills, more like a vast natural crystallization than the product of human art, i revelled in the novelty of that startling first impression. the tradition of the city's name is curious, and worth relating. it is called, in arabic, _haleb el-shahba_--aleppo, the gray--which most persons suppose to refer to the prevailing color of the soil. the legend, however, goes much farther. _haleb_, which the venetians and genoese softened into aleppo, means literally: "has milked," according to arab tradition, the patriarch abraham once lived here: his tent being pitched near the mound now occupied by the citadel. he had a certain gray cow (_el-shahba_) which was milked every morning for the benefit of the poor. when, therefore, it was proclaimed: "_ibrahim haleb el-shahba_" (abraham has milked the gray cow), all the poor of the tribe came up to receive their share. the repetition of this morning call attached itself to the spot, and became the name of the city which was afterwards founded. aleppo is built on the eastern slope of a shallow upland basin, through which flows the little river koweik. there are low hills to the north and south, between which the country falls into a wide, monotonous plain, extending unbroken to the euphrates. the city is from eight to ten miles in circuit, and, though not so thickly populated, covers a greater extent of space than damascus. the population is estimated at , . in the excellence (not the elegance) of its architecture, it surpasses any oriental city i have yet seen. the houses are all of hewn stone, frequently three and even four stories in height, and built in a most massive and durable style, on account of the frequency of earthquakes. the streets are well paved, clean, with narrow sidewalks, and less tortuous and intricate than the bewildering alleys of damascus. a large part of the town is occupied with bazaars, attesting the splendor of its former commerce. these establishments are covered with lofty vaults of stone, lighted from the top; and one may walk for miles beneath the spacious roofs. the shops exhibit all the stuffs of the east, especially of persia and india. there is also an extensive display of european fabrics, as the eastern provinces of asiatic turkey, as far as baghdad, are supplied entirely from aleppo and trebizond. within ten years--in fact, since the allied powers drove ibrahim pasha out of syria--the trade of aleppo has increased, at the expense of damascus. the tribes of the desert, who were held in check during the egyptian occupancy, are now so unruly that much of the commerce between the latter place and baghdad goes northward to mosul, and thence by a safer road to this city. the khans, of which there are a great number, built on a scale according with the former magnificence of aleppo, are nearly all filled, and persian, georgian, and armenian merchants again make their appearance in the bazaars. the principal manufactures carried on are the making of shoes (which, indeed, is a prominent branch in every turkish city), and the weaving of silk and golden tissues. two long bazaars are entirely occupied with shoe-shops, and there is nearly a quarter of a mile of confectionery, embracing more varieties than i ever saw, or imagined possible. i saw yesterday the operation of weaving silk and gold, which is a very slow process. the warp and the body of the woof were of purple silk. the loom only differed from the old hand-looms in general use in having some thirty or forty contrivances for lifting the threads of the warp, so as to form, by variation, certain patterns. the gold threads by which the pattern was worked were contained in twenty small shuttles, thrust by hand under the different parcels of the warp, as they were raised by a boy trained for that purpose, who sat on the top of the loom. the fabric was very brilliant in its appearance, and sells, as the weavers informed me, at piastres per _pik_--about $ per yard. we had letters to mr. ford, an american missionary established here, and signor di picciotto, who acts as american vice-consul. both gentlemen have been very cordial in their offers of service, and by their aid we have been enabled to see something of aleppo life and society. mr. ford, who has been here four years, has a pleasant residence at jedaida, a christian suburb of the city. his congregation numbers some fifty or sixty proselytes, who are mostly from the schismatic sects of the armenians. dr. smith, who established the mission at ain-tab (two days' journey north of this), where he died last year, was very successful among these sects, and the congregation there amounts to nine hundred. the sultan, a year ago, issued a firman, permitting his christian subjects to erect houses of worship; but, although this was proclaimed in constantinople and much lauded in europe as an act of great generosity and tolerance, there has been no official promulgation of it here. so of the aid which the turkish government was said to have afforded to its destitute christian subjects, whose houses were sacked during the fanatical rebellion of . the world praised the sultan's charity and love of justice, while the sufferers, to this day, lack the first experience of it. but for the spontaneous relief contributed in europe and among the christian communities of the levant, the amount of misery would have been frightful. to feridj pasha, who is at present the commander of the forces here, is mainly due the credit of having put down the rebels with a strong hand. there were but few troops in the city at the time of the outbreak, and as the insurgents, who were composed of the turkish and arab population, were in league with the aneyzehs of the desert, the least faltering or delay would have led to a universal massacre of the christians. fortunately, the troops were divided into two portions, one occupying the barracks on a hill north of the city, and the other, a mere corporal's guard of a dozen men, posted in the citadel. the leaders of the outbreak went to the latter and offered him a large sum of money (the spoils of christian houses) to give up the fortress. with a loyalty to his duty truly miraculous among the turks, he ordered his men to fire upon them, and they beat a hasty retreat. the quarter of the insurgents lay precisely between the barracks and the citadel, and by order of feridj pasha a cannonade was immediately opened on it from both points. it was not, however, until many houses had been battered down, and a still larger number destroyed by fire, that the rebels were brought to submission. their allies, the aneyzehs, appeared on the hill east of aleppo, to the number of five or six thousand, but a few well-directed cannon-balls told them what they might expect, and they speedily retreated. two or three hundred christian families lost nearly all of their property during the sack, and many were left entirely destitute. the house in which mr. ford lives was plundered of jewels and furniture to the amount of , piastres ($ , ). the robbers, it is said, were amazed at the amount of spoil they found. the government made some feeble efforts to recover it, but the greater part was already sold and scattered through a thousand hands, and the unfortunate christians have only received about seven per cent. of their loss. the burnt quarter has since been rebuilt, and i noticed several christians occupying shops in various parts of it. but many families, who fled at the time, still remain in various parts of syria, afraid to return to their homes. the aneyzehs and other desert tribes have latterly become more daring than ever. even in the immediate neighborhood of the city, the inhabitants are so fearful of them that all the grain is brought up to the very walls to be threshed. the burying-grounds on both sides are now turned into threshing-floors, and all day long the turkish peasants drive their heavy sleds around among the tomb-stones. on the second day after our arrival, we paid a visit to osman pasha, governor of the city and province of aleppo. we went in state, accompanied by the consul, with two janissaries in front, bearing silver maces, and a dragoman behind. the _seraï_, or palace, is a large, plain wooden building, and a group of soldiers about the door, with a shabby carriage in the court, were the only tokens of its character. we were ushered at once into the presence of the pasha, who is a man of about seventy years, with a good-humored, though shrewd face. he was quite cordial in his manners, complimenting us on our turkish costume, and vaunting his skill in physiognomy, which at once revealed to him that we belonged to the highest class of american nobility. in fact, in the firman which he has since sent us, we are mentioned as "nobles." he invited us to pass a day or two with him, saying that he should derive much benefit from our superior knowledge. we replied that such an intercourse could only benefit ourselves, as his greater experience, and the distinguished wisdom which had made his name long since familiar to our ears, precluded the hope of our being of any service to him. after half an hour's stay, during which we were regaled with jewelled pipes, exquisite mocha coffee, and sherbet breathing of the gardens of gülistan, we took our leave. the pasha sent an officer to show us the citadel. we passed around the moat to the entrance on the western side, consisting of a bridge and double gateway. the fortress, as i have already stated, occupies the crest of an elliptical mound, about one thousand feet by six hundred, and two hundred feet in height. it is entirely encompassed by the city and forms a prominent and picturesque feature in the distant view thereof. formerly, it was thickly inhabited, and at the time of the great earthquake of , there were three hundred families living within the walls, nearly all of whom perished. the outer walls were very much shattered on that occasion, but the enormous towers and the gateway, the grandest specimen of saracenic architecture in the east, still remain entire. this gateway, by which we entered, is colossal in its proportions. the outer entrance, through walls ten feet thick, admitted us into a lofty vestibule lined with marble, and containing many ancient inscriptions in mosaic. over the main portal, which is adorned with sculptured lions' heads, there is a tablet stating that the fortress was built by el melek el ashraf (the holiest of kings), after which follows: "prosperity to the true believers--death to the infidels!" a second tablet shows that it was afterwards repaired by mohammed ebn-berkook, who, i believe, was one of the fatimite caliphs. the shekh of the citadel, who accompanied us, stated the age of the structure at nine hundred years, which, as nearly as i can recollect the saracenic chronology, is correct. he called our attention to numbers of iron arrow-heads sticking in the solid masonry--the marks of ancient sieges. before leaving, we were presented with a bundle of arrows from the armory--undoubted relics of saracen warfare. the citadel is now a mass of ruins, having been deserted since the earthquake. grass is growing on the ramparts, and the caper plant, with its white-and-purple blossoms, flourishes among the piles of rubbish. since the late rebellion, however, a small military barrack has been built, and two companies of soldiers are stationed there, we walked around the walls, which command a magnificent view of the city and the wide plains to the south and east. it well deserves to rank with the panorama of cairo from the citadel, and that of damascus from the anti-lebanon, in extent, picturesqueness and rich oriental character. out of the gray ring of the city, which incloses the mound, rise the great white domes and the whiter minarets of its numerous mosques, many of which are grand and imposing structures. the course of the river through the centre of the picture is marked by a belt of the greenest verdure, beyond which, to the west, rises a chain of naked red hills, and still further, fading on the horizon, the blue summit of mt. st. simon, and the coast range of akma dagh. eastward, over vast orchards of pistachio trees, the barren plain of the euphrates fades away to a glimmering, hot horizon. looking downwards on the heart of the city, i was surprised to see a number of open, grassy tracts, out of which, here and there, small trees were growing. but, perceiving what appeared to be subterranean entrances at various points, i found that these tracts were upon the roofs of the houses and bazaars, verifying what i had frequently heard, that in aleppo the inhabitants visit their friends in different parts of the city, by passing over the roofs of the houses. previous to the earthquake of , these vast roof-plains were cultivated as gardens, and presented an extent of airy bowers as large, if not as magnificent, as the renowned hanging gardens of ancient babylon. accompanied by signor di picciotto, we spent two or three days in visiting the houses of the principal jewish and christian families in aleppo. we found, it is true, no such splendor as in damascus, but more solid and durable architecture, and a more chastened elegance of taste. the buildings are all of hewn stone, the court-yards paved with marble, and the walls rich with gilding and carved wood. some of the larger dwellings have small but beautiful gardens attached to them. we were everywhere received with the greatest hospitality, and the visits were considered as a favor rather than an intrusion. indeed, i was frequently obliged to run the risk of giving offence, by declining the refreshments which were offered us. each round of visits was a feat of strength, and we were obliged to desist from sheer inability to support more coffee, rose-water, pipes, and aromatic sweetmeats. the character of society in aleppo is singular; its very life and essence is etiquette. the laws which govern it are more inviolable than those of the medes and persians. the question of precedence among the different families is adjusted by the most delicate scale, and rigorously adhered to in the most trifling matters. even we, humble voyagers as we are, have been obliged to regulate our conduct according to it. after our having visited certain families, certain others would have been deeply mortified had we neglected to call upon them. formerly, when a traveller arrived here, he was expected to call upon the different consuls, in the order of their established precedence: the austrian first, english second, french third, &c. after this, he was obliged to stay at home several days, to give the consuls an opportunity of returning the visits, which they made in the same order. there was a diplomatic importance about all his movements, and the least violation of etiquette, through ignorance or neglect, was the town talk for days. this peculiarity in society is evidently a relic of the formal times, when aleppo was a semi-venetian city, and the opulent seat of eastern commerce. many of the inhabitants are descended from the traders of those times, and they all speak the _lingua franca_, or levantine italian. the women wear a costume partly turkish and partly european, combining the graces of both; it is, in my eyes, the most beautiful dress in the world. they wear a rich scarf of some dark color on the head, which, on festive occasions, is almost concealed by their jewels, and the heavy scarlet pomegranate blossoms which adorn their dark hair. a turkish vest and sleeves of embroidered silk, open in front, and a skirt of white or some light color, completes the costume. the jewesses wear in addition a short turkish _caftan_, and full trousers gathered at the ankles. at a ball given by mr. very, the english consul, which we attended, all the christian beauties of aleppo were present. there was a fine display of diamonds, many of the ladies wearing several thousand dollars' worth on their heads. the peculiar etiquette of the place was again illustrated on this occasion. the custom is, that the music must be heard for at least one hour before the guests come. the hour appointed was eight, but when we went there, at nine, nobody had arrived. as it was generally supposed that the ball was given on our account, several of the families had servants in the neighborhood to watch our arrival; and, accordingly, we had not been there five minutes before the guests crowded through the door in large numbers. when the first dance (an arab dance, performed by two ladies at a time) was proposed, the wives of the french and spanish consuls were first led, or rather dragged, out. when a lady is asked to dance, she invariably refuses. she is asked a second and a third time; and if the gentleman does not solicit most earnestly, and use some gentle force in getting her upon the floor, she never forgives him. at one of the jewish houses which we visited, the wedding festivities of one of the daughters were being celebrated. we were welcomed with great cordiality, and immediately ushered into the room of state, an elegant apartment, overlooking the gardens below the city wall. half the room was occupied by a raised platform, with a divan of blue silk cushions. here the ladies reclined, in superb dresses of blue, pink, and gold, while the gentlemen were ranged on the floor below. they all rose at our entrance, and we were conducted to seats among the ladies. pipes and perfumed drinks were served, and the bridal cake, made of twenty-six different fruits, was presented on a golden salver. our fair neighbors, some of whom literally blazed with jewels, were strikingly beautiful. presently the bride appeared at the door, and we all rose and remained standing, as she advanced, supported on each side by the two _shebeeniyeh_, or bridesmaids. she was about sixteen, slight and graceful in appearance, though not decidedly beautiful, and was attired with the utmost elegance. her dress was a pale blue silk, heavy with gold embroidery; and over her long dark hair, her neck, bosom, and wrists, played a thousand rainbow gleams from the jewels which covered them. the jewish musicians, seated at the bottom of the hall, struck up a loud, rejoicing harmony on their violins, guitars, and dulcimers, and the women servants, grouped at the door, uttered in chorus that wild, shrill cry, which accompanies all such festivals in the east. the bride was careful to preserve the decorum expected of her, by speaking no word, nor losing the sad, resigned expression of her countenance. she ascended to the divan, bowed to each of us with a low, reverential inclination, and seated herself on the cushions. the music and dances lasted some time, accompanied by the _zughàreet_, or cry of the women, which was repeated with double force when we rose to take leave. the whole company waited on us to the street door, and one of the servants, stationed in the court, shouted some long, sing-song phrases after us as we passed out. i could not learn the words, but was told that it was an invocation of prosperity upon us, in return for the honor which our visit had conferred. in the evening i went to view a christian marriage procession, which, about midnight, conveyed the bride to the house of the bridegroom. the house, it appeared, was too small to receive all the friends of the family, and i joined a large number of them, who repaired to the terrace of the english consulate, to greet the procession as it passed. the first persons who appeared were a company of buffoons; after them four janissaries, carrying silver maces; then the male friends, bearing colored lanterns and perfumed torches, raised on gilded poles; then the females, among whom i saw some beautiful madonna faces in the torchlight; and finally the bride herself, covered from head to foot with a veil of cloth of gold, and urged along by two maidens: for it is the etiquette of such occasions that the bride should resist being taken, and must be forced every step of the way, so that she is frequently three hours in going the distance of a mile. we watched the procession a long time, winding away through the streets--a line of torches, and songs, and incense, and noisy jubilee--under the sweet starlit heaven. the other evening, signor di picciotto mounted us from his fine arabian stud, and we rode around the city, outside of the suburbs. the sun was low, and a pale yellow lustre touched the clusters of minarets that rose out of the stately masses of buildings, and the bare, chalky hills to the north. after leaving the gardens on the banks of the koweik, we came upon a dreary waste of ruins, among which the antiquarian finds traces of the ancient aleppo of the greeks, the mongolian conquerors of the middle ages, and the saracens who succeeded them. there are many mosques and tombs, which were once imposing specimens of saracenic art; but now, split and shivered by wars and earthquakes, are slowly tumbling into utter decay. on the south-eastern side of the city, its chalk foundations have been hollowed into vast, arched caverns, which extend deep into the earth. pillars have been left at regular intervals, to support the masses above, and their huge, dim labyrinths resemble the crypts of some great cathedral. they are now used as rope-walks, and filled with cheerful workmen. our last excursion was to a country-house of signor di picciotto, in the gardens of babala, about four miles from aleppo. we set out in the afternoon on our arabians, with our host's son on a large white donkey of the baghdad breed. passing the turkish cemetery, where we stopped to view the tomb of general bem, we loosened rein and sped away at full gallop over the hot, white hills. in dashing down a stony rise, the ambitious donkey, who was doing his best to keep up with the horses, fell, hurling master picciotto over his head. the boy was bruised a little, but set his teeth together and showed no sign of pain, mounted again, and followed us. the gardens of babala are a wilderness of fruit-trees, like those of damascus. signor p.'s country-house is buried in a wild grove of apricot, fig, orange, and pomegranate-trees. a large marble tank, in front of the open, arched _liwan_, supplies it with water. we mounted to the flat roof, and watched the sunset fade from the beautiful landscape. beyond the bowers of dazzling greenness which surrounded us, stretched the wide, gray hills; the minarets of aleppo, and the walls of its castled mount shone rosily in the last rays of the sun; an old palace of the pashas, with the long, low barracks of the soldiery, crowned the top of a hill to the north; dark, spiry cypresses betrayed the place of tombs; and, to the west, beyond the bare red peak of mount st. simon, rose the faint blue outline of giaour dagh, whose mural chain divides syria from the plains of cilicia. as the twilight deepened over the scene, there came a long, melodious cry of passion and of sorrow from the heart of a starry-flowered pomegranate tree in the garden. other voices answered it from the gardens around, until not one, but fifty nightingales charmed the repose of the hour. they vied with each other in their bursts of passionate music. each strain soared over the last, or united with others, near and far, in a chorus of the divinest pathos--an expression of sweet, unutterable, unquenchable longing. it was an ecstasy, yet a pain, to listen. "away!" said jean paul to music: "thou tellest me of that which i have not, and never can have--which i forever seek, and never find!" but space fails me to describe half the incidents of our stay in aleppo. there are two things peculiar to the city, however, which i must not omit mentioning. one is the aleppo button, a singular ulcer, which attacks every person born in the city, and every stranger who spends more than a month there. it can neither be prevented nor cured, and always lasts for a year. the inhabitants almost invariably have it on the face--either on the cheek, forehead, or tip of the nose--where it often leaves an indelible and disfiguring scar. strangers, on the contrary, have it on one of the joints; either the elbow, wrist, knee, or ankle. so strictly is its visitation confined to the city proper, that in none of the neighboring villages, nor even in a distant suburb, is it known. physicians have vainly attempted to prevent it by inoculation, and are at a loss to what cause to ascribe it. we are liable to have it, even after five days' stay; but i hope it will postpone its appearance until after i reach home. the other remarkable thing here is the hospital for cats. this was founded long ago by a rich, cat-loving mussulman, and is one of the best endowed institutions in the city. an old mosque is appropriated to the purpose, under the charge of several directors; and here sick cats are nursed, homeless cats find shelter, and decrepit cats gratefully purr away their declining years. the whole category embraces several hundreds, and it is quite a sight to behold the court, the corridors, and terraces of the mosque swarming with them. here, one with a bruised limb is receiving a cataplasm; there, a cataleptic patient is tenderly cared for; and so on, through the long concatenation of feline diseases. aleppo, moreover, rejoices in a greater number of cats than even jerusalem. at a rough guess, i should thus state the population of the city: turks and arabs, , ; christians of all denominations, , ; jews, , ; dogs, , ; and cats, , . among other persons whom i have met here, is ferhat pasha, formerly general stein, hungarian minister of war, and governor of transylvania. he accepted moslemism with bem and others, and now rejoices in his circumcision and , piastres a month. he is a fat, companionable sort of man; who, by his own confession, never labored very zealously for the independence of hungary, being an austrian by birth. he conversed with me for several hours on the scenes in which he had participated, and attributed the failure of the hungarians to the want of material means. general bem, who died here, is spoken of with the utmost respect, both by turks and christians. the former have honored him with a large tomb, or mausoleum, covered with a dome. but i must close, leaving half unsaid. suffice it to say that no oriental city has interested me so profoundly as aleppo, and in none have i received such universal and cordial hospitality. we leave to-morrow for asia minor, having engaged men and horses for the whole route to constantinople. chapter xvi. through the syrian gates. an inauspicious departure--the ruined church of st. simon--the plain of antioch--a turcoman encampment--climbing akma dagh--the syrian gates--scanderoon--an american captain--revolt of the koords--we take a guard--the field of issus--the robber-chief, kutchuk ali--a deserted town--a land of gardens. "mountains, on whose barren breast the lab'ring clouds do often rest." milton. in quarantine (adana, asia minor), _tuesday, june_ , . we left aleppo on the morning of the th, under circumstances not the most promising for the harmony of our journey. we had engaged horses and baggage-mules from the _capidji_, or chief of the muleteers, and in order to be certain of having animals that would not break down on the way, made a particular selection from a number that were brought us. when about leaving the city, however, we discovered that one of the horses had been changed. signor di picciotto, who accompanied us past the custom-house barriers, immediately dispatched the delinquent muleteer to bring back the true horse, and the latter made a farce of trying to find him, leading the consul and the capidji (who, i believe, was at the bottom of the cheat) a wild-goose chase over the hills around aleppo, where of course, the animal was not to be seen. when, at length, we had waited three hours, and had wandered about four miles from the city, we gave up the search, took leave of the consul and went on with the new horse. our proper plan would have been to pitch the tent and refuse to move till the matter was settled. the animal, as we discovered during the first day's journey, was hopelessly lame, and we only added to the difficulty by taking him. we rode westward all day over barren and stony hills, meeting with abundant traces of the power and prosperity of this region during the times of the greek emperors. the nevastation wrought by earthquakes has been terrible; there is scarcely a wall or arch standing, which does not bear marks of having been violently shaken. the walls inclosing the fig-orchards near the villages contain many stones with greek inscriptions, and fragments of cornices. we encamped the first night on the plain at the foot of mount st. simon, and not far from the ruins of the celebrated church of the same name. the building stands in a stony wilderness at the foot of the mountain. it is about a hundred feet long and thirty in height, with two lofty square towers in front. the pavement of the interior is entirely concealed by the masses of pillars, capitals, and hewn blocks that lie heaped upon it. the windows, which are of the tall, narrow, arched form, common in byzantine churches, have a common moulding which falls like a mantle over and between them. the general effect of the church is very fine, though there is much inelegance in the sculptured details. at the extremity is a half-dome of massive stone, over the place of the altar, and just in front of this formerly stood the pedestal whereon, according to tradition, st. simeon stylites commenced his pillar-life. i found a recent excavation at the spot, but no pedestal, which has probably been carried off by the greek monks. beside the church stands a large building, with an upper and lower balcony, supported by square stone pillars, around three sides. there is also a paved court-yard, a large cistern cut in the rock and numerous out-buildings, all going to confirm the supposition of its having been a monastery. the main building is three stories high, with pointed gables, and bears a strong resemblance to an american summer hotel, with verandas. several ancient fig and walnut trees are growing among the ruins, and add to their picturesque appearance. the next day we crossed a broad chain of hills to the plain of antioch, which we reached near its northern extremity. in one of the valleys through which the road lay, we saw a number of hot sulphur springs, some of them of a considerable volume of water. not far from them was a beautiful fountain of fresh and cold water gushing from the foot of a high rock. soon after reaching the plain, we crossed the stream of kara su, which feeds the lake of antioch. this part of the plain is low and swampy, and the streams are literally alive with fish. while passing over the bridge i saw many hundreds, from one to two feet in length. we wandered through the marshy meadows for two or three hours, and towards sunset reached a turcoman encampment, where the ground was dry enough to pitch our tents. the rude tribe received us hospitably, and sent us milk and cheese in abundance. i visited the tent of the shekh, who was very courteous, but as he knew no language but turkish, our conversation was restricted to signs. the tent was of camel's-hair cloth, spacious, and open at the sides. a rug was spread for me, and the shekh's wife brought me a pipe of tolerable tobacco. the household were seated upon the ground, chatting pleasantly with one another, and apparently not in the least disturbed by my presence. one of the shekh's sons, who was deaf and dumb, came and sat before me, and described by very expressive signs the character of the road to scanderoon. he gave me to understand that there were robbers in the mountains, with many grim gestures descriptive of stabbing and firing muskets. the mosquitoes were so thick during the night that we were obliged to fill the tent with smoke in order to sleep. when morning came, we fancied there would be a relief for us, but it only brought a worse pest, in the shape of swarms of black gnats, similar to those which so tormented me in nubia. i know of no infliction so terrible as these gnats, which you cannot drive away, and which assail ears, eyes, and nostrils in such quantities that you become mad and desperate in your efforts to eject them. through glens filled with oleander, we ascended the first slopes of akma dagh, the mountain range which divides the gulf of scanderoon from the plain of antioch. then, passing a natural terrace, covered with groves of oak, our road took the mountain side, climbing upwards in the shadow of pine and wild olive trees, and between banks of blooming lavender and myrtle. we saw two or three companies of armed guards, stationed by the road-side, for the mountain is infested with robbers, and a caravan had been plundered only three days before. the view, looking backward, took in the whole plain, with the lake of antioch glittering in the centre, the valley of the orontes in the south, and the lofty cone of djebel-okrab far to the west. as we approached the summit, violent gusts of wind blew through the pass with such force as almost to overturn our horses. here the road from antioch joins that from aleppo, and both for some distance retain the ancient pavement. from the western side we saw the sea once more, and went down through the _pylæ syriæ_, or syrian gates, as this defile was called by the romans. it is very narrow and rugged, with an abrupt descent. in an hour from the summit we came upon an aqueduct of a triple row of arches, crossing the gorge. it is still used to carry water to the town of beilan, which hangs over the mouth of the pass, half a mile below. this is one of the most picturesque spots in syria. the houses cling to the sides and cluster on the summits of precipitous crags, and every shelf of soil, every crevice where a tree can thrust its roots, upholds a mass of brilliant vegetation. water is the life of the place. it gushes into the street from exhaustless fountains; it trickles from the terraces in showers of misty drops; it tumbles into the gorge in sparkling streams; and everywhere it nourishes a life as bright and beautiful as its own. the fruit trees are of enormous size, and the crags are curtained with a magnificent drapery of vines. this green gateway opens suddenly upon another, cut through a glittering mass of micaceous rock, whence one looks down on the town and gulf of scanderoon, the coast of karamania beyond, and the distant snows of the taurus. we descended through groves of pine and oak, and in three hours more reached the shore. scanderoon is the most unhealthy place on the syrian coast, owing to the malaria from a marsh behind it. the inhabitants are a wretched pallid set, who are visited every year with devastating fevers. the marsh was partly drained some forty years ago by the turkish government, and a few thousand dollars would be sufficient to remove it entirely, and make the place--which is of some importance as the seaport of aleppo--healthy and habitable. at present, there are not five hundred inhabitants, and half of these consist of the turkish garrison and the persons attached to the different vice-consulates. the streets are depositories of filth, and pools of stagnant water, on all sides, exhale the most fetid odors. near the town are the ruins of a castle built by godfrey of bouillon. we marched directly down to the sea-shore, and pitched our tent close beside the waves, as the place most free from malaria. there were a dozen vessels at anchor in the road, and one of them proved to be the american bark columbia, capt. taylor. we took a skiff and went on board, where we were cordially welcomed by the mate. in the evening, the captain came to our tent, quite surprised to find two wandering americans in such a lonely corner of the world. soon afterwards, with true seaman-like generosity, he returned, bringing a jar of fine spanish olives and a large bottle of pickles, which he insisted on adding to our supplies. the olives have the choicest andalusian flavor, and the pickles lose none of their relish from having been put up in new york. the road from scanderoon to this place lies mostly along the shore of the gulf, at the foot of akma dagh, and is reckoned dangerous on account of the marauding bands of koords who infest the mountains. these people, like the druses, have rebelled against the conscription, and will probably hold their ground with equal success, though the turks talk loudly of invading their strongholds. two weeks ago, the post was robbed, about ten miles from scanderoon, and a government vessel, now lying at anchor in the bay, opened a cannonade on the plunderers, before they could be secured. in consequence of the warnings of danger in everybody's mouth, we decided to take an escort, and therefore waited upon the commander of the forces, with the firman of the pasha of aleppo. a convoy of two soldiers was at once promised us; and at sunrise, next morning, they took the lead of our caravan. in order to appear more formidable, in case we should meet with robbers, we put on our frank pantaloons, which had no other effect than to make the heat more intolerable. but we formed rather a fierce cavalcade, six armed men in all. our road followed the shore of the bay, having a narrow, uninhabited flat, covered with thickets of myrtle and mastic, between us and the mountains. the two soldiers, more valiant than the guard of banias, rode in advance, and showed no signs of fear as we approached the suspicious places. the morning was delightfully clear, and the snow-crowned range of taurus shone through the soft vapors hanging over the gulf. in one place, we skirted the shore for some distance, under a bank twenty feet in height, and so completely mantled with shrubbery, that a small army might have hidden in it. there were gulleys at intervals, opening suddenly on our path, and we looked up them, expecting every moment to see the gleam of a koordish gun-barrel, or a turcoman spear, above the tops of the myrtles. crossing a promontory which makes out from the mountains, we came upon the renowned plain of issus, where darius lost his kingdom to alexander. on a low cliff overhanging the sea, there are the remains of a single tower of gray stone. the people in scanderoon call it "jonah's pillar," and say that it marks the spot where the ninevite was cast ashore by the whale. [this makes three places on the syrian coast where jonah was vomited forth.] the plain of issus is from two to three miles long, but not more than half a mile wide, it is traversed by a little river, supposed to be the pinarus, which comes down through a tremendous cleft in the akma dagh. the ground seems too small for the battle-field of such armies as were engaged on the occasion. it is bounded on the north by a low hill, separating it from the plain of baïas, and it is possible that alexander may have made choice of this position, leaving the unwieldy forces of darius to attack him from the plain. his advantage would be greater, on account of the long, narrow form of the ground, which would prevent him from being engaged with more than a small portion of the persian army, at one time. the plain is now roseate with blooming oleanders, but almost entirely uncultivated. about midway there are the remains of an ancient quay jutting into the sea. soon after leaving the field of issus, we reached the town of baïas, which is pleasantly situated on the shore, at the mouth of a river whose course through the plain is marked with rows of tall poplar trees. the walls of the town, and the white dome and minaret of its mosque, rose dazzlingly against the dark blue of the sea, and the purple stretch of the mountains of karamania. a single palm lifted its crest in the foreground. we dismounted for breakfast under the shade of an old bridge which crosses the river. it was a charming spot, the banks above and below being overhung with oleander, white rose, honeysuckle and clematis. the two guardsmen finished the remaining half of our turcoman cheese, and almost exhausted our supply of bread. i gave one of them a cigar, which he was at a loss how to smoke, until our muleteer showed him. baïas was celebrated fifty years ago, as the residence of the robber chief, kutchuk ali, who, for a long time, braved the authority of the porte itself. he was in the habit of levying a yearly tribute on the caravan to mecca, and the better to enforce his claims, often suspended two or three of his captives at the gates of the town, a day or two before the caravan arrived. several expeditions were sent against him, but he always succeeded in bribing the commanders, who, on their return to constantinople, made such representations that kutchuk ali, instead of being punished, received one dignity after another, until finally he attained the rank of a pasha of two tails. this emboldened him to commit enormities too great to be overlooked, and in baïas was taken, and the atrocious nest of land-pirates broken up. i knew that the town had been sacked on this occasion, but was not prepared to find such a complete picture of desolation. the place is surrounded with a substantial wall, with two gateways, on the north and south. a bazaar, covered with a lofty vaulted roof of stone, runs directly through from gate to gate; and there was still a smell of spices in the air, on entering. the massive shops on either hand, with their open doors, invited possession, and might readily be made habitable again. the great iron gates leading from the bazaar into the khans and courts, still swing on their rusty hinges. we rode into the court of the mosque, which is surrounded with a light and elegant corridor, supported by pillars. the grass has as yet but partially invaded the marble pavement, and a stone drinking-trough still stands in the centre. i urged my horse up the steps and into the door of the mosque. it is in the form of a greek cross, with a dome in the centre, resting on four very elegant pointed arches. there is an elaborately gilded and painted gallery of wood over the entrance, and the pulpit opposite is as well preserved as if the _mollah_ had just left it. out of the mosque we passed into a second court, and then over a narrow bridge into the fortress. the moat is perfect, and the walls as complete as if just erected. only the bottom is dry, and now covered with a thicket of wild pomegranate trees. the heavy iron doors of the fortress swung half open, as we entered unchallenged. the interior is almost entire, and some of the cannon still lie buried in the springing grass. the plan of the little town, which appears to have been all built at one time, is most admirable. the walls of circuit, including the fortress, cannot be more than yards square, and yet none of the characteristics of a large oriental city are omitted. leaving baïas, we travelled northward, over a waste, though fertile plain. the mountains on our right made a grand appearance, with their feet mantled in myrtle, and their tops plumed with pine. they rise from the sea with a long, bold sweep, but each peak falls off in a precipice on the opposite side, as if the chain were the barrier of the world and there was nothing but space beyond. in the afternoon we left the plain for a belt of glorious garden land, made by streams that came down from the mountains. we entered a lane embowered in pomegranate, white rose, clematis, and other flowering vines and shrubs, and overarched by superb plane, lime, and beech trees, chained together with giant grape vines. on either side were fields of ripe wheat and barley, mulberry orchards and groves of fruit trees, under the shade of which the turkish families sat or slept during the hot hours of the day. birds sang in the boughs, and the gurgling of water made a cool undertone to their music. out of fairyland where shall i see again such lovely bowers? we were glad when the soldiers announced that it was necessary to encamp there; as we should find no other habitations for more than twenty miles. our tent was pitched under a grand sycamore, beside a swift mountain stream which almost made the circuit of our camp. beyond the tops of the elm, beech, and fig groves, we saw the picturesque green summits of the lower ranges of giaour dagh, in the north-east, while over the southern meadows a golden gleam of sunshine lay upon the gulf of scanderoon. the village near us was chaya, where there is a military station. the guards we had brought from scanderoon here left us; but the commanding officer advised us to take others on the morrow, as the road was still considered unsafe. chapter xvii. adana and tarsus. the black gate--the plain of cilicia--a koord village--missis--cilician scenery--arrival at adana--three days in quarantine--we receive pratique--a landscape--the plain of tarsus--the river cydnus--a vision of cleopatra--tarsus and its environs--the _duniktash_--the moon of ramazan. "paul said, i am a man which am a jew of tarsus, a city in cilicia, a citizen of no mean city."--acts, xxi. . khan on mt. taurus, _saturday, june_ , . we left our camp at chaya at dawn, with an escort of three soldiers, which we borrowed from the guard stationed at that place. the path led along the shore, through clumps of myrtle beaten inland by the wind, and rounded as smoothly as if they had been clipped by a gardener's shears. as we approached the head of the gulf, the peaked summits of giaour dagh, , feet in height, appeared in the north-east. the streams we forded swarmed with immense trout. a brown hedgehog ran across our road, but when i touched him with the end of my pipe, rolled himself into an impervious ball of prickles. soon after turning the head of the gulf, the road swerved off to the west, and entered a narrow pass, between hills covered with thick copse-wood. here we came upon an ancient gateway of black lava stone, which bears marks of great antiquity it is now called _kara kapu,_ the "black gate," and some suppose it to have been one of the ancient gates of cilicia. beyond this, our road led over high, grassy hills, without a sign of human habitation, to the ruined khan of koord koolak, we dismounted and unloaded our baggage in the spacious stone archway, and drove our beasts into the dark, vaulted halls behind. the building was originally intended for a magazine of supplies, and from the ruined mosque near it, i suspect it was formerly one of the caravan stations for the pilgrims from constantinople to mecca. the weather was intensely hot and sultry, and our animals were almost crazy from the attacks of a large yellow gad-fly. after the noonday heat was over we descended to the first cilician plain, which is bounded on the west by the range of durdun dagh. as we had now passed the most dangerous part of the road, we dismissed the three soldiers and took but a single man with us. the entire plain is covered with wild fennel, six to eight feet in height, and literally blazing with its bloomy yellow tops. riding through it, i could barely look over them, and far and wide, on all sides, spread a golden sea, out of which the long violet hills rose with the liveliest effect. brown, shining serpents, from four to six feet in length, frequently slid across our path. the plain, which must be sixty miles in circumference, is wholly uncultivated, though no land could possibly be richer. out of the region of fennel we passed into one of red and white clover, timothy grass and wild oats. the thistles were so large as to resemble young palm-trees, and the salsify of our gardens grew rank and wild. at length we dipped into the evening shadow of durdun dagh, and reached the village of koord keui, on his lower slope. as there was no place for our tent on the rank grass of the plain or the steep side of the hill, we took forcible possession of the winnowing-floor, a flat terrace built up under two sycamores, and still covered with the chaff of the last threshing. the koords took the whole thing as a matter of course, and even brought us a felt carpet to rest upon. they came and seated themselves around us, chatting sociably, while we lay in the tent-door, smoking the pipe of refreshment. the view over the wide golden plain, and the hills beyond, to the distant, snow-tipped peaks of akma dagh, was superb, as the shadow of the mountain behind us slowly lengthened over it, blotting out the mellow lights of sunset. there were many fragments of pillars and capitals of white marble built up in the houses, showing that they occupied the site of some ancient village or temple. the next morning, we crossed durdun dagh, and entered the great plain of cilicia. the range, after we had passed it, presented a grand, bold, broken outline, blue in the morning vapor, and wreathed with shifting belts of cloud. a stately castle, called the palace of serpents, on the summit of an isolated peak to the north, stood out clear and high, in the midst of a circle of fog, like a phantom picture of the air. the river jyhoon, the ancient pyramus, which rises on the borders of armenia, sweeps the western base of the mountains. it is a larger stream than the orontes, with a deep, rapid current, flowing at the bottom of a bed lower than the level of the plain. in three hours, we reached missis, the ancient mopsuestia, on the right bank of the river. there are extensive ruins on the left bank, which were probably those of the former city. the soil for some distance around is scattered with broken pillars, capitals, and hewn stones. the ancient bridge still crosses the river, but the central arch having been broken away, is replaced with a wooden platform. the modern town is a forlorn place, and all the glorious plain around it is uncultivated. the view over this plain was magnificent: unbounded towards the sea, but on the north girdled by the sublime range of taurus, whose great snow-fields gleamed in the sun. in the afternoon, we reached the old bridge over the jyhoon, at adana. the eastern bank is occupied with the graves of the former inhabitants, and there are at least fifteen acres of tombstones, as thickly planted as the graves can be dug. the fields of wheat and barley along the river are very rich, and at present the natives are busily occupied in drawing the sheaves on large sleds to the open threshing-floors. the city is built over a low eminence, and its four tall minarets, with a number of palm-trees rising from the mass of brown brick walls, reminded me of egypt. at the end of the bridge, we were met by one of the quarantine officers, who preceded us, taking care that we touched nobody in the streets, to the quarantine building. this land quarantine, between syria and asia minor, when the former country is free from any epidemic, seems a most absurd thing. we were detained at adana three days and a half, to be purified, before proceeding further. lately, the whole town was placed in quarantine for five days, because a turkish bey, who lives near baïas, entered the gates without being noticed, and was found in the bazaars. the quarantine building was once a palace of the pashas of adana, but is now in a half-ruined condition. the rooms are large and airy, and there is a spacious open divan which affords ample shade and a cool breeze throughout the whole day. fortunately for us, there were only three persons in quarantine, who occupied a room distant from ours. the inspector was a very obliging person, and procured us a table and two chairs. the only table to be had in the whole place--a town of , inhabitants--belonged to an italian merchant, who kindly gave it for our use. we employed a messenger to purchase provisions in the bazaars; and our days passed quietly in writing, smoking, and gazing indolently from our windows upon the flowery plains beyond the town. our nights, however, were tormented by small white gnats, which stung us unmercifully. the physician of quarantine, dr. spagnolo, is a venetian refugee, and formerly editor of _la lega italiana_, a paper published in venice during the revolution. he informed us that, except the princess belgioioso, who passed through adana on her way to jerusalem, we were the only travellers he had seen for eleven months. after three days and four nights of grateful, because involuntary, indolence, dr. spagnolo gave us _pratique_, and we lost no time in getting under weigh again. we were the only occupants of quarantine; and as we moved out of the portal of the old seraï, at sunrise, no one was guarding it. the inspector and mustapha, the messenger, took their back-sheeshes with silent gratitude. the plain on the west side of the town is well cultivated; and as we rode along towards tarsus, i was charmed with the rich pastoral air of the scenery. it was like one of the midland landscapes of england, bathed in southern sunshine. the beautiful level, stretching away to the mountains, stood golden with the fields of wheat which the reapers were cutting. it was no longer bare, but dotted with orange groves, clumps of holly, and a number of magnificent terebinth-trees, whose dark, rounded masses of foliage remind one of the northern oak. cattle were grazing in the stubble, and horses, almost buried under loads of fresh grass, met us as they passed to the city. the sheaves were drawn to the threshing-floor on sleds, and we could see the husbandmen in the distance treading out and winnowing the grain. over these bright, busy scenes, rose the lesser heights of the taurus, and beyond them, mingled in white clouds, the snows of the crowning range. the road to tarsus, which is eight hours distant, lies over an unbroken plain. towards the sea, there are two tumuli, resembling those on the plains east of antioch. stone wells, with troughs for watering horses, occur at intervals of three or four miles; but there is little cultivation after leaving the vicinity of adana. the sun poured down an intense summer heat, and hundreds of large gad-flies, swarming around us, drove the horses wild with their stings. towards noon, we stopped at a little village for breakfast. we took possession of a shop, which the good-natured merchant offered us, and were about to spread our provisions upon the counter, when the gnats and mosquitoes fairly drove us away. we at once went forward in search of a better place, which gave occasion to our chief mukkairee, hadji youssuf, for a violent remonstrance. the terms of the agreement at aleppo gave the entire control of the journey into our own hands, and the hadji now sought to violate it. he protested against our travelling more than six hours a day, and conducted himself so insolently, that we threatened to take him before the pasha of tarsus. this silenced him for the time; but we hate him so cordially since then, that i foresee we shall have more trouble. in the afternoon, a gust, sweeping along the sides of taurus, cooled the air and afforded us a little relief. by three o'clock we reached the river cydnus, which is bare of trees on its eastern side, but flows between banks covered with grass and shrubs. it is still spanned by the ancient bridge, and the mules now step in the hollow ruts worn long ago by roman and byzantine chariot wheels. the stream is not more than thirty yards broad, but has a very full and rapid current of a bluish-white color, from the snows which feed it. i rode down to the brink and drank a cup of the water. it was exceedingly cold, and i do not wonder that a bath in it should have killed the emperor barbarossa. from the top of the bridge, there is a lovely view, down the stream, where it washes a fringe of willows and heavy fruit-trees on its western bank, and then winds away through the grassy plain, to the sea. for once, my fancy ran parallel with the inspiration of the scene. i could think of nothing but the galley of cleopatra slowly stemming the current of the stream, its silken sails filled with the sea-breeze, its gilded oars keeping time to the flutes, whose voluptuous melodies floated far out over the vernal meadows. tarsus was probably almost hidden then, as now, by its gardens, except just where it touched the river; and the dazzling vision of the egyptian queen, as she came up conquering and to conquer, must have been all the more bewildering, from the lovely bowers through which she sailed. from the bridge an ancient road still leads to the old byzantine gate of tarsus. part of the town is encompassed by a wall, built by the caliph haroun al-raschid, and there is a ruined fortress, which is attributed to sultan bajazet small streams, brought from the cydnus, traverse the environs, and, with such a fertile soil, the luxuriance of the gardens in which the city lies buried is almost incredible. in our rambles in search of a place to pitch the tent, we entered a superb orange-orchard, the foliage of which made a perpetual twilight. many of the trunks were two feet in diameter. the houses are mostly of one story, and the materials are almost wholly borrowed from the ancient city. pillars, capitals, fragments of cornices and entablatures abound. i noticed here, as in adana, a high wooden frame on the top of every house, raised a few steps above the roof, and covered with light muslin, like a portable bathing-house. here the people put up their beds in the evening, sleep, and come down to the roofs in the morning--an excellent plan for getting better air in these malarious plains and escaping from fleas and mosquitoes. in our search for the armenian church, which is said to have been founded by st. paul ("saul of tarsus"), we came upon a mosque, which had been originally a christian church, of greek times. from the top of a mound, whereupon stand the remains of an ancient circular edifice, we obtained a fine view of the city and plain of tarsus. a few houses or clusters of houses stood here and there like reefs amid the billowy green, and the minarets--one of them with a nest of young storks on its very summit--rose like the masts of sunken ships. some palms lifted their tufted heads from the gardens, beyond which the great plain extended from the mountains to the sea. the tumulus near mersyn, the port of tarsus, was plainly visible. two hours from mersyn are the ruins of pompeiopolis, the name given by pompey to the town of soli, after his conquest of the cilician pirates. from soli, on account of the bad greek spoken by its inhabitants, came the term "solecism." the ruins of pompeiopolis consist of a theatre, temples, and a number of houses, still in good preservation. the whole coast, as far as aleya, three hundred miles west of this, is said to abound with ruined cities, and i regret exceedingly that time will not permit me to explore it. while searching for the antiquities about tarsus, i accosted a man in a frank dress, who proved to be the neapolitan consul. he told us that the most remarkable relic was the _duniktash_ (the round stone), and procured us a guide. it lies in a garden near the city, and is certainly one of the most remarkable monuments in the east. it consists of a square inclosure of solid masonry, feet long by feet wide, the walls of which are eighteen feet in thickness and twenty feet high. it appears to have been originally a solid mass, without entrance, but a passage has been broken in one place, and in another there is a split or fissure, evidently produced by an earthquake. the material is rough stone, brick and mortar. inside of the inclosure are two detached square masses of masonry, of equal height, and probably eighty feet on a side, without opening of any kind. one of them has been pierced at the bottom, a steep passage leading to a pit or well, but the sides of the passage thus broken indicate that the whole structure is one solid mass. it is generally supposed that they were intended as tombs: but of whom? there is no sign by which they may be recognized, and, what is more singular, no tradition concerning them. the day we reached tarsus was the first of the turkish fast-month of ramazan, the inhabitants having seen the new moon the night before. at adana, where they did not keep such a close look-out, the fast had not commenced. during its continuance, which is from twenty-eight to twenty-nine days, no mussulman dares eat, drink, or smoke, from an hour before sunrise till half an hour after sunset. the mohammedan months are lunar, and each month makes the whole round of the seasons, once in thirty-three years. when, therefore, the ramazan comes in midsummer, as at present, the fulfilment of this fast is a great trial, even to the strongest and most devout. eighteen hours without meat or drink, and what is still worse to a genuine turk, without a pipe, is a rigid test of faith. the rich do the best they can to avoid it, by feasting all night and sleeping all day, but the poor, who must perform their daily avocations, as usual, suffer exceedingly. in walking through tarsus i saw many wretched faces in the bazaars, and the guide who accompanied us had a painfully famished air. fortunately the koran expressly permits invalids, children, and travellers to disregard the fast, so that although we eat and drink when we like, we are none the less looked upon as good mussulmans. about dark a gun is fired and a rocket sent up from the mosque, announcing the termination of the day's fast. the meals are already prepared, the pipes filled, the coffee smokes in the _finjans_, and the echoes have not died away nor the last sparks of the rocket become extinct, before half the inhabitants are satisfying their hunger, thirst and smoke-lust. we left tarsus this morning, and are now encamped among the pines of mount taurus. the last flush of sunset is fading from his eternal snows, and i drop my pen to enjoy the silence of twilight in this mountain solitude. chapter xviii. the pass of mount taurus. we enter the taurus--turcomans--forest scenery--the palace of pan--khan mezarluk--morning among the mountains--the gorge of the cydnus--the crag of the fortress--the cilician gate--deserted forts--a sublime landscape--the gorge of the sihoon--the second gate--camp in the defile--sunrise--journey up the sihoon--a change of scenery--a pastoral valley--kolü kushla--a deserted khan--a guest in ramazan--flowers--the plain of karamania--barren hills--the town of eregli--the hadji again. "lo! where the pass expands its stony jaws, the abrupt mountain breaks, and seems, with its accumulated crags, to overhang the world." shelley. eregli, _in karamania, june_ , . striking our tent in the gardens of tarsus, we again crossed the cydnus, and took a northern course across the plain. the long line of taurus rose before us, seemingly divided into four successive ranges, the highest of which was folded in clouds; only the long streaks of snow, filling the ravines, being visible. the outlines of these ranges were very fine, the waving line of the summits cut here and there by precipitous gorges--the gateways of rivers that came down to the plain. in about two hours, we entered the lower hills. they are barren and stony, with a white, chalky soil; but the valleys were filled with myrtle, oleander, and lauristinus in bloom, and lavender grew in great profusion on the hill-sides. the flowers of the oleander gave out a delicate, almond-like fragrance, and grew in such dense clusters as frequently to hide the foliage. i amused myself with finding a derivation of the name of this beautiful plant, which may answer until somebody discovers a better one. hero, when the corpse of her lover was cast ashore by the waves, buried him under an oleander bush, where she was accustomed to sit daily, and lament over his untimely fate. now, a foreign horticulturist, happening to pass by when the shrub was in blossom, was much struck with its beauty, and asked hero what it was called. but she, absorbed in grief, and thinking only of her lover, clasped her hands, and sighed out: "o leander! o leander!" which the horticulturist immediately entered in his note-book as the name of the shrub; and by that name it is known, to the present time. for two or three hours, the scenery was rather tame, the higher summits being obscured with a thunder-cloud. towards noon, however, we passed the first chain, and saw, across a strip of rolling land intervening, the grand ramparts of the second, looming dark and large under the clouds. a circular watch-tower of white stone, standing on the summit of a promontory at the mouth of a gorge on our right, flashed out boldly against the storm. we stopped under an oak-tree to take breakfast; but there was no water; and two turks, who were resting while their horses grazed in the meadow, told us we should find a good spring half a mile further. we ascended a long slope, covered with wheat-fields, where numbers of turcoman reapers were busy at work, passed their black tents, surrounded with droves of sheep and goats, and reached a rude stone fountain of good water, where two companies of these people had stopped to rest, on their way to the mountains. it was the time of noon prayer, and they went through their devotions with great solemnity. we nestled deep in a bed of myrtles, while we breakfasted; for the sky was clouded, and the wind blew cool and fresh from the region of rain above us. some of the turcomans asked us for bread, and were very grateful when we gave it to them. in the afternoon, we came into a higher and wilder region, where the road led through thickets of wild olive, holly, oak, and lauristinus, with occasional groves of pine. what a joy i felt in hearing, once more, the grand song of my favorite tree! our way was a woodland road; a storm had passed over the region in the morning; the earth was still fresh and moist, and there was an aromatic smell of leaves in the air. we turned westward into the entrance of a deep valley, over which hung a perpendicular cliff of gray and red rock, fashioned by nature so as to resemble a vast fortress, with windows, portals and projecting bastions. françois displayed his knowledge of mythology, by declaring it to be the palace of pan. while we were carrying out the idea, by making chambers for the fauns and nymphs in the basement story of the precipice, the path wound around the shoulder of the mountain, and the glen spread away before us, branching up into loftier ranges, disclosing through its gateway of cliffs, rising out of the steeps of pine forest, a sublime vista of blue mountain peaks, climbing to the topmost snows. it was a magnificent alpine landscape, more glowing and rich than switzerland, yet equalling it in all the loftier characteristics of mountain scenery. another and greater precipice towered over us on the right, and the black eagles which had made their eyries in its niched and caverned vaults, were wheeling around its crest. a branch of the cydnus foamed along the bottom of the gorge, and soma turcoman boys were tending their herds on its banks. further up the glen, we found a fountain of delicious water, beside the deserted khan of mezarluk, and there encamped for the night. our tent was pitched on the mountain side, near a fountain of the coolest, clearest and sweetest water i have seen in all the east. there was perfect silence among the mountains, and the place was as lonely as it was sublime. the night was cool and fresh; but i could not sleep until towards morning. when i opened my belated eyes, the tall peaks on the opposite side of the glen were girdled below their waists with the flood of a sparkling sunrise. the sky was pure as crystal, except a soft white fleece that veiled the snowy pinnacles of taurus, folding and unfolding, rising and sinking, as if to make their beauty still more attractive by the partial concealment. the morning air was almost cold, but so pure and bracing--so aromatic with the healthy breath of the pines--that i took it down in the fullest possible draughts. we rode up the glen, following the course of the cydnus, through scenery of the wildest and most romantic character. the bases of the mountains were completely enveloped in forests of pine, but their summits rose in precipitous crags, many hundreds of feet in height, hanging above our very heads. even after the sun was five hours high, their shadows fell upon us from the opposite side of the glen. mixed with the pine were occasional oaks, an undergrowth of hawthorn in bloom, and shrubs covered with yellow and white flowers. over these the wild grape threw its rich festoons, filling the air with exquisite fragrance. out of this glen, we passed into another, still narrower and wilder. the road was the old roman way, and in tolerable condition, though it had evidently not been mended for many centuries. in half an hour, the pass opened, disclosing an enormous peak in front of us, crowned with the ruins of an ancient fortress of considerable extent. the position was almost impregnable, the mountain dropping on one side into a precipice five hundred feet in perpendicular height. under the cliffs of the loftiest ridge, there was a terrace planted with walnut-trees: a charming little hamlet in the wilderness. wild sycamore-trees, with white trunks and bright green foliage, shaded the foamy twists of the cydnus, as it plunged down its difficult bed. the pine thrust its roots into the naked precipices, and from their summits hung out over the great abysses below. i thought of oenone's --"tall, dark pines, that fringed the craggy ledge high over the blue gorge, and all between the snowy peak and snow-white cataract fostered the callow eaglet;" and certainly she had on mount ida no more beautiful trees than these. we had doubled the crag of the fortress, when the pass closed before us, shut in by two immense precipices of sheer, barren rock, more than a thousand feet in height. vast fragments, fallen from above, choked up the entrance, whence the cydnus, spouting forth in foam, leaped into the defile. the ancient road was completely destroyed, but traces of it were to be seen on the rocks, ten feet above the present bed of the stream, and on the broken masses which had been hurled below. the path wound with difficulty among these wrecks, and then merged into the stream itself, as we entered the gateway. a violent wind blew in our faces as we rode through the strait, which is not ten yards in breadth, while its walls rise to the region of the clouds. in a few minutes we had traversed it, and stood looking back on the enormous gap. there were several greek tablets cut in the rock above the old road, but so defaced as to be illegible. this is undoubtedly the principal gate of the taurus, and the pass through which the armies of cyrus and alexander entered cilicia. beyond the gate the mountains retreated, and we climbed up a little dell, past two or three turcoman houses, to the top of a hill, whence opened a view of the principal range, now close at hand. the mountains in front were clothed with dark cedars to their very tops, and the snow-fields behind them seemed dazzlingly bright and near. our course for several miles now lay through a more open valley, drained by the upper waters of the cydnus. on two opposing terraces of the mountain chains are two fortresses, built by ibraham pasha, but now wholly deserted. they are large and well-constructed works of stone, and surrounded by ruins of stables, ovens, and the rude houses of the soldiery. passing between these, we ascended to the shelf dividing the waters of the cydnus and the sihoon. from the point where the slope descends to the latter river, there opened before me one of the most glorious landscapes i ever beheld. i stood at the extremity of a long hollow or depression between the two ranges of the taurus--not a valley, for it was divided by deep cloven chasms, hemmed in by steeps overgrown with cedars. on my right rose a sublime chain, soaring far out of the region of trees, and lifting its peaked summits of gray rock into toe sky. another chain, nearly as lofty, but not so broken, nor with such large, imposing features, overhung me on the left; and far in front, filling up the magnificent vista--filling up all between the lower steeps, crowned with pine, and the round white clouds hanging on the verge of heaven--were the shining snows of the taurus. great god, how shall i describe the grandeur of that view! how draw the wonderful outlines of those mountains! how paint the airy hue of violet-gray, the soft white lights, the thousandfold pencillings of mellow shadow, the height, the depth, the far-reaching vastness of the landscape! in the middle distance, a great blue gorge passed transversely across the two ranges and the region between. this, as i rightly conjectured, was the bed of the sihoon. our road led downward through groves of fragrant cedars, and we travelled thus for two hours before reaching the river. taking a northward course up his banks, we reached the second of the _pylæ ciliciæ_ before sunset. it is on a grander scale than the first gate, though not so startling and violent in its features. the bare walls on either side fall sheer to the water, and the road, crossing the sihoon by a lofty bridge of a single arch, is cut along the face of the rock. near the bridge a subterranean stream, almost as large as the river, bursts forth from the solid heart of the mountain. on either side gigantic masses of rock, with here and there a pine to adorn their sterility, tower to the height of , feet, in some places almost perpendicular from summit to base. they are worn and broken into all fantastic forms. there are pyramids, towers, bastions, minarets, and long, sharp spires, splintered and jagged as the turrets of an iceberg. i have seen higher mountains, but i have never seen any which looked so high as these. we camped on a narrow plot of ground, in the very heart of the tremendous gorge. a soldier, passing along at dusk, told us that a merchant and his servant were murdered in the same place last winter, and advised us to keep watch. but we slept safely all night, while the stars sparkled over the chasm, and slips of misty cloud hung low on the thousand pinnacles of rock. when i awoke, the gorge lay in deep shadow; but high up on the western mountain, above the enormous black pyramids that arose from the river, the topmost pinnacles of rock sparkled like molten silver, in the full gush of sunrise. the great mountain, blocking up the gorge behind us, was bathed almost to its foot in the rays, and, seen through such a dark vista, was glorified beyond all other mountains of earth. the air was piercingly cold and keen, and i could scarcely bear the water of the sihoon on my sun-inflamed face. there was a little spring not far off, from which we obtained sufficient water to drink, the river being too muddy. the spring was but a thread oozing from the soil; but the hadji collected it in handfuls, which he emptied into his water-skin, and then brought to us. the morning light gave a still finer effect to the manifold forms of the mountains than that of the afternoon sun. the soft gray hue of the rocks shone clearly against the cloudless sky, fretted all over with the shadows thrown by their innumerable spires and jutting points, and by the natural arches scooped out under the cliffs. after travelling less than an hour, we passed the riven walls of the mighty gateway, and rode again under the shade of pine forests. the height of the mountains now gradually diminished, and their sides, covered with pine and cedar, became less broken and abrupt. the summits, nevertheless, still retained the same rocky spine, shooting up into tall, single towers, or long lines of even parapets occasionally, through gaps between, we caught glimpses of the snow-fields, dazzlingly high and white. after travelling eight or nine miles, we emerged from the pass, and left the sihoon at a place called chiftlik khan--a stone building, with a small fort adjoining, wherein fifteen splendid bronze cannon lay neglected on their broken and rotting carriages. as we crossed the stone bridge over the river, a valley opened suddenly on the left, disclosing the whole range of the taurus, which we now saw on its northern side, a vast stretch of rocky spires, with sparkling snow-fields between, and long ravines filled with snow, extending far down between the dark blue cliffs and the dark green plumage of the cedars. immediately after passing the central chain of the taurus, the character of the scenery changed. the heights were rounded, the rocky strata only appearing on the higher peaks, and the slopes of loose soil were deeply cut and scarred by the rains of ages. both in appearance, especially in the scattered growth of trees dotted over the dark red soil, and in their formation, these mountains strongly resemble the middle ranges of the californian sierra nevada. we climbed a long, winding glen, until we had attained a considerable height, when the road reached a dividing ridge, giving us a view of a deep valley, beyond which a chain of barren mountains rose to the height of some five thousand feet. as we descended the rocky path, a little caravan of asses and mules clambered up to meet us, along the brinks of steep gulfs. the narrow strip of bottom land along the stream was planted with rye, now in head, and rolling in silvery waves before the wind. after our noonday halt, we went over the hills to another stream, which came from the north-west. its valley was broader and greener than that we had left, and the hills inclosing it had soft and undulating outlines. they were bare of trees, but colored a pale green by their thin clothing of grass and herbs. in this valley the season was so late, owing to its height above the sea, that the early spring-flowers were yet in bloom. poppies flamed among the wheat, and the banks of the stream were brilliant with patches of a creeping plant, with a bright purple blossom. the asphodel grew in great profusion, and an ivy-leaved shrub, covered with flakes of white bloom, made the air faint with its fragrance. still further up, we came to orchards of walnut and plum trees, and vineyards there were no houses, but the innabitants, who were mostly turcomans, live in villages during the winter, and in summer pitch their tents on the mountains where they pasture their flocks. directly over this quiet pastoral, vale towered the taurus, and i looked at once on its secluded loveliness and on the wintry heights, whose bleak and sublime heads were mantled in clouds. from no point is there a more imposing view of the whole snowy range. near the head of the valley we passed a large turcoman encampment, surrounded with herds of sheep and cattle. we halted for the evening at a place called kolü-kushla---an immense fortress-village, resembling baïas, and like it, wholly deserted. near it there is a small town of very neat houses, which is also deserted, the inhabitants having gone into the mountains with their flocks. i walked through the fortress, which is a massive building of stone, about feet square, erected by sultan murad as a resting-place for the caravans to mecca. it has two spacious portals, in which the iron doors are still hanging, connected by a vaulted passage, twenty feet high and forty wide, with bazaars on each side. side gateways open into large courts, surrounded with arched chambers. there is a mosque entire, with its pulpit and galleries, and the gilded crescent still glittering over its dome. behind it is a bath, containing an entrance hall and half a dozen chambers, in which the water-pipes and stone tanks still remain. with a little alteration, the building would make a capital phalanstery, where the fourierites might try their experiment without contact with society. there is no field for them equal to asia minor--a glorious region, abounding in natural wealth, almost depopulated, and containing a great number of phalansteries ready built. we succeeded in getting some eggs, fowls, and milk from an old turcoman who had charge of the village. a man who rode by on a donkey sold us a bag of _yaourt_ (sour milk-curds), which was delicious, notwithstanding the suspicious appearance of the bag. it was made before the cream had been removed, and was very rich and nourishing. the old turcoman sat down and watched us while we ate, but would not join us, as these wandering tribes are very strict in keeping ramazan. when we had reached our dessert--a plate of fine cherries--another white-bearded and dignified gentleman visited us. we handed him the cherries, expecting that he would take a few and politely return the dish: but no such thing. he coolly produced his handkerchief, emptied everything into it, and marched off. he also did not venture to eat, although we pointed to the taurus, on whose upper snows the last gleam of daylight was just melting away. we arose this morning in a dark, cloudy dawn. there was a heavy black storm hanging low in the west, and another was gathering its forces along the mountains behind us. a cold wind blew down the valley, and long peals of thunder rolled grandly among the gorges of taurus. an isolated hill, crowned with a shattered crag which bore a striking resemblance to a ruined fortress, stood out black and sharp against the far, misty, sunlit peaks. as far as the springs were yet undried, the land was covered with flowers. in one place i saw a large square plot of the most brilliant crimson hue, burning amid the green wheat-fields, as if some tyrian mantle had been flung there. the long, harmonious slopes and rounded summits of the hills were covered with drifts of a beautiful purple clover, and a diminutive variety of the _achillea_, or yarrow, with glowing yellow blossoms. the leaves had a pleasant aromatic odor, and filled the air with their refreshing breath, as they were crushed under the hoofs of our horses. we had now reached the highest ridge of the hilly country along the northern base of taurus, and saw, far and wide before us, the great central plain of karamania. two isolated mountains, at forty or fifty miles distance, broke the monotony of the desert-like level: kara dagh in the west, and the snow-capped summits of hassan dagh in the north-east. beyond the latter, we tried to catch a glimpse of the famous mons argseus, at the base of which is kaisariyeh, the ancient cæsarea of cappadocia. this mountain, which is , feet high, is the loftiest peak of asia minor. the clouds hung low on the horizon, and the rains were falling, veiling it from our sight. our road, for the remainder of the day, was over barren hills, covered with scanty herbage. the sun shone out intensely hot, and the glare of the white soil was exceedingly painful to my eyes. the locality of eregli was betrayed, some time before we reached it, by its dark-green belt of fruit trees. it stands in the mouth of a narrow valley which winds down from the taurus, and is watered by a large rapid stream that finally loses itself in the lakes and morasses of the plain. there had been a heavy black thunder-cloud gathering, and as we reached our camping-ground, under some fine walnut-trees near the stream, a sudden blast of cold wind swept over the town, filling the air with dust. we pitched the tent in all haste, expecting a storm, but the rain finally passed to the northward. we then took a walk through the town, which is a forlorn place. a spacious khan, built apparently for the mecca pilgrims, is in ruins, but the mosque has an exquisite minaret, eighty feet high, and still bearing traces of the devices, in blue tiles, which once covered it. the shops were mostly closed, and in those which were still open the owners lay at full length on their bellies, their faces gaunt with fasting. they seemed annoyed at our troubling them, even with purchases. one would have thought that some fearful pestilence had fallen upon the town. the cobblers only, who somewhat languidly plied their implements, seemed to retain a little life. the few jews and armenians smoked their pipes in a tantalizing manner, in the very faces of the poor mussulmans. we bought an oka of excellent cherries, which we were cruel enough to taste in the streets, before the hungry eyes of the suffering merchants. this evening the asses belonging to the place were driven in from pasture--four or five hundred in all; and such a show of curious asinine specimens as i never before beheld. a dervish, who was with us in quarantine, at adana, has just arrived. he had lost his _teskeré_ (passport), and on issuing forth purified, was cast into prison. finally he found some one who knew him, and procured his release. he had come on foot to this place in five days, suffering many privations, having been forty-eight hours without food. he is bound to konia, on a pilgrimage to the tomb of hazret mevlana, the founder of the sect of dancing dervishes. we gave him food, in return for which he taught me the formula of his prayers. he tells me i should always pronounce the name of allah when my horse stumbles, or i see a man in danger of his life, as the word has a saving power. hadji youssuf, who has just been begging for an advance of twenty piastres to buy grain for his horses, swore "by the pardon of god" that he would sell the lame horse at konia and get a better one. we have lost all confidence in the old villain's promises, but the poor beasts shall not suffer for his delinquencies. our tent is in a charming spot, and, from without, makes a picture to be remembered. the yellow illumination from within strikes on the under sides of the walnut boughs, while the moonlight silvers them from above. beyond gardens where the nightingales are singing, the tall minaret of eregli stands revealed in the vapory glow. the night is too sweet and balmy for sleep, and yet i must close my eyes upon it, for the hot plains of karamania await us to-morrow. chapter xix. the plains of karamania. the plains of karamania--afternoon heat--a well--volcanic phenomena--kara-bounar--a grand ruined khan--moonlight picture--a landscape of the plains-mirages--a short interview--the village of ismil---third day on the plains--approach to konia. "a weary waste, expanding to the skies."--goldsmith. konia, capital of karamania, _friday, june_ , . françois awoke us at the break of day, at eregli, as we had a journey of twelve hours before us. passing through the town, we traversed a narrow belt of garden and orchard land, and entered the great plain of karamania. our road led at first northward towards a range called karadja dagh, and then skirted its base westward. after three hours' travel we passed a village of neat, whitewashed houses, which were entirely deserted, all the inhabitants having gone off to the mountains. there were some herds scattered over the plain, near the village. as the day wore on, the wind, which had been chill in the morning, ceased, and the air became hot and sultry. the glare from the white soil was so painful that i was obliged to close my eyes, and so ran a continual risk of falling asleep and tumbling from my horse. thus, drowsy and half unconscious of my whereabouts, i rode on in the heat and arid silence of the plain until noon, when we reached a well. it was a shaft, sunk about thirty feet deep, with a long, sloping gallery slanting off to the surface. the well was nearly dry, but by descending the gallery we obtained a sufficient supply of cold, pure water. we breakfasted in the shaded doorway, sharing our provisions with a turcoman boy, who was accompanying his father to eregli with a load of salt. our road now crossed a long, barren pass, between two parts of karadja dagh. near the northern side there was a salt lake of one hundred yards in diameter, sunk in a deep natural basin. the water was intensely saline. on the other side of the road, and a quarter of a mile distant, is an extinct volcano, the crater of which, near two hundred feet deep, is a salt lake, with a trachytic cone three hundred feet high rising from the centre. from the slope of the mountain we overlooked another and somewhat deeper plain, extending to the north and west. it was bounded by broken peaks, all of which betrayed a volcanic origin. far before us we saw the tower on the hill of kara-bounar, our resting-place for the night. the road thither was over a barren plain, cheered here and there by patches of a cushion-like plant, which was covered with pink blossoms. mr. harrison scared up some coveys of the frankolin, a large bird resembling the pheasant, and enriched our larder with a dozen starlings. kara-bounar is built on the slope of a mound, at the foot of which stands a spacious mosque, visible far over the plain. it has a dome, and two tall, pencil-like towers, similar to those of the citadel-mosque of cairo. near it are the remains of a magnificent khan-fortress, said to have been built by the eunuch of one of the former sultans. as there was no water in the wells outside of the town, we entered the khan and pitched the tent in its grass-grown court. six square pillars of hewn stone made an aisle to our door, and the lofty, roofless walls of the court, by feet, inclosed us. another court, of similar size, communicated with it by a broad portal, and the remains of baths and bazaars lay beyond. a handsome stone fountain, with two streams of running water, stood in front of the khan. we were royally lodged, but almost starved in our splendor, as only two or three turcomans remained out of two thousand (who had gone off with their herds to the mountains), and they were unable to furnish us with provisions. but for our frankolins and starlings we should have gone fasting. the mosque was a beautiful structure of white limestone, and the galleries of its minarets were adorned with rich arabesque ornaments. while the muezzin was crying his sunset-call to prayer, i entered the portico and looked into the interior, which was so bare as to appear incomplete. as we sat in our palace-court, after dinner, the moon arose, lighting up the niches in the walls, the clusters of windows in the immense eastern gable, and the rows of massive columns. the large dimensions of the building gave it a truly grand effect, and but for the whine of a distant jackal i could have believed that we were sitting in the aisles of a roofless gothic cathedral, in the heart of europe. françois was somewhat fearful of thieves, but the peace and repose of the place we've so perfect that i would not allow any such apprehensions to disturb me. in two minutes after i touched my bed i was insensible, and i did not move a limb until sunrise. beyond kara-bounar, there is a low, barren ridge, climbing which, we overlooked an immense plain, uncultivated, apparently unfertile, and without a sign of life as far as the eye could reach. kara dagh, in the south, lifted nearer us its cluster of dark summits; to the north, the long ridge of Üsedjik dagh (the pigmy mountain) stretched like a cape into the plain; hassan dagh; wrapped in a soft white cloud, receded behind us, and the snows of taurus seemed almost as distant as when we first beheld them from the syrian gates. we rode for four hours over the dead level, the only objects that met our eyes being an occasional herd of camels in the distance. about noon, we reached a well, similar to that of the previous day, but of recent construction. a long, steep gallery led down to the water, which was very cold, but had a villainous taste of lime, salt, and sulphur. after an hour's halt, we started again. the sun was intensely hot, and for hours we jogged on over the dead level, the bare white soil blinding our eyes with its glare. the distant hills were lifted above the horizon by a mirage. long sheets of blue water were spread along their bases, islanding the isolated peaks, and turning into ships and boats the black specks of camels far away. but the phenomena were by no means on so grand a scale as i had seen in the nubian desert. on the south-western horizon, we discerned the summits of the karaman range of taurus, covered with snow. in the middle of the afternoon, we saw a solitary tent upon the plain, from which an individual advanced to meet us. as he drew nearer, we noticed that he wore white frank pantaloons, similar to the turkish soldiery, with a jacket of brown cloth, and a heavy sabre. when he was within convenient speaking distance, he cried out: "stop! why are you running away from me?" "what do you call running away?" rejoined françois; "we are going on our journey." "where do you come from?" he then asked. "from there," said françois, pointing behind us "where are you going?" "there!" and the provoking greek simply pointed forwards. "you have neither faith nor religion!" said the man, indignantly; then, turning upon his heel, he strode back across the plain. about four o'clock, we saw a long line of objects rising before us, but so distorted by the mirage that it was impossible to know what they were. after a while, however, we decided that they were houses interspersed with trees; but the trees proved to be stacks of hay and lentils, heaped on the flat roofs. this was ismil, our halting-place. the houses were miserable mud huts; but the village was large, and, unlike most of those we have seen this side of taurus, inhabited. the people are turcomans, and their possessions appear to be almost entirely in their herds. immense numbers of sheep and goats were pasturing on the plain. there were several wells in the place, provided with buckets attached to long swing-poles; the water was very cold, but brackish. our tent was pitched on the plain, on a hard, gravelly strip of soil. a crowd of wild-haired turcoman boys gathered in front, to stare at us, and the shepherds quarrelled at the wells, as to which should take his turn at watering his flocks. in the evening a handsome old turk visited us, and, finding that we were bound to constantinople, requested françois to take a letter to his son, who was settled there. françois aroused us this morning before the dawn, as we had a journey of thirty-five miles before us. he was in a bad humor; for a man, whom he had requested to keep watch over his tent, while he went into the village, had stolen a fork and spoon. the old turk, who had returned as soon as we were stirring, went out to hunt the thief, but did not succeed in finding him. the inhabitants of the village were up long before sunrise, and driving away in their wooden-wheeled carts to the meadows where they cut grass. the old turk accompanied us some distance, in order to show us a nearer way, avoiding a marshy spot. our road lay over a vast plain, seemingly boundless, for the lofty mountain-ranges that surrounded it on all sides were so distant and cloud-like, and so lifted from the horizon by the deceptive mirage, that the eye did not recognize their connection with it. the wind blew strongly from the north-west, and was so cold that i dismounted and walked ahead for two or three hours. before noon, we passed two villages of mud huts, partly inhabited, and with some wheat-fields around them. we breakfasted at another well, which furnished us with a drink that tasted like iced sea-water. thence we rode forth again into the heat, for the wind had fallen by this time, and the sun shone out with great force. there was ever the same dead level, and we rode directly towards the mountains, which, to my eyes, seemed nearly as distant as ever. at last, there was a dark glimmer through the mirage, at their base, and a half-hour's ride showed it to be a line of trees. in another hour, we could distinguish a minaret or two, and finally, walls and the stately domes of mosques. this was konia, the ancient iconium, one of the most renowned cities of asia minor. chapter xx scenes in konia. kpproach to konia---tomb of hazret mevlana--lodgings in a khan--an american luxury--a night-scene in ramazan--prayers in the mosque--remains of the ancient city--view from the mosque--the interior--a leaning minaret--the diverting history of the muleteers. "but they shook off the dust on their feet, and came unto iconium."--acts, xiii. . konia (ancient iconium), _june_ , . the view of konia from the plain is not striking until one has approached within a mile of the suburbs, when the group of mosques, with their heavy central domes lifted on clusters of smaller ones, and their tall, light, glittering minarets, rising above the foliage of the gardens, against the background of airy hills, has a very pleasing effect. we approached through a long line of dirty suburbs, which looked still more forlorn on account of the ramazan. some turkish officials, in shabby frank dresses, followed us to satisfy their curiosity by talking with our _katurjees_, or muleteers. outside the city walls, we passed some very large barracks for cavalry, built by ibrahim pasha. on the plain north-east of the city, the battle between him and the forces of the sultan, resulting in the defeat of the latter, was fought. we next came upon two magnificent mosques, built of white limestone, with a multitude of leaden domes and lofty minarets, adorned with galleries rich in arabesque ornaments. attached to one of them is the tomb, of hazret mevlana, the founder of the sect of mevlevi dervishes, which is reputed one of the most sacred places in the east. the tomb is surmounted by a dome, upon which stands a tall cylindrical tower, reeded, with channels between each projection, and terminating in a long, tapering cone. this tower is made of glazed tiles, of the most brilliant sea-blue color, and sparkles in the sun like a vast pillar of icy spar in some polar grotto. it is a most striking and fantastic object, surrounded by a cluster of minarets and several cypress-trees, amid which it seems placed as the central ornament and crown of the group. the aspect of the city was so filthy and uninviting that we preferred pitching our tent; but it was impossible to find a place without going back upon the plain; so we turned into the bazaar, and asked the way to a khan. there was a tolerable crowd in the street, although many of the shops were shut. the first khan we visited was too filthy to enter; but the second, though most unpromising in appearance, turned out to be better than it looked. the _oda-bashi_ (master of the rooms) thoroughly swept and sprinkled the narrow little chamber he gave us, laid clean mats upon the floor, and, when our carpets and beds were placed within, its walls of mud looked somewhat comfortable. its single window, with an iron grating in lieu of glass, looked upon an oblong court, on the second story, surrounded by the rooms of armenian merchants. the main court (the gate of which is always closed at sunset) is two stories in height, with a rough wooden balcony running around it, and a well of muddy water in the centre. the oda-bashi lent us a turkish table and supplied us with dinner from his own kitchen; kibabs, stewed beans, and cucumber salad. mr. h. and i, forgetting the ramazan, went out to hunt for an iced sherbet; but all the coffee-shops were closed until sunset. the people stared at our egyptian costumes, and a fellow in official dress demanded my _teskeré_. soon after we returned, françois appeared with a splendid lump of ice in a basin and some lemons. the ice, so the _khangee_ said, is taken from a lake among the mountains, which in winter freezes to the thickness of a foot. behind the lake is a natural cavern, which the people fill with ice, and then close up. at this season they take it out, day by day, and bring it down to the city. it is very pure and thick, and justifies the turkish proverb in regard to konia, which is celebrated for three excellent things: "_dooz, booz, küz_"--salt, ice, and girls. soon after sunset, a cannon announced the close of the fast. we waited an hour or two longer, to allow the people time to eat, and then sallied out into the streets. every minaret in the city blazed with a crown of lighted lamps around its upper gallery, while the long shafts below, and the tapering cones above, topped with brazen crescents, shone fair in the moonlight. it was a strange, brilliant spectacle. in the square before the principal mosque we found a crowd of persons frolicking around the fountain, in the light of a number of torches on poles planted in the ground. mats were spread on the stones, and rows of turks of all classes sat thereon, smoking their pipes. large earthen water-jars stood here and there, and the people drank so often and so long that they seemed determined to provide against the morrow. the boys were having their amusement in wrestling, shouting and firing off squibs, which they threw into the crowd. we kicked off our slippers, sat down among the turks, smoked a narghileh, drank a cup of coffee and an iced sherbet of raisin juice, and so enjoyed the ramazan as well as the best of them. numbers of true believers were drinking and washing themselves at the picturesque fountain, and just as we rose to depart, the voice of a boy-muezzin, on one of the tallest minarets, sent down a musical call to prayer. immediately the boys left off their sports and started on a run for the great mosque, and the grave, gray-bearded turks got up from the mats, shoved on their slippers, and marched after them. we followed, getting a glimpse of the illuminated interior of the building, as we passed; but the oda-bashi conducted us still further, to a smaller though more beautiful mosque, surrounded with a garden-court. it was a truly magical picture. we entered the gate, and passed on by a marble pavement, under trees and arbors of vines that almost shut out the moonlight, to a paved space, in the centre whereof was a beautiful fountain, in the purest saracenic style. its heavy, projecting cornices and tall pyramidal roof rested on a circle of elegant arches, surrounding a marble structure, whence the water gushed forth in a dozen sparkling streams. on three sides it was inclosed by the moonlit trees and arbors; on the fourth by the outer corridor of the mosque, the door of entrance being exactly opposite. large numbers of persons were washing their hands and feet at the fountain, after which they entered and knelt on the floor. we stood unobserved in the corridor, and looked in on the splendidly illuminated interior and the crowd at prayer, all bending their bodies to the earth at regular intervals and murmuring the name of allah. they resembled a plain, of reeds bending before the gusts of wind which precede a storm. when all had entered and were united in solemn prayer, we returned, passing the grand mosque. i stole up to the door, lifted the heavy carpet that hung before it, and looked in. there was a mevlevi dervish standing in the entrance, but his eyes were lifted in heavenly abstraction, and he did not see me. the interior was brilliantly lit by white and colored lamps, suspended from the walls and the great central dome. it was an imposing structure, simple in form, yet grand from its dimensions. the floor was covered with kneeling figures, and a deep voice, coming from the other end of the mosque, was uttering pious phrases in a kind of chant. i satisfied my curiosity quickly, and we then returned to the khan. yesterday afternoon i made a more thorough examination of the city. passing through the bazaars, i reached the serai, or pasha's palace, which stands on the site of that of the sultans of iconium. it is a long, wooden building, with no pretensions to architectural beauty. near it there is a large and ancient mosque, with a minaret of singular elegance. it is about feet high, with two hanging galleries; the whole built of blue and red bricks, the latter projecting so as to form quaint patterns or designs. several ancient buildings near this mosque are surmounted with pyramidal towers, resembling pagodas of india. following the long, crooked lanes between mud buildings, we passed these curious structures and reached the ancient wall of the city. in one of the streets lay a marble lion, badly executed, and apparently of the time of the lower empire. in the wall were inserted many similar figures, with fragments of friezes and cornices. this is the work of the seljook kings, who, in building the wall, took great pains to exhibit the fragments of the ancient city. the number of altars they have preserved is quite remarkable. on the square towers are sunken tablets, containing long arabic inscriptions. the high walls of a ruined building in the southern part of the city attracted us, and on going thither we found it to be an ancient mosque, standing on an eminence formed apparently of the debris of other buildings. part of the wall was also ancient, and in some places showed the marks of an earthquake. a long flight of steps led up to the door of the mosque, and as we ascended we were rewarded by the most charming view of the city and the grand plain. konia lay at our feet--a wide, straggling array of low mud dwellings, dotted all over with patches of garden verdure, while its three superb mosques, with the many smaller tombs and places of worship, appeared like buildings left from some former and more magnificent capital. outside of this circle ran a belt of garden land, adorned with groves and long lines of fruit trees; still further, the plain, a sea of faded green, flecked with the softest cloud-shadows, and beyond all, the beautiful outlines and dreamy tints of the different mountain chains. it was in every respect a lovely landscape, and the city is unworthy such surroundings. the sky, which in this region is of a pale, soft, delicious blue, was dotted with scattered fleeces of white clouds, and there was an exquisite play of light and shade over the hills. there were half a dozen men and boys about the door, amusing themselves with bursting percussion caps on the stone. they addressed us as "_hadji_!" (pilgrims), begging for more caps. i told them i was not a turk, but an arab, which they believed at once, and requested me to enter the mosque. the interior had a remarkably fine effect. it was a maze of arches, supported by columns of polished black marble, forty in number. in form it was nearly square, and covered with a flat, wooden roof. the floor was covered with a carpet, whereon several persons were lying at full length, while an old man, seated in one of the most remote corners, was reading in a loud, solemn voice. it is a peculiar structure, which i should be glad to examine more in detail. not far from this eminence is a remarkable leaning minaret, more than a hundred feet in height, while in diameter it cannot be more than fifteen feet. in design it is light and elegant, and the effect is not injured by its deviation from the perpendicular, which i should judge to be about six feet. from the mosque we walked over the mounds of old iconium to the eastern wall, passing another mosque, wholly in ruin, but which must have once been more splendid than any now standing. the portal is the richest specimen of saracenic sculpture i have ever seen: a very labyrinth of intricate ornaments. the artist must have seen the great portal of the temple of the sun at baalbec. the minarets have tumbled down, the roof has fallen in, but the walls are still covered with white and blue tiles, of the finest workmanship, resembling a mosaic of ivory and lapis lazuli. some of the chambers seem to be inhabited, for two old men with white beards lay in the shade, and were not a little startled by our sudden appearance. we returned to the great mosque, which we had visited on the evening of our arrival, and listened for some time to the voice of a mollah who was preaching an afternoon sermon to a small and hungry congregation. we then entered the court before the tomb of hazret mevlana. it was apparently forbidden ground to christians, but as the dervishes did not seem to suspect us we walked about boldly, and were about to enter, when an indiscretion of my companion frustrated our plans. forgetting his assumed character, he went to the fountain and drank, although it was no later than the _asser_, or afternoon prayer. the dervishes were shocked and scandalized by this violation of the fast, in the very court-yard of their holiest mosque, and we judged it best to retire by degrees. we sent this morning to request an interview with the pasha, but he had gone to pass the day in a country palace, about three hours distant. it is a still, hot, bright afternoon, and the silence of the famished populace disposes us to repose. our view is bounded by the mud walls of the khan, and i already long for the freedom of the great karamanian plain. here, in the heart of asia minor, all life seems to stagnate. there is sleep everywhere, and i feel that a wide barrier separates me from the living world. we have been detained here a whole day, through a chain of accidents, all resulting from the rascality of our muleteers on leaving aleppo. the lame horse they palmed upon us was unable to go further, so we obliged them to buy another animal, which they succeeded in getting for piastres. we advanced the money, although they were still in our debt, hoping to work our way through with the new horse, and thus avoid the risk of loss or delay. but this morning at sunrise hadji youssuf comes with a woeful face to say that the new horse has been stolen in the night, and we, who are ready to start, must sit down and wait till he is recovered. i suspected another trick, but when, after the lapse of three hours, françois found the hadji sitting on the ground, weeping, and achmet beating his breast, it seemed probable that the story was true. all search for the horse being vain, françois went with them to the shekh of the horses, who promised, in case it should hereafter be found, to place it in the general pen, where they would be sure to get it on their return. the man who sold them the horse offered them another for the lame one and piastres, and there was no other alternative but to accept it. but _we_ must advance the piastres, and so, in mid-journey, we have already paid them to the end, with the risk of their horses breaking down, or they, horses and all, absconding from us. but the knavish varlets are hardly bold enough for such a climax of villany. chapter xxi. the heart of asia minor. scenery of the hills--ladik, the ancient laodicea--the plague of gad-flies--camp at ilgün--a natural warm bath--the gad-flies again--a summer landscape--ak-sheher--the base of sultan dagh--the fountain of midas--a drowsy journey--the town of bolawadün. "by the forests, lakes, and fountains, though the many-folded mountains." shelley. bolawadün, _july_ , . our men brought all the beasts into the court-yard of the khan at konia, the evening before our departure, so that no more were stolen during the night. the oda-bashi, indefatigable to the last in his attention to us, not only helped load the mules, but accompanied us some distance on our way. all the merchants in the khan collected in the gallery to see us start, and we made our exit in some state. the morning was clear, fresh, and delightful. turning away from the city walls, we soon emerged from the lines of fruit-trees and interminable fields of tomb-stones, and came out upon the great bare plain of karamania. a ride of three hours brought us to a long, sloping hill, which gave us a view of the whole plain, and its circuit of mountains. a dark line in the distance marked the gardens of konia. on the right, near the centre of the plain, the lake, now contracted to very narrow limits, glimmered in the sun. notwithstanding the waste and unfertile appearance of the country, the soft, sweet sky that hangs over it, the pure, transparent air, the grand sweep of the plain, and the varied forms of the different mountain chains that encompass it, make our journey an inspiring one. a descent of the hills soon shut out the view; and the rest of the day's journey lay among them, skirting the eastern base of allah dagh. the country improved in character, as we advanced. the bottoms of the dry glens were covered with wheat, and shrubbery began to make its appearance on the mountain-sides in the afternoon, we crossed a watershed, dividing karamania from the great central plain of asia minor, and descended to a village called ladik, occupying the site of the ancient laodicea, at the foot of allah dagh. the plain upon which we came was greener and more flourishing than that we had left. trees were scattered here and there in clumps, and the grassy wastes, stretching beyond the grain-fields, were dotted with herds of cattle. emir dagh stood in the north-west, blue and distant, while, towards the north and north-east, the plain extended to the horizon--a horizon fifty miles distant--without a break. in that direction lay the great salt lake of yüzler, and the strings of camels we met on the road, laden with salt, were returning from it. ladik is surrounded with poppy-fields, brilliant with white and purple blossoms. when the petals have fallen, the natives go carefully over the whole field and make incisions in every stalk, whence the opium exudes. we pitched our tent under a large walnut tree, which we found standing in a deserted inclosure. the graveyard of the village is studded with relics of the ancient town. there are pillars, cornices, entablatures, jambs, altars, mullions and sculptured tablets, all of white marble, and many of them in an excellent state of preservation. they appear to date from the early time of the lower empire, and the cross has not yet been effaced from some which serve as head-stones for the true believers. i was particularly struck with the abundance of altars, some of which contained entire and legible inscriptions. in the town there is the same abundance of ruins. the lid of a sarcophagus, formed of a single block of marble, now serves as a water-trough, and the fountain is constructed of ancient tablets. the town stands on a mound which appears to be composed entirely of the debris of the former place, and near the summit there are many holes which the inhabitants have dug in their search for rings, seals and other relics. the next day we made a journey of nine hours over a hilly country lying between the ranges of allah dagh and emir dagh. there were wells of excellent water along the road, at intervals of an hour or two. the day was excessively hot and sultry during the noon hours, and the flies were so bad as to give great inconvenience to our horses. the animal i bestrode kicked so incessantly that i could scarcely keep my seat. his belly was swollen and covered with clotted blood, from their bites. the hadji's mule began to show symptoms of illness, and we had great difficulty in keeping it on its legs. mr. harrison bled it in the mouth, as a last resource, and during the afternoon it partly recovered. an hour before sunset we reached ilgün, a town on the plain, at the foot of one of the spurs of emir dagh. to the west of it there is a lake of considerable size, which receives the streams that flow through the town and water its fertile gardens. we passed through the town and pitched our tent upon a beautiful grassy meadow. our customary pipe of refreshment was never more heartily enjoyed than at this place. behind us was a barren hill, at the foot of which was a natural hot bath, wherein a number of women and children were amusing themselves. the afternoon heat had passed away, the air was calm, sweet, and tempered with the freshness of coming evening, and the long shadows of the hills, creeping over the meadows, had almost reached the town. beyond the line of sycamore, poplar and fig-trees that shaded the gardens of ilgün, rose the distant chain of allah dagh, and in the pale-blue sky, not far above it, the dim face of the gibbous moon showed like the ghost of a planet. our horses were feeding on the green meadow; an old turk sat beside us, silent with fasting, and there was no sound but the shouts of the children in the bath. such hours as these, after a day's journey made in the drowsy heat of an eastern summer, are indescribably grateful. after the women had retired from the bath, we were allowed to enter. the interior consisted of a single chamber, thirty feet high, vaulted and almost dark. in the centre was a large basin of hot water, filled by four streams which poured into it. a ledge ran around the sides, and niches in the wall supplied places for our clothes. the bath-keeper furnished us with towels, and we undressed and plunged in. the water was agreeably warm (about °), had a sweet taste, and a very slight sulphury smell. the vaulted hall redoubled the slightest noise, and a shaven turk, who kept us company, sang in his delight, that he might hear the echo of his own voice. when we went back to the tent we found our visitor lying on the ground, trying to stay his hunger. it was rather too bad in us to light our pipes, make a sherbet and drink and smoke in his face, while we joked him about the ramazan; and he at last got up and walked off, the picture of distress. we made an early start the next morning, and rode on briskly over the rolling, grassy hills. a beautiful lake, with an island in it, lay at the foot of emir dagh. after two hours we reached a guard-house, where our _teskerés_ were demanded, and the lazy guardsman invited us in to take coffee, that he might establish a right to the backsheesh which he could not demand. he had seen us afar off, and the coffee was smoking in the _finjans_ when we arrived. the sun was already terribly hot, and the large, green gad-flies came in such quantities that i seemed to be riding in the midst of a swarm of bees. my horse suffered very much, and struck out his hind feet so violently, in his endeavors to get rid of them, that he racked every joint in my body. they were not content with sucking his blood, but settling on the small segment of my calf, exposed between the big tartar boot and the flowing trowsers, bit through my stockings with fierce bills. i killed hundreds of them, to no purpose, and at last, to relieve my horse, tied a bunch of hawthorn to a string, by which i swung it under his belly and against the inner side of his flanks. in this way i gave him some relief--a service which he acknowledged by a grateful motion of his head. as we descended towards ak-sheher the country became exceedingly rich and luxuriant. the range of sultan dagh (the mountain of the sultan) rose on our left, its sides covered with a thick screen of shrubbery, and its highest peak dotted with patches of snow; opposite, the lower range of emir dagh (the mountain of the prince) lay blue and bare in the sun shine. the base of sultan dagh was girdled with groves of fruit-trees, stretching out in long lines on the plain, with fields of ripening wheat between. in the distance the large lake of ak-sheher glittered in the sun. towards the north-west, the plain stretched away for fifty miles before reaching the hills. it is evidently on a much lower level than the plain of konia; the heat was not only greater, but the season was further advanced. wheat was nearly ready for cutting, and the poppy-fields where, the day previous, the men were making their first incisions for opium, here had yielded their harvest and were fast ripening their seed. ak-sheher is beautifully situated at the entrance of a deep gorge in the mountains. it is so buried in its embowered gardens that little, except the mosque, is seen as you approach it. it is a large place, and boasts a fine mosque, but contains nothing worth seeing. the bazaar, after that of konia, was the largest we had seen since leaving tarsus. the greater part of the shopkeepers lay at full length, dozing, sleeping, or staying their appetites till the sunset gun. we found some superb cherries, and plenty of snow, which is brought down from the mountain. the natives were very friendly and good-humored, but seemed surprised at mr. harrison tasting the cherries, although i told them we were upon a journey. our tent was pitched under a splendid walnut tree, outside of the town. the green mountain rose between us and the fading sunset, and the yellow moon was hanging in the east, as we took our dinner at the tent-door. turks were riding homewards on donkeys, with loads of grass which they had been cutting in the meadows. the gun was fired, and the shouts of the children announced the close of the day's fast, while the sweet, melancholy voice of a boy muezzin called us to sunset prayer, from the minaret. leaving ak-sheher this morning, we rode along the base of sultan dagh. the plain which we overlooked was magnificent. the wilderness of shrubbery which fringed the slopes of the mountain gave place to great orchards and gardens, interspersed with fields of grain, which extended far out on the plain, to the wild thickets and wastes of reeds surrounding the lake. the sides of sultan dagh were terraced and cultivated wherever it was practicable, and i saw some fields of wheat high up on the mountain. there were many, people in the road or laboring in the fields; and during the forenoon we passed several large villages. the country is more thickly inhabited, and has a more thrifty and prosperous air than any part of asia minor which i have seen. the people are better clad, have more open, honest, cheerful and intelligent faces, and exhibit a genuine courtesy and good-will in their demeanor towards us. i never felt more perfectly secure, or more certain of being among people whom i could trust. we passed under the summit of sultan dagh, which shone out so clear and distinct in the morning sun, that i could scarcely realize its actual height above the plain. from a tremendous gorge, cleft between the two higher peaks, issued a large stream, which, divided into a hundred channels, fertilizes a wide extent of plain. about two hours from ak-sheher we passed a splendid fountain of crystal water, gushing up beside the road. i believe it is the same called by some travellers the fountain of midas, but am ignorant wherefore the name is given it. we rode for several hours through a succession of grand, rich landscapes. a smaller lake succeeded to that of ak-sheher, emir dagh rose higher in the pale-blue sky, and sultan dagh showed other peaks, broken and striped with snow; but around us were the same glorious orchards and gardens, the same golden-green wheat and rustling phalanxes of poppies--armies of vegetable round-heads, beside the bristling and bearded cavaliers. the sun was intensely hot during the afternoon, as we crossed the plain, and i became so drowsed that it required an agony of exertion to keep from tumbling off my horse. we here left the great post-road to constantinople, and took a less frequented track. the plain gradually became a meadow, covered with shrub cypress, flags, reeds, and wild water-plants. there were vast wastes of luxuriant grass, whereon thousands of black buffaloes were feeding. a stone causeway, containing many elegant fragments of ancient sculpture, extended across this part of the plain, but we took a summer path beside it, through beds of iris in bloom--a fragile snowy blossom, with a lip of the clearest golden hue. the causeway led to a bare salt plain, beyond which we came to the town of bolawadün, and terminated our day's journey of forty miles. bolawadün is a collection of mud houses, about a mile long, situated on an eminence at the western base of emir dagh. i went into the bazaar, which was a small place, and not very well supplied, though, as it was near sunset, there was quite a crowd of people, and the bakers were shovelling out their fresh bread at a brisk rate. every one took me for a good egyptian mohammedan, and i was jostled right and left among the turbans, in a manner that certainly would not have happened me had i not also worn one. mr. h., who had fallen behind the caravan, came up after we had encamped, and might have wandered a long time without finding us, but for the good-natured efforts of the inhabitants to set him aright. this evening he knocked over a hedgehog, mistaking it for a cat. the poor creature was severely hurt, and its sobs of distress, precisely like those of a little child, were to painful to hear, that we were obliged to have it removed from the vicinity of the tent. chapter xxii the forests of phrygia. the frontier of phrygia--ancient quarries and tombs--we enter the pine forests--a guard-house--encampments of the turcomans--pastoral scenery--a summer village--the valley of the tombs--rock sepulchres of the phrygian kings--the titan's camp--the valley of kümbeh--a land of flowers--turcoman hospitality--the exiled effendis--the old turcoman--a glimpse of arcadia--a landscape--interested friendship--the valley of the pursek--arrival at kiutahya. "and round us all the thicket rang to many a flute of arcady." tennyson. kiutahya, _july_ , . we had now passed through the ancient provinces of cilicia, cappadocia, and lycaonia, and reached the confines of phrygia--a rude mountain region, which was never wholly penetrated by the light of grecian civilization. it is still comparatively a wilderness, pierced but by a single high-road, and almost unvisited by travellers, yet inclosing in its depths many curious relics of antiquity. leaving bolawadün in the morning, we ascended a long, treeless mountain-slope, and in three or four hours reached the dividing ridge---the watershed of asia minor, dividing the affluents of the mediterranean and the central lakes from the streams that flow to the black sea. looking back, sultan dagh, along whose base we had travelled the previous day, lay high and blue in the background, streaked with shining snow, and far away behind it arose a still higher peak, hoary with the lingering winter. we descended into a grassy plain, shut in by a range of broken mountains, covered to their summits with dark-green shrubbery, through which the strata of marble rock gleamed like patches of snow. the hills in front were scarred with old quarries, once worked for the celebrated phrygian marble. there was neither a habitation nor a human being to be seen, and the landscape had a singularly wild, lonely, and picturesque air. turning westward, we crossed a high rolling tract, and entered a valley entirely covered with dwarf oaks and cedars. in spite of the dusty road, the heat, and the multitude of gad-flies, the journey presented an agreeable contrast to the great plains over which we had been travelling for many days. the opposite side of the glen was crowned with a tall crest of shattered rock, in which were many old phrygian tombs. they were mostly simple chambers, with square apertures. there were traces of many more, the rock having been blown up or quarried down--the tombs, instead of protecting it, only furnishing one facility the more for destruction. after an hour's rest at a fountain, we threaded the windings of the glen to a lower plain, quite shut in by the hills, whose ribs of marble showed through the forests of oak, holly, cedar, and pine, which dotted them. we were now fully entered into the hill-country, and our road passed over heights and through hollows covered with picturesque clumps of foliage. it resembled some of the wild western downs of america, and, but for the phrygian tombs, whose doorways stared at us from every rock, seemed as little familiar with the presence of man. hadji youssuf, in stopping to arrange some of the baggage, lost his hold of his mule, and in spite of every effort to secure her, the provoking beast kept her liberty for the rest of the day. in vain did we head her off, chase her, coax her, set traps for her: she was too cunning to be taken in, and marched along at her ease, running into every field of grain, stopping to crop the choicest bunches of grass, or walking demurely in the caravan, allowing the hadji to come within arm's length before she kicked up her heels and dashed away again. we had a long chase through the clumps of oak and holly, but all to no purpose. the great green gad-flies swarmed around us, biting myself as well as my horse. hecatombs, crushed by my whip, dropped dead in the dust, but the ranks were immediately filled from some invisible reserve. the soil was no longer bare, but entirely covered with grass and flowers. in one of the valleys i saw a large patch of the crimson larkspur, so thick as to resemble a pool of blood. while crossing a long, hot hill, we came upon a little arbor of stones, covered with pine branches. it inclosed an ancient sarcophagus of marble, nearly filled with water. beside it stood a square cup, with a handle, rudely hewn out of a piece of pine wood. this was a charitable provision for travellers, and constantly supplied by the turcomans who lived in the vicinity. the last two hours of our journey that day were through a glorious forest of pines. the road lay in a winding glen, green and grassy, and covered to the summits on both sides with beautiful pine trees, intermixed with cedar. the air had the true northern aroma, and was more grateful than wine. every turn of the glen disclosed a charming woodland view. it was a wild valley of the northern hills, filled with the burning lustre of a summer sun, and canopied by the brilliant blue of a summer sky. there were signs of the woodman's axe, and the charred embers of forest camp-fires. i thought of the lovely _cañadas_ in the pine forests behind monterey, and could really have imagined myself there. towards evening we reached a solitary guard-house, on the edge of the forest. the glen here opened a little, and a stone fountain of delicious water furnished all that we wanted for a camping-place. the house was inhabited by three soldiers; sturdy, good-humored fellows, who immediately spread a mat in the shade for us and made us some excellent coffee. a turcoman encampment in the neighborhood supplied us with milk and eggs. the guardsmen were good mussulmans, and took us for the same. one of them asked me to let him know when the sun was down, and i prolonged his fast until it was quite dark, when i gave him permission to eat. they all had tolerable stallions for their service, and seemed to live pleasantly enough, in their wild way. the fat, stumpy corporal, with his enormously broad pantaloons and automaton legs, went down to the fountain with his musket, and after taking a rest and sighting full five minutes, fired at a dove without hitting it. he afterwards joined us in a social pipe, and we sat on a carpet at the door of the guard-house, watching the splendid moonrise through the pine boughs. when the pipes had burned out i went to bed, and slept a long, sweet sleep until dawn. we knew that the tombs of the phrygian kings could not be far off, and, on making inquiries of the corporal, found that he knew the place. it was not four hours distant, by a by-road and as it would be impossible to reach it without a guide, he would give us one of his men, in consideration of a fee of twenty piastres. the difficulty was evident, in a hilly, wooded country like this, traversed by a labyrinth of valleys and ravines, and so we accepted the soldier. as we were about leaving, an old turcoman, whose beard was dyed a bright red, came up, saying that he knew mr. h. was a physician, and could cure him of his deafness. the morning air was sweet with the breath of cedar and pine, and we rode on through the woods and over the open turfy glades, in high spirits. we were in the heart of a mountainous country, clothed with evergreen forests, except some open upland tracts, which showed a thick green turf, dotted all over with park-like clumps, and single great trees. the pines were noble trunks, often sixty to eighty feet high, and with boughs disposed in all possible picturesqueness of form. the cedar frequently showed a solid white bole, three feet in diameter. we took a winding footpath, often a mere track, striking across the hills in a northern direction. everywhere we met the turks of the plain, who are now encamped in the mountains, to tend their flocks through the summer months. herds of sheep and goats were scattered over the green pasture-slopes, and the idle herd-boys basked in the morning sun, playing lively airs on a reed flute, resembling the arabic _zumarra_. here and there was a woodman, busy at a recently felled tree, and we met several of the creaking carts of the country, hauling logs. all that we saw had a pleasant rural air, a smack of primitive and unsophisticated life. from the higher ridges over which we passed, we could see, far to the east and west, other ranges of pine-covered mountains, and in the distance the cloudy lines of loftier chains. the trunks of the pines were nearly all charred, and many of the smaller trees dead, from the fires which, later in the year, rage in these forests. after four hours of varied and most inspiring travel, we reached a district covered for the most part with oak woods--a more open though still mountainous region. there was a summer village of turks scattered over the nearest slope--probably fifty houses in all, almost perfect counterparts of western log-cabins. they were built of pine logs, laid crosswise, and covered with rough boards. these, as we were told, were the dwellings of the people who inhabit the village of khosref pasha khan during the winter. great numbers of sheep and goats were browsing over the hills or lying around the doors of the houses. the latter were beautiful creatures, with heavy, curved horns, and long, white, silky hair, that entirely hid their eyes. we stopped at a house for water, which the man brought out in a little cask. he at first proposed giving us _yaourt_, and his wife suggested _kaïmak_ (sweet curds), which we agreed to take, but it proved to be only boiled milk. leaving the village, we took a path leading westward, mounted a long hill, and again entered the pine forests. before long, we came to a well-built country-house, somewhat resembling a swiss cottage. it was two stories high, and there was an upper balcony, with cushioned divans, overlooking a thriving garden-patch and some fruit-trees. three or four men were weeding in the garden, and the owner came up and welcomed us. a fountain of ice-cold water gushed into a stone trough at the door, making a tempting spot for our breakfast, but we were bent on reaching the tombs. there were convenient out-houses for fowls, sheep, and cattle. the herds were out, grazing along the edges of the forest, and we heard the shrill, joyous melodies of the flutes blown by the herd-boys. we now reached a ridge, whence we looked down through the forest upon a long valley, nearly half a mile wide, and bordered on the opposite side by ranges of broken sandstone crags. this was the place we sought--the valley of the phrygian tombs. already we could distinguish the hewn faces of the rocks, and the dark apertures to the chambers within. the bottom of the valley was a bed of glorious grass, blazoned with flowers, and redolent of all vernal smells. several peasants, finding it too hot to mow, had thrown their scythes along the swarths, and were lying in the shade of an oak. we rode over the new-cut hay, up the opposite side, and dismounted at the face of the crags. as we approached them, the number of chambers hewn in the rock, the doors and niches now open to the day, surmounted by shattered spires and turrets, gave the whole mass the appearance of a grand fortress in ruins. the crags, which are of a very soft, reddish-gray sandstone, rise a hundred and fifty feet from their base, and their summits are worn by the weather into the most remarkable forms. the principal monument is a broad, projecting cliff, one side of which has been cut so as to resemble the façade of a temple. the sculptured part is about sixty feet high by sixty in breadth, and represents a solid wall with two pilasters at the ends, upholding an architrave and pediment, which is surmounted by two large volutes. the whole face of the wall is covered with ornaments resembling panel-work, not in regular squares, but a labyrinth of intricate designs. in the centre, at the bottom, is a shallow square recess, surrounded by an elegant, though plain moulding, but there is no appearance of an entrance to the sepulchral chamber, which may be hidden in the heart of the rock. there is an inscription in greek running up one side, but it is of a later date than the work itself. on one of the tombs there is an inscription: "to king midas." these relics are supposed to date from the period of the gordian dynasty, about seven centuries before christ. a little in front of a headland, formed by the summit walls of two meeting valleys, rises a mass of rocks one hundred feet high, cut into sepulchral chambers, story above story, with the traces of steps between them, leading to others still higher. the whole rock, which may be a hundred and fifty feet long by fifty feet broad, has been scooped out, leaving but narrow partitions to separate the chambers of the dead. these chambers are all plain, but some are of very elegant proportions, with arched or pyramidal roofs, and arched recesses at the sides, containing sarcophagi hewn in the solid stone. there are also many niches for cinerary urns. the principal tomb had a portico, supported by columns, but the front is now entirely hurled down, and only the elegant panelling and stone joists of the ceiling remain. the entire hill was a succession of tombs. there is not a rock which does not bear traces of them. i might have counted several hundred within a stone's throw. the position of these curious remains in a lonely valley, shut in on all sides by dark, pine-covered mountains---two of which are crowned with a natural acropolis of rock, resembling a fortress--increases the interest with which they inspire the beholder. the valley on the western side, with its bed of ripe wheat in the bottom, its tall walls, towers, and pinnacles of rock, and its distant vista of mountain and forest, is the most picturesque in phrygia. the turcoman reapers, who came up to see us and talk with us, said that there were the remains of walls on the summit of the principal acropolis opposite us, and that, further up the valley, there was a chamber with two columns in front. mr. harrison and i saddled and rode off, passing along a wall of fantastic rock-turrets, at the base of which was a natural column, about ten feet high, and five in diameter, almost perfectly round, and upholding an immense rock, shaped like a cocked hat. in crossing the meadow we saw a turk sitting in the sun beside a spring, and busily engaged in knitting a stocking. after a ride of two miles we found the chamber, hewn like the façade of a temple in an isolated rock, overlooking two valleys of wild meadow-land. the pediment and cornice were simple and beautiful, but the columns had been broken away. the chambers were perfectly plain, but the panel-work on the ceiling of the portico was entire. after passing three hours in examining these tombs, we took the track which our guide pointed out as the road to kiutahya. we rode two hours through the forest, and came out upon a wooded height, overlooking a grand, open valley, rich in grain-fields and pasture land. while i was contemplating this lovely view, the road turned a corner of the ridge, and lo! before me there appeared (as i thought), above the tops of the pines, high up on the mountain side, a line of enormous tents. those snow-white cones, uprearing their sharp spires, and spreading out their broad bases--what could they be but an encampment of monster tents? yet no; they were pinnacles of white rock--perfect cones, from thirty to one hundred feet in height, twelve in all, and ranged side by side along the edge of the cliff, with the precision of a military camp. they were snow-white, perfectly smooth and full, and their bases touched. what made the spectacle more singular, there was no other appearance of the same rock on the mountain. all around them was the dark-green of the pines, out of which they rose like drifted horns of unbroken snow. i named this singular phenomenon--which seems to have escaped the notice of travellers--the titan's camp. in another hour we reached a fountain near the village of kümbeh, and pitched our tents for the night. the village, which is half a mile in length, is built upon a singular crag, which shoots up abruptly from the centre of the valley, rising at one extremity to a height of more than a hundred feet. it was entirely deserted, the inhabitants having all gone off to the mountains with their herds. the solitary muezzin, who cried the _mughreb_ at the close of the fast, and lighted the lamps on his minaret, went through with his work in most unclerical haste, now that there was no one to notice him. we sent achmet, the _katurgee_, to the mountain camp of the villagers, to procure a supply of fowls and barley. we rose very early yesterday morning, shivering in the cold air of the mountains, and just as the sun, bursting through the pines, looked down the little hollow where our tents were pitched, set the caravan in motion. the ride down the valley was charming. the land was naturally rich and highly cultivated, which made its desertion the more singular. leagues of wheat, rye and poppies spread around us, left for the summer warmth to do its silent work. the dew sparkled on the fields as we rode through them, and the splendor of the flowers in blossom was equal to that of the plains of palestine. there were purple, white and scarlet poppies; the rich crimson larkspur; the red anemone; the golden daisy; the pink convolvulus; and a host of smaller blooms, so intensely bright and dazzling in their hues, that the meadows were richer than a pavement of precious jewels. to look towards the sun, over a field of scarlet poppies, was like looking on a bed of live coals; the light, striking through the petals, made them burn as with an inward fire. out of this wilderness of gorgeous color, rose the tall spires of a larger plant, covered with great yellow flowers, while here and there the snowy blossoms of a clump of hawthorn sweetened the morning air. a short distance beyond kümbeh, we passed another group of ancient tombs, one of which was of curious design. an isolated rock, thirty feet in height by twenty in diameter, was cut so as to resemble a triangular tower, with the apex bevelled. a chamber, containing a sarcophagus, was hewn out of the interior. the entrance was ornamented with double columns in bas-relief, and a pediment. there was another arched chamber, cut directly through the base of the triangle, with a niche on each side, hollowed out at the bottom so as to form a sarcophagus. leaving these, the last of the phrygian tombs, we struck across the valley and ascended a high range of hills, covered with pine, to an upland, wooded region. here we found a summer village of log cabins, scattered over a grassy slope. the people regarded us with some curiosity, and the women hastily concealed their faces. mr. h. rode up to a large new house, and peeped in between the logs. there were several women inside, who started up in great confusion and threw over their heads whatever article was most convenient. an old man, with a long white beard, neatly dressed in a green jacket and shawl turban, came out and welcomed us. i asked for _kaïmak_, which he promised, and immediately brought out a carpet and spread it on the ground. then followed a large basin of kaïmak, with wooden spoons, three loaves of bread, and a plate of cheese. we seated ourselves on the carpet, and delved in with the spoons, while the old man retired lest his appetite should be provoked. the milk was excellent, nor were the bread and cheese to be despised. while we were eating, the khowagee, or schoolmaster of the community, a genteel little man in a round white turban, came op to inquire of françois who we were. "that effendi in the blue dress," said he, "is the bey, is he not?" "yes," said f. "and the other, with the striped shirt and white turban, is a writer?" [here he was not far wrong.] "but how is it that the effendis do not speak turkish?" he persisted. "because," said françois, "their fathers were exiled by sultan mahmoud when they were small children. they have grown up in aleppo like arabs, and have not yet learned turkish; but god grant that the sultan may not turn his face away from them, and that they may regain the rank their fathers once had in stamboul." "god grant it!" replied the khowagee, greatly interested in the story. by this time we had eaten our full share of the kaïmak, which was finished by françois and the katurgees. the old man now came up, mounted on a dun mare, stating that he was bound for kiutahya, and was delighted with the prospect of travelling in such good company, i gave one of his young children some money, as the kaïmak was tendered out of pure hospitality, and so we rode off. our new companion was armed to the teeth, having a long gun with a heavy wooden stock and nondescript lock, and a sword of excellent metal. it was, in fact, a weapon of the old greek empire, and the cross was still enamelled in gold at the root of the blade, in spite of all his efforts to scratch it out. he was something of a _fakeer_, having made a pilgrimage to mecca and jerusalem. he was very inquisitive, plying françois with questions about the government. the latter answered that we were not connected with the government, but the old fellow shrewdly hinted that he knew better--we were persons of rank, travelling incognito. he was very attentive to us, offering us water at every fountain, although he believed us to be good mussulmans. we found him of some service as a guide, shortening our road by taking by-paths through the woods. for several hours we traversed a beautifully wooded region of hills. graceful clumps of pine shaded the grassy knolls, where the sheep and silky-haired goats were basking at rest, and the air was filled with a warm, summer smell, blown from the banks of golden broom. now and then, from the thickets of laurel and arbutus, a shrill shepherd's reed piped some joyous woodland melody. was it a faun, astray among the hills? green dells, open to the sunshine, and beautiful as dreams of arcady, divided the groves of pine. the sky overhead was pure and cloudless, clasping the landscape with its belt of peace and silence. oh, that delightful region, haunted by all the bright spirits of the immortal grecian song! chased away from the rest of the earth, here they have found a home--here secret altars remain to them from the times that are departed! out of these woods, we passed into a lonely plain, inclosed by piny hills that brightened in the thin, pure ether. in the distance were some shepherds' tents, and musical goat-bells tinkled along the edges of the woods. from the crest of a lofty ridge beyond this plain, we looked back over the wild solitudes wherein we had been travelling for two days--long ranges of dark hills, fading away behind each other, with a perspective that hinted of the hidden gulfs between. from the western slope, a still more extensive prospect opened before us. over ridges covered with forests of oak and pine, we saw the valley of the pursek, the ancient thymbrius, stretching far away to the misty line of keshish dagh, the mountains behind kintahya loomed up high and grand, making a fine feature in the middle distance. we caught but fleeting glimpses of the view through the trees; and then, plunging into the forest again, descended to a cultivated slope, whereon there was a little village, now deserted. the graveyard beside it was shaded with large cedar-trees, and near it there was a fountain of excellent water. "here," said the old man, "you can wash and pray, and then rest awhile under the trees." françois excused us by saying that, while on a journey, we always bathed before praying; but, not to slight his faith entirely, i washed my hands and face before sitting down to our scanty breakfast of bread and water. our path now led down through long, winding glens, over grown with oaks, from which the wild yellow honeysuckles fell in a shower of blossoms. as we drew near the valley, the old man began to hint that his presence had been of great service to us, and deserved recompense. "god knows," said he to françois, "in what corner of the mountains you might now be, if i had not accompanied you." "oh," replied françois, "there are always plenty of people among the woods, who would have been equally as kind as yourself in showing us the way." he then spoke of the robbers in the neighborhood, and pointed out some graves by the road-side, as those of persons who had been murdered. "but," he added, "everybody in these parts knows me, and whoever is in company with me is always safe." the greek assured him that we always depended on ourselves for our safety. defeated on these tacks, he boldly affirmed that his services were worthy of payment. "but," said françois "you told us at the village that you had business in kiutahya, and would be glad to join us for the sake of having company on the road." "well, then," rejoined the old fellow, making a last effort, "i leave the matter to your politeness." "certainly," replied the imperturbable dragoman, "we could not be so impolite as to offer money to a man of your wealth and station; we could not insult you by giving you alms." the old turcoman thereupon gave a shrug and a grunt, made a sullen good-by salutation, and left us. it was nearly six o'clock when we reached the pursek. there was no sign of the city, but we could barely discern an old fortress on the lofty cliff which commands the town. a long stone bridge crossed the river, which here separates into half a dozen channels. the waters are swift and clear, and wind away in devious mazes through the broad green meadows. we hurried on, thinking we saw minarets in the distance, but they proved to be poplars. the sun sank lower and lower, and finally went down before there was any token of our being in the vicinity of the city. soon, however, a line of tiled roofs appeared along the slope of a hill on our left, and turning its base, we saw the city before us, filling the mouth of a deep valley or gorge, which opened from the mountains. but the horses are saddled, and françois tells me it is time to put up my pen. we are off, over the mountains, to the greek city of oezani, in the valley of the rhyndacus. chapter xxiii. kiutahya and the ruins of oezani. entrance into kiutahya--the new khan--an unpleasant discovery--kiutahya--the citadel--panorama from the walls--the gorge of the mountains--camp in a meadow--the valley of the rhyndacus--chavdür--the ruins of oezani--the acropolis and temple--the theatre and stadium--ride down the valley--camp at daghje köi "there is a temple in ruin stands, fashioned by long-forgotten hands; two or three columns and many a stone, marble and granite, with grass o'ergrown! out upon time! it will leave no more of the things to come than the things before!" daghje köi, on the rhyndacus, _july_ , . on entering kiutahya, we passed the barracks, which were the residence of kossuth and his companions in exile. beyond them, we came to a broad street, down which flowed the vilest stream of filth of which even a turkish city could ever boast. the houses on either side were two stories high, the upper part of wood, with hanging balconies, over which shot the eaves of the tiled roofs. the welcome cannon had just sounded, announcing the close of the day's fast. the coffee-shops were already crowded with lean and hungry customers, the pipes were filled and lighted, and the coffee smoked in the finjans. in half a minute such whiffs arose on all sides as it would have cheered the heart of a genuine smoker to behold. out of these cheerful places we passed into other streets which were entirely deserted, the inhabitants being at dinner. it had a weird, uncomfortable effect to ride through streets where the clatter of our horses' hoofs was the only sound of life. at last we reached the entrance to a bazaar, and near it a khan--a new khan, very neatly built, and with a spare room so much better than we expected, that we congratulated ourselves heartily. we unpacked in a hurry, and françois ran off to the bazaar, from which he speedily returned with some roast kid, cucumbers, and cherries. we lighted two lamps, i borrowed the oda-bashi's narghileh, and françois, learning that it was our national anniversary, procured us a flask of greek wine, that we might do it honor. the beverage, however, resembled a mixture of vinegar and sealing-wax, and we contented ourselves with drinking patriotic toasts, in two finjans of excellent coffee. but in the midst of our enjoyment, happening to cast my eye on the walls, i saw a sight that turned all our honey into gall. scores on scores--nay, hundreds on hundreds--of enormous bed-bugs swarmed on the plaster, and were already descending to our beds and baggage. to sleep there was impossible, but we succeeded in getting possession of one of the outside balconies, where we made our beds, after searching them thoroughly. in the evening a merchant, who spoke a little arabic, came up to me and asked: "is not your excellency's friend the _hakim pasha_" (chief physician). i did not venture to assent, but replied: "no; he is a _sowakh_" this was beyond his comprehension, and he went away with the impression that mr. h. was much greater than a _hakim pasha_. i slept soundly on my out-doors bed, but was awakened towards morning by two tremendous claps of thunder, echoing in the gorge, and the rattling of rain on the roof of the khan. i spent two or three hours next morning in taking a survey of kiutahya. the town is much larger than i had supposed: i should judge it to contain from fifty to sixty thousand inhabitants. the situation is remarkable, and gives a picturesque effect to the place when seen from above, which makes one forget its internal filth. it is built in the mouth of a gorge, and around the bases of the hills on either side. the lofty mountains which rise behind it supply it with perpetual springs of pure water. at every dozen steps you come upon a fountain, and every large street has a brook in the centre. the houses are all two and many of them three stories high, with hanging balconies, which remind me much of switzerland. the bazaars are very extensive, covering all the base of the hill on which stands the ancient citadel. the goods displayed were mostly european cotton fabrics, _quincaillerie_, boots and slippers, pipe-sticks and silks. in the parts devoted to the produce of the country, i saw very fine cherries, cucumbers and lettuce, and bundles of magnificent clover, three to four feet high. we climbed a steep path to the citadel, which covers the summit of an abrupt, isolated hill, connected by a shoulder with the great range. the walls are nearly a mile in circuit, consisting almost wholly of immense circular buttresses, placed so near each other that they almost touch. the connecting walls are broken down on the northern side, so that from below the buttresses have the appearance of enormous shattered columns. they are built of rough stones, with regular layers of flat, burnt bricks. on the highest part of the hill stands the fortress, or stronghold, a place which must have been almost impregnable before the invention of cannon. the structure probably dates from the ninth or tenth century, but is built on the foundations of more ancient edifices. the old greek city of cotyaeum (whence kiutahya) probably stood upon this hill. within the citadel is an upper town, containing about a hundred houses, the residence, apparently of poor families. from the circuit of the walls, on every side, there are grand views over the plain, the city, and the gorges of the mountains behind. the valley of the pursek, freshened by the last night's shower, spread out a sheet of vivid green, to the pine-covered mountains which bounded it on all sides. around the city it was adorned with groves and gardens, and, in the direction of brousa, white roads went winding away to other gardens and villages in the distance. the mountains of phrygia, through which we had passed, were the loftiest in the circle that inclosed the valley. the city at our feet presented a thick array of red-tiled roofs, out of which rose here and there the taper shaft of a minaret, or the dome of a mosque or bath. from the southern side of the citadel, we looked down into the gorge which supplies kiutahya with water--a wild, desert landscape of white crags and shattered peaks of gray rock, hanging over a narrow winding bed of the greenest foliage. instead of taking the direct road to brousa, we decided to make a detour of two days, in order to visit the ruins of the old greek city of oezani, which are thirty-six miles south of kiutahya. leaving at noon, we ascended the gorge behind the city, by delightfully embowered paths, at first under the eaves of superb walnut-trees, and then through wild thickets of willow, hazel, privet, and other shrubs, tangled together with the odorous white honeysuckle. near the city, the mountain-sides were bare white masses of gypsum and other rock, in many places with the purest chrome-yellow hue; but as we advanced they were clothed to the summit with copsewood. the streams that foamed down these perennial heights were led into buried channels, to come to light again in sparkling fountains, pouring into ever-full stone basins. the day was cool and cloudy, and the heavy shadows which hung on the great sides of the mountain gateway, heightened, by contrast, the glory of the sunlit plain seen through them. after passing the summit ridge, probably , feet above the sea, we came upon a wooded, hilly region, stretching away in long misty lines to murad dagh, whose head was spotted with snow. there were patches of wheat and rye in the hollows, and the bells of distant herds tinkled occasionally among the trees. there was no village on the road, and we were on the way to one which we saw in the distance, when we came upon a meadow of good grass, with a small stream running through it. here we encamped, sending achmet, the katurgee, to the village for milk and eggs. the ewes had just been milked for the suppers of their owners, but they went over the flock again, stripping their udders, which greatly improved the quality of the milk. the night was so cold that i could scarcely sleep during the morning hours. there was a chill, heavy dew on the meadow; but when françois awoke me at sunrise, the sky was splendidly clear and pure, and the early beams had a little warmth in them. our coffee, before starting, made with sheep's milk, was the richest i ever drank. after riding for two hours across broad, wild ridges, covered with cedar, we reached a height overlooking the valley of the rhyndacus, or rather the plain whence he draws his sources--a circular level, ten or twelve miles in diameter, and contracting towards the west into a narrow dell, through which his waters find outlet; several villages, each embowered in gardens, were scattered along the bases of the hills that inclose it. we took the wrong road, but were set aright by a herdsman, and after threading a lane between thriving grain-fields, were cheered by the sight of the temple of oezani, lifted on its acropolis above the orchards of chavdür, and standing out sharp and clear against the purple of the hills. our approach to the city was marked by the blocks of sculptured marble that lined the way: elegant mouldings, cornices, and entablatures, thrown together with common stone to make walls between the fields. the village is built on both sides of the rhyndacus; it is an ordinary turkish hamlet, with tiled roofs and chimneys, and exhibits very few of the remains of the old city in its composition. this, i suspect, is owing to the great size of the hewn blocks, especially of the pillars, cornices, and entablatures, nearly all of which are from twelve to fifteen feet long. it is from the size and number of these scattered blocks, rather than from the buildings which still partially exist, that one obtains an idea of the size and splendor of the ancient oezani. the place is filled with fragments, especially of columns, of which there are several hundred, nearly all finely fluted. the rhyndacus is still spanned by an ancient bridge of three arches, and both banks are lined with piers of hewn stone. tall poplars and massy walnuts of the richest green shade the clear waters, and there are many picturesque combinations of foliage and ruin--death and life--which would charm a painter's eye. near the bridge we stopped to examine a pile of immense fragments which have been thrown together by the turks--pillars, cornices, altars, pieces of a frieze, with bulls' heads bound together by hanging garlands, and a large square block, with a legible tablet. it resembled an altar in form, and, from the word "_artemidoron_" appeared to have belonged to some temple to diana. passing through the village we came to a grand artificial platform on its western side, called the acropolis. it is of solid masonry, five hundred feet square, and averaging ten feet in height. on the eastern side it is supported on rude though massive arches, resembling etruscan workmanship. on the top and around the edges of this platform lie great numbers of fluted columns, and immense fragments of cornice and architrave. in the centre, on a foundation platform about eight feet high, stands a beautiful ionic temple, one hundred feet in length. on approaching, it appeared nearly perfect, except the roof, and so many of the columns remain standing that its ruined condition scarcely injures the effect. there are seventeen columns on the side and eight at the end, ionic in style, fluted, and fifty feet in height. about half the cella remains, with an elegant frieze and cornice along the top, and a series of tablets, set in panels of ornamental sculpture, running along the sides. the front of the cella includes a small open peristyle, with two composite corinthian columns at the entrance, making, with those of the outer colonnade, eighteen columns standing. the tablets contain greek inscriptions, perfectly legible, where the stone has not been shattered. under the temple there are large vaults, which we found filled up with young kids, who had gone in there to escape the heat of the sun. the portico was occupied by sheep, which at first refused to make room for us, and gave strong olfactory evidence of their partiality for the temple as a resting-place. on the side of a hill, about three hundred yards to the north, are the remains of a theatre. crossing some patches of barley and lentils, we entered a stadium, forming an extension of the theatre---that is, it took the same breadth and direction, so that the two might be considered as one grand work, more than one thousand feet long by nearly four hundred wide. the walls of the stadium are hurled down, except an entrance of five arches of massive masonry, on the western side. we rode up the artificial valley, between high, grassy hills, completely covered with what at a distance resembled loose boards, but which were actually the long marble seats of the stadium. urging our horses over piles of loose blocks, we reached the base of the theatre, climbed the fragments that cumber the main entrance, and looked on the spacious arena and galleries within. although greatly ruined, the materials of the whole structure remain, and might be put together again. it is a grand wreck; the colossal fragments which have tumbled from the arched proscenium fill the arena, and the rows of seats, though broken and disjointed, still retain their original order. it is somewhat more than a semicircle, the radius being about one hundred and eighty feet. the original height was upwards of fifty feet, and there were fifty rows of seats in all, each row capable of seating two hundred persons, so that the number of spectators who could be accommodated was eight thousand. the fragments cumbering the arena were enormous, and highly interesting from their character. there were rich blocks of cornice, ten feet long; fluted and reeded pillars; great arcs of heavily-carved sculpture, which appeared to have served as architraves from pillar to pillar, along the face of the proscenium, where there was every trace of having been a colonnade; and other blocks sculptured with figures of animals in alto-relievo. there were generally two figures on each block, and among those which could be recognized were the dog and the lion. doors opened from the proscenium into the retiring-rooms of the actors, under which were the vaults where the beasts were kept. a young fox or jackal started from his siesta as we entered the theatre, and took refuge under the loose blocks. looking backwards through the stadium from the seats of the theatre, we had a lovely view of the temple, standing out clear and bright in the midst of the summer plain, with the snow-streaked summits of murad dagh in the distance. it was a picture which i shall long remember. the desolation of the magnificent ruins was made all the more impressive by the silent, solitary air of the region around them. leaving chavdür in the afternoon, we struck northward, down the valley of the rhyndacus, over tracts of rolling land, interspersed with groves of cedar and pine. there were so many branch roads and crossings that we could not fail to go wrong; and after two or three hours found ourselves in the midst of a forest, on the broad top of a mountain, without any road at all. there were some herdsmen tending their flocks near at hand, but they could give us no satisfactory direction. we thereupon, took our own course, and soon brought up on the brink of a precipice, overhanging a deep valley. away to the eastward we caught a glimpse of the rhyndacus, and the wooden minaret of a little village on his banks. following the edge of the precipice, we came at last to a glen, down which ran a rough footpath that finally conducted us, by a long road through the forests, to the village of daghje köi, where we are now encamped. the place seems to be devoted to the making of flints, and the streets are filled with piles of the chipped fragments. our tent is pitched on the bank of the river, in a barren meadow. the people tell us that the whole region round about has just been visited by a plague of grasshoppers, which have destroyed their crops. our beasts have wandered off to the hills, in search for grass, and the disconsolate hadji is hunting them. achmet, the katurgee, lies near the fire, sick; mr. harrison complains of fever, and françois moves about languidly, with a dismal countenance. so here we are in the solitudes of bithynia, but there is no god but god, and that which is destined comes to pass. chapter xxiv. the mysian olympus. journey down the valley--the plague of grasshoppers--a defile--the town of taushanlü--the camp of famine--we leave the rhyndacus--the base of olympus--primeval forests--the guard-house--scenery of the summit--forests of beech--saw-mills--descent of the mountain--the view of olympus--morning--the land of harvest--aineghiöl--a showery ride--the plain of brousa--the structure of olympus--we reach brousa--the tent is furled. "i looked yet farther and higher, and saw in the heavens a silvery cloud that stood fast, and still against the breeze; * * * * and so it was as a sign and a testimony--almost as a call from the neglected gods, that i now saw and acknowledged the snowy crown of the mysian olympus!" kinglake. brousa, _july_ , . from daghje küi, there were two roads to taushanlü, but the people informed us that the one which led across the mountains was difficult to find, and almost impracticable. we therefore took the river road, which we found picturesque in the highest degree. the narrow dell of the rhyndacus wound through a labyrinth of mountains, sometimes turning at sharp angles between craggy buttresses, covered with forests, and sometimes broadening out into a sweep of valley, where the villagers were working in companies among the grain and poppy fields. the banks of the stream were lined with oak, willow and sycamore, and forests of pine, descending from the mountains, frequently overhung the road. we met numbers of peasants, going to and from the fields, and once a company of some twenty women, who, on seeing us, clustered together like a flock of frightened sheep, and threw their mantles over their heads. they had curiosity enough, however, to peep at us as we went by, and i made them a salutation, which they returned, and then burst into a chorus of hearty laughter. all this region was ravaged by a plague of grasshoppers. the earth was black with them in many places, and our horses ploughed up a living spray, as they drove forward through the meadows. every spear of grass was destroyed, and the wheat and rye fields were terribly cut up. we passed a large crag where myriads of starlings had built their nests, and every starling had a grasshopper in his mouth. we crossed the river, in order to pass a narrow defile, by which it forces its way through the rocky heights of dumanidj dagh. soon after passing the ridge, a broad and beautiful valley expanded before us. it was about ten miles in breadth, nearly level, and surrounded by picturesque ranges of wooded mountains. it was well cultivated, principally in rye and poppies, and more thickly populated than almost any part of europe. the tinned tops of the minarets of taushanlü shone over the top of a hill in front, and there was a large town nearly opposite, on the other bank of the rhyndacus, and seven small villages scattered about in various directions. most of the latter, however, were merely the winter habitations of the herdsmen, who are now living in tents on the mountain tops. all over the valley, the peasants were at work in the harvest-fields, cutting and binding grain, gathering opium from the poppies, or weeding the young tobacco. in the south, over the rim of the hills that shut in this pastoral solitude, rose the long blue summits of urus dagh. we rode into taushanlü, which is a long town, filling up a hollow between two stony hills. the houses are all of stone, two stories high, with tiled roofs and chimneys, so that, but for the clapboarded and shingled minarets, it would answer for a north-german village. the streets were nearly deserted, and even in the bazaars, which are of some extent, we found but few persons. those few, however, showed a laudable curiosity with regard to us, clustering about us whenever we stopped, and staring at us with provoking pertinacity. we had some difficulty in procuring information concerning the road, the directions being so contradictory that we were as much in the dark as ever. we lost half an hour in wandering among the hills; and, after travelling four hours over piny uplands, without finding the village of kara köi, encamped on a dry plain, on the western bank of the river. there was not a spear of grass for the beasts, everything being eaten up by the grasshoppers, and there were no turcomans near who could supply us with food. so we dined on hard bread and black coffee, and our forlorn beasts walked languidly about, cropping the dry stalks of weeds and the juiceless roots of the dead grass. we crossed the river next morning, and took a road following its course, and shaded with willows and sycamores. the lofty, wooded ranges of the mysian olympus lay before us, and our day's work was to pass them. after passing the village of kara köi, we left the valley of the rhyndacus, and commenced ascending one of the long, projecting spurs thrust out from the main chain of olympus. at first we rode through thickets of scrubby cedar, but soon came to magnificent pine forests, that grew taller and sturdier the higher we clomb. a superb mountain landscape opened behind us. the valleys sank deeper and deeper, and at last disappeared behind the great ridges that heaved themselves out of the wilderness of smaller hills. all these ridges were covered with forests; and as we looked backwards out of the tremendous gulf up the sides of which we were climbing, the scenery was wholly wild and uncultivated. our path hung on the imminent side of a chasm so steep that one slip might have been destruction to both horse and rider. far below us, at the bottom of the chasm, roared an invisible torrent. the opposite side, vapory from its depth, rose like an immense wall against heaven. the pines were even grander than those in the woods of phrygia. here they grew taller and more dense, hanging their cloudy boughs over the giddy depths, and clutching with desperate roots to the almost perpendicular sides of the gorges. in many places they were the primeval forests of olympus, and the hamadryads were not yet frightened from their haunts. thus, slowly toiling up through the sublime wilderness, breathing the cold, pure air of those lofty regions, we came at last to a little stream, slowly trickling down the bed of the gorge. it was shaded, not by the pine, but by the northern beech, with its white trunk and close, confidential boughs, made for the talks of lovers and the meditations of poets. here we stopped to breakfast, but there was nothing for the poor beasts to eat, and they waited for us droopingly, with their heads thrust together. while we sat there three camels descended to the stream, and after them a guard with a long gun. he was a well-made man, with a brown face, keen, black eye, and piratical air, and would have made a good hero of modern romance. higher up we came to a guard house, on a little cleared space, surrounded by beech forests. it was a rough stone hut, with a white flag planted on a pole before it, and a miniature water-wheel, running a miniature saw at a most destructive rate, beside the door. continuing our way, we entered on a region such as i had no idea could be found in asia. the mountains, from the bottoms of the gorges to their topmost summits, were covered with the most superb forests of beech i ever saw--masses of impenetrable foliage, of the most brilliant green, touched here and there by the darker top of a pine. our road was through a deep, dark shade, and on either side, up and down, we saw but a cool, shadowy solitude, sprinkled with dots of emerald light, and redolent with the odor of damp earth, moss, and dead leaves. it was a forest, the counterpart of which could only be found in america--such primeval magnitude of growth, such wild luxuriance, such complete solitude and silence! through the shafts of the pines we had caught glorious glimpses of the blue mountain world below us; but now the beech folded us in its arms, and whispered in our ears the legends of our northern home. there, on the ridges of the mysian olympus, sacred to the bright gods of grecian song, i found the inspiration of our darker and colder clime and age. "_o gloriosi spiriti degli boschi!_" i could scarcely contain myself, from surprise and joy. françois failed to find french adjectives sufficient for his admiration, and even our cheating katurgees were touched by the spirit of the scene. on either side, whenever a glimpse could be had through the boughs, we looked upon leaning walls of trees, whose tall, rounded tops basked in the sunshine, while their bases were wrapped in the shadows cast by themselves. thus, folded over each other like scales, or feathers on a falcon's wing, they clad the mountain. the trees were taller, and had a darker and more glossy leaf than the american beech. by and by patches of blue shone between the boughs before us, a sign that the summit was near, and before one o'clock we stood upon the narrow ridge forming the crest of the mountain. here, although we were between five and six thousand feet above the sea, the woods of beech were a hundred feet in height, and shut out all view. on the northern side the forest scenery is even grander than on the southern. the beeches are magnificent trees, straight as an arrow, and from a hundred to a hundred and fifty feet in height. only now and then could we get any view beyond the shadowy depths sinking below us, and then it was only to see similar mountain ranges, buried in foliage, and rolling far behind each other into the distance. twice, in the depth of the gorge, we saw a saw-mill, turned by the snow-cold torrents. piles of pine and beechen boards were heaped around them, and the sawyers were busily plying their lonely business. the axe of the woodman echoed but rarely through the gulfs, though many large trees lay felled by the roadside. the rock, which occasionally cropped out of the soil, was white marble, and there was a shining precipice of it, three hundred feet high, on the opposite side of the gorge. after four hours of steady descent, during the last hour of which we passed into a forest entirely of oaks, we reached the first terrace at the base of the mountain. here, as i was riding in advance of the caravan, i met a company of turkish officers, who saluted me with an inclination of the most profound reverence. i replied with due oriental gravity, which seemed to justify their respect, for when they met françois, who is everywhere looked upon as a turkish janissary, they asked: "is not your master a _shekh el-islàm_?" "you are right: he is," answered the unscrupulous greek. a shekh el-islàm is a sort of high-priest, corresponding in dignity to a cardinal in the roman catholic church. it is rather singular that i am generally taken for a secretary of some kind, or a moslem priest, while my companion, who, by this time, has assumed the oriental expression, is supposed to be either medical or military. we had no sooner left the forests and entered the copsewood which followed, than the blue bulk, of olympus suddenly appeared in the west, towering far into the sky. it is a magnificent mountain, with a broad though broken summit, streaked with snow. before us, stretching away almost to his base, lay a grand mountain slope, covered with orchards and golden harvest-fields. through lanes of hawthorn and chestnut trees in blossom, which were overgrown with snowy clematis and made a shady roof above our heads, we reached the little village of orta köi, and encamped in a grove of pear-trees. there was grass for our beasts, who were on the brink of starvation, and fowls and cucumbers for ourselves, who had been limited to bread and coffee for two days. but as one necessity was restored, another disappeared. we had smoked the last of our delicious aleppo tobacco, and that which the villagers gave us was of very inferior quality. nevertheless, the pipe which we smoked with them in the twilight, beside the marble fountain, promoted that peace of mind which is the sweetest preparative of slumber. françois was determined to finish our journey to-day. he had a presentiment that we should reach brousa, although i expected nothing of the kind. he called us long before the lovely pastoral valley in which we lay had a suspicion of the sun, but just in time to see the first rays strike the high head of olympus. the long lines of snow blushed with an opaline radiance against the dark-blue of the morning sky, and all the forests and fields below lay still, and cool, and dewy, lapped in dreams yet unrecalled by the fading moon. i bathed my face in the cold well that perpetually poured over its full brim, drank the coffee which françois had already prepared, sprang into the saddle, and began the last day of our long pilgrimage. the tent was folded, alas! for the last time; and now farewell to the freedom of our wandering life! shall i ever feel it again? the dew glistened on the chestnuts and the walnuts, on the wild grape-vines and wild roses, that shaded our road, as we followed the course of an olympian stream through a charming dell, into the great plain below. everywhere the same bountiful soil, the same superb orchards, the same ripe fields of wheat and barley, and silver rye. the peasants were at work, men and women, cutting the grain with rude scythes, binding it into sheaves, and stacking it in the fields. as we rode over the plain, the boys came running out to us with handfuls of grain, saluting us from afar, bidding us welcome as pilgrims, wishing us as many years of prosperity as there were kernels in their sheaves, and kissing the hands that gave them the harvest-toll. the whole landscape had an air of plenty, peace, and contentment. the people all greeted us cordially; and once a mevlevi dervish and a stately turk, riding in company, saluted me so respectfully, stopping to speak with me, that i quite regretted being obliged to assume an air of dignified reserve, and ride away from them. ere long, we saw the two white minarets of aineghiöl, above the line of orchards in front of us, and, in three hours after starting, reached the place. it is a small town, not particularly clean, but with brisk-looking bazaars. in one of the houses, i saw half-a-dozen pairs of superb antlers, the spoils of olympian stags. the bazaar is covered with a trellised roof, overgrown with grape-vines, which hang enormous bunches of young grapes over the shop-boards. we were cheered by the news that brousa was only eight hours distant, and i now began to hope that we might reach it. we jogged on as fast as we could urge our weary horses, passed another belt of orchard land, paid more harvest-tolls to the reapers, and commenced ascending a chain of low hills which divides the plain of aineghiöl from that of brousa. at a fountain called the "mid-day _konnàk_" we met some travellers coming from brousa, who informed us that we could get there by the time of _asser_ prayer. rounding the north-eastern base of olympus, we now saw before us the long headland which forms his south-western extremity. a storm was arising from the sea of marmora, and heavy white clouds settled on the topmost summits of the mountain. the wind began to blow fresh and cool, and when we had reached a height overlooking the deep valley, in the bottom of which lies the picturesque village of ak-su, there were long showery lines coming up from the sea, and a filmy sheet of gray rain descended between us and olympus, throwing his vast bulk far into the background. at ak-su, the first shower met us, pouring so fast and thick that we were obliged to put on our capotes, and halt under a walnut-tree for shelter. but it soon passed over, laying the dust, for the time, and making the air sweet and cool. we pushed forward over heights covered with young forests of oak, which are protected by the government, in order that they may furnish ship-timber. on the right, we looked down into magnificent valleys, opening towards the west into the the plain of brousa; but when, in the middle of the afternoon, we reached the last height, and saw the great plain itself, the climax was attained. it was the crown of all that we had yet seen. this superb plain or valley, thirty miles long, by five in breadth, spread away to the westward, between the mighty mass of olympus on the one side, and a range of lofty mountains on the other, the sides of which presented a charming mixture of forest and cultivated land. olympus, covered with woods of beech and oak, towered to the clouds that concealed his snowy head; and far in advance, under the last cape he threw out towards the sea, the hundred minarets of brousa stretched in a white and glittering line, like the masts of a navy, whose hulls were buried in the leafy sea. no words can describe the beauty of the valley, the blending of the richest cultivation with the wildest natural luxuriance. here were gardens and orchards; there groves of superb chestnut-trees in blossom; here, fields of golden grain or green pasture-land; there, arcadian thickets overgrown with clematis and wild rose; here, lofty poplars growing beside the streams; there, spiry cypresses looking down from the slopes: and all blended in one whole, so rich, so grand, so gorgeous, that i scarcely breathed when it first burst upon me. and now we descended to its level, and rode westward along the base of olympus, grandest of asian mountains. this after-storm view, although his head was shrouded, was sublime. his base is a vast sloping terrace, leagues in length, resembling the nights of steps by which the ancient temples were approached. from this foundation rise four mighty pyramids, two thousand feet in height, and completely mantled with forests. they are very nearly regular in their form and size, and are flanked to the east and west by headlands, or abutments, the slopes of which are longer and more gradual, as if to strengthen the great structure. piled upon the four pyramids are others nearly as large, above whose green pinnacles appear still other and higher ones, bare and bleak, and clustering thickly together, to uphold the great central dome of snow. between the bases of the lowest, the streams which drain the gorges of the mountain issue forth, cutting their way through the foundation terrace, and widening their beds downwards to the plain, like the throats of bugles, where, in winter rains, they pour forth the hoarse, grand monotone of their olympian music. these broad beds are now dry and stony tracts, dotted all over with clumps of dwarfed sycamores and threaded by the summer streams, shrunken in bulk, but still swift, cold, and clear as ever. we reached the city before night, and françois is glad to find his presentiment fulfilled. we have safely passed through the untravelled heart of asia minor, and are now almost in sight of europe. the camp-fire is extinguished; the tent is furled. we are no longer happy nomads, masquerading in moslem garb. we shall soon become prosaic christians, and meekly hold out our wrists for the handcuffs of civilization. ah, prate as we will of the progress of the race, we are but forging additional fetters, unless we preserve that healthy physical development, those pure pleasures of mere animal existence, which are now only to be found among our semi-barbaric brethren. our progress is nervous, when it should be muscular. chapter xxv. brousa and the sea of marmora. the city of brousa--return to civilization--storm--the kalputcha hammam--a hot bath--a foretaste of paradise--the streets and bazaars of brousa--the mosque--the tombs of the ottoman sultans--disappearance of the katurgees--we start for moudania--the sea of marmora--moudania--passport difficulties--a greek caïque--breakfast with the fishermen--a torrid voyage--the princes' islands--prinkipo--distant view of constantinople--we enter the golden horn. "and we glode fast o'er a pellucid plain of waters, azure with the noontide ray. ethereal mountains shone around--a fane stood in the midst, beyond green isles which lay on the blue, sunny deep, resplendent far away." shelley. constantinople, _monday, july_ , . before entering brousa, we passed the whole length of the town, which is built on the side of olympus, and on three bluffs or spurs which project from it. the situation is more picturesque than that of damascus, and from the remarkable number of its white domes and minarets, shooting upward from the groves of chestnut, walnut, and cypress-trees, the city is even more beautiful. there are large mosques on all the most prominent points, and, near the centre of the city, the ruins of an ancient castle, built upon a crag. the place, as we rode along, presented a shifting diorama of delightful views. the hotel is at the extreme western end of the city, not far from its celebrated hot baths. it is a new building, in european style, and being built high on the slope, commands one of the most glorious prospects i ever enjoyed from windows made with hands. what a comfort it was to go up stairs into a clean, bright, cheerful room; to drop at full length on a broad divan; to eat a christian meal; to smoke a narghileh of the softest persian tobacco; and finally, most exquisite of all luxuries, to creep between cool, clean sheets, on a curtained bed, and find it impossible to sleep on account of the delicious novelty of the sensation! at night, another storm came up from the sea of marmora. tremendous peals of thunder echoed in the gorges of olympus and sharp, broad flashes of lightning gave us blinding glimpses of the glorious plain below. the rain fell in heavy showers, but our tent-life was just closed, and we sat securely at our windows and enjoyed the sublime scene. the sun, rising over the distant mountains of isnik, shone full in my face, awaking me to a morning view of the valley, which, freshened by the night's thunder-storm, shone wonderfully bright and clear. after coffee, we went to see the baths, which are on the side of the mountain, a mile from the hotel. the finest one, called the kalputcha hammam, is at the base of the hill. the entrance hall is very large, and covered by two lofty domes. in the centre is a large marble urn-shaped fountain, pouring out an abundant flood of cold water. out of this, we passed into an immense rotunda, filled with steam and traversed by long pencils of light, falling from holes in the roof. a small but very beautiful marble fountain cast up a jet of cold water in the centre. beyond this was still another hall, of the same size, but with a circular basin, twenty-five feet in diameter, in the centre. the floor was marble mosaic, and the basin was lined with brilliantly-colored tiles. it was kept constantly full by the natural hot streams of the mountain. there were a number of persons in the pool, but the atmosphere was so hot that we did not long disturb them by our curiosity. we then ascended to the armenian bath, which is the neatest of all, but it was given up to the women, and we were therefore obliged to go to a turkish one adjoining. the room into which we were taken was so hot that a violent perspiration immediately broke out all over my body, and by the time the _dellèks_ were ready to rasp me, i was as limp as a wet towel, and as plastic as a piece of putty. the man who took me was sweated away almost to nothing; his very bones appeared to have become soft and pliable. the water was slightly sulphureous, and the pailfuls which he dashed over my head were so hot that they produced the effect of a chill--a violent nervous shudder. the temperature of the springs is ° fahrenheit, and i suppose the tank into which he afterwards plunged me must have been nearly up to the mark. when, at last, i was laid on the couch, my body was so parboiled that i perspired at all pores for full an hour--a feeling too warm and unpleasant at first, but presently merging into a mood which was wholly rapturous and heavenly. i was like a soft white cloud, that rests all of a summer afternoon on the peak of a distant mountain. i felt the couch on which i lay no more than the cloud might feel the cliffs on which it lingers so airily. i saw nothing but peaceful, glorious sights; spaces of clear blue sky; stretches of quiet lawns; lovely valleys threaded by the gentlest of streams; azure lakes, unruffled by a breath; calms far out on mid-ocean, and alpine peaks bathed in the flush of an autumnal sunset. my mind retraced all our journey from aleppo, and there was a halo over every spot i had visited. i dwelt with rapture on the piny hills of phrygia, on the gorges of taurus, on the beechen solitudes of olympus. would to heaven that i might describe those scenes as i then felt them! all was revealed to me: the heart of nature lay bare, and i read the meaning and knew the inspiration of her every mood. then, as my frame grew cooler, and the fragrant clouds of the narghileh, which had helped my dreams, diminished, i was like that same summer cloud, when it feels a gentle breeze and is lifted above the hills, floating along independent of earth, but for its shadow. brousa is a very long, straggling place, extending for three or four miles along the side of the mountain, but presenting a very picturesque appearance from every point. the houses are nearly all three stories high, built of wood and unburnt bricks, and each story projects over the other, after the manner of german towns of the middle ages. they have not the hanging balconies which i have found so quaint and pleasing in kiutahya. but, especially in the greek quarter, many of them are plastered and painted of some bright color, which gives a gay, cheerful appearance to the streets. besides, brousa is the cleanest turkish town i have seen. the mountain streams traverse most of the streets, and every heavy rain washes them out thoroughly. the whole city has a brisk, active air, and the workmen appear both more skilful and more industrious than in the other parts of asia minor. i noticed a great many workers in copper, iron, and wood, and an extensive manufactory of shoes and saddles. brousa, however, is principally noted for its silks, which are produced in this valley, and others to the south and east. the manufactories are near the city. i looked over some of the fabrics in the bazaars, but found them nearly all imitations of european stuffs, woven in mixed silk and cotton, and even more costly than the silks of damascus. we passed the whole length of the bazaars, and then, turning up one of the side streets on our right, crossed a deep ravine by a high stone bridge. above and below us there were other bridges, under which a stream flowed down from the mountains. thence we ascended the height, whereon stands the largest and one of the oldest mosques in brousa. the position is remarkably fine, commanding a view of nearly the whole city and the plain below it. we entered the court-yard boldly, françois taking the precaution to speak to me only in arabic, as there was a turk within. mr. h. went to the fountain, washed his hands and face, but did not dare to swallow a drop, putting on a most dolorous expression of countenance, as if perishing with thirst. the mosque was a plain, square building, with a large dome and two minarets. the door was a rich and curious specimen of the _stalactitic_ style, so frequent in saracenic buildings. we peeped into the windows, and, although the mosque, which does not appear to be in common use, was darkened, saw enough to show that the interior was quite plain. just above this edifice stands a large octagonal tomb, surmounted by a dome, and richly adorned with arabesque cornices and coatings of green and blue tiles. it stood in a small garden inclosure, and there was a sort of porter's lodge at the entrance. as we approached, an old gray-bearded man in a green turban came out, and, on françois requesting entrance for us, took a key and conducted us to the building. he had not the slightest idea of our being christians. we took off our slippers before touching the lintel of the door, as the place was particularly holy. then, throwing open the door, the old man lingered a few moments after we entered, so as not to disturb our prayers--a mark of great respect. we advanced to the edge of the parapet, turned our faces towards mecca, and imitated the usual mohammedan prayer on entering a mosque, by holding both arms outspread for a few moments, then bringing the hands together and bowing the face upon them. this done, we leisurely examined the building, and the old man was ready enough to satisfy our curiosity. it was a rich and elegant structure, lighted from the dome. the walls were lined with brilliant tiles, and had an elaborate cornice, with arabic inscriptions in gold. the floor was covered with a carpet, whereon stood eight or ten ancient coffins, surrounding a larger one which occupied a raised platform in the centre. they were all of wood, heavily carved, and many of them entirely covered with gilded inscriptions. these, according to the old man, were the coffins of the ottoman sultans, who had reigned at brousa previous to the taking of constantinople, with some members of their families. there were four sultans, among whom were mahomet i., and a certain achmet. orchan, the founder of the ottoman dynasty, is buried somewhere in brousa, and the great central coffin may have been his. françois and i talked entirely in arabic, and the old man asked: "who are these hadjis?" whereupon f. immediately answered: "they are effendis from baghdad." we had intended making the ascent of olympus, but the summit was too thickly covered with clouds. on the morning of the second day, therefore, we determined to take up the line of march for constantinople. the last scene of our strange, eventful history with the katurgees had just transpired, by their deserting us, being two hundred piastres in our debt. they left their khan on the afternoon after our arrival, ostensibly for the purpose of taking their beasts out to pasture, and were never heard of more. we let them go, thankful that they had not played the trick sooner. we engaged fresh horses for moudania, on the sea of marmora, and dispatched françois in advance, to procure a caïque for constantinople, while we waited to have our passports signed. but after waiting an hour, as there was no appearance of the precious documents, we started the baggage also, under the charge of a _surroudjee_, and remained alone. another hour passed by, and yet another, and the bey was still occupied in sleeping off his hunger. mr. harrison, in desperation, went to the office, and after some delay, received the passports with a visè, but not, as we afterwards discovered, the necessary one. it was four o'clock by the time we left brousa. our horses were stiff, clumsy pack-beasts; but, by dint of whips and the sharp shovel-stirrups, we forced them into a trot and made them keep it. the road was well travelled, and by asking everybody we met: "_bou yôl moudania yedermi_?" ("is this the way to moudania?"), we had no difficulty in finding it. the plain in many places is marshy, and traversed by several streams. a low range of hills stretches across, and nearly closes it, the united waters finding their outlet by a narrow valley to the north. from the top of the hill we had a grand view, looking back over the plain, with the long line of brousa's minarets glittering through the interminable groves at the foot of the mountain olympus now showed a superb outline; the clouds hung about his shoulders, but his snowy head was bare. before us lay a broad, rich valley, extending in front to the mountains of moudania. the country was well cultivated, with large farming establishments here and there. the sun was setting as we reached the summit ridge, where stood a little guard-house. as we rode over the crest, olympus disappeared, and the sea of marmora lay before us, spreading out from the gulf of moudania, which was deep and blue among the hills, to an open line against the sunset. beyond that misty line lay europe, which i had not seen for nearly nine months, and the gulf below me was the bound of my tent and saddle life. but one hour more, old horse! have patience with my ethiopian thong, and the sharp corners of my turkish stirrups: but one hour more, and i promise never to molest you again! our path was downward, and i marvel that the poor brute did not sometimes tumble headlong with me. he had been too long used to the pack, however, and his habits were as settled as a turk's. we passed a beautiful village in a valley on the right, and came into olive groves and vineyards, as the dusk was creeping on. it was a lovely country of orchards and gardens, with fountains spouting by the wayside, and country houses perched on the steeps. in another hour, we reached the sea-shore. it was now nearly dark, but we could see the tower of moudania some distance to the west. still in a continual trot, we rode on; and as we drew near, mr. h. fired his gun to announce our approach. at the entrance of the town, we found the sourrudjee waiting to conduct us. we clattered through the rough streets for what seemed an endless length of time. the ramazan gun had just fired, the minarets were illuminated, and the coffee-houses were filled with people. finally, françois, who had been almost in despair at our non-appearance, hailed us with the welcome news that he had engaged a caïque, and that our baggage was already embarked. we only needed the visès of the authorities, in order to leave. he took our teskerés to get them, and we went upon the balcony of a coffee-house overhanging the sea, and smoked a narghileh. but here there was another history. the teskerés had not been properly visèd at brousa, and the governor at first decided to send us back. taking françois, however, for a turk, and finding that we had regularly passed quarantine, he signed them after a delay of an hour and a half, and we left the shore, weary, impatient, and wolfish with twelve hours' fasting. a cup of brousan beer and a piece of bread brought us into a better mood, and i, who began to feel sick from the rolling of the caïque, lay down on my bed, which was spread at the bottom, and found a kind of uneasy sleep. the sail was hoisted at first, to get us across the mouth of the gulf, but soon the greeks took to their oars. they were silent, however, and though i only slept by fits, the night wore away rapidly. as the dawn was deepening, we ran into a little bight in the northern side of a promontory, where a picturesque greek village stood at the foot of the mountains. the houses were of wood, with balconies overgrown with grape-vines, and there was a fountain of cold, excellent water on the very beach. some greek boatmen were smoking in the portico of a café on shore, and two fishermen, who had been out before dawn to catch sardines, were emptying their nets of the spoil. our men kindled a fire on the sand, and roasted us a dish of the fish. some of the last night's hunger remained, and the meal had enough of that seasoning to be delicious. after giving our men an hour's rest, we set off for the princes' islands, which now appeared to the north, over the glassy plain of the sea. the gulf of iskmid, or nicomedia, opened away to the east, between two mountain headlands. the morning was intensely hot and sultry, and but for the protection of an umbrella, we should have suffered greatly. there was a fiery blue vapor on the sea, and a thunder-cloud hid the shores of thrace. now and then came a light puff of wind, whereupon the men would ship the little mast, and crowd on an enormous quantity of sail. so, sailing and rowing, we neared the islands with the storm, but it advanced slowly enough to allow a sight of the mosques of st. sophia and sultan achmed, gleaming far and white, like icebergs astray on a torrid sea. another cloud was pouring its rain over the asian shore, and we made haste to get to the landing at prinkipo before it could reach us. from the south, the group of islands is not remarkable for beauty. only four of them--prinkipo, chalki, prote, and antigone--are inhabited, the other five being merely barren rocks. there is an ancient convent on the summit of prinkipo, where the empress irene--the contemporary of charlemagne--is buried. the town is on the northern side of the island, and consists mostly of the summer residences of greek and armenian merchants. many of these are large and stately houses, surrounded with handsome gardens. the streets are shaded with sycamores, and the number of coffee-houses shows that the place is much frequented on festal days. a company of drunken greeks were singing in violation of all metre and harmony--a discord the more remarkable, since nothing could be more affectionate than their conduct towards each other. nearly everybody was in frank costume, and our oriental habits, especially the red tartar boots, attracted much observation. i began to feel awkward and absurd, and longed to show myself a christian once more. leaving prinkipo, we made for constantinople, whose long array of marble domes and gilded spires gleamed like a far mirage over the waveless sea. it was too faint and distant and dazzling to be substantial. it was like one of those imaginary cities which we build in a cloud fused in the light of the setting sun. but as we neared the point of chalcedon, running along the asian shore, those airy piles gathered form and substance. the pinnacles of the seraglio shot up from the midst of cypress groves; fantastic kiosks lined the shore; the minarets of st. sophia and sultan achmed rose more clearly against the sky; and a fleet of steamers and men-of-war, gay with flags, marked the entrance of the golden horn. we passed the little bay where st. chrysostom was buried, the point of chalcedon, and now, looking up the renowned bosphorus, saw the maiden's tower, opposite scutari. an enormous pile, the barracks of the anatolian soldiery, hangs over the high bank, and, as we row abreast of it, a fresh breeze comes up from the sea of marmora. the prow of the caïque is turned across the stream, the sail is set, and we glide rapidly and noiselessly over the bosphorus and into the golden horn, between the banks of the frank and moslem--pera and stamboul. where on the earth shall we find a panorama more magnificent? the air was filled with the shouts and noises of the great oriental metropolis; the water was alive with caïques and little steamers; and all the world of work and trade, which had grown almost to be a fable, welcomed us back to its restless heart. we threaded our rather perilous way over the populous waves, and landed in a throng of custom-house officers and porters, on the wharf at galata. chapter xxvi. the night of predestination. constantinople in ramazan--the origin of the fast--nightly illuminations--the night of predestination--the golden horn at night--illumination of the shores--the cannon of constantinople--a fiery panorama--the sultan's caïque--close of the celebration--a turkish mob--the dancing dervishes. "skies full of splendid moons and shooting stars, and spouting exhalations, diamond fires." keats. constantinople, _wednesday, july_ , . constantinople, during the month of ramazan, presents a very different aspect from constantinople at other times. the city, it is true, is much more stern and serious during the day; there is none of that gay, careless life of the orient which you see in smyrna, cairo, and damascus; but when once the sunset gun has fired, and the painful fast is at an end, the picture changes as if by magic. in all the outward symbols of their religion, the mussulmans show their joy at being relieved from what they consider a sacred duty. during the day, it is quite a science to keep the appetite dormant, and the people not only abstain from eating and drinking, but as much as possible from the sight of food. in the bazaars, you see the famished merchants either sitting, propped back against their cushions, with the shawl about their stomachs, tightened so as to prevent the void under it from being so sensibly felt, or lying at full length in the vain attempt to sleep. it is whispered here that many of the turks will both eat and smoke, when there is no chance of detection, but no one would dare infringe the fast in public. most of the mechanics and porters are armenians, and the boatmen are greeks. i have endeavored to ascertain the origin of this fast month. the syrian christians say that it is a mere imitation of an incident which happened to mahomet. the prophet, having lost his camels, went day after day seeking them in the desert, taking no nourishment from the time of his departure in the morning until his return at sunset. after having sought them thus daily, for the period of one entire moon, he found them, and in token of joy, gave a three days' feast to the tribe, now imitated in the festival of bairam, which lasts for three days after the close of ramazan. this reason, however, seems too trifling for such a rigid fast, and the turkish tradition, that the koran was sent down from heaven during this month, offers a more probable explanation. during the fast, the mussulmans, as is quite natural, are much more fanatical than at other times. they are obliged to attend prayers at the mosque every night, or to have a _mollah_ read the koran to them at their own houses. all the prominent features of their religion are kept constantly before their eyes, and their natural aversion to the giaour, or infidel, is increased tenfold. i have heard of several recent instances in which strangers have been exposed to insults and indignities. at dusk the minarets are illuminated; a peal of cannon from the arsenal, echoed by others from the forts along the bosphorus, relieves the suffering followers of the prophet, and after an hour of silence, during which they are all at home, feasting, the streets are filled with noisy crowds, and every coffee-shop is thronged. every night there are illuminations along the water, which, added to the crowns of light sparkling on the hundred minarets and domes, give a magical effect to the night view of the city. towards midnight there is again a season of comparative quiet, most of the inhabitants having retired to rest; but, about two hours afterwards a watchman comes along with a big drum, which he beats lustily before the doors of the faithful, in order to arouse them in time to eat again before the daylight-gun, which announces the commencement of another day's fast. last night was the holiest night of islam, being the twenty-fifth of the fast. it is called the _leilet-el-kadr,_ or night of the predestination, the anniversary of that on which the koran was miraculously communicated to the prophet. on this night the sultan, accompanied by his whole suite, attends service at the mosque, and on his return to the seraglio, the sultana valide, or sultana-mother, presents him with a virgin from one of the noble families of constantinople. formerly, st. sophia was the theatre of this celebration, but this year the sultan chose the mosque of tophaneh, which stands on the shore--probably as being nearer to his imperial palace at beshiktashe, on the bosphorus. i consider myself fortunate in having reached constantinople in season to witness this ceremony, and the illumination of the golden horn, which accompanies it. after sunset the mosques crowning the hills of stamboul, the mosque of tophaneh, on this side of the water, and the turkish men-of-war and steamers afloat at the mouth of the golden horn, began to blaze with more than their usual brilliance. the outlines of the minarets and domes were drawn in light on the deepening gloom, and the masts and yards of the vessel were hung with colored lanterns. from the battery in front of the mosque and arsenal of tophaneh a blaze of intense light streamed out over the water, illuminating the gliding forms of a thousand caïques, and the dark hulls of the vessels lying at anchor. the water is the best place from which to view the illumination, and a party of us descended to the landing-place. the streets of tophaneh were crowded with swarms of turks, greeks and armenians. the square around the fountain was brilliantly lighted, and venders of sherbet and kaïmak were ranged along the sidewalks. in the neighborhood of the mosque the crowd was so dense that we could with difficulty make our way through. all the open space next the water was filled up with the clumsy _arabas_, or carriages of the turks, in which sat the wives of the pashas and other dignitaries. we took a caïque, and were soon pulled out into the midst of a multitude of other caïques, swarming all over the surface of the golden horn. the view from this point was strange, fantastic, yet inconceivably gorgeous. in front, three or four large turkish frigates lay in the bosphorus, their hulls and spars outlined in fire against the dark hills and distant twinkling lights of asia. looking to the west, the shores of the golden horn were equally traced by the multitude of lamps that covered them, and on either side, the hills on which the city is built rose from the water--masses of dark buildings, dotted all over with shafts and domes of the most brilliant light. the gateway on seraglio point was illuminated, as well as the quay in front of the mosque of tophaneh, all the cannons of the battery being covered with lamps. the commonest objects shared in the splendor, even a large lever used for hoisting goods being hung with lanterns from top to bottom. the mosque was a mass of light, and between the tall minarets flanking it, burned the inscription, in arabic characters, "long life to you, o our sovereign!" the discharge of a cannon announced the sultan's departure from his palace, and immediately the guns on the frigates and the batteries on both shores took up the salute, till the grand echoes, filling the hollow throat of the golden horn, crashed from side to side, striking the hills of scutari and the point of chalcedon, and finally dying away among the summits of the princes' islands, out on the sea of marmora. the hulls of the frigates were now lighted up with intense chemical fires, and an abundance of rockets were spouted from their decks. a large drummond light on seraglio point, and another at the battery of tophaneh, poured their rival streams across the golden horn, revealing the thousands of caïques jostling each other from shore to shore, and the endless variety of gay costumes with which they were filled. the smoke of the cannon hanging in the air, increased the effect of this illumination, and became a screen of auroral brightness, through which the superb spectacle loomed with large and unreal features. it was a picture of air--a phantasmagoric spectacle, built of luminous vapor and meteoric fires, and hanging in the dark round of space. in spite of ourselves, we became eager and excited, half fearing that the whole pageant would dissolve the next moment, and leave no trace behind. meanwhile, the cannon thundered from a dozen batteries, and the rockets burst into glittering rain over our heads. grander discharges i never heard; the earth shook and trembled under the mighty bursts of sound, and the reverberation which rattled along the hill of galata, broken by the scattered buildings into innumerable fragments of sound, resembled the crash of a thousand falling houses. the distant echoes from asia and the islands in the sea filled up the pauses between the nearer peals, and we seemed to be in the midst of some great naval engagement. but now the caïque of the sultan is discerned, approaching from the bosphorus. a signal is given, and a sunrise of intense rosy and golden radiance suddenly lights up the long arsenal and stately mosque of tophaneh, plays over the tall buildings on the hill of pera, and falls with a fainter lustre on the genoese watch-tower that overlooks galata. it is impossible to describe the effect of this magical illumination. the mosque, with its taper minarets, its airy galleries, and its great central dome, is built of compact, transparent flame, and in the shifting of the red and yellow fires, seems to flicker and waver in the air. it is as lofty, and gorgeous, and unsubstantial as the cloudy palace in cole's picture of "youth." the long white front of the arsenal is fused in crimson heat, and burns against the dark as if it were one mass of living coal. and over all hangs the luminous canopy of smoke, redoubling its lustre on the waters of the golden horn, and mingling with the phosphorescent gleams that play around the oars of the caïques. a long barge, propelled by sixteen oars, glides around the dark corner of tophaneh, and shoots into the clear, brilliant space in front of the mosque. it is not lighted, and passes with great swiftness towards the brilliant landing-place. there are several persons seated under a canopy in the stern, and we are trying to decide which is the sultan, when a second boat, driven by twenty-four oarsmen, comes in sight. the men rise up at each stroke, and the long, sharp craft flies over the surface of the water, rather than forces its way through it. a gilded crown surmounts the long, curved prow, and a light though superb canopy covers the stern. under this, we catch a glimpse of the sultan and grand vizier, as they appear for an instant like black silhouettes against the burst of light on shore. after the sultan had entered the mosque, the fires diminished and the cannon ceased, though the illuminated masts, minarets and gateways still threw a brilliant gleam over the scene. after more than an hour spent in devotion, he again entered his caïque and sped away to greet his new wife, amid a fresh discharge from the frigates and the batteries on both shores, and a new dawn of auroral splendor. we made haste to reach the landing-place, in order to avoid the crowd of caïques; but, although we were among the first, we came near being precipitated into the water, in the struggle to get ashore. the market-place at tophaneh was so crowded that nothing but main force brought us through, and some of our party had their pockets picked. a number of turkish soldiers and police-men were mixed up in the melee, and they were not sparing of blows when they came in contact with a giaour. in making my way through, i found that a collision with one of the soldiers was inevitable, but i managed to plump against him with such force as to take the breath out of his body, and was out of his reach before he had recovered himself. i saw several turkish women striking right and left in their endeavors to escape, and place their hands against the faces of those who opposed them, pushing them aside. this crowd was contrived by thieves, for the purpose of plunder, and, from what i have since learned, must have been very successful. i visited to-day the college of the mevlevi dervishes at pera, and witnessed their peculiar ceremonies. they assemble in a large hall, where they take their seats in a semi-circle, facing the shekh. after going through several times with the usual moslem prayer, they move in slow march around the room, while a choir in the gallery chants arabic phrases in a manner very similar to the mass in catholic churches. i could distinguish the sentences "god is great," "praise be to god," and other similar ejaculations. the chant was accompanied with a drum and flute, and had not lasted long before the dervishes set themselves in a rotary motion, spinning slowly around the shekh, who stood in the centre. they stretched both arms out, dropped their heads on one side, and glided around with a steady, regular motion, their long white gowns spread out and floating on the air. their steps were very similar to those of the modern waltz, which, it is possible, may have been derived from the dance of the mevlevis. baron von hammer finds in this ceremony an imitation of the dance of the spheres, in the ancient samothracian mysteries; but i see no reason to go so far back for its origin. the dance lasted for about twenty minutes, and the dervishes appeared very much exhausted at the close, as they are obliged to observe the fast very strictly. chapter xxvii. the solemnities of bairam. the appearance of the new moon--the festival of bairam--the interior of the seraglio--the pomp of the sultan's court--rescind pasha--the sultan's dwarf--arabian stallions--the imperial guard--appearance of the sultan--the inner court--return of the procession--the sultan on his throne--the homage of the pashas--an oriental picture--kissing the scarf--the shekh el-islàm--the descendant of the caliphs--bairam commences. constantinople, _monday_, _july_ , . saturday was the last day of the fast-month of ramazan, and yesterday the celebration of the solemn festival of bairam took place. the moon changed on friday morning at o'clock, but as the turks have no faith in astronomy, and do not believe the moon has actually changed until they see it, all good mussulmen were obliged to fast an additional day. had saturday been cloudy, and the new moon invisible, i am not sure but the fast would have been still further prolonged. a good look-out was kept, however, and about four o'clock on saturday afternoon some sharp eyes saw the young crescent above the sun. there is a hill near gemlik, on the gulf of moudania, about fifty miles from here, whence the turks believe the new moon can be first seen. the families who live on this hill are exempted from taxation, in consideration of their keeping a watch for the moon, at the close of ramazan. a series of signals, from hill to hill, is in readiness, and the news is transmitted to constantinople in a very short time then, when the muezzin proclaims the _asser_, or prayer two hours before sunset, he proclaims also the close of ramazan. all the batteries fire a salute, and the big guns along the water announce the joyful news to all parts of the city. the forts on the bosphorus take up the tale, and both shores, from the black sea to the propontis, shake with the burden of their rejoicing. at night the mosques are illuminated for the last time, for it is only during ramazan that they are lighted, or open for night service. after ramazan, comes the festival of bairam, which lasts three days, and is a season of unbounded rejoicing. the bazaars are closed, no turk does any work, but all, clothed in their best dresses, or in an entire new suit if they can afford it, pass the time in feasting, in paying visits, or in making excursions to the shores of the bosphorus, or other favorite spots around constantinople. the festival is inaugurated by a solemn state ceremony, at the seraglio and the mosque of sultan achmed, whither the sultan goes in procession, accompanied by all the officers of the government. this is the last remaining pageant which has been spared to the ottoman monarchs by the rigorous reforming measures of sultan mahmoud, and shorn as it is of much of its former splendor, it probably surpasses in brilliant effect any spectacle which any other european court can present. the ceremonies which take place inside of the seraglio were, until within three or four years, prohibited to frank eyes, and travellers were obliged to content themselves with a view of the procession, as it passed to the mosque. through the kindness of mr. brown, of the american embassy, i was enabled to witness the entire solemnity, in all its details. as the procession leaves the seraglio at sunrise, we rose with the first streak of dawn, descended to tophaneh, and crossed to seraglio point, where the cavass of the embassy was in waiting for us. he conducted us through the guards, into the garden of the seraglio, and up the hill to the palace. the capudan pasha, or lord high admiral, had just arrived in a splendid caïque, and pranced up the hill before us on a magnificent stallion, whose trappings blazed with jewels and gold lace. the rich uniforms of the different officers of the army and marine glittered far and near under the dense shadows of the cypress trees, and down the dark alleys where the morning twilight had not penetrated. we were ushered into the great outer court-yard of the seraglio, leading to the sublime porte. a double row of marines, in scarlet jackets and white trowsers, extended from one gate to the other, and a very excellent brass band played "_suoni la tromba_" with much spirit. the groups of pashas and other officers of high rank, with their attendants, gave the scene a brilliant character of festivity. the costumes, except those of the secretaries and servants, were after the european model, but covered with a lavish profusion of gold lace. the horses were all of the choicest eastern breeds, and the broad housings of their saddles of blue, green, purple, and crimson cloth, were enriched with gold lace, rubies, emeralds and turquoises. the cavass took us into a chamber near the gate, and commanding a view of the whole court. there we found mr. brown and his lady, with several officers from the u.s. steamer san jacinto. at this moment the sun, appearing above the hill of bulgaria, behind scutari, threw his earliest rays upon the gilded pinnacles of the seraglio. the commotion in the long court-yard below increased. the marines were formed into exact line, the horses of the officers clattered on the rough pavement as they dashed about to expedite the arrangements, the crowd pressed closer to the line of the procession, and in five minutes the grand pageant was set in motion. as the first pasha made his appearance under the dark archway of the interior gate, the band struck up the _marseillaise_ (which is a favorite air among the turks), and the soldiers presented arms. the court-yard was near two hundred yards long, and the line of pashas, each surrounded with the officers of his staff, made a most dazzling show. the lowest in rank came first. i cannot recollect the precise order, nor the names of all of them, which, in fact, are of little consequence, while power and place are such uncertain matters in turkey. each pasha wore the red fez on his head, a frock-coat of blue cloth, the breast of which was entirely covered with gold lace, while a broad band of the same decorated the skirts, and white pantaloons. one of the ministers, mehemet ali pasha, the brother-in-law of the sultan, was formerly a cooper's apprentice, but taken, when a boy, by the late sultan mahmoud, to be a playmate for his son, on account of his extraordinary beauty. rescind pasha, the grand vizier, is a man of about sixty years of age. he is frequently called giaour, or infidel, by the turks, on account of his liberal policy, which has made him many enemies. the expression of his face denotes intelligence, but lacks the energy necessary to accomplish great reforms. his son, a boy of about seventeen, already possesses the rank of pasha, and is affianced to the sultan's daughter, a child of ten, or twelve years old. he is a fat, handsome youth, with a sprightly face, and acted his part in the ceremonies with a nonchalance which made him appear graceful beside his stiff, dignified elders. after the pashas came the entire household of the sultan, including even his eunuchs, cooks, and constables. the kislar aga, or chief eunuch, a tall african in resplendent costume, is one of the most important personages connected with the court. the sultan's favorite dwarf, a little man about forty years old and three feet high, bestrode his horse with as consequential an air as any of them. a few years ago, this man took a notion to marry, and applied to the sultan for a wife. the latter gave him permission to go into his harem and take the one whom he could kiss. the dwarf, like all short men, was ambitious to have a long wife. while the sultan's five hundred women, who knew the terms according to which the dwarf was permitted to choose, were laughing at the amorous mannikin, he went up to one of the tallest and handsomest of them, and struck her a sudden blow on the stomach. she collapsed with the pain, and before she could recover he caught her by the neck and gave her the dreaded kiss. the sultan kept his word, and the tall beauty is now the mother of the dwarfs children. the procession grows more brilliant as it advances, and the profound inclination made by the soldiers at the further end of the court, announces the approach of the sultan himself. first come three led horses, of the noblest arabian blood--glorious creatures, worthy to represent "the horse that guide the golden eye of heaven, and snort the morning from their nostrils, making their fiery gait above the glades." their eyes were more keen and lustrous than the diamonds which studded their head-stalls, and the wealth of emeralds, rubies, and sapphires that gleamed on their trappings would have bought the possessions of a german prince. after them came the sultan's body-guard, a company of tall, strong men, in crimson tunics and white trousers, with lofty plumes of peacock feathers in their hats. some of them carried crests of green feathers, fastened upon long staves. these superb horses and showy guards are the only relics of that barbaric pomp which characterized all state processions during the time of the janissaries. in the centre of a hollow square of plume-bearing guards rode abdul-medjid himself, on a snow-white steed. every one bowed profoundly as he passed along, but he neither looked to the right or left, nor made the slightest acknowledgment of the salutations. turkish etiquette exacts the most rigid indifference on the part of the sovereign, who, on all public occasions, never makes a greeting. formerly, before the change of costume, the sultan's turbans were carried before him in the processions, and the servants who bore them inclined them to one side and the other, in answer to the salutations of the crowd. sultan abdul-medjid is a man of about thirty, though he looks older. he has a mild, amiable, weak face, dark eyes, a prominent nose, and short, dark brown mustaches and beard. his face is thin, and wrinkles are already making their appearance about the corners of his mouth and eyes. but for a certain vacancy of expression, he would be called a handsome man. he sits on his horse with much ease and grace, though there is a slight stoop in his shoulders. his legs are crooked, owing to which cause he appears awkward when on his feet, though he wears a long cloak to conceal the deformity. sensual indulgence has weakened a constitution not naturally strong, and increased that mildness which has now become a defect in his character. he is not stern enough to be just, and his subjects are less fortunate under his easy rule than under the rod of his savage father, mahmoud. he was dressed in a style of the utmost richness and elegance. he wore a red turkish fez, with an immense rosette of brilliants, and a long, floating plume of bird-of-paradise feathers. the diamond in the centre of the rosette is of unusual size; it was picked up some years ago in the hippodrome, and probably belonged to the treasury of the greek emperors. the breast and collar of his coat were one mass of diamonds, and sparkled in the early sun with a thousand rainbow gleams. his mantle of dark-blue cloth hung to his knees, concealing the deformity of his legs. he wore white pantaloons, white kid gloves, and patent leather boots, thrust into his golden stirrups. a few officers of the imperial household followed behind the sultan, and the procession then terminated. including the soldiers, it contained from two to three thousand persons. the marines lined the way to the mosque of sultan achmed, and a great crowd of spectators filled up the streets and the square of the hippodrome. coffee was served to us, after which we were all conducted into the inner court of the seraglio, to await the return of the cortège. this court is not more than half the size of the outer one, but is shaded with large sycamores, embellished with fountains, and surrounded with light and elegant galleries, in pure saracenic style. the picture which it presented was therefore far richer and more characteristic of the orient than the outer court, where the architecture is almost wholly after italian models. the portals at either end rested on slender pillars, over which projected broad eaves, decorated with elaborate carved and gilded work, and above all rose a dome, surmounted by the crescent. on the right, the tall chimneys of the imperial kitchens towered above the walls. the sycamores threw their broad, cool shadows over the court, and groups of servants, in gala dresses, loitered about the corridors. after waiting nearly half an hour, the sound of music and the appearance of the sultan's body-guard proclaimed the return of the procession. it came in reversed order, headed by the sultan, after whom followed the grand vizier and other ministers of the imperial council, and the pashas, each surrounded by his staff of officers. the sultan dismounted at the entrance to the seraglio, and disappeared through the door. he was absent for more than half an hour, during which time he received the congratulations of his family, his wives, and the principal personages of his household, all of whom came to kiss his feet. meanwhile, the pashas ranged themselves in a semicircle around the arched and gilded portico. the servants of the seraglio brought out a large persian carpet, which they spread on the marble pavement. the throne, a large square seat, richly carved and covered with gilding, was placed in the centre, and a dazzling piece of cloth-of-gold thrown over the back of it. when the sultan re-appeared, he took his seat thereon, placing his feet on a small footstool. the ceremony of kissing his feet now commenced. the first who had this honor was the chief of the emirs, an old man in a green robe, embroidered with pearls. he advanced to the throne, knelt, kissed the sultan's patent-leather boot, and retired backward from the presence. the ministers and pashas followed in single file, and, after they had made the salutation, took their stations on the right hand of the throne. most of them were fat, and their glittering frock-coats were buttoned so tightly that they seemed ready to burst. it required a great effort for them to rise from their knees. during all this time, the band was playing operatic airs, and as each pasha knelt, a marshal, or master of ceremonies, with a silver wand, gave the signal to the imperial guard, who shouted at the top of their voices: "prosperity to our sovereign! may he live a thousand years!" this part of the ceremony was really grand and imposing. all the adjuncts were in keeping: the portico, wrought in rich arabesque designs; the swelling domes and sunlit crescents above; the sycamores and cypresses shading the court; the red tunics and peacock plumes of the guard; the monarch himself, radiant with jewels, as he sat in his chair of gold--all these features combined to form a stately picture of the lost orient, and for the time abdul-medjid seemed the true representative of caliph haroun al-raschid. after the pashas had finished, the inferior officers of the army, navy, and civil service followed, to the number of at least a thousand. they were not considered worthy to touch the sultan's person, but kissed his golden scarf, which was held out to them by a pasha, who stood on the left of the throne. the grand vizier had his place on the right, and the chief of the eunuchs stood behind him. the kissing of the scarf occupied an hour. the sultan sat quietly during all this time, his face expressing a total indifference to all that was going on. the most skilful physiognomist could not have found in it the shadow of an expression. if this was the etiquette prescribed for him, he certainly acted it with marvellous skill and success. the long line of officers at length came to an end, and i fancied that the solemnities were now over; but after a pause appeared the _shekh el-islàm,_ or high priest of the mahometan religion. his authority in religious matters transcends that of the sultan, and is final and irrevocable. he was a very venerable man, of perhaps seventy-five years of age, and his tottering steps were supported by two mollahs. he was dressed in a long green robe, embroidered with gold and pearls, over which his white beard flowed below his waist. in his turban of white cambric was twisted a scarf of cloth-of-gold. he kissed the border of the sultan's mantle, which salutation was also made by a long line of the chief priests of the mosques of constantinople, who followed him. these priests were dressed in long robes of white, green, blue, and violet, many of them with collars of pearls and golden scarfs wound about their turbans, the rich fringes falling on their shoulders. they were grave, stately men, with long gray beards, and the wisdom of age and study in their deep-set eyes. among the last who came was the most important personage of all. this was the governor of mecca (as i believe he is called), the nearest descendant of the prophet, and the successor to the caliphate, in case the family of othman becomes extinct. sultan mahmoud, on his accession to the throne, was the last descendant of orchan, the founder of the ottoman dynasty, the throne being inherited only by the male heirs. he left two sons, who are both living, abdul-medjid having departed from the practice of his predecessors, each of whom slew his brothers, in order to make his own sovereignty secure. he has one son, muzad, who is about ten years old, so that there are now three males of the family of orchan. in case of their death, the governor of mecca would become caliph, and the sovereignty would be established in his family. he is a swarthy arab, of about fifty, with a bold, fierce face. he wore a superb dress of green, the sacred color, and was followed by his two sons, young men of twenty and twenty-two. as he advanced to the throne, and was about to kneel and kiss the sultan's robe, the latter prevented him, and asked politely after his health--the highest mark of respect in his power to show. the old arab's face gleamed with such a sudden gush of pride and satisfaction, that no flash of lightning could have illumined it more vividly. the sacred writers, or transcribers of the koran, closed the procession, after which the sultan rose and entered the seraglio. the crowd slowly dispersed, and in a few minutes the grand reports of the cannon on seraglio point announced the departure of the sultan for his palace on the bosphorus. the festival of bairam was now fairly inaugurated, and all stamboul was given up to festivity. there was no turk so poor that he did not in some sort share in the rejoicing. our fourth could scarcely show more flags, let off more big guns or send forth greater crowds of excursionists than this moslem holiday. chapter xxviii. the mosques of constantinople. sojourn at constantinople--semi-european character of the city--the mosque--procuring a firman--the seraglio--the library--the ancient throne-room--admittance to st. sophia--magnificence of the interior--the marvellous dome--the mosque of sultan achmed--the sulemanye--great conflagrations--political meaning of the fires--turkish progress--decay of the ottoman power. "is that indeed sophia's far-famed dome, where first the faith was led in triumph home, like some high bride, with banner and bright sign, and melody, and flowers?" audrey de vere. constantinople, _tuesday, august_ , . the length of my stay in constantinople has enabled me to visit many interesting spots in its vicinity, as well as to familiarize myself with the peculiar features of the great capital. i have seen the beautiful bosphorus from steamers and caïques; ridden up the valley of buyukdere, and through the chestnut woods of belgrade; bathed in the black sea, under the lee of the symplegades, where the marble altar to apollo still invites an oblation from passing mariners; walked over the flowery meadows beside the "heavenly waters of asia;" galloped around the ivy-grown walls where dandolo and mahomet ii. conquered, and the last of the palæologi fell; and dreamed away many an afternoon-hour under the funereal cypresses of pera, and beside the delphian tripod in the hippodrome. the historic interest of these spots is familiar to all, nor; with one exception, have their natural beauties been exaggerated by travellers. this exception is the village of belgrade, over which mary montague went into raptures, and set the fashion for tourists ever since. i must confess to having been wofully disappointed. the village is a miserable cluster of rickety houses, on an open piece of barren land, surrounded by the forests, or rather thickets, which keep alive the springs that supply constantinople with water. we reached there with appetites sharpened by our morning's ride, expecting to find at least a vender of _kibabs_ (bits of fried meat) in so renowned a place; but the only things to be had were raw salt mackerel, and bread which belonged to the primitive geological formation. the general features of constantinople and the bosphorus are so well known, that i am spared the dangerous task of painting scenes which have been colored by abler pencils. von hammer, lamartine, willis, miss pardoe, albert smith, and thou, most inimitable thackeray! have made pera and scutari, the bazaars and baths, the seraglio and the golden horn, as familiar to our ears as cornhill and wall street. besides, constantinople is not the true orient, which is to be found rather in cairo, in aleppo, and brightest and most vital, in damascus. here, we tread european soil; the franks are fast crowding out the followers of the prophet, and stamboul itself, were its mosques and seraglio removed, would differ little in outward appearance from a third-rate italian town. the sultan lives in a palace with a grecian portico; the pointed saracenic arch, the arabesque sculptures, the latticed balconies, give place to clumsy imitations of palladio, and every fire that sweeps away a recollection of the palmy times of ottoman rule, sweeps it away forever. but the mosque--that blossom of oriental architecture, with its crowning domes, like the inverted bells of the lotus, and its reed-like minarets, its fountains and marble courts--can only perish with the faith it typifies. i, for one, rejoice that, so long as the religion of islam exists (and yet, may its time be short!), no christian model can shape its houses of worship. the minaret must still lift its airy tower for the muezzin; the dome must rise like a gilded heaven above the prayers of the faithful, with its starry lamps and emblazoned phrases; the fountain must continue to pour its waters of purification. a reformation of the moslem faith is impossible. when it begins to give way, the whole fabric must fall. its ceremonies, as well as its creed, rest entirely on the recognition of mahomet as the prophet of god. however the turks may change in other respects, in all that concerns their religion they must continue the same. until within a few years, a visit to the mosques, especially the more sacred ones of st. sophia and sultan achmed, was attended with much difficulty. miss pardoe, according to her own account, risked her life in order to see the interior of st. sophia, which she effected in the disguise of a turkish effendi. i accomplished the same thing, a few days since, but without recourse to any such romantic expedient. mr. brown, the interpreter of the legation, procured a firman from the grand vizier, on behalf of the officers of the san jacinto, and kindly invited me, with several other american and english travellers, to join the party. during the month of ramazan, no firmans are given, and as at this time there are few travellers in constantinople, we should otherwise have been subjected to a heavy expense. the cost of a firman, including backsheesh to the priests and doorkeepers, is piastres (about $ ). we crossed the golden horn in caïques, and first visited the gardens and palaces on seraglio point. the sultan at present resides in his summer palace of beshiktashe, on the bosphorus, and only occupies the serai bornou, as it is called, during the winter months. the seraglio covers the extremity of the promontory on which constantinople is built, and is nearly three miles in circuit. the scattered buildings erected by different sultans form in themselves a small city, whose domes and pointed turrets rise from amid groves of cypress and pine. the sea-wall is lined with kiosks, from whose cushioned windows there are the loveliest views of the european and asian shores. the newer portion of the palace, where the sultan now receives the ambassadors of foreign nations, shows the influence of european taste in its plan and decorations. it is by no means remarkable for splendor, and suffers by contrast with many of the private houses in damascus and aleppo. the building is of wood, the walls ornamented with detestable frescoes by modern greek artists, and except a small but splendid collection of arms, and some wonderful specimens of arabic chirography, there is nothing to interest the visitor. in ascending to the ancient seraglio, which was founded by mahomet ii., on the site of the palace of the palæologi, we passed the column of theodosius, a plain corinthian shaft, about fifty feet high. the seraglio is now occupied entirely by the servants and guards, and the greater part of it shows a neglect amounting almost to dilapidation. the saracenic corridors surrounding its courts are supported by pillars of marble, granite, and porphyry, the spoils of the christian capital. we were allowed to walk about at leisure, and inspect the different compartments, except the library, which unfortunately was locked. this library was for a long time supposed to contain many lost treasures of ancient literature--among other things, the missing books of livy--but the recent researches of logothetos, the prince of samos, prove that there is little of value, among its manuscripts. before the door hangs a wooden globe, which is supposed to be efficacious in neutralizing the influence of the evil eye. there are many ancient altars and fragments of pillars scattered about the courts, and the turks have even commenced making a collection of antiquities, which, with the exception of two immense sarcophagi of red porphyry, contains nothing of value. they show, however, one of the brazen heads of the delphian tripod in the hippodrome, which, they say, mahomet the conqueror struck off with a single blow of his sword, on entering constantinople. the most interesting portion of the seraglio is the ancient throne-room, now no longer used, but still guarded by a company of white eunuchs. the throne is an immense, heavy bedstead, the posts of which are thickly incrusted with rubies, turquoises, emeralds, and sapphires. there is a funnel-shaped chimney-piece in the room, a master-work of benevenuto cellini. there, half a century ago, the foreign ambassadors were presented, after having been bathed, fed, and clothed with a rich mantle in the outer apartments. they were ushered into the imperial presence, supported by a turkish official on either side, in order that they might show no signs of breaking down under the load of awe and reverence they were supposed to feel. in the outer court, adjoining the sublime porte, is the chapel of the empress irene, now converted into an armory, which, for its size, is the most tasteful and picturesque collection of weapons i have ever seen. it is especially rich in saracenic armor, and contains many superb casques of inlaid gold. in a large glass case in the chancel, one sees the keys of some thirty or forty cities, with the date of their capture. it is not likely that another will ever be added to the list. we now passed out through the sublime porte, and directed our steps to the famous _aya sophia_--the temple dedicated by justinian to the divine wisdom. the repairs made to the outer walls by the turks, and the addition of the four minarets, have entirely changed the character of the building, without injuring its effect. as a christian church, it must have been less imposing than in its present form. a priest met us at the entrance, and after reading the firman with a very discontented face, informed us that we could not enter until the mid-day prayers were concluded. after taking off our shoes, however, we were allowed to ascend to the galleries, whence we looked down on the bowing worshippers. here the majesty of the renowned edifice, despoiled as it now is, bursts at once upon the eye. the wonderful flat dome, glittering with its golden mosaics, and the sacred phrase from the koran: "_god is the light of the heavens and the earth_," swims in the air, one hundred and eighty feet above the marble pavement. on the eastern and western sides, it rests on two half domes; which again rise from or rest upon a group of three small half-domes, so that the entire roof of the mosque, unsupported by a pillar, seems to have been dropped from above on the walls, rather than to have been built up from them. around the edifice run an upper and a lower gallery, which alone preserve the peculiarities of the byzantine style. these galleries are supported by the most precious columns which ancient art could afford: among them eight shafts of green marble, from the temple of diana, at ephesus; eight of porphyry, from the temple of the sun, at baalbek; besides egyptian granite from the shrines of isis and osiris, and pentelican marble from the sanctuary of pallas athena. almost the whole of the interior has been covered with gilding, but time has softened its brilliancy, and the rich, subdued gleam of the walls is in perfect harmony with the varied coloring of the ancient marbles. under the dome, four christian seraphim, executed in mosaic, have been allowed to remain, but the names of the four archangels of the moslem faith are inscribed underneath. the bronze doors are still the same, the turks having taken great pains to obliterate the crosses with which they were adorned. around the centre of the dome, as on that of sultan achmed, may be read, in golden letters, and in all the intricacy of arabic penmanship, the beautiful verse:--"god is the light of the heavens and the earth. his wisdom is a light on the wall, in which burns a lamp covered with glass. the glass shines like a star, the lamp is lit with the oil of a blessed tree. no eastern, no western oil, it shines for whoever wills." after the prayers were over, and we had descended to the floor of the mosque, i spent the rest of my time under the dome, fascinated by its marvellous lightness and beauty. the worshippers present looked at us with curiosity, but without ill-will; and before we left, one of the priests came slyly with some fragments of the ancient gilded mosaic, which, he was heathen enough to sell, and we to buy. from st. sophia we went to sultan achmed, which faces the hippodrome, and is one of the stateliest piles of constantinople. it is avowedly an imitation of st. sophia, and the turks consider it a more wonderful work, because the dome is seven feet higher. it has six minarets, exceeding in this respect all the mosques of asia. the dome rests on four immense pillars, the bulk of which quite oppresses the light galleries running around the walls. this, and the uniform white color of the interior, impairs the effect which its bold style and imposing dimensions would otherwise produce. the outside view, with the group of domes swelling grandly above the rows of broad-armed sycamores, is much more satisfactory. in the tomb of sultan achmed, in one corner of the court, we saw his coffin, turban, sword, and jewelled harness. i had just been reading old sandys' account of his visit to constantinople, in , during this sultan's reign, and could only think of him as sandys represents him, in the title-page to his book, as a fat man, with bloated cheeks, in a long gown and big turban, and the words underneath:-- "_achmed, sive tyrannus._" the other noted mosques of constantinople are the _yeni djami,_ or mosque of the sultana valide, on the shore of the golden horn, at the end of the bridge to galata; that of sultan bajazet; of mahomet ii., the conqueror, and of his son, suleyman the magnificent, whose superb mosque well deserves this title. i regret exceedingly that our time did not allow us to view the interior, for outwardly it not only surpasses st. sophia, and all other mosques in the city, but is undoubtedly one of the purest specimens of oriental architecture extant. it stands on a broad terrace, on one of the seven hills of stamboul, and its exquisitely proportioned domes and minarets shine as if crystalized in the blue of the air. it is a type of oriental, as the parthenon is of grecian, and the cologne cathedral of gothic art. as i saw it the other night, lit by the flames of a conflagration, standing out red and clear against the darkness, i felt inclined to place it on a level with either of those renowned structures. it is a product of the rich fancy of the east, splendidly ornate, and not without a high degree of symmetry--yet here the symmetry is that of ornament alone, and not the pure, absolute proportion of forms, which we find in grecian art. it requires a certain degree of enthusiasm--nay, a slight inebriation of the imaginative faculties--in order to feel the sentiment of this oriental architecture. if i rightly express all that it says to me, i touch the verge of rapsody. the east, in almost all its aspects, is so essentially poetic, that a true picture of it must be poetic in spirit, if not in form. constantinople has been terribly ravaged by fires, no less than fifteen having occurred during the past two weeks. almost every night the sky has been reddened by burning houses, and the minarets of the seven hills lighted with an illumination brighter than that of the bairam. all the space from the hippodrome to the sea of marmora has been swept away; the lard, honey, and oil magazines on the golden horn, with the bazaars adjoining; several large blocks on the hill of galata, with the college of the dancing dervishes; a part of scutari, and the college of the howling dervishes, all have disappeared; and to-day, the ruins of , houses, which were destroyed last night, stand smoking in the greek quarter, behind the aqueduct of valens. the entire amount of buildings consumed in these two weeks is estimated at between _five and six thousand_! the fire on the hill of galata threatened to destroy a great part of the suburb of pera. it came, sweeping over the brow of the hill, towards my hotel, turning the tall cypresses in the burial ground into shafts of angry flame, and eating away the crackling dwellings of hordes of hapless turks. i was in bed; from a sudden attack of fever, but seeing the other guests packing up their effects and preparing to leave, i was obliged to do the same; and this, in my weak state, brought on such a perspiration that the ailment left me, the officers of the united states steamer _san jacinto_, and the french frigate _charlemagne_, came to the rescue with their men and fire-engines, and the flames were finally quelled. the proceedings of the americans, who cut holes in the roofs and played through them upon the fires within, were watched by the turks with stupid amazement. "máshallah!" said a fat bimbashi, as he stood sweltering in the heat; "the franks are a wonderful people." to those initiated into the mysteries of turkish politics, these fires are more than accidental; they have a most weighty significance. they indicate either a general discontent with the existing state of affairs, or else a powerful plot against the sultan and his ministry. setting fire to houses is, in fact, the turkish method of holding an "indignation meeting," and from the rate with which they are increasing, the political crisis must be near at hand. the sultan, with his usual kindness of heart, has sent large quantities of tents and other supplies to the guiltless sufferers; but no amount of kindness can soften the rancor of these turkish intrigues. reschid pasha, the present grand vizier, and the leader of the party of progress, is the person against whom this storm of opposition is now gathering. in spite of all efforts, the ottoman power is rapidly wasting away. the life of the orient is nerveless and effete; the native strength of the race has died out, and all attempts to resuscitate it by the adoption of european institutions produce mere galvanic spasms, which leave it more exhausted than before. the rosy-colored accounts we have had of turkish progress are for the most part mere delusions. the sultan is a well-meaning but weak man, and tyrannical through his very weakness. had he strength enough to break through the meshes of falsehood and venality which are woven so close about him, he might accomplish some solid good. but turkish rule, from his ministers down to the lowest _cadi_, is a monstrous system of deceit and corruption. these people have not the most remote conception of the true aims of government; they only seek to enrich themselves and their parasites, at the expense of the people and the national treasury. when we add to this the conscript system, which is draining the provinces of their best moslem subjects, to the advantage of the christians and jews, and the blindness of the revenue laws, which impose on domestic manufactures double the duty levied on foreign products, it will easily be foreseen that the next half-century, or less, will completely drain the turkish empire of its last lingering energies. already, in effect, turkey exists only through the jealousy of the european nations. the treaty of unkiar-iskelessi, in , threw her into the hands of russia, although the influence of england has of late years reigned almost exclusively in her councils. these are the two powers who are lowering at each other with sleepless eyes, in the dardanelles and the bosphorus. the people, and most probably the government, is strongly preposessed in favor of the english; but the russian bear has a heavy paw, and when he puts it into the scale, all other weights kick the beam. it will be a long and wary struggle, and no man can prophecy the result. the turks are a people easy to govern, were even the imperfect laws, now in existence, fairly administered. they would thrive and improve under a better state of things; but i cannot avoid the conviction that the regeneration of the east will never be effected at their hands. chapter xxix. farewell to the orient--malta. embarcation--farewell to the orient--leaving constantinople--a wreck--the dardanelles--homeric scenery--smyrna revisited--the grecian isles--voyage to malta--detention--la valetta--the maltese--the climate--a boat for sicily. "farewell, ye mountains, by glory crowned ye sacred fountains of gods renowned; ye woods and highlands, where heroes dwell; ye seas and islands, farewell! farewell!" frithiof's saga. in the dardanelles, _saturday, august_ , . at last, behold me fairly embarked for christian europe, to which i bade adieu in october last, eager for the unknown wonders of the orient. since then, nearly ten months have passed away, and those wonders are now familiar as every-day experiences. i set out, determined to be satisfied with no slight taste of eastern life, but to drain to the bottom its beaker of mingled sunshine and sleep. all this has been accomplished; and if i have not wandered so far, nor enriched myself with such varied knowledge of the relics of ancient history, as i might have purposed or wished, i have at least learned to know the turk and the arab, been soothed by the patience inspired by their fatalism, and warmed by the gorgeous gleams of fancy that animate their poetry and religion. these ten months of my life form an episode which seems to belong to a separate existence. just refined enough to be poetic, and just barbaric enough to be freed from all conventional fetters, it is as grateful to brain and soul, as an eastern bath to the body. while i look forward, not without pleasure, to the luxuries and conveniences of europe, i relinquish with a sigh the refreshing indolence of asia. we have passed between the castles of the two continents, guarding the mouth of the dardanelles, and are now entering the grecian sea. to-morrow, we shall touch, for a few hours, at smyrna, and then turn westward, on the track of ulysses and st. paul. farewell, then, perhaps forever, to the bright orient! farewell to the gay gardens, the spicy bazaars, to the plash of fountains and the gleam of golden-tipped minarets! farewell to the perfect morn's, the balmy twilights, the still heat of the blue noons, the splendor of moon and stars! farewell to the glare of the white crags, the tawny wastes of dead sand, the valleys of oleander, the hills of myrtle and spices! farewell to the bath, agent of purity and peace, and parent of delicious dreams--to the shebook, whose fragrant fumes are breathed from the lips of patience and contentment--to the narghileh, crowned with that blessed plant which grows in the gardens of shiraz, while a fountain more delightful than those of samarcand bubbles in its crystal bosom i farewell to the red cap and slippers, to the big turban, the flowing trousers, and the gaudy shawl--to squatting on broad divans, to sipping black coffee in acorn cups, to grave faces and _salaam aleikooms_, and to aching of the lips and forehead! farewell to the evening meal in the tent door, to the couch on the friendly earth, to the yells of the muleteers, to the deliberate marches of the plodding horse, and the endless rocking of the dromedary that knoweth his master! farewell, finally, to annoyance without anger, delay without vexation, indolence without ennui, endurance without fatigue, appetite without intemperance, enjoyment without pall! la valetta, malta, _saturday, august_ , . my last view of stamboul was that of the mosques of st. sophia and sultan achmed, shining faintly in the moonlight, as we steamed down the sea of marmora. the _caire_ left at nine o'clock, freighted with the news of reschid pasha's deposition, and there were no signs of conflagration in all the long miles of the city that lay behind us. so we speculated no more on the exciting topics of the day, but went below and took a vapor bath in our berths; for i need not assure you that the nights on the mediterranean at this season are anything but chilly. and here i must note the fact, that the french steamers, while dearer than the austrian, are more cramped in their accommodations, and filled with a set of most uncivil servants. the table is good, and this is the only thing to be commended. in all other respects, i prefer the lloyd vessels. early next morning, we passed the promontory of cyzicus, and the island of marmora, the marble quarries of which give name to the sea. as we were approaching the entrance to the dardanelles, we noticed an austrian brig drifting in the current, the whiff of her flag indicating distress. her rudder was entirely gone, and she was floating helplessly towards the thracian coast. a boat was immediately lowered and a hawser carried to her bows, by which we towed her a short distance; but our steam engine did not like this drudgery, and snapped the rope repeatedly, so that at last we were obliged to leave her to her fate. the lift we gave, however, had its effect, and by dexterous maneuvering with the sails, the captain brought her safely into the harbor of gallipoli, where she dropped anchor beside us. beyond gallipoli, the dardanelles contract, and the opposing continents rise into lofty and barren hills. in point of natural beauty, this strait is greatly inferior to the bosphorus. it lacks the streams and wooded valleys which open upon the latter. the country is but partially cultivated, except around the town of dardanelles, near the mouth of the strait. the site of the bridge of xerxes is easily recognized, the conformation of the different shores seconding the decision of antiquarians. here, too, are sestos and abydos, of passionate and poetic memory. but as the sun dipped towards the sea, we passed out of the narrow gateway. on our left lay the plain of troy, backed by the blue range of mount ida. the tamulus of patroclus crowned a low bluff looking on the sea. on the right appeared the long, irregular island of imbros, and the peaks of misty samothrace over and beyond it. tenedos was before us. the red flush of sunset tinged the grand homeric landscape, and lingered and lingered on the summit of ida, as if loth to depart. i paced the deck until long after it was too dark to distinguish it any more. the next morning we dropped anchor in the harbor of smyrna, where we remained five hours. i engaged a donkey, and rode out to the caravan bridge, where the greek driver and i smoked narghilehs and drank coffee in the shade of the acacias. i contrasted my impressions with those of my first visit to smyrna last october--my first glimpse of oriental ground. then, every dog barked at me, and all the horde of human creatures who prey upon innocent travellers ran at my heels, but now, with my brown face and turkish aspect of grave indifference, i was suffered to pass as quietly as my donkey-driver himself. nor did the latter, nor the ready _cafidji_, who filled our pipes on the banks of the meles, attempt to overcharge me--a sure sign that the orient had left its seal on my face. returning through the city, the same mishap befel me which travellers usually experience on their first arrival. my donkey, while dashing at full speed through a crowd of smyrniotes in their sunday dresses, slipped up in a little pool of black mud, and came down with a crash. i flew over his head and alighted firmly on my feet, but the spruce young greeks, whose snowy fustanelles were terribly bespattered, came off much worse. the donkey shied back, levelled his ears and twisted his head on one side, awaiting a beating, but his bleeding legs saved him. we left at two o'clock, touched at scio in the evening, and the next morning at sunrise lay-to in the harbor of syra. the piræus was only twelve hours distant; but after my visitation of fever in constantinople, i feared to encounter the pestilential summer heats of athens. besides, i had reasons for hastening with all speed to italy and germany. at ten o'clock we weighed anchor again and steered southwards, between the groups of the cyclades, under a cloudless sky and over a sea of the brightest blue. the days were endurable under the canvas awning of our quarter-deck, but the nights in our berths were sweat-baths, which left us so limp and exhausted that we were almost fit to vanish, like ghosts, at daybreak. our last glimpse of the morea--cape matapan--faded away in the moonlight, and for _two_ days we travelled westward over the burning sea. on the evening of the th, the long, low outline of malta rose gradually against the last flush of sunset, and in two hours thereafter, we came to anchor in quarantine harbor. the quarantine for travellers returning from the east, which formerly varied from fourteen to twenty-one days, is now reduced to one day for those arriving from greece or turkey, and three days for those from egypt and syria. in our case, it was reduced to sixteen hours, by an official courtesy. i had intended proceeding directly to naples; but by the contemptible trickery of the agents of the french steamers--a long history, which it is unnecessary to recapitulate--am left here to wait ten days for another steamer. it is enough to say that there are six other travellers at the same hotel, some coming from constantinople, and some from alexandria, in the same predicament. because a single ticket to naples costs some thirty or forty francs less than by dividing the trip into two parts, the agents in those cities refuse to give tickets further than malta to those who are not keen enough to see through the deception. i made every effort to obtain a second ticket in time to leave by the branch steamer for italy, but in vain. la valetta is, to my eyes, the most beautiful small city in the world. it is a jewel of a place; not a street but is full of picturesque effects, and all the look-outs, which you catch at every turn, let your eyes rest either upon one of the beautiful harbors on each side, or the distant horizon of the sea. the streets are so clean that you might eat your dinner off the pavement; the white balconies and cornices of the houses, all cleanly cut in the soft maltese stone, stand out in intense relief against the sky, and from the manifold reflections and counter reflections, the shadows (where there are any) become a sort of milder light. the steep sides of the promontory, on which the city is built, are turned into staircases, and it is an inexhaustible pastime to watch the groups, composed of all nations who inhabit the shores of the mediterranean, ascending and descending. the auberges of the old knights, the palace of the grand master, the church of st. john, and other relics of past time, but more especially the fortifications, invest the place with a romantic interest, and i suspect that, after venice and granada, there are few cities where the middle ages have left more impressive traces of their history. the maltese are contented, and appear to thrive under the english administration. they are a peculiar people, reminding me of the arab even more than the italian, while a certain rudeness in their build and motions suggests their punic ancestry. their language is a curious compound of arabic and italian, the former being the basis. i find that i can understand more than half that is said, the arabic terminations being applied to italian words. i believe it has never been successfully reduced to writing, and the restoration of pure arabic has been proposed, with much reason, as preferable to an attempt to improve or refine it. italian is the language used in the courts of justice and polite society, and is spoken here with much more purity than either in naples or sicily. the heat has been so great since i landed that i have not ventured outside of the city, except last evening to an amateur theatre, got up by the non-commissioned officers and privates in the garrison. the performances were quite tolerable, except a love-sick young damsel who spoke with a rough masculine voice, and made long strides across the stage when she rushed into her lover's arms. i am at a loss to account for the exhausting character of the heat. the thermometer shows ° by day, and ° to ° by night--a much lower temperature than i have found quite comfortable in africa and syria. in the desert ° in the shade is rather bracing than otherwise; here, ° renders all exercise, more severe than smoking a pipe, impossible. even in a state of complete inertia, a shirt-collar will fall starchless in five minutes. rather than waste eight more days in this glimmering half-existence, i have taken passage in a maltese _speronara_, which sails this evening for catania, in sicily, where the grand festival of st. agatha, which takes place once in a hundred years, will be celebrated next week. the trip promises a new experience, and i shall get a taste, slight though it be, of the golden trinacria of the ancients. perhaps, after all, this delay which so vexes me (bear in mind, i am no longer in the orient!) may be meant solely for my good. at least, mr. winthrop, our consul here, who has been exceedingly kind and courteous to me, thinks it a rare good fortune that i shall see the catanian festa. chapter xxx. the festival of st. agatha. departure from malta--the speronara--our fellow-passengers--the first night on board--sicily--scarcity of provisions--beating in the calabrian channel--the fourth morning--the gulf of catania--a sicilian landscape--the anchorage--the suspected list--the streets of catania--biography of st. agatha--the illuminations--the procession of the veil--the biscari palace--the antiquities of catania--the convent of st. nicola. "the morn is full of holiday, loud bells with rival clamors ring from every spire; cunningly-stationed music dies and swells in echoing places; when the winds respire, light flags stream out like gauzy tongues of fire."--keats. catania, sicily, _friday_, _august_ , . i went on board the _speronara_ in the harbor of la valetta at the appointed hour ( p.m.), and found the remaining sixteen passengers already embarked. the captain made his appearance an hour later, with our bill of health and passports, and as the sun went down behind the brown hills of the island, we passed the wave-worn rocks of the promontory, dividing the two harbors, and slowly moved off towards sicily. the maltese _speronara_ resembles the ancient roman galley more than any modern craft. it has the same high, curved poop and stern, the same short masts and broad, square sails. the hull is too broad for speed, but this adds to the security of the vessel in a gale. with a fair wind, it rarely makes more than eight knots an hour, and in a calm, the sailors (if not too lazy) propel it forward with six long oars. the hull is painted in a fanciful style, generally blue, red, green and white, with bright red masts. the bulwarks are low, and the deck of such a convexity that it is quite impossible to walk it in a heavy sea. such was the vessel to which i found myself consigned. it was not more than fifty feet long, and of less capacity than a nile _dahabiyeh_. there was a sort of deck cabin, or crib, with two berths, but most of the passengers slept in the hold. for a passage to catania i was obliged to pay forty francs, the owner swearing that this was the regular price; but, as i afterwards discovered, the maltese only paid thirty-six francs for the whole trip. however, the captain tried to make up the money's worth in civilities, and was incessant in his attentions to "your lordships," as he styled myself and my companion, cæsar di cagnola, a young milanese. the maltese were tailors and clerks, who were taking a holiday trip to witness the great festival of st. agatha. with two exceptions, they were a wild and senseless, though good-natured set, and in spite of sea-sickness, which exercised them terribly for the first two days, kept up a constant jabber in their bastard arabic from morning till night. as is usual in such a company, one of them was obliged to serve as a butt for the rest, and "maestro paolo," as they termed him, wore such a profoundly serious face all the while, from his sea-sickness, that the fun never came to an end. as they were going to a religious festival, some of them had brought their breviaries along with them; but i am obliged to testify that, after the first day, prayers were totally forgotten. the sailors, however, wore linen bags, printed with a figure of the madonna, around their necks. the sea was rather rough, but cæsar and i fortified our stomachs with a bottle of english ale, and as it was dark by this time, sought our resting-places for the night. as we had paid double, _places_ were assured us in the coop on deck, but beds were not included in the bargain. the maltese, who had brought mattresses and spread a large phalansteriau bed in the hold, fared much better. i took one of my carpet bags for a pillow and lay down on the planks, where i succeeded in getting a little sleep between the groans of the helpless land-lubbers. we had the _ponente_, or west-wind, all night, but the speronara moved sluggishly, and in the morning it changed to the _greco-levante,_ or north-east. no land was in sight; but towards noon, the sky became clearer, and we saw the southern coast of sicily--a bold mountain-shore, looming phantom-like in the distance. cape passaro was to the east, and the rest of the day was spent in beating up to it. at sunset, we were near enough to see the villages and olive-groves of the beautiful shore, and, far behind the nearer mountains, ninety miles distant, the solitary cone of etna. the second night passed like the first, except that our bruised limbs were rather more sensitive to the texture of the planks. we crawled out of our coop at dawn, expecting to behold catania in the distance; but there was cape passaro still staring us in the face. the maltese were patient, and we did not complain, though cæsar and i began to make nice calculations as to the probable duration of our two cold fowls and three loaves of bread. the promontory of syracuse was barely visible forty miles ahead; but the wind was against us, and so another day passed in beating up the eastern coast. at dusk, we overtook another speronara which had left malta two hours before us, and this was quite a triumph to our captain, all the oars were shipped, the sailors and some of the more courageous passengers took hold, and we shot ahead, scudding rapidly along the dark shores, to the sound of the wild maltese songs. at length, the promontory was gained, and the restless current, rolling down from scylla and charybdis, tossed our little bark from wave to wave with a recklessness that would have made any one nervous but an old sailor like myself. "to-morrow morning," said the captain, "we shall sail into catania;" but after a third night on the planks, which were now a little softer, we rose to find ourselves abreast of syracuse, with etna as distant as ever. the wind was light, and what little we made by tacking was swept away by the current, so that, after wasting the whole forenoon, we kept a straight course across the mouth of the channel, and at sunset saw the calabrian mountains. this move only lost us more ground, as it happened. cæsar and i mournfully and silently consumed our last fragment of beef, with the remaining dry crusts of bread, and then sat down doggedly to smoke and see whether the captain would discover our situation. but no; while we were supplied, the whole vessel was at our lordships' command, and now that we were destitute, he took care to make no rash offers. cæsar, at last, with an imperial dignity becoming his name, commanded dinner. it came, and the pork and maccaroni, moistened with red sicilian wine, gave us patience for another day. the fourth morning dawned, and--great neptune be praised!--we were actually within the gulf of catania. etna loomed up in all his sublime bulk, unobscured by cloud or mist, while a slender jet of smoke, rising from his crater, was slowly curling its wreaths in the clear air, as if happy to receive the first beam of the sun. the towers of syracuse, which had mocked us all the preceding day, were no longer visible; the land-locked little port of augusta lay behind us; and, as the wind continued favorable, ere long we saw a faint white mark at the foot of the mountain. this was catania. the shores of the bay were enlivened with olive-groves and the gleam of the villages, while here and there a single palm dreamed of its brothers across the sea. etna, of course, had the monarch's place in the landscape, but even his large, magnificent outlines could not usurp all my feeling. the purple peaks to the westward and farther inland, had a beauty of their own, and in the gentle curves with which they leaned towards each other, there was a promise of the flowery meadows of enna. the smooth blue water was speckled with fishing-boats. we hailed one, inquiring when the _festa_ was to commence; but, mistaking our question, they answered: "anchovies." thereupon, a waggish maltese informed them that maestro paolo thanked them heartily. all the other boats were hailed in the name of maestro paolo, who, having recovered from his sea-sickness, took his bantering good-humoredly. catania presented a lovely picture, as we drew near the harbor. planted at the very foot of etna, it has a background such as neither naples nor genoa can boast. the hills next the sea are covered with gardens and orchards, sprinkled with little villages and the country palaces of the nobles--a rich, cultured landscape, which gradually merges into the forests of oak and chestnut that girdle the waist of the great volcano. but all the wealth of southern vegetation cannot hide the footsteps of that ruin, which from time to time visits the soil. half-way up, the mountain-side is dotted with cones of ashes and cinders, some covered with the scanty shrubbery which centuries have called forth, some barren and recent; while two dark, winding streams of sterile lava descend to the very shore, where they stand congealed in ragged needles and pyramids. part of one of these black floods has swept the town, and, tumbling into the sea, walls one side of the port. we glided slowly past the mole, and dropped anchor a few yards from the shore. there was a sort of open promenade planted with trees, in front of us, surrounded with high white houses, above which rose the dome of the cathedral and the spires of other churches. the magnificent palace of prince biscari was on our right, and at its foot the customs and revenue offices. every roof, portico, and window was lined with lamps, a triumphal arch spanned the street before the palace, and the landing-place at the offices was festooned with crimson and white drapery, spangled with gold. while we were waiting permission to land, a scene presented itself which recalled the pagan days of sicily to my mind. a procession came in sight from under the trees, and passed along the shore. in the centre was borne a stately shrine, hung with garlands, and containing an image of st. agatha. the sound of flutes and cymbals accompanied it, and a band of children, bearing orange and palm branches, danced riotously before. had the image been pan instead of st. agatha, the ceremonies would have been quite as appropriate. the speronara's boat at last took us to the gorgeous landing place, where we were carefully counted by a fat sicilian official, and declared free from quarantine. we were then called into the passport office where the maltese underwent a searching examination. one of the officers sat with the black book, or list of suspected persons of all nations, open before him, and looked for each name as it was called out. another scanned the faces of the frightened tailors, as if comparing them with certain revolutionary visages in his mind. terrible was the keen, detective glance of his eye, and it went straight through the poor maltese, who vanished with great rapidity when they were declared free to enter the city. at last, they all passed the ordeal, but cæsar and i remained, looking in at the door. "there are still these two frenchmen," said the captain. "i am no frenchman," i protested; "i am an american." "and i," said cæsar, "am an austrian subject." thereupon we received a polite invitation to enter; the terrible glance softened into a benign, respectful smile; he of the black book ran lightly over the c's and t's, and said, with a courteous inclination: "there is nothing against the signori." i felt quite relieved by this; for, in the mediterranean, one is never safe from spies, and no person is too insignificant to escape the ban, if once suspected. calabria was filled to overflowing with strangers from all parts of the two sicilies, and we had some difficulty in finding very bad and dear lodgings. it was the first day of the _festa,_ and the streets were filled with peasants, the men in black velvet jackets and breeches, with stockings, and long white cotton caps hanging on the shoulders, and the women with gay silk shawls on their heads, after the manner of the mexican _reboza_. in all the public squares, the market scene in masaniello was acted to the life. the sicilian dialect is harsh and barbarous, and the original italian is so disguised by the admixture of arabic, spanish, french, and greek words, that even my imperial friend, who was a born italian, had great difficulty in understanding the people. i purchased a guide to the festa, which, among other things, contained a biography of st. agatha. it is a beautiful specimen of pious writing, and i regret that i have not space to translate the whole of it. agatha was a beautiful catanian virgin, who secretly embraced christianity during the reign of nero. catania was then governed by a prætor named quintianus, who, becoming enamored of agatha, used the most brutal means to compel her to submit to his desires, but without effect. at last, driven to the cruelest extremes, he cut off her breasts, and threw her into prison. but at midnight, st. peter, accompanied by an angel, appeared to her, restored the maimed parts, and left her more beautiful than ever. quintianus then ordered a furnace to be heated, and cast her therein. a terrible earthquake shook the city; the sun was eclipsed; the sea rolled backwards, and left its bottom dry; the prætor's palace fell in ruins, and he, pursued by the vengeance of the populace, fled till he reached the river simeto, where he was drowned in attempting to cross. "the thunders of the vengeance of god," says the biography, "struck him down into the profoundest hell." this was in the year . the body was carried to constantinople in , "although the catanians wept incessantly at their loss;" but in , two french knights, named gilisbert and goselin, were moved by angelic influences to restore it to its native town, which they accomplished, "and the eyes of the catanians again burned with joy." the miracles effected by the saint are numberless, and her power is especially efficacious in preventing earthquakes and eruptions of mount etna. nevertheless, catania has suffered more from these causes than any other town in sicily. but i would that all saints had as good a claim to canonization as st. agatha. the honors of such a festival as this are not out of place, when paid to such youth, beauty, and "heavenly chastity," as she typifies. the guide, which i have already consulted, gives a full account of the festa, in advance, with a description of catania. the author says: "if thy heart is not inspired by gazing on this lovely city, it is a fatal sign--thou wert not born to feel the sweet impulses of the beautiful!" then, in announcing the illuminations and pyrotechnic displays, he exclaims: "oh, the amazing spectacle! oh, how happy art thou, that thou beholdest it! i what pyramids of lamps! what myriads of rockets! what wonderful temples of flame! the mountain himself is astonished at such a display." and truly, except the illumination of the golden horn on the night of predestination, i have seen nothing equal to the spectacle presented by catania, during the past three nights. the city, which has been built up from her ruins more stately than ever, was in a blaze of light--all her domes, towers, and the long lines of her beautiful palaces revealed in the varying red and golden flames of a hundred thousand lamps and torches. pyramids of fire, transparencies, and illuminated triumphal arches filled the four principal streets, and the fountain in the cathedral square gleamed like a jet of molten silver, spinning up from one of the pores of etna. at ten o'clock, a gorgeous display of fireworks closed the day's festivities, but the lamps remained burning nearly all night. on the second night, the grand procession of the veil took place. i witnessed this imposing spectacle from the balcony of prince gessina's palace. long lines of waxen torches led the way, followed by a military band, and then a company of the highest prelates, in their most brilliant costumes, surrounding the bishop, who walked under a canopy of silk and gold, bearing the miraculous veil of st. agatha. i was blessed with a distant view of it, but could see no traces of the rosy hue left upon it by the flames of the saint's martyrdom. behind the priests came the _intendente_ of sicily, gen. filangieri, the same who, three years ago, gave up catania to sack and slaughter. he was followed by the senate of the city, who have just had the cringing cowardice to offer him a ball on next sunday night. if ever a man deserved the vengeance of an outraged people, it is this filangieri, who was first a liberal, when the cause promised success, and then made himself the scourge of the vilest of kings. as he passed me last night in his carriage of state, while the music pealed in rich rejoicing strains, that solemn chant with which the monks break upon the revellers, in "lucrezia borgia," came into my mind: "la gioja del profani 'e un fumo passagier'--" [the rejoicing of the profane is a transitory mist.] i heard, under the din of all these festivities, the voice of that retribution which even now lies in wait, and will not long be delayed. to-night signor scavo, the american vice-consul, took me to the palace of prince biscari, overlooking the harbor, in order to behold the grand display of fireworks from the end of the mole. the showers of rockets and colored stars, and the temples of blue and silver fire, were repeated in the dark, quiet bosom of the sea, producing the most dazzling and startling effects. there was a large number of the catanese nobility present, and among them a marchesa gioveni, the descendant of the bloody house of anjou. prince biscari is a benign, courtly old man, and greatly esteemed here. his son is at present in exile, on account of the part he took in the late revolution. during the sack of the city under filangieri, the palace was plundered of property to the amount of ten thousand dollars. the museum of greek and roman antiquities attached to it, and which the house of biscari has been collecting for many years, is probably the finest in sicily. the state apartments were thrown open this evening, and when i left, an hour ago, the greater portion of the guests were going through mazy quadrilles on the mosaic pavements. among the antiquities of catania which i have visited, are the amphitheatre, capable of holding , persons, the old greek theatre, the same in which alcibiades made his noted harangue to the catanians, the odeon, and the ancient baths. the theatre, which is in tolerable preservation, is built of lava, like many of the modern edifices in the city. the baths proved to me, what i had supposed, that the oriental bath of the present day is identical with that of the ancients. why so admirable an institution has never been introduced into europe (except in the _bains chinois_ of paris) is more than i can tell. from the pavement of these baths, which is nearly twenty feet below the surface of the earth, the lava of later eruptions has burst up, in places, in hard black jets. the most wonderful token of that flood which whelmed catania two hundred years ago, is to be seen at the grand benedictine convent of san nicola, in the upper part of the city. here the stream of lava divides itself just before the convent, and flows past on both sides, leaving the building and gardens untouched. the marble courts, the fountains, the splendid galleries, and the gardens of richest southern bloom and fragrance, stand like an epicurean island in the midst of the terrible stony waves, whose edges bristle with the thorny aloe and cactus. the monks of san nicola are all chosen from the sicilian nobility, and live a comfortable life of luxury and vice. each one has his own carriage, horses, and servants, and each his private chambers outside of the convent walls and his kept concubines. these facts are known and acknowledged by the catanians, to whom they are a lasting scandal. it is past midnight, and i must close. cæsar started this afternoon, alone, for the ascent of etna. i would have accompanied him, but my only chance of reaching messina in time for the next steamer to naples is the diligence which leaves here to-morrow. the mountain has been covered with clouds for the last two days, and i have had no view at all comparable to that of the morning of my arrival. to-morrow the grand procession of the body of st. agatha takes place, but i am quite satisfied with three days of processions and horse races, and three nights of illuminations. i leave in the morning, with a sicilian passport, my own availing me nothing, after landing. chapter xxxi. the eruption of mount etna. the mountain threatens--the signs increase--we leave catania--gardens among the lava--etna labors--aci reale--the groans of etna--the eruption--gigantic tree of smoke--formation of the new crater--we lose sight of the mountain--arrival at messina--etna is obscured--departure. -------"the shattered side of thundering Ætna, whose combustible and fuel'd entrails thence conceiving fire, sublimed with mineral fury, aid the winds, and leave a singed bottom." milton. messina, sicily, _monday, august_ , . the noises of the festival had not ceased when i closed my letter at midnight, on friday last. i slept soundly through the night, but was awakened before sunrise by my sicilian landlord. "o, excellenza! have you heard the mountain? he is going to break out again; may the holy santa agatha protect us!" it is rather ill-timed on the part of the mountain, was my involuntary first thought, that he should choose for a new eruption precisely the centennial festival of the only saint who is supposed to have any power over him. it shows a disregard of female influence not at all suited to the present day, and i scarcely believe that he seriously means it. next came along the jabbering landlady: "i don't like his looks. it was just so the last time. come, excellenza, you can see him from the back terrace." the sun was not yet risen, but the east was bright with his coming, and there was not a cloud in the sky. all the features of etna were sharply sculptured in the clear air. from the topmost cone, a thick stream of white smoke was slowly puffed out at short intervals, and rolled lazily down the eastern side. it had a heavy, languid character, and i should have thought nothing of the appearance but for the alarm of my hosts. it was like the slow fire of earth's incense, burning on that grand mountain altar. i hurried off to the post office, to await the arrival of the diligence from palermo. the office is in the strada etnea, the main street of catania, which runs straight through the city, from the sea to the base of the mountain, whose peak closes the long vista. the diligence was an hour later than usual, and i passed the time in watching the smoke which continued to increase in volume, and was mingled, from time to time, with jets of inky blackness. the postilion said he had seen fires and heard loud noises during the night. according to his account, the disturbances commenced about midnight. i could not but envy my friend cæsar, who was probably at that moment on the summit, looking down into the seething fires of the crater. at last, we rolled out of catania. there were in the diligence, besides myself, two men and a woman, sicilians of the secondary class. the road followed the shore, over rugged tracts of lava, the different epochs of which could be distinctly traced in the character of the vegetation. the last great flow (of ) stood piled in long ridges of terrible sterility, barely allowing the aloe and cactus to take root in the hollows between. the older deposits were sufficiently decomposed to nourish the olive and vine; but even here, the orchards were studded with pyramids of the harder fragments, which are laboriously collected by the husbandmen. in the few favored spots which have been untouched for so many ages that a tolerable depth of soil has accumulated, the vegetation has all the richness and brilliancy of tropical lands. the palm, orange, and pomegranate thrive luxuriantly, and the vines almost break under their heavy clusters. the villages are frequent and well built, and the hills are studded, far and near, with the villas of rich proprietors, mostly buildings of one story, with verandahs extending their whole length. looking up towards etna, whose base the road encircles, the views are gloriously rich and beautiful. on the other hand is the blue mediterranean and the irregular outline of the shore, here and there sending forth promontories of lava, cooled by the waves into the most fantastic forms. we had sot proceeded far before a new sign called my attention to the mountain. not only was there a perceptible jar or vibration in the earth, but a dull, groaning sound, like the muttering of distant thunder, began to be heard. the smoke increased in volume, and, as we advanced further to the eastward, and much nearer to the great cone, i perceived that it consisted of two jets, issuing from different mouths. a broad stream of very dense white smoke still flowed over the lip of the topmost crater and down the eastern side. as its breadth did not vary, and the edges were distinctly defined, it was no doubt the sulphureous vapor rising from a river of molten lava. perhaps a thousand yards below, a much stronger column of mingled black and white smoke gushed up, in regular beats or pants, from a depression in the mountain side, between two small, extinct cones. all this part of etna was scarred with deep chasms, and in the bottoms of those nearest the opening, i could see the red gleam of fire. the air was perfectly still, and as yet there was no cloud in the sky. when we stopped to change horses at the town of aci reale, i first felt the violence of the tremor and the awful sternness of the sound. the smoke by this time seemed to be gathering on the side towards catania, and hung in a dark mass about half-way down the mountain. groups of the villagers were gathered in the streets which looked upwards to etna, and discussing the chances of an eruption. "ah," said an old peasant, "the mountain knows how to make himself respected. when he talks, everybody listens." the sound was the most awful that ever met my ears. it was a hard, painful moan, now and then fluttering like a suppressed sob, and had, at the same time, an expression of threatening and of agony. it did not come from etna alone. it had no fixed location; it pervaded all space. it was in the air, in the depths of the sea, in the earth under my feet--everywhere, in fact; and as it continued to increase in violence, i experienced a sensation of positive pain. the people looked anxious and alarmed, although they said it was a good thing for all sicily; that last year they had been in constant fear from earthquakes, and that an eruption invariably left the island quiet for several years. it is true that, during the past year, parts of sicily and calabria have been visited with severe shocks, occasioning much damage to property. a merchant of this city informed me yesterday that his whole family had slept for two months in the vaults of his warehouse, fearing that their residence might be shaken down in the night. as we rode along from aci reale to taormina, all the rattling of the diligence over the rough road could not drown the awful noise. there was a strong smell of sulphur in the air, and the thick pants of smoke from the lower crater continued to increase in strength. the sun was fierce and hot, and the edges of the sulphureous clouds shone with a dazzling whiteness. a mounted soldier overtook us, and rode beside the diligence, talking with the postillion. he had been up to the mountain, and was taking his report to the governor of the district. the heat of the day and the continued tremor of the air lulled me into a sort of doze, when i was suddenly aroused by a cry from the soldier and the stopping of the diligence. at the same time, there was a terrific peal of sound, followed by a jar which must have shaken the whole island. we looked up to etna, which was fortunately in full view before us. an immense mass of snow-white smoke had burst up from the crater and was rising perpendicularly into the air, its rounded volumes rapidly whirling one over the other, yet urged with such impetus that they only rolled outwards after they had ascended to an immense height. it might have been one minute or five--for i was so entranced by this wonderful spectacle that i lost the sense of time--but it seemed instantaneous (so rapid and violent were the effects of the explosion), when there stood in the air, based on the summit of the mountain, a mass of smoke four or five miles high, and shaped precisely like the italian pine tree. words cannot paint the grandeur of this mighty tree. its trunk of columned smoke, one side of which was silvered by the sun, while the other, in shadow, was lurid with red flame, rose for more than a mile before it sent out its cloudy boughs. then parting into a thousand streams, each of which again threw out its branching tufts of smoke, rolling and waving in the air, it stood in intense relief against the dark blue of the sky. its rounded masses of foliage were dazzlingly white on one side, while, in the shadowy depths of the branches, there was a constant play of brown, yellow, and crimson tints, revealing the central shaft of fire. it was like the tree celebrated in the scandinavian sagas, as seen by the mother of harold hardrada--that tree, whose roots pierced through the earth, whose trunk was of the color of blood, and whose branches filled the uttermost corners of the heavens. this outburst seemed to have relieved the mountain, for the tremors were now less violent, though the terrible noise still droned in the air, and earth, and sea. and now, from the base of the tree, three white streams slowly crept into as many separate chasms, against the walls of which played the flickering glow of the burning lava. the column of smoke and flame was still hurled upwards, and the tree, after standing about ten minutes--a new and awful revelation of the active forces of nature--gradually rose and spread, lost its form, and, slowly moved by a light wind (the first that disturbed the dead calm of the day), bent over to the eastward. we resumed our course. the vast belt of smoke at last arched over the strait, here about twenty miles wide, and sank towards the distant calabrian shore. as we drove under it, for some miles of our way, the sun was totally obscured, and the sky presented the singular spectacle of two hemispheres of clear blue, with a broad belt of darkness drawn between them. there was a hot, sulphureous vapor in the air, and showers of white ashes fell, from time to time. we were distant about twelve miles, in a straight line, from the crater; but the air was so clear, even under the shadow of the smoke, that i could distinctly trace the downward movement of the rivers of lava. this was the eruption, at last, to which all the phenomena of the morning had been only preparatory. for the first time in ten years the depths of etna had been stirred, and i thanked god for my detention at malta, and the singular hazard of travel which had brought me here, to his very base, to witness a scene, the impression of which i shall never lose, to my dying day. although the eruption may continue and the mountain pour forth fiercer fires and broader tides of lava, i cannot but think that the first upheaval, which lets out the long-imprisoned forces, will not be equalled in grandeur by any later spectacle. after passing taormina, our road led us under the hills of the coast, and although i occasionally caught glimpses of etna, and saw the reflection of fires from the lava which was filling up his savage ravines, the smoke at last encircled his waist, and he was then shut out of sight by the intervening mountains. we lost a bolt in a deep valley opening on the sea, and during our stoppage i could still hear the groans of the mountain, though farther off and less painful to the ear. as evening came on, the beautiful hills of calabria, with white towns and villages on their sides, gleamed in the purple light of the setting sun. we drove around headland after headland, till the strait opened, and we looked over the harbor of messina to capo faro, and the distant islands of the tyrrhene sea. * * * * * i leave this afternoon for naples and leghorn. i have lost already so much time between constantinople and this place, that i cannot give up ten days more to etna. besides, i am so thoroughly satisfied with what i have seen, that i fear no second view of the eruption could equal it. etna cannot be seen from here, nor from a nearer point than a mountain six or eight miles distant. i tried last evening to get a horse and ride out to it, in order to see the appearance of the eruption by night; but every horse, mule and donkey in the place was engaged, except a miserable lame mule, for which five dollars was demanded. however, the night happened to be cloudy so that i could have seen nothing. my passport is finally _en règle_. it has cost the labors of myself and an able-bodied valet-de-place since yesterday morning, and the expenditure of five dollars and a half, to accomplish this great work. i have just been righteously abusing the neapolitan government to a native merchant whom, from his name, i took to be a frenchman, but as i am off in an hour or two, hope to escape arrest. perdition to all tyranny! chapter xxxii. gibraltar. unwritten links of travel--departure from southampton--the bay of biscay--cintra--trafalgar--gibraltar at midnight--landing--search for a palm-tree--a brilliant morning--the convexity of the earth--sun-worship--the rock. ------"to the north-west, cape st. vincent died away, sunset ran, a burning blood-red, blushing into cadiz bay. in the dimmest north-east distance dawned gibraltar, grand and gray." browning. gibraltar, _saturday, november_ , . i leave unrecorded the links of travel which connected messina and gibraltar. they were over the well-trodden fields of europe, where little ground is left that is not familiar. in leaving sicily i lost the saracenic trail, which i had been following through the east, and first find it again here, on the rock of calpe, whose name, _djebel el-tarik_ (the mountain of tarik), still speaks of the fiery race whose rule extended from the unknown ocean of the west to "ganges and hydaspes, indian streams." in malta and sicily, i saw their decaying watch-towers, and recognized their sign-manual in the deep, guttural, masculine words and expressions which they have left behind them. i now design following their footsteps through the beautiful _belàd-el-andaluz_, which, to the eye of the melek abd-er-rahmàn, was only less lovely than the plains of damascus. while in constantinople, i received letters which opened to me wider and richer fields of travel than i had already traversed. i saw a possibility of exploring the far indian realms, the shores of farthest cathay and the famed zipango of marco polo. before entering on this new sphere of experiences, however, it was necessary for me to visit italy, germany, and england. i sailed from messina to leghorn, and travelled thence, by way of florence, venice, and the tyrol, to munich. after three happy weeks at gotha, and among the valleys of she thüringian forest, i went to london, where business and the preparation for my new journeys detained me two or three weeks longer. although the comforts of european civilization were pleasant, as a change, after the wild life of the orient, the autumnal rains of england soon made me homesick for the sunshine i had left. the weather was cold, dark, and dreary, and the oppressive, sticky atmosphere of the bituminous metropolis weighed upon me like a nightmare. heartily tired of looking at a sun that could show nothing brighter than a red copper disk, and of breathing an air that peppered my face with particles of soot, i left on the th of october. it was one of the dismalest days of autumn; the meadows of berkshire were flooded with broad, muddy streams, and the woods on the hills of hampshire looked brown and sodden, as if slowly rotting away. i reached southampton at dusk, but there the sky was neither warmer nor clearer, so i spent the evening over a coal fire, all impatience for the bright beloved south, towards which my face was turned once more. the _madras_ left on the next day, at p.m., in the midst of a cheerless rain, which half blotted out the pleasant shores of southampton water, and the isle of wight. the _madras_ was a singularly appropriate vessel for one bound on such a journey as mine. the surgeon was dr. mungo park, and one of my room-mates was mr. r. crusoe. it was a friday, which boded no good for the voyage; but then my journey commenced with my leaving london the day previous, and thursday is a lucky day among the arabs. i caught a watery view of the gray cliffs of the needles, when dinner was announced, but many were those (and i among them) who commenced that meal, and did not stay to finish it. is there any piece of water more unreasonably, distressingly, disgustingly rough and perverse than the british channel? yes: there is one, and but one--the bay of biscay. and as the latter succeeds the former, without a pause between, and the head-winds never ceased, and the rain continually poured, i leave you to draw the climax of my misery. four days and four nights in a berth, lying on your back, now dozing dull hour after hour, now making faint endeavors to eat, or reading the feeblest novel ever written, because the mind cannot digest stronger aliment--can there be a greater contrast to the wide-awake life, the fiery inspiration, of the orient? my blood became so sluggish and my mind so cloudy and befogged, that i despaired of ever thinking clearly or feeling vividly again. "the winds are rude" in biscay, byron says. they are, indeed: very rude. they must have been raised in some most disorderly quarter of the globe. they pitched the waves right over our bulwarks, and now and then dashed a bucketful of water down the cabin skylight, swamping the ladies' cabin, and setting scores of bandboxes afloat. not that there was the least actual danger; but mrs. ---- would not be persuaded that we were not on the brink of destruction, and wrote to friends at home a voluminous account of her feelings. there was an irishman on board, bound to italy, with his sister. it was his first tour, and when asked why he did not go direct, through france, he replied, with brotherly concern, that he was anxious his sister should see the bay of biscay. this youth's perceptions were of such an emerald hue, that a lot of wicked englishmen had their own fun out of him. the other day, he was trying to shave, to the great danger of slicing off his nose, as the vessel was rolling fearfully. "why don't you have the ship headed to the wind?" said one of the englishmen, who heard his complaints; "she will then lie steady, and you can shave beautifully." thereupon the irishman sent one of the stewards upon deck with a polite message to the captain, begging him to put the vessel about for five minutes. towards noon of the fifth day, we saw the dark, rugged mountains that guard the north-western corner of the spanish peninsula. we passed the bay of corunna, and rounding the bold headland of finisterre, left the biscayan billows behind us. but the sea was still rough and the sky clouded, although the next morning the mildness of the air showed the change in our latitude. about noon that day, we made the burlings, a cluster of rocks forty miles north of lisbon, and just before sunset, a transient lifting of the clouds revealed the rock of cintra, at the mouth of the tagus. the tall, perpendicular cliffs, and the mountain slopes behind, covered with gardens, orchards, and scattered villas and hamlets, made a grand though dim picture, which was soon hidden from our view. on the th, we were nearly all day crossing the mouth of the bay of cadiz, and only at sunset saw cape trafalgar afar off, glimmering through the reddish haze. i remained on deck, as there were patches of starlight in the sky. after passing the light-house at tarifa, the spanish shore continued to be visible. in another hour, there was a dim, cloudy outline high above the horizon, on our right. this was the lesser atlas, in morocco. and now, right ahead, distinctly visible, though fifteen miles distant, lay a colossal lion, with his head on his outstretched paws, looking towards africa. if i had been brought to the spot blindfolded, i should have known what it was. the resemblance is certainly very striking, and the light-house on europa point seemed to be a lamp held in his paws. the lights of the city and fortifications rose one by one, glittering along the base, and at midnight we dropped anchor before them on the western side. i landed yesterday morning. the mists, which had followed me from england, had collected behind the rock, and the sun, still hidden by its huge bulk, shone upwards through them, making a luminous background, against which the lofty walls and jagged ramparts of this tremendous natural fortification were clearly defined. i announced my name, and the length of time i designed remaining, at a little office on the quay, and was then allowed to pass into the city. a number of familiar white turbans met me on entering, and i could not resist the temptation of cordially saluting the owners in their own language. the town is long and narrow, lying steeply against the rock. the houses are white, yellow and pink, as in spanish towns, but the streets are clean and well paved. there is a square, about the size of an ordinary building-lot, where a sort of market of dry goods and small articles is held the "club-house hotel" occupies one side of it; and, as i look out of my window upon it, i see the topmost cliffs of the rock above me, threatening to topple down from a height of , feet. my first walk in gibraltar was in search of a palm-tree. after threading the whole length of the town, i found two small ones in a garden, in the bottom of the old moat. the sun was shining, and his rays seemed to fall with double warmth on their feathery crests. three brown spaniards, bare-armed, were drawing water with a pole and bucket, and filling the little channels which conveyed it to the distant vegetables. the sea glittered blue below; an indian fig-tree shaded me; but, on the rock behind, an aloe lifted its blossoming stem, some twenty feet high, into the sunshine. to describe what a weight was lifted from my heart would seem foolish to those who do not know on what little things the whole tone of our spirits sometimes depends. but if an even balance was restored yesterday, the opposite scale kicked the beam this morning. not a speck of vapor blurred the spotless crystal of the sky, as i walked along the hanging paths of the alameda. the sea was dazzling ultra-marine, with a purple lustre; every crag and notch of the mountains across the bay, every shade of brown or gray, or the green of grassy patches, was drawn and tinted with a pencil so exquisitely delicate as almost to destroy the perspective. the white houses of algeciras, five miles off, appeared close at hand: a little toy-town, backed by miniature hills. apes' hill, the ancient abyla, in africa, advanced to meet calpe, its opposing pillar, and atlas swept away to the east ward, its blue becoming paler and paler, till the powers of vision finally failed. from the top of the southern point of the rock, i saw the mountain-shore of spain, as far as malaga, and the snowy top of one of the sierra nevada. looking eastward to the horizon line of the mediterranean, my sight extended so far, in the wonderful clearness of the air, that the convexity of the earth's surface was plainly to be seen. the sea, instead of being a plane, was slightly convex, and the sky, instead of resting upon it at the horizon, curved down beyond it, as the upper side of a horn curves over the lower, when one looks into the mouth. there is none of the many aspects of nature more grand than this, which is so rarely seen, that i believe the only person who has ever described it is humboldt, who saw it, looking from the silla de caraccas over the caribbean sea. it gives you the impression of standing on the edge of the earth, and looking off into space. from the mast-head, the ocean appears either flat or slightly concave, and æronauts declare that this apparent concavity becomes more marked, the higher they ascend. it is only at those rare periods when the air is so miraculously clear as to produce the effect of _no air_--rendering impossible the slightest optical illusion--that our eyes can see things as they really are. so pure was the atmosphere to-day, that, at meridian, the moon, although a thin sickle, three days distant from the sun, shone perfectly white and clear. as i loitered in the alameda, between thick hedges of ever-blooming geraniums, clumps of heliotrope three feet high, and luxuriant masses of ivy, around whose warm flowers the bees clustered and hummed, i could only think of the voyage as a hideous dream. the fog and gloom had been in my own eyes and in my own brain, and now the blessed sun, shining full in my face, awoke me. i am a worshipper of the sun. i took off my hat to him, as i stood there, in a wilderness of white, crimson, and purple flowers, and let him blaze away in my face for a quarter of an hour. and as i walked home with my back to him, i often turned my face from side to side that i might feel his touch on my cheek. how a man can live, who is sentenced to a year's imprisonment, is more than i can understand. but all this (you will say) gives you no picture of gibraltar. the rock is so familiar to all the world, in prints and descriptions, that i find nothing new to say of it, except that it is by no means so barren a rock as the island of malta, being clothed, in many places, with beautiful groves and the greenest turf; besides, i have not yet seen the rock-galleries, having taken passage for cadiz this afternoon. when i return--as i hope to do in twenty days, after visiting seville and granada--i shall procure permission to view all the fortifications, and likewise to ascend to the summit. chapter xxxiii. cadiz and seville. voyage to cadiz--landing--the city--its streets--the women of cadiz--embarkation for seville--scenery of the guadalquivir--custom house examination--the guide--the streets of seville--the giralda--the cathedral of seville--the alcazar-moorish architecture--pilate's house--morning view from the giralda--old wine--murillos--my last evening in seville. "the walls of cadiz front the shore, and shimmer o'er the sea." r. h. stoddard. "beautiful seville! of which i've dreamed, until i saw its towers in every cloud that hid the setting sun." george h. boker. seville, _november_ , . i left gibraltar on the evening of the th, in the steamer iberia. the passage to cadiz was made in nine hours, and we came to anchor in the harbor before day-break. it was a cheerful picture that the rising sun presented to us. the long white front of the city, facing the east, glowed with a bright rosy lustre, on a ground of the clearest blue. the tongue of land on which cadiz stands is low, but the houses are lifted by the heavy sea-wall which encompasses them. the main-land consists of a range of low but graceful hills, while in the south-east the mountains of ronda rise at some distance. i went immediately on shore, where my carpet-bag was seized upon by a boy, with the rich brown complexion of one murillo's beggars, who trudged off with it to the gate. after some little detention there, i was conducted to a long, deserted, barn-like building, where i waited half an hour before the proper officer came. when the latter had taken his private toll of my contraband cigars, the brown imp conducted me to blanco's english hotel, a neat and comfortable house on the alameda. cadiz is soon seen. notwithstanding its venerable age of three thousand years--having been founded by hercules, who figures on its coat-of-arms--it is purely a commercial city, and has neither antiquities, nor historic associations that interest any but englishmen. it is compactly built, and covers a smaller space than accords with my ideas of its former splendor. i first walked around the sea-ramparts, enjoying the glorious look-off over the blue waters. the city is almost insulated, the triple line of fortifications on the land side being of but trifling length. a rocky ledge stretches out into the sea from the northern point, and at its extremity rises the massive light-house tower, feet high. the walls toward the sea were covered with companies of idle anglers, fishing with cane rods of enormous length. on the open, waste spaces between the bastions, boys had spread their limed cords to catch singing birds, with chirping decoys placed here and there in wicker cages. numbers of boatmen and peasants, in their brown jackets, studded with tags and bugles, and those round black caps which resemble smashed bandboxes, loitered about the walls or lounged on the grass in the sun. except along the alameda, which fronts the bay, the exterior of the city has an aspect of neglect and desertion. the interior, however, atones for this in the gay and lively air of its streets, which, though narrow, are regular and charmingly clean. the small plazas are neatness itself, and one is too content with this to ask for striking architectural effects. the houses are tall and stately, of the most dazzling whiteness, and though you could point out no one as a pattern of style, the general effect is chaste and harmonious. in fact, there are two or three streets which you would almost pronounce faultless. the numbers of hanging balconies and of court-yards paved with marble and surrounded with elegant corridors, show the influence of moorish taste. there is not a mean-looking house to be seen, and i have no doubt that cadiz is the best built city of its size in the world. it lies, white as new-fallen snow, like a cluster of ivory palaces, between sea and sky. blue and silver are its colors, and, as everybody knows, there can be no more charming contrast. i visited both the old and new cathedrals, neither of which is particularly interesting. the latter is unfinished, and might have been a fine edifice had the labor and money expended on its construction been directed by taste. the interior, rich as it is in marbles and sculpture, has a heavy, confused effect. the pillars dividing the nave from the side-aisles are enormous composite masses, each one consisting of six corinthian columns, stuck around and against a central shaft. more satisfactory to me was the opera-house, which i visited in the evening, and where the dazzling array of dark-eyed gaditanas put a stop to architectural criticism. the women of cadiz are noted for their beauty and their graceful gait. some of them are very beautiful, it is true; but beauty is not the rule among them. their gait, however, is the most graceful possible, because it is perfectly free and natural. the commonest serving-maid who walks the streets of cadiz would put to shame a whole score of our mincing and wriggling belles. honest old blanco prepared me a cup of chocolate by sunrise next morning, and accompanied me down to the quay, to embark for seville. a furious wind was blowing from the south-east, and the large green waves raced and chased one another incessantly over the surface of the bay. i took a heavy craft, which the boatmen pushed along under cover of the pier, until they reached the end, when the sail was dropped in the face of the wind, and away we shot into the watery tumult. the boat rocked and bounced over the agitated surface, running with one gunwale on the waves, and sheets of briny spray broke over me. i felt considerably relieved when i reached the deck of the steamer, but it was then diversion enough to watch those who followed. the crowd of boats pitching tumultuously around the steamer, jostling against each other, their hulls gleaming with wet, as they rose on the beryl-colored waves, striped with long, curded lines of wind-blown foam, would have made a fine subject for the pencil of achenbach. at last we pushed off, with a crowd of passengers fore and aft, and a pyramid of luggage piled around the smoke-pipe. there was a party of four englishmen on board, and, on making their acquaintance, i found one of them to be a friend to some of my friends--sir john potter, the progressive ex-mayor of manchester. the wind being astern, we ran rapidly along the coast, and in two hours entered the mouth of the guadalquivir. [this name comes from the arabic _wadi el-kebeer_--literally, the great valley.] the shores are a dead flat. the right bank is a dreary forest of stunted pines, abounding with deer and other game; on the left is the dilapidated town of san lucar, whence magellan set sail on his first voyage around the world. a mile further is bonanza, the port of xeres, where we touched and took on board a fresh lot of passengers. thenceforth, for four hours, the scenery of the guadalquivir had a most distressing sameness. the banks were as flat as a board, with here and there a straggling growth of marshy thickets. now and then we passed a herdsman's hut, but there were no human beings to be seen, except the peasants who tended the large flocks of sheep and cattle. a sort of breakfast was served in the cabin, but so great was the number of guests that i had much difficulty in getting anything to eat. the waiters were models of calmness and deliberation. as we approached seville, some low hills appeared on the left, near the river. dazzling white villages were planted at their foot, and all the slopes were covered with olive orchards, while the banks of the stream were bordered with silvery birch trees. this gave the landscape, in spite of the african warmth and brightness of the day, a gray and almost wintry aspect. soon the graceful giralda, or famous tower of seville, arose in the distance; but, from the windings of the river, we were half an hour in reaching the landing-place. one sees nothing of the far-famed beauty of seville, on approaching it. the boat stops below the alameda, where the passengers are received by custom-house officers, who, in my case, did not verify the stories told of them in cadiz. i gave my carpet-bag to a boy, who conducted me along the hot and dusty banks to the bridge over the guadalquivir, where he turned into the city. on passing the gate, two loafer-like guards stopped my baggage, notwithstanding it had already been examined. "what!" said i, "do you examine twice on entering seville?" "yes," answered one; "twice, and even three times;" but added in a lower tone, "it depends entirely on yourself." with that he slipped behind me, and let one hand fall beside my pocket. the transfer of a small coin was dexterously made, and i passed on without further stoppage to the fonda de madrid. sir john potter engaged antonio bailli, the noted guide of seville, who professes to have been the cicerone of all distinguished travellers, from lord byron and washington irving down to owen jones, and i readily accepted his invitation to join the party. bailli is recommended by ford as "fat and good-humored" fat he certainly is, and very good-humored when speaking of himself, but he has been rather spoiled by popularity, and is much too profuse in his critical remarks on art and architecture. nevertheless, as my stay in seville is limited, i have derived no slight advantage from his services. on the first morning i took an early stroll through the streets. the houses are glaringly white, like those of cadiz, but are smaller and have not the same stately exteriors. the windows are protected by iron gratings, of florid patterns, and, as many of these are painted green, the general effect is pleasing. almost every door opens upon a _patio_, or courtyard, paved with black and white marble and adorned with flowers and fountains. many of these remain from the time of the moors, and are still surrounded by the delicate arches and brilliant tile-work of that period. the populace in the streets are entirely spanish--the jaunty _majo_ in his queer black cap, sash, and embroidered jacket, and the nut-brown, dark-eyed damsel, swimming along in her mantilla, and armed with the irresistible fan. we went first to the cathedral, built on the site of the great mosque of abou youssuf yakoub. the tall giralda beckoned to us over the tops of the intervening buildings, and finally a turn in the street brought us to the ancient moorish gateway on the northern side. this is an admirable specimen of the horse-shoe arch, and is covered with elaborate tracery. it originally opened into the court, or _hàram_, of the mosque, which still remains, and is shaded by a grove of orange trees. the giralda, to my eye, is a more perfect tower than the campanile of florence, or that of san marco, at venice, which is evidently an idea borrowed from it. the moorish structure, with a base of fifty feet square, rises to the height of two hundred and fifty feet. it is of a light pink color, and the sides, which are broken here and there by exquisitely proportioned double saracenic arches, are covered from top to bottom with arabesque tracery, cut in strong relief. upon this tower, a spanish architect has placed a tapering spire, one hundred feet high, which fortunately harmonizes with the general design, and gives the crowning grace to the work. the cathedral of seville may rank as one of the grandest gothic piles in europe. the nave lacks but five feet of being as high as that of st. peter's, while the length and breadth of the edifice are on a commensurate scale. the ninety-three windows of stained glass fill the interior with a soft and richly-tinted light, mellower and more gentle than the sombre twilight of the gothic cathedrals of europe. the wealth lavished on the smaller chapels and shrines is prodigious, and the high altar, inclosed within a gilded railing fifty feet high, is probably the most enormous mass of wood-carving in existence. the cathedral, in fact, is encumbered with its riches. while they bewilder you as monuments of human labor and patience, they detract from the grand simplicity of the building. the great nave, on each side of the transept, is quite blocked up, so that the choir and magnificent royal chapel behind it have almost the effect of detached edifices. we returned again this morning, remaining two hours, and succeeded in making a thorough survey, including a number of trashy pictures and barbarously rich shrines. murillo's "guardian angel" and the "vision of st. antonio" are the only gems. the treasury contains a number of sacred vessels of silver, gold and jewels--among other things, the keys of moorish seville, a cross made of the first gold brought from the new-world by columbus, and another from that robbed in mexico by cortez. the cathedral won my admiration more and more. the placing of the numerous windows, and their rich coloring, produce the most glorious effects of light in the lofty aisles, and one is constantly finding new vistas, new combinations of pillar, arch and shrine. the building is in itself a treasury of the grandest gothic pictures. from the cathedral we went to the alcazar _(el-kasr),_ or palace of the moorish kings. we entered by a long passage, with round arches on either side, resting on twin pillars, placed at right angles to the line of the arch, as one sees both in saracenic and byzantine structures. finally, old bailli brought us into a dull, deserted court-yard, where we were surprised by the sight of an entire moorish façade, with its pointed arches, its projecting roof, its rich sculptured ornaments and its illuminations of red, blue, green and gold. it has been lately restored, and now rivals in freshness and brilliancy any of the rich houses of damascus. a doorway, entirely too low and mean for the splendor of the walls above it, admitted us into the first court. on each side of the passage are the rooms of the guard and the moorish nobles. within, all is pure saracenic, and absolutely perfect in its grace and richness. it is the realization of an oriental dream; it is the poetry and luxury of the east in tangible forms. where so much depends on the proportion and harmony of the different parts--on those correspondences, the union of which creates that nameless soul of the work, which cannot be expressed in words--it is useless to describe details. from first to last--the chambers of state; the fringed arches; the open tracery, light and frail as the frost-stars crystallized on a window-pane; the courts, fit to be vestibules to paradise; the audience-hall, with its wondrous sculptures, its columns and pavement of marble, and its gilded dome; the garden, gorgeous with its palm, banana, and orange-trees--all were in perfect keeping, all jewels of equal lustre, forming a diadem which still lends a royal dignity to the phantom of moorish power. we then passed into the gardens laid out by the spanish monarchs--trim, mathematical designs, in box and myrtle, with concealed fountains springing up everywhere unawares in the midst of the paven walks; yet still made beautiful by the roses and jessamines that hung in rank clusters over the marble balustrades, and by the clumps of tall orange trees, bending to earth under the weight of their fruitage. we afterward visited pilate's house, as it is called--a fine spanish-moresco palace, now belonging to the duke of medina coeli. it is very rich and elegant, but stands in the same relation to the alcazar as a good copy does to the original picture. the grand staircase, nevertheless, is a marvel of tile work, unlike anything else in seville, and exhibits a genius in the invention of elaborate ornamental patterns, which is truly wonderful. a number of workmen were busy in restoring the palace, to fit it for the residence of the young duke. the moorish sculptures are reproduced in plaster, which, at least, has a better effect than the fatal whitewash under which the original tints of the alcazar are hidden. in the courts stand a number of roman busts--spanish antiquities, and therefore not of great merit--singularly out of place in niches surrounded by arabic devices and sentences from the koran. this morning, i climbed the giralda. the sun had just risen, and the clay was fresh and crystal-clear. a little door in the cathedral, near the foot of the tower, stood open, and i entered. a rather slovenly sevillaña had just completed her toilet, but two children were still in undress. however, she opened a door in the tower, and i went up without hindrance. the ascent is by easy ramps, and i walked four hundred yards, or nearly a quarter of a mile, before reaching the top of the moorish part. the panoramic view was superb. to the east and west, the great valley made a level line on a far-distant horizon. there were ranges of hills in the north and south, and those rising near the city, clothed in a gray mantle of olive-trees, were picturesquely crowned with villages. the guadalquivir, winding in the most sinuous mazes, had no longer a turbid hue; he reflected the blue morning sky, and gleamed brightly between his borders of birch and willow. seville sparkled white and fair under my feet, her painted towers and tiled domes rising thickly out of the mass of buildings. the level sun threw shadows into the numberless courts, permitting the mixture of spanish and moorish architecture to be plainly discerned, even at that height. a thin golden vapor softened the features of the landscape, towards the sun, while, on the opposite side, every object stood out in the sharpest and clearest outlines. on our way to the muséo, bailli took us to the house of a friend of his, in order that we might taste real manzanilla wine. this is a pale, straw-colored vintage, produced in the valley of the guadalquivir. it is flavored with camomile blossoms, and is said to be a fine tonic for weak stomachs. the master then produced a dark-red wine, which he declared to be thirty years old. it was almost a syrup in consistence, and tasted more of sarsaparilla than grapes. none of us relished it, except bailli, who was so inspired by the draught, that he sang us two moorish songs and an andalusian catch, full of fun and drollery. the muséo contains a great amount of bad pictures, but it also contains twenty-three of murillo's works, many of them of his best period. to those who have only seen his tender, spiritual "conceptions" and "assumptions," his "vision of st. francis" in this gallery reveals a mastery of the higher walks of his art, which they would not have anticipated. but it is in his "cherubs" and his "infant christs" that he excels. no one ever painted infantile grace and beauty with so true a pencil. there is but one velasquez in the collection, and the only thing that interested me, in two halls filled with rubbish, was a "conception" by murillo's mulatto pupil, said by some to have been his slave. although an imitation of the great master, it is a picture of much sweetness and beauty. there is no other work of the artist in existence, and this, as the only production of the kind by a painter of mixed african blood, ought to belong to the republic of liberia. among the other guests at the fonda de madrid is mr. thomas hobhouse, brother of byron's friend. we had a pleasant party in the court this evening, listening to blind pépé, who sang to his guitar a medley of merry andalusian refrains. singing made the old man courageous, and, at the close, he gave us the radical song of spain, which is now strictly prohibited. the air is charming, but too gay; one would sooner dance than fight to its measures. it does not bring the hand to the sword, like the glorious marseillaise. _adios_, beautiful seville! chapter xxxiv. journey in a spanish diligence. spanish diligence lines--leaving seville--an unlucky start--alcalà of the bakers--dinner at carmona--a dehesa--the mayoral and his team--ecija--night journey--cordova--the cathedral-mosque--moorish architecture--the sierra morena--a rainy journey--a chapter of accidents--baylen--the fascination of spain--jaen--the vega of granada. granada, _november_ , . it is an enviable sensation to feel for the first time that you are in granada. no amount of travelling can weaken the romantic interest which clings about this storied place, or take away aught from the freshness of that emotion with which you first behold it, i sit almost at the foot of the alhambra, whose walls i can see from my window, quite satisfied for to-day with being here. it has been raining since i arrived, the thunder is crashing overhead, and the mountains are covered with clouds, so i am kept in-doors, with the luxury of knowing that all the wonders of the place are within my reach. and now let me beguile the dull weather by giving you a sketch of my journey from seville hither. there are three lines of stages from seville to madrid, and their competition has reduced the fare to $ , which, for a ride of miles, is remarkably cheap. the trip is usually made in three days and a half. a branch line from baylen--nearly half-way--strikes southward to granada, and as there is no competition on this part of the road, i was charged $ for a through seat in the _coupé_. on account of the lateness of the season, and the limited time at my command, this was preferable to taking horses and riding across the country from seville to cordova. accordingly, at an early hour on thursday morning last, furnished with a travelling ticket inscribed: "don valtar de talor" (myself!), i took leave of my english friends at the fonda de madrid, got into an immense, lumbering yellow vehicle, drawn by ten mules, and started, trusting to my good luck and bad spanish to get safely through. the commencement, however, was unpropitious, and very often a stumble at starting makes the whole journey limp. the near mule in the foremost span was a horse, ridden by our postillion, and nothing could prevent that horse from darting into all sorts of streets and alleys where we had no desire to go. as all mules have implicit faith in horses, of course the rest of the animals followed. we were half an hour in getting out of seville, and when at last we reached the open road and dashed off at full gallop, one of the mules in the traces fell and was dragged in the dust some twenty or thirty yards before we could stop. my companions in the coupé were a young spanish officer and his pretty andalusian bride, who was making her first journey from home, and after these mishaps was in a state of constant fear and anxiety. the first stage across the valley of the guadalquivir took us to the town of alcalà, which lies in the lap of the hills above the beautiful little river guadaira. it is a picturesque spot; the naked cliffs overhanging the stream have the rich, red hue of cinnabar, and the trees and shrubbery in the meadows, and on the hill-sides are ready grouped to the artist's hand. the town is called alcalà de los panadores (of the bakers) from its hundreds of flour mills and bake-ovens, which supply seville with those white, fine, delicious twists, of which spain may be justly proud. they should have been sent to the exhibition last year, with the toledo blades and the wooden mosaics. we left the place and its mealy-headed population, and turned eastward into wide, rolling tracts, scattered here and there with gnarled olive trees. the soil was loose and sandy, and hedges of aloes lined the road. the country is thinly populated, and very little of it under cultivation. about noon we reached carmona, which was founded by the romans, as, indeed, were nearly all the towns of southern spain. it occupies the crest and northern slope of a high hill, whereon the ancient moorish castle still stands. the alcazar, or palace, and the moorish walls also remain, though in a very ruinous condition. here we stopped to dinner, for the "nueva peninsular," in which i was embarked, has its hotels all along the route, like that of zurutuza, in mexico. we were conducted into a small room adjoining the stables, and adorned with colored prints illustrating the history of don john of austria. the table-cloths, plates and other appendages were of very ordinary quality, but indisputably clean; we seated ourselves, and presently the dinner appeared. first, a vermicelli _pilaff_, which i found palatable, then the national _olla_, a dish of enormous yellow peas, sprinkled with bits of bacon and flavored with oil; then three successive courses of chicken, boiled, stewed and roasted, but in every case done to rags, and without a particle of the original flavor. this was the usual style of our meals on the road, whether breakfast, dinner or supper, except that kid was sometimes substituted for fowl, and that the oil employed, being more or less rancid, gave different flavors to the dishes, a course of melons, grapes or pomegranates wound up the repast, the price of which varied from ten to twelve reals--a real being about a half-dime. in seville, at the fonda de madrid, the cooking is really excellent; but further in the interior, judging from what i have heard, it is even worse than i have described. continuing our journey, we passed around the southern brow of the hill, under the moorish battlements. here a superb view opened to the south and east over the wide vega of carmona, as far as the mountain chain which separates it from the plain of granada. the city has for a coat of arms a silver star in an azure field, with the pompous motto: "as lucifer shines in the morning, so shines carmona in andalusia." if it shines at all, it is because it is a city set upon a hill; for that is the only splendor i could find about the place. the vega of carmona is partially cultivated, and now wears a sombre brown hue, from its tracts of ploughed land. cultivation soon ceased, however, and we entered on a _dehesa_, a boundless plain of waste land, covered with thickets of palmettos. flocks of goats and sheep, guarded by shepherds in brown cloaks, wandered here and there, and except their huts and an isolated house, with its group of palm-trees, there was no sign of habitation. the road was a deep, red sand, and our mules toiled along slowly and painfully, urged by the incessant cries of the _mayoral_, or conductor, and his _mozo_. as the mayoral's whip could only reach the second span, the business of the latter was to jump down every ten minutes, run ahead and belabor the flanks of the foremost mules, uttering at the same time a series of sharp howls, which seemed to strike the poor beasts with quite as much severity as his whip. i defy even a spanish ear to distinguish the import of these cries, and the great wonder was how they could all come out of one small throat. when it came to a hard pull, they cracked and exploded like volleys of musketry, and flew like hail-stones about the ears of the _machos_ (he-mules). the postillion, having only the care of the foremost span, is a silent man, but he has contracted a habit of sleeping in the saddle, which i mention for the benefit of timid travellers, as it adds to the interest of a journey by night. the clouds which had been gathering all day, now settled down upon the plain, and night came on with a dull rain. at eight o'clock we reached the city of ecija, where we had two hours' halt and supper. it was so dark and rainy that i saw nothing, not even the classic xenil, the river of granada, which flows through the city on its way to the guadalquivir, the night wore slowly away, and while the _mozo_ drowsed on his post, i caught snatches of sleep between his cries. as the landscape began to grow distinct in the gray, cloudy dawn, we saw before us cordova, with the dark range of the sierra morena rising behind it. this city, once the glory of moorish spain, the capital of the great abd-er-rahman, containing, when in its prime, a million of inhabitants, is now a melancholy wreck. it has not a shadow of the art, science, and taste which then distinguished it, and the only interest it now possesses is from these associations, and the despoiled remnant of its renowned mosque. we crossed the guadalquivir on a fine bridge built on roman foundations, and drove slowly down the one long, rough, crooked street. the diligence stops for an hour, to allow passengers to breakfast, but my first thought was for the cathedral-mosque, _la mezquita_, as it is still called. "it is closed," said the ragged crowd that congregated about us; "you cannot get in until eight o'clock." but i remembered that a silver key will open anything in spain, and taking a mozo as a guide we hurried off as fast as the rough pavements would permit. we had to retrace the whole length of the city, but on reaching the cathedral, found it open. the exterior is low, and quite plain, though of great extent. a moorish gateway admitted me into the original court-yard, or _hàram_, of the mosque, which is planted with orange trees and contains the fountain, for the ablutions of moslem worshippers, in the centre. the area of the mosque proper, exclusive of the court-yard, is about by feet. it was built on the plan of the great mosque of damascus, about the end of the eighth century. the materials--including twelve hundred columns of marble, jasper and porphyry, from the ruins of carthage, and the temples of asia minor---belonged to a christian basilica, of the gothic domination, which was built upon the foundations of a roman temple of janus; so that the three great creeds of the world have here at different times had their seat. the moors considered this mosque as second in holiness to the kaaba of mecca, and made pilgrimages to it from all parts of moslem spain and barbary. even now, although shorn of much of its glory, it surpasses any oriental mosque into which i have penetrated, except st. sophia, which is a christian edifice. all the nineteen original entrances--beautiful horse-shoe arches--are closed, except the central one. i entered by a low door, in one corner of the corridor. a wilderness of columns connected by double arches (one springing above the other, with an opening between), spread their dusky aisles before me in the morning twilight. the eight hundred and fifty shafts of this marble forest formed labyrinths and mazes, which at that early hour appeared boundless, for their long vistas disappeared in the shadows. lamps were burning before distant shrines, and a few worshippers were kneeling silently here and there. the sound of my own footsteps, as i wandered through the ranks of pillars, was all that i heard. in the centre of the wood (for such it seemed) rises the choir, a gaudy and tasteless excrescence added by the christians. even charles v., who laid a merciless hand on the alhambra, reproved the bishop of cordova for this barbarous and unnecessary disfigurement. the sacristan lighted lamps in order to show me the moorish chapels. nothing but the precious materials of which these exquisite structures are composed could have saved them from the holy hands of the inquisition, which intentionally destroyed all the roman antiquities of cordova. here the fringed arches, the lace-like filigrees, the wreathed inscriptions, and the domes of pendent stalactites which enchant you in the alcazar of seville, are repeated, not in stucco, but in purest marble, while the entrance to the "holy of holies" is probably the most glorious piece of mosaic in the world. the pavement of the interior is deeply worn by the knees of the moslem pilgrims, who compassed it seven times, kneeling, as they now do in the kaaba, at mecca. the sides are embroidered with sentences from the koran, in cufic characters, and the roof is in the form of a fluted shell, of a single piece of pure white marble, fifteen feet in diameter. the roof of the vestibule is a wonderful piece of workmanship, formed of pointed arches, wreathed and twined through each other, like basket-work. no people ever wrought poetry into stone so perfectly as the saracens. in looking on these precious relics of an elegant and refined race, i cannot help feeling a strong regret that their kingdom ever passed into other hands. leaving cordova, our road followed the guadalquivir, along the foot of the sierra morena, which rose dark and stern, a barrier to the central table-lands of la mancha. at alcolea, we crossed the river on a noble bridge of black marble, out of all keeping with the miserable road. it rained incessantly, and the scenery through which we passed had a wild and gloomy character. the only tree to be seen was the olive, which covered the hills far and near, the profusion of its fruit showing the natural richness of the soil. this part of the road is sometimes infested with robbers, and once, when i saw two individuals waiting for us in a lonely defile, with gun-barrels thrust out from under their black cloaks, i anticipated a recurrence of a former unpleasant experience. but they proved to be members of the _guardia civil_, and therefore our protectors. the ruts and quagmires, made by the rain, retarded our progress, and it was dark when we reached andujar, fourteen leagues from cordova. to baylen, where i was to quit the diligence, and take another coming down from madrid to granada, was four leagues further. we journeyed on in the dark, in a pouring rain, up and down hill for some hours, when all at once the cries of the mozo ceased, and the diligence came to a dead stop. there was some talk between our conductors, and then the mayoral opened the door and invited us to get out. the postillion had fallen asleep, and the mules had taken us into a wrong road. an attempt was made to turn the diligence, but failed, leaving it standing plump against a high bank of mud. we stood, meanwhile, shivering in the cold and wet, and the fair andalusian shed abundance of tears. fortunately, baylen was close at hand, and, after some delay, two men came with lanterns and escorted us to the _posada_, or inn, where we arrived at midnight. the diligence from madrid, which was due six hours before, had not made its appearance, and we passed the rest of the night in a cold room, fasting, for the meal was only to be served when the other passengers came. at day-break, finally, a single dish of oily meat was vouchsafed to us, and, as it was now certain that some accident had happened, the passengers to madrid requested the _administrador_ to send them on in an extra conveyance. this he refused, and they began to talk about getting up a pronunciamento, when a messenger arrived with the news that the diligence had broken down at midnight, about two leagues off. tools were thereupon dispatched, nine hours after the accident happened, and we might hope to be released from our imprisonment in four or five more. baylen is a wretched place, celebrated for having the first palm-tree which those see who come from madrid, and for the victory gained by castaños over the french forces under dupont, which occasioned the flight of joseph buonaparte from madrid, and the temporary liberation of spain from the french yoke. castaños, who received the title of duke de baylen, and is compared by the spaniards to wellington, died about three months ago. the battle-field i passed in the night; the palm-tree i found, but it is now a mere stump, the leaves having been stripped off to protect the houses of the inhabitants from lightning. our posada had one of them hung at the window. at last, the diligence came, and at three p.m., when i ought to have been in sight of granada, i left the forlorn walls of baylen. my fellow-passengers were a young sprig of the spanish nobility and three chubby-faced nuns. the rest of the journey that afternoon was through a wide, hilly region, entirely bare of trees and habitations, and but partially cultivated. there was something sublime in its very nakedness and loneliness, and i felt attracted to it as i do towards the desert. in fact, although i have seen little fine scenery since leaving seville, have had the worst of weather, and no very pleasant travelling experiences, the country has exercised a fascination over me, which i do not quite understand. i find myself constantly on the point of making a vow to return again. much to my regret, night set in before we reached jaen, the capital of the moorish kingdom of that name. we halted for a short time in the large plaza of the town, where the dash of fountains mingled with the sound of the rain, and the black, jagged outline of a mountain overhanging the place was visible through the storm. all night we journeyed on through the mountains, sometimes splashing through swollen streams, sometimes coming almost to a halt in beds of deep mud. when this morning dawned, we were ascending through wild, stony hills, overgrown with shrubbery, and the driver said we were six leagues from granada. still on, through a lonely country, with now and then a large _venta_, or country inn, by the road-side, and about nine o'clock, as the sky became more clear, i saw in front of us, high up under the clouds, the snow-fields of the sierra nevada. an hour afterwards we were riding between gardens, vineyards, and olive orchards, with the magnificent vega of granada stretching far away on the right, and the vermilion towers of the alhambra crowning the heights before us. chapter xxxv. granada and the alhambra. mateo ximenez, the younger--the cathedral of granada--a monkish miracle--catholic shrines--military cherubs--the royal chapel--the tombs of ferdinand and isabella--chapel of san juan de dios--the albaycin--view of the vega--the generalife--the alhambra--torra de la vela--the walls and towers--a visit to old mateo--the court of the fish-pond--the halls of the alhambra--character of the architecture--hall of the abencerrages--hall of the two sisters--the moorish dynasty in spain. "who has not in granada been, verily, he has nothing seen." _andalusian proverb_. granada, _wednesday, nov._ , . immediately on reaching here, i was set upon by an old gentleman who wanted to act as guide, but the mozo of the hotel put into my hand a card inscribed "don mateo ximenez, guide to the celebrated washington irving," and i dismissed the other applicant. the next morning, as the mozo brought me my chocolate, he said; "señor, _el chico_ is waiting for you." the "little one" turned out to be the son of old mateo, "honest mateo," who still lives up in the alhambra, but is now rather too old to continue his business, except on great occasions. i accepted the young mateo, who spoke with the greatest enthusiasm of mr. irving, avowing that the whole family was devoted to him, in life and death. it was still raining furiously, and the golden darro, which roars in front of the hotel, was a swollen brown flood. i don't wonder that he sometimes threatens, as the old couplet says, to burst up the zacatin, and bear it down to his bride, the xenil. towards noon, the clouds broke away a little, and we sallied out. passing through the gate and square of vivarrambla (may not this name come from the arabic _bob er-raml,_ the "gate of the sand?"), we soon reached the cathedral. this massive structure, which makes a good feature in the distant view of granada, is not at all imposing, near at hand. the interior is a mixture of gothic and roman, glaring with whitewash, and broken, like that of seville, by a wooden choir and two grand organs, blocking up the nave. some of the side chapels, nevertheless, are splendid masses of carving and gilding. in one of them, there are two full-length portraits of ferdinand and isabella, supposed to be by alonzo cano. the cathedral contains some other good pictures by the same master, but all its former treasures were carried off by the french. we next went to the picture gallery, which is in the franciscan convent. there are two small murillos, much damaged, some tolerable alonzo canos, a few common-place pictures by juan de sevilla, and a hundred or more by authors whose names i did not inquire, for a more hideous collection of trash never met my eye. one of them represents a miracle performed by two saints, who cut off the diseased leg of a sick white man, and replace it by the sound leg of a dead negro, whose body is seen lying beside the bed. judging from the ghastly face of the patient, the operation is rather painful, though the story goes that the black leg grew fast, and the man recovered. the picture at least illustrates the absence of "prejudice of color" among the saints. we went into the adjoining church of santo domingo, which has several very rich shrines of marble and gold. a sort of priestly sacristan opened the church of the madonna del rosario---a glittering mixture of marble, gold, and looking-glasses, which has rather a rich effect. the beautiful yellow and red veined marbles are from the sierra nevada. the sacred madonna--a big doll with staring eyes and pink cheeks--has a dress of silver, shaped like an extinguisher, and encrusted with rubies and other precious stones. the utter absence of taste in most catholic shrines is an extraordinary thing. it seems remarkable that a church which has produced so many glorious artists should so constantly and grossly violate the simplest rules of art. the only shrine which i have seen, which was in keeping with the object adored, is that of the virgin, at nazareth, where there is neither picture nor image, but only vases of fragrant flowers, and perfumed oil in golden lamps, burning before a tablet of spotless marble. among the decorations of the chapel, there are a host of cherubs frescoed on the ceiling, and one of them is represented in the act of firing off a blunderbuss. "is it true that the angels carry blunderbusses?" i asked the priest. he shrugged his shoulders with a sort of half-smile, and said nothing. in the cathedral, on the plinths of the columns in the outer aisles, are several notices to the effect that "whoever speaks to women, either in the nave or the aisles, thereby puts himself in danger of excommunication." i could not help laughing, as i read this monkish and yet most _un_monk-like statute. "oh," said mateo, "all that was in the despotic times; it is not so now." a deluge of rain put a stop to my sight-seeing until the next morning, when i set out with mateo to visit the royal chapel. a murder had been committed in the night, near the entrance of the zacatin, and the paving-stones were still red with the blood of the victim. a _funcion_ of some sort was going on in the chapel, and we went into the sacristy to wait. the priests and choristers were there, changing their robes; they saluted me good-humoredly, though there was an expression in their faces that plainly said: "a heretic!" when the service was concluded, i went into the chapel and examined the high altar, with its rude wood-carvings, representing the surrender of granada. the portraits of ferdinand and isabella, cardinal ximenez, gonzalvo of cordova, and king boabdil, are very curious. another tablet represents the baptism of the conquered moors. in the centre of the chapel stand the monuments erected to ferdinand and isabella, and their successors philip l, and maria, by charles v. they are tall catafalques of white marble, superbly sculptured, with the full length effigies of the monarchs upon them. the figures are admirable; that of isabella, especially, though the features are settled in the repose of death, expresses all the grand and noble traits which belonged to her character. the sacristan removed the matting from a part of the floor, disclosing an iron grating underneath, a damp, mouldly smell, significant of death and decay, came up through the opening. he lighted two long waxen tapers, lifted the grating, and i followed him down the narrow steps into the vault where lie the coffins of the catholic sovereigns. they were brought here from the alhambra, in . the leaden sarcophagi, containing the bodies of ferdinand and isabella, lie, side by side, on stone slabs; and as i stood between the two, resting a hand on each, the sacristan placed the tapers in apertures in the stone, at the head and foot. they sleep, as they wished, in their beloved granada, and no profane hand has ever disturbed the repose of their ashes. after visiting the church of san jeronimo, founded by gonzalvo of cordova, i went to the adjoining church and hospital of san juan de dios. a fat priest, washing his hands in the sacristy, sent a boy to show me the chapel of san juan, and the relics. the remains of the saint rest in a silver chest, standing in the centre of a richly-adorned chapel. among the relics is a thorn from the crown of christ, which, as any botanist may see, must have grown on a different plant from the other thorn they show at seville; and neither kind is found in palestine. the true _spina christi_, the nebbuk, has very small thorns; but nothing could be more cruel, as i found when riding through patches of it near jericho. the boy also showed me a tooth of san lorenzo, a crooked brown _bicuspis_, from which i should infer that the saint was rather an ill-favored man. the gilded chapel of san juan is in singular contrast with one of the garments which he wore when living--a cowl of plaited reeds, looking like an old fish basket--which is kept in a glass case. his portrait is also to be seen--a mild and beautiful face, truly that of one who went about doing good. he was a sort of spanish john howard, and deserved canonization, if anybody ever did. i ascended the street of the darro to the albaycin, which we entered by one of the ancient gates. this suburb is still surrounded by the original fortifications, and undermined by the capacious cisterns of the moors. it looks down on granada; and from the crumbling parapets there are superb views over the city, the vega, and its inclosing mountains. the alhambra rose opposite, against the dark-red and purple background of the sierra nevada, and a canopy of heavy rain-clouds rested on all the heights. a fitful gleam of sunshine now and then broke through and wandered over the plain, touching up white towers and olive groves and reaches of the winding xenil, with a brilliancy which suggested the splendor of the whole picture, if once thus restored to its proper light. i could see santa fé in the distance, toward loxa; nearer, and more eastward, the sierra de elvira, of a deep violet color, with the woods of the soto de roma, the duke of wellington's estate, at its base; and beyond it the mountain of parapanda, the weather-guage of granada, still covered with clouds. there is an old granadian proverb which says:--"when parapanda wears his bonnet, it will rain whether god wills it or no." from the chapel of san miguel, above the albaycin, there is a very striking view of the deep gorge of the darro, at one's feet, with the gardens and white walls of the generalife rising beyond, and the silla del moro and the mountain of the sun towering above it. the long, irregular lines of the alhambra, with the huge red towers rising here and there, reminded me somewhat of a distant view of karnak; and, like karnak, the alhambra is picturesque from whatever point it is viewed. we descended through wastes of cactus to the darro, in whose turbid stream a group of men were washing for gold. i watched one of them, as he twirled his bowl in precisely the california style, but got nothing for his pains. mateo says that they often make a dollar a day, each. passing under the tower of comares and along the battlements of the alhambra, we climbed up to the generalife. this charming villa is still in good preservation, though its exquisite filigree and scroll-work have been greatly injured by whitewash. the elegant colonnades surround gardens rich in roses, myrtles and cypresses, and the fountains that lulled the moorish kings in their summer idleness still pour their fertilizing streams. in one of the rooms is a small and bad portrait gallery, containing a supposed portrait of boabdil. it is a mild, amiable face, but wholly lacks strength of character. to-day i devoted to the alhambra. the storm, which, as the people say, has not been equalled for several years, showed no signs of breaking up, and in the midst of a driving shower i ascended to the vermilion towers, which are supposed to be of phoenician origin. they stand on the extremity of a long, narrow ledge, which stretches out like an arm from the hill of the alhambra. the _paséo_ lies between, and is shaded by beautiful elms, which the moors planted. i entered the alhambra by the gate of justice, which is a fine specimen of moorish architecture, though of common red brick and mortar. it is singular what a grace the horse-shoe arch gives to the most heavy and lumbering mass of masonry. the round arches of the christian edifices of granada seem tame and inelegant, in comparison. over the arch of the vestibule of this gate is the colossal hand, and over the inner entrance the key, celebrated in the tales of washington irving and the superstitions of the people. i first ascended the torre de la vela, where the christian flag was first planted on the d of january, . the view of the vega and city of granada was even grander than from the albaycin. parapanda was still bonneted in clouds, but patches of blue sky began to open above the mountains of loxa. a little boy accompanied us, to see that i did not pull the bell, the sound of which would call together all the troops in the city. while we stood there, the funeral procession of the man murdered two nights before came up the street of gomerez, and passed around the hill under the vermilion towers. i made the circuit of the walls before entering the palace. in the place of the cisterns, i stopped to take a drink of the cool water of the darro, which is brought thither by subterranean channels from the hills. then, passing the ostentatious pile commenced by charles v., but which was never finished, and never will be, nor ought to be, we walked along the southern ramparts to the tower of the seven floors, amid the ruins of winch i discerned the top of the arch by which the unfortunate boabdil quitted granada, and which was thenceforth closed for ever. in the tower of the infantas, a number of workmen were busy restoring the interior, which has been cruelly damaged. the brilliant _azulejo_, or tile-work, the delicate arches and filigree sculpture of the walls, still attest its former elegance, and give some color to the tradition that it was the residence of the moorish princesses. as we passed through the little village which still exists among the ruins of the fortress, mateo invited me to step in and see his father, the genuine "honest mateo," immortalized in the "tales of the alhambra." the old man has taken up the trade of silk-weaving, and had a number of gay-colored ribbons on his loom. he is more than sixty years old and now quite gray-headed, but has the same simple manners, the same honest face that attracted his temporary master. he spoke with great enthusiasm of mr. irving, and brought out from a place of safety the "alhambra" and the "chronicles of the conquest," which he has carefully preserved. he then produced an andalusian sash, the work of his own hands, which he insisted on binding around my waist, to see how it would look. i must next take off my coat and hat, and put on his sunday jacket and jaunty sombrero. "_por dios_!" he exclaimed: "_que buen mozo_! senor, you are a legitimate andalusian!" after this, of course, i could do no less than buy the sash. "you must show it to washington irving," said he, "and tell him it was made by mateo's own hands;" which i promised. i must then go into the kitchen, and eat a pomegranate from his garden--a glorious pomegranate, with kernels of crimson, and so full of blood that you could not touch them but it trickled through your fingers. el marques, a sprightly dog, and a great slate-colored cat, took possession of my legs, and begged for a share of every mouthful i took, while old mateo sat beside me, rejoicing in the flavor of a gibraltar cigar which i gave him. but my time was precious, and so i let the "son of the alhambra" go back to his loom, and set out for the palace of the moorish kings. this palace is so hidden behind the ambitious shell of that of charles v. that i was at a loss where it could be. i thought i had compassed the hill, and yet had seen no indications of the renowned magnificence of the alhambra. but a little door in a blank wall ushered me into a true moorish realm, the court of the fishpond, or of the myrtles, as it is sometimes called. here i saw again the slender pillars, the fringed and embroidered arches, and the perforated, lace-like tracery of the fairy corridors. here, hedges of roses and myrtles still bloomed around the ancient tank, wherein hundreds of gold-fish disported. the noises of the hill do not penetrate here, and the solitary porter who admitted me went back to his post, and suffered me to wander at will through the enchanted halls. i passed out of this court by an opposite door, and saw, through the vistas of marble pillars and the wonderful fret-work which seems a thing of air rather than of earth, the fountain of the lions. thence i entered in succession the hall of the abencerrages, the hall of the two sisters, the apartments of the sultanas, the mosque, and the hall of the ambassadors. these places--all that is left of the renowned palace--are now well kept, and carefully guarded. restorations are going on, here and there, and the place is scrupulously watched, that no foreign vandal, may further injure what the native goths have done their best to destroy. the rubbish has been cleared away; the rents in the walls have been filled up, and, for the first time since it passed into spanish hands, there seems a hope that the alhambra will be allowed to stand. what has been already destroyed we can only partially conjecture; but no one sees what remains without completing the picture in his own imagination, and placing it among the most perfect and marvellous creations of human genius. nothing can exceed the richness of invention which, in this series of halls, corridors, and courts, never repeats the same ornaments, but, from the simplest primitive forms and colors, produces a thousand combinations, not one of which is in discord with the grand design. it is useless to attempt a detailed description of this architecture; and it is so unlike anything else in the world, that, like karnak and baalbec, those only know the alhambra who see it. when you can weave stone, and hang your halls with marble tapestry, you may rival it. it is nothing to me that these ornaments are stucco; to sculpture them in marble is only the work of the hands. their great excellence is in the design, which, like all great things, suggests even more than it gives. if i could create all that the court of lions suggested to me for its completion, it would fulfil the dream of king sheddad, and surpass the palaces of the moslem paradise. the pavilions of the court of lions, and the halls which open into it, on either side, approach the nearest to their original perfection. the floors are marble, the wainscoting of painted tiles, the walls of embroidery, still gleaming with the softened lustre of their original tints, and the lofty conical domes seem to be huge sparry crystalizations, hung with dropping stalactites, rather than any work of the human hand. each of these domes is composed of five thousand separate pieces, and the pendent prismatic blocks, colored and gilded, gradually resolve themselves, as you gaze, into the most intricate and elegant designs. but you must study long ere you have won all the secret of their beauty. to comprehend them, one should spend a whole day, lying on his back, under each one. mateo spread his cloak for me in the fountain in the hall of the abencerrages, over the blood-stains made by the decapitation of those gallant chiefs, and i lay half an hour looking upward: and this is what i made out of the dome. from its central pinnacle hung the chalice of a flower with feathery petals, like the "crape myrtle" of our southern states outside of this, branched downward the eight rays of a large star, whose points touched the base of the dome; yet the star was itself composed of flowers, while between its rays and around its points fell a shower of blossoms, shells, and sparry drops. from the base of the dome hung a gorgeous pattern of lace, with a fringe of bugles, projecting into eight points so as to form a star of drapery, hanging from the points of the flowery star in the dome. the spaces between the angles were filled with masses of stalactites, dropping one below the other, till they tapered into the plain square sides of the hall. in the hall of the two sisters, i lay likewise for a considerable time, resolving its misty glories into shape. the dome was still more suggestive of flowers. the highest and central piece was a deep trumpet-flower, whose mouth was cleft into eight petals. it hung in the centre of a superb lotus-cup, the leaves of which were exquisitely veined and chased. still further below swung a mass of mimosa blossoms, intermixed with pods and lance-like leaves, and around the base of the dome opened the bells of sixteen gorgeous tulips. these pictures may not be very intelligible, but i know not how else to paint the effect of this fairy architecture. in granada, as in seville and cordova, one's sympathies are wholly with the moors. the few mutilated traces which still remain of their power, taste, and refinement, surpass any of the monuments erected by the race which conquered them. the moorish dynasty in spain was truly, as irving observes, a splendid exotic, doomed never to take a lasting root in the soil it was choked to death by the native weeds; and, in place of lands richly cultivated and teeming with plenty, we now have barren and-almost depopulated wastes--in place of education, industry, and the cultivation of the arts and sciences, an enslaved, ignorant and degenerate race. andalusia would be far more prosperous at this day, had she remained in moslem hands. true, she would not have received that faith which is yet destined to be the redemption of the world, but the doctrines of mahomet are more acceptable to god, and more beneficial to man than those of that inquisition, which, in spain alone, has shed ten times as much christian blood as all the moslem races together for the last six centuries. it is not from a mere romantic interest that i lament the fate of boabdil, and the extinction of his dynasty. had he been a king worthy to reign in those wonderful halls, he never would have left them. had he perished there, fighting to the last, he would have been freed from forty years of weary exile and an obscure death. well did charles v. observe, when speaking of him: "better a tomb in the alhambra than a palace in the alpujanas!" chapter xxxvi. the bridle-roads of andalusia. change of weather--napoleon and his horses--departure from granada--my guide, josé garcia--his domestic troubles--the tragedy of the umbrella--the vow against aguardiente--crossing the vega--the sierra nevada--the baths of alhama--"woe is me, alhama!"--the valley of the river vélez--vélez malaga--the coast road--the fisherman and his donkey--malaga--summer scenery--the story of don pedro, without fear and without care--the field of monda--a lonely venta. venta de villalon, _november_ , . the clouds broke away before i had been two hours in the alhambra, and the sunshine fell broad and warm into its courts. they must be roofed with blue sky, in order to give the full impression of their brightness and beauty. mateo procured me a bottle of _vino rancio_, and we drank it together in the court of lions. six hours had passed away before i knew it, and i reluctantly prepared to leave. the clouds by this time had disappeared; the vega slept in brilliant sunshine, and the peaks of the sierra nevada shone white and cold against the sky. on reaching the hotel, i found a little man, nicknamed napoleon, awaiting me. he was desirous to furnish me with horses, and, having a prophetic knowledge of the weather, promised me a bright sky as far as gibraltar. "i furnish all the señors," said he; "they know me, and never complain of me or my horses;" but, by way of security, on making the bargain, i threatened to put up a card in the hotel at gibraltar, warning all travellers against him, in case i was not satisfied. my contract was for two horses and a guide, who were to be ready at sunrise the next morning. napoleon was as good as his word; and before i had finished an early cup of chocolate, there was a little black andalusian stallion awaiting me. the _alforjas_, or saddle-bags, of the guide were strengthened by a stock of cold provisions, the leathern bota hanging beside it was filled with ripe granada wine; and now behold me ambling over the vega, accoutred in a gay andalusian jacket, a sash woven by mateo ximenes, and one of those bandboxy sombreros, which i at first thought so ungainly, but now consider quite picturesque and elegant. my guide, a short but sinewy and well-knit son of the mountains, named josé garcia, set off at a canter down the banks of the darro. "don't ride so fast!" cried napoleon, who watched our setting out, from the door of the fonda; but josé was already out of hearing. this guide is a companion to my liking. although he is only twenty-seven, he has been for a number of years a _correo_, or mail-rider, and a guide for travelling parties. his olive complexion is made still darker by exposure to the sun and wind, and his coal-black eyes shine with southern heat and fire. he has one of those rare mouths which are born with a broad smile in each corner, and which seem to laugh even in the midst of grief. we had not been two hours together, before i knew his history from beginning to end. he had already been married eight years, and his only trouble was a debt of twenty-four dollars, which the illness of his wife had caused him. this money was owing to the pawnbroker, who kept his best clothes in pledge until he could pay it. "señor," said he, "if i had ten million dollars, i would rather give them all away than have a sick wife." he had a brother in puerto principe, cuba, who sent over money enough to pay the rent of the house, but he found that children were a great expense. "it is most astonishing," he said, "how much children can eat. from morning till night, the bread is never out of their mouths." josé has recently been travelling with some spaniards, one of whom made him pay two dollars for an umbrella which was lost on the road. this umbrella is a thorn in his side. at every venta where we stop, the story is repeated, and he is not sparing of his maledictions. the ghost of that umbrella is continually raised, and it will be a long time before he can shut it. "one reason why i like to travel with foreign señors," said he to me, "is, that when i lose anything, they never make me pay for it." "for all that," i answered, "take care you don't lose my umbrella: it cost three dollars." since then, nothing can exceed josé's attention to that article. he is at his wit's end how to secure it best. it appears sometimes before, sometimes behind him, lashed to the saddle with innumerable cords; now he sticks it into the alforja, now carries it in his hand, and i verily believe that he sleeps with it in his arms. every evening, as he tells his story to the muleteers, around the kitchen fire, he always winds up by triumphantly appealing to me with: "well, señor, have i lost _your_ umbrella yet?" our bargain is that i shall feed him on the way, and as we travel in the primitive style of the country, we always sit down together to the same dish. to his supervision, the olla is often indebted for an additional flavor, and no "thorough-bred" gentleman could behave at table with more ease and propriety. he is as moderate as a bedouin in his wants, and never touches the burning aguardiente which the muleteers are accustomed to drink. i asked him the reason of this. "i drink wine. senor," he replied, "because that, you know, is like meat and bread; but i have made a vow never to drink aguardiente again. two of us got drunk on it, four or five years ago, in granada, and we quarrelled. my comrade drew his knife and stabbed me here, in the left shoulder. i was furious and cut him across the breast. we both went to the hospital--i for three months and he for six--and he died in a few days after getting out. it cost my poor father many a thousand reals; and when i was able to go to work, i vowed before the virgin that i would never touch aguardiente again." for the first league, our road lay over the rich vega of granada, but gradually became wilder and more waste. passing the long, desert ridge, known as the "last sigh of the moor," we struck across a region of low hills. the road was very deep, from the recent rains, and studded, at short intervals, by rude crosses, erected to persons who had been murdered. josé took a grim delight in giving me the history of each. beyond the village of lamala, which lies with its salt-pans in a basin of the hills, we ascended the mountain ridge which forms the southern boundary of the vega. granada, nearly twenty miles distant, was still visible. the alhambra was dwindled to a speck, and i took my last view of it and the magnificent landscape which lies spread out before it. the sierra nevada, rising to the height of , feet above the sea, was perfectly free from clouds, and the whole range was visible at one glance. all its chasms were filled with snow, and for nearly half-way down its sides there was not a speck of any other color. its summits were almost wholly devoid of shadow, and their notched and jagged outlines rested flatly against the sky, like ivory inlaid on a table of lapis-lazuli. from these waste hills, we descended into the valley of cacia, whose poplar-fringed river had been so swollen by the rains that the _correo_ from malaga had only succeeded in passing it that morning. we forded it without accident, and, crossing a loftier and bleaker range, came down into the valley of the marchan. high on a cliff over the stream stood alhama, my resting-place for the night. the natural warm baths, on account of which this spot was so beloved by the moors, are still resorted to in the summer. they lie in the bosom of a deep and rugged gorge, half a mile further down the river. the town occupies the crest of a narrow promontory, bounded, on all sides but one, by tremendous precipices. it is one of the most picturesque spots imaginable, and reminded me--to continue the comparison between syria and andalusia, which i find so striking--of the gorge of the barrada, near damascus. alhama is now a poor, insignificant town, only visited by artists and muleteers. the population wear long brown cloaks and slouched hats, like the natives of la mancha. i found tolerable quarters in a house on the plaza, and took the remaining hour of daylight to view the town. the people looked at me with curiosity, and some boys, walking on the edge of the _tajo_, or precipice, threw over stones that i might see how deep it was. the rock, in some places, quite overhung the bed of the marchan, which half-girdles its base. the close scrutiny to which i was subjected by the crowd in the plaza called to mind all i had heard of spanish spies and robbers. at the venta, i was well treated, but received such an exorbitant bill in the morning that i was ready to exclaim, with king boabdil, "woe is me, alhama!" on comparing notes with josé, i found that he had been obliged to pay, in addition, for what he received--a discovery which so exasperated that worthy that he folded his hands, bowed his head, made three kisses in the air, and cried out: "i swear before the virgin that i will never again take a traveller to that inn." we left alhama an hour before daybreak, for we had a rough journey of more than forty miles before us. the bridle-path was barely visible in the darkness, but we continued ascending to a height of probably , feet above the sea, and thus met the sunrise half-way. crossing the _llano_ of ace faraya, we reached a tremendous natural portal in the mountains, from whence, as from a door, we looked down on all the country lying between us and the sea. the valley of the river vélez, winding among the hills, pointed out the course of our road. on the left towered over us the barren sierra tejeda, an isolated group of peaks, about , feet in height. for miles, the road was a rocky ladder, which we scrambled down on foot, leading our horses. the vegetation gradually became of a warmer and more luxuriant cast; the southern slopes were planted with the vine that produces the famous malaga raisins, and the orange groves in the sunny depths of the valleys were as yellow as autumnal beeches, with their enormous loads of fruit. as the bells of vélez malaga were ringing noon, we emerged from the mountains, near the mouth of the river, and rode into the town to breakfast. we halted at a queer old inn, more like a turkish khan than a christian hostlery. it was kept by a fat landlady, who made us an olla of kid and garlic, which, with some coarse bread and the red malaga wine, soon took off the sharp edge of our mountain appetites. while i was washing my hands at a well in the court-yard, the _mozo_ noticed the pilgrim-seal of jerusalem, which is stamped indelibly on my left arm. his admiration and reverence were so great that he called the fat landlady, who, on learning that it had been made in jerusalem, and that i had visited the holy sepulchre, summoned her children to see it. "here, my children!" she said; "cross yourselves, kneel down, and kiss this holy seal; for, as long as you live, you may never see the like of it again." thus i, a protestant heretic, became a catholic shrine. the children knelt and kissed my arm with touching simplicity; and the seal will henceforth be more sacred to me than ever. the remaining twenty miles or more of the road to malaga follow the line of the coast, passing headlands crowned by the _atalayas_, or watch-towers, of the moors. it is a new road, and practicable for carriages, so that, for spain, it may be considered an important achievement. the late rains have, however, already undermined it in a number of places. here, as among the mountains, we met crowds of muleteers, all of whom greeted me with: "_vaya usted con dios, caballero_!"--("may you go with god, cavalier!") by this time, all my forgotten spanish had come back again, and a little experience of the simple ways of the people made me quite at home among them. in almost every instance, i was treated precisely as a spaniard would have been, and less annoyed by the curiosity of the natives than i have been in germany, and even america. we were still two leagues from malaga, at sunset, the fishermen along the coast were hauling in their nets, and we soon began to overtake companies of them, carrying their fish to the city on donkeys. one stout, strapping fellow, with flesh as hard and yellow as a sturgeon's, was seated sideways on a very small donkey, between two immense panniers of fish, as he trotted before us, shouting, and slapping the flanks of the sturdy little beast, josé and i began to laugh, whereupon the fellow broke out into the following monologue, addressed to the donkey: "who laughs at this _burrico_? who says he's not fine gold from head to foot? what is it that he can't do? if there was a mountain ever so high, he would gallop over it. if there was a river ever so deep, he would swim through it if he could but speak, i might send him to market alone with the fish, and not a _chavo_ of the money would he spend on the way home. who says he can't go as far as that limping horse? arrrre, burrico! punate--ar-r-r-r-r-e-e!" we reached malaga, at last, our horses sorely fagged. at the fonda de la alameda, a new and very elegant hotel, i found a bath and a good dinner, both welcome things to a tired traveller. the winter of malaga is like spring in other lands and on that account it is much visited by invalids, especially english. it is a lively commercial town of about , inhabitants, and, if the present scheme of railroad communication with madrid is carried out, must continue to increase in size and importance. a number of manufacturing establishments have lately been started, and in this department it bids fair to rival barcelona. the harbor is small, but good, and the country around rich in all the productions of temperate and even tropical climates. the city contains little to interest the tourist. i visited the cathedral, an immense unfinished mass, without a particle of architectural taste outwardly, though the interior has a fine effect from its large dimensions. at noon to-day we were again in the saddle, and took the road to the baths of caratraca. the tall factory chimneys of malaga, vomiting forth streams of black smoke, marred the serenity of the sky; but the distant view of the city is very fine. the broad vega, watered by the guadaljorce, is rich and well cultivated, and now rejoices in the verdure of spring. the meadows are clothed with fresh grass, butter-cups and daisies are in blossom, and larks sing in the olive-trees. now and then, we passed a _casa del campo_, with its front half buried in orange-trees, over which towered two or three sentinel palms. after two leagues of this delightful travel, the country became more hilly, and the groups of mountains which inclosed us assumed the most picturesque and enchanting forms. the soft haze in which the distant peaks were bathed, the lovely violet shadows filling up their chasms and gorges, and the fresh meadows, vineyards, and olive groves below, made the landscape one of the most beautiful i have seen in spain. as we were trotting along through the palmetto thickets, josé asked me if i should not like to hear an andalusian story. "nothing would please me better," i replied. "ride close beside me, then," said he, "that you may understand every word of it." i complied, and he gave me the following, just as i repeat it: "there was once a very rich man, who had thousands of cattle in the sierra nevada, and hundreds of houses in the city. well: this man put a plate, with his name on it, on the door of the great house in which he lived, and the name was this: don pedro, without fear and without care. now, when the king was making his _paséo_, he happened to ride by this house in his carriage, and saw the plate on the door. 'read me the name on that plate!' said he to his officer. then the officer read the name: don pedro, without fear and without care. 'i will see whether don pedro is without fear and without care,' said the king. the next day came a messenger to the house, and, when he saw don pedro, said he to him; 'don pedro, without fear and without care, the king wants you!' 'what does the king want with me?' said don pedro. 'he sends you four questions which you must answer within four days, or he will have you shot; and the questions are:--how can the sierra nevada be cleared of snow? how can the sea be made smaller? how many arrobas does the moon weigh? and: how many leagues from here to the land of heavenly glory?' then don pedro without fear and without care began to sweat from fright, and knew not what he should do. he called some of his arrieros and loaded twenty mules with money, and went up into the sierra nevada, where his herdsmen tended his flocks; for, as i said, he had many thousand cattle. 'god keep you, my master!' said the chief herdsman, who was young, and _buen mozo_, and had as good a head as ever was set on two shoulders. '_anda, hombre!_ said don pedro, 'i am a dead man;' and so he told the herdsman all that the king had said. 'oh, is that all?' said the knowing mozo. 'i can get you out of the scrape. let me go and answer the questions in your name, my master!' 'ah, you fool! what can you do?' said don pedro without fear and without care, throwing himself upon the earth, and ready to die. "but, nevertheless, the herdsman dressed himself up as a _caballero_, went down to the city, and, on the fourth day, presented himself at the king's palace. 'what do you want?' said the officers. 'i am don pedro without fear and without care, come to answer the questions which the king sent to me.' 'well,' said the king, when he was brought before him, 'let me hear your answers, or i will have you shot this day.' 'your majesty,' said the herdsman, 'i think i can do it. if you were to set a million of children to playing among the snow of the sierra nevada, they would soon clear it all away; and if you were to dig a ditch as wide and as deep as all spain, you would make the sea that much smaller,' 'but,' said the king, 'that makes only two questions; there are two more yet,' 'i think i can answer those, also,' said the herdsman: 'the moon contains four quarters, and therefore weighs only one arroba; and as for the last question, it is not even a single league to the land of heavenly glory--for, if your majesty were to die after breakfast, you would get there before you had an appetite for dinner,' 'well done! said the king; and he then made him count, and marquez, and i don't know how many other titles. in the meantime, don pedro without fear and without care had died of his fright; and, as he left no family, the herdsman took possession of all his estates, and, until the day of his death, was called don pedro without fear and without care." i write, sitting by the grated window of this lonely inn, looking out on the meadows of the guadaljorce. the chain of mountains which rises to the west of malaga is purpled by the light of the setting sun, and the houses and castle of carlama hang on its side, in full view. further to the right, i see the smoke of monda, where one of the greatest battles of antiquity was fought--that which overthrew the sons of pompey, and gave the roman empire to cæsar. the mozo of the venta is busy, preparing my kid and rice, and josé is at his elbow, gently suggesting ingredients which may give the dish a richer flavor. the landscape is softened by the hush of coming evening; a few birds are still twittering among the bushes, and the half-moon grows whiter and clearer in mid-heaven. the people about me are humble, but appear honest and peaceful, and nothing indicates that i am in the wild _serrania de ronda_, the country of robbers, contrabandistas, and assassins. chapter xxxvii. the mountains of ronda. orange valleys--climbing the mountains--josé's hospitality--el burgo--the gate of the wind--the cliff and cascades of ronda--the mountain region--traces of the moors--haunts of robbers--a stormy ride--the inn at gaucin--bad news--a boyish auxiliary--descent from the mountains--the ford of the guadiaro--our fears relieved--the cork woods--ride from san roque to gibraltar--parting with josé--travelling in spain--conclusion. gibraltar, _thursday, november_ , . i passed an uncomfortable night at the venta de villalon, lying upon a bag stuffed with equal quantities of wool and fleas. starting before dawn, we followed a path which led into the mountains, where herdsmen and boys were taking out their sheep and goats to pasture; then it descended into the valley of a stream, bordered with rich bottom-lands. i never saw the orange in a more flourishing state. we passed several orchards of trees thirty feet high, and every bough and twig so completely laden with fruit, that the foliage was hardly to be seen. at the venta del vicario, we found a number of soldiers just setting out for ronda. they appeared to be escorting a convoy of goods, for there were twenty or thirty laden mules gathered at the door. we now ascended a most difficult and stony path, winding through bleak wastes of gray rock, till we reached a lofty pass in the mountain range. the wind swept through the narrow gateway with a force that almost unhorsed us. from the other side, a sublime but most desolate landscape opened to my view. opposite, at ten miles' distance, rose a lofty ridge of naked rock, overhung with clouds. the country between was a chaotic jumble of stony hills, separated by deep chasms, with just a green patch here and there, to show that it was not entirely forsaken by man. nevertheless as we descended into it, we found valleys with vineyards and olive groves, which were invisible from above. as we were both getting hungry, josé stopped at a ventorillo and ordered two cups of wine, for which he insisted on paying. "if i had as many horses as my master, napoleon," said he, "i would regale the señors whenever i travelled with them. i would have _puros_, and sweetmeats, with plenty of malaga or valdepeñas in the bota, and they should never complain of their fare." part of our road was studded with gray cork-trees, at a distance hardly to be distinguished from olives, and josé dismounted to gather the mast, which was as sweet and palatable as chestnuts, with very little of the bitter quercine flavor. at eleven o'clock, we reached el burgo, so called, probably, from its ancient moorish fortress. it is a poor, starved village, built on a barren hill, over a stream which is still spanned by a lofty moorish bridge of a single arch. the remaining three leagues to ronda were exceedingly rough and difficult. climbing a barren ascent of nearly a league in length, we reached the _puerto del viento_, or gate of the wind, through which drove such a current that we were obliged to dismount; and even then it required all my strength to move against it. the peaks around, far and near, faced with precipitous cliffs, wore the most savage and forbidding aspect: in fact, this region is almost a counterpart of the wilderness lying between jerusalem and the dead sea, very soon, we touched the skirt of a cloud, and were enveloped in masses of chill, whirling vapor, through which we travelled for three or four miles to a similar gate on the western side of the chain. descending again, we emerged into a clearer atmosphere, and saw below us a wide extent of mountain country, but of a more fertile and cheerful character. olive orchards and wheat-fields now appeared; and, at four o'clock, we rode into the streets of ronda. no town can surpass this in the grandeur and picturesqueness of its position. it is built on the edge of a broad shelf of the mountains, which falls away in a sheer precipice of from six to eight hundred feet in height, and, from the windows of many of the houses you can look down the dizzy abyss. this shelf, again, is divided in the centre by a tremendous chasm, three hundred feet wide, and from four to six hundred feet in depth, in the bed of which roars the guadalvin, boiling in foaming whirlpools or leaping in sparkling cascades, till it reaches the valley below. the town lies on both sides of the chasm, which is spanned by a stone bridge of a single arch, with abutments nearly four hundred feet in height. the view of this wonderful cleft, either from above or below, is one of the finest of its kind in the world. honda is as far superior to tivoli, as tivoli is to a dutch village, on the dead levels of holland. the panorama which it commands is on the grandest scale. the valley below is a garden of fruit and vines; bold yet cultivated hills succeed, and in the distance rise the lofty summits of another chain of the serrania de honda. were these sublime cliffs, these charming cascades of the guadalvin, and this daring bridge, in italy instead of in spain, they would be sketched and painted every day in the year; but i have yet to know where a good picture of ronda may be found. in the bottom of the chasm are a number of corn-mills as old as the time of the moors. the water, gushing out from the arches of one, drives the wheel of that below, so that a single race supplies them all. i descended by a very steep zig-zag path nearly to the bottom. on a little point or promontory overhanging the black depths, there is a moorish gateway still standing. the sunset threw a lovely glow over the brown cliffs and the airy town above; but they were far grander when the cascades glittered in the moonlight, and the gulf out of which they leap was lost in profound shadow. the window of my bed-room hung over the chasm. honda was wrapped in fog, when josé awoke me on the morning of the d. as we had but about twenty-four miles to ride that day, we did not leave until sunrise. we rode across the bridge, through the old town and down the hill, passing the triple lines of the moorish walls by the original gateways. the road, stony and rugged beyond measure, now took to the mountains. from the opposite height, there was a fine view of the town, perched like an eagle's nest on the verge of its tremendous cliffs; but a curtain of rain soon fell before it, and the dense dark clouds settled around us, and filled up the gorges on either hand. hour after hour, we toiled along the slippery paths, scaling the high ridges by rocky ladders, up which our horses climbed with the greatest difficulty. the scenery, whenever i could obtain a misty glimpse of it, was sublime. lofty mountain ridges rose on either hand; bleak jagged summits of naked rock pierced the clouds, and the deep chasms which separated them sank far below us, dark and indistinct through the rain. sometimes i caught sight of a little hamlet, hanging on some almost inaccessible ledge, the home of the lawless, semi-moorish mountaineers who inhabit this wild region. the faces of those we met exhibited marked traces of their moslem ancestry, especially in the almond-shaped eye and the dusky olive complexion. their dialect retains many oriental forms of expression, and i was not a little surprised at finding the arabic "_eiwa_" (yes) in general use, instead of the spanish "_si_." about eleven o'clock, we reached the rude village of atajate, where we procured a very good breakfast of kid, eggs, and white ronda wine. the wind and rain increased, but i had no time to lose, as every hour swelled the mountain floods and made the journey more difficult. this district is in the worst repute of any in spain; it is a very nest of robbers and contrabandistas. at the venta in atajate, they urged us to take a guard, but my valiant josé declared that he had never taken one, and yet was never robbed; so i trusted to his good luck. the weather, however, was our best protection. in such a driving rain, we could bid defiance to the flint locks of their escopettes, if, indeed, any could be found, so fond of their trade, as to ply it in a storm "wherein the cub-drawn bear would crouch, the lion and the belly-pinched wolf keep their furs dry." nevertheless, i noticed that each of the few convoys of laden mules which we met, had one or more of the _guardia cicia_ accompanying it. besides these, the only persons abroad were some wild-looking individuals, armed to the teeth, and muffled in long cloaks, towards whom, as they passed, josé would give his head a slight toss, and whisper to me: "more contrabandistas." we were soon in a condition to defy the weather. the rain beat furiously in our faces, especially when threading the wind-blown passes between the higher peaks. i raised my umbrella as a defence, but the first blast snapped it in twain. the mountain-sides were veined with rills, roaring downward into the hollows, and smaller rills soon began to trickle down my own sides. during the last part of our way, the path was notched along precipitous steeps, where the storm was so thick that we could see nothing either above or below. it was like riding along the outer edge of the world, when once you are thoroughly wet, it is a great satisfaction to know that you can be no wetter; and so josé and i went forward in the best possible humor, finding so much diversion in our plight that the dreary leagues were considerably shortened. at the venta of gaucin, where we stopped, the people received us kindly. the house consisted of one room--stable, kitchen, and dining-room all in one. there was a small apartment in a windy loft, where a bed (much too short) was prepared for me. a fire of dry heather was made in the wide fire-place, and the ruddy flames, with a change of clothing and a draught of the amber vintage of estepona, soon thawed out the chill of the journey. but i received news which caused me a great deal of anxiety. the river guadiaro was so high that nobody could cross, and two forlorn muleteers had been waiting eight days at the inn, for the waters to subside. augmented by the rain which had fallen, and which seemed to increase as night came on, how could i hope to cross it on the morrow? in two days, the india steamer would be at gibraltar; my passage was already taken, and i _must_ be there. the matter was discussed for some time; it was pronounced impossible to travel by the usual road, but the landlord knew a path among the hills which led to a ferry on the guadiaro, where there was a boat, and from thence we could make our way to san roque, which is in sight of gibraltar. he demanded rather a large fee for accompanying me, but there was nothing else to be done. josé and i sat down in great tribulation to our accustomed olla, but neither of us could do justice to it, and the greater part gladdened the landlord's two boys--beautiful little imps, with faces like murillo's cherubs. nevertheless, i passed rather a merry evening, chatting with some of the villagers over a brazier of coals; and one of the aforesaid boys, who, although only eight years old, already performed the duties of mozo, lighted me to my loft. when he had put down the lamp, he tried' the door, and asked me: "have you the key?" "no," said i, "i don't want one; i am not afraid." "but," he rejoined, "perhaps you may get afraid in the night; and if you do, strike on this part of the wall (suiting the action to the word)--_i_ sleep on that side." i willingly promised to call him to my aid, if i should get alarmed. i slept but little, for the wind was howling around the tiles over my head, and i was busy with plans for constructing rafts and swimming currents with a rope around my waist. finally, i found a little oblivion, but it seemed that i had scarcely closed my eyes, when josé pushed open the door. "thanks be to god, senor!" said he, "it begins to dawn, and the sky is clear: we shall certainly get to gibraltar to-day." the landlord was ready, so we took some bread and a basket of olives, and set out at once. leaving gaucin, we commenced descending the mountain staircase by which the serrania of ronda is scaled, on the side towards gibraltar. "the road," says mr. ford, "seems made by the evil one in a hanging garden of eden." after four miles of frightfully rugged descent, we reached an orange grove on the banks of the xenar, and then took a wild path leading along the hills on the right of the stream. we overtook a few muleteers, who were tempted out by the fine weather, and before long the _correo_, or mail-rider from ronda to san roque, joined us. after eight miles more of toilsome travel we reached the valley of the guadiaro. the river was not more than twenty yards wide, flowing with a deep, strong current, between high banks. two ropes were stretched across, and a large, clumsy boat was moored to the shore. we called to the ferrymen, but they hesitated, saying that nobody had yet been able to cross. however, we all got in, with our horses, and two of the men, with much reluctance, drew us over. the current was very powerful, although the river had fallen a little during the night, but we reached the opposite bank without accident. we had still another river, the guargante, to pass, but we were cheered by some peasants whom we met, with the news that the ferry-boat had resumed operations. after this current lay behind us, and there was now nothing but firm land all the way to gibraltar, josé declared with much earnestness that he was quite as glad, for my sake, as if somebody had given him a million of dollars. our horses, too, seemed to feel that something had been achieved, and showed such a fresh spirit that we loosened the reins and let them gallop to their hearts' content over the green meadows. the mountains were now behind us, and the moorish castle of gaucin crested a peak blue with the distance. over hills covered with broom and heather in blossom, and through hollows grown with oleander, arbutus and the mastic shrub, we rode to the cork-wood forests of san roque, the sporting-ground of gibraltar officers. the barking of dogs, the cracking of whips, and now and then a distant halloo, announced that a hunt was in progress, and soon we came upon a company of thirty or forty horsemen, in caps, white gloves and top-boots, scattered along the crest of a hill. i had no desire to stop and witness the sport, for the mediterranean now lay before me, and the huge gray mass of "the rock" loomed in the distance. at san roque, which occupies the summit of a conical hill, about half-way between gibraltar and algeciras, the landlord left us, and immediately started on his return. having now exchanged the rugged bridle-paths of ronda for a smooth carriage-road, josé and i dashed on at full gallop, to the end of our journey. we were both bespattered with mud from head to foot, and our jackets and sombreros had lost something of their spruce air. we met a great many ruddy, cleanly-shaven englishmen, who reined up on one side to let us pass, with a look of wonder at our andalusian impudence. nothing diverted josé more than to see one of these englishmen rising in his stirrups, as he went by on a trot. "look, look, señor!" he exclaimed; "did you ever see the like?" and then broke into a fresh explosion of laughter. passing the spanish lines, which stretch across the neck of the sandy little peninsula, connecting gibraltar with the main land, we rode under the terrible batteries which snarl at spain from this side of the rock. row after row of enormous guns bristle the walls, or look out from the galleries hewn in the sides of inaccessible cliffs an artificial moat is cut along the base of the rock, and a simple bridge-road leads into the fortress and town. after giving up my passport i was allowed to enter, josé having already obtained a permit from the spanish authorities. i clattered up the long street of the town to the club house, where i found a company of english friends. in the evening, josé made his appearance, to settle our accounts and take his leave of me. while scrambling down the rocky stair-way of gaucin, josé had said to me: "look you, señor, i am very fond of english beer, and if i get you to gibraltar to day you must give me a glass of it." when, therefore, he came in the evening, his eyes sparkled at the sight of a bottle of alsop's ale, and a handful of good gibraltar cigars. "ah, señor," said he, after our books were squared, and he had pocketed his _gratification_, "i am sorry we are going to part; for we are good friends, are we not, señor?" "yes, josé," said i; "if i ever come to granada again, i shall take no other guide than josé garcia; and i will have you for a longer journey than this. we shall go over all spain together, _mi amigo_!" "may god grant it!" responded josé, crossing himself; "and now, señor, i must go. i shall travel back to granada, _muy triste_, señor, _muy triste_" the faithful fellows eyes were full of tears, and, as he lifted my hand twice to his lips, some warm drops fell upon it. god bless his honest heart; wherever he goes! and now a word as to travelling in spain, which is not attended with half the difficulties and annoyances i had been led to expect. my experience, of course, is limited to the provinces of andalusia, but my route included some of the roughest roads and most dangerous robber-districts in the peninsula. the people with whom i came in contact were invariably friendly and obliging, and i was dealt with much more honestly than i should have been in italy. with every disposition to serve you, there is nothing like servility among the spaniards. the native dignity which characterizes their demeanor prepossesses me very strongly in their favor. there is but one dialect of courtesy, and the muleteers and common peasants address each other with the same grave respect as the dons and grandees. my friend josé was a model of good-breeding. i had little trouble either with passport-officers or custom-houses. my passport, in fact, was never once demanded, although i took the precaution to have it visèd in all the large cities. in seville and malaga, it was signed by the american consuls, without the usual fee of two dollars--almost the only instances which have come under my observation. the regulations of the american consular system, which gives the consuls no salary, but permits them, instead, to get their pay out of travellers, is a disgrace to our government. it amounts, in effect, to _a direct tax on travel_, and falls heavily on the hundreds of young men of limited means, who annually visit europe for the purpose of completing their education. every american citizen who travels in italy pays a passport tax of ten dollars. in all the ports of the mediterranean, there is an american vice-consul, who does not even get the postage paid on his dispatches, and to whom the advent of a traveller is of course a welcome sight. misled by a false notion of economy, our government is fast becoming proverbial for its meanness. if those of our own citizens who represent us abroad only worked as they are paid, and if the foreigners who act as vice-consuls without pay did not derive some petty trading advantages from their position, we should be almost without protection. * * * * * with my departure from spain closes the record of my journey in the lands of the saracen; for, although i afterwards beheld more perfect types of saracenic art on the banks of the jumna and the ganges, they grew up under the great empire of the descendants of tamerlane, and were the creations of artists foreign to the soil. it would, no doubt, be interesting to contrast the remains of oriental civilization and refinement, as they still exist at the extreme eastern and western limits of the moslem sway, and to show how that art, which had its birth in the capitals of the caliphs--damascus and baghdad--attained its most perfect development in spain and india; but my visit to the latter country connects itself naturally with my voyage to china, loo-choo, and japan, forming a separate and distinct field of travel. on the th of november, the overland mail steamer arrived at gibraltar, and i embarked in her for alexandria, entering upon another year of even more varied, strange, and adventurous experiences, than that which had closed. i am almost afraid to ask those patient readers, who have accompanied me thus far, to travel with me through another volume; but next to the pleasure of seeing the world, comes the pleasure of telling of it, and i must needs finish my story. castilian days by john hay published november publishers' note in this holiday edition of _castilian days_ it has been thought advisable to omit a few chapters that appeared in the original edition. these chapters were less descriptive than the rest of the book, and not so rich in the picturesque material which the art of the illustrator demands. otherwise, the text is reprinted without change. the illustrations are the fruit of a special visit which mr. pennell has recently made to castile for this purpose. boston, autumn, list of contents madrid al fresco spanish living and dying influence of tradition in spanish life tauromachy red-letter days an hour with the painters a castle in the air the city of the visigoths the escorial a miracle play the cradle and the grave of cervantes madrid al fresco madrid is a capital with malice aforethought. usually the seat of government is established in some important town from the force of circumstances. some cities have an attraction too powerful for the court to resist. there is no capital of england possible but london. paris is the heart of france. rome is the predestined capital of italy in spite of the wandering flirtations its varying governments in different centuries have carried on with ravenna, or naples, or florence. you can imagine no residenz for austria but the kaiserstadt,--the gemuthlich wien. but there are other capitals where men have arranged things and consequently bungled them. the great czar peter slapped his imperial court down on the marshy shore of the neva, where he could look westward into civilization and watch with the jealous eye of an intelligent barbarian the doings of his betters. washington is another specimen of the cold-blooded handiwork of the capital builders. we shall think nothing less of the _clarum et venerabile nomen_ of its founder if we admit he was human, and his wishing the seat of government nearer to mount vernon than mount washington sufficiently proves this. but madrid more plainly than any other capital shows the traces of having been set down and properly brought up by the strong hand of a paternal government; and like children with whom the same regimen has been followed, it presents in its maturity a curious mixture of lawlessness and insipidity. its greatness was thrust upon it by philip ii. some premonitory symptoms of the dangerous honor that awaited it had been seen in preceding reigns. ferdinand and isabella occasionally set up their pilgrim tabernacle on the declivity that overhangs the manzanares. charles v. found the thin, fine air comforting to his gouty articulations. but philip ii. made it his court. it seems hard to conceive how a king who had his choice of lisbon, with its glorious harbor and unequalled communications; seville, with its delicious climate and natural beauty; and salamanca and toledo, with their wealth of tradition, splendor of architecture, and renown of learning, should have chosen this barren mountain for his home, and the seat of his empire. but when we know this monkish king we wonder no longer. he chose madrid simply because it was cheerless and bare and of ophthalmic ugliness. the royal kill-joy delighted in having the dreariest capital on earth. after a while there seemed to him too much life and humanity about madrid, and he built the escorial, the grandest ideal of majesty and ennui that the world has ever seen. this vast mass of granite has somehow acted as an anchor that has held the capital fast moored at madrid through all succeeding years. it was a dreary and somewhat shabby court for many reigns. the great kings who started the austrian dynasty were too busy in their world conquest to pay much attention to beautifying madrid, and their weak successors, sunk in ignoble pleasures, had not energy enough to indulge the royal folly of building. when the bourbons came down from france there was a little flurry of construction under philip v., but he never finished his palace in the plaza del oriente, and was soon absorbed in constructing his castle in cloud-land on the heights of la granja. the only real ruler the bourbons ever gave to spain was charles iii., and to him madrid owes all that it has of architecture and civic improvement. seconded by his able and liberal minister, count aranda, who was educated abroad, and so free from the trammels of spanish ignorance and superstition, he rapidly changed the ignoble town into something like a city. the greater portion of the public buildings date from this active and beneficent reign. it was he who laid out the walks and promenades which give to madrid almost its only outward attraction. the picture gallery, which is the shrine of all pilgrims of taste, was built by him for a museum of natural science. in nearly all that a stranger cares to see, madrid is not an older city than boston. there is consequently no glory of tradition here. there are no cathedrals. there are no ruins. there is none of that mysterious and haunting memory that peoples the air with spectres in quiet towns like ravenna and nuremberg. and there is little of that vast movement of humanity that possesses and bewilders you in san francisco and new york. madrid is larger than chicago; but chicago is a great city and madrid a great village. the pulsations of life in the two places resemble each other no more than the beating of dexter's heart on the home-stretch is like the rising and falling of an oozy tide in a marshy inlet. there is nothing indigenous in madrid. there is no marked local color. it is a city of castile, but not a castilian city, like toledo, which girds its graceful waist with the golden tagus, or like segovia, fastened to its rock in hopeless shipwreck. but it is not for this reason destitute of an interest of its own. by reason of its exceptional history and character it is the best point in spain to study spanish life. it has no distinctive traits itself, but it is a patchwork of all spain. every province of the peninsula sends a contingent to its population. the gallicians hew its wood and draw its water; the asturian women nurse its babies at their deep bosoms, and fill the promenades with their brilliant costumes; the valentians carpet its halls and quench its thirst with orgeat of chufas; in every street you shall see the red bonnet and sandalled feet of the catalan; in every cafe, the shaven face and rat-tail chignon of the majo of andalusia. if it have no character of its own, it is a mirror where all the faces of the peninsula may sometimes be seen. it is like the mockingbird of the west, that has no song of its own, and yet makes the woods ring with every note it has ever heard. though madrid gives a picture in little of all spain, it is not all spanish. it has a large foreign population. not only its immediate neighbors, the french, are here in great numbers,--conquering so far their repugnance to emigration, and living as gayly as possible in the midst of traditional hatred,--but there are also many germans and english in business here, and a few stray yankees have pitched their tents, to reinforce the teeth of the dons, and to sell them ploughs and sewing-machines. its railroads have waked it up to a new life, and the revolution has set free the thought of its people to an extent which would have been hardly credible a few years ago. its streets swarm with newsboys and strangers,--the agencies that are to bring its people into the movement of the age. it has a superb opera-house, which might as well be in naples, for all the national character it has; the court theatre, where not a word of cas-tilian is ever heard, nor a strain of spanish music. even cosmopolite paris has her grand opera sung in french, and easy-going vienna insists that don juan shall make love in german. the champagny strains of offenbach are heard in every town of spain oftener than the ballads of the country. in madrid there are more _pilluelos_ who whistle _bu qui s'avance_ than the hymn of riego. the cancan has taken its place on the boards of every stage in the city, apparently to stay; and the exquisite jota and cachucha are giving way to the bestialities of the casino cadet. it is useless perhaps to fight against that hideous orgie of vulgar menads which in these late years has swept over all nations, and stung the loose world into a tarantula dance from the golden horn to the golden gate. it must have its day and go out; and when it has passed, perhaps we may see that it was not so utterly causeless and irrational as it seemed; but that, as a young american poet has impressively said, "paris was proclaiming to the world in it somewhat of the pent-up fire and fury of her nature, the bitterness of her heart, the fierceness of her protest against spiritual and political repression. it is an execration in rhythm,--a dance of fiends, which paris has invented to express in license what she lacks in liberty." this diluted european, rather than spanish, spirit may be seen in most of the amusements of the politer world of madrid. they have classical concerts in the circuses and popular music in the open air. the theatres play translations of french plays, which are pretty good when they are in prose, and pretty dismal when they are turned into verse, as is more frequent, for the spanish mind delights in the jingle of rhyme. the fine old spanish drama is vanishing day by day. the masterpieces of lope and calderon, which inspired all subsequent playwriting in europe, have sunk almost utterly into oblivion. the stage is flooded with the washings of the boulevards. bad as the translations are, the imitations are worse. the original plays produced by the geniuses of the spanish academy, for which they are crowned and sonneted and pensioned, are of the kind upon which we are told that gods and men and columns look austerely. this infection of foreign manners has completely gained and now controls what is called the best society of madrid. a soiree in this circle is like an evening in the corresponding grade of position in paris or petersburg or new york in all external characteristics. the toilets are by worth; the beauties are coiffed by the deft fingers of parisian tiring-women; the men wear the penitential garb of poole; the music is by gounod and verdi; strauss inspires the rushing waltzes, and the married people walk through the quadrilles to the measures of blue beard and fair helen, so suggestive of conjugal rights and duties. as for the suppers, the trail of the neapolitan serpent is over them all. honest eating is a lost art among the effete denizens of the old world. tantalizing ices, crisped shapes of baked nothing, arid sandwiches, and the feeblest of sugary punch, are the only supports exhausted nature receives for the shock of the cotillon. i remember the stern reply of a friend of mine when i asked him to go with me to a brilliant reception,--"no! man liveth not by biscuit-glace alone!" his heart was heavy for the steamed cherry-stones of harvey and the stewed terrapin of augustin. the speech of the gay world has almost ceased to be national. every one speaks french sufficiently for all social requirements. it is sometimes to be doubted whether this constant use of a foreign language in official and diplomatic circles is a cause or effect of paucity of ideas. it is impossible for any one to use another tongue with the ease and grace with which he could use his own. you know how tiresome the most charming foreigners are when they speak english. a fetter-dance is always more curious than graceful. yet one who has nothing to say can say it better in a foreign language. if you must speak nothing but phrases, ollendorff's are as good as any one's. where there are a dozen people all speaking french equally badly, each one imagines there is a certain elegance in the hackneyed forms. i know of no other way of accounting for the fact that clever people seem stupid and stupid people clever when they speak french. this facile language thus becomes the missionary of mental equality,--the principles of ' applied to conversation. all men are equal before the phrase-book. but this is hypercritical and ungrateful. we do not go to balls to hear sermons nor discuss the origin of matter. if the young grandees of spain are rather weaker in the parapet than is allowed in the nineteenth century, if the old boys are more frivolous than is becoming to age, and both more ignorant of the day's doings than is consistent with even their social responsibilities, in compensation the women of this circle are as pretty and amiable as it is possible to be in a fallen world. the foreigner never forgets those piquant, _mutines_ faces of andalusia and those dreamy eyes of malaga,--the black masses of moorish hair and the blond glory of those graceful heads that trace their descent from gothic demigods. they were not very learned nor very witty, but they were knowing enough to trouble the soundest sleep. their voices could interpret the sublimest ideas of mendelssohn. they knew sufficiently of lines and colors to dress themselves charmingly at small cost, and their little feet were well enough educated to bear them over the polished floor of a ball-room as lightly as swallows' wings. the flirting of their intelligent fans, the flashing of those quick smiles where eyes, teeth, and lips all did their dazzling duty, and the satin twinkling of those neat boots in the waltz, are harder to forget than things better worth remembering. since the beginning of the revolutionary regime there have been serious schisms and heart-burnings in the gay world. the people of the old situation assumed that the people of the new were rebels and traitors, and stopped breaking bread with them. but in spite of this the palace and the ministry of war were gay enough,--for madrid is a city of office-holders, and the white house is always easy to fill, even if two thirds of the senate is uncongenial. the principal fortress of the post was the palace of the spirituelle and hospitable lady whose society name is duchess of penaranda, but who is better known as the mother of the empress of the french. her salon was the weekly rendezvous of the irreconcilable adherents of the house of bourbon, and the aristocratic beauty that gathered there was too powerful a seduction even for the young and hopeful partisans of the powers that be. there was nothing exclusive about this elegant hospitality. beauty and good manners have always been a passport there. i have seen a proconsul of prim talking with a carlist leader, and a fiery young democrat dancing with a countess of castile. but there is another phase of society in madrid which is altogether pleasing,--far from the domain of politics or public affairs, where there is no pretension or luxury or conspiracy,--the old-fashioned tertulias of spain. there is nowhere a kindlier and more unaffected sociableness. the leading families of each little circle have one evening a week on which they remain at home. nearly all their friends come in on that evening. there is conversation and music and dancing. the young girls gather together in little groups,--not confined under the jealous guard of their mothers or chaperons,--and chatter of the momentous events of the week--their dresses, their beaux, and their books. around these compact formations of loveliness skirmish light bodies of the male enemy, but rarely effect a lodgment. a word or a smile is momently thrown out to meet the advance; but the long, desperate battle of flirtation, which so often takes place in america in discreet corners and outlying boudoirs, is never seen in this well-organized society. the mothers in israel are ranged for the evening around the walls in comfortable chairs, which they never leave; and the colonels and generals and chiefs of administration, who form the bulk of all madrid gatherings, are gravely smoking in the library or playing interminable games of tresillon, seasoned with temperate denunciations of the follies of the time. nothing can be more engaging than the tone of perfect ease and cordial courtesy which pervades these family festivals. it is here that the spanish character is seen in its most attractive light. nearly everybody knows french, but it is never spoken. the exquisite castilian, softened by its graceful diminutives into a rival of the italian in tender melody, is the only medium of conversation; it is rare that a stranger' is seen, but if he is, he must learn spanish or be a wet blanket forever. you will often meet, in persons of wealth and distinction, an easy degenerate accent in spanish, strangely at variance with their elegance and culture. these are creoles of the antilles, and they form one of the most valued and popular elements of society in the capital. there is a gallantry and dash about the men, and an intelligence and independence about the women, that distinguish them from their cousins of the peninsula. the american element has recently grown very prominent in the political and social world. admiral topete is a mexican. his wife is one of the distinguished cuban family of arrieta. general prim married a mexican heiress. the magnificent duchess de la torre, wife of the regent serrano, is a cuban born and bred. in one particular madrid is unique among capitals,--it has no suburbs. it lies in a desolate table-land in the windy waste of new castile; on the north the snowy guadarrama chills its breezes, and on every other side the tawny landscape stretches away in dwarfish hills and shallow ravines barren of shrub or tree, until distance fuses the vast steppes into one drab plain, which melts in the hazy verge of the warm horizon. there are no villages sprinkled in the environs to lure the madrilenos out of their walls for a holiday. those delicious picnics that break with such enchanting freshness and variety the steady course of life in other capitals cannot here exist. no parisian loves _la bonne ville_ so much that he does not call those the happiest of days on which he deserts her for a row at asnieres, a donkey-ride at enghien, or a bird-like dinner in the vast chestnuts of sceaux. "there is only one kaiserstadt," sings the loyal kerl of vienna, but he shakes the dust of the graben from his feet on holiday mornings, and makes his merry pilgrimage to the lordly schoen-brunn or the heartsome dornbach, or the wooded eyry of the kahlenberg. what would white-bait be if not eaten at greenwich? what would life be in the great cities without the knowledge that just outside, an hour away from the toil and dust and struggle of this money-getting world, there are green fields, and whispering forests, and verdurous nooks of breezy shadow by the side of brooks where the white pebbles shine through the mottled stream,--where you find great pied pan-sies under your hands, and catch the black beady eyes of orioles watching you from the thickets, and through the lush leafage over you see patches of sky flecked with thin clouds that sail so lazily you cannot be sure if the blue or the white is moving? existence without these luxuries would be very much like life in madrid. yet it is not so dismal as it might seem. the grande duchesse of gerolstein, the cheeriest moralist who ever occupied a throne, announces just before the curtain falls, "quand on n'a pas ce qu'on aime, il faut aimer ce qu'on a." but how much easier it is to love what you have when you never imagined anything better! the bulk of the good people of madrid have never left their natal city. if they have been, for their sins, some day to val-lecas or carabanchel or any other of the dusty villages that bake and shiver on the arid plains around them, they give fervid thanks on returning alive, and never wish to go again. they shudder when they hear of the summer excursions of other populations, and commiserate them profoundly for living in a place they are so anxious to leave. a lovely girl of madrid once said to me she never wished to travel,--some people who had been to france preferred paris to madrid; as if that were an inexplicable insanity by which their wanderings had been punished. the indolent incuriousness of the spaniard accepts the utter isolation of his city as rather an advantage. it saves him the trouble of making up his mind where to go. _vamonos al prado!_ or, as browning says,-- "let's to the prado and make the most of time." the people of madrid take more solid comfort in their promenade than any i know. this is one of the inestimable benefits conferred upon them by those wise and liberal free-thinkers charles iii. and aranda. they knew how important to the moral and physical health of the people a place of recreation was. they reduced the hideous waste land on the east side of the city to a breathing-space for future generations, turning the meadow into a promenade and the hill into the buen retiro. the people growled terribly at the time, as they did at nearly everything this prematurely liberal government did for them. the wise king once wittily said: "my people are like bad children that kick the shins of their nurse whenever their faces are washed." but they soon became reconciled to their prado,--a name, by the way, which runs through several idioms,--in paris they had a pre-aux-clercs, the clerks' meadow, and the great park of vienna is called the prater. it was originally the favorite scene of duels, and the cherished trysting-place of lovers. but in modern times it is too popular for any such selfish use. the polite world takes its stately promenade in the winter afternoons in the northern prolongation of the real prado, called in the official courtier style _las delicias de isabel segunda,_ but in common speech the castilian fountain, or _castellana,_ to save time. so perfect is the social discipline in these old countries that people who are not in society never walk in this long promenade, which is open to all the world. you shall see there, any pleasant day before the carnival, the aristocracy of the kingdom, the fast young hopes of the nobility, the diplomatic body resident, and the flexible figures and graceful bearing of the high-born ladies of castile. here they take the air as free from snobbish competition as the good society of olympus, while a hundred paces farther south, just beyond the mint, the world at large takes its plebeian constitutional. how long, with a democratic system of government, this purely conventional respect will be paid to blue-ness of blood cannot be conjectured. its existence a year after the revolution was to me one of the most singular of phenomena. after easter monday the castellana is left to its own devices for the summer. with the warm long days of may and june, the evening walk in the salon begins. europe affords no scene more original and characteristic. the whole city meets in this starlit drawing-room. it is a vast evening party al fresco, stretching from the alcala to the course of san geronimo. in the wide street beside it every one in town who owns a carriage may be seen moving lazily up and down, and apparently envying the gossiping strollers on foot. on three nights in the week there is music in the retiro garden,--not as in our feverish way beginning so early that you must sacrifice your dinner to get there, and then turning you out disconsolate in that seductive hour which john phoenix used to call the "shank of the evening," but opening sensibly at half past nine and going leisurely forward until after midnight. the music is very good. sometimes arban comes down from paris to recover from his winter fatigues and bewitch the spains with his wizard _baton._ in all this vast crowd nobody is in a hurry. they have all night before them. they stayed quietly at home in the stress of the noontide when the sunbeams were falling in the glowing streets like javelins,--they utilized some of the waste hours of the broiling afternoon in sleep, and are fresh as daisies now. the women are not haunted by the thought of lords and babies growling and wailing at home. their lords are beside them, the babies are sprawling in the clean gravel by their chairs. late in the small hours i have seen these family parties in the promenade, the husband tranquilly smoking his hundredth cigarette, his _placens uxor_ dozing in her chair, one baby asleep on the ground, and another slumbering in her lap. this madrid climate is a gallant one, and kindlier to the women than the men. the ladies are built on the old-fashioned generous plan. like a southern table in the old times, the only fault is too abundant plenty. they move along with a superb dignity of carriage that banting would like to banish from the world, their round white shoulders shining in the starlight, their fine heads elegantly draped in the coquettish and always graceful mantilla. but you would look in vain among the men of madrid for such fulness and liberality of structure. they are thin, eager, sinewy in appearance,--though it is the spareness of the turk, not of the american. it comes from tobacco and the guadarrama winds. this still, fine, subtle air that blows from the craggy peaks over the treeless plateau seems to take all superfluous moisture out of the men of madrid. but it is, like benedick's wit, "a most manly air, it will not hurt a woman." this tropic summer-time brings the halcyon days of the vagabonds of madrid. they are a temperate, reasonable people, after all, when they are let alone. they do not require the savage stimulants of our colder-blooded race. the fresh air is a feast. as walt whitman says, they loaf and invite their souls. they provide for the banquet only the most spiritual provender. their dissipation is confined principally to starlight and zephyrs; the coarser and wealthier spirits indulge in ice, agraz, and meringues dissolved in water. the climax of their luxury is a cool bed. walking about the city at midnight, i have seen the fountains all surrounded by luxurious vagabonds asleep or in revery, dozens of them stretched along the rim of the basins, in the spray of the splashing water, where the least start would plunge them in. but the dreams of these latin beggars are too peaceful to trouble their slumber. they lie motionless, amid the roar of wheels and the tramp of a thousand feet, their bed the sculptured marble, their covering the deep, amethystine vault, warm and cherishing with its breath of summer winds, bright with its trooping stars. the providence of the worthless watches and guards them! the chief commerce of the streets of madrid seems to be fire and water, bane and antidote. it would be impossible for so many match-venders to live anywhere else, in a city ten times the size of madrid. on every block you will find a wandering merchant dolefully announcing paper and phosphorus,--the one to construct cigarettes and the other to light them. the matches are little waxen tapers very neatly made and enclosed in pasteboard boxes, which are sold for a cent and contain about a hundred _fosforos._ these boxes are ornamented with portraits of the popular favorites of the day, and afford a very fair test of the progress and decline of parties. the queen has disappeared from them except in caricature, and the chivalrous face of castelar and the heavy bourbon mouth of don carlos are oftener seen than any others. a madrid smoker of average industry will use a box a day. they smoke more cigarettes than cigars, and in the ardor of conversation allow their fire to go out every minute. a young austrian, who was watching a _senorito_ light his wisp of paper for the fifth time, and mentally comparing it with the volcano volume and _kern-deutsch_ integrity of purpose of the meerschaums of his native land, said to me: "what can you expect of a people who trifle in that way with the only work of their lives?" it is this habit of constant smoking that makes the madrilenos the thirstiest people in the world; so that, alternating with the cry of "fire, lord-lings! matches, chevaliers!" you hear continually the drone so tempting to parched throats, "water! who wants water? freezing water! colder than snow!" this is the daily song of the gallician who marches along in his irrigating mission, with his brown blouse, his short breeches, and pointed hat, like that aladdin wears in the cheap editions; a little varied by the valentian in his party-colored mantle and his tow trousers, showing the bronzed leg from the knee to the blue-bordered sandals. numerous as they are, they all seem to have enough to do. they carry their scriptural-looking water-jars on their backs, and a smart tray of tin and burnished brass, with meringues and glasses, in front. the glasses are of enormous but not extravagant proportions. these dropsical iberians will drink water as if it were no stronger than beer. in the winter-time, while the cheerful invitation rings out to the same effect,--that the beverage is cold as the snow,--the merchant prudently carries a little pot of hot water over a spirit-lamp to take the chill off for shivery customers. madrid is one of those cities where strangers fear the climate less than residents. nothing is too bad for the castilian to say of his native air. before you have been a day in the city some kind soul will warn you against everything you have been in the habit of doing as leading to sudden and severe death in this subtle air. you will hear in a dozen different tones the favorite proverb, which may be translated,-- the air of madrid is as sharp as a knife,-- it will spare a candle and blow out your life:-- and another where the truth, as in many spanish proverbs, is sacrificed to the rhyme, saying that the climate is _tres meses invierno y nueve infierno,--_three months winter and nine months tophet. at the first coming of the winter frosts the genuine son of madrid gets out his capa, the national full round cloak, and never leaves it off till late in the hot spring days. they have a way of throwing one corner over the left shoulder, so that a bright strip of gay lining falls outward and pleasantly relieves the sombre monotony of the streets. in this way the face is completely covered by the heavy woollen folds, only the eyes being visible under the sombrero. the true spaniard breathes no out-of-doors air all winter except through his cloak, and they stare at strangers who go about with uncovered faces enjoying the brisk air as if they were lunatics. but what makes the custom absurdly incongruous is that the women have no such terror of fresh air. while the hidalgo goes smothered in his wrappings his wife and daughter wear nothing on their necks and faces but their pretty complexions, and the gallant breeze, grateful for this generous confidence, repays them in roses. i have sometimes fancied that in this land of traditions this difference might have arisen in those days of adventure when the cavaliers had good reasons for keeping their faces concealed, while the senoras, we are bound to believe, have never done anything for which their own beauty was not the best excuse. nearly all there is of interest in madrid consists in the faces and the life of its people. there is but one portion of the city which appeals to the tourist's ordinary set of emotions. this is the old moors' quarter,--the intricate jumble of streets and places on the western edge of the town, overlooking the bankrupt river. here is st. andrew's, the parish church where isabella the catholic and her pious husband used to offer their stiff and dutiful prayers. behind it a market-place of the most primitive kind runs precipitately down to the street of. segovia, at such an angle that you wonder the turnips and carrots can ever be brought to keep their places on the rocky slope. if you will wander through the dark alleys and hilly streets of this quarter when twilight is softening the tall tenement-houses to a softer purpose, and the doorways are all full of gossiping groups, and here and there in the little courts you can hear the tinkling of a guitar and the drone of ballads, and see the idlers lounging by the fountains, and everywhere against the purple sky the crosses of old convents, while the evening air is musical with slow chimes from the full-arched belfries, it will not be hard to imagine you are in the spain you have read and dreamed of. and, climbing out of this labyrinth of slums, you pass under the gloomy gates that lead to the plaza mayor. this once magnificent square is now as squalid and forsaken as the place royale of paris, though it dates from a period comparatively recent. the mind so instinctively revolts at the contemplation of those orgies of priestly brutality which have made the very name of this place redolent with a fragrance of scorched christians, that we naturally assign it an immemorial antiquity. but a glance at the booby face of philip iii. on his round-bellied charger in the centre of the square will remind us that this place was built at the same time the mayflower's passengers were laying the massive foundations of the great republic. the autos-da-fe, the plays of lope de vega, and the bull-fights went on for many years with impartial frequency under the approving eyes of royalty, which occupied a convenient balcony in the panaderia, that overdressed building with the two extinguisher towers. down to a period disgracefully near us, those balconies were occupied by the dull-eyed, pendulous-lipped tyrants who have sat on the throne of st. ferdinand, while there in the spacious court below the varied sports went on,--to-day a comedy of master lope, to-morrow the gentle and joyous slaying of bulls, and the next day, with greater pomp and ceremony, with banners hung from the windows, and my lord the king surrounded by his women and his courtiers in their bravest gear, and the august presence of the chief priests and their idol in the form of wine and wafers,--the judgment and fiery sentence of the thinking men of spain. let us remember as we leave this accursed spot that the old palace of the inquisition is now the ministry of justice, where a liberal statesman has just drawn up the bill of civil marriage; and that in the convent of the trinitarians a spanish rationalist, the minister of fomento, is laboring to secularize education in the peninsula. there is much coiling and hissing, but the fangs of the ser-pent are much less prompt and effective than of old. the wide calle mayor brings you in a moment out of these mouldy shadows and into the broad light of nowadays which shines in the puerta del sol. here, under the walls of the ministry of the interior, the quick, restless heart of madrid beats with the new life it has lately earned. the flags of the pavement have been often stained with blood, but of blood shed in combat, in the assertion of individual freedom. although the government holds that fortress-palace with a grasp of iron, it can exercise no control over the free speech that asserts itself on the very sidewalk of the principal. at every step you see news-stands filled with the sharp critical journalism of spain,--often ignorant and unjust, but generally courteous in expression and independent in thought. every day at noon the northern mails bring hither the word of all europe to the awaking spanish mind, and within that massive building the converging lines of the telegraph are whispering every hour their persuasive lessons of the world's essential unity. the movement of life and growth is bearing the population gradually away from that dark mediaeval madrid of the catholic kings through the puerta del sol to the airy heights beyond, and the new, fresh quarter built by the philosopher bourbon charles iii. is becoming the most important part of the city. i think we may be permitted to hope that the long reign of savage faith and repression is broken at last, and that this abused and suffering people is about to enter into its rightful inheritance of modern freedom and progress. spanish living and dying nowhere is the sentiment of home stronger than in spain. strangers, whose ideas of the spanish character have been gained from romance and comedy, are apt to note with some surprise the strength and prevalence of the domestic affections. but a moment's reflection shows us that nothing is more natural. it is the result of all their history. the old celtic population had scarcely any religion but that of the family. the goths brought in the pure teutonic regard for woman and marriage. the moors were distinguished by the patriarchal structure of their society. the spaniards have thus learned the lesson of home in the school of history and tradition. the intense feeling of individuality, which so strongly marks the spanish character, and which in the political world is so fatal an element of strife and obstruction, favors this peculiar domesticity. the castilian is submissive to his king and his priest, haughty and inflexible with his equals. but his own house is a refuge from the contests of out of doors. the reflex of absolute authority is here observed, it is true. the spanish father is absolute king and lord by his own hearthstone, but his sway is so mild and so readily acquiesced in that it is hardly felt. the evils of tyranny are rarely seen but by him who resists it, and the spanish family seldom calls for the harsh exercise of parental authority. this is the rule. i do not mean to say there are no exceptions. the pride and jealousy inherent in the race make family quarrels, when they do arise, the bitterest and the fiercest in the world. in every grade of life these vindictive feuds among kindred are seen from time to time. twice at least the steps of the throne have been splashed with royal blood shed by a princely hand. duels between noble cousins and stabbing affrays between peasant brothers alike attest the unbending sense of personal dignity that still infects this people. a light word between husbands and wives sometimes goes unexplained, and the rift between them widens through life. i know some houses where the wife enters at one door and the husband at another; where if they meet on the stairs, they do not salute each other. under the same roof they have lived for years and have not spoken. one word would heal all discord, and that word will never be spoken by either. they cannot be divorced,--the church is inexorable. they will not incur the scandal of a public separation. so they pass lives of lonely isolation in adjoining apartments, both thinking rather better of each other and of themselves for this devilish persistence. an infraction of parental discipline is never forgiven. i knew a general whose daughter fell in love with his adjutant, a clever and amiable young officer. he had positively no objection to the suitor, but was surprised that there should be any love-making in his house without his previous suggestion. he refused his consent, and the young people were married without it. the father and son-in-law went off on a campaign, fought, and were wounded in the same battle. the general was asked to recommend his son-in-law for promotion. "i have no son-in-law!" "i mean your daughter's husband." "i have no daughter." "i refer to lieutenant don fulano de tal. he is a good officer. he distinguished himself greatly in the recent affair." "ah! otra cosa!" said the grim father-in-law. his hate could not overcome his sense of justice. the youth got his promotion, but his general will not recognize him at the club. it is in the middle and lower classes that the most perfect pictures of the true spanish family are to be found. the aristocracy is more or less infected with the contagion of continental manners and morals. you will find there the usual proportion of wives who despise their husbands, and men who neglect their wives, and children who do not honor their parents. the smartness of american "pickles" has even made its appearance among the little countesses of madrid. a lady was eating an ice one day, hungrily watched by the wide eyes of the infant heiress of the house. as the latter saw the last hope vanishing before the destroying spoon, she cried out, "thou eatest all and givest me none,--maldita sea tu alma!" (accursed be thy soul). this dreadful imprecation was greeted with roars of laughter from admiring friends, and the profane little innocent was smothered in kisses and cream. passing at noon by any of the squares or shady places of madrid, you will see dozens of laboring-people at their meals. they sit on the ground, around the steaming and savory _cocido_ that forms the peasant spaniard's unvaried dinner. the foundation is of _garbanzos,_ the large chick-pea of the country, brought originally to europe by the carthaginians,--the roman _cicer,_ which gave its name to the greatest of the latin orators. all other available vegetables are thrown in; on days of high gala a piece of meat is added, and some forehanded housewives attain the climax of luxury by flavoring the compound with a link of sausage. the mother brings the dinner and her tawny brood of nestlings. a shady spot is selected for the feast. the father dips his wooden spoon first into the vapory bowl, and mother and babes follow with grave decorum. idle loungers passing these patriarchal groups, on their way to a vapid french breakfast at a restaurant, catch the fragrance of the _olla_ and the chatter of the family, and envy the dinner of herbs with love. there is no people so frugal. we often wonder how a washington clerk can live on twelve hundred dollars, but this would be luxury in expensive madrid. it is one of the dearest capitals in europe. foreigners are never weary decrying its high prices for poor fare; but castilians live in good houses, dress well, receive their intimate friends, and hold their own with the best in the promenade, upon incomes that would seem penury to any country parson in america. there are few of the nobility who retain the great fortunes of former days. you can almost tell on your fingers the tale of the grandees in madrid who can live without counting the cost. the army and navy are crowded with general officers whose political services have obliged their promotion. the state is too much impoverished to pay liberal salaries, and yet the rank of these officers requires the maintenance of a certain social position. few of them are men of fortune. the result is that necessity has taught them to live well upon little, i knew widows who went everywhere in society, whose daughters were always charmingly dressed, who lived in a decent quarter of the town, and who had no resources whatever but a husband's pension. the best proof of the capacity of spaniards to spread a little gold over as much space as a goldbeater could is the enormous competition for public employment. half the young men in spain are candidates for places under government ranging from $ to $ . places of $ to $ are considered objects of legitimate ambition even to deputies and leading politicians. expressed in reals these sums have a large and satisfying sound. fifty dollars seems little enough for a month's work, but a thousand reals has the look of a most respectable salary. in portugal, however, you can have all the delightful sensations of prodigality at a contemptible cost. you can pay, without serious damage to your purse, five thousand reis for your breakfast. it is the smallness of incomes and the necessity of looking sharply to the means of life that makes the young people of madrid so prudent in their love affairs. i know of no place where ugly heir-esses are such belles, and where young men with handsome incomes are so universally esteemed by all who know them. the stars on the sleeves of young officers are more regarded than their dancing, and the red belt of a field officer is as winning in the eyes of beauty as a cestus of venus. a. subaltern offered his hand and heart to a black-eyed girl of castile. she said kindly but firmly that the night was too cloudy. "what," said the stupefied lover, "the sky is full of stars." "i see but one," said the prudent beauty, her fine eyes resting pensively upon his cuff, where one lone luminary indicated his rank. this spirit is really one of forethought, and not avarice. people who have enough for two almost always marry from inclination, and frequently take partners for life without a penny. if men were never henpecked except by learned wives, spain would be the place of all others for timid men to marry in. the girls are bright, vivacious, and naturally very clever, but they have scarcely any education whatever. they never know the difference between _b_ and _v._ they throw themselves in orthography entirely upon your benevolence. they know a little music and a little french, but they have never crossed, even in a school-day excursion, the border line of the ologies. they do not even read novels. they are regarded as injurious, and cannot be trusted to the daughters until mamma has read them. mamma never has time to read them, and so they are condemned by default. fernan caballero, in one of her sleepy little romances, refers to this illiterate character of the spanish ladies, and says it is their chief charm,--that a christian woman, in good society, ought not to know anything beyond her cookery-book and her missal. there is-an old proverb which coarsely conveys this idea: a mule that whinnies and a woman that talks latin never come to any good. there is a contented acquiescence in this moral servitude among the fair spaniards which would madden our agitatresses. (see what will become of the language when male words are crowded out of the dictionary!) it must be the innocence which springs from ignorance that induces an occasional coarseness of expression which surprises you in the conversation of those lovely young girls. they will speak with perfect freedom of the _etat-civil_ of a young unmarried mother. a maiden of fifteen said to me: "i must go to a party this evening _decolletee,_ and i hate it. benigno is getting old enough to marry, and he wants to see all the girls in low neck before he makes up his mind." they all swear like troopers, without a thought of profanity. their mildest expression of surprise is jesus maria! they change their oaths with the season. at the feast of the immaculate conception, the favorite oath is maria purissima. this is a time of especial interest to young girls. it is a period of compulsory confession,--conscience-cleaning, as they call it. they are all very pious in their way. they attend to their religious duties with the same interest which they displayed a few years before in dressing and undressing their dolls, and will display a few years later in putting the lessons they learned with their dolls to a more practical use. the visible concrete symbols and observances of religion have great influence with them. they are fond of making vows in tight places and faithfully observing them afterwards. in an hour's walk in the streets of madrid you will see a dozen ladies with a leather strap buckled about their slender waists and hanging nearly to the ground. others wear a knotted cord and tassels. these are worn as the fulfilment of vows, or penances. i am afraid they give rise to much worldly conjecture on the part of idle youth as to what amiable sins these pretty penitents can have been guilty of. it is not prudent to ask an explanation of the peculiar mercy, or remorse, which this purgatorial strap commemorates. you will probably not enlarge your stock of knowledge further than to learn that the lady in question considers you a great nuisance. the graceful lady who, in ascending the throne of france, has not ceased to be a thorough spaniard, still preserves these pretty weaknesses of her youth. she vowed a chapel to her patron saint if her firstborn was a man-child, and paid it. she has hung a vestal lamp in the church of notre dame des victoires, in pursuance of a vow she keeps rigidly secret. she is a firm believer in relics also, and keeps a choice assortment on hand in the tuileries for sudden emergencies. when old baciocchi lay near his death, worn out by a horrible nervous disorder which would not let him sleep, the empress told the doctors, with great mystery, that she would cure him. after a few preliminary masses, she came into his room and hung on his bedpost a little gold-embroidered sachet containing (if the evidence of holy men is to be believed) a few threads of the swaddling-clothes of john the baptist. her simple childlike faith wrung the last grim smile from the tortured lips of the dying courtier. the very names of the spanish women are a constant reminder of their worship. they are all named out of the calendar of saints and virgin martyrs. a large majority are christened mary; but as this sacred name by much use has lost all distinctive meaning, some attribute, some especial invocation of the virgin, is always coupled with it. the names of dolores, mercedes, milagros, recall our lady of the sorrows, of the gifts, of the miracles. i knew a hoydenish little gypsy who bore the tearful name of lagrimas. the most appropriate name i heard for these large-eyed, soft-voiced beauties was peligros, our lady of dangers. who could resist the comforting assurance of "consuelo"? "blessed," says my lord lytton, "is woman who consoles." what an image of maiden purity goes with the name of nieves, the virgin of the snows! from a single cotillon of castilian girls you can construct the whole history of our lady; conception, annunciation, sorrows, solitude, assumption. as young ladies are never called by their family names, but always by their baptismal appellations, you cannot pass an evening in a spanish _tertulia_ without being reminded of every stage in the life of the immaculate mother, from bethlehem to calvary and beyond. the common use of sacred words is universal in catholic countries, but nowhere so striking as in spain. there is a little solemnity in the french adieu. but the spaniard says adios instead of "good-morning." no letter closes without the prayer, "god guard your grace many years!" they say a judge announces to a murderer his sentence of death with the sacramental wish of length of days. there is something a little shocking to a yankee mind in the label of lachryma christi; but in la mancha they call fritters the grace of god. the piety of the spanish women does not prevent them from seeing some things clearly enough with their bright eyes. one of the most bigoted women in spain recently said: "i hesitate to let my child go to confession. the priests ask young girls such infamous questions, that my cheeks burn when i think of them, after all these years." i stood one christmas eve in the cold midnight wind, waiting for the church doors to open for the night mass, the famous _misa del gallo._ on the steps beside me sat a decent old woman with her two daughters. at last she rose and said, "girls, it is no use waiting any longer. the priests won't leave their housekeepers this cold night to save anybody's soul." in these two cases, taken from the two extremes of the catholic society, there was no disrespect for the church or for religion. both these women believed with a blind faith. but they could not help seeing how unclean were the hands that dispensed the bread of life. the respect shown to the priesthood as a body is marvellous, in view of the profligate lives of many. the general progress of the age has forced most of the dissolute priests into hypocrisy. but their cynical immorality is still the bane of many families. and it needs but a glance at the vile manual of confession, called the golden key, the author of which is the too well known padre claret, confessor to the queen, to see the systematic moral poisoning the minds of spanish women must undergo who pay due attention to what is called their religious duties. if a confessor obeys the injunctions of this high ecclesiastical authority, his fair penitents will have nothing to learn from a diligent perusal of faublas or casanova. it would, however, be unjust to the priesthood to consider them all as corrupt as royal chaplains. it requires a combination of convent and palace life to produce these finished specimens of mitred infamy. it is to be regretted that the spanish women are kept in such systematic ignorance. they have a quicker and more active intelligence than the men. with a fair degree of education, much might be hoped from them in the intellectual development of the country. in society, you will at once be struck with the superiority of the women to their husbands and brothers in cleverness and appreciation. among small tradesmen, the wife always comes to the rescue of her slow spouse when she sees him befogged in a bargain. in the fields, you ask a peasant some question about your journey. he will hesitate, and stammer, and end with, "_quien sabe?"_ but his wife will answer with glib completeness all you want to know. i can imagine no cause for this, unless it be that the men cloud their brains all day with the fumes of tobacco, and the women do not. the personality of the woman is not so entirely merged in that of the husband as among us. she retains her own baptismal and family name through life. if miss matilda smith marries mr. jonathan jones, all vestige of the former gentle being vanishes at once from the earth, and mrs. jonathan jones alone remains. but in spain she would become mrs. matilda smith de jones, and her eldest-born would be called don juan jones y smith. you ask the name of a married lady in society, and you hear as often her own name as that of her husband. even among titled people, the family name seems more highly valued than the titular designation. everybody knows narvaez, but how few have heard of the duke of valencia! the regent serrano has a name known and honored over the world, but most people must think twice before they remember the duke de la torre. juan prim is better known than the marques de los castillejos ever will be. it is perhaps due to the prodigality with which titles have been scattered in late years that the older titles are more regarded than the new, although of inferior grade. thus prim calls himself almost invariably the conde de reus, though his grandeeship came with his investiture as marquis. there is something quite noticeable about this easy way of treating one's name. we are accustomed to think a man can have but one name, and can sign it but in one way. lord derby can no more call himself mr. stanley than president grant can sign a bill as u. simpson. yet both these signatures would be perfectly valid according to spanish analogy. the marquis of santa marta signs himself guzman; the marquis of albaida uses no signature but orense; both of these gentlemen being republican deputies. i have seen general prim's name signed officially, conde de reus, marques de los castillejos, prim, j. prim, juan prim, and jean prim, changing the style as often as the humor strikes him. their forms of courtesy are, however, invariable. you can never visit a spaniard without his informing you that you are in your own house. if, walking with him, you pass his residence, he asks you to enter your house and unfatigue yourself a moment. if you happen upon any spaniard, of whatever class, at the hour of repast, he always offers you his dinner; if you decline, it must be with polite wishes for his digestion. with the spaniards, no news is good news; it is therefore civil to ask a spaniard if his lady-wife goes on without novelty, and to express your profound gratification on being assured that she does. their forms of hospitality are evidently moorish, derived from the genuine open hand and open tent of the children of the desert; now nothing is left of them but grave and decorous words. in the old times, one who would have refused such offers would have been held a churl; now one who would accept them would be regarded as a boor. there is still something primitive about the spanish servants. a flavor of the old romances and the old comedy still hangs about them. they are chatty and confidential to a degree that appalls a stiff and formal englishman of the upper middle class. the british servant is a chilly and statuesque image of propriety. the french is an intelligent and sympathizing friend. you can make of him what you like. but the italian, and still more the spaniard, is as gay as a child, and as incapable of intentional disrespect. the castilian grandee does not regard his dignity as in danger from a moment's chat with a waiter. he has no conception of that ferocious decorum we anglo-saxons require from our manservants and our maidservants. the spanish servant seems to regard it as part of his duty to keep your spirits gently excited while you dine by the gossip of the day. he joins also in your discussions, whether they touch lightly on the politics of the hour or plunge profoundly into the depths of philosophic research. he laughs at your wit, and swings his napkin with convulsions of mirth at your good stories. he tells you the history of his life while you are breaking your egg, and lays the story of his loves before you with your coffee. yet he is not intrusive. he will chatter on without waiting for a reply, and when you are tired of him you can shut him off with a word. there are few spanish servants so uninteresting but that you can find in them from time to time some sparks of that ineffable light which shines forever in sancho and figaro. the traditions of subordination, which are the result of long centuries of tyranny, have prevented the development of that feeling of independence among the lower orders, which in a freer race finds its expression in ill manners and discourtesy to superiors. i knew a gentleman in the west whose circumstances had forced him to become a waiter in a backwoods restaurant. he bore a deadly grudge at the profession that kept him from starving, and asserted his unconquered nobility of soul by scowling at his customers and swearing at the viands he dispensed. i remember the deep sense of wrong with which he would growl, "two buckwheats, begawd!" you see nothing of this defiant spirit in spanish servants. they are heartily glad to find employment, and ask no higher good-fortune than to serve acceptably. as to drawing comparisons between themselves and their masters, they never seem to think they belong to the same race. i saw a pretty grisette once stop to look at a show-window where there was a lay-figure completely covered with all manner of trusses. she gazed at it long and earnestly, evidently thinking it was some new fashion just introduced into the gay world. at last she tripped away with all the grace of her unfettered limbs, saying, "if the fine ladies have to wear all those machines, i am glad i am not made like them." whether it be from their more regular and active lives, or from their being unable to pay for medical attendance, the poorer classes suffer less from sickness than their betters. an ordinary spaniard is sick but once in his life, and that once is enough,--'twill serve. the traditions of the old satires which represented the doctor and death as always hunting in couples still survive in spain. it is taken as so entirely a matter of course that a patient must die that the law of the land imposed a heavy fine upon physicians who did not bring a priest on their second visit. his labor of exhortation and confession was rarely wasted. there were few sufferers who recovered from the shock of that solemn ceremony in their chambers. medical science still labors in spain under the ban of ostracism, imposed in the days when all research was impiety. the inquisition clamored for the blood of vesalius, who had committed the crime of a demonstration in anatomy. he was forced into a pilgrimage of expiation, and died on the way to palestine. the church has always looked with a jealous eye upon the inquirers, the innovators. why these probes, these lancets, these multifarious drugs, when the object in view could be so much more easily obtained by the judicious application of masses and prayers? so it has come about that the doctor is a pariah, and miracles flourish in the peninsula. at every considerable shrine you will see the walls covered with waxen models of feet, legs, hands, and arms secured by the miraculous interposition of the _genius loci,_ and scores of little crutches attesting the marvellous hour when they became useless. each shrine, like a mineral spring, has its own especial virtue. a santiago medal was better than quinine for ague. st. veronica's handkerchief is sovereign for sore eyes. a bone of st. magin supersedes the use of mercury. a finger-nail of san frutos cured at segovia a case of congenital idiocy. the virgin of ona acted as a vermifuge on royal infantas, and her girdle at tortosa smooths their passage into this world. in this age of unfaith relics have lost much of their power. they turn out their score or so of miracles every feast-day, it is true, but are no longer capable of the _tours de force_ of earlier days. cardinal de retz saw with his eyes a man whose wooden legs were turned to capering flesh and blood by the image of the pillar of saragossa. but this was in the good old times before newspapers and telegraphs had come to dispel the twilight of belief. now, it is excessively probable that neither doctor nor priest can do much if the patient is hit in earnest. he soon succumbs, and is laid out in his best clothes in an improvised chapel and duly sped on his way. the custom of burying the dead in the gown and cowl of monks has greatly passed into disuse. the mortal relics are treated with growing contempt, as the superstitions of the people gradually lose their concrete character. the soul is the important matter which the church now looks to. so the cold clay is carted off to the cemetery with small ceremony. even the coffins of the rich are jammed away into receptacles too small for them, and hastily plastered out of sight. the poor are carried off on trestles and huddled into their nameless graves, without following or blessing. children are buried with some regard to the old oriental customs. the coffin is of some gay and cheerful color, pink or blue, and is carried open to the grave by four of the dead child's young companions, a fifth walking behind with the ribboned coffin-lid. i have often seen these touching little parties moving through the bustling streets, the peaceful small face asleep under the open sky, decked with the fading roses and withering lilies. in all well-to-do families the house of death is deserted immediately after the funeral. the stricken ones retire to some other habitation, and there pass eight days in strict and inviolable seclusion. on the ninth day the great masses for the repose of the soul of the departed are said in the parish church, and all the friends of the family are expected to be present. these masses are the most important and expensive incident of the funeral. they cost from two hundred to one thousand dollars, according to the strength and fervor of the orisons employed. they are repeated several years on the anniversary of the decease, and afford a most sure and nourishing revenue to the church. they are founded upon those feelings inseparable from every human heart, vanity and affection. our dead friends must be as well prayed for as those of others, and who knows but that they may be in deadly need of prayers! to shorten their fiery penance by one hour, who would not fast for a week? on these anniversaries a black-bordered advertisement appears in the newspapers, headed by the sign of the cross and the requiescat in pace, announcing that on this day twelve months don fulano de tal passed from earth garnished with the holy sacraments, that all the masses this day celebrated in such and such churches will be applied to the benefit of his spirit's repose, and that all christian friends are hereby requested to commend his soul this day unto god. these efforts, if they do the dead no good, at least do the living no harm. a luxury of grief, in those who can afford it, consists in shutting up the house where a death has taken place and never suffering it to be opened again. i once saw a beautiful house and wide garden thus abandoned in one of the most fashionable streets of madrid. i inquired about it, and found it was formerly the residence of the duke of------. his wife had died there many years before, and since that day not a door nor a window had been opened. the garden gates were red and rough with rust. grass grew tall and rank in the gravelled walks. a thick lush undergrowth had overrun the flower-beds and the lawns. the blinds were rotting over the darkened windows. luxuriant vines clambered over all the mossy doors. the stucco was peeling from the walls in unwholesome blotches. wild birds sang all day in the safe solitude. there was something impressive in this spot of mould and silence, lying there so green and implacable in the very heart of a great and noisy city. the duke lived in paris, leading the rattling life of a man of the world. he never would sell or let that madrid house. perhaps in his heart also, that battered thoroughfare worn by the pattering boots of ma-bine and the bois, and the quartier breda, there was a green spot sacred to memory and silence, where no footfall should ever light, where no living voice should ever be heard, shut out from the world and its cares and its pleasures, where through the gloom of dead days he could catch a glimpse of a white hand, a flash of a dark eye, the rustle of a trailing robe, and feel sweeping over him the old magic of love's young dream, softening his fancy to tender regret and his eyes to a happy mist-- "like that which kept the heart of eden green before the useful trouble of the rain." influence of tradition in spanish life intelligent spaniards with whom i have conversed on political matters have often exclaimed, "ah, you americans are happy! you have no traditions." the phrase was at first a puzzling one. we americans are apt to think we have traditions,--a rather clearly marked line of precedents. and it is hard to see how a people should be happier without them. it is not anywhere considered a misfortune to have had a grandfather, i believe, and some very good folks take an innocent pride in that very natural fact. it was not easy to conceive why the possession of a glorious history of many centuries should be regarded as a drawback. but a closer observation of spanish life and thought reveals the curious and hurtful effect of tradition upon every phase of existence. in the commonest events of every day you will find the flavor of past ages lingering in petty annoyances. the insecurity of the middle ages has left as a legacy to our times a complicated system of obstacles to a man getting into his own house at night. i lived in a pleasant house on the prado, with a minute garden in front, and an iron gate and railing. this gate was shut and locked by the night watchman of the quarter at midnight,--so conscientiously that he usually had everything snug by half past eleven. as the same man had charge of a dozen or more houses, it was scarcely reasonable to expect him to be always at your own gate when you arrived. but by a singular fatality i think no man ever found him in sight at any hour. he is always opening some other gate or shutting some other door, or settling the affairs of the nation with a friend in the next block, or carrying on a chronic courtship at the lattice of some olive-cheeked soubrette around the corner. be that as it may, no one ever found him on hand; and there is nothing to do but to sit down on the curbstone and lift up your voice and shriek for him until he comes. at two o'clock of a morning in january the exercise is not improving to the larynx or the temper. there is a tradition in the very name of this worthy. he is called the sereno, because a century or so ago he used to call the hour and the state of the weather, and as the sky is almost always cloudless here, he got the name of the sereno, as the quail is called bob white, from much iteration. the sereno opens your gate and the door of your house. when you come to your own floor you must ring, and your servant takes a careful survey of you through a latticed peep-hole before he will let you in. you may positively forbid this every day in the year, but the force of habit is too strong in the spanish mind to suffer amendment. this absurd custom comes evidently down from a time of great lawlessness and license, when no houses were secure without these precautions, when people rarely stirred from their doors after nightfall, and when a door was never opened to a stranger. now, when no such dangers exist, the annoying and senseless habit still remains, because no one dreams of changing anything which their fathers thought proper. three hundred thousand people in madrid submit year after year to this nightly cross, and i have never heard a voice raised in protest, nor even in defence of the custom. there is often a bitterness of opposition to evident improvement which is hard to explain. in the last century, when the eminent naturalist bowles went down to the almaden silver-mines, by appointment of the government, to see what was the cause of their exhaustion, he found that they had been worked entirely in perpendicular shafts instead of following the direction of the veins. he perfected a plan for working them in this simple and reasonable way, and no earthly power could make the spanish miners obey his orders. there was no precedent for this new process, and they would not touch it. they preferred starvation rather than offend the memory of their fathers by a change. at last they had to be dismissed and a full force imported from germany, under whose hands the mines became instantly enormously productive. i once asked a very intelligent english contractor why he used no wheelbarrows in his work. he had some hundreds of stalwart navvies employed carrying dirt in small wicker baskets to an embankment. he said the men would not use them. some said it broke their backs. others discovered a capital way of amusing themselves by putting the barrow on their heads and whirling the wheel as rapidly as possible with their hands. this was a game which never grew stale. the contractor gave up in despair, and went back to the baskets. but it is in the official regions that tradition is most powerful. in the budget of there was a curious chapter called "charges of justice." this consisted of a collection of articles appropriating large sums of money for the payment of feudal taxes to the great aristocracy of the kingdom as a compensation for long extinct seigniories. the duke of rivas got thirteen hundred dollars for carrying the mail to victoria. the duke of san carlos draws ten thousand dollars for carrying the royal correspondence to the indies. of course this service ceased to belong to these families some centuries ago, but the salary is still paid. the duke of almodovar is well paid for supplying the _baton_ of office to the alguazil of cordova. the duke of osuna--one of the greatest grandees of the kingdom, a gentleman who has the right to wear seventeen hats in the presence of the queen--receives fifty thousand dollars a year for imaginary feudal services. the count of altamira, who, as his name indicates, is a gentleman of high views, receives as a salve for the suppression of his fief thirty thousand dollars a year. in consideration of this sum he surrenders, while it is punctually paid, the privilege of hanging his neighbors. when the budget was discussed, a republican member gently criticised this chapter; but his amendment for an investigation of these charges was indignantly rejected. he was accused of a shocking want of espanolismo. he was thought to have no feeling in his heart for the glories of spain. the respectability of the chamber could find but one word injurious enough to express their contempt for so shameless a proposition; they said it was little better than socialism. the "charges" were all voted. spain, tottering on the perilous verge of bankruptcy, her schoolmasters not paid for months, her sinking fund plundered, her credit gone out of sight, borrowing every cent she spends at thirty per cent., is proud of the privilege of paying into the hands of her richest and most useless class this gratuity of twelve million reals simply because they are descended from the robber chiefs of the darker ages. there is a curious little comedy played by the family of medina celi at every new coronation of a king of spain. the duke claims to be the rightful heir to the throne. he is descended from prince ferdinand, who, dying before his father, don alonso x., left his babies exposed to the cruel kindness of their uncle sancho, who, to save them the troubles of the throne, assumed it himself and transmitted it to his children,--all this some half dozen centuries ago. at every coronation the duke formally protests; an athletic and sinister-looking court headsman comes down to his palace in the carrera san geronimo, and by threats of immediate decapitation induces the duke to sign a paper abdicating his rights to the throne of all the spains. the duke eats the bourbon leek with inward profanity, and feels that he has done a most clever and proper thing. this performance is apparently his only object and mission in life. this one sacrifice to tradition is what he is born for. the most important part of a spaniard's signature is the _rubrica_ or flourish with which it closes. the monarch's hand is set to public acts exclusively by this _parafe._ this evidently dates from the time when none but priests could write. in madrid the mule-teams are driven tandem through the wide streets, because this was necessary in the ages when the streets were narrow. there is even a show of argument sometimes to justify an adherence to things as they are. about a century ago there was an effort made by people who had lived abroad, and so become conscious of the possession of noses, to have the streets of madrid cleaned. the proposition was at first received with apathetic contempt, but when the innovators persevered they met the earnest and successful opposition of all classes. the cas-tilian _savans_ gravely reported that the air of madrid, which blew down from the snowy guadarra-mas, was so thin and piercing that it absolutely needed the gentle corrective of the ordure-heaps to make it fit for human lungs. there is no nation in europe in which so little washing is done. i do not think it is because the spaniards do not want to be neat. they are, on the whole, the best-dressed people on the continent. the hate of ablutions descends from those centuries of warfare with the moors. the heathens washed themselves daily; therefore a christian should not. the monks, who were too lazy to bathe, taught their followers to be filthy by precept and example. water was never to be applied externally except in baptism. it was a treacherous element, and dallying with it had gotten bathsheba and susanna into no end of trouble. so when the cleanly infidels were driven out of granada, the pious and hydrophobic cardinal ximenez persuaded the catholic sovereigns to destroy the abomination of baths they left behind. until very recently the spanish mind has been unable to separate a certain idea of immorality from bathing. when madame daunoy, one of the sprightliest of observers, visited the court of philip iv., she found it was considered shocking among the ladies of the best society to wash the face and hands. once or twice a week they would glaze their pretty visages with the white of an egg. of late years this prejudice has given way somewhat; but it has lasted longer than any monument in spain. these, however, are but trivial manifestations of that power of tradition which holds the spanish intellect imprisoned as in a vice of iron. the whole life of the nation is fatally influenced by this blind reverence for things that have been. it may be said that by force of tradition christian morality has been driven from individual life by religion, and honesty has been supplanted as a rule of public conduct by honor,--a wretched substitute in either case, and irreconcilably at war with the spirit of the age. the growth of this double fanaticism is easily explained; it is the result of centuries of religious wars. from the hour when pelayo, the first of the asturian kings, successfully met and repulsed the hitherto victorious moors in his rocky fortress of covadonga, to the day when boabdil the unlucky saw for the last time through streaming tears the vermilion towers of alhambra crowned with the banner of the cross, there was not a year of peace in spain. no other nation has had such an experience. seven centuries of constant warfare, with three thousand battles; this is the startling epitome of spanish history from the mahometan conquest to the reign of ferdinand and isabella. in this vast war there was laid the foundation of the national character of to-day. even before the conquering moslem crossed from africa, spain was the most deeply religious country in europe; and by this i mean the country in which the church was most powerful in its relations with the state. when the council of toledo, in , received the king of castile, he fell on his face at the feet of the bishops before venturing to address them. when the hosts of islam had overspread the peninsula, and the last remnant of christianity had taken refuge in the inaccessible hills of the northwest, the richest possession they carried into these inviolate fastnesses was a chest of relics,--knuckle-bones of apostles and splinters of true crosses, in which they trusted more than in mortal arms. the church had thus a favorable material to work upon in the years of struggle that followed. the circumstances all lent themselves to the scheme of spiritual domination. the fight was for the cross against the crescent; the symbol of the quarrel was visible and tangible. the spaniards were poor and ignorant and credulous. the priests were enough superior to lead and guide them, and not so far above them as to be out of the reach of their sympathies and their love. they marched with them. they shared their toils and dangers. they stimulated their hate of the enemy. they taught them that their cruel anger was the holy wrath of god. they held the keys of eternal weal or woe, and rewarded subservience to the priestly power with promises of everlasting felicity; while the least symptom of rebellion in thought or action was punished with swift death and the doom of endless flames. there was nothing in the church which the fighting spaniard could recognize as a reproach to himself. it was as bitter, as brave, as fierce, and revengeful as he. his credulity regarded it as divine, and worthy of blind adoration, and his heart went out to it with the sympathy of perfect love. in these centuries of war there was no commerce, no manufactures, no settled industry of importance among the spaniards. there was consequently no wealth, none of that comfort and ease which is the natural element of doubt and discussion. science did not exist. the little learning of the time was exclusively in the hands of the priesthood. if from time to time an intelligent spirit struggled against the chain of unquestioning bigotry that bound him, he was rigorously silenced by prompt and bloody punishment. there seemed to be no need of discussion, no need of inculcation of doctrine. the serious work of the time was the war with the infidel. the clergy managed everything. the question, "what shall i do to be saved?" never entered into those simple and ignorant minds. the church would take care of those who did her bidding. thus it was that in the hammering of those struggling ages the nation became welded together in one compact mass of unquestioning, unreasoning faith, which the church could manage at its own good pleasure. it was also in these times that spanish honor took its rise. this sentiment is so nearly connected with that of personal loyalty that they may be regarded as phases of the same monarchical spirit. the rule of honor as distinguished from honesty and virtue is the most prominent characteristic of monarchy, and for that reason the political theorists from the time of montesquieu have pronounced in favor of the monarchy as a more practicable form of government than the republic, as requiring a less perfect and delicate machinery, men of honor being far more common than men of virtue. as in spain, owing to special conditions, monarchy attained the most perfect growth and development which the world has seen, the sentiment of honor, as a rule of personal and political action, has there reached its most exaggerated form. i use this word, of course, in its restricted meaning of an intense sense of personal dignity, and readiness to sacrifice for this all considerations of interest and morality. this phase of the spanish character is probably derived in its germ from the gothic blood of their ancestors. their intense self-assertion has been, in the northern races, modified by the progress of intelligence and the restraints of municipal law into a spirit of sturdy self-respect and a disinclination to submit to wrong. the goths of spain have unfortunately never gone through this civilizing process. their endless wars never gave an opportunity for the development of the purely civic virtues of respect and obedience to law. the people at large were too wretched, too harried by constant coming and going of the waves of war, to do more than live, in a shiftless, hand-to-mouth way, from the proceeds of their flocks and herds. there were no cities of importance within the spanish lines. there was no opportunity for the growth of the true burgher spirit. there was no law to speak of in all these years except the twin despotism of the church and the king. if there had been dissidence between them it might have been better for the people. but up to late years there has never been a quarrel between the clergy and the crown. their interests were so identified that the dual tyranny was stronger than even a single one could have been. the crown always lending to the church when necessary the arm of flesh, and the church giving to the despotism of the sceptre the sanction of spiritual authority, an absolute power was established over body and soul. the spirit of individual independence inseparable from gothic blood being thus forced out of its natural channels of freedom of thought and municipal liberty, it remained in the cavaliers of the army of spain in the same barbarous form which it had held in the northern forests,--a physical self-esteem and a readiness to fight on the slightest provocation. this did not interfere with the designs of the church and was rather a useful engine against its enemies. the absolute power of the crown kept the spirit of feudal arrogance in check while the pressure of a common danger existed. the close cohesion which was so necessary in camp and church prevented the tendency to disintegration, while the right of life and death was freely exercised by the great lords on their distant estates without interference. the predominating power of the crown was too great and too absolute to result in the establishment of any fixed principle of obedience to law. the union of crozier and sceptre had been, if anything, too successful. the king was so far above the nobility that there was no virtue in obeying him. his commission was divine, and he was no more confined by human laws than the stars and the comets. the obedience they owed and paid him was not respect to law. it partook of the character of religious worship, and left untouched and untamed in their savage hearts the instinct of resistance to all earthly claims of authority. such was the condition of the public spirit of spain at the beginning of that wonderful series of reigns from ferdinand and isabella to their great-grandson philip ii., which in less than a century raised spain to the summit of greatness and built up a realm on which the sun never set. all the events of these prodigious reigns contributed to increase and intensify the national traits to which we have referred. the discovery of america flooded europe with gold, and making the better class of spaniards the richest people in the world naturally heightened their pride and arrogance. the long and eventful religious wars of charles v. and philip ii. gave employment and distinction to thousands of families whose vanity was nursed by the royal favor, and whose ferocious self-will was fed and pampered by the blood of heretics and the spoil of rebels. the national qualities of superstition and pride made the whole cavalier class a wieldy and effective weapon in the hands of the monarch, and the use he made of them reacted upon these very traits, intensifying and affirming them. so terrible was this absolute command of the spiritual and physical forces of the kingdom possessed by the monarchs of that day, that when the reformation flashed out, a beacon in the northern sky of political and religious freedom to the world, its light could not penetrate into spain. there was a momentary struggle there, it is true. but so apathetic was the popular mind that the effort to bring it into sympathy with the vast movement of the age was hopeless from the beginning. the axe and the fagot made rapid work of the heresy. after only ten years of burnings and beheadings philip ii. could boast that not a heretic lived in his borders. crazed by his success and his unquestioned omnipotence at home, and drunken with the delirious dream that god's wrath was breathing through him upon a revolted world, he essayed to crush heresy throughout europe; and in this mad and awful crime his people undoubtingly seconded him. in this he failed, the stars in their courses fighting against him, the god that his worship slandered taking sides against him. but history records what rivers of blood he shed in the long and desperate fight, and how lovingly and adoringly his people sustained him. he killed, in cold blood, some forty thousand harmless people for their faith, besides the vastly greater number whose lives he took in battle. yet this horrible monster, who is blackened with every crime at which humanity shudders, who had no grace of manhood, no touch of humanity, no gleam of sympathy which could redeem the gloomy picture of his ravening life, was beloved and worshipped as few men have been since the world has stood. the common people mourned him at his death with genuine unpaid sobs and tears. they will weep even yet at the story of his edifying death,--this monkish vampire breathing his last with his eyes fixed on the cross of the mild nazarene, and tormented with impish doubts as to whether he had drunk blood enough to fit him for the company of the just! his successors rapidly fooled away the stupendous empire that had filled the sixteenth century with its glory. spain sank from the position of ruler of the world and queen of the seas to the place of a second-rate power, by reason of the weakening power of superstition and bad government, and because the people and the chieftains had never learned the lesson of law. the clergy lost no tittle of their power. they went on, gayly roasting their heretics and devouring the substance of the people, more prosperous than ever in those days of national decadence. philip iii. gave up the government entirely to the duke of lerma, who formed an alliance with the church, and they led together a joyous life. in the succeeding reign the church had become such a gnawing cancer upon the state that the servile cortes had the pluck to protest against its inroads. there were in nine thousand monasteries for men, besides nunneries. there were thirty-two thousand dominican and franciscan friars. in the diocese of seville alone there were fourteen thousand chaplains. there was a panic in the land. every one was rushing to get into holy orders. the church had all the bread. men must be monks or starve. _zelus domus tuae come-dit me,_ writes the british ambassador, detailing these facts. we must remember that this was the age when the vast modern movement of inquiry and investigation was beginning. bacon was laying in england the foundations of philosophy, casting with his prophetic intelligence the horoscope of unborn sciences. descartes was opening new vistas of thought to the world. but in spain, while the greatest names of her literature occur at this time, they aimed at no higher object than to amuse their betters. cervantes wrote quixote, but he died in a monk's hood; and lope de vega was a familiar of the inquisition. the sad story of the mind of spain in this momentous period may be written in one word,--everybody believed and nobody inquired. the country sank fast into famine and anarchy. the madness of the monks and the folly of the king expelled the moors in , and the loss of a million of the best mechanics and farmers of spain struck the nation with a torpor like that of death. in sir edward hyde wrote that "affairs were in huge disorder." people murdered each other for a loaf of bread. the marine perished for want of sailors. in the stricken land nothing flourished but the rabble of monks and the royal authority. this is the curious fact. the church and the crown had brought them to this misery, yet better than their lives the spaniards loved the church and the crown. a word against either would have cost any man his life in those days. the old alliance still hung together firmly. the church bullied and dragooned the king in private, but it valued his despotic power too highly ever to slight it in public. there was something superhuman about the faith and veneration with which the people, and the aristocracy as well, regarded the person of the king. there was somewhat of gloomy and ferocious dignity about philip ii. which might easily bring a courtier to his knees; but how can we account for the equal reverence that was paid to the ninny philip iii., the debauched trifler philip iv., and the drivelling idiot charles ii.? yet all of these were invested with the same attributes of the divine. their hands, like those of midas, had the gift of making anything they touched too precious for mortal use. a horse they had mounted could never be ridden again. a woman they had loved must enter a nunnery when they were tired of her. when buckingham came down to spain with charles of england, the conde-duque of olivares was shocked and scandalized at the relation of confidential friendship that existed between the prince and the duke. the world never saw a prouder man than olivares. his picture by velazquez hangs side by side with that of his royal master in madrid. you see at a glance that the count-duke is the better man physically, mentally, morally. but he never dreamed it. he thought in his inmost heart that the best thing about him was the favor of the worthless fribble whom he governed. through all the vicissitudes of spanish history the force of these married superstitions--reverence for the church as distinguished from the fear of god, and reverence for the king as distinguished from respect for law--have been the ruling characteristics of the spanish mind. among the fatal effects of this has been the extinction of rational piety and rational patriotism. if a man was not a good catholic he was pretty sure to be an atheist. if he did not honor the king he was an outlaw. the wretched story of spanish dissensions beyond seas, and the loss of the vast american empire, is distinctly traceable to the exaggerated sentiment of personal honor, unrestrained by the absolute authority of the crown. it seems impossible for the spaniard of history and tradition to obey anything out of his sight. the american provinces have been lost one by one through petty quarrels and colonial rivalries. at the first word of dispute their notion of honor obliges them to fly to arms, and when blood has been shed reconciliation is impossible. so weak is the principle of territorial loyalty, that whenever the peninsula government finds it necessary to overrule some violence of its own soldiers, these find no difficulty in marching over to the insurrection, or raising a fresh rebellion of their own. so little progress has there been in spain from the middle ages to to-day in true political science, that we see such butchers as caballero and valmaseda repeating to-day the crimes and follies of cortes and pamfilo narvaez, of pizarro and almagro, and the revolt of the bloodthirsty volunteers of the havana is only a question of time. it is true that in later years there has been the beginning of a better system of thought and discussion in spain. but the old tradition still holds its own gallantly in church and state. nowhere in the world are the forms of religion so rigidly observed, and the precepts of christian morality less regarded. the most facile beauties in madrid are severe as minervas on holy thursday. i have seen a dozen fast men at the door of a gambling-house fall on their knees in the dust as the host passed by in the street. yet the fair were no less frail and the senoritos were no less profligate for this unfeigned reverence for the outside of the cup and platter. in the domain of politics there is still the lamentable disproportion between honor and honesty. a high functionary cares nothing if the whole salon del prado talks of his pilferings, but he will risk his life in an instant if you call him no gentleman. the word "honor" is still used in all legislative assemblies, even in england and america. but the idea has gone by the board in all democracies, and the word means no more than the chamberlain's sword or the speaker's mace. the only criterion which the statesman of the nineteenth century applies to public acts is that of expediency and legality. the first question is, "is it lawful?" the second, "does it pay?" both of these are questions of fact, and as such susceptible of discussion and proof. the question of honor and religion carries us at once into the realm of sentiment where no demonstration is possible. but this is where every question is planted from the beginning in spanish politics. every public matter presents itself under this form: "is it consistent with spanish honor?" and "will it be to the advantage of the roman catholic apostolic church?" now, nothing is consistent with spanish honor which does not recognize the spain of to-day as identical with the spain of the sixteenth century, and the bankrupt government of madrid as equal in authority to the world-wide autocracy of charles v. and nothing is thought to be to the advantage of the church which does not tend to the concubinage of the spiritual and temporal power, and to the muzzling of speech and the drugging of the mind to sleep. let any proposition be made which touches this traditional susceptibility of race, no matter how sensible or profitable it may be, and you hear in the cortes and the press, and, louder than all, among the idle cavaliers of the _cafes,_ the wildest denunciations of the treason that would consent to look at things as they are. the men who have ventured to support the common-sense view are speedily stormed into silence or timid self-defence. the sword of guzman is brandished in the chambers, the name of pelayo is invoked, the memory of the cid is awakened, and the proposition goes out in a blaze of patriotic pyrotechnics, to the intense satisfaction of the unthinking and the grief of the judicious. the senoritos go back to the serious business of their lives--coffee and cigarettes--with a genuine glow of pride in a country which is capable of the noble self-sacrifice of cutting off its nose to spite somebody else's face. but i repeat, the most favorable sign of the times is that this tyranny of tradition is losing its power. a great deal was done by the single act of driving out the queen. this was a blow at superstition which gave to the whole body politic a most salutary shock. never before in spain had a revolution been directed at the throne. before it was always an obnoxious ministry that was to be driven out. the monarch remained; and the exiled outlaw of to-day might be premier to-morrow. but the fall of novaliches at the bridge of alcolea decided the fate not only of the ministry but of the dynasty; and while general concha was waiting for the train to leave madrid, isabel of bourbon and divine right were passing the pyrenees. although the moral power of the church is still so great, the incorporation of freedom of worship in the constitution of has been followed by a really remarkable development of freedom of thought. the proposition was regarded by some with horror and by others with contempt. one of the most enlightened statesmen in spain once said to me, "the provision for freedom of worship in the constitution is a mere abstract proposition,--it can never have any practical value except for foreigners. i cannot conceive of a spaniard being anything but a catholic." and so powerful was this impression in the minds of the deputies that the article only accords freedom of worship to foreigners in spain, and adds, hypothetically, that if any spaniards should profess any other religion than the catholic, they are entitled to the same liberty as foreigners. the inquisition has been dead half a century, but you can see how its ghost still haunts the official mind of spain. it is touching to see how the broken links of the chain of superstition still hang about even those who imagine they are defying it. as in their christian burials, following unwittingly the example of the hated moors, they bear the corpse with uncovered face to the grave, and follow it with the funeral torch of the romans, so the formula of the church clings even to the mummery of the atheists. not long ago in madrid a man and woman who belonged to some fantastic order which rejected religion and law had a child born to them in the course of things, and determined that it should begin life free from the taint of superstition. it should not be christened, it should be named, in the name of reason. but they could not break loose from the idea of baptism. they poured a bottle of water on the shivering nape of the poor little neophyte, and its frail life went out in its first wheezing week. but in spite of all this a spirit of religious inquiry is growing up in spain, and the church sees it and cannot prevent it. it watches the liberal newspapers and the protestant prayer-meetings much as the old giant in bunyan's dream glared at the passing pilgrims, mumbling and muttering toothless curses. it looks as if the dead sleep of uniformity of thought were to be broken at last, and spain were to enter the healthful and vivifying atmosphere of controversy. symptoms of a similar change may be seen in the world of politics. the republican party is only a year or two old, but what a vigorous and noisy infant it is! with all its faults and errors, it seems to have the promise of a sturdy and wholesome future. it refuses to be bound by the memories of the past, but keeps its eyes fixed on the brighter possibilities to come. its journals, undeterred by the sword of guzman or the honor of all the caballeros,--the men on horseback,--are advocating such sensible measures as justice to the antilles, and the sale of outlying property, which costs more than it produces. emilio castelar, casting behind him all the restraints of tradition, announces as his idea of liberty "the right of all citizens to obey nothing but the law." there is no sounder doctrine than this preached in manchester or boston. if the spanish people can be brought to see that god is greater than the church, and that the law is above the king, the day of final deliverance is at hand. tauromachy the bull-fight is the national festival of spain. the rigid britons have had their fling at it for many years. the effeminate _badaud_ of paris has declaimed against its barbarity. even the aristocracy of spain has begun to suspect it of vulgarity and to withdraw from the arena the light of its noble countenance. but the spanish people still hold it to their hearts and refuse to be weaned from it. "as panem et circenses was the cry among the roman populace of old, so pan y toros is the cry in spain." it is a tradition which has passed into their national existence. they received it from nowhere. they have transmitted it nowhither except to their own colonies. in late years an effort has been made to transplant it, but with small success. there were a few bull-fights four years ago at havre. there was a sensation of curiosity which soon died away. this year in london the experiment was tried, but was hooted out of existence, to the great displeasure of the spanish journals, who said the ferocious islanders would doubtless greatly prefer baiting to death a half dozen irish serfs from the estate of lord fritters,--a gentle diversion in which we are led to believe the british peers pass their leisure hours. it is this monopoly of the bull-fight which so endears it to the spanish heart. it is to them conclusive proof of the vast superiority of both the human and taurine species in spain. the eminent torero, pepe illo, said: "the love of bulls is inherent in man, especially in the spaniard, among which glorious people there have been bull-fights ever since bulls were, because," adds pepe, with that modesty which forms so charming a trait of the iberian character, "the spanish men are as much more brave than all other men, as the spanish bull is more savage and valiant than all other bulls." the sport permeates the national life. i have seen it woven into the tapestry of palaces, and rudely stamped on the handkerchief of the peasant. it is the favorite game of children in the street. loyal spain was thrilled with joy recently on reading in its paris correspondence that when the exiled prince of asturias went for a half-holiday to visit his imperial comrade at the tuileries, the urchins had a game of "toro" on the terrace, admirably conducted by the little bourbon and followed up with great spirit by the little montijo-bonaparte. the bull-fight has not always enjoyed the royal favor. isabel the catholic would fain have abolished bathing and bull-fighting together. the spaniards, who willingly gave up their ablutions, stood stoutly by their bulls, and the energetic queen was baffled. again when the bourbons came in with philip v., the courtiers turned up their thin noses at the coarse diversion, and induced the king to abolish it. it would not stay abolished, however, and philip's successor built the present coliseum in expiation. the spectacle has, nevertheless, lost much of its early splendor by the hammering of time. formerly the gayest and bravest gentlemen of the court, mounted on the best horses in the kingdom, went into the arena and defied the bull in the names of their lady-loves. now the bull is baited and slain by hired artists, and the horses they mount are the sorriest hacks that ever went to the knacker. one of the most brilliant shows of the kind that was ever put upon the scene was the festival of bulls given by philip iv. in honor of charles i., "when the stuart came from far, led by his love's sweet pain, to mary, the guiding star that shone in the heaven of spain." and the memory of that dazzling occasion was renewed by ferdinand vii. in the year of his death, when he called upon his subjects to swear allegiance to his baby isabel. this festival took place in the plaza mayor. the king and court occupied the same balconies which charles and his royal friend and model had filled two centuries before. the champions were poor nobles, of good blood but scanty substance, who fought for glory and pensions, and had quadrilles of well-trained bull-fighters at their stirrups to prevent the farce from becoming tragedy. the royal life of isabel of bourbon was inaugurated by the spilled blood of one hundred bulls save one. the gory prophecy of that day has been well sustained. not one year has passed since then free from blood shed in her cause. but these extraordinary attractions are not necessary to make a festival of bulls the most seductive of all pleasures to a spaniard. on any pleasant sunday afternoon, from easter to all souls, you have only to go into the street to see that there is some great excitement fusing the populace into one living mass of sympathy. all faces are turned one way, all minds are filled with one purpose. from the puerta del sol down the wide alcala a vast crowd winds, solid as a glacier and bright as a kaleidoscope. from the grandee in his blazoned carriage to the manola in her calico gown, there is no class unrepresented. many a red hand grasps the magic ticket which is to open the realm of enchantment to-day, and which represents short commons for a week before. the pawnbrokers' shops have been very animated for the few preceding days. there is nothing too precious to be parted with for the sake of the bulls. many of these smart girls have made the ultimate sacrifice for that coveted scrap of paper. they would leave one their mother's cross with the children of israel rather than not go. it is no cheap entertainment. the worst places in the broiling sun cost twenty cents, four reals; and the boxes are sold usually at fifteen dollars. these prices are necessary to cover the heavy expenses of bulls, horses, and gladiators. the way to the bull-ring is one of indescribable animation. the cabmen drive furiously this day their broken-kneed nags, who will soon be found on the horns of the bulls, for this is the natural death of the madrid cab-horse; the omnibus teams dash gayly along with their shrill chime of bells; there are the rude jests of clowns and the high voices of excited girls; the water-venders droning their tempting cry, "cool as the snow!" the sellers of fans and the merchants of gingerbread picking up their harvests in the hot and hungry crowd. the plaza de toros stands just outside the monumental gate of the alcala. it is a low, squat, prison-like circus of stone, stuccoed and whitewashed, with no pretence of ornament or architectural effect. there is no nonsense whatever about it. it is built for the killing of bulls and for no other purpose. around it, on a day of battle, you will find encamped great armies of the lower class of madrilenos, who, being at financial ebb-tide, cannot pay to go in. but they come all the same, to be in the enchanted neighborhood, to hear the shouts and roars of the favored ones within, and to seize any possible occasion for getting in. who knows? a caballero may come out and give them his check. an english lady may become disgusted and go home, taking away numerous lords whose places will be vacant. the sky may fall, and they may catch four reals' worth of larks. it is worth taking the chances. one does not soon forget the first sight of the full coliseum. in the centre is the sanded arena, surrounded by a high barrier. around this rises the graded succession of stone benches for the people; then numbered seats for the connoisseurs; and above a row of boxes extending around the circle. the building holds, when full, some fourteen thousand persons; and there is rarely any vacant space. for myself i can say that what i vainly strove to imagine in the coliseum at rome, and in the more solemn solitude of the amphitheatres of capua and pompeii, came up before me with the vividness of life on entering the bull-ring of madrid. this, and none other, was the classic arena. this was the crowd that sat expectant, under the blue sky, in the hot glare of the south, while the doomed captives of dacia or the sectaries of judea commended their souls to the gods of the danube, or the crucified of galilee. half the sand lay in the blinding sun. half the seats were illuminated by the fierce light. the other half was in shadow, and the dark crescent crept slowly all the afternoon across the arena as the sun declined in the west. it is hard to conceive a more brilliant scene. the women put on their gayest finery for this occasion. in the warm light, every bit of color flashes out, every combination falls naturally into its place. i am afraid the luxuriance of hues in the dress of the fair iberians would be considered shocking in broadway, but in the vast frame and broad light of the plaza the effect was very brilliant. thousands of party-colored paper fans are sold at the ring. the favorite colors are the national red and yellow, and the fluttering of these broad, bright disks of color is dazzlingly attractive. there is a gayety of conversation, a quick fire of repartee, shouts of recognition and salutation, which altogether make up a bewildering confusion. the weary young water-men scream their snow-cold refreshment. the orange-men walk with their gold-freighted baskets along the barrier, and throw their oranges with the most marvellous skill and certainty to people in distant boxes or benches. they never miss their mark. they will throw over the heads of a thousand people a dozen oranges into the outstretched hands of customers, so swiftly that it seems like one line of gold from the dealer to the buyer. at length the blast of a trumpet announces the clearing of the ring. the idlers who have been lounging in the arena are swept out by the alguaciles, and the hum of conversation gives way to an expectant silence. when the last loafer has reluctantly retired, the great gate is thrown open, and the procession of the toreros enters. they advance in a glittering line: first the marshals of the day, then the picadors on horseback, then the matadors on foot surrounded each by his quadrille of chulos. they walk towards the box which holds the city fathers, under whose patronage the show is given, and formally salute the authority. this is all very classic, also, recalling the _ave caesar, morituri,_ etc., of the gladiators. it lacks, however, the solemnity of the roman salute, from those splendid fellows who would never all leave the arena alive. a bullfighter is sometimes killed, it is true, but the percentage of deadly danger is scarcely enough to make a spectator's heart beat as the bedizened procession comes flashing by in the sun. the municipal authority throws the bowing alguacil a key, which he catches in his hat, or is hissed if he misses it. with this he unlocks the door through which the bull is to enter, and then scampers off with undignified haste through the opposite entrance. there is a bugle flourish, the door flies open, and the bull rushes out, blind with the staring light, furious with rage, trembling in every limb. this is the most intense moment of the day. the glorious brute is the target of twelve thousand pairs of eyes. there is a silence as of death, while every one waits to see his first movement. he is doomed from the beginning; the curtain has risen on a three-act tragedy, which will surely end with his death, but the incidents which are to fill the interval are all unknown. the minds and eyes of all that vast assembly know nothing for the time but the movements of that brute. he stands for an instant recovering his senses. he has been shot suddenly out of the darkness into that dazzling light. he sees around him a sight such as he never confronted before,--a wall of living faces lit up by thousands of staring eyes. he does not dwell long upon this, however; in his pride and anger he sees a nearer enemy. the horsemen have taken position near the gate, where they sit motionless as burlesque statues, their long ashen spears, iron-tipped, in rest, their wretched nags standing blindfolded, with trembling knees, and necks like dromedaries, not dreaming of their near fate. the bull rushes, with a snort, at the nearest one. the picador holds firmly, planting his spear-point in the shoulder of the brute. sometimes the bull flinches at this sharp and sudden punishment, and the picador, by a sudden turn to the left, gets away unhurt. then there is applause for the torero and hisses for the bull. some indignant amateurs go so far as to call him cow, and to inform him that he is the son of his mother. but oftener he rushes in, not caring for the spear, and with one toss of his sharp horns tumbles horse and rider in one heap against the barrier and upon the sand. the capeadores, the cloak-bearers, come fluttering around and divert the bull from his prostrate victims. the picador is lifted to his feet,--his iron armor not permitting him to rise without help,--and the horse is rapidly scanned to see if his wounds are immediately mortal. if not, the picador mounts again, and provokes the bull to another rush. a horse will usually endure two or three attacks before dying. sometimes a single blow from in front pierces the heart, and the blood spouts forth in a cataract. in this case the picador hastily dismounts, and the bridle and saddle are stripped in an instant from the dying brute. if a bull is energetic and rapid in execution, he will clear the arena in a few moments. he rushes at one horse after another, tears them open with his terrible "spears" ("horns" is a word never used in the ring), and sends them madly galloping over the arena, trampling out their gushing bowels as they fly. the assistants watch their opportunity, from time to time, to take the wounded horses out of the ring, plug up their gaping rents with tow, and sew them roughly up for another sally. it is incredible to see what these poor creatures will endure,--carrying their riders at a lumbering gallop over the ring, when their thin sides seem empty of entrails. sometimes the bull comes upon the dead body of a horse he has killed. the smell of blood and the unmoving helplessness of the victim excite him to the highest pitch. he gores and tramples the carcass, and tosses it in the air with evident enjoyment, until diverted by some living tormentor. you will occasionally see a picador nervous and anxious about his personal safety. they are ignorant and superstitious, and subject to presentiments; they often go into the ring with the impression that their last hour has come. if one takes counsel of his fears and avoids the shock of combat, the hard-hearted crowd immediately discover it and rain maledictions on his head. i saw a picador once enter the ring as pale as death. he kept carefully out of the way of the bull for a few minutes. the sharp-eyed spaniards noticed it, and commenced shouting, "craven! he wants to live forever!" they threw orange-skins at him, and at last, their rage vanquishing their economy, they pelted him with oranges. his pallor gave way to a flush of shame and anger. he attacked the bull so awkwardly that the animal, killing his horse, threw him also with great violence. his hat flew off, his bald head struck the hard soil. he lay there as one dead, and was borne away lifeless. this mollified the indignant people, and they desisted from their abuse. a cowardly bull is much more dangerous than a courageous one, who lowers his head, shuts his eyes, and goes blindly at everything he sees. the last refuge of a bull in trouble is to leap the barrier, where he produces a lively moment among the water-carriers and orange-boys and stage-carpenters. i once saw a bull, who had done very little execution in the arena, leap the barrier suddenly and toss an unfortunate carpenter from the gangway sheer into the ring. he picked himself up, laughed, saluted his friends, ran a little distance and fell, and was carried out dying. fatal accidents are rarely mentioned in the newspapers, and it is considered not quite good form to talk about them. when the bull has killed enough horses, the first act of the play terminates. but this is an exceedingly delicate matter for the authorities to decide. the audience will not endure any economy in this respect. if the bull is enterprising and "voluntary," he must have as many horses as he can dispose of. one day in madrid the bulls operated with such activity that the supply of horses was exhausted before the close of the show, and the contractors rushed out in a panic and bought a half dozen screws from the nearest cab-stand. if the president orders out the horses before their time, he will hear remarks by no means complimentary from the austere groundlings. the second act is the play of the banderilleros, the flag-men. they are beautifully dressed and superbly built fellows, principally from andalusia, got up precisely like figaro in the opera. theirs is the most delicate and graceful operation of the bull-fight. they take a pair of barbed darts, with little banners fluttering at their ends, and provoke the bull to rush at them. at the instant he reaches them, when it seems nothing can save them, they step aside and plant the banderillas in the neck of the bull. if the bull has been cowardly and sluggish, and the spectators have called for "fire," darts are used filled with detonating powder at the base, which explode in the flesh of the bull. he dances and skips like a kid or a colt in his agony, which is very diverting to the spanish mind. a prettier conceit is that of confining small birds in paper cages, which come apart when the banderilla is planted, and set the little fluttering captives free. decking the bull with these torturing ornaments is the last stage in the apprenticeship of the chulo, before he rises to the dignity of matador, or killer. the matadors themselves on special occasions think it no derogation from their dignity to act as banderilleros. but they usually accompany the act with some exaggeration of difficulty that reaps for them a harvest of applause. frascuelo sits in a chair and plants the irritating bannerets. lagartijo lays his handkerchief on the ground and stands upon it while he coifs the bull. a performance which never fails to bring down the house is for the torero to await the rush of the bull, and when the bellowing monster comes at him with winking eyes and lowered head, to put his slippered foot between the horns, and vault lightly over his back. these chulos exhibit the most wonderful skill and address in evading the assault of the bull. they can almost always trick him by waving their cloaks a little out of the line of their flight. sometimes, however, the bull runs straight at the man, disregarding the flag, and if the distance is great to the barrier the danger is imminent; for swift as these men are, the bulls are swifter. once i saw the bull strike the torero at the instant he vaulted over the barrier. he fell sprawling some distance the other side, safe, but terribly bruised and stunned. as soon as he could collect himself he sprang into the arena again, looking very seedy; and the crowd roared, "saved by miracle." i could but think of basilio, who, when the many cried, "a miracle," answered, "industria! industria!" but these bullfighters are all very pious, and glad to curry favor with the saints by attributing every success to their intervention. the famous matador, paco montes, fervently believed in an amulet he carried, and in the invocation of our lord of the true cross. he called upon this special name in every tight place, and while other people talked of his luck he stoutly affirmed it was his faith that saved him; often he said he saw the veritable picture of the passion coming down between him and the bull, in answer to his prayers. at every bull-ring there is a little chapel in the refreshment-room where these devout ruffians can toss off a prayer or two in the intervals of work. a priest is always at hand with a consecrated wafer, to visa the torero's passport who has to start suddenly for paradise. it is not exactly regular, but the ring has built many churches and endowed many chapels, and must not be too rigidly regarded. in many places the chief boxes are reserved for the clergy, and prayers are hurried through an hour earlier on the day of combat. the final act is the death of the bull. it must come at last. his exploits in the early part of his career afford to the amateur some indication of the manner in which he will meet his end. if he is a generous, courageous brute, with more heart than brains, he will die gallantly and be easily killed. but if he has shown reflection, forethought, and that saving quality of the oppressed, suspicion, the matador has a serious work before him. the bull is always regarded from this objective standpoint. the more power of reason the brute has, the worse opinion the spaniard has of him. a stupid creature who rushes blindly on the sword of the matador is an animal after his own heart. but if there be one into whose brute brain some glimmer of the awful truth has come,--and this sometimes happens,--if he feels the solemn question at issue between him and his enemy, if he eyes the man and not the flag, if he refuses to be fooled by the waving lure, but keeps all his strength and all his faculties for his own defence, the soul of the spaniard rises up in hate and loathing. he calls on the matador to kill him any way. if he will not rush at the flag, the crowd shouts for the demi-lune; and the noble brute is houghed from behind, and your soul grows sick with shame of human nature, at the hellish glee with which they watch him hobbling on his severed legs. this seldom happens. the final act is usually an admirable study of coolness and skill against brute force. when the banderillas are all planted, and the bugles sound for the third time, the matador, the espada, the sword, steps forward with a modest consciousness of distinguished merit, and makes a brief speech to the corregidor, offering in honor of the good city of madrid to kill the bull. he turns on his heel, throws his hat by a dexterous back-handed movement over the barrier, and advances, sword and cape in hand, to where his noble enemy awaits him. the bull appears to recognize a more serious foe than any he has encountered. he stops short and eyes the newcomer curiously. it is always an impressive picture: the tortured, maddened animal, whose thin flanks are palpitating with his hot breath, his coat one shining mass of blood from the darts and the spear-thrusts, his massive neck still decked as in mockery with the fluttering flags, his fine head and muzzle seeming sharpened by the hour's terrible experience, his formidable horns crimsoned with onset; in front of this fiery bulk of force and courage, the slight, sinewy frame of the killer, whose only reliance is on his coolness and his intellect. i never saw a matador come carelessly to his work. he is usually pale and alert. he studies the bull for a moment with all his eyes. he waves the blood-red engano, or lure, before his face. if the bull rushes at it with his eyes shut, the work is easy. he has only to select his own stroke and make it. but if the bull is jealous and sly, it requires the most careful management to kill him. the disposition of the bull is developed by a few rapid passes of the red flag. this must not be continued too long: the tension of the nerves of the auditory will not bear trifling. i remember one day the crowd was aroused to fury by a bugler from the adjoining barracks playing retreat at the moment of decision. all at once the matador seizes the favorable instant. he poises his sword as the bull rushes upon him. the point enters just between the left shoulder and the spine; the long blade glides in up to the hilt. the bull reels and staggers and dies. sometimes the matador severs the vertebrae. the effect is like magic. he lays the point of his sword between the bull's horns, as lightly as a lady who touches her cavalier with her fan, and he falls dead as a stone. if the blow is a clean, well-delivered one, the enthusiasm of the people is unbounded. their approval comes up in a thunderous shout of "well done! valiente! viva!" a brown shower of cigars rains on the sand. the victor gathers them up: they fill his hands, his pockets, his hat. he gives them to his friends, and the aromatic shower continues. hundreds of hats are flung into the ring. he picks them up and shies them back to their shouting owners. sometimes a dollar is mingled with the flying compliments; but the enthusiasm of the spaniard rarely carries him so far as that. for ten minutes after a good estocada, the matador is the most popular man in spain. but the trumpets sound again, the door of the toril flies open, another bull comes rushing out, and the present interest quenches the past. the play begins again, with its sameness of purpose and its infinite variety of incident. it is not quite accurate to say, as is often said, that the bull-fighter runs no risk. el tato, the first sword of spain, lost his leg in , and his life was saved by the coolness and courage of lagartijo, who succeeded him in the championship, and who was terribly wounded in the foot the next summer. arjona killed a bull in the same year, which tossed and ruptured him after receiving his death-blow. pepe illo died in harness, on the sand. every year picadors, chulos, and such small deer are killed, without gossip. i must copy the inscription on the sword which tato presented to lagartijo, as a specimen of tauromachian literature:-- "if, as philosophers say, gratitude is the tribute of noble souls, accept, dear lagartijo, this present; preserve it as a sacred relic, for it symbolizes the memory of my glories, and is at the same time the mute witness of my misfortune. with it i killed my last bull named _peregrino,_ bred by d. vicente martinez, fourth of the fight of the th june, , in which act i received the wound which has caused the amputation of my right leg. the will of man can do nothing against the designs of providence. nothing but resignation is left to thy affectionate friend, antonio sanchez [tato]." it is in consideration of the mingled skill and danger of the trade, that such enormous fees are paid the principal performers. the leading swordsmen receive about three hundred dollars for each performance, and they are eagerly disputed by the direction of all the arenas of spain. in spite of these large wages, they are rarely rich. they are as wasteful and improvident as gamblers. tato, when he lost his leg, lost his means of subsistence, and his comrades organized one or two benefits to keep him from want. cuchares died in the havana, and left no provision for his family. there is a curious naivete in the play-bill of a bull-fight, the only conscientious public document i have seen in spain. you know how we of northern blood exaggerate the attractions of all sorts of shows, trusting to the magnanimity of the audience. "he warn't nothing like so little as that," confesses mr. magsman, "but where's your dwarf what is?" there are few who have the moral courage to demand their money back because they counted but thirty-nine thieves when the bills promised forty. but the management of the madrid bull-ring knows its public too well to promise more than it is sure of performing. it announces six bulls, and positively no more. it says there will be no use of bloodhounds. it promises two picadors, with three others in reserve, and warns the public that if all five become inutilized in the combat, no more will be issued. with so fair a preliminary statement, what crowd, however inflammable, could mob the management? some industrious and ascetic statistician has visited spain and interested himself in the bullring. here are some of the results of his researches. in the number of places in all the taurine establishments of spain was , , of which , belonged to the cities, and , to the country. in the year , there were bull-fights, of which took place in the cities, and in the country towns. the receipts of ninety-eight bullrings in reached the enormous sum of two hundred and seventeen and a half millions of reals (nearly $ , , ). the bull-fights which took place in spain during the year caused the death of of these fine animals, and about horses,--something more than half the number of the cavalry of spain. these wasted victims could have ploughed three hundred thousand hectares of land, which would have produced a million and a half hectolitres of grain, worth eighty millions of reals; all this without counting the cost of the slaughtered cattle, worth say seven or eight millions, at a moderate calculation. thus far the arithmetic man; to whom responds the tauromachian aficionado: that the bulk of this income goes to purposes of charity; that were there no bull-fights, bulls of good race would cease to be bred; that nobody ever saw a horse in a bull-ring that could plough a furrow of a hundred yards without giving up the ghost; that the nerve, dexterity, and knowledge of brute nature gained in the arena is a good thing to have in the country; that, in short, it is our way of amusing ourselves, and if you don't like it you can go home and cultivate prize-fighters, or kill two-year-old colts on the racecourse, or murder jockeys in hurdle-races, or break your own necks in steeple-chases, or in search of wilder excitement thicken your blood with beer or burn your souls out with whiskey. and this is all we get by our well-meant effort to convince spaniards of the brutality of bullfights. must chicago be virtuous before i can object to madrid ale, and say that its cakes are unduly gingered? yet even those who most stoutly defend the bull-fight feel that its glory has departed and that it has entered into the era of full decadence. i was talking one evening with a castilian gentleman, one of those who cling with most persistence to the national traditions, and he confessed that the noble art was wounded to death. "i do not refer, as many do, to the change from the old times, when gentlemen fought on their own horses in the ring. that was nonsense, and could not survive the time of cervantes. life is too short to learn bull-fighting. a grandee of spain, if he knows anything else, would make a sorry torero. the good times of the art are more modern. i saw the short day of the glory of the ring when i was a boy. there was a race of gladiators then, such as the world will never see again,--mighty fighters before the king. pepe illo and costillares, romero and paco montes,--the world does not contain the stuff to make their counterparts. they were serious, earnest men. they would have let their right arms wither before they would have courted the applause of the mob by killing a bull outside of the severe traditions. compare them with the men of to-day, with your rafael molina, who allows himself to be gored, playing with a heifer; with your frivolous boys like frascuelo. i have seen the ring convulsed with laughter as that buffoon strutted across the arena, flirting his muleta as a manola does her skirts, the bewildered bull not knowing what to make of it. it was enough to make illo turn in his bloody grave. "why, my young friend, i remember when bulls were a dignified and serious matter; when we kept account of their progress from their pasture to the capital. we had accounts of their condition by couriers and carrier-pigeons. on the day when they appeared it was a high festival in the court. all the sombreros in spain were there, the ladies in national dress with white mantillas. the young queen always in her palco (may god guard her). the fighters of that day were high priests of art; there was something of veneration in the regard that was paid them. duchesses threw them bouquets with billets-doux. gossip and newspapers have destroyed the romance of common life. "the only pleasure i take in the plaza de toros now is at night. the custodians know me and let me moon about in the dark. when all that is ignoble and mean has faded away with the daylight, it seems to me the ghosts of the old time come back upon the sands. i can fancy the patter of light hoofs, the glancing of spectral horns. i can imagine the agile tread of romero, the deadly thrust of montes, the whisper of long-vanished applause, and the clapping of ghostly hands. i am growing too old for such skylarking, and i sometimes come away with a cold in my head. but you will never see a bull-fight you can enjoy as i do these visionary festivals, where memory is the corregidor, and where the only spectators are the stars and i." red-letter days no people embrace more readily than the spaniards the opportunity of spending a day without work. their frequent holidays are a relic of the days when the church stood between the people and their taskmasters, and fastened more firmly its hold upon the hearts of the ignorant and overworked masses, by becoming at once the fountain of salvation in the next world, and of rest in this. the government rather encouraged this growth of play-days, as the italian bourbons used to foster mendicancy, by way of keeping the people as unthrifty as possible. lazzaroni are so much more easily managed than burghers! it is only the holy days that are successfully celebrated in spain. the state has tried of late years to consecrate to idle parade a few revolutionary dates, but they have no vigorous national life. they grow feebler and more colorless year by year, because they have no depth of earth. the most considerable of these national festivals is the d of may, which commemorates the slaughter of patriots in the streets of madrid by murat. this is a political holiday which appeals more strongly to the national character of the spaniards than any other. the mingled pride of race and ignorant hate of everything foreign which constitutes that singular passion called spanish patriotism, or espanolismo, is fully called into play by the recollections of the terrible scenes of their war of independence, which drove out a foreign king, and brought back into spain a native despot infinitely meaner and more injurious. it is an impressive study in national character and thought, this self-satisfaction of even liberal spaniards at the reflection that, by a vast and supreme effort of the nation, after countless sacrifices and with the aid of coalesced europe, they exchanged joseph bonaparte for ferdinand vii. and the inquisition. but the victims of the dos de mayo fell fighting. daoiz, velarde, and ruiz were bayoneted at their guns, scorning surrender. the alcalde of mostoles, a petty village of castile, called on spain to rise against the tyrant. and spain obeyed the summons of this cross-roads justice. the contempt of probabilities, the quixotism of these successive demonstrations, endear them to the spanish heart. every d of may the city of madrid gives up the day to funeral honors to the dead of . the city government, attended by its maceros, in their gorgeous robes of gold and scarlet, with silver maces and long white plumes; the public institutions of all grades, with invalids and veterans and charity children; a large detachment of the army and navy,--form a vast procession at the town hall, and, headed by the supreme government, march to slow music through the puerta del sol and the spacious alcala street to the granite obelisk in the prado which marks the resting-place of the patriot dead. i saw the regent of the kingdom, surrounded by his cabinet, sauntering all a summer's afternoon under a blazing sun over the dusty mile that separates the monument from the ayuntamiento. the spaniards are hopelessly inefficient in these matters. the people always fill the line of march, and a rivulet of procession meanders feebly through a wilderness of mob. it is fortunate that the crowd is more entertaining than the show. the church has a very indifferent part in this ceremonial. it does nothing more than celebrate a mass in the shade of the dark cypresses in the place of loyalty, and then leaves the field clear to the secular power. but this is the only purely civic ceremony i ever saw in spain. the church is lord of the holidays for the rest of the year. in the middle of may comes the feast of the ploughboy patron of madrid,--san isidro. he was a true madrileno in tastes, and spent his time lying in the summer shade or basking in the winter sunshine, seeing visions, while angels came down from heaven and did his farm chores for him. the angels are less amiable nowadays, but every true child of madrid reveres the example and envies the success of the san isidro method of doing business. in the process of years this lazy lout has become a great saint, and his bones have done more extensive and remarkable miracle-work than any equal amount of phosphate in existence. in desperate cases of sufficient rank the doctors throw up the sponge and send for isidro's urn, and the drugging having ceased, the noble patient frequently recovers, and much honor and profit comes thereby to the shrine of the saint. there is something of the toady in isidro's composition. you never hear of his curing any one of less than princely rank. i read in an old chronicle of madrid, that once when queen isabel the catholic was hunting in the hills that overlook the manzanares, near what is now the oldest and quaintest quarter of the capital, she killed a bear of great size and ferocity; and doubtless thinking it might not be considered lady-like to have done it unassisted, she gave san isidro the credit of the lucky blow and built him a nice new chapel for it near the church of san andres. if there are any doubters, let them go and see the chapel, as i did. when the allied armies of the christian kings of spain were seeking for a passage through the hills to the plains of tolosa, a shepherd appeared and led them straight to victory and endless fame. after the battle, which broke the moorish power forever in central spain, instead of looking for the shepherd and paying him handsomely for his timely scout-service, they found it more pious and economical to say it was san isidro in person who had kindly made himself flesh for this occasion. by the great altar in the cathedral of toledo stand side by side the statues of alonso viii., the christian commander, and san isidro brazenly swelling in the shepherd garb of that unknown guide who led alonso and his chivalry through the tangled defiles of the sierra morena. his fete is the derby day of madrid. the whole town goes out to his hermitage on the further banks of the manzanares, and spends a day or two of the soft spring weather in noisy frolic. the little church stands on a bare brown hill, and all about it is an improvised village consisting half of restaurants and the other half of toyshops. the principal traffic is in a pretty sort of glass whistle which forms the stem of an artificial rose, worn in the button-hole in the intervals of tooting, and little earthen pig-bells, whose ringing scares away the lightning. there is but one duty of the day to flavor all its pleasures. the faithful must go into the oratory, pay a penny, and kiss a glass-covered relic of the saint which the attendant ecclesiastic holds in his hand. the bells are rung violently until the church is full; then the doors are shut and the kissing begins. they are very expeditious about it. the worshippers drop on their knees by platoons before the railing. the long-robed relic-keeper puts the precious trinket rapidly to their lips; an acolyte follows with a saucer for the cash. the glass grows humid with many breaths. the priest wipes it with a dirty napkin from time to time. the multitude advances, kisses, pays, and retires, till all have their blessing; then the doors are opened and they all pass out,--the bells ringing furiously for another detachment. the pleasures of the day are like those of all fairs and public merrymaking. working-people come to be idle, and idle people come to have something to do. there is much eating and little drinking. the milk-stalls are busier than the wine-shops. the people are gay and jolly, but very decent and clean and orderly. to the east of the hermitage, over and beyond the green cool valley, the city rises on its rocky hills, its spires shining in the cloudless blue. below on the emerald meadows there are the tents and wagons of those who have come from a distance to the romeria. the sound of guitars and the drone of peasant songs come up the hill, and groups of men are leaping in the wild barbaric dances of iberia. the scene is of another day and time. the celt is here, lord of the land. you can see these same faces at donnybrook fair. these large-mouthed, short-nosed, rosy-cheeked peasant-girls are called dolores and catalina, but they might be called bridget and kathleen. these strapping fellows, with long simian upper lips, with brown leggings and patched, mud-colored overcoats, who are leaping and swinging their cudgels in that pyrrhic round are as good tipperary boys as ever mobbed an agent or pounded, twenty to one, a landlord to death. the same unquestioning, fervent faith, the same superficial good-nature, the same facility to be amused, and at bottom the same cowardly and cruel blood-thirst. what is this mysterious law of race which is stronger than time, or varying climates, or changing institutions? which is cause, and which is effect, race or religion? the great church holiday of the year is corpus christi. on this day the host is carried in solemn procession through the principal streets, attended by the high officers of state, several battalions of each arm of the service in fresh bright uniforms, and a vast array of ecclesiastics in the most gorgeous stoles and chasubles their vestiary contains. the windows along the line of march are gayly decked with flags and tapestry. work is absolutely suspended, and the entire population dons its holiday garb. the puerta del sol--at this season blazing with relentless light--is crowded with patient madrilenos in their best clothes, the brown-cheeked maidens with flowing silks as in a ball-room, and with no protection against the ardent sky but the fluttering fan they hold in their ungloved hands. as everything is behind time in this easy-going land, there are two or three hours of broiling gossip on the glowing pavement before the sacred presence is announced by the ringing of silver bells. as the superb structure of filigree gold goes by, a movement of reverent worship vibrates through the crowd. forgetful of silks and broadcloth and gossip, they fall on their knees in one party-colored mass, and, bowing their heads and beating their breasts, they mutter their mechanical prayers. there are thinking men who say these shows are necessary; that the latin mind must see with bodily eyes the thing it worships, or the worship will fade away from its heart. if there were no cathedrals and masses, they say, there would be no religion; if there were no king, there would be no law. but we should not accept too hurriedly this ethnological theory of necessity, which would reject all principles of progress and positive good, and condemn half the human race to perpetual childhood. there was a time when we anglo-saxons built cathedrals and worshipped the king. look at salisbury and lincoln and ely; read the history of the growth of parliaments. there is nothing more beautifully sensuous than the religious spirit that presided over those master works of english gothic; there is nothing in life more abject than the relics of the english love and fear of princes. but the steady growth of centuries has left nothing but the outworn shell of the old religion and the old loyalty. the churches and the castles still exist. the name of the king still is extant in the constitution. they remain as objects of taste and tradition, hallowed by a thousand memories of earlier days, but, thanks be to god who has given us the victory, the english race is now incapable of making a new cathedral or a new king. let us not in our safe egotism deny to others the possibility of a like improvement. this summery month of june is rich in saints. the great apostles, john, peter, and paul, have their anniversaries on its closing days, and the shortest nights of the year are given up to the riotous eating of fritters in their honor. i am afraid that the progress of luxury and love of ease has wrought a change in the observance of these festivals. the feast of midsummer night is called the verbena of st. john, which indicates that it was formerly a morning solemnity, as the vervain could not be hunted by the youths and maidens of spain with any success or decorum at midnight. but of late years it may be that this useful and fragrant herb has disappeared from the tawny hills of castile. it is sure that midsummer has grown too warm for any field work. so that the madrilenos may be pardoned for spending the day napping, and swarming into the breezy prado in the light of moon and stars and gas. the prado is ordinarily the promenade of the better classes, but every spanish family has its john, paul, and peter, and the crowded barrios of toledo and the penue-las pour out their ragged hordes to the popular festival. the scene has a strange gypsy wildness. from the round point of atocha to where cybele, throned among spouting waters, drives southward her spanking team of marble lions, the park is filled with the merry roysterers. at short intervals are the busy groups of fritter merchants; over the crackling fire a great caldron of boiling oil; beside it a mighty bowl of dough. the bunolero, with the swift precision of machinery, dips his hand into the bowl and makes a delicate ring of the tough dough, which he throws into the bubbling caldron. it remains but a few seconds, and his grimy acolyte picks it out with a long wire and throws it on the tray for sale. they are eaten warm, the droning cry continually sounding, "bunuelos! calientitos!" there must be millions of these oily dainties consumed on every night of the verbena. for the more genteel revellers, the don juans, pedros, and pablos of the better sort, there are improvised restaurants built of pine planks after sunset and gone before sunrise. but the greater number are bought and eaten by the loitering crowd from the tray of the fritterman. it is like a vast gitano-camp. the hurrying crowd which is going nowhere, the blazing fires, the cries of the venders, the songs of the majos under the great trees of the paseo, the purposeless hurly-burly, and above, the steam of the boiling oil and the dust raised by the myriad feet, form together a striking and vivid picture. the city is more than usually quiet. the stir of life is localized in the prado. the only busy men in town are those who stand by the seething oil-pots and manufacture the brittle forage of the browsing herds. it is a jealous business, and requires the undivided attention of its professors. the _ne sutor ultra crepidam_ of spanish proverb is "bunolero haz tus bunuelos,"--fritterman, mind thy fritters. with the long days and cooler airs of the autumn begin the different fairs. these are relics of the times of tyranny and exclusive privilege, when for a few days each year, by the intervention of the church, or as a reward for civic service, full liberty of barter and sale was allowed to all citizens. this custom, more or less modified, may be found in most cities of europe. the boulevards of paris swarm with little booths at christmas-time, which begin and end their lawless commercial life within the week. in vienna, in leipsic, and other cities, the same waste-weir of irregular trade is periodically opened. these fairs begin in madrid with the autumnal equinox, and continue for some weeks in october. they disappear from the alcala to break out with renewed virulence in the avenue of atocha, and girdle the city at last with a belt of booths. while they last they give great animation and spirit to the street life of the town. you can scarcely make your way among the heaps of gaudy shawls and handkerchiefs, cheap laces and illegitimate jewels, that cumber the pavement. when the jews were driven out of spain, they left behind the true genius of bargaining. a nut-brown maid is attracted by a brilliant red and yellow scarf. she asks the sleepy merchant nodding before his wares, "what is this rag worth?" he answers with profound indifference, "ten reals." "hombre! are you dreaming or crazy?" she drops the coveted neck-gear, and moves on, apparently horror-stricken. the chapman calls her back peremptorily. "don't be rash! the scarf is worth twenty reals, but for the sake of santisima maria i offered it to you for half price. very well! you are not suited. what will you give?" "caramba! am i buyer and seller as well? the thing is worth three reals; more is a robbery." "jesus! maria! jose! and all the family! go thou with god! we cannot trade. sooner than sell for less than eight reals i will raise the cover of my brains! go thou! it is eight of the morning, and still thou dreamest." she lays down the scarf reluctantly, saying, "five?" but the outraged mercer snorts scornfully, "eight is my last word! go to!" she moves away, thinking how well that scarf would look in the apollo gardens, and casts over her shoulder a parthian glance and bid, "six!" "take it! it is madness, but i cannot waste my time in bargaining." both congratulate themselves on the operation. he would have taken five, and she would have given seven. how trade would suffer if we had windows in our breasts! the first days of november are consecrated to all the saints, and to the souls of all the blessed dead. they are observed in spain with great solemnity; but as the cemeteries are generally of the dreariest character, bare, bleak, and most forbidding under the ashy sky of the late autumn, the days are deprived of that exquisite sentiment that pervades them in countries where the graves of the dead are beautiful. there is nothing more touching than these offerings of memory you see every year in mont parnasse and pere-la-chaise. apart from all beliefs, there is a mysterious influence for good exerted upon the living by the memory of the beloved dead. on all hearts not utterly corrupt, the thoughts that come by the graves of the departed fall like dew from heaven, and quicken into life purer and higher resolves. in spain, where there is nothing but desolation in graveyards, the churches are crowded instead, and the bereaved survivors commend to god their departed friends and their own stricken hearts in the dim and perfumed aisles of temples made with hands. a taint of gloom thus rests upon the recollection and the prayer, far different from the consolation that comes with the free air and the sunshine, and the infinite blue vault, where nature conspires with revelation to comfort and cherish and console. christmas apparently comes in spain on no other mission than that referred to in the old english couplet, "bringing good cheer." the spaniards are the most frugal of people, but during the days that precede their noche buena, their good night, they seem to be given up as completely to cares of the commissariat as the most eupeptic of germans. swarms of turkeys are driven in from the surrounding country, and taken about the streets by their rustic herdsmen, making the roads gay with their scarlet wattles, and waking rural memories by their vociferous gobbling. the great market-place of the season is the plaza mayor. the ever-fruitful provinces of the south are laid under contribution, and the result is a wasteful show of tropical luxuriance that seems most incongruous under the wintry sky. there are mountains of oranges and dates, brown hillocks of nuts of every kind, store of every product of this versatile soil. the air is filled with nutty and fruity fragrance. under the ancient arcades are the stalls of the butchers, rich with the mutton of castile, the hams of estremadura, and the hero-nourishing bull-beef of andalusian pastures. at night the town is given up to harmless racket. nowhere has the tradition of the latin saturnalia been fitted with less change into the christian calendar. men, women, and children of the proletariat--the unemancipated slaves of necessity--go out this night to cheat their misery with noisy frolic. the owner of a tambourine is the equal of a peer; the proprietor of a guitar is the captain of his hundred. they troop through the dim city with discordant revel and song. they have little idea of music. every one sings and sings ill. every one dances, without grace or measure. their music is a modulated howl of the east. their dancing is the savage leaping of barbarians. there is no lack of couplets, religious, political, or amatory. i heard one ragged woman with a brown baby at her breast go shrieking through the street of the magdalen,-- "this is the eve of christmas, no sleep from now till morn, the virgin is in travail, at twelve will the child be born!" behind her stumped a crippled beggar, who croaked in a voice rough with frost and aguardiente his deep disillusion and distrust of the great:-- "this is the eve of christmas, but what is that to me? we are ruled by thieves and robbers, as it was and will always be." next comes a shouting band of the youth of spain, strapping boys with bushy locks, crisp and black almost to blueness, and gay young girls with flexible forms and dark arab eyes that shine with a phosphorescent light in the shadows. they troop on with clacking castinets. the challenge of the mozos rings out on the frosty air,-- "this is the eve of christmas, let us drink and love our fill!" and the saucy antiphon of girlish voices responds,-- "a man may be bearded and gray, but a woman can fool him still!" the christmas and new-year's holidays continue for a fortnight, ending with the epiphany. on the eve of the day of the kings a curious farce is performed by bands of the lowest orders of the people, which demonstrates the apparently endless naivete of their class. in every coterie of water-carriers, or mozos de cordel, there will be one found innocent enough to believe that the magi are coming to madrid that night, and that a proper respect to their rank requires that they must be met at the city gate. to perceive the coming of their feet, beautiful upon the mountains, a ladder is necessary, and the poor victim of the comedy is loaded with this indispensable "property." he is dragged by his gay companions, who never tire of the exquisite wit of their jest, from one gate to another, until suspicion supplants faith in the mind of the neophyte, and the farce is over. in the burgher society of castile this night is devoted to a very different ceremony. each little social circle comes together in a house agreed upon. they take mottoes of gilded paper and write on each the name of some one of the company. the names of the ladies are thrown into one urn, and those of the cavaliers into another, and they are drawn out by pairs. these couples are thus condemned by fortune to intimacy during the year. the gentleman is always to be at the orders of the dame and to serve her faithfully in every knightly fashion. he has all the duties and none of the privileges of a lover, unless it be the joy of those "who stand and wait." the relation is very like that which so astonished m. de gramont in his visit to piedmont, where the cavalier of service never left his mistress in public and never approached her in private. the true carnival survives in its naive purity only in spain. it has faded in rome into a romping day of clown's play. in paris it is little more than a busier season for dreary and professional vice. elsewhere all over the world the carnival gayeties are confined to the salon. but in madrid the whole city, from grandee to cordwainer, goes with childlike earnestness into the enjoyment of the hour. the corso begins in the prado on the last sunday before lent, and lasts four days. from noon to night the great drive is filled with a double line of carriages two miles long, and between them are the landaus of the favored hundreds who have the privilege of driving up and down free from the law of the road. this right is acquired by the payment of ten dollars a day to city charities, and produces some fifteen thousand dollars every carnival. in these carriages all the society of madrid may be seen; and on foot, darting in and out among the hoofs of the horses, are the young men of castile in every conceivable variety of absurd and fantastic disguise. there are of course pirates and indians and turks, monks, prophets, and kings, but the favorite costumes seem to be the devil and the englishman. sometimes the yankee is attempted, with indifferent success. he wears a ribbon-wreathed italian bandit's hat, an embroidered jacket, slashed buckskin trousers, and a wide crimson belt,--a dress you would at once recognize as universal in boston. most of the maskers know by name at least the occupants of the carriages. there is always room for a mask in a coach. they leap in, swarming over the back or the sides, and in their shrill monotonous scream they make the most startling revelations of the inmost secrets of your soul. there is always something impressive in the talk of an unknown voice, but especially is this so in madrid, where every one scorns his own business, and devotes himself rigorously to his neighbor's. these shrieking young monks and devilkins often surprise a half-formed thought in the heart of a fair castilian and drag it out into day and derision. no one has the right to be offended. duchesses are called tu! isabel! by chin-dimpled school-boys, and the proudest beauties in spain accept bonbons from plebeian hands. it is true, most of the maskers are of the better class. some of the costumes are very rich and expensive, of satin and velvet heavy with gold. i have seen a distinguished diplomatist in the guise of a gigantic canary-bird, hopping briskly about in the mud with bedraggled tail-feathers, shrieking well-bred sarcasms with his yellow beak. the charm of the madrid carnival is this, that it is respected and believed in. the best and fairest pass the day in the corso, and gallant young gentlemen think it worth while to dress elaborately for a few hours of harmless and spirituelle intrigue. a society that enjoys a holiday so thoroughly has something in it better than the blase cynicism of more civilized capitals. these young fellows talk like the lovers of the old romances. i have never heard prettier periods of devotion than from some gentle savage, stretched out on the front seat of a landau under the peering eyes of his lady, safe in his disguise, if not self-betrayed, pouring out his young soul in passionate praise and prayer; around them the laughter and the cries, the cracking of whips, the roll of wheels, the presence of countless thousands, and yet these two young hearts alone under the pale winter sky. the rest of the continent has outgrown the true carnival. it is pleasant to see this gay relic of simpler times, when youth was young. no one here is too "swell" for it. you may find a duke in the disguise of a chimney-sweep, or a butcher-boy in the dress of a crusader. there are none so great that their dignity would suffer by a day's reckless foolery, and there are none so poor that they cannot take the price of a dinner to buy a mask and cheat their misery by mingling for a time with their betters in the wild license of the carnival. the winter's gayety dies hard. ash wednesday is a day of loud merriment and is devoted to a popular ceremony called the burial of the sardine. a vast throng of workingmen carry with great pomp a link of sausage to the bank of the manzanares and inter it there with great solemnity. on the following saturday, after three days of death, the carnival has a resurrection, and the maddest, wildest ball of the year takes place at the opera. then the sackcloth and ashes of lent come down in good earnest and the town mourns over its scarlet sins. it used to be very fashionable for the genteel christians to repair during this season of mortification to the church of san gines, and scourge themselves lustily in its subterranean chambers. a still more striking demonstration was for gentlemen in love to lash themselves on the sidewalks where passed the ladies of their thoughts. if the blood from the scourges sprinkled them as they sailed by, it was thought an attention no female heart could withstand. but these wholesome customs have decayed of late unbelieving years. the lenten piety increases with the lengthening days. it reaches its climax on holy thursday. on this day all spain goes to church: it is one of the obligatory days. the more you go, the better for you; so the good people spend the whole day from dawn to dusk roaming from one church to another, and investing an ave and a pater-noster in each. this fills every street of the city with the pious crowd. no carriages are permitted. a silence like that of venice falls on the rattling capital. with three hundred thousand people in the street, the town seems still. in , a free-thinking cabman dared to drive up the calle alcala. he was dragged from his box and beaten half to death by the chastened mourners, who yelled as they kicked and cuffed him, "que bruto! he will wake our jesus." on good friday the gloom deepens. no colors are worn that day by the orthodox. the senoras appear on the street in funeral garb. i saw a group of fast youths come out of the jockey club, black from hat to boots, with jet studs and sleeve-buttons. the gayest and prettiest ladies sit within the church doors and beg in the holy name of charity, and earn large sums for the poor. there are hourly services in the churches, passionate sermons from all the pulpits. the streets are free from the painted haunters of the pavement. the whole people taste the luxury of a sentimental sorrow. yet in these heavy days it is not the redeemer whose sufferings and death most nearly touch the hearts of the faithful. it is santisima maria who is worshipped most. it is the dolorous mother who moves them to tears of tenderness. the presiding deity of these final days of meditation is our lady of solitude. but at last the days of mourning are accomplished. the expiation for sin is finished. the grave is vanquished, death is swallowed up in victory. man can turn from the grief that is natural to the joy that is eternal. from every steeple the bells fling out their happy clangor in glad tidings of great joy. the streets are flooded once more with eager multitudes, gay as in wedding garments. christ has arisen! the heathen myth of the awakening of nature blends the old tradition with the new gospel. the vernal breezes sweep the skies clean and blue. birds are pairing in the budding trees. the streams leap down from the melting snow of the hills. the brown turf takes a tint of verdure. through the vast frame of things runs a quick shudder of teeming power. in the heart of man love and will mingle into hope. hail to the new life and the ever-new religion! hail to the resurrection morning! an hour with the painters as a general thing it is well to distrust a spaniard's superlatives. he will tell you that his people are the most amiable in the world, but you will do well to carry your revolver into the interior. he will say there are no wines worth drinking but the spanish, but you will scarcely forswear clicquot and yquem on the mere faith of his assertion. a distinguished general once gravely assured me that there was no literature in the world at all to be compared with the productions of the castilian mind. all others, he said, were but pale imitations of spanish master-work. now, though you may be shocked at learning such unfavorable facts of 'shakespeare and goethe and hugo, you will hardly condemn them to an auto da fe, on the testimony even of a grandee of spain. but when a spaniard assures you that the picture-gallery of madrid is the finest in the world, you may believe him without reserve. he probably does not know what he is talking about. he may never have crossed the pyrenees. he has no dream of the glories of dresden, or florence, or the louvre. it is even possible that he has not seen the matchless collection he is boasting of. he crowns it with a sweeping superlative simply because it is spanish. but the statement is nevertheless true. the reason of this is found in that gigantic and overshadowing fact which seems to be an explanation of everything in spain,--the power and the tyranny of the house of austria. the period of the vast increase of spanish dominion coincided with that of the meridian glory of italian art. the conquest of granada was finished as the divine child raphael began to meddle with his father's brushes and pallets, and before his short life ended charles, burgess of ghent, was emperor and king. the dominions he governed and transmitted to his son embraced spain, the netherlands, franche-comte, the milanese, naples, and sicily; that is to say, those regions where art in that age and the next attained its supreme development. he was also lord of the new world, whose inexhaustible mines poured into the lap of europe a constant stream of gold. hence came the riches and the leisure necessary to art. charles v., as well as his great contemporary and rival, francis i., was a munificent protector of art. he brought from italy and antwerp some of the most perfect products of their immortal masters. he was the friend and patron of titian, and when, weary of the world and its vanities, he retired to the lonely monastery of yuste to spend in devout contemplation the evening of his days, the most precious solace of his solitude was that noble canvas of the great venetian, where charles and philip are borne, in penitential guise and garb, on luminous clouds into the visible glory of the most high. these two great kings made a good use of their unbounded opportunities. spain became illuminated with the glowing canvases of the incomparable italians. the opening up of the new world beyond seas, the meteoric career of european and african conquest in which the emperor had won so much land and glory, had given an awakening shock to the intelligent youth of spain, and sent them forth in every avenue of enterprise. this jealously patriotic race, which had remained locked up by the mountains and the seas for centuries, started suddenly out, seeking adventures over the earth. the mind of spain seemed suddenly to have brightened and developed like that of her great king, who, in his first tourney at valladolid, wrote with proud sluggishness _nondum_--not yet--on his maiden shield, and a few years later in his young maturity adopted the legend of arrogant hope and promise,--_plus ultra._ there were seen two emigrations of the young men of spain, eastward and westward. the latter went for gold and material conquest into the american wilds; and the former, led by the sacred love of art, to that land of beauty and wonder, then, now, and always the spiritual shrine of all peoples,--italy. a brilliant young army went out from spain on this new crusade of the beautiful. from the plains of castile and the hills of navarre went, among others, berruguete, becerra, and the marvellous deaf-mute navarrete. the luxurious city of valentia sent juan de juanes and ribalta. luis de vargas went out from seville, and from cordova the scholar, artist, and thinker, paul of cespedes. the schools of rome and venice and florence were thronged with eager pilgrims, speaking an alien latin and filled with a childlike wonder and appreciation. in that stirring age the emigration was not all in one direction. many distinguished foreigners came down to spain, to profit by the new love of art in the peninsula. it was philip of burgundy who carved, with berruguete, those miracles of skill and patience we admire to-day in the choir of toledo. peter of champagne painted at seville the grand altar-piece that so comforted the eyes and the soul of murillo. the wild greek bedouin, george theotocopouli, built the mozarabic chapel and filled the walls of convents with his weird ghost-faces. moor, or moro, came from the low countries, and the carducci brothers from italy, to seek their fortunes in madrid. torrigiani, after breaking michael angelo's nose in florence, fled to granada, and died in a prison of the inquisition for smashing the face of a virgin which a grandee of spain wanted to steal from him. these immigrations, and the refluent tide of spanish students from italy, founded the various schools of valentia, toledo, seville, and madrid. madrid soon absorbed the school of toledo, and the attraction of seville was too powerful for valentia. the andalusian school counts among its early illustrations vargas, roelas, the castillos, herrera, pacheco, and moya, and among its later glories velazquez, alonzo cano, zurbaran, and murillo, last and greatest of the mighty line. the school of madrid begins with berruguete and na-varrete, the italians caxes, rizi, and others, who are followed by sanchez coello, pantoja, collantes. then comes the great invader velazquez, followed by his retainers pareja and carreno, and absorbs the whole life of the school. claudio coello makes a good fight against the rapid decadence. luca giordano comes rattling in from naples with his whitewash-brush, painting a mile a minute, and classic art is ended in spain with the brief and conscientious work of raphael mengs. there is therefore little distinction of schools in spain. murillo, the glory of seville, studied in madrid, and the mighty andalusian, velazquez, performed his enormous life's work in the capital of castile. it now needs but one word to show how the museum of madrid became so rich in masterpieces. during the long and brilliant reigns of charles v. and philip ii., when art had arrived at its apogee in italy, and was just beginning its splendid career in spain, these powerful monarchs had the lion's share of all the best work that was done in the world. there was no artist so great but he was honored by the commands of these lords of the two worlds. they thus formed in their various palaces, pleasure-houses, and cloisters a priceless collection of pictures produced in the dawn of the spanish and the triumphant hey-day of italian genius. their frivolous successors lost provinces and kingdoms, honor and prestige, but they never lost their royal prerogative nor their taste for the arts. they consoled themselves for the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune by the delights of sensual life, and imagined they preserved some distant likeness to their great forerunners by encouraging and protecting velazquez and lope de vega and other intellectual giants of that decaying age. so while, as the result of a vicious system of kingly and spiritual thraldom, the intellect of spain was forced away from its legitimate channels of thought and action, under the shadow of the royal prerogative, which survived the genuine power of the older kings, art flourished and bloomed, unsuspected and unpersecuted by the coward jealousy of courtier and monk. the palace and the convent divided the product of those marvellous days. amid all the poverty of the failing state, it was still the king and clergy who were best able to appropriate the works of genius. this may have contributed to the decay of art. the immortal canvases passed into oblivion in the salons of palaces and the cells of monasteries. had they been scattered over the land and seen by the people, they might have kept alive the spark that kindled their creators. but exclusiveness is inevitably followed by barrenness. when the great race of spanish artists ended, these matchless works were kept in the safe obscurity of palaces and religious establishments. history was working in the interests of this museum. the pictures were held by the clenched dead hand of the church and the throne. they could not be sold or distributed. they made the dark places luminous, patiently biding their time. it was long enough coming, and it was a despicable hand that brought them into the light. ferdinand vii. thought his palace would look fresher if the walls were covered with french paper, and so packed all the pictures off to the empty building on the prado, which his grandfather had built for a museum. as soon as the glorious collection was exposed to the gaze of the world, its incontestable merit was at once recognized. especially were the works of velazquez, hitherto almost an unknown name in europe, admired and appreciated. ferdinand, finding he had done a clever thing unawares, began to put on airs and poser for a patron of art. the gallery was still further immensely enriched on the exclaustration of the monasteries, by the hidden treasures of the escorial, and other spoils of mortmain. and now, as a collection of masterpieces, it has no equal in the world. a few figures will prove this. it contains more than two thousand pictures already catalogued,--all of them worth a place on the walls. among these there are ten by raphael, forty-three by titian, thirty-four by tintoret, twenty-five by paul veronese. rubens has the enormous contingent of sixty-four. of teniers, whose works are sold for fabulous sums for the square inch, this extraordinary museum possesses no less than sixty finished pictures,--the louvre considers itself rich with fourteen. so much for a few of the foreigners. among the spaniards the three greatest names could alone fill a gallery. there are sixty-five velazquez, forty-six murillos, and fifty-eight riberas. compare these figures with those of any other gallery in existence, and you will at once recognize the hopeless superiority of this collection. it is not only the greatest collection in the world, but the greatest that can ever be made until this is broken up. but with all this mass of wealth it is not a complete, nor, properly speaking, a representative museum. you cannot trace upon its walls the slow, groping progress of art towards perfection. it contains few of what the book-lovers call _incunabula._ spanish art sprang out full-armed from the mature brain of rome. juan de juanes came back from italy a great artist. the schools of spain were budded on a full-bearing tree. charles and philip bought masterpieces, and cared little for the crude efforts of the awkward pencils of the necessary men who came before raphael. there is not a perugino in madrid. there is nothing byzantine, no trace of renaissance; nothing of the patient work of the early flemings,--the art of flanders comes blazing in with the full splendor of rubens and van dyck. and even among the masters, the representation is most unequal. among the wilderness of titians and tintorets you find but two domenichinos and two correggios. even in spanish art the gallery is far from complete. there is almost nothing of such genuine painters as zurbaran and herrera. but recognizing all this, there is, in this glorious temple, enough to fill the least enthusiastic lover of art with delight and adoration for weeks and months together. if one knew he was to be blind in a year, like the young musician in auerbach's exquisite romance, i know of no place in the world where he could garner up so precious a store of memories for the days of darkness, memories that would haunt the soul with so divine a light of consolation, as in that graceful palace of the prado. it would be a hopeless task to attempt to review with any detail the gems of this collection. my memory is filled with the countless canvases that adorn the ten great halls. if i refer to my notebook i am equally discouraged by the number i have marked for special notice. the masterpieces are simply innumerable. i will say a word of each room, and so give up the unequal contest. as you enter the museum from the north, you are in a wide sturdy-columned vestibule, hung with splashy pictures of luca giordano. to your right is the room devoted to the spanish school; to the left, the italian. in front is the grand gallery where the greatest works of both schools are collected. in the spanish saloon there is an indefinable air of severity and gloom. it is less perfectly lighted than some others, and there is something forbidding in the general tone of the room. there are prim portraits of queens and princes, monks in contemplation, and holy people in antres vast and deserts idle. most visitors come in from a sense of duty, look hurriedly about, and go out with a conscience at ease; in fact, there is a dim suggestion of the fagot and the rack about many of the spanish masters. at one end of this gallery the prometheus of ribera agonizes chained to his rock. his gigantic limbs are flung about in the fury of immortal pain. a vulture, almost lost in the blackness of the shadows, is tugging at his vitals. his brow is convulsed with the pride and anguish of a demigod. it is a picture of horrible power. opposite hangs one of the few zurbarans of the gallery,--also a gloomy and terrible work. a monk kneels in shadows which, by the masterly chiaroscuro of this ascetic artist, are made to look darker than blackness. before him in a luminous nimbus that burns its way through the dark, is the image of the crucified saviour, head downwards. so remarkable is the vigor of the drawing and the power of light in this picture that you can imagine you see the resplendent crucifix suddenly thrust into the shadow by the strong hands of invisible spirits, and swayed for a moment only before the dazzled eyes of the ecstatic solitary. but after you have made friends with this room it will put off its forbidding aspect, and you will find it hath a stern look but a gentle heart. it has two lovely little landscapes by murillo, showing how universal was that wholesome genius. also one of the largest landscapes of velazquez, which, when you stand near it, seems a confused mass of brown daubs, but stepping back a few yards becomes a most perfect view of the entrance to a royal park. the wide gate swings on its pivot before your eyes. a court cortege moves in,--the long, dark alley stretches off for miles directly in front, without any trick of lines or curves; the artist has painted the shaded air. to the left a patch of still water reflects the dark wood, and above there is a distant and tranquil sky. had velazquez not done such vastly greater things, his few landscapes would alone have won him fame enough. he has in this room a large number of royal portraits,--one especially worth attention, of philip iii. the scene is by the shore,--a cool foreground of sandy beach,--a blue-gray stretch of rippled water, and beyond, a low promontory between the curling waves and the cirrus clouds. the king mounts a magnificent gray horse, with a mane and tail like the broken rush of a cascade. the keeping is wonderful; a fresh sea breeze blows out of the canvas. a brilliant bit of color is thrown into the red, gold-fringed scarf of the horseman, fluttering backward over his shoulder. yet the face of the king is, as it should be, the principal point of the picture,--the small-eyed, heavy-mouthed, red-lipped, fair, self-satisfied face of these austrian despots. it is a handsomer face than most of velazquez, as it was probably painted from memory and lenient tradition. for philip iii. was gathered to his fathers in the escorial before velazquez came up from andalusia to seek his fortune at the court. the first work he did in madrid was to paint the portrait of the king, which so pleased his majesty that he had it repeated _ad nauseam._ you see him served up in every form in this gallery,--on foot, on horseback, in full armor, in a shooting-jacket, at picnics, and actually on his knees at his prayers! we wonder if velazquez ever grew tired of that vacant face with its contented smirk, or if in that loyal age the smile of royalty was not always the sunshine of the court? there is a most instructive study of faces in the portraits of the austrian line. first comes charles v., the first of spain, painted by titian at augsburg, on horseback, in the armor he wore at muhl-berg, his long lance in rest, his visor up over the eager, powerful face,--the eye and beak of an eagle, the jaw of a bull-dog, the face of a born ruler, a man of prey. and yet in the converging lines about the eyes, in the premature gray hair, in the nervous, irritable lips, you can see the promise of early decay, of an age that will be the spoil of superstition and bigotry. it is the face of a man who could make himself emperor and hermit. in his son, philip ii., the soldier dies out and the bigot is intensified. in the fine portrait by pantoja, of philip in his age, there is scarcely any trace of the fresh, fair youth that titian painted as adonis. it is the face of a living corpse; of a ghastly pallor, heightened by the dull black of his mourning suit, where all passion and feeling have died out of the livid lips and the icy eyes. beside him hangs the portrait of his rickety, feebly passionate son, the unfortunate don carlos. the forehead of the young prince is narrow and ill-formed; the austrian chin is exaggerated one degree more; he looks a picture of fitful impulse. his brother, philip iii., we have just seen, fair and inane,--a monster of cruelty, who burned jews and banished moors, not from malice, but purely from vacuity of spirit; his head broadens like a pine-apple from the blond crest to the plump jowls. every one knows the head of philip iv.,--he was fortunate in being the friend of velazquez,--the high, narrow brow, the long, weak face, the yellow, curled mustache, the thick, red lips, and the ever lengthening hapsburg chin. but the line of austria ends with the utmost limit of caricature in the face of charles the bewitched! carreno has given us an admirable portrait of this unfortunate,--the forehead caved in like the hat of a drunkard, the red-lidded eyes staring vacantly, a long, thin nose absurd as a carnival disguise, an enormous mouth which he could not shut, the under-jaw projected so prodigiously,--a face incapable of any emotion but fear. and yet in gazing at this idiotic mask you are reminded of another face you have somewhere seen, and are startled to remember it is the resolute face of the warrior and statesman, the king of men, the kaiser karl. yes, this pitiable being was the descendant of the great emperor, and for that sufficient reason, although he was an impotent and shivering idiot, although he could not sleep without a friar in his bed to keep the devils away, for thirty-five years this scarecrow ruled over spain, and dying made a will whose accomplishment bathed the peninsula in blood. it must be confessed this institution of monarchy is a luxury that must be paid for. we did not intend to talk of politics in this room, but that line of royal effigies was too tempting. before we go, let us look at a beautiful magdalen in penitence, by an unknown artist of the school of murillo. she stands near the entrance of her cave, in a listening attitude. the bright out-of-door light falls on her bare shoulder and gives the faintest touch of gold to her dishevelled brown hair. she casts her eyes upward, the large melting eyes of andalusia; a chastened sorrow, through which a trembling hope is shining, softens the somewhat worldly beauty of her exquisite and sensitive face. through the mouth of the cave we catch a glimpse of sunny mountain solitude, and in the rosy air that always travels with spanish angels a band of celestial serenaders is playing. it is a charming composition, without any depth of sentiment or especial mastery of treatment, but evidently painted by a clever artist in his youth, and this magdalen is the portrait of the lady of his dreams. none of murillo's pupils but tobar could have painted it, and the manner is precisely the same as that of his divina pastora. across the hall is the gallery consecrated to italian artists. there are not many pictures of the first rank here. they have been reserved for the great central gallery, where we are going. but while here, we must notice especially two glorious works of tintoret,--the same subject differently treated,--the death of holofernes. both are placed higher than they should be, considering their incontestable merit. a full light is needed to do justice to that magnificence of color which is the pride of venice. there are two remarkable pictures of giordano,--one in the roman style, which would not be unworthy of the great sanzio himself, a holy family, drawn and colored with that scrupulous correctness which seems so impossible in the ordinary products of this protean genius; and just opposite, an apotheosis of rubens, surrounded by his usual "properties" of fat angels and genii, which could be readily sold anywhere as a specimen of the estimate which the unabashed fleming placed upon himself. it is marvellous that any man should so master the habit and the thought of two artists so widely apart as raphael and rubens, as to produce just such pictures as they would have painted upon the same themes. the halls and dark corridors of the museum are filled with giordano's canvases. in less than ten years' residence in spain he covered the walls of dozens of churches and palaces with his fatally facile work. there are more than three hundred pictures recorded as executed by him in that time. they are far from being without merit. there is a singular slap-dash vigor about his drawing. his coloring, except when he is imitating some earlier master, is usually thin and poor. it is difficult to repress an emotion of regret in looking at his laborious yet useless life. with great talents, with indefatigable industry, he deluged europe with paintings that no one cares for, and passed into history simply as luca fa presto,--luke work-fast. it is not by mere activity that great things are done in art. in the great gallery we now enter we see the deathless work of the men who wrought in faith. this is the grandest room in christendom. it is about three hundred and fifty feet long and thirty-five broad and high. it is beautifully lighted from above. its great length is broken here and there by vases and statues, so placed between doors as nowhere to embarrass the view. the northern half of the gallery is spanish, and the southern half italian. halfway down, a door to the left opens into an oval chamber, devoted to an eclectic set of masterpieces of every school and age. the gallery ends in a circular room of french and german pictures, on either side of which there are two great halls of dutch and flemish. on the ground floor there are some hundreds more flemish and a hall of sculpture. the first pictures you see to your left are by the early masters of spain,--morales, called in spain the divine, whose works are now extremely rare, the museum possessing only three or four, long, fleshless faces and stiff figures of christs and marys,--and juan de juanes, the founder of the valentian school, who brought back from italy the lessons of raphael's studio, that firmness of design and brilliancy of color, and whose genuine merit has survived all vicissitudes of changing taste. he has here a superb last supper and a spirited series of pictures illustrating the martyrdom of stephen. there is perhaps a little too much elaboration of detail, even for the romans. stephen's robes are unnecessarily new, and the ground where he is stoned is profusely covered with convenient round missiles the size of vienna rolls, so exactly suited to the purpose that it looks as if providence sided with the persecutors. but what a wonderful variety and truth in the faces and the attitudes of the groups! what mastery of drawing, and what honest integrity of color after all these ages! it is reported of juanes that he always confessed and prayed before venturing to take up his pencils to touch the features of the saints and saviours that shine on his canvas. his conscientious fervor has its reward. across the room are the murillos. hung together are two pictures, not of large dimensions, but of exquisite perfection, which will serve as fair illustrations of the work of his youth and his age; the frio and the vaporoso manner. in the former manner is this charming picture of rebecca at the well; a graceful composition, correct and somewhat severe drawing, the greatest sharpness and clearness of outline. in the martyrdom of st. andrew the drawing and the composition are no less absolutely perfect, but there hangs over the whole picture a luminous haze of strangeness and mystery. a light that never was on sea or land bathes the distant hills and battlements, touches the spears of the legionaries, and shines in full glory on the ecstatic face of the aged saint. it does not seem a part of the scene. you see the picture through it. a step further on there is a holy family, which seems to me the ultimate effort of the early manner. a jewish carpenter holds his fair-haired child between his knees. the urchin holds up a bird to attract the attention of a little white dog on the floor. the mother, a dark-haired peasant woman, looks on the scene with quiet amusement. the picture is absolutely perfect in detail. it seems to be the _consigne_ among critics to say it lacks "style." they say it is a family scene in judaea, _voila tout._ of course, and it is that very truth and nature that makes this picture so fascinating. the word was made flesh, and not a phosphorescent apparition; and murillo knew what he was about when he painted this view of the interior of st. joseph's shop. what absurd presumption to accuse this great thinker of a deficiency of ideality, in face of these two glorious marys of the conception that fill the room with light and majesty! they hang side by side, so alike and yet so distinct in character. one is a woman in knowledge and a goddess of purity; the other, absolute innocence, startled by the stupendous revelation and exalted by the vaguely comprehended glory of the future. it is before this picture that the visitor always lingers longest. the face is the purest expression of girlish loveliness possible to art. the virgin floats upborne by rosy clouds, flocks of pink cherubs flutter at her feet waving palm-branches. the golden air is thick with suggestions of dim celestial faces, but nothing mars the imposing solitude of the queen of heaven, shrined alone, throned in the luminous azure. surely no man ever understood or interpreted like this grand andalusian the power that the worship of woman exerts on the religions of the world. all the passionate love that has been poured out in all the ages at the feet of ashtaroth and artemis and aphrodite and freya found visible form and color at last on that immortal canvas where, with his fervor of religion and the full strength of his virile devotion to beauty, he created, for the adoration of those who should follow him, this type of the perfect feminine,-- "thee! standing loveliest in the open heaven! ave maria! only heaven and thee!" there are some dozens more of murillo here almost equally remarkable, but i cannot stop to make an unmeaning catalogue of them. there is a charming gypsy fortune-teller, whose wheedling voice and smile were caught and fixed in some happy moment in seville; an adoration of the shepherds, wonderful in its happy combination of rigid truth with the warmest glow of poetry; two annunciations, rich with the radiance that streams through the rent veil of the innermost heaven,--lights painted boldly upon lights, the white dove sailing out of the dazzling background of celestial effulgence,--a miracle and mystery of theology repeated by a miracle and mystery of art. even when you have exhausted the murillos of the museum you have not reached his highest achievements in color and design. you will find these in the academy of san fernando,--the dream of the roman gentleman, and the founding of the church of st. mary the greater; and the powerful composition of st. elizabeth of hungary, in her hospital work. in the first, a noble roman and his wife have suddenly fallen asleep in their chairs in an elegant apartment. their slumber is painted with curious felicity,--you lower your voice for fear of waking them. on the left of the picture is their dream: the virgin comes in a halo of golden clouds and designates the spot where her church is to be built. in the next picture the happy couple kneel before the pope and expose their high commission, and outside a brilliant procession moves to the ceremony of the laying of the corner-stone. the st. elizabeth is a triumph of genius over a most terribly repulsive subject. the wounds and sores of the beggars are painted with unshrinking fidelity, but every vulgar detail is redeemed by the beauty and majesty of the whole. i think in these pictures of murillo the last word of spanish art was reached. there was no further progress possible in life, even for him. "other heights in other lives, god willing." returning to the museum and to velazquez, we find ourselves in front of his greatest historical work, the surrender of breda. this is probably the most utterly unaffected historical painting in existence. there is positively no stage business about it. on the right is the spanish staff, on the left the deputation of the vanquished flemings. in the centre the great spinola accepts the keys of the city from the governor; his attitude and face are full of dignity softened by generous and affable grace. he lays his hand upon the shoulder of the flemish general, and you can see he is paying him some chivalrous compliment on the gallant fight he has lost. if your eyes wander through the open space between the two escorts, you see a wonderful widespread landscape in the netherlands, which would form a fine picture if the figures all were gone. opposite this great work is another which artists consider greater,--las meninas. when luca giordano came from italy he inquired for this picture, and said on seeing it, "this is the theology of painting." if our theology were what it should be, and cannot be, absolute and unquestionable truth, luca the quick-worker would have been right. velazquez was painting the portrait of a stupid little infanta when the idea came to him of perpetuating the scene just as it was. we know how we have wished to be sure of the exact accessories of past events. the modern rage for theatrical local color is an illustration of this desire. the great artist, who must have honored his art, determined to give to future ages an exact picture of one instant of his glorious life. it is not too much to say he has done this. he stands before his easel, his pencils in his hand. the little princess is stiffly posing in the centre. her little maids are grouped about her. two hideous dwarfs on the right are teasing a noble dog who is too drowsy and magnanimous to growl. in the background at the end of a long gallery a gentleman is opening a door to the garden. the presence of royalty is indicated by the reflection of the faces of the king and queen in a small mirror, where you would expect to see your own. the longer you look upon this marvellous painting, the less possible does it seem that it is merely the placing of color on canvas which causes this perfect illusion. it does not seem possible that you are looking at a plane surface. there is a stratum of air before, behind, and beside these figures. you could walk on that floor and see how the artist is getting on with the portrait. there is space and light in this picture, as in any room. every object is detached, as in the common miracle of the stereoscope. if art consist in making a fleeting moment immortal, if the true is a higher ideal than the beautiful, then it will be hard to find a greater painting than this. it is utterly without beauty; its tone is a cold olive green-gray; there is not one redeeming grace or charm about it except the noble figure of velazquez himself,--yet in its austere fidelity to truth it stands incomparable in the world. it gained velazquez his greatest triumph. you see on his breast a sprawling red cross, painted evidently by an unskilful hand. this was the gracious answer made by philip iv. when the artist asked him if anything was wanting to the picture. this decoration, daubed by the royal hand, was the accolade of the knighthood of santiago,--an honor beyond the dreams of an artist of that day. it may be considered the highest compliment ever paid to a painter, except the one paid by courbet to himself, when he refused to be decorated by the man of december. among velazquez's most admirable studies of life is his picture of the borrachos. a group of rustic roysterers are admitting a neophyte into the drunken _confrerie._ he kneels to receive a crown of ivy from the hands of the king of the revel. a group of older tipplers are filling their cups, or eyeing their brimming glasses, with tipsy, mock-serious glances. there has never been a chapter written which so clearly shows the drunkard's nature as this vulgar anacreontic. a thousand men have painted drunken frolics, but never one with such distinct spiritual insight as this. to me the finest product of jordaens' genius is his bohnen koenig in the belvedere, but there you see only the incidents of the mad revel; every one is shouting or singing or weeping with maudlin glee or tears. but in this scene of the borrachos there is nothing scenic or forced. these topers have come together to drink, for the love of the wine,--the fun is secondary. this wonderful reserve of velazquez is clearly seen in his conception of the king of the rouse. he is a young man, with a heavy, dull, somewhat serious face, fat rather than bloated, rather pale than flushed. he is naked to the waist to show the plump white arms and shoulders and the satiny skin of the voluptuary; one of those men whose heads and whose stomachs are too loyal ever to give them _katzenjammer_ or remorse. the others are of the commoner type of haunters of wine-shops,--with red eyes and coarse hides and grizzled matted hair,--but every man of them inexorably true, and a predestined sot. we must break away from velazquez, passing by his marvellous portraits of kings and dwarfs, saints and poodles,--among whom there is a dwarf of two centuries ago, who is too like tom thumb to serve for his twin brother,--and a portrait of aesop, which is a flash of intuition, an epitome of all the fables. before leaving the spaniards we must look at the most pleasing of all ribera's works,--the ladder-dream of jacob. the patriarch lies stretched on the open plain in the deep sleep of the weary. to the right in a broad shaft of cloudy gold the angels are ascending and descending. the picture is remarkable for its mingling the merits of ribera's first and second manner. it is a caravaggio in its strength and breadth of light and shade, and a correggio in its delicacy of sentiment and refined beauty of coloring. he was not often so fortunate in his parmese efforts. they are usually marked by a timidity and an attempt at prettiness inconceivable in the haughty and impulsive master of the neapolitan school. of the three great spaniards, ribera is the least sympathetic. he often displays a tumultuous power and energy to which his calmer rivals are strangers. but you miss in him that steady devotion to truth which distinguishes velazquez, and that spiritual lift which ennobles murillo. the difference, i conceive, lies in the moral character of the three. ribera was a great artist, and the others were noble men. ribera passed a youth of struggle and hunger and toil among the artists of rome,--a stranger and penniless in the magnificent city,--picking up crusts in the street and sketching on quiet curbstones, with no friend, and no name but that of spagnoletto,--the little spaniard. suddenly rising to fame, he broke loose from his roman associations and fled to naples, where he soon became the wealthiest and the most arrogant artist of his time. he held continually at his orders a faction of _bravi_ who drove from naples, with threats and insults and violence, every artist of eminence who dared visit the city. car-racci and guido only saved their lives by flight, and the blameless and gifted domenichino, it is said, was foully murdered by his order. it is not to such a heart as this that is given the ineffable raptures of murillo or the positive revelations of velazquez. these great souls were above cruelty or jealousy. velazquez never knew the storms of adversity. safely anchored in the royal favor, he passed his uneventful life in the calm of his beloved work. but his hand and home were always open to the struggling artists of spain. he was the benefactor of alonzo cano; and when murillo came up to madrid, weary and footsore with his long tramp from andalusia, sustained by an innate consciousness of power, all on fire with a picture of van dyck he had seen in seville, the rich and honored painter of the court received with generous kindness the shabby young wanderer, clothed him, and taught him, and watched with noble delight the first flights of the young eagle whose strong wing was so soon to cleave the empyrean. and when murillo went back to seville he paid his debt by doing as much for others. these magnanimous hearts were fit company for the saints they drew. we have lingered so long with the native artists we shall have little to say of the rest. there are ten fine raphaels, but it is needless to speak of them. they have been endlessly reproduced. raphael is known and judged by the world. after some centuries of discussion the scorners and the critics are dumb. all men have learned the habit of albani, who, in a frivolous and unappreciative age, always uncovered his head at the name of raphael sanzio. we look at his precious work with a mingled feeling of gratitude for what we have, and of rebellious wonder that lives like his and shelley's should be extinguished in their glorious dawn, while kings and country gentlemen live a hundred years. what boundless possibilities of bright achievement these two divine youths owed us in the forty years more they should have lived! raphael's greatest pictures in madrid are the spasimo di sicilia, and the holy family, called la perla. the former has a singular history. it was painted for a convent in palermo, shipwrecked on the way, and thrown ashore on the gulf of genoa. it was again sent to sicily, brought to spain by the viceroy of naples, stolen by napoleon, and in paris was subjected to a brilliantly successful operation for transferring the layer of paint from the worm-eaten wood to canvas. it came back to spain with other stolen goods from the louvre. la perla was bought by philip iv. at the sale of charles i.'s effects after his decapitation. philip was fond of charles, but could not resist the temptation to profit by his death. this picture was the richest of the booty. it is, of all the faces of the virgin extant, the most perfectly beautiful and one of the least spiritual. there is another fine madonna, commonly called la virgen del pez, from a fish which young tobit holds in his hand. it is rather tawny in color, as if it had been painted on a pine board and the wood had asserted itself from below. it is a charming picture, with all the great roman's inevitable perfection of design; but it is incomprehensible that critics, m. viardot among them, should call it the first in rank of raphael's virgins in glory. there are none which can dispute that title with our lady of san sisto, unearthly and supernatural in beauty and majesty. the school of florence is represented by a charming mona lisa of leonardo da vinci, almost identical with that of the louvre; and six admirable pictures of andrea del sarto. but the one which most attracts and holds all those who regard the faultless painter with sympathy, and who admiring his genius regret his errors, is a portrait of his wife lucrezia fede, whose name, a french writer has said, is a double epigram. it was this capricious and wilful beauty who made poor andrea break his word and embezzle the money king francis had given him to spend for works of art. yet this dangerous face is his best excuse,--the face of a man-snarer, subtle and passionate and cruel in its blind selfishness, and yet so beautiful that any man might yield to it against the cry of his own warning conscience. browning must have seen it before he wrote, in his pathetic poem,-- "let my hands frame your face in your hair's gold, you beautiful lucrezia, that are mine!" nowhere, away from the adriatic, is the venetian school so richly represented as in madrid. charles and philip were the most munificent friends and patrons of titian, and the royal museum counts among its treasures in consequence the enormous number of forty-three pictures by the wonderful centenarian. among these are two upon which he set great value,--a last supper, which has unfortunately mouldered to ruin in the humid refectory of the escorial, equal in merit and destiny with that of leonardo; and the gloria, or apotheosis of the imperial family, which, after the death of charles, was brought from yuste to the escorial, and thence came to swell the treasures of the museum. it is a grand and masterly work. the vigorous genius of titian has grappled with the essential difficulties of a subject that trembles on the balance of ridiculous and sublime, and has come out triumphant. the father and the son sit on high. the operating spirit hovers above them. the virgin in robes of azure stands in the blaze of the presence. the celestial army is ranged around. below, a little lower than the angels, are charles and philip with their wives, on their knees, with white cowls and clasped hands,--charles in his premature age, with worn face and grizzled beard; and philip in his youth of unwholesome fairness, with red lips and pink eyelids, such as titian painted him in the adonis. the foreground is filled with prophets and saints of the first dignity, and a kneeling woman, whose face is not visible, but whose attitude and drapery are drawn with the sinuous and undulating grace of that hand which could not fail. every figure is turned to the enthroned deity, touched with ineffable light. the artist has painted heaven, and is not absurd. in that age of substantial faith such achievements were possible. there are two venuses by titian very like that of dresden, but the heads have not the same dignity; and a danae which is a replica of the vienna one. his salome bearing the head of john the baptist is one of the finest impersonations of the pride of life conceivable. so unapproachable are the soft lights and tones on the perfect arms and shoulders of the full-bodied maiden, that tintoret one day exclaimed in despair before it, "that fellow paints with ground flesh." this gallery possesses one of the last works of titian,--the battle of lepanto, which was fought when the artist was ninety-four years of age. it is a courtly allegory,--king philip holds his little son in his arms, a courier angel brings the news of victory, and to the infant a palm-branch and the scroll _majora tibi._ outside you see the smoke and flash of a naval battle, and a malignant and tur-baned turk lies bound on the floor. it would seem incredible that this enormous canvas should have been executed at such an age, did we not know that when the pest cut the mighty master off in his hundredth year he was busily at work upon a descent from the cross, which palma the elder finished on his knees and dedicated to god: quod titianus inchoatum reliquit palma reverenter absolvit deoque dicavit opus. the vast representation of titian rather injures veronese and tintoret. opposite the gloria of yuste hangs the sketch of that stupendous paradise of tintoret, which we see in the palace of the doges,--the biggest picture ever painted by mortal, thirty feet high and seventy-four long. the sketch was secured by velazquez in his tour through italy. the most charming picture of veronese is a venus and adonis, which is finer than that of titian,--a classic and most exquisite idyl of love and sleep, cool shadow and golden-sifted sunshine. his most considerable work in the gallery is a christ teaching the doctors, magnificent in arrangement, severely correct in drawing, and of a most vivid and dramatic interest. we pass through a circular vaulted chamber to reach the flemish rooms. there is a choice though scanty collection of the german and french schools. albert durer has an adam and eve, and a priceless portrait of himself as perfectly preserved as if it were painted yesterday. he wears a curious and picturesque costume,--striped black-and-white,--a graceful tasselled cap of the same. the picture is sufficiently like the statue at nuremberg; a long south-german face, blue-eyed and thin, fair-whiskered, with that expression of quiet confidence you would expect in the man who said one day, with admirable candor, when people were praising a picture of his, "it could not be better done." in this circular room are four great claudes, two of which, sunrise and sunset, otherwise called the embarcation of sta. paula, and tobit and the angel, are in his best and richest manner. it is inconceivable to us, who graduate men by a high-school standard, that these refined and most elegant works could have been produced by a man so imperfectly educated as claude lorrain. there remain the pictures of the dutch and the flemings. it is due to the causes we have mentioned in the beginning that neither in antwerp nor dresden nor paris is there such wealth and profusion of the netherlands art as in this mountain-guarded corner of western europe. i shall have but a word to say of these three vast rooms, for rubens and van dyck and teniers are known to every one. the first has here a representation so complete that if europe were sunk by a cataclysm from the baltic to the pyrenees every essential characteristic of the great fleming could still be studied in this gallery. with the exception of his descent from the cross in the cathedral at antwerp, painted in a moment of full inspiration that never comes twice in a life, everything he has done elsewhere may be matched in madrid. his largest picture here is an adoration of the kings, an overpowering exhibition of wasteful luxuriance of color and _fougue_ of composition. to the left the virgin stands leaning with queenly majesty over the effulgent child. from this point the light flashes out over the kneeling magi, the gorgeously robed attendants, the prodigality of velvet and jewels and gold, to fade into the lovely clear-obscure of a starry night peopled with dim camels and cattle. on the extreme right is a most graceful and gallant portrait of the artist on horseback. we have another fine self-portraiture in the garden of love,--a group of lords and ladies in a delicious pleasance where the greatest seigneur is peter paul rubens and the finest lady is helen forman. these true artists had to paint for money so many ignoble faces that they could not be blamed for taking their revenge in painting sometimes their own noble heads. van dyck never drew a profile so faultless in manly beauty as his own which we see on the same canvas with that of his friend the earl of bristol. look at the two faces side by side, and say whether god or the king can make the better nobleman. among those mythological subjects in which rubens delighted, the best here are his perseus and andromeda, where the young hero comes gloriously in a brand-new suit of milanese armor, while the lovely princess, in a costume that never grows old-fashioned, consisting of sunshine and golden hair, awaits him and deliverance in beautiful resignation; a judgment of paris, the three graces,--both prodigies of his strawberries-and-cream color; and a curious suckling of hercules, which is the prototype or adumbration of the ecstatic vision of st. bernard. he has also a copy of titian's adam and eve, in an out-of-the-way place downstairs, which should be hung beside the original, to show the difference of handling of the two master colorists. especially happy is this museum in its van dycks. besides those incomparable portraits of lady oxford, of liberti the organist of antwerp, and others better than the best of any other man, there are a few large and elaborate compositions such as i have never seen elsewhere. the principal one is the capture of christ by night in the garden of gethsemane, which has all the strength of rubens, with a more refined study of attitudes and a greater delicacy of tone and touch. another is the crowning with thorns,--although of less dimensions, of profound significance in expression, and a flowing and marrowy softness of execution. you cannot survey the work of van dyck in this collection, so full of deep suggestion, showing an intellect so vivid and so refined, a mastery of processes so thorough and so intelligent, without the old wonder of what he would have done in that ripe age when titian and murillo and shakespeare wrought their best and fullest, and the old regret for the dead,--as edgar poe sings, the doubly dead in that they died so young. we are tempted to lift the veil that hides the unknown, at least with the furtive hand of conjecture; to imagine a field of unquenched activity where the early dead, free from the clogs and trammels of the lower world, may follow out the impulses of their diviner nature,--where andrea has no wife, and raphael and van dyck no disease,--where keats and shelley have all eternity for their lofty rhyme,--where ellsworth and koerner and the lowell boys can turn their alert and athletic intelligence to something better than war. a castle in the air i have sometimes thought that a symptom of the decay of true kinghood in modern times is the love of monarchs for solitude. in the early days when monarchy was a real power to answer a real want, the king had no need to hide himself. he was the strongest, the most knowing, the most cunning. he moved among men their acknowledged chief. he guided and controlled them. he never lost his dignity by daily use. he could steal a horse like diomede, he could mend his own breeches like dagobert, and never tarnish the lustre of the crown by it. but in later times the throne has become an anachronism. the wearer of a crown has done nothing to gain it but give himself the trouble to be born. he has no claim to the reverence or respect of men. yet he insists upon it, and receives some show of it. his life is mainly passed in keeping up this battle for a lost dignity and worship. he is given up to shams and ceremonies. to a life like this there is something embarrassing in the movement and activity of a great city. the king cannot join in it without a loss of prestige. being outside of it, he is vexed and humiliated by it. the empty forms become nauseous in the midst of this honest and wholesome reality of out-of-doors. hence the necessity of these quiet retreats in the forests, in the water-guarded islands, in the cloud-girdled mountains. here the world is not seen or heard. here the king may live with such approach to nature as his false and deformed education will allow. he is surrounded by nothing but the world of servants and courtiers, and it requires little effort of the imagination to consider himself chief and lord. it was this spirit which in the decaying ripeness of the bourbon dynasty drove the louis from paris to versailles and from versailles to marly. millions were wasted to build the vast monument of royal fatuity, and when it was done the grand monarque found it necessary to fly from time to time to the sham solitude and mock retirement he had built an hour away. when philip v. came down from france to his splendid exile on the throne of spain, he soon wearied of the interminable ceremonies of the cas-tilian court, and finding one day, while hunting, a pleasant farm on the territory of the segovian monks, flourishing in a wrinkle of the guadarrama mountains, he bought it, and reared the palace of la granja. it is only kings who can build their castles in the air of palpable stones and mortar. this lordly pleasure-house stands four thousand feet above the sea level. on this commanding height, in this savage alpine loneliness, in the midst of a scenery once wildly beautiful, but now shorn and shaven into a smug likeness of a french garden, philip passed all the later years of his gloomy and inglorious life. it has been ever since a most tempting summer-house to all the bourbons. when the sun is calcining the plains of castile, and the streets of madrid are white with the hot light of midsummer, this palace in the clouds is as cool and shadowy as spring twilights. and besides, as all public business is transacted in madrid, and la granja is a day's journey away, it is too much trouble to send a courier every day for the royal signature,--or, rather, rubric, for royalty in spain is above handwriting, and gives its majestic approval with a flourish of the pen,--so that everything waits a week or so, and much business goes finally undone; and this is the highest triumph of spanish industry and skill. we had some formal business with the court of the regent, and were not sorry to learn that his highness would not return to the capital for some weeks, and that consequently, following the precedent of a certain prophet, we must go to the mountain. we found at the estacion del norte the state railway carriage of her late majesty,--a brilliant creation of yellow satin and profuse gilding, a bovidoir on wheels,--not too full of a distinguished company. some of the leading men of new spain, one or two ministers, were there, and we passed a pleasant two hours on the road in that most seductive of all human occupations,--talking politics. it is remarkable that whenever a nation is remodelling its internal structure, the subject most generally discussed is the constitutional system of the united states. the republicans usually adopt it solid. the monarchists study it with a jealous interest. i fell into conversation with senor------, one of the best minds in spain, an enlightened though conservative statesman. he said: "it is hard for europe to adopt a settled belief about you. america is a land of wonders, of contradictions. one party calls your system freedom, another anarchy. in all legislative assemblies of europe, republicans and absolutists alike draw arguments from america. but what cannot be denied are the effects, the results. these are evident, something vast and grandiose, a life and movement to which the old world is stranger." he afterwards referred with great interest to the imaginary imperialist movement in america, and raised his eyebrows in polite incredulity when i assured him there was as much danger of spain becoming mohammedan as of america becoming imperialist. we stopped at the little station of villalba, in the midst of the wide brown table-land that stretches from madrid to the escorial. at villalba we found the inevitable swarm of beggars, who always know by the sure instinct of wretchedness where a harvest of cuartos is to be achieved. i have often passed villalba and have seen nothing but the station-master and the water-vender. but to-day, because there were a half dozen excellencies on the train, the entire mendicant force of the district was on parade. they could not have known these gentlemen were coming; they must have scented pennies in the air. awaiting us at the rear of the station were three enormous lumbering diligences, each furnished with nine superb mules,--four pairs and a leader. they were loaded with gaudy trappings, and their shiny coats, and backs shorn into graceful arabesques, showed that they did not belong to the working-classes, but enjoyed the gentlemanly leisure of official station. the drivers wore a smart postilion uniform and the royal crown on their caps. we threw some handfuls of copper and bronze among the picturesque mendicants. they gathered them up with grave castilian decorum, and said, "god will repay your graces." the postilions cracked their whips, the mules shook their bells gayly, the heavy wagons started off at a full gallop, and the beggars said, "may your graces go with god!" it was the end of july, and the sky was blue and cloudless. the fine, soft light of the afternoon was falling on the tawny slopes and the close-reaped fields. the harvest was over. in the fields on either side they were threshing their grain, not as in the outside world, with the whirring of loud and swift machinery, nor even with the active and lively swinging of flails; but in the open air, under the warm sky, the cattle were lazily treading out the corn on the bare ground, to be winnowed by the wandering wind. no change from the time of solomon. through an infinity of ages, ever since corn and cattle were, the iberian farmer in this very spot had driven his beasts over his crop, and never dreamed of a better way of doing the work. not only does the spaniard not seek for improvements, he utterly despises and rejects them. the poorer classes especially, who would find an enormous advantage in increased production, lightening their hard lot by a greater plenty of the means of life, regard every introduction of improved machinery as a blow at the rights of labor. when many years ago a dutch vintner went to valdepenas and so greatly improved the manufacture of that excellent but ill-made wine that its price immediately rose in the madrid market, he was mobbed and plundered by his ignorant neighbors, because, as they said, he was laboring to make wine dearer. in every attempt which has been made to manufacture improved machinery in spain, the greatest care has to be taken to prevent the workmen from maliciously damaging the works, which they imagine are to take the bread from the mouths of their children. so strong is this feeling in every department of national life, that the mayoral who drove our spanking nine-in-hand received with very ill humor our suggestion that the time could be greatly shortened by a fell railroad over the hills to la granja. "what would become of nosotros?" he asked. and it really would seem a pity to annihilate so much picturesqueness and color at the bidding of mere utility. a gayly embroidered andalusian jacket, bright scarlet silk waistcoat,--a rich wide belt, into which his long knife, the navaja, was jauntily thrust,--buckskin breeches, with valentian stockings, which, as they are open at the bottom, have been aptly likened to a spaniard's purse,--and shoes made of murcian matting, composed his natty outfit. by his side on the box sat the zagal, his assistant, whose especial function seemed to be to swear at the cattle. i have heard some eloquent imprecation in my day. "our army swore terribly" at hilton head. the objuration of the boatmen of the mississippi is very vigorous and racy. but i have never assisted at a session of profanity so loud, so energetic, so original as that with which this castilian postilion regaled us. the wonderful consistency and perseverance with which the role was sustained was worthy of a much better cause. he began by yelling in a coarse, strident voice, "arre! arre!" (get up!) with a vicious emphasis on the final syllable. this is one of the moorish words that have remained fixed like fossils in the language of the conquerors. its constant use in the mouths of muleteers has given them the name of arrieros. this general admonition being addressed to the team at large, the zagal descended to details, and proceeded to vilipend the galloping beasts separately, beginning with the leader. he informed him, still in this wild, jerking scream, that he was a dog, that his mother's character was far from that of caesar's wife, and that if more speed was not exhibited on this down grade, he would be forced to resort to extreme measures. at the mention of a whip, the tall male mule who led the team dashed gallantly off, and the diligence was soon enveloped in a cloud of dust. this seemed to excite our gay charioteer to the highest degree. he screamed lustily at his mules, addressing each personally by its name. "andaluza, arre! thou of arragon, go! beware the scourge, manchega!" and every animal acknowledged the special attention by shaking its ears and bells and whisking its shaven tail, as the diligence rolled furiously over the dull drab plain. for three hours the iron lungs of the muleteer knew no rest or pause. several times in the journey we stopped at a post-station to change our cattle, but the same brazen throat sufficed for all the threatening and encouragement that kept them at the top of their speed. before we arrived at our journey's end, however, he was hoarse as a raven, and kept one hand pressed to his jaw to reinforce the exhausted muscles of speech. when the wide and dusty plain was passed, we began by a slow and winding ascent the passage of the guadarrama. the road is an excellent one, and although so seldom used,--a few months only in the year,--it is kept in the most perfect repair. it is exclusively a summer road, being in the winter impassable with snow. it affords at every turn the most charming compositions of mountain and wooded valley. at intervals we passed a mounted guardia civil, who sat as motionless in his saddle as an equestrian statue, and saluted as the coaches rattled by. and once or twice in a quiet nook by the roadside we came upon the lonely cross that marked the spot where a man had been murdered. it was nearly sunset when we arrived at the summit of the pass. we halted to ask for a glass of water at the hut of a gray-haired woman on the mountain-top. it was given and received as always in this pious country, in the name of god. as we descended, the mules seemed to have gained new vigor from the prospect of an easy stretch of _facilis descensus,_ and the zagal employed what was left of his voice in provoking them to speed by insulting remarks upon their lineage. the quick twilight fell as we entered a vast forest of pines that clothed the mountain-side. the enormous trees looked in the dim evening light like the forms of the anakim, maimed with lightning but still defying heaven. years of battle with the mountain winds had twisted them into every conceivable shape of writhing and distorted deformity. i never saw trees that so nearly conveyed the idea of being the visible prison of tortured dryads. their trunks, white and glistening with oozing resin, added to the ghostly impression they created in the uncertain and failing light. we reached the valley and rattled by a sleepy village, where we were greeted by a chorus of outraged curs whose beauty-sleep we had disturbed, and then began the slow ascent of the hill where st. ildefonso stands. we had not gone far when we heard a pattering of hoofs and a ringing of sabres coming down the road to meet us. the diligence stopped, and the introducer of ambassadors jumped to the ground and announced, "el regente del reino!" it was the regent, the courteous and amiable marshal serrano, who had ridden out from the palace to welcome his guests, and who, after hasty salutations, galloped back to la granja, where we soon arrived. we were assigned the apartments usually given to the papal nuncio, and slept with an episcopal peace of mind. in the morning, as we were walking about the gardens, we saw looking from the palace window one of the most accomplished gentlemen and diplomatists of the new regime. he descended and did the honors of the place. the system of gardens and fountains is enormous. it is evidently modelled upon versailles, but the copy is in many respects finer than the original. the peculiarity of the site, while offering great difficulties, at the same time enhances the triumph of success. this is a garden taught to bloom upon a barren mountain-side. the earth in which these trees are planted was brought from those dim plains in the distance on the backs of men and mules. the pipes that supply these innumerable fountains were laid on the bare rocks and the soil was thrown over them. every tree was guarded and watched like a baby. there was probably never a garden that grew under such circumstances,--but the result is superb. the fountains are fed by a vast reservoir in the mountain, and the water they throw into the bright air is as clear as morning dew. every alley and avenue is a vista that ends in a vast picture of shaggy hills or far-off plains,--while behind the royal gardens towers the lordly peak of the penalara, thrust eight thousand feet into the thin blue ether. the palace has its share of history. it witnessed the abdication of the uxorious bigot philip v. in , and his resumption of the crown the next year at the instance of his proud and turbulent parmesan wife. his bones rest in the church here, as he hated the austrian line too intensely to share with them the gorgeous crypt of the escorial. his wife, elizabeth farnese, lies under the same gravestone with him, as if unwilling to forego even in death that tremendous influence which her vigorous vitality had always exercised over his wavering and sensual nature. "das ewig-weibliche" masters and guides him still. this retreat in the autumn of was the scene of a prodigious exhibition of courage and energy on the part of another italian woman, dona louisa carlota de borbon. ferdinand vil, his mind weakened by illness, and influenced by his ministers, had proclaimed his brother don carlos heir to the throne, to the exclusion of his own infant daughter. his wife, queen christine, broken down by the long conflict, had given way in despair. but her sister, dona louisa carlota, heard of the news in the south of spain, and, leaving her babies at _cadiz_ (two little urchins, one of whom was to be king consort, and the other was to fall by his cousin montpensier's hand in the field of carabanchel), she posted without a moment's pause for rest or sleep over mountains and plains from the sea to la granja. she fought with the lackeys and the ministers twenty-four hours before she could see her sister the queen. having breathed into christine her own invincible spirit, they succeeded, after endless pains, in reaching the king. obstinate as the weak often are, he refused at first to listen to them; but by their womanly wiles, their italian policy, their magnetic force, they at last brought him to revoke his decree in favor of don carlos and to recognize the right of his daughter to the crown. then, terrible in her triumph, dona louisa carlota sent for the minister calomarde, overwhelmed him with the coarsest and most furious abuse, and, unable to confine her victorious rage and hate to words alone, she slapped the astounded minister in the face. calomarde, trembling with rage, bowed and said, "a white hand cannot offend." there is nothing stronger than a woman's weakness, or weaker than a woman's strength. a few years later, when ferdinand was in his grave, and the baby isabel reigned under the regency of christine, a movement in favor of the constitution of burst out, where revolutions generally do, in the south, and spread rapidly over the contiguous provinces. the infection gained the troops of the royal guard at la granja, and they surrounded the palace bawling for the constitution. the regentess, with a proud reliance upon her own power, ordered them to send a deputation to her apartment. a dozen of the mutineers came in, and demanded the constitution. "what is that?" asked the queen. they looked at each other and cudgelled their brains. they had never thought of that before. "caramba!" said they. "we don't know. they say it is a good thing, and will raise our pay and make salt cheaper." their political economy was somewhat flimsy, but they had the bayonets, and the queen was compelled to give way and proclaim the constitution. i must add one trifling reminiscence more of la granja, which has also its little moral. a friend of mine, a colonel of engineers, in the summer before the revolution, was standing before the palace with some officers, when a mean-looking cur ran past. "what an ugly dog!" said the colonel. "hush!" replied another, with an awe-struck face. "that is the dog of his royal highness the prince of asturias." the colonel unfortunately had a logical mind, and failed to see that ownership had any bearing on a purely aesthetic question. he defined his position. "i do not think the dog is ugly because he belongs to the prince. i only mean the prince has an ugly dog." the window just above them slammed, and another officer came up and said that the adversary was to pay. "the queen was at the window and heard every word you said." an hour after the colonel received an order from the commandant of the place, revoking his leave of absence and ordering him to duty in madrid. it is not very surprising that this officer was at the bridge of alcolea. at noon the day grew dark with clouds, and the black storm-wreath came down over the mountains. a terrific fire of artillery resounded for a half-hour in the craggy peaks about us, and a driving shower passed over palace and gardens. then the sun came out again, the pleasure-grounds were fresher and greener than ever, and the visitors thronged in the court of the palace to see the fountains in play. the regent led the way on foot. the general followed in a pony phaeton, and ministers, adjutants, and the population of the district trooped along in a party-colored mass. it was a good afternoon's work to visit all the fountains. they are twenty-six in number, strewn over the undulating grounds. people who visit paris usually consider a day of grandes eaux at versailles the last word of this species of costly trifling. but the waters at versailles bear no comparison with those of la granja. the sense is fatigued and bewildered here with their magnificence and infinite variety. the vast reservoir in the bosom of the mountain, filled with the purest water, gives a possibility of more superb effects than have been attained anywhere else in the world. the fountain of the winds is one, where a vast mass of water springs into the air from the foot of a great cavernous rock; there is a succession of exquisite cascades called the race-course, filled with graceful statuary; a colossal group of apollo slaying the python, who in his death agony bleeds a torrent of water; the basket of flowers, which throws up a system of forty jets; the great single jet called fame, which leaps one hundred and thirty feet into the air, a niagara reversed; and the crowning glory of the garden, the baths of diana, an immense stage scene in marble and bronze, crowded with nymphs and hunting-parties, wild beasts and birds, and everywhere the wildest luxuriance of spouting waters. we were told that it was one of the royal caprices of a recent tenant of the palace to emulate her chaste prototype of the silver bow by choosing this artistic basin for her ablutions, a sufficient number of civil guards being posted to prevent the approach of castilian actaeons. ford aptly remarks of these extravagant follies: "the yoke of building kings is grievous, and especially when, as st. simon said of louis xiv. and his versailles, 'ii se plut a tyranniser la nature.'" as the bilious philip paused before this mass of sculptured extravagance, he looked at it a moment with evident pleasure. then he thought of the bill, and whined, "thou hast amused me three minutes and hast cost me three millions." to do philip justice, he did not allow the bills to trouble him much. he died owing forty-five million piastres, which his dutiful son refused to pay. when you deal with bourbons, it is well to remember the spanish proverb, "a sparrow in the hand is better than a bustard on the wing." we wasted an hour in walking through the palace. it is, like all palaces, too fine and dreary to describe. miles of drawing-rooms and boudoirs, with an infinity of tapestry and gilt chairs, all the apartments haunted by the demon of ennui. all idea of comfort is sacrificed to costly glitter and flimsy magnificence. some fine paintings were pining in exile on the desolate walls. they looked homesick for the museum, where they could be seen of men. the next morning we drove down the mountain and over the rolling plain to the fine old city of segovia. in point of antiquity and historic interest it is inferior to no town in spain. it has lost its ancient importance as a seat of government and a mart of commerce. its population is now not more than eleven thousand. its manufactures have gone to decay. its woollen works, which once employed fourteen thousand persons and produced annually twenty-five thousand pieces of cloth, now sustain a sickly existence and turn out not more than two hundred pieces yearly. its mint, which once spread over spain a danaean shower of ounces and dollars, is now reduced to the humble office of striking copper cuartos. more than two centuries ago this decline began. boisel, who was there in , speaks of the city as "presque desert et fort pauvre." he mentions as a mark of the general unthrift that the day he arrived there was no bread in town until two o'clock in the afternoon, "and no one was astonished at it." yet even in its poverty and rags it has the air of a town that has seen better days. tradition says it was founded by hercules. it was an important city of the roman empire, and a great capital in the days of the arab monarchy. it was the court of the star-gazing king alonso the wise. through a dozen centuries it was the flower of the mountains of castile. each succeeding age and race beautified and embellished it, and each, departing, left the trace of its passage in the abiding granite of its monuments. the romans left the glorious aqueduct, that work of demigods who scorned to mention it in their histories; its mediaeval bishops bequeathed to later times their ideas of ecclesiastical architecture; and the arabs the science of fortification and the industrial arts. its very ruin and decay makes it only more precious to the traveller. there are here none of the modern and commonplace evidences of life and activity that shock the artistic sense in other towns. all is old, moribund, and picturesque. it lies here in the heart of the guadarramas, lost and forgotten by the civilization of the age, muttering in its senile dream of the glories of an older world. it has not vitality enough to attract a railroad, and so is only reached by a long and tiresome journey by diligence. its solitude is rarely intruded upon by the impertinent curious, and the red back of murray is a rare apparition in its winding streets. yet those who come are richly repaid. one does not quickly forget the impression produced by the first view of the vast aqueduct, as you drive into the town from la granja. it comes upon you in an instant,--the two great ranges of superimposed arches, over one hundred feet high, spanning the ravine-like suburb from the outer hills to the alcazar. you raise your eyes from the market-place, with its dickering crowd, from the old and squalid houses clustered like shot rubbish at the foot of the chasm, to this grand and soaring wonder of utilitarian architecture, with something of a fancy that it was never made, that it has stood there since the morning of the world. it has the lightness and the strength, the absence of ornament and the essential beauty, the vastness and the perfection, of a work of nature. it is one of those gigantic works of trajan, so common in that magnificent age that roman authors do not allude to it. it was built to bring the cool mountain water of the sierra fonfria a distance of nine miles through the hills, the gulches, and the pine forests of valsain, and over the open plain to the thirsty city of segovia. the aqueduct proper runs from the old tower of caseron three thousand feet to the reservoir where the water deposits its sand and sediment, and thence begins the series of one hundred and nineteen arches, which traverse three thousand feet more and pass the valley, the arrabal, and reach the citadel. it is composed of great blocks of granite, so perfectly framed and fitted that not a particle of mortar or cement is employed in the construction. the wonder of the work is not so much in its vastness or its beauty as in its tremendous solidity and duration. a portion of it had been cut away by barbarous armies during the fifteenth century, and in the reign of isabella the catholic the monk-architect of the parral, juan escovedo, the greatest builder of his day in spain, repaired it. these repairs have themselves twice needed repairing since then. marshal ney, when he came to this portion of the monument, exclaimed, "here begins the work of men's hands." the true segovian would hoot at you if you assigned any mortal paternity to the aqueduct. he calls it the devil's bridge, and tells you this story. the evil one was in love with a pretty girl of the upper town, and full of protestations of devotion. the fair segovian listened to him one evening, when her plump arms ached with the work of bringing water from the ravine, and promised eyes of favor if his infernal majesty would build an aqueduct to her door before morning. he worked all night, like the devil, and the maiden, opening her black eyes at sunrise, saw him putting the last stone in the last arch, as the first ray of the sun lighted on his shining tail. the church, we think very unfairly, decided that he had failed, and released the coquettish contractor from her promise; and it is said the devil has never trusted a sego-vian out of his sight again. the bartizaned keep of the moorish alcazar is perched on the western promontory of the city that guards the meeting of the streams eresma and clamores. it has been in the changes of the warring times a palace, a fortress, a prison (where our friend--everybody's friend--gil blas was once confined), and of late years a college of artillery. in one of its rooms alonso the wise studied the heavens more than was good for his orthodoxy, and from one of its windows a lady of the court once dropped a royal baby, of the bad blood of trasta-mara. henry of trastamara will seem more real if we connect him with fiction. he was the son of "la favorita," who will outlast all legitimate princesses, in the deathless music of donizetti. driving through a throng of beggars that encumbered the carriage wheels as grasshoppers sometimes do the locomotives on a western railway, we came to the fine gothic cathedral, built by gil de ontanon, father and son, in the early part of the sixteenth century. it is a delight to the eyes; the rich harmonious color of the stone, the symmetry of proportion, the profuse opulence and grave finish of the details. it was built in that happy era of architecture when a builder of taste and culture had all the past of gothic art at his disposition, and before the degrading influence of the jesuits appeared in the churches of europe. within the cathedral is remarkably airy and graceful in effect. a most judicious use has been made of the exquisite salmon-colored marbles of the country in the great altar and the pavement. we were met by civil ecclesiastics of the foundation and shown the beauties and the wonders of the place. among much that is worthless, there is one very impressive descent from the cross by juan de juni, of which that excellent mr. madoz says "it is worthy to rank with the best masterpieces of raphael or--mengs;" as if one should say of a poet that he was equal to shakespeare or southey. we walked through the cloisters and looked at the tombs. a flood of warm light poured through the graceful arches and lit up the trees in the garden and set the birds to singing, and made these cloisters pleasanter to remember than they usually are. our attendant priest told us, with an earnest credulity that was very touching, the story of maria del salto, mary of the leap, whose history was staring at us from the wall. she was a jewish lady, whose husband had doubts of her discretion, and so threw her from a local tarpeian rock. as she fell she invoked the virgin, and came down easily, sustained, as you see in the picture, by her faith and her petticoats. as we parted from the good fathers and entered our carriages at the door of the church, the swarm of mendicants had become an army. the word had doubtless gone through the city of the outlandish men who had gone into the cathedral with whole coats, and the result was a _levee en masse_ of the needy. every coin that was thrown to them but increased the clamor, as it confirmed them in their idea of the boundless wealth and munificence of the givers. we recalled the profound thought of emerson, "if the rich were only as rich as the poor think them!" at last we drove desperately away through the ragged and screaming throng. we passed by the former home of the jeronomite monks of the parral, which was once called an earthly paradise, and in later years has been a pen for swine; past crumbling convents and ruined churches; past the charming romanesque san millan, girdled with its round-arched cloisters; the granite palace of his reverence the bishop of segovia, and the elegant tower of st. esteban, where the roman is dying and the gothic is dawning; and every step of the route is a study and a joy to the antiquarian. but though enriched by all these legacies of an immemorial past, there seems no hope, no future for segovia. it is as dead as the cities of the plain. its spindles have rusted into silence. its gay company is gone. its streets are too large for the population, and yet they swarm with beggars. i had often heard it compared in outline to a ship,--the sunrise astern and the prow pointing westward,--and as we drove away that day and i looked back to the receding town, it seemed to me like a grand hulk of some richly laden galleon, aground on the rock that holds it, alone, abandoned to its fate among the barren billows of the tumbling ridges, its crew tired out with struggling and apathetic in despair, mocked by the finest air and the clearest sunshine that ever shone, and gazing always forward to the new world and the new times hidden in the rosy sunset, which they shall never see. the city of the visigoths emilio castelar said to me one day, "toledo is the most remarkable city in spain. you will find there three strata of glories,--gothic, arab, and castilian,--and an upper crust of beggars and silence." i went there in the pleasantest time of the year, the first days of june. the early harvest was in progress, and the sunny road ran through golden fields which were enlivened by the reapers gathering in their grain with shining sickles. the borders of the tagus were so cool and fresh that it was hard to believe one was in the arid land of castile. from madrid to aranjuez you meet the usual landscapes of dun hillocks and pale-blue vegetation, such as are only seen in nature in central spain, and only seen in art on the matchless canvas of velazquez. but from the time you cross the tawny flood of the tagus just north of aranjuez, the valley is gladdened by its waters all the way to the primate city. i am glad i am not writing a guide-book, and do not feel any responsibility resting upon me of advising the gentle reader to stop at aranjuez or to go by on the other side. there is a most amiable and praiseworthy class of travellers who feel a certain moral necessity impelling them to visit every royal abode within their reach. they always see precisely the same things,--some thousand of gilt chairs, some faded tapestry and marvellous satin upholstery, a room in porcelain, and a room in imitation of some other room somewhere else, and a picture or two by that worthy and tedious young man, raphael mengs. i knew i would see all these things at aranjuez, and so contented myself with admiring its pretty site, its stone-cornered brick facade, its high-shouldered french roof, and its general air of the place royale, from the outside. the gardens are very pleasant, and lonely enough for the most philosophic stroller. a clever spanish writer says of them, "they are sombre as the thoughts of philip ii., mysterious and gallant as the pleasures of philip iv." to a revolutionary mind, it is a certain pleasure to remember that this was the scene of the _emeute_ that drove charles iv. from his throne, and the prince of peace from his queen's boudoir. ferdinand vii., the turbulent and restless prince of asturias, reaped the immediate profit of his father's abdication; but the two worthless creatures soon called in napoleon to decide the squabble, which he did in his leonine way by taking the crown away from both of them and handing it over for safe-keeping to his lieutenant brother joseph. honor among thieves!--a silly proverb, as one readily sees if he falls into their hands, or reads the history of kings. if toledo had been built, by some caprice of enlightened power, especially for a show city, it could not be finer in effect. in detail, it is one vast museum. in ensemble, it stands majestic on its hills, with its long lines of palaces and convents terraced around the rocky slope, and on the height the soaring steeples of a swarm of churches piercing the blue, and the huge cube of the alcazar crowning the topmost crest, and domineering the scene. the magnificent zigzag road which leads up the steep hillside from the bridge of alcantara gives an indefinable impression, as of the lordly ramp of some fortress of impossible extent. this road is new, and in perfect condition. but do not imagine you can judge the city by the approaches. when your carriage has mounted the hill and passed the evening promenade of the to-ledans, the quaint triangular place,--i had nearly called it square,--"waking laughter in indolent reviewers," the zocodover, you are lost in the dae-dalian windings of the true streets of toledo, where you can touch the walls on either side, and where two carriages could no more pass each other than two locomotives could salute and go by on the same track. this interesting experiment, which is so common in our favored land, could never be tried in toledo, as i believe there is only one turnout in the city, a minute omnibus with striped linen hangings at the sides, driven by a young castilian whose love of money is the root of much discussion when you pay his bill. it is a most remarkable establishment. the horses can cheerfully do their mile in fifteen or twenty minutes, but they make more row about it than a high-pressure mississippi steamer; and the crazy little trap is noisier in proportion to its size than anything i have ever seen, except perhaps an indiana tree-toad. if you make an excursion outside the walls, the omnibus, noise and all, is inevitable; let it come. but inside the city you must walk; the slower the better, for every door is a study. it is hard to conceive that this was once a great capital with a population of two hundred thousand souls. you can easily walk from one end of the city to the other in less than half an hour, and the houses that remain seem comfortably filled by eighteen thousand inhabitants. but in this narrow space once swarmed that enormous and busy multitude. the city was walled about by powerful stone ramparts, which yet stand in all their massy perfection. so there could have been no suburbs. this great aggregation of humanity lived and toiled on the crests and in the wrinkles of the seven hills we see to-day. how important were the industries of the earlier days we can guess from the single fact that john of padilla, when he rose in defence of municipal liberty in the time of charles v., drew in one day from the teeming workshops twenty thousand fighting men. he met the usual fate of all spanish patriots, shameful and cruel death. his palace was razed to the ground. successive governments, in shifting fever-fits of liberalism and absolutism, have set up and pulled down his statue. but his memory is loved and honored, and the example of this noblest of the comuneros impresses powerfully to-day the ardent young minds of the new spain. your first walk is of course to the cathedral, the primate church of the kingdom. besides its ecclesiastical importance, it is well worthy of notice in itself. it is one of the purest specimens of gothic architecture in existence, and is kept in an admirable state of preservation. its situation is not the most favorable. it is approached by a network of descending streets, all narrow and winding, as streets were always built under the intelligent rule of the moors. they preferred to be cool in summer and sheltered in winter, rather than to lay out great deserts of boulevards, the haunts of sunstroke and pneumonia. the site of the cathedral was chosen from strategic reasons by st. eugene, who built there his first episcopal church. the moors made a mosque of it when they conquered castile, and the fastidious piety of st. ferdinand would not permit him to worship in a shrine thus profaned. he tore down the old church and laid, in , the foundations of this magnificent structure, which was two centuries after his death in building. there is, however, great unity of purpose and execution in this cathedral, due doubtless to the fact that the architect perez gave fifty years of his long life to the superintendence of the early work. inside and outside it is marked by a grave and harmonious majesty. the great western facade is enriched with three splendid portals,--the side ones called the doors of hell and judgment; and the central a beautiful ogival arch divided into two smaller ones, and adorned with a lavish profusion of delicately sculptured figures of saints and prophets; on the chaste and severe cornice above, a group of spirited busts represents the last supper. there are five other doors to the temple, of which the door of the lions is the finest, and just beside it a heavy ionic portico in the most detestable taste indicates the feeling and culture that survived in the reign of charles iv. to the north of the west facade rises the massive tower. it is not among the tallest in the world, being three hundred and twenty-four feet high, but is very symmetrical and impressive. in the preservation of its pyramidal purpose it is scarcely inferior to that most consummate work, the tower of st. stephen's in vienna. it is composed of three superimposed structures, gradually diminishing in solidity and massiveness from the square base to the high-springing octagonal spire, garlanded with thorny crowns. it is balanced at the south end of the facade by the pretty cupola and lantern of the mozarabic chapel, the work of the greek theotocopouli. but we soon grow tired of the hot glare of june, and pass in a moment into the cool twilight vastness of the interior, refreshing to body and soul. five fine naves, with eighty-four pillars formed each of sixteen graceful columns,--the entire edifice measuring four hundred feet in length and two hundred feet in breadth,--a grand and shadowy temple grove of marble and granite. at all times the light is of an unearthly softness and purity, toned by the exquisite windows and rosaces. but as evening draws on, you should linger till the sacristan grows peremptory, to watch the gorgeous glow of the western sunlight on the blazing roses of the portals, and the marvellous play of rich shadows and faint gray lights in the eastern chapels, where the grand aisles sweep in their perfect curves around the high altar. a singular effect is here created by the gilded organ pipes thrust out horizontally from the choir. when the powerful choral anthems of the church peal out over the kneeling multitude, it requires little fancy to imagine them the golden trumpets of concealed archangels, who would be quite at home in that incomparable choir. if one should speak of all the noteworthy things you meet in this cathedral, he would find himself in danger of following in the footsteps of mr. parro, who wrote a handbook of toledo, in which seven hundred and forty-five pages are devoted to a hasty sketch of the basilica. for five hundred years enormous wealth and fanatical piety have worked together and in rivalry to beautify this spot. the boundless riches of the church and the boundless superstition of the laity have left their traces here in every generation in forms of magnificence and beauty. each of the chapels--and there are twenty-one of them--is a separate masterpiece in its way. the finest are those of santiago and st. ildefonso,--the former built by the famous constable alvaro de luna as a burial-place for himself and family, and where he and his wife lie in storied marble; and the other commemorating that celebrated visit of the virgin to the bishop, which is the favorite theme of the artists and ecclesiastical gossips of spain. there was probably never a morning call which gave rise to so much talk. it was not the first time the virgin had come to toledo. this was always a favorite excursion of hers. she had come from time to time, escorted by st. peter, st. paul, and st. james. but on the morning in question, which was not long after bishop ildefonso had written his clever treatise, "de virginitate stae mariae," the queen of heaven came down to matin prayers, and, taking the bishop's seat, listened to the sermon with great edification. after service she presented him with a nice new chasuble, as his own was getting rather shabby, made of "cloth of heaven," in token of her appreciation of his spirited pamphlet in her defence. this chasuble still exists in a chest in asturias. if you open the chest, you will not see it; but this only proves the truth of the miracle, for the chroniclers say the sacred vestment is invisible to mortal eyes. but we have another and more palpable proof of the truth of the history. the slab of marble on which the feet of the celestial visitor alighted is still preserved in the cathedral in a tidy chapel built on the very spot where the avatar took place. the slab is enclosed in red jasper and guarded by an iron grating, and above it these words of the psalmist are engraved in the stone, _adorabimus in loco ubi steterunt pedes ejus._ this story is cut in marble and carved in wood and drawn upon brass and painted upon canvas, in a thousand shapes and forms all over spain. you see in the museum at madrid a picture by murillo devoted to this idle fancy of a cunning or dreaming priest. the subject was unworthy of the painter, and the result is what might have been expected,--a picture of trivial and mundane beauty, without the least suggestion of spirituality. but there can be no doubt of the serious, solemn earnestness with which the worthy castilians from that day to this believe the romance. they came up in groups and families, touching their fingers to the sacred slab and kissing them reverentially with muttered prayers. a father would take the first kiss himself, and pass his consecrated finger around among his awe-struck babes, who were too brief to reach to the grating. even the aged verger who showed us the shrine, who was so frail and so old that we thought he might be a ghost escaped from some of the mediaeval tombs in the neighborhood, never passed that pretty white-and-gold chapel without sticking in his thumb and pulling out a blessing. a few feet from this worship-worn stone, a circle drawn on one of the marble flags marks the spot where santa leocadia also appeared to this same favored ildefonso and made her compliments on his pamphlet. was ever author so happy in his subject and his gentle readers? the good bishop evidently thought the story of this second apparition might be considered rather a heavy draught on the credulity of his flock, so he whipped out a convenient knife and cut off a piece of her saint-ship's veil, which clinched the narrative and struck doubters dumb. that great king and crazy relic-hunter, philip ii., saw this rag in his time with profound emotion,--this tiger heart, who could order the murder of a thousand innocent beings without a pang. there is another chapel in this cathedral which preaches forever its silent condemnation of spanish bigotry to deaf ears. this is the mozarabic chapel, sacred to the celebration of the early christian rite of spain. during the three centuries of moorish domination the enlightened and magnanimous conquerors guaranteed to those christians who remained within their lines the free exercise of all their rights, including perfect freedom of worship. so that side by side the mosque and the church worshipped god each in its own way without fear or wrong. but when alonso vi. recaptured the city in the eleventh century, he wished to establish uniformity of worship, and forbade the use of the ancient liturgy in toledo. that which the heathen had respected the catholic outraged. the great cardinal ximenez restored the primitive rite and devoted this charming chapel to its service. how ill a return was made for moorish tolerance we see in the infernal treatment they afterwards received from king and church. they made them choose between conversion and death. they embraced christianity to save their lives. then the priests said, "perhaps this conversion is not genuine! let us send the heathen away out of our sight." one million of the best citizens of spain were thus torn from their homes and landed starving on the wild african coast. and te deums were sung in the churches for this triumph of catholic unity. from that hour spain has never prospered. it seems as if she were lying ever since under the curse of these breaking hearts. passing by a world of artistic beauties which never tire the eyes, but soon would tire the chronicler and reader, stepping over the broad bronze slab in the floor which covers the dust of the haughty primate porto carrero, but which bears neither name nor date, only this inscription of arrogant humility, hic jacet pulvis cinis et nihil, we walk into the verdurous and cheerful gothic cloisters. they occupy the site of the ancient jewish markets, and the zealous prelate tenorio, cousin to the great lady's man don juan, could think of no better way of acquiring the ground than that of stirring up the mob to burn the houses of the heretics. a fresco that adorns the gate explains the means employed, adding insult to the old injury. it is a picture of a beautiful child hanging upon a cross; a fiendish-looking jew, on a ladder beside him, holds in his hand the child's heart, which he has just taken from his bleeding breast; he holds the dripping knife in his teeth. this brutal myth was used for centuries with great effect by the priesthood upon the mob whenever they wanted a jew's money or his blood. even to-day the old poison has not lost its power. this very morning i heard under my window loud and shrill voices. i looked out and saw a group of brown and ragged women, with babies in their arms, discussing the news from madrid. the protestants, they said, had begun to steal catholic children. they talked themselves into a fury. their elf-locks hung about their fierce black eyes. the sinews of their lean necks worked tensely in their voluble rage. had they seen our mild missionary at that moment, whom all men respect and all children instinctively love, they would have torn him in pieces in their maenad fury, and would have thought they were doing their duty as mothers and catholics. this absurd and devilish charge was seriously made in a madrid journal, the organ of the moderates, and caused great fermentation for several days, street rows, and debates in the cortes, before the excitement died away. last summer, in the old murcian town of lorca, an english gentleman, who had been several weeks in the place, was attacked and nearly killed by a mob, who insisted that he was engaged in the business of stealing children, and using their spinal marrow for lubricating telegraph wires! what a picture of blind and savage ignorance is here presented! it reminds us of that sad and pitiful "blood-bath revolt" of paris, where the wretched mob rose against the wretched tyrant louis xv., accusing him of bathing in the blood of children to restore his own wasted and corrupted energies. toledo is a city where you should eschew guides and trust implicitly to chance in your wanderings. you can never be lost; the town is so small that a short walk always brings you to the river or the wall, and there you can take a new departure. if you do not know where you are going, you have every moment the delight of some unforeseen pleasure. there is not a street in toledo that is not rich in treasures of architecture,--hovels that once were marvels of building, balconies of curiously wrought iron, great doors with sculptured posts and lintels, with gracefully finished hinges, and studded with huge nails whose fanciful heads are as large as billiard balls. some of these are still handsome residences, but most have fallen into neglect and abandonment. you may find a beggar installed in the ruined palace of a moorish prince, a cobbler at work in the pleasure-house of a castilian conqueror. the graceful carvings are mutilated and destroyed, the delicate arabesques are smothered and hidden under a triple coat of whitewash. the most beautiful moorish house in the city, the so-called taller del moro, where the grim governor of huesca invited four hundred influential gentlemen of the province to a political dinner, and cut off all their heads as they entered (if we may believe the chronicle, which we do not), is now empty and rapidly going to ruin. the exquisite panelling of the walls, the endlessly varied stucco work that seems to have been wrought by the deft fingers of ingenious fairies, is shockingly broken and marred. gigantic cacti look into the windows from the outer court. a gay pomegranate-tree flings its scarlet blossoms in on the ruined floor. rude little birds have built their nests in the beautiful fretted rafters, and flutter in and out as busy as brokers. but of all the feasting and loving and plotting these lovely walls beheld in that strange age that seems like fable now,--the vivid, intelligent, scientific, tolerant age of the moors,--even the memory has perished utterly and forever. we strolled away aimlessly from this beautiful desolation, and soon came out upon the bright and airy paseo del transito. the afternoon sunshine lay warm on the dull brown suburb, but a breeze blew freshly through the dark river-gorge, and we sat upon the stone benches bordering the bluff and gave ourselves up to the scene. to the right were the ruins of the roman bridge and the moorish mills; to the left the airy arch of san martin's bridge spanned the bounding torrent, and far beyond stretched the vast expanse of the green valley refreshed by the river, and rolling in rank waves of verdure to the blue hills of guadalupe. below us on the slippery rocks that lay at the foot of the sheer cliffs, some luxurious fishermen reclined, idly watching their idle lines. the hills stretched away, ragged and rocky, dotted with solitary towers and villas. a squad of beggars rapidly gathered, attracted by the gracious faces of las senoras. begging seems almost the only regular industry of toledo. besides the serious professionals, who are real artists in studied misery and ingenious deformity, all the children in town occasionally leave their marbles and their leap-frog to turn an honest penny by amateur mendicancy. a chorus of piteous whines went up. but la senora was firm. she checked the ready hands of the juveniles. "children should not be encouraged to pursue this wretched life. we should give only to blind men, because here is a great and evident affliction; and to old women, because they look so lonely about the boots." the exposition was so subtle and logical that it admitted no reply. the old women and the blind men shuffled away with their pennies, and we began to chaff the sturdy and rosy children. a spanish beggar can bear anything but banter. he is a keen physiognomist, and selects his victims with unerring acumen. if you storm or scowl at him, he knows he is making you uncomfortable, and hangs on like a burr. but if you laugh at him, with good humor, he is disarmed. a friend of mine reduced to confusion one of the most unabashed mendicants in castile by replying to his whining petition, politely and with a beaming smile, "no, thank you. i never eat them." the beggar is far from considering his employment a degrading one. it is recognized by the church, and the obligation of this form of charity especially inculcated. the average spaniard regards it as a sort of tax to be as readily satisfied as a toll-fee. he will often stop and give a beggar a cent, and wait for the change in maravedises. one day, at the railway station, a muscular rogue approached me and begged for alms. i offered him my _sac-de-nuit_ to carry a block or two. he drew himself up proudly and said, "i beg your pardon, sir; i am no gallician." an old woman came up with a basket on her arm. "can it be possible in this far country," said la senora, "or are these--yes, they are, deliberate peanuts." with a penny we bought unlimited quantities of this levelling edible, and with them the devoted adherence of the aged merchant. she immediately took charge of our education. we must see santa maria la blanca,--it was a beautiful thing; so was the transito. did we see those men and women grubbing in the hillside? they were digging bones to sell at the station. where did the bones come from? quien sabe? those dust-heaps have been there since king wamba. come, we must go and see the churches of mary before it grew dark. and the zealous old creature marched away with us to the synagogue built by samuel ben levi, treasurer to that crowned panther, peter the cruel. this able financier built this fine temple to the god of his fathers out of his own purse. he was murdered for his money by his ungrateful lord, and his synagogue stolen by the church. it now belongs to the order of cala-trava. but the other and older synagogue, now called santa maria la blanca, is much more interesting. it stands in the same quarter, the suburb formerly occupied by the industrious and thriving hebrews of the middle ages until the stupid zeal of the catholic kings drove them out of spain. the synagogue was built in the ninth century under the enlightened domination of the moors. at the slaughter of the jews in it became a church. it has passed through varying fortunes since then, having been hospital, hermitage, stable, and warehouse; but it is now under the care of the provincial committee of art, and is somewhat decently restored. its architecture is altogether moorish. it has three aisles with thick octagonal columns supporting heavy horseshoe arches. the spandrels are curiously adorned with rich circular stucco figures. the soil you tread is sacred, for it was brought from zion long before the crusades; the cedar rafters above you preserve the memory and the odors of lebanon. a little farther west, on a fine hill overlooking the river, in the midst of the ruined palaces of the early kings, stands the beautiful votive church of san juan de los reyes. it was built by ferdinand and isabella, before the columbus days, to commemorate a victory over their neighbors the portuguese. during a prolonged absence of the king, the pious queen, wishing to prepare him a pleasant surprise, instead of embroidering a pair of impracticable slippers as a faithful young wife would do nowadays, finished this exquisite church by setting at work upon it some regiments of stone-cutters and builders. it is not difficult to imagine the beauty of the structure that greeted the king on his welcome home. for even now, after the storms of four centuries have beaten upon it, and the malignant hands of invading armies have used their utmost malice against it, it is still a won-drously perfect work of the gothic inspiration. we sat on the terrace benches to enjoy the light and graceful lines of the building, the delicately ornate door, the unique drapery of iron chains which the freed christians hung here when delivered from the hands of the moors. a lovely child, with pensive blue eyes fringed with long lashes, and the slow sweet smile of a madonna, sat near us and sang to a soft, monotonous air a war-song of the carlists. her beauty soon attracted the artistic eyes of la senora, and we learned she was named francisca, and her baby brother, whose flaxen head lay heavily on her shoulder, was called jesus mary. she asked, would we like to go into the church? she knew the sacristan and would go for him. she ran away like a fawn, the tow head of little jesus tumbling dangerously about. she reappeared in a moment; she had disposed of mi nino, as she called it, and had found the sacristan. this personage was rather disappointing. a sacristan should be aged and mouldy, clothed in black of a decent shabbiness. this was a toledan swell in a velvet shooting-jacket, and yellow peg-top trousers. however, he had the wit to confine himself to turning keys, and so we gradually recovered from the shock of the shooting-jacket. the church forms one great nave, divided into four vaults enriched with wonderful stone lace-work. a superb frieze surrounds the entire nave, bearing in great gothic letters an inscription narrating the foundation of the church. everywhere the arms of castile and arragon, and the wedded ciphers of the catholic kings. statues of heralds start unexpectedly out from the face of the pillars. fine as the church is, we cannot linger here long. the glory of san juan is its cloisters. it may challenge the world to show anything so fine in the latest bloom and last development of gothic art. one of the galleries is in ruins,--a sad witness of the brutality of armies. but the three others are enough to show how much of beauty was possible in that final age of pure gothic building. the arches bear a double garland of leaves, of flowers, and of fruits, and among them are ramping and writhing and playing every figure of bird or beast or monster that man has seen or poet imagined. there are no two arches alike, and yet a most beautiful harmony pervades them all. in some the leaves are in profile, in others delicately spread upon the graceful columns and every vein displayed. i saw one window where a stone monkey sat reading his prayers, gowned and cowled,--an odd caprice of the tired sculptor. there is in this infinite variety of detail a delight that ends in something like fatigue. you cannot help feeling that this was naturally and logically the end of gothic art. it had run its course. there was nothing left but this feverish quest of variety. it was in danger, after having gained such divine heights of invention, of degenerating into prettinesses and affectation. but how marvellously fine it was at last! one must see it, as in these unequalled cloisters, half ruined, silent, and deserted, bearing with something of conscious dignity the blows of time and the ruder wrongs of men, to appreciate fully its proud superiority to all the accidents of changing taste and modified culture. it is only the truest art that can bear that test. the fanes of paestum will always be more beautiful even than the magical shore on which they stand. the parthenon, fixed like a battered coronet on the brow of the acropolis, will always be the loveliest sight that greece can offer to those who come sailing in from the blue aegean. it is scarcely possible to imagine a condition of thought or feeling in which these master-works shall seem quaint or old-fashioned. they appeal, now and always, with that calm power of perfection, to the heart and eyes of every man born of woman. the cloisters enclose a little garden just enough neglected to allow the lush dark ivy, the passionflowers, and the spreading oleanders to do their best in beautifying the place, as men have done their worst in marring it. the clambering vines seem trying to hide the scars of their hardly less perfect copies. every arch is adorned with a soft and delicious drapery of leaves and tendrils; the fair and outraged child of art is cherished and caressed by the gracious and bountiful hands of mother nature. as we came away, little francisca plucked one of the five-pointed leaves of the passion-flowers and gave it to la senora, saying reverentially, "this is the hand of our blessed lord!" the sun was throned, red as a bacchanal king, upon the purple hills, as we descended the rocky declivity and crossed the bridge of st. martin. our little toledan maid came with us, talking and singing incessantly, like a sweet-voiced starling. we rested on the farther side and looked back at the towering city, glorious in the sunset, its spires aflame, its long lines of palace and convent clear in the level rays, its ruins softened in the gathering shadows, the lofty bridge hanging transfigured over the glowing river. before us the crumbling walls and turrets of the gothic kings ran down from the bluff to the water-side, its terrace overlooking the baths where, for his woe, don roderick saw count julian's daughter under the same inflammatory circumstances as those in which, from a judaean housetop, don david beheld captain uriah's wife. there is a great deal of human nature abroad in the world in all ages. little francisca kept on chattering. "that is st. martin's bridge. a girl jumped into the water last year. she was not a lady. she was in service. she was tired of living because she was in love. they found her three weeks afterwards; but, santisima maria! she was good for nothing then." our little maid was too young to have sympathy for kings or servant girls who die for love. she was a pretty picture as she sat there, her blue eyes and madonna face turned to the rosy west, singing in her sweet child's voice her fierce little song of sedition and war:-- "arriba los valientes! abajo tirania! pronto llegara el dia de la restauracion. carlistas a caballo! soldados en campana! viva el rey de espana, don carlos de borbon!" i cannot enumerate the churches of toledo,--you find them in every street and by-way. in the palmy days of the absolute theocracy this narrow space contained more than a hundred churches and chapels. the province was gnawed by the cancer of sixteen monasteries of monks and twice as many convents of nuns, all crowded within these city walls. fully one half the ground of the city was covered by religious buildings and mortmain property. in that age, when money meant ten times what it signifies now, the rent-roll of the church in toledo was forty millions of reals. there are even yet portions of the town where you find nothing but churches and convents. the grass grows green in the silent streets. you hear nothing but the chime of bells and the faint echoes of masses. you see on every side bolted doors and barred windows, and, gliding over the mossy pavements, the stealthy-stepping, long-robed priests. i will only mention two more churches, and both of these converts from heathendom; both of them dedicated to san cristo, for in the democracy of the calendar the saviour is merely a saint, and reduced to the level of the rest. one is the old pretorian temple of the romans, which was converted by king sizebuto into a christian church in the seventh century. it is a curious structure in brick and mortar, with an apsis and an odd arrangement of round arches sunken in the outer wall and still deeper pointed ones. it is famed as the resting-place of saints ildefonso and leocadia, whom we have met before. the statue of the latter stands over the door graceful and pensive enough for a heathen muse. the little cloisters leading to the church are burial vaults. on one side lie the canonical dead and on the other the laity, with bright marble tablets and gilt inscriptions. in the court outside i noticed a flat stone marked _ossuarium._ the sacristan told me this covered the pit where the nameless dead reposed, and when the genteel people in the gilt marble vaults neglected to pay their annual rent, they were taken out and tumbled in to moulder with the common clay. this san cristo de la vega, st. christ of the plain, stands on the wide flat below the town, where you find the greater portion of the roman remains. heaps of crumbling composite stretched in an oval form over the meadow mark the site of the great circus. green turf and fields of waving grain occupy the ground where once a latin city stood. the romans built on the plain. the goths, following their instinct of isolation, fixed their dwelling on the steep and rugged rock. the rapid tagus girdling the city like a horseshoe left only the declivity to the west to be defended, and the ruins of king wamba's wall show with what jealous care that work was done. but the moors, after they captured the city, apparently did little for its defence. a great suburb grew up in the course of ages outside the wall, and when the christians recaptured toledo in , the first care of alonso vi. was to build another wall, this time nearer the foot of the hill, taking inside all the accretion of these years. from that day to this that wall has held toledo. the city has never reached, perhaps will never reach, the base of the steep rock on which it stands. when king alonso stormed the city, his first thought, in the busy half hour that follows victory, was to find some convenient place to say his prayers. chance led him to a beautiful little moorish mosque or oratory near the superb puerta del sol. he entered, gave thanks, and hung up his shield as a votive offering. this is the church of san cristo de la luz. the shield of alonso hangs there defying time for eight centuries,--a golden cross on a red field,--and the exquisite oratory, not much larger than a child's toy-house, is to-day one of the most charming specimens of moorish art in spain. four square pillars support the roof, which is divided into five equal "half-orange" domes, each different from the others and each equally fascinating in its unexpected simplicity and grace. you cannot avoid a feeling of personal kindliness and respect for the refined and genial spirit who left this elegant legacy to an alien race and a hostile creed. the military college of santa cruz is one of the most precious specimens extant of those somewhat confused but beautiful results of the transition from florid gothic to the renaissance. the plateresque is young and modest, and seeks to please in this splendid monument by allying the innovating forms with the traditions of a school outgrown. there is an exquisite and touching reminiscence of the gothic in the superb portal and the matchless group of the invention of the cross. all this fine facade is by that true and genuine artist, enrique de egas, the same who carved the grand gate of the lions, for which may the gate of paradise be open to him. the inner court is surrounded by two stories of airy arcades, supported by slim corinthian columns. in one corner is the most elaborate staircase in spain. all the elegance and fancy of arab and renaissance art have been lavished upon this masterly work. santa cruz was built for a hospital by that haughty cardinal mendoza, the tertius rex of ferdinand and isabella. it is now occupied by the military school, which receives six hundred cadets. they are under the charge of an inspector-general and a numerous staff of professors. they pay forty cents a day for their board. the instruction is gratuitous and comprehends a curriculum almost identical with that of west point. it occupies, however, only three years. the most considerable renaissance structure in toledo is the royal alcazar. it covers with its vast bulk the highest hilltop in the city. from the earliest antiquity this spot has been occupied by a royal palace or fortress. but the present structure was built by charles v. and completed by herrera for philip ii. its north and south facades are very fine. the alcazar seems to have been marked by fate. the portuguese burned it in the last century, and charles iii. restored it just in time for the french to destroy it anew. its indestructible walls alone remain. now, after many years of ruinous neglect, the government has begun the work of restoration. the vast quadrangle is one mass of scaffolding and plaster dust. the grand staircase is almost finished again. in the course of a few years we may expect to see the alcazar in a state worthy of its name and history. we would hope it might never again shelter a king. they have had their day there. their line goes back so far into the mists of time that its beginning eludes our utmost search. the roman drove out the unnamed chiefs of iberia. the fair-haired goth dispossessed the italian. the berber destroyed the gothic monarchy. castile and leon fought their way down inch by inch through three centuries from covadonga to toledo, halfway in time and territory to granada and the midland sea. and since then how many royal feet have trodden this breezy crest,--sanchos and henrys and ferdinands,--the line broken now and then by a usurping uncle or a fratricide brother,--a red-handed bastard of trastamara, a star-gazing alonso, a plotting and praying charles, and, after philip, the dwindling scions of austria and the nullities of bourbon. this height has known as well the rustle of the trailing robes of queens,--berenguela, isabel the catholic, and juana,--crazy jane. it was the prison of the widow of philip iv. and mother of charles ii. what wonder if her life left much to be desired? with such a husband and such a son, she had no memories nor hopes. the kings have had a long day here. they did some good in their time. but the world has outgrown them, and the people, here as elsewhere, is coming of age. this alcazar is built more strongly than any dynasty. it will make a glorious school-house when the repairs are finished and the republic is established, and then may both last forever! one morning at sunrise, i crossed the ancient bridge of alcantara, and climbed the steep hill east of the river to the ruined castle of san cervantes, perched on a high, bold rock, which guards the river and overlooks the valley. near as it is to the city, it stands entirely alone. the instinct of aggregation is so powerful in this people that the old towns have no environs, no houses sprinkled in the outlying country, like modern cities. every one must be huddled inside the walls. if a solitary house, like this castle, is built without, it must be in itself an impregnable fortress. this fine old ruin, in obedience to this instinct of jealous distrust, has but one entrance, and that so narrow that sir john falstaff would have been embarrassed to accept its hospitalities. in the shade of the broken walls, grass-grown and gay with scattered poppies, i looked at toledo, fresh and clear in the early day. on the extreme right lay the new spick-and-span bull-ring, then the great hospice and chapel of st. john the baptist, the convent of the immaculate conception, and next, the latin cross of the chapel of santa cruz, whose beautiful fagade lay soft in shadow; the huge arrogant bulk of the alcazar loomed squarely before me, hiding half the view; to the left glittered the slender spire of the cathedral, holding up in the pure air that emblem of august resignation, the triple crown of thorns; then a crowd of cupolas, ending at last near the river-banks with the sharp angular mass of san cristobal. the field of vision was filled with churches and chapels, with the palaces of the king and the monk. behind me the waste lands went rolling away untilled to the brown toledo mountains. below, the vigorous current of the tagus brawled over its rocky bed, and the distant valley showed in its deep rich green what vitality there was in those waters if they were only used. a quiet, as of a plague-stricken city, lay on toledo. a few mules wound up the splendid roads with baskets of vegetables. a few listless fishermen were preparing their lines. the chimes of sleepy bells floated softly out on the morning air. they seemed like the requiem of municipal life and activity slain centuries ago by the crozier and the crown. thank heaven, that double despotism is wounded to death. as chesterfield predicted, before the first muttering of the thunders of ' , "the trades of king and priest have lost half their value." with the decay of this unrighteous power, the false, unwholesome activity it fostered has also disappeared. there must be years of toil and leanness, years perhaps of struggle and misery, before the new genuine life of the people springs up from beneath the dead and withered rubbish of temporal and spiritual tyranny. freedom is an angel whose blessing is gained by wrestling. the escorial the only battle in which philip ii. was ever engaged was that of st. quentin, and the only part he took in that memorable fight was to listen to the thunder of the captains and the shouting afar off, and pray with great unction and fervor to various saints of his acquaintance and particularly to st. lawrence of the gridiron, who, being the celestial officer of the day, was supposed to have unlimited authority, and to whom he was therefore profuse in vows. while egmont and his stout flemings were capturing the constable montmorency and cutting his army in pieces, this young and chivalrous monarch was beating his breast and pattering his panic-stricken prayers. as soon as the victory was won, however, he lost his nervousness, and divided the entire credit of it between himself and his saints. he had his picture painted in full armor, as he appeared that day, and sent it to his doting spouse, bloody mary of england. he even thought he had gained glory enough, and while his father, the emperor-monk, was fiercely asking the messenger who brought the news of victory to yuste, "is my son at paris?" the prudent philip was making a treaty of peace, by which his son don carlos was to marry the princess elizabeth of france. but mary obligingly died at this moment, and the stricken widower thought he needed consolation more than his boy, and so married the pretty princess himself. he always prided himself greatly on the battle of st. quentin, and probably soon came to believe he had done yeoman service there. the childlike credulity of the people is a great temptation to kings. it is very likely that after the coup-d'etat of december, the trembling puppet who had sat shivering over his fire in the palace of the elysee while morny and fleury and st. arnaud and the rest of the cool gamblers were playing their last desperate stake on that fatal night, really persuaded himself that the work was his, and that _he_ had saved society. that the fly should imagine he is moving the coach is natural enough; but that the horses, and the wooden lumbering machine, and the passengers should take it for granted that the light gilded insect is carrying them all,--there is the true miracle. we must confess to a special fancy for philip ii. he was so true a king, so vain, so superstitious, so mean and cruel, it is probable so great a king never lived. nothing could be more royal than the way he distributed his gratitude for the victory on st. lawrence's day. to count egmont, whose splendid courage and loyalty gained him the battle, he gave ignominy and death on the scaffold; and to exhibit a gratitude to a myth which he was too mean to feel to a man, he built to san lorenzo that stupendous mass of granite which is to-day the visible demonstration of the might and the weakness of philip and his age. he called it the monastery of san lorenzo el real, but the nomenclature of the great has no authority with the people. it was built on a site once covered with cinder-heaps from a long abandoned iron-mine, and so it was called in common speech the escorial. the royal seat of san ildefonso can gain from the general public no higher name than la granja, the farm. the great palace of catharine de medici, the home of three dynasties, is simply the tuileries, the tile-fields. you cannot make people call the white house the executive mansion. a merchant named pitti built a palace in florence, and though kings and grand dukes have inhabited it since, it is still the pitti. there is nothing so democratic as language. you may alter a name by trick when force is unavailing. a noble lord in segovia, following the custom of the good old times, once murdered a jew, and stole his house. it was a pretty residence, but the skeleton in his closet was that the stupid commons would not call it anything but "the jew's house." he killed a few of them for it, but that did not serve. at last, by advice of his confessor, he had the facade ornamented with projecting knobs of stucco, and the work was done. it is called to this day "the knobby house." the conscience of philip did not permit a long delay in the accomplishment of his vow. charles v. had charged him in his will to build a mausoleum for the kings of the austrian race. he bound the two obligations in one, and added a third destination to the enormous pile he contemplated. it should be a palace as well as a monastery and a royal charnel-house. he chose the most appropriate spot in spain for the erection of the most cheerless monument in existence. he had fixed his capital at madrid because it was the dreariest town in spain, and to envelop himself in a still profounder desolation, he built the escorial out of sight of the city, on a bleak, bare hillside, swept by the glacial gales of the guadarrama, parched by the vertical suns of summer, and cursed at all seasons with the curse of barrenness. before it towers the great chain of mountains separating old and new castile. behind it the chilled winds sweep down to the madrid plateau, over rocky hillocks and involved ravines,--a scene in which probably no man ever took pleasure except the royal recluse who chose it for his home. john baptist of toledo laid the corner-stone on an april day of , and in the autumn of john of herrera looked upon the finished work, so vast and so gloomy that it lay like an incubus upon the breast of earth. it is a parallelogram measuring from north to south seven hundred and forty-four feet, and five hundred and eighty feet from east to west. it is built, by order of the fantastic bigot, in the form of st. lawrence's gridiron, the courts representing the interstices of the bars, and the towers at the corners sticking helpless in the air like the legs of the supine implement. it is composed of a clean gray granite, chiefly in the doric order, with a severity of facade that degenerates into poverty, and defrauds the building of the effect its great bulk merits. the sheer monotonous walls are pierced with eleven thousand windows, which, though really large enough for the rooms, seem on that stupendous surface to shrink into musketry loopholes. in the centre of the parallelogram stands the great church, surmounted by its soaring dome. all around the principal building is stretched a circumscribing line of convents, in the same style of doleful yellowish-gray uniformity, so endless in extent that the inmates might easily despair of any world beyond them. there are few scenes in the world so depressing as that which greets you as you enter into the wide court before the church, called el templo. you are shut finally in by these iron-gray walls. the outside day has given you up. your feet slip on the damp flags. an unhealthy fungus tinges the humid corners with a pallid green. you look in vain for any trace of human sympathy in those blank walls and that severe facade. there is a dismal attempt in that direction in the gilded garments and the painted faces of the colossal prophets and kings that are perched above the lofty doors. but they do not comfort you; they are tinselled stones, not statues. entering the vestibule of the church, and looking up, you observe with a sort of horror that the ceiling is of massive granite and flat. the sacristan has a story that when philip saw this ceiling, which forms the floor of the high choir, he remonstrated against it as too audacious, and insisted on a strong pillar being built to support it. the architect complied, but when philip came to see the improvement he burst into lamentation, as the enormous column destroyed the effect of the great altar. the canny architect, who had built the pillar of pasteboard, removed it with a touch, and his majesty was comforted. walking forward to the edge of this shadowy vestibule, you recognize the skill and taste which presided at this unique and intelligent arrangement of the choir. if left, as usual, in the body of the church, it would have seriously impaired that solemn and simple grandeur which distinguishes this above all other temples. there is nothing to break the effect of the three great naves, divided by immense square-clustered columns, and surmounted by the vast dome that rises with all the easy majesty of a mountain more than three hundred feet from the decent black and white pavement. i know of nothing so simple and so imposing as this royal chapel, built purely for the glory of god and with no thought of mercy or consolation for human infirmity. the frescos of luca giordano show the attempt of a later and degenerate age to enliven with form and color the sombre dignity of this faultless pile. but there is something in the blue and vapory pictures which shows that even the unabashed luca was not free from the impressive influence of the escorial. a flight of veined marble steps leads to the beautiful retable of the high altar. the screen, over ninety feet high, cost the milanese trezzo seven years of labor. the pictures illustrative of the life of our lord are by tibaldi and zuccaro. the gilt bronze tabernacle of trezzo and herrera, which has been likened with the doors of the baptistery of florence as worthy to figure in the architecture of heaven, no longer exists. it furnished a half hour's amusement to the soldiers of france. on either side of the high altar are the oratories of the royal family, and above them are the kneeling effigies of charles, with his wife, daughter, and sisters, and philip with his successive harem of wives. one of the few luxuries this fierce bigot allowed himself was that of a new widowhood every few years. there are forty other altars with pictures good and bad. the best are by the wonderful deaf-mute, navarrete, of logrono, and by sanchez coello, the favorite of philip. to the right of the high altar in the transept you will find, if your tastes, unlike miss riderhood's, run in a bony direction, the most remarkable reliquary in the world. with the exception perhaps of cuvier, philip could see more in a bone than any man who ever lived. in his long life of osseous enthusiasm he collected seven thousand four hundred and twenty-one genuine relics,--whole skeletons, odd shins, teeth, toe-nails, and skulls of martyrs,--sometimes by a miracle of special grace getting duplicate skeletons of the same saint. the prime jewels of this royal collection are the grilled bones of san lorenzo himself, bearing dim traces of his sacred gridiron. the sacristan will show you also the retable of the miraculous wafer, which bled when trampled on by protestant heels at gorcum in . this has always been one of the chief treasures of the spanish crown. the devil-haunted idiot charles ii. made a sort of idol of it, building it this superb altar, consecrated "in this miracle of earth to the miracle of heaven." when the atheist frenchmen sacked the escorial and stripped it of silver and gold, the pious monks thought most of hiding this wonderful wafer, and when the storm passed by, the booby ferdinand vii. restored it with much burning of candles, swinging of censers, and chiming of bells. worthless as it is, it has done one good work in the world. it inspired the altar-picture of claudio coello, the last best work of the last of the great school of spanish painters. he finished it just before he died of shame and grief at seeing giordano, the nimble neapolitan, emptying his buckets of paint on the ceiling of the grand staircase, where st. lawrence and an army of martyrs go sailing with a fair wind into glory. the great days of art in the escorial are gone. once in every nook and corner it concealed treasures of beauty that the world had nearly forgotten. the perla of raphael hung in the dark sacristy. the cena of titian dropped to pieces in the refectory. the gloria, which had sunk into eclipse on the death of charles v., was hidden here among unappreciative monks. but on the secularization of the monasteries, these superb canvases went to swell the riches of the royal museum. there are still enough left here, however, to vindicate the ancient fame of the collection. they are perhaps more impressive in their beauty and loneliness than if they were pranking among their kin in the glorious galleries and perfect light of that enchanted palace of charles iii. the inexhaustible old man of cadora has the prayer on mount olivet, an ecce homo, an adoration of the magi. velazquez one of his rare scriptural pieces, jacob and his children. tintoretto is rather injured at the museo by the number and importance of his pictures left in this monkish twilight; among them is a lovely esther, and a masterly presentation of christ to the people. plenty of giordanos and bassanos and one or two by el greco, with his weird plague-stricken faces, all chalk and charcoal. a sense of duty will take you into the crypt where the dead kings are sleeping in brass. this mausoleum, ordered by the great charles, was slow in finishing. all of his line had a hand in it down to philip iv., who completed it and gathered in the poor relics of royal mortality from many graves. the key of the vault is the stone where the priest stands when he elevates the host in the temple above. the vault is a graceful octagon about forty feet high, with nearly the same diameter; the flickering light of your torches shows twenty-six sarcophagi, some occupied and some empty, filling the niches of the polished marble. on the right sleep the sovereigns, on the left their consorts. there is a coffin for dona isabel de bourbon among the kings, and one for her amiable and lady-like husband among the queens. they were not lovely in their lives, and in their deaths they shall be divided. the quaint old church-mouse who showed me the crypt called my attention to the coffin where maria louisa, wife of charles iv.,--the lady who so gallantly bestrides her war-horse, in the uniform of a colonel, in goya's picture,--coming down those slippery steps with the sure footing of feverish insanity, during a severe illness, scratched _luisa_ with the point of her scissors and marked the sarcophagus for her own. all there was good of her is interred with her bones. her frailties live on in scandalized history. twice, it is said, the coffin of the emperor has been opened by curious hands,--by philip iv., who found the corpse of his great ancestor intact, and observed to the courtier at his elbow, "an honest body, don luis!" and again by the ministers of state and fomento in the spring of , who started back aghast when the coffin-lid was lifted and disclosed the grim face of the burgess of ghent, just as titian painted him,--the keen, bold face of a world-stealer. i do not know if philip's funeral urn was ever opened. he stayed above ground too long as it was, and it is probable that people have never cared to look upon his face again. all that was human had died out of him years before his actual demise, and death seemed not to consider it worth while to carry off a vampire. go into the little apartment where his last days were passed; a wooden table and book-shelf, one arm-chair and two stools--the one upholstered with cloth for winter, the other with tin for summer--on which he rested his gouty leg, and a low chair for a secretary,--this was all the furniture he used. the rooms are not larger than cupboards, low and dark. the little oratory where he died looks out upon the high altar of the temple. in a living death, as if by an awful anticipation of the common lot it was ordained that in the flesh he should know corruption, he lay waiting his summons hourly for fifty-three days. what tremendous doubts and fears must have assailed him in that endless agony! he had done more for the church than any living man. he was the author of that sublime utterance of uncalculating bigotry, "better not reign than reign over heretics." he had pursued error with fire and sword. he had peopled limbo with myriads of rash thinkers. he had impoverished his kingdom in catholic wars. yet all this had not sufficed. he lay there like a leper smitten by the hand of the god he had so zealously served. even in his mind there was no peace. he held in his clenched hand his father's crucifix, which charles had held in his exultant death at yuste. yet in his waking hours he was never free from the horrible suggestion that he had not done enough for salvation. he would start in horror from a sleep that was peopled with shapes from torment. humanity was avenged at last. so powerful is the influence of a great personality that in the escorial you can think of no one but philip ii. he lived here only fourteen years, but every corridor and cloister seems to preserve the souvenir of his sombre and imperious genius. for two and a half centuries his feeble successors have trod these granite halls; but they flit through your mind pale and unsubstantial as dreams. the only tradition they preserved of their great descent was their magnificence and their bigotry. there has never been one utterance of liberty or free thought inspired by this haunted ground. the king has always been absolute here, and the monk has been the conscience-keeper of the king. the whole life of the escorial has been unwholesomely pervaded by a flavor of holy water and burial vaults. there was enough of the repressive influence of that savage spanish piety to spoil the freshness and vigor of a natural life, but not enough to lead the court and the courtiers to a moral walk and conversation. it was as profligate a court in reality, with all its masses and monks, as the gay and atheist circle of the regent of orleans. even philip, the inquisitor king, did not confine his royal favor to his series of wives. a more reckless and profligate young prodigal than don carlos, the hope of spain and rome, it would be hard to find to-day at mabille or cremorne. but he was a deeply religious lad for all that, and asked absolution from his confessors before attempting to put in practice his intention of killing his father. philip, forewarned, shut him up until he died, in an edifying frame of mind, and then calmly superintended the funeral arrangements from a window of the palace. the same mingling of vice and superstition is seen in the lessening line down to our day. the last true king of the old school was philip iv. amid the ruins of his tumbling kingdom he lived royally here among his priests and his painters and his ladies. there was one jealous exigency of spanish etiquette that made his favor fatal. the object of his adoration, when his errant fancy strayed to another, must go into a convent and nevermore be seen of lesser men. madame daunoy, who lodged at court, heard one night an august footstep in the hall and a kingly rap on the bolted door of a lady of honor. but we are happy to say she heard also the spirited reply from within, "may your grace go with god! i do not wish to be a nun!" there is little in these frivolous lives that is worth knowing,--the long inglorious reigns of the dwindling austrians and the parody of greater days played by the scions of bourbon, relieved for a few creditable years by the heroic struggle of charles iii. against the hopeless decadence. you may walk for an hour through the dismal line of drawing-rooms in the cheerless palace that forms the gridiron's handle, and not a spirit is evoked from memory among all the tapestry and panelling and gilding. the only cheerful room in this granite wilderness is the library, still in good and careful keeping. a long, beautiful room, two hundred feet of bookcases, and tasteful frescos by tibaldi and carducho, representing the march of the liberal sciences. most of the older folios are bound in vellum, with their gilded edges, on which the title is stamped, turned to the front. a precious collection of old books and older manuscripts, useless to the world as the hoard of a miser. along the wall are hung the portraits of the escorial kings and builders. the hall is furnished with marble and porphyry tables, and elaborate glass cases display some of the curiosities of the library,--a copy of the gospels that belonged to the emperor conrad, the suabian kurz; a richly illuminated apocalypse; a gorgeous missal of charles v.; a greek bible, which once belonged to mrs. phoebus's ancestor cantacuzene; persian and chinese sacred books; and a koran, which is said to be the one captured by don juan at lepanto. mr. ford says it is spurious; mr. madoz says it is genuine. the ladies with whom i had the happiness to visit the library inclined to the latter opinion for two very good reasons,--the book is a very pretty one, and mr. madoz's head is much balder than mr. ford's. wandering aimlessly through the frescoed cloisters and looking in at all the open doors, over each of which a cunning little gridiron is inlaid in the woodwork, we heard the startling and unexpected sound of boyish voices and laughter. we approached the scene of such agreeable tumult, and found the theatre of the monastery full of young students rehearsing a play for the coming holidays. a clever-looking priest was directing the drama, and one juvenile thespis was denouncing tyrants and dying for his country in hexameters of a shrill treble. his friends were applauding more than was necessary or kind, and flourishing their wooden swords with much ferocity of action. all that is left of the once extensive establishment of the monastery is a boys' school, where some two hundred youths are trained in the humanities, and a college where an almost equal number are educated for the priesthood. so depressing is the effect of the escorial's gloom and its memories, that when you issue at last from its massive doors, the trim and terraced gardens seem gay and heartsome, and the bleak wild scene is full of comfort. for here at least there is light and air and boundless space. you have emerged from the twilight of the past into the present day. the sky above you bends over paris and cheyenne. by this light darwin is writing, and the merchants are meeting in the chicago board of trade. just below you winds the railway which will take you in two hours to madrid,--to the city of philip ii., where the nineteenth century has arrived; where there are five protestant churches and fifteen hundred evangelical communicants. our young crusader, professor knapp, holds night schools and day schools and prayer meetings, with an active devotion, a practical and american fervor, that is leavening a great lump of apathy and death. these anglo-saxon missionaries have a larger and more tolerant spirit of propaganda than has been hitherto seen. they can differ about the best shape for the cup and the platter, but they use what they find to their hand. they are giving a tangible direction and purpose to the vague impulse of reform that was stirring, before they came, in many devout hearts. a little while longer of this state of freedom and inquiry, and the shock of controversy will come, and spain will be brought to life. already the signs are full of promise. the ancient barriers of superstition have already given way in many places. a protestant can not only live in spain, but, what was once a more important matter, he can die and be buried there. this is one of the conquests of the revolution. so delicate has been the susceptibility of the spanish mind in regard to the pollution of its soil by heretic corpses that even charles i. of england, when he came a-wooing to spain, could hardly gain permission to bury his page by night in the garden of the embassy; and in later days the prussian minister was compelled to smuggle his dead child out of the kingdom among his luggage to give it christian burial. even since the days of september the clergy has fought manfully against giving sepulture to protestants; but rivero, alcalde of madrid and president of the cortes, was not inclined to waste time in dialectics, and sent a police force to protect the heretic funerals and to arrest any priest who disturbed them. there is freedom of speech and printing. the humorous journals are full of blasphemous caricatures that would be impossible out of a catholic country, for superstition and blasphemy always run in couples. it was the duke de guise, commanding the pope's army at civitella, who cried in his rage at a rain which favored alva, "god has turned spaniard;" like quashee, who burns his fetish when the weather is foul. the liberal spanish papers overflowed with wit at the proclamation of infallibility. they announced that his holiness was now going into the lottery business with brilliant prospects of success; that he could now tell what father manterola had done with the thirty thousand dollars' worth of bulls he sold last year and punctually neglects to account for, and other levities of the sort, which seemed greatly relished, and which would have burned the facetious author two centuries before, and fined and imprisoned him before the fight at alcolea. the minister having charge of the public instruction has promised to present a law for the prohibition of dogmatic doctrine in the national schools. the law of civil registry and civil marriage, after a desperate struggle in the cortes, has gone into operation with general assent. there is a large party which actively favors the entire separation of the spiritual from the temporal power, making religion voluntary, and free, and breaking its long concubinage with the crown. the old superstition, it is true, still hangs like a malarial fog over spain. but it is invaded by flashes and rays of progress. it cannot resist much longer the sunshine of this tolerant age. far up the mountain-side, in the shade of a cluster of chestnuts, is a rude block of stone, called the "king's chair," where philip used to sit in silent revery, watching as from an eyry the progress of the enormous work below. if you go there, you will see the same scene upon which his basilisk glance reposed,--in a changed world, the same unchanging scene,--the stricken waste, the shaggy horror of the mountains, the fixed plain wrinkled like a frozen sea, and in the centre of the perfect picture the vast chill bulk of that granite pile, rising cold, colorless, and stupendous, as if carved from an iceberg by the hand of northern gnomes. it is the palace of vanished royalty, the temple of a religion which is dead. there are kings and priests still, and will be for many coming years. but never again can a power exist which shall rear to the glory of the sceptre and the cowl a monument like this. it is a page of history deserving to be well pondered, for it never will be repeated. the world which philip ruled from the foot of the guadarrama has passed away. a new heaven and a new earth came in with the thunders of and . there will be no more pyramids, no more versailles, no more escoriais. the unpublished fiat has gone forth that man is worth more than the glory of princes. the better religion of the future has no need of these massive dungeon-temples of superstition and fear. yet there is a store of precious teachings in this mass of stone. it is one of the results of that mysterious law to which the genius of history has subjected the caprices of kings, to the end that we might not be left without a witness of the past for our warning and example,--the law which induces a judged and sentenced dynasty to build for posterity some monument of its power, which hastens and commemorates its ruin. by virtue of this law we read on the plains of egypt the pride and the fall of the pharaohs. before the fagade of versailles we see at a glance the grandeur of the capetian kings and the necessity of the revolution. and the most vivid picture of that fierce and gloomy religion of the sixteenth century, compounded of a base alloy of worship for an absolute king and a vengeful god, is to be found in this colossal hermitage in the flinty heart of the mountains of castile. a miracle play in the windy month of march a sudden gloom falls upon madrid,--the reaction after the _folie gaiete_ of the carnival. the theatres are at their gayest in february until prince carnival and his jolly train assault the town, and convert the temples of the drama into ball-rooms. they have not yet arrived at the wonderful expedition and despatch observed in paris, where a half hour is enough to convert the grand opera into the masked ball. the invention of this process of flooring the orchestra flush with the stage and making a vast dancing-hall out of both is due to an ingenious courtier of the regency, bearing the great name of de bouillon, who got much credit and a pension by it. in madrid they take the afternoon leisurely to the transformation, and the evening's performance is of course sacrificed. so the sock and buskin, not being adapted to the cancan, yielded with february, and the theatres were closed finally on ash wednesday. going by the pleasant little theatre of lope de rueda, in the calle barquillo, i saw the office-doors open, the posters up, and an unmistakable air of animation among the loungers who mark with a seal so peculiar the entrance of places of amusement. struck by this apparent levity in the midst of the general mortification, i went over to look at the bills and found the subject announced serious enough for the most lenten entertainment,--los siete dolores de maria,--the seven sorrows of mary,--the old mediaeval miracle of the life of the saviour. this was bringing suddenly home to me the fact that i was really in a catholic country. i had never thought of going to ammergau, and so, when reading of these shows, i had entertained no more hope of seeing one than of assisting at an auto-da-fe or a witch-burning. i went to the box-office to buy seats. but they were all sold. the forestallers had swept the board. i was never able to determine whether i most pitied or despised these pests of the theatre. whenever a popular play is presented, a dozen ragged and garlic-odorous vagabonds go early in the day and buy as many of the best places as they can pay for. they hang about the door of the theatre all day, and generally manage to dispose of their purchases at an advance. but it happens very often that they are disappointed; that the play does not draw, or that the evening threatens rain, and the spaniard is devoted to his hat. he would keep out of a revolution if it rained. so that, at the pleasant hour when the orchestra are giving the last tweak to the key of their fiddles, you may see these woebegone wretches rushing distractedly from the piamonte to the alcala, offering their tickets at a price which falls rapidly from double to even, and tumbles headlong to half-price at the first note of the opening overture. when i see the forestaller luxuriously basking at the office-door in the warm sunshine, and scornfully refusing to treat for less than twice the treasurer's figures, i feel a divided indignation against the nuisance and the management that permits it. but when in the evening i meet him haggard and feverish, hawking his unsold places in desperate panic on the sidewalk, i cannot but remember that probably a half dozen dirty and tawny descendants of pelayo will eat no beans to-morrow for those unfortunate tickets, and my wrath melts, and i buy his crumpled papers, moist with the sweat of anxiety, and add a slight propina, which i fear will be spent in aguardiente to calm his shattered nerves. this day the sky looked threatening, and my shabby hidalgo listened to reason, and sold me my places at their price and a _petit verre._ as we entered in the evening the play had just begun. the scene was the interior of the temple at jerusalem, rather well done,--two ranges of superimposed porphyry columns with a good effect of oblique perspective, which is very common in the spanish theatres. st. simeon, in a dress suspiciously resembling that of the modern bishop, was talking with a fiery young hebrew who turns out to be demas, the penitent thief, and who is destined to play a very noticeable part in the evening's entertainment. he has received some slight from the government authorities and does not propose to submit to it. the aged and cooler-blooded simeon advises him to do nothing rash. here at the very outset is a most characteristic spanish touch. you are expected to be interested in demas, and the only crime which could appeal to the sympathies of a castilian crowd would be one committed at the promptings of injured dignity. there is a soft, gentle strain of music played pianissimo by the orchestra, and, surrounded by a chorus of mothers and maidens, the virgin mother enters with the divine child in her arms. the madonna is a strapping young girl named gutierrez, a very clever actress; and the child has been bought in the neighboring toy-shop, a most palpable and cynical wax-doll. the doll is handed to simeon, and the solemn ceremony of the presentation is performed to fine and thoughtful music. st. joseph has come in sheepishly by the flies with his inseparable staff crowned with a garland of lilies, which remain miraculously fresh during thirty years or so, and kneels at the altar, on the side opposite to miss gutierrez. as the music ceases, simeon starts as from a trance and predicts in a few rapid couplets the sufferings and the crucifixion of the child. mary falls overwhelmed into the arms of her attendants, and simeon exclaims, "most blessed and most unfortunate among women! thy heart is to be pierced with seven sorrows, and this is the first." demas rushes in and announces the massacre of the innocents, concluding with the appropriate reflection, "perish the kings! always the murderers of the people." this sentiment is so much to the taste of the gamins of the paraiso that they vociferously demand an encore; but the roman soldiers come in and commence the pleasing task of prodding the dolls in the arms of the chorus. the next act is the flight into egypt. the curtain rises on a rocky ravine with a tinsel torrent in the background and a group of robbers on the stage. gestas, the impenitent thief, stands sulky and glum in a corner, fingering his dagger as you might be sure he would, and informing himself in a growling soliloquy that his heart is consumed with envy and hate because he is not captain. the captain, one issachar, comes in, a superbly handsome young fellow, named mario, to my thinking the first comedian in spain, dressed in a flashy suit of leopard hides, and announces the arrival of a stranger. enters demas, who says he hates the world and would fain drink its foul blood. he is made politely welcome. no! he will be captain or nothing. issachar laughs scornfully and says _he_ is in the way of that modest aspiration. but demas speedily puts him out of the way with an albacete knife, and becomes captain, to the profound disgust of the impenitent gestas, who exclaims, just as the profane villains do nowadays on every well-conducted stage, "damnation! foiled again!" the robbers pick up their idolized leader and pitch him into the tinsel torrent. this is also extremely satisfactory to the wide-awake young arabs of the cock-loft. the bandits disperse, and demas indulges in some fifty lines of rhymed reflections, which are interrupted by the approach of the holy family, hotly pursued by the soldiery of herod. they stop under a sycamore tree, which instantly, by very clever machinery, bends down its spreading branches and miraculously hides them from the bloodthirsty legionaries. these pass on, and demas leads the saintly trio by a secret pass over the torrent,--the mother and child mounted upon an ass and st. joseph trudging on behind with his lily-decked staff, looking all as if they were on a short leave of absence from correggio's picture-frame. demas comes back, calls up his merrymen, and has a battle-royal with the enraged legionaries, which puts the critics of the gallery into a frenzy of delight and assures the success of the spectacle. the curtain falls in a gust of applause, is stormed up again, demas comes forward and makes a neat speech, announcing the author. que salga! roar the gods,--"trot him out!" a shabby young cripple hobbles to the front, leaning upon a crutch, his sallow face flushed with a hectic glow of pride and pleasure. he also makes a glib speech,--i have never seen a spaniard who could not,--disclaiming all credit for himself, but lauding the sublimity of the acting and the perfection of the scene-painting, and saying that the memory of this unmerited applause will be forever engraved upon his humble heart. act third, the lost child, or christ in the temple. the scene is before the temple on a festival day, plenty of chorus-girls, music, and flowers. demas and the impenitent gestas and barabbas, who, i was pleased to see, was after all a very good sort of fellow, with no more malice than you or i, were down in the city on a sort of lark, their leopard skins left in the mountains and their daggers hid under the natty costume of the judaean dandy of the period. demas and gestas have a quarrel, in which gestas is rather roughly handled, and goes off growling like every villain, _qui se respecte,--_"i will have r-revenge." barabbas proposes to go around to the cider-cellars, but demas confides to him that he is enslaved by a dream of a child, who said to him, "follow me--to paradise;" that he had come down to jerusalem to seek and find the mysterious infant of his vision. the jovial barabbas seems imperfectly impressed by these transcendental fancies, and at this moment mary comes in dressed like a madonna of guido reni, and soon after st. joseph and his staff. they ask each other where is the child,--a scene of alarm and bustle, which ends by the door of the temple flying open and discovering, shrined in ineffable light, jesus teaching the doctors. in the fourth act, demas meets a beautiful woman by the city gate, in the loose, graceful dress of the hetairai, and the most wonderful luxuriance of black curls i have ever seen falling in dense masses to her knees. after a conversation of amorous banter, he gives her a golden chain, which she assumes, well pleased, and gives him her name, la magdalena. a motley crowd of street loafers here rushed upon the scene, and i am sure there was no one of northern blood in the theatre that did not shudder for an instant at the startling apparition that formed the central figure of the group. the world has long ago agreed upon a typical face and figure for the saviour of men; it has been repeated on myriads of canvases and reproduced in thousands of statues, till there is scarcely a man living that does not have the same image of the redeemer in his mind. well, that image walked quietly upon the stage, so perfect in make-up that you longed for some error to break the terrible vraisemblance. i was really relieved when the august appearance spoke, and i recognized the voice of a young actor named morales, a clever light comedian of the bressant type. the magdalene is soon converted by the preaching of the nazarene prophet, and the scene closes by the triumphant entry into jerusalem amid the waving of palm-branches, the strewing of flowers, and "sonorous metal blowing martial sounds." the pathetic and sublime lament, "jerusalem! jerusalem! thou that killest the prophets!" was delivered with great 'feeling and power. the next act brings us before the judgment-seat of pontius pilate. this act is almost solely horrible. the magdalene in her garb of penitence comes in to beg the release of jesus of nazareth. pontius, who is represented as a gallant old gentleman, says he can refuse nothing to a lady. the prisoner is dragged in by two ferocious ruffians, who beat and buffet him with absurd and exaggerated violence. there is nothing more hideous than the awful concreteness of this show,--the naked helplessness of the prisoner, his horrible, cringing, overdone humility, the coarse kicking and cuffing of the deputy sheriffs. the prophet is stripped and scourged at the pillar until he drops from exhaustion. he is dragged anew before pilate and examined, but his only word is, "thou hast said." the scene lasts nearly an hour. the theatre was full of sobbing women and children. at every fresh brutality i could hear the weeping spectators say, "pobre jesus!" "how wicked they are!" the bulk of the audience was of people who do not often go to theatres. they looked upon the revolting scene as a real and living fact. one hard-featured man near me clenched his fists and cursed the cruel guards. a pale, delicate-featured girl who was leaning out of her box, with her brown eyes, dilated with horror, fixed upon the scene, suddenly shrieked as a roman soldier struck the unresisting saviour, and fell back fainting in the arms of her friends. the nazarene prophet was condemned at last. gestas gives evidence against him, and also delivers demas to the law, but is himself denounced, and shares their sentence. the crowd howled with exultation, and pilate washed his hands in impotent rage and remorse. the curtain came down leaving the uncultivated portion of the audience in the frame of mind in which their ancestors a few centuries earlier would have gone from the theatre determined to serve god and relieve their feelings by killing the first jew they could find. the diversion was all the better, because safer, if they happened to the good luck of meeting a hebrew woman or child. the calle de amargura--the street of bitterness--was the next scene. first came a long procession of official romans,--lictors and swordsmen, and the heralds announcing the day's business. demas appears, dragged along with vicious jerks to execution. the saviour follows, and falls under the weight of the cross before the footlights. another long and dreary scene takes place, of brutalities from the roman soldiers, the ringleader of whom is a sanguinary andalusian ingeniously encased in a tin barrel, a hundred lines of rhymed sorrow from the madonna, and a most curious scene of the wandering jew. this worthy, who in defiance of tradition is called samuel, is sitting in his doorway watching the show, when the suffering christ begs permission to rest a moment on his threshold. he says churlishly, anda!--"begone!" "i will go, but thou shalt go forever until i come." the jew's feet begin to twitch convulsively, as if pulled from under him. he struggles for a moment, and at last is carried off by his legs, which are moved like those of the walking dolls with the greek names. this odd tradition, so utterly in contradiction with the picture the scriptures give us of the meek dignity with which the redeemer forgave all personal injuries, has taken a singular hold upon the imaginations of all peoples. under varying names,---ahasuerus, salathiel, le juif errant, der ewige jude,--his story is the delight and edification of many lands; and i have met some worthy people who stoutly insisted that they had read it in the bible. the sinister procession moves on. the audience, which had been somewhat cheered by the prompt and picturesque punishment inflicted upon the inhospitable samuel, was still further exhilarated by the spectacle of the impenitent traitor gestas, staggering under an enormous cross, his eyes and teeth glaring with abject fear, with an athletic roman haling him up to calvary with a new hempen halter. a long intermission followed, devoted to putting babies to sleep,--for there were hundreds of them, wide-eyed and strong-lunged,--to smoking the hasty cigarette, to discussing the next combination of prim or the last scandal in the gay world. the carpenters were busy behind the scenes building the mountain. when the curtain rose, it was worth waiting for. it was an admirable scene. a genuine spanish mountain, great humpy undulations of rock and sand, gigantic cacti for all vegetation, a lurid sky behind, but not over-colored. a group of roman soldiers in the foreground, in the rear the hill, and the executioners busily employed in nailing the three victims to their crosses. demas was fastened first; then gestas, who, when undressed for execution, was a superb model of a youthful hercules. but the third cross still lay on the ground; the hammering and disputing and coming and going were horribly lifelike and real. at last the victim is securely nailed to the wood, and the cross is slowly and clumsily lifted and falls with a shock into its socket. the soldiers _huzza.,_ the fiend in the tin barrel and another in a tin hat come down to the footlights and throw dice for the raiment. "caramba! curse my luck!" says our friend in the tin case, and the other walks off with the vestment. the passion begins, and lasts an interminable time. the grouping is admirable, every shifting of the crowd in the foreground produces a new and finished picture, with always the same background of the three high crosses and their agonizing burdens against that lurid sky. the impenitent gestas curses and dies; the penitent demas believes and receives eternal rest. the holy women come in and group themselves in picturesque despair at the foot of the cross. the awful drama goes on with no detail omitted,--the thirst the sponge dipped in vinegar, the cry of desolation, the spear-thrust, the giving up of the ghost. the stage-lights are lowered. a thick darkness--of crape--comes down over the sky. horror falls on the impious multitude, and the scene is deserted save by the faithful. the closing act opens with a fine effect of moon and stars. "que linda luna!" sighed a young woman beside me, drying her tears, comforted by the beauty of the scene. the central cross is bathed in the full splendor that is denied the others. joseph of abarimathea (as he is here called) comes in with ladders and winding-sheets, and the dead christ is taken from the cross. the descent is managed with singular skill and genuine artistic feeling. the principal actor, who has been suspended for an hour in a most painful and constrained posture, has a corpse-like rigidity and numbness. there is one moment when you can almost imagine yourself in antwerp, looking at that sublimest work of rubens. the entombment ends, and the last tableau is of the mater dolorosa in the solitude. i have rarely seen an effect so simple, and yet so striking,--the darkened stage, the softened moonlight, the now holy rood spectral and tall against the starry sky, and the dolorous mother, alone in her sublime sorrow, as she will be worshipped and revered for coming aeons. a curious observation is made by all foreigners, of the absence of the apostles from the drama. they appear from time to time, but merely as supernumeraries. one would think that the character of judas was especially fitted for dramatic use. i spoke of this to a friend, and he said that formerly the false apostle was introduced in the play, but that the sight of him so fired the spanish heart that not only his life, but the success of the piece was endangered. this reminds one of mr. a. ward's account of a high-handed outrage at "utiky," where a young gentleman of good family stove in the wax head of "jewdas iscarrit," characterizing him at the same time as a "pew-serlanimous cuss." "to see these mysteries in their glory," continued my friend, "you should go into the small towns in the provinces, uncontaminated with railroads or unbelief. there they last several days the stage is the town, the temple scene takes place in the church, the judgment at the city hall, and the procession of the via crucis moves through all the principal streets. the leading roles are no joke,--carrying fifty kilos of wood over the mud and cobble-stones for half a day. the judas or gestas must be paid double for the kicks and cuffs he gets from tender-hearted spectators,--the curses he accepts willingly as a tribute to his dramatic ability. his proudest boast in the evening is querian matarme,--'they wanted to kill me!' i once saw the hero of the drama stop before a wine-shop, sweating like rain, and positively swear by the life of the devil, he would not carry his gallows a step farther unless he had a drink. they brought him a bottle of valdepenas, and he drained it before resuming his way to golgotha. some of us laughed thoughtlessly, and narrowly escaped the knives of the orthodox ruffians who followed the procession." the most striking fact in this species of exhibition is the evident and unquestioning faith of the audience. to all foreigners the show is at first shocking and then tedious; to the good people of madrid it is a sermon, full of absolute truth and vivid reality. the class of persons who attend these spectacles is very different from that which you find at the royal theatre or the comic opera. they are sober, serious bourgeois, who mind their shops and go to mass regularly, and who come to the theatre only in lent, when the gay world stays away. they would not dream of such an indiscretion as reading the bible. their doctrinal education consists of their catechism, the sermons of the curas, and the traditions of the church. the miracle of st. veronica, who, wiping the brow of the saviour in the street of bitterness, finds his portrait on her handkerchief, is to them as real and reverend as if it were related by the evangelist. the spirit of inquiry which has broken so many idols, and opened such new vistas of thought for the minds of all the world, is as yet a stranger to spain. it is the blind and fatal boast of even the best of spaniards that their country is a unit in religious faith. nunca se disputo en espana,--"there has never been any discussion in spain,"--exclaims proudly an eminent spanish writer. spectacles like that which we have just seen were one of the elements which in a barbarous and unenlightened age contributed strongly to the consolidation of that unthinking and ardent faith which has fused the nation into one torpid and homogeneous mass of superstition. no better means could have been devised for the purpose. leaving out of view the sublime teachings of the large and tolerant morality of jesus, the clergy made his personality the sole object of worship and reverence. by dwelling almost exclusively upon the story of his sufferings, they excited the emotional nature of the ignorant, and left their intellects untouched and dormant. they aimed to arouse their sympathies, and when that was done, to turn their natural resentment against those whom the church considered dangerous. to the inflamed and excited worshippers, a heretic was the enemy of the crucified saviour, a jew was his murderer, a moor was his reviler. a protestant wore to their bloodshot eyes the semblance of the torturer who had mocked and scourged the meek redeemer, who had crowned his guileless head with thorns, who had pierced and slain him. the rack, the gibbet, and the stake were not enough to glut the pious hate this priestly trickery inspired. it was not enough that the doubter's life should go out in the blaze of the crackling fagots, but it must be loaded in eternity with the curses of the faithful. is there not food for earnest thought in the fact that faith in christ, which led the puritans across the sea to found the purest social and political system which the wit of man has yet evolved from the tangled problems of time, has dragged this great spanish people down to a depth of hopeless apathy, from which it may take long years of civil tumult to raise them? may we not find the explanation of this strange phenomenon in the contrast of catholic unity with protestant diversity? "thou that killest the prophets!"--the system to which this apostrophe can be applied is doomed. and it matters little who the prophets may be. the cradle and the grave of cervantes in rembrandt peale's picture of the court of death a cadaverous shape lies for judgment at the foot of the throne, touching at either extremity the waters of lethe. there is something similar in the history of the greatest of spanish writers. no man knew, for more than a century after the death of cervantes, the place of his birth and burial. about a hundred years ago the investigations of rios and pellicer established the claim of alcala de henares to be his native city; and last year the researches of the spanish academy have proved conclusively that he is buried in the convent of the trinitarians in madrid. but the precise spot where he was born is only indicated by vague tradition; and the shadowy conjecture that has so long hallowed the chapel and cloisters of the calle cantarranas has never settled upon any one slab of their pavement. it is, however, only the beginning and the end of this most chivalrous and genial apparition of the sixteenth century that is concealed from our view. we know where he was christened and where he died. so that there are sufficiently authentic shrines in alcala and madrid to satisfy the most sceptical pilgrims. i went to alcala one summer day, when the bare fields were brown and dry in their after-harvest nudity, and the hills that bordered the winding henares were drab in the light and purple in the shadow. from a distance the town is one of the most imposing in castile. it lies in the midst of a vast plain by the green water-side, and the land approach is fortified by a most impressive wall emphasized by sturdy square towers and flanking bastions. but as you come nearer you see this wall is a tradition. it is almost in ruins. the crenellated towers are good for nothing but to sketch. a short walk from the station brings you to the gate, which is well defended by a gang of picturesque beggars, who are old enough to have sat for murillo, and revoltingly pitiable enough to be millionaires by this time, if castilians had the cowardly habit of sponging out disagreeable impressions with pennies. at the first charge we rushed in panic into a tobacco-shop and filled our pockets with maravedis, and thereafter faced the ragged battalion with calm. it is a fine, handsome, and terribly lonesome town. its streets are wide, well built, and silent v as avenues in a graveyard. on every hand there are tall and stately churches, a few palaces, and some two dozen great monasteries turning their long walls, pierced with jealous grated windows, to the grass-grown streets. in many quarters there is no sign of life, no human habitations among these morose and now empty barracks of a monkish army. some of them have been turned into military casernes, and the bright red and blue uniforms of the spanish officers and troopers now brighten the cloisters that used to see nothing gayer than the gowns of cord-girdled friars. a large garrison is always kept here. the convents are convenient for lodging men and horses. the fields in the vicinity produce great store of grain and alfalfa,--food for beast and rider. it is near enough to the capital to use the garrison on any sudden emergency, such as frequently happens in peninsular politics. the railroad that runs by alcala has not brought with it any taint of the nineteenth century. the army is a corrupting influence, but not modern. the vice that follows the trail of armies, or sprouts, fungus-like, about the walls of barracks, is as old as war, and links the present, with its struggle for a better life, to the old mediaeval world of wrong. these trim fellows in loose trousers and embroidered jackets are the same race that fought and drank and made prompt love in italy and flanders and butchered the aztecs in the name of religion three hundred years ago. they have laid off their helmets and hauberks, and use the berdan rifle instead of the roman spear. but they are the same careless, idle, dissolute bread-wasters now as then. the town has not changed in the least. it has only shrunk a little. you think sometimes it must be a vacation, and that you will come again when people return. the little you see of the people is very attractive. passing along the desolate streets, you glance in at an open door and see a most delightful cabinet picture of domestic life. all the doors in the house are open. you can see through the entry, the front room, into the cool court beyond, gay with oleanders and vines, where a group of women half dressed are sewing and spinning and cheering their souls with gossip. if you enter under pretence of asking a question, you will be received with grave courtesy, your doubts solved, and they will bid you go with god, with the quaint frankness of patriarchal times. they do not seem to have been spoiled by overmuch travel. such impressive and oriental courtesy could not have survived the trampling feet of the great army of tourists. on our pilgrim-way to the cradle of cervantes we came suddenly upon the superb facade of the university. this is one of the most exquisite compositions of plateresque in existence. the entire front of the central body of the building is covered with rich and tasteful ornamentation. over the great door is an enormous escutcheon of the arms of austria, supported by two finely carved statues,--on the one side a nearly nude warrior, on the other the new world as a feather-clad indian woman. still above this a fine, bold group of statuary, representing, with that reverent naivete of early art, god the father in the work of creation. surrounding the whole front as with a frame, and reaching to the ground on either side, is carved the knotted cord of the franciscan monks. no description can convey the charming impression given by the harmony of proportion and the loving finish of detail everywhere seen in this beautifully preserved fagade. while we were admiring it an officer came out of the adjoining cuartel and walked by us with jingling spurs. i asked him if one could go inside. he shrugged his shoulders with a quien sabe? indicating a doubt as profound as if i had asked him whether chignons were worn in the moon. he had never thought of anything inside. there was no wine nor pretty girls there. why should one want to go in? we entered the cool vestibule, and were ascending the stairs to the first court, when a porter came out of his lodge and inquired our errand. we were wandering barbarians with an eye to the picturesque, and would fain see the university, if it were not unlawful. he replied, in a hushed and scholastic tone of voice, and with a succession of confidential winks that would have inspired confidence in the heart of a talleyrand, that if our lordships would give him our cards he had no doubt he could obtain the required permission from the rector. he showed us into a dim, claustral-looking anteroom, in which, as i was told by my friend, who trifles in lost moments with the integral calculus, there were seventy-two chairs and one microscopic table. the wall was decked with portraits of the youth of the college, all from the same artist, who probably went mad from the attempt to make fifty beardless faces look unlike each other. we sat for some time mourning over his failure, until the door opened, and not the porter, but the rector himself, a most courteous and polished gentleman in the black robe and three-cornered hat of his order, came in and graciously placed himself and the university at our disposition. we had reason to congratulate ourselves upon this good fortune. he showed us every nook and corner of the vast edifice, where the present and the past elbowed each other at every turn: here the boys' gymnasium, there the tomb of valles; here the new patent cocks of the water-pipes, and there the tri-lingual patio where alonso sanchez lectured in arabic, greek, and chaldean, doubtless making a choice hash of the three; the airy and graceful paraninfo, or hall of degrees, a masterpiece of moresque architecture, with a gorgeous panelled roof, a rich profusion of plaster arabesques, and, _horresco referens,_ the walls covered with a bright french paper. our good rector groaned at this abomination, but said the gauls had torn away the glorious carved panelling for firewood in the war of , and the college was too poor to restore it. his righteous indignation waxed hot again when we came to the beautiful sculptured pulpit of the chapel, where all the delicate details are degraded by a thick coating of whitewash, which in some places has fallen away and shows the gilding of the time of the catholic kings. there is in this chapel a picture of the virgin appearing to the great cardinal whom we call ximenez and the spaniards cisneros, which is precious for two reasons. the portrait of ximenez was painted from life by the nameless artist, who, it is said, came from france for the purpose, and the face of the virgin is a portrait of isabella the catholic. it is a good wholesome face, such as you would expect. but the thin, powerful profile of ximenez is very striking, with his red hair and florid tint, his curved beak, and long, nervous lips. he looks not unlike that superb portrait raphael has left of cardinal medici. this university is fragrant with the good fame of ximenez. in the principal court there is a fine medallion of the illustrious founder and protector, as he delighted to be drawn, with a sword in one hand and a crucifix in the other,--twin brother in genius and fortune of the soldier-priest of france, the cardinal-duke richelieu. on his gorgeous sarcophagus you read the arrogant epitaph with which he revenged himself for the littleness of kings and courtiers:-- "praetextam junxi sacco, galeamque galero, frater, dux, praesul, cardineusque pater. quin, virtute mea junctum est diadema cucullo, dum mihi regnanti patuit gesperia." by a happy chance our visit was made in a holiday time, and the students were all away. it was better that there should be perfect solitude and silence as we walked through the noble system of buildings and strove to re-create the student world of cervantes's time. the chronicle which mentions the visit of francis i. to alcala, when a prisoner in spain, says he was received by eleven thousand students. this was only twenty years before the birth of cervantes. the world will never see again so brilliant a throng of ingenuous youth as gathered together in the great university towns in those years of vivid and impassioned greed for letters that followed the revival of learning. the romance of oxford or heidelberg or harvard is tame compared with that electric life of a new-born world that wrought and flourished in padua, paris, and alcala. walking with my long-robed scholarly guide through the still, shadowy courts, under renaissance arches and moorish roofs, hearing him talking with enthusiasm of the glories of the past and never a word of the events of the present, in his pure, strong, guttural castilian, no living thing in view but an occasional franciscan gliding under the graceful arcades, it was not difficult to imagine the scenes of the intense young life which filled these noble halls in that fresh day of aspiration and hope, when this spanish sunlight fell on the marble and the granite bright and sharp from the chisel of the builder, and the great ximenez looked proudly on his perfect work and saw that it was good. the twilight of superstition still hung heavily over europe. but this was nevertheless the breaking of dawn, the herald of the fuller day of investigation and inquiry. it was into this rosy morning of the modern world that cervantes was ushered in the season of the falling leaves of . he was born to a life of poverty and struggle and an immortality of fame. his own city did not know him while he lived, and now is only known through him. pilgrims often come from over distant seas to breathe for one day the air that filled his baby lungs, and to muse among the scenes that shaped his earliest thoughts. we strolled away from the university through the still lanes and squares to the calle mayor, the only thoroughfare of the town that yet retains some vestige of traffic. it is a fine, long street bordered by stone arcades, within which are the shops, and without which in the pleasant afternoon are the rosy and contemplative shopkeepers. it would seem a pity to disturb their dreamy repose by offering to trade; and in justice to castilian taste and feeling i must say that nobody does it. halfway down the street a side alley runs to the right, called calle de cervantes, and into this we turned to find the birthplace of the romancer. on one side was a line of squalid, quaint, gabled houses, on the other a long garden wall. we walked under the shadow of the latter and stared at the house-fronts, looking for an inscription we had heard of. we saw in sunny doorways mothers oiling into obedience the stiff horse-tail hair of their daughters. by the grated windows we caught glimpses of the black eyes and nut-brown cheeks of maidens at their needles. but we saw nothing to show which of these mansions had been honored by tradition as the residence of roderick cervantes. a brisk and practical-looking man went past us. i asked him where was the house of the poet. he smiled in a superior sort of way, and pointed to the wall above my head: "there is no such house. some people think it once stood here, and they have placed that stone in the garden-wall to mark the spot. i believe what i see. it is all child's play anyhow, whether true or false. there is better work to be done now than to honor cervantes. he fought for a bigot king, and died in a monk's hood." "you think lightly of a glory of castile." "if we could forget all the glories of castile it would be better for us." "puede ser," i assented. "many thanks. may your grace go with god!" "health and fraternity!" he answered, and moved away with a step full of energy and dissent. he entered a door under an inscription, "federal republican club." go your ways, i thought, radical brother. you are not so courteous nor so learned as the rector. but this peninsula has need of men like you. the ages of belief have done their work for good and ill. let us have some years of the spirit that denies, and asks for proofs. the power of the monk is broken, but the work is not yet done. the convents have been turned into barracks, which is no improvement. the ringing of spurs in the streets of alcala is no better than the rustling of the sandalled friars. if this republican party of yours cannot do something to free spain from the triple curse of crown, crozier, and sabre, then spain is in doleful case. they are at last divided, and the first two have been sorely weakened in detail. the last should be the easiest work. the scorn of my radical friend did not prevent my copying the modest tablet on the wall:-- "here was born miguel de cervantes saavedra, author of don quixote. by his fame and his genius he belongs to the civilized world; by his cradle to alcala de henares." there is no doubt of the truth of the latter part of this inscription. eight spanish towns have claimed to have given birth to cervantes, thus beating the blind scian by one town; every one that can show on its church records the baptism of a child so called has made its claim. yet alcala, who spells his name wrong, calling him carvantes, is certainly in the right, as the names of his father, mother, brothers, and sisters are also given in its records, and all doubt is now removed from the matter by the discovery of cervantes's manuscript statement of his captivity in algiers and his petition for employment in america, in both of which he styles himself "natural de alcala de henares." having examined the evidence, we considered ourselves justly entitled to all the usual emotions in visiting the church of the parish, santa maria la mayor. it was evening, and from a dozen belfries in the neighborhood came the soft dreamy chime of silver-throated bells. in the little square in front of the church a few families sat in silence on the massive stone benches. a few beggars hurried by, too intent upon getting home to supper to beg. a rural and a twilight repose lay on everything. only in the air, rosy with the level light, flew out and greeted each other those musical voices of the bells rich with the memories of all the days of alcala. the church was not open, but we followed a sacristan in, and he seemed too feeble-minded to forbid. it is a pretty church, not large nor imposing, with a look of cosy comfort about it. through the darkness the high altar loomed before us, dimly lighted by a few candles where the sacristans were setting up the properties for the grand mass of the morrow,--our lady of the snows. there was much talk and hot discussion as to the placing of the boards and the draperies, and the image of our lady seemed unmoved by words unsuited to her presence. we know that every vibration of air makes its own impression on the world of matter. so that the curses of the sacristans at their work, the prayers of penitents at the altar, the wailing of breaking hearts bowed on the pavement through many years, are all recorded mysteriously, in these rocky walls. this church is the illegible history of the parish. but of all its ringing of bells, and swinging of censers, and droning of psalms, and putting on and off of goodly raiment, the only show that consecrates it for the world's pilgrimage is that humble procession that came on the th day of october, in the year of grace , to baptize roderick cervantes's youngest child. there could not be an humbler christening. juan pardo--john gray--was the sponsor, and the witnesses were "baltazar vazquez, the sacristan, and i who baptized him and signed with my name," says mr. bachelor serrano, who never dreamed he was stumbling into fame when he touched that pink face with the holy water and called the child miguel. it is my profound conviction that juan pardo brought the baby himself to the church and took it home again, screaming wrathfully; neighbor' pardo feeling a little sheepish and mentally resolving never to do another good-natured action as long as he lived. as for the neophyte, he could not be blamed for screaming and kicking against the new existence he was entering, if the instinct of genius gave him any hint of it. between the font of st. mary's and the bier at st. ildefonso's there was scarcely an hour of joy waiting him in his long life, except that which comes from noble and earnest work. his youth was passed in the shabby privation of a poor gentleman's house; his early talents attracted the attention of my lord aquaviva, the papal legate, who took him back to rome in his service; but the high-spirited youth soon left the inglorious ease of the cardinal's house to enlist as a private soldier in the sea-war against the turk. he fought bravely at lepanto, where he was three times wounded and his left hand crippled. going home for promotion, loaded with praise and kind letters from the generous bastard, don juan of austria, the true son of the emperor charles and pretty barbara blumberg, he was captured with his brother by the moors, and passed five miserable years in slavery, never for one instant submitting to his lot, but wearying his hostile fate with constant struggles. he headed a dozen attempts at flight or insurrection, and yet his thrifty owners would not kill him. they thought a man who bore letters from a prince, and who continued cock of his walk through years of servitude, would one day bring a round ransom. at last the tardy day of his redemption came, but not from the cold-hearted tyrant he had so nobly served. the matter was presented to him by cervantes's comrades, but he would do nothing. so that don roderick sold his estate and his sisters sacrificed their dowry to buy the freedom of the captive brothers. they came back to spain still young enough to be fond of glory, and simple-hearted enough to believe in the justice of the great. they immediately joined the army and served in the war with portugal. the elder brother made his way and got some little promotion, but miguel got married and discharged, and wrote verses and plays, and took a small office in seville, and moved with the court to valladolid; and kept his accounts badly, and was too honest to steal, and so got into jail, and grew every year poorer and wittier and better; he was a public amanuensis, a business agent, a sub-tax-gatherer,--anything to keep his lean larder garnished with scant ammunition against the wolf hunger. in these few lines you have the pitiful story of the life of the greatest of spaniards, up to his return to madrid in , when he was nearly sixty years old. from this point his history becomes clearer and more connected up to the time of his death. he lived in the new-built suburb, erected on the site of the gardens of the duke of lerma, first minister and favorite of philip iii. it was a quarter much affected by artists and men of letters, and equally so by ecclesiastics. the names of the streets indicate the traditions of piety and art that still hallow the neighborhood. jesus street leads you into the street of lope de vega. quevedo and saint augustine run side by side. in the same neighborhood are the streets called cervantes, saint mary, and saint joseph, and just round the corner are the magdalen and the love-of-god. the actors and artists of that day were pious and devout madcaps. they did not abound in morality, but they had of religion enough and to spare. many of them were members of religious orders, and it is this fact which has procured us such accurate records of their history. all the events in the daily life of the religious establishments were carefully recorded, and the manuscript archives of the convents and brotherhoods of that period are rich in materials for the biographer. there was a special reason for the sudden rise of religious brotherhoods among the laity. the great schism of england had been fully completed under elizabeth. the devout heart of spain was bursting under this wrong, and they could think of no way to avenge it. they would fain have roasted the whole heretical island, but the memory of the armada was fresh in men's minds, and the great philip was dead. there were not enough heretics in spain to make it worth while to waste time in hunting them. philip could say as narvaez, on his death-bed, said to his confessor who urged him to forgive his enemies, "bless your heart, i have none. i have killed them all." to ease their pious hearts, they formed confraternities all over spain, for the worship of the host. they called themselves "unworthy slaves of the most holy sacrament." these grew at once very popular in all classes. artisans rushed in, and wasted half their working days in processions and meetings. the severe suarez de figueroa speaks savagely of the crowd of narcissuses and petits maitres (a word which is delicious in its spanish dress of petimetres) who entered the congregations simply to flutter about the processions in brave raiment, to be admired of the multitude. but there were other more serious members,--the politicians who joined to stand well with the bigot court, and the devout believers who found comfort and edification in worship. of this latter class was miguel de cervantes saavedra, who joined the brotherhood in the street of the olivar in . he was now sixty-two years old, and somewhat infirm,--a time, as he said, when a man's salvation is no joke. from this period to the day of his death he seemed to be laboring, after the fashion of the age, to fortify his standing in the other world. he adopted the habit of the franciscans in alcala in , and formally professed in the third order in , three weeks before his death. there are those who find the mirth and fun of his later works so inconsistent with these ascetic professions, that they have been led to believe cervantes a bit of a hypocrite. but we cannot agree with such. literature was at that time a diversion of the great, and the chief aim of the writer was to amuse. the best opinion of scholars now is that rabelais, whose genius illustrated the preceding century, was a man of serious and severe life, whose gaulish crudeness of style and brilliant wit have been the cause of all the fables that distort his personal history. no one can read attentively even the quixote without seeing how powerful an influence was exerted by his religion even upon the noble and kindly soul of cervantes. he was a blind bigot and a devoted royalist, like all the rest. the mean neglect of the court never caused his stanch loyalty to swerve. the expulsion of the moors, the crowning crime and madness of the reign of philip iii., found in him a hearty advocate and defender. _non facit monachum cucullus,--_it was not his hood and girdle that made him a monk; he was thoroughly saturated with their spirit before he put them on. but he was the noblest courtier and the kindliest bigot that ever flattered or persecuted. in , the count of lemos, who had in his grand and distant way patronized the poet, was appointed viceroy of naples, and took with him to his kingdom a brilliant following of spanish wits and scholars. he refused the petition of the greatest of them all, however, and to soften the blow gave him a small pension, which he continued during the rest of cervantes's life. it was a mere pittance, a bone thrown to an old hound, but he took it and gnawed it with a gratitude more generous than the gift. from this time forth all his works were dedicated to the lord of lemos, and they form a garland more brilliant and enduring than the crown of the spains. only kind words to disguised fairies have ever been so munificently repaid, as this young noble's pension to the old genius. it certainly eased somewhat his declining years. relieving him from the necessity of earning his daily crust, it gave him leisure to complete and bring out in rapid succession the works which have made him immortal. he had published the first part of don quixote in the midst of his hungry poverty at valladolid in . he was then fifty-eight, and all his works that survive are posterior to that date. he built his monument from the ground up, in his old age. the persiles and sigis-munda, the exemplary novels, and that most masterly and perfect work, the second part of quixote, were written by the flickering glimmer of a life burnt out. it would be incorrect to infer that the scanty dole of his patron sustained him in comfort. nothing more clearly proves his straitened circumstances than his frequent change of lodgings. old men do not move for the love of variety. we have traced him through six streets in the last four years of his life. but a touching fact is that they are all in the same quarter. it is understood that his natural daughter and only child, isabel de saavedra, entered the convent of the trinitarian nuns in the street of cantarranas--singing frogs--at some date unknown. all the shifting and changing which cervantes made in these embarrassed years are within a small half-circle, whose centre is his grave and the cell of his child. he fluttered about that little convent like a gaunt old eagle about the cage that guards his callow young. like albert duerer, like raphael and van dyck, he painted his own portrait at this time with a force and vigor of touch which leaves little to the imagination. as few people ever read the exemplary novels,--more is the pity,--i will translate this passage from the prologue:-- "he whom you see there with the aquiline face, chestnut hair, a smooth and open brow, merry eyes, a nose curved but well proportioned, a beard of silver which twenty years ago was of gold, long mustaches, a small mouth, not too full of teeth, seeing he has but six, and these in bad condition, a form of middle height, a lively color, rather fair than brown, somewhat round-shouldered and not too light on his feet; this is the face of the author of galatea and of don quixote de la mancha, of him who made the voyage to parnassus, and other works which are straying about without the name of the owner: he is commonly called miguel de cervantes saavedra." there were, after all, compensations in this evening of life. as long as his dropsy would let him, he climbed the hilly street of the olivar to say his prayers in the little oratory. he passed many a cheerful hour of gossip with mother francisca romero, the independent superior of the trinitarian convent, until the time when the supreme council, jealous of the freedom of the good lady's life, walled up the door which led from her house to her convent and cut her off from her nuns. he sometimes dropped into the studios of carducho and caxes, and one of them made a sketch of him one fortunate day. he was friends with many of the easy-going bohemians who swarmed in the quarter,--cristobal de mesa, quevedo, and mendoza, whose writings, don miguel says, are distinguished by the absence of all that would bring a "blush to the cheek of a young person,"-- "por graves, puros, castos y excelentes." in the same street where cervantes lived and died, the great lope de vega passed his edifying old age. this phenomenon of incredible fecundity is one of the mysteries of that time. few men of letters have ever won so marvellous a success in their own lives, few have been so little read after death. the inscription on lope's house records that he is the author of two thousand comedies and twenty-one million of verses. making all possible deductions for spanish exaggeration, it must still be admitted that his activity and fertility of genius were prodigious. in those days a play was rarely acted more than two or three times, and he wrote nearly all that were produced in spain. he had driven all competitors from the scene. cervantes, when he published his collection of plays, admitted the impossibility of getting a hearing in the theatre while this "monster of nature" existed. there was a courteous acquaintance between the two great poets. they sometimes wrote sonnets to each other, and often met in the same oratories. but a grand seigneur like frey lope could not afford to be intimate with a shabby genius like brother miguel. in his inmost heart he thought don quixote rather low, and wondered what people could see in it. cervantes, recognizing the great gifts of de vega, and, generously giving him his full meed of praise, saw with clearer insight than any man of his time that this deluge of prodigal and facile genius would desolate rather than fructify the drama of spain. what a contrast in character and destiny between our dilapidated poet and his brilliant neighbor across the way! the one rich, magnificent, the poet of princes and a prince among poets, the "phoenix of spanish genius," in whose ashes there is no flame of resurrection; the other, hounded through life by unmerciful disaster, and using the brief respite of age to achieve an enduring renown; the one, with his twenty millions of verses, has a great name in the history of literature; but the other, with his volume you can carry in your pocket, has caused the world to call the castilian tongue the language of cervantes. we will not decide which lot is the more enviable. but it seems a poet must choose. we have the high authority of sancho for saying,-- "para dar y tener seso ha menester." he is a bright boy who can eat his cake and have it. in some incidents of the closing scenes of these memorable lives there is a curious parallelism. lope de vega and cervantes lived and died in the same street, now called the calle de cervantes, and were buried in the same convent of the street now called calle de lope de vega. in this convent each had placed a beloved daughter, the fruit of an early and unlawful passion. isabel de saavedra, the child of sin and poverty, was so ignorant she could not sign her name; while lope's daughter, the lovely and gifted marcela de carpio, was rich in the genius of her father and the beauty of her mother, the high-born maria de lujan. cervantes's child glided from obscurity to oblivion no one knew when, and the name she assumed with her spiritual vows is lost to tradition. but the mystic espousals of the sister marcela de san felix to the eldest son of god--the audacious phrase is of the father and priest frey lope--were celebrated with princely pomp and luxury; grandees of spain were her sponsors; the streets were invaded with carriages from the palace, the verses of the dramatist were sung in the service by the court tenor florian, called the "canary of heaven;" and the event celebrated in endless rhymes by the genteel poets of the period. rarely has a lovelier sacrifice been offered on the altar of superstition. the father, who had been married twice before he entered the priesthood, and who had seen the folly of errant loves without number, twitters in the most innocent way about the beauty and the charm of his child, without one thought of the crime of quenching in the gloom of the cloister the light of that rich young life. after the lapse of more than two centuries we know better than he what the world lost by that lifelong imprisonment. the marquis of mo-lins, director of the spanish academy, was shown by the ladies of the convent in this year of a volume of manuscript poems from the hand of sor marcela, which prove her to have been one of the most vigorous and original poets of the time. they are chiefly mystical and ecstatic, and full of the refined and spiritual voluptuousness of a devout young heart whose pulsations had never learned to beat for earthly objects. m. de molins is preparing a volume of these manuscripts; but i am glad to present one of the seguidillas here, as an illustration of the tender and ardent fantasies of virginal passion this christian sappho embroidered upon the theme of her wasted prayers:-- let them say to my lover that here i lie! the thing of his pleasure, his slave am i. say that i seek him only for love, and welcome are tortures my passion to prove. love giving gifts is suspicious and cold; i have _all,_ my beloved, when thee i hold. hope and devotion the good may gain, i am but worthy of passion and pain. so noble a lord none serves in vain,-- for the pay of my love is my love's sweet pain. i love thee, to love thee, no more i desire, by faith is nourished my love's strong fire. i kiss thy hands when i feel their blows, in the place of caresses thou givest me woes. but in thy chastising is joy and peace, o master and love, let thy blows not cease! thy beauty, beloved, with scorn is rife! but i know that thou lovest me, better than life. and because thou lovest me, lover of mine, death can but make me utterly thine! i die with longing thy face to see; ah! sweet is the anguish of death to me! this is a long digression, but it will be forgiven by those who feel how much of beautiful and pathetic there is in the memory of this mute nightingale dying with her passionate music all unheard in the silence and shadows. it is to me the most purely poetic association that clings about the grave of cervantes. this vein of mysticism in religion has been made popular by the recent canonization of saint theresa, the ecstatic nun of avila. in the ceremonies that celebrated this event there were three prizes awarded for odes to the new saint. lope de vega was chairman of the committee of award, and cervantes was one of the competitors. the prizes it must be admitted were very tempting: first, a silver pitcher; second, eight yards of camlet; and third, a pair of silk stockings. we hope cervantes's poem was not the best. we would rather see him carry home the stuff for a new cloak and pourpoint, or even those very attractive silk stockings for his shrunk shank, than that silver pitcher which he was too castilian ever to turn to any sensible use. the poems are published in a compendium of the time, without indicating the successful ones; and that of cervantes contained these lines, which would seem hazardous in this colder age, but which then were greatly admired:-- "breaking all bolts and bars, comes the divine one, sailing from the stars, full in thy sight to dwell: and those who seek him, shortening the road, come to thy blest abode, and find him in thy heart or in thy cell." the anti-climax is the poet's, and not mine. he knew he was nearing his end, but worked desperately to retrieve the lost years of his youth, and leave the world some testimony of his powers. he was able to finish and publish the second part of quixote, and to give the last touches of the file to his favorite work, the long pondered and cherished persiles. this, he assures count lemos, will be either the best or the worst work ever produced by mortal man, and he quickly adds that it will not be the worst. the terrible disease gains upon him, laying its cold hand on his heart. he feels the pulsations growing slower, but bates no jot of his cheerful philosophy. "with one foot in the stirrup," he writes a last farewell of noble gratitude to the viceroy of naples. he makes his will, commanding that his body be laid in the convent of the trinitarians. he had fixed his departure for sunday, the th of april, but waited six days for shakespeare, and the two greatest souls of that age went into the unknown together, on the d of april, . the burial of cervantes was as humble as his christening. his bier was borne on the shoulders of four brethren of his order. the upper half of the coffin-lid was open and displayed the sharpened features to the few who cared to see them: his right hand grasped a crucifix with the grip of a soldier. behind the grating was a sobbing nun whose name in the world was isabel de saavedra. but there was no scenic effort or display, such as a few years later in that same spot witnessed the laying away of the mortal part of vega-carpio. this is the last of cervantes upon earth. he had fought a good fight. a long life had been devoted to his country's service. in his youth he had poured out his blood, and dragged the chains of captivity. in his age he had accomplished a work which folds in with spanish fame the orb of the world. but he was laid in his grave like a pauper, and the spot where he lay was quickly forgotten. at that very hour a vast multitude was assisting at what the polished academician calls a "more solemn ceremony," the bearing of the virgin of the atocha to the convent of san domingo el real, to see if peradventure pleased by the airing, she would send rain to the parching fields. the world speedily did justice to his name. even before his death it had begun. the gentlemen of the french embassy who came to madrid in to arrange the royal marriages asked the chaplain of the archbishop of toledo in his first visit many questions of miguel cervantes. the chaplain happened to be a friend of the poet, and so replied, "i know him. he is old, a soldier, a gentleman, and poor." at which they wondered greatly. but after a while, when the whole civilized world had trans-lated and knew the quixote by heart, the spaniards began to be proud of the genius they had neglected and despised. they quote with a certain fatuity the eulogy of montesquieu, who says it is the only book they have; "a proposition" which navarrete considers "inexact," and we agree with navarrete. he has written a good book himself. the spaniards have very frankly accepted the judgment of the world, and although they do not read cervantes much, they admire him greatly, and talk about him more than is amusing. the spanish academy has set up a pretty mural tablet on the facade of the convent which shelters the tired bones of the unlucky immortal, enjoying now their first and only repose. in the plaza of the cortes a fine bronze statue stands facing the prado, catching on his chiselled curls and forehead the first rays of morning that leap over the hill of the retiro. it is a well-poised, energetic, chivalrous figure, and mr. ger-mond de lavigne has criticised it as having more of the sabreur than the savant. the objection does not seem well founded. it is not pleasant for the world to be continually reminded of its meannesses. we do not want to see cervantes's days of poverty and struggle eternized in statues. we know that he always looked back with fondness on his campaigning days, and even in his decrepit age he called himself a soldier. if there were any period in that troubled history that could be called happy, surely it was the time when he had youth and valor and hope as the companions of his toil. it would have been a precious consolation to his cheerless age to dream that he could stand in bronze, as we hope he may stand for centuries, in the unchanging bloom of manhood, with the cloak and sword of a gentleman and soldier, bathing his olympian brow forever in the light of all the mornings, and gazing, at evening, at the rosy reflex flushing the east,--the memory of the day and the promise of the dawn. poor folk in spain _by the same author_ modern french painters with illustrations in colour and in black and white. crown to. _s._ net. mother and child drawings by bernard meninsky. with letterpress by jan gordon. crown to. _s._ net. the bodley head [illustration: spanish courtyard] poor folk in spain by jan and cora gordon illustrated by the authors john lane the bodley head limited vigo st.:::::::: london _first published _ _printed in great britain by richard clay & sons, ltd., bungay, suffolk._ contents chap. page i. london ii. jesus perez iii. the frontier iv. medina del campo v. avila vi. madrid vii. a hot night viii. murcia--first impressions ix. murcia--settling down x. murcia--blas xi. murcia--the alpagata shop xii. murcia--bravo toro xiii. an excursion xiv. verdolay--housekeeping xv. verdolay--sketching in spain xvi. verdolay--coneni xvii. verdolay--the inhabitants xviii. verdolay--the dance at coneni's xix. murcia--the laud xx. alicante xxi. jijona--the fiesta xxii. jijona--tia roger xxiii. jijona--a day's work xxiv. jijona--the goatherds xxv. murcia--autumn in the paseo de corveras xxvi. lorca xxvii. murcia--last days xxviii. the road home list of plates _to face page_ spanish courtyard _frontispiece_ carters in the posada a murcian beggar woman girl singing a malagueÑa the valencian jota danced by three couples poor folk in spain chapter i london we had tasted of spain before ever we had crossed her frontiers. indeed, perhaps spain is the easiest country to obtain samples from without the fatigue of travelling. the spaniard carries his atmosphere with him: wherever he goes he re-creates in his immediate surroundings more than a hint of his national existence. the englishman abroad may be english--more brutally and uncompromisingly english than the spaniard is spanish--yet he does not carry england with him. he does not, that is, re-create england to the extent of making her seem quite real abroad; there she appears alien, remote, somewhat out of place. so, too, neither the russian, the german, the dane, the portuguese, the italian, nor the american can carry with him the flavour of his homeland in an essence sufficiently concentrated to withstand the insidious infiltration of a foreign atmosphere. to some extent the scandinavian countries, norway and sweden, have this power; but spain is thus gifted in the greatest measure. these three countries seem to possess a national unconsciousness which fends them off from too close a contact with lands which are foreign to them; perhaps one might almost accuse them of a lack of sensitiveness in certain aspects.... however, be the reason what it may, we had gathered some experience of spain in paris before, and in london during the war. what we had tasted we had liked, and so when in our low-ceilinged attic refuge in london we gazed out upon a sky covered with flat cloud, as though with a dirty blanket, and wondered how we might escape in order to seek for our original selves--if they were not irretrievably lost--we thought of spain. i think that we went to spain to look for something that the war had taken from us. it was as though the low ceiling of our room, and the low-lying sky, shut us in with something which was not altogether true; indeed, we feel that many years must pass before the dissipation of this curious sensation of unreality which the war had stamped on to every one, except the most callous. it is now clear that peace is the normal condition of the human race. in the olden days this was not the case, but the tendency has been changing, and to-day we increase our powers during times of peace, and our powers fall from us during the disorganizations of war. the artist, who is the barometer of social change, was attuned to peace. in peace he exercises important functions. but with the sudden outbreak of war the whole foundation of his being was suddenly torn away. when war broke out art for the artist seemed almost meaningless. in the face of a human catastrophe who could paint pictures? nero may have fiddled while rome was burning, but it must have been a poor meaningless tune that he played, some popular jingle, a roman variation of "ta-ra-ra-boom-de-ay." we had come at last to a peace which still carried on its breezes all the poisons of war, and we, at least, felt an imperative need of escape to some place where the war had not been; to some place where perchance life had carried on a not too distorted existence since . spain drew us to her more than did scandinavia. romance certainly had a finger in it; the sun perhaps two fingers--for we are undoubted sun-worshippers; the music of spain, which had attracted us in paris, causing jan to abandon the banjo for the guitar, added an appeal; and i think an exhibition of spanish landscapes by wyndham tryon at the twenty-one galleries settled the matter. we had been in majorca before the war, and this combined with our experience of spaniards in paris had fixed in our minds a belief in a simplicity and courtliness of the spanish people which we hoped would be very soothing. finally, two houses were offered by a friend rent free for the whole of the summer, together with introductions which would smooth the way. we then packed up painting materials, stamped clothes into a trunk, worried a strangely assorted collection of packages down our narrow and twisted staircase into a cab, and so--hey, for the sun, southward! perhaps the reader should be warned that this is not properly a book about spain in the true sense of the word; it is a book about ourselves. we are inclined to doubt if, in the true sense of the word, a book can ever be written about a country. curiously enough the native scarcely perceives his country at all as long as he is living in it. when he travels he may come to a clearer vision, but then scarcely perceives with truth the country in which he is travelling. we might say that by travelling he makes out of the foreign land a sort of inverted image of his home. what he relishes abroad is probably what is lacking, what he dislikes abroad is perhaps more perfect in his own country. and thus his vision of abroad makes, as it were, a mould, and, if one could pour into it a substance which would reproduce the exact reverse as one makes a cast, one might procure a fairly faithful image of his unconscious judgment of his own land. so perhaps if this book could be turned inside out it might be found that, after all, stripped of its unessentials, we have been writing a book, not about spain, but about england. indeed, we have been writing about england already--romance, sun, an interesting national music, the guitar, and national unconsciousness are not assets to be found here in any overwhelming quantities. we must then deny that we are trying to write a book of any authority; we do not even assert that our facts are correct, even though they are as we saw them; we admit a mental astigmatism which we cannot avoid and which may have twisted actual happenings or hearings as much as optical astigmatism may twist a straight line. chapter ii jesus perez jesus perez took us to spain in spirit while we were still in paris. we were off to spain to paint, that being the normal course of our lives, but in addition jan had formed a fixed resolution that happen what might he was not coming home without having bought a good spanish guitar by the best guitar-maker he could find, while i wished to buy a spanish lute. arias and ramirez, the two best modern _luthiers_ in madrid, both had recently died; we had, however, the address of the widow of ramirez, who carried on her husband's business, but faintly in jan's mind a cloud hung over the lady's name. he did not trust her. not she, but ramirez had made those superfine instruments. so we were overjoyed to meet perez upon the boulevard montparnasse soon after our arrival in paris. perez was a friend of ours from the times before the war. he was almost a mystery man. native of malaga, self-styled painter--though he never showed his work--nobody could tell how he had managed to make a living during fifteen years of apparently unproductive existence. it is true that one summer he had disappeared from the quarter, returning late in november browned by the sun, and had explained that he had been smuggling in the pyrenees; but that event was an exception, and for some months subsequently perez was obviously well off as a result of his risky enterprises. normally, he survived like so many others in the quartier montparnasse, drawing sufficient nourishment (supplemented very obviously by borrowing) from mysterious sources. but while most of his confrères in penury had no talents, not even the talent for painting, perez did know the guitar. rumour said that he was one of the best amateur players of the jota arragonesa in spain. rumour may have exaggerated without detracting from the real quality of perez's exquisite gift. we saw a perez very much polished up by so many years of war. he wore a clean straw hat, new clothes of the latest cut, a waistcoat of check with ornamental buttons, patent leather boots with a lacquer which flung back the rays of the june sun, and heavy owlish eyeglasses of tortoise-shell fastened with a broad black ribbon. indeed, so transformed was he, that it was he who recognized us; and for some moments we stood trying to pierce through the new respectability, as though it were through a disguise. seated together at the "rotonde" we exchanged some petty items of news. perez had but recently returned from spain; he had held a small exhibition, he said, which had provided funds; pictures were selling well in spain.... he was delighted to hear of our plan, and thereupon wrote for us an introduction to a painter, a friend, who lived in madrid. "un homme très serviable," he said, manufacturing a french word out of one spanish. jan then asked his question. "a good guitar-maker in spain," said perez, pinching his lower lip between finger and thumb. he shook his head slowly. "a good guitar-maker," repeated perez. "in madrid, eh? frankly, no, i do not know of one at the moment. and you are going away at once. tomorrow. well, this afternoon i am free, that is good. the best guitar-maker at the moment lives here, here in paris. his name is ramirez. yes, a relative of that other ramirez. he has found a new form for the guitar. more fine, more powerful. each one like a genuine _torres_. you come with me. i will show you one or two that he made from an old piano which he pulled to pieces for the wood. exquisite! and if you like them, together we will seek out ramirez and he will make you one. he is very busy, oh, excessively busy, but he will make you one because he is an old friend of mine." so the hot afternoon found us sweating up the slopes of montmartre. "first," said perez, "i will take you to the house of a friend who possesses two of ramirez' guitars. one is one of those made from the old piano. it is marvellous!" but when we reached the street he could not remember the number. it was four years, he explained, since last he had been there. "however," he went on, "not far away is another possessor of such a guitar; possibly he will be in." up the hill we went into streets which became more narrow and more steep, until at length he led us through a courtyard with pinkwashed walls, up five flights of polished stairs, to a studio door upon which a visiting card was pinned: auguste la branche _artiste peintre_ _aquafortist_ the door, under perez's knuckles, sounded hollow and forlorn. we waited for a while, and perez was beginning to finger his lip when a faint shuffle on the other side of the door changed into the noise of locks. the door swung ajar revealing a small man, with a thin face and tousled head, clad in pyjamas and a jaeger dressing-gown which trailed behind him on the floor. failing to penetrate to the real perez, as we also had failed, he blinked inquiringly at us. a moment of confused explanation ended with a warm hand-shake. perez explained our presence and our purpose; with protestations of apology for his _négligé_ m. la branche led us into his studio. [illustration] from the card upon his door we must presume that m. la branche was both painter and etcher, and pictures hanging from the walls, and an etching press almost buried beneath a mound of tossed draperies, were evidences of the fact. but where he found space either to paint or to etch was a puzzle. the large studio was crammed with bric-à-brac. indian tables, chinese tables, wicker chairs, lacquer stools, screens, figures in armour, large vases, birdcages and innumerable articles strewed the floor, across which narrow lines of bare parquet showed like channels upon the chart of an estuary. over the chairs were heaped draperies, on the tables smaller bric-à-brac crowded together. upon a sofa thrust to one side sat a woman methodically sewing at the hem of a long sheet. she took no notice of us, nor of m. la branche, but continued her sewing, careful, however, not to swing her arm too wide for fear of banging into several guitars and other musical instruments, which almost disputed possession of the sofa with her. having cleared a table and sufficient chairs, m. la branche gave us _thé anglais_, by the usual complex french method. then from amongst his guitars he selected that made by ramirez, and sitting down began to play. it is strange how a man's personality appears in everything he does. m. la branche in his paintings was an expert painter rather than an artist; his etchings, large colour plates, showed a similar skill with the burin. his music was of the same nature. everything that a practiced player should do, he did; his nimble fingers raced up and down the frets, his tempo and his modulations were impeccable, yet he did not make music. but we had not come with the intention of hearing music, but of hearing the qualities and power of the guitar, and this was, perhaps, more ably shown by the technicalities of m. la branche than it might have been in the hands of a more artistic though less able musician. the shop of ramirez, the luthier, was down the hill, and to this, thoroughly satisfied about the excellence of his instruments, we went, perez grumbling to us in undertones. "that fellow la branche--he does not play spanish music. no--he comes from toulouse. that explains it. it is the talent of the south of france, all on the top, all lively and excitable and showing off--that is how it is. now i tell you, monsieur and madame gordon, just because of that the frenchman never will be able to understand our music. you english are nearer to us. you, when you have acquired ability, will play our music with much more insight and much more sensibility than that la branche." this comforted us exceedingly, for one day in wrath modigliani, the italian painter, had said that it was mere impertinence for an englishman to think that he could understand the subtleties of the music of spain. ramirez almost makes his guitars out in the street. his workshop was about ten feet square with a door six feet wide. here was a piece of pure spain, though we could not recognize it (at the moment having no data), ten feet square, thrust bodily into the lower floor of a french house. the only light came in from the door, but the door was nearly as broad as the room. almost blocking up the entrance, ramirez, a burly, blue-jowled spaniard, with something of the physical construction of a boxer, was working at delicate shavings of wood. behind him the wall was hung with templates, cut from white wood, of the parts of the instruments he was making, guitars and lauds and bandurrias, strange instruments which europe, outside of spain, scarcely knows. on a shelf at the back of the small shop were heaped unfinished bandurrias bound with string, for the glue to become hardened in them. the workshop of ramirez was not what we had expected. one is, i think, justified in expecting a neatness, a delicacy, about the place where fine musical instruments are made. had ramirez been a maker of chairs, or even of cartwheels, his workshop, though small, would have appeared appropriate; but that, from this rough place, could come out "the most difficult of musical instruments to make" disturbed one's sense of suitability. the greeting which ramirez gave us touched with doubt the picture which we had conceived of the amiability of the spaniard. there was no cordiality in him. some of his aloofness cleared away when he had penetrated through the disguise of a dandy to the real perez beneath, but he continued his occupation, and to the statement that we wished him to make a guitar for jan he shrugged his fat shoulders. he declared that he had already too much work. "those two instruments, for instance," he said, pointing to two unfinished guitars elaborately ornamented standing in a corner, "i have already been nine months over those, and have not had time to finish them. it is true they are exhibition instruments, for shops, and therefore have little if any interest for me." perez led him on with compliments, thawing away his frostiness gradually with jan's admiration for the guitar of m. la branche. suddenly ramirez put down his tools. "look here," he said, "i'll make the señor a guitar. three hundred francs is the price, and it will be finished in three months." the bargain concluded, ramirez picked up one of the unfinished instruments. he handed it to jan, exhorting him to explore with a finger the exquisite workmanship of its interior. he rapped on the belly with his knuckle, and at the sound of its deep musical boom he smiled for the first time. ramirez, having thawed, did not freeze up again. he began explaining the novel shape of his instrument, a shape which had been worked out for him by a mathematical philosopher. he said that the guitar was the most difficult of musical instruments to make, requiring a volume of tone which had to be produced from strings easy to pluck and finger. a problem very difficult to solve. "and the guitar i made for you," he said, turning to perez, "you gave it to s----?" "yes," said perez. "see here," said ramirez, turning to us, "i make a guitar, an excellent one, one of my best. this fellow comes to see me, he hears the instrument. he says to me, 'ramirez, keep that guitar for me, and i will at once go to work in a french munition factory, and i will work like a slave, and every week i will send you money until the guitar is paid for.' and i agree. and he goes and makes aeroplanes, and does honest work for the first time in his life, i believe, and every week he sends money to me. and the week it is all paid up he stops work and goes off with the guitar. and he is crazy about the instrument. and he goes back to spain and then he hears s---- playing. he is so enraptured by the wonderful playing of the man, that he runs home, fetches his guitar, and thrusts it into s---- 's hands, exclaiming: 'here is an instrument worthy of you. it is too good for me, for i am a mere bungler beside you.' and so he gives away the guitar that he has laboured for. ah yes, you villain, i have heard of you." as we went down the hill, perez tried to explain away this generosity so characteristic of his impulsive nature. "it is not as though i would have played on the instrument again after having heard s---- touch it. every time that i wished to play i would have thought, 'ah yes, but if only _he_ were playing it and not i.' and i had to give it to him, or perhaps i would never have been able to play again." he asked us to come that evening to a certain small café in the rue campagne premier; some other spaniards were to come also and there was to be playing and singing. we were to come after the legal closing time, and we were to thump on the shutters. in the night, in the dark, we rapped upon the rusty iron shutters, and one by one, like conspirators, were admitted into the dimly-lit café. it was a small place, characteristic of paris, a combination of _buvette_ with zinc bar, and cheap restaurant with marble-topped tables. five years ago a good meal could be bought here for less than a franc. behind the bar bottles and glass vats reached up to the ceiling; upon the dirty, green, oil-painted walls, cheap almanacs and trivial popular prints hung, together with excellent drawings and sketches, presented to madame by her clients. one by one the _invités_ slipped in. madame and her two girl waitresses laughed and giggled at the kitchen door, while the _patron_, grey-moustached, hollow-eyed and cadaverous, uncorked the bottles of wine behind the bar. here again for several hours the spaniards re-created spain. perez is a player of temperament. half of his skill and art he appears to suck from his audience. thus at first he plays but indifferently well; but any music will rouse a crowd of spaniards. to the growing excitement perez responds, playing the better for it, thus creating more enthusiasm, and these interchanges continue, until he reaches the limit of his ability. but he is so sensitive to his audience that one indifferent person can take the edge off all his power. this night there was no one unresponsive. the playing of perez became more and more brilliant. with his nails be rasped deep chords from his responsive instrument; to and fro he beat the strings in the remorseless rhythm of jota arragonesa. in the dimly lit café the dark figures and the sallow faces of the spaniards were crowded about him in an irregular circle. "olé! olé!" they cried, and clapped their hands in time with the music. the air within the café throbbed and pulsated with the music. "mais, c'est très bien," exclaimed madame at intervals from her corner. "c'est très amusant, hein?" two of the younger men were murmuring to the waitresses and were making them titter. "come," exclaimed perez at last, "enough of this piece playing. let us have a song. vamos! who will sing?" but something, possibly my presence, deterred the spaniards from singing. they were shy as a group of schoolboys. one at last began to chant in a high quavering falsetto, but before the first half of his _copla_ was ended he broke down into a laugh of hysterical shyness. "why then," cried perez, "i'll have to sing myself, and heaven knows i've got no voice." the spaniard believes that any singing is better than no singing. one of his chief pursuits in life is that of happiness--"_allègre_" he calls it. this _allègre_ is produced not by perfect results but by evidence of good intentions. he would rather have a bad player who plays from his heart than a good player who plays for his pocket. any singing, then, so long as it is of the right nature, will suffice, no matter what its musical effect. perez's singing had _allègre_, but no music. he lowed like a calf, rising up into strange throaty hoarseness like a barrow merchant who has been crying his goods all day, and descending into dim growls of deep notes. but even he at last tired; and after madame had been yawning for some while, after the last bottle of wine had been drained of its last drops, we slipped out one by one into the moonlit streets of paris and said our farewells on the boulevard. chapter iii the frontier i wonder what charlemagne would have done if one had whisked him down from paris to the spanish frontier in something under twenty hours? probably the hero would have been paralysed with terror during the journey and would have revenged himself upon the magician by means of a little stake party. but what would have been magic and miracle to charlemagne remains in one's mind as a jumble--the interior of a second-class carriage; antimacassars; an adolescent who ate lusciously a basket of peaches, thereby reminding us that french peaches ripen early in june; intrusive knees and superfluous legs; an obese man who pinched my knee in his sleep, probably from habit; touches of indigestion which made one fidget, and in the dawn a little excitement roused by observing the turpentine tapping operations at work on the pine-trees by the side of the railroad--cemented together by the thick atmosphere of a summer's night enclosed between shut windows. it is a strange fact that the more perfect do we make travelling, the more tedious does it become--i wonder whether the same may not apply to almost all progress in civilization. the most primitive aspect of travel is that of walking, and even upon the most tedious of walks the exercise itself seldom degenerates into definite boredom, one is never far away from one's fellow men, yet even if one is quite alone the mere fact of walking is an occupation which cannot be despised; of riding similar things may be said. coaching may have had its inconveniences, yet a coach drive cannot have been lacking in definite interest. one was in very close contact with one's fellow passengers, coaching made as strange bedfellows as any adversity, and the journey was seldom so short that one could enjoy a sort of snuffy insulation from one's fellows--mutual discomforts, even mutual terrors of footpads made a definite bond of humanity. it is true that in all these primitive processes the act of getting from here to there is prolonged--perhaps extremely prolonged--but mere duration is not tedium. if the act itself is interesting and vivid then the act itself is worth while. to-day the act of travelling by a fast train is scarcely worth while--the traveller can almost count it out as so much time lost out of life. i fear that when the aeroplane is perfected journeys will be performed in a tedium absolutely unrelieved, and those patients who have to undertake journeys would be advised to take a mild anæsthetic at the beginning. what is missing to-day from the act of travelling--and what lacks from much modern civilization--is the expectation of the unexpected; the sense of adventure, the true sauce of life. now to have the true sense of adventure it is not necessary that one should always be expecting to meet a lion round the corner. any little thing will do, anything not before experienced, anything that will give the imagination that extra fillip of interest which will convince it that the world will always remain a fortunatus purse of new things to learn, anything that will make positive the fact that the act of living is also the act of growing,--anything of this nature will contribute to the sense of adventure. but the trend of civilization to-day is that all these little interests are being quietly but very effectively crushed: we fling them beneath the wheels of railway trains and into the cogs of factories, with the result that only those experiences which are too large for us to fling thus are allowed to flourish. we have, in fact, almost cleared away the little things and left only the big. now, if we turn the corner, either there is nothing at all or, in one case out of a hundred, we find the lion. in our railway travelling to-day, either nothing happens or there is a railway accident; but we have turned so many corners in our lives which led to the mere blankness of more empty road, that the possibility of the lion has almost faded from our minds--and so the sense of adventure in little, the true sense of adventure, is in danger of atrophy. some day, i feel sure that this sense of adventure will take a revenge on the civilization which would destroy it. we kill off birds and caterpillars flourish. some worm lies near the heart of things ready to gnaw at the right moment. i fear that never will they apply "preservation laws" to the sense of adventure, or we, as adventurers, properly appreciated, should be in receipt of a scholarship or of a civil list pension. we were too dazed by the drug of twenty hours of tedium and sleeplessness to suck any adventure from the passage through the french customs house at hendaye. but this experience roused us so that we were quite mentally awake by the time that we reached irun. here a problem confronted us. we had in our large leather trunk a good many yards of government canvas, several pounds' worth of paints, and ten pounds in weight of preparation for turning the government canvas into material for painting upon. we had heard that the spanish customs were very strict; very strict in theory, that is. "but if they worry you, bribe them a bit," had said a friend. were these things contraband? if so, how much was one to bribe, and how was one to do it? there are plenty of men with nerve enough to try to tip charon for his trip over the styx, but jan is not one of these. now for a man of jan's kind to attempt a delicate piece of palmed bribing often results in things worse than if he had left well alone. ten to one there is a fumble and the coin drops to the floor beneath the nose of the chief bug-a-bug. so, fingering two unpleasantly warm five-peseta pieces in his pocket, he prayed fervently to kind opportunity to step in. to his prayer the goddess answered. we had brought with us from our paris studio a mosquito curtain which once before had been used in majorca. as our baggage was packed in london we had, rather than undo straps and locks, tied this mosquito curtain, wrapped in clean brown paper, on to the outside of our suit-case. upon this the authorities flung themselves. "hi!" they cried. "you will pay duty on this, it is new." two gendarmes and a clerk tore off the paper, pitched the mosquito curtain into a pair of scales, weighed it and wrote out the bill. all the while we had been clamouring, with a sudden memory from hugo: "antigua, antigua, antigua...." this clamour became suddenly effective as soon as the officials had nothing to do than to collect the money. instead of cash we gave them a chorus of "antigua, antigua." the clerk and the two gendarmes then began what seemed to be an impromptu imitation of miss loie fuller in her celebrated skirt dancing--mosquito curtain whirled this way and that in voluptuous curves. they were looking for evidence. suddenly i pointed out a spot where perchance some full-blooded mosquito had come to a sudden death in , when the world was yet at peace. the mosquito curtain was refolded, the bill torn up. they were quite peremptory with the rest of our luggage; so jan dropped the two warm five-peseta pieces back into his pocket. however much one may be in a country, one never feels that one _is_ in the country until the door leading out of the customs house has been passed. so we never really thought of ourselves as being in spain until we stepped on to the platform where the train for madrid was standing. with a bitter shock, we realized that it was a chill day and raining. we had come all the way from england, hunting the sun, to be greeted in june by a day which would fit, both in temperature and atmosphere, the tail-end of a march at home. [illustration] of those minor adventures which make life so valuable, some of the finest flowers amongst them which may be picked are the delicate first impressions of a new country. these impressions have a flavour all their own; they are usually compressed within the space of one hour or so, and once experienced they never return. new impressions indeed one may gather by the score, but those first, fine savourings of the new can never be retasted. we had expected so much from spain. we had hoped at the first moment to open out our arms to her sun, to satiate our colour sense with the blueness of her skies--we were received instead with this grey, gloomy weather. how can one describe the revulsion? it would be an exaggeration to say that it was as though we had touched a corpse where we had expected to find a living man, but the revulsion was of this nature though perhaps less poignant. i left jan to finish with the larger luggage and, securing the aid of a porter, set out to look for an hotel. at the exit of the station i was accosted by a sallow man with a large, peaked jockey cap pulled down over a thin face. he said: "hey, señora! hotel? spik engleesh. yes." "we don't want a dear place," i answered in english. "we want a cheap one, understand?" "hotel. spik engleesh. yes," replied the tout. "cheap hotel--cheap," i said. "hotel. spik engleesh--yes," said he. "puede usted recomendarme una fonda barata?" said i, out of the conversation book, though the "_barata_"[ ] at the end was my own. but the tout turned sulky and would not answer--i suppose he thought his fee would diminish if he were enticed into spanish. the porter stood on one side; he was a small, inadequate man and he sniffed continually. whether he had caught cold from the rain, or whether he was expressing his private opinion of travellers, i did not learn. jan was arranging about our trunk and a hold-all; i had in my charge two thermos flasks, a camera, two rucksacks--memories of days in the german tyrol before the war--and a suit-case which had been with us in serbia and which still bore the faint traces of a painted red cross, but the cat had for the last two years been sharpening her claws upon it and the leather now looked something like "teddy bear" material. these i distributed between the porter and the tout, and, trusting to providence and my own powers of observation, we entered irun. where was the queer magic which lies in the first impressions of a new land, the dreamlike quality, the unreality which almost puts one's feet for a moment into fairyland? spain had played a nasty trick upon us; the grey sky and the low-lying cloud and the drizzling rain had nothing of fairyland for us. with head held low against the drizzle one was conscious of nothing but a wall on the right hand and of dirty pavement beneath the feet. the tout led me into the first house we reached. there, was a narrow passage which passed by a room of a dingy whiteness; but the tout showed me on, up some stumbly stairs and through a spring door. we came into a dark room in which, by means of the light filtering through the slats of the closed shutters, could be seen the dim outlines of a bed and of a tin wash-hand-stand. "ocho pesetas," said the tout. "por todo," i answered. "todo--todo--comida y toda," protested the tout. i had been waiting for this moment. in the conversation book which i had been studying was a phrase which had caught my fancy; it meant "no extras," but it was much more beautiful. the time had come. "no hay extraordinario?" said i sternly. "no, señora, no," said the tout, spreading out his hands. the matter having been thus settled, he took me downstairs again; and, in the dingy white diningroom, introduced me to a plump woman, the proprietress. i was ravenously hungry; the tables were laid. i asked: "what time is lunch?" "at two, señora." i was dismayed. it was now eleven o'clock--we had eaten little since the night before. "but," i stammered, "i am hungry. tengo hambre." my memory shuffled with conversation-book sentences and faint recollections of majorca, but could find nothing about the minutiæ of food. "tengo hambre," i repeated desperately. suddenly inspiration came to me. i made motions of beating up an omelet and clucked like a hen that has laid an egg. for a moment there was a silence, a positive kind of silence, which is much more still than mere absence of noise. then a roar of laughter went up. the fat hostess shook like a jelly, the tout guffawed behind a restraining hand--he had not yet received his tip--while an old woman who had been sitting in one of the darker corners, went off: "ck! ck! ck! he! he! he! ck! ck! ck! he! he! he!" at this moment jan arrived, having deposited the bigger luggage and having been informed that the train to avila, our first stopping-place, went out at a.m. i led him along the dark passage and upstairs. he flung wide the shutters. the window looked into a deep, triangular well at the bottom of which was a floor of stamped earth, a washtub and a hen-coop. windows of all sizes pierced the walls at irregular intervals and across the well were stretched ropes, from some of which flapped pieces of damp linen or underclothes. in the light of the open window the room was dingy. we wondered if there were bugs in it, for we had been cautioned against these insects. but the room did not smell buggy; it had a peculiar smell of its own. the strong characteristics of odours need more attention than novelists give them. for instance, i remember that german mistresses had a faint vinegary scent, but french governesses an odour like trunks which had been suddenly opened. this room had an austere smell. it smelt, i don't know how, roman catholic: not of incense nor of censers, but of a flavour which, by some combination of circumstances, we have associated with roman catholicism in bulk. the bedroom door was largely panelled with tinted glass; it had a very flimsy lock, but we did not fear that we would be murdered or burgled in our bed. the omelet was ready when we came down. the diningroom had two doors, one leading to the kitchen, one up some steps and into the street. there was a broad stretch of window and almost all the other walls of the room were covered with big mirrors. [illustration] about five grim people, mostly clad in black--including the old lady--sat in the room and stared at us as we ate. we could not avoid this disconcerting gaze--look where we would we either caught a human eye or else, what was worse, we were fascinated by a long procession of eyes passing away into the dim mysteries of reflection and re-reflection of the mirrors. we had to choose between the gaze of one real old lady or of twenty-five reflected old ladies, of one callow youth or of twenty-five youths diminishing towards the infinite. the audience stared at us as we ate our omelet, watched the fruit--apricots, cherries and hard pears--with which we finished the meal, and noted each sip of coffee. at last, unable to bear any longer the embarrassment of this mechanically intensified curiosity, we took refuge in our bedroom and lay down. we then noted that the bed was too small, all the rest of the furniture, on the contrary, being much too big. we rested till lunch. the omelet and the fruit had but filled some of the minor vacancies within us and we were ready again on the stroke of two. once more we faced the spanish stare and all the reflected repetitions of it. a fair number of persons lunched at the hotel. as they came in the women sat themselves directly at the table, but the men without exception went to the far corner where, suspended against the wall, was a small tin reservoir with a minute tap and beneath it a tiny basin. each man rinsed his hands in the infinitesimal trickle, before he sat down to dinner. why the men and women made this distinction we could not guess. it seemed to be a custom and not to be dependent upon whether the hands were dirty or not. even if the hands had been dirty the small amount of water used would not have cleaned them. in the centre of the dining table were white, porous vessels containing drinking water. the water oozes through the porous clay and appears on the outside of the vessel as a faint sweat. this layer of moisture evaporates and keeps all the water in the vessel at several degrees cooler than the surrounding atmosphere. between mouthfuls of soup and wedges of beef the diners were watching us. as soon as the meal was over we fled into the streets of irun. one cannot call irun spanish. it is abominably french, though france is pleasant in its own place. the café in the little plaza is french, with a french _terrasse_, french side screens of ugly ironwork and glass, and faces a square full of shady trees between which one sees modern fortifications of french appearance. so we sat sipping coffee and we said to ourselves: "forget that you are in spain. put off your excitement. don't waste your sensations with false sentiment". nor did the fact that all the wording on the shops was spanish, nor even the sight of a building of pure modern spanish architecture rouse us from our cloudy resignation. the building which towered into some six stories by the side of the railway was of a maroon brick. the lower story, including the entrance door, was decorated with _appliqué_ in the design which the french used to call "l'art nouveau," and which now is confined almost exclusively to the iron work on boulevard cafés. it is marked by exaggerated curves. the whole bottom story of this building was sculptured in this fantastic fashion; in order to fit in with the decorations the front door was wider at the top than it was at the bottom, while the windows were of every variety of shape, squashed curves, dilated hearts, indented circles and so on. above this story the building rose gravely brick save for the corners, which were decorated with bathroom tiles of bad glaze upon which flowers had been painted; roses, violets and pansies: the top story, however, was part gothic, part egyptian, with a unifying intermixture of more bathroom tiles. a munition millionaire went to an art dealer saying he wanted a picture, but he didn't mind what sort of a picture it was provided it looked expensive. we imagined that the architect of this house had received a similar order. later on we were undeceived. a yellow tram went by bearing the name "fuentarabia." having heard eulogies of this place, we decided to go. we reached the terminus of the tramway and the conductor told us we were there. since then we have met so many people who were in ecstasies about the beauties of fuentarabia, about its pure spanish character, etc., etc., that we are still wondering if we went to fuentarabia after all. footnotes: [footnote : cheap.] chapter iv medina del campo if civilization were without a flaw, the happy civilized traveller could pass through and circumambulate a foreign country yet never come into closer contact with the inhabitants than that transmitted through a cook's interpreter. so that if you want to learn anything about a country, either you must put a sprag into the wheels of this civilization or you must let opportunity do it for you. opportunity is a very complaisant goddess: give her an inch and the ell at least is offered to you. she smiled upon us when we decided to stay the night at irun; once more she smiled when the porter told us that the train to avila left about eight o'clock, so we humped the two rucksacks and the suit-case from the inn to the station, got our trunk and hold-all from the baggage office and went to buy our tickets. then we realized what opportunity had been up to. the ticket clerk refused to give us tickets to avila. "why not? "the train does not go through avila, it goes to madrid by the other branch through segovia. the train by avila goes at four." "where, then, does it branch off?" "at medina del campo." "then give us tickets to avila and we will wait at medina del campo." but the authorities did not approve of this novel idea. it seemed that the through-ticket system had not become the custom in spain. we must then take tickets to medina or wait in irun till the proper, respectable avila train should go, so to the astonishment of the booking clerk we said: "all right, give us tickets for medina." [illustration] i do not believe that any pleasure traveller had stopped at medina before we did. that is the impression we received, both from the behaviour of the porters at irun and of those at medina itself. the scenery from the railway was, as scenery always is, fascinating because of one's elevation and the scope of one's view, tiring because of its continuous movement. we passed through mountains worthy of scotland, very scotch in colour, and at last came out upon the big plain of valladolid. while we were streaming across this and the mountains were fading slowly into a distant blue the luncheon-car waiter announced his joyful news. we had heard that living in spain was going to be dear, so, with some trepidation, we decided to take that train luncheon--for our financial position did not encourage extravagance. the whole trip was, in theory, to come within the limits of jan's war gratuity--about £ . we had calculated the railway travelling as £ in all; this gave us £ for all other expenses, including the purchase of the musical instruments upon which we had set our minds, and we hoped to stay for four or five months. yet in spite of the need for economy luncheon called us if only as an experience. the meal cost us about three and fourpence apiece: it was a complicated affair of many courses--even in a soho restaurant the same would have come to about ten shillings, so that the spirit of economy in us was cheered and inspirited. of our fellow passengers we remember nobody save a gigantic priest who waddled slowly along the corridors, carrying, suspended on a plump finger, a very small cage in which, like a mediæval captive in a "little ease," was a canary almost as large as its prison. medina station looked like an exaggerated cart-shed on a farm; two long walls and a roof of corrugated iron--there were no platforms, only one broad pavement along one of the walls. a small bookstall was against the wall and further along the pavement a booth of jewellery. this booth had glass windows and "precio fijo"[ ]--"no bargaining," in other words--was painted across the glass in white letters. why spaniards, _en route_, should have mad desires to purchase jewellery, we have not learned, but these jewellery booths are common on spanish stations. the jewellers seem to detest bargaining, for these words always appear on the windows. i suppose the fact that the purchaser of jewellery has got to catch a train may give him some occult advantage over the seller. one may imagine him slamming his last offer down on the counter and sprinting off with the coveted trinket to the train, while the defrauded merchant is struggling with the door-handle of his booth--so "no bargaining" is painted up, very white and very positive. as we had nine hours to wait, there was no need to hurry, so we allowed the crowd to drift out of the platform before we began to see about the disposal of our luggage. stumbling about in hugo spanish we discovered that, owing to the receipt that had been given us at irun, our big trunk would look after itself until claimed, but that there was no luggage office or other facility for getting rid of our smaller baggage. we, however, insinuated understanding into the head of a porter, who thereupon led us to a door amongst other doors in the wall labelled "fonda." we came into a huge hall. across one end stretched a majestic bar four feet high, of elaborately carved wood, upon the top of which were vases of fruits, tiers of bottles and glittering machines for the manufacture of drink. three long tables were in the room, two spread simply with coffee-cups. the third table occupied the full length of the middle of the room. it seemed spread for some lord mayor's banquet. snowy napery was covered along the centre with huge cut-glass dishes, stacked with fruit, alternated with palms flanked by champagne bottles and white and red wine bottles. fully fifty places were laid, each place having seven or eight plates stacked upon it while the cutlery sparkled on either hand. a cadaverous, unshaven waiter lounged about amongst this magnificence and lazily flicked at the flies with his napkin. this huge, deserted room, expectant of so many guests, made one think of the introduction to a fairy story: one could have sat the mad hatter, the dormouse and the march hare down there, but one could never imagine that fifty passengers could in sober earnestness crowd to have supper at medina del campo upon the same day. no, rather here was one flutter of the dying pomp and majesty of spain. we placed our bags in a corner of the pretentious room and went from the station to look for the town. it was nowhere to be seen. a white road deep in dust gleamed beneath the afternoon sun and led away across the ochreous plain, but, of town, not a sign. yet the white road was the only road; medina must be somewhere, so off we walked. the plain was not quite flat, it flowed away in undulations which appeared shallow, but which proved sufficiently deep to swallow up all signs of medina del campo at the distance of a mile. first we came to a line of little brightly coloured hovels, square boxes, many of only one room, then to a church, an ancient spanish-gothic church surrounded by gloomy trees. suddenly the road turned a corner and we were almost in the middle of the town. medina was spanish enough. here was the plaza at the end of which towered a high cathedral decorated with colour and with carving. the plaza lay broad and shining beneath the sunlight; loungers sprawled in the shadows beneath the small, vivid green trees, and in the deep stone arcades which edged the open square the afternoon coffee-drinkers, clad in cool white, lolled at the café tables. in the centre of the plaza was a fountain running with water, and about it came and went a continual procession of women bearing large, white amphoras upon their hips, children carrying smaller drinking vessels, and men wheeling long, barrow-like frameworks into which many amphoras were placed. the shops and cafés were painted in gay colours which were brilliant in the sun and which contrasted pleasantly with the crude--as though painted--green of the trees and the clear, soothing hue of the sky. i know that historical things have happened at medina del campo, but we are not going to retail second-hand history. to us, as living beings, it is far more important that we bought our first oily, almondy spanish cakes here than that santa teresa (who started off at the age of ten years to be martyred by the moors) founded a convent in the town. medina is a dead place and must be typical of spain. it has a market, a plaza and a few ragged fringes of streets more than half full of collapsing houses, and in this gay-looking remnant of past glory are at least three enormous churches with monasteries in attendance. but even the churches are falling into ruin and the storks' nests are clustered flat on the belfries, while hymen's debt collectors, clapping their beaks, gaze down from aloft into the empty roadways. sunset had played out a colour symphony in orange major by the time we had arrived back at the station where we asked for a meal; but the cadaverous, blue-jowled waiter had not laid covers for fifty in order that intrusive strangers might push in and demand food at whatever hour they chose. "supper," he said with some dignity and disgust at our ignorance, "is at eight." so out we went on to the pavement platform, found a lattice seat and ate the cakes we had bought. they were like treacly macaroons, so oily that the paper in which they had been wrapped was soaked through, but it was with pure almond oil and the cakes were delicious. lunch had been eaten at twelve and in trains one never eats quite at one's ease; hunger had gripped us when eight o'clock struck by the station clock. we took our seats at the long table before those piles of plates. a quarter-past eight went by, half-past eight was approaching. one by one about six or seven persons sauntered into the room and seated themselves, distant from each other in comparison with the size of the table as are the planets in the solar system. nearest to us, our mars, as it were, was a very fat commercial man, his face showing the hue of the ruddy planet. our venus was represented by a pale young priest, his long wrists projecting far from the sleeves of his cassock. mercury looked appropriately enough like one who was always travelling; saturn was covered with rings--he must have been one of the customers of the "precio fijo" booths--the other planets were lost amongst cumulus of fruit and cirrus of palm. the waiter became active. balancing a large soup tureen, he ladled a thin, greenish soup into the upper plate. we then understood that we would have to eat our way down through the pile of plates, each plate a course. mars rushed at his soup in such a wild manner that we felt it was a good thing indeed that the soup-plate was thus raised so near to his mouth or fully the half of the soup would have drenched his waistcoat. alice again was recalled to my mind. i remembered her dismay during her regal banquet when the dishes once introduced to her were whisked away from under her nose, for every time i laid down my knife and fork to speak to jan my plate was seized and carried off by the cadaverous waiter. no sooner was i introduced to a new spanish dish than it was wrested from me. twice this had occurred. on the third occasion i lay in wait: as the waiter swooped for my plate i seized it. there was a momentary struggle, but i had two hands to his one; he retired with a look of astonishment on his face. gradually i became aware of the fact that mars never loosed his knife and fork until he had cleared his plate. he held both firmly in his two red hands. if he drank--which he did with gusto, throwing his head back, washing the wine, which had a queer tarry taste, about the inside of his mouth, almost cleaning his teeth with it--he held his fork sceptre-wise as if to say to the waiter, "touch that last corner of beefsteak at your peril." when he had quite finished the course, when he had mopped up all the remnants with a piece of bread, then and then only did he lay down both knife and fork. unconsciously i had been giving a signal to the waiter. after the beefsteak we had a surprise. one has been so long accustomed to the french custom in gastronomy, that one almost forgets that courses are not arranged in an immutable order. once indeed i did make a bet in paris that i would eat a meal in the inverse direction, beginning with the coffee and sweets and ending with the soup--which, by the way, proved very hard to swallow--but the mere fact that one could bet about it proves how fixed one imagines the laws of food progression to be. at medina del campo, after the beefsteak, which was about the third item on the menu, the waiter brought us fried fish, thereby proving that gastronomic progression is not so unalterable as is usually imagined. the fish looked like very small plaice, but they had a strange flavour which we had never before tasted. that the fish had been packed for several days in rotting hay seemed the nearest description and explanation, and we would have clung to this idea if the salad had not also had a perceptible tang of this unpleasant taste. we asked the waiter what the flavour was, but our spanish broke down under the strain, and the waiter said "claro"[ ] and went away. for some weeks afterwards the word "claro" became our bugbear. the spaniard gets little amusement from hearing his language spoken by foreigners. if the unfortunate foreigner does not get pronunciation, accent and intonation perfect the spaniard says "claro," in reality meaning "i can't make head or tail of what you are talking about." both laziness and courtesy make the spaniard say "claro," and often the poor foreigner is quite delighted with his progress in the language--the people tell him that everything he says is perfectly clear, hooray; he thinks that he must have an unsuspected gift for languages--until one day he asks the way to somewhere and receives the usual answer, "claro." the redonda mesa,[ ] which would i think be the spanish for a "square meal," cost us again four pesetas, and it was an even better three and eightpenn'orth than we had been given on the train. the meal finished, the planets held a public tooth-picking competition for a while, then one by one they resumed their normal orbits and passed from our sight. we, with the processes of digestion heavy upon us, went back to the seat in the ill-lit station. three more hours we had to wait for the train to avila, so we sat in the mild night watching the only engine at medina--an engine which looked like an immediate descendant of stevenson's rocket--push trucks very slowly to and fro. this engine, though it made a lot of spasmodic noise, did not destroy, it only interrupted, the intense silence which lay over the country-side. the platform was quite deserted. presently two small boys came along. one had a red tin of tobacco which he offered to jan; jan shook his head but did not answer. they then tried to talk to us, but we knew better than to expose our imperfect castilian to two small boys--so we kept silence. at last they said we were "misteriosos" and went away. a luggage train steamed in. at the tail end of the train were three third-class carriages, and from these carriages, as well as from the waggons, poured out a mob of wild-looking men. they were dark brown, unshaven, covered with broad tattered straw hats, clothed in rough and ragged fustian and carried blankets of many coloured stripes. huge bundles, sacks and strange implements were slung upon their backs. as they crowded in beneath the dim lamp at the station exit one could almost have sworn that all the figures from millet's pictures had come to life. a smell of the soil and of labour and of sweat went up from them. these men were peasants from galicia; they had come in third-class carriages, in goods waggons, travelling probably for two or three days, attached to luggage trains, across the country to the harvesting. one by one they passed out, their voices trailed away into the night towards medina, and once more the silence came back. time wears itself out in the end. the train to avila, when it came, was fairly empty, so we could lay ourselves out at full length and rest, disturbed, however, by the continual fear that we might overshoot our destination. it was pitchy night when we clambered down from the train at avila. the large barn of a station was lit by but three minute lamps and the glow from the fonda door. in the semi-darkness the passengers moved about like ghosts, each intent on his own business. it was two o'clock in the morning, so before exploring we again put our baggage in a corner of the fonda; where also we found the one waiter presiding over a banquet laid for fifty non-existent guests. speaking as little of the language as we did, it seemed impossible to go exploring a foreign town in the dead of night for a hotel which would probably be shut when we found it. so, feeling somewhat like leon berthelini and his wife in stevenson's story, we sat down on a seat in the station to await the dawn. the temperature of the night was almost perfect; there was a hint of chill in our faces which, however, did not penetrate through the clothing. for awhile porters moved about arranging luggage, then one by one the three lights were extinguished and the station was left to darkness. one porter clambered into a carriage which was standing on a siding; as he did not come out again nor pass down on the other side we imagine he went to bed in it. we were tempted to follow his example, but feared the train might move off unexpectedly and carry us to some remote part of spain before we could wake up. one can tempt opportunity too far. but the seat was hard. if, like berthelini, we had had a guitar we might have performed miracles with it similar to his, but we had left our guitars in england. so jan went exploring. outside the station he found a small omnibus, its horses eating hay out of nose-bags. hearing faint voices he discovered a sort of dimly lit underground bar annexed to the fonda, in which the driver of the omnibus and a friend were drinking spirits, while the tired waiter lounged yawning behind the counter. our ignorance of spanish prevented us from thrusting ourselves into their company: but we waited for the driver to attend to his horses and in halting hugo we asked him at what hour the omnibus went to the hotel. he replied "in the morning" and went back to his drinking. the eau-de-nil of dawn found us on the edge of shivering, but the day warmed rapidly. a train thundered into the station pouring out its cascade of passengers. gathering up our packages and tipping the waiter fifty centimes, we found a new omnibus which was labelled "hotel jardin" and took our seats inside. dawn was over by the time we reached the hotel, though it was but four o'clock. we had a confused impression of great buff battlements overhanging the buildings, of a few stunted bushes, of one or two girls in black, of a huge room which was to be our bedroom and then--bed--sleep. footnotes: [footnote : fixed prices.] [footnote : "that is clear."] [footnote : round table.] chapter v avila borrow has a description of an inn in galicia in which a whole family occupies but one bedroom while the servant sleeps across the door. our bedroom in the hôtel del jardin was quite large enough for any family other than, perhaps, a french canadian, which sometimes runs, we have heard, into twenties and thirties. the walls were painted a pinky-mauve stucco, decorated with a broad olive-green ribbon of colour making a complete oblong or frame on each wall about eighteen inches within the edges of the wall, top, bottom and sides. this method of making, as it were, a separate frame of each wall, was novel and rather pleasant. it is a common practice in spanish wall decoration and is probably moorish in origin. the hotel was full of dark corridors leading to huge bedrooms: it had a broad veranda upstairs full of large wicker chairs, bottoms up, while downstairs was a dining room with square tables and a small entrance hall in which sat the three old ladies. with one of the old ladies we had bargained in a sleepy way upon our arrival. she had conceded us the room with full _pension_ (no extraordinarios) for eight pesetas a day, but in general the three old ladies sat in the entrada together, giving a sense of black-frocked repose and of quiet dignity to the place. one was thin-faced, dried-up but energetically capable; one was large and motherly, while the third had no characteristics whatever and was ignored by every one. [illustration] i do not think we realized that these three old ladies were the proprietresses until the second or third day at lunch-time. we had been given our seats at a table by the waiter; suddenly we found the three old ladies had surrounded us and were glowering down at us. we were rising to our feet but they peremptorily commanded us to stay where we were, breaking the rising tide of their wrath upon the waiter. then, for the first time, we realized how completely we were married in spain. in france, for instance, married people are "les époux," plural, separate; in england they are a "married couple," which still recognizes a duality though perhaps less definitely than does france; but in spain we were "un matrimonio," indissolubly wedded into one in the language, and into a masculine one at that. somehow i always felt that we ought to be wheeled in on casters: it was improper that so stately a thing as a matrimonio like the queen of spain should use legs. from the old ladies' annoyance we understood that the matrimonio had done something which was not correct, but they talked so fast, and they all talked together, so that the matrimonio could not make head or tail of what they were saying. nor indeed did we ever discover our misdemeanour. for our six and eightpence a day we had breakfast in a little side room. this meal was of _café au lait_ in a huge bowl, rolls and butter. sometimes we had companions for this meal. on the second day i was some minutes earlier than jan. at the table was a young peasant priest. he ignored my tentative bow but began muttering to himself protective prayers in latin. however, once i looked up suddenly and surprised him in the act of staring at me. he quickly crossed himself and redoubled the urgency of his protestations to god. the other meals were excellently cooked and with four or five courses to each, but the diningroom bore on its walls a placard saying that owing to the rise of prices the management regretted that it was unable to provide wine at the _pension_. so there was an extraordinario after all--and a very good extraordinario it was too--red rioja wine with the faint, strange exotic taste in it of the tar with which the wine barrels are caulked. you know the queer old drawings one finds in ancient books: towns like bandboxes with the walls round a perfect circle, and peaked houses all comfortably packed inside, and soldiers' heads sticking out of the battlemented towers? well, avila is like that. you may stand on the opposite hillside and see the full circle of her walls with never a breach in it, with towers at every two hundred yards or so, and you can gaze down into her houses, fitted neatly within the bandbox, and wonder if the old manuscripts were quite as exaggerated as one often supposed. from this hillside one might imagine that avila has never changed from the days when the monks drew their primitive pictures. the walls top the hill-side and one sees nothing of the modern avila which has spread beyond those great frowning gateways facing the plaza, but even the modern part of avila which has oozed out beyond the walls is not overwhelmingly modern. there are none of the exquisite specimens of spanish bad taste like that we found in irun. the plaza is surrounded by coloured houses and arcades much as is that of medina; the sun-blinds of the two large cafés are tattered and weather-beaten; the peasants stare at strangers with an unspoilt curiosity. the habit of rushing about towns, of penetrating into every gloomy interior, ecclesiastical or otherwise, which seems to be decently penetrable, is a modern convention to which we do not subscribe. there are two aspects to every place, the living and the dead, and we prefer the former. there is this advantage in our attitude, that one does not have to seek out the living, it flows quite easily and naturally by, and one does not remain an open-mouthed spectator with a jackdaw brain, but incorporates oneself with it. we did not go into the cathedral, nor into any convent, nor did we climb up the towers or into the walls: we sat at the café drinking in both coffee and spain. of costume, as spain is so often painted, there was little; the peasant men wore tall, flat-brimmed hats and broad, blue sashes about their stomachs; the women shawls and woven leggings; the mules and donkeys had trappings of bright-coloured woolwork and often saddlebags with fine woven coloured patterns on them. string-soled sandals were the footwear of the men and of the soldiers: string-soled shoes, alpagatas, were worn by the women and children. the town was moderately alive until eleven o'clock. very early in the morning the peasants came into the market with their mules or donkeys, then gradually a quiet settled down, a quiet which lasted till the evening. after six o'clock avila awoke, the business men left their shops, the officers their cantonments. the cadets and youths gathered in the plaza to flirt with the girls who, dressed in gay cottons, paraded to and fro in small giggling and swaying groups. booths selling cool drinks and ices opened at the corners of the plaza, while wandering sweetmeat merchants sold fried almonds and sugared nuts. there was no woman with a lace mantilla and a high comb, nor any one with a flat hat, embroidered shawl and cigarette; so the cigar boxes are liars. as one sits at the café table in spain, life is, perhaps, presented to one in an aspect almost too crude. lazarus lay at the rich man's gates exhibiting his sores, and the spanish beggar follows his example. spain needs no charles lamb to write of the decay of beggars. decayed indeed they are, but not in that sense of which lamb wrote: in tattered and unspeakable rags they pursue their trade from the asturias to cadiz. no dishonour attaches to beggary in spain. a spaniard was horrified when jan told him that begging was not permitted in england. "what, then, can those do who are unable or unwilling to work?" he asked. a humble though probably verminous official refuge is provided for the beggar in each town, and, as he tells his clients, "god repays" his small extortions. the spaniard is accustomed to his beggars, he does not nag at his conscience about them, but it harrows the unaccustomed heart of the englishman who, taking his modest coffee or blanco y negro after supper, finds a procession of misery thrusting importunate hands into his moment of quiet luxury. the spanish beggar has no tenderness for one's sensibility. each has the motto, "if you have tears prepare to shed them now." naturally we were their quarry. they presented us with a series of specimens worthy of a hospital museum. we hardened our hearts, as we were afraid of consequences, but after two days, when the beggars, disappointed with us, relaxed their exertions, we gave or withheld alms with the outward serenity of a spaniard, but feeling inwardly brutal whenever we refused to give a dole. dirty, half-naked children dodged about the café pillars, hiding from the waiter's eyes. they stared wistfully at the small, square packets of beet sugar which the waiter brought with the coffee, and if a lump were left over they would creep up and in a cringing whine ask for it. boys slightly older usually begged for a perra chica or for a cigarette. their voices would be pathetic enough almost to break one's heart--they would say they had not eaten for three days--but if the refusal was decisive they would suddenly change their tones and shout out gaily to a comrade or run away whistling, or turn a few cartwheels down the gutter. in avila, too, we encountered the money problem. we had been told that the spaniard calculates his cash in pesetas and centimos, the peseta being worth normally tenpence in english money and the ten-centimo piece about one penny. so far this had worked fairly well, we had been on the travellers' route and the peculiarity of travellers had been catered for; but here we found a new system of coinage. "how much is that?" i asked a woman in the market, pointing to some object. "that," she replied, "is worth six 'little bitches.'" "six what?" i exclaimed. "well, three 'fat dogs,' if you prefer." "three 'fat dogs'?" "yes, or one 'royal' and one 'little bitch.'" "but i cannot understand. what is a 'royal'?" "oh, don't you know? why, twenty 'royals' make a 'hard one.'" at last we worried it out. the little bitch (perra chica) is five centimos, or one halfpenny. the fat dog (perro gordo) is the ten-centimo piece; these are both so called because of the lion on the back, though why the sex should be changed we do not know. the royal (real) is twenty-five centimos or twopence-halfpenny, the "hard one" (duro) is a five-peseta piece. the peseta is ignored. nobody except an ignorant foreigner calculates in pesetas. the spaniard, who often cannot write, does staggering sums in mental arithmetic, reducing thirty-two "little bitches" or seventeen "royals" almost instantly into the equivalent in minted coin. we had come to spain for the several reasons mentioned in chapter i. we had found the freedom: it was as though some oppressing weight were lifted from off us, as though an attack of mental asthma had been relieved. but on the whole we felt that we had been defrauded in other respects. the weather, except for the afternoon at medina, had been very cloudy and at times almost cold. we had heard no guitar during our week in spain. one day a man with a primitive clarinet, accompanied by a man with a side drum, had wandered about the town making a queer music which had given us thrills of unexpected delight. but jan does not play the clarinet. he had made up his mind about guitars, and guitars he would have. the last night which we were to spend in avila, he said: "see here, jo, we'll go out and we'll walk up and down, through and round this town, till we hear a guitar playing. then we will walk in and explain. i'm sure the people, whoever they may be, will not mind, but i am going to hear spanish music." after supper we set out again. we walked the town from the top to the bottom. not a whisper of guitar or of any other music. we bisected the town from left to right--still silence except for the dim sounds of normal evening life. we went out into the little garden which was beyond the walls and, leaning on the parapet, stretched our ears over the small suburb beneath. the cries of a wailing child or two, of a scolding woman and the shouts of an angry man answered us; of music not a note. we walked round the walls and were about to return in disappointment to the hotel, when jan said "hush!" we listened. barely audible, from below on the hill-side, came the faint tinkle of a guitar. we looked out across the dark country. the hill sloped steeply from our feet and rose again in planes of blue blackness to the distant mountains. almost in the bottom of the valley we saw a square of light from an open door. the sound came from this direction. cautiously we crept down the hill, which was steep, pebbly and without paths. as we came down, the noise grew louder. there was a small drinking house or venta by the roadside; near to it, drawn up on a grassy spot beneath some big trees, were gipsy caravans and booths, and as we passed by we could see, dimly white, the blanketed shapes of the gipsies as they lay on the grass asleep under the stars. from the venta came the sounds of music. after a momentary hesitation we went in. the room, lit by one dim lamp, was crowded with gipsies and workmen. it was long in shape and an alcove almost opposite to the door was partitioned off as a bar. at one end was a table upon which three gipsies with dark, lined spanish faces were sitting, and the audience had formed itself into rough, concentric semicircles spreading down the length of the room. most of the men were swarthy with the sun, clad in the roughest of clothes, some with tall hats on, others with striped blankets flung over their shoulders. the inn looked like what the average traveller would describe as a nest of brigands. we murmured a bashful "buenos noches," bowed to the company and crept into the background. a few returned our greeting, but with delicacy of feeling the majority took no overt notice of our presence. the man on the table who held the guitar began to thrum on the instrument. a tall gipsy, whose face was drawn into clear, almost prismatic shapes, and who might have stepped out of an etching by goya, put his stick into a corner, slipped off his blanket and, standing in the open space before the table, began a stamping dance, snapping his fingers in time with the rhythm. a workman standing near to us said: "that man does not play the guitar very well, the other one plays better." he went out and in a short while returned with his wife, a laughing woman whom he placed next to me. there was no drinking of wine. the alcarraza, an unglazed, bottle shaped drinking vessel, full of water, was handed about. it has a small spout, and from this the spaniard pours a fine stream of water into his mouth. but beware, incautious traveller--ten to one you will drench yourself. though the audience apparently took no notice of our presence, in reality they were extremely conscious of us. one by one, as if by accident, gipsy women clad in red cottons came into the already crowded room. soon a girl was urged to dance. she demurred, giggling. at last she was pushed into the open space, and with a gesture of resignation she began to dance. we are not judges of spanish dancing: we had been looking for atmosphere, and had plunged into the thick of it. this was no café in madrid or seville got up for the entertainment of the traveller. this was the true, natural, romantic spain. opportunity again had blessed her disciples. one of the women pushed her way out of the door, and in a short while returned, dragging with her a child about nine years old. the little girl's face was frowning and angered, the sleep from which she had been roused still hung heavy on her eyelids. "aha!" exclaimed the audience. "she dances well." the man who was reputed the better player roused himself from the table and sat down on a chair. they put castanets into the child's hands. the man struck a few chords and slowly the music formed itself into the rhythm of a spanish measure. [illustration] relaxing none of her angry, sleepy expression, the child danced wonderfully. the castanets clashed and fluttered beneath her fingers, her skirts swirled this way and that, her feet beat the floor in time with the pulsation of the guitar. the audience shouted encouragement at her. with a wild series of movements, the dance at last came to an end. "brava! brava!" cried the gipsies. "one day that girl will be worth much money," said a man, with approval in his voice. then the best male dancer took the floor. with true artistic instinct he did not attempt to rival the active dancing of the child, but performed a stately movement, holding his arms above his head, and slowly turning himself about. when he sat down an old man of seventy or so began a series of senile caperings, thumping his stick on the floor. the audience rolled with laughter at the ancient buffoon. for some while jan had been wondering whether he should pay for two or three bottles of wine for the company, but we did not know the delicacies of spanish etiquette, nor had we sufficient language in which to make an inquiry, so, pushing my way to the child who had danced so well, i pressed a few coppers into her hand. she looked up at me in astonishment. "what do you want me to do, then?" she asked. our spanish failed to shape a proper reply, so i smiled at her as answer. "buenos noches," and "muchos gracias," we said to the crowd, and made our way out again into the night. we were followed up the hill by a gipsy boy who begged cigarettes, but he had pestered us during the whole of our stay at avila, and we did not feel kindly towards him. nor indeed had we any cigarettes to give, because spain was suffering from a tobacco famine, and those which we had brought with us from france had just come to an end. the next morning we left the hôtel del jardin, which owes its name to the fact that it possesses in the front a tiny square of earth on which grow five bushes and a small tree. we were bound for madrid. chapter vi madrid madrid station was the usual dark barn into which the trains ran and where they rested, as the diligences rest beneath the barn of the coaching inn. one descended the steps of the carriage into gloom; found a dim porter whom one would never recognize again; made one's way amongst the towering, sniffling black pargantua of locomotives; was fought for by an excited mob of cabmen, amongst whom one remained passive until a cabman dowered with more character than his fellows had managed to attract one's notice; and finally we were packed into a small, four-square omnibus, our luggage on the top, the driver and his tout on the box. a police official in a grey uniform halted us. he asked our names, our destination and warned us not to pay the driver more than five pesetas for the trip, including the luggage. to-day was sunday. we had, indeed, on getting up at avila imagined it to be saturday. we were leaving avila expressly on a saturday in order to be in madrid for the great sunday bullfight, for practically all bullfighting in spain is reserved as a mild sport for sunday afternoon, or for other days of church festival. unfortunately, we had learned on the train that it was not saturday but sunday. somehow, we had mislaid a day. we had presented ourselves with a wednesday or a thursday or a friday too many, and now sunday had gone bang and the bullfight with it. but in consequence our entry into madrid had some of the dignity of a royal procession. we plunged, a shabby omnibus, into the flood of carriages which parade the parks of madrid on bullfight occasions. there were doubtless ladies with high combs placed in their raven hair; with lustrous eyes glowing from the deep caverns of their eye sockets; with a waxy and sensuous flower hanging from their full-blooded lips; clad in mystery-lending mantilla and gorgeous shawl, over which the orient has burst a splendour of silken blossom. there were, no doubt, such spectacles to see; there must have been; all the artists who paint spain cannot lie. yet i confess that we did not see them. though we are beginning to be suspicious of spanish painters, we will not assert that no such ladies drove in procession, tempting the lounging spaniard with glances from eyes of melting jet. we did not see them because the whole flood of carriages was plunged in a strange golden haze. dusk had fallen and overhead signs of daylight showed purplish through the fog, but lower down it was quite dark, and through this haze of orange-gold particles, which drifted in the air as golden particles drift in a chemical solution, the lamps of the carriages threw long searchlights, arresting strange silhouettes of the coach-borne crowd, so that we made our first acquaintance with the people of madrid merely as black shadows against a radiance of gold. it was, indeed, somewhat a prophetic introduction. these black shadows against the gold may stand as a figure for spain. we think of spain as the land of the last romance, whereas the spaniard's real romance is money and the gaining of it. but this is a mixing of secondary and primary impressions. before our eyes madrid rolled forward, gloating in an aureate solution, accompanied by the shouts of coachmen and the blaring from aristocratic and impatient motor-cars. we sat looking out of the black windows of the omnibus with much of that childish delight which a shadowgraph theatre gives. in time, however, we began to cough. after a while longer we began to realize that this haze so exquisite in the lamplight was dust--dust. we rolled along, manufacturing our halo as we went, until, coming out of the press of carriages into cobbled and ill-lit streets, our glory fell away from us and we rocked on, reflecting on this apt illustration of the old french proverb concerning beauty and suffering. gradually we decided that we could have dispensed with this weird introduction to madrid in order to have spared our throats. our friend jesus perez had given us an address appropriately enough in the place of the angel. but there were three _pensions_ in the same building and he had not discriminated. so i, leaving jan to look after the bus, went to explore, and knocking at random was brought face to face with an old lady who had not a trace of the angelic in her constitution. while she was grumpily and wilfully misunderstanding me, insisting that the señor for whom i was looking did not live there, a crowd of well-fed persons sifted from the dining-room and stood in a circle staring at me with cold-eyed curiosity. as they stared they all picked their teeth. at last i forced understanding on her and she told me in a surly voice that her _pension_ was full. the other two _pensions_ were full also. it was explained to me that madrid was suffering from congestion, that never had such a season been experienced. so i retreated from the stairs and we held a council of distress in the street. the driver of the bus, who did not indeed look like a very competent judge, said that he knew of a good _pension_. by a series of manoeuvres, about as complicated as the turning of a large ship in a small river, he got his bus reversed and we set off again the way we had come. but once more we met a refusal, backed by wide-eyed staring and public tooth-picking. we had the address of an hotel, as a last resource indeed, for it was somewhat beyond our means, costing seventeen pesetas a day _en pension_. so in despair we made our way to it, wondering whether the congestion had spread from the eight peseta boarding-houses to the seventeen-peseta hotels, and whether our first night in madrid was to be spent in the bus. we came back into the garishly lit main streets of madrid and at last the bus halted. there was no hotel front, and we plunged between two shops along a passage from which photographs of the beauties of madrid showed exquisite sets of teeth from the showcases of a society photographer. a narrow, twisting staircase--the lift was out of order--spiralled us up to a sumptuous hotel decorated with mirrors and white paint arranged with a permanic taste. rooms were to be had, and so we resigned ourselves to luxury for a few days. luxury indeed it was. for our eight pesetas a day in avila we had had as much as we wanted. here it was in proportion. we were expected to eat our seventeen pesetas' worth a day. course followed course until, more than replete, we had to wave away almost the whole of the second half of this truly roman repast. the waiters were aghast. what? not eat seventeen pesetas worth when one had paid for it? incredible! we gazed about at our fellow diners and saw that we were unique. but then as a rule our fellow diners surpassed us as much in girth as in appetite; they had "excellent accommodations." your true spaniard adores his dinner. there is a general superstition that love is the spaniard's prime passion. but i doubt it. for the once that we have been asked what we think of spanish beauty, we have been twenty times questioned about our judgment of spanish cooking. madrid at night. how much has one not dreamed of southern romance beneath skies of ultramarine? but madrid seems just like any other large european city. it is paris without the wit, munich without the music. we talk, of course, of first impressions. the first impressions of a town are rarely national. collective humanity is collective humanity everywhere; has the same needs and devises the same methods of satisfying them. some needs madrid supplies more blatantly than is done in other places. the latin is indifferent to noise and the spaniard is the most hardened of the latin races. there seems to be no curb on the cries of the street vendors. the consequence is that each shouts out his wares in competition with his fellows; the louder the yell the more the custom. the peculiar qualities of spanish singing further stimulate to a point of mordant acidity the iberian voice. for a person of sensitive hearing madrid is intolerable: newspaper men, flower-merchants, toothpick-sellers, and above all the lottery ticket vendors, scream their wares with nerve-racking persistency; added to which, to make pandemonium complete, the cab-drivers and their touts bellow and shout, while the horns of the motor-cars are the most discordant that we have ever heard. as the night progressed from a stifling heat to a comparative coolness the noise seemed to increase. at two o'clock in the morning we thought, surely, it had reached its limit. and to some extent it had. one thanks heaven sometimes that the human machine runs down; and we, when the "sweet sister of death" laid her hands upon newspaper and lottery ticket sellers, sent a thanksgiving up towards the stars, a thanksgiving the more sincere at the moment because it was silent. the diminution of noise went on steadily until about three, and we imagined that madrid was going to sleep. it was, however, but a ruse of the subtle city. as is well known, one can become used to a persistent or regularly repeated noise, for jan used to sleep sweetly close to the stamp battery of a mine, the din of which was so deafening that the voice was inaudible, even at the loudest shout; and dwellers near a railway line are but little disturbed by the nightly trains. madrid knew that in time we would become accustomed to the human babel, in spite of its strident note; so she substituted a fictitious silence torn into strips by the sudden passage of motors which had taken advantage of the clearness of the streets to put on full speed and also to cut off the silencer. irregularly these motors went by about one every five minutes. each silence was about long enough to let us reach the edge over which one tumbles into sleep, and each roaring passage of a car jerked us back into disgusted wakefulness. we arose to a very early breakfast, wishing we had mr. g. k. chesterton at hand so that we could enter into an argument with him about the beauties of liberty. to retrace our steps for a moment, it was just about at the hither side of the noise climax, that is, about . in the morning, that we got back to our hotel. we found the street door shut and locked, and no bell could we find to pull. we thumped on the door, but only a hollow, drum-like echoing answered us. we were dismayed. we had got up early at avila, a train journey and discoverings in madrid had worn us out, and on the other side of this locked door our bed tempted us; for we were not then aware that sleep was forbidden to us whether we got in or stayed in the street. it seemed strange in madrid, wide awake and noisy, that our hotel should have locked up so early and should have shut us out. despairingly again we drummed on the door. we awakened sympathy in a passer-by. a few words explained our plight. he whistled, and we presently saw a man with a lantern in his hand and with an official cap on his head coming towards us. our helper explained and the official unlocked the door, let us in, and locked the door behind us. this wandering latchkey is the equivalent to our old night-watchman. amongst his duties is that of chanting out the hours of the night as they pass--for the benefit of the sleepless--to which he adds the condition of the weather. since fully ninety-five per cent. of the spanish nocturnes are whistlerian blue, he has earned the title of el sereno, or the serene. there is an advantage in this custom--one cannot forget one's latchkey. the worst evil which can happen to one is that one's latchkey may forget itself: but spain is on the whole a sober country. a big town reveals its flavour but by degrees. madrid, whatever its real character may be, had hidden herself behind a veil--a veil of dust. that golden aura which had enveloped our first vision was not a permanent characteristic of the town. the dust hung in the air, rising higher than the houses. from the outskirts, maybe one would have seen madrid as it were enclosed in a dome of dust. we marvelled that people could live in such at atmosphere. we had noticed that, in addition to its dustiness, madrid was suffering from a dreadful shortage of water. it was, of course, july, and one might expect some famine on the high and arid tableland of spain, but we wondered that so great a city could have arisen with so meagre a water supply. at street corners queues of tired women and children waited for hot hours with buckets, pails, jugs and amphoras. soldiers with a hose pipe from which trickled a paltry stream of water filled the vessels one by one. there was gaiety and bad temper, giggling and quarrelling amongst the women. "this," said we, "is a primitive city." in the public gardens water-carts were standing, and crowds of men were baling water up from the decorative ponds. "a real famine," said we, "could not be worse than this." this was in fact the case. madrid is supplied from the mountains by an ancient aqueduct. the spaniard has a principle of interfering with nothing until the last moment; the ideals of liberty are carried so far in spain that they apply to inanimate objects as well as human beings. thus, if the aqueduct wishes to break, it is allowed to do so. panic ensues. the government is criticized, but words hurt nobody. the aqueduct had given way a few days before our arrival. had it not been for the generosity of a nobleman who turned a private water supply into the conduits of madrid, we would have found not calamity but catastrophe. madrid was unsavoury enough. the breakdown of the water-supply entails also the failure of the drainage system. in a land of wine one might dispense with water as a mere drink; but to dispense with flushed drains in a semi-tropical climate is impossible. [illustration] one late afternoon we were in our bedroom, having taken advantage of the quiet which reigns from one p.m. till five, (for we got no other sleep during out stay), we heard a faint strange murmur which seemed to be drawing nearer. we went to the balcony and looked out. the sound was coming from the direction of the puerto del sol, the sun's gate, the torrid centre of madrid so well named. the sound drew nearer. soon it shaped itself into a word murmur from thousands of throats: "agua, agua, agua." the word passed us and fled down the streets, sweeping before the hesitating trickle which crept along the gutters. with the word a communal shiver of delight ran through the town, like a sort of physical earthquake. before six o'clock the road men were dragging their hoses about the street, and the rising damp was dragging the dust out of the air. chapter vii a hot night (_this chapter should be omitted by prudes_) the expense of an omnibus is not necessary to the experienced traveller. a spanish friend took us to a bureau of town porters in madrid, and we gave instructions to a dark-faced man in a shabby uniform, who promised to see all our baggage to the station in good time for the evening train to murcia. señor don mateo bartolommeo was the name of the porter, for he gave us his visiting card, on which was his professional and private address, and a deep black mourning border like that on one's grandmother's envelopes. the preliminaries to travelling in spain are lengthy. the ticket office opens fifteen or twenty minutes before the train leaves, but the passengers arrive an hour before, so that there is always a long queue waiting at the ticket office. one can buy either tickets for the journey or tickets for the thousand or more kilometres. the latter are a great saving if one does much travelling, but they entail further delay at the booking office, for verifying, tearing off, stamping, and so forth. then with one's tickets one goes to the luggage bureau, where the van luggage is weighed, overweight charged, and a long slip receipt given. the luggage is then presumed to travel to the journey's end and should be forthcoming on the production by the passenger of the receipt. this is not invariably the case; but of that we will tell in its place. the wealthy traveller does not undergo all this fatigue. he shows a porter the luggage for the van, tells him the station to which he wishes to travel, gives him the money to pay for ticket and luggage, and bothers his head no more about it. the spanish porter is unusually honest. you can give him two or three hundred pesetas to buy tickets with, and a few minutes before the train starts up he runs with the tickets, the luggage receipt, and the exact change. we, however, wanted to experience everything; we did not wish to spend our small capital on exorbitant tips, so i, leaving jan to see to the tickets and heavy luggage, argued my way past the ticket collector, who is supposed to let nobody on to the platform without a ticket, found an empty carriage, appropriated seats, and sat on the step waiting for the porter to bring up the smaller luggage. an old lady in black, with a huge bandbox and a birdcage, accompanied by three hatless girls dressed in purple silk, all carrying at least four parcels apiece, filled up my compartment, and i thought: "we are going to have a stuffy time of it." the train was full of talk. in the corridors the people chattered at the top of their voices like a rookery. presently, conversing in shrill tones, the old lady and her three daughters swooped back into the carriage, and with much rustling of silk dragged all their parcels to some other part of the train. a young officer, carrying about six packages, took one of the vacated places, and marked his seat by unbuckling his sword, which he placed in the corner. an old man, rather run to stomach, took the seat opposite the soldier. he then stood in the doorway, wedging his stomach into the opening, so that nobody else should enter. the time drew closer to the departure of the train. the noise increased a hundredfold. three girls rushed along the corridor and unceremoniously butted the old gentleman in the waistcoat. the corridor was filled with a confused crowd of people, who handed in large hat-boxes, brightly striped, square cardboard boxes, small suit-cases with gilt locks, and a huge doll. the carriage was filled with a strong smell of scent. there was giggling and the kissing of adieux. the escort then retreated down the corridor and the three girls set to arranging themselves for the journey. one of the girls was very dark, her face like old ivory, her eyes large caverns of gloom, and her mouth painted a brilliant scarlet; one was fair with a long face and grey eyes, very excitable in manner, talking a high-pitched spanish with a queer intonation; the third was bigger than either of her companions, yet less remarkable. one could easily have imagined her dressed in cowgirl's costume, performing in a travelling buffalo bill show. all three had bobbed hair, though that of the second girl was an elaborate _coiffure_ of short hair rather than a mere bob. the dark girl picked up the soldier's sword and tossed it into the luggage rack. the cowgirl pushed the stout old man's suit-case out of his corner and took his seat. the old man but grinned and guffawed, seeming pleased rather than angry. the soldier stood in the corridor and glowered at the dark girl through the glass. he offered no objection to the robbery of his seat, but it was evident what were his thoughts. the second girl flung herself down on the seat next to jan, blew out a long sigh and exclaimed: "aie, que calor, que calor." it was indeed hot. all day long the sun had been beating down into madrid. the puerto del sol had been more like the "puerto del infierno." the little trickles of water which the repaired aqueduct had afforded to madrid had done little to mitigate the dull reverberant heat of the still air. even now that the night had come the air was yet quivering, and came into the lungs like half-warmed water. the girls got down their dainty suit-cases from the rack, opened them, burrowing amongst tawdry finery, manicure sets, powder-boxes and other articles of toilet use, found boxes of cigarettes. to do this, the cowgirl placed her suit-case on the seat and, standing, bent over it. the stout old man, with a giggle, leant forward and gave the girl a resounding smack with his open palm upon that part of her which was nearest to him. the officer, through the glass, frowned and pursed up his lips. the girl next to jan caught my eye, smiled at me, and winked. "aie, que calor!" she exclaimed, blowing cigarette smoke into the air. the train dragged itself out of the station and started southward through the night. the girl who was sitting next to jan broke out into unexpected french. "mon dieu! qu'il fait chaud!" she exclaimed, as though spanish would not properly express the quality of the heat. "but," said jan to her, "you speak french very well." "well," she retorted, "i ought to, seeing that i am french." suddenly she came to a resolution. she stood up and again took down her suit-case. she took from it a wrapper of tinted muslin. slowly then she began to take off her clothes. her silk dress she folded up very neatly and laid along the little rack which is set just below the ordinary one. then she slipped off her petticoat and camisole, and put on the muslin wrapper. "that is better," she exclaimed; folded up her discarded underwear, put it into the suit-case, which she then replaced on the rack. she then began on her _coiffure_. she detached a series of little curls from over her ears, and twisting the wires on which they were made into hooks, she suspended them from the netting of the rack, where over her head they swung to and fro with the movement of the train. "maintenant," she said, "on est plus à son aise. besides," she added, with the instinct of true french economy, "it does so spoil one's clothes if one takes a long railway journey in them." the act had been performed with naturalness, and in view of the heat of the night we could not help envying the french girl for her good sense in making the long journey as comfortable as possible. she began to tell jan the story of her life. "mother was a nuisance," she said; "she made life a little bit of hell at home. well, one day we had a fine old flare-up. i told mother that she could go to the devil if she liked, and i just packed up and ran away. i came down to madrid, and on the whole i haven't done so badly. i send mother about eight hundred pesetas a month. most of that she'll keep for me, and i'll have a nice little sum to start business with when i get back. of course one can't keep up a quarrel with one's mother for ever. _hein!_" jan asked her how long she had been in spain. "four months," she answered. "you speak very good spanish," said jan. "oh," she answered, with a touch of desperation in her voice, "one can't be all day doing nothing. it's a distraction learning something new." "where are you going now?" asked jan. "we are all going to carthagena," said the french girl. "we'll be down there all the summer. there are english there too, i have heard--sailors. i like sailors. you see, i had to get away from madrid. i had a friend, and one day while i was out he stole all my spare money, and all my clothes, which he took to the pawnshop. and that left me stranded. then i heard these two girls were going to carthagena, to a place, so i said, 'i'll come too,' and here i am. anyway one has to be somewhere, and i adore knocking about. it's life, isn't it?" the dark girl was merely a selfish, pretty animal. she curled up on the officer's seat like a black cat. she then slyly prodded the poor little stout man with her high heels, so that he gradually moved up towards me, leaving me little room in which to sit, while the dark girl could stretch out at her ease. the other girl sat in her corner, saying little, smoking cigarette after cigarette. she seemed to be one of those stolid creatures who drop through life, taking good and bad without change of face or of manner. she might have been rather south german than spanish. in contrast with these two the french girl was simple and attractive. one noted, too, that she had a fine streak of unselfishness in her character; she even talked without bitterness of the man who had robbed her. [illustration] young men drifted along the corridors and stared in at the girls. one man, who looked well off, dressed in a tweed sporting coat, came in and made friends. he gave them cigarettes and drinks of brandy from a flask. at about one o'clock in the morning, one of the cardboard boxes was opened and disclosed a large pie, which was divided. the stout old gentleman had a piece, so did "tweeds." some was offered to us, but we had dined well at madrid and did not feel hungry. but to refuse in spain is a delicate matter, so we gave them cigarettes to indicate goodwill. we stopped at a dark station. the door was flung open and a tall sunburned man clambered into the carriage. he had around his waist a broad leather belt which was stuck full of knives. these implements were clasp knives, and varied from small pocket knives and pruning knives to veritable weapons a foot in length. he was not a famous brigand, though he looked one, but a salesman. the larger knives had a circular ratchet and a strong spring at the back, so that upon opening they made a blood-curdling noise, which in itself would be enough to induce any angry man to finish the matter by burying the blade in his enemy's gizzard. he did no business in our carriage, and went off down the platform opening and shutting a sample of his murderous wares, crying out: "navajos! navajos!" the train went on, and as we reached southward the night became warmer. the stout old man left us, and the black girl stretched out at full length, occasionally prodding me with her french heels. presently the darkness became less opaque. a faint silhouette of low hills, and then a dim reflection from flat lands, appeared. we stopped at another station; an unimportant wayside station with a small house for booking-office and a drinking-booth in a lean-to alongside. "i must have a drink," exclaimed "tweeds." "who will come with me?" neither the black girl nor the cowgirl would move. we had still lemonade in our thermos flasks. so the french girl, in her muslin _peignoir_, and "tweeds" clambered down the carriage steps and disappeared through the door of the fonda. disappeared is the right word. without warning, the train began to move. it gathered speed and clattered away southward. we never saw "tweeds" or the french girl again. in the thinnest of _négligés_ she was left stranded upon the wayside station, to which no other train would come for at least twelve hours, and possibly not for twenty-four. the day broke, and we pounded along through a dusty arid country. there was green in the bottom of the valley, but from the roads rose high columns of dust, while the plastered villages of box-like houses near the railroad were dried up and dust-coated. dust blew in through the carriage windows and settled thick upon the curls which, still swinging and bobbing from the netting of the rack, were fast leaving their mistress behind. at first her companions had been anxious; now they were laughing. "but," they said, "we wonder if she knows where to come for her things when she does arrive?" the train became more crowded. soon people were running up and down, looking angrily for places. third-class passengers began to fill the corridor of our second-class carriage. a boy of about nineteen, with the half-angry intense face characteristic of some latins, came into the carriage and demanded a seat from the dark girl who was still stretched at full length. this seat "darkey," with her habitual selfishness, refused to give up. suddenly, we were in the middle of a full-fledged spanish row. to us it had a comic side. it was not what we would have called a row, as much as a furious debate. of course with our slight acquaintance with spanish we missed the finer points of the varied arguments. "darkey" began by saying that she was keeping the seat for a friend who was somewhere else. this was to some extent true; the french girl was somewhere else, though there was little likelihood of her claiming the seat. the boy retorted that if she was somewhere else she probably had another seat. this argument went to and fro, increasing in acerbity. each of the quarrellers listened in silence to what the other had to say, making no attempt to interrupt, though the voices grew hoarse with anger. [illustration] presently "darkey" was telling the boy that he was a wretched third-class passenger anyhow, and that he had no right in a second-class carriage, and even if the seat were free he wasn't going to have it. the boy retorted by saying that anybody could see what she was, and that her mother was probably sorry that she had ever been born, etc., etc. no english quarrel could have gone to half the length that this proceeded. we were waiting to see either the boy jump into the carriage and shake the life out of "darkey," or to see "darkey" spring, like the young tiger-cat she was, at the boy and scratch his face. but nothing happened. the crowded corridor listened with delight to the progress of the quarrel. the train stopped at a station. "darkey" had sat up to pulverize the impertinent youth with some evil retort. the carriage door on the opposite side opened, and a placid, middle-aged peasant woman, followed by an ancient peasant man, stepped into the carriage, and before "darkey" had well discovered what was happening had squashed down in the disputed seat, left vacant by the removal of "darkey's" feet. the woman grinned at us all and sat nursing a large basket on her lap. then the quarrel slowly died down. after a while the boy went away. however, he came back again whenever he had thought of something good, and barked it round the corner of the door at "darkey," who, usually taken by surprise, could find nothing to retort before he had lost himself again in the crowd. the peasant woman smiled at us all, and, opening her basket, handed to each of us a large peach. she selected one especially big for "darkey," presumably as refreshment after the tiring argument. the day became hotter and hotter. the dust gathered more thickly on to the french girl's poor little curls. when the train stopped, children ran up and down beside the carriages, selling water at the price of "one little bitch" the glass. we were now in the province of murcia, and the scenery put on the characteristic appearance of that province, tall bare hills of an ochreous mauve, sloping down into a flat, irrigated, fertile valley. the division between mountain and valley, between the "desert and the strown" was as sharp as though drawn with the full brush of a japanese. on the mountains were dead remnants of saracen castles, of dismantled spanish robber fortresses, and the white or coloured buildings of monasteries which still lived sparkling in the sun. chapter viii murcia--first impressions one has a right to expect that the station which is the finish of a long and tiring journey should be both a terminus and have a quality all of its own. our egoism makes it seem at that moment the most important place in the world. but murcia (pronounced locally mouthia) had only a big ugly barn of a station like many through which we had already passed, and even lacked a precia fijo jewellery shop. all we could see of the town, on emerging, was a few houses and a line of small trees which appeared as though they had been in a blizzard of whole-meal flour, so thick was the dust. over this buff landscape quivered the blue sky. in front of us were one or two cranky omnibuses and many green-hooded two-wheeled carts. these carts were oriental in appearance and had the most distinctive appearance we had yet noted in spain. they were gaily painted, and the hoods bulged with the generous curves of a russian cupola. inside they were lined with soiled red velvet, and the driver sat outside of this magnificence on a seat hanging over one of the tall wheels. into one of these we were squeezed in company with two grinning travellers, and started off, soon plunging into the shadow of an avenue of lime trees, behind the grey trunks of which cowered insignificant little houses painted in colours which once had been bright. [illustration: carters in the posada] the more communicative of our fellow travellers said it was indeed the hottest day of the year. it was hot, but we were not oppressed by it, and found out in time that the spaniard always seemed to suffer from the heat more than we did. our endeavours to be agreeable in imperfect spanish worked up the traveller to a discussion on languages, and to a eulogy on ourselves for taking the trouble to learn. we said that we were artists. he answered: "ah, yes, that explains it. poor people, of course, are forced to learn languages." we drove across a stone bridge, almost in collision with a bright blue tram-car. a momentary glimpse was given to us of a muddy river running between deep embankments; and we drew up before a square barrack of red brick pierced by a regiment of balconied windows. the proprietor, oily like a cheerful slug, waved his fingers close to us, and drew back his hand in delicate jerks as though we were rare and brittle china. he preceded us into an alhambra-like central hall, led us carefully up a stone staircase to a wide balcony, opened a door into a palatial bedroom with a flourish; and demanded fifteen pesetas "sin extraordinario." intuition told us that this was not a case of "precio fijo," and we reduced him gently to eleven pesetas before we accepted the bargain. then, to take off the raw edge left by the chaffering, jan said: "i don't suppose you get many foreigners here, señor?" "si, si!" returned the hotelkeeper, anxious for the reputation of his caravanserai. "we get quite a lot. oh, yes, quite a lot. why, only last year we had two french people, un matrimonio; and this year you have come." the maid was in appearance and behaviour like an india-rubber ball, and the conviction was firmly fixed in her mind either that we couldn't speak spanish or that she could not understand if we did. so she grunted, bounced at us and smiled with her mouth wide open like a dog, hoping that by this means she was translating a spanish welcome into an english one. with difficulty we dissuaded her from these antics and persuaded her to speak, but she turned her words--which were already dialect--into baby talk; and the less we understood the louder she shouted. however, she was a kindly creature and succeeded in cheering our spirits, which were flagging, for we were very tired and almost ill, having barely recovered from a severe attack of influenza before leaving london. we washed off the thick dust and went downstairs into the large cool hall. the central quadrangle had once probably been open to the sky, but now was covered, five stories up, by a glass roof, beneath which sackcloth curtains stretched on wires shut out the sun. there were comfortable wicker chairs all about, and the hall was decorated with four solemn plaster busts, one in each corner. we were curious to find out who were thus honoured in a southern spanish hotel. one was of sorolla, a popular valencian painter, one was of a woman, a poetess. the other two we did not know, but think they represented contemporary literature and architecture. imagine finding in an english hotel hall busts of brangwyn, mrs. meynell, conan doyle and lutyens. the hall was cool. we ordered coffee and buttered toast. but the butter was rancid, for we had crossed the geographical line, almost as important as the equator, below which butter is not, and oil must take its place. four children, making a lot of noise over it, were in the hall, playing a game peculiarly spanish. the smallest boy, who always had the dirty work to do, carried flat in front of him a board, to the end of which were fixed a pair of bull's horns. he dashed these at his comrades in short straight rushes. two of the other boys carried pieces of red cloth which they waved in front of the bull. the fourth boy carried a pair of toy banderillas, straight sticks, covered with tinted paper and pointed with a nail. as the bull rushed the "banarillero" dabbed his sticks into a piece of cork. then they decided that the bull was to die. one of the cloak-wavers took a toy sword which he triumphantly stuck into the cork. with a moan the small boy sank on to the floor. his companions seized his heels and dragged him round the tiled floor of the hall. the game seemed to us a little tedious; later on we were to learn how like to actual bullfighting it was. the hotel interpreter, for whom we had inquired, now came in. he spoke in french: [illustration] "what can i do for you?" we wished to find a gipsy guitar-player named blas, and we had been told that the interpreter knew his house. we feared that he might be in madrid, where he sometimes played in the flamenco cafés; but the interpreter said that he was in murcia, and that we could look for him at once. from the cool hall we stepped into the blazing sun of midday spain, crossed an open space so dazzling that it hurt the eyes, and entered a maze of narrow, tall streets. jan and i moved along in single file, clinging to the narrow margins of shadow which edged the houses, while the interpreter with a mere uniform cap on his head stalked imperturbably in the sunlight. across squares we hurried as rapidly as possible to the shadow on the opposite side. the houses were orange, pink, blue or a neutral grey which set off the hue of the tinted buildings. the squares were planted with feathery trees of a green so vivid that it appeared due to paint rather than to nature. it was a clear and windless day, and soon we remarked a characteristic which murcia exhibited more strongly than any other spanish town we have visited. each house had exuded its own smell across the pavement, so as one went along one sampled a variety of spanish household odours. some people find an intimate connection between colour and smell. we might say that we passed successfully through a pink smell, a purple smell, a citron green smell, a terra verte smell (very nasty), a cobalt smell, a raw sienna smell, and so on. this characteristic clung to murcia during the greater part of our stay. about fifteen minutes' walk through these variegated odoriferous layers brought us into a street of mean appearance. the interpreter stopped before a large gateway door, pushed it open and ushered us into a courtyard in the corner of which was a black earthenware pot astew over an open fire. a brown-faced crone, withered with dirt and age, her clothes ragged, her feet shod in burst alpagatas, asked us what had brought us there. "where is blas?" said the interpreter. with an unctuous gesture the old gipsy crone spread out her hands, and turning to a doorway shouted out some words. gipsy women young and old came from the house. they were dark, dirty and tousled, clad in draggled greys or vermilions, many carrying brown babies astraddle on the hip. with gestures, almost indian in subservience, they crowded about us, looking at us with ill-disguised curiosity. the interpreter repeated his question. "blas," said a young, beautiful, though depressed-looking woman, "is not in the house." [illustration] "the english señor will speak to him," commanded the interpreter. "send him to the hotel when he comes home." then our friend the interpreter determined to earn a large tip, and calculating on our ignorance brought us back by the longest route, past all the principal buildings of the town; thereby quadrupling the journey through the baking streets. our desires, however, were fixed on home. we were staggering beneath the heat. had the interpreter but known it, his tip would have been increased by celerity; but, stung by our apathy over public monuments, he took us into a courtyard to look at some gigantic tomatoes gleaming in the shade, and ran us across the street to examine a skein of fine white catgut, dyed orange at the tips, which a workman was carrying. he explained that this was for medical operations and for fishing lines, which was a local industry. lunch was ready when we got back, a prolonged and delicious lunch for those in health, but we could eat little of it. black olives were in a dish on the table; and the fruit included large ripe figs, peaches, pears and apricots. a curious fact we had noted was that much of the fruit did not ripen properly. either it was unripe or else had begun to rot in the centre. the sun was too strong to allow it to reach the stage of exquisite ripeness which the more temperate climate of england encourages. the waiter was dismayed by our lack of appetite. he urged us repeatedly to further gastronomic efforts, and holding dishes beneath our noses stirred up the contents with a fork. at last he made us a special salad which was not on the menu. the other occupants of the long white restaurant were all fat men who swallowed course after course in spite of the heat. we looked at them and thought: "no wonder there are so many plump people in spain." after coffee in the large hall, we went to our bedroom for a rest. the windows of our room looked southwards, over the muddy river. immediately beneath was a road on which was a wayside stall of bottles and old ironwork, an ice-cream vendor, a boy roasting coffee on a stove, turning a handle round and round while the coffee beans rustled in the heated iron globe, sending up a delicious smell to our windows. a row of covered carriages, tartanas, waited beneath the shadows of the riverside trees. all along the opposite bank were two-storied mills, and beyond them the town stretched out in a wedge of flat roofs bursting up into church towers. green market gardens came up to the edge of the town, and covered the valley to the base of the hills with a dense growth of flat and flourishing green which one had not expected thus far south in spain. we were awakened from our siesta by the spherical maid who mouthed and pantomimed that a señor was waiting for us in the hall. luis garay, a young painter and lithographer to whom our friend had written about us, had come at the earliest opportunity. he was slim, sallow, almost dapper, with dark frank eyes, and we took a liking to him at once. together we went outside the hotel and sat at a table in the open place facing the principal promenade of murcia. the river was on the right-hand side, and on the left was a line of tall buildings, some cafés, others municipal. the heat attacked one in waves, it seemed as palpable as though it possessed substance. when we took our seats the plaza was empty because the siesta was not yet over, but after four o'clock had passed gradually the life of the town blossomed out. the army of beggars attacked us; in monotonous undertones they moaned their woes. "hermanito, una limosna qui dios se la pagara,"[ ] they whined. to those who seemed unworthy luis answered, "dios le ayude."[ ] how exquisite is the courtesy of the spaniard even to a beggar. our manners have not this fine habitual touch--after the international occupation of scutari the beggars of the town had learned two english phrases; one was "g'arn," the other "git away." it is true that under this harsh exterior the englishman may hide a soft heart; he may be like the schoolmaster who feels the caning more poignantly than does the schoolboy; indeed many a man puts a deliberately rough exterior on to mask the flabbiness of his sentimental nature; and the spaniard, for all his courtesy, may have the harder nature. yet the courtesy which recognizes a common level of humanity is a precious thing. it may be that by refusing alms with respect one may be preserving in the beggar finer qualities than would be generated by giving with contempt. a spaniard once said, "i like a beggar to say 'hermanito, alms which god will repay.' it is naïf and simple. it has a beauty for which one willingly pays a copper. but when a beggar whines that he has eaten nothing for three days, it is offensive. it is an insult to give a man a halfpenny who has eaten nothing for three days; and one cannot afford to give him the price of a square meal; and anyhow one knows that he is lying." as well as the pitiful beggars there were the musical beggars. two men came playing the guitar and laud. another followed with a gramophone which he carried from his shoulder by a strap. then came the barrel-organ. we had not noted its arrival. suddenly the most appalling din broke out. awhile ago in paris m. marinetti organized a futurist orchestra; one could imagine that it had been transported in miniature to murcia. there were bangs and thumps and crashes of cymbals, and tattoos of drums, and tinkles of treble notes, and plonkings of base notes intermixed apparently without order, rhythm or tune. what a state the barrel must have been in! once we presume that it played a tune, but now it was so decrepit that nothing as such was recognizable. it was dragged by a donkey and a cart and shepherded by a fat white dog which had been shaved, partly because of the heat, partly because of vermin. it was an indecent-looking dog, and the flesh stood out in rolls all round its joints. no sooner had this musical horror disappeared round the corner than another organ in an equal state of disrepair took its place. [illustration: a murcian beggar-woman] "it is all right," luis reassured us; "you have suffered the worst. there are only two in the town." a crowd of urchins carrying home-made boot-blacking boxes pestered us with offers of "limpia botas." a man and a woman sauntered between the tables bellowing and screaming "les numeros"; these were state lottery sellers. also there were sellers of local lotteries, which were promoted by the church in aid of the disabled whom they employed to sell the tickets. nuns, too, were amongst the beggars. there were boys selling newspapers; men selling meringues and pastry, others hawking fried almonds, very salt to excite thirst; children hunting between the legs of the tables and chairs for cast cigarette ends or straws discarded by the drinkers; a man peddling minor toilet articles--toothpicks, scent, powder, buttonhooks--and another with a basket of very odorous dried fish. the smell of the fish banished our new-won universal brotherhood and we waved the fish vender away without courtesy. but an elegantly dressed young man sitting near accosted him and began to chaff him. but what was pretence to the dude was earnest to the salesman. he had some talent for selling and he pestered the dude for nearly half an hour, at the end of which the latter in self-defence and for the sake of peace bought a portion of the smelly commerce. probably the fishmonger's total gain out of the transaction was a fraction of a penny. but the spanish is not a wasteful nation. when the dude walked off home he took with him the fish wrapped in his newspaper. at last we called the waiter by the spanish custom of clapping the hands, paid for the drinks, and guided by luis set out to visit the house which our friend had lent us for the summer. habits of cleanliness were shown in the streets. young girls were hard at work, each industriously brushing the dust from the sidewalk in front of her house, even though that sidewalk were itself of dried mud. to us it seemed that the story was being repeated of the old woman who tried to besom the tide out of her front door. many of the householders had spread their sphere of influence even beyond the sidewalk, and had soaked their patch of road, turning the dust into viscous mud. the pavements were already beginning to be encumbered by chairs, and by groups of people sitting out in the cooling day. the paseo de corveras is a one-sided street darkened by tall trees. on the other side stretch maize fields surrounding a small farm, and walled-in gardens filled with tall feathery date palms. the dates were already hanging in orange clusters beneath the sprouting heads of fronds. luis took us to the house of antonio garrigos, who lived at no. . antonio was a handsome man of pure spanish type, giving an impression of nervous vitality. he produced three keys, each of about a pound in weight and large as any key of a theatrical gaoler. the house key was of monstrous size, and he assured us that we would have to carry it with us wherever we went. our friend's apartment at no. was on the first floor and spread right across two humbler dwellings below. it was cool and roomy, filled with specimens of spanish draperies, pottery and furniture, which he had collected during several years in spain. at the back was a kitchen, with large earthen vessels for water, and spanish grids for cooking on charcoal. the bed was big for one, but very small for two, so we suggested taking off the spring mattress and laying planks in its place. antonio at once said that to-morrow he would get the planks in time for the night. then, feeling very tired but thoroughly pleased with our prospective house, and with the new acquaintances we had found, we walked back to the hotel, had a supper as liberal as the lunch, and went to bed. footnotes: [footnote : "little brother, alms which god himself will repay."] [footnote : "god will help you."] chapter ix murcia--settling down by the time we left the hotel, which we did on the second day, the maid had reviewed her decision as to the state of our mentality. receiving her tips she shook our hands warmly, asked where we were going and said that she would without fail call upon us. the tatterdemalion bootblack at the hotel door, who could never quite make up his mind whether he were bootblack or lottery-ticket seller--neglecting each business in favour of the other--helped us with our luggage. he also on receipt of a tip inquired our future address and assured us that he would call upon us. the driver of the tartana told us that he would look us up one day to see how we were getting on; and another visit was promised by a ragged lounger whom we called in to aid us in getting our luggage upstairs. "spain," we said, "seems to be a sociable country." don antonio was waiting for us at his house, which was but a few doors away from our own. he introduced us to his wife, a buxom, jolly woman of about twenty-five; his sister, tall, elegant and dark, perhaps the most complete type of spanish woman we had yet met; and his brother-in-law. don thomas, for such was the brother-in-law's name, was able to speak a portion of the american language, and often by his imperfect knowledge he would deepen our ignorance of what others were saying in spanish. don antonio had a small box factory. his house was two-storied, as were most of the houses in the paseo. on the ground floor the front room, or entrada, was filled with wood, wood-working benches, and stacks of unfinished boxes; the kitchen behind was not exempt from business, for here antonio made up his glues and pastes, while the whole top story was occupied by girls who covered the crude shells of the boxes with velvet and looking-glass and papier mâché adornments. antonio and his wife were crowded into two small rooms, a bedroom in the front alongside of the entrada and a dining-room at the back parallel with the kitchen. our planks were ready for us, but antonio refused to be paid for them. he said that when we had finished with them he could make boxes out of them. we spent the afternoon in our flat unpacking and arranging the plank bed. the mattress was not broad enough to cover the planks which we put down, but we managed to find a padded sofa-covering which, laid alongside of the mattress, supplemented the inefficient breadth. as we had met neither mosquitoes nor net in the hotel, we left the mosquito-net in the trunk. in the evening luis garay called for us. he led us through a maze of darkened streets, at one time skirting the tall, over-decorated rococo front of the cathedral, and brought us to a large doorway within which was a smaller door. two sharp raps and the door swung wide mechanically, though a long rope tied to the latch and looping its way upstairs showed how it had been opened. up wide white stone stairs we went, watched by an old, old man hanging over the balcony of the second floor. luis said no word to him, nor he to luis. the chief keynote of spanish interiors is whiteness. the room into which we came was white, and out of it was another white room set with dining-tables and decorated with a huge white filter. this was "elias," where we could dine excellently for the sum of one peseta fifty centimos apiece. elias himself looked like a cheery monk painted by dendy sadler. clad in a long white overall, he stood in the midst of his snowy tables and greeted us merrily. luis went away, having said good night, for he had an engagement. we ate omelet, beefsteak and fried potatoes, finishing with a plate of fruit, fixed by the multiple stare of the young men dining there. i was the only woman at elias while we dined there, for spanish women are home clinging folk, and even to the cafés they never go in large numbers. as the young men finished their meals, they went out. each one as he passed through the door bowed and said something. it sounded like "dobro vetche," but "dobro vetche" is serbian for good evening. we could not make out what the words were, so, as the serbian seemed to be appropriate, we boldly answered it in return. later on we discovered that they said "buen aproveche" with the first part of the sentence slurred over by habit. it means "may it do you good," and the customary sentence to say to any one who is dining. the correct answer is "gracias." we left elias' very satisfied with our cheap discovery. jan, who generally has a good head for locality, engaged to find his way back without a guide. but he turned the wrong way out of elias' door. we wandered amongst deep darkened streets till suddenly we came out into one as narrow as the others, but laid with flat pavements, instead of rugged cobbles, and blazing with light. through this we ran the gauntlet of murcia. the street was crowded with hotels and cafés, both sides being lined with tables at which the evening drinkers were sitting. the street itself was filled with a flux and reflux of the youth and beauty, the "hooventud, bellitza and looho,"[ ] of the town. we came, especially i, upon them as a catastrophe. the light died out of their eyes, the smiles disappeared from their faces, mouths dropped open, fingers pointed, people grasped each other. it was similar to the moment when an elephant comes along in the village circus procession, and i was the elephant. during our first weeks in murcia our appearance in the streets invariably caused excitement and shrieks of laughter among young girls and gossips. if we entered a shop the children crowded in with us to listen to our attempts at spanish. this was not done with deliberate rudeness, but was more the result of unrestrained curiosity. this attitude was not very evident when we went for strolls with luis: the presence of a fellow-townsman seemed to have a calming influence. at last i found an effective weapon. with mock horror i stared at the feet and ankles of any young woman too malicious. self-consciousness at once gripped her--almost invariably she hurried away to examine her shoes and wonder what was wrong with them. curiously enough we never became conscious of a case of incivility among the men. even groups of lads at the difficult age which breeds larrikins in australia were on the whole less offensive than in other countries. it seemed to us that if a spanish woman were kind-hearted--and the majority are so--she was the most kindly and charming of women, but if of a spiteful nature she took less pains to hide or curb it than do the women of more sophisticated countries. the narrow street which we had discovered by accident was perhaps the most disconcerting part of the town, as it was full of cafés, and therefore of loungers; but we often had to go there for small necessities. there we had to go for smoked glasses because of the brilliance of the sun, for a parasol, and for a hatpin. the first two objects were easily found, but the last was difficult. hats, even in southern spain, are worn only by the _crème de la crème_ for great ceremonies, and the hatpins sold by the jewellers were intended for such occasions. they were decorated affairs with huge heads of complicated workmanship set with garish stones. probably no other woman in the town wore a hat for normal use, so we gave up the search and jan made out of hairpins something which served. we ran the gauntlet of the quizzing street and made our way home. all along the streets the people had brought their chairs out of doors and were sitting on the pavements in the cool of the night. at antonio's door we found a group of his family, almost invisible in the dark. we sat down with them. presently antonio said: "i will go and fetch don luis, and he will play for us." what then could be seen of don luis was a large nose, a check cap and a pair of gnarled hands which grasped his guitar in a capable manner. he sat down on a chair on the sidewalk and began to play. "curse it!" he exclaimed. "do you know i used to play very well, but all this factory work ruins the fingers for playing. mine are getting as stiff as if they had no joints in them." presently he was playing a jota and demanded that somebody should dance. "dance, dance!" he shouted. "curse it! what's the good of playing if nobody dances?" by this time most of the inhabitants of the houses near had gathered round, although almost hidden; but there were no young men. antonio's sister danced a jota with a pretty girl. the jota is the most common of spanish dances, as the waltz used to be with us. it has a _tempo_ which fluctuates between three-four and two-four, the phrases being divided into two beats each or three bars of two beats each at the will of the player. the jota that evening appeared to be a very sedate kind of dance. when it was over the crowd urged us to dance something english. we asked don luis to play the jota again, and to it we danced a rather mad waltz which we had invented. the path upon which we danced was of dried mud, which is pounded into unusual shapes in the winter and dries in whatever shape it happens to be when the heat comes. it was full of lumps and holes, and the light was dim. in a moment we partially understood why antonio's sister had been so sedate. but the brother-in-law informed us: "say," he said, "my girl can dance wonderful. but 't'aint proper, in de town. say, you see 'er in de country. den she hop. she kick de window in wid 'er toe. sure. show you one day." murcia is a town of about , inhabitants and is the capital of its province, but it is hardly more than an overgrown village in spite of its cathedral, its bullring, its theatre and its cinema palace. both at avila and at madrid they had said to us: "aha, you are going to the town of the beautiful women!" but the women of murcia, with the exception of some lovely and filthy gipsies, were not unusually beautiful. they were thick-set and useful looking with muscular necks and ankles, and their eyes had a domesticated expression. their clothes emphasized their defects. they indulged in pastel shades and frills which were used in fantastic ways. we have seen frills in spiral twisting around the frock from neck to hem, or a series of jaunty inverted frills round the hips, which gave to the wearer something of the appearance of one of those oleographs of a maiden half emerging from the calyx of a flower: or perpendicular frills which made the wearer resemble a cog-wheel. we had ample opportunities of observing them from the windows of our house, at which we started our experimental sketches in spain, but we had to sit back from the balcony because small crowds began to gather, and boys to shout. antonio then said that he would take us to one of the big walled-in gardens where we could paint at our ease. a huge gateway led into a courtyard which was completely covered by a vine pergola. the grapes hung in large bunches, though yet green. at one side of the courtyard was a low stall on which fruit and vegetables were for sale, and near an arched door a woman was washing clothes in a large basin of antique pattern. the garden was a rich mass of green. huge trees of magnolia were covered with waxy white flowers and gave out a strong odour which scented the wide garden. lemon trees and orange trees were ranged in rows; the lemons yellow on the trees or lying on the ground as thick as fallen apples after an autumn storm, the oranges still hard spheres of dark green. along the edges of the paths stood up the tall palm trees with their golden clusters of unripe dates, or with their fronds tied up in a stiff spike, some mystery of palm cultivation. fronds of palm, hacked from off the trees, lay about the ground, and we were surprised to find by experience that they possessed long, piercing and painful thorns. we painted for several days in this small paradise, but our conscience was accusing us. we had not come to spain to paint gardens. one day we took our courage in our hands. "it is market day," said we; "we will go and paint the market." peasant carts loaded with fruit and vegetables were crowding into the town; men clad in black cottons were dragging donkeys, upon the backs of which were panniers filled with saleable provisions; women with umbrellas aloft against the sun carried baskets in their arms or heavy packages upon their hips. the market was spread in the sunlight behind the hôtel reina victoria. grain was for sale in broad, flat baskets, cheap cottons were on stalls; fruits--peaches, plums, and lemons--were mixed with tomatoes, berenginas, and red or green peppers. to one side of the market place was the fonda which had once been a monastery. this was for the travellers by road as the hotels were for travellers by rail. in a huge arched entrada carters and villagers were sitting at their ease. to one side was a kitchen in which could be seen large red earthen vessels which made one think of the last scene in "the forty thieves," and beyond the entrada was an open courtyard in which the high tilted road waggons were drawn up in rows. skirting the fonda wall i found a corner which seemed secluded, and sitting down i began to paint an old woman and her fruit stall. one by one a few people gathered behind me. blas, the gipsy musician, came up, greeted me, and added his solid presence to the spectators. a baker came out of his shop and watched. the crowd began to increase. soon they were pressing all round, even in front, so that i could see nothing. "i cannot paint if i cannot see," i exclaimed to blas. he and the baker set themselves one on each side and hustled an opening in the crowd. "atras, atras!" they shouted. "en la cola, en la cola."[ ] but more and more people hurried up to see what was happening. soon the crowd, despite the strenuous efforts of blas and the baker, closed up again in front, and no efforts could keep an open vista. jan, who had been drawing in another part of the market, came up. he saw in the midst of a maelstrom of heads the extreme tip of my hat and worked his way through, to speaking distance. brown-faced old women, with market baskets, men with turkeys hung in braces over their shoulders, young women with babies, gipsy men with tall hats and gig-whips, noisy boys, all smiling, friendly and curious, were peeping under my hat discussing the phenomenon. we left the disappointed maelstrom, which changed its shape and followed us like a rivulet to a café, where they stood for a while gazing solemnly while we sipped iced coffee. we then decided that sketching in the streets of murcia was not to be thought of. luis, to whom we confided this, said that he would find us balconies and roofs from which we could work, but we wanted to settle in some small village where we could know everybody in a day, and sketch where we liked, so luis made arrangements to take us across the plain at the foot of the mountains to see some villages that might suit us. footnotes: [footnote : (spelt phonetically.) these three words, meaning youth, beauty and luxury, are used in all spanish theatre advertisements as especial attractions of the spectacle advertised.] [footnote : "back, back! get into queue, get into queue!"] chapter x murcia--blas spain is the true home of the guitar. only in spain is the guitar--the most complete of solo instruments--heard in its true perfection. but even in spain the cult of the guitar is dying out. nowadays, at marriages, births or christenings the guitar is no longer inevitable, for the cheap german piano and the gramophone are ousting the national instrument. jan had become enamoured of the guitar in paris, some small progress he had made with the help of a friend; but one cannot get the true spirit of spanish music at second hand. so blas, the gipsy, was called in to given him instruction. we had been told not to give blas more than twenty pesetas a month, these to be full payment for a daily lesson. however, blas proved to be more adept at bargaining than we were. he looked very egyptian in the face, was very smart in a grey check suit, patent leather boots and straw hat, a strange contrast to the poverty of his home and the slatterns of women who were his family and relations. he came in rubbing his hands together, grinning with an expanse of strong, white teeth, and showing a sly expression in his curious eyes. he cringed to us. he demanded two pesetas a lesson, or sixty pesetas a month. we held out that we had been told to offer him twenty. this, he answered, was impossible, quite impossible, out of the question. some of his subserviency was immediately put into his pocket. jan said that as he would be painting a good deal he would not want more than three lessons a week. blas hummed and hawed and chewed the idea for a while. then, with the air of one who is making a great concession, he said that since it was the señor and since he appeared "muy sympatico" he would consent to take twenty-five pesetas, and that was his final offer. jan agreed. blas then added that he was reducing his terms solely because of the sympathetic nature of the señor, and that he was by no means satisfied with the bargain, and that it was "muy poco." he then asked jan if he had a guitar. jan said that he was using the big white instrument made by ramirez which our friend had left in his house. blas answered that he possessed the brother of that instrument himself, and that it was a good one. only after he had gone did we realize that three lessons a week meant twelve lessons a month, and, at his original price, this would have amounted to twenty-four pesetas, and that bias had wheedled out a peseta more than his original offer. we do not like the bargaining system which is prevalent all over spain, a habit from which, in spite of their stern notices, the "precio fijo" shops are not quite exempt. we are not registering this objection because blas cozened us of a peseta; but it seems to us that the whole habit of chaffering inculcates a lack of generosity and lays a foundation of unfriendly relationships between people. no matter upon what friendly terms the bargaining is carried out, too much of an element of positive personal competition is brought in; but much bargaining is not carried on in a friendly way. it also necessitates a wholesale campaign of lying--appreciative and depreciative--on the part of both buyer and seller, and a certain amount of personal feeling on the side of the loser. nor does the constant simulation of anger tend to make a person more pacific by habit. curiously enough the most generous man is often the worst treated by the bargaining system. he offers a sum in excess of the real value in order to shorten the ordeal, and by doing so only excites the seller to greater cupidity. we have noted that the successful bargainer is treated with respect, while the other who cuts short the bargain by paying too much earns contempt. blas came to our house at about twelve o'clock. he was a true musician and lived--as far as we could discover--for but two things, music and drink. he had seemed to understand our spanish well enough to get the better of the bargain, but he had forgotten this. he, like the maid, had a fixed idea that jan could not speak spanish. he grinned, and made strange noises, but never tried to explain anything by means of words. one cannot say that he was a good teacher. all that he could do was to play a piece over and over again, and trust you to get it by ear. now and again he would grasp jan's fingers and try to force them into the necessary positions. he was even incapable of playing his tunes slowly. if jan wished to analyse a movement which came in the middle of a melody blas had to begin at the beginning. sometimes jan was almost in despair, but he worked hard and in the end drew a profit out of blas's inadequate instruction. spanish guitar music is unlike the music of europe. it has a strange primitive character depending for its marvellous rhythmic properties upon a rhythm of phrase more than upon the rhythm of the bar division. the form is simple, a passage played with the back of the nails across the strings, called the "rasgueado," a passage like a refrain or chorus, "the paseo," in reality the introduction of the dance or melody, and the melodies proper called "falsetas." the rhythmic structure which does not correspond to the bar division of the music is usually emphasized by drum taps made upon the sound board of the guitar with the nail of the second finger. blas considered it his duty to teach jan two falsetas on each visit. [illustration] but if he was a bad teacher, he was a fine player. resting his chin on the great guitar as if the passage of the vibrations through his body were a source of pleasure, he crouched, looking like something between a bullfrog and a cheshire cat. then with supple fingers he played, drawing delicious melodies; or rasping with his nails he beat out complex harmonies that seemed to vie with an orchestra in richness of sound. when he came to a falseta, he would throw up his negroid eyes like a greco saint, he would kiss his hand, and, as likely as not, spit on the floor to emphasize his delight. before he left the house he always tried to get an advance upon his salary. after all, to him we were only _busné_ to be fleeced if possible. but when his indebtedness amounted to the whole of his month's pay we fended him off by saying that we had no change. i do not think we realized how much we were overpaying blas until we decided to leave murcia. we found a house, as you will hear, at verdolay about five miles away. when he heard that we were leaving, blas volunteered to come out as usual for the same pay. he said that he would cheerfully walk the distance--ten miles--for that money. but we were getting rather shy of blas. he was too persistent a borrower for our slender means and we had heard of other teachers who were cheaper. so we took this opportunity and dropped him as a pilot to the guitar. chapter xi murcia--the alpagata shop save upon feast days, and with the exception of the nobility, who are few, and of the merchants, who have to be worldly commonplace, alpagatas, or string-soled shoes, are the footwear of the spanish nation. if you dodge the big towns you may go for days and never see a boot. the agricultural labourer, the artisan, the beggar, the soldier, the engine-driver, the porters all wear either the alpagata or, in the summer, its cooler brother, the string-soled sandal. in spain boots are not meant for real wear, you swagger around the town in boots, and have them cleaned four or five times a day. at a café a horde of bootblacks precipitate themselves towards you to renew the lustre--possibly dimmed by the all-prevalent dust--of those foot ornaments. the young man who goes to meet his _novía_ removes his alpagatas, and puts on boots highly polished and with check tops; the young maiden who is sitting out with her _novio_ has placed her alpagatas in the corner and stretches high-heeled shoes across the pavement. but for all-day-up-and-down use the alpagata wins every time; the baby wears alpagatas, and its grandmother wears a larger variant; there are white alpagatas, brown alpagatas, grey alpagatas, black alpagatas for those in mourning--a very important ceremony in spain--and there are the elaborate, almost eastern, alpagatas, entirely of esparto grass, the making of which occupies the time when the goatherd is not yelling at his goats. even the horsemen, the caballeros, often wear alpagatas. it is true that one cannot strap a spur on to an alpagata, but on the whole spurs are little used in spain. if the rider wishes his horse or donkey to mend his pace, he thumps the animal with a thick cudgel at about the place where st. dunstan kicked the devil. the alpagata is also a cheap form of footwear. those which we were wearing cost three pesetas, say _s._ _d._ they should last two months. we were therefore spending _s._ - / _d._ a month each on shoes. a little arithmetic will show this as _s._ _d._ a year. to-day boots alone cost more than this in repairs, not counting the first cost. for children, of course, they are unrivalled, as the life of the alpagata almost fits the growth of the infant, which is spared the torture one remembers in childhood of boots which were too good to throw away and yet too small to wear with ease. but to taste the full romantic flavour of the alpagata, it should have been bought in the true alpagata shop. if you are in spain don't go to the boot-shop. it does sell alpagatas, but it ought not to do so. in spain the boot-seller should be classed with the jeweller. he sells ornaments. the boot merchant who sells alpagatas in spain is as bad as the jeweller here who sells umbrellas. go to the shop which sells things for the road, for that picturesque, coloured, moving life of spain. the doorway of this fascinating shop is piled up with bales of a rough cloth of an exquisite hyacinthine blue, or of a strange yellow, which is seen to perfection only in the alpagata shop or in el greco's pictures. this cloth is used for lining horse-collars and saddles. above these beautiful bales are collars of white leather, heavy with small cone-shaped bells of copper, for the goats, larger collars of brown leather, either with small bells in rows, like a lady's pearl collar, or with one large bell pendant, for the oxen. within are large coronet-shaped semicircles of leather and coloured woolwork, red, yellow, black, white, for the oxen's foreheads, long ribbons of coloured woolwork for the donkeys' harness, and fringes of brightly coloured wool netting, ending in tassels, like that which decorated the under edge of our grandmothers' sofas, to hang across the donkey's chest or down his nose. muzzles for goats and for donkeys are here too. there is harness also in the shop, gargantuan-looking harness studded with nails, so broad in its facets of leather that when the horse has his face inside it he looks not unlike an ancient knight in his armour. only his eyes and his mouth are visible, and often indeed not the latter, for it may be guarded by a piece of leather work not unlike the tongue of a brogue shoe. talking of shoes brings us back to the alpagata. a man will be working at a table like a butcher's block. deftly he cuts the rope, bending it around an iron peg into the shape of the sole, then with a long awl he pierces it through and through, sewing it with great rapidity, and almost hey presto! as it were, a pair of soles are finished. women who sit almost on the edge of the street, chattering and gossiping--often with the passers-by--are making the uppers of stout canvas. they spring from work to serve you with a gracious kindliness, and seeing that you are english they probably with the same gracious kindliness clap an extra fifty centimos on to the price. if only we had such an alpagata shop in london what a rush there would be to purchase. your old alpagatas you leave behind you. what happens to them is to us a mystery. old boots are the nuisance of the london dust heaps, the terror of the errant mongrel. yorick, who, sam weller assures us, is the only person who has ever seen a dead donkey, may also in his travels have seen an extinct alpagata, but his "sentimental journey" is unfinished and we shall never know. chapter xii murcia--bravo toro along cool colonnades of raw-coloured brick, up a staircase arched with concrete, and out through a sort of concrete culvert which spouted humanity, we came into the huge round amphitheatre of the bullring. owing to spanish dilatoriness, we were later than we had intended, and in consequence were unable to get seats within the coveted shadow which lay over half the great enclosure; but, thank goodness, the sky was mottled with clouds which tempered both the heat and the glare of the spanish afternoon. we were in the cheapest seats, having disdained to go skywards into the boxes, for we had come to taste the full flavour of an average bullfight as a popular spectacle, and we wished it as pure as possible. so we had bought purple tickets for two pesetas and a white one for me at half price; at the same time repelling the persistence of a feminine hawker, who pressed upon us large flabby looking paper bags of mysterious content which we imagined to be some form of refreshment. the seats of the bullring were of flat stone rising tier upon tier, and we chose our places low down to get a good view, yet as near as possible to the slowly creeping shadow; only one row of stone seats and two rows of chairs of iron lattice separated us from the arena itself. the chairs were empty, so i asked luis if they were reserved for some special purpose. "no," he answered, "but the bull may leap out of the ring. those chairs would entangle him, but it is uncomfortable if you happen to be sitting there, so they are not very popular." as the edge of the arena was guarded by a palisade of stout planking about five feet high, through which were cut narrow gaps--bolt-holes--for the toreadors, and the seats were separated from this palisade by a passage some six feet wide, the lowest seats being set some ten feet above the floor, i felt that the risk of finding an enraged bull in one's lap was rather remote. the culverts spouted spanish humanity: soldiers in greenish khaki; women in black, white or colours dominated by a very popular pink; peasants in blue blouses and sandals; bourgeoisie in straw hats and drill; youths in caps of exaggerated english cut. immediately below us two small children, mothered by a third aged about eleven, all three exceedingly unkempt, rather dirty, and possibly verminous, took their seats, and, recognizing that i was a stranger, advised me in hoarse whispers all through the progress of the spectacle. in spite of her obvious poverty the eldest girl wore a large tortoise-shell comb of elaborate pattern in a carefully arranged _coiffure_. numberless children seemed to have attended the spectacle thus, as the small londoners go to the cinema. at this moment the ring itself was full of them, some playing football, a game very popular--there is even a spanish periodical called _free-kick_--others giving imitation exhibitions of bullfighting, more or less like that played by the children in the hotel. when the imitation bull, stabbed to death, was dragged around the ring, the real spectators cheered loudly. we wondered what the bull's mother would say about the state of his pants. this was no mantilla day, nor day of fiesta. it was just an ordinary sunday afternoon diversion in this provincial town. we took our first dose of bullfight in this place for a reason. essentially a popular sport should be judged as a sport of the people: not by its highest exponents, but by its average. an intelligent foreigner would not get the truest impression of what cricket means to england at lord's or at the oval; but on some village green at an inter-parochial contest. the horrors of bullfighting began with a band, the age of the bandsmen varying between fourteen and seventy years. the band marched around the ring playing music as out of tune as the new age is with the old. the ring emptied of children, and two horsemen superbly mounted dashed across the arena to demand from the president the key of the bull-pen. this was followed by a general parade of the toreros. alas, for romance! their gilt was somewhat tarnished, most of their cloaks worn and faded; usually the only part of the costume which seemed to have retained its original brilliance was the coloured seat of the tight trousers, which i suppose comes in for very little wear and tear. the picadors with their nail-headed lances seemed veritable don quixotes on their more than rosinante steeds: poor beasts doomed to the knackers anyhow. the procession ended with two cart-horses and a yoke destined to drag the slaughtered bulls from the ring. there was a pause. luis said in a low murmur: "doesn't your heart beat? isn't this moment exciting?" he spoke truly. around the huge oval all eyes were concentrated on the red door of the bull-pen: the very air seemed rarefied and electric. for me, i think this was the most tense moment of the day: that moment before anything had happened. a bugle call cut the silence. the red door swung open and with a peculiar rolling gallop the bull dashed into the arena. "now," i thought, "this terrible bullfight, about which so much has been written, so much discussed, has indeed begun." the bullfights of our imagination are spectacles of sun and colour--of madness stained with cruelty; the cruelty perhaps partly condoned by the fierceness of the bull, by a sort of wild frenzy of sport which seems in some part to excuse the murderous instinct of man. [illustration] the bull, a coloured rosette nailed to its shoulder, reached the centre of the ring, and then, for me, half the anticipated interest of the fight vanished. we had expected a wild and furious gallop around the arena; a bull lusting to kill or be killed; mad charges at the toreros, who would elude it with quick baffling passes of the cloaks, wild dashes at the unfortunate horses, the riders of which would at least make some pretence of manoeuvering before the furious bull was allowed to fling horse and rider into the air. but no! the bull slowed up, halted and looked to this side and that. it was obviously perplexed. one could almost imagine a crease of puzzlement between its eyes. what was all this; where the sierras of its youth; into what strange place had it come? and now began a taunting of the unwilling bull. the toreros flapped their faded cloaks at it, but whenever the bull was tempted to charge the man ran for safety and crammed himself through one of the bolt-holes in the palisade--once a torero scampering for life reached an opening at the same instant as a companion. for a moment there was a flurry, but both men contrived to push through before the bull was able to reach them. the first impression of the fight was of a certain power and some magnificence on the part of the bull, and of degradation on the part of the toreros--one thought of the shorn sampson taunted by the philistines. in this contest the men seemed somehow ignoble in comparison with the animals. the next act of the drama made this feeling no better. the picador was led out on his blindfolded and skeleton-like steed by a little man in a red shirt, who from behind the horse's head held out, like a policeman regulating the traffic, a protesting hand at the bull, as if to imply that the animal was not to charge till he was ready to bolt. for some while the bull did not take the invitation, though whenever he appeared likely to do so the small man dropped the reins and ran for the paling, from which, however, he took care never to be very far away. the picador himself is not in great danger, for his trousers are armour plated. by this time the audience was shouting out: "no quiere!"[ ] but at last the bull charged, the picador thrust his lance, and the bull with a great thrust of its head overturned both horse and man. immediately the bull was surrounded by the toreros who with flapping cloaks distracted its attention. man and horse were lifted up again. large numbers of spaniards do not like bullfighting, but a great many spaniards who do not in principle object to bullfighting do object to the horse-slaughter. one, cutting to the roots of the truth, said it was "not æsthetic." he was right. there should be a strong sense of the æsthetic in sport--it is a thing more subtle than mere "fair play," and when this sense of the æsthetic is ignored the sport becomes brutality. this horse-slaughter more than oversteps the line of the æsthetic, so for us did the bolt-holes provided for the toreros. for us bullfighting would begin to be a serious sport if the men and the bull stood on the same conditions. [illustration] one picador, who by means of his lance kept the bull off from his horse, received a round of well-earned applause. the bugle sounded once more and the picadors were led out of the ring. there followed another rather dull interval of cloak-flapping. one of the matadors, however, gave an exhibition of passes which made the bull charge repeatedly within a foot or so of the man's body, during which the torero did not move his feet. when the bull, baffled and panting with exhaustion at his fruitless tosses, paused, the torero went upon one knee before the animal. the spectators shrieked applause and flung their hats into the ring. but this exhibition was very different from the usual cloak-flapping followed by a scamper for the bolt-hole: nor, indeed, was it shown often. a torero who had carried an exceedingly faded violet cloak, and who had been perhaps most hasty in his dashes for the safety gaps, now discarded his cloak, and waving a pair of pink banderillas stepped into the centre of the ring. like a foreigner at cricket we naturally missed much of the subtlety, but it was obvious that there were certain conditions under which the banderillero would meet the bull and others under which he would not. when the toreador seemed to think the bull in a good position, he waved his banderillas and stamped his feet as though about to fence. but the bull did not want banderillas stuck into him. again and again he declined the invitation while the populace howled "no quiere, no quiere!" personally i should have sent the bull home and ordered another with more ginger in it. at last, exasperated, the bull charged, the banderillero ran towards it in a slightly circular path, planted his two sticks, each some thirty inches long, into the bull's neck, and, curving out more widely, avoided by a few inches the upward thrust of the bull's horns. this piece of work looked dangerous, and the pay of a banderillero amounts to between £ and £ an afternoon. i think that he earns his money. what surprised us was to see the torero who had appeared such a scamperer with the faded purple cloak performing most pluckily with the paper-covered sticks. i suppose it is the case of a good batsman and good bowler--the arts are not interchangeable. the six banderillas having been placed, another interval of harrying the unfortunate animal with minor exasperations of cloak-flapping followed: but at last the espatero, the swordsman, and the matador prepared to give the death stroke. here again in first-class bullfighting probably the whole exhibition is one of supreme skill. we expected a certain number of showy passes with the scarlet flag, the matador keeping the bull circling about him--"wearing the bull as a waist-belt," as the saying is in spain. then a pause, a sudden thrust with the sword--and, with a groan, the bull is dead. it was not so. the espatero walked about flapping the cloak, at which sometimes the bull did charge, but more often did not. several times the espatero had to run into a bolt-hole. the bull showed strong desires to go home: it went to the side of the ring and looked at the door from whence it had emerged, while more venturesome members of the audience leaned over the palisade and tried to snatch out a banderilla as a souvenir. the toreador chivied the bull round the ring, trying to get it face foremost. however, when he succeeded in this he did not seem satisfied, for though the people yelled: "ahora! ahora!"[ ] the matador only flapped his cloak. [illustration] "he is rather a nervous espatero," said luis, "so, when he does prepare to kill, look out. sometimes the sword flies. not very long ago it landed in the audience and killed a spectator." at last, however, the bull, tongue hanging out, foam dripping from its mouth, blood streaming from the lance and banderilla wounds in the shoulders, faced the matador with half lowered and sullen head. the matador, taking up the position of a man about to throw a javelin, aimed his sword, which was curiously curved in the blade, and with quick steps ran in, thrust, and side-stepped. the bull, taken by surprise, could not bring its weight into action rapidly enough, the upward tossing horns missed the man by inches: the bull rushed forward at another torero who had taken position in line to attract the animal's attention. the matador had made no master stroke, the sword stood eighteen inches out of the bull's shoulder. the bull showed no signs of death, so the matador went away to procure another sword. finally the bull, stabbed by four swords, was worried to death rather than killed, after which the corpse was dragged triumphantly around the ring at the tail of the team of horses, while the spectators stood on the stone seats and cheered. it may be that we english take our pleasures sadly, but at that moment it struck me that at an ordinary bullfight the spaniard seems to take rather dull pleasures with ecstasy. the second bull proved more lively, the second matador more expert, or more lucky than his confrère; but here also the show seemed to partake rather of the nature of what should properly be termed bull-baiting than bullfighting. this second bull provided the thrill of the day to the three small dirty children. with one thrust of its horn it killed a horse. the small boy (aged six or seven) turned to me with eyes sparkling with pleasure. "did you see that?" he exclaimed. "one thrust only." after the death of this bull came the interval. "look up the numbers printed on your tickets," said luis. having found the papers, i raised my head and to my amazement saw, in the centre of the arena, a donkey, two young calves and a sewing-machine. "good heavens!" i exclaimed. "what are those?" "they are the prizes of the tombola," explained luis; "you or the señor may win one." the lots were drawn out of a large hat-box, and the numbers displayed on a blackboard. the donkey fell to a small boy, the calves to a peasant. but for some while the sewing-machine, forlorn and incongruous, stood in the centre of the bloodthirsty arena awaiting a claimant. attention was finally concentrated upon a point high up amongst the cheap seats, to the right of the president's box. shouting, persuasion, hand-clapping and arm-waving ensued, and at last the crowd squeezed out a small, dark woman, blushing and giggling behind her fan, accompanied by husband, husband's friend and six-year-old son. the sewing-machine was escorted out of the same door through which the dead bulls had been dragged. then the bullfight began again. the third bull, a lusty black, was the most willing of all. he did charge, he leapt high in his endeavours to kill those phantom cloaks. after all the necessary banderillas had been placed, there followed an incident. a boy of about sixteen years leapt the barrier and ran across the ring, hastily as he ran unwrapping something from a covering of newspaper. there was a sudden hum of excited voices from the spectators. "ei!" cried luis. "an amateur!" the boy reached the president's box, the unwrapped objects being a pair of dirty banderillas. bowing to the president he craved permission to plant his banderillas in the bull. but, alas for youthful aspirations, permission was not given. the boy clambered sadly over the palisade to hide himself in the audience. unfortunately this bull, the bravest of the four, fell to the lot of the nervous matador. death was a very lengthy operation, during the progress of which the bull knocked down the bullfighter. for a moment we wondered if the bull were going to take its revenge, but flapping cloaks instantly distracted it. meanwhile, between the forelegs of the bull the matador lay very still, shielding his head with his arms. the nervous matador, however, went on with his task, using three swords before it was completed. the matador of the fourth bull made an exceedingly bad thrust. the populace howled insults at him, flinging at the same time those paper bags which we had seen on sale near the ticket-office. they contained no refreshment, nor material for bombarding unsuccessful matadors, but were stuffed with horsehair to soften the stone seats. by this time we wished we had inquired more about them, for the stone had proved anything but soft. the fourth bull dead, the bullfight was over. "come and see the toreros," said luis. so with the outflowing press we repassed into the culvert, down the stairs and along the corridors of brick, till we reached a window or grille, by staring through which we could see the "heroes of spain" clambering into an ordinary station bus, in which they sat, stiff, cramped, dignified and unsmiling, conscious of their importance. we returned with the returning crowds along the roads deep in dust, back to the centre of the town where there were cooling drinks and seats softer than those stone benches. while we were sitting thus, revelling in varied positions and summing up our first impressions, a large box cart of lattice work passed by. within the cart were hung great joints of meat which swung to and fro as the cart bumped over the uneven road. "there," said luis, "go the bulls. they will be sold to-morrow in the market. the meat is cheap because it is rather tough." this incident, because it seemed to contain a note of irony, because it had in it something sardonic and something callous, seemed to us a fitting termination to the spectacle which we had witnessed. footnotes: [footnote : "he doesn't want to fight."] [footnote : "now! now!"] chapter xiii an excursion murcia was very hot, very dusty and very sultry. we did not mind mere heat--though spanish midsummer heat was not the best of pick-me-ups for the influenza--dust we could outlive, but the sultriness of the murcian valley was beyond our physique. this flat valley, which is ten miles wide between abrupt mountains, is irrigated over the whole of its breadth and is one of the richest agricultural parts of spain. the evaporation of the water makes the heat of murcia damp; the summer in addition was cloudy, and the sun shining on to the clouds seemed to cook the air enclosed in the valley until the atmosphere resembled that of a glass-house for orchids. we wished to leave murcia in spite of an affection which was growing in us for the town. luis met us at one o'clock on the terrace of the reina victoria. we had _café au lait_ while waiting for the tartana. luis said that the milk in the coffee was not good: he deduced preservatives. but the lean waiter stood loyally by his hotel. "the milk is excellent, i assure you, señor," he said. "my stomach is excessively delicate; the slightest thing and it is ... i assure you that i drink pints of this milk in this hotel. in fact my stomach is so delicado that i am a connoisseur in milk, es vero.[ ] if the milk were bad this fatality would happen to me." he gave a dumb-crambo exhibition of the results of bad milk on his delicate digestion; it needed no words. with deference he then proposed a new _café au lait_, which luis sipped with a judicial but unconvinced manner. the tartana was a tight fit. it is about as large as a governess-cart inside, and we were six. luis, jan and myself, a monk in brown, a thin pale señor who had long eyelashes and many rings, and another passenger, a world type, the result of overwork and underpay, neither smart nor slovenly, with a rough manner covering a kindly nature. the drive [illustration] we discovered why tartanas have bulging hoods. the vehicles roll and rock so much over the bad roads that it is necessary to make room for the passengers' heads to jerk backwards. otherwise cerebral concussion would be the invariable result. _luis_ (to the little monk): "excuse me, but are not your clothes very hot?" _the monk_ (spreading out his hands): "they are hot, but nevertheless they keep out the sun." we come out of the town into the gardens. there are flat fields of cultivation spotted with mulberry trees, the trunks of which seem vivid purple in the afternoon light. i make a remark in spanish. (jan was still at the stage of appreciative listener). _the clerkly man_: "señora, your spanish is good for a stranger--you can pronounce the spanish j, which is difficult for foreigners." _i_: "i have learned that from speaking german; it is rather like the german _ch_." a discussion on idioms at once begins. the spaniard, though he speaks foreign languages badly, has an inextinguishable interest in the subject of tongues. if ever you are bored in spanish company start an argument about languages. after the discussion has been going on for some while the pale señor says: "nevertheless it is sad that the catalans wish to root castilian out of their country." _luis_ (with some heat): "well! why should they not? they are the hardest working and the most valuable people of spain. why should not they do as they like? why should everybody not do as he likes if he hurts nobody else?" _the pale señor_ (with frigidity): "but that is bolshevism." _luis_ (with increasing heat): "if that is bolshevism then i do not mind being a bolshevik." conversation is at an impasse. the carriage flings us to and fro for a while. a motor-car passes us. the dust which is about six inches deep on the road is whirled up in a cloud so thick that we have to halt for a few minutes to allow it to settle, or we might have driven into the deep water-channels which edge each side of the road. _luis_ (to the clerkly man): "my friends want to live for a while out in the mountains. do you by any chance know of a house?" _the clerkly man_: "i am living with my family in the monastery of fuen santa. there is a guest house there and habitations are to let. i will find out all about them if you wish." _the pale little señor_ (who has apparently forgotten all about bolshevism): "there are one or two houses in my village of verdolay. the proprietor is a friend of mine. i will inquire for you about it." the tartana stops. in front of a solitary house is a small wooden frame on which a few strips of dusty meat are hung. the driver buys some of this from the woman who comes out of the house. _the driver_ (confidentially to the passengers): "better get a bit of meat while you have the chance." nobody follows his example. the carriage bumps on. the sun is now shining through the thin dust-laden trees which edge the road: they appear as flames of pale gold. we mount over a bridge. a broad deep but waterless canal stretches away to right and left. _the little señor_: "we are now nearing verdolay. it is still too hot for you to go hunting for a house. i shall be delighted if you will take possession of my house until the sun is cooler." _luis_: "señor, i thank you very much, but we cannot do it." _the little señor_: "i insist--you will come?" _luis_: "thank you very much." this is spanish courtesy. a single invitation is for politeness only, like the last piece of bread and butter left for miss manners. a second invitation means that it is really offered. we pass a group of houses the colour of baked bread; the most arid-looking spot we have seen as yet. the gardens come to an abrupt end. the road rises slightly, and grey-green olive foliage over gnarled trunks throw a thin lacework of shadow on the dry earth. the tartana stops. we all get out. the clerkly man goes east; the priest south; we, led by the pale señor, west. * * * * * we were at the entrance of a village. it spread over a mound at the foot of the higher hills. it was like a pyramid with toy houses coloured yellow, orange, green and grey upon the ledges, and all around trees like those from a child's play box. the village was fronted by a line of houses painted a deep crimson-vermilion. an iron windmill for pumping water was placed on the extreme point of the mound. the little señor showed us through the village to his house and left us in the entrada, while he went to get beer. the room was decorated with wooden "art-nouveau" chairs, oleographs and an extremely bad oil painting of a bull with banderillas shedding much blood. on a cane table was a gramophone. the little señor had shut a door made on the system of a venetian blind to keep out the sun, and presently the lattice-work was crowded with children trying to peer in at us. the señor returned preceded by a large english setter. he drew the corks of the beer and asked us to make ourselves at home. "the house and all that is in it is at your service," he said in the phrase of spanish courtesy. i was patting the dog. "that dog," said the little señor, "is a very valuable dog. it is unique in the province and possibly is unique in the south of spain. it has a romantic history. it is bred by the monks in high switzerland, and when the snow is deep on the mountains it goes out to hunt for lost travellers. it is the only specimen of a san bernar' in the south of spain." we looked at the setter; and drank some more beer. "that bull," went on the señor, pointing to the picture, "was painted by one of the best bull painters in spain." we looked at the picture and again took refuge in beer. luis, who did not know about setters, but did know about pictures, drank in sympathy. the señor wound up his gramophone. "do you know 'frou-frou'?" he inquired. "'frou-frou'?" we said. "yes, the french comic opera." "but," said luis, "have you not by chance a disc of spanish music? you see," he added as excuse, "the señors are foreign. it interests them to hear the national music, the flamenco." the little señor pursed his lips. "but," he said, "it is so vulgar. nobody wants to hear that." he possessed, however, a disc or two which he turned on, to our delight. but before we left him he insisted that we should sit through his favourite "frou-frou." we went away. the strains of "frou-frou" which the little señor had turned on once more followed us on the still air. the setter-st. bernard walked with us to the beginning of the hill, from whence he turned sedately homewards. we strode upwards--past cottages of all colours, past a large rambling monastery, which, perched on the far side of the verdolay hill, very cubic in shape, is as romantic as it is possible for a building to be; past a watercourse, above which were dwellings hollowed out of the soft rock of the mountain-side, cave dwellings, and out on to the side of the mountains lying between murcia and carthagena. from here we could appreciate the width, flatness and verdure of the murcian valley in the midst of which was the town, the campanile of the cathedral soaring into the air. here we had our first experience of a spanish country walk. we were all wearing alpagatas, the canvas sides of which are not exceedingly thick. the dried herbage of the hills was intermingled with all manner of prickly weeds. the vegetation protects itself in this way from being eaten by anything less leather-tongued than a goat. the results are uncomfortable for the walker. the little hairlike spines pierce the shoes and break off, remaining as a continual irritant until the shoe is removed. even then the spines, almost microscopic in size and almost flesh colour, are often difficult to find. the same uncomfortable fate is in wait for the unwary stranger who sits down without having carefully explored the place where he is going to seat himself. indeed the fate is worse, because the thorns thus encountered cannot with decency be extracted in a public place and the victim is condemned to a lot similar to that of the naughty schoolboy. the sun poured the full of its summer power on to the hill-side, which reflected both heat and light with overpowering intensity. though it was almost four o'clock in the afternoon we felt that our salamandrine limits were being put to a test. a broad white road, mounting up the hill, crossed our path and we turned into it. "we are going to the monastery of la luz," said luis. "i have heard that they sometimes take visitors for short periods. it would be interesting for you to spend a fortnight in a monastery." [illustration] the road climbed up beneath high black cliffs. the other side of the valley was coloured orange and red upon which the sun was shining with all its force. the side of the hill was dotted with aloes, some having upright flower stems fifteen feet high in the air, around the flowers of which the bees were swarming in harmonious halos. a stately stone pine overshadowed a medley of old buildings which sprang from the top of a precipice out of which sprouted the weird branches of the prickly pear cactus. the road circled round the foot of this cliff, and still mounted till, making a full semicircle, it brought us on to a platform. on one side of the flat space was an open cistern into which led a pipe. from the pipe a deliberate trickle of water fell. two women and two men sat about this pipe slowly filling their amphoras of grecian form, while donkeys waited patiently in the background bearing panniers for the water-vessels on their backs. on the other side of the platform the monastery showed a high wall with a large gate leading into a courtyard from which arose the face of the church, painted a cambridge blue. we could find no bell. the water-carriers shouted instructions to us. the bell clanged with an empty sound, as though echoing through miles of untenanted corridors. we rang again. no response. we rang three or four times before we heard the sound of shuffling steps. a peep-hole, shaped like a cross, opened and an eye examined us. the door swung slowly open, revealing a small obsequious man dressed in peasant costume. through passages we came into a cloister which was built around a small courtyard full of flowers. in the middle of the courtyard was a high statue of the virgin. it was framed and almost hidden by a creeper which offered to it a tribute of gorgeous purple bell-shaped flowers. at the foot of the figure was stretched a large cat. a strange thought came to me that the cat did not bother itself about the virgin other than as something which threw a grateful shadow. the apologetic little peasant monk, who had let us in was evidently an underling. he murmured something about brother juan and went away. brother juan came groaning along the corridor with rheumatic steps. he had a tiny head and large-framed body; dressed in peasant's clothes, white shirt, black cummerbund, short knee trousers, long white drawers to the ankle and sandals on bare feet. he was rather like a dear old gardener who has been in the family for years, and who has supported the teasings of generations of children. age and a sweet nature had carved his face with horizontal wrinkles of kindliness; rheumatism and pain had crossed these with downward seams of depression. luis introduced the object of our visit. brother juan doubtingly shook his head. they did have visitors, yes, but those were always well-known to the monastery. introductions would be necessary. but, in any circumstance, the father superior was in murcia at the moment, and nothing could be done without him. i, made conceited by the praise of the clerkly man in the carriage, then tried to charm brother juan by a series of apposite remarks in my most careful spanish. brother juan scratched his head. "doubtless, what the señora says is very interesting." he raised his hands and eyes in pantomimed dismay. "but, oh, these languages! i can't understand a word!" brother juan, groaning with rheumatism, led us to the gate. by some means an old woman dressed in black had joined us. as juan was taking his leave of us his eyes suddenly lit up with a merry twinkle. "if you will excuse me," he said to luis, "it would be better, when you see the father superior, if the woman would dress rather less indecently. you see, we are monks and are not used to it." we went down the hill accompanied by the old woman in black, who was chuckling at brother juan's last remark. "if only the woman would ... he ... he ... we are monks and aren't used to it ... ho ... ho." i was surprised. it had not seemed to me that i was indecent. i was wearing an ordinary english midsummer walking dress. luis said: "i think it was the opening at your neck that worried him. you see we haven't really taken up the open neck in murcia as yet." directed by the old woman, we scrambled down steep paths to the bottom of the orange-coloured ravine, and up the other side past the aloes; we went through an olive grove, and again up a steep zigzag road to the second monastery. here lived the clerkly man, but we did not know his name. this monastery began with a terra-cotta-coloured gothic church with three tall towers and a cupola of blue glazed tiles, and rambled on up the ridge of a long hill to end in a tall building which looked like an overgrown turkish bath. a grey building with a huge entrance door was pointed out as the _pension_ of the monastery. we wandered into a large courtyard and to us came a fat priest wearing a biretta. he was courteous but firm. "we have no room," he said. but we remembered that the clerkly one had said that there was room. i suppose again my dress was the real objection. we went back towards the village of the little señor. on our way we again crossed the dusty road which led to la luz. a carriage was driving along it. in the carriage were two priests. luis said: "there probably goes the father superior. shall we ask him now?" after a moment's hesitation we turned and strode up the hill. we had to walk fast to catch the carriage, but at last the driver, perceiving that we were following him, halted. "no," said one of the priests, "we are not the superior of la luz. indeed, at this moment he is behind you. there." he pointed out an old man in the costume of a peasant, who, bent with age, was toiling up the hill aided by his staff. the father superior was still some distance away. hastily, with a brooch, we pinned my blouse up close around my throat. the father superior had the face of one designed to be an ascetic, but his expression was inscrutable. he was very suave. he felt honoured, he said, by the request of the señors, but there was no room. now brother juan had said that there was room. luis tried to urge the matter: he instanced our red cross work in serbia. the father superior said it was very praiseworthy of us, but ... and bowing unfelt regrets he left us. we went back to our little señor. he found for us a woman with the usual pound's weight of keys and conducted us to two bright red houses. both were one story in height, but one was for three months' tenancy only. we decided to take the other. it was occupied to its limits by a spanish family, so we took but the most cursory of glances into it. then, our business settled, we said au revoir to the little señor, who in spanish fashion offered us his services whenever they should be needed. we walked down a road and, in a short while, came to the village of alverca. this was the first typical spanish village we had passed through. it was long, stretched on the edge between the bare mountain and the fertile valley. the houses were low, one-storied for the most part, and the dust was all-prevalent. in the dusty street boys were playing football, which in spain seems to be a summer game. in the middle of the village was a shop, which advertised itself as a tobacco agency, for tobacco is a spanish government monopoly and can be sold only in licensed places. we went in to get a drink and to ask if by chance they had some tobacco, for all the while we were in spain there was a famine of tobacco. the inside of the shop was a curious mixture of the modern and of the very ancient. at one end of the counter was a modern brass beer machine, with carbonic acid gas cylinder--which gives to the tepid beer an extra fizz--pressure gauge and lead-lined sink. at the other end of the shop were huge jars four feet high, and nine or ten feet in circumference; amphoras of pale porous unglazed pottery, direct successors of the grecian vase; small drinking pots of clay with short spouts for water or of glass with long spouts for wine, the latter in shape not unlike the brass drinking-vessels of benares. pendent from the ceiling hung candles two or three feet in length, for devotional purposes, and side by side with the candles were festooned strings of orange-coloured, highly flavoured sausages, which appeared very ominous. some day one felt that one would be tempted by a spanish friend to eat one of these sausages, and the fear of the experiment was always within us. wine of a deep ruby tinged with brown filled a large glass barrel; wine which could be bought for one halfpenny a glass. inside the shop, leaning against the zinc bar, were two tramps; the one swart with three days' beard on his chin, dressed in a blue jean smock and soiled yellow velveteen trousers; the other leaner, more pallid, furtive: in spite of the heat of the day he was covered with a large black cloak. they at once offered us their glasses of wine. "gracias. buen aproveche," said we in customary refusal. they offered cigarettes to jan and luis. these, by courtesy, had to be accepted. while we were drinking our tepid beer--fizzed up with the carbonic acid gas--jan asked for and bought a box of matches. the spanish matches, very bad, a government monopoly, are packed in a small cardboard box. this box is quite difficult to open. whichever way you push it, like the well-known trick matchbox, the inside part seems to have two bottoms and no opening. the impatient traveller usually tears the box to pieces trying to get at the forty matches which are inside. jan asked for tobacco. "there is not," sighed the fat woman. outside the shop the two tramps were waiting for us. the swart one peered quickly from left to right. "we have tobacco," he said in a hoarse whisper. he snapped his fingers at his companion, who produced from beneath the cloak, furtively, a square orange packet. "good tobacco from gibraltar," growled "swart"; "will you buy?" "no," said luis. the pallid man slid the tobacco beneath the cloak again. the two slouched off through the dust. "that would be tobacco at each end and cabbage or other refuse in the middle," said luis. we turned towards the setting sun. murcia has a tramway system. blue cars run all over the town and reach out into the country at several spots. we came to the terminus in this direction at palma, on the road to carthagena. the people of the village crowded about us in curiosity; but by this time we were becoming used to a publicity which is, as a rule, only reserved for royalty. as the tram carried us home--with several halts due to failure of the electrical supply--we noticed through an open door a delightful interior, decorated with the huge water-jars--on a raised step--with which beautiful specimens of old spanish pottery were arranged. the village of the little señor had pleased us so much that we made arrangements to move out there as soon as possible; for the heat of murcia was now unbearable and we were in consequence on the verge of being really ill. footnotes: [footnote : that is truth.] chapter xiv verdolay--housekeeping the house in verdolay had five large rooms, stone-floored, and was unfurnished. we decided to borrow all our friend's kitchen furniture, to wit, a table, three chairs, water-vessels, etc., and we bought for ourselves a large frying-pan. but the bed was a problem. our friend's bed looked too good to knock about, so at last we determined on the planks which we had already, and four packing-cases on which to lay the planks. antonio, always eager to help us, promised to find the packing-cases and to make all the arrangements about a cart. at this moment antonio's wife rosa was ill. he had invited us to a noble lunch, and upon the day following he had told us that the lunch had disagreed seriously with rosa. she did not get better. "there is much fever with it," said antonio. marciana, our charwoman, of whom we will tell more later, was also working for antonio, and would bring us news of rosa's illness, which appeared quite serious for so slight a cause. "we must look out for tummy-troubles," said i. it is amazing what a lot a small amount of furniture appears when one is preparing to move. we had thought the cart much too big, but we had some difficulty in stacking into it all our material, including the guitar, of which the driver was told to take especial care. we drove out to verdolay in a tartana, passing on the road our cart of furniture. we noted that the driver had added above our load two huge bundles of straw colour. we wondered what they might be. we were to discover later. the little señor took us to the owner of our prospective abode. his house was full of children, and the study, where we signed a spanish agreement, was festooned with swords, pistols and guns, while a large photograph of him in officer's uniform explained the meaning of this warlike equipment. the proprietor, don ferdinand--a most unmilitary looking man--received our money with aloof dignity; but said, after the transaction was over, that if we ever needed a friend we now knew where to look for him. subsequently don ferdinand placed in the yard next to ours a large dog, which howled all night and prevented us from sleeping, but the friendliness which he had professed did not induce him to move it. the cart of furniture had not arrived by the time we were in full possession of our new home. the front door led into a large entrada, from which one passed into an equally spacious kitchen, and then by a wide double door into the back yard. to the right and left of the entrada were rooms with windows, covered with a grille, looking on to the road. to the right of the kitchen the last room had a window looking into the yard. evening had come and still the cart delayed. antonio had given us an introduction to a friend called "la merchora." we found her in the village shop which she owned. her shop was smaller than that in alverca, but similar, save that she sold her beer in bottles and dispensed with the beer machine. the same bilious-looking sausage hung in festoons from the ceiling. she was like a fat, happy aunt to us, talked very fast, but was very proud of being able to understand what i said. she assured us that she would arrange things for us. in the dusk we sat on the step of our empty house, and, illuminated by the light of a couple of candles lent by the little señor, we ate provisions which we providentially had brought with us in the tartana. the cart arrived at about eight o'clock. the two large bundles had disappeared, but a certain amount of chopped straw scattered about amongst the furniture showed us what they had contained. the driver hesitated before accepting the tip which jan offered him. we set up the bed as best we could. we had intended to put the packing-cases upright, but the structure seemed rather unsafe; so we laid them flat, put two of the planks lengthways and the rest crossing. unfortunately two of the packing-cases were much narrower than the others. this made the structure slope down about a foot at one end. we did not have time or surplus energy to alter this arrangement during our stay, with the result that in the morning we had as a rule slipped gently down so that our feet projected some distance beyond the end of the bed. mosquitoes had threatened us during our meal, so that we rigged the net at once. we had been warned by many travellers of the verminous condition of spain. we had taken the chances of this house, which in truth had appeared reasonably clean. nevertheless we went to bed with some anxiety. no sooner had we lain down and the candle was out, than the trouble began. it was as though we had been invaded by a hundred thousand bugs. we both tossed about and cursed our luck. suddenly a piercing and prolonged sting made me clap my hand suddenly to the spot attacked. i had imprisoned something. i had experienced bugs in serbia: this did not seem like a bug, but much larger. "jan," i exclaimed, "i've caught something. strike a light." the match revealed _a short piece of chopped straw_. the carter, with his bundles of chaff, had provided us with as uncomfortable a specimen of an "apple-pie" bed as it has been my lot to experience. the chaff had sifted down through everything, and had impregnated both the cover of the mattress and the sheets with the fine spikes of straw. we spent the better part of the night picking the tiny irritants out of our bedding. even the thought that the house had proved bugless was at that moment but a poor solace. in addition to our discomforts of that night, the house was almost unbearable from the heat. we had chosen our first residence with some lack of experience. the house, we discovered on the morrow, faced east and west, and not, as did the majority of the houses in the village, north and south. in consequence of this fact we suffered from the sun, which poured through the front door all the morning, and through the back door all the afternoon. it was almost impossible to open the windows on both sides, to allow a draught to pass through the house. and for the worst house in the village we were being charged forty pesetas a month by our _friend_, don ferdinand. the discomforts of the night were added to by the cats, which chose our back wall for the most awesome serenades we have ever heard; and also by the plaintive baaing of a sheep tethered in an adjoining yard. we fell into an uneasy sleep about dawn, but were soon awakened by strange sounds which came from the kitchen. we listened, but could make nothing of them; they were strange hollow vocal sounds as though a small carpet was being beaten at irregular intervals. the front door was locked, the front windows barred; what had come in must have done so by the back, over the wall. what was it? jan peeped through a crack of the door. on the kitchen floor was a flock of pigeons, which had come in to search the chaff, scattered by the previous night's unpacking, for grains of corn. it was now about . . we decided to rest for a while, in view of the failure of our sleep. a rousing thump, thump on the front door drew jan once more from bed. at the door was a brown-faced peasant, clad in black cotton, with bare sandalled feet. spotted about the street were goats, their distended udders almost trailing on the ground. "milk," said the peasant. "do you want milk? la merchora sent me." [illustration] he took our milk-jug, selected a goat the udder of which seemed stretched almost to bursting, and milked the animal directly into the jug. he handed the jug of milk, hot and frothy, with a flourish. "three fat dogs and a little bitch," said he. in such a hot country the milk keeps better inside the animal than outside. milk shops in spain therefore are usually quadruped, and there is never a question of inspector or of adulteration. we made up our minds to get up. we did not know what other venders la merchora had prepared for us. we had scarcely finished our breakfast of tea, bread and chocolate, when another thump, thump on the door announced the arrival of another ascetically faced peasant, tall, clad in blue. with him was a pretty girl of about fifteen and a dusty, tilted donkey-cart. "vegetables and fruit," said the girl. the man, having firmly fixed in his head that we knew no spanish, grunted and made noises, strange though cheery, in his throat. the inside of the cart was piled with all manner of excellent things--tomatoes, green and yellow melons, berenginas, peaches, plums, pears, red peppers, cucumbers, potatoes, huge purple onions, and lemons. we bought many things. the system of weights and measures is supposed to be that of the kilogramme, as it is in france, but the methods by which these weights are translated into practice in spain is delightful. evidently there is no inspection of weights and measures. one of the weights used by the tall man was a small axe-head, another was a lump of rock. after the donkey-cart, a man stumpy enough to be almost a dwarf rode up to our steps. he was grim-visaged and paunchy; and said in a sour voice that he would fetch us water if we so wished. the price was one peseta a donkey-load, a donkey-load of water being four full grecian vases (called cantaros) which were carried in panniers, on the top of which the old man sat and looked grumpily at the world, while the water gurgled and clucked cheerfully beneath him. then came a witch-faced woman with a disagreeable voice. she carried a huge basket and said she was the shopping woman of verdolay. verdolay had no market, nor could one buy there anything other than the few immediate necessities which la merchora sold. this woman was equivalent to our country carriers. she walked to murcia every day and returned with laden basket through the heated dust. for this work she demanded a small percentage upon the value of her purchases; probably she also extracted a small commission from the shops in which she dealt. we did not employ her much, as her temperament was not agreeable to us. [illustration] last of all came a little old woman--with a face seamed like a kindly walnut--dragging an old grey donkey. on the donkey's back was a pair of time-worn panniers from which bulged a medley of fruit and vegetables. she was the donkey-cart's rival. i had forgotten to buy onions. during our trip we had been bothered by the fact that at moments our uncertain spanish would be displaced by the language we had last learned, serbian. instead of the spanish sentence, quite against our wills serbian would speak itself. this phenomenon is quite common, i believe, to those who learn several languages more or less imperfectly. i now asked the old woman in unwished-for serbian for onions. she struck an attitude of theatrical dismay. "señora," she exclaimed, "que es eso?"[ ] i repeated my desire, and again serbian came out. the old lady shook her head, and seemed frightened. i got a strong hold over my tongue, and said slowly in spanish: "tiene cebollas?"[ ] the old lady's face broke into a hundred wrinkles of delight. "ahe, señora," she cried, "if you say 'cebollas,' i can understand that you want cebollas. but if you say something different from 'cebollas,' how can i know that you need cebollas?" we walked round the corner to la merchora's to discover what could, and what could not, be bought at first hand. la merchora could supply us with olive oil, but not with vinegar. she sold beer, wine, lemonade and soda-water in siphons; dried sardines, very smelly; orange-coloured sausages; bread at a peseta the kilo; dutch cheese, red pepper, chocolate and eggs. the last-named item on the list she said was scarce and variable in quality. i then asked her if it would be possible to find a maid in the village. the little señor had said that servants were as plentiful as flies in june, but la merchora said that they were as scarce as were the eggs. all the girls went off to murcia, she said. there were several women in the little shop and a discussion began; they reviewed a list of the likely girls. a young woman came in, and said at once that her sister was out of a job. she would send her along. la merchora was reluctant to tell us the correct price to pay. i suppose she thought that she might be spoiling a beautiful piece of bargaining. upon pressure, however, she admitted that the local price was about ten pesetas a month, this to include all the washing of linen, both house and personal. we bought some of la merchora's chocolate. she asked us if we would have spanish or french flavouring. we naturally chose the spanish variety. it was very cheap. it had a dusty consistency in the mouth, and tasted of chocolate not at all, but strongly of cinnamon. it was eatable, but not exciting; we consoled ourselves with the reflection that it was nourishing without temptations towards greediness and ate no other chocolate during our stay in verdolay. behind her shop la merchora had a large yard, with outside stove for cooking. in the yard was a flock of turkeys and several pigs. a black and white terrier pup was having a game with the pigs, running about and pulling their tails with his sharp teeth. our house had inconveniences. there was, as far as we could see, no place to put household refuse, nor any means in the village of collecting it. the windows on the road commanded a view almost of the whole house, and if we left them open at once the curious were at the grilles, staring through at us. as we could not open the back door or windows during the afternoon, this meant that if we wished for privacy we had to live in semi-gloom. nobody in spain, however, tries to live other than in public; the people walked in and watched us as we were having our meals; walked round the house examining with interest the pictures which we hung on the walls to dry; and in time we became case-hardened to this semi-public life. we had a siesta during the afternoon to make up for the sleep we had lost. at first we lay down without the mosquito-net, but the flies soon drove us to its protection. in the evening we called on the little señor. he was a delicate and very likeable man, but his pretty wife showed a strong dislike for us, for which we could find no explanation save that perhaps she had been a pro-german during the war. we sat uncomfortably in a mixed atmosphere of liking and hate for some while, then, making our adieux, and followed by the setter-st. bernard, we went home. i think that we first discovered the lack of privacy while we were undressing. we had left the front windows open for air, and soon a crowd was watching our preliminaries to sleep. luckily we discovered it early. jan closed the shutters, upon which a number of boys sat down on our doorstep and sang serenades to us for several hours. footnotes: [footnote : "what is that?"] [footnote : "have you onions?"] chapter xv verdolay--sketching in spain sketching in spain has inconveniences. in the summer the heat makes it imperative that the painter should be up with the dawn, for between eleven a.m. and four p.m. the heat and the brilliance of the light impose too great a strain on the eyes and the endurance. under any circumstances we were almost forced to rise with the sun, for milk and vegetables both called before six. verdolay was an excellent spot at which to begin an acquaintance with spanish scenery. there was a great variety of subject matter. the village itself was full of vividly coloured houses, and at the back was the wonderful old monastery of santa catalina. in the valley less than half a mile away were the huertas, or irrigated gardens, full of rich green. on the sides of the mountains were the olive terraces, which traced the architecture of the hills in a way to delight the painter's heart. between the olives and the garden was the dusty cart road with its intermittent traffic, and the small dusty strung-out villages, the houses threaded on the road like beads on a necklace, especially that one called el angel--though anything more arid and less angelic could hardly be imagined. in the hills themselves were fine ravines of strangely coloured ferruginous earths, orange, purple and blue; and the tops of the foothills were often crested with monasteries, like that of la luz, which gave the scene a most romantic atmosphere. i clung more or less to the village, jan wandered about the surrounding country or sat in the insufficient shadow of the olive trees near el angel. [illustration] the first real inconvenience which we noted was that seldom did the best view possess a suitable piece of shade from which to paint it. thus the artist's task was doubled; one had to find coincident scene and shadow. the apparently aimless wander of the artist looking for a subject usually excited the curiosity of the passers-by, so that either one was irritated by a series of remarks or became possessed of a small following of the curious. i use a square hole cut in a piece of cardboard in order to test the view and judge whether it would frame as satisfactorily as it promised to do. whenever i placed this square to my eye one of my followers bobbed up his head and stared back at me through the hole, trying to fathom the mystery of my act. once i had begun work i would become the centre of an excited conversation. [illustration] the first strokes of the brush aroused merriment. but often some onlooker astonished me by perceiving the object of my sketch long before the drawing was in any way clear. she (it was generally a she) would then be eager to exhibit her superior knowledge to the others. she would therefore dab her finger on to my painting to point out what she had perceived. this nuisance i fought by covering intrusive fingers with oil paint. by the time the overwise one had cleaned off the paint the drawing would be far advanced enough for the others to see for themselves what i was doing. as soon as i got well into the swing of work questions would begin. "why do you do this? is it to make picture postcards from? why isn't your husband with you? are your father and mother alive? do you like spanish food? have you got any children? if you have no children, as we have too many, would you like a baby to take away with you? are you doing this for the cinematograph? do you like painting? how old are you? why haven't you put in so-and-so's house?" in this case the house in question was usually behind me. these questions were asked in murcian spanish not very easy to understand with my small lack of acquaintance; and i had to take my attention off my painting in order to find suitable spanish answers. i tried once not to answer, but my audience then demanded: "are you deaf? can't you hear? don't you understand what we say?" all this was said with the most courteous of intentions, direct questioning being permissible in spain. chairs were generally brought out, one for me and others for the spectators. nurse-maids with half-nude babies formed a large proportion of my audiences. the spanish baby suffers from over nursing; it is carried remorselessly about from six in the morning till twelve at night; it is as a rule fretful and feverish both from the heat and from lack of sleep. indeed verdolay always shrilled with wailing children. at about nine o'clock the spaniard takes a morning snack. this consists of a slice of bread soaked with olive oil and a dried sardine, the smell of which was almost paralysing. with the perfect courtesy which marked all my peasant audiences, this would be offered to me before it was chewed loudly in my ear. when the heat was very great i would abandon my sketch as soon as the sardine stage arrived. i was continually pestered by polite requests that so-and-so should be painted in. this often led to a lecture on composition and on the introduction of figures. if i did, however, paint in anybody the enthusiasm was enormous. people would run down the road shouting in at every cottage door: "she has painted enrico" (or miguel or maria) "into her picture." once while near the water-fountain i painted in the donkey of a water-carrier. for days afterwards paco, the donkey-boy, grasped the passers-by and exclaimed with tears of joy in his voice: "ha pintado mi burro, _mi_ burro."[ ] the water-fountain was one of the gathering places of the village. it was the end of a small iron pipe which writhed down from the hills. there were generally three or four donkey-boys with cantaros, and a crowd of women with amphoras waiting their turns to wedge their pots beneath the small trickle which ran from the nozzle of the pipe. old grumpy spent the best part of his day there, sitting with sour face in the shadow of a small tree--his chief work was either waiting his turn or leaving his pots to fill themselves. a tall bank of prickly pear cactus made a background to the gay scene. women came from dawn until midnight, and even from the villages of the valley, for water was very scarce and most of the water in the valley wells unfit for drinking. with their heavy cantaros balanced on a projecting hip, these women walked two miles or more beneath the sweltering sun; and they asked me if i _liked_ painting. sometimes the ladies of the village stopped and made suitable remarks. one, a summer visitor, told me that she knew a very good painter--"very good indeed," she said with a gentle emphasis which revealed what she thought of my work. "why, he painted things five times as big as these which you do." as the sketch progressed my audiences were very eager to point out to me anything which i seemed to have forgotten. at this moment somebody always said that uncle pepe's or aunt conchas' house wasn't in the sketch. these houses were invariably out of sight or behind my back. the spaniards had futuristic instincts. but once they knew me, my friends would not have me criticized. one passer-by made some disparaging remark about the painting. [illustration] "we won't have our doña abused," said the nurse-maids. "she is very clever. she knows lots more than you do; and plays the piano as well." sometimes i accompanied jan out into the country, in the direction of la luz or down into the huertas. one day we were near la luz and my interest was captured by a lemon and vine garden which was cultivated on terraces down the side of a baking ravine. the farmer's house with a red roof topped the hill. i sat down to paint. presently the farmer with his wife and family clambered down into the ravine and climbed up the side to where i was sitting. each time i returned the family came back and in awed silence watched the progress of the sketch. it happened that the water of verdolay was not very nice for drinking purposes, being full of minerals and salts, while that of la luz was delicious. a poor woman, who did charing jobs for the farmer above-mentioned, was delighted to be allowed to carry us heavy cantaros full of la luz water, a mile and a half, for the pay of fivepence a cantaro. one day after the sketch was finished she came in with a look of importance on her face. "my señora," she said, "is enamoured of the little painting which you have done of her house and farm. she wishes to buy the sketch." i had had some experience of spanish prices, so i said: "these paintings are made to exhibit in england. it is of no use to tell you the price, because english prices and spanish prices are different." "but, señora," said the woman, "my masters are very rich, excessively rich. they will pay any price that you like to ask." but i suspected her protestations. the sketch was one of the best i had done in spain. i was not very eager to part with it. but owing to her entreaties, against my better judgment, fixing a low price because of spain, i said at last: "two hundred pesetas."[ ] her mouth dropped open. for a moment she remained speechless with amazement. then hastily crossing herself she gasped out: "madre maria sanctissima!" being a woman i was often asked to paint female portraits, but suspecting the monetary value which the people would put on paintings i refused. jan overheard a red-faced, wealthy looking farmer discussing with his father on our doorstep the question of how much i was likely to ask for a portrait of the farmer's daughter. _red face_: "i think we might offer her ten pesetas."[ ] _the grandfather_: "well, she is foreign, she might demand fifteen." _red face_: "even if she wishes twenty we might yet consider it; or perhaps twenty-five; but then we would have to think it carefully over." occasionally we would be asked into houses to examine pictures which the peasants believed to have value. in one house, a room was set aside as a small private chapel; it was full of painted plaster images covered with false jewels and tinsel; on the walls were oleograph reproductions of the virgin by spanish old masters, but one painting of the murillo school probably had a real value. in another house we found a picture of napoleon before which the inhabitants were burning a candle under the impression that the print represented an unidentified saint. maybe stranger personalities have been canonized before now. jan escaped from intimate touch with the people by making for the open country. he thus had fewer adventures than did i. often, however, peasants spied him from the distance of a mile, and came to see what he was doing. once, when he had been painting on the cart-road near el angel and had put a cart into his painting, a small boy followed him all the way home, shouting out to every one that he passed: "that is a painter! he painted a cart and horse; just as it went along; all in a flash!" we used to pin up our sketches on the wall of the house; because, as we intended to travel, we wished the sketches to become as dry as we could make them. this used to attract numbers of people, and usually the grilled window of our front room was occupied by a crowd of faces peering into the house. the fame of our picture exhibition spread over the country-side. people came from some distance to see the pictures; and if the front door was unlocked walked in, saluted us, and proceeded to go the round of the walls. at first we found this disconcerting, but with use much of our needless self-consciousness and desire for unessential privacy began to wear off. as we left our front window open during the night for air, we were many times awakened by the voices of the picture-gazers who gathered at our window as soon as the day broke. footnotes: [footnote : "she has painted my donkey, _my_ donkey."] [footnote : £ .] [footnote : _s._ _d._] chapter xvi verdolay--coneni the peasant who came every morning with his daughter and donkey-cart full of vegetables and fruit at the dawn was rather like a genial bird of prey in features. this type is typically spanish. there was something of the condor about him, though one can scarcely picture a condor with his welcoming smile or his kindly nature. he began with a fixed idea of our practical dumbness and deafness to the spanish language. he was, we learned later, an exquisite dancer. we have heard tell of a well-known musician who has a dance for making the household beds, and another for digging potatoes, and so on, trying to bring æsthetics into the commonplaces of life. coneni, for such was the peasant's name, tried to dance for us the fact that tomatoes were a halfpenny a pound or that a melon was sixpence. his pretty, demure daughter resorted to more practical measures, held up fruit as samples and condescended to calculate in pesetas and centimos instead of in "royals" and "little bitches." but the manners both of coneni and of his daughter were impeccable. i think that they overcharged us slightly, but that was the spanish tradition. certainly they did not overcharge us as much as they would have done had they not liked us, and later on they quieted their consciences by making us presents. coneni was one of the first of our picture admirers, but he had pre-raphaelite tendencies, and always said that he supposed they would be better when we painted them out properly. he became eager that we should sketch in his market garden, and gave us elaborate topographical directions. so one day, shouldering our sketch-boxes, off we set. [illustration] we passed through el angel on to the murcia road. we then asked a group of men, who were winnowing corn on a flat biblical threshing floor of beaten mud, which was the direction. unfortunately we had got rather mixed in the name. the peasant had not spoken his name very clearly and we had confused it with conecho.[ ] the winnowers said that they could not understand us very clearly, but that it was probably further along, and they wished us to "go with god." further along the road we, having found in the dictionary what conecho really means, tried the other name. the use of this brought us into a narrow side-path between rows of mulberry trees and deep watercourses. it took a sudden turn to the left, and on the path we saw coneni, tall and lank, waving welcoming arms at us. the place was embowered in trees: lemon, fig, pear, plum, apple, quince and pomegranate flourished luxuriantly in the irrigated soil. the huertas of the murcian plain were not separated, one from another, by hedges, and it was difficult to know how large was coneni's garden. in one corner, beneath the shelter of overhanging fruit-trees, was a hut made of stiff bamboo-like reeds, the roof daubed with mud against the rain. from the front of this hut projected a long awning of reeds, beneath which the coneni family was awaiting us. mrs. coneni was plump, motherly, and had a genial nature covering an inflexible will. she also had perfect manners, was full of courtliness and kindness, and was delighted to see us. she showed her naïve pleasure by touching me whenever she was able to do so without rudeness. our broken spanish aroused her sense of wonder. coneni, for the first time in his life, made up his mind to understand us. he stopped his habitual pre-breakfast pantomime and swaggered about, saying: "but i understand all they say. yes, i do." he disappeared into the square small hut and came out again carrying an enormous green water-melon called locally a sandia. he tapped it with a knuckle and, from the sound that it made, decided that it was ripe. he then cut off top and bottom with a small hatchet and divided it into huge slices. while we were eating the luscious pink fruit neighbours began to saunter up. they stood in a circle around us. coneni, with the air of a showman, said: "now i will show you something. she smokes; it is true. i have seen her myself." he made me a cigarette. the men were delighted and mrs. coneni was amazed. coneni stood behind me with a lean hand on his hip, as if to say: "alone i did it." beneath the reed shelter some of the children were lying asleep, and the youngest of all, a baby, was sitting by itself in a corner, stark naked, playing with a large lemon. the exquisite colour contrast between the transparency of skin of the sunburnt child and the hard yellow brilliance of the lemon filled me with a wild desire to paint it. indeed, one does not come to appreciate the full beauty of the nude until one has seen it in a country where it is natural. in spain the children, usually half nude, sprawled about in the heat in the most graceful of relaxed poses, sometimes lying half asleep across their mothers' laps, and a continual impulse was driving me to make studies of them. but the task is almost impossible. the fact of being sketched is too unusual. the people, naturally unselfconscious, at once become stiff and formal. within coneni's hut was no furniture other than a four-post bed which almost filled the floor space. here slept coneni and his wife, and the space beneath the bed was used as a storehouse for melons. the children, three girls and four boys, all slept on the ground in the open beneath the shelter. but mrs. coneni explained to me with some care that the poverty was only apparent; that this was but their summer residence. for the winter they had a fine house in alverca. we did not have any very keen impulse to paint--it had become for that afternoon rather too much of a ceremony, like the old state painter _performing_ before the court--but to save our faces we had to do something, so jan painted a portrait of a calf, while i selected a lemon tree. before i had half finished, the interior of the tree was swarming with coneni's children, hoping that they would be included. by my side sat coneni's little girl nursing a bantam, like a doll, assuring it that mother wouldn't love it if it were not more quiet. "and the señor plays the guitar," exclaimed coneni. "he is affectionate to music." we discussed spanish music and dancing. coneni, bursting with hospitality, said: "come again next sunday. i will invite the young men and the girls and we will have a party. there are guitar and lute players at alverca. they will all come." antonio's brother-in-law, thomas, had spoken of the gay times when there is a party in the huertas; we accepted eagerly. we went home laden with presents of fruit which coneni had pressed upon us. especially was our greed delighted with a large basket of figs. we had been asking the conenis to bring us some figs for some days, but they had said: "we can't bring you figs. nobody sells figs here. we give them to the pigs." so that evening we rivalled the pigs footnotes: [footnote : rabbit.] chapter xvii verdolay--the inhabitants the little village of verdolay was not a characteristic spanish village, it was a watering-place. one came into it along the dusty road between banks on which grew the spiky aloe shrubs, behind which spread the spaced olive groves with trees drawn up into demure lines, amongst the grey foliage of which could be seen the red painted corrugated roofs of the french silk company. the village scrambled up a terraced hill. the lower edge was a line of orange-vermilion one-storied houses faced with a small promenade. then the houses scattered. to the right as one faced the hill were the baths, a collection of bulky, ramshackle buildings which hid deep, cool courtyards, and from which came the plash of water and the sound of young voices. the hill-side was covered with terraced gardens in which were set houses painted yellow, green, blue or pink. the apex of the hill was decorated by an iron windwheel for pumping. a ridge joined the crest of the hill to the mountains, and here perched the ancient monastery of santa catalina; while a mile away to the right, showing white amongst a green bed of palms and firs, was the country seat of the count of el valle, and to the left amongst groves of oranges was the villa of an ex-prime minister. one had almost a specimen of spain in little in this one village. the vermilion houses, called the malecon, sheltered a transitory population; visitors to the baths, who like ourselves arrived in carts with furniture, and after a few months disappeared back to town duties. these were usually of the superior artisan or small shopkeeping class. the second row of houses contained persons such as don ferdinand, the little señor or the people who kept the baths. these represented the larger tradesmen and in general lived all the year in verdolay, travelling to murcia by tartana or by tram via palmar. the two roads which swept up each side of the hill were edged with small cottages where the real peasantry lived, and the houses which stood amongst gardens on the hill terraces, each owning its proper entrance, were the residences of the merchantry. the count of el valle represented the county aristocracy and the ex-prime minister the court. [illustration] in spite of a somewhat evil local reputation, the peasantry could be counted as a quiet, hard-working, rather unintelligent, good-natured community which leaned vaguely, on the male side, to liberalism and atheism, but lacking the courage or determination to make either effective. it cursed the court and told dirty stories about the priesthood, but all exasperation evaporated in words. this peasantry is the foundation on which the whole of this plutocratical hill of verdolay rests; and it labours as severely as any other peasantry, perhaps even working harder because of the lack of water, which adds a need to be satisfied before work is over. the average traveller has the idea that the spaniard is lazy. we are not sure that this is a correct estimate of him. we english have made a god of "work." but indeed unnecessary work is mere foolishness. the great blessing to be sought for is leisure. human advance comes from the reflections of leisure rather than from the activities of work. the spaniard recognizes leisure as the benefit which it is. he has no false ideas about work. adam bit the apple, and we pay his debts, but why load ourselves with compound interest at many hundreds per cent.? that is the spaniard's point of view. he works when he must work. he rises with the dawn or before it, say four a.m., he works till eleven o'clock, then in the afternoon resumes toil from . till . . the late-rising traveller who mouches about in his english custom during the hottest hours of the day sees the spanish labourer at his siesta, snoozing by the roadside, or thrumming his guitar to a herd of sleepy goats. he draws a natural, though incorrect, conclusion. the spaniard may be dilatory. he puts off doing to-day what he can do to-morrow, but it is from an exaggerated respect for the benefits of leisure. his handicap is that he has no proper means of filling that leisure, his apparent laziness comes from lack of education. about eighty per cent. cannot read, schooling is not enforced, and children begin work at ten years of age or thereabouts. but do not lay up the spaniard's desire for inactivity as a crime; it is a virtue ill employed. our particular specimen of the spanish peasant was my female servant, named encarnacion. she was thirteen years old, could neither read nor write, and worked like a small mule for the not extravagant wage of eleven shillings and sixpence a month. she only worked half the day, it is true, but we did not give her food. we indeed overpaid her, for the regular wage of her kind was about eight shillings and fourpence a month. she had a small, stumpy child's body, sprouting into a long neck, at the top of which was a rounded head. her forehead was intellectual, her features flattened, and her hair, done up tight into a small ball, was usually decorated with a flower or a green leaf. at first, like all spanish peasants, she made up her mind that she could not understand what i said, but gradually learned that she had to do so, and in general succeeded pretty well. but it was to her a tremendous intellectual effort. she would wrinkle her noble-looking brow with the strain, and was never satisfied until she had translated my orders into her own patois for clarity. but she would not allow her fundamental ideas of what was proper to be influenced by my foreign notions. sometimes she would interrupt me. "no, señora," she would say, "i do not like it done thus. that is not the custom. it must be done so." if one insisted upon one's own way, the work was ill done. so that, as a rule, to save trouble, one allowed her to do as she wished. encarnacion worked all the morning, singing an interminable spanish song, which struck our ears queerly and pleasantly at the beginning, but of which in the end we grew very tired. by eleven o'clock she would have done all the housework, the shopping and the cooking, and would leave the stone floors soaked in water, the evaporation of which did a little to counteract the intense heat. she had a habit which we did not like of scattering our household refuse all over the small square yard. it looked dirty and untidy, but we found out that she knew better than we did. the vagrant cats soon cleared up any remains of meat, while the hot sun dried up all the other refuse, which could then be thrown away conveniently. encarnacion was sad that she could neither read nor write, and was proudly jealous of her younger sister, who, working in the milk factory, was being taught to spell. she of course acquired a proprietary right in us. she upheld the honour of the house, and gave a lesson in manners to a gipsy girl from the cave dwellings who had once thrown a stone at me. she also criticized our work. to the almost daily parties of strangers who walked into our house whenever the door was left unlocked, she acted as guide to our pictures drying on the walls, and she would explain to whom each house in the sketches belonged. but she never said "thank you." there are considerable differences between spanish customs and those of ordinary europe, and these are apt to disconcert the traveller. here are a few spanish ones that we noted _en passant_. you may walk into any house or garden if moved to do so by curiosity if you, previous to entering, utter the magic formula: "se pueda entrar?"[ ] you may stare as much as you like at anything or anybody, for staring is in reality a compliment. self-consciousness is a silly vanity. if you feel friendly towards an acquaintance you may call on him at nine in the morning and you may repeat your call three or four times during the same day. (what the man does to get rid of you we have not yet discovered. we have only been the victims, not the visitors.) you must refuse everything that is suddenly offered to you, except cigarettes or sweets offered in the fingers. do not accept other things until the third offer. but to refuse sweets or cigarettes is almost insulting. you must offer to give any object to anybody who admires it (especially objects of jewellery or babies). you may ask any questions you like, even upon the most intimate of subjects; and you must expect to be asked similar questions. if invited to a meal, you may refuse no dish that is served to you, even though indigestion is clutching at your vitals, or repletion stopping your throat. for a specimen of the small tradesman class of the malecon we had la merchora. she kept the village shop, the last house on the terrace, and was in some way a relative of antonio. her home was planned like ours was, and one of the rooms beside the entrada had been filled with a counter, some shelves, and a large tin of paraffin oil; ginger-coloured sausages were festooned from the roof and the shop was complete. she was unmarried, and therefore, from a theoretical point of view, negligible; but it did not disturb her. indeed, little did disturb her. she had the figure which grows out of a combination of good living, no thinking and reasonable working. in any village you will find an example of her kind. she is good-natured but respected. liberties are not taken with her, and in cornwall she is called aunt so-and-so. la merchora was not even black-visaged, there was in fact nothing that one can count for spanish about her. she had two epithets--atrocidad and barbaridad--but she said them with so jovial an aspect that atrocity or barbarity faded into the gentlest of denunciations. when our first servant, encarnacion's elder sister, deserted us without warning for a better job, la merchora said it was an atrocidad; when the water-carrier overcharged us she said it was barbaridad. when the count el valle's watchman chased us off some square miles of unfenced unproductive mountain she said it was atrocidad; when the weather was hot she said it was barbaridad. every evening after supper there was a gathering outside la merchora's shop. la merchora, uncle pepe, her father, the niece, the gaunt woman from next door, her baby, half naked but with a flower in its hair, women coming through the night to fetch water (an interminable task), carters returning from work and others, would gather on chairs, benches, or on the stone wall of the malecon; and beneath the faint glow of the electric light would gently talk of things, while the niece was catching the foolish cicadas or crickets (attracted by the light) with which to amuse the baby and with which to awaken in the child some primary instinct of cruelty to animals. uncle pepe was la merchora's father. he was a withered brown peasant baked by the sun to the colour of a pot. wrinkles of careful economy and of good humour were as indelibly roasted into him as the pattern on a roman dish. in recognition of la merchora's accumulated kindnesses i painted his portrait on a small panel for her. she pondered some while on the problem of a suitable recompense, and at last gave us an antique sevillian basin decorated with a primitive painting of a yellow and green cat. it was an old and valuable piece of earthenware used for washing the linen, and had probably been employed to wash uncle pepe's shifts and himself as well when he was a baby. these basins, two feet in diameter, are used as decorative and practical adjuncts to the huge red earthenware pots in which the villagers of the murcian valley store the household water. we protested against the generosity of this gift, but in vain. one day, while we were out, she had it carried to our house, and would on no account receive it back. pepe and la merchora illustrate the rapid evolution of the modern spanish gentleman. antonio is the third stage in the development. the little señor is the fourth. pepe is an unlettered peasant, knowing nothing but the labour of the soil but possessing the traditional culture of spain. by the time one has reached the little señor and the people of the baths, one has arrived at letters but one has lost much of the culture. pepe's wisdom is the common sense of centuries stored up in proverbs; he has one to fit every occasion. the little señor's learning is supplied by the newspapers. the grandparents of all these people, even of the rich merchants who lived on the apex or verdolay hill, were peasantry--pepes, as a rule. then one perceives that with the accumulation of wealth, the culture gradually diminishes in a like proportion. the third generation has lost almost all culture and has nothing but a kind heart and a love of making money. the spanish bourgeoisie is inverting the processes which are going forward in england to-day. it is trying to forget its old customs--too late we are trying to revive ours. it has learned to despise its exquisite folk music, already becoming forgotten--we are trying to fudge out a few miserable tunes from the memories of senile fiddlers. these people have won to that leisure so sweet to the heart of man; but they don't know what to do with it. they sleep and so grow fat. having become fat they are good-natured and laugh. the old saw should be inverted. indeed, many an old saw is in reality the truth turned inside out. they were a good-natured kindly people, these bulky tradesmen, but they were deadly dull. the daughters of verdolay banged untuned pianos to the strains of dances forgotten by europe, polkas, mazurkas and pas de quatre; but their own dances--the malagueñas and baturras--were unknown to them. they were pressing in their invitations, and were angry with us because we preferred la merchora's doorstep with its changing audience of passers-by. of the count and the ex-prime minister we know but little; they lie, anyway, beyond the scope of this book. the count possessed in this district a country house set in a deep, wooded valley, in which was a medicinal spring, and a few square miles of unfenced sterile mountain land from which his watchman, armed with a gun, was instructed to drive away unauthorized pedestrians. he was not popular and was always at daggers drawn with the village; though from other sources we have learned that he is personally a charming and a generous man. at any rate he has left a fine estate to remain practically unproductive (the two farms and the house itself are in ruins). this practice seems to be normal in spain, and we have heard of many a case where the aristocracy have deliberately hindered national development. there are rumours, however, that this estate is being bought for the government and will be afforested and developed. the ex-prime minister's villa was the most amazing example of bad taste in architecture that we have ever seen. footnotes: [footnote : "may one enter?"] chapter xviii verdolay--the dance at coneni's we had been looking forward to the dance which coneni had promised us. spanish music had become with us a hobby, and the dancing which goes with it had excited our imagination. antonio's sister had led us to believe that wonderful dancing was to be found in the murcian huertas, and the vague hints of gay times _al campo_ stirred us up to eager anticipation. on sunday afternoon at about four o'clock we set off, jan carrying the big white guitar in its case. the cicadas were making their accustomed strident din in the mulberry trees, men on the roadside shouted to us: "vaya con dios, y con la guitarra." the conenis were furbished up for the occasion. a few girls in bright cottons and a few young men in check suits, english caps and buttoned brilliant boots were awaiting us. others came in one by one. coneni chopped up a huge pink-fleshed melon for us, and while we were yet revelling in its cool lusciousness the faint sound of music was heard through the saw-note of the cicadas. the sound came nearer. presently through the trees a band of youths and girls headed by a girl playing a guitar, and a boy of fourteen playing a spanish lute (or laud) were visible. they marched into the garden thrumming bravely a popular two-step march. it is the custom of the musicians thus to arrive in full cry, as it were. amongst the group was the little señor's nurse-maid bravely carrying through the heat the inevitable baby. later on the baby caused a diversion by getting itself stung by a bee. the arrival of the music drove coneni to a pitch of excitement. he brought out a drinking flask of wine. the flask had a long slender spout, and the guests drank by pouring the wine straight into their mouths, tilting their heads backwards. i was afraid of this method, and to my disgrace had to be given a glass. tables and chairs, made of rough planking, were brought from neighbouring huertas. "now," cried coneni, "for some dancing." the guitar and laud players sat down. they played a polka, a common polka. and the girls and english-capped youths danced a solemn polka. then followed a schottische, then another polka, then a murdered two-step. disappointment rushed upon us. but where then was the spanish dancing? had this infernal european mechanical civilization quite driven all feeling from the land? where were the jotas, the malagueñas, the baturras? "but," said jan at last to coneni, "can you not dance a spanish dance?" "why, of course," cried coneni. "here, let us dance a malagueña. it is my favourite dance. come, who will dance with me?" but there was nobody amongst the girls who could dance it. mrs. coneni said that she was too old and too fat. nor was there amongst the laud players one who could play a malagueña, nor could the guitar player beat the _tempo_. so in the end it was jan who played the malagueña as best he could, while coneni, using his lank limbs with the flexibility of a youth, danced in marvellous fashion. but he soon tired of dancing solos. we went home, headed by the band, seconded by coneni's son carrying for us a large green melon, followed by coneni's daughter loaded with a basket of figs. we parted from the band at el angel, we going up to verdolay, they going across to alverca, but with the good-byes the guitar playing girl said: "aha, but since you are so 'affectionate' to music we will come and play to you this evening at your house." when encarnacion heard this, she said: "oh, beautiful! and i will ask all my friends and we will dance. and i will bring all mother's chairs." [illustration] we arranged all encarnacion's mother's chairs in a neat circle in our entrada and waited. nine o'clock went by--no music--ten passed and . . at eleven o'clock we heard the band far away on the alverca road. it came musically through the night. we had contrived an especial illumination of candles, but our guests repudiated houses. they were too hot. so in spite of any possible traffic the chairs were dragged out into the middle of the road, and we had our concert there. it was not a very inspiring concert. at the opening of it the young laud player handed his instrument to jan, demanding that it should be tuned. we discovered later that quite a number of the minor village executants cannot tune their own instruments. jan, however, at this time knew nothing about lauds. so the boy had to do the best he could with it. he managed to worry the instrument more or less into tune with itself, but the task of getting his laud accorded with his sister's guitar was beyond his power. however, a concert could not be disturbed for so trifling a matter; and to the perfect satisfaction of the players, and, as far as we could see, of the audience, the two instruments played until about three o'clock in the morning, each one a semi-tone different in pitch from the other. we had provided bottles of wine for the occasion at the cost of sixpence a bottle. this wine was the ordinary drinking wine of the district. it speaks well of the abstemiousness of the spaniard that though we had at least thirty guests about half a bottle of wine only was drunk. the major part of the audience contented itself with cool water from the algazarra. some time later on in the evening the players confided to us that they were the pupils of a maestro who lived in alverca, and that they had only been studying for two months. the fact that there was a teacher in alverca fired me. i had wanted to learn the laud for some while, but the opportunity had not offered itself. i inquired his terms. the band said that they were twopence-halfpenny a lesson. so i at once told it to send the maestro along. at . --after we had been wondering for some time how much longer our eyes would remain open--the band took its leave, saying that it would come again one evening. it then marched, playing loudly, back to alverca. the maestro sent word that he would come on tuesday evening. he was of that type of southern european that the american terms "dago." he was typically dago. he was a plumber by trade, and in the evening augmented his income by odd twopence-halfpennies picked up from the would-be "affectionates" of the guitar or laud. he loved wine with a sincere though timid reverence. when she heard that he was coming to give me a lesson, encarnacion said: "oh, beautiful! and we will all come and listen to your lesson, and afterwards we will dance." but even spain could not make me unselfconscious enough to support that test. with grim harshness we locked the door on our lessons. the maestro, like blas, considered two airs his daily portion. at the end of the first air he would empty his tumbler of wine, and would gently repudiate the idea that it should be refilled. the third glass he accepted with quite vehement protestations. his course homeward was, i fear, usually more discursive than that of his coming. like all spanish musicians he sang upon the slightest excuse. he corrected my melody by singing: "lo, la, lo, la, lo, la," as i played. having played the violin, the mandolin and the piano, i did not find the laud very difficult. it has a queer tuning in fourths and is played with the plectrum. but when la merchora discovered that i had learned a piece in two days she was quite eloquent in her astonishment. chapter xix murcia--the laud during our month in verdolay we had not quite cut off communication with murcia. luis and his friend flores had come out to lunch with us, bringing with them a slab of odoriferous dried fish which _they said_ was excellent in salads. on this occasion many families in verdolay had offered to cook our dinner for us, encarnacion's mother, the shopping woman, the woman who brought the water and la merchora were the principal competitors; and the dinner was finally cooked out in the open in la merchora's back-yard in a huge frying-pan. we had also travelled the five dusty miles into murcia, walking, to the grave astonishment of verdolay plutocracy. on the first occasion antonio told us with a face of joy that his wife _was out of danger_. "out of danger," cried we; "but she was only suffering from a small digestive attack!" "oh, no," replied antonio; "didn't i tell you that she had smallpox? why, a man died of it three doors down the street." before we had quitted verdolay, rosa (antonio's wife) was well enough to be moved, and antonio had brought her into the country to the count's country house. she was spotted like a pard with large brown marks which antonio assured us would disappear with time, leaving no pits. [illustration] on another visit jan had gone into the shop of emilio peralta to buy some guitar strings. the shop of emilio was not like that of ramirez in paris. it was set in a canyon of a street so deep that the midday sun for one short hour or so shines on the cobbles, so narrow that the carts which pass through it are permitted to go in one sole direction marked at the entrance by a pointing arrow. ramirez had a workshop only, but emilio had as well onhis working bench three brave showcases painted apple green, one of which was filled with instruments--guitars, lauds and bandurrias--with a drawer for strings, capo-d'astros and other instrumental appurtenances. of the two other showcases, one housed the guitar-maker's tools, the third having degenerated to a pantry, and while one was buying strings from emilio, his wife would be surreptitiously taking dishes of boiled garbanzos or of dried sardines out of the garishly painted frand. the place was indeed workshop, pantry and reception room. a counter cut the place in two. to the left as you entered emilio made his instruments. to the right was a rough semicircle of chairs, and here the _aficionados_[ ] of the guitar came in the evening, to play on emilio's latest creation. to our dismay, however, we found that the intensely interesting music of spain, the flamenco, as it is called, was somewhat despised in emilio's shop. in spain, music is divided to-day into the major divisions, classical and flamenco. classical includes anything from beethoven to darewski, from sonata or symphony to fox-trot or polka. the guitar-maker to-day says proudly: "i do not make instruments for 'flamenco,' mine are made for 'classical'": and he but echoes the bad taste of the educated spaniard. the flamenco, the native music, having perhaps a stronger character than any other folk music in europe, is considered very vulgar; it is called "tavern music," as "still lives" in painting are called "tavern pictures." nevertheless, we were not to be seduced from our desire to study the flamenco, and for the purpose of continuing that study i had been looking out for a laud which is peculiarly adapted to the music, much of which was composed originally upon this instrument. hitherto i had been unable to find an instrument which i had liked, for the ordinary lute is queer in shape and rather harsh in quality. but the plumber-maestro in alverca had lent me an instrument--a laud of simpler form and sweeter tone, called a sonora--which pleased me. jan going into emilio's shop had found there a newly completed sonora, very like that of the little maestro's, but better in quality. he engaged emilio to keep it till we returned, and emilio said he would bring the professor down to play it for us to show off its qualities. on the evening of the day on which we came back to murcia we went to emilio's shop. the chairs were all set in their prim semicircle and emilio, round-shouldered and heavy-faced, sat us down while he expatiated on the excellence of the workmanship and the beauty of the tone of his instrument. he demanded sixty pesetas for the instrument, but said that we might possibly come to some friendly arrangement over the price, as he was trying to popularize this form of laud. the little professor came in. he was a strange man. he was extremely emaciated, with one eye destroyed and almost blind in the other, dressed in _outré_ style as though he were acting as jockey in an impromptu charade. his flexible hands seemed almost translucent in their delicacy. he at once addressed us with such rapidity of speech that we were unable to understand what he said (though our understanding of spanish had made great progress), and he was extremely irritable with us for seeming so stupid. this frail, delicate, peering thing was a queer contrast to the burly, almost clumsy form of emilio. the little professor picked up the sonora, and passed it backwards and forwards slowly beneath his short-sighted eye. he sat down and played. his nimble fingers ran up and down the strings. we had almost decided to begin the delicate matter of bargaining when a fat form, white-waist-coated, straw hat perched jauntily over an egyptian face, showed itself in the doorway. it was blas. and blas was drunk. he bowed in an heroic manner to me, shook hands in simulated affection with jan; and, his soul obviously consumed with jealousy, greeted the little professor, who returned his salutation with coldness. "go on," ordered blas to the little professor, "play." the little man put the sonora again on his thigh. one could almost hear his teeth grit. then he began to show off. he possessed a very effective trick of playing intricate runs by the mere beat of the fingers of his left hand, that is without plucking the strings with his right. this he now exhibited to its full. he was on his mettle, greek and trojan were face to face. blas, seated on his chair, his fat hands on his knees, smiled a drunken and somewhat patronizing approval of his rival's exhibition. [illustration] the little professor finished his exhibition, which the gipsy did not attempt to rival, for he played only the guitar. for a moment there was an embarrassing silence. the gentle art of bargaining was about to displace the art of music. but we had reckoned without the half-drunken blas. suddenly rising to his feet he faced jan, and rubbing his finger and thumb together he exclaimed: "now comes the main point. the brass. now is the question of cashing up for it." doubtless this was a frank statement of fact. but three-quarters of life continues bearable enough because one does not put things frankly. emilio changed colour and put on a sullen face, emilio's wife looked alarmed, jan was embarrassed, the little professor seemed to wither into a crouching shape of half his normal smallness. but blas went on in a breezy voice to jan: "come on, come on. what's the matter? you suggest a price to him and he will tell you if it fits." emilio's delicacy was quite revolted by this crude exhibition of gipsy bad taste. he seized the laud from the little professor, thrust it on one side and said loudly that he did not want to sell it at all. unfortunately, jan was afraid of offending emilio's susceptibility. not knowing how to behave in the unfortunate circumstances, he blurted out: "look here, emilio, you said sixty pesetas. will you not come down a little, and then we could settle the matter?" emilio was, however, extremely bad-tempered by the turn things had taken. the spanish sense of decency was outraged. at last, with an evil look at blas, he muttered: "well, fifty-five pesetas. not a penny less and no more bargaining." jan, to cut the scene short, agreed. the instrument was wrapped up in a paper bag. while jan was paying over the money, blas said: "and you will give five pesetas to this gentleman, who is a poor man: and five pesetas to me also." he seized five pesetas of the money from the counter and pressed them on the little professor. the latter, with girlish giggles, refused; but blas, with the insistence of a drunkard, pressed his desire until, to quieten him, the little professor slipped the money into his waistcoat pocket. blas then demanded his own commission, saying that as he had been jan's professor, and as jan had once mentioned the subject of the laud to him, he was fully entitled to his claim. but jan, outwardly calm, inwardly annoyed with blas, would not give him a halfpenny. at last blas was begging: "well, at least give me a peseta to get a drink with." "you have had enough drink already," said jan. he picked up the laud, and with farewells to emilio, his wife and the little professor we walked out of the shop, pushing our way through the crowd which had gathered at the shop door. on the following day we returned to emilio's shop to apologize for the contretemps. we found both emilio and his wife very disturbed by what had happened. they said that their regrets were eternal, and that it would have been better had we deferred the business matter until a better occasion. "it was a disgraceful affair," said emilio, "disgraceful; and to cap it all, after you had gone, blas was most outrageous. we had actually to pay him two pesetas to go away." "we were afraid for our lives," said mrs. emilio. "he is a bad man, and one never knows what rogues he might have brought upon us." though jan did not believe much in the active danger of blas, yet the terror of emilio and of his wife was quite evident. so in the end he disbursed the five pesetas given to the little professor as well as the two given to blas. so that our laud actually cost us sixty-two pesetas, instead of the sixty for which we might have bought it without any bargaining. with the little professor we had made an engagement for the afternoon. he was to give me a lesson on which i could study while we were away at jijona. he came, feeling his way up our staircase. he shook hands with us and said that the affair of last night had greatly oppressed his spirit. "i felt it much in my heart," he said. we explained to him that we were going away for a month, but that we would return to murcia later, and that when we returned i would take lessons from him. "my price," he exclaimed (all his speech was exclamation), "is one duro a month. i am not one of those villains who charge one price to one person and a different price to another. no, my price is fixed and unalterable. one duro, five pesetas, a month." now, although this little man was probably as good a teacher as could be found in the town of murcia, his price averaged about _twopence a lesson_. we discovered later that the laud suffers not only from a ban of "bad taste," but also from a moral one. to-day its use in spain is almost limited to the playing of dance music in houses of bad fame. footnotes: [footnote : lovers.] chapter xx alicante our second experience in spanish village life was to be at jijona, a small town in the country near alicante. our friend had what he called a studio there, and this was at our service. luis said that there was furniture in the studio but no cooking utensils or bed. after our packing-case bed in verdolay, we determined to take with us nothing but a mattress and either to sleep on the floor or to buy planks locally. so we had packed our trunk with painting materials, crockery and clothes. we had also made up a large roll of bedclothes and mattress such as emigrants travel with. having risen with the dawn, our preparations were complete by the time at which the donkeyman who peddled drinking-water about the streets of murcia called for us with his long cart. he was not quite satisfied with our roll, and with expert hands repacked it in a professional manner. but his long water-cart would only take our trunk and the rolled mattress, so, burdened with rucksacks, camera, guitar, thermos flasks and a rush basket containing crockery which would not pack into the trunk, and the laud, we walked the quarter of a mile to the station. thus burdened, we expected more staring and laughter than before from the murcianos, but, to our amazement, the people looked upon us with kindly eyes and wished us god-speed. thus spain reverses the manner of england. [illustration] jan took his place in the ticket queue while i, assisted by a friendly porter, looked for seats in a third-class carriage. the carriages were full enough despite the fact that we were in good time. large numbers of children seemed to be travelling, and many of the passengers were stretched out on the wooden seats, taking a snooze before the train should start. the divisions between the compartments were only breast high, and already animated conversations had begun between the passengers who, from different compartments, shouted remarks to each other. in our compartment were a sandalled peasant stretched at full length, a bearded man with a huge brass plate on his breast and a shot-gun, evidently a gamekeeper, and a smart young man with patent leather boots and a straw hat. the last was reading a hook. on the platform we noted an important priest striding about, his black soutane covered with a silk dust-coat, and an old woman with a posy of bright flowers about twice as big as her head. the train was the centre of an excited crowd, the carriage full almost to bursting-point. as the time for departure came near most of those we had imagined to be our fellow passengers got slowly down on to the platform; all the children disappeared. they had merely been taking advantage of the train's presence in the station to take a rest. the three strokes on the bell, which denote the starting of the train, had sounded when our carriage door was flung open and a panting bundle of humanity was thrust upwards and amongst us. as the train moved out, it resolved itself into a small woman, very loquacious, carrying in her arms three babies. talking very excitedly, she laid her brood out on a wooden seat. the woman was-black-haired and her jet eyes sparkled with excitement. "they are bandits," she exclaimed. "yes, bandits they are, rushing about like that. i was with my children in uncle pepe's donkey-cart. then they come along. of course the bullocks in the stone waggon in front wouldn't move quick enough, and so they come tearing across the road, flip us under the axle, and over we all go into the dust. uncle pepe strained his wrist and the shaft is broken. and that's the way they treat us just after my poor husband has died of smallpox. it's lucky that nobody was killed and that i didn't lose the train. murderers, that's what they are." we noted that she and her babies were covered with dust, and that she was dressed all in black even to her alpagatas. while she had been talking so volubly she had been unpacking a basket which, with the bundles, had been thrust in after her. she got out a bottle of water and a piece of rag. with a moistened rag she tried to wash the babies, but made rather a smeary mess of it. the occupants of the other compartments were leaning over sympathizing with her mishap. but, as she had omitted the cause of the mishap, somebody questioned her. "why, motors, of course," she snapped. "it's murderous the way they go rushing about. not caring for any one, and not waiting to see what damage they have done." as most of the carriage occupants seemed to be peasantry, they agreed with her. somebody went on: "and are those all you have?" the young woman drew herself up with pride. "no," she answered, "i've got four, and all men too." the train was rolling with a determined manner down the murcian valley. on one side the bills drew closer, on the other they were receding. we noted that all the carriage doors were left swinging wide open to admit as much air as possible. presently there was a noise outside and the ticket-collector scrambled into the carriage. he examined all the tickets in our coach, and swung himself again out on to the footboard, making his way slowly forward. some of the passengers, too, who had friends in other carriages made visits _en route_, scrambling along the moving train. and the carriage doors had notices on them saying: "it is dangerous to put the head out of the window." after an hour or more of sedate travel, we came to orihuela, which boasts a huge monastery on the hill and a broad zigzag road which looked like an engineering feat. the station was like a flower shop. vendors were running up and down the train thrusting elaborate bouquets into the windows. some women dressed in royal blue satin came into our carriage, they stuffed unfortunate live poultry and rabbits, with feet tied up, under the seat and covered the wooden bench of the compartment with magnificent flowers. during the rest of the journey, the monotonous flip, click of their fans as they were opened and shut punctuated the conversation. we passed through the famous date palm groves of elche and at last came in sight of the sea at alicante, which was our terminus. the journey of about forty-five miles had taken us nearly four hours, and we were almost an hour and a half late. time-tables are more or less ornamental in spain. outside the station at alicante there was a horde of omnibuses surrounded by a fringe of touts. they were conducting their chaffering for passengers with a reasonable quietness, until they espied us. but perceiving that we were english and, therefore, fair prey, pandemonium broke out. gradually the omnibuses filled and the babel, for babel it was, consisting of spanish, valenciano, bad french and worse english, died down. two omnibus touts, however, persisted, and at last, in order to prevent battle between them, we chose our man for his looks. he promised to take us to the fonda from which started the motor service to jijona. we had been warned by our english friend that it was often difficult to get seats on the motor, because the conveyance started from jijona and many of the passengers booked return tickets. the omnibus tout added to this that there was a fiesta at jijona, and that many people were going there. however, he said: "if there are no seats in the motor, we will surely get them on the lorry, which will do just as well and is cheaper." the omnibus was full with an unsmiling family, but we were crushed in. we were dragged along beneath a magnificent avenue of date palm trees which bordered the deep blue expanse of the mediterranean, and then into streets of modern and of bad architecture. the family got out and paid the driver. jan strained his eyes to see how much was the price, for we had foolishly made no bargain with the driver. as far as he could see most was paid in coppers. we then passed up into narrow and steep streets and halted before a wide door. the tout got down, but returned almost immediately, saying that the motor was full for two days. "the motor-lorry is better," he said. with some difficulty the bus was turned round in the narrow street and we went downhill again, coming at length to the entrance of another fonda. we passed through its broad entrance and at a small office window interviewed an old man who said that there was room in the lorry but that he did not know when it was going. so we deposited our luggage in the wide entrance, amongst packing-cases, sacks of flour, mattresses and japanned boxes. we then asked the price of the bus from the tout. "seven pesetas," he said. the whole drive had not taken twenty minutes, and jan was sure that the other family of four had not paid more than two pesetas for the lot. after some argument and much blasphemy from the driver, we paid five pesetas, and the bus drove off vomiting curses at us from both driver and tout. (on the return journey from jijona we happened on the same bus, but we made our bargain beforehand. the same trip then cost us two pesetas, and was accomplished with smiles instead of curses, and both driver and tout clapped us on the shoulder and wished us: "vaya con dios.") this fonda was a typical peasant inn. the entrance door which pierced through a block of buildings was big enough to admit a full-sized traction engine, had there been such a thing in alicante. this wide passage led into a big courtyard open to the skies. on each side of the courtyard a staircase led to balconies from which opened the doors of the bedrooms, below were the dark stables, and the courtyard itself was filled with the large two-wheeled tilted carts which, dragged by from two to eight draught animals, keep up communications in spain wherever the railway does not penetrate. to the right of the entrance was the fonda restaurant, and also a huge kitchen with several cooking fires at which the traveller, if he wished, could cook his own meals, and a long dining-table at which he could eat them. we went into the restaurant, for we were hungry. to our table came an old couple. they were at once friendly and told us that they had come from africa. they were spanish but had lived more than thirty years in north africa, and though the old man could neither read nor write he could speak several african dialects quite well. they were making a pleasure tour of the south of spain for a short holiday. they told us that the fonda was quite clean, and that we could take a room in it without fear. they added that though murcia was but "a dirty village" the fonda there had been clean also, but that at guadix they had been eaten alive. our dinner finished, we sat ourselves down on a bench in the entrada and looked about us. to one side of the entrance was a small stall which sold iced drinks. men and women were sitting in after-lunch ease amid the boxes and sacks which lined the opposite wall, on low chairs, or on the bench with us. a dog, shaved all over its body, partly because of the heat, partly to keep off the fleas with which all spanish animals are infested, was asleep on our mattress. the proprietor of the fonda was standing in a lordly manner in the middle of the floor. he was dressed in white shirt and flannel trousers, and must have weighed almost sixteen stone, although quite young. he looked as if he had been inflated with air. we had noticed, though we have not before mentioned, a curious illness which seems prevalent in spain. in murcia were large numbers of monstrous children; boys and girls had reached enormous proportions before the age of ten years old. we came to the conclusion that it was a form of illness, because, though the children seemed healthy enough, we have never seen this development of monstrosity elsewhere, nor did large numbers of them appear to survive adolescence, though there were a certain number of excessively fat girls. the proprietor was such a monstrosity grown up. his wife, a dark-eyed beauty, was sitting in a rocking-chair near the kitchen door and her baby of about three years old, standing in its mother's lap, was having a great lark, pretending to catch lice in its mother's head. thus do our ideas of innocent sports for children differ from those of other nations. there was some coming and going amongst the fonda visitors. the guests seemed to be all peasants, the men in blouses, the women in pale skirts, black blouses and shawls of paisley pattern over the shoulders. many had bundles of towels and of bathing dresses. one group we heard saying that they had come down to alicante for a week's sea bathing. as the afternoon drew on and the lorry delayed, we again interviewed the old man, who answered that probably it would not come that day. accordingly, we spoke to the proprietor, who rather roughly said that we could have a room for two pesetas a night. the room was small, and the bed only just big enough for two. there were two doors, one leading into the interior of the inn, one out on to a balcony. the latter was half of glass and had no lock, and as there was plenty of traffic along the balcony, which was used for drying linen, underclothes and bathing dresses, one only had a chance of privacy by closing the shutters, leaving oneself in the dark, and no chance of sleeping with the window open despite the heat. but spain does not believe in open windows or doors at night; it has "a robber complex." we put our small luggage into the bedroom, leaving the large trunk and the roll of mattress in the entrada. we then went out to explore the town and to find a young painter to whom we carried an introduction from luis. emilio, for such was his name, was one of the lucky ones of this world. his parents kept a wine-shop which relieved him of a pressing need of earning a living. he could thus study at his ease. our investigations took us through a shop full of large barrels, up some narrow stairs and on to a landing where two girls were working at pillow lace. emilio received us with a brusque cordiality, showed us some of his work, which had talent, came back to the inn with us, where he arranged for our transport by the lorry whenever it should arrive, and said that he would also find a carter to take our heavier luggage out on a road waggon. this readiness to help a stranger, often at considerable personal effort, we found characteristic of the parts of spain which we have visited. emilio, having an engagement, left us, and we strolled through the town. to the east lies the older part of the port clambering up the rugged side of the steep rock, at the top of which lies the castle. the fishing village, at the extreme end of alicante, is beautiful with its small primitive cubic houses painted in garish patterns. through steeply sloping streets we came to the beach. here were mediterranean fishing boats drawn up in ranks; then, as we returned towards the harbour, more open beach covered with people in gay dresses and children playing on the sands. then came the bathing establishments built out on piles over the tideless sea. the bathing establishments increased in luxury towards the town and were, for the most part, fantastic wooden erections of moorish design. we came back to the broad double avenue of palm trees which faced the more luxurious hotels and cafés. night came softly on, and one by one amongst the palms the lights of the town threw beams over the chattering people who strolled in ever-thickening processions to and fro beneath the palm trees; mingled with the conversation was the incessant click, click of the fans of the girls and women. we went back to the fonda for supper and afterwards returned to the sea front. the cafés had spread tables beneath the palms, and we sat down enjoying our "blanco y negro," an iced drink composed half of white cream ice flavoured with vanilla, and half of iced coffee. bands of musical beggars assailed us. most of the mendicants were blind. one group, a veritable orchestra, travelled from café to café clinging to the edges of a bass viol which the one seeing member, the money collector, dragged the way it should go, by the peg-head. there was an old guitarist who played and made queer noises through a small gazoo. another orchestra of three, guitar, laud and bandurria, the latter instrument a small cousin of the laud, and in this case played beautifully by a blind boy of about nineteen years. there were other beggars too, but the devil of cheap european music had entered into them all. not one played their own native spanish music. i suppose nobody would pay to hear it played. at the end of the palm avenue an artist had set up an easel on a raised dais. his work was illuminated by a strong acetylene gas lamp. the canvas was painted bright sparrow's egg blue and surrounded by a frame of staring gilt. [illustration] on the blue canvas he was painting an imaginary landscape, the blue serving as sky and for the waters of a still lake. a drab woman was threading her way to and fro through the crowd which surrounded him, crying out: "the numbers, the numbers. who would like to win a magnificent picture, framed complete for ten chances a penny?" another crowd surrounded a buck nigger who, displaying his magnificent and gleaming teeth, was crying out the virtues of his dentifrice. a third crowd listened to a quack doctor who, backed by a large picture depicting the jungle, was selling a specific called "african tonic." the tonic, he said, was derived from essences extracted at enormous expense from the tiger, the elephant, the monkey, and from i know not what else. from time to time he rested his voice by turning on a squeaky gramophone. tired from our journey we went to bed betimes. we got up early. in the waggons, which were lined up in the big courtyard, the families which had slept in them were making their toilet. in the entrada, the old man of the inn, aided by the stable boy, was packing away the hammock beds slung from trestles, on which slept those travellers who, having no waggon, did not wish to pay the expense of a bedroom. we had noted small café stalls near to the market, so, in order to see some more of alicante life, we took our breakfast there rather than in the fonda. the café stalls were wooden box-like kiosks, and they spread wicker chairs and tables over the open street, and soldiers and workmen were sitting sipping their morning refreshment. beneath the shelter of the kiosk a lad was making the day's supply of ice cream. the cream is frozen by the amount of heat absorbed from it by the freezing mixture. one might also say that the amount of refreshment to be derived from ice cream seems proportionate to the amount of energy absorbed from the lad who manufactures it: it appeared a fatiguing business. crowds of people on the way to market passed us, and to where we sat came the cries of the market salesmen. we were not stared at here as we had been in murcia. strangers were evidently more common. a small boy stationed himself near our table gazing longingly at a breakfast roll. to all intents and purposes he hypnotized it from the table into his hand. he broke into unexpected french. his father, like so many spaniards, had been working at lyons during the war. he deplored the fact that he had no education, but said that he was trying to learn some english from the sailors who came to alicante. he had begun with the swear words, of which already he had a fair collection. he said that his father was a bootmaker, out of work, and asked if we had any boots to mend. he wheedled also some cigarettes and a few coppers from us. emilio, who had sent off our heavy luggage on the previous night as he had promised, met us, and together we went to a café on the front, where we wrote a letter to antonio saying that we had left our passports behind by accident. in spite of this oversight we had decided to push on to jijona and to trust to luck. after lunch we again sat down in the fonda wondering if the motor-lorry would come. many peasants also were there. motor omnibuses drove in, but these were destined for other parts. opposite the bus office was a gambling machine, into which one pushed a penny and if one were lucky received back twopence, fourpence, sixpence or even tenpence. but this machine had gone wrong, and the bulky proprietor spent the greater part of the afternoon over it with a screw-driver. a drunkard was staggering up and down, now shouting, now singing, now dancing a few unsteady steps. the stable boys were making a butt of him. presently he sat down on a sack and fell asleep, his head tilted back, his mouth open. the opportunity was too good to miss. pulling out his sketch book, jan began to make a sketch. the old ticket-office man, perceiving what jan was doing, leaned over his shoulder, and as the sketch developed began to chuckle. soon there was a double queue of spectators, giggling with suppressed laughter, stretching on each side from jan to the drunkard across the width of the entrada. when the drawing was finished, the old man exclaimed: "but that is excellent; will you not give it to me, señor?" jan made of the drawing a rapid tracing which pleased the old man as much as the original. "i'll keep that," said the old man. [illustration] to our horror he walked across the entrada, with a thump in the ribs awoke the drunkard, and showed him the sketch. gradually, as he realized what had been done, an expression of wrath grew on the drunkard's face. luckily for us, he became possessed of the idea that the drawing had been done by one of the stable boys. no one undeceived him and, amidst roars of laughter, he addressed a long speech to the stable boy in question. "the rights of man," said the drunkard, "are inalienable, and of all the rights of man, the greatest right is that of his person. the stable boy has, therefore, transgressed against the most sacred of men's rights. i could have excused most things," went on the drunkard, "but this is inexcusable; to inflict indignity on a man in his own person. since neither the stable boy nor the spectators of this crime seem sensible of the enormity they have committed, the only act by which i can express the contempt which i feel for the meanness of your natures is that of removing myself from the company of such low mortals." having thus delivered himself with the air of a demosthenes, he literally shook the dust from the soles of his alpagatas and staggered out into the street. coincident with the departure of the drunkard was the arrival of the jijona motor-lorry. the lorry was heavy, with solid tyres. michelin's motor guide had described the route as: "cart road bad and very indisposed," and we wondered what the sixteen miles would value as experience. we all scrambled in, arranging our luggage as best we could on our laps or under the narrow wooden benches nailed to the lorry's sides. the centre of the lorry was occupied with cargo, in this case barrels, some full, some empty, standing on end. we thought that we had all fitted in so nicely, but a wail from the courtyard drew our attention to an old woman who, loaded with parcels and almost weeping with despair, had failed to find a seat. we said "move up" to each other, but no moving up was possible. the old man came out in anger from the ticket-office. "but this is ridiculous," he shouted; "there is room, there are so many seats on the lorry, i sell so many seats, therefore there must be room." slowly the elucidation of the mystery dawned on us. three of our passengers were of such girth that each ought in common fairness to have booked two seats for himself. so with much effort we squeezed and shoved into the fat men until we gained a narrow slit of seat into which the little old woman was dropped. but immediately the active pressure was released the resilience of fat reasserted itself, and the little old woman spent the first part of the journey moaning out that she was being crushed to death. most of the voyagers were peasants; one or two were travellers going to the fiesta; one was dressed in soldier's uniform, but he seemed to be neither officer nor private. we discovered later that he was a veterinary surgeon. our musical instrument caused some attention and our fellow voyagers smiled at us with sympathy and kindness. "are you artists?" they asked. "yes," we replied. "then we will come to your concert," said they. the road was indeed "indisposed." we rolled, rocked, and bumped along miles of dusty road, by the side of which the trees were so drenched in dust that they were but ghosts of themselves; the herbage below seeming like the delicate clay work of a magic potter, having no hint of green for the eye. nor can empty barrels be considered good travelling companions. if the lorry were toiling uphill the barrels sidled down the floor with a seeming leer. one snatched one's toes out of the way without ceremony. on reaching the end of the lorry, the barrels spread themselves sideways, crushing the knees of the sitters. when the lorry reached the top of the hill and began to thunder down the new slope the barrels bounced and bumped to the other end of the lorry, bruising everybody in their passage. finally the young soldier sat on one of the centre barrels and tried to quell their antics, without much success. the lorry climbed into the mountains, round roads which curved like a whiplash. at one spot the young soldier remarked: "the motor-bus fell over here once; six of the passengers were killed." the sun beat down on the canvas top of the lorry, and the large white porous water-jug hanging at the end was in constant demand. we halted at a small and lonely house where beer was for sale. the passengers also bought beans pickled in salt and handed them to each other. the dusty miles rolled off, at one moment through grey cliffs which shone in the evening light, and another over deep water courses, along the bottom of which ran serried terraces of vines. presently a pretty girl, whom we took to be the daughter of a wealthy farmer, and who had spent the better part of the journey flirting with the young soldier, exclaimed: "mira! shishona!"[ ] through a cleft between two mountains we caught a glimpse of distant houses clustered up the side of a hill towards an old saracen ruin which gleamed ochreous against the evening sky. in spite of the presence of a couple of factories, the entrance of jijona from the south is one of the most romantic sights we have seen in spain. ancient spanish buildings sprang from the edge of a ravine covered with prickly pear, and faced a steep cliff, along the precipitous face of which ran water courses. old houses stood step above step, on a hill so steep that the roadways were all staircases and the houses had two entrances, the front into the lowest story and the back into the upper, and often the back-yard was higher than the roof. a white stone bridge carried the road with a noble curve across the ravine, and round this curve we swung, the passengers waving hands and shouting greetings, into the town. our destination was a casa de huespedes (half inn, half boarding-house) called "la vinaigre," and the name was not altogether unsuitable. but our first reception was as cordial as we could have wished. owing to our friend's mattress, which the old hostess had recognized, we were welcomed with open arms. chapter xxi jijona--the fiesta the only fiesta we had hitherto experienced in spain had been a small peasant feast during an afternoon at verdolay. we had gone to it; but finding that we as foreigners constituted the chief centre of interest, we had run away to the seclusion of our house. at the big fiesta of jijona were so many strangers that we were almost overlooked. [illustration] the family at the "vinegar" consisted of an old bent-backed father peasant, sandalled; a mother, in black with black shawl; several sons, reaching towards mercantile gentility owing to the turron factory, which was in the cellars of the house; and several daughters, most of whom had married personages of importance in the little town. in fact the "vinegar" family was upon the up-grade. they promised us a week of unparalleled amusement. first, they said the town was crammed with people--a most necessary concomitant to spanish enjoyment. in no other country in the world is the gregarious nature of man so plainly exhibited. the man who plays his lonely golf matched with an imaginary colonel would not be understood; your solitary pleasurer would find no sympathizers. crowds, crowds, form the oil in the salad of spanish amusement. secondly: that very night the priests were giving a free public cinema entertainment. thirdly: "they will loose a cow on the streets to-morrow night. oh, it is precioso. it is a wonderful diversion. the cow gallops, the men try to catch her. they are tossed right and left, others come to the rescue. magnificent! eh?" fourthly: the old drama of the moors and christians was to be performed. jijona lies in territory once captured by the moors. they say that the original name was saracena, and to-day locally it is pronounced "shishona." it owes its considerable wealth to the extensive terrace cultivation of almonds, by means of which the hard-working moors converted the mountains from barrenness to fertility. "there is a castle of boards erected in the plaza," said the vinegars; "this will be stormed first by the moors, then by the christians. it is very luxurious. not so luxurious as last year, perhaps, because the captains of the fiesta are not so wealthy as those of last year, and owing to the tobacco famine, the contrabandistas will omit their drama of tobacco smuggling. yet it will exhibit much lujo."[ ] at supper we tasted for the first time the famous turron of jijona. this was manufactured by our hosts. it is a crisp, dry, almond sweetmeat, probably moorish in origin, for it is not unlike halva de smyrne and carries behind its almond flavour a queer but not unpleasant taste resembling the smell of an over-heated chair. supper over, we went out to the plaza. the first need of spanish amusement had been fulfilled. the streets were crowded. a few of the more sophisticated visitors were even wearing hats. at the far end of the plaza, dimly, could be seen the wooden castle, in shape not unlike one of those quaint wood cuts from an old edition of froissart; some distance in front of it, high in the air, was the sheet on which the free "pictures" were to be thrown from the topmost pinnacle of the castle. as the time of the performance drew near, the people came bringing chairs with them until both before and behind the screen the plaza was crammed. the performance was not a success. the illumination was dim; the sheet stretched high above the people's heads. in addition, a young moon in its first quarter intruded from above the mountain-tops. this intrusive crescent, shining almost through the centre of the sheet, sometimes took the place of the heroine's head, sometimes of the hero's waistcoat. after straining our eyes for a while, having reflected on gift-horses and teeth we went back to the vinegars' and to bed. as we went we wondered what those spectators who were on the wrong side of the sheet and who in consequence could not read the legends--if they were able to read--would construe out of those dim dramas. we awoke on the morrow eager to see what the "studio" of our friend was like. father vinegar had gone before us, but mother vinegar took the road and showed us up through tortuous and romantic staircases of streets, up--up--until we reached the highest level of the town. but our friend's house was yet higher. we clambered up a zigzag path over a widening hill-side to the crest of the ridge. there on the top, fronting the ruins of the old saracen fortress, was our friend's house "el torre de blay." it was a long house of one story, backed by a round tower of three stories. the tower was claimed to be saracen in origin: it overlooked a walled yard, which was filled with chickens, rabbits and turkeys, for the vinegars were using the house during the absence of our friend. a pile of almond shells was in the entrada and a back door led out into a terraced garden full of pomegranate, pear, fig, almond and olive trees and grape vines. old vinegar, called locally "père chicot," led us round, discoursing on the beauty of the house, which was indeed cool, large and airy. but the _clou_ of the house père chicot kept till the last. with a gesture of profound pride he swung open a small door. "señor and señora," he exclaimed, "i will warrant that there is not a w.c. to compare with this in the whole province of alicante." mother vinegar, talking in a high-pitched, querulous voice, was complaining of the rise in prices, of the hardness of the season. the garden of the torre, she said, was not worth looking after, there were no grapes, and as for the almonds, she went on, pointing to a small heap, that was the whole crop for the year. she added that only a little while ago somebody had broken into the yard and had stolen two hundred and fifty pesetas' worth of poultry and rabbits. it occurred to us that some of her cordiality to us came from the fact that she looked on us to make up some of that lost money. so i gently led her on to the question of ways and means. she said: "oh, el señor used this place as a working place only. he lived and slept at our house, and for that he paid ten pesetas a day." now el señor (our english friend) had told us that he paid seven pesetas. our suspicions were correct. i am afraid that in the end mrs. vinegar, like the undertaker in tcheckov's story, counted us amongst her losses. her manner changed gradually from cordial to chilly: she had promised to help me to shop, but she put obstacles in my way and also, i believe, tried to prevent us from finding a servant. finally we made an arrangement that mrs. vinegar should supply us with meals at two pesetas fifty each. remembering that elias had fed us in murcia for one peseta fifty i struggled to reduce the price to two pesetas for less food, but mrs. vinegar said that jijona was far more expensive than murcia (as a matter of fact it was, if anything, cheaper), and that the reputation of her house would not stand a lower price. finally, to her disgust, i announced that we could not afford more than three meals a week at that rate, and we were accordingly scrawled down, heavily underlined, with red ink, amongst the stolen chickens and rabbits. but the idea of the cow chase through the streets excited us. as in the well-known story, the cow turned out to be a bull; nor was the chase to be in the narrow winding streets, but in the plaza, the entrances of which had been blocked up with extempore barricades of wooden beams. the women and the less courageous of the men were to fill the balconies, and places in a balcony had been found for us by the vinegar girls, who were quite different in manners from their parents. the bulls were stabled at the back of the town; and, like a wasp in a spider's web, plunging at the ends of long ropes tied to its horns, the bull was dragged to the plaza, when it was insinuated into a rough bull-pen erected near the castle. there were three bulls, and a second was thus dragged up and penned in. the third, however, was tied to a tree, and pads, like boxing-gloves, were fixed solidly to its murderous horns. then with some precautions the bull was loosened. the game was a sort of ticky-touchwood. home in this case was anywhere out of reach of the bull's tossing capacity: open doors, the ironwork of windows, water pipes, trees, the barricades of the streets, lamp posts, a fountain--around which one could dodge--and a wall topped by a rickety pailing, and the woodwork of some swing-boats near the castle. jan had gone down into the plaza to get some photos. from the balcony the game was exciting, though not furious. some of the boys showed considerable pluck; and it was amusing to watch the strange concavities shown in the back of one running away who thought that the bull was close behind and who could feel in imagination those horns prodding his spine. [illustration] but the fun was not furious enough to bear long watching from the balcony. so i went down into the square and joined jan. i had several reasons for this action. i was bored, and thought it would be more exciting below. but the chief idea i had was that by this manoeuvre i would be able to introduce myself to jijona _en bloc_. i should be universally known, and would thus escape the continual shrieks and giggles with which strangers greeted my appearance. so i went down into the plaza. a loud gasp went up from the crowds. some youths ran up to me. "señora, señora," they cried, "you mustn't stay here. it is dangerous!" "why?" asked i. "but don't you understand? the bull! he might get you." "but," i answered, "he might get you too." "oh, but we can run." [illustration] "well, i can run also." at this moment theory turned hurriedly into practice. the bull came charging down upon us. jan and i with a number of youths made a run for the wall, clambered on to it, and clung there, hanging on its rickety pailings, while the bull smelt our toes. "curse you! curse you!" screamed out an old man who was dancing with rage on the other side of the pailings. "get down. can't you see that in a minute you'll bring the whole place down? get off at once." but the boys merely gave him retort for curse. the bull turned on to another baiter and dashed away. this boy sprang into the branches of a young tree. the bull, going full speed, hit the stern of the sapling with his forehead, and the youth was shot off, describing a graceful parabola, and landing with a thump on to the ground. gradually the game drifted to the other end of the plaza and we came down from the fence. [illustration] "señora," said an anxious voice, "i have here a balcony. it is quite respectable, for my wife is there. pray do not risk your life any longer." the speaker was the husband of one of the vinegar girls, one of the nicest men we met in jijona. he was short and plump, and even as he spoke to me he gazed anxiously towards the end of the plaza. while he was still urging me, the bull made a movement in our direction, and he bolted. this time we sought shelter in an open doorway, accompanied by two priests. one lad tripped and the bull rolled him over with its padded horns, but other lads ran up, one flapped a handkerchief before the animal's nose, another hung on to its tail. somehow we could not help wondering what would have happened to the bull had twenty public schoolboys been loosed in that plaza! at last the light faded. first the bull, then the boys grew tired. the animal, captured with ropes, was led away to become meat for future jijona dinners--eating a playmate, it seemed to me. further north in spain they have a variant of this game. a young bull is put into a wide circle formed of carts. the bull's horns are not padded, and this game is quite dangerous. a polish painter, a friend of ours, once entered such a ring. he was chased by the bull and to escape sprang for a cart. he was not quite quick enough. with the upward toss the bull thrust a horn through the seat of his trousers, as the painter was in mid-air. luckily the trousers were an old pair, the seat came out wholesale and the painter tumbled head first into the cart. he says that for the rest of the day he went about with his hat clapped behind him. the bull-baiting over, we called upon the doctor to whom we carried an introduction from luis. then we scrambled up to our torre, taking with us provisions and candles. we made up our mattress on the floor and slept the more soundly for our hard bed. [illustration] we had one joy at jijona--there were no mosquitoes, and the nights were deliciously cool. our windows were far enough from the ground to allow the most timid of spanish women to sleep secure from robbers. the sun streaming in at our windows awoke us before six--we dressed and breakfasted, looking down on the town, which still lay in the shadow. immediately beneath our windows were two hundred yards of stony hillside; then began the houses, small and closely crowded as though they feared the rough arid expanse of the towering hills of rock. we looked down upon an almost moorish succession of flat roofs, plunging downhill into the valley. the surrounding country was like a rough sea suddenly frozen, in front of us the mountains seemed almost to curl over. a violet smoke was rising from jijona chimneys, a smoke which drifted a sweet scent to our nostrils, a scent of sage and of fir. from the middle of the village the church tower covered with blue and white tiles suddenly chimed the hour with discordant bells. mrs. vinegar was to take me the round of the shops. she had previously tried to impress me with the dreadful price of provisions in jijona, and this time she prevented me from buying eggs. the greengrocer's shop, kept by a gay woman named concha, was only an entrada filled with baskets. mrs. vinegar had refused to change a note of pesetas for me, and we discovered later that notes of any magnitude greater than twenty-five pesetas are difficult to change in villages. but concha changed the money cheerfully and earned my gratitude. opposite concha's shop, frowning on the main street with grated windows, was the prison, of which somebody said: "heavens! the jijona men are so good that there hasn't been a soul in the prison for the last five years. it is full of chickens and rabbits." we bought a frying-pan, having to choose between one very small and one very large. the latter was thick in rust, and must have been i don't know how many years on the shelves of the shop. we chose it on condition that the shop man could get it clean, and he at once put the whole of his family to work on it, including a prospective daughter-in-law, a french-african girl just arrived from morocco. the customers were whispering one to another, and at last one more bold than the others addressed me: "i saw you yesterday go down amongst the bulls. were you not terribly frightened? i thought that my heart was going to stop." we went to buy drinking glasses. the china shop was deserted and we had to shout loudly before we could get anybody to serve us. the woman did not know the price of the glasses. "but no matter," she said, "you can pay any time you like. and weren't you terribly frightened yesterday, going down into the bulls? i couldn't draw my breath when i saw you jump on to the wall." there were children crowded at the shop door. as we came out i heard murmurs, which gradually we made out as: "la valiente, la valiente, la valiente!" i was known by this name during the whole of my stay in jijona. on sunday we dined at the vinegars' and in the afternoon the doctor took us to the casino. i believe there is gambling at these casinos, but this takes place upstairs, and on the ground floor they perform the function of the local club. on sunday afternoons and in the evenings the aristocracy of the place collect here to sip ices while the local pianist rattles off the latest music which has reached the town. after supper we walked through the streets, feeling our way up and down hill, for lights were few and the streets full of rocks and unexpected steps. we heard the sound of guitars and at once climbed towards it. at the top of a staircase we came to a shop in front of which a family was sitting. a woman with a rough voice began to chaff us. "ah, yes," she exclaimed, "you are the english of the torre de blay. and the lady is the valiant one who is not afraid of bulls. ha ha! what? you are going to see the dancing--well, let's all go." the family heaved itself to its feet, surrounded and escorted us down a narrow lane which ended at a platform which hung on the cliff's edge. three men were sitting on the doorstep of a house, two playing guitars, one playing the bandurria. a crowd, young men in blouses and girls, with light skirts and shawls, were standing about or dancing. three couples were dancing a valencian jota. some of the movements of the dance seemed intricate, but they danced with a fine natural grace, and there was a beautiful balance of body which echoed the movement of the music. a woman standing behind me said: "now, señora, i will teach you the jota one of these evenings. and you will take my baby, because i have lots and they say you have none." [illustration] both on saturday and on sunday bull-baiting exhibitions had taken place, but we had not gone to see them. one day had been quite sufficient. on monday morning we were awakened by the sounds of music. the local band was parading the streets playing a queer semi-oriental music. as the morning advanced other bands came in until seven or eight bands were in full blast, each playing a different tune and each trying to drown its rivals with sound. gradually moors and christians gathered. the moors came from the near east and from the far. the chief and his immediate suite were bedouin arabs, and there were turks, saracens, hindus, chinamen, negroes and some of uncertain lineage. girls accompanied each group dressed in appropriate houri costume, carrying bottles filled with a liquor which would have pleased omar rather than mahomet. the christians included roman soldiers, crusaders, cavaliers and smugglers of . the latter were the chief christian and his retinue. vivandières attended the christians with drink no less stimulating than that supplied to their moorish enemies. moors and christians carried large blunderbusses of ancient mode, and all day long to the sounds of indefatigable melody they paraded the town. it appeared to be the duty of the moors to be comic; they wore big goggles and many had huge imitation beards with which, when the heat grew greater, they fanned themselves. they pranced and postured through the streets while the christians marched along in solemn ranks. nor did the fiesta end with the going down of the sun. with discreet intervals for refreshment, marching and music continued till a.m., at which time sleep and a blessed silence fell on jijona. undeterred by but four hours' rest, punctually at six the cacophony of brass began again. by midday crusaders and bandsmen, having exchanged helmets and caps, were dancing jotas down the principal streets. but a short siesta revived them for the principal work of the day: the entry of the moors. at about four in the afternoon the performers gathered at the picturesque southern entrance of the village, thus symbolizing the direction from which the moors had come. then group by group, with blunderbusses banging off into the air, the christians retreated slowly up the street, going backwards. last of all the christians went the contrabandistas, and last of the contrabandistas the captain, dressed in a wonderful ancient costume of velvet, embroidered with gold, silver and silk, and a blanket striped in many colours. facing him, advanced with equal solemnity and noise the chief moor. after some two hours of deafening reports the whole troupe was in movement, some forwards, others backwards, and had arrived at the wooden castle in the plaza. by seven o'clock, at this funereal pace, the moors were at last massed before the castle. "now for the charge and for some fun," we thought. but mounting a profusely decorated horse, the chief moor began a speech. the contrabandista, evidently a man of deeds only, had hired a real actor, dressed in the costume of a cavalier, to represent him. for almost an hour exchange of dramatic verse continued, after which the christians quietly walked out of the castle, and the moors walked in. "good heavens," thought we, "is that all?" with ears deafened from the guns we went home; passing on the way a booth of green branches in which moors and christians, overcome either by the heat or by the assiduous ministrations of houri or vivandière, were laid out on sacks. though officially the day was ended, practically it was not. those who had private stocks of powder continued the gunfire till midnight. the bands, their music becoming more and more incoherent, played on till two o'clock. we decided that we had seen enough fiesta. we stayed in our castle and went out sketching in the country to avoid the appalling din which rose from the town to our windows. at night there was a modest display of fireworks in the plaza, which we were quite content to enjoy from where we were. after all was over they said to us: "wasn't it a beautiful fiesta?" outwardly we were forced to agree with them, but inwardly we recognized--perhaps with a sense of regret--that to enjoy these fiestas as they ought to be enjoyed, that is, as a spaniard enjoys them, requires a sense of values and perhaps a nervous organism which we do not possess. footnotes: [footnote : "look! jijona!"] [footnote : luxury.] chapter xxii jijona--tia roger jijona lived on almond paste. all around us the grey, pallid or zebra striped mountains were terraced, and wherever enough earth could be gathered together for an almond tree to grow, there it was planted. the turron of jijona, which is made in perfection nowhere else, is a very popular sweet meat all over spain and even is widely appreciated in south america. in barcelona i have been greeted by turron-selling youths who addressed me as la valiente. on the french frontier in a little village we found a turron-stall kept by a man in jijona costume of black blouse and pointed hat; but he was a fraud: he had never been near jijona, nor could he speak the jijona dialect. but the whole life of jijona was dominated by turron marzipan, and the varieties of sweet meats made from almonds. we arrived as the almonds were beginning to ripen. out on the mountains one heard the thrashing of the canes amongst the branches as the peasants beat the nuts off the almond trees. from the village rose up a sound like that of a gigantic typewriter as the women of the village sat in the streets in circles and cracked the almond shells. in our entrada old père chicot crouched most of the day on his haunches, peeling, drying and cracking the almonds from el señor's garden. in consequence of the turron work we found it very difficult to get a woman to work for us. life became difficult. the conditions in jijona were not the same as those in verdolay. in the latter place we could buy excellent charcoal, but to our surprise we found charcoal difficult to get in jijona. when we did get it, from the proprietor of the local cinematograph theatre, it was so hard that it would not burn. père chicot said gruffly, "what are almond shells for?" we then tried burning almond shells; but they made a poor fire, and an accumulation of shells soon put itself out. we wasted one and a half hours trying to fry potatoes on an almond-shell fire. so as long as we could not get a woman, we had to live on cold stuff that we could buy from the shops: dutch cheese, and sardines, principally. at last i thought that i had found a woman. i was perched on the watercourse which ran across the face of the precipice opposite the entrance of the town. from this spot there was an excellent view of jijona in its most romantic, but also in its most plastic aspect. to me came a woman walking along the edge of the watercourse, balancing on her head a large washing-basket. she stopped to watch my work, and as was the custom in those early days began to talk about the bull episode. "ah, that was a terrible thing to do," she said. "if i had gone down into the plaza, my knees would have turned to water." i then asked her how i could get somebody to work for me. "why," she answered, "i'll come myself, or send somebody else." she then began to move along her way. the wall of the watercourse was about a foot wide; but ten yards further along it ceased to curve around the face of the precipice and sprang across a chasm over a narrow bridge. the approach to this bridge was guarded by a large polished boulder about three feet high, and to get on to the bridge one had to clamber over this boulder. i had crossed it on hands and knees cautiously, for there was a sheer drop of forty or fifty feet below. the woman looked at this boulder and turning said to me: "that is a nasty spot. i'll have to be careful there, or i'll drop my washing." with the basket on her head she walked to the boulder and began to walk up its slippery side. balancing herself and basket in what appeared a dangerous manner, giving little cries of "aie! aie! i'm afraid i'll drop my basket," she surmounted the obstacle and strode carelessly across the bridge. my heart left my throat to regain its normal position and i realized that there is even a fashion in "fear." but the woman never came, and for a week we were servantless. the pretty girl who had driven out with us in the lorry, and who we had imagined to be the daughter of a fairly well-to-do farmer, was as a matter of fact our nearest neighbour. she lived at the top house of the town. her father was the village dust-cart, and any day could be seen walking about the streets bent almost double beneath the weight of a huge pannier which he carried on his back, into which he flung any object which had no permanent right on the high road. her house was a small affair of two rooms only. we put our difficulty to her as she was friendly, and to our surprise she said that she would come and do it herself. she did arrange that the goat with his milk should call upon us; but the vinegars enticed her into their turron factory, and again we were in despair. however, the girl had an idea. "why, mother will do it for you," she said. mother was an apt-looking spouse for the dust-cart, and was considered, we heard, the dirtiest woman in the village. her foggy blue eyes showed white all round them, and she threw up her lips like a biting horse when she spoke castilian (which she did very badly). i don't know why she made me think of the red queen in alice, but her silhouette was not unlike, and she had a queer trick of being in the house one instant, and in the next of having quite vanished--which was red-queenlike. she was called "aunt roger" in the village, because of her ruddy hair. aunt roger cleared up the mystery of the jijona fuel. she made bargains with boys, who wandered out over the hills, and returned looking like walking haycocks under a load of branches of mountain pine and other coniferous shrub. from then on we cooked over large bonfires built on the square hearth which was in our largest room. tia roger was elusive in small matters, as she was in larger ones. she had a hasty spanish way of agreeing at once to save herself the trouble of understanding my language, and we never knew whether she would come or no. she drew our pay without demur, but if an occasion offered for other employment she took it. we would return home at eleven o'clock worn out with a hard day's painting, to find the place uncleaned, no fire alight, no food either bought or prepared. this would entail on our part a rush down the steep hill into the town, to search for food. probably on the way we would discover tia roger sitting amongst a circle of gossiping and pleased women, industriously cracking almonds. she would show no signs of conscious sin, but would grin and nod at us as we passed. then we had to scramble again up to our eyrie under the full heat of the mediterranean sun. tia roger had many children. her eldest daughter was married to a man who for some time puzzled us. we first saw him wandering about the upper streets of the old town during the fiesta. he carried an elaborate pair of sandwich boards. on the front was the well-known picture, "st. veronica's handkerchief," and on the back an oleograph representing two conventional angels--golden hair, nightdress, and wings. both pictures were surrounded by flat wooden frames fretworked in the hideous art-nouveau manner. he wandered about thus, enclosed, as it were a slab of humanity between two slices of divinity; but we could not imagine what his purpose was. we imagined that he filled a semi-religious post, something connected with the priests, and their fiesta, and their cinema, and bull chasings. but on the fourth day of the fiesta, this wandering, apparently purposeless man tripped over a washing-basket. his language at once put to flight all our ideas of his religious functions, it issued straight from a nature by no means purged of old adam, despite its devotional enclosure. later, he fell over me as i was sketching, and he cursed me with gusto. i then saw he was blind. this had not been apparent to us earlier, for he took the rough and precipitous streets of jijona at an extraordinary speed. one day we saw him still wandering to and fro, but the pictures had disappeared. a cage was on his back, and in the cage, balancing against the joggle and movement of his walk, was an uncomfortable hen. we had become more accustomed to the jijona speech by this time, and the tickets which the pictures had hidden were plainly visible in his hands. he was running a private lottery at three chances "a little bitch." i took thirty tickets for the hen, and gave fifteen of them to tia roger, but we pulled blanks. his next venture was a bedroom looking-glass, the stand of which stuck out from his back in an ungainly fashion. it must have needed considerable ingenuity to keep his small village clientèle sufficiently desirous to ensure for him any sort of a living. his wife learned that i had put him into one of my sketches. she hurried to the torre de blay, carrying her child, and accompanied by a horde of women friends to see "the portrait." her disappointment was great to find that he was but a minute figure in a street landscape. she told me that her husband had lost his sight ten years before in a street quarrel. his opponent had slashed a knife across his eyes. for this the law exacted no penalty. but she had drawn no lesson from her husband's misfortune. her baby was in a bad condition, flies, dust and exposure to the sun were working wickedly on the child's eyes, and even then early blindness appeared to be threatening. but it seemed to us that many of the more ignorant spanish were careless of their children's eyesight. blindness is rampant, but blindness leads to beggary; and beggary accompanied by blindness is a profitable pursuit. possibly a woman may say, "little juan seems to be going blind. well, that's a comfort, he will be settled in life anyhow." jijona had two other blind men. the one made a living by selling cigars from a glass case strapped to his chest. we were sitting in the entrada of the vinegars' on the first day of the fiesta. the curtain was pushed slowly aside and through the opening crept a pathetic figure. it was that of an old man; his eyes were sightless and suppurating, a straw hat with a torn brim shaded his heavy face, in one hand he grasped an aged guitar, in the other a stick with which he explored the entrada for a chair. jan quickly got out of his chair for fear that the blind man should sit down on his lap. the man found the chair with his stick, and trembling with the pain of movement took a seat. adjusting the guitar, with stiff fingers he rasped the strings which gave out a sound, thin as though withered by extreme age. with exercise his fingers strengthened, until from the decrepit instrument he plucked a melody from which one might imagine that the blind in maeterlinck's play were dancing to solace their loneliness. the almost macabre dance came to an end, then striking out a new set of chords he broke into a spanish song. his voice was an instrument as worn out as the guitar. he ceased his heartrending performance, collected his meed of halfpence; i spoke to him, and he broke into an hysterical laugh of joy. "you have returned, you have returned," he cried. "it is el señor that he takes you for," explained one of the girls. "he was very good to him. the old man recognizes the english accent." we explained to him his mistake, and the delight faded from his poor old face, and the blank expressionless look of the blind came back. slowly he turned to the entrance and his tapping, which led him away down the street. thus he pursued his trade, feeling his way from door to door, entering any one that was open, seating himself upon the first unoccupied chair which he could find: few could have been hard-hearted enough to deny his unspoken pleading. one evening we met him in the upper town.... an accident had happened, and his guitar was opened out like an old boot; it still held together at the handle, but at the front of the instrument the soundboard and back had become detached from the sides. in a clumsy fashion the hurt had been bound up with string. we asked him what had happened. he did not reply, but cried out with a high-pitched, half-crazy laugh. then standing astraddle in the precipitous street he began to pluck at the strings as though the guitar could answer for him. the thin voice of it had now sunk to a mere ghost of a sound, the murmur of a summer freshet might well have drowned its plaintive whisper. then turning he made his way downhill. chapter xxiii jijona--a day's work it was a toss-up which would arrive first: the sun shooting its long level rays over the mountain-top through our windows, or tia roger's daughter hammering on the door with the milk, warm and frothy, in a jug. either the one or the other aroused us from our mattress on the floor--for we had dispensed quite comfortably with the complications of a bed. possibly our night had been restless, for inadvertently i had imported a host of fleas into the house. they had come from the garden, from a small spot near an outhouse door, where there was a fascinating view, and i had stood there one morning with bare legs and feet admiring the scene. when i had returned to the house, i had noticed a strange blackish discoloration on my ankles, and stooping had discovered to my horror that hordes of hungry fleas were crawling up my legs. i had jumped into a basin of water, but many had escaped. from that moment the house was never clear of them, and our nights were sometimes disturbed. we suspect that père chicot kept his rabbit skins in the outhouse. we got out of bed either at the call of the sun or of the milk; and as we were dressing we watched the purple and green mists of night clearing off the valley and from the town below us. breakfast was a simple affair--tea and dry bread and grapes. spanish coffee is expensive and bad, cocoa we did not find, and butter and jam were unprocurable. for the boiling water we could not go to the trouble of building a bonfire, so in spite of the expense of spirit we used a methylated spirit stove. this jan had bought in murcia. the shopman had ill understood jan's attempts to make his needs known. "lampara para alcool"[ ] had elicited no response, but at last, driven by repeated requests with variations, explanations, hand wavings, and so on, intelligence had brightened the shopman's face. "ah, señor," he had cried, "i understand you now. what you require is a 'little hell.'" so the kettle sang daily over "little hell," but this morning, tia roger having forgotten to purchase alcohol overnight, it looked as if we were to breakfast on goat's milk alone. but an idea occurred to me. el señor, when he had transferred his major residence to murcia, had left some furniture and much litter in el torre de blay. amongst the litter were odd bottles which had contained toilet lotions, one was half full. was there not a chance then that it was alcoholic? i routed out the bottle. the smell told me nothing. practical experiment was the only thing. imagination was rewarded. "little hell" worked as well on hair-wash as with any other fuel. we ate our simple breakfast at an ancient refectory table, the top hewn from the width of a large tree, the legs curved and carved like those in viking pictures. then we set to packing up paint and brushes, and the preparing of sketch boxes. leaving the things untidy for tia roger to clear, we set off on our respective ways, i down into the old town, jan out across the mountains. jijona was a maze of zigzag streets. in the morning it was almost manless, but women went to and fro on their household errands, and the children followed me in swarms. standing about in the streets were small coops, enclosing either a chicken or a turkey, while the queer lean egyptian cats, with rat-like tails, slunk along the walls, vanishing like ghosts at any attempt to stroke them. even the kittens of a few days old spat at a proffered pat as though at a dog. i was bound for the street near the monastery which, with its blue-tiled roof, brought the eastern end of jijona to a full stop. as soon as i had settled down the questions began. they were the usual spanish questions such as one had heard in verdolay, and many of the answers i knew now by heart. but one woman behind me said something new. "it is an english señora. she is painting. all the english people paint, for there have been other english here--el señor, and his friends--and they, too, painted. it is strange, indeed, that a whole nation should be thus gifted. also all the english are very rich, for they come here from a long distance, and they paint pictures, and all that is very expensive. another thing that i can tell you about the english is that they are all very tall. every englishman that i have seen (she had seen four) is much taller than we spanish are. it does not matter that i am saying this out loud because la doña does not understand valenciano." while i was working this morning there was a continual sound of squealing pigs. men's voices mingled with those of the pigs, urging them to be quiet. the sound came from a high-walled enclosure to which the entrance was an archway closed by a massive wooden door. then along came a goat herd leading his flock. but as soon as the herd came opposite to this door it refused to pass it. with shouts, curses, and stones the man urged the goats along. in little quick rushes, thus urged on, one by one the goats dashed past the door and on down the road. but two refused the passage perilous. they made sneezing noises of protestation, but nothing would induce them to move. in despair the man at last had to bring all his goats back and take them to the hills by some other route. later i realized that the door which these intelligent animals would not pass was the slaughter-house. old men, dressed in the ancient jijona costume of black blouse and black velvet hat with turned-up brim and pointed crown--kept on to the head by an elastic at the back--would address me in a patois impossible to understand. as the sketch neared completion my audience became excited. "ha pintado tod'! tod'! tod'!"[ ] they exclaimed. they searched the picture for the smaller details, the strings of red peppers hanging from the balconies especially delighted them. indeed, they gave my pictures titles because of some minute detail. "what is she doing?" a new-comer exclaimed. the answer was "the fig tree." i was astonished, because i could see no fig tree in the whole sketch. at last one of my audience pointed to one tiny branch of green projecting over a wall. jan had four directions to choose from. north and south led him across a flattish plain seamed with deep watercourses, east and west took him into the mountains. to the east the mountains were grey bare stone, almost uncultivated; to the west the mountains went steeper and steeper, ending in a high ridge, at the foot of which was a queer leprous country, the earth spotted all over with lichens and looking as though mouldy. wherever he went were the terraces and almond trees; and lonely little farms were perched high up on the slopes. terrible little places those farms were for the doctor, for, if any one were ill in them, there was often no means of approach other than miles of climbing on foot. but all across the mountains, incongruous enough in that landscape of primitive agriculture where the plough was but a stake with an iron spike, and where no roads were, went standards carrying wires of electricity. on the standards, deaths'-heads were painted to scare off the inquisitive child. jan had not only to contend with sun and flies. shadow was even more difficult to find at jijona than at verdolay; the almond as a shade tree is negligible. it was hot setting out, but it was hotter coming back. one did not delay much after half-past ten, but, whether the sketch were finished or no, one packed up one's things and set off homeward. as one walked one could feel the heat of the ground through the soles of the alpagatas. there were reputed to be scorpions in the mountains, and it was as well to be careful when taking a seat or when picking up some painting implement dropped to the ground. but jan never saw one. the peasants said that if he were stung the best thing to do was to plunge the stung part--usually a finger--into a raw egg; when the yolk had turned black, a fresh egg was to be substituted. we were both back in good time on this day, because we were to lunch with the doctor and his wife. they had promised us a truly spanish meal. here is the menu: . smoked uncooked ham. . hors d'oeuvre, olives (cured in anis and mint), pink tomatoes (a jijona speciality), cucumber, and orange-coloured sausage. . soup. . a stew of chicken, potatoes and garbanzos. (garbanzos, or chick-peas, look something like dried nasturtium seeds. they are cooked like haricot beans, and taste like a blend of haricot bean and lentil. they are a very favourite spanish vegetable.) . cold fish and mayonnaise. (the mayonnaise was made from almond oil, lemon juice and hard-boiled egg, and was extremely delicate in flavour.) . fried ham and grilled tomatoes. . turron and almond paste sweets. . yellow melon and muscatel grapes. brandy. . iced coffee (brought in by a boy from the casino). the doctor's wife asked me if it were true that english people did not like questions. i said personally we did not mind questions, but that in england direct intimate questions were generally avoided. "but," said the doctor's wife in amazement, "if you wish to find out something about anybody, how do you do so? and how do you carry on conversations?" the meal over, we toiled slowly up again to el torre, taking the hill in as leisurely a manner as we could. tia roger's daughter was sitting on our doorstep eating grapes. as we passed she held the bunch out to us. "les gusta?"[ ] she said. "buen aproveche," we replied. before their gateway, the two aged men and the one old woman sat, as they did from morning till night, plaiting an everlasting rope of esparto grass. we had acquired the siesta habit, so lay down until four o'clock. then, as the dinner had rather disorganized our desire to paint, jan and i went for a walk. we clambered down through the town, passed out by the southern entrance, across the bridge, and clambered up the hill opposite. at a long open washing-place, women were on their knees beating and scrubbing clothes with the spanish soap which will not lather; amongst them, working as hard as the rest, was a child of five years old. we skirted the line between the mountains, and the flat and plain for about two miles, then jan took a path leading away from the mountains. we came out into the most fantastic scenery of its kind i have ever seen. in the winter the torrential rains burst on the mountains and the water rushing down had scooped deep clefts in the earth of the plain. the ground itself appeared to be in layers of various colours, and these layers falling in one above the other had striped the sides of the deep canyon purple, blue, white, orange and red. the water had cut out of the clayey earth a hundred fantastic shapes--i have seen photographs of the grand canyon of colorado, this was like them on a small scale; at one place the clay was harder and the water dripping down had carved the cliff-side like great organ pipes or like the columns of an egyptian temple. in the deep bottoms of the canyon were vine terraces; and further down flat, irrigated fields of tomatoes, of herbage or of vegetables. little farm-houses sheltered under the mud cliffs, and on the circular threshing floors almonds and red peppers were spread out to dry in the sun. in one place a man had scooped his dwelling out of the cliff-side. these cave dwellings are common enough. at verdolay was a whole colony of them, and the cavemen were reputed to be thieves and vagabonds, and the members were despised by the peasants proper. at the end of the ravine or barranca we came to a many-arched bridge which towered high above our heads, and clambering up by a zigzag track found ourselves on the alicante road. in appearance this country is very deceptive. it appears arid, almost desolate, but the mountains are covered with almond trees, which for all their scanty foliage bear valuable crops, while the plain hides its richness in ravines a hundred feet or more below the level of its surface. we arrived home to find a stranger dressed in black clothes, but with an official cap on his head, sitting on a stone seat before our door. he was reading a book, and as we came up he bowed and said that he hoped his presence was not distasteful to us. we, of course, in the fashion of spanish courtesy, put our whole home at his disposal, and invited him indoors. he demurred in the correct fashion, but on a second invitation came in with us. in the long entrada père chicot was looking out through the back door and shaking his head at the garden. "there's another tree dying," he said. "all the trees are dying, and the vines won't bear. you can't do anything without water." "but is there no water at all?" we asked. "ay," replied père chicot, "there used to be the right to two hours of water once a fortnight. but the owners sold it. they wanted money and it was worth many hundreds of pesetas." our visitor was very interested in the house, for he confided in us that there was a housing shortage in jijona, like that in the rest of the world. he was chief of the municipal officers, dust-cart, water-supply, electric light and so on. he had just come from toledo, and the only place he could find in jijona was not nearly large enough for his family. "this would just suit me," he said, peering into room after room, "seven rooms; and they say that st. sebastian used to live here. did you know that?" his eye was attracted by the guitar of el señor, which we had brought with us. "and you an afficionado of the guitar," he exclaimed. "i, too, have played in my time." we pressed him to play. "no, no; indeed i would like to, but i may not. you see, my wife's father died a week ago, and it would seem very wicked if i were to play, or to sing." jan played him a farouka which he had learned from blas. "it seems a good guitar," said the man. he picked it up, and fingered the chords. then he went to the door and peered round it to see if père chicot had gone home. "i might sing you something if you won't tell any one," said the chief of the municipal officers. "but i will sing it in a very low voice, so that it will be less disrespectful to my wife's father." he sang, in a hoarse unmusical whisper, a guajiras. "i like the guajiras and also the tango," said he. "you see, i did my military duty in cuba, and i learned many over there." here are three of the songs he sang: "i will never marry, for as a bachelor i am gay, i have money to spend, i live like a general all day. and if i come to marry, though i may be rich, i shall have to lower my crest, like 'barrabas' the cock, but the bachelor is like god painted by peter." "on a serene night the sad lament was heard of a poor soldier, wounded and covered with blood and sand. for the ambulances were full, and the red cross doctors were busy. at the sight of his oozing blood the brave soldier prayed that death should overtake him, for no one could assist him." "at breakfast one morning a wise man said, sighing, that women in weeping are false as are traitors. this has oft been ignored. but i've seen and i know that the tears of a woman, as down they are falling, make naught but deception for the man who supports her." as he went on he began to forget his father-in-law, and in a short while he was bawling indecent tangos at the top of his voice. he showed no signs of departure, so i began to prepare for supper. i lit the bonfire which tia roger had laid in the wide hearth-place, placed over it a three-legged trivet of iron and on the trivet our huge saucepan full to the brim with olive oil. we then made use of a spanish custom. we asked him to supper with us. this he was forced by spanish custom to refuse, and as we did not repeat the invitation he had to make his compliments--which he did with the greatest courtesy--and go home. after supper, as our bread supply was short, we felt our way down the hill in the dark and down the staircases of streets to the shop of manuel garcia. garcia and his wife sold bread at one fat dog cheaper than the other shops. the bread was quite as good as any other, it had a very white powdery kind of consistency, baked in flat loaves with a very hard, anæmic crust. the garcias had showed us one of the economical devices which were in current use. we had for some days bought candles at this shop, but mrs. garcia said: "why do you spend all this money on candles? here is a thing much better, and much cheaper. you first pour water into a cup or bowl until half-way up, then fill to the top with olive oil. float one of these on the top of the oil, and set fire to it. there you have a light at half the cost of candles." the box she handed to us was full of pieces of cork through which a wick had been thrust. on the top of the box was the name of the device "little-lamps-little-boats" and a picture of the virgin. we stepped back in our illumination to the most ancient of methods--the old roman conquerors of spain must have illuminated their villas in this way. "little-lamps-little-boats" had probably given light to the halls of the saracen castle which now was but a few crumbling masses of slowly disintegrating cement. it was curious to think that one-half of jijona was lit by electric light, the other by this antique device, and that there was practically nothing between. mrs. garcia had urged us to the stewing of garbanzos. the garcias were go-ahead spaniards. starting from very small origins, they had begun a small turron factory in a back room. not content with making turron alone, they had peddled it all over the balearic isles. gradually they had prospered, and the whole upper part of the house was now factory, the entrance to the factory being higher up the hill in a back street. yet they remained simple people, sitting, in the evenings, on their doorstep gossiping, while the flaxen-haired daughter, sixteen years old, painted with a toothpick dipped in dye eyes and noses on sugar pigs and cats. "we had a hard time at first," said mrs. garcia. "in majorca the people were very jealous of us, and often very rude. they would tell us to go back to our own district; they used to laugh at our speech, though god knows they can't speak proper spanish themselves." this inter-district jealousy seems characteristic of spain. the man from toledo laughed at the jijona people; the people of jijona called those of murcia "gipsies"; the people of murcia say that the jijona folk are mere uncultivated mountaineers; catalan and castilian are in semi-enmity. each person that one spoke to lauded the beauties and the food of his own district at the expense of other places. all about jijona they would have nothing but malegueñas and valencian jotas. the other varieties of spanish music they were not interested in. but the garcias were progressive people. they had made a success of their balearic venture, and now had a stall in the market of alicante. this was kept by a sister-in-law. garcia and his wife were making preparations to go to the great fair at albacete. the shop was full of large bales done up in straw matting, boxes and crates of sweets and of turron. they would go by road, for it was cheaper, and only about a hundred miles away. "that is a queer town," said garcia. "there are gates to the walls, and at a certain hour they shut the gates, and if you are outside you stay outside till the morning." mrs. garcia wanted me to paint her portrait. if she would have posed to me in the ordinary, peasant, workaday dress i would have done it with pleasure. but she had a fine fashionable modern silk dress of black and she wanted to pose in this. i managed to put off the proposal until the time of her departure was too close. she went away unsatisfied. footnotes: [footnote : spirit lamp.] [footnote : "she has painted everything, everything, everything!"] [footnote : "would you like them?"] chapter xxiv jijona--the goatherds murcia could be counted as unmusical, in verdolay one heard either a gramophone of the little señor, or the piano banged by the girls who lived in the topmost house of the village. in jijona, on the contrary, almost every evening could be heard the sound of the guitar or of that strange eastern singing of spain. young men sat on the edge of the cliff below the saracen castle and thumped two or three chords from a guitar for half the night long. it had a delight, analogous to that which the tom-tom gives, a delight drawn from the hypnotism of inexorable rhythm. but save for the commandant of the municipal officers, who was a stranger, we had made the acquaintance of none of the musicians until one afternoon the goatherds perched themselves in the shadow beneath our walls. we were taking a siesta when the sound of thrumming roused us from the half sleep which the afternoon gives. jan exclaimed: "that music sounds quite near." he jumped up and looked out of the window. on a narrow ledge of flat rock at the foot of the wall three men were sitting in the shadow of the house. two had guitars, and all along the wall of the garden a number of goats were lying down or were browsing on the small weeds which sprouted between the rocks. on the hill-side the kids were engaging one another in mock battle, rearing up in feint, with the most dainty of gestures, or interlocking their infantile horns. we slipped on our clothes, and crawling out by the garden door, the opening of which was only about four feet high, we joined the goatherds in their patch of shadow. "buenos dias," said jan. "i, too, love the guitar." "si, señor," answered one of the herds, "through the windows we have heard you playing." [illustration] one of the men was thin but wore an enormous pagoda-like sombrero of straw, one was a boy of eighteen with a huge moustache, the third was an old man with a large nose, the wrinkles on his face drawn more deeply than any we have before seen. their guitars were poor instruments and the strings were broken and knotted together, in consequence of which little bits of stick were tied across the arm of the instrument in order to clamp the strings down to the fingerboard below the knotted parts. as the strings break and are repaired, this stick is moved up the fingerboard until the strings are too short to play upon. jan crawled through the small door and brought out the big white guitar. the thin man handled it with reverence. "i know the instrument," he said. "it is el señor's. it is a good instrument, but he has a better. a big brown one which is a marvel. he must be very rich. they say he gave more than two hundred pesetas for it." he played on it for a moment, but soon handed it back to jan. "i'd rather play on my old one," he said. "i'm not afraid of it, and i can knock it about as i like." all three were dressed in cotton shirts and pants, tied at the ankle with tape, over these they wore cotton coats and trousers; when the weather was very hot they dispensed with the trousers. their feet were bare of stocking, but their shoes were heavy; woven by themselves out of esparto grass, very oriental in shape with turned-up, pointed toes. on their backs were sacks containing esparto grass and half-fashioned sandals. each possessed a long, heavy, crook'd stick shod with an iron point. all too soon they said that they must be moving on. "but come down to the street of the soap house, top side, this evening, and we'll have a dance and singing." i had sketched in this street. it was on the steepest part of the hill and ran almost horizontally across, so that the front door of the upper houses were on a level with the roofs of the lower ones. the roadway was divided along the centre, one-half being some twenty feet above the other; a low parapet protected the drop. it was lucky that the dwellers in the upper part of the street were sober spaniards. [illustration: girl singing a malagueÑa this type song is in / -time, and is as a rule very melancholy. it is very popular in the south of spain.] we found, as usual, the party seated on chairs in the middle of the street, near a small electric light; some of the men were sitting along the parapet. we were greeted by an old, but very large woman who groaned all the evening with rheumatism. the girls were in their best dresses of pale coloured skirt and embroidered paisley patterned shawls. a long silence followed our arrival. we were waiting for a player who was the best in the village. he could not come, but sent his brother instead, who played well, but was left-handed. three guitars and a guitarron formed the orchestra. thrum, thrum, thrum, went the guitars, while across the deeper chords the little guitarron, with its strange tuning, threaded a shrill pattern of monotonous arpeggios. the music of spain has something fundamental about it. it has a hint of the heart-beat of the universe. the rich, pulsating rhythm of it seems to set the air flowing in waves like those in a disturbed pool. it seems to speak of something ideally simple, to create an harmonious forgetfulness. a girl sitting amongst us threw back her head and sang. her voice carried the sad minor cadences of the eternal east; it was pitched queerly in the throat and wailed across the still night like the voice of a passionate soul. "when i am dead a hundred years, and when the worms have eaten me, the signs you find in my dead bones, will show that i have worshipped thee. when i am dead a hundred years." the song began with a long-drawn-out aie-e-e, which ran a gamut of strange, almost creepy modulations, the guitars slowed down their tempo, but when the last echo of the song had died amongst the hills, the instruments took up once more the remorseless beat of the malagueña. again she sang: "new pain drives out old pain, new grief drives out old grief, one nail drives out another nail, but love to love gives no relief. new pain drives out old pain, aie-e-e...." once more she sang: "your eyes like double evils are, black as is the dark of hades, and you have to cover them the ebon thickets of your lashes. your eyes like double evils are." the guitars beat up the rhythm once more and then a man began to sing: "in your eyes there is a sky, your mouth with heaven itself can vie, a garden blooms whene'er you smile, but in your breast's a crocodile.[ ] in your eyes there is a sky." again he sang: "the only love which i discovered, like black gunpowder reacted; fire, explosion, light; then after ... followed ashes, silence, darkness. the only love which i discovered." by this time a large number of men and of girls had gathered. "vamos!" they cried. "let's have a jota. come on, perico, play something that we can dance to." the guitar-players changed their tempo, the little guitarron beat out with a more insistent though more flexible rhythm. the jota has a beat which is partly the beat of the bar, partly that of the phrase. this is common in spanish music and has points of resemblance with early european music generally. three girls and three of the youths lined up face to face, and soon the dancers were swinging to and fro over the uneven roadway. there is an agile grace in the jota. we watched it with delighted eyes. but the old rheumatic woman did not look pleased. [illustration: the valencian jota danced by three couples] "that girl," she muttered to me, nodding her head at one of the dancers, "she has no right to dance. she is apunto. you know," she went on, noting my perplexed expression, "she is expecting a baby soon. it is very wrong of her to dance." the dancers moved with flexible rhythm, snapping their fingers with the music, and their shadows, flung on the wall by the dim electric light, caricatured their movements. the guitars beat on, creating an atmosphere of careless joy which seemed to bring us into more sensitive contact with the spaniards than ever we had been before. we wonder if civilization has anything to give to these people. they live simple, straightforward and pleasant lives, tempered, it is true, by sickness and pain and sometimes by privation; but it would be a rash man who would promise to give them greater store of valuable things than they already have. the fact that most cannot read does not hamper them very much. they have wisdom stored up in a thousand witty proverbs, and for their leisure they have the guitar and their songs. what a wonderful instrument the guitar is! the simplest of all instruments for the learner, a few days' practice makes him so that he can play as do the generality of these herdsmen. then one can hypnotize oneself with the sonorous rhythm of repeated chords. but if one wishes to go further, the range and variety of the guitar is inexhaustible. it has as many moods as nature and is as difficult to conquer. sarasate, they say, gave up the guitar because it was so difficult. but the guitar in the hands of the master is the finest of all instruments. of single portable instruments it alone is complete; it alone is fully satisfying. we english do not know the guitar. outside of spain it has never been played. and the spanish music made for the guitar ... like life itself with its interwoven themes of sadness and of joy; with mournful melody accompanied by strange gay accompaniment, the words often in strange contrast with the melodic theme. there is no native music in europe which has the range, the variety, and the depth of feeling possessed by that of spain. we tore ourselves away while yet they were dancing; for we remembered that . was our rising time. the thin goatherd, who wore the enormous hat in the daytime, took us into his house and gave us a drink. the baby was in its cradle, its face carefully tucked under the sheet. the aguadiente which he poured out for us was strong and harsh to the taste; and one was grateful for the glass of water which it is customary to drink afterwards. as we were getting ready for bed, we could still hear the sounds of the guitars and the cries of the dancers on the calm air of the night. the goatherds used to come almost every afternoon to the foot of our castle, and we gave up the siesta habit in their favour. i made the acquaintance of one other goatherd in jijona. i was painting in a street near the garcias' shop. when the picture was nearly complete, i wished for a figure and asked an old man to pose for me. he was nearing eighty, and his face was a map of wrinkles, with a mountain of nose and chin and a valley of toothless mouth. his clothes were a patchwork of different materials. the study which i made of him delighted him so much that he begged for it. he would pay me, he said. "the price does not matter," he exclaimed, "if only la doña will put in a goat also." for he owned the flock which he led every day into the mountains. i made him a copy of it, and all the other goatherds trooped up to the castle to see tio pepe's portrait. "ay, there's pepe," they cried, slapping their thighs; "there he is with his patches, and his crook'd stick, and his sandals and his old nose and all. tod', tod'." it was near the time of our departure from jijona. tio pepe in vain tried to press on me a few pesetas for the portrait. he searched his old mind for a means of showing his gratitude; and just as we were leaving he found a solution. at five o'clock in the morning, as our trunk was leaving the house on the shoulders of tia roger's strong young son, up ran uncle pepe with a large can of goat's milk, all of which we had to drink on the spot; or he would never have forgiven us. the night before our departure we had packed, for we had to start early to catch the motor-bus. then we had gone to bed. we had just snuggled down beneath the blankets, for the nights were getting quite fresh, when i heard the sounds of a guitar. the sounds drew closer. they were coming up the hill. a suspicion grew to a certainty. "jan," i cried, "those goatherds are giving us a farewell serenade." we hurried into our clothes. the goatherds had sat themselves down on the stone bench at the front door and were singing lustily at the moon. i don't know what the spanish etiquette in such matters is, but we went out and took part in our own serenade. it was a lengthy affair. the time crept on, and we, shivering somewhat, for the night grew quite cold, sat ungratefully thinking of the sleep we were missing, and wondering how we were to awaken ourselves at four o'clock. at two o'clock they went away, and we rushed back to bed to seize the two hours of sleep which remained for us. footnotes: [footnote : crocodile is spanish slang for a false lover.] chapter xxv murcia--autumn in the paseo de corveras we came back to murcia, to our headquarters in the paseo de corveras, at the beginning of october. though the town was so far south, the cold weather had well begun. in the daytime the sun seemed as fierce as ever, but the dust that had lain inches deep during the summer was now an equal depth of semi-liquid mud, and the house, without fireplaces or any means of creating artificial warmth, had in it a faint though insidious chill. save in the hottest weather, stone or cement floors are comfortless to live with. marciana, the woman whose services we had shared with antonio during rosa's smallpox, returned to us. she was a woman of sixty years, bulky in figure, dressed in black of an eternal mourning, and was mother of the most talented sculptor of murcia. she was an illustration of the inter-provincial jealousy of the spaniard. she came from don quixote's country, la mancha, and was never weary of chanting its praises. "ah, señora," she exclaimed, "that is a wonderful land. corn, oil and wine in abundance. dancing and singing in the villages all night long. and what a wonderful people are those of mi pueblo.[ ] my two sisters, they each weigh at least twice as much as do i. and then we are a civilized folk there, i can assure you. you saw how they treated it here when rosa had the smallpox. no precautions, even though one died of it a few doors down the street. now in mi pueblo they stretch sheets in front of the doors of warning; the necessaries of life are put on to the doorstep, and the money to pay for them is dropped by the hands of those who are in the house, and who are not allowed beyond the sheet, into pans of vinegar, so that they may be purified of the disease. now that is real cleanliness." "but, thanks to god, señora, rosa is much better. the spots are disappearing, she will not be marked, and she has given birth to a son. it was a most divine birth. of course it was fear for the son that made everybody so anxious." marciana was a dilatory servant. nothing was ever ready up to date, and she invariably drowned all my commissions for the market with a flood of words. she would wait all the morning in the queue which gathered at the government olive oil depot, to buy olive oil for me at a few centimos cheaper than she could buy it from the grocers; and no explanation that she wasted more of our pay than she gained in cheapness convinced her. antonio greeted us with delight, as did emilio, the guitar maker, whom we went to visit on the first day of our return. each, however, was in a different mood. antonio, in spite of the joy caused by his new son, who he said had been born "most preciously," was in a rage. he was in trouble with the local authorities about his taxes. it appears that there is a factory tax which does not depend upon the size of the business, but the mere fact that there is a business. thus antonio, with his three or four girl helpers, was condemned to pay the same sum as a factory employing a thousand hands. "it is impossible!" shouted antonio. "we are thus crushed out of existence. i may be able to arrange it, but, if i cannot, then it is no use my going on. all the profits are swallowed up in one gulp. i shall shut down, and sell up everything." emilio, on the other hand, was flushed with unsullied delight. a pompous man was sitting in his shop with a guitar across his knees. now and then he drew from it a flourish of arpeggios, very technical, but rather meaningless. emilio stood over him, his eyes sparkling at the guitar, which appeared to be exquisite in tone and strong in volume. "aha! my friends, congratulate me," cried he. "i have surpassed myself. permit me, señor." he took the guitar from the pompous man, and handed it reverently to jan. "try it, only touch it and see what a quality it has. see how the bass note rings out, and how well-balanced to it is the treble. i had no more than set the strings out on to it when don feliz, the little maestro whom you know, came in. he played upon it, and so full was my heart with the perfect tone of it, and with the thought that i, emilio peralta, had made it, that the tears came running down my face. i wept, señor, to hear it. all night long i could not sleep for fear that the tone might alter, as sometimes it does. sometimes, indeed, a guitar newly made sounds of no value, but in a few days or weeks even it may become first rate. but this was good from the beginning, and it has remained so." the pompous man took a stately leave of us. emilio was so excited by his new achievement that he went on talking: "one does not come to make guitars like this easily. how many are there alive in spain to-day who could do it? only one, and i am he. arias is dead, raminez also, though i have not seen a raminez to equal this one. for i will warrant that there are few better guitars than this in spain. unluckily, it was sold before it was completed, or i would scarcely have let it go. it was ordered by a colonel in the army. play on it, señor, but do not play flamenco, for you must not tap upon the soundboard, or you will injure the varnish. this is built for classical." jan played, and it gave out a sonorous arid clear melody. "from whom did i learn, señor? i learned from nobody. my father was a guitar-maker, but a poor one. he taught me nothing. indeed, i was married before the desire came to me to make fine instruments. then how i worked, señor! i had an idea of the perfect guitar in my head; but between idea and accomplishment what a gap! i could not cross it. of two guitars, made equally alike, one would be good, the other useless. when this happened i would take them to pieces to search for the reason. for years i have lived in poverty, spoiling good wood which cost me all my earnings. i have not studied the guitars of others. always in my head i carried the idea of the perfect instrument. slowly i have struggled towards it. now i know. but at what a cost have i acquired knowledge!" jan touched a chord on the instrument in his hands, and as it throbbed out its deep responsive note he remembered the saying of chopin: "nothing is more beautiful than a good guitar; save perhaps two." emilio promised to send professor feliz to us as soon as he came in; and we walked back to the house through the murcian mud, which, soaking through our shoes, made us modify our previous eulogy of the alpagata. on barrows in the street they were selling the first culled clusters of dates of the season; we bought both pale and dark varieties, but they were hard and tasteless. with the dates on the barrows were the orange fruit of the persimon. while we had been away at jijona a cat had taken possession of our house for the purpose of kittening. how she had got in was a mystery, for the windows and doors all had been tightly sealed up, but we had discovered her with her family at the bottom of the packing-cases which had formed our bed at verdolay. we had heard strange faint sounds as though of mice on the evening of our return. the noises, however, did not cease for all our presence. we had gone to explore; suddenly, a noise like a boxful of exploding matches had burst up from under our noses, and something black dashed across the dimly lit room and out through the window. there were two kittens at the bottom of the narrowest of the packing-cases. we had moved them to a large box near to the window. that night there had been a fearful noise of yowling and squeaking. in the morning we found the kittens back in the box from which we had moved them. the cat was quite unapproachable. she burst out into a fury of spitting whenever we came near. then with one final explosion hurried from the room. these wild cats were the pest of murcia. one could leave no window open but they poured into the house. all food had to be securely shut up, the marks of their dusty paws were everywhere. when we returned from emilio's we found that our presence in the house had been too much for the cat's nerves. she had disappeared from her box and the kittens were gone with her. don feliz, the half-blind guitar teacher, came in the evening. he again said he was an honest man, and that his terms were five pesetas a month. he was delighted to hear that we both were to be his pupils. part of his delight came from the money he would earn; but some of his delight was due to the fact that he had ousted blas as jan's teacher. i do not think we have met anybody more inappropriately named than don feliz. if mr. shandy's theories have any foundation he was cursed from his christening. he was not a murciano, but a castilian, and, in consequence, depreciated the people he lived amongst and was in turn not appreciated by them. he lived constantly torn by jealousy of the other guitar-players in the town. "tell me," he exclaimed, "what do you think of the playing of don ambrosio?" don ambrosio was the pompous man we had met in emilio's shop. "technically, excellent, but rather frigid," we said. "yes," exclaimed don feliz, "that is it. frigid, yes, frigid! nor is don timoteo a good player, and as for that blasito, that gipsy--pah! you see, he has never learned music. so that, if he does get a good melody from somebody else, he cannot harmonize it. and his flamenco is of the taverns. it is low, common music. now i play classical. have you heard my piece which represents a battle? how i imitate the mitrailleuse on the base string? now that is quite different from anything which that fellow blas can play. of course i regret that you wish to learn flamenco. but that which i will teach you will be a classicized flamenco. i have made it into music. you see, i have been in a conservatoire in my youth. that puts me on a different level from all these other players. so i have made of my flamenco something more refined. it is no longer your tavern monstrosity that blas plays." personally we preferred blas as a player, and the music of blas as music. but don feliz was somewhat better as a teacher. his conservatoire had taught him at least the names of the notes. but he was very irritable. poor fellow, at twopence a lesson, he had to give a round of thirty lessons per day to make a bare subsistence. sometimes he said that his pupils were so dense that he could teach them but three or four consecutive notes per day. once we heard him debating with a possible client whether it was worth while or no to walk two miles in order to get three lessons in the same house. our consciences--concerning sweating--pricked us and we paid him double fees. in consequence of his gratitude he came to our house last of all and gave us lessons of four times the duration of any one else. after he had gone, we were still playing, when marciana came in with some parcels. "aha!" she cried. "that is a jota. it is the music of mi pueblo. la jota, la jota." she put down the parcels; spread out her arms and with a balance and elegance extraordinary in one so bulky began to dance. after twenty bars, however, she stopped. "ei," she sighed, "how sad it is that one grows old. how sad that youth passes all too quickly!" that night a terrific thunderstorm broke over the valley. the thunder crashed, the lightning flared and the rain came down as though pouring from a gigantic hose. in the middle of all the noise we heard a strange sound. "wah! wah! wah! squeak! squeak!" the cat had come back; but with only one kitten. the next morning we stayed in the house. from the windows we could mark the change which autumn had brought over the paseo de corveras. the dust was no longer blown along the road, which was now a still river of liquid mud. the town dust-cart, a donkey with panniers, no longer promenaded the street; no longer did we hear the cheerful blasphemy of the dust-boy who, stooping to gather up some refuse, found that his dust-cart had impatiently trotted on. in its place were the exhortations of the pig-drivers, who urged hordes of monstrous black pigs through the mud. some of the porkers were, however, so heavy on their feet that they had to be brought in carts. the squealing of them filled the morning air. the fruit merchants, also with panniered donkeys, no longer called out "melacotones, peras!" but "uvas! uvas!"[ ] and a man wandered about with a huge basket of snails. the maize fields in front of the house were cut and stacked, and in the fields queens of sheba were dragging the primitive ploughs, while men behind them beat to powder the lumps of baked earth which were turned up. instead of the almost dead silence which greeted the strengthening sun, people moved about all day; parasols had given place to flirting fans. the country girls wore bunches of flowers in their hair, some even put one tall blossom sticking upright from the _coiffure_, where it nodded and bowed with the movements of the wearer. in the fruit garden the lemons had quite fallen, but the oranges were beginning to become a livid yellow on one side of the bush, while the dates had passed from a pale to a deep golden hue. i went about with luis exploring balconies for views, and finally decided upon a view of murcia from the tall campanile of the cathedral. when i got back i found that the cat once more had decamped, taking the kitten with her. the second kitten had been lost. in the afternoon luis came in. he brought an invitation from some friends for me to play the piano at their house on saturday evening. that evening don feliz exclaimed: "i have an old guitar. it is a unique instrument, none other like it has ever been seen in spain. i bought it, at a bargain, for thirty pesetas; but i would sell it to a friend for the same money. now you, señor, have no guitar of your own. this is a veritable instrument for a museum. come and see it on sunday morning. i will show you the way." we dined at elias', as was our custom, and trudged back through the mud. on the darkened stairs of our house we heard a wailing and almost tumbled over the spitting cat, which had brought back the kitten once more. we gathered up the kitten and, followed at some distance by the suspicious cat, put it back into the packing-case. all this while we were rather short of electric lights in our house. antonio had borrowed most of the light-bulbs to decorate a shrine which he had erected in one of the churches. the candle which the righteous once offered up to god is going out of fashion. nowadays, instead of burning so many feet of bees-wax, one turns on so many volts. lamb has drawn a picture of two priests disputing as to which should offer up a blessing, with a final compromise that neither should do so; and the disappointment of the defrauded god. to-day he could go further, he could depict the deity being forced to go to the factory chimney for the scent of his burnt sacrifice. a spanish writer, pio baroja, in a novel proposes a society called the "extra-rapid to heaven assurance society." the insurer pays in a sum, and on his death hundreds of gramophones are turned on chanting prayers for his speedy deliverance from purgatory. "god," says the author, "is so far away, that he will not notice the substitution." this is, of course, a satire on the modern habit of replacing candles by electric lights, but the satire is no more absurd than the actuality. alongside of the bridge was a tall shrine built into the side of the house and lit up thus at night with electric light. the image was covered with a large sheet of plate glass, and i said that it was a sculptured figure. jan, on the other hand, insisted that it was a painting. we had an argument about it and on the next day returned to verify together. it was, in fact, a painting. but at night, returning from elias', we looked up at the shrine by chance, and stopped, astonished. if it was a painting it was most realistic. we looked more closely. the more we examined it, the more did it seem sculptured. then the explanation dawned on us. it was sculptured, but during the daytime a painted curtain was drawn down in front of it. at luncheon next day we were disturbed by a hullabaloo from the attic. the wretched cat had taken her kitten up there, to look for peace from those meddlesome humans. that night we were awakened again by terrible noises from under our bed. the cat was still wandering like a lost soul looking for peace. daily the kitten appeared and disappeared with exasperating irregularity. at last, however, we managed to tame the cat so that we were able to stroke her. then the animal burst out into the strangest of noises, like a small badly oiled circular saw. it was purring. from that moment it took possession of the house. all its shyness vanished. it tucked up its sleeves and turned out of the house any other feline intruder. one afternoon we were awakened from our siesta by a furious cat fight underneath the bed. the black cat and a ginger-coloured female were locked in combat, and making a noise like a hundred siphons. the battle continued across the sitting-room, the ginger cat giving ground. finally she retreated to the balcony, where there was for a while armed neutrality, both singing war songs quite spanish in their intervals. then the black cat sprang. ginger backed to avoid the rush, but backed too far. she toppled over into the street, fell with a thud on to the mud pavement, gathered herself together and with a scream of disappointed fury dashed through the nearest open door. to our amazement all the occupants of the house, a young man, an old woman, a girl of seventeen and one of six hurried into the street, their eyes wide open with terror. "what is the matter?" we shouted to them. "a cat with rabies has just rushed into our house," they cried in answer. the fear of rabies is very prevalent, and with reason. one does not pat stray dogs in spain, nor does one make advances to unknown cats. any animal which can bite is under suspicion. it is lucky, indeed, that fleas can't get rabies. one saturday i began sketching in the cathedral campanile. the ascent of the tower was not by means of steps but by sloping lanes which travelled all round the inner walls. i had chosen my view from the belfry. on each side of me were small bells, and as each in turn clanged out the half or quarter hour according to size i stopped my ears. suddenly there was a deafening crash. before i realized what had happened i had fallen from my seat, the easel had gone spinning ... almost fainting from the shock, i looked about me. over my head an enormous clapper was swinging. unconsciously, i had seated myself almost inside one of the biggest bells in the south of spain, and it had rung. the clapper again swung itself with force against the side of the bell, and in spite of my protecting hands the sound burst through my head. for ten minutes afterwards my hand was shaking too violently to allow me to paint. the view from the tower was exquisite. immediately below me were the blue glazed cupolas and the arabesques of the cathedral facade on which little stone saints gazed out over the town. then came a large square centred on a circular garden of flowers--edged on one side by the pink front of the archbishop's palace, many windowed. from the end of the square narrow sunless streets led into the town, which gradually became a patchwork of flat roofs on which smaller buildings were erected. the huge square block of red brick of the reina victoria hotel stood out over the sinuous river, on the banks of which stood the red pepper mills and beyond which showed the huertas stretching out to the mountains. red, ochre, yellow and green were the chief colour notes, while blue and purple shadows gave relief and solidity to the whole. in the evening i played the piano at the house of luis' friends. here was a typical spanish bourgeois interior. every resting-place was crowded with cheap bric-à-brac. the chairs were draped with velvet and silk hangings and antimacassars; the walls hung with enormous photographic enlargements, from the decorating of which flores made some of his living. card-racks covering the interspaces of the walls were filled with coloured picture postcards. "we have brought you here," said flores, "because it is just opposite to the circulo des varios artes.[ ] the pianist of the arts club is very conceited. we want to take him down, by showing him that a señora can play better than he does." [illustration] i was rather annoyed; but could not draw back. so i put my best into the music. grieg (pronounced by them hriech) seems to suit the spanish temperament: so i played the wedding march, papillion and the carnival. there was a pause. then faintly as a retort, from the circulo des varios artes, came the easiest of grieg's "lyrical pieces" played carefully by the maestro. as if he would say, "i too can play grieg." on sunday morning we set off with don feliz to see the old guitar. "it is in the house of my novia,[ ] whom i shall be delighted to introduce to you." we were amazed. until that moment we had imagined don feliz to be quite an old man, but looking closely at him one could see that he might be within the limit of thirty to forty years. on this second visit to murcia the people were not so strongly affected by my appearance in the streets. for my part i no longer wore a hat, but carried a parasol; i had exchanged my ordinary dress for an ex-munition overall, which people said was _muy elegante_. but we penetrated into a new part of the town, then was some staring and some pointing. i mentioned this casually to don feliz. "do not fear," he exclaimed, "you are safe with me. i have a terrible reputation in these parts. i am known as a bad man. if i get into a rage, my anger is terrible to see ... terrible. the children slink away in the street at my coming." this was not the estimate we had formed of him, from his encounter with blas in emilio's shop. poor don feliz, like so many others he had formed a dream self which contained most of the qualities in which he was lacking. i fear that only his illusive self was terrible, and that none but dream children ever shrank at his passing. the house of his novia bore on its weather-beaten front the arms of some bygone hidalgo; now it was an apartment house. we clambered up staircases of black wood, into one of the few dark-coloured interiors we have seen in spain. the guitar was of a strange form and with a scrolled head, the curve of its shape having some of the beauty to be found in negro sculpture. jan seized the bargain, and carried it home. no sooner had he the guitar in the house than he tuned it, and crashing his finger-nails across it, struck out a rasped chord. he quickly followed it with a shout of dismay. from out of one of the big holes had crept a startled bug. after my experience with the church bell i could sympathize with the insect, weeping perhaps "walrus tears" upon its death-bed. but the problem of how one could disinfect a guitar was worrying. the case had no cracks for vermin-harbouring, so we shut up the instrument; and after some indecision jan decided to trust to luck and leave it alone. on sunday night we gave a party to emilio, his wife, the little professor and other afficianados of the guitar. we played to them selections of genuine classical music, bach, beethoven, handel on the gramophone. don feliz sat by himself in a corner, his head in the air, tapping his foot to the metre. "all that, all that i have heard before," he said. emilio listened with delight on his rugged face. every few minutes he whispered to his wife: "shut up talking. this is worth listening to." then we tried an experiment. we had just received from el señor a plate of stravinsky's "oiseau du feu." we put it on to the machine. the audience kept an intense silence. "but that is marvellous!" they exclaimed as soon as the record was over. "play it once more, señor." "señor," said one of emilio's friends, "what can i do for you? have you any milk--no?" he ran downstairs and out of the house. in ten minutes he came back, thrust a milk-can into jan's hands. "there!" he exclaimed. "and if you want any more cow's milk, come to me. i keep a milk-shop, you know." then he went on more seriously: "but you are indeed lucky to have bought that old guitar of don feliz. he would never sell it to me. i have offered a hundred pesetas for it; and there are others who have offered more." this left us with a problem in psychology to work out for the next few days. why had don feliz sold jan the guitar? we put the question to luis. "oh," he answered, "probably don feliz found the señor juan sympathetic." but this did not satisfy us. don feliz had made much of the fact that we were leaving the country: that we were going far away. at last we worked it out thus. don feliz had bought his novia a laud. he was short of money to pay for it. this, however, would not have been enough reason in itself, but he was also jealous of the other players in the town, and by selling the guitar definitely to jan he would first allay the temptation that he might sell it locally. he put the price low, because he knew we were badly off; but some of the wrench of parting with the instrument--of which he was very proud--was eased by knowing that it was going to be taken to the grand cities of london and paris, where its uniqueness would be valued. but we think he would have died of starvation rather than allow one of his local rivals to possess his old guitar. when i was not sketching in the campanile, jan and i went to the cafés and drew the people sitting about us. this gave delight to the waiters. one morning while we were at one of the café's facing the river blas came up. he passed over the fact that we had quarrelled, and that jan had dropped him for don feliz. "draw me!" said blas. the result was that one by one all the richest gipsies of the town came and posed to me at the café tables. this was, in fact, the gipsies' café. they were on the whole a handsome set of men, very intelligent and shrewd in expression and of prosperous appearance. most of these carried the indefinable touch which makes an internationalism amongst those who are interested in beasts of burden. they are reputed to be expert cattle and horse thieves, and are still to some extent despised by the spaniard. but our first impressions were not unfavourable. [illustration] [illustration] the autumn seemed to be a period of fiesta. we had luckily just missed the great fiesta of murcia which culminates with a huge procession out to fuen santa in the mountains. but often we were awakened at three in the morning by a series of alarming reports and explosions in the street outside. there was a large church at the end of the paseo de corveras, and it seemed as though guns were going off all around the walls. the first time we heard this we sprang to our windows, for we had heard something of the quarrelsome nature of the murcians. but the explosions were up in the air. rocket after rocket soared up into the air and exploded with a loud crash, then large zigzag crackers were thrown down into the street. grumbling at the noise, we went back to bed. next day we found out that it was a fiesta, the rockets sent up by the priests; and often after that we were awakened in the dead of night by these almost chinese religious ceremonies. we had heard much of the quarrelsome nature of the huertanos. luis and flores had both told us tales of quarrels amongst the cultivators. both at verdolay and in murcia we had seen small bands of young men wandering about at eventide with guitars and songs. they were hunting for trouble, and if they should meet another band, then a fight ensued, ending with broken instruments and possibly a stab or two. one afternoon jan was walking homewards from emilio's, where he had been buying guitar-strings. he was close to the paseo de corveras, when a young man rushed round a corner and cannoned hard into him. jan stumbled and to save himself clutched the man by the coat. it was a corner around which youths were accustomed to lark, and jan, believing this to be a piece of horse-play, decided, while yet stumbling and clutching, that the horse-play was too rough. so dragging at the blouse of the man, who struggled to escape, jan exhorted him to come back and to explain himself. while he was still holding on to the man, a crowd burst around the corner and flung itself on to the presumed joker. jan's head was in a whirl. one man leapt fiercely on to the joker's back, wrenched his arms behind him and grasped him. the struggling crowd swayed to and fro and suddenly lurched sideways through the door of a tobacconist's shop. two women in the shop began to shriek at the upper pitch of their voices. the turmoil quietened. a furious talk began in the shop. the young man who had pinioned the joker, trying to explain, loosened his grip to use his hands conversationally. at once the joker leapt for freedom. he ran, panting like a dog, out of the shop, the crowd bellowing, amid screaming, at his heels. the man was chased into an ironmonger's, where he took refuge behind the counter. the crowd blocked up the doorway. jan, who had joined the crowd in dismayed curiosity, then began to pick up detached words: "asesino, asesino ... asesinato." "good lord!" said jan to himself. "i don't want to get mixed up in a murder trial." as he turned away, two gendarmes, with the ridiculous schoolgirl hats on their heads, led the murderer away. during this time i had been at home. a sudden outburst of noise dragged me to the window. down the street, a man was running. he went in a queer way, holding himself between the legs with his hands, and sometimes stumbling, sometimes leaping as one does in dreams of pursuit. carts were driven furiously after him. he was shouting out in a voice, full of surprise and of anger. after a moment i made out the words: "catch the man who has murdered me! catch the villain who has killed me!" he stumbled once more and fell. men jumped from the carts, lifted him into one, and drove him away. i ran downstairs. antonio's gaunt mother-in-law was standing in the doorway. "it is an assassination," she said. "i doubt that the poor man will live. he was stabbed in a ticklish part." "i wonder where jan is," i said to myself; and at that moment saw him coming along the sidewalk. i ran to him. "jan," i cried, "a man has been murdered." "i know," he answered; "i unwittingly caught the murderer." the paseo de corveras must have more than its fair percentage of fat old women. they all stood on their doorsteps talking in awed tones of the tragedy. then with a ludicrous unanimity each pushed her skirts between her legs with a dramatic hand and holding herself so that she plainly illustrated her meaning exclaimed, "ei! el pobre! y en un sitio tan delicado." footnotes: [footnote : my village.] [footnote : "peaches, pears!" but "grapes! grapes!"] [footnote : the arts club of murcia.] [footnote : betrothed.] chapter xxvi lorca we still had money for another three weeks, although we had been four months in spain. the weather in murcia was very cold; damp, chilling winds blew down the valley. we decided to go westwards, to explore lorca, which we had heard was both fine pictorially and also which was called "the city of the sun." on suggesting the idea to some of our murcian friends, they advised us not to go. "it is a town of bad people," they said; "they are all gipsies." we had heard before of these towns of bad people. one lay on the far side of the murcian valley; a village which clustered round the foot of the peak of rock on the top of which was a ruined castle. these people had the reputation of chasing out intruding strangers with sticks and stones. antonio, fishing in the vicinity of this village, had once been maltreated. the villagers were proud of this brutality. "yes," they would say, "we _are_ brutes. we _are_ uncultivated. we are the biggest brutes for fifty miles around, and we mean to remain so." other people had said that lorca was charming. so we decided to find out for ourselves. we hoped to find rooms in a posada, and we reduced our luggage to moderate dimensions; most of it we put in the van, leaving ourselves only the guitar and the laud to look after. the train left early in the morning, and stopped at the first station, where we had to change. we rushed across the line, having to clamber under a long train of waggons which blocked the way, and won corner seats. a lanky boy of eighteen, dressed in a long white travelling ulster, with a _béret_ on his head, took most of the other seats in the carriage, filling them with packages. the young man seemed very familiar with railway travelling: he called all the porters by name, and exchanged smokes with the engine-driver. but the train did not move. presently the youth came back and said: "the engine is a bad one. it won't start. they are sending to murcia for another." he went away once more. a luggage train rumbled into the station. this brought our boy back with a rush. "here," he cried, "spread out, spread out as much as you can. it's an agricultural train, and we shall be swamped with labourers." he pushed his boxes and packages more widely over the seats. his prediction was justified. a horde of unshaven men, carrying sacks and implements clambered up the side of the train and peered with round eyes into the windows. "no room here, no room here," cried the youth. "but there is nobody in the carriage," protested one of the agriculturists. "they are in the fonda," said the youth. in spite of the energies of officials accommodation could not be found. soon the agriculturists were wailing their protests, wandering forlornly up and down. at last the heart of our youth was softened. "here," he cried. "room for two. got to let some in," he added to us in an undertone, "or they'll push the lot in on us." the two who accepted the invitation were very subservient, almost cringing, and we stowed their sacks and other luggage between our legs. they talked together in hoarse whispers. in time most of the peasants were placed, but one man who carried an enormous sack of potatoes seemed to be unplaceable, for he refused to be parted from his sack. the officials said the sack was too big for carriage traffic: it ought to go in the van. but no protestation moved the owner. he was determined that, come what might, he and his sack would never part. eventually, as usually happens in spain, he was allowed to do as he liked. he and his sack were crushed into another carriage. then ensued another dreary wait, and at last, three hours late, the train drew out of alcantarilla. as soon as we were well under way, the youth said: "i'm off to a second-class carriage." he opened the carriage door, got down on to the running board and clambered off. after half an hour he returned. "they collect tickets round about here," he said. sure enough within ten minutes came the ticket collector. the train stopped at a station. the youth got out on to the platform with a carriage whip and a square parcel, which he handed to a waiting man, for which service he received money. this he did at other stations, and gradually we realized what was his occupation. in one part of murcia we had noted shops which called themselves agencies. they had large notices saying, "commissions for lorca, for barcelona, for zaragoza, etc., etc." we had not understood their purport, but by some jump of intuition connected the youth with these shops. he was the only spanish substitute for the parcels post. at totana two gipsy women came into the carriage, very friendly and talkative. at the next station the two workmen left us. in the carriage they had appeared good-humoured, inadequate morsels of humanity. but they descended into the bosoms of their family. wives and daughters crowded round them and seized and shouldered their bags, packs, sacks and implements. the men seemed to swell out like a dry thing cast into water, blooming like a dead sea lily as they stood receiving the caresses of their womenfolk. the last we saw of the more insignificant of the two was a picture of him striding like a king along the dusty road to the village with his family in humble though happy procession behind. well does the spanish proverb say, "it is better to be the head of a mouse than the tail of a lion." [illustration] two gendarmes--greenish khaki in uniform, with the schoolgirlish helmets--armed with rifles took the place of the peasants. the younger gipsy woman addressed them. one of the gendarmes grunted, the other glared his eye round and said nothing. again she made a remark, and again there was no reply. then she said: "but it _was_ you who arrested josé." "well," answered the gendarme with a beard, "what of it? "but why did you arrest him?" said the gipsy. "he was innocent. he did not murder ramon." "so you say." "but it is true. he is a cousin of conchita here. he was at her house that evening. there is no evidence." "there was enough to get him arrested." "but that was all made up. you see, esteban hates him, and esteban got up that false evidence. you look up what esteban was doing. i don't say that he was the murderer, but he knows something about it." "yes, he knew that josé did it." "but i tell you josé was with conchita here." "well, tell that to the judge. it is nothing to do with me. i was told to arrest josé and i arrested him. hum"--he looked at conchita--"i suppose she is going to see him now?" "yes, we are going to see josé. poor fellow, and him innocent." "well, if his defence is all right, he'll get off. if it isn't, he won't--that's all." we did not think that josé's neck was in any danger. we had gained an impression that the average sentence for casual murder in spain is about two or three years' imprisonment. this conversation went on for some time. the gipsies talked round the subject, over it, under it, twisted it inside out and outside in. with all these variations it lasted till we arrived at lorca, when we all, gipsies, gendarmes, agency boy and ourselves, got down from the train. we put our luggage into the luggage-room and set out to look for the town, which we had learned by experience would be found at some distance from the station. a boy who carried a rope over his shoulder accosted us, but we declined his services. we strode out into a dusty road, and there stood undecided, for there were two paths to choose from. the boy with the rope, who now had a huge box on his shoulders, came up, and saying, "follow me, señores," walked on. we looked at him and realized that here again we had touched the east. here was a cord porter straight out of _the arabian nights_. the rope was round the box and he held it to his shoulders. with his rope he earned his living. we followed him, asking him for some place where we could eat. he named the dearest hotel at once. we declined, explaining that we wanted the cheapest possible, that is, as long as the cooking was fit to eat. "i understand," he said. "follow me." the long avenue of lime trees came to an end--and our first view of lorca was opened out. the town was almost like a mathematical line, length without breadth. it skirted the foot of a hill for three miles, almost one long street, which we were looking at end on. spires towered into the air, and on the top of the cliff the walls of a great saracen ruin overlooked the town. the whole hill-side, between town and castle, was covered with the grotesque foliage of the prickly pear. the cord porter took us down to the river, which was crossed by a plank, then up into the town. he led us through small streets which fringed the great main street, put down his box at a corner, led us up another street and stopped at a high barricaded gate. two filthy children were playing on the step. the cord porter rapped with his knuckles. there was no answer. he rapped again loudly. a hoarse voice cried out in questioning reply. "it's paco," shouted the porter. "i've got two customers here." a quarrel ensued through the keyhole. there was a sound of a rusty lock and the door swung open. a woman heated with cooking and with annoyance began to curse the cord porter. "why couldn't you bring them to the proper entrance?" she cried. but she let us in, took us through a yard in which huge stew-pots and frying-pans were cooking over a wood fire, and ushered us upstairs, past rooms filled with workmen diners, into a long chamber lit by a window at one end, with bullfight posters on the walls. she brought us a plate of stew and wine. we asked for bread. "why didn't you bring your own?" she said. "we did not know," we answered. "oh, all right. i'll give you bread this time. but, next time, bring your own bread with you." we thought, "lorca is a rough place." there was a sound of loud chaffing, and in walked our agency boy of the train. "hullo," he exclaimed to us. "are you here?" "yes," we answered. "and, now we see you here, we are sure this is the best place." he grinned, chucked the waitress under the chin, and ordered a complex meal. as soon as the staff perceived our acquaintance with the agency boy, their manners changed. they became charming, inquiring after our need with a lively solicitude. we asked the diners about a posada. a bluff man, with a walrus moustache, seated at the same table, said the posada at which he was staying was comfortable. "when you have finished your meal," he said, "i will lead you there and introduce you to the proprietor, an excellent fellow. but you come unluckily. to-day is market day. there are many farmers in from the country, and it is possible that you will find difficulties." as we went out the waitress came running after us. "you have left your bread behind," she cried. with our new friend we went off. but the posada was full for the night. "there is another one, we will look at that," said our guide. "if the other is full also, you shall have my room, and i will find a bed somewhere until a room is free. tomorrow the place will be emptier." on the way to the second posada, we fell in once more with the cord porter. "you are looking for rooms," he cried. "why didn't you tell me before? i know of a splendid place. i will lead you there." [illustration] "perhaps that will be better," said the man. "i do not think the other posada would really suit you. they say it is the meeting-place of loose women. you understand?" the cord porter took us to a house outside of which were about ten hen-coops. in the midst of the coops an old woman was sitting on a low chair. she was an extraordinary shape; like a chinese lucky image, hotei. her knees were perched on the rung of the chair, and so large was her stomach that it rose in front of her like a balloon, coming in its highest part well to the level of her chin. she looked dingy and unwashed, but we could not well draw back, for the cord porter had told her our needs. the obese woman stood up, balancing her fantastic stomach by a backward bend of the spine. she had two rooms, one with a single bed, one with a couple. the single bed was small, the ceiling looked as if it were not innocent of vermin. we chose the double-bedded room after the conventional bargaining. "you will indeed be better there," said our friend. "two beds are better than one." the cord porter was commissioned to fetch our luggage and we went off with the other man. we had invited him to take coffee with us. he preceded us to a small _buvette_, and the waiter showed us into a room partitioned into private boxes by means of canvas screens. "here one is at one's ease," said our acquaintance. we told him that we were painters. "i am a zapatero,"[ ] he said. "i have been here some weeks looking for work. my proper town is aguilas, though i was born here. but aguilas is not large. there was another zapatero in the town. the people all took their work to him. they said, 'he is a fool, but you are clever. therefore he can make a living only where he is known, and where folks sympathize with him; while you can easily make good elsewhere.' so i had to come away. but times are bad. they say that there are too many zapateros in lorca already. "times are so bad in lorca," he went on, "that i don't expect you will do the business here that you hope. now, if you are the painters you ought to be, i have a proposal to make. you come with me to some towns i know of down the coast. you will put up your easel in the main street, and will paint, and i will sell lottery tickets at three goes for the real. we will do a splendid business. i can assure you that." had the offer come at another moment we would have jumped at the chance of the fun. but we had a london exhibition hanging over our heads. we dared not waste the time. this we explained to the zapatero, adding also our regrets and how well the idea would have gone in the book we were projecting. his expression altered at once. "books?" said he. "you are book people?" "yes." "but," he persisted, "you don't mean to say that you are that kind of persons? not with _those_ books that englishmen come selling. you are book people"--his voice rose with indignation--"you have to do with those bibles!" shades of borrow! we roared with laughter. somewhat reassured the zapatero resumed his seat. we explained. "ah," he said, "i did not think that you could be that sort of persons and yet ... you are english. i," he added proudly, "am an atheist! of course i let my little boy read _that_ book, one has to learn to read somehow. but i say to him, 'don't believe it. use it if you like, but don't be taken in by it.'" we went back to the house to find that our luggage had arrived. a button was coming loose from my boot, so the zapatero borrowed needle and cotton and sewed it on professionally. then, as he said he liked the guitar, we took out our instruments and began to play. the female hotei ran into the entrada waving her hands. "oh, oh," she cried, "you mustn't play here! you mustn't play here! the owner of this house died three days ago, so we cannot allow any music here. it would show the greatest disrespect." we said au revoir to the zapatero, and went out to examine lorca. the houses on one side of the long street had swelled up the hill towards the saracen castle. through this we went clambering upwards. in appearance it was the oldest town we had seen. the houses were of all shapes, but of a uniform colour, like yellow rust, and the earth was of the same tint. the houses piled themselves up in fine shapes, but lorca suffered from the same drawback as murcia, a drawback we had feared: it was too big. had we attempted to sketch in the streets we should have been swamped by people as i had been in the market-place. the streets were full of men sitting in groups making alpagatas. they called out after us as we passed. the songs were different from those of murcia or jijona. here is one, a guajiras which a woman was singing: "love is an insect which enters the body, and no rest is left there when it takes possession. it gnaws like a wood-louse the tree where it burrows; and in time it devours volition and strength, leaving only desires for the one who is worshipped." we scrambled up to the castle and from thence found a view of the surrounding country. on the south there was a passage not unlike that of murcia, a flat cultivated valley; but to the north it looked as though giants had been at mining operations. the hills looked not like the result of nature but of artifice, they appeared to be huge mine dumps and slag heaps. it was fantastic and unpaintable. the town itself was too much like the conventionally picturesque mud coloured compositions of southern europe that every painter brings back from his travels, and we decided that lorca was not a painting ground for us; and that we would go back to murcia on the following day, looking for some suitable spot at which to paint on the homeward route to barcelona. we came down by a different path, passing a cluster of seven white hermitages built on a square plateau. they were small box-like structures, and once, we believe, hermits did live in them, but now they are deserted. we reached mrs. hotei's house both tired and hungry. a crowd of women in black had just returned from the landlord's funeral. they consented to boil us some eggs for supper, which we ate under mrs. hotei's piercing eyes. from the ceiling of the supper-room hung clusters of quinces, and on the mantelpieces were some interesting specimens of antique spanish pottery. we went to bed early, and to our dismay found that one of the beds had been taken away. there was no washing apparatus in the room, and the window looking on to the road was curtained by an old dirty sack. "well," said we, "we are in for it. pray heaven that there are no bugs." as we were about to undress we heard scuffling and giggling which drew our attention to another drawback, one to which we would not submit. there was a second door to our room, half glazed, and the glass was covered by a hanging drapery. but this drapery, which was outside the glass, had been pulled aside, and a row of faces of curious children were staring in on us. we rang the bell. the daughter of mrs. hotei was half surprised at our objection to publicity and that we were so squeamish about undressing as a popular spectacle. but we persuaded her to pin up a pink shawl on our side of the door, and we then went to bed. to bed, but not to sleep. the bed was distressingly narrow. we could remain in it by clinging together, but if we loosened our grip, one or the other began to roll out. after some while jan had ideas of getting out and of sleeping on the floor, but the floor was of stone and the only mat in the room was small and circular. our determination to leave lorca strengthened as the night wore on. at last we found a partial solution, we lashed ourselves together with the blankets. when sheer weariness was making us doze off, a man upstairs began to take off his boots. the floors were thin, and he seemed to be a centipede. boot after boot he hurled into a corner, but even his feet were not inexhaustible, and at last we slept fitfully. we awoke very early, grateful at least that no bugs had disturbed us. in spite of the many warnings we had had of the verminous condition of spain, it has not been our experience to encounter in the provinces of murcia and alicante even as much insect life as one might easily find in chelsea. fleas, of course, there are, but in a hot dusty country fleas are to be expected. washing things were brought on demand, though i think they had expected us to wash at the public sink in the outhouse. then we breakfasted on bread, coffee and grapes, while mrs. hotei sat by resting her stomach on the edge of the table and chanting in a hollow voice a pæan of her own virtues. it ran somewhat thus: "i am la gorda, the fat one of lorca. my stomach is ill. of an illness which makes it swell up like a football. but my heart has no illness; it is sound, it is loving, and makes no distinctions between different peoples. "i am la gorda, the fat one of lorca. my home is well known because of its cheapness and the love of a mother, which i shed o'er my lodgers. nowhere else will you find meals of such richness or cooking so luscious for people whose purses are small in dimensions. "i am la gorda, the fat one of lorca. my house is so loved by the folk of the district that _my_ bedrooms never one moment are empty. i'll give you an instance: last night, for example, each bed carried double and would have contained more could one but compress folks to smaller dimensions. "i am la gorda, the fat one of lorca. those who once come here come back again, always. my card i will give you that you may remember that lorca possesses a kind-hearted mother, or, anyhow, one who will fill that position as long as you settle the bill she presents you." in this plain song she explained both the disappearance of our second bed and the centipedal man upstairs. when she had finished we broke to her the news of our imminent departure. we lunched once again at the eating-house, which this day was full of peasants. three women in black who might have stepped out of the pages of the bible faced us. they were not friendly in manner. a small soldier, half tipsy, came in and, soon after him, the agency youth. the latter began to tease the tipsy soldier, and in a short while both had pulled out knives and were threatening each other in mock earnestness. but one could see that it needed little--an accidental word, a sentence misunderstood--to swing the drunken soldier over from joking to earnest. we took coffee at a café in the central street. la gorda rolled up the street, came to our table, and accepted a glass of anis dulce for the illness of her stomach. we set off to the station followed by a small boy wheeling our luggage on a barrow. as i went people shouted after me: "sombrero, sombrero." the train was, of necessity, late. we sat down in the station hall, and the gipsy woman who had come from totana joined us. a blind woman led by a child took up her position at the booking-office exit, cunningly begging from the folk as they were handling their small change. the small child had one bad eye and was wiping both eyes with the same handkerchief. one could see that she, too, was threatened with blindness. the zapatero came, having dined at a friend's house. a good deal of farm produce was being prepared for the train. there were crates of chickens, which were thrown about from hand to hand; but some unfortunate turkeys were not even as lucky as the hens. about twenty of them were packed loosely into a large net bag. the porter picked up each bag and, the turkeys squeaking loudly, pitched it up to a man who was standing in the truck. the bags were packed one on the top of another with a total lack of consideration for the turkeys' feelings. there is no s.p.c.a. in spain. jan told the zapatero that if he were coming to murcia he could give him an address which might be useful. he then wrote antonio's name and direction, which the zapatero accepted almost with reverence. jan went off to the ticket-office, while i, aided by the zapatero, found a carriage in the train, which had just arrived. the gipsy woman came with us; and an old man also got into the carriage. up and down the platform a hawker was walking with a broad basket over his arm. he was selling thin circular cakes. i bought five, one for each person in the carriage. the old man accepted the cake which i offered him, took a large bite, ruminated for a moment over it and remarked: "these cakes value nothing." the zapatero and the gipsy woman each took a bite. opinion seemed unanimous. i then bit in my turn. the cake had a queer taste: it was something like a thin cold muffin flavoured with cayenne pepper. the gipsy woman collected the cakes, each with a bite out of it (like the mad hatter's saucer), and put them into her basket, saying, "oh, the children won't grumble at them." but i was determined that jan should have the experience. as he came out of the ticket-office he was intercepted by the cake-sellers, who said to him: "señor, you have a wife, who is a remarkable woman." the old man turned to the zapatero. "who are these people?" he demanded. the zapatero began to give an account of us. "they are painters," he said; "they travel about the country making pictures with paint and brushes, not with a machine. not content with that they are amateur musicians, and can play. there are their instruments. but better than all this they can read and write; and what is more i can prove it." with an air of pride he drew from his bosom the card on which jan had written antonio's address. the old man took it. he perched a pair of horn spectacles on his nose and read the address through from end to end. then he handed the treasure back solemnly to the zapatero. "and very well done too," he said. we said good-bye to the zapatero, and the train drew out of the station some two hours late. gradually the night darkened. there was a long wait at alcantarilla, and we arrived at murcia within the four hours' limit which one must place on the spanish time-table. we left our van luggage to be collected in the morning, and carrying our instruments in our hands walked back to the paseo de corveras. footnotes: [footnote : bootmaker.] chapter xxvii murcia--last days next morning we sent marciana to tell jesus, the water-carrier, to bring our registered luggage from the station. after a long delay she came back saying that no luggage with a number corresponding to that of the receipt was to be found. we set off through the mud to the station, and after having suffered from some lack of courtesy on the part of one or two of the clerks we were able to convince ourselves that jesus had spoken the truth. our luggage, consisting of a suit-case, a rucksack and a hold-all, containing all our warm clothes, our painting materials, all our drawings of the past five months, was missing. we were assured that we had nothing to be anxious about. the next train from lorca would arrive about six-thirty, and the things which _must_ have been left behind at lorca would come on by it. but the spanish reassurances had no foundation, the baggage did not come, and the baggage officials confessed themselves astounded. "such a thing," they said, "has never happened before." the station-master, a short, portly, grumpy fellow, at first refused to listen to our complaints. when at last we compelled him to do so, he shrugged his shoulders and said, "it is a fatality." after some pressing, however, he consented to telegraph to lorca, and to telephone to alcantarilla, the junction. the next day no news was forthcoming of our luggage, and the station-master was hostile. he saw in us persons who were troubling the peaceful round of his easy duties. the other station officials said plainly the baggage had gone to madrid by mistake, or perhaps to carthagena. but neither lorca, alcantarilla, madrid nor carthagena would confess knowledge of our errant luggage. we were indeed in rather an awkward situation. we had reserved just enough money with which to travel homewards, but were now faced with the prospect of a long stay in murcia waiting till our luggage was found and, if it continued missing, with the purchase of many necessary articles which we now lacked. for instance, we had no boots, having made the journey in alpagatas. by this time, of course, antonio, and indeed, through the agency of marciana and of jesus, the whole quarter had learned of our misfortune. antonio arranged for a meeting with a clerk of some commercial firm. this clerk's chief occupation seemed to be the pestering of the spanish railways for lost objects, and he entered with gusto into our affair. he made us work out a list of our losses and added on a thousand pesetas to our total, which he said was ridiculously underestimated. then we went, backed by antonio, to the railway station. "what do you want?" snarled the station-master, as he saw us appear once more. "these señores have come to make a claim," said antonio. "ha ha!" said the station-master, grinning. "they won't be able to do so. they are foreigners, and will not be able to write it out properly." "pardon me," answered the clerk. "i am here to write it properly in their names, and they will sign it. this will be sufficient." after a short argument the station-master gave way. he took us into an office and spread out before us a large book. it seemed that the railway companies had made ample provision for recording losses. the clerk opened it, tucked up his sleeves, squared his elbows, and in careful orthography began to shape on the page a complex document, full of spanish equivalents for "whereas" and "wherefore." when the signing was completed we went home. "i have given them a week in which to find the luggage," said the clerk. "after that delay is over, they will have to pay you. even if the luggage is recovered the day after the week is up, you may refuse it, and demand the cash in its place." we went home to count up our diminishing resources: "here is a week," said we, "here are two pairs of boots." we had heard rumours of boats which travelled round the coast, and understanding these to be cheaper than the railways we made inquiries; but murcia was just too far from the sea to be interested in shipping, and we had to give up the idea of reaching france by this means. murcia was bitterly cold during those days of waiting. our warmer underclothes were lost with the luggage, and our friend's house, wonderfully cool on the hottest day of summer, was frigid in the damp, rainy autumn. we had nothing to do, for all our materials were missing, and one could not make excursions on foot, because the roads were deep in mud. so we waited, shivering, until we could escape from a country which had no suitable appliances for warming its chilled inhabitants. we at last came to the end of the week's grace, and the luggage had not appeared. so, finding that the process of extracting payment from the railways was going to be a long one, we decided to give antonio a power of attorney to manage the affair for us. we were assured that payment would certainly be made eventually, though with a little delay. antonio took charge of arrangements to draw up the necessary papers, while we set to packing what remained to us of luggage, including the large sevillian basin given to us by la merchora. at last everything was ready; on the following day we were to sign the papers in the presence of a lawyer, and the next day we were to set out for alicante by the morning train. on the morning of the last day, while we were sewing la merchora's sevillian basin into a huge rush basket which was to protect it from damage on the journey, we looked out of the window and saw, somewhat to our dismay, a fat, familiar figure strolling along the pavement. the bootmaker had arrived from lorca hunting for work. in spite of a feeling of gratitude which we entertained towards him for the help he had given us at lorca, we could not but wish that he had come at some other time. our day would be as full as we could well manage. the complications which might be added by having to dance attendance on the zapatero filled us with dismay. to our relief the bootmaker sauntered on towards the town. selfishly we hoped that he would leave us alone. we had told antonio about him, and both luis and flores had promised to help him to find work when he arrived. commissions called us into the town, and we slunk along the streets, spying for a portly form. but upon our return we met it, coming out of antonio's house. our fate could not be avoided, so we asked him in to a simple lunch, at which we put before him, amongst other things, a large dish of especially selected olives which we had bought to take back with us to england. the zapatero approved so much of our taste in olives that, to our dismay, he almost finished up our store; and in consequence we had to waste more of our precious time in buying a new supply. we might indeed have saved ourselves the trouble: we were fated to reach england without olives, for the bottle holding them was afterwards forgotten and left in a railway waiting-room. after lunch we dismissed the zapatero, hinting to him as broadly as we could that we now had a lot to do, but that we would be delighted to see him at about seven o'clock, by which time our business would be over. however, when at three o'clock we called at antonio's house to bring him to the lawyer's office at which the power of attorney was to be signed, the zapatero was sitting comfortably in one of the rocking-chairs awaiting our arrival. we suggested to him that we had business to attend to. he replied that he would accompany us into the town. so antonio, the clerk, the zapatero, jan and i set out for the lawyer's office. we had expected the bootmaker to leave us on the threshold, but he stalked gravely in our rear, and introduced himself to the lawyer's clerks as a friend of the family. the lawyer's office was a large apartment with a black and white tiled floor, at one end of which was the clerk's table and at the other that of the lawyer. he was a thick-set man covered with a huge golfing cap in loud checks. over his head was suspended from the ceiling, with outstretched wings, a stuffed and dilapidated eagle from which generations of moth had stolen all hint of beauty. we discovered that this eagle, in some form or another, is the recognized trademark of the lawyer. one is tempted to wonder if this bird of prey hovers thus emblematically over the head of the man of law as a sort of symbolic warning to the simple-minded peasants. the legal preliminaries were brought to a stop by the discovery that jan had forgotten the passports; so, while he set off in a hurry to get them, we sat around in an uncomfortable circle. meanwhile the chill from the tiled floor crept upwards through my feet. to break the silence the lawyer began to pay me the usual compliments on my castilian. immediately in came the zapatero. "she is a talented lady," he exclaimed. "not only does she speak english in addition to our language, but she can paint pictures, and play on musical instruments. these i have seen and heard myself. furthermore, she has other talents: she can read and write, and so can her husband. in case you do not believe this latter statement i can prove it." [illustration] whereupon he pulled from his pocket the address which jan had written for him at lorca and, unfolding it with some solemnity, placed it on the lawyer's desk. the latter, perceiving nothing humorous in the zapatero's action, read the writing gravely and handed it back with expressions of approval. but the arrival of jan with the passports by no means seemed to satisfy the lawyer. he turned the papers over and over and said that with these nothing could be done. after much difficulty we discovered that no justice could be claimed in spain unless one were registered at the municipal offices. the tax for registration depended upon one's station and possessions. there was just time, with luck, to get ourselves registered before the offices were shut; so, fearful that we should miss another day, we hurried through the narrow murcian streets, led by antonio and followed by the bootmaker. on the way a sudden doubt attacked jan. his passport name is godfrey jervis, but he generally signs himself by his pen-name of "jan." thoughtlessly he had signed the claim in the station book "jan" and was afraid that if this name was not entered in the other papers a legal flaw might be entailed. the municipal registry office was a long, dark passage pierced with small, square, deep-set pigeon-holes and about large enough to admit the passage of a head. through one of these holes we made our claim, asking for tramps' certificates--the cheapest of all. my municipal paper was filled in easily enough, but we had a tough struggle to induce the official to alter "godfrey jervis" to "jan." at first, as is official habit, he was hidebound, but in spain by persistence one can achieve anything. in turn jan, myself, antonio and the zapatero, thrust a head through the hole adding urging to expostulation. luckily the passport name was not very clearly written, and at last the official admitted a compromise: he put "godfrey jan," and our spirits rose once more. back we went to the lawyer's office, where, with some delays, and the expenditure of eighteen pesetas, we turned antonio into our representative against the railway companies. we may add that one year and six months have passed since then; we have since paid twenty-two pesetas more for another document; and a few months ago we were informed that possibly our case would come up for settlement next year.[ ] before the night was over we also learned to our satisfaction that luis had found a job for the zapatero, and that antonio had got him a bedroom at the small confectioner's in a street close by. footnotes: [footnote : at the time of going to press we have just received a message from spain. the spanish authorities announce a _happy_ ending to the trouble. our luggage has been discovered at alcantarilla, four miles from murcia, where it has been all the while.] chapter xxviii the road home we set out on our journey home next morning. the bootmaker, who arrived at the house almost before we were dressed, came with us to the station, where he presented us with a large packet of angels-hair cakes as sustenance for the journey. this favourite murcian delicacy, made from the inside of a gourd, has a stringy consistency and a sickly flavour. the zapatero had secured them "on tick" from the confectioner's where he was lodging. as we take leave of him, we may summarize his subsequent history as we drew it by hints and half-made revelations from antonio and his companions. i am afraid that the zapatero's account of his departure from his village may have been invention. in murcia he revealed himself as a man who was work-shy. he borrowed money to get his tools, he got advances on his wages, he arrived late to work, he ran up a large bill at the confectioner's; and then, one fine morning, decamped. this much we gathered. antonio would never tell us, but i believe that he himself paid the confectioner's bill after the zapatero's disappearance; but to what extent our friends had suffered we could never learn. as we had just finished breakfast we put the angels-hair cakes into our haversack. but under the strain of travel the flimsy paper bag in which they were packed went to pieces, the angels-hair spread itself in fibrous stickiness all over the contents of the haversack. we felt no gratitude to the zapatero for his parting gift. our resources, despite an extra hundred pesetas borrowed from antonio, were at a low ebb, and, after some tedious searching of a spanish railway guide, we had decided to make our way home up the east coast of spain to barcelona and thence to paris. this route was cheaper than that through madrid. in addition, we could travel by night, spending our days in the towns, and thus dodge the expenses of hotels. we travelled, of course, third class because of cheapness, and because of the interest which was always to be found amongst one's fellow passengers. the journey was cold on account of our thin clothes, and in spite of our hopes the carriages were so full and the interchanges of passengers so frequent that we could get no sleep. after two days and nights we reached barcelona worn out, having passed through alicante, valencia and tarragona, but too weary to get interest or amusement from any of these towns. we arrived at barcelona on a chill morning and set out from the station to look for the british consul, whom we wished to consult about our lost luggage. barcelona is large, and we waited for a tram. a passer-by told us that our waiting was vain. there was a traffic strike in progress and neither tram, omnibus nor cab was to be had. we would have to walk. bad luck seemed to have reserved her efforts for the last few days. we do not think that england realized the great interest excited all over the world by the sufferings of the late mayor of cork. while his fate hung in the balance people would stop us in the streets of murcia, or even in the outlying villages, to ask us if we believed that there was a chance of his recovery. he had died shortly before our homeward journey began. the northern parts of spain see a parallel between their position and that of ireland. indeed, the parallel is not exact; rather one might compare them to the position to which ulster fears to be relegated. the fact remains that catalonia and the basque countries, the hard-working, commercial parts of spain, object to the domination, laxity and misrule of the government of madrid. i believe that the party which wishes independence, the spanish sinn fein, is very small; but it has become mixed with socialistic propaganda, communism, and so forth. at any rate, barcelona, combining as it does the excitable nature of the spaniard with the organization of a working community, provides the field for a series of extremely unpleasant strikes, riots and demonstrations. the transport strike was an illustration of this. during the two days we were in barcelona, three employers were shot in the streets by employés. to return to the mayor of cork. his death was the signal for a typical demonstration in barcelona, in favour of the sinn fein and of the irish republic. england was far enough away to remain undisturbed. the english consul was at hand. when we reached his house we found that all his window-glass had been smashed in sympathy for irish freedom. at a first glance barcelona does not seem to be a spanish town. there is something germanic about it. sitting in the main square and watching the people pass by, one could well imagine oneself in some town on the german border of alsace. we remained in barcelona two days, recovering from the fatigues of the journey. on our last afternoon, as we were strolling through a narrow back street, our attention was caught by a window full of small figures, baked in clay, highly coloured and gilt. the figures were all those of saints and biblical characters, not depicted in the formal manner of religious moments, but in a familiar and homelike way. we went into the small shop and asked their purpose, and were told that these figures were for christmas decorations. we bought two--one of the blessed virgin hanging on a line a chemise which she had just washed, the other an incognita lady saint with a distaff and a cat. we had taken up our quarters at a small, disreputable lodging-house opposite the station, where they charged us the exorbitant fee of two pesetas a night each. (we suspect that the real price was one peseta). the night-watchman got us out of bed at three o'clock, as our train left at half-past four in the morning, and the preliminaries to spanish travelling are complicated. to our surprise we found but a small queue of people waiting at the ticket-office. our immediate neighbour was a shabby man in a bowler hat from beneath which showed the curly black hair of an italian. he was accompanied by a middle-aged bustling bourgeois. the bourgeois took a ticket, which he handed to the italian. we then demanded tickets to the french frontier at cerbere. "we cannot book you to cerbere," said the clerk; "the railway bridge between figueras and port bou has been damaged. it will not be passable for three days." we thought drearily of having to return to the lodging-house, of three days more in this large, transportless town of barcelona, of again getting up at three a.m. at this moment the italian came to our aid. "from figueras," he said, "there are motor-cars which will carry the passengers over the frontier. you can get along that way easily." so we booked to figueras. the italian accompanied us and revealed his history. he was wandering about, looking for work. he had crossed the frontier on foot from france. his papers were in a queer condition, and some of them he had had to leave in the custody of the frontier officials as a guarantee. but there was no work in barcelona, so he was going back once more. the bourgeois was an employé of the italian consulate, who had come to the station to pay his fare and to see that he really left the town. the train rolled along through that rich catalan scenery depicted in the landscapes of josé pujo, and at about ten o'clock we reached figueras. with some difficulty we found a boy and a hand-cart, by means of which we could transport our luggage to the diligence office. the road was uphill and deep in a clayey mud. the poor boy tugged and pushed, and jan had to go into the slime to help him. through a long, narrow, old-fashioned street, figueras opened out into a plaza planted with tall lime trees, the fallen leaves of which made a sodden carpet on the ground. the dead leaves seemed to give the dominant note of figueras, a note of exhausted melancholy. misfortune, as has so often been said, is sometimes good luck in disguise. more "get on or get out" passengers had forestalled us with the car, notably a fussy man who, dragging with him two or three musical instrument cases, was loudly informing everybody that he had a concert engagement somewhere in france and that his career would be blasted if he did not fulfil it. there was no seat left for us. we turned to the boy and asked him to find us some sleeping place for the night. "there is the grand hotel," he said. "do not talk to us of grand hotels," we answered. "grand hotels are institutions which level humanity to a dead datum of boredom and mulct it of expensive fees in the process." "claro," responded the boy. "take us to some local pub," we continued, "where the stranger rarely intrudes." the boy, forcing his cart uphill, led us down a side street to a small wine-shop, the woodwork of whose windows had recently been painted a gay violet hue. we pushed our way inside. a man with beady eyes, who might well be called "black-complexioned," curtly demanded our business. on our request for a bed he scanned us from head to foot. we were indeed somewhat respectable, having travelled in our best clothes for fear of another accident to our luggage, wishing, if such occurred, to save the best we had. the dark man turned to a woman who had a kind of hard, crystalline beauty, and consulted with her. at last the woman said in a coarse voice: "they can have a room if they will take their meals here." to which we consented. the italian had been following us, vainly begging us to walk over the frontier with him, but as we had still a trunk, two rucksacks, and the large sevillian dish in its basket, his suggestion did not seem feasible. so we finally said good-bye to one another, he setting off again on foot for france. we were sitting over our coffee after lunch, when the black-eyed host came near, drew a chair close up to us, stared at us with perplexed brows for a moment, then said, suddenly: "i know why you have come here." "we have come because the bridge is broken," we said. he waved this aside. "you need not mince matters with me," he answered. "i can see, i have two eyes. i have plenty of opium upstairs." "opium?" "yes, you can smuggle it over to france quite easily from here." "but we are not smugglers." "i'll let you have it cheap," answered the host, closing one eye. we again protested the entire innocence of our trafficking, but obviously did not convince him. he knew that people in our condition did not come to his shanty for nothing. he renewed his attack after supper. "why have you come to my dram shop?" he asked. "because big hotels are dull," we answered. he shook his head. "you have some reason for wanting to get to france secretly," he persisted. "your papers, for instance, are not in order." we protested that they were. "you need not be afraid of me," went on our host. "i am quite trustworthy." we replied that in spite of the high opinion he had of us we had done nothing to deserve it. "let me see your passports," said the landlord. "i knew it," he went on, as soon as he had examined them. "you have not been viséd at barcelona. you will not be able to get over the frontier. they will turn you back." we had understood that no visé was necessary to get back into france. he said that we were mistaken. "this is where i can aid you," said the host. "i can get you over the frontier, so that you need not pass the customs or the passport office at all. i have a special route by which i pass french deserters to and fro. of course, as you are not really dangerous, i would only charge you a small sum--say forty or fifty pesetas apiece. for the deserters the charge is considerably higher, as the risk if caught is considerable; while if you were caught you would only be sent back again into spain. one of my men would drive you up at night, and then at about four o'clock in the morning you would dash over the frontier. i have sent hundreds to and fro." we must confess that the adventure attracted us. we had just enough money left to pay for the passage, but one thing deterred us. we had with us all the pictures which we had painted in spain. if we were captured these would possibly be confiscated, and this was a risk we could not cheerfully face. we told our host that we would take a day to think it over. the next day we decided that if the bridge were repaired within two days we would go to cerbere and try the normal course, but that if the delay were longer we would take the deserters' route. that day at figueras was so tedious that we mutually shortened our probation by a day. on the morrow, however, we heard by chance that the bridge had been reopened and that a special train would pass through figueras at eleven o'clock. it was then half-past ten. jan rushed to pack, while i hurried to our host to find some means of transport. i found him giving his small child a ride-a-cock-horse on his foot. to my news he answered that it was impossible, that we could not reach the train, that it was a train-de-luxe and terribly expensive, and so on. after a long and aggravating demur he suddenly turned to me. "all right," he exclaimed. "if you _will_ do it, it shall be done." he hurried me round a series of back streets, routed out an old man and a donkey-cart, and in a few minutes the luggage was packed and we were off to the station. it was a close race. jan ran on to get the tickets. i remained with the old man and the donkey. we had been told to pay the man a peseta; but he expostulated at the wage, demanding three. we held firm, however, and at last, with sighs and groans of despair, the old fellow was going off, apparently as heartbroken as though a near and dear friend had died. we called him back and added twopence-halfpenny to his shilling. he immediately broke into wreathed smiles and patted us cheerfully on the back, wishing us a good journey. at cerbere our passports were refused. we had to go back to port bou, where the french vice-consul stamped them and, with the loss of another day, we were once more on our way to paris. the night journey from cerbere to paris was terrible. owing to the loss at lorca we were in thin summer clothes, the temperature was three degrees below freezing point, owing to some defect in the apparatus the carriages were not heated, and a bulky market woman thrust her hand through the glass of the window; so that for twenty-three hours a freezing draught searched every cranny of the carriage. amongst our lost luggage had been our winter hats, and we landed in paris, much to the amusement of the parisians, wearing panama hats in the middle of november. the end the spanish series edited by albert f. calvert. _crown vo._ s. d. _net each vol._ =murillo.= a biography and appreciation. illustrated by over reproductions from photographs of his most celebrated pictures. =spanish arms and armour.= a historical and descriptive account of the royal armoury at madrid. illustrated with over reproductions from photographs. =the escorial.= a historical and descriptive account of the spanish royal palace, monastery and mausoleum. illustrated with plans and reproductions from pictures and photographs. =cordova.= a historical and descriptive account of the ancient city which the carthaginians styled the "gem of the south." by a. f. calvert and w. m. gallichan. with illustrations. =the prado.= a guide and handbook to the royal picture gallery of madrid. by a. f. calvert and c. g. hartley. illustrated with reproductions from photographs of old masters. =velasquez.= a biography and appreciation. illustrated with reproductions from photographs of his most celebrated pictures. =leon, burgos and salamanca.= a historical and descriptive account, with illustrations. =valladolid, oviedo, segovia, zamora, avila and zaragoza.= a historical and descriptive account, with illustrations. =royal palaces of spain.= a historical and descriptive account of the seven principal palaces of the spanish kings. profusely illustrated. =valencia and murcia.= a glance at african spain, with illustrations. =catalonia and the balearic islands.= a historical and descriptive account, with over illustrations. =sculpture in spain.= with illustrations. =the spanish royal tapestries.= with illustrations. john lane the bodley head ltd., vigo st., w. the spanish series extracts from the opinions of the press _daily news._--" ... lovers of spain will be grateful to mr. calvert for the work he is doing in such volumes as these to provide a worthy monument of the greatness of its manifold appeals. every volume has taught us to expect a high standard of excellence from the editor, mr. albert f. calvert ..." _sunday times._--"this is an extraordinarily cheap and attractive set of guide-books which mr. a. f. calvert is editing. this spanish series is an excellent idea, and it deserves the compliment of imitation." _british weekly._--"the spanish series provides an indispensable set of guide-books for the ever-increasing company of tourists in the peninsula.... these handsomely produced volumes may be recommended to students of spanish history and art, and to every intending traveller in spain." _queen._--" ... mr. calvert's purpose is to make readily available to the ordinary english reader and traveller information which guide-books necessarily do not supply. the work involved in the collection of data must have been very great. he utilises his material with real literary skill, and there is not one of these books which is not equally pleasing and instructive to read. but their dominant feature, which puts them above and beyond all others in interest and educational value, is the wealth of their illustrations.... no country has ever been illustrated so completely. the richness of spain in moorish and gothic monuments is incredible, and mr. calvert has made them his special study...." _sketch._--"these volumes, handsomely bound in the familiar red-and-gold colours of spain, are calculated to give english readers a most comprehensive survey of this fascinating land, and to convey a clear idea of its historic greatness. the get-up of the books is in every way worthy of a series of this magnitude--a series which, as one reviewer has said, could not have been carried out by another living author...." _liverpool courier._--"mr. calvert, who is responsible for this curiously interesting series, is doing a remarkable work for spain.... he is a good, honest craftsman, with a fine enthusiasm for his subject, and he is content to set things before us in a straightforward way. his writing is always readable, so that the service he does in describing for us the treasures of spain, and that nation's great personalities, is really very considerable...." john lane the bodley head ltd., vigo st., w. =spanish galicia.= by audrey f. bell, author of "in portugal," etc. illustrated. crown vo, = s. d.= net. an interesting account of a little known part of spain. =madrid.= by mrs. steuart erskine. with numerous illustrations in half-tone. crown vo, = s. d.= net. almost the only book giving a description of the spanish capital with chapters on its art treasures. a book which should be in the hands of all travellers. =siwa: the oasis of jupiter ammon.= by c. dalrymple belgrave. illustrated in colour from the author's original drawings, and from photographs. demy vo, = s.= net. a description of this wonderful and little known desert town with its unique rock dwellings and an account of the habits of its people. =adventures in bolivia.= by c. h. prodgers. illustrated with sketches in colour by the author, and with photographs. with an introduction by r. b. cunninghame graham. demy vo, = s. d.= net. an account of expeditions in search of inca treasure said to have been hidden by the jesuits, and rubber concessions in an almost unknown part of bolivia. told with the naïveté and directness of a man who has done things. =bygone days in india.= by douglas dewar, author of "indian birds," "birds of the indian hills," etc. illustrated. demy vo, = s.= net. a brightly written account of anglo-indian life in the days of john company, illustrated from contemporary pictures. john lane the bodley head ltd., vigo st., w. =the adventures of a tropical tramp.= by harry l. foster. illustrated. demy vo, = s. d.= net. south american life from a new angle--one of those rare books of travel--a record of experience that is fresh, vivid, and interesting. =a tenderfoot in colorado.= by r. b. townshend, author of "lone pine, a girl from mexico," etc. illustrated. demy vo, = s. d.= net. =a son of the middle border.= by hamlin garland. = s. d.= net. =a daughter of the middle border.= by hamlin garland. = s. d.= net. two fascinating books of autobiography forming a continuous story of pioneer work in mid-western america. "a daughter of the middle border" has just been awarded the -dollar pulitzer prize for the best biography of the year . =three travellers in north africa.= by the hon. e. ward. illustrated from photographs. crown vo, = s.= net. _truth._--"written in a vivacious and entertaining manner, and illustrated by some capital photographic reproductions." =historic paris.= by jetta s. wolff, author of "the story of the paris churches." illustrated. crown vo, = s. d.= net. _pall mall._--"the scheme of the book is admirable, and it is the best guide of old paris we have met." john lane the bodley head ltd., vigo st., w. every attempt has been made to replicate the original book as printed. some typographical errors have been corrected (a list follows the text). no attempt has been made to correct or normalize the printed accentuation or spelling of spanish names or words. (etext transcriber's note) unexplored spain abel chapman's works =bird-life of the borders=. first edition, ; ---- ----, second edition, . =wild spain=. (with w. j. b.) . =wild norway=. . =art of wildfowling=. . =on safari= (in british east africa). . =unexplored spain.= (with w. j. b.) . [illustration: h.m. king alfonso xiii spearing a boar.] unexplored spain by abel chapman author of 'wild spain,' 'wild norway,' 'on safari,' etc. and walter j. buck british vice-consul at jerez author of 'wild spain' with illustrations by joseph crawhall, e. caldwell, and abel chapman and from photographs new york longmans, green & co. london: edward arnold inscribed by gracious permission to their majesties king alfonso xiii. himself an accomplished sportsman and queen victoria eugenia of spain with deep respect by their majesties' grateful and devoted servants the authors preface the undertaking of a sequel to _wild spain_, we are warned, is dangerous. the implication gratifies, but the forecast alarms not. admittedly, in the first instance, we occupied a virgin field, and naturally the almost boyish enthusiasm that characterised the earlier book--and probably assured its success--has in some degree abated. but it's not all gone yet; and any such lack is compensated by longer experience (an aggregate, between us, of eighty years) of a land we love, and the sounder appreciation that arises therefrom. our own resources, moreover, have been supplemented and reinforced by friends in spain who represent the fountain-heads of special knowledge in that country. no foreigners could have enjoyed greater opportunity, and we have done our best to exploit the advantage--so far, at least, as steady plodding work will avail; for we have spent more than two years in analysing, checking and sorting, selecting and eliminating from voluminous notes accumulated during forty years. the concentrated result represents, we are convinced, an accurate--though not, of course, a complete--exposition of the wild-life of one of the wildest of european countries. no, for this book and its thoroughness neither doubt nor fear intrudes; but we admit to being, in two respects, out of touch with modern treatment of natural-history subjects. possibly we are wrong in both; but it has not yet been demonstrated, by euclid or other, that a minority even of two is necessarily so? nature it is nowadays customary to portray in somewhat lurid and sensational colours--presumably to humour a "popular taste." reflection might suggest that nothing in nature is, in fact, sensational, loud, or extravagant; but the lay public possess no such technical training as would enable them to discern the line where nature stops and where fraud and "faking" begin. at any rate we frequently read purring approval of what appears to us meretricious imposture, and see writers lauded as constellations whom we should condemn as charlatans. beyond the atlantic president roosevelt (as he then was) went bald-headed for the "nature-fakers," and in america the reader has been put upon his guard. if he still likes "sensations"--well, that's what he likes. but he buys such fiction forewarned. in the illustration of wild-life our views are also, in some degree, divergent from current ideas. animal-photography has developed with such giant strides and has taught us such valuable lessons (for which none are more grateful than the authors), that there is danger of coming to regard it, not as a means to an end but as the actual end itself. while photography promises uses the value of which it would be difficult to exaggerate, yet it has defects and limitations which should not be ignored. first as regards animals in motion; the camera sees too quick--so infinitely quicker than the human eye that attitudes and effects are portrayed which we do not, and cannot see. witness a photograph of the finish for the derby. galloping horses do not figure so on the human retina--with all four legs jammed beneath the body like a dead beetle. no doubt the camera exhibits an unseen phase in the actual action and so reveals its process; but that phase is not what mortals see. similarly with birds in flight, the human eye only catches the form during the instantaneous arrest of the wing at the end of each stroke--in many cases not even so much as that. but the camera snaps the whirling pinion at mid-stroke or at any intermediate point. the result is altogether admirable as an exposition of the mechanical processes of flight; but it fails as an illustration, inasmuch as it illustrates a pose which nature has expressly concealed from our view. secondly, in relation to still life. here the camera is not only too quick, but too faithful. a tiny ruffled plume, a feather caught up by the breeze with the momentary shadow it casts, even an intrusive bough or blade of grass--all are reproduced with such rigid faithfulness and conspicuous effect that what are in fact merest minute details assume a wholly false proportion, mislead the eye, and disguise the whole picture. true, these things are actually there; but the human eye enjoys a faculty (which the camera does not) of selecting its objective and ignoring, or reducing to its correct relative value each extrinsic detail; of looking, as it were, through obstacles and concentrating its power upon the one main subject of study. the portrayal of wildfowl presents a peculiar difficulty. this group differs in two essential characters from the rest of the bird-world. though clad in feathers, yet those feathers are not "feathery." rather may they be described as a steely water-tight encasement, as distinct from the covering, say of game-birds as mackintosh differs from satin. each plume possesses a compactness of web and firmness of texture that combine to produce a rigidity, and this, it so happens, both in form and colour. for in this group the colours, too, or patterns of colour, are clean-cut, the contrasts strong and sharply defined. the plumage of wild-fowl, in short, is characterised by lack of subdued tints and half-tones. that is its beauty and its glory; but the fact presents a stumbling-block to treatment, especially in colour. the difficulty follows consequentially. subjects of such character and crude coloration defy accustomed methods. that is not the fault of the artist; rather it reveals the limitations of art. just as in landscape distance ever demands an "atmosphere" more or less obliterative of distinctive detail afar (though such detail may be visible to non-artistic eyesight miles away), so in birds of sharply contrasted colouring the needed effect can only (it would appear) be attained by processes of softening which are not, in fact, correct, and which ruin the real picture as designed by nature. no wild bird (and wildfowl least of all) can be portrayed from captive specimens--still less from bedraggled corpses selected in leadenhall market. in the latter every essential feature has disappeared. the ruffled remains resemble the beauty of their originals only as a dish-clout may recall some previous existence as a damask serviette. living captives at least give form; but that is all. the loss of freedom, with all its contingent perils, involves the loss of character, the pride of life, and of independence. once remove the first essential element--the sense of instant danger, with all that the stress and exigencies of wild-life import--and with these there vanish vigilance, carriage, sprightliness, dignity, sometimes even self-respect. not a man who has watched and studied wild beasts and wild birds in their native haunts, glorified and ennobled by self-conscious aptitude to prevail in the ceaseless "struggle for existence," but instantly recognises with a pang the different demeanour of the same creatures in captivity, albeit carefully tended in the best zoological gardens of the world. * * * * * to mr. joseph crawhall (cousin of one author) we and our readers are indebted for a series of drawings that speak for themselves. further, we desire most heartily to thank h.r.h. the duke of orleans for notes and photographs illustrative both of baetican scenery and of the wild camels of the marisma; also the many spanish and anglo-spanish friends whose assistance is specifically acknowledged, _passim_, in the text. should some slight slip or repetition have escaped the final revision, may we crave indulgence of critics? 'tis not care that lacks, but sheer mnemonics. in a work of (we are told) , words the mass of manuscript appals, and to detect every single error may well prove beyond our power. we have lost, moreover, that guiding eye and pilot-like touch on the helm that helped to steer our earlier venture through the shoals and seething whirlpools that ever beset voyages into the unknown. a. c. w. j. b. british vice-consulate, jerez, _december _. contents chap. page i. unexplored spain: introductory ii. " " " (_continued_) iii. the coto doÑana: our historic hunting-ground (a foreword by sir maurice de bunsen, p.c., g.c.m.g., g.c.v.o., british ambassador at madrid) iv. the coto doÑana: notes on its physical formation, fauna, and red deer v. andalucia and its big game: still-hunting vi. " " " wild-boar vii. "our lady of the dew": the pilgrimage to the shrine of nuestra seÑora del rocÍo viii. the marismas of guadalquivir ix. wildfowl-shooting in the marismas x. wild-geese in spain: their species, haunts, and habits xi. wild-geese on the sand-hills xii. some records in spanish wildfowling xiii. the spanish ibex xiv. sierra morÉna: ibex xv. " " red deer and boar xvi. pernales xvii. la mancha xviii. the spanish bull-fight xix. the spanish fighting-bull xx. sierra de grÉdos xxi. " " : ibex-hunting xxii. an abandoned province: estremadura xxiii. las hurdes (estremadura) and the savage tribes that inhabit them xxiv. the great bustard xxv. " " (_continued_) xxvi. flamingoes xxvii. wild camels xxviii. after chamois in the asturias xxix. highlands of asturias xxx. the sierra nevÁda xxxi. " " (_continued_) xxxii. valencia xxxiii. small-game shooting in spain xxxiv. alimaÑas, or the minor beasts of chase xxxv. our "home-mountains": the serranÍa de ronda xxxvi. " " " " (_continued_) xxxvii. a spanish system of wildfowling: the "cabresto" or stalking-horse xxxviii. the "corros," or massing of wildfowl in spring for their northern migration xxxix. spring-time in the marismas xl. sketches of spanish bird-life appendix index list of plates h.m. king alfonso xiii. spearing a boar _frontispiece_ facing page typical landscape in coto doÑana egret heronry at santolalla, coto doÑana red deer in doÑana. from a drawing by joseph crawhall three views in coto doÑana: ( ) saharan sand-dunes; ( ) transport; ( ) a corral, or pinewood enclosed by sand red deer. from drawings by joseph crawhall inspiring moments gunning-punt in the marisma wild-goose shooting on the sand-hills vasquez approaching wildfowl with cabresto-pony stancheon-gun in the marisma--dawn wild-geese in the marisma spanish ibex in sierra de grÉdos heads of spanish ibex red-deer heads, sierra morÉna wolf shot in sierra morÉna, march huntsman with caracola, sierra morÉna pack of podencos, sierra morÉna wild-boar, weighing lbs. the record head (red deer), sierra morÉna red deer. from drawings by joseph crawhall red deer. from drawings by joseph crawhall wild-boar. from drawings by joseph crawhall red-deer heads, sierra morÉna bull-fighting. from a drawing by joseph crawhall bull-fighting. from a drawing by joseph crawhall after the stroke. from a drawing by joseph crawhall scenes in sierra de grÉdos "at the apex of all the spains" two spanish ibex shot in sierra de grÉdos, july great bustard slender-billed curlew great bustard "showing off" flamingoes on their nests wild camels capturing a wild camel in the marisma the home of the chamois peaks of sierra nevÁda nest of griffon royal shooting at the pardo, near madrid illustrations in the text page lammergeyer (_gypaëtus barbatus_) woodchat shrike (_lanius pomeranus_) griffon vulture (_gyps fulvus_) wooden plough-share cetti's warbler (_sylvia cettii_) dartford warbler (_sylvia undata_) fantail warbler (_cisticola cursitans_) rock-thrush (_petrocincla saxatilis_) a village _posada_ serin (_serinus hortulanus_) bonelli's eagle (_aquila bonellii_) black vulture (_vultur monachus_) white-faced duck (_erismatura leucocephala_) spanish imperial eagle spanish lynx greenshank (_totanus canescens_) sketch-map of delta of guadalquivir marsh-harrier (_circus aeruginosus_) "silent songsters" blackstart (_ruticilla titys_) great spotted cuckoo (_oxylophus glandarius_) "globe-spanners" "confidence" abnormal cast antler egret "suspicion" altabaca (_scrofularia_) tomillo de arena "what's this?" antlers stag "taking the wind" _sylvia melanocephala_ reed-climbers great grey shrike (_lanius meridionalis_) spanish green woodpecker (_gecinus sharpei_) tarantula stag--as he fell hoopoes at jerez, march , "room for two" wild-boar--at bay wild-boar--"bolted past" wild-boar praying mantis avocet samphire greylag geese white-eyed pochard (_fuligula nyroca_) "flamingoes over" pochard (_fuligula ferina_) flight of flamingoes wild-geese alighting wildfowl in the marisma flamingoes stilt godwits root of spear-grass system of driving wild-geese shelters for driving wild-geese godwits wild-geese alighting on sand-hills wild-geese godwits sketch-map of the _nucléo central_ of grédos grey shrike azure-winged magpie sardinian warbler griffon vulture pair of antlers stag--"picking his way up a rock-staircase" "the hart bounced, full-broadside, over the pass" pernales sparrow-owls (athene noctua) and moths hoopoes woodchat shrike and its "shambles" desert-loving wheatears red-crested pochard (_fuligula rufila_) red-crested pochards "minor game" southern grey shrike griffon vulture and nest "the way of an eagle in the air" (_lammergeyer_) black vulture (_vultur monachus_) roller (_coracias garrula_) trujillo "scavengers" wolf-proof dog-collar woodlark sketch-map of las hurdes white wagtail wolf-proof sheepfold the great bustard well on andalucian plain calandra lark spanish thistle and stonechat bustards--"swerve aside" bustards passing full broadside imperial eagle--"hurtling through space" draw-well with cross-bar "_hechando la rueda_" tail-feathers of great bustard little bustard stilts in the marisma flamingoes stilts disturbed at nesting-place flamingoes and their nests flight of flamingoes - head of flamingo little gull and tern flamingoes "the camels a-coming" chamois a chamois drive--picos de europa hoopoe lammergeyer (_gypaëtus barbatus_) "unemployed": bee-eaters on a wet morning woodlark (_alauda arborea_) lammergeyer soaring vulture golden eagle hunting rock-thrush spanish sparrow imperial eagle passing overhead pinsápo pine (_abies pinsapo_) rock-bunting (_emberiza cia_) pinsápo pines crossbill lammergeyer overhead golden eagle hunting vultures lammergeyer entering eyrie lammergeyer griffon vultures reed-bunting grey plover head of crested coot avocets feeding white-faced duck (_erismatura leucocephala_) purple heron (_ardea purpurea_) grey plovers orphean warbler savi's warbler (_sylvia savii_) unknown insect bonelli's eagles great spotted cuckoo (_oxylophus glandarius_) crossbills (_loxia curvirostra_) chapter i unexplored spain introductory the spain that we love and of which we write is not the spain of tourist or globe-trotter. these hold main routes, the highways from city to city; few so much as venture upon the bye-ways. our spain begins where bye-ways end. we write of her pathless solitudes, of desolate steppe and prairie, of marsh and mountain-land--of her majestic sierras, some well-nigh inaccessible, and, in many an instance, untrodden by british foot save our own. lonely scenes these, yet glorified by primeval beauty and wealth of wild-life. as naturalists--that is, merely as born lovers of all that is wild, and big, and pristine--we thank the guiding destiny that early directed our steps towards a land that is probably the wildest and certainly the least known of all in europe--a land worthy of better cicerones than ourselves. do not let us appear to disparage the other spain. the tourist enjoys another land overflowing with historic and artistic interest--with memorials of mediæval romance, and of stirring times when wave after wave of successive conquest swept the peninsula. such subjects, however, fall wholly outside the province of this book: nor do they lack historians a thousand-fold better qualified to tell their tale. * * * * * the first cause that differentiates spain from other european countries of equal area is her high general elevation. this fact must jump to the eye of every observant traveller who books his seat by the sûd-express to the mediterranean. better still, for our purpose, let him commence his journey, say at the tweed. from berwick southwards through the heart of england to london: from london to paris, and right across france--all the way he traverses low-lying levels; fat pastures, fertile and tilled to the last acre. his aneroid tells him he has seldom risen above sea-level by more than a few hundred feet; and never once has his train passed through mountains--hardly even through hills; he can scarce be said to have had a real mountain within the range of his vision in all these miles. now he crosses the bidassoa ... the whole world changes! at once his train plunges into interminable pyrenees, and ere it clears these, he has ascended to a permanent highland level--a tawny treeless steppe that averages -feet altitude, and sometimes approaches , traversed by range after range of rugged mountains that arise all around him to four, five, or six thousand feet. railways, moreover, avoid mountains (so far as they can). our traveller, therefore, must bear in mind that what he actually sees is but the mildest and tamest version of spanish sierras. there are bits here and there that he may have thought anything but tame--only tame by comparison with those grander scenes to which we propose guiding him. for the next miles he never quits that austere highland altitude nor ever quite loses sight of jagged peaks that pierce the skies--peaks of that hoary cinder-grey that shows up almost white against an azure background. never does he descend till, after leaving behind him three kingdoms--arragon, navarre, and castile--his train plunges through the sierra moréna, down the gorges of despeñaperros, and at length on the third day enters upon the smiling lowlands of andalucia. here the aneroid rises once more to rational readings, and fertile _vegas_ spread away to the horizon. but our traveller is not even now quite clear of mountains. whether he be booked to malaga or to algeciras, he will presently find himself enveloped once more amidst some fairly stupendous rocks--the gaëtánes or serranía de ronda respectively. spain is, in fact, largely an elevated table-land, miles square, and traversed by four main mountain-ranges, all (like her great rivers) running east and west. the only considerable areas of lowland are found in andalucia and valencia. naturally such physical features result in marked variations of climate and scene, which in turn react upon their productions and denizens, whether human or of savage breed. we take three examples. [illustration: types of spanish bird-life lammergeyer (_gypaëtus barbatus_) whose home is in the wildest sierras--a weird dragon-like bird-form; expanse, feet. [formerly reputed to carry off _babies_ to its eyrie.]] the central table-lands, subject all summer to solar rays that burn, in winter shelterless from biting blasts off snow-clad sierras, present precisely that landscape of desperate desolation that always results from a maximum of sunshine combined with a minimum of rainfall. a desiccated downland, khaki-colour or calcareous by turn, but bare (save for a few weeks in spring) of green thing, naked of bush or shrub, innocent even of grass. not a tree grows so far as eye can reach, not a watercourse but is stone-dry and leaves the impress that it has been so since time began. oh, it is an unlovely landscape, that central plateau. 'twere ungrateful, nevertheless (and unjust too), to forget that here we are journeying in a glory of atmosphere, brilliant in aggressive radiance that annihilates distance and revels in space. though patches of vine-growth be lost in the monotony of tawny expanse, mud-built hamlet and village church indistinguishable amidst a universal khaki, yet this is, in truth, a kingdom of the sun. the great bustard maintains a foothold on these arid uplands, but the fauna is best exemplified by the desert-loving sand-grouse (_pterocles arenarius_). precisely the reverse of all this is cantabria--the basque provinces of the north, with galicia and the asturias. there, bordering on the biscayan sea, you find a region absolutely scandinavian in type--pinnacled peaks, precipitous beyond all rivals even in spain, with deep-rifted valleys between, rushing salmon-rivers and mountain-torrents abounding in trout. here the fauna is alpine, if not subarctic, and includes the brown bear and chamois, the ptarmigan, hazel-grouse, and capercaillie. cantabria is a region of rock, snow, and mist-wraith; of birch and pine-forest--the very antithesis of the third region, that next concerns us, the smiling plains of andalucia and valencia nestling on mediterranean shore. here for eight months out of the twelve one lives in a paradise; but the summer is african in its burden of heat and discomfort. every green thing outside the vineyard and irrigated garden is burnt up by a fiery sun, a sun that changes not, but, day following day, grips the land in a blistering embrace. climatic conditions such as these reacting on a race already infused with arab blood naturally conduce to oriental modes of life. yet even here we have examples of the curious contradictions that characterise this _pays de l'imprévu_. thus within sight of one another, there flourish on the _vega_ below the date-palm and sugar-cane, while the ice-defying edelweiss embellishes the snows above--arctic and tropic in one. * * * * * such extremes of climate react, as suggested, upon the character of the human inhabitants of a land which includes within its boundaries nearly all the physical conditions of europe and north africa. from the north, as might be expected, comes the worker--the sturdy laborious galician, disdained and despised by his andalucian brother, regarded as lacking in dignity--the very name _gallego_ is a term of reproach. but he is a happy and contented hewer of wood and drawer of water, that gallego: throughout spain he carries the baskets, bears the burdens, cleans the floors; and finally returns, a rich man, to his barren hills of galicia. the andalucian will condescend to tend your cattle or garden, to drive your horses or ponies: and such offices he will perform well; but anything menial, or what he might regard as derogatory, he prefers--instinctively, not offensively--to leave to the galician. from castile and navarre comes a different caste, stately and aristocratic by nature, yet with fiery temperament concealed beneath subdued exterior--honestly, we prefer both the preceding exemplars. the catalan comes next, pushing and effervescent, all for his own little corner, his factories and his trade--impregnated, every man, with a sort of cinematograph of advanced views on social and political questions of the day--borrowed mostly from his up-to-date neighbours beyond the pyrenees, yet grafted on to old-world _fueros_, or franchises, that date back to the times of the counts of barcelona.[ ] perhaps the most perfect example of contemporary natural nobility is afforded by the peasant-proprietor of pastoral león; then there is the basque of biscay, tartar-sprung or turanian, finnic, or surviving aboriginal--let philologists decide. among spain's manifold human types, we suggest to ethnologists (and suggested before, twenty years ago) the study of a surviving remnant that still clings secreted, lonely as lepers, in the far-away mountains of northern estremadura--the hurdes. these wild tribes of unknown origin (presumed to be gothic) live apart from spain, four thousand of them, a root-grubbing race of _homo sylvestris_, squatted in a land without written history or record, where all is traditional even to the holding of the soil. not a title-deed or other document exists; yet this is a region of considerable extent--say fifty miles by thirty. a recent pilgrimage to these forgotten glens enables us to give, in another chapter, some contemporary facts about "las hurdes." throughout spain the people of the "lower orders"--the peasantry--strike those who leave the beaten tracks by their independence and manly bearing. north or south, east or west, an infinite variety of races differing in habit and character, even in tongue, yet all agreeing in their solid manliness, in straight-forward honesty, in what the romans entitled _virtus_--fine types save where contaminated by _empléomania_, call that "officialdom" (one of the twin curses of spain). largely there exists here ground-work for the rebuilding of spanish greatness--such a land awaits but the wand of a magician to recall its people to front rank. neither by despotic methods nor by the power that is only demonstrated by violence will the change be brought about, but by the enlightenment that has learnt to leave unimitated the follies of the past, and unused the forces of coercion. such a leader, we believe, to-day wields that wand. may he be spared to restore the destinies of his country. it was in spain, remember, that, more than years ago, the fate of carthage and, later, that of rome was decided. to the latter imperial city spain had given poets, philosophers, and emperors. it was in spain that there dawned the earlier glimmerings of popular liberties, as such are now understood. self-government with municipal rights were recognised by the cortes of león previous to our magna charta. individual guarantees, freedom of person and contract, and the inviolability of the home were granted by the cortes of zaragoza in --more than three centuries before our habeas corpus was signed in . a land with such traditions and achievements, with its twenty millions of inhabitants, cannot long be held back outside the trend of liberal expansion. the pursuit of game, alike with other aspects of spanish things, is not exempt from startling surprises. a ramble through the cistus-scrub, with no more exciting object than shooting a few redlegs, may result in bagging a lynx; or a handful of snipe from some cane-brake be augmented by the addition of a wild-boar. it is not that game abounds, but that the country is wide and wild, abandoned to natural state and combining conditions congenial to animal-life. of the big-game that is obtained or of its habitats, there is no approximate estimate, nor do precise knowledge or records exist. each village in the sierra or higher mountain-region lives its own life apart. communication with other places is rare and difficult, nor is it sought. one must go oneself to the spot to ascertain with any sort of accuracy what game has been, or may be obtained thereat. this means finding out every fact at first-hand, for no reliance can be placed on reports or hearsay evidence. nor does this remark apply to game alone: it applies universally in wilder spain. the englishman straying in these lone scenes finds himself amongst a kindly but independent people where sympathy and a knowledge of the language carry him further than money. where all are _caballeros_, neither titles nor wealth impress or subdue. the wanderer is free to join his new-made friends in the chase, taking equal chance with keen sportsmen and on terms of equality. he will find his nationality a passport to their liking, and soon discover that arab hospitality has left an abiding impress in these wild regions; as, indeed, moorish domination has done on every spanish thing. that last sentence sums up an ever-present and essential factor. in any description of this country, however superficial, this oriental heritage must always be borne in mind as an influence of first importance. previous to the arab inrush, spain had enjoyed practically no organic national existence. the peninsula was occupied by a cluster of separate kingdoms, not united nor even homogeneous, and usually one or another at war with its neighbour. neither roman nor goth had fused the spanish races into a concrete whole during their eight centuries of overlordship. in a.d. occurred a decisive day. then, on guadalete's plain, below the walls of jerez, that impetuous arab chieftain tarik overthrew the gothic king roderick and with him the power of spain. like an overwhelming flood, the arabs swept across the land. within two years (by ) the insignia of the crescent floated above every castle and tower, and moslem rule was absolute throughout the country--excepting only in the wild northern mountains of asturias, whence the tenacity of the mountaineers, guided by the genius of pelayo, flung back the tide of war. [illustration: types of spanish bird-life woodchat shrike (_lanius pomeranus_)] spanish history for the next seven centuries ( - ) records "moorish domination." now history, as such, lies outside our scope; but we become concerned where arab systems, and their methods of colonisation, have altered the face of the earth and left enduring marks on wilder spain. and we may, beyond that, be allowed to interpolate a remark or two in elucidation of what sometimes appear popular misconceptions on these and subsequent events. thus, during the period denominated "domination," the arab conquerors enjoyed no peaceful or undisputed possession. during all those centuries there continued one long succession of wars--intermittent attempts, successful and the reverse, at reconquest by the christian power. here a patch of ground, a city, or a province was regained; presently, perhaps, to be lost a second or a third time. never for long was there a final acceptance of the major force. but during the interludes, the periods of rest between struggles, the two contending races lived in more or less friendly intercourse, exchanging courtesies and even maintaining a stout rivalry in those warlike forms of sport which in mediæval times formed but a substitute for war. it was thence that the custom of bull-fighting took its rise. if not fighting arabs, fight bulls, and so prepare for the more strenuous contest. such conditions could not but have tended towards greater coherence among the various elements on the christian side, except for the incessant internecine rivalries between the christians themselves. a spanish knight or kinglet would invoke the aid of his nation's foe to consolidate or establish his own petty estate. christians with moslem auxiliaries fought moslems reinforced by christian renegades. the moorish invader had to fight for his possession--every yard of it. yet despite that, this energetic race found time to colonise, to develop and enrich the subjugated region with a thoroughness the evidence of which faces us to-day. we do not refer to their cities or to such monuments in stone as the mezquita or alhambra, but to their introduction into rural spain of much of what to-day constitutes chief sources of the country's wealth, and which might have been enormously increased had moorish methods been followed up. the koran expressly ordains and directs the introduction of all available fruits or plants suitable to soil that came, or comes, under moslem dominion. "the man who plants or sows the seed of anything which, with the fruit thereof, gives sustenance to man, bird or beast does an action as commendable as charity"--so wrote one of their philosophers. "he who builds a house and plants trees and who oppresses no one, nor lacks justice, will receive abundant reward from the almighty." there you have the religion both of the good man and the good colonist. these precepts the moors habitually and energetically carried out to the letter. arboriculture was universal: the provinces of valencia, cordoba, and toledo they filled with trees--fruit-trees and timber. in the warm valleys of the coast and in the sheltered glens of the mountains they acclimatised exotic fruits, plants, and vegetables hitherto restricted to the more benign climes of the east or to afric's scorching strand. sugar-cane flourished in such luxuriance as to leave available a heavy margin for export. the fig-tree and carob, quince and date-palm, the cotton-plant and orange, with other aromatic and medicinal herbs, together with aloes and the anachronous-looking prickly-pear (_cactus_), its amorphous lobes reminiscent of the pleistocene, were all brought over for the use and benefit, the delight and profit of europe. of these, the orange to-day forms one of spain's most valuable exports, representing some three millions sterling per annum. [illustration: types of spanish bird-life griffon vulture (_gyps fulvus_) abounds all over spain: sketched while drying his wings after a thunderstorm, in the sierra de san cristobal, jerez.] silk and its manufacture represented another immense source of wealth and industry introduced into spain--to-day extinct. the moors covered andalucia with mulberry-groves: in granada alone ran looms for the weaving of the fibre, and the streets of the zacatin and the alcarcería became world-markets, where every variety of costly stuffs were bought and sold--tafetans, velvets, and richest textures that surpassed in quality and brilliancy of tint even the far-famed products of piza, florence, and the levantine cities which since roman days had monopolised the silk-supply of the world. these now found their wares displaced by spanish silks; even the sumptuous "creations" of persia and china met with a dangerous rivalry. such was the technical skill and success of the moors in agriculture and acclimatisation that, on the eventual conquest and final expulsion of their race from spain, overtures were made with a view of inducing a certain proportion to remain, lest spain might lose every expert she possessed in these essential pursuits. six families in every hundred were promised amnesty on condition of remaining, but none accepted the offer. deep as was their love for spain--so deep that the departing moors are related to have knelt and kissed its strand ere embarking, broken-hearted, for africa--yet not a man of them but refused to remain as vassals where, for centuries, they had lived as lords. such were the moors--strong in war, yet equally strong in all the arts and enterprises of peace, filled with energy, an industrious and a practical race. it is safe to say that under their regime the resources of this difficult land were being developed to their utmost capacity.[ ] of the final expulsion of the moors (and that of the jews was analogous) 'tis not for us to write. yet, for spain, both events proved momentous, and, along with the antecedent practices of the moriscos, provide side-lights on history that are worth consideration.[ ] the subjoined statistics give the state of spanish agriculture at the present day, the total acreage being taken as , , hectares ( - / acres each):-- hectares. cultivated , , uncultivated:-- pasture, scrub, and wood , , unproductive , , ___________ total , , __________ grand total , , these figures demonstrate precisely the extent of the authors' condominium in spain--well over one-half the country! with the area under cultivation (say per cent), we have but one concern--the great bustard. the remaining per cent pertain absolutely to our province--wilder spain. the term scrub or brushwood (in spanish _monte_), though by a sort of courtesy it may be ranked as "pasture"--and parts of it do support herds of sheep and goats--implies as a rule the wildest of rough covert and jungle, rougher far than a scottish deer-forest; and this _monte_ clothes well-nigh one-half of spain. such figures may appear to infer considerable apathy and lack of effort as regards agriculture. 'twere, nevertheless, a false assumption to conclude that spanish mountaineers are an idle race--quite the reverse, as is repeatedly demonstrated in this book. in the hills every acre of available soil is utilised, often at what appears excessive labour--maybe it is a patch so tiny as hardly to seem worth the tilling, or so terribly steep that none save a _serrano_ could keep a foothold, much less plough, sow, and reap. the main explanation of the immense percentage of waste lies in the fact first set forth--the high general elevation of spain; and, secondly, in her mountainous character. whether these or any other extenuating circumstances apply to the corn-lands, we are not sufficiently expert in such subjects as to express a confident opinion. but we think not. so antiquated, wasteful, and utterly inefficient have been spanish methods of agriculture, that a land which might be one of the granaries of europe is actually to some extent dependent on foreign grain, and that despite an import-duty! a distinct movement is, nevertheless, perceptible in the direction of employing modern agricultural machinery, chemical manures, and such-like. irrigation in a land whose head-waters can be tapped at feet and upwards could be carried out on a larger scale and at cheaper rates than in any other european country--yet it is practically neglected; no considerable extension has been made to the two million acres of irrigated lands that existed when we last wrote, twenty years ago, although the ruined aqueducts of roman, goth, and moor are ever present to suggest the silent lesson of former foresight and prosperity. [illustration: wooden plough-share (as still commonly used.)] one incidental circumstance of rural spain, the fatal effects of which are all-penetrating (though it will never be altered), is absenteeism on the part of landowners. not even a tenant-farmer will live on his holding. no, he must have his town-house, and employ an administrator or agent to superintend the farm, only visiting it himself at rare intervals. oh! that hideous nightmare, the hireling, how his dead-weight of apathy and dishonesty at secondhand crushes out every spark of interest and enterprise, and breeds in their stead a rampant crop of all the petty vices and frauds that prey on industry. but that evil can hardly be eradicated. what we british understand by the expression "country life" totally fails to commend itself to the more gregarious peoples of the south. rich and poor alike, from grandee to day-labourer, the spanish ignore and disdain the joys of the country. they call it the _campo_ and the _campo_ they detest. each nightfall must see every man of them, irrespective of class, assembled within the walls of their beloved town or city, irresistibly attracted to street-girt abode--be it humblest cot or sumptuous palace (and one stands next door to the other). even suburban existence is eschewed. there are no outer fringes to a spanish town. no straggling "villa residences," no laburnum lodge or river-view "ornament" the extramural solitude. back at dusk all hie, crowding to the _paséo_, to club or casino, to social gathering and games of chance or (more rarely) of skill. that ubiquitous term "_animacion_," which may be translated gossip, chatter, light-hearted intercourse, fulfils the ideals of life. its more serious side--reading, study, scientific pursuit--have little place; seldom does one see a library in any spanish home, urban or rural. none can accuse the authors of desiring to use a comparison (proverbially odious) to the detriment of our spanish friends. the above is merely a record of patent facts that must quickly become obvious to the least observant. it is but a definition of divergent idiosyncrasies as between different human genera. and remember that we in england have recently been told that our rural system is fraught with unseen and unsuspected evil. into those wider questions we have no intention of entering. but at least our impressions are based upon personal experience of both lines of life, while much of the vituperation recently poured upon rural england is derived from a view of but one, and not a very clear view at that. where the owner--big or little, but the more of them the better--lives on the land, that land and the country at large benefit to a degree that is demonstrated with singular clearness by seeing the converse system as it is practised in spain to-day. here no one, owner or tenant--still less the hireling--takes any living interest (to say nothing of pride) in his possession or occupation beyond that very short-sighted "interest" of squeezing the utmost out of it from day to day. ancient forests are cut down and burnt into charcoal, and rarely a tree replanted or a thought given to the resulting effects on rainfall or climate. as to beauty of landscape--what matter such æsthetic notions when the owner lives a hundred miles away? the collateral fact that, to a great extent, nature's beauty and nature's gifts are analogous and interdependent is ignored. such simple issues are too insignificant, and too little understood, for frothy rhetoricians to reflect upon: the latter, moreover, like gallio (and pontius pilate) care for none of these things. a characteristic that differentiates the spaniard, north or south, from other (more modern) nationalities, is a comparative indifference in money matters. now a spaniard requires money for his daily needs as much as the others; yet he never sinks to the level of total absorption in his pursuit of the dollar. put that down to apathy, if you will--or to pride; at least there is dignity in the attribute. the leading spanish newspapers quote the various market fluctuations and changes in value from day to day. sometimes, possibly, the report may read _sin operaciones_, but never will you see conspicuously protruded, as a main item in the morning's news, the headline "wall street." there is (or was) dignity in commerce, and there may yet be readers in england who silently wish that such matters were relegated to their proper position--the monetary columns. [illustration: types of spanish bird-life cetti's warbler (_sylvia cettii_) a winter songster, abundant but rarely seen, skulking in densest brakes.] the chief financial flutter that interests is the government lottery which is held every fortnight, and at which all classes lose their money; but the national treasury profits to the tune of three millions sterling yearly. spain is the home of "chance": that element appeals to spanish character. thus in bull-fighting (the one popular pastime) the name applied to each of its formulated exploits is _suerte_--chance. * * * * * spain is frequently accused of being a land of _mañana_. hardly can we call to mind a book on the country in which some play on that word does not figure. but procrastination is not confined to any one country, and in this case the accusers are quite as likely to be guilty as the accused. a characteristic that strikes us as more applicable is rather the reverse--that of taking no thought for the morrow. let us take an example or two. it is not the custom to repair roads. when, from long use, a road has gradually passed from bad to worse, till at length it has virtually ceased to exist, then it is "reconstruction" that is the remedy. annual repairs, one may presume, would cost, say half the amount, would preserve continuous utility, and avoid that slowly aggravated destruction that ends finally in a hiatus. but that is not the spanish way. "reconstruction" is preferred. the ruthless cutting down of her forests without replanting a single tree has already been quoted. next take an example or two of the things that lie most directly under the authors' special view, such as game. the ibex--a unique asset, restricted to spain, and of which any other country would be proud--has been callously shot down without thought for to-morrow, extirpated for ever in a dozen of its former habitats. the redleg--under the murderous system of shooting, year in and year out, over decoy-birds--would be exterminated within three or four years in any other country save this. it is merely the incredible fecundity of the bird and the vast area of waste lands that preserves the breed. partridge in spain are like rabbits in australia--indestructible. the trout affords another example. everywhere else on earth the trout is prized as one of nature's valued gifts--hard to over-appreciate. fully one-half of spain is expressly adapted to its requirements. trout were intended by nature to abound over the northern half of spain--say down to the latitude of madrid, and even in the extreme south where conditions are favourable, as in the sierra neváda. trout might abound in spain to the full as they abound in scotland or norway, adding value to every river and a grace to country life. but what is the treatment meted out to the trout in spain? no sooner is its presence detected than the whole stock--big and little alike, even the spawn--is blown out of existence with dynamite, poisoned by quicklime, or captured wholesale (regardless of season or condition) in nets, cruives, funnel-traps, and every other abomination. kill and eat, big or little, breeding female or immature--it matters not; kill all you can to-day and leave the morrow to itself. true, there are game-laws and close-seasons, but none observe them.[ ] [illustration: types of spanish bird-life dartford warbler (_sylvia undata_) resident. frequents deep furze-coverts, seldom seen (as we are constrained to represent it) in separate outline.] we have selected these examples because we know and can speak with absolute authority. presumption and analogy will naturally suggest that the same intelligence, the same blind improvidence will apply equally in other and far more important matters. not one of our spanish friends with whom we have discussed these subjects time and again but agrees to the letter with the above conclusions and most bitterly regrets them. chapter ii unexplored spain (_continued_) on travel and other things travel in all the wilder regions of spain implies the saddle. our spain begins, as premised, where roads end. for us railways exist merely to help us one degree nearer to the final plunge into the unknown; and not railways only, but roads and bridges soon "petter out" into trackless waste, and leave the explorer face to face with open wilds--_despoblados_, that is, uninhabited regions--with a route-map in his pocket that is quite unreliable, and a trusty local guide who is just the reverse. [illustration: types of spanish bird-life fantail warbler (_cisticola cursitans_) resident: builds a deep purse-like nest supported on long grass or rushes.] riding light, with the "irreducible minimum" stowed in the saddle-bags, one may traverse spain from end to end. but it is only a hasty and superficial view that is thus obtainable, and except for those who love roughing it for roughness' sake, even the freedom of the saddle presents grave drawbacks in a land where none live in the country and none travel off stated tracks. in the _campo_, nothing--neither food for man nor beast--can be obtained, and no provision exists for travellers where travellers never come. the little rural hostelry of northern lands has no place; there is instead a _venta_ or _posada_ which may too often be likened to a stable for beasts with an extra stall for their riders. it is a characteristic of pastoral countries everywhere that their rude inhabitants discriminate little between the needs of man and beast. but even towns of quite considerable size--when far removed from the track--are totally devoid of inns in our sense. inns are not needed. the few spanish travellers who, greatly daring, venture so far afield, usually bespeak beforehand the hospitality of some local friend or acquaintance. [illustration: types of spanish bird-life rock-thrush (_petrocincla saxatilis_) a beautiful spring-migrant to the highest sierras. colours of male: opal, orange, and black, with a white "mirror" in centre of back. female, yellow-brown barred with black.] incidentally it may be added that a visit to one of these out-of-the-world cities--asleep most of them for the last few centuries--is a pleasing and restful change amidst the racket of exploration. one breathes a mediæval atmosphere and marvels at the revelation, enjoying prehistoric peeps in lost cities replete for the antiquary with historic memorial and long-forgotten lore. no one cares. yet in those bygone days of spain's world-power these somnolent spots produced the right stuff,--a minority, no doubt, belonged to the type satirised by cervantes,--but many more strong in mind as in muscle, who went forth, knights-errant, paladins and crusaders, to conquer and to shape the course of history. is the old spirit extinct? our own impression is that the material is there all right ready to spring to life like the stones of deucalion, so soon as spain shall have shaken off her incubus of lethargy and the tyranny that clogs the wheels of progress. nor need the interval be long. * * * * * that sound human material continues to exist in rural spain we have had recent evidence during the calling-out of levies of young troops ordered abroad to serve their country in morocco. none could witness the entrainment at some remote station of a detachment of these fine lads without being struck by their bearing, their set purpose, and above all their patriotism. with such material, with a well cared-for, contented, and loyal army and a broadening of view, wisely graduated but equally resolute, spain moves forward. alfonso xiii. is a soldier first--no! above that he is a king by nature, but his care for his army and its well-being has already borne fruits that are making and will make for the honour, safety, and advancement of his country. * * * * * to resume our interrupted note on travel: whether you are riding across bush-clad hills, over far-spread prairie, or through the defiles of the sierra, as shadows lengthen the problem of a night's lodging obtrudes. there is a variety of solutions. at a pinch--as when belated or benighted--one may, in desperate resort, seek shelter in a _choza_. now a _choza_ is the reed-thatched hut which forms the rural peasant's lonely home. assuredly you will be made welcome, and that with a grace and a courtesy--aye, a courtliness--that characterises even the humblest in spain. the best there is will be at your disposal; yet--if permissible to say so in face of such splendid hospitality (and in the hope that these good leather-clad friends of ours may not read this book)--the open air is preferable. there exists in a _choza_ absolutely no accommodation--not a separate room; a low settee running round the interior, or a withy frame, forms the bed; those kindly folk live all together, along with their domestic animals--and pigs are reckoned such in spain. let us gratefully pay this due tribute to our peasant friends--but let us sleep outside. at each village will usually be found a _posada_. these differ in degree, mostly from bad downwards. the lowlier sort--little better than the _choza_--is but a long, low, one-storeyed barn which you share with fellow-wayfarers, and your own and their beasts, or any others that may come in, barely separated by a thatched partition that is neither noise-proof nor scent-proof. we can call instances to mind when even that small luxury was lacking, and all, human and other, shared alike. there are no windows--merely wooden hatches. if shut, both light and air are excluded; if open, hens, dogs, and cats will enter with the dawn--the former to finish what remains of supper. the cats will at least disperse the regiment of rats which, during the night, have scurried across your sleeping form. here we relate, as a specific example, a night we spent this last spring in northern estremadura:-- [illustration: a village _posada_] owing to a miscalculation of distance, it was an hour after sundown ere we reached our destination, a lonely hamlet among the hills. our good little galician ponies were dead-beat, for we had been in the saddle since a.m., and it was past eight ere we toiled up that last steep, rock-terraced slope. we were a party of three, with a local guide and our own sancho panza--faithful companion, friend, and servant of many years' standing. at a dilapidated hovel, the last in the village and perched on a crag, we drew rein, and after repeated knocks the door was opened by a girl--she had set down a five-year-old child among the donkeys while she drew the bolt, the ground-floor being (as usual) a stable. to our inquiry as to food--and the hunger of the lost was upon us--our hostess merely shrugged her shoulders, and with an expressive gesture of open hands, answered "nada"--nothing! sancho, however, was equal to the occasion. within two minutes, while we yet stood disconsolate, he returned with a cackling cockerel in his arms. "stew him quick before he crows," he adjured the girl, and turned to unload the ponies. what an age a cockerel takes to cook! it was midnight ere he smoked on the board and, hunger satisfied, we could turn in. in an upper den were two alcoves with beds, or rather stone ledges, ordinarily used by the family, and which were assigned to us, the luckless no. by lot having to make shift (in preference to sleeping on a filthy floor) with three cranky tables of varying heights, and whose united lengths proved a foot too short at either end! oh, the joy of the morning's dawn and delicious freshness of the mountain air, as we turned out at five o'clock for yet another ten-league spell to our next destination. two nights later we slept in the gilded luxury of madrid! but how we abused our previous neglect in not having brought a camp-outfit. the above, however, presents the gloomier side of the picture, and there is a reverse, even in _posadas_. we cannot better describe the latter side than in our own words from _wild spain_:-- a night at a _posada_ (andalucia) the wayfarer has been travelling all day across the scrub-clad wastes, fragrant with rosemary and wild thyme, without perhaps seeing a human being beyond a stray shepherd or a band of nomad gypsies encamped amidst the green palmettos. towards night he reaches some small village where he seeks the rude _posada_. he sees his horse provided with a good feed of barley and as much broken straw as he can eat. he is himself regaled with one dish--probably the _olla_ or a _guiso_ (stew) of kid, either of them, as a rule, of a rich red-brick hue, from the colour of the red pepper or capsicum in the _chorizo_ or sausage, which is an important (and potent) component of most spanish dishes. the steaming _olla_ will presently be set on a table before the large wood-fire, and with the best of crisp white bread and wine, the traveller enjoys his meal in company with any other guest that may have arrived at the time--be he muleteer or hidalgo. what a fund of information may be picked up during that promiscuous supper! there will be the housewife, the barber, and the padre of the village, perhaps a goatherd come down from the mountains, a muleteer, and a charcoal-burner or two, each ready to tell his own tale, or to enter into friendly discussion with the "ingles." then, as you light your _breva_, a note or two struck on the guitar falls on ears predisposed to be pleased. how well one knows those first few opening notes: no occasion to ask that it may go on: it will all come in time, and one knows there is a merry evening in prospect. one by one the villagers drop in, and an ever-widening circle is formed around the open hearth, rows of children collect, even the dogs draw around to look on. the player and the company gradually warm up till couplet after couplet of pathetic _malagueñas_ follow in quick succession. these songs are generally topical, and almost always extempore; and as most spaniards can--or rather are anxious to--sing, one enjoys many verses that are very prettily as well as wittily conceived. but girls must dance, and find no difficulty in getting partners to join them. the _malagueñas_ cease, and one or perhaps two couples stand up, and a pretty sight they afford! seldom does one see girl-faces so full of fun and so supremely happy as they adjust the castanets, and one damsel steps aside to whisper something sly to a sister or friend. and now the dance begins; observe there is no slurring or attempt to save themselves in any movement. each step and figure is carefully executed, but with easy, spontaneous grace and precision both by the girl and her partner. though two or more pairs may be dancing at once, each is quite independent of the others, and only dance to themselves; nor do the partners ever touch each other.[ ] the steps are difficult and somewhat intricate, and there is plenty of scope for individual skill, though grace of movement and supple pliancy of limb and body are almost universal, and are strong points in dancing both the _fandango_ and _minuet_. presently the climax of the dance approaches. the notes of the guitar grow faster and faster; the man--a stalwart shepherd-lad--leaps and bounds around his pirouetting partner, and the steps, though still well ordered and in time, grow so fast that one can hardly follow their movements. now others rise and take the places of the first dancers, and so the evening passes; perhaps a few glasses of _aguardiente_ are handed round--certainly much tobacco is smoked--the older folks keep time to the music with hand-clapping, and all is good nature and merriment. what is it that makes the recollection of such evenings so pleasant? is it merely the fascinating simplicity and freedom of the dance, or the spectacle of those weird, picturesque groups, bronze-visaged men and dark-eyed maidens, all lit up by the blaze of the great wood-fire on the hearth, and low-burning oil-lamps suspended from the rafters? perhaps it is only the remembrance of many happy evenings spent among these people since our boyhood. this we can truly say, that when at last you turn in to sleep you feel happy and secure among a peasantry with whom politeness and sympathy are the only passports required to secure to you both friendship and protection if required. nor is there a pleasanter means of forming acquaintance with spanish country life and customs than a few evenings spent thus at a farm-house or village inn in any retired district of laughter-loving andalucia. for rough living we are of course prepared, and accept the necessity without demur or second thought while travelling. but when more serious objects are in hand--say big-game or the study of nature, objects which demand more leisurely progress, or actually encamping for a week or more at selected points--then we prefer to assure complete independence of all local assistance and shelter. [illustration: types of spanish bird-life serin (_serinus hortulanus_) a true european canary, but its song is harsh and hissing.] an expedition on this scale involves an amount of care and forethought that only those who have experienced it would credit. for in spain it is an unknown undertaking, and to engineer something new is always difficult. quite an extensive camping-trip can be organised in africa, where the system is understood, with less than a hundredth part of the care needed for a comparatively short trip in spain where it is not. the necessary bulk of camp-outfit and equipment requires a considerable cavalcade, and this mule-transport (since no provender is obtainable in the country) involves carrying along all the food for the animals--the heaviest item of all. naturally the cost of such expeditions works out to nearly double that of simple riding. but, after all, it is worth it! compare some of the miseries we have above but lightly touched upon--the dirt and squalor, the nameless horrors of _choza_ or _posada_--with the sense of joyous exhilaration felt when encamped by the banks of some babbling trout-stream or in the glorious freedom of the open hill. casting back in mental reverie over a lengthening vista of years, we certainly count as among the happiest days of life those spent thus under canvas--whether on the sierras and marismas of spain, on high field or dark forest in scandinavia, or on afric's blazing veld. should some remarks (here or elsewhere in this book) appear self-contradictory the reason will be found rather in our inadequate expression than in any confusion of idea. we love spain primarily because she is wild and waste; but, loving her, are naturally desirous that she should advance to that position among nations that is her due. such material development, nevertheless, need not--and will not--imply the total destruction of her wild beauties. development on those lines would not consist with the peculiar genius of the spanish race, and, while we trust the development will come, we fear no such collateral results. take, for instance, the corn-lands. there the great bustard is alike the index and the price of vast, unwieldy farms unfenced and but half tilled, remote from rail, road, or market. that condition we neither expect nor hope to see exchanged for smug fields with a network of railways. for "three acres and a cow" is not the line of spanish regeneration; it is rather a claptrap catch-word of politicians--a murrain on the lot of them! true, the plan seems to answer in denmark, and if the danes are satisfied, well and good--that is no business of ours. but no such mathematical and procrustean restriction of vital energies and ambitions will subserve our british race, nor the spanish. in spanish sierra may the howl of the wolf at dawn never be replaced by blast from factory siren, nor the curling blue smoke of the charcoal-burner in primeval forest be abolished in favour of black clouds belching from bristling chimneys that pierce a murky sky. either in such circumstance would be misplaced. similarly, when the engineer shall have been turned loose in the spanish marismas, he can, beyond all doubt, destroy them for ever. his straight lines and intersecting canals, hideous in utilitarian rectitude, would right soon demolish that glory of lonely desolation--those leagues of marshland, samphire, and glittering _lucio_. and all for nothing! since the desecration will not "pay" financially--the reason we give in detail elsewhere--and you sacrifice for a shadow some of the grandest bits of wild nature that yet survive--the finest length and breadth of utter abandonment that still enrich a humdrum europe. should "progress" only advance on these lines no scrap of that continent will be left to wanderer in the wilds--no spot where clanging skeins of wild-geese serry the skies, and the swish of ten thousand wigeon be heard overhead; or that marvellous iridescence--as of triple flame--the passing of a flight of flamingoes, be enjoyed.[ ] that national progress and development may come, for spain's sake, we earnestly pray. but does there exist inherent reason why progress, in itself, should always come to ruin natural and racial beauties? progress seems nowadays to be misunderstood as a synonym for uniformity--and uniformity to a single type. disciples of the cult of insensate haste, of self-assertion and advertisement, have pretty well conquered the civilised world; but in spain they find no foothold, and we glory to think they never will. spain will never be "dragooned" into a servile uniformity. there remain many, among whom we count our humble selves, who bow no knee to the modern baal, and who (while conceding to the "hustling" crowd not one iota of their pretensions to fuller efficiency in any shape or form) are proud to find fascination in simplicity, a solace in honest purpose and in old-world styles of life--right down (if you will) to its inertia. yes, may progress come, yet leave unchanged the innate courtesy, the dignity and independence of rural spain--unspoilt her sierras and glorious heaths aromatic of myrtle and mimosa, alternating with natural woods of ilex and cork-oak--self-sown and park-like, carpeted between in spring-time with wondrous wealth of wild flowers. there is nothing incongruous in such aspiration. incongruity rather comes in with misappreciation of the fitness of things, as when a coal-mine is planked down in the midst of sylvan beauties, to save some hypothetic penny-a-ton (as per prospectus); where pellucid streams are polluted with chemical filth and vegetation blasted by noisome fumes; or where god's fairest landscapes are ruined by forests of hideous smoke-stacks. if vandalisms such as these be progress then we prefer spain as she is. a note on the spanish fauna after all, it is less with the human element that this book is concerned than with the wild fauna of spain; a brief introductory notice thereof cannot, therefore, be omitted. [illustration: bonelli's eagle (_aquila bonellii_) a pair disturbed at their eyrie.] as head of the list must stand the spanish ibex (_capra hispánica_), a game-animal of quite first rank, peculiar to the iberian peninsula, and whose nearest relative--the bharal (_capra cylindricornis_)--lives miles away in the far caucasus. in spain the ibex inhabits six great mountain-ranges, each covering a vast area but all widely separated. after a crisis that five years ago threatened extermination, this grand species is now happily increasing under a measure of protection and the ægis of king alfonso. next--a notable neighbour of the ibex (and practically extinct in central europe)--we place the lone and lordly lammergeyer. a memorable spectacle it is to watch the huge _gypaëtus_ sweeping through space o'er glens and corries of the sierra in striking similitude to some weird flying dragon of miocene age--a vision of blood-red irides set on a cruel head with bristly black beard, of hoary grey plumage and golden breast. watch him for half an hour--for half a day--yet never will you discern a sign of force exerted by those -yard pinions. with slightly reflexed wings he sinks feet; then, shifting course, rises , feet till lost to sight over some appalling skyline. you have seen the long cuneate tail deflected ever so slightly--more gently than a well-handled helm--but the wide lavender wings remain rigid, not an effort that indicates force have you descried. yet the power (so defined as "horse-power") required to raise a deadweight of lbs. through such altitudes can be calculated by engineers to a nicety--how is it exerted? that the power is there is conspicuous enough, and at least it serves to explain fabled traditions of giant lammergeyers hurling ibex-hunter from perilous hand-hold on the crag, to feast on the remains below; or, in idler moment, bearing off untended babes to their eyries--alas! that the duty of nature-students involves dissipating all such romance. [illustration: types of spanish bird-life black vulture (_vultur monachus_) nests in the mountain-forests of central spain, and winters in andalucia. sketched in cote doñana--"getting under way."] spain, as geologically designed, being, as to one-half of her superficies, either a desert wilderness or a mountain solitude, naturally lends congenial conditions of life to the predatory forms that rely on hooked bill, on tooth and claw, fang and talon, to ravage their more gentle neighbours. savage raptores, furred and feathered, characterise her wilder scenes. wherever one may travel, a day's ride will surely reveal huge vultures and eagles circling aloft, intent on blood. throughout the wooded plains the majestic imperial eagle is overlord--you know him afar in sable uniform, offset by snow-white epaulets. among the sierras a like condominium is shared by the golden and bonelli's eagles--and they have half-a-dozen rivals, to say nothing of lynxes and fierce wolves (we give a photo of one, the gape of whose jaws exceeds by one-half that of an african hyaena). then there patrol the wastes a horde of savage night-rovers, denominated in spanish _alimañas_, to which a special chapter is devoted. [illustration: types of spanish bird-life white-faced duck (_erismatura leucocephala_) bill much dilated, waxy-blue in colour. wings extremely short; a sheeny grebe-like plumage, and long stiff tail, often carried erect.] in estremadura, where man is a negligible quantity, and along the wild wooded valley of the tagus, roams the fallow-deer in aboriginal purity of blood--whether any other european country can so claim it, the authors have been unable to ascertain. in cantabria and the pyrenees the chamois abounds. of the big game (the list includes red, roe, and fallow-deer, wild-boar, ibex, chamois, brown bear, etc.), we treat in full detail hereafter. as regards winged game, this south-western corner of europe, is singularly weak. there exists but a single resident species of true game-bird--the redleg. compare this with northern europe, where, in a scandinavian elk-forest, we have shot five kinds of grouse within five miles; while southwards, in africa, francolins and guinea-fowl are counted in dozens of species. true, there are ptarmigan in the pyrenees, capercaillie, hazel-grouse, and grey partridge in cantabria, but all these are confined to the biscayan area. nor are we overlooking the grandest game-bird of all, the great bustard, chiefest ornament of spanish steppe, and there are others--the lesser bustard, quail, sand-grouse, etc.--but these hardly fall within our definition. as for the teeming hosts of wildfowl and waterfowl that throng the spanish marismas (some coming from africa in spring, the bulk fleeing hither from the arctic winter), all these are so fully treated elsewhere as to need no further notice here. spain boasts several distinct species peculiar to her limits. among such (besides the ibex) are that curious amphibian, the pyrenean musk-rat (_myogale pyrenaica_), not again to be met with nearer than the eastern confines of europe. birds afford an even more striking instance. the spanish azure-winged magpie (_cyanopica cooki_) abounds in castile, estremadura, and the sierra moréna, but its like is seen nowhere else on earth till you reach china and japan! chapter iii the coto doÑana: our historic hunting-ground a foreword by sir maurice de bunsen, g.c.m.g., british ambassador at madrid. among my recollections of spain none will be more vivid and delightful than those of my visits to the coto doñana. from beginning to end, climate, scenery, sport, and hospitable entertainment combine, in that happy region, to make the hours all too short for the joys they bring. equipped with paradox-gun or rifle, and some variety of ammunition, to suit the shifting requirements of deer and boar, lynx, partridge, wild-geese and ducks, snipe, rabbit and hare, nay, perhaps a chance shot at flamingo, vulture, or eagle, the favoured visitor steps from the bonanza pier into the broad wherry waiting to carry him across the guadalquivir, a few miles only from its outflow into the atlantic. in its hold the first of many enticing _bocadillos_ is spread before him. table utensils are superfluous luxuries, but, armed with hunting blade and a formidable appetite, he plays havoc with the red mullet, _tortilla_, and _carne de membrillo_, washed down with a tumbler of sherry which has ripened through many a year in a not far distant _bodega_. in half an hour he is in the saddle. distances and sandy soil prohibit much walking in the coto doñana. [illustration: sand waste in coto doÑana.] [illustration: landscape in coto doÑana, with marisma in background. from photographs by h.r.h. philippe, duke of orleans.] [illustration: spanish imperial eagle] marshalled by our host, the soul of the party, the cavalcade canters lightly up the sandy beach of the river. thence it strikes to the left into the pine-coverts, leading in five hours more to the friendly roof of the "palacio." a picturesque group it is with vazquez, caraballo, and other well-known figures in the van, packhorses loaded with luggage and implements of the chase, and lean, hungry _podencos_ hunting hither and thither for a stray rabbit on the way. the views are not to be forgotten, the distant ronda mountains seen through a framework of stone-pines, across seventy miles of sandy dunes, marismas, and intervening plains. after a couple of hours we skirt the famous sandhills, innocent of the slightest dash of green, which for some inscrutable reason attract, morning after morning, at the first tinge of dawn, countless greylag geese to their barren expanse and on which, _si dios quiere_, toll shall be levied ere long. the marismas and long lagoons are covered here and there with black patches crawling with myriads of waterfowl, to be described after supper by the careful vazquez as _muy pocos, un salpicon_--a mere sprinkling. their names and habits, are they not written, with the most competent of pens, in this very volume? we stop, perhaps, for a first deer-drive on our line of march. how thrilling that sudden rustle in the brushwood! stag is it, or hind, or grisly porker? as we approach the "palacio" we see the spreading oak on which perched, contemptuous and unsuspecting, the imperial eagle, honoured this year by a bullet from king alfonso's unerring rifle. as we ride through the scrub the whirr of the red-legged partridge sends an involuntary hand to the gun. they may await another day. at dusk we ride into the whitewashed _patio_, just in time to sally forth and get a flighting woodcock between gun and lingering glow of the setting sun. for no precious hours are wasted in the coto doñana. next day at early dawn, maybe, if the lagoon be our destination, or at any rate after a timely breakfast, off starts again the eager cavalcade, be it in quest of red deer or less noble quarry. then all day in the saddle, from drive to drive, dismounting only to lie in wait for a stag, or trudge through the sage-bushes after partridge, or flounder through the boggy _soto_, beloved of snipe, with intervening oases for the unforgotten _bocadillo_. if vazquez be kind, he will take you one day to crouch with him behind his well-trained stalking-horse, drawing craftily nearer and nearer to where the duck sit thickest, till, straightening your aching back, you have leave to put in your two barrels, as vazquez lays low some twenty couples with one booming shot from his four-bore, into the brown. [illustration: egret-heronry at santolalla, coto doÑana. (the foreground is sand.) from photographs by h. r. h. philippe, duke of orleans.] but one morning surely a visit must be paid to the sandhills. caraballo will call you at a.m., and soon after you will be jogging over the six or eight miles which separate the "palacio" from that morning _rendezvous_ of the greylag. the stars still shine brightly as you dismount at the foot of the long stretch of dunes. a few minutes' trudge will deposit you in a round hole dug deep in the dazzling white expanse the day before; for a hole too freshly dug will expose the damp brown sand from below, staining the spotless surface with a warning blotch, and causing the wary geese to swerve beyond the range of your no. shot. it is still dark as you drop into your hole. gradually the sky grows greyer and lighter, till the sun rises from the round yellow rim of the blue morning sky. who shall describe the magic thrill of the first hoarse notes falling on your straining ear? the temptation to peep out is strong, but crouching deep down, you wait till the mighty pinions beat above you, and the first wedge of eight or ten sails grandly away in the morning sun. you judge them out of shot. but surely this second batch is lower down? are they not close upon you? why then no response to your two barrels? was the emotion too great, or have you misjudged the speed of that easy flight or its distance through the crystal air? all the keener is the joy when, with heavy thump, your first goose is landed on the sand amid the tin decoys. when three or four lie there, vazquez will send his fleet two-legged "water-dog" to set them up with twigs supporting their bills, to beguile more of their kind into line with the barrels. if the day be propitious, the sky will be dotted at times with geese in all directions. now and again they will give you a shot, the expert taking surely three or four to the tyro's one. it is half-past eight, and you have sat in your hole close on two hours before vazquez comes to gather the slain, to which he will add two or three more, marked down afar, and picked up as dead as the rest. never have two of your waking hours passed so quickly. what would you not give to live them over again and undo some of those inexplicable misses? but one goose alone would amply repay that early start. even four or five are all you can carry, and the twenty or thirty that our expert [who must be nameless] would have shot, will live to stock the world afresh. [illustration: spanish lynx] among the fauna of the coto doñana, a word must be given to the lynx. never can i forget sitting one afternoon, paradox in hand, on the fringe of a covert. i was waiting for stag, rather drowsily, for the beat was a long one and the sun hot, when my eyes suddenly rested on a lynx standing broadside among the bushes, beyond a bare belt of sand, some fifty yards off. fain would i have changed my bullet for slugs, but those sharp ears would have detected the slightest click; so i loosed my bullet for what it was worth. the lynx was gone. when the beat came at last to an end, i thought i would just have a look at his tracks. he lay stone-dead behind a bush, shot through the heart. the eventful days are all too soon over. but the recollection remains of happy companionship and varying adventure, of easy intercourse between spaniard and englishman, with the echo of many a sporting tale, mingled with sage discourse from qualified lips on the habits of bird and beast. who can tell you more about them than that group of true sportsmen and lovers of nature whose names, garvey, buck, gonzalez, and chapman, are indissolubly linked with the more modern history of the famous coto doñana? maurice de bunsen. british embassy, madrid, _july _. [illustration: greenshank (_totanus canescens_)] chapter iv the coto doÑana notes on its physical formation, fauna, and red deer the great river guadalquivir, dividing in its oblique course seawards into double channels and finally swerving, as though reluctant to lose all identity in the infinite atlantic, practically cuts off from the spanish mainland a triangular region, some forty miles of waste and wilderness, an isolated desert, singular as it is beautiful, which we now endeavour to describe. this, from our having for many years held the rights of chase, we can at least undertake with knowledge and affection. [illustration] its precise geological formation 'twere beyond our power, unskilled in that science, to diagnose. but even to untaught eye, the existence of the whole area is obviously due to an age-long conflict waged between two powers--the great river from within, the greater ocean without. the guadalquivir, draining the distant mountains of moréna and full miles of intervening plain, rolls down a tawny flood charged with yellow mud till its colour resembles _café au lait_. thus proceeds a ceaseless deposit of sediment upon the sea-bed; but the external power forcibly opposes such infringement of its area. here the elemental battle is joined. the river has so far prevailed as to have grabbed from the sea many hundred square miles of alluvial plain, that known as the marisma; but at this precise epoch, the sea-power appears to have called checkmate by interposing a vast barrier of sand along the whole battle-front. the net result remains that to-day there is tacked on to the southernmost confines of europe a singular exotic patch of african desert. this sand-barrier, known as the coto doñana, occupies, together with its adjoining dunes on the west, upwards of forty miles of the spanish coast-line, its maximum breadth reaching in places to eight or ten miles. the coto doñana is cut off from the mainland of spain not only by the great river, but by the marisma--a watery wilderness wide enough to provide a home for wandering herds of wild camels. (see rough sketch-map above.) sand and sand alone constitutes the soil-substance of doñana, overlying, presumably, the buried alluvia beneath. yet a wondrous beauty and variety of landscape this desolate region affords. from the river's mouth forests of stone-pine extend unbroken league beyond league, hill and hollow glorious in deep-green foliage, while the forest-floor revels in wealth of aromatic shrubbery all lit up by chequered rays of dappled sunlight. westward, beyond the pine-limit, stretch regions of saharan barrenness where miles of glistening sand-wastes devoid of any vestige of vegetation dazzle one's sight--a glory of magnificent desolation, the splendour of sterility. to home-naturalists the scene may recall st. john's classic sandhills of moray, but magnified out of recognition by the vastly greater scale, as befits their respective creators--in the one case the -league north sea, here the -league atlantic. rather would we compare these marram-tufted, wind-sculptured sand-wastes with the red sea litoral and the egyptian soudan, where osman digna led british troops memorable dances in the 'nineties--alike both in their physical aspect and in their climate, red-hot by day, yet apt to be deadly chilly after sundown. resonant with the weird cry of the stone-curlew and the rhythmic roar of the atlantic beyond, these seaward dunes are everywhere traced with infinite spoor of wild beasts, and dotted by the conical pitfalls dug by ant-lions (_myrmeleon_). [illustration: in doÑana.] between these extremes of deep forest and barren dune are interposed intermediate regions partaking of the character of both. here the intrusive pine projects forest-strips, called _corrales_, as it were long oases of verdure, into the heart of the desert, hidden away between impending dunes which rear themselves as a mural menace on either hand, and towering above the summits of the tallest trees. nor is the menace wholly hypothetic; for not seldom has the unstable element shifted bodily onwards to engulf in molecular ruin whole stretches of these isolated and enclosed _corrales_. noble pines, already half submerged, struggle in death-grips with the treacherous foe; of others, already dead, naught save the topmost summits, sere and shrunk, protrude above that devouring smiling surface, beneath which, one assumes, there lie the skeletons of buried forests of a bygone age. all along these lonely dunes there stand at regular intervals the grim old watch-towers of the moors, reminiscent of half-forgotten times and of a vanished race. arab telegraphy was neither wireless nor fireless when beacon-lights blazing out from tower to tower spread instant alarm from sea to sierra, seventy miles away. in contrast with the scenery of both these zones, shows up the landscape of a third region, on the west--that of scrub. here, one day later in geological sense, the eye roams over endless horizons of rolling grey-green brushwood, the chief component of which is cistus (_helianthemum_), but interspersed in its moister dells with denser jungle of arbutus and lentisk, genista, tree-heath, and giant-heather, with wondrous variety of other shrubs; the whole studded and ornamented by groves of stately cork-oaks or single scattered trees. all these, with the ilex, being evergreen, one misses those ever-changing autumnal tints that glorify the "fall" in northern climes. here only a sporadic splash of sere or yellow relieves the uniform verdure. obviously regions of such physical character can ill subserve any human purpose. as designed by nature, they afford but a home for wild beasts, fowls of the air, and other _ferae_ which abound in striking and charming variety. for centuries the coto doñana formed, as the name imports, the hunting-ground of its lords, the dukes of medina sidonia, and to not a few of the spanish kings--from phillip iv. in the early part of the seventeenth century (as recorded by the contemporary chronicler, pedro espinosa) to alfonso xii. in , and quite recently to h.m. don alfonso xiii. for five-and-twenty years the authors have been co-tenants, previously under the aforesaid ducal house; latterly under our old friend, the present owner. the sparse population of doñana includes a few herdsmen (_vaqueros_) who tend the wild-bred cattle and horses that in semi-feral condition wander both in the regions of scrub and out in the open marisma. nomadic charcoal-burners squat in the forests, shifting their reed-built wigwams (_chozas_) as the exigencies of work require; while the gathering of pine-cones yields a precarious living to a handful of _piñoneros_. lastly, but most important to us, there are the guardas or keepers, keen-eyed, leather-clad, and sun-bronzed to the hue of red indians. there are a dozen of these wild men distributed at salient points of the coto, most of them belonging to families which have held these posts, sons succeeding fathers, for generations. of three such cycles we have ourselves already been witnesses. briefly to summarise a rich and heterogeneous fauna is not easy; a volume might be devoted to this region alone. elsewhere in this book some few subjects are treated in detail. here we merely attempt an outline sketch. [illustration: marsh-harrier (_circus aeruginosus_)] throughout the winter (excepting only the wildfowl) there exists no such conspicuous ornithic display as appeals to casual eye or ear--those, say, of the average traveller. ride far and wide through these wild landscapes in december or january, and you may wonder if their oft-boasted wealth of bird-life be not exaggerated. you see, perhaps, little beyond the ubiquitous birds-of-prey. these are ever the first feature to strike a stranger. great eagles, soaring in eccentric circles, hunt the cistus-clad plain; the wild scream of the kite rings out above the pines, and shapely buzzards adorn some dead tree. over rush-girt bogs soar weird marsh-harriers--three flaps and a drift as, with piercing sight, they scan each tuft and miss not so much as a frog or a wounded wigeon. all these and others of their race are naturally conspicuous. but, though unseen, there lurk all around other forms of equal beauty and interest, abundant enough, but secretive and apt to be overlooked save by closest scrutiny. that, however, is a characteristic of winter in all temperate lands. birds at that season are apt to be silent and elusive, but their absence is apparent rather than real. [illustration: "silent songsters"] all around you, in fact, forest and jungle, scrub, sallow, and bramble-brake abound with minor bird-forms--with our british summer visitors, here settled down in their winter quarters; with charming exotic warblers and silent songsters--all off work for the season. where nodding bulrush fringes quaking bog, or miles of tasselled cane-brakes border the marsh, there is the home of infinite feathered amphibians, crakes and rails, of reed-climbers and bush-skulkers, all for the nonce silent, shy, reclusive. [illustration: blackstart (_ruticilla titys_) abundant in winter; retires to the sierra to nest.] their portraits, roughly caught during hours of patient waiting, may be found (some of them) scattered through these chapters. but the present is not the place for detail. the land-birds in winter you hardly see, for they "take cover." diametrically different--in cause and effect--is the case of wildfowl. these, by the essence of their natures and by their economic necessities, are always conspicuous, for they inhabit solely the open spaces of earth--the "spaces" that no longer exist at home: shallows, wastes, and tidal flats devoid of covert. wildfowl, for that reason, have long learnt to discard all attempt at concealment, to rely for safety upon their own eyesight and incredible wildness. no illusory idea that security may be sought in covert abuses their keen and receptive instincts. probably it never did. nowadays, at any rate, they openly defy the human race with all its brain-begotten devices. there, in "waste places," wildfowl sit or fly--millions of them--conspicuous and audible so far as human sense of sight and sound can reach, and there bid defiance to us all. much of these wastes are not (in the cant of a hypocritical age) "undeveloped," but rather, as means exist, incapable of development. such spectacles of wild life as these andalucian marismas to-day present are probably unsurpassed elsewhere in europe--or possibly in the world. in foreground, background, and horizon both earth and sky are filled with teeming, living multitudes; while the shimmering grey monotony of the marisma, tessellated with its grey armies of the _anatidae_, is everywhere brightened and adorned by rosy battalions of flamingoes. and out there, far beyond our visible horizon, there wander in that watery wilderness the wild camels, to which we devote a separate chapter. flamingoes ignore the limits of continents, and shift their mobile headquarters between europe and africa as the respective rainfall in either happens to suit their requirements. hence, whether by day or night, the sight or sound of gabbling columns of flamingoes passing through the upper air is a characteristic of these lonely regions, irrespective of season. cranes also in marshalled ranks, and storks, continually pass to and fro. the african coast, of course, lies well within their range of vision from the start. [illustration: ( ) saharan sand-dunes.] [illustration: ( ) transport.] [illustration: ( ) a corral, or pine-wood enclosed by sand. three views in coto doÑana.] then as winter merges into spring--what time those clanging crowds of wild-geese and myriad north-bound ducks depart--there pours into andalucia an inrush of african and subtropical bird-forms. the sunlit woodland gleams with brilliant rollers and golden orioles, while bee-eaters, rivalling the rainbow in gorgeous hues, poise and dart in the sunshine, and their harsh "chack, chack," resounds on every side. woodchats, spotted cuckoos, hoopoes, and russet nightjars appear; lovely wheatears in cream and black adorn the palm-clad plain. with them comes the deluge--no epitomised summary is possible when, within brief limits, the whole feathered population of southern europe is metamorphosed. the winter half has gone north; its place is filled by the tropical inrush aforesaid. warblers and waders, larks, finches, and fly-catchers, herons, ibis, ducks, gulls, and terns--all orders and genera pour in promiscuously, defying cursory analysis. [illustration: great spotted cuckoo (_oxylophus glandarius_)] a single class only will here be specifically mentioned, and that because it throws light on climatic conditions. among these vernal arrivals come certain raptores in countless numbers--all those which are dependent on reptile and insect food. for even in sunny andalucia the larger reptiles and insects hibernate; hence their persecutors (including various eagles, buzzards, and harriers, with kites and kestrels in thousands) are driven to seek winter-quarters in africa. another phenomenon deserves note. weeks, nay months, after this great vernal upturn in bird-life has completed its revolution, and when the newcomers have already half finished the duties of incubation, then in may suddenly occurs an utterly belated little migration quite disconnected from all the rest. this is the passage, or rather through-transit, of those far-flying cosmopolites of space that make the whole world their home. they have been wintering in south africa and madagascar, in australia and new zealand, and are now returning to their summer breeding-grounds in farthest siberia, beyond the yenisei. thus some morning in early may one sees the marismas filled with godwits and knots, curlew-sandpipers and grey plovers, all in their glorious summer-plumage. but these only tarry here a few days. a short week before they had thronged the shores of the southern hemisphere--far beyond the zodiac of capricorn. a week hence and they are at home in the arctic. andalucia possesses a feathered census that approaches species; but of these hardly a score are permanently resident throughout the year. [illustration: "globe-spanners" rest twelve hours in spain on the journey--australia to siberia.] four-footed creatures are less difficult of diagnosis than are birds. by nature less mobile, they are infinitely less numerous specifically. relatively the spanish census is long, and includes, locally, quite a number of interesting beasts that are "lumped together" as _alimañas_--to wit, lynxes, wild-cats, genets, mongoose, foxes, otters, badgers, of which we treat separately. the two chief game-animals of the coto doñana are the red deer and the wild-boar. these two we here examine from the sportsman's point of view as much as from that of the naturalist. the spanish red deer are specifically identical with those of scotland and the rest of europe, and are distributed over the whole southern half of the iberian peninsula--say south of a line drawn through madrid. their haunts, as a rule, are restricted to the mountain-ranges--especially the sierra moréna, where they attain their highest development. that red deer should be found inhabiting lowlands such as the coto doñana is wholly exceptional. in estremadura, it is true, there are wild regions (in badajoz and cáceres) where deer are spread far and wide over wooded and scrub-clad plains, all these, however, being subjacent to neighbouring sierras, which refuges are available for retreat in case of need. nowhere else in spain, save here in the coto doñana only, are red deer restricted exclusively to lowlands. [illustration: confidence] this south-spanish race (the southernmost of all if we except the distinct but limited breed that yet maintains a foothold in north africa, the barbary stag, which is white-spotted) differs from scotch types in their longer faces and slim necks unadorned with the hairy "ruff" of harsher climes. beyond a doubt, when our species-splitting friends arrive in spain, they will differentiate her red deer (and ibex also) in various species or subspecies, each with a latin trinomial. such energies, however, may easily be superfluous, even where not actually mischievous. for practical purposes there exists but one european species, though it has, even within spain, its local varieties; while, further afield, geographical and climatic divergencies naturally tend to increase.[ ] we cannot claim for our lowland deer of doñana a high standard of comparative quality; they are, in fact, the smallest race in spain, almost puny as compared with her mountain breed--smaller also than the barbary stag. clean weights here rarely exceed lbs., while a -in. head must be accounted beyond the average. the general type, both of horn and body, is illustrated by various photos and drawings in this book. deer-shooting in spain takes place in the winter. the rutting season commences at the end of august, terminating early in october, and stags have recovered condition by the end of november. the habits of red deer being, here as elsewhere, strictly nocturnal, and the country densely clad with bush, it follows that these animals are seldom seen amove during daylight. hence deer-stalking, properly so called, is not available, nor is the method much esteemed in spain. in scotland one may detect deer, though it be but a tip of an antler, when couched in the tallest heather or fern. here, where heather grows six or eight feet in height with a bewildering jumble of other shrubbery of like proportions, no such view is possible. hence "driving" is in spain the usual method of deer-shooting, whether in mountain or lowland. [illustration: abnormal cast antler (picked up in doñana.)] [illustration] there is, nevertheless, one opportunity of stalking which (though not regarded with favour) has yet afforded us delightful mornings, and to which a few lines of description are due. the plan is based upon cutting-out the deer as they return from their nocturnal pasturages at daybreak. as the last watch of night wears on towards the dawn, the deer, withdrawing from their feeding-grounds on open strath or marsh, slowly direct a course covertwards, lingering here and there to nibble a tempting genista, or to snatch up a bunch of red bog-grass on their course. we have reached a favourite glade, often used by deer. it is not yet light--rather it might be described as nearly dark--when the splashing of light hoofs through water puts us on the alert. a few moments suffice to gain a bushy point beyond; whence presently six or eight nebulous forms emerge from deceitful gloom. of course there is not a horn among them, bar a little yearling, for good stags never come thus in troops, and with all due caution, so as to avoid alarming these, we hurry away to try another likely spot. time is of the essence of this business, for light is now strengthening, and in another half-hour the deer will all have gained their coverts and the chance will be past. again groups of hinds and small beasties meet our gaze; but some distance beyond are a couple of stags. it is light enough now, by aid of the glass, to count their points--only eight apiece, no use. while yet we watch, a pack of graceful white egrets alight close around the nearer deer--some dart actively between the grazing animals picking flies and insects from their legs and stomachs; two actually perching, cavalier-like, on their withers to search for ticks--magpies, on occasion, we have observed similarly employed. the sun's rim now peers from out the watery wastes in front; nothing worth a bullet has appeared, and our morning's work looks as good as lost when my companion, pepe, detects two really good stags which, though already within the shelter of fringing pines, yet linger in a lovely glade, tempted for fatal minutes by a clump of flowering rosemary. the wind demands a considerable detour; yet the pair still dally while we gain the deadly range, and a second later the better of the two drops amidst the ensnaring blue blossoms. pepe's half-soliloquising comment precisely interprets the spanish estimate of stalking:--"the first stag i ever saw shot with his head down!" other countries, other standards; but there is a ring of sterling chivalry in it too. the idea conveyed is that the noble stag should meet his death, only when duly forewarned of danger and bounding in wild career o'er bush and brake. without unduly trespassing on our spanish friends' susceptibilities, we have nevertheless enjoyed such mornings as this. to begin with, that hour of breaking day is ever delicious to spend afield. therein one observes to best advantage the wild beasts, undisturbed and following their secret, solitary lives--one learns more in that hour than in all the other twenty-three. one seems almost to associate with deer, so near can the troops of hinds and small staggies be approached; and, moreover, there may be afforded the advantage of selecting some splendid head afar, and thus commencing a stalk which, believe me, does not always prove easy. yonder comes a fox, trotting straight in from his night's hunting in the distant marisma. let him come on within fifty yards, and then give him a bit of a fright--it is a wild goose he drops as he turns to fly! a single glint of something ruddy catches the eye; this the glass shows to be a sunray playing on the pelt of a prowling lynx, hateful of daylight and hurrying junglewards. rarely are these nocturnals seen thus, after sun-up, and not for many seconds will the spectacle last; for no animal is more intensely habituated to concealment, or hates so much to move even a few yards in the open. following are two or three incidents selected as illustrative of this matutinal work:-- ...a really fine stag--already against the glory of the eastern light, i have counted thirteen points and there may be more. half an hour later we have gained a position--not without infinite manoeuvres, including a crawl absolutely flat across forty yards of bog and black mire--a position that in five more minutes should secure to us that trophy. the five hinds that, before it was fully light, had been in the royal company, have already, long ago, passed away in the scrub on our right, and give us now no further concern. never should hinds be thus lightly regarded! the slowly approaching stag stops to nibble a golden broom. he is already almost within shot--seconds must decide his fate--when a triple bark, petulant and defiant, breaks the silence behind. those five hinds, sauntering round, have gone under our wind, and now ... the landscape is vacant. [illustration: april.] [illustration: june.] "hinds only bark at a _persona_," remarks dominguez, as we turn homewards, "never at any other _bicho_." the stag knew that too. but it was a curious way of putting it. ...we are too early; it is still pitch-dark; no sign of dawn beyond a slight opalescence low on the eastern horizon. moreover, an icy wind rustles across the waste, and for dreary minutes we seek shelter, squatting beneath some friendly gorse. presently a strange sound--a distinct champing, and close by--strikes our ears. "un javato comiendo" = "a boar feeding," whispers dominguez, and creeping a few yards towards an open strath, we dimly descry a dusky monster. at the moment his snout is buried deep in the soil, up to the eyes, and the tremendous muscular power exerted in uprooting bulbs of palmetto arrests attention even in the quarter-light. now he stands quiescent, head up, and the champing is resumed--a rare scene. the distance is a bare fifteen yards, and all the while my companion insists on hissing in my ear, "tiré-lo, tiré-lo" = "shoot, shoot." presently up goes the boar's muzzle; straight and steadfastly he gazes in our direction, but his glance seemed to pass high over our heads. i don't think he saw us; yet a consciousness of danger had got home--in two bounds he wheeled and disappeared, headlong, amid the bush beyond. ...far and wide the bosky glade is furrowed with sinuous trenches, and infinite turrets stand erect as where children build sand-castles on the beach. last night a troop of wild-pig have sought here for mole-crickets--small fry, one may think; yet even worms they don't despise, for we have seen masses of these reptiles (some still alive) in the stomach of a newly-shot boar. follow the spoor onwards, and where it enters a pine-grove, you notice splintered cones and scattered seed. thus wild-beasts are assisting to fulfil nature's plan, and if you care to advance it another stage, turn some soil over those overlooked pine-nuts, and some day forest-monarchs will result to reward another generation. * * * * * such matutinal forays are, however, but an incident. the main system of dealing with the deer is by driving. for this purpose both the fragrant solitudes of pine and far-stretched wilds of bending cistus are mentally mapped out by the forest-guards into definite "beats," each of which has its own name; though to a casual visitor (since guns are necessarily placed differently day by day according to the wind) the actual boundaries may appear indefinite enough. on lowlands such as the coto doñana, which is more or less level and open, the use of far-ranging rifles is necessarily restricted by considerations of safety. obviously no shot, on any pretext whatever, may be fired either into the beat or until the game has passed clear of and well outside the line of guns. in every instance, as a gun is placed, the keeper in charge indicates by lines drawn in the sand or other unmistakable means the limits within which shooting is absolutely prohibited. the result, it follows, not only increases the prospective difficulty of the shot, but gives fuller scope to the instinctive intelligence of the game. for deer, unlike some winged game, do not, when driven, dash precipitately straight for illusory safety, but retire slowly and with extreme circumspection; all old stags, in particular, fully anticipate hidden dangers to lie on their line of flight, and narrowly scrutinise any suspicious feature ahead before taking risks. the gunner will therefore be wise to occupy the few minutes that remain available in so arranging both himself and his post as to be inconspicuous; and also in an accurate survey of his environment with its probable chances, thereby minimising the danger of being taken by surprise. the cunning displayed by an old stag when endeavouring to evade a line of guns at times approaches the marvellous. thus, on one occasion, the writer was warned of the near approach of game by a single "clink"--a noise which deer sometimes make, probably unintentionally, with the fore-hoof--yet seconds elapsed, and neither sight nor sound were vouchsafed. then the slightest quiver of a bough beneath caught my eye. a big stag with antlers laid flat aback, and crouching to half his usual height, though going fairly fast, was slipping, silent and invisible, through thick but low brushwood immediately beneath the little hillock whereon i lay. on examining the spot, the spoor showed that he had passed thus through openings barely exceeding two feet in height, though he stood himself forty-six inches at the withers. the feat appeared impossible.[ ] [illustration: suspicion] in thick forest or brushwood that limits the view it may be advisable to sit with back towards the beat, relying on ears to indicate the approach or movements of game. while sitting thus, it will occur that you become aware of the arrival of an animal, or of several animals, immediately behind you. the natural inclination to look round is strong; but 'twere folly to do so--fatal to success. this is the critical moment, when a few seconds of rigid stillness will be rewarded by a shot in the open. but that stillness must be statuesque, as of a stone god. for piercing eyes are instantly studying each bush and bough, and analysing at close quarters the least symptom of danger ahead. should a good stag break fairly near, it is advisable to allow it to pass well away before moving a muscle. for should the game be prematurely alarmed--say by your missing exactly upon the firing-line, or otherwise by its detecting your movement of preparation--that stag will instantly bounce back again into the beat. then, assuming that the sportsman is a tyro, or subject to "emotions" or buck-fever, there is danger of his forgetting for one moment his precise permitted line of fire; in which case a perilous shot must result. once allowed to pass _well outside_, the stag will usually continue on his course. in this, as in every form of sport, "soft chances" occasionally occur. more often, the rifle will be directed at a galloping stag crashing through bush that conceals him up to the withers; or, it may be, bounding over inequalities of broken ground or brushwood, or among timber, at any distance up to yards, sometimes , while, should he have touched a taint in the wind, his pace will be tremendous. although to casual view a plain of level contours this country is undulated to an extent that deceives a careless eye--the more accentuated by the monotone of cistus-scrub that appears so uniform. in reality there traverse the plain glens and gently graded hollows the less apt to be noticed, inasmuch as the scrub in moister dell grows higher. far through the marish green and still the watercourses sleep. inspiring moments are those when--before the beat has commenced--your eye catches on some far-away skyline the broad antlers of a stag. this animal has perhaps been on foot and alert, or maybe has taken the "wind" from the group of beaters wending a way to their points far beyond. for three seconds the antlers remain stationary, then vanish into some intervening glen. a glance around shows your next neighbour still busy completing his shelter--meritorious work if done in time--and you have strong suspicion that the man beyond will just now be lighting a cigarette! such thoughts flash through one's mind; the dominant question that fills it is: "where will that great stag reappear?" but few seconds are needed to solve it. perhaps he dashes, harmless, upon the careless, perhaps upon the slow--lucky for him should either such event befall! on the other hand, those moments of glorious expectancy may resolve in a crash of brushwood hard by, in a clinking of cloven hoofs, and a noble hart with horns aback is bounding past your own ready post. what proportion, we inwardly inquire, of the stags that are killed by craftsmen has already, just before, offered first chance to the careless or the slovenly? [illustration: "inspiring moments." (neither caught napping.)] we may conclude this chapter with an independent impression. lying hidden in one of these lonely _puestos_--writes j. c. c.--ever induces in me a powerful and sedative sense of contemplation and reflection, though fully alert all the time. while thus waiting and watching, i can't but marvel, first at nature's wondrous plan of waste--a scheme here without apparent object or promise of fulfilment. where i lie the prospect comprises nothing but melancholy and unutterably silent solitudes of sand, droughty wastes with but at rare intervals some starveling patch of scant weird shrub destined either to shrivel in summer's sun or shiver in winter's winds. but, lying in that environment, one marvels yet more at the extreme caution displayed by wild animals; one has exceptional opportunity of admiring the exquisitive gifts bestowed by nature upon her _ferae_. here is a young stag coming straight along, down-wind, ere yet the beat has begun, and in a desolate spot which to human sense could betray absolutely no feature or taint of danger. suddenly he becomes rigid, arrested in mid-career--sniffing at a pure untainted air, yet conscious somehow of something wrong somewhere! it is a miraculous gift, though one cannot but feel grateful that we humans are devoid of senses that ever keep nerves in highest tension. here is a sketch of a non-shootable stag thus suddenly statuetted thirty yards from me snugly hidden well down-wind, and so intensely interested that _something else_ (a very old pal) well-nigh escaped notice. [illustration: altabaca (_scrofularia_) the starveling shrub that grows in sand.] [illustration: tomillo de arena another sand-plant (in spring has a lovely pink bloom like sea-thrift).] that something was our good friend reynard--_zorro_ they style him out here--whose proverbial cunning exceeds all other cunnings. he has come down to my track and there stopped dead, expressing in every detail the very essence of doubly-distilled subtlety and craft. at those footprints he halts, sniffs the wind, curls his brush dubiously--as a cat will do when pleased--but not sure yet of his next move. one second's consideration decides him and it is executed at once--he is off like a gust of wind. but a paradox ball at easy range in the open broke a hind-leg, and it was curious to note his evolutions--he, poor fellow, not realising what had occurred, flung himself round and round in rapid gyrations, the while biting at his own hind-leg. needless to say not an instant passed ere a second ball terminated his sufferings. to observe the beautiful traits in the habits of wild beasts is to me quite as great a joy as adding them to my score and immensely augments the enjoyment of a big-game drive. [illustration: "what's this?"] red deer heads--_coto doÑana_. this list is neither comprehensive nor consecutive, but merely a record of such good and typical heads as we happened to have within reach. _for table of heads of mountain-deer see chapter on sierra moréna._ ---------------+---------------+--------------+--------+-------+-------------- | | widest. | | | | length. |--------------|circum- |points.| remarks. | (inches.) |tips. |inside.|ference.| | ---------------+---------------+------+-------+--------+-------+-------------- w. i. b. | - / | |... | ... | | do. | + - / | - / |... | ... | |no bez. p. garvey | | |... | - / | | col. brymer | - / + | | | - / | |no bez. col. echagüe | - / + - / | | | - / | | on each top. villa-marta, | - / + - / | - / |... | - / | | on each top, marquis | | | | | | but bez | | | | | | wanting. segovia, | | | | | | gonzalo[ ] | - / + - / | - / |... | - / | |no bez. arión, duke of | + | |... | ... | | a. c. | + - / | |... | | | do. | - / | - / |... | - / | | p. n. gonzalez | - / | | | | | arión, duke of | - / | | - / | - / | |no bez. f. j. mitchell | + | - / |... | ... | | on each top. a. c. | + - / | | | - / | | do. | - / | - / | | - / | |at british | | | | | | museum. williams, alex.| - / | - / | - / | - / | | b. f. b. | - / + | - / | - / | - / | | de bunsen, | | | | | | sir m. | - / + | |... | - / | | b. f. b. | - / + - / | - / |... | - / | | j. c. c. | | - / | - / | - / | | b. f. b. | - / | - / | | - / | | ---------------+---------------+------+-------+--------+-------+------------- ordinary royals (by which we mean full-grown stags in their first prime) average or inches in length of horn. heads of to inches belong to rather older beasts which have continued to improve. anything beyond the latter measurement is quite exceptional, and is often due, not so much to fair straight length of the main beam as to an abnormal development of one of the top tines--usually directed backwards. there are, however, included in our records two or three examples of long straight heads which fairly exceed the -inch length. chapter v andalucia and its big game still-hunting (red deer) the line of least resistance represents twentieth-century ideals--maximum results for the minimum of labour or technical skill. in the field of sport, wherever available, universal "driving" supersedes the arts of earlier venery--the pride of past generations. in spain, more leisurely while no less dignified, there survive in sport, as in other matters, practices more consonant with the dash and chivalry popularly ascribed to her national character. such, for example, is the attack, single-handed, on bear or boar with cold steel--_á arma blanca_, in castilian phrase. here we purpose describing the system of "still-hunting" (_rastreando_) as practised in andalucia with a skill that equals the best of the american "red indian," and is only surpassed, within our experience, by somalis and wandorobo savages in east africa. before day-dawn we are away with our two trackers. maybe it is a lucky morning, and as the first streaks of light illumine the wastes, they reveal to our gaze a first-rate stag. in that case the venture is vastly simplified. it is merely necessary to allow time for the stag to reach his lie-up, and the spoor can be followed at once. but barring such exceptional fortune, it is necessary to find, or rather to select from amidst infinity of tracks crossing and recrossing hither and thither in bewildering profusion the trail of such a master-beast as clearly is worthy the labour of a long day's pursuit. twice and again we follow a spoor for yards or more over difficult ground before finally deciding that its owner is not up to our standard of quality, and the interrupted search is resumed. once found, there is rarely room for mistake with a really big spoor. the breadth of heel, the length and deep-cut prints of the cloven toes attest both weight and quality. the ground is open, soft, and easy. the big new track, with its spurts of forward-projected sand, are visible yards ahead. we follow almost at a run--how simple it seems! but not for long. soon comes check no. . a dozen other deer have followed on the same line, and the original trail is obliterated. the troop leads on into a region of boundless bush, shoulder-high, where the ground is harder and the trackers spread out to right and left, backing each other with silent signals. their skill and patience fascinate; but it is to me, in the centre, that after a long hour's scrutiny, falls the satisfaction of rediscovering that big track where it diverges alone on the left. half a mile beyond, our erratic friend has passed through water. for a space a broken reed here or displaced lilies there help us forward; then the deepening water, all open, bears no trace. the opposite shore, moreover, is fringed by a -yard belt of bulrush and ten-foot canes, and beyond all that lies heavy jungle. you give it up? admittedly these are no lines of least resistance, but we will cut the unpopular part as short as may be and merely add that it was high noon ere, after three hours' work--puzzling out problems and paradoxes, now following a false clue, anon recovering the true one--that at last the big spoor on dry land once more rejoiced our sight. more than that, it now bears evidence--to eyes that can read--that our stag is approaching his selected stronghold. he goes slowly. here he has stopped to survey his rear--there he has lingered to nibble a genista, and the spoor zigzags to and fro. now it turns at sharp angle, following a cheek-wind, and a suggestive grove of cork-oaks embedded in heavy bush lies ahead. one hunter opines the stag lies up here: the other doubts. no half-measures suffice. we turn down-wind, detouring to reach the main outlet (_salida_) to leeward; here i remain hidden, while my companions, separating on right and left, proceed to encircle the _mancha_. two hinds break hard by, and presently juan returns with word that the stag has passed through the covert--better still, that a second big beast has joined the first, and that the double spoor, moving dead-slow and three-quarters up wind, proceeds due north. another mile and then right ahead lies heavy covert, but long and straggling, and the halting trail indicates this as a certain find. the strategic position is simple, but tactics, for a single gun, leave endless scope for decision. our first rule in all such cases is to get _close in_, risk what it may. hence, while my companions separated, as before, to encircle the covert from right and left, the writer crept forward yard by yard till a fairly broad and convenient open suggested the final stand. not ten minutes had elapsed, nor had a sound reached my ears, when as by magic the figure of a majestic stag filled a glade on the left--what a picture, as with head erect he daintily picked his unconscious way! clearly he suspected nothing _here_; but, having got sense, sight, or scent of juan far beyond, was astutely moving away, with intelligent anticipation, to safer retreat. the shot was of the simplest, and merely black antlers crowned with triple ivory tips marked the fatal point among deep green rushes. now when two big stags fraternise, as they frequently do, it usually happens that, when pressed, both animals will finally seek the same exit, even though a shot has already been fired there. i had accordingly instructed the keepers that in the event of my firing, each should discharge his gun in the air, at the same time loosing one dog. the expected shots now rang out, presently followed by a crashing in the brushwood. this proved to be caused by a handful of hinds with, alas! the loose dog baying at their heels. the adverse odds had fallen to zero, till juan, divining what had occurred, fired again and slipt the other dog. anxious minutes slowly passed while my two biped sleuth-hounds on the other side gradually, yard by yard, made good their advance; for the wit and wiles, the practised cunning of an old stag when thus cornered, need every scrap of our human skill to out-general, and nothing to spare at that. but that skill was not at fault to-day, and in the thick of the _mancha_, manuel presently "jumped" the recusant hart from almost beneath his feet, and his view-halloa reached expectant ears. [illustration] then, within a few yards of the spot where no. had silently appeared, out bounced no. , but in widely different style. in huge bounds, with head and neck horizontal and antlers laid flat aback, he covered the open like a racer. the first shot got in too far back, but the second went right, and the two friends lay not divided in death. both were _coronados_ (triple-crowned), indeed the second carried four-on-top in double pairs as sketched--a not uncommon formation--but being very old, lacked bez tines. very nearly five hours had elapsed since we had first struck the spoor, five hours of concentrated attention, crowned by the final assertion of human "dominion." and during these moments of permissible expansion, there was impressed on our minds the fact that such success involves mastery of a difficult craft. [illustration: "taking the wind" (a stag, on recognising human scent, will give a bound as though a knife had been plunged into his heart.)] illustrative of how astutely a cornered stag will exploit every device and avenue of escape, an excellent instance is given in _wild spain_, p. . skilled deer-driving is a different undertaking from the _force majeure_ by which pheasants and such-like game may be pushed over a line of guns. for deer do not act on timid impulse, but on practical instinct. scent is their first safeguard when danger threatens and their natural flight is up-wind. but as it is obviously impossible to place guns to windward, the operation resolves itself into moving the game--dead against its instinct and set inclination--down-wind, or at least on a "half-wind." the latter is easier as an operation, but less effective in result: since the guns must be posted in echelon--otherwise each "gives the wind" to his next neighbour below. consequently the firing-zone of each is greatly circumscribed. in practice, therefore, the game has to be moved or cajoled--it can hardly be said to be "driven"--into going, at least so far, down-wind by skilled handling of the driving-line and by intelligent co-operation on the part of each individual driver. in the great mountain-drives of the sierras (elsewhere described) packs of hounds, being carefully trained, perform infinite service. always under control of their huntsman, they systematically search out thickets impenetrable to man and push all game forward. in the coto doñana, our scratch-pack of _podencos_ and mongrels of every degree, run riot unchecked at hind, hare, or rabbit, giving tongue in all directions at once, and probably do as much harm as good. our mounted keepers, however, expert in divining afar the yet unformed designs of the game ahead, are quick to counter each move by a feint or demonstration behind; and when desirable, to forestall attempted escape by resolute riding. the spanish are a nation of horsemen, and a fine sight it is to see these wild guardas galloping helter-skelter through scrub that reaches the saddle--especially the way they ride down a wounded stag or boar with the _garrocha_--a long wooden lance. despite it all, however, many stags break back. riding with the beaters it is instructive to watch the manoeuvres of an old stag as, sinking from sight, he couches among quite low scrub on some hillock, or stands statuesque with horns aback hiding behind a clump of tall tree-heaths--alert all the while, stealthily to shift his position as yapping _podencos_ on one side or the other may suggest--and watching each opportunity to evade the encompassing danger. now a stretch of denser jungle obstructs the advancing line. the beaters are forced apart to pass it, and a gap or two yawns in the attack. instantly that introspective wild beast realises his advantage--he springs to sight, ignores spanish expletives that scorch the scrub, and in giant bounds breaks back in the very face of encircling foes. within thirty seconds he has regained security amid leagues of untrodden wilds. some years ago we tried the plan of placing one (or two) guns with the driving-line; but the experiment proved impracticable. obviously only the coolest and most reliable men could be trusted in an essay which otherwise involved danger. unfortunately--and it is but human nature--every one considers himself equally cool and reliable. hence the breakdown and abandonment of the practice. for the long line of beaters, struggling at different points through obstacles of varying difficulty, necessarily loses precise formation; it becomes more or less broken and scattered. here and there a man may get "stuck" and left a hundred yards behind the general advance. the risk in "firing back" is obvious. the writer remembers being one of two guns with the beaters, when a pair of stags, jumping up close ahead, bolted straight back, passing almost within arm's length. as the second carried a fairly good head, i dismounted and shot it, but was then horrified to discover that my companion-gun had (contrary to all rules) gone back in that very direction to shoot a _woodcock_! driving big game on "driving" as such we do not propose to enlarge. the system is simple though the practice is subject to variation. on the gently undulated levels of doñana, for example, the latter (as already indicated) is widely differentiated from the systems practised in mountainous countries--whether in scotland or the spanish sierras--where shots can safely be accepted at incoming or at passing game. guns are there protected from danger by intervening ridges, crags, and piled-up rocks that flank each "pass." here the game must be left to pass well through and outside the line of guns before a shot is permissible. our "drives," whether in forest or scrub, seldom exceed a couple of miles in extent; but in wild regions where isolated patches of covert are scattered, inset amid wastes of sand, the area may be extended to half a day's ride. these long scrambling drives gain enhanced interest to a naturalist in precisely inverse ratio with their probability of success. in a big-game drive the first animals to come forward are, as a rule, foxes and lynxes--creatures which move on impulse, and instantly quit a zone where danger threatens. both, however, will certainly pass unseen should there be any scrub to conceal their retreat. the lynx especially is adept at utilising cover, however slight. should open patches or sandy glades occur among the bush, foxes will be viewed bundling along, to all appearance quite carelessly. here in spain foxes are merely "vermin"; but it is a mistake to shoot them, owing to the risk of thereby turning back better game. neither lynx nor fox, by the way, are accounted _caza mayor_ unless killed with a bullet. [illustration: _sylvia melanocephala_ (sardinian warbler; conspicuous by its strong colour-contrasts.)] as elsewhere mentioned, there is always a considerable possibility at the earlier period of a "drive" (and even _before_ the operation has actually commenced) of some old and highly experienced stag attempting to slip through the line in the calculated hope (which is often well founded) that he will thereby take most of the guns by surprise and so escape unshot at. never be unready. although in "driving," that element of ceaseless personal effort, observation and self-reliance that characterise stalking, still-hunting, or spooring, is necessarily reduced, yet it is by no means eliminated. nor are there lacking compensating charms in those hours of silent expectancy spent in the solitude of jungle or amid the aromatic fragrance of pine-forest. every sense is held in tension to mark and measure each sign or sound; 'tis but the fall of a pine-cone that has caught your ear, but it might easily have been a single footfall of game. the wild-life of the wilderness pursues its daily course around unconscious of a concealed intruder in its midst. overhead, busy hawfinches wrestle with ripening cones, swinging in gymnastic attitude. these are silent. you have first become aware of their presence by a shower of scales gently fluttering down upon the shrubbery of genista and rosemary alongside, amidst the depths of which lovely french-grey warblers with jet-black skull-caps (_sylvia melanocephala_) pursue insect-prey with furious energy--dashing into the tangle of stems reckless of damage to tender plumes. there are other bush-skulkers infinitely more reclusive than these--some indeed whose mere existence one could never hope to verify (in winter) save by patience and these hours of silent watching. such are the fantail, cetti's, and dartford warblers, while among sedge and cane-brake alert reed-climbers beguile and delight these spells of waiting. soldier-ants and horned beetles with laborious gait, but obvious fixity of purpose, pursue their even way, surmounting all obstruction--such as boot or cartridge-bag. earth and air alike are instinct with humble life. [illustration: reed-climbers] to a northerner it is hard to believe that this is mid-winter, when almost every tree remains leaf-clad, the brushwood green and flower-spangled. arbutus, rosemary, and tree-heath are already in bloom, while bees buzz in shoulder-high heather and suck honey from its tricoloured blossoms--purple, pink, and violet. strange diptera and winged creatures of many sorts and sizes, from gnat and midge to savage dragon-flies, rustle and drone in one's ear or poise on iridescent wing in the sunlight, and the hateful hiss of the mosquito mingles with the insect-melody. over each open flower of rock-rose or cistus hovers the humming-bird hawk-moth with, more rarely, one of the larger sphinxes (_s. convolvuli_), each with long proboscis inserted deep in tender calyx. not even the butterflies are entirely absent. we have noticed gorgeous species at christmas time, including clouded yellows, painted lady and red admiral, southern wood-argus, bath white, _lycaena telicanus_, _thäis polyxena_, _megaera_, and many more. on the warm sand at midday bask pretty green and spotted lizards,[ ] apparently asleep, but alert to dart off on slightest alarm, disappearing like a thought in some crevice of the cistus stems. [illustration: great grey shrike (_lanius meridionalis_)] hard by a winter-wandering hoopoe struts in an open glade, prodding the earth with curved bill and crest laid back like a "claw-hammer"; from a tall cistus-spray the southern grey shrike mumbles his harsh soliloquy, and chattering magpies everywhere surmount the evergreen bush. where the warm sunshine induces untimely ripening of the tamarisk, some brightly coloured birds flicker around pecking at the buds. they appear to be chaffinches, but a glance through the glass identifies them as bramblings--arctic migrants that we have shot here in midwinter with full black heads--in "breeding-plumage" as some call it, though it is merely the result of the wearing-away of the original grey fringe to each feather, thus exposing the glossy violet-black bases. [illustration: spanish green woodpecker (_gecinus sharpei_) ( ) alighting. ( ) calling. ] birds, as a broad rule, possess no "breeding-plumage." they only renew their dress once a year, in the autumn, and breed the following spring in the worn and ragged plumes. it's not poetic, but the fact.[ ] this is not the place to enumerate all the characteristic forms of bird-life, and only one other shall be mentioned, chiefly because the incident occurred the day we drafted this chapter. one hears behind the rustle of strong wings, and there passes overhead in dipping, undulated flight a green woodpecker of the spanish species, _gecinus sharpei_. with a regular thud he alights on the rough bark of a cork-oak in front, clings in rigid aplomb while surveying the spot for any sign of danger, then projects upwards a snake-like neck and with vertical beak gives forth a series of maniacal shrieks that resound through the silences.[ ] by all means watch and study every phase of wild-life around you--the habit will leave green memories when the keener zest for bigger game shall have dimmed--but never be caught napping, or let a silent stag pass by while your whole attention is concentrated on a tarantula! [illustration: a tarantula] by way of illustrating the practice of "driving," we annex three or four typical instances:-- las angosturas, _february , _.--the writer's post was in a green glade surrounded by pine-forest. a heavy rush behind was succeeded (as anticipated) by the appearance of a big troop of hinds followed by two small staggies. a considerable distance behind these came a single good stag, and already the sights had covered his shoulder, when from the corner of an eye a second, with far finer head, flashed into the picture, going hard, and i decided to change beasts. it was, however, too late. half automatically, while eyes wandered, fingers had closed on trigger. at the shot the better stag bounded off with great uneven strides through the timber, offering but an uncertain mark. both animals, however, were recovered. the first, an eleven-pointer, lay dead at the exact spot; the second was brought to bay within yards, a fine royal. los novarbos, _january , _.--my post was among a grove of pine-saplings in a lovely open plain surrounded by forest. two good stags trotted past, full broadside, at yards. the first dropped in a heap, as though pole-axed, the second receiving a ball that clearly indicated a kill. while reloading, noticed with surprise that no. had regained his legs and was off at speed. a third bullet struck behind; but it was not till two hours later, after blood-spooring for half a league, that we recovered our game. the first shot had struck a horn (at junction of trez tine) cutting it clean in two. this had momentarily stunned the animal, but the effect had passed off within ten seconds. both were ten-pointers, with strong black horns, ivory-tipped. during that afternoon i got & big boar at maë-corra; and b., who had set out at a.m., twenty-three geese at the cardo-inchal. far north, _january , _.--first beat by the "eagles' nest" (in the biggest cork-oak we ever saw, the imperial bird soaring off as we rode up). brushwood everywhere tall and dense, giving no view. on placing me the keeper remarked, "by this little glade (_canuto_) deer _must_ break, but amidst such jungle will need _un tiro de merito_!" four stags broke, two were missed, but one secured--seven points on one horn, the other broken. so dense is the bush here that a lynx ran almost over the writer's post, yet had vanished from sight ere gun could be brought to shoulder. in the next beat, la querencia del macho (again all dense bush), b. shot two really grand companion stags, but again one of these had a broken horn. this animal while at bay so injured the spine of one of our dogs that it had to be killed two days later.[ ] a third beat added one more big stag, and the day's result--four stags with only two "heads"--is so curious that we give the detail:-- +--------------------------------------------------------+ | | length. | breadth. | points. | +--------------------------------------------------------+ | w. e. b.[ ] | - / " | (one horn) | × | | w. j. b. (no. ) | " | do. | × | | w. j. b. (no. ) | " × " | " | × = | | a. c. | " × " | - / " | × = | +--------------------------------------------------------+ amidst forest or in dense jungle (such as last described) where no distant view is possible, it is usually advisable to watch outwards--that is, with back towards the beat, relying on _ears_ to give notice of the movements of game within. but in (more or less) open country where a view, oneself unseen, can be obtained afar, the situation is modified. the following is an example:-- corral quemado, _february , _.--the authors occupied the two outmost posts on a high sand-ridge which commanded an introspect far away into the heart of the covert. already before the distant signal had announced that the converging lines of beaters had joined, suddenly an apparition showed up. some yards away a low pine-clad ridge traversed the forest horizon, and in that moment the shadows beneath became, as by magic, illumined by an inspiring spectacle--the tracery of great spreading antlers surmounting the sunlit grey face and neck of a glorious stag. for twenty seconds the apparition (and we) remained statuesque as cast in bronze. then, with the suddenness and silence of a shifting shadow, the deep shade was vacant once more. the stag had retired. it boots not to recall those agonies of self-reproach that gnawed one's very being. suffice it, they were undeserved; for five or six minutes later that stag reappeared, leisurely cantering forward. clearly no specific sign or suspicion of danger ahead had struck his mind or dictated that retirement. but his course was now, by mere chance and uncalculated cunning, yards outside the sphere of your humble servants, the authors. that stag was now about to offer a chance to gun no. , instead of, as originally, to nos. and . eagerly we both watched his course, now halting on some ridge to reconnoitre, gaze shifting, and ears deflecting hither and thither, anon making good another stage towards the goal of escape. a long shallow _canuto_ (hollow) concealed his bulk from view, but we now saw by the bunchy "show" on top that this was a prize of no mean merit. then came the climax. rising the slope which ended the _canuto_, in an instant the stag stopped, petrified. straight on in front of him, not yards ahead, lay no. gun, and the fatal fact had been discovered. it may have been an untimely movement, perhaps a glint of sunray on exposed gun-barrel, or merely the outline of a cap three inches too high--anyway the ambush had been detected, and now the stag swung at right angles and sought in giant bounds to pass behind no. . it was a long shot, very fast, and intercepted by intervening trees and bush--the second barrel directed merely at a vanishing stern. yet such was our confidence in the aim--in both aims--that not even the subsequent sight of our antlered friend jauntily cantering away down the long stretch of los tendidos impaired by one iota its self-assurance. for a mile and more we followed that bloodless spoor, far beyond the point whereat the keeper's solemn verdict had been pronounced, "no lleva náda--that stag goes scot-free." as usual, that verdict was correct. [illustration] an incident worth note had occurred meanwhile. on the extreme left of our line, a mile away, two stags out of four that broke across the sand-wastes had been killed; and these, while we yet remained on the scene (though a trifle delayed by fruitless spooring) had already been attacked and torn open by a descending swarm of vultures. that, in africa, is a daily experience, but never, before or since, have we witnessed such unseemly voracity in europe. majada real.--this is the one lowland covert where shots are permissible at incoming game. being flanked on the west by gigantic sand-dunes, the guns (under certain conditions) may be lined out a couple of miles away, along the outskirts of the next nearest covert--the idea being to take the stags as they canter across the intervening dunes. the conditions referred to are ( ) a straight east wind, and ( ) reliable guns. obviously the element of _danger_ under this plan is vastly increased, and as the keepers are responsible for any accident, they are reluctant to execute the drive thus save only when their confidence in the guns is complete.[ ] a careless man on a grouse-drive is dangerous enough; but here, with rifle-bullets, a reckless shot may spell death. the "in-drive," nevertheless, is both curious and interesting. a spectacle one does not forget is afforded when the far-away skyline of dazzling sand is suddenly surmounted by spreading antlers, and some great hart, perhaps a dozen of them, come trotting all unconscious directly towards the eager eyes watching and waiting. the effect of a shot under these conditions is frequently to turn the game off at right angles. the deer then hold a course parallel with the covert-side, thus running the gauntlet of several guns, and the question of "first blood" may become a moot point--easily determined, however, by reference to the spoor. boar naturally are averse to take such open ground; but when severely pressed, we have on occasion seen them scurrying across these saharan sands, a singular sight under the midday sun. to introspective minds two points may have showed up in these rough outline illustrations. first, that the best stags are ever the earliest amove when danger threatens. these not seldom escape ere a slovenly gunner is aware that the beat has begun. the moral is clear. secondly, as these bigger and older beasts exhibit fraternal tendencies, it follows that a first chance (whether availed or bungled) need not necessarily be the last. besides deer, it is quite usual that wild-boar, as well as lynxes and other minor animals, come forward on these "drives." the divergent nature of pig, however, renders a more specialised system advisable when wild-boar only are the objective. for whereas the aboriginal stag seeking a "lie-up" wherein to pass the daylight hours was satisfied by any sequestered spot that afforded shelter and shade from the sun, that was never the case with the jungle-loving boar. to the stag strong jungle and heavy brushwood were ever abhorrent, handicapping his light build and branching antlers. clumps of tall reed-grass or three-foot rushes, a patch of cistus or rosemary, amply fulfilled his diurnal ideals and requirements. nowadays, it is true, the expanded sense of danger, the increasing pressure of modern life--even cervine life--force him to select strongholds which offer greater security though less convenience. the wild-boar, on the reverse, with lower carriage and pachydermatous hide, instinctively seeks the very heaviest jungle within his radius--the more densely briar-matted and impenetrable the better he loves it. many such holts--some of them may be but a few yards in extent--are necessarily passed untried both by dogs and men when engaged in "driving" extended areas, sometimes miles of consecutive forest and covert. the somnolent boar hears the passing tumult, lifts a grisly head, grunts an angry soliloquy, and goes to sleep again, secure. another day you have returned expressly to pay specific attention to him. in brief space he has diagnosed the difference in attack. instantly that boar is alert, ready to repel or scatter the enemy, come who may, on two legs or four. [illustration: hoopoes on the lawn at jerez, march , .] chapter vi andalucia and its big game (_continued_) wild-boar from one's earliest days the wild-boar has been invested with a sort of halo of romance, identified in youthful mind with grim courage and brute strength. perhaps his grisly front, the vicious bloodshot eyes, savage snorts, and generally malignant demeanour, lend substance to such idea. but even among adults there exists in the popular mind a strange mixture of misconception as between big game and dangerous game--to hundreds the terms are synonymous. thus a lady, inspecting our trophies, exclaimed, "oh, mr.----, aren't these beasts very treacherous?" which almost provoked the reply, "you see, we are even more treacherous!" in sober truth, nevertheless, a big old boar when held up at bay, or charging in headlong rushes upon the dogs, his wicked eyes flashing fire, and foam flying from his jaws as tushes clash and champ, presents as pretty a picture of brute-fury and pluck as even a world-hunter may wish to enjoy. yet among hundreds of boars that we have killed or seen killed (though dogs are caught continually, and occasionally a horse), there has never occurred a serious accident to the hunter, and only a few narrow escapes. as an example of the latter: the keeper, while "placing" the writer among bush-clad dunes outside the mancha of majada real, mentioned that a very big boar often frequented some heavy rush-beds on my front. "should the dogs give tongue to pig at that point, your excellency will at once run in to the function." such were his instructions. [illustration: room for two] at the point indicated the dogs bayed unmistakably, and seizing a light single carbine, · (as there was a stretch of heavy sand to cover) i ran in. arriving at the covert and already close up to the music, suddenly the "bay" broke, and i felt the bitter annoyance of being twenty seconds too slow. i had entered by a narrow game-path, and was still hurrying up this when i met the flying boar face to face. by chance he had selected the same track for his retreat! as we both were moving, and certainly not six yards apart, there was barely time to pull off the carbine in the boar's face and throw myself back against the wall of matted jungle on my left. next moment the grizzly head and curving ivories flashed past within six inches of my nose! the spring he had given carried the boar a yard past me, and there he stopped, stern-on, champing and grunting, both tushes visible--i could see them in horrid projection, on either side of the snout! i had brought the empty carbine to the "carry," so as to use it bayonet-wise, to ward the brute off my legs; but he remained stolidly where he had stopped, and, as may be imagined, i stood stolid too. as it proved, the bullet, entering top of shoulder, had traversed the vitals--hence the cessation of hostilities. a few moments later the arrival of the dogs terminated an untoward interval. on another occasion at the veta de las conchas, amidst the lovely _pinales_, just as the beat was concluded, there dashed from a small thicket a troop of a dozen pig, making direct for the solitary pine behind which the writer held guard. passing full broadside, at thirty yards the biggest dropped dead on the sand, and, just as the troop disappeared in a donga, a second, it seemed, was knocked over. on the beaters approaching i walked across to see, and there, in the hollow, lay the second pig apparently dead enough. having picked up my field-glasses, cartridge-pouch, etc., i stood close by awaiting the keeper's arrival. three or four dogs, however, following on the spoor, arrived first; and on their worrying the deceased, it at once sprang to its feet, gazed for one instant, and charged direct. never have i seen an animal cover twenty yards more quickly! dropping the handful of _chismes_ aforesaid, i pulled off an unaimed cartridge in my assailant's face and a lucky bullet struck rather below the eyes. this is not a dead shot, but the shock at that short distance proved sufficient. an amusing incident, not dissimilar, occurred at salavar. a youthful sportsman was approaching a boar which had fallen and lay apparently dead, when it, too, suddenly sprang up and charged. our friend turned and fled; but, tripping over a fallen branch, fell headlong amidst the green rushes. there, face-downwards, he lay, preferring, as he explained later, "to receive his wound behind rather than have his face messed about by a boar!" luckily the animal, on losing sight of its flying foe, pulled up and stood, grunting surprise and disapproval. a similar experience befell king alfonso xiii. in this mancha of salavar, december , . we need not tell english readers that his majesty proved equal to this, as to every occasion, and dropped his adversary at arm's length. when one reads (as we do) descriptions of big-game hunting, a recurring expression gives pause--that of "charging." a recent discussion in a sporting paper turned on the question of "the best weapon for a charging boar." now such a thing as a "charging boar" has never, in a long experience, occurred to the authors--that is, a boar charging deliberately, and of its own initiative, upon human beings; and we do not believe in the possibility of such an event. of course should a boar (or any other savage animal) be disabled, or in a corner, that is a different matter--then a wild-boar will fight, and right gallantly too. the nearest approach to a "charge" (though it wasn't one really) occurred at the rincon de los carrizos. towards the end of the beat the dogs ran a pig, and, seeing it was a big one, the writer followed, and after a spin of yards overtook the boar at bay in a deep water-hole. the place was all overhung with heavy foliage and thick pines above, giving very poor light. though the boar's snout pointed straight towards me about ten yards away, i imagined (wrongly) that his body stood at an angle--about one-third broadside: hence the bullet (aimed past the ear), splashed harmlessly in the water, and next moment the pig was coming straight as a die, apparently meaning mischief. when within five yards, however, he jinked sharply to right, passing full broadside, when i killed him _á-boca-jarro_, as the phrase runs, "at the mouth of the spout." [illustration] that idea of "charging at large" is so splendidly romantic, and fits in so appropriately with preconceived ideas, that we almost regret to disturb its semi-fossilised acceptance. but, in mere fact, neither boars nor any other wild beasts "charge" at sight--always and only excepting elephant and rhinoceros, either of which _may_ (or may not) do so, though previously unprovoked. it would, at least, be unwise entirely to ignore the contingency of either of these two so acting. there exist, nevertheless, old and evil-tempered boars that are quite formidable adversaries. we have many such in our coto doñana--boars that, having once overmastered our hounds, practically defy us. each of these old solitary tuskers occupies some densely briared stronghold--it may be but an isolated patch of jungle, scarce half an acre in extent, or alternatively, a little sequence of similar thickets, each connected by intervals of lighter bush. such spots abound by the hundred, but once the lair of our bristled friend is found, then there is work cut out for man, horse, and hound. for long-drawn-out minutes the silence of the wilderness re-echoes with doubly concentrated fury--frantic hound-music mingled with lower accompaniment of sullen, savage snorts and grunts and the champing of tusks; then a sharp crunch of breaking boughs ... and the death-yell of a _podenco_ tells that _that_ blow has got home. but the seat of war remains unchanged--the same rush and the same fatal result are repeated. presently some venturous hound may discover an entry from behind. the enemy's flank is turned, and with a crash that seems to shake the very earth, our boar retreats to a second stronghold only twenty yards away. all this is occurring within arm's length; one hears, can almost feel, the stress of mortal combat, but one sees nothing inside the mural foliage, nor knows what moment the enemy may sally forth. such moments may even excite what are termed in spanish phrase "emotions." in his second "plevna" our boar is secure, and he knows it. with rear and flanks protected by a _revêtement_ of gnarled roots and a labyrinth of stems, he fears nothing behind, while the furiously baying hounds on his front he now utterly despises. blank shots fired in the air alarm him not, nor will pepe espinal--in a service of danger--succeed in dislodging him with a _garrocha_, after a perilous climb along the briar-matted roof. that boar is victor--master of a stricken field. one human resource remains, to go in _á arma blanca_--with the cold steel. there are dashing spirits who will do this--in spain we have seen such. but to crawl thus, prostrate, into the dark and gloomy tunnels that form a wild-boar's fortress, intercepted and obstructed on every side, there to attack in single combat a savage beast, still unhurt and in the flush of victory, pachydermatous, and whose fighting weight far exceeds your own--well, _that_ we place in the category of pure recklessness. courage is a quality that all admire, though one may wonder if it is not sometimes over-esteemed, when we find it possessed in common, not only by very many wild-beasts, but even by savage races of human kind--races which we regard as "lower," yet not inferior in that cherished quality of "pluck." before you crawl in there, stop to think of the annoyance the act may cause not merely to our hunt, but possibly to a wife, otherwise to sisters, friends, or hospital nurses, even, it may be, to an undertaker--though he will not object. once victorious over canine foes, it will be a remote chance indeed that that boar, unless caught by mishap in some carelessly chosen lair, will ever again show up as a mark for the fore-sight of a rifle. after one such rout, we remember finding our friend the reverend father, who had sallied forth with us for a mild morning's shooting, perched high up among the branches of a thorny _sabina_ (a kind of juniper), whence we rescued him, cut and bleeding, and badly "shaken in nerve!" we add the following typical instances of boar-shooting:-- salavar, _february , _.--a lovely winter's morn, warm sun and dead calm. the distant cries of the beaters (nigh three miles away) had just reached my ears, when a nearer sound riveted attention--the soft patter of hoofs upon sand. then from the forest-slope behind appeared a pig--big and grey--trotting through deep rushes some forty yards away. already the fore-sight was "touching on" its neck, when a lucky suspicion of striped piglings following their mother arrested the ball. next came along a gentle hind with all her infinite grace of contour and carriage. at twenty-five yards she faced full round, and for long seconds we stared eye to eye. curious it is that absolute quiescence will puzzle the wildest of the wild! hardly had she vanished 'midst forest shades, than once again that muffled patter--this time an unmistakable tusker. but, oh! what an abominable shot i made--too low, too far back--and onwards he pursued his course. by our forest laws it was my _deber_ (bounden duty) to follow the stricken game. all that noontide, all the afternoon--through bush and brake, by dell and dusky defile--patiently, persistently, did juanillo espinal and i follow every twist and turn of that unending spoor. there was blood to help us at first, none thereafter. through the thickets of sabinal, then back on the left by maë-corra, forward through the carrizal, thence crossing the corral grande, and away into the great _pinales_ beyond--away to the rincon de los carrizos, three solid leagues and a bit to spare! that was the price of a bungled shot. here at last we have tracked him to his lair. within that sullen fortress of the rincon lies our wounded boar. how to get him out is a different problem. though wounded, he is in no way disabled, and is ready, aye "spoiling," to put up a savage fight for his life. having precisely located him in a dense tangle of lentisk and briar, our single dog, careto, a tall, shaggy _podenco_, not unlike a deerhound, but on smaller scale, is let go. up a gloomy game-path he vanishes, and in a moment fierce music startles the silent woods. the boar refused to move. but one resource remained. we must go in to help careto, crawling up a briar-laced tunnel. it was horribly dark at first, and i began to think of ... when, fortunately, the light improved, and a few yards farther in a savage scene was enacting in quite a considerable open. beneath its brambled roof we could stand half upright. in its farthest corner stood our boar at bay, a picture of sullen ferocity. upon juanillo's appearance the scene changed as by magic--there was a rush and resounding crash. precisely what happened during the three succeeding seconds deponent could not see, it being so gloomy, and juanillo on my front. ere a cartridge could be shoved into the breech the great boar was held up, careto hanging on to his right ear, and juanillo, springing over the dog, had seized the grisly beast by both hind-legs--at the hocks--and stepping backward, with one mighty heave flung the boar sidelong on the earth. next moment i had driven the knife through his heart. though the method described is regularly employed by spanish hunters to seize and capture a wounded or "bayed" boar--and we have seen it executed dozens of times--yet seldom in such a spot as this, cramped in space, handicapped by bad light and intercepting boughs and briars. it was a dramatic scene, and a bold act that bespoke cool head and brawny biceps. the head of this boar hangs on our walls to commemorate an event we are not likely to forget. we remember following a wounded lynx into a similar spot--a deep hollowed jungle. a pandemonium of savage snarling and spitting, barks and yowls greeted our ears as we crawled in, while on reaching the cavern the green eyes of the lynx flashed like electric lights from a dark recess. though one hind-leg had been broken and the other damaged by a rifle-ball, yet she held easy mastery over five or six dogs. sitting bolt upright, she kept the lot at bay with sweeping half-arm blows. not a dog dared close, and the brave feline had to be finished with the lance. mancha del milagro, _february , _.--the covert, we knew by spoor, held a first-rate boar, and his most probable _salida_ (break-out) was at the foot of a perpendicular sand-wall, within fifty yards of which the writer held guard. within brief minutes the music of the pack corroborated what had been foretold by spoor. twice the boar with crashing course encircled the _mancha_ within, passing close inside my post. each moment i watched for his appearance at the expected point on the right. then, without notice or sound of broken bough, suddenly he stood outside on the left--almost beneath the gun's muzzle--not eight feet away. luckily (as he stood within my firing-lines) the boar steadfastly gazed in the opposite direction, nor did i seek by slightest movement to attract attention to my presence. for some seconds we both remained thus, rigid. then with sudden decision the boar bounded off, flying the gentle slope in front, and ere he had passed a yard clear of the firing-line, fell dead with a bullet placed in the precise spot. weight, lbs. clean, and grey as a donkey. * * * * * a wounded boar should always be approached with caution. remember he is a powerful brute, very resolute, and furnished with quite formidable armament, which, while life remains, he will use. one of the biggest, after receiving a bullet slightly below and behind the heart, went slowly on some fifty yards, when he subsided, back up, among some green iris. half an hour later the writer silently approached from directly behind. at ten yards the heaving flanks showed that plenty of life remained, and beautiful scimitar-like tushes were conspicuous enough on either side. i therefore quietly withdrew. on a keeper presently riding up, the boar at once dashed on a dog, flung him aside (laying open half his ribs), and charged the horse. the latter was smartly handled and cleared, when the boar instantly turned on me. the dash of that onset was splendid to watch. luckily he had a yard or two of soft bog to get through, but it was necessary to stop him with another bullet. impressive is the mental sensation aroused when any savage wild-beast--normally the object of pursuit--suddenly turns the tables and becomes the aggressor. the actual incident is necessarily but momentary, yet its effect remains graven on the tablets of memory. pity 'tis so rare. again we conclude with an independent impression by j. c. c.:-- never a visit to the coto doñana but brings some separate experience--possibly more pleasurable in retrospect than reality! i will instance my first interview with wild-boars. now, of course, i know more about them and can almost regard them with serenity; but at that time, believe me, it was not so. that first encounter at really close quarters occurred at the close of a long day's work. my post was behind a twelve-inch pine on an otherwise bare hill, the reverse slope of which dipped down to dense bamboo-thickets just out of my sight, though close by. within a few minutes commenced and continued the hullabaloo of hounds. close glued to my pine-trunk i listened in tense excitement. suddenly, ere i had quite realised such possibility, there rushed into view on the ridge, not twenty paces distant, a great shaggy grey boar. he had dashed up the steep bank beyond and was now making direct for my legs. this is not the confession of a nervous man, but it did occur to me that truer safety lay in the _fork_ of my tree! but b. was the next gun, only sixty or seventy yards away, and keenly interested. in a moment i was myself again; but the interval had been, to say the least, painfully enthralling. i had, of course, to wait till the great "havato" had crossed my "firing-lines." he certainly saw _something_, for he paused momentarily, took rapid counsel, and bolted past. nerves were steady now, and once across the line the boar had my right in the ribs, left in flank. i actually saw blood spurt--hair fly--at each shot, yet the boar followed on his course unmoved. pachydermatous pig! i pondered while reloading. ten seconds later on my boar's sleuth follows _boca-negra_, a veritable beth gelert. utterly ignoring me, he passes away into gloom and silence; but shortly i see him coming back, blood-stained and satiated, and my self-respect returns. ten minutes later, a second tusker gallops along the hollow behind. him also my right caught fair in the ribs--only a few inches left of the heart, yet again without visible result. the second bullet, however, broke his spine as he ascended the sand-bank beyond, and he fell stone dead. when the beat was over we followed no. . he also lay still, yards away--a pair of first-rate tuskers. i remember, during the gralloch, some dreadfully poor charcoal-burners appearing on the scene to beg for food. this, of course, was gladly conceded; but so famished were those poor creatures that old women filled their aprons with reeking viscera, while it was with difficulty that children could be prevented from starting at once on raw flesh and liver. truly it was a grievous spectacle, and filled the homeward ride with sad reflections on the awful hardships such poor folk are destined to endure. [illustration: bolted past] in days of rapid change, when, in our own generation, sporting weapons have been at least thrice utterly metamorphosed, it is unwise to be dogmatic. yet we may summarise our personal experience that the most efficient weapon for all such purposes as here described is that known as the "paradox," or at least of the paradox type. the old "express rifle" (the best in its day, less than a score of years ago, but now mere "scrap") was also useful. but it always fell second to the paradox, as the latter (being really a shot-gun, equally available for small game, snipe, duck, or geese) came up quicker to the eye for snap-shooting with ball. the invention of the paradox type of gun has practically introduced a third style of shooting where there previously existed only two, to wit:-- ( ) gun-shooting with _shot_ where any "aim" or even an apology for an aim is fatal to modern maximum success. ( ) rifle-shooting proper, which must be mechanical and deliberate--the more so, the more effective. ( ) thirdly, we have this new system intermediate between the two--"gun-shooting with ball." using the paradox as a rifle, an alignment _must_ be taken; but it may be taken as with a _gun_, and not necessarily the deliberate and mechanical alignment essential with a rifle, properly so called. in short, with a paradox, always glance along the sights. you will nearly always find that some "refinement" of aim is required. more words are useless. one word as to the "forward allowance" needed after the rough alignment (as explained) has been effected. at short snapshot ranges none is required. at a galloping stag at yards, the sights should clear his chest; at yards, half-a-length ahead, and double that for yards. at these longer ranges one instinctively allows for "drop" by taking a fuller sight. for standing shots, of course, the back-sights can be used. boar-hunting by moonlight (estremadura) "_caceria á la ronda._" this picturesque and altogether break-neck style of hunting the boar--a style perhaps more consonant than "driving" with popular notions of the dash and chivalry of spanish character--still survives in the wild province of estremadura. no species of sport in our experience will compare with the _ronda_ for danger and sheer recklessness unless it be that of "riding lions" to a stand, as practised on british east african plains.[ ] years ago we described this system of the _ronda_ in the "big-game" volumes of the badminton library, and here write a new account, correcting some slight errors which had crept into the earlier article. this sport is practised by moonlight at that period of the autumn called the _montanera_, when acorns and chestnuts fall from the trees, and when droves of domestic swine are turned loose into the woods to feed on these wild fruits. at that date the wild-boars also are in the habit of descending from the adjacent sierras, and wander far and wide over the wooded plains in search of that favourite food. when the acorns fall thus and ripe chestnuts strew the ground in these magnificent estremenian forests, the young bloods of the district assemble to await the arrival of the boars upon the lower ground. two kinds of dog are employed: the ordinary _podencos_, which run free; and the _alanos_, a breed of rough-haired "seizers," crossed between bull-dog and mastiff--these latter being held in leash. sallying forth at midnight, so soon as the _podencos_ give tongue, the _alanos_ are slipped in order to "hold-up" the flying boar till the horsemen can reach the spot. then for a while hound-music frightens the darkness and shocks the silence of the sleeping woods; there is crashing among dry forest-scrub, a breakneck scurry of mounted men among the timber, until the furious baying of the hounds and the noisy rush of the hunters converge towards one dark point among the shadows, and in the half-light a great grisly tusker dies beneath the cold steel, but not before he has written a lasting record on the hide of some luckless hound. a stiff neck and bold heart are essential to these dare-devil gallops, where each horse and horseman vie in reckless rivalry, flying through bush and brake, and under overhung boughs difficult to distinguish amid moon-rays intercepted by foliage above. accidents of course occur--an odd collar-bone or two hardly count, but what does annoy is when by mistake some wretched beast of domestic race is found held up by the excited pack. [illustration] chapter vii "our lady of the dew" the pilgrimage to the shrine of nuestra seÑora del rocÍo pilgrimages by the pious to distant shrines are a well-known phase in the faith both of the moslem and of the romish church, and require no definition by us; but one that is yearly performed to a tiny and isolated shrine not a dozen miles from our shooting-lodge of doñana deserves description. first as to its origin. twelve hundred years ago when arab conquerors overran spain much treasure of the churches, with many sacred emblems, relics, etc., were hurriedly concealed in places of safety. but not unnaturally, since moorish domination extended over years, all trace or record of such hiding-places had long been lost, and it was merely by chance and one by one that, after the reconquest, the hidden treasures were rediscovered. the story of the recovery of our lady of the dew is related to have occurred in this wise. a shepherd tending his flocks in the neighbourhood of almonte was induced by the strangely excited barking of his dog to force a way into the dense thickets known as la rocina de la madre (a wooded swamp, famous as a breeding-place of the smaller herons, egrets, and ibises), in the midst of which the dog led him to an ancient hollowed tree. here, half-hidden in the cavernous trunk, the shepherd espied the figure of "a virgin of rare beauty and of exquisite carving," clothed in a tunic of what had been white linen, but now stained dull green through centuries of exposure to the weather and dew (_rocío_). overjoyed, the shepherd, bearing the virgin on his shoulders, set out for almonte, distant three leagues; but being overcome by fatigue and the weight of his burden, he lay down to rest by the way and fell asleep. on awakening he found the virgin had gone--she had returned to her hollow tree. having ascertained this, and being now filled with fear, he proceeded alone to almonte, where he reported his discovery. at once the alcalde and clergy accompanied him to the spot, and finding the image as related, a vow was then and there solemnised that a shrine, dedicated to n. s. del rocío, should be erected at the very spot. on its being discovered that this virgin was able to perform miracles and to grant petitions, her fame soon spread afar, and religious fervour waxed strong. thus during the plague of - , the virgin having been removed to almonte as a safeguard, the inhabitants of that place were immune from the pestilence, though every other hamlet was decimated. a second miracle was attributed to the virgin. hard by the shrine at rocío was a spring of water, but of such poor supply that ordinarily a single man could empty it within two hours: yet during the three days of the pilgrimage thousands of men and their horses could all assuage their thirst. owing to these manifestations devout persons endowed the virgin of rocío with considerable sums of money, with which a larger shrine was built, while sumptuous garments, laces, and embroidery, with jewelry and precious stones, were provided for her adornment. in addition to this, replicas of the original effigy were made and distributed around the villages of the neighbourhood, particularly the following:-- kilos. palma, distant moguer " umbrete " huelva " triana " rota " san lucar " villamanrique " pilas " almonte " coria " at each of these and other places, "brotherhoods" (_hermandades_), affiliated to the original at rocío, were established to guard these effigies; and it is from these points that every whitsuntide the various pilgrim-fraternities journey forth across the wastes towards rocío, each brotherhood bringing its own carved replica to pay its annual homage to its carved prototype. * * * * * in the spring of the authors attended the _fiesta_. already, the night before, premonitory symptoms--the tuning-up of fife and drum--had been audible, and during the twelve-mile ride next morning fresh contingents winding through the scrub-clad plain were constantly sighted, all converging upon rocío. it was not, however, till reaching that hamlet that the full extent of the pilgrimage became apparent, and a striking and characteristic spectacle it formed. from every point of the compass were descried long files of white-tilted ox-waggons--hundreds of them--slowly advancing across the flower-starred plain; the waggons all bedecked in gala style, crammed to the last seat with guitar-touching girls, with smiling duennas and attendant squires; the ox-teams gaily caparisoned, and escorted by prancing cavaliers, many with wife or daughter mounted pillion-wise behind, while younger pilgrims challenged impromptu trials of speed--a series of minor steeplechases. there were four-in-hand brakes, mule-teams and donkey-carts, pious pedestrians--a motley parade enveloped in clouds of dust and noise, but all in perfect order. the following quaint description was written down for us by a spanish friend who accompanied us:-- it is at the entry of the various processions that the most striking and picturesque effects are produced by the cavalcade. here one sees displayed the grace and ability of the amazon--the robust and comely andalucian maiden, carried _á ancas_ (pillion-wise) at the back of his saddle by gallant cavalier proud of his gentle companion, and exhibiting to advantage his skill in horsemanship. the noble steed, conscious of its onerous part, carries the double burden with care and spirit, being trained to curvet and rear in all the bravery of mediæval and saracenic age. about p.m., while the converging caravans were yet a mile or so afield, all halted, each to organise its own procession, and each headed by the waggon bearing its own virgin bedecked in gorgeous apparels of silk and silver braid. then to the accompaniment of bands and bell-ringing, hand-clapping and castanets, drum, tambourine, and guitar, with flags flying and steeds curvetting, this singular combination of religious rite with musical fantasia resumed its advance into the village. despite the dust and crush not a unit but held its assigned position, and thus--one long procession succeeding another--the whole concourse filed into the village, crossed its narrow green, and sought the shrine where, within the open doors, the virgin of rocío, removed from the altar, was placed to receive the homage of the brotherhoods. as each replica reached the spot, its bearers halted and knelt, while expert drivers even made their ox-teams kneel down in submission before the "queen of heaven and earth." there was but a moment's delay, nor did castanets and song cease for an instant. later in the evening came the processions of the rosario, when each of the visiting brotherhoods make a ceremonious call upon the senior brother--that is, the hermit of rocío--after which each confraternity, with less ceremony but more joviality, visited the camps of the others. this last was accompanied by bands, massed choirs, and _fireworks_. then the festival resolved itself, so far as we could judge, into a purely secular affair--feasting, merry-making, dancing, till far on in the night. rain had set in at dusk and was now falling fast. rocío is but a tiny hamlet--say two score of humble cots--yet to-night people occupied it, the womenfolk sleeping inside their canvas-tilted ox-waggons, the men lying promiscuously on the ground beneath. sunday is occupied with religious ceremonies, beginning with high mass. these we will not attempt to describe--nor could we if we would. the spanish friend who at our request jotted down some notes on the _fiesta_ uses the following expressions:-- the days of the rocío are days of expansion, merry-making, animation. never, throughout the festival, ceases the laughter of joyous voices, the clang of the castanets, the melody of guitar and tambourine. dances, song, and music, with jovial intercourse and good fellowship, all unite to preserve unflagging the rejoicing which is cultivated at that beautiful spot. at this festival many traders assist with different installations, including jewellers in the porch of the church, vendors of medallions, photographs, coloured ribbons, and other articles dedicated to the patroness of a festival which is well worthy a visit for its originality and bewitchment. on the monday morning, after joint attendance of all the brotherhoods at mass, followed by a sermon, the image of the virgin is formally replaced upon the altar (the feet resting upon the same hollow trunk in which the figure was first found), then the processions are reformed and the long homeward journey to their respective destinations begins. although many thousands of people yearly attend this festival, all entirely uncontrolled by any authority, yet quarrels and disturbance are unknown. the mere cry of "viva la virgen" suffices at once to appease incipient angers, should such arise. thousands of horses and donkeys, moreover, are allowed to roam about untended and unguarded, as there is no danger of their being stolen. * * * * * the virgin of the rocío, it appears, specialises in accidents, and many votive pictures hung within the shrine illustrate the nature of her miracles. one man is depicted falling headlong from a fifth-storey window, another from a lofty pine, a third drowning in a torrential flood; a lady is thrown by a mule, another run over by a cart, a lad caught by an infuriated bull; a beatific-looking person stands harmless amidst fiery forked lightning--apparently enjoying it. from all these and other appalling forms of death, the survivors, having been saved by the virgin's miraculous interposition, have piously contributed pictorial evidence of the various occurrences. a somewhat gruesome relic records the incident that a mother having vowed that should her daughter be restored to life, she should walk to rocío in her grave-clothes--and there the said clothes lie as evidence of that miracle. the festival above described is celebrated each spring at pentecost. there is, however, a second yearly pilgrimage into rocío which originated in this wise. in when the french occupied this country, the village of almonte was held by two troops of cavalry who were engaged in impressing recruits from among the neighbouring peasantry. these naturally objected to serve the enemy, but many were terrorised into obedience. bolder spirits there were, however, and these, to the number of thirty-six, resolved to strike a blow for freedom. having assembled in the thick woods outside almonte, at two o'clock one afternoon they fell upon the unsuspecting french and, ere these could defend themselves, many were killed and others made prisoners. finally the french commander was shot dead on his own doorstep. "the villagers of almonte were horrified at what had occurred, for, although they had had no hand in the matter, they felt sure they would have to bear the blame"--so runs a spanish account. the few french troopers who had escaped fled to seville, reported the affair, and (wrongly) incriminated the villagers of almonte--precisely as those worthies had foreseen. the general commanding at seville ordered that almonte should be razed to the ground and its inhabitants beheaded--that being the penalty decreed by murat for any shedding of french blood. a detachment of dragoons, despatched to almonte, had already taken prisoner the mayor, the priests, and all the chief inhabitants preparatory to their execution. in this grave situation they bethought themselves to pray to the virgin of rocío, promising that if she would rescue them from their deadly peril, they would institute a new pilgrimage to her shrine for thanksgiving. already the detachment of french soldiers detailed to carry out the executions had reached pilas, a village within six leagues of almonte, when, by mere coincidence, a handful of spanish troops flung themselves against the french positions at seville. the french, thinking that their assailants must be the forerunners of a larger army, hurriedly recalled all their outposts, including those commissioned to destroy almonte! thus the wretched alcalde and his fellow-prisoners were saved; for, their innocence of the "crime" being presently established, the town was let off with a fine. since then, in accordance with the promise made years ago, the whole of almonte repairs every th of august to the shrine of nuestra señora del rocío. [illustration: praying mantis (_mantis religiosa_)] chapter viii the marismas of guadalquivÍr the delta from seville to the atlantic the great river guadalquivír pursues its course through seventy miles of alluvial mud-flats entirely of its own construction. the whole of this viewless waste (in winter largely submerged) is technically termed the marisma; but its upper regions, slightly higher-lying, have proved amenable to a limited dominion of man, and nowadays comprise (besides some rich corn-lands) broad pasturages devoted to grazing, and which yield _toros bravos_, that is, fighting-bulls of breeds celebrated throughout spain, as providing the popular champions of the plaza. [illustration: avocet] it is not of these developed regions that we treat, but of the lower delta, which still remains a wilderness, and must for centuries remain so--a vast area of semi-tidal saline ooze and marsh, extending over some forty or fifty miles in length, and spreading out laterally to untold leagues on either side of the river. this lower delta, the marisma proper, while it varies here and there by a few inches in elevation, is practically a uniform dead-level of alluvial mud, only broken by _vetas_, or low grass-grown ridges seldom rising more than a foot or two above the flat, and which vary in extent from a few yards to hundreds of acres. the precise geological cause of these _vetas_ we know not; but the calcareous matter of which they are composed--the debris of myriad disintegrated sea-shells, mostly bivalves--proves that the ocean at an earlier period held sway, till gradually driven backwards by the torrents of alluvial matter carried down by the river, and finally forced behind the vast sand-barrier now known as the coto doñana--the buffer called into being whilst age-long struggles raged between these two opposing forces. the fact is further evidenced by the salt crust which yearly forms on the surface of the lower marisma when the summer sun has evaporated its waters. in summer the marisma is practically a sun-scorched mud-flat; in winter a shallow inland sea, with the _vetas_ standing out like islands. there are, as already stated, slight local variations in elevation. naturally the lower-lying areas are the first to retain moisture so soon as the long torrid summer has passed away and autumn rains begin. speedily these become shallow lagoons, termed _lucios_--similar, we imagine, to the _jheels_ of india--and a welcome haven they afford to the advance-guard of immigrant wildfowl from the north. plant-life in the marismas is regulated by the relative saltness of the soil. in the deeper _lucios_ no vegetation can subsist; but where the level rises, though but a few inches, and the ground is less saline, the hardy samphire (in spanish, _armajo_) appears, covering with its small isolated bushes vast stretches of the lower marisma. the _armajo_, which is formed of a congeries of fleshy twigs, leafless, and jointed more like the marine _algae_ than a land-plant, belongs to three species as follows:-- ( ) _arthraenimum fruticosum_} } in spanish, _armajo_. ( ) _suaeda fruticosa_ } all three belong to the natural order _chenopodiaceae_ (or "goose-foot" family). the _armajo_ is the typical plant of the marisma, flourishing even where there is a considerable percentage of salt in the soil. this aquatic shrub increases most in dry seasons, a series of wet winters having a disastrous effect on its growth. the _sapina_, above mentioned, has a curious effect when eaten by mares (which is often the case when other food is scarce) of inducing a form of intoxication from which many die. indeed, the deaths from _ensapinadas_ represent a serious loss to horse-breeders whose mares are sent to graze in the marismas. cattle are not affected. [illustration: samphire] formerly the _sapina_ possessed a commercial value, being used (owing to its alkaline qualities) in the manufacture of soap. nowadays it is replaced by other chemicals. here and there, owing to some imperceptible gradient, the marisma is traversed by broad channels called _caños_, where, by reason of the water having a definite flow, the soil has become less saline. the _armajo_ at such spots becomes scarce or disappears altogether, its place being taken by quite different plants, namely: spear-grass (_cyperus_), _candilejo_, _bayunco_, the english names of which we do not know. efforts have been made from time to time to reclaim and utilise portions of the marisma by draining the water to the river; but failure has invariably resulted for the following reasons: ( ) the intense saltness of the soil. ( ) that the marisma lies largely on a lower level than the river banks. ( ) the river being tidal, its water is salt or brackish. there are vast areas of far better land in spain which might be reclaimed with certainty and at infinitely less cost. the only human inhabitants of the marisma are a few herdsmen whose reed-built huts are scattered on remote _vetas_. there are also the professional wildfowlers with their _cabresto_-ponies; but this class is disappearing as, bit by bit, the system of "preservation" extends over the wastes. though the climate is healthy enough except for a period just preceding the autumn rains, yet our keepers and most of those who live here permanently are terrible sufferers from malaria. quinine, they tell us, costs as much as bread in the family economy. we quote the following impression from _wild spain_, p. :-- [illustration: gunning-punt in the marisma. (note the half-submerged samphire-bushes.)] [illustration: wild-goose shooting on the sandhills. (note tin decoys, also some natural geese.)] the utter loneliness and desolation of the middle marismas call forth sensations one does not forget. hour after hour one pushes forward across a flooded plain only to bring within view more and yet more vistas of watery waste and endless horizons of tawny water. on a low islet at farthest distance stand a herd of cattle--mere points in space; but these, too, partake of the general wildness and splash off at a gallop while yet a mile away. even the wild-bred horses and ponies of the marisma revert to an aboriginal anthropophobia, and become as shy and timid as the _ferae naturae_ themselves. after long days in this monotony, wearied eyes at length rejoice at a vision of trees--a dark-green pine-grove casting grateful shade on scorching sands beneath. to that oasis we direct our course, but it proves a fraud, one of nature's cruel mockeries--a mirage. not a tree grows on that spot, or within leagues of it, nor has done for ages--perhaps since time began. such is the physical character of the marisma, so far as we can describe it. the general landscape in winter is decidedly dreary and somewhat deceptive, since the vast areas of brown _armajos_ lend an appearance of dry land where none exists, since those plants are growing in, say, a foot or two of water--"a floating forest paints the wave." the monotony is broken at intervals by the reed-fringed _caños_, or sluggish channels, and by the _lucios_, big and little--the latter partially sprinkled with _armajo_-growth, the bigger sheets open water, save that, as a rule, their surface is carpeted with wildfowl. should our attempted description read vague, we may plead that there is nothing tangible to describe in a wilderness devoid of salient feature. nor can we liken it with any other spot, for nowhere on earth have we met with a region like this--nominally dry all summer and inundated all winter, yet subject to such infinite variation according to varying seasons. it is not, however, the marisma itself that during all these years has absorbed our interest and energies--no, that dreary zone would offer but little attraction were it not for its feathered inhabitants. these, the winter wildfowl, challenge the world to afford such display of winged and web-footed folk, and it is these we now endeavour to describe. by mid-september, as a rule, the first signs of the approaching invasion of north-bred wildfowl become apparent. but if, as often happens, the long summer drought yet remains unbroken, these earlier arrivals, finding the marisma untenable, are constrained to take to the river, or to pass on into africa. should the dry weather extend into october, the only ducks to remain permanently in any great numbers are the teal, the few big ducks then shot being either immature or in poor condition, from which it may be inferred that the main bodies of all species have passed on to more congenial regions. about the th september the first greylag geese appear. these are not affected by the scarcity of water in any such degree as ducks, since they only need to drink twice a day, morning and evening, and make shift to subsist by digging up the bulb-like roots of the spear-grass with their powerful bills. [illustration: greylag geese] but so soon as autumn rains have fallen, and the whole marisma has become supplied with "new water," it at once fills up with wildfowl--ducks and geese--in such variety and prodigious quantities as we endeavour to describe in the following sketches. wildfowl--'twixt cup and lip wildfowl beyond all the rest of animated nature lend themselves to spectacular display. for their enormous aggregations (due as much to concentration within restricted haunts, as to gregarious instinct, and to both these causes combined) are always openly visible and conspicuous inasmuch as those haunts are, in all lands, confined to shallow water and level marsh devoid of cover or concealment. thus, wherever they congregate in their thousands and tens of thousands, wildfowl are always in view--that is, to those who seek them out in their solitudes. this last, however, is an important proviso. for the haunts aforesaid are precisely those areas of the earth's surface which are the most repugnant to man, and least suited to his existence. in crowded england there survive but few of those dreary estuaries where miles of oozy mud-flats separate sea and land, treacherous of foot-hold, exposed to tide-ways and to every gale that blows. such only are the haunts of british wildfowl, though how many men in a million have ever seen them? to wilder spain, with its per cent of waste, and its vast irreclaimed marismas, come the web-footed race in quantities undreamt at home. we have before attempted to describe such scenes, though a fear that we might be discredited oft half paralysed the pen. an american critic of our former book remarked that it "left the gaping reader with a feeling that he had not been told half." that lurking fear could not be better explained. a dread of munchausenism verily gives pause in writing even of what one has seen again and again, raising doubts of one's own eyesight and of the pencilled notes that, year after year, we had scrupulously written down on the spot. the baetican marisma has afforded many of those scenes of wild-life that, for the reason stated, were before but half-described. with fuller experience we return to the subject, though daring not entirely to satisfy our trans-atlantic friend. the winter of provided such an occasion. it was on the th of november that, under summer conditions, we rode out, where in other years we have sailed, across what should have been water, but was now a calcined plain. november was nearly past; autumn had given place to winter, yet not a drop of rain had fallen. since the scorching days of july the fountains of heaven had been stayed, and now the winter wildfowl from the north had poured in only to find the marisma as hard and arid as the deserts of arabia petraea. instinct was at fault. true, each to their appointed seasons, had come, the dark clouds of pintail, teal, and wigeon, the long skeins of grey geese. where in other years they had revelled in shallows rich in aquatic vegetation, now the travellers find instead nought but torrid plains devoid of all that is attractive to the tastes of their tribe. for the parched soil, whose life-blood has been drained by the heats of the summer solstice, whose plant-life is burnt up, has remained panting all the autumn through for that precious moisture that still comes not. the carcases of horses and cattle, that have died from thirst and lack of pasturage, strew the plains; the winter-sown wheat is dead ere germination is complete. in such years of drought many of the newly arrived wildfowl, especially pintails, pass on southwards (into africa), not to return till february. the remainder crowd into the few places where the precious element--water--still exists. such are the rare pools that are fed from quicksands (_nuclés_) or permanent land-springs (_ojos_) and a few of the larger and deeper _lucios_ of the marisma. riding through stretches of shrivelled samphire we frequently spring deer, driven out here, miles from their forest-haunts, by the eager search for water. [illustration: white-eyed pochard (_fuligula nyroca_)] approaching the first of the great _lucios_, or permanent pools, a wondrous sight lay before our eyes. this water might extend for three or four miles, but was literally concealed by the crowds of flamingoes that covered its surface. for a moment it was difficult to believe that those pink and white leagues would really be all composed of living creatures. their identity, however, became clear enough when, within yards, we could distinguish the scattered outposts gradually concentrating upon the solid ranks beyond. disbelieve it if you will, but four fairly sane englishmen estimated that crowd, when a rifle-shot set them on wing, to exceed ten thousand units--by how much, we decline to guess. the nearer shores, with every creek and channel, were darkened by masses of ducks, huddled together like dusky islets; while further away several army-corps of geese were striving, with sonorous gabble, to tear up tuberous roots of spear-grass (_castañuela_) from sun-baked mud. it was a rifle-shot at these last that finally set the whole host on wing--an indescribable spectacle, hurrying hordes everywhere outflanked by the glinting black and pink glamour of flamingoes. then the noise--the reverberating roar of wings, blending with a babel of croaks and gabblings, whistles and querulous pipes, punctuated by shriller bi-tones, ... we give that up. [illustration: "flamingoes over"] a long ride in prospect precluded serious operations to-night, but towards dusk we lined out our four guns, and in half an hour loaded up the panniers of the carrier-ponies with nearly three score ducks and geese. an hour before the morning's dawn we were in position to await the earliest geese. experience had taught the chief flight-lines, and these, over many miles of marsh, were commanded by lines of sunken tubs. these, however, the exceptional conditions had rendered temporarily useless. our tubs lay miles from water; hence each man had to hide as best he could, prostrate behind rush-tuft or twelve-inch samphire. this morning, however, the greylags flew wide and scattered, in strange contrast with their customary regularity. we noticed the change, but knew not the cause. the geese did. the barometer during the night (unnoticed by us at a.m.) had gone down half an inch, and already, as we assembled for breakfast at ten o'clock, rain was beginning to fall--the first rain since the spring! the wind, which for weeks had remained "nailed to the north--_norte clavado_," in spanish phrase--flew to all airts, and a change was at hand. by eleven there burst what the spanish well name a _tormenta_; lightning flashed from a darkened sky, while thunder rolled overhead, and rain drove horizontal on a living hurricane. an hour later the heavens cleared, and the sun was shining as before. that short and sudden storm, however, had marked an epoch. the whole conditions of bird-life in the marisma had been revolutionised within a couple of hours. [illustration: pochard (_fuligula ferina_)] in other years, under such conditions as this morning had promised, we have records of sixty and eighty greylags brought to bag, and it was with such anticipation that we had set out to-day. the result totalled but a quarter of such numbers. ducks came next in our programme, and the writer, being the last gun by lot, had several miles to ride to his remote post at el hondón. the scenes in bird-life through which we rode amazed even accustomed eyes. at intervals as we advanced across mud-flats clad in low growth of rush and samphire, rose for a mile across our front such crowds of wigeon and teal that the landscape ahead appeared a quivering horizon of wings that shimmered like a heat-haze. crouching behind a low breastwork, before me lay a five-acre pool which no amount of firing ever kept quite clear of swimming forms, so fast did thirsty duck, teal, and geese keep dropping in, since behind for twenty leagues stretched waterless plain. merely to make a bag under such conditions means taking every chance, firing away till barrels grow too hot to hold. here, however, that nature-love that overrides even a fowler's keenness stepped in. with half the wildfowl of europe flashing, wheeling, and alighting within view--many, one fondly imagined, likely to be of supreme interest--the writer cannot personally go on taking single mallards, teal, or wigeon, one after another in superb but almost monotonous rapidity. for the moment, in fact, the naturalist supplants the gunner. true, this may be sacrificing the mutton to the shadow, and this afternoon no special prize rewarded self-denial in letting pass many a tempting chance. [illustration] for gratifying indeed to fowler's pride it is to pull down in falling heap the smart pintails and brilliant shovelers, to bring off a right-and-left at geese, though, it may be, one had first to let a cloud of wigeon pass the silent muzzle. such is individual taste, nor will the memory of that afternoon ever fade, although my score, when at . p.m. i was recalled, only totalled up to seventy-four ducks and four greylag geese. the recall was imperative, and i obeyed, though not without hesitation and doubt. could earth provide a better place? "yes," replies vasquez, "in one hour the geese will be streaming in clouds up the algaidilla and caño juncero. come! there's no time to lose." within an hour we had reached the spot. the water was four inches deep, with low cover of rushes. the revolving stool stood too high, so i knelt in the shallow, and within three minutes the first squad of geese came in quite straight. one i took kneeling, but had to jump for the second. just as no. collapsed, no. caught me full amidships, knocking me sidelong and, rebounding, upset the stool and the bag of cartridges thereon! a nice mess, occurring at the very outset of one of those ambrosial half-hours seldom realised outside of dreams. quickly i dried the cartridges as well as circumstances would admit, for pack after pack of geese hurled themselves gaggling and honking right in my face, and during the few brief minutes of the southern twilight, i reckoned i had twenty-three down--seven right-and-lefts--though in the darkness only seventeen could be gathered, the winged all necessarily escaping. [illustration: wild geese alighting at fifteen yards (take the upper pair right-and-left, leaving the nearer geese for second gun.)] within thirty-six hours we had secured sixty-two geese and over two hundred ducks. for four guns, under favouring conditions, this would have been no very special result; but to-day the fowl were all alert and restless at the prospect of a coming change. the keynote had already been sounded that first day, when the _tormenta_ burst, and when the long drought ended on the very morning we had selected to commence our operations. had the weather held for a single week ... but why dwell on it? the point must be clear enough. no more geese were got that year. let us conclude with a few ornithological observations made during succeeding days. on november , after three days of stormy weather, with tremendous bursts of rainfall, there commenced one of the most remarkable bird-migrations we have witnessed. from early morn till night (and all the following day) cloud upon cloud of ducks kept streaming overhead from the westward. frequently a score of packs would be in view at once--never were the heavens clear; and all coming from precisely the same direction and travelling in parallel lines to the east. their course seemed to indicate that these migrants (avoiding the overland route across spain which would involve passing over her great cordilleras, say , feet) had travelled south by the coast-line as far as the latitude of cape st. vincent. thence they "hauled their wind" and bore up on an easterly course which brought them direct into the great marismas of the guadalquivir.[ ] las nuevas we had acquired this waste of marsh and mud-flat and were keen to "go and possess it." initial difficulties arose to confront us. though the whole region now belonged to us (_i.e._ the rights of chase, and it boasts but little other value) yet our possession was to be met by some opposition. it was all very natural, delightfully human, and despite the annoyance, captivated our sympathy. local fowlers, accustomed from immemorial times to earn a scant living by shooting for market the wildfowl of the wilderness, resented this acquisition of exclusive rights. our scattered guards were overawed, our reed-built huts were burned, and threats reached us--not to mention a casual bullet or two ricochetting in wild bounds across the watery waste. that one quality, however, above mentioned--sympathy--is the passport to spanish hearts, and thereby, together with courtesy and fair-dealing, the erstwhile insurgents in brief time became the best of friends. for the moment, however, we found ourselves hutless, and constrained to encamp two leagues away on the distant _terra firma_, this involving an extra couple of hours' work in the small dark hours. as before a.m. we rode, beneath a pouring rain, "path-finding," in blind darkness across slimy ooze and shallow--not to mention deeper channels that reached to the girths,--a nightjar circled round our cavalcade--true, a very small event, but recorded because it is quite against the rules for a nightjar to be here in december. only three guns braved this adventure, and by . we occupied each his allotted post. these could not be called comfortable, since the positions in which we had to spend the next six or eight hours were quite six inches deep in water, and the only covert a circle of samphire-bush barely a foot above water-level--that being the utmost height allowed by the keen sight of flighting fowl. each man had an armful of cut brushwood to kneel on, besides another bundle on which cartridge-bags might be supported clear of the water.[ ] rain descended in sheets. before it was fully light--indeed the average human being of diurnal habit would probably swear it was still quite dark--the swish of wings overhead foretold the coming day. then with a roar the whole marisma bursts into life as though by clock-work. thrice-a-minute, and oftener, sped bunches of duck right in one's face, at times a hurricane of wings. not seeing them till quite close in, but one barrel can be emptied each time, yet soon a score of beautiful pintail and wigeon formed the basis of a pile. behind, in the gloom to westward, a sense of movement has developed. at first it might have been but the drift of night-clouds, but as light broadens, form and colour evolve and the phenomenon shapes itself into vast bodies of flamingoes, sprawling, as it were, on the face of heaven in writhing, scintillating confusion. after infinite evolutions, the amorphous mass resolves itself into order; files and marshalled phalanxes serry the sky--those weird wildfowl, each with some six foot of rigid extension, advancing direct upon our posts. their armies have spent the night on the broad _lucios_ of el desierto, and now head away towards feeding-grounds outside. arrayed line beyond line in echelon, ten thousand pinions beat, in unison--beat in short, sharp strokes from the elbow. the fantasy of form amazes; the flash of contrasted colour as the first sun-rays strike on black, white, and vermilion. one may have witnessed this spectacle a score of times, yet never does it pall or leave one without a sense that here nature has treated us to one of her wildest creations. no rude sketch of ours--possibly not the best that art can produce--will ever convey the effect of these quaint forms in vast moving agglomeration. long after they have vanished in space, one remains entranced with the glamour of the scene. [illustration: wildfowl in the marisma] the flamingoes have passed away, but the lightening skies are still streaked and serried. most numerous are the wigeon, millions of them in hurrying phalanxes, white specks flanged with dark wings, too well known to describe; pintails (this wet winter hardly less numerous), readily distinguishable by their longer build and stately grace of flight; the dark heads and snowy necks of the drakes conspicuous afar. the arrow-like course of the shoveler, along with his vibrant wing-beats and incessant call, "zook, zook, tsook, tsook," identify that species; while gadwall, more sombre in tone than the mallards, "talk" in distinctive style; and mob-like masses of teal and marbled ducks sweep along the open channels. then there are the diving-ducks with harsh corvine croaks, pochards, ferruginous, and tufts, just as swift as the rest, though of apparently more laboured flight; occasionally a string of shelducks, conspicuous by size and contrasted colouring, and among them all, swing along with leisurely wing-beats but equal speed, wedge-like skeins of great grey-geese. a single morning's bag may include seven or eight different species, sometimes a dozen. now the rim of the sun shows over the distant sierra, and one begins to see one's environment and to realise what las nuevas is like. of mother earth as one normally conceives it not a particle is in sight, beyond such low reeds and miles of samphire-tops as break the watery surface, and a vista of this extends to the horizon. [illustration] behind our positions stretched a _lucio_ of open water. upon this, a mile away, stood an army of flamingoes, whose croaks and gabblings filled the still air. during a quiescent interval i examined these with binoculars. thereupon i discovered that the whole _lucio_ around them and stretching away, say a league in length, was carpeted with legions of duck, which had not been noticed with the naked eye. the discovery explained also a resonant reverberation that, at recurring intervals, i had noticed all the morning, and which i had attributed to the gallant cervera's squadron at quick-firing gun-practice away in cádiz bay. now i saw the cause; it was due to the duck-hawks and birds-of-prey! twice within ten minutes a swooping marsh-harrier aroused that host on wing--or, say, half-a-mile of them--to fly in terror; but only to settle a few hundred yards farther away. the harrier's hope was clearly to find a wounded bird among the crowd--the massed multitude none dared to tackle. it is nine o'clock, the pile of dead has mounted up, but the "flight" is slackening. already i see our mounted keepers (who have hitherto stood grouped on an islet two miles away) separate and ride forth to set the ducks once more in motion. at this precise moment one remembers two things--both that wretched breakfast at a.m., and the luxuries that lie at hand, almost awash among the reeds. ducks pass by unscathed for a full half-hour, while such quiet reigns in "no. " that tawny water-shrews climb confidingly up the reeds of my screen. meanwhile the efforts of our drivers were becoming apparent in a renewal of flighting ducks; but we would here emphasise the fact that these second and artificially-produced flights are never so effective from a fowler's point of view as the earlier, natural movements of the game. for the ducks thus disturbed come, as the spanish keepers put it, _obligados_ and not of their own free-will. hence they all pass high--many far above gunshot--and not even the attraction that our fleet of "decoys" (for we have now stuck up the whole of the morning's spoils to deceive their fellows) will induce more than a limited proportion, and those only the smaller bands, to descend from their aërial altitude. the "movement" of these masses nevertheless affords another of those spectacular displays that we must at least try to describe. for though none of their sky-high armies will pass within gunshot--or ten gunshots--yet one cannot but be struck with amazement when the whole vault of heaven above presents a quivering vision of wings--shaded, seamed, streaked, and spotted from zenith to horizon. then the multiplied pulsation of wings is distinctly perceptible--a singular sensation. one remembers it when, perhaps an hour later, you become conscious of its recurrence. but now the heavens are clear! not a single flight crosses the sky--not one, that is, within sight. but up above, beyond the limits of human vision, there pass unseen hosts, and _theirs_ is that pulsation you feel. the passage of these sky-scrapers is actuated by no puny manoeuvre of ours. they are travellers on through-routes. perhaps the last land (or water) they touched was dutch or danish; and they will next alight (within an hour) in africa. already at their altitude they can see, spread out, as it were, at their feet, the marshes and meres of morocco. although nominally describing that first day in las nuevas (and, so far as facts go, adhering rigidly thereto), yet we are endeavouring to concentrate in fewest words the actual lessons of many subsequent years of practical experience. thus the pick-up on that day (though it may have numbered a couple of hundred ducks) we refrain from recording in this attempt to convey the concrete while avoiding detail. back again, splash, splosh, through mud and mire, two hours' ride to our camp-fire--a picturesque scene with our marsh-bred friends gathered round, their tawny faces lurid in the firelight as flames shoot upwards and pine-cones crack like pistol-shots; and over the embers hang a score of teal each impaled on a supple bough. away beyond there loom like spectres our horses tethered when silvery moonlight glances through scattered pines. things would have been pleasant indeed had the rain but stopped occasionally. true we had our tents; but our men slept in the open, each rolled in his cloak, beneath some sheltering bush. chapter ix wildfowl-shooting in the marisma its principles and practice vast as their aggregations may be, yet wildfowl do not necessarily--merely by virtue of numbers--afford any sort of certainty to the modern fowler. half-a-million may be in view day by day, but in situations or under conditions where scarce half-a-score can be killed. this elementary feature is never appreciated by the uninitiated, nor probably ever will be since hawker's terse and trenchant prologue failed to fix it.[ ] what "the colonel" wrote a century ago stands equally good to-day; and _mutatis mutandis_ will probably stand good a century hence. [illustration] long before the authors had appeared on the scene with breech-loaders--even before the epoch of hawker with his copper-caps and detonators--the spanish fowlers of the marisma had already devised means of their own whereby the swarming wildfowl could be secured by wholesale. as a market venture, their system of a stalking-horse (called a _cabresto_) was deadly in the extreme and interesting to boot, affording unique opportunity of closely approaching massed wildfowl while still unconscious of danger. we have spent delightful days crouching behind these shaggy ponies, and describe the method later. but this is not a style that at all subserves the aspirations of the modern gunner, and we here study the problem from his point of view. the essence of success lies in ascertaining precisely the exact areas where fowl in quantity are "strongly haunted," by day and night, together with their regular lines of flight thence and thereto. obviously such exact knowledge in these vast marismas, devoid of landmarks, demands careful observation, and it must be remembered that these things change with every change of weather and water. having located such well-frequented resorts or flight-lines, the degree of success will yet depend on the _strength_ of the "haunt." it may happen (despite all care) that the partiality of the fowl for that special spot or route is merely superficial and evanescent. a dozen shots and they have cleared out, or altered their course. in the reverse case, so strong may be their "haunt" that no amount of disturbance entirely drives them away, and even those that have already been scared by the sound of shooting will yet return again and again. * * * * * by night ducks feed in the slobby shallows and oozes, but concealed by the samphire-growth which flourishes in such places. hence the use of the stancheon-gun is not here available as in the case of bare, plant-free, tidal flats at home and elsewhere. in the dusk the ducks have arrived at these feeding-grounds in quite small trips or bunches. but as the stars pale towards the dawn, they depart in larger detachments, often numbering hundreds in a pack. still, such are their enormous numbers that, even so, their shifting armies form an almost continuous stream in the direction whither they take their course. but where is that? that is the problem on the solution of which the fowler's success depends. we will presume that you have so solved it. in that case, you will have witnessed, between an hour before sun-up and half-an-hour thereafter, as marvellous a procession as the scheme of bird-life can afford. let us follow the fowl throughout that matutinal flight. away through leagues of empty space they hold their course, now high in air where vistas of brown samphire loom like land and might conceal a lurking foe, anon lowering their flight where sporadic sheets or lanes of open water break the tawny monotony. beyond all this, stretching away in open waters like an inland sea, lies a big _lucio_. that is their goal. one by one, or in dozens and scores, the infinite detachments re-unite to splash down upon that glassy surface. within brief minutes the whole expanse is darkened as with a carpet. [illustration: the stancheon-gun in the marisma--dawn.] upon this _lucio_ the assembled ducks command a view for miles around. hardly could a water-rat approach unseen. if the fowl persisted in passing the entire day thereon, no human power would avail to molest them--they could bid defiance to fowlers of every race and breed. two circumstances, however, favour their human foes. the first is the perpetual disturbance created among those floating hosts by birds-of-prey. these--chiefly marsh-harriers, but including also the great black-backed gulls--execute perpetual "feints" at the swimming ducks, sections of which (often thousands strong) are compelled to rise on wing by the menacing danger. the dominant idea actuating the raptores (since they are unable to attack the main bodies) is to ascertain if one or more wounded ducks remain afloat after their sound companions have cleared--the cripples, of course, affording an easy prey. the disturbed fowl will not fly far, perhaps half-a-mile, unless indeed they happen during that flight to catch sight of an attractive fleet of "decoys" moored in some quiet creek a mile or so away. the second favouring circumstance arises from a difference in habit between ducks in spain and their relatives (even con-specific) inhabiting british waters. for whereas the latter, as a rule, will remain quiescent in their selected resting-places the livelong day, in spain, on the contrary, by about a.m., the force of hunger begins visibly to operate--not in all, but in sections, which, rising in detachments, separate themselves from the masses and commence exploratory cruises among the smaller and shallower _lucios_ where food may be found.[ ] this intermittent flight slackens off for an hour or so at midday, is renewed in the afternoon, and stops dead one hour before sun-down. to exploit the advantage offered by these habits it is necessary to ascertain to which of the innumerable minor _lucios_ these "hunger-marchers" are resorting. observation will have decided that point, and our expert gunner now (at a.m.) be concealed with scrupulous care, and his fleet of, say, fifty decoys set out in lifelike and (or) attractive attitudes, exactly in the centre of the particular lagoon, whither, of recent days, the ducks have been observed to resort in greatest abundance from noon onwards. the gunner lies expectant on the cut rushes which strew the bottom-boards of his _cajon_--a box-shaped punt some feet long by - / broad, which is concealed by being thrust bodily in the midst of the biggest samphire bush available. the craft nevertheless is still afloat and, though flat-bottomed, is yet terribly crank, and any sudden movement to port or starboard threatens to capsize the entire outfit. to allay the tense suspicion of flighting wildfowl, several of the adjacent bushes for fifty yards around have been heightened by the addition of a cut bough or two--the idea being to induce a theory among passing ducks merely that this particular spot seems peculiarly favourable to samphire-growth--that and nothing more. in setting up decoys, while many are posed in lifelike attitudes, it is advisable to hang a few (especially white-plumaged species, such as pintail, shoveler, and wigeon-drakes) in almost vertical positions, in order to induce a belief among hungry incomers that these birds are "turning-up" to feast on abundant subaquatic plants beneath. this intermittent flight is naturally irregular, hunger affecting greater or less numbers on different days; but when it comes off in force affords the cream of wildfowling from before noon till the sun droops in the west. during the last hour before he dips not a wing moves. duck-shooting thus resolves itself into two main systems: ( ) intercepting the fowl on flight at dawn, and later ( ) awaiting their incoming at expected points. a good shoot may sometimes be engineered by cutting a broad "ride" through the samphire along some flight-line, thereby forming an open channel between two _lucios_. ducks which have hitherto flown sky-high in order to cross the danger-zone will now pass quite low along the new waterway, and even prefer it to crossing the cover at hazard, however high. a typical day's fowling in mid-marisma may be described. the night has been spent in a reed-built hut charmingly situate on a mud-islet half-an-acre in extent, and commanding unequalled views of flooded and featureless marisma. at a.m. we turn out and by the dim light of a lantern embark in a _cajon_ (punt), serenaded by the croaks and gabbling of flamingoes somewhere out in the dark waters. my wild companion, batata, kneeling in the bows and grasping a punt-pole in either hand, bends to his work, and away we glide--into the unknown. a weird feeling it is squatting thus at water-level and watching the wavelets dance by or dash over our two-inch free-board. we make but three miles an hour, yet seem to fly past half-seen water-plants. a myriad stars are reflected on the still surface ahead, and it is by a single great _lucero_ (planet) that our pilot is now steering his course. batata presently remarks that we have "arrived." one takes his word for this. still that verb does conditionally imply some place or spot of arrival. here there was none--none, at least, that could be differentiated from any other point or spot in many circumambient leagues. but this was not an hour for philological disquisition, so we mentally decide that we have reached "nowhere." a few hours later when daylight discovers our environment, that negation appears sufficiently proved. there are visible certain objects on the distant horizon. one--that behind us--proves to be the roof of the _choza_ wherein we had spent the night--"hull-down" to the eastward. the others a lengthened scrutiny with prism-binoculars shows to be a trio of wild camels feeding knee-deep in water. now where you see such signs you may conclude you are nowhere. we skip a few hours, since we have no intention of inflicting on the reader the details of a morning's flight-shooting. suffice that at a.m. b. reappears poling up in his punt, the spoils are collected (forty-nine in all, mostly wigeon and teal, with a few pintail and shoveler and one couple of gadwall), and the plan for the day discussed. to remain where we were (as this _lucio_ had yesterday attracted a fairly continuous flight of ducks) had been our original idea. but a shift of the wind had rendered a second _lucio_, distant two miles, a more favourable resort for to-day, and thither accordingly we set out. here a new _puesto_ is promptly prepared and the forty-nine decoys deftly set out, each supported by a supple wand stuck in the mud below. hardly had these preparations been completed, than the intermittent (or secondary) flight had commenced, file after file of ducks heading up from distant space, wheeling over or dashing past the seductive decoys. at recurring moments during the next three or four hours (with blank intervals between) i enjoyed to the full this most delightful form of wildfowling, so totally different in practice to all others. such is the speed of flighting fowl, such their keenness of vision and instant perception of danger, that but a momentary point of time--say the eighth of a second--is available fully to exploit each chance. should the gunner rise too quick, the ducks are beyond the most effective range; yet within a space not to be measured by figures or words, they will have detected the fraud, and in a flash have scattered, shooting vertically upwards like a bunch of sky-rockets. two features in the life-history of the duck-kind become apparent. the first points to the probability that adults pair for life, and that the mated couples keep together all winter even when forming component units in a crowd. for when an adult female is shot from the midst of a pack, the male will almost invariably accompany her in her fall to the very surface of the water, and will afterwards circle around, piping disconsolately, and even return again and again in search of his lost partner. this applies chiefly to wigeon, but we have frequently observed the same trait in pintail and occasionally in other species. it is only the drakes that display this constancy; a bereaved female continues her flight unheeding. the feature is most conspicuous when awaiting ducks at their feeding-grounds (_comederos_), but it also occurs when shooting on their flight-lines (_correderos_) between distant points. the second singular habit is the custom, particularly among wigeon, to form what are termed in spanish _magañonas_--little groups of four to a dozen birds consisting of a single female with a bevy of males in attendance, flying aimlessly hither and thither in a compact mass, the drakes constantly calling and the one female twisting and turning in all directions as though to avoid their attentions. the _magañonas_ appear blind to all sense of danger, and will pass within easy range even though a gunner be fully exposed. not only this, but a first shot may easily account for half-a-dozen, and should the hen be among the fallen, the survivors will come round again and again in search of her. we have known whole _magañonas_ to be secured within a few minutes. other species also form _magañonas_, but more rarely and never in so conspicuous a manner as the wigeon. the habit certainly springs from what we have elsewhere termed a "pseudo-erotic" instinct (see _bird-life of the borders_, nd ed., pp. , - ), and is probably the first pairing of birds which have just then reached full maturity. * * * * * from mid-february to the end of march ducks are constantly departing northwards whenever conditions favour, to wit, a south-west wind in the afternoon, which wind is a feature of the season. their vacant places are at once filled by an equally constant succession of arrivals from the south (africa), easily recognised by rusty stains on their lower plumage (denoting ferruginous water) which they lose here within a few days. ducks at this season can find food everywhere in the _manzanilla_, or camomile, which now grows up from the bottom and in places covers the shallows with its white, buttercup-like flowers. having food everywhere there is less necessity to fly in search of it. it is, however, a curious feature of the season that, after the morning-flight (which is shorter than in mid-winter), ducks practically suspend all movement from, say, a.m. till the daily sea-breeze (_viento de la mar_) springs up about p.m. during these five hours not a wing moves, but no sooner has the sea-breeze set in than constant streams of ducks fly in successive detachments from the large open _lucios_ to the shallower feeding-grounds. thus we have known a late february "bag," which at p.m. had numbered but a miserable half-score, mount up before dusk to little short of a hundred. * * * * * wigeon arrive from the end of september onwards, the great influx occurring during the first fortnight of november. they commence leaving from mid-february, and by the end of march all (save a few belated stragglers) are gone. the same remarks apply equally to pintail, shoveler, and teal, though, as before remarked, pintail often appear exceptionally early--in september,--and are again extremely conspicuous (after being scarce all winter) on their return journey--_de vuelta paso_, as it is called--in february. gadwall, preferring deep waters, are not numerous in the shallow marisma. a big bag therein, nevertheless, will always include a few couples of this species. shoveler are so numerous that we have known over eighty bagged by one gun in a day. garganey chiefly occur in early autumn and again _de vuelta paso_ in march. they winter in africa. marbled duck breed here, and in september large bags may be made; but in mid-winter (when they have retired to africa) it is rare to secure more than half-a-dozen or so in a day. they are very bad eating. shelduck only occur in dry seasons. they fall easy victims to any sort of "decoy" provided it is _white_. a local fowler told us he had killed many by substituting (in default of natural decoys) the dry bones and skulls of cattle! ruddy shelduck do not frequent the marisma, preferring the sweeter waters and shallows adjoining doñana. diving-ducks avoid the marisma except only in the wettest winters. * * * * * an hour before sun-down, as above stated, all bird-movement ceases. for a brief space absolute tranquillity reigns over the illimitable marisma. the dusky masses that cover the _lucios_ seem lulled to sleep and silence. but the interlude is very temporary. hardly has night thrown her mantle across the wastes, than all that tremendous, eager, vital energy is reawakened to fresh activities. a striking and a memorable experience will be gained by awaiting that exact hour at some favourite feeding-ground. within a few minutes, as darkness deepens, the ambient air fairly hisses and surges with the pulsation of thousand strong pinions hurtling close by one's ear, and with the splash of heavy bodies flung down by fifties and hundreds in the shallows almost within arm's-length--the nearest approximation that occurs to us is a bombardment of pompoms. yet, for all that, night-flighting in the marisma (having regard to the quantities concerned) produces but insignificant results. the ducks come in so low and so direct--no preliminary circling overhead--and at such velocity that this flight-shooting may be likened to an attempt to hit cannon-balls in the dark. our expert shots score, say, eight or ten, but what is that? the nocturnal disturbance, moreover, may be (and usually is) prejudicial to the next day's operations, and it is clearly not worth the risk, for half-a-dozen shots in the twilight, to discount a hundred at dawn. the fewer shots ducks hear, the better. never disturb them unless you have every reasonable prospect of exacting a proportionate toll. [illustration] chapter x wild-geese in spain their species, haunts, and habits to spain, as to other lands that remain unaltered and "unimproved," resort the greylag geese in thousands to pass the winter. in our marismas of the guadalquivir they appear during the last days of september, but it is a month later ere their full numbers are made up, and from that date until the end of february their defiant multitudes and the splendid difficulties of their pursuit afford a unique form and degree of wild sport perhaps unknown outside of spain. ride through the marisma in november; it is mostly dry, and autumn rains have merely refreshed the sun-baked alluvia and formed sporadic shallows, or _lucios_ as they are here termed. that _lucio_ straight ahead is a mile across, yet it is literally tessellated with a sonorous crowd. with binoculars one distinguishes similar scenes beyond; the intervening space--and indeed the whole marisma--is crowded with geese as thickly as it is on our immediate front. to right and left rise fresh armies hitherto concealed among the _armajo_, till the very earth seems in process of upheaval, while the air resounds with a volume of voices--gabblings, croaks, and shrill bi-tones mingled with the rumble of beating wings. amid the islands of the norwegian skaargaard one can see geese in bulk, but there their numbers are distributed over a thousand miles of coast. here we have them all--or a large proportion--concentrated in what is by comparison but a narrow space. in their life-habits these geese are strictly diurnal, that is, they feed by day--chiefly in the early morning and again towards afternoon, with a mid-day interval of rest. the night they spend asleep on some broad _lucio_ or other bare open space. that habit, however, is subject to modification during the periods of full moon, when many geese avail themselves of her brilliant light to feed in even greater security than they can enjoy by day. their food consists exclusively of vegetable substances--at first of the remnants of the summer's herbage, such as green ribbon-grass (_canaliza_), and other semi-aquatic plants; their main sustenance in mid-winter consists of the tuber-bearing roots of spear-grass (_cyperus longus_ and _c. rotundus_) which they dig up from the ground. [illustration: root of spear-grass] when autumn rains are long delayed, their voracious armies will already have consumed every green thing that remains in the parched marismas long before the "new water" from the heavens shall have furnished new feeding-grounds. in such cases the geese are forced to depart, and do so--so far as our observation goes--in the direction of morocco; returning thence (within a few hours) immediately after rain has fallen. their entry, on this second arrival, is invariably from the south and south-west--that is, from the sea. there are three methods of shooting wild-geese in the spanish marismas which may here be specified, to wit:-- ( ) morning-flight, when the geese habitually come to "take sand" at the dawn. see next chapter. ( ) "driving" during the day (available only in dry years). ( ) awaiting their arrival at dusk at their _dormideros_, or sleeping-places, see pp. , . an all-important factor in their pursuit arises from an economic necessity with wild-geese constantly to possess, and frequently to renew, a store of sand or grit in their gizzards. to obtain this they resort every morning to certain sandy spots in the marismas (hereinafter described, and which are known as _vetas_); or failing that, when the said _vetas_ are submerged, to the sand-dunes outside. although great numbers of geese resort each morning to these spots, yet those numbers are but a small proportion of their entire aggregate, for no individual goose needs to replenish his supply of sand or grit more often than perhaps once a week, or even less frequently. hence at each dawn it is a fresh contingent of geese that comes in _para arenárse_ = to "sand themselves," as our keepers put it. one other quality in the natural economy of wild-geese requires mention--that is, their sense of scent. this defence wild-geese possess in equal degree with wild-ducks and most other wild creatures; but each class differ in their modes of utilising it. for whereas ducks on detecting human scent will take instant alarm and depart afar on that indication alone; yet geese, on the other hand, though their nostrils have fully advised them of the presence of danger, will not at once take wing, but remain--with necks erect and all eyes concentrated towards the suspect point--awaiting confirmation by sight what they already know by scent. that such is the case we ascertained in the days (now long past) when we ventured to stalk geese with no more covert than the low fringe of rush that borders the marisma. "_gatiando_" = cat-crouching, our keepers term the method--laborious work, creeping flat for, it may be, yards, through sloppy mud with less than two-foot of cover. should it become necessary during the stalk to go directly to windward of the fowl, one's presence (though quite unseen) would be instantly detected. the geese, ceasing to feed or rest, all stood to attention, while low, rumbling alarm-signals resounded along their lines. but they did not take wing. presently, however, one reached a gap in the thickly growing rushes--it might not extend to a yard in width, yet no sooner was but a glimpse available to the keen eyes beyond, than the whole pack rose in simultaneous clatter of throats and wings. they had merely waited that scintilla of ocular confirmation of a known danger. "driving" (in a dry season) for four months no rain had fallen. the parched earth gaped with cavernous cracks; vegetation was dried up; starving cattle stood about listless, and every day one saw the assembled vultures devouring the carcases of those already dead. from the turrets of our shooting-lodge one's eye surveyed--no longer an inland sea, but a monotone of sun-baked mud; inspection through binoculars revealed the fact that this whole space was dotted with troops of ... well, a friend who was with us thought they were sheep; but which, in fact, were bands of greylag geese. the fluctuations of spanish seasons--varying from noachian deluge to saharan drought--necessarily react upon the habits of wildfowl. these changes are one of the charms of the country; at any rate, they "stretch out" the fowler to devise some new thing. those battalions of greylags posted out there on a vantage-ground where a mouse might be a prominent object at yards, how can they be reduced to possession? our friend aforesaid replies that the undertaking appears humanly impossible. we have, nevertheless, elaborated a system of driving, by which in dry years the greylag geese may be obtained with some degree of certainty. this morning (the last of january) we rode forth, four guns and four keepers, across that plain. upon approaching the pack of geese selected, one keeper rides to a position rather above the "half-wind" line, and there halts as a "stop." the remaining seven ride on till, at a silent signal, no. gun, without checking his horse, passes the bridle forward and rolls out of the saddle with gun and gear, lying at once flat as a flounder on the bare dry mud. at intervals of eighty yards each successive gun does the same, the four being now extended in a half-moon that commands nearly a quarter-mile of space. the three keepers (leading the other horses) continue riding forward in circular course till a second "stop" is placed in the right flank corresponding with the one already posted on the left. the last pair now complete the circuit by riding round to windward of the game, separating by yards as that position is attained. (see diagram.) [illustration] how are these four guns to conceal themselves on perfectly bare ground from the telescopic sight of wild-geese? occasionally, some small natural advantage may be found--such as tufts of rushes--and these are at once availed of. but this morning there is no such aid. not a rush nor a mole-hill breaks that dead-level monotone for miles; and in such condition a human being, however flat he may lie, is bound to be detected by the keen-eyed geese long ere they arrive within shot.[ ] a dozen twigs of tree-heath, dipped in wet mud and then allowed to dry, so as to harmonise in colour with the surroundings, may be utilised; but the annexed sketch shows better than words a portable screen we have devised and which fulfils this purpose. it consists of four bamboo sticks two feet long, sharpened at the point, and connected by four or five strings with one-foot intervals. this when rolled up forms a bundle no thicker than an umbrella. on reaching one's post the bundle unrolls of itself, the sharpened points are stuck into the ground at an angle sloping towards the prostrate gun, a few tufts of dead grass (carried in one's pocket) are woven through the strings and the shelter is complete. needless to say, these preparations must be carried out with the minimum of movement in face of such vigilant foes. some assistance, however, accrues from the geese continuing to watch the moving file of horsemen while the prostrate gunner erects his screen. [illustration: shelters for driving wild-geese] well, the circle being complete, all four drivers (distant now, say, yards) converge on the common centre. the watchful geese have ceased grubbing up the spear-grass, and now stand alert with a forest of necks erect, while an increasing volume of gabbling attests their growing suspicion. presently, with redoubled outcry, they rise on wing, and now commences the real science of our spanish fowlers. the guns, after all, command but a small segment of the circle--anywhere else the geese can break out scathless--and this mischance it is the object of our drivers and flankers to avert. no sooner does the gaggling band shift its course to port or starboard than the "stop" on that side is seen to be urging his horse in full career to intercept their flight, yet using such judgment as will neither deflect their course too much or turn them back altogether. sometimes both flankers and drivers are seen to be engaged at once, and a pretty sight it is to the prostrate gunners to watch the equestrian manoeuvres. presently the whole band head away for what appears the only available outlet, and should they then pass directly over one or other of the guns, are seldom so high but that a pair should be secured right-and-left. in strong gales of wind the geese, on being driven, are apt, instead of taking a direct course, to circle around in revolving flight, gaining altitude at each revolution; and in such case not only come in very high but at incredible speed--_mas lejeros que zarcetas_--swifter than teal, as vasquez puts it. the first essential of success in driving wild-geese (and the same applies to great bustard and all large winged game) is to instal the firing-line as near as may be without disturbing the fowl. the more remote the guns the greater the difficulty in forcing the game through the crucial pass. to manoeuvre single bands of geese as above, three or four guns at most, with the same number of drivers, are best. a great crowd of horsemen (such being never seen in these wilds) unduly arouses suspicions already acute enough. with any greater number of guns, it is advisable to extend the field of operations to, say, two or three miles, thereby enclosing several troops of geese--this requiring a large force of drivers. it does not, however, follow that each of these enclosed troops will "enter" to the guns; for should one pack come in advance, the firing will turn back the others. this mischance--or rather bungle--may be averted (or may not) by the leading driver firing a blank shot behind so soon as the first geese are seen to have taken wing. needless to remark, once a shot has been fired ahead, it becomes tenfold harder to force the remaining geese to the guns. each gun should hold his fire till the main bodies of geese are well on wing and seen to be heading in towards the shooting-line. the "best possible" chances are thus secured, and not for one gun only, but quite possibly for all, as several hundred geese pass down the line. a premature shot, on the contrary, will ruin the best-planned drive, and bring down merited abuse from the rest of the party with scathing contempt from the drivers. taking single troops at a time, as many as six or eight separate drives may be worked into a long day. our first drive to-day produced three geese, the second was blank, while five greylags rewarded the third attempt. in the last instance three of the guns received welcome aid from a string of _ojos_, or land-springs, around which grew a fringe of green rushes, affording excellent cover. by four o'clock we had secured, in five drives, eleven geese and a wigeon. we then, on information received, changing our plan, rode off to a point which the keeper of that district had noted was being used by the geese as a _dormidero_, or sleeping-place; and here, as dusk fell, an hour's "flighting" added six more greylags to that day's total. the above may be put down as a fair average day's results in a dry season. from a dozen to a score of driven geese (and occasionally many more) represent, with such game as greylags, a degree and a quality of sport that is ill-represented by cold numerals. there are spots in the marisma where the configuration of the shore-line enables the flight of the geese, when disturbed, to be foretold with certainty. for geese will not cross dry land: their retreat is always to the open waters. in such situations excellent results accrue from placing the gun-line at a _right angle_ to the expected line of flight, while all the "beaters," save one or two to flush the fowl, are stationed as "stops" between the geese and their objective. on rising, the birds thus find themselves confronted by a long line of horsemen who intercept their natural retreat, and, in effect, force them back towards the land. should the operation be well executed, the landmost gun will probably be the first to fire; while the geese thereafter pass down the entire line of guns, possibly affording shots to each in turn. two guns can then be effectively brought into action. needless to add, the second must be handled with the utmost rapidity. in wet winters, when the marisma is submerged, "driving" is not available. obviously you cannot place a line of guns, however keen, in six inches of water, much less in half-a-yard. my first impression of wild-goose driving (writes j.) was one of wonder that such intensely astute and wide-awake fowl would ever fly near, much less over so obvious a danger as the little loose semicircle of rosemary twigs behind which i lay prone on the barest of bare mud. peering through between their naked stalks, i could plainly see the geese some half-mile away, and it seemed incredible that i should not be equally visible to them. possibly the brown leaves on top of the twigs may have concealed me from the loftier anserine point of view, and the equestrian manoeuvres beyond no doubt greatly aided the object. anyway, the whole pack--three or four hundred, and proportionally noisy--_did_ come right over me, and a wildly exciting moment it was, i can assure you! we had six or seven drives that day, and bagged twenty-eight splendid great grey geese, of which eight fell to my lot. i may perhaps be allowed to add (since such details are taken for granted, or regarded as unworthy of note by regular gunners of the _marisma_) that to-day we had no less than six times to cross and recross a broad marsh-channel called the _madre_--floundering, splashing, slithering, and stumbling through yards of mud and water full three-foot deep. it may be nothing (if you're used to it), yet twice i've seen horses go down, and their riders take a cold bath, lucky if they didn't broach their barrels! to follow vasquez about the _marisma_ is a job that requires special qualities that not all of us possess or (perchance fortunately?) require to possess. the following instructions may be worth the attention of new beginners:-- ( ) never fire till you are fairly certain to kill at least one. ( ) never rise or even move in your "hide" till the beat is entirely finished. ( ) reload at once; when big lots are being moved, two, three, or more chances may offer quite unexpectedly. ( ) wear suitably coloured clothes and head-gear, and never let the sun glint on the gun-barrels. ( ) after firing, watch the departing geese till nearly out of sight. though apparently unhurt, one of their company may turn over, stone-dead, in the distance. "flighting"--an incident of a dry season the day above described was selected, not only because it affords a typical illustration of our theme, but also because there had occurred during its course an extraneous incident which serves to amplify this exposition of the pursuit of the greylag goose. riding across the marisma, certain signs at once filled both our minds with fresh ideas. all around the ground was littered with cast feathers and other evidence proclaiming that this special spot was a regular resort of geese. we were crossing one of those slightly raised ridges of sand and grit which here and there intersect the otherwise universal dead-level of alluvial mud, and which ridges are known locally as _vetas_--tongues. now the nutritive economy of wild-geese, as already explained, requires a frequently replenished store of sand or grit. in wet seasons (the marisma being then submerged) the geese resort to the adjoining sand-dunes of doñana to secure these supplies. but in dry winters they are enabled to obtain the necessary sand from these _vetas_; and it was to this particular spot that, to the number of many hundreds, the geese were evidently resorting at this period. at once the measure of opportunity was gauged, and the arrangements necessary for its exploitation were made. within three minutes a messenger was galloping homewards to summon a couple of men with spades and buckets to prepare a hole wherein one of us might lie concealed at daybreak. a pannier-mule to carry away the excavated material was also requisitioned, since the least visible change in the earth's surface would instantly be recognised by the geese as a danger-signal. within a few minutes we had resumed our course, to continue the day's sport. [illustration: wild-geese in the marisma.] next morning half an hour before dawn the writer reached the spot. it was pitch-dark and a dense fog prevailed. by what mental process my guides directed an unerring course to that lonely hole in the midst of a pathless and practically boundless waste passes understanding. such piloting (without aid of compass or even of the heavenly bodies--the usual index on which marshmen rely) seems to indicate a point where intellect and instinct touch; or perhaps rather a survival of the latter quality which, in modern races, has become obsolete through disuse. among savage races that faculty of instinct is markedly prominent, indeed the master-force; but there it has been acquired (or retained) at the cost of intellect, which is not the case with our spanish friends--they possess both qualities. but place the best intellects of madrid, or paris, or london in such conditions--in darkness, or fog, or in viewless forest--and not one could hold a straight course for half-a-mile. within ten minutes each man would be lost, devoid of all sense of direction. that is part of the price of the higher civilisation--the loss of a faculty which need not clash with any other. of course where people live with a telephone at their ear, with electric trams and "tubes" close at hand, where a whistle will summon an attendant hansom and two a taxi-meter--or, as _punch_ suggested, three may bring down an airship--well, in such case, those modern "advantages" may be held to outweigh the loss of a primitive natural faculty. hardly had a tardy light begun to strengthen to the dawn than the soft, soliloquising "gagga, gagga, gagga," with alternatively the raucous "honk-honk," resounded afar through the gloom. from seven o'clock onwards geese were flying close around--so near that the rustling of strong wings sounded almost within arm's-length; but that opaque fog held unbroken and nothing could be seen. long before eight i resolved to quit and leave the fowl undisturbed for another morning rather than open fire at so late an hour. having a compass, i steered a good line to the point where the horses awaited me, a mile away. the following morning again broke foggy, though not quite so thick; still i had only five geese at eight o'clock, when three packs coming well in, in rapid succession, afforded three gratifying doubles. total, eleven geese. leaving the geese a few mornings' peace, on february the authors together occupied that hole at dawn. it proved a brilliant morning with a fine show of geese. as each pack came in, we took it in turns to give the word whether to fire or not. in the negative case, our eyes sank gently below the surface of the earth, and crouching down we heard the rush of wind-splitting pinions pass over and behind--probably to offer a fairer mark when they next wheeled round. then two, and often three, great geese came hurtling downwards, to fall with resounding thuds behind. few mistakes occurred this morning and scarce a chance was missed. but never could we succeed in working-in the two doubles at once! the cramped space forbade that. the hole, having been dug for one, gave no freedom of action for two guns; its floor, moreover, had now become a compound of sticky glutinous clay a foot deep, and that further hampered movements. only one gun could work the second barrel. after each shot, one of us jumped out and propped up the fallen geese as decoys. to leave them lying about all-ends-up has a disastrous effect. ere the "flight" ceased we had five-and-twenty greylags down around our hide, besides several others that had fallen at some distance, duly marked by the keepers who now galloped off to gather these--say two mule-loads of geese. the discovery of that lonely "sanding-place" had had a concrete reward. [illustration] chapter xi wild-geese on the sand-hills flanking the marisma and separating it from the dry lands of doñana, there rises rampart-like a swelling range of dunes--the biggest thing in the sand line we have seen on earth. for miles extend these mountains of sand, unbroken by vestige of vegetation or any object to relieve one's eyesight, dazzled--aye, blinded--by that brilliantly scintillating surface, set off in vivid contrast by the azure vault above. should a stranger, on first seeing those buttressed dunes, be seriously informed that their naked summits constitute a favourite resort of wild-geese, he might reasonably suspect his informant's sanity, or at least wonder whether his own credulity were not being tested. yet such is the fact--one of the surprises that befall in spain, the _pays de l'imprévu_. the paradox is explained by the stated necessity in wild-geese to furnish their gizzards with store of grit or sand for digestive purposes. this supply, so long as the marisma is dry, they are able to obtain from those raised ridges of calcareous debris (already described, and known locally as _vetas_) which here and there outcrop from the alluvial wastes. but when winter rains and floods have submerged the whole region and thus deprived the fowl of that local resource, they are forced to rely upon the sand-dunes aforesaid and to substitute pure sea-sand for their former specific of calcareous grit or disintegrated shells. to the sand-dunes, therefore, in the cold bright mornings between october and february, the skeins of greylag geese may be seen directing their course in successive files, in order, as the spanish put it, "to sand themselves" (_arenárse_). a notable fact (and one favourable to the fowler) is that, though these dunes extend for miles, yet the geese select certain limited areas--or, to be precise, the summits of two particular hills--for alighting, and this despite their being regularly shot thereat, year after year. with the first sign of dawn the earlier arrivals will be heard approaching; but the bulk of the geese come in about sun-up and onwards till a.m. geese arriving high (having come presumably from a distance) will sometimes, after a preliminary wheel, suddenly collapse in mid-air, diving and shooting earthwards in a score of curving lines--as teal do, or tumbler-pigeons; but with these heavy fowl the manoeuvre is executed with surprising grace and command of wing. their numbers vary on different mornings without any apparent cause; but it may be laid down as a general rule that more will come on clear bright mornings than when the dawn is overcast, while rain proves (as in all wildfowling) an upsetting factor. sometimes, even on favourable mornings, no geese appear. occasionally, in small numbers, they may visit the sand in afternoon. to exploit the advantage afforded by this habit of the geese, it is necessary that the fowler be concealed before dawn in a hole dug for the purpose in the sand--care being taken to utilise any natural concealment, such as a depression flanked by a steep sand-revetment; so that, at least from one quarter, the geese may perceive no danger till right over the gun. the hole (or holes, but _one_ is best) must be dug at least twelve hours before, or the newly turned sand will show up dark. were it not for the risk of wind filling them up with driving sand (a matter of an hour or two), the holes might well be prepared two or even three days beforehand. the excavated material is piled up around the periphery and flattened down smooth, thus forming a raised rampart which screens the suspicious darkness of the interior. needless to say, the fewer human footprints around the spot, the better. such is the inability exhibited by many sportsmen (not being wildfowlers) to conceal their persons--or even to recognise the virtue of concealment--that, for such, the holes are apt to be made too big, and the geese swerve off at sight of those gaping pits. this indeed is a form of sport that none save wildfowlers need essay--others merely succeed in thwarting the whole enterprise. however carefully prepared and skilfully occupied, these holes (dug in naked sand) must obviously be visible enough to the keen sight of incoming greylags. one such hole (when backed up by well-placed decoys) the geese may almost ignore; two they distrust; while three inspire something approaching panic. consequently a single craftsman who knows his business and bides his time will shoot, under the most favourable circumstances, at almost every successive band of geese that means alighting. two guns, in _full sympathy_ with each other, may effectually combine by occupying holes dug at some fifty yards apart and with a single set of decoys set midway between for mutual use. thus there can be secured fair, frequent, and almost simultaneous shots. it is essential to bear in mind the fact that the geese have come with the intention (unless prematurely alarmed) of _alighting_. hence, as they often circle two or three times around before finally deciding, a judicious refusal of all uncertain chances has a concrete reward when, a few seconds later, the pack sweep overhead at half gunshot. the first element of success lies in concealment; the second in ever allowing the geese to come in to such close quarters as renders the shot a certainty. greylag geese are, of course, huge birds, very strong, and impenetrable as ironclads. but to tyros (and many others) in the early light they are apt to appear much larger, and consequently much nearer, than is actually the case. all this has, the night before, been impressed upon our friend, the tyro, in solemn, even tragic tones. the urgency of the thing seems to have been graven deep on the very tissues of his brain, and he promises with earnest humility to bear the lesson in mind when the vital moment shall arrive; to deny himself all but point-blank shots well within thirty yards, whereby he will not only himself assist to swell the score, but enable his companion to do likewise. words fail to describe that companion's frame of mind at the dawn, when, despite over-night exhortations and assurances, he sees to his horror pack after pack of incoming geese (some of which he has himself let pass within forty yards) "blazed at" at mad and reckless ranges by that wretched scarecrow who never ruffles a feather and afterwards tries to excuse his failure by enlarging on "the extreme height the geese came in at!" these goose-hills, it may here appropriately be stated, lie midway between our two shooting-lodges and distant between two and three hours' ride from either. thus every morning's goose-shooting presupposes some fairly arduous work. it means being in the saddle by a.m. with its resultant discomforts and a long scrambling ride in the dark. hence the disgust is proportionate when all that work is thrown away in such insane style. never again for any tyro on earth, though he be our clearest friend, never will the authors turn out at a.m., abusing with clattering hoof the silence and repose of midnight watch and the hours designed for rest--never again, unless alone or with a known and reliable companion. a word now as to the "decoys." these, in design, are american--first observed and brought across from chicago--cut out of block-tin, formed and painted to resemble a grey-goose. geese being gregarious by nature are peculiarly susceptible to the attractions of decoys. hence these tin geese have a marvellous effect when silhouetted on the skyline of a sand-ridge, being conspicuous for enormous distances and the only "living" objects on miles of desert. they are _most_ deadly before sunrise, after which they are apt to glint too much despite a coating of dried mud. as daylight broadens, incoming geese are apt to be disconcerted at losing sight of their supposed friends, which event must occur as each decoy falls end-on--one can interpret the hurried queries and expletives of the puzzled phalanx at that mysterious disappearance! for these reasons it is desirable as soon as possible to supplement the decoys with, and finally to substitute for them, the real article, that is, the newly shot geese, set up in life-like attitudes by aid of twigs brought for the purpose. fallen birds must, in any case, be set up as fast as gathered; if left spread-eagled as they fell, inevitably the next comers are scared. the more numerous and life-like the decoys, the more certain are the geese to come in with confidence and security. naturally great care must be used in getting into and out of one's hide to avoid breaking down its loose and crumbling substance. but it is of first importance quickly to gather and prop up the dead. a winged goose walking away should be stopped with a charge of no. in the head. as illustrating the life-like effect produced by our tin decoys, on one occasion a friend, after firing both barrels, was watching a wounded goose, when a strange sound behind attracted his attention. on looking round, a fox was seen to have sprung upon one of the tin geese! that a fox, with his keen intuition and knowledge of things, should have considered it worth his while to stalk wild-geese (even of flesh and blood) on that naked expanse seems incredible. the fact remains that he did it! strange indeed are the sensations evoked by that silent watch before day-dawn, in expectation of what truly appears incredible! buried virtually in a desert of sand the fowler has nothing in sight beyond the dark dunes and a star-spangled sky overhead. for his hide is cunningly hidden in a slight depression with a hanging buttress on two sides. [illustration: wild-geese alighting on the sand-hills] several hundred yards away, concealed under stunted pines, stand our horses, while the men cower round a small fire, for we have had a biting cold two-hours' ride, and freezing to boot. half-a-mile away on the other side--the east--begins the marisma, though hidden from view by the waves of rolling sand that intervene. now a faint glint of light gleams on the tin decoys and foretells the coming dawn. five more minutes elapse, and then ... that low deep-toned anserine call-note, instinct with concentrated caution--"gagga, gagga, gagga, gagga"--sets pulses and nerves on fuller stretch. this pack proves to be but an advance-guard; for this is one of those thrice-blessed mornings for which we pray! the geese come in thick and fast in successive bands of six or eight to a score, and all beautifully timed, with exactly the correct interval between. the fowler is a craftsman, a master of his art, and, moreover, he is all alone. hence he can to-day await the psychological moment with patience and absolute confidence. rarely in such circumstances is trigger touched in vain; not seldom has the second gun been brought into action with good, thrice with double effect. no simple achievement is this, when fowl vanish swift and ghost-like into space; for, remember, guns must be exchanged with due deliberateness else shifting sand in an instant fills the breech and clogs the actions. thrice has the double _carambola_ been brought off, and now comes the prettiest shot of all--five geese swing past, head up for the decoys, and pass full broadside at deadliest range; they are barely twenty yards away. in all but simultaneous pairs fall four of their company on the sand--all four stone dead; and but a single survivor wings away to bear news of the catastrophe to his fellows in the marisma! it is a.m., and the tin decoys are now entirely replaced by geese of flesh and feather, with the fatal result that each successive pack now enters with fullest confidence, so that by doubles and trebles the score mounts fast during the fleeting minutes that yet remain. before nine o'clock the flight has ceased. it only remains to gather those birds which have fallen afar--and which have been marked by the keepers from their points of vantage--and to follow by their spoor on the sand such winged geese as may have departed on foot. some of these will be overtaken, those that have concealed themselves in the nearest rush-beds; but should any have passed on and gained the stronghold of the marisma, they are lost. such is an ideal morning's work, one of those rare rewards of patience and skill that occur from time to time. far differently may the event fall out. there are mornings when scarce once will that weird forewarning note, "gagga, gagga," rejoice the expectant ear with harsh music, when no chain-like skeins dot and serry the eastern skies, or ever a greylag appears to remember his wonted haunts. we do not complain, much less despair. such are the underlying, fundamental conditions of wildfowling in all lands. to a nature-lover the wildness of the scene, with its unique conditions and environment are ever sufficient reward. roughly speaking, from a dozen to a score of geese may be reckoned as a fair average morning's work for one gun. the following figures, selected from our game-books, indicate the degree of success that rewards exceptional skill. in each instance they apply to but one fowler, though two guns ( -bores) may have been employed. . remarks. dec. . geese. later in day, shot ducks in the _marisma_ close by. dec. . geese. later, shot ducks, snipe.--b. f. b. . nov. . geese. (a second gunner shot but three.) nov. . geese. . jan. . geese. westerly gale kept filling hole with sand; half my time spent in new excavation.--w. j. b. . dec. . three guns on sand-hills, + + = geese. dec. . geese. shots fired, . later in day, shot ducks, snipe = head.--b. f. b. . jan. . geese. jan. . geese. the record.--(b. f. b.) dec. . h.m. king alfonso xiii., geese; marq. de viana, = geese (an unfavourable morning). . jan. . two guns (second at caño de la casquera), + = geese. jan. . geese. possibly the larger totals are unsurpassed in the world's records. by way of contrast we append what may perchance be discovered in the note-book of the veracious tyro:-- went out three mornings at three, emptied three cartridge-bags at ridiculous ranges, fluked three geese, and scared three thousand. instructions in shooting wild-geese where the main object is _close quarters_, ordinary -bore guns suffice. but since geese are very strong and heavily clad, large shot is a necessity, say no. . thirty to thirty-five yards should be regarded as the outside range, with forty yards as an extreme limit. the latter, however, should only be attempted in exceptional cases, and never when shooting in company. should two guns be employed, the case of the second is, of course, different. it may be loaded with larger shot--say aaa--which is effective up to fifty yards. the speed of geese (like that of bustards) is extremely deceptive--as much so as their apparent nearness when really far out of shot. when in full flight geese travel as fast as ducks or as driven grouse, though their relatively slow wing-beats give a totally false impression thereof. it is a safe rule for beginners to allow _double_ that forward swing of the gun that may appear needful to inexpert eyes. even when geese are slowing down to alight, the impetus of their flight is still far greater than it appears. it is a mistake to suppose (as many urge) that geese cannot be killed coming in, that the shot then "glances off their steely plumage," or that you "must let them pass over and shoot from behind," etc., etc. the cause of all these frequent misapprehensions is--the old, old story--_too far back!_ hold another foot ahead--or a yard, according to circumstance--and this dictum will be handsomely proved. never deliberately try to kill two at one shot; it results in killing neither. but by shooting well ahead of _one_ goose that is seen to be aligned with another beyond, _both_ may thus be secured. chapter xii some records in spanish wildfowling [illustration] [illustration] el travierso, _february , ._--an hour before dawn we (five guns) lay echeloned obliquely across a mile of water, the writer's position being the second out. no. squatted (in six inches of water) between me and the shore; but, being dissatisfied, moved elsewhere shortly after day-break, leaving with me two geese and about a dozen ducks. these, with thirty-six of my own, i set out as decoys. shortly thereafter i heard the gaggle of geese, and two, coming from behind, were already so near that there was only time to change _one_ cartridge to big shot. the geese passed abeam, quite low and within thirty yards, but six feet apart--impossible to get them both. held on; upon seeing that the decoys were a fraud, the geese spun up vertically, and that _one_ cartridge secured both. the incident gives opportunity to introduce two rough sketches pencilled down at the moment. during this day there were recurrent periods when for ten or fifteen, minutes ducks flew extremely fast and well--_revoluciones_, our keepers term these sporadic intermittent movements; then for a full hour or more might follow a spell of absolute silence and an empty sky. almost the whole of these successive flights concentrated on no. --such is fowler's luck,--so that by dusk i had gathered ducks, geese, flamingoes, and godwits; total, . the next gun (j. c. c.), though only yards away, in no. , had but ducks; while the others had practically had no shooting all day. bertie, however, two miles away at the desierto, added --bringing the day's total to ducks, geese, etc. three guns left to-night. next day at the cañaliza, bertie and i had ducks by noon, when (by reason of intense sun-glare at the point) i shifted back to my yesterday's post--two hours' tramp through sticky mud and water, with a load of cartridges, ducks, etc. thereat in one hour ( to p.m.) i secured ducks, bringing my total for the two days--a record in my humble way, but surpassed threefold, as will be seen on following pages--to over head, and for the party, to precisely ( ducks and geese), besides flamingoes, ruffs, grey-plover, etc. [illustration: godwits] * * * * * a curious incident occurred on february ( ). but few ducks--and they all teal--had "flighted" early, and a strong west wind having "blown" the water, my post was left near dry. just as i prepared to move yards eastward, a marvellous movement of teal commenced. on the far horizon appeared three whirling clouds, each perhaps yards in length by in depth, and all three waltzing and wheeling in marshalled manoeuvres down channel towards me. to right and left in rhythmical revolutions swept those masses, doubling again and again upon themselves with a precision of movement that passes understanding. each unit of those thousands, actuated by simultaneous impulse, changed course while moving at lightning speed; and with that changed course they changed also their colour, flashing in an instant from dark to silvery white, while the roar of wings resembled an earthquake. all three clouds had already passed along the deeper water beyond my reach when there occurred this strange thing. a peregrine falcon had for some time been hanging around studying with envious eye the dozen or two dead ducks stuck up around my post; now he swept away, as it were, to intercept that feathered avalanche on my right, with the result that the third and last cloud, being cut off, doubled back in tumultuous confusion right in my face--what a spectacle! the puny twelve-bore brought down a perfect shower of teal--probably or more fell all around me. i gathered as fast as the sticky mud allowed; others fluttered here and there beyond reach; how many in all escaped to feed marsh-harriers none can tell. another incident with peregrine:--i had just taken post for night-flighting at the albacias, when, as dusk fell, a big bird appeared in the gloom making, with laboured flight, directly towards me. thinking (though doubtfully) that it was a goose, i fired. the stranger proved to be a beautiful adult peregrine, carrying in its claws a marbled duck, and the pair are now set up in my collection. * * * * * figures such as the following are apt to provoke two sentiments: ( ) that they are not true, or that ( ), being true, such results must be easy of attainment. the first we pass over. as regards the second, the assumption ignores the nature and essential character of wildfowl. these, being cosmopolitans, remain precisely the same wherever on the earth's surface they happen to be found. it is their sky they change, not their natural disposition or their fixed habits, when wildfowl shift their homes. the difficulty is that not half-a-dozen men in a thousand understand wildfowl or the supreme difficulty which their pursuit entails, whether in spain, england, or elsewhere. in england, it is true, such results are out of the question, simply because the country is highly drained, cultivated, and populous. were it desired to recover for england those immigrant hosts--the operation would not be impossible--break down the bedford level and flood five counties! then you might enjoy in the midlands such scenes as to-day we see in spain. as a matter of simple fact--and this we state without suspicion of egotism, or careless should such uncharitably be imputed--the results recorded below represent even for spain something that approaches the human maximum alike in wild-fowling skill, in endurance, and in deadly earnest. that test of individual skill has, it may go without saying, been demonstrated during all these years times without number. there are not, within the authors' knowledge, a score of men who have fairly gathered to their gun in one day ducks in the open marisma. again, while one such gun, who is thoroughly efficient, will secure his century, others (including excellent game-shots) will fail to bag one-tenth of that number. there can be no question here of "luck" in that long run of years. a feature, more valuable than the figures themselves, is the light they throw upon the varying distribution of the _anatidae_ (both specifically and seasonably) in the south of spain. . _november ._--one gun (w. j. b.) dawn at el puntal geese forenoon at santolalla ducks afternoon " " stags . _november ._--las neuvas (c. d. w. and b. f. b.) ducks, geese (geese, all the afternoon, came well in to decoys) . _january_ , , and .--two guns (w. d. m. and w. j. b.) ducks, geese ._january ._--flight-shooting with -bore at caÑo dulce (one gun) wigeon pintail teal shovelers gadwall mallard greylag geese total, ducks and _geese_. about one-half shot on natural flight before a.m.; the rest later, over "decoys." nice breeze all day. . _february._--three consecutive days' flighting (one gun) february . february . february . pintaila wigeon shovelers teal gadwall marbled duck garganey mallard --- --- --- = on the th a succession of pintails came in, all _in pairs_. almost the entire bag of that species was made in double shots. . _march ._--beyond desierto, flighting (one gun) teal pintail mallard shovelers put away many thousands of teal early. these kept coming back in small lots all day. but the wind held wrong all through, and the _viento de la mar_ (= sea-breeze) did not blow up till p.m. nine camels passed close by. . _november ._--laguna de santolalla (one gun) teal pochard gadwall mallard shovelers ferruginous duck marbled duck --- total ducks . _november ._--(p. garvey, c. d. w., and b. f. b.) santolalla ducks . _december ._--caÑo dulce (one gun) greylag geese wigeon teal pintail shovelers flamingo --- total - . two days at caÑo dulce (one gun) dec. , . feb. , . wigeon shovelers pintail gadwall teal marbled duck geese ---- ---- the total on december represents the "record," and was made (as was that with geese, see p. ) by b. f. b. the whole of the above records refer to flight-shooting with a -bore gun. following is a list of the different ducks shot by one gun during two consecutive seasons:-- - . - . wigeon pintail mallard gadwall shovelers teal garganey marbled duck pochard[ ] pochard, crested tufted duck white-faced duck unenumerated ---- --- chapter xiii the spanish ibex in the spanish ibex spain possesses not only a species peculiar to the peninsula, but a game-animal of the first rank. fortunate it is that this sentence can be written in the present tense instead of (as but a few years ago appeared probable) in the past. since we first wrote on this subject in the spanish ibex has passed through a crisis that came perilously near extirpation. up to the date named, and for several years later, none of the great landowners of spain, within whose titles were included the vast sierras and mountain-ranges that form its home, had cherished either pride or interest in the spanish wild-goat. some were dimly conscious of its existence on their distant domains: but that was all. not a scintilla of reproach is here inferred. for these mountain-ranges are so remote and so elevated as often to be almost inaccessible--or accessible only by organised expedition independent of local aid. their sole human inhabitants are a segregated race of goat-herds, every man of them a born hunter, accustomed from time immemorial to kill whenever opportunity offered--and that regardless of size, sex, or season. that the ibex should have survived such persecution by hardy mountaineers bespeaks their natural cunning. their survival was due to two causes--first, the antiquated weapons employed, but, more important, the astuteness of the game and the "defence" it enjoyed in the stupendous precipices and snow-fields of those sierras, great areas of which remain inaccessible even to specialised goat-herds, save only for a limited period in summer. but no wild animal, however astute or whatever its "defence," can withstand for ever perpetual, skilled human persecution. during the early years of the present century the spanish ibex appeared doomed beyond hope. private efforts over such vast areas were obviously difficult, if not impossible. we rejoice to add that at this eleventh hour a new era of existence has been secured to _capra hispánica_ at that precise psychological moment when its scant survivors were struggling in their last throes. the change is due to graceful action by the landowners in certain great mountain-ranges; and if our own explorations and our writings on the subject have also tended to assist, none surely will grudge the authors this expression of pride in having helped, however humbly, to preserve not only to spain, but to the animal-world, one of its handsomest species. this new era took different forms in different places. in certain sierras--those of less boundless area--the owners have undertaken the preservation of the ibex partly from their realising the tangible asset this game-beast adds to the value of barren mountain-land, and partly in view of the legitimate sport that an increase in stock may hereafter afford. but the main factor which has assured success (and which in itself led up to the private efforts just named) took origin in the great sierra de grédos. this elevated region is the apex of the long cordillera of central spain, the carpeto-vetonico range, which extends from moncayo, east of madrid, for some miles through the castiles and estremadura, forming the watershed of tagus and douro. it separates the two castiles, and passing the frontier of portugal is there known as the serra da estrella, which, with the cintra hills, extends to the atlantic sea-board. along all this extensive cordillera there is no more favoured resort of ibex than its highest peak, the plaza de almanzór, of metres altitude (= feet) above sea-level. in , when the ibex were about at their last gasp, the proprietors of the _nucléo central_, which we may translate as the _heart_ of grédos, of their own initiative, ceded to king alfonso xiii. the sole rights-of-chase therein, and his majesty commissioned the marquis of villaviciosa de asturias to appoint an adequate force of guards. six guards were selected from the self-same goat-herds who, up to that date, had themselves been engaged in hunting to extermination the last surviving ibex of the sierra, and whom we had ourselves employed during various expeditions therein. [illustration: on the risco del fraile. spanish ibex in sierra de grÉdos..] the ceded area comprised all the best game-country, defined as the "circo de grédos"--including the gorge of the laguna grande, the risco del fraile, risco del francés, and that of ameál de pablo, together with the wild valley of las cinco lagunas--as shown on rough sketch-plan annexed. [illustration: sketch-map of the _nuclÉo central_ of grÉdos (a. _alto del casquerázo._ b. _riscos del fraile_, with the hermanitos in front.)] in we estimated the stock of ibex at fifty head, and during the following years it fell far below that--by almost to zero. in , after only two years of "sanctuary," it was computed by the guards that the total exceeded head. in july we inquired if it were possible to estimate the present stock. in a letter (the composition of which would cost some anxiety) the guarda of the madrigal de la vera--one portion only of the "sanctuary"--reports: "it is difficult to count the ibex. sometimes we see more, sometimes less. yesterday on the cabeza neváda we counted rams and females together. on the other side we counted in one troop, in another, in another, besides smaller lots. we probably saw or , and we could not see all. some of the old rams are very big, and it would be advisable that some be shot." another report (at same date) from the "hoyos del espino," estimates the ibex there to exceed head. the two reports go to show that the continuity of the race is fairly secured. [a similar cession of sole hunting-rights to the king was simultaneously made by the owners of the "central group" of the picos de europa in asturias. there are no ibex in that cantabrian range; the graceful act was there inspired by a desire to preserve the chamois, animals with which we deal in another chapter.] the spanish ibex is found at six separate points in the peninsula, each colony divided from its fellows as effectually as though broad oceans rolled between. the six localities are:-- ( ) the pyrenees--which we have not visited. ( ) sierra de grédos, as above defined, and as described in greater detail hereafter. ( ) sierra moréna, a single isolated colony near fuen-caliente, now preserved (see next chapter). ( ) sierra neváda and the alpuxarras (cf. _infra_). ( ) the mountains along the mediterranean, which are properly western outliers of neváda, but which are usually grouped as the "serrania de ronda," some lying within sight of gibraltar. several of the most important ranges are now preserved by their owners (cf. _infra_). ( ) valencia, sierra martés. this forms a new habitat hitherto unrecorded, and of which we only became aware through the kindness of mr. p. burgoyne of valencia, who has favoured us with the annexed photo of an ibex head killed (along with a smaller example) at cuevas altas in the mountain-region known as peñas pardas in that province, february , . the dimensions read as follows:-- length along front curves - / inches circumference at base - / " widest span - / " tip to tip " our informant has reason to believe that ibex also exist (or existed within recent years) in the rugged mountains of tortosa, farther east in catalonia. in the form of its horns the spanish ibex differs essentially from the typical ibex of the alps--now, alas, exterminated save only in the king of italy's preserved ranges around the val d'aosta. in the true ibex the horns bend regularly backwards and downwards in a uniform, scimitar-like curve. in the spanish species, after first diverging laterally, the horns are recurved both inward and finally upward. that is, in the first case they follow a simple semicircular bend, while in the spanish goats they form almost a spiral. a minor point of difference lies in the annular rings or notches which in the true ibex are rectangular, encircling the horn in front like steps in a ladder, while in _capra hispánica_ they rather run obliquely in semi-spiral ascent. these annulations indicate the age of the animal--one notch to each year--but the count must stop where the spiral ends. beyond that is the lightly grooved tip, which does not alter. the horns of old rams (which are often broken or worn down at the tips) average to inches, specially fine examples reaching inches or more. the females likewise carry horns, but short and slender, only measuring or inches. the six isolated colonies of ibex, separated from each other during ages, live under totally different natural conditions. for while some, as stated, exist at , , , or , feet altitude, others occupy hills of much more moderate elevations--say to feet, some of which are bush-clad to their summits. under such circumstances there have naturally developed divergencies not only in habits, but in form and size. particularly does this apply to the horns, and for that reason we give a series of photos of typical examples from various points. the ibex of the pyrenees is certainly the largest race, and has been entitled by scientists _capra pyrenaica_; those of the centre and south of spain being differentiated as _c. hispánica_. we attach less importance to specific distinctions, but leave the illustrations of specimens to speak for themselves. it may, however, be remarked that examples from the two outside extremes (pyrenees and neváda) most closely assimilate in their flattened and compressed form of horn. neither in grédos nor neváda are the rock-formations so precipitous as in the picos de europa in asturias--described later in this book. they present, nevertheless, difficulties possibly insuperable to mere hunters unskilled in the technique of climbing. rock-climbing forms a recognised branch of "mountaineering," but of that science the authors (with sorrow be it confessed) have never been enamoured. to us, mountains, merely as such, have not appealed. but they form the home of alpine creatures, the study and acquisition of which were objects that no terrestrial obstacle could entirely forbid, and we enjoy retrospective pride in having so far surmounted those antecedent terrors as to have secured a few specimens of this, the most "impossible" of european trophies--the spanish ibex. an awkward situation is a subrounded wall of rough granulated granite blocking our course and traversed obliquely by an up-trending fissure barely the breadth of hempen soles, its inclination outward, and the "tread" carpeted with slippery wet moss still half frozen. it is seldom what one can _see_ that gives pause, but the fear of the unseen. here we hesitate by reason of the uncertainty of what may confront beyond that grim curve. the fissure might cease; to turn back would clearly be impossible. impatient of delay our crag-born guide--a _homo rupestris_, prehensile of foot--seized the gun, and with a muttered ejaculation that might have included scorn, in three strides had skipt around the dreaded corner--of course we followed. snow-slopes tipped at steep angles never inspire confidence in the unaxed climber, especially when the surface is half melted, revealing green ice beneath, and when the disappearing curve conceals from view what dangers may lurk below. again a suddenly interrupted ledge--say where some great block has become disintegrated from the hanging face--necessitates a sort of nervy jump quite calculated to shorten one's days, even if it does not precipitately terminate them. the ibex is always nocturnal. on the great cordilleras it spends its day asleep on some rock-ledge isolated amidst snow-fields, its security doubly assured by sentinels, whenever such are deemed necessary: or, lower down, in the caves of a sheer precipice. only after sun-down do the ibex descend, and never, even then, so far as timber-line. on these loftier sierras their home by day is confined to rock and snow; by night to that zone of moss, heath, and alpine vegetation that intervenes between the snow-line and topmost levels of scrub and conifer. * * * * * such are the ibex of the loftier ranges--grédos and neváda. but in the south, wild-goats are found on mountains of inferior elevation, to feet, many of which are jungled--some even forested--to their summits, and there they cannot disdain the shelter of the scrub. we have hunted them (within sight of the mediterranean) in ground that appeared more suitable to roe-deer, and have seen the "rootings" of wild-pig within the ibex-holding area. in such situations the wild-goats take quite kindly to the scrub, forming regular "lairs" wherein they lie-up as close as hares or roe. amidst the brushwood that clothes the highland--heaths and broom, genista, rhododendron, lentiscus, and a hundred other shrubs--they rest by day and browse by night without having to descend or shift their quarters at all. on these lower hills the ibex owe their safety, and survival, to the vast area of covert, and, in less degree, to their comparatively small numbers. so few are they and so big their home, they are considered "not worth hunting." during summer the ibex feed on the mountain-grasses, rush, and flowering shrubs which at that season adorn the alpine solitudes; later, on the berries and wild-fruits of the hill. by autumn they attain their highest condition--the beards of the rams fully developed and their brown pelts glossy and almost uniform in colour. at this period (september to october) the rutting season occurs and fighting takes place--the champions rearing on hind-legs for a charge, and the crash of opposing horns resounds across the corries of the sierra. even in spring memories of the combative instinct survive, for we have watched, in april, a pair of veterans sparring at each other for half an hour. the young are born in april and soon follow their dams--graceful creatures with unduly large hind-legs, like brown lambs. one is the usual number, though two are not infrequent. the kid remains with its dam upwards of a year--that is, till after a second family has been born. at that season (april to may) the ibex are changing their coats. the males lose the flowing beard and assume a hoary piebald colour, contrasting with the dark of legs and quarters. the muzzle is warm cream colour and the lower leg (below knee) prettily marked with black and white. on the knee is a callosity, or round patch of bare hardened skin. the horns of yearling males are thicker and heavier than those of adult females. though the hill-shepherds in summer drive out their herds of goats to pasture on the higher sierra, where they may come in contact with their wild congeners, yet no interbreeding has ever been known; nor can the wild ibex be domesticated. wild kids that are captured invariably die before attaining maturity. the horns of the herdsmen's goats differ in type from those of the ibex, which can never have been the progenitor of the race of goats now domesticated in spain. though the personal aroma of an ibex-ram is strong--rather more offensive than that of a vulture--yet no trace of this remains after cooking. the flesh is brown and tough, but devoid of any special flavour or individuality--that is, when subjected to the rude cookery of the camp. chapter xiv sierra morÉna ibex the tourist speeding along the andalucian railways and surveying from his carriage-window the olive-clad and altogether mild-looking slopes of the sierra moréna, will form no adequate, much less a romantic, conception of that great mountain-system of which he sees but the southern fringe. yet, in fact, the train hurries him past within a few leagues of perhaps the finest big-game country in spain--of mountain-solitudes and a thousand jungled corries, wherein lurk fierce wolves and giant boars, together with one of the grandest races of red deer yet extant in europe. true, the sierra moréna lacks both the altitudes and the stupendous rock-ridges that characterise all other spanish sierras--from neváda and grédos to the pyrenees. it consists rather of a congeries of jumbled mountain-ranges of no great elevations, but of infinite ramification, and lacking (save at two points only) those bolder features that most appeal to the eye. were the spanish ranges all of the contour of moréna, the name "sierra" would not have applied. it is, moreover, a unilateral range--a buttress, banked up on its northern side by the high-lands of la mancha, resembling in that respect the well-known drakensberg of the transvaal. the sierra moréna, typical yet apart, divides for upwards of miles the sunny lowlands of andalucia from the bare, bleak uplands of la mancha on the north. and in vertical depth (if we may include the contiguous montes de toledo) the range extends but little short of miles. as a homogeneous mountain-system, moréna thus covers a space equal to the whole of england south of the thames, with a central northern projection which would embrace all the midland counties as far as nottingham! [in any survey of the sierra moréna, it is appropriate to include the adjoining montes de toledo. they, as just stated, form a north-trending pyramidal apex based on the main chain and presenting identical characteristics, both physical and faunal, though of lower general elevation. the montes de toledo, in short, are an intricate complication of low subrounded hills--rather than mountains--tacked on to the north of moréna, all scrub-clad and inhabited by the same wild beasts. toledan stags exhibit the same magnificent cornual development, and there is evidence of seasonal intermigration as between two adjacent regions only divided by the valley of the guadiana--a shortage in one area being sometimes found to be compensated by a corresponding increase in the other. roe-deer are more abundant in the lower range; but the sole clean-cut faunal distinction lies in the presence of wild fallow-deer in the montes de toledo--these animals being quite unknown in moréna.[ ]] may we digress on a cognate subject? the sierra neváda, though so near (at one point the two ranges are merely separated by a narrow gap yclept los llanos de jaén), yet presents totally divergent natural phenomena. there are points in moréna--say from the heights above despeñaperros--whence the two systems can be surveyed at once. behind you, on the north, roll away, ridge beyond ridge, the endless rounded skylines of moréna--colossal yet never abrupt. in front, to the south--apparently within stone's-throw--rise the stupendous snow-peaks of neváda--jagged pinnacles piercing the heavens to nigh , feet. these peaks may appear within stone's-throw, or say an easy day's ride, though that is an optical illusion. but narrow as it is, that gap of jaén divides two mountain-regions utterly dissimilar in every attribute, whether as to the manner of their birth in remote ages and the landscapes they present to-day. faunal distinctions are also conspicuous. in neváda there are found neither deer of any kind (whether red, roe, or fallow) nor wild-boar, whereas it forms the selected home of ibex and lammergeyer, both of which are conspicuous by their absence from moréna, save for a single segregated colony of wild-goats near fuen-caliente. * * * * * although the sierra moréna partakes rather of massive than of abrupt character, yet there occur at a couple of points outcrops of naked rock of real grandeur. such, for example, is despeñaperros, through whose gorges the andalucian railway threads a semi-subterranean course. the very name despeñaperros signifies in that wondrously adaptive spanish tongue nothing less than that its living rocks threaten to hurl to death and destruction even dogs that venture thereon. another interpretation suggests that in olden days, such were the pleasantries of the moors, it was not dogs, but christians (since to a moor the terms were synonymous) that were hurled to their death from the _riscos_ of despeñaperros. these rock-formations are superbly abrupt. great detached crags, massive and moss-marbled, jut perpendicular from ragged steeps, or vast monoliths protrude, each in rectilineal outline so exact that one wonders if these are truly of nature's handiwork, and not some fabled fortalice of old-time goth or moor. despite its striking contour, however, its crags and precipices are too scattered and detached (with traversable intervals between) to attract such a rock-lover as the ibex, and no wild-goat has ever occupied the gorges of despeñaperros. a similar rock-region, but more extensive and continuous, is found near fuen-caliente--by name the sierra quintána. this range, though its elevations barely exceed feet, forms the only spot in the sierra moréna at which the spanish ibex retains a foothold. thereat the writer in endured one of those evil experiences which from time to time befall those who seek hunting-grounds in the wilder corners of the earth. it was in mid-february that, forced by bitter extremity of weather, we fain sought refuge in the hamlet of fuen-caliente clinging at feet on the steep of the sierra, as crag-martins fix their clay-built nests on some rock-face. fuen-caliente dates back to roman days. warm springs, as its name implies, here burst from riven rock, and stone baths, built by no modern hand, attest a bygone enterprise. to this day, we are told, the baths of fuen-caliente attract summer-visitors; we trust their health benefits thereby. surely some counter-irritation is needed to balance the perils of a sojourn within that unsavoury eyrie. we write feelingly, even after all these years, and after suffering assorted tribulations in many a rough spot--fuen-caliente is bad to beat. having tents and full camp-outfit, we had thought to live independent of the village _posada_. one night, however, as we climbed the rising ground that leads to the higher sierra there burst in our faces an easterly gale (_levante_), with driving snow-storms that even a mule could not withstand. nothing remained but to seek shelter in the village below. here my bedroom measured twelve feet by four, with a door at each end. the door proper was reached by a vertical ladder; the second might perhaps be differentiated as a window, but could only be distinguished as such by its smaller size--both being made of solid wood. thus, were the window open, snow swirled through as freely as on the open sierra; if shut, we lived in darkness dimly relieved by the flicker of a _mariposa_, that is, a cotton-wick reposing in a saucer of olive-oil. under such conditions, with other nameless horrors, we passed three days and nights while gales blew and snow swirled by incessant. on the fourth morning the wind fell, and snow had given place to fine rain. these _levantes_ usually last either three or nine days; so, thinking this one had blown itself out, we packed the kit and set out in renewed search of ibex, caraballo, with accustomed forethought, buying a bunch of live chickens, which hung by their legs from the after-pannier of the mule. on the limited area of quintána, ibex offer the best chance of stalking. mules are marvellous mountaineers. the places that animal surmounted to-day passed belief. two donkeys that belonged to the local hunters, abad and brijido, who accompanied us, soon got stuck, and had to be left below. by three o'clock we, mule and all, had reached the highest ridge of quintána, and encamped within a few hundred feet of its top-most _riscos_. to set up a tent among rocks is never easy; even specially made iron tent-pegs find no hold, and guy-ropes have to be made fast, as securely as may be, to any projecting point. hardly had the sun gone down, than the easterly gale blew up again with redoubled force. all night it howled through our narrow gorge and around its pinnacled rock-minarets, with the result that at p.m. the ill-secured guys gave way, and down came our tent with a crash. two hours were spent (in drenching rain) remedying this; and when day broke, an icy _neblina_ (fog) enveloped the sierra, shutting out all view beyond a few yards. the cold was intense, and a little dam we had engineered the night before was frozen thick. the fog held all that day and the next. nothing could be done, though we persisted in going out each day, as in duty bound, for a few hours' turn among the crags--how we prayed for _one_ hour's clear interval that might have given that glorious sight we sought! at dusk the second night snow fell heavily, and later on a thunderstorm added to our joys. frequent and vivid flashes of lightning lit up the darkness, and caused the surviving chickens (which in common charity we had had tethered inside the tent) to crow so incessantly that sleep was impossible. presently we noticed a sharp fall in temperature--the men had brought in a cube of ice, the solidified contents of one of our camp-buckets, which they proposed to melt at a little fire kept burning in the tent! but this was too much, even though it meant "no coffee for breakfast." the frost and fog continuing, on the third morning the men proposed we should move lower down the hill, to some _cortijo_ they knew of, thereat to await milder weather. by this time, however, the cold had penetrated deep into throat and chest, which felt raw and inflamed, leaving the writer almost speechless. we therefore decided to abandon the whole venture, and struck camp, still wrapt in that opaque shroud of driving sleet. crossing over the highest ridge of the sierra, between crags of which only the bases were visible, we descended on the south side; here we organised a "drive" amid the jungles that clothe the lower slopes. two lynxes and three pigs were reported as seen by the beaters. only one of the latter, however, came to the gun, and proved to be a sow, bigger by half than any wild-pig we had then seen in spain. we regretted having no means of weighing this beast, which we estimated at well over lbs. clean. a remarkable cast antler picked up at this spot carried four points on the main beam, as well as four on top--length - / inches, by - / inches basal circumference. the "defences" of the ibex in the sierra quintána lie among some fairly big crags forming the eastern and southern faces of the range. the shooting at that time was free; hence the goats were never left in peace by the mountaineers, who all carried guns, and used them whenever a chance presented itself. the result was that the few surviving goats had become severely nocturnal in habit, spending the entire day in caves and crevices in the faces of sheer and naked precipices. some of their eyries appeared absolutely inaccessible to any creature unendowed with wings. one cave, though it had no visible approach, was situate only some eight or ten feet above a ledge in the perpendicular rock-face. one morning at dawn two ibex having been seen to enter this cave, at once a couple of the wiry goat-herds thought to reach them from the ledge below, one lad actually climbing on to the other's shoulders as he stood on that narrow shelf. in its rush to escape, however, the leading ibex upset the precarious balance, and the poor lad was precipitated among the tumbled rocks in the abyss below. riding homewards through inhospitable brush-clad hills towards the railway (forty miles away), we put up one night at a village named, with unconscious irony, cardeña real. in the small hours broke out another terrific disturbance--shrieks, squeals, barking--all the dogs gone mad. the night was pitch-dark with rain falling in torrents; but next morning we ascertained that a pack of wolves had carried off the landlord's pigs from their stye, not fifteen yards away--indeed, three mangled porkers lay piled up against the wall of our hovel. the contingency of pigs being worse off than ourselves had not previously occurred to us. thus ended, in a cycle of catastrophe, our first wrestle with _capra hispánica_ in moréna; but initial failure only served to stimulate further efforts later on. winter, moreover, is no season for camping in these high sierras; may is more favourable, but the early autumn is best of all. at this period ( ) the surviving ibex had fallen to a mere handful. fortunately here, as elsewhere in spain, there was aroused, within the next five years, the tardy interest of spanish landowners to save them. [illustration: heads of spanish ibex. (a) sierra de grÉdos--madrigal de la vera. length - / in. circum. - / in. tips, - / in. (b) sierra nevada. length - / in. circum. - / in. tips, - / in. (c) sierra de grÉdos, bohoyo. - / in. (d) valencia, sierra martes. - / in.] the owner of the sierras above mentioned (the marquis del mérito) has favoured us with latest details respecting both the ibex and other wild beasts therein. the wild-goat (he writes) is the most difficult of all game to shoot, proof of which is afforded by the fact that in the lands which i hold in the sierra quintána (although until recent years these were unpreserved and in the neighbourhood of a village where every man was a hunter) yet the local shooters had not succeeded in exterminating the species. its means of defence, over and above its keen sight and scent, consist chiefly in the inaccessible natural caves of those mountains, in which the wild-goats invariably seek refuge the moment they find themselves pursued. in these caves the goats were accustomed to pass the entire day, never coming out to feed except during the night. to-day (since free shooting has ceased) they begin to show up a little during daylight, and in other ways demonstrate a returning confidence. nevertheless they display not the slightest inclination to abandon their old tendency to betake themselves, immediately on the appearance of danger, to the vast crags and precipices which lie towards the east of the sierra, and which crags afford them almost complete security. the most effective method of securing a specimen to-day is, as you know, by stalking (_resécho_). for this animal, when it finds itself suddenly surprised by a human being, is less startled than deer, or other game, and usually allows sufficient time for careful aim to be taken--indeed, it seems to be the more alarmed when it has lost sight of the intruder. the rutting season occurs in november and december, and the kids, usually one or two in number, are born in may, the same as domestic goats. these kids have a terrible enemy in the golden eagles, since their birth coincides with the period when these rapacious birds have their own broods to feed, and when they become more savage than ever. to reduce the damage thus done, i am now paying to the guards a reward for every eagle destroyed, and this last spring took myself a nest containing one eaglet, shooting both its parents. the dimensions of horns i am unable to put down with precision, but there was killed here an ibex (which was mounted by barrasóna at córdoba) measuring centimetres in length (= - / inches). of the last, which was killed by lord hindlip, as shown in photo i send, the length of horns was centimetres (= - / inches). the dimensions of the best ibex head obtained by us in this sierra were: length, inches; basal circumference, - / inches. wolves these animals, which perpetrate incredible destruction to game, are very abundant in moréna, yet rarely shot in the _monterías_ (mountain-drives). this is not due to any special astuteness of the wolf, but simply because, while waiting for deer, sportsmen naturally lie very low, thus giving opportunity to wolves to pass unseen; while, on the other hand, when boars only are expected, and sportsmen therefore remain less concealed, the wolf is apt to detect the danger before arriving within shot. in may and june the she-wolves produce their young; but it is difficult to discover these broods, since at that period they betake themselves to remote regions far away from the haunts frequented in normal times. there is, however, one method of discovering them which is known to the mountaineers as the _otéo_, or watching for them over-night, thus noting precisely where each she-wolf gives tongue. if on the following morning the howl is repeated at the same spot, it is a practical certainty that that wolf will have her brood in that immediate neighbourhood. thereupon at daybreak the hunters proceed to examine every bush and brake in the marked spot, which invariably consists either of strong brushwood or broken rocks. all around the actual lair for a hundred yards the ground is traced with footprints and scratchings, which usually lead to its discovery; but should it not be found that day, it is completely useless to seek for it on the following, since the moment that a she-wolf perceives that her whelps are being sought, she at once removes them far away. to exterminate wolves, strychnine is extensively used, giving positive results.[ ] at the same time it is always better to supplement its use by searching out with practical men the broods of wolf-cubs at their proper season. the photo facing p. shows a magnificent old dog-wolf, scaling lbs. dead-weight, which we obtained in the sierra moréna, near córdoba, in march . lynx, or _gato cerval_ this animal breeds in april and may, and the number of young is generally two. if captured, the majority of the young lynxes die at the period when they change from a milk diet to solid food, and one may imagine that the same thing happens in the case of the wild lynxes, since otherwise it is difficult to explain why an animal, whose only enemy is mankind, should remain so scarce. their food consists of partridges, rabbits, and other small game. red deer with the red deer of these mountains, as elsewhere in spain, the rut (_celo_) depends upon the autumn, which season may be earlier or later; but the _celo_ always takes place between mid-september and mid-october. the calves are born at end of may or early in june, and suckled by their mothers till the following autumn. the casting of the horns, together with the change of hair, varies in date, depending on the state of health in each individual. it generally occurs in may, but in very robust animals we have seen cases in april, and in the _barétos_, or stags of one year, in march. the development of the new horn is complete by the end of july, and in august occurs the shedding of the velvet. the horn at first is of a white bone-colour, but gradually darkens, the final colour depending on the nature of the bush frequented, the blackest being found in those stags which inhabit the gum-cistus (_jarales_). although it is currently believed among country folk that the age of a stag can be determined by the number of his points, this is incorrect, the horn development depending solely on the robustness of the animal. it frequently happens that a stag carries fewer points than he did the year before. when the hinds are about to bring forth, they isolate themselves, seeking spots where the brushwood is less dense, and leaving the calf concealed in some bush. the habits of a hind when giving her offspring its first lessons in the arts of concealment and caution are interesting to watch. shortly after daybreak the mother suddenly performs a series of wild, convulsive bounds, leaping away over the bush as though in presence of visible peril, thus alarming the youngster and teaching it to seek cover for itself. this performance is repeated at intervals until the calf has learnt to lie-up, when the hind will do the same, but at some distance, although in view. she only allows her progeny to accompany her when it has acquired sufficient strength and agility to follow, which is the case some twenty or thirty days after birth. having noted the spoor of a single hind at the breeding-time, one may follow to the spot where she is suckling her young. but so soon as one observes the prints of these spasmodic jumps with which the mother instils into her offspring a sense of caution (as above described), one may then begin leisurely to examine every bush round about. in one of these the calf will be found lying curled up without a bed and with its nose resting on its hip.[ ] it will at first offer some slight resistance, but once captured, may be set free with the certainty that it will not make any attempt to escape. the only enemies the full-grown stag has to fear are mankind and the wolf, but chiefly the latter, since not only do single wolves destroy in this sierra large numbers of the newly born calves, but, worse still, when a troop of wolves have once tasted venison they commence habitually to hunt both hinds and even the younger stags, which they persistently follow day after day till the deer are absolutely worn out. they then pull them down, the final scene usually occurring in some deep ravine or mountain burn. the calves of red deer, as happens with ibex kids, are also preyed upon by golden eagles. deer-shooting as regards sport, the best results are only attainable by _monterías_, or extended drives, assuming that the district is thickly jungled, and generally of elevated situation. there is also a system of shooting at the "roaring-time," but that is uncertain owing to the rapidity of the stag's movements, the thick bush, and the risk of his getting the wind. practised trackers are in the habit of hunting _á la greña_, which consists in observing the deer at daybreak, selecting a good stag, and afterwards following his spoor at midday (at which hour deer, while enjoying their siesta, are quite apt to lie close) and shooting as he springs from his lair (_al arrancár_). [illustration: red deer heads, sierra morÉna. zamujak, jaËn. points . length - / in. valdelagrana. points . length - / in.] sierra quintana. points . length - / in. risquillo. points . length - / in.] a really big stag is nearly always found alone, or should he have a companion, the second will also be an animal of large size. such stags are never seen with hinds, excepting in the autumn (_celo_). the system of the _montería_, or mountain-drive, is described in detail in the following chapter. table of spanish ibex heads measured by the authors, or other stated authority. +------------+---------+-------------------+----------+----------------+ | | | width. | | | | locality. | length. +---------+---------+ circum- | authority. | | | | tips. | inside. | ference. | | +------------+---------+---------+---------+----------+----------------+ | | ins. | ins. | ins. | ins. | | | moréna | - / | ... | ... | ... | marq. mérito | | | | | | | (p. ).| | pyrenees | | - / | ... | - / | sir v. brooke. | | neváda | - / | - / | - / | - / | at madrid. | | grédos[ ] | - / | - / | ... | - / | authors. | | do. | - / | - / | | - / | m. amezúa. | | do. | | - / | ... | - / | authors. | | pyrenees | | | ... | | sir v. brooke. | | neváda[ ] | | | - / | | authors. | | do. | - / | - / | | - / | do. | | moréna | - / | ... | ... | - / | do. | | bermeja | | | ... | - / | do. | | moréna | - / | ... | ... | ... | lord hindlip. | | grédos | - / | ... | - / | - / | at madrid. | | pyrenees | | | ... | | sir v. brooke. | | sa. blanca | | ... | ... | - / | p. larios. | | grédos | - / | ... | ... | - / | authors. | | pyrenees | - / | - / | ... | - / | e. n. buxton. | | sa. blanca | | ... | | - / | p. larios. | | valencia | - / | - / | | - / | p. burgoyne. | +------------+---------+---------+---------+----------+----------------+ chapter xv sierra morÉna (_continued_) red deer and boar the mountain deer of the sierra moréna are the grandest of their kind in spain, and will compare favourably with any truly wild deer in europe.[ ] the drawings, photographs, and measurements given in this chapter prove so much, but no mere numerals convey an adequate conception of these magnificent harts, as seen in the full glory of life bounding in unequal leaps over some rocky pass, or picking more deliberate course up a stone stairway. massive as they are in body (weighing, say, lbs. clean), yet even so the giant antlers appear almost disproportionate in length and superstructure. the whole sierra moréna being clad with brushwood and jungle, thicker in places, but nowhere clear, shooting is practically confined to "driving" on that extensive scale termed, in spanish phrase, _montería_. before describing two or three typical experiences of our own in this sierra, we attempt a sketch of the system of the _montería_ as practised throughout spain. [illustration: wolf shot sierra morÉna. march, --weight lb.] [illustration: huntsman with caracola, sierra morÉna.] [illustration: pack of podencos, sierra morÉna. (coupled in pairs.)] the area of operations being immense and clad with almost continuous thicket, it is customary to employ two or three separate packs (termed _reháles_, or _recóbas_), counting in all as many as seventy or eighty hounds. the extra packs--beyond that belonging to the host--are brought by shooting guests, and each pack has its own huntsman (_perréro_), whom alone his own hounds[ ] will follow or recognise. the huntsmen (though not the beaters) are mounted, and each carries a musket and a _caracóla_, or hunting-horn formed of a big sea-shell. the forelegs of the horses, where necessary--especially in estremadura--are enveloped in leather sheaths (_fundas de cuero_) to protect them from the terrible thorns and the spikes of burnt cistus which pierce and cut like knives. the best dogs are _podencos_ of the bigger breeds, also crosses between _podencos_ and mastiffs, and between mastiffs and _alanos_, the latter a race of rough-haired bull-dogs largely used in estremadura for "holding-up" the boar. the huntsmen with their packs, and the beaters, usually start with the dawn, sometimes long before, dependent on the distance to be traversed to their points, which may be ten or twelve miles. till reaching the cast-off, hounds are coupled up in pairs: a collar fitted with a bell (_cencerro_) is then substituted, and the alignment being completed--each pack at its appointed spot--at a given hour the beat begins. on every occasion when a game-beast is raised a blank shot is fired to encourage the hounds, and the who-hoops of the huntsmen behind resound for miles around. should the animal hold a forward course (as desired), the hounds are shortly recalled by the _caracólas_, or hunting-horns aforesaid, and the beat is then reformed and resumed. meanwhile--far away at remote posts prearranged--the firing-line (_armáda_) has already occupied its allotted positions; the guns most often disposed along the crests of some commanding ridge, sometimes defiled in a narrow pass of the valley far below. should the number of guns be insufficient to command the whole front, the expedient of placing a second firing-line (termed the _travérsa_), projected into the beat, and at a right angle from the centre of the first line, is sometimes effective. it may occur to those accustomed to deal with mountain-game on a large scale that the chance of moving animals with any sort of accuracy towards a scant line of guns scattered over vast areas must be remote. true, the number of guns--even ten or twelve--is necessarily insufficient, but here local knowledge and the skill of spanish mountaineers (by nature among the best _guerrilleros_ on earth) comes effectively into play. in practice it is seldom that the best "passes" are not commanded. in the higher ranges skylines are frequently pierced by nicks or "passes" (termed _portillas_) sufficiently marked as to suggest, even to a stranger possessed of an eye for such things, the probable lines of retreat for moving game. but "passes" are not always conspicuous, nor are all skylines of broken contour. on the contrary, there frequently present themselves long summits that to casual glance appear wholly uniform. here comes to aid that local intuition referred to, nor will it be found lacking. many a long hill-ridge apparently featureless may (and often does) include several well-frequented passes. some slight sense of disappointment may easily lurk in one's breast in surveying one's allotted post to perceive not a single sign of "advantage" within its radius--or "jurisdiction," as spanish keepers quaintly put it. yet it may be after all--and probably is--the apex of a congeries of converging watercourses, glens, or other accustomed _salidas_ (outlets), all of which are invisible in the unseen depths on one's front; but which salient points in cynegetic geography are perfectly appreciated by our guide. the brushwood of moréna consists over vast areas--many hundreds of square miles--of the gum-cistus, a sticky-leaved shrub that grows shoulder-high on the stoniest ground. wherever a slightly more generous soil permits, the cistus is interspersed and thickened with rhododendron, brooms, myrtle, and a hundred cognate plants. on the richer slopes and dells there crowd together a matted jungle of lentisk and arbutus, white buck-thorn and holly, all intertwined with vicious prehensile briar and woodbine, together with heaths, genista, giant ferns, and gorse of a score of species. watercourses are overarched by oleanders, and the chief trees are cork-oak and ilex, wild-olive, juniper, and alder, besides others of which we only know the spanish names, quejigos, algarrobas, agracejis, etc. naturally, in such rugged broken ground as the sierras, where the guns are protected by intervening heights, shooting is permissible in any direction, whether in front or behind, and even sometimes along the line itself. a survival of savage days, when beaters didn't count, is suggested by a refrain of the sierra:-- más vale matár un cristiano que no dejár ir una res-- (rather should a christian die than let a head of game pass by.) a word here as to the game and its habits. the lairs of wild-boar are invariably in the densest jangle and on the shaded slope where no sun ever penetrates. there is always at hand, moreover, a ready _salida_, or exit, along some deep watercourse or by a rocky ravine or gully--rarely do these animals show up in the open, or even in ground of scanty covert. it is usually the strongest arbutus-thickets (_madronales_) that they select for their quarters. it is seldom that wild-boar are "held-up" by the dogs during a beat--the old tuskers never. deer, on the contrary, avoid the denser jungle, lying-up in more open brushwood and invariably on the sunny slope. though their "beds" (_camas_) may be on the lower ground, they invariably seek the heights when disturbed, and then select a course through the lighter cistus-scrub or across open screes, knowing instinctively that thus they can travel fastest and best throw off the pursuing pack. owing to the wide areas of each beat, a _montería_ in the sierras is confined to a single drive each day, the guns usually reaching their posts about eleven o'clock, and remaining therein till late in the afternoon. in the lowlands, as already described, four, five, and even six _batidas_ (drives) are sometimes possible during the day. a _monterÍa_ at mezquitillas (province of cÓrdoba) a glorious ride amid splendid mountain scenery all lit up with southern sunshine--the narrow bridle-track now forms a mere tunnel hewn out of impending foliage; anon it descends abrupt rock-faces, in zigzags like a corkscrew, apt to make nerves creep, when one false step would precipitate horse and rider into a half-seen torrent hundreds of feet below. some eight miles of this, and by eleven o'clock we have reached our positions at los llanos del peco. these positions extend for over a league in length (there are twelve guns), occupying the crests and "passes" of a lofty ridge whence one enjoys a bird's-eye view of a world of wild mountain-land. my own post commanded a panorama of almost the whole day's operation, excepting only that on my immediate front there yawned a deep ravine (_cañada_) into the full depth of which i could not see. already within a few minutes one had become aware, by a far-distant shot, and by the echoing note of the bugle faintly borne on a gentle northerly breeze, that the beat had begun. at dawn that morning the four huntsmen, each with his pack, had left the lodge, and are now encircling some seven or eight miles of covert on our front, two-thirds of which lay beneath my gaze. for five hours i occupied that _puesto_ sitting between convenient rocks, and hardly a measurable spell of the five hours but i was held alert, either by the actual sight of game afoot--far distant, it is true--or by the shots and bugle-calls of the hunters and the music of their packs--all signs of game on the move. [illustration] it is instructive, though rarely possible, watch wild game thus, when danger threatens, and to observe the wiles by which they seek escape--doubling back on their own tracks till nearly face to face with the baying _podencos_, and then, by a smart flank-movement, skirting round behind the pack, till actually between the latter and the following huntsmen; then lying flat, awaiting till perchance the latter has gone by! that is our stag's plan--bold and comprehensive--yet it fails when that huntsman, biding his time, perceives that his pack have overrun the scent and recalls them to make quite sure of that intervening bit of bush--poor staggie! rarely indeed, even in mountain-lands, do such chances of watching the whole play (and bye-play) occur as those we enjoyed to-day on the llanos del peco. shots are apt to be quite difficult, as all bushes and many trees are in full leaf (january) and the _rayas_, or rides cut out along the shooting-line, barely twenty yards broad. to-day, moreover, the wind shifting from north to east operated greatly to our disadvantage--practically, in effect, ruined the plan. [illustration: wild-boar--weight lbs., clean.] [illustration: the record head-- inches--lugar nuevo, nov. , . sierra morÉna.] the first stag that came my way had already touched the tainted breeze ere i saw him--being slightly deaf (the effects of quinine) i had not heard his approach. instantly he crossed the _raya_, yards away, in two enormous bounds. there was just time to see glorious antlers with many-forked tops ere he dived from sight, plunging into ten-foot scrub. i had fired both barrels, necessarily with but an apology for an aim and the second purely "at a venture." three minutes later resounded the tinkling _cencerros_ (bells) of the _podencos_, and when two of these hounds had followed the spoor ahead, all _mute_, then i knew that both bullets had spent their force on useless scrub. [illustration: azure-winged magpie] fortune favoured. half an hour afterwards, a second stag followed. this time a gentle rustle in the bush, and one clink of a hoof on rock had caught my faulty ear. then coroneted antlers showed up from the depths below, and so soon as the great brown body came in view, a bullet on the shoulder at short range dropped him dead. this was an average stag, weighing lbs. clean, but although "royal," carried a smaller head than that first seen. later, two other big stags descended together into the unseen depths on my front, but whither they subsequently took their course--_quien sabe?_ i saw them no more. the only other animal that crossed my line during the day was a mongoose, but objects of interest never lacked. close behind my post, a huge stick-built nest filled a small ilex. this was the ancestral abode of a pair of griffons, and its owners were already busy renewing their home, though my presence sadly disconcerted them. hereabouts these vultures breed regularly _on trees_, a most unusual habit, due presumably to the lack of suitable crags which elsewhere form their invariable nesting-site. cushats and robins lent an air of familiarity to the scene, while azure-winged magpies--a species peculiarly spanish--hopped and chattered hard by, curiosity overcoming fear. there were also pretty sardinian warblers, with long tails and a white nuchal spot like a coal-tit. other birds seen in this sierra include merlin and kestrel, green woodpecker, jay, blackbird, thrush, redwing, woodlark, and chaffinch; and on off-days we shot a few red-legged partridges. the two packs employed to-day numbered forty--twenty-four big and sixteen small _podencos_, all yellow and white, the larger having a cross of mastiff. that evening two of the best in the pack were missing--"capitan," killed by a boar in the _mancha_; the other returned during the night, fearfully wounded, one foreleg almost severed. [illustration: sardinian warbler] the head-keeper told us that these _podencos_ fear the he-wolf. they will run keenly on his scent, but never dare to close with him as they do with boar. yet curiously they have been known to fraternise with the she-wolf, and in no case will they attack, but rather incline to caress her. it was estimated by the drivers that eighty head of big-game (_reses_) were viewed to-day. thirty-two shots were fired, but only my one stag was killed. had the wind held steady, much better results were probable.[ ] included among the guests at mezquitillas--and they represented rank and learning, arms, state, and church--was a genial and imposing personality in the poet laureate of spain, sr. d. antonio cavestany, who celebrated this delightful if somewhat unlucky day in a series of graceful couplets. we are wholly unequal to translate, but copy two or three which readers who understand spanish will appreciate:-- del poeta al arma no dieron las musas mucha virtud: cuatro ciervos le salieron ... y los cuatro se le fueron rebosantes de salud! suya fue la culpa toda: con la escopeta homicida Á apuntar no se acomoda ... si les dispara una oda no escapa ni uno con vida! sin duda no plugo á dios que del ganado cervuno fueran las parcas en pos total; tiros, treinta y dos yvenados muertos, uno!!! ¿quien realizó tal hazaña? verguenza de humillacion, mi frente al decirlo baña. fue el ingles ... la rubia albion quedó esta vez sobre españa!! resumen: luz, embeleso, panoramas, maravillas, bosques, arroyos, cantuéso ... lo dice junto todo eso solo al decir "mezquitillas." y bondad, afecto, agrado, gracia que ingenio revela, hospitalidad, cuidado ... todo eso esta compendiado condecir "juan y carmela." the next day's operations precisely reversed those of to-day, the guns being placed along the depths of a valley, while the beaters brought down the whole mountain-slopes above. thus each post, though it commanded a "pass," gave no such wonderful view beyond as had been the feature of yesterday's _montería_. it will, in fact, be obvious that in a big mountain-land no two beats are ever alike nor the conditions equal. every day presents fresh problems. that is one of the charms. to-day, several stags and a pig were killed, besides one roe-deer and an enormous wild-cat that scaled - / kilos (over lbs.). [illustration: griffon vulture] towards noon, the sun-heat in the gorge being intense, i had cautiously shifted my post to the banks of a mountain-burnlet that, embowered in oleanders,[ ] gurgled hard by. in those glancing streams, while i sat motionless, a pair of water-shrews were also busied with their lunch--dipping and diving, turning over pebbles, and searching each nook and cranny of the crystal pool. lovely little creatures they were--velvety black with snow-white undersides, which showed conspicuously on either flank; but the curious feature was the silver sheen caused by infinite air-bubbles that still adhered to the fur while they swam beneath the surface. they recalled a similar scene in an elk-forest of distant norway; but never in spanish sierras have we noticed water-shrews except on this occasion. while yet watching the water-fairies, another movement caught the corner of one eye; with slow sedate steps, a grey wild-cat was descending the opposite slope. she saw nothing, yet the foresight of the · carbine was recusant, it declined to get down into the nick, and a miss resulted. but what a bound the feline gave as an expanding bullet (at feet a second velocity) shattered the sierra half an inch above her back! [illustration: roaring september.] [illustration: "habet."] an incident occurred near this point (though in another year) with a stag. two shots had been fired on the left, when the slightest sound behind and above inspired a prepared glance in that direction--and only just in time, for three seconds later a glorious pair of antlers showed up on the nearest bush-clad height, and the easiest of shots yielded a -inch trophy. [illustration] the annexed drawing shows a -pointer, which was killed here the following year by our host, sr. don juan calvo de león of mezquitillas. in mere inches the measurements may be surpassed by others, but no head that we have seen excels this in extraordinary boldness of curve and symmetry of form. this stag was shot on the puntales del peco, january , , and in the same beat sr. juan calvo, junr., secured another fine -pointer, as below:-- +-----+-------+-------+------------+--------------+----------------+ | |points.|length.|widest tips.|widest inside.|circ. above bez.| +-----+-------+-------+------------+--------------+----------------+ |no. | | - / "| - / " | - / " | - / " | |no. | | - / "| ... | - / " | ... | +-----+-------+-------+------------+--------------+----------------+ less rosy on that occasion was the writer's own luck. my post in los puntales was in a narrow neck or "pass" in the knife-edged ridge of a mountain-spur, the rock-strewn ground, overgrown with cistus shoulder-high, falling sharply away both before and behind. in front i looked into a chasm probably feet in depth, the hither slope being invisible, so sharp was the drop; the opposite side, however (probably feet high), lay spread out as it were a perpendicular map. from leagues away beyond its apex the beaters were now approaching. from early in the day great fleecy cloud-masses had rolled by, and these gradually grew denser till the whole sierra was enveloped in viewless fog. hark! some animal is escalading my fortress; one cannot see fifteen yards--tantalizing indeed. yet so well has the _puesto_ been chosen that presently the intruder gallops almost over my toes--a yearling pig or _lechon_, not worth a bullet. [illustration: picking his way up a rock staircase (a -inch head.)] [illustration] later, during a clearer interval, i descried a stag picking a slow and deliberate course down the opposite escarpment. in the abyss below he was long lost to sight but presently reappeared, coming fairly straight in. seldom have i felt greater confidence in the alignment than when i then fired. yet the result was a clean miss. while pressing trigger, another shot rang out half-a-mile beyond and the stag swerved sharply; still i had another barrel, and the second bullet "told" loudly enough as the hart bounced, full-broadside, over the pass. then he swerved to take the rising ground beyond and, crossing the skyline, displayed the grandest pair of antlers i have seen alive--the great yard-long horns with their branching tops seemed too big even for that massive body. on examination blood was found at once, and on both sides--that is, the bullet had passed right through. in the fog i had under-estimated the distance and the hit was low and too far back. with two trackers i followed the spoor while daylight served and through places that any words of mine must fail to describe; but from the first the head-keeper had foretold the result: "eso no se cobra--va léjos"--"that stag you will not recover; he goes far, but wherever he stops, he dies. see here! the dogs have run his spoor all along, but have not yet brought him to bay." the indications left by the stag on brushwood and rock conveyed to the trackers' practised eyes, as clear as words, the precise position of the wound; and, as foretold, those coveted antlers were lost, to perish uselessly. the pack of mezquitillas was on this occasion reinforced by those of the duke of medinaceli and of the marquis of viana--bringing the total up to seventy hounds. thus, in spain, do the grandees of a big land, when guests at a _montería_, bring with them their huntsmen, kennelmen, and their packs of hounds--a system that breathes a comforting sense of space. next day being hopelessly wet, i took opportunity of measuring three of the trophies which adorn the hall at mezquitillas:-- +-------+-------+---------+------------+------------+-------------+ | |points.| length. |widest tips.|circ. above | circ. below | | | | | | bez. | corona. | +-------+-------+---------+------------+------------+-------------+ |a | | - / " | - / " | - / " | ... | |b | | " | - / " | - / " | - / " | |c | | - / " | - / " | ... | ... | |roebuck| ... | - / " | - / " | | | +-------+-------+---------+------------+------------+-------------+ it will be observed that the stag shot a day or two before, and illustrated above (p. ), tops the best of these by half an inch. the somewhat abnormal curve, however, partly explains this. [illustration: july.] [illustration] we must record yet one more memorable day on this estate of mezquitillas. this _montería_ (in january ) covered the region known as the leoncillo. upwards of twenty big stags passed the firing-line, and every gun enjoyed his chance--several more than one. in the result, six stags were killed--three by our host, one by his son. though carrying , , , and points respectively, none of these four were of exceptional merit, and the best, a -pointer, fell to the duke of medinaceli. the clean weight of these, the largest stags, is usually between - / and arrobas, or to lbs. english. one exceptionally heavy stag killed by our host's son, juan calvo, junr., and which had received some injury in the _testes_, resulting in a malformation of the horn, weighed no less than - / arrobas, or lbs. english. full-grown wild-boars at mezquitillas average about arrobas, or lbs., clean--one specially big boar reached arrobas, or lbs. wolves, though abundant, are but rarely shot in _monterías_ for the reasons already given. during the period covered by these notes only two were killed in _monterías_--one by sr. calvo, junr., the other by colonel barrera. wild-pigs breed as a rule in march, and to some extent _gregatim_, or in little colonies, which is supposed to be as a protection against the wolves; the lair _(cama)_ being a regular nest made among thick scrub, and roofed over by the foliage. lynxes, like wolves, are rarely seen. this year, four (a female, with three full-grown cubs) were held-up by the dogs, and all killed in one thicket. mongoose and genets are numerous on these brush-clad hills, and martens _(mustela foina)_ breed in the crags. stags roar from mid-september, chiefly by night. their summer coat is darker rather than redder than that of winter. farther east in moréna, near fuen-caliente, already mentioned, very fine heads are also obtained. the same systems prevail, and the following measurements have been given us by the marquéz del mérito, taken from two stags shot at risquillo in his forests of the sierra quintána, season - . +-----+---------+---------+----------+-------------+--------------+ | | length. | widest | circ. at | circ. above | brow-antler. | | | | inside. | burr. | bez. | | +-----+---------+---------+----------+-------------+--------------+ |no. | - / " | " | - / " | - / " | " | |no. | - / " | ... | - / " | " | " | +-----+---------+---------+----------+-------------+--------------+ no. carried + = points, and weighed lbs. clean. no. carried + = points, besides several knobs. both are shown in photos annexed. in the extreme east of the sierra moréna another culminating point of excellence appears to be attained--at valdelagrana and zamujar in the neighbourhood of jäen--at least it is from that region that two of the largest examples came that we have yet seen in spain. both the magnificent heads below described were carefully measured by ourselves:-- +-----+-------+-------+-------+--------+--------+-----------+-----------+ | |points.|length.| widest| widest |circ. at|circ. above|circ. below| | | | | tips. | inside.| base. | bez. | corona. | +-----+-------+-------+-------+--------+--------+-----------+-----------+ |no. | | - / "| - / "| - / "| - / " | - / " | - / " | |no. | | - / "| - / "| - / "| ... | - / " | - / " | +-----+-------+-------+-------+--------+--------+-----------+-----------+ no. was shot at valdelagrana, jäen, by sr. d. enrique parladé, has five on each top, all strong points, brow-antler - / inches. both horns precisely equal, - / inches. no. shot at el zamujar, jäen, by the marquéz de alvéntos, the whole head massive and rugged, and all the sixteen points well developed. the only spanish stag within our knowledge which exceeds these dimensions was shot at ballasteros in the montes de toledo by sr. d. i. l. de ybarra, the measurements of which, though not taken by ourselves, we accept without reserve as follows:--length, inches; breadth, - / inches; circumference below corona, - / inches. (see photo.) since writing the foregoing, a head much exceeding the above records has been obtained at lugar nuevo, near andujar, in the eastern sierra, and which measures no less than inches. photographs, with measurements taken by messrs. rowland ward (both of this and another good head secured at fontanarejo), have been sent us by the fortune-favoured sportsman, mr. j. m. power of linares, and will be found subjoined. for convenience of reference we put the whole record in tabular form. [illustration: red deer heads, sierra morÉna. risquillo. points , plus knobs. length - / in. marmolejos. a twenty-four pointer. fontanarejo. points . length - / in. montes de toledo. points . length .] record of red deer heads--sierra morÉna +----------------+-------+---------------+--------+-------+---------------+ | | | |circum- | | | | |length | widest. |ference | | | | |outside+------+--------+ above |points.| locality. | | |curve. | tips.| inside.| bez. | | | +----------------+-------+------+--------+--------+-------+---------------+ | | in. | in. | in. | in. | | | |j. m. power | | | - / | - / | + |lugar nuevo. | |i. l. de ybarra | | - / | ... | ... | ... |ballasteros, | | | | | | | | montes | | | | | | | |de toledo. | |e. parladé | - / | - / | - / | - / | + |valdelagrana. | |marq. mérito | - / |... | ... | | + |risquillos. | |authors | | - / | | - / | + |(_wild spain_.)| |marq. alvéntos | - / | - / | - / | - / | + |zamujar, jäen. | |j. calvo de león| - / | - / | - / | - / | + |mezquitillas. | | do. | - / | - / | ... | - / | + | do. | | do. | | - / | ... | - / | + | do. | | do. | | - / | ... | ... | + | do. | |authors ... | - / | - / | - / | | + |(_wild spain_.)| |marq. mérito | - / |... | | - / | + |risquillos. | |j. calvo, hijo | - / |... | - / | ... | + |mezquitillas. | |authors | | - / | | - / | + | do. | | do. | - / | (cast antler) | - / | + |sa. quintána. | |j. m. power | / |... | ... | - / | + |fontanarejo. | +----------------+-------+------+--------+--------+-------+---------------+ chapter xvi pernÁles a country better adapted by nature for the success of the enterprising bandit cannot be conceived. the vast _despoblados_ = uninhabited wastes, with scant villages far isolated and lonely mountain-tracts where a single desperado commands the way and can hold-up a score of passers-by, all lend themselves admirably to this peculiar form of industry. and up to quite recent years these natural advantages were exploited to the full. riding through the sierras, one notes rude crosses and epitaphs inscribed on rocks recording the death of this or that wayfarer. now travellers, as a rule, do not die natural deaths by the wayside; and an inspection of these silent memorials indicates that each occupies a site eminently adapted for a quiet murder. fortunately, during the last year or two, the extension of the telegraph and linking-up of remote hamlets has aided authority practically to extinguish brigandage on the grander scale. spain to-day can no longer claim a single artist of the jack sheppard or dick turpin type; not one heroic murderer such as josé maria (whose safe-conduct was more effective than that of his king), vizco el borje, agua-dulce, and other _ladrones en grande_ whose life-histories will be found outlined in _wild spain_. the two first-named represent a type of manhood one cannot but admire--admire despite oneself and despite its inconvenience to civilisation. these were men ignorant of fear, who, though themselves gentle, were yet able, by sheer force of iron will, to command and control cut-throat gangs which set authority at defiance, and who subjected whole districts to their anarchical aims and orders. the outlaw-overlords ever acted on similar lines. respecting human life as, in itself, valueless, they commandeered real value by an adroit combination of liberally subsidising the peasantry while yet terrorising all by the certainty of swift and merciless retribution should the least shade of treachery befall--or rather what to the brigand-crew represented treachery. human life was otherwise safe. two points in this connection demand mention. besides direct robberies, the brigands battened upon a tribute exacted from landowners and paid as a ransom to shield themselves and their tenants from molestation. secondly, their safety and continued immunity from capture was largely due to that secret influence--quite undefinable, yet potent to this day--known as "caciquismo." that influence was exerted on behalf of the outlaws as part of the ransom arrangement aforesaid. neither for robber-chieftains of the first water, such as these, nor for brigandage as a scientific business, is there any longer opportunity in modern spain, any more than for a robin hood at home. lesser lights of the road, footpads and casual _sequestradores_, will survive for a further space in the wilder region; but the real romance of the industry ceased with the new century. [illustration: pernales] its first decade has nevertheless produced a brace of first-rate ruffians who, though in no sense to be compared with the old-time aristocracy of the craft, at least succeeded in setting at naught the civil power, and in pillaging and harassing rural andalucia during more than two years. the original pair were known as pernáles and el vivillo, the latter a man of superior instincts and education, who, under former conditions, would doubtless have developed into the noble bandit. vivillo on principle avoided bloodshed; not a single assassination is laid to his charge during a long career of crime. pernales, on the contrary, revelled in revolting cruelties, and rated human life no higher than that of a rabbit. at first this repulsive ruffian, as hateful of aspect as of character,[ ] acted as a sort of lieutenant to vivillo, but the partnership was soon renounced by the latter consequent on a cowardly crime perpetrated by pernales in the sierra of algamita. at a lonely farm lived an elderly couple, the husband an industrious, thrifty man, who had the reputation of being rich among his fellows. their worldly possessions in actual fact consisted of some reales = £ . pernales was not likely to overlook a hoard so ill-protected, and one night in november insisted, at the muzzle of his gun, on the savings being handed over to him. a lad of fourteen, however, had witnessed the transaction, and on perceiving him (and fearing he might thus be denounced) pernales plunged his knife in the boy's breast, killing him on the spot. vivillo, on hearing of this insensate murder by his second, insisted on the restitution of their money to the aged pair, expelled pernales from his gang, and threatened him with death should he dare again to cross his path. pernales now formed a fresh partnership with a desperado of similar calibre to himself, a soulless brute, known as the niño de arahál, whose acquaintance he had made at a village of that name. this pair, along with a gang of ruffians who acclaimed them as chiefs, were destined to achieve some of the worst deeds of violence in the whole annals of spanish _bandolerismo_. for two years they held half andalucia in awe, terrorised by the ferocity of their methods and merciless disregard of life. none dared denounce them or impart to authority a word of information as to their whereabouts, even though it were known for certain--such was the dread of vengeance. innumerable were the skirmishes between the forces of the law and its outragers. an illustrative incident occurred in march . a pair of civil guards, riding up the rio de los almendros, district of pruna, suddenly and by mere chance found themselves face to face with the men they "wanted." a challenge to halt and surrender was answered by instant fire, and the outlaws, wheeling about, clapped spurs to their horses and fled. now for the civil guards as brave men and dutiful we have the utmost respect; but their marksmanship on this occasion proved utterly rotten, and an easy right-and-left was clean missed twice and thrice over! the fugitives, moreover, outrode pursuit, and the fact illustrates their cool, calculating nonchalance, that so soon as they reckoned on having gained a forty-five minutes' advantage, the pair paid a quiet social call on a well-to-do farmer of morón, enjoyed a glass of wine with their trembling host, and then (having some fifteen minutes in hand) rode forward. now comes a point. on arrival of the pursuers, that farmer (though not a word had been said) denied all knowledge of his new-gone guests. pursuit was abandoned. for eight days the bandits lay low. then pernales presented himself at a farm in ecija with a demand for £ , or in default the destruction of the live-stock. the bailiff (no farmer lives on his farm) despatched a messenger on his fleetest horse to bring in the ransom. as by the stipulated hour he had not returned, pernales shot eight valuable mules! riding thence to la coronela, a farm belonging to antonio fuentes, the bull-fighter, a similar message was despatched. pending its reply our outlaws feasted on the best; but instead of bank-notes, a force of civil guards appeared on the scene. that made no difference. the terrified farm-hands swore that the bandits had ridden off in a given direction, and while the misled police hurried away on a wild-goose chase, our heroes finished their feast, and late at night (having loaded up everything portable of value) departed for their lair in the sierra. during the next two months (may and june ) only minor outrages and robberies were committed, but that quiescence was enlivened by two feats that set out in relief the coolness and unflinching courage of these desperados. in may they moved to the neighbourhood of córdoba, and among other raids pulled off a good haul in bank-notes, cash, and other valuables at lucena, an estate of d. antonio moscoso, following this up by a report in their "inspired press" that the brigands had at last fled north-wards with the view of embarking for abroad at santander! a few days later, however (may ), they had the effrontery to appear in córdoba itself at the opening of the fair, but, being early recognised, promptly rode off into the impending sierra moréna. on their heels followed the civil guard. finding themselves overtaken, our friends faced round and opened fire, but the result was a defeat of the bandit gang. one, "el niño de la gloria," fell dead pierced by three bullets; two other scoundrels--reverte and pepino--were captured wounded, while in the mêlée the robbers abandoned four horses, a rifle, and a quantity of jewelry--the product of recent raids. pernales himself and the rest of his crew escaped, and found shelter in the fastnesses of the sierra moréna--thence returning to their favourite hunting-grounds nearer seville. riding along the bye-ways of marchena, disguised as rustic travellers, on june they demanded at a remote farm a night's food and lodging. half-concealed knives and revolvers proved strong arguments in favour of obedience, and, despite suspicion and dislike, the bailiff acceded. this time the civil guard were on the track. at midnight they silently surrounded the house, communicated with the watchful bailiff, and ordered all doors to be locked. the turning of a heavy key, however, reached pernales' ear. in a moment the miscreants were on the alert. while one saddled-up the horses, the other unloosed a young farm mule, boldly led him across the courtyard to the one open doorway, and, administering some hearty lashes to the animal's ribs, set him off in full gallop into the outer darkness. the police, seeing what they concluded was an attempted escape, first opened fire, then started helter-skelter in pursuit of a riderless mule! the robbers meanwhile rode away at leisure. five days later, on june , both bandits attacked a _venta_, or country inn, near los santos, in villafranca de los barrios, carrying off £ in cash, six mules, with other valuables, and leaving the owner for dead. this particular crime, for some reason or other, was more noised abroad than dozens of others equally atrocious, and orders were now issued jointly both by the _ministro de gobernacion_, the captain-general of the district, and the colonels commanding the civil guard throughout the whole of the harassed regions, that at all hazards the murderous pair must be taken at once, dead or alive. this peremptory mandate evolved unusual activities; the whole of the western sierra was reported blockaded. pernales, nevertheless, receiving warning through innumerable spies of the police plans, succeeded in escaping from the province of seville into that of córdoba, where the pair pursued their career of crime, though now under conditions of increased hazard and difficulty. sometimes for days together they lay low or contented themselves with petty felonies. then suddenly in a new district--that of puente-genil--burst out a fresh series of the most audacious outrages. big sums of money, with alternative of instant death, were extorted from farmers and landowners. these exploits, together with an odd murder or two, spread consternation throughout the new area, and in all puente-genil, pernales and the niño de arahal became a standing nightmare. so soon as checked here by the police, the robbers once more moved west, again "inspiring" the press with reports of a foreign destination--this time viâ cádiz. a few days later, málaga was named as their intended exit. yet on july they were to the north of seville, and had another rifle-duel with the guards, again escaping scatheless at a gallop. persecution was now so keen that the wilds of the sierra moréna afforded their only possible hope, and by holding the highest passes the outlaws reached this refuge, being next reported at venta de cardeñas, miles north of córdoba. a cordon of police was now drawn along the whole fringe of the sierra from vizco del marquéz to despeñaperros. the position of the hunted couple became daily more precarious, their scope of activity more restricted, and robberies reduced to insignificant proportions. nevertheless, on july , with consummate audacity and dash, they raided the farm of recena belonging to d. tomas herrera, carrying off a sum of £ , with which they remained content till august , when they attacked the two farms of vencesla and los villares, but, being repulsed, fled northwards towards ciudad real. on september they entered the province of la mancha, apparently seeking shelter in the deep defiles of the sierra de alcaráz, for that morning a manchegan woodcutter was accosted by two mounted wayfarers who inquired the best track to alcaráz. the woodman innocently gave directions which, if exactly followed, would much shorten the route. while thanking his informant, pernales--apparently out of sheer bravado--revealed his identity, introducing himself to the astonished woodcutter as the fury who was keeping all authority on the jump and the country-side ablaze. straightway the man of the axe made for the nearest guard-station, and a captain with six mounted police, reinforced by peasants, followed the trail. as dusk fell the pursuers perceived two horses tethered in a densely wooded dell, while hard by their owners sat eating and drinking--the latter imprudence perhaps explaining why the brigands were at last caught napping. to the challenge "alto á la guardia civil!" came the usual prompt response--the vibrant whistle of rifle-balls. pernales managed to empty the magazine of his repeater, killing one guard outright and wounding two more. though himself hit, he yet stood erect, and was busy recharging his weapon when further shots brought him to earth. on seeing his chief go down the niño de arahal sprang to the saddle, but the opposing rifles were this time too many and too near. the bandit, fatally wounded, was pitched to earth in death-throes, while the poor beast stumbled and fell in its stride a few paces beyond. an examination of the bodies showed that pernales had been pierced by twenty-two balls, his companion by ten. caciquismo doubtless the thought may have occurred to readers that some interpretation is necessary to explain how such events as these (extending over a series of years) are still possible in spain--in a country fully equipped not only with elaborate legal codes bristling with stringent penalties both for crime and its abettors, but also with magistrates, judges, telegraphs, and an ample armed force, competent, loyal, and keen to enforce those laws. without assistants and accomplices (call their aiders and abettors what you will) the pernales and vivillos of to-day could not survive for a week. the explanation lies in the existence of that inexplicable and apparently ineradicable power called caciquismo--fortunately, we believe, on the decline, but still a force sufficient to paralyse the arm of the law and arrest the exercise of justice. ranging from the lowest rungs of society, caciquismo penetrates to the main-springs of political power. a secret understanding with combined action amongst the affiliated, it secures protection even to criminals with their hidden accomplices, provided that each and all yield blind obedience to their ruling cacique, social and political. the cacique stands above law; he is a law unto himself; he does or leaves undone, pays or leaves unpaid as may suit his convenience--conscience he has none. at his own sweet will he will charge personal expenses--say his gamekeepers' wages or the cost of a private roadway--to the neighbouring municipality. none dare object. caciquismo is no fault of the spanish people; it is the disgrace of the caciques, who, as men of education, should be ashamed of mean and underhand practices that recall, on a petty scale, those of the tyrants of syracuse. should any of these sleek-faces read our book, they may be gratified to learn that no other civilised country produces parasites such as they. not a foreign student of the problems of social life in spain with its conditions but has been brought to a full stop in the effort to diagnose or describe the secret sinister influence of caciquismo. our spanish friends--detesting and despising the thing equally with ourselves--tell us that no foreigner has yet realised either its nature or its scope. certainly we make no such pretension, nor attempt to describe the thing itself--a thing scarce intelligible to saxon lines of thought, a baneful influence devised to retard the advance of modern ideas of freedom and justice, to benumb all moral yearnings for truth and honesty in public affairs and civil government. caciquismo may roughly be defined as the negation and antithesis of patriotism; it sets the personal influence of one before the interest of all, sacrificing whole districts to the caprice of some soul-warped tyrant with no eyes to see. * * * * * a word in conclusion on vivillo. neither ignorance nor necessity impelled joaquin camargo, nicknamed el vivillo (the lively one), to embark, at the age of twenty-five, on a career of crime. rather it was that spirit of knight-errantry, of reckless adventure, that centuries before had swept the spanish main, and that nowadays, in baser sort, thrives and is fostered by a false romance--as diego corrientes, the bandit, was reputed to be "run" by a duchess, as the "seven lads of ecija" terrorised under the ægis of exalted patronage, and josé maria, the murderer of the sierra moréna, was extolled as a melodramatic hero by novelists all over spain. on such lines young camargo thought to gather fresh glories for himself. he early gained notoriety by a smart exploit in holding-up the diligence from las cabezas for villa martin just when the september fair was proceeding at the latter place. the passengers, mostly cattle-dealers, were relieved of bursting purses--no cheques pass current at villa martin--to the tune of £ . after that, for several years, vivillo ruled rural andalucia, and his desperate deeds supplied the papers with startling head-lines. when pursuit became troublesome he embarked for argentina, and soon his name was forgotten. his retreat, however, was discovered, and vivillo was brought back, landing at cádiz february , . since that date he has lived in seville prison--a man of high intelligence, of reputed wealth, and the father of two pretty daughters. for reasons unexplained (and into which we do not inquire) his trial never comes on. vivillo keeps a stiff lip and enjoys ... nearly all he wants. [illustration: a summer evening--sparrow-owls (_athene noctua_) and moths] chapter xvii la mancha the lagoons of daimiel immediately to the north of our "home-province" of andalucia, but separated therefrom by the sierra moréna, stretch away the uplands of la mancha--the country of don quixote. the north-bound traveller, ascending through the rock-gorges of despeñaperros, thereat quits the mountains and enters on the manchegan plateau. a more dreary waste, ugly and desolate, can scarce be imagined. were testimony wanting to the compelling genius of cervantes, in very truth la mancha itself would yield it. [illustration] yet it is wrong to describe la mancha as barren. rather its central highlands present a monotony of endless uninteresting cultivation. league-long furrows traverse the landscape, running in parallel lines to utmost horizon, or weary the eye by radiating from the focal point as spokes in a wheel. but never a break or a bush relieves one's sight, never a hedge or a hill, not a pool, stream, or tree in a long day's journey. oh, it is distressing, wherever seen--in old world or new--that everlasting cultivation on the flat. true, it produces the necessary fruits of the earth--here (to wit) corn and wine. farther north, where the toledan mountains loom blue over the western horizon, la mancha refuses to produce anything. the unsympathetic earth, for miles a sterile hungry crust, stony and sun-scorched, obtrudes an almost hideous nakedness, its dry bones declining to be clad, save in flints or fragments of lava and splintered granite. wherever nature is a trifle less austere, a low growth of dwarf broom and helianthemum at least serves to vary the dreariness of dry prairie-grass. there, beneath the foothills of the wild montes de toledo, stretch whole regions where thorn-scrub and broken belts of open wood vividly recall the scenery of equatorial africa--we might be traversing the "athi plains" instead of european lands. evergreen oak and wild-olive replace mimosa and thorny acacia--one almost expects to see the towering heads of giraffes projecting above the grey-green bush. in both cases there is driven home that living sense of arid sterility, the same sense of desolation--nay, here even more so--since there is lacking that wondrous wild fauna of the other. no troops of graceful gazelles bound aside before one's approach; no herds of zebra or antelope adorn the farther veld; no galloping files of shaggy gnus spurn the plain. a chance covey of redlegs, a hoopoe or two, the desert-loving wheatears--birds whose presence ever attests sterility--a company of azure-winged magpies chattering among the stunted ilex, or a woodchat--that is all one may see in a long day's ride. [illustration: woodchat shrike and its "shambles" (sketched in la mancha)] another feature common to both lands--and one abhorrent to northern eye--is the absence of water, stagnant or current. never the glint of lake or lagoon, far less the joyous murmur of rippling burn, rejoice eye or ear in la mancha. alas, that to us is denied the synthetic sense! in vain we scan manchegan thicket for compensating beauties, for the naiads and dryads with which cervantes' creative spirit peopled the wilderness; no vision of lovely dorotheas laving ivory limbs of exquisite mould in sylvan fountain rewards our searching (but too prosaic) gaze--that may perhaps be explained by the contemporary absence of any such fountains. nor have other lost or love-lorn maidens, lucindas or altisidoras from enchanted castle, aided us to add one element of romance to purely faunal studies. castles, it is true, adorn the heights or crown a distant skyline; nor are dulcineas of toboso extinct or even in the _posada_ at daimiel, while excellent specimens graced the twilight _paséo_ of ciudad real or reclined beneath the orange-groves of its _alameda_. [illustration: desert-loving wheatears] we have animadverted upon the absence of water in la mancha. yet there is no rule but has its exception, and it is, in fact, to the existence of a series of most singular manchegan lagoons, abounding in bird-life, that this venturesome literary excursion owes its genesis. in the midst of tawny table-lands, well-nigh miles from the sea and upwards of feet above its level, nestle the sequestered lagunas de daimiel extending to many miles of mere and marsh-land. these lakes are, in fact, the birthplace of the great river guadiana, the head-waters being formed by the junction of its nascent streams with its lesser tributary the ciguela. in the confluence of the two rivers mentioned it is the guadiana that chiefly lends its serpentine course to the formation of a vast series of lagoons, with islands and islets, cane-brakes and shallows overgrown by reeds, sedge, and marsh-plants, all traversed in every direction by open channels (called _trochas_), the whole constituting a complication so extensive that none save experienced boatmen can thread a way through its labyrinths. isolated thus, a mere speck of water in the midst of the arid table-lands of central spain, yet these lagoons of daimiel constitute not only one of the chief wildfowl resorts of spain, but possibly of all europe. upon these waters there occur from time to time every species of aquatic game that is known in this peninsula, while in autumn the duck-tribe in countless hosts congregate in nearly all their european varieties. those which are found in the greatest numbers include the mallard, pintail, shoveler, wigeon, gargany, common and marbled teal, ferruginous duck, tufted duck, pochard, and (in great abundance) the red-crested pochard or _pato colorado_. coots also frequent the lagoons, but in smaller numbers. there also appear at frequent intervals flamingoes and black geese (_ganzos negros_), whose species we have not been able to identify, sand-grouse of both kinds, sea-gulls, duck-hawks, grebes, and occasionally some wandering cormorants. herons and egrets in their different varieties haunt the shores and the shallows. [illustration: red-crested pochard (_fuligula rufila_)] lest any far-venturing fowler be induced by this chapter to pack his -bore and seek the nearest cook's office, it should at once be stated that the rights-of-chase (as are all worth having, alike in spain, scotland, or england) are in private hands--those of the sociedad de las lagunas de daimiel, a society which at present numbers five members, all of ducal rank, and to one of whom we are indebted for excellent descriptive notes. the lakes are guarded by keepers who have held their posts for generations--the family of the escudéros. to claim for these far-inland lagoons a premier place among the great wildfowl resorts of europe may seem extravagant--albeit confirmed by facts and figures that follow. but the lakes, be it remembered, are surrounded by that cultivation afore described-- mile stubbles and so on. another fact that well-nigh struck dumb the authors (long accustomed to study and preach the incredible mobility of bird-life) was that ducks shot at dawn at daimiel are found to be cropful of _rice_. now the nearest rice-grounds are at valencia, distant miles; hence these ducks, not as a migratory effort, but merely as incidental to each night's food-supply, have sped at least miles between dusk and dawn. as autumn approaches (we quote from notes kindly given us by the duke of arión), so soon as the keepers note the arrival of incoming migrants, their first business consists in observing the points which these select for their assemblage. then with infinite patience, tact, and skill, the utmost advantage is seized of those earlier groups which have chosen haunts nearest to points where guns may be placed most effectively. these favoured groups are left rigorously alone to act as decoys, while by gentleness and least provocative methods, the keepers induce other bands which have settled in less appropriate positions to unite their forces with the elect. thus within a few days vast multitudes, scattered over wide areas, have been unconsciously concentrated within that "sphere of influence" where four or five guns may act most efficaciously. the supreme test of the keepers' efficiency is demonstrated when this concentration is limited to some particular area designated for a single day's shooting. the night preceding the day fixed for shooting, so soon as the ducks have already quitted the lagoons and spread themselves afar over the surrounding cornlands on their accustomed nocturnal excursions in search of food, the posts of the various gunners are prepared. this work involves cutting a channel through some islanded patch of reeds situate in the centre of open water. the channel is merely wide enough to admit the entrance of the punt from which the gunner shoots, the cut reeds being left to remask the opening so soon as the punt has entered. somewhere between three and four o'clock in the morning the sportsmen sally forth from the shooting-lodge (situate on the isla de los asnos), each in his punt directing a course to the position he has drawn by lot. in the boat, besides guns, cartridges, and loader (should one be taken), are carried thirty or forty decoy-ducks fashioned of wood or cork and painted to resemble in form and colour the various species of duck expected at that particular season. each of these decoys is furnished with a string and leaden weight to act as an anchor. a fixed plummet directly beneath the floating decoy prevents its being blown over or upset. generally speaking, the sportsman awaits the dawn in the same boat in which he has reached his position, but should shallow water prevent this, either a lighter punt, capable of being carried by hand, or some wooden boards are substituted as a seat. having set out his decoys, and arranged his ammunition, each gunner awaits in glorious expectancy the moment when the first light of dawn shall set the aquatic world amove. singly they may come, or in bands and battalions--soon the whole arc of heaven is serried with moving masses. should the day prove favourable, firing continues practically incessant till towards ten o'clock. from that hour onwards it slackens perceptibly, ducks flying fewer and fewer and at increasing intervals up to noon or thereby, when spoils are collected and the day's sport is over. there are at most but four or five _puestos_, or gun-posts, at daimiel, and that only when ducks are in their fullest numbers. under such conditions, and when all incidental conditions are favourable, a bag of over ducks in the day has not infrequently been registered. on such occasions it follows that individual guns must gather from to ducks apiece. almost incredible as are the results occasionally obtained under favouring conditions, yet the duck-shooting at daimiel is nevertheless subject to considerable variation in accordance with the sequence of the season. the biggest totals are usually recorded during the months of september, october, and november in dry years. the bags secured at such periods are apt to run into extraordinary numbers, but with this proviso, that quality is then sometimes inferior to quantity. for the chief item at these earlier shoots consists of teal, with only a sprinkling of mallard, wigeon, and shoveler, and, in some years, a few coots. but at the later _tiradas_ (shootings), although game is usually rather less abundant, it is then entirely composed of the bigger ducks--beyond all in numbers being the mallard, pintail, wigeon, and red-crested pochard, while an almost equal number of shovelers and common pochards are also bagged. at these earlier _tiradas_ a good gun should be able, with ease, to bring down, say, ducks, although this number dwindles sadly in the pick-up, since but few of those birds will be recovered that fall outside the narrow space of open water around each "hide." one may say roughly that at least one-fourth are lost. for, although each post be surrounded by open water, yet many ducks must fall within the encircling canes, while even those that fall in the open, if winged and beyond the reach of a second barrel, will inevitably gain the shelter of the covert, and all these are irrecoverable. others, again, carrying on a few yards, may fall dead in open water, but at a distance the precise position of which is difficult to fix by reason of intervening cane-brakes. thus between those that are lost in the above ways and others that may be carried away by the wind or the current (besides many that are devoured by hawks and eagles under the fowler's eye but beyond the range of his piece) it is no exaggerated estimate that barely three-fourths of the fallen are ever recovered. to the above description another spanish friend, don isidoro urzáiz, adds the following:-- in the year i fired at ducks in a single morning at daimiel one thousand and ten cartridges. this was between . and . a.m. i gathered rather over two hundred, losing upwards of a hundred more. i shot badly; it being my first experience with duck, i had not learnt to let them come well in, and often fired too soon. in subsequent _tiradas_ i have never enjoyed quite so much luck, although never firing less than to cartridges. in spite of the difficulty of recovering dead game, i have always on these occasions gathered from one hundred upwards--the precise numbers i have not recorded. some of the _puestos_ have a very small extent of open water around them, and in these a greater proportion of the game is necessarily lost. for example, in a single quite small clump of reeds i remember marking not less than thirty ducks fall dead, yet of these i recovered not one. the sharp-edged leaves of the sedge (_masiega_) cut like a knife, and the boatman who entered the reeds to collect the game returned a few minutes later without a bird, but with hands, arms, and legs bleeding from innumerable cuts and scratches, which obliged him to desist from further search. this is but one example of the difficulty of recovering fallen game. as examples of the totals secured individually in a day may be quoted the following. at the first shooting in the duke of arión gathered ducks, and at the second shoot, , the duke of prim, . the record bag was made some ten or twelve years ago by a valencian sportsman, don juan cistel, who brought in no less than ducks in one day! his late majesty, king alfonso xii., comes second with ducks shot in three hours and a half. on his second visit, on hearing that he had secured his century, his majesty stopped shooting, being more interested to watch the fowl passing overhead. his total was . king alfonso xiii. had an unlucky day here--rain and storm--hence he only totalled ninety odd. many years ago, our late friend, santiago udaëta, was credited with ducks to his own gun in one day. these bags are truly enormous, for, big as it is, daimiel is not a patch in size as compared with our own marismas of the guadalquivir. there is here, on the other hand, abundant cover to conceal the guns, which is not the case with us. [illustration: red-crested pochard--an impression at daimiel] it was at daimiel that we first made acquaintance with the red-crested pochard--a handsome and truly striking species, smart in build, colour, action, and every attribute. a bushy red head outstretched on a very long neck contrasts with the jet-black breast, while the white "speculum" on the wings shows up conspicuous as a transparency, especially when a band passes over-head in the azure vault, or splashes down on reed-girt shallow--one actually seems to see through the gauzy texture of their quills. these ducks breed in numbers at daimiel, as do also mallards, garganey, and ferruginous ducks, together with stilts, grebes, and herons of all denominations. greatly do we regret that our experience at daimiel does not include the spring-season with all its unknown ornithological possibilities. an unfortunate accident prevented our spending a week or two at daimiel in may of the present year. ospreys visit the lakes in autumn, preying on the abundant carp and tench; and wild-boars, some of great size, coming from the bush-clad sierra de villarubia on the south, frequent the cane-brakes. shelducks of either species appear unknown; but grey geese (as well as flamingoes) make passing calls at intervals, a small dark-coloured goose (possibly the bernicle) is recorded to have been shot on two or three occasions, and wild swans once. the little country-town of daimiel, situate six or eight miles from the lakes, was recently the scene of an extraordinary tragedy. we copy the account from the madrid newspaper, _el liberal_, february , :-- telegraphing from daimiel, it is announced that yesterday a gang of masked men forced their entrance into the council-chamber while the council were holding a meeting under the presidency of the mayor. the masked men, who numbered six or eight, came fully armed with guns and rifles which they discharged in the very face of the mayor, who fell dead, riddled with bullets. the assembled councillors, seized with panic, fled. the murdered mayor was a conservative, and the only member of that party who held a seat in the corporation. it is believed that the assassination was perpetrated in obedience to political motives. chapter xviii the spanish bull-fight its origin and development perhaps no other contemporary spectacle has been oftener and more minutely described by writers who--censors and enthusiasts alike--possess neither personal nor technical qualification, for the work. impressions, once the pyrenees are passed, grow spontaneously deeper and stronger in inverse ratio with experiences. and the majority of descriptions confessedly prejudge the scene in adverse sense--the writer (sometimes a lady) going into wild hysterics after half-seeing a single bull killed. we have not the slightest intention of entering that arena of ravelled preconceptions and misconceptions, nor are we concerned either to uphold or to condemn. a greater mind has satirised the human tendency to "condone the sins we are inclined to, by damning those we have no mind to," and we are content to leave it at that. in this chapter we purpose to glance at the subject from three points of view. ( ) the origin of bull-fighting, years ago, and its subsequent development. ( ) the modern system of breeding and training the fighting bull. ( ) the "miura question"--an incident of to-day. as a spanish institution, bull-fighting dates back to the reconquest or shortly thereafter. when that abounding vigour and virility that had animated and sustained spanish explorers and warriors--the sailors and adventurers who, following in the wake of the caravels of columbus, opened up a new world to spain and carried the purple banner of castile to the ends of the earth--when that vigour had spent its fiery force and grown anæmic, there still remained (as always) a residue of bold spirits who, scorning decadent circumstance, turned intuitively to that virile and dangerous exercise left them as a heritage by the vanished moors. for it was the arab conquerors, the so-called moors, who first practised this form of vicarious warfare. it was, however, in no sense as a sport--far less as a popular pastime--that the fierce arab had risked equal chances with the fiercest wild beast of the spanish plain. no, it was strictly as a substitute and a preparation for the sterner realities of war that, during the intervals of peace, the moors "kept their hands in" by fighting bulls. the object was to keep themselves and their chargers fit, their eyesight true, and muscles toughened for the further struggles that all knew must follow. but during those intervals of peace, the rival knights, christian and moslem, met in keen competition with lance and sword on the enclosed arena of the bull-ring. the conclusion of a truce was frequently celebrated by holding a joint _fiesta de toros_. no trace, however, exists in arab writings to show that these people possessed any innate love of bull-fighting as a sport, or ever practised it save only as an accessory to the art of war. no other people of ancient race have had exhibitions of this kind--that is, where the skill of man was invoked to incite a beast to attack in certain desired modes; while the performer escaped the onset, and finally slew his adversary, by preconceived forms of defence governed by set rules--a spectacle wherein the assembled crowd could, each according to his light, estimate both the skill of the man and the fighting quality of the beast. that the blood of many a gladiator dyed the roman arena at the horns of bulls is certain: but no artistic embellishments of attack or defence added to the joy of the roman holiday. the mere mechanical instinct of self-preservation may inadvertently have suggested to individual combatants certain combinations in the conflict that in later days have been utilised by modern matadors; but it seems hardly possible to suppose that roman gladiators saved themselves by methods of prescribed art. contemporary records, together with the scenes depicted on coinage, represent rather a mere massacre of men by brute force; and such cannot bear any relation to the conditions that govern the national _fiesta_ of spain to-day. the actual origin in spain of the _corrida de toros_ must thus be traced to the spanish arabs, who, to exercise themselves and their steeds during intermittent periods of peace, adopted this dangerous pastime with the view of fortifying and invigorating personal valour, so necessary in times of constant strife. the arab's spear and charger were opposed to the wild bull of the spanish plain under conditions many of which are analogous to these in vogue to-day. in those earlier ages it was permitted to an unhorsed cavalier to accept protection from the horns of his enemy at the hands of his personal retainers, who not infrequently sacrificed their own lives in devotion to their chief. at this period (during the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries) the knight who, lance in hand, had been hurled from the saddle might draw his sword and kill the bull, his vassals being allowed to assist in placing the animal (by deft display of coloured cloaks) in a position to facilitate the death-stroke. here, doubtless, originated the art of "playing" the bull, and incidentally sprang the professional bull-fighter. for as these servants became experts, and by reason of their prowess gained extra wages, so proportionately such skill became of pecuniary value. mercenaries of this sort were, nevertheless, despised--to risk their lives in return for money was regarded as an infamous thing. but at least they had inaugurated the regime of the highly paid matador of to-day. during the first century after the reconquest bull-fighting was opposed by several powerful influences, but each in turn it survived and set at naught. isabel la católica, horrified by the sight of bloodshed at a bull-fight which she personally attended, decided to prohibit all _corridas_; but that, she found, lay beyond even her great influence. next, in , the power of the papacy was invoked in vain. pope pius v., by a _bula_ of november , forbade the spectacle under pain of excommunication, the denial of christian burial, and similar ecclesiastical penalties; but he and his _bula_ had likewise to go under in face of the national sentiment of spain. a noble bull fell to the lance of isabel's grandson, h.m. the emperor charles v., in the plaza mayor of valladolid amidst acclamation of countless admirers. this occurred during the festivals held to celebrate the birth of his eldest son, afterwards phillip ii. [illustration: bull-fighting. from a drawing by joseph crawhall] in bull-fighting first assumed a financial aspect. phillip iii. conceded to one arcania manduno the emoluments accruing during the term of three lives from the _corridas de toros_ in the city of valencia. charities and asylums benefited under this fund, but the bulk went in payment for professional services in the plaza. during the reign of phillip iv.--that king being skilled in the use of lance and javelin (_rejón_), and frequently himself taking a public part--the _fiesta_ advanced enormously in national estimation. english readers may recall the sumptuous _corrida_ which marked the arrival of charles i., with the duke of buckingham, at madrid. later, during the reigns of the house of austria, to face a bull with bravery and skill and to use a dexterous lance was the pride of every spanish noble. phillip v., however, would have none of the spectacle, and then the nobility held aloof from the _corridas_; but their example proved no deterrent. for the hold of the national pastime on the moro-hispanic race was too firm-set to be swept aside by alien influence, however strong; and when thus abandoned by the patricians, the hidalgos and grandees of spain, the sport of bull-fighting (hitherto confined exclusively to the aristocracy) was taken up by the spanish people. a further impulse was generated later on under ferdinand vii., who obtained a reversal of the anathema of the church on condition that some of the pecuniary profits of the _corridas_ should swell the funds of the hospitals. it was, however, during the first half of the eighteenth century that bull-fighting on a popular basis, as understood and practised at the present day, took its start. then there stepped upon the enclosed arena the first professional _toréro_ amidst thrilling plaudits from tier above tier of encircling humanity. never before had the bull been taken on by a single man on foot armed only with his good sword and scarlet flag--with these to pit his strength and skill against the weight and ferocity of a _toro bravo_--alone and unaided to despatch him. such a man was francisco romero, erewhiles a shoemaker at ronda--a.d. --first professional _lidiador_. on his death at an advanced age, he left five sons, all craftsmen of repute, who, in honour of their sire, formed a bull-fighting guild still known as the rondénean school--distinguished from the later sevillian cult by its more serious and dignified attack as compared with the prettiness and "swagger" of the sevillano. in that generation francisco's son, pedro romero, appeared in rivalry with pepe-illo, the new-risen star in the sevillian firmament. it was, by the way, the master-mind of the latter which completed and perfected the reorganisation on popular lines of the national _fiesta_ after bourbon influence had alienated the aristocracy from their ancient diversion. the rivalry between these competing exponents of the two styles commenced in , the pair representing each a supreme mastery of their respective schools, and only terminated with the death of pepe-illo in the plaza of madrid, may , . the sevillian style has since attained pre-eminence, appealing more to the masses by its nonchalance and apparent disregard of danger. when the best features of both schools are combined--as has been exemplified in more than one brilliant exponent of the art--then the letters of his name are writ large on the _cartels_. one other famous name of that epoch demands notice--that of costillares, who introduced the flying stroke distinguished as the _suerte de volapié_. hitherto all _lidiadors_ had received the onset of the bull standing--the _suerte de recibir_. in the _volapié_ the charging bull is met half-way, an exploit demanding unswerving accuracy, strength of arm, and exact judgment of distance, since the spot permissible for the sword to enter, the target on the bull's neck, is no bigger than an orange. the normal difficulty of sheathing the blade at that exact point on a charging bull is great enough; but is vastly increased in the _volapié_, or flying stroke, and the effect produced on the spectators emotional in the last degree. costillares also formalised the costumes of the different classes of bull-fighters. he flourished in , and died of a broken heart owing to his right arm being injured, which incapacitated him from further triumphs. about that period martinho introduced the perilous pole-jump, and josé candido stood out prominent for skill and extraordinary resource. intermediate episodes of minor importance we must briefly note. thus godoy in stopped bull-fights, but joseph bonaparte in re-established the spectacle, in vain hope--a sop to cerberus--of attaching sympathy to his dynasty. on the return of fernando vii. in , he also prohibited the shows, only to re-authorise them the following year, while in he founded a school of toromaquia in seville. one famous _toréro_, matriculating thereat, inaugurated a new epoch. francisco montes carried popular enthusiasm to its highest apex. joy bordering on madness possessed the madrilenean ring when montes handled the _muleta_. yet as a matador he had serious defects. in cuchares appeared on the scene, and two years later the great disciple of montes, josé redondo. the rivalry of these notable contemporaries lifted the _toréo_ once more to a level of absorbing national interest. it will have been seen that whenever two brilliant constellations flash forth simultaneously, their very rivalry commands the sympathy and supreme interest of the spanish people. from el tato stood out as a type of elegance and valour, the idol of the masses, till on june , , a treacherous bull left him mutilated in the arena. antonio carmóna (el gordito), commenced his career in , alternating in the ring with el tato and later with lagartijo, the latter a brilliant _toréro_ (or player of bulls) as distinguished from a matador. consummate in every feint and artifice, lagartijo could befool the animals to the top of his bent, yet as a matador, the final and supreme executor, he failed. for twenty years ( - ) the spanish public were divided in their keen appreciation of contemporaneous masters, lagartijo and frascuelo. the latter, whose iron will and courage made amends for certain personal defects in the lighter role, had marvellous security in the final stroke. lagartijo and frascuelo accentuate an era well remembered by enthusiasts in the classic school of the _toréo_. in their day all spaniards were devoted, aye, passionate adherents of one or the other: all spain was divided into two camps, that of lagartijo and that of frascuelo. the actual supporters of the ring were probably no more numerous then than to-day; but toreadors breathed that old-fashioned atmosphere in which a love of the profession was supreme--an heroic unselfishness, personal skill, and valour were the ruling motives. pecuniary interest was a thing apart. the career of the bull-fighter to-day is absolutely wanting in such virtue. lagartijo and frascuelo staked their lives each afternoon, through a love of their art, by the impress of honest nature, perhaps by inspiration of a woman's eyes. into their calculations, ideas of lucre did not enter, money had no value. then came on the scene ( ) that bright particular star, rafael guerra (guerrita) celebrated and admired--and with justice. but his coming destroyed for ever the legend of the disinterested _toréro_. the lover of the art for its own sake was no more, guerrita was a mercenary of the first water. admittedly first of modern bull-fighters, the aspiration of his soul was the possession of bank-notes, to be the clipper of many coupons! neither passion, nor blood, nor favour of the fair inspired his sordid soul. at the supreme moment of danger, money, only money, was the motive which actuated him. in his desire for wealth, he succeeded. his unexpected retirement from the arena in the very apogee of his glory, and carrying away the accumulation of his thrift, was a shock to this warm-hearted people. every vestige of the romantic halo with which personal prowess and graceful presence had surrounded him was destroyed. guerrita as a player of bulls (_toréro_) was the first in all the history of the ring. as a "matador" also he was the most complete and certain. unlike the majority of his compeers, he was reserved in his habits, and lived apart from the bizarre and tempestuous life of the ordinary bull-fighter, with its feminine intrigues and excitements. for that reason he had many enemies amongst his set; but of his claim to be in the very first rank there has never been a question. to see guerrita wind the silken sash around his ribs of steel, as he attired himself for the arena, was a sight his patrons considered worth going many a mile to witness.[ ] since his retirement, the show has fallen greatly, in the quality of the bull-fighter. luis mazzantini created a temporary revolution in the annals of toromaquia ( ), lighting up anew the enthusiasm for the _fiesta_. he came not of the usual low, half-gipsy caste, but of the class which entitled him to the _don_ of gentle birth. don luis mazzantini, the only professional bearing such a prefix, acquired at an unusually late period of life sufficient technical knowledge of bull-fighting to embolden him to enter the lists in competition with professionals. he was thirty years of age when the heavy pay of the matador induced him to risk his life in the arena. [illustration] [illustration] whatever may be said of his failing as an artistic exponent of the art of cucháres, he killed his bulls in a resolute manner, and re-animated the interest in the _corrida_, but his example was a bad one. several men emulating his career have endeavoured to become improvised _toréros_, and, like him, to avoid the step-by-step climb to matador's rank. all have been failures. they wanted to begin where the bull-fighter of old left off. mazzantini has retired, unscathed, from his twenty years of perilous experience in the arena, and is now a civic light in the local government of the city of madrid. since guerrita, not a single matador of leading light has arisen. reverte ( ), antonio fuentes ( ), and bombita ( ) all attracted a numerous public; and after them we arrive at the lesser lights of the present day, bombita ii. and machaquito. notwithstanding its present decadence in all the most essential qualities, yet the _fiesta de toros_ is still, if not the very heartthrob of the nation, at least the single all-embracing symbol of the people's taste as distinguished from that of other lands. racing has been tried and failed; there are no teeming crowds at football, nor silent watchers on the cricket-field. _la corrida_ alone makes the spanish holiday. chapter xix the spanish fighting-bull his breeding and training the normal british idea of a bull naturally derives colour from those stolid animals one sees at home, some with a ring through the nose, and which are only kept for stud purposes, but occasionally evince a latent ferocity by goring to death some hapless herdsman. between such and the spanish _toro de plaza_ there exists no sort of analogy. the spanish fighting-bull is bred to fight, and the keen experience of centuries is brought to bear on the selection of the fittest--that, moreover, not only as regards the bulls, for the cows also are tested both for pluck and stamina before admission to the herd-register. the result, in effect, assures that an animal as fierce and formidable as the wildest african buffalo shall finally face the matador. the breeding of the fighting-bull forms in spain a rural industry as deeply studied and as keenly competitive as that of prize-cattle or derby winners in england. at the age of one year preliminary tests are made, and promising youngsters branded with the insignia of the herd. but it is the completion of the second year that marks their critical period; for then take place the trials for pluck and mettle. the brave are set aside for the plaza, the docile destroyed or gelded; while from the chosen lot a further selection is made of the sires for future years. at these two-year-old trials, or _tentaderos_, it is customary for the owner and his friends to assemble at the sequestered _rancho_--the event indeed becomes a rural fête, a bright and picturesque scene, typical of untrodden spain and of the buoyant exuberance and dare-devil spirit of her people. nowhere can the exciting scenes of the _tentadero_ be witnessed to greater advantage than on those wide level pasturages that extend from seville to the bay of cádiz. here, far out on spreading _vega_ ablaze with wild flowers, where the canicular sun flashes yet more light and fire into the fiery veins of the andaluz--here is enacted the first scene in the drama of the _toréo_. for ages these flower-strewn plains have formed the scene of countless _tentaderos_, where the young bloods of andalucia, generation after generation, rival each other in feats of derring-do, of skill, and horsemanship. the remote _estancia_ presents a scene of unwonted revelry. all night long its rude walls resound with boisterous hilarity--good-humour, gaiety, and a spice of practical joking pass away the dark hours and by daylight all are in the saddle. the young bulls have previously been herded upon that part of the estate which affords the best level ground for smart manoeuvre and fast riding, and the task of holding the impetuous beasts together is allotted to skilled herdsmen armed with long _garrochas_--four-yard lances, with blunt steel tip. all being ready, a single bull is allowed to escape across the plain. two horsemen awaiting the moment, spear in hand, give chase, one on either flank. the rider on the bull's left assists his companion by holding the animal to a straight course. presently the right-hand man, rising erect in his stirrups, plants his lance on the bull's _off-flank_, near the tail, and by one tremendous thrust, delivered at full speed, overthrows him--a feat that bespeaks a good eye, a firm seat, and a strong arm. some young bulls will take two or more falls; others, on rising, will elect to charge. the infuriated youngster finds himself faced by a second foe--a horseman armed with a more pointed lance and who has been riding close behind. this man is termed _el tentador_. straightway the bull charges, receiving on his withers the _garrocha_ point; thrown back thus and smarting under this first check to his hitherto unthwarted will, he returns to the charge with redoubled fury, but only to find the horse protected as before. the pluckier spirits will essay a third or a fourth attack, but those that freely charge _twice_ are passed as fit for the ring. should a young bull _twice_ decline to charge the _tentador_, submitting to his overthrow and only desiring to escape, he is condemned--doomed to death, or at best to a life of agricultural toil. not seldom a bull singled out from the _rodéo_ declines to escape, as expected; but, instead, charges the nearest person, on foot or mounted, whom he may chance to espy. then there is a flutter in the dovecotes! danger can only be averted by skilled riding or a cool head, since there is no shelter. spanish herdsmen, however (and amateurs besides), are adepts in the art of giving "passes" to the bull--a smart fellow, when caught thus in the open, can keep a bull off him (using his jacket only) for several moments, giving time for horsemen to come up to his rescue. even then it is no uncommon occurrence to see horseman, horse, and bull all rolling on the turf in a common ruin. seldom does it happen that one of these trial-days passes without broken bones or accidents of one kind or another. for four to five more years, the selected bulls roam at large over the richest pasturages of the wide unfrequented prairies. should pasture fail through drought or deluge, the bulls are fed on tares, vetch, or maize, even with wheat, for their début in public must be made in the highest possible condition. the bulls should then be not less than five, nor more than seven years old. the _tentadero_ at the present day brings together aristocratic gatherings that recall the tauromachian tournaments of old. skill in handling the _garrocha_ and the ability to turn-over a running bull are accomplishments held in high esteem among spanish youth. even the infantas of spain have entered into the spirit of the sport, and have been known themselves to wield a dexterous lance. at length, however, the years spent in luxurious idleness on the silent plain must come to an end. one summer morning the brave herd find grazing in their midst sundry strangers which make themselves extremely agreeable to the lordly champions, now in the zenith of magnificent strength and beauty. these strangers are the _cabrestos_ (or _cabestros_, in correct castilian), decoy-oxen sent out to fraternise for a few days with the fighting race preparatory to the _encierro_, or operation of convoying the latter to the city whereat the _corrida_ is to take place. each _cabresto_ has a cattle-bell suspended round its neck in order to accustom the wild herd to follow the lead of these base betrayers of the brave. thus the noble bulls are lured from their native plains through country tracks and bye-ways to the entrance of the fatal _toril_. [illustration: after the stroke.] an animated spectacle it is on the eve of the _corrida_ when, amidst clouds of dust and clang of bells, the tame oxen and wild bulls are driven forward by galloping horsemen and levelled _garrochas_. the excited populace, already intoxicated with bull-fever and the anticipation of the coming _corridas_, line the way to the plaza, careless if in the enthusiasm for the morrow they risk some awkward rips to-day. once inside the lofty walls of the _toril_ it is easy to withdraw the treacherous _cabestros_, and one by one to tempt the bulls each into a small separate cell, the _chiquero_, the door of which will to-morrow fall before his eyes. then, rushing upon the arena, he finds himself confronted and encircled by surging tiers of yelling humanity, while the crash of trumpets and glare of moving colours madden his brain. then the gaudy horsemen, with menacing lances, recall his day of trial on the distant plain--horsemen now doubly hateful in their brilliant glittering tinsel. what a spectacle is presented by the plaza at this moment!--one without parallel in the modern world. the vast amphitheatre, crowded to the last seat in every row and tier, is held for some seconds in breathless suspense; above, the glorious azure canopy of an andalucian summer sky; below, on the yellow arena, rushes forth the bull, fresh from his distant prairie, amazed yet undaunted by the unwonted sight and bewildering blaze of colour which surrounds him. for one brief moment the vast mass of excited humanity sits spell-bound; the clamour of myriads is stilled. then the pent-up cry bursts forth in frantic volume, for the gleaning horns have done their work, and _buen toro! buen toro!_ rings from twice ten thousand throats. we have traced in brief outline the life-history of our gallant bull; we have brought him face to face with the matador and his toledan blade--there we must leave him.[ ] in concluding this chapter, may we beg the generous reader, should he ever enter the historic precincts of the plaza, to go there with an open mind, to form his own opinion without prejudice or bias. let him remember that to untrained eyes there must ever fall unseen many of the finer "passes," much of the skilled technique and science of tauromachian art. the casual spectator necessarily loses that; he perceives no more difficulty in the perilous _suerte de vol-á-pié_ than in the simpler but more attractive _suerte de recibir_, and a hundred similar details. finally, before crystallising a judgment, critics should endeavour to see a few second-or third-rate _corridas_. it is at these that the relative values of the forces opposed--brute strength and human skill--are displayed in truer and more speaking contrast. at set bull-fights of the first-class, the latter quality is often so marked as partly to obscure the difficulties and dangers it surmounts. watch _toréros_ of finished skill and the game seems easy--as when some phenomenal batsman, well set, knocks the best bowling in england all over the field. yet that bowling, the expert knows, is not easy. nor are the bulls. at second-rate fights the forces placed face to face are more evenly balanced; and there it is often the bull that scores. the miura question a raging controversy, illuminative of tauromachia, has recently split into two camps the bull-fighting world and agitated one-half of spain. the breeding of the fighting-bull is in this country a semi-æsthetic pursuit, analogous to that of short-horns or racehorses in england, and the possession of a notable herd the ambition of many of the grandees and big landowners of spain. among the various crack herds that of don eduardo miura of sevilla had always occupied a prominent rank; while during recent years the power and dashing prowess of the _miureno_ bulls had raised that breed almost to a level apart, invested with a halo of semi-mysterious quality. captures occurred at every _corrida_; man after man had gone down before these redoubted champions, and the minds of surviving matadors--saturated one and all with gipsy-sprung superstition--began to attribute secret or supernatural powers to the dreaded herd. not a swordsman but felt unwonted qualm when meeting a _miureno_ on the sanded arena. showy players with the _capa_ and the banderillos proved capable of giving attractive exhibitions, but it was another matter when the matador stood alone, face to face with his foe. even second-class _toréros_ can, with almost any bull, show off their accomplishments in these lighter séances; but in the supreme rôle--that of killing the bull as art demands--there is no room for half-measures or deceptions. to valour, ability must be united. when those two qualities are not both coupled and balanced, then one of two things happens: either the scene becomes a dull one, a mixture of funk and feebleness made patent all round; or disaster is at hand. this one hears forecast in the strange cries of this meridional people--from all sides come the shouts of "_hule! hule!_" now _hule_ is the name of the material with which the stretchers for the killed and wounded are covered! at this period (summer of ) a combination of the bull-fighting craft attempted a boycott of the miura herd, or at least double pay for killing them. this was done secretly at first, since neither would open confession redound to the credit of the "pig-tail," nor did it promise favourable reception by the public. at this conjuncture a notable _corrida_ occurred at seville--six _miurenos_ being listed for the fight. ricardo torres (bombita ii.) despatched his first with all serenity and valour; with his second, a magnificent animal worthy of a royal pageant, he would doubtless have comported himself with equal skill but for an extraneous incident. upon rushing into the arena this bull had at once impaled a foolhardy amateur named pepín rodriguez who (quite against all recognised rule) had madly sprung into the ring. the poor fellow was borne out only in time to receive the last religious rite. at the precise moment when ricardo stepped forth to meet his foe, the murmur reached his ear--pepín was dead, and his superstitious soul sank down to zero at that whisper from without. when the critical moment arrived--the popular matador stood pale, nerveless, incapable. then the scorn of the mighty crowd burst forth in monstrous yells. ricardo torres had fallen from the pinnacle of fame to the level of a clumsy beginner. in a moment he was disgraced, his increasing reputation ruined for ever under the eyes of all the world--and that by a _miureno_ bull. from that moment the fallen star organised his colleagues in open rebellion against the victorious breed. the line of action adopted was to abuse and libel the incriminated herd. it was urged that the bulls lacked the true qualities of dash and valour and only scored by treachery; and especially insinuated that the young bulls were expressly taught at their _tentaderos_, or trials on the open plains, to discriminate between shadow and substance--in other words, to seek the man and disdain the lure--this naturally making the rôle of matador more dangerous, and double pay was demanded. to outsiders it would appear that on the day when bulls learn this, bull-fighting must cease. a storm burst that raged all winter--all classes taking part. spain was rent in twain; press and people, high and low, joined issue in this unseemly wrangle. we cannot here enter into detail of the various schemes, fair and unfair, whereby the bull-fighters' guild sought to justify their action and their demands and to prejudice the terrible _miurenos_ in the public eye. they were seconded by most professionals of renown, and soon all but seven had joined the league. but the squabble with its resultant lawsuits and sordid financial aspect finally disgusted the public. needless to add, a counter-association of bull-breeders had been forced into existence, which eventually, despite varied and particular personal interests unworthy of definition, united the opposition. oh! it was a pretty quarrel and one in its essence peculiar to spain. but it held the whole country engaged all winter in the throes of a semi-civil war! at the first _corrida_ of the following season--held at alicante january , , and graced by the presence of king alfonso xiii. in person--the public delivered their verdict, filling the plaza to overflowing, although the whole of the six champions were of the condemned miura breed and the matadors, quinito and rerre, belonged to the recalcitrant seven. the bull-fighters' guild had received a fatal blow. such was the situation, the mental equilibrium between the fiercely contending factions, as the crucial period approached--the easter _corridas_ at seville. the _impresarios_ of that function, having full grip of the circumstance, engaged matadors of minor repute--pepete, moréno de alcalá, and martin vasquez. all three, although but of second rank, were popular and regarded as coming men. flaming posters announced that six champions of the miura breed would face the swordsmen. the occasion was unique, and d. eduardo miura rose to meet it, presenting six bulls of incomparable beauty, magnificent in fine lines, in dash, brute-strength, and valour, yet utterly devoid (as the event proved) of guile or lurking treachery. such animals as these six demanded a romero, a montes, or a guerrita as equals; instead, these young _toréros_ who faced them, courageous though they were, lacked calibre for such an undertaking. this _corrida_ marked an epoch, but it acquired the proportions of a catastrophe. the bye-word that "where there are bulls there are no matadors" became that afternoon an axiom. a _gettatura_, or atmosphere of superstition, surrounded the bulls and unnerved or confounded their opponents. pepete was caught by the first bull, moréno de alcalá by the fourth, while martin vasquez (already thrice caught) succumbed to the fifth. the sixth bull thus remained unopposed champion of the plaza--not a matador survived to face him, and it became necessary to entice an unfought bull (by means of trained oxen) to quit the arena--an event unprecedented in the age-long annals of tauromachy! a typical incident, trivial by comparison, intervened. a youthful spectator, frenzied to madness by the scene, had seized a sword, leapt into the ring, and ... promptly met his death. * * * * * every contention of the bull-fighters' guild had been falsified, and the association collapsed. a sevillian paper summed up the event thus:-- the six bulls were each worthy to figure in toromaquian annals for their beautiful stamp, their lines, weight, bravery, and caste. we witnessed a tragedy when, on the death of the fifth bull, not a matador remained. but had that tragedy been caused by malice, wickedness, or treachery on the part of the bulls, surely a declaration of martial law in this city would have been demanded by not a few! but that was not so; each of the six competed in the qualities of bravery, nobility, and adaptability--such bulls are worthy of better swordsmen. chapter xx sierra de grÉdos we met, our trio, on the platform of charing cross--not classic but perhaps historic ground, since so many notable expeditions have started therefrom, with others of less importance. the heat in madrid towards the end of august ( ) was not excessive--less than we had feared. we enjoyed, that sunday, quite an excellent bull-fight, although the bulls themselves had been advertised as of "only one horn" apiece (_de un cuerno_). there was no sign, however, of any cornual deficiency as each magnificent animal dashed into the arena, although with binoculars one could detect a slight splintering of one horn-point, a defect which had caused the rejection of that animal from the herd-list. for these bulls were, in fact, of notable blood--that of ybarra of sevillian _vegas_--and none bearing that name appear in first-class _corridas_ save absolutely perfect and unblemished. the point illustrates the keen appreciation of quality in the fighting-bull, which in spain goes without saying, yet may well deceive the casual stranger. thus an american party who breakfasted with us (always keen to get the best, but not always knowing where to find it) despised the "unicorns" and reserved themselves instead for the opera. we enjoyed an excellent fight with dashing bulls--two clearing the barrier and causing a fine stampede among the military, the police, and crowds of itinerant fruit-and water-sellers who occupy the _entre-barreras_. these "unicorns" proved really better bulls than at many of the formal _corridas_. three young and rising matadors despatched the animals--two each. they were galindo, gavira, and parrao--both the latter excellent. gavira looked as if he might take first rank in his order, while parrao displayed a coolness in the _lidia_ such as we had seldom before seen--even to stroking the bull's nose--while in the final scene he went in to such close quarters, "passing" the animal at half arm's-length, that the whole , in the plaza held their breath. parrao will become a first-flighter, unless he is caught, which certainly seems the more natural event. that evening we were hospitably entertained at the british embassy, where our host, the chargé d'affaires, regretted that the short fourteen-days' ortolan season had just that morning expired. thus, quite unconsciously, was an ornithological fact elucidated. next morning we were away by an early train, and after five hours' journey joined our staff, as prearranged. but here we committed the mistake of quartering in a country-town on the banks of the tagus, instead of encamping in the open country outside. bitterly did we regret having allowed ourselves to be thus persuaded. long summer heats and parching drought had destroyed what primitive system of natural drainage may have existed in talavera de la reina and produced conditions that we revolt from describing. oh! those foul effluvia amidst which men live, and feed, and sleep! with intense delight, but splitting headaches, we left the plague-spot at earliest dawn and set out for the mountain-land. for thirty odd miles our route traversed a highland plateau; a group of five great bustard, gasping in the noon-day heat, lay asleep so near the track that we tried a shot with ball. farther north, near medina del campo, we had also observed these grand game-birds feeding on the ripening grapes in the vineyards. packs of sand-grouse (_pterocles arenarius_) with musical croak flew close around. spanish azure magpies abounded wherever our route passed through wooded stretches, and we also observed doves, bee-eaters, stonechats, crested and calandra larks, ravens, and over some cork-oaks wheeled a serpent-eagle showing very white below. towards evening the track began to ascend through the lower defiles of the great cordillera that now pierced the heavens ahead. presently we entered pinewoods, resonant at dusk with the raucous voices of millions of wingless grasshoppers or locusts (we know not their precise name) that live high up in pines. never before had we heard such strident voice in an insect. at feet we encamped beneath the pines by a lovely trout-stream. this was the rendezvous whereat by arrangement we met with our old friends the ibex-hunters of almanzór--savage perhaps to the eye, yet beyond all doubt radiantly glad to welcome back the foreigners after a lapse of years. no mere greed of dollars inspired that enthusiasm, but solely the bond of a common passion that bound us all--that of the hunter. it was, however, but sorry hearing to listen to the reports they told us around the camp-fire. everywhere the ibex were yearly growing scarcer, dwindling to an inevitable vanishing-point, former haunts already abandoned--or, we should rather say, swept clean. where but a score of years before, ibex had been counted in a single _montería_, our friends reckoned that exactly a dozen survived. one remark especially struck us. "there remained," with glee our friends assured us, "one magnificent old goat, a ram of twelve years, out there on the crags of almanzór." _one!_ to _one_ sole big head had it dwindled? [illustration: "minor game"] the valley of the tagus divides two geological periods, and perhaps at one time divided europe from a retiring africa. marked differences distinguish the fauna on either side of the river, and that of the north (with its , feet altitude) promised reward worthy the labours of investigation. not a yard of that great mountain-land of grédos has been trodden by british foot (save our own) since the days of wellington. hence it was an object with us to secure, not only ibex heads, but specimens of the smaller mammalia that dwell in those heights. our mountain friends assembled round the camp-fire--twenty-five in all--each promised to take up this unaccustomed quest and to regard as game every hitherto unconsidered _bicho_ of the hills, whether feathered, furred, or scaled. if ibex failed us, at least a harvest in such minor game we meant to assure.[ ] three o'clock saw us astir, bathing in the dark burn while moonlight still streamed through sombre pines. camp meanwhile was broken up; tents and gear packed on ponies and mules, breakfast finished--we were off, heavenwards. then, just as the laden pack-animals filed through the burn, there rode up a man--he had ridden all night--and bore a message that changed our exuberant joy to grief--bad news from home. there could be no doubt--the writer must return at once. within five minutes i had decided to make for a point on the northern railway beyond the hills and distant some sixty miles as the crow flies. baggage and battery were abandoned; a handbag with a satchel of provisions and a wine-skin formed my luggage, and, leaving my companions in this wild spot, i set forth in the grey dawn on a barebacked mule devoid of saddle, bridle, or stirrups, and accompanied by two of our hill-bred lads, one riding pillion behind or running alongside in turn. where the grey ramparts of the risco del fraile and the casquerázo frown on a rugged earth below i parted with my old pals, they to continue the ibex-hunt, i on my mournful homeward way. bee-eaters poised and chattered, brilliant butterflies (whose names i forgot to note), abounded as we rode along those fearful edges and boulder-studded steeps. six hours of this brought us to a rock-poised hamlet of the sierra. the landlord of the _posada_ was also the _alcalde_ (mayor) of the district, and even then presiding over a meeting of the council (_ayuntamiento_). amidst dogs, children, fleas, and dirt, along with my two goat-herd friends, we made breakfast. thence over the main pass of navasomera--no road, not the vestige of a track, and a tremendous ravine stopped us for hours, and for a time threatened to prove impassable. by patience and recklessness we lowered mule and ourselves down scrub-choked screes, and after some of the roughest work of my life gained a goat-herd's track which led upwards to the pass. after clearing the reverse slope we traversed for twenty miles a dreary upland ( feet) till we struck the head-waters of the albirche river, where my lads tickled half-a-dozen trout and a _frog_! kites beat along the stony hills, where wheatears and stonechats fluttered incessant, with dippers and sandpipers on the burn below. we halted at a lonely _venta_ (wayside wine-shop), where assembled goat-herds courteously made room, and passed me their wine-skin. presently one of them asked whither i went, remarking, "your excellency is clearly not of this province." three or four skinny rabbits hung on the wall, and the landlord, after inquiring what his excellency would eat, assured me he had plenty of everything, was yet so strong in his commendation of _rabbit_ that i knew those wretched beasties were the only food in the place. presently with my two lads, and surrounded by mules, cats, dogs, poultry, wasps, and fleas, we sat down to dine on trout, rabbits-_á-pimiento_, and _chorizo_ (forty horse-power sausage). i believe my boys also ate the frog! two hours after dark we were still dragging along the upland, while the outlines of the jagged cordillera behind had faded in gathering night. i could scarce have sat much longer on that bony saddleless mule when a light was descried far below, and, on learning that we were still twenty miles from our destination, i decided to put up for the night at that little _venta_ of almenge, sleeping on bare earth alongside my boys, and close by the heels of our own and sundry other mules. [illustration] at breakfast there sat down, besides ourselves and hostess, sundry muleteers, all sympathetic and commiserate since my mission had become known. i was hurrying homewards to distant inglaterra--so juanito had explained--because my brother was _poco bueno_--not very well. the hostess looked hard, and said, "señor, it must be _muy grave_ (very serious), or they would not have telegraphed for the _caballero_ to return." many more hours of tedious mule-riding followed ere at last from lowering spurs we could see the end of the hills and the white track winding away till lost to view across the plain below. here in the highest growth of trees were grey shrikes (_lanius meridionalis_), adults and young, besides missel-thrushes, turtle-doves, etc. on the level corn-lands below, which we now traversed for miles, we observed bustards (these, we were told, retired to lower levels in september)--nothing else beyond the usual larks and kestrels common to all spain. [illustration: scenes in sierra de grÉdos. morezÓn. cuchillar de navÁjas. almanzÓr. the circo de grÉdos. laguna de grÉdos. a bird's-eye view--shows the ameÁl and cuchillar del guetre.] looking south across laguna. hermanitos-- casquerÁzo.] it was past noon ere the long ride was completed, and we entered the ancient city that boasts bygone glories, splendid temples, and memories of mediæval magnificence, but which is now ... well, avila. but one feature of avila demands passing note--its massive walls, withstanding the centuries, full forty feet in height by fifteen feet broad. an hour later the sûd-express dashed up whistling into the station, to the genuine alarm of my leather-clad mountain-lads, who recoiled in fear from an unwonted sight. they, noticing that the officials of the train also spoke a foreign tongue (french), asked me if such things (_i.e._ railway trains) were "only for your excellencies"--meaning for foreigners, _vos-otros_. at paris a reassuring telegram filled me with joy indescribable, but in london and at york further messages intensified anxiety. on august i reached home, and on the evening of september doubts were resolved, and the silver cord was loosed. * * * * * the plaza de almanzór, with its immediate environment, presents a panorama of mountain-scenery unrivalled, not only in the whole cordillera of grédos, but probably in all spain--it may be questioned if the world itself contains a more striking landscape than that known as the "circo de grédos." briefly put, a vast central amphitheatre of rock--really four-square (though known as the "circo") in the depths of which nestle an alpine lake--is enclosed by stupendous rock-walls and precipices of granite; some of these smooth and sheer, others rugged and disintegrated or broken up by snow-filled gorges of intricacies that defy the power of pen to describe. three of these vast mural ramparts stand almost rectangular, the fourth shoots out obliquely, traversing the abysmal _enclave_ and all but closing the fourth side of its quadrilateral. the rough sketch-map at p. shows the configuration better than written words, while the photos convey, so far as such can, some idea of the scenery.[ ] the actual peak of almanzór which dominates the whole "circo," as viewed from the north, culminates in a flattened cone, the summit being split into two huge rock-needles or pinnacles separated by an unfathomed fissure between. only one of these needles--and that the lower--has yet been scaled. the loftier of the pair, though it only surpasses its fellow by a few yards in height, is so sheer, its surface so devoid of crevice or hand-hold, that the ascent (without ropes and other appliances) appears quite impracticable. will the reader seat himself in imagination at the spot marked (*) on the map. surveying the scene from this point, the whole opposite horizon is filled by the altos de morezón--a jagged and turreted escarpment pierces the sky, while its frowning walls dip down, down in endless precipices to the inky-black waters of the laguna far below. towards the left one's view is interrupted by an extraordinary mass of upstanding granite, disintegrated and blackened by the ages, known as the ameál de pablo--in itself a virgin mountain, as yet untrodden by human foot. this colossus, glittering with snow-striæ, surmounts the oblique ridge aforesaid, that of the cuchillar del guetre, which traverses two-thirds of the "circo," leaving but a narrow gap between its own extremity and the opposite heights of morezón. continuing towards the right, there rises to yet loftier altitudes the black contour of the risco del fraile, beloved of ibex; while adjacent on the north-west, but on slightly lower level, uprear from the snow-flecked skyline three more unscaled masses--rectangular monoliths like giant landmarks. this trio is distinguished as los hermanitos de grédos, their abruptness of outline almost appalling as set off by an azure background. farther to the right (in the angle of the square) two more mountain-masses--knife-edged, jagged, and embattled along the crests--frown upon one another across a gorge rent through their very bowels. these two are the alto del casquerázo and the cuchillar de las navájas, while the interposed abyss--the portilla de los machos--cuts clean through the great cordillera, forming a natural gateway between its northern and its southern faces. as the name implies, this gorge is the main route of the ibex from their much-loved riscos del fraile to their second chief resort, the riscos del francés, which occupy the southern face of the sierra whose snowfields defy even the heats of august. from our present standpoint the southern wall of the circo--the cuchillar de las navájas--is not visible. this section of the quadrilateral is equally abrupt and intricate, dropping in massive bastions towards the level of the lake. just beyond the plaza de almanzór a second deep gorge or "pass"--the portilla bermeja--unites the northern and the southern faces. behind where we sit lies yet another panorama of terrible wildness, again dominated by rock-walls of fantastic contour--the valley of las cinco lagunas. but right here our rock-descriptive powers give out--we can only refer to the map. [illustration: griffon vulture and nest] chapter xxi sierra de grÉdos (_continued_) ibex-hunting why try to describe the distress of that morning or the efforts it cost, during fourteen hours, to gain the summits of grédos? again and again what we had taken for our destination proved to be some intervening ridge with another desperate gorge beyond. suffice it that it was an hour after dark ere we finally lifted the cargoes from the dead-beat beasts. presently the moon arose, and against her pale effulgence towered the gnarled and pinnacled peaks of almanzór, piercing the very skies--a lovely but to me an appalling scene. their altitude is feet. our whole plan and ambitions in this expedition were to find and stalk the ibex--the very undertaking which had proved beyond our powers during two strenuous efforts in former years as readers of _wild spain_ already know. now in all stalking it must be obvious even to non-technical readers that the first essential is to bring under survey of the binoculars a very considerable extent of game-country every day; but here, in the chaotic jumble of perpendicular or impending precipice or smooth rock-faces inclined at angles that we dare not traverse, any such extensive survey is a sheer impossibility. alpine climbers or others in the fullest enjoyment of youth and activity might get forward at a reasonable speed. to us, already past that stage, the feat was impossible, _i.e._ by our own sole exertions. that we, of course, knew in advance; but our plan was to supplement our own powers by availing the splendid rock-climbing abilities of our friends, the goat-herds of almanzór, on whom we relied for at least finding the game in the first instance. [illustration: "at the apex off all the spains." (ibex on the plaza de almanzÓr.)] ramón and isidóro were away by the first glint of dawn, disappearing in opposite directions so as to encompass both the surrounding rock-ranges and to mark ibex in stalkable positions. we awaited their return in camp, not only with anxiety, but with some impatience, since the temperature had fallen so low that no wraps or blankets served to keep us warm while inactive. after a fruitless search of four hours, the scouts returned; no better results attended a second morning and a third--nor our impatience. clearly the second resource, that of "driving," must now be tried. it was only ten o'clock that third morning, and already the drivers, who had left at dawn so as to reach agreed positions in case of the failure of resource no. , would be approaching the fixed points four miles away on the encircling heights, whereat, by signal, they would know whether to proceed with the "drive" or to return by the circuitous route they had gone. meanwhile we have ourselves to reach the "passes" in the heights above, and the scramble and struggle which that ascent involved we must leave readers to imagine. bertram gets through such work fairly well, but the writer, a generation older, is fain to choose a lower place, reputed a likely "pass." here, after waiting an hour, we descried the drivers showing-up at different points of those encircling riscos de morezón, climbing like flies down perpendicular faces, disappearing in gorges, and doing all that specialised hunters can. but not an ibex came our way. when we reassembled, it proved that three goats had been seen, one a ram. thus ended that day--cruel work amidst lovely though terrible scenery--and never a wild-goat within our sight. on the morrow our selected positions were to be yet nearer the heavens above than those of yesterday--along the highest skylines of grédos, between the plaza de almanzór and the ameál. from our camp my own post was pointed out, a niche in that far-away impossible ridge. how long, i asked ramón, do you imagine it will take me to reach it? our friends, who, lean and lythe of frame, a specialised race of mountaineers, mock mountain-heights and appreciate too little (though they recognise) our relative weakness, reply, "two hours." but at that precise moment, while i yet scanned with binoculars the scene of this supreme effort, examining in a species of horror that infinity of piled rock-masses, their details cruelly developed in a blazing sunlight, just then, across the field of the glass soared a single lammergeyer. now i know that these giant birds-of-prey span some ten feet from wing to wing, and the tiny speck that this one, reduced by distance, appeared on the object-glass helped me to gauge what lay before us. a black point that from camp i had mentally noted as a landmark proved to be a mass of dolomite seamed with interjected striæ of glistening felspar, big as a village church! [illustration: "the way of an eagle in the air" (lammergeyer--_gypaëtus barbatus_)] i had demanded four hours, and precisely within that period reached my celestial pinnacle. bertram was beyond and higher still--where, i could not see. but my own post seemed to me as sublime as even an ibex-hunter could desire, at the culminating apex of the spains and the centre of dispersal of four giant gorges each bristling with bewildering chaos of crags and rock-ruin, while above, to right and left, towered yet loftier _riscos_. at these serene altitudes life appeared non-existent. the last signs of a cryptogamic vegetation we had left below, and i could now see eagles or vultures soaring almost perpendicularly beneath and reduced by distance to moving specks. yet shortly before reaching our posts, along one of those awesome shelves with a -feet drop below, a touch from ramón drew my attention to a truly magnificent old ibex-ram in full view, quietly skipping from crag to crag some yards above. so slow and deliberate were his movements, with frequent halts to gaze, that time was allowed to gain a rational position and to enjoy for several minutes a glorious view through binoculars. twice he halted in front of small snow-slopes, against which those curving horns were set off in perfect detail. then with measured movements, making good each foot-hold, alternated by marvellous bounds to some rock-point above, the grand wild-goat vanished from view. his course led into a rock-region that already our drivers were encompassing, hence we had strong hopes that we might not have seen the last of him. two herds of ibex, it transpired, were enclosed in this beat; one comprising nine females and small beasts, the second two with a two-year-old ram; but our big friend was seen no more. i had, however, enjoyed a scene that went far to compensate for the tribulations it had cost. late that night the two lads who had accompanied a. returned to camp. after riding fifteen hours on wednesday, he could do no more, slept at a _venta_, and reached avila (which he considers twenty leagues from ornillos, the spot where he left us) at noon on thursday, where he caught the sûd-express, and to-night will be in paris. he sent us a few pencilled words, urging us to utmost endeavours with the wild-goats, as this will be in all probability our _last chance_. i agree, for the natives kill off male and female alike, only a few wily old rams remain, a mere fraction of the stock which formerly existed. the shepherds who come to these high tops to pasture their herds for a few weeks each summer have chances to kill the ibex which they do not neglect. when don manuel silvela, the statesman, was here twenty years ago, some ibex were driven past his post above the laguna de grédos. not a quarter of that number now survive in all the range. _august ._--everything outside the tents was frozen solid last night, but with sunrise the temperature goes up with a bound. we had trout for breakfast, caught by hand from the burn below. to-day the work was easier, for the two beats were both small and more or less on the same level as our camp. the first lasted five hours, but gave no result. we then moved to the west, always rising till we found ourselves on the summit of another ridge looking down into a mighty gorge and upon the mysterious rock-cradled cinco lagunas de grédos. the plains of castile lay beneath us like a map, towns and villages distinguishable through the glass though not without. bertram was placed in a "pass," about yards wide, piercing the topmost peaks, myself in a similar _portilla_ rather lower down. an hour later dionýsio, who had climbed the crag above me, whence he could see into the abyss beneath, signalled as he hung over the edge of his eyrie that something was coming. then he slid down to my side to tell me that three goats were moving slowly up the gorge. dionýsio returned to his ledge, and for half an hour i enjoyed that state of breathless suspense when one expects each moment to be face to face with a coveted trophy. the three goats, i perceived, must pass through this _portilla_ on one side or the other of the rock behind which i lay expectant. at last there caught my ear the gentle patter of horned hoofs on rocks, but oh!... it was succeeded by the bang of a gun. dionýsio had fired from his ledge twenty yards above me. the three ibex had come on to within ten yards of where i lay, looking, as it were, down a tunnel. the wind had been right enough, but it appeared an erratic puff had elected to blow straight from us to them. they caught it, and in a flash disappeared down the ravine, dionýsio, as he hung from the ledge, giving them a parting shot. that was friend dionýsio's version of the event. what actually occurred, all who are experienced in this wild-hunting will divine without our telling. i ran from my post along the lip of the abyss--luckily there was a bit of fairly good going--hoping to get a chance as the game turned upwards again; for at once, on hearing a shot, the beaters far below joined in a chorus of wild yells to push them upwards. this they succeeded in doing, but the goats passed beyond my range. i now saw there were four in all--three females and a handsome ram. dionýsio made a further effort to turn them, which so far succeeded that the ram separated and bounded up the rocks towards the higher pass, where he ran the gauntlet of bertram within thirty yards. now the whole stress and burden of a laborious expedition fell upon the youngest shoulders, for b. was barely out of his teens, and more skilled with shot-gun than with ball. the responsibility proved almost too great--almost, but not quite; for one bullet had taken effect, and the rocks beyond the little "pass" were sprinkled with blood. the late hour, p.m., and the long scramble campwards forbade our following the spoor that night, but the ram was recovered some two miles beyond the point where we had last seen him--horn measurements - / inches, by - / inches basal circumference. [illustration: two spanish ibex shot in sierra de grÉdos, july, . marquÉs de villaviciosa de astereas. marquÉs de viana. two spanish ibex shot in sierra de grÉdos, july, .] the beaters reported having seen several ibex during this drive, two small rams, females, and kids--thirteen in all. we devoted a couple more days to this section of the sierra, but both proved unsuccessful so far as regards the one grand ibex-ram which we had seen. here, on the riscos del fraile, and later on at villarejo, we each spared small beasts; but at last were fain to be content with a three-year-old goat, whose head adorns our walls. before daylight we were aroused by the breaking-up of camp, and by seven o'clock had taken a downward course from that lofty eyrie which we had occupied for ten days. it was a lovely ride with bright sunlight lighting up every detail of the mountain scenery, while every mile brought evidence of the lowering altitude--first, in green herbage, then in brushwood and stunted trees, till at mid-day we reached the region of pines in the cool valley of the river tormes. here we halted, and while lunch was being prepared, enjoyed a swim in those crystal torrents. that afternoon was devoted to trout, but with meagre results. the stream gleamed like polished steel, everything that moved in the waters could be seen, and doubtless its denizens enjoyed a similar advantage as regards things in the other element. at any rate, none save the smaller trout would look at a fly; so we continued our journey, following the river-side in the direction of the mountains of villarejo. dionýsio and caraballo had gone to a hamlet lower down for bread and wine. there was no bread, and having to wait till it was baked, delayed the march. meanwhile, we wandered on through pine-woods with the beautiful stream fretting and foaming, and collecting a few bird-specimens, though none of much interest. we did, however, come across two gigantic nests of the black vulture, flat platforms of sticks, each superimposed on the summit of a lofty pine. even in these uplands the black vulture nests in march, when the whole land is yet enveloped in snow, and while frequent snowstorms sweep down the valleys. so closely does the parent vulture incubate, that she allows herself to be completely buried on her nest beneath the drifting snow. on these hanging steeps the eyries are overlooked from above, yet not a vestige of the sitting vulture can be seen until she is disturbed by a blow from an axe on the trunk, or by a shot fired--then off she goes, dislodging a cloud of snow from her three-yard wings as she launches into space. [illustration: black vulture (_vultur monachus_)] the black vulture lays but one huge egg, often boldly marked and suffused with dark-brown and rusty blotches and splashes, in contrast with the eggs of the griffon vulture, which are usually colourless or, at most, but faintly shaded. the latter, so abundant in andalucia, is remarkably scarce in grédos, where we saw rather more eagles than vultures. the chief bird-forms of the high sierra were ravens and choughs, ring-ouzels, rock-thrush and black-chat (_dromolaea leucura_). the alpine accentor (_accentor collaris_) and alpine pipit (_anthus spipoletta_) also reach to the highest summits; the blue thrush lower down. in the valley of the tormes and among the pines many british species were at home, such as blackbirds and thrushes, redstarts, nuthatches, and dartford warblers; besides the two southern wheatears, since found to be but _one_ dimorphic form! the riscos de villarejo three hours later the mule-train overtook us, and we pursued the track upwards towards the riscos de villarejo till darkness obliged us to encamp. the jagged outline ahead, marking our destination, looked far away; we could go no nearer to-night, and outspanned on a tiny lawn on the mountain-slope. once more we had left tree and shrub far below, but the dry _piorno_-scrub made fire enough to cook a frugal supper. the hunters, with their stew-pots balanced on stones, sat round us in a circle. next morning we were alert, as usual, before the dawn--called at a.m.--and off again on another terrible climb towards the summits. it is no mild trudge through turnips this st of september, but one more effort to interview in his haunts the spanish mountain-ram. at feet we reached a point beyond which no domestic beast can go. here, leaving our own men to encamp, the upward climb with the hunters begins. this day and each of the two following were devoted solely to stalking, each of us separately with his guide taking a diverging course along two of the lower ridges of the sierra. two female ibex were descried in a position which might without difficulty have been stalked. these, however, we left in peace; though, as it proved, they were the only animals seen before we regained camp, an hour after dark, tired out and empty-handed once more. on the fourth day we drove this same rock-region, but without success, only two goats, both small males, being seen. the entire failure of this venture was a disappointment, as ibex were known to frequent these reefs. an explanation was suggested that a herd of domestic goats had approached too near their exclusive wild congeners, which had fled to a neighbouring mountain. that mountain, we arranged, should be explored at daylight on the morrow by two of our hunters. the cold at night in camp was intense, and our andalucian retainers complained bitterly, although they kept an enormous fire going; yet during the day the heat had been excessive, and the sun burns terribly at these altitudes. the following morning we tried a comprehensive drive encompassing two gorges composed of sublimely grand rocks. as i look over the edge of the black pinnacle that forms my post the sheer drop below is appalling, and above me tower similar masses in rugged and frowning splendour. but not a goat was seen till quite late in the afternoon, when two females slowly approaching were descried. for a mile we watched them, so deliberate was their progress, till they disappeared through the very "pass" where a. had shot his some five years before. _september ._--our scouts returned last night, having failed to locate ibex on the opposite mountain; so we made a final effort on the riscos of villarejo--again blank. well! we have done our best for six days on those terrible rocks, on which we must now turn our backs for the present. at the village of arénas de san pedro we bade good-bye to all our people; even their wives (clad in the same short skirts of greens and other brilliant hues we had noticed in ' , for fashions change slowly in the sierra) came down from guisando to say farewell to the ingléses. here ramón brought in the head of bertie's ibex shot the week before; ramón presented me with his powder-horn and bullet-pouch as a keepsake, and juanito with a mountain-staff. our visit had marked an epoch in the simple annals of the sierra and of its honest and primitive inhabitants. * * * * * to-day we rejoice to add that, as already fully set forth at pp. - , wild-goats may be counted in troops on the erewhiles ibex-denuded crags of almanzór. chapter xxii an abandoned province (estremadura) can this really be europe--crowded europe? for four long days we have traversed estremenian wilds, and during that time have scarce met a score of folk, nor seen serious evidence of effective human occupation. at first our northward way led through rolling undulations, the western foothills of the long sierra moréna, clad with the everlasting gum-cistus, with euonymus, a few stunted trees, and the usual aromatic brushwood of the south. only at long intervals--say a league or two apart--would some tiny cot, of woodcutter perhaps, or goat-herd, gleam white amidst the rolling green monotone. here and there wild-thyme (_cantuéso_) empurpled the slopes as it were august heather, but the chief beauty-spot was the rose-like flower of the cistus, now (may) in fullest bloom--waxy white, with orange centre and a splash like black velvet on each petal. next, for a whole day we ride through open forest of evergreen oak and wild-olive, the floor carpeted with tasselled grasses, tufty broom, and fennel. we encamp where we list and cut firewood, none saying us nay or inquiring by what authority we do these things. one evening while we investigated an azure magpie's nest in an ilex hard by the tents, four donkey-borne peasants appeared. though they rode close by, yet they showed no sign, passing silent and incurious. the few natives we met hereabouts all seemed listless, apathetic, uncommunicative, in striking contrast with their sprightly southern neighbours beyond the hills in andalucia. we read that estremadura is a "paludic" province and unhealthy; possibly the malarial microbe has sapped energy. to forest, next day succeeded more rolling hills with ten-foot bush and scattered trees. from a crag-crowned ridge, the culminating point of these, there fell within view three human habitations--_three_, in a vista of thirty miles--two tall castles perched in strong places, the third apparently a considerable farm. the landscape is often lovely enough, park-like, with infinite sites for country halls; yet all, all seems abandoned by man and beast. the few wild creatures observed included common and azure magpies, hoopoes, and bee-eaters, rollers, doves, kestrels, with a sprinkling of partridge and an occasional hare. a landowner in this province (badajoz) endeavoured to preserve the game on his estate. at first all went well. as their enemies decreased, partridge rapidly multiplied. but thereupon occurred an influx of extraneous vermin (foxes and wild-cats) from adjacent wilds, and nature restored her former exiguous balance of life. [illustration: roller (_coracias garrula_)] the scene changes. for the next twenty miles there is not a tree or a bush, hardly a living thing on those dreary levels save larks and bustards. the hungry earth shows brown and naked through its scanty herbage, stript by devouring locusts. travelling by rail the abandonment seems yet more striking, since thus we cover more ground. true, along the line cluster some slight attempts at cultivation elsewhere absent; but these amount to nothing--a few patches of starveling oats, six to eighteen inches high, with scarce a score of blades to the yard! two men are reaping with sickles. each has his donkey tethered hard by, and at nightfall will ride to his distant village, a league away maybe, hidden in some unnoticed hollow. scarce a village have we seen. the monotony wearies. the abject barrenness of estremadura, its lifelessness, is actually worse, more pronounced and depressing, than we had anticipated. now the far horizon on the north bristles with battlements, towers, and spires--that is trujillo, an old-world fortress of the caesars, crowning a granite koppie in yon everlasting plain. the ten leagues that yet intervene recall, in colour and contour, a mid-northumbrian moor, wild and bleak--here the home of bustards, stone-curlew, sand-grouse, ... and of locusts. from the topmost turrets of trujillo let us take one more survey of this estremenian wilderness ere yet we pronounce a final judgment. [illustration: trujillo] ascend the belfry of santa maria la mayor and you command an unrivalled view. spread out beneath your gaze stretch away tawny expanses of waste and veld to a radius averaging forty miles, and everywhere girt-in by encircling mountains. to the north grédos' snowy peaks pierce the clouds, kilometres away, with the sierra de gata on their left, bejar on the right. to the eastward the sierra de guadalupe,[ ] far-famed for its shrine to our lady of that ilk, closes that horizon; while to westward the ranges of sta. cruz and montánches shut in the frontier of portugal. what a panorama--a circle eighty miles across! yet in all that expanse you can detect no more evidence of human presence than you would see in equatorial africa--surveying, let us say, the well-known athi plains from the adjoining heights of lukénia. we are aware that already, in describing la mancha, we have employed an african simile; but here, in estremadura, the comparison is yet more apposite and forceful than in the wildest of don quixote's country. we will vary it by likening estremadura rather to the highlands of transvaal--the land of the back-veld boer--than to equatoria. here, as there, rocky koppies stud the wastes, and (differing from la mancha) water-courses traverse them, with intermittent pools surviving even in june, stagnant and pestilent. such in africa would be jungle-fringed--worth trying for a lion! here their naked banks scarce provide covert for a hare. [illustration: "scavengers"] an index of the poverty-stricken condition of estremadura is afforded by the comparative absence of the birds-of-prey. never do the soaring vultures--elsewhere so characteristic of spanish skies--catch one's eye, and very rarely an eagle or buzzard. a province that cannot support scavengers promises ill for mankind. in his mirror-like "notes from spain," richard ford suggested that the vast unknown wildernesses of estremadura would, if explored, yield store of wealth to the naturalist, and each succeeding naturalist (ourselves included) followed that clue. therein, however, lurked that old human error, _ignotum pro mirabili_. deserted by man, the region is equally avoided by bird and beast. we write generally and in full sense of local exceptions--that wild fallow-deer, for example, find here one, possibly their only european home;[ ] that red deer of superb dimensions, roe, wolves, and wild-boars abound on estremenian sierra and _vega_. then, too, there may well be isolated spots of interest in , square miles, but which escaped our survey. yet what we write represents the essential fact--estremadura is a barren lifeless wilderness and offers no more attraction to naturalist than to agriculturist. the cause of all this involves questions not easily answered. in earlier days the case may have been different. obviously the romans thought highly of estremadura and meant to run it for all it was worth. the caesars were no visionaries, and such colossal works as their reservoirs and aqueducts at merida, the massive amphitheatre and circus at the same city (a half-completed bull-ring stands alongside in pitiful contrast), besides their construction of a first-class fortress at trujillo, all attest a matured judgment. after the romans came the goths, and they, too, have left evidence of appreciation (though less conspicuous) alike in city and country. four hundred years later the arabs overthrew the goths on guadalete (a.d. ), and within two years had overrun two-thirds of spain. but the moor (so far as we can see) despised these barren uplands, or perhaps assessed them at a truer value--a single strong outpost (trujillo) in an otherwise worthless region. much or little, however, each of those successive conquerors found _some_ use for estremadura. a totally different era opened with the fall of moslem dominion. after the _reconquista_ and subsequent extermination of the moors (seventeenth century), estremadura was utterly abandoned, by cross and crescent alike, till the highland shepherds of the castiles and of león, looking down from its northern frontier, saw in these lower-lying wastes a useful winter-grazing. then commenced seasonal nomadic incursions thereto, pastoral tribes driving down each autumn their flocks and herds, much as the patriarchs did in biblical days--or the masai in east africa till yesterday. though the land itself was ownerless, shadowy prescriptive rights gradually evolved, and under the title of _mestas_ continued to be recognised by the pastoral nomads till abolished by royal decree in the sixteenth century. from that date commenced the subdivision of estremadura into the present large private estates--again recalling the back-veld boers, who hate to live one within sight of another, except that here owners are non-resident. all this may explain superficially the existing desolation. the essential causes, however, are, we believe, ( ) barrenness of soil; and ( ) an enervating climate, fever-infected by stagnant waters, dead pools, and ubiquitous shallow swamps that poison the air and produce mosquitoes in millions. gazing in reflective mood upon those magnificent memorials of roman rule at merida, one is tempted to wonder whether, after all, the silent ruins (with a stork's nest on each parapet) do not yet point the true way to estremenian prosperity--irrigation (plus energy--a quality one misses in estremadura). trujillo founded years back (by augustus caesar), this out-of-the-world city has a knack of periodically dropping out of history--skipping a few centuries at a time--meanwhile presumably dragging on its own dreamy unrecorded existence, "by the world forgot," till some fresh incident forces it on the stage once more. there were stirring times here while, for near a thousand years, the upland vegas were swept and ravaged by three successive waves of foreign invasion. then trujillo relapsed into trance, skipped the middle ages, and awoke to find at its gates another foreign foe--this time the french. and the city reflects these vicissitudes. the roman fortress, magnificent in extent and military strength, completely covers the rugged granite heights, imposing still in crumbling ruin. forty-foot ramparts with inner and outer defences, bastions and flanking towers, machicolated and pierced for arrow fire, crown the whole circuit of the koppie. signs of ancient grandeur everywhere meet one's eye; but contrasts pain at every turn. for filthy swine to-day defile palaces; donkeys are stalled in sculptured _patios_ whence armoured knight on arab steed once rode forth to clatter along the stone-paved ravelins that led to the point of danger. from mullioned embrasures above, whence the euterpes and lalagés of old waved tender adieux, now peer slatternly peasants; crumbling battlements form homes for white owls and bats, kestrels, hoopoes, and a multitude of storks such as can nowhere else be seen congregated in a single city. the sense of desolation is accentuated by finding such feathered recluses as blue rock-thrush and blackchat actually nesting in the very citadel itself. the citadel marks the era of war. the goths followed and despised fortifications. their ornate palaces, enriched with escutcheons and sculptured device, lie below, outside the roman walls. after the goths and after the moors, trujillo enjoyed a transient awakening when pizarro, son of an estremenian swine-herd, with cortez (also born hard by), swept the new world from mexico to the andes, and the glory of her sons, with the gold of the incas, poured into the city. thereafter destiny altered. instead of consolidating new-won dominions by fostering commerce, exploiting their resources by establishing forts and factories, plantations, harbours, and the like, spain directed her energies to missionising. instead of commercial companies with fleets of merchantmen, she sent out sacred brotherhoods, friars of religious orders, and studded the new world with empty names, all acts right enough and laudable in their own proper time and place. * * * * * trujillo boasts an industry in the manufacture of a rough red-brown earthenware, chiefly tall water-jars, amphora-shaped, which damsels carry upright on their heads with marvellous balance; and iron-spiked dog-collars as here represented. these are not suitable for lap-dogs, but for the huge mastiffs employed in guarding sheep and which, without such protection, would be devoured by wolves! [illustration: wolf-proof dog-collar (six-inch diameter.)] hitherto our journeys have led us chiefly through the estremenian plain, but after passing plasencia the country changes. we enter the outliers of those great sierras that shut out estremadura from león and castile, from portugal--and the world! here one quickly perceives signs of greater prosperity, due in part to the heavier rainfall from the hills, to a slightly richer soil, but mainly to the superior energy of hill-folk. wherever the soil warrants it, cultivation is pushed right up amidst the jungled slopes of the hills. in the folds of the sierra grow magnificent woods of spanish chestnut with some walnut trees, and among these we observed many fresh species of birds, including:--nuthatch (not seen elsewhere in spain), green woodpecker, common (but no azure) magpies, golden orioles, pied and spotted fly-catchers, grey and white wagtails (breeding), whitethroats and nightingales, longtailed tits, woodlarks, corn-buntings, rock-sparrows, and quite a number of warblers (spectacled, rufous, and subalpine, bonelli's and melodious willow-warblers), besides the usual common species--serins, chaffinches, robins, wrens, and so on. on the sterile upland plateaux, both here and in castile, the black-bellied sand-grouse breeds, as well as stone-curlew, bustard, and the usual larks and chats. [illustration] granadilla at the extreme northern verge of the plain one encounters a singular survival of long-past and forgotten ages, the "fenced city" of granadilla, so absolutely unspoilt and unchanged by time that one breathes for a spell a pure mediæval air. granadilla is mentioned in no book that we possess; but it stands there, nevertheless, perched on a rocky bluff above the rushing alagón, and entirely encompassed by a thirty-foot wall. not a single house, not a hut, shows up outside that rampart, and its single gate is guarded by a massive stone-built tower. this tower, we were told by a local friend, was erected after the "reconquest" (which here occurred about ), but the bridge which spans the alagón, immediately below, is attributed to the romans--more than a thousand years earlier! and the town itself to the moors--a pretty tangle which some wandering archaeologist may some day unravel.[ ] that the moors established a settlement here, or hard by, we are confident owing to the existence of extensive _huertas_ (plantations) a few miles up the banks of alagón. this is just one of those _enclaves_ of rich soil for which the arabs always had a keen eye; and ancient boundary-walls, with evidence of extreme care in irrigation and cultivation, all bespeak moorish handiwork. these _huertas_ are planted with fig, pomegranate, cherry, and various exotic fruit-trees, besides cork-oak and olive; every tree displaying signs of extreme old age--though that strikes one in most parts of spain. never have we seen more luxuriant crops of every sort than in those ancient _huertas_. yet they are inset amid encircling wastes! granadilla (its name surely suggests cherished memories in its founders of the famous andalucian _vega_) lies at the gate of that strange wild mountain-region called las hurdes. chapter xxiii las hurdes (estremadura) and the savage tribes that inhabit them isolated amidst the congeries of mountain-ranges that converge upon león, castile, and estremadura, lies a lost region that bears this name. the hurdes occupy no small space; they represent no insignificant nook, but a fair-sized province--say fifty miles long by thirty broad--severed from the outer world; cut off from portugal on the one side, from spain on the other; while its miserable inhabitants are ignored and despised by both its neighbours. [illustration: sketch-map of las hurdes] who and what are these wild tribes (numbering souls) that, in a squalor and savagery incredible in modern europe, cling, in solitary tenacity, to these inhospitable fastnesses? possibly they are the remnants of gothish fugitives who, years ago, sought shelter in these hills from arab scimitars; other theories trace their origin back to an earlier era. but whether goths or visigoths, vandals or other, these pale-faced hurdanos are surely none of swarthy arab or saracenic blood; and equally certainly they are none of spanish race. the spanish leave them severely alone--none dwell in las hurdes. being neither ethnologists nor antiquaries, nor even sensational writers, the authors confine themselves to their personal experience, stiffened by a study of what the few spanish authorities have collated on the subject. whatever their origin may have been, the hurdanos of to-day are a depraved and degenerate race, to all intents and purposes savages, lost to all sense of self-respect or shame, of honesty or manliness. too listless to take thought of the most elementary necessities of life, they are content to lead a semi-bestial existence, dependent for subsistence on their undersized goats and swine, on an exiguous and precarious cultivation, eked out by roots and wild fruits such as acorns, chestnuts, etc., and on begging outside their own region. first, as to their country. picture a maze of mountains all utterly monotonous in uniform configuration--long straight slopes, each skyline practically parallel with that beyond, bare of trees, but clad in shoulder-high scrub. on approaching from the south, the hills are lower and display delightful variety of heaths (including common heather); but as one penetrates northwards, the bush is reduced to the everlasting gum-cistus, and elevations become loftier and more precipitous till they culminate in the sheer rock-walls of the sierra de gata. here, in remote glens, one chances on groves of ilex and cork-oak, whose gnarled boles attest the absence of woodcutters, while huge trunks lie prostrate, decaying from sheer old age. here and there one sees an ilex enveloped to its summit in parasitic growths of creepers and wild-vine, whose broad, pale-green leaves contrast pleasingly with the dusky foliage and small leaf of its host. in the deep gorges or canyons of these mountains are situate the settlements, called _alquerías_, of the wild tribes, most of them inaccessible on horseback. that of romano de arriba, for example, is plunged in such an abyss that from november to march no ray of sunshine ever reaches it. a similar case is that of casa hurdes, which, as seen from the bridle-track leading over the sierra de portéros into castile, appears buried in the bottom of a crevasse. others, in the reverse, are perched on high, amidst crags that can only be surmounted by a severe scramble up broken rock-stairways. these _alquerías_--warrens we may translate the word--consist of den-like hovels straggling without order or huddled together according as the rock-formation may dictate--some half-piled one on another, others separate. many are mere holes in the earth--lairs, shapeless as nature left their walls, but roofed over with branches and grass held in place by schistose slabs that serve for slates. hardly, in some cases, can one distinguish human dwellings from surrounding bush, earth, or rock. as our companion, a civil guard, remarked of one set of eyries that adhered to a cliff-face, they rather resembled "the nests of crag-martins" (_nidos de vencéjos_) than abodes of mankind. within are two tiny compartments, the first occupied by goats or swine, the second littered with bracken on which the whole family sleep, irrespective of age or sex. there is no light nor furniture of any description; no utensils for washing, hardly even for cooking. true, there is in some of the lairs a hollowed trunk which may serve as a bed, but its original design (as the name _batane_ imports) was for pressing the grapes and olives in autumn. no refuse is ever thrown out; even the filthy ferns are retained for use as manure for the orchards--in a word, these poor creatures habitually sleep on a manure-heap. even wild beasts, the wolves and boars, are infinitely more attentive to domestic cleanliness and purity. another _alquería_ visited by the authors, that of rubiáco, consisted of a massed cluster of sties embedded on the slopes of a low ridge bordered on either side by crystal-bright mountain streams. so timid and shy are the natives that several were descried actually taking to the hill on our appearance. a distribution of tobacco, with coloured handkerchiefs for the women, restored a measure of confidence, and we succeeded in collecting a group or two for the camera. the day, however, was dull and overcast, and rain, unluckily, fell at that precise moment. these people, clad in patch-work of rags, leather and untanned skins, were undersized, pallid of complexion, plain (though we would scarce say repulsive) in appearance, with dull incurious eyes that were instantly averted when our glances met. the men, otherwise stolid and undemonstrative, affected a vacuous grin or giggle, but utterly devoid of any spark of joy or gladness. many (though by no means all) displayed distinctly flattened noses, somewhat of the mongolian type; and not even among the younger girls could a trace of good looks be detected. all went bare-foot, indeed bare-legged to the knee. on opening the door of a den--an old packing-case lid, three feet high, secured by a thong of goatskin--two pigs dashed forth squealing, and at the first step inside the writer's foot splashed in fetid moisture hidden beneath a litter of green fern. it being dark within, and too low to stand upright, i struck a match and presently became aware of a living object almost underfoot. it proved to be a baby, no bigger than a rabbit, and with tiny black bead-like eyes that gleamed with a wild light--never before have we seen such glance on human face. while examining this phenomenon, a sound from the inner darkness revealed a second inmate. we crept into this lair, scrambling up two steps in the natural rock, and from the fern-litter arose a female. she stood about three feet high, had the same wild eyes, unkempt hair, encrusted brown with dirt, hanging loose over her naked shoulders--a merciful darkness concealed the rest. she appeared to be about ten years old, and dwarfed and undersized at that; yet she told us she was fourteen, and the mother of the rabbit-child, also that its father had deserted her a month ago--ten days before its birth. the lair contained absolutely no furniture, unless dead fern be so styled. can human misery further go? the next hovel did contain a _batane_, or hollowed tree, in which lay some scanty rags like fragments of discarded horse-cloths. so lacking are these poor savages in any sufficient clothing, whether for day or night, that the children, we were assured, were habitually laid to sleep among the swine, in order to share the natural warmth of those beasts. in one abode only did we discover such convenience as a wooden chest. it contained a handful of potatoes, some chestnuts, and a broken iron cooking-pot. we examined another den or two--practically all were alike. if anything was there that escaped our attention we had an excuse--the aroma (personal, porcine, and putrid) was more than the strongest could endure for many minutes on end. we turned away. mingled feelings of loathing, of pity, and of despair at the utter hopelessness of it all filled our minds. there, not a hundred yards away, a contrasted sight met our eyes, one of humbler nature's most perfect scenes: a fledgeling brood of white wagtails tripped gaily along the burnside--types of pure spotless beauty, overflowing with high spirits and the joy of life. a few minutes later, and a pair of ring-plovers (_aegialitis curonica_) on the river accentuated the same pitiful contrast. such small cultivation as exists in the hurdes is carried on under supreme difficulty. the hills themselves are uncultivable, and the only opportunities that present themselves are either chance open spaces amidst interminable rock, or such rare and narrow strips of soil as can exist between precipitous slopes and the banks of the streams. here little garden-patches, thirty or forty feet long by a dozen in width, are reclaimed; but the very earth is liable to be swept away by winter-floods pouring down the mountain-sides, and has to be replaced by fresh soil carried--it may be long distances--on men's shoulders. here a few potatoes may be raised and in the broader valleys scant crops of rye. the few fruit trees are neglected, and therefore give short yield, though what little is produced is of exquisite flavour, comprising figs, cherries, a sort of peach (_pavia_), olives, and vines. all crops are subject to the ravages of wild-boars, which roam in bands of a dozen to a score, fearless of man and molested by none; while wolves take toll of the flocks. [illustration: white wagtail] red deer also wander freely and unpreserved over these ownerless hills--possibly the only place in europe where such is the case. we inquired whether many were shot, but were told that such an event occurred rarely, though the hurdano gunner might often approach within close range. "we are not _enseñados_ [instructed] in the arts of chase," explained our informant. a few partridges and hares are found, with trout in the upper waters. despite their degradation, the hurdanos, we were assured, display no criminal taint such as is inherent among gipsies. as regards the habits and customs of these people, we here roughly transcribe from the work of pascual madoz[ ] some selected extracts that appear to be as accurate to-day as when they were written some sixty years ago. the food of the hurdanos is as noxious as it is scanty. the potato is the general stand-by, either boiled or cooked with crude goat's suet; sometimes beans fried in the same grease, and lastly the leaves of trees, boiled; with roots, the stalks of certain wild grasses, chestnuts, and acorns. bread is practically unknown--all they ever have is made of coarse rye and such crusts as they obtain by begging outside their district. only when at the point of death is wheaten bread provided. their clothing consists of a shapeless garment reaching from the hip to the knee, a shirt without collar, fastening with one button, and a sack carried over the shoulder. they have no warm clothing and all go bare-foot. the women are even less tidy and dirtier than the men. never have they a vestige of anything new--nothing but discarded garments obtained by begging, or in exchange for chestnuts, at the distant towns. their usual "fashion" is never to take off, to mend, or to wash any rag they have once put on--it is worn till it falls off through sheer old age and dirt. they never wash nor brush their hair, and go bare-legged like the men. [illustration: a wolf-proof sheepfold on the alagÓn, north estremadura walls feet high: note the shepherd's dwelling alongside. within are sheep.] these, moreover, are the richest; the majority being clad in goatskins (untanned) that they kill or that die. these skins the men fix round their necks, girt at waist and round the knees with straps; the women merely an apron from the waist downward. men and women alike are dwarfed in stature and repugnant in appearance, augmented by their pallor and starveling look. on the other hand, they are active and expert in climbing their native mountains. there is no outward difference in the sexes as regards their lives and means of subsistence. all their environment tends to make them untractable and savage (_sylvaticos_), shunning contact with their kind, even fleeing at sight and refusing to speak. they have no doctors nor surgeons, relying on certain herbs for medicines; yet they live long lives. they only recognise the passing seasons by the state of vegetation and of the atmosphere. they sow and reap according to the phases of the moon, of which they preserve an accurate observation. religion and schools alike are unknown. they glory in their freedom from all moral suasion, and rejoice in the most brutal immorality and crime--including parricide and polygamy. there are _alquerías_ wherein no priest has set foot, nor do they possess the faintest sense of christian duties. it seems incredible that in the midst of two provinces both wealthy and well reputed there should exist a plague-spot such as we have painted, unknown as the remotest kraals of central africa. thus pascual madoz in , and but little external change has become apparent in sixty-five subsequent years.[ ] churches, it is true, have been erected, priests and schoolmasters appointed. amelioration, however, by such means can only come very slowly--if at all. the physical and domestic status of these poor savages must first be raised before they are mentally capable of assimilating the mysteries of religion. spain, however, owes them something. they are heavily taxed--beyond their power to pay in cash. thus they are cast into the power of usurers. in each _alquería_, we were told, is usually found one man more astute than the rest, and he, in combination with some sordid scoundrel outside, exploits the misery of his fellows. a species of semi-slavery is thus established--in some ways analogous to the baneful system of _caciquismo_ outside. the hurdanos are also subject to the conscription and furnish forty to fifty recruits yearly to the spanish army. curiously, time-expired men all elect to return to their wretched lot in the mountains. on our asking one of these (he had served at melilla), "why?" his reply was, "for liberty."[ ] there is a villainous custom in vogue that hurls these poor wretches yet farther down the bottomless pit. this abomination rages to-day as it did a hundred years ago: we therefore again leave old pascual madoz to tell the tale in his own words:-- many women make a miserable livelihood--it is indeed their only industry--by rearing foundling infants from the hospitals of ciudad rodrigo and placencia. so keen are they of the money thus obtained that one woman, aided by a goat, will undertake to rear three or four babes--all necessarily so ill-tended and ill-fed as rather to resemble living spectres than human beings. cast down on beds of filthy ferns and lacking all maternal care, the majority perish from hunger, cold, and neglect. the few that reach childhood are weaklings for life, feeble and infirm. this repulsive "industry" continues to-day, a sum of three dollars a month being paid by the authorities of the cities named to rid themselves of each undesired infant. the effect--direct and incidental--upon morals and sexual relationship in the _alquerías_ of the hurdes may (in degree) be deduced--it cannot be set down in words. thus the single point of contact with civilisation serves but to accentuate the degradation. chapter xxiv the great bustard over the vast expanse of those silent solitudes, the corn-growing steppes of spain--all but abandoned by human denizens--this grandest and most majestic of european game-birds forms the chief ornament. when the sprouting grain grows green in spring, stretching from horizon to horizon, you may form his acquaintance to best advantage. and among the things of sport are few more attractive scenes than a band of great bustards at rest. bring your field-glass to bear on the gathering which you see yonder, basking in the sunshine in full enjoyment of their mid-day siesta. there are five-and-twenty of them, and immense they look against the green background of corn that covers the landscape--well may a stranger mistake the birds for deer or goats. many sit turkey-fashion, with heads half sunk among back-feathers; others stand in drowsy yet ever-suspicious attitudes, their broad backs resplendent with those mottled hues of true game-colour, their lavender necks and well-poised heads contrasting with the snowy whiteness of the lower plumage.[ ] the bustard are dotted in groups over an acre or two of gently sloping ground, the highest part of which is occupied by a single big _barbudo_--a bearded veteran, the sentinel of the pack. from that elevated position he estimates what degree of danger each living thing that moves on the open region around may threaten to his company and to himself. mounted men cause him less concern than those on foot. a horseman slowly directing a circuitous course may even approach to within a couple of hundred yards ere he takes alarm. it was the head and neck of this sentry that first appeared to our distant view and disclosed the whereabouts of the game. he, too, has seen us, and is even now considering whether there be sufficient cause for setting his convoy in motion. if we disappear below the level of his range, he will settle the point negatively, setting us down as merely some of those agricultural nuisances which so often cause him alarm but which his experience has shown to be generally harmless--for attempts on his life are few and far between. [illustration: the great bustard] another charming spectacle it is in the summer-time to watch a pack of bustard about sunset, all busy with their evening feed among the grasshoppers on a thistle-clad plain. they are working against time, for it will soon be too dark to catch such lively prey. with quick darting step they run to and fro, picking up one grasshopper after another with unerring aim, and so intent on pursuit that the best chance of the day is then offered to a gunner, when greed for a moment supplants caution and vigilance is relaxed. but even now a man on foot stands no chance of coming anywhere near them. his approach is observed from afar, all heads are up above the thistles, every eye intent on the intruder; a moment or two of doubt, two quick steps and a spring, and the broad wings of every bird in the pack flap in slowly rising motion. the tardiness and apparent difficulty in rising from the ground which bustards exhibit is well expressed in their spanish name _avetarda_[ ] and recognised in the scientific cognomen of _otis tarda_. once on the wing the whole band is off with wide swinging flight to the highest ground in the neighbourhood. the chase of the great bustard presents characteristics and attractions peculiar to itself and differing from that of all other winged game. rather it resembles the scientific pursuit of big game; for this is a sport in which the actual shot becomes of secondary importance, merely a culminating incident--the consummation of previous forethought, fieldcraft, and generalship. success in bustard-shooting--alike with success in stalking--is usually attributable to the leader, who has planned the operation and directed the strategy, rather than to the man who may have actually killed the game. we here refer exclusively to what we may be permitted to call the scientific aspect of this chase, as practised by ourselves and as distinguished from other (and far more deadly) methods in vogue among the spanish herdsmen and peasantry. before describing the former system, let us glance at native methods of securing the great bustard. during the greater part of the year bustard are far too wary to be obtained by the farm-hands and shepherds who see them every day--so accustomed are the peasantry to the sight of these noble birds that little or no notice is taken of them and their pursuit regarded as impracticable. there is, however, one period of the year when the great bustard falls an easy prey to the clumsiest of gunners. [illustration] during the long andalucian summer a torrid sun has drunk up every brook and stream that crosses the cultivated lands; the chinky, cracked mud, which in winter formed the bed of shallow lakes and lagoons, now yields no drop of moisture for bird or beast. the larger rivers still carry their waters from sierra to sea, but an adaptive genius is required to utilise these for purposes of irrigation. all water required for the cattle is drawn up from wells; the old-world lever with its bucket at one end and counterpoise at the other has to provide for the needs of all. these wells are distributed all over the plains. as the herdsmen put the primitive contrivance into operation and swing up bucketful after bucketful of cool water, the cattle crowd around, impatient to receive it as it rushes down the stone troughing. the thirsty animals drink their fill, splashing and wasting as much as they consume, so that a puddle is always formed about these _bebideros_. the moisture only extends a few yards, gradually diminishing, till the trickling streamlet is lost in the famishing soil. these moist places are a fatal trap to the bustard. before dawn one of the farm-people will conceal himself so as to command at short range all points of the miniature swamp. a slight hollow is dug for the purpose, having clods arranged around, between which the gun can be levelled with murderous accuracy. as day begins to dawn, the bustard will take a flight in the direction of the well, alighting at a point some few hundred yards distant. they satisfy themselves that no enemy is about, and then, with cautious, stately step, make for their morning draught. one big bird steps on ahead of the rest; and as he cautiously draws near, he stops now and again to assure himself that all is right and that his companions are coming too--these are not in a compact body, but following at intervals of a few yards. the leader has reached the spot where he drank yesterday; now he finds he must go a little nearer to the well, as the streamlet has been diverted; another bird follows close; both lower their heads to drink; the gunner has them in line--at twenty paces there is no escape; the trigger is pressed, and two magnificent bustards are done to death. should the man be provided with a second barrel (which is not usual), a third victim may be added to his morning's spoils. comparatively large numbers of bustard are destroyed thus every summer. it is deadly work and certain. luckily, however, the plan enjoys but a single success, since bands, once shot at, never return. a second primitive method of capturing the great bustard is practised in winter. the increased value of game during the colder months induces the bird-catchers, who then supply the markets with myriads of ground-larks, linnets, buntings, etc., occasionally to direct their skill towards the capture of bustard by the same means as prove efficacious with the small fry--that is, the _cencerro_, or cattle-bell, combined with a dark lantern. as most cattle carry the cencerro around their necks, the sound of the bell at close quarters by night causes no alarm to ground-birds. the bird-catcher, with his bright lantern gleaming before its reflector and the cattle-bell jingling at his wrist, prowls nightly around the stubbles and wastes in search of roosting birds. any number of bewildered victims can thus be gathered, for larks and such-like birds fall into a helpless state of panic when once focussed in the rays of the lantern. when the bustard is the object of pursuit, two men are required, one of whom carries a gun. the pack of bustard will be carefully watched during the afternoon, and not lost sight of when night comes until their sleeping-quarters are ascertained. when quite dark, the tinkling of the _cencerro_ will be heard, and a ray of light will surround the devoted bustards, charming or frightening them--whichever it may be--into still life. as the familiar sound of the cattle-bell becomes louder and nearer, the ray of light brighter and brighter, and the surrounding darkness more intense, the bustards are too charmed or too dazed to fly. then comes the report, and a charge of heavy shot works havoc among them. as bands of bustards are numerous, this poaching plan might be carried out night after night; but luckily the bustards will not stand the same experience twice. on a second attempt being made, they are off as soon as they see the light approaching. [illustration: calandra lark a large and handsome species characteristic of the corn-lands.] the third (and by far the most murderous) means of destruction is due, not so much to rural peasantry as to _cazadores_--shooters from adjoining towns--men who should know better, and whom, in other respects, we might rank as good sportsmen; but who, alas! can see no shame in shooting the hen-bustards with their half-fledged broods in the standing corn during june and july--albeit the deed is done in direct contravention of the game-laws! dogs, especially pointers, are employed upon this quest when the mother-bustards, being reluctant to leave their young, lie as close as september partridges in a root-crop; while the broods, either too terrified or too immature to fly, are frequently caught by the dogs. we regret that there are those who actually descant with pride upon having slaughtered a dozen or more of these helpless creatures in a day; while others are only restrained from a like crime by the scorching solar heats of that season. more bustards are killed thus than by all the other methods combined--a hundred times more than by our scientific and sportsmanlike system of driving presently to be described. except for this unworthy massacre of mothers with their broods in summer, and the two clumsy artifices before mentioned, the bustards are left practically unmolested--their wildness and the open nature of their haunts defy all the strategy of native fowlers. the hen-bustard deposits her eggs--usually three, but on very rare occasions four--among the green april corn; incubation and the rearing of the young take place in the security of vast silent stretches of waving wheat. the young bustards grow with that wheat, and, ere it is reaped (unless prematurely massacred), are able to take care of themselves. a somewhat more legitimate method of outwitting the great bustard is practised at this season. during harvest, while the country is being cleared of crops, the birds become accustomed to see bullock-carts daily passing with creaking wheel to carry away the sheaves from the stubble to the _era_, or levelled threshing-ground, where the grain is trodden out, spanish fashion, by teams of mares. the loan of a _carro_ with its pair of oxen and their driver having been obtained, the cart is rigged up with _estéras_--that is, esparto-matting stretched round the uprights which serve to hold the load of sheaves in position. a few sacks of straw thrown on the floor of the cart save one, in some small degree, from the merciless jolting of this primitive conveyance on rough ground. two or three guns can find room therein, while the driver, lying forward, directs the team with a goad. this moving battery fairly resembles a load of sheaves, and well do we remember the terrible, suffocating heat we have endured, shut up for hours in this thing during the blazing days of july and august. the result, nevertheless, repays all suffering. we refer to no mere cynegetic pride but to the enduring joy of observing, at close quarters and still unsuspicious, these glorious game-birds at home on their private plains. the local idea is to fire through a slit previously made in the _estéras_; but somehow, when the cart stops and the game instantly rises, you find (despite care and practice) that the birds always fly in a direction you cannot command or where the narrow slit forbids your covering them. hence we adopted the plan of sliding off behind as the cart pulled up, thus firing the two barrels with perfect freedom. we have succeeded by this means in bringing to bag many pairs of bustard during a day's manoeuvring. [illustration: spanish thistle and stonechat] we now come to the system of bustard-driving, which we regard as practically the only really legitimate method of dealing with this grand game. from the end of august onwards the young bustards are perfectly capable of taking care of themselves. the country is then cleared of crops, and while this precludes the birds being "done to death" as in the weeks immediately preceding, yet the ubiquitous thistles (often of gigantic size, ten or twelve feet in height), charlock, and _viznagas_ provide welcome covert for concealing the guns, while the heat still renders the game somewhat more susceptible to the artifices of the fowler. this is the easiest period. as the season advances the hunter's difficulties increase. the brown earth becomes daily more and more naked, while files of slow-moving ox-teams everywhere traverse the stubble, ploughing league-long furrows twenty abreast. these factors combine to aid the game and stretch to its utmost limit the venatic instincts of the fowler. let us now attempt to describe a day's bustard-driving on scientific lines. the district having being selected, it is advisable to send out the night before a trustworthy scout who will sleep at the _cortijo_ and be abroad with the dawn in order to locate precisely the various _bandadas_, or troops of bustard, in the neighbourhood. the shooting-party (three or four guns for choice, but in no case to exceed six[ ]) follow in the morning--riding, as a rule, to the rendezvous; though should there be a high-road available it is sometimes convenient to drive (or nowadays even to motor), having in that case sent the saddle-horses forward, along with the scout, on the previous day. arrived at the _cortijo_, the scout brings in his report, and at once guns and drivers, all mounted, proceed towards the nearest of the marked _bandadas_. not only are the distances to be covered so great as to render riding a necessity, but the use of horses has this further advantage that bustard evince less fear of mounted men and thus permit of nearer approach. the drivers should number three--the centre to flush the birds, two flankers to gallop at top speed in any direction should the game diverge from the required course or attempt to break out laterally. ten minutes' ride and we are within view of our first _bandada_ still a mile away. they may be feeding on some broad slope, resting on the crest of a ridge, or dawdling on a level plain; but wherever the game may be--whatever the strategic value of their position--at least the decision of our own tactics must be clinched at once. no long lingering with futile discussion, no hesitation, or continued spying with the glass is permissible. such follies instil instant suspicion into the astute brains on yonder hill, and the honours of the first round pass to the enemy. for this reason it is imperative to appoint one leader vested with supreme authority, and whose directions all must obey instantly and implicitly. needless to say, that leader must possess a thorough knowledge both of the habits of bustard and the lie of a country--along with the rather rare faculty of diagnosing at a glance its "advantages," its dangers, and its salient points over some half-league of space. none too common an attribute that, where all the wide prospect is grey or green, varying according to ever-changing lights, and the downlands so gently graded as occasionally to deceive the very elect. much of the bustard-country appears all but flat, so slight are its folds and undulations; while even the more favouring regions are rarely so boldly contoured as salisbury plain. the leader must combine some of the qualities of a field-marshal with the skill of a deer-stalker, and a bit of red-indian sleuth thrown in. luckily, such masters of the craft are not entirely lacking to us. the thoughts revolving in the leader's mind during his brief survey follow these general lines: first, which is (_a_) the favourite and (_b_) the most favourable line of flight of those bustards when disturbed; secondly, where can guns best be placed athwart that line; thirdly, how can the guns reach these points unseen? a condition precedent to success is that the firing-line shall be drawn around the bustards fairly close up, yet without their knowledge. now with wild-game in open country devoid of fences, hollows, or covert of any description that problem presents initial difficulties that may well appear insuperable. but they are rarely quite so. it is here that the fieldcraft of the leader comes in. he has detected some slight fold that will shelter horsemen up to a given point, and beyond that, screen a crouching figure to within yards of the unconscious _bandada_. rarely do watercourses or valleys of sufficient depth lend a welcome aid; recourse must usually be had to the reverse slope of the hill whereon the bustards happen to be. without a halt, the party ride round till out of sight. at the farthest safe advance, the guns dismount and proceed to spread themselves out--so far as possible in a semicircle--around the focal point.[ ] at yards apart, each lies prone on earth, utilising such shelter (if any) as may exist on the naked decline--say skeleton thistles, a tuft of wild asparagus, or on rare occasion some natural bank or tiny rain-scoop. [illustration: great bustard--young. ( ) as hatched. ( ) at twenty days old. ( ) at one month.] [illustration: slender-billed curlew (numenius tenuirostris). [see chapter on "bird-life," _infra._]] having now succeeded in placing his guns unseen and within a fatal radius, the leader may congratulate himself that his main object has been achieved. on the nearness of the line to the game, and on his correct diagnosis of the bustards' flight depends the issue. [it may be added that bustard are occasionally found in situations that offer no reasonable hope of a successful drive. it may then (should no others be known within the radius of action) become advisable gently to "move" the inexpugnable troop; remembering that once these birds realise that they are being "driven," the likelihood of subsequently putting them over the guns has enormously decreased. there accrues an incidental advantage in this operation, for after "moving" them to more favouring ground, it will not be necessary to line-up the guns quite so near as is usually essential to success. for bustards possess so strong an attachment to their _querencias_, or individual haunts, that they may be relied upon, on being disturbed a second time, to wing a course more or less in the direction of their original position. we give a specific instance of this later. each pack of bustard has its own _querencia_, and will be found at certain hours to frequent certain places. this local knowledge, if obtainable, saves infinite time and vast distances traversed in search of game whose approximate positions, after all, may thus be ascertained beforehand.] * * * * * now we have placed our guns in line and within that short distance of the unsuspecting game that all but assures a certain shot. we cannot, let us confess, recall many moments in life of more tense excitement than those spent thus, lying prone on the gentle slope listening with every sense on stretch for the cries of the galloping beaters as in wild career they urge the huge birds towards a fatal course. before us rises the curving ridge, its summit sharply defined against an azure sky--azure but empty. now the light air wafts to our ear the tumultuous pulsations of giant wings, and five seconds later that erst empty ether is crowded with two score huge forms. what a scene--and what commotion as, realising the danger, each great bird with strong and laboured wing-stroke swerves aside. one enormous _barbon_ directly overhead receives first attention; a second, full broadside, presents no more difficulty, and ere the double thuds behind have attested the result, we realise that a third, shying off from our neighbour, is also "our meat." this has proved one of our luckier drives, for the _bandada_, splitting up on the centre, offered chances to both flanks of the blockading line--chances which are not always fully exploited. [illustration: swerve aside to right and left] we have stated, earlier in this chapter, that among the various component factors in a bustard-drive the actual shot is of minor importance. that is so; yet truly remarkable is the frequency with which good shots constantly miss the easiest of chances at these great birds. precisely similar failures occur with wild-geese, with swans--indeed with all big birds whose wing-action is deliberate and slow. tardy strokes deceive the eye, and the great bulk of the bustard accentuates the deception--it seems impossible to miss them, a fatal error. as the spanish drivers put it: "se les llenaron el ojo de carne," literally, "the bustards had filled your eye with meat"--the hapless marksmen saw everything bustard! yet geese with their strokes fly past ducks at , and the bustard's apparently leisured movement carries him in full career as fast as whirring grouse with revolutions to the minute. to kill bustard treat them on the same basis as the smaller game that appears faster but is not. bustards being soft-plumaged are not hard to kill. as compared with such ironclads as wild-geese, they are singularly easily killed, and with aaa shot may be dropped stone-dead at and even at yards. a pair of guns may thus profitably be brought into action. bustards seldom run, but they walk very fast, especially when alarmed. between the inception of a drive and the moment of flushing we have known them to cover half a mile, and many drives fail owing to game having completely altered its original position. instances have occurred of bustards walking over the dividing ridge, to the amazement of the prostrate sportsmen on the hither slope. strange to say, when winged they do not make off, but remain where they have fallen, and an old male will usually show fight. of course if left alone and out of sight a winged bustard will travel far. in weight cock-bustard vary from, say, to lbs. in autumn, up to to lbs. in april. the biggest old males in spring reach and lbs., and one we presented to the national collection at south kensington scaled lbs. the breast-bone of these big birds is usually quite bare, a horny callosity, owing to friction with the ground while squatting, and the heads and necks of old males usually exhibit gaps in their gorgeous spring-plumage--indicative of severe encounters among themselves. hen-bustard seldom exceed lbs. at any season. bustard are usually found in troops varying from half-a-dozen birds to as many as or , and in september we have seen together. bustard-shooting--by which we mean legitimate driving during the winter months, september to april--is necessarily uncertain in results. some days birds may not even be seen, though this is unusual, while on others many big bands may be met with. hence it is difficult to put down an average, though we roughly estimate a bird a gun as an excellent day's work. a not unusual bag for six guns will be about eight head; but we have a note of two days' shooting in april (in two consecutive years) when a party of eight guns, all well-known shots, secured and bustard respectively, together with a single lesser bustard on each day. this was on lands between alcantarillas and las cabezas, but it is fair to add that the ground had been carefully preserved by the owner and the operation organised regardless of expense. a minor difficulty inherent to this pursuit is to select the precise psychological moment to spring up to shooting-position. this indeed is a feature common to most forms of wild-shooting--such as duck-flighting, driving geese or even snipe; in fact there is hardly a really wild creature that can be dealt with from a comfortable position erect on one's legs. imagine partridge-shooters at home, instead of standing comfortably protected by hedge or butt, being told to hide themselves on a wet plough or bare stubble. here, in spain, it may also be necessary to conceal the gun under one's right side (to avoid sun-glints), and that also loses a moment. [illustration: bustards passing full broadside] all one's care and elaborate strategy is ofttimes nullified through the blunders of a novice. some men have no more sense of concealment than that fabled ostrich which is said to hide its head in the sand (which it doesn't); others can't keep still. these are for ever poking their heads up and down or--worse still--trying to see what is occurring in front. we may conclude this chapter with a hint or two to new hands. never move from your prone position till the bustard are in shot, and after that, not till you are sure the whole operation is complete. there may yet be other birds enclosed though you do not know it. never claim to have wounded a bustard merely because it passed so near and offered so easy a shot that you can't believe you missed it. you did miss it or it would be lying dead behind. all the same keep one eye on any bird you have fired at so long as it remains in view. bustards shot through the lungs will sometimes fly half a mile and then drop dead. wear clothes suited, more or less, to environment--_greenish_, we suggest, for choice--but remember that immobility is tenfold more important than colour. a pure white object that is quiescent is overlooked, where a clod of turf that _moves_ attracts instant attention. in spring, when bustards gorge on green food, gralloch your victims at once, otherwise the half-digested mass in the crop quickly decomposes and destroys the meat. * * * * * here is an example of an error in judgment that practically amounted to a blunder. before our well-concealed line stood a grand pack, between thirty and forty bustard beautifully "horseshoed," and quite unconscious thereof. momentarily we expected their entry--right in our faces! at that critical moment there appeared, wide on the right flank and actually behind us, three huge old _barbones_ directing a course that would bring them along close in rear of our line. no. gun, on extreme right, properly allowed this trio to pass; not so no. . but the culprit, on rising to fire, had the chagrin to realise (too late) his error. the whole superb army-corps in front were at that very moment sweeping forward direct on the centre of our line! in an instant they took it in, swerved majestically to the left, and escaped scot-free. that no. had secured a right-and-left at the adventitious trio in no sort of way exculpated his mistake. chapter xxv the great bustard (_continued_) the following illustrates in outline a day's bustard-shooting and incidentally shows how strongly haunted these birds are, each pack to its own particular locality. on reaching our point (a seventeen-kilometres' drive), the scouts sent out the day before reported three bands numbering roughly forty, forty, and sixteen--in all nearly a hundred birds. the nearest lot was to the west. these we found easily, and b. f. b. got a brace, right-and-left, without incident. riding back eastwards, the second pack had moved, but we shortly descried the third, in two divisions, a mile away. it being noon, the bustards were mostly lying down or standing drowsily, and we halted for lunch before commencing the operation. during the afternoon we drove this pack three times, securing a brace on first and third drives, while on the second the birds broke out to the side. now bustards are, in spanish phrase, _muy querenciosos_, _i.e._ attached to their own particular terrain; and as in these three drives we had pushed them far beyond their much-loved limit, they were now restless and anxious to return. already before our guns had reached their posts for a fourth drive, seven great bustards were seen on the wing, and a few minutes later the remaining thirty took flight, voluntarily, the whole phalanx shaping their course directly towards us. the outmost gun was still moving forward to his post under the crest of the hill, and the pack, seeing him, swerved across our line below, and (these guns luckily having seen what was passing and taken cover) thus lost another brace of their number. the bustards shot to-day (january ), though all full-grown males, only weighed from - / to - / lbs. apiece. two months later they would have averaged over lbs., the increased weight being largely due to the abundant feed in spring, but possibly more to the solid distention of the neck.[ ] this wet season ( ) the grass on the _manchones_, or fallows, was rank and luxuriant, nearly knee-deep in close vegetation--more like april than january. already these bustards were showing signs of the chestnut neck, and all had acquired their whiskers. the following winter ( ) was dry and not a scrap of vegetation on the fallows. even in february they were absolutely naked and the cattle being fed on broken straw in the byres. the quill-feathers are pale-grey or ash-colour, only deepening into a darker shade towards the tips, and that only on the first two or three feathers. the shafts are white, secondaries black, and bastard-wing lavender-white, slightly tipped with a darker shade. in _wild spain_ will be found described two methods by which the great bustard may be secured: (a) by a single gun riding quite alone; and (b) by two guns working jointly, one taking the chance of a drive, the other outmanoeuvring the game as in plan (a). we here add a third plan which has occasionally stood us (when alone) in good stead. on finding bustard on a suitable hill, leave your man to ride slowly to and fro attracting the attention of the game till you have had time, by hard running, to gain the reverse slope. the attendant then rides forward, the whole operation being so punctually timed that you reach the crest of the ridge at the same moment as the walking bustards have arrived within shot thereof. needless to add, this involves, besides hard work, a considerable degree of luck, yet on several occasions we have secured as many as four birds a day by this means. * * * * * [illustration: "hurtling through space"] the great bustard, one imagines, has few enemies except man, but the following incident shows they are not entirely exempt from extraneous dangers. in october, some years ago, the writer purposed spending a couple of nights at a distant marsh in order to see whether any snipe had yet come in. our course led us through good bustard-country, and by an early start i had hoped to exploit this in passing. hardly had we entered upon the corn-lands than we espied fifteen bustard, a quarter-mile away on the right. the rough bridle-track being worn slightly hollow and no better cover appearing, i decided to "flatten" on the spot, sending my two men to ride round beyond the game, which, being in a dip, was now below my range of sight. in due course the bustards appeared, winging directly towards me, but alighting in front when already almost in shot. feeling practically certain of them now, since i could hear the shouts of the beaters beyond, i raised myself slightly, only to see, to my utter chagrin, the bustards flying off in diametrically the opposite direction while simultaneously a hissing sound from behind and overhead caused me to glance upwards. a black object hurtling earthward through space, shot diagonally past me--this i mistook as merely a peregrine pursuing some hare that had been disturbed by the beaters. but on hastening forward over the ridge, i perceived one of the beaters riding up with a dead bustard across his saddle--a female, with a great gaping gash in her side. the beaters reported that just as they flushed the bustard a second time an eagle had swept down upon them, knocked down this one, and sent the rest, scattered in wild disorder, over their heads. paco had then galloped up to within a few yards before the eagle reluctantly abandoned its prize and sailed aloft. continuing our interrupted journey, half a mile ahead another pack of bustard was descried, and while rapidly surveying the situation, yet another lot appeared on wing, flying from the right. these last, we instantly concluded both from their direction and also by the curiously unsettled style of their flight, were a part of the band which had recently been attacked by the eagle. under such circumstances i realised that (though i was mounted and in full view) they might yet pass within shot, so, jumping from the horse, i fired at the nearest old cock-bustard and distinctly saw blood spirt from his snow-white breast. he flew slowly away with ever lowering flight, finally disappearing over a crest close by the scene of our first drive. confident of gathering him, we rode back, and on gaining the ridge witnessed this amazing spectacle. in the hollow, yards away, was a well with the usual cross-bar and pulley for drawing water, and on the cross-bar sat an eagle. below on the ground stood the wounded bustard, facing-up to a second great eagle, which kept flapping around him, apparently reluctant to attack so huge a bird on the ground and in its then aggressive attitude, and endeavouring to force it to fly. so absorbed were both eagles on their quarry that i rode up unnoticed to within yards, and was making ready to fire when the two great birds rose, that from the cross-bar flying away, while the other, not content to resign his prize, circled overhead. in hope that he might descend i concealed myself behind the well, always keeping one eye on the wounded bustard, but presently the eagle had become a mere speck in the heavens. the bustard all this time had remained standing close by, but on my approach it rose quite strongly on wing, and had i not been loaded, might yet have escaped. [illustration: draw-well with cross-bar] the aggressors were imperial eagles, and in their second attack had no doubt realised that the quarry was already wounded. the first victim had been knocked down, stone-dead, when absolutely sound and strong. during summer these birds practically subsist on grasshoppers, especially those in the heavy wingless stage known as _cigarras panzonas_. these disappear after july, being replaced by smaller and more active varieties, which are equally relished. once the females commence laying among the spring corn (in april), the cock-bustards assemble in widower packs (_toradas_) on the fallows, and especially on _marismas_ adjacent to corn-land. by september both sexes, with the young, reunite on the stubbles, where we have seen as many as together. it is in april that the old _barbones_ attain their full glory and pride of sexual estate--resplendent in fierce whiskers and gorgeous chestnut ruffs all distended with the seasonal condition. courtship begins in march, when the weird eccentric performances of the males, flashing alternately white and rich orange against their green environment, lend a characteristic touch to the vernal _vegas_--white specks that appear and disappear as the lovelorn monsters revolve and display, somewhat in the frenzied style of the blackcock on our own northern moorlands. _hechando la rueda_ the spanish call it, as an old _barbon_ majestically struts around turning himself, as it were, inside out before an assembled harem that, to all appearance, takes no manner of interest in his fantastic performance--perhaps the gentler sex dissemble their depth of feeling? then occur ferocious duels between rival paladins. long sustained are these and conspicuous afar, albeit not very deadly. no life-blood may flow, but feathers fly ere the point of honour is settled and the victor left in proud possession. [illustration: "hechando la rueda"] these combats occur chiefly at break of day while tall herbage yet remains soaked by nocturnal dews, and it occasionally happens that some luckless champion, damaged and bedraggled, and with plumage saturated through and through, when thus encountered, is found unable to fly and so captured. several such instances came under our notice years ago and--rare though they may be--misled us in _wild spain_ to conclude that the incapacity arose from a spring-moult--similar to that of wild-geese and of some ducks. that, however, was an error. the loss of flight-power arises, as stated, from the damaged and dew-saturated state of the primaries, as is concisely set forth in a letter from our friend d. josé pan elberto as follows:-- many persons undoubtedly believe (owing to bustards being captured in spring unable to fly) that these birds moult all their quills at once. that is not the case; but since in spring, when the male-bustards engage in continuous fighting, the corn-growth is already quite tall, and in the early mornings all vegetation is saturated with night-dews, it occasionally happens that a bustard may be met with incapable by this cause of taking wing--that is, that some of the flight-feathers are lost or broken and all dew-soaked (_rociadas_). the bustard moults gradually and never loses the power of flight. [illustration: great bustard "shewing-off"--from life. first attitude. second attitude. the same, but looking up at a passing bird. final position.] [illustration: tail-feathers of great bustard] while never attaining the size of wild birds, yet bustards thrive well in captivity--always assuming that they have been caught young. old birds brought home wounded never survive twenty-four hours, dying not from the wound (which may be insignificant) but from _barinchin_, which may be translated chagrin or a broken heart. young bustards reared thus become extremely tame, coming to call and feeding from the hand, though when old the males are apt to grow vicious in spring, attacking savagely children, dogs, and even women, especially those whom they see to be afraid.[ ] tame as they are, they are always subject to strange alarms, seemingly causeless. suddenly they raise their wings, draw in their heads, and dance around, jumping in air, and ever intently regarding the heavens--sometimes dashing off under cover of bushes. one may connect this exhibition with some speck in the sky, some passing eagle, more often no motive is discernible. bustard-chicks emit a plaintive whistle so precisely similar to that of the kites that (when hatched out under a domestic hen) the foster-mother has been so terrified as to desert her brood. when adult, bustards are usually quite silent, save for a grunting noise in spring--that is, in captivity. but on a hot day we have heard the old males, when passing on a drive, utter panting sounds, and (as already mentioned) a winged _barbon_ will turn to attack with a sort of gruff bark--wuff, wuff--as his captor approaches. so retentive is their memory that each year as may comes round our tame bustards keep constantly on the look-out for the first cart-load of green cut grass brought into the stable-yard for the horses. they even follow it right into the loose-box where it is stored, in order to feast on the grasshoppers it conceals, climbing all over the mountain of grass, but never scratching as hens or pheasants would do. the little bustard (_otis tetrax_--spanish, _sisÓn_) the little bustard may fairly claim the proud distinction that it alone of all the game-birds on earth can utterly scorn and set at naught every artifice of the fowler--modern methods and up-to-date appliances all included. here in spain, though the bird itself is abundant enough (and its flesh delicate and delicious), it so entirely defies every set system of pursuit that no one nowadays attempts its capture. practically none are killed save merely by some chance or accidental encounter. true, during the fiery noontides of july and august even the little bustard enjoys a siesta and may then be shot. it will, in fact, "lie close" before pointers and cackle like a cock-grouse as it rises from those desolate _dehesas_ which form its home--vast stretches of rolling veld where asphodel, palmetto, and giant thistles grow rampant as far as eye can reach. but that scarce comes within our category of sport, since a solar heat that can (even temporarily) tame a _sisón_ is quite likely to finish off a briton for good and all. and with the advent of autumn and a relatively endurable temperature, in a moment the _sisón_ becomes impossibly wild. any idea of direct approach is simply out of the question, but beyond that, this astute fowl has elaborated a scheme--indeed a series of schemes--that nullifies even that one remaining resource of baffled humanity, "driving." you may surround his company, "horse-shoe" them with hidden guns--do what you will, not a single _sisón_ will come in to the firing-line. you cannot diagnose beforehand his probable line of flight, for he has none, nor can you influence its subsequent direction. for the little bustard shuts off all negotiation at its initiation by springing vertically in air, soaring far above gunshot, and there indulging in fantastic aerial evolutions more in the style of wigeon or other wildfowl than of a true game-bird as he is. thus from that celestial altitude he spies out the country and all terrestrial dangers, finally disappearing afar amidst the wastes of atmospheric space. frequently we have noticed the high-flying band, after, say, twenty minutes of such display of wing-power, descend directly to their original position at a safe interval after the drivers had passed forward thereof! thus do they scorn our efforts and add insult to injury. [illustration: little bustard summer plumage.] in practice no _sisónes_ whatever are killed in set drives, and for twenty years we have abandoned the attempt as impossible. they nevertheless--alike with every other fowl of the air--must, by occasional mischance, fly into danger, and at such times, owing to their habit of flying in massed formation, a heavy toll may be levied at a single shot by a gunner who is alert to exploit the happy event. we have ourselves, in this casual way, dropped from five to eight _sisónes_ with the double charge. though frequenting the same open terrain as their big cousins, the _sisónes_ distinctly prefer the rough stretches of palmetto, thistles, and other rank herbage to corn-land proper--in short, they prefer to sit where they can never be seen on the ground. conspicuous as their white plumage and resonant wing-rattle makes them in air, we can hardly recall a dozen instances of having detected a pack of little bustard at rest--and then merely in quite accidental and exceptional circumstances. and even then (as indicated) the knowledge of their precise position has seldom availed to their undoing. by april the males have assumed a splendidly handsome breeding-dress. the neck, swollen out like a jargonelle pear, is clad in rich velvet-black, the long plumes behind glossy and hackle-like, and adorned with a double gorget of white. all this finery is lost by august. thenceforward the sexes are alike save for the larger size and brighter orange of the males, the females being smaller and yellower. they are strictly monogamous, yet the males "show-off" in the same fantastic way as great bustard and blackcock. about mid-may the female lays four (rarely five) glossy olive-green eggs in the thick covert of thistles or palmettos. in summer the food of the little bustard consists of snails and small grasshoppers, and on the table they are excellent, the breast being large and prominent and displaying both dark and white flesh--the latter, however, being confined to the legs. chapter xxvi flamingoes the quest for their "incunabula" [illustration: a typical sight in the marisma] the flamingo stands in a class apart. allied to no other bird-form--hardly so much as related--it may be regarded almost as a separate act of creation. its nesting habits, and the method by which a bird of such abnormal build could incubate its eggs, formed for generations a "vexed question" in bird-life. the story of the efforts made by british naturalists to solve the problem ranks among the classics of ornithology. the marismas of guadalquivir were early known to be one of the few european _incunabula_ of the flamingo; but their vast extent--"as big as our eastern counties," howard saunders wrote--and the irregularity of the seasons (since flamingoes only remain to nest in the wettest years) combined to frustrate exploration. first in the field was lord lilford--as early as ; and both during that and the two succeeding decades he and saunders (who appeared on the scene in ) undertook repeated journeys--all in vain. the record of these makes splendid reading, and will be found as follows:-- lord lilford, "on the breeding of the flamingo in spain," _proceedings zoological society of london_, , pp. - ; howard saunders, _ibid._, , and the same authority in the _ibis_, , pp. _et seq._ the late crown prince rudolph of austria, who visited spain in may , likewise failed to reach the nesting spot--apparently through the usual cause, not going far enough--though a few eggs were found scattered on the wet mud of the marisma. (recorded by lord lilford as above.) thus the question remained unsettled till , when a favouring season enabled the present authors to succeed where greater ornithologists had striven in vain. [illustration] a venerable apologue attaches to the nesting habit of the flamingo. owing to the length of its legs, it was assumed that the bird could not incubate in the ordinary manner of birds, and that, therefore, it stood astraddle on a nest built up to the requisite height--a combination of unproved assumption with inconsequential deduction. 'twere ungracious to be wise after the event, yet, in fact, this fable passed current as "natural history" for precisely two centuries--from , when dampier so described the nesting of flamingoes on the cape de verde islands,[ ] till , when the present authors had opportunity of observing a flamingo-colony in southern spain. flamingoes do not nest every year in the spanish marismas. their doing so depends on the season, and only in very wet years is the attempt made. rarely, even then, are young hatched off, so persistently are the wastes raided by egg-lifters, who sweep up by wholesale every edible thing, and to whom a "flamingo city," with its hundreds of big eggs all massed together--a boat-load for the gathering--represents an el dorado. as early as eggs were brought to us--taken by our own marshmen on may --but it was not till that we enjoyed seeing an occupied nest-colony ourselves. more than a quarter-century has sped since then, yet we cannot do better than substantially transcribe the narrative as recorded in _wild spain_. during the month of april we searched the marismas systematically for the nesting-places of flamingoes, but, though exploring large areas--riding many leagues in all directions through mud and water varying from a few inches to full three feet in depth--yet no sign of nests was then encountered. flamingoes there were in thousands, together with a wealth of aquatic bird-life that we will not stop here to describe. but the water was still too deep, the mud-flats and new-born islets not yet sufficiently dried for purposes of nidification. the only species that actually commenced to lay in april were the coots, purple herons, peewits, kentish plovers, stilts, redshanks, and a few more. april was clearly too early, and the writer lost nearly a week through an attack of ague, brought on by constant splashing about in comparatively cold water while a fierce sun always beat down on one's head. in may the luck improved. far away to the eastward flamingoes had always been most numerous, and once or twice we observed (early in may) signs that resembled the first rude beginnings of architecture, and encouraged us to persevere in what had begun to appear an almost hopeless quest. _may _ ( ).--the effects of dawn over the vast desolations of the marisma were specially lovely this morning. before sunrise the distant peaks of the serranía de ronda (seventy miles away) lay flooded in a blood-red light, and appearing quite twice their usual height. half an hour later the mountains sank back in a golden glow, and long before noon had utterly vanished in quivering heat-haze and the atmospheric fantasies of infinite space. amidst chaotic confusion of mirage effects we rode out across the wilderness: at first over dry mud-flats sparsely carpeted with dwarf scrub of marsh plants, or in places bare and naked, the sun-scorched surface cracked into rhomboids and parallelograms, and honeycombed with yawning cattle-tracks made long ago when the mud was moist and plastic; then through shallow marsh and stagnant waters gradually deepening. here from a patch of rush hard by sprang three hinds with their fawns and splashed away through the shallows, their russet pelts gleaming in the early sunlight. gradually the water deepened; "mucha agua, mucho fango!" groaned our companion, felipe; but this morning we meant to reach the very heart of the marisma, and before ten o'clock were cooking our breakfast on a far-away islet whereon never british foot had trod before, and which was literally strewn with avocets' eggs, while nests of stilts, redshanks, pratincoles, and many more lay scattered around. [illustration: stilts disturbed at their nesting-place] during this day we discovered two nests of the slender-billed gull (_larus gelastes_), not previously known to breed in spain; also, we then believed, those of the mediterranean black-headed gull (_l. melanocephalus_), though the latter were afterwards ascribed by oological experts (perhaps correctly) to the gull-billed tern (_sterna anglica_), a species whose eggs we also found by the dozen. the immense aggregations of flamingoes which, in wet seasons, throng the middle marismas can scarce be described. our bird-islets lay so remote from the low-lying shores that no land whatever was in sight; but the desolate horizon that surrounded them was adorned by an almost unbroken line of pink and white that separated sea and sky over the greater part of the circle. on examining the different herds narrowly through binoculars, an obvious dissimilarity was discovered in the appearance of certain groups. one or two in particular seemed so much denser than the others; the narrow white line looked three times as thick, and in the centre gave the idea that the birds were literally piled upon each other. felipe suggested that these flamingoes must be at their _pajeréra_, or breeding-place, and after a long wet ride we found that this was the case. the water was very deep, the bottom clinging mud; at intervals the laboured plunging of the mule was exchanged for an easier, gliding motion--he was swimming. the change was a welcome relief to man and beast; but the labours undergone during these aquatic rides eventuated in the loss of one fine mule, a powerful beast worth £ . [illustration: flamingoes and their nests] on approach, the cause of the peculiar appearance of the flamingo city from a distance became clearly discernible. hundreds of birds were sitting down on a low mud-island, hundreds more were standing erect thereon, while others stood in the water alongside. thus the different elevations of their bodies formed what had appeared a triple or quadruple line. on reaching the spot, we found a perfect mass of nests. the low, flat mud-plateau was crowded with them as thickly as its space permitted. the nests had little or no height above the dead-level mud--some were raised an inch or two, a few might reach four or five inches in height, but the majority were merely circular bulwarks of mud barely raised above the general level, and bearing the impression of the bird's legs distinctly marked upon the periphery. the general aspect of the plateau might be likened to a large table covered with plates. in the centre was a deep hole full of muddy water, which, from the gouged appearance of its sides, had probably supplied the birds with building material. [illustration] scattered round the main colony were many single nests, rising out of the water and evidently built up from the bottom. here and there two or three of these were joined together--"semi-detached," so to speak. these isolated nests stood some eight inches above water-level, and as the depth exceeded a foot, their total height would be two feet or thereabouts, and their width across the hollowed top, some fifteen inches. none of the nests as yet contained eggs, and though we returned to the _pajeréra_ on the latest day we were in its neighbourhood (may ), they still remained empty. on both occasions many hundreds of flamingoes were sitting on the nests, and on the th we enjoyed excellent views at close quarters. linked arm-in-arm with felipe, and crouching low on the water to look as little human as possible, we had approached within seventy yards before the sentries first showed signs of alarm; and at that distance, with binoculars, observed the sitting flamingoes as distinctly as one need wish. the long red legs doubled under their bodies, the knees projecting slightly beyond the tail, and the graceful necks neatly curled away among their back feathers like a sitting swan, some heads resting on the breasts--all these points were unmistakable. indeed, as regards the disposition of the legs in an incubating flamingo, no other attitude was possible since, in the great majority of cases, the nests were barely raised above the level of the mud-plateau. to sit _astride_ on a _flat_ surface is out of the question. inexplicable it seems that the flamingo, a bird that spends its life half knee-deep in water, should so long delay the period of incubation. for long ere eggs could be hatched, and young reared, the full summer heats of june and july would already have set in, water would have utterly disappeared, and the flamingoes be left stranded in a scorching desert of sun-baked mud. [illustration] being unable ourselves to return to the marisma, we sent felipe back on may , when he obtained eggs--long, white, and chalky, some specimens extremely rugged. two is the number laid in each nest. in we had obtained six eggs taken on may , which may therefore, probably, be taken as the average date of laying. there remains, nevertheless, the bare possibility that eggs had been laid before our visit on may , but swept up meanwhile by egg-raiders. the flamingo city "in being" above described was the first seen by ornithologists, and the observations we were enabled to make settled at last the position and mode of incubation of the flamingo.[ ] science is impersonal, the impulsion of a naturalist springs from devotion to his subject, and from no extrinsic motive--such as personal kudos. nevertheless, we make this categoric claim for ourselves simply because the credit, _quantum valeat_, has since been (not claimed straight away, but rather) insinuated on behalf of others who didn't earn it--analogous with the case of dr. cook and the north pole. where do these thousands of spanish flamingoes breed, and how do they maintain their numbers, when spain, three years out of five, is _too dry_ for nesting purposes? the only obvious answer is, africa. and, though incapable yet of direct proof, that answer is clearly correct. for flamingoes are essentially denizens of the tropic zone. the few that ever overlap into southern europe are but a fraction of their swarming millions farther south. during our own expeditions into british east africa, we found flamingoes in vast abundance on all the equatorial lakes we visited--baringo, nakuru, elmenteita, naivasha, and, especially, lake hannington, where, during past ages, they have so polluted the foreshores as to preclude human occupation. these were the same flamingoes, a few of which "slop over" into europe; we shot two specimens with the rifle in nakuru to prove that.[ ] flamingoes are not migratory in an ordinary sense--birds born on the equator seldom are. their movements have no seasonal character, but depend on the rainfall and the varying condition of the lagoons at different points within their range. here, in spain, we see them coming and going, to and fro, at all seasons according to the state of the marisma--and a striking colour-study they present when pink battalions contrast with dark-green pine beneath and set off by deepest azure above. in flamingoes attempted to establish a nesting-colony at a spot called las albacias in the marisma of hinojos. a mass of nests was already half built, then suddenly abandoned. "if the shadow of a cloud passes over them, they forsake," say the herdsmen of the wilderness. [illustration: flamingoes on their nests.] quantities of drift grass and weed are always found floating where a herd has been feeding, which at first led us to suppose that their food consisted of water-plants (as with geese), but that is not the case. the floating grasses are only incidentally uprooted by the birds while delving in the mud. the spanish marshmen say flamingoes "live on mud," and truly an examination of their crops appears to confirm this. but the mud is only taken in because of the masses of minute creatures (_animalculae_) which it contains, and which form the food of the flamingo. what precisely these living atoms are would require both a microscopical examination and a knowledge of zoophites to determine. the tongue of a flamingo is a thick, fleshy organ filling the whole cavity of the mandibles, and furnished with a series of flexible bony spikes, or hooks, nearly half an inch long and curving inwards. flamingoes' tongues are said to have formed, an epicurean dish in roman days. however that may be, we found them, on trial, quite uneatable--tough as india-rubber; even our dogs refused the "delicacy." this bird's flesh is dark-red and rank, quite uneatable. in the new world the mystery of the nesting habits of the flamingo (_phoenicopterus ruber_) was solved just three years later, and in a precisely similar sense. [illustration: head of flamingo showing the spikes on tongue and lamellae on mandibles. [the beak had to be forced open.]] we will close this chapter with a reference to a recent and most complete demonstration of our subject--that of our namesake, mr. frank m. chapman, of the american museum, new york, in his _camps and cruises of an ornithologist_. therein is set forth, in chapter iv., the last word on this topic. in america, as in spain, the final solution of the problem was only attained after years of patient effort and many disappointments. with the thoroughness of thought and honesty of purpose that marks our transatlantic progeny while treating of natural phenomena, this book sets forth the life-history and domestic economy of the flamingo, from egg to maturity, illustrated by a series of photographs that are absolutely unique.[ ] we conclude by quoting our bird-friend's opening sentence: "there are larger birds than the flamingo, and birds with more brilliant plumage, but no other large bird is so brightly coloured, and no other brightly coloured bird is so large. in brief, size and beauty of plume united reach their maximum development in this remarkable bird, while the open nature of its haunts and its gregarious habit seem specially designed to display its marked characteristics of form and colour to the most striking advantage. when to these superficial attractions is added the fact that little or nothing has hitherto been known of its nesting habits, one may realise the intense longing of a naturalist, not only to behold a flamingo city--itself the most remarkable sight in the bird-world--but to lift the veil through which the flamingo's home-life has been but dimly seen." [illustration] chapter xxvii wild camels it was during these aquatic rides in search of the nesting-places of the flamingo that we first fell in with wild camels. vague yarns, more or less circumstantial, that such animals wandered over the farther marismas, we remember as early as . the thing, however, had appeared too incredible for consideration--at any rate, we gave it none. but in that spring of we one day found ourselves face to face with two unmistakable camels. they stood gazing intently about half a mile away--a huge, shaggy, hump-backed beast, accompanied by a second not half its size. the pair wheeled and made off ere we had approached within yards, and something "game-like" in their style prompted our first and last attempt at pursuit. the camels simply ran away from us, splashing through slippery mud and water, two feet deep, at double our horses' speed, and raising in their flight a tearing trail of foam as of twin torpedo-boats. since then we have fallen in with camels on very many occasions, singly, in twos and threes, or in herds of a dozen to twenty and upwards, old and young together. it is, in fact, only necessary to ride far enough into the marisma to make sure of seeing some of these extraordinary monsters startling the desolate horizon, and silhouetted in incongruous juxtaposition with ranks of rosy flamingoes and flotillas of swimming waterfowl. the whole story of these wild camels and their origin has been narrated in _wild spain_. briefly summarised, the animals were introduced to spain in by the marquis de villafranca (house of medina-sidonia) with the object of employing them in transport and agriculture, as they are so commonly used on the opposite shores of africa. but local difficulties ensued--chiefly arising from the intense fear and repugnance of horses towards camels, which resulted in numerous accidents--and eventually the bactrians were set free in the marisma, wherein they have since lived at large and bred under wholly wild conditions for well-nigh a century. we admit that a statement of the existence of wild camels in these watery wildernesses of spain--flooded during great part of the year--is difficult to accept. the camel is inseparably associated with the most arid deserts of earth, with sun-scorched sahara, arabia petraea, and waterless tropical regions. its physical economy is expressly adapted for such habitats--the huge padded feet and seven-chambered stomach that will sustain it for days without drinking. yet the reader was asked to believe that this specialised desert-dweller had calmly accepted a condition of life diametrically reversed, and not only lives, but breeds and flourishes amidst knee-deep swamp. at the period of which we write the camel was not known to exist on earth in a wild state, and physical disabilities were alleged which would have precluded such a possibility. during historic times it had never been described save only as a beast of burden, the slave of man--and a savage, intractable slave at that. a little later, however, the russian explorer, préjevalsky, met with wild camels roaming over the kumtagh deserts of turkestan, and in tibet sven hedin has since shown the two-humped camel to be one of the normal wild beasts of the central asian table-lands. wild camels in europe represented a considerable draft upon the credulity of readers; and a chorus of ridicule was poured upon the statement. men who had "lived in spain for years"--a foreign consul at seville, engineers employed in reclaiming marismas (somewhere else)--all rushed into print to attest the absurdity of the idea. limited experience was mistaken for complete knowledge! similar treatment was accorded to our observation of pelicans in denmark. ornithologists of copenhagen insinuated we did not know pelicans from seagulls; yet the danish pelicans are as well known to the jutlander fisher-folk as are the spanish camels to the herdsmen and fowlers of the marisma. knowledge is no monopoly of high places. [illustration: wild camels.] the spanish camels spend their lives exclusively in the open marisma, pasturing on the _vetas_, or higher-lying areas, and passing from islet to islet, though the intervening water be three feet deep. we have watched them grazing on subaquatic herbage in the midst of what appeared miles of open water; and, in fact, during wet winters there is no dry land to be seen. yet they never approach the adjacent dunes of doñana, though these would appear so tempting. by night, however, the camels sometimes pass so near to our shooting-lodge that their scent, when borne down-wind, has created panic among the horses, though the stables are situate within an enclosed courtyard. [illustration] antonio trujillo, formerly head-keeper of the coto doñana, some years ago chanced on a camel that was "bogged" in a quicksand (_nuclé_). these places are dangerous, and it was not till six days later that he was enabled, by bringing planks and ropes, to drag the poor beast to firm land. all round the spot where the camel had laid he found every root, and even the very earth, eaten away. yet the animal when set free appeared none the worse, for it strolled away quite unconcerned, and shortly commenced to browse while still close by. young camels are born early in the year, about february, though whether that is the exclusive period we have no means of knowing. a curious incident occurred one winter day when we had ridden out into the marisma expressly in search of camels. it was an intensely cold and dry season, almost unprecedented for the severity of the frost. when several leagues from anywhere, a keen eye detected in the far distance a roving fox. all dismounted, and letting the horses graze, hid behind them and awaited his approach. then with only a single _podenco_, or hunting-dog, _frascuelo_ by name, after a straight-away run of five or six miles over the sun-dried plain, we fairly rode bold reynard down and killed him. six months after the publication of _wild spain_ we received the following letter from h.r.h. the late phillippe, comte de paris, the owner of the adjoining coto del rey:-- _june , ._ having read with the greatest pleasure and interest your description of the wild camels, it struck me that you may appreciate a photograph taken from nature of one of these independent inhabitants of the shores of guadalquivir. i found that one could only look at them from a distance, and therefore the enclosed photographs may be of interest. they were taken three months ago by my nephew, prince henry of orleans. my keepers had in the early morning separated this single animal from the herd, but it escaped from them about marilopez at noon, and when we met with him near the laguna de la madre, and about a mile from the coto del rey, we had only to give him a last gallop to catch him. these camels spend great part of the year on ground of which i am either the owner or the tenant, and i do my best to protect them from the terrible poachers coming from trebujena. in order to be able to do this more effectually, i bought yesterday from the heirs of the landowners who turned them out some seventy years ago, i think, all the claims they can have on these animals. we have recently been favoured by the present comte de paris with the latest details respecting the camels. in a note dated august , h.r.h. writes:-- for some time their numbers have been decreasing, and we no longer see great troops of them as we used to do eighteen years ago. the cause of their diminution is certainly the bitter war waged against them by poachers. the parts of the marisma frequented by the wild camels lie between the coto del rey on the north, the coto doñana on the west, and the guadalquivir on the south-east. the long deep channels of la madre, however, interfere with their reaching the coto doñana, and they chiefly graze in the marismas of hinojos and almonte. the plan pursued by the poachers is as follows:--coming down from some of the little villages, they cross the river in small flat-bottomed boats in which they can creep along the shores to points where they have seen either the spoor or the animals themselves during the day. then drawing near to the camels, under cover of the waning light, they are able to kill one or sometimes two, which they skin and disembowel on the spot. the flesh is cut up into pieces, sewn up in the skin, and, on returning to the riverbank, secreted beneath the flat bottom-boards of the boat, thereby evading detection by civil guards and douaniers. the men then sail down the river and sell the meat at san lucar as venison. when in the marisma in i met one day a troop of forty animals--some old males, their huge bodies covered with thick hair like blankets; there were also females followed by their young--fantastic of appearance, owing to the disproportionate length of their legs, but galloping and frisking around their mothers as they had done since birth. next day my companion and i took lassoes; we encountered a huge old male, singly, which trotted and galloped round our horses, terrifying the poor beasts to such an extent that we could not come near the camel. at length after a fifty-minutes' chase, in crossing a part where the mud was soft and the surface much broken up by cattle coming to drink, we overtook him. thanks to my horse having less fear than the other, i was presently able to throw a lasso around the camel, my companion hauling taut the rope to hold the prisoner fast. the great brute proved very active, defending himself with his immense flat feet, which he used as clubs, and, moreover, he bit, and the bite of a camel is venomous. ultimately i succeeded in getting a second rope around him and dragging him to the ground, where he lay like the domestic camel. the photographs illustrate this episode. old males frequently have the hair very ragged and scant, especially on hind-quarters, and on their knees are great callosities. the truly wild camels of the marisma are fast disappearing. a friend has furnished me with the approximate number now remaining absolutely wild, viz. fifteen or sixteen near la macha fronting the palace of tisana, besides five enclosed in the cerrado de matas gordas, near the palacio del rey, and belonging to madame la condesa de paris. it was owing to the rapid decrease in their numbers, and in order to save them from extinction, that the condesa had these enclosures, known as matas gordas, prepared. they contain excellent pasturage, besides some extent of brushwood; yet the enclosed camels do not flourish, nor have they ever bred. big as the enclosures are, yet the area may be too restricted for them; or it may be the disturbance due to the presence of cattle and herdsmen (since the cerrados are let for grazing) that explains this failure; or possibly the camels resent being enclosed at all. at any rate the spectacle of troops of camels rushing wildly forward in all directions is passing away all too quickly, and soon nothing but the legend will remain. truly it is melancholy that the wild camels should be allowed utterly to disappear, representing, as they do, so extraordinary a fact in zoological science. our friend mr. william garvey tells us that in the summer of , while returning from villamanrique, crossing the dry marisma in his automobile, he saw three camels. he drove towards them, and when at or yards, they turned and fled, he put on full speed (sixty miles an hour), and within some ten minutes had all three camels completely beaten, tongues hanging out, unable to go another yard! this will be the first occasion when wild camels have been run down, in an open desert, by a motor-car! _february , ._--this morning, shortly after daybreak, a big single bull camel passed my "hide" in the lucio de las nuevas within easy ball-shot. he was splashing through water about two feet deep overgrown with samphire bushes, and "roared" at intervals--a curious sort of ventriloquial "gurgle," followed by a bellow which i could still distinguish when he had passed quite two miles away. with the binoculars i distinguished at vast distance five other camels in the direction the single bull was taking. here we insert a note received from the co-author's brother, j. crawhall chapman:-- oh, yes! i remember that camel-day--it's never likely to die out of my memory, for never did i endure a worse experience nor a harder in all my sporting life. it promised to be a great duck-shoot on the famous "laguna grande"; but for me, at any rate, it began, continued, and ended in misery! at . a.m., on opening my eyes, i saw bertie already silently astir--probably seeking quinine or other febrifuge, for we were "housed" (save the mark) in clarita's _choza_, a lethal mud-and reed-thatched hut many a mile out in the marisma. nothing whatever lies within sight--nothing bar desolation of mud and stagnant waters, reeds, samphire, and birds, relieved at intervals by the occasional and far-away view of a steamer's funnel, navigating the guadalquivír sevillewards. well, we arose, looked at what was intended for breakfast, and groped for our steeds. i was to ride an old polo-pony named _bufalo_, an evil-tempered veteran with a long-spoilt "mouth" that ever resented the spanish curb. cold and empty we rode for two long hours in the dark, always following the leader since otherwise inevitable loss must ensue--splosh, splosh, through deep mud and deeper water, never stopping, always stumbling, slipping, slithering onwards. i feared it would never end; and, in fact, it never did--that is, the bog. for when i was finally told "abajo" (which i understood to mean "get down"), and to squat in a miry place so much like the rest of the swamp that it didn't seem to matter much where it really was--well, it was then only a.m. and horribly cold and desolate. [illustration: wild camels of the marisma. photos by h.r.h. philippe, duke of orleans. capturing a wild camel. the captive.] an hour later the sun began to rise. i had not fired a shot--nor had any of us. as a duck-shoot it was a dismal failure. by eight o'clock the sun was quite hot, so i tried to find a stomach--for breakfast. failed again; but drank some sherry, and then lay down till noon in decomposing and malodorous reed-mush and mud. never a duck came near, so shifted my stye to an old dry ridge--apparently an antediluvian division between two equally noisome swamps. here i tried to sleep, but that was no good, for a headache had set in--possibly the effects of sun and sherry combined! i felt the sweeping wind of a marsh-harrier who had found me too suddenly and was half a mile away ere i could get up to shoot. at four o'clock i signalled for _bufalo_ to take me back to our hut, distant eight miles, the only guide being that morning's outward tracks. it was on this ride that there occurred the incident of the day--thrilling indeed had it not been for the headache that left me cheaper than cheap. having traversed some three miles of mud and water, suddenly i saw ahead the "camels a-coming!"--eleven of them in line, the last a calf, and what a splash they made! knowing how horses hate the smell and sight of camels, and _bufalo_ being a rearing and uncomfortable beast at best, i felt perhaps unduly nervous. the camels were marching directly across my line of route and up-wind thereof. if only i could pass that intersecting point well before them, _bufalo_, i hoped, might not catch the unwholesome scent. i tried all i could, but the mud was too sticky. the camel-corps came on, splashing, snorting, and striding at high speed. _bufalo_ saw them quick enough, i can tell you--he stopped dead, gazed and snorted in terror, spun round pirouetting half-a-dozen times, reared, and would certainly have bolted but that he stood well over his fetlocks in mud and nigh up to the girths in water. i could not induce him to face them anyhow; but remember, please, that i was handicapped by the mass of accoutrements and luggage slung around both me and my mount, to wit:--several empty bottles and bags, remains of lunch, some cartridges, three dozen ducks, a paradox gun, waders, and brogues! [illustration] meantime the camels passed my front within yards and then "rounded up." having loaded both barrels with ball, i felt safer, and pushed _bufalo_ forwards--to fifty yards. then the thought occurred to me, "do camels charge?" _bufalo_ reared, twisted, and splashed about in sheer horror, and then--thank goodness--the corps, with a parting roar, or rather a chorus of vicious gurgling grunts, in clear resentment at my presence on the face of the water at all, turned and bolted out west at full speed. i was left alone, and much relieved. the adult camels were of the most disreputable, not to say dissolute appearance, great ugly tangled mats of loose hair hanging from their shoulders, ribs, and flanks, their small ears laid viciously aback, and with utterly disagreeable countenances. i half wish now that i had shot that leading bull--he would never have been missed! i don't suppose that any one has been nearer to these strange beasts than i was that day; certainly i trust never to see them so near again--never in this world! * * * * * while preparing these pages for press we are grieved to hear of the death of our friend mr. william garvey, whose adventure with the camels is narrated above (p. ). mr. garvey, who was in his eightieth year, was a _gentil hombre de la camara_ to king alfonso and had on various occasions, with his nephew, mr. patrick garvey, entertained the monarch on his splendid domain. chapter xxviii after chamois in the asturias picos de europa at the château of nuévos, hidden away amidst cantabrian hills, hard by where the "picos de europa" form the most prominent feature of that -mile range, we were welcomed by the conde de la vega de sella, whom we had met the previous year in norway, and his friend bernaldo de quirós. our host was a bachelor and the menage curiously mixed; there was a wild mexican-indian servant, but more alarming still, a tame wolf prowled free about the house--none too tame either, as testified by a half-healed wound on his master's arm. the bedrooms in the corridor which we occupied had no doors, merely curtains hanging across the doorway, and all night long that wolf pattered up and down the passage outside. my own feelings will not be described--there was an ominous mien in that wolf's eye and in those immense jaws. [illustration] beyond patches of maize and other minute crops grown in infinitesimal fields divided by stone walls and surrounded by woods of chestnut and hazel, the whole landscape surrounding the château was composed of towering grey mountains. it was from this point that with our kind host we had projected an expedition to form acquaintance with chamois, and to see the system of a _montería_ as practised in the biscayan mountains. the month was september. the first stage--on wheels--brought us to the village of arénas de cabrales, where a gipsy fair or _romería_ was raging, affording striking display of local customs and fashion. the girls, handsome though somewhat stalwart, wearing on their heads bright-coloured kerchiefs (instead of, as in andalucia, flowers in the hair), danced strange steps to the music of a drum and a sort of bagpipe called the _gaita_. cider here replaced wine as a beverage, and wooden sabots are worn instead of the hempen sandals of the south. maize is the chief crop, and women work hard, doing, except the ploughing, most of the field labour. the hill-country around belonged chiefly to our host, who was received with a sort of feudal respect. ancient rights included (this we were told, but did not see enforced) the privilege of kissing all pretty daughters of the estate. the region is primitive enough even for the survival of so agreeable a custom. such detail in a serious work must appear frivolous by comparison, yet it reflects the _genius loci_. this was the point at which we had to take the hill. our outfit was packed on ponies, and being joined by three of the chamois-hunters, we set out, following the course of the river cares. this gorge of the cares, along with its sister-valley the desfiladero de la deva, form two of the most magnificent canyons in all the asturias, and perhaps have few equals in the wider world outside. the bridle-track led along rock-shelves on the hanging mountain-side, presently falling again till we rode close by the torrent of the cares, here swirling in foaming rapids with alternations of deep pools of such crystalline water that trout could be discerned swimming twenty feet below the surface. the water varied between a diamond-white and an emerald-green, according as the stream flowed over the white limestone or rocks of darker shade. approaching bulnes, the track became absolutely appalling, zigzagging to right and left up an almost perpendicular mountain. riding was here out of the question. it was giddy work enough on foot, rounding corners where the outer rim overhung a sheer drop of hundreds of feet to the torrent below, and with no protection to save horse or man in the event of a slip or false step. not without mental tremors we surmounted it and reached bulnes, a dozen stone, windowless houses clustered on an escarpment. this is facetiously called the "upper town," and we presumed that another group of hovels hidden somewhere beneath our sight formed lower bulnes. we entered the best looking of these stone-age abodes, and discovered that it formed the presbytery of the cura of bulnes, a strange mixture of alpine hut with gothic hermitage. slabs of rough stone projecting from unhewn walls served as tables, while rudely carved oak-chests did double duty as seats or wardrobes in turn. the cura's bed occupied one corner, and from the walls hung gun and rifle, together with accoutrements of the chase--satchels, belts, and pouches, all made of chamois-skin. at first sight indeed the whole presbytery reeked rather of hunting than of holiness--it is scarce too strong to say it smelt of game. an inner apartment, windowless and lit by the feeble flicker of a _mariposa_, that recalled the reed-lights of mediaeval history (and to which, by the way, access was only gained past other cells which appeared to be the abode of cows and of the cook respectively), was assigned to us. the padre himself was away on the cliffs above cutting hay, for he combines agriculture with the care of souls, owns many cows, and makes the celebrated cheese known as "cabrales." presently he joined us in his stone chamber, and at once showed himself to be, by his frank and genuine manner, what later experience proved him, a true sportsman and a most unselfish companion. his reverence at once set about the details of organising our hunt, sent his nephew to round-up the mountain lads, some being sent off at once to spend that night, how, we know not, in crags of the peña vieja, while others were instructed to join us there in the morning. while we dined on smoked chamois and rough red wine he busied himself arranging weapons, ammunition, and mocassins for a few days' work on the crags. our arrival having been prearranged, we were soon on our upward way, by sinous tracks which lead to the summits of the picos de europa, some altitudes of which are as follows: peña vieja, , feet; picos de hierro, feet; pico de san benigno, feet. all heavy baggage was left below; there only remained the tent, rugs, guns, and cartridges, and these were got up, heaven knows how, to about half the required height on the backs of two donkeys. for provisions we relied on the milk and bread of the cheese-makers who live up there, much in the style of the norwegian peasants at their _saeters_, or summer sheilings on the fjeld. hard by the _cabaña_, or cabin, of these honest folks, our tent was pitched--altitude, feet. with the first of the daylight, after a drink of milk, we started upwards, our host, the cura, bertie, and ourselves. with us were ten goat-herds who had to flank the drive; the others would already be occupying allotted positions, we knew not where. three hours' climbing--the usual struggle, only worse--took us to the first line of "passes," far above the last signs of vegetation and amidst what little snow remains here in summer. this "drive" had been reckoned a certainty, and four animals were reported seen in the mist, but no chamois came in to the guns, and yet another two-hours' climb had to be faced ere the second set of posts was reached. this bit, however, definitely stopped for the moment my career as a chamois-hunter, such was the slippery, perpendicular, and utterly dangerous nature of the rocks. a fortnight before i had climbed the plaza de almanzór in the sierra de grédos, but these pinnacles of the picos proved beyond my powers. the admission, beyond any words of mine, bespeaks the character of these cantabrian peaks. here on a dizzy ledge at feet i remained behind, while the rest of the party, filing up a rock-stair, were lost to sight within fifteen yards. before me stretched away peak beyond peak in emulating altitudes the whole vast cordillera of cantabria--a glory of mountain-forms. ...the things which tower, which shine, whose smile makes glad, whose frown is terrible. in majestic array, pinnacles and crannied summits, flecked and streaked with glistening snows, enthral and subdue. the giants peña vieja, urriales, garnizo, lift their heads above the rest, piercing the blue ether--fancied spires in some celestial shrine. this smiling noontide an all-pervading spirit of peace reigns; the sublimity of solitude generates reverence and awe, the voice of the creator seems audible amidst encompassing silence. far away below, as in another world, lie outspread champaigns; sunlit stubbles, newly stripped of autumnal crops, form chequers of contrasted colour that set off with golden background the dark asturian woods, while fresh green pastures blend in harmony with the riant foliage of the vine. presently, following my companion, a goat-herd, who had been left with me, by slow degrees we reached the spot appointed to await our party's return. [illustration: the home of the chamois. chamois from life on la llorosa, peÑa vieja. el corroble, picos de europa, asturias.] hours went by and six o'clock came before, on the skyline above, they appeared, five of the _monteros_ each bearing a chamois on his shoulder. then, in the -feet ravine towards the north, a third drive was attempted for my special benefit; but the day was far spent, and during the crucial half-hour snow-clouds skurrying along the crests shut out all chance of seeing game. the beaters reported enclosing quite forty chamois, some of which broke downwards through the flankers, the rest passing a trifle wide of the guns. this beat is termed "el arbol." long and weary was the descent, and fiendish places we had to pass ere the welcome camp-fires loomed up through gathering darkness. those who wish to shoot chamois should commence the undertaking before they have passed the half-century. the successful drive that was thus missed by no. is hereunder described by no. . we give the narrative in detail, inasmuch as this day's operation was typical of the system of chamois-shooting as practised in the asturian mountains. after leaving no. as mentioned, and while proceeding to our next position, a number of chamois were viewed scattered in three groups on the hanging screes of a second gorge, a mile beyond that which we had intended to beat. after consultation held, it was decided to alter the plan and to send the guns completely round the outer periphery of encircling heights so as to command the passes immediately above the game. this involved two hours' climbing and incidentally three detours, scrambling each time down the precipitous moraine to avoid showing in sight of the chamois. upon reaching the reverse point, the conde and i were assigned the most likely posts; and these being also the highest, a final heart-breaking climb up a thousand feet of loose rocks succeeded. chamois, like ibex, when disturbed instinctively make for the highest ground, hence our occupation of the topmost passes. cheered on by the conde, himself as hard as steel, the effort was accomplished, and i sank down, breathless, parched, and exhausted, behind a big rock that was indicated as my position. the lower passes had meanwhile been occupied by the padre and by sundry shepherds armed with primitive-looking guns. on recovering some degree of breath and strength, i surveyed my surroundings. we were both stationed on the topmost arête, in a nick that broke for or yards the rim of a knife-edged ridge that separated two stupendous gorges. on my right, while facing the beat, and not yards away, the nick was terminated by a rock-mass perpendicular and four-square as a cathedral tower, that uprose some feet sheer. on the left also rose cliffs though not quite so abrupt. the position was such that any game attempting to pass the nick must appear within or yards--so, in our simplicity, we thought. [illustration: a chamois drive--picos de europa diagram illustrative of text. our positions on arête marked ( ) and ( ); "cathedral" on right. valley beyond full of driving mist (passing our power to depict).] behind us dipped away the long moraine of loose rocks by which we had ascended; while in front, by stepping but a few paces across the narrow neck, we could look down into the depths of the gorge whence the quarry was to approach, as we feebly attempt to show in diagram annexed. the panorama from these altitudes was superb beyond words. we were here far above the stratum of mist which enshrouded our camp and the sierra for some distance above it. we looked down upon a billowy sea of white clouds pierced here and there by the summits and ridges of outstanding crags like islands on a surf-swept coast. of bird-life there was no sign beyond choughs and a soaring eagle that our guides called aguila pintada (_aquila bonellii_, immature). there are wild-boar in the forests far below, with occasional wolves and yet more occasional bear. hark! the distant cries of beaters break the solemn silence and announce that operations have begun. almost instantly thereafter the rattle of loose stones dislodged by the feet of moving chamois came up from beneath our eyrie. so near was the sound that expectation waxed tense and eyes scanned each possible exit. then from the heights on the left, and already above us, sprang into view a band of five chamois lightly skipping from ledge to ledge with an agility that cannot be conveyed in words. the conde and i fired simultaneously. the beast i had selected pulled himself convulsively together, sprang in air, and then fell backwards down the abyss whence he had just emerged. so abrupt was the skyline that no second barrel was possible; but while we yet gazed into space the rattle of falling stones right _behind_ attracted attention in that direction, and a chamois was bounding across that loose moraine (or "canal" as it is here called) by which we had ascended. he flew those jumbled rocks as though they were a ballroom floor, offering at best but a snapshot, and the bullet found the beast already protected by a rock. hardly, however, had cartridges been replaced than three more _rebecos_ followed along precisely the same track, and this time each gun secured one buck. note that all these last four animals had come in from our _right_, that is, they had escaladed the "cathedral"; though by what earthly means they could surmount sheer rock-walls devoid of visible crack or crevice passes human comprehension. for myself, having regarded the cathedral as impassable, i had kept no watch on that side. for the next half-hour all was quiet. then we heard again the rattle of hoofs somewhere down under, and on the sound ceasing, had gently raised ourselves to peer over into the eerie abyss in front, when a chamois suddenly poked his head over the rocks within fifteen yards, only to vanish like a flash. from this advanced position, in the far distance we could now distinguish the beaters, looking like flies as they descended the opposite circle of crests, and could hear their cries and the reverberation of the rocks they dislodged to start the game. an extra burst of clamour denoted game afoot, and a few seconds later another chamois (having once more mocked the cathedral barrier) darted across the moraine behind and fell within a score of yards of the previous pair, though all three were finally recovered several hundred feet below, having rolled down these precipitous screes. the first chamois i had shot had fallen even farther--at one point over a sheer drop that could not be less than feet. his body was smashed into pulp, every bone broken, but curiously the horns had escaped intact. we were much struck by the clear emerald-green light in the eyes of newly killed chamois. the beaters being now close at hand, we scrambled down to rejoin the padre who had occupied the _puesto_ next below ours. we found that worthy man very happy as he had succeeded in putting two slugs into a chamois-buck, to which the _coup de grâce_ had been given by don serafin lower down. a curious incident occurred as we made our way to the next beat where "no. " was to rejoin us. suddenly the rugged stones that surrounded us were vivified by a herd of bouncing chamois--they had presumably been disturbed elsewhere and several came our way. a buck fell to a long shot of our host; while another suddenly sprang into view right under the padre's feet. this, he averred, he would certainly have killed had he been loaded with slugs (_postas_) instead of ball. the six chamois brought into camp to-night included four bucks and two does. we had not ourselves found it possible to distinguish the sexes in life, though long practice enabled the conde to do so when within moderate distance. all six were of a foxy-red colour, and the horns measured from seven to eight inches over the bend. chamois are certainly very much easier to obtain than ibex. not only are they tenfold more abundant, but, owing to their diurnal habits, they are easily seen while feeding in broad daylight (often in large herds) on the open hillsides. they never enter caves or crevices of the rocks as ibex habitually do. chamois might undoubtedly be obtained by stalking, though that art is not practised in spain. the excessively rugged nature of the ground is rather against it; for one's view being often so restricted, there is danger while stalking chamois, which have been espied from a distance, of "jumping" others previously unseen though much nearer. driving, as above described, is the method usually adopted. few beaters comparatively are required; the positions of flankers and stops are often clearly indicated by the natural configuration of the crests. dogs are occasionally employed. the game, in their terror of canine pursuers, will push forward into precipices whence there is no exit; and then, rather than attempt to turn, will spring down to certain death. the best foot-gear is the spanish _alpargata_, or hemp-soled sandal. they will withstand two or three days' wear on the roughest of rocks and only cost some eighteenpence a pair. nailed boots are useless and dangerous. similar days followed, some more successful, others less, but all laborious in the last degree. both limbs and lungs had well-nigh given out ere the time arrived to strike camp and abandon our eyrie. during the descent to bulnes we noticed a goat which, in feeding along the crags, had reached a spot whence it could neither retreat nor escape, and by bleating cries distinctly displayed its fear. now that goat was only worth one dollar, yet its owner spent a solid hour, risking his own life, in crawling along ledges and shelves of a fearful rock-wall (_pared_) to save the wretched animal. we looked on speechless, fascinated with horror--at times pulses well-nigh stood still; even our hunters recognised that this was a rash performance. yet that goat was reached, a lasso attached to its neck, and it was drawn upwards to safety. this incident occurred on the naranjo de bulnes, a dolomite mountain which stands out like a perpendicular and four-square tower, in the central group or _massif_ of the picos--that known as urriales. the actual height of the naranjo is given as feet, which is exceeded by those of either of the other two groups to east and west respectively. but its abrupt configuration gives the naranjo by far the most imposing, indeed appalling appearance, far surpassing all its rivals, while its lateral walls of sheer rock, some of which reach to feet vertically, long lent this peak the reputation of being absolutely unscalable. that feat has, however (after countless failures), been accomplished, in the first instance by don pedro pidal, marquis de villaviciosa de asturias, who was accompanied in the ascent by gregorio perez, a famous chamois-hunter of caïn. at arénas de cabrales we bade farewell to our kind host, despatched caraballo with the baggage to santandér, thence to find his way to jerez as best he might, by sea; and ourselves drove off through the hills forty miles to the railway at cabezón de la sal, there to entrain for bilbao, paris, and london. * * * * * on august , , at a royal _montería_ above aliva and andara h.m. don alfonso xii. recovered the same evening (lying dead around his post) no less than twenty-one chamois. thirteen more, which had fallen into the abyss beneath, were brought in next morning, and nine others later, making a total of forty-three chamois actually recovered, besides those that had lodged in such inaccessible spots that their bodies could not be reached. at another royal shoot held st and nd september h.m. king alfonso xiii. killed five chamois, the total bag on that occasion being twenty-three. the picos de europa declared a royal preserve in the freeholders of those villages in the three provinces of santandér, león, and asturias, which lie encircling the picos de europa, offered to h.m. king alfonso xiii. the exclusive rights of hunting the chamois throughout the whole "central group." his majesty was pleased to accept the offer, and in the following year commissioned the marquis of villaviciosa de asturias (the intrepid conqueror of the naranjo) to appoint guards to preserve the game. five such guards were appointed in , their chief being the aforementioned gregorio perez, representing the region of caïn, the other four representing those of bulnes, sotres, espiñama, and valdeón. the chamois in the four regions named can be counted in thousands. [illustration: types of spanish bird-life hoopoe (_upupa epops_) the crest normally folds flat, backwards (as shown at p. ), but at intervals flashes upright like a halo.] chapter xxix highlands of asturias ( ) the trout in spain the asturian highlands--a maze of mist-wreathed mountains forested with birch and pine, the home of brown bear and capercaillie, and on whose towering peaks roam herds of chamois by hundreds--form a region distinct from the rest of spain. rushing rivers and mountain-torrents coursing down each rent in those rock-ramparts attracted our earliest angling ambitions. some of those efforts--with rod and gun--are recorded in _wild spain_, and we purpose attempting no more--whether with pen or fly-rod. for the spanish trout is given no sort of sporting chance, and lovely streams--a very epitome of trouting-water--that might make the world a pleasanter planet (and enrich their owners too) are abandoned to the assassin with dynamite and quicklime, or to villainous nets, cruives, and other engines of wholesale destruction with which we have no concern. never since the date of _wild spain_ have we cast line on spanish waters, nor ever again will we attempt it. spain which, from her french frontier in the pyrenees right across to that of portugal on the west, might rival any european country in this respect stands well-nigh at the foot of the list. not in the most harassed streams of norway, nor in her hardest-"ottered" lakes, have the trout so damnable a fate dealt out to them as in northern spain, and for twenty years we have abandoned it as an angling potentiality--or, to put it mildly, there are countries infinitely more attractive to the wandering fisherman. the case of the spanish trout as it stands to-day is summed up in the following letter, dated april , from our friend capt. f. j. mitchell:-- i have tried a great many of the best rivers in northern spain, and have come to the conclusion that for angling purposes they have been hopelessly ruined--by dynamite, cloruro, lime, coca, and various other things. there may be deep pools here and there where fish have escaped, but they are very few. if your book is not finished you can put this in, as it is accurate, and may save many a disappointment to the free fisherman. farther south, in león and northern estremadura, are also rivers of first-rate character. the alagón, for example, with its tributaries, is well adapted for trout--dashing streams with alternate stretches of pool and rapid. these still hold trout in their head-waters among the mountains; but lower down the speckled beauties are well-nigh extirpated. in this region one frequently observes, not without surprise, evidence of the introduction and acclimatisation of exotic products by old-time moors--often in most outlandish nooks, wherever their keen eyes had spotted some fertile patch: probably, ere this, that energetic race would have preserved and cultivated the trout! the success of such enterprise in new zealand and south africa (it is even promising to succeed under the equator in b.e. africa), and indeed in spain itself (at algeciras), attests how easily these iberian waters might be endowed with a new interest and a new value. such, however, is existent apathy that, although the local natives (n. estremadura) were aware of the presence of fish in their rivers, and told us that some ran to or lbs. in weight (these were barbel), yet they knew no distinctive names for the various species. all fish, big or little, were merely _pesces--muy buenas pesces_. none could describe them, whether as to appearance or habit, nor did they know whether some species were migratory or otherwise. the only angling we have seen practised in this province was at trujillo, where in some lakes adjoining that old-world city _tencas_ (we presume tench) up to or lbs. are taken with bait. ( ) salmon to such an extent used these to abound in asturian streams that maid-servants stipulated on entering domestic service that they should not be given salmon more than twice a week. at the present day the pollution of rivers by coal-mining and other impurities has in some cases banished the salmon entirely, in others greatly reduced their numbers. there yet remain, nevertheless, rivers in asturias (such as the deva and cares) where salmon abound, and where numbers are still caught--chiefly by net, though rod-fishing is gradually extending its popularity, "owing to the glorious emotions it excites." a local method deserves a word of description. in the crystal-clear waters of n. spain salmon are regularly captured by expert divers. its exact position having been marked, the diver, swimming warily up from behind, slips a running noose over the salmon's head. the noose draws tight as the fish begins to run; an attached line is then hauled upon by a second fisherman on the bank. the marquis de villaviciosa de asturias writes us:-- it is a common practice with the fishermen to dive and capture salmon in their arms (_á brazo_). my grandfather, the marquis de camposagrado, caught twelve thus in a single morning in the river nalon in asturias. ( ) bear-hunting in asturias to the same nobleman (one of the first sportsmen of spain) we are indebted for the following note:-- as regards the chase of the bear in asturias, where i have killed four, i may say that it commences in september, at which period the bears are in the habit of descending nightly from the higher mountain-forests to the lower ground in order to raid the maize-fields in the valleys. expert trackers, sent out at daybreak, spoor the bear right up to whichever covert he may have entered, and from which no further tracks emerge beyond. the locality at which the animal has laid up being thus ascertained, a _montería_ (mountain-drive) is organised--the beaters being provided with crackers, empty tins, hunting-horns, and every sort of ear-splitting engine--even the services of the bagpiper[ ] are requisitioned! three or four guns are usually required, and are posted along the line where the bear is most likely to break--such as where the forest runs out to a point; or where it is narrowed by some projecting spur of precipitous rocks; or a deep valley where the covert is flanked by a mountain-torrent that restricts and defines the probable line of escape. the bear (which is in the habit of attacking and destroying much cattle) comes crashing through the brushwood, breaking down all obstacles, and giving ample notice by the noise of his advance. if wounded he will attack the aggressor; but otherwise bears only become dangerous when they have young or are hurt in some way. the picturesque nature of these mountain-forests lends a further fascination to the chase of the bear in asturias. from twenty to thirty bears are killed here every year. the following quaint paragraphs we extract from spanish newspapers:-- fight with a bear.--in the mountains of the province of lerida (catalonia) a bear last week attacked and overpowered a muleteer, intending to devour him. a shepherd who happened to be in the neighbourhood, though at some little distance, witnessed the occurrence. hastening with his utmost speed to the spot, he threw himself between the bear and its victim; and after a prolonged and strenuous combat (_lucha larga y esforzada_), the shepherd succeeded with his lance (_garrocha_) in killing the savage beast (_fiera_). in his gratitude, the muleteer desired to present the shepherd with the best horse of his cavalcade, but this the latter declined.--_november , ._ incursion of a bear.--in the outskirts of the village of parámo in the province of oviedo (asturias) there has within the last few days made its presence felt an immense bear which continued to execute terrible destruction among the cattle belonging to the villagers. fortunately the parish-priest, who is an expert shot, succeeded in killing the depredator. it weighed kilograms (= lbs.).--_april , ._ [two others are recorded to weigh and lbs.] chase of a she-bear--santandÉr, _february _. from molledo an assemblage of the local peasantry, mustered for the purpose, and bearing every kind of weapon, sallied forth, to give battle to a bear which for some weeks had been working havoc among their flocks and herds. after traversing the mountains in all directions without result, they were already returning, dead-beat and disappointed, towards their village, when they suddenly descried the bear standing in the entrance to a cave. on observing the presence of hunters, the animal disappeared within. a shepherd named melchor martinez at once followed, penetrating the interior of the cavern which extends far into the mountain-side. presently on indistinctly perceiving (_divisando_) the beast, melchor gave it a shot--flying out himself with hair all standing on end (_encrespados_) at the roaring of the wild beast (_fiera_). melchor, nevertheless, at once entered the den again and fired a second shot--jumping out immediately thereafter. after a short interval, the roars of the _fiera_ within having ceased, the hunters in a body entered the cavern and found an enormous she-bear lying dead, together with four young, alive, which they carried away. (bravo, melchor martinez!) ( ) game-birds of cantabria alike in its game-denizens with other physical features, cantabria is differentiated from the rest of spain, approximating rather to a north-european similitude. thus the capercaillie is spread along the whole biscayan range though nowhere numerous, and in appearance less so than in fact, owing to the density of these mountain-forests. during our long but fruitless rambles after bear we raised but four; that, however, was in spring when these birds are apt to lie close. in the pyrenees (where the capercaillie is known as _gallo de bosque_) a certain number are shot every winter along with roebuck and pig in mountain-drives (_monterías_); but in the asturias the pursuit of the _gallo de monte_ is effected (as in austria and northern europe) during its courting-season in may. the system is well known. the opportunity occurs at dusk and dawn, the stalker advancing while the lovelorn male sings a frenzied epithalamium, halting instantly when the bird becomes silent. ptarmigan are found in the pyrenees, but seem to extend no farther west than the province of navarre, which area also coincides roughly with the southern distribution of the hazel-grouse (_tetrao bonasia_) though we had some suspicion (not since confirmed) that the latter may extend into asturias. our common grey partridge, unknown in s. spain, occurs all along the cantabrian highlands up to, but not beyond, the cordillera de león. here it descends to the foothills in winter, but is never found on the plains. a bird peculiar to this region, though not game, deserves remark, the great black woodpecker, a subarctic species which we have observed in the picos de europa. angling in river and sea[ ] nearly all the spanish rivers when they leave the sierras and dawdle through the plains degenerate into sluggish mud-charged streams; but most of them are well stocked with barbel, which may be caught by methods similar to those in vogue on the thames, _i.e._ by float-fishing or ledgering with fine but strong tackle, as the first rush of a barbel is worthy of a trout. these fish average about one pound in weight, but in favourable spots, such as mill-tails, run up to lbs. and upwards. the spanish barbel has developed one trait in advance of its english cousins, for it will rise to a fly, or at least to a grasshopper. owing to the abundance of these insects and of crickets along the river-banks in summer, the barbel have acquired a taste for such delicacies, and a hot june afternoon in andalucia may be worse spent than in "dapping" beneath the trees that fringe the banks of guadalete and similar rivers. the _boga_, a little fish of the roach or dace family, seldom exceeding a quarter pound, will afford amusement in all the smaller trout-streams of spain and portugal when trout are recusant. the _boga_ is lured with a worm-tail (on finest gut and smallest hook) from each little run or cascade, whence five or six dozens may be extracted in an afternoon. the grey mullet (spanish, _lisa_) is a good sporting fish ranging from half a pound up to four pounds weight, and caught readily in tidal rivers as it comes up from sea on the flood. native anglers are often very successful, using long roach-poles and gear similar to that of the roach-fisher at home. the bait is either lugworm or paste, and on favouring days as many as two dozen mullet are landed during the run of the flood-tide. the shad (spanish, _sabalo_), though not only the handsomest but also the best-eating of all tidal-river fish, is of no concern to the angler, since it refuses to look at lure of any kind. the tunny (spanish, _atun_) frequents the south-spanish coasts and comes in millions to the mouths of the big rivers (especially the guadalquivír) to spawn. the usual method of capture is by a huge fixed net called the _almadrava_, extending three miles out to sea, and placed at such an angle to the coast-line that the fish, on striking it, follow along to the inshore end, where they enter a _corral_ or enclosed space about an acre in extent. here the fishing-boats lie waiting, and when as many as huge tunnies (they average lbs. apiece) are enclosed at once, a scene of wild excitement and bloodshed ensues, the great fish darting and splashing around their prison, sending spray flying mast-high, while the fishermen yell and gaff and harpoon by turns. the most successful _almadrava_ is situate at rota, some seven miles south of the mouth of guadalquivír, the average catch for the season (may till august ) being about , tunnies. a canning factory stands on the shore hard by, where the fish are boiled, potted, and shipped to italy, whence (the tins being labelled "italian tunny") they are exported to all parts of the world! the flesh resembles veal, and is much appreciated in south america. rod-fishing for tunny at this period, when the tunny go to spawn (exclusively larger fish), they travel, as the spaniards say, with their mouths shut, and nothing will induce them to look at a bait. there occurs, however, in winter (november to february) another "run" of smaller fish averaging to lbs. apiece, and these are amenable to temptation. tarifa, in the straits of gibraltar, is a favourable point from which to attempt this sport. the system is to cruise about in a falucho, or sailing-boat, carrying a plentiful supply of sardines, mackerel, and other small fish to serve as bait. these, on arrival at likely waters, are thrown overboard one by one till at length they attract a roving tunny. the operation is repeated till the quarry is enticed close up to the vessel. a similar fish, impaled on a two-inch hook, is then offered him, dangling on the surface, and will probably be seized. the tunny on finding himself held, makes off in a bee-line at a mile a minute. needless to say, the strongest tackle must be used, together with some hundreds of yards of line, and the fight will be severe and prolonged, for the tunny is one of the swiftest and most active of fish, and he weighs as much as an average man. few amateurs have hitherto attempted this sport; but as large numbers of tunny are caught thus by professional fishermen with extremely coarse hand-lines, there seems to be no reason why "big-game fishing" in spain, if scientifically pursued, might not rival that of california. the bonito is another fine game-fish which may be caught at sunrise at nearly any point on the andalucian sea-board by trolling with a white fly. chapter xxx the sierra nevÁda the sierra neváda with its striking skylines, crisp and clean-cut against an azure background, is yearly surveyed by thousands of tourists in southern spain. the majority content themselves with the distant view from the battlements of alhambra or from the summer-palace of generalife. few penetrate the alpine solitude or scale peaks that look so near yet cost some toil to gain. we are not ashamed to admit that these glorious sierras have in themselves possessed for us attractions that transcend in interest the accumulated art-treasures, the store of historic and legendary lore that illumine the shattered relics of moslem rule--of an empire city where during seven centuries the power and faith of the crescent dominated south-western europe and the focal point of mediaeval culture and chivalry. none, nevertheless, can long sojourn in granada wholly uninfluenced by its stirring past, by the pathetic story of the fall of moorish dominion, and the words graven on countless stones till they seem to represent the very spirit of this land, the words of the founder, king alhama: la galib illa allah = only god is victor. abler pens have portrayed these things, and we will only pause to touch on one dramatic episode--since its scene lies on our course to the "high tops"--when boabdil, last of the caliphs, paused in his flight across the _vega_ to cast back a final glance at the scene of his former greatness and lost empire. "you do well," snarled axia, his mother, "to weep over your kingdom like a woman since you could not defend it like a man." that the maternal reproach was undeserved was proved by boabdil's heroic death in battle, thirty years later, near fez.[ ] from this spot--still poetically called el ultimo suspiro del moro--the sierra neváda stretches away some forty miles to the eastward with an average depth of ten miles, and includes within that area the four loftiest altitudes in all this mountain-spangled peninsula of spain. the chief points in the pyrenees, nevertheless, run them fairly close, as shown in the following table:-- greatest altitudes in feet _sierra neváda._ mulahacen , picacho de la veleta , alcazába , cerro de los machos , col de la veleta , _pyrenees._ pico de nethou , monte de posets , monte perdido , by way of comparison it may be added that the next greatest elevations in spain are:-- picos de europa (described in chap. xxviii.) , feet sierra de grédos (already described) , " curiously all the loftiest elevations occur outside the great central table-lands of spain, the highest point of which latter is the last-quoted sierra de grédos. adjoining the sierra neváda on the south, and practically filling the entire space between it and the mediterranean, lie the alpuxarras, covering some fourteen miles by ten. the alpuxarras are of no great elevation ( to feet), and are separated from their giant neighbours by the valle de lecrin, the entrance to which bears the poetic name of el ultimo suspiro del moro, as just described. here is a spanish appreciation of neváda:-- compare this with northern mountains--alps or pyrenees: the tone, the colours, the ambient air differentiate this southern range. snow, it is true, surmounts all alike, but here the very sky flashes radiant (_rutilante_) in its azure intensity contrasted with the cold blue of glacier-ice. here, in lower latitude, the rocks appear rather scorched by a torrid sun than lashed by winter rain and hibernal furies. the valleys present a semi-tropical aspect, resulting from the industry of old-time moors, who, ever faithful to the precepts of the koran, introduced every such species of exotic fruit or herb as was calculated to flourish and enrich the land.[ ] the main chain of the sierra neváda constitutes one of the strongholds of the spanish ibex; and, curiously, the ibex is the solitary example of big game that these mountains can boast. differing in geological formation from other mountain-systems of southern spain, the sierra neváda shelters neither deer of any kind--red, fallow, or roe--nor wild-boar. the ibex, on the other hand, must be counted as no mean asset, and though totally unprotected, they yet hold their own--a fair average stock survives along the line of the veleta, alcazába, and mulahacen. this survival is due to the vast area and rugged regions over which (in relatively small numbers) the wild-goats are scattered; but even more so to the antiquated muzzle-loading smooth-bores hitherto employed against them. that moment when cheap, repeating cordite rifles shall have fallen into the hands of the mountain-peasantry will sound the death-knell of the ibex. [illustration: lammergeyer (_gypallus barbatus_) a glorious denizen of sierra neváda.] while writing the above we hear (from two sources) that the "mauser" has at last got into the hands of at least one local goat-herd, who last summer killed four out of a band of five ibex--all sexes and sizes. there is no mistaking the import of this. it signifies that the end is in view unless prompt measures are taken to save the ibex of neváda from extirpation. so long as local hunters were restricted to their old ball-guns, the contest was fairly equal and the game could hold its own. but neither ibex nor any other wild beast on earth can withstand _free_ shooting (unlicensed and unlimited) with -yard "repeaters." personally the writer regards the use of repeating-rifles on game as sheer barbarism. these are military weapons, and should be excluded from every field of sport. a precisely analogous case is afforded by norway and her reindeer. the mauser first appeared there in . three years later we pointed out, both to the norwegian government and also in _wild norway_, that unless steps were taken to regulate and limit the resultant massacre, the wild reindeer would be extinct within five years. our warnings passed unheeded; but the prediction erred only on the side of moderation. for only four years later (in ) the norsk government was forced to _prohibit absolutely_ all shooting for a period of seven years, and to impose, on the expiry of that time, both licence-duties and limits, alike on native as well as on foreign sportsmen. free shooting, unregulated and unlimited, means with modern weapons instant extermination--a matter of a few years. then, after some creature has perished off the face of the earth, we read a gush of maudlin regret and vain disgust. it is too late; why do not these good folk bestir themselves while there is time to safeguard creatures that yet survive, though menaced with deadly danger? warnings such as ours pass unnoticed, and platonic tears are bottled-up for posthumous exhibition. * * * * * in winter the ibex are driven downwards by the snow. they first descend southwards to the trevenque--one of those abruptly peaked mountains that "stretch out" even skilled climbers to conquer. a long knife-edged ridge is trevenque, culminating in a sheer pyramidal aiguille, its flanks scarred by ravines with complication of scarp and counter-scarp, upstanding crags and steep shale-shoots that defy definition by pen or pencil. a main winter resort is supplied by the alpuxarras, and, beyond the dividing valle de lecrin, ibex are distributed along the whole series of mountain-ranges that lie along the mediterranean as far as the sierras bermeja and ronda. among those subsidiary ranges, the following may here be specified as ibex-frequented, to wit: the sierras de nerja and lujar near motril, sierra tejáda lying south of the vega de granada (especially the part called cásulas, which, with most of the range, is private property and preserved), sierras de competa and alhama, and, nearer the sea, the sierra frigiliana belonging to the late duke of fernan nunez, who secured trophies thereon exceeding thirty inches in length. westward, in the province of malaga, lie the sierra de ojen, sierra blanca, and palmitera (a great area of these being now preserved by mr. pablo larios), and last the sierra bermeja, described in _wild spain_. several of these ranges are of bare rock, while others are covered to their summits with gorse and other brushwood. * * * * * the most enjoyable season for ibex-shooting (and on preserved ground the most favourable) is during august and september, when the snow has practically disappeared, except the permanent glaciers and stray patches in some northern ravines. camp-life is then delightful and exhilarating and, given sound lungs and limbs, the game may be fairly stalked and shot. the photo shows a typical trophy--a grand ibex ram shot years ago on the alcazába, horns - / inches--another specimen measuring inches is figured in _wild spain_. our own experiences with ibex, however, are now rather remote and might appear out-of-date. we therefore content ourselves with the following extract from our work quoted. on a bitterly cold march morning we found ourselves, as day slowly broke, traversing the outspurs of the sierra--on the scene of the great earthquake of , evidences of which were plentiful enough among the scattered hill-villages. already many mule-teams, heavily laden with merchandise from the coast town of motril, were wending their laborious way inland. it is worth noting that in front of five or six laden mules it is customary to harness a single donkey. this animal does little work; but always passes approaching teams on the proper side, and, moreover, picks out the best parts of the road. this enables the driver to go to sleep, and the plan, we were told, is a good one. at lanjarón ( feet) we breakfasted at the ancient _fonda_ of san rafael, where the bright and beautifully polished brass and copper cooking utensils hanging on the walls were a sight to make a careful housewife envious. we watched our breakfast cooked over the charcoal-fire, and learned a good deal thereby. we were delayed here a whole day by snow-storms. there is stabling under the _fonda_ for pack-animals, for lanjarón in its "season" is an important place, frequented by invalids from far and near. its mineral springs are reputed efficacious; but the drainage arrangements are villainous in the extreme, and altogether it seemed a village to be avoided. sad traces of the cholera were everywhere visible, many doors and lintels bearing the ominous sign: it was curious that in so few cases had it been erased. we left before daybreak, and a few leagues farther on the ascent became very steep and abrupt, the hill-crests whither we were bound within view but wreathed in mist. only one traveller did we meet in the long climb from orjiva to capileira, and he bringing two mule-loads of dead and dying sheep, worried by wolves just outside capileira the night before. expecting that the wolves would certainly return, we prepared to wait up that night for them; but were dissuaded, the argument being "that is exactly what they will expect! no, those wolves will probably not come back this winter." but return they did, both that night and several following. the night before we left capileira on the return journey (a fortnight later) they came in greater numbers than ever and killed over twenty sheep. capileira is the highest hamlet in the sierra and is celebrated for its hams, which are cured in the snow. here we put up for the night, sleeping as best we could amidst fowls and fleas, after an amusing evening spent around the fire, when one pot cooked for forty people besides ourselves. the cold was intense, streams of fine snow whirling in at pleasure through the crazy shutters, so we were glad to go to bed--indeed i was chased thither by a hungry sow on the prowl, seeking something to eat, apparently in my portmanteau. [illustration: the peaks of sierra nevada. alcazÁba. mulahacen. ] [illustration: nest of griffon.] heavy snow-falls that night and all next day prevented our advance; but at an early hour on the following morning we were under way--six of us--on mules, though i would have preferred to walk, the snow being so deep one could not see where the edges of the precipices were. no sooner had i mounted than the mule fell down while crossing a hill-torrent, and i was glad to find the water no deeper. after climbing steadily upward all the morning, the last two hours on foot, the snow knee-deep, we at length sighted the cairn on the height to which we were bound. before nightfall we had reached the point, but few of the mules accomplished the last few hundred yards. after bravely trying again and again, the poor beasts sank exhausted in the snow, and we had to carry up the impedimenta ourselves in repeated journeys. the deep snow, the tremendous ascent, and impossibility of seeing a foothold made this porterage most laborious, but we had all safely stowed in our cave before sundown. the overhanging rock, which for the next ten or twelve days was to serve as our abode, we found a mass of icicles. these we proceeded to clear away, and then by a good fire to melt our ice-enamelled ceiling, fancying that the constant drip on our noses all night might be unpleasant. the altitude of our ledge above sea-level was about feet, and our plateau of rest--our home, so to speak--measured just seven yards by two. early next morning we proceeded to erect snow-screens at favourable "passes," wherein to await the wild-goats as they moved up or down the mountain-side at dawn and dusk respectively, their favourite food being the rye-grass which the peasants from the villages below contrive to grow in tiny patches--two or three square yards scattered here and there amidst the crags. it is only by rare industry that even so paltry a crop can be snatched at such altitudes, and during the short period when the snow is absent from the southern aspects. at present it enveloped everything--not a blade of vegetation nor a mouthful for a wild-goat could be seen. although during the day the snow was generally soft--the sun being very hot--yet after dark we found the way dangerous, traversing a sloping, slippery ice-surface like a huge glacier, where a slip or false step would send one down half a mile with nothing to clutch at, or to save oneself. such a slide meant death, for it could only terminate in a precipice or in one of those horrible holes with a raging torrent to receive one in its dark abyss, and convey the fragments beneath the snow--where to appear next? each step had to be cut with a hatchet, or hollowed--the butt of a rifle is not intended for such work, but has had to perform it. every day we saw ibex on the snow-fields and towering rocks above our cave. they were now of a light fawn-colour, very shaggy in appearance, some males carrying magnificent horns. one old ram seemed to be always on the watch, kneeling down on the very verge of a crag or yards above us, and which commanded a view for miles--though _miles_ read but paltry words! from where that goat was he could survey half a dozen provinces. these ibex proved quite inaccessible, and nearly a week had passed away ere a wild-goat gave us a chance. one night shortly after quitting my post, little better than a human icicle, and not without fear of scrambling caveward in absolute darkness along the ice-slope, a little herd of goats passed--mere shadows--within easy shot of where, five minutes before, i had been lying in wait. on another morning at dawn the tracks of a big male showed that he, too, must have passed at some hour of the night within five-and-twenty yards of the snow-screen. but it was not till a week had elapsed that we had the ibex really in our power. just as day broke a herd of eight--two males and six females--stood not forty yards from our cave-dwelling. the fact was ascertained by one estéban, a spanish sportsman whom we had taken with us. silently he stole back to the cave, and without a word, or disturbing the dreams of his still sleeping employers, picked up an "express" and went forth. then the loud double report at our very doors--that is, had there been a door--aroused us, only to find ... the spoor of that enormous ram, the spot where he had halted, listening, above the cave, and the splash of the lead on the rock beyond--_eighteen inches_ too low! an impossible miss for one used to the "express." oh, estéban, estéban! what were our feelings towards you on that fateful morn! life in a mountain-cave high above snow-level--six men huddled together, two english and four spaniards--has its weird and picturesque, but it has also its harder side. yet those days and nights, passed amidst majestic scenes and strange wild beasts, have left nothing but pleasant memories, nor have their hardships deterred us from repeating the experiment. these initial campaigns were too early in the season (march and april). the only birds seen were choughs and ravens; ring-ouzels lower down. there were plenty of trout, though small, in the hill-burns. on one occasion a circular rainbow across a deep gorge perfectly reflected in the centre our own figures on passing a given point. the ice-going abilities of the mountaineers were marvellous--incredible save to an eye-witness. across even a north-drift, hard and "slape" as steel and hundreds of yards in extent, these men would steer a sliding, slithering course at top speed, directed towards some single projecting rock. to miss that refuge might mean death; but they did not miss it, ever, in their perilous course, making good a certain amount of forward movement. at that rock they would settle in their minds the next point to be reached, quietly smoking a cigarette meanwhile. how such performances diminish one's self-esteem! how weak are our efforts! even on the softer southern drifts, what balancing, what scrambling and crawling on hands and knees are necessary, and what a "cropper" one would have come but for the friendly arm of enrique, who, as he arrests one's perilous slide, merely mutters, "ave maria purissima!" * * * * * now we have left the ice and snow and the ibex to wander in peace over their lonely domains. to-night we have dined at a _table_; there is a cheery fire in the rude _posada_ and merry voices, contrasting with the silence of our cave, where no one spoke above a whisper, and where no fire was permissible save once a day to heat the _olla_. now all we need is a song from the murillo-faced little girl who is fanning the charcoal embers. "sing us a couplet, dolóres, to welcome us back from the snows of alpuxarras!" _dolóres._ "with the greatest pleasure, _caballero_, if josé will play the guitar. no one plays like josé, but he is tired, having travelled all day with his mules from lanjarón." _josé._ "no, señor, not tired, but i have no soul to-night to play. this morning they asked me to bring medicine from the town for carmen, but when i reached the house she was dead. i find myself very sad." _dolóres._ "pero, si ya tiene su palma y su corona?" ... = but as she already has her palm and her crown? _josé._ "that is true! bring the guitar and i will see if it will quit me of this _tristeza_!" next morning the snow prevented our leaving; and the day after, while riding away, we met some of the villagers carrying poor carmen to the burial-ground on the mountain-side. the body, plainly robed in white, was borne on an open bier, the hands crossed and head supported on pillows, thus allowing the long unfettered hair to hang down loose below. it was an impressive and a picturesque scene, and as i rode on, the rejoinder of dolóres came to my mind, "ya tiene su palma y su corona." chapter xxxi in the sierra nevÁda (_continued_) its bird-life in spring-time the long snow-lines of the sierra had vanished behind whirling cloud-masses, black and menacing. the green avenues of the alhambra seemed gloomier than ever under a heavy downpour, while troops of rain-soaked tourists belied the glories of an andalucian springtide. [illustration: "unemployed" bee-eaters on a wet morning.] serins sang in the elms, and wrynecks noisily courted, as we set forth with a donkey-team for the sierra. on former occasions we had explored northwards up the darro towards jaën, another year up the genil, this spring we had selected the valley of the monachil. hardly had we entered the mountains than thunder crackled overhead, and then a rain-burst drove us to shelter in a cave. next day broke ominous enough, but we rode on up the wild gorge of the monachil, and after seven hours' hill-climbing reached the alpine farm of san gerónimo, to the guarda of which we had a recommendation. the house nestles beneath the serrated ridge of the dornájo, feet. with some dismay we found assembled at this outlandish spot quite a small crowd of men, women, and children who, with dogs, pigs, hens, and an occasional donkey, all appeared to inhabit a single smoke-filled room. we were bidden to take seats amidst this company, and watched the attempt to boil an enormous pan of potatoes over a green brushwood fire, while domestic animals (including cattle) passed freely through to the byres beyond. these being on higher ground had created in front a sort of quagmire, which was crossed by a plank-bridge. rain was falling smartly, and the writer's spirits, be it confessed, sank to zero at the prospect of a week or two in such quarters. worse situations, however, have had to be faced, and usually yield to resolute treatment. thus when a separate room--albeit but a dirty potato store--had been assigned to us, trestle-beds and a table set up, the quality of comfort advanced in quite disproportionate degree. now the sierra neváda with its league-long lines of unbroken snow, accentuated by the mystery of the towering veleta, massive mulahacen, and the rest, presents an alpine panorama that is absolutely unrivalled in all the peninsula. but immediately below those transcendent altitudes, in its middle regions the sierra neváda is lacking in many of those attributes that charm our eyes--naturalists' eyes. over vast areas and on broad shoulders of the hills the winter-snows linger so long that plant-life, where not actually extinct, is scant and starved; while these dreary inchoate stretches are strewn broadcast with a debris of shale and schist that resembles nothing so much as one of nature's giant rubbish tips. true, there exists a sporadic brushwood, exiguous, dwarfed, and intermittent; there are scattered trees, ilex and pinaster (_pinus pinaster_), up to about feet. but all seems barren by comparison. one's eye hungers for the deep jungles of moréna, for the dark-green _pinsapos_ of san cristobal, or the stately granite walls of grédos. here all is on a big scale, the biggest in spain; but size alone does not itself constitute beauty, and the adornments of beauty are lacking. we write of course not as mountaineers, but as naturalists. it boots not to tell of days when rain fell in sheets and an icy _neblina_ swept the hills, shrouding their summits from view. a single ornithological remembrance shall be recorded--the abundance of certain northern-breeding species on the middle heights, especially common wheatears and skylarks. after watching these carefully, we were convinced by their actions (their song, courting, and fluttering flight) that both intended to nest here at feet, and dissection confirmed that view. time alone prevented our settling the point; but a month later (say early in june) an ornithologist could easily verify the fact. may the st broke bright and clear, not a cloud in the azure firmament. the songs of hoopoes, serins, and a cuckoo resounded hard by, and from our paneless window we watched three glorious rock-thrushes "displaying" before their sober mates--as sketched at p. . within sight among the tumbled boulders were also a pair of blue thrushes, with a woodlark or two, several black-starts, and rock-buntings. [illustration: woodlark (_alauda arborea_) nests in neváda up to feet, and in the pine-forests of doñana at sea-level.] we bathed in an ice-cold burn with temperature little above freezing--at dawn, indeed, the backwaters were ice-bound. then, mounted on a donkey, the writer alternately scrambled up the stony steeps or dragged the sure-footed beastie behind. the gentler slopes were fairly clad with yellow daffodil or narcissus, now just coming into bloom, and above feet we entered a zone of dwarf-arbutus and ilex-scrub. the warm sunshine brought out numerous butterflies--it seemed strange to see these frail creatures fluttering across open snows! most of those recognised were tortoise-shells, rather paler than our own. alas, before noon the icy mists once more swept up. in a crevice among some rocks where we sought shelter at feet the skeleton of a wheatear attested the cruel conditions of bird-life--death by starvation. here we separated, the writer going for a snow-scramble, following the dwindling monachil to its source, where the nascent river trickles in triple streamlets down black rock-walls mantled by impending snow-fields. here snow lay in scattered patches dotted with the resurgent unkillable "pincushion" gorse (_buphaurum spinosum_) and a spiny broom that later develops a purple blossom, and separated by intervals where the melting mantle had left mother earth viscous and inchoate, heart-broken at the indignity of eight months in the arctic. higher up the snow became continuous, but seamed by innumerable rills, each laughing and dancing as in delight at a new-found existence, or converging to join streams in buoyant exuberance. some leapt forward through fringing margins of emerald moss; others ploughed sullen ways beneath an overhung snow-brae. but no chirp or sound of bird-life broke the silence, the only living creatures were ants and a bronze-green beetle! (_pterostichus rutilans_, dej.)--not a sign of those alpine forms we had specially come to seek. [illustration] from feet the snow stretched upwards unbroken (save where some sheer escarpment protruded), covering in purest white the vast shoulder of the veleta. the picácho itself was to-day hidden amidst swirling clouds, and only once did we enjoy a momentary glimpse of its great scarped outline. yet in three short weeks, say by may , all these leagues of solid snow will have vanished. facing this gorge of the monachil, the opposite slope is crowned by the conspicuous turreted crags known as the peñones de san francisco, feet. to these l. had climbed, and though we both failed in finding the chief of our special objects (the snow-finch) yet l. had enjoyed a glimpse of another alpine species, new to us, and we decided to revisit the spot on the morrow. that morning again broke fine, the precursor of a glorious day. hardly had we left our quarters than a lammergeyer soared overhead, then, gently closing his giant wings, plunged into a cavern above. five minutes later he reappeared and, after several aerial evolutions, suddenly checked and, with indrawn pinions, swept downwards to earth. ere we could surmount an intervening ridge, the great dragon-like _gypaëtus_ swept into view, his golden breast gleaming in the early sunlight, and bearing in his talons a long bone with which he sailed across the valley towards trevenque; we watched to see the result, but, so far as prism-glasses could reach, that bone was never dropped. probably he had some special spot habitually used for bone-breaking. later a griffon-vulture (a species rarely seen in neváda) passed overhead, and then a second lammergeyer sailed up the gorge of monachil. [illustration: soaring vulture] 'tis a long up-grade grind to the peñones, but repaid by magnificent views of the picácho de la veleta--its scarped outline gloriously offset against the deepest azure and its -foot sheer drop vanishing to unseen depths in the mysterious "corral" beneath--an inspiring scene. beyond to the eastward towered the mountain-mass, mulahacen--perpetuating the name of that moslem chief whose remains, so tradition records, yet lie in some unknown glacial niche in this the loftiest spot of all the spains. there they were laid to rest by the fond hands of zoraya, at the dying request of her husband the penultimate moorish king, muley-hacen. our upward course led through beds of dwarf-juniper, thick strong stems all flattened down horizontally by the weight of winters' snows, precisely as one sees them on the high fjelds of norway. here, both to-day and yesterday, we observed ring-ouzels, doubtless nesting amid the dense covert. we soon picked up our friends of yesterday--small hedge-sparrow-like birds with blue-grey throat, striated back, and red patches on either flank, the alpine accentor. at first they were fairly tame, allowing us to watch and sketch them perched on lowly shrub or rock, warbling a sweet little carol (louder, but otherwise resembling that of our hedge-sparrow), or darting to pick up a straying ant. after a while that confidence, though wholly unabused, vanished; they became wild and cautious, refusing to allow us a single specimen! these birds were evidently paired, but showed no signs of nesting. alas, that a drawing by commander lynes depicting the scene with the picácho de la veleta in the background refuses to "reproduce"! these were the only accentors we saw, nor did we see to-day or any other day a single snow-finch. * * * * * _an alpine farm._--the lands of san gerónimo (where we were quartered) extend up the monachil to either watershed--a length of - / leagues, while the breadth cannot average less than two. the acreage we leave to be calculated by those who care for such detail. at this date (early may) certainly one-half lay under snow, which still encumbered the higher patches of cultivation--to-day we saw men unearthing last autumn's crop of potatoes well above the snow-line. at lower levels some corn already stood six inches high, but many "fields" were necessarily, as yet, unploughed. fields, by the way, were separated not, as at home, by hedges, but sometimes by a sheer drop of or feet, elsewhere by perpendicular rock-faces or by shale-shoots. but the laborious cultivation missed not one level patch--nor unlevel either, since we saw ox-teams ploughing where one wondered if even a cat could maintain a footing. this is the highest farm in neváda, possibly in all spain. the house stands at feet and the lands extend to the veleta, , feet. it provides grazing for goats and sheep, as well as a small herd of cattle, and thus affords permanent employment to several herdsmen. but at seed-time and harvest it employs as many as twenty or thirty men who, with their dependents, live in rude esparto-thatched huts scattered over the whole fifteen miles, and it was the numbers of these (assembled for pay-day) that had caused us some consternation on our first arrival! the value of the farm, we were told, is put at £ spanish, representing some £ as yearly rental. two years before, wolves had become such a pest to the flocks that strychnine was universally resorted to, with the result that to-day not a wolf is to be seen in the whole sierra. foxes also perished, and the guarda, manuel gallegos, told us that he had thus obtained several wild-cats (_gatos montéses_) whose skins fetched pesetas apiece as ladies' furs. the following day we chanced on a dead marten-cat, evidently killed by poison; and on showing it to manuel with the remark that that was _not_ a _gato montés_, he replied: "no, señor, that is a _garduño; pero lo mismo da_" = "it's all the same!" accuracy in definition is not a strong point with manuel, nor indeed is it with any of our spanish friends. martens are the commoner animal in neváda; there may, nevertheless, be a few true wild-cats, and there certainly are some lynxes. the four-footed fauna of neváda is sadly limited. there are neither deer of any kind--red, roe, or fallow--nor wild-boar. bare rocks afford no covert for these: there is, of course, one compensating equivalent in the ibex. small game is equally conspicuous by its absence. local _cazadores_ (each of whom, of course, possesses a decoy-bird--_reclamo_) enlarge on the abundance of partridge and hares, yet we saw hardly any game whether here on the monachil, on the genil, darro, or at any of the points whereon we have explored the sierra neváda. there must, however, be a sprinkling to maintain the golden eagles and peregrines, both of which birds-of-prey we observed. [illustration: golden eagle hunting] there were small trout in the monachil; but in genil and dilar (which latter springs from the alpine laguna de las yeguas just under the picácho de la veleta) trout ran up to a quarter-pound or thereby: the method of capture is dynamite. ibex at this season (may) frequent the southern slopes of the main chain--looking down upon the alpuxarras--a favourite resort being the wild rocks of alcazába, east of mulahacen; but in summer they are distributed along the whole of the "high tops" and are still maintaining their numbers as usual. we had cherished the hope of meeting with ptarmigan and other alpine forms in these high sierras, especially during our earlier expeditions after ibex. we are satisfied that ptarmigan at least do not exist, having seen no trace of them at any point; but we never saw the snow-finch either, and it is reported to exist in numbers. oh! the wearying monotony of that long down-grade ride--the infinity of vast subrounded mountains, all alike, all ugly, all sprinkled rather than clad with low gorse and spiky broom, like millions of pincushions with all points outwards. then the shale--the very earth seemed disintegrated. red shale and blue, cinder-grey and lemon-yellow; some schistose and sparkling, the bulk dull and dead. here and there, amid oceans of friable detritus, stand out great rocks of more durable substance--solitary pinnacles, towers and turrets of fantastic form. six hours of this ere we reach the _vega_ of granada. ornithology for ornithologists the following notes on birds observed and not already mentioned may here be inserted:-- [illustration: rock-thrush] _blue_ and _rock-thrushes_.--neither abundant, but the former most so in the rock-gorges of lower monachil, nesting in "pot-holes" and horizontal crevices of the crags. the rock-thrush is more alpine and confined (here as elsewhere) exclusively to the higher sierra. _missel-thrushes_ among ilex-trees at feet, apparently nesting: a few _woodchats_ observed at same points. _blackstart._--plentiful, though less so than on san cristobal in sierra de jerez ( feet). a nest in the crag over-hanging our bathing-place in the burn at san gerónimo contained five eggs on april . we found others on monachil, and _grey wagtails_ were also breeding at both places. _bonelli's warbler._--arrived, and preparing to nest, end of april: a few _white-throats_ and _rufous warblers_ early in may. robins and wrens nesting, and _nightingales_ abundant in lower river-valley. _eared_ and _black-throated wheatear_.--ubiquitous but not abundant. in both these forms (as well as in the common wheatear) the males displayed a dual stage of plumage; some being completely adult, while others retained an immature state somewhat resembling their first dress (may). _stonechat._--four eggs, april . _blackchat_ and _crag-martin_.--both conspicuous by their absence. [this applies to the higher sierra--both were observed in the lower monachil--say feet.] _ortolans_ (apparently just arriving during early days of may), with _cirl_ and _rock-buntings_, were frequent up to the limits of scrub-growth, say feet. _rock-sparrow._--breeding in crags on lower slopes. _woodlark._--lower hills: young on wing, end april. _short-toed lark._--lower hills: about to nest here. _crested lark._--lower hills: common. _tawny pipit._--plentiful, scattered in pairs over the arid hills: males singing tree-pipit fashion, soaring downwards with tail spread overhead. _great_, _blue_, and _cole-tits_.--common, the latter only among the open woods of pine (_pinus pinaster_). _raven_ and _chough_.--a few. _hoopoe_, _kestrel_, and _little owl_.--a few. _partridge_ (redleg).--scarce: a pair and a single bird observed at feet among snow-patches and junipers. _chaffinches_ and _serins_.--first broods on wing, end april; nests for second broods building early in may. _linnets._--common up to scrub-limit. _dippers._--observed on genil, darro, monachil, and all the rivers visited. _pied flycatcher._--a male observed on migration, april . in the stupendous rock-gorges which enclose the lower course and outlet of monachil ( - feet) are situate the breeding-places of the few griffon-vultures which inhabit this sierra. with them nest some neophrons, and there is a "choughery" at feet, while crag-martins and blackchats (not observed elsewhere), with many blue thrushes, find a congenial home among these giant crags. while lunching, our goat-herd guide was pointing out rock-crannies where wolves, from lack of brushwood, used to lie up by day, and complaining that he could not keep poultry by reason of the marten-cats. suddenly he broke out in shrill and altered tones: "tell me, caballero," he exclaimed, "tell me _why_ you come here from lands afar to suffer discomfort and hardship and to undergo all these labours--why do you do this?" we endeavoured to explain. "you see, gregorio, that god created all manner of animals different one from another. so also he created mankind in many different races--all brothers, yet differing as brothers do. you spanish belong to the latin race. you have many fine qualities, some of which we lack. but you rather concern yourselves with material things and disregard platonic study. we of british race are imbued with desire to learn all that can be traced of nature and her ways. some examine the earth itself, its formations and transformations; others the birds or the beasts. there are those who devote their lives to studying the beetles and ants, even the mosquitoes. now in spain you find none who are interested in such matters." gregorio sat silent and seemed impressed; but caraballo interjected: "why waste time? these people are not concerned (_entrometidos_) in such matters." true; but gregorio had appeared interested and intelligent? "si! but when folk spent lonely lives among the mountains and never see but a petty hill-village once or twice a year, then intelligence goes to sleep (_se pone dormido_)." certainly five minutes later they were both hammering away again at the customary small-talk of the by-ways. [illustration: types of spanish bird-life spanish sparrow (_passer hispaniolensis_ [_sic_], temm.) a bird of the wild woods, never seen in towns; builds in foundations of kites' and eagles' nests. note that temminck's latin seems a bit "rocky." the specific name might be _hispanicus_, or perhaps _hispaniensis_, but _hispaniolensis_ never. that adjective must date from a newer era and from a world then unknown.] chapter xxxii valencia two notable wildfowl resorts ( ) the albufera for centuries this marine lagoon--the largest sheet of water in spain--has, along with the forests and wastes that formerly adjoined it, been a stronghold of wild animal-life. as early as the thirteenth century king james i., after wresting the kingdom of valencia from the moors, and dividing its castles and estates among his nobles and generals, selected, with shrewd appreciation, the albufera for his personal share of the spoils of war. for not only did the great lake with its wild appanages form a truly regal hunting-domain, but the broad lands intervening between the grao of valencia, cullera, and the lake-shores possessed a fabled fertility. for six centuries the lands and waters of albufera belonged to the spanish crown. though by edict in a.d. james i. granted free public rights of fishing (reserving, however, one-fifth of the catch for royal use), yet both he and succeeding monarchs ever continued to extend and improve the amenities of the crown patrimony. in state-papers of james i.'s time, where reference is made to the game, there are expressly specified: "deer, wild-boar, ibex, francolins, partridges, hares, rabbits, otters, and wildfowl, besides the wealth of fish" in the lake itself. again, more than four centuries later, an edict of october , , expressly specified among resident game, "deer, boar, ibex, and francolin." now the francolin, although to-day extinct in spain, is known to have existed on the mediterranean till quite within modern times, and the other animals named might well have abounded in the wild forests of those days. but the specific mention of ibex (_twice_, with an interval of years) appeared inexplicable; for it was inconceivable that a wild-goat should ever have occupied the low-lying _dehesas_ of albufera. the discovery of the actual existence of ibex in the sierras of valencia, however (as recorded above, p. ), explains the paradox and also throws light on the breadth of mediæval ideas in hunting-boundaries; since the sierra martés lies some forty miles inland of albufera. lying about seven miles south-east of valencia, the lake has a water-area some fourteen miles long by six or seven wide, its circumference being over nine leagues. on the south, it is shut off from the mediterranean by a strip of pine-clad dunes--the deep green foliage broken in pleasing contrast by intervals of bare sand, forming splashes of gold amidst dark verdure. on all other sides the limits of the lake are marked by yellow reeds which fringe its shores. its waters, dotted with the white sails of _faluchos_, present the appearance of a small sea, a resemblance which is accentuated in stormy weather by the height of the waves. the lake connects by canals with various adjacent villages; while two canals (perillo and perillonet) communicate with the sea, though their mouths are blocked by locks. these locks are closed each year from november till january --thereby retaining the whole of the river-waters from inland, in order to raise the interior water-level and so flood the surrounding rice-fields. this artificial inundation--by disseminating alluvial matter brought down by autumnal rains over the adjacent lands--has greatly extended the area of rice-cultivation, and, of course, equally reduced the original water-surface. the result has been, nevertheless, immensely to augment the enormous numbers of wildfowl which had always made the albufera their winter home; for no food is so attractive to ducks as rice, while, despite its reduction, the water-area is yet ample. during the direct tenure of the crown, all taking of fish or fowl was carried on subject to the regulations of successive kings and their administrators. ancient methods of fowling, however quaint, do not concern us as natural historians; but two methods described in multitudinous records throw light on altered conditions and sharpened instincts. the first was to "push" the fowl by a line of boats towards sportsmen in concealed posts among reeds, the ducks either swimming complacently forward or breaking back over the encircling flotilla, when, in each case, large numbers were killed with crossbows. to celebrate the nuptials of phillip iii., no less than boats were thus employed. the second plan involved persuading hosts of quietly paddling ducks to swim forward into reed-beds through which winding channels had been cut, and over which nets were spread. needless to add, neither method would nowadays serve to outwit twentieth-century wildfowl. by the beginning of last century (about ), owing to the destruction of forests and reclamation of land for grazing or rice-cultivation, the bigger game had already disappeared; but the flights of winter wildfowl actually increased in proportion to the extended area of rice. the albufera continued to be the property of the crown of spain from till may , , when the cortes decreed, and queen isabella ii. confirmed, its transference to the state. at the present day the shooting on albufera is conducted on purely commercial and up-to-date principles. the whole area is mapped out into sections like a chessboard, and each considerable gun-post (or _replaza_, as it is called) is sold by auction. these specially selected _replazas_ number thirty, and are sold for the entire season, the prices varying from £ for no. down to about £ for no. . these thirty "reserved stalls" having been disposed of in public competition, the remaining mid-water positions (for which the charge is a dollar or two per day) are then apportioned by drawing lots. finally, licences are issued at a few pesetas to shoot from the foreshores or from small launches stationed among the reeds at specified spots, but which the licensee must not quit during the shooting. the sum that finally filtered through to the state during forty years varied between and , pesetas (say £ to £ ), a record price being obtained in , namely, , pesetas. the municipality of valencia is seeking to obtain the cession of the albufera from the state. the gun-posts used are either flat-bottomed boats which can be thrust into a sheltering reed-bed; or, should no cover be available, sunken tubs masked by reeds or rice-stalks. the posts are fixed nominally at a rifle-shot (_tiro de bala_) apart--say yards. regular fixed shoots take place every saturday throughout the season, with, however, certain small exceptions, aimed partly at securing to the fowl a period of rest and quiet on their first arrival, and partly due to the festivals of st. martin and st. catherine being public days and free to all. the species of ducks obtained on albufera do not differ from those at daimiel. on these deeper waters pochards and the various diving-ducks are more conspicuous than on the shallower rice-swamps of the calderería. ( ) the caldereÍa in contrast with the albufera (and with daimiel) the calderería is not a natural lagoon, but simply the artificial inundation of rice-grounds (_arrozales_), such inundation being necessary for the cultivation of that grain. the rice-grounds of the calderería belong to the three adjacent communes of sueca, cullera, and sollana--held in a joint peasant-proprietorship. the flooding of the _arrozales_ was commenced in , the original object being the cultivation of rice, combined with the taking of wildfowl in nets (_paranses_). it was, however, early seen that the enormous quantities of wild-ducks attracted to the spot were of almost equal value with the grain-crop, and the fame of the calderería attracted troops of sportsmen from all parts of spain. this influx, for some years, the local authorities endeavoured to check, with a view to securing the sport for local residents--who, by the way, wanted to enjoy this good thing at the price of a dollar a year! in it was decided to put up to auction the different shooting-posts, or _replazas_, without any restriction. the whole of the _arrozales_ are accordingly divided into defined sections called _replazas_, each perhaps or yards square, forming roughly, as it were, a gigantic chessboard, though the various _replazas_ are quite irregular in shape and size. these are sold by public auction at a fixed date. the best positions realise as much as, say, £ to £ . a large rental is thus obtained yearly, some villages receiving as much as dollars. since the whole shooting area is their common property, every peasant and villager is personally interested in the value and success of the shooting, and each thus becomes virtually a game-keeper. hence trespass is impossible. during autumn and up to the first shoot never a human form intrudes upon the deserted rice-grounds; and the enormous assemblages of wildfowl which at that season congregate thereon enjoy uninterrupted peace and security up to mid-november. more favourable conditions it is impossible to conceive--on the albufera, for example, the fowl are liable to constant disturbance by passing boats, etc. the first shoot of the year takes place about the date just named, november , and is repeated every eighth day thereafter up to the middle of january, when the rice-grounds are run dry. upon the completion of the auction sales there is announced a definite day and hour at which (and at which _only_) the lessor is permitted to enter the rice-grounds, in order to prepare his shelter. should he omit or neglect this opportunity, he is not afterwards allowed to touch it until the actual morning of the shooting. since there grows on rice-grounds no natural cover whatever, it is essential to prepare some form of screen or shelter, and the reeds or sedges required for the purpose must be brought from elsewhere. across each _replaza_, or conceded space, is erected a double line of screens, two yards apart and carefully masked by a fringe of reeds or rice-stalks. in the intervening "lane" are fixed two or more sunken tubs wherein the shooters can sit concealed. hardly has midnight struck on that eventful morn than the world is amove. highways and byways, on land and water, are crowded by mobilising forces; across the dark waters move forth whole squadrons of boats, punts and launches, each one steering a course towards some far-away _replaza_. absolute silence reigns. no lights are allowed and no sound shocks the mystery of night save the creaking of punt-pole or lapping of wave--no human sound, that is, for "the night is filled with music"; the pall overhead, the unseen wastes on every side are vocal with wildfowl cries. continuously the still air is rent and cleft by the rush of myriad pinions. from right and left, before and behind, pass hurrying hosts, their violent flight resonant as the wash of an angry sea. but never a shot is fired. that is against the rules. shortly before sunrise the note of a bugle announces to hundreds of impatient ears the signal "open fire," and in that instant the fusillade from far and near rages like a battle. for a solid hour, nay, for two and sometimes three, fire continues incessant. first to become silent are the distant guns along the shores; the minor _replazas_ slacken down next, and by noon all save two or three of the best posts are reduced to a desultory and dropping fire. then a second signal indicates that the "pick-up" may begin--up to that moment not a gunner is permitted to leave his place. this gathering of the game, stopping cripples, etc., induces a short renewal of the fusillade; but soon all is silent once more, and at three o'clock a third signal rings out, and at once every sportsman must quit the shooting-ground. besides the lessees of the auction-sold _puestos_ (many of whom come from madrid and distant parts of spain), there foregather on these occasions all the local gunners; and far away beyond those sacred areas secured by purchase there form up league-long lines of fowlers by the distant shore; so that, between the private and privileged _puestos_ and the free public lines outside, there may assemble in all some gunners. hence these _tiradas_ partake of the character of a popular festival. yet in spite of such numbers there is not the slightest confusion or danger, so perfect are the rules and so scrupulously are they observed. with so many guns scattered over wide areas no precise record of the exact numbers secured are possible; but, according to the estimates of those best calculated to judge, as many as , to , head (ducks and coots) are obtained in a single morning. the records of individual guns in the best _replazas_ run from to ducks gathered, and occasionally exceed those figures. at the first shoot of the year fully per cent of the spoil are coots; but at the later shoots ducks are obtained in greater proportion, as coots then quit the rice-grounds. these later shoots do not produce quite such stupendous totals; but still immense numbers are bagged--ten or twelve thousand in a morning. as the majority of purchasers come from a distance and usually only remain for one, or perhaps two, of the fixed shooting days, such prices as £ to £ represent a fairly stiff rent. few mallards are obtained at the first shoot, but their numbers increase as the winter advances. the chief species are pintail, wigeon, teal, and shoveller, together with a few shelducks and many common and red-crested pochards. flamingoes and spoon-bills frequent the shallows in small numbers. as individual instances; from a _replaza_ that cost pesetas (say £ ), and which was the _ninth_ in point of price that year, one gun fired cartridges in a single morning. the best _replaza_--at least the most expensive (it cost pesetas)--was tenanted last winter by friends from whose experiences, not too encouraging, we gather: at the first shoot (november ) the post was occupied by a single gun, who, after firing shots, was compelled to desist owing to injury to his shoulder. "i believe," he writes, "i might have fired cartridges had i continued all day, but was obliged to leave early. the boatmen had then gathered ninety--sixty ducks, thirty coot--and expected to recover more." on november the post was occupied by three guns: "no day for duck, a blazing sun so hot that the reflection from the water blistered our faces. the ducks mounted up high in air and mostly cleared early in the proceedings, though some were attracted by our decoys. we killed ninety-six, mostly wigeon and pochard, a few mallard and teal, besides twenty snipe. the desideratum is a really rough day, but that at valencia is past praying for." the _arrozales_ are run dry (and of course the shooting stopped) by the middle of january. the water, in fact, is only kept up so long solely for the sake of the shooting. so soon as its level has fallen a couple of inches the fowl all leave directly. chapter xxxiii on small-game shooting in spain hardly will one enter a village _posada_ or a peasant's lonely cot without observing one inevitable sign. among the simple adornments of the whitewashed wall and as an integral item thereof hangs a caged redleg. and from the rafters above will be slung an antediluvian fowling-piece, probably a converted "flinter," bearing upon its rusty single barrel some such inscription--inset in gold characters--as, "antequera, ." these two articles, along with a cork-stoppered powder-horn and battered leathern shot-belt, constitute the stock-in-trade and most cherished treasures of our rustic friend, the spanish cazador. possibly he also possesses a _pachón_, or heavily built native pointer; but the dog is chiefly used to find ground-game or quail, since the redleg, ever alert and swift of foot, defies all pottering pursuit. hence the _reclamo_, or call-bird, is almost universally preferred for that purpose. red-legged partridges abound throughout the length and breadth of wilder spain--not, as at home, on the open corn-lands, but amidst the interminable scrub and brushwood of the hills and dales, on the moory wastes, and palmetto-clad prairie. on the latter hares, quail, and lesser bustard vary the game. thither have ever resorted sportsmen of every degree--the lord of the land and the peasant, the farmer, the padre cura of the parish, or the local medico--all free to shoot, and each carrying the traitor _reclamo_ in its narrow cage. the central idea is, of course, that the _reclamo_, by its siren song, shall call up to the gun any partridge within hearing, when its owner, concealed in the bush hard by, has every opportunity of potting the unconscious game as it runs towards the decoy--two at a shot preferred, or more if possible. 'twere unjust to reproach the peasant-gunner for the deed; flying shots with his old "flinter" would merely mean wasted ammunition and an empty pot--misfortunes both in his _res angustae domi_. we have ourselves, on african veld, where dinner depends on the gun, meted out similar measure to strings of cackling guinea-fowl without compunction; but in spain we have never tried the _reclamo_, nor wish to. that the race of redlegs should have survived it all--year in and year out--bespeaks a wondrous fecundity, and has inspired new-born ideas of "preservation," which have been initiated in spain with marked success. to this subject we refer later. though we have ourselves (maybe from "insular prejudice") systematically refused to see the _reclamo_ work his treacherous rôle, yet many spanish sportsmen are enthusiastic over the system, which they describe as _una faena muy interesante_, and are as proud of their call-birds as we of our setters. the _reclamos_ may be of either sex. the cock-partridges become past-masters of the art of calling up their wild rivals from afar; and by a softer note the wild hen is also lured to her doom--for the dual influences of love and war are both called into play. the male hears the defiant challenge of battle and, all aflame, hurries by alternative flights and runs to seek the unseen challenger. as distance lessens the fire of each taunt increases, and, blind with passion, the luckless champion dashes on to that fatal opening where he is aligned by barrels peeping from the thicket. the female, with more tender purpose, also draws near--the seductive love-note entices; but, oh! the wooing o't--a few pellets of lead end that idyll. it is then--when either rival or lover, it matters not which, lies low in death alongside his cage--that the well-constituted _reclamo_ shows his fibre. so overcome with savage joy, the narrow cage will scarce contain him as he bursts into exultant pæons of victory. on the other hand, sullen disappointment is exhibited by the decoy when his exploit has only resulted in a missed shot. in the spring the female call-note is more effective than that of the male. well-trained _reclamos_ may be worth anything from £ up to £ . recently a yearly licence of ten shillings per bird has been levied. this has either reduced their numbers, or perhaps caused them to be kept more secretly. formerly a _cicada_ in a tiny cage and a _reclamo_ in its conical prison were contiguous objects in almost every doorway. ground-game is the special favourite of the spanish cazador. he will search hundreds of acres for a problematical hare, and a long day's hunt with his trusty _pachón_ is amply rewarded by a couple or two of diminutive rabbits about half the weight of ours, but whose speed verily stands in inverse ratio. for the life of the spanish rabbit is passed in the midst of alarms; supremely conscious of soaring eagles and hawks overhead, he never willingly shows in the open by daylight, or if forced to it, then terror lends wings to his feet. the death of a hare, however, represents to the cazador the climax of terrestrial triumph. in those ecstatic moments the animal (average weight - / lbs.) is held aloft by the hind-legs, a subject for admiration and self-gratulation; mentally it is weighed again and again to a chorus of soliloquising ejaculations, "grande como un chivo" = as big as a kid! the quail, though extremely abundant at its passage-seasons (when in september the levante, or s.e. wind, blows for days together, blocking their transit to africa, andalucia is crammed with accumulated quails), yet represents but a small morsel in a culinary sense, and is swift of wing to boot. neither of these attributes commend its pursuit to our friend with the rusty single-barrel; and similar reasons bear, with increased force, on the case of snipe. these game-birds are left severely alone--that is, with the gun. bags of twenty brace of quail (and in former years of forty or fifty brace) may then be made where, on the wind changing next day, never a quail will be found. in spring, again, great numbers pass northward, but many remain to nest on the fertile _vegas_ of guadalquivir and on the plains of castile. at that season quail are chiefly taken by nets; but on systems so cunning and elaborate that we regret having no space for descriptive detail. put briefly, in andalucia the fowler spreads a gossamer-woven fabric loosely over the growing corn; then, lying alongside, by means of a _pito_ (an instrument that exactly reproduces the dactylic call-note of the quarry) induces every combative male within earshot either to run beneath or to alight precisely upon the outspread snare. so perfect is the imitation that quail will even run over the fowler's prostrate form in their search for the adversary. in valencia living call-birds (hung in cages on poles) are substituted for the _pito_, and the net is more of a fixture--small patches of the previous autumn's crop being left uncut expressly to attract quail to definite points. the andalucian quail frequents palmetto-scrub and is very local--rarely can more than two or three couple be killed in a day, and that only in september. some appear then to retire to africa, along with the turtle-doves--the latter a bird that surely deserves passing note, since few are smarter on wing or afford quicker snap-shooting while passing by millions through this country every autumn. the conditions above indicated prevail over a vast proportion of rural spain, which thus presents small attraction to wandering gunner, however humble his ideals. there are other regions where the landowners, though in no sense "preserving," yet prohibit free entry on their properties owing to damage done--such as disturbing stock, stampeding cattle on to cultivation in a land where no fences exist, and so on. naturally such ground carries more game, and subject to permission being received, fair and sometimes excellent sport is attainable. thus, on one such property the tangled woods of wild olive abound with woodcock, though difficulties are presented by the impenetrable character of the briar-bound thickets. were "rides" cut and clearings enlarged quite large bags of woodcock might be secured. the rough scrubby hills adjoining carry a fair stock of partridge, and we have often killed forty or fifty snipe in the marshy valleys that intervene. the following will serve as an example of three consecutive days' shooting on such unpreserved ground (two guns--s. d. and b. f. b.):-- +--------------------------------------------------------------+ | | nov. . | nov. . | nov. . | total. | +-------------------+----------+----------+----------+---------+ | snipe | | | | | | ducks and teal | | | | | | wild-geese | | ... | ... | | | sundries | ... | ... | | | | +----------+----------+----------+---------+ | | | | | | +--------------------------------------------------------------+ three days in february on similar ground, but in an unfavourable season, yielded snipe, woodcock, golden plovers, lesser bustard, a hare, and a few sundries. lebrija, _december_ .--two guns, c. d. w. and b. f. b. (half-day) snipe (mostly driven) lebrija, _november_ , .--same two guns snipe, mallard, curlew casas viejas, _november_ , .--three guns (s. d., c. d. w., and b. f. b.) snipe, mallard, teal partridge-shooting passing from the use of the _reclamo_, of which we have no personal experience, we turn to the system practised in the coto doñana. here we always have the marisma bordering, as an inland sea, our northern frontage. upon that fact the system known as "_averando_" is based. a line of six or eight guns, with sufficient beaters between, and mounted keepers on either flank (the whole extending over, say, half-a-mile of front), is formed up at a distance of a mile or two inland from the marisma. on advancing, with the wings thrown forward, and mounted men skirmishing ahead, a space comprising hundreds of acres of scrub is thus enclosed. the partridge, running forward among the cistus or rising far beyond gunshot, are gradually pushed down towards the water; then, as the advancing line approaches the marisma, with the belts of rush and sedge that border it, the work begins. the game, unwilling to face the water, perforce come swinging back over the shooting-line. naturally on seeing encompassing danger in full view behind and barring their retreat, the partridge spin up heavenwards--higher and yet higher, till they finally pass over the guns at a height and speed and with a pronounced curve that ensures the maximum of difficulty in every shot offered. in this final stage of the operation grow cork-oaks whose bulk and evergreen foliage add further complexity for the gunner. it illustrates the exertions made by the partridges to attain an altitude and a speed sufficient to carry them safely over the clearly-seen danger below, that should a bird which has succeeded in thus running the gauntlet happen to be found after the beat is over, it will often be too exhausted to rise again. such tired birds are often caught by the dogs. as many as six or eight _averos_, as they are termed, may be carried out during a winter's day. the walking in places is apt to be rough, through jungle and bush--chiefly cistus and rosemary, but intermixed with tree-heaths, brooms, and gorse--intercepted with stretches of water which must be waded without wincing, for it is essential that each man (gun or beater) maintains correctly his allotted position in the advance. naturally in a sandy waste, devoid of corn or tillage of any kind, partridge cannot be numerous. they are, moreover, subject to terrible enemies in the eagles, kites, and hawks of every description; while lynxes, wild-cats, foxes, and other beasts-of-prey take daily and nightly toll; then in spring their eggs are devoured by the big lizards, by harriers, mongoose, and magpies in thousands. we have recently endeavoured to increase their numbers by grubbing up acres of scrub and cultivating wheat. but here again nature opposes us. deer break down the fences, ignore our guards armed with lanterns and blank cartridge, trample down more than they eat, and the rabbits finish the rest! moreover, in wet seasons the ground is flooded, the crops destroyed; while, if too dry, the seed will not germinate, and all the time the unkillable brushwood comes and comes again. forty or fifty brace represent average days; though it is fair to add that they are but few who fully avail the fleeting opportunities at those back-swerving dots in the sky. rabbits the cistus plains abound with rabbits. one sees them by scores moving ahead, but just beyond gunshot range, which they calculate to a nicety. others dart from underfoot to disappear in an instant in the cover. few are shot while walking; but some pretty sport is obtainable by short drives, say a quarter-mile. the line of keepers and beaters ride round to windward, encircling some well-stocked bush; then slowly and noisily, with frequent halts, advance down-wind--the rabbit is as susceptible of scent as a deer. meanwhile the dogs are having a rare time of it hustling the bunnies forward. the guns are placed each to command some clear spot, for where scrub grows thick nothing can be seen. a momentary glimpse is all one gets, and snap-shooting essential. the most favourable spots are where a strip of open ground lies immediately behind the guns. the rabbits fairly fly this, a dozen at a time, and at speed that suggests some one having set fire to their tails. in days of phenomenal bags, our spanish totals read humble enough. we frequently kill a hundred or more rabbits in two or three short drives, besides such partridge as may also have been enclosed. were a whole day devoted to rabbits alone, much greater numbers would of course result. but having such variety of resource at disposal (to say nothing of difficulty in disposing of large quantities), the _conejete_ rarely receives more than an hour or two's attention. hares (_lepus mediterraneus_), common all over spain, are rather more numerous in the marisma than on the drier grounds. they have indeed developed semi-aquatic habits, in times of flood swimming freely from island to island and making arboreal "forms" in the half-submerged samphire-bush. should the whole become submerged, the hares betake themselves to the main shore, and on such occasions, with two guns, we have shot a dozen or so on a drive. these small spanish hares are marvellously fleet of foot, especially when an almost equally fleet-footed _podenco_ is in full chase over ground as flat and bare as a bowling-green. in these hares the females are larger and greyer in colour than the males. their irides are yellow, with a small pupil, whereas in the male the eye is hazel and the pupil large. the fur of the latter is bright chestnut in hue, especially on hind-quarters and legs, which frequently show irregular splashes of white. the lower parts are purest white, and along the clean-cut line of demarcation the colour contrasts are the strongest. long film-like hairs grow far beyond the ordinary fur on their bodies, and the tails are longer and carried higher than in our british species. weights of ten spanish hares, killed january , males - / - / - / - / - / lbs., deadweight females - / - / - / - / lbs., deadweight weights of spanish rabbits (in couples) ten couples - / - / - / - / - / - / - / lbs., clean these rabbits differ from the home-breed not only in their smaller size, but in the colder grey of their fur and large transparent ears. [illustration: ready to cast off. the pack of podencos in couples.] [illustration: the day's results. royal shooting at the pardo, near madrid.] hitherto shooting over great areas of rural spain has been practised under conditions absolutely natural--almost pristine. the game on mountain, moor, or marsh is not only free to any hunter who possesses the skill to capture it, but it is left to fight unaided its struggle for existence against hosts of enemies, feathered, furred, and scaled, the like of which has no equivalent in our crowded isles; and which work terrible havoc, each in its own way, among the milder members of creation. the presence of so many fierce raptorials, however (though it ruin the "bag"), adds for a naturalist an incomparable charm to days spent in spanish wilds. alas! that even here those pristine conditions should already appear to be doomed, that every savage spirit must be quenched, till nothing save the utilitarian survive! the following notes on game-preservation in spain indicate the beginning of the change. on some great sporting estates of spain game-preservation, in the stricter sense in which it is practised in england, was unknown in spain till within our own earlier days. but now many great estates yield bags of partridge that may challenge comparison with results obtained elsewhere. whether those results equal the best of the crack partridge-manors in england or not we do not inquire. it is immaterial and irrelevant. no comparison is either desirable or possible where natural conditions and difficulties differ fundamentally. but the result at least throws a ray of reflected light upon the energy and capacity of the spanish gamekeeper, who, under extraordinary difficulties, has aided and enabled his employers to produce conditions which only a few years ago would have appeared impossible. it should be added that these estates which now realise surprising results have, in most instances, belonged to the same owners during generations, though not till towards the end of last century was any special care bestowed upon the game. * * * * * the estate of mudéla, in la mancha, the property of the marquis de mudéla, count of valdelagrana, stands unrivalled in a sporting sense. its extent is approximately , acres, and the whole abounds with red-legged partridge, rabbits, and hares. a dozen consecutive driving-days can be enjoyed, each on fresh ground, and partridges are often here secured by seven guns, driving, in a day. there is here quite a small proportion of corn-land or tillage, the greater portion consisting of the rough pasturage, interspersed with patches of scattered brush and palmetto, which is characteristic of southern spain. the great results achieved (for partridges a day, all wild-bred birds, can only so be described) are due to systematic preservation, including the trapping of noxious animals, furred or feathered, and the payment of rewards to the peasantry for each nest hatched-off--in short, by efficient protection of the game, with the destruction of its enemies. in hot dry summers it is necessary to provide both water and food to the game. next to mudéla, the most celebrated sporting properties include those of lachár and tajarja, both in the province of granada, and belonging to the duke of san pedro de galatino; trasmulas in the same province belonging to the conde de agrela, and ventosilla, the property of the duke of santona in the province of toledo. there should also be named daranézas in the last-named province, the marquis de la torrecilla; and daramezán (toledo), the marquis de alcanices. at malpica in toledo, the estate of the duke of arión, there were killed, on the occasion of a visit of king alfonso xiii., a total in one day of head (partridges, hares, and rabbits), of which his majesty was credited with . we extract the following from the madrid newspaper _la epoca_, january , :-- at el rincon, navalcarnero, near madrid, the king, with thirteen other guns, were the guests of the marquesa de manzanedo on january . eight drives were completed, beaters being employed. the total recovered numbered head, of which fell to the king's gun. his majesty continued shooting with astonishing brilliancy even while darkness was already setting in, and wound up with four consecutive right-and-lefts when one could scarce see even a few yards away. king alfonso killed partridge, hares, rabbits, and various--double the number that fell to the next highest score. most of the places named are capable of yielding from to and even partridge in a day's driving, besides other game. chapter xxxiv alimaÑas the minor beasts of chase we have no british equivalent for this generic term, applied in spain to a group of creatures, chiefly belonging to the canine, feline, and viverrine families, that deserve a chapter to themselves. the spanish word _alimañas_ includes the lynxes and wild-cats, foxes, mongoose, genets, badgers, otters, and such like. it might therefore be rendered as "vermin," but surely only in the benevolent sense--as it were, a term of endearment. we have preferred the expression "minor beasts of chase," though it may be objected that such are not, in fact, beasts of chase. we reply that hardly any wild animals are harder to secure in fair contest or more capable of testing the venatic resource of the hunter. for these animals are beasts-of-prey, and that fact alone implies nothing less than that in their very nature and life-habits they must be more cunning, more astute, than those other creatures (mostly game) on which they are ordained to subsist. moreover, being nocturnals, their senses of sight, scent, and hearing all far exceed our own, and they possess the enormous advantage that they see equally well in the dark. wild spain, with her per cent of desert or sparsely peopled regions, is a paradise for predatory creatures--alike the furred and the feathered--and _alimañas_ abound whether in the bush and scrub of her torrid plains, or amid the heavier jungle of her mountain-ranges. numerous as they are, yet these night-rovers rarely come in evidence unless one goes expressly in search of them. in regular shooting, with organised parties, they are more or less ignored, or rather they pass unseen through the lines, moving so silently and stealthily and always choosing the thickest covert. with guns from to yards apart and upwards, each intent on the larger game, the secretive _alimañas_ easily get through--indeed, wolves and even big boars, though the crash of brushwood may be heard, often pass unseen. many unconventional days have the authors enjoyed in express pursuit of these keen-eyed creatures--call them vermin if you will. there are four methods which we have found effective: . short drives of individual jungles where sufficient open spaces occur to leeward to enable the game to be seen. . long drives of extensive jungles, converging on guns placed at points that either command the probable lines of retreat, or cover some other favourite resort wherein the quarry is likely to seek refuge. . calling--in spanish, _chillando_. . watching at dawn or dusk, either with or without a "drag." * * * * * . the first plan is, of course, the simplest; but it must be borne in mind that this is essentially close-quarters' work--hence the utmost silence is necessary. horses must be picketed at least a mile back, for the clank of hoof on rock or the clashing of the bucket-like spanish stirrups in bush will awaken even a dormouse. all proceed on foot; and the whole plan having been arranged beforehand, not a word need now be spoken, each gun taking his allotted place in silence. guns may be as far as yards apart (since mould-shot is effective up to nearly that range) and each man should station himself looking into the beat, so as to command the intervening "opens," while himself absolutely concealed and still as a stone god, since he is now competing with some of the keenest eyes on earth. all the cats, moreover, come on so stealthily, making good their advance yard by yard, that quite possibly a great tawny lynx may be coolly surveying your position ere your eye has caught the slightest movement ahead. nothing emphasises the amazing stealth of these silent creatures more than such incidents: when suddenly you find, within twenty yards, a wild beast, standing nearly two feet at shoulder, slowly approaching through quite thin bush; how, in wonder's name, did it get so near unseen? foxes, as a rule, come bundling along with far less precaution and no such vigilant look-out ahead, though they will instantly detect the least _movement_ in front. a fox will often appear so deep in thought as to be absolutely thunderstruck when he finds himself face to face with a gun at six yards distance. in direst consternation he fairly bounds around, describing a complete circle of fur; whereas a cat in like circumstance merely deflects her course with coolest deliberation and never a sign of alarm or increase of speed. but within six more yards she will have vanished from view--covert or none. adepts all are the cats, alike in appearing one knows not whence, and in disappearing one knows not how. yonder goes a fox, slowly trotting along below the crest, in his self-sufficient, nonchalant style. his upstanding fur, long bushy brush, and swollen neck appear to double his bulk and lend him quite an imposing figure. but let a rifle-ball sing past his ears or dash up a cloud of the sand below--what a transformation! one hardly now recognises the long lean streak that whips up and over the ridge. a handsome trophy is the spanish lynx, especially those more brightly coloured examples sparsely spotted with big black splotches arranged, more or less, in interrupted lines. the ear-tufts--indeed in adults the extreme tips of the ears themselves--point inwards and backwards; and the narrow irides are pale yellow (between lemon and hazel), the pupil being full, round, and black, nearly filling the circle. in the wild-cat the pupil is a thin upright, set in a cruel pale-green iris. we have tried fire as a means of securing the smaller _alimañas_, such as mongoose, but it is seldom a thicket or _mancha_ can be so completely isolated as to leave no line of escape. the animals, moreover, are astute enough to retire under cover of the clouds of smoke that roll away to leeward. . long drives, extending over, say, a couple of miles of brush-wood (which may contain half-a-dozen patches of thicker jungle, all separate), give wide scope for skilled fieldcraft and demand no small local knowledge. the first essential is "an eye for a country." there are men to whom this faculty is denied; some seem incapable of acquiring it. others, again, appear correctly to diagnose even a difficult country, with its chances, almost at a first experience. the favoured haunts of game, together with their accustomed lines of retreat when disturbed, must be studied. each day, though engaged on other pursuit, one's eye should be reading those lessons that are written in "spoor," and noting each commanding point and salient angle or other local "advantage" in the terrain. such drives necessarily occupy more time; moreover, the precise lines of entry along which game may approach are less restricted--hence follows an even greater demand on that vigilance already emphasised. but to the hunter the mental gratification, the sense of dominion achieved, is ample reward when his deep-laid plans succeed and when along one or more of his ambushed lines the cunning carnivorae pursue an unsuspecting course. nature herself may assist by signs which set the expectant hunter yet more instantly alert. a distant kite suddenly swerving or checking its flight has seen _something_. the chattering of a band of magpies may only mean that they have struck a "find," say a dead rabbit--_tacitus pasci si posset corvus_, etc. but it may easily indicate a moving nocturnal, and such signs should never be ignored. similarly a covey of partridges springing with continued cackling is a certain token of the presence of an enemy; while a terrified-looking rabbit, with staring eye and ears laid back, means that an interview is then instantly impending. it may be necessary (as where a desert-stretch flanks the beat) to place "stops" far outside. these are as important as in a grouse-drive, but quite tenfold more difficult to array. in these more extensive operations the lynx, in evading the guns, is sometimes intercepted by the advancing pack behind. then, if by luck the cat can be forced into the open, she goes off at fine speed in great bounds, as a leopard covers the veld, and (the horses in this case being picketed close by) may sometimes be "tree'd" or run to bay in some distant thicket. in that case the assistance of the hunters is needed, for a lynx at bay will hold-up a whole pack of _podencos_, sitting erect on her haunches with her back to the bush and dealing half-arm blows with lightning speed. these _podencos_, it should be explained, are not intended to close, since all high-couraged dogs, we find, meet a speedy death from the tusks of wild-boars. when pressed in the open, we have seen a lynx deliberately pass through deep water that lay in her line of flight. . calling.--the coney was ever a puny folk, yet in tarshish he thrives and multiplies amidst numberless foes aloft and alow. from the heavens above fierce eyes directing hooked beaks and clenched talons survey his every movement; on the earth lynxes, cats, and foxes subsist chiefly on him; while below ground foumart and mongoose penetrate his farthest retreats year in and year out. he seems to possess absolutely no protection, yet he endures all this, supports his enemies, and increases, ever, to appearance, gaily unconscious of the perils that beset him. once, however, let misfortune overtake the rabbit, and his cry of distress brings instant response--from scrub and sky, from thicket and lurking lair, assemble the fiercer folk, each intent on his flesh. it is upon this fact that the system of calling, or, in spanish, _chillando_, is based. the instrument is simple. a crab's claw, or the green bark of a two-inch twig slipped off its stalk, will, in the lips of an adept, produce just such a cry of cunicular distress. armed with this, and observing the wind, one takes post concealed by bush but commanding some open glade in front. the most favourable time is dawn and dusk--the latter for choice, since then predatory animals are waking up hungry. the first "call" by our spanish companion almost startles by its lifelike verisimilitude. at short intervals these ringing distress-signals resound through the silent bush; if no response follows, we try another spot. first, a distant kite or buzzard, hearing the call, comes wheeling this way, but naturally the birds-of-prey from their lofty point of view detect the human presence and pursue their quest elsewhere. the rabbits themselves, from some inexplicable cause, are among the first to respond. within that opposite wall of jungle you detect a furtive movement; presently with jerky, spasmodic gait a rabbit darts out; it sits trembling with staring eyes and ears laid aback; another rolls over on its side and performs strange antics as though under hypnotic influence. in two minutes you have a _séance_ of mesmerised rabbits. my companion touches me on the arm; away beyond, and half behind him (almost on the wind), stands a fox intently gazing. before the gun can be brought to bear it is necessary to step round the keeper's front, and one expects that that first movement will mean the instant disappearance of the vulpine. not so! there he stands, statuesque, while the manoeuvre is executed. is he, too, hypnotised? on one occasion the authors, standing shoulder to shoulder with the keeper behind them, were only concealed by a single bush in front. at the third or fourth call a wild-cat sprang from the thicket beyond, fairly flew the intervening thirty yards at a bound, and landed in the single bush at our feet (precisely where the "rabbit" should have been) before a gun could be raised. what a marvellous exhibition of wild hunting! in this case, too, we had had notice in advance by the noisy rising of a pair of partridges sixty yards away in the bush. that cat scaled - / lbs. dead-weight. * * * * * all the beasts-of-prey can be secured in this manner. february is their pairing-season; but the best time for "calling" is a month or so later--in march and april--when young rabbits appear and when the _alimañas_ themselves have their litters to feed. [illustration: imperial eagle passing overhead (the spectator is presumed to be lying on his back!)] feathered raptores, such as eagles, kites, and buzzards, can also be obtained by "calling," but, as above indicated, their loftier position enables them to see the guns, and it is necessary in their case to prepare a covered shelter in which one can stand, concealed from above. . watching.--the fourth and last system brings one face to face with wild nature in her nocturnal aspects. such aspects (to the majority of mankind) are unknown; but night-work, whether at home, in africa, or in spain, has always strongly appealed to the writers. wild creatures do not go to bed at night like lazy men; on the contrary, night is the period of fullest activity for a large proportion of god's creation, whether of fur or feather. to form an intimate personal acquaintance (however imperfect) with these, the comfort of the blankets must be sacrificed. where stretches of open country border or intersect jungle, or lie between the nocturnal hunting-grounds of carnivorae and the thickets where they lie-up by day, there one may enjoy hours of intense interest in watching what passes under the moon. in the coto doñana we have many such spots, some within an hour or two's ride of our shooting-lodges. here, when the moon shines full, and the soft south wind blows towards the dark leagues of cistus and tree-heath behind us, we line-out three or four guns, each looking outwards across glittering sand-wastes on his front. there, on smooth expanse, one may detect every moving thing. those shadowy forms that seem to skim the surface without touching it are stone-curlews, and beyond them is a less mobile object, whose identity none would guess by sight. that is a _tortuga_, or land-tortoise, tracing its singular double trail. across the sand passes a bigger shadow--rabbits and the rest all vanish. what was that shadow? a strange growl overhead, and you see it is an eagle-owl that has scattered the ghost-like groups. now there is something on the far skyline ahead--something that moves and puzzles--four mobile objects that were not there five seconds ago. these prove to be the ears of two hinds; presently the spiky horns of a stag appear behind them, and the trio move slowly across our front, stopping to nibble some tuft of bent. none of these are what we seek, but as dawn approaches you may (or may not) detect the form of some beast-of-prey making for its lair in the jungle behind you. foxes, as their habit is, trot straight in; the lynx comes with infinite caution. should some starveling bush survive a hundred yards out, she may stop, squatting on her haunches, half-hidden in its shade. you can see there is something there, but the distance is just beyond a sure range, and seldom indeed will that cat come nearer. however low and still you have laid the while, she will, by some subtle feline intuition, have gleaned (perhaps half unconsciously even to herself) a sense of danger. when day has dawned, you will find the retiring spoor winding backwards behind some gentle swell that leads to an unseen hollow beyond--and to safety. truly you agree when the keeper says, "lynxes see _best_ in the dark." * * * * * in a wide country it is of course purely fortuitous should any of these animals approach within shot. to assure that result with greater certainty we have adopted the plan of a "drag." two or three hours before taking our positions (that is, shortly after midnight), a keeper rides along far outside on the sand, trailing behind his horse a bunch of split-open rabbits. upon arriving outside the intended position of each gun, he directs his course inwards, thus dragging the bait close up to the post. then taking a fresh bunch of rabbits, he repeats the operation to each post in turn. thus every incoming beast must strike the scented trail at one point or another. occasionally one will follow the drag right into the expectant gun, more often (the animals being full at that hour) it will leave the trail after following it for a greater or less distance. some ignore it altogether. this applies to all sorts. the sand, as day dawns, forms a regular lexicon of spoor. one can trace each movement of the night. there go the plantigrade tracks of a badger, and hard by the light-footed prints of mongoose, mice, and an infinity of minor creatures. * * * * * foxes most frequently capture their prey in fair chase, running them down, as shown by the double spoor ending in blood. lynxes never chase; they kill by stalking, and a crouching spoor ends in a spring. both these habitually carry away or bury all they do not devour on the spot. from the end of january onwards (that being the pairing-season) foxes may often be seen abroad by daylight in couples, and in such case, provided _they_ are _seen first_, are easily brought-up by "calling." lynxes never show-up so by daylight, but an hour or two before dawn their weird wailing cries may be heard in the bush from mid-february onwards. * * * * * the mongoose is perhaps the least easily secured, being absolutely nocturnal and running so low (like a giant weasel) as to be almost invisible, however slight the covert. it is, moreover, an adept at concealment, and will scarcely be detected even at thirty yards if stationary. the best way to secure specimens of badger and mongoose is by digging-out their breeding-earths or warrens. an initial difficulty is to find the earths amid leagues of scrub or rugged mountain-sides; and even when located it may be necessary to burn off half an acre of brushwood before the spade can be brought into action. from one set of earths we have succeeded in digging out five big mongoose alive. that night, though confined in strong wooden cases, they gnawed their way out, and were never seen more, albeit their prison was on board a yacht anchored in mid-stream and half-a-mile from shore. * * * * * a few such days and nights as these teach that wild spain cherishes other animals besides the game, to the full as interesting and even more difficult to secure. if we are asked (as we often have been before) why we molest creatures which have no value when killed, we reply that almost without exception our spanish specimens have gone to enrich one collection or another, public or private, and that during the year in which we write this the authors spent a fortnight in obtaining a series of these animals for our national museum at south kensington, with the following results:--[ ] four lynxes--two males, - / and lbs.; two females, - / and lbs.--representing both types, namely, ( ) that with many small spots, and ( ) the handsomer form with fewer large and conspicuous blotches. one wild-cat (an exceptional specimen)--a male of lbs., with yellow irides instead of the usual cold, cruel, pale-green eyes like an unripe gooseberry. this cat was what the spanish keepers describe as _rayado_ = banded, _i.e._ the spots are arrayed in regular series or interrupted bands rather than scattered promiscuously. this race is distinguished as _gato clavo_, the ordinary wild-cat being known as _gato romano_. several other wild-cats (_gatos romanos_)--males weighing from - / to - / lbs.; females weighing from - / to - / lbs. in the sierras wild-cats run heavier than this, for we have killed in moréna a wild-cat that scaled - / kilos, or upwards of lbs. two badgers--male, - / lbs.; female, - / lbs. these spanish badgers are blacker in the legs than british examples, and their fore-claws are more powerfully developed, possibly in this case through living in sand. really big males weigh nearly double the above. ten foxes (_vulpes melanogaster_)--six males weighing - / , , - / , - / , lbs.; four females weighing , - / , - / , lbs. besides "small deer," such as rats and mice, voles, moles, and dormice, to say nothing of a whole red-stag and a whole wild-boar! [postscript] _march , ._--_chillando_ this evening at the oyillos del tio juan roque, a big grey sow with numerous progeny came trotting up to within a few yards--whether to devour the supposed rabbit or merely from curiosity was not apparent. on realising the situation, she turned and dashed off with an indignant snort, followed by her striped brood, but did not go far before stopping (like lot's wife) to listen and look back. later, at the sabinal, just upon dusk, a fox appeared about yards away, down-wind. though quite aware of our presence, both by scent and sight, he deliberately sat down on his haunches to watch; but no charm of the _chillar_ would induce a nearer approach, and a rifle-ball whistling within an inch or two of his ears broke the spell. on may , , a mongoose responded with unusual alacrity to the first "call," running up within twenty yards. this was an adult male and weighed - / lbs. * * * * * we have endeavoured to rear some of these animals in captivity. the young wild-cats are by far the most intractable--perfect fiends of savage fury, quite unamenable to civilisation. the lynx at least affects a measure of subjection, but remains always unreliable and treacherous in spirit. the story of how one of our tame lynxes attacked and nearly killed a poor _lavandera_ is told in _wild spain_, p. . chapter xxxv our "home-mountains" the serranÍa de ronda i. san cristobal and the _pinsÁpo_ region this mountain-system may be regarded as an outlying eastern extension of the sierra neváda. except at the "ultimo suspiro del moro" there is no actual break, and both in physical features and in fauna the two ranges coincide, while differing essentially from the sierra moréna, their immediate neighbour on the north. the serranía de ronda, nevertheless, displays distinctive characters which entitle it to a place in this book; it forms, moreover, our "home-mountains," lying within a thirty-mile ride eastward of jerez. [illustration: pinsÁpo pine] the outstanding feature is the _massif_--or, in spanish, _nucléo central_--of san cristobal, which rises to feet, and stands head and shoulders above its surrounding satellites, an imposing pile of cold grey rock and perpendicular precipice.[ ] nestling beneath its western bastions lies the moorish hamlet of benamahoma, whence, housed in friendly quarters, we have oft explored this hill. the route to the summit (which may almost be reached on donkey-back) is by the southern face; for summits, however, merely as such, we have no sort of affection, and never expend one ounce of energy in gaining them, unless they chance to aid a main objective. as to "views," we are sure to enjoy these from other points quite as effective. new-fallen snow powdered the ground and mantled the surrounding peaks as we rode out of benamahoma on march . but the sun shone bright, and from a poplar softly warbled a rock-bunting--with pearl-grey head, triple banded. serins and kitty-wrens sang from the wooded slopes, and we observed long-tailed tits, with cirl-buntings and woodlarks. a grey wagtail by the burnside was already acquiring the black throat of spring. [illustration: rock-bunting (_emberiza cia_)] the tortuous track writhes upwards through sporadic cultivation--the angles at which these hill-men can work a plough amaze, beans and _garbanzos_ grow on slopes where no ordinary biped could maintain a foothold. the industry of mountaineers (here as elsewhere in spain) is remarkable. each tillable patch, however small or abrupt, is reduced to service, its million stones removed and utilised to form the foundation for a tiny era, or threshing-floor (like a shelf on the hillside), whereon the hard-won crop is threshed with flails. higher out on the hills rude stone sheilings are erected to serve as shelters during seed-time and harvest. not even the hardy norseman puts up a tougher tussle with nature to wrest her fruits from the earth. presently one enters forests of oak and ilex with strange misshapen trunks, stunted and hollow, but decorated with prehensile convolvulus and mistletoe--many three-fourths dead, mere shells with cavernous interior, sheltering tufts of ferns. here, instead of destroying the whole tree, charcoal-burners pollard and lop; huge lateral limbs are amputated as they grow, and the result, during centuries, produces these monstrosities, rarely exceeding twenty feet in height and surmounted by a delicate superstructure of branches totally disproportionate. no more fantastic forms can be conceived than these bloated boles, wrestling, as it were, with death, yet still able to transmit life to the superstruction above. they recall the baobab trees of central africa. in neither case is the effect absolutely displeasing, albeit grotesque. both may be described as deformed rather than disfigured. on rounding the northern shoulder of the mountain, suddenly the whole scene changes. instead of limb-lopped trunks, one is faced by the dark foliage of the pinsápo pine--a forest monarch whose stately growth strikes one's eye as something conspicuously new. and new indeed it is. for the range of this great spanish pine (_abies pinsapo_) is limited not merely to spain, but actually to this one mountain-range, the serranía de ronda--there may exist more remarkable examples of a restricted distribution, but none certainly that we have come across. the pinsápo, moreover, affects even here but three spots: first, san cristobal itself; secondly, the sierra de las nieves, a mountain plainly visible some thirty miles to the eastward (all its northern corries darkened by pinsápos); and, lastly, the sierra bermeja on the mediterranean, distant thirty to thirty-five miles s.s.e. on each of the three the pinsápo grows in forests; on adjacent hills we have observed one or two scattered groups--otherwise this pine is found nowhere else on earth. a curious character of the pinsápo is that it only grows on the northern faces of the hills. the tree possesses remarkable personality. though one sees a chance specimen grow up straight as a spruce, yet its normal tendency is to "flatten out" on top, whence three, four, even a dozen independent "leaders" spring away, each with equal vigour, and finally form as many distinct vertical trunks, say six or eight separate pines all arising from a common base. to see the pinsápo in its pristine majesty and massiveness, one must ascend beyond the range of charcoal-burners; up there flourish gigantic specimens, some of which we measured (by rough pacing) to encompass ten to fifteen yards of base. these trees grow from screes of broken rock--great blocks of white dolomite; but the deep-searching tap-roots penetrate to black alluvia beneath. other huge pines found roothold in walls of living rock. the three sketches, made from individual trees (presumed for the purpose to be divested of foliage), illustrate the singular multiple growth described. the foliage of the pinsápo differs from ordinary pine-needles, being rather a series of stiff outstanding spines analogous to those of the araucaria. they display a crimson efflorescence in march, developing into clusters of red cones by april, and ripening in august to september.[ ] [illustration: pinsÁpo pines (_abies pinsapo_) diagram to show trunk-plan, divested of foliage. girth at base to feet.] the pinsápo-forests are subject to terrible destruction alike by hatchet and fire, tempest and avalanche. forest-fires sweep whole glens; while rock-slides overwhelm and uproot even the biggest trees by scores. few scenes that we have witnessed are more eloquent of nature's violence than these traces of an avalanche. mammoth skeletons, weird and weather-blanched, protrude by the hundred from chaotic rock-ruin--some still upright, others overthrown or half submerged in debris, yet stretching great white arms heavenward, as though in agonised appeal. the distant roar of an avalanche is a not infrequent sound throughout the mountain-land. the pinsápo-forests of san cristobal present one of the most striking mountain-landscapes in andalucia. for some three miles they cover in a semicircle the whole scooped-out amphitheatre of the mountain-side. their dark-green masses, contrasted against the white rocks on which they grow--and in winter with yet whiter snow--cluster upwards, tier above tier, from below the -feet level away to the extreme summit of the knife-edged ridge above, say feet. would that we could depict the beauty of the scene. [illustration: crossbill wrestling with pine-cone.] through these dark forests a track winds, and here again the evident industry of the mountaineers surprised. at intervals along this pathway lay great baulks of pine-timber (sleepers, planks, and poles), dressed and piled ready for transport. that such loads could be carried hence on donkey-back, or, were such possible, that the labour could be repaid, appeared incredible--so distant are markets and so heavy the cargo.[ ] we had hoped to find in these forests a home of the spanish crossbill, but not a sign of it rewarded our search. to avail the ripe fruit, the crossbill would need to nest in autumn, and that (wide as is the latitude of its breeding-season) is too much even for the _pico-tuerto_. an interesting species found here in march was the cole-tit (_parus pinsapinensis?_), which climbed around us, swinging from twigs within a yard as we sat at lunch. blackstarts abounded, also firecrests. the latter have a pretty habit of engaging in aërial struggle--whether for love or war--both falling locked together to earth, as blue-tits do. on one such occasion a male, ere taking wing, spread out his flaming crown fanlike, as it were a halo. beyond the pinsápo-forests succeeds a region of wiry esparto-grass, up which we climbed to yet more sterile zones above. here cruel rocks are adorned with a dwarf sword-broom, steel-tipped, a thorny berberis, and vicious pin-cushion gorse that protects its newer growths (not that there is anything tender about it at any stage) by a delicate grey tracery that deceives a careless eye. for that subtle tracery is, in fact, the indurated malice of last year's spikey armour. no handhold does nature here vouchsafe. curiously, we noticed woodlarks up here, while blackstarts abounded as titlarks on a northumbrian moor. in an ivy-clad gorge at feet we found two nearly completed nests in rock crevices: one occupied a vertical fissure that needed quite twelve inches of packed moss to provide a foundation, the cup-shaped nest being superimposed. but it was not till a month later (april ) that these birds were laying in earnest. at feet the "piorno" (_spartius scorpius_) began to grow, a red-stemmed shrub, known locally as _leche-interna_, and on breaking it, the twigs are found to be filled with a milky fluid that justifies the name. the piorno we have never found growing except on the high tops of grédos and other lofty sierras, where it forms a chief food of the spanish ibex, its presence being, in fact, always associated with that of the wild-goat. alas! that here, on san cristobal, that association has been severed--another instance of the heedless improvidence that marks the spanish race. fifteen years ago they destroyed the last ibex; fifteen years hence they will have destroyed the last pinsápo! once for brief moments a broad-horned head, peering over the topmost crags, lent joyous hope that after all an ibex or two might yet survive. but the intruder proved to be one of the dark-brown rams of _ovis bidens_ that, in semi-feral state, roam these peaks. san cristobal itself now holds no big game; though ibex are found but a few leagues to the eastward, and, we rejoice to add (on certain sierras where protection is afforded them), begin to increase. the serranía de ronda, like neváda, of which it is an extension, has never held either boar or deer; both are too rocky and precipitous to shelter those animals, though both boar and roe are found in the lower hills towards jerez. * * * * * just below the highest peak, the cumbre de san cristobal, lies a curious little alpine meadow. it is only forty yards square, and while we rested, lunching, on unaccustomed level a golden eagle swept overhead, chased and hustled by a mob of choughs that colonise these crags. ten minutes later a lammergeyer afforded a second glorious spectacle, speeding through space on pinions rigidly motionless, but strongly reflexed, as is usual on a descending gradient. only once, as far as eye could follow, was one great wing gently deflected, and that merely from the "wrist." [illustration: lammergeyer overhead gliding high on down-grade with rigid reflexed wings, outer primaries in-drawn, fan-wise.] on reaching a crest above, two lammergeyers appeared, the first carrying a long stick or thin bone athwart his beak; the second held a course direct to where l. sat on the ridge, coming so near that the rustle of huge wings sounded menacingly and the white head, golden breast, and hoary shoulders showed clear as in a picture. we expected to find the eyrie somewhere hard by, but in this we were mistaken--once more. it was not on that hill, nor the next; but on a third![ ] we discovered the nest of our friends, the golden eagles. it was situate quite two miles away, in a vertical pulpit-shaped rock-stack, that stood forth in a terribly steep scree. from a cavern in the face of this (prettily overhung by a clump of red-berried mistletoe) flew the male eagle. from below, the eyrie was accessible to within a dozen feet; but that interval proved impassable. in the evening we returned with the rope, and having made this fast above, l. was about to ascend from below, when the man left in charge at the top (probably misunderstanding his instructions) let all go, and down came the rope clattering at our feet! it was too late to rectify the blunder that night, and a month elapsed ere we would revisit the spot. then this curious result ensued. the eagles, we found, had so bitterly resented the indignity of a rope having been (even momentarily) stretched athwart their portals that they had abandoned their stronghold, leaving two handsome eggs, partly incubated. their eyrie was eight feet deep, its entrance partly overgrown with ivy and (as above mentioned) overhung by red-berried mistletoe growing on a wild-cherry--the nest built of sticks, lined with esparto, and adorned with green ivy-leaves and twigs of pinsápo. [illustration: golden eagle hunting ( ) the "stoop"--quite vertical. ( ) "got him." ] the golden eagle is still common, ornamenting with majestic flight every sierra in spain. for eagles are notoriously difficult to kill, and, when killed, cannot be eaten; so the goat-herd, with characteristic apathy and arab fatalism, suffers the ravages on his kids and contents himself with an oath. only once have we found a nest in a tree; it was a giant oak, impending a ravine so precipitous that from the eyrie you could drop a pebble into a torrent feet below. usually their nests are in the crags, vast accumulations of sticks conspicuously projecting, and generally in pairs, perhaps yards apart, and which are occupied in alternate years. eggs are laid by mid-march, but the young hardly fly before june. it was in this sierra that we made the sketches of golden eagles from life, here and at p. . bonelli's eagle is another beautiful mountain-haunting species, but of it we treat elsewhere. * * * * * from the knife-edged ridge above our eagle's eyrie (height feet) we enjoyed a memorable view. due south, miles away, beyond the jumbled spanish sierras, lay gibraltar, recognisable by its broken back, but looking puny and inconsiderable amidst vaster heights. beyond it--beyond tetuan, in fact--rose mount anna, an -feet african mountain; to the right, gebel-musa and all the moorish coast to cape spartel, the straits between showing dim and insignificant. to the eastward, beyond the sierra de las nieves aforesaid, stands out boldly the long white snow-line of neváda, its majesty undimmed by distance and miles of intervening atmosphere. to the west we distinguish jerez, miles away, and beyond it the shining atlantic. from one point there lies almost perpendicularly below, the curious mediæval village of grazalema, jammed in between two vast cinder-grey rock-faces--its narrow streets, white houses, and india-red roofs resembling nothing so much as a toy town. no space for "back-streets," each house faces both ways; yet grazalema is one of the cleanest spots we have struck--how they manage that, we know not. immediately beneath grazalema is a bird-crag that contains a regular "choughery," hundreds of these red-billed corvines nesting in its caves and crevices. as neighbours they had lesser kestrels and rock-sparrows (_petronia stulta_), while the roofs of the caverns were plastered with the mud nests of crag-martins. we also noticed here alpine swifts, and a great frilled lizard escaped us amid broken rocks. within the limits of a chapter even the more notable spots of a great serranía cannot all find place; but the rock-gorge known as the yna de la garganta will not be overpassed, though no words of ours can convey the stupendous nature of this place, a chasm riven right through the earth's crust till its depths are invisible from above; and overshadowed by encircling walls of sheer red crags, broken horizontally at intervals, thus forming, as it were, tier above tier, and flanked by a series of bastions and flying buttresses apparently provided to support the vast superstructure above. [illustration] by climbing along the rugged central tier, one overlooks from its apex, as from the reserved seats of a dress-circle, the whole domestic economy of a vulture city in being. every ledge in that abyss was crowded; many vultures sat brooding, their heads laid flat on the rock or tucked under the point of a wing. elsewhere a single grey-white chick, or a huge white egg, lay in full view on the open ledge, nestled, apparently, on bare earth; and behind these each niche or cavern had its tenant. the rocks around a nest were often stained blood-red, and one vulture arrived carrying a mass of what appeared carrion in its claws. another brought a wisp of dry esparto-grass athwart her beak and deposited it in her nest.[ ] while we watched this scene a smart thunderstorm passed over, with the result that shortly afterwards the vultures spread their huge wings to dry, displaying attitudes some of which we endeavour to sketch--see also p. . [illustration: "wing-drying"] the descent into the unseen depths beneath was rewarded, despite a terrible scramble--part of the way on a rope--by discovering a fairy grotto filled with pink, azure, and opalescent stalactites and stalagmites. the bed of the canyon, which from above had appeared to be paved with sand, now proved to consist of boulders ten feet high. after threading a devious course through these for half-a-mile we reached the mouth of the grotto. its width would be nearly feet and height about half that, the form roughly resembling the quarter of a cocoa-nut. the dome, in delicate colouring, passes description--the apex bright salmon-pink, changing, as it passed inwards, first into clear emerald, then to dark green, and finally to indigo; while the reflected sunlight filtering down between the rock-walls of the canyon caused phantasmagoric effects such as, one thought, existed only in fairyland. the cavern was backed by pillars of stalactites resembling the pipes of a mighty organ, and of so soft and feathery a texture that it was surprising, on touching them, to find hard rock. the floor also was composed of great smooth stalagmites, deep brown in colour. from outside, one saw the sky as through a narrow rift between the perpendicular walls which towered up feet; and above that level there again uprose the vultures' cliffs already described. * * * * * one evening we detected afar a cavern which showed signs of being the present abode of a lammergeyer. ere reaching it, however, a keen eye descried one of these birds in the heavens at an altitude that dwarfed the great _gypaëtus_ to the size of a humble kestrel. presently, after many descending sweeps, the lammergeyer entered another cavern feet higher up--in fact, close under the sky-line, among some scanty pinsápos. the hour was p.m., and after a long day's scramble, the writer shied at a fresh ascent. not so my companion, l., who set off at a run, and within an hour had reached the eyrie. it proved empty, though the leg of a freshly killed kid lay half across the nest. this was presumably the alternative site, used, this year, merely as a larder; but time did not that night admit of further search. the writer beguiled the two-hours interval in interviewing a wild gipsy-eyed girl of twelve, whose name was joséfa aguilár, and whose vocation in life to attend a herd of swine. throughout spain, whether on mountain or plain, one sees this thing--a small boy or girl spending the livelong day in solitary charge of dumb beasts, goats or pigs, even turkeys--and the sight ever causes me a pang of regret. probably i am quite wrong, but such hardly seems a human vocation--certainly it leads nowhere. in intervals of pelting her recalcitrant charges with stones, joséfa told me she lived in a reed-hut which was close by, but so small that i had overlooked its existence; that she never went to school or had been farther from home than zahara, a village some few miles away. she asked if i was from grazalema, and on being told from england, she repeated the word "inglaterra" again and again, while her bright black eyes became almost sessile with wonderment. joséfa's frock was hanging in tatters, torn to bits by the thorny scrub. i gave her some coppers to buy a new one, and with a little joyous scream joséfa vanished among the bush. [illustration: lammergeyer entering eyrie] darkness was closing in ere l. returned; then great thunder-clouds rolled up, obscuring the moon, and oh! what we suffered those next three hours, scrambling over rock and ridge, through forest and thicket--all in inky darkness and under a deluge of rain. on returning to this remote ridge (having ascended from the opposite face), we soon renewed our friendship with the lammergeyer--when first seen, it was being mobbed by an impudent chough. then it sailed up the deep gorge below us, passing close in front, and after clearing an angle of the hill, wheeled inwards and with gently closing wings plunged into a cavern in the crag. we felt we had our object assured; yet on examining these mighty piles of rocks--a couple of hours' stiff climbing--it was evident we were mistaken, for no nest, past or present, did they reveal. it was on yet a third stupendous crag, quite a mile from the alternative site first discovered, that this year these lammergeyers had fixed their home. the nest was in quite a small cave in the rock-face; more often (as described in _wild spain_) the lammergeyer prefers a huge cavern in the centre of which is piled an immense mass of sticks, heather-stalks, and other rubbish--the accumulation of years--and lined with esparto-grass and wool. the eggs always number two and are richly coloured, whereas the griffon lays but one, and that white. although laying takes place as early as january, yet the young are unable to fly before june. our principal object this year was to sketch the lammergeyer in life, and in this several rough portraits serve to show that we succeeded--so far as in us lies. * * * * * there remain notes of later vernal developments in these beautiful sierras; but alas! this chapter is already too long, so over the taffrail they go. chapter xxxvi serranÍa de ronda (_continued_) ii. the sierra bermeja the sierra bermeja, standing on mediterranean shore, demands a page or two if only because it affords a home to three of spain's peculiar and rarer guests--the pinsápo, the ibex, and the lammergeyer. our earlier experience in bermeja, our efforts to study its ibex--and to secure a specimen or two--are told in _wild spain_. suffice it here to say that the characteristic of these mediterranean mountains is that here the ibex habitually live, and even lie-up (as hares do), among the scrubby brushwood of the hills--a remarkable deviation from their observed habits elsewhere, whether in spain, the caucasus and himalayas, or wherever ibex are found. but since brushwood clothes bermeja and other mediterranean hills to their topmost heights, the local wild-goats have literally no choice in the matter. still, such a habitat must strike a hunter's eye as abnormal, and is, in fact, a curious instance of "adaptation to environment."[ ] during december we spent some days in bermeja in an attempt to stalk the ibex--a difficult undertaking when game is always three-parts hidden by scrub. on former occasions we had secured a specimen or two by stalking (here called _raspagéo_) and "driving"; but whatever chance there might have been was this time annihilated by incessant mists enshrouding the heights in opaque screen. thus another carefully organised expedition and unstinted labour were once more thrown away! [illustration: lammergeyer [drawn from life in sierra bermeja, march .]] on december we drove the "pinsapal." this, commencing near the highest tops, feet, extends down a tremendous conch-shaped ravine, merging at the base into pine-forests--chiefly, we believe, _pinus pinaster_. this "drive" lasted two hours, mist sometimes densely thick, at others clearing a little; but only allowing a view varying from twenty to eighty yards. this, coupled with constant drip from the gigantic pinsápos and a bitter wind blowing through clothes already soaked, was ... well, comfortless and pretty hopeless to boot. twice the dogs gave tongue--and it could be nothing but ibex here; while d., who was posted on the left, heard the rattling of hoofs as a herd passed within, as he reckoned, yards. a second lot, followed by dogs, was heard though not seen on the extreme right. the pinsápos at this season, and in such weather, form a favourite resort, for we saw more sign hereabouts than on the high tops. a _levante_ wind in winter always means mist--and failure. the ibex in winter hold the high ground unless driven down by snow. in spring and summer they come lower--even to cork-oak levels--presumably to avoid contact with tame goats, then pasturing on the tops. the east wind and fog continuing a whole week, though we tried all we knew, every effort was frustrated by atmospheric obstruction. to drive ibex successfully, the skilled training of the dogs is essential. formerly there were goat-herds who possessed clever dogs of great local repute. but these days of "free-shooting" have passed away, and the ibex of bermeja with those of other spanish sierras have recently fallen under the beneficent ægis of "protection." bird-life in winter is scarce. we noticed a few redwings feeding on berries; jays, partridges, and many wood-pigeons picking up acorns. vultures rarely appear here, but both golden and bonelli's eagles were observed, and in one mountain-gorge a pair of lammergeyers have their stronghold, where in we examined both their eyries, one containing a young _gypaëtus_ as big as a turkey. that was in march, at which season hawfinches abounded in the pines, and at dawn the melody of the blue thrush recalled scandinavian springs and the redwing's song. another small bird caused recurrent annoyance while ibex-driving. with a loud "rat, tat, tat," resembling the patter of horny hoofs on rock, its song commences; then follows a hissing note as of a heavy body passing through brushwood--for an instant one expects the coveted game to appear. no, confound that bird! it's only a blackstart. we extract the following scene from _wild spain_:-- on the lifting of a cloud-bank which rested on the mountain-side, i descried four ibex standing on a projecting rock in bold relief about yards away. the intervening ground was rugged--rocks and brush-wood with scattered pines--and except the first yards, the stalk offered no difficulty. i had passed the dangerous bit, and was already within yards, when in a moment the wet mist settled down again and i saw the game no more. curiously, on the fog first lifting, an eagle sat all bedraggled and woe-begone on a rock-point hard by, his feathers fluffed out and a great yellow talon protruding, as it seemed, from the centre of his chest. then a faint sun-ray played on his bronzed plumage: he shook himself and launched forth in air, sweeping downwards--luckily without moving the ibex, though they took note of the circumstance. in the lower forests here are some pig and roe-deer. a far greater stronghold, however, for both these game-animals is at almoraima, belonging to the duke of medinaceli, some six or eight leagues to the westward. almoraima covers a vast extent of wild mountainous land of no great elevations generally, but all wooded and jungle-clad. on the lower levels grow immense cork-forests. here, during a series of _monterías_ in february , in which the writer, to his lasting regret, was prevented from taking part, a total of roe-deer and boars was secured. the two best roebuck heads measured as follows:-- length (outside curve). circumference. tip to tip. no. - / " - / " - / " no. - / " - / " " iii. sierra de jerez these mountains (being within sight of our home) formed the scene of our earliest sporting ventures in spain. it is forty years ago now, yet do we not forget that first day and its anxieties, as we rode by crevices that serve for bridle-paths, along with a too jovial hill-farmer, barréa by name, who persisted in carrying a loaded gun swinging haphazard and full-cock in the saddle-slings--that it was loaded we saw by the shiny copper cap on each nipple! our objects that day were boar and roe-deer; but presently a partridge was descried sprinting up the rugged screes above. out came the ready gun, and next moment all that remained of that partridge was a cloud of feathers and scattered anatomy. the ball had gone true. barréa casually shouted to a lad to pick up the pieces, himself riding on as though such practice was an everyday affair. my own experience of ball-shooting being then limited, i reflected that if such were spanish marksmanship, i might be left behind! on assembling for lunch, however, some vultures were wheeling high overhead, and it occurred to me to try my luck. by precisely a similar fluke, one huge griffon collapsed to the shot, and swirling round and round like a parachute, occupied (it seemed) five minutes in reaching the ground-- feet below us. that afternoon the antics of two strange beasties attracted my attention and again my ball went straight. the victim was a mongoose, and with some pride i had the specimen carefully stowed in the mule-panniers--never to see it more! the mongoose, we now know, owing to its habit of eating snakes, has acquired a personal aroma surpassing in pungency that of any other beast of the field, and our men, so soon as my back was turned, had discreetly thrown out the malodorous trophy. a boar-shooting trip to the sierra de jerez formed the first sporting venture in which the authors were jointly engaged; for which reason (though the memory dates back to march ) we may be forgiven for extracting a brief summary from _wild spain_:-- our quarters were a little white rancho perched amid deep bush and oak-woods on the slope of the sierra del valle. a mile farther up the valley was closed by the dark transverse mass of the sierra de las cabras, the two ranges being separated by an abrupt chasm called the boca de la foz, which was to be the scene of this day's operations. a pitiable episode occurred. while preparing to mount, there resounded from behind a peal of strange inhuman laughter, followed by incoherent words; and through an iron-barred window we discerned the emaciated figure of a man, wild and unkempt, whose eagle-like claws grasped the barriers of his cell--a poor lunatic. no connected replies could we get, nothing beyond vacuous laughter and gibbering chatter. now he was at the theatre and quoted magic jargon; anon supplicating the mercy of a judge; then singing a stanza of some old song, to break off abruptly into fierce denunciation of one of us as the cause of his troubles. poor wretch! he had once been a successful advocate; but signs of madness having developed, which increased with years, the once popular lawyer was reduced to the durance of this iron-girt cell, his only share and view of god's earth just so much of sombre everlasting sierra as the narrow opening allowed. we were warned that any effort to ameliorate his lot was hopeless, his case being desperate. what hidden wrongs may exist in a land where no judicial intervention is obligatory between the "rights of families" and their insane relations (or those whom they may consider such) are easy to conceive. the first covert tried was a strong jungle flanking the main gorge, but this and a second beat proved blank, though two roebuck broke back. the third drive comprised the main _manchas_, or thickets, of the boca de la foz, and to this we ascended on foot, leaving the horses picketed behind. our four guns occupied the rim of a natural amphitheatre which dipped sharply away some feet beneath us, the centre choked with brushwood--lentisk, arbutus, and thorn-- feet deep. on our left towered a perpendicular block of limestone cliffs, the right flank of the jungle being bordered by a series of up-tilted rock-strata, white as marble and resembling a ruined street. ten minutes of profound silence, not a sound save the distant tinkle of a goat-bell, or the song of that feathered recluse, the blue rock-thrush (in spanish, _solitario_), then the distant cries of the beaters in the depths below told us the fray had begun. another ten minutes' suspense. then a crash of hound-music proclaimed that the quarry was at home. this boar proved to be one of certain grizzly monsters of which we were specially in search, his lair a jumble of boulders islanded amid thickest jungle. here he held his ground, declining to recognise in canine aggressors a superior force. two boar-hounds reinforced the skirmishers of the pack, yet the old tusker stood firm. for minutes that seemed like hours the conflict raged stationary: the sonorous baying of the boar-hounds, the "yapping" of the smaller dogs, and shouts of mountaineers blended with the howl of an incautious _podenco_ as he received a death-rip--all formed a chorus of sounds that carried their exciting story to the sentinel guns above. the seat of war being near half-a-mile away, no immediate issue was expected. then there occurred one crash of bush, and a second boar dashed straight for the pass where the writer barred the way. the suddenness of the encounter disconcerted, and the first shot missed--the bullet splashing on a grey rock just above--time barely remained to jump aside and avoid collision. the left barrel got home: a stumble and a savage grunt as an ounce of lead penetrated his vitals, and the boar plunged headlong, his life-blood dyeing the weather-blanched rocks and green palmetto. for a moment he lay, but ere cold steel could administer a quietus, he had regained his feet and dashed back. whether revenge prompted that move or it was merely an effort to regain the covert he had just left, we know not--a third bullet laid him lifeless. during this interlude (though it only occupied five seconds) the main combat below reached its climax. the old boar had left his stronghold, and after sundry sullen stands and promiscuous skirmishes (during which a second _podenco_ died), he made for the heights. showing first on the centre, he was covered for a moment by a · express; but, not breaking covert, no shot could be fired, and when next viewed the boar was trotting up a stone-slide on the extreme left. here a rifle-shot broke a foreleg, and the disabled beast, unable to face the hill, retreated to the thicket below, scattering dogs and beaters in headlong flight. and now commenced the hue and cry--the real hard work for those who meant to see the end and earn the spoils of war. presently _moro's_ deep voice told us of the boar at bay, far away down in the depths of the defile. what followed in that hurly-burly--that mad scramble through brake and thicket, down crag and scree--cannot be written. each man only knows what he did himself, or did not do. we can answer for three. one of these seated himself on a rock and lit a cigarette. the others, ten minutes later, arrived on the final scene, one minus his nether garments and sundry patches of skin, but in time to take part in the death of as grand a boar as roams the spanish sierras. this last spring ( ), after thirty-eight years, we revisited the boca de la foz, partly to reassure ourselves that the above description was not overdrawn. no! 'tis a terrible wild gorge, the foz, but the days when we can follow a wounded boar through obstacles such as those have passed away. the boars, we were told, are still there, and so are the vultures in those magnificent crags. we climbed along the ledges and there were the great stick-built nests, each in its ancestral site. in march each contains a single egg; now (april) that is replaced by a leaden-hued chick. these cliffs are also tenanted by ravens and a single pair of choughs. neophrons occupied the same cavern whence i shot a female in , and crag-martins held their old abodes, plastered on to the roofs of the caves. as april advances a new and striking bird-form arrives to adorn the higher sierras--the least observant can scarce miss this, the rock-thrush (_monticola saxatilis_), conspicuous alike in plumage and actions; with clear blue head and chestnut breast, its colour-scheme includes a broad patch of white set in the centre of a dark back. the contrast is most effective, and, so far as we know, this "fashion" of a white back is unique among birds, unless indeed it be shared by bonelli's eagle. the rock-thrush is also endowed with a lovely wild song, quite low and simple, but replete with a fine "high-tops" quality. by april he yields to vernal impulses, and his courting is pretty to see; wheeling around on transparent pinions, he soars and sings the livelong day; at intervals, with collapsed wing, he drops like a stone to join his sober-hued mate among the rocks; a few picturesque poses, displaying all those flashing tints of orange and opal, and off he goes again to soar and sing once more. his cousin, the blue-thrush, has also a sweet song and a similar hovering flight, ending in a "drop act"; but the ascent is more vertical, while frequently he varies the descent and comes fluttering down in tree-pipit or butterfly-like style. even the sober little blackchat now "shows off," perched on some boulder with quivering wings and tail spread fan-like over his back. both these two last, being resident, nest much earlier than the migratory rock-thrush: the latter was building (in crevices of the rocks) by mid-april, but hardly lays before may. these sierras being only to feet, one misses here some of the alpine forms observed at higher altitudes. the tawny pipit, for example, a sandy-hued bird with dark eye-stripe and active wagtail-like gait, which was common on san cristobal at feet in april, never showed up here at all; nor did any of the following species, all so characteristic of the higher ground: blackstarts, woodlarks, rock-buntings, cole-and longtail-tits, and tree-creepers. the choughs, spotted woodpeckers, rock-thrushes, crag-martins, and wood-pigeons, though observed, were here very much scarcer. the lammergeyer, too, rarely descends here, and then only while in his smoke-black uniform of immaturity. the puerta de palomas in may , while returning from ubrique, our horses fell lame owing to loss of shoes, and for four days and nights we were encamped in the pass known as the puerta de palomas. there is a tiny _ventorillo_, or wayside wine-shop, at the foot of the pass; but nights are warm in may, and we preferred the freedom of the open hill, where the strange growls made by the griffons at dawn, together with the awakening carol of the rock-thrush, formed our reveille each morning in that roofless bedroom amidst the boulders. the opposite side of the pass is dominated by the picturesque pile called the picacho del aljibe, a conical peak that towers in tiers of crags above the adjoining sierras not unlike a gigantic arthur's seat over the salisbury crags. our own side was rather a chaotic jumble of detached monoliths than cliffs proper, and by clambering over these we reached in one morning sixteen vultures' nests, the easiest of access we ever struck. they were mostly very slight affairs, bare rock often protruding through the scanty structure; though, where necessary, a broad platform of sticks was provided--as sketched. the poults (only one in each nest) were now as big as guinea-fowls, with brown feathers sprouting through the white down. these eyries, albeit slightly malodorous, are always strictly clean, since vultures feed their young by disgorging half-digested food from their own crops, and we watched this not-pleasing operation being performed within some eighty yards' distance; hence there is no carrion or putrefying matter lying about, as is the case with the neophron and lammergeyer. [illustration: griffon vulture feeding young--puerta de palomas, april , .] these eyries were situate on three great outstanding stacks of rock, and during the scramble we came face to face with a pair of eagle-owls solemnly dreaming away the hours in the recesses of a cavern, though no sign of a nest was discovered. the caves were shared by crag-martins, whose swallow-like nests were fixed under the roof, usually just beyond reach. their eggs are white, flecked with grey. on may we obtained here a nest of the rock-thrush with five beautiful greenish-blue eggs. it was built in a cranny of the crags. this year ( ) found us once more in the puerta de palomas, the date april . on rounding the sierra de las cabras, as l. was already far up the hillside, i rode forward intending to ascend at the north end and work back, thus meeting in centre. a succession of mischances, however, upset that plan. a small clump of ilex clung to the steep above the point whereat i had left the horses, and in traversing this, i walked right into a calf concealed beneath a lentiscus. knowing that this might involve trouble should its half-wild mother be within hearing, i gently retreated, but, hard by, stumbled on a second calf, even smaller, in another bush. no. meanwhile had gained its legs and bleated softly. there followed a crash among the bush above, and as fierce-looking a wild beast as ever i saw (and i have seen some) came hurtling down those rugged rocks at amazing speed. on seeing me (luckily some little distance from her own offspring) the infuriated mother pulled up, full-face--a pretty picture, but rather menacing, especially as she kept up a muttered bellowing, horribly eloquent. i had sidled alongside a tree; but paco, who carried my gun, with the reckless spirit begotten of the bull-fight, boldly addressed the enemy in opprobrious terms. the only result was that she came still nearer, and i swung to a lower branch. paco, nothing daunted, now tried stones (in addition to expletives), and it was, to me at least, a relief when that cow at length retired. the half-wild savage may easily be more dangerous than the truly wild. the former have lost some of their pristine respect for man, and of course one has less means of defence. this incident over, we commenced the climb. the rock-stack rose vertically above us, but we diverged to the right as affording an easier route. on reaching the desired level, however, i found it impossible to make good that interval on our left--a smooth rock-face devoid of handhold, and too upright to traverse, forbade all lateral movement. up we went another twenty yards, then another; but always to find that slithery rock-face mocking our efforts to outflank it. we were now well above the rock-stack overlooking the eyries, and i could see two griffons brooding, another feeding a poult close by. but between us was a great gulf fixed, and that gulf stopped us. the obvious alternative was to descend and try again from a fresh point. but here a new difficulty faced us: we could not descend. we had come up by following a series of vertical fissures, or "chimnies," none too easy, since every crevice sheltered some vicious vegetation, each more spikey and thorny than the last. still from _below_ one can always select a handhold somewhere, and then defy the thorn; whereas on looking _backwards_, nothing is visible but a vanishing outline of rock and gorse, porcupine broom, or palmetto--beyond is vacant space, and a sheer drop at that. in a word, we could neither descend nor move laterally. it was humiliating--even more so than the antecedent incident with a _cow_! one resource remained--to climb on to the top; and even in that direction a single bad rock might cut off escape. no such crowning catastrophe befell, but it was tooth-and-claw work, every yard of it, and the vertical height could not have been less than feet. while thus "clawing up" i recollect passing a perfect glory in orchids--great twin purple blooms, golden-tipped and quite amorphous in outline. they grew just beyond my reach. curious recumbent ferns clung to the rocks; anemones and violet-like bouquets peered from each cranny. meanwhile l., approaching from the other side, had examined the rock-stacks and succeeded in attaining one main objective--the nest of the eagle-owl. this was in a rock-cavern, close by that of ' , easy of access--indeed the great owl flew out in his face as he passed below. the cave (four feet high by two wide) was at the foot of a vertical limestone cliff, its floor level with a goat-track that skirted the crag, and fully exposed to view; there was no nest nor any debris. two young owls in white down, with one egg actually "chipping," lay on the bare earth. * * * * * one of the griffon's nests still contained (on april ) a fresh egg, which is now in the writer's collection as a memorial of that day. we had secured all we had expected in the puerta de palomas--and something more besides. chapter xxxvii a spanish system of fowling the "cabresto" or stalking-horse spain is a land of flocks and herds, of breeders and graziers. at the head of the scale stands the fighting-bull, monarch of the richest _vegas_; at the opposite extreme come the shaggy little ponies and brood-mares that eke out a feral and precarious subsistence in the wildest regions. throughout the marismas hardy beasts with wild-bred progeny on which no human hand has ever laid, abound, grazing knee-deep in watery wildernesses where tasteless reed or wiry spear-grass afford a bare subsistence. there they live, splashing in the shadows, heads half-immersed as they pull up subaquatic herbage; on the back of one rides perched a snow-white egret, on another a couple of magpies, preying on ticks or warbles, while all around swim wildfowl that scarce deign to move aside. no fowler could view such a scene without perceiving that approach to the wildfowl might be effected under cover of these unsuspected ponies. the earliest aucipial mind probably realised the advantage offered, and the system has been practised in spain from time immemorial. the method is simple. the ponies (termed, when trained, _cabrestos_, or "decoys") seem by intuition to realise what is required. by a cord attached to the headstall, the fowler, crouching behind the shoulder, directs his pony's course towards the unconscious fowl. at intervals, still further to disarm suspicion, feigned halts are made as though to simulate grazing. before closing in, the nose-cord is made fast to the near fore-knee, thus holding the pony's head well down. presently the ducks are within half gunshot, and we amateurs (whose doubled backs ache excruciatingly from a constrained position maintained for half an hour) pray each moment for relief and the signal to fire. no! our fowler-friends shoot for a livelihood, and continue, with marvellous skill and patience, so to manoeuvre their beasts that the utmost possible target shall finally be presented to the broadside. there is no hurry--nor time nor aching vertebræ with them count one centimo. (see photo at p. .) should it be necessary to change course, that operation is effected by wheeling the pony stern-on to the fowl, the fowler meanwhile crouching low under his muzzle: critical moments ensue during which the expert has no cover but the pony's breadth--instead of his length--to shield him from detection by hundreds of the keenest eyes on earth. but it is remarkable how little notice is taken of what is necessarily in full view provided that the exposed objects are _beneath_ the covering animal. once let a human head or a gun-barrel appear _above_ its outline and the spell is broken. but otherwise--say during those interludes of feigned "grazing"--the suffering fowlers can straighten their backs by squatting down (in the water!) and thus enjoy at closest quarters a spectacle of wild creatures that is impossible to attain by any other means yet discovered. though the fowlers are now fully visible, framed, as it were, beneath the _cabresto's_ belly and between his legs, no notice will be taken or any alarm created so long as the pony's skylines remain unadorned with human appendages. there, within a score of yards, you sit face to face with ducks by the hundred, feeding, splashing, preening--all utterly unconcerned! those of our readers who are most familiar with wildfowl will best realise how incredible such a statement must read. ordinarily, the slightest visible movement--the mere glint of a gun-barrel though half masked by cover--suffices to shift every duck at one hundred yards and more. here they ignore objects practically exposed and close at hand. apparently the habitual companionship day by day of water-bred ponies has annihilated in their minds all sense of danger arising from such a quarter. the spanish professionals (using large but antiquated muzzle-loaders) work singly, each man behind his own pony; or should two or more join forces for a broadside, there still remains but one man behind each animal. these men are reputed to have made extraordinary shots; and having viewed their infinite patience, we can well believe such records. to place two guns behind one _cabresto_-pony, that is, an amateur as well as the professional, is a distinct handicap. we have done it ourselves, and accepted the handicap merely to see the system in operation; yet by using more powerful weapons have probably killed as many fowl at one shot as even the fabled totals of our friends. obviously no comparison can be, or is, suggested as between two totally different performances. it has been solely for the purpose of learning the system, and also of enjoying unequalled views of wildfowl close at hand, that we have occasionally put in a day with the _cabresto_-ponies, and here annex a few records of shots made by this means, taken at random from our diaries. _january , ._--fired three broadsides with two guns, a double -and a single -bore; in the second case the fowl had just been badly scared by a kite. results:-- ( ) wigeon, teal ( ) " " ( ) " " pintail, shoveler ___ total _january , ._--in three shots at wigeon, the first being half spoilt by a big black-backed gull, the authors (two guns) gathered:-- + + = wigeon. _december , ._--santolalla ( guns), teal, besides some coots, at a single shot. _january ._--laguna dulce; three _cabrestos_ with spanish fowlers, and two amateurs with big breech-loaders (a broadside of barrels):-- teal (including about a dozen wigeon). a shot made in january seems worth recording merely in respect of the numbers killed by only some _seven ounces_ of lead. an islet actually _carpeted_ with teal was our target, and two -bores, aided by an ancient spanish muzzle-loader (about -bore), realised fifty head, to wit, forty-nine teal and one mallard-drake. geese will rarely admit of approach to the close quarters necessary for effective work; yet just on those rare exceptional occasions we have secured (using heavy shoulder-guns) from six to a dozen greylags in a day, once or twice more than this--five at a shot being the maximum. the stanchion-gun in spain in contrast with the success of the _cabresto_ system, the stancheon-gun proved a failure. so admirably adapted for punt-gunning appeared those great shallow marismas, that in we sent out the entire outfit and artillery for wildfowling afloat--a -foot double-handed gunning-punt and an -lb. gun to throw oz. of shot. the little craft reached the guadalquivir in september, but unforeseen difficulties arose. the spanish custom-house took alarm. true, the smart little gun-boat was an entire novelty--even in the millwall docks she had created surprise; here she was incomprehensible. no such vessel had ever floated on spanish waters, and the official mind needed time to consider. that oracle, after weeks of cogitation, ordered the removal of the suspicious craft from the obscure port of bonanza to the fuller light that plays on the custom-house at seville. there, after more weeks of delay, it was decided that the white-painted six-foot barrel was "an arm of war," that "the combination of boat and gun savoured of the mechanism of war," and, finally, that "the boat could not be permitted to pass the customs until it had been registered at the admiralty." thus our _boadicea_ joined the imperial navy of spain. seven months elapsed whilst these difficulties were in process of solution, and ere they were smoothed away (as difficulties in spain, or elsewhere, do dissolve under prudent treatment), and the _boadicea_ set free to navigate the marismas, the season had passed and the migrant fowl had returned to the north. the following autumn, however, it at once became apparent that the venture was a failure. no wildfowl would tolerate her presence within half-a-mile. no sooner had her low snake-like form crept clear of fringing covert than the broad _lucio_ in front was in seething tumult, every duck within sight had sprung on wing. naturally we tried every known plan, but all in vain. a system that is effective on the harassed and hard-shot estuaries of england utterly broke down on the desolate marismas of spain. the apparent explanation is that whereas fowl at home are accustomed to see passing craft of many kinds, and perhaps mistake the low-lying gunboat for a larger vessel far away; here no craft of any sort navigate the marisma, or should the box-shape _cajones_ of native gunners be so classed, they are at once recognised as wholly and solely hostile.[ ] one plan remained by which the big gun might be brought to bear upon the larger bodies of fowl: concealing the boat among sedges at some point where ducks had been observed to assemble _within reach_ of such covert. that, however, to begin with, was most uncertain--the only certainty was that enormous drafts on patience would be required; and, after all, it forms no part of the system of wildfowling afloat and lacks the joys and glories of that pursuit. wild swans in spain since meeting with four hoopers in february , as recorded in _wild spain_, we had neither seen nor heard of wild swans in southern spain till february of the present year, , when h.r.h. the duke of orleans kindly informed us that he had succeeded in shooting one of a pair met with in his marismas of villamanrique. it proved to be an adult male of bewick's swan--the first occurrence of that species that has been recorded in spain. chapter xxxviii the "corros," or massing of wildfowl in spring for their northern migration the withdrawal of the wildfowl at the vernal equinox affords an unequalled scenic display. it forms, moreover, one of those rare revelations of her inner working that nature but seldom allows to man. her operations, as a rule, are essentially secretive. a little may be revealed, the bulk must be inferred. here, for once, a vast revolution is performed in open daylight, _coram populo_--that is, if the authors and a handful of spanish fowlers be accepted as representative, since no other witness is present at these scenes enacted in remote watery wilderness. up to mid-february the daily life of the marisma continues as already described. from that date a new movement becomes perceptible--the seasonal redistribution. daily there withdraw northward bands and detachments counting into thousands apiece. but no vacancy occurs since their places are simultaneously filled by corresponding arrivals from beyond the mediterranean. it is at this precise epoch that there occurs the phenomenon of which we have spoken. towards the close of february, dependent on the moon, a marked climatic change takes place. a period of sudden heat usually sets in--a sequence of warm sunny days, breathless, and at noontide almost suffocating. but each afternoon with flowing tide there arises from the sea a s. w. breeze, gentle at first and uncertain but gaining strength with the rising flood. already, shortly before this change, the duck-tribes had partially relaxed their full mid-winter activities--owing to abundant spring growths of food-plants, had become more sedentary; if not sluggish, at least reluctant to move. after the brief morning-flight not a wing stirred. but now, scan the mirror-like surface of some great _lucio_ and you will recognise a new movement distinct and dissimilar from regular hibernal habit. there float within sight (and the same is happening at a score of places beyond sight) not only the usual loose flotillas, but three, four, or five concrete assemblages of densely massed fowl whose appearance the slightest scrutiny will differentiate from the others. these are not sitting quiescent. the binoculars disclose a scene of perpetual motion, well-nigh of riot--one might be regarding a feathered faction-fight. hundreds of units fight, splash, and chase, or throw up water with beating wings till surf and spray half conceals the seething crowd. that flicker of pinions and flying foam are, moreover, accompanied by a chorus of myriad notes--a babel of twirling sound blended in rising and falling cadences, comparable only to the distant roar of some mighty city. a more singular spectacle we have not encountered. inquiry from one's companion elicits the reply that these assemblages are _hechando corros para irse_ (literally, "forming choruses preparatory to departure")--an expression which conveyed no more significance to us than it can to the reader.[ ] we decided to return at daybreak to see this thing through, and after watching the phenomenon a score of times can now explain it. during the morning hours there are established focal points whereat assemble those units already affected by the emigrant furor. these (at first, perhaps, but a score or two) rapidly increase in numbers till each focus becomes the nucleus of a corro. the seasonal infection spreads, and as its influence impregnates the surrounding masses, these, singly or in scores or hundreds as the passion seizes them, hasten to join one or other of the mobilising army-corps. within an hour or two the insignificant original nucleus has developed into a vast host all in a ferment of agitation, and being constantly reinforced by buzzing swarms of recruits from without. all this procedure, remember, has been taking place during the blazing noontide heat. now the hour is p.m., and the first gentle breath of the daily sea-breeze--the _viento de la mar_--is becoming perceptible. this breeze springs from the s. w., and let us here admit that, being fowlers as well as naturalists, our observance of the phenomenon has usually been carried out upon a _lucio_ which happens to terminate towards the n. e. in a long narrow bight fringed by tall reeds and bulrush, where, concealed in friendly covert, we can continue the observation while glancing along the barrel of a punt-gun. that secondary fact is merely incidental and, it so happens, facilitates the main object. a mile to windward three such armies are mobilising separately within the scope of our view; and now the gentle force of that sea-breeze begins to impel those unconscious hosts, too preoccupied with all-absorbing passion to notice detail, directly towards the point whereat we lie concealed. [illustration: reed-bunting a winter visitor to the marismas.] by this time the sun has three or four hours of declension and the thin dark line representing thousands of surging atoms has drifted down to within yards. we can study at short range an amazing phenomenon. in weird exuberance they fight and flirt, chase, cherish, and flap till churned water flies in foam and a discordant roar of sibilant sound fills to the zenith the voids of space. the volume of voices defies description since these assembling multitudes belong to no single species, but include a promiscuous agglomeration of all that care to enlist, and each adds its own distinctive element to the general uproar.[ ] around the floating host new-comers buzz like swarming bees, each seeking some spot to wedge itself into the crowd. to-night the main _corro_ that we had been awaiting drifted past our front a trifle beyond effective range. the two that followed both "took the ground" and remained stationary, away to the right. the chance of making a great shot had failed; but we were content to watch the phenomenon to its finish. now the sun dips. the western sky is filled with golden glory; in twenty short minutes darkness will have enveloped the earth. then in a moment, as by word of command, silence, sudden and impressive, reigns where just before that torrential babel had raged. such, now, is the stilly silence that by comparison the pipe of a passing redshank sounds well-nigh scandalous! a few seconds pass. then, dominated by a single impulse, the concentrated mass on our front rises simultaneously on wing. the spell of silence is broken; the roar of pinions reverberates far and wide. they're off--bound for siberia! yet unperplexed as though one spirit swayed their indefatigable flight. holding the same massed formation, the fowl in three or four broadening circles quickly attain a considerable altitude--say yards--and then head away on their course, _always_ (so far as they remain visible) to the _south-east_--diametrically opposite to the direction one would expect. as in deepening darkness we set forth on our homeward voyage, the heaven above pulsates at intervals with the beating of wings as yet more north-bound _corros_ pass overhead. certain notable facts are observable in this vernal exodus. for upwards of twelve hours prior to departure the outgoing fowl take no food. that period is devoted exclusively to preparation and overhaul, _and_ to pairing. plumage is preened and dressed till each unit is spick and span, speckless, and not a feather misplaced. all, moreover, are absolutely empty--in best and lightest travelling trim. when ducks are _acorrados_--that is, formed into _corros_ (the term is used thus in verb-form)--their normal watchfulness is relaxed. all thought and energy are concentrated on the impending event. hence, at these periods they are apt to fall an easier prey to the fowler and on wholesale lines. the native gunners with their trained _cabresto_-ponies sometimes unite and enormous totals are secured as the result of a single joint broadside. the fowl thus obtained afford proof of the facts just stated, being all absolutely empty; besides which many different species will be killed at the one shot.[ ] these men also state that the ducks start already paired and flying side by side; this, they say, explains the ferment and commotion of the previous hours--courting and sorting. adult ducks, as previously indicated (p. ), apparently pair for life; but since some species (such as wigeon) take at least two years to gain maturity, it is probable that the sexual phenomena which are so conspicuous in the _corros_ represent the first pairing of the newly adult two-year-olds. the most favourable time for the assembling of corros is on those days when great heat and calm at midday is succeeded towards evening by an extra strong sea-breeze. on such occasions very large numbers will leave between sundown and dark. northerly winds will almost absolutely arrest the exodus. for the season of - our game-books showed a total of wildfowl ( ducks and geese)--a record for which we were good-humouredly taken to task by our venerable friend the late canon tristram, who thought it looked excessive. the figures certainly are big, but the next entry in the book reads:-- _march ._--this evening between fifty and seventy _corros_ left within half an hour--say , to , ducks. next morning the marisma appeared as full as ever. our toll of seemed by comparison but as a drop in the bucket! chapter xxxix spring-time in the marismas bird-life in a dry season bird-life in the spanish marisma--in spring no less than in winter--presents spectacles of such abounding variety as can nowhere in europe be surpassed. in the arctic are vaster aggregations, but these, comprising, say, only half-a-dozen species, are less attractive. it is the infinite kaleidoscopic succession of graceful and dissimilar forms that hour by hour flash on one's sight--in a word, it is variety that lends abiding charm to our spanish bird-world. [illustration: grey plover (may)] these scenes have already been described--we have ourselves described them in detail, and do not propose to recapitulate, alluring though the subject be. here we purpose depicting bird-life under undescribed conditions--in a spring when, by reason of exceptional drought, the myriad marsh-dwellers find themselves entirely at fault. winging their seasonal way from africa, to seek the seclusion of reed-girt pools and their accustomed league-long swamps and shallows, they found instead a calcined plain, no drop of water remaining, plant-life either prematurely parched or pulverised beneath a fiery sun. watching the arrival of the advance-guard in early spring, one wondered what the bewildered hosts would do next, how they would face this fresh freak of nature. the marismas, it should be explained, normally dry every summer, however wet the previous winter may have been. though the great _lucios_ stood five feet deep in february, yet the deepest will be stone-dry by midsummer or, at latest, by st. jago (july ). cattle and the wild-game can then only drink at the narrowed pools where permanent water, however exiguous, oozes forth--or the cattle from wells. in normal years, however, the marsh-birds have already reared their broods before these dates. but in years of drought--what resource have they, where can they find a substitute for their sun-destroyed and desolate _incunabula_? many (the waders in particular) instinctively prognosticate a drought; few, comparatively, either come or remain--those that come pass on. even such birds as breed on permanent deep-water lakes (such, for example, as the smaller herons, egrets, and ibises) perceive in advance that, although they may have water assured, there will neither be sufficient covert, later on, to conceal their nurseries nor food for the rearing of their young. the erewhiles teeming heronries are abandoned. never within forty years has there occurred a drier season than this last, - . incidentally we may remark that most of the previous spring-tides that we had expressly devoted to the marisma had been years of excessive rainfall, years when flamingoes nested abundantly--an unfailing index. such was , for example, , and ; again, in april , we remember our gunning-punt, caught in a squall, sinking beneath us in quite three feet of water though barely a mile from shore. these are the seasons when (as described in _wild spain_) one sees the waterfowl in their fullest abundance. on the present occasion ( ) we were to witness converse conditions. throughout the preceding winter the fountains of heaven had been stayed, nor did the advent of spring bring one hour of rain. by mid-march the marisma was practically waterless--a fortnight later, sunbaked hard as bricks. where now were the marsh-birds? in april or may you could ride a long day over arid mud-flats and never see a wing, bar, in the latter month, a few kentish plovers and fluttering pratincoles[ ]--add a band or two of croaking sand-grouse (_pterocles alchata_) passing in the high heavens. where had the exiled myriads gone? no man can answer. we are not so foolish as attempt to say; but we do venture to express the opinion that in years when even wildest spain refuses asylum to wild creatures such as these, the result to them can only represent an overwhelming catastrophe. for there lies before them no alternative refuge; their races must perish by wholesale. at those rare points where permanent waters remained one might look for great concentrations of bird-life, yet such was not the case. as indicated, the bulk had foreseen the event and abandoned this country. one phenomenon struck us as inexplicable. of the birds that did remain none displayed the slightest symptom of yielding to the vernal impulse, of pairing, or of desiring to nest. flamingoes, for example (what few there were), continued massed in solid herds up to mid-may. a band of that we examined closely on the th at the caño de la junquera (though fully per cent were adults in perfect pink feather) contained not a single paired couple. hard by the flamingoes some forty or fifty spoonbills were feeding. these, last year, nested at this spot, building upon or among the low samphire-scrub--a dangerously open situation for such big and conspicuous birds. this spring, though many remained in the marisma, not a spoonbill nested in the district at all. flamingoes, by the way, had exhibited extreme restlessness throughout the spring. on february , for example, while steaming up the straits of gibraltar, we detected them in quite incredible numbers but at an altitude almost beyond the range even of prism-glasses--it was a dim similitude to drifting _cirri_ that first caught our eye. so vast was their aërial elevation that it was only after prolonged examination we at length recognised those revolving grey specks as being birds at all; presently a nearer band, directly overhead, revealed their characteristic identity. the bulk of these held a southerly tendency, towards africa; others drifted undecided; while several bands, halting between two opinions, when lost to sight were wheeling beyond the spanish hills. ducks also in mid-may serried the skies in utterly anachronous skeins--reminiscent of winter. these were largely marbled ducks, all unpaired; but there were also very large aggregations of mallards. one such pack on may certainly counted --a number we never remember to have seen massed together in spain before, not even in winter. this was at the hondon. a similar phenomenon was observed with the white-faced ducks. these curious creatures also remained in packs, and without sign of pairing, on the open waters of santolalla--open only because aquatic plants had forborne to grow. in normal seasons these lakes are studded with great cane-brakes and islanded reed-jungles, within whose recesses these amphibians build their floating homes. this spring not a reed had grown--partly owing to cattle having destroyed the earlier shoots which are usually protected by deep water. there was literally no covert within which these ducks (and the swarming coots and grebes) could breed, even were they so minded--which they were not! the only ducks that had paired in earnest were gadwall, garganey, common and white-eyed pochard (of which the first three nest here in very limited numbers), together with normal quantities of mallard. [illustration: head of crested coot the frontal plate is concave, whereas in the common coot it is convex.] a collateral result of the shortage of water wrought yet further havoc among the birds which had elected to remain, and accentuated the prescience of those that had departed. nesting-places, ordinarily islanded in mid-water, were now left stranded on dry land and thus open to the ravages of the whole fraternity of four-footed egg-devouring vermin. many species, we know, foresee such risks and invariably avoid them; others, less prudent, make the attempt and lose their labour. the white-eyed pochards, for example, which are accustomed to nest in islanded clumps of rush and dense aquatic grasses, this year simply provided free breakfasts to rats and ichneumons! we happened to require two or three settings of these ducks to hatch-off under hens, but no sooner did a marked nest contain three or four eggs than all were devoured! as to the coots, of which both the common and crested species breed in the marisma in myriads, they simply gave it up as a bad business. they did not depart, but resigned themselves to the necessity of skipping a season. gulls, great and small, with graceful marsh-terns, floated spectre-like, surveying in solitude and silence arid wastes where before they had found aquatic edens. once or twice we also noticed the small white herons (buff-backed and egret) flying disconsolately over their lost homes. a similar remark would apply to most of the other marsh-breeders--we need not recapitulate them all. stilts, for example, and avocets remained perforce in single blessedness--the latter in noisy querulous bands, quite wild and showing no tendency to assume spring notes or habits. we _did_ chance on a single avocet's nest, where, in other years, we have found hundreds. the same with the stilts--they also retained winter ways. curiously on may --one wet day--two male stilts had a regular set-to over an irresponsive female; the only symptom of their love-making we noticed all that spring! [illustration: avocets feeding though long-legged, these are half-webfooted and swim freely.] here, in the very height of what ought to have been the breeding-season, we had all these birds (and many others), instead of hovering overhead and shrieking in one's ear, flying wild in great packs at yards. how came it to pass that the normal vernal impulse was neglected for a whole season, unfelt and unrecognised--what was the precise psychological reason? it reads ridiculous to assume that any feathered husband should deliberately remark: "now, angelina, don't you agree that it would be imprudent our attempting to raise a family this drought-struck season?" nor could the neglect arise from physical weakness, since the birds were strong and wild. such specimens as we shot proved plump and well favoured, though the generative organs disclosed a hybernal obsolescence. one explanation--indeed a rough-and-ready diagnosis that seemed to cover the ground--was given by vasquez. now vasquez is our guarda of the marisma; he is not scientific, but has been in charge of the wilderness and its wildfowl these thirty years and, more than all, he is observant. this rough keeper perhaps understands the inner lives of wildfowl, with the causes that actuate their movements and habits, better than our best scientists, and vasquez told us in february: "this year no birds will breed here; the conditions necessary to _calientár los ovários_ [literally, to warm up the ovaries] are wanting." the subsequent course of events, corroborated by the evidence of dissection, proved the correctness of his forecast. * * * * * for a moment we return to the white-faced ducks--no european bird-form less known, or more extravagant. with heavy, swollen beaks, quite disproportionate in size and pale waxy-blue in colour, with white heads, black necks, and rich chestnut bodies, their tiny wings (as well as the sheeny silken plumage) recall those of grebes, but they have long stiff tails like cormorants, and are more tenacious of the water than either of those. to push them on wing is well-nigh impossible. they seek safety in the middle waters and there abide, ignoring threats. to-day, however (may ), we needed specimens, and by hustling their company between three guns, two mounted keepers, and an old boat that leaked like a sieve we eventually forced them to fly and secured three. they flew entirely in packs (not pairs), rarely many feet above the surface, but with a speed little inferior to pochard or other diving-ducks. dissection showed that in a female the ovaries had not begun to develop, there were no ripe ova, nor had the oviduct been used. the _testes_ in both the males proved also that here these birds were not yet breeding, or thinking of doing so. a week earlier, however, at another lake of quite different formation and different plant-growth (thirty miles away), we had found these singular waterfowl already nesting, and append a note of that day:-- [illustration: white-faced duck (_erísmatura leucocephala_). see also p. .] laguna de las terajes, _may ._--a lonely lagoon hidden away in a saucer-shaped basin amidst sequestered downs; almost the entire extent (twenty acres) choked with dense cane-brakes and thick green reeds which stood six or eight feet above water. we had driven hither, nine miles, across sandy heaths and pine-wood; and while breakfasting on the shore our two canoes (carted here yesterday) were got afloat. meanwhile, on a patch of open water we had observed several white-faced ducks swimming, deeply immersed, and with their long stiff tails cocked upright at intervals, together with some eared grebes; while marsh-harriers slowly quartered the brakes and the reed-beds rang with the harsh nasal notes of the great sedge-warbler. on pushing out into the aquatic jungle ahead--no light labour with five feet of water encumbered with densely matted canes and the dead tangle of former growths--we soon fell in with nests of all the species above mentioned and several more. those of the white-faced ducks consisted, first, of a big floating platform of broken canes, upon which was piled a mass of fine dried "duck-weed"--the coots' nests being formed of flags and reeds alone. none of the ducks' nests contained eggs; probably the season was too early (in other years we have found their great white eggs, rough-grained, about the third week in may), but possibly the harriers had forestalled us, as we found one egg floating alongside. the grebes were just beginning to lay; their nests, composed of rotten floatage, all awash and malodorous, containing one to three eggs. next we found two nests of marsh-harriers, immense masses of dead flags, two feet high, supported on floating canes and lined with sticks, heather-stalks, and palmetto. one had four eggs, hard-sat; the other, two eggs, chipping, and two small young in white down, with savage black eyes. the harriers' eggs are usually dull white; in one nest found this year, however, the eggs were spotted with pale red--apparently blood-stains. hard by were two nests of the purple water-hen, both of which had obviously been recently robbed by the harriers next door. these curious birds climb the tall green reeds parrot-wise, grasping four or five at once in their long, supple, heavily clawed toes; then with their powerful red beaks neatly cut down the reeds a yard or more above water, in order to feed on the tender pith. here and there float masses of these cut-down reeds, split and emptied--_comederos_, the natives call such spots. but the birds are silly enough to cut down the very reeds that surround their nests--thus exposing the huge piled-up structures to the gaze of their truculent neighbour, the egg-loving marsh-harrier. instinct badly at fault here. with a degree more intelligence, the purple water-hens might at least retaliate, by watching their opportunity and mopping-up the harriers' young. they are amply equipped for such work, having great pincer-like beaks fit to cut barbed wire! on the other hand, the great purple water-hens habitually do a bit robbery and murder on their own account, plundering the nests both of ducks and coots and devouring eggs or young alike. we shot one whose beak was smeared all over with yolk from a plundered duck's nest hard by, and alongside the nest of a _porphyrio_ with five eggs (found may ) lay floating the head-less corpses of two young coots. we have also observed similar phenomena alongside the nests of the coots themselves--doubtless attributable to the same cause. the eggs of the purple water-hen are lovely objects, ruddier and much more richly coloured than those of any of its congeners. these birds remain in the marismas all winter. in the densest brake bred purple herons, but this part proved quite impenetrable to canoes. a few days later, however, at the retuerta, we reached a little colony of three nests. a beautiful sight they presented, broad platforms of criss-crossed canes, cleverly supported on tall bamboos, and lined with the flowering tops of _carrizos_ (canes). these three nests were close together (another or two hard by), were about five feet above water-level, and contained three, three, and four pale-blue eggs. while circling around their nests, the old herons showed a conspicuous projection beneath their curved necks. we therefore shot one and found the effect was caused by a curious "kink" or bony process on the front of the upper neck--as sketched. of other birds observed at this laguna de terajes may be noted a few mallard and marbled ducks, a pair of squacco herons (not breeding), common sandpipers (on may ), and a party of whiskered terns which arrived while we were there. the day we had spent among the marsh-birds at this sequestered lagoon happened to be the day of the general election and the usual excitement prevailed. yet, as we journeyed down by the early train, we had read in the morning's paper this paragraph: "an understanding" [_inteligencia_]--"yesterday an understanding was arrived at in madrid between maura and cañalejas, by which the former is to hold seats." why, after that, bother further with an election? 'twill serve as an object-lesson at home. [illustration: purple heron (_ardea purpurea_)] another phenomenon of the spanish marismas is the through-transit in may of that little group of world-wanderers that make a winter-home in the southern hemisphere--in south africa and madagascar, australia, new zealand, some even in patagonia--and yet return each spring to summer in arctic regions. these comprise, notably, but four species, and not one of these four, in our view, is excelled for perfect beauty of bright, chaste, and contrasted coloration by any other bird-form on earth. this quartette is composed of the grey plover, knot, curlew-sandpiper, and bartailed godwit--all four of which appear here in thousands every may, and all in summer dress. note, first, that these do not arrive in spain (having come or miles but being still or miles short of their final destination) until long after all other birds--including several congeneric and closely related species--have already laid their eggs and many hatched their young. also, secondly, that some of them begin to assume their spring breeding-plumage under autumnal conditions _before_ quitting australia in april--that is, the australian autumn--and while yet some , miles distant from the points at which that breeding-dress is designed to be worn. to the four named might properly be added other two species--the sanderling and the little stint. our only reason for confining our remarks to the original quartette is that, in spain, the transit of the other two is less pronounced and noticeable. last spring ( ), dry as the marismas were, we had these globe-spanners in thousands. they were extremely wild, and it was only by elaborate "drives" that we secured a few specimens.[ ] we also observed in mid-may hundreds of _black_-tailed godwits, a species which usually disappears from southern spain at end of march and which we have found nesting in jutland _before_ the above date, viz. the first week in may. [illustration: grey plovers in summer plumage, on route for siberia--marisma, may .] whimbrels had been extremely abundant early in may, together with a few greenshanks, ring-dotterel, and green sandpiper. on may we observed several of the mediterranean black-headed gull (_larus melanocephalus_) on santolalla. [note.--referring to the last sentence, our companion, commander h. lynes, r. n., writes:--"all the gulls i saw on santolalla i am positive were _l. ridibundus_, and i looked most carefully. the wing-pattern of _melanocephalus_ is very distinct. with the latter i became quite familiar in the mediterranean in winter, and also saw them in late summer at smyrna." we, nevertheless, leave our own record as above, being confident that such gulls as happened to come within our own view were _exclusively_ of the southern species, with its darker and deeper hood. but the occurrence of our british black-headed gull so far south in mid-may is also remarkable. that species, though abundant all winter, has disappeared, as a rule, by the end of march. our own last note of observing it during the spring in question was on april . we may add a further note of having observed _both_ species (swimming alongside) on guadalquivir, march , . the distinction, alike in the depth and darker shade of the "hood" in _l. melanocephalus_, was unmistakable, even to naked eye.] this dry spring not a spoonbill nested in andalucia. the teeming _pajaréras_, or heronries, at the rocina de la madre and in doñana were left lifeless and abandoned. in normal years these are tenanted (as shown in photo at p. ) by countless multitudes of buff-backed, squacco, and night-herons, glossy ibis, some purple herons, and a few pairs of spoonbills, whose massed nests fairly weigh down the marsh-girt tamarisks. [illustration: orphean warbler (_sylvia orphea_) arrives end of april; hardly so brilliant a songster as its specific title would import.] chapter xl sketches of spanish bird-life spain is a land where one can enjoy seeing in their everyday life those "rare" british birds that at home can only be seen in books or museums. so far as it can be done in half-a-dozen brief sketches, we will endeavour to illustrate this. i. an evening's stroll from jerez. spanish towns and villages are self-contained like the "fenced cities" of biblical days. the _pueblecitos_ of the sierra show up as a concrete splash of white on the brown hillside. once outside the gates you are in the _campo_ = the country. even jerez with its , inhabitants boasts no suburban zone. within half an hour's walk one may witness scenes in wild bird-life for the like of which home-staying naturalists sigh in vain. we are at our "home-marsh," a mile or two away: it is mid-february. within fifteen yards a dozen stilts stalk in the shallows; hard by is a group of godwits, some probing the ooze, the rest preening in eccentric outstretched poses. beyond, the drier shore is adorned by snow-white egrets (_ardea bubulcus_), some perched on our cattle, relieving their tick-tormented hides. thus, within less than fifty yards, we have in view three of the rarest and most exquisite of british birds. and the list can be prolonged. a marsh-harrier in menacing flight, his broad wings brushing the bulrushes, sweeps across the bog, startling a mallard and snipes; there are storks and whimbrels in sight (the latter possibly slender-billed curlew), and a pack of lesser bustard crouch within yards in the palmettos. from a marsh-drain springs a green sandpiper; and as we take our homeward way, serenaded by bull-frogs and mole-crickets, there resounds overhead the clarion-note of cranes cleaving their way due north. ii. an isolated crag in andalucia within an easy half-day's ride from x. lie the cliffs of chipipi, rising in crenellated tiers from the winding river at their base. it is a lovely may morning. doves in dozens dash away as we ride through groves of white poplars, and the soft air is filled with their murmurous chorus; the bush-clad banks are vocal with the song of orioles and nightingales, cuckoos, and a score of warblers--cetti's and orphean, sardinian, polyglotta, bonelli's. the handsome rufous warbler, though not much of a songster, is everywhere conspicuous, flirting a boldly-barred, fan-shaped tail that catches one's eye. there are woodchats, serins, hoopoes; azure-blue rollers squawk, and brilliant bee-eaters poise and chatter overhead--their nest-burrows perforate the river-bank like a sand-martins' colony. on willow-clad eyots nest lesser ring-dotterels and otters bask; while in the shaded depths beneath the fringing osiers lurk barbel intent to dash at belated grasshopper or cricket. [illustration: savi's warbler (_sylcia savii_) a spring-migrant, common but very local. has eggs by mid-april.] in a thick lentiscos is the nest of a great grey shrike, and while we watch, its owner flies up carrying a lizard in her beak. half an hour later we see a second shrike, with falcon-like dash, capture another lizard basking in a sunny cranny among the rocks--no mean performance that. there are snakes here also; one we killed, a coluber, on march , was - / feet long and contained two rabbits swallowed whole and head first--one partly digested. another snake, quite small, struck us as being something new; him we bottled in spirit and despatched to the british museum. presently came the reply, thanking us for a "lizard, _blanus cinereus_." lizard? well, we learnt a lesson. there are limbless lizards, and this was one--the subterranean amphisbaena; our british blindworm (_anguis fragilis_) is another, and that also we did not know before. there are curious reptiles here in spain--the chameleon, for example. the lobe-footed gecko, _salamanquésa_ in spanish, haunts sunny rocks where insects abound. but he carries war into the enemy's camp, invading (not singly, but in force) the wild-bees' nests. a spanish bee-keeper gravely assured us that the cold-blooded gecko does this thing expressly to enjoy the sensation of being stung in twenty places at once! here in a shady glade lie strewn broadcast the wings of butterflies--examine very closely the bush above, and presently an iris-less eye, expressionless as a grey pearl, will meet your own. that is a praying mantis (or _santa teresa_ in spanish), a practical insect but no aesthete, since he devours the ugly body and casts aside the beauteous wings!--see his portrait at p. . among butterflies we counted here the scarce swallowtail, _thaïs polyxena_ (hatching out on april ), _vanessa polychloros_, a big fritillary with blood-red under-surface to its fore-wings (_argynnis maia_, cramer), _euchloëbelia_ (march) and the curious insect figured alongside, we know not what it is.[ ] [illustration] for more than thirty years within our knowledge (and probably for centuries before) these cliffs have formed a home of bonelli's eagle. two huge stick-built nests stand out in visible projection from crevices in the crag, some forty yards apart. to-day (april ) the occupied eyrie contained a down-clad eaglet, four partridges, and half a rabbit, besides a partridge's egg, intact, and sundry scraps of flesh, all quite fresh. the nest was lined with green olive-twigs; swarms of carrion-flies buzzed around, and a great tortoiseshell butterfly alit on its edge while we were yet inside. the parent eagles soared overhead, the female carrying a half rabbit, which, in her impatience, she presently commenced to devour, the pair perching on a dead ilex, and affording us this sketch and another inserted at p. . her white breast shone in the sun with a satin-like sheen. within sight (though fifteen miles away) is another eyrie of this species--the alternative nests not ten feet apart, merely a projecting buttress of rock separating the two vertical fissures in which they rest. this site is in a rock-stack standing out from the wooded slope of the sierra. the two eggs, slightly blotched with red, were laid in february. the rough bush-clad hills above our cliff are preserved, and presently meeting the gamekeeper, we tried--(that daily toll of four partridges plus sundry rabbits had got on our consciences!)--to put in a word for our eagle-friends, assuring him they did him service by destroying snakes and big lizards (which they don't). "si, señor," he agreed, adding, "y los insectos!" [illustration: bonelli's eagles soaring around eyrie note white patch in centre of back, between the wings.] farther along the cliff we found two nests of neophron, each containing two very handsome eggs. this bird makes a comfortable home, the foundation being of sticks, but with a warmly lined central saucer, bedecked with old bones, snakes' vertebrae, rabbit-skulls, and similar ornaments. the nests were on overhung shelves of the vertical crag, and (like those of the eagles) only accessible by rope. there lay a rat in one--and rather "high." remaining denizens of these crags we can but briefly name. a pair of eagle-owls had three young (fully fledged by june ) in a deep rock-fissure; there were also ravens, many lesser kestrels, and a colony of genets. iii. oak-wood and scrub cistus and tree-heath, genista and purple heather that brushes your shoulder as you ride, studded with groves of cork-oak--such was our hunting-field. the reader's patience shall not be abused by a catalogue of ornithological fact. true, we were studying bird-problems, and at the moment the writer was endeavouring, amidst ten-foot scrub, to locate by its song, a nest of polyglotta--or was it _bonellii_?--when in the depths of osmunda fern was descried something _hairy_--it was a wild-boar!... three horsemen armed with _garrochas_ come galloping through the bush--herdsmen rounding-up cattle? but this morning it is a _bull_ they are rounding-up; and a bull that had grown so savage and intractable that his life was forfeit. a crash in the brushwood and we stand face to face. three minutes later that bull fell dead with two balls in his body; but two others, less well aimed, had whistled past our ears. those three minutes had been momentous--the choice, it had seemed, lay between horn and bullet. bird-nesting in spanish wilds has its serious side. the afternoon was less eventful. almost each islanded grove had yielded spoil. we need not specify spectacled, subalpine, and orphean warblers, woodpeckers, woodchats and grey shrikes, nightjars, owls, kestrels, and kites--some prizes demanding patient watching, others a strenuous climb. the last hour had resulted in discovering a nest of booted eagle, two of black, and one of red kites, each with two eggs (the next tree held a nest of the latter containing a youngster near full grown). we had turned to ride homewards when, over a centenarian cork-oak on the horizon, we recognised (by their buoyant flight and white undersides) a pair of serpent-eagles. the grotesque old tree was half overthrown, and on its topmost limb was established the snake-eaters' eyrie, containing the usual single big white egg--this specimen, however, distinctly splashed with reddish brown. in the same tree were also breeding cushats and doves, a woodpecker with four eggs, and a swarm of bees who made things lively for the climber. one of to-day's climbs, by the way, had resulted incidentally in the capture of a family of dormice, _lirones avellanos_ in spanish, handsome creatures with immense whiskers and arrayed in contrasts of rich brown, black and white. half an hour later we descried the unmistakable eyrie of an imperial eagle--a platform of sticks that crowned the summit of a huge cork-oak, the more conspicuous since any projecting twigs that might interrupt the view are always broken off. the eagle, entirely black with white shoulders, only soared aloft when l. was already half-way up. the two handsome eggs we left, though they have since, presumably, added two more "detrimentals" to prey on our partridges. eagles, so soon as adult, pair for life; but that condition may require several years for full attainment, and in the imperial eagle the adolescent period is passed in a distinctive uniform of rich chestnut. so long ago as , however, we discovered the singular fact that this species breeds while yet (apparently) "immature." that is, we have frequently found one of a nesting pair in the paler plumage described, while its mate gloried in the rich sable-black of maturity, as sketched on p. . this year ( ) we had come across such a couple--they had two eggs on march --the male being black, while his partner was parti-coloured. a curious incident had occurred at that nest; at dawn next morning a griffon vulture was discovered asleep close alongside the sitting eagle. but on the arrival of the husband a furious scene ensued! the intruder (whom we acquit of dishonourable intent) was set upon, hustled, and violently ejected from the tree--hurriedly and dishevelled he departed. but conjugal peace was soon restored, and presently the royal pair set out in company for a morning's hunting. these resident birds-of-prey breed early. we have found the eagles' eggs by february , buzzards' on march , and red kites' on march . this spring was remarkable for the numbers of hobbies that passed north during may, sometimes in regular flocks. they often roosted in old kites' nests, and when disturbed therefrom misled us into a futile climb. * * * * * white-tailed or sea-eagle (_haliaëtos albicilla_).--this does not properly belong to the spanish zone. we cannot find recorded a single authentic instance of its occurrence in that country, but can supply one ourselves. in the early days of february we watched on several occasions an eagle (which at the time we took to be bonelli's) wildly chasing the geese that are wont to assemble in front of our shooting-lodge. splendid spectacles these aerial hunts afforded. the selected goose, skilfully separated from his company, made a grand defence. fast he flew and far, now low on water, now soaring upwards in widening circle; but all the time gaggling and protesting against the outrage in strident tones that we could hear a mile away. never, so far as eyesight could reach, did the assailant make good his hold. months afterwards--it was before daybreak on december ( )--the authors lay awaiting the "early flight" of geese at the puntal, hard by, when an eagle (whether the same or not) appeared from out the gloom, made a feint at no. 's decoy-geese (made of wood), passed on and fairly "stooped" at those of no. . a moment later the great bird-of-prey fell with resounding splash, and proved to be (so far as we know) the only sea-eagle ever shot in spain--a female, weight - / lbs., expanse just under feet. * * * * * this is not the only instance in our experience of eagles hunting before the dawn. we recall several others. apparently, if pressed by hunger, eagles start business early--almost as early as we do ourselves. spotted eagle (_aquila naevia_).--this also, like the last, is scarcely a spanish species; but a beautiful example, heavily spotted, was shot in september in the pinar de san fernando by our friend mr. osborne of puerto sta. maria. it was one of a pair. peregrine and partridge.--corral quemado, _jan. , _. while posted on a mesembrianthemum-clad knoll during a big-game drive, troops of partridges kept streaming out from the covert behind. their demeanour struck both me and the next gun posted on a knoll yards away. across the intervening glade, almost bare sand but for a stray tuft of rush or marram-grass, the partridge ran to and fro in a dazed sort of way, crouching flat as though terror-stricken, or standing upright, gazing stupidly in turn. none dared to fly, though some were so near they could not have failed to detect me. the mystery was solved when a peregrine swept close overhead and made feint after feint: yet not a partridge would rise. well they knew that the falcon would not strike _on the ground_; but what a "soft job" it would have been for a goshawk or marsh-harrier! presumably partridge discriminate between their winged enemies and in each case adapt defence to fit attack. an interesting scene was terminated by a lynx trotting out by my neighbour, sir maurice de bunsen, who might thus have been taken unawares; only ambassadors are never believed to be so, and on this occasion the spotted diplomat certainly got the ball quite right, behind the shoulder. marsh-harrier (_circus aeruginosus_).--over dark wastes resound "duck-guns sullenly booming." thereat from reed-bed and cane-brake awaken roosting harriers, quick to realise the import. it is long before their normal "hours of business," but these miss no chances, and soon the hidden gunner descries spectral forms drifting in the gloom--all intent to share his spoils. watch the robbers' methods. in the deep a winged teal is making away, almost swash. the raptor feints again and again, following the cripple's subaquatic course; but he never attempts to strike till incessant diving has worn the victim out. then--so soon as the luckless teal is compelled to tarry five seconds above water--instantly those terrible talons close like a rat-trap. next comes a lively wigeon, merely wing-tipped; but the water here is shoal and the hawk dare not close. for the volume of mud and spray thrown up by those whirling pinions would drench his own plumage. the wigeon realises his advantage and sticks to the shallow--the raptor ever trying to force him to the deep. the end comes all the same, though the process of tiring-out occupies longer--sooner or later, down drop the yellow legs--there is a moment of strenuous struggle and the duck is lifted and borne ashore. should no land be near, the branches of a submerged samphire will serve for a dining-table. within five minutes nought is left but empty skin and clean-picked bones. obviously any attempt to seek dead at a distance or to recover cripples is labour lost--once they drift, or swim, or dive, to the danger-radius instantly the chattel passes to the rival "sphere of influence." as early as february (and sometimes even in january) the abounding coots begin to lay. the marsh-harrier notes the date and becomes a determined oologist. over the everlasting samphire-swamp resounds the reverberating cry of the crested coot, _hoo, hoo, hoo, hoo_, so strikingly human that one looks round to see who is signalling. presently you hear the same cry, but wailing in different tone and temper. that is a coot defending hearth and home against the despoiler; and bravely is that defence maintained. with a glass, one sees the coot throw herself on her back and hold the hawk at bay, striking out right and left, for she has powerful claws and can scratch like a cat. often the assailant is fairly beaten off; or should the fight end without visible issue, probably the coveted eggs have been hustled overboard in the tussle. then it amuses to watch the harrier's frantic efforts to recover the sunken prizes from the shallows. [illustration] great spotted cuckoo (_oxylophus glandarius_).--a striking rakish form, this stranger from unknown africa silently appears in spain during the closing days of february or early in march. on the fifth evening of the latter month, while rambling in the bush on the watch for "some new thing," a hawk-like figure swept by and perched on the outer branches of a thorny acacia. when shot, the bird dropped a yard or so, then clutching a bough with prehensile zygodactylic claws, hung suspended with so desperate a hold that it was with difficulty released. waiting a few minutes, a harsh resonant scream--_cheer-oh_, thrice repeated--announced the arrival of the male, which fell winged on a patch of bog beyond. ere we could reach the spot the bird had run back, regained the outer trees, and was climbing a willow-trunk more in the style of parrot than cuckoo. the beak was used for steadying, and so fast did it climb that we had to ascend after it. the beak in this species opens far back, giving a very wide gape--colour inside pink, deepening to dark carmine. we sketched and preserved both specimens, see p. and above. * * * * * as a rule this cuckoo disappears in early autumn, but we have an exceptional record of its occurrence in winter. one was shot at san lucar de barraméda, december , . this cuckoo, like all its old-world congeners,[ ] is parasitic in its domestic _ménage_--that is, it adopts a system of reproduction by proxy--relying, as canon tristram long ago put it, on finding a "foundling hospital" for its young. but even the keen intellect quoted was at first at fault. for the great spotted cuckoo differs in one essential point from that "wandering voice" with which we are familiar at home. the latter deposits a single egg in casual nest of titlark, hedge-sparrow, wagtail--in short, of any small bird, regardless of the fact that its own egg may differ conspicuously from those of its selected foster-parent. the spotted cuckoo is more circumspect. everywhere it restricts the delegated duty to some member of the _corvidae_,[ ] and in spain exclusively to the magpies. moreover, whether by accident or evolution, the cuckoo has so admirably adapted the coloration of its own egg to resemble that of its victim, as to deceive even so cute a bird as the magpie. earlier ornithologists (as above suggested) failed for a moment to distinguish the difference--it was, in fact, the zygodactylic foot of an unhatched embryo that first betrayed the secret (tristram, _ibis_, ). on close examination the cuckoo's eggs differ in their more elliptic form and granular surface; but, unless previously fore-warned and specially alert, no one would suspect that these were not magpies' eggs, any more than does the magpie itself. the spotted cuckoo deposits two, three, and even four eggs in the _same_ magpie's nest, sometimes leaving the lawful owner's eggs undisturbed, in other cases removing all or part of them--we have noticed spilt yoke at the entrance. it would appear difficult, in these domed nests, for the young cuckoos to eject their pseudo-brothers and sisters; but this detail of their life-history remains, as yet, unsolved. crossbills.--nature delights in presenting phenomena which no tangible cause appears to warrant. such were the thrice-repeated invasions of europe by "tartar hordes"--they were only sand-grouse--that occurred during the past century (in , , and ); and in an analogous problem, though on minor scale, was offered by crossbills. from north to extreme south of our continent these small forest-dwellers precipitated themselves bodily westwards. this was in july. all the west-european countries, from norway to spain, recorded an unwonted irruption. in andalucia (at jerez) crossbills were first noticed about mid-july, and their appearance so impressed country-folk little accustomed to discriminate small birds, as to suggest to them the idea that the strangers must have fled from morocco to avoid the fighting then raging around melilla! but in spain a further and anomalous complexity followed. for the spanish specimens we sent home, on being submitted to dr. ernst hartert, proved to belong to a purely spanish subspecies--a race distinguishable by its weaker mandibles and other minor variations. hence the movement in spain had been purely internal, and it became difficult to suppose that (although simultaneous) it could have been predisposed and actuated by precisely the same motives as those which compelled a more extensive exodus farther north. thus results the curious issue--that presumably different causes, operating over a wide geographical area, produced similar and simultaneous effects. these immigrant crossbills disappeared from andalucia at the end of august. [illustration: crossbills, adult and young (_loxia curvirostra_.) jerez, july .] crossbills we used to observe in winter in our pine-forests of doñana; but owing to local causes they have now missed several years. their migrations within spain are rather on the vertical than the horizontal plane--that is, merely seasonal movements between the higher lands and the lower. in spain, denuded of natural forest, the habitat of such birds is narrowly restricted. hence their sudden appearance in new areas (such as this, at forestless jerez) is at once conspicuous. glossy ibis (_plegadis falcinellus_).--birds, as a rule, are strict geographists. they recognise fixed range-boundaries and abide thereby. but exceptions occur, and an instance has been offered by the glossy ibis. this bird has always been a conspicuous member of the teeming _pajaréras_, or mixed heronries, of our wooded swamps of andalucia. but it was only as a spring-migrant that the ibis was known. it arrived in april and departed, after nesting, in september. a diluvial winter in - , however, apparently induced it to reconsider its "standing orders." already, that autumn, the ibises had departed--as usual. but in december (the whole country meanwhile having been inundated) they suddenly reappeared. small parties distributed themselves over the marismas, and with them came an unwonted profusion of other waders, stilts and curlews, whimbrels and godwits, the latter a month or two before their usual date. all availed the occasion to frequent far-inland spots, normally dry bush and forest, _nota quae sedes fuerat columbis_, and one saw flights of waders and even ducks, such as teal and shoveler, circling over flooded forest-glades. the changed quarters evidently met with approval, for each succeeding year since then we have had the company of ibises _during winter_. an immature ibis, shot january , otherwise in normal plumage, had the head and neck brownish grey with curlew-like striations. slender-billed curlew (_numenius tenuirostris_).--years ago we wrote in our wrath, moved thereto by the constant misuse of the term, that such a thing as a "rare bird" does not exist, save only in a relative sense. go to its proper home, wherever that may be, and the supposed rarity is found abundant as its own utility and nature's balances permit. should some lost wanderer straggle a few hundred miles thence, it is proclaimed a "rare bird." against this, our old mentor, howard saunders, wrote across the proof-sheet: "there are rare birds, some nearly extinct"; and the above species affords an admirable example of these exceptions to the general rule. no one at present knows the true home of the slender-billed curlew, nor the points (if any) where it is common, nor where it breeds. in southern spain it appears every year during february and at no other season; while even then its visits are confined to a few days and to certain limited areas. the photo at p. shows a beautiful pair shot february , . when met with, they are rather conspicuous birds, distinguishable from whimbrel by their paler colour--indeed, on rising, the "slender-bills" look almost white. a specially favoured haunt in the coto doñana is the bare sandy flat in front of martinazo. when we first studied ornithology there still remained whole categories of birds (many of them abundant british species) whose breeding-places were utterly unknown. one by one they have been removed from the list of "missing," forced to surrender their secrets by the resistless, world-scouring energy of ornithologists (mostly british). the year saw but one species yet undiscovered--our present friend, the slender-billed curlew. while we are yet busy with this book, the eggs of the slender-billed curlew have been found--in siberia!--the ultimate answer in all such cases. the first was exhibited by mr. h. e. dresser at the meeting of the british ornithologists' club on december , , having been taken by mr. p. a. schastowskij on the shores of lake tschany, near taganowskiye, in siberia on the th of may preceding. yes, there _do_ exist "rare birds," and in europe the slender-billed curlew appears to be an excellent illustration of the fact. santolalla, _december , _.--a wild night, black as ink, and a whole gale blowing from the eastward; an hour's ride through the scrub, and five guns silently distribute themselves along the shores. strategic necessity placed us to windward, so most fowl were bound to fall in the water. as stars pale to the dawn the flight begins, the dark skies hurtle with the rush of passing clouds, and for two hours a steady fusillade startles the solitude. as ten o'clock approaches, one by one we seek the cork-oak, from beneath whose canopy a welcome column of smoke has long announced that breakfast was preparing. but considering the run of shooting we have heard, the toll of game brought in seems humiliating. each gunner, gloomily depositing his fifteen or twenty, declares he has lost twice that number in the open water!... well, a list of "claims" being drawn up, it appears that duck are stated to have been shot, while only can be counted. in his inner conscience possibly each man regards the rest as ... but, ere breakfast is over, here come the keepers. they have ridden round the lee-shores and islets, and bring in another ! the bag after all sums up to , or actually nineteen more than the sum-total of claims that we had been laughing at as extravagant. this is the list:-- geese mallard wigeon teal gadwall shoveler pochard tufted duck there were also shot two cormorants (mistaken for geese in the half-light), a marsh-harrier, two great crested grebes, and several coots. the incident illustrates an instance of scrupulous honesty. other countries, other standards (a sentiment about wildfowl) (_january ._) a wet winter and flooded marisma--under our eyes float wildfowl in league-long lengths; countless, but far out in open water. by experience we know them to be unassailable. yet these hosts seem to throw down the gauntlet of defiance at our very doors; and under the reproach of that unspoken challenge experience succumbs. that night we arranged to dispose our six guns over a two-league triangle before the morrow's dawn. after every detail had been fixed, to us our trusted pessimist, vasquez: "ni por aqui ni por alli, ni por este lado ni por el otro, ni por ninguna parte cualquiera, no harémos _náda_ por la mañana"--"neither on this side nor on that, neither to east nor west, nor at any other point whatever, shall we do the slightest good to-morrow!" on reassembling for breakfast, the result worked out as follows: geese, mallard, wigeon, teal, gadwall, shovelers, marbled and tufted duck. total, head before ten o'clock, besides a curlew and several golden plover, godwits and sundries. we felt fairly satisfied; yet vasquez's comment ran: "seventy head among six guns, _eso no es náda_ = that is nothing!" note.--the writer had in his pocket a letter from home: "we put in six days' punt-gunning at the new year. frost severe and all conditions favourable. my bag, brent-geese, mallard, wigeon, and a northern diver.--e. h. c." appendix a specific note on the wild-geese of spain the greylag goose (_anser cinereus_) is the only species we need here consider. for of the many hundreds of wild-geese that we have shot and examined during the eighteen years since the publication of _wild spain_, every one has proved to be a greylag. this is the more remarkable inasmuch as an allied form, the bean-goose, was supposed in earlier days to occur in spain, though relatively in small numbers. col. irby estimated the bean-geese as one to of the greylags; but no such proportion any longer exists, at least in the delta of the guadalquivir, where, during eighteen years, hardly a single bean-goose has been obtained.[ ] this abandonment of southern spain by the bean-goose (presuming it was ever found therein) appears inexplicable. the species has lately been recognised as divisible into various races or subspecies (differing chiefly in the form and colour of the beak),[ ] for which reason it may here be recorded that of the few bean-geese examined twenty years ago in spain, the beak was invariably dark to below the nasal orifice, with a dark tip, and an intermediate band of rufous-chestnut. of the other three members of the genus, the pink-footed goose (_anser brachyrhynchus_) has never occurred in spain; while neither the white-fronted nor the lesser white-fronted species (_a. albifrons_ and _a. erythropus_, l.) have ever been recorded save in an isolated instance in either case. we have never met with any one of them--indeed, the only wild-goose in our records, other than greylag and half-a-dozen bean-geese, is a single bernacle (_bernicla leucopsis_), one of three that was shot at santolalla by our late friend mr. william garvey. of the greylags that winter in andalucia, the great majority are adults--that is (presuming our diagnosis to be correct), scarcely one in four is a gosling of the year. the adult geese we distinguish by the spur on the wing-point of the ganders and generally by their larger size and heavier build. their undersides, moreover, are more or less spotted or barred with black--some wear regular "barred waistcoats," whereas the young birds are wholly plain white beneath. the legs and feet of the latter are also of the palest flesh-colour (some almost white), rarely showing any approximation to a pink shade, and their beaks vary from nearly white to palest yellow; whereas in the older, mostly "spot-breasted," geese the beak is deep yellow to orange, and their legs and feet are distinctly pink--some as pronouncedly so as in _a. brachyrhynchus_. these "soft parts" are, however, subject to infinite variation, and the above definition is a careful deduction from the results of many years' observation.[ ] on several occasions we have examined from a dozen to a score of geese without finding a single _gosling_ among them. the largest proportion of the latter so recorded was on january , , when of sixteen geese shot, five (or possibly six) were young birds of the year before. all these sixteen showed some white feathers on the forehead, and the heaviest pair (two old ganders) weighed together - / lbs. as regards their weights, the following notes show the variation:-- during the severe drought of , six geese weighed on november , when almost starving for food and water, ranged from - / to - / lbs. a month later, when rains had fallen, weights had increased to - / to - / lbs. _december , ._--the heaviest of scaled - / lbs. _january , ._--the geese this dry season are in fine condition. an old gander, shot at martinazo, exceeded - / lbs., another pair, shot right and left, scaled - / and lbs. _february , ._--two geese, the heaviest of eleven shot this morning, weighed over lbs. each, the pair scaling - / lbs. it was a severe frost, the shallows being covered with ice, and as each goose fell, two bits of solid ice, in form as it were a pair of sandals, were found lying alongside it, these having been detached by the fall from the feet of the bird. * * * * * _ . november ._--two pure white geese observed on santolalla to-day and on subsequent occasions. though usually seen flying in company with packs of normally coloured geese, the white pair always kept together. _ . january ._--after a month's bitterly cold and dry weather with few geese, the wind to-day shifted to east, with heavy rain. all day long a continuous entry of geese took place from the south-westward, in frequent successive packs--sometimes two or three lots in sight at once. a sense of movement was perceptible over the whole marisma. next morning these newcomers were sitting in ranks of thousands by the "new water" all along the verge of the marisma--a wondrous sight. notes on some wildfowl that nest in southern spain wild-ducks pintail (_dafila acuta_).--in wet years a considerable number of pintails remain to nest in the marismas of guadalquivir, and by august the broods (together with those of garganey, marbled duck, etc.) assemble on the only waters that then remain--such as the lagunas de santolalla, etc. in , a very wet spring, almost as many pintails bred here as mallards, and in eight nests observed the maximum number of eggs was nine. they resemble those of mallards, consisting of twigs with a few feathers placed on the mud, and easily seen through the open clump of samphire which shelters them.[ ] mallard (_anas boschas_), in the marisma, nest in precisely similar situations, but their eggs number twelve or fourteen. elsewhere their nests (being among bush or reedbeds) are less easily seen. wigeon (_mareca penelope_) never breed, though chance birds (and some greylags also) remain every summer--possibly wounded. gadwall (_anas strepera_) do not nest in the open marisma, but many pairs retire to the rush-fringed inland lagoons, such as zopiton and santolalla. they lay nine to twelve eggs about mid-may, usually at a short distance from the water. teal (_nettion crecca_) remain quite exceptionally. even in that wet spring, , only a single nest was found. there were eight eggs laid on bare mud, with hardly any nest, beneath a samphire bush. though quite fresh, and placed at once under a hen, these eggs did not hatch. garganey (_querquedula circia_) breed among the samphire in the open marisma--in wet seasons quite numerously. seven young, caught newly hatched in and kept alive at jerez, showed no distinctive sexual coloration all that autumn or up to february . early in march three drakes became distinguishable, the most advanced being complete in feather by the th, and all three perfect by april . young pintails, on the other hand, acquire complete sexual dress in the autumn, as mallards do, by november. garganey also nest in large numbers on the lagoons of daimiel in la mancha. marbled duck (_querquedula angustirostris_).--this is one of the most abundant of the spanish-breeding ducks, nesting both in the marisma and along the various channels of the guadalquivir. their nests, substantially built of twigs of samphire, dead reeds, and grass, lined with down, are carefully concealed among covert, usually on dry ground. some are approached by a sort of tunnel. exceptionally we have seen a nest built a foot high in the branches of a samphire bush with a clear space beneath, and overhanging shallow water. the eggs, laid at the end of may, vary from twelve to fourteen, and in one instance twenty--possibly the produce of two females. we find these the most difficult of all the ducks to rear in confinement. probably their food is quite different, anyway they are very bad eating. marbled ducks are unknown at daimiel. shovelers (_spatula clypeata_) only breed exceptionally and in wet seasons; we found one nest at las nuevas in . though abundant in winter, does not breed at daimiel. ferruginous ducks (_fuligula nyroca_), like all the diving tribe, breed only on deep and permanent lakes, such as those of medina and daimiel, where they abound all summer. none nest in the marisma, which in summer is largely dry. nests, mid-may; eggs, nine or ten. pochard (_fuligula ferina_).--though we have not found it ourselves, one of our fowlers (machachado) tells us that pochards breed on the lakes, and even more in las nuevas, laying but few eggs--five to seven. red-crested pochard (_fuligula rufila_).--this is the characteristic breeding-duck at daimiel in la mancha, as well as on the albufera of valencia, at both of which points it abounds. yet curiously it is all but unknown on the bætican marismas. among the thousands of ducks we have shot therein, but a single example of the red-crested pochard figures--a female killed january , . tufted duck (_fuligula cristata_).--none remain, though abundant in winter. white-faced duck (_erismatura leucocephala_).--this species, known as _bamboléta_ or _malvasía_, arrives in spring and breeds commonly on every deep pool and reed-girt lagoon in andalucia. shelducks (_tadorna cornuta_), we are assured (though this we have not proved), breed in the marisma in hollows (_hoyos_)--such as the cavernous footprints made by cattle in the soft mud in winter. common in dry winters. ruddy shelduck (_tadorna casarca_).--these are seen here all summer, yet we have failed to discover their breeding-places. they are common, old and young, on the laguna de medina in august and september. this is a striking species of stately flight and clear-toned ringing cry--_h[=a][=a]-[)a][)a]_--thrice repeated. wagtails pied wagtail (_motacilla lugubris_).--this familiar british species occurs rarely in s. spain--we have but four records, all in winter. in the reverse, the white wagtail (_m. alba_) abounds--ploughed lands sometimes look _grey_ with it; and it is here, in winter, as tame and familiar as one sees it in norway and iceland in summer. yet midway between the two, _i.e._ in the british isles, we have seen it but thrice! there it may indeed be termed a "rare bird." the explanation seems to be that (like the two southern wheatears) these two wagtails are not specifically distinct, but merely a dimorphic form. this year (june ) we found the white wagtail breeding commonly in north estremadura. during a northerly hurricane on february , , we observed an assemblage of many hundreds of white wagtails on the barren sand-dunes of majada real--a second crowd, as numerous, a mile away. both were migrating bands arrested by the gale. this is merely one example out of scores that have come under our notice of the magical apparition of birds from the clouds, caused by a sudden change of wind. specially notable, besides wagtails, are swallows, wheatears, pipits and larks. the grey wagtail (_m. melanope_), though occasionally seen in winter, is most conspicuous about mid-february, when it passes several days on our lawn at jerez. it has not then acquired the black throat of spring; but two months later we have found it nesting on mountain-burns of the sierras--precisely such situations as it frequents among the northumbrian moors. the yellow wagtail (_m. flava_; the continental form, _cinereocapilla_) appears on the lawn a week or so after the grey species has disappeared; but this remains throughout the spring, nesting in wet meadows and marshes, laying during the last week of april. the british form (_m. raii_) also occurs during spring, but rarely and on passage only, none remaining to nest. restricted distribution rook (_corvus frugilegus_).--there is a certain limited stretch--say a league or so, on the foreshores of the marisma--whither each winter come a few scores of rooks. at that one spot, and nowhere else within our knowledge, are rooks to be found in southern spain. magpie (_pica caudata_).--on the western bank of guadalquivir this bird abounds to a degree we have seen surpassed nowhere else on earth. but cross that river, and never another magpie will you see for a hundred miles to the eastward. for it the lower bætis marks a frontier. over the rest of spain its distribution is normal and regular. a similar remark would almost hold good of the jackdaw (_corvus monedula_). the azure-winged magpie (_cyanopica cooki_) abounds in central spain and in the sierra moréna. but its southern range stops dead at the little village of coria del rio just below sevilla. 'tis but a few miles beyond, yet in doñana we have never seen so much as a straggler. the azure-wing does not straggle. from spain (as elsewhere stated) you must travel to china and japan ere you see another azure-winged magpie. jays (_garrulus glandarius_) in spain confine themselves to mountain-forests, eschewing the lowland woods which in other lands form their home. index absenteeism, accentor, alpine, , africa, , , , , , , , , ; bird natives of, africa, british east, , african bush-cuckoo, _n._ agriculture, moorish, - ; spanish, alagon river, and _n._ , , albufera lake, - , alfonso xii., , , alfonso xiii., , , , , , , , , , , algamita, sierra of, algeciras, _alimañas_, , , - almanzór, plaza de, , , , , almonte, village of, _et seq._ almoraima, alpuxarras, the, , , _alquerías_ (las hurdes), , , america, flamingoes in, _anatidae_, ; distribution of, in s. spain, andalucia, , , , , , , , ; bandits in, _et seq._; big game of, _et seq._; birds of, _et seq._, , - , ant-lion (_myrmeleon_), arabs. _see_ moors arahal, niño de, bandit, _et seq._ _armajo_ (samphire), - , , , asturias, the, _et seq._; chamois in, - avila, , avocet, , badger, , , bandits, _et seq._ barbary stag, , barbel, - , basques, the, bear, , ; brown, , , bear-hunting, - bee-eater, , , , , bernicle goose, , bewick's swan, bharal, bidassoa river, big game in spain, , - , _et seq._, _n._ , bird-life on the marisma, - , _et seq._, _et seq._, _n._ , - , , - , , bird-migration, , , - , - , and _n._ , - , , - , - , - blackbird, black-chat, , , , _n._ , blackstart, , , , , boar, wild, , , , - , _et seq._, , , , , , , , , - , boar-hunting, _et seq._ _boga_, bombita i., matador, bombita ii. (ricardo torres), , bonaparte, joseph, - bonelli's eagle, , , , , , - bonelli's warbler, , , bonito, brambling, breeding-places of flamingoes, - bull, the spanish fighting, breeding and training of, - ; breeds of, , , bull-fight, the spanish, , , - bull-fighters, famous, - bull-frog, bustard, , , , ; great, , , , , , , - ; lesser (_otis tetrax_), , - , , bustard-shooting, _et seq_. butterflies, , _lycaena telicanus_, _megaera_, _thaïs polyxena_, , _vanessa polychloros_, buzzard, , , _cabrestos_, - , caceres, province, _n._ _caciquismo_, , - , _cactus_ (prickly-pear), caldereria, - camels, wild, on the marisma, , , - cantabria, , , , ; mountains of, cape de verde islands, , _n._ capercaillie, , , , cares river, , castile, , catalonia, and _n._ cavestany, sr. d. a., spanish poet laureate, central asia, wild camels in, cervantes, cetti's warbler, , chaffinch, , chameleon, chamois, , ; in the asturias, - , ; preservation of, chamois-shooting, _et seq._ chapman, mr. f., chapman, mr. j. crawhall, charles v., emperor, chough, , , , , , , , ciguela river, cinco lagunas, las, , cirl-bunting, , cistus (_helianthemum_), , , climate of spain, effects of, - coot, , , , , , , , ; crested, cormorant, _corros_, - cortez, _corvidae_, _corvus cornix_, _n._ costillares, bull-fighter, coto doñana, _et seq._, , , , , , , , , , ; fauna of, _et seq._ crag-martin, , , , crake, crane, , crossbill, ; migrations of, - cuckoo, , ; great spotted, , - curlew, ; slender-billed, , - ; stone-, , , cushat, daimiel, lagoons of, - , , , ; town of, dampier, , _n._ dartford warbler, , , _n._ date-palm, deer, , , , , , ; fallow, , and _n._ , and _n._ ; red, _et seq._, , - , and _n._ , , ,; _tables_, - ; roe-, , , , , deer-shooting ("driving"), , _et seq._ deer-stalking, _et seq._, despeñaperros, deva river, , dipper, , diving ducks, , , _n._ , don quixote, country of, , dormice, dove, , , , ; turtle, , "driving" (_see also monteria_), , _et seq._, _et seq._, , - , - , _et seq._, - , - duck, , , , , , , - , , _et seq._, _n._ , , , ; habits of, , - , ; ferruginous, , , , ; marbled, , , , , , ; tufted, , _n._ , , ; white-faced, , - , duck-hawk, , duck-shooting, , - dunlin, _n._ dwarf-juniper, eagle, , , , , , , ; bonelli's, , , , , , - ; booted, ; golden, , , , , - , ; imperial, , - , - ; spotted, ; white-tailed or sea-, - eagle-owl, , , , egret, , , , espinosa, pedro, estepa, _n_. . estremadura, , - ; climate of, ; fauna of, , , , falcon, ; peregrine, , , fantail warbler, ferdinand vii., , firecrest, flamingo, and _n._ , , - , - , , , , , , ; breeding-places of, - ; _phoenicopterus minor_, _n._ ; _phoenicopterus ruber_, "flighting," - , fly-catcher, ; pied, , ; spotted, foumart, fowling, spanish modes of, - , fox, , , , , , , , , _et seq._ francolin, frascuelo, bull-fighter, - fuen-caliente, , - , gadwall, , , , gaëtanes, galicia, game preservation in spain, - garganey, , , , gecko, lobe-footed, genet, , , , gibraltar, godoy, godwit, , _n._ , , , ,; bartailed, ; black-tailed, goose, bean, ; bernicle, , ; black (_ganzos negros_), ; greylag, , - , , , , _et seq._, , , , , , _n._ , - ; pink-footed, goths, the, , granada, , granadilla, and _n._ , grasshopper (_cigarras panzonas_), grebe, , ; eared, grédos, circo de, chief features of, , - greenshank, griffon. _see under_ vulture guadalete, battle of, , guadalquivir river, , , , , , ; marismas of, _et seq._, , , , , guadiana river, guerra, rafael, bull-fighter, gull, , , ; black-backed, ; british black-headed (_l. ridibundus_), ; mediterranean black-headed (_larus melanocephalus_), , - slender-billed (_larus gelastes_), gum-cistus (_see also_ cistus), , , hare, , , , , , hawfinch, , hawk, hazel-grouse, , , heron, , , , buff-backed, purple, , squacco, hobby, hoopoe, , , , , , , , humming-bird hawk-moth, hunting dogs, , , , hurdanos, the, , _et seq._ ibex, spanish (_capra hispánica_), , , , , - , , , , , _et seq._, , - , , and _n._ , ; distribution of, , , ; habits of, - , , , ; heads, _table of_, ; preservation of, - ibex-hunting, - , _et seq._ ibis, , glossy, inns (_posada_), , _et seq._ irrigation, neglect of, , isabel i. (_la católica_), isabella ii., james i., janda, laguna de, _n._ jay, , , jerez, , , , kestrel, , , , , , lesser, , kite, , , , , red, kitty-wren, knot, , _n._ , lagartijo, bull-fighter, - laguna de grédos, , la mancha, - , , lammergeyer, - , , - , - , , , - , , , , land-tortoise, lanjarón, lark, , , , calandra, crested, , short-toed, sky-, wood-, , , , , _n._ , las hurdes, , _et seq._ las nuevas, _et seq._, lemming, _n._ león, ; cortes de, lilford, lord, linnet, lizard, , , _blanus cinereus_, locusts, , lugar nuevo, lynx, , , , , - , , , , , , _et seq._, madoz, pascual, on the hurdanos, and _n._ , , magpie, , , , , spanish azure-winged, , , , , , , mallard, , , , , , , , , _manzanilla_ (camomile), maria, josé, bandit, , marisma, the, - , _et seq._, ; bird-life in, - , _et seq._, _et seq._, _n._ , - , , - , , ; plant-life in, - , ; wild camels on, , , - ; wildfowl shooting in, _et seq._, - , _et seq._, - marmot, _n._ marsh-harrier, , , , , , , , marsh-tern, marten, , , martin, mazzantini, luis, bull-fighter, - merida, , mezquitillas, , , migration of wildfowl. _see_ bird-migration missel-thrush, , "miura question," , - mole-cricket, monachil river, , , , , valley, mongoose, , , , , , , , , _montería_, , _et seq._, , montes, francisco, bull-fighter, moorish domination, traces of, _et seq._, , - , origin of bull-fight, , - moors, the, , mosquito, mudéla, estate, mulahacen, , mullet, grey, naranjo de bulnes, - national characteristics, , _et seq._, types, - navarre, _neophron_, , , , nightingale, , , nightjar, , _nucléo central_, nuthatch, , oleander, , and _n._ orange, cultivation of, oriole, golden, , orphean warbler, , ortolan, osprey, otter, _ovis bidens_, - owl, little, white, paris, comtes de, - partridge, , , , , , , , - , - , , , grey, , redleg, , , , , , peewit, pelayo, pelican, danish, peñones, the, , pepe-illo, bull-fighter, peregrine falcon, , , perez, gregorio, , pernales, bandit, _et seq_. petroleum, _n._ phillip ii., phillip iii., , phillip iv., , phillip v., _pica mauretanica_, _n._ picos de europa, , , , , , pig, , pilgrimages to rocio, _et seq._ "pincushion" gorse, , pine (_pinus pinaster_), , pinsapo pine (_abies pinsapo_), - and _notes_, , pintail, , , , , , , , , , "piorno" (_spartius scorpius_), pipit, alpine, tawny, , _n._ , pius v., pope, pizarro, plant-life in the marisma, - , plover, golden, _n._ , grey, , , kentish, , pochard, , _n._ , , , , , , red-crested (_pato colorado_), , , , , white-eyed, _n._ , polyglotta warbler, pratincole, , and _n._ praying mantis, préjavalsky, russian explorer, ptarmigan, , , _pterostichus rutilans_, puerta de palomas, - puntales del peco, pyrenean musk-rat, pyrenees, , , , ; ibex in, , - quail, , , rabbit, , , rail, "rare birds," , raven, , , , , , _reclamo_ (call-bird), - redondo, josé, bull-fighter, redshank, , , redstart, redwing, , reed-climbers, , ribbon-grass (_canaliza_), rice-grounds, , , - ring-dotterel, lesser, ring-ouzel, , , , _n._ ring-plover, riscos del fraile, , , , robin, , rocio, shrine at, pilgrimages to, _et seq._ rock-bunting, , , , rock-climbing, rock-sparrow, , rock-thrush, , , , _n._ , , , blue, , roderick, king of the goths, roe-deer, , , , , roller, , romans, the, in spain, , , romero, francisco, bull-fighter, romero, pedro, bull-fighter, _ronda_, _caceria á la_, - rook, rota, rudolph, late crown prince of austria, ruff, _n._ , rufous warbler, , , salmon, - san cristobal, , , , , sanderling, sand-grouse, , , , , , , ; black-bellied, sand-hills and wild geese, - sand-lizard, and _n._ sand-piper, , curlew, , green, , sardinian warbler, , saunders, howard, , schastowskij, mr. p. a., sedge-warbler, great, serin, , , , , serpent-eagle, , serranía de ronda, , , - , _et seq._; flora of, _et seq._, , ; ibex in, shad, shelduck, , , , , ruddy, shoveler, , , , , , , , , shrike, great grey (_lanius meridionalis_), , _n._ , , _lanius excubitor_, _n._ siberia, sierra bermeja, , - sierra de gata, , sierra de grédos, , _et seq._, ; ibex in, , , _et seq._, sierra de guadalupe, and _n._ sierra de jerez, - sierra moréna, , ; fauna of, , , _et seq._; flora of, , sierra nevada, _et seq._, ; birds of, - . - ; ibex in, , - , , sierra de las nieves, sierra quintana, - , silk manufacture, moorish, - small-game shooting, - snake, coluber, snipe, , , , snow-finch, , soldier-ants, spear-grass, , , , spectacled warbler, , sphinx moth (_s. convolvuli_), spoonbill, , "still-hunting," _et seq._, stilt, , , , , , stint, little, stonechat, , , stone-curlew, , , stork, , , subalpine warbler, , sugar-cane, , swan, wild, ; bewick's, _ib._ swift, alpine, tagus river, _n._ ; valley of, tarifa, tarik, arab chief, tato, el, bull-fighter, teal, , , , , , , , , , , , marbled, tench, tern, ; gull-billed (_sterna anglica_), ; whiskered, thistle, spanish, , thrush, , ; blue, , , , , _n._ , , tit, blue, , ; cole, , , ; great, ; long-tailed, , , toledo, montes de, , and _n._ , , _n._ tormes river, , tree-creeper, trout, - , - , , trujillo, , , - , tumbler-pigeons, tunny, - valdelagrana, valencia, , , ; ibex in, ; wildfowl in, - , veleta, picacho de la, _et seq._ _vetas_, - , , , villarejo, villaviciosa, don pedro pidal, marquis de, , vivillo, el, bandit, _et seq._, - vulture, , , and _n._ , , , - black, - griffon, , , , , , , , , , waders, , , wagtail, grey, , , pied, white, , , yellow, - warblers. _see_ under names water-hen, purple (_porphyrio_), water-shrew, , wheatear, , , , , , , , _n._ black-throated, eared, whimbrel, , , , whitethroat, , wigeon, , , , , , , , , , wild-cat, , , , , , , _et seq._ wildfowl at daimiel, - , , of marisma, - , _et seq._, _et seq._, - , , shooting, _et seq._, - , _et seq._, - , , - , - , in valencia, _et seq._ wild-thyme (_cantuéso_), willow-warbler, wolf, , , , , , , , , , , , woodchat, , , , woodcock, wood-pecker, great black, green, and _n._ , , spotted, wood-pigeon, , wren, , wryneck, yna de la garganta, - zamujar, zaragoza, cortes of, the end _printed by_ r. & r. clark, limited, _edinburgh_. * * * * * footnotes: [ ] catalonia was a separate state, under independent rulers, the counts of barcelona, until a.d. , when it was merged in the kingdom of arragon. [ ] the term "moor" has always seemed to us a trifle unfortunate, as tending to indicate that the conquering race came from morocco--"turks" or "arabs" would have been a more appropriate title. for fifty years after the conquest spain was governed by emirs subject to the kaliphs of damascus, the first independent power being wielded by the emir abderahman iii. who, in , usurped the title of kaliph of cordoba. that kaliphate, by the way, during its earlier splendours, became the centre of universal culture, cordoba being the intellectual capital of the world, with a population that has been stated at two millions. [ ] for the information of readers who have not studied the subject, it may be well to add that, during the early years of the seventeenth century, something like a million of spanish moors--the most industrious of its inhabitants--were either massacred in spain or expelled from the country. [ ] at a big hotel the menu on may included (as usual) "partridges." we emphasised a mild protest by refusing to eat them; but the landlord scored with both barrels. on opening our luncheon-basket next day (we had a twelve-hours' railway journey), there were the rejected redlegs! we had to eat them then--or starve! [ ] we have seen an exception to this in the mountain villages of the castiles, where on _fiesta_ nights a sort of rude valse is danced in the open street. [ ] by their peculiar style of aviation these birds, swaying up and down and swerving on zigzag courses, alternately expose a scintillating crimson mass suddenly flashing into a cloud of black and rosy white--according as their brilliant wing-plumage or their white bodies are presented to the eye. "a flame of fire" is the arab signification of their name _flamenco_. [ ] no offence to our scientific friends aforesaid. we recognise their argument and respect its thoroughness, though regarding it as occasionally misdirected. possibly in their splendid zeal they overlook the danger of reducing scientific classification to a mere monopoly confined to a few score of professors, specialists, and cabinet-naturalists, instead of serving as an aid and general guide (as is surely its true intention) to thousands of less learned students. over-elaboration is apt to beget chaos. [ ] we have known the spoor of a wounded stag pass beneath strong interlacing branches so low that, in following, we have had to wriggle under on hands and knees. the spoor showed there had been no such cervine necessity. [ ] weight, clean, two days killed, kilos = lbs. [ ] there are sand-lizards identical in colour with the sand itself--pale yellow or drab, adorned with wavy black lines closely resembling the wind-waves on the sand. [ ] there are, of course, exceptions, such as golden plovers, ruffs, dunlin, godwits, knots, that do assume a vernal dress. [ ] this, the southernmost form of the green woodpecker, has much the most ringing voice. the closely allied northern form, _g. canus_, that one hears constantly in norway, utters but a sharp monosyllabic note. a second curious fact may here be mentioned: that the great grey shrike, just named, _lanius meridionalis_, is resident in spain throughout the year, while the closely allied and almost identical _l. excubitor_ breeds exclusively in the far north (chiefly within the arctic) and only descends to england in winter. besides the harsh note mentioned above, the southern shrike, in spring, utters a piping whistle not unlike a golden plover. [ ] this is only the second instance in thirty or forty years of a wounded or "bayed" stag killing a dog. in the culata del faro, we remember, many years ago, a stag shot through the lungs, and which was brought to bay close behind the writer's post, tossing a _podenco_ clean over its head, and so injuring it that the dog had to be destroyed at once. [ ] the initials are those of our late friend colonel brymer of ilsington, dorset, formerly m.p. for that county, and who was a frequent visitor to spain, where, alas! his death occurred while we write this chapter (may ). a unique exploit of the colonel's during his last shooting-trip may fitly be recorded. on february , , at the culata del faginado, four big stags broke in a clump past his post on a pine-crowned ridge in the forest. two he dropped right and left; then reloading one barrel, killed a third ere the survivors had vanished from sight. these three stags carried thirty-four points, the best head taping - / inches by inches in width, and - / inches basal circumference. [ ] not a single accident, great or small, has occurred during the authors' long tenure of the coto doñana. [ ] see _on safari_, by abel chapman, pp. - . the spanish term _ronda_ may roughly be translated as "rounding-up." [ ] at the date in question (end of november) it is, of course, possible that this immigration was proceeding, not from the north, but from the south. that is, that these were fowl which, on their first arrival in spain in september and october, had found the _marisma_ untenable from lack of water, and had in consequence passed on into africa, whence they were now returning, on the changed weather. but be that as it may, the route above indicated is that invariably followed by the north-bred wildfowl on their first arrival in spain. [ ] this was in earlier days. later on we developed a flotilla of flat-bottomed canoes expressly adapted to this service. a photo of one of these is annexed. [ ] see _instructions to young sportsmen_, by p. hawker, second edition ( ), pp. , . [ ] in the big and deep lucios no plant-life exists, nor could surface-feeding ducks reach down to it even if subaquatic herbage of any kind did grow there. [ ] we have here in our mind's eye our own shooting-grounds in the bætican marismas. but there are other regions in andalucia where geese feed on open grassy plains on which shelter of some sort is often available. it may be but a clump of dead thistles or wild asparagus; but at happy times a friendly ditch or dry watercourse will yield quite a decent hollow where one can hide in comparative comfort and security. on the day here described no such "advantage" befriended. [ ] the scarcity of diving-ducks is explained by these having all been shot in the shallow, open marisma. in the deeper waters, such as santolalla, common and white-eyed pochards, tufted ducks, etc., abound. [ ] the montes de toledo comprise some of the best big-game country in spain and include several of her most famous preserves; such, for example, as the coto de cabañeros belonging to the conde de valdelagrana, el castillo, a domain of the duke of castillejos, and zumajo of the marques de alventos. the duke of arión possesses a wild tract inhabited by fallow-deer. [ ] thirteen wolves were killed thus (and recovered) on the property of the marquis del mérito in the winter of - . [ ] similarly the half-wild cattle of spain leave their new-born calves concealed in some bush or palmetto, the mother going off for a whole day and only returning at sunset. [ ] photos given in _wild spain_. [ ] we exclude from consideration all deer that are winter-fed or otherwise assisted, and of course all that have been "improved" by crosses with extraneous blood. these mountain deer of spain are true native aborigines, unaltered and living the same wild life as they lived here in roman days and in ages before. [ ] we here use the term hound or dog indiscriminately as, in the altering circumstances, each is equally applicable and correct [ ] i never myself count shots, hits or misses--_horas non numero_. the above record is solely due to the inception by our gracious hostess at mezquitillas of a pretty custom, namely, that for every bullet fired, a small sum should be payable by the sportsman towards a local charity. [ ] the oleander is poisonous to horses and other domestic animals, and is instinctively avoided by both game and cattle. during the peninsular war it is recorded that several british soldiers came by their deaths through this cause. a foraging party cut and peeled some oleander branches to use as skewers in roasting meat over the camp-fires. of twelve men who ate the meat, seven died. [ ] pernales was born at estepa, province of sevilla, september , , a ne'er-do-weel son of honest, rural parents. by he had become notorious as a determined criminal. his appearance and machiavellian instincts were interpreted as indicating great personal courage, and, united with his physique, combined to present a repulsive and menacing figure. a huge head set on broad chest and shoulders, with red hair and deep-set blue eyes, a livid freckled complexion, thin eyebrows, and one long tusk always visible, protruding from a horrid mouth, made up a sufficiently characteristic ensemble. [ ] the authors personally assisted at this _toilet_, talavera, may . [ ] the oft-described details of the bull-fight we omit; but should any reader care to peruse an impartial description thereof, written by one of the co-authors of the present work, such will be found in the _encyclopædia of sport_, vol. i. p. . [ ] in particular, remembering an incident that had occurred here in , and recorded in _wild spain_, p. , we were anxious to ascertain if the lemming, or any relative of his, still survived in these central spanish cordilleras. the marmot is another possible inhabitant. [ ] for these, as well as graphic notes on the subject, we are indebted to sr. d. manuel f. de amezúa, the most experienced and intrepid explorer of the sierra de grédos. [ ] this range is, in fact, a northern outspur of the montes de toledo, which occupy the whole space betwixt tagus and guadiana. its highest peak, la cabeza del moro, reaches feet. [ ] wild fallow-deer are indigenous among the infinite scrub-clad hills that fringe the course of the tagus, as well as in various _dehesas_ in the province of caceres--those of las corchuelas and de valero may be specified. the wild fallow are larger and finer animals than the others. [ ] immediately adjoining the south approach to the bridge over the alagón is sculptured on the bluff a heraldic device representing a figure plucking a pomegranate (_granada_) from a tree--the arms of granadilla. there is an inscription, with date, beneath; but these we failed to decipher. [ ] _diccionario geografico, estadistico, y historico de españa_, by pascual madoz (madrid, ). [ ] a later spanish work, the _diccionario enciclopedico hispano-americano_ (barcelona, ), regards some of pascual madoz's descriptions as over-coloured and exaggerated. our own observation, however, rather tended to confirm his views and to show that subsequent amelioration exists rather in name than in fact. [ ] the hurdanos, we were told, make bad soldiers. being despised by their comrades, they are only employed on the menial work of the barracks. many, from long desuetude, are unable to wear boots. [ ] the white on a bustard's plumage exceeds in its intensity that of almost any other bird we know. it is a dead white, without shade or the least symptom of any second tint so usual a feature in white. [ ] _avetarda_ is old spanish, the modern spelling being _abutarda_. [ ] a large number of horsemen inevitably excites suspicion in game unaccustomed to see more than three or four men together. [ ] the horses, if ground permits, may be utilised as "stops" to extreme right and left of the drive, otherwise they must be concealed in some convenient hollow in charge of a boy or two. [ ] we know of no other bird that increases thus in weight anticipatory of the breeding-season, nor are we at all sure that it is the swollen neck that explains that increase. [ ] we have never succeeded in inducing our tame bustards to breed in captivity. [ ] dampier, _new voyage round the world_, nd ed., i. p. ; london, . [ ] dampier's visit to the cape de verde islands took place in september, when, of course, flamingoes would not be nesting. [ ] we also observed in equatoria a second species, smaller and red all over, _phoenicopterus minor_. this, however, was far less numerous; the great bulk of east-african flamingoes were the common _ph. roseus_. [ ] it is right to add that in america the growth of mangrove and other bushes, sometimes in close proximity to the nests, offers facilities to the photographer that are wholly wanting in spain, where the flamingo only nests in perfectly open waters devoid of the slightest covert or means of concealment. [ ] _gaitero_ is the word used. the _gaita_ is a musical instrument which we may translate as bagpipes. [ ] for notes on these subjects, we are indebted to mr. carl d. williams. [ ] boabdil, we read, was a keen hunter, and during his sojourn at besmer frequently spent weeks at a time among the mountains with his hawks and hounds. [ ] _la alpujarra_, by don pedro a. de alarcón ( th edition, madrid, ). [ ] several of these animals, moreover, yield excellent fur. [ ] these mountains are believed to overlie vast store of subterranean wealth in the form of petroleum. geologists seem agreed upon that; but they differ as to the precise locality of the treasure or whence it may most conveniently be exploited. [ ] we have a number of pinsápos growing in northumberland. they were planted some ten years ago on a cold northern exposure, and are now flourishing vigorously, some having reached a height of eight or ten feet. nearly all tend to throw up numerous "leaders" as described. [ ] pinsápo timber is fairly hard, but too "knotty" for general purposes, and it is useless for charcoal. yet these glorious forests are being sacrificed wholesale because the wood affords "good kindling" for the charcoal-furnace--can wasteful wantonness further go? that the only existing forests of the kind on earth should be ruthlessly destroyed for no single object but to provide _kindling_ passes understanding. [ ] we mention, parenthetically, certain birds observed at end of march on that alpine meadow ( feet), as follows:--one ring-ouzel, a pair of common wheatears, woodlarks, and dartford warblers--all, no doubt, on migration--besides, of course, blackchats, blue thrushes, etc. a month later the beautiful rock-thrush had come to grace the desolation with lilting flight and song, and tawny pipits ran blithely among the rocks. [ ] note that the pellets or "castings" thrown up by vultures are chiefly formed of grass cut up into lengths and compacted with saliva, evidently digestive. we have frequently seen vultures carrying a wisp of grass in their beaks. [ ] the spanish name of the ibex, _cabra montés_, signifies, not as might appear, "mountain-goat," but _scrub-goat_; and may have originated in this region, or at least from a habit which prevails here though obsolete everywhere else. [ ] similar results followed on the laguna de janda. that great shallow lake abounds in winter with both ducks and geese; but differs from the marismas in being sweet water, hence is not frequented by flamingoes. another point of difference is that its shores are occupied by wild bulls instead of brood-mares; hence the _cabresto_-pony is not available. wildfowl here also proved inaccessible to a gunning-punt on open waters; while wherever reeds or sedge promised some "advantage," in such places the depth of water was always insufficient to float the lightest of craft within range. the best shot made during four seasons realised but twenty-three (seven geese and sixteen duck)--a paltry total. occasionally a great bustard was shot from the gunboat. [ ] the word "_corro_" applies in spanish to any noisy group--say a knot of people discussing politics in the street! [ ] one feels convinced, while lying listening, that these exuberant fowl invent and formulate a series of new notes and cries special to the occasion and outside their normal vocabulary. hence, possibly, originated the use of the term "_corro_." [ ] _corros_ usually consist (especially the earlier assemblies) of one root-species--others merely "edge in." the later _corros_, however, are much mixed. they vary in numbers: one may contain but pairs, another within half-a-mile as many thousands. [ ] pratincoles cast themselves down flat on the dry mud, fluttering as though in mortal agony--or, say, like a huge butterfly with a pin through its thorax! the device is presumably adopted in order to decoy an intruder away from their eggs or young. this year, however, the pratincoles still practised it, although they had neither eggs nor young at all. one day (may ) a gale of wind blew some of the deceivers bodily away. [ ] in none were the generative organs more than slightly developed, and in most the plumage was full of new blood-feathers, showing that the summer change was not yet complete. the date, may - . another drawing is given at p. . [ ] common british birds we exclude from notice, or might fill a page with swarming goldfinches, robins, wrens, chaffinch, blackbird, stonechat, whitethroats, tree-pipits, titlarks (the last three on passage), blackcap, garden-warbler, whinchat, redstart, and a host more. [ ] the african bush-cuckoos, or coucals (_centropus_), certainly build their own nests; but they are only related nominally, and the connection is remote. [ ] in egypt the hooded crow (_corvus cornix_) is invariably the cuckoo's dupe; in algeria, _pica mauretanica_. [ ] we find a note that one bean-goose was shot on november , --weight - / lbs. [ ] see the elaborate monograph on _the geese of europe and asia_, by m. serge alphéraky of st. petersburg (london, rowland ward). [ ] one such note may be given as an example:-- " .--examined geese shot january and . legs varied from white and pale flesh-colour to pale yellowish and pink, adults all of the latter colour. beaks vary from whitish or flesh-colour, through yellow, up to bright orange. a few of the geese, mostly the smaller, young birds, were nearly pure white below: others heavily spotted or barred with black: nearly all (old and young) show signs of a 'white-front.'" [ ] in jutland we found some pintails' nests rather cunningly concealed in holes upon open grassy islets in marine lagoons not unlike our spanish marismas; others were on bare ground, though occasionally hidden among thistles. here also the eggs numbered eight or nine. see _ibis_, , p. . * * * * * typographical errors corrected by the etext transcriber: averge depth=> average depth {pg } produces these montrosities=> produces these monstrosities {pg } secured a specimen of two=> secured a specimen or two {pg } are always strictly cleanly=> are always strictly clean {pg } préjavelsky, russian explorer, => préjavalsky, russian explorer, {index} [illustration: spain edwd weller] london, sampson low, marston, searle, & rivington.] spain by the rev. wentworth webster, m.a. oxon. with a chapter by an associate of the school of mines. _with illustrations._ london: sampson low, marston, searle, & rivington, crown buildings, , fleet street. . [_all rights reserved._] london: printed by gilbert and rivington, limited, st. john's square. [etext transcriber's note: no attempt has been made to correct, normalize or de-anglicize the spelling of spanish names or words. for example: calayatud/calatayud, alfonso/alfonzo, cacéres/caceres/cáceres, cardénas/cárdenas, guipúzcoa/guipuzcoa all appear] preface. there is a difficulty in writing a book of this character on spain, which does not exist, we think, to the same extent with any other european country. in most european nations the official returns and government reports may be accepted as trustworthy, and the compiler has little more to do than to copy them; but in spain this is far from being always the case. in some instances, from nonchalance and habitual inexactitude, in others, and especially in all matters of finance and taxation, from designed misstatement, all such reports have to be received with caution and scrupulously examined. the reader must remember also that in spain smuggling and contraband dealing in various forms is carried on to such a vast extent as seriously to vitiate all trade returns. thus it is that spanish statistics can be considered only as approximate truths. another difficulty arises from the very varied character of the spanish provinces. hardly any statement can be made of one province which is not untrue of another. the ordinary descriptions of spain present only one, or at most two, types, the castling and andalusian, and utterly neglect all the rest. the provinces of spain have been well described as divided into "five irelands" whose habits and modes of thought, political aspirations, and commercial interests and aptitudes, are often utterly opposed to those of the capital. a brief survey of the whole of spain is attempted in the following pages. in a work of this kind one other obvious difficulty is to know what to omit. some well-worn topics will be found to be absent from these pages. no references are made to the great peninsular war. this can be easily studied in the admirable pages of sir w. napier in english, and of toreno in spanish, or in compendiums of these, which again are filtered down in every guide-book. for a like reason prescott's brilliant works are not alluded to. for the chapter on geology and mining the reader is indebted to one of the most distinguished associates of the school of mines, who has been recently engaged in practical geological survey and mapping in spain. much also of the present work is due to private information most kindly furnished by spanish friends of high position in the literary and political world, and with whom some of the subjects treated have been frequently discussed. to these the author offers his warmest and most grateful thanks. analytical table of contents. chapter i. the geography of spain. page boundaries of the peninsula area and coast-line six divisions of spain _ib._ _mountain chains_: pyrenees cantabrian, asturian, and galician mountains leon _ib._ oca, sierra moncayo, and idubeda chains central plateau and its passes _ib._ culminating water-shed of the peninsula guadarrama range _ib._ toledan range sierra morena and passes _ib._ central ranges and river basins sierra nevada and offshoots _ib._ minor ranges _rivers, river basins, and rainfall_: five great rivers rivers of galicia and asturias basque provinces ebro and its tributaries and canals catalonia, streams of douro and its tributaries tagus " " guadiana " " and lakes guadalquiver, its tributaries, islands, and marismas segura and its irrigation jucar " " guadalaviar or turia _ib._ lakes and albuferas water toponymy comparative table of principal rivers mineral springs and salinas _ib._ chapter ii. climate and productions. five climates of spain temperature and rainfall of: galicia and the asturias santander and the basque provinces aragon _ib._ catalonia _ib._ valencia alicante _ib._ murcia cartagena to almeria _ib._ malaga, motril, seville, and cordova _ib._ granada cadiz, gibraltar, &c _ib._ elevation of central plateau _ib._ temperature and rainfall of madrid, salamanca, and soria agricultural products of: galicia and the asturias basque provinces and basin of the ebro moorish agriculture and exotic flora of southern spain products of valencia and murcia palms at elche aromatic mountain shrubs products and wines of andalusia products of the central plateau _ib._ estremadura and law of the mesta locusts corn-lands of castile and sierras de campos comparative flora of spain _fauna_: monkeys of gibraltar _ib._ beasts and birds of prey _ib._ game birds and african visitants _ib._ noxious and useful insects _ib._ merino sheep horses, cattle, and beasts of burden fisheries estimated total production of spain chapter iii. geology and mines. peculiar interest of spanish geology granite and silurian rocks _ib._ carboniferous formation secondary formations _ib._ upper cretaceous _ib._ eocene tertiary miocene fresh-water _ib._ pliocene _ib._ influence of geology on populations _ib._ statistics of spanish geology volcanoes, recent _ib._ _minerals of_: gneiss and crystalline schists metamorphic rocks _ib._ cambrian formation _ib._ silurian slates _ib._ devonian sandstones _ib._ carboniferous series _ib._ permian triassic conglomerates _ib._ jurassic limestones and marl _ib._ cretaceous formation _ib._ eocene, miocene, and pliocene _ib._ production and export of six chief minerals _ib._ of argentiferous ore, cobalt, silver _ib._ coal iron of the bilbao district _ib._ locality of principal mines mining laws chapter iv. ethnology, language, and population. pyrenees, no true boundary of population of spain, mixed iberi, kelt-iberi, basques, and kelts _ib._ foreign races in spain visigoths, arabs, and moors toponymy of spain language of spanish jews existing dialects _ib._ statistics of the spanish language characteristics of " " population of spain density of _ib._ occupations of manufacturing and mining provinces clergy _ib._ distribution of property, great changes in abolition of mesta and of feudal privileges _ib._ sale of crown and church property actual distribution _ib._ characteristics of the various populations galicians, asturians, basques, and aragonese catalans, valencians, and murcians , andalusians manchegans, and castilians gipsies, maragatos, passiegos, hurdes, sayagos, &c. contrabandistas _ib._ chapter v. description of provinces. division of kingdoms and provinces galicia and its provinces, corunna, lugo, pontevedra, and orense asturias santander _ib._ basque provinces, biscay, guipuzcoa, alava navarre aragon and its provinces, huesca, saragossa, teruel catalonia " gerona, barcelona, tarragona, lerida valencia " castellon de la plana, valencia, alicante murcia " murcia and albacete andalusia, mediterranean provinces, almeria, granada, malaga atlantic: cadiz, huelva , inland: seville, cordova, jaen , , estremadura, badajoz, cacéres _ib._ new castile and la mancha, provinces--ciud ad real, toledo, madrid, cuenca, guadalajara old castile--avila, segovia, soria, logrono, burgos leon--salamanca, valladolid, zamora, palencia, leon balearic isles chapter vi. history and political constitution. early liberties, _behetria_, _fueros_ capitulations of moors and jews conquest of the south and its results the _santa hermandad_ _ib._ the austrian dynasty the bourbon dynasty modern constitutional spain cortés of cadiz _ib._ reign of ferdinand vii., and loss of american colonies_ib._ " isabella ii. first carlist war _ib._ ministry of narvaez " o'donnell expulsion of isabella ii., and provisional government _ib._ amadeo i. republic _ib._ second carlist war cantonalist insurrection _ib._ alphonso xii. ministry of cánovas del castillo _present constitution and administration of spain_ cortés, senate, congress provincial administration municipal " _ib._ religion rights of persons, natives and foreigners _ib._ _military administration_ army quality of spanish soldiery, _pronunciamientos_, &c. _naval administration_ royal navy _ib._ mercantile navy _ib._ _judicial administration_ legal procedure prisons _ib._ hospitals and lunatic asylums railways telegraphs _ib._ letters and post _ib._ _finances of spain._ public debt increase of, since deficit of budgets _ib._ sources of revenue expenditure _ib._ imports and exports foreign tariffs _ib._ protection and free trade empleomania and its results chapter vii. education and religion. universities, number of students, salaries of professors theological seminaries course of university study provincial and special institutes _ib._ secondary instruction, institutes and colleges number of students, and salary of masters course of instruction university degrees _ib._ primary education _church and religion._ early church councils roman and mazarabic liturgy _ib._ inquisition _ib._ philip ii., the jesuits, and the reformation expulsion of the jesuits concordat of _ib._ archbishops, bishops, and clergy _ib._ mode of appointment of bishops spanish protestants _ib._ chapter viii. literature and the arts. præhistoric art and architecture roman and visigothic _ib._ arabic three periods of mudejar christian _ib._ renaissance churrigueresque domestic architecture _ib._ church furniture and minor arts _painting._ characteristics of spanish painting local schools murillo painters of valencian school " " castilian " _ib._ " " andalusian " _ib._ modern painters industrial arts, goldsmith's work, iron, porcelain, glass, wood, lace music _ib._ _literature._ early romances " prose works la celistina and the _picaresque_ novels drama and _autors_ lope de vega _ib._ calderon de la barca cervantes _ib._ quevedo historical writings poetry _ib._ mystic writers classical and romantic schools _ib._ modern writers: poets--espronceda, zorilla, becquer, &c. novelists--fernan caballero, j. valera, &c. _ib._ dramatists--hartzenbusch, breton de los herreros, &c. nunez de arce historians--condé gayangos, de la fuente, &c. _ib._ geographers--fernandez guerra, coello, bowles _ib._ geologists--macpherson, &c. _ib._ economists--cárdenas, colmeiro, de azcárate theologians--balmés, donoso cortez, c. gonzalez, &c. _ib._ philologists--f. fita, &c. _ib._ orators provincial literature chapter ix. epilogue. spain not a worn-out country two hindrances to development _ib._ protection and free trade cruelty and charities of spain appendix i.--census of provinces " ii.--chief historical events " iii.--chief books used list of illustrations. page caballeros dominique, the espada gipsies at granada leaning tower of saragossa general view of granada, with the alhambra alhambra tower by moonlight fountain of the four seasons, madrid port of cadiz vespers giralda of seville moorish ornamentation [illustration: physical map of spain edwd weller london: sampson low, marston, searle, & rivington.] spain. chapter i. the geography of spain. spain, with the neighbouring kingdom of portugal, constitutes the most westerly of the three southern peninsulas of europe, and in cape tarifa, latitude ° ', it attains the most southerly point of the whole continent. separated from france and from the rest of europe by the chain of the pyrenees, and surrounded on all other sides by either the mediterranean or the atlantic, it presents at first sight the appearance of an exceedingly compact and homogeneous surface. it seems strange that this well-defined peninsula should contain two separate kingdoms, with peoples who speak languages allied, yet so distinct as to be mutually unintelligible to the uneducated classes. the peninsula lies between latitude ° ' and ° ' n., and between ° ' e. and ° ' w. longitude. in shape it is thus nearly a square; a diagonal line from the n.e. cape creuz to the s.w. cape st. vincent measures miles, while from cape ortegal, n.w., to cape gata, s.e., would be miles. the whole area of the peninsula contains , square miles, of which , on the west belong to portugal, and , to spain. the peninsular form of the country would lead us to expect that it would partake of all the characteristics of a maritime climate; but such is not the case. from the comparative evenness of the coast-line, unbroken and unindented by any deep inlets except on the extreme north-west, in galicia, the coast-line bears a less proportion to the whole surface than that of many lands less surrounded by the sea. it counts only miles, of which are washed by the mediterranean, and by the atlantic; that is, mile of coast-line to square miles of area; while italy contains to , and greece to . from the configuration of the coast, and from the character of the great central plateau, a large part of spain has really an extreme continental climate. for while it is distinctly separated from the rest of europe by the line of the pyrenees, spain is no less distinctly divided into different districts in the interior--districts which differ most widely in climate and elevation and products. six of these are usually named: ( ) the n.w. atlantic coast, comprising galicia, the coast of which presents a continuation of the fiord system of norway, and of the firths of scotland and ireland; ( ), the northern slope of the cantabrian mountains, and the narrow slip of land contained between them and the bay of biscay, comprising the asturias, santander, and the basque provinces; ( ) the valley of the ebro, with navarre, aragon, and catalonia; ( ) the great central plateau--leon, old and new castile, estremadura, and la mancha; ( ) the mediterranean provinces, including valencia, murcia, and the parts of andalusia between the sierra nevada and the mediterranean; ( ) the rest of andalusia sloping towards the atlantic. we will treat of these in order. _mountain chains._ but first we must speak of the various mountain systems and river basins of spain, without which it is impossible to understand either the physical conditions of the country, or the social and political state of the various populations which has resulted from them. first, on the north is the chain of the pyrenees, a continuation of the great alpine system of central europe, stretching from cape creuz, ° ' e., to the bay of biscay, ° ' w., a distance of miles, and prolonging itself westward in lower chains of different denominations until it finally sinks into the atlantic at cape finisterre. the culminating points of the pyrenees are towards the centre of the chain, in mounts maladetta, , feet, and the pic de posets and the mount perdu, each about , feet, whence the heights gradually descend, on the east to the mediterranean and on the west to the bay of biscay. with the exception of the little bidassoa, which in the lower part of its course forms the boundary between france and spain, at the bottom of the bay of biscay, all the other waters of the spanish side of the pyrenees belong to the ebro and to the mediterranean. parallel to the coast of the bay of biscay the pyrenees are prolonged, first, by the cantabrian mountains, which run through the basque provinces, and the province of santandar; thence by the picos de europa, feet--from the south-eastern spurs of which the ebro and pisuerga take their rise--and the asturian mountains, to the sierra de penamarella, at the junction of the three provinces of leon, asturias, and galicia. the chain here attains its greatest elevation, (?) feet, then descends to a plateau of about feet, whence it sinks rapidly to the atlantic, forming the headlands of ortegal, the extreme north-western, and of finisterre, the extreme western, point of northern spain. the mountains of leon form the western watershed, between the waters of the ebro and those which fall into the atlantic. the line is continued eastward by the oca mountains, the sierra de moncayo, and the idubeda mountains. these mountain chains divide the basin of the ebro from that of the douro. they also form the northern buttress of the great plateau of central spain, which attains an elevation of from to feet. the rise to the plateau from the bay of biscay is very abrupt. within fifty miles of leaving the coast the railways from the north attain a height of feet, and reach the central plateau, at quintanapalla, at an elevation of feet; while la cañada, the highest point on the line to madrid, is nearly feet, or about sixty feet higher than the tunnel of the mount cenis. from the eastern side the rise is less abrupt, and the plateau is entered at the lower elevation of feet, on the line from alicante to madrid. the famous pass of somosierra, on the old northern coach-road from madrid, is about feet above the level of the sea. from these figures it is easy to perceive how very different is the aspect of these buttress chains when seen from the plateau, and when looked at from the plain from which they rise. thus the sierra de moncayo, feet, stands out with boldness from the valley of the ebro, but viewed from the plateau of castile it is scarcely noticeable. from its summit, however, the finest view of the whole range of the pyrenees to be found anywhere on the spanish side of the chain, is to be obtained. turning thence towards the south and south-east, these mountain chains--under the various names of the sierras de cuenca, de molina, and albarracin--divide the river basins of the mediterranean from the far larger ones of the atlantic. they have their culminating point in the muela de san juan and the cerro de san felipe, nearly feet, at the junction of the three provinces of teruel, cuenca, and guadalaxara. from the sides of these mountains the waters fall with rapid course, on the north to join the ebro, on the east and south to the mediterranean; while with gentler slope, but in far greater volume, the douro, the tagus, and the guadiana roll their waters to the atlantic. from these sierras the plateau tilts gradually westward and southward, but is intersected by mountain chains, peaks of which towards the west attain a higher elevation than those which form the real culmination of this part of the peninsula. the bare and bleak granite range of the guadarrama, which divides the basin of the douro from that of the tagus, and from whose summits steals the icy wind so fatal to madrid, attains in its highest summit, peña lara, feet, near segovia; while in its western prolongation, the sierras de credos and de gata, the plaza del moro reaches feet. the chains which divide the valley of the tagus from that of the guadiana are not nearly so well marked as are those more to the north, and rise to a much less elevation above the plateau. beginning with a south-westerly prolongation of the cerro de san felipe, under the successive titles of montes de toledo, sierras de guadaloupe, montanchez, and san mamed, about feet, they reach the portuguese frontier near portalegre. the highest point seems to be in the mountains of toledo at villuercas, where a height of a little over feet is attained. the mountains which separate the basins of the guadiana and the guadalquiver, under the names of the sierras de alcaroz, morena, de cordova, guadacanal, and aroche, and which form the southern buttress of the central plateau, present a still greater difference than those of the northern buttress when viewed from the plateau and from the plains of andalusia. from the former they appear only rolling undulations, and the traveller scarcely notices the rise till he finds himself descending one of the steep and savage gorges, like that of the pass of despeña-perroz, on the road and rail between la mancha and andalusia. the col of despeña-perroz is nearly feet above the sea, and but few summits along the ranges of the sierra morena and its prolongations attain a greater elevation, the general range being about feet, except towards the west and north of seville, where the sierra de aracena reaches feet. eastward of the guadalquiver the ranges which divide its waters from those of the segura, the sierras de segura, and sagra, attain a greater height, the former feet, the latter to feet. thus as supports to the great plateau, or on it, we have the following successive ranges as we proceed from north to south. first, the sierra de moncayo and the idubeda mountains, dividing the basin of the ebro from that of the douro; next the guadarrama chain, with the sierras de credos and de gata, separating the douro from the tagus; then the mountains of toledo, and the sierra de san mamed, between the tagus and the guadiana; and lastly, the southern buttress, the sierra morena, dividing the guadiana from the guadalquiver. but it is south of the last stream that the culminating points of the whole peninsula are to be found--in the mighty sierra nevada, which separates the lovely valley of granada from the mediterranean, shielding it from the scorching winds of africa, and giving it its eternal freshness and verdure. the highest of its summits are muley hacen and velate, lying to the south-east of granada, the former attaining nearly , feet, and the latter , . the altitudes diminish rapidly east and west. towards the east, outlying ranges, such as those of the sierras de filabrés and of gador, attain heights of and feet respectively; while in the westward prolongations, the mesa de ronda is only ; and the chain gradually drops till it reaches the sea at cape trafalgar, and the rock of gibraltar, feet. but besides these greater chains of mountains spain is traversed by numerous offshoots and lateral ranges, and a great portion of her territory is more or less of a mountainous character. in districts where rain is unfrequent these hills are absolutely bare of verdure for a great part of the year, and remain untenanted and uncultivated. among the more elevated of these lesser chains are those of monseni, monserrat, and montagut, in catalonia, which attain respectively , , and feet in height. on the borders of leon and galicia, and in the latter province, there are numerous mountains and smaller ranges, which vary from to feet. the whole frontier of portugal is covered by lower ranges, connecting the great chains of which we have already spoken with hills of from to feet. from the great eastern buttress two spurs, or rolling plateaux, run down to the mediterranean, and terminate in the different headlands--such as cape gata in the south-east, cape palos near carthagena, capes de la nao and san antonio near denia, peniscola, and others. some of these smaller ranges are exceedingly rich in minerals, and as they approach the sea form sites of picturesque and enchanting beauty, such as can be surpassed only by the better-known and historic glories of the coasts of italy or of greece. _rivers of spain._ of the five great rivers of spain only one, the ebro, pours its waters into the mediterranean; the other four, the douro, tagus, guadiana, and guadalquiver, discharge theirs into the atlantic; but of these last the guadalquiver alone is wholly a spanish stream. in the lower and more valuable part of their course the douro, tagus, and gaudiana, belong to portugal--a fact which must always be remembered when treating of the internal commerce of spain. but besides these larger streams there are several of slightly smaller dimensions, of which we will treat in order. few countries present within so short a distance so great a difference in rainfall and moisture as does spain. in some parts of the asturias and galicia the rainfall is probably as heavy as that of any part of europe--as much as - / inches are said to have been measured in a single year; and the average fall on the northern slopes of the cantabrian mountains is said to be sixty inches annually. yet the average of the whole basin of the ebro--which rises from the southern slopes of the picos de europa, one of the most rainy of the rainy districts--is only eighteen inches annually, the last miles of its course being through almost barren districts, where rain seldom falls. the principal river of galicia is the minho, with its tributary the sil. each of these rises, though at some distance apart, from the southern side of the cantabrian mountains, much nearer to the waters of the bay of biscay than to those of the atlantic, into which they flow. they take thence a southerly and south-westerly course, until they unite a few miles above orense. the lower part of the united course, which bears the name of the minho, forms from melgaco to the sea the frontier between the kingdoms of portugal and spain. the remaining rivers of galicia are numerous but of little importance: the tambre is the largest of those which fall into the atlantic on the west; while on the north the sources of the eo and the navia overlap those of the minho, and take their rise from the mountains which border on leon. the whole country is exceedingly well watered. both in its agricultural character as a grazing country, and in its flora and fauna, it resembles the milder portions of southern ireland and of devonshire, but with occasional products of a warmer zone. the rivers of the asturias, santander, and of the basque provinces, all partake of the same general character. in the upper part of their courses they are mere mountain torrents, their course is rapid but short, and they are of but little use for navigation, though occasionally small but insecure harbours are formed at their mouth. the only great exception to this is the nervion, on which bilbao is situated, and which is navigable for eight miles from its mouth. the waters of the bidassoa, the deva, and others, are, however, utilized for the transport of ore from the mines and ironworks along the course. the bidassoa, for some ten miles before it enters the bay of biscay at cape figueras forms the boundary between france and spain; about four miles from its issue, between irun and behobie, is the celebrated isle des faisans, where, in , the marriage was arranged between louis xiv. and the infanta, which eventually placed the bourbons on the throne of spain. the bidassoa is the last of the northern rivers of spain which falls into the atlantic. the ebro has its rise from the source, fontibre, in the province of santander, and takes a south-easterly course of miles, through the provinces of santander, burgos, navarre, and aragon, almost parallel with the pyrenees, till it falls into the mediterranean, through a sandy delta stretching some fifteen miles into the sea below amposta. the descent for the first miles of its course is exceedingly rapid, but after that the fall is gradual till it reaches the sea. in its course it receives the waters of many tributaries, both on the left from the pyrenees, and on the right from the idubeda mountains and the sierras of southern aragon. were it not for these tributaries little of its waters would reach the mediterranean, so dry and arid are the bardenas of navarre, and the dehesas of aragon, through which it flows. the spaniards have a proverb that it is the navarrese and aragonese streams--the arga, the ega, and the aragon--which make a man of the ebro. farther down, the gallego runs in near saragossa; while the united waters of the cinca and the segre at mequinenza pour a far larger volume of water into the parent bed than it contains itself. from the right, the principal streams are the xalon, with its tributary the xiloca, which joins the ebro between tudela and saragossa, the marten, and the guadalope near caspe. the ebro, notwithstanding its length, the number of its tributaries, and the extent of its basin, , square miles, is of little use for navigation. a magnificent canal--first projected and commenced by the emperor charles v. (i. of spain) then after a lapse of more than two centuries taken in hand by charles iii., in --runs from tudela to saragossa; thence to the sea it still remains in project only. the part already finished is falling into decay; and it is only the excellent quality of the masonry, and of the cement or mortar employed, that retards its utter ruin. the traffic is very small; and even as a means of irrigation its waters are allowed greatly to run to waste. at the apex of the delta from amposta to san carlos de la rapita a canal of eight miles has been cut for purposes of navigation; but the formation of a bar, and the silting up of the bay, have rendered it almost useless. the other rivers which flow into the mediterranean, between the lower course of the ebro and the pyrenees are the fluvia, which flows into the gulf of rosas, the ter, which passes by gerona, and the llobregat near barcelona. all are torrential streams, unfit for navigation; but their waters, if all utilized for irrigation like those of the llobregat, would be sources of immense wealth to the country. from the fact that the lower part of the course of the great rivers of the plateau--the douro, the tagus, and the guadiana--flow through portugal, their streams are hardly at all available as a means of communication or of navigation for spain; and from the nature of the deeply cut beds which the waters have worn through the soil, flowing, especially as they approach the frontiers of portugal, through gorges approaching in length and depth the cañons of north america, the rivers are little available for irrigation, although far more use might be made of them for this purpose than is actually done. owing to the prejudices of the spanish husbandman, and to his reluctance to accept any change, however profitable, in his ancient routine, neither the little that has been done in the present century, nor the remains of a wiser agriculture in former times are used by the peasantry. in the province of zamora, for instance, both the ancient "acequias" and the modern canal of the esla are equally neglected. the rich results that have followed the employment of the waters in the few cases in which they have been intelligently directed, stirs no one up to follow the example. it is one of the many contrasts between different parts of spain, that the value of irrigation should be so well understood in some parts and so utterly neglected and under-valued in others. but we shall have more to say of this when we treat of the eastern and southern streams: at present let us return to the douro, and to the other rivers of the plateau. the douro takes its rise in the lago negro, or black lake, on the southern flanks of the mount urbion, in the north-western angle of the province of soria. it first runs eastward to the city of that name, the ancient numantia, then turns almost directly south as far as almazan, whence it runs westward to portugal, receiving meanwhile the waters of the esla, below zamora; at the frontier, again it turns south, through deep gorges which form the boundary between spain and portugal, until it receives the waters of the agueda, where it finally enters portugal, and after a westerly course thence of about miles, falls into the atlantic below oporto. the basin drained by the douro is the most extensive of all those of the rivers in spain. including the portion in portugal, it comprises , square miles; the length of the river is about miles; the average rainfall is stated at twenty inches. the chief affluents of the douro descend from the north from the mountains of burgos and the cantabrian range. the largest are the pisuerga, which rises not far from the sources of the ebro among the picos de europa, and flows almost directly south by palencia and valladolid until it joins the douro, some miles above tordesilla; the esla, which also rises from the western flanks of the same chain, not far from covadonga, takes a somewhat more westerly direction, and after receiving several smaller streams unites with the douro below zamora. these two rivers supply water for two of the most successful canals in spain, especially that along the pisuerga, for over ninety miles from alar del rey to valladolid. there is a considerable traffic on it, especially for passengers. it was planned in by ensenada, but completed only in . the canal of the esla, for purposes of irrigation, begun by english engineers in , and finished in , has hardly been so successful. the latest report (june, ) states that the peasant proprietors, notwithstanding examples of the great utility of irrigation, obstinately refuse to use it. the principal affluents of the douro on the west and south are the tormes, which flows by salamanca, and joins it about midway in its course as a frontier of portugal; and the agueda, which runs in just where it takes its final departure for the west. the tagus, the central river of spain, and which divides its territory into two nearly equal portions, rises from a fountain called the fuente garcia, or pié, on the south side of the muela de san juan, between the sierras de molina, albaracin, and san felipe, the knot of mountains which, as we have indicated above, form the great watershed of the peninsula, whence the waters flow northwards to the ebro, east and southwards to the mediterranean, and westwards, in the tagus and its tributaries, to the atlantic. were the whole peninsula of spain and portugal one kingdom, the tagus would be perhaps the most important of its rivers; but in the divided state it is of far more value to portugal than to spain. its swift and turbid current, flowing between steep banks, and in a bed broken into rapids and encumbered by rocks, is scarcely navigable above abrantes. the basin of the tagus contains an area of nearly , square miles, and its length is estimated at about . the rainfall is less than that of the douro, being only sixteen inches annually. the river, moreover, runs by no means in the centre of its basin, but far to the southwards of a central dividing line, and consequently the tributaries which it receives from the north or left bank are of much greater importance than those which come from the south or right. after flowing a few miles in a north-westerly direction, the river gradually bends, first westerly, and then in a slightly south-westerly direction, in a deep channel, through a bare rolling country, where everything takes the prevailing colour of red dusty uplands, until it arrives at aranjuez, situated at the confluence of the jarama and the tagus, a royal residence whose abundance of water and of shade make it a true oasis in a desert. the jarama, which rises in the guadarama, brings in also the waters of the henares, and those of the manzanares, on which madrid is situated. these streams have been the subjects of many projects and attempts at canalization, either for irrigation or for supplying the metropolis with water. most of these have failed, but a canal from porcal to aranjuez, of seventeen miles and a half, is in working order. the canal of cabarrus brings the waters of the lozoya to madrid. but the great enterprise of the canal of irrigation from the henares, constructed by the same english company which made the canal of the esla, and which was to have been twenty-eight miles in length, and to have irrigated , acres, is suspended by lawsuits as to the ownership of the waters. the alberche, which rises to the north of the sierra de gredos, enters the tagus near talavera de la reyna. the tietjar, and the alagon, which joins the main stream just above alcantara, beside the frontier stream, the heyas, are the only spanish waters of importance from the north before the tagus enters portugal; and from the south the salor and the del monte, both of which have their rise and course in the same province of caceres alone need mention. in the upper part of its course, however, the smaller tributaries of both the tagus and the guadiana often overlap, and but a very few miles separate the tagus itself from the waters which flow into the guadiana. the exact source of the guadiana has been a subject of much debate and of many fables. its true origin seems to be in a series of lakes at the junction of the provinces of ciudad real and albacete, near montiel, in la mancha. a picturesque stream, the ruidosa, with many cascades and broken water, connects these lakes; but after running a few miles in a north-westerly direction, it disappears underground near tomesillo, and is believed to rise to the surface after about twenty miles, in the ojos (eyes) of the guadiana, near damiel. very soon it receives from the right the united waters of the zancara and the giguela, streams whose contributions are much more scanty, especially in summer, than the length of their course on the map would lead one to suppose; thence the river flows in a westerly direction, passing near ciudad real, below which the javalon enters from the left, coming from the campo de montiel; near don benito the zuja, from the sierra morena, joins it, and some miles lower down the matachet. flowing past medellin, five miles below badajoz the river crosses the frontier of portugal, changes its course from westerly to south-west, and afterwards south and south-east, till it again joins the frontier near san lucar, and dividing the two countries till its mouth, falls into the gulf of cadiz at ayamonte. in the lower part of its course the river, which before has been wide and shallow, and often almost dry in summer, narrows its course, and rushes with impetuosity through the rapids called the salto del lobo (the wolf's leap), near serpa, in portugal. the whole length of the guadiana is estimated at miles, and the area of its bed at , square miles. the rainfall is about fourteen inches. to the south of the rivers of the plateau the only considerable stream is the guadalquiver, with its tributaries. the character of this river is entirely different to that of the former streams. like the ebro, it forms a true valley, instead of merely cutting its way through rocks, cañons, and defiles. its bed is on an average about feet below that of the guadiana in the greater part of its course. it is also the only river in spain of any utility for navigation; the tide is felt beyond seville, and vessels of to tons ascend to that city. there are also several lines of steamboats trading thence directly with london, marseilles, bilbao, cadiz, and gibraltar. the guadalquiver takes its rise from two sources--one, in the streams guadalimar and guadarmeno, rises in the sierra alcaraz, and not very far from the sources of the guadiana; the other, which bears the name of the guadalquiver, in the south-west of the sierra sagra; this latter branch is soon joined by the guadiana menor, coming down from the sierra nevada. the basin of the guadalquiver presents this peculiarity, that its boundary is not formed by the line of the highest summits; on the contrary, many of its tributaries take their rise on the farther side of the sierra morena on the north, and of the sierras de granada and nevada on the south, and have cut their way through these higher grounds to join the guadalquiver in the plains of andalusia. the upper part of its course is very rapid, and the junction of the two rivers guadalimar and guadalquiver, in the plains of baeza, is about feet below the punta de almenara; but from thence to the sea the fall is very slight. after the junction the river passes by andujar, montoro, and cordova, receiving on both banks the waters of many streams of but little importance; but between cordova and seville it is joined by its largest tributary, the xenil, which rises in the sierra nevada, and flowing through the celebrated vega of granada, bursts through the antequera mountains to enter the great plain of andalusia, and loses itself in the guadalquiver. from seville downward the character of the stream is greatly changed; it wanders in large meanderings through low and marshy grounds for two or three leagues on each bank, mostly uninhabited, and used only for pasturing cattle. these low lands, which are called _marismas_, in dry weather are covered with clouds of black dust, and in wet are an almost impassable slough of mud; mid these the river divides, and its winding beds form two islands--isle mayor and menor, the former of which is wholly given to cattle, while the latter is inhabited and well cultivated; the river finally enters the gulf of cadiz, at san lucar de barameda, forcing its way with difficulty through low hills of sand, like those of the landes in france. the marshes near the mouth are utilized as _salinas_, for making excellent salt; and on the hills which overlook the _marismas_ some of the most renowned wines and fruits of spain are produced. the whole course of the guadalquiver is about miles and the area of its basin , : the rainfall is estimated at nineteen inches. the other streams which fall into the gulf of cadiz--the rio tinto, which runs into the huelva basin, and the guadalete at cadiz--are of no utility for navigation. the little port of palos, whence columbus sailed to discover a new world, is almost entirely blocked up by sands brought down by the former torrent. the remaining rivers of spain--those which, descending from the great plateau, flow eastward to the mediterranean--though all useless for navigation, are among the most productive of all its streams. flowing through a country whose temperature exceeds that of the opposite coast of africa; where the rainfall is either scanty, or disastrous in quantity from rare but terrible storms; and through districts in which no rain falls for years together--the waters of these rivers, skilfully applied to irrigation, have rendered what would otherwise be a barren land one of fertility unparalleled in europe. unlike the peasants of castile, the cultivators of murcia and valencia have learnt to value the use of water in agriculture; although even there, works which were first constructed by the moors have been allowed to fall into ruin, and are yearly becoming of less utility. of this we shall speak more at length below. the three great rivers we have yet to notice are the murcian segura, and the jucar and guadalaviar, in valencia. the river segura takes its rise in the sierra de segura, between the sierras of alcaraz and sagra. the upper part of its course is that of a mountain torrent, leaping from terrace to terrace of the mountains as it descends, until after the junction of the mundo, which rises from a cirque in the sierra alcaras, like the cirque of gavarnie in the pyrenees, and flows through a deep ravine from the north-east. its waters are dammed up, cut into numberless channels, and almost wholly utilized for irrigation, so that only about ten per cent of them reaches the sea; the rest are dissipated in the huertas of murcia, orihuela, and part of elche. its tributary the sangonera loses almost all its waters in the plains of lorca. with the little vinalapo, almost , acres are rendered productive by the waters of these streams in one of the driest districts of spain. the wheat of orihuela is some of the finest in spain; and so certain is the crop as to give rise to the proverb, "rain or no rain, there is always wheat in orihuela." the segura has a course of about miles, and an area of about square miles; the average rainfall is estimated at about twelve inches, but the difference is very great in different years, as the district is liable to rare but most heavy and destructive floods. the jucar takes its rise not far from the sources of the tagus, on the south side of the muela de san juan, which we have before mentioned as the culminating watershed of the peninsula. it flows first in a south-westerly direction as far as cuenca, whence it gradually turns south and south-east, and at jorquera, to the north-east of albacete, strikes eastwards for the mediterranean, which it finally enters at cullera. like the segura and guadalaviar, its waters are drained off for irrigation; but its basin is narrower, and it can boast of no fertility equal to the huertas of murcia or valencia. its course is about miles, the area of its bed , and the rainfall some twelve and a half inches; the irrigated land is over , acres. the guadalaviar, or turia, rises on the north side of the muela de san juan, and descending rapidly, flows eastward past albarracin and teruel; at which latter town it turns abruptly southwards till it enters the province of valencia, where it again takes a more easterly course, flowing with ever-diminished stream through the rich garden of valencia, at which city it falls into the mediterranean, with water which, except in time of flood, scarcely rises above the ankle. the length of its course is about miles, the area of its basin square miles; it irrigates over , acres near valencia. besides these larger rivers, there are on the mediterranean slope innumerable smaller streams, whose waters, though of little geographical importance, are of the greatest utility to agriculture. in summer scarcely a drop of their waters reaches the sea; all is either employed for irrigation, or dissipated by evaporation; often they are dammed up to form reservoirs or _pantanos_, sometimes employed for rice culture. but small as these streams are, it is to them that this burning coast owes its beauty and fertility, its almost tropical vegetation and its rich products. the fair gardens of castellon, of gandia, of murviedro would be barren and valueless without these waters. still farther to the north the waters of the llobregat, and the canal of urgel in catalonia, are used for the same purpose. the lakes of spain are neither large nor numerous, but some are curious from a geographical point of view. on the high plateaux whence the guadiana, the guadalimar, the segura, and the jucar take their rise, either a dam or a trench would suffice to turn the waters either to the atlantic or the mediterranean; and here alone in western europe are found temporary lakes with no outlet, and consequently salt from excess of evaporation. for the same reason salt springs and brackish streams abound in these highlands. all around the coast, both on the atlantic and mediterranean, salinas, or salt-works for making salt, either from the sea or from the brackish water of lagoons and tidal marshes, abound; those of cadiz, and of the coast between cartagena and alicante are celebrated for the excellence of their salt. besides these are the five albuferas, or lagoons, of valencia, alicante, elche, auna, and oropesa. of these that of valencia is far the largest, and feeds enormous quantities of fish and of aquatic fowl of all kinds. the interior lakes, as that of sanabria in zamora, gallocanta in aragon, and those from which many of the rivers take their source, are noted only for their picturesque beauty. we can hardly show the value of water in spain better than by directing the reader's attention to the number of places which take their name from water of some kind: thus there are forty-four villages or towns whose names are compounded of _aguas_, waters; into which the word _fuente_, fountain, enters; _rios_, rivers; _arroyos_, brooks; _pozos_, wells; _salinas_, salt waters; _rio secos_, dry rivers; and about _molinos_ or water-mills. the multiplicity of these last dates perhaps from the time when every seigneur had his own mill, and obliged his vassals to grind their corn there; but assuredly in a moister climate water would not have played so great a part in the nomenclature, or toponymy, of the country. we add the following table, deduced from reclus' "nouvelle géographie universelle," ° serie, p. , compared with an article in "la revista contemporanea," december th, :-- area of length of mean outfall compared rivers. basin. course. rainfall. with rainfall. sq. miles. miles. inches. per cent. northern {minho&sil , - / rivers. {ebro , rivers of {douro , the {tagus , central {guardiana & plateau. {zancara , andulasia guadalquiver , mediterranean {segura rivers. {jucar - / e. & s.e. {guadalaviar -- the mineral springs of spain are very numerous, as might be expected in a mountainous country, at the junction of different strata in the metamorphic fissures, and in the neighbourhood of extinct volcanoes. many of them were known and used by the romans, and possibly by other races before their time. the moors made use of many, more especially in the south. the majority of these springs are much neglected, and the bathing establishments in their roughness are a striking contrast to those of germany and of france; there is, however, no reason to suppose that the waters themselves are less efficacious. the best known springs lie along the line of the pyrenees, in catalonia, navarre, and especially in the basque provinces and santander. another noted group are in the neighbourhood of granada, and on the northern slopes of the sierra nevada. those in the guadarrama range are more frequented, from their vicinity to madrid. many of the salados and salinas in the higher parts of the eastern range, as well as the springs in the neighbourhood of valencia, might be utilized with advantage. in this, as in many other things, spain has not yet recovered the threads of a lost civilization, and in many points of material comfort and well-being is behind the spain of roman and of moorish times. chapter ii. climate and productions. spain may be roughly divided into five climates: ( ) that of the north and of the pyrenees, where rain is abundant; ( ) the west or atlantic climate, including portugal; ( ) the north-east or mediterranean; ( ) the east and south, or african climate; and ( ) lastly, the climate of the great central plateau, or the continental. all these are well marked, and differ greatly in their temperature, in elevation, in exposure, in rainfall, and in prevailing winds. to speak of an average temperature, or of an average rainfall in spain, is only to mislead. the temperature of the south and south-east is higher than that of the opposite coast of africa, while the winters in castile recall those of scandinavia in their bitterness. in some of the asturian valleys there is, perhaps, the heaviest rainfall in europe; while the lower valley of the ebro is almost a desert, from want of rain; and in parts of valencia and murcia, and even in andalusia, not a drop will fall for years; yet at times these provinces, and their driest portions, are visited--as in , , and --by overwhelming and destructive floods. to strike an average, then, even for the same spot, through several years, is often merely deceptive. we have remarked above on the similarity of the conformation of the western coasts of galicia to those of norway, scotland, and ireland. they partake also of the same atlantic character in their climate and productions. galicia and the asturias are essentially grazing countries; and from the galician ports, up to , about , head of fatted cattle were annually sent to england. except in the more sheltered valleys, where the productions of a warmer clime will flourish, the native flora is not unlike that of the milder parts of ireland and of devonshire. the average temperature of santiago is about ° fahr., with a maximum of °, and a minimum of °; oviedo is given as ° average, maximum °, and minimum °; while the rainfall of the former is from to inches, and that of the latter varies from to in ordinary years, but in it attained inches. proceeding eastward we meet the northern or pyrenean climate, where the rainfall is not so great, and, except in the immediate vicinity of the highest mountains, lessens gradually as we either go eastward or descend into the plains. the moisture is condensed and wrung out of the clouds brought by the watery western winds, and precipitated on the mountains of the west and north. from the picos de europa, in the province of santander, which may be considered as the meeting-point of the two climates, the waters descend on the one side by the ebro to the mediterranean, by the pisuerga to the douro and the atlantic, and by the shorter northern streams to the bay of biscay. in the valley of the cabuervega (santander) the rainfall is - / inches. passing eastward we find bilbao and san sebastian, with an average temperature of ° and °, a maximum of °, and minimum °, while the rainfall has diminished from to inches. at vergara, more inland, it is . at huesca, in aragon, notwithstanding its proximity to the mountains, the rainfall is only inches; at balaguer, in catalonia, only - / . at saragossa the climate becomes more extreme; the average is °, the maximum °, and the minimum °, while the rainfall descends to inches. the equalizing influence of the neighbourhood of the sea is felt in the mediterranean climate at barcelona; for while the average is °, the maximum is only °, and the minimum °, and the rainfall ascends to inches. the difference is still more marked if we compare the extreme oscillation between the maximum and minimum temperatures. at saragossa this is from ° to °; at barcelona from ° to ° fahr. the productions of this northern zone vary greatly according to elevation and exposition. those of the basque provinces still belong to the north temperate zone climate--cattle, corn, and cider, as well as wine. the olive, and the mulberry for silk, are almost unknown; but maize is largely grown. as we approach catalonia these products give way to those of the mediterranean region of provence and of the riviera--the olive, the grape, the mulberry. a powerful red wine is made on the lower southern spurs of the pyrenees and of the cantabrian mountains, in the riojas, in navarre, and in aragon. much of it would be excellent if more attention were paid to the preparation, and especially to the conditions of transport. great quantities are at present exported to france by sea from bilbao and san sebastian, and also by rail, for the purpose of mixing with the thinner and poorer clarets of bordeaux, to fit them for the taste and market of england. in catalonia the wine improves, and is less used for mixing. the chief kinds are a red wine, like rousillon, and sweet, luscious wines, rancio, somewhat like muscat or malaga. of late the manufacture of effervescing wines like champagne has been carried on with considerable success. the wine made in catalonia amounts to one-fifth of the whole produce of spain. already the orange and the palm appear. proceeding southwards from catalonia, we gradually advance into the south-eastern and southern climate of spain, a climate which is rather african than european in its character, and both whose products and dryness have more relation to the african continent than to that of the rest of europe. it is here that the date-palm ripens--which it does not on the opposite coast of algeria--and the camel breeds, and can be used as a beast of burden equally as in egypt and the east. sheltered by the mountain ranges to the east and north from the cold winds which sweep the plateau of castile, exposed by the slope of the country to the full influence of the southern sun and its powerful evaporation, the characteristics of the climate are warmth and dryness, while the vicinity of the mediterranean partly tempers the extreme range of heat and cold which might be found in lands more remote from the sea. thus the average temperature of valencia is °, its maximum °, its minimum °, and extreme range °. alicante, still further south, has an average of °, a maximum of °, and a minimum of °. the average rainfall at valencia is stated at , and that of alicante at inches; but, as remarked above, in this south-eastern district of spain averages of rainfall are quite deceptive. in some years the quantity marked is only a very few inches, or , over the whole district, and there are considerable portions where rain does not fall for years. the country is rendered fertile and productive, not by its rains, but by irrigation from the rivers, fed by the winter snows on the mountains which border the great plateau. at times, however, as in and , storms of rain descend on the high lands of murcia and the eastern sierras, and floods rush down, sweeping away dams which have stood for centuries, washing away towns and villages, and spreading destruction far and wide. to compute the rainfall of such floods into an average is only to play with figures. murcia has an average temperature of °, maximum °, minimum °, and an extreme range of °. the rainfall averages about - / inches on the coast, but varies greatly; at albacete it is said to average inches. the directly southern coast, from the cabo de gata to gibraltar, has a milder and more equable climate than that of the south-eastern coast; but in the inland valley of the guadalquiver the range is more extreme, both for heat and cold. the dryness in the eastern district still continues from cartagena to almeria; the rainfall is said to be only inches. at malaga, while the average temperature is °, about the same as that at valencia and alicante, the maximum is said to be only °, and the minimum °. at motril, between malaga and almeria, the maximum is °, and the minimum °. in seville on the other hand, the average is °, with a maximum of °, and a minimum of °. cordova, somewhat colder, has a maximum of °, and a minimum of °. the rainfall is also more moderate at malaga, - / inches, and at seville. granada, in its upland but sheltered valley, at an elevation of feet, defended from the east and south by the snowy range of the sierra nevada, and by the mountains of granada to the north, has still an average of °, with a maximum of °, and a minimum of °. the rainfall varies considerably in different years, and various geographers give its average as - / - / , and the latest (reclus) - / . cadiz has an atlantic climate, which in temperature and greater rainfall, inches, closely approximates to that of madeira. moving westward it decreases, at gibraltar, - / , san fernando, ; while at huelva and tarifa, where the moisture of the north-west gales is intercepted by the portuguese mountains, it descends to - / . we have now only to treat of the climate of the great central elevation, the plateau, which ranges at an average height of some feet above the sea. thus, madrid is , segovia , burgos , soria , and the escorial, feet above the sea-level. but even these altitudes do not wholly account for the rigour of the climate in the latitude of naples, rome, and constantinople. we have seen how excellent is the climate of granada at a nearly equal elevation, only three degrees further south. the extremes of heat and cold felt at valladolid and madrid are due more to the uncovered mountain ranges to the north, the treeless, waterless plains, over which the wind sweeps unchecked, than to mere elevation. the want of rain is greatly owing to the ranges of mountains parallel to the frontier and to the atlantic in portugal, which condense and wring all the moisture from the rain-clouds of the atlantic, and distribute it almost wholly on the western slope. thus at lisbon the fall is , at coimbra , at oporto , in the mountains of beira and tras os montes from to inches; while on the eastern slope, at salamanca it is , valladolid , at badajoz - / , ciudad real . from the bare granite range of the guadarrama steals down the treacherous icy wind so fatal in madrid--not sufficiently strong to extinguish a candle, but quite enough to destroy human life. it is the dislike of the castilian peasant to trees, which would overshadow so much of his small property, the destruction of the mountain forests, and the want of good agriculture, which has embittered the climate of these plateaux. were the hill-sides clothed with wood, the country dotted with farms, the wide and bare plains covered throughout the year with varied agricultural produce, the climate would soon be modified and become sensibly warmer, and no longer, as it at present is, an obstacle to civilization and to improvement. in spite of all neglect these plains grow some of the finest wheat in europe, and the lower mountain ranges supply pasture in the summer for the immense flocks which return to winter in the plains of estremadura. the average temperature of madrid is °, its maximum ° to °, and its minimum only °. that of salamanca is said to be °, with a maximum of °, and a minimum of °. the average rainfall of madrid is only from to inches, that of salamanca , while soria, nearer to the mountains, in some years reaches inches. from the above sketch of the climate the reader will expect to find the productions vary greatly in the different districts. the north and north-west are the lands of cattle and of pasture. in galicia and in the asturias the products are almost like those of the warmer parts of the south-west of england and of ireland, save that in the more sheltered valleys the orange, citron, and pomegranate flourish; a palm is even now and then to be seen; and the wine, especially on the confines of portugal, is excellent, and needs only more care in preparation to be a rival to the famous port of the neighbouring country. in the eighteenth century, that of ribadavia was considered to be the finest wine in all spain. maize, too, is freely grown; but on account of their extreme poverty, rye and spelt often replace both it and wheat as food for the peasantry. the upland plateaux afford excellent pasture, especially for cattle and horses; the hardy and sure-footed hacks of galicia and the asturias are celebrated. the mountains here are often clothed with wood; oaks of various kinds, and the edible chestnut, and the hazel-nut--of which over tons, value , _l._, are annually exported from gijon--grow on the lower spurs, giving food to herds of swine; beech, and pine, and fir appear as we approach the tops. in the lower woods the arbutus especially flourishes, and the young wild boars in autumn are said to become half stupefied with its narcotic berries. as we proceed eastward from galicia to the asturias the climate becomes sensibly colder--the valleys face the north instead of the west; the orange is less known, the mulberry will not flourish sufficiently well to pay for silk cultivation, the olive will not grow, and the cork does not pay for cultivation; the wines lose somewhat of their strength and lusciousness; and cider, made from the excellent apples of the country, rivals the juice of the grape in popularity. the mountains are covered with heath, and fern, and furze, but the aromatic plants are fewer than in galicia. this description applies to the northern slope of the cantabrian chain and to the rolling hills and plateaux of the basque provinces; but the southern slopes of the chain, towards the ebro, are again a land of vine and olive, and of maize, which is everywhere the staple. in the basque provinces the plough is replaced by the ancient "laya," an instrument as old, at least, as roman times. it is a heavy two-pronged steel or iron fork, with prongs one and a half to two feet long. a strong man will work two of them at once, one in each hand, driving them into the ground to their full depth, then with a backward strain turning up the deep soil. usually, four or five men work together, and raise their arms, plunge the fork downwards, and heave, in perfect time. the cultivation thus effected is excellent, but the expenditure of labour is immense the productions do not vary greatly along the slopes of the pyrenees from those above described until we reach catalonia; but in the lower valley of the ebro, where rain is rare, in the bardeñas reales of navarre, and in the monegros, or despoblados of aragon, we meet with a phenomenon only too frequent in spain--tracts of almost utter barrenness. the bardeñas reales are low spurs of the pyrenees, with table-lands, bluffs, and deep gorges, and these could scarcely be brought under cultivation; but the "despoblados" (dispeopled lands) of aragon might be irrigated, either by the ebro or by its tributaries, if the water of the canal of charles v. were but economically applied. the sterility of some parts seems to have been the slow result of an oppressive land tenure; for as don vicente de la fuente has remarked, the lands which belonged to the ancient señors (the feudal lords) lie barren, while the lands of the comunidades, the free districts, are still fertile. in treating, of the cultivation and the products of eastern and southern spain two facts become evident at once--how many of the products are exotic, and how much of the cultivation is still arabian. we shall see in another chapter how deep a mark the moor or arab has left on the population and toponymy of spain; and the agriculture of the greater part of central and southern spain is still arabian. the methods of the spanish peasant are almost all arabian; often he uses the arabian hoe in preference to the roman plough. the _noria_, or water-wheel; the _sha'doof_, or swipe, the pole and bucket for lifting water; the huge dams and reservoirs, the canals and ditches (_acequias_), the regulations for the fair distribution of the water,--all these, and even the very superstitions as to times of sowing, the rotation of crops, the treatment of his animals--for all these the spanish peasant of the south is indebted to the moors. the treatise of abu zaccaria, with its traditions of nabathean agriculture, is still one of the manuals of agriculture in spain. it is the moors, too, who first made the winter gardens in the sands near san lucarde barameda, at the mouth of the guadalquiver, and which supply cadiz and seville with the earliest and latest vegetables. the roman, with his lofty aqueducts, brought water to the towns; but it was the moor who gave that blessing to the thirsty soil of the country districts of spain. and not only the methods of agriculture, but many of its fruits and products were introduced by the arab from the east, and some of these are now the very staple of spanish produce. it is they who brought into spain the cotton plant, rice, and the sugar-cane; mulberries, both for fruit and for silk culture; sesame, the caper, the locust bean, the castor-oil plant, alfalfa (lucerne), the pomegranate, almond, the walnut and filbert, the chestnut and the ever-green oak, the wild olive, the jujube, the pistacchio nut, the palm, several kinds of roses, the wall-flower, with many another garden herb or flower. it was they who improved the andalusian steed into one of the most excellent in europe for riding, and the strain may still be traced even in the ponies of the north. but the cultivated vegetation of the south which meets the stranger's eye is perhaps still more indebted to the americas.[ ] it needs an effort now to picture what spanish agriculture and what spanish life was before the time of columbus, when maize, and the potato, and sweet potato, were unknown; when not a cigar was smoked or cigarette made, or leaf of tobacco grown in spain; when only garlic was known, and those indispensable condiments of every dish, the tomato, and the pimentos had not yet entered a spanish kitchen, and chocolate had not yet been sipped by spanish ladies; when the hedges were bare of aloes, and the prickly pear gave the beggar no fruit. and besides these common gifts, there are the more luxurious ones of pine apples, grenadines (the fruit of the passion-flower), abocado pears, chirimoyas, guavas, earth-nuts, bananas, and many others, while the gardens are enriched with magnolias and passion-flowers, and a wealth of creepers of all kinds. the australian eucalypti, also, are highly valued in spain, both as a febrifuge and for their prophylactic qualities in prevention of malaria in marshy ground; and a decoction from their leaves has quite passed into the popular pharmacopeia. [ ] for the converse of this, the plants and fruits introduced by the spaniards into america, see markham's "peru," in this series, p. . the most common plant on the sun-dried hills of valencia and murcia, the esparto-grass (_stipe tenacissima_), after having been long used in various native manufactures, has since become an article of exportation, and an important addition to the wealth of spain; but the cultivation of the barilla plant for soda has much decreased. it is from valencia that the oranges come which are such favourites in paris. the tree is so valuable, both for fruit and flowers, that an acre will sometimes give _l._ worth of produce. the dried raisins and almonds so familiar in england, so eagerly looked for at christmas time, and the green preserved grapes, come from the districts of which we are now speaking, the coast-lands from valencia to almeira and malaga. the wines are equally celebrated, from the strong red wines of benicarlo, near the frontiers of catalonia, to the sweet wines of alicante and of malaga, which are preferred by continental taste to the drier and more fiery sherries, wines of the guadalquiver valley, which please the english palate. near the coast on the lower grounds, wherever there is sufficient water, rice is grown; but, on account of the unhealthy character of the cultivation, its culture is forbidden in the neighbourhood of towns. sugar-cane is extending on the southern coast. in andalusia alone more than acres are devoted to this culture, and the total yield of the sugar-cane in spain is estimated at nearly , tons. palms are grown as an ornament and garden-tree from barcelona to malaga, but in murcia, and especially at elche, they are planted for production. though the number seems declining, there are still some , palms together in the neighbourhood of elche; in the last century they are said to have numbered from , to , . it is not for the fruit alone, the date, but for the leaves (the so-called palm-branches) that the trees are grown. in the winter these are tied into a close bundle to exclude the rays of the sun, in order that they may become white, and they are then exported to rome and italy, for use in the easter ceremonies of palm sunday. oils and essences, extracted from many plants and flowers, are also products of this region. the liquorice-root, and many another flower, or fruit, or root of medicinal value grows wild on the hills. the slopes of the eastern mountains are covered with aromatic herbs, thyme, myrtle, box, rosemary, southern-wood, mint, lavender, marjoram, nearly all the sweet-scented herbs which were once carefully cultivated in the gardens of our ancestors, are natives of these hills; and the flocks of goats returning from their pastures bring the sweet odours into the tainted towns and villages, and the first draught of milk from them is highly flavoured thereby. on these treeless hills, and the warmer parts of the higher plateaux, these aromatic herbs are often the only fuel which the peasant can employ. the wealth of this portion of the spanish soil, the variety and beauty of its products, can be best seen in a visit to a fruit or flower market in any of the towns of the south and east. the richness of colour, the size and beauty of form, are amazing to the stranger; but the quantity and the cheapness, the way in which these fruits and exotic vegetables enter into the diet of the poor, is that which most astonishes those from less generous climes. we have not space to enumerate in detail a tithe of these productions; this must be sought in more special treatises. almost equal in agricultural and garden wealth to that of the coast-line, and superior to it as regards the culture of the vine, is the valley of the guadalquiver. the oranges of seville (the civil oranges of our forefathers, the main ingredient of marmalade), sack, and sherry, are known in every english home of the middle and upper classes. it is in the valley of the guadalquiver, from san lucar de barameda to above cordova, that the finest sherries are produced. from san lucar comes the pleasant manzanilla, the lightest and most wholesome of all the sherries, but with a peculiar bitter taste and bouquet, like that of the wild camomile-flower. in the neighbourhood of jerez de la frontera the best sherries are produced, both brown and golden; the amontillado, the nutty-flavoured wine so much sought after, comes from montilla, to the south of cordova. several other kinds are manufactured, and have a great local reputation. comparatively very little of these strong and fiery wines is consumed in spain. spaniards take them only as a liqueur, not as the usual accompaniment of a meal or desert. sherry, though grown in spain, is the foreigner's, and especially the englishman's wine. the red valdepeñas, from the northern slope of the sierra morena, replaces it at the spaniard's table. for the modes of preparation of the various sherries, we must refer our readers to special treatises; of its statistics as an article of commerce we shall speak in another chapter. the first palm-tree introduced into spain is said to have been planted near cordova. the olives of this district are considered the finest in spain. comparatively little of the oil is exported, but the home consumption is enormous. the cork forests, too, are abundant; their bark forms an important article of commerce. we have now only to speak of the great central plateau, the continental climate of spain, and its productions. this is peculiarly the corn-growing district of spain, the land of wheat and maize, especially in the castiles. estremadura and léon are rather pastoral districts. it is in these provinces that the laws of the _mesta_, for the protection of the celebrated merino sheep, ruled supreme, and which, though modified at the close of the last century, and some of their worst abuses done away with, were finally repealed only in . by these laws the sheep and cattle which fed in the winter in the plains of estremadura, and in the summer on the mountains of léon, were privileged to enter almost any property on their line of march, to feed or to pass the night there. a space of ninety yards wide was reserved on each side of the highways for their accommodation; no land, especially no corn-field, was allowed to be enclosed; and right of forcible entrance was given to all orchards and vineyards where pasturage might be found. wherever the flocks had once fed, the land could not be sold or alienated to any other purpose. the shepherds who tended these flocks became almost as savage and ignorant as the beasts they looked after; their privileges produced in them a contempt and hatred of all kinds of fixed property, and they were ever trying to extend their oppressive right at the expense of the more settled and agricultural portion of the community. under the influence of these laws estremadura, which, in the time of the romans and moors had been one of the richest provinces of spain, became under their christian conquerors not only one of the poorest and most thinly peopled districts, but also a curse and source of destruction to the rest. not only were all the evils of the old roman "latifundia" reproduced in this mediæval system, but the locust, which never breeds in cultivated lands, or where the plough passes, was enabled to make its home in the wilds and pastures of estremadura, whence it periodically sallied out to devastate the fairest and richest portions of the land. in the years to it desolated the whole of the provinces between estremadura and the mediterranean. in and the following year it reached the principality of barcelona, and, in spite of exorcisms, ravaged the country till there was nothing more to destroy. the provinces nearer to estremadura are much more frequent sufferers, and in recent years (in the crops in ciudad real were utterly destroyed) a division of the army has been more than once employed to destroy or to check them on their march. the only plant they spare is the tomata, which they will not touch. besides flocks, estremadura maintains huge herds of swine, which feed on the sweet acorns and chestnuts of its woods, and whose flesh is renowned through spain. owing to its situation on the borders of andalusia, in which province the moors retained their powers long after they had lost the rest of spain, estremadura was exposed to their frequent incursions; every flock and herd was liable to be carried off, every fruit-tree to be cut down, the farms burnt and crops destroyed; and in their retaliation the christian knights were almost as fatal as the arab horsemen. the country was never thoroughly peopled after the reconquest, and the sense of insecurity remained long after the cause of it had been removed. the laws of the mesta and the emigration to the americas (both cortes and pizarro were extrameños) finished the work of depopulation, and left the province, as it has since remained, naturally one of the richest, actually one of the poorest in spain. the products, besides those above mentioned, are cork, oak-bark and acorns for tanning, honey, nuts, and chestnuts. the bare plains of the castiles are now the great corn-producing country of spain. but they have little or nothing of the beauty and variety of cultivated land in other countries. there is no succession of crops, no mixed husbandry, no scattered farm-houses, neither tree nor fence to break the bare monotony. the hill-sides and mountains are given up to pasture, the plains to wheat and maize. the husbandmen live in villages, and ride out on donkeys in early morn to their distant fields, and return home at night. a sense of insecurity seems still to brood over the land, as if the peasant dared not trust himself outside the walls of village or town. only at harvest-time, in the warm summer and autumn nights, he camps out among his crops, to thresh them on the spot, and bring the produce home, a habit which often produces fever and ague. year after year the process is repeated; no improvement is ever made; if rain falls the harvest is plentiful--so plentiful sometimes that the lazy peasant will not reap his most distant fields, or procure new skins or barrels for the over-abundant wine, though with the extension of railways this evil is fast disappearing. there is hardly a greater contrast than between the habits of the castilian peasants and those of the peasant-proprietors in the basque provinces and in those of north and north-west. in the basque provinces the farms are scattered all over the country, and travellers from other districts of spain speak of the whole district as if it were one city. the farm-house stands in the midst of its grounds, with orchard, garden, trees and fences, meadow and corn-land round it. to englishmen this description is almost a matter of course, and one must read the narrative of travellers from castile fully to appreciate the force of the contrast. there is, moreover, no natural impediment whatever to a similar course of life in many districts of the castiles. barren and dreary as they look, the plains called the "sierras de campos," and some others, are watered by a kind of natural capillary attraction; dry as the surface appears, water is always to be found at a few inches below the surface, and the roots of the wheat and other cereal crops penetrate to it. it is only the mixture of pride and laziness and ignorance of the castilian peasant, his senseless disdain of all improvement, his want of ambition for anything better, that prevents progress in this part of spain. he refused to make use of the machinery invented for him in the last century, nor will he avail himself of the means of irrigation and the still better machines provided for him now. yet there is no agricultural country in which machinery could be introduced to greater advantage. perhaps no better idea can be given of the productions of spain, and of the diversity of its climates and fruits, than by comparing those of murcia with those of the north-west and the centre. in january the bean is in flower in murcia, in april in madrid; the vine and the wheat flower in april in murcia, but not till may or june in the province of madrid. the climate of galicia, with its almost continual rain, and murcia with its droughts, are perhaps the most opposite climates of spain. the one is a land of pasture and of flax cultivation; its fruits are the apple, the pear, the peach, strawberries, currants, and nuts of all kinds; the predominant plant on the hill-sides is the furze, in murcia it is the esparto grass. the fruits there cultivated in the gardens are exotic, and have almost wholly replaced the indigenous flora; the "huertas," the gardens or cultivated plains, are there almost like oases in a desert. the fauna of spain--except in one particular, the monkeys (_macacus innuus_) which inhabit the rock of gibraltar, and which are the only animals of their kind wild in europe--does not greatly differ from that of the rest of southern europe. in the highest part of the pyrenees, in the sierra de credos, and in the sierra nevada, the izard or chamois still exists in considerable numbers. whether the bouquetin is really extinct, or still survives in the spanish pyrenees, is a disputed point. in the forests which clothe the lower spurs, roe and fallow deer, wild goats and wild boars, and in some districts red deer, are still to be found. the beasts of prey are the bear, the wolf, the lynx, the fox, wild cat, marten, ferret, weasel, &c.; and these are assisted by the no less rapacious birds of prey--the vultures, eagles, hawks, falcons, kites, harriers, pies, and jays. the game birds and animals are the pheasant, now very rare, partridges of both kinds, bustards, both large and small, sand-grouse, quails, which come in immense quantities to the vineyards and maize-fields in the summer and autumn, woodcock, snipe; wild duck, geese, all kinds of water-birds and waders, visit the marshes of the rivers and the lagoons of the coast in winter; and on the southern shores meet the flamingoes, pelicans, spoonbills, and other birds from the african coast. from the same quarter come numerous and brighter-plumaged birds of passage; orioles, bee-eaters, hoopoes, and other natives of a warmer zone, are brought over by the hot south wind so irritating to the nerves and temper of a southern spaniard. it is then that the shores of the mediterranean are lined with sportsmen, when the moon is near full, to take heavy toll of these winged travellers. the entomology of spain is probably very rich. we have spoken of the locusts of estremadura; and in the wilds where they breed--mere solitudes in summer, when the flocks are absent in their northern pastures--many a rare species of butterfly, cicada, and insect is doubtless to be found. the insects of spain, however, are not all noxious or without value. silk-worms are largely bred in the coast provinces of the east and south, not only for their silk, but also for the gut so precious to all trout and salmon fishermen. the cochineal insect, which feeds on the leaves of the prickly pear, is cultivated for its brilliant dye. of useful and domesticated animals, the sheep of spain have always been celebrated; the very name, "merinos," has been given to the softest kind of wool or woolly tissue. it is said that the breed attained its excellence through a present of english south down rams by edward i. to the father of his castilian bride, and that the wool has improved under climatic influences. however this may be, the superiority has hardly been maintained, and careless shepherding has sadly deteriorated the breed; still the half-bred spanish merinos are the favourite flocks throughout the north of spain and southern france, and they are slowly superseding the coarser native and local breeds. the spanish cattle from galicia are well known in the english market, but they are not the choicest of their kind. the bulls that are bred for the bull-fights are reared chiefly along the marshy banks of the guadalquiver, which, like the delta of the rhone, supports herds of half-wild cattle and buffaloes. cow's milk is little known or used in many districts of spain, and butter still less. sheep or goat's milk supplies the place of the former, and the olive-oil, excellent were it not too often kept till rancid, that of the latter. cheese and various kinds of curdled milk or whey are also made from the milk of sheep. since the advent of the arabs the andalusian steed has been much celebrated. it is now scarcely equal to its former fame, but, like many a horse of warmer climes, its performances are better than its looks; hardy, sure-footed, swift, and docile, if not over-weighted it will do more than one of many a finer-looking but less enduring breed. the horse, however, is not the true beast of burden in spain; he is the charger, or the luxury of the rich. the real work of the country is done by the humble mule or ass, or, in some districts, by the ox. the fine spanish mules are now seldom bred in the country, but are procured from poitou, or from the south of france, where great attention is paid to their production, and where the average price of a mule of six months old is higher than that of a horse of the same age. for long journeys, and for carrying produce over the mountain paths, or along the bad roads of the interior, the mule and pack-saddle is still generally used. in fact, in some districts no other mode of conveyance is possible; but the loss to commerce from want of better communications is immense. it is this mode of carriage which necessitates and continues the use of the tarred wine-skin, by which so much excellent wine is rendered unsalable and almost undrinkable. it is hard to recognize the delicious wine when tasted at the vineyard, in the pitch-flavoured, half-fermented liquor which has travelled for days in a skin exposed to the sun's heat by day, and the closeness and fetid odours of the inns by night. besides these, the camel, buffalo, and llama, and vicunâ have been introduced successfully as an experiment for breeding, but not in sufficient numbers to affect the means of transport in the peninsula. the fisheries in galicia and along the north-west atlantic coast, and also at huelva and at cadiz, are very valuable. not only are they an abundant means of support to the inhabitants of the coast and of léon and northern castile, but the fishermen engaged in them furnish the best sailors to the spanish navy. the chief kinds of fish are sardines and pilchards, of which great numbers are preserved in oil, the tunny, and the sea-bream, of which enormous quantities are annually taken. the rivers, from the minho to the bidassoa, furnish trout and salmon. in the mediterranean, tunny, and the anchovies which replace the sardines, are the chief fisheries, but many spaniards are also engaged in the coral-fishing off the coasts of catalonia, of algiers, and of tunis. the total production of spain has been approximately valued at agriculture £ , , mines , , manufactures , , chapter iii. geology and mines. even in geological features spain is a land apart. divided from the rest of europe by the regular palæozoic band of the pyrenees, the rocks of the peninsula are only susceptible of separate study. hence no consistent geological history can be deduced from the fragmentary and superficial observations that as yet form the basis of the geological map of spain. a few striking features and geological statistics may however be presented; and the recently-published map of botella, as well as the mass of valuable matter already collected by the _comision del mapa geologico de españa_, are an earnest that spanish geology will soon occupy a place corresponding to its peculiar interest. a mass of granitic, cambrian, and silurian rocks forms the central plateau of spain, extending in a south-easterly direction from galicia to the valley of the guadalquiver, and spreading to the north-east, as shown by the chains of the guadarrama and the mountains of toledo, to terminate in the celtiberian range, running nearly parallel to the ebro by soria and the moncayo. in this mass the main folds of the strata appear to run in a south-easterly, the main fractures in a north-easterly, direction; whence the gridiron arrangement of the mountain chains and river valleys, directed by these leading features of the rocky structure. great buttresses of the carboniferous formation occupy the corners of the central mass, to the north and south-west, and occasional patches of its upper and coal-bearing beds are scattered over the interior. the whole valley of the ebro occupies a trough of secondary rocks, which extend in a south-easterly direction from the bay of biscay to the mediterranean, forming a wide boundary to the older central mass, and running along the north coast towards oviedo. the secondary formations of the ebro sweep over the chain of the moncayo on to the central plateau by burgos, soria, and calatayud; and their latest member--the upper cretaceous--advances in two long tongues on to the granite of the guadarrama, and far to the east of madrid, it being probable that at least this member formerly extended over the central plateau. another wide band of secondary rocks, running in a north-easterly direction, forms the long strip of andalusia south of the guadalquiver; and by valencia and cuenca this band is widely prolonged to the ebro basin; otherwise, a narrow and interrupted strip along the south coast, and a bay-like expanse from the atlantic, between lisbon and oporto, are the only secondary tracts of the peninsula. these secondary rocks are however in great part concealed by eocene tertiary beds, formed in marine gulfs in the valley of the ebro and the guadalquiver, and overlaid by eocene and miocene fresh-water deposits; the latter being also represented by vast lacustrine sheets, which contemporaneously accumulated, and conceal the crystalline and palæozoic formations in the elevated river basins of the central primary plateau. patches of pliocene sands and clays along the mediterranean coast, sheets of diluvial gravels below the mountains, and alluvial sands along the larger rivers represent the local and most recent effects of water and ice. the consequences of this general structure are apparent on every hand. the population of galicia is in many respects similar to that of the portuguese mountaineers, who occupy the same band of naked granitic and primary rocks. the inhabitants of the varied and fertile secondary band of andalusia and valencia have many traits in common. the biscayans are a race apart, like the labyrinth of cretaceous precipices and green rainy valleys which they inhabit. all are distinct from the castilians, whose monotonous and isolated existence on the vast treeless steppes of crumbling tertiary sands and marls that carpet the primary plateau feet above the sea has deeply influenced their character. finally, the inhabitants of the ebro basin, a region where the dry tertiary soil of castile is combined with many characteristics of the secondary tracts, afford a curious mixture of castilian with basque or valencian traits. the inhabitants of the greater spanish cities are of course products of civilization, not of the soil. of the visible surface of spain per cent. is occupied by crystalline and palæozoic rocks, per cent. by tertiary, per cent. by secondary, and per cent. by quaternary deposits. the palæozoic rocks are greatly contorted and fractured, the secondary scarcely less so, the older tertiary are crumpled up against the flanks of the mountain chains, and even upturned pliocene deposits testify in some places to the late continuance of the movements that have contributed to the production of the peculiar elevated character of the peninsula. the remains of undoubted volcanoes are confined to the insignificant groups of olot, cabo de gata, and ciudad real, but innumerable dykes and bosses of igneous rock are scattered over the primitive plateau where unconcealed by tertiary sheets, and are also frequent in the secondary tracts. this abundance of igneous injections is intimately connected with the exceptionally metalliferous character of spain, while the fractured and contorted condition of even the latest rocky formations has contributed to a general diffusion of mineral wealth. the granite and other igneous rocks form rounded bosses or prominent pinnacles, according as they are more or less subject to atmospheric decomposition; the pine and the spanish chestnut flourish on their slopes; iron, lead, copper, tin, graphite, phosphorite, kaolin, steatite, and serpentine are among the products of these crystalline masses. the gneiss and crystalline schists that in part probably represent the laurentian formation, contain silver, bismuth, molybdenum, and tin; while metamorphic rocks of unknown age are amongst the richest in mines, affording iron, lead, silver, copper, zinc, mercury, manganese, and graphite. the cambrian formation, a mass of lustrous fissile slate, traversed by white quartz veins, furnishes lead, silver, phosphorite, and gold. the silurian slates and quartzites yield iron, lead, silver, copper, mercury, manganese, antimony, cobalt, nickel, anthracite, and gold. a few limited patches of devonian sandstones, quartzites, slates, marls, and limestones, afford iron, zinc, phosphorite, cobalt, and nickel. the carboniferous series, occupying two per cent. of the surface, includes valuable coal-fields, the immense masses of iron and copper pyrites of the rio tinto, tharsis, and other mines in the province of huelva, besides iron, zinc, mercury, manganese, antimony, cobalt, nickel, and phosphorite in other districts. the silver-bearing metamorphic rocks of cartagena, and a portion of the slopes of the sierra nevada are classed in the permian formation. the triassic conglomerates, sandstones, and variegated marls, which form the usual base of the secondary rocks, are rich in salt, gypsum, and iron, and afford some copper and zinc. the jurassic limestones and marls contain asphalte and bituminous slate. the cretaceous--mainly neocomian in the south, the upper cretaceous predominating in the north--contains the immense iron deposits of bilbao; valuable beds of lignite resembling coal; lead, zinc, and asphalte mines in the northern provinces, and gold in granada. in the eocene formation, which includes the nummulitic limestone that forms some of the highest summits of the pyrenees, the celebrated salt-mine of cardona, in catalonia, is usually classed. the miocene beds contain valuable sulphur deposits along the southern coast, and great accumulations of sulphate of soda on the arid steppes of madrid and other provinces; while gypsum, in which spain is probably richer than the whole remainder of europe, is abundant in this formation. lastly, some native silver is found in the pliocene deposits of almeria, and in the tertiary clays of guadalajara, while the later gravels of galicia afford stream tin and gold, the last similarly occurring in leon and caceres. the quantity of mineral contained in the rocks of spain is no less remarkable than the exceptional variety of its distribution; but owing to a series of adverse circumstances, the industrial production affords a most inadequate idea of the capabilities of the mines, if developed by a fair amount of capital and skill. the following figures, showing the production in , are derived from the last official reports issued by the spanish government, and are certainly below the truth:-- tons of ore tons of metal exported. produced in spain. iron , , lead , , copper , , zinc , , manganese , mercury , these figures do not include the bar iron produced directly from ore in spain, nor tons of argentiferous copper ore, tons of cobalt ore, and tons of nickel ore. the silver extracted in spain amounted to more than , lbs. troy, while four times that amount was contained in exported argentiferous lead. the coal extracted amounted to , tons, lignite above , , sulphur above , and phosphorite above , tons. the year was, however, peculiarly unfavourable to spanish mining, and the working of the bilbao mines, which now produce nearly , , tons yearly of excellent iron ore, was then practically suspended by the carlist war. all disadvantages cannot, however, arrest the steady increase of mineral production in spain, although under more normal political circumstances the above figures would have been greatly exceeded. the chief coal district is that of oviedo, palencia, leon, and santander. the coal-field of oviedo, occupying an extent of square miles, and including a large number of workable beds, is of excellent quality, but as yet little developed, owing to high railway tariffs, bad condition of ports, traditional prejudices, want of skill and capital, and of a local market for inferior qualities. these obstacles will probably soon be overcome, and the development of the associated iron ores afford an important field of enterprise. the coal-field of palencia, a continuation of that of oviedo, is in course of development by the northern railway company. smaller coal-fields of great local importance exist in the provinces of cordova, seville, gerona, burgos, cuenca, guadalajara, and ciudad real; that of gerona, although of small extent and very friable quality, has already occasioned the construction of a railway of considerable length. iron is mainly obtained from biscay, oviedo, murcia, and almeria, but is abundant in other provinces. lead is worked chiefly in murcia, jaen, almeria, badajoz, and ciudad real; the presence of antimony or of a predominating admixture of blende is very common, but spain is on the whole the most important lead-producing country in europe. copper is obtained mainly from the rio tinto mines and others in huelva; also from seville, palencia, almeria, and santander; but many other districts contain veins yielding more or less of copper ore. zinc has been chiefly procured from superficial pockets of calamine in santander and the neighbouring districts; but in the form of blende it is widely distributed in association with lead. silver ores are worked in almeria and guadalajara. the immense impregnation of cinnabar of almaden, in ciudad real, affords nearly all the mercury, but a little is obtained from other mines in the same province and in oviedo, granada, and almeria. manganese is obtained from huelva, oviedo, teruel, almeria, murcia, and zamora. nickel ore is worked in malaga; cobalt in oviedo and castellon. tin occurs in a number of small veins in galicia; and in the rocks of salamanca, murcia, and almeria, as well as in diluvial gravels. the spanish side of the pyrenees contains numerous veins of argentiferous lead, many of copper, and some of cobalt, nickel, argentiferous copper, pyrolusite, &c., few of which are worked. the lead-mines on the border between catalonia and aragon supplied the carlists with ammunition during the late civil war. the fact that more than , concessions of mines already exist in spain, while a large number of lapsed concessions may be found, affords a better idea of the mineral wealth of the country than the enumeration of the mines actually worked. that such enormous mineral resources should have as yet yielded no greater results is easily explained. the roman and moorish workings, although traditionally of fabulous yield, are of small depth, owing to insufficient machinery for pumping. till the present century, the working of mines was forbidden by the spanish government, with the object of favouring the development of the american colonies. the mining laws of and , suddenly placing the acquirement of mines within the reach of every substantial peasant, produced a fever of speculation, and a recklessness in the application of unskilled labour, which naturally conduced to the discouragement of mining enterprise, while the recurring civil wars excluded foreign capital and skill. spaniards have a mania for erecting smelting-works on the mines, a practice occasionally justified by difficulties of transport, but which has caused much loss of capital through inherent difficulties and want of metallurgical skill. endless litigation, arising from the defects of the first mining laws, and the inexperience of the surveying engineers, contributed to ruin the small capitalists who had attempted to work the mines. foreign capital is now the chief requirement. the existing mining law, greatly improved since , is the simplest in europe; the expense of a concession is almost nominal, and the royalties on ore are extremely moderate. large mining adventures in spain rapidly develope industrial conditions and profoundly affect the habits of the population. even in times of civil war a _modus vivendi_ between the conflicting parties can be more easily secured than might be expected. the development of means of transport, already considerable before the last carlist war, is being seriously resumed under the present government. the spanish peasantry, when suitably treated, will be found a fair-dealing, intelligent, and industrious class. it must, however, be remembered that in the peculiar physical, political, municipal, and fiscal conditions of spain, no mining enterprise can safely be undertaken without thorough investigation of all the external circumstances, claims, and prospects concerned; since more mining speculations have failed from inattention to such matters than from any disappointment as regards the quality or quantity of ore. p. w. s. m. chapter iv. ethnology, language, and population. on the first glance at a map of spain and portugal we are apt to think that few countries could have so well-defined a frontier as that formed by the pyrenees, the mediterranean, and the atlantic. in so compact a country, and one so distinct and so shut off from the rest of europe, we should expect to find a more unmixed and a more homogeneous population than in any of those states whose frontiers are more open and conventional. but such is very far from being the case. even at the present time the pyrenees are no boundary throughout their whole course, either as to race or language. the basque overlaps them at one end, and the provençal at the other. moreover, they have been a political boundary throughout their whole length only since the middle of the seventeenth century. navarre was united to the spanish crown in , and rousillon to france only in . ecclesiastically, both the dioceses of bayonne and of narbonne advanced far into spain. so far from the population of spain being unmixed and pure, the contrary is far nearer the truth. as senor tubino has well observed, from its position at the south-western angle of europe, and the most westerly of mediterranean lands, beyond which lay only the impassable ocean, it must early have become a very eddy of nations, where all the tribes and races who have successively held command of the mediterranean must necessarily have halted, over which and in which all invaders who have crossed the pyrenees from northern europe, or have passed the straits of gibraltar from africa, must have surged in almost ceaseless conflict. to think of spain as ever having been at any given time occupied solely by any single race or people is to lose the clue to her whole history. of this not only the social and political condition of the country, but the toponymy and nomenclature of her map afford decisive proof. we first hear of spain in history about the sixth century before christ, as then inhabited by the "iberi" and "kelt-iberi," with here and there colonies of more unmingled kelts. it is more than probable that both of these races succeeded anterior ones, the existence of which we trace only through the remains of præhistoric archæology, in the flint, stone, and bronze instruments, similar to those found elsewhere in europe; these were also probably followed by races whose remains we find in the sculptors of the so-called "toros" (bulls) of guisando, and in the builders of the megalithic monuments, the dolmens, menhirs, and circles which are found from algeria to the orkneys. for all purposes of history we must take the "iberi" and the "kelts," with their mixed tribes, as our starting-point. these we find scattered in much confusion throughout the peninsula. either the tribes were constantly shifting their ground, owing to petty wars and tribal dissensions or to unknown economic conditions, or the successive greek and latin writers from whom we get our information have not themselves been clear as to the distinction of these races. speaking loosely, we may say that the more purely keltic tribes held their ground in the north-west and west, in galicia and portugal, with a few scattered colonies further south. andalusia, parts of the centre, the north and north-east were inhabited by the "iberi;" while the kelt-iberian tribes lay chiefly in the centre and on the eastward slope. both of these great races have left clear traces on the maps of ancient spain. there can be no reasonable doubt that the "illiberris" which we find in classical maps is a transcription of the basque "iriberri," which we still find in the french basque country and in navarre, meaning "new-town," or more exactly, "town-new;" that when the romans called a town which they built in galicia "iria-flavia," in honour of their then empress, they really used the basque word "iri," a town or city, just as the colonists of the united states and canada used the french "ville" or english "town," and named a new city louisville, charleston, georgetown, in the north american colonies. so, too, any one who compares the name "peña," given to mountains and mountain-chains on the map of spain, together with the river names, "tamaris," "deva," and the town and district of "britonia" or "britannia" in the north-west, can hardly doubt that these names were given by the same keltic race who have left us so many "pens" and "bens" in northern britain, who gave the names "tamar" and "dee" to devonshire and cheshire streams, and called our own island britannia, and themselves britons. which of these races is the older? the iberi, i.e. basque, or the keltic? how can we decide this? language is a deceitful tool as regards race. a people may utterly forget their original language, and adopt that of their conquerors or of some superior race with whom they have come in contact. of this we have not only numerous examples in the past, as in the latin and romance tongues superseding many a more ancient idiom, but we can see the same change actually going on in our colonies and dependencies in our own day. still there is a certain rough chronology in language. a monosyllabic language we may presume, in default of evidence to the contrary, to have preceded one whose characteristic is agglutination; and again, a language which agglutinates or incorporates its members is presumably prior to an inflexional or analytic one. now the basque, the modern form of some one of those tongues which the greeks and romans called iberian, belongs to the second of these classes, and the keltic to the third. another mode of investigating the antiquity of a language is to study the original names of the most necessary objects of daily life, and see if they can reveal to us anything about the state of civilization of those who used them before the language took a literary shape or any books were written in it. a language in which we find all the words expressing articles of greater civilization to be borrowed from other tongues we may presumably deem older than the languages from which it has borrowed them. now in the basque, escuara, the undoubtedly native words for cutting instruments seem all to have their root from words signifying stone, or rock, and all such words which imply the use of metal seem to be borrowed. the language as it were represents the "stone" age, before the use of metals was known. it is also singularly poor in collective and general terms; thus, while many of the names for separate kinds of trees are native, the most common collective term _arbola_, "the tree," is clearly borrowed from the latin. although the arguments from anthropology, the form of the skull, &c., as compared with other races, are of still more dubious value than those derived from language, yet they all tend to the same conclusion. we may then hold from these convergent lines of reasoning, at least as a provisional hypothesis, that the iberian or basque race is older in spain than the keltic, and consequently that in the representatives of the former we have the remains of the oldest historical people of which we have any record in the country. we said above that, from its geographical position, the peninsula would necessarily be the final-halting-place in ancient times of all the masters of the mediterranean as they pushed westward. there we should find their farthest outposts. thus in spain we have, at first dimly seen, successive colonies of egyptians, phoenicians, and greeks. there it was that carthaginians and romans met to dispute the supremacy of the mediterranean and of the civilized world. when, after a long occupation, during which it latinized spain more completely than any other country except italy, the roman empire fell, successive waves of barbarian destroyers swept across the land, sueves, alans, vandals, visigoths, in wild confusion and internecine strife, wrecked the civilization which they could neither appreciate nor understand. the last of these races, the visigoths, who ruled the longest, strove hard to found an empire from to , but without success. the real power which held society together then, and which wrought what little order and law still existed, was the church, and not the state. the councils of the church were the true legislative assemblies, and the real representatives of the people in those times. yet, with all the power of the church to uphold it, the visigothic empire remained so weak that it fell at the first shock of the mohammedan arabs. the moors or arabs landed in spain in the year . in ten years they had conquered all of the peninsula that they cared to hold; in eleven years more, , they had been defeated at poictiers by charles martel, and had withdrawn for ever from france, except from the district of narbonne. this rich province they held for many years, and it would seem to them to be more than an equivalent for the bare and humid mountains of galicia and the asturias, or the higher pyrenees, which alone in the peninsula were exempt from their sway. the arabs and the moors of barbary are the last great race that has occupied spain. jews and a few gipsies are the only peoples that have entered since. a few remnants of berber tribes, isolated from their countrymen by the rapid advance of the christian army in the tenth and eleventh centuries, like the maragatos of astorga, have remained in north-western spain, and doubtful remains of other peoples are found here and there, but none of these are in sufficient numbers to influence the nation as a whole. no country was more completely romanized than spain. in fact, after the augustan age we might almost say that the best latin writers were spaniards born; seneca, quintilian, lucian, and martial were all natives of spain. hosius, the champion of latin christianity in the early part of the fourth century, was a spaniard. the names of many of the towns are still roman. yet the arabs have left almost a deeper mark upon the toponymy of the country. look at the map of spain, and we see, even up to the pyrenees, how many arabic names there are, especially of rivers and mountains, upon the map of spain. only in galicia and the asturias the keltic and the latin, in the basque provinces the basque, and in catalonia the romance names have held their own. in all the rest the roman names would have probably died away, but that the language of the church was latin, and preserved the roman names of cities, monasteries, and shrines. down even to the twelfth century it might seem doubtful which language would prevail, so many arabs wrote in spanish, and spaniards in arabic, or wrote spanish in arabic characters. the struggle was decided by the sword; the expulsion of the arabs was also the expulsion of their tongue. yet the arabs have left far more traces on spanish than spanish has done on arabic. the spanish jews, however, had forgotten their semitic tongue, and to this day the sacred language of the jews of the balkan peninsula, and of many of the syrian jews, even of those at jerusalem, is not hebrew but spanish; their liturgical works are written in that tongue, and they use it always in the synagogue. in spite, however, of all this mixture of races and of languages, spain and the spanish language has perhaps fewer dialects than any other european speech. from the central pyrenees to the straits of gibraltar only one dialect is used, the spanish or castilian, the purest and noblest of those which sprang from the decaying latin. at the inner angle of the bay of biscay basque is still spoken by a population of about , souls. the galician dialect is far more closely allied to the portuguese than to the spanish, and should be considered as belonging to the former tongue. between galicia and the basque provinces are the many patois, or bables, of asturia, which alone of the romance tongues in the peninsula have kept the three distinct genders, the masculine, feminine, and neuter terminations of the latin adjective. the speech of leon, too, may be classed as a separate dialect. in catalonia, valencia, and the balearic isles a provençal or romance dialect is spoken, the _lemosin_ as it was called in mediæval times, and which stretched from the loire to the frontiers of murcia, and from the western coast of the bay of biscay, with few interruptions, almost to the black sea. in the thirteenth century the catalan dialect more resembled that of the gascon béarnais, or the western languedocian, than of the neighbouring provence, but centuries of intercourse have since modified it, and the three dialects of catalonia, valencia, and the balearic isles must now be classed as a provençal speech. the tongues of all these successive occupiers of the soil have doubtless left traces in the noble spanish language, but in very unequal proportions. a very few words belong to the old iberian speech, but it is to that, perhaps, that spanish owes the purity and the paucity of its vowel sounds, as from the arabic it has gained the gutturals which have prevented its sinking to the effeminate softness of the italian, and it still preserves the lofty sonority of the latin. some few of the elements of its vocabulary may be traced to the keltic, less to the teutonic languages. from arabic it has taken more, and those words of more important character. but the bulk of the language still remains latin. it is essentially one of the romance dialects which sprang from the "lingua rustica," the country speech of the decaying roman empire. it has been calculated that six-tenths of its words are latin, a tenth gothic or teutonic, one-tenth liturgical and greek, one-tenth american or modern borrowings, and one-tenth arabic. but as to this last, we must not forget that the different parts of the vocabulary of a language have a very different value. some could be well dispensed with, some are of first necessity. there are words which we only see in print, and seldom or never hear spoken; there are words which belong only to science or to pedantry; but there are others which are in daily and hourly use, and whose employment is many times more frequent than the whole number of words in all the rest of the language put together. it is thus that the contribution of arabic to spanish vocabulary is of far more importance than is apparent by its numerical proportion; many of the most common terms, especially of those used in the south of spain, are of arabic origin. thus has been formed the noble spanish tongue, the richest and most dignified of all that have sprung from the decay of latin. marvellously adapted to oratory and to verse, most incisive and mordant in the tongues of the lowest class, stately and sonorous almost to a fault, it is yet unequalled in grace and tenderness in the old romances and in the mouths of women and of children. italian is its only rival. while reading its stately sentences, and marking the majestic rhythm of scio's grand translation of the bible and of its other religious literature, we can well understand why spain's greatest emperor, the lord of many lands and of many tongues, spoke spanish only to his god. it is rare to find a foreigner who has mastered spanish, who does not ever afterwards delight in its use above all other tongues except his own. the population of spain, according to the census of , is , , , including the balearic and canary islands, and the north african possessions. the number of inhabitants in spain has fluctuated much at different periods, according as war, emigration, or bad government have affected the condition of the people. in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries the population, according to the only estimates procurable, was about , , ; in , at the close of philip iii.'s reign, it had sunk to , , , the lowest point on record; it gradually rose from , , at the end of the seventeenth century to , , at the close of the eighteenth. the wars of napoleon then lowered it by , , but in it had recovered, and reached , , . a more rapid increase then took place till , when the population numbered , , . the carlist and civil wars which marked the beginning of the reign of isabella ii. reduced it by more than , , , if the returns are exact. in and in it stood at , , . in at , , , whence it mounted rapidly to , , in , a total which the late carlist war and that in cuba has reduced by some , ; and at the last census, , as said above, the returns were , , . the number of inhabitants to the square mile is , just half that of france, about a third that of great britain, and a fifth that of belgium. this comparative scarcity is easily accounted for when we consider that nearly one-half ( per cent.) of the territory still remains uncultivated; and although a considerable portion of this consists of mountain or of naturally sterile soil, a still larger portion of it is susceptible of some kind of cultivation, and even the portion under cultivation would under good husbandry, support a much larger population than it actually does. more than two-thirds ( . per cent.) of the whole working population of spain are engaged in agriculture, and the total produce, including cereals and cattle of all kinds, wine and fruits, cork, woods, esparto grass, &c., after supplying the demand for home consumption, leaves a surplus of agricultural produce for exportation of the value of , , _l_. sterling. those engaged in manufacturing industry and in commerce are reckoned at - / per cent, of the working population; but in spain, as elsewhere, the relative numbers are slowly changing, following the conditions of modern european life; a greater proportionate number are annually withdrawn from agriculture, and are being added to the population of the great towns, and to the manufacturing industries. thus, until the last census the highest population of spain per square kilometre was to be found, not in the manufacturing provinces of barcelona and valencia, nor in the great mining provinces, but in the fishing and agricultural province of pontevedra, in galicia. in pontevedra numbered , barcelona inhabitants to the square kilometre. in it is barcelona that numbers , and pontevedra only. next after these provinces come the two basque ones of guipuzcoa , and biscay . the one almost wholly agricultural, the other mining and agricultural. the nearest after them is the province of madrid, with only per square kilometre, and corunna and alicante with . these figures will, we think, sufficiently indicate the character of spanish industry. the chief centres of manufacturing industry are catalonia and valencia, in which provinces nearly all the textile goods of spain are produced. the chief mining districts are those round carthagena in alicante, linares in jaen, the rio tinto in huelva, somorrostro in biscay, and of quicksilver at almaden in the province of ciudad rodrigo; but valuable mines, as detailed in a former chapter, are found in many other provinces of spain. in fact, there is scarcely one without a mine of more or less importance. those engaged in professions of all kinds--lawyers, doctors, artists, journalists--are only about - / per cent. of the whole working population. the clergy, who once numbered, it is said, one-third of the whole population, have greatly diminished during the present century, and are still gradually declining. including religious orders of all kinds, inquisitors, and the secular clergy, they still numbered, at the close of the last century, nearly , , out of a population of , , . in they had sunk to about , , in to , , in to , , and their present numbers are probably about , . immense changes have taken place in recent times, and more particularly in the present century, with regard to the distribution of land in spain. the large amount of property held by the crown, the religious orders, the clergy, and various municipal bodies, and the restrictions imposed by the laws of the mesta on the enclosure of land, rendered the number of private proprietors formerly very few. even in their number was only , . in it was estimated that the clergy possessed one-sixth of the real property, and one-third of the movable property of all spain, and the property of the church paid scarcely any taxes, or none at all. from the beginning of the sixteenth century protests were continually being made against abuses of church property, but only towards the end of the eighteenth century were measures of reform seriously undertaken. little, however, was really effected till the cortes of cadiz in - , when the feudal dues on land, of whatever nature, regal, ecclesiastical, or seignorial, were abolished. the religious orders were also suppressed. in a law was passed forbidding the church to acquire any more real property. tithes, of which the clergy possessed per cent, and the laity , were diminished by half in , and wholly suppressed in . in the possessions of the clergy were declared to be national property, and the sale of them was begun. this, with various interruptions, according as a liberal or reactionary government has been in power, has been continued to the present time. the crown and municipal property had been sold at an earlier period, from to . the mesta was totally abolished in as to its privileged rights on property, and in became merely an agricultural association for the improvement of the breed of cattle. the serfs in galicia were declared to have become proprietors of their land by prescription in . the result of these successive measures, and of these immense sales of territorial property, has been to throw the land into the hands of a much greater number of small landed proprietors, who now number , , , so that, in spite of some large estates still existing, especially in andalusia, the average quantity of land held in spain by each proprietor would seem to be only about some acres. yet in galicia alone does there seem to have been any suffering caused by a too great subdivision of land, and this perhaps was caused more by the perpetuation of habits acquired while the land was burdened with seignorial dues, when the occupier could neither quit his land nor sell it. in this district the people are still miserably poor, their food and houses are equally wretched, and nothing but the large emigration that has taken and is now taking place will restore the province to any real prosperity. from what has been said in the preceding pages as to their ethnology, the reader will not be surprised to learn that the different populations of spain have very different characteristics. the galicians and asturians are the hewers of wood and drawers of water in spain. they are often fine, stalwart men, brave, and make excellent sailors. it is they who reap the harvests for the more lazy castilians and gather the vintage of oporto; it is they who do nearly all the hard work in all the chief towns, not of spain only, but also of portugal. they are proverbially honest and trustworthy as servants, though slow and somewhat lacking in intelligence. abroad, and as emigrants, they are trusted as men of no other race are: in the countries of la plata in south america, the town-house, during the summer absence of the proprietor and his family, is given over to a gallego, as it stands, to be taken care of, and rarely indeed is an article missing. the asturian partakes of the same general characteristics as the galician, though in a less marked degree. in the montaneses, the inhabitants of the province of santander, we have the favourite nurses and female servants of madrid. the asturias and santander are remarkable for the number of statesmen and economists they have produced in proportion to the population. in the basque provinces we find an entirely different race, not perhaps of so muscular a build, but active, and capable of great endurance. intelligent and proud of their ancient race and liberties, they almost always retain their self-respect, and are for the most part free from that cruelty towards animals which is so disfiguring a trait in the character of other spaniards. the basques are generally found among the upper and more trusted servants in civil life, in the army and navy they make excellent petty officers; as seamen they are among the best of spain; as soldiers they are brave, enduring, capital marchers, and as light infantry second to none of any nation. the aragonese, like the galicians, count among the hard workers of spain; generally of shorter build, and very thick-set, but somewhat dull and very obstinate, they are employed in the heaviest work. in literature they are known as jurisconsults and historians. in catalonia and valencia we have the bright provençal race. a race apt for commerce and for manufacturing industries; pushing, energetic, they gather to themselves the greater part of the commerce, manufactures, and shopkeeping of all kinds, as far as these are done by spaniards, throughout the kingdom. fiery in temper, and not to be implicitly trusted, especially in valencia, their weapon is the knife, which they use sometimes on slight provocation; the hired assassins and bandits of spain have always been recruited thence. socialists and federalists in politics, they have ever been disaffected towards the central government. in catalonia this may be the result of memories of former independence; but it is curious to remark that barcelona and the cities of the mediterranean, as compared with cadiz and ferrol on the atlantic, have played analogous parts in spanish history to those of marseilles and bordeaux in french; the mediterranean in each case being the home of the ultra-democrat and the man of the "montagne," and the atlantic of the constitutionalists and the girondins. more to the south we find undoubtedly a greater mixture of moorish blood. the andalusian is almost oriental in character, he is fond of song and dance and colour, yet lazy withal, and disliking sustained labour. he delights to deck himself with finery, and his women with flowers; and his taste though glowing is never utterly debasing. excelling in wit and repartee, the andalusian _gamin_ is the most amusing rogue in europe. he has a wild, fierce, momentary energy, and is courteous and gracious in speech; his proverbs and songs are innumerable, and sparkle with a peculiar wit and charm; but he altogether lacks the more solid qualities of the men of the north. philosophers, orators, and poets rather than men of industry and science are the product of these provinces. the andalusian barely keeps up the works which the more highly civilized moors had done for him in agriculture and in vineyard, but he does not improve upon them; and both in mining and in wine cultivation, in manufactures, and in coasting shipping, he allows nearly the whole of the trade and commerce of the south to pass into the hands of foreigners or of catalans. the men of central spain, except in the towns, the men of leon, of the castiles, and of la mancha, and in a less degree the men of estremadura, have changed but little for the last few centuries. they are spaniards of the type generally conceived by foreigners as applying to the whole nation. grave and slow of speech, exceedingly courteous unless their prejudices are offended, fond of formality and proud of it; they are bigoted (but less so than formerly), prejudiced, ignorant to an extreme, each thinking his own town or village the _élite_ of the universe; content with few comforts and preferring semi-starvation to exertion, the castilian is half ashamed of honest labour, but by no means averse to corruption in any shape, and sees no disgrace in beggary. cruel in the extreme, when his passions are aroused, it is one of the misfortunes of spain that from the advantage of their elevated central physical position, the castilians, as warriors and statesmen, at all times among the least civilized of her people, have been able to rule and control the more civilized and more advanced (especially in political freedom and administration) communities of the sea-board. it is a want of discernment of this fact which makes so many of the picturesque histories of spain utterly fail in explaining the origin and the progressive causes of her present condition. there are a few other tribes in spain which it may be worth while to notice, such as the gipsies, who seem still to keep themselves tolerably distinct in andalusia and in the south, but who in more than one instance have completely coalesced with the basques in the north. the maragatos, the trusted _arrieros_ or muleteers of leon, a remnant apparently of a wild berber tribe, left behind when the more civilized moors retreated southwards before the advance of the christian conquerors; the passiegos near bilbao, the men of the sayago, the hurdes of the batuecas, the chuetas of majorca, these and several minor tribes, remnants, perhaps, of older populations whose ethnic affinities have never been made out, are too few in numbers to affect the general population; but are of interest to the ethnologist from the survivals of ancient laws and customs which are still observed among them. one class, not a tribe, the wretched commercial policy of spain has developed to a greater extent than in any other country, that of the smuggler or contrabandista. he differs greatly in different districts, and even on the same line of frontier. in some parts contrabandista is almost synonymous with bandit, in others he is honest in his illegal trade, and more to be trusted with immense sums than the officials who arrest him. in a small way he is a type of the many contradictions of spanish character and of "the things of spain." [illustration: caballeros. _page ._] [illustration: dominique, the espada.] [illustration: gipsies at granada. _page ._] chapter v. description of provinces. spain was formerly divided into some fourteen separate provinces or kingdoms, once ruled by distinct and independent sovereigns, and under very different political conditions. it was not until the taking of granada, in , that the whole nation became, even nominally, subject to the joint sovereigns ferdinand and isabella; and for long afterwards aragon and catalonia preserved a semi-independence, while, even to our own day, the basque provinces and navarre were really an independent republic united to the spanish crown. since , however, the whole country has been divided for administrative purposes into forty-eight provinces, including the balearic isles. we shall now hastily sketch the chief features of the old kingdoms, with the modern provinces included in each. beginning from the north-west, we have the kingdom of galicia, with its four provinces, _corunna_, _lugo_, _pontevedra_, and _orense_. we have before remarked on the frith or fiord-like character of the western coast of galicia, a conformation which gives it by far the finest harbours of the whole spanish coast. thus, in the province of corunna there are the harbour and city ( , inhabitants) of the same name, so well known by our forefathers under the title of "the groyne," and the scene of many a gallant fight both by land and sea from the days of queen elizabeth to the fall of sir j. moore, but now the chief port of the cattle-trade with england. its port is frequented by about , tons of british shipping annually; and about , bullocks are exported annually, mostly in small schooners. it has also a tobacco factory. a little to the north-east ferrol ( , ) has a still better harbour, and is one of the principal naval establishments of spain. it is capacious enough to almost contain the united fleets of europe; and its only drawback, a singular one in so humid a climate, is the want of good water. but the most famous city in the province, and indeed, in all galicia, the pilgrim-town of santiago (st. james) de compostella ( , ) owes its magnitude to devotion rather than to commerce. the legend of the voyage of st. james to spain, the finding his body at compostella, and his subsequent appearances in battle as the champion of spain, made this the most celebrated shrine in europe. roads led to it from every land, and one of the popular names of the "milky way" was "the road to compostella." the wealth both of the military order of compostella and of the cathedral and chapter was immense. even now, after all its spoiling, the cathedral is rich in precious goldsmiths' work, in architectural, and in literary treasures. pontevedra ( ) is the capital of the thickly-populated province of the same name, whose inhabitants reap a harvest both from sea and land. vigo ( ) has an excellent harbour and roadstead, but its commerce has greatly fallen off in comparison with that of corunna. it was formerly the port at which the galleons disembarked their treasures for northern spain. the total tonnage of the harbour in was , . _orense_, an inland province east of pontevedra, has a capital of the same name ( , ) on the banks of the minho. it is the head of an agricultural and pastoral district, and in it are produced some wines which were considered in the eighteenth century the finest of all spain. here, too, is one of the grand bridges of western spain, possibly of roman construction. _lugo_, with its city ( ), faces north instead of west, and has its harbours, vivero and rivadeo, on the bay of biscay; but the near neighbourhood of ferrol and of corunna deprive them of all but coasting trade. the asturias, the home of the spanish monarchy, and the only ancient kingdom of which no part was subdued by the moors (though they raided once to oviedo), contains but one province, called after its chief town _oviedo_ ( , ), with a cathedral, university, and a most pleasant situation. in this province is covadonga, where the visigoth pelayo, in , repulsed the moors, and thus took the first step towards the recovery of spain. the whole country slopes rapidly from its southern frontier, the summit of the cantabrian mountains, towards the bay of biscay. cangas de tineo ( , ) is the centre of a mining district. owing to the great development of mining operations in this province within the last ten years the small towns of siero, tineo, grado, and villaviciosa have suddenly sprung into importance, and each now contains over , inhabitants. the chief port is gijon ( , ), of which the chief trade is in hazel-nuts for england, of which over tons are annually exported, to the value of , _l._ here is one of the seven government tobacco manufactories, and also important glass-works, conducted chiefly by swiss and french artisans; but it is far outstripped in commercial importance by santander ( , ), the capital of the neighbouring province, and the great port of outlet for the agricultural riches of leon and of the castiles. santander has also a great trade with cuba and porto rico, and possesses almost a monopoly of the supply of cereals to those islands. a port of equal natural excellence is santoña, which the first napoleon would have made the gibraltar of northern spain, but which is now frequented only as a bathing-place by the inhabitants of the interior. the mountain scenery of these two provinces is most picturesque, both along the sea-board and in the interior, where the snow sometimes lies on the picos de europa until july or august. the coal-mines of the asturias are rapidly assuming importance. the output was, in , , tons, at a cost on board ship of _s._ per ton. the extent of the bed is estimated at , acres. the basque provinces (las provincias vascongadas) are _biscay_, _guipuzcoa_, and _alava_. the union of the three is often represented by a symbol like the heraldic bearings of the isle of man; and they are, with navarre and the french pays basque, the home of the basque race, but only one province, guipuzcoa, is _wholly_ inhabited by them. _biscay_ has for its chief town the busy mining city of bilbao ( , ) on the nervion, with a commerce of over , , _l._ annual value, notwithstanding an inferior harbour, exceeding that of santander. the chief mines, iron, are in the somorrostro district, a few miles to the east of the city, and they are worked mainly by english, french, or german companies. in the exports from bilbao amounted to , , tons of iron minerals, while the imports included , tons of english coke and coal, chiefly for the use of the mines. in this province is the oak of guernica, where the spanish sovereigns swore to observe the constitutional privileges or _fueros_ of the basques. the chief city of _guipuzcoa_ is san sebastian ( , ), a sea-port with a strong citadel. of less commercial importance than bilbao, it is much frequented in summer as a city of pleasure; the town has been almost wholly rebuilt since the siege of . the province, though almost wholly agricultural, and famous for its cider and apple orchards, contains also some mines, and a few manufactures grouped round its old capital, tolosa ( ). eibar and plasencia, two small manufacturing towns on the deva, have preserved the art of inlaying iron with gold and silver, and are noted for their manufacture of fire-arms. _alava_ has but one town of importance, vitoria ( , ), a picturesque city at the foot of the cantabrian mountains and the head of the fertile plains of the upper rioja. these two districts, the riojas, divided by the ebro, are noted for their wines, which need only more careful preparation to become an important article of commerce; at present they are chiefly exported to bordeaux, for mixing with inferior french wines, to be re-exported as claret to england. navarre, the only other province where basque is spoken, once formed part of a petty kingdom which stretched on both sides of the pyrenees, and of which the spanish portion was definitely secured to spain by the duke of alva in the reign of ferdinand the catholic, in , has pampeluna ( , ), a fortified city of roman origin, for its capital. the upper part of navarre is extremely mountainous, but it contains some useful iron-mines, and a government foundry at orbaiceta. the southern parts, along the banks of the arga, and in the valley of the ebro, are extremely fertile; but at the south-eastern corner in the bardeñas reales, we encounter a series of bare, stony hills, scored with deep ravines, and on which nothing will grow, the first of the desert tracks so common in spain. tudela ( ) on the opposite side of the ebro, is united to the rest of the province by a fine bridge; it is here the traveller first sees in operation the _norias_ or water-wheels of the east. the kingdom of aragon contains three provinces, _huesca_, _saragossa_, and _teruel_. the kingdom is almost bisected by the ebro, towards which it slopes on both sides, from the highest summits of the central pyrenees on the north, and from the idubeda mountains and the molina de aragon on the south. aragon divides with the asturias the honour of having been one of the cradles of the spanish monarchy. in don asnar defeated the moors near jaca, in the province of huesca. but the progress of the reconquest was very slow; from to the moors held possession of the town and kingdom of saragossa, and it is from this occupation of four centuries that the traveller first meets here distinct remains of moorish architecture. a still more lasting note of their sway is found in the nomenclature of the country. the rivers guaticalema, alcanadre, guadalope, the names of the sierras, alcubiere, and of many of the lesser towns and villages, sufficiently attest the former presence of the race who gave those names. _huesca_ ( , ), the capital of the province of the same name, is an episcopal and university town, the bishop's palace being on the site of an old mosque. the upper part of this province is exceedingly mountainous, and is entered from france by the central pyrenean road, that of somport, originally constructed by the romans. the only other towns are barbastro ( ), monzon ( ), and jaca ( ), nearer the mountains. _saragossa_ ( , ), on the ebro, formerly the cæsar augusta of the romans, then for four centuries the capital of a moorish kingdom, rivals santiago de compostella as a place of pilgrimage to the shrine of the virgen del pilar. the worship has, however, much declined of late years, and her devotees are not now a tithe of those who frequent the more recent shrine of notre dame de lourdes on the other side of the pyrenees. the art treasures of the cathedral were sold in , when many fine examples of jewellery and art were acquired for the kensington museum. saragossa, though now fallen as a place of commerce, must again become important if the railway project is carried into effect, which will place it on the most direct line between paris and madrid. the ebro, from its shallowness, is of no service for navigation; and, from neglect, the canals of charles v. and of tauste do not render the services they might, either for transport or for irrigation. hence the despoblados and desiertos in the valley of the ebro, both above and below the town. _calayatud_ ( , ) was one of the four _comunidades_ of aragon, and is in the midst of a mineral district, the wealth of which seems at present almost wholly undeveloped. _teruel_ ( ) is the capital of a very mountainous province which slopes towards the north-west from the sierras de molina and albarracin, the mountain ranges which form the eastern boundary of the great watershed of the peninsula. excepting the mines in these sierras, the province is almost wholly agricultural, but with no towns of importance. the historian don vicente de la fuente has remarked that while the lands of the _comunidades_, the four free towns of aragon, calayatud, teruel, daroca, and albarracin, have remained fertile under their more liberal government, the lands of the seigneurs in the valley of the ebro, where, almost alone in spain, feudalism received its full development, have been for centuries barren and _despoblados_. [illustration: leaning tower of saragossa. _page ._] catalonia.--the ancient principality of catalonia is now separated into four provinces, named after their chief towns, _gerona_, _barcelona_, _tarragona_, and _lerida_. the first three lie along the shores of the mediterranean--the last, inland, and stretches from the ebro to the pyrenees. to the north of lerida, and buried in the mountains, is the so-called republic of andorra, which owes its practical independence to the singular fact of a double _seigneurie_. both the counts of foix, in france, and the prince-bishops of urgel, in spain, were supreme lords of andorra. on paper its constitution is by no means so free as that of several other pyrenean communities; but by skilfully playing off the jealousies and rivalries of its two lords, and preventing either from getting absolute power, this little state of twenty-eight miles by twenty has remained unsubdued, and unattached to either nationality. the chief trade of the republic may be said to be smuggling. _lerida_, except in the valley of the segre, is extremely mountainous, and like all the hill country of catalonia is rich in minerals, especially in salt, near solsona. the rest of its products are chiefly agricultural. the province is but thinly peopled; its chief town contains , inhabitants. balaguer ( ), urgel ( ), solsona ( ), are the most populous of the remaining. with _gerona_ we enter the mediterranean or provençal region and climate, and come in contact not only with picturesque and glowing scenery, with a gorgeous variety of natural productions, but also with traditions and remains of the great works of all the races that have dominated this inland sea. from the pyrenees to carthagena the names of the chief towns recall classic reminiscences, and bring before us the struggles of ancient nations, contending on her soil for a far mightier empire than that of spain. the province of gerona contains cape creuz, the extreme north-easterly point of the peninsula, not far from the old greek cities of rosas and emporium (ampurias). of its towns, gerona, on the ter, and figueras have each , but are surpassed by olot, , , around which town are grouped the most recently extinct volcanoes in spain. coal is found in san juan de las abadesas. here the spanish gravity is mingled with the fire and dash of the provençals, and the inhabitants both of gerona and barcelona, are more provençal than spanish, in language, political character, and in commercial and industrial aptitudes. the natural productions, and the flora too, are almost identical with those of the more sheltered parts of provence and of the riviera. palm trees are seen as common ornaments in gardens and public squares, oranges and olives flourish, the mulberry is cultivated and silkworms are reared, and all announces a warmer zone than any that we have hitherto traversed. _barcelona_ ( , ) the first industrial and commercial city of spain, and the second in point of population, is also the capital of the most thickly inhabited province. the greater part of the trade and navigation of the whole spanish sea-board from catalonia to cadiz, or even to seville, is in the hands of its merchants. the cotton industry of catalonia employed in a capital of , , _l._, and , workmen, distributed in factories. the chief of the other manufacturing towns are gracia ( , ), and st. martin de provensals ( , ). the annual commercial movement of barcelona is estimated at about , , _l._ sterling. the british imports, chiefly of coal and iron, amount to nearly , , _l._ sterling; but the exports are a mere trifle, , _l._, most of the ships returning in ballast; while on the contrary, the exports of tarragona, palamos, mataro, and villamena, and the smaller ports amount to nearly , , _l._, chiefly in wine, and the imports are only half that amount. irrigation is successfully carried on in the valley of the llobregat. _tarragona_ ( , ) is rich in roman remains, in the picturesque beauty of its site, in its gothic architecture, in the mildness of its climate, and in the goodness of its wines; but it is surpassed both in wealth and population by the neighbouring manufacturing city of reus ( , ), and also by tortosa ( , ) on the ebro, to which town all the river transport converges. the ebro below tortosa forms a sandy delta, and its channels are continually silting up. the canal of san carlos, to connect amposta with the sea by the port of alfaques, has had but little success. valencia includes the three provinces of _castellon de la plana_, _valencia_, and _alicante_, all three lying along the mediterranean, and facing east and southwards from the mighty buttress sierras which form the eastern wall of the great central plateau. it is in these provinces that we gradually pass from the mediterranean climate to the "_tierra caliente_," the warm lands and african products of south-eastern spain. here too we meet with the finest roman remains; and moorish architecture begins to form a prominent feature in the characteristics of each city. the speech is still a dialect of the provençal, and the fiery provençal nature is still apparent in the political history of the cities of valencia. the hill-sides, bare of trees, are covered either with the esparto grass or with strongly aromatic herbs and shrubs. the rainfall gradually lessens; the streams all assume a torrential character, nearly dry in summer, swollen with rapid floods in winter; but they are greatly utilized for irrigation. by this means are formed the "_huertas_," gardens, and "_vegas_," plains, oases of beauty and fertility lying in the bosom of the barren hills, which serve as frames to pictures as valuable for their productiveness as they are enchanting in their beauty. the chief towns in the province of _castellon_ are castellon de la plana ( , ), vinaroz ( ), villareal ( ), both near the mediterranean; segorbe on the palancia, and numerous smaller towns in the interior. benicarlo and vinaroz, on the coast to the north of the province, are noted for their excellent red wines, quantities of which are exported to france for mixing with inferior french vintages, whence they find their way to england as rousillon or bordeaux. _valencia_, a city of , inhabitants, and with a fine artificial harbour called the "_grao_," is the third city in population in spain; but its commerce is little more than that of santander and bilbao, cities only one fourth of its size. the value of british imports, chiefly of coal, cod-fish, guano, and petroleum, in , was , _l_., and of exports, chiefly of fruits to britain, , _l_. the "_huerta_" of valencia, with its canals for irrigation, its "_acequias_," "_norias_," and other devices to draw the waters of the guadalaviar, is one of the most successful examples in spain of regulated application of water to agriculture. the quantity of water allotted to each property, the hour of opening or closing the sluices, are regulated according to laws and customs descended from moorish times. so great is the drain upon the streams that the waters of some of the smaller rivers are entirely absorbed in the summer, and even of the guadalaviar but little then reaches the sea. it is from the _huerta_ of valencia that the oranges come which form the delight of the population of paris at the new year; hence are the raisins and the almonds and candied fruits equally dear to the british housekeeper. rice is successfully cultivated on some of the lower grounds near the coast, and fruits and vegetables of every kind abound; but the spaniards complain that they lack the richness and lusciousness of flavour belonging to those grown in other parts. "in valencia," say they, "grass is like water, meat like grass, men like women, and the women worth nothing." the district was formerly noted for its silk-growing and stuffs of silk; also for the fine pottery known as majolica ware from its carriers to the italian ports, the sailors of majorca and the balearic isles. it was also the earliest place of printing in spain, and celebrated as a school of poetry and the arts; but nearly all this ancient fame is lost. to the south of valencia is the large lake or lagoon of albufera, the most extensive of the many lagoons along the mediterranean coast, about nine miles long and twenty-seven miles round; it is full of fish, and frequented by wild fowls, and its varied inhabitants recall those of the nile rather than those of any part of europe. in the north of the province is murviedro ( ), the ancient saguntum, with its port almost entirely blocked up. considerable remains of the older city still exist, with inscriptions in idioms yet unknown, and are a treasure to archæologists. the largest of the other cities are alcira ( , ) on the jucar, and jativa ( , ). the southern coasts of valencia and the neighbouring districts of alicante abound in sites of picturesque beauty, and the position of many of the ruined monasteries, built generally on the hills with a distant prospect of the sea, can hardly be excelled. _alicante_, whose _huertas_ and _vegas_ with their appliances for irrigation rival those of valencia, has but , inhabitants. orihuela, in its rich wheat-growing district of never-failing harvest, has , , and alcoy , . the smaller towns are numerous, and from the little ports in the north of the province, round cape nao, a good deal of coasting trade is done with the neighbouring balearic isles. from denia, tabea, and altea, nearly , tons of raisins are shipped every year, chiefly for great britain. at elche ( , ) is the celebrated forest of palms of which we have before spoken, and the leaves of which are sent to rome for the ceremonies of easter week. the number of the trees is gradually declining, as the produce hardly repays the great amount of labour required. in the church at elche religious plays or mysteries are occasionally performed, with an enthusiasm and solemnity both of actors and spectators equal to that of the passionspiel of ober-ammergau. murcia contains the two provinces, _murcia_ and _albacete_. the first faces the mediterranean; the second, besides comprising the sierras of alcazar and segura, climbs those boundary mountains, and advances far into the plateau of la mancha, and thus contains within its limits the sources of the guadiana as well as those of the mundo and the segura. _murcia_, in its higher parts, is very thinly peopled, and in spite of the fertile plains in the lower course of the segura and the sangonera, and the rich mining district round cartagena, has only two-thirds as many inhabitants to the square mile as valencia. murcia is perhaps the driest province of spain, and the one in which the want of water is the most generally felt, yet it is in this province that the floods are the most pernicious and destructive. year by year the irrigation works become less effective. ancient dams broken down by the floods are not restored. since , however, a new source of wealth has been opened to this province by the export of the esparto grass, which grows on all the low hills, and which, in addition to its use in the country for numerous native fabrics, is now largely exported for paper-making. the export began only in . in it had reached , tons for england alone; in the money value of the whole export was , _l._, but it declined to , _l._ in , and , _l._ in , since which date it has gradually lessened. murcia, the chief city, is an irrigated plain on the segura, has a population of , . it is one of the chief seats of silk cultivation in spain. lorca ( , ), on the sangonera, offers another example of the extreme fertility that can be obtained by irrigation in a suitable climate. cartagena ( , ), with its grand harbour and docks, is one of the three naval arsenals in spain; but has greatly fallen from its ancient wealth and importance. like barcelona and valencia it has distinguished itself by its extreme democratic and cantonalist opinions, and has revolted against the republic equally as against the monarchy. in its neighbourhood are some of the richest lead and silver mines in spain, and which have been worked since carthaginian and roman times. the coal imported from england for smelting purposes amounts to , tons yearly. the tonnage of british vessels employed was over , in . along the coast are various lagoons and salt-lakes (salinas), where salt is made on a considerable scale; it is exported chiefly to the baltic. the barilla plant, for making soda, is also cultivated along the coast; and, of the plants in the salinas, it is computed that at least one-sixth of the species are african. _albacete_ ( , ), situated at the junction both of road and railway from murcia and valencia to madrid, is chiefly celebrated for its trade in common cutlery. it is here that the large stabbing knives (navajas) are made, and for the use of which both valencians and murcians have an unenviable notoriety. on the plateau of this province (albacete) are found (salinas) salt-lakes formed by evaporation, the only examples of this kind in western europe. the only other town of any importance in the province is almanza ( ), on the edge of the plateau before making the descent into valencia. the numerous names compounded of "pozo," well, and "fuente," fountain, in this province, attest its arid character, where fresh water is scarce enough to make its presence a distinguishing mark to any spot. andalusia embraces the whole of southern spain from murcia to the frontier of portugal. its seaboard includes both the mediterranean and the atlantic. in cabo de gata, ° ' w., it has the extreme south-easterly point of spain; and in cabo de tarifa, ° ' n., the extreme southerly point, not only of spain, but of europe. one chain of its mountains, the sierra de nevada, contains the highest summits of the peninsula; and its river, the guadalquiver, from seville to the ocean is the only stream of real service for navigation in the whole of spain. its wines and olives, its grapes and oranges, and fruits of all kinds, are the finest, its horses and its cattle are the best, its bulls are the fiercest, of all spain. the sites of its cities rival in their entrancing beauty those of any other european land; while, wanting though they may be in deeper qualities, its sons and daughters yield not in wit or attractive grace or beauty to those of any other race. the moor has left a deeper mark here than elsewhere, even as he kept his favourite realm of granada for centuries after he had lost the rest of spain. and when the sun of moorish glory set, it was from andalusia that the vision of the new world rose upon astonished europe. the year of the conquest of granada ( ) was also that of the discovery of america. all things take an air of unwonted beauty and of picturesque grace in this land of sun and light; even the gipsy race, avoided and abhorred in other countries of europe, at granada, as at moscow, becomes one of the attractions of the tourist. the province is not entirely of one type. it unites many kinds of beauty; even in andalusia are "_despoblados_" and "_destierros_," dispeopled and deserted wastes, under christian hands, but once fertile and inhabited under moorish rule. savage wildness and barrenness reign in its lofty mountain chains as much as softer beauty does in the "_huertas_" and "_vegas_." but from the minerals the one district is equally valuable as the other. the province possesses the richest mines, as well as the richest fruits and wines, of the whole of spain. andalusia, is divided into the provinces of _almeria_, _granada_, _malaga_, on the mediterranean; _cadiz_, _seville_, _huelva_, on the atlantic coast; and _cordova_ and _jaen_ inland, along the upper waters of the guadalquiver. [illustration: general view of granada, with the alhambra. _page ._] in _almeria_ ( , ) the flat-roofed houses are built round a central court, the "_patio_," wherein is often a fountain, and palm and vine for shade; while oranges, myrtles, passion-flowers, and other gay or odoriferous shrubs or flowers, add their colour and perfume. the type and the manners of the inhabitants tell us that we are already in the land of the moors. almeria has declined from what it was when one of the chief ports of transit between the moors of africa and their brethren of south-eastern spain; but from the growing importance of the spanish colony in oran, its trade is now fast reviving. the exports are lead and silver ore from the mines of the neighbourhood, fruits of all kinds, and a little wine. the tonnage of british shipping employed at almeria was, in , , tons; , , tons; , , tons. the chief exports in were about , tons of esparto grass, , barrels of grapes, , tons of minerals, and nearly , of calamine. the sugar-cane is also grown here. the whole province is mountainous, covered with the spurs and offshoots of the mighty sierra nevada, the sierras de gador, de filabres, de cabrera, de aljamilla, all which have their terminations in headlands which run into the mediterranean. the basins of the rivers of the region are often cleft by these smaller ranges, and thus they receive their waters from both the northern and southern slopes of the sierra nevada. the only other towns of importance are cuevas de vera ( , ), and velez-rubio ( , ), in the north of the province on the road between murcia and granada, where some lead-mines have been lately opened. the ports, except almeria, are all small; dalias, on the confines of granada, is noted for the magnificent grapes and raisins shipped there. _granada_ ( , ) is one of the most celebrated spots of europe, a city of enchantment and of romance. it is one of the few places of renown, the sight of which does not disappoint the traveller. the natural advantages of its position would be sufficient to mark it as a city of unusual beauty, were there no masterpieces of art and of architecture, or storied memories, connected with it. it is situated in an upland valley, at an elevation of feet above the sea level--sufficiently high in that climate to prevent the summer's heat from being oppressively exhausting, and not too high to hinder the choicest semi-tropical fruits and flowers from growing in the open air--surrounded, yet not too closely, by mountain ranges, of which those to the east are the very highest in spain--mulhacen ( , ), alcazaba ( , ), and veleta ( , ). the ice and snow on their summits not only cool the hot winds which blow over them from africa, but provide the means of making the iced water which is the spaniard's greatest luxury. its climate is second in its equable range only to that of its coast towns, motril and malaga. it is watered by the united streams of the darro and the jenil, which meet within the city, both hurrying from their mountain home to join the guadalquiver between cordova and seville; and with their fertilizing waters dispersed in irrigation they make the "vega," or plain, of granada one of the noted gardens of the world. granada is worth all the praise that has been sung or written of it. on an isolated hill to the east, cut off from the town and from the generalife by the ravine through which the darro flows, and enclosed with a wall flanked by twelve towers, stands the celebrated group of buildings known by the name of the alhambra, perhaps the fairest palace and fortress at once ever inhabited by a moslem monarch. almost unrivalled in the beauty of its site, it outstrips all rivals in the beauty of its arab architecture. the mosque of cordova is grander, and the tombs of the caliphs at cairo may be in a purer style, but they lack the variety and richness of these diverse buildings. the alhambra hill is to arabic what the acropolis of athens was to hellenic art; only to the attractions of the plastic arts were added in the case of the alhambra the triumphs of the gardener's skill. shrubs and flowers delighted the eyes with colour, or gratified the sense of smell with sweetest odours, while water, skilfully conducted from the neighbouring hills, purled among the beds, or leaped in fountains, or filled the baths with purest streams. thus every sense and taste was gratified, and granada was indeed an earthly paradise to the moor. even in its decay, and seen in fragments only, it is one of the world's wonders, a treasure and delight to pilgrims of art from every land. but we must not waste our space in detailing the beauties of granada; its trade, sadly diminished from what it was formerly, is chiefly in fruits and silk and leather stuffs. next to granada, the chief city in the province is loja ( , ), near the jenil, and the little port of motril ( , ), sheltered under the highest summits of the sierra nevada, is said to possess the most equable climate of the spanish mediterranean ports. it is here, in the extensive alluvial plain stretching from motril to the sea, that the sugar-cane is most extensively cultivated, producing in , , tons of cane. far inland, and separated from motril by the mountain mass, is baza ( , ). the mineral riches of the sierra nevada have never been adequately explored; from specimens used in the construction of granada, it must possess marbles of rare beauty; metals, too, abound, but few of its mines are worked. in picturesque beauty, when seen near at hand, these mountains are not nearly equal to the pyrenees and to many minor chains; with rounded summits, they are bare and denuded of wood, and are entirely without the glacier forms, and the lakes and rushing streams, which delight us in the alps. [illustration: alhambra tower by moonlight.] _malaga._--the greater part of this province lies in an amphitheatre of mountains, stretching from the sierra de almijarras on the east to those of de la nieve and of ronda to the west. it faces the full southern sun, but is watered and irrigated by torrential streams from the mountains, at times almost dry, at others, as in december, , rushing down in most destructive floods. the city, with over , inhabitants, boasts not only the finest climate in spain, on which account it is greatly frequented by invalids in the winter, but its commerce is second in value to that of barcelona. its wealth and exports are almost wholly agricultural, consisting of luscious wines--which, however, have a greater reputation on the continent than in england--oil, fruits, and especially dried raisins; oranges, olives, figs, sugar, and sweet potatoes. bananas, and all other tropical and semi-tropical products of spain are here found in perfection. upwards of , , boxes of raisins, , , gallons of oil, and , , gallons of wine, besides other fruits, esparto grass, and minerals (chiefly lead), are annually exported. the tonnage of british vessels in was about , tons. it has been a city and port from great antiquity; but though a favourite residence of the moors, they have left fewer remains here than at granada, seville, cordova, toledo, and many a place of lesser note. antequerra ( , ), on the guadaljorce, on the northern slope of the sierras, guards the defile leading to malaga, and was formerly of great military importance. the cueva del menjal, in the neighbourhood, is a fine dolmen. ronda ( , ), the chief town of the sierra of the same name, is remarkable for its position on both sides of an enormous fissure (el tajo) from to feet deep, and which is spanned by a magnificent bridge, constructed by the architect archidone, in . velez malaga ( , ) is a small sheltered port to the east of malaga, with a trade in fruits and wines. _cadiz_, the most southerly province of spain, includes the capes of trafalgar and tarifa, and the punta de europa, or the english rock of gibraltar. this province is also the principal seat of the great sherry trade. the town ( , ) and port have greatly fallen from their former importance, when spain possessed nearly all the americas south of california, and but for the transatlantic steamers to cuba and the west indies, and to the philippine islands in the east indies, would probably decline still more. the application of steam, allowing ocean vessels to ascend the guadalquiver rapidly to seville, has arrested there a great deal of the produce which formerly came to cadiz, but which is now shipped at the former town. the total tonnage of the port is now about , ; the imports over , , _l._, of which about one-sixth is british; but of the exports, which are about the same in value, fully two-thirds go to great britain. cadiz itself is undoubtedly one of the oldest ports of western europe, and is situated on a narrow promontory, formed into an island by the channel of san pedro. unlike most of the southern cities of spain, its houses are of great height and of several stories, the contracted space of its site having occasioned this architectural modification. the city is excellently supplied with fish; the market is noted both for the quantity and the variety of its supply, which amounts to nearly tons annually. round the bay of cadiz are situated towns and harbours of considerable size, whose united commerce is almost equal to that of cadiz itself. of these, puerto de st. maria ( , ), on the northern side of the bay, is the great harbour for the shipment of sherry wines. immense quantities of salt are made, chiefly for exportation, in the salinas between puerto real and san fernando ( , ), and chiclana ( , ), on the san pedro canal, which cuts off the isle of leon from the mainland. the export of wine from the whole bay was, in gallons. butts. , , , or , , , , " , , , , " , " , " , xeres de la frontera ( , ), situated about thirty miles from cadiz, surrounded by vineyards, is a city of bodegas, or wine-cellars, the principal of which, as well as of the vineyards, are in the hands of foreigners. it is one of the busiest of spanish commercial towns, and, like barcelona, is on that account less peculiarly spanish than many others. the exportation of sherry wines from the district, and those shipped at port st. mary, amounted, in , to , butts; , , butts; from jerez alone, in , , butts; , , butts; , , butts; per cent, of which goes to great britain and her colonies. the decrease in later years is probably caused by the greater amount of lighter french wines now consumed in england. san lucar de barrameda ( , ), at the mouth of the guadalquiver, is noted for its winter-gardens, which are said to date from moorish times, and which supply cadiz and seville with their earliest fruits and vegetables. from its vineyards, too, comes the stomachic manzanilla sherry, flavoured with the wild camomile, which grows abundantly in its vineyards. arcos ( , ), on the guadalete, is the only other spanish town of importance in the province; but to the south lies the isolated rock and fortress of gibraltar ( , ), captured by the earl of peterborough in . though held only as an english garrison ( ), and made almost impregnable as a fortress, it is yet of considerable commerce from its position as a port of call for vessels passing the straits of gibraltar, and also from its contraband trade with spain, which is a source of constant irritation between the two nations. in natural history, it is remarkable for its apes (_macacus inuus_), as the only spot in europe where any species of monkey lives, and it is doubtful whether even these would survive without the aid of occasional importations from morocco. _seville_ is the typical province of andalusia, and its city of , ranks fourth in population of the cities of spain. the moors have left deeper outward traces at granada, but here they have fused more thoroughly with the population, and have given it the oriental grace and culture which is lacking in the former place; their wit belongs to themselves. seville is peculiarly the home of spanish art; the greatest of her painters, murillo and velasquez, were born there, and zurbaran painted his best pieces to adorn her walls. her writers are scarcely less noted. the most celebrated novelist of modern spain, cecilia bohl de faber (fernan caballero), had her home there. there amador de los rios composed his chief works. the becquers--both the painter and the novelist--were born there. it is a city of predilection for all of artistic tastes. the giralda, a tower of moorish architecture, rivals, if it does not surpass, in its exquisite proportions the _campanille_ of italian art. the alcazar is a home of beauty. the _patios_, or inner courts, of many of the houses have remains of moorish decoration. the cathedral shows that christian lags not far behind moslem architecture. but seville, on the guadalquiver, is not a mere city of pleasure. like paris, its gay exterior contains a great deal of real work and commerce within. since the invention of steam, allowing sea-going vessels to breast with ease the current of the guadalquiver, it has drawn to itself a great deal of the traffic which formerly passed through the harbours of the bay of cadiz. the tonnage of its shipping amounts to about , tons, and the value of its imports to over , , _l_., and of its exports to , , _l_., one-half of which belongs to great britain. among its manufactories, one of porcelain, carried on by a british company, but employing spanish methods, is celebrated; and its tobacco manufactory, with its women workers, is the largest government establishment of the kind in spain. the city long enjoyed almost a monopoly of west indian and of manilla productions; the wealth brought by the galleons was deposited here, and here are still preserved the "archivos de las indias." it possesses both a university and a mint. the lower part of the guadalquiver runs through marshy lands, which in places present almost impenetrable jungles. in these are bred the bulls which supply the bull-fights with their victims, and which make seville the great school of _tauromachia_ in spain. the finest andalusian horses are also produced in this province, and the wines, though not equal to those of the neighbouring provinces of cadiz and cordova, are still highly esteemed. besides seville, the chief towns are ecija ( , ) on the jenil, a place of large trade; carmona ( , ); ossuna ( , ). utrera, lebriga, and marchena would be considerable towns in other provinces, but we can only indicate them here. from the absence of mountains seville has not the mineral wealth of some other provinces, but coal is worked at villanueva del rio, and the copper-mines at arnalcollar yield , tons of ore; other outlying deposits of the huelva beds are found in this province, and a great part of the lead from the linares mines is shipped here. _huelva_, the last maritime province of spain, conterminous with portugal on the west and with seville on the east, with its capital of , , is one of the richest mining districts in europe. worked in prehistoric times, and in the mythical dawn of history, by iberians, phoenicians, carthaginians, and romans, the mines of tharsis and of the rio tinto were strangely neglected by the spaniards until purchased by an anglo-german company in for , , _l_., but with the certainty of a rich return. there are now over men employed by this company, and , tons of copper ore were extracted in from the south lode only; about , tons of hematite iron were also sold. the mines contain sulphur, copper, iron, and silver. in fact, the mountains round the source of the tinto seem to be almost one mass of mineral ore. from the working of these mines the development of the riches of this province has been most rapid of late years, and the tonnage of shipping from the port of huelva will probably soon rival, if not surpass, that of cadiz: in the foreign shipping was , tons; this had ascended to over , tons in . the imports were valued in at , _l_., of which , _l_. were british; and in to over , , of which not quite one-half was british. the exports are of far greater importance, ranging from , _l_. in , of which , _l_. were british, to , , _l_. in , of which , , _l_. went to great britain. except in minerals, the province is not rich; but a trade which will probably increase, has lately sprung up in wines, fruits, and cork. the frontier stream the guadiana is of little use to spain, and the little port of palos, whence columbus set out to give a new world to spain, is now completely silted up. _cordova._--the interior provinces of andalusia are _cordova_ and _jaen_, both on the guadalquiver, the latter embracing the sources and upper part of the course, the former the central portion before it enters the province of seville. the northern part of the province of cordova is covered by parallel ranges of low mountains running east and west--the sierras de cordova and de pedroches within the province, and the sierras de almaden and morena, which form the boundary of castile. _cordova_, the capital, contains now but , inhabitants in place of the , , who dwelt there when it was the seat of the western khalifat. its mosque, almost the sole remnant of its former splendour, with its columns, is to islam what the temple of karnac at thebes, and that of karnac in brittany, with their pillars, are to the religions of egypt and of prehistoric europe. it is perhaps the grandest building for worship ever raised by moslem hands; its materials were pillaged without scruple from shrines of older civilizations, but were wrought into new and fairer forms of beauty by the magic of arabian art. as a christian city, cordova is of only second rank. it is chiefly noted for its leather work, and for its commerce in wines and fruits. it is to cordova that the amontillada sherry--the most prized of spanish wines--comes, from the vineyards round montilla ( , ). the only other town of importance in the province is lucena ( , ), to the south. _jaen_, like huelva, at the opposite extremity of andalusia, is a mining province, and like those of huelva its mines are chiefly in the hands of englishmen and of foreigners. linares ( , ), north of the guadalquiver, is the centre of the mining district, and is far the most populous town in the province. nearly , men, women, and boys were employed in the lead-mines in , and the ore raised amounted to , tons. it has been calculated that the production of the world is about , tons of lead, of which spain furnishes , tons and the united kingdom , tons. the capital, jaen, south of the great river, has only , inhabitants; ubeda and baza, close together, a little south of jaen, have each , . andujar ( , ), with its old bridge over the guadalquiver, is noted for its porous pottery, the cooling water-jars used throughout the whole of southern spain. in the north of this province is the celebrated pass of despeña-perros, through the sierra morena, one of the wildest gorges through which the traveller passes in any part of europe; a few miles to the south of it is las navas de tolosa, the field of the battle in which first proved how fast the power of the moors was waning in southern spain. estremadura, conterminous on the west with portugal and on the south with huelva, is the wildest and least peopled of all the provinces of spain, and has been almost sufficiently described in a former chapter. it is divided into the two modern provinces of _badajoz_ and _caceres_, through which run respectively the two rivers, the guadiana and the tagus. desolate as it is now, the numerous roman remains at merida ( ) and trajan's mighty bridge at alcantara tell what it was in roman times; but in moorish days it suffered more from war than any other province, and the curse, the "_mesta_," the only means the christian conquerors had of utilizing their vast and thinly-peopled properties, has ever since rested upon it. besides its flocks and herds its chief wealth consists in acorns and bark for tanning, and cork for other purposes. the rivers run in deep gorges, almost cañons, and are useless for either navigation or for irrigation. badajoz ( , ), on the guadiana, one of the frontier fortresses of spain towards portugal, is by far the largest city. higher up the river are merida and medellin, but don benito ( , ) is of greater commercial importance than either. _caceres_, a province still more thinly peopled than badajoz, having only fifteen inhabitants instead of nineteen to the square kilometre, has , for its chief town; plasencia, on the xerte, an affluent of the alagon, has only half that number. in the north-east of this province, on the southern spurs of the lofty sierra de gredos, stands the monastery san juste, to which the emperor charles v. retired on his resignation of his many crowns. the shepherds of estremadura, notwithstanding the scanty population, gave numbers of emigrants to the new world; cortez and pizarro were swineherds, the one of medellin, the other of truxillo. the town of alcantara gives its name to one of the three great military orders of spain. new castile and la mancha comprise the five modern provinces of _ciudad real_, _toledo_, _madrid_, _cuenca_, and _guadalajara_, which all take their names from their chief towns. the province of _ciudad real_, which lies between the sierra de morena and the mountains of toledo, is traversed by the guadiana. it is the most thinly populated of all the provinces of spain, having only thirteen inhabitants to the square kilometre; but it is by no means the least wealthy. it contains within it the quicksilver-mines of almaden ( ), the richest deposit in the world before the late discoveries in california. they were a source of revenue to the spanish crown for centuries, with an annual rent of over a quarter of a million. they were however mortgaged by the government for thirty years in order to raise a loan of , , _l._ at five per cent., to be extinguished in . the average annual extract is estimated at , tons of mercury. the vineyards round valdepeñas ( , ) supply the red wine which is the favourite beverage of the spaniards throughout the centre and the south, and the home consumption of which is far beyond that of the sherries. almagro ( , ) is known for its lace manufacture; but ciudad-real, the capital ( , ), is fallen from its ancient importance. damiel ( , ) and manzanares ( ) are the only other towns that need mention. _toledo_ ( , ), watered by the tagus, was for centuries the most important city of spain. it is here that the great councils which really regulated the civil as well as the ecclesiastical administration of spain, from the fourth to the eighth centuries were held. here too was one of the centres of arabic civilization: the waterworks, clocks, and observatory of toledo were among the wonders of the world from the tenth to the twelfth centuries, and even after its capture by the christians, in , the conqueror seemed for a while to have fallen under the same spell. the court of alfonso x., the wise, was a semi-moorish court, and his tolerance excited the indignant wonder of travellers from other parts of europe. moorish and christian architecture is still most strangely blended in many of its buildings, and moorish architects were long employed to keep in repair not only the structures which their ancestors had raised, but even the christian churches. the skill of its ironworkers and the temper of its sword-blades were renowned throughout europe. the superiority of its steel was said to be due to some peculiar virtue of the water of the tagus used in tempering; but the best of the iron was taken from the mines of mondragon, in guipuzcoa. the manufactory has greatly fallen from its ancient splendour, but some good weapons are still made, though they cannot compete in price with british or foreign goods. the insurrection of its inhabitants under the "comuneros" in , in defence of the ancient constitutional liberties of castille probably determined the selection of the more obsequious town of madrid as the capital of spain by the emperor charles v. toledo, with its narrow streets and semi-moorish houses, is emphatically the city of old spain; the purest spanish is said still to be spoken there, and for native poets and romancers it seems to have an attraction beyond that of any of the cities of andalusia. the only other town of importance in the province is talavera, with its fifteenth-century bridge of nearly a quarter of a mile in length. _madrid._--the province of madrid lies between the sierra de guadarrama on the north and the tagus on the south. the city, which now contains almost , inhabitants, was a third or fourth-rate town until charles v., and after him philip ii., chose it for the capital of spain, in place of either toledo or valladolid. its recommendations seem to have been its central position, and the absence of any strong traditions of ancient constitutional liberties, such as might hamper the sovereign in developing his new despotism. a city which owed its creation entirely to the sovereign, and its riches to to the presence of his court, would be certain to be obedient to its rulers. if charles v. and philip ii. did not make it the centre of a free and constitutional government, they at least enriched it with all the treasures of art which the rulers of the greater part of europe could collect from the various parts of their vast dominions. it is at the museum of madrid, which owes its existence to ferdinand vii., that not only spanish, but also many of the flemish and some of the italian painters can be best studied; and by a happy chance the royal palace, built in the eighteenth century, is one of the least faulty and most impressive structures of that age. at the west end of the city, on the banks of the manzanares, are the royal gardens; at the opposite extremity the promenades of the prado and the gardens of the buen retiro. these artificial parks and walks in some way compensate for the dreary and almost desert aspect of the country round madrid; for there are "_despoblados_" and "_destierros_" almost within sight of the greatest city of spain. it is now approached by rail from all sides, and the convergence of these iron roads and of the highways will probably secure its future position as the capital of the nation; but until the present century, contrary to that of most european capitals, the approach to madrid seemed to be an approach from civilization to barbarism. as the traveller neared the capital, whether from the north or from the east and south, the inns grew worse, the roads more impassable, and the difficulty of procuring food greater in the neighbourhood of the capital than elsewhere; the contrast of magnificence and meanness, of dirt and discomfort and formal etiquette in the city itself, until the time of charles iii., is the theme of every visitor. of late its character has much changed; the increase of its population has not been caused by the natural growth of its inhabitants, but by the migration thither of catalans, gallegos, asturians, basques, and especially of andalusians; and thus the puerta del sol, the heart of madrid, has become, as it were, the heart of spain, and almost every political and social movement which stirs the nation has its origin there. though not quite to the extent with which paris absorbs france, still madrid collects to itself the greater part of the intellectual and literary life of the nation. it is madrid that supplies most of the daily journals, the scientific periodicals, reviews, and literature to the rest of spain. here is the seat of the learned academies and of the chief literary, educational, and scientific institutions. the universities, the national and the free, the ateneo, the great public libraries of madrid, are the best in spain. it is here that cortés meets, here that the elections are arranged, all the lines of spanish administration converge hither, and it is here that the intrigues for place or power are principally conducted, and unhappily we must add it is thus that madrid is also the focus and example of administrative corruption for the rest of spain. [illustration: fountain of the four seasons, madrid. _page ._] besides madrid, the province contains two other royal residencies, aranjuez to the south, at the junction of the tagus with the jarama, and the escorial to the north, at the foot of the guadarrama. the chief attractions of the former consist in its abundant supply of water, in its fountains and running streams, and in the avenues and groves of lofty trees, whose roots are fed by these waters. the escorial is of an entirely opposite character. this vast and extraordinary structure was raised by philip ii., in pursuance of a vow made at the battle of st. quentin, august (st. lawrence's day), ; the ground-plan is that of a mighty gridiron, to recall that on which the martyr suffered. the central piece of architecture is a chapel, impressive from its grand simplicity; and however faulty the general design of the vast edifice, several details, and especially the frescoes of the ceilings and some of the paintings, are of great beauty. the whole fabric, in its severe and sombre majesty, harmonizes well with the bare and wind-swept granite mountains near which it is placed. like most of the other treasure-houses of spain, it suffered severely from pillage during the french invasion. _acala de henares_ ( ) was celebrated in the sixteenth century as a university under the patronage of the cardinal ximenes, and here the celebrated complutensian polyglot bible was printed. it was also the birthplace of cervantes. the canal of henares is described above, pp. , . _cuenca_, one of the most thinly populated as well as one of the most mountainous provinces of spain, stretches on two sides of the chief watershed, and the waters of the streams which rise in this province from different slopes of the cerro de san felipe flow to the atlantic and to the mediterranean. cuenca ( ), the capital, is still untouched by railway routes, and slumbers on its lofty cliff, and emerged into temporary notoriety by its capture and sack by alphonso, the brother of don carlos, in . _guadalajara_ ( ), on the henares, though on the line of railway between saragossa and madrid, is scarcely more lively than cuenca, but it contains the school for military engineers, the most distinguished corps in the spanish army, and which has never stained its character by political intrigue. the province supports a slightly higher population than that of cuenca. old castile was with leon for several centuries the chief of the rising kingdoms of spain, and the one into which all the rest gradually merged. it now contains five provinces, _avila_, _segovia_, _soria_, _logroño_, and _burgos_. avila ( ), still surrounded by its mediæval walls in excellent preservation, is one of the most picturesque cities in spain, at an altitude of nearly feet above the sea-level. the province is remarkable as the one in which the rudely-sculptured stone monuments of boars and bulls, the "toros de guisando," are chiefly found. they are the art remains of a population whose name, age, and ethnic affinities are totally unknown. the southern half of this province is traversed by the lofty sierra de gredos, and hiding in its secluded valleys are some of the most primitive peoples of spain. there are no other large towns in the province. _segovia_ ( ), another of the picturesque cities of spain, contains fine specimens of roman, moorish, and christian mediæval architecture in its wondrous aqueduct, cathedral, the alcazar, and castle. it was formerly a place of great commercial as well as of political importance, and was the centre of a trade in woollen goods which employed , workmen, and made the cloth of segovia celebrated throughout europe. this commerce has now utterly departed, both from it and from the other cities, such as avila, medina del campo, which shared its reputation. it is now visited by the lover of the picturesque, whose taste will be here abundantly gratified. not far from segovia, under the peñalarra ( feet), on the northern slope of the guadarrama range, are la granja and san ildefonso. at a height of feet above the level of the sea, this is the most agreeable of all the inland royal residences of spain. built in french taste by philip v., it is redeemed from banality by its pleasant surroundings. but retired and peaceful as it looks, la granja has been the scene of some of the most important political events in the modern history of spain. the celebrated passes of somosierra ( feet), and that of the col de guadarrama ( ), lead from this province to madrid; the railway, too, attains at la cañada a height of feet above the level of the sea. _soria_, on the north-eastern edge of the great plateau, is one of the poorest provinces of spain. leaning on the sierra de moncayo, the whole of the northern and central part of the province slopes gradually to the west, and is watered by the douro, which takes its rise in the sierra de moncayo. the southern angle of the province contains also the sources of the jalon, which, flowing through a break in the idubeda range, finds its way to the ebro, and thence to the mediterranean, the upper courses of the two rivers completely overlapping. in spite of these two river-valleys the province is very unproductive. soria, near the site of the keltiberean numantia, which held out for twenty-nine years against the romans, contains but inhabitants. osma, on the douro, has barely , and agreda ( ) is celebrated only for the visions of a nun in the sixteenth century. the province of _burgos_ overlaps the plateau, and in its northern and southern extremities embraces the valleys both of the ebro and the douro, with their respective towns, miranda del ebro and aranda del douro. the basins of these two rivers are separated by the oca or idubeda mountains, which cross the centre of the province. the difference of the elevation of the two valleys may be seen in the fact that while miranda del ebro is feet above the sea-level, burgos is more than . burgos ( , ) and aranda del douro were formerly towns of considerable commerce, and the former had at one time a claim to be considered the chief city of northern spain. it has now greatly fallen, but will always be visited for the noble remains of gothic architecture in the city and its suburbs. miranda del ebro ( ), when the river formed the customs line for all commerce passing from the basque provinces into spain, was of great consequence, and is now the point of junction for the northern lines of railway from bilbao and from irun. in this province, too, is the pass of pancorbo, through which both road and railway wind; for savage wildness it is inferior only to that of the above-mentioned despeña-perros in the sierra morena. the whole province of _logroño_ lies in the southern half of the valley of the ebro, and leans against the mountains which form the supports of the great plateau. the ebro forms its northern boundary, and its chief towns, logroño ( , ) and calahorra ( ), are both on the river. here the traveller from the north first sees the noria or moorish water-wheel at work. the province is noted chiefly for its strong, rough wines, and for its agricultural products. navarete is known in english history as the spot where the black prince and bertrand du guesclin fought out their mightiest duel, the one as the partisan of pedro the cruel, and the other of henry of trastamare. the kingdom of leon is divided into five provinces, _salamanca_, _valladolid_, _zamora_, _palencia_, _leon_. _salamanca_ lies along the portuguese frontier, which is here formed by the rivers douro and agueda. the city ( , ) was famous throughout the early part of the middle ages for its university and for its arabic and hebrew learning. it thus became in popular estimation the home of magic and of the black arts, and as such its name is found in the folk-lore tales of many parts of europe; its students, poor, riotous, and witty, made it the birthplace of the peculiar, picaresque romance literature of spain, from lazarillo de tormes to gil blas. like all the spanish provincial universities, it is but the shadow of its former self, nor does the city preserve any of the older features which still make toledo a delight to the tourist. its old bridge over the tormes is said to date from roman times. bejar ( ) does a fair trade as a manufactory of cloth. ciudad rodrigo ( ) is one of the strongest fortresses of spain, and guards, with badajoz, the frontier against portugal. the provinces of salamanca and zamora contain some of the most peculiar and picturesque peasantry yet remaining in spain; even around salamanca the festal dresses of the charros and charras are rich with gold and silver ornaments of moorish type. in the valley of the batuecas, amid the sierra de gata, the hurdes, and to the west of zamora, the sayagos, and again, the maragatos, to the north-west of the province, in the mountains of leon, are all remnants of ancient races, preserving habits and tribal customs and laws, differing from their neighbours, and well worthy of the study, as survivals, of the comparative ethnologist. the contrabandistas of the province are among the boldest in spain; they cross the douro and its deep ravine, sometimes on rafts or on inflated skins; at others, when the river is in flood, in baskets suspended from ropes flung across the whole ravine. _zamora_ ( , ), formerly a strong walled city on the douro, in a rich country, notwithstanding the rail which unites it to the medina del campo, still remains one of the decaying towns of spain. toro ( ), higher up the stream, is a busier town. a great impulse will probably be given to all this district, now one of the most behindhand in spain, by the completion of the portuguese lines of beira-alta, connecting lisbon and oporto with paris by the north spanish lines. benavente ( ), on the esla, is the only other town we have to notice. _leon_, which gave its name to one of the old kingdoms of spain before the re-conquest of the castiles, is full of towns which recall the glories of the past, but which are of little importance in modern times. the capital ( ) is noted for its cathedral and churches, which are perhaps the purest specimens of gothic, unmixed with arabian art, to be found in spain. the province is generally mountainous, especially to the north and west, and the higher lands afford excellent summer pasture for flocks from the plains, and even from estremadura. the valley of the esla is extremely fertile. astorga ( ) may be considered as the capital of the maragatos, of whom we have spoken above; like sahagun ( ), it is a town of ancient consequence now dwindling to insignificance. the "_fuero_" or charter of sahagun, , was the model of the "_fueros_" or constitutional privileges of the castiles, which were eventually lost in the war of the _comuneros_ in the time of charles v. _palencia._--through this province passes the canal of castile from alar del rey to valladolid, borrowing its waters from the pisuerga, and is the most useful for transport of all the canals of spain. this waterway is less needed now, owing to the railway of the north from valladolid to santander, to bilbao, and to san sebastian, which runs parallel to it; but it will be always available for local traffic. the capital is a walled city on the banks of the carrion, a little above its junction with the pisuerga, an affluent of the douro; its cathedral is remarkable for its size and simplicity, but is otherwise inferior to leon. the valleys, watered by these rivers are very rich in cereals, which find their outlet for exportation at santander. the great coal-field of the asturias extends into the north of this province, and at barruelo de santillana is largely worked by the northern railway company, and supplies madrid with a yearly increasing quantity of coal. the villages near the mines are fast becoming populous towns. _valladolid_ ( , ) was till the middle of the sixteenth century the capital of spain, and is likely to become of great importance in the near future as the point of junction of all the spanish and portuguese railways of the north and west. the douro flows through the centre of the province, and the plains of valladolid are perhaps the most fertile of all those in north-western spain. it is a great centre for the corn-trade of the castiles, and the smoke from its tall chimneys tells also of manufacturing industry. there are here two colleges for scotch and irish students for the roman catholic priesthood. they were established at the time of the persecutions in england, but are much less frequented now than formerly. medina del campo ( ) an ancient commercial city, was ruined in the wars of the _comuneros_, but may recover somewhat of its former traffic as a junction of railways. a town of similar name and standing, medina de rio seco ( ), is in the north of the province; both are situated in rich corn-growing plains. tordesillas ( ), on the douro, owes its existence to the junction of roads which cross the river by its noble bridge. in this province is the castle of simancas, wherein are deposited the archives of spain, as those of the indies are at seville. long closed to the world, they are now open to the researches of scholars, and guides and inventories in aid are being published during the present year. _the balearic isles._ these islands are geologically a submarine continuation of the valencian mountains which sink into the sea at cape nao. they are divided into two groups: ( ) minorca, majorca, cabrera, and a few islets; the nearest point of which to the mainland is soller on majorca, ninety-three miles distant; ( ) iviza and formentera, with some smaller satellites, are within sixty miles of the spanish coast. the whole superficies of the islands is nearly two thousand square miles. the inhabitants number about , . the climate is equable but exceedingly variable within somewhat narrow limits; the average both for minorca and majorca being sixty-four, the highest temperature ninety, and the lowest forty-four. the average rainfall is nearly twenty inches. majorca, the largest of the islands is about sixty miles from east to west, and fifty from north to south. the surface is very broken, but with a few fertile plains; the greatest elevation is feet. minorca, twenty and a half miles to the east of majorca, is twenty miles long by six broad. iviza, the largest island of the western group is only four miles by four. the highest points of these two islands are about feet; but iviza retains traces of volcanic action which seem to connect it geologically with the extinct catalan volcanoes, by way of the columbretes rocks, and the point de la baña at the mouth of the ebro. majorca and minorca are remarkable for erections called "talayots," similar to the "nuraghies" of sardinia; they are the work of one of the many prehistoric, or at least unrecorded races whose blood mingles in the veins of the present inhabitants, and the origin of them has given rise to almost as many theories as those of the round towers of ireland and scotland. in the west of majorca is the remarkable and extensive cavern of arta. the language of the islanders is one of the purest dialects of the provençal speech. the only separate race now in the islands is that of the "_chuetas_" or converted jews, who still keep apart notwithstanding their nominal christianity. the population is mostly engaged in agriculture, and the islands export fruits, oil, leather, and a few cattle, to an annual value altogether of , _l>_, while the imports amount to , _l>_. the land is cultivated mostly by peasant proprietors and metayers in small holdings, and by reason of steady emigration those who remain are fairly prosperous. the people show strong aesthetic tastes, and the art school of palma is one of the most flourishing of the whole of spain. the chief towns on majorca are palma, on the east coast, of , inhabitants; manacor, in the centre, of , ; felanitz, , ; and llummayor, soller, inca, and pollensa, of about each. minorca has only two towns of importance, port mahon, , , and ciudella, , at opposite extremities of the island. port mahon is perhaps the finest harbour in the mediterranean, and is also one of its strongest fortresses; during the english occupation the town attained great prosperity. iviza has only one town, of the same name as the island, containing inhabitants. we have noticed before that the majolica ware was not made in these islands, but at valencia, and that it acquired the name from balearic vessels being used for its export to italy. chapter vi. history and political constitution. in order to understand the present constitution, the political condition, and the aspirations of the spanish nation, it is absolutely necessary to have some slight acquaintance with its previous history. this we propose to give as briefly as possible. in the eleventh and twelfth centuries there is no doubt that the inhabitants of northern spain, under some of the petty kings, enjoyed more constitutional liberty than any other people in europe; that their institutions generally, and especially their municipal privileges, were more in accordance with the ideas of modern freedom and self-government than those of any other nation at that date. the feudal system never attained in northern spain, except in parts of catalonia, the systematic development, and the organized oppression of the lower classes, which it reached in many other parts of europe. the peculiar institution of "_behetria_," which prevailed in leon and the castiles, and by which a serf was free to go whither he would "from sea to sea," with all his goods, and to put himself under any lord he chose, was of itself an almost sufficient check to excessive tyranny by the nobles. the old roman municipal organization, of the towns had been preserved by tradition throughout the whole of the visigothic times down to , nor had the practical working completely died out at the epoch of the early reconquest of the north. hence many of the charters or "_fueros_" granted to the towns and cities by the kings are evidently founded on a recollection of former institutions, modified according to the necessities of the times. thus the charter of leon ( ) expressly allows exemption from all arbitrary exactions, and grants the free election of the _alcalde_, and of the municipal council, with only the appointment of the judges by the king. by the _fuero_ of arganzon ( ) it is expressly stated that if these royal officers overpassed their duties, it would be lawful to kill them without incurring any responsibility. similar but still more strongly-worded clauses are found in all the basque _fueros_, and in the coronation oath of aragon. the representatives of the burgesses, "el estado llano," the low estate in the "cortés" or parliaments, began much earlier in spain than in other countries. burgesses sat in the cortés at leon certainly in , if not in that of burgos in . in aragon they were present still earlier, in , in navarre in , in catalonia, where feudalism was more developed than elsewhere, in . these dates are simply those of the first mention of the fact, not necessarily that of its first institution; the records rather imply their presence at former sessions. we find also early protests against judicial and administrative abuses which prevailed long afterwards in other parts of europe. in the _fuero_ of arganzon ( ) the inhabitants claim exemption from the ordeal of iron, hot-water, or battle. in , the _fuero_ of molina demands that justice be done to all, and truth spoken without favour or bribery of any kind whatever. the original capitulations granted to the moors and mudejares of castile, and especially to those of aragon, breathe the same liberal spirit. they are granted full liberty in the exercise of their own religion, and to live under their own laws in their own quarters, subject only to some fixed tribute and service. the spirit of bigotry and of hatred between the two races commenced with the foreign monks, with the semi-religious military orders, and with the legal classes; afterwards it spread to the common people through envy at the better use which the jews, mudejares, and moriscos made of the privileges granted to them, and the consequent superiority of their condition compared with that of the serfs and lower classes of the christians. it is this fact which explains the rising of the population at saragossa in favour of the inquisition against the mudejares and jews. travellers in spain, even to the middle of the fifteenth century, were scandalized at the toleration of the moors by the king and the court. theologians, lawyers (except the royal judges), medical men, and traders were they who called for oppression of the moors; the two last classes evidently through jealousy of the superior skill and industry of moors and jews as doctors and merchants; the literary class, the poets, nobles, and kings were in favour of toleration. afterwards indeed, in the fifteenth, sixteenth, and seventeenth centuries, the ravages of the pirate ships of algiers and tunis roused an indignation and excited a far more intense abhorrence than had existed in earlier times, when christian and moslem knights met in fair and equal warfare. the development of these early liberties, and the progress of the cause of toleration and of true civilization in spain, were checked by circumstances which would assuredly have acted in a similar way in any other nation. the establishment of the military orders, the conquest of the south, especially the last campaign against granada, put forces into the hand of the king greater than those possessed at that time by any other monarch. the richest half of spain, the newly-conquered mussulman provinces, had not only no liberties of their own except those granted in their respective capitulations, and which were speedily revoked, but had neither knowledge of, nor any interest in the liberties of the north. they were entirely at the mercy of their conquerors, ferdinand and isabella, who had the control of the finest army of christendom. the mastership of all the great semi-monastic military orders, which had hitherto been elective, was now granted to ferdinand by pope innocent viii. ( ), and they were incorporated with the crown by a bull of adrian vi. ( ). an almost equally powerful engine in the royal hands was the secret police of the santa hermandad ( ), founded to restrain the excesses of the nobles and the practice of private war. the success of this institution in the cause of order explains both the institution and the popularity of the inquisition. it is easy to see what a leverage was thus put into the royal hands to destroy the liberties of the north of spain. add to this that the separate kingdoms, navarre, aragon, valencia, the castiles, and the basque provinces had not yet been united under a single head, nor had learned to work together, except in war, for a single purpose. catalonia and aragon had indeed some sympathy with each other, but they had none with leon and castile; their peculiar language and habits isolated the basque provinces and navarre from any of the rest. a century of free representation and debate in a national cortés might have changed all this, but the opportunity was not given. the discovery and the conquest of america, and the subsequent emigration of the bolder spirits, turned men's thoughts away from internal reform and the home constitution. next the fatal election to the empire of charles v. threw into his hands fitting agents, in his foreign and ecclesiastical ministers and governors, wherewith to crush any rising of the people. cardinal ximenes was the only minister in europe who at that date could have pointed to a standing army with the proud words, "with these i govern castile; and with these i will govern it, until the king, your master and mine, takes possession of his kingdom." yet even to the end of the seventeenth century the king swore to preserve the ancient privileges of aragon and catalonia. the "_fueros_" of navarre were intact until , and those of the basque provinces till . the wonder is, not that the spanish liberties were crushed, but that the memory of them should have continued so long, and after so many ages of repression should yet be a living force with which every statesman and ruler of spain has still to make his account. the suppression of spanish liberty had already begun under the reign of ferdinand and isabella, but the death of francis i. and the retreat of charles v. into the cloister of san juste definitely closes both the period of chivalry and of such liberties as existed through the middle ages in europe. with philip ii. begins the era of statesmanship and of bureaucratic centralization, when nations were really ruled from the closet and with the pen, not with the sovereign's sword or by his presence in the field. it is difficult for an englishman to sympathize with the view, but the period of philip ii. is still looked upon by the majority of spaniards as the golden era of the external position of spain. his absolutism, and his concentration in his own person of all civil and religious rights, are condoned in their eyes by the glory of his having made spain the arbiter of europe and the champion of catholicism. but with his successor set in that strange and progressive decadence of intellectual power in the sovereigns of the austrian dynasty in spain, which ended in the almost idiotcy of the childless charles ii. spain, which in the reign of philip ii. had all but imposed the sovereign of her choice in france, in the reign of charles ii. was ruled according to the intrigues and caprice of the court of versailles. philip v., the grandson of louis xiv., though vastly superior to the late austrian sovereigns, could never thoroughly emancipate himself from the tutelage of the country to whose armies he owed his crown; and the family degeneracy, which had shown itself in the austrian sovereigns, again appeared in the bourbon family, and communicated itself to the whole nation. the military and naval greatness of spain disappeared, the very wish for constitutional liberty died out, commerce and literature were almost extinct, the population was declining in numbers and increasing in misery, the country was daily growing poorer, and its wealth was ebbing slowly away to other lands. the noble aristocracy of spain, once so full of loyal self-respect in the age of the cid, grovelled at the sovereign's feet, jealous only for precedence in matters of court etiquette, or clamorous for posts in the colonies as a means of corruption, and of enriching themselves by the plunder of the provinces they administered. the only king who showed some royal talent, and who intelligently endeavoured to effect the improvement of spain, was charles iii. ( -- ). unfortunately both he and his able ministers, instead of basing their reforms on the native liberties and constitutions of spain, imitated almost wholly the spurious liberalism of the encyclopædists and doctrinaires of france. hence few of their reforms took root. those that were not immediately done away with did not grow or develope. the successors of charles iii. were still more feeble than his immediate predecessors, and the condition of the royal family was such that napoleon had no difficulty in forcing them to abdicate, and to crown his brother joseph king of spain; but the nation, unlike the royal family, refused to acquiesce in this usurpation of their rights, and rose as one man to avenge the burning wrong. [illustration: port of cadiz. _page ._] the modern history of spain begins naturally with that of the war of liberation, may nd, , and politically with the cortés of cadiz, , and with the constitution then promulgated. this declares: that the spanish nation is not the patrimony of any family or person; that the sovereignty resides essentially in the nation, which is the conservator of its own liberties and rights. the sole religion is and shall always be the apostolic roman. the legislative power resides in the cortés with the king. the suffrage was universal, and one deputy was to be elected for every , souls. entails and feudal privileges had been abolished by a law of august th, , the liberty of the press was voted, and in the inquisition was suppressed. the french had been expelled, chiefly through the assistance of england, and the king had returned from captivity; all looked well for the new era. but in ferdinand vii. violated the oath which he had sworn to observe the constitution; the inquisition was re-established; the feudal exactions on real property were restored; and the fatal policy of violent reaction and of ruthless vengeance on political opponents was inaugurated which has wrought such deadly harm to the cause of progress in spain. after an absolute government of six years, riego raised the standard of revolt at cadiz, and again ferdinand swore to observe the constitution of : further reforms were established. in , tithes were partially suppressed, and the church was forbidden to acquire any more real property. a law of may rd, , affirmed in stronger terms the law of on the abolition of entail: the religious orders were done away with. but in the same year, with the assistance of a french army under the duc d'angoulême, ferdinand conquered the liberals and again violated his oath to observe the constitution. every act of the cortés for the last four years was annulled. riego, with other chiefs of the liberal party, was put to death under circumstances of atrocious cruelty, others were banished, and a crafty and tenacious system of persecution was directed against every liberal for the rest of the reign. during this reign, too, through denial of all reform or suppression of any abuse, the whole of the vast colonial empire of spain on the continent of the americas was totally lost. on the death of ferdinand vii., june , , another element of discord was introduced. the first bourbon king, philip v., in defiance of ancient spanish precedents to the contrary, had introduced the salic law from france, and had procured its solemn promulgation by cortés. ferdinand vii., with the consent of cortés, abrogated this law, and left the crown to his only child, isabella ii., an infant of less than three years old, with her mother, christina of naples, as regent. his brother, don carlos, who, since the king's last marriage, had been intriguing against him with the ultra-conservative party, claimed the throne under the law of philip v. henceforth a dynastic question was added to the standing constitutional one. the carlists declared themselves the champions of legitimacy, the divine right, and of absolutism; and thus forced the party of isabella, the christinos, to appeal for support to the liberal and constitutional party, though they had no more real attachment to the cause, and no more intelligent appreciation of its benefits than had their opponents. a blunder of the liberal party in hesitating to confirm the "_fueros_" of the basques, the last vestige still intact of the ancient constitutional and municipal liberties of spain, greatly strengthened their opponents, who at once seized the opportunity and loudly confirmed them. a war of seven years followed, in which the older liberal generals lost all their former military prestige against zumalacarregui in the basque provinces, and against cabrera in aragon. but the assistance of england, and still more the incapacity of don carlos, at length enabled espartero to finish the war by the convention of vergara, august , , by which _fueros_ were confirmed to the basques on their laying down arms. cabrera continued the war in aragon and catalonia, but two years afterwards was forced with his followers to take refuge in france. during this period constitutional liberty had apparently made great progress in spain, and several useful reforms had been set on foot. but its course had been marred by deeds of atrocious violence, such as the massacre of the monks and the destruction of the convents in , when valuable treasures, both in art and literature, which had been spared in the great peninsular war, were finally lost. all ecclesiastical and church property had been declared national, and the sale of it had been commenced, tithes were wholly suppressed, the _mesta_ was abolished--with results as to the division of property detailed in a former chapter. from the regency of christina dates, in a great degree, the shameless corruption, the selfish intrigues, the abuses of all kinds among the upper _employés_, which with rare exceptions have marked every subsequent government of spain. a reaction set in in , with narvaez as its real chief. to his stern administration, however, are due the establishment of the normal and technical schools, the foundation of the present educational system in spain, and the institution of the _guardias civiles_, a kind of police after the model of the french gendarmerie or the irish constabulary, and which has proved itself the most trustworthy body in spain in defence of law and order under all changes of government. it would be a weariness to the reader to recount all the changes from liberalism to absolutism which followed during the reign of isabella ii. no administration succeeded in impressing on the bulk of the nation the fact that it was honest and capable; none won respect abroad. perhaps that of o'donnell ( - ), during which occurred the successful campaign in morocco, was the least corrupt and inefficient; but the indignation of the country at the shame and corruption of both court and government broke forth at last, and a movement, headed by admiral topete and the fleet at cadiz, in overthrew the government, forced isabella to fly, and declared the bourbons incapable of ruling in spain. on the abdication of isabella ii. in favour of her son, and her retirement into france, a provisional government was formed with serrano, topete, and prim as chief members, to hold the reins of power until cortés should elect a new sovereign. the choice proved far more difficult than was expected. topete and others favoured the claims of the duc de montpensier, the brother-in-law of the late queen, but the objection to any of the bourbon family was at that time too strong; others desired to seize the opportunity of uniting spain and portugal under one head by electing a member of the portuguese royal family; but this was rejected by the princes of portugal. two years were spent in these debates, but at last the choice of prim prevailed, and amadeo, the second son of victor emmanuel ii. of italy, was elected sovereign, th november, . the murder of his chief supporter, prim, before he reached madrid, deprived him of the only support which might have consolidated his dynasty. had it not been for the deeply-rooted dislike of all spaniards to a foreign ruler, amadeo would have proved by far the best sovereign that had sat upon the throne for many generations. he honestly respected the constitution. his court was pure and incorrupt. he was intelligently devoted to the best interests of spain; but he found all his efforts at improvement and reform utterly thwarted by the intrigues of the nobility and of the upper _employés_ of every kind, and after a trial of two years he resigned a post which he could no longer maintain with true dignity and self-respect, and retired to portugal, february th, . thereupon a republic was proclaimed by cortés, with figueras, castelar, and pi y margall as chief ministers. but the events of the last few years, the weakening of the central authority, the attention which the carlist rising in the north had drawn to the ancient "_fueros_" or constitutional privileges of spain, on the one side, and the incidents of the war with the paris commune in france, together with the influence of those of the communists who had found refuge in the industrial cities of the east and south, on the other, produced constant revolts in favour of a federal or cantonalist government of the separate provinces. on july th, , don carlos (carlos vii.) the grandson of the don carlos (carlos v.) of the seven years' war, although both his uncles and his father had solemnly renounced their rights to the throne, re-entered the basque provinces, from which he had been quickly driven by general moriones at oroquieta in a former attempt, and raised the standard of legitimacy and divine right. on the other hand, one after the other, alcoy, malaga, seville, cadiz, and, a few months later, cartagena and valencia, revolted in a communistic or cantonalist conspiracy which threatened the dismemberment of spain, and the destruction of her armaments. it was only after severe fighting, which strained the resources of the government to the utmost, that these cities were subdued. meanwhile don carlos had established himself firmly in the basque provinces, and his brother alfonso headed considerable forces in aragon and catalonia. fortunately barcelona held aloof from the cantonalist and _intransigente_ movement of cartagena and valencia. these events, however, had shown the necessity of tightening the reins of discipline in the army. salmeron, who was now at the head of the ministry, exerted himself to restore order, and endeavoured to work the republic in a conservative sense. a year or two after, at the instigation of castelar, the penalty of death for mutiny was again enforced. after moriones and serrano in the north had both failed in their attempts to raise the seige of bilbao, concha at last succeeded, may , ; and martinez campos, who had crushed the insurrection in valencia, was making way against the carlists in aragon and catalonia. between these generals, with pavia and others, a conspiracy was formed to restore the bourbon monarchy under alfonso xii., son of isabella. serrano offered only a doubtful resistance, and castelar, opposed by the _intransigente_ party, found himself almost alone in upholding a conservative republic. the death of concha, before estella, in navarre, june , , delayed for some months the proclamation of alphonso, but at length it took place, on december , , and the republic fell without a struggle. alphonso xii. landed at barcelona in the first days of , and entered madrid on january th. in spite of some checks, caused by the incapacity of his generals, his power was quickly augmented. many who, through hatred of the republic and of the cantonalist excesses, had joined the carlist ranks, abandoned the cause when monarchy was restored. don carlos had proved to be as incapable as his grandfather had been, and much less reputable in his private life. by the end of august, martinez campos had taken urgel, in catalonia, and by the close of the year he was free to assist quesada in the basque provinces. the united armies were successful, and on february , , don carlos entered france, leaving his followers and the basque provinces entirely at the mercy of the conquerors. the consequence to them has been the partial loss of their _fueros_, the incorporation of the basque conscripts with the rest of the army, and the annexation of the provinces for the first time to the crown of spain. with alphonso xii. entered spain, as his chief adviser, cánovas del castillo. whether nominally prime minister, or out of office, he has really held the reins of power--with the exception of the nine months' ministry of martinez campos in --from to february, . on the whole his exertions have been beneficial to spain. by an arrangement dated january , , and by lowering the rate of interest, he saved the public credit, which was on the verge of utter bankruptcy. insensibly he has detached himself from the progressive liberal movement, and his rule has become more and more conservative. the decree for toleration of religion, passed in the first months of the republic of , has been greatly modified, and interpreted in a sense more and more unfavourable to religious freedom: but he has not succeeded in breaking down the many abuses of the administration, or in putting an end to the corruption of the upper _employés_, or in insuring freedom and purity of parliamentary election; and until this is effected the future of spain must still be doubtful. _present constitution and administration of spain._ it would be tedious and little instructive to our readers to detail the various constitutions under which spain has been governed since . we will give a sketch, as far as we are able, of the last only. by a comparison of this with the constitution of cadiz, it will be seen that, in spite of all reactions, spain has really progressed in the way of freedom and good government. the constitution of the spanish monarchy, june , , declares alphonso xii. de bourbon to be the legitimate king of spain. his person is inviolable, but his ministers are responsible, and all his orders must be countersigned by a minister. the legislative power resides in the cortés with the king. the cortés is composed of two legislative bodies, equal in power--the senate and the congress of deputies. the senate is composed ( ) of senators by their own right, who are--sons of the kings, grandees of spain with _l._ yearly income, the captain-general of the forces, the admiral-in-chief, the patriarch of the indies, the archbishops, the presidents of the council of state, of the supreme tribunal, of the national accounts, of the council of war, and of marine, after two years' service; ( ) of life senators, named by the crown; ( ) of senators elected by the corporations of the state, or the richest citizens--half of these must be renewed every five years. all senators must be thirty-five years of age, and the number of classes ( ) and ( ) together must not exceed that of the elected senators, which is fixed at . the congress of deputies is returned by the electoral juntas, one deputy being elected for every , souls. deputies are elected by universal suffrage, and for a period of five years. the congress meets every year at the summons of the king, who has power to suspend or close the session; but in the latter case, a new congress must meet within three months. the president and vice-presidents of the senate are nominated by the king, those of the congress are elected from its own body. the initiation of the laws belongs to the king, and to both legislative bodies; but the budget, and all financial matters, must be first presented every year to the congress of deputies. no one can be compelled to pay any tax not voted by congress, or by the legally appointed corporations. the sittings are public, and the person of deputies is inviolable. ministers may be impeached by the deputies, but are judged by the senate. justice is administered in the king's name, and judges and magistrates are immovable. the provinces are administered ( ) by a governor, who, with his immediate subordinates, is nominated by the government; ( ) by a provincial deputation, elected by the householders of the province. all members must be natives of, or residents in, the province; their number varies according to the population. ( ) five members elected from the provincial deputation form a provincial commission to conduct business when the deputation is not sitting. these authorities and bodies answer nearly to the prefects and general councils of the french departments. they are of much greater political importance in those provinces which have preserved some of their ancient rights than in others. below the provincial are the municipal authorities, the alcaldes (mayors), ayuntamientos (municipal councils), and the juntas municipales. the internal administration of every parish is entrusted to an ayuntamiento or municipal council, elected by the residents, and composed of the alcalde or mayor, the tenientes or assistants, the regidores or councillors. the junta municipal is composed of all the councillors of the ayuntamiento, and an assembly of three times their number, and by them the municipal accounts are to be audited and revised. the number of the ayuntamiento varies according to the population; one alcalde, one teniente, six regidores, for ; and one alcalde, ten tenientes, thirty-three regidores, for , . the real independence and free action of these bodies varies much in different provinces and in different circumstances. the smaller bodies are quite under the thumb of the central government; the larger ones in the great towns and in the more independent provinces are much less easily influenced. the catholic, apostolic, and roman is declared to be the religion of the state, and the nation is bound to maintain its worship and its ministers. "but no one shall be molested on spanish ground for his religious opinions, nor for the exercise of his respective worship, except it be against christian morals. nevertheless, no other ceremonies or public manifestations shall be permitted than those of the religion of the state." these last two articles are evidently equivocal, and subject to great diversity of interpretation and of application. all foreigners are free to settle in spanish territory, and to exercise therein their respective trades and professions, with the exception of those which require special titles. the expression of opinion, the press, the right of public meeting, of association, and of petition, except from armed bodies, are respectively free. no spaniard or foreigner can be arrested or detained illegally. he must either be set at liberty or be brought before a judge within twenty-four hours of his arrest. no spaniard can be arrested without a judge's warrant, and the case must then be heard within seventy-two hours after his arrest; otherwise he must be set at liberty on his own petition or on that of any other spaniard. domicile is inviolable. such are the principal articles of the present spanish constitution. in spite of the excess of some republican governments and the reaction of others, real progress has been made, excepting only in the equivocal law on religion, and that on marriages between catholics and protestants. _administrative spain._ for military purposes, spain is mapped out into five "capitanias generales," conferring the rank of field-marshal on the possessors of that office. the number of marshals, generals, and superior officers of the special corps in active service is over . the number of the army on a peace footing is fixed at , , the infantry numbering , , the cavalry , , artillery , , and engineers . universal conscription is nominally obligatory, but with the power of purchasing a substitute for a fixed sum of _l._ the time of service is eight years, four of which are spent in the active army and four in the reserve. in the colonies the time is four years only, the whole of which must be spent in active service. besides the regular army in spain are the corps and garrisons in the philippine islands, in porto rico, and in cuba, where the mortality is so great that the troops need constant renewal. in addition to the above must be reckoned the militia of the canary islands, the "guardias civiles," a kind of constabulary like that of ireland or the gendarmerie of france. these are about , men, and are some of the best and most trustworthy troops in spain; the carabineros or custom-house officers, who guard the frontiers, form another corps of about , . towards the close of the late carlist and cuban wars the actual army was far above these numbers, and it is probable that , men were under arms on the side of the government in the basque provinces alone. the spanish soldier is one of the best in europe, if properly commanded. he is sober, and has great powers of endurance; is an excellent marcher, and a trustworthy sentinel; persistent both in attack and defence, he still retains the steadiness of the old spanish "tercios," which were once the terror and admiration of europe. the basques under zumalacarrégui in the first carlist war, and the catalans under martinez campos in the last, earned high praise from all foreign officers who saw them. but too often these fine qualities of the private have been rendered of no avail, owing to the utter want of skill and competency in the officers and commanders, and still more by reckless corruption and mismanagement in all things relating to the commissariat and supplies. another element of deterioration has been the use of the soldiery as mere tools of political intrigue in the frequent revolts and _pronunciamientos_ of ambitious generals. the scientific corps, however, the artillery and engineers, have always stood aloof from sedition. it was an attempt to corrupt the former and to assimilate it in this respect to the rest of the army, which led to the abdication of king amadeo. the generals who have achieved the greatest reputation in the spanish army are quesada and martinez campos. moriones, who distinguished himself in the basque provinces during the last carlist war, has lately died. blanco and jovellar acquired distinction in cuba, and loma as a good brigadier in the carlist war. serrano, pavia, and others are better known in the field of politics than in that of military action. for naval purposes the coast of spain is divided into three departments--ferrol, cadiz, and cartagena, at each of which ports is a naval arsenal. the jurisdiction of the marine extends as far as the tide and seventy feet beyond. the three departments, are divided into _tercios navales_, _partidos maritimos_, and districts. the spanish navy consists of ships, five of which are armoured vessels of the first class, and eleven unarmoured; eighteen belong to the second class, and fifty-six to the third, some of which are monitors and armoured gunboats. there are also thirty-one smaller vessels, and a few ships employed for training and for harbour services. the whole fleet mounts guns, and is over , horse-power. the sailors number , , with officers of all ranks, and the marine infantry , with officers. the old fame of spanish ship-building, except for small vessels, has almost entirely passed away. in the great war at the beginning of the century, the finest vessels of our navy were prizes taken from spain. spanish navigators, too, have long lost their old renown, though the basques are still esteemed as mariners. the ironclad frigates and monitors of modern spain have been almost all constructed in foreign dockyards. the armoured gunboats, however, built in spain are a good and useful model. the merchant marine consists of ocean-going steamers and ocean sailing-vessels measuring altogether , tons. smaller vessels make up a total of merchant-ships, less than one-fifth of the number of those of great britain. for the administration of justice the country is divided into audiencias territoriales, provincias, and partidos judiciales. the audiencias, or courts of appeal, are fifteen, with judges or procureurs. there are also judges of first instance, and there is also a justice of peace or alcalde in each town or municipality. all pleadings are still conducted in writing in spain; there is no verbal examination or cross-examination in public. suits both civil and criminal are thus dragged out to an inordinate length. judges are still suspected of being open to bribery, and confidence in the just administration of the law is as a consequence severely shaken. it is not uncommon for witnesses to be summoned to testify to facts which happened many years before, and it not unfrequently happens that either the principal witnesses or the criminal himself is dead before the case is decided. as a conspicuous instance, we may remind our readers that general prim was assassinated in open day in madrid in , and the case has not yet been adjudged. the discipline of the prisons is in general extremely lax, and many crimes, especially forgeries, are there concocted with impunity. there is, however, a great difference in the treatment of the prisoners in different prisons. up to the office of alcaide, or governor of a prison, was sold by the government to the highest bidder, and the purchasers made the most they could out of the wretched prisoners by starving them or by accepting bribes for illicit indulgences, and for furnishing what they were bound to provide, so that it was commonly said "that the _bagnios_ of algiers were less terrible than the prisons of spain." perhaps the worst of them all, up to the year , was the old prison of the city of madrid, one dark dungeon of which was termed "el infierno"--hell. almost as bad was the prison de corté and the famous saladero. there was no classification, no cleanliness, and in some of the cells neither light nor ventilation. in some of the country prisons the cells were like the dens of a menagerie, and the starving prisoners thrust their hands through the bars to beg food of passers-by. at last has arisen an ardent band of philanthropists, of whom senors lastres and vilalva are at the head, and the first stone of a new prison in madrid, arranged on modern principles, was laid by the king in february, . hospitals, lunatic asylums, and asylums for the sick and aged poor, and other charitable establishments are of very varied descriptions in spain. some of them, like the famous establishments of cadiz, seville, madrid, cartagena, valencia, and cordova, are admirably managed, and yield in practical benefit to none of other lands. the first lunatic asylum ever founded was that at valencia by padre jofre gilanext, in ; three others, at saragossa, toledo, and seville were founded in the fifteenth century. that of barcelona is said to be now the best public lunatic asylum in spain. many others are nearly as good, while one or two of the private asylums near madrid are excellent; but in some provinces these establishments, both public and private, are still in a very wretched state. since there have been a little over miles of railway laid down in spain. the principal lines are the two which run from the extreme ends of the french pyrenees to the capital, connecting spain with the great european communications. next in importance are those from the mediterranean ports valencia, alicante, cartagena, to madrid; malaga and granada are connected with the metropolis by the line from cadiz. a rather circuitous route by badajoz, ciudad real, and toledo is the only line at present open to lisbon, but a more direct one is in course of construction. the communications with the extreme north-west are not yet completed, but the branch of the great northern company from santander, which brings the products of the asturian coal-fields to madrid, is of great importance. other valuable lines are those of the valley of the ebro, from miranda del ebro by saragossa to barcelona. should any of the schemes projected for a direct route from paris to madrid, by any of the central passes of the pyrenees, through saragossa, be carried into effect, the line from the latter place to madrid will be one of considerable traffic. the coast-line from barcelona to valencia is of great value to one of the richest wine and fruit districts of spain. shorter lines, which may have a considerable influence on the welfare of the country, are those which connect the great mineral fields with the chief lines of transport or with the nearest port. it has been remarked that hitherto, with some exceptions, spanish railways have had less influence in developing local traffic than those of any other european country. the great northern lines, too, have suffered seriously from interruptions caused by civil war, by floods, and other accidents since . the total length of the telegraph lines is nearly , miles. the number of public offices is , of private, ; the telegrams despatched amounted in to , , , of which about half were private despatches for the interior. the expenses of working were , _l._, and the receipts , _l._, leaving a deficit of _l._ the number of post-offices in was , of letters , , ; postal cards, , , ; newspapers, , , ; books and samples, , , . to great britain were despatched, in : letters and postal cards, , , ; books, &c., , ; total, , , . from great britain: letters and postal cards, , ; books, &c., , ; total, , , . the receipts from the post-office in were , _l._, while the expenditure was , _l._, leaving a surplus of , _l._ _the finances of spain._ the most prominent circumstance in the financial condition of spain is the startling increase of the public debt since the revolution of . the capital of the debt was then , , _l._, the interest of which was , , _l._ the funds, three per cents, were then at . in the capital of the debt amounted to , , _l._ since , by abuse of credit, the interest of the debt had been paid from the capital; then one-third of the interest was paid in paper, with a promise to pay the remaining two-thirds in coin; this engagement was soon broken, but the paper was punctually paid until , when the interest of the debt was erased from the budget. in face of the evident bankruptcy of the country, an arrangement was made in between the government and the principal foreign fund-holders, by which, from january , , to june , , inclusive, the interest to be paid on the three per cents was reduced to one per cent., and that on the six per cents to two per cent. from june , , to june , , one and a quarter per cent. will be paid, and arrangements as to future payments are to be made before the last-mentioned date, and a return to a full interest of three and six per cent. is to follow at fixed periods. the success of the scheme is shown by the fact that in the three per cents, still nominally paying three per cent. interest, were at - / ; in january, , paying only one per cent. interest, they were quoted at ; and the six per cents, paying only two per cent. interest, were at . from the above statement we may gather some idea of what the civil wars of the republic, the cantonal, carlist, and cuban insurrections, joined to the expensive experiments of well-intentioned but inexperienced financiers, in remitting taxes while the public burdens were increasing, have cost the nation. a calm observer, mr. phipps, in his official report to the british government, calculates that from to the addition to the debt from these causes amounted to at least , , _l._, considerably more than the total debt of spain in . notwithstanding the plausible balance-sheets annually submitted to congress, the revenue and expenditure of spain are still far from being in a satisfactory condition. the writer above quoted states that "enormous deficits in the budgets (however nominally balanced) have been the invariable rule in spain during a long course of years, under every sort of _régime_ and under all circumstances." in the last budget, - , the revenue is stated at , , _l._, and the expenditure at , , _l._ supposing these figures to be correct, the deficit, , _l._, would be far less than for many years past. the principal sources of spanish revenue are, in round numbers:-- direct taxes £ , , indirect ditto , , customs , , stamps and government monopolies , , national property , , miscellaneous. , , ---------- £ , , of these the items most foreign to an englishman's notion of taxation are the produce of the seven great tobacco factories, seville, madrid, santander, gijon, corunna, valencia, and alicante, of which the net revenue is over , , _l._, the lotteries, which bring in , _l._ net, the consumo tax, a kind of octroi, and the territorial tax, which together furnish the largest contribution to the revenue. the national property comprises the almaden quicksilver-mines, valued at over , _l._ per annum, the linares mines, leased at , _l._, and other sources about , _l._ annually. the heaviest item in the expenditure is the interest on the national debt, over , , _l._; the ministry of war and the navy exceeds , , _l._, while pensions absorb , , _l._, public works over , , _l._, finance over , , _l._, administration of justice more than , , _l._; the ministry of the interior, cortés, the civil list, &c., make up the remainder. the total imports and exports of spain were:-- imports. exports. in , £ , , £ , , in , , , , , in , , , , , but of this increased prosperity far more than her share has fallen to france, owing chiefly to its being put in the same category with germany, italy, belgium, and austria, as _most favoured_ nations, who import their goods under the customs tariff of july , , while england and the united states continue-under the old tariff, as _favoured_ nations only. this disproportion will probably be still more marked, owing to the immense importation of spanish wines into france required to make up for losses by the phylloxera disease; while the exportation of sherry to england has been gradually lessening for some years, and now we take only some per cent, of the quantity, and per cent in value, of the wine exported from spain. one of our chief imports into spain, coal, is likely also to diminish, owing to the development of the native coal-fields in the asturias and in andalusia. our other chief exports from spain in fruits and minerals largely increase. the present wine tariff of england, by which she virtually refuses to purchase the bulk of spanish wines in their natural state, while importing them largely when mixed with inferior french white wines, and treated as clarets, &c., is felt by spaniards to be so unfair that, until this system is modified there is little hope of obtaining a better tariff for english manufactures; while the making gibraltar an immense depôt for a contraband trade is a wrong that rankles in the mind of all southern spaniards. the decline of the english import trade into spain would be much more marked but for the immense amount of english capital employed in the larger mining and industrial enterprises. the battle between protection and free trade is not yet fought out in spain. the manufacturing districts of catalonia and the east coast clamour loudly for protection, while the mining and agricultural and wine-growing interests demand free trade. it is impossible to say on which side the balance may turn. a conservative government would probably favour the former, while a liberal ministry might venture upon the latter system. heavy as the public debt of spain undoubtedly is, and serious as are the charges imposed upon her by the still unsettled political condition of the country and of its principal colony--cuba, she might more than pay the interest of her debts at the present rate of interest, and balance the expenditure, but for the administrative corruption and utter want of political morality, the fruit of long years of financial abuses, and which has become almost a fixed habit amongst all classes of the inhabitants. the government seems to be a mark for fraud to every class, from millionaire bankers and the largest landed proprietors down to the ill-paid _employé_ who ekes out his scanty salary by accepting petty bribes, and the labourer or fisherman on the frontier who never misses the occasion of smuggling. it is easy to prove the truth of these assertions. in , in an official report, mr. phipps writes: "a few english, french, and spanish bankers advance money to spain, with safe security, on conditions as disastrous to the treasury as they are discreditable to themselves." the territorial tax, which forms one-fourth of the whole internal revenue is notoriously levied on only per cent, of the whole area of the country. in some provinces not two-thirds of the whole is returned at all, and much land that is productive is returned as uncultivated. from the extent of the contraband trade and the corruption of the custom-house officers, the amount levied on imports and exports can hardly be above two-thirds of their proper value. in fact, what spain needs above everything at present is an honest and impartial administration. the causes of her poverty lie not so much in bad laws or a faulty constitution, but in a corrupt and negligent administration. the system of empleomania, whereby nearly every ill-paid _employé_ is almost forced to pillage, the preference of this ill-paid idleness and of professional poverty to honest toil in trade or agriculture--these are the true foes to the prosperity of spain. for party and political purposes, taxes are relaxed for those who should bear their equal share of the burden, only to fall with crushing weight on the honest workers, unconnected with, or who refuse to bribe the administration. chapter vii. education and religion. the fame of the spanish universities has greatly fallen from what it was in the early middle ages, when salamanca ranked with bologna, paris, and oxford, as one of the four great universities in europe; when its halls were thronged with thousands of eager though needy scholars, and it was the centre whence semitic learning and civilization spread to the rest of europe. even in a later day, in the sixteenth century, under the patronage of cardinal ximenes, the university of alcala de henares (complutum) flashed into sudden fame as one of the great offshoots of the renaissance, with its students, and its noble production of the first great polyglot bible since primitive times. in the eighteenth century, however, this learning had all but disappeared from spain, and the education given in its universities was all but worthless. little was effected towards any true revival or improvement until , though something had been attempted before this in secondary education by the successive reforms of , , and especially of and . the universities of spain are now ten: madrid, with students; barcelona with ; valencia, ; seville, ; granada, ; valladolid, ; santiago de compostella, ; saragossa, ; salamanca, ; and oviedo with : making a total of , university students. the number of regular professors is , with supernumeraries and assistants, making a total of ; that is, one professor to every students. the salary of the professors varies from _l._ to _l._ per annum, except in madrid, where it is from _l._ to _l._ the budget of the whole universities is a little over , , _l._, and the expenditure slightly in excess, leaving a deficit in of _l._. the average cost of each student to the university is a little over _l._. though the above institutions are all classed as universities by the state, yet the course of instruction is by no means the same in all. at madrid alone the whole programme of university education is followed out. this comprises the faculties of civil, canon, and administrative law, of philosophy and literature, of science, of medicine, and of pharmacy. since theology is no longer studied in the universities, but in the seminaries, of which there is one in each diocese, under the direction of the bishop. the total number of pupils studying in these institutions is . at valladolid are two theological colleges for english, scotch, and irish students, established, one at the close of the sixteenth, the other by the jesuits at the close of the eighteenth century. law is studied in all the spanish universities, and medicine in all but one--oviedo; madrid, barcelona, granada, and compostella have faculties of pharmacy, under which head a certain amount of natural science is taught; of the exact sciences there are chairs only at madrid, barcelona, and salamanca; philosophy and literature are studied in madrid, barcelona, granada, salamanca, seville, and saragossa. in oviedo, santiago, valencia, valladolid, only the first year's or preparatory course of law is read, this consists of latin, general literature, and universal history. besides these state universities, there are several institutions supported by the provincial deputations; for instance, there is a faculty of medicine in seville supported by the province, another in salamanca at the joint expense of the province and of the municipality. in addition to these there are technical schools for the study of special branches of industry or of administration, such as those of roads, canals, and harbours, of mines, and of forests, in madrid and villa viciosa. a school of industrial engineering, and of the application of chemistry and mechanics, is working at barcelona. there are technical schools of commerce at madrid and at barcelona. schools or colleges of veterinary science are to be found in madrid, saragossa, cordova, and leon. naval schools are established in santa cruz (teneriffe), in palma (majorca), in masnou (barcelona), in san sebastian, supported by the funds of the provinces; there is also one at gijon, in the asturias, founded by jovellanos; two other private foundations also exist at lequeito and santurce in biscay. in madrid there is a special school of architecture, and also one of painting, sculpture, and engraving. excellent schools of the fine arts exist in barcelona, cadiz, corunna, granada, malaga, oviedo, seville, valencia, valladolid, saragossa, and at palma in the balearic isles; this last is remarkable for the number of its pupils and its generally flourishing condition. in each of the forty-nine provinces of spain are institutions of superior or secondary education. with the exception of the institutes of cardinal cisneros and of san isidro at madrid, which depend on the government, and which hold the first and third rank as to the number of their pupils, these institutions are supported by the funds of the provinces or municipalities, but the professors are nominated by the government; besides those in the capital of each province, there are also others in various large towns in spain. there are also colleges of secondary education affiliated to the institutes, of which are under religious corporations, making a total of establishments of secondary education, with professors who have all taken degrees in science or literature. the institutes give instruction to , pupils, and the colleges to almost the same number, , ; home or private education absorbs ; making a total in of , ; more than three times the number in , and, including the episcopal seminaries, giving one pupil to every inhabitants. all these pupils are admitted to the official examinations, and take their degrees equally on passing them. it is found that per cent of the candidates are rejected at the examinations, . per cent. simply pass, and . gain honours of various kinds; while per cent. take the degree of bachelor from the colleges, and . proceed to take it from the universities. the salary of the masters is from _l._ to _l._ (except in madrid where it is from _l._ to _l._), with a right to a portion of the fees for matriculation and degrees. the supernumerary masters receive _l._ in madrid and _l._ in the provinces; auxiliary masters are unpaid. pensions of _l._ are sometimes given to poor but distinguished pupils. the cost of all the institutes is , _l._, the income, , _l._, leaving a deficit of , _l._ to be supplied either by the state, the provinces, or the municipalities. the course of instruction is two-fold, general and special. the general comprises: spanish and latin grammar, two courses; rhetoric and poetry, geography, history of spain, universal history, psychology, logic and ethics, arithmetic and algebra, geometry and trigonometry, physics and the elements of chemistry, natural history, physiology and hygiene, and elementary agriculture. the special courses are those of agriculture, the fine arts, manufactures and commerce. of public schools of primary instruction there are about , of all grades and classes, are infant schools and are for male and for female adults. the great drawback in the higher education of spain is the disproportionate number of students in law, medicine, or pharmacy, in comparison with the few who cultivate the special branches of agriculture, industrial or commercial science. hence the former professions are overstocked, with results productive of far-reaching evils to the country and to the administration. notwithstanding its far inferior population the number of students in spain who take their degrees in law and medicine is almost treble that of france and of germany, while the total of degrees conferred in all the faculties of spain is equal to that of france, which has double the population. nothing more plainly shows the character of the people, and the mischief of "_empleomania_" than such a fact in a country whose natural riches in agriculture and mining are so great and so little developed, where there is so large a field for industrial enterprises of many kinds, and where the fruits of all these are at present almost wholly reaped by foreigners. the primary education of spain, though nominally everywhere alike, is really so very varied as to defy any average description. a few of her infant schools are equal to the best of those of other countries. where the provincial deputations or the municipalities take an interest in education the primary schools are very fair, but in other parts the education is little more than nominal, and the schoolmaster's appointment is well-nigh a sinecure both in pay and labour; and probably at the present moment, notwithstanding the great improvements of late years, two-thirds of the people can still neither read nor write. _church and religion._ from the time of the oecumenical council of nicea, a.d. , with the brief exception of the reigns of the arian visigoth kings, spain has been the champion of orthodoxy in religion. from early times too the demarcation between church and state has been less marked, or rather the influence of the former over the latter has been more constant and more powerful, than in perhaps any other european kingdom. the great councils of toledo were scarcely more ecclesiastical than civil assemblies. the recognition of the sovereign, the order of succession, the validity of the laws, were either settled or sanctioned therein. later, in the great struggle with the moors, through the antagonism of exclusive beliefs, the war assumed the character of a religious crusade. the semi-monastic spanish military orders, the preaching of the monks, the sanction and the bulls of the popes--auxiliaries which the kings of spain were forced to summon to their aid--gave a complexion to the conquest and to the national character quite different to what might have been the case had the contest been fought out by the sovereign, the lay warriors, and the civil power alone. thus the triumph of the christian over the moor became in some sort also the triumph of the roman over the national spanish church. the mozarabic liturgy gave way to that of rome. the peculiar institution of the inquisition, following on that of the santa hermandad in civil matters, developed in spain a degree of power to which it never attained in other lands. the certainty and the secrecy of its proceedings, the mingled pomp and horror of its "autos de fe," the whispers and the shudder with which men told of the tortures of its hidden processes, deeply impressed and captivated the imagination of a people singularly greedy of, and susceptible to, strong and vivid emotions. the chivalrous respect for women, heightened by the reserve and half-seclusion which the spanish knights had learned from the moors, was transformed in the sphere of religion into an almost ardent passion of devotion to the blessed virgin. centuries before the doctrine of the immaculate conception was proclaimed by pius ix. the cry of the spanish beggar heard at every door throughout her vast dominions was, "ave maria purisima, sin pecádo concebida." spain had been the champion of christendom against the jews and against the moors; she had without remorse violated every compact she had sworn with the latter, and she became equally the champion of roman catholicism against the reformation. though philip ii. failed in his great armed struggle with the northern powers, and wasted and destroyed therein all the real resources of spain, yet spanish theologians were among the most eloquent and the most learned in the council of trent; and it was the jesuits of spain who headed the reaction of the seventeenth century, and who won back all but the teutonic and scandinavian races to the allegiance of rome. this glory of catholicism is never absent from the heart of a spaniard. his whole literature is steeped in it; it inspires spain's greatest painters. it is this deep but unconscious feeling that protestanism is un-spanish which is the real stronghold of catholicism in spain, and which, in spite of spoliation and political subjection, still gives the clerical party there a greater power than they possess in other countries. yet the few spaniards who embraced the reformed doctrines in the sixteenth century were not inferior to those of other lands in earnestness, in learning, in eloquence, or in high position, both in church and state. there was just a moment when the court of charles v. hovered on the verge of protest against rome. when, as before related, the liberties of spain fell beneath the iron rule of the austrian sovereigns, it was the church, by the hand of one of its greatest ornaments, cardinal ximenes, which became the willing instrument of despotism. in return for the servility of the court, and the presence and the sanction of the sovereign at the "autos," the inquisition lent its aid to the monarchy, and its assistance was called in to suppress the trade in horses, so senselessly forbidden, on the northern frontier. in the seventeenth century, however, the spanish court fell under the influence of the french encyclopædists. the jesuits were banished in . we need not detail again the various vicissitudes of the abolition and re-establishment of the inquisition, of the suppression of tithes, of the sale of church property, the destruction of the monasteries, and the exile of the monks, the effects of which have been sufficiently indicated above. [illustration: vespers.] since the concordat of , spain is ruled ecclesiastically by nine archbishops; those of toledo (the primate of all spain), burgos, saragossa, tarragona, valencia, granada, seville, valladolid, and compostella, under whom are forty-six bishops, with their chapters, and about , clergy. the mode of episcopal appointment is this: the king presents three names to the pope, of which his holiness selects one, who is forthwith nominated to the vacant see. since , theological education is entirely under the hands of the bishops, who have a seminary in each diocese. the clergy are paid by the state; but the stipends of the country priests are said to be frequently in arrear. in some parts of spain, as in the manufacturing towns of barcelona, religion has to a great extent lost its hold upon the people; in other parts, as in the basque provinces, the majority are still devout. since a reaction from extremes of scepticism and advanced socialistic views is manifest in many of the most popular writers. a small but increasing body of protestants has been established since ; but the vicissitudes of revolution and reaction, and the present ambiguous state of the law have acted unfavourably on the movement. the pastors have honourably distinguished themselves by their zeal for the education of the classes utterly neglected by the dominant church. on the whole, the clerical party in spain, considered as a political body, seems gradually sinking into a like condition to that of france. it is powerful enough to thwart and check the policy of its opponents, but impotent to carry out its own measures. the extreme ultramontane party, for whom the comte de chambord is too liberal and pope leo xiii. too comprehensive, has lately adopted the banner of the carlists. whatever the future of spain may be, it is not probable that the church will ever attain again the political influence and the exclusive control of education which it possessed in the past, in spite of the undoubted talents and virtues of many of its upholders. chapter viii. literature and the arts. though one of the most interesting countries of europe with regard to architecture, spain can lay claim to no style peculiar to itself, or that originated wholly within the peninsula. it contains, however, noble specimens of art and architecture of very varied epochs and character, from the work of the unknown sculptors who carved the so-called "toros" of guisando and erected the huge dolmens and other megalithic monuments so thickly strewed over its soil, to the architects and artists of the present day. almost all the races which have trodden the land have left monuments upon it--the carthaginians, perhaps, the fewest. scarcely anywhere else does the solid, practical character of roman architecture appear more fully than in the amphitheatres, aqueducts, and especially in the bridges of spain. the amphitheatres, temples, and walls of murviedro (saguntum), tarragona, toledo, coria, plasencia; the aqueducts of merida, seville, and segovia; the bridges of tuy over the minho, of zamora over the douro, salamanca over the tormes, of alcantara, garrovillas de alconetar, and puente del arzobispo over the tagus, of merida and medellin over the guadiana, of seville, cordova, and ubeda over the guadalquiver, and of lerida over the segre, are noble relics of roman work. of the period when roman art was gradually modified under christian influences, and the basilica was transformed into the christian church, very few remains exist. to the vandal and gothic conquerors belong part of the walls of toledo, and a few chapels and small churches in the north and north-west may belong in part to this date ( - ); but the most peculiar artistic remains of this period are the jewellers' and goldsmiths' work, preserved in the metal crowns and treasure of guarrazar ( - ), of a style which, though probably derived from the east through byzantium, continued to influence spanish goldsmiths' work down to the eleventh century. [illustration: giralda of seville. _page ._] the architecture and art of the race that succeeded to the visigoths is of much more notable character. the civil and religious architecture of the spanish arabs is well worthy of most careful study, and is a grand example of the artistic talent of a race which, though debarred by its religious faith from the reproduction of human, or even of animal form, and delighting neither in the scenes of the theatre or the circus, has yet left masterpieces of architectural beauty in lands so wide apart as spain, egypt, persia, and hindostan. the architecture of the arabs in spain may be roughly divided into three periods: the first, from the eighth to the tenth century, tells most clearly of its origin as an imitation or modification of the byzantine style; its masterpiece is the mosque of cordova. the second period, from the tenth to the thirteenth centuries, shows the architects seeking their real style--it is a period of transition; its finest erection is the giralda of seville. the third period is when the moorish style acquired its fullest development in the glorious alhambra, from the thirteenth to the sixteenth centuries. contemporary with the last period is the mudejar style, the modification which arabic art underwent in the hands of the christian conquerors. to this belong the alcazar of seville, ; the mudejar gates of toledo and saragossa, and the chapel of st. james in alcala de henares. in their domestic architecture the arabs alone have almost solved the problem how to unite ventilation and ornament by means of currents of air of different temperatures. the pendulous stucco fretwork by which they conceal the angles of their apartments serves not only for ornament but to equalize the temperature and to admit of concealed openings whereby air can penetrate without draught or chill. the sense of true harmony of colour seems to be an intuitional gift of oriental races, and is practically understood by them as it never has been by any other. the mosaics of greece and rome, and those of mediæval italy, in their storied designs, appeal more to the intellect; but those of arabic art rest and charm the eye by the purity and harmonious blending of tone as do none other. in spite of some apparent exceptions, and those of the earliest date, as the mosque of cordova ( ), and the cloisters of tayloon at cairo ( ), arabic architecture, like grecian, depended for its effect more on the exquisite symmetry and exact proportion of all details to a consummate whole, than to impressions of awe derived from vast size or immense solidity. it is thus that the massive roman arch became moulded into the light horse-shoe shape, peculiar to the spanish arabs from the eighth to the tenth centuries. the originality of this architecture is not, however, so great as appears at first sight. the influence of byzantine architecture and of that of the christian churches with which the arabs had become acquainted during their conquests, and of constant accessions from oriental art, can be clearly traced therein. but in spain there is perhaps a juster proportion, a greater variety and richness of ornamentation and colour than is to be found elsewhere. the grandest of moorish buildings in spain is undoubtedly one of the earliest, the great mosque of cordova, with its forest of columns, its fifty-seven naves, nineteen gates, and upwards of lamps, recalling the impression produced by the egyptian hall of karnac at thebes,--an impression so vivid that even the iconoclast emperor, charles v., whose own palace mars the beauty of the alhambra, rebuked the archbishop of cordova for destroying what he never could replace, when he cut away some of the columns to make room for a christian chapel. not less beautiful in their graceful proportions than the campanile of italy are the minarets and towers of arabian art in spain, as the giralda of seville and others; even the quaintness of the leaning tower of pisa finds its counterpart in the leaning tower of saragossa. the moorish gates of toledo, of seville, and the alcazar of segovia show how castellated strength may be wedded to artistic elegance; but the most perfect union at once of fortress and of palace is to be found in the noble group of buildings known as the alhambra, on the hill of granada. though trembling on the verge of debasement when the severer forms of arabian art were beginning to admit the representation of animal shapes, whose rude sculpture forms a contrast to the exquisite correctness of the alphabetic and geometrical designs which ornament the walls, these buildings may yet be regarded as marking the culmination of moorish art. the fertility of decorative design, the exquisite use made of arabic lettering, and the simple yet subtle forms of geometrical interlacing--apparently most fantastic, yet really ever subordinated to a just proportion with the whole--these are a theme of wondering admiration to every student. a whole grammar of ornament might be illustrated by examples taken from these buildings alone. the architecture of the houses of the moorish aristocracy which still remain in seville, granada, toledo, and saragossa is wonderfully adapted both to the necessities of the climate and to domestic ornament. in the more northern examples the open galleries, in the more southern the flat roof, of the apartments surrounding the inner quadrangle make a delightful resort in the cool of the day; while the court or _patio_ itself, with its fountains and shade, its flowers and creepers and odoriferous shrubs, its mingled play of light and colour, through which the delicate grace of ornament is seen uninjured by the dust and contact with the outside traffic, appears to the northern tourist almost like one of the fairy homes of which his ancestors dreamed, and which have been described to him in many a legend, as a thing too lovely to be gazed upon by mortal eyes unless unsealed. [illustration: moorish ornamentation.] the influence and the impress of arabian art was not confined in spain to mosques or to buildings consecrated to the use of mohammedans alone. some of the most beautiful specimens of this architecture were erected for christians or for jews. arabic inscriptions used as ornaments are still to be seen on the altar of the cathedral of gerona, in the shrine of san isidore at leon; arabic architecture is seen in the palace of the archbishops of toledo, in a chapel in alcala de henares, and in more than one synagogue of the jews. christian bishops used as episcopal seals rings on which were engraved the praises of allah. long after the conquest of the great cities of the centre and of the south, moorish and mudejar architects were retained in the pay of christian monarchs to keep in repair the cathedrals and palaces, the beauty of whose architecture the christians could appreciate but could not imitate, much less surpass. it is this fact, and the mingling of style and ideas consequent thereon, which gives its sole peculiar characteristic to spanish art. meanwhile, contemporaneously with the flourishing period of arabian art in the south, a christian architecture, strikingly in contrast from its poverty of style and of invention, was slowly being reconstructed in the north. of the eighth century we have the crypt of the church of santa cruz, at cangas in the asturias, and some remains in parts of the churches of oviedo. to the tenth century belong parts of the church of san pablo at barcelona, and other catalan churches, with here and there a chapel in the western pyrenees. during the eleventh and twelfth centuries the more important churches of northern spain were almost reproductions of those of southern france; the cathedral of santiago de compostella is almost a copy of the church of st. sernin at toulouse; but the romanesque (semi-byzantine) style lingered somewhat longer in spain than in the neighbouring country, and especially in north-eastern spain. in the twelfth century edifices of real beauty are beginning to be built; such are the cloisters of tarragona and the cathedrals of lerida and of tudela. the cathedrals of avila and siguenza are of more native spanish character; while those of toledo, burgos, and leon show the influence of french artists in their general plan, but with an added ornamentation derived from the richer and more florid fancy of the south. of these perhaps leon is the noblest and burgos the richest example in spain. segovia, salamanca, and seville, of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, are the latest of the great gothic churches of spain, before the rise of the renaissance. nowhere had the classical revival in architecture more influence than in spain. the almost exclusive type of church which, both in spain and in her vast colonies, is pointed out as the spanish church, is that either of the renaissance or of the styles which have sprung from it. this soon became fashionable, but its semi-pagan additions frequently harmonize but ill with the deeper religious feeling of the preceding styles. still it has many fine examples; the works of berruguete and herrera are well worthy of study. the escorial, the work of the latter, is redeemed from ugliness or meanness by the noble proportions of its central chapel and pantheon. but to this semi-classical style succeeded, in the eighteenth century, the churrigueresque, the most debased of all styles, wherein plaster took the place of sculpture, sham that of reality, and masses of gilding and an incongruous medley of meaningless ornament concealed the blunders in proportion and poverty of idea. the adoption of this style by the jesuits procured its prevalence in many districts of spain and of her colonies; occasionally the size of the buildings constructed gives a certain grandeur and hides the debasement of the methods. the domestic, palatial, and castellated architecture of spain has little peculiar beyond what has been already indicated. the royal palace at madrid, however, is one of the most successful architectural efforts of the eighteenth century. the sculptured coats of arms on mean dwellings are perhaps the most notable distinction of spanish houses. traces of the influence of moorish traditions may not unfrequently be observed. in the north, the cottages and farms of the basques, with overhanging roofs and wooden galleries, recall in some degree those of switzerland; in the south the iron bars or rails (rejas) before the lower windows, and the lattices (celosias) in the upper stories tell of insecurity and of habits of almost oriental seclusion of women. finer even than the architecture and the exterior of the buildings is the church furniture in spain. it is unsurpassed for beauty and interest. the carved and sculptured wood-work in some of the cathedrals is finer than even that of the netherlands and of germany. the storied screens and choir stalls at toledo; the retablos of gerona and salamanca, of avila and seville; the choir fittings of santiago, zamora, and of burgos; the lecterns and pulpits both of brass and wood; and the rails and gates and screens of noblest metal-work are often of simply grand proportion; nay, even the polychrome wooden statues in the churches will often be found to be of rarest beauty. the monuments erected to the memory of the dead are equal to anything which affection and piety have raised elsewhere, from that of archbishop maurice at burgos, in the thirteenth century--of the tombs of the constable and of those of juan ii. and isabel of portugal, in the cartuja de miraflores, of the fifteenth century; and that of prince juan, the only son of ferdinand and isabella, at avila, erected in --down to the noble mausoleum of inlaid metal-work by zuloaga, lately placed in the church of the atocha to the memory of prim. in these and many more, spain can show a sequence able to vie with that of any other land. hardly less beautiful are the minor accessories of catholic worship; the gold and silver smiths' work of the chandeliers, the jewelled work of crosses, custodias or shrines, and sacred vessels is often worthy of admiration. in all such works of art, before the pillage of the french in the war of liberation, and the destruction of the convents, spain was probably one of the richest of christian lands. if we seem to insist too much on ecclesiastical art in spain, it is because, as we shall see still more clearly in the case of painting, art has here concentrated its choicest effort on religious subjects, and in them has won its greatest triumphs. except, perhaps, in arms and in porcelain, in portrait-painting and in furniture, all the masterpieces of spanish art are in some sense ecclesiastical. take away religion from her art, how poor would be the residue, for even arabian and moslem art in spain were essentially religious. _painting._ though spain cannot rival some other countries, italy for example, in the number of her great painters; though she has founded no great technical school; yet is she worthy of greatest admiration; in one or two of her artists she has attained the very highest rank. as a religious painter, especially in expressing in form and colour the heights of mystic ecstasy, murillo stands unrivalled. as a portrait-painter of courtly grace and distinction, velazquez has few equals. it is not in landscape, or as interpreters of the ever-varying beauty of external nature, that spanish painters excel, but in the delineation of the human form, and especially in the rendering of those religious emotions which lead through asceticism to ecstasy. not the glorification of merely sensuous beauty, but the triumphs of the spirit over the flesh are the conquests which they prefer to delineate. spanish painters may be divided among three great provinces: the valencian, andalusian, and castilian schools. of these the andalusian, and especially the school of seville, has produced by far the greatest artists. the earliest specimens of spanish painting are of the decorative kind, and are employed in subordination to architecture, to add colour to form, and to heighten and make more evident the details of sculpture in churches or convents. much of this phase of art, in which they stand very high, they probably learned from the moors. from these labours in churches and convents art in spain received a religious imprint and direction which it has never lost, and from which it is only now turning in the present generation. goya and fortuny are perhaps the only considerable painters of spain in whose works religious subjects do not preponderate. spanish art reflects in a peculiar degree the characteristic of spanish theology. the mystic grace, the transport of love which seems almost too human and tender when fixed on the divine, which moves us in the writings of st. teresa, st. juan de la cruz, xavier, and others, touches us no less in the pictures of murillo. stern and sombre, as these are lovely, are the paintings which remind us that we are in the land of the inquisition. figures of martyrs serene in tortures, whose horrors are laid bare as by no other artists, figures of saints of primitive, mediæval, or of later times, who have carried asceticism to excess, portraits of men who were as severe to themselves as they were pitiless to others; such are the subjects which are faithfully rendered by the pencils of ribalta, ribera, zurbaran, and many others. later on, when the old constitutional liberties of spain had almost utterly fallen, and when the worship of the king had begun almost to rival that of the blessed virgin, velazquez and others give us portraits of the royal family of spain. the fun and wit which really existed in spanish life, and which her novelists have depicted with such relish in innumerable novels, is but poorly represented in spanish art by any of her great masters. murillo's beggar-boys are almost the only pictures which answer to the "picaresque" side of spanish literature till the advent of goya and of fortuny. the expressions of the plastic arts of spain are neither so idealized as the italian, nor so intellectual as the german, nor so sensuous as the flemish, nor so realistic as those of the dutch school; but they are far more powerful in colouring and truer and deeper in feeling than are those of the french school. the spaniard painted the types and characters of his native land, but he delighted to throw around them the magic lights that never were on sea or land; through the intense darkness of his asceticism ever peers a ray of heavenly light; but the type of the figure is ever spanish; never, in the best days of art, was inspiration sought from a reproduction of the forms of pagan classical ism, or from a mere eclecticism of beauty. though the drawing is correct, we feel that it has not been learned from a mere study of ancient statuary or from anatomical preparations, but from the living type and figure. here and there we find painters like juande joannes (vicente macip) and domenico theotocopuli (el greco), who might have lived on italian soil; but generally the tone of spanish painters is local and unmistakable. through all his styles--the _frio_ (cold), _calido_ (warm), and the _vaporoso_ (mystic)--murillo remained faithful to spanish, nay, to andalusian models; none can mistake his saints and virgins, his boys and beggars, as belonging to any other race. he does not tell the wondrous story of the incarnation with so grand an appeal to the intellect as do the italian painters. the "woman blessed throughout all generations" does not look out to us from his canvas from the serene heights of perfect woman-hood which has found its crown in the mystery of the motherhood of the son of god, but in younger and more girlish forms he paints for us the maiden rapt in adoring ecstasy as she experiences the wonders of love divine, bathed in the golden light of a rapture which none but the very purest can ever feel, and which the very angels are represented as reverencing. space forbids our giving even an approximate catalogue of spanish painters; we can merely single out for mention the two or three of highest rank in their respective provinces. in valencia we have ribalta ( - ), juan de joames (vicente macip) ( - ), and the great but gloomy ribera ( - ). to this school also belong the artists of catalonia and of the balearic isles. in castile are navarette (el mudo) ( - ), morales ( - ), theotocopuli (el greco) (died ), and the younger herrera (died ). but the greatest painters are from andalusia and from seville. the well-known names of herrera the elder ( - ), zurbaran ( - ), murillo ( - ), velazquez ( - ), suffice to show its pre-eminence. the eighteenth century, in art as well as in literature, was a time of utter decadence; goya ( - ), the caricaturist, is the only artist we need mention; but, like its literature, spanish art is now at length rising from its long sleep. fortuny ( - ), has made himself a european reputation; though, through his early death, the pictures he has left give promise only of what his future might have been. rosales ( - ), though less known by foreigners, is of equal, if not of greater merit; like fortuny, he died in his early prime. madrazo, jimenez, fradilla, and others, though not of more than national reputation, yet prove that art is not extinct in spain. in what have been called the industrial arts spain was formerly very rich, and, but for the wretched economical policy and administration of the government since the seventeenth century, would probably have held her own against other countries. the gold and silver ornaments still worn by the peasantry in a few districts perpetuate designs and methods of workmanship originally derived from the moors, and much of the church work is still of great excellence. no less beautiful is the iron-work, in which a grand effect is often produced by simply noble proportions in the gates, _rejas_, and screens of her cathedrals and churches; and in another sphere, in the manufacture of arms, and of inlaying steel or iron with arabesque patterns of gold and silver, an art which has been lately revived with great success in biscay and the basque provinces. in porcelain and pottery the majolica ware, made at valencia, was renowned throughout europe; and the moorish glazed and lustred ware, the manufacture of which remained a secret till the present century, is greatly sought after by amateurs. the wine-jars (_tinajas_ and _alpujarras_), the porous pottery (_bucaros_), the _azulejos_ or decorated tiles, continue traditions originally derived through the arabs from the east, but which had almost expired when the manufacture was faintly revived under royal patronage in the times of charles iii., to start again on a stronger life with the aid of english capital in our own times. spanish glass is sometimes curious, and much of the stained and painted windows in the cathedrals is excellent, especially that of toledo and of leon; but this art was undoubtedly learned from foreign workmen, and only became naturalized in spain. of carvings in wood and marble and ivory we have already sufficiently spoken. in textile fabrics and embroidery, especially in lace, spain was formerly very rich. the mantillas of the ladies, the dresses of the sacred images, the copes of the clergy, gave full opportunity for the production of this fabric; but the chief effort is now directed to the manufacture of the best foreign laces, all of which are most successfully imitated by hand-workers in valencia and murcia, where they can be produced at a lower cost than is possible in colder and more northern climes. everything in spain, even the common use of colour and of flowers by the andalusian peasants, shows a natural feeling for art; and its production is hindered more by indolence, and by the mischievous economical conditions of almost all spanish industry, than by any want of talent in the native workman or artisan. though, perhaps, there is no country in europe in which music is more appreciated or practised than in spain, it is singular that she has produced no really great master. she has many composers of "zarzuelas," a species of lighter opera; her traditional dance and ballad tunes are some of the most inspiriting possible; and her guitar playing is renowned, but more for the romantic sentiment of the words and the occasion on which it is used than for the music itself. well-nigh the only name for which even spaniards claim equality with the great european masters in serious music is that of don manuel doyague, of salamanca ( - ). his _miserere_, _te deum_, and various _masses_ are said to equal those of any master of his time. _literature._ it is not necessary to repeat here what has been said above on the spanish authors who wrote during the silver age of latin literature, or to trace again the origin of the spanish language. it is evident that all we can do is to give a very brief sketch of spanish literature. this literature is, perhaps, the richest in europe in ballads and romances, and these, which make one of its chief glories, are among its earliest monuments. while the "chanson de roland" and other "chansons de gestes" were being written in northern france in the form of continuous epic poems, spain was celebrating her hero--the cid--in a series of ballads. these, if united, would tell almost the whole story of his life; but each could be sung or recited alone as a separate and complete poem. this form of verse continued for many ages to be the favourite literature of the common people, and attained a development in spain beyond that which it did in any other land. for spontaneity, for movement, for grace of expression, for sudden turns from martial ardour to the most pathetic tenderness, the spanish ballad is unrivalled. it embraces and handles with almost equal success the most varied subjects: war and chivalry and love, patriotism, wit, amusement, and religion, have all been treated of in these romances, and the collections of each kind would fill many volumes. the first prose works in the spanish language seem to have been a translation of the bible, under alphonse x., and of two codes of law, the "fuero juzgo" and "las siete partidas," in the middle of the thirteenth century. it seems to have been almost by accident that alfonzo wrote in the dialect of leon and castile in preference to that of galicia and portugal. had he chosen the latter, probably portuguese would have become the language of the whole peninsula. under his reign, too, may have been commenced the first history written in spanish, "la gran conquista de ultramar," telling the story of the crusades, with many romantic episodes. the next production that calls for remark is the epic of alexander the great, by j. l. segura, of the latter part of the same century. this poem gives the name "alexandrine" to all european verse written in the same metre. in the early part of the fourteenth century we have a collection of tales, with morals attached, called "el conde lucanor," by don juan manuel, nephew of alphonse x. ( - ); and alfonso xi. continues the list of royal authors with a "libro de la monteria,", or treatise on hunting. the arch-priest of hita, juan ruiz ( - ), about the same time took up the strain of love and war in a romance of mingled prose and verse, entitled "guerras civiles de granada." in the latter half of the fifteenth century we meet with a remarkable production, the tragi-comedy of celestina, which, in its two-fold character of novel and of drama, has been the parent of a double offspring, both of the comedy and of the _picaresque_ novel of spain. the spanish rogue, at least in fiction, has been said to be the only amusing rogue in europe. the chief representations of him in literature are in the novel of "lazarillo de tormes" ( ), by hurtado de mendoza; "guzman de alfarache" ( ), by mateo aleman; and "la picara justina" ( ), by the dominican monk, andreas perez. the whole series of these works culminated in a masterpiece, "gil blas," written, not by a spaniard, but by the frenchman lesage, in ; perhaps the most graphic description of the manners of another nation ever written by a foreigner. the serious drama in spain arose, probably, like that of other european nations, from the mysteries and moralities of the middle ages, such as are still continued to be performed occasionally at elche and in other districts. in the "autos" of calderon and others it bore clear marks of this origin to a later date than any other contemporary drama. the first plays of any consequence we hear of are those of lope de rueda ( - ), who, both as actor and as author, was greatly admired by cervantes. from him the spanish drama, like the almost contemporary elizabethan drama in england, sprang at once to its full height. cervantes, in his tragedies "los baños de argel," and in "el trato de argel" in which he described incidents in his own captivity, and in the "numancia," telling the story of the siege by the romans, imitated and surpassed his friend. in lighter pieces, comedies and _entremeses_, he was less successful. almost coeval with cervantes is lope de vega ( - ), perhaps the most prolific dramatic writer of any value that ever lived. his pieces are numbered at from to , and the best of these are equal, if not superior, to those of calderon in delineation of character and in plot, and are inferior only in poetical merit. we can only mention tirso de molina ( - ), montahran ( - ), and ruiz de alarcon (died ) as dramatists of merit, whose best pieces, especially those of the latter, approach very nearly to those of lope and of calderon. calderon de la barca ( - ), with the german, göthe, is the only dramatist of modern europe who has been seriously put forward as a rival, or even superior, to shakspere. this we think to be a mistake; in rich poetical imagery, in gorgeousness of fancy, in harmony of verse, in stately dignity, in depth of religions feeling, in knowledge of stage effect--in all these things he may be compared to our english master; but he is very far inferior to him in width of sympathy, in wit and rollicking fun, or in thoughtful humour; his comedy will not bear comparison with that of shakspere; but he falls most short in his delineation of individual character. in comparison with shakspere's, his figures are but well-dressed puppets compared to living men and women; not one of them lingers in the memory like a person whom we have known. we remember calderon's verses, we revel in his splendid poetry, but we utterly forget who it is that utters these dazzling strains. calderon's dramas and comedies are reckoned at , and his autos, religious or sacramental pieces, generally performed by religious or civil corporations in the open air, are numbered at about seventy. in these plays abstract qualities take the place of living personages, and it is perhaps the greatest proof of calderon's genius that he has by his brilliant poetry and serene religious feeling made some of even these acceptable to a modern reader. but while the drama and comedy and the picaresque novel had been thus developing themselves, a whole literature of quite a different kind had sprung up into favour, flourished, and died away. this consisted of the prose books of chivalry, and of the pastoral romances both in prose and verse. they are remembered now chiefly through mention of them in the pages of the immortal work, the "don quixote," of cervantes, which crushed them for ever. the most celebrated of them was the "amadis de gaul," written probably at the end of the fourteenth century. the imitations of it were innumerable, each more wild, extravagant, more insipid, and in worse taste than the last. of the pastoral romances the only one we need to note is the "diana enamorada," of montemayor ( - ), and perhaps the most successful after this is the "galatea," of cervantes himself, who could never entirely shake off the influence of the writings he delighted to satirize, and of which he was the literary executioner. the one spanish book which has become really european, in a degree which has been attained by no other purely secular work, is the "don quixote" of this author ( - ). into this extraordinary production, under the guise of the adventures of his hero, the last of the knights-errant, with his squire, sancho panza--a story full of mirth, incident, and humour--cervantes has put all the wisdom which, by his observation on mankind and literature, he had collected during a singularly varied life as writer, soldier, seaman, algerine slave, poet, and man of business. though hardly belonging to the school of the classical renaissance, yet we see in cervantes a specimen of the marked and distinguishing excellence of the men at that time--the width of their sympathies; so that each more eminent man seemed to contain in himself an epitome of the experience of mankind. it is, perhaps, to this many-sidedness of his experience, and of his culture, that is owing the genial character, the pathetic humour, and the total absence of bitterness in this masterly satire. thus cervantes, while laughing down and extinguishing for ever the absurdities of the chivalrous and pastoral romances, yet retains his sympathy for all that was really noble, though exaggerated, in them. his "don quixote," though moving irrepressible laughter, will for ever remain one of the choicest representations of a brave, pure-minded, honourable gentleman, and tears of pity for him are not far distant from our smiles at his quaint insanities. since the days of cervantes one kind only of the chivalrous romances has really survived in literature, and that is the historical romance, of which the "guerras civiles de granada" of the arch-priest hita, mentioned above, is so good an example. another satirist, less known than cervantes, to whom his life bears some resemblance, quevedo y villegas ( - ), is even a more versatile writer. in prose and verse his writings are very numerous, but his style, learned and obscure, often laboured in the extreme, though pregnant with thought and wit, contrasts unfavourably with the clearness of cervantes; he holds now in spanish literature a place nearly analogous to that of swift among british writers. but we must hurry on. with the downfall of granada, the discovery of america, the consolidation of the kingdoms of the peninsula into one nation, real historical study began in spain. thus we have in quick succession many works of considerable merit, such as the "annals of aragon," by zurita ( - ); the "comunidades of castille," by mejia ( ); the great "history of spain," by the jesuit mariana ( - ); herrera's "general history of the indies" ( - ); the "commentaries on peru," by the inca, garcilasso de la vega ( - ); the monographs of hurtado de mendoza on the "wars of granada" ( ); the "expedition of the catalans," by moncada ( ); the "wars of catalonia," by melo ( ); and, in literary form superior to all these, the "conquest of mexico," by solis ( ). of poetry, apart from the stage and from the romances, there is not much of real value to engage our attention. the grandest verses of early spain are undoubtedly the "coplas" of manrique ( ), which have been often translated into english, and which form one of the finest elegies extant in any language. after garcilassa de la vega ( - ), spanish poets fell into an unworthy imitation of the italian; and subsequently gongora ( - ) set the example of a still more debased and stilted style, full of affected conceits and mistaken classicalism. the only tolerable epic poem which spain has yet produced is the "araucana" of ercilla, which tells the story of the wars with indians of that name in chili, and in which the author had personally taken part. from the close of the seventeenth and through the greater part of the eighteenth century, literature partook of the progressive decadence of all things in spain. it withered and declined under the double censure and oppression of the king and of the inquisition. the theatre, which had striven hard in spain to become the ally, or even the handmaid, of the church, was contemptuously thrust aside by the latter, and within a century of calderon's death, not even an infanta could procure permission from the inquisition for a comedy in time of carnaval. no history of any value could be written under such conditions; the only outlet for literary skill lay in religious and mystic writings, which are of singular beauty. the classical and grammatical movement of the renaissance which had begun so well under the patronage of juan de cisneros, cardinal ximenes, the great minister of charles v., and the chief monument of which is the complutensian polyglot bible of - , and its greatest scholar, antonio de nebrija, soon died away, and the spanish universities, which for a while had been the admiration, became, in the eighteenth century, the laughing-stock of europe. of the earlier period we may mention among the religious writers luis de granada ( - ), santa teresa ( - ), the jesuit, ribadeneyra ( - ), juan de la cruz ( - ); but even this literature degenerated into casuistry and mere technical scholasticism. spanish religious poetry is, however, far more copious and of greater excellence than is generally supposed. it has been studied and collected in our own day by the opposite schools of the spanish protestants, and by the champion of orthodoxy, menendez pelayo. there is little to notice in spanish literature from this time until the rise of the doctrinaire and economical writers of the reign of carlos iii., who for the most part closely followed the contemporary school of french publicists and encyclopædists. among these are padre benito feyjoo, who was the first to protest against the absence of science and true learning in spain; the padre isla ( - ), decidedly one of the wittiest of spanish writers and satirists; jovellanos ( - ), the best statesman and political writer of his time, and in the purer walks of literature the two moratins ( - ). one or two philological works, far in advance of their age, made now their appearance, such as the tracts of padre sarmiento ( - ) on the spanish language; the works of the jesuits larramendi ( - ) on the basque, and of hervas ( - ) on general philology. to this period also belongs the magnificent collection entitled, "la españa sagrada," commenced by florez ( - ), and, after many interruptions, completed only in . towards the close of the eighteenth century, however, a reaction set in against the french and so-called classical school, and the attention of spanish writers was recalled to the masterpieces of their own earlier literature. the movement was accelerated by the course of political events, and the successes of the war of independence against the french. one of the earliest defenders of the romantic against the classical school was bohl de faber, a hamburg merchant settled in cadiz. he published in - , in his native town, selections from works of the early poets and dramatists of spain; and his daughter, cecilia, under the name of fernan caballero, has attained the highest rank among the lady novelists of spain. the admission of bohl de faber into the ranks of the spanish academy, under martinez de la rosa, marks the definite triumph of the national school. at first it seemed as if the movement would produce simply a change of french for english and german models. fiction became a stiff imitation of sir walter scott. in poetry the influence of byron reigned supreme. espronceda ( - ) has equalled his master in his cynical odes. "the beggar," "the executioner," "the last day of the condemned," and "the pirate," might almost have been penned by byron; and "el mundo diablo" will long live in spanish literature. zorilla, born in , still living, has been more successful in his dramas than espronceda, especially in "don juan tenorio," but his poems are inferior in force, though rich in colouring and in the melody of his verse. gustavo becquer ( - ) is another poet who fed his genius with the legends of the past, but his models were edgar poe and hoffmann; some of his weird fantastic tales and poems are excellent examples of their kind. of an opposite character are the realistic novels of fernan caballero above mentioned ( - ). these are exquisite rose-tinted photographs of spanish life and character taken by one who sees everything spanish with a favourable eye. her writings are distinguished by a delicate aristocratic grace and tenderness which she throws over all subjects which she handles, whether of high or lowly life. as an artist her plots are inferior to those of many worse novelists; her descriptions of scenery are beautiful and exact; as a delineator of individual character she fails, but as a painter of type and class she is unrivalled. her sketches abound in humour and in gentle melancholy; a deep and true religious feeling pervades every line, but she fails in strength and passion. thus she can be classed only in the second rank of female novelists, and does not approach the genius of georges sand or of george elliot. trueba, in the north, essays to imitate her, but he often sinks into puerility, nor are his studies marked by the conscientious regard for fact which distinguishes those of the lady writer. pereda, who delineates the peasants of santander, is a less prolific writer but of higher literary merit. of living novelists we should place in the first rank juan valera with his powerful novels, "pepita jimenez," "el doctor faustino," and "doña luz." next to him is, perhaps, perez galdos, who, in the series entitled "episodios nacionales," rivals the national romances of erckmann-chatrian in french. pedro alarcon has a greater fund of wit and humour, and his "sombrero de tres picos" is a most mirth-provoking tale. fernandez y gonzalez, in the number, if not in the quality of his works, may almost compete with the elder alexandre dumas, whose semi-historical style he repeats. feliz pizcueta, a valencian writer, has also written many novels, whose scenes are laid in his native province. among dramatists now living, or lately dead, we may mention hartzenbusch ( - ), whose "amantes de teruel" is one of the most successful tragedies of the romantic school; breton de los herreros ( - ); gertrudis de avellaneda, the first spanish female dramatist, born in cuba in ; gutierrez, who, born in , sought refuge, like zorilla, in spanish america; lopez de ayala; and lastly, j. estebanez, whose best work is entitled "un drama nuevo," and who reaches a high level of dramatic art. of more extravagant style, inferior to these, and already marking a decadence, is josé echegaray, a man of most versatile and opposite talents, and one of the first mathematicians of spain, the best of whose plays is "locura o santidad." of lyric poets we may mention campoamor, an original but languid and graceful writer of minor verse, and selgas, whose grace is seasoned with wit and satire, but whose prose is much superior to his verse. but by far the greatest of living spanish poets, though like tennyson he has failed comparatively on the stage, is gaspar nuñez de arce. his "gritos del combate," and "la ultima lamentacion de lord byron," contain some noble verses. he writes in the spirit of purest patriotism, with a stern morality, and with severe and chastened art. but more important than in the movement of fiction and poetry has been the influence of the romantic school in history. the attention of spaniards has been at length turned to the study of their original records, and especially to that of the early arabic writers. the first to attempt this, but with insufficient means, was j. a. condé ( - ) in his "historia de la dominacion de los arabes en españa." this has since been superseded by the exacter learning of don pascual gayangos, in the "mohammedan dynasties of spain," by many foreign writers, and by the labours of fernandez y gonzalez in "los mudejares de castilla" ( ) and others. the labours of don modeste and don vicente lafuente, the one in ecclesiastical, the other in civil history, must be mentioned with approval, and the works of amador de los rios, on the literature of spain and on the history of the jews in spain, do honour to his country. among other historians, we may mention f. castro and sales y ferrer, whose works are the popular manuals in education. fernandez guerra in the ancient, and coello in the modern, geography of spain, are authors of the highest class; nor must we omit the englishman bowles, who wrote on the natural history of spain in . in geology another english name, macpherson, attains the highest rank, together with the surveyors employed on the "comision de la mapa geologica" of spain. on the history of property in spain and europe, are two remarkable essays by cárdenas and de azcárate. in theology, on the roman catholic side, are the writings of balmés ( - ); of doñoso cortes ( - ), of the present bishop of cordova, ceferino gonzalez; and, still publishing, the remarkable production of menendez pelayo, "historia de los heterodoxos in españa;" while in the protestant theology, usoz, assisted by b. wiffen in england and boehmer in germany, has rescued from oblivion the works of the spanish reformers. in philology the jesuit, padre fita y colomé, worthily continues the traditions of larramendi and of hervas. fernandez guerra, and f. tubino, and the barcelona school pursue archæological studies with success. the influence of outside european thought is every day more evident in spain. ardent disciples of the school of comte, of darwin, and of schopenhauer, are to be found among her publicists. in political economy figuerola, g. rodriguez, colmeiro, azcárate, and others, follow keenly the teaching of the english liberal school. face to face in parliamentary eloquence and in politics stand cánovas del castello and emilio castelar; the latter distinguished by a florid oratory which is unsurpassed in europe, but whose style is far more effective when spoken than when read; the former, with greater learning and a more cultivated taste, would undoubtedly be known as a writer but for his devotion to political life. the periodical and daily press of spain, though not to compare with that of england, or of the united states, is almost on a par with that of most continental countries; the scientific and literary reviews and magazines are yearly increasing both in numbers and in value. this sketch, however brief, would be incomplete without a glance at what may be called the provincial literature of spain. the publishers of barcelona, especially in illustrated works, vie with those of madrid. it is not in the castilian tongue alone that the awakening is apparent. in catalonia and in valencia the study of the native idiom and of their ancient authors has been taken up with zeal, and with happiest results in history and philology. victor balaguer, the catalan poet and dramatist is equal to all contemporary spanish poets save nuñez de arce. the dramas of pablo soler (serafi petarra) are received with an enthusiasm unknown to audiences in madrid. mila y fontanals, bofarull, and sanpére y miquel are investigating with success the language, history, and archæology of their country. a like, though necessarily a less important, movement is taking place in andalusia, in the basque provinces, in the asturias, and in galicia; everywhere what is worth preserving in these dialects is being sought out, edited, and given to the press. the archives of simancas are at length thrown open to the world, and guides and catalogues are being industriously prepared. sevillian scholars are also studying the archives of the indies, and the treasures of hebrew and arabian lore. thus, if spain can at present boast no writer whom we can place undoubtedly and unreservedly in the very first rank, she shows an intellectual movement which, though confined at present to a comparatively small portion of her inhabitants, may, if it spread and continue, place her again in her proud position of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, as one of the first of european nations, not perhaps in arms and power, but in literature, if not in science. chapter ix. epilogue. a few words in conclusion. spain is far from being a worn-out country. on the contrary, both in the character and capacities of its varied populations, in the mineral riches of its soil, in its agricultural wealth, in industrial resources, and in the artistic taste of its workmen, it is capable of vast development. two things hinder this, and will probably hinder it for some time. these are the political separation of spain and portugal, so ill-adapted to the geographical conformation of the peninsula. the great rivers of spain run westward, but the benefit of these fluvial highways is entirely lost to the country through the intercalation of portugal into the western sea-board, thus making useless to spain her natural system of river transport, and cutting her off from her best and most direct atlantic ports. it is lisbon, and not madrid, which should be the capital of the whole peninsula. scarcely less an evil to spain is the possession of gibraltar by the english, which, besides the expense of watching the fortress, and the loss to spain of the advantage of the possession of the great port of call for the whole maritime traffic of the east, is a school of smuggling and contraband, and a focus of corruption for the whole of south-western spain. were the whole atlantic and mediterranean sea-board in sole possession of one nation, the expenses of the custom-house would be greatly lessened, while the smuggling on the portuguese and british frontiers would wholly disappear. in no point was the effect of the narrow and jealous policy of philip ii. more disastrous, than in his failure even to attempt to attach the portuguese to his rule when the kingdoms were temporarily united under his crown. the second evil, and one of still graver proportions, is that of the exceedingly corrupt administration of the central government, and of almost every branch of public employment. it is difficult to exaggerate this mischief. it is not bad external political government, it is not a faulty constitution, but it is an administration in which corruption has become a tradition and the rule, that is the real evil in spain. it is this which baffles every ministry that tries to do real good. only a ministry, or succession of ministries, composed of men of thorough honesty, of iron will, and of competence in financial administration, supported by strong majorities, can hope to deal with this gigantic growth. even then it must be a work of time. with an honest administration, and prudent and sagacious development of her resources, spain would soon regain financial soundness and recover her place among the nations. the contest between the opposite commercial systems of protection and free trade is not yet concluded, nor is likely to be, in spain. as long as england, which has the greatest interest of any foreign power in the establishment of the latter system, maintains a tariff which unduly favours the wines of france in comparison with those of spain free trade is not likely to be popular. from the varied character of her products, spain is of all european countries naturally the most self-sufficing. her north-western provinces furnish her with cattle in abundance; no finer wheat is grown than that on the central plateau, and it could easily be produced in quantity more than sufficient for her wants; wine, oil, and fruits she possesses in superfluity; even sugar is not wanting in the south; cotton, indeed, she has not; but wool of excellent quality is the produce of her numerous flocks, and it needs only the establishment of efficient manufactories for spanish cloth and woollen stuffs to regain their ancient renown. all the most useful minerals abound, and are of the finest quality, especially the iron, and the development of the working of the asturian and andalusian coal-fields renders spain yearly more and more independent of england in this respect. true it is that foreign capital is, and will for some time be necessary to assist in extracting this hidden wealth; but if the ordinary spaniard of the educated classes, instead of seeking a bare, and too often a base, subsistence in petty government employment or in ill-paid professions--instead of seeking the barren honour of a university degree--would apply himself to scientific, industrial, or agricultural enterprise, he might soon obtain his legitimate share of the profits which now go mainly into the hands of foreign speculators and shareholders. spaniards are commonly said to be cruel and bloodthirsty, with little regard for the sufferings of others or respect for human life; and undoubtedly there is some truth in this charge, but it does not apply to the whole peninsula. many of spain's best writers deplore it, and inveigh strongly against it and against the bull-fights, which, in their present form, are not more than a century old. as a national sport, the modern bull-ring, with its professional torreadors and its hideous horse-slaughtering, differs from the pastime in which charles v. and his nobles used to take part as much as a prizefight from a tournament. the appeals of fernan caballero to the clergy, the efforts of tubino, lastre, and others to arouse the public against this wanton cruelty have hitherto been of no avail. we can only hope in the future. on the other hand, it is unjust to shut our eyes to the noble charities of spain. she was the first to care for lunatics. many of her hospitals and asylums for the aged were conducted with a tenderness and consideration unknown in other lands. even a beggar is treated with respect, and is relieved without contumely. the treatment of her prisoners and the condition of her prisons, which was long so foul a blot, is now being efficiently removed; she is at least making an earnest effort to attain the level of european civilization in this respect. intellectually, in science, and especially in literature, spain is advancing rapidly. the historical treasures long buried in the archives of simancas, and those of the indies at seville, are now thrown open to the world, and are eagerly consulted by native historians. her literary and scientific men, though comparatively few in number, are full of zeal and intelligence. there needs only a larger and more appreciative audience to encourage them in their labours in order to bring the literature of spain to a level with that of any european country of equal population. appendix i. provinces of spain and their population in . per square provinces. inhabitants. kilometer. alava , albacéte , alicante , alméria , avila , badajoz , barcelona , burgos , cacéres , cadiz , castellon , ciudad-real , cordova , corunna , cuenca , gerona , granada , guadalajara , guipúzcoa , huelva , huesca , jaën , leon , lerida , logroño , lugo , madrid , malaga , murcia , navarre , orense , oviedo , palencia , pontevedra , salamanca , santander , saragossa , segovia , seville , soria , tarragona , teruel , toledo , valencia , valladolid , vizcaya , zamora , ---------- -- , , balearic isles , canaries , ---------- -- , , ---------- -- in area of surface spain ranks the th of european states. in number of population th " in density of population to the square mile th " in extent of colonies th " rates of women to men, to . the infantile mortality is said to be - / per cent. in first year. expectation of life at years old is said to be years; the average . appendix ii. principal events of spanish history. a.d. visigoth kings rule from to entry of moors, battle of guadelete, death of last visigothic king july, reconquest begun by pelayo at covadonga in the asturias toledo captured by alphonso vi. battle of las navas de tolosa final union of leon and castile alphonso x. (law codes: the fuero real and las siete partidas) union of aragon with castile under ferdinand and isabella inquisition established (first auto de fé, ) conquest of granada discovery of america expulsion of moors from castile, ; from granada conquest of naples and sicily _austrian dynasty_:--philip i. and joanna charles i. (emperor of germany, charles v.) war of comunidades of castile, battle of villalar battle of pavia, francis i. prisoner capture of tunis abdication of charles i. philip ii.:--greatest extension of spanish monarchy, comprising spain, portugal, naples, sicily, sardinia, milan, roussillon, holland, belgium, luxembourg, franche-comté, tunis, oran, the canaries, fernando po, st. helena, the americas, philippine isles, &c. insurrection of low countries first rebellion and expulsion of moriscos battle of lepanto league of provinces and independence of holland, jan., conquest of portugal ( - ) defeat of armada death of philip ii. final expulsion of moriscos insurrection of catalonia loss of portugal battle of rocroy peace of the pyrenees and marriage of louis xiv. death of charles ii., last of austrian dynasty oct., _bourbon dynasty_:--war of succession between archduke charles and philip v., - loss of gibraltar treaty of utrecht salic law voted in cortes abolition of constitution of catalonia charles iii. family pact expulsion of jesuits siege of gibraltar charles iv. godoy, prince of peace battle of trafalgar abdication of charles iv. ferdinand vii., renunciation at bayonne joseph bonaparte, king ( - ) uprising of spain may, peninsular war, - expulsion of french cortés of cadiz, suppression of inquisition, of feudal rights, and establishment of constitution return of ferdinand vii., inquisition re-established, and constitution abolished insurrection of riego, new constitution ( - ) invasion of french, violation of constitution loss of american colonies. buenos ayres chili columbia mexico peru absolutism till death of ferdinand vii. ( - ). birth of isabella ii., abolition of salic law, expulsion of don carlos death of ferdinand vii. regency of christina, the queen-mother, ; expelled first carlist war, - . majority of isabella ii. war with morocco insurrection and expulsion of isabella provisional government, - amadeo i., november, , to february, republic, cantonalist insurrections second carlist war, - . alphonso xii. dec., don carlos entered france, february, abolition of basque fueros downfall of cánovas del castillo appendix iii. list of books chiefly made use of in the foregoing pages. _geography_:-- la nouvelle géographie universelle, par elisée reclus, series and . hachette, paris, . spanien und die balearen. willkomm, berlin, . the balearic isles, by t. bidwell. london. boletin de la sociedad geográfica de madrid, various years. introduccion à la historia natural y à la geográfica fisica de españa, por don guillermo bowles. madrid, . espagne, algerie, et tunisie, par p. de tchikatchef. paris, . libro de agricultura, por abu zaccaria. spanish translation seville, . _meteorology_:-- reports of the meteorological society of madrid, various years. revista contemporanea, tomo xxx. . december, . _philology_:-- grammaire des langues romaines, par f. diez, nd german edition. french translation, paris. Études sur les idiomes pyrénéenes, par a. luchaire. paris, . various articles in spanish literary and provincial journals. _history, general_:-- dunham's history of spain and portugal, vols. lardner's cabinet encyclopaedia. resúmen de historia de españa, por f. de castro, th edition. madrid, . compendio razonado de história general, por sales y ferré, last edition, vols. madrid, . history of civilization, by buckle, vols. london. _particular histories_:-- investigaciones sobre la história de españa, por dozy, spanish translation, vols. seville, . los mudejares de castillo, por fernandez gonzalez. madrid, . vida de la princesa eboli, by g. muro, with introductory letter by cánovas del castillo. madrid, . text of various fueros, and of the constitutions since . espagne contemporaine, par f. garrido. bruxelles, . _ecclesiastical history_:-- die kirchengeschichte von spanien, von p. b. gams, vols. berlin, . historia de los heterodoxos españoles, por m. menendez pelayo, tomos i. and ii. (tomo iii. not yet published.) madrid, . _history of property, &c._:-- ensayo sobre la história del derecho de propiedad y su estado actual en europa, por g. de azcárate. tomos i. and ii. (tomo iii. not yet published.) madrid, - . estudios filosóficos y politicos, por g. de azcárate. madrid, . la constitucion inglesa y la politica del continente, por g. de azcárate. madrid, . ensayo sobre la propiedad territorial en españa, per cardénas, vols. madrid, . _art_:-- street's gothic architecture in spain. murray, . the industrial arts of spain, by juan f. riaño. london . discurso de recepcion, by juan f. riaño. madrid, . numerous articles in spanish periodicals. _literature_:-- ticknor's history of spanish literature, vols. london, . sismondi's literature of the south of europe. bohn, london, . hubbard's littérature contemporaine en espagne. paris, . _guide-books_:-- ford's last edition, and o'shea's guide to spain, with numerous spanish general and local guides, and particular descriptions of towns, provinces, &c. tourist books in spanish, german, french, and english. the only ones needing mention, as going out of the common round are-- untrodden spain, by j. h. rose. bentley, . among the spanish people, by j. h. rose. bentley, . government and consular reports too numerous to specify; but we must except phipps' masterly report on spanish finance to the close of . index. agriculture, . alhambra, , . alphonso xii., . amadeo i., , . andorra, republic of, . arabs, . architecture, roman, ; arab, ; mudejar, ; renaissance, ; churrigueresque, . army, . art, visigothic, ; arabic, ; christian, ; industrial, . balearic isles, . bardeñas reales, , . basque language, , , . behetria, . bidassoa, , . budgets, . bulls and bull-fighting, , . caballero, fernan, . calderon, . camel breeds in spain, , . cañada, la, pass of, , . canals, , , , . cánovas del castillo, , . carlists, , . castelar, , , . cerro de san felipe, , . cervantes, , . charles i., , . charles iii., , . chuetas of balearic isles, , . church, councils of, , ; furniture and art, . clergy, , . coal-mines, , , , , . colleges, british, , . comunidades of aragon, , . congress of deputies, . constitutions of spain, , . contrabandistas, . cortés, , . cordova, mosque of, , , . debt, public, . despeña-perros, pass of, , . despoblados and destierros, , , . douro, , . ebro, , , . escorial, , , . esparto grass, , , . exports and imports, . fauna, . ferdinand vii., . finance, . fiords or friths in galicia, , , . fisheries, , , . flora, greatly exotic, , ; herbaceous aromatic, ; african, . fueros, , , , , . funds, . gata, cabo de, , , . gibraltar, , . guadalaviar and irrigation, , . guadalquiver and affluents, , . guadarrama, range of, , , . guadiana and affluents, . guardias civiles, . guisando, toros de, , , . historical school in spain, , . hospitals, . hurdes, , . iberi, . imports and exports, . inquisition, , . irrigation of llobregat, ; esla, ; henares, , , ; in valencia and murcia, , , , , . isabella ii., . jews of balearic isles, , . justice, administration of, . kelt and keltiberi, , . lace, . lakes, , , , . laya, basque tool, . lead-mines, , . lemosin dialects, . locusts, , . lunatic asylums, , . majolica ware, , , . manufactures, cotton, , , . maragatos, , , . marismas of guadalquiver, , . merino sheep, . mesta, , , , . mineral springs, . minho, , . mining districts, , , , , , , , , , . monkeys at gibraltar, , . mudejar art, . municipal administration, . mules, . murillo, , , , . navy, . nevada, sierra, , , . olives, , , , , , . orange cultivation, , , , , . painting, schools of, , . palms, , , . passiegos of bilbao, . philip ii., , . population, census of, , ; diverse of spain, , ; occupations of, . post and letters, . pottery and porcelain, , , . prisons, , . professors, salary of, . property, distribution of, , ; church, sale of, , , . provinces, administration of, . provincial literature, . railways, . rainfall, , , . republic of andora, . rice cultivation, , , . rivers, comparative table of, . romans in spain, , , , , , , . salinas, , , , , , . salt-mine, , . schools and schoolmasters, . sea-board of spain, . seguro, sierra and rivers, , , . silk, . sugar, , , . tagus and its affluents, . taxes, . telegraphs, . tobacco factories, , . toleration, early religious, , , . universities, . visigoths, , , . water, names connected with, . wines of galicia, , ; riojas, , ; navarre and aragon, ; catalonia, , ; valencia, ; la mancha, ; malaga ; andalusia sherries, , , . london: printed by gilbert and rivington, limited, st. john's square. the land of the blessed virgin sketches and impressions in andalusia by william somerset maugham (with frontispiece) london william heinemann mcmv _all rights reserved_ [illustration] to violet hunt contents i. the spirit of andalusia ii. the churches of ronda iii. ronda iv. the swineherd v. medinat az-zahra vi. the mosque vii. the court of oranges viii. cordova ix. the bridge of calahorra x. puerta del puente xi. seville xii. the alcazar xiii. calle de las sierpes xiv. characteristics xv. don juan tenorio xvi. women of andalusia xvii. the dance xviii. a feast day xix. the giralda xx. the cathedral of seville xxi. the hospital of charity xxii. gaol xxiii. before the bull-fight xxiv. corrida de toros--i. xxv. corrida de toros--ii xxvi. on horseback xxvii. by the road--i. xxviii. by the road--ii. xxix. ecija xxx. wind and storm xxxi. two villages xxxii. granada xxxiii. the alhambra xxxiv. boabdil the unlucky xxxv. los pobres xxxvi. the song xxxvii. jerez xxxviii. cadiz xxxix. el genero chico xl. adios i [sidenote: the spirit of andalusia] after one has left a country it is interesting to collect together the emotions it has given in an effort to define its particular character. and with andalusia the attempt is especially fascinating, for it is a land of contrasts in which work upon one another, diversely, a hundred influences. in london now, as i write, the rain of an english april pours down; the sky is leaden and cold, the houses in front of me are almost terrible in their monotonous greyness, the slate roofs are shining with the wet. now and again people pass: a woman of the slums in a dirty apron, her head wrapped in a grey shawl; two girls in waterproofs, trim and alert notwithstanding the inclement weather, one with a music-case under her arm. a train arrives at an underground station and a score of city folk cross my window, sheltered behind their umbrellas; and two or three groups of workmen, silently, smoking short pipes: they walk with a dull, heavy tramp, with the gait of strong men who are very tired. still the rain pours down unceasing. and i think of andalusia. my mind is suddenly ablaze with its sunshine, with its opulent colour, luminous and soft; i think of the cities, the white cities bathed in light; of the desolate wastes of sand, with their dwarf palms, the broom in flower. and in my ears i hear the twang of the guitar, the rhythmical clapping of hands and the castanets, as two girls dance in the sunlight on a holiday. i see the crowds going to the bull-fight, intensely living, many-coloured. and a thousand scents are wafted across my memory; i remember the cloudless nights, the silence of sleeping towns, and the silence of desert country; i remember old whitewashed taverns, and the perfumed wines of malaga, of jerez, and of manzanilla. (the rain pours down without stay in oblique long lines, the light is quickly failing, the street is sad and very cheerless.) i feel on my shoulder the touch of dainty hands, of little hands with tapering fingers, and on my mouth the kisses of red lips, and i hear a joyous laugh. i remember the voice that bade me farewell that last night in seville, and the gleam of dark eyes and dark hair at the foot of the stairs, as i looked back from the gate. '_feliz viage, mi inglesito._' it was not love i felt for you, rosarito; i wish it had been; but now far away, in the rain, i fancy, (oh no, not that i am at last in love,) but perhaps that i am just faintly enamoured--of your recollection. * * * but these are all spanish things, and more than half one's impressions of andalusia are connected with the moors. not only did they make exquisite buildings, they moulded a whole people to their likeness; the andalusian character is rich with oriental traits; the houses, the mode of life, the very atmosphere is moorish rather than christian; to this day the peasant at his plough sings the same quavering lament that sang the moor. and it is to the invaders that spain as a country owes the magnificence of its golden age: it was contact with them that gave the spaniards cultivation; it was the conflict of seven hundred years that made them the best soldiers in europe, and masters of half the world. the long struggle caused that tension of spirit which led to the adventurous descent upon america, teaching recklessness of life and the fascination of unknown dangers; and it caused their downfall as it had caused their rise, for the religious element in the racial war occasioned the most cruel bigotry that has existed on the face of the earth, so that the victors suffered as terribly as the vanquished. the moors, hounded out of spain, took with them their arts and handicrafts--as the huguenots from france after the revocation of the edict of nantes--and though for a while the light of spain burnt very brightly, the light borrowed from moordom, the oil jar was broken and the lamp flickered out. * * * in most countries there is one person in particular who seems to typify the race, whose works are the synthesis, as it were, of an entire people. bernini expressed in this manner a whole age of italian society; and even now his spirit haunts you as you read the gorgeous sins of roman noblemen in the pages of gabriele d'annunzio. and murillo, though the expert not unjustly from their special point of view, see in him but a mediocre artist, in the same way is the very quintessence of southern spain. wielders of the brush, occupied chiefly with technique, are apt to discern little in an old master, save the craftsman; yet art is no more than a link in the chain of life and cannot be sharply sundered from the civilisation of which it is an outcome: even velasquez, sans peer, sans parallel, throws a curious light on the world of his day, and the cleverest painters would find their knowledge and understanding of that great genius the fuller if they were acquainted with the plays of lope de la vega and the satires of quevedo. notwithstanding murillo's obvious faults, as you walk through the museum at seville all andalusia appears before you. nothing could be more characteristic than the religious feeling of the many pictures, than the exuberant fancy and utter lack of idealisation: in the contrast between a holy family by murillo and one by perugino is all the difference between spain and italy. murillo's virgin is a peasant girl such as you may see in any village round seville on a feast-day; her emotions are purely human, and in her face is nothing more than the intense love of a mother for her child. but the italian shows a creature not of earth, an angelic maid with almond eyes, oval of face: she has a strange air of unrealness, for her body is not of human flesh and blood, and she is linked with mankind only by an infinite sadness; she seems to see already the dolorous way, and her eyes are heavy with countless unwept tears. one picture especially, that which the painter himself thought his best work, _saint thomas of villanueva distributing alms_, to my mind offers the entire impression of that full life of andalusia. in the splendour of mitre and of pastoral staff, in the sober magnificence of architecture, is all the opulence of the catholic church; in the worn, patient, ascetic face of the saint is the mystic, fervid piety which distinguished so wonderfully the warlike and barbarous spain of the sixteenth century; and lastly, in the beggars covered with sores, pale, starving, with their malodorous rags, you feel strangely the swarming poverty of the vast population, downtrodden and vivacious, which you read of in the picaresque novels of a later day. and these same characteristics, the deep religious feeling, the splendour, the poverty, the extreme sense of vigorous life, the discerning may find even now among the andalusians for all the modern modes with which, as with coats of london and bonnets of paris, they have sought to liken themselves to the rest of europe. and the colours of murillo's palette are the typical colours of andalusia, rich, hot, and deep--again contrasting with the enamelled brilliance of the umbrians. he seems to have charged his brush with the very light and atmosphere of seville; the country bathed in the splendour of an august sun has just the luminous character, the haziness of contour, which characterise the paintings of murillo's latest manner. they say he adopted the style termed _vaporoso_ for greater rapidity of execution, but he cannot have lived all his life in that radiant atmosphere without being impregnated with it. in andalusia there is a quality of the air which gives all things a limpid, brilliant softness, the sea of gold poured out upon them voluptuously rounds away their outlines; and one can well imagine that the master deemed it the culmination of his art when he painted with the same aureate effulgence, when he put on canvas those gorgeous tints and that exquisite mellowness. ii [sidenote: the churches of ronda] that necessity of realism which is, perhaps, the most conspicuous of spanish traits, shows itself nowhere more obviously than in matters religious. it is a very listless emotion that is satisfied with the shadow of the ideal; and the belief of the andaluz is an intensely living thing, into which he throws himself with a vehemence that requires the nude and brutal fact. his saints must be fashioned after his own likeness, for he has small power of make-believe, and needs all manner of substantial accessories to establish his faith. but then he treats the images as living persons, and it never occurs to him to pray to the saint in paradise while kneeling before his presentment upon earth. the spanish girl at the altar of _mater dolorosa_ prays to a veritable woman, able to speak if so she wills, able to descend from the golden shrine to comfort the devout worshipper. to her nothing is more real than these madonnas, with their dark eyes and their abundant hair: _maria del pilar_, who is mary of the fountain, _maria del rosario_, who is mary of the rosary, _maria de los dolores_, _maria del carmen_, _maria de los angeles_. and they wear magnificent gowns of brocade and of cloth-of-gold, mantles heavily embroidered, shoes, rings on their fingers, rich jewels about their necks. in a little town like ronda, so entirely apart from the world, poverty-stricken, this desire for realism makes a curiously strong impression. the churches, coated with whitewash, are squalid, cold and depressing; and at first sight the row of images looks nothing more than a somewhat vulgar exhibition of wax-work. but presently, as i lingered, the very poverty of it all touched me; and forgetting the grotesqueness, i perceived that some of the saints in their elaborate dresses were quite charming and graceful. in the church of _santa maria la mayor_ was a saint catherine in rich habiliments of red brocade, with a white _mantilla_ arranged as only a spanish woman could arrange it. she might have been a young gentlewoman of fifty years back when costume was gayer than nowadays, arrayed for a fashionable wedding or for a bull-fight. and in another church i saw a youthful saint in priest's robes, a cassock of black silk and a short surplice of exquisite lace; he held a bunch of lilies in his hand and looked very gently, his lips almost trembling to a smile. one can imagine that not to them would come the suppliant with a heavy despair, they would be merely pained at their helplessness before the tears of the grief that kills and the woe of mothers sorrowing for their sons. but when the black-eyed maiden knelt before the priest, courtly and debonair, begging him to send a husband quickly, his lips surely would control themselves no longer, and his smile would set the damsel's cheek a-blushing. and if a youth knelt before saint catherine in her dainty _mantilla_, and vowed his heart was breaking because his love gave him stony glances, she would look very graciously upon him, so that his courage was restored, and he promised her a silver heart as lovers in greece made votive offerings to aphrodite. at the church of the _espirito santo_, in a little chapel behind one of the transept altars, i saw, through a huge rococo frame of gilded wood, a _maria de los dolores_ that was almost terrifying in poignant realism. she wore a robe of black damask, which stood as if it were cast of bronze in heavy, austere folds, a velvet cloak decorated with the old lace known as _rose point d'espagne_; and on her head a massive imperial diadem, and a golden aureole. seven candles burned before her; and at vespers, when the church was nearly dark, they threw a cold, sharp light upon her countenance. her eyes were in deep shadow, strangely mysterious, and they made the face, so small beneath the pompous crown, horribly life-like: you could not see the tears, but you felt they were eyes which would never cease from weeping. i suppose it was all tawdry and vulgar and common, but a woman knelt in front of the mother of sorrows, praying, a poor woman in a ragged shawl; i heard a sob, and saw that she was weeping; she sought to restrain herself and in the effort a tremor passed through her body, and she drew the shawl more closely round her. i walked away, and came presently to the most cruel of all these images. it was a _pietà_. the mother held on her knees the dead son, looking in his face, and it was a ghastly contrast between her royal array and his naked body. she, too, wore the imperial crown, with its golden aureole, and her cloak was of damask embroidered with heavy gold. her hair fell in curling abundance about her breast, and the sacristan told me it was the hair of a lady who had lost her husband and her only son. but the dead christ was terrible, his face half hidden by the long straight hair, long as a woman's, and his body thin and all discoloured: from the wounds thick blood poured out, and their edges were swollen and red; the broken knees, the feet and hands, were purple and green with the beginning of putrefaction. iii [sidenote: ronda] ronda is set deep among the mountains between algeciras and seville; they hem it in on all sides, and it straggles up and down little hills, timidly, as though its presence were an affront to the wild rocks around it. the houses are huddled against the churches, which look like portly hens squatting with ruffled feathers, while their chicks, for warmth, press up against them. it is very cold in ronda. i saw it first quite early: over the town hung a grey mist shining in the sunlight, and the mountains, opalescent in the morning glow, were so luminous that they seemed hardly solid; they looked as if one could walk through them. the people, covering their mouths in dread of a _pulmonia_, hastened by, closely muffled in long cloaks. as i passed the open doors i saw them standing round the _brasero_, warming themselves; for fireplaces are unknown to andalusia, the only means of heat being the _copa_, a round brass dish in which is placed burning charcoal. the height and the cold give ronda a character which reminds one of northern spain; the roofs are quite steep, the houses low and small, built for warmth rather than, as in the rest of andalusia, for coolness. but the whitewash and the barred windows with their wooden lattice-work, remind you that you are in moorish country, in the very heart of it; and ronda, indeed, figures in chronicles and in old ballads as a stronghold of the invaders. the temperature affects the habits of the people, even their appearance: there is no lounging about the squares or at the doors of wine-shops, the streets are deserted and their great breadth makes the emptiness more apparent. the first setters out of the town had no need to make the ways narrow for the sake of shade, and they are, in fact, so broad that the houses on either side might be laid on their faces, and there would still be room for the rapid stream which hurries down the middle. the conformation of a spanish town, even though it lack museums and fine buildings, gives it an interest beyond that of most european places. the moorish design is always evident. that wise people laid out the streets as was most convenient, tortuous and narrow at cordova or broad as a king's highway in ronda. the moors stayed their time, and their hour struck, and they went; the houses had fallen to decay and been more than once rebuilt. the christians returned and mahomet fled before the saints; (it was no shame since they grossly out-numbered him;) the mosque was made a church, and the houses as they fell were built again, but on the same foundations and in the same way. the streets have remained as the moors left them, the houses still are built round little courtyards--the _patio_--as the moors built them; and the windows are barred and latticed as of old, the better to protect beauty whose dark eyes flash too meaningly at wandering strangers, whose red lips are over ready to break into a smile for the peace of an absent husband. * * * after the busy clamour of gibraltar, that ant-nest of a hundred nationalities, ronda impresses you by its peculiar silence. the lack of sound is the more noticeable in the frosty clearness of the atmosphere, and is only emphasised by an occasional cry that floats, from some vast distance, along the air. the coldness, too, has pinched the features of the people, and they seem to grow old even earlier than in the rest of andalusia. strapping fellows of thirty with slim figures and a youthful air have the faces of elderly men, and their skin is hard, stained and furrowed. the women, ageing as rapidly, have no gaiety. if spanish girls have frequently a beautiful youth, their age too often is atrocious: it is inconceivable that a handsome woman should become so fearful a hag; the luxuriant hair is lost, and she takes no pains to conceal her grey baldness, the eye loses its light, the enchanting down of the upper lip turns to a bristly moustache; the features harden, grow coarse and vulgar; and the countenance assumes a rapacious expression, so that she appears a bird of prey; and her strident voice is like the shriek of vultures. it is easily comprehensible that the spanish stage should have taken the old woman as one of its most constant, characteristic types. but in ronda even the girls have a weary look, as though life were not so easy a matter as in warmer places, or as the good god intended; and they seem to suffer from the brevity of youth, which is no sooner come than gone. they walk inertly, clothed in sombre colours, their hair not elaborately arranged as would have it the poorest cigarette-girl, but merely knotted, without the flower which the sevillan is popularly said to insist upon even at the cost of a dinner. and when they go out the grey shawls they wrap about their heads add to their unattractiveness. iv [sidenote: the swineherd] but if ronda itself is a somewhat dull and unsympathetic place with nothing more for the edification of the visitor than a melodramatic chasm, the surrounding country is worthy the most extravagant epithets. the mountains have the gloomy barrenness, the slate-grey colour of volcanic ranges; they encircle the town in a gigantic amphitheatre, rugged and overbearing like titans turned to stone. they seem, indeed, to wear a sombre insolence of demeanour as though the aspect of human kind moved them to lofty contempt. and in their magnificent desolation they offer a fit environment for the exploits of byronic heroes. the handsome villain of romance, seductive by the complexity of his emotions, by the persistence of his mysterious grief, would find himself in that theatrical scene most thoroughly at home; nor did prosper mérimée fail to seize the opportunity, for the mountains of ronda were the very hunting-ground of don josè, who lost his soul for carmen. but as a matter of history they were likewise the haunts of brigands in flesh and blood--malefactors in the past had that sense of the picturesque which now is vested in the amateur photographer--and this particular district was as dangerous to the travelling merchant as any in spain. the environs of ronda are barren and unfertile, the olive groves bear little fruit. i wandered through the lonely country, towards the mountains; the day was overcast and the clouds hung sluggishly overhead. as i walked, suddenly i heard a melancholy voice singing a peasant song, a _malagueña_. i paused to listen, but the sadness was almost unendurable; and it went on interminably, wailing through the air with the insistent monotony of its moorish origin. i struck into the olives to find the singer and met a swineherd, guarding a dozen brown pigs, a youth thin of face, with dark eyes, clothed in undressed sheep-skins; and the brown wool gave him a singular appearance of community with the earth about him. he stood among the trees like a wild creature, more beast than man, and the lank, busy pigs burrowed around him, running to and fro, with little squeals. he ceased his song when i approached and looked up timidly. i spoke to him but he made no answer, i offered a cigarette but he shook his head. i went my way, and at first the road was not quite solitary. two men passed me on donkeys. '_vaya usted con dios!_' they cried--'go you with god': it is the commonest greeting in spain, and the most charming; the roughest peasant calls it as you meet him. a dozen grey asses went towards ronda, one after the other, their panniers filled with stones; they walked with hanging heads, resigned to all their pain. but when at last i came into the mountains the loneliness was terrible. not even the olive grew on those dark masses of rock, windswept and sterile; there was not a hut nor a cottage to testify of man's existence, not even a path such as the wild things of the heights might use. all life, indeed, appeared incongruous with that overwhelming solitude. daylight was waning as i returned, but when i passed the olive-grove, where many hours before i had heard the _malagueña_, the same monotonous song still moaned along the air, carrying back my thoughts to the swineherd. i wondered what he thought of while he sang, whether the sad words brought him some dim emotion. how curious was the life he led! i suppose he had never travelled further than his native town; he could neither write nor read. madrid to him was a city where the streets were paved with silver and the king's palace was of fine gold. he was born and grew to manhood and tended his swine, and some day he would marry and beget children, and at length die and return to the mother of all things. it seemed to me that nowadays, when civilisation has become the mainstay of our lives, it is only with such beings as these that it is possible to realise the closeness of the tie between mankind and nature. to the poor herdsman still clung the soil; he was no foreign element in the scene, but as much part of it as the stunted olives, belonging to the earth intimately as the trees among which he stood, as the beasts he tended. * * * when i came near the town the sun was setting. in the west, tempestuous clouds were massed upon one another, and the sun shone blood-red above them; but as it sank they were riven asunder, and i saw a great furnace that lit up the whole sky. the mountains were purple, unreal as the painted mountains of a picture. the light was gone from the east, and there everything was chill and grey; the barren rocks looked so desolate that one shuddered with horror of the cold. but the sun fell gold and red, and the rift in the clouds was a kingdom of gorgeous light; the earth and its petty inhabitants died away, and in the crimson flame i could almost see lucifer standing in his glory, god-like and young; lucifer in all majesty, surrounded by his court of archangels, beelzebub, belial, moloch, abaddon. * * * i had discovered in the morning, from the steeple of _santa maria_, a queer ruined church, and was oddly impressed by the bare façade, with the yawning apertures of empty windows. i went to it, but every entrance was bricked up save one, which had a door of rough boards fastened by a padlock; and in a neighbouring house i found an old man with a key. it was a spot of utter desolation; the roof had gone or had never been. the custodian could not tell whether the church was the wreck of an old building or a framework that had never been completed; the walls were falling to decay. along the nave and in the chapels trees were growing, shrubs and rank weeds; it was curious the utter ruin in the midst of the populous town. pigs ran hither and thither, feeding, with noisy grunts, as they burrowed about the crumbling altar. the old man inquired whether i wished to buy the absolute uselessness of the place fascinated me. i asked the price. he looked me up and down, and seeing i was foreign, suggested a ridiculous sum. and while i amused myself with bargaining, i wondered what on earth one could do with a ruined church in ronda. half a dozen fantastic notions passed through my mind, but they were really too melodramatic. and now when the sun had set i returned. notwithstanding his suspicions, i induced the keeper to give me his key; he could not understand what i desired at such an hour in that solitary place, and asked if i wished to sleep there! but i calmed his fears with a _peseta_--money goes a long way in spain--and went in alone. the pigs had been removed and all was silent. a few bats flitted to and fro quickly. the light fell away greyly, the cold descended on the ruin, and it became very strange and mysterious. presently, the roofless chapels seemed to grow alive with weird invisible things, the rank weeds exhaled chill odours; and in the lonely silence a mass began. at the ruined altar ghostly priests officiated, passing quietly from side to side, with bows and genuflections. the bell tinkled as they raised an invisible host. soon it became quite dark, and the moon shone through the great empty windows of the façade. v [sidenote: medinat az-zahra] in what you divine rather than in what you see lies half the charm of andalusia, in the suggestion of all manner of delicate antique things, in the vivid memory of past grandeur. the moors have gone, but still they inhabit the land in spirit and not seldom in a spectral way seem to regain their old dominion. often towards evening, as i rode through the desolate country, i thought i saw an half-naked moor ploughing his field, urging the lazy oxen with a long goad. often the spaniard on his horse vanished, and i saw a muslim knight riding in pride and glory, his velvet cloak bespattered with the gold initial of his lady, and her favour fluttering from his lance. once near granada, standing on a hill, i watched the blood-red sun set tempestuously over the plain; and presently in the distance the gnarled olive-trees seemed living beings, and i saw contending hosts, two ghostly armies silently battling with one another; i saw the flash of scimitars, and the gleam of standards, the whiteness of the turbans. they fought with horrible carnage, and the land was crimson with their blood. then the sun fell below the horizon, and all again was still and lifeless. and what can be more fascinating than that magic city of az-zahra, the wonder of its age, of which now not a stone remains? it was made to satisfy the whim of a concubine by a sultan whose flamboyant passion moved him to displace mountains for the sake of his beloved; and the memory thereof is lost so completely that even its situation till lately was uncertain. az-zahra the fairest said to abd-er-rahm[=a]n, her lord: 'raise me a city that shall take my name and be mine.' the khalif built at the foot of the mountain which is called the hill of the bride; but when at last the lady, from the great hall of the palace, gazed at the snow-white city contrasting with the dark mountain, she remarked: 'see, o master! how beautiful this girl looks in the arms of yonder ethiopian.' the jealous khalif immediately commanded the removal of the offending hill; and when he was convinced the task was impossible, ordered that the oaks and other mountain trees which grew upon it should be uprooted, and fig-trees and almonds planted in their stead. imagine the _hall of the khalif_, with walls of transparent and many-coloured marble, with roof of gold; on each side were eight doors fixed upon arches of ivory and ebony, ornamented with precious metals and with precious stones; and when the sun penetrated them, the reflection of its rays upon the roof and walls was sufficient to deprive the beholders of sight! in the centre was a great basin filled with quicksilver, and the sultan, wishing to terrify a courtier, would cause the metal to be set in motion, whereupon the apartment would seem traversed by flashes of lightning, and all the company would fall a-trembling. the old author tells of running streams and of limpid water, of stately buildings for the household guards, and magnificent palaces for the reception of high functionaries of state; of the thronging soldiers, pages, eunuchs, slaves, of all nations and of all religions, in sumptuous habiliments of silk and of brocade; of judges, theologians, and poets, walking with becoming gravity in the ample courts.... alas! that poets now should rush through fleet street with unseemly haste, attired uncouthly in bowler hats and in preposterous tweeds! * * * from the celebrated legend of roderick the goth to that last scene when boabdil handed the keys of granada to king ferdinand, the history of the moorish occupation reads far more like romance than like sober fact. it is rich with every kind of passionate incident; it has all the strange vicissitudes of oriental history. what career could be more wonderful than that of almanzor, who began life as a professional letter-writer, (a calling which you may still see exercised in the public places of madrid or seville,) and ended it as absolute ruler of an empire! his charm of manner, his skill in flattery, the military genius which he developed when occasion called, his generosity and sense of justice, his love of literature and art, make him a figure to be contemplated with admiration; and when you add his utter lack of scruple, his selfishness, his ingratitude, his perfidy, you have a character complex enough to satisfy the most exacting. those who would read of these things may find an admirable account in mr. lane-poole's _moors in spain_; but i cannot renounce the pleasure of giving one characteristic detail. after the death of abd-er-rahm[=a]n, the builder of that magnificent city of az-zahra, a paper was found in his own handwriting, upon which he had noted those days in his long reign which had been free from all sorrow: they numbered fourteen. sovereign lord of a country than which there is on earth none more delightful, his life had been of uninterrupted prosperity; success in peace and war attended him always; he possessed everything that it was possible for man to have. these are the observations of al makkary, the arabic historian, when he narrates the incident: _o man of understanding! wonder and observe the small portion of real happiness the world affords even in the most enviable position. praise be given to him, the lord of eternal glory and everlasting empire! there is no god but he the almighty, the giver of empire to whomsoever he pleases._ vi [sidenote: the mosque] but cordova, from which az-zahra was about four miles distant, has visible delights that can vie with its neighbour's vanished pomp. i know nothing that can give a more poignant emotion than the interior of the mosque at cordova; and yet i remember well the splendour of barbaric and oriental magnificence which was my first sight of st. mark's at venice, as i came abruptly from the darkness of an alley into the golden light of the piazza. but to me at least the famous things of italy, known from childhood in picture and in description, afford more than anything a joyful sense of recognition, a feeling as it were of home-coming, such as may hope to experience the devout christian on entering upon his heritage in the kingdom of heaven. the mosque of cordova is oriental and barbaric too; but i had never seen nor imagined anything in the least resembling it; there was no disillusionment possible, as too often in italy, for the accounts i had read prepared me not at all for that overwhelming impression. it was so weird and strange, i felt myself transported suddenly to another world. they were singing vespers when i entered, and i heard the shrill voices of choristers crying the responses; it did not sound like christian music. the mosque was dimly lit, the air heavy with incense; and i saw this forest of pillars, extending every way, as far as the eye could reach. it was mysterious and awe-inspiring as those enchanted forests of one's childhood in which huge trees grew in serried masses and where in cavernous darkness goblins and giants of the fairy-tales, wild beasts and monstrous shapes, lay in wait for the terrified traveller who had lost his way. i wandered, keeping the christian chapels out of sight, trying to lose myself among the columns; and now and then gained views of horseshoe arches interlacing, decorated with moorish tracery. at length i came to the _mihrab_, which is the holy of holies, the most exquisite as well as the most sacred part of the mosque. it is approached by a vestibule of which the roof is a miracle of grace, with mosaics that glow like precious stones, ultramarine, scarlet, emerald, and gold. the arch between the chambers is ornamented with four pillars of coloured marble, and again with mosaic, the gold letters of an arabic inscription forming on the deep sapphire of the background a decorative pattern. the _mihrab_ itself, which contained the famous koran of othman, has seven sides of white marble, and the roof is a huge shell cut from a single block. i tried to picture to myself the mosque before the christians laid their desecrating hands upon it. the floor was of coloured tiles, tiles such as may still be seen in the alhambra of granada and in the alcazar at seville. the columns are of marble, of porphyry and jasper; tradition says they came from carthage, from pagan temples in france and christian churches in spain; they are slender and unadorned, they must have contrasted astonishingly with the roof of larch wood, all ablaze with gold and with vermilion. there were three hundred chandeliers; and eight thousand lamps--cast of christian bells--hung from the roof. the arab writer tells of gold shining from the ceiling like fire, blazing like lightning when it darts across the clouds. the pulpit, wherein was kept the koran, was of ivory and of exquisite woods, of ebony and sandal, of plantain, citron and aloe, fastened together with gold and silver nails and encrusted with priceless gems. it needed six khalifs and almanzor, the great vizier, to complete the mosque of which arab writers, with somewhat prosaic enthusiasm, said that 'in all the lands of islam there was none of equal size, none more admirable in its workmanship, in its construction and durability.' * * * then the christians conquered cordova, and the charming civilisation of the moors was driven out by monks and priests and soldiers. first they built only chapels in the outermost aisles; but in a little while, to make room for a choir, they destroyed six rows of columns; and at last, when master martin luther had rekindled catholic piety, they set up a great church in the very middle of the mosque. the story of this vandalism is somewhat quaint, and one detail at least affords a suggestion that might prove useful in the present time; for the town council of cordova menaced with death all who should assist in the work: one imagines that a similar threat from the lord mayor of london might have a salutary effect upon the restorers of westminster abbey or the decorators of st. paul's. how very much more entertaining must have been the world when absolutism was the fashion and the preposterous method of universal suffrage had never been considered! but the chapter, as those in power always are, was bent upon restoring, and induced charles v. to give the necessary authority. the king, however, had not understood what they wished to do, and when later he visited cordova and saw what had happened, he turned to the dignitaries who were pointing out the improvements and said: 'you have built what you or others might have built anywhere, but you have destroyed something that was unique in the world.' the words show a fine scorn; but as a warning to later generations it would have been more to the purpose to cut off a dozen priestly heads. yet oddly enough the christian additions are not so utterly discordant as one would expect! hernan ruiz did the work well, even though it was work he might conveniently have been drawn and quartered for doing. typically spanish in its fine proportion, in its exuberance of fantastic decoration, his church is a masterpiece of plateresque architecture. nor are the priests entirely out of harmony with the building wherein they worship. for an hour they had sung vespers, and the deep voices of the canons, chaunting monotonously, rang weird and long among the columns; but they finished, and left the choir one by one, walking silently across the church to the sacristy. the black cassock and the scarlet hood made a fine contrast, while the short cambric surplice added to the costume a most delicate grace. one of them paused to speak with two ladies in _mantillas_, and the three made a picturesque group, suggesting all manner of old spanish romance. vii [sidenote: the court of oranges] i went into the cathedral from the side and issuing by another door, found myself in the court of oranges. the setting sun touched it with warm light and overhead the sky was wonderfully blue. in moorish times the mosque was separated from the court by no dividing-wall, so that the arrangement of pillars within was continued by the even lines of orange-trees; these are of great age and size, laden with fruit, and in their copious foliage stand with a trim self-assurance that is quite imposing. in the centre, round a fountain into which poured water from jets at the four corners, stood a number of persons with jars of earthenware and bright copper cans. one girl held herself with the fine erectness of a caryatid, while her jar, propped against the side, filled itself with the cold, sparkling water. a youth, some vessel in his hand, leaned over in an attitude of easy grace; and looking into her eyes, appeared to pay compliments, which she heard with superb indifference. a little boy ran up, and the girl held aside her jar while he put his mouth to the spout and drank. then, as it overflowed, she lifted it with comely motion to her head and slowly walked away. by now the canons had unrobed, and several strolled about the court in the sun, smoking cigarettes. the acolytes with the removal of their scarlet cassocks, were become somewhat ragged urchins playing pitch and toss with much gesture and vociferation. two of them quarrelled fiercely because one player would not yield the halfpenny he had certainly lost, and the altercation must have ended in blows if a corpulent, elderly cleric had not indignantly reproved them, and boxed their ears. a row of tattered beggars, very well contented in the sunshine, were seated on a step, likewise smoking cigarettes, and obviously they did not consider their walk of life unduly hard. and the thought impressed itself upon me while i lingered in that peaceful spot, that there was far more to be said for the simple pleasures of sense than northern folk would have us believe. the english have still much of that ancient puritanism which finds a vague sinfulness in the uncostly delights of sunshine, and colour, and ease of mind. it is well occasionally to leave the eager turmoil of great cities for such a place as this, where one may learn that there are other, more natural ways of living, that it is possible still to spend long days, undisturbed by restless passion, without regret or longing, content in the various show that nature offers, asking only that the sun should shine and the happy seasons run their course. an english engineer whom i had seen at the hotel, approaching me, expressed the idea in his own graphic manner. 'down here there are a good sight more beer and skittles in life than up in sheffield!' one canon especially interested me, a little thin man, bent and wrinkled, apparently of fabulous age, but still something of a dandy, for he wore his clothes with a certain air, as though half a century before, byronically, he had been quite a devil with the ladies. the silver buckle on his shoes was most elegant, and he protruded his foot as though the violet silk of his stocking gave him a discreet pleasure. to the very backbone he was an optimist, finding existence evidently so delightful that it did not even need rose-coloured spectacles. he was an amiable old man, perhaps a little narrow, but very indulgent to the follies of others. he had committed no sin himself--for many years: a suspicion of personal vanity is in itself proof of a pure and gentle mind; and as for the sins of others--they were probably not heinous, and at all events would gain forgiveness. the important thing, surely, was to be sound in dogma. the day wore on and the sun now shone only in a narrow space; and this the canon perambulated, smoking the end of a cigarette, the delectable frivolity of which contrasted pleasantly with his great age. he nodded affably to other priests as they passed, a pair of young men, and one obese old creature with white hair and an expression of comfortable self-esteem. he removed his hat with a great and courteous sweep when a lady of his acquaintance crossed his path. the priests basking in the warmth were like four great black cats. it was indeed a pleasant spot, and contentment oozed into one by every pore. the canon rolled himself another cigarette, smiling as he inhaled the first sweet whiffs; and one could not but think the sovereign herb must greatly ease the journey along the steep and narrow way which leads to paradise. the smoke rose into the air lazily, and the old cleric paused now and again to look at it, the little smile of self-satisfaction breaking on his lips. up in the north, under the cold grey sky, god almighty may be a hard taskmaster, and the kingdom of heaven is attained only by much endeavour; but in cordova these things come more easily. the aged priest walks in the sun and smokes his _cigarillo_. heaven is not such an inaccessible place after all. evidently he feels that he has done his duty--with the help of havana tobacco--in that state of life wherein it has pleased a merciful providence to place him; and st. peter would never be so churlish as to close the golden gates in the face of an ancient canon who sauntered to them jauntily, with the fag end of a cigarette in the corner of his mouth. let us cultivate our cabbages in the best of all possible worlds; and afterwards--_dieu pardonnera; c'est son métier_. * * * three months later in the _porvenir_, under the heading, 'suicide of a priest,' i read that one of these very canons of the cathedral at cordova had shot himself. a report was heard, said the journal, and the civil guard arriving, found the man prostrate with blood pouring from his ear, a revolver by his side. he was transported to the hospital, the sacrament administered, and he died. in his pockets they found a letter, a pawn-ticket, a woman's bracelet, and some peppermint lozenges. he was thirty-five years old. the newspaper moralised as follows: 'when even the illustrious order to which the defunct belonged is tainted with such a crime, it is well to ask whither tends the incredulity of society which finds an end to its sufferings in the barrel of a revolver. let moralists and philosophers combat with all their might this dreadful tendency; let them make even the despairing comprehend that death is not the highest good but the passage to an unknown world where, according to christian belief, the ill deeds of this existence are punished and the virtuous rewarded.' viii [sidenote: cordova] ronda, owing its peculiarities to the surrounding mountains, was not really very characteristic of the country, and might equally well have been an highland townlet in any part of southern europe. but cordova offers immediately the full sensation of andalusia. it is absolutely a moorish city, white and taciturn, so that you are astonished to meet people in european dress rather than arabs, in shuffling yellow slippers. the streets are curiously silent; for the carriage, as in tangiers, is done by mules and donkeys, which walk so quietly that you never hear them. sometimes you are warned by a deep-voiced '_cuidado_,' but more often a pannier brushing you against the wall brings the first knowledge of their presence. on looking up you are again surprised to see not a great shining negro in a burnouse, but a spaniard in tight trousers, with a broad-brimmed hat. and cordova has that sweet, exhilarating perfume of andalusia than which nothing gives more vividly the complete feeling of the country. those travellers must be obtuse of nostril who do not recognise different smells, grateful or offensive, in different places; no other peculiarity is more distinctive, so that an odour crossing by chance one's sense is able to recall suddenly all the complicated impressions of a strange land. when i return from england it is always that subtle fragrance which first strikes me, a mingling in warm sunlight of orange-blossom, incense, and cigarette smoke; and two whiffs of a certain brand of tobacco are sufficient to bring back to me seville, the most enchanting of all my memories. i suppose that nowhere else are cigarettes consumed so incessantly; for in andalusia it is not only certain classes who use them, but every one, without distinction of age or station--from the ragamuffin selling lottery-tickets in the street to the portly, solemn priest, to the burly countryman, the shop-keeper, the soldier. after all, no better means of killing time have ever been devised, and consequently to smoke them affords an occupation which most thoroughly suits the spaniard. * * * i looked at cordova from the bell-tower of the cathedral. the roofs, very lovely in their diversity of colour, were of rounded tiles, fading with every variety of delicate shade from russet and brown to yellow and the tenderest green. from the courtyards, here and there, rose a tall palm, or an orange-tree, like a dash of jade against the brilliant sun. the houses, plainly whitewashed, have from the outside so mean a look that it is surprising to find them handsome and spacious within. they are built, moorish fashion, round a _patio_, which in cordova at least is always gay with flowers. when you pass the iron gates and note the contrast between the snowy gleaming of the street and that southern greenery, the suggestion is inevitable of charming people who must rest there in the burning heat of summer. with those surroundings and in such a country passion grows surely like a poisonous plant. at night, in the starry darkness, how irresistible must be the flashing eyes of love, how eloquent the pleading of whispered sighs! but woe to the maid who admits the ardent lover among the orange-trees, her head reeling with the sweet intoxication of the blossom; for the spanish gallant is fickle, quick to forget the vows he spoke so earnestly: he soon grows tired of kissing, and mounting his horse, rides fast away. the uniformity of lime-washed houses makes cordova the most difficult place in the world wherein to find your way. the streets are exactly alike, so narrow that a carriage could hardly pass, paved with rough cobbles, and tortuous: their intricacy is amazing, labyrinthine; they wind in and out of one another, leading nowhither; they meander on for half a mile and stop suddenly, or turn back, so that you are forced to go in the direction you came. you may wander for hours, trying to find some point that from the steeple appeared quite close. sometimes you think they are interminable. ix [sidenote: the bridge of calahorra] the bridge that the moors built over the guadalquivir straggles across the water with easy arches. somewhat dilapidated and very beautiful, it has not the strenuous look of such things in england, and the mere sight of it fills you with comfort. the clustered houses, with an added softness from the light burning mellow on their roofs and on their white walls, increase the happy impression that the world is not necessarily hurried and toilful. and the town, separated from the river by no formal embankment, lounges at the water's edge like a giant, prone on the grass and lazy, stretching his limbs after the mid-day sleep. there is no precipitation in such a place as cordova; life is quite long enough for all that it is really needful to do; to him who waits come all things, and a little waiting more or less can be of no great consequence. let everything be taken very leisurely, for there is ample time. yet in other parts of andalusia they say the cordovese are the greatest liars and the biggest thieves in spain, which points to considerable industry. the traveller, hearing this, will doubtless ask what business has the pot to call the kettle black; and it is true that the standard of veracity throughout the country is by no means high. but this can scarcely be termed a vice, for the andalusians see in it nothing discreditable, and it can be proved as exactly as a proposition of euclid that vice and virtue are solely matters of opinion. in southern spain bosom friends lie to one another with complete freedom; no man would take his wife's word, but would believe only what he thought true, and think no worse of her when he caught her fibbing. mendacity is a thing so perfectly understood that no one is abashed by detection. in england most men equivocate and nearly all women, but they are ashamed to be discovered; they blush and stammer and hesitate, or fly into a passion; the wiser spaniard laughs, shrugging his shoulders, and utters a dozen rapid falsehoods to make up for the first. it is always said that a good liar needs an excellent memory, but he wants more qualities than that--unblushing countenance, the readiest wit, a manner to beget confidence. in fact it is so difficult to lie systematically and well that the ardour of the andalusians in that pursuit can be ascribed only to an innate characteristic. their imaginations, indeed, are so exuberant that the bald fact is to them grotesque and painful. they are like writers in love with words for their own sake, who cannot make the plainest statement without a gay parade of epithet and metaphor. they embroider and decorate, they colour and enhance the trivial details of circumstance. they must see themselves perpetually in an attitude; they must never fail to be effective. they lie for art's sake, without reason or rhyme, from mere devilry, often when it can only harm them. mendacity then becomes an intellectual exercise, such as the poet's sonneteering to an imaginary lady-love. but the cordovan very naturally holds himself in no such unflattering estimation. the motto of his town avers that he is a warlike person and a wise one: cordoba, casa de guerrera gente y de sabiduria clara fuente! and the history thereof, with its university and its khalifs, bears him out. art and science flourished there when the rest of europe was enveloped in mediæval darkness: when our saxon ancestors lived in dirty hovels, barbaric brutes who knew only how to kill, to eat, and to propagate their species, the moors of cordova cultivated all the elegancies of life from verse-making to cleanliness. * * * i was standing on the bridge. the river flowed tortuously through the fertile plain, broad and shallow, and in it the blue sky and the white houses of the city were brightly mirrored. in the distance, like a vapour of amethyst, rose the mountains; while at my feet, in mid-stream, there were two mills which might have been untouched since moorish days. there had been no rain for months, the water stood very low, and here and there were little islands of dry yellow sand, on which grew reeds and sedge. in such a spot might easily have wandered the half-naked fisherman of the oriental tale, bewailing in melodious verse the hardness of his lot; since to his net came no fish, seeking a broken pot or a piece of iron wherewith to buy himself a dinner. there might he find a ring half-buried in the sand, which, when he rubbed to see if it were silver, a smoke would surely rise from the water, increasing till the light of day was obscured; and half dead with fear, he would perceive at last a gigantic body towering above him, and a voice more terrible than the thunder of allah, crying: 'what wishest thou from thy slave, o king? know that i am of the jin, and suleyman, whose name be exalted, enslaved me to the ring that thou hast found.' in cordova recollections of the _arabian nights_ haunt you till the commonest sights assume a fantastic character, and the frankly impossible becomes mere matter of fact. you wonder whether your life is real or whether you have somehow reverted to the days when scheherazade, with her singular air of veracity, recited such enthralling stories to her lord as to save her own life and that of many other maidens. i looked along the river and saw three slender trees bending over it, reflecting in the placid water their leafless branches, and under them knelt three women washing clothes. were they three beautiful princesses whose fathers had been killed, and they expelled from their kingdom and thus reduced to menial occupations? who knows? indeed, i thought it very probable, for so many royal persons have come down in the world of late; but i did not approach them, since king's daughters under these circumstances have often lost one eye, and their morals are nearly always of the worst description. x [sidenote: puerta del puente] i went back to the old gate which led to the bridge. close by, in the little place, was the hut of the _consumo_, the local custom-house, with officials lounging at the door or sitting straddle-legged on chairs, lazily smoking. opposite was a tobacconist's, with the gaudy red and yellow sign, _campañia arrendataria de tabacos_, and a dram-shop where three hardy spaniards from the mountains stood drinking _aguardiente_. than this, by the way, there is in the world no more insidious liquor, for at first you think its taste of aniseed and peppermint very disagreeable; but perseverance, here as in other human affairs, has its reward, and presently you develop for it a liking which time increases to enthusiasm. in spain, the land of custom and usage, everything is done in a certain way; and there is a proper manner to drink _aguardiente_. to sip it would show a lamentable want of decorum. a spaniard lifts the little glass to his lips, and with a comic, abrupt motion tosses the contents into his mouth, immediately afterwards drinking water, a tumbler of which is always given with the spirit. it is really the most epicurean of intoxicants because the charm lies in the after-taste. the water is so cool and refreshing after the fieriness; it gives, without the gasconnade, the emotion keats experienced when he peppered his mouth with cayenne for the greater enjoyment of iced claret. but the men wiped their mouths with their hands and came out of the wine shop, mounting their horses which stood outside--shaggy, long-haired beasts with high saddles and great box-stirrups. they rode slowly through the gate one after the other, in the easy slouching way of men who have been used to the saddle all their lives and in the course of the week are accustomed to go a good many miles in an easy jog-trot to and from the town. it seems to me that the spaniards resolve themselves into types more distinctly than is usual in northern countries, while between individuals there is less difference. these three, clean-shaven and uniformly dressed, of middle size, stout, with heavy strong features and small eyes, certainly resembled one another very strikingly. they were the typical inn-keepers of goya's pictures but obviously could not all keep inns; doubtless they were farmers, horse-dealers, or forage-merchants, shrewd men of business, with keen eyes for the main chance. that class is the most trustworthy in spain, kind, hospitable, and honest; they are old-fashioned people with many antique customs, and preserve much of the courteous dignity which made their fathers famous. a string of grey donkeys came along the bridge, their panniers earth-laden, poor miserable things that plodded slowly and painfully, with heads bent down, placing one foot before the other with the donkey's peculiar motion, patiently doing a thing they had patiently done ever since they could bear a load. they seemed to have a dull feeling that it was no use to make a fuss, or to complain; it would just go on till they dropped down dead and their carcases were sold for leather and glue. there was a spanish note in the red trappings, braided and betasselled, but all worn, discoloured and stained. inside the gate they stopped, waiting in a huddled group, with the same heavy patience, for the examination of the _consumo_. an officer of the custom-house went round with a long steel prong, which he ran into the baskets one by one, to see that there was nothing dutiable hidden in the earth. then, sparing of his words, he made a sign to the driver and sat down again straddle-wise on his chair. '_arre, burra!_' the first donkey walked slowly on, and as they heard the tinkling of the leader's bell the rest stepped forward in the long line, their heads hanging down, with that hopeless movement of the feet. * * * in the night, wandering at random through the streets, their silent whiteness filled me again with that intoxicating sensation of the _arabian nights_. i looked through the iron gateways as i passed, into the _patios_ with their dark foliage, and once i heard the melancholy twang of a guitar. i was sure that in one of those houses the three princesses had thrown off their disguise and sat radiant in queenly beauty, their raven tresses falling in a hundred plaits over their shoulders, their fingers stained with henna and their long eyelashes darkened with kohl. but alas! though i lost my way i found them not. yet many an amorous spaniard, too passionate to be admitted within his mistress' house, stood at her window. this method of philandering, surely most conducive to the ideal, is variously known as _comer hierro_, to eat iron, and _pelar la pava_, to pluck the turkey. one imagines that the cold air of a winter's night must render the most ardent lover platonic. it is a significant fact that in spanish novels if the hero is left for two minutes alone with the heroine there are invariably asterisks and some hundred pages later a baby. so it is doubtless wise to separate true love by iron bars, and perchance beauty's eyes flash more darkly to the gallant standing without the gate; illusions, the magic flower of passion, arise more willingly. but in spain the blood of youth is very hot, love laughs at most restraints and notwithstanding these precautions, often enough there is a catastrophe. the spaniard, who will seduce any girl he can, is pitiless under like circumstances to his own womenkind; so there is much weeping, the girl is turned out of doors and falls readily into the hands of the procuress. in the brothels of seville or of madrid she finds at least a roof and bread to eat; and the fickle swain goes his way rejoicing. i found myself at last near the _puerta del puente_, and i stood again on the moorish bridge. the town was still and mysterious in the night, and the moon shone down on the water with a hard and brilliant coldness. the three trees with their bare branches looked yet more slender, naked and alone, like pre-raphaelite trees in a landscape of _pélléas et mélisande_; the broad river, almost stagnant, was extraordinarily calm and silent. i wondered what strange things the placid guadalquivir had seen through the centuries; on its bosom many a body had been borne towards the sea. it recalled those mysterious waters of the eastern tales which brought to the marble steps of palaces great chests in which lay a fair youth's headless corpse or a sleeping beautiful maid. xi [sidenote: seville] the impression left by strange towns and cities is often a matter of circumstance, depending upon events in the immediate past; or on the chance which, during his earliest visit, there befell the traveller. after a stormy passage across the channel, newhaven, from the mere fact of its situation on solid earth, may gain a fascination which closer acquaintance can never entirely destroy; and even birmingham, first seen by a lurid sunset, may so affect the imagination as to appear for ever like some infernal, splendid city, restless with the hurried toil of gnomes and goblins. so to myself seville means ten times more than it can mean to others. i came to it after weary years in london, heartsick with much hoping, my mind dull with drudgery; and it seemed a land of freedom. there i became at last conscious of my youth, and it seemed a belvedere upon a new life. how can i forget the delight of wandering in the sierpes, released at length from all imprisoning ties, watching the various movement as though it were a stage-play, yet half afraid that the falling curtain would bring back reality! the songs, the dances, the happy idleness of orange-gardens, the gay turbulence of seville by night; ah! there at least i seized life eagerly, with both hands, forgetting everything but that time was short and existence full of joy. i sat in the warm sunshine, inhaling the pleasant odours, reminding myself that i had no duty to do then, or the morrow, or the day after. i lay a-bed thinking how happy, effortless and free would be my day. mounting my horse, i clattered through the narrow streets, over the cobbles, till i came to the country; the air was fresh and sweet, and aguador loved the spring mornings. when he put his feet to the springy turf he gave a little shake of pleasure, and without a sign from me broke into a gallop. to the amazement of shepherds guarding their wild flocks, to the confusion of herds of brown pigs, scampering hastily as we approached, he and i excited by the wind singing in our ears, we pelted madly through the country. and the whole land laughed with the joy of living. but i love also the recollection of seville in the grey days of december, when the falling rain offered a grateful contrast to the unvarying sunshine. then new sights delighted the eye, new perfumes the nostril. in the decay of that long southern autumn a more sombre opulence was added to the gay colours; a different spirit filled the air, so that i realised suddenly that old romantic spain of ferdinand and isabella. it lay a-dying still, gorgeous in corruption, sober yet flamboyant, rich and poverty-stricken, squalid, magnificent. the white streets, the dripping trees, the clouds gravid with rain, gave to all things an adorable melancholy, a sad, poetic charm. looking back, i cannot dismiss the suspicion that my passionate emotions were somewhat ridiculous, but at twenty-three one can afford to lack a sense of humour. * * * but seville at first is full of disillusion. it has offered abundant material to the idealist who, as might be expected, has drawn of it a picture which is at once common and pretentious. your idealist can see no beauty in sober fact, but must array it in all the theatrical properties of a vulgar imagination; he must give to things more imposing proportions, he colours gaudily; nature for him is ever posturing in the full glare of footlights. really he stands on no higher level than the housemaid who sees in every woman a duchess in black velvet, an aubrey plantagenet in plain john smith. so i, in common with many another traveller, expected to find in the guadalquivir a river of transparent green, with orange-groves along its banks, where wandered ox-eyed youths and maidens beautiful. palm-trees, i thought, rose towards heaven, like passionate souls longing for release from earthly bondage; spanish women, full-breasted and sinuous, danced _boleros_, _fandangos_, while the air rang with the joyous sound of castanets, and toreadors in picturesque habiliments twanged the light guitar. alas! the guadalquivir is like yellow mud, and moored to the busy quays lie cargo-boats lading fruit or grain or mineral; there no perfume scents the heavy air. the nights, indeed, are calm and clear, and the stars shine brightly; but the river banks see no amours more romantic than those of stokers from liverpool or glasgow, and their lady-loves have neither youth nor beauty. yet seville has many a real charm to counter-balance these lost illusions. he that really knows it, like an ardent lover with his mistress' imperfections, would have no difference; even the guadalquivir, so matter-of-fact, really so prosaic, has an unimagined attractiveness; the crowded shipping, the hurrying porters, add to that sensation of vivacity which is of seville the most fascinating characteristic. and seville is an epitome of andalusia, with its life and death, with its colour and vivid contrasts, with its boyish gaiety. it is a city of delightful ease, of freedom and sunshine, of torrid heat. there it does not matter what you do, nor when, nor how you do it. there is none to hinder you, none to watch. each takes his ease, and is content that his neighbour should do the like. doubtless people are lazy in seville, but good heavens! why should one be so terribly strenuous? go into the plaza nueva, and you will see it filled with men of all ages, of all classes, 'taking the sun'; they promenade slowly, untroubled by any mental activity, or sit on benches between the palm-trees, smoking cigarettes; perhaps the more energetic read the bull-fighting news in the paper. they are not ambitious, and they do not greatly care to make their fortunes; so long as they have enough to eat and drink--food is very cheap--and cigarettes to smoke, they are quite happy. the corporation provides seats, and the sun shines down for nothing--so let them sit in it and warm themselves. i daresay it is as good a way of getting through life as most others. a southern city never reveals its true charm till the summer, and few english know what seville is under the burning sun of july. it was built for the great heat, and it is only then that the refreshing coolness of the _patio_ can be appreciated. in the streets the white glare is mitigated by awnings that stretch from house to house, and the half light in the sierpes, the high street, has a curious effect; the people in their summer garb walk noiselessly, as though the warmth made sound impossible. towards evening the sail-cloths are withdrawn, and a breath of cold air sinks down; the population bestirs itself, and along the sierpes the _cafés_ become suddenly crowded and noisy. then, for it was too hot to ride earlier, i would mount my horse and cross the river. the guadalquivir had lost its winter russet, and under the blue sky gained varied tints of liquid gold, of emerald and of sapphire. i lingered in triana, the gipsy-quarter, watching the people. beautiful girls stood at the windows, so that the whole way was lined with them, and their lips were not unwilling to break into charming smiles. one especially i remember who was used to sit on a balcony at a street-corner; her hair was irreproachable in its elaborate arrangement, and the red carnation in it gleamed like fire against the night. her face was long, fairer-complexioned than is common, with regular and delicate features. she sat at her balcony, with a huge book open on her knee, which she read with studied disregard of the passers-by; but when i looked back sometimes i saw that she had lifted her eyes, lustrous and dark, and they met mine gravely. and in the country i passed through long fields of golden corn, which reached as far as i could see; i remembered the spring, when it had all been new, soft, fresh, green. and presently i turned round to look at seville in the distance, bathed in brilliant light, glowing as though its walls were built of yellow flame. the giralda arose in its wonderful grace like an arrow; so slim, so comely, it reminded one of an arab youth, with long, thin limbs. with the setting sun, gradually the city turned rosy-red and seemed to lose all substantiality, till it became a many-shaped mist that was dissolved in the tenderness of the sky. late in the night i stood at my window looking at the cloudless heaven. from the earth ascended, like incense, the mellow odours of summer-time; the belfry of the neighbouring church stood boldly outlined against the darkness, and the storks that had built their nest upon it were motionless, not stirring even as the bells rang out the hours. the city slept, and it seemed that i alone watched in the silence; the sky still was blue, and the stars shone in their countless millions. i thought of the city that never rested, of london with its unceasing roar, the endless streets, the greyness. and all around me was a quiet serenity, a tranquillity such as the christian may hope shall reward him in paradise for the troublous pilgrimage of life. but that is long ago and passed for ever. xii [sidenote: the alcazar] arriving at seville the recollection of cordova took me quickly to the alcazar; but i was a little disappointed. it has been ill and tawdrily restored, with crude pigments, with gold that is too bright and too clean; but even before that, charles v. and his successors had made additions out of harmony with moorish feeling. of the palace where lived the mussulman kings nothing, indeed, remains; but pedro the cruel, with whom the edifice now standing is more especially connected, was no less oriental than his predecessors, and he employed morisco architects to rebuild it. parts are said to be exact reproductions of the older structure, while many of the beautiful tiles were taken from moorish houses. the atmosphere, then, is but half arabic; the rest belongs to that flaunting, multi-coloured barbarism which is characteristic of northern spain before the union of arragon and castile. wandering in the deserted courts, looking through horseshoe windows of exquisite design at the wild garden, pedro the cruel and maria de padilla are the figures that occupy the mind. seville teems with anecdotes of the monarch who, according to the point of view, has been called the cruel and the just. he was an amorist for whom platonic dalliance had no charm, and there are gruesome tales of ladies burned alive because they would not quench the flame of his desires, of others, fiercely virtuous, who poured boiling oil on face and bosom to make themselves unattractive in his sight. but the head that wears a crown apparently has fascinations which few women can resist, and legend tells more frequently of pedro's conquests than of his rebuffs. he was an ardent lover to whom marriage vows were of no importance; that he committed bigamy is certain--and pardonable, but some historians are inclined to think that he had at one and the same time no less than three wives. he was oriental in his tastes. in imitation of the paynim sovereigns pedro loved to wander in the streets of seville at night, alone and disguised, to seek adventure or to see for himself the humour of his subjects; and like them also it pleased him to administer justice seated in the porch of his palace. if he was often hard and proud towards the nobles, with the people he was always very gracious; to them he was the redressor of wrongs and a protector of the oppressed; his justice was that of the mussulman rulers, rapid, terrible and passionate, often quaint. for instance: a rich priest had done some injury to a cobbler, who brought him before the ecclesiastical tribunals, where he was for a year suspended from his clerical functions. the tradesman thought the punishment inadequate, and taking the law into his own hands gave the priest a drubbing. he was promptly seized, tried, condemned to death. but he appealed to the king who, with a witty parody of the rival court, changed the punishment to suspension from his trade, and ordered the cobbler for twelve months to make no boots. on the other hand, the alcazar itself has been the scene of pedro's vilest crimes, in the whole list of which is none more insolent, none more treacherous, than that whereby he secured the priceless ruby which graces still the royal crown of england. there is a school of historians which insists on finding a baptist minister in every hero--think what a poor-blooded creature they wish to make of the glorious nelson--but no casuistry avails to cleanse the memory of pedro of castille: even for his own ruthless age he was a monster of cruelty and lust. indeed the indignation with which his biographers have felt bound to charge their pens has somewhat obscured their judgment; they have so eagerly insisted on the censure with which themselves regard their hero's villainies, that they have found little opportunity to explain a complex character. yet the story of his early life affords a simple key to his maturity. till the age of fifteen he lived in prisons, suffering with his mother every insult and humiliation, while his father's mistress kept queenly state, and her children received the honours of royal princes. when he came to the throne he found himself a catspaw between his natural brothers and ambitious nobles. his nearest relatives were ever his bitterest enemies, and he was continually betrayed by those he trusted; even his mother delivered to the rebellious peers the strongholds and the treasures he had left in her charge and caused him to be taken prisoner. as a boy he had been violent and impetuous, yet always loyal: but before he was twenty he became suspicious and mistrustful; in his weakness he made craft and perfidy his weapons, practising to compose his face, to feign forgetfulness of injury till the moment of vengeance; he learned to dissemble so that none could tell his mind, and treated no courtiers with greater favour than those upon whose death he had already determined. intermingled with this career of vice and perfidy and bloodshed is the love of maria de padilla, whom the king met when he was eighteen, and till her death loved passionately--with brief inconstancies, for fidelity has never been a royal virtue; and she figures with gentle pathos in that grim history like wild perfumed flowers on a storm-beaten coast. after the assassination of the unfortunate blanche, the french queen whom he loathed with an extraordinary physical repulsion, pedro acknowledged a secret marriage with maria de padilla, which legitimised her children; but for ten years before she had been treated with royal rights. the historian says that she was very beautiful, but her especial charm seems to have been that voluptuous grace which is characteristic of andalusian women. she was simple and pious, with a nature of great sweetness, and she never abused her power; her influence, as runs the hackneyed phrase, was always for good, and untiringly she did her utmost to incline her despot lover to mercy. she alone sheds a ray of light on pedro's memory, only her love can save him from the execration of posterity. when she died rich and poor alike mourned her, and the king was inconsolable. he honoured her with pompous obsequies, and throughout the kingdom ordered masses to be sung for the rest of her soul. * * * the guardians of the alcazar show you the chambers in which dwelt this gracious lady, and the garden-fountain wherein she bathed in summer. moralists, anxious to prove that the way of righteousness is hard, say that beauty dies, but they err, for beauty is immortal. the habitations of a lovely woman never lose the enchantment she has cast over them, her comeliness lingers in their empty chambers like a subtle odour; and centuries after her very bones have crumbled to dust it is her presence alone that is felt, her footfall that is heard on the marble floors. garish colours, alas! have driven the tender spirit of maria de padilla from the royal palace, but it has betaken itself to the old garden, and there wanders sadly. it is a charming place of rare plants and exotic odours; cypress and tall palm trees rise towards the blue sky with their irresistible melancholy, their far-away suggestion of burning deserts; and at their feet the ground is carpeted with violets. yet to me the wild roses brought strangely recollections of england, of long summer days when the air was sweet and balmy; the birds sang heavenly songs, the same songs as they sing in june in the fat kentish fields. the gorgeous palace had only suggested the long past days of history, and seville the joy of life and the love of sunshine; but the old quiet garden took me far away from spain, so that i longed to be again in england. in thought i wandered through a garden that i knew in years gone by, filled also with flowers, but with hollyhocks and jasmine; the breeze carried the sweet scent of the honeysuckle to my nostrils, and i looked at the green lawns, with the broad, straight lines of the grass-mower. the low of cattle reached my ears, and wandering to the fence i looked into the fields beyond; yellow cows grazed idly or lay still chewing the cud; they stared at me with listless, sleepy eyes. but i glanced up and saw a flock of wild geese flying northwards in long lines that met, making two sides of a huge triangle; they flew quickly in the cloudless sky, far above me, and presently were lost to view. about me was the tall box-wood of the southern garden, and tropical plants with rich flowers of yellow and red and purple. a dark fir-tree stood out, ragged and uneven, like a spirit of the north, erect as a life without reproach; but the foliage of the palms hung down with a sad, adorable grace. xiii [sidenote: calle de las sierpes] in seville the andalusian character thrives in its finest flower; and nowhere can it be more conveniently studied than in the narrow, sinuous, crowded thoroughfare which is the oddest street in europe. the calle de las sierpes is merely a pavement, hardly broader than that of piccadilly, without a carriage-way. the houses on either side are very irregular; some are tall, four-storeyed, others quite tiny; some are well kept and freshly painted, others dilapidated. it is one of the curiosities of seville that there is no particularly fashionable quarter; and, as though some moralising ruler had wished to place before his people a continual reminder of the uncertainty of human greatness, by the side of a magnificent palace you will find a hovel. at no hour of the day does the calle de las sierpes lack animation, but to see it at its best you must go towards evening, at seven o'clock, for then there is scarcely room to move. fine gentlemen stand at the club doors or sit within, looking out of the huge windows; the merchants and the students, smoking cigarettes, saunter, wrapped magnificently in their capos. cigarette-girls pass with roving eyes; they suffer from no false modesty and smile with pleasure when a compliment reaches their ears. admirers do not speak in too low a tone and the fair sevillan is never hard of hearing. newspaper boys with shrill cries announce evening editions: '_porvenir!_ _noticiero!_' vendors of lottery-tickets wander up and down, audaciously offering the first prize: '_quien quiere el premio gardo?_' beggars follow you with piteous tales of fasts improbably extended. but most striking is the _gente flamenca_, the bull-fighter, with his numerous hangers-on. the _toreros_--toreador is an unknown word, good for comic opera and persons who write novels of spanish life and cannot be bothered to go to spain--the _toreros_ sit in their especial cafe, the _cerveceria national_, or stand in little groups talking to one another. they are distinguishable by the _coleta_, which is a little plait of hair used to attach the chignon of full-dress: it is the dearest ambition of the aspirant to the bull-ring to possess this ornament; he grows it as soon as he is full-fledged, and it is solemnly cut off when the weight of years and the responsibility of landed estates induce him to retire from the profession. the bull-fighter dresses peculiarly and the _gente flamenca_, imitates him so far as its means allow. a famous _matador_ is as well paid as in england a cabinet minister or a music-hall artiste. this is his costume: a broad-brimmed hat with a low crown, which is something like a topper absurdly flattened down, with brims preposterously broadened out. the front of his shirt is befrilled and embroidered, and his studs are the largest diamonds; not even financiers in england wear such important stones. he wears a low collar without a necktie, but ties a silk handkerchief round his neck like an english navvy; an eton jacket, fitting very tightly, brown, black, or grey, with elaborate frogs and much braiding; the trousers, skin-tight above, loosen below, and show off the lower extremities when, like the heroes of feminine romance, the wearer has a fine leg. indeed, it is a mode of dress which exhibits the figure to great advantage, and many of these young men have admirable forms. in their strong, picturesque way they are often very handsome. they have a careless grace of gesture, a manner of actors perfectly at ease in an effective part, a brutal healthiness; there is a flamboyance in their bearing, a melodramatic swagger, which is most diverting. and their faces, so contrasted are the colours, so strongly marked the features, are full of interest. clean shaven, the beard shows violet through the olive skin; they have high cheek bones and thin, almost hollow cheeks, with eyes set far back in the sockets, dark and lustrous under heavy brows. the black hair, admirably attached to the head, is cut short; shaved on the temples and over the ears, brushed forward as in other countries is fashionable with gentlemen of the box: it fits the skull like a second, tighter skin. the lips are red and sensual, the teeth white, regular and well shaped. the bull-fighter is remarkable also for the diamond rings which decorate his fingers and the massive gold, the ponderous seals, of his watch-chain. who can wonder then that maidens fair, their hearts turning to thoughts of love, should cast favourable glances upon this hero of a hundred fights? the conquests of tenors and grand-dukes and fiddlers are insignificant beside those of a bull-fighter; and the certainty of feminine smiles is another inducement for youth to exchange the drudgery of menial occupations for the varied excitement of the ring. * * * at night the sierpes is different again. little by little the people scatter to their various homes, the shops are closed, the clubs put out their lights, and by one the loiterers are few. the contrast is vivid between the noisy throng of day-time and this sudden stillness; the emptiness of the winding street seems almost unnatural. the houses, losing all variety, are intensely black; and above, the sinuous line of sky is brilliant with clustering stars. a drunken roysterer reels from a tavern-door, his footfall echoing noisily along the pavement, but quickly he sways round a corner; and the silence, more impressive for the interruption, returns. the night-watchman, huddled in a cloak of many folds, is sleeping in a doorway, dimly outlined by the yellow gleam of his lantern. then i, a lover of late hours, returning, seek the _guardia_. sevillan houses are locked at midnight by this individual, who keeps the latch-keys of a whole street, and is supposed to be on the look-out for tardy comers. i clap my hands, such being the spanish way to attract attention, and shout; but he does not appear. he is a good-natured, round man, bibulous, with grey hair and a benevolent manner. i know his habits and resign myself to inquiring for him in the neighbouring dram-shops. i find him at last and assail him with all the abuse at my command; he is too tipsy to answer or to care, and follows me, jangling his keys. he fumbles with them at the door, blaspheming because they are so much alike, and finally lets me in. _'buena noche. descanse v bien.'_ xiv [sidenote: characteristics] it is a hazardous thing to attempt the analysis of national character, for after all, however careful the traveller may be in his inquiries, it is from the few individuals himself has known that his most definite impressions are drawn. of course he can control his observations by asking the opinion of foreigners long resident in the country; but curiously enough in andalusia precisely the opposite occurs from what elsewhere is usual. aliens in england, france, or italy, with increasing comprehension, acquire also affection and esteem for the people among whom they live; but i have seldom found in southern spain a foreigner--and there are many, merchants, engineers and the like, with intimate knowledge of the inhabitants--who had a good word to say for the andalusians. but perhaps it is in the behaviour of crowds that the most accurate picture of national character can be obtained. like composite photographs which give the appearance of a dozen people together, but a recognisable portrait of none, the multitude offers as it were a likeness in the rough, without precision of detail yet with certain marked features more obviously indicated. the crowd is an individual without responsibility, unoppressed by the usual ties of prudence and decorum, who betrays himself because he lacks entirely self-consciousness and the desire to pose. in spain the crowd is above all things good-humoured, fond of a joke so long as it is none too subtle, excitable of course and prone to rodomontade, yet practical, eager to make the best of things and especially to get its money's worth. if below the surface there are a somewhat brutal savagery, a cruel fickleness, these are traits common with all human beings together assembled; they are merely evidence of man's close relationship to ape and tiger. from contemporary novels more or less the same picture appears, and also from the newspapers, though in these somewhat idealised; for the press, bound to flatter for its living, represents its patrons, as do some portrait-painters, not as they are but as they would like to be. in the eyes of andalusian journalists their compatriots are for ever making a magnificent gesture; and the condition would be absurd if a hornet's nest of comic papers, tempering vanity with a lively sense of the ridiculous, did not save the situation by abundantly coarse caricatures. it is vanity then which emerges as the most distinct of national traits, a vanity so egregious, so childish, so grotesque, that the onlooker is astounded. the andalusians have a passion for gorgeous raiment and for jewellery. they must see themselves continually in the brightest light, standing for ever on some alpine eminence of vice or virtue, in full view of their fellow men. like schoolboys they will make themselves out desperate sinners to arouse your horror, and if that does not impress you, accomplished actors ready to suit your every mood, they will pose as saints than whom none more truly pious have existed on the earth. they are the gascons of spain, but beside them the bordelais is a truthful, unimaginative creature. next comes laziness. there is in europe no richer soil than that of andalusia, and the arabs, with an elaborate system of irrigation, obtained three crops a year; but now half the land lies uncultivated, and immense tracts are planted only with olives, which, comparatively, entail small labour. but the inhabitants of this fruitful country are happy in this, that boredom is unknown to them; content to lie in the sun for hours, neither talking, thinking, nor reading, they are never tired of idleness: two men will sit for half a day in a _cafe_, with a glass of water before them, not exchanging three remarks in an hour. i fancy it is this stolidness which has given travellers an impression of dignity; in their quieter moments they remind one of very placid sheep, for they have not half the energy of pigs, which in spain at least are restless and spirited creatures. but a trifle will rouse them; and then, quite unable to restrain themselves, pallid with rage, they hurl abuse at their enemy--spanish, they say, is richer in invective than any other european tongue--and quickly long knives are whipped out to avenge the affront. universal opinion has given its verdict in an epithet: and just as many people speak of the volatile frenchman, the stolid dutchman, the amatory italian, they talk of the proud spaniard. but it is pride of a peculiar sort; a sevillian with only the smallest claims to respectability would rather die than carry a parcel through the street; however poor, some one must perform for him so menial an office: and he would consider it vastly beneath his dignity to accept charity, though if he had the chance would not hesitate to swindle you out of sixpence. but in matters of honesty these good people show a certain discrimination. your servants, for example, would hesitate to steal money, especially if liable to detection, but not to take wine and sugar and oil: which is proved by the freedom with which they discuss the theft among themselves and the calmness with which they acknowledge it when a wrathful master takes them in the act. the reasoning is, if you're such a fool as not to keep your things under lock and key you deserve to be robbed; and if dismissed for such a peccadillo they consider themselves very hardly used. uncharitable persons, saying that a spaniard will live for a week on bread and water duly to prepare himself for a meal at another's expense, accuse them of gluttony; but i have always found the andalusians abstemious eaters, nor have i wondered at this, since spanish food is abominable. but drunkards they often are. i should think as many people in proportion get drunk in seville as in london, though it is only fair to add that their heads are not strong, and very little alcohol will produce in them an indecent exhilaration. but if the reader, because the andalusians are slothful, truthless, but moderately honest, vain, concludes that they are an unattractive people he will grossly err. his reasoning, that moral qualities make pleasant companions, is quite false; on the contrary it is rigid principles and unbending character, strength of will and a decided sense of right and wrong, which make intercourse difficult. a sensitive conscience is no addition to the amenities of the dinner-table. but when a man is willing to counter a deadly sin with a shrug of the shoulders, when between white and black he can discover no insupportable contrast, the probabilities are that he will at least humour your whims and respect your prejudices. and so it is that the andalusians make very agreeable acquaintance. they are free and amiable in their conversation, and will always say the thing that pleases rather than the brutal thing that is. they miss no opportunity to make compliments, which they do so well that at the moment you are assured these flattering remarks come from the bottom of their hearts. very reasonably, they cannot understand why you should be disagreeable to a man merely because you rob him; to injury, unless their minds are clouded by passion, they have not the bad taste to add insult. compare with these manners the british abhorrence of polite and complimentary speeches, especially if they happen to be true: the englishman may hold you in the highest estimation, but wild horses will not drag from him an acknowledgment of the fact; whereby humanism and the general stock of self-esteem are notably diminished. nothing can be more graceful than their mode of speech, for the very construction of the language conduces to courtesy. the spaniards have also an oriental way of offering you things, placing themselves and their houses entirely at your disposal. if you remark on anything of theirs they beg you at once to take it. if you go into a pot-house where a peasant is dining on a plate of ham, a few olives, and a glass of wine, he will ask: '_le gusta_,' 'will you have some,' with a little motion of handing you his meal. of course it would be an outrage to decorum to accept these generous offers, but that is beside the question; for good manners are not an affair of the heart, but a complicated game to be learned and played on either side with due attention to the rules. it may be argued that such details are not serious; but surely for the common round of life politeness is more necessary than any heroic qualities. we need our friends' self-sacrifice once in a blue moon, but their courtesy every day; and for my own part, i would choose the companions of my leisure rather for their good breeding than for the excellence of their dispositions. beside this, however, the andalusians are much attached to children, and it is pleasant to see the real fondness which exists between various members of a family. one singular point i have noted, that although the spanish marry for love rather than from convenience, a wife puts kindred before husband, her affection remaining chiefly where it was before marriage. but if the moralist desires yet more solid virtues, he need only inquire of the first sevillan he meets, who will give at shortest notice, in choice and fluent language, a far more impressive list than i could ever produce. xv [sidenote: don juan tenorio] on its own behalf each country seems to choose one man, historical or imaginary, to stand for the race, making as it were an incarnation of all the virtues and all the vices wherewith it is pleased to charge itself; and nothing really better explains the character of a people than their choice of a national hero. fifty years ago john bull was the typical englishman. stout, rubicund and healthy, with a loud voice and a somewhat aggressive manner, he belonged distinctly to the middle classes. he had a precise idea of his rights and a flattering opinion of his merits; he was peaceable, but ready enough to fight for commercial advantages, or if roused, for conscience sake. and when this took place he possessed always the comforting assurance that the almighty was on his side; he put his faith without hesitation on the bible and on the superiority of the english nation. for foreigners he had a magnificent contempt and distinguished between them and monkeys only by a certain mental effort. art he thought nasty, literature womanish; he was a tory, middle-aged and well-to-do. but nowadays all that is changed; john bull, having amassed great wealth, has been gathered to his fathers and now disports himself in an early victorian paradise furnished with horse-hair sofas and mahogany sideboards. his son reigns in his stead; and though perhaps not officially recognised as england's archetype, his appearance in novel and in drama, in the illustrated papers, in countless advertisements, proves the reality of his sway. it is his image that rests in the heart of british maidens, his the example that british youths industriously follow. but john bull, junior, has added his mother's maiden name to his own, and remembers with pleasure that he belongs to a good old county family. he has changed his address from bedford square to south kensington, and has been educated at a public school and at a university. young, tall and fair-haired, there is nothing to suggest that he will ever have that inelegant paunch which prevented the father, even in his loftiest moments of moral indignation, from being dignified. of course he is a soldier, for the army is still the only profession for a gentleman, and england's hero is that above all things. his morals are unexceptional, since to the ten commandments of moses he has added the decalogue of good form. his clothes, whether he wears a norfolk jacket or a frock coat, fit to perfection. he is a good shot, a daring rider, a serviceable cricketer. his heart beats with simple emotions, he will ever cheer at the sight of the union jack, and the strains of _rule britannia_ bring patriotic tears to his eyes. of late, (like myself,) he has become an imperialist. his intentions are always strictly honourable, and he would not kiss the tip of a woman's fingers except hymen gave him the strictest rights to do so. if he became enamoured of a lady with whom such tender sentiments should not be harboured, he would invariably remember his duty at the psychological moment, and with many moving expressions renounce her: in fact he is a devil at renouncing women. i wonder it flatters them. contrast with this pattern of excellence, eminently praiseworthy if somewhat dull, don juan tenorio, who stands in exactly the same relation to the andalusians as does john bull to the english. he is a worthless, heartless creature, given over to the pursuit of emotion. the main lines of the story are well known. the legend, so far as seville is concerned, (industrious persons have found analogues throughout the world,) appears to be founded on fact. there actually lived a comendador de calatrava who was killed by don juan after the abduction of his daughter. the perfect amorist, according to the _cronica de sevilla_, was then inveigled into the church where lay his enemy and assassinated by the franciscans, who spread the pious fiction that the image of his victim, descending from its pedestal, had itself exacted vengeance. it was an unfortunate invention, for the catastrophe has proved a stumbling-block to all that have dealt with the subject. the spaniards of molina's day may not have minded the clumsy _deus ex machina_, but later writers have been able to make nothing of it. in molière's play, for instance, the grotesque statue is absurdly inapposite, for his don juan is a wit and a cynic, a courtier of louis xiv., with whose sins avenging gods are out of all proportion. love for him is an intellectual exercise and a pastime. 'constancy,' he says, 'is only good for fools. we owe ourselves to pretty women in general, and the mere fact of having met one does not absolve us from our duty to others. the birth of passion has an inexplicable charm, and the pleasure of love is in variety.' and zorilla, whose version is the most poetic of them all, has succeeded in giving only a ridiculous exhibition of waxworks. but the monk, tirso de molina, who was the first to apply literary form to the legend, alone gives the character in its primitive simplicity. he drew the men of his time; and his compatriots, recognising themselves, have made the work immortal. for spain, at all events, the type has been irrevocably fixed. don juan tenorio was indeed a spaniard of his age, a man of turbulent instincts, with a love of adventure and a fine contempt for danger, of an overwhelming pride; careful of his own honour, and careless of that of others. he looked upon every woman as lawful prey and hesitated at neither perjury nor violence to gain his ends; despair and tears left him indifferent. love for him was purely carnal, with nothing of the timid flame of pastoral romance, nor of the chivalrous and metaphysic passion of provence; it was a fierce, consuming fire which quickly burnt itself out. he was a vulgar and unoriginal seducer who stole favours in the dark by pretending to be the lady's chosen lover, or induced guileless maids to trust him under promise of marriage, then rode away as fast as his horse could carry him. the monotony of his methods and their success are an outrage to the intelligence of the sex. but for all his scoffing he remained a true catholic, devoutly believing that the day would come when he must account for his acts; and he proposed, when too old to commit more sins, to repent and make his peace with the almighty. it is significant that the andalusians have thus chosen don juan tenorio, for he is an abstract, with the lines somewhat subdued by the advance of civilisation, of the national character. for them his vices, his treachery, his heartlessness, have nothing repellent; nor does his inconstancy rob him of feminine sympathy. he is, indeed, a far greater favourite with the ladies than john bull. the englishman they respect, they know he will make a good husband and a model father; but he is too monogamous to arouse enthusiasm. xvi [sidenote: women of andalusia] it is meet and just that the traveller who desires a closer acquaintance with the country wherein he sojourns than is obtained by the cockney tripper, should fall in love. the advantages of this proceeding are manifold and obvious. he will acquire the language with a more rapid facility; he will look upon the land with greater sympathy and hence with sharper insight; and little particularities of life will become known to him, which to the dreary creature who surveys a strange world from the portico of an expensive hotel, must necessarily lie hid. if i personally did not arrive at that delectable condition the fault is with the immortal gods rather than with myself; for in my eagerness to learn the gorgeous tongue of calderon and of cervantes, i placed myself purposely in circumstances where i thought the darts of young cupid could never fail to miss me. but finally i was reduced to ollendorf's grammar. however, these are biographical details of interest to none but myself; they are merely to serve as preface for certain observations upon the women whom the traveller in the evening sees hurrying through the sierpes on their way home. human beauty is the most arbitrary of things, and the englishman, accustomed to the classic type of his own countrywomen, will at first perhaps be somewhat disappointed with the excellence of spain. it consists but seldom in any regularity of feature, for their appeal is to the amorist rather than to the sculptor in marble. their red lips carry suggestions of burning kisses, so that his heart must be hard indeed who does not feel some flutterings at their aspect. the teeth are small, very white, regular. face and body, indeed, are but the expression of a passionate nature. but when i write of spanish women i think of you, rosarito; i find suddenly that it is no impersonal creature that fills my mind, but you--you! when i state solemnly that their greatest beauty lies in their hair and eyes, it is of you i think; it is your dark eyes that were lustrous, soft as velvet, caressing sometimes, and sometimes sparkling with fiery glances. (alas! that i can find but hackneyed phrases to describe those heart-disturbers!) and when i say that the eyebrows of a spanish woman are not often so delicately pencilled as with many an english girl, i remember that yours were thick; and the luxuriance gave you a certain tropical and savage charm. and your hair was plentiful and curling, intensely black; i believe it was your greatest care in life. don't you remember how often you explained to me that nothing was so harmful as to brush it, and how proud you were that it hung in glorious locks to your very knees? hardly any girl in seville is too poor to have a _peinadora_ to do her hair; and these women go from house to house, combing and arranging the coiffure for such infinitesimal sums as half a _real_, which is little more than a penny. again i try to be impersonal. the complexion ranges through every quality from dark olive to pearly white; but yours, rosarito, was like the very finest ivory, a perfect miracle of delicacy and brilliance; and the blood in the cheeks shone through with a rich, soft red. i used to think it was a colour by itself, not to be found on palettes, the carnation of your cheeks, rosarito. and none could walk with such graceful dignity as you; it was a pleasure to watch your perfect ease, your self-command. your feet, i think, were somewhat long; but your hands were wonderful, very small, admirably modelled, with little tapering fingers, and the most adorable filbert nails. don't you remember how i used to look at them, and turn them over and discuss them point by point? and if ever i kissed their soft, warm palms, (i think it possible, though i have no vivid recollections,) remember that i was twenty-three; and it was certainly an appropriate gesture in the little comedy which to our mutual entertainment we played so gravely. now, as i write, my heart goes pit-a-pat, thinking of you, rosarito; and i'm sure that if we had over again that charming time, i should fall head over ears in love. oh, you know we were both fibbing when we vowed we adored one another; i am a romancer by profession, and you by nature. we parted joyously, and you had the grace not to force a tear, and neither of our hearts was broken. where are you now, i wonder; and do you ever think of me? * * * the whole chapter of andalusian beauty is unfolded in the tobacco factory at seville. six thousand women work there, at little tables placed by the columns which uphold the roof; they are of all ages, of all types; plain, pretty, commonplace, beautiful; and ten, perhaps, are lovely. the gipsies are disappointing, not so comely as the pure spaniards; and they attract only by the sphinx-like mystery of their copper-coloured skin, by their hard, unfathomable eyes. the sevillans are perhaps inclined to stoutness, but that is a charm in their lover's sight, and often have a little down on the upper lip, than which, when it amounts to no more than a shadow, nothing can be more enchanting. they look with malicious eyes as you saunter through room after room in the factory; it is quite an experience to run the gauntlet of their numerous tongues, making uncomplimentary remarks about your person, sometimes to your embarrassment offering you the carnation from their hair, or other things. their clothes are suspended to the pillars, and their costume in summer is more adapted for coolness than for the inspection of decorous foreigners. they may bring with them babies, and many a girl will have a cradle by her side, which she rocks with one foot as her fingers work nimbly at the cigarettes. they are very oriental, these women with voluptuous forms; they have no education, and with all their charm are unutterably stupid; they do not read, and find even newspapers tiresome! those whose circumstances do not force them to work for their living, love nothing better than to lie for long hours on a sofa, neither talking nor thinking, in easy gowns, untrammelled by tight-fitting things. in the morning they put on a _mantilla_ and go to mass, and besides, except to pay a polite visit on a friend or to drive in the paseo, hardly leave the house. they are content with the simplest life. they adore their children, and willingly devote themselves entirely to them; they seem never to be bored. for them the days must come and go without distinction. their fleeting beauty leaves them imperceptibly; they grow fat, they grow thin, wrinkled, and gaunt; the years pass and their life proceeds without change. they do not think, they do not live: they merely exist, and they die, and that is the end of it. i suppose they are as happy as any one else. after all, taking it from one point of view, it matters very little what sort of life one leads, there are so many people in the world, such millions have come and gone, such millions will come and go. if an individual makes no use of his hour what does it signify? he is only one among countless hordes. in the existence of these handsome creatures, so passionate and yet so apathetic, there are no particular pleasures beside the simple joys of sense, but on the other hand, beyond the inevitable separations of death, there are no outstanding griefs. they propagate their species, and that, perhaps, is the only quite certain duty that human beings have. xvii [sidenote: the dance] cervantes said that there was never born a spanish woman but she was made to dance; and he might have added that in the south, at all events, most men share the enviable faculty. the dance is one of the most characteristic features of andalusia, and as an amusement rivals in popularity even the bull-fight. the sevillans dance on every possible occasion, and nothing pleases them more than the dexterity of professionals. before a company has been assembled half an hour some one is bound to suggest that a couple should show their skill; room is quickly made, the table pushed against the wall, the chairs drawn back, and they begin. even when men are alone in a tavern, drinking wine, two of them will often enough stand up to tread a _seguidilla_. on a rainy day it is the entertainment that naturally recommends itself. riding through the villages round seville on sundays it delighted me to see little groups making a circle about the house doors, in the middle of which were dancing two girls in bright-coloured clothes, with roses in their hair. a man seated on a broken chair was twanging a guitar, the surrounders beat their hands in time and the dancers made music with their castanets. sometimes on a feast-day i came across a little band, arrayed in all its best, that had come into the country for an afternoon's diversion, and sat on the grass in the shade of summer or in the wintry sun. whenever andalusians mean to make merry some one will certainly bring a guitar, or if not the girls have their castanets; and though even these are wanting and no one can be induced to sing, a rhythmical clapping of hands will be sufficient accompaniment, and the performers will snap their fingers in lieu of castanets. it is charming then to see the girls urge one another to dance; each vows with much dramatic gesture that she cannot, calling the blessed virgin to witness that she has strained her ankle and has a shocking cold. but some youth springs up and volunteers, inviting a particular damsel to join him. she is pushed forward, and the couple take their places. the man carefully puts down his cigarette, jams his broad-brimmed hat on his head, buttons his short coat and arches his back! the spectators cry: '_ole!_' the girl passes an arranging hand over her hair. the measure begins. the pair stand opposite one another, a yard or so distant, and foot it in accordance with one another's motions. it is not a thing of complicated steps, but, as one might expect from its moorish origin, of movements of the body. with much graceful swaying from side to side the executants approach and retire, and at the middle of the dance change positions. it finishes with a great clapping of hands, the maiden sinks down among her friends and begins violently to fan herself, while her partner, with a great affectation of nonchalance, takes a seat and relights his cigarette. and in the music-halls the national dances are, with the national songs, the principal attraction. seville possesses but one of these establishments; it is a queer place, merely the _patio_ of a private house, with a stage at one end, in which chairs and tables have been placed. on holiday nights it is crammed with students, with countrymen and artisans, with the general riff-raff of the town, and with women of no particular reputation. now and then appears a gang of soldiers, giving a peculiar note with the uniformity of their brown holland suits; and occasionally a couple of british sailors come sauntering in with fine self-assurance, their fair hair and red cheeks contrasting with the general swartness. you pay no entrance money, but your refreshment costs a _real_--which is twopence ha'penny; and for that you may enjoy not only a cup of coffee or a glass of manzanilla, but an evening's entertainment. as the night wears on the heat is oven-like, and the air is thick and grey with the smoke of countless cigarettes. the performance consists of three 'turns' only, and these are repeated every hour. the company boasts generally of a male singer, a female singer, and of the _corps de ballet_, which is made up of six persons. spain is the stronghold of the out-of-date, and i suppose it alone preserves the stiff muslin ballet-skirts which delighted our fathers. to see half-a-dozen dancers thus attired in a remote andalusian music-hall is so entirely unexpected that it quite takes the breath away. but by the time the traveller reaches seville he must be used to disillusion, and he must be ingenuous indeed if he expects the spaniards to have preserved their national costume for the most national of their pastimes. yet the dances are still spanish; and even if the pianoforte has ousted the guitar, the castanets give, notwithstanding, a characteristic note which the aggressive muslin and the pink, ill-fitting tights cannot entirely destroy. * * * but i remember one dancer who was really a great artist. she was ill-favoured, of middle age, thin; but every part of her was imbued with grace, expressive, from the tips of her toes to the tips of her fingers. the demands of the public sometimes forced upon her odious ballet-skirts, sometimes she wasted her talent on the futilities of skirt-dancing; but chiefly she loved the national measures, and her phenomenal leanness made her only comfortable in the national dress. she travelled from place to place in spain with another woman whom she had taught to dance, and whose beauty she used cleverly as a foil to her own uncomeliness; and so wasted herself in these low resorts, earning hardly sufficient to keep body and soul together. i wish i could remember her name. when she began to dance you forgot her ugliness; her gaunt arms gained shape, her face was transfigured, her dark eyes flashed, and her mouth and smile said a thousand eloquent things. even the nape of her neck, which in most women has no significance, with her was expressive. a consummate actress, she exhibited all her skill in the _bolero_, which represents a courtship; she threw aside the castanets and wrapped herself in a _mantilla_, while her companion, dressed as a man, was hidden in a _capa_. the two passed one another, he trying to see the lady's face, which she averted, but not too strenuously; he pursued, she fled, but not too rapidly. dropping his cloak, the lover attacked with greater warmth, while alternately she repelled and lured him on. at last she too cast away the _mantilla_. they seized the castanets and danced round one another with all manner of graceful and complicated evolutions, making love, quarrelling, pouting, exhibiting every variety of emotion. the dance grew more passionate, the steps flew faster, till at last, with the music, both stopped suddenly dead still. this abrupt cessation is one of the points most appreciated by a spanish audience. '_ole!_' they cry,'_bien parado!_' but when, unhampered by a partner, this nameless, exquisite dancer gave full play to her imagination, there was no end to the wildness of her fancy, to the intricacy and elaboration of her measures, to the gay audacity of her movements. she performed a hundred feats, each more difficult than the other--and all impossible to describe. * * * then, between christmas and lent, at midnight on saturdays and sundays, the tables and the chairs are cleared away for the masked ball; and you will see the latest mode of spanish dance. the women are of the lowest possible class; some, with a kind of savage irony, disguised as nuns, others in grotesque dominos of their own devising; but most wear every-day clothes with great shawls draped about them. the men are of a corresponding station, and through the evening wear their broad-brimmed hats. on the stage is a brass band, which plays one single tune till day-break, and to that one single measure is danced--the _habanera_. in this alone may people take part as in any round dance. the couples hold one another in the very tightest embrace, the lady clasping her arms round her partner's neck, while he places both his about her waist. they go round the room very slowly, immediately behind one another; it is a kind of straight polka, with a peculiar, rhythmic swaying of the body; the feet are not lifted off the floor, and you do not turn at all. the highest gravity is preserved throughout, and the whole performance is--well, very oriental. xviii [sidenote: a feast day] i arrived in seville on the eve of the immaculate conception. all day people had been preparing to celebrate the feast, decorating their houses with great banners of blue and white; and at night the silent, narrow streets had a strange appearance, for in every window were lighted candles, throwing around them a white, unusual glare; they looked a little like the souls of infants dead. all day the bells of a hundred churches had been ringing, half drowned by the rolling peals of the giralda. it had been announced that the archbishop would himself officiate at the high mass in the blessed virgin's honour; and early in the morning the cathedral steps were crowded with black-robed women, making their way to the great sacristy where was to be held the service. i joined the throng, and entering through the darkness of the porch, was almost blinded by the brilliant altar, upon which stood a life-sized image of the virgin, surrounded by a huge aureole, with great bishops, all of silver, on either side. it was ablaze with the light of many candles, so that the nave was thrown into deep shadow, and the kneeling women were scarcely visible. the canons in the choir listlessly droned their prayers. at last the organ burst forth, and a long procession slowly came into the chapel, priests in white and blue, the colours of the virgin, four bishops in mitres, the archbishop with his golden crozier; and preceding them all, in odd contrast, the beadle in black, with a dark periwig, bearing a silver staff. from the choir in due order they returned to the altar, headed this time by three pairs of acolytes, bearing great silver candlesticks, and by incense-burners, that filled the church with rich perfume. when the mass was finished, a young dark man in copious robes of violet ascended the pulpit and muttered a text. he waited an instant to collect himself, looking at the congregation; then turning to the altar began a passionate song of praise to the blessed virgin, unsoiled by original sin. he described her as in a hundred pictures the great painter of the immaculate conception has portrayed her--a young and graceful maid, clothed in a snowy gown of ample folds, with an azure cloak, a maid mysteriously pure; her hair, floating on the shoulders in luxurious ringlets, was an aureole more glorious than the silver rays which surrounded the great image; her dark eyes, with their languid lashes, her mouth, with the red lips, expressed a beautiful and immaculate virtue. it might have been some earthly woman of whom the priest spoke, one of those andalusians that knelt below him, flashing quick glances at the gallant who negligently leaned against a pillar. the archbishop sat on his golden throne--a thin, small man with a wrinkled face, with dead and listless eyes; in his gorgeous vestments he looked hardly human, he seemed a puppet, sitting stilly. at the end of the sermon he went back to the altar, and in his low, broken voice read the prayers. and then turning towards the great congregation he gave the plenary absolution, for which the pope's bull had been read from the pulpit steps. * * * in the afternoon, when the sun was going down behind the guadalquivir, over the plain, i went again to the cathedral. the canons in the choir still droned their chant in praise of the blessed virgin, and in the greater darkness the altar shone more magnificently. the same procession filed through the nave, some priests were in black, some in violet, some in the virgin's colours; but this time the archbishop wore gorgeous robes of scarlet, and as he knelt at the altar his train spread to the chancel steps. from the side appeared ten boys and knelt before the altar, and stood in two lines facing one another. they were dressed like pages of the seventeenth century, with white stockings and breeches, and a doublet of blue and silver, holding in their hands hats with long feathers. the archbishop, kneeling in front of the throne, buried his face in his hands. a soft melody, played by violins and 'cellos, broke the silence, and presently the ten pages began to sing: _los cielos y la tierra alaben al señor_ _con imnos de alabanza que inflamen al señor._ it was a curious, old-fashioned music, reminding one a little of the quiet harmonies of gluck. then, putting on their hats, the pages danced, continuing their song; they wound in and out of one another, gravely footing it, swaying to and fro with the music very slowly. the measure was performed with the utmost reverence. now and then the chorus came, and the fresh boys' voices, singing in unison, filled the church with delightful melody. and still the old archbishop prayed, his face buried in his hands. the boys ceased to sing, but continued the dance, marking the time now with castanets, and the mundane instrument contrasted strangely with the glittering altar and with the kneeling priests. i wondered of what the archbishop thought, kneeling so humbly--of the boys dancing before the altar, fresh and young? was he thinking of their white souls darkening with the sins of the world, or of the troubles, the disillusionments of life, and the decrepitude? or was it of himself--did he think of his own youth, so long past, so hopelessly gone, or did he think that he was old and worn, and of the dark journey before him, and of the light that seemed so distant? did he regret his beautiful seville with the blue sky, and the orange-trees bowed down with their golden fruit? he seemed so small and weak, overwhelmed in his gorgeous robes. again the ten boys repeated their song and dance and their castanets, and with a rapid genuflection disappeared. the archbishop rose painfully from his knees and ascended to the altar. a priest held open a book before him, and another lighted the printed page with a candle; he read out a prayer. then, kneeling down, he bent very low, as though he felt himself unworthy to behold the magnificence of the queen of heaven. the people fell to their knees, and a man's voice burst forth--_ave maria, gratia plena_; waves of passionate sound floated over the worshippers, upwards, towards heaven. and from the giralda, the moorish tower, the christian bells rang joyfully. the archbishop turned towards the people; and when in his thin, broken voice he gave the benediction, one thought that no man in his heart felt such humility as the magnificent prince of the church, don marcelo spinola y maestre, archbishop of seville. the people flocked out quickly, and soon only a few devout penitents remained. a priest came, waving censers before the altar, and thick volumes of perfume ascended to the blessed virgin. he disappeared, and one by one the candles were extinguished. the night crept silently along the church, and the silver image sank into the darkness; at last two candles only were left on the altar, high up, shining dimly. outside the sky was still blue, bespattered with countless stars. note.--i believe there is no definite explanation of this ceremony, and the legend told me by an ancient priest that it was invented during the moorish dominion so that christian services might be held under cover of a social gathering--intruding muslims would be told merely that people were there assembled to see boys dance and to listen to their singing--is more picturesque than probable. rather does it seem analogous with the leaping of david the king before the ark of jehovah, when he danced before the lord with all his might, girt with a linen ephod; and this, if i may hazard an opinion, was with a view to amuse a deity apt to be bored or languid, just as nautch girls dance to this day before the idols of the hindus, and tops are spun before krishna to divert him. xix [sidenote: the giralda] the christian bells rang joyfully from the moorish tower, the great old bells christened with holy oil, _el cantor_ the singer, _la gorda_ the great, _san miguel_. i climbed the winding passage till i came to the terrace where stood the ringers, and as they pulled their ropes the bells swung round on their axles, completing a circle, with deafening clamour. the din was terrific, so that the solid masonry appeared to shake, and i felt the vibrations of the surrounding air. it was a strange sensation to shout as loud as possible and hear no sound issue from my mouth. the giralda, with its moorish base and its christian belfry, is a symbol of andalusia. there is in the ayuntamiento an old picture of the minaret built by djâbir the moor, nearly one hundred feet shorter than the completed tower, but surmounted by a battlemented platform on which are huge brazen balls and an iron standard. these were overthrown by an earthquake, and later, when the discoveries of christopher columbus had poured unmeasured riches into seville, the chapter commissioned hernan ruiz to add a belfry to the moorish base. hernan ruiz nearly ruined the mosque at cordova, but here he was entirely successful. indeed it is extraordinary that the two parts should be joined in such admirable harmony. it is impossible to give in words an idea of the slender grace of the giralda, it does not look a thing of bricks and mortar, it is so straight and light that it reminds one vaguely of some beautiful human thing. the great height is astonishing, there is no buttress or projection to break the very long straight line as it rises, with a kind of breathless speed, to the belfry platform. and then the renaissance building begins, ascending still more, a sort of filigree work, excessively rich, and elegant beyond all praise. it is surmounted by a female figure of bronze, representing faith and veering with every breeze, and the artist has surrounded his work with the motto: _nomen domini fortissima turris_. but the older portion gains another charm from the moorish windows that pierce it, one above the other, with horseshoe arches; and from the arabesque network with which the upper part is diapered, a brick trellis-work against the brick walls, of the most graceful and delicate intricacy. the giralda is almost toylike in the daintiness of its decoration. notwithstanding its great size it is a masterpiece of exquisite proportion. at night it stands out with strong lines against the bespangled sky, and the lights of the watchers give it a magic appearance of some lacelike tower of imagination; but on high festivals it is lit with countless lamps, and then, as richard ford puts it, hangs from the dark vault of heaven like a brilliant chandelier. i looked down at seville from above. a spanish town wears always its most picturesque appearance thus seen, but it is never different; the _patios_ glaring with whitewash, the roofs of brown and yellow tiles, and the narrow streets, winding in unexpected directions, narrower than ever from such a height and dark with shade, so that they seem black rivulets gliding stealthily through the whiteness. looking at a northern city from a tall church tower all things are confused with one another, the slate roofs join together till it is like a huge uneven sea of grey; but in seville the atmosphere is so limpid, the colour so brilliant, that every house is clearly separated from its neighbour, and sometimes there appears to be between them a preternatural distinctness. each stands independently of any other; you might suppose yourself in a strange city of the _arabian nights_ where a great population lived in houses crowded together, but invisibly, so that each person fancied himself in isolation. immediately below was the cathedral and to remind you of cordova, the court of oranges; but here was no sunny restfulness, nor old-world quiet. the court is gloomy and dark, and the trim rows of orange-trees contrast oddly with the grey stone of the cathedral, its huge porches, and the flamboyant exuberance of its decoration. the sun never shines in it and no fruit splash the dark foliage with gold. you do not think of the generations of priests who have wandered in it on the summer evenings, basking away their peaceful lives in the sunshine; but rather of the busy merchants who met there in the old days when it was still the exchange of seville, before the lonja was built, to discuss the war with england, or the fate of ships bringing gold from america. at one end of the court is an old stone pulpit from which preached st. francis of borga and st. vincent ferrer and many an unknown monk besides. then it was thronged with multi-coloured crowds, with townsmen, soldiers and great noblemen, when the faith was living and strong; and the preacher, with all the gesture and the impassioned rhetoric of a spaniard, poured out burning words of hate for jew and moor and heretic, so that the listeners panted and a veil of blood passed before their eyes; or else uttered so eloquent a song in praise of the blessed virgin, immaculately conceived, that strong men burst into tears at the recital of her perfect beauty. xx [sidenote: the cathedral of seville] your first impression when you walk round the cathedral of seville, noting with dismay the crushed cupolas and unsightly excrescences, the dinginess of colour, is not enthusiastic. it was built by german architects without a thought for the surrounding houses, brilliantly whitewashed, and the blue sky, and it proves the incongruity of northern art in a southern country; but even lowering clouds and mist could lend no charm to the late gothic of _santa maria de la sede_. the interior fortunately is very different. notwithstanding the gothic groining, as you enter from the splendid heat of noonday, (in the plaza del triunfo the sun beats down and the houses are more dazzling than snow,) the effect is thoroughly and delightfully spanish. light is very fatal to devotion and the spaniards have been so wise as to make their churches extremely dark. at first you can see nothing. incense floats heavily about you, filling the air, and the coolness is like a draught of fresh, perfumed water. but gradually the church detaches itself from the obscurity and you see great columns, immensely lofty. the spaces are large and simple, giving an impression of vast room; and the choir, walled up on three sides, in the middle of the nave as in all spanish cathedrals, by obstructing the view gives an appearance of almost unlimited extent. to me it seems that in such a place it is easier to comprehend the majesty wherewith man has equipped himself. science offers only thoughts of human insignificance; the vastness of the sea, the terror of the mountains, emphasise the fact that man is of no account, ephemeral as the leaves of summer. but in those bold aisles, by the pillars rising with such a confident pride towards heaven, it is almost impossible not to feel that man indeed is god-like, lord of the earth; and that the great array of nature is builded for his purpose. typically spanish also is the decoration, and very rich. the choir-stalls are of carved wood, florid and exuberant like the spanish imagination; the altars gleam with gold; pictures of saints are framed by golden pillars carved with huge bunches of grapes and fruit and fantastic leaves. i was astounded at the opulence of the treasure; there were gorgeous altars of precious metal, great saints of silver, caskets of gold, monstrances studded with rare stones, crosses and crucifixes. the vestments were of unimaginable splendour: there were two hundred copes of all ages and of every variety, fifty of each colour, white for christmas and easter, red for corpus christi, blue for the immaculate conception, violet for holy week; there were the special copes of the primate, copes for officiating bishops, copes for dignitaries from other countries and dioceses. they were of the richest velvet and satin, heavily embroidered with gold, many with saints worked in silk, so heavy that it seemed hardly possible for a man to bear them. in the baptistery, filling it with warm light, is the _san antonio_ of murillo, than which no picture gives more intensely the religious emotion. the saint, tall and meagre, beautiful of face, looks at the divine child hovering in a golden mist with an ecstasy that is no longer human. it is interesting to consider whether an artist need feel the sentiment he desires to convey. certainly many pictures have been painted under the influence of profound feeling which leave the spectator entirely cold, and it is probable enough that the early italians felt few of the emotions which their pictures call forth. we know that the masterpieces of perugino, so moving, so instinct with religious tenderness, were very much a matter of pounds, shillings and pence. but luis de vargas, on the other hand, daily humbled himself by scourging and by wearing a hair shirt, and vicente joanes prepared himself for a new picture by communion and confession; so that it is impossible to wonder at the rude and savage ardour of their work. and the impression that may be gathered of murillo from his pictures is borne out by the study of his grave and simple life. he had not the turbulent piety of the other two, but a calm and sweet devotion, which led him to spend long hours in church, meditating. he, at any rate, felt all that he expressed. i do not know a church that gives the religious sentiment more completely than seville cathedral. the worship of the spaniards is sombre, full-blooded, a thing of dark rich colours; it requires the heaviness of incense and that overloading of rococo decoration. it is curious that notwithstanding their extreme similarity to the neapolitans, the andalusians should in their faith differ so entirely. of course, in southern italy religion is as full of superstition--an adoration of images in which all symbolism is lost and only the gross idol remains; but it is a gayer and a lighter thing than in spain. most characteristic of this is the difference between the churches; and with _santa maria de la sede_ may well be contrasted the neapolitan _santa chiara_, with its great windows, so airy and spacious, sparkling with white and gold. the paintings are almost frolicsome. it is like a ballroom, a typical place of worship for a generation that had no desire to pray, but strutted in gaudy silks and ogled over pretty fans, pretending to discuss the latest audacity of monsieur arouet de voltaire. xxi [sidenote: the hospital of charity] the spaniards possess to the fullest degree the art of evoking devout emotions, and in their various churches may be experienced every phase of religious feeling. after the majestic size and the solemn mystery of the cathedral, nothing can come as a greater contrast than the church of the hermandad de la caredad. it was built by don miguel de mañara, who rests in the chancel, with the inscription over him: '_aqui jacen los huesos y ceñizas del peor hombre que ha habido en el mundo; ruegan por el_'--'here lie the bones and ashes of the worst man that has ever been in the world; pray for him.' but like all andalusians he was a braggart; for a love of chocolate, which appears to have been his besetting sin, is insufficient foundation for such a vaunt: a vice of that order is adequately punished by the corpulence it must occasion. however, legend, representing don miguel as the most dissolute of libertines, is more friendly. the grave sister who escorts the visitor relates that one day in church don miguel saw a beautiful nun, and undaunted by her habit, made amorous proposals. she did not speak, but turned to look at him, whereupon he saw the side of her face which had been hidden from his gaze, and it was eaten away by a foul and loathsome disease, so that it seemed more horrible than the face of death. the gallant was so terrified that he fainted, and afterwards the face haunted him, the face of matchless beauty and of revolting decay, so that he turned from the world. he devoted his fortune to rebuilding the hospital and church of the brotherhood of charity, whose chief office it was to administer the sacraments to those condemned to death and provide for their burial, and was eventually received into their order. it was in the seventeenth century that mañara built his church, and consequently rococo holds sway with all its fantasies. it is small, without aisles or chapels, and the morbid opulence of the decoration gives it a peculiar character. the walls are lined with red damask, and the floor carpeted with a heavy crimson carpet; it gives the sensation of a hothouse, or, with its close odours, of a bedchamber transformed into a chapel for the administration of the last sacrament. the atmosphere is unhealthy: one pants for breath. at one end, taking up the entire wall, is a reredos by pedro roldan, of which the centrepiece is an elaborate 'deposition in the tomb,' with numerous figures coloured to the life. it is very fine in its mingling of soft, rich hues and flamboyant realism. the artist has revelled in the opportunity for anguish of expression that his subject afforded, but has treated it with such a passionate seriousness that, in his grim, fierce way, he does not fail to be impressive. the frame is of twisted golden pillars, supported by little naked angels, and decorated with grapes and vine-leaves. above and at the sides are great saints in carved wood, and angels with floating drapery. murillo was on terms of intimacy with don miguel de mañara, and like him a member of the hermandad. for his friend he painted some of his most famous pictures, which by the subdued ardour of their colour, by their opulent tones, harmonise most exquisitely with the church. marshal soult, with a fine love of art that was profitable, carried off several of them, and their empty frames stare at one still. but before that, when they were all in place, the effect must have been of unique magnificence. it must be an extraordinary religion that flourishes in such a place, an artificial faith that needs heat like tropical plants, that desires unnatural vows. it breathes of neurotic emotions with its damask-covered walls, with its carpet that deadens the footfall, its sombre, gorgeous pictures. the sweet breeze of heaven never enters there, nor the sunlight; the air is languid with incense; one is oppressed by a strange, heavy silence. in such a church sins must be fostered for the morbid pleasure of confession. one can imagine that the worshippers in that overloaded atmosphere would see strange visions, voluptuous and mystical; the blessed mary and the saints might gain visible and palpable flesh, and the devil would not be far off. there the gruesome imaginings of valdes leal are a fitting decoration. every one knows that grim picture of a bishop in episcopal robes, eaten by worms, his flesh putrefying, which led murillo to say: 'leal, you make me hold my nose,' and the other answered: 'you have taken all the flesh and left me nought but the bones.' elsewhere, by the same master, there is a painting that suggests, with greater poignancy to my mind because less brutally, the thoughts evoked by the more celebrated work, and since it seems to complete the ideas awakened by this curious chapel, i mention it here. it represents a priest at the altar, saying his mass, and the altar after the spanish fashion is sumptuous with gilt and florid carving. he wears a magnificent cope and a surplice of exquisite lace, but he wears them as though their weight were more than he could bear; and in the meagre, trembling hands, and in the white, ashen face, in the dark hollowness of the eyes and in the sunken cheeks, there is a bodily corruption that is terrifying. the priest seems to hold together with difficulty the bonds of the flesh, but with no eager yearning of the soul to burst its prison, only with despair; it is as if the lord almighty had forsaken him, and the high heavens were empty of their solace. all the beauty of life appears forgotten, and there is nothing in the world but decay. a ghastly putrefaction has attacked already the living man; the worms of the grave, the piteous horror of mortality, and the darkness before him offer nought but fear, and what soul is there to rise again! beyond, dark night is seen and a turbulent sea, the dark night of the soul of which the mystics write, and the troublous sea of life whereon there is no refuge for the weary and the sick at heart. * * * then, if you would study yet another phase of the religious sentiment, go to the museo, where are the fine pictures that murillo painted for the capuchin monastery. you will see all the sombreness of spanish piety, the savage faith, dissolved into ineffable love. religion has become a wonderful tenderness, in which passionate human affection is inextricably mingled with god-like adoration. murillo, these sensual forms quivering with life, brought the eternal down to earth, and gave terrestrial ardour to the apathy of an impersonal devotion; that, perhaps, is why to women he has always been the most fascinating of painters. in the _madonna de la servilleta_--painted on a napkin for the cook of the monastery--the child is a simple, earthly infant, fresh and rosy, with wide-open, wondering eyes and not a trace of immortality. i myself saw a common woman of the streets stand before this picture with tears running down her cheeks. '_corazon de mi alma!_' she said, 'heart of my soul! i could cover his little body with kisses.' she smiled, but could hardly restrain her sobs. the engrossing love of a mother for her child seemed joined in miraculous union with the worship of a mortal for his god. murillo had neither the power nor the desire to idealise his models. the saints of these great pictures, st. francis of assisi, st. felix of cantalicio, st. thomas of villanueva, are monks and beggars such as may to this day be seen in the streets of seville. st. felix is merely an old man with hollow cheeks and a grey, ragged beard; but yet as he clasps the child in his arms with eager tenderness, he is transfigured by a divine ecstasy: his face is radiant with the most touching emotion. and st. antony of padua, in another picture, worships the infant god with a mystic adoration, which, notwithstanding the realism of the presentment, lifts him far, far above the earth. xxii [sidenote: gaol] i was curious to see the prison in seville. gruesome tales had been told me of its filth and horror, and the wretched condition of the prisoners; i had even heard that from the street you might see them pressing against the barred windows with arms thrust through, begging the passer-by for money or bread. mediæval stories recurred to my mind and the clank of chains trailed through my imagination. i arranged to be conducted by the prison doctor, and one morning soon after five set out to meet him. my guide informed me by a significant gesture that his tendencies were--bibulous, and our meeting-place was a tavern; but when we arrived they told us that don felipe--such was his name--had been taken his morning dram and gone; however, if we went to another inn we should doubtless find him. but there we heard he had not yet arrived, he was not due till half-past five. to pass the time we drank a mouthful of _aguardiente_ and smoked a cigarette, and eventually the medico was espied in the distance. we went towards him--a round, fat person with a red face and a redder nose, somewhat shabbily dressed. he looked at me pointedly and said: 'i'm dry. _vengo seco._' it was a hint not to be neglected, and we returned to the tavern where don felipe had his nip. 'it's very good for the stomach,' he assured me. we sallied forth together, and as we walked he told me the number of prisoners, the sort of crimes for which they were detained--ranging from man-slaughter to petty larceny--and finally, details of his own career. he was an intelligent man, and when we came to the prison door insisted on drinking my health. the prison is an old convent, and it is a little startling to see the church façade, with a statue of the madonna over the central porch. at the steps a number of women stood waiting with pots and jars and handkerchiefs full of food for their relatives within; and when the doctor appeared several rushed up to ask about a father or a son that lay sick. we went in and there was a melodramatic tinkling of keys and an unlocking of heavy doors. the male prisoners, the adults, were in the _patio_ of the convent, where in olden days the nuns had wandered on summer evenings, watering their roses. the iron door was opened and shut behind us; there was a movement of curiosity at the sight of a stranger, and many turned to look at me. such as had illnesses came to the doctor, and he looked at their tongues and felt their pulse, giving directions to an assistant who stood beside him with a note-book. don felipe was on excellent terms with his patients, laughing and joking; a malingerer asked if he could not have a little wine because his throat was sore; the doctor jeered and the man began to laugh; they bandied repartees with one another. there were about two hundred in the _patio_, and really they did not seem to have so bad a time. there was one large group gathered round a man who read a newspaper aloud; it was monday morning, and all listened intently to the account of a bull-fight on the previous day, bursting into a little cry of surprise and admiration on hearing that the _matador_ had been caught and tossed. others lay by a pillar playing draughts for matches, while half a dozen more eagerly watched, giving unsolicited advice with much gesticulation. the draught-board consisted of little squares drawn on the pavement with chalk, and the pieces were scraps of white and yellow paper. one man sat cross-legged by a column busily rolling cigarettes; he had piles of them by his side arranged in packets, which he sold at one penny each; it was certainly an illegal offence, because the sale of tobacco is a government monopoly, but if you cannot break the laws in prison where can you break them? others occupied themselves by making baskets or nets. but the majority did nothing at all, standing about, sitting when they could, with the eternal cigarette between their lips; and the more energetic watched the blue smoke curl into the air. altogether a very happy family! nor did they seem really very criminal, more especially as they wore no prison uniform, but their own clothes. i saw no difference between them and the people i met casually in the street. they were just very ordinary citizens, countrymen smelling of the soil, labouring men, artisans. their misfortune had been only to make too free a use of their long curved knives or to be discovered taking something over which another had prior claims. but in andalusia every one is potentially as criminal, which is the same as saying that these jail-birds were estimable persons whom an unkind fate and a mistaken idea of justice had separated for a little while from their wives and families. i saw two only whose aspect was distinctly vicious. one was a tall fellow with shifty eyes, a hard thin mouth, a cruel smile, and his face was really horrible. i asked the doctor why he was there. don felipe, without speaking, made the peculiar motion of the fingers which signifies robbery, and the man seeing him repeated it with a leer. i have seldom seen a face that was so utterly repellent, so depraved and wicked: i could not get it out of my head, and for a long time saw before me the crafty eyes and the grinning mouth. obviously the man was a criminal born who would start thieving as soon as he was out of prison, hopelessly and utterly corrupt. but it was curious that his character should be marked so plainly on his face; it was a danger-signal to his fellows, and one would have thought the suspicion it aroused must necessarily keep him virtuous. it was a countenance that would make a man instinctively clap his hand to his pocket. the other was a turk, a huge creature, with dark scowling face and prominent brows; he made a singular figure in his bright fez and baggy breeches, looking at his fellow prisoners with a frown of hate. but the doctor had finished seeing his patients and the iron door was opened for us to go out. we went upstairs to the hospital, a long bare ward, terribly cheerless. six men, perhaps, lay in bed, guarded by two warders; one old fellow with rheumatism groaning in agony, two others dazed and very still, with high fever. we walked round quickly, don felipe as before mechanically looking at their tongues and feeling their pulse, speaking a word to the assistant and moving on. the windows were shut and there was a horrid stench of illness and drugs and antiseptics. we went through long corridors to the female side, and meanwhile the assistant told the doctor that during the night a woman had been confined. don felipe sat down in an office to write a certificate. 'what a nuisance these women are!' he said. 'why can't they wait till they get out of prison? how is it?' 'it was still-born.' '_pero, hombre_,' said the doctor crossly. 'why didn't you tell me that before? now i shall have to write another certificate. this one's no good.' he tore it up and painfully made out a second with the slow laborious writing of a man unused to holding a pen. then we marched on and came to another smaller _patio_ where the females were. they were comparatively few, not more than twenty or thirty; and when we entered a dark inner-room to see the woman who was ill they all trooped in after us--all but one. they stood round eagerly telling us of the occurrence. 'don't make such a noise, _por dios_! i can't hear myself speak,' said the doctor. the woman was lying on her back with flushed cheeks, her eyes staring glassily. the doctor asked a question, but she did not answer. she began to cry, sobbing from utter weakness in a silent, unrestrained way. on a table near her, hidden by a cloth, lay the dead child. we went out again into the _patio_. the sun was higher now and it was very warm, the blue sky shone above us without a cloud. the prisoners returned to their occupations. one old hag was doing a younger woman's hair; i noticed that even for spain it was beautiful, very thick, curling, and black as night. the girl held a carnation in her hand to put in front of the comb when the operation was completed. another woman suckled a baby, and several tiny children were playing about happily, while their mothers chatted to one another, knitting. but there was one, markedly different from the others, who sat alone taking no notice of the scene. it was she who remained in the _patio_ when the rest followed us into the sick room, a gipsy, tall and gaunt, with a skin of the darkest yellow. her hair was not elaborately arranged as that of her companions, but plainly done, drawn back stiffly from the forehead. she sat there, erect and motionless, looking at the ground with an unnatural stare, silent. they told me she never spoke a word nor paid attention to the women in the court. she might have been entirely alone. she never altered her position, but sat there, sphinx-like, in that attitude of stony grief. she was a stranger among the rest, and her bronzed face, her silence gave a weird impression; she seemed to recall the burning deserts of the east and an endless past. at last we came out, and the heavy iron door was closed behind us. what a relief it was to be in the street again, to see the sun and the trees, and to breathe the free air! a cart went by with a great racket, drawn by three mules, and the cries of the driver as he cracked his whip were almost musical; a train of donkeys passed; a man trotted by on a brown shaggy cob, his huge panniers filled with glowing vegetables, green and red, and in a corner was a great bunch of roses. i took long breaths of the free air, i shook myself to get rid of those prison odours. i offered don felipe refreshment and we repaired to a dram-shop immediately opposite. two women were standing there. '_ole!_' said the doctor to an old toothless hag with a vicious leer. 'what are you doing here? you've not been in for some time.' she laughed and explained that she was come to fetch her friend, a young woman, who had been released that morning. the doctor nodded to her, asking how long she had been in gaol. 'two years and nine months,' she said. and she began to laugh hysterically with tears streaming down her cheeks. 'i don't know what i'm doing,' she cried. 'i can't understand it.' she looked into the street with wild, yearning eyes; everything seemed to her strange and new. 'i haven't seen a tree for nearly three years,' she sobbed. but the hag was pressing the doctor to drink with her; he accepted without much hesitation, and gallantly proposed her health. 'what are you going to do?' he said to the younger woman, she was hardly more than a girl. 'you'd better not hang about in seville or you'll get into trouble again.' 'oh no,' she said, 'i'm going to my village--_mi pueblo_--this afternoon. i want to see my husband and my child.' don felipe turned to me and asked what i thought of the seville prison. i made some complimentary reply. 'are english prisons like that?' he asked. i said i did not think so. 'are they better?' i shrugged my shoulders. 'i'm told,' he said, 'that two years' hard labour in an english prison kills a man.' 'the english are a great nation,' i replied. 'and a humane one,' he added, with a bow and a smile. i bade him good-morning. xxiii [sidenote: before the bull-fight] if all andalusians are potential gaol-birds they are also potential bull-fighters. it is impossible for foreigners to realise how firmly the love of that pastime is engrained in all classes. in other countries the gift that children love best is a box of soldiers, but in spain it is a miniature ring with tin bulls, _picadors_ on horseback and _toreros_. from their earliest youth boys play at bull-fighting, one of them taking the bull's part and charging with the movements peculiar to that animal, while the rest make passes with their coats or handkerchiefs. often, to increase the excitement of the game, they have two horns fixed on a piece of wood. you will see them playing it at every street corner all day long, and no amusement can rival it; with the result that by the time a boy is fifteen he has acquired considerable skill in the exercise, and a favourite entertainment then is to hire a bull-calf for an afternoon and practise with it. every urchin in andalusia knows the names of the most prominent champions and can tell you their merits. the bull-fight is the national spectacle; it excites spaniards as nothing else can, and the death of a famous _torero_ is more tragic than the loss of a colony. seville looks upon itself as the very home and centre of the art. the good king ferdinand vii.--as precious a rascal as ever graced a throne--founded in seville the first academy for the cultivation of tauromachy, and bull-fighters swagger through the sierpes in great numbers and the most faultless costume. there are only five great bull-fights in a year at seville, namely, on easter day, on the three days of the fair, and on corpus christi. but during the summer _novilladas_ are held every sunday, with bulls of three years old and young fighters. long before an important _corrida_ there is quite an excitement in the town. gaudy bills are posted on the walls with the names of the performers and the proprietor of the bulls; crowds stand round reading them breathlessly, discussing with one another the chances of the fray; the papers give details and forecasts as in england they do for the better cause of horse-racing! and the journeyings of the _matador_ are announced as exactly as with us the doings of the nobility and gentry. the great _matador_, mazzantini or guerrita, arrives the day before the fight, and perhaps takes a walk in the sierpes. people turn to look at him and acquaintances shake his hand, pleased that all the world may know how friendly they are with so great a man. the hero himself is calm and gracious. he feels himself a person of merit, and cannot be unconscious that he has a fortune of several million _pesetas_ bringing in a reasonable interest. he talks with ease and assurance, often condescends to joke, and elegantly waves his hand, sparkling with diamonds of great value. * * * many persons have described a bull-fight, but generally their emotions have overwhelmed them so that they have seen only part of one performance, and consequently have been obliged to use an indignant imagination to help out a very faulty recollection. this is my excuse for giving one more account of an entertainment which can in no way be defended. it is doubtless vicious and degrading; but with the constant danger, the skill displayed, the courage, the hair-breadth escapes, the catastrophes, it is foolish to deny that any pastime can be more exciting. the english humanity to animals is one of the best traits of a great people, and they justly thank god they are not as others are. can anything more horrid be imagined than to kill a horse in the bull-ring, and can any decent hack ask for a better end when he is broken down, than to be driven to death in london streets or to stand for hours on cab ranks in the rain and snow of an english winter? the spaniards are certainly cruel to animals; on the other hand, they never beat their wives nor kick their children. from the dog's point of view i would ten times sooner be english, but from the woman's--i have my doubts. some while ago certain papers, anxious perhaps to taste the comfortable joys of self-righteousness, turned their attention to the brutality of spaniards, and a score of journalists wrote indignantly of bull-fights. at the same time, by a singular chance, a prize-fighter was killed in london, and the spanish papers printed long tirades against the gross, barbaric english. the two sets of writers were equally vehement, inaccurate and flowery; but what seemed most remarkable was that each side evidently felt quite unaffected horror and disgust for the proceedings of the other. like persons of doubtful character inveighing against the vices of the age, both were so carried away by moral enthusiasm as to forget that there was anything in their own histories which made this virtuous fury a little absurd. there is really a good deal in the point of view. xxiv [sidenote: corrida de toros--i] on the day before a bull-fight all the world goes down to tablada to see the bulls. youth and beauty drive, for every one in seville of the least pretension to gentility keeps a carriage; the sevillans, characteristically, may live in houses void of every necessity and comfort, eating bread and water, but they will have a carriage to drive in the _paseo_. you see vehicles of all kinds, from the new landau with a pair of magnificent andalusian horses, or the strange omnibus drawn by mules, typical of southern spain, to the shabby victoria, with a broken-down hack and a decrepit coachman. tablada is a vast common without the town, running along the river side, and here all manner of cattle are kept throughout the year. but the fighting bulls are brought from their respective farms the morning before the day of battle, and each is put in an enclosure with its attendant oxen. the crowd looks eagerly, admiring the length of horn, forecasting the fight. the handsome brutes remain there till midnight, when they are brought to the ring and shut in little separate boxes till the morrow. the _encierro_, as it is called, is an interesting sight. the road has been palisaded and the bulls are driven along by oxen. it is very curious to wait in the darkness, in the silence, under the myriad stars of the southern night. your ear is astrung to hear the distant tramp; the waiting seems endless. a sound is heard and every one runs to the side; but nothing follows, and the waiting continues. suddenly the stillness is broken by tinkling bells, the oxen; and immediately there is a tramp of rushing hoofs. three men on horseback gallop through the entrance, and on their heels the cattle; the riders turn sharply round, a door is swung to behind them, and the oxen, with the bulls in their midst, pound through the ring. * * * the doors are opened two hours before the performance. through the morning the multitude has trooped to the plaza san fernando to buy tickets, and in the afternoon all seville wends its way towards the ring. the road is thronged with people, they walk in dense crowds, pushing one another to get out of the way of broken-down shays that roll along filled with enthusiasts. the drivers crack their whips, shouting: '_un real, un real a los toros!_'{a} the sun beats down and the sky is intensely blue. it is very hot, already people are blowing and panting, boys sell fans at a halfpenny each. '_abanicos a perra chica!_'{b} when you come near the ring the din is tremendous; the many vendors shout their wares, middlemen offer tickets at double the usual price, friends call to one another. now and then is a quarrel, a quick exchange of abuse as one pushes or treads upon his neighbour; but as a rule all are astonishingly good-natured. a man, after a narrow escape from being run over, will shout a joke to the driver, who is always ready with a repartee. and they surge on towards the entrance. every one is expectant and thrilled, the very air seems to give a sense of exhilaration. the people crowd in like ants. all things are gay and full of colour and life. a _picador_ passes on horseback in his uncouth clothes, and all turn to look at him. and in the ring itself the scene is marvellous. on one side the sun beats down with burning rays, and there, the seats being cheaper, notwithstanding the terrific heat people are closely packed. there is a perpetual irregular movement of thousands of women's fans fluttering to and fro. opposite, in the shade, are nearly as many persons, but of better class. above, in the boxes sit ladies in _mantillas_, and when a beautiful woman appears she is often greeted with a burst of applause, which she takes most unconcernedly. when at last the ring is full, tier above tier crammed so that not a place is vacant, it gives quite an extraordinary emotion. the serried masses cease then to be a collection of individuals, but gain somehow a corporate unity; you realise, with a kind of indeterminate fear, the many-headed beast of savage instincts and of ruthless might. no crowd is more picturesque than the spanish, and the dark masculine costume vividly contrasts with the bright colours of the women, with flowers in their hair and _mantillas_ of white lace. but also the tremendous vitality of it all strikes you. late arrivals walk along looking for room, gesticulating, laughing, bandying jokes; vendors of all sorts cry out their goods: the men who sell prawns, shrimps, and crabs' claws from cadiz pass with large baskets: '_bocas, bocas!_' the water sellers with huge jars: '_agua, quien quiere agua? agua!_'{c} the word sings along the interminable rows. a man demands a glass and hands down a halfpenny; a mug of sparkling water is sent up to him. it is deliciously cool. the sellers of lottery tickets, offering as usual the first prize: '_premio gordo, quien quiere el premio gordo_';{d} or yelling the number of the ticket: 'who wants number seventeen hundred and eighty-five for three _pesetas_?' and the newsboys add to the din: '_noticiero! porvenir!_' later on arrives the madrid paper: '_heraldo! heraldo!_' lastly the men with stacks of old journals to use as seats: '_a perra chica, dos periodicos a perra chica!_'{e} suddenly there is a great clapping of hands, and looking up you find the president has come; he is supported by two friends, and all three, with comic solemnity, wear tall hats and frock coats. they bow to the public. bull-fighting is the only punctual thing in spain, and the president arrives precisely as the clock strikes half-past four. he waves a handkerchief, the band strikes up, a door is opened, and the fighters enter. first come the three _matadors_, the eldest in the middle, the next on his right, and the youngest on the left; they are followed by their respective _cuadrillas_, the _banderilleros_, the _capeadors_, the _picadors_ on horseback, and finally the _chulos_, whose duty it is to unsaddle dead horses, attach the slaughtered bull to the team of mules, and perform other minor offices. they advance, gorgeous in their coloured satin and gold embroidery, bearing a cloak peculiarly folded over the arm; they walk with a kind of swinging motion, as ordained by the convention of a century. they bow to the president, very solemnly. the applause is renewed. they retire to the side, three _picadors_ take up their places at some distance from one another on the right of the door from which issues the bull. the _alguaciles_, in black velvet, with peaked and feathered hats, on horseback, come forward, and the key of the bull's den is thrown to them. they disappear. the fighters meanwhile exchange their satin cloaks for others of less value. there is another flourish of trumpets, the gates are opened for the bull. then comes a moment of expectation, every one is trembling with excitement. there is perfect silence. all eyes are fixed on the open gate. notes: {a} 'twopence-halfpenny to the bulls.' {b} "fans, one halfpenny each!" {c} 'water, who wants water? water!' {d} 'the first prize, who wants the first prize?' {e} 'one halfpenny, two papers for one halfpenny.' xxv [sidenote: corrida de toros--ii] one or two shouts are heard, a murmur passes through the people, and the bull emerges--shining, black, with massive shoulders and fine horns. it advances a little, a splendid beast conscious of its strength, and suddenly stops dead, looking round. the _toreros_ wave their capes and the _picadors_ flourish their lances, long wooden spikes with an iron point. the bull catches sight of a horse, and lowering his head, bears down swiftly upon it. the _picador_ takes firmer hold of his lance, and when the brute reaches him plants the pointed end between its shoulders; at the same moment the senior _matador_ dashes forward and with his cloak distracts the bull's attention. it wheels round and charges; he makes a pass; it goes by almost under his arm, but quickly turns and again attacks. this time the skilful fighter receives it backwards, looking over his shoulder, and again it passes. there are shouts of enthusiasm from the public. the bull's glossy coat is stained with red. a second _picador_ comes forward, and the bull charges again, but furiously now, exerting its full might. the horse is thrown to the ground and the rider, by an evil chance, falls at the bull's very feet. it cannot help seeing him and lowers its head; the people catch their breath; many spring instinctively to their feet; here and there is a woman's frightened cry; but immediately a _matador_ draws the cape over its eyes and passionately the bull turns on him. others spring forward and lift the _picador_: his trappings are so heavy that he cannot rise alone; he is dragged to safety and the steed brought back for him. one more horseman advances, and the bull with an angry snort bounds at him; the _picador_ does his best, but is no match for the giant strength. the bull digs its horns deep into the horse's side and lifts man and beast right off the ground; they fall with a heavy thud, and as the raging brute is drawn off, blood spurts from the horse's flank. the _chulos_ try to get it up; they drag on the reins with shouts and curses, and beat it with sticks. but the wretched creature, wounded to the death, helplessly lifts its head. they see it is useless and quickly remove saddle and bridle, a man comes with a short dagger called the _puntilla_, which he drives into its head, the horse falls on its side, a quiver passes through its body, and it is dead. the people are shouting with pleasure; the bull is a good one. the first _picador_ comes up again and the bull attacks for the fourth time, but it has lost much strength, and the man drives it off. it has made a horrible gash in the horse's belly, and the entrails protrude, dragging along the ground. the horse is taken out. the president waves his handkerchief, the trumpets sound, and the first act of the drama is over. the _picadors_ leave the ring and the _banderilleros_ take their darts, about three feet long, gay with decorations of coloured paper. while they make ready, others play with the bull, gradually tiring it: one throws aside his cape and awaits the charge with folded arms; the bull rushes at him, and the man without moving his feet twists his body away and the savage brute passes on. there is a great burst of applause for a daring feat well done. each _matador_ has two _banderilleros_, and it is proper that three pairs of these darts should be placed. one of them steps to within speaking distance of the animal, and holding a _banderilla_ in each hand lifted above his head, stamps his foot and shouts insulting words. the bull does not know what this new thing is, but charges blindly; at the same moment the man runs forward, and passing, plants the two darts between the shoulders. if they are well placed there is plentiful hand-clapping; no audience is so liberal of applause for skill or courage, none so intolerant of cowardice or stupidity; and with equal readiness it will yell with delight or hiss and hoot and whistle. the second _banderillero_ comes forward to plant his pair; a third is inserted and the trumpets sound for the final scene. this is the great duel between the single man and the bull. the _matador_ advances, sword in hand, with the _muleta_, the red cloth for the passes, over his arm. under the president's box he takes off his hat, and with fine gesture makes a grandiloquent speech, wherein he vows either to conquer or to die: the harangue is finished with a wheel round and a dramatic flinging of his hat to attendants on the other side of the barrier. he pensively walks forward. all eyes are upon him--and he knows it. he motions his companions to stand back and goes close to the bull. he is quite alone, with his life in his hands--a slender figure, very handsome in the gorgeous costume glittering with fine gold. he arranges the _muleta_ over a little stick, so that it hangs down like a flag and conceals his sword. then quite solemnly he walks up to the bull, holding the red rag in his left hand. the bull watches suspiciously, suddenly charges, and the _muleta_ is passed over its head; the _matador_ does not move a muscle, the bull turns and stands quite motionless. another charge, another pass. and so he continues, making seven or eight of various sorts, to the growing approbation of the public. at last it is time to kill. with great caution he withdraws the sword; the bull looks warily. he makes two or three passes more and walks round till he gets the animal into proper position: the forefeet must be set squarely on the ground. '_ora! ora!_' cry the people. 'now! now!' the bull is well placed. the _matador_ draws the sword back a little and takes careful aim. the bull rushes, and at the same moment the man makes one bound forward and buries the sword to the hilt between the brute's shoulders. it falls to its knees and rolls over. then is a perfect storm of applause; and it is worth while to see fourteen thousand people wild with delight. the band bursts into joyous strains, and the mules come galloping in, gaily caparisoned; a rope is passed round the dead beast, and they drag it away. the _matador_ advances to the president's box and bows, while the shouting grows more frantic. he walks round, bowing and smiling, and the public in its enthusiasm throws down hats and cigars and sticks. but there are no intervals to a bull-fight, and the _picadors_ immediately reappear and take their places; the doors are flung open, and a second bull rushes forth. the _matador_ still goes round bowing to the applause, elaborately unmindful of the angry beast. six animals are killed in an afternoon within two hours, and then the mighty audience troop out with flushed cheeks, the smell of blood strong in their nostrils. xxvi [sidenote: on horseback] i had a desire to see something of the very heart of andalusia, of that part of the country which had preserved its antique character, where railway trains were not, and the horse, the mule, the donkey were still the only means of transit. after much scrutiny of local maps and conversation with horse-dealers and others, i determined from seville to go circuitously to ecija, and thence return by another route as best i could. the district i meant to traverse in olden times was notorious for its brigands; even thirty years ago the prosperous tradesman, voyaging on his mule from town to town, was liable to be seized by unromantic outlaws and detained till his friends forwarded ransom, while ears and fingers were playfully sent to prove identity. in southern spain brigandage necessarily flourished, for not only were the country-folk in collusion with the bandits, but the very magistrates united with them to share the profits of lawless undertakings. drastic measures were needful to put down the evil, and in a truly spanish way drastic measures were employed. the civil guard, whose duty it was to see to the safety of the country side, had no confidence in the justice of madrid, whither captured highwaymen were sent for trial; once there, for a few hundred dollars, the most murderous ruffian could prove his babe-like innocence, forthwith return to the scene of his former exploits and begin again. so they hit upon an expedient. the civil guards set out for the capital with their prisoner handcuffed between them; but, curiously enough, in every single case the brigand had scarcely marched a couple of miles before he incautiously tried to escape, whereupon he was, of course, promptly shot through the back. people noticed two things: first, that the clothes of the dead man were often singed, as if he had not escaped very far before he was shot down; that only proved his guardians' zeal. but the other was stranger: the two civil guards, when after a couple of hours they returned to the town, as though by a mysterious premonition they had known the bandit would make some rash attempt, invariably had waiting for them an excellent hot dinner. the only robber of importance who avoided such violent death was the chief of a celebrated band who, when captured, signed a declaration that he had not the remotest idea of escaping, and insisted on taking with him to madrid his solicitor and a witness. he reached the capital alive, and having settled his little affairs with benevolent judges, turned to a different means of livelihood, and eventually, it is said, occupied a responsible post in the government. it is satisfactory to think that his felonious talents were not in after-life entirely wasted. * * * it was the beginning of march when i started. according to the old proverb, the dog was already seeking the shade: _en marzo busca la sombra el perro_; the chilly spaniard, loosening the folds of his _capa_, acknowledged that at mid-day in the sun it was almost warm. the winter rains appeared to have ceased; the sky over seville was cloudless, not with the intense azure of midsummer, but with a blue that seemed mixed with silver. and in the sun the brown water of the guadalquivir glittered like the scales on a fish's back, or like the burnished gold of old moorish pottery. i set out in the morning early, with saddle-bags fixed on either side and poncho strapped to my pommel. a loaded revolver, though of course i never had a chance to use it, made me feel pleasantly adventurous. i walked cautiously over the slippery cobbles of the streets, disturbing the silence with the clatter of my horse's shoes. now and then a mule or a donkey trotted by, with panniers full of vegetables, of charcoal or of bread, between which on the beast's neck sat perched a man in a short blouse. i came to the old rampart of the town, now a promenade; and at the gate groups of idlers, with cigarettes between their lips, stood talking. an hospitable friend had offered lodging for the night and food; after which, my ideas of the probable accommodation being vague, i expected to sleep upon straw, for victuals depending on the wayside inns. i arrived at the _campo de la cruz_, a tiny chapel which marks the same distance from the cathedral as jesus christ walked to the cross; it is the final boundary of seville. immediately afterwards i left the high-road, striking across country to carmona. the land was already wild; on either side of the bridle-path were great wastes of sand covered only by palmetto. the air was cool and fresh, like the air of english country in june when it has rained through the night; and aguador, snorting with pleasure, cantered over the uneven ground, nimbly avoiding holes and deep ruts with the sure-footedness of his arab blood. an andalusian horse cares nothing for the ground on which he goes, though it be hard and unyielding as iron; and he clambers up and down steep, rocky precipices as happily as he trots along a cinder-path. i passed a shepherd in a ragged cloak and a broad-brimmed hat, holding a crook. he stared at me, his flock of brown sheep clustered about him as i scampered by, and his dog rushed after, barking. '_vaya usted con dios!_' i came to little woods of pine-trees, with long, thin trunks, and the foliage spreading umbrella-wise; round them circled innumerable hawks, whose nests i saw among the branches. two ravens crossed my path, their wings heavily flapping. the great charm of the andalusian country is that you seize romance, as it were, in the act. in northern lands it is only by a mental effort that you can realise the picturesque value of the life that surrounds you; and, for my part, i can perceive it only by putting it mentally in black and white, and reading it as though between the covers of a book. once, i remember, in brittany, in a distant corner of that rock-bound coast, i sat at midnight in a fisherman's cottage playing cards by the light of two tallow candles. next door, with only a wall between us, a very old sailor lay dying in the great cupboard-bed which had belonged to his fathers before him; and he fought for life with the remains of that strenuous vigour with which in other years he had battled against the storms of the atlantic. in the stillness of the night, the waves, with the murmur of a lullaby, washed gently upon the shingle, and the stars shone down from a clear sky. i looked at the yellow light on the faces of the players, gathered in that desolate spot from the four corners of the earth, and cried out: 'by jove, this is romance!' i had never before caught that impression in the very making, and i was delighted with my good fortune. the answer came quickly from the american: 'don't talk bosh! it's your deal.' but for all that it was romance, seized fugitively, and life at that moment threw itself into a decorative pattern fit to be remembered. it is the same effect which you get more constantly in spain, so that the commonest things are transfigured into beauty. for in the cactus and the aloe and the broad fields of grain, in the mules with their wide panniers and the peasants, in the shepherds' huts and the straggling farm-houses, the romantic is there, needing no subtlety to be discovered; and the least imaginative may feel a certain thrill when he understands that the life he leads is not without its æsthetic meaning. * * * i rode for a long way in complete solitude, through many miles of this sandy desert. then the country changed, and olive-groves in endless succession followed one another, the trees with curiously decorative effect were planted in long, even lines. the earth was a vivid red, contrasting with the blue sky and the sombre olives, gnarled and fantastically twisted, like evil spirits metamorphosed: in places they had sown corn, and the young green enhanced the shrill diversity of colour. with its clear, brilliant outlines and its lack of shadow, the scene reminded one of a prim pattern, such as in jane austen's day young gentlewomen worked in worsted. sometimes i saw women among the trees, perched like monkeys on the branches, or standing below with large baskets; they were extraordinarily quaint in the trousers which modesty bade them wear for the concealment of their limbs when olive-picking. the costume was so masculine, their faces so red and weather-beaten, that the yellow handkerchief on their heads was really the only means of distinguishing their sex. but the path became more precipitous, hewn from the sandstone, and so polished by the numberless shoes of donkeys and of mules that i hardly dared walk upon it; and suddenly i saw carmona in front of me--quite close. xxvii [sidenote: by the road--i] the approach to carmona is a very broad, white street, much too wide for the cottages which line it, deserted; and the young trees planted on either side are too small to give shade. the sun beat down with a fierce glare and the dust rose in clouds as i passed. presently i came to a great moorish gateway, a dark mass of stone, battlemented, with a lofty horseshoe arch. people were gathered about it in many-coloured groups, i found it was a holiday in carmona, and the animation was unwonted; in a corner stood the hut of the _consumo_, and the men advanced to examine my saddle-bags. i passed through, into the town, looking right and left for a _parador_, an hostelry whereat to leave my horse. i bargained for the price of food and saw aguador comfortably stalled; then made my way to the nekropolis where lived my host. there are many churches in carmona, and into one of these i entered; it had nothing of great interest, but to a certain degree it was rich, rich in its gilded woodwork and in the brocade that adorned the pillars; and i felt that these spanish churches lent a certain dignity to life: for all the careless flippancy of andalusia they still remained to strike a nobler note. i forgot willingly that the land was priest-ridden and superstitious, so that a spaniard could tell me bitterly that there were but two professions open to his countrymen, the priesthood and the bull-ring. it was pleasant to rest in that cool and fragrant darkness. my host was an archæologist, and we ate surrounded by broken earthenware, fragmentary mosaics, and grinning skulls. it was curious afterwards to wander in the graveyard which, with indefatigable zeal, he had excavated, among the tombs of forgotten races, letting oneself down to explore the subterranean cells. the paths he had made in the giant cemetery were lined with a vast number of square sandstone boxes which had contained human ashes; and now, when the lid was lifted, a green lizard or a scorpion darted out. from the hill i saw stretched before me the great valley of the guadalquivir: with the squares of olive and of ploughed field, and the various greens of the corn, it was like a vast, multi-coloured carpet. but later, with the sunset, black clouds arose, splendidly piled upon one another; and the twilight air was chill and grey. a certain sternness came over the olive-groves, and they might well have served as a reproach to the facile andaluz; for their cold passionless green seemed to offer a warning to his folly. at night my host left me to sleep in the village, and i lay in bed alone in the little house among the tombs; it was very silent. the wind sprang up and blew about me, whistling through the windows, whistling weirdly; and i felt as though the multitudes that had been buried in that old cemetery filled the air with their serried numbers, a vast, silent congregation waiting motionless for they knew not what. i recalled a gruesome fact that my friend had told me: not far from there, in tombs that he had disinterred the skeletons lay huddled spasmodically, with broken skulls and a great stone by the side; for when a man, he said, lay sick unto death, his people took him, and placed him in his grave, and with the stone killed him. * * * in the morning i set out again. it was five-and-thirty miles to ecija, but a new high road stretched from place to place and i expected easy riding. carmona stands on the top of a precipitous hill, round which winds the beginning of the road; below, after many zigzags, i saw its continuation, a straight white line reaching as far as i could see. in andalusia, till a few years ago, there were practically no high roads, and even now they are few and bad. the chief communication from town to town is usually an uneven track, which none attempts to keep up, with deep ruts, and palmetto growing on either side, and occasional pools of water. a day's rain makes it a quagmire, impassable for anything beside the sure-footed mule. i went on, meeting now and then a string of asses, their panniers filled with stones or with wood for carmona; the drivers sat on the rump of the hindmost animal, for that is the only comfortable way to ride a donkey. a peasant trotted briskly by on his mule, his wife behind him with her arms about his waist. i saw a row of ploughs in a field; to each were attached two oxen, and they went along heavily, one behind the other in regular line. by the side of every pair a man walked bearing a long goad, and one of them sang a _malagueña_, its monotonous notes rising and falling slowly. from time to time i passed a white farm, a little way from the road, invitingly cool in the heat; the sun began to beat down fiercely. the inevitable storks were perched on a chimney, by their big nest; and when they flew in front of me, with their broad white wings and their red legs against the blue sky, they gave a quaint impression of a japanese screen. a farmhouse such as this seems to me always a type of the spanish impenetrability. i have been over many of them, and know the manner of their rooms and the furniture, the round of duties there performed and how the day is portioned out; but the real life of the inhabitants escapes me. my knowledge is merely external. i am conscious that it is the same of the andalusians generally, and am dismayed because i know practically nothing more after a good many years than i learnt in the first months of my acquaintance with them. below the superficial similarity with the rest of europe which of late they have acquired, there is a difference which makes it impossible to get at the bottom of their hearts. they have no openness as have the french and the italians, with whom a good deal of intimacy is possible even to an englishman, but on the contrary an eastern reserve which continually baffles me. i cannot realise their thoughts nor their outlook. i feel always below the grace of their behaviour the instinctive, primeval hatred of the stranger. gradually the cultivation ceased, and i saw no further sign of human beings. i returned to the desert of the previous day, but the land was more dreary. the little groves of pine-trees had disappeared, there were no olives, no cornfields, not even the aloe nor the wilder cactus; but on either side as far as the horizon, desert wastes, littered with stones and with rough boulders, grown over only by palmetto. for many miles i went, dismounting now and then to stretch my legs and sauntering a while with the reins over my shoulder. towards mid-day i rested by the wayside and let aguador eat what grass he could. presently, continuing my journey, i caught sight of a little hovel where the fir-branch over the door told me wine was to be obtained. i fastened my horse to a ring in the wall, and, going in, found an aged crone who gave me a glass of that thin white wine, produce of the last year's vintage, which is called _vino de la hoja_, wine of the leaf; she looked at me incuriously as though she saw so many people and they were so much alike that none repaid particular scrutiny. i tried to talk with her, for it seemed a curious life that she must lead, alone in that hut many miles from the nearest hamlet, with never a house in sight; but she was taciturn and eyed me now with something like suspicion. i asked for food, but with a sullen frown she answered that she had none to spare. i inquired the distance to luisiana, a village on the way to ecija where i had proposed to lunch, and shrugging her shoulders, she replied: 'how should i know!' i was about to go when i heard a great clattering, and a horseman galloped up. he dismounted and walked in, a fine example of the andalusian countryman, handsome and tall, well-shaved, with close-cropped hair. he wore elaborately decorated gaiters, the usual short, close-fitting jacket, and a broad-brimmed hat; in his belt were a knife and a revolver, and slung across his back a long gun. he would have made an admirable brigand of comic-opera; but was in point of fact a farmer riding, as he told me, to see his _novia_, or lady-love, at a neighbouring farm. i found him more communicative and in the politest fashion we discussed the weather and the crops. he had been to seville. '_che maravilla!_' he cried, waving his fine, strong hands. 'what a marvel! but i cannot bear the town-folk. what thieves and liars!' 'town-folk should stick to the towns,' muttered the old woman, looking at me somewhat pointedly. the remark drew the farmer's attention more closely to me. 'and what are you doing here?' he asked. 'riding to ecija.' 'ah, you're a commercial traveller,' he cried, with fine scorn. 'you foreigners bleed the country of all its money. you and the government!' 'rogues and vagabonds!' muttered the old woman. notwithstanding, the farmer with much condescension accepted one of my cigars, and made me drink with him a glass of _aguardiente_. we went off together. the mare he rode was really magnificent, rather large, holding her head beautifully, with a tail that almost swept the ground. she carried as if it were nothing the heavy spanish saddle, covered with a white sheep-skin, its high triangular pommel of polished wood. our ways, however, quickly diverged. i inquired again how far it was to the nearest village. 'eh!' said the farmer, with a vague gesture. 'two leagues. three leagues. _quien sabe?_ who knows? _adios!_' he put the spurs to his mare and galloped down a bridle-track. i, whom no fair maiden awaited, trotted on soberly. xxviii [sidenote: by the road--ii] the endless desert grew rocky and less sandy, the colours duller. even the palmetto found scanty sustenance, and huge boulders, strewn as though some vast torrent had passed through the plain, alone broke the desolate flatness. the dusty road pursued its way, invariably straight, neither turning to one side nor to the other, but continually in front of me, a long white line. finally in the distance i saw a group of white buildings and a cluster of trees. i thought it was luisiana, but luisiana, they had said, was a populous hamlet, and here were only two or three houses and not a soul. i rode up and found among the trees a tall white church, and a pool of murky water, further back a low, new edifice, which was evidently a monastery, and a _posada_. presently a franciscan monk in his brown cowl came out of the church, and he told me that luisiana was a full league off, but that food could be obtained at the neighbouring inn. the _posada_ was merely a long barn, with an open roof of wood, on one side of which were half a dozen mangers and in a corner two mules. against another wall were rough benches for travellers to sleep on. i dismounted and walked to the huge fireplace at one end, where i saw three very old women seated like witches round a _brasero_, the great brass dish of burning cinders. with true spanish stolidity they did not rise as i approached, but waited for me to speak, looking at me indifferently. i asked whether i could have anything to eat. 'fried eggs.' 'anything else?' the hostess, a tall creature, haggard and grim, shrugged her shoulders. her jaws were toothless, and when she spoke it was difficult to understand. i tied aguador to a manger and took off his saddle. the old women stirred themselves at last, and one brought a portion of chopped straw and a little barley. another with the bellows blew on the cinders, and the third, taking eggs from a basket, fried them on the _brasero_. besides, they gave me coarse brown bread and red wine, which was coarser still; for dessert the hostess went to the door and from a neighbouring tree plucked oranges. when i had finished--it was not a very substantial meal--i drew my chair to the _brasero_ and handed round my cigarette-case. the old women helped themselves, and a smile of thanks made the face of my gaunt hostess somewhat less repellent. we smoked a while in silence. 'are you all alone here?' i asked, at length. the hostess made a movement of her head towards the country. 'my son is out shooting,' she said, 'and two others are in cuba, fighting the rebels.' 'god protect them!' muttered another. 'all our sons go to cuba now,' said the first. 'oh, i don't blame the cubans, but the government.' an angry light filled her eyes, and she lifted her clenched hand, cursing the rulers at madrid who took her children. 'they're robbers and fools. why can't they let cuba go? it isn't worth the money we pay in taxes.' she spoke so vehemently, mumbling the words between her toothless gums, that i could scarcely make them out. 'in madrid they don't care if the country goes to rack and ruin so long as they fill their purses. listen.' she put one hand on my arm. 'my boy came back with fever and dysentery. he was ill for months--at death's door--and i nursed him day and night. and almost before he could walk they sent him out again to that accursed country.' the tears rolled heavily down her wrinkled cheeks. * * * luisiana is a curious place. it was a colony formed by charles iii. of spain with germans whom he brought to people the desolate land; and i fancied the teuton ancestry was apparent in the smaller civility of the inhabitants. they looked sullenly as i passed, and none gave the friendly andalusian greeting. i saw a woman hanging clothes on the line outside her house; she had blue eyes and flaxen hair, a healthy red face, and a solidity of build which proved the purity of her northern blood. the houses, too, had a certain exotic quaintness; notwithstanding the universal whitewash of the south, there was about them still a northern character. they were prim and regularly built, with little plots of garden; the fences and the shutters were bright green. i almost expected to see german words on the post-office and on the tobacco-shop, and the grandiloquent spanish seemed out of place; i thought the spanish clothes of the men sat upon them uneasily. the day was drawing to a close and i pushed on to reach ecija before night, but aguador was tired and i was obliged mostly to walk. now the highway turned and twisted among little hills and it was a strange relief to leave the dead level of the plains: on each side the land was barren and desolate, and in the distance were dark mountains. the sky had clouded over, and the evening was grey and very cold; the solitude was awful. at last i overtook a pedlar plodding along by his donkey, the panniers filled to overflowing with china and glass, which he was taking to sell in ecija. he wished to talk, but he was going too slowly, and i left him. i had hills to climb now, and at the top of each expected to see the town, but every time was disappointed. the traces of man surrounded me at last; again i rode among olive-groves and cornfields; the highway now was bordered with straggling aloes and with hedges of cactus. at last! i reached the brink of another hill, and then, absolutely at my feet, so that i could have thrown a stone on its roofs, lay ecija with its numberless steeples. xxix [sidenote: ecija] the central square, where are the government offices, the taverns, and a little inn, is a charming place, quiet and lackadaisical, its pale browns and greys very restful in the twilight, and harmonious. the houses with their queer windows and their balconies of wrought iron are built upon arcades which give a pleasant feeling of intimacy: in summer, cool and dark, they must be the promenade of all the gossips and the loungers. one can imagine the uneventful life, the monotonous round of existence; and yet the andalusian blood runs in the people's veins. to my writer's fantasy ecija seemed a fit background for some tragic story of passion or of crime. i dined, unromantically enough, with a pair of commercial travellers, a post-office clerk, and two stout, elderly men who appeared to be retired officers. spanish victuals are terrible and strange; food is even more an affair of birth than religion, since a man may change his faith, but hardly his manner of eating: the stomach used to roast meat and yorkshire pudding rebels against eastern cookery, and a christian may sooner become a buddhist than a beef-eater a guzzler of _olla podrida_. the spaniards without weariness eat the same dinner day after day, year in, year out: it is always the same white, thin, oily soup; a dish of haricot beans and maize swimming in a revolting sauce; a nameless _entrée_ fried in oil--andalusians have a passion for other animals' insides; a thin steak, tough as leather and grilled to utter dryness; raisins and oranges. you rise from table feeling that you have been soaked in rancid oil. my table-companions were disposed to be sociable. the travellers desired to know whether i was there to sell anything, and one drew from his pocket, for my inspection, a case of watch-chains. the officers surmised that i had come from gibraltar to spy the land, and to terrify me, spoke of the invincible strength of the spanish forces. 'are you aware,' said the elder, whose adiposity prevented his outward appearance from corresponding with his warlike heart, 'are you aware that in the course of history our army has never once been defeated, and our fleet but twice?' he mentioned the catastrophes, but i had never heard of them; and trafalgar was certainly not included. i hazarded a discreet inquiry, whereupon, with much emphasis, both explained how on that occasion the spanish had soundly thrashed old nelson, although he had discomfited the french. 'it is odd,' i observed, 'that british historians should be so inaccurate.' 'it is discreditable,' retorted my acquaintance, with a certain severity. 'how long did the english take to conquer the soudan?' remarked the other, somewhat aggressively picking his teeth. 'twenty years? we conquered morocco in three months.' 'and the moors are devils,' said the commercial traveller. 'i know, because i once went to tangiers for my firm.' after dinner i wandered about the streets, past the great old houses of the nobles in the _calle de los caballeros_, empty now and dilapidated, for every gentleman that can put a penny in his pocket goes to madrid to spend it; down to the river which flowed swiftly between high banks. below the bridge two moorish mills, irregular masses of blackness, stood finely against the night. near at hand they were still working at a forge, and i watched the flying sparks as the smith hammered a horseshoe; the workers were like silhouettes in front of the leaping flames. at many windows, to my envy, couples were philandering; the night was cold and corydon stood huddled in his cape. but the murmuring as i passed was like the flow of a rapid brook, and i imagined, i am sure, far more passionate and romantic speeches than ever the lovers made. i might have uttered them to the moon, but i should have felt ridiculous, and it was more practical to jot them down afterwards in a note-book. in some of the surrounding villages they have so far preserved the moorish style as to have no windows within reach of the ground, and lovers then must take advantage of the aperture at the bottom of the door made for the domestic cat's particular convenience. stretched full length on the ground, on opposite sides of the impenetrable barrier, they can still whisper amorous commonplaces to one another. but imagine the confusion of a polite spaniard, on a dark night, stumbling over a recumbent swain: 'my dear sir, i beg your pardon. i had no idea....' in old days the disturbance would have been sufficient cause for a duel, but now manners are more peaceful: the gallant, turning a little, removes his hat and politely answers: 'it is of no consequence. _vaya usted con dios!_' 'good-night!' the intruder passes and the beau endeavours passionately to catch sight of his mistress' black eyes. * * * next day was sunday, and i walked by the river till i found a plot of grass sheltered from the wind by a bristly hedge of cactus. i lay down in the sun, lazily watching two oxen that ploughed a neighbouring field. i felt it my duty in the morning to buy a chap-book relating the adventures of the famous brigands who were called the seven children of ecija; and this, somewhat sleepily, i began to read. it required a byronic stomach, for the very first chapter led me to a monastery where mass proceeded in memory of some victim of undiscovered crime. seven handsome men appeared, most splendidly arrayed, but armed to the teeth; each one was every inch a brigand, pitiless yet great of heart, saturnine yet gentlemanly; and their peculiarity was that though six were killed one day seven would invariably be seen the next. the most gorgeously apparelled of them all, entering the sacristy, flung a purse of gold to the superior, while a scalding tear coursed down his sunburnt cheek; and this he dried with a noble gesture and a richly embroidered handkerchief! in a whirlwind of romantic properties i read of a wicked miser who refused to support his brother's widow, of the widow herself, (brought at birth to a gardener in the dead of night by a mysterious mulatto,) and of this lady's lovely offspring. my own feelings can never be harrowed on behalf of a widow with a marriageable daughter, but i am aware that habitual readers of romance, like ostriches, will swallow anything. i was hurried to a subterranean chamber where the seven children, in still more elaborate garments, performed various dark deeds, smoked expensive havanas, and seated on silken cushions, partook (like freemasons) of a succulent cold collation. the sun shone down with comfortable warmth, and i stretched my legs. my pipe was out and i refilled it. a meditative snail crawled up and observed me with flattering interest. i grew somewhat confused. a stolen will was of course inevitable, and so were prison dungeons; but the characters had an irritating trick of revealing at critical moments that they were long-lost relatives. it must have been a tedious age when poor relations were never safely buried. however, youth and beauty were at last triumphant and villainy confounded, virtue was crowned with orange blossom and vice died a miserable death. rejoicing in duty performed i went to sleep. xxx [sidenote: wind and storm] but next morning the sky was dark with clouds; people looked up dubiously when i asked the way and distance to marchena, prophesying rain. fetching my horse, the owner of the stable robbed me with peculiar callousness, for he had bound my hands the day before, when i went to see how aguador was treated, by giving me with most courteous ceremony a glass of _aguardiente_; and his urbanity was then so captivating that now i lacked assurance to protest. i paid the scandalous overcharge with a good grace, finding some solace in the reflection that he was at least a picturesque blackguard, tall and spare, grey-headed, with fine features sharpened by age to the strongest lines; for i am always grateful to the dishonest when they add a certain æsthetic charm to their crooked ways. there is a proverb which says that in ecija every man is a thief and every woman--no better than she should be: i was not disinclined to believe it. i set out, guided by a sign-post, and the good road seemed to promise an easy day. they had told me that the distance was only six leagues, and i expected to arrive before luncheon. aguador, fresh after his day's rest, broke into a canter when i put him on the green plot, which the old spanish law orders to be left for cattle by the side of the highway. but after three miles, without warning, the road suddenly stopped. i found myself in an olive-grove, with only a narrow path in front of me. it looked doubtful, but there was no one in sight and i wandered on, trusting to luck. presently, in a clearing, i caught sight of three men on donkeys, walking slowly one after the other, and i galloped after to ask my way. the beasts were laden with undressed skins which they were taking to fuentes, and each man squatted cross-legged on the top of his load. the hindermost turned right round when i asked my question and sat unconcernedly with his back to the donkey's head. he looked about him vaguely as though expecting the information i sought to be written on the trunk of an olive-tree, and scratched his head. 'well,' he said, 'i should think it was a matter of seven leagues, but it will rain before you get there.' 'this is the right way, isn't it?' 'it may be. if it doesn't lead to marchena it must lead somewhere else.' there was a philosophic ring about the answer which made up for the uncertainty. the skinner was a fat, good-humoured creature, like all spaniards intensely curious; and to prepare the way for inquiries, offered a cigarette. 'but why do you come to ecija by so roundabout a way as carmona, and why should you return to seville by such a route as marchena?' his opinion was evidently that the shortest way between two places was also the best. he received my explanation with incredulity and asked, more insistently, why i went to ecija on horseback when i might go by train to madrid. 'for pleasure,' said i. 'my good sir, you must have come on some errand.' 'oh yes,' i answered, hoping to satisfy him, 'on the search for emotion.' at this he bellowed with laughter and turned round to tell his fellows. '_usted es muy guason_,' he said at length, which may be translated: 'you're a mighty funny fellow.' i expressed my pleasure at having provided the skinners with amusement and bidding them farewell, trotted on. i went for a long time among the interminable olives, grey and sad beneath the sullen clouds, and at last the rain began to fall. i saw a farm not very far away and cantered up to ask for shelter. an old woman and a labourer came to the door and looked at me very doubtfully; they said it was not a _posada_, but my soft words turned their hearts and they allowed me to come in. the rain poured down in heavy, oblique lines. the labourer took aguador to the stable and i went into the parlour, a long, low, airy chamber like the refectory of a monastery, with windows reaching to the ground. two girls were sitting round the _brasero_, sewing; they offered me a chair by their side, and as the rain fell steadily we began to talk. the old woman discreetly remained away. they asked about my journey, and as is the spanish mode, about my country, myself, and my belongings. it was a regular volley of questions i had to answer, but they sounded pleasanter in the mouth of a pretty girl than in that of an obese old skinner; and the rippling laughter which greeted my replies made me feel quite witty. when they smiled they showed the whitest teeth. then came my turn for questioning. the girl on my right, prettier than her sister, was very spanish, with black, expressive eyes, an olive skin, and a bunch of violets in her abundant hair. i asked whether she had a _novio_, or lover; and the question set her laughing immoderately. what was her name? 'soledad--solitude.' i looked somewhat anxiously at the weather, i feared the shower would cease, and in a minute, alas! the rain passed away; and i was forced to notice it, for the sun-rays came dancing through the window, importunately, making patterns of light upon the floor. i had no further excuse to stay, and said good-bye; but i begged for the bunch of violets in soledad's dark hair and she gave it with a pretty smile. i plunged again into the endless olive-groves. it was a little strange, the momentary irruption into other people's lives, the friendly gossip with persons of a different tongue and country, whom i had never seen before, whom i should never see again; and were i not strictly truthful i might here lighten my narrative by the invention of a charming and romantic adventure. but if chance brings us often for a moment into other existences, it takes us out with equal suddenness so that we scarcely know whether they were real or mere imaginings of an idle hour: the fates have a passion for the unfinished sketch and seldom trouble to unravel the threads which they have so laboriously entangled. the little scene brought another to my mind. when i was 'on accident duty' at st. thomas's hospital a man brought his son with a broken leg; it was hard luck on the little chap, for he was seated peacefully on the ground when another boy, climbing a wall, fell on him and did the damage. when i returned him, duly bandaged, to his father's arms, the child bent forward and put out his lips for a kiss, saying good-night with babyish pronunciation. the father and the attendant nurse laughed, and i, being young, was confused and blushed profusely. they went away and somehow or other i never saw them again. i wonder if the pretty child, (he must be eight or ten now,) remembers kissing a very weary medical student, who had not slept much for several days, and was dead tired. probably he has quite forgotten that he ever broke his leg. and i suppose no recollection remains with the pretty girl in the farm of a foreigner riding mysteriously through the olive-groves, to whom she gave shelter and a bunch of violets. * * * i came at last to the end of the trees and found then that a mighty wind had risen, which blew straight in my teeth. it was hard work to ride against it, but i saw a white town in the distance, on a hill; and made for it, rejoicing in the prospect. presently i met some men shooting, and to make sure, asked whether the houses i saw really were marchena. 'oh no,' said one. 'you've come quite out of the way. that is fuentes. marchena is over there, beyond the hill.' my heart sank, for i was growing very hungry, and i asked whether i could not get shelter at fuentes. they shrugged their shoulders and advised me to go to marchena, which had a small inn. i went on for several hours, battling against the wind, bent down in order to expose myself as little as possible, over a huge expanse of pasture land, a desert of green. i reached the crest of the hill, but there was no sign of marchena, unless that was a tower which i saw very far away, its summit just rising above the horizon. i was ravenous. my saddle-bags contained spaces for a bottle and for food; and i cursed my folly in stuffing them with such useless refinements of civilisation as hair-brushes and soap. it is possible that one could allay the pangs of hunger with soap; but under no imaginable circumstances with hair-brushes. it was a tower in the distance, but it seemed to grow neither nearer nor larger; the wind blew without pity, and miserably aguador tramped on. i no longer felt very hungry, but dreadfully bored. in that waste of greenery the only living things beside myself were a troop of swallows that had accompanied me for miles. they flew close to the ground, in front of me, circling round; and the wind was so high that they could scarcely advance against it. i remembered the skinner's question, why i rode through the country when i could go by train. i thought of the _cheshire cheese_ in fleet street, where persons more fortunate than i had that day eaten hearty luncheons. i imagined to myself a well-grilled steak with boiled potatoes, and a pint of old ale, stilton! the smoke rose to my nostrils. but at last, the saints be praised! i found a real bridle-path, signs of civilisation, ploughed fields; and i came in sight of marchena perched on a hill-top, surrounded by its walls. when i arrived the sun was setting finely behind the town. xxxi [sidenote: two villages] marchena was all white, and on the cold windy evening i spent there, deserted of inhabitants. quite rarely a man sidled past wrapped to the eyes in his cloak, or a woman with a black shawl over her head. i saw in the town nothing characteristic but the wicker-work frame in front of each window, so that people within could not possibly be seen; it was evidently a moorish survival. at night men came into the eating-room of the inn, ate their dinner silently, and muffling themselves, quickly went out; the cold seemed to have killed all life in them. i slept in a little windowless cellar, on a straw bed which was somewhat verminous. but next morning, as i looked back, the view of marchena was charming. it stood on the crest of a green hill, surrounded by old battlements, and the sun shone down upon it. the wind had fallen, and in the early hour the air was pleasant and balmy. there was no road whatever, not even a bridle-track this time, and i made straight for seville. i proposed to rest my horse and lunch at mairena. on one side was a great plain of young corn stretching to the horizon, and on the other, with the same mantle of green, little hills, round which i slowly wound. the sun gave all manner of varied tints to the verdure--sometimes it was all emerald and gold, and at others it was like dark green velvet. but the clouds in the direction of seville were very black, and coming nearer i saw that it rained upon the hills. the water fell on the earth like a transparent sheet of grey. soon i felt an occasional drop, and i put on my _poncho_. the rain began in earnest, no northern drizzle, but a streaming downpour that soaked me to the skin. the path became marsh-like, and aguador splashed along at a walk; it was impossible to go faster. the rain pelted down, blinding me. then, oddly enough, for the occasion hardly warranted such high-flown thoughts, i felt suddenly the utter helplessness of man: i had never before realised with such completeness his insignificance beside the might of nature; alone, with not a soul in sight, i felt strangely powerless. the plain flaunted itself insolently in face of my distress, and the hills raised their heads with a scornful pride; they met the rain as equals, but me it crushed; i felt as though it would beat me down into the mire. i fell into a passion with the elements, and was seized with a desire to strike out. but the white sheet of water was senseless and impalpable, and i relieved myself by raging inwardly at the fools who complain of civilisation and of railway-trains; they have never walked for hours foot-deep in mud, terrified lest their horse should slip, with the rain falling as though it would never cease. the path led me to a river; there was a ford, but the water was very high, and rushed and foamed like a torrent. ignorant of the depth and mistrustful, i trotted up-stream a little, seeking shallower parts; but none could be seen, and it was no use to look for a bridge. i was bound to cross, and i had to risk it; my only consolation was that even if aguador could not stand, i was already so wet that i could hardly get wetter. the good horse required some persuasion before he would enter; the water rushed and bubbled and rapidly became deeper; he stopped and tried to turn back, but i urged him on. my feet went under water, and soon it was up to my knees; then, absurdly, it struck me as rather funny, and i began to laugh; i could not help thinking how foolish i should look and feel on arriving at the other side, if i had to swim for it. but immediately it grew shallower; all my adventures tailed off thus unheroically just when they began to grow exciting, and in a minute i was on comparatively dry land. i went on, still with no view of mairena; but i was coming nearer. i met a group of women walking with their petticoats over their heads. i passed a labourer sheltered behind a hedge, while his oxen stood in a field, looking miserably at the rain. still it fell, still it fell! and when i reached mairena it was the most cheerless place i had come across on my journey, merely a poverty-stricken hamlet that did not even boast a bad inn. i was directed from place to place before i could find a stable; i was soaked to the skin, and there seemed no shelter. at last i discovered a wretched wine-shop; but the woman who kept it said there was no fire and no food. then i grew very cross. i explained with heat that i had money; it is true i was bedraggled and disreputable, but when i showed some coins, to prove that i could pay for what i bought, she asked unwillingly what i required. i ordered a _brasero_, and dried my clothes as best i could by the burning cinders. i ate a scanty meal of eggs, and comforted myself with the thin wine of the leaf, sufficiently alcoholic to be exhilarating, and finally, with _aguardiente_ regained my equilibrium. but the elements were against me. the rain had ceased while i lunched, but no sooner had i left mairena than it began again, and seville was sixteen miles away. it poured steadily. i tramped up the hills, covered with nut-trees; i wound down into valleys; the way seemed interminable. i tramped on. at last from the brow of a hill i saw in the distance the giralda and the clustering houses of seville, but all grey in the wet; above it heavy clouds were lowering. on and on! the day was declining, and seville now was almost hidden in the mist, but i reached a road. i came to the first tavern of the environs; after a while to the first houses, then the road gave way to slippery cobbles, and i was in seville. the saints be praised! xxxii [sidenote: granada] to go from seville to granada is like coming out of the sunshine into deep shadow. i arrived, my mind full of moorish pictures, expecting to find a vivid, tumultuous life; and i was ready with a prodigal hand to dash on the colours of my admiration. but granada is a sad town, grey and empty; its people meander, melancholy, through the streets, unoccupied. it is a tradeless place living on the monuments which attract strangers, and like many a city famous for stirring history, seems utterly exhausted. granada gave me an impression that it wished merely to be left alone to drag out its remaining days in peace, away from the advance of civilisation and the fervid hurrying of progress: it seemed like a great adventuress retired from the world after a life of vicissitude, anxious only to be forgotten, and after so much storm and stress to be nothing more than pious. there must be many descendants of the moors, but the present population is wan and lifeless. they are taciturn, sombre folk, with nothing in them of the chattering and vivacious creatures of arab history. indeed, as i wandered through the streets, it was not the moors that engaged my mind, but rather ferdinand of arragon and isabella of castille. their grim strength over-powered the more graceful shadows of moordom; and it was only by an effort that i recalled gazul and musa, most gallant and amorous of paynim knights, tilting in the square, displaying incredible valour in the slaughter of savage bulls. i thought of the catholic kings, in full armour, riding with clank of steel through the captured streets. and the snowy summits of the sierra nevada, dazzling sometimes under the sun and the blue sky, but more often veiled with mist and capped by heavy clouds, grim and terrifying, lent a sort of tragic interest to the scene; so that i felt those grey masses, with their cloak of white, (they seemed near enough to overwhelm one,) made it impossible for the town built at their very feet, to give itself over altogether to flippancy. and for a while i found little of interest in granada but the alhambra. the gipsy quarter, with neither beauty, colour, nor even a touch of barbarism, is a squalid, brutal place, consisting of little dens built in the rock of the mountain which stands opposite the alhambra. worse than hovels, they are the lairs of wild beasts, foetid and oppressive, inhabited by debased creatures, with the low forehead, the copper skin, and the shifty cruel look of the spanish gipsy. they surround the visitor in their rags and tatters, clamouring for alms, and for exorbitant sums proposing to dance. even in the slums of great cities i have not seen a life more bestial. i tried to imagine what sort of existence these people led. in the old days the rock-dwellings among the cactus served the gipsies for winter quarters only, and when the spring came they set off, scouring the country for something to earn or steal; but that is long ago. for two generations they have remained in these hovels--year in, year out--employed in shoeing horses, shearing, and the like menial occupations which the spaniard thinks beneath his dignity. the women tell fortunes, or dance for the foreigner, or worse. it is a mere struggle for daily bread. i wondered whether in the spring-time the young men loved the maidens, or if they only coupled like the beasts. i saw one pair who seemed quite newly wed; for their scanty furniture was new and they were young. the man, short and squat, sat scowling, cross-legged on a chair, a cigarette between his lips. the woman was taller and not ill-made, a slattern; her hair fell dishevelled on her back and over her forehead; her dress was open, displaying the bosom; her apron was filthy. but when she smiled, asking for money, her teeth were white and regular, and her eyes flashed darkly. she was attractive in a heavy sensual fashion, attractive and at the same time horribly repellant: she was the sort of woman who might fetter a man to herself by some degrading, insuperable passion, the true carmen of the famous story whom a man might at once love and hate; so that though she dragged him to hell in shame and in despair, he would never find the strength to free himself. but where among that bastard race was the splendid desire for freedom of their fathers, the love of the fresh air of heaven and the untrammeled life of the fields? at first glance also the cathedral seemed devoid of charm. i suppose travellers seek emotions in the things they see, and often the more beautiful objects do not give the most vivid sensations. painters complain that men of letters have written chiefly of second-rate pictures, but the literary sentiment is different from the artistic; and a masterpiece of perugino may excite it less than a mediocre work of guido reni. the cathedral of granada is said by the excellent fergusson to be the most noteworthy example in europe of early renaissance architecture; its proportions are evidently admirable, and it is designed and carried out according to all the canons of the art. 'looking at its plan only,' he says, 'this is certainly one of the finest churches in europe. it would be difficult to point out any other, in which the central aisle leads up to the dome, so well proportioned to its dimensions, and to the dignity of the high altar which stands under it.' but though i vaguely recognised these perfections, though the spacing appeared fine and simple, and the columns had a certain majesty, i was left more than a little cold. the whitewash with which the interior is coated gives an unsympathetic impression, and the abundant light destroys that mystery which the poorest, gaudiest spanish church almost invariably possesses. in the _capilla de los reyes_ are the elaborate monuments of the catholic kings, of their daughter joan the mad, and of philip her husband; below, in the crypt, are four simple coffins, in which after so much grandeur, so much joy and sorrow, they rest. indeed, for the two poor women who loved without requite, it was a life of pain almost unrelieved: it is a pitiful story, for all its magnificence, of joan with her fiery passion for the handsome, faithless, worthless husband, and her mad jealousy; and of isabella, with patient strength bearing every cross, always devoted to the man who tired of her quickly, and repaid her deep affection with naught but coldness and distrust. queen isabella's sword and sceptre are shown in the sacristry, and in contrast with the implement of war a beautiful cope, worked with her royal hands. and her crown also may be seen, one of the few i have come across which might really become the wearer, of silver, a masterpiece of delicate craftsmanship. but presently, returning to the cathedral and sitting in front of the high altar, i became at last conscious of its airy, restful grace. the chancel is very lofty. the base is a huge arcade which gives an effect of great lightness; and above are two rows of pictures, and still higher two rows of painted windows. the coloured glass throws the softest lights upon the altar and on the marble floor, rendering even quieter the low tints of the pictures. these are a series of illustrations of the life of the blessed virgin, painted by alonzo cano, a native of valladolid, who killed his wife and came to granada, whereupon those in power made him a prebendary. in the obscurity i could not see the paintings, but divined soft and pleasant things after the style of murillo, and doubtless that was better than actually to see them. the pulpits are gorgeously carved in wood, and from the walls fly great angels with fine turbulence of golden drapery. and in the contrast of the soft white stone with the gold, which not even the most critical taste could complain was too richly spread, there is a delicate, fascinating lightness: the chancel has almost an italian gaiety, which comes upon one oddly in the gloomy town. here the decoration, the gilded virgins, the elaborate carving, do not oppress as elsewhere; the effect is too debonair and too refreshing. it is one colour more, one more distinction, in the complexity of the religious sentiment. * * * but if what i have said of granada seems cold, it is because i did not easily catch the spirit of the place. for when you merely observe and admire some view, and if industrious make a note of your impression, and then go home to luncheon, you are but a vulgar tripper, scum of the earth, deserving the ridicule with which the natives treat you. the romantic spirit is your only justification; when by the comeliness of your life or the beauty of your emotion you have attained that, (shelley when he visited paestum had it, but théophile gautier, flaunting his red waistcoat _tras los montes_, was perhaps no better than a cook's tourist,) then you are no longer unworthy of the loveliness which it is your privilege to see. when the old red brick and the green trees say to you hidden things, and the _vega_ and the mountains are stretched before you with a new significance, when at last the white houses with their brown tiles, and the labouring donkey, and the peasant at his plough, appeal to you so as to make, as it were, an exquisite pattern on your soul, then you may begin to find excuses for yourself. but you may see places long and often before they are thus magically revealed to you, and for myself i caught the real emotion of granada but once, when from the generalife i looked over the valley, the generalife in which are mingled perhaps more admirably than anywhere else in andalusia all the charm of arabic architecture, of running water, and of cypress trees, of purple flags and dark red roses. it is a spot, indeed, fit for the plaintive creatures of poets to sing their loves, for paolo and francesca, for juliet and romeo; and i am glad that there i enjoyed such an exquisite moment. xxxiii [sidenote: the alhambra] from the church of _san nicolas_, on the other side of the valley, the alhambra, like all moorish buildings externally very plain, with its red walls and low, tiled roofs, looks like some old charter-house. encircled by the fresh green of the spring-time, it lies along the summit of the hill with an infinite, most simple grace, dun and brown and deep red; and from the sultry wall on which i sat the elm-trees and the poplars seemed very cool. thirstily, after the long drought, the darro, the arab stream which ran scarlet with the blood of moorish strife, wound its way over its stony bed among the hills; and beyond, in strange contrast with all the fertility, was the grey and silent grandeur of the sierra nevada. few places can be more charming than the green wood in which stands the stronghold of the moorish kings; the wind sighs among the topmost branches and all about is the sweet sound of running water; in spring the ground is carpeted with violets, and the heavy foliage gives an enchanting coldness. a massive gateway, flanked by watch-towers, forms the approach; but the actual entrance, offering no hint of the incredible magnificence within, is an insignificant door. but then, then you are immediately transported to a magic palace, existing in some uncertain age of fancy, which does not seem the work of human hands, but rather of jin, an enchanted dwelling of seven lovely damsels. it is barely conceivable that historical persons inhabited such a place. at the same time it explains the wonderful civilisation of the moors in spain, with their fantastic battles, their songs and strange histories; and it brings the _arabian nights_ into the bounds of sober reality: after he has seen the alhambra none can doubt the literal truth of the stories of sinbad the sailor and of hasan of bassorah. * * * from the terrace that overlooks the city you enter the court of myrtles--a long pool of water with goldfish swimming to and fro, enclosed by myrtle hedges. at the ends are arcades, borne by marble columns with capitals of surpassing beauty. it is very quiet and very restful; the placid water gives an indescribable sensation of delight, and at the end mirrors the slender columns and the decorated arches so that in reflection you see the entrance to a second palace, which is filled with mysterious, beautiful things. but in the alhambra the imagination finds itself at last out of its depth, it cannot conjure up chambers more beautiful than the reality presents. it serves only to recall the old inhabitants to the deserted halls. the moors continually used inscriptions with great effect, and there is one in this court which surpasses all others in its oriental imagery, in praise of mohammed v.: _thou givest safety from the breeze to the blades of grass, and inspirest terror in the very stars of heaven. when the shining stars quiver, it is through dread of thee, and when the grass of the field bends down it is to give thee thanks._ but it is the hall of the ambassadors which shows most fully the unparalleled splendour of moorish decoration. it is a square room, very lofty, with alcoves on three sides, at the bottom of which are windows; and the walls are covered, from the dado of tiles to the roof, with the richest and most varied ornamentation. the moorish workmen did not spare themselves nor economise their exuberant invention. one pattern follows another with infinite diversity. even the alcoves, and there are nine, are covered each with different designs, so that the mind is bewildered by their graceful ingenuity. all kinds of geometrical figures are used, enlacing with graceful intricacy, intersecting, combining and dissolving; conventional foliage and fruit, arabic inscriptions. an industrious person has counted more than one hundred and fifty patterns in the hall of the ambassadors, impressed with iron moulds on the moist plaster of the walls. the roof is a low dome of larch wood, intricately carved and inlaid with ivory and with mother-of-pearl; it has been likened to the faceted surface of an elaborately cut gem. the effect is so gorgeous that you are oppressed; you long for some perfectly plain space whereon to rest the eye; but every inch is covered. now the walls have preserved only delicate tints of red and blue, pale wedgwood blues and faded terracottas, that make with the ivory of the plaster most exquisite harmonies; but to accord with the tiles, their brilliancy still undiminished, the colours must have been very bright. the complicated patterns and the gay hues reproduce the oriental carpets of the nomad's tent; for from the tent, it is said, (i know not with what justification,) all oriental architecture is derived. the fragile columns upon which rest masses of masonry are, therefore, direct imitations of tent-poles, and the stalactite borders of the arches represent the fringe of the woven hangings. the moorish architect paid no attention to the rules of architecture, and it has been well said that if they existed for him at all it was only that he might elaborately disregard them. his columns generally support nothing; his arcades, so delicately worked that they seem like carved ivory, are of the lightest wood and plaster. and it is curious that there should be such durability in those dainty materials: they express well the fatalism of the luxurious moor, to whom the past and future were as nothing, and the transient hour all in all; yet they have outlasted him and his conqueror. the spaniard, inglorious and decayed, is now but the showman to this magnificence; time has seen his greatness come and go, as came and went the greatness of the moor, but still, for all its fragility, the alhambra stands hardly less beautiful. travellers have always been astonished at the small size of the alhambra, especially of the court of lions; for here, though the proportion is admirable the scale is tiny; and many have supposed that the moors were of less imposing physique than modern europeans. the court is surrounded by exquisite little columns, singly, in twos, in threes, supporting horseshoe arches; and in the centre is that beautiful fountain, borne by twelve lions with bristly manes, standing very stiffly, whereon is the inscription: _o thou who beholdest these lions crouching, fear not. life is wanting to enable them to show their fury._ indeed, their surroundings have such a delicate and playful grace that it is hard to believe the moors had any of our strenuous, latter-day passions. life must have been to them a masque rather than a tragi-comedy; and whether they belong to sober history or no, those contests of which the curious may read in the lively pages of gines perez de hita accord excellently with the fanciful environment. in the alhambra nothing seems more reasonable than those never-ending duels in which, for a lady's favour, gallant knights gave one another such blows that the air rang with them, such wounds that the ground was red with blood; but at sunset they separated and bound up their wounds and returned to the palace. and the king, at the relation of the adventure, was filled with amazement and with great content. * * * yet, notwithstanding, i find in the alhambra something unsatisfying; for many an inferior piece of architecture has set my mind a-working so that i have dreamed charming dreams, or seen vividly the life of other times. but here, i know not why, my imagination helps me scarcely at all. the existence led within these gorgeous walls is too remote; there is but little to indicate the thoughts, the feelings, of these people, and one can take the alhambra only as a thing of beauty, and despair to understand. i know that it is useless to attempt with words to give an idea of these numerous chambers and courts. a string of superlatives can do no more than tire the reader, an exact description can only confuse; nor is the painter able to give more than a suggestion of the bewildering charm. the effect is too emotional to be conveyed from man to man, and each must feel it for himself. charles v. called him unhappy who had lost such treasure--_desgraciado el que tal perdio_--and showed his own appreciation by demolishing a part to build a renaissance palace for himself! it appears that kings have not received from heaven with their right divine to govern wrong the inestimable gift of good taste; and for them possibly it is fortunate, since when, perchance, a sovereign has the artistic temperament, a discerning people--cuts off his head. xxxiv [sidenote: boabdil the unlucky] he was indeed unhappy who lost such treasure. the plain of granada smiles with luxuriant crops, a beautiful country, gay with a hundred colours, and in summer when the corn is ripe it burns with vivid gold. the sun shines with fiery rays from the blue sky, and from the snow-capped mountains cool breezes temper the heat. but from his cradle boabdil was unfortunate; soothsayers prophesied that his reign would see the downfall of the moorish power, and his every step tended to that end. never in human existence was more evident the mysterious power of the three sisters, the daughters of night; the fates had spun his destiny, they placed the pitfalls before his feet and closed his eyes that he might not see; they hid from him the way of escape. _allah achbar!_ it was destiny. in no other way can be explained the madness which sped the victims of that tragedy to their ruin; for with the enemy at their very gates, the muslims set up and displaced kings, plotted and counterplotted. boabdil was twice deposed and twice regained the throne. even when the christian kingdoms had united to consume the remnant of moorish sovereignty the moors could not cease their quarrelling. boabdil looked on with satisfaction while the territory of the rival claimant to his crown was wrested from him, and did not understand that his turn must inevitably follow. verily, the gods, wishing to destroy him, had deranged his mind. it is a pitiful history of treachery and folly that was enacted while the catholic sovereigns devoured the pomegranate, seed by seed. to me history, with its hopes bound to be frustrated and its useless efforts, sometimes is so terrible that i can hardly read. i feel myself like one who lives, knowing the inevitable future, and yet is powerless to help. i see the acts of the poor human puppets, and know the disaster that must follow. i wonder if the calvinists ever realised the agony of that dark god of theirs, omniscient and yet so strangely weak, to whom the eternal majesty of heaven was insufficient to save the predestined from everlasting death. * * * on march , , began the last siege of granada. ferdinand marched his army into the plain and began to destroy the crops, taking one by one the surrounding towns. he made no attempt upon the city itself, and hostilities were confined to skirmishes beneath the walls and single combats between christian knights and muslim cavaliers, wherein on either side prodigies of valour were performed. through the summer the moors were able to get provisions from the sierra nevada, but when, with winter, the produce of the earth grew less and its conveyance more difficult, famine began to make itself felt. the moors consoled themselves with the hope that the besieging army would retire with the cold weather, for such in those days was the rule of warfare; but ferdinand was in earnest. when an accidental fire burned his camp, he built him a town of solid stone and mortar, which he named santa fè. it stands still, the only town in spain wherein a moorish foot has never trod. then the muslims understood at last that the spaniard would never again leave that fruitful land. and presently they began to talk of surrender; spanish gold worked its way with boabdil's councillors, and before winter was out the capitulation was signed. on the second day of the new year the final scene of the tragedy was acted. early in the morning, before break of day, boabdil had sent his mother and his wife with the treasure to precede him to the alpuxarras, in which district, by the conditions of the treaty, ferdinand had assigned him a little kingdom. himself had one more duty to perform, and at the prearranged hour he sallied forth with a wretched escort of fifty knights. on the spanish side the night had been spent in joy and feasting; but how must boabdil have spent his, thinking of the inevitable morrow? to him the hours must have sped like minutes. what must have been the agony of his last look at the alhambra, that jewel of incalculable price? mendoza, the cardinal, had been sent forward to occupy the palace, and boabdil passed him on the hill. soon he reached ferdinand, who was stationed near a mosque surrounded by all the glory of his court, pennons flying, and knights in their magnificent array. boabdil would have thrown himself from his horse in sign of homage to kiss the hand of the king of arragon, but ferdinand prevented him. then boabdil delivered the keys of the alhambra to the victor, saying: 'they are thine, o king, since allah so decrees it; use thy success with clemency and moderation.' moving on sadly he saluted isabella, and passed to rejoin his family; the christians processioned to the city with psalm-singing. but when boabdil was crossing the mountains he turned to look at the city he had lost, and burst into tears. 'you do well,' said his mother, 'to weep like a woman for what you could not defend like a man.' 'alas!' he cried, 'when were woes ever equal to mine?' it was not to be expected that the pious kings of castille and arragon would keep their word, and means were soon invented to hound the wretched boabdil from the principality they had granted. he crossed to africa, and settled in fez, of which the sultan was his kinsman. it is pathetic to learn that there he built himself a palace in imitation of the alhambra. at last, after many years, he was killed in an obscure battle fighting against the sultan's rebels, and the arab historian finishes the account of him with these words: 'wretched man! who could lose his life in another's cause, though he dared not die in his own! such was the immutable decree of destiny. blessed be allah, who exalteth and abaseth the kings of the earth according to his divine will, in the fulfilment of which consists that eternal justice which regulates all human affairs.' in the day of el makkary, the historian of the moorish empire, boabdil's descendants had so fallen that they were nothing but common beggars, subsisting upon the charitable allowances made to the poor from the funds of the mosques. _one generation passeth away and another generation cometh: but the earth abideth for ever._ xxxv [sidenote: los pobres] people say that in granada the beggars are more importunate than in any other spanish town, but throughout andalusia their pertinacity and number are amazing. they are licensed by the state, and the brass badge they wear makes them demand alms almost as a right. it is curious to find that the spaniard, who is by no means a charitable being, gives very often to beggars--perhaps from superstitious motives, thinking their prayers will be of service, or fearing the evil eye, which may punish a refusal. begging is quite an honourable profession in spain; mendicants are charitably termed the poor, and not besmirched, as in england, with an opprobrious name. i have never seen so many beggars as in andalusia; at every church door there will be a dozen, and they stand or sit at each street corner, halt, lame and blind. every possible deformity is paraded to arouse charity. some look as though their eyes had been torn out, and they glare at you with horrible bleeding sockets; most indeed are blind, and you seldom fail to hear their monotonous cry, sometimes naming the saint's day to attract particular persons: 'alms for the love of god, for a poor blind man on this the day of st. john!' they stand from morning till night, motionless, with hand extended, repeating the words as the sound of footsteps tells them some one is approaching; and then, as a coin is put in their hands, say gracefully: '_dios se lo pagara!_ god will repay you.' in spain you do not pass silently when a beggar demands alms, but pray his mercy for god's love to excuse you: '_perdone usted por el amor de dios!_' or else you beseech god to protect him: '_dios le ampare!_' and the mendicant, coming to your gate, sometimes invokes the immaculate virgin. '_ave maria purissima!_' he calls. and you, tired of giving, reply: '_y por siempre!_ and for ever.' he passes on, satisfied with your answer, and rings at the next door. it is not only in burgos that théophile gautier might have admired the beggar's divine rags; everywhere they wrap their cloaks about them in the same magnificent fashion. the _capa_, i suppose, is the most graceful of all the garments of civilised man, and never more so than when it barely holds together, a mass of rags and patches, stained by the rain and bleached by the sun and wind. it hangs straight from the neck in big simple lines, or else is flung over one shoulder with a pompous wealth of folds. there is a strange immobility about andalusian beggars which recalls their moorish ancestry. they remain for hours in the same attitude, without moving a muscle; and one i knew in seville stood day after day, from early morning till midnight, with hand outstretched in the same rather crooked position, never saying a word, but merely trusting to the passer-by to notice. the variety is amazing, men and women and children; and seville at fair-time, or when the foreigners are coming for holy week, is like an enormous hospital. mendicants assail you on all sides, the legless dragging themselves on their hands, the halt running towards you with a crutch, the blind led by wife or child, the deaf and dumb, the idiotic. i remember a woman with dead eyes and a huge hydrocephalic head, who sat in a bath-chair by one of the cathedral doors, and whenever people passed, cried shrilly for money in a high, unnatural voice. sometimes they protrude maimed limbs, feetless legs or arms without hands; they display loathsome wounds, horribly inflamed; every variety of disease is shown to extort a copper. and so much is it a recognised trade that they have their properties, as it were: one old man whose legs had been shot away, trotted through the narrow streets of seville on a diminutive ass, driving it into the shop-doors to demand his mite. then there are the children, the little boys and girls that murillo painted, barely covered by filthy rags, cherubs with black hair and shining eyes, the most importunate of all the tribe. the refusal of a halfpenny is followed impudently by demands for a cigarette, and as a last resort for a match; they wander about with keen eyes for cigar-ends, and no shred of a smoked leaf is too diminutive for them to get no further use from it. and beside all these are the blind fiddlers, scraping out old-fashioned tunes that were popular thirty years ago; the guitarists, singing the _flamenco_ songs which have been sung in spain ever since the moorish days; the buffoons, who extract tunes from a broomstick; the owners of performing dogs. they are a picturesque lot, neither vicious nor ill-humoured. begging is a fairly profitable trade, and not a very hard one; in winter _el pobre_ can always find a little sunshine, and in summer a little shade. it is no hardship for him to sit still all day; he would probably do little else if he were a millionaire. he looks upon life without bitterness; fate has not been very kind, but it is certainly better to be a live beggar than a dead king, and things might have been ten thousand times worse. for instance, he might not have been born a spaniard, and every man in his senses knows that spain is the greatest nation on earth, while to be born a citizen of some other country is the most dreadful misfortune that can befall him. he has his licence from the state, and a charitable public sees that he does not absolutely starve; he has cigarettes to smoke--to say that a blind man cannot enjoy tobacco is evidently absurd--and therefore, all these things being so, why should he think life such a woeful matter? while it lasts the sun is there to shine equally on rich and poor, and afterwards will not a paternal government find a grave in the public cemetery? it is true that the beggar shares it with quite a number of worthy persons, doubtless most estimable corpses, and his coffin even is but a temporary convenience--but still, what does it matter? xxxvi [sidenote: the song] but the moorish influence is nowhere more apparent than in the spanish singing. there is nothing european in that quavering lament, in those long-drawn and monotonous notes, in those weird trills. the sounds are strange to the ear accustomed to less barbarous harmonies, and at first no melody is perceived; it is custom alone which teaches the sad and passionate charm of these things. a _malagueña_ is the particular complaint of the maid sorrowing for an absent lover, of the peasant who ploughs his field in the declining day. the long notes of such a song, floating across the silence of the night, are like a new melody on the great harpsichord of human sorrow. no emotion is more poignant than that given by the faint sad sounds of a spanish song as one wanders through the deserted streets in the dead of night; or far in the country, with the sun setting red in the cloudless sky, when the stillness is broken only by the melancholy chanting of a shepherd among the olive-trees. an heritage of moordom is the spanish love for the improvisation of well-turned couplets; in olden days a skilful verse might procure the poet a dress of cloth-of-gold, and it did on one occasion actually raise a beggar-maid to a royal throne: even now it has power to secure the lover his lady's most tender smiles, or at the worst a glass of manzanilla. the richness of the language helps him with his rhymes, and his southern imagination gives him manifold subjects. but, being the result of improvisation--no lady fair would consider the suit of a gallant who could not address her in couplets of his own devising--the spanish song has a peculiar character. the various stanzas have no bearing upon one another; they consist of four or seven lines, but in either case each contains its definite sentiment; so that one verse may be a complete song, or the singer may continue as long as the muse prompts and his subject's charms occasion. the spanish song is like a barbaric necklace in which all manner of different stones are strung upon a single cord, without thought for their mutual congruity. naturally the vast majority of the innumerable couplets thus invented are forgotten as soon as sung, but now and then the fortuitous excellence of one impresses it on the maker's recollection, and it may be preserved. here is an example which has been agreeably translated by mr. j. w. crombie; but neither original nor english rendering can give an adequate idea of the charm which depends on the oriental melancholy of the music: dos besos tengo en el alma que no se apartan de mí: el ultimo de mi madre, y el primero que te di. _deep in my soul two kisses rest,_ _forgot they ne'er shall be:_ _the last my mother's lips impressed,_ _the first i stole from thee._ here is another, the survival of which testifies to the spanish extreme love of a compliment; and the somewhat hackneyed sentiment can only have made it more pleasant to the feminine ear: salga el sol, si ha de salir, y si no, que nunca salga; que para alumbrarme á mí la luz de tus ojos basta. _if the sun care to rise, let him rise,_ _but if not, let him ever lie hid;_ _for the light from my lady-love's eyes_ _shines forth as the sun never did._ it is a diverting spectacle to watch a professional improviser in the throes of inspiration. this is one of the stock 'turns' of the spanish music-hall, and one of the most popular. i saw a woman in granada, who was quite a celebrity; and the barbaric wildness of her performance, with its accompaniment of hand-clapping, discordant cries, and twanging of guitar, harmonised well with my impression of the sombre and mediæval city. she threaded her way to the stage among the crowded tables, through the auditorium, a sallow-faced creature, obese and large-boned, with coarse features and singularly ropy hair. she was accompanied by a fat small man with a guitar and a woman of mature age and ample proportions: it appeared that the cultivation of the muse, evidently more profitable than in england, conduced to adiposity. they stepped on the stage, taking chairs with them, for in spain you do not stand to sing, and were greeted with plentiful applause. the little fat man began to play the long prelude to the couplet; the old woman clapped her hands and occasionally uttered a raucous cry. the poetess gazed into the air for inspiration. the guitarist twanged on, and in the audience there were scattered cries of _ole!_ her companions began to look at the singer anxiously, for the muse was somewhat slow; and she patted her knee and groaned; at last she gave a little start and smiled. _ole! ole!_ the inspiration had come. she gave a moan, which lengthened into the characteristic trill, and then began the couplet, beating time with her hands. such an one as this: suspires que de mí salgan, y otros que de tí saldran, si en el camino se encuentran que de cosas se diran! _if all the sighs thy lips now shape_ _could meet upon the way_ _with those that from mine own escape_ _what things they'd have to say!_ she finished, and all three rose from their chairs and withdrew them, but it was only a false exit; immediately the applause grew clamorous they sat down again, and the little fat man repeated his introduction. but this time there was no waiting. the singer had noticed a well-known bull-fighter and quickly rolled off a couplet in his praise. the subject beamed with delight, and the general enthusiasm knew no bounds. the people excitedly threw their hats on the stage, and these were followed by a shower of coppers, which the performers, more heedful to the compensation of art than to its dignity, grovelled to picked up. * * * here is a lover's praise of the whiteness of his lady's skin: la neve por tu cara paso diciendo: en donde no hago falta no me detengo. _before thy brow the snow-flakes_ _hurry past and say:_ _'where we are not needed,_ _wherefore should we stay?'_ and this last, like the preceding translated by mr. crombie, shows once more how characteristic are murillo's holy families of the popular sentiment: la virgen lava la ropa, san josé la esta tendiendo, santa ana entretiene el niño, y el agua se va riendo. _the virgin is washing the clothes at the brook._ _and saint joseph hangs them to dry._ _saint anna plays with the holy babe,_ _and the water flows smiling by._ xxxvii [sidenote: jerez] jerez is the andalusian sunshine again after the dark clouds of granada. it is a little town in the middle of a fertile plain, clean and comfortable and spacious. it is one of the richest places in spain; the houses have an opulent look, and without the help of baedeker you may guess that they contain respectable persons with incomes, and carriages and horses, with frock-coats and gold watch-chains. i like the people of jerez; their habitual expression suggests a consciousness that the almighty is pleased with them, and they without doubt are well content with the almighty. the main street, with its trim shops and its _cafés_, has the air of a french provincial town--an appearance of agreeable ease and dulness. every building in jerez is washed with lime, and in the sunlight the brilliancy is dazzling. you realise then that in seville the houses are not white--although the general impression is of a white town--but, on the contrary, tinted with various colours from faintest pink to pale blue, pale green; they remind you of the summer dresses of women. the soft tones are all mingled with the sunlight and very restful. but jerez is like a white banner floating under the cloudless sky, the pure white banner of bacchus raised defiantly against the gaudy dyes of teetotalism and its shrieking trumpets. jerez the white is, of course, the home of sherry, and the whole town is given over to the preparation of the grateful juice. the air is impregnated with a rich smell. the sun shines down on jerez; and its cleanliness, its prosperity, are a rebuke to harsh-voiced contemners of the grape. you pass _bodega_ after _bodega_, cask-factories, bottle-factories. a bottle-factory is a curious, interesting place, an immense barn, sombre, so that the eye loses itself in the shadows of the roof; and the scanty light is red and lurid from the furnaces, which roar hoarsely and long. against the glow the figures of men, half-naked, move silently, performing the actions of their craft with a monotonous regularity which is strange and solemn. they move to and fro, carrying an iron instrument on which is the molten mass of red-hot glass, and it gleams with an extraordinary warm brilliancy. it twists hither and thither in obedience to the artisan's deft movements; it coils and writhes into odd shapes, like a fire-snake curling in the torture of its own unearthly ardour. the men pass so regularly, with such a silent and exact precision, that it seems a weird and mystic measure they perform--a rhythmic dance of unimaginable intricacy, whose meaning you cannot gather and whose harmony escapes you. the flames leap and soar in a thousand savage forms, and their dull thunder fills your ears with a confusion of sound. your eyes become accustomed to the dimness, and you discern more clearly the features of those swarthy men, bearded and gnome-like. but the molten mass has been put into the mould; you watch it withdrawn, the bottom indented, the mouth cut and shaped. and now it is complete, but still red-hot, and glowing with an infernal transparency, gem-like and wonderful; it is a bottle fit now for the juice of satanic vineyards, and the miraculous potions of eternal youth, for which men in the old days bartered their immortal souls. and the effect of a _bodega_ is picturesque, too, though in a different way. it is a bright and cheerful spot, a huge shed with whitewashed walls and an open roof supported by dark beams; great casks are piled up, impressing you in their vast rotundity with a sort of aldermanic stateliness. the whole place is fragrant with clean, vinous perfumes. your guide carries a glass and a long filler. you taste wine after wine, in different shades of brown; light wines to drink with your dinner, older wines to drink before your coffee; wines more than a century old, of which the odour is more delicate than violets; new wines of the preceding year, strong and rough; amontillados, with the softest flavour in the world; manzanillas for the gouty; marsalas, heavy and sweet; wines that smell of wild-flowers; cheap wines and expensive wines. then the brandies--the distiller tells you proudly that spanish brandy is made from wine, and contemptuously that french brandy is not--old brandies for which a toper would sell his soul; new brandies like fusel-oil; brandies mellow and mild and rich. it is a drunkard's paradise. and why should not the drinker have his paradise? the teetotallers have slapped their bosoms and vowed that liquor was the devil's own invention. (note, by the way, that liquor is a noble word that should not be applied to those weak-kneed abominations that insolently flaunt their lack of alcohol. let them be called liquids or fluids or beverages, or what you will. liquor is a word for heroes, for the british tar who has built up british glory--imperialism is quite the fashion now.) and for a hundred years none has dared lift his voice in refutation of these dyspeptic slanders. the toper did not care, he nursed his bottle and let the world say what it would; but the moderate drinker was abashed. who will venture to say that a glass of beer gives savour to the humblest crust, and comforts corydon, lamenting the inconstancy of phyllis? who will come forward and strike an attitude and prove the benefits of the grape? (the attitude is essential, for without it you cannot hope to impress your fellow men.) rise up in your might, ye lovers of hop and grape and rye--rise up and slay the egyptians. be honest and thank your stars for the cup that cheers. bacchus was not a pot-bellied old sot, but a beautiful youth with vine-leaves in his hair, bacchus the lover of flowers; and ariadne was charming. * * * the country about jerez undulates in just such an easy comfortable fashion as you would expect. it is scenery of the gentlest and pleasantest type, sinuous; little hills rising with rounded lines and fertile valleys. the vines cover the whole land, creeping over the brown soil fantastically, black stumps, shrivelled and gnarled, tortured into uncouth shapes; they remind you of the creeping things in a naturalist's museum, of giant spiders and great dried centipedes and scorpions. but imagine the vineyards later, when the spring has stirred the earth with fecundity! the green shoots tenderly forth; at first it is all too delicate for a colour, it is but a mist of indescribable tenuity; and gradually the leaves burst out and trail along the ground with ever-increasing luxuriance; and then it is a rippling sea of passionate verdure. but i liked jerez best towards evening, when the sun had set and the twilight glided through the tortuous alleys like a woman dressed in white. then, as i walked in the silent streets, narrow and steep, with their cobble-paving, the white houses gained a new aspect. there seemed not a soul in the world, and the loneliness was more intoxicating than all their wines; the shining sun was gone, and the sky lost its blue richness, it became so pale that you felt it like a face of death--and the houses looked like long rows of tombs. we walked through the deserted streets, i and the woman dressed in white, side by side silently; our footsteps made no sound upon the stones. and jerez was wrapped in a ghostly shroud. ah, the beautiful things i have seen which other men have not! xxxviii [sidenote: cadiz] i admire the strenuous tourist who sets out in the morning with his well-thumbed baedeker to examine the curiosities of a foreign town, but i do not follow in his steps; his eagerness after knowledge, his devotion to duty, compel my respect, but excite me to no imitation. i prefer to wander in old streets at random without a guide-book, trusting that fortune will bring me across things worth seeing; and if occasionally i miss some monument that is world-famous, more often i discover some little dainty piece of architecture, some scrap of decoration, that repays me for all else i lose. and in this fashion the less pretentious beauties of a town delight me, which, if i sought under the guidance of the industrious german, would seem perhaps scarcely worth the trouble. nor do i know that there is in cadiz much to attract the traveller beyond the grace with which it lies along the blue sea and the unstudied charm of its gardens, streets, and market-place; the echo in the cathedral to which the gaping tripper listens with astonishment leaves me unmoved; and in the church of _santa catalina_, which contains the last work of murillo, upon which he was engaged at his death, i am more interested in the tall stout priest, unctuous and astute, who shows me his treasure, than in the picture itself. i am relieved now and again to visit a place that has no obvious claims on my admiration; it throws me back on the peculiarities of the people, on the stray incidents of the street, on the contents of the shops. cadiz is said to be the gayest town in andalusia. spaniards have always a certain gravity; they are not very talkative, and like the english, take their pleasures a little sadly. but here lightness of heart is thought to reign supreme, and the inhabitants have not even the apparent seriousness with which the sevillan cloaks a somewhat vacant mind. they are great theatre-goers, and as dancers, of course, have been famous since the world began. but i doubt whether cadiz deserves its reputation, for it always seems to me a little prim. the streets are well-kept and spacious, the houses, taller than is usual in andalusia, have almost as cared-for an appearance as those in a prosperous suburb of london; and it is only quite occasionally, when you catch a glimpse of tawny rock and of white breakwater against the blue sea, that by a reminiscence of naples you can persuade yourself it is as immoral as they say. for, not unlike the syren city, cadiz lies white and cool along the bay, with gardens at the water's edge; but it has not the magic colour of its rival, it is quieter, smaller, more restful; and on the whole lacks that agreeable air of wickedness which the italian town possesses to perfection. it is impossible to be a day in naples without discovering that it is the most depraved city in europe; there is something in the atmosphere which relaxes the moral fibre, and the churchwarden who keeps guard in the bosom of every englishman falls asleep, so that you feel capable of committing far more than the seven deadly sins. of course, you don't, but still it is comfortable to have them within reach. * * * i came across, while examining the wares of a vendor of antiquities, a contemporary narrative from the spanish side of the attack made on cadiz by sir francis drake when he set out to singe the beard of philip ii.; and this induced me afterwards to look into the english story. it is far from me to wish to inform the reader, but the account is not undiverting, and shows, besides, a frame of mind which the anglo-saxon has not ceased to cultivate. 'but the almighty god,' says the historian, 'knowing and seeing his (the spanish king's) wicked intent to punish, molest, and trouble his little flock, the children of israel, hath raised up a faithful moses for the defence of his chosen, and will not suffer his people utterly to fall into the hands of their enemies.' drake set sail from plymouth with four of her majesty's ships, two pinnaces, and some twenty merchantmen. a vessel was sent after, charging him not to show hostilities, but the messenger, owing to contrary winds, could never come near the admiral, and vastly to the annoyance of the virgin queen, as she solemnly assured the ambassadors of foreign powers, had to sail home. under the circumstances it was, perhaps, hardly discreet of her to take so large a share of the booty. faithful moses arrived in cadiz, spreading horrid consternation, and the spanish pamphlet shows very vividly the confusion of the enemy. it appears that, had he boldly landed, he might have sacked the town, but he imagined the preparations much greater than they were. however, he was not idle. 'the same night our general, having, by god's good favour and sufferance, opportunity to punish the enemy of god's true gospel and our daily adversary, and further willing to discharge his expected duty towards god, his peace and country, began to sink and fire divers of their ships.' the english fleet burned thirty sail of great burden, and captured vast quantities of the bread, wheat, wine and oil which had been prepared for the descent upon england. sir francis drake himself remarks that 'the sight of the terrible fires were to us very pleasant, and mitigated the burden of our continual travail, wherein we were busied for two nights and one day, in discharging, firing, and lading of provisions.' * * * it is a curious thing to see entirely deserted a place of entertainment, where great numbers of people are in the habit of assembling. a theatre by day, without a soul in it, gives me always a sensation of the ridiculous futility of things; and a public garden towards evening offers the same emotion. on the morrow i was starting for africa; i watched the sunset from the quays of cadiz, the vapours of the twilight rise and envelop the ships in greyness, and i walked by the _alamadas_ that stretch along the bay till i came to the park. the light was rapidly failing and i found myself alone. it had quaint avenues of short palms, evidently not long planted, and between them rows of yellow iron chairs arranged with great neatness and precision. it was there that on sunday i had seen the populace disport itself, and it was full of life then, gay and insouciant. the fair ladies drove in their carriages, and the fine gentlemen, proud of their english clothes, lounged idly. the chairs were taken by all the lesser fry, by stout mothers, dragons attendant on dark-eyed girls, and their lovers in broad hats, in all the gala array of the _flamenco_. there was a joyous clamour of speech and laughter; the voices of spanish women are harsh and unrestrained; the park sparkled with colour, and the sun caught the fluttering of countless fans. for those blithe people it seemed that there was no morrow: the present was there to be enjoyed, divine and various, and the world was full of beauty and of sunshine; merely to live was happiness enough; if there was pain or sorrow it served but to enhance the gladness. the hurrying hours for a while had ceased their journey. life was a cup of red wine, and they were willing to drink its very dregs, a brimming cup in which there was no bitterness, but a joy more thrilling than the gods could give in all their paradise. but now i walked alone between the even rows of chairs. the little palms were so precise, with their careful foliage, that they did not look like real trees; the flower-beds were very stiff and neat, and now and then a pine stood out, erect and formal as if it were a cardboard tree from a noah's ark. the scene was so artificial that it brought to my mind the setting of a pantomime. i stopped, almost expecting a thousand ballet-girls to appear from the wings, scantily clad, and go through a measure to the playing of some sudden band, and retire and come forward till the stage was filled and a great tableau formed. but the day grew quite dim, and the vast stage remained empty. the painted scene became still more unreal, and presently the park was filled with the ghostly shapes of all the light-hearted people who had lived their hour and exhibited their youth in the empty garden. i heard the whispered compliments, and the soft laughter of the ladies; there was a peculiar little snap as gaily they closed their fans. xxxix [sidenote: el genero chico] in the evening i wandered again along the quay, my thoughts part occupied with the novel things i expected from morocco, part sorrowful because i must leave the scented land of spain. i seemed never before to have enjoyed so intensely the exquisite softness of the air, and there was all about me a sense of spaciousness which gave a curious feeling of power. in the harbour, on the ships, the lights of the masts twinkled like the stars above; and looking over the stony parapet, i heard the waves lap against the granite like a long murmur of regret; i tried to pierce the darkness, straining my eyes to see some deeper obscurity which i might imagine to be the massive coasts of africa. but at last i could bear the solitude no longer, and i dived into the labyrinth of streets. at first, in unfrequented ways, i passed people only one by one, some woman walking rapidly with averted face, or a pair of chattering students; but as i came near the centre of the town the passers-by grew more frequent, and suddenly i found myself in the midst of a thronging, noisy crowd. i looked up and saw that i was opposite a theatre; the people had just come from the second _funcion_. i had heard that the natives of cadiz were eager theatre-goers, and was curious to see how they took this pleasure. i saw also that the next piece was _las borrachos_, a play of seville life that i had often seen; and i felt that i could not spend my last evening better than in living again some of those scenes which pattered across my heart now like little sorrowful feet. * * * the theatre in spain is the only thing that has developed further than in the rest of europe--in fact, it has nearly developed clean away. the spaniards were the first to confess that dramatic art bored them to death; and their habits rendered impossible the long play which took an evening to produce. eating late, they did not wish to go to the theatre till past nine; being somewhat frivolous, they could not sit for more than an hour without going outside and talking to their friends; and they were poor. to satisfy their needs the _genero chico_, or little style, sprang into existence; and quickly every theatre in spain was given over to the system of four houses a night. each function is different, and the stall costs little more than sixpence. we english are idealists; and on the stage especially reality stinks in our nostrils. the poor are vulgar, and in our franker moments we confess our wish to have nothing to do with them. the middle classes are sordid; we have enough of them in real life, and no desire to observe their doings at the theatre, particularly when we wear our evening clothes. but when a dramatist presents duchesses to our admiring eyes, we feel at last in our element; we watch the acts of persons whom we would willingly meet at dinner, and our craving for the ideal is satisfied. but in spain nobles are common and excite no overwhelming awe. the spaniard, most democratic of europeans, clamours for realism, and nothing pleases him more than a literal transcript of the life about him. the manners and customs of good society do not entertain him, and the _genero chico_ concerns itself almost exclusively with the lower classes. the bull-fighter is, of course, one of the most usual figures; and round him are gathered the lovers of the ring, inn-keepers, cobblers and carpenters, policemen, workmen, flower-sellers, street-singers, cigarette girls, country maidens. the little pieces are innumerable, and together form a compend of low life in spain; the best are full of gaiety and high spirits, with a delicate feeling for character, and often enough are touched by a breath of poetry. songs and dances are introduced, and these come in the more naturally since the action generally takes place on a holiday. the result is a musical comedy in one act; but with nothing in it of the entertainment which is a joy to the british public: an andalusian audience would never stand that representation of an impossible and vulgar world in which the women are all trollops and the men, rips, nincompoops and bounders; they would never suffer the coarse humour and the shoddy patriotism. unfortunately, these one-act plays have destroyed the legitimate drama. whereas maria guerrero, that charming actress, will have a run of twenty nights in a new play by echegaray, a popular _zarzuela_ will be acted hundreds of times in every town in spain. but none can regret that the spaniards have evolved these very national little pieces, and little has been lost in the non-existence of an indefinite number of imitations from the french. the _zarzuela_, i should add, lasts about an hour, and for the most part is divided into three scenes. such a play as _los borrachos_ is nothing less than a _genre_ picture of seville life. it reminds one of a painting by teniers; and i should like to give some idea of it, since it is really one of the best examples of the class, witty, varied, and vivacious. but an obstacle presents itself in the fact that i can find no vestige of a plot. the authors set out to characterise the various lovers of the vine, (nowhere in andalusia are the devotees of the yellow manzanilla more numerous than in seville,) and with telling strokes have drawn the good-natured tippler, the surly tippler, the religious tippler. to these they have added other types, which every andalusian can recognise as old friends--the sharp-tongued harridan, the improviser of couplets with his ridiculous vanity, the flower-seller, and the 'prentice-boy of fifteen, who, notwithstanding his tender years, is afflicted with love for the dark-eyed heroine. the action takes place first in a street, then in a court-yard, lastly in a carpenter's shop. there are dainty love-scenes between soledad, the distressed maiden, and juanillo, the flower-seller; and one, very spanish, where the witty and precocious apprentice offers her his diminutive hand and heart. numerous people come and go, the drunkards drink and quarrel and make peace; the whole thing, if somewhat confused, is very life-like, and runs with admirable lightness and ease. it is true that the play has neither beginning nor end, but perhaps that only makes it seem the truer; and if the scenes have no obvious connection they are all amusing and characteristic. it is acted with extraordinary spirit. the players, indeed, are not acting, but living their ordinary lives, and it is pleasant to see the zest with which they throw themselves into the performance. when the hero presses the heroine in his arms, smiles and passionate glances pass between them, which suggest that even the love-making is not entirely make-believe. i wish i could translate the song which juanillo sings when he passes his lady's window, bearing his basket of flowers: carnations for pretty girls that are true, musk-roses for pretty girls that are coy, rosebuds as small as thy mouth, my dearest, and roses as fair as thy cheeks. i cannot, indeed, resist the temptation of giving one verse in that andalusian dialect, from which all harsh consonants and unmusical sounds have been worn away--the most complete and perfect language in the world for lovers and the passion of love: _sal, morena, á tu ventana,_ _mira las flores que traigo;_ _sal y di si son bastantes_ _pa arfombrita de tu cuarto._ _que yo te quiero_ _y a ti te doy_ _tos los tesoros der mundo entero,_ _to le que vargo, to lo que soy._ xl [sidenote: adios] and then the morrow was come. getting up at five to catch my boat, i went down to the harbour; a grey mist hung over the sea, and the sun had barely risen, a pallid, yellow circle; the fishing-boats lolled on the smooth, dim water, and fishermen in little groups blew on their fingers. and from cadiz i saw the shores of spain sink into the sea; i saw my last of andalusia. who, when he leaves a place that he has loved, can help wondering when he will see it again? i asked the wind, and it sighed back the spanish answer: '_quien sabe?_ who knows?' the traveller makes up his mind to return quickly, but all manner of things happen, and one accident or another prevents him; time passes till the desire is lost, and when at last he comes back, himself has altered or changes have occurred in the old places and all seems different. he looks quite coldly at what had given an intense emotion, and though he may see new things, the others hardly move him; it is not thus he imagined them in the years of waiting. and how can he tell what the future may have in store; perhaps, notwithstanding all his passionate desires, he will indeed never return. of course the intention of this book is not to induce people to go to spain: railway journeys are long and tedious, the trains crawl, and the hotels are bad. experienced globe-trotters have told me that all mountains are very much alike, and that pictures, when you have seen a great many, offer no vast difference. it is much better to read books of travel than to travel oneself; he really enjoys foreign lands who never goes abroad; and the man who stays at home, preserving his illusions, has certainly the best of it. how delightful is the anticipation as he looks over time-tables and books of photographs, forming delightful images of future pleasure! but the reality is full of disappointment, and the more famous the monument the bitterer the disillusion. has any one seen st. peter's without asking himself: is that all? and the truest enjoyment arises from things that come unexpectedly, that one had never heard of. then, living in a strange land, one loses all impression of its strangeness; it is only afterwards, in england, that one realises the charm and longs to return; and a hundred pictures rise to fill the mind with delight. why can one not be strong enough to leave it at that and never tempt the fates again? the wisest thing is to leave unvisited in every country some place that one wants very much to see. in italy i have never been to siena, and in andalusia i have taken pains to avoid malaga. the guide-books tell me there is nothing whatever to see there; and according to them it is merely a prosperous sea-port with a good climate. but to me, who have never seen it, malaga is something very different; it is the very cream of andalusia, where every trait and characteristic is refined to perfect expression. i imagine malaga to be the most smiling town on the seaboard, and it lies along the shore ten times more charmingly than cadiz. the houses are white, whiter than in jerez; the patios are beautiful with oranges and palm-trees, and the dark green of the luxuriant foliage contrasts with the snowy walls. in malaga the sky is always blue and the sun shines, but the narrow arab streets are cool and shady. the passionate odours of andalusia float in the air, the perfume of a myriad cigarettes and the fresh scent of fruit and flower. the blue sea lazily kisses the beach and fishing-boats bask on its bosom. in malaga, for me, there are dark churches, with massive, tall pillars; the light falls softly through the painted glass, regilding the golden woodwork, the angels and the saints and the bishops in their mitres. the air is heavy with incense, and women in _mantillas_ kneel in the half-light, praying silently. now and then i come across an old house with a fragment of moorish work, reminding me that here again the moors have left their mark. and in malaga, for me, the women are more lovely than in seville; for their dark eyes glitter marvellously, and their lips, so red and soft, are ever trembling with a half-formed smile. they are more graceful than the daffodils, their hands are lovers' sighs, and their voice is a caressing song. (what was your voice like, rosarito? alas! it is so long ago that i forget.) the men are tall and slender, with strong, clear features and shining eyes, deep sunken in their sockets. in malaga, for me, life is a holiday in which there are no dullards and no bores; all the world is strong and young and full of health, and there is nothing to remind one of horrible things. malaga, i know, is the most delightful place in andalusia. oh, how refreshing it is to get away from sober fact, but what a fool i should be ever to go there! * * * the steamer plods on against the wind slowly, and as the land sinks away, unsatisfied to leave the impressions hovering vaguely through my mind, i try to find the moral. the englishman, ever somewhat sententiously inclined, asks what a place can teach him. the churchwarden in his bosom gives no constant, enduring peace; and after all, though he may be often ridiculous, it is the churchwarden who has made good part of england's greatness. and most obviously andalusia suggests that it might not be ill to take things a little more easily: we english look upon life so very seriously, so much without humour. is it worth while to be quite so strenuous? at the stations on the line between jerez and cadiz, i noticed again how calmly they took things; people lounged idly talking to one another; the officials of the railway smoked their cigarettes; no one was in a hurry, time was long, and whether the train arrived late or punctual could really matter much to no one. a beggar came to the window, a cigarette-end between his lips. '_caballero!_ alms for the love of god for a poor old man. god will repay you!' he passed slowly down the train. it waited for no reason; the passengers stared idly at the loungers on the platform, and they stared idly back. no one moved except to roll himself a cigarette. the sky was blue and the air warm and comforting. life seemed good enough, and above all things easy. there was no particular cause to trouble. what is the use of hurrying to pile up money when one can live on so little? what is the use of reading these endless books? why not let things slide a little, and just take what comes our way? it is only for a little while, and then the great antique mother receives us once more in her bosom. and there are so many people in the world. think again of all the countless hordes who have come and gone, and who will come and go; the immense sea of time covers them, and what matters the life they led? what odds is it that they ever existed at all? let us do our best to be happy; the earth is good and sweet-smelling, there is sunshine and colour and youth and loveliness; and afterwards--well, let us shrug our shoulders and not think of it. and then in bitter irony, contradicting my moral, a train came in with a number of cuban soldiers. there were above fifty of them, and they had to change at the junction. they reached out to open the carriage doors and crawled down to the platform. some of them seemed at death's door; they could not walk, and chairs were brought that they might be carried; others leaned heavily on their companions. and they were dishevelled, with stubbly beards. but what struck me most was the deathly colour; for their faces were almost green, while round their sunken eyes were great white rings, and the white was ghastly, corpse-like. they trooped along in a dazed and listless fashion, wasted with fever, and now and then one stopped, shaken with a racking cough; he leaned against the wall, and put his hand to his heart as if the pain were unendurable. it was a pitiful sight. they were stunted and under-sized; they ceased to develop when they went to the cruel island, and they were puny creatures with hollow chests and thin powerless limbs; often, strangely enough, their faces had remained quite boyish. they were twenty or twenty-two, and they looked sixteen. and then, by the sight of those boys who had never known youth with its joyful flowers, doomed to a hopeless life, i was forced against my will to another moral. perhaps some would recover, but the majority must drag on with ruined health, fever-stricken, dying one by one, falling like the unripe fruit of a rotten tree. they had no chance, poor wretches! they would return to their miserable homes; they could not work, and their people were too poor to keep them--so they must starve. their lives were even shorter than those of the rest, and what pleasure had they had? and that is the result of the spanish insouciance--death and corruption, loss of power and land and honour, the ruin of countless lives, and absolute decay. it is rather a bitter irony, isn't it? and now all they have left is their sunshine and the equanimity which nothing can disturb. printed by ballantyne, hanson & co. london & edinburgh * * * * * castilian days. by hon. j. hay. illustrated by joseph pennell. in one vol., pott to, price s. net. italian journeys. by w. d. howells. illustrated by joseph pennell. in one vol., pott to, price s. net. a little tour in france. by henry james. illustrated by joseph pennell. in one vol., pott to, s. net. the country of jesus. by matilde serao. in one vol. london: william heinemann bedford street. w.c.